Lost Piece Volume II Issue I Final Leaves

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LOST PIECEan undergraduate journal of letters

VOLUME II, ISSUE IEndures All Things

LOST PIECE: Volume II - Issue IXS

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No part of this journal may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, record-ing, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the Editor–In–Chief except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The works included in this journal are printed with explicit permission of their authors.

Lost Piece: An Undergraduate Journal of Letters The University of Notre Dame Center for Undergraduate Scholarly Engagement

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

an undergraduate journal of lettersXS



Editor-in-ChiefStephen Lechner

EditorsRaymond Korson

Josef KuhnConor Rogers

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Something of a Mission StatementFrom the Editors

Lost Piece exists to facilitate undergraduate reading, discussion, and writing of an intellectual nature beyond course curriculum

and without distraction from the grade point average.

Lost Piece seeks to help undergraduates to complement and even unify what they learn in their classes with

their own personally driven intellectual pursuits.

The goal of Lost Piece is to combat mediocrity in all things, and particularly in all things intellectual.

Lost Piece holds that the goods proper to intellec-tual activity are ends in and of themselves and are to be sought regardless of whatever recognitions may or

may not be extrinsically attached to such activity.

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Table of ContentsLost Piece: Volume II, Issue I

Something of a Mission StatementFrom the Editors ..........................................................................4

Meet the WritersLost Piece ......................................................................................7

Love and MeaningStephen Lechner ............................................................................9

A HueTaylor Nutter ................................................................................15

ChancesErin Cain .....................................................................................17

To Throw the BookJosef Kuhn .....................................................................................33

Why Do You Love?James Schmidt ...............................................................................35

RosaHeart of ClayChristina Mastrucci ......................................................................43

Praying For One’s Future SpouseEva Oenchi ...................................................................................45

A Feasible Slip Out of the Plane into the AbyssSara McGuirk ...............................................................................49

Dreams of DianaJohn Ashley ....................................................................................53

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From the Editors

The editors of Lost Piece offer their apologies for the misprinting of Claire Gillen’s sonnet, Lifeline, in our December-January Issue. Two lines from the middle sec-tion were inexplicably moved from their proper position to the end of the poem. We invite you to read the corrected version of the poem in the online edition of Lost Piece which can be found on www.thehub.nd.edu in the “stacks” tab.

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Meet the Writers

These groups have contributed to the writing of the Fall 2010 Edition of Lost Piece. We encourage you, as an undergrad-uate, to contribute your writing to future editions whether indi-vidually or as part of any such intellectual society. You can send your writing and feedback to the editor at [email protected].

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The Program of Liberal Studies: So it turns out that PLS students don’t only like to talk about such trivial things as “free will” or “the meaning of life” as approached through the lens of certain Great Books, but they also like, even need, to engage ideas wherever they can find them. That’s why a few of them got together to watch movies every week, first as a social event and later more as a discussion group. They like to think they are staying true to the spirit of the word “seminar” (which literally means “seedbed”) by holding profound conversa-tions on their own from which they hope to bear the fruits of new ideas, serious dialogue, and lasting friendships.

Istum: (Also called That Thing) Three years ago, a group of friends decided to get together every

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weekend to start a literary society. Its members include students from the Colleges of Arts and Letters, Science, and Engineering, but strangely none from the college of Business. They write, simply put, despite the obvious fact that they are only tyro writ-ers, and they criticize each other’s writing as best they can. One of their goals is to bring back the essay (which literally means “an attempt”) as a form of writing and as a rhetorical work of art. The group takes its name from one of Cicero’s orations.

The Philosophy Club: The Philosophy Club is a group of a few dozen undergraduates who enjoy arguing, using big words, attempting to answer “life’s great questions,” asking more questions, and arguing.

T: T is a group of undergradu-ates who meet together to discuss issues of importance, ranging from theology to philosophy to current issues in any and all fields. It is a casually structured, socially engaging event that welcomes the opportunity to find both common ground and a mul-titude of opinions on topics. And they drink tea, too.

The Orestes Brownson Council: As a club, OBC is focused on better understanding the Catholic intellectual tradi-tion and its interaction with philosophy, politics, and culture. It takes its name from the American Catholic political thinker who is buried in the crypt of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, Orestes Brownson. R

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Love and MeaningAn Introduction

Stephen Lechner Class of 2011 Editor-in-Chief

Human beings are ridiculous creatures—in fact, they are the ridiculous creatures; a more ri-diculous creature probably could not exist. Why? Simple, really: human beings are the only creatures that need meaning—as far as other creatures are concerned, it is as Robert Bolt’s Sir Thomas More said to his daughter, “[God] made animals for innocence and plants for their simplicity.”i Human beings alone are left out to dry in a world that they can know either as mysterious—in which case they can have hope of finding meaning beyond themselves—or as empty—in which case they must try to invent their own meaning having despaired of its existence otherwise. And this is where love becomes important. Love—a difficult thing to talk about be-cause the meaning of the word,

perhaps more than any other in the English language, is neces-sarily reduced to the limited understanding of its user—is the response of the human being to that which he or she perceives to have meaning.1 And this is another simple idea, really; it should not be difficult either to understand or to swallow. All I’m saying is that we love only 1 One can find this idea very roughly in the first book of St. Augustine’s Confessions. More precisely, love is the proper response to that which is ultimately meaningful, i.e. God, who in fact is that which defines meaning.

Also, you will have noticed that this definition of love strictly concerns human beings and not any other animal. This is because love, if it is what here I say it is, is something that only human beings can do—because they alone (to our knowledge) can perceive meaning. Other animals, in fact, do other things that are analogous to love, but insofar as their analogous things (affection, caring, etc…) are not defined by a search for meaning, they are not love. If someday someone finds that there ex-ists another animal that can perceive meaning, then it too, or rather he or she too will be capable of love.

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love that which matters to us in the utmost, that something matters to us in the utmost only when we love it, and that, as circular as it might seem to say it, this is the case because it is definitionally true of the word “love.” At this point, “love” should sound a lot like “value”—and for good reason. After all, there is an important (and at times distressful) ambiguity in human relationships that makes the ol’ second grade “like-love” distinction very necessary. The fact is that loving is itself an act of evaluation, just of the highest degree—an existential degree.2 It is an evaluation of a thing or person as being relevant to oneself, to one’s very existence. Insofar as loving is an act of evaluation of the relevance of a thing or person to oneself, it is also a recognition and affirma-tion of the realness, the worth, the legitimacy, the meaning of such a thing or person, at least

insofar as it is being considered relative to oneself and one’s own existence. By loving something or someone, one is in effect saying “this thing or person is relevant to my life and my existence,” and the more one loves a thing or person, the more emphatic one’s claim that the loved thing or person is relevant to oneself. This affirmation is at least part of what will satisfy what I have taken to be the uniquely human requisite: meaning; whether or not it will satisfy that requisite in full depends on a lot. It is, after all, an uplifting thing to have one’s relevance affirmed. Were one not relevant to anything, I don’t know if such a person could live, though until one’s relevance is made

2 And does anyone in their right mind know what the word “existential” means? I’m hoping it means something simple, like “pertaining to existence,” but if that’s what it means, then I’ve often heard the word grotesquely abused.

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eternal (however that might happen), I don’t suppose one’s requisite will be fully satisfied. But while it is pleasant and even necessary to have one’s relevance to something affirmed, as human beings are ridiculous creatures love is also a peril-ous endeavor. The trouble is that loving is not only an act of evaluation of some other thing’s or person’s relevance to oneself—it is as much an evalu-ation of oneself, which can be either uplifting in its own right, or degrading. By loving some thing or person, one establishes what is relevant to one’s own existence, and therefore defines oneself as being the kind of self to which that thing or person is relevant.3 By loving Abraham Lincoln back in 1862, assuming he was as virtuous as his divin-izing memorial would suggest, someone might have uplifted himself to be the kind of person to whom a highly virtuous per-son is relevant. But by loving

Thomas Cromwell back in 1534, assuming he was as villainous as Robert Bolt’s depiction of him would suggest, someone might have degraded himself to be the kind of person to whom a deeply vicious person is relevant. Worse still, perhaps, would be for someone to love something like money, thus making oneself the kind of self to which money as such is relevant. The great trouble is—as I think you will see from what the following writers have demonstrated in their own, sometimes terrifying ways—that it is very difficult to know, and really know, just what or who it is one is loving. This

3 It is important, though perhaps not integral to this discussion, that I think that love is something that one ultimately chooses to do or not do. Even if it means throwing oneself on a bonfire when one’s lover sails off to found Rome, one always has the ability to choose whether to love or not to love, no matter how absent that ability might seem.

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“Only a very wise man at the end of his life could make a sound judge-ment concerning whom, amongst the total possible chances, he ought most profitably to have married! Nearly all marriages, even happy ones, are mistakes: in the sense that almost certainly (in a more perfect world…) both partners might have found more suitable mates. But the ‘real soul-mate’ is the one you are actually married to. You really

4 And mind you, one’s own existence is also something about which one generally does not know very much, yet one must and does act as though one does…

5 Neither have I yet, but the point still stands.

is not true just of love—the world in general and everything in it are difficult things to understand, and people far more so than any thing—but perhaps cases involving love of one kind or another are the cases that demonstrate this difficulty to us most clearly. One loves because one thinks one knows who or what they are loving, at least enough to evaluate and affirm them of their relevance to one’s own existence.4 But we are, for one reason or

another, easily deceived in our notions of what things and people are—and anyone who doubts this has not yet fallen madly in love with a horse.5 As a point of closure, I’d like to quote a lengthy and excel-lent letter that J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote to his second son, Michael. It’s perhaps not so directly to the point, but in it I think there can be found an appropriate response to the pessimistic suggestion that I have just made.

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do very little choosing: life and circumstances do most of it (though if there is a God these must be His instruments or His appearances). It is notorious that in fact happy marriages are more common where the ‘choosing’ by the young person is even more limited, by parental or family authority, as long as there is a social ethic of plain unromantic responsibility and conjugal fidelity. But even in countries where the romantic tradition has so far affected social arrangements as to make people believe that the choosing of a mate is solely the concern of the young, only the rarest good fortune brings together the man and wom-an who are really as it were ‘destined’ for one another, and capable of a very great and splendid love. The idea still dazzles us, catches us by the throat: poems and stories in multitudes have been written on the theme, more probably than the total of such loves in real life (…). In such great inevitable love, often love at first sight, we catch a vision, I suppose, of marriage as it should have been in an unfallen world. In this fallen world we have as our only guides, prudence, wisdom (rare in youth, too late in age), a clean heart, and fidelity of will…”ii R

i Bolt, Robert; A Man for All Seasons; Vintage International of Random House, New York, NY; 1990, pg. 126

ii Tolkien, J.R.R; The Letters of Tolkien; Edit. Carpenter, Humphrey & Tolkien, Christopher; Allen & Unwin Ltd. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, MA; 1981, pages 51-52

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Contribute to Lost Piece

Please consider writing—whether essay, poem, story, or what-have-you—for the Fall 2011 Semester of Lost Piece. Write what you think is pertinent to the life of a student, whatever that might be…

…Pose a question…

…Or offer an answer…

…Write at whatever length you need…

…But write well.

Submit your work to Steve Lechner at [email protected] by April 30th.

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Taylor NutterClass of 2014Philosophy Major

A HueA Poem

I looked upon a starry gazeA dark deep blueOf which the stars are wished uponSuch a beautiful hueBut in the darkness it knew no dawnLight it would refuteAs in unknowing pleasure spawnsOur eternal dispute R

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Erin Cain Class of 2011Architecture Major

There’s something soothing about riding on buses like this before sunrise. Sitting in the dark, the headlights passing by without revealing the cars they’re leading: just darkness and passing light. The feeling of leaving, the adrenaline rush, the road spread out before me. I watch the billboards pass by, thinking of all the hassle and uncertainty that has preceded this moment, all the doctor’s appointments and phone calls and tests. For this moment at least, I am content to be alone with myself in the quiet, to spend this silent hour in the darkness pressing forward through the sea of headlights. But real contentment only ever seems to last a moment. I am thinking of you, of the time we drove this route together last year—you were the one doing the driving. Though

I’d never admit it aloud, I’m too careful and paranoid to be able to navigate the frenetic rush of New York City traffic; you’re just reckless enough. We were going to see West Side Story with your friends, the NYU grad students—I don’t remember their names. Mostly what I remember of that night is being in the car with you. When we left, the sun was just setting over the hills and farmland of Somerset County, and we sang aloud to Billy Joel in off-key voices, my tenor mixing with your soprano. By the time we reached Jersey City, darkness had fallen and the Manhattan skyline glittered in the distance. You told me that it reminded you of the Lite Brite set you used to have as a little girl, that you used to draw the outline of the Empire State Building in little pinpoints of light. I’d let you ramble on about your childhood on Long Island, and when you’d finish you’d always

ChancesA Story

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twirl your hair absentmindedlyand smile at me. During those pauses I remember feeling my heartbeat speed up and wor-rying that I might fall for you. Looking back, I’m not sure if it was your own appeal or my as-of-yet undiagnosed heart condition that had this effect on me. I’m starting to think that there’s a fine line between love and pulmonary hypertension. I look out the bus window. The lights pass but don’t stay long enough to really illuminate their surroundings. I like being forced to stop and sit in one place like this, with nothing to do but sleep or look outside at the steady rhythm of passing lights, marking the speed at which I am leaving everything behind. Time to think. Sometimes, it’s only at moments like this, careening down the highway in a bus full of sleeping passengers, that I realize how little control I have over my own life. Sometimes it takes a bus

ride to make me notice my life, to make me reach out and try to catch it as it rushes by, quicker than the passing headlights. As the first rays of morning light begin to break through, I can make out the scenery of the Meadowlands: heaps of garbage disguised by marsh grasses, riv-ers of unidentifiable sludge, fac-tories releasing billowing clouds of smoke into the morning air. There is a message spray painted onto Snake Hill (the only real hill in the Meadowlands): “No graffiti allowed.” You’d laugh at that. I begin to drift into sleep as the sun rises higher above the electrical towers, its soft, pink light gleaming in between the mossy garbage hills and concrete overpasses. I dream that all of the blue color is draining out of my left eye. I don’t notice that it is slowly depleting until it is all gone, leaving my eye hollow and fragile. I keep my eyelid shut to hide the grotesque

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emptiness underneath, but the people around me can still tell that something is wrong. They are all here watching me: my family, my professors, the old friends from middle school that I haven’t seen in years, my former teachers and professors, the cashier at my favorite bagel shop—seemingly everyone I have ever known, and you. The blue matter that has escaped out of my eye has carried my energy away with it, and I am now weak and unwell. I sit in the center of a circular room with white walls that gradually take on a blue tint, and eventually, once my eye is devoid of its color, the walls that surround me have become a bright shade of cobalt. As I begin to realize that this is what has really been plaguing me all along, this re-lentless leaking of my iris, I am jolted awake: the bus has come to a stop. The encapsulated stillness of the bus exists no more; there is a frantic shuffling

of feet as passengers elbow each other in their hurry to get out and continue with their fast-paced lives. I hear a cacophony of sound: well-dressed execu-tives checking their watches all at once and muttering “Quarter to eight” in an echoed chorus; a child whining to his mother, begging to be held; a voice from the back bellowing, “Hurry it up!” and the sound resonating through the bus. I am caught in the midst of the commotion, pushed forward toward the door, and I stumble out into the Port Authority station and towards the light of day. The dream has not fully worn off as I set off toward Times Square, and in my fuzzy state of mind I struggle to keep up with the crowd. The woman in front of me looks like my tenth grade history teacher, I think, but on closer inspection I see that her hair is not quite gray enough and her frame not quite tall enough to be Mrs.

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McCormick’s. Next I see a man in a suit rush past me, his briefcase knocking against my leg. For a second I am sure he is Andy Gray, the boy who grew up across the street from me, but once I see his reflection in the shop window I realize he’s not Andy. Only then do I remember that Andy is now a mechanic back in New Jersey, not a businessman in New York. This hazy state of conscious-ness, halfway between a dream and reality, is inhabited by all the people with whom I am already familiar, their persons projected upon the passersby. I don’t know why I seem to think I know everyone walking around the center of Manhattan, but I never see them as strangers at first glance. The people who surrounded me in my dream continue to surround me as I awaken. A homeless woman outside Duane Reade appears to be my

high school band director; a construction worker resembles my college roommate; a hot dog vendor looks like my dad. I stop at an ATM on the cor-ner of 42nd Street and 7th Ave., and I wait behind a girl who looks like you, with wavy blond hair reaching down her back. My breath catches at the sight, and I nearly tap your shoulder to get your attention. But when she quickly turns around to leave, I see that this girl is not you at all, not even close. I’m hit with the acrid taste of disap-pointment as I punch my pin number into the machine and try to push you out of my mind. It’s times like these when I wish I could have just a little coffee to wake me up and bring me out of these sleepy delusions, but I’ve put myself on a strict caffeine-free diet now for my mitral valve prolapse. I pass a Starbucks and force myself to look away.

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No caffeine, no sugary foods, and regular exercise. That’s why I’m walking fifteen blocks before hailing a cab to the hospital for my appointment. It is not quite Thanksgiving yet, but 7th Ave. is already adorned with Christmasdecorations: illuminated plastic Santas peering through display windows, resting on glittery white fabric and surrounded by clumps of shiny silver tinsel. The city is always overeager to enter the Christmas season, a time when the whole place is transformed and people are distracted from the trash and exhaust fumes by sparkly gar-lands and Santa Claus. For what it’s worth, though, I’ve always liked the tree in Rockefeller Center, despite the crowds of tourists it brings. When you stand in just the right spot, you can see a fleet of white angels, lit by strands of lights, framing the tree. Each one plays a

horn as if heralding the star above them, high atop the tree. There’s just something about that scene that gets Christmas right. Maybe it’s the horns. Just as I catch a cab and get inside, I see a girl across the street who catches my attention. She’s walking into a bookstore, and I notice her right away because she’s wearing a purple plaid coat and twirling her blond hair the way you always do. I resist making the assumption that this is you, but as the cab pulls away I can’t help but wonder. What if it were you—what would have hap-pened if I had called out your name, if I had walked inside? Would you have smiled; would you have been happy to see me? Would it have been awkward, or would you have hugged me the same way you used to, playfully pulling me down to your level and wrapping your arms around my neck? It’s been

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so long since I’ve seen you. The taxi pulls up to New York Presbyterian Hospital, ranked number six in the nation for cardiology. That’s why I picked it. I could have gone to a medical center closer to Princeton, but at the first sign of problems, I wanted the best possible care I could get. I don’t take any chances. Dr. Evans’s waiting room is evidence of his love for Broadway. As I check in with the receptionist, I notice the West Side Story poster hanging beside the desk, and I’m once again reminded of the night we spent with your friends in the theater on Times Square, hearing you whisper the lyrics to “Tonight” along with the music in the seat beside me. That melody ran relentlessly through my head for the rest of the night. Around the room, amidst the framed posters for Kiss Me, Kate, Oklahoma!, and Rent, I spot the most familiar

one: The Phantom of the Opera. I can still picture you on the stage as Christine Daaé, twirl-ing to “Angel of Music” on the McCarter stage. I would sit in the pit orchestra and watch you onstage, the star of the show. I had gotten roped into play-ing for Phantom because they needed another French horn player, and I was convenient. You were the best singer I’d ever heard, but you struggled with the dancing bits. After the flying shoe incident, which left our timpani player with a nasty bruise, you began arriving early to rehearsals, running through the dance routines with the choreographer. I know this because I had always arrived early, since my last class finished an hour before rehearsal and I didn’t have enough time to go home. Eventually the choreog-rapher noticed me reading in the pit and asked me to make myself useful and play through the melody of “Masquerade”

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for accompaniment. Soon this became routine—we’d run through “Point of No Return” and “All I Ask of You,” and as we waited in an empty auditorium for the other performers to file in you’d come down and talk to me. I would listen to you tell stories about other roles you’d performed and drama classes you’d taken and what you’d eaten for lunch that day. You were always bursting with things to say, and I was a captive audience. When the other orchestra players would arrive, it was hard to hold back my smile—I loved being seen with you. After a few weeks, when you had learned the dance parts well enough and no longer needed extra tutorials, we celebrated by spending that time getting gelato at The Bent Spoon a few blocks away. We had become something like friends, and I couldn’t believe my luck. On your last night in

Princeton, after the last per-formance at McCarter, we left the cast party early to get your favorite pear-flavored gelato. You were going home to Long Island the next day, while I would still be in Princeton, tak-ing classes and living at home. I still had another year left in my program before I’d get my masters, and I don’t know why I assumed you’d ever visit me. I should have said something that night, should have asked what it meant when you took my hand as we strolled down the sidewalk. But I never ques-tioned anything; I think I was afraid that if I tried to acknowl-edge it, it would disappear. It turns out that not acknowledg-ing it had the same effect. Now all I can do is cling to the bittersweet memory of that one last evening, before you’d decided on leaving and before I had even considered the idea of losing you. That’s all I have. As the nurse calls my name,

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I pass one last poster on my way out of the waiting room: Mary Poppins. That’s where you are now. On Broadway, in the chorus—that’s one of the only things you’ve told me of your life post-Phantom, within a hastily written e-mail reply. I’d called a few days ago to tell you I’d be in the city today, but I got your voicemail and hung up before the beep. I hate leaving recorded messages because they always add a certain extra awkwardness to any dialogue: a stilted conversation, the speaker’s voice reaching out into thin air and then pretending that the lack of response is something natural. I figured you’d just notice the missed call and call me back, but you didn’t. You were probably at rehearsal, probably too busy to notice, too busy to remember me. A technician places electrodes on my chest and slides a cold probe over my heart. I want to cover my exposed skin from the

chill, to return the pale flesh to its protective wrappings, but I am forced to lie out in the open with no barrier against the indistinct gloominess of the hospital room. There is a picture on the wall showing two images of the human body, one with the skin peeled off to reveal a muscular core underneath and other with even the muscles stripped away, leaving a skeleton behind. I’m not always certain what exists within my own body, what the doctors would find if they looked beneath my skin. I’m sure there must be muscle there—at least physically—but it feels so often that I have become just bone, that I have atrophied into something more vulnerable than I am comfortable with. Dr. Evans says that every-thing looks all right. I can’t decide if this makes me relieved or angry, because really every-thing is not all right. It doesn’t seem normal that even as my

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heart is so strained emotionally, it would be running fine physi-cally, albeit with a murmur. Dr. Evans says that since there seem to be no complications, I’ll be scheduled for another checkup in a year. I don’t know why, but suddenly I catch myself wishing for a more dramatic diagnosis, something that would make you feel terribly guilty when you heard, something that would bring you rushing to my side in sympathy. Would you even care? A deli sandwich and a walk through Central Park calm me down somewhat, but I am still brooding as I head back along 7th Ave. toward the Port Authority and the bus home. That’s when I see the girl in the purple plaid coat for the second time. She is walking on the opposite side of the street and carrying a large, black suitcase. I am struck by how similar to you she really looks, and I only hope no one notices that I am staring. I find myself walking

at the same pace, about eight steps behind her and across the street. She pauses to look in a store window, and I remember how often you would make me stop and wait as we walked through the streets of Princeton because something had caught your eye in a window. As the girl in the purple plaid coat walks past the Chase bank on the corner of 7th and 57th, something small and brown falls from her purse and hits the sidewalk. It rests on the ground as she walks away, and when I squint I can see that it is a wallet. I cross the street, running over and grabbing the wallet before anyone else can snatch it up. As soon as I have it, I look around and see the purple plaid coat advancing half a block ahead. I move forward, not paying attention to where I am or where I’m going, just focusing on the purple beacon ahead, weaving my way through

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the crowd to reach her. I turn the corner just in time to see her enter a door. Without thinking, without hesitating, I follow. I expect to find her on the other side, so as I enter the building I am holding the wallet up in the air to get her attention. I barely notice when

I hear a voice to my right say, “Go ahead,” and I am surprised to see that it is a security guard sitting at his booth, waving me through. What building is this? I look at the wallet in my hand. Underneath the clear outer cover on one side, there is a white card that reads:

CARNEGIE HALLAuthorized Backstage Pass

Caroline FisherNew York Philharmonic

Carnegie Hall? Is this Carnegie Hall? I keep walk-ing, hoping I won’t get in trouble for being in here. I look over and see Caroline—not you, but Caroline—stepping into an elevator to my right, so I rush in after her just as the doors are closing. “Your wallet,” I hear myself saying, “you dropped it.” Caroline, a little startled, takes the wallet and thanks me. I notice that the black case I saw her carrying is resting on the

ground beside her—a viola case, I now realize, not a suitcase. She tells me she didn’t even realize the wallet was missing, that the security guard recog-nized her from the day before and didn’t even look for a pass. She squints at me, as if she’s not sure if she recognizes me or not, and I think I recognize her, too, but I can’t place her. “You’re not from the Princeton area, are you?” she asks. “I am, actually. Is that

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where you’re from?” We eventually figure out that we went to primary and middle school together before she left to attend a music conservatory. Our families knew each other years ago; my mother used to play bridge with her mother until—well, until she didn’t anymore. “Oh, it’s good to see you again!” The pretentiousness in Caroline’s voice cuts right through me. “How are you?” she asks, with that knowing tone, that false sense ofunderstanding. I grit my teeth and play along. “I’m good, really, thanks.” We step out of the elevator and down a cream-colored hallway with pictures of various orches-tras hanging on the walls in between dressing room doors. “I really do wish I could have been there,” she says. “I had a concert, and I couldn’t come, but I’m so sorry.” “I know,” I say. “I

understand, really.” My mother’s funeral is something I’d rather not talk about, and I’m itching to change the subject. Before I can say any-thing, though, Caroline speaks. “Listen,” she says, “I have to rehearse right now, but if you’re around later, I know a diner with great coffee just down the street.” I don’t know why I’m tempted to accept her offer for pity coffee, especially when I can’t even drink coffee, but when the light catches in her blond hair I hear the word “yes” escape my mouth. I say goodbye to Caroline and walk down a flight of stairs on my way out. It takes me approx-imately one minute to become completely lost. I can’t seem to find my way out of the build-ing; the hallways don’t seem to follow any simple pattern. I wander for a while through this labyrinth of a concert hall until I come to a set of double

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doors. Tentatively, I open one of them and peek into what is the most stunning, impressive concert hall I’ve ever seen. The orchestra is gathering onstage, and I don’t want to be seen, so I close the door—but not fully. I leave it open just a crack, pull-ing the doorstop down to keep it in place, and sit on the floor beside the opening to listen. At first, the sound is de-tached; it comes in pieces—an oboe running up and down a chromatic scale, a violin practicing a melodic solo, a euphonium’s deep notes rum-bling through the space. The separate voices slowly begin to overlap: the flute’s pixie-like sound is set against the brassy intensity of the trumpet, the beat of the timpani aligns with the smooth notes coming from a saxophone, the deep, rich timbre of the cello mixes with the glissando of a trombone. I can always pick out the sound of the French horn, but

I can’t pick out the sound of Caroline’s viola just by listening. The string instruments all start to blend together and I can’t differentiate between them. But I like this oddly harmonious chaos of sound, the way it seems to have a life of its own. Eventually it fades to silence, and I can hear the conductor’s voice for a minute before the music starts up again, this time as one collective sound progressing through scales. The separate timbres are still there, but now they exist as layers within a single entity. The scales then settle into a chorale, a blending of melodious tones, and I close my eyes to soak it in. As the orchestra begins its first piece, I recognize it as Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring—not because I’ve played it before, but rather from Disney’s Fantasia. I picture Disney’s depiction of the creation of the world alongside the music, the earth forming amidst the stars, the

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hostile volcanoes covering its surface, the dinosaurs roaming from water to land. As a little boy, I thought the dinosaurs were the coolest part of Fantasia, and I used to ask my dad to rewind the tape to watch them over and over. Maybe I’ll ask him to watch it again this weekend, I think, for old time’s sake. I think we still have a VCR somewhere. This is not a continuous version of The Rite of Spring, though; the orchestra stops and restarts every so often, refining its sound and fixing mistakes. I’m shaken out of my trance-like state every time they stop, but I like the idea that even for the New York Philharmonic, this is a work in progress. With every interruption, there fol-lows a second chance to make it better, and sometimes I can even pick out what has changed the second time around, who is louder or softer or more legato or staccato. The picture in my

mind of Fantasia’s creation of the world is similarly broken up along with the music, stilted by the intermittent pauses. But isn’t that how the world really is, anyway? Things never seem to flow in one continuous stream; everything speeds up and halts in an unpredict-able fashion. But perhaps, occasionally, the world gives us second chances to go back and fix our missteps as well. Eventually, after The Rite of Spring is finished, I figure out that the exit is one more level down and make my way out of the building, but the sound of the orchestra echoes in my ears for the rest of the afternoon. When I meet Caroline later outside the stage entrance, I confess that I stayed to listen to some of the rehearsal, and she is delighted. “What did you think?” she asks. “Some of the tempo changes could have been smoother, but I thought—”

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“It was wonderful,” I say. “I love The Rite of Spring.” She takes me to the diner, where the owner seems to know her. I describe the dinosaurs of Fantasia to her as we scan the menu. She orders coffee; I ask for decaf. She tells me about life as a musician, and I update her on our hometown in New Jersey. As the waiter brings us our drinks, she says she’s planning on driv-ing to her parents’ house tonight for Thanksgiving. Caroline reaches over to pass me a napkin, and it is then that I see you. You are walking outside along 7th Ave., and you have already passed me by the time I notice. You step quickly and purposefully past the clear glass panes, your arms held tight against the front of your coat to hold it closed and your long, blond hair flying behind you through

the bitter November winds. Caroline and I are both frozen in place: she with her arm outstretched, waiting for me to take my napkin; I with my eyes focused on your image getting smaller and smaller before me, eventually becoming lost in the crowd. Caroline says my name, and I slowly turn to look at her. With a start, I take the napkin from her hand, and as I use it to wipe the spilled coffee off the tabletop, I notice that my own hands are trem-bling. I’m fine, I tell Caroline, just fine. Just a little worn out at the end of the day, is all. She smiles with a look of sympathy and support, and suddenly I hate her. I hate her for thinking she understands, and I hate her especially because of the way she looks right now, her blond hair framing her face the same way yours does. At that moment I know that I

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didn’t really see you walk past the diner at all. Caroline, in her purple plaid coat, was not you, and the girl at the ATM was not you, and there is no reason at all for me to believe that the woman who just walked by is actually you. You’re here even when you’re not here, traces of you follow me wherever I go and I can’t seem to shake the invisible power that you hold over me, even after you’re gone. Suddenly, I crave the dark-ness of the bus, the blanket of solitude without a need to pre-tend that everything’s okay, that I am content in the presence of anyone else besides you. I can’t restart, not here, not now, not as Caroline Fisher smiles at me from across the table. It is only once I am out of the Lincoln Tunnel, when I can see from the bus window that the New York skyline still looks like a Lite Brite set, that I can breathe again. The grimy concrete of the Meadowlands

is cloaked in darkness, and I watch the headlights speed up as they pass by. They always rush past just as I start to get a good look at the cars they lead, but I strain my eyes, trying to see past their blinding glare the whole ride home. R

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e

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Josef KuhnClass of 2011Program of Liberal Studies

To Throw the BookA Poem

I want to throw the book against the wall.A scented life competes with sense of proof. To winter lead the footprints from the fall.

Who made this rigid, opalescent shell?It keeps the worms inside content with stuff.I want to throw the book against the wall.

A girl at ease is laughing down the hall.A heavy snow is sliding off the roof.To winter lead the footprints from the fall.

Before the bloom, what cause is first of all?The mind winks out in a metaphysic puff.I want to throw the book against the wall.

Chuck this drear; betake us to the ball!A frosty ride, it jangles with each hoofThat points toward winter, leading from the fall.

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Man sniffs the Christmas child. It’s hard to small.Before a lighted wreath drifts falling fluff.To winter lead the footprints from the fall.An incensed life confuses senses proof.I want to throw the book against the wall.

Who gave this binding, thickly carven shell?It keeps the words inside content enough.I want to throw the book against the wall.

A fiendish tease is laughing down the hall.My shieldly snow is sliding off the roof.To winter lead the hoof-prints from the fall.

Before the boom, what causes first of all?Mind’s ring is blown in a metaphysic puff.I want to throw the book against the wall.

Chuck it, dear, we go to the red ball!A frosty dive, it angles with each hornThat points toward winter, leading from the fall.

Man should turn to child. It’s hard to small.Before a lighted wreath drifts snowy truth.I want to throw the book against the wall.To Winter lead the footprints from the Fall. R

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James Schmidt Class of 2013Istum

What is the difference be-tween a wife and a hamburger? I guess someone could say, ‘You don’t marry a hamburger,’ but that doesn’t answer my ques-tion. Because you do something with a hamburger (eat it) and something with a wife (marry her), and obviously that some-thing is different in both cases, but what I am really asking is ‘What distinguishes the choice of ‘something’ in each case with respect to its mode of being something?’ Perhaps I should explain the background of the question: Suppose you are at a buffet at which there are not only a variety of things to eat, there is a quantity of each item to eat as well. So if you want to eat, e.g., a hamburger, you must choose a particular hamburger, namely this hamburger, in order to accomplish that end. Likewise, if you want to get

married to a woman, you have to choose a particular woman, namely this woman. But this hamburger probably wasn’t the cause of wanting a hamburger; maybe seeing and smelling a bunch of hamburgers was, but not the one you ended up choosing. On the other hand, it is plausible that this woman was the cause of wanting to get married. And that is the very thing I want to investigate (investigate, mind you, not answer); I want to argue in this paper why my initial question is not a mere symptom of insanity. It may seem questionable or even absurd that I find a connection between these two choices, but there is reason for it. It is that when we want to justify our actions, we do so by explaining the reasons for doing them. So if asked ‘Why are you eating that hamburger?’ the response ‘Because I wanted a hamburger!’ would seem to answer the question. But, ‘Why

Why Do You Love?An Essay

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are you eating that hamburger, there were a number of other ones on the platter from which you could have chosen,’ then the reply would probably go something like, ‘Well, I wanted to eat a hamburger; but eating a hamburger requires choos-ing a particular hamburger, therefore…’ In other words the justification given points to the fact that there is a desire for something general (a hamburger), and that though it is satisfied with a particular (this hamburger), the satisfac-tion isn’t in the particular qua particular (I would have enjoyed my meal all the same if I took a different hamburger1). Of course it seems utterly foreign to imagine choosing a wife in the same manner (I want to marry, marriage requires a particular, therefore…). And that is because marriage is the type of thing that is defined by the particular (I am married to this person), but eating a

hamburger is not (Though he is eating this hamburger, we just say he is eating a hamburger). This argument has a con-nection to the history of my thought on this question. First, I assume a wide enough acceptance among societies of married love as exclusive. But I distinguish between two types of exclusivity. We can ask, ‘Why do you love one person and not many?’ and also ‘Why do you love this person and not that one?’ I note in passing that1 I pause to reflect and appreciate the importance of this conclusion. Imagine, for a moment, what life would be like without it: we would deliberate for minutes just to choose which thing to eat of what we have already chosen to eat! If I wanted to buy loose leaf paper, I might ask the clerk to take a few pages from this packet and from that one to get just the right particular papers… As absurd as this sounds, I actually recall an instance working as a barista when a woman asked to examine the lemon bars. I do not joke: her story is identical to the picture I just painted.

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this applies to hamburgers too: ‘I simply am not able to eat a multitude (though I suppose I could eat two)’ in response to the first question, and I already covered the second question. Important to me is the response to the second question with respect to wives.2 I used to think married love is the type of love that requires love for one and not many (i.e. I didn’t really seek an answer to the question ‘why one and not many?’), so if asked ‘Why do you love this person at the exclusion of that one?’ I thought it was satisfactory enough to say ‘Because I love this person, and the love I have for this person is the type of love that precludes me loving others, and so in particular it [is the type of love that] precludes loving that one.’ Now this is similar to our hamburger case but not identi-cal. It would be a lot closer if it was the answer to the question ‘Why did you marry this person

and not that one?’: we would expect the answer to be ‘Well, I loved this person and not that one,’ not ‘I just wanted to get married, here is a woman (like here is a hamburger), therefore—’ But in point of fact, I don’t find the answer very convincing. The only thing I can think to save it is that it is possible to fall in love with more than one person at the same time. It presents a person with a conflict: Whom do I choose? There could in fact be ‘love’ for both, but in order for there really to be love, it

2 The question of choice actually is not limited to married love. We could ask it about friendship too. And the question of love is not limited to beloveds we choose. We could ask why we love our parents or kids. The wide applicability may invite the question why I only tackle married love. The reason is that I want to understand better this double meaning of exclusivity (one-not-many and this-not-that), which is not present in other loves.

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seems that one of the two must be chosen, and therefore one rejected. And on that account, the exclusive nature of love in the one-not-many sense may indeed justify the exclusive nature in the this-person-not-that-one sense. But I am still not sure, because it wouldn’t seem appropriate to say, ‘sweetheart, I was in love with another too, so I flipped a coin and you won!’ Rather, it seems that the justification for loving this person must consist in the person being chosen qua this person, rather than chosen on account of something extrinsic. This consideration led me to another conclusion, but before I give it, I should present other problems that led to it as well. Whenever we ask ‘Why did you do x?’ reasons can also be sought for the answer to the question. For example, Q1: ‘Why are you saving your money?’ R1: ‘To buy a new stereo.’ Q2: ‘Ah, but why do you want to buy a new

stereo?’ R2: ‘Because I want to listen to my music.’ Q3: ‘Yes, but you can do that with your old stereo.’ R3: ‘True, but a new one would sound better.’ At this point I think it would be permissible to stop. We identify the reason for his saving as a desire for better quality sound. Reasons for acting usually look something like this—an appeal-ing or pointing to something that the agent perceives as good.3 So if asked ‘Why do you love so-and-so?’ it is not entirely unreasonable to hear an answer that points to a good in the beloved. That is, at any rate, usually the case when asked ‘Why are you in love with so-and-so?’ A good pointed to may be something like the joy 3 Elizabeth Anscombe, Intention sec. 37; she uses the term ‘desirability characteristic’… but I think the point here is clear enough. Obviously a stereo is a “good” thing; but we also want to see how the agent perceives it as good. That is the whole point of the chain of questions.

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of looking at her face or the de-light of her cheery personality… whatever. It might answer the question ‘Why do you find this person worthy of your atten-tion?’ (i.e., why do you love this person), but only the question posed in a very indeterminate way, and therefore only permit-ting a very indeterminate answer. When we consider norms of married love, namely its exclusivity, the response no longer answers the question (which is really the question to ask) ‘Why do you love this per-son at the exclusion of others?’ This is because any quality attributed to the person is a quality that other people have as well. It is not as if a person thinks his wife is the only pretty or agreeable person in existence. For that matter, he probably doesn’t even think she is the most pretty or most agreeable. So qualities as such fail to provide the criteria we need in order to explain why

exclusive love as such is the way it is. Besides, it is not the qualities abstracted from the person that people love about a person (I fell in love with her, not with ‘pretty’ or ‘agreeable’).4 So this prelude led to the conclusion that the reason for loving this person is not a good in this person but rather the very personhood of this person. To be sure, it is not because this person is a person that she is loved, it is because she is this person.5 At this point I can no longer ignore the elephant in the room, staring

4 Obviously they may love the qualities too. But consider the possibility of admiring a person’s qualities and yet being indifferent to or utterly repulsed by the person.

5 There is an essay Love as Valuing a Relationship by Niko Kolodny in which the author dismisses this point, ‘To say “She is Jane” is simply to identify a particular with itself ’ (pg. 142 The Philosophical Review, Vol. 112, No. 2 (April 2003)). He admits his rejection is without argument.

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me in the face, and ready to sit on me: What does it mean to be a person? The question has applications in other areas of inquiry (e.g. ethics), and is not just an abstruse question. Though I agree it is an abstruse question, and since it belongs to metaphysics, I’d like to just drop the inquiry altogether. But as in marriage, when things become difficult, quitting is never the appropriate solution, neither in philosophy is quitting an appropriate conclusion. Recall that I denied that a good in the beloved is reason enough to love because such a reason would detract from the very person for whom there is love—such a reason would suggest love of a quality rather than the person and would thus make it impossible to say why this person was the beloved rather than another with the same beloved quality. But herein is the problem: I too quickly jumped from a good

in the beloved to a good in the abstract without realizing that a good in a person is not a good as abstract, but a good in its very particular expression.6 It is easy to say the good is some-thing the beloved has when we speak of the good as something that falls under the umbrella of ‘good’ in general, but as a matter of fact, we are never attracted to the good as abstract but the good as we experience it, and that is a good which is particularized. So if someone says, ‘she is agreeable,’ it is not agreeable‘ness’ that he is predi-cating to her (though it sounds like it is) and therefore it is not agreeable‘ness’ that he is giving as the reason for loving her. It is her way of being agreeable, it is her pretty, it is her etc. This way of speaking marks a quality not as something that

6 In my defense, I think that many other philosophers who recognize the problem of qualities as attributable to others have made this same jump.

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someone merely has but as something that in some way actually defines that person.7 We can look at an easy example to test the legitimacy of this argument. From my experience with people, it seems that the average person falls in love about five hundred times until they actually establish a lasting relationship with some-one. Yet every time, the person in love acts as if it is the first time it has ever happened and as if this person is different than all the rest, etc., etc. There are two ways to go. A realistic person may attribute the phenomenon to some strange characteristic of emotion. On the other hand, I do wonder why the experience is such that it makes a claim to uniqueness. I can’t think of any other experience we have in which the thing that we experi-ence, though its particular may be for the first time, is not novel (e.g., I have eaten a thousand hamburgers in my life, but never

one from that restaurant) but yet we feel and act as if it were. I think the reason is because when a person falls in love with the 273rd person, he did not fall in love with her qua 273rd per-son of falling in love with, but rather qua whatever person she is. And the fact of the matter is it is the first time he has fallen in love with her. It seems aw-fully romantic, which disgusts me because I think romance should stay out of philosophy, but it does seem to indicate something about the situation. I have in this discussion sug-gested an answer—a theoretical answer—to the question ‘Why do you love this person in the way that you love her?’ I am not yet satisfied with my answer, so I don’t plan on retiring my mind to the question any time soon. It does, however, help us reconcile the original confusion (though I suppose the reader

7 I credit Professor David O’Connor for helping me understand this point.

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never was very troubled by the possibility of a choice, even with hamburgers). If you ask ‘Why did you choose that hamburger?’ I will set this one down and grab another one to eat. Sure, it is ridiculously impractical to eat parts of various hamburgers, but it is no slight to anyone if I consume only part of one because I went for another. It seems to me there is a bit of an expectation for commitment in the case of wives, and what I want to get at is that it has something to do with who she is… even if pinpointing that ‘what’ is tricky business. Finally, it is worthwhile end-ing with a comment: regardless of your thoughts on this paper, this question is an important one to ask. The reasons given for loving (doubtless, for any action) indicate what kind of loving is going to be done. How you love is affected, if not determined, by why you love. There are, of course,

other such important questions regarding love, but those will require further discussion in their own right. R

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Christina MastrucciClass of 2011English Major

Rosa

Two Poems

we met beneath the belly of a rose.we were searching for love, looking up at falling petals,‘till we blindly collided (and froze).every rose has its thorn: its form and mannerof being out-of-reach,of being above the ground.we pluck out our eyesin hopes of finding—just one bulb (or at least a bud) of Cupid’s binding.how unassuming: we rose from the soilto shake our heads of pollen;yet those are the only drops of goldthat bear both fruit and flower.the single good we got of her (oh Rosa!)was how to prick and to bleed.so what did we learn from being blind?nothing, but how lovely it is to fall. R

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Heart of Clay

My hands bury into a piece of claywhich does not exist.I smear that mud of creationacross my eyes, so I cannot see thatwhich does not exist.Am I making myself clear?I tore the nails off my fingers,I peeled the skin off my bonesto make a perfecthuman shapewhich does not exist,to build your amber body,to build your tigers-eyewhich does not exist.How can I be clearwhen my eyes swell with soilinstead of tears, when my breath is not enoughto give us life?But you, you unconquerable form, how could I ever create you?I dig my bones into the earthand find (my) blood, yet all I createis a heart of clay, beaten and nonexistent. R

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Eva OenchiProgram of Liberal Studies

Praying For One’s Future SpouseAn Essay

Somebody’s GirlSomewhere far, and way out there,There’s this guy (is he dark or fair?)Somewhere distant (or could it be near?)You may not see him for many a year.

But this guy, he has a dream.No, not making the football team,Not his career and not his new car— His dream is a girl, just like you are.

You may not even speak the same tongueQuite different the skies that above you are hungDifferent your countries, your families, your races—But love can surpass the boundary of places.

You are his idol, his one lasting dream,Sometimes the only star sending a beam,Down as he fixes his eyes on the skyAnd he’ ll never give up, never cease to try,

Until he has found you and made you his own.Once you’ve found each other, you’re never alone.The love in your hearts circles all ‘round the world—Dear, always remember, you’re somebody’s girl.

When I was 14 years old, I wrote the following terrifically cheesy poem:

Yikes. Several years and a few ended relationships later,

I had forgotten all about my poem and its corny message.

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But when I stumbled across it by chance recently, it made me rethink my relationship choices. Yes, the poem is too idealistic, and I’ve since learned that every rose has its thorns. When that guy finally comes along, not ev-erything will work out perfectly regardless. But maybe there was still something true here, something that 14-year-old-me knew but college-me forgot. Maybe I should be more aware that there is somebody for me out there, even if I still haven’t met him. “Would I live differently if I thought more about the man who is waiting for me, my future spouse?” I asked myself honestly. The an-swer was, “Duh, yes, of course.” You see, my spouse might be ten years away, or ten days. It’s easy sometimes to convince yourself that that person will never come along, but they will. Oh, they will. And you’ll have the emotional fireworks and chirping birds and all that

loveliness. An angel will prob-ably get his wings. Like any relationship, it will be difficult at times, but with a crucial dif-ference. Unlike my failed rela-tionships, this one will be worth holding on to—even during the trials. And until I find him, I started to consider the radical concept of being faithful to my spouse even before I meet him. What does this mean? To me, the number one thing seems to be to prepare and pray for my spouse now. I’m not sitting around at home waiting for Mr. Right to arrive—by no means. I go out and have fun and live a very full, joyful life. But maybe when I’m thinking about my future husband, I’ll act a little differently with men. For a religious person like my-self, this could mean flirt less, pray more. Or flirt less, reflect more. Pray that my future hus-band is happy, growing holy…maybe even pray that I’ll meet him soon (or soon enough).

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Or reflect on my interactions with men in order to help me to keep things in perspective. I should guard my heart a little more, too. No need to crush on three different guys in my math class or pine over that Glee Club cutie who just won’t ask me out. If he’s not inter-ested, he’s clearly not the one. And my future spouse is going to be so much more amazing, anyways. Definitely worth the wait. And if—God forbid—a trial or temptation does arise after my marriage, I will be better equipped to overcome it if I am used to practicing emotional faithfulness. This also means becoming a person worth waiting for. Someone said, “Become the person you want to spend the rest of your life with.” That means now. For girls, this might mean dressing or acting more modestly, to show respect for yourself and for your spouse. You don’t want to put it all

out there for strangers. Wait for the one who will appreci-ate it. For men, this might mean talking about women and acting towards them in an appropriate and respectful manner—the way your wife would want her husband to act. More than anything, it means praying for your spouse and starting, now, to desire his or her good and happiness. This seems to me to be the best way to ensure your own hap-piness in dating or marriage. I wrote a second poem more recently, when I was bored in class (sorry, profs…). It was about a situation that happened to me last year. Two male friends both wanted to date me. (I promise, this is not a typical situation for me.) I wasn’t seriously interested in either, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t date one, right? Well…

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If I chose one, I could not then choose youFor they will be as chaff, and meaninglessAnd wait I must.

If I chose one, you would be farther, fartherThis little act of faithlessness would keep youIn the balance – pending – perhaps too longIf I chose one, could I then choose you?

I will not take that chance, too many maybesOf hearts that may be ripped or at least frayedOr time wasted, shared thoughts and feelings– I’d rather save these to share whole with you.

By dating the wrong guy, I may be hurting my chances of meeting the right guy. And I know that my husband is worth waiting for. So for now I’ll wait—not in a sad, pining way, but with the attitude of preparing myself and my spouse for something great. My life now is full and happy, and because of that I know my life with my spouse will someday be full and happy too.

I’m sure he’s out there, per-haps preparing for our marriage as well, with his own full, joyful life. I hope so. Maybe he’s even reading this. Better yet, maybe he’s praying for me too. R

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It’ ll happen In the corner of some dimly-lit room,On an hour-long car ride,When I realize,Your pupils shift When I look you in the eyes,And you’re too mature for my humor,Too set in your ways, Too stubborn to see That poetry is a traveler Eloquently urging her to leave

I wake up to find it’s your exit That I’ve taken out of habit,It’s your finger whichStill wraps me around it

As I await the final momentWe anticipate as nothing less, Than the expiration date Branded on my boarding pass

A Feasible Slip out of the Plane into the AbyssThose weren’t heart murmurs; you have indigestion. A PoemSara McGuirkClass of 2014 English Major

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Than a cheap charade Of triumphant cowardice,A love (pre)maturely forfeitedOr strung somehow to be outstretched, On life-support with wheezing breath For the first time in monthsWith distance between usI’ ll finally notice What I can’t say I’ve ever seen The gap between your teeth Where all the words we never said got stuck Words we’re still unsure we mean

And before I’m gone,I’ ll have imagined you undoneBy some illusion that wantsAny proven fact or thought,Any lucid coherence,But merely plays the partOf blind appearance

Disguised by denial’s art

You’ll be that place on my backThat I can’t reach in the shower,The story I tell my friends that lacksThe name or face of its character,And by the time that you ask

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How much you once had mattered,Your eyes won’t speak again The silence that I’d heardOf the turning earth,Between your baited breaths

And allow me to be blunt, but

Can’t you appreciate the artistryIn the flush of her cheek,Her voice’s cracking instability,The words, unheard, strike silentlyIn the upper lip’s steady marchAgainst her quivering sister’s plea,In the single, winding, trickle sliding, Cavalier and callous as its landscape seems...That’s a knife you’re twisting

How could she miscalculate?After the way his fingers intertwined with hersAt every sign of no returnAnd realigned with every swerveOf her insides when they climbed and turnedDesigned, as if,To entwine in hers

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Not everything must be proclaimed Upon one’s knees in centerstage,Though she’d missed What he’d meant to say,What he’d written on his face,The lines in the message He’d engraved,As if hanging from his lipsIn his eyes between each kiss,Enough to admit

He had wanted her to stay

A conviction his poetry, in subtlety, Simply didn’t say, A distance its traveler wouldn’t take,And so, the same cannot be said of her,Asleep uponThe stranger on the plane,Plunging headfirst,Soaring towards theFirst exit (in half-slumbered habit) That hadn’t led to him R

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John AshleyClass of 2011The Philosophy Club

“I dreamed of Diana last night.” “Oh?” “That was where things began, I think. In that memory, in the dream.” “Shall we start there?” “Yes!”

Diana was there, short and elfin and hair the color of new hay, smiling her slightly sardonic smile. The scene was not important, a party, one of our last before we dispersed to all the points of the compass. We were all full of dreams and music then, touched by the Muse herself. But no singing of arms and the man, or the rage of the son of Peleus for that matter. Say instead, singing of innocent joy at the future. We stood in the basement of someone’s house as music pounded away through the air. All of us were there, and most of us were enjoying ourselves.

I cannot remember if I was or not, until she came to me where I stood, in the back of the room, looking a little disdainful at the antics of the youth of Athens around me. Even then I suppose I was cultivating the career academic’s attitude toward the plebs, so it should have come as no surprise to me that none of the women, least of all Diana, would return my attentions with anything more than polite refusal. And such refusal irked my rational mind, for was I not the most ideal person in all of the room? Diana came over to me, smiled a smile that was sup-posed to apologize but did the opposite, and told me, in velvet words, to find someone else to dance with at the farewell gala. We both uttered bits of meaningless noise, reassuring each other that no offense was meant, that we’d be fast friends despite it all, and then we moved apart, she to a pleasant

Dreams of DianaA Story

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evening of light and love, I to brood slowly and surreptitiously. The music jarred slightly, as though kicked, and the world jarred with it. The music started again, from the beginning of the song, and the world seemed to rewind likewise. Diana walked over to me slowly. It was not on purpose. Rather, it was as though I was retarding time itself to enjoy the sight of her better. She wore something nice, and she’d bound her hair behind her head in a way that stunned me a little. Time resumed its normal course for her to say to me, “I’d love to dance with you next month.”

“How is he?” “His brain function is steady. Quite normal.” “Time for the second step?” “Yes, I think so.”

I was walking across the university, heading to my little hole of an office in the early

morning sun. The light was rich and thick like honey, and the beams of it that reached down through the branches of trees seemed pillars of gold. Diana was sitting on a bench, and the morning light basked in her beauty. She saw me and offered that smile, that sardonic smile that I love so. I returned it shyly, and she patted the weathered wood beside her, and I sat and turned to look fully at her. The sight of her there in the high sunlight enraptured me. A Muse was truly required to de-scribe her then; a Muse of fire, to ascend the brightest heaven of invention and there trumpet to the poets of the world how to write her and canticle her. “I’ve left him. Last week. I didn’t really love him, anymore. Didn’t really like either.” Her words shivered down my spine with their strange-ness and promise. She moved nearer to me across the bench, shifting herself across the gulf

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I had chastely left between us when I had sat down. I dared then to move my arm across the back of the bench and so to intercept her fair shoulders. “I…I think I love you,” she said, and then she spoke my name and it was the fairest and most terrible sound I’d ever heard. “I love you too,” said I, speak-ing the words I’d heard over and over again in my mind since the day years ago when I decided I did love her, and when our life together had played out in my sleep to mock me when I woke. We kissed then, and the setting sun painted her skin all kinds of beautiful.

“I’m worried.” “You saw the recordings of my time with him?” “Yes, and I think—” “It is his choice. If he desires the flame...it’s time for the third phase.”

We walked along a pond,

somewhere in the middle of nowhere, one of those places that you can only get to if you’ve been there before. The path was a pleasing pastel of gray gravel, the forest and water full with the very color of life. We walked as lovers do, cocooned in our own little place of joy and ignorant of everything else. She pointed out the antics of some small woodland creature, and we both laughed and moved closer, kissing playfully under the patchwork quilt of autumn leaves. An old ruin of some hermit’s dwelling poked up out of the underbrush and the gaps in the mossy brick chimney peered at us, to inquire after the why and wherefore of our intrusion on their meditations. A likely patch of bank presented itself to us, formed by a shelf of slate that projected itself out and over the water. We sat together to dangle our feet in the water and playfully splash each other. The water was

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as clear as air, full of fish who solemnly investigated us and then fled from the disturbance we made. Silence pushed in at us like a blanket, a bar-rier against thoughts of what awaited us when we left this little bit of paradise. Off in the distance, a train thundered softly against the rails. After a time, my courage screwed firmly to the sticking point, I presented her with the ring, and she cried out in joy, and everything was bliss for awhile. Finally, with the tiredness of the world calling to us, we walked back to our horses, mounted, and left.

“The last phase.” “Yes. Prepare my equipment. We will need to break him off before the moment of death.”

The bed I lay in was comfort-able enough, and clean, and the pain of passing was not as severe as I thought it would be. The remembrances of my

life with Diana flittered before my mind’s eye like ethereal birds, a lifetime of memories and feelings. She sat in a chair beside me, her white hair pulled tight with worry. She smiled at me, the smile still as sardonic as it had ever been, even touched as it now was with sadness and concern. She didn’t speak. We both knew that to speak would only be to say farewell, and that time had not yet come. Soon, though—for it approached palpably, on the soft trot of a pale horse and the chant of a requiem mass. I despised its coming, but my strength was nearly gone and I could not stand against it. And then Diana spoke. “You have to wake up!” she urged. I can’t! I wanted to respond to her, but I lacked the power to speak. Then, Wake up? What do you mean? Am I asleep and dreaming again? Yes, intoned the voice of

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Death, who stood there like an undertaker all in mourn-ing garb. Then I was falling away into blackness, floating in a void. Ground appeared invisibly below me, and I thumped into it without the least violence. I picked myself up, and the skin of my arms felt taut over muscle once more. Death walked up out of the darkness, and he was a middle-aged man with a potbelly and an impish cast to his features. “You are dreaming, but it is time for you to wake up,” he said, his tone as reasonable as you please. “You remember this conversation, don’t you?” and he flicked his arm to show an image of the two of us talking in an office.

“You understand the risks of the procedure?” Death inquired. Was he Death though, or a psychiatrist? The very one I could just gently remember in the back of my mind? I could not tell.

“Yes I do, and I’ve signed the forms to that effect.” “All well and good for the lawyers, but do you really understand? Do you get it?” “Yes, I do.” “You could be lost forever if the subconscious desires are strong enough to overcome the conscious desires. Which, sometimes, they are.” The psy-chiatrist—was he really Death? —took a sip from a mug. “You said you have ways of waking me up from the trance if I were…stuck.” “There are some techniques I can use, yes, but my abilities pale next to the power of the subconscious. It’s a strange and cunning beast, and it does not like being taken out of the driver’s seat.” Once again, his speech. So strangely poetic. “I get it, Doctor. Can you start? I’ve paid…well, I’ve paid a lot. Probably more than I can afford, but…” “She means that

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much to you?” “Yes.” “Than we shall begin with analysis. There’s a couch and chair in the next room where we shall record, as well as the psychograph. This will take several hours, perhaps a day or two. Next, I shall induce the dream trance and compose the fantasy you’ve detailed. If you do not wake up at the end, I shall employ what abilities I have to rouse you. If that does not succeed…” he shrugged his shoulders, and the sadness of familiarity filled his eyes. “Then may the shade of Carl Jung walk with you in all the empty places where you must go.”

The images faded, and Death—and it was Death, and not the psychiatrist—looked at me. His face was ghoul-ish and hateful, that of an undertaker who revels in the price of a funeral. “This is how I’m trying to

wake you up,” he said. “By communicating directly with your subconscious. I need you to wake up.” “No!” I shouted. To hell with his babble! “I want her! I won’t go with you! I’m going back.” And as I spoke this short defiance a door sprang into being beside me, hinged to the darkness of the void on which we stood. “If you go through that door, you’ll never find her. I will keep you from her or keep you from dreaming, whichever I must. You must wake up!” “Liar!” I said, and yanked the door open before plunging through it.

“He’s gone.” “I know! Give him the sedative, but slowly. There may yet be a chance.”

“Lancelot!” My friend came to my side, panting. “God’s blood, Lancelot, how can you stand it here? This

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wind cuts like a knife!” “I endure the climb, for the fruits of my labor are the sweetest in all of the earth. This hill is but a small thing.” I pointed out to the keep of distant Camelot. “She walks that wall, in the evenings, that we may look upon each other without Arthur’s know-ing it. See! She comes.” The sight of her, clad all in cloth the color of fresh sage, thrilled me to the quick. “God’s wounds, Gawain, look at her! As fair as Diana in the full flush of the hunt!” “Guinevere is Arthur’s, Lancelot,” Gawain insisted. “The two of you…not even im-possible, no! Dishonorable and sacrilegious! To lust for another man’s wife…that was David’s sin, and the Lord punished him for it, as He will punish you if you persist at this.” “I am not David, Gawain. That woman did not love him, and he took her, but

Guinevere…oh, Gawain, you should see what she writes me and sends me by secret. The glances she gives me when she may, the favors at tournaments.” “I see them, sure as every knight at Camelot does the same. Arthur suspects, but you may yet prevent him from exiling you. Go north, as I bade you. Spend you a year with the monks of the glen, and awaken you from this slumber of desire!” “Nay, Gawain, ‘tis not that counsel I’ll follow, though you be my friend. Love conquers all things, even the marriage of Arthur and Guinevere. Was it not Christ’s love for us that saved the world?” “Yes, but—” “Then so will my love for Guinevere save her from Arthur! Now, take you this and give it to him.” I handed Gawain parchment tightly bound in a scroll, sealed with my sigil in red beeswax.

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“What says it?” “It tells Arthur of Guinevere’s love for me, that I will no longer see her bowed beneath the op-pressive yoke of their marriage. He is to meet me in challenge of combat, that we may settle this like honorable men.” “God’s bread, man, have you been taken by the Devil? Arthur kills men as a butcher does hogs!” “Perhaps he might best you, Gawain, for you are getting on in your years and fat about the middle, but I am the finest knight in all of Christendom, and not even Arthur and his sword Excalibur may stand against me, armed with my love for Guinevere!” Our duel happened the next morning, on the dewy green field before the grand gates of Camelot. All the lords and la-dies of the castle were gathered, so stunning was my challenge to the king. The combat was a weightier thing than I’d

planned, for Arthur, full of fury, had decreed that Guinevere was to die by the axe for her infidelity, should he prove the mightier at arms. She stood apart from all the rest, simply dressed in the gown of sage green she had worn when last I had seen her. A man in black surcoat and helm stood next to her, a knight chosen by the chance fall of dice to kill her. I waited, likewise alone, at the southern end of the green-sward, and dressed me in mail and chausses and helm. My squire came forward, bearing my arms. I buckled Anadight round my waist and mounted my charger to take spear and shield. Gawain called to me, then, as I was readying to ride. “You’re a damned fool, Lancelot. Withdraw and I can convince Arthur not to kill you!” “Never!” I returned cheerfully, and he shook his head muttering.

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Arthur rode forth onto the north end of the field and saluted me with a lift of his spear. I returned the gesture and slammed my visor down, and the world reduced to slits and pinpricks. We charged each other, and our spears shattered themselves on our shields with a noise like God’s own thunder. We dismounted our horses, sent them away, and proceeded to try the matter with our blades. Blows fell like the spring rain and hit like a blacksmith’s hammer. I bettered him at the beginning, nearly managing a killing stroke where his mail met the leather coif beneath his helm, but he ducked away ignobly and survived. His recovery was strong and giant-like as he strode back at me and hewed with the strength only fury may beget. Our fight lasted for an hour, until we were drenched in sweat and panting. Then Arthur caught my shield with his and

pulled it away, and his stroke burst the rings of my mail, and his thrust went home in my breast. I fell to the ground, and from long and far away I heard the executioner’s axe fall by Arthur’s command. Guinevere! No, my love! No! I tried to rise, to take my vengeance on her murderer, but my strength failed me, and blood choked me. We shall meet again, my love. With the Lustful, in the inferno. And it shall be a paradise for us. I relaxed, and felt numbing cold in my limbs.Gawain stripped back my visor, and gazed at me sorrowfully. “She was never yours. Not in life, and not in this delirium you dream, and not in the death between dreams you now go to. Awake, you fool, and arise!” R

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Colophon:

This journal is compiled entirely from the works of undergraduate scholars at

The University of Notre Dame.

The editors of Lost Piece: An Undergraduate Journal of Lettersare indebted to Dr. Cecilia Lucero for her invaluable assistance on

behalf of The Center for Undergraduate Scholarly Engagement.

The editors also extend thanks to the Undergraduate Research Opportunity Program,

and the Institute of Scholarship in the Liberal Arts, both of which are directed by Dr. Agustin Fuentes.

Stephen Lechner, Editor-in-ChiefRaymond Korson, Josef Kuhn, and Conor Rogers, Editors

Lost Piece was designed in Adobe InDesign, CS5; its body copy is set in 12 pt Adobe Caslon Pro.

This publication was designed by Stephen Lechner‘11, [email protected]

Documents

Lost Piece Volume II Issue I Final Leaves