Simone Weil

by

Susan Sontag

The culture-heroes of our liberal bourgeois civilization are anti-liberal and anti-bourgeois; they are writers who are repetitive, obsessive, and impolite, who impress by force—not simply by their tone of personal authority and by their intellectual ardor, but by the sense of acute personal and intellectual extremity. The bigots, the hysterics, the destroyers of the self—these are the writers who bear witness to the fearful polite time in which we live. It is mostly a matter of tone: it is hardly possible to give credence to ideas uttered in the impersonal tones of sanity. There are certain eras which are too complex, too deafened by contradictory historical and intellectual experiences, to hear the voice of sanity. Sanity becomes compromise, evasion, a lie. Ours is an age which consciously pursues health, and yet only believes in the reality of sickness. The truths we respect are those born of affliction. We measure truth in terms of the cost to the writer in suffering—rather than by the standard of an objective truth to which a writer’s words correspond. Each of our truths must have a martyr.

Thomas Hirshorn

What revolted the mature Goethe in the young Kleist, who submitted his work to the elder statesman of German letters “on the knees of his heart”—the morbid, the hysterical, the sense of the unhealthy, the enormous indulgence in suffering out of which Kliest’s plays and tales were mined—is just what we value today. Today Kleist gives pleasure, Goethe is to some a duty. In the same way, such writers as Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky, Kafka, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Genet—and Simone Weil—have their authority with us because of their air of unhealthiness. Their unhealthiness is their soundness, and is what carries conviction.

Perhaps there are certain ages which do not need truth as much as they need a deepening of the sense of reality, a widening of the imagination. I, for one, do not doubt that the sane view of the world is the true one. But is that what is always wanted, truth? The need for truth is not constant; no more than is the need for repose. An idea which is a distortion may have a greater intellectual thrust than the truth; it may better serve the needs of the spirit, which vary. The truth is balance, but the opposite of truth, which is unbalance, may not be a lie.

Thus I do not mean to decry a fashion, but to underscore the motive behind the contemporary taste for the extreme in art and thought. All that is necessary is that we not be hypocritical, that we recognize why we read and admire writers like Simone Weil. I cannot believe that more than a handful of the tens of thousands of readers she has won since the posthumous publication of her books and essays really share her ideas. Nor is it necessary—necessary to share Simone Weil’s anguished and unconsummated love affair with the Catholic Church, or accept her gnostic theology of divine absence, or espouse her ideals of body denial, or concur in her violently unfair hatred of Roman civilization and the Jews. Similarly, with Kierkegaard and Nietzsche; most of their modern admirers could not, and do not embrace their ideas. We read writers of such scathing originality for their personal authority, for the example of their seriousness, for their manifest willingness to sacrifice themselves for their truths, and—only piecemeal—for their “views.” As the corrupt Alcibiades followed Socrates, unable and unwilling to change his own life, but moved, enriched, and full of love; so the sensitive modern reader pays his respect to a level of spiritual reality which is not, could not, be his own.

Some lives are exemplary, others not; and of exemplary lives, there are those which invite us to imitate them, and those which we regard from a distance with a mixture of revulsion, pity, and reverence. It is, roughly, the difference between the hero and the saint (if one may use the latter term in an aesthetic, rather than a religious sense). Such a life, absurd in its exaggerations and degree of self-mutilation—like Kleist’s, like Kierkegaard’s—was Simone Weil’s. I am thinking of the fanatical asceticism of Simone Weil’s life, her contempt for pleasure and for happiness, her noble and ridiculous political gestures, her elaborate self-denials, her tireless courting of affliction; and I do not exclude her homeliness, her physical clumsiness, her migraines, her tuberculosis. No one who loves life would wish to imitate her dedication to martyrdom nor would wish it for his children nor for anyone else whom he loves. Yet so far as we love seriousness, as well as life, we are moved by it, nourished by it. In the respect we pay to such lives, we acknowledge the presence of mystery in the world—and mystery is just what the secure possession of the truth, an objective truth, denies. In this sense, all truth is superficial; and some (but not all) distortions of the truth, some (but not all) insanity, some (but not all) unhealthiness, some (but not all) denials of life are truth-giving, sanity-producing, health-creating, and life-enhancing.

This new volume of translations from Simone Weil’s work, Selected Essays 1934-43, displays her somewhat marginally. It contains one great essay, the opening essay here titled “Human Personality” which was written in 1943, the year of her death in England at the age of thirty-four. (This essay, by the way, was first published in two parts under the title “The Fallacy of Human Rights” in the British magazine The Twentieth Century in May and June 1959. There it suffered the curious and instructive fate of requiring a defensive editorial in June, when the second part of the essay appeared, replying to criticism of the magazine’s decision to publish the essay “on the grounds that it involves heavy going for some readers.” It certainly speaks volumes about the philistine level of English intellectual life, if even as good a magazine as The Tweentieth [sic] Century cannot muster an enthusiastic, grateful audience for such a piece.) Another essay, placed last in the book, called “Draft for a Statement of Human Obligations,” also written the year of her death, contains matter central to Simone Weil’s ideas. The remaining essays are on specific historical and political subjects—two on the civilization of Languedoc, one on a proletarian uprising in Renaissance Florence, several long essays on the Roman Empire which draw an extensive parallel between imperial Rome and Hitler’s Germany, and various reflections on the Second World War, the colonial problem, and the post-war future. There is also an interesting and sensitive letter to George Bernanos. The longest argument of the book, spanning several essays, develops the parallel between Rome (and the ancient Hebrew theocracy!) and Nazi Germany. According to Simone Weil, who displays an unpleasant silence on the Nazi persecution of the Jews, Hitler is no worse than Napoleon, than Richelieu, than Caesar. Hitler’s racialism, she says, is nothing more than “a rather more romantic name for nationalism.” Her fascination with the psychological effects of wielding power and submitting to coercion, combined with her strict denial of any idea of historical progress, led her to equate all forms of state authority as manifestations of what she calls “the great beast.”

Readers of Simone Weil’s Notebooks (two volumes, published in 1959) and her Intimations of Christianity Among the Ancient Greeks (1958) will be familiar with her attempt to derive everything distinctively Christian from Greek spirituality as well as to deny entirely Chrisianity’s Hebraic origins. This fundamental argument—along with her admiration for Provençal civilization, for the Manichean and Catharist heresies—colors all her historical essays. I cannot accept Simone Weil’s gnostic reading of Christianity as historically sound (its religious truth is another matter); nor can I fail to be offended by the vindictive parallels she draws between Nazism, Rome, and Israel. Impartiality, no more than a sense of humor, is not the virtue of a writer like Simone Weil. Like Gibbon (whose view of the Roman Empire she absolutely contradicts), Simone Weil as a historical writer is tendentious, exhaustive, and infuriatingly certain. As a historian she is simply not at her best; no one who disbelieves so fundamentally in the phenomena of historical change and innovation can be wholly satisfying as a historian. This is not to deny that there are subtle historical insights in these essays: as for example, when she points out that Hitlerism consists in the application by Germany to the European continent, and the white race generally, of colonial methods of conquest and domination. (Immediately after, of course, she says that these—both Hitler’s methods and the “normal colonial ones”—are derived from the Roman model.)

The principal value of the collection is simply that anything from Simone Weil’s pen is worth reading. It is perhaps not the book to start one’s acquaintance with this writer—Waiting for God, I think, is the best for that. The originality of her psychological insight, the passion and subtlety of her theological imagination , the fecundity of her exegetical talents are unevenly displayed here. Yet the person of Simone Weil is here as surely as in any of her other books—the person who is excruciatingly identical with her ideas, the person who is rightly regarded as one of the most uncompromising and troubling witnesses to the modern travail of the spirit.

Source:  This article first appeared in 1963 in New York Review of Books.

Astral Weeks: A ‘guide’ that perplexes

by

Ed Park

The late Douglas Adams’ unstoppably popular 1979 novel, “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” (HG2G), is about, among other things, “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” “one of the most remarkable books ever to come out of the great publishing corporations of Ursa Minor,” an idiosyncratic interstellar how-to for those interested in hitching rides on spaceships and generally surviving on 30 Altairian dollars a day. What does it mean when a book about an extraordinary book itself becomes an extraordinary book?

The astonishing success of Adams’ novel is both understandable and surprising. (How astonishing? Try 20 million copies astonishing.) He based the first two books (the second is the even better “The Restaurant at the End of the Universe,” published a year later) on his successful BBC radio series, and there’s something about that medium’s disembodied vocalizing that gets carried over into the text, a voice-of-god vibe that allows for gently ironic, smoothly cosmicomic zoom-outs that comment on and complement the various adventures of its main characters: Arthur Dent (seemingly the sole human to survive the destruction of Earth), Ford Prefect (“roving researcher” for the “Guide”), Zaphod Beeblebrox (two-headed, triple-armed president of the galaxy and all-around spaced-out sybarite) and Trillian (née Tricia McMillan, the other persevering homo sapien).

Adding to the addictive fun is the “Jabberwocky” approach to alien names and linguistics (most potently in the sample of Vogon poetry -- the third worst in the universe), and last but not least Adams’ uncanny ability to mint T-shirt-ready phrases, dream up unforgettable metaphors: The Babel fish (a creature that, when put in the ear, allows you to understand any language, as the thing feeds off incoming brain waves and excretes information into your brain); “Don’t panic” (the HG2G’s motto); the importance of carrying a towel; the cosmic import of the phrase “We apologize for the inconvenience”; 42 (the surprisingly terse answer to the meaning of life, the universe, and everything); Deep Thought (the supercomputer built to calculate the question to the meaning of life, the universe, and everything); and a handful more.

I love how the description of the Guide itself, 30 years on, sounds infinitely less fantastic:

“[Ford Prefect] had a device that looked rather like a largish electronic calculator. This had about a hundred tiny flat press buttons and a screen about four inches square on which any one of a million ‘pages’ could be summoned at a moment’s notice. It looked insanely complicated, and this was one of the reasons why the snug plastic cover it fitted into had the words DON’T PANIC printed on it in large friendly letters. . . . The reason why it was published in the form of a micron sub meson electronic component is that if it were printed in normal book form, an interstellar hitchhiker would require several inconveniently large buildings to carry it around in.”

This description, written back when a line about humans being “so amazingly primitive they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea” would feel au courant, now easily conjures a hand-held device, something like a Kindle crossed with a Blackberry.

Eoin Colfer’s slackly titled “And Another Thing . . . “  (Hyperion) is the authorized continuation of the series. In theory, it’s altogether fitting that the so-called Hitchhiker’s Trilogy, which had self-consciously overflowed to five titles by the time of Adams’ sudden death in 2001, should live on. After all, nothing is impossible in the HG2G universe. Death and destruction need not be permanent: The titular eatery in “The Restaurant at the End of the Universe” is “built on the future remains of an eventually ruined planet . . . projected forward in time to the precise moment of the End of the Universe” -- the ultimate dining experience, at once unique and endlessly repeated.

But whereas Adams could make the verb tenses involved with the restaurant’s existence a cause for laughter-induced panting, Colfer starts his installment promisingly but ultimately can’t match Adams’ brilliant insouciance or his knack for memorable inventions.

It’s a tall order, of course, and Colfer, author of the “Artemis Fowl” books, tries hard to keep the atmosphere antic. A welcome off-the-cuffness greets the skeptical Earthbound reader, returning to this fictional world after many years. (The last Hitchhiker book Adams wrote, “Mostly Harmless,” came out 17 years ago.) Colfer frames “And Another Thing . . . “ by asking the reader to imagine scrolling through the legendary “Guide,” now equipped with all sorts of audiovisual bells and whistles, and then clicking onto the text-only appendix. “This is the story of that appendix,” he writes, in a nice anticlimactic flourish.

But as this book wore on, I started to question not only the whole idea of having another hand (albeit a game and successful-in-his-own-right one) adding to the universe of a beloved author, but also why the parties involved didn’t think, as it were, outside of the book.

“Mostly Harmless” was published well before the advent of e-books, and while I’m as anxious about this new technology as the next paste-and-paper devotee, I can’t help but wonder whether Douglas Adams, the technophile, would have tried to utilize the electronic platform to reimagine what a book -- specifically, a Hitchhiker book -- could be. (Among other medium-bending exploits, Adams authored an Infocom text-game version of HG2G, as well as a more complex computer game called Starship Titanic, which I still don’t quite understand.)

“And Another Thing . . . “ punctuates its increasingly tedious story line with entries from the “Guide,” some of which show a glimmer of Adams-like spark. What if Colfer had let Arthur, Zaphod and company rest in peace and, instead, given us some approximation of the “Guide” itself? Rather than follow the pesky rules of plot, Colfer might have created something truly anarchic, in the spirit of the original, but in a form Adams could only dream of.

A book consisting only of discrete entries might sound daunting, but, in fact, the structure would be liberating. And any time the reader got confused, a button could be depressed, and those two beautiful words -- DON’T PANIC! -- would come swimming out of the e-ink ether.

Credits:  Ed Park is a founding editor of the Believer and the author of the novel “Personal Days.” Astral Weeks appears monthly at latimes.com/books.  This essay was originally published in 2009 and culled from https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-2009-nov-01-la-caw-astral-weeks1-2009nov01-story.html

Code GCzero22…n

by

Peter Cowlam

Michael Whelan, Conference in the Clouds

The meeting broke up shortly after five, and I still did not know what I could and could not say. As I pulled from the parking lot the sun, a dazzle in my windshield, had touched the summit of the distant Mt Naganui. Its snowy peak was a momentary gold corona. The guard at the gate, with a brush of fingertips to his temple – that was the standard salute – nodded me through, and lifted the bar. I drove to the foot of the mountain, then up its winding road, a metalled way that soon gave out where the gravel began. 

An orange haze settled itself and was quickly absorbed into the shadow of mountain ferns, palms and pines, that whole vista precipitate as I looked from the edge of the trail, where in places the barrier had broken. I refixed my gaze on the track ahead, with little sense of its safety, and motored on in that cloak of darkness. That tense monotony was broken only when I met a lone car coming down, its headlights bobbing towards me. It killed its beam as it passed, edging slowly, tentatively round. I dipped my headlights likewise. Then I was truly alone, upwards into the wilds of Naganui’s mountain bush – rockfalls to the nearside, a dizzying gorge to the other. I hugged the inside curve.

But I got there, up near the summit, where it was cloudy, starless. I circled round and began my descent to the mountain’s other side. At that point I thought a lone star had come out, low on the horizon, in hue a gem-like silvery magenta, bright against the sooty backdrop of the night sky. The thing got bigger as I approached, showing itself gradually as not a heavenly body, but a machine with rotating lights – silver, magenta, in a regular beat and pattern – little points of spinning strobes – mesmeric. 

I got within thirty metres and knew it as a UAP, static above the track. It cast a cone of tawny reddish light on the gravel and surrounding vegetation. In that shimmer and corrugation of unnatural light I made out a figure, in the dazzle of the suit it wore – again, a silvery magenta. It was Homo sapiens-like, striding towards my car, where I had stopped, with the engine running – a gentle purr. As it got closer, a looming, ghostly, other-worldly being, my engine spontaneously cut. The electrics went haywire. The lights dimmed before they extinguished completely. The radio crackled, and fell silent. The figure – more cyborg than organic – came up nonchalantly and stood menacingly at my driver door. Slowly, deliberately, it extended one of six digits on the hook of its hand and touched my window, miraculously activating enough of the car’s electrics that the window wound down. The thing had difficulty speaking English. ‘You will go,’ it said, and then, in a series of staccato instructions, with great effort described a beach residence not far distant. There I would find one of the country’s former premiers and deliver a simple code – a string of alphanumerics, too long to reproduce here, but in shorthand GCzero22…n. 

I protested. What did it mean? And why me? I was a roving reporter, trying to keep intact my blog behind a paywall – not more than a hack really, who owed his living to Grub Street. Nevertheless, I had a reputation for the fantastic twist I gave to my stories, which always proved credible. This presence at my window seemed to know all about that, perhaps telepathically aware that I had come to this attractive island nation looking for a scoop. I considered that no Western authority would ever believe, as I believed, that Naganui was on the brink of manoeuvring itself into a brokerage for peace. Did it not have a lesson to teach the warring militias of the north? In fact did it not have something to say to all of us slave to the world’s warmongers? The answer was probably yes, though by now much had unravelled, and had not gone as planned. The premier here was about to lose the election, and had learned a lesson from us, from the West, and threatened a coup. I had soon discovered that in fear of retribution no one in Naganui wanted to talk politics, so I had failed with the story I’d come for. Except now I had this cyborg, with the hook of its hand gripping my doorframe. Again, it had difficulty speaking, with its robotic, clanking voice—

‘The ex-premier…’ it stuttered.

 

I worked out, with careful, close attention, that those of a distant star had observed how politicians here on planet Earth were able to speak sense only after retiring from politics, when the rhetoric of party loyalty – or key to career advancement – was no longer necessary. My mission was to approach Naganui’s previous and now ex-premier, Esala Lau, and deliver what the cyborg said was the GC code Lau would have carried with him during his time in office. Perilously, this was the only sequence to bring about a de-escalation, and put a stop to the coming nuclear exchange. It was madness, yes, but the outcome hinged on General Rockefeller Blitts, who controlled and filtered all intelligence in the north’s grabs and counter land grabs, his theatre of manouvres. Blitts had already hinted to his president and commander in chief that a nuclear first strike was his only viable option. In all probability, preparations were already under way. Code GCzero22…n – a sequence known to only three persons on the planet – constituted the one countermanding instruction, the one vital piece of information whose utterance would prevent a global conflagration. 

‘You must contact Mr Esala Lau. He is to make the presidential phone call. He knows the number. He knows the GC code.’ The world would burn without his intervention.

‘How will I know this – what is it – this beach property?’ I asked.

I wasn’t to fret. My satnav had been reset, I was told. Vicarious as my authority was, I could be sure of its recognition in relating that GC code to Naganui’s former leader. That’s all I had to do. The cyborg ambled back to its craft, where in a blinding light it levitated, with a jerking motion, up to a door that slid open. That UAP as it hung in the sky increased the repetition of its lights – silver, magenta – and in an instant disappeared, leaving behind a patch of blackened gravel, and a withering of bronzed pines and palm fronds. My engine restarted. The lights came up. The satnav spoke, resetting its destination. I drove. I careered along a stretch of shoreline, where the beach had been fenced off and put into private hands. Across the drive of my intended address was an iron gate, between two enormous marble pillars, each inscribed with an initial: a G, a C. The gate was locked. I spoke into the intercom, and got for reply a slurred voice, background laughter, the chink of glasses, other voices, a party going on, a hint of roaring surf, and saw in the distance a well-lit glass and timber chalet. I explained my errand. ‘No gatecrashers,’ I was told. This was a private party, and the intercom went dead. I buzzed and buzzed. No reply. I stepped back, and saw on the whole north horizon a terrific flash of silver and magenta, and a mushroom cloud as that took shape.

About the Author:  Peter Cowlam is a poet and novelist. He has won the Quagga Prize for Literary Fiction twice, most recently in 2018 for his novel New King Palmers, which is at the intersection of old, crumbling empires and new, digital agglomerates. His latest novel, That Was Hugo Blythe MP, published earlier this year, is a satire on English politics and political life. His latest collection of poems, Ghosts in the Machine, brings together original poems in English alongside their translations into Italian, translations by Angela D’Ambra. His novella, A Forgotten Poet, has been produced as an audiobook, narrated by the noted operatic baritone and voice actor Charles Johnston. Peter Cowlam is the Literary Editor at Ars Notoria (aneditions.com).

Juicy As a Pear: Wanda Gág’s Delectable Books

 by

Alice Gregory

Last month, a couple I’m friends with had their first child. She is small and red and cute. This fragrant, strange, round-eyed creature has sent me searching for the books I loved as a kid, even the half-remembered ones, so that I can buy them for her when she comes of age. I’ve done a lot of inelegant Googling in the past few weeks: “elephant roller skates baby brother” turned out to be a weirdly effective search. “Candied fruit wedding cake immigrants children’s book” was not.

The book that my younger sister and I read the most, though, isn’t one I’ll ever forget. Out of print, with only one library copy in circulation where I grew up, Wanda Gág’s “The Funny Thing” had, for my sister and me, an air of exotic pleasure. We’d check it out, renew it as many times as the library allowed, and then wait a month before requesting it again. My father finally took “The Funny Thing” to Kinko’s and had a spiral-bound version printed especially for us.

“The Funny Thing,” published in 1929, is, like Wanda Gág’s other books for children, fairy-tale familiar but also strange and unforgettably specific. It tells the story of “a good little man of the mountain” named Bobo, who lives in a cozy, well-appointed cave and spends all his time cooking customized, delicious-sounding meals for the local animals: nut cakes for the squirrels, seed puddings for the birds, cabbage salads for the rabbits, cherry-sized cheeses for the mice. One day, a haughty, evil-seeming, dragonlike entity named the Funny Thing—a self-described “aminal”—appears and requests a meal made of doll heads, his staple food. Bobo, aghast, refuses, and instead offers him what he feeds the other creatures.

The Funny Thing pooh-poohs it all. Bobo, pitying all the children who would be deprived of their dolls if he did what was asked of him, comes up with a solution. Mixing together a pantry of ingredients, Bobo rolls a motley dough into something he calls a “jum-jill.” He offers it to the Funny Thing, saying it’ll make his tail longer and the blue spikes on his back more beautiful. The Funny Thing, as vain as he is hungry, wriggles his tail “with a pleased motion,” looks down modestly, and rolls “foolishly” on the ground. He agrees to eat the jum-jill, finds it delectable, and smacks his lips with satisfaction. The personalized treat effectively gets the Funny Thing to quit eating doll heads, and the story ends with him sitting atop a mountain, spiky blue tail curling down “contentedly,” eating jum-jills that are delivered to him, one at a time, by a procession of small birds.

“The Funny Thing” is not unlike Gág’s other children’s books. “Millions of Cats,” the oldest American picture book still in print, is a macabre story of an old man with dangerous hoarding instincts and a mass of “millions and billions and trillions of cats” who eat each other until there is only one left. “Gone Is Gone” is a proto-feminist fable about a husband who doesn’t want to do any housework; the book’s climax involves the family cow hanging from the roof, choked by a rope, “her eyes bulging and her tongue hanging out.”

Needless to say, I found all this extremely appealing. Like most children, my taste was perverse; I gravitated toward impish protagonists who played mischievous tricks, threw fits, and caused general mayhem. I liked catastrophes, meanness, and terrible messes. “All successful children’s literature has a conspiratorial element,” John Updike wrote in 1976. It’s true: many, if not most, children’s books presuppose a common enemy in the form of the parent, the one who assigns chores and impinges upon fun. The narrator and the child reader are a united front against grownups. Unimaginative parents aren’t the source of conflict in Gág’s books, but I remember her selfish characters, vaguely morbid plots, and almost edibly appealing language lending the impression that to appreciate the books was to be part of a special cabal.

Though the sinister weirdness of her work seems out of step with contemporary children’s entertainment, which is often sanitized and moralistic, Gág’s stories are not without precedent. We all know that the original versions of fairy tales are stunningly gory, filled with self-mutilation, rape, and draconian retribution (a bride is dragged naked through the streets inside a barrel lined with nails; a queen is forced to dance in red-hot iron shoes; stepsisters get their eyes pecked out by birds). They were didactic texts meant to be read as cautionary tales.

“We make the assumption that anything violent and dark is necessarily inappropriate for children, but that’s what they often gravitate to,” Leonard Marcus, a historian of children’s literature, said. He included Gág’s work in a recent exhibition he curated at the New York Public Library. “But children have a self-censoring mechanism. They’ll either ignore or blank out items that are too much for them.”

It’s easy to imagine a Bavarian patriarch embellishing the most gruesome local crime stories as a means of getting his beloved daughters to heel closely and stay away from suspicious men. What’s harder to picture is a modern woman named Wanda thinking up stories about animal massacre and masochistic, cave-dwelling hermits. But Gág, as Marcus said, “came from a folklore tradition where that sort of dark storytelling was taken as a matter of course.”

Growing up, I never wondered about Wanda Gág; I just liked her books. But recently it occurred to me to be curious. Who was she? What kind of last name is that? Were my sister and I unusual in liking “The Funny Thing,” or did other kids like it, too?

Wanda Gág, Fairy Story

There were, it turned out, answers. Wanda Gág kept a diary, which she published, in 1940, under the title “Growing Pains.” The story of her life appeals to me today in the same way her books did two decades ago. It reads like a fairy tale, with a wily heroine who lives amidst death and disease, and who handles fiascos with aplomb.

The oldest of five children, Wanda Hazel Gag (the accent was a later addition) was born in New Ulm, Minnesota, in 1893. It was a cold winter, and her parents—immigrants from Bohemia and Germany—were burdened not just with a newborn baby but also by a series of rented rooms, all of which were infested with bedbugs. Gág’s father, Anton, worked as a commercial photographer; her sickly, “birdlike” mother was his assistant.

Despite her destitute childhood—she shared a single sweater with her sister—Wanda wrote in a journal that it struck her, later in life, as “rather ‘story-bookish’ to be poor.” She was creative and resourceful and generally kept herself entertained. Wanda earned the nickname Inky because she was always drawing, and she was such an avid reader that a doctor, worried about her tired eyes, once consigned her to a dark room for an entire week.

In New Ulm, the Gag family lived in an immigrant enclave known as Goosetown, where older members of the community eagerly regaled the local children with folk tales, imported from Europe and embellished with time. In her diary, a young Wanda wrote that listening to such stories gave her “a tingling, anything-may-happen feeling … the sensation of being about to bite into a big juicy pear.”

From an early age, Wanda entered and won local art competitions, and earned extra money illustrating place cards for local society ladies to put out at dinner parties. Despite having to drop out of high school after her father’s death, she went to the University of Minnesota to study art, her tuition paid for by a pair of supportive patrons. She stayed for a few years, but her mother grew ill and became an alcoholic, thanks to a doctor who prescribed her a daily tonic of beer, and once again Wanda was forced to interrupt her education. She worked for a time as a schoolteacher, piling her hair on top of her head to appear taller and more authoritative to her small pupils.

Life didn’t pick up for grown-up Gág until she won a scholarship to the Arts Students League in New York City. She moved east, lived in a boarding house, and obsessively went to all of Manhattan’s best museums. She cut her hair into a glossy modern bob and added the European-looking mark to her surname. While studying in New York, she took on commercial work: painting lampshades and doing fashion illustrations, mostly of “stylish stouts” (the nineteen-twenties equivalent of sketching for Lane Bryant), whom she preferred to the thin, flapper-era “artificial females” who she alternately referred to as “simpering misses” and “fashionable ghostlings.”

Meanwhile, she cultivated her own artistic practice. Her drawings from this period are of humble objects—chairs, stoves, frying pans—as well as of bucolic scenes. Despite the familiarity of her subject matter, her artistic sensibility seemed sui generis. Her lines were wiggly; her compositions appeared to sag in a way that made them look almost hallucinogenic. In 1925, a gallery owner saw her work, bought it en masse, put it on display, and sold it all. Gág used the windfall to rent a farmhouse in Connecticut, where she created a body of new work that was given a solo show and met with rave reviews. The New York Post called her perspective “delicious”; in The New Yorker, a writer remarked that “when you see Wanda Gág’s [work] you will jump.”

At the same time Gág began having success with her art, publishers were beginning to set up separate divisions for illustrated children’s books. In 1928, Gág was offered a contract for her “cat book,” a story she wrote and illustrated with the blackest ink she could find, using two cats named Snoopy and Snookie as models; her brother did the lettering. When “Millions of Cats” was published, in September of that year, it sold well, and continuted to do so throughout the Great Depression. Gág never had to worry about money again.

Two years earlier, the English painter William Nicholson had published “Clever Bill,” a wildly popular children’s book about a little girl forced to pack up all her toys. Its success primed the industry for visually sophisticated books for children. In the years after the First World War, there was a burgeoning sense that America needed to stop relying on the United Kingdom and Europe for its art. Simultaneously, libraries were creating children’s reading rooms, where librarians specially trained in children’s literature organized story hours and helped young readers find books. This new trend furthered demand for the genre.

In 1929, Gág published “The Funny Thing,” which also sold well, especially for the time. But when her publisher asked for another book, she refused. Gág thought of children’s books as commercial work, and she didn’t want to get trapped in a cycle of churning them out. Half a decade later, Gág was lending money to family members and going on book tours; her art hung in museums, and newspapers were writing stories about her. She wrote a few more books and began translating Grimms’ Fairy Tales, importing her characteristic specificity. In her translation of Cinderella, the stepsisters, in preparing for the ball, “plaster their pimples and cover their scars with moons and starts and hearts.” They wear “bells that tinkled” and “little birds’ wings” and “jeweled darts.” When, in 1937, Disney made “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves,” Gág was disappointed. She found it too saccharine. Her own fairy tales, she insisted, were “not baby stuff.”

Although Gág lived with her partner for most of her adult life, she didn’t marry until the age of fifty, and then only because her husband’s career demanded it. Shortly after the wedding, Gág died of lung cancer; her ashes were scattered along the path to her studio.

The best children’s books aren’t the ones that impart moral lessons. The best children’s books are the ones that plant indelible memories and teach by way of detail: Madeline’s removed appendix; the “grisly” pigeon that Eloise yells at until he flies over to the Sherry Netherland. Who knows what a young reader will glom onto and why; a growing mind is populated arbitrarily. Great children’s-book authors seem to intuitively understand this, and they lace their work with minutia. Gág’s stories are written and illustrated with precision. I learned the word “homely” from “Millions of Cats,” and, thanks to “The Funny Thing,” I grew up desperately wanting a manual egg beater. Compile enough of these tidbits and you get a sensibility, a vocabulary, a certain set of predilections. This is what I think about when I imagine how much fun it will be to ply my friends’ new baby with books. Will she remember the same things I did? Will she live her life curious about nut cakes, too? Probably not. But I’ll give her a complete set of Wanda Gág books. She’ll read them, and hopefully ferret away some strange thing to remember, years later, with delight.

Note:  This article appeared in April 2014 in The New Yorker.

Rosh Hashanah 2024

by

Zakayah bat Sarah v'Yosef

I became a member of a small, progressive synagogue in June 2023. Already, I identified as a person of Jewish heritage. My father was Jewish. I spent much of my childhood visiting my Jewish relatives. I spent most Saturdays with my Jewish grandmother. It was through them that I absorbed the culture, history and aspirations of Jewish life.

Nonetheless, many years would pass before I sought to formally convert to Judaism. I was inspired to do so by my eldest daughter. In her final year of college, she embarked on her own Jewish journey. I assumed that, being young, she might be experimenting. All these years later, she has proved me wrong. My daughter is Jewish in body and soul. When I was struggling with my decision to convert after October 7th, it was my daughter who said to me, Judaism is your birthright. It is a beautiful thing.

Marc Chagall, The War

In a world devastated by war, beauty is a privilege. Recently, my youngest child came to me and asked for a list of books on the history of antisemitism in Europe. Tears welled in her eyes. I asked her if something had happened. Tragically, something had happened. Someone dear to her was grieving a friend who had died in an Israeli airstrike. He was sad and angry. He had very little context for Israel’s actions. The history of the Jews in Europe was not something his family talked about; nor was the scope of antisemitism taught in school. He wanted to understand. I told my youngest to tell her friend that I would keep him in my prayers.

I then drew up the list of books, though I found doing so deeply troubling. What in those books could help that boy? If the world were other, I would not tell him about the 1946 Kielce Pogrom. I would share with him everything I have learned on my journey from being a person of Jewish heritage to a Jewish person. The great joy we take in creation and renewal–and a life in which we make a conscious, many times difficult decision, to commit each and every day to gratitude and service even in the darkest of times.

Note:  Having completed a year-long conversion process, the author was asked to give a brief presentation about what it was like to enter into covenant with the Jewish people after October 7th.  

Line Boil: The Sad and Beautiful World of Don Hertzfeldt

 

by

Kathryn A. Kopple

 

 

With latex-covered fingers tugging hard at my tired mouth, the dentist informed me I had chipped a front tooth. Strange. I hadn’t noticed. So much had happened. COVID happened. We went into lockdown. My mother passed away. My marriage was frayed—and there were my children. My eldest child was a teacher and risked infection every day on the job. I watched my youngest struggle through year one and two of college masking, blood testing and isolating in her cellblock dorm room. A slightly chipped tooth was a blip in comparison, though it did provoke my dentist to say, “I can fix that for you.” I declined. I forgot.

Until, after many years, I went to see It’s Such a Beautiful Day (2012) by Don Hertzfeldt. I left a sold-out screening at the Bourse in Philadelphia in a semi-hallucinatory state to wake the next morning with an overwhelming urge to write Don about my tooth. Only Don, one of our pre-eminent independent animators, could do my tooth justice. He had the vision, the uncanny ability to take a chipped incisor and mine it for all it was aesthetically worth: health, age, appearance, neglect, pain, loss, money… the list ballooning, my tooth floating off into space where Don would turn it into a star, a planet, a flash of radiance. Perhaps the rest of my body would follow. Or as often happens in Hertzfeldt’s films, I remain earthbound, where I grow less round, more ragged—a boiling outline of myself. 

The line boil is one of Hertzfeldt’s signatures. Creatives across the internet go off in search of tutorials to give their animations that “Hertzfeldt look.” A line boil, to get technical, appears when animation frames are imperfectly aligned causing the image to quiver, wobble, stray. Hertzfeldt uses the line boil to give his hand-drawn stick figures a certain aura, an impression of existing in an energy field that could decimate or dissolve at any moment. Mortality is the uncomfortable truth where Hertzfeldt dwells, though never resigned to fate. Operatic comes to mind. His other mode consists of absurd shorts such as Wisdom Teeth, a film best described as male bonding of a tortuous, oral nature.

Where mortality looms large, say adios to innocence. Hertzfeldt’s characters stumble from frame-to-frame straining to keep their wide-eyed childhood selves from being crushed underfoot like a bug. The small-child-vast-universe trope has earned him comparisons to Franz Kafka, most notably by Marc Savlov of The Austin Chronicle in the article “Beautiful Bitter.” “Hertzfeldt's films have always been weirdly affecting creations, Kafka-esque odes to our fragile human condition… Watch enough of Hertzfeldt's animated existential angst grenades, and you're likely to need a good, stiff drink and a hug from your mom.”

True enough. As we drove home after seeing It’s Such a Beautiful Day, the mood in the car was solemn. I distracted my daughter by talking about a conversation I overheard. Three friends in the row behind us passed the time before the movie discussing cereal. Favorite flavor? Dried strawberries and yogurt clusters. What about chocolate? Yeah, absolutely. Granola? Only when in the mood. One of the friends remembered being rushed to the hospital because he had choked on Cheerios while watching either Fantasia or Moulin Rouge at age four. The banter was silly, but oh so serious. My youngest shrugged. “They are cerealists. Nothing wrong with that.” A generous appraisal given she finds cereal disgusting.

Hertzfeldt’s humor leans hard into anti-comedy. His student film Billy’s Balloon (1998) is a send up of Albert Lamorisse’s 1956 Le ballon rouge. Lamorisse’s film centers on a boy named Pascal and a magical red balloon; together they transcend the terrors of the Parisian playground. Boiled down to its basic components, the film is a love story. In Billy’s Balloon… well, let us say the balloon takes no prisoners: it is a punching bag bent on revenge. Of course, that is my take. Viewers have seen in the film a story about everything from child abuse to an “anti-pollution campaign.” Other audiences have found serious humor in the film’s resistance to grand interpretations. Dreadful things happen “just because.” It is the “just because,” a version of Kurt Vonnegut’s catchphrase “so it goes,” that kicks the film into the chasms of the absurd.

For all his merrily, dark pranksterism, Hertzfeldt isn’t solely after laughs. Trauma begets trauma begets trauma. Or, in Hertzfeldt, black and white footage of waves crashing against the rocks. The relentless trauma cycle can make Hertzfeldt tough going even for someone such as myself—a viewer steeped in the dark, twisted arts of surrealists, absurdists, futurists (you name it). I keep a copy of The Theatre of Cruelty by Antonin Artaud on my bedside just in case I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep. I have written long, tedious essays on Isidore Ducasse, the infamous Lautremont, whose Maldoror belongs on the shelf marked “depraved” if ever a book did. Still, it becomes too easy to push Hertzfeldt in Lautreamont’s direction. He is cast as the epitome of “outsider” art, which is a euphemism for mad as a Hatter on multiple anti-psychotics. Hertzfeldt’s storytelling, though, is equal to his vision—and the same world in which we suffer and die is also the world in which we live, love, and love more. As one of his most quoted lines from the acclaimed World of Tomorrow (2015) goes: “Now is the envy of all the dead.” If you have ever felt helpless during a pandemic with a chipped incisor and brain fog from dowsing everything in chlorine, being the envy of the dead is as good as it gets.

Note:  This review first appeared in Ars Notoria thanks to the very talented author and editor Peter Cowlam.  Peter is the author of numerous volumes of poetry and prose.  

The Grand

by

Kathryn A. Kopple

Jacek Yerka

I am still a child without a piano.
My sister is a piano without ever being a child.

Without a piano, I would be exactly what I am,
not my sister, who does whatever a piano does.

My father actuates as a piano,
otherwise, he would be only a father.

My mother wants that piano to go out
and not come back till it finds a higher paying job.

To think, thousands of tusks once stream this way
from the coast to the factories of Connecticut.

One tusk for every hundred keyboards
bleached and lathed to create dazzling bridges.

Pianos look a lot like elephants, all heft
and grace and great round tops.

The one in our house rubs its back against the wall,
and out of its maw the glazed sounds

I hear every day my sister must conjure
her destiny, though she must stare far

into my father’s past to find it, as he imagines
Beethoven flogging the piano till it weeps

for joy, becomes Ode, exploding Glorias!
till the house can’t take anymore.

There’s no living with him when he’s like this,
my mother says and looks at me.

Hovered at my sister’s shoulder, my father says,
This is how you become immortal, beloved.

Credits:  "The Grand" first appeared in issue 47 of Sands Hill in 2003. 

In a Dark Time

by

Theodore Roethke

Franz Marc

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood—
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What’s madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks—is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is—
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

Credits:  This poem may be found online at Poetry Foundation.

Wildpeace by Yehuda Amichai

 Not the peace of a cease-fire,

not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,

but rather

as in the heart when the excitement is over

and you can talk only about a great weariness.

I know that I know how to kill,

that makes me an adult.

And my son plays with a toy gun that knows

how to open and close its eyes and say Mama.

A peace

without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,

without words, without

the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be

light, floating, like lazy white foam.

A little rest for the wounds—

who speaks of healing?

(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation

to the next, as in a relay race:

the baton never falls.)

Let it come

like wildflowers,

suddenly, because the field

must have it: wildpeace.

You Reading This, Be Ready

 by

William Stafford

Mark Belo

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life –

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

Credits:  This poem can be found online at thedewdrop.org.

Seashore

by

Kathryn A. Kopple

From the shore, we look and say, "There!" and point out there, using our hands to commute unfathomable latitudes into the discrete anatomy of mast and skiff, ship and seabird, lighthouse and rockcliff. All the vocabulary of summer objects and all the wide sky for a backdrop. We make of it a little picture, a keepsake of the Cape, that we can pocket.


The always going sea
The fate of unanchored things
Found and then lost again

André Derain

Credits:  This poem was originally published in Contemporary Haibun Online in 2009.

Earth's Sunny Solar System

 by

Kathryn A. Kopple

   

Robert Rauschenberg

    Small hands gripped the corners. It was a girl in a baseball cap and loose-fitting shorts with a puzzle in her hands. Her head was down as she studied the puzzle art on the box. Planets flung out across space with earth surrounded by a thick, blue halo off to the left. It was the most difficult puzzle in the store. All puzzles pose specific challenges but what counts is the number of pieces; this solar extravaganza boasted a thousand of them.

    I coughed to let the girl know she wasn’t alone in the aisle. She glanced in my direction, her round face half hidden under the baseball cap, fingers still gripping the puzzle box like talons. Kids grip only the things they want. Their little fingers are endowed with strength beyond their height, weight, stamina. They are also precocious, going after games and puzzles that their parents don’t understand or like—and most of all fear will wind up in a mess on the living room floor. I’ve witnessed the tug-of-wars between adults and children, and the adults generally win, but not before something ends up on the floor. The Earth’s Sunny Solar System was dropped a lot. “Now look what you did!” “You made me!” “Don’t talk back to your mother!” “But you promised!” “You don’t even like puzzles!” The quarrels nasty and dry-eyed repeating like an unhappy song chorus—and the Earth’s Sunny Solar System, caught in the middle, going nowhere but back on the shelf. And yet, despite past disappointments, I held out hope that this would be the day I’d finally sell Earth’s Sunny Solar System.

“Nice puzzle,” I said.

“Dope,” she replied.

I suggested we look inside and put out my hands.

She wouldn’t let go of the box. “The earth only looks blue from space.”

“Makes you realize how much they paid attention to the details when they made this puzzle.”

“It’s mostly blue. If it were all blue, the whole planet would be covered in water.”

“Excellent point.” I didn’t care if the earth were flamingo pink because all I wanted was to move that puzzle off the shelf.

“It’s going to happen. I read about the ground disappearing.”

“That would be wild. I guess anything could happen.”

“Anything does,” she said.

    I decided to redirect the conversation. “If that puzzle doesn’t interest you, I could show you something else. We have lots of games. Do you like Parcheesi?”

“I’m good,” she said.

“Yeah, that puzzle you’re holding is the best. Should we ring it up?”

“Maybe later.” The girl put the puzzle on the shelf and walked out the store.

    Puzzles have a shelf life. After a year on the shelf, the boxes take on a ravaged appearance. Earth’s Sunny Solar System was going on three years. I peeked inside to discover a spider that turned out to be a hermit crab. Alone and unshelled, the pitiful thing scrambled over the jumbled cosmos.

    I wondered how many hermits escaped their crab-it-tats—if they were hiding (and dying) all over the store. I hurried to check and found the lot of them in distress, climbing the silicon walls desperate to get out. The mice didn’t look particularly happy either. They were thin and mangy, and no one wanted them. A garter snake hissed as I walked by. A menagerie of hostility caused by shortages in the supply chain. The chain, I imagined, wound the globe east and west, north and south; it held the world together. Now, that chain was coming apart link by link. We’d soon have to start feeding the mice to the snakes—and where that would leave the hermits I had no idea.

    When I mentioned my concerns to the manager, he took a hit off his vape. “What do you expect me to do about it?” Then, back turned to me, he lapsed into reverie. Unlike the hermits, he appeared pleasantly lost.

“Uh, maybe I could have a hit?”

“You’re too young to vape.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“In answer to your question, no. And get back to work.”

“But the hermits…”

“Fuck if I know,” he said.

“That’s all you got for me?”

“Pretty much.”

    Days later, the hermits and crab-it-tats vanished altogether. I gave the manager a look. “Was there a seagull attack?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The crab-it-tats are gone.”

“Yeah, the crabs. Why are you bothering me about gulls?”

“Gulls eat hermits in the wild.”

He hit his vape. “You got some weird obsessions, that’s for sure.”

“Because I care about the hermits?”

“For starters.” Lemon haze poured out his nostrils. “It’s for the best.”

    I nodded, not because I agreed. I just knew—and that certainty gutted me. “Did you have to?” I got a rag and started dusting. People wandered the store lost in aisles of emptiness. Sometimes, they bumped into one another, saying “Excuse me” in zombified voices. No one shouted. No fights broke out. The sluggishness and monotony made me wish someone would start something. Time went faster when the kids and adults got into it. Or, when someone got caught shoplifting. It was store policy to take the offender straight to security. Her name was Lal. She was tough, like she’d been born to put people in a line up. She paced the catwalk (her name for the long plank held high in the air by two ladders) and, if she saw anyone sneaking around, she’d blast the suspect with her bullhorn. “You! In the Run-DMC t-shirt and cut-offs. Front of the store!” Typically, people would run, a stupid thing to do but people weren’t smart when stealing—always thinking no one was watching when no one escaped Lal. Maybe that was the real crime. Thinking they could get away with it. Not under Lal’s watch. She was a one-woman panopticon.

“Hey!”

“What!”

“How about you come up?”

    I hesitated. It never occurred to me what life up there was like—that I, a mere salesclerk, would receive an invitation from Lal on the catwalk. Things like that just didn’t happen. The catwalk was where Lal worked and the rest of us underlings kept to the aisles, cash registers, and restrooms. Everyone and everything in its place. My place was below while Lal worked from on high.

“Come on up.”

“Okay.” I stuffed the cleaning rag in my back pocket. The ladder shuddered. I looked up at Lal. In what universe was this a good idea? I made a few calculations. Lal weighed approximately 150 lbs. I weighed in at 140 lbs. Our combined weight might push the scaffold’s weight-bearing capacities too far. A net was called for, at the very least a bunch of boxes—anything to break the fall.

“What’s the matter? Afraid of heights?”

“Nope.”

“Then get your ass up here.”

I girded myself for the climb. It was a lot farther to the top than it looked. When I managed to pull myself onto the plank, I was panting hard. Sweat stung my eyes.

“Cat got your tongue.” Lal gave me a freaky smile. She reached out her hand. “Stand.”

“Up?”

“You can’t appreciate the entire effect sitting. You have to stand. It gives you added height.”

“I figured.” Closing my eyes (which really was the stupidest thing to do while suspended mid-air), I managed to get my feet up under me and stood. “The view! It’s wild.”

“You can see all.”

“I never knew.”

“You think I work this job for the lousy minimum wage! No, sir. It’s the rush that gets me out of my warm bed in the morning. Up here, I feel alive, free. It’s the best.”

    I glanced floorward. The linoleum looked hard, cold and cruel. There was always the chance I might survive a fall but, unlike Lal, I didn’t receive employee benefits. If I cracked my skull open, no HMO was going to cover surgery. I decided to sit.

    Lal remained on her feet. “I could weep to see the store. It’s so beautiful when filled with people. I see their happiness, like this one time a guy comes in. He’s very rich looking. Nice clothes. He has a woman with him. She’s also very rich looking. They have a child with blonde hair. A perfect angel. They buy bags of toys. The child gets a bunny. They don’t even try to steal anything.”

“That is amazing.”

Lal grew solemn. “I never had kids.”

“Me neither.”

“Don’t be a smart ass.”

“I wasn’t,” I said. “It’s just that we don’t get a lot of families these days. There was a little girl, though.”

“The one in the baseball cap.”

“I thought for sure she would buy that puzzle.”

“The one with the crazy cover and a thousand pieces.”

“It’s called Earth’s Sunny Solar System.”

“Whatever. She didn’t bite.”

“No, she didn’t.”

    Lal rested her hand on my shoulder. “If things keep up like this…” She paused, the logical conclusion to her thought difficult to articulate. Where would she go? Or me for that matter?

“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “They’ll get the supply chain up and running. When they do, this place will be stocked to bursting, and you will be back in business catching the bad guys.”

“If only.”

I let her have a moment. The scene below was dreary. Shell-shocked customers going round in circles. Cashiers slumped over the registers. The manager walking the floor vaping. “I’m going down.”

“Stay a bit longer.”

“No, really, I’m on the clock. I should get down.”

“Your choice.”

    Easy for her to say. She loved it up there. She felt alive, free. I felt like I wanted to throw up. There’s no easy way off a plank. I had to roll over on my belly, kick out my foot till I found the ladder, then slide down until I could use my hands to hold on while I descended the rungs. I could feel Lal pacing above me. I closed my eyes and kept going. Above me, Lal cackled in amusement. I stepped away from the ladder. She waved down at me. I walked briskly to the bathroom, splashed my face with cold water, used the urinal, washed my hands, splashed my face, and used the urinal again.

    The following night, I stayed late. After the crab-it-tat fiasco, I wanted to make sure the animals lived through the night. I also figured that they had to notice what was happening, that they too felt the scarcity as keenly as the rest of us. My presence might offer some comfort.

    The door rang. I must have forgotten to lock up. “We’re closed!” At the end of Aisle C, near the front of the store, there was the girl in the baseball cap. “Oh, it’s you.”

“I want to do it.”

“Excuse me?”

“The puzzle. I want to do it.”

“And if I let you, will you buy it?”

“I don’t have money.”

“I can’t let you have the puzzle. I can let you look at the bunnies. But just for a minute. Then, you have to go. No one is supposed to be here after hours.”

“No one is here anyways.”

“Even more reason for you to go home.”

    She shrugged. Home didn’t seem to do much for her. I began to suspect there was more going on, like she was in foster care or homeless or… both. On the other hand, she looked fine. No visible signs of stress.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“It’s about to rain.”

    I went to check. I pushed against the door only to feel it push back hard.

“That’s the rain,” she said. “It’s coming.”

“It’s just the usual deluge for this time of year.”

She started down the aisle. “We should do the puzzle.”

    The rain started in, harder and faster; water rushed under the door, around it, over it. I grabbed the girl’s hand. “Up the scaffold.” She didn’t ask questions. She began climbing. I stayed below and spotted her. After she reached safety, I followed. The ladder rungs were slimy and slippery. The lights flickered. I kept climbing until I was able to ease myself onto the plank. “It’s here,” she said.

    I stared through my knees. The watery umbra sloshed up one wall and down another, sweeping along plushies, rubber balls, gift bags, costumes, deluxe Legos, light sabers—and dozens of other gizmos ripped from their packaging and bumping around in the shadows.

“It seems to have stopped,” I said with forced optimism.

“There’s more coming.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I saw it from my house.”

“Where’s your house?”

“It’s not there anymore,” she said. “It was washed away with the others.”

“That’s terrible.” I didn’t know what else to say, so I asked her name.

“The name I use?”

“Uh, okay.”

“Yessel.”

“That’s your username?”

“One of them,” she said.

    In an otherwise functioning world, I’d try to get more information from her—like, place of origin, age, and address. Right now, our address was the mess down below and our precarious refuge above. I felt cold, queasy. Yessel put her arms around me. We sat without speaking. Beneath us, the water lapped hypnotically as the store grew darker until only the red neon of the exit signs were visible—and soon they started going dark. “Are you okay?” I asked to remind myself I was alive and okay.

“It’s still coming in.”

“It’s stopped.”

“It’s coming closer.”

I pulled her arms tighter around my waist. “Yessel, it’s going to be okay. I promise.”

“We’re stuck.”

“Only till help comes.”

“We don’t have that long,” she said.

    I suddenly felt the water around my ankles, then my knees. I braced myself. There really was only one way out. We’d have to swim.

“What is it about that puzzle?” I asked her. I lowered myself slowly into the water.

“It’s how I always imagined it.”

“The solar system?” I treaded vigorously. The water was freezing.

“Except the solar system is a lot bigger than a thousand pieces.” She reached over to test the water. “It’s like ice.”

“Don’t think about it.”

    She slipped down off the scaffold. I grabbed her under the shoulders. “Put your arms around my neck and don’t let go.” I held her fast in the whipping current. The building groaned. The water shoved us up against the large windows. Above the sky had disappeared behind thick, greenish clouds. Yessel was still hanging on. I kicked out a foot and the store entrance collapsed. The water swept us out across the parking lot, down block after block, before we were spit onto a mound of land. We believed the worst of it was over, though the ground was a sponge and every step sucked us further into the ooze. Somewhere, a shuttle rocketed through space. Earth’s Sunny Solar System. Yessel and I struggled on, walking and sinking—and consoling ourselves with the idea that, if we could survive here, we could survive anywhere.

Credits:  This story first appeared in the December 2022 issue of Blue Mountain Review.

Personal Tragedies in Rodrigo Hasbún’s Los afectos

by

Kathryn A. Kopple 

In 2015, the Bolivian writer Rodrigo Hasbún published Los afectos (Affections), a slim volume loosely based on the Ertl family, a clan foisted on the reader with precious little introduction. “The day papa returned from Nanga Parbat (with some heart-rending images, of a beauty that wasn’t human), he told us while we ate dinner that mountain climbing had become too technical and what mattered was being lost, that he wouldn’t climb anymore.” His wife and daughters take in their papa’s words, careful not to interrupt, as he sermonizes about communing with nature. These speeches – the reader learns – go on uninterrupted for lengthy periods and, finally, culminate in a bruised vision of the world that, in a fine turn of phrase, can only be healed by seeking out those places “where God is untroubled by our ingratitude and sordidness”. A lofty sentiment and one that is in lockstep with the character’s historical counterpart: the Nazi cinematographer and alpinist Hans Ertl – the same man who, throughout the 1930s and ’40s, fully earned his reputation as Hitler’s photographer. Hasbún, however, is not deeply invested in this aspect of Ertl’s story; he is drawn to the private life of the family man. Untethered by all but the most tenuous historical references, Ertl and every character in the book become protagonists in a personal tragedy.

Throughout this tragedy, the intimacy of perspectives creates the feel of memoir, albeit one that is subject to fragmentation. Although Hasbún is best known as an acclaimed author, his scholarly work focuses on the interconnectedness between diary, biography and literature. He takes issue with the idea that diaries must be read at face value, as testimonials, when their very existence opposes worldly interests and demands. The diarist writes for a reader of one, presumably herself without, as Hasbún contends, “deference to the literary institution or publishing world." Diaries may enter the public domain but their purpose is other. They are reclusive, hermetic. It is as if there is no activity more solitary – or personal – than that of the diarist. Nor is it coincidental that Los afectos is a book imbued with solitude. Hans Ertl’s treks up mountains and through Amazon forest are journeys into the heart of solitude. He is the man who “leaves." His wife, Aurelia, languishes in the imposed solitude caused by her husband’s absence. Each of his three daughters is a solitary creature unable to sustain familial ties and relationships. Solitude of this sort is profoundly Heideggerian, that is, inescapable.

 Israel Beltrán

In fact, the entire novel reads like a Heideggerian fable. The characters are cast into a strange, new world to live out their finitude with precious few inner resources. Severed from their German homeland because of Hans’s Nazi past, their identities are stripped away; they must begin from scratch in Bolivia. In the high-altitude, low-oxygen city of La Paz, time is as precious as air. Hans wastes no time between expeditions. He returns from filming in Nanga Parbat already determined to set off again in search of Paititi, the lost Inca city of gold. His two eldest daughters, Monika and Heidi, are intensely aware that the clock is ticking and they are growing older by the second. The youngest daughter, Trixi, spends a melancholy Christmas alone with her mother, Aurelia, who tells the nearly thirteen-year-old that life is longer than people imagine, and that at times it feels “interminable." Trixi sees her mother as terribly lonely. She fails to understand how she has too much time on her hands. In her abject pronouncements, Aurelia echoes Heidegger’s assertion that it is through boredom our awareness of time is heightened. Boredom leads to gloominess but forces us to reflect upon the groundlessness of our existence. Aurelia smokes, drinks, and reminisces but, most importantly, she philosophizes. Sadly, it’s all downhill for her from there.

In contrast with Aurelia’s lassitude, the eldest daughter, Monika, suffers fits of anxiety. Heidi, who fears and resents her sister, describes these episodes as grotesque. “It was ugly to see her writhing about, I won’t deny it. It was shocking, horrible even, to the point that, the last time, we had to tie her up.” The episode passes and Heidi suspects that Monika’s outbursts serve an ulterior purpose: they are a means of holding her distracted parents’ attention. Her resentment of her sister intensifies when she learns that their father is taking Monika with him on his next expedition. Heidi demands to go. Her father agrees in a way that unnerves the girl. “As if he had predicted all of it, including the questions I was asking, a strange smile appeared on his face. My chest froze and I looked at my sister and she at me and at that moment neither of us knew what to say.” A limit has been reached. Words fail. There is no turning back for Heidi. Now, like her father, she is the one who leaves. She also falls in love with Rudi, one of Hans’s assistants. Most significantly, she becomes lost, psychically speaking, unable to remember the day or the reason for the journey. This stripping away of perspective, time, and purpose brings her closer to what Heidegger calls authenticity.

Authenticity, for Heidegger, refuses imitation, it can’t be contained in archetypes. Rather, it prefigures individuation as an ideal mode of being. Hans may be the paterfamilias of the Ertl clan but he is, above all things, a man who is true to himself. He becomes disillusioned with mountaineering because alpinists have become mere technicians. Averageness disgusts him. In contrast, he aspires to all things sublime. The rain forest is no less sublime than the glacier. Sublimity involves terror. It is awe-inspiring. Add to that a mythical Inca city of gold – buried in all that forest – and the quest promises certain glory. At one point, he heaps praise on Hiram Bingham, the man credited with discovering Machu Picchu, thus inserting himself in the tradition of great explorers. But then he has already proven his worth by filming the 1936 Olympics and being at Rommel’s side during the war. Hans also possesses a certain erotic magnetism. When Trixi asks her mother if she fell in love with him at first sight, she replies, “The second I saw him…. But I wasn’t the only one. I think everyone on the committee was a little in love with him.” And then, not least, his eye never fails him. Whatever he films turns to magic. Authenticity – the discovery of the ideal self – goes hand in hand with exceptionalism.

For Hans’s daughters, living with such a man is overwhelming. Their feelings for him cause rifts and divisions – an utter lack of peace reigns over the family. It’s apparent that Hans loves Monika the most, ostensibly because she tests him. Of all the ironies to be found in the novel, the fact that Monika will go on to become a left-wing revolutionary is the most poetic. (But then, Heidegger too was a revolutionary. He found academic philosophy guilty of all manner of sins, not the least of them complacency. There is an air of nihilistic joy that runs throughout his writing, a sense that once the old norms have been destroyed, philosophy will arise like a phoenix from the ashes. And no doubt, Heidegger thought of himself as that phoenix. It’s also true that he was a committed Nazi and antisemite.) In Los afectos, it is Monika who forces the issue of Hans’s Nazism. She accuses him of being a “lackey of the powerful, a disgusting fascist”. Her words open a great wound in him. After her assassination by the Bolivian military, the elderly Hans has a grave dug for her, literally forcing him once and for all to stare into the abyss.

When Los afectos first came out, it was marketed as a historical novel. From the disclaimer on the first page of the book to his assertions in numerous interviews, Hasbún is adamant that the book is historical only in the broadest sense of the term: as story. The story involves multiple points of view, lack of chronological cohesion, and a directness of expression that breaks down aesthetic distance. Instead of history, we are presented with instances that turn inward, personal, and reflective. Out of this assemblage of disparate voices, the question that arises is why history at all? Especially since Hasbún claims to use as little biographical detail as possible. The author seems to be pulled in by the unwritten aspects of the story – in what the historical record either suppressed or omitted. Nazism recedes into the background, almost imperceptible, as if opening a window to let in some fresh air.

In the essay “Fascinating Fascism”, Susan Sontag remarks that it may “seem ungrateful or rancorous to refuse to cut loose” the work of Nazi propagandists from their past. She takes issue with the rehabilitation of Leni Riefenstahl despite the cinematographer’s ongoing commitment to fascism. The same could be said of Hans Ertl. He never became disillusioned with Nazi Germany: it was post-war, democratic Germany that failed him. Moreover, during his self-imposed exile in Bolivia, he sought out the friendship of the notorious Klaus Barbie. Barbie is thought to have been involved in Monika’s assassination by Bolivian security forces in 1973. Given his friendship with Barbie – and, as mentioned in the novel, Ertl’s relationships with high-ranking members of the Bolivia military – he may have had more to do with his daughter’s death than the novel suggests. Whatever role he played (active or passive), Ertl never repudiated Nazism or his fascist associations. He would go on to write two memoirs, both of which are imbued with sentimental accounts of mountaineering and exploration. Both memoirs pay homage to the Germany of his youth.

However Hasbún adjusts the lens – the ever-shifting angles – it’s scarcely possible to insulate Los afectos – or any work of art – from its source material. The connection between old-world fascism and new-world exile is not severed but revised. Nazism may find itself reduced to mere figments, but even these have the power to mesmerize. The Argentine writer Manuel Puig, in his masterpiece El beso de la mujer araña (Kiss of the Spider Woman), explores the Nazi aesthetic, and how it catches us in a web of repulsion and attraction. The goddesses of Nazi cinema are no less beautiful because they are instruments of a brutal regime. They fascinate regardless. They provide an ideal of physical beauty and an antidote to the ugliness of existence. Fascism is predicated on a host of aesthetic values, among them the dictum that, without beauty, life is simply not worth living. Los afectos offers us a taste of such a life in the Ertl family saga. They are doomed and therefore beautiful. To paraphrase Heidegger, beauty is only as true as it is tragic.

Notes

All translations from the novel are mine unless otherwise cited. Regarding Hasbún’s critical investigations, please see Enea Zaramella, “Interview with Rodrigo Hasbún” in The White Review, https://www.thewhitereview.org/feature/interview-rodrigo-hasbun/, accessed 22 August 2021. A thorough discussion of the fascist aesthetic of Hans Ertl’s memoirs can be found in Caroline Schaumann’s “Memories of Cold in the Heat of the Tropics: Hans Ertl’s ‘Meine Wilden Dreißiger Jahre’” in Colloquia Germanica, vol. 43, no. 1/2, 2010, pp. 97–112, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/23981639, accessed 22 August 2021. Susan Sontag’s essay “Fascinating Fascism” may be found at UC Santa Barbara, https://marcuse.faculty.history.ucsb.edu/classes/33d/33dTexts/SontagFascinFascism75.htm , accessed 22 August 2021. Los afectos has been translated into English under the title Affections by Sophie Hughes.

Credits:  This review first appeared in Ars Notoria.

About the Author:  Kathryn A. Kopple holds a doctorate in Latin American literature (NYU). Her focus is the surrealist poetry of the Rio de la Plata. She has also published original poetry and prose in multiple venues, including The Threepenny Review, Bellevue Literary Review, and The Shell Game: Writers Play with Borrowed Forms. She has published two novels – Little Velásquez and The Leaving Year – set in Spain. Kathryn also hosts the literary blog The Leaving Year.

The House of Folly

 by

Peter Cowlam

Elena Motrich

Not new to these cloisters was one impatient student, who had come to consider Occidental principles – should he or shouldn’t he cheat? Nicola, the most recent of Schmutzburg’s guests, gazed from her dizzy summit, flanked by those primordial monarchs. Incredibly – for her own had been whirled away in the bitter night winds – another set of prints, another procession of black hollows, meandered from the vapours, like coals in pristine snow. The contest she had entered had a name – it was Frame Solutions. Her opponent had decided on his next move while her back was turned. She ignored him, musing on that solitary speck of a man (meaning Michael, a fortuitous presence, surely). If he turned, and looked up the mountain, at the sun and sky, and the clouds, it was only a matter of time before Schmutzburg, or its one last bastion, also entered his view. She didn’t wait, but with a toss of her hair swung away from the ledge and faced her opponent, but did not return to their game. Even if Michael, she thought, understood the inscription over the outer door, and entered, he wouldn’t last here long. For how could he remain? A cold stone floor and naked walls, a rudimentary bed, a low table, icy winds that howled in at the uncovered windows – no one was given more.

So she reasoned, while a mess of guilty thoughts in her opponent threatened to stay his hand, an impulse he suppressed once it had formed as a possibility. Words he spoke were a veil on his clumsy machinations—

‘You had begun a list of books.’

Nicola studied the board and the new, illegal position of some of its pieces, and thought about how to answer. A few summarising sentences were impossible. What would a mere student of Schmutzburg understand of her own student life, with its autumn afternoons? Could it mean as much to him, those sudden gusts, the flutter and flurry and shower of leaves?

She heard the bell – they both heard the bell – and was certain of what to say, was equally positive that the broad, extended lawns in the grounds of her orthodox life, cut and rolled into alternating bands of green – that these as phenomena were another dissimulation. Yet you cannot consign everything to the world’s history, from a surviving reality measured as private experience. The details were important.

One day she looked outward from a bench in the convent garden, and conjectured at the surrounding symbolism. Urns or sanctified vessels that hadn’t stood the test of time, smeared as they were in lichens, moss and mould. Neither were the holy statuettes of unassailable stuff, when limbs were fractured and noses broken off. No. She, Nicola, had nothing to say, nothing at all of the books she’d read, and anyway a chilly wind was rising. (By now Michael was puzzling over that relief.) Squatting down at the board, she accused her opponent of cheating. Honourably, he conceded a fourth consecutive game.

❦

Here in the House, a benign old mystic in a creaking chair had trained his mind to ignore the woody friction when he leaned forward to dip his pen, or back to gaze into the shadows and contemplate. He had never stopped wondering at the seasonal rites of peoples beyond the perimeters of Schmutzburg. These musings reinforced themselves whenever he beheld the careworn faces of Westerners who sometimes sojourned here, his life at a remove from theirs, invested with other meanings. They arrived with their signs and symbols and burdens of prejudice, for the wise elders of the House to examine, in the fullest flower of every human folly.

He’d dipped his pen for the last time that morning. He put it aside and glanced through his open arch. In the conical blueness, a solitary cloud had been busily disintegrating, and in that other perspective, in the oblong whiteness when he stood, a new set of prints curled up the mountainside.

The bell tolled and he left his desk. He took down a heavy book from a shelf and blew away the dust. When he opened it and turned to the page he wanted, too many hands had been here before, and he was obliged to smooth away the creases, to flatten out its script, before placing in a marker. A spiral of steps led him into the lower chambers, and here he met Nicola in one of the passages. Dusty shafts of sunshine filtered in at intervals through slits in the wall. He apologised, but handed her the book – not too late, he hoped. Well, this had been a long time coming, but anyway, Frame Solutions wasn’t a game one learned overnight. The old man chuckled.

‘I hear you’re beating all our best students,’ he said, adding, ‘I shall have to see if I can’t upset that winning streak,’ though it was years since he’d played.

Down, down again, and at the very foot of those stairs a young English head turned with a start. The old man had begun to interpret for his benefit a plaster relief over the mantel, whose three divisions – one upper, two beneath – represented what? One in the pair depicted an unhappy village husband left holding a new-born baby, with an empty jug of ale. His suspicious wife knew his evil ways, and where you saw her creeping round from behind, she clutched at a wooden shoe and wound back her arm in preparation for a blow to the head. A cowardly neighbour, keeping his own head down but determined to miss nothing, reported what he saw. What we see is a luckless husband condemned by the village fathers. On the right of the pair, local worthies come together and are unanimous – the drunkard they hold aloft rides the skimmington.

Michael looked at the old man, and at the relief, and at the old man again. ‘And that, the upper?’ he asked.

‘Ah, that is the just god in his heaven, who sees that his law is carried out.’

❦

Here on another winter morning, the sun in its ice-cool heaven rose above Schmutzburg, a forgotten country, and forgotten its House of Folly. A hole appeared, or the tiniest chink, where a glimmer of light briefly penetrated a diffuse wash of moisture over Europe. A wrinkled old rustic in his mountain shack looked up for a moment and fancied he’d seen something, but heard only cars and a tourist coach.

Michael was in the gallery, where the students had gathered, all of them determined to ignore him. Neither did Nicola speak, coming in moments after and finding herself a seat. Michael nodded. She opened a book. She’d got it for its commentaries, its author an expert on the game of games. Grading was able to mark her progress page to page. Then without warning she tossed her hair back across her shoulder, in a pause from the book, taking in what changes took place in the courtroom below.

The affable old mystic sat at a bench with two others, while the man accused took his oath from a cleric standing by. That official withdrew, leaving in view a Westerner in early middle age. His dark hair had thinned to greying wisps at the temples, and had receded to the crown, and that made it all the more unclear to Nicola that a poet was about to be tried, his eyes bulging behind the lenses of his spectacles. Two deep furrows demarcating flabby jowls accentuated the flare of his nostrils. His thin lips formed an intelligent, whimsical smile. He stood waiting – a poet of the English municipality – in a shabby blue suit, a white shirt stiff at the collar, and a two-tone broadly knotted tie.

The case against was roughly this, while the three old men were loose with their metaphors. Our poet took his afflatus not from any potent commingling afloat in the atmosphere, but from something much less elemental, bound up with the naked mastery of form. This was not to deny the necessity of rules – that was understood. The objection was one of emphasis, for what was the character or ingenuity of prosodic architectonics other than plain, arithmetic workings out, and the trivialisation of lived experience?

The defence was less vague. Historical problems couldn’t be ignored, and the poet confessed to a growing sense of intimidation in the presence of his technological colleagues. For example, he, the poet, was capable of this: he could conceive a regular figure, a tetrahedron, in his mind’s eye, and could tilt it, rotate it, examine its lines and surfaces. But the crudest schoolboy, with his home computer, could do as much and more. Or on a grander scale, think of this inscrutable planet Earth, and make of that a vision – a blue ocean sphere suspended brightly in an enveloping darkness. Can any lyric prefigure again so stunning a photograph? Even Armageddon, that most vital conceptualisation in his repertoire, has been subsumed into mere technics and delivered up as a political possibility.

The accused was a man of conscience, whose observations had something of a Janus nature, being both involuntary and the source of ceaseless irritation. If all our medieval visions were now the acquired, bastardised property of governments and technocrats, then the only freedom left was in wallowing – an art that was bourgeois, puerile – or in the frustrations of social protest. And anyway, they seemed to want to consider his case in a theological light, with accusations answerable only in the realms of the unknowable. The four looked up. The sentence seemed a mere formality – condemnation to the world again – but Nicola had allowed that open book to slide from her knees and fall with a thud to the floor. This first session was adjourned.

❦

Late evening. Michael sat in the gathering dusk on the edge of his bed – hands and forearms dangling, elbows on parted knees. He approximated cardinal points of the compass. North was cold and damp – the wall opposite. East was a window on a country in darkness. West, an open door on creaky hinges, allowing in the last warm rays of a world in decay. There as he guessed was the poet’s dying emblem, a dull red segment as the sun underwent its final descent.

In the early morning the position was much the same, though now he heard voices and not the whirr of his thoughts. Above, the trial had repeated itself in all its developments, however much he disciplined his mind. He looked out of his eastern window and saw a distant country, its clouds of dust, its plumes and billows of brown smoke rising through an early frost, a dew. Nearer – below him on the courtyard – the poet had just snapped shut his tarnished cigarette case and returned it to a hip pocket in his jacket, which was crumpled where he’d slept uncomfortably. He lit up – a tarry, unfiltered cigarette – and drawing deeply looked east himself, though from his elevation couldn’t see over the bright icy slopes into the valleys. Six, seven students just out of earshot had formed a circle and discussed concluding details, until at last an elected spokesman, whose warm breath Michael saw exhaled excitably into the cold air, detached himself and strode up to the smoking poet.

Later, a much older man was looking on, from the highest window in Schmutzburg’s southernmost tower. What he hadn’t seen – Nicola and Michael together again – was immaterial. His opinions concerning the two had already formed. Michael, immobile at the foot of the stairs, was pointing up uncertainly to the apex of the relief.

‘The just god in his heaven,’ he said.

Nicola, shrugging, said only, ‘Just god, no. It’s a landowner, that peasant’s feudal overlord.’ Meaning is always material – in this case a loss of revenue and the moral collapse of the workforce. We so like our parables of ownership and neglect.

Six or seven students set up a small table, while Nicola stepped outdoors with a playing board and a canvas sack for the pieces. The unbidden young Englishman followed, bewildered, while his older compatriot must accept he was guilty as accused. The poet as he loses his voice reveals his remoteness in what he says for those who have lost their faith.

❦

Dreary grey scholars, who for generations had sneezed and drawn their secret signs in accumulating dust, consulted their archives, and were able to make one assertion: in its breadth of possibilities and relationships, that historic discipline Frame Solutions, first appearing in the fourth millennium BCE, had helped its adherents achieve superhuman powers of assimilation. If that was its extent, what of the rules? Well, exquisitely simple. The players began with twenty-four identical pieces, the opposing sets being differentiated by colour, and to each individual certain powers and scope of movement were ascribed, though not declared until its first move or capture. Thus an almost limitless range. Half a dozen students now formed a semicircle together with the silent Englishmen, while a seventh, large-framed and pale, could feel the colour rising in his cheeks. He would have to retract his confident offer to commentate on every move, or explain the rules, when almost certain to result was a first, embarrassing defeat.

Nicola considered her options but wouldn’t make the decisive move. This was as much as Michael understood. The bell tolled again and the poet tossed down his cigarette butt onto the cold stone, crushing its smoky ember under a polished toe, a city shoe. A biting gust rolled in round the frozen peaks of that far eastern country, still twitching in its slumbers, under a long, feudal shadow. When the old man from the southern tower came out to the courtyard – robed, in open sandals, supporting his tottering frame on a staff – the sun in the east behind him settled on his grey hair bright as a halo. Nobody stirred.

So far this wasn’t the game he’d come to see. He shuffled forward to the two seated at the board and crossed his arms, waiting. It was a hopeless position. He smiled. The student foundered. Like so many before him, he conceded – he retired, scratching his head. Then the old man put the tip of his staff to his lips (he cautioned the gasps, the hubbub, the euphoria), and next it was Michael, with a wrinkled hand pressed to the small of his back, as that pushed him to the newly vacated place. ‘Play,’ he was told, and unaware that the passing of only a few more days would see the commencement of his own trial, he squatted down nervously and took his place against that all-conquering female. A slight flicker of amusement crossed her features, but she restrained a smile and set out the pieces again. Michael, reluctant in his challenge, made a first tentative move. She snorted when he named his opening piece – a choice revealing a naivety unsuspected even in him. In the shadow of that tyrant god her failing religion had sought to vanquish, her compulsion to teach a lesson, and punitively, re-emerged.

The old man chuckled, but didn’t remain, and when the poet took his place, assured that his own system could never be so vulnerable, no one foresaw his defeat, until late afternoon, when in the lengthening shadows, and a rising wind, only one spectator remained. But even he – pallid, large-limbed – shied away before the final outcome, consoled by the sure knowledge that both must turn to that distant, inscrutable country, to those shadows over the mountains, for any hope of salvation.

‘The House of Folly’ belongs to Peter Cowlam’s short-story collection Penumbra. Penumbra itself appears in Peter Cowlam’s recently published compendium edition Early Novels and Short Fiction, available at Amazon and other online retailers, as both hardback and ebook.