667 Slices
Medium 9780253016300

2 Forced Confessions: Subject Position, Framing, and the “Art” of Spiegelman’s Maus

Emily Miller Budick Indiana University Press ePub

Subject Position, Framing, and the “Art” of Spiegelman’s Maus

IN CYNTHIA OZICKS The Shawl (1990) subject position is framed in two different ways. While there may be individuals who are wholly disinclined to listen to the story of the Holocaust for whatever reasons, there are also individuals like Dr. Tree, who actively invite listening to victims’ stories. Against such individuals (like us readers, perhaps) the story levels the implicit accusation that to some degree an overly avid interest in the camps, especially in the humiliations and violations suffered there, can well verge on voyeurism. Like everything else that concerns human beings, Holocaust interest is galvanized by psychological forces: wishes, fantasies, terrors, and the like. This is not to say that the investment in keeping alive the knowledge of past events, or even in commemorating victims of violence and cruelty, is not also ethically grounded. Nonetheless, by forcing readers to interrogate their own subjectivities when their hear or read stories like Rosa’s, the novella suggests that in order to be good listeners and good historians we might need to separate out our own needs in relation to the events of the past from the responsibility we have to hear other people’s stories of pain and to keep alive the histories of catastrophic events.

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Medium 9781885635105

1 A New Room

Craig Morgan Teicher Center for Literary Publishing ePub

Inaudible voice, silent voice,
voice in my head, voice of my head,

speaker of my thoughts, speaker
of thoughts I do not think but hear

in my thoughts when I am thinking,
voice of my brother, I have no brother,

tell me what I should do, tell me
I should not listen to you, if only

they could hear you, may they
never hear you, voice of my dead,

my child voice calling into the hallway
for comfort no one gets anymore,

though no one forgets, my dark
voice who lies with me every night

keeping me awake until you’ve
worried your words to sleep,

come here, sick voice, stern, pathetic
voice of my father, voice that tells

stories over and over, how does
hurting me protect me, sweet, worried

voice of my mother, voice that repeats
until words have no meaning, voice

that rehearses every word, cruel voice,
come here, only stories end, which are

words flocking to other words
like blood cells to wounds, come here.

There is no such thing as a happy
person. The hour has come

for generalizations, meaning
falsehoods winningly articulated.

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Medium 9781857547658

The Good European: Nietzsche’s Counterculture

Iain Bamforth Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

The Good European

N’ C

It cost him to travel: one day in the train and three to recuperate.

He never visited Paris or London or Brussels, never went west to

Madrid or Lisbon. He endorsed Herder’s claim that German was

Greek, but made no effort to cross the Balkans to the land that gave form not only to civic liberties but to the potent derivative concept of unenslaved inner freedom: the closest he came to

Greece was the temple of Paestum, south-east of Sorrento, which he saw in the spring of , or among the ruins of Sicily. He never visited Mozart’s Prague, which was only a day’s journey from

Dresden: it was too far east. Nor did he pay much attention to that other German culture which had its capital in Vienna. What moved him was an instinct for the issues of glaciers and mountains, and stark shadowless sunlight. Lucid effort had to go into the election of a place: ‘I can’t allow myself to commit an error with regards to the weather. Do you know that the error of last winter (Santa Margherita and its dampness) very nearly cost me my life?’ The wanderer above the clouds was forever on the lookout for a place where he could rediscover Goethe’s great secret of living at peace with the world. There he might find the one place he could write, or take out his notebook and walk, as he did between Santa Margherita and Portofino where ‘the bay of Genoa sings the last notes of its melody’.

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Medium 9780253012814

III “Legends in a Class-Day Album”

Larry Lockridge Indiana University Press ePub

Hoosier schoolmaster George W. Setser would pause in front of the Lockridge house on High Street to cut fresh switches on his way to Finley School. He arrived early to fire the coal furnace and ring the bell of the township school just southeast of Bloomington, where he taught grades four through eight in one of two classrooms. He spread the ashes to make separate paths to the girls’ and boys’ privies and served up cistern drinking water in a bucket equipped with a single tin cup. After hours he’d mop the floors.

Naomi Dalton—who would be my obstetrician—was upset to see new student Ross Lockridge stand unprotestingly in front of the class while Mr. Setser took a switch to his legs. Hardly an unruly kid, he had a nervous energy that could spill over in misdemeanors. Naomi’s grandmother said he was “a caged lion” because he paced back and forth when he talked.

Mr. Setser’s switches were mostly for show. He gave a lecture, “The Ideal Teacher,” at a township school institute in early September of 1924, just as Ross Lockridge was entering his country school—and many of his students would so remember him. There was an advantage in strict single-room pedagogy: each grade went forward to the recitation bench at the front of the room for every subject taught, while the rest of the class had to sit still. Thus sixth-grader Ross Lockridge and others overheard the higher grades. Students who did all four grades in that classroom took in the same material four times, and would claim that even in college they were learning little that Mr. Setser had not already drilled into them. He taught the basics, plus heroic history, high moral values, and literary samplings. Sixty years later, one student would remember his enthusiasm for Whittier’s Snow-bound and Gray’s “Elegy.”

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Medium 9781885635150

The Mountains Overhead

Zach Savich Center for Literary Publishing ePub

for David Bartone

A ladder built into the exterior of a truck,
all anything does is confide, every morning

beginning now, decency its own kind
of constitution, each step onto a balcony or

from a café with little outdoor seating,
not counting the city. “What year

is that from,” the mother says. “First century
AD,” says her son. “But that’s a hundred

years.”

for Jeff Downey

We proceed by pattern and anomaly, had
no money but lived above a bakery

and a florist, just-aged flowers free
in a trough. I liked how you called the street

I always take “the secret way,” two fingers
held to a passing dog.

for Hilary Plum

We go to the cinema merely
for the light, view of alleys

from a balcony, to be in
the world and it is mythic:

zinnia market in the churchyard,
onions in mesh, daylit moon

a watermark on foreign currency.

1.

I sang: Tell me of the heart which exists
in which to continue is not
to confine

2.

Then dreamed I sang so loudly, I woke
myself singing

The cygnets’ feet were lost in snow

The cygnets were lovely because footless

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