So mother, or what should I call you, Heike, Mummy, or progenitor. Don't be startled when you come in. When you see how the daughter you had hopes for is living. It's only temporary. All just temporary. Next week I'll find another place, you'll see, then you can be proud again. You lose one apartment, you find another, it's not like losing your innocence. Just wait: two rooms, view, balcony, me on the sofa and you beside me. I can hear you already, innocence, you pounce on that. ... Was it so difficult, you'll ask me, and slightly hurt feelings hover around the question because I never told you about it. And what do I say? I'm glad to have got rid of it. I could hardly wait. Finally good riddance to this weak spot that separated me from women, this spot that made me an animal facing the slaughtering block. A bloodbath under the skirt seemed unavoidable. At the same time it was totally unthinkable, but on that account possible at any time. Anyway, Mama, I have to tell you that on that August afternoon in 1984 when you sat down beside me on the lawn that had been mowed by our American neighbor, with your kitchen knife in your hand, and glanced at my arm that I had stretched out behind me, and I saw how you were staring at my armpit and so I quickly drew my arm back to my breast, but you had already noticed the few hairs and said a little goatee, and when you stood up and went over to the garden, cut off a head of lettuce and carried it into the house, while I remained outside because I happened to be fasting again, and when you came back and pressed a small flat package and a book into my hand, should I tell you that this small flat package and the instructions came far too late, that it had already happened a long time before? Do you still remember? Now you say, oh, ten years ago? Wait: we had just paid off the house, workmen were in the kitchen laying tiles. But why didn't I notice anything? you say. I wondered about that too. You noticed nothing, you didn't even notice that you were being hoodwinked all through the summer. Hoodwinked? You can sink your teeth into that. Even more interesting, this hoodwinking, than my innocence, no? Well, recall: that same summer, two months earlier. Around the end of June. Shortly before the long vacation, afternoons you were still at the editorial offices, most likely because of the air conditioning, Papa was traveling, calling every day, from Stuttgart, Hannover, Kiel, complaining about the heat on the roads. Oh you poor thing, I told him, and transmitted his greetings to you. Your garden, hardly bigger than the living room carpet, had shot up like fireworks: iris and roses, on the lawn galaxies of daisies. The lesser half of the world, you say, but what difference does it make. If it's so comfortable at home, you say, there's no need to leave it. The flowers blur in my head. At school I am sitting next to a girl with long red hair and I feel like I don't belong. Long red hair, I hear you say, that's Susi. Sus
{"title":"The Lesser Half of the World","authors":"Alissa Walser, B. Pike","doi":"10.2307/25304975","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304975","url":null,"abstract":"So mother, or what should I call you, Heike, Mummy, or progenitor. Don't be startled when you come in. When you see how the daughter you had hopes for is living. It's only temporary. All just temporary. Next week I'll find another place, you'll see, then you can be proud again. You lose one apartment, you find another, it's not like losing your innocence. Just wait: two rooms, view, balcony, me on the sofa and you beside me. I can hear you already, innocence, you pounce on that. ... Was it so difficult, you'll ask me, and slightly hurt feelings hover around the question because I never told you about it. And what do I say? I'm glad to have got rid of it. I could hardly wait. Finally good riddance to this weak spot that separated me from women, this spot that made me an animal facing the slaughtering block. A bloodbath under the skirt seemed unavoidable. At the same time it was totally unthinkable, but on that account possible at any time. Anyway, Mama, I have to tell you that on that August afternoon in 1984 when you sat down beside me on the lawn that had been mowed by our American neighbor, with your kitchen knife in your hand, and glanced at my arm that I had stretched out behind me, and I saw how you were staring at my armpit and so I quickly drew my arm back to my breast, but you had already noticed the few hairs and said a little goatee, and when you stood up and went over to the garden, cut off a head of lettuce and carried it into the house, while I remained outside because I happened to be fasting again, and when you came back and pressed a small flat package and a book into my hand, should I tell you that this small flat package and the instructions came far too late, that it had already happened a long time before? Do you still remember? Now you say, oh, ten years ago? Wait: we had just paid off the house, workmen were in the kitchen laying tiles. But why didn't I notice anything? you say. I wondered about that too. You noticed nothing, you didn't even notice that you were being hoodwinked all through the summer. Hoodwinked? You can sink your teeth into that. Even more interesting, this hoodwinking, than my innocence, no? Well, recall: that same summer, two months earlier. Around the end of June. Shortly before the long vacation, afternoons you were still at the editorial offices, most likely because of the air conditioning, Papa was traveling, calling every day, from Stuttgart, Hannover, Kiel, complaining about the heat on the roads. Oh you poor thing, I told him, and transmitted his greetings to you. Your garden, hardly bigger than the living room carpet, had shot up like fireworks: iris and roses, on the lawn galaxies of daisies. The lesser half of the world, you say, but what difference does it make. If it's so comfortable at home, you say, there's no need to leave it. The flowers blur in my head. At school I am sitting next to a girl with long red hair and I feel like I don't belong. Long red hair, I hear you say, that's Susi. Sus","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"311"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304975","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69016105","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
You are in the project. You're being discussed now. May there only be little black magic. You're the nautical skin. You navigate. You're in Europe. You're looking for experience and feeling. You're looking for them here. Now we're talking about your roots. Take off. We're networking. You're surrounded. Read this. Go stand in the square. Boom boom, listen to the children. Look at the basketball. Go to the pond with the children. Listen to the frog. Dangle your feet in the dusk. Now have a bright space here. Go fearlessly into the project. Divide yourself a little. Divide yourself from yourself. You're a particle of Hellerau. A particle of aesthetics, a particle of existence. It's written on the wall in gold. Above the door. You're a gate for what passes through you. Look at the sky. Don't call it Maria. Say door. You can say passage. Say passenger. Say umbrella and protection, and say blue. You can also say cap. You're coming by train. Don't spare yourself. Get involved. Let your colors run. Don't be left hanging. You're a bit of an oyster. A bit of Easter. You aren't closed. A bit pink. You shimmer. You aren't open either. Now put down the oyster-Easter-aster sequence. Enough of laying happy series. We'll give you a sign. Put the suitcase down. Unpack the clothes. Look at yourself. Surprise yourself. Let someone give you lamp, give you blanket, pillow, desk. Wipe the floor. Sweep the dirt into the hallway. Put the plugs in your ears. Make yourself at home. Be round, golden, auratic; listen-simply be a simple egg among other simple eggs. Protect your head. Put your throat into the project Europe. Drown. Vanish. To vanish-the idea arouses you. Dissolve. Submerge. What are you doing here? Lie down. What are you saying? What are you doing? Put down everything you have. Do a lot of nothing. It feels good. You'll see a rain of tongues. Don't strain yourself. It's Russian. Everything's here. Don't prick up your eyes. Be deep. Be blue. Let the sentences trickle through your body sac. Make the door porous. Drink the first sentence. Navigate. You're the nautical skin. Forget yourself. Don't stop. Whirl. Surface somewhere else. Throw up. Follow the dolphin. Undulate. We'll interpret it. Accept it. Don't be afraid of all the animals here on the square. Fear no meaning. Spread yourself out. Do it like the pelican. Give them blood. Where there's a wound, take tongue. Say rip. Lick it away. Add to it piece by piece, to your injury. Network it. Stand under the aspen before the outbreak of leaves. Buy a calling card. Do your laundry. Touch kittens. Stroke your egg. Don't forget to exhale. Air out your pants in the window. You can buy yourself a rose. Let the snail creep across your joints into your sleeping bag. Sleep in the cemetery once a year. Forget the dream with the stone. Don't pack the stone in your duffel bag. Close the zipper. Protect your heart. Shake yourself. Take the bus. Bite into the apple from the tree. Eat light and dark beer. You're on the outs
{"title":"The Root of the Free Radical Is Heart","authors":"Birgit Kempker, Andrew Shields","doi":"10.2307/25304903","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304903","url":null,"abstract":"You are in the project. You're being discussed now. May there only be little black magic. You're the nautical skin. You navigate. You're in Europe. You're looking for experience and feeling. You're looking for them here. Now we're talking about your roots. Take off. We're networking. You're surrounded. Read this. Go stand in the square. Boom boom, listen to the children. Look at the basketball. Go to the pond with the children. Listen to the frog. Dangle your feet in the dusk. Now have a bright space here. Go fearlessly into the project. Divide yourself a little. Divide yourself from yourself. You're a particle of Hellerau. A particle of aesthetics, a particle of existence. It's written on the wall in gold. Above the door. You're a gate for what passes through you. Look at the sky. Don't call it Maria. Say door. You can say passage. Say passenger. Say umbrella and protection, and say blue. You can also say cap. You're coming by train. Don't spare yourself. Get involved. Let your colors run. Don't be left hanging. You're a bit of an oyster. A bit of Easter. You aren't closed. A bit pink. You shimmer. You aren't open either. Now put down the oyster-Easter-aster sequence. Enough of laying happy series. We'll give you a sign. Put the suitcase down. Unpack the clothes. Look at yourself. Surprise yourself. Let someone give you lamp, give you blanket, pillow, desk. Wipe the floor. Sweep the dirt into the hallway. Put the plugs in your ears. Make yourself at home. Be round, golden, auratic; listen-simply be a simple egg among other simple eggs. Protect your head. Put your throat into the project Europe. Drown. Vanish. To vanish-the idea arouses you. Dissolve. Submerge. What are you doing here? Lie down. What are you saying? What are you doing? Put down everything you have. Do a lot of nothing. It feels good. You'll see a rain of tongues. Don't strain yourself. It's Russian. Everything's here. Don't prick up your eyes. Be deep. Be blue. Let the sentences trickle through your body sac. Make the door porous. Drink the first sentence. Navigate. You're the nautical skin. Forget yourself. Don't stop. Whirl. Surface somewhere else. Throw up. Follow the dolphin. Undulate. We'll interpret it. Accept it. Don't be afraid of all the animals here on the square. Fear no meaning. Spread yourself out. Do it like the pelican. Give them blood. Where there's a wound, take tongue. Say rip. Lick it away. Add to it piece by piece, to your injury. Network it. Stand under the aspen before the outbreak of leaves. Buy a calling card. Do your laundry. Touch kittens. Stroke your egg. Don't forget to exhale. Air out your pants in the window. You can buy yourself a rose. Let the snail creep across your joints into your sleeping bag. Sleep in the cemetery once a year. Forget the dream with the stone. Don't pack the stone in your duffel bag. Close the zipper. Protect your heart. Shake yourself. Take the bus. Bite into the apple from the tree. Eat light and dark beer. You're on the outs","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"111 1","pages":"155"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304903","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69015092","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Notes Recorded on the Lofoten Islands","authors":"Y. Tawada, Susan Bernofsky","doi":"10.2307/25304973","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304973","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"303"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304973","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69016081","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Back to the coast. In Odenthal again, in the neighborhood of a quotation that reached from Rome to Guatemala. Or you repeat the story of mere moments, the last of which stretches out between Richthofen's flight logbook and the pictures of Irmgard Keun in exile. Showing us in a hotel again, and to the east the land getting lost again. Only the early trains were rolling further into the subjunctively possible: one might leave Ostend in the morning, by the next day be in Warsaw perhaps. How many tickets, how many faces of conductors and customs officials (some caused anxiety, others brought you hope), how many stamps in your passport...it is not a journey. You arrived a long time ago. You made the choice between the sea and the ranges of hills, over which the sky holds the invisible flight paths open. Anyway it is still going, in a game that moves places and regions through times, which are suddenly standing outside the windows in the yard light, or surface behind the fence and join in a conversation with the neighbors, of whom the one is dead and the other has not yet come home. You can interrupt and re-define the borders between afternoons in the cherry tree, telephone interviews, queues to pay, between dawn, early shift, and the untriability of guilt...it is happening anyway, the computer erases the data without prompting. So go out into the meadow; the snow is not coming back today. The woodpecker is drumming up in the peartree. It is more a rattling. Now knocking, hesitantly, it is a sound like reflection, coming before a silence. Then follows the dive, caught by suddenly spanned wings, the flight in a long curve into the nearest branches where the woods begin. Variant description. A course through the air, and how a flying body behaves as the measure of the situation says, to his knowledge, like this or like that. Outside, high above the house, a draft of soft cries, the acoustic image of a flying wedge, which instinct, drive, experience have formed for a move to the north; that repeats itself from one spring to another, (or from one autumn to another southwards), and preserves the conditions in which cranes survive, in the pattern of adaptation that prescribes the restlessly rolling chain no matter who is faster, who weaker, who an outsider, a laggard. In the distance the chain grows thinner and thinner, until it disappears in another life. It is always making signals that are too little noticed; you close the windows, you have not seen anything. Only sometimes contacts can be felt, and a tremor runs through the most insignificant things, constructed around you by habit. Nothing stirs from its place, but that is not all that counts in a movement that brings the draft from outside together with the air in the rooms. Perhaps the equation remains unclear; one so often does not know what the terms mean, especially when the context is only apparent afterwards. Here you know the area, and you see how in the morning a deeply receding landscape begin
{"title":"Journal of Repetitions","authors":"J. Becker, A. Duncan","doi":"10.2307/25304838","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304838","url":null,"abstract":"Back to the coast. In Odenthal again, in the neighborhood of a quotation that reached from Rome to Guatemala. Or you repeat the story of mere moments, the last of which stretches out between Richthofen's flight logbook and the pictures of Irmgard Keun in exile. Showing us in a hotel again, and to the east the land getting lost again. Only the early trains were rolling further into the subjunctively possible: one might leave Ostend in the morning, by the next day be in Warsaw perhaps. How many tickets, how many faces of conductors and customs officials (some caused anxiety, others brought you hope), how many stamps in your passport...it is not a journey. You arrived a long time ago. You made the choice between the sea and the ranges of hills, over which the sky holds the invisible flight paths open. Anyway it is still going, in a game that moves places and regions through times, which are suddenly standing outside the windows in the yard light, or surface behind the fence and join in a conversation with the neighbors, of whom the one is dead and the other has not yet come home. You can interrupt and re-define the borders between afternoons in the cherry tree, telephone interviews, queues to pay, between dawn, early shift, and the untriability of guilt...it is happening anyway, the computer erases the data without prompting. So go out into the meadow; the snow is not coming back today. The woodpecker is drumming up in the peartree. It is more a rattling. Now knocking, hesitantly, it is a sound like reflection, coming before a silence. Then follows the dive, caught by suddenly spanned wings, the flight in a long curve into the nearest branches where the woods begin. Variant description. A course through the air, and how a flying body behaves as the measure of the situation says, to his knowledge, like this or like that. Outside, high above the house, a draft of soft cries, the acoustic image of a flying wedge, which instinct, drive, experience have formed for a move to the north; that repeats itself from one spring to another, (or from one autumn to another southwards), and preserves the conditions in which cranes survive, in the pattern of adaptation that prescribes the restlessly rolling chain no matter who is faster, who weaker, who an outsider, a laggard. In the distance the chain grows thinner and thinner, until it disappears in another life. It is always making signals that are too little noticed; you close the windows, you have not seen anything. Only sometimes contacts can be felt, and a tremor runs through the most insignificant things, constructed around you by habit. Nothing stirs from its place, but that is not all that counts in a movement that brings the draft from outside together with the air in the rooms. Perhaps the equation remains unclear; one so often does not know what the terms mean, especially when the context is only apparent afterwards. Here you know the area, and you see how in the morning a deeply receding landscape begin","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"19"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304838","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013503","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"For Allen Ginsberg, Died 5 April 1997","authors":"U. Kolbe, T. Frazer","doi":"10.2307/25304916","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304916","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"171"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304916","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69014812","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
My father had a stand in Neumunster and then he hired this prick who ran the store. Satilmis was his name, a real good cook and a gambler. Gambled a lot, dice and poker, and that's the way it is in the game, sometimes you screw the other guy and sometimes you get screwed. And he got screwed a lot and needed money and-of course, no problem-he pocketed some out of the register a bunch of times. My father saw it, but you know, this Satilmis he's unofficial co-owner of the place cause he'd put something into it, the prick. But he works. My old man needs the guy so the store can run, one time he said: Look, I'm gonna give you the store but just unofficial. You'll work here as a regular employee, but you give me five thousand Marks a month and what you do with the place and how much you earn and spend I don't care. The guy said okay, it went well at first, but he's a gambler, you know? He paid the five thousand Marks a month, but then he didn't pay for three months in a row, that's fifteen thousand Marks. My father, you know how it is, how they are, the older Turkish men, always reasonable with a serious look and indirect threats. My father's just like that. I said to my father: Leave him to me, I'll take care of him, and he'll pay. I'm either gonna chop off a finger or his dick. My father knew I'd do it. When I say I'm gonna do it, then I'm gonna do it because I can't go back, babama karsi olmaz, not when my father's concerned. My father always said no and let's talk again, he talked a thousand times but the prick didn't respond. I never opened my mouth, was always quiet because I can't talk next to my father in such serious business. I can only talk if he says: It's your thing, and I allow you to take care of him. I sat next to my father with my arms crossed, looking at that prick, and my eyes never moved from him. And my father keeps talking to him: Satilmis, listen to reason and on and on. The last time I said to my father: Baba, I'll come with you, but I don't want to see him make an ass out of you again, I'll go along with everything, it might not mean shit to you, but it does to me. If he says to you again: I have no debts with you, then-- with me there-you say: Okay, one can't talk reasonably with you. Ertan, I'm leaving it up to you, get the money back. My father said okay, he was as fed up as me. So then the three of us were sitting in a cafe in the Neumunster train station right by the store. My father says: Satilmis, do you have debts with me? No, the prick says, what debts? He looks at me, he answers father's questions, but he wants to figure out if he's getting to me. But I'm cool and silent, I can't get involved, you know. My father asks again: Satilmis, do you have debts with me? Him again: No, and then-because I'm staying quiet-the smart-ass says: You have debts with me. Okay, says my father, one can't talk reasonably with you. Ertan, I'm leaving it up to you. I don't give a shit about the fifteen thousand Marks, take care of him. I lo
{"title":"The Father Story","authors":"Feridun Zaimoglu, Darren Ilett","doi":"10.2307/25304985","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304985","url":null,"abstract":"My father had a stand in Neumunster and then he hired this prick who ran the store. Satilmis was his name, a real good cook and a gambler. Gambled a lot, dice and poker, and that's the way it is in the game, sometimes you screw the other guy and sometimes you get screwed. And he got screwed a lot and needed money and-of course, no problem-he pocketed some out of the register a bunch of times. My father saw it, but you know, this Satilmis he's unofficial co-owner of the place cause he'd put something into it, the prick. But he works. My old man needs the guy so the store can run, one time he said: Look, I'm gonna give you the store but just unofficial. You'll work here as a regular employee, but you give me five thousand Marks a month and what you do with the place and how much you earn and spend I don't care. The guy said okay, it went well at first, but he's a gambler, you know? He paid the five thousand Marks a month, but then he didn't pay for three months in a row, that's fifteen thousand Marks. My father, you know how it is, how they are, the older Turkish men, always reasonable with a serious look and indirect threats. My father's just like that. I said to my father: Leave him to me, I'll take care of him, and he'll pay. I'm either gonna chop off a finger or his dick. My father knew I'd do it. When I say I'm gonna do it, then I'm gonna do it because I can't go back, babama karsi olmaz, not when my father's concerned. My father always said no and let's talk again, he talked a thousand times but the prick didn't respond. I never opened my mouth, was always quiet because I can't talk next to my father in such serious business. I can only talk if he says: It's your thing, and I allow you to take care of him. I sat next to my father with my arms crossed, looking at that prick, and my eyes never moved from him. And my father keeps talking to him: Satilmis, listen to reason and on and on. The last time I said to my father: Baba, I'll come with you, but I don't want to see him make an ass out of you again, I'll go along with everything, it might not mean shit to you, but it does to me. If he says to you again: I have no debts with you, then-- with me there-you say: Okay, one can't talk reasonably with you. Ertan, I'm leaving it up to you, get the money back. My father said okay, he was as fed up as me. So then the three of us were sitting in a cafe in the Neumunster train station right by the store. My father says: Satilmis, do you have debts with me? No, the prick says, what debts? He looks at me, he answers father's questions, but he wants to figure out if he's getting to me. But I'm cool and silent, I can't get involved, you know. My father asks again: Satilmis, do you have debts with me? Him again: No, and then-because I'm staying quiet-the smart-ass says: You have debts with me. Okay, says my father, one can't talk reasonably with you. Ertan, I'm leaving it up to you. I don't give a shit about the fifteen thousand Marks, take care of him. I lo","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"331"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304985","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69015676","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
It all started with Lebanon. In the summer of 1982, Motti was supposed to be in London, where he wanted to spend a couple of weeks before flying on to New Delhi. All his friends and classmates left the country for a while after the army, if they could afford to, and even the poorest of them did everything possible to get away, be it only to Cyprus or Greece. To avoid the temptation of a premature return, those who wanted a true break from Israel bought one-way tickets to New York or L.A., procuring jobs as waiters or enrolling in Tai-Chi courses once they got there. Motti couldn't make up his mind. He wanted to begin his university studies in the near future and could hardly imagine, with his aging parents, going away for too long. A couple of months in India and Nepal would suffice to dear his mind and to still his adolescent curiosity for the great wide world, which had thus far lain beyond reach behind the fortress walls of his constrictive homeland, where everyone knew everyone-indeed everyone knew everything about everyone-and no one was allowed to waver for a single day from the side of his people in their never-ending war of survival. Like nearly all of his friends, Motti had never been abroad, and his interest in the Asian subcontinent was based on nothing more than a desire to see with his own eyes the hundred-- thousand fairy-tale colors in which, he had often heard, the native landscape, cuisine, and clothing were bathed. But as it happened, one month after his scheduled discharge from the army and one week before his planned departure, he found himself sitting back in his tank thundering toward Beirut. It was his first time in action, and whenever they fired a shot, whenever the recoil kicked the ten-ton vehicle like a empty beer can, whenever that crazy Eli let out a victory cry, shrill and fearful, from his cannon overhead, Motti went dizzy, sweating profusely and trembling as though feverish. His fear was only exceeded by his zeal. He knew that the harder they fought, the sooner they drove the Palestinians into the sea, the earlier he would be released. They raced up the coastal road like lunatics, through this ugly, flat, arid land whose brackish sea, desiccated riverbeds, decrepit houses, and strip-harvested banana fields seemed like a caricature of Israel. The landscape first changed beyond the river Al Litani. Hills suddenly emerged to the east, hills of white and green, with houses on their slopes that were more opulent than the most opulent villas in Savion. At the same time, the sea to the west began to flutter like a giant cloth of green silk against the bright June sky. Somewhere just before Sidon, two days after their last skirmish, Motti believed that the worst was now behind them. Hour by hour, his nerves settled down, his appetite returned, and he increasingly ventured brief, dreamy glances through the peephole. Smiling, he thought, who would have imagined that my first trip abroad would be like this? Then they arrived
{"title":"From Die Tochter (the Daughter)","authors":"M. Biller, J. Chase","doi":"10.2307/25304844","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304844","url":null,"abstract":"It all started with Lebanon. In the summer of 1982, Motti was supposed to be in London, where he wanted to spend a couple of weeks before flying on to New Delhi. All his friends and classmates left the country for a while after the army, if they could afford to, and even the poorest of them did everything possible to get away, be it only to Cyprus or Greece. To avoid the temptation of a premature return, those who wanted a true break from Israel bought one-way tickets to New York or L.A., procuring jobs as waiters or enrolling in Tai-Chi courses once they got there. Motti couldn't make up his mind. He wanted to begin his university studies in the near future and could hardly imagine, with his aging parents, going away for too long. A couple of months in India and Nepal would suffice to dear his mind and to still his adolescent curiosity for the great wide world, which had thus far lain beyond reach behind the fortress walls of his constrictive homeland, where everyone knew everyone-indeed everyone knew everything about everyone-and no one was allowed to waver for a single day from the side of his people in their never-ending war of survival. Like nearly all of his friends, Motti had never been abroad, and his interest in the Asian subcontinent was based on nothing more than a desire to see with his own eyes the hundred-- thousand fairy-tale colors in which, he had often heard, the native landscape, cuisine, and clothing were bathed. But as it happened, one month after his scheduled discharge from the army and one week before his planned departure, he found himself sitting back in his tank thundering toward Beirut. It was his first time in action, and whenever they fired a shot, whenever the recoil kicked the ten-ton vehicle like a empty beer can, whenever that crazy Eli let out a victory cry, shrill and fearful, from his cannon overhead, Motti went dizzy, sweating profusely and trembling as though feverish. His fear was only exceeded by his zeal. He knew that the harder they fought, the sooner they drove the Palestinians into the sea, the earlier he would be released. They raced up the coastal road like lunatics, through this ugly, flat, arid land whose brackish sea, desiccated riverbeds, decrepit houses, and strip-harvested banana fields seemed like a caricature of Israel. The landscape first changed beyond the river Al Litani. Hills suddenly emerged to the east, hills of white and green, with houses on their slopes that were more opulent than the most opulent villas in Savion. At the same time, the sea to the west began to flutter like a giant cloth of green silk against the bright June sky. Somewhere just before Sidon, two days after their last skirmish, Motti believed that the worst was now behind them. Hour by hour, his nerves settled down, his appetite returned, and he increasingly ventured brief, dreamy glances through the peephole. Smiling, he thought, who would have imagined that my first trip abroad would be like this? Then they arrived","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"41"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304844","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013632","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
The world began. Mr. Biformity and Mrs. Discord were the first couple. The woman bore four sons: Smoking Mirror, Feathered Snake, Southern Hummingbird, and Painted Bell. Each of them took on a post from which he could oversee everything and fasten the sky to his head. With their feet the brothers paddled the earth as if it were a crocodile. But first, Feathered Snake and Smoking Mirror had to separate Earth and Sky from one another. The Earthsky lay there like a terrible monster, snarling in all directions. The brothers turned into giant snakes and burrowed enormous tunnels in its body. Then they lifted one half up high. This was the sky. The other half they left lying. Its body became the Earth's surface. Its hair became her plants, trees, and tall grasses. Its skin became her short grasses and undergrowth. Its eyes became her wells and springs. Its mouth, her rivers and caverns; its nose, her valleys and mountains. Once she had been formed in this way, at night, the Earth began screaming. She wanted human hearts to feed on. And until she was given this meat, she refused to settle down; and until she was saturated with human blood, she refused to bear fruit. And she remained a famished, insatiable Earth. I am trying to decipher a text that accompanies the drawings on the Codex Mendoza. I zoom in on a reddish-brown warrior costume, complete with a pointed bonnet and a shield decorated with geometric figures and feathers. The ancient letters are intertwined; I click on them and the Spanish appears: in Times Roman. I open the translation window and before my eyes an unfamiliar hand writes the characters on the screen as if they were appearing there for the first time: Warrior Costume, Striped, Gold Clasps, Gold Shield, Gold Nose-plate, Value: 200 pesetas. Tribute from the Province of Chalco. I click over to the next page. Lienzo de Tlaxcala. A wooden chair floats above Malinche's head; in it, Cortes is sitting, a long feather in his hat. Malinche points at the gifts, beautifully woven, snake-patterned fabrics. Is she trying to explain to her master how and of what the cloth is made? Is she telling him how many days it takes to extract the fibers from the agave and spin them into threads, where the plants grow, which dye to use, and who the masters of ornamentation are? Malinche is wearing a cape over her long dress. I click on it and bring the fabric up, so close I can see the individual threads. I continue clicking and a drawing appears, a vivid watercolor, which tells me that Malinche is barefoot when she stands before the First Deputy, when he meets Cortes. Here again is a representation of the opposition of metal and flesh, silver and red. The translator holds her head bowed low. I imagine Marina searching in the wardrobe for one of Curt's old suits, and for a hat. How she disguises herself, ties the too-wide trousers tight around her waist with a leather strap, how she works the brim of the hat until a shadow covers almost half her light-brown
世界开始了。和谐先生和不和夫人是第一对。这个女人生了四个儿子:烟镜、羽蛇、南蜂鸟和彩铃。他们每个人都有一根柱子，可以从上面俯瞰一切，把天空固定在头上。兄弟俩用脚在地上划来划去，好像那是一条鳄鱼。但首先，羽蛇和烟镜必须把大地和天空分开。大地像一只可怕的怪物躺在那里，向四面八方咆哮。兄弟俩变成了巨大的蛇，在它的身体里挖了巨大的洞。然后他们把一半举起来。这是天空。另一半人则撒谎离开。它的身体变成了地球表面。它的毛变成了她的植物、树木和高大的草。它的皮肤变成了她的矮草和矮树丛。它的眼睛成了她的水井和泉源。它的口，她的河流和洞穴;它的鼻子，她的山谷和山脉。一旦她以这种方式形成，在晚上，地球开始尖叫。她想吸食人类的心脏。直到给她肉，她拒绝安定下来;在她被人血浸透之前，她拒绝结果子。她仍然是一个饥肠辘辘、贪得无厌的地球。我在试着破译门多萨抄本上附图的文字。我放大了一件红褐色的战士服装，上面有一顶尖顶的帽子和一个装饰着几何图形和羽毛的盾牌。古老的字母交织在一起;我点击它们，西班牙语就出现了:Times Roman字体。我打开翻译窗口，一只陌生的手在屏幕上写着这些字，好像它们是第一次出现在那里:战士服，条纹，金扣，金盾，金鼻板，价值:200比塞塔。来自中国铝业的贡品。我点击到下一页。Lienzo de Tlaxcala。一把木椅漂浮在马林奇的头顶上;科尔特斯坐在里面，帽子上插着一根长长的羽毛。马林奇指着那些精美的蛇纹织物。她是在向她的主人解释布料的制作方法和材料吗?她是在告诉他从龙舌兰中提取纤维并将其纺成线需要多少天，植物生长在哪里，使用哪种染料，谁是装饰大师?玛琳奇在她的长裙外面披了一件斗篷。我点击它，把布料拉上来，近到我可以看到每条线。我继续点击，一幅画出现了，一幅生动的水彩画，它告诉我，当第一副手见到科尔特斯时，马林奇站在他面前时是光着脚的。这里再次呈现了金属与肉体、银色与红色的对立。翻译低着头。我想象着玛丽娜在衣橱里翻找柯特的一套旧西装和一顶帽子。她如何伪装自己，用皮带把太宽的裤子紧紧地系在腰上，她如何把帽子的边缘弄得阴影几乎遮住了她浅棕色的脸的一半，裤子的薄织物落在她光着的穿凉鞋的脚上。她把旧帆布背包挂在肩上，匆匆离去。一头扎进了城市的厚重闷热的尘土里。空气中弥漫着酒气和汗水。玛丽娜听到一声巨响。一支铜管乐队转了个弯，从她身边经过，演奏着进行曲。有几个人走在它后面。转身跳舞。他们大喊大叫，有些人手里还拿着一瓶瓶白酒或伏特加。一些人向四面八方扔玉米粉和五彩纸屑。一把明亮的黄色尘埃也来到了玛丽娜岛。她不得不咳嗽;人行道上到处都是粉末、空瓶子和破碎的瓶子、彩色的纸丝带、罐头和塑料杯。她试着向机场走去。正如她所希望的那样，没有人注意到她穿着她的服装。她只需要确保她不会和任何人走得太近，不会撞到任何人，然后开始打架。毫无疑问，人们可以看到她，但她穿着迷彩服。…
{"title":"From Die Geheimen Aufzeichnungen Marinas (the Secret Notebooks of Marina)","authors":"Sabine Scholl, W. Martin","doi":"10.2307/25304950","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304950","url":null,"abstract":"The world began. Mr. Biformity and Mrs. Discord were the first couple. The woman bore four sons: Smoking Mirror, Feathered Snake, Southern Hummingbird, and Painted Bell. Each of them took on a post from which he could oversee everything and fasten the sky to his head. With their feet the brothers paddled the earth as if it were a crocodile. But first, Feathered Snake and Smoking Mirror had to separate Earth and Sky from one another. The Earthsky lay there like a terrible monster, snarling in all directions. The brothers turned into giant snakes and burrowed enormous tunnels in its body. Then they lifted one half up high. This was the sky. The other half they left lying. Its body became the Earth's surface. Its hair became her plants, trees, and tall grasses. Its skin became her short grasses and undergrowth. Its eyes became her wells and springs. Its mouth, her rivers and caverns; its nose, her valleys and mountains. Once she had been formed in this way, at night, the Earth began screaming. She wanted human hearts to feed on. And until she was given this meat, she refused to settle down; and until she was saturated with human blood, she refused to bear fruit. And she remained a famished, insatiable Earth. I am trying to decipher a text that accompanies the drawings on the Codex Mendoza. I zoom in on a reddish-brown warrior costume, complete with a pointed bonnet and a shield decorated with geometric figures and feathers. The ancient letters are intertwined; I click on them and the Spanish appears: in Times Roman. I open the translation window and before my eyes an unfamiliar hand writes the characters on the screen as if they were appearing there for the first time: Warrior Costume, Striped, Gold Clasps, Gold Shield, Gold Nose-plate, Value: 200 pesetas. Tribute from the Province of Chalco. I click over to the next page. Lienzo de Tlaxcala. A wooden chair floats above Malinche's head; in it, Cortes is sitting, a long feather in his hat. Malinche points at the gifts, beautifully woven, snake-patterned fabrics. Is she trying to explain to her master how and of what the cloth is made? Is she telling him how many days it takes to extract the fibers from the agave and spin them into threads, where the plants grow, which dye to use, and who the masters of ornamentation are? Malinche is wearing a cape over her long dress. I click on it and bring the fabric up, so close I can see the individual threads. I continue clicking and a drawing appears, a vivid watercolor, which tells me that Malinche is barefoot when she stands before the First Deputy, when he meets Cortes. Here again is a representation of the opposition of metal and flesh, silver and red. The translator holds her head bowed low. I imagine Marina searching in the wardrobe for one of Curt's old suits, and for a hat. How she disguises herself, ties the too-wide trousers tight around her waist with a leather strap, how she works the brim of the hat until a shadow covers almost half her light-brown","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"252"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304950","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69015471","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Christine has been living in New York ever since she came to the U.S. illegally from East Germany in the mid- 1980s and is working in a small theater. In the mid-1990s, when she runs into Leah, a West German photographer, she pretends to be an American by birth. But Leah finds out who she really is, and after tracking her down manages to break into the theater. -AS In the morning, shortly before seven, when it's still quiet and the cleaning woman is the only one she meets in the hall, Christine goes up to her office to plan her day. The cleaning woman nods with every step she takes, flapping her hands back and forth to dry them off. Every morning the soles of her blue sneakers squeak along the polished floor. Then, firmly holding on to her pail and scrubbing brush, she disappears, and Christine takes the key off the board. In the beginning, she used to sleep in the theater, in a dress that felt rough and heavy on her skin. During the day it hung in the huge closet on the other side of the room, where now only files are kept, files and a few pencil stubs. Jeff sharpens them till they're down to a fraction of a centimeter so he won't have to buy new ones. Jeff, the smell of wood, and the squeaking rubber soles on the linoleum floor: these are more familiar to her than anything else in the world. She feels like an old woman and suddenly realizes why there are never any young people involved in the theater. Stage characters are either children or old people, never young people. One can't afford to wait around. Only children know that, and old people. They live one day at a time. Christine closes the closet door, which had come open during the night. The room is already filled with glaring light that promises a hot day. There was a time when this would have bothered her. The blind is lowered halfway, and she stands there a while, gazing out at the empty street. Somewhere in the house she hears footsteps; the sound is muffled and far away, as though coming through glass. These are not the footsteps of the cleaning woman. They're determined, marked by brief pauses, sometimes barely audible, and then suddenly very loud as though they were right outside her door. It could be one of the actors. But it's too early; rehearsals don't start till eight. Nobody walks around in the house this early. As she always does, Christine had closed the front door behind her and checked to make sure it was locked before taking the key out of the lock. No one could have followed her in. Maybe there's a faucet dripping somewhere. The file binders on her desk are a mess; one is tipped over. Christine picks it up, leafs through some pages, and puts it back, in line with the others. Jeff has not touched them for years. It's the deficits that make him do it now. The increasingly bad runs of the productions. He isn't one to rummage through the files and, as back then, she won't mention it to him, even though this time it's disquieting. She can still hear the footsteps, irregular
{"title":"From Offene Blende (Open Shutter)","authors":"A. Strubel, M. Dembo","doi":"10.2307/25304971","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304971","url":null,"abstract":"Christine has been living in New York ever since she came to the U.S. illegally from East Germany in the mid- 1980s and is working in a small theater. In the mid-1990s, when she runs into Leah, a West German photographer, she pretends to be an American by birth. But Leah finds out who she really is, and after tracking her down manages to break into the theater. -AS In the morning, shortly before seven, when it's still quiet and the cleaning woman is the only one she meets in the hall, Christine goes up to her office to plan her day. The cleaning woman nods with every step she takes, flapping her hands back and forth to dry them off. Every morning the soles of her blue sneakers squeak along the polished floor. Then, firmly holding on to her pail and scrubbing brush, she disappears, and Christine takes the key off the board. In the beginning, she used to sleep in the theater, in a dress that felt rough and heavy on her skin. During the day it hung in the huge closet on the other side of the room, where now only files are kept, files and a few pencil stubs. Jeff sharpens them till they're down to a fraction of a centimeter so he won't have to buy new ones. Jeff, the smell of wood, and the squeaking rubber soles on the linoleum floor: these are more familiar to her than anything else in the world. She feels like an old woman and suddenly realizes why there are never any young people involved in the theater. Stage characters are either children or old people, never young people. One can't afford to wait around. Only children know that, and old people. They live one day at a time. Christine closes the closet door, which had come open during the night. The room is already filled with glaring light that promises a hot day. There was a time when this would have bothered her. The blind is lowered halfway, and she stands there a while, gazing out at the empty street. Somewhere in the house she hears footsteps; the sound is muffled and far away, as though coming through glass. These are not the footsteps of the cleaning woman. They're determined, marked by brief pauses, sometimes barely audible, and then suddenly very loud as though they were right outside her door. It could be one of the actors. But it's too early; rehearsals don't start till eight. Nobody walks around in the house this early. As she always does, Christine had closed the front door behind her and checked to make sure it was locked before taking the key out of the lock. No one could have followed her in. Maybe there's a faucet dripping somewhere. The file binders on her desk are a mess; one is tipped over. Christine picks it up, leafs through some pages, and puts it back, in line with the others. Jeff has not touched them for years. It's the deficits that make him do it now. The increasingly bad runs of the productions. He isn't one to rummage through the files and, as back then, she won't mention it to him, even though this time it's disquieting. She can still hear the footsteps, irregular ","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"294"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304971","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69016014","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Off the farm lane now, where the green boughs descend to eye-level, isolated from the rest of the world, where the song of the lark, the cries of the farmers, even the lowing of the cattle reach their ears only distantly. They have taken their leave of the garden party to stroll through the fields, arm in arm, from the heights down to the plain, through a slight haze. The light envelops the earth and every object, the gentle hills along the river and last year's foliage, dusty fields too; they see a flock of chickens behind chicken wire; the sandy soil is furrowed, barren, rough, like a military training ground. Now they're not far from the pond, close to the forest's edge, where the country youth may well come for nightly outings; they have left behind the coffee tray, the spread of bee-sting cake, real coffee, cheesecake, even meringues. Behind them now the conversation beneath the trees, and with it the polite distance that normally characterizes such Sunday visits. No, none of that matters anymore as they press closer together on the narrow beaten path to keep from slipping on the grassy stubble, preferring not to walk single file. The two have left their relatives behind; they're still sitting in the garden, both sets of parents, and her aunt and uncle who own the local dairy. By now the aunt may well have launched into an interrogation of the parents about the relationship between their children. Everyone will think that they have arranged this meeting secretly. A long-planned country outing for the two sets of parents, who've been friends for years, and suddenly the daughter decides to come too, since she's not singing in Frankfurt or Munich that particular summer day. By chance the other family's son returns early from one of his training sessions, pulls up at the dairy, and steps out of his new car. Everyone will think they've been meeting on a regular basis, at her operas, or wherever he happens to be in flight training. No one will convince them it's just a coincidence. Even they can scarcely comprehend how near they had come to losing sight of one another forever. Later that afternoon, the aunt is sure, they can count on an announcement. They are talking more softly now, after he has told her, at the edge of the meadow, about his first glider flight. He spoke in a loud firm voice, even weaving the sounds of flight into his story, the wind flowing over the cockpit and wings as he spreads his arms wide. But now his voice is trembling; they're still standing, he strokes her bare neck, their mouths meet in a kiss that lasts longer than any kiss before, that moves further, along cheeks, forehead, and throat. Yes, now everything has changed: the rumpled Sunday suit, freshly ironed that morning, no longer matters, the grass stains on their knees and backs don't matter, the touch of make-up, so precisely applied that noon, now lightly streaking her cheeks, the smeared lipstick flecking his face no longer matters, nor the mascara as he kisses
{"title":"From Spione (Spies)","authors":"Marcel Beyer, Breon Mitchell","doi":"10.2307/25304843","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304843","url":null,"abstract":"Off the farm lane now, where the green boughs descend to eye-level, isolated from the rest of the world, where the song of the lark, the cries of the farmers, even the lowing of the cattle reach their ears only distantly. They have taken their leave of the garden party to stroll through the fields, arm in arm, from the heights down to the plain, through a slight haze. The light envelops the earth and every object, the gentle hills along the river and last year's foliage, dusty fields too; they see a flock of chickens behind chicken wire; the sandy soil is furrowed, barren, rough, like a military training ground. Now they're not far from the pond, close to the forest's edge, where the country youth may well come for nightly outings; they have left behind the coffee tray, the spread of bee-sting cake, real coffee, cheesecake, even meringues. Behind them now the conversation beneath the trees, and with it the polite distance that normally characterizes such Sunday visits. No, none of that matters anymore as they press closer together on the narrow beaten path to keep from slipping on the grassy stubble, preferring not to walk single file. The two have left their relatives behind; they're still sitting in the garden, both sets of parents, and her aunt and uncle who own the local dairy. By now the aunt may well have launched into an interrogation of the parents about the relationship between their children. Everyone will think that they have arranged this meeting secretly. A long-planned country outing for the two sets of parents, who've been friends for years, and suddenly the daughter decides to come too, since she's not singing in Frankfurt or Munich that particular summer day. By chance the other family's son returns early from one of his training sessions, pulls up at the dairy, and steps out of his new car. Everyone will think they've been meeting on a regular basis, at her operas, or wherever he happens to be in flight training. No one will convince them it's just a coincidence. Even they can scarcely comprehend how near they had come to losing sight of one another forever. Later that afternoon, the aunt is sure, they can count on an announcement. They are talking more softly now, after he has told her, at the edge of the meadow, about his first glider flight. He spoke in a loud firm voice, even weaving the sounds of flight into his story, the wind flowing over the cockpit and wings as he spreads his arms wide. But now his voice is trembling; they're still standing, he strokes her bare neck, their mouths meet in a kiss that lasts longer than any kiss before, that moves further, along cheeks, forehead, and throat. Yes, now everything has changed: the rumpled Sunday suit, freshly ironed that morning, no longer matters, the grass stains on their knees and backs don't matter, the touch of make-up, so precisely applied that noon, now lightly streaking her cheeks, the smeared lipstick flecking his face no longer matters, nor the mascara as he kisses ","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"8 1","pages":"35"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304843","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013625","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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