There are many living poets who inspire my life, whose work I enjoy as a regularity in my living, but there are three, right now, who contribute directly to my filmmaking as powerfully as Pound, Stein, Olson, Creeley, Dorn when I was young (*) (as powerfully as "the ancients" of the craft whose poems form a basis for my, and everyone else's, English-language being): these three today are Michael McClure, Ronald Johnson, and Lisa Jarnot. McClure's aesthetic evolution has, since the friendship in our early twenties, always seemed consonant with mine--i.e., his words worn as if "on the sleeve" of his physical being (much as I see my filmed images as extensions of my optic system, and then later my whole body as mentor to that system. Finally now the medium itself, the muse, as it were, becomes outlet for my nerve system's most hidden sparking innards). McClure always, and more and more as he grows older, gives his reader access to the verbal impulses of his whole body's thought (as distinct from simply and only brain-think, as it is with most who write). He invents a form for these cellular messages of his, a form which will feel as if it were organic on the page; and he sticks with it across his life "like a solid moving through an inferno." I too stick with the given window of film, the slightly variable rectangle of film's-frame; and I (however much I admire D. W. Griffith's varieties of frames) adhere to that widening beam of projector ligh t and its rectangle of eye's composed feed-back--this "the stage" for sharing the anomalies of my visual privacy... (only exception, the Purgation sequence of The Dante Quartet, in cinemascope for its "widening gyre" of transformation, as Yeats would have it): and my display of visions (like Michael's enverbaled vision) come to the film window ("the page"?) directly from my physical self, the rhythms and tones of my biological response, my very breath and organic breadth of being. Few poets have managed to complete an epic poem in our Time: Pound's Cantos are left undone, trailing off in a ragged stitch of lines more emblematic of the social Times of their post-WW II writing then integrally related to the whole poem; Olson also leaves a lovely "garland," as it were, of variants upon the themes of Maximus Dr. W. C. Williams also veering off Patterson into the variant greatness of Desert Music; H. D. coming-to-rest but not to a thematic conclusion of Helen In Egypt. The only completed epic poetics of the twentieth century I personally accept-as-such are those of Louis Zukofsky, his "A", Gertrude Stein, her Stanzas in Meditation, possibly completed, although one wonders (in the light of Ulla Dydo's monumental research) if the terrible quarrel between Alice Toklas and Gertrude didn't shift the poem radically away from its pristine linguistic beginnings into the more narrative drama of their irresolvable argument. Finally, for me then, we have Ronald Johnson's ARK, miraculously finished a couple years before his d
{"title":"Chicago Review Article","authors":"Stan Brakhage","doi":"10.2307/25304801","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304801","url":null,"abstract":"There are many living poets who inspire my life, whose work I enjoy as a regularity in my living, but there are three, right now, who contribute directly to my filmmaking as powerfully as Pound, Stein, Olson, Creeley, Dorn when I was young (*) (as powerfully as \"the ancients\" of the craft whose poems form a basis for my, and everyone else's, English-language being): these three today are Michael McClure, Ronald Johnson, and Lisa Jarnot. McClure's aesthetic evolution has, since the friendship in our early twenties, always seemed consonant with mine--i.e., his words worn as if \"on the sleeve\" of his physical being (much as I see my filmed images as extensions of my optic system, and then later my whole body as mentor to that system. Finally now the medium itself, the muse, as it were, becomes outlet for my nerve system's most hidden sparking innards). McClure always, and more and more as he grows older, gives his reader access to the verbal impulses of his whole body's thought (as distinct from simply and only brain-think, as it is with most who write). He invents a form for these cellular messages of his, a form which will feel as if it were organic on the page; and he sticks with it across his life \"like a solid moving through an inferno.\" I too stick with the given window of film, the slightly variable rectangle of film's-frame; and I (however much I admire D. W. Griffith's varieties of frames) adhere to that widening beam of projector ligh t and its rectangle of eye's composed feed-back--this \"the stage\" for sharing the anomalies of my visual privacy... (only exception, the Purgation sequence of The Dante Quartet, in cinemascope for its \"widening gyre\" of transformation, as Yeats would have it): and my display of visions (like Michael's enverbaled vision) come to the film window (\"the page\"?) directly from my physical self, the rhythms and tones of my biological response, my very breath and organic breadth of being. Few poets have managed to complete an epic poem in our Time: Pound's Cantos are left undone, trailing off in a ragged stitch of lines more emblematic of the social Times of their post-WW II writing then integrally related to the whole poem; Olson also leaves a lovely \"garland,\" as it were, of variants upon the themes of Maximus Dr. W. C. Williams also veering off Patterson into the variant greatness of Desert Music; H. D. coming-to-rest but not to a thematic conclusion of Helen In Egypt. The only completed epic poetics of the twentieth century I personally accept-as-such are those of Louis Zukofsky, his \"A\", Gertrude Stein, her Stanzas in Meditation, possibly completed, although one wonders (in the light of Ulla Dydo's monumental research) if the terrible quarrel between Alice Toklas and Gertrude didn't shift the poem radically away from its pristine linguistic beginnings into the more narrative drama of their irresolvable argument. Finally, for me then, we have Ronald Johnson's ARK, miraculously finished a couple years before his d","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"47 1","pages":"38"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2001-12-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304801","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013187","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}
From "time...en dit" There are two pictorial extremes of human thought process--The Geometric and (what I like to call) Meat-ineffable...no "the" before "Meat"--inasmuch as raw cells are such a diversity of impulse as to defy hierarchy. To be sure, it is such diversity-of-cells' electrical arcing which hatches The Geometric also, but it does so in spite of the originating cell structure irregularities--as an act-of-spark, I'd guess, or rather in organized emulation of the energies of their synapse process...as an Ideal, so to speak, of the "straight" energetic snap-line between two cells, the triangle between three, square four, soforth on up the scale of "hedrons" until a "circle" can be inferred. It is all (i.e. Geometrical Thought) inferred, inasmuch as meat energies move in waves, as pulse: but the inference is intrinsic to Humans, existing only in Nature where Humans are-as anyone knows who has flown over wilderness and then, from an airplane window, spotted the beginning of Farm or Town. The so-called geometrics of the bee-hive, or of the flies' eyes, are (upon closer inspection) mere approximates of such as the Human Mind imagines--and then "reads into" the microcosms of Nature--as are the idealized circles of suns, the rectangles of rock formation, or those fractured symmetries of the Crystalline so prized by humans, all approximations of The Geometrical Mind (including Towns and Farms) which when presented to human sensibility are prized simply because the imaging of them (through the viscous meaty orbs of human receptivity) is more easily absorbed as corollary of a mental ideal than, say, the ordinarily overwhelming multiplicity of most of Nature's irregularly globular and disjunctly fretted entanglementof-curves impinging (via radiant waves) upon the senses. The Human Mind has fashioned its Ideal in despite and despising of its self's pulp of animal being-an ordering at the expense of cell's self...a bureaucracy of...a veritable facism of...sense's sense of self. Language is but an offspring of this mode-of-thought, for all words are but signs evolved from, and implicit in, the geometries of thinking. Contrarily, and as an antidote to the rigidities of The Geometric, Meat-ineffable is that steady inclination of the brain to mimeticize its intrinsically variable shapes as visible manifestations resistant to either name or category but true (in its variability, to begin with) to the very organic mode (as distinct from process) of its own existence. Whether there are, or are not, straight lines in Nature is beside the point: we are too viscous to receive them as such...thus they must, if that IS The Ideal, be invented by thought. Words are, at scratch, but a glyphic extension of Geometric thought inasmuch as words can be seen as signs which (certainly as hieroglyphs) abstract the phenomenological input of the visible world. These signifiers later evolve to make oblique reference to ear's intake, as the tongue is given further (and more ab
{"title":"Geometric versus Meat-Ineffable (1994)","authors":"Stan Brakhage","doi":"10.2307/25304803","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304803","url":null,"abstract":"From \"time...en dit\" There are two pictorial extremes of human thought process--The Geometric and (what I like to call) Meat-ineffable...no \"the\" before \"Meat\"--inasmuch as raw cells are such a diversity of impulse as to defy hierarchy. To be sure, it is such diversity-of-cells' electrical arcing which hatches The Geometric also, but it does so in spite of the originating cell structure irregularities--as an act-of-spark, I'd guess, or rather in organized emulation of the energies of their synapse process...as an Ideal, so to speak, of the \"straight\" energetic snap-line between two cells, the triangle between three, square four, soforth on up the scale of \"hedrons\" until a \"circle\" can be inferred. It is all (i.e. Geometrical Thought) inferred, inasmuch as meat energies move in waves, as pulse: but the inference is intrinsic to Humans, existing only in Nature where Humans are-as anyone knows who has flown over wilderness and then, from an airplane window, spotted the beginning of Farm or Town. The so-called geometrics of the bee-hive, or of the flies' eyes, are (upon closer inspection) mere approximates of such as the Human Mind imagines--and then \"reads into\" the microcosms of Nature--as are the idealized circles of suns, the rectangles of rock formation, or those fractured symmetries of the Crystalline so prized by humans, all approximations of The Geometrical Mind (including Towns and Farms) which when presented to human sensibility are prized simply because the imaging of them (through the viscous meaty orbs of human receptivity) is more easily absorbed as corollary of a mental ideal than, say, the ordinarily overwhelming multiplicity of most of Nature's irregularly globular and disjunctly fretted entanglementof-curves impinging (via radiant waves) upon the senses. The Human Mind has fashioned its Ideal in despite and despising of its self's pulp of animal being-an ordering at the expense of cell's self...a bureaucracy of...a veritable facism of...sense's sense of self. Language is but an offspring of this mode-of-thought, for all words are but signs evolved from, and implicit in, the geometries of thinking. Contrarily, and as an antidote to the rigidities of The Geometric, Meat-ineffable is that steady inclination of the brain to mimeticize its intrinsically variable shapes as visible manifestations resistant to either name or category but true (in its variability, to begin with) to the very organic mode (as distinct from process) of its own existence. Whether there are, or are not, straight lines in Nature is beside the point: we are too viscous to receive them as such...thus they must, if that IS The Ideal, be invented by thought. Words are, at scratch, but a glyphic extension of Geometric thought inasmuch as words can be seen as signs which (certainly as hieroglyphs) abstract the phenomenological input of the visible world. These signifiers later evolve to make oblique reference to ear's intake, as the tongue is given further (and more ab","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"47 1","pages":"47"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2001-12-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304803","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013202","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}
Introducing Andrei Tarkovsky to an audience at the 1983 Telluride Film Festival, Stan Brakhage declared: I personally think that the three greatest tasks for film in the 20th century are 1) To make the epic, that is, to tell the tales of the tribes of the world. 2) To keep it personal, because only in the eccentricities of our personal lives do we have any chance at the truth. 3) To do the dream work, that is to illuminate the borders of the unconscious. (1) Although he praised Tarkovsky as "the greatest living narrative film maker" and the only one who "does all these three things equally in every film he makes," Brakhage seems to have been acclaiming Tarkovsky for independently replicating his own agenda, most obviously in the requirements for personal filmmaking and explorations of "the dream work." In the nearly twenty years since he made that introduction, Brakhage has accelerated his own version of affirming the "tales of the tribe": Anazazi Indians, Dante, Marlowe, Goethe, Novalis, Stephen Foster, D. H. Lawrence, Plato, Rilke, Mann, and Stein have been evoked in the titles and themes of various films. An even more revelatory catachresis of the words "telling" and "tales"--implicitly acknowledged by Brakhage's use of quotation marks--appeared in a theoretical text of 1993: Some ur-consciousness also then must be inferred--each cell both shaper and carrier of every spark struck from and through it, affected by each impulse-backlash and in synaptical montage with each previous and following impulse: the whole organism feeding its varieties-of-fire into this interplay between brain and eye, as finally each cell of the foetal body can be intuited to be "telling" its "story" interactive with every other cell's story throughout the developing body, over-ridden by some entirety of rhythming light (as every individual heart-cell is conjoined to the dominating beat of each heart-part's over-riding beat) in the conglomerate rhythm of the whole heat-light of any given organ...of which each cell is a radical part compromised by every other cell's variable interaction, all contributory to the organic "tales" of these cells in concert. (2) Through an ironic loop in the history of avant-garde film theory, here Brakhage offers, in 1993, a physiological phantasmagoria in justification of what Hollis Frampton once facetiously called "Brakhage's Theorem" (1972)--that all films are narrative. More narrowly conceived, the Biblical and Classical tales of the tribes have been elliptically retold in Brakhage's films, off and on, since the 1950s: Oedipus (The Way to Shadow Garden [1954]), The Descent to the Underworld (The Dead [1960], Dante's Styx [1975]) The Sinai theophany (Blue Moses [1962]), Apocalypse (Oh Life, a Woe Story, The A Test News [1963]), Genesis (Creation [1979]), The Fall (The Machine of Eden [1970], The Animals of Eden and After [1970]), The Vision of Isaiah (The Peaceable Kingdom [1971]), The Afterlife and Orpheus (The Dante Quartet [1987]), and
在1983年的特柳赖德电影节上，斯坦·布兰克奇向观众介绍安德烈·塔可夫斯基时说:“我个人认为，20世纪电影最伟大的三个任务是:1)制作史诗，也就是说，讲述世界各部落的故事。2)保持个性，因为只有在我们个人生活的怪癖中，我们才有机会了解真相。3)做梦的工作，就是照亮无意识的边界。(1)虽然他称赞塔可夫斯基是“最伟大的活着的叙事电影制作人”，也是唯一一个“在每一部电影中都平等地做到这三件事”的人，但布拉哈格似乎一直在称赞塔可夫斯基独立地复制了自己的议程，最明显的是对个人电影制作和探索“梦想作品”的要求。在他做了这个介绍后的近二十年里，布拉哈格加速了他自己的版本，以肯定“部落的故事”:阿纳扎齐印第安人、但丁、马洛、歌德、诺瓦利斯、斯蒂芬·福斯特、d·h·劳伦斯、柏拉图、里尔克、曼和斯坦在各种电影的标题和主题中被引用。在1993年的一篇理论文章中，“讲述”和“故事”这两个词出现了更具启示性的变化——布拉哈格使用了引号，含蓄地承认了这一点:一些潜意识也必须被推断出来——每一个细胞都是每一个火花的塑造者和载体，受到每一个脉冲反冲的影响，受到每一个前后脉冲的突触蒙太奇的影响:整个生物体在大脑和眼睛之间的相互作用中提供了各种各样的火焰，因为最终胎儿身体的每个细胞都可以直观地“讲述”自己的“故事”，与整个发育中的身体中其他细胞的故事相互作用，在任何给定器官的整个热-光的综合节奏中，被一些有节奏的光所覆盖(就像每个单独的心脏细胞与每个心脏部分的主导节拍相结合)。其中每个细胞都是一个激进的部分，受到其他细胞可变的相互作用的损害，所有这些都促成了这些细胞协调一致的有机“故事”。(2)通过先锋派电影理论历史上的一个讽刺循环，布拉哈格在1993年提出了一个生理上的幻觉，为霍利斯·弗兰普顿(Hollis Frampton)曾经滑稽地称之为“布拉哈格定理”(Brakhage’s Theorem, 1972)的理论辩护——所有的电影都是叙事的。自20世纪50年代以来，布拉哈格的电影中断断续续地重复着《圣经》和《古典》中关于部落的故事，这些故事的构思更为狭隘。俄狄浦斯(通往阴影花园的路[1954])，下降到地下世界(死亡[1960]，但丁的冥河[1975])西奈神通(蓝色摩西[1962])，启示录(Oh Life, a Woe Story, The a Test News[1963])，创世纪(创造[1979])，堕落(伊甸机器[1970]，伊甸动物和之后[1970])，以赛亚的视觉(和平王国[1971])，来世和俄耳甫斯(但丁四重谈[1987])，和柏拉图的洞穴寓言(冥想中的视觉#3)[1987])。在《创造》(1979)中，他记录了他在完成《真诚/口是心非》系列期间对阿拉斯加冰川的访问。这个由巨大的冰和伤痕累累的岩石组成的世界的崇高景象的直接灵感来自19世纪美国风景画家弗雷德里克·埃德温·丘奇(Frederic Edwin Church)的艺术作品，布拉哈格研究了丘奇的作品十多年。在丘奇冰山画的背后，有着丰富的绘画和文学传统，卡斯帕·大卫·弗里德里希的北极场景和爱伦·坡的南极幻想在他的结语《阿瑟·戈登·皮姆的叙述》中得到了突出体现。大卫·亨廷顿(David Huntington)呼吁丘奇的作品为他的艺术提供精神背景:我们在1857年的《蜡笔》(the Crayon)中读到，艺术家应该把事物“恢复到创造时的样子”。或者，在同一份杂志的另一页上，他应该描绘“被救赎的世界的形象”。．..
{"title":"Tales of the Tribes","authors":"P. A. Sitney","doi":"10.2307/25304809","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304809","url":null,"abstract":"Introducing Andrei Tarkovsky to an audience at the 1983 Telluride Film Festival, Stan Brakhage declared: I personally think that the three greatest tasks for film in the 20th century are 1) To make the epic, that is, to tell the tales of the tribes of the world. 2) To keep it personal, because only in the eccentricities of our personal lives do we have any chance at the truth. 3) To do the dream work, that is to illuminate the borders of the unconscious. (1) Although he praised Tarkovsky as \"the greatest living narrative film maker\" and the only one who \"does all these three things equally in every film he makes,\" Brakhage seems to have been acclaiming Tarkovsky for independently replicating his own agenda, most obviously in the requirements for personal filmmaking and explorations of \"the dream work.\" In the nearly twenty years since he made that introduction, Brakhage has accelerated his own version of affirming the \"tales of the tribe\": Anazazi Indians, Dante, Marlowe, Goethe, Novalis, Stephen Foster, D. H. Lawrence, Plato, Rilke, Mann, and Stein have been evoked in the titles and themes of various films. An even more revelatory catachresis of the words \"telling\" and \"tales\"--implicitly acknowledged by Brakhage's use of quotation marks--appeared in a theoretical text of 1993: Some ur-consciousness also then must be inferred--each cell both shaper and carrier of every spark struck from and through it, affected by each impulse-backlash and in synaptical montage with each previous and following impulse: the whole organism feeding its varieties-of-fire into this interplay between brain and eye, as finally each cell of the foetal body can be intuited to be \"telling\" its \"story\" interactive with every other cell's story throughout the developing body, over-ridden by some entirety of rhythming light (as every individual heart-cell is conjoined to the dominating beat of each heart-part's over-riding beat) in the conglomerate rhythm of the whole heat-light of any given organ...of which each cell is a radical part compromised by every other cell's variable interaction, all contributory to the organic \"tales\" of these cells in concert. (2) Through an ironic loop in the history of avant-garde film theory, here Brakhage offers, in 1993, a physiological phantasmagoria in justification of what Hollis Frampton once facetiously called \"Brakhage's Theorem\" (1972)--that all films are narrative. More narrowly conceived, the Biblical and Classical tales of the tribes have been elliptically retold in Brakhage's films, off and on, since the 1950s: Oedipus (The Way to Shadow Garden [1954]), The Descent to the Underworld (The Dead [1960], Dante's Styx [1975]) The Sinai theophany (Blue Moses [1962]), Apocalypse (Oh Life, a Woe Story, The A Test News [1963]), Genesis (Creation [1979]), The Fall (The Machine of Eden [1970], The Animals of Eden and After [1970]), The Vision of Isaiah (The Peaceable Kingdom [1971]), The Afterlife and Orpheus (The Dante Quartet [1987]), and","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"47 1","pages":"97"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2001-12-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304809","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013253","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}
Mixed lineage kinase 3 (MLK3) is a serine/threonine protein kinase that functions as a mitogen-activated protein kinase kinase kinase to activate the c-Jun NH(2)-terminal kinase pathway. MLK3 has also been implicated as an I kappa B kinase kinase in the activation of NF-kappa B. Amino-terminal to its catalytic domain, MLK3 contains a Src homology 3 (SH3) domain. SH3 domains harbor three highly conserved aromatic amino acids that are important for ligand binding. In this study, we mutated one of these corresponding residues within MLK3 to deliberately disrupt the function of its SH3 domain. This SH3-defective mutant of MLK3 exhibited increased catalytic activity compared with wild type MLK3 suggesting that the SH3 domain negatively regulates MLK3 activity. We report herein that the SH3 domain of MLK3 interacts with full-length MLK3, and we have mapped the site of interaction to a region between the zipper and the Cdc42/Rac interactive binding motif. Interestingly, the SH3-binding region contains not a proline-rich sequence but, rather, a single proline residue. Mutation of this sole proline abrogates SH3 binding and increases MLK3 catalytic activity. Taken together, these data demonstrate that MLK3 is autoinhibited through its SH3 domain. The critical proline residue in the SH3-binding site of MLK3 is conserved in the closely related family members, MLK1 and MLK2, suggesting a common autoinhibitory mechanism among these kinases. Our study has revealed the first example of SH3 domain-mediated autoinhibition of a serine/threonine kinase and provides insight into the regulation of the mixed lineage family of protein kinases.
{"title":"Autoinhibition of mixed lineage kinase 3 through its Src homology 3 domain.","authors":"H Zhang, K A Gallo","doi":"10.1074/jbc.M107176200","DOIUrl":"10.1074/jbc.M107176200","url":null,"abstract":"<p><p>Mixed lineage kinase 3 (MLK3) is a serine/threonine protein kinase that functions as a mitogen-activated protein kinase kinase kinase to activate the c-Jun NH(2)-terminal kinase pathway. MLK3 has also been implicated as an I kappa B kinase kinase in the activation of NF-kappa B. Amino-terminal to its catalytic domain, MLK3 contains a Src homology 3 (SH3) domain. SH3 domains harbor three highly conserved aromatic amino acids that are important for ligand binding. In this study, we mutated one of these corresponding residues within MLK3 to deliberately disrupt the function of its SH3 domain. This SH3-defective mutant of MLK3 exhibited increased catalytic activity compared with wild type MLK3 suggesting that the SH3 domain negatively regulates MLK3 activity. We report herein that the SH3 domain of MLK3 interacts with full-length MLK3, and we have mapped the site of interaction to a region between the zipper and the Cdc42/Rac interactive binding motif. Interestingly, the SH3-binding region contains not a proline-rich sequence but, rather, a single proline residue. Mutation of this sole proline abrogates SH3 binding and increases MLK3 catalytic activity. Taken together, these data demonstrate that MLK3 is autoinhibited through its SH3 domain. The critical proline residue in the SH3-binding site of MLK3 is conserved in the closely related family members, MLK1 and MLK2, suggesting a common autoinhibitory mechanism among these kinases. Our study has revealed the first example of SH3 domain-mediated autoinhibition of a serine/threonine kinase and provides insight into the regulation of the mixed lineage family of protein kinases.</p>","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"40 1","pages":"45598-603"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2001-12-07","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.1074/jbc.M107176200","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"91015017","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":"The Precision We Need Is of Another Earth","authors":"Sarah Manguso","doi":"10.2307/25304780","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304780","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"47 1","pages":"94"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2001-10-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304780","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013535","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}
She was alone, in the passenger's seat, with the windows up, her face screened behind a manila folder spread open like a newspaper. Her station wagon was dark and foreign, running in one low arc from bumper to bumper. The tires were wide with a low profile. Epaulettes and effects of polished aluminum decorated the fenders and doors. The interior was like shade: neither blue nor black. Clarke became nervous at the door of her car. When he rapped on the window, she shook the folder in irritation. Her husband wasn't standing by the filling pumps or in the hard plastic chairs of the cramped waiting room. Clarke rapped again. The folder remained raised. He said, "I'll drive your car into the shop for your test. But I need your consent." "Yes." Before gripping the door handle, Clarke donned latex gloves from the breast pocket of his coveralls. The console signaled and sounded when he opened the door. As he placed paper gaskets on the seat and floorboards, she spoke, "Do I have to get out?" "No." It was twenty after four. The station wagon was sitting sleek in the garage. It was the last car of the day. He could stretch out the inspection until five. Clarke stopped around the back of the station to smoke. He squatted with his back against the building; his coveralls bunched at the waist and clutched the knees. He was short and narrow with closely cropped hair above a brown, unruly beard. Sunglasses with polarized lenses straddled the crown of his head. Slunk beneath a long, garrisoning line of eucalyptus trees, the filling station served both Ostler's Valley and Kettle City. To one side, the huddled shops of Ostler's Valley, including a grocery. Then the road swayed, ascending into the close, wooded hills, the houses and parochial school stationed in the redwood and acacia groves. The windows of Ostler's Valley reflected the spread of flat ground-beyond the gas station-that supported Kettle City. In the distance, the fog dumped onto its long, drab apartment buildings. Their flesh-toned walls appeared tawny beneath dark, tarred roofs. Closer, the public school was just getting the hoary wisps. The adjacent sanitation depot was still in sunshine. Then, a quarter mile of thin two-lane road split a run of open earth and gave access back to the gas station, Clarke against the back wall. The brief back lot was spread with eucalyptus leaves, some blackened in spots of spilled lubricants or fuels. The trees above were limber in the wind. He keyed up the computer and slipped the sniffer-sensor into the tailpipe. He entered the car, leaving one boot on the ground. He turned: hair tightly fixed to her head, gray eyes, no earrings, evenly-- tanned skin that was dark about the knees and elbows. He tried to start it. Nothing. He checked the gearshift. He tried it again. He removed the key and reinserted it. As he started to exit the car, she laughed. "The door has to be shut for it to start." Clarke, further flushed, felt himself forcing the easy action of the igniti
{"title":"Deal Me Jacks or Better","authors":"J. Kudritzki","doi":"10.2307/25304785","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304785","url":null,"abstract":"She was alone, in the passenger's seat, with the windows up, her face screened behind a manila folder spread open like a newspaper. Her station wagon was dark and foreign, running in one low arc from bumper to bumper. The tires were wide with a low profile. Epaulettes and effects of polished aluminum decorated the fenders and doors. The interior was like shade: neither blue nor black. Clarke became nervous at the door of her car. When he rapped on the window, she shook the folder in irritation. Her husband wasn't standing by the filling pumps or in the hard plastic chairs of the cramped waiting room. Clarke rapped again. The folder remained raised. He said, \"I'll drive your car into the shop for your test. But I need your consent.\" \"Yes.\" Before gripping the door handle, Clarke donned latex gloves from the breast pocket of his coveralls. The console signaled and sounded when he opened the door. As he placed paper gaskets on the seat and floorboards, she spoke, \"Do I have to get out?\" \"No.\" It was twenty after four. The station wagon was sitting sleek in the garage. It was the last car of the day. He could stretch out the inspection until five. Clarke stopped around the back of the station to smoke. He squatted with his back against the building; his coveralls bunched at the waist and clutched the knees. He was short and narrow with closely cropped hair above a brown, unruly beard. Sunglasses with polarized lenses straddled the crown of his head. Slunk beneath a long, garrisoning line of eucalyptus trees, the filling station served both Ostler's Valley and Kettle City. To one side, the huddled shops of Ostler's Valley, including a grocery. Then the road swayed, ascending into the close, wooded hills, the houses and parochial school stationed in the redwood and acacia groves. The windows of Ostler's Valley reflected the spread of flat ground-beyond the gas station-that supported Kettle City. In the distance, the fog dumped onto its long, drab apartment buildings. Their flesh-toned walls appeared tawny beneath dark, tarred roofs. Closer, the public school was just getting the hoary wisps. The adjacent sanitation depot was still in sunshine. Then, a quarter mile of thin two-lane road split a run of open earth and gave access back to the gas station, Clarke against the back wall. The brief back lot was spread with eucalyptus leaves, some blackened in spots of spilled lubricants or fuels. The trees above were limber in the wind. He keyed up the computer and slipped the sniffer-sensor into the tailpipe. He entered the car, leaving one boot on the ground. He turned: hair tightly fixed to her head, gray eyes, no earrings, evenly-- tanned skin that was dark about the knees and elbows. He tried to start it. Nothing. He checked the gearshift. He tried it again. He removed the key and reinserted it. As he started to exit the car, she laughed. \"The door has to be shut for it to start.\" Clarke, further flushed, felt himself forcing the easy action of the igniti","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"47 1","pages":"114"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2001-10-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304785","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013591","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}
Barbara Guest. Rocks on a Platter: Notes on Literature. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1999. Rocks on a Platter contains some of Barbara Guest's most obscure and compelling lines since Defensive Rapture (1993). It has been interpreted by other reviewers as one long poem that examines the "implacable poet" as subject and vector in the process of creative production. While that may be the case, these poems are also literally "notes" on literature, as its subtitle suggests. The book can be seen as Guest's own jottings in response to her inspiring and eclectic research, with texts dissected and arranged to become poetic objects resonating as in a still-life painting. Guest was one of the central members of the New York School, though David Lehman (in The Last Avant-Garde) omits her in favor of an unnecessarily reductive, masculine view of the group. It could be argued that Guest's work, and perhaps Guest herself, is more radically individual, and less easily summarized. Canonical practices have typically excluded such writers in favor of more homogenous categorization. While this tendency has long been under critical scrutiny, the practice of dropping particularly influential, but often more clairvoyant poets from critical schema persists (see, for instance Alan Kaufman's omission of Edward Dorn and his connections to Black Mountain and the Beats from The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry). But what critics fail to recognize or like to forget is how different kinds of poets still speak to each other, still have friendships and discussions that are crucial to artistic germination whether or not they share the same aesthetics. The best poetry demonstrates this kind of complex engagement with different kinds of poetry and with a greater, interdisciplinary community. Most recently, Guest's work has been noted as one of the foundational influences for what could be considered a feminist "wing" of postL=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets such as Kathleen Fraser, Brenda Hillman, Meimei Berssenbrugge, Lisa Jarnot, Juliana Spahr, and Jena Osman. Intrinsic to the New York School's poetics was a fundamental crossfertilization with the visual arts. Painters such as Motherwell, Freilicher, and Rivers were just a few of those whose work and ideas coalesced with those of the poets. Frank O'Hara worked at MOMA and Ashbery worked as an art critic, as did Guest. Her own work often achieves a kind of poetic equivalent to Abstract Expressionism, forcing the literary critic to work with the vocabulary of the art critic: abstraction replaces representation, patina replaces simple imagery, chiaroscuro, diction. Her poetry reveals a primacy of page as "canvas" that draws from modernist sources, yet achieves a texture which is distinctly postmodern in its absence of a central, controlling ego. That Guest is the artist of the collage on the cover of Rocks on a Platter confirms that her close relationship to the visual arts and to artists is one of the fertile resources of her w
芭芭拉客人。盘子上的石头:文学笔记。汉诺威，新罕布什尔州:新英格兰大学出版社，1999年。《盘上的岩石》包含了自1993年《防御性狂喜》(Defensive Rapture)以来芭芭拉·盖斯特最晦涩和最引人注目的台词。其他评论家将其解释为一首长诗，它将“不可调和的诗人”作为创作过程中的主体和载体进行了考察。虽然这可能是事实，但正如其副标题所暗示的那样，这些诗也确实是文学的“笔记”。这本书可以看作是盖斯特自己对她鼓舞人心和不拘一格的研究的回应，对文本进行了剖析和安排，成为诗意的对象，就像一幅静物画一样引起共鸣。Guest是纽约学派的核心成员之一，尽管David Lehman(在《最后的先锋派》中)省略了她，以一种不必要的简化，男性化的观点来看待这个群体。可以说，盖斯特的作品，或许还有盖斯特自己的作品，是更激进的个人作品，不太容易概括。规范实践通常会排除这样的作者，以支持更同质的分类。虽然这种倾向长期以来一直受到批评的审视，但将特别有影响力但往往更有洞察力的诗人从批评模式中剔除的做法仍然存在(例如，参见艾伦·考夫曼在《美国诗歌的非法圣经》中遗漏了爱德华·多恩及其与布莱克山和垮掉的一代的联系)。但是评论家们没有意识到或者是想要忘记的是，不同类型的诗人仍然会彼此交谈，仍然会有友谊和讨论，这对艺术的萌芽至关重要，无论他们是否拥有相同的美学。最好的诗歌展示了这种与不同类型的诗歌和更大的跨学科社区的复杂接触。最近，Guest的作品被认为是后l = a =N=G=U= a =G=E诗人的女权主义“翼”的基础影响之一，如Kathleen Fraser, Brenda Hillman, Meimei Berssenbrugge, Lisa Jarnot, Juliana Spahr和Jena Osman。纽约学派诗学的本质是与视觉艺术的基本交叉施肥。马瑟韦尔、弗莱利歇尔和里弗斯等画家的作品和思想与诗人的作品和思想融合在一起。弗兰克·奥哈拉在现代艺术博物馆工作，阿什伯里是一名艺术评论家，盖斯特也是。她自己的作品经常达到一种与抽象表现主义相对应的诗意，迫使文学评论家使用艺术评论家的词汇:抽象取代了表现，铜绿取代了简单的意象，明暗对比，措辞。她的诗歌揭示了页面作为“画布”的首要地位，从现代主义的来源中汲取灵感，但在缺乏中心、控制自我的情况下，实现了一种明显的后现代质感。Guest是《Rocks on a Platter》封面上拼贴画的艺术家，这证实了她与视觉艺术和艺术家的密切关系是她作品的丰富资源之一。拼贴画由几个微妙的纹理表面组成，几乎无法区分灰色、黑色、白色和米色的色调。拼贴画，就像诗歌一样，似乎是由影子、水和沙子组成的，就像纸一样。这里的位置就像沉重的岩石一样充满了意义。这个封面唤起了“自然”雕塑:自然“放置”在一个创造的表面上。《盘上的岩石》关注的是自然和自然世界，从“表象世界的浮物”到“潮湿的泥土”。从这些“笔记”中浮现出的一个愿景是，自然世界是元素和对象，是力量和“生命”，是有生命的和无生命的。陆地既是船的命运或征服，也是语言的极限，“地面”是地球和页面:这本书从地球含水的开端开始，“由/排版设定的梦想”就像一艘在浩瀚大海中的船。．..
{"title":"Rocks on a Platter: Notes on Literature","authors":"Catherine L. Kasper, Barbara H Guest","doi":"10.2307/25304789","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304789","url":null,"abstract":"Barbara Guest. Rocks on a Platter: Notes on Literature. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1999. Rocks on a Platter contains some of Barbara Guest's most obscure and compelling lines since Defensive Rapture (1993). It has been interpreted by other reviewers as one long poem that examines the \"implacable poet\" as subject and vector in the process of creative production. While that may be the case, these poems are also literally \"notes\" on literature, as its subtitle suggests. The book can be seen as Guest's own jottings in response to her inspiring and eclectic research, with texts dissected and arranged to become poetic objects resonating as in a still-life painting. Guest was one of the central members of the New York School, though David Lehman (in The Last Avant-Garde) omits her in favor of an unnecessarily reductive, masculine view of the group. It could be argued that Guest's work, and perhaps Guest herself, is more radically individual, and less easily summarized. Canonical practices have typically excluded such writers in favor of more homogenous categorization. While this tendency has long been under critical scrutiny, the practice of dropping particularly influential, but often more clairvoyant poets from critical schema persists (see, for instance Alan Kaufman's omission of Edward Dorn and his connections to Black Mountain and the Beats from The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry). But what critics fail to recognize or like to forget is how different kinds of poets still speak to each other, still have friendships and discussions that are crucial to artistic germination whether or not they share the same aesthetics. The best poetry demonstrates this kind of complex engagement with different kinds of poetry and with a greater, interdisciplinary community. Most recently, Guest's work has been noted as one of the foundational influences for what could be considered a feminist \"wing\" of postL=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets such as Kathleen Fraser, Brenda Hillman, Meimei Berssenbrugge, Lisa Jarnot, Juliana Spahr, and Jena Osman. Intrinsic to the New York School's poetics was a fundamental crossfertilization with the visual arts. Painters such as Motherwell, Freilicher, and Rivers were just a few of those whose work and ideas coalesced with those of the poets. Frank O'Hara worked at MOMA and Ashbery worked as an art critic, as did Guest. Her own work often achieves a kind of poetic equivalent to Abstract Expressionism, forcing the literary critic to work with the vocabulary of the art critic: abstraction replaces representation, patina replaces simple imagery, chiaroscuro, diction. Her poetry reveals a primacy of page as \"canvas\" that draws from modernist sources, yet achieves a texture which is distinctly postmodern in its absence of a central, controlling ego. That Guest is the artist of the collage on the cover of Rocks on a Platter confirms that her close relationship to the visual arts and to artists is one of the fertile resources of her w","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"47 1","pages":"145"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2001-10-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304789","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013597","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}
I know where I'm going I just don't have the address. Here's the key. Take the car and drive to the end of the block. Do you want me to shoot someone or build you a house? Aromatic wood was burning in the cast iron brazier by the side of the pool. He ran in and out of the shadows for almost a mile then gave up and jumped on a bus. I feel like some music. Does the radio work? I'm going to smoke a cigarette. Never mind where we're going. Just keep your eyes on the road. They cut him good and deep. Just below the ribs on his left side. When he smiled a line of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. Behind the door a small audience was applauding the recitation of an old song. He ran his fingers through the thick blonde hair on the back of his head. Where was the melody? He didn't want to keep his friends waiting any longer. Thick smoke rises into the veil of lavender that lingers from the previous fire. A ghost and an angel define the shadows by dancing along the cracks in the ceiling. The tricks of the trade for the names of the streets. A failed substitution. Private details of a discarded world. I recognize the proof in the dissolve. Palimpsest- written between January 26th and March 16th. Letters: composed between March 16th and April 21 st. Codicil: translated with J. on April 25th. The 31 Sequels: begun on April 26th. Plan for Pond 4: translated with J. on April 30th. The complexity built from something more to add to the lion's mouth. [May 2nd] 1, 2,4,5, 6 ... they forgot Wednesday. But the calendar makers were shrewd. By also omitting the following Saturday the month realized its proper resolution. Two omissions = 1 heads blindly for 31. Made to be a loss and then another made right. Ptolemy, Copernicus, Kepler and Galileo. The gloom still clings to the approaching light that fills the missing days. The continuous. The metropolitan. The first letter to the second letter and on to the last letter. T to H. From H to T The days, weeks, months pass. T to H. From T to H. Second initiative, second front. Before the E eleven people are engulfed by the snow never to be seen again. You alone survive. Arriving here with me. Distikhos. Beeswing. Reverie is the second codicil and the fifth project. Died back into the provided page. Countenance shuffled. Pared away. Orogeny (the last word of the evening): a walk in the woods, a blank sheet of paper, swollen ankles, Mozart and a glass of wine. …
{"title":"Pine Box [Vamped]","authors":"Ray Di Palma","doi":"10.2307/25304778","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304778","url":null,"abstract":"I know where I'm going I just don't have the address. Here's the key. Take the car and drive to the end of the block. Do you want me to shoot someone or build you a house? Aromatic wood was burning in the cast iron brazier by the side of the pool. He ran in and out of the shadows for almost a mile then gave up and jumped on a bus. I feel like some music. Does the radio work? I'm going to smoke a cigarette. Never mind where we're going. Just keep your eyes on the road. They cut him good and deep. Just below the ribs on his left side. When he smiled a line of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. Behind the door a small audience was applauding the recitation of an old song. He ran his fingers through the thick blonde hair on the back of his head. Where was the melody? He didn't want to keep his friends waiting any longer. Thick smoke rises into the veil of lavender that lingers from the previous fire. A ghost and an angel define the shadows by dancing along the cracks in the ceiling. The tricks of the trade for the names of the streets. A failed substitution. Private details of a discarded world. I recognize the proof in the dissolve. Palimpsest- written between January 26th and March 16th. Letters: composed between March 16th and April 21 st. Codicil: translated with J. on April 25th. The 31 Sequels: begun on April 26th. Plan for Pond 4: translated with J. on April 30th. The complexity built from something more to add to the lion's mouth. [May 2nd] 1, 2,4,5, 6 ... they forgot Wednesday. But the calendar makers were shrewd. By also omitting the following Saturday the month realized its proper resolution. Two omissions = 1 heads blindly for 31. Made to be a loss and then another made right. Ptolemy, Copernicus, Kepler and Galileo. The gloom still clings to the approaching light that fills the missing days. The continuous. The metropolitan. The first letter to the second letter and on to the last letter. T to H. From H to T The days, weeks, months pass. T to H. From T to H. Second initiative, second front. Before the E eleven people are engulfed by the snow never to be seen again. You alone survive. Arriving here with me. Distikhos. Beeswing. Reverie is the second codicil and the fifth project. Died back into the provided page. Countenance shuffled. Pared away. Orogeny (the last word of the evening): a walk in the woods, a blank sheet of paper, swollen ankles, Mozart and a glass of wine. …","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"19 1","pages":"89"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2001-10-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304778","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013524","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}
1 Out of droning Bayonne at five, sun silhouetting a Buddha on the city's one shrine. We had fashioned a mast for our hull from a stout pine that we felled and lopped in the dark, amid much blasphemy. By lantern light we saw what some nimble climber had long ago carved in its fork, "I before he except after she"-weird words leading to argument over what they might portend. Once the mast was stepped and braced with stays, we raised our sails with halyards we had braided out of rawhide. There is a tear in the leech of our mainsail. We glided down the river between zones of industrial waste. Only a few indifferent gulls watched us leave. It is after all a poor, deserted place. Tiers of mussels ringed the pilings of abandoned wharves in the lowering tide. There is an inexplicable tear in the leech of the mainsail. We were bound for home-a home that we had forgotten or never seen. 2 Standing away north from the coast, the wind sitting east-northeast, a harsh quarter-we could do nothing but drive, scudding away as we bore against it, mast sloping, bow dipping. We had no true officers but encouraged each other to stand to the tackle, stretch on the oars, contract the luffing sails, everything a struggle, with the sea swirling and hawling inboard, in a shrilling of stays and halyards. We forgot the new old world we longed for. We had taken a priest named Dory on board; he now passed among us, intoning the opening words of the fifty-first psalm and raising crossed sticks over each of us as he did so in a kind of infernal blessing. Such a handsome man, young, light-hearted, not a drowning mark on him, master of men and of women, too! He was to enrapture all our loveliest in turn. Even now, in those endragoned seas, he took Dominique into the dark below the leaking cabin decking. At one moment the waves rose from such a depth I saw the floor of the sea: lobsters five feet long and scurrying crabs with glowing eyes. Later, the sky seemed boundless, full of fierce stars. 3 We drifted into a stinking fog, thick with what felt like soot. The killersqualls had passed on-one man and a boy washed overboard. The mainsail was tattered; half the snap hooks on the jib would not close; all our circuits were broken. The sails for now were of no use anyway: not a breath of wind. We worked hard at our oars though with heavy hearts, like men going to execution. (It seems our sweat made the ladies hot-it was Gloria's impatient turn with Dory today.) The water felt thick with ooze, with something like clay. We dreaded running aground in the dark. Next to the steersman, whose face gleamed white by his lamp, a woman sat holding a frond wetted with vinegar, to slap him in case he nodded off. I looked up once and there stood the cook in his greasy girdle, not a sign of care on his filthy-bearded face as he shucked a bucket of mussels, tossing shells over our heads into the sad water. The place and time of our embarcation were already beyond any wish to remember them. 4 Was there
{"title":"Journeys to Six Lands","authors":"H. Mathews","doi":"10.2307/25304762","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304762","url":null,"abstract":"1 Out of droning Bayonne at five, sun silhouetting a Buddha on the city's one shrine. We had fashioned a mast for our hull from a stout pine that we felled and lopped in the dark, amid much blasphemy. By lantern light we saw what some nimble climber had long ago carved in its fork, \"I before he except after she\"-weird words leading to argument over what they might portend. Once the mast was stepped and braced with stays, we raised our sails with halyards we had braided out of rawhide. There is a tear in the leech of our mainsail. We glided down the river between zones of industrial waste. Only a few indifferent gulls watched us leave. It is after all a poor, deserted place. Tiers of mussels ringed the pilings of abandoned wharves in the lowering tide. There is an inexplicable tear in the leech of the mainsail. We were bound for home-a home that we had forgotten or never seen. 2 Standing away north from the coast, the wind sitting east-northeast, a harsh quarter-we could do nothing but drive, scudding away as we bore against it, mast sloping, bow dipping. We had no true officers but encouraged each other to stand to the tackle, stretch on the oars, contract the luffing sails, everything a struggle, with the sea swirling and hawling inboard, in a shrilling of stays and halyards. We forgot the new old world we longed for. We had taken a priest named Dory on board; he now passed among us, intoning the opening words of the fifty-first psalm and raising crossed sticks over each of us as he did so in a kind of infernal blessing. Such a handsome man, young, light-hearted, not a drowning mark on him, master of men and of women, too! He was to enrapture all our loveliest in turn. Even now, in those endragoned seas, he took Dominique into the dark below the leaking cabin decking. At one moment the waves rose from such a depth I saw the floor of the sea: lobsters five feet long and scurrying crabs with glowing eyes. Later, the sky seemed boundless, full of fierce stars. 3 We drifted into a stinking fog, thick with what felt like soot. The killersqualls had passed on-one man and a boy washed overboard. The mainsail was tattered; half the snap hooks on the jib would not close; all our circuits were broken. The sails for now were of no use anyway: not a breath of wind. We worked hard at our oars though with heavy hearts, like men going to execution. (It seems our sweat made the ladies hot-it was Gloria's impatient turn with Dory today.) The water felt thick with ooze, with something like clay. We dreaded running aground in the dark. Next to the steersman, whose face gleamed white by his lamp, a woman sat holding a frond wetted with vinegar, to slap him in case he nodded off. I looked up once and there stood the cook in his greasy girdle, not a sign of care on his filthy-bearded face as he shucked a bucket of mussels, tossing shells over our heads into the sad water. The place and time of our embarcation were already beyond any wish to remember them. 4 Was there","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"47 1","pages":"5"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2001-10-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304762","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013323","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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