LostPiece: Volume 2 Issue 1: Endures All Things

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LOST PIECE
an undergraduate journal of letters
VOLUME II, ISSUE I

Endures All Things
LOST PIECE: Volume II - Issue I
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© Copyright, Lost Piece; All rights reserved.
No part of this journal may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, record-
ing, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the
written permission of the Editor–In–Chief except in the case of brief
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in this journal are printed with explicit permission of their authors.
Lost Piece: An Undergraduate Journal of Letters

The University of Notre Dame
Center for Undergraduate Scholarly Engagement
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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LOST PIECE
VOLUME II, ISSUE I

Endures All Things
B
Editor-in-Chief
Stephen Lechner
Editors
Raymond Korson
Josef Kuhn
Conor Rogers
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Something of a Mission Statement

From the Editors
Lost Piece exists to facilitate undergraduate reading, discussion,

and writing of an intellectual nature beyond course curriculum
and without distraction from the grade point average.
Lost Piece seeks to help undergraduates to complement

and even unify what they learn in their classes with
their own personally driven intellectual pursuits.
The goal of Lost Piece is to combat mediocrity in all

things, and particularly in all things intellectual.
Lost Piece holds that the goods proper to intellec-

tual activity are ends in and of themselves and are to
be sought regardless of whatever recognitions may or
may not be extrinsically attached to such activity.
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Table of Contents
Lost Piece: Volume II, Issue I
Something of a Mission Statement

From the Editors ..........................................................................4
Meet the Writers
Lost Piece ......................................................................................7
Love and Meaning
Stephen Lechner ............................................................................9
A Hue
Taylor Nutter ................................................................................15
Chances
Erin Cain .....................................................................................17
To Throw the Book
Josef Kuhn .....................................................................................33
Why Do You Love?
James Schmidt ...............................................................................35
Rosa
Heart of Clay
Christina Mastrucci ......................................................................43
Praying For One’s Future Spouse
Eva Oenchi ...................................................................................45
A Feasible Slip Out of the Plane into the Abyss
Sara McGuirk ...............................................................................49
Dreams of Diana
John Ashley....................................................................................53
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From the Editors
The editors of Lost Piece offer their apologies for the

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

These groups have contributed The Program of
to the writing of the Fall 2010 Liberal Studies:
Edition of Lost Piece. We So it turns out that PLS
encourage you, as an undergrad- students don’t only like to talk
uate, to contribute your writing about such trivial things as
to future editions whether indi- “free will” or “the meaning of
vidually or as part of any such life” as approached through
intellectual society. You can the lens of certain Great
send your writing and feedback Books, but they also like,
to the editor at slechner@nd.edu. even need, to engage ideas
wherever they can find them.
That’s why a few of them got
together to watch movies every
week, first as a social event
and later more as a discussion
group. They like to think they
are staying true to the spirit
of the word “seminar” (which
C
literally means “seedbed”) by
holding profound conversa-
tions on their own from which
they hope to bear the fruits of
new ideas, serious dialogue,
and lasting friendships.
Istum:
(Also called That Thing) Three
years ago, a group of friends
decided to get together every
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weekend to start a literary T:

society. Its members include T is a group of undergradu-
students from the Colleges of ates who meet together to
Arts and Letters, Science, and discuss issues of importance,
Engineering, but strangely ranging from theology to
none from the college of philosophy to current issues
Business. They write, simply in any and all fields. It is a
put, despite the obvious fact casually structured, socially
that they are only tyro writ- engaging event that welcomes
ers, and they criticize each the opportunity to find both
other’s writing as best they common ground and a mul-
can. One of their goals is to titude of opinions on topics.
bring back the essay (which And they drink tea, too.
literally means “an attempt”)
as a form of writing and as The Orestes Brownson Council:
a rhetorical work of art. The As a club, OBC is focused
group takes its name from on better understanding the
one of Cicero’s orations. Catholic intellectual tradi-
tion and its interaction with
The Philosophy Club: philosophy, politics, and
The Philosophy Club is culture. It takes its name
a group of a few dozen from the American Catholic
undergraduates who enjoy political thinker who is
arguing, using big words, buried in the crypt of the
attempting to answer “life’s Basilica of the Sacred Heart,
great questions,” asking more Orestes Brownson. R
questions, and arguing.
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Love and Meaning

An Introduction
Stephen Lechner perhaps more than any other in
Class of 2011
Editor-in-Chief the English language, is neces-
sarily reduced to the limited
Human beings are ridiculous understanding of its user—is the
creatures—in fact, they are the response of the human being to
ridiculous creatures; a more ri- that which he or she perceives
diculous creature probably could to have meaning.1 And this is
not exist. Why? Simple, really: another simple idea, really; it
human beings are the only should not be difficult either to
creatures that need meaning— understand or to swallow. All
as far as other creatures are I’m saying is that we love only
concerned, it is as Robert Bolt’s 1 One can find this idea very roughly
in the first book of St. Augustine’s
Sir Thomas More said to his Confessions. More precisely, love is
daughter, “[God] made animals the proper response to that which is
for innocence and plants for ultimately meaningful, i.e. God, who
their simplicity.”i Human beings in fact is that which defines meaning.
alone are left out to dry in a Also, you will have noticed that this
world that they can know either definition of love strictly concerns
human beings and not any other
as mysterious—in which case animal. This is because love, if it is
they can have hope of finding what here I say it is, is something that
meaning beyond themselves— only human beings can do—because
they alone (to our knowledge) can
or as empty—in which case perceive meaning. Other animals,
they must try to invent their in fact, do other things that are
own meaning having despaired analogous to love, but insofar as their
analogous things (affection, caring,
of its existence otherwise. etc…) are not defined by a search
And this is where love for meaning, they are not love. If
becomes important. Love—a someday someone finds that there ex-
ists another animal that can perceive
difficult thing to talk about be- meaning, then it too, or rather he
cause the meaning of the word, or she too will be capable of love.
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love that which matters to us insofar as it is being considered

in the utmost, that something relative to oneself and one’s
matters to us in the utmost own existence. By loving
only when we love it, and something or someone, one is
that, as circular as it might in effect saying “this thing or
seem to say it, this is the case person is relevant to my life and
because it is definitionally my existence,” and the more
true of the word “love.” one loves a thing or person,
At this point, “love” should the more emphatic one’s claim
sound a lot like “value”—and that the loved thing or person
for good reason. After all, is relevant to oneself. This
there is an important (and at affirmation is at least part of
times distressful) ambiguity in what will satisfy what I have
human relationships that makes taken to be the uniquely human
the ol’ second grade “like-love” requisite: meaning; whether or
distinction very necessary. The not it will satisfy that requisite
fact is that loving is itself an act in full depends on a lot. It is,
of evaluation, just of the highest after all, an uplifting thing to
degree—an existential degree.2 have one’s relevance affirmed.
It is an evaluation of a thing Were one not relevant to
or person as being relevant to anything, I don’t know if such
oneself, to one’s very existence. a person could live, though
Insofar as loving is an act of until one’s relevance is made
evaluation of the relevance of a
thing or person to oneself, it is 2 And does anyone in their
right mind know what the word
also a recognition and affirma- “existential” means? I’m hoping
tion of the realness, the worth, it means something simple, like
the legitimacy, the meaning of “pertaining to existence,” but if
that’s what it means, then I’ve often
such a thing or person, at least heard the word grotesquely abused.
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eternal (however that might Thomas Cromwell back in 1534,

happen), I don’t suppose one’s assuming he was as villainous as
requisite will be fully satisfied. Robert Bolt’s depiction of him
But while it is pleasant and would suggest, someone might
even necessary to have one’s have degraded himself to be
relevance to something affirmed, the kind of person to whom a
as human beings are ridiculous deeply vicious person is relevant.
creatures love is also a peril- Worse still, perhaps, would be
ous endeavor. The trouble is for someone to love something
that loving is not only an act like money, thus making
of evaluation of some other oneself the kind of self to which
thing’s or person’s relevance to money as such is relevant.
oneself—it is as much an evalu- The great trouble is—as I
ation of oneself, which can be think you will see from what
either uplifting in its own right, the following writers have
or degrading. By loving some demonstrated in their own,
thing or person, one establishes sometimes terrifying ways—
what is relevant to one’s own that it is very difficult to know,
existence, and therefore defines and really know, just what or
oneself as being the kind of self who it is one is loving. This
to which that thing or person is 3 It is important, though perhaps
relevant.3 By loving Abraham not integral to this discussion, that
Lincoln back in 1862, assuming I think that love is something that
he was as virtuous as his divin- one ultimately chooses to do or
izing memorial would suggest, not do. Even if it means throwing
someone might have uplifted oneself on a bonfire when one’s lover
sails off to found Rome, one always
himself to be the kind of person
has the ability to choose whether to
to whom a highly virtuous per- love or not to love, no matter how
son is relevant. But by loving absent that ability might seem.
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is not true just of love—the another, easily deceived in our

world in general and everything notions of what things and
in it are difficult things to people are—and anyone who
understand, and people far more doubts this has not yet fallen
so than any thing—but perhaps madly in love with a horse.5
cases involving love of one As a point of closure, I’d like
kind or another are the cases to quote a lengthy and excel-
that demonstrate this difficulty lent letter that J.R.R. Tolkien
to us most clearly. One loves once wrote to his second son,
because one thinks one knows Michael. It’s perhaps not so
who or what they are loving, directly to the point, but in
at least enough to evaluate and it I think there can be found
affirm them of their relevance an appropriate response to
to one’s own existence.4 But the pessimistic suggestion
we are, for one reason or that I have just made.
“Only a very wise man at the end of his life could make a sound judge-
ment concerning whom, amongst the total possible chances, he ought
most profitably to have married! Nearly all marriages, even happy
ones, are mistakes: in the sense that almost certainly (in a more perfect
world…) both partners might have found more suitable mates. But
the ‘real soul-mate’ is the one you are actually married to. You really
4 And mind you, one’s own

existence is also something about
which one generally does not
know very much, yet one must and
does act as though one does…
5 Neither have I yet, but

the point still stands.
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do very little choosing: life and circumstances do most of it (though if

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

Vintage International of Random
House, New York, NY; 1990, pg. 126
ii Tolkien, J.R.R; The Letters

of Tolkien; Edit. Carpenter,
Humphrey & Tolkien, Christopher;
Allen & Unwin Ltd. Houghton
Mifflin Company, Boston,
MA; 1981, pages 51-52
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Contribute to Lost Piece
Please consider writing—whether essay, poem, story, or what-have-

you—for the Fall 2011 Semester of Lost Piece. Write what you
think is pertinent to the life of a student, whatever that might be…
…Pose a question…
…Or offer an answer…
…Write at whatever length you need…
…But write well.
Submit your work to Steve Lechner

at slechner@nd.edu by April 30th.
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A Hue
A Poem
Taylor Nutter
Class of 2014
Philosophy Major
I looked upon a starry gaze

A dark deep blue
Of which the stars are wished upon
Such a beautiful hue
But in the darkness it knew no dawn
Light it would refute
As in unknowing pleasure spawns
Our eternal dispute R
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Chances
A Story
Erin Cain I’d never admit it aloud, I’m too
Class of 2011
Architecture Major careful and paranoid to be able
to navigate the frenetic rush of
There’s something soothing New York City traffic; you’re
about riding on buses like this just reckless enough. We were
before sunrise. Sitting in the going to see West Side Story with
dark, the headlights passing your friends, the NYU grad
by without revealing the cars students—I don’t remember
they’re leading: just darkness their names. Mostly what I
and passing light. The feeling remember of that night is being
of leaving, the adrenaline rush, in the car with you. When we
the road spread out before me. left, the sun was just setting
I watch the billboards pass by, over the hills and farmland of
thinking of all the hassle and Somerset County, and we sang
uncertainty that has preceded aloud to Billy Joel in off-key
this moment, all the doctor’s voices, my tenor mixing with
appointments and phone calls your soprano. By the time we
and tests. For this moment at reached Jersey City, darkness
least, I am content to be alone had fallen and the Manhattan
with myself in the quiet, to skyline glittered in the distance.
spend this silent hour in the You told me that it reminded
darkness pressing forward you of the Lite Brite set you
through the sea of headlights. used to have as a little girl, that
But real contentment only you used to draw the outline
ever seems to last a moment. of the Empire State Building
I am thinking of you, of in little pinpoints of light. I’d
the time we drove this route let you ramble on about your
together last year—you were the childhood on Long Island, and
one doing the driving. Though when you’d finish you’d always
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twirl your hair absentmindedly ride to make me notice my life,

and smile at me. During those to make me reach out and try to
pauses I remember feeling my catch it as it rushes by, quicker
heartbeat speed up and wor- than the passing headlights.
rying that I might fall for you. As the first rays of morning
Looking back, I’m not sure if light begin to break through, I
it was your own appeal or my can make out the scenery of the
as-of-yet undiagnosed heart Meadowlands: heaps of garbage
condition that had this effect on disguised by marsh grasses, riv-
me. I’m starting to think that ers of unidentifiable sludge, fac-
there’s a fine line between love tories releasing billowing clouds
and pulmonary hypertension. of smoke into the morning air.
I look out the bus window. There is a message spray painted
The lights pass but don’t stay onto Snake Hill (the only real
long enough to really illuminate hill in the Meadowlands): “No
their surroundings. I like being graffiti allowed.” You’d laugh
forced to stop and sit in one at that. I begin to drift into
place like this, with nothing to sleep as the sun rises higher
do but sleep or look outside at above the electrical towers, its
the steady rhythm of passing soft, pink light gleaming in
lights, marking the speed at between the mossy garbage
which I am leaving everything hills and concrete overpasses.
behind. Time to think. I dream that all of the blue
Sometimes, it’s only at moments color is draining out of my
like this, careening down the left eye. I don’t notice that
highway in a bus full of sleeping it is slowly depleting until it
passengers, that I realize how is all gone, leaving my eye
little control I have over my own hollow and fragile. I keep my
life. Sometimes it takes a bus eyelid shut to hide the grotesque
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emptiness underneath, but the of feet as passengers elbow each

people around me can still tell other in their hurry to get out
that something is wrong. They and continue with their fast-
are all here watching me: my paced lives. I hear a cacophony
family, my professors, the old of sound: well-dressed execu-
friends from middle school tives checking their watches all
that I haven’t seen in years, my at once and muttering “Quarter
former teachers and professors, to eight” in an echoed chorus;
the cashier at my favorite bagel a child whining to his mother,
shop—seemingly everyone I begging to be held; a voice from
have ever known, and you. The the back bellowing, “Hurry it
blue matter that has escaped out up!” and the sound resonating
of my eye has carried my energy through the bus. I am caught
away with it, and I am now in the midst of the commotion,
weak and unwell. I sit in the pushed forward toward the
center of a circular room with door, and I stumble out into
white walls that gradually take the Port Authority station
on a blue tint, and eventually, and towards the light of day.
once my eye is devoid of its The dream has not fully worn
color, the walls that surround off as I set off toward Times
me have become a bright shade Square, and in my fuzzy state
of cobalt. As I begin to realize of mind I struggle to keep up
that this is what has really been with the crowd. The woman
plaguing me all along, this re- in front of me looks like my
lentless leaking of my iris, I am tenth grade history teacher, I
jolted awake: the bus has come think, but on closer inspection
to a stop. The encapsulated I see that her hair is not quite
stillness of the bus exists no gray enough and her frame not
more; there is a frantic shuffling quite tall enough to be Mrs.
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McCormick’s. Next I see a high school band director; a

man in a suit rush past me, construction worker resembles
his briefcase knocking against my college roommate; a hot
my leg. For a second I am sure dog vendor looks like my dad.
he is Andy Gray, the boy who I stop at an ATM on the cor-
grew up across the street from ner of 42nd Street and 7th Ave.,
me, but once I see his reflection and I wait behind a girl who
in the shop window I realize looks like you, with wavy blond
he’s not Andy. Only then do I hair reaching down her back.
remember that Andy is now a My breath catches at the sight,
mechanic back in New Jersey, and I nearly tap your shoulder
not a businessman in New York. to get your attention. But when
This hazy state of conscious- she quickly turns around to
ness, halfway between a dream leave, I see that this girl is not
and reality, is inhabited by you at all, not even close. I’m hit
all the people with whom with the acrid taste of disap-
I am already familiar, their pointment as I punch my pin
persons projected upon the number into the machine and
passersby. I don’t know why I try to push you out of my mind.
seem to think I know everyone It’s times like these when
walking around the center of I wish I could have just a
Manhattan, but I never see little coffee to wake me up
them as strangers at first glance. and bring me out of these
The people who surrounded sleepy delusions, but I’ve put
me in my dream continue to myself on a strict caffeine-free
surround me as I awaken. diet now for my mitral valve
A homeless woman outside prolapse. I pass a Starbucks
Duane Reade appears to be my and force myself to look away.
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No caffeine, no sugary foods, horn as if heralding the star

and regular exercise. That’s above them, high atop the tree.
why I’m walking fifteen blocks There’s just something about
before hailing a cab to the that scene that gets Christmas
hospital for my appointment. right. Maybe it’s the horns.
It is not quite Thanksgiving Just as I catch a cab and
yet, but 7th Ave. is already get inside, I see a girl across
adorned with Christmas the street who catches my
decorations: illuminated plastic attention. She’s walking into a
Santas peering through display bookstore, and I notice her right
windows, resting on glittery away because she’s wearing a
white fabric and surrounded by purple plaid coat and twirling
clumps of shiny silver tinsel. her blond hair the way you
The city is always overeager to always do. I resist making the
enter the Christmas season, assumption that this is you, but
a time when the whole place as the cab pulls away I can’t
is transformed and people are help but wonder. What if it were
distracted from the trash and you—what would have hap-
exhaust fumes by sparkly gar- pened if I had called out your
lands and Santa Claus. For what name, if I had walked inside?
it’s worth, though, I’ve always Would you have smiled; would
liked the tree in Rockefeller you have been happy to see me?
Center, despite the crowds of Would it have been awkward,
tourists it brings. When you or would you have hugged
stand in just the right spot, you me the same way you used to,
can see a fleet of white angels, playfully pulling me down to
lit by strands of lights, framing your level and wrapping your
the tree. Each one plays a arms around my neck? It’s been
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so long since I’ve seen you. one: The Phantom of the Opera.
The taxi pulls up to New I can still picture you on the
York Presbyterian Hospital, stage as Christine Daaé, twirl-
ranked number six in the ing to “Angel of Music” on the
nation for cardiology. That’s McCarter stage. I would sit in
why I picked it. I could have the pit orchestra and watch you
gone to a medical center closer onstage, the star of the show.
to Princeton, but at the first I had gotten roped into play-
sign of problems, I wanted ing for Phantom because they
the best possible care I could needed another French horn
get. I don’t take any chances. player, and I was convenient.
Dr. Evans’s waiting room You were the best singer I’d
is evidence of his love for ever heard, but you struggled
Broadway. As I check in with with the dancing bits. After
the receptionist, I notice the the flying shoe incident, which
West Side Story poster hanging left our timpani player with a
beside the desk, and I’m once nasty bruise, you began arriving
again reminded of the night early to rehearsals, running
we spent with your friends in through the dance routines with
the theater on Times Square, the choreographer. I know this
hearing you whisper the lyrics because I had always arrived
to “Tonight” along with the early, since my last class finished
music in the seat beside me. an hour before rehearsal and I
That melody ran relentlessly didn’t have enough time to go
through my head for the rest of home. Eventually the choreog-
the night. Around the room, rapher noticed me reading in
amidst the framed posters for the pit and asked me to make
Kiss Me, Kate, Oklahoma!, and myself useful and play through
Rent, I spot the most familiar the melody of “Masquerade”
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for accompaniment. Soon Princeton, after the last per-

this became routine—we’d formance at McCarter, we left
run through “Point of No the cast party early to get your
Return” and “All I Ask of favorite pear-flavored gelato.
You,” and as we waited in an You were going home to Long
empty auditorium for the other Island the next day, while I
performers to file in you’d come would still be in Princeton, tak-
down and talk to me. I would ing classes and living at home.
listen to you tell stories about I still had another year left in
other roles you’d performed and my program before I’d get my
drama classes you’d taken and masters, and I don’t know why
what you’d eaten for lunch that I assumed you’d ever visit me.
day. You were always bursting I should have said something
with things to say, and I was that night, should have asked
a captive audience. When what it meant when you took
the other orchestra players my hand as we strolled down
would arrive, it was hard to the sidewalk. But I never ques-
hold back my smile—I loved tioned anything; I think I was
being seen with you. After afraid that if I tried to acknowl-
a few weeks, when you had edge it, it would disappear. It
learned the dance parts well turns out that not acknowledg-
enough and no longer needed ing it had the same effect.
extra tutorials, we celebrated Now all I can do is cling to
by spending that time getting the bittersweet memory of that
gelato at The Bent Spoon a few one last evening, before you’d
blocks away. We had become decided on leaving and before
something like friends, and I had even considered the idea
I couldn’t believe my luck. of losing you. That’s all I have.
On your last night in As the nurse calls my name,
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I pass one last poster on my chill, to return the pale flesh

way out of the waiting room: to its protective wrappings, but
Mary Poppins. That’s where you I am forced to lie out in the
are now. On Broadway, in the open with no barrier against
chorus—that’s one of the only the indistinct gloominess of the
things you’ve told me of your hospital room. There is a picture
life post-Phantom, within a on the wall showing two images
hastily written e-mail reply. I’d of the human body, one with
called a few days ago to tell you the skin peeled off to reveal a
I’d be in the city today, but I muscular core underneath and
got your voicemail and hung up other with even the muscles
before the beep. I hate leaving stripped away, leaving a skeleton
recorded messages because behind. I’m not always certain
they always add a certain extra what exists within my own
awkwardness to any dialogue: body, what the doctors would
a stilted conversation, the find if they looked beneath
speaker’s voice reaching out into my skin. I’m sure there must
thin air and then pretending be muscle there—at least
that the lack of response is physically—but it feels so often
something natural. I figured that I have become just bone,
you’d just notice the missed call that I have atrophied into
and call me back, but you didn’t. something more vulnerable
You were probably at rehearsal, than I am comfortable with.
probably too busy to notice, Dr. Evans says that every-
too busy to remember me. thing looks all right. I can’t
A technician places electrodes decide if this makes me relieved
on my chest and slides a cold or angry, because really every-
probe over my heart. I want to thing is not all right. It doesn’t
cover my exposed skin from the seem normal that even as my
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heart is so strained emotionally, at the same pace, about eight

it would be running fine physi- steps behind her and across the
cally, albeit with a murmur. Dr. street. She pauses to look in a
Evans says that since there seem store window, and I remember
to be no complications, I’ll be how often you would make me
scheduled for another checkup stop and wait as we walked
in a year. I don’t know why, but through the streets of Princeton
suddenly I catch myself wishing because something had caught
for a more dramatic diagnosis, your eye in a window.
something that would make you As the girl in the purple
feel terribly guilty when you plaid coat walks past the Chase
heard, something that would bank on the corner of 7th and
bring you rushing to my side in 57th, something small and
sympathy. Would you even care? brown falls from her purse
A deli sandwich and a walk and hits the sidewalk. It rests
through Central Park calm on the ground as she walks
me down somewhat, but I am away, and when I squint I
still brooding as I head back can see that it is a wallet.
along 7th Ave. toward the Port I cross the street, running
Authority and the bus home. over and grabbing the wallet
That’s when I see the girl in the before anyone else can snatch
purple plaid coat for the second it up. As soon as I have it, I
time. She is walking on the look around and see the purple
opposite side of the street and plaid coat advancing half a
carrying a large, black suitcase. block ahead. I move forward,
I am struck by how similar to not paying attention to where
you she really looks, and I only I am or where I’m going, just
hope no one notices that I am focusing on the purple beacon
staring. I find myself walking ahead, weaving my way through
25
S X
the crowd to reach her. I hear a voice to my right say,

I turn the corner just in time “Go ahead,” and I am surprised
to see her enter a door. Without to see that it is a security guard
thinking, without hesitating, sitting at his booth, waving
I follow. I expect to find her me through. What building
on the other side, so as I enter is this? I look at the wallet in
the building I am holding the my hand. Underneath the clear
wallet up in the air to get her outer cover on one side, there
attention. I barely notice when is a white card that reads:
CARNEGIE HALL
Authorized Backstage Pass
Caroline Fisher
New York Philharmonic
Carnegie Hall? Is this ground beside her—a viola case,

Carnegie Hall? I keep walk- I now realize, not a suitcase.
ing, hoping I won’t get in She tells me she didn’t even
trouble for being in here. I look realize the wallet was missing,
over and see Caroline—not that the security guard recog-
you, but Caroline—stepping nized her from the day before
into an elevator to my right, and didn’t even look for a pass.
so I rush in after her just She squints at me, as if she’s
as the doors are closing. not sure if she recognizes me
“Your wallet,” I hear myself or not, and I think I recognize
saying, “you dropped it.” her, too, but I can’t place her.
Caroline, a little startled, takes “You’re not from
the wallet and thanks me. I the Princeton area, are
notice that the black case I saw you?” she asks.
her carrying is resting on the “I am, actually. Is that
26
S X
where you’re from?” understand, really.” My

We eventually figure out mother’s funeral is something
that we went to primary and I’d rather not talk about, and
middle school together before I’m itching to change the
she left to attend a music subject. Before I can say any-
conservatory. Our families thing, though, Caroline speaks.
knew each other years ago; “Listen,” she says, “I have
my mother used to play bridge to rehearse right now, but if
with her mother until—well, you’re around later, I know
until she didn’t anymore. a diner with great coffee
“Oh, it’s good to see you just down the street.”
again!” The pretentiousness I don’t know why I’m
in Caroline’s voice cuts right tempted to accept her offer for
through me. “How are you?” pity coffee, especially when
she asks, with that knowing I can’t even drink coffee, but
tone, that false sense of when the light catches in her
understanding. I grit my blond hair I hear the word
teeth and play along. “yes” escape my mouth.
“I’m good, really, thanks.” I say goodbye to Caroline and
We step out of the elevator and walk down a flight of stairs on
down a cream-colored hallway my way out. It takes me approx-
with pictures of various orches- imately one minute to become
tras hanging on the walls in completely lost. I can’t seem to
between dressing room doors. find my way out of the build-
“I really do wish I could ing; the hallways don’t seem
have been there,” she says. “I to follow any simple pattern.
had a concert, and I couldn’t I wander for a while through
come, but I’m so sorry.” this labyrinth of a concert hall
“I know,” I say. “I until I come to a set of double
27
S X
doors. Tentatively, I open one I can’t pick out the sound of

of them and peek into what is Caroline’s viola just by listening.
the most stunning, impressive The string instruments all start
concert hall I’ve ever seen. The to blend together and I can’t
orchestra is gathering onstage, differentiate between them. But
and I don’t want to be seen, so I I like this oddly harmonious
close the door—but not fully. I chaos of sound, the way it
leave it open just a crack, pull- seems to have a life of its own.
ing the doorstop down to keep Eventually it fades to silence,
it in place, and sit on the floor and I can hear the conductor’s
beside the opening to listen. voice for a minute before the
At first, the sound is de- music starts up again, this
tached; it comes in pieces—an time as one collective sound
oboe running up and down progressing through scales.
a chromatic scale, a violin The separate timbres are still
practicing a melodic solo, a there, but now they exist as
euphonium’s deep notes rum- layers within a single entity. The
bling through the space. The scales then settle into a chorale,
separate voices slowly begin to a blending of melodious tones,
overlap: the flute’s pixie-like and I close my eyes to soak it in.
sound is set against the brassy As the orchestra begins its
intensity of the trumpet, the first piece, I recognize it as
beat of the timpani aligns with Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring—not
the smooth notes coming from because I’ve played it before, but
a saxophone, the deep, rich rather from Disney’s Fantasia.
timbre of the cello mixes with I picture Disney’s depiction
the glissando of a trombone. of the creation of the world
I can always pick out the alongside the music, the earth
sound of the French horn, but forming amidst the stars, the
28
S X
hostile volcanoes covering mind of Fantasia’s creation of

its surface, the dinosaurs the world is similarly broken
roaming from water to land. up along with the music, stilted
As a little boy, I thought the by the intermittent pauses.
dinosaurs were the coolest But isn’t that how the world
part of Fantasia, and I used to really is, anyway? Things never
ask my dad to rewind the tape seem to flow in one continuous
to watch them over and over. stream; everything speeds up
Maybe I’ll ask him to watch it and halts in an unpredict-
again this weekend, I think, able fashion. But perhaps,
for old time’s sake. I think we occasionally, the world gives
still have a VCR somewhere. us second chances to go back
This is not a continuous and fix our missteps as well.
version of The Rite of Spring, Eventually, after The Rite
though; the orchestra stops and of Spring is finished, I figure
restarts every so often, refining out that the exit is one more
its sound and fixing mistakes. level down and make my way
I’m shaken out of my trance-like out of the building, but the
state every time they stop, but sound of the orchestra echoes
I like the idea that even for the in my ears for the rest of the
New York Philharmonic, this afternoon. When I meet
is a work in progress. With Caroline later outside the
every interruption, there fol- stage entrance, I confess that I
lows a second chance to make stayed to listen to some of the
it better, and sometimes I can rehearsal, and she is delighted.
even pick out what has changed “What did you think?”
the second time around, who is she asks. “Some of the
louder or softer or more legato tempo changes could have been
or staccato. The picture in my smoother, but I thought—”
29
S X
“It was wonderful,” I say. the bitter November winds.

“I love The Rite of Spring.” Caroline and I are both
She takes me to the diner, frozen in place: she with her
where the owner seems to arm outstretched, waiting
know her. I describe the for me to take my napkin; I
dinosaurs of Fantasia to her with my eyes focused on your
as we scan the menu. She image getting smaller and
orders coffee; I ask for decaf. smaller before me, eventually
She tells me about life as becoming lost in the crowd.
a musician, and I update Caroline says my name,
her on our hometown in and I slowly turn to look at
New Jersey. As the waiter her. With a start, I take the
brings us our drinks, she napkin from her hand, and
says she’s planning on driv- as I use it to wipe the spilled
ing to her parents’ house coffee off the tabletop, I notice
tonight for Thanksgiving. that my own hands are trem-
Caroline reaches over to bling. I’m fine, I tell Caroline,
pass me a napkin, and it is just fine. Just a little worn out
then that I see you. You are at the end of the day, is all.
walking outside along 7th She smiles with a look
Ave., and you have already of sympathy and support,
passed me by the time I and suddenly I hate her. I
notice. You step quickly and hate her for thinking she
purposefully past the clear understands, and I hate her
glass panes, your arms held especially because of the
tight against the front of way she looks right now, her
your coat to hold it closed blond hair framing her face
and your long, blond hair the same way yours does. At
flying behind you through that moment I know that I
30
S X
didn’t really see you walk past is cloaked in darkness, and I

the diner at all. Caroline, in her watch the headlights speed up
purple plaid coat, was not you, as they pass by. They always
and the girl at the ATM was rush past just as I start to get a
not you, and there is no reason good look at the cars they lead,
at all for me to believe that the but I strain my eyes, trying to
woman who just walked by is see past their blinding glare
actually you. You’re here even the whole ride home. R
when you’re not here, traces of
you follow me wherever I go
and I can’t seem to shake the
invisible power that you hold
over me, even after you’re gone.
Suddenly, I crave the dark-
ness of the bus, the blanket of
solitude without a need to pre-
tend that everything’s okay, that
I am content in the presence
of anyone else besides you. I
can’t restart, not here, not now,
not as Caroline Fisher smiles
at me from across the table.
It is only once I am out of
the Lincoln Tunnel, when I
can see from the bus window
that the New York skyline still
looks like a Lite Brite set, that
I can breathe again. The grimy
concrete of the Meadowlands
31
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32
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To Throw the Book

A Poem
Josef Kuhn
Class of 2011
Program of Liberal Studies
I want to throw the book against the wall.

A scented life competes with sense of proof.
To winter lead the footprints from the fall.
Who made this rigid, opalescent shell?

It keeps the worms inside content with stuff.
A girl at ease is laughing down the hall.

A heavy snow is sliding off the roof.
Before the bloom, what cause is first of all?

The mind winks out in a metaphysic puff.
Chuck this drear; betake us to the ball!

A frosty ride, it jangles with each hoof
That points toward winter, leading from the fall.
33
S X
Man sniffs the Christmas child. It’s hard to small.

Before a lighted wreath drifts falling fluff.
An incensed life confuses senses proof.
Who gave this binding, thickly carven shell?

It keeps the words inside content enough.
A fiendish tease is laughing down the hall.

My shieldly snow is sliding off the roof.
To winter lead the hoof-prints from the fall.
Before the boom, what causes first of all?

Mind’s ring is blown in a metaphysic puff.
Chuck it, dear, we go to the red ball!

A frosty dive, it angles with each horn
That points toward winter, leading from the fall.
Man should turn to child. It’s hard to small.

Before a lighted wreath drifts snowy truth.
To Winter lead the footprints from the Fall. R
34
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Why Do You Love?

An Essay
James Schmidt married to a woman, you have
Class of 2013
Istum to choose a particular woman,
namely this woman. But this
What is the difference be- hamburger probably wasn’t the
tween a wife and a hamburger? cause of wanting a hamburger;
I guess someone could say, ‘You maybe seeing and smelling
don’t marry a hamburger,’ but a bunch of hamburgers was,
that doesn’t answer my ques- but not the one you ended up
tion. Because you do something choosing. On the other hand,
with a hamburger (eat it) and it is plausible that this woman
something with a wife (marry was the cause of wanting to
her), and obviously that some- get married. And that is the
thing is different in both cases, very thing I want to investigate
but what I am really asking is (investigate, mind you, not
‘What distinguishes the choice answer); I want to argue in this
of ‘something’ in each case with paper why my initial question is
respect to its mode of being not a mere symptom of insanity.
something?’ Perhaps I should It may seem questionable
explain the background of the or even absurd that I find a
question: Suppose you are at connection between these two
a buffet at which there are not choices, but there is reason for
only a variety of things to eat, it. It is that when we want to
there is a quantity of each item justify our actions, we do so
to eat as well. So if you want to by explaining the reasons for
eat, e.g., a hamburger, you must doing them. So if asked ‘Why
choose a particular hamburger, are you eating that hamburger?’
namely this hamburger, in the response ‘Because I wanted
order to accomplish that end. a hamburger!’ would seem to
Likewise, if you want to get answer the question. But, ‘Why
35
S X
are you eating that hamburger, hamburger is not (Though he is

there were a number of other eating this hamburger, we just
ones on the platter from which say he is eating a hamburger).
you could have chosen,’ then This argument has a con-
the reply would probably go nection to the history of my
something like, ‘Well, I wanted thought on this question.
to eat a hamburger; but eating First, I assume a wide enough
a hamburger requires choos- acceptance among societies of
ing a particular hamburger, married love as exclusive. But I
therefore…’ In other words distinguish between two types
the justification given points of exclusivity. We can ask,
to the fact that there is a ‘Why do you love one person
desire for something general (a and not many?’ and also ‘Why
hamburger), and that though do you love this person and not
it is satisfied with a particular that one?’ I note in passing that
(this hamburger), the satisfac- 1 I pause to reflect and appreciate
tion isn’t in the particular qua the importance of this conclusion.
particular (I would have enjoyed Imagine, for a moment, what life
would be like without it: we would
my meal all the same if I took
deliberate for minutes just to choose
a different hamburger1). Of
which thing to eat of what we have
course it seems utterly foreign already chosen to eat! If I wanted
to imagine choosing a wife to buy loose leaf paper, I might ask
in the same manner (I want the clerk to take a few pages from
to marry, marriage requires a this packet and from that one to get
particular, therefore…). And just the right particular papers…
As absurd as this sounds, I actually
that is because marriage is the
recall an instance working as a barista
type of thing that is defined by
when a woman asked to examine the
the particular (I am married lemon bars. I do not joke: her story is
to this person), but eating a identical to the picture I just painted.
36
S X
this applies to hamburgers too: and not that one?’: we would

‘I simply am not able to eat a expect the answer to be ‘Well,
multitude (though I suppose I loved this person and not
I could eat two)’ in response that one,’ not ‘I just wanted to
to the first question, and I get married, here is a woman
already covered the second (like here is a hamburger),
question. Important to me therefore—’ But in point of
is the response to the second fact, I don’t find the answer
question with respect to wives.2 very convincing. The only thing
I used to think married love is I can think to save it is that it
the type of love that requires is possible to fall in love with
love for one and not many (i.e. more than one person at the
I didn’t really seek an answer same time. It presents a person
to the question ‘why one and with a conflict: Whom do I
not many?’), so if asked ‘Why choose? There could in fact
do you love this person at the be ‘love’ for both, but in order
exclusion of that one?’ I thought for there really to be love, it
it was satisfactory enough to say
‘Because I love this person, and 2 The question of choice actually
is not limited to married love. We
the love I have for this person
could ask it about friendship too.
is the type of love that precludes
And the question of love is not
me loving others, and so in limited to beloveds we choose. We
particular it [is the type of love could ask why we love our parents
that] precludes loving that one.’ or kids. The wide applicability
Now this is similar to our may invite the question why I only
hamburger case but not identi- tackle married love. The reason is
that I want to understand better
cal. It would be a lot closer if it
this double meaning of exclusivity
was the answer to the question
(one-not-many and this-not-that),
‘Why did you marry this person which is not present in other loves.
37
S X
seems that one of the two must stereo?’ R2: ‘Because I want to
be chosen, and therefore one listen to my music.’ Q3: ‘Yes,
rejected. And on that account, but you can do that with your
the exclusive nature of love in old stereo.’ R3: ‘True, but a new
the one-not-many sense may one would sound better.’ At
indeed justify the exclusive this point I think it would be
nature in the this-person-not- permissible to stop. We identify
that-one sense. But I am still the reason for his saving as a
not sure, because it wouldn’t desire for better quality sound.
seem appropriate to say, Reasons for acting usually look
‘sweetheart, I was in love with something like this—an appeal-
another too, so I flipped a coin ing or pointing to something
and you won!’ Rather, it seems that the agent perceives as
that the justification for loving good.3 So if asked ‘Why do
this person must consist in the you love so-and-so?’ it is not
person being chosen qua this entirely unreasonable to hear
person, rather than chosen on an answer that points to a good
account of something extrinsic. in the beloved. That is, at any
This consideration led me to rate, usually the case when
another conclusion, but before asked ‘Why are you in love with
I give it, I should present other so-and-so?’ A good pointed to
problems that led to it as well. may be something like the joy
Whenever we ask ‘Why did you 3 Elizabeth Anscombe, Intention
do x?’ reasons can also be sought sec. 37; she uses the term ‘desirability
for the answer to the question. characteristic’… but I think the point
For example, Q1: ‘Why are you here is clear enough. Obviously
saving your money?’ R1: ‘To a stereo is a “good” thing; but we
also want to see how the agent
buy a new stereo.’ Q2: ‘Ah, but
perceives it as good. That is the whole
why do you want to buy a new point of the chain of questions.
38
S X
of looking at her face or the de- exclusive love as such is the

light of her cheery personality… way it is. Besides, it is not the
whatever. It might answer the qualities abstracted from the
question ‘Why do you find this person that people love about a
person worthy of your atten- person (I fell in love with her,
tion?’ (i.e., why do you love this not with ‘pretty’ or ‘agreeable’).4
person), but only the question So this prelude led to the
posed in a very indeterminate conclusion that the reason
way, and therefore only permit- for loving this person is not a
ting a very indeterminate good in this person but rather
answer. When we consider the very personhood of this
norms of married love, namely person. To be sure, it is not
its exclusivity, the response no because this person is a person
longer answers the question that she is loved, it is because
(which is really the question to she is this person.5 At this
ask) ‘Why do you love this per- point I can no longer ignore the
son at the exclusion of others?’ elephant in the room, staring
This is because any quality
4 Obviously they may love the
attributed to the person is a
qualities too. But consider the
quality that other people have possibility of admiring a person’s
as well. It is not as if a person qualities and yet being indifferent to
thinks his wife is the only or utterly repulsed by the person.
pretty or agreeable person in 5 There is an essay Love as Valuing
existence. For that matter, he a Relationship by Niko Kolodny in
probably doesn’t even think which the author dismisses this point,
she is the most pretty or most ‘To say “She is Jane” is simply to
agreeable. So qualities as such identify a particular with itself ’ (pg.
142 The Philosophical Review, Vol.
fail to provide the criteria we
112, No. 2 (April 2003)). He admits
need in order to explain why
his rejection is without argument.
39
S X
me in the face, and ready to in the beloved to a good in the

sit on me: What does it mean abstract without realizing that
to be a person? The question a good in a person is not a good
has applications in other areas as abstract, but a good in its
of inquiry (e.g. ethics), and is very particular expression.6 It
not just an abstruse question. is easy to say the good is some-
Though I agree it is an abstruse thing the beloved has when we
question, and since it belongs speak of the good as something
to metaphysics, I’d like to just that falls under the umbrella of
drop the inquiry altogether. ‘good’ in general, but as a matter
But as in marriage, when things of fact, we are never attracted
become difficult, quitting is to the good as abstract but
never the appropriate solution, the good as we experience it,
neither in philosophy is quitting and that is a good which is
an appropriate conclusion. particularized. So if someone
Recall that I denied that a says, ‘she is agreeable,’ it is not
good in the beloved is reason agreeable‘ness’ that he is predi-
enough to love because such a cating to her (though it sounds
reason would detract from the like it is) and therefore it is not
very person for whom there agreeable‘ness’ that he is giving
is love—such a reason would as the reason for loving her. It
suggest love of a quality rather is her way of being agreeable,
than the person and would thus it is her pretty, it is her etc.
make it impossible to say why This way of speaking marks a
this person was the beloved quality not as something that
rather than another with the
6 In my defense, I think that many
same beloved quality. But other philosophers who recognize the
herein is the problem: I too problem of qualities as attributable to
quickly jumped from a good others have made this same jump.
40
S X
someone merely has but as one from that restaurant) but

something that in some way yet we feel and act as if it were.
actually defines that person.7 I think the reason is because
We can look at an easy when a person falls in love with
example to test the legitimacy the 273rd person, he did not fall
of this argument. From my in love with her qua 273rd per-
experience with people, it seems son of falling in love with, but
that the average person falls in rather qua whatever person she
love about five hundred times is. And the fact of the matter is
until they actually establish a it is the first time he has fallen
lasting relationship with some- in love with her. It seems aw-
one. Yet every time, the person fully romantic, which disgusts
in love acts as if it is the first me because I think romance
time it has ever happened and as should stay out of philosophy,
if this person is different than all but it does seem to indicate
the rest, etc., etc. There are two something about the situation.
ways to go. A realistic person I have in this discussion sug-
may attribute the phenomenon gested an answer—a theoretical
to some strange characteristic of answer—to the question ‘Why
emotion. On the other hand, I do you love this person in the
do wonder why the experience way that you love her?’ I am not
is such that it makes a claim yet satisfied with my answer,
to uniqueness. I can’t think of so I don’t plan on retiring my
any other experience we have in mind to the question any time
which the thing that we experi- soon. It does, however, help us
ence, though its particular may reconcile the original confusion
be for the first time, is not novel (though I suppose the reader
(e.g., I have eaten a thousand 7 I credit Professor David O’Connor
hamburgers in my life, but never for helping me understand this point.
41
S X
never was very troubled by the other such important questions

possibility of a choice, even with regarding love, but those will
hamburgers). If you ask ‘Why require further discussion
did you choose that hamburger?’ in their own right. R
I will set this one down and
grab another one to eat. Sure,
it is ridiculously impractical to
eat parts of various hamburgers,
but it is no slight to anyone
if I consume only part of one
because I went for another. It
seems to me there is a bit of an
expectation for commitment
in the case of wives, and what
I want to get at is that it has
something to do with who
she is… even if pinpointing
that ‘what’ is tricky business.
Finally, it is worthwhile end-
ing with a comment: regardless
of your thoughts on this paper,
this question is an important
one to ask. The reasons given
for loving (doubtless, for any
action) indicate what kind of
loving is going to be done.
How you love is affected, if
not determined, by why you
love. There are, of course,
42
S X
Two Poems
Christina Mastrucci
Class of 2011
English Major
Rosa
we met beneath the belly of a rose.

we were searching for love,
looking up at falling petals,
‘till we blindly collided (and froze).
every rose has its thorn: its form and manner
of being out-of-reach,
of being above the ground.
we pluck out our eyes
in hopes of finding—just one bulb
(or at least a bud)
of Cupid’s binding.
how unassuming: we rose from the soil
to shake our heads of pollen;
yet those are the only drops of gold
that bear both fruit and flower.
the single good we got of her (oh Rosa!)
was how to prick and to bleed.
so what did we learn from being blind?
nothing, but how lovely it is to fall. R
43
S X
Heart of Clay
My hands bury
into a piece of clay
which does not exist.
I smear that mud of creation
across my eyes,
so I cannot see that
Am I making myself clear?
I tore the nails off my fingers,
I peeled the skin off my bones
to make a perfect
human shape
which does not exist,
to build your amber body,
to build your tigers-eye
How can I be clear
when my eyes swell with soil
instead of tears,
when my breath is not enough
to give us life?
But you, you unconquerable form,
how could I ever create you?
I dig my bones into the earth
and find (my) blood,
yet all I create
is a heart of clay,
beaten and nonexistent. R
44
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Praying For One’s Future Spouse

An Essay
Eva Oenchi
Program of Liberal Studies
When I was 14 years

old, I wrote the following
terrifically cheesy poem:
Somebody’s Girl
Somewhere far, and way out there,
There’s this guy (is he dark or fair?)
Somewhere distant (or could it be near?)
You may not see him for many a year.
But this guy, he has a dream.
No, not making the football team,
Not his career and not his new car—
His dream is a girl, just like you are.
You may not even speak the same tongue
Quite different the skies that above you are hung
Different your countries, your families, your races—
But love can surpass the boundary of places.
You are his idol, his one lasting dream,
Sometimes the only star sending a beam,
Down as he fixes his eyes on the sky
And he’ll never give up, never cease to try,
Until he has found you and made you his own.
Once you’ve found each other, you’re never alone.
The love in your hearts circles all ‘round the world—
Dear, always remember, you’re somebody’s girl.
Yikes. Several years and a I had forgotten all about my
few ended relationships later, poem and its corny message.
45
S X
But when I stumbled across it loveliness. An angel will prob-

by chance recently, it made me ably get his wings. Like any
rethink my relationship choices. relationship, it will be difficult
Yes, the poem is too idealistic, at times, but with a crucial dif-
and I’ve since learned that every ference. Unlike my failed rela-
rose has its thorns. When that tionships, this one will be worth
guy finally comes along, not ev- holding on to—even during the
erything will work out perfectly trials. And until I find him, I
regardless. But maybe there started to consider the radical
was still something true here, concept of being faithful to my
something that 14-year-old-me spouse even before I meet him.
knew but college-me forgot. What does this mean? To
Maybe I should be more me, the number one thing
aware that there is somebody seems to be to prepare and pray
for me out there, even if I still for my spouse now. I’m not
haven’t met him. “Would I live sitting around at home waiting
differently if I thought more for Mr. Right to arrive—by no
about the man who is waiting means. I go out and have fun
for me, my future spouse?” I and live a very full, joyful life.
asked myself honestly. The an- But maybe when I’m thinking
swer was, “Duh, yes, of course.” about my future husband, I’ll
You see, my spouse might act a little differently with men.
be ten years away, or ten days. For a religious person like my-
It’s easy sometimes to convince self, this could mean flirt less,
yourself that that person will pray more. Or flirt less, reflect
never come along, but they more. Pray that my future hus-
will. Oh, they will. And you’ll band is happy, growing holy…
have the emotional fireworks maybe even pray that I’ll meet
and chirping birds and all that him soon (or soon enough).
46
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Or reflect on my interactions out there for strangers. Wait

with men in order to help me for the one who will appreci-
to keep things in perspective. ate it. For men, this might
I should guard my heart a mean talking about women
little more, too. No need to and acting towards them in
crush on three different guys in an appropriate and respectful
my math class or pine over that manner—the way your wife
Glee Club cutie who just won’t would want her husband to act.
ask me out. If he’s not inter- More than anything, it
ested, he’s clearly not the one. means praying for your spouse
And my future spouse is going and starting, now, to desire
to be so much more amazing, his or her good and happiness.
anyways. Definitely worth the This seems to me to be the best
wait. And if—God forbid—a way to ensure your own hap-
trial or temptation does arise piness in dating or marriage.
after my marriage, I will be I wrote a second poem more
better equipped to overcome recently, when I was bored in
it if I am used to practicing class (sorry, profs…). It was
emotional faithfulness. about a situation that happened
This also means becoming to me last year. Two male
a person worth waiting for. friends both wanted to date me.
Someone said, “Become the (I promise, this is not a typical
person you want to spend the situation for me.) I wasn’t
rest of your life with.” That seriously interested in either,
means now. For girls, this but that didn’t mean I couldn’t
might mean dressing or acting date one, right? Well…
more modestly, to show respect
for yourself and for your spouse.
You don’t want to put it all
47
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If I chose one, I could not then choose you

For they will be as chaff, and meaningless
And wait I must.
If I chose one, you would be farther, farther

This little act of faithlessness would keep you
In the balance – pending – perhaps too long
If I chose one, could I then choose you?
I will not take that chance, too many maybes

Of hearts that may be ripped or at least frayed
Or time wasted, shared thoughts and feelings–
I’d rather save these to share whole with you.
By dating the wrong guy, I I’m sure he’s out there, per-
may be hurting my chances of haps preparing for our marriage
meeting the right guy. And as well, with his own full, joyful
I know that my husband is life. I hope so. Maybe he’s even
worth waiting for. So for now reading this. Better yet, maybe
I’ll wait—not in a sad, pining he’s praying for me too. R
way, but with the attitude
of preparing myself and my
spouse for something great.
My life now is full and happy,
and because of that I know
my life with my spouse will
someday be full and happy too.
48
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A Feasible Slip out of the Plane into the Abyss

Those weren’t heart murmurs; you have indigestion.
A Poem
Sara McGuirk
Class of 2014
English Major
It’ll happen
In the corner of some dimly-lit room,
On an hour-long car ride,
When I realize,
Your pupils shift
When I look you in the eyes,
And you’re too mature for my humor,
Too set in your ways,
Too stubborn to see
That poetry is a traveler
Eloquently urging her to leave
I wake up to find it’s your exit

That I’ve taken out of habit,
It’s your finger which
Still wraps me around it
As I await the final moment

We anticipate as nothing less,
Than the expiration date
Branded on my boarding pass
49
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Than a cheap charade

Of triumphant cowardice,
A love (pre)maturely forfeited
Or strung somehow to be outstretched,
On life-support with wheezing breath
For the first time in months

With distance between us
I’ll finally notice
What I can’t say I’ve ever seen
The gap between your teeth
Where all the words we never said got stuck
Words we’re still unsure we mean
And before I’m gone,

I’ll have imagined you undone
By some illusion that wants
Any proven fact or thought,
Any lucid coherence,
But merely plays the part
Of blind appearance
Disguised by denial’s art
You’ll be that place on my back

That I can’t reach in the shower,
The story I tell my friends that lacks
The name or face of its character,
And by the time that you ask
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How much you once had mattered,

Your eyes won’t speak again
The silence that I’d heard
Of the turning earth,
Between your baited breaths
And allow me to be blunt, but
Can’t you appreciate the artistry

In the flush of her cheek,
Her voice’s cracking instability,
The words, unheard, strike silently
In the upper lip’s steady march
Against her quivering sister’s plea,
In the single, winding, trickle sliding,
Cavalier and callous as its landscape seems...
That’s a knife you’re twisting
How could she miscalculate?

After the way his fingers intertwined with hers
At every sign of no return
And realigned with every swerve
Of her insides when they climbed and turned
Designed, as if,
To entwine in hers
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Not everything must be proclaimed

Upon one’s knees in centerstage,
Though she’d missed
What he’d meant to say,
What he’d written on his face,
The lines in the message
He’d engraved,
As if hanging from his lips
In his eyes between each kiss,
Enough to admit
He had wanted her to stay
A conviction his poetry, in subtlety,

Simply didn’t say,
A distance its traveler wouldn’t take,
And so, the same cannot be said of her,
Asleep upon
The stranger on the plane,
Plunging headfirst,
Soaring towards the
First exit
(in half-slumbered habit)
That hadn’t led to him R
52
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Dreams of Diana
A Story
John Ashley I cannot remember if I was
Class of 2011
The Philosophy Club or not, until she came to me
where I stood, in the back of the
“I dreamed of Diana last night.” room, looking a little disdainful
“Oh?” at the antics of the youth of
“That was where things Athens around me. Even then
began, I think. In that I suppose I was cultivating
memory, in the dream.” the career academic’s attitude
“Shall we start there?” toward the plebs, so it should
“Yes!” have come as no surprise to me
that none of the women, least
Diana was there, short and
of all Diana, would return my
elfin and hair the color of
attentions with anything more
new hay, smiling her slightly
than polite refusal. And such
sardonic smile. The scene was
refusal irked my rational mind,
not important, a party, one of
for was I not the most ideal
our last before we dispersed to
person in all of the room?
all the points of the compass.
Diana came over to me,
We were all full of dreams and
smiled a smile that was sup-
music then, touched by the
posed to apologize but did the
Muse herself. But no singing of
opposite, and told me, in velvet
arms and the man, or the rage
words, to find someone else
of the son of Peleus for that
to dance with at the farewell
matter. Say instead, singing
gala. We both uttered bits of
of innocent joy at the future.
meaningless noise, reassuring
We stood in the basement
each other that no offense was
of someone’s house as music
meant, that we’d be fast friends
pounded away through the air.
despite it all, and then we
All of us were there, and most
moved apart, she to a pleasant
of us were enjoying ourselves.
53
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evening of light and love, I to morning sun. The light was rich
brood slowly and surreptitiously. and thick like honey, and the
The music jarred slightly, as beams of it that reached down
though kicked, and the world through the branches of trees
jarred with it. The music started seemed pillars of gold. Diana
again, from the beginning was sitting on a bench, and the
of the song, and the world morning light basked in her
seemed to rewind likewise. beauty. She saw me and offered
Diana walked over to me that smile, that sardonic smile
slowly. It was not on purpose. that I love so. I returned it shyly,
Rather, it was as though I and she patted the weathered
was retarding time itself to wood beside her, and I sat and
enjoy the sight of her better. turned to look fully at her. The
She wore something nice, and sight of her there in the high
she’d bound her hair behind sunlight enraptured me. A
her head in a way that stunned Muse was truly required to de-
me a little. Time resumed scribe her then; a Muse of fire,
its normal course for her to to ascend the brightest heaven
say to me, “I’d love to dance of invention and there trumpet
with you next month.” to the poets of the world how
to write her and canticle her.
“How is he?”
“I’ve left him. Last week. I
“His brain function is
didn’t really love him, anymore.
steady. Quite normal.”
Didn’t really like either.”
“Time for the second step?”
Her words shivered down
“Yes, I think so.”
my spine with their strange-
I was walking across the ness and promise. She moved
university, heading to my little nearer to me across the bench,
hole of an office in the early shifting herself across the gulf
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I had chastely left between us somewhere in the middle of

when I had sat down. I dared nowhere, one of those places
then to move my arm across that you can only get to if you’ve
the back of the bench and so been there before. The path
to intercept her fair shoulders. was a pleasing pastel of gray
“I…I think I love you,” gravel, the forest and water full
she said, and then she spoke with the very color of life. We
my name and it was the walked as lovers do, cocooned
fairest and most terrible in our own little place of joy and
sound I’d ever heard. ignorant of everything else. She
“I love you too,” said I, speak- pointed out the antics of some
ing the words I’d heard over and small woodland creature, and
over again in my mind since the we both laughed and moved
day years ago when I decided I closer, kissing playfully under
did love her, and when our life the patchwork quilt of autumn
together had played out in my leaves. An old ruin of some
sleep to mock me when I woke. hermit’s dwelling poked up out
We kissed then, and the of the underbrush and the gaps
setting sun painted her skin in the mossy brick chimney
all kinds of beautiful. peered at us, to inquire after
the why and wherefore of our
“I’m worried.”
intrusion on their meditations.
“You saw the recordings
A likely patch of bank
of my time with him?”
presented itself to us, formed
“Yes, and I think—”
by a shelf of slate that projected
“It is his choice. If he
itself out and over the water.
desires the flame...it’s time
We sat together to dangle our
for the third phase.”
feet in the water and playfully
We walked along a pond, splash each other. The water was
55
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as clear as air, full of fish who life with Diana flittered before
solemnly investigated us and my mind’s eye like ethereal
then fled from the disturbance birds, a lifetime of memories
we made. Silence pushed in and feelings. She sat in a chair
at us like a blanket, a bar- beside me, her white hair
rier against thoughts of what pulled tight with worry. She
awaited us when we left this smiled at me, the smile still as
little bit of paradise. Off in sardonic as it had ever been,
the distance, a train thundered even touched as it now was with
softly against the rails. sadness and concern. She didn’t
After a time, my courage speak. We both knew that to
screwed firmly to the sticking speak would only be to say
point, I presented her with farewell, and that time had not
the ring, and she cried out in yet come. Soon, though—for
joy, and everything was bliss it approached palpably, on the
for awhile. Finally, with the soft trot of a pale horse and
tiredness of the world calling the chant of a requiem mass.
to us, we walked back to our I despised its coming, but my
horses, mounted, and left. strength was nearly gone and
I could not stand against it.
“The last phase.”
And then Diana spoke.
“Yes. Prepare my equipment.
“You have to wake
We will need to break him off
up!” she urged.
before the moment of death.”
I can’t! I wanted to respond
The bed I lay in was comfort- to her, but I lacked the power
able enough, and clean, and to speak. Then, Wake up?
the pain of passing was not as What do you mean? Am I
severe as I thought it would asleep and dreaming again?
be. The remembrances of my Yes, intoned the voice of
56
S X
Death, who stood there like “Yes I do, and I’ve signed
an undertaker all in mourn- the forms to that effect.”
ing garb. Then I was falling “All well and good for the
away into blackness, floating lawyers, but do you really
in a void. Ground appeared understand? Do you get it?”
invisibly below me, and I “Yes, I do.”
thumped into it without the “You could be lost forever
least violence. I picked myself if the subconscious desires are
up, and the skin of my arms felt strong enough to overcome
taut over muscle once more. the conscious desires. Which,
Death walked up out of the sometimes, they are.” The psy-
darkness, and he was a middle- chiatrist—was he really Death?
aged man with a potbelly and —took a sip from a mug.
an impish cast to his features. “You said you have ways
“You are dreaming, but it of waking me up from the
is time for you to wake up,” trance if I were…stuck.”
he said, his tone as reasonable “There are some techniques
as you please. “You remember I can use, yes, but my abilities
this conversation, don’t you?” pale next to the power of the
and he flicked his arm to subconscious. It’s a strange
show an image of the two and cunning beast, and it does
of us talking in an office. not like being taken out of the
driver’s seat.” Once again, his
“You understand the risks
speech. So strangely poetic.
of the procedure?” Death
“I get it, Doctor. Can you
inquired. Was he Death
start? I’ve paid…well, I’ve
though, or a psychiatrist? The
paid a lot. Probably more
very one I could just gently
than I can afford, but…”
remember in the back of my
“She means that
mind? I could not tell.
57
S X
much to you?” wake you up,” he said. “By

“Yes.” communicating directly with
“Than we shall begin with your subconscious. I need
analysis. There’s a couch and you to wake up.”
chair in the next room where “No!” I shouted. To hell
we shall record, as well as the with his babble! “I want her!
psychograph. This will take I won’t go with you! I’m
several hours, perhaps a day or going back.” And as I spoke
two. Next, I shall induce the this short defiance a door
dream trance and compose the sprang into being beside me,
fantasy you’ve detailed. If you hinged to the darkness of the
do not wake up at the end, I void on which we stood.
shall employ what abilities I “If you go through that door,
have to rouse you. If that does you’ll never find her. I will
not succeed…” he shrugged his keep you from her or keep you
shoulders, and the sadness of from dreaming, whichever I
familiarity filled his eyes. “Then must. You must wake up!”
may the shade of Carl Jung “Liar!” I said, and yanked
walk with you in all the empty the door open before
places where you must go.” plunging through it.
The images faded, and “He’s gone.”

Death—and it was Death, and “I know! Give him the
not the psychiatrist—looked sedative, but slowly. There
at me. His face was ghoul- may yet be a chance.”
ish and hateful, that of an
“Lancelot!” My friend
undertaker who revels in
came to my side, panting.
the price of a funeral.
“God’s blood, Lancelot, how
“This is how I’m trying to
can you stand it here? This
58
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wind cuts like a knife!” Guinevere…oh, Gawain, you

“I endure the climb, for should see what she writes me
the fruits of my labor are the and sends me by secret. The
sweetest in all of the earth. glances she gives me when she
This hill is but a small thing.” may, the favors at tournaments.”
I pointed out to the keep of “I see them, sure as every
distant Camelot. “She walks knight at Camelot does the
that wall, in the evenings, same. Arthur suspects, but
that we may look upon each you may yet prevent him
other without Arthur’s know- from exiling you. Go north,
ing it. See! She comes.” as I bade you. Spend you a
The sight of her, clad all year with the monks of the
in cloth the color of fresh glen, and awaken you from
sage, thrilled me to the quick. this slumber of desire!”
“God’s wounds, Gawain, look “Nay, Gawain, ‘tis not that
at her! As fair as Diana in counsel I’ll follow, though you
the full flush of the hunt!” be my friend. Love conquers
“Guinevere is Arthur’s, all things, even the marriage
Lancelot,” Gawain insisted. of Arthur and Guinevere.
“The two of you…not even im- Was it not Christ’s love for
possible, no! Dishonorable and us that saved the world?”
sacrilegious! To lust for another “Yes, but—”
man’s wife…that was David’s “Then so will my love for
sin, and the Lord punished Guinevere save her from
him for it, as He will punish Arthur! Now, take you this
you if you persist at this.” and give it to him.” I handed
“I am not David, Gawain. Gawain parchment tightly
That woman did not love bound in a scroll, sealed with
him, and he took her, but my sigil in red beeswax.
59
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“What says it?” planned, for Arthur, full of fury,

“It tells Arthur of Guinevere’s had decreed that Guinevere
love for me, that I will no longer was to die by the axe for her
see her bowed beneath the op- infidelity, should he prove the
pressive yoke of their marriage. mightier at arms. She stood
He is to meet me in challenge apart from all the rest, simply
of combat, that we may settle dressed in the gown of sage
this like honorable men.” green she had worn when last
“God’s bread, man, have I had seen her. A man in black
you been taken by the surcoat and helm stood next
Devil? Arthur kills men to her, a knight chosen by the
as a butcher does hogs!” chance fall of dice to kill her.
“Perhaps he might best I waited, likewise alone, at
you, Gawain, for you are the southern end of the green-
getting on in your years and sward, and dressed me in mail
fat about the middle, but I and chausses and helm. My
am the finest knight in all of squire came forward, bearing
Christendom, and not even my arms. I buckled Anadight
Arthur and his sword Excalibur round my waist and mounted
may stand against me, armed my charger to take spear and
with my love for Guinevere!” shield. Gawain called to me,
Our duel happened the next then, as I was readying to ride.
morning, on the dewy green “You’re a damned fool,
field before the grand gates of Lancelot. Withdraw and
Camelot. All the lords and la- I can convince Arthur
dies of the castle were gathered, not to kill you!”
so stunning was my challenge “Never!” I returned
to the king. The combat was cheerfully, and he shook
a weightier thing than I’d his head muttering.
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Arthur rode forth onto the pulled it away, and his stroke
north end of the field and burst the rings of my mail,
saluted me with a lift of his and his thrust went home in
spear. I returned the gesture my breast. I fell to the ground,
and slammed my visor down, and from long and far away
and the world reduced to slits I heard the executioner’s axe
and pinpricks. We charged each fall by Arthur’s command.
other, and our spears shattered Guinevere! No, my love!
themselves on our shields with No! I tried to rise, to take my
a noise like God’s own thunder. vengeance on her murderer,
We dismounted our horses, but my strength failed me, and
sent them away, and proceeded blood choked me. We shall meet
to try the matter with our again, my love. With the Lustful,
blades. Blows fell like the spring in the inferno. And it shall be a
rain and hit like a blacksmith’s paradise for us. I relaxed, and
hammer. I bettered him at the felt numbing cold in my limbs.
beginning, nearly managing a Gawain stripped back my visor,
killing stroke where his mail and gazed at me sorrowfully.
met the leather coif beneath “She was never yours. Not
his helm, but he ducked in life, and not in this delirium
away ignobly and survived. you dream, and not in the death
His recovery was strong and between dreams you now go to.
giant-like as he strode back Awake, you fool, and arise!” R
at me and hewed with the
strength only fury may beget.
Our fight lasted for an hour,
until we were drenched in sweat
and panting. Then Arthur
caught my shield with his and
61
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LOST PIECE
VOLUME II, ISSUE I

Endures All Things
62
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Colophon:
This journal is compiled entirely from the

works of undergraduate scholars at
The University of Notre Dame.
The editors of Lost Piece: An Undergraduate Journal of Letters

are indebted to Dr. Cecilia Lucero for her invaluable assistance on
behalf of The Center for Undergraduate Scholarly Engagement.
The editors also extend thanks to the

Undergraduate Research Opportunity Program,
and the Institute of Scholarship in the Liberal Arts,
both of which are directed by Dr. Agustin Fuentes.
Stephen Lechner, Editor-in-Chief

Raymond Korson, Josef Kuhn, and Conor Rogers, Editors
Lost Piece was designed in Adobe InDesign, CS5;

its body copy is set in 12 pt Adobe Caslon Pro.
This publication was designed by
Stephen Lechner‘11, slechner@nd.edu
63

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VOLUME II, ISSUE I

© Copyright, Lost Piece; All rights reserved.

No part of this journal may be used or reproduced by any means,

Lost Piece: An Undergraduate Journal of Letters

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

VOLUME II, ISSUE I

Something of a Mission Statement

Lost Piece exists to facilitate undergraduate reading, discussion,

Lost Piece seeks to help undergraduates to complement

The goal of Lost Piece is to combat mediocrity in all

Lost Piece holds that the goods proper to intellec-

Something of a Mission Statement

From the Editors

The editors of Lost Piece offer their apologies for the

Meet the Writers

weekend to start a literary T:

Love and Meaning

love that which matters to us insofar as it is being considered

eternal (however that might Thomas Cromwell back in 1534,

is not true just of love—the another, easily deceived in our

4 And mind you, one’s own

5 Neither have I yet, but

do very little choosing: life and circumstances do most of it (though if

i Bolt, Robert; A Man for All Seasons;

ii Tolkien, J.R.R; The Letters

Contribute to Lost Piece

Please consider writing—whether essay, poem, story, or what-have-

…Or offer an answer…

…Write at whatever length you need…

…But write well.

Submit your work to Steve Lechner

I looked upon a starry gaze

twirl your hair absentmindedly ride to make me notice my life,

emptiness underneath, but the of feet as passengers elbow each

McCormick’s. Next I see a high school band director; a

No caffeine, no sugary foods, horn as if heralding the star

for accompaniment. Soon Princeton, after the last per-

I pass one last poster on my chill, to return the pale flesh

heart is so strained emotionally, at the same pace, about eight

the crowd to reach her. I hear a voice to my right say,

Carnegie Hall? Is this ground beside her—a viola case,

where you’re from?” understand, really.” My

doors. Tentatively, I open one I can’t pick out the sound of

hostile volcanoes covering mind of Fantasia’s creation of

“It was wonderful,” I say. the bitter November winds.

didn’t really see you walk past is cloaked in darkness, and I

To Throw the Book

I want to throw the book against the wall.

Who made this rigid, opalescent shell?

A girl at ease is laughing down the hall.

Before the bloom, what cause is first of all?

Chuck this drear; betake us to the ball!

Man sniffs the Christmas child. It’s hard to small.

Who gave this binding, thickly carven shell?

A fiendish tease is laughing down the hall.

Before the boom, what causes first of all?

Chuck it, dear, we go to the red ball!

Man should turn to child. It’s hard to small.

Why Do You Love?

are you eating that hamburger, hamburger is not (Though he is

this applies to hamburgers too: and not that one?’: we would

of looking at her face or the de- exclusive love as such is the

me in the face, and ready to in the beloved to a good in the