A Letter to Saint Peter

by C. M. McLean

In February waking late the night comes fast. I walk the same streets smoking cigarettes, endlessly. And then in the darkness I write bringing my words onto the page like leaves that fall farther away into empty space. Yesterday afternoon by the Ashuelot River I saw a man throw himself into the water. For hours I felt a strange peace.
My teeth are rotten, it's carelessness and I spend so much time in the kitchen light. I recall the gypsies in Brussels, dirt-covered with a child or a doll in their arms begging for change. I gave them nothing or a fiery glance. And then I rested by the fountains while the hours passed like birds.
Television shows leave me sleepless. All night in the dark praying for the courage to reach and turn the light switch. Airplanes overhead grow louder and ladders clang against the side of the house.
But now, the light shines through the stained glass portrait of Christ. Walking in this hall you know it is Christ. And there at the Last Supper, the southern light is beautiful, isn't it? The bread of his body unblessed, the wine black and unstained.
And this is March at it's end. All of these guns are antique, no longer in use. They were my father's before he passed away. It was shortly after the war, I was young and he laid down to sleep. Dreaming I saw his hands for months reaching down at me. But soon, April comes and the winter returns as a wind at dusk or in the twilight of black afternoons.

Subject: Re: Inbox #1

I understand what you are saying, but am unsure how to respond to it in a coherent manner. So I guess I'll start off with your overarching question: What is a relationship for?

I don't think it's all about physical intimacy; really that's more of an added bonus. I think that the companionship is a bigger part of it. That "having someone to go home to" feeling. And I think that the most important part of a relationship, to me at least, is having someone to share the things that make you happy with. It makes me so happy when I cook or bake something for you and you eat it, and take time to appreciate it. You love to write stories and I love to read them and help you develop ideas. You love to sing and play guitar, and I love to listen. I like teaching people about things, and exposing them to new ideas and you love to learn. The other day I listened to the version of "Someday, Sometime" that you recorded for me with the piano, rather than the guitar. It was so sweet and heartfelt, and I wish you could see how much I smiled, and how happy it made me. I don't think there are any appropriate emoticons for the situation.

And while it's possible to share those things while physically apart for four months, it's not easy (as you, I'm sure, are aware). I think we have a really strong foundation, and that we'll be okay through these four months. And would we be okay through another two months? Probably, but you know what? I don't *have* to go to Wyoming. I do have to be in London this semester, but everything (our relationship, but a ton of other things in my life as well) would just be so much easier and more practical if I didn't go to Wyoming. Things like: finding housing in Wyoming, finding a job for after I'm done with the internship (how will I go to job interviews?), the trials and tribulations that come with moving cross country, what do I do with Kitty, etc. So at this point, I don't think I'm going to take the internship. Sure, the extra money would have been nice, but I think the cons outweigh the pros in this situation.

How does trust factor into this? I trust you completely, and know that you wouldn't hurt me unless you really thought it absolutely necessary. I think that any doubts I have about the "lasting-ness" of our relationship, as it were, are more of a reflection of my personality than on our relationship, and I hope you understand that, and also don't think me weak because of it. When I was with B., it never occurred to me that we wouldn't work out. I couldn't conceive of that notion, and when it really became apparent that it was never going to happen, I completely fell apart. When I was thirteen, I watched my dad fall apart because he had no backup plan. He had never been on his own and when he was, for the first time at forty years old, he was completely and utterly lost. Like I said, I hope you don't think of this as being weak, because for me, I think of it as watching out for myself and my sanity. For all the major decisions in my life, I've always had a backup plan, in case things didn't go the way I planned. This has helped me to have trust in *myself*, in knowing that I will be okay no matter what happens. I know that any decision I make, although I will have to live with the consequences of that decision, I will be able to make it through, and make things work.

I know you, and us, are worth waiting for. And if things don't work out, they don't work out, and we're both strong people and with time, will get through it and move on. But I'm willing to, and more than happy to, put everything I can into us. I know that for you, actions speak louder than words, which is why you're not a fan of the "I love you too" type platitudes. I know that you wouldn't stick around if you didn't love me anymore, which is why I don't get upset that you're an "actions-speak-louder-than-words-kinda-guy". I trust you to make whatever you think are the best decisions, and I trust myself to be able to live with the consequences of those decisions.

B.

ps. I should (they switch around the schedule every once in a while, but I don't think they will this week) have off Thursday afternoon, if you'd like to schedule a phone date. I have class in the morning, so I can call you from school where it'll be nice and quiet.

Flesh Totem

by Peter Duran


June 11
[...]
In the lowlands of Irkyan Dohya there is a certain village where it is always night. Any native will admit it, whether high- or lowlander, but few will gladly provide more information than this and most indicate that they know nothing of its location, or the reasons for or causes of the alleged anomaly. In the highland villages, particularly, those confronted about "Kiryan-nohi", "the empty place" tend to divert the conversation to the week's taro harvest or a newly pubescent relative, and further inquiry becomes exceedingly difficult. The opaque origin of this myth has eluded me thus far, but here in the lowlands I shall remain, amidst the sweltering murk, until some light is shed on the matter.

It is the sort of place where one is glad of a grub in the sago meal, where mosquito nets are useless and where a chance encounter in the leaves is followed by quick, stammering bursts--names of ancestors!--in the hope of one point of commonality, but one reason to refrain from promptly firing stone-tipped arrows or gouging stone-tipped spears as a point of sheer necessity. The ignorance of those farming a mere few miles upland is complete, a fact not likely to change in the foreseeable generation; were the soil, forever oozing with life and death, remotely tillable for taro, for tapioca, for yam, the nourishment (or, malnourishment) of choice would remain: the sago palm. This tree is both the source of spirits and the purging thereof, just as it is both culprit and cure of physical ailments; its leggy frame is carved into images of demons and protectors, even as its innards are pulverized to produce the gravelly pulp that is the very life of this people.

[...]

I write these things to you, dearest Celeste, not to frighten you but rather to ease your mind about the nature of these--and further, to help to you understand why I continue here, and why I must stay still longer. Nasty cannibals, indeed! Nothing could be farther from the truth, as one look at these poor, tree-fed souls would tell you. The violence is limited to intertribal rows that are so auto-historical, so engrained as to be almost programmatic. Fear not for me, as my reserve tins of dried ham and iron supplements should last the better part of two months. My body of research is pitifully incomplete, and must continue for our own sake. I will send correspondence once every week as time allows, and will remain
Yours affectionately,
Phillipe


June 23
I regret, dear Celeste, not affording you a letter before now, but such are the ways of the jungle and its kind--slow, distractable, unpredictable and yet quite decisive. We set to circumvent the southeastern edge of the island by sea two fridays ago, in bark vessels of notably primitive construction even for these regions. Upon attempting an upstream run at the Irkhuynik delta, the skins of two of the vessels crumbled like paper pinwheels. Mine was among these; the bulk of my provisions was salvaged, however, one satchel and the case containing candles, quills, papers and--alas!--inks, was lost, likely sunken into the sediments or washed to sea. I have had to send for inks and, moreover, spectacles, which slipped away during the confusion, but these have been only the start of my sorry delays. Stranded on the coast, my team was forced to set up camp while one of the two guides took the remaining vessel to send for further assistance, promising to return in two days. He did not, and on the morning of the fourth day the party began a careful plodding upstream in search of a ford, as we had foolishly camped on the side of the river opposite our intended destination. The floodplain seemed impossible to skirt, as the rains were constantly raising the levels of water and sediment; we found dry, if uneven land to rest that evening, but the exposure of our limbs to the muddy waters had been long and sure enough, and the following morning my ankles were bloated and teeming with maggots, visible under the skin but too minute and many in number to merit attempts at removal (though I relieved some of the fluid in my ankle with a scalpel.) Even now as I write, I can feel the growing worms under the skin of my feet and toenails, writhing and feeding on my flesh; soon they will emerge new and changed beings, some of which will be destroyed, some of which will free themselves. But for now, they feed...

[...]

This band was altogether different, though, as might be expected, entirely unhelpful in directing my men to any location they were familiar with. Of some note were their interactions, in a distinct and unintelligible dialect (incomprehensible to all but the two remaining trained guides.) Tolgkunya-ho was clearly distraught by what these hunter-gatherers were telling him and the other man (whose name I have not yet grasped) glanced briefly in my direction with a certain alarm. I speak of this moment to illustrate a fine example of why I am here--the characteristic ease with which these people are disturbed, upset, or frightened. Needless to say, the insights gleaned from these superstitious savages may be invaluable for men of our discipline, and bring us one step closer to an understanding of our condition [...] From this place, as welcoming as could be expected, I write with berry ink from the kyuka shrub--crude, yet, I trust, sufficient--and with the hope that these words of comfort may soon reach the city and be on their path across the ocean to your hands.
Yours,
Phillipe


July 1
[...] and the first evidence of real promise; I expect we are on the right track. If the sciences are not another form of mere belief, as the dogma of spiritists and religious men, I stand as first apostate; if they be, then, pray may I be the first apostle! That my quest for evidence may be a crusade for truth; my data, a veritable eucharist; my life a sacrifice--if these shadows claim me, may I be known as a martyr for progress, a missionary of meaning! [...]

-P.


July 10
[...] and were led astray, remarkably, back to our point of origin, where we laid camp four nights ago. Four days lost! Repugning my compass leads, Tolgkunya-ho led us to an impasse of swamp, requiring us to circle back [...]

[...] snakebite, took the young driver's leg. Naturally I immediately attempted to apply a tourniquet, but this was a struggling affair over the better part of two hours, as the poor devil convulsed like some rabid beast and the other men refused to approach him, much less assist me, and by the time the belt was tightened the man was weary from venom worked to his heart and beyond. He was no older than sixteen, with three children from two wives. That night, he asked me to cut him with my metal blade. He was too weak to use stone and the others would not speak to him, believing him possessed by evil; such poisonings are consequence of making a pact with a wight, earth-demon, tree-demon or sky-demon. Amidst his animalistic howls we moved camp and left him under a sago, to which his soul would rise; but that night the majority of his flesh would be eaten by possums.


July 21
[...] surely lost, and uncertain of our proximity to a village port with communication to the urban center. The season of the rains seems to have arrived early, delaying our progress significantly; the evening insects force us to seek cover, and the midday heat waves flood the eyes with salt sweat, the lungs with water and the vision with dreams and delusions; our energy is low and we gain but a few hesitant miles on some days; some of the men speak of a curse. What I can promise is to continue to record my letters to you, in sincere and cautious hope that they are spared--by the sporadic ruthlessness of the skies, the cancerous mildew, the termites in their haphazard imperialism--and be sent soon. I ration my remaining provisions wisely, eating primarily what my men procure from the mud or decaying snags or occasionally the canopy. There is hardly a large edible beast in this country--though a primitive, slippery fish may be speared in the rivers, if a man can spare several hours and the skin on his feet...of this, then, there is one moment I would--indeed, I must--relate. Some nights ago we trailed what Tolgkunya-ho swore (by sound) to be a boar, separating in a slow attempt to surround the elusive beast. It was likely the third hour of the hunt, when I recognized that fainting was imminent and I would need to find solid ground immediately rather than work my way back to camp in the utter blackness of the deep jungle, that I heard a low vocal huffing, almost certainly belonging to a mammal. [...] and, impossibly, stumbled through my delirium into a clearing in the swamp where something remarkably large was splashing around unafraid...I hollered for backup and aimed my rifle as steadily as I was able, then fired the unresponding trigger, caked with swamp grease, and tripped forward over the writhing mass of flesh...what lay beneath my eyes, squealing and grunting in the mud, was a human girl, in appearance of eleven or twelve years of age, and two impossibly wrinkled old men, one above her, one beneath. All glistened with the oily essence of the swamp with which they were covered, and the girl stared up at me, her wide eyes scattering what little light there was, as though I had arrived at the promised land. They continued copulating as though utterly undisturbed; the cries of my men drew closer and, bewildered, I reeled over to find them, stammering in horror that it was not a boar in the clearing, but a girl and two men, but they were gone, with no trace of their thrashing and no scent trail, and my stinging eyes and my swimming senses made the forest seem to float upside down and my stomach released itself by every available pathway and I saw nothing for hours, nothing but those big white eyes in the swamp, as though the eyes belonged to the swamp, as though the swamp itself had eyes, and these were they, and I recuperated quickly and feel quite strong now, yes, in fact I feel stronger than ever [...]


August 17
When Oryan-koh created the forest, they say, it was night. The world was immersed in foreboding dark that seemed never to end. But dark is a stage; a world, a process, just as death transforms itself into blood and breath. The sun, a trickster character of the name Dakyan-oran (or something similar) lay dormant for many ages, sleeping in the bowels of the night, plotting his inevitable birth.

Death, you see, is a trick. Do these men dream of death? Do you, my sweet Celeste, pray tell? When I dream of death, you see, it is not a frightening affair nor the stuff of nightmares, but rather soft, inevitable, resigned, triumphant. It lurks not, nor follows in chase but rather happens upon, surprised, or taps on the shoulder--not to ask permission but to give fair warning! It has nothing at all to do with punishment, vindication, or revenge. It has nothing at all to do with things done or left undone. When feeling the gravy that some men have called "soul" leaking painlessly from the head, from the spilled innards, when seeing the pool forming on the earth around these, it is not as they say: there is no rush of panic or peace, no fear or courage, no white light, no flashing sequence of moments chosen or unchosen, no flooding of dramatic or sentimental emotion, no thoughtful last words. There is bleeding flesh and a soft, inevitable release.

[...]

We feel the decay and transformation all around us, falling from the heavens, and by torch light we can see it: grubs dropping upon us from the canopy, clawed limbs hanging, dripping from the heights. We are in a graveyard of sloths, come away to perish, hanging on yet to branches and vines, flesh decomposing and raining down upon us, giving new life to the substrate, rotting entrails suspended from unrecognizable and ephemeral masses of hair, meat, bone, and writhing larvae. We have arrived.


Undated
Only in the complete dark do visions take on their intended clarity, becoming indistinguishable from reality, if indeed there be such an ontological distinction, or if indeed such a distinction be relevant. It is here, you see, the empty place, village of phantoms, purgatory of pupal men; we have overtaken it or, perhaps more accurately, it has overtaken us in its glorious silence, and there is no way of knowing how long we have lived in this manner, of knowing in certainty which man is which, and which be still of flesh and blood, but here: a man. Which man I know not, but appearing ageless, colorless, and without blemish-- the form, perhaps, of all men! -- speaking, singing, working. He wanted to carve himself into a living totem pole. Not merely by scarification or markings, but by the reshaping of the flesh to resemble, to embody, the new form, the archetype, the perfectly alive, as though he were of soft sago wood. Wisdom is lost on deaf and befuddled ears and still we continued walking, leaving him behind to become what he may, and the world-- the world continued to change before our blind eyes [...]


Undated
[...]
Do you recall the day we found the cat--surely you do. Its abdomen had been flattened by a passing carriage and yet it lived, impossibly dragging its weight along the roadside with the strength of one remaining paw, uncrushed. The other children began tossing pebbles at it in delight, poking it with sticks, dangling it from its hind legs on a branch. Buzzing flies covered its frame, outside, inside. Why did it struggle? Why resist? Finally the children doused the creature in stolen lamp oil and lit it, screaming with pure joy at its writhing and silent vocalizations and we watched from a distance, you and I, the dancing flames from the tree and the dancing shadows of the children around it [...]

There is a force at work here more fantastic than I could imagine. I can feel it, my dear, coursing through my very bones and filling me with life and bright desire. It is the sun, preparing for his imminent glory, his new birth from night's cocoon.


Undated
[...] the others are lost in their darkness and will not understand--but I! How could I not have seen! Surely by now you are convinced, with me, of the truth that can only be known as a living talisman [...] What more evidence could I need? As the man has done, so must I--an end, a beginning! A conscious evolution, and at the same time a fulfillment of purpose, of the precise reason, unknown at the time, that I arrived in this dark jungle, that I might pass through this very stage. Fear not, dearest Celeste! Only by a release of the entrails may the inner pulp of the spirit be released, only by leaving behind the exuvium can the final instar emerge with strength and flight and soon [...] I will descend upon you! I will not forget you and will come, in my new and changed form, to where you await by your bedside and you too will join me -- yes -- we will be joined in the immortal bliss of the complete man...!

Subject: Inbox #1

Ok. so i have been thinking about what you said the other day. about 'not sure if we could last' if you went on to Wyoming. I want you to read this with good attention please. don't jump to conclusions until you've read through it completely (and even then think through it). I'm not declaring or insinuating that any actions be made on our relationship; I am simply talking philosophy here. My aim is to hopefully address the main concern with your decision making (and mine) and hopefully help you make things more clear. relationships can be difficult sometimes. This is my thought:

First question is what's the big rush? and then i begin thinking and perhaps there isn't a rush at all, but just a fear of 'falling out'. Perhaps, a "loss of intimacy". That gets me thinking. Is a relationship only made on intimacy? But let me, in my tiredness, lay down all my thoughts on the subject.

Firstly, it makes me wonder the function of a relationship. What is it there for? Comfort, companionship, etc. But what happens to the function when those "components" (ie comfort, intimacy) are taken away or stretched thinly? Perhaps it is in knowing that in the end, those things will be there waiting for you. However, if a trust is not insured between two people, then doubts arise. Also, the necessity of these "components" may cause for the need of fulfillment sooner than it can occur. My position on this is vague. Of course i get urges, it is natural. But as it is, I am usually trying to curb that enthusiasm anyways. for me, distance is dreadful, for i see the immediate function of a relationship taken away and causing a relationship (at first glance) to be lacking largely. But here is where I reassure myself: i am a devotee, a man of loyalty. If waiting is what it takes, then I shall challenge myself. as it is, what is this "running from girl to girl" really mean? to me, it is weakness, and i only tolerate that in small doses...

I wonder if it is that you don't trust me or trust yourself. if it was one year from now that we were to finally meet again, is the reason (if) we broke up because the function of the relationship becomes meaningless? what is the difference between four months and six months? and even if you did decide to cut off now, because "it's only been one month and you miss me so", would that missing stop? sure it might be sooner alleviated, but still, we have attachments. and because of our particular situation, the only way I can understand any type of fissure of relationship is that you fear that the intimacy will have all but evaporated by the time we join hands again. Because if this is not the case, if you don't fear this, then what is the point of breaking up then? are you going to settle in London with someone? probably not. Or what about Wyoming? Maybe, but I'm guessing your not going there to find someone...

all this distance seems like a veil of confusion, throwing a wrench in the gears of our beliefs. but really the gears and the wrench are an illusion: you must simply decide whether i am worthy of waiting for. Is the relationship serious to you or is it sacrificial? Are you serious about us? I remember asking Diego the other day: "What would you sacrifice for your daughter? But really, what would you not sacrifice for your daughter?" Our situation is simple, and I pose that question for your own reflection.

Hopefully, I hope I'm being some help. If this confuses you, just ignore it. We can talk about it. But give it some thought before responding. Like I said, my opinion is obscure, but is does not mean that I am unsure. My expression is vague on purpose, but the truth does not lie in our words, but in our actions.


A.

Excerpt from Paris Review issue #1, William Styron, 1953

"I still maintain that the times get precisely the literature that they deserve, and that if the writing of this period is gloomy the gloom is not so much inherent in the literature as in the times. The writer's duty is to keep on writing, creating memorable Pvt. Prewitts and Sgt. Crofts, and to hell with Ahab. Perhaps the critics are right : this generation may not produce literature equal to that of any past generation—who cares? The writer will be dead before anyone can judge him—but he must go on writing, reflecting disorder, defeat, despair, should that be all he sees at the moment, but ever searching for the elusive love, joy, and hope—qualities which, as in the act of life itself, are best when they have been struggled for, and are not commonly come by with much ease, either by a critic’s formula or by a critic’s yearning. If he does not think one way or another, that he can create literature worthy of himself and of his place, at this particular moment in history, in his society, then he’d better pawn his Underwood, or become a critic.”

Rudolf Eucken's 1908 Nobel lecture

                First I summarize; then I criticize.

 

                The topic is idealism versus naturalism.  And the question is: “whether man is entirely determined by nature or whether he can somehow – or indeed essentially – rise above it.”  That is, if man is able to rise above nature, there he will find a new reality.  Eucken warns though, that if idealism is in fact an illusion, that “we should eradicate all traces of it from human opinions and institutions.”  If this is the case, then we should become as purely natural as possible.  However, Eucken finds many problems in naturalism and thus defines it (loosely) as “the utilitarian purpose of preserving life.”  He also sees naturalism as being only those things external to man.  Idealism is the opposite: it “maintains the emancipation of inwardness; according to it the disparate phenomena of life coalesce in an all-embracing inner world.” 

                Eucken finds naturalism lacking because if man were to become purely natural, Eucken believes that there would be something more than the external.  Eucken explains that because man cannot penetrate the center of nature, the external, thoughts of the divine or of things of greater power will arise in man.  Eucken however elaborates on the effect of modern science and how it has brought man to have a “closer and more direct experience of nature” and that evolution has proved man’s dependence on nature.  Eucken argues that naturalism goes beyond these facts, “for it maintains that man is completely defined by his relationship with the world, that he is only a piece of the natural process.”  His “chief argument against such a limitation of human life” is “the result not of subjective reflection but of an analysis of the modern movement itself.”  That is to be able to look above or at nature is to be above it.  As man comes closer to nature, as he becomes more aware of it “man shows himself superior to it.”  Eucken elaborates further, “Man’s tremendous intellectual achievement of a conception of nature in its totality proves his superiority over the natural world and the existence of another level of reality.”  Idealism slowly creeps into the argument against naturalism as Eucken argues that technology and social movements also proves man’s superiority over nature.  Technology for it “demands and proves imaginative anticipation and planning, the tracing of new possibilities, exact calculations, and bold ventures” and social movement because “we do not aim at an increase in sensual pleasure (i.e., because material things are not valued because of their “sensual characteristics but because they serve us to enhance life and to dominate the world completely”) but at a situation in which any man and all men together can develop their full strength.”  As he closes his argument against naturalism, he remains aware that “the mind needs environment as an object to work on, and to that extent it is dependent on it.”  In the same paragraph he brings science up again, as a means dependent on nature, but ultimately it is “an external object [that] can never lead to true, complete, and inner knowledge.”  And finally, “energy that is not dominated by, and does not return to, a centre, will never constitute the content of life; it leaves us empty in the midst of bustling excitement.  This is a common and painful modern experience.  But is not such a sensation of emptiness itself proof that there are more profound depths within us which demand satisfaction?”

                Eucken says yes.  “Intellectual activity” is proof that man’s existence is not merely an external and outwardly one, but that the “external object becomes part of the soul.”  “Intellectual activity takes a turn to the effect that the object is taken into the process of life, is incorporated into the soul and excites and moves us as part of our own life.”  And Eucken wonders whether the interest man takes in his external objects is merely naturalism or a reflection of the self, proof that man is not separate from nature, but able to work with it in order to perfect himself.  This in effect is how life enters a relationship with itself, “begets within itself a new depth” and “gives to the object a new and higher form, and so life is not merely the representation or appropriation of a given reality; it enhances and creates; it does not find a world, but must make a world for itself.”        

                 “Thus life faces not only the outside world, but itself.”  And as man works with this and his new inner life, he begins to association that he is not alone in this and that it is a universal characteristic which reveals that self-preservation “becomes increasingly less satisfying.” Eucken believes that the new forms and the new inner lives that are created are not man’s imagination, but real because man “could not even imagine such things.”  Eucken makes a broad stunning statement, (to which the paragraph itself should be reproduced, but won’t be) “idealism, unlike naturalism, understands not mind by nature, but nature by mind.”  Eucken then begins to talk about the necessity that man is not simply drifting along, but that he must engage and fight with this.  Because new complications will arise, man must form a bond, struggle with it, process it, understand it and that this is not given but “has to be discovered and realized by ourselves.”  He then goes into a short history of many approaches including the Greeks and Christianity.  During his short history, idealism seems to be represented as the Empedocles’ cycle: it fluctuates between positive period and critical period.  However, Eucken simply warns of these eventual doubts, and that if man is not prepared, if “life lacks a dominating unity and a centre, while at the same time the transformation of the outside world achieves splendid triumphs,” that life will be unbalance and that “external successes [will] gradually come to dominate the picture.” 

                Because man has idealism, he can never return to naturalism.  To do so would only be harmful to the inner life and others; ”having penetrated to the universe and its infinity, he cannot again return to the limitations of a natural being; once the desire for an inner world relationship to the world has stirred within him, external relationships will no longer satisfy him.”  Eucken acknowledges the difficulty of the fight, and proposes that “we must revise our image of man in order to reach the point of intellectual creativity” in order to fight our doubts.   He speaks about the influence necessary for literature and then ends with the parting words: “Only such faith can enable us to cope with the enormous obstacles and fill us with the confidence of success.”   

               

 

               

                Two problems I had were that at first this is somewhat anachronistic because sciences, such as psychology, has attempted to penetrate and relate the inner being with the external being (neurology however is not an “internal” science because it does not deal with the soul; which could be an argument against psychology: it deals with the fluctuations of the mind).  Secondly, what isn’t natural about being human?  The same desire to have an inner life is the same root desire that defines wanting an external/natural life.  However, Eucken is really defining Idealism as ‘how to deal with the soul’ which then becomes a question of spiritual belief.  Although he would probably say that it isn’t a spiritual belief because if someone were to simply see life as only natural phenomena, he would eventually get a yearning for something “more”.  Eucken defines that urge as the urging of the soul, thus there is a distinction between spiritualism and the soul. 

                I know Eucken was fearful of modern development and technology as well (although he uses it in his argument against naturalism) and saw that, at the time, the growing consumerism was affecting how people behaved with each other.  But my final criticism is what I call “collective delusion”.  Although he doesn’t directly say it, but he insinuates that throughout history, man has been disillusioned by the external world and the only way to find fulfillment was to escape into a “invisible world” (he, I believe, makes this reference when speaking about Medieval Christianity); however, to escape into himself, with the external in mind, can also be a means of disillusionment.  Say for instance, what we perceive as our true self is sudden revealed, in accordance to an external change (as Eucken suggests), to not be your true self.  How long does this process go on?  Eucken doesn’t seem to supply an answer.  To be honest he sounds a little Socialist (although he had his criticisms about this too) and Solipsist.  It is not an entirely bad idea. I actually like it.  Perhaps he cannot fully exfoliate his ideas in such a short span.  I enjoyed the part on Literature, about how a good work of writing needs this internal conflict and resolution or at the very least the mixing of internal and external worlds.  Also that intellectual creativity is synonymous with fighting for the soul.  Reminds me a little of Vladimir Sorokin’s Ice.               

Link to the lecture

Introduction to Issue 1

It is called The Long Tunnel for a reason. The process is lengthy, the progress slow. It requires patience but also, because it is a difficult path, perseverance. It is lonely and discouraging but, in the end (we all must hope there will be an end) we emerge, changed. Despite the challenges, there is room for comradery, commiseration, and new friendships along the way. There is the opportunity for great work to appear suddenly and for inspiration to come from near misses. Encouragement comes when we realize that, though the tunnel is dark, we are not alone.

From this comes our 'zine. Simply put: it is a place to form a bond through writing. It is about exploring the process of writing, of learning a craft, and coming to understand an art. Open to the writing of both amateur and professional, it does not cater to either. Instead, it seeks to exist in the murky middle waters that stand between the two. The place in which the dedicated amateur decides, despite the color of the grass, that she belongs on the other bank.

It exists between what has been called "Pop" and "Elitist" literature. The boundaries of storytelling will form around tradition and exceed those limits as well. The focus is not so much what we are writing, but that we are writing focused pieces that challenge not only the conspicuous background known as the "literary and unliterary world" but most importantly, ourselves. As craftsmen, we want to attune our craft, but as humans we want to challenge and enlighten, within the privacy of our homes and with those who find themselves in the pages of the zine. It is about struggle and triumph, finding and losing your voice, feeling lost and being found. And each issue is organized around a theme.

That's right, to make it easier, and hopefully more interesting, each issue will be organized around a theme. It may be an idea, an event, or an experience. Or, it might be a form, as is the case with the first issue.

The first issue's theme will be Letters. It was a mere coincidence at first, but the more we reflected on it, Letters seem most appropriate for our aim as a 'zine. Anyone can write a letter; whether a four year old child is writing to Santa or a famous author writing to a friend. Each letter exists on both these planes, as amateur and high-lit. Letters are personal; Letters tell stories.

Tell us yours.

 

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Entries are due by January 13th.  If you'd like to contribute, please send all submissions to thelongtunnel@gmail.com