Sep 082011
 

Erika Dreifus and her favourite reader

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In keeping with the memories of dark times we share this week, here is a thoughtful and thought-provoking essay on writing stories after 9/11. Erika Dreifus casts an intelligently inquiring eye over the issues of politics in writing, political correctness, what used to be called the ethics of appropriation—in general the swirl of thoughts and inhibitions that somehow got in the way of writing about massive public tragedy in America. This essay was written just two years after that sunny September day. One wonders if things have changed, if these concerns still roil the conscience of young writers trying to grapple with the unspeakable or if they have learned to hear Albert Camus’ stern admonition, quoted by Erika below, “to forge themselves an art of living in times of catastrophe in order to be born a second time and to fight openly against the instinct of death at work in our history.”

Erika Dreifus has published stories with connections to 9/11 in The Healing Muse, Midstream, and Mississippi Review Online, among others. Her story collection, Quiet Americans, was published by Last Light Studio in 2011. Erika is a contributing editor for The Writer magazine and Fiction Writers Review, and she serves on the editorial advisory board of J Journal: New Writing on Justice. She also publishes her own amazing online writing resource site, Practicing  Writing.This essay is a revised version of a paper presented at the “Why Write?” Conference held at Columbia University in New York City, 28-29 March 2003. The essay was published originally in Queen’s Quarterly 111/1 (Spring 2004). DG is grateful to Philip Graham for drawing his attention to Erika’s work.

dg

Having previously earned a PhD in Modern French history, I was in my first semester of a low-residency MFA program in creative writing in September 2001. Before I left for work on Tuesday, September 11 (I was teaching at Harvard at the time, and I had a full day of interviewing freshmen interested in my seminar on historical fiction slated), I submitted a new short story for my online workshop (2 other students) and instructor’s review. So fiction-writing will, for me, remain inextricably linked with the events of that day.

I was born in Brooklyn, and although I’d been living in Massachusetts for many years, most of my nearest and dearest were in the metropolitan NYC area that day. The following semester, I found that 9/11 was creeping into several of the stories I was submitting to my workshop. I was shocked by some of the reactions that this work received, and I was flummoxed further by discussions I found elsewhere. I welcomed any and every opportunity to explore all of this. Hence, my interest in calls for papers and conferences, and my need to think through all of these issues in writing.

—Erika Dreifus

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KEEPING SILENT? WRITING FICTION AFTER SEPTEMBER 11

 By Erika Dreifus

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I noticed an announcement in the Chronicle of Higher Education. It publicized a forthcoming panel at St Edward ‘s University in Austin, Texas, that would examine “Artistic Response to the September 11th Terrorist Attacks.” The announcement provided contact information. I sent e-mails to St Edward’s University. I could not attend the panel. But I wanted to know more.

I wanted to know more because “artistic response” to crisis in the public sphere – especially literary response to national and global trauma – has long fascinated me. From my undergraduate explorations of the intellectuel engagé to my own current work writing fiction I have not escaped the precedents, predicaments, and larger purposes surrounding “response.”

After September 11, 2001, these issues resonated in theory and practice. Sometimes it has seemed that I’ve spent nearly equal time, since then, writing fiction and arguing about it.

I’ve argued with colleagues and teachers, who objected to even the most carefully crafted allusions to the attacks in my fiction. Most surprising were the comments of one workshop classmate. Responding to one story I’d written six months after September 11, he wrote that while he, a Southerner, probably couldn’t understand “how you Northerners are dealing with [September 11], it really did have an effect on everyone. And personally, I am not ready to read short stories referring to [itl yet.”

After I’d recovered from seeing myself and my subject – rather than the actual work – faulted, I continued reading: “I feel like there should be some sort of grace period before it is ok to use that in fiction. It just doesn’t feel right. Like you’re trying to capitalize on that emotion … “

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Sep 072011
 

Here are three poems from Lee Busby’s forthcoming chapbook, Wild Strawberries, set to be released from Finishing Line Press in December. Lee is a friend and former VCFA classmate. His work has appeared in such journals as Fullosia Press, Poet’s Ink Review and Moon City Review among others. He writes poems that are funny, sad, smart and always honest, exploring love, loss and the margins of masculinity. They echo with the voices and images of southwestern Missouri, but his poetry is much more than regional. I think of Lee as the outsider looking in and the insider looking out, a glorious contradiction which resonates in his work.

Richard Jackson , whose translations have appeared on Numéro Cinq, described Lee’s poems this way:

“Beginning with an escape and ending “not far from anywhere,” Lee Busby moves magically, almost imperceptibly from journey to odyssey as he explores family history and larger issues of loss and redemption, always wondering, as he does when fishing with his father that things might already have “slipped, / almost, away from me.” Hiding behind a kind of folksy vision, though, is a voice that is clever, almost Horatian in its slyness, as when he says to a girl, teaching her to fish, “I’ll slide  / in here behind you this time and show you / how to reel it in, nice and easy.” Indeed, it is just such a strategy that Horace would approve of, a kind of vision one would expect in the stories of Larry Brown. That Busby can pull off this delicate balance is a testament to a complex, honest vision that pulls us in with its unassuming airs only to immediately show us the falsity of our own assumptions and reveal a deep, mature vision of a life lived in endless self exploration.”

It’s a pleasure to bring Lee’s poems to Numéro Cinq. Be sure to buy the book!

—Richard Farrell


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Three Poems From Wild Strawberries,
by Lee Busby

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Wild Strawberries

I’ve cut a swatch of path through my backyard
looking for wild strawberries. They grow small
round the dogwood right up to the maple. They’re

bitter, which is understandable, being so small.
Two sparrows keep flying overhead. They’re looking
for the strawberries too, I suppose. And here’s

the hedge under the window, the only reason
I bought that Husqvarna. Which isn’t much.
The tulip tree is covered in flies again.

My neighbor keeps burning his trash right next
to my fence. Sometimes I throw a soda can
of gasoline on when he isn’t looking. He deserves

that much. I’ve found strawberries, not enough
to brag about, they lie in my hand staining
it a little. If the weather gets any cooler

it will kill my wild garden, these sunflowers
I grew because my grandmother loved sunflowers.
I throw a few strawberries up in the air, hoping

a sparrow will swoop down and snatch one up,
yet they never do, and I’m left walking the yard
to pick the strawberries back up and eat

them myself. As small as they are I still get juice,
the bitterness like copper, running down my chin.
My neighbor is cutting some wood now. He buys a rick,

already cut, stacks it in his back yard, cuts it again.
I don’t offer him any strawberries. Ever.
He would gobble them down too quickly.

I like to lie in my grass on days like this,
eating my strawberries and smelling my dirt.
I hold my red hands up when I’m finished. I like my life.

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Sep 062011
 

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At the Duomo with the Giraffes

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Siena’s Palio: A Medieval Horserace Turns Viral

Text and Photographs by Natalia Sarkissian

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Twice a year, on July 2nd and August 16th, after a three-hour parade in Renaissance costume has unfolded, jockeys representing ten of Siena’s seventeen factions challenge each other in the Piazza del Campo. They race for a handmade banner—a palio—and for the honor its possession confers. This is the Palio, Siena’s famous horserace, dating from the Middle Ages.

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Rai Television films the event

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Piazza del Campo, August 2011

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At each bi-annual showing, a hundred thousand bystanders from around the globe jam bleachers, balconies, rooftops, windows and the center of the shell-shaped piazza, cheering one faction or another.
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Behind the 400 Euro Seats on the Piazza del Campo

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Watching from the Piazza

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Jockeys line their skittish horses between two ropes stretched across the track. When the rincorsa–the last horse–enters, the rope drops the racers tear away.

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YouTube Preview Image

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The jockeys careen around the Piazza perimeter three times at break-neck speed. Frequently horses crash into mattress-covered barriers at the right-hand curves of San Martino or the Casato.

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