Clare Cavanagh

Try to Praise the Mutilated World

A d a m Zagajewski Intenta celebrar el m u n d o muti lado . Recuerda los largos días d e j u n i o y las fresas silvestres, las gotas de v i n o rosé. Las ortigas, que c o n esmero cubrían las fincas abandonadas d e los exiliados. Tienes q u e celebrar el m u n d o muti lado . M i r a b a los yates y los barcos lu josos ; u n o d e ellos tenía u n largo viaje p o r hacer, a otros les aguardaba só lo un vacío salado. Viste a refugiados c o n r u m b o a n inguna parte, oíste a verdugos q u e cantaban c o n g o z o . Deberías celebrar el m u n d o muti lado . Recuerda los m o m e n t o s c u a n d o estabais j u n t o s en u n a habitac ión b lanca y se m o v i ó la cortina. Vuelve en pensamientos al conc ierto , al estallar la música. En o t o ñ o cogías bellotas en el parque y las ho jas se arremol inaban en las cicatrices de la tierra. Celebra el m u n d o muti lado , y la p l u m a gris q u e u n t o r d o h a perd ido , y la luz del icada q u e yerra y desaparece y regresa.

“Non-strategic” Eastern Europe and the Fate of the Humanities

Until recent events intervened, Eastern European Studies found themselves under attack at my home university and other institutions for being, among other things, “non-strategic.” We see the same notion, if not the same terminology, applied increasingly to the humanities and non-quantitative social sciences, which lose ground daily to the so-called STEM disciplines in both educational policy and practice. How do we defend the study of Eastern European literature and culture in the current academic climate? This essay defends the centrality both of literary and Eastern European studies in the twenty-first-century curriculum.

Sunrise over Cassis

In the semi-darkness white buildings loom, not fully formulated, and beside them, the gray vineyards, the quiet before dawn; Judas counts his silver coins, but olive trees contorted in wild prayer enter the earth ever more deeply. Where is the sun! But it’s still cold and a humble landscape spreads around us; the stars have gone and priests sleep greedily, birds aren’t allowed to sing before August and only now and then one stammers like a lazy boy in high school Latin. It’s four a.m. and despair lives in so many houses. This is the time when sad philosophers with narrow faces compose their jaded aphorisms and worn conductors, who’d brought Bruckner and Mahler back to life that evening, drift off to sleep unwilling, unapplauded, and whores go home to their shabby apartments.