Icarus Vol. 65 No. 1 by Icarus Magazine

ICARUS ICARUS MAGAZINE

MAGAZINE

VOLUME LXV, ISSUE I

ICARUS MAGAZINE

VOLUME LXV, ISSUE I

Trinity College Dublin Â© Trinity Publications 2014

EDITORIAL “Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.” — Jack Gilbert, from “Failing and Flying” That paramount fire peeks and stoops to churn cool depths of the oceans that in turn lick their liquid limbs against magnetic heat. A turbine forms. We use its energy to lift our bodies into the air, learn this new air by its breath under our paper wings, fixed to our skin with sealing wax. Suspended in a paradox of elements, here is the momentum of the temporal, the swelling throb of open space. A space small enough for a universe to climb into an atom yet large enough to yawn the sprawling vistas of our dreams. The ragged lines of time knot themselves around our mornings, tie us to our days. Into these we dive and splash without noticing the sun has melted our wax. — Susanna Galbraith and Niall McCabe Icarus is proud to present some new poems by Cyrus Cassells, this issue’s featured poet, alongside the work of Trinity students and alumni. The Icarus staff acknowledges Trinity Publications and the School of English, as as well as Gemini International Limited, for making this issue possible. Icarus is a fully participating member of the Press Council of Ireland. Serious complaints should be made to: The Editors, Icarus, Trinity Publications, Mandela House, Dublin 2. Appeals may be directed to the Press Council of Ireland. CHIEF EDITORS

Susanna Galbraith and Niall McCabe DEPUTY EDITOR

Olen Bajarias LAYOUT EDITOR

Edmund Heaphy 2

CONTENTS Featured Poet CYRUS CASSELLS

Iphigenia 4

by JACOB AGEE

The Linguist by ROSA CAMPBELL

Scooter’s Wheel 9

by KERSTINA MORTENSEN

Sketch of Niall by RONAN MURPHY

by CAROLINE NORRIS

Here’ s looking at dew by D. JOYCE-AHEARNE

by JULIA HELMES

by FINNEGAN BLAKE 14

by JULIA HELMES 16

by NIALL BREHON 18

by JULIA HELMES 19

Michael Sparrow, The Author of Ulysses

by STEPHEN COX

On Johnston Ridge by WILL FLEMING

Hamlet

Workspace by KERSTINA MORTENSEN

Keepy Uppy

This is Our Man by MICHAEL KEMP

Up at the Villa

Cædmon by ROSA CAMPBELL

Amaurotum: A Sonata in Three Movements

Savello by RONAN MURPHY

Delta of Venus

Leeson by KERSTINA MORTENSEN

Creation Myth (Cosmogony) of the D’orobo People from the Northern Highlands of Kenya, East Africa

Low Visibility by ROSA CAMPBELL

Featured Poet: Cyrus Cassells Cyrus Cassellsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; fifth book of poetry, The Crossed-Out Swastika, was a finalist for the Balcones Prize for Best Poetry Book of 2012. He has been a recipient of a Lambda Literary Award, a Lannan Literary Award, a Puschart Prize, two NEA grants, the National Poetry Series, and the William Carlos Williams Award. His first novel, My Gingerbread Shakespeare, and The Gospel according to Wild Indigo: New & Selected Poems are forthcoming. He teaches at Texas State University and lives in Austin.

Featured Poet CYRUS CASSELLS

FEATURED POET

Two Hikers Often there were eye-catching poppies along the train tracks— Sky-opened and sea-opened, in Manarola, I’d follow the steep, rain-freshened way of wild red valerian and light-trapping lemons, to the lofty, cached-away village of Volastra, then down to the panoramic cliff-side paths: Green-garbed May was the ideal time, the ideal temperature for hailing the sea’s laudable glamour— In tranquil Corniglia, I relished the horizon’s final, heart-quickening portions of available light—sudden pennants of sumptuous peach, clerical red, and sublime purple— sharing the precipitous colors with a genial stranger, still elated from his coastal trek. Below our enlivening cat’s cradle of revealed connections, the jutting rocks, the blue dories,

FEATURED POET

the sea’s austere jewelry began to glow and dull in the swiftly amassing day’s end. When we both confessed our irrecoverable parents (both of us had lost, first our industrious fathers then our shrewd mothers) were still fallible and potent, still crackling, deep-down, under our lids, we were rung like a dusk-lit campanile’s black bell. And then our human joy, laced with an ageless grieving, our obvious fatigue from the strenuous up-and-down between villages, our slowing, May-time voices were hushed by the dark-at-last tide’s acrobatics, by the rampant, inspiriting prophet-sound of the sea. . .

FEATURED POET

The Sibyl’s Song The sibyl’s island is sacramental, and its sunny majesty more than just a sailor’s braggadocio or a reflexive dreamer’s hyperbole: four million almond trees in bloom mean four million epiphanies— When the island’s forever apt, close-at-hand almonds are a winter-buried fire, at the altar of an outlying church, a soprano with a consecrated sword, intones an unsettling, long-sung page of the apocalypse, to spellbound magi of shimmering scales and sun-dried nets, who wouldn’t exchange the sibyl’s Christmas Eve clarity for all the sea’s counting-house— The hallowing Mallorcan sibyl is both hope and altitude, prayer-glow and holiday warning, her transfixing voice, floating above the timeworn pews, the wood-carved, shining

FEATURED POET

newborn in the lowly manger, as deep-dark as a shipwreck’s blurred hull— When the riling southern wind, called xaloc, assails the Balearic coast, leaving capsized boats and scurrying battalions of fish, the lure of the sibyl’s knife-clean December singing leads the alarmed villagers, the hectored fishermen to imagine their souls might be enhanced by even their storm-broken oars, even the briefest beauty.

The Linguist by ROSA CAMPBELL

No one respects language the way we do. Ours is sacred. Consecrated, conserved, reserved for special occasions. Occasionally we play with it – tongues pushing untouched food around these soft palates – but more often it is locked away like fine china, kept for guests and hidden from each other. Our words are neat soldiers, mother tongues at quiet war over fatherlands. Troops held in reserve, we instead send envoys, ambassadors who stay diplomatically silent, sent to represent our love interests. (Careful, catch that in your throat, keep it a prisoner until the lights are out.) We have academia to thank for our taciturn lingua franca, shared between poetry and grammar: I, the lexis, you, the syntax. But together we can’t seem to finish sentences, our reticent tongues limp behind clenched teeth. Consonants only. We exist in the margins of the dictionary, the blank space in the curve of a bracket, the breath before the last line of this attempt to speak.

Sketch of Niall by RONAN MURPHY

I zombandioz injunga pompojjully adjuly I zaz dh’zymayn ryzings inzinuey ingcaal g’heheheezing zee no ver bry ai och aye reepdeep un cocal vizings urge insurge insplurge insplashing phlashov eye myrthmezzo in virj lad mirj

Low Visibility by ROSA CAMPBELL

I heard that in Tiananmen Square they installed a hundred and sixty four feet of sky, a sheet of blazing blue, sixteen foot high, as if they thought Beijing would not notice the difference. * I heard that Hollywood are training us to see seventeen to seventy-three as the normal ratio of women to men. Every crowd scene. And we have never noticed the difference. * I heard that from the fog and mire they plucked two white tuxedos, ironed stiff, to smile and wave. They gave them a cake and called the confetti equality. We pretended to notice the difference. * Turn the brightness up, the contrast down, no need for the difference when we all bleed light. See how they turn our daughters into LED sons and, licking their thumbs, smudge away the clouds.

Here’ s looking at dew by D. JOYCE-AHEARNE

An eye hanging by a thread on a green needle. The blade blinks and a world sinks closed. I see a globe of death and beauty as it drips. Beads of broken cloud are morning’s jewels. Dual worlds of decoration and demise that fall with night and fall with day. Sunlit slits that slip into something else. Destroyer of worlds, I rise from the grass with sun and steam back to giant real life. I’ve my own dues to pay.

by KERSTINA MORTENSEN

Leeson

Savello by RONAN MURPHY

Username: orient. Password: sphere13 as Johnny Dolmen ticks between a flicker of thumbs and eyelids at the screen and Post-Redemption Blues in the nearest speaker Over there Wedding or what? The East is everywhere he mouths along ‘the moos and meows of Schrödinger’s Cat and Hegel’s Cows’ Da, wo man keines findt. A zero summer ‘O Click thy sorrows, Scion o’ the bleeps And drag thy blotted woes to trash, dear Scion…’ She sniffs the clotted air and leaps Komische Leute, sie schreien. Lass sie schreien Her violin sinews—Bosch or Bruegel style— were splayed across the brazen cars (two yellow Mazda GTRs) He flicks the pics and cracks a bracket smile Now Psychopomp celebrity Polly Optic (with the Mona Lisa tash and Disré specs) will hike to Pisces, shinny the ecliptic and pluck blue apples in the veritable X Don Pipistrello, upside down in the dark, recites the Desiderrida to a Congo wrapped in Florida— ‘You’ll miss the meaning, but never miss the mark’

They curl like Beckett’s fingers, the orange trees, they sparkle over Arcturus, on the word that stirred a voice below the sea’s, a trickle in the quickening snows. Beyond absurd— to whinny and shush yourself toward the silence These stilt-jack Jonahs in the craws of Babelfish and Jabberjaws who sign to the signless dawn—what shores what islands

Cædmon by ROSA CAMPBELL I. One-hit wonder, world-worker, I am reshaper of shapers, a one-stop shop for scops and your first voice, little literature. Oh you may feel grand now, with your brave spear-shaker, your defender of this wasted land, your worth-worder, your famous Seamus, but know: I provided that weapon he wields, and I sowed the lilacs in that dead land, and the daffodils too, sprung from my cowshed manure – yes I really dug, no metaphor. For I (your baby talk, your first word made flesh) prefer something simpler: I ken what you think – that I could only recount, merely remake what the maker made, yet I am the beginning of all things, I am the dawn chorus that lets you sing, the first nine lines on an empty page – a hymn to set the stage. II. And I, Cædmon? If you bequeathed weapons to them, what did you leave me? 16

Blunt utensils, the odds and ends they didn’t need – leftover language to keep in the fridge. Did you think I’d be appeased with roses? With pink pulled apart into a palette of repeated red and white forever? Poetry is not patrilineal, and I will not be satisfied with the slight syllables that your soldiers left strewn in their wake: Consonantal hum marrying menstruation and madness. Milk and moonlight. Motherhood. Blood. Jam. But here I am. And I have picked up more than you intended to bestow. So let loose your harp-arrows, O heart-singers, O bard, for I am shower-hard and song-struck and I am building my own bow. You are the bold standard, bravely borne, against which I am judged and found lacking, lurking, lost in the background of the tapestry you and Bede began. Tradition in every thread, Norn-sewn fate, my word-wyrd woven – Unwoven. Wait. Cædmon: Giver of Rings. Word-Father. Battle Cry. Watch as your canon-balls fail and fall.

This is Our Man by MICHAEL KEMP

I am simply superior, utterly gigantic— Bunching my Hands, I still the Seas frantic; Inherent Grace has Me float like a Bat, Ghost between Corridors, slip under Mats; I have only ten Fingers, only ten Toes But a Limb in each Thing that’s worth it to know. Colossal, I straddle the Banks Legs akimbo Bearing all the Marks of a ‘Fifties Hero: Rounded Muscles, Constitution of Granite, My Object Flesh can trade such Damage— I have a Brain the Size of the fucking Planet, How do You think I even manage?

by KERSTINA MORTENSEN

Workspace

On Johnston Ridge by WILL FLEMING The clouds were cowards that morning. The sky— ethereally blue— scarcely expected to become so diluted; parched sulfuric ecrue. To be you: six miles of luscious pine stood your lust for this heaving jewel; to be you; clad in bands of flannel for her, your lithic muse. From that sombre ridge you felt her every curve and jagged inch— you sat patient while she loosened her restraint. She was your mountain,

such that you knew when you awoke that day that this was it— ah, to be you; in ecstasy.

Seconds tickled scree from her summit until, at last, she succumbed, and a minute was your finest hour. “Vancouver, Vancouver, envy me: I am in Elysium— I will not leave my post again.”

Iphigenia by JACOB AGEE

Poor girl. Forgotten outcrop Of warâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cost, at Aulis. Blood on the tideland going out, Glossing whirlpools, dying rock-pool sea grottoes. Eyes, hazel-polished olives In sea foam, abdomen white, dead as snow. Hair tangled like dulse or kelp, Locks over what could have been, Plastered, now, on her mermaid-cold skin. Dry crust of bloody sand, and soaked clothes, clinging. That dead hair that first fuzzed and fanned out Like a peacockâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wings, in water. Up and down in red ink with the ebb of hours. Now left by the tide that took him away, On to Anatolia, ethnic cleanser, Hero of Hellas, and huntress appeased By feminine blood. Low tide, like all That could have been going, and going, but yet still here, Really, in her cold surreal peace On the beach, coastal limbo, free from the beast.

Scooterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Wheel by KERSTINA MORTENSEN

Creation Myth (Cosmogony) of the Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;orobo People from the Northern Highlands of Kenya, East Africa by CAROLINE NORRIS

In the beginning there was Kirinyaga. He was the all and the everything, there was none but Him. Yet He grew lonely. So Kirinyaga fashioned clay, He took it and moulded it, working the clay into figures. He baked the clay in the fire of the suns, and He breathed life into it. Then Kirinyaga clapped His hands and created a world, a large world with mountains, hills, savannas and rivers, filled with every kind of life. He built a rope down from the Heavens to Earth and He climbed down with the living clay and placed them in the savanna, and the clay was The People. Kirinyaga gave these People a land, rich with health and good food to eat. He gave them cattle; cows and bulls to provide meat and strength. He named them Maâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;asai, and said all the savanna they looked upon was theirs to claim. The People spread and multiplied, and Kirinyaga smiled on them. He

watched their lives with interest and delight. The Ma’asai were warlike and proud, strong tall men who chased the lion, hunted the gazelle and took good care of their herds of cattle. Yet Kirinyaga grew restless and wished a new kind of people; He took the clay as before, baked it, and breathed life into a new tribe. He climbed down the Rope, and gave to them the rich hills and valleys and rivers, desiring them to be farmers; not to hunt and kill, but to till and reap the goodness of the Earth. He called these people The Kikuyu. Then Kirinyaga watched, and was satisfied. But after a time Kirinyaga noticed there was still unmoulded clay, and not wanting to be wasteful he took what was left of the clay and fashioned another kind of people. These were smaller and more compact figures. Kirinyaga baked the clay in the fires of the sun, but while watching the hunt of the Ma’asai of a lion, he baked the clay too long, and the figures were made much darker than before. Yet Kirinyaga saw they were still good, and He breathed life into them, and sent them down the Rope to Earth. But then suddenly, the lion who was being hunted by the Ma’asai ran up to the rope and tried to scramble up it into Heaven, to fly away from his pursuers. Yet lions cannot climb, even the Acacia tree they cannot climb, although they have sharp claws. The lion fell back to Earth, but the lion’s sharp claws caught the rope and tore right through it, so most of the rope fell to Earth and landed with the lion on top of a Ma’asai warrior, killing him . All this the new tribe saw, as they were patiently waiting by the rope for Kirinyaga to tell them their purpose on Earth. But Kirinyaga could not climb down where there was no rope anymore. The Ma’asai were very angry when they ran up to their fallen warrior, and there was great howls of rage and sorrow. The Ma’asai turned and saw the new tribe, they saw that the new tribe looked different, and they started blaming these new peoples for what had happened. The Ma’asai’s anger was very loud, and the new tribe turned their eyes up to the Heavens, asking Kirinyaga for help. But He did not come down. There was a silence from above.

Delta of Venus by JULIA HELMES

Amaurotum: A Sonata in Three Movements by FINNEGAN BLAKE

Situm est igitur Amaurotum, in leni deiectu montis, figura fere quadrata. De Optimo Statu Reipublicae Deque Nova Insula Utopia, Sir Thomas More I â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Adagio, stringendo I have tried to gather around me the individual meaning of the word. The word, unspecified, isolated, the original verb, the language that Adam and Eve would have used to trade items with each other before bedding their bodies. To this end, I indulged in the process of repeating the same word for one hour, as if the wide range of my English vocabulary had been eloquently castrated, trimmed, thatched until there was nothing left of it but the fickle veins of a browning leaf in the wintry showers. I remember well the day of this experiment, for I fear it left such a deep mark on my breast that I will not be able to part with it until the day I whisper my very last sentence. I was sitting in my veranda, studying the ongoing traffic of communal commerce and effortless amenities, facing a bleak purple sky that slowly detached its body from the dying sun. I cracked my fingers and ordered the movements of my locutionary troops. I began by decapitating the adjectives, from the tip of the obsequious genital to the toes of the ubiquitous hoof. From this point, reveling in copious crimson seas, I proceeded to disembowel the voices of the nouns, and erased the zeal all the way through the art. Then, I trapped the verbs, prepositions, adorable tiny particles that I sealed in the cradle of death. Language burned alive. At last, I was free of influence, and was now able to repeat a single word

at my discretion. I chose water, because water is a word simple enough to clarify, difficult enough not to allow careless repetition. Indeed, after one hour, I had exhausted water. There no longer was wa-ter or wa-der or wo-ter, except in sound or memory. Water had become as abstract as meaning itself, it had become a compound of two syllables that, in themselves, were nothing but a compound of the tragic and the comic in men’s lives. The word had lost its value. Embroiled in this tedious exercise, I at last understood the tendrils of creativity. For when one has many languages and many words and many hands, one can write a thousand books but tell not one single story. Yet he, who has no language no words and no hands, but eyes, shall be able to connect unspoken with unwritten, and formalize an otherwise silent world. In other words, language, isolated, can do nothing for him, since it is a rusty beacon of men, for men. A vision, on the other hand, brought about by the one eye, can find its birthright in the arms of the unseen, and cannot be repeated in an endless cycle of falsehood. It is inexhaustible. Water did not become water, the matter, while I repeatedly conjured its name for one hour. In fact, the more I begged for it, the more it flew from the grasp of material sense. Dehydrated, without language, I became half-human, half-beast. I was lost within my own iterative self. And then, a thought sparked in the centre of my skull: what if I repeated my name to infinity?

II — Vivace, rallentando Mary had given birth to him, but she did not love him. This fruit, which had blossomed inside her womb for eight months, had been planted by rotten seed. She named him Mencken, a singular name for a singular child. The day after unrooting him into this oblique world, she burst through the hospital’s front door in her night-robe, pink slippers, red mittens, headscarf the colour of mist, and plunged into the circuitous insides of a black automobile. She left a note on her bedside table, calling the child a ‘woot’, not quite clarifying the meaning of the monosyllabic word, and blaming God Almighty for allowing the child its life: in plucking it from her breast, He had plucked it from her entirely. And so it came to pass that Mencken Woot grew up motherless, in the

care of an uncle and an aunt that neither loved him nor hated him, that had neither name nor patience, no children or savings. He studied the mysteries of life, the metaphysics of the body, and the arcane zoology of yore at Harvard, became a celebrated doctor, wrote several research papers for prestigious academic journals, published a two-part book- length essay on the natural habitat of mongolian gerbils, edited National Geographic for ten years, and married the daughter of the 1789 Nobel Prize for Medicine, Filippo Grotto-Vuoto. Throughout his brilliant career he never once thought of his maternal or paternal origins, spent no insomniac nights brooding on his mother’s vacuous womb and his father’s intangible smile. Yet, at the first light of darkness, we must all go back to the cave from whence we once crawled. This happened to Mencken Woot in 1856, when he was eighty-six years of age. He had spent the last of his days cleaning and vacuuming his rented room on an abandoned building complex in Vienna. The other tenants had all gone on vacation to distant places Mencken had never heard of—foreign names like Doshkar or Marquise or Ventre held no appeal to him. All that mattered was the silence. He was alone, at last, for the first time in many years. In the quietude of old thoughts, whilst organizing his books, documents, fragments of rusted drafts, and other assorted papers, he found a small note that looked as if it had been hastily scribbled. It was the inconspicuous message his mother had written moments before her death: it had been stocked inside a volume of Victor Hugo’s non-fiction, formerly owned by his uncle. Smothered by a compassionate hatred for the woman, Mencken decided to burn the piece of paper. There was no point in delving in nonsensical sentimentality. He grabbed paper and ink, intending to inform his son that he was planning to spend his summer in this bleak room. Then, as if to confirm the motion by virtue of a law of coincidental affairs, there was a knock on the door. “Mr. Woot. Mr. Woot sir, are you at home?” “Who is it?” He was tempted to guess the urchins from St. Cosimo Avenue, who wandered off, time and again, from their bedraggled nests to beg in other areas of the town. “Anna Varya, sir. Please let me in, sir, I have a message for you. It’s urgent, sir! ” Mencken was momentarily taken aback. The Varya child did not usually elude

her parents’s vigilant eye to play the mercurial messenger. “Come in, child, come in. Have a sit, please. Would you like some raspberry tea, love?” He poured her a cup of tea, dropped two fat lumps of sugar in it, and sat on a pile of books on the mating rituals of the African grey parrot. “How’s your mother, my dear child? How fares her health?” “M’ mom’s fine, Mr. Mencken Woot sir. It is m’ da’s the problem, sir.” “Truly? What is the matter with poor old Toow?” The child sipped from her teacup and coughed to the side. Mencken offered her a chocolate cookie which she diligently accepted. “It’s complicated, sir. I believe m’ dad’s dying, Mr. Woot sir.” “Is he, now? How terrible! And you are the one to bring me these news, child, when you should be by his deathbed to comfort him until he is no longer of this world?” He was outraged at the carelessness of the Varya woman. How could she let her only daughter stray from her burrow, off into some strange neighbourhood in such a slippery part of town? To say nothing of the mud and the private bucket and the occasional gust of vitriol thrown out of some brothel’s window! “He said somethin’, Mr. Woot sir, that made me run fast as ah could for yer home!” “Did he, now? What was this thing he said, that carries enough importance on its bosom to make children so prematurely part from their fathers’s knees?” “Well, he said, Mr. Mencken Woot, sir, m’ dad said he’s yer blood brother, sir!” “Toow Nekcnem, son of Lady Yram of the Shikyu clan, claims to be my brother? Dear god! The man must be delirious. Surely your mother has already given him a spoonful of dew syrup? Did he truly utter those words, lovely child? Does he honestly declare, in his deathbed, that he shares his blood with mine?” “He does, sir. He does.” There was another knock on the door. A man’s face crawled through the fringe. At the same time, a gelid knife of wind cut through the room. “Toow Nekcnem is dead. His wife has required you to exhume his body, old doctor.” Mencken Woot was confused by the sudden revelation that Toow was his brother. In his view of things, this was impossible. Firstly, because his mother, Mary, had given birth to an only child, himself, and

secondly, because Toow’s bulgy nose bore a sharp resemblance to the one hanging from Lady Yram’s stern face. Mencken’s, on the other hand, was small and timid. No, he thought, there is no way in this forsaken world that this man is, or ever was —or ever will be, for that matter, might as well cover all temporal tracks, one never knows—my brother. I am alone in this boat. And I do not intend to commend anyone else to it. So that was that. The old Nekcnem was buried. The old Mencken was present at the service. Consumption. Inexplicable immediacy. No cure. Not contagious. One of those things. Happens to everyone. Might as well accept it and move on. Varya woman and Varya child. So young. Left to fend off for herself. As if that hadn’t been the case heretofore. No sermon on Sunday. Nekcnem, the cobbler. People couldn’t mend their soles. Blanket of snow warmed the streets of the forlorn town. Vicar had no shoes. Couldn’t walk to the pulpit. God would have to wait another week. It happened on the night of Nekcnem’s funeral, during an uneventful slumber. Mr. Mencken Woot’s heart decided to halt on its tracks for two seconds. Then, thinking its vaudevillian hiatus no longer laudable, it went on beating again. And so it did for a million years more. It was still beating, when the soiled dirt drenched his coffin with spittle and bird-bones. It was still beating, when his soul reached the sky and asphyxiated on the frozen mouth of the vacuum. Then, Mencken saw himself come out of a hole, the man called Woot and his brother Toow, shades of the same person, crawling forth from a black hole. He saw himself come out of himself, into a brand new life, and he stretched his arms to embrace it. There was a beautiful woman kissing his crimson face. He smiled and touched her right cheek. There were tears streaming down two large windows. It was here that Mary realized how cold the infant child to her seemed. As its lips parted and cracked, and its eyes fluttered away like melting pearls, it announced a terrible curse, that would compel this woman to dive into the darkest shade of death. It said: Thank you.

III — Scherzo, a piacere There was a little box inside her breast. Her fingers, bound with promotional

leaflets and yellowed dust jackets, broke its hinges and the little box was little no more. It now contained a universe inside it. Her name was Rita Rita and she was the daughter of God, or so she believed. The little box had been a present. A self-made man named Jack Jackson, self-made ergo made from divine clay, had bought it in an antique shop close to Market Street, and had given it to her as an engagement present two days before, even though she was not engaged to anyone. She liked to call herself a fatal woman, that is, a victim of an imposing, suffocating society that rose against expectation and convention and formulated a mask, that of a murderous, cunning vixen, to survive an anxiety of suicide. Nonetheless, there was nothing fatal about her. Jack Jackson himself recognized that the only attribute one could attach to Rita Rita was closely similar to that of a donkey in a well, using the dirt thrown at him to rise himself up and up and up, until upon reaching the tip of the sky, that border that separates man from men, throws himself at himself, leaving a shadow on the ground to prove his worth. It was all meaningless, of course, because in the end Rita Rita had not been prepared to be called an enterprising ass, much less knowing that her God, that is, Father, had nothing to do with such nature, it being nothing more than the product of her own self-entitled, self- produced free will. Returning to the prolegomenous point in Rita Ritaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s adventure, one will notice that her box, now able to withhold its breath within an entire universe, refrains from exhaling any concrete, material qualities. Mysticism gave it a leather muzzle. No explanation. Rita Rita is not preoccupied. Her restlessness gives her the inner quality of someone who does not care about a suicidal donkey, much less about herself. Then of what interest is Rita Rita to us? Why should we document her existence as if she matters to any of us? What is this voice that troubles me so deeply?, Rita Rita thought, It is circling me, ambushing me with questions about my nature and the numerical dimensions of my brasserie, but it does not bother with my self. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Am I to be tamed by this ageless sound or should I strive to beget my own destiny?â&#x20AC;?, she shouted, as her eyes burned with decisiveness. Rita Rita threw the little box out of her breast, even though her little box was out of her breast already, it being everywhere but in itself, and, as the little box bumped on the staircase and drowned in a catastrophic tumbling and rolling and rolling and tumbling, the bookcase next to Rita Rita hummed a silent

tune: Tnm-tnm, tnm-tnm-tnm, tnm-tnnmm. Rita Rita, desperate to make herself useful, grabbed some volumes on the History of Rome and threw them down the stairs, into the little box. Then, seeing that History did nothing for her, being the documentation of factual existences and not fictional ones (it is important to note here that Rita Rita herself was a factual-made-fictional existence, therefore trapped between two non-conventions) she grabbed an encyclopedia of fictional characters and classic books—who does not remember the likes of Kinbote Willy, Light Egg, Judge Caulfield?—and burned it to the ground, that is, the carpet. Finally, unable to conclude whether she herself was supposed to roll and tumble and tumble and roll, or to convert her skin to manuscriptal ashes, she did the only thing a factual-made-fictional character can do. She hanged herself. The balcony rose, and then went down and then went up and then went down again, using itself as a springboard. Rita Rita was dead. No newspapers bothered documenting her passing. No obituaries were written about her. No family came to claim the corpse. Nobody came to the service, not even the undertaker. The body was left to decay and putrefaction, as a body of someone who does not matter to the world is usually left to decay and putrefaction. Her ringless fingers, erstwhile stuck in the metallic, ivory-framed little box in her breast, were now vapid mist in the formless air of the entrance hall. How was it possible that her life had been a mere whimper in a sea of storms, that no man had ever wanted to listen to her voice speak of different worlds, different times, different flesh? Her body undulated, although there was no wind. Even in death, she persisted. To no avail. Her fate had already been decided. She was to serve as a puppet in a narrative, documented at last by an elderly neighbour who had chanced upon her hanging body. Restless, he wrote a sixteen-hundredthousand-word first draft on the fictional life of the factual-made-fictional Rita Rita but, through an arrowed, crooked twist of fate, passed away before completing the very last chapter of our Rita Rita’s story—titled in his mind’s eye ‘Rita Rita’s Redemption’—leaving poor Rita Rita’s body and soul to an undisclosed immortality. While the old man suffered the pains of cancer, dictating the final words to Rita Rita’s story on his musty deathbed, Jack Jackson, grabbing his wool blanket and a cardiac arrest, embraced premature death with a comprehensible

smile. Then the old man died, and Rita Rita was Rita Rita no more. She became a mere bare-boned skinless carcass, home to visitors from the seventeen corners of the world. Then, one day, after breakfast, she cut the cord that bound her to the house, cracked her neck back and forth, and left. She hailed an elephant and, climbing on his majestic back, trotted after a life. There was no use. Rita Rita’s life had left years before and it was now well hidden in a well, in a village, in a desert close to Mongolia. Rita Rita lifted the curtain that covered the world’s naked surface and looked under mother earth’s magma table but there was nothing to be done. All that was left was to create another life. Rita Rita had no patience for such things. She touched her inner thigh and attempted to masturbate. The world was watching. She failed at it, having been brought up in a puritan household that allowed only for the occasional glance at a boy’s cemented bulge. Jack Jackson, meanwhile, was present at his own funeral. The old man, buried in cancer, was present at his wake. Rita Rita, having no life to claim as hers, was present at her present. Since she had no life or future whatsoever, she resorted to her own devices. Being daughter of God had its benefits. She claimed the deific title, for the king was dead, and became a goddess herself, this time without the incumbent capital, for hers was not the mood for eloquent typography. This is where we leave Rita Rita, as she grasps the immense power of her divine daddy and removes us, the eyes, from the tabernacle of perception. Her teeth, spiked and shimmering, rupture the frame of this story, as she destroys the universe and builds it back once more.

Up at the Villa by JULIA HELMES

Keepy Uppy by NIALL BREHON

Sweat. That’s what it is. Sweat and cigarettes. In the air. Hanging there. Like a bad joke. Bobby Byrne bites the end of the cone, tilts his head back and sucks the ice-cream through the ragged hole in the wafer. Cold. Mmmm. The last. The last slurp. Sluuuuurrrrrpppppp. Pop. Sucking air. He sticks his eyeball up to the nipple-less teat of the wafer cone and surveys the world through his icecream telescope. The back door’s open. Da standing there. Crunnnnnnch chew chew chew. Half a telescope. Da sucking on a cigarette. Slurp. The last. The last slurp. Sluuuuurrrrrpppppp. Stop. Sucking air. He’s holding a glass ashtray. He stabs the orange cone bit left over into the ashtray. Dab dab dab. Ma is always giving out to him about chucking butts into the yard. Dirty. Bad bad Dad. Da looks outside. The glare of the sun is creasing Da’s face. Ma’s outside but Bobby can’t see her through the window. Bobby looks again at his Da. Da looks tired. Bobby sits down and picks at his scabby knee and chomps through the last crispy wafer crunch chew crunch crunch chew chew chew. Bobby knows to be quiet when Da is like this. Even with the sun out. So he doesn’t chew too much and he sits back in his chair when he’s done, picking flaky scabs and crumbs of wafer off his red shorts. Sweat and cigarettes. No wind. So it all sticks. Everything’s sticky and hot. Bobby’s balls, the chair cushion, the ice-cream patina curdling on his face, sticky and hot. And it smells of Da. Cos there’s no wind. Da in the shadow of the door, stuck between needing a fag and needing to escape the skeleton bright sun. Ma doesn’t like him smoking indoors. Bobby doesn’t mind. He likes the smell. He likes Da’s smell. Ma says it’s bad bad Dad. Da looks at Bobby. A sheen of sweat on his forehead. The sweat runs in a V down his shirt and in O’s under his pits. His arms and his rolled-up sleeves are flecked with muck. Clay and dust. Sweat and cigarettes. His palms are clean from gripping the trowel. He holds out his hands.

“Dirty work out there. Some bloody day.” Ma doesn’t like Da saying bloody. Bobby feels refreshed from his icecream and now he’s thirsty. “Do you want some water Da?” “Go on. Please.” Bobby fills two glasses of water and sets them side by side on the counter. The counter has crumbs on it. Da straightens up and comes over and as he does the air stirs and the smell of sweat and cigarettes thickens around Bobby. Da opens the window and picks up his glass, leaving a watery ring in the crumbs. Bobby takes up his glass. The smaller glass. Da says what he always says to Bobby when Bobby’s drinking. “Slug it into ya.” “Da?” Da gulps and gulps and gulps and gone and he puts the glass back down with a crack on the crummy counter. “Yes?” “Can we play a bit if you’re not busy?” Da looks right at Bobby. “What were you thinking?” “Can we play football out the back?” Bobby got a new football two days ago off uncle Alo and he’s been waiting for a good moment to play with Da. “Alright. Come on so. Just for a bit.” Dad heads outside as Bobby gets the ball. He tries to peel the sticker but it won’t come off. ADIDAS PRO 50 NITEGLOW ULTRA CURVE TECH. Black and yellow. Thanks uncle Alo. He heads outside. Da is standing in the sun. His face is creased again. The sun cuts into Bobby’s eyes. The fence is grey and the clay border is freshly churned. Green leaves. Carrots and onions. Roses on the far side. There’s a tree in the corner and by the time Bobby’s back in school it’ll have started to lose its leaves. It’s almost as tall as the house and it sits between their house and the house behind where the lonely man lives. The fence is grey between the two houses. Eight inch thick concrete blocks with grey cement running through them. Holding together. Keeping apart. Bobby is afraid of the man who lives there and he tries to stay away from that side of the garden. The man is sad because he’s divorced Ma says. Bobby doesn’t know what divorced is. He will soon. He looked over the fence once and saw the choking tangle of weeds through the grass. Ma is watching with one eye. She’s reading a book about men and women and relationships as the sun scorches her nose and chin and shoulders and arms.

Back and forth the ball goes between Bobby and Da like a black and yellow yo-yo. Bobby kicks the ball high as he can and it rushes up into the air, smaller and smaller like a car driving away, then bigger and bigger as it accelerates back down. It bounces once, twice, and Da catches it, and Da boots it up in the air the highest kick you ever did see, and it sails up and up and into the sun, a black speck like a fly then a full stop and then gone, and the sun burns his retinas scorching and the ball doesn’t come back

(holding together keeping apart keeping together holding apart)

To the future, Robert Donnelly mused. To the future. The dregs of beer rushed to his mouth, foam clinging to the glass. He put his phone back in his pocket. That was a long conversation. He’d drank three bottles by this stage and, not being the heaviest of drinkers, was beginning to feel a bit light-headed. Could do with a fag. On the table was a pack of ciggies. He opened the back door. His hands were shaking. He didn’t like smoking in the house, though there was no one to complain. Anymore. It was habit. How his father did it. He looked out into the yard. So sunny. The grass was long and choked with weeds. He should have fixed the lawnmower. He hadn’t cut it since last year. His father had always kept the yard neat at home. His father… Robert Donnelly’s phone hung in his pocket, weighing him down. The cigarette was helping though. He had a lot to think about, now that the mediation court dates were confirmed. At the tip of the saliva-soaked orange filter the cellulose had turned black, fading to yellow at the edges. Like father, like son. The thought made him chuckle. He looked around for the ashtray and dabbed the butt-end out. A history of failure. A football thudded off the concrete in front of him with a bang. It took a full ten seconds to return to earth for a second time. Robert Donnelly dropped the ashtray. Jesus fucking— The ball stopped bouncing and rolled towards him, equilibrium askew, and rolled some more until it came to a stop at his feet. He saw stars as he bent down to pick it up. ADIDAS PRO 50 NITEGLOW ULTRA CURVE

TECH. Black and fading to yellow at the edges. It reminded him of one he’d had as a kid. Throughout his childhood he had amassed a number of balls – big ones, small ones, plastic, leather, round, egg shaped, all the colours of the rainbow… Then, when he’d had kids of his own, the press began to fill once more with balls upon balls. But none had ever spoken to him like this one. He took it to the edge of the garden where concrete meets grass, and held it in the sun. The surface looked singed, like it had been through a fire. As he played keepy uppy, knees creaking from their sudden use (after all these years!), Robert Donnelly felt something deep down in his stomach. His vision was blurring. On this hot and sticky afternoon, he smelt, or could have sworn he smelt, the intoxicating odour of sweat and cigarettes announcing itself like a bad joke, Da?, and just beyond the focus of his vision, in the corner of his eye, is the ghost of his mother sunning herself, burning in the sun, how’d that happen, and Bobby is intent on keeping the ball off the ground, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, where are you gone Da why’d you have to go and he can taste ice-cream somehow how’d that happen, and it’s fucking delicious and for the first time in a long time he’s happy how’d that happen and tears are streaming down his creasing face golden stars choking tangle ecstasy smelling carrots onions and rows of roses sailing into the sun keeping up breaking down holding together always apart (fading to yellow at the edges) (I love you Da)

by JULIA HELMES

Hamlet

Michael Sparrow, The Author of Ulysses by STEPHEN COX Though so different in style, two writers have offered us an image for the next millennium: Joyce and Borges. The first designed with words what the second designed with ideas: the original, the one and only World Wide Web. The Real Thing. The rest will remain simply virtual. —Umberto Eco Michael Sparrow felt a sense of terror and what next-ness different from that encountered by many university students on the day of their graduation. Until now four years of sitting around in cafes and missing lectures had, he thought, served him well: it had given him plenty of time to read and, later, to try his hand at writing, or what passed for writing in his head. For while he was not very prolific, my old friend Sparrow’s enthusiasm for composition at least cannot be criticised, and a consideration of his work’s fluctuating quality is interesting in itself. His oeuvre up to the end of his college years can be easily and succinctly summarised. Having read and considered it all myself, I can confirm that it is comprised as follows: a. Four acrostics, inspired by hearing the university orchestra perform Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Sparrow has since disowned these scribbles as the work of the immature artist, and has been, for a long time, loath to admit their existence. b. A collection of short stories, entitled A Discovery, inspired by a summer he spent teaching English in Madrid. In tone it resembles Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City and contains numerous references to Winesburg, Ohio, the Sherwood Anderson short story cycle that he

was reading at the time. c. A total of thirteen university essays ranging across a variety of literary and historical topics. Listing them in their entirety here would serve little purpose, but special mention should be reserved for his thirdyear essay on characterisation in George Bernard Shaw’s Heartbreak House. He was infuriated with the lecturer’s mark of 69, this being the closest he ever came to receiving a First in his academic career. d. A dissertation on the differences found in Beckett translations from French to English. He had, at one time, harboured the desire to be a literary translator from French to English, but found himself jaded by the ordeal of writing this thesis and gave up on the idea. e. About fourteen or fifteen love sonnets, inspired by and dedicated to whatever girl was foremost in his affections at the time. Sparrow’s shyness usually impeded him from doing more than finding out his desired’s name and then worshipping her from afar. His frustration at his lack of success with the opposite sex is documented in f. “Books v. Women”, an essay influenced by Orwell’s Books v. Cigarettes. Sparrow argues, with a sense of purpose and sharpness missing from his other work, that the effort and expenses incurred in courtship are far greater than those to be found in buying novels, as well as being less self-improving in the long run. He concludes by stating his intention to renounce all romantic liaisons for good, and to dedicate his life to his art. This index does not include the period of fevered composition that took place in the few weeks after Sparrow’s final college exam. Given his worship of James Joyce it seems curious that there is no composition in this list that shows some link to Sparrow’s master. However, it may be said that after Sparrow first read Joyce his prose style began to ape that of his new inspiration at such a steady rate that his sentences, which had previously been more economical in style, began to fill up with whatever puns or literary references seemed amusing to him at the time. Curiously, he was unaware of this change himself, and only noticed when I mentioned it to him. He had forwarded on his latest bit of writing to

me, and I emailed back to say that his recent absorption of Joyce was serving him well. Then I heard nothing from him for a few weeks. Unbeknownst to me, my comment had plunged Sparrow into despair at not realising his indebtedness to the author of Ulysses. It could be argued that when you write sentences such as “With lovely bright eyes scraped in his face, he heard, scraped out the cobwebs, heard, scraped in the desk, heard, scraped and scraped” and see nothing strange then the blame lies only with yourself; I, for one, couldn’t possibly comment. Still, when he eventually replied to my message enquiring about his wellbeing I got an extremely enthusiastic response. Sparrow had had an epiphany, he explained in a long email. He had found an article in the London Review of Books about the impossibility of writing after Ulysses. This had given him his grand idea. “Beckett began to write in French to distance himself from Joyce, to ‘add a sense of impoverishment’, in his own words,” wrote Sparrow. “My idea is astonishing. If the ‘anxiety of influence’ 1 is too great to avoid with Joyce, and if the novel really cannot be expanded upon after Ulysses, then my suggestion is simply to write as James Joyce. I am, therefore, going to set about transcribing Ulysses from memory, without mistakes. What greater act of defiance to the ever-presentness of Joyce could there be than to beat him at his own game?” It seems pertinent to mention here the diverging literary interests of Sparrow and myself. He never shared my enthusiasm for the Spanish language or its literature, his unsuccessful sojourn in Madrid condemning whatever little of the Hispanicist there was in him to suffer the same fate as Don Quixote in Cervantes’s novel. I assumed therefore that Sparrow was unfamiliar with Jorge Luis Borges’s story Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote. Indeed, when I first bought Ficciones and asked Sparrow what he thought of the Argentine author, he gave

1 Sparrow had at one time been a devoted disciple of Harold Bloom. 43

me a lengthy speech on the merits of Nothing Like the Sun and Earthly Powers, while he considered A Clockwork Orange overrated. (An Anthony Borges, or, better yet, a Jorge Luis Burgess, would be too delicious an absurdity not to revisit, but I will have to leave him for another day). Admittedly it has been some time since I read Pierre Menard, but, if memory serves, it concerns the titular symbolist poet writing out passages of Don Quixote from memory. The coincidence was extraordinary, yes, but given Sparrow’s disdain for anything Spanish I thought it more likely than him copying both Joyce and Borges at once. An even more curious coincidence was that, in an essay containing an early version of the story Funes the Memorious, Borges made this character able to remember every word of Ulysses. Thankfully, this version did not make the story’s final draft; Sparrow, in his ignorance, would always be able to play down any accusations of plagiarism. Besides, Sparrow’s motives for this literary thievery were distinct from Menard’s. When Menard’s attempts to live authentically as Miguel de Cervantes failed to bear fruit, he took a different approach. The book written in Spanish from his perspective—that of a twentieth-century Frenchman—would be a far greater achievement than that of a seventeenth-century Spaniard. But, crucially, Menard did not regard the Quixote as a truly essential work of the canon. For this reason, his endeavour stands more as a stylistic exercise than Michael Sparrow’s efforts; as Ulysses sits comfortably at the centre of Sparrow’s literary consciousness, his is a labour of love rather than purely a commentary on the nature of authorship: a nod to Joyce’s ubiquitousness in meeting that ubiquitousness head-on. Anyway, when Sparrow mentioned this in his email I decided not to tell him about Pierre Menard. He seemed fixed on the idea, more excited about writing and its possibilities than I’d ever remembered him being. With hindsight, failing to inform him may have been the wrong decision, but what could I do? His take on the idea was at least somewhat different to Menard’s. Why not see how it went? Sparrow worked steadily over the summer at his 2014 version of Ulysses. Ever idiosyncratic, he started with the episodes that were the most difficult both to read and to write out: Circe and Penelope. His powers of retention are remarkable, one would have to say; he really did capture the tone that Joyce cap-

tured—or perhaps caricatured—in Molly Bloom’s soliloquy. I sent approving little emails to Sparrow as he forwarded on fragments of the Work in Progress, all the while delighting in the delicious irony that Borges had himself translated the last two pages of Molly Bloom’s silent monologue into Spanish. What old Mick didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, or so I thought. A few days before our graduation he stopped replying to my messages. I saw nothing strange about this; I assumed he was caught up in his project, and expected to see him tousled and looking the worse for wear on Wednesday morning in the Exam Hall for the ceremony. Then Wednesday came and he was nowhere to be seen in the chamber (the lengthy Latin oration gave me sufficient time to become acquainted with the backs of everyone’s heads; Sparrow’s mousy mop was not among them). A week later I found an envelope on my desk, with the address typed out in bold. Inside was a letter from Sparrow, detailing his discovery of Pierre Menard on the morning of the graduation and the hysteria it induced in him, leaving him unable to face seeing his classmates in college. He was, so he declared, incapable of writing an original thought, and went on for several paragraphs in this self-critical vein. He also included an updated draft of “Books v. Women” in which he argued, in a new conclusion, that everything worth writing about had already been written, that Ulysses really was the pinnacle of literature’s originality of language, and thus declaring his decision to retire his literary ambitions for something less mentally taxing. Paraphrasing Menard, for whom he had developed a grudging respect, Sparrow finished: “Every man was capable of all ideas, up till now. I understand that in the future they will see that this was the case.’ I haven’t heard from Sparrow since; he didn’t reply to my handwritten letter asking him to reconsider his choice. I couldn’t help but feel guilty and wonder how he came across Pierre Menard. Would Sparrow have come to the same conclusion if I had told him about Menard’s existence the first time around? It is difficult to say. However, in the future we will come to look at Sparrow’s undertaking with Ulysses as a noble act. There may have been nothing new in his efforts, but what was singular is the selflessness with which Sparrow committed himself. I have been told that his manuscripts and previous literary efforts were destroyed

by him in a small, pitiful bonfire. Oh! The links that could have been drawn to the work of the artist as a young man! Only another Michael Sparrow, analysing his own work, would be fit for the task. (Or, with the aid of Internet clouds, possibly a future Sparrow scholar). Sparrow couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know that he would confirm as true the post-Joycean linguistic dread that accompanies any reading of Ulysses and haunts any writer born after 1922. Still, in acknowledging this, unwittingly or not, Sparrow has enriched, by means of a newish technique, the frustrating and unpredictable art of writing: this technique is that of blatant literary thievery and only looking backwards for inspiration. In the future we may see dozens of different Ulysseses battle it out for recognition alongside, or even improving on, Joyceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s original text. Would crediting these to Michael Sparrow not be the ultimate recognition of influence, and some consolation for his failure to understand this in his own time?

CONTRIBUTORS JACOB AGEE Jabob Agee is a Senior Sophister student, studies Classics with Jewish and Islamic Civilizations. He has had work published in Poetry Ireland Review. FINNEGAN BLAKE Finnegan Blake was conceived by an English graduate who uses the insular language as the naked canvas for his absurd mythologies. NIALL BREHON Niall Brehon is currently doing an M.Phil in Popular Literature. ROSA CAMPBELL Rosa Campbell is currently doing an M.Phil in Literatures of the Americas. Poet Don Paterson once said Rosa seemed “deadly serious about this poetry lark.” STEPHEN COX Stephen Cox studies Spanish and is in fourth year. WILL FLEMING Will Fleming is a Senior Freshman TSM student of English and Philosophy from Wicklow. JULIA HELMES Julia Helmes is pursuing an M.Phil in Children’s Literature. Her photos in this issue are part of her book review project which started as a response to writing an abundance of college essays over the last six years. D. JOYCE-AHEARNE D. Joyce-Ahearne is a third-year English and French student and the current Deputy-Editor of Trinity News. He has had poetry published in both Irish and English, both in Ireland and abroad. His short fiction has appeared in The Bohemyth and The Incubator. Last year, he wrote and directed his first play.

CONTRIBUTORS MICHAEL KEMP Michael Kemp is a JS English student. He is currently the Co-Editor of tn2’s Literature section. KERSTINA MORTENSEN Kerstina Mortensen has just completed the MPhil in Irish Art History and is looking forward to starting her PhD. These photographs were taken on her pinhole camera, made simply from a matchbox, black tape and 35mm film. RONAN MURPHY Ronan Murphy is a poet and musician from Dundalk. His work has appeared in The Stinging Fly, Fuselit, Icarus and The Attic. He is lead singer with The Sweet Naive and a member of the Spoonlight Collective. CAROLINE NORRIS Caroline Norris is an aspiring children’s writer, currently studying for an M.Phil in Children’s Literature. She previously studied for a BA in Drama & Theatre Studies, and has worked as a set, lighting and costume designer. Editor: NIALL MCCABE Niall McCabe studies English and Drama. His poems have been published in Abridged, Belleville Park Pages, Icarus, JoLT, and The Columbia Review. Editor: SUSANNA GALBRAITH Susanna Galbraith studies English. She is the Editorial Assistant at Abridged magazine. Her poetry has been published in Icarus, Abridged and Belleville Park Pages. Deputy Editor: OLEN BAJARIAS Olen Bajarias studies English. He is the Fashion Editor of tn2. Layout Editor: EDMUND HEAPHY Edmund Heaphy studies Philosophy and German. He is the Deputy Editor of The University Times. 48

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MAGAZINE

VOLUME LXV, ISSUE I