Literary Magazine

[lauerz]

Я сегодня купила 10 копий Literary Magazine, изданного детьми в нашей школе. Купила я так много вот с какой целью - хочу послать в подарок друзьям и ЖЖ френдам. Могу отправить почтовое отправление в любую точку мира.  Там стихи и рассказы, написанные и проиллюстрированные нашими учениками. Некоторые рассказы написаны также учителями. В целом всё там по-английски, но есть несколько вещей по-русски и по-китайски (с переводами на английский, конечно). Если интересно, пришлите мне своё имя и адрес латинницей личным сообщением.

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And here is a masterpiece from our Literary Magazine

[lauerz.livejournal.com]

Beyond Logos

I woke that morning, squinted at the hot green 5:15 am snarl of my alarm clock’s numbers, the half-graded set of Antigone essays flung aside, and immediately thought about taking one of my two remaining personal days.
I dreamed about saying to my department head: “Good morning. I don’t feel like finding meaning today. I don’t want to tease out characters’ intentions or to discuss what T.S. Eliot might have meant. I don’t have Hemingway’s stamina to talk about what exactly his one true sentence means. In short: I’m simply weary of words. Besides Mr. Livingston, it’s raining, and not an Ah-it’s-almost-spring-rain!—but a bone and nerve-biting onslaught.
Fighting back a fierce, primordial instinct, I abandoned the dream, roused and trudged reluctantly out toward my starting line, staring down hours of where, together with my students, we’d handle, mix, even squash words, words, words, words, ultimately pouring them into a sieve, sifting and shaking them in a quest for quicksilver meaning.

Meaning defined offers many sparkling words: significance; purpose; value; truth; motive; justification. All words that while certainly stars in their own right simply are not accurate. Indeed “meaning” escapes definition almost as easily as it eludes human grasp. Whenever my class reaches a height of awareness or wonder, a sort of crystalline focus, a hushed quiet follows. I usually unconsciously break this reverence by writing

some word like “ineffable” on the board, stamping out any meaningful moment with a slightly shrill, “Ahem, well then. Do you all know the word “ineffable?” Ah, well it just may be on the SAT: it means the indescribable; it refers to that experience which transcends expression.” I am reminded of the cruel irony: we search for meaning and when we touch it or come close to it, we’re rendered mute. The medium that allows us to reach and to transcend, fails us when we most want to fully flesh out what it means to mean.

That day, one void of any ineffably meaningful moment, I sat in front of my students’ poems, picked up my green marking pen, blinked and began. The words blurring: this student was writing about pain, about life’s lament, the hard, the monotonous—and then—. Suddenly a quiet, a more than silent quiet. I focused and breathed, rereading my student’s words, my student Vinh Son’s meaning: “And somewhere, in the midst of the heavy rain, a pale purple hydrangea is blooming.”
I sat still, not saying a word.

Ms. Walsh

“And somewhere, in the midst of the heavy rain, a pale purple hydrangea is blooming.”
”Và ở đâu đó, giữa những hạt mưa không ngừng rơi, một đài hoa tú cầu màu tím nhạt bừng nở. Nguyen Vinh Son