Brill MyBook is a print-on-demand paperback copy which is sold at a favorably uniform low price. This chapter examines the parallels between the representation of women during the War of Independence from and the Spanish Civil War from Next, it analyzes explicitly violent photographs, portraying rape victims to appeal to the rage of the viewer. The chapter looks at the effects of the culture of war on sexual politics and private life in the aftermath of conflicts.
The ultimate objective is to understand the symbolism of sexual aggression; an act that goes beyond brutalization because it does not trivialize death, but rather turns the paradigm of humiliation into a trigger for mobilization. General Palafox asked Francisco de Goya to depict the horrors of war, and Franco's informers, as well as the Republican partisans did the same at the League of Nations. Thus, photography served as naked demagoguery for the legitimacy of gendered violence of both sides.
To finish up, tell us about contemporary Mexican poetry. Do you like it? Is it in a healthy state? What do you think? I feel the same about, although he has died, Gerardo Deniz. They came from the north, but no one knows when they were wiped out. It is a field of iron, Sipofene, ……. Tell us what emporium has robbed you? How many prisons have you trod? Who knew the truth of your sandstone? The cherry and blue meeting houses were part of the eclipse. We speculated up until the year of your birth.
Cody Copeland teaches English and writes poetry. He is currently based in Mexico City.
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His poetry, essays and memoirs have been published in a range of international journals, in English and Spanish. Life in the Court of Matane was originally published in in French as Bestiaire. The English translation is by Peter McCambridge.
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Something about it upsets me. People live quite differently to the east and west of the dividing line: Both sides are sometimes disappointed. At the end of that day, I stood before Matane like Attila before Rome. Looking toward the town, I wished it would just disappear.
When I awoke after my first night there, I waited in vain for the TV people to come pack up the miserable set. Ironically enough, my father seemed to like Matane for the very same reason.
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And yet of all Quebecers, the good people of Matane are probably among the friendliest of the lot. Their cheeks have turned rosy from the wind that blows over the town three hundred and sixty-two days of the year. There, the supports below our trailer drew back, and on a cliff overlooking the sea the house fell down in a puff of smoke. A year or two, I think. I was seven when we moved to Matane. I had already had six addresses. In the decade I was to spend in my new town, I would have six others. In Matane the rules of censorship were repeated even more firmly than the first time.
We were given a helpful list of ins and outs:. Quebec and all its symbols ……………. Cod in all its forms. Catherine of Aragon ……………. Drives in the Renault 5.
Over the years, a series of inexorable royal edicts were added. It is strictly forbidden to pronounce the name of Micheline Raymond, professional cook. The eating of Cadbury products is forbidden. The telephone is not a toy. It is strictly prohibited to call anyone without permission. All conversations shall be supervised by the queen.
Get used to it. The word of the Lord is outlawed in the royal court. The king and queen shall hear no talk of catechisms, nuns, the new or old testaments, or resurrection. The dead shall not rise again. It is forbidden to make any allusions to the past in front of the soon-to-be-born little brother. He will have to work out how we got here by himself. You shall lend your unfailing support to the sovereignty movement, on pain of being disowned.
The fleur-de-lys is your emblem, and Quebec is your country. This home is no place for halfwits. It is therefore forbidden to watch television for more than one hour per day. All programs must be approved by the queen. All TVA programs are outlawed. You will thank us later.
You shall do the dishes thrice daily, after each meal. The queen shall inspect the plates. Saturdays are devoted to cleaning. The girl shall scour the palace bathrooms, and the boy shall ensure the floors are spotless. Everyone shall do his or her bit in the kingdom of Anne Boleyn. And even then, the queen shall not let you out of her sight as you go about your work.
You shall respect and obey your queen, whom you shall address by her first name. You no longer have a mother. The king shall from time to time take it upon himself to remind you where you come from. For all questions about the matter, see Edict The crushers will be crushed. Anne Boleyn was a boycotter. Her strategy was a means of survival. First came the boycott of our mother. There then followed a series of lesser bans that made everyday life tough. One of them involved Cadbury, the chocolate makers. Outraged separatists launched a boycott of Cadbury and Sun Life Insurance, among others.
Their movement would have left me completely indifferent at the age of seven had Anne Boleyn and the king not decided to buy into it. It was thereafter forbidden to purchase or consume any Cadbury products in the presence of the king or Anne Boleyn. The same glacial tones reserved for my mother were used to proclaim the banning of Cadbury. There was just one problem: Cadbury was—and still is—the maker of the Caramilk bar, a chocolate bar with a soft caramel centre that at the time was high on my list of favourite things to eat.
Whenever I managed to scrape together thirty cents, I would slip off to a store where no one knew me to buy a Caramilk. Anything not to get caught. Once we were in the depths of the countryside, beyond the village of Saint-Ulric near Matane, I settled on an old general store run by two senile biddies. It belonged to a different era, an old-fashioned general store that smelled of before the war. In the deserted store, you had to wait for one of the old witches to limp her way out of the storeroom. Children in the village used to say that they had both been dead for years and we were being served by ghosts.
Their memory was so shaky that I could walk into the store four times in the same day without them remembering a thing about my earlier visits. Even under the harshest interrogation, at best they would have been able to confirm I had been to the store. They would never have been able to betray the nature of my purchases.
The first time I did it, I remember I was wracked by guilt and high on the sweet smell of dissidence. I stood before one of the two old crones and asked for a Caramilk bar. A few seconds went by in silence. A clock struck three. Slowly, she asked me to repeat my order, tapping away at a small device lodged in her ear. I want a Caramilk! I heard her bones protest. Three short steps toward a counter in disarray. From there, she looked at me to make sure she had understood, pointing to a bottle of bleach. My finger tried to guide her shaking hand toward the Caramilk.
Then, a glimmer of reason flashed across her eyes, and her hand at last grasped the Caramilk. Her memory had also forgotten inflation. Thinking she was still in , she asked me for twenty cents. Not that I was going to contradict her. Then I went to the beach, the place of all outlawed activities, where Anne Boleyn never set foot because it was too windy.
Hiding behind a rock, I devoured my Caramilk while looking out to sea. I had to be careful not to leave the orange and brown wrapper at the bottom of my pocket. It would have been giving myself away too cheaply. I dug a hole half a metre wide and buried it there. Today I sometimes still buy a Caramilk, eat it in secret, and burn the wrapper to destroy the evidence. I am the only Montrealer for whom eating a Caramilk is a subversive, revolutionary act.
Back home, some first-rate lying covered my tracks. Always have an alibi. Boycotts invariably lead to other boycotts, until everybody ends up boycotting everything.
What goes up must come down, apart from Cadbury, that is. Since , the company has more than doubled in size, in spite of the separatist boycott. It just goes to show that sugar always wins in the end. Reproduced with permission from QC Fiction, a new imprint featuring the very best of a new generation of Quebec storytellers. Life in the Court of Matane was the first novel he chose for this collection and the book that made him want to become a literary translator in the first place. His translation of the first chapter won the John Dryden Translation Prize.
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Dissection of four reminiscences on Rue Casimir Delavigne. Spirit is revealing itself through the exultant image of a prodigal. And through another one. Even though there is nothing more normal than the end; People Find other subjects to relinquish. Over an undetectable point Comes the time when words surrender to their masters. I was never in despair.
And beauty is no more what people thought about her. I go to the National Library. Inside they discuss the latest Nobel quietly. The employee, a former drug addict now Even worse with this ponytail And a jackal glower. I say, where can I find this one and I would certainly like to take a look at that. She says, both are out of the question, Since the institution is under renovation. But if you want You can sign your latest book for me She recognized me. My pen stops writing and Only half of my name is scribed. The trafficking of readers It is a proof Of poetry.
Of all the dubious elements of the abyss The boomerang ideas I most appreciate, Which return dazzling To their one and only locus. Turns of cordial words With particular interest Limit the dimensions. Most I admire Praxiteles than Hermes. Until night becomes a virgin. So that being means to write. Very recently I stated the problems Of experience as strongly as the bagatelles Assume expatiating that they find us Fatalists when once they considered us adaptive To whatever concerned us.
I imagine that will survive all alone Consubstantial with the imperfect I am reviewing out Of the blue. This swollen face is a wreath. Many of those who exhibit the unseen arrangement Of death are not visible. In contrast to the unscathed delirium of life. Conceptually some delve into fears. Those over there are resuming Based on the peacefulness of the testicular balls.
Such hours you have to rejoice That the spirit is man And with just a weather forecast Is getting ready for The futile. Yannis Livadas is a Greek poet, born in He is also an editor; essayist, translator, of more than fifty books of American poetry and prose; an independent scholar with specialization on American modern and postmodernism literature plus haiku. He contributes to various literary magazines, both in Greece and other countries.
His poems and essays have been translated in eight languages. He lives in Paris, France. You sit me down. The way she swings around. How should I use you? I am sweet, you are sweet. I should have done something to him. There were many other things. There was a woman. We were locked together. Watching his ugly face. Who is in which end of the cable who is that places me at his will?
The heat of the body. This distillate is too raw to me. The beast wins out of beauty. The scale goes off balance. Event in the greenhouse: Drill through the spring. Winter, summer start attacking. The flood makes a run. Surging again and again stalls and then throngs ahead. Under the sea, the land is shaking.
The unhoped front comes with such commotion. While the other is dragging a heatwave. The shipwrecks of the lips: Breaks and floods the words with anger. Or gets hit by a syllable culminating above it. Gives no time to get resentful. There is its double if it bales out. None holds a grudge against none. Or let others beat it. The client is the same man. Hiding in my shadow. Matters not what I say or do. There is no love: It might be hiding in my shadow. An iceberg broke off in Greenland. The woods are on fire around Moscow. The air is poisonous above Moscow. I have neither light, nor window display.
How did I get here? A simple toy— wife? I dress, dress, dress myself. All I can do is operate. What is missing then? Yet both are men separately. A new one is coming: I swallow him too. He is too precious to waste himself such ways. My dearest is lunatic. In vain he is full: They worked on him well. Right now he is in transition. He is a lake: You are free, said the stranger.
Before I arrived there. I had a costume on though. He closed his other eyes. Getting softer, I feel it, he feels it too. He chokes himself inside me. Now I must live with another dead man. She is the author of eight books. Some of her individual poems have been translated into Persian, Esperanto or Tamil. She has also written an essay on Sylvia Plath.
Women’s Narrative in Twentieth-Century Spain
Gyukics is a Hungarian poet and literary translator. Not being obsessed with a completed story will create an opening into different territories in novels. I would bring into my story fragmentary stories whose pages, turned by the wind, can be read at random, stories that allow you to close your eyes while reading and dwell for a moment on a scene that can be taken out from the book and savored, stories that are far from being narrative.
Even when I talk about the anecdotes, they will be stories that are not quite narratives, stories that cannot be narratives. Perhaps even as I talk about the anecdotes, I could talk about my impressions on the anecdotes and the thoughts created by those impressions, preventing the anecdotes from developing into narratives.
What I seek to emphasize as I write this story, which perhaps says nothing, and in which something becomes nothing when the standards are changed, or whose meaning or importance changes Some of the stories I tell could end up being told somehow even though I had no intention of telling them, or tried not to tell them. In light of the fact that although many things in life seem predetermined, nothing, in fact, is predetermined, and that you yourself can decide everything at every moment, and if you think carefully, very carefully on that fact, there come moments in which suicide, the best choice you can make, becomes very alluring, and such moments come to me far too often.
What I think about mostly, however, is death in general, not suicide through which I would murder myself, and not actual death, but something abstract, like the memory of a day when you shivered terribly in the cold, or a feeling you had upon seeing an abstract painting, or a sudden thought you have when looking at a dead fish, still intact, on your plate in a restaurant. For some time, I had indulged in the idea that the toxin in the showy flower could make me die slowly, or at least go insane, and felt a strong desire to eat a trumpet creeper, and at one time had to realize that desire in another way, by coming up with the sentence, When a trumpet creeper dressed in the wrong clothes is going round and round many horses, you need to make an effort to row and go to the bottom of the lake.
Summer was always the most difficult season for me to endure; in any case, it was difficult for me to feel that way about any other season besides summer. It was difficult, at least, for me to do so as I did about summer. And that was because I thought summer was a difficult season for me, that it was inevitably a difficult season for me, but there really were aspects about summer that gave me a difficult time. For several years when summer came around, I felt that the summer would be difficult to endure, and each time, summer came to me as a season that would take me to a point of no return.
Nevertheless, I managed, barely, to endure through several summers that came to me, and was faced with another summer. My terrible negligence of everything made that possible for me. The owner of the house was a philosopher, well known to the public, and he was furious at me, as if quite upset that one of his roses had been stolen. The aged philosopher seemed to be of the philosophy that nothing that belonged to him should be taken away from him by anyone. In other words, I was scolded by him just as the hapless dog was scolded. Mercy was possibly the ultimate sentiment that a human could have toward other humans and living things, but it seemed that he had no mercy.
He always seemed fraught with anger, and it was possible that he became angry even with his desk or dishes from time to time. When I was severely dizzy, I felt as if I were suffering from seasickness on land, and I accepted dizziness as my natural state of being by thinking that I knew that I was on a rotating earth because of my dizziness, and that dizziness was something quite natural you could feel on the earth, in this dizzy world, and sometimes, even when I kept still, I felt as if I were standing on a slab of ice floating down the river, or as if I were falling slowly, while at the same time soaring with an infinite lightness, into a seemingly bottomless space devoid of gravity, but also as if I were sinking, like some kind of a sediment, deep into the ocean where enormous pressure weighed down upon me, and at the same time, I felt as if my entire body were a building that was collapsing, unable to endure its own weight after many years.
The swooning also brought a peculiar sort of satisfaction, for there seemed to be an infinite space within the dizziness of swooning through which I could spread out infinitely, after being sucked up into the whirlpool of dizziness because of dizziness. And the incident gave me a sense of anticipation, a great sense of anticipation, for more to come in the future Anticipation is a very strange thing, making you anticipate such things, and making you, at times, anticipate your own fall and decline above all.
Having woken up by the window, I felt as if I could lose consciousness again at any moment, and everything seemed like a lie, and I thought somewhat clearly that everything seemed like a lie, in a way that was different from the way in which life itself seemed like a lie, but that there was nothing strange about it. Jung has also translated more than forty books from English into Korean. Perfect for people who practice transcendental meditation. The sign juts up suddenly in the sky above the beltway. Sitting shotgun, with my notebook in hand, it takes me a few moments to understand and write down the words.
Fevers bring on this sort of sluggish lucidity.
Visions and Revisions
I want to laugh but the purple bolt of pain that slashes from my jaw to my ear is so bright that I find myself curled up into a ball in the seat. Without slowing her Mazda the least bit the bitch has a Mazda; three years ago she was barely surviving by turning tricks, picking up paying pricks at El Diablito Tun Tun to the sound of reggaeton rhythms , Lisandra looks at me and says: A salicylic silk handkerchief to dull the razor blades of varying thickness slicing my face, the face of nothing.
I answer no with a shiver: Every day she returned home from work encrusted from head to toe in metal shavings, and white from saltpeter, the soles of her feet cracking, her knees tight and creaking like knots, her calves hard as a cutting board. She made me massage her with Stanhome Foot Repair the whole afternoon while we watched reruns of tacky soap operas: It made me really angry that he had permission to go out and play while I stayed inside.
It was a nightmarish vision and it made me feel enormously sad, almost bad enough to want to die too, but I consoled myself by playing marbles with Dad and the kids next door. Or better yet, a cyanide capsule like secret agents used in spy movies. We cut across the edge of the city by a side street before hitting the bottleneck from the construction on the new bridge. Lisandra stops to get my prescription filled in a Guadalajara pharmacy. I stay in the car with my head leaning against the glass, reading over my notes.
My hands are throbbing. I feel a spiral of pressure in my chest and my head, a spiral of pressure sliding out of my mouth like a vaporous boa constrictor. They can all go to hell: We performed in the Plaza de la Dignidad on the same bill as Elvis Manuel and Gente de Zona, playing on stage with our backs to the office of foreign affairs.
There were about fifty or two hundred or two hundred thousand black flags with a white star in the middle the number varies according to the level of patriotism of the Cuban who tells you about them , waving over our heads and making one hell of a racket throughout our whole set. Pirates with short-term collective amnesia: The moment the show was over all of us musicians in Daddy Dada, like good little Mexican boys, immediately took off to scour the town for whores.
A Mexican is easy to spot in Havana, the taxi driver explained to us: They took us in a Chinese van to the legendary Diablito Tun Tun, the whole club throbbing with the sound of yet more reggaeton. It drives me fucking nuts: I was once an aspiring artist but a couple of rappers already have everything I ever dreamed of. Lisandra was standing there at the door of the club, with her almost transparent eyes and her lightly freckled breasts, swaying more gracefully than a Las Vegas table dancer collectivist and affable: I paid her way in, treated her to a Red Bull, and fifteen minutes later we were back outside.
Lisandra handed me a condom. I told her that first I wanted to give her head. She stripped naked without a word. She lay on her back, looking at the ceiling, spread her legs and let me sink my face between them. As I was stroking her soft hairy mound, I felt how she was getting excited little by little. It barely lasted a second. I was so offended that I immediately had the idea that I wanted to marry her.
I wanted to drag her back to Mexico, chain her to the wall of some shadeless, sun-bleached patio, force her to scrub the floors, wrapped tight in a pair of denim short-shorts that would allow me to comfortably appreciate from the imaginary recliner of a postmodern creole slave driver her legs and her ass. I slipped on the rubber and came inside her as fast as I could.
Courting her was the easiest thing of all: She gave me only two conditions: It seemed reasonable to me. The afternoon that I had to catch the plane back to Mexico, Lisandra took me home to ask for her hand.
I got her out of Cuba and, for a few months, we lived together in my old apartment. Lisandra is the sweetest person I know. On the other hand, the sexual aura she so strongly exuded when I met her disappeared completely as soon as she stepped foot off the island. It was as if her body just suddenly powered down or got old or was suddenly drained of life. Placing her open palm on my crotch as a sign of peace, she told me: Lisandra returns to the car with the little bag of medicines. You just better take the prescribed dose and stop driving me crazy with all these trips to the doctor.
Any day now my patience is going to come to an end. Acetaminophen, commonly known by its brand name Tylenol, is a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory medication used to reduce symptoms of pain. Occasionally it causes vomiting, diarrhea, and constipation. People who take it in place of aspirin run a greater risk of heart attacks or cerebrovascular accidents.
Ceftriaxone is a third-generation cephalosporin for parenteral use against serious gram-negative bacteria. It penetrates the blood-brain barrier, which makes it useful in the treatment of meningitis. Its spectrum is not effective against Pseudomonas aeruginosa. It must not be physically mixed with other medications. It can produce neurotoxicity if administered simultaneously with aminoglycosides. Acetylsalicylic acid, the chemical name for aspirin, inhibits the activity of the cyclooxygenase enzyme, which diminishes the formation of precursors of prostaglandins and thromboxanes.
It can induce bronchial spasms in patients with asthma. One day Mom and Dad were arguing about the which way they needed to set a new beam in the house. I was sitting on the floor, very close to them, monkeying around with the tools. The beam slipped out of their hands and landed on my head. They slapped a bandage on me, filled me up with pills, and bought me a carton of vanilla ice cream.
Then Mom beat Dad with her belt and sent him off to sleep in the doghouse. Lisandra turns the car onto Calle Pedro Aranda and we roll into the neighborhood of Colonia Bellavista, the uppermost district in the city. Below us lies the flooded quarry, a hard reddish pool, where they extracted the stone used to build the cathedral of Santiago Mataindios——St. I am both the son and heir of a legendary man: I am son and heir of a handsome Mexican who became a wetback to get to California.
Not to pick tomatoes but to become a rock star. He packed only a double change of clothes and the second-hand Takamine twelve-string he had bought at a flea market. Among the flock of teenage girls sighing and pining away in his absence was my mom. There is a drop of blood trembling in the white of my left eye. I tried to turn my pupil inwards.
I need a cold shower to bring it down without any pills. For years, nobody in our town heard anything about my dad. They say it was pretty difficult to recognize him: He spoke confusedly about Saint Francis of Assisi, and he hid from trees because, he said, they were trying to recruit him for the war. Everyone realized that he was flying high on a permanent acid trip and nevertheless, for some months, he once again became one of the most popular young people on the scene. Partly because, as his hair started to grow back, the scars on his scalp became less noticeable and his brown face was as handsome as always.
We were great friends. He showed me a number of tricks for how to copy on exams. He was my biggest rival on the Atari console. And he became a true thug at playing marbles. My mother, however, could never forgive the fact that he had destroyed his mind before letting her make love with him. The garden destroyed, kicked to pieces in a sudden attack of gastric infection. Cecilia is standing in the doorway.
A surge of explosions or rustling leaves tearing me a part as if I were a saint. In he settled in Coahuila, where he studied literature at university and still lives today. He has worked as an editor, cultural educator, and collaborator on numerous publications. His short stories and novels have received many literary prizes in Mexico. As a writer, he has worked in various genres, including poetry: El nombre de esta casa ; La resistencia ; rereleased in Spain by Vaso Roto publishing in ; Kubla Khan ; the short story: Un mundo infiel ; as well as translation and literary criticism.
Berkeley and the University of Illinois, respectively. Tirukkural encodes the cultural intelligence of the Tamil people in its 1, couplets called kurals , written sometime between the third and first centuries BCE in south India by the legendary poet Tiruvalluvar. Skip to main content. Mises Wire Writers Directory. A Model for a Truly Free Society? What Causes Moral Hazard? They are caused by the uninvited and unwanted co-ownership that springs from interventionism.