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LOST PIECE
an undergraduate journal of letters

VOLUME I, ISSUE IV
Getting to Know You
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV an undergraduate journal of letters
S X S X

LOST PIECE
an undergraduate journal of letters
© Copyright, Lost Piece; All rights reserved.

No part of this journal may be used or reproduced by any means, VOLUME I, ISSUE IV
graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, record- Getting to Know You
ing, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the
written permission of the Editor–In–Chief except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The works included
in this journal are printed with explicit permission of their authors.

J
Lost Piece: An Undergraduate Journal of Letters
The University of Notre Dame
Center for Undergraduate Scholarly Engagement

Stephen Lechner
Editor in Chief

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Raymond Korson

Supporting Editor

Josef Kuhn
Conor Rogers
Editors
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV an undergraduate journal of letters
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Table of Contents Something of a Mission Statement

Lost Piece: Issue IV From the Editors
Something of a Mission Statement
From the Editors ....................................................................................5
Meet the Writers
Lost Piece................................................................................................6 Lost Piece exists to facilitate undergraduate reading, discussion,
Searches and writing of an intellectual nature beyond course curriculum
Stephen Lechner......................................................................................8 and without distraction from the grade point average.
In Search of Myself
Daniel O’Duffy.......................................................................................12 Lost Piece seeks to help undergraduates to complement
and even unify what they learn in their classes with
Lifeline
their own personally driven intellectual pursuits.
Claire Gillen...........................................................................................16
Man, According to Primo Levi
The goal of Lost Piece is to combat mediocrity in all
James C Dever........................................................................................17
things, and particularly in all things intellectual.
And How He Is
Scott Posteuca..........................................................................................26 Lost Piece holds that the goods proper to intellec-
Bayview tual activity are ends in and of themselves and are to
William Stewart.....................................................................................30 be sought regardless of whatever recognitions may or
Interpretations and Intersubjectivity may not be extrinsically attached to such activity.
Mark Tancredi........................................................................................36
People By Day
Stephen Lechner......................................................................................41
Penury Everlasting
Nicholas Brandt......................................................................................46  
A Portrait of T.S. Eliot
Josef Kuhn...............................................................................................48
A Girl Without A Country
Maria Santos..........................................................................................51
Goodbye
Javier Zubizaretta..................................................................................57

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Meet the Writers

These groups have contributed
to the writing of the Fall 2010
Edition of Lost Piece. We
encourage you, as an undergrad-
uate, to contribute your writing
to future editions whether indi-
vidually or as part of any such
intellectual society. You can
send your writing and feedback
to the editor at slechner@nd.edu.
The Program of
Liberal Studies:
So it turns out that PLS
students don’t only like to talk
about such trivial things as
“free will” or “the meaning of
life” as approached through
the lens of certain Great
Books, but they also like,
even need, to engage ideas
wherever they can find them.
That’s why a few of them got
together to watch movies every
week, first as a social event
and later more as a discussion
group. They like to think they
are staying true to the spirit
of the word “seminar” (which
literally means “seedbed”) by
weekend to start a literary
society. Its members include
students from the Colleges of
Arts and Letters, Science, and
Engineering, but strangely
none from the college of
Business. They write, simply
put, despite the obvious fact
that they are only tyro writ-
ers, and they criticize each
other’s writing as best they
can. One of their goals is to
bring back the essay (which
literally means “an attempt”)
as a form of writing and as
a rhetorical work of art. The
group takes its name from
one of Cicero’s orations.
T:
T is a group of undergradu-
ates who meet together to
discuss issues of importance,
ranging from theology to
philosophy to current issues
in any and all fields. It is a
casually structured, socially
engaging event that welcomes
the opportunity to find both
common ground and a mul-
titude of opinions on topics.
And they drink tea, too.
The Orestes Brownson Council:
As a club, OBC is focused
on better understanding the
Catholic intellectual tradi-
tion and its interaction with

D holding profound conversa-

tions on their own from which
they hope to bear the fruits of
new ideas, serious dialogue,
and lasting friendships.
Istum:
(Also called That Thing) Three
years ago, a group of friends
decided to get together every
The Philosophy Club:
The Philosophy Club is
a group of a few dozen
undergraduates who enjoy
arguing, using big words,
attempting to answer “life’s
great questions,” asking more
questions, and arguing.
philosophy, politics, and
culture. It takes its name
from the American Catholic
political thinker who is
buried in the crypt of the
Basilica of the Sacred Heart,
Orestes Brownson. V

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Searches
An Introduction
Stephen Lechner career of puzzle-piecing. But Notre Dame who decided that that he and I undertook to start
Class of 2011
Editor-in-Chief I must confess: it wasn’t until he was missing something in the literary society that would
working on this journal that his education. He had classes, eventually become one of the
I once heard someone de- I actually experienced this friends, a place at an excellent driving forces behind this
scribe life as an autobiographical frustration literally. We had university with excellent profes- journal. Istum has met once a
dramatic narrative; I have yet to already decided on the name, sors, and a great interest in week for three years now and all
hear a description I like better. Lost Piece, and Ray and I were learning—in short, all that he this while we have been sharing
It’s a story, simply put, and a piecing together a puzzle to ought to have wanted. But nev- our thoughts, arguments, and
collection of stories—stories see how we liked it. To say we ertheless he needed something writing with each other as
from many places, distant and were shocked to discover that more, something he couldn’t friends. Why? Because we like
varied, that come together there was, in the end, one piece seem to find, something to pull to. Because we are friends. It’s
sometimes in patterns and missing does little to capture it all together and put it into an eclectic mix—Philosophy
sometimes in explosions, often the ridiculous situation in which perspective. If this all sounds majors, premeds, Theology,
colorful, always mysterious. we found ourselves: there we familiar to you it is because I English, Math, Political
This issue can be better under- were, two editors of a new took his idea of “something Science, Classics, Economics,
stood if one knows the stories journal titled Lost Piece tearing missing” and made it the and several engineers—and
that pieced it together. I’d like apart the room trying to find cornerstone for the first issue of a small one—about seven
to tell some of those stories now. the lost piece to the journal’s this journal. And what did he regulars and another eight
The first story concerns the cover on our first attempt decide this “something” was? or so who come every now
journal’s name, Lost Piece. I at piecing it together. The One might call it an “intellec- and later, usually averaging
don’t know if you’ve ever suc- irony was magnified when we tual community”, a community anywhere between seven and
ceeded in assembling a puzzle, realized that the piece we were within which he could not only ten. It seems to have worked
a large puzzle, after hours looking for was, like the floor, go to class and learn things, but out well, even though we never
of fumbling with cardboard brown and that the two of us really live an intellectual life in had a place to put our writing
wedges only to find a single are both colorblind. Needless which all of it—the classes, the when we finished it, until now.
piece missing from the picture. to say, we never found it... friends, the books, the degree— But even Istum was not quite
The frustration of such a Another story is, perhaps, cooperated in a sensible way. enough for Jerry—some of you
situation is, perhaps, enough more to the point. In the fall of It was with the intention know him, I’m sure—and he
to justify an early end to one’s 2007, there was a freshman at of starting such a community decided to leave Notre Dame

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after his second year. Why? He
couldn’t see the point of staying
here. Why college? To get a
degree? What use is a degree?
To land a job? What should
college have to do with that?
And nobody else seemed to
even question the point, despite
the forty-six thousand dollar
price tag that comes with it
every year. In the end he took a
year off to work at home, a year
that became four years when he
joined the army last March.
Was that the only reason he
left? Who can tell for sure?
But it was for no less. His
grades were well above average.
He had, and still has, many
friends here. His is easily
one of the sharpest minds I’ve
ever come across, and he had
an ambitious and genuine
interest in studying. He
should have had all he wanted
here—he even told me so.
So why do I tell Jerry’s story
now? Do I want you to leave
college, perhaps to join the
military? Then why haven’t I
done so myself? No. I tell it
now in hopes that you might
consider your own point to
college, a point that you may
or may not have actually
considered recently, or even at
all. Strangely, it’s fairly easy to
ignore the question of a point
to college—everyone else is
here, and nobody else seems
to be wondering why. And so
long as friends are near, beer
cheap, and a career soon to
follow, what’s to worry about?
What could be missing?
But evidently something is
missing, because Jerry isn’t here
right now. It isn’t something
unique to Notre Dame; rather,
universities in general seem
to share this absence—even
the Ivies, which seem to fool
themselves most successfully
of anyone into thinking that
the virtue of scholarship can be
institutionalized. More impor-
tantly, it isn’t something that
either the administrations or
faculties of universities are miss- it, is to finish his studies at
ing. It is something that under- Notre Dame upon his return
graduates themselves are miss- from the Army three years
ing and need to provide if they from now. Ultimately, he will
are to gain a higher education. have earned his education by
The notion of having a point his own very difficult service
extends beyond one’s college as a private in the Army, and
career—indeed, it extends to the expense of his education
life itself—and it is with this will burden neither his federal
in mind that these writers have government, nor his university,
presented their thoughts. Let nor his family. He is the only
these insights give credence to person of whom I know I
the claim already presented in can say this. I most certainly
a previous issue: that human cannot say it of myself. V
beings, as rational animals,
cannot live without purpose.
Human beings thrive on
purpose. A story, to be
called a story, requires at least
enough order to make a plot.
I should say that Jerry, as last
I heard from him, is still serving
safely at his post in Iraq, having
been commissioned there this
September, and is reading the
entire works of Shakespeare in
what little spare time he has.
His plan, as last he’s considered

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In Search of Myself
An Essay
Daniel O’Duffy other minds – or my own – if “For my part, when I enter most intimately into what I call
T
all I see are shadows dancing myself, I always stumble on some particular perception or other,
on a cave wall? I ask, “what is of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure.
What am I? Science tells
love?” and I am told that it is I never can catch myself at any time without a perception, and
me that I am Homo sapiens,
like “like a red, red rose”. I ask, never can observe anything but the perception. (Hume)
constituted of atoms that form
“what is life?” and I am told that
cells shaped by billions of years
it is but “a brief candle”. These I read Hume and follow his can affect its angle somewhat,
of evolution, but this does not
answers, like anything encoded gaze, peering into my con- as the wind does during a
answer my question. Though I
in language, can only flirt and sciousness. I try to make sense storm, but I am powerless to
may zoom into my body with
flit with the truth, never truly of what I find but all is at sea, a prevent its inevitable descent.
science and see my elements, I
encapsulating it. We are limited tumultuous crashing of percep- Breathless, I retreat to normal-
am no closer to understanding
by language and experience tions, thoughts and feelings that ity, chastened. Is this all there
my innermost self. Throughout
to hear mere echoes of truth. threaten to drown me under a is to humans – an ephemeral,
time, man has zoomed in on
Never will we be able to truly cascade of sensations. I try to elusory existence consisting
himself with the intellect,
convey in words or show or say swim through it to locate the of no more than fleeting pas-
questing for answers. From the
the secret of that which most locus of being, but I am unable sions? Hume concluded thus,
insight of the social sciences
fundamentally constitutes us. to see through the perceptions denying the existence of ‘self ’.
to the wondrous perspicac-
The answers to human identity that fall into my awareness Is this the end of my journey?
ity of literature, humans have
may thus only be found with like shifting curtains of rain. I
recorded their attempts to find
introspection, not extrospec-
themselves. Through tracing
tion. Searching for myself, I “Behind your thoughts and feelings, my brother, there stands a
these thoughts, I marvel at the
will take as my guide the great mighty ruler, an unknown sage, whose name is self.” (Nietzsche)
epic tapestry that illustrates the
philosophers, following their
human experience. I am enrap-
meditations. I ask myself, then,
tured when touching the mind Nietzsche beckons me back With Hume, I looked within
where I can be said to exist. The
of another… yet still I cannot into myself with the promise to find only passions, but I do
answer is apparent, Cartesian
grasp at the truth, the answers that there is indeed something not conclude that this is all I
in nature: I am that which asks
to those uniquely human ques- more, that I am hidden beyond am. After all, there must be
what I am. I look to my mind.
tions. How may I come to know the deluge of mental activity. a subject of these perceptions,

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something to experience them. perceptions around me to look knowledge to ascend once more,
Is this “me”? I turn my gaze down at the nameless figure, zooming back out and escaping
from the constellations of this pivot in the center of it all. this dark cave of ouroboric
questions. This is the essence of
“The philosophical I is not the human being, nor the human philosophy. We live in the midst
body, nor the human soul with which psychology deals. The of plethoric puzzles that scream
philosophical self is the metaphysical subject, the bound- at us, begging to be answered:
ary – nowhere in this world.” (Wittgenstein) What are we? What is reality?
Attuning to these thoughts can
be maddening, or liberating; it
Spurred on by Wittgenstein, observer in the middle is a void,
is no doubt much safer to plug
who talks of a self beyond that an entity entirely devoid of
our ears! The greatest minds
which I had contemplated, character. There is no wondrous
of humanity nevertheless tied
I reach the final intellectual answer, no Grail at the end of this
themselves to the mast of
magnification of the self, at last quest, just... emptiness. I am the
‘reality’ and turned to face that
approaching the nucleus of being. empty vessel into which experi-
siren’s call. Did any find their
I look down into the awareness ence is poured, nothing more.
Penelope? I do not know. They
within to see... nothing. The
have left me clues to their path,
a path that I may follow out, but
“The mental and the material are really here, but there is no person to
ultimately this odyssey must be
be found. For it is void and fashioned like a doll.” (Visuddhimagga)
undertaken alone. Following
I have not found my ‘self ’, only Like Descartes, I have worked my philosophy, I have journeyed
diaphanous awareness. All of way down into the bottom of a to my innermost self, zooming
the things that I had once called doubt parabola, questioning every in to find nothing. Following
‘me’, my thoughts, my feelings, level of my existence down to the philosophy, I may journey back
are apparently no more than poor absolute minimum point - some- to reality, and find meaning. V
players upon a stage, moving and thing is aware. This is all I know,
interacting in the Cartesian the- all I can know for sure, unless
ater by a script that I do not write. I can construct an edifice of
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Lifeline
A Poem
Claire Gillen
Class of 2011
Philosophy Club
Though blessed beyond measure, still I grumble.
Preoccupied with charting an assured way,
Through daily duty, I fumble, stumble,
Trying to stay upright, measure each day.
Just Water drives relentlessly, sapping all
My strength in its perpetual motion.
At length, the mighty force recedes and hurls
A wounded, gasping girl upon the shore.
Alone, confused, within herself she curls –
Doubts her power to recover, face more.
But, when placing trust in my greatest friend,
My yoke is easy; anxieties end.
as my map’s nearly complete, I fall
From my high peak into raging ocean. V
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an undergraduate journal of letters
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Man According to Primo Levi
A Literary Research Paper
James C Dever
Class of 2011
Orestes Brownson Council
From the outset it is impor-
tant to note that Primo Levi, in
is work Se questo `e un uomo, is
both participant in and narrator
of various encounters with men,
all of which contribute to his
conversation with the reader
regarding man’s nature. For the
sake of focus and clarity, I will
retain this division between
Levi as author and Levi as
participant in one of these
encounters, addressing first how
he as author is expressing his
conception of man’s nature and
second how he as participant
came to his understanding. The
particularity of his experience
as participant will serve as
evidence for the various themes
the work examines as a whole.
I will constrain my discussion
to one particular encounter
found in “Il canto di Ulisse”. The
form of Levi’s text, “written not
in order of logical succession,
17
but in order of urgency”,1 deals
almost exclusively in particu-
lars. In compiling numerous
experiences of life in the Lager,
Levi constructs a rich and
complex picture of humanity.
His writing demands that the
reader engage general questions
regarding the human condition
on the level of particular. Levi
invites the reader to deepen
his or her reflection on the
questions he is raising, rather
than provide definitive answers
of his own. In this essay I have
attempted to synthesize Levi’s
treatment of particulars in a
fashion that does not neglect the
complexity of his work. Having
reflected on Levi’s text, I will
argue that for Levi, a man is a
being driven by the seemingly
unquenchable desire to discern
meaning in experience, reflect
upon this lived experience in
memory, and then convey the
contents of those reflections to
others by means of language.
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Man’s Search for Meaning Ulysses. The open sea is in- to search. Levi quotes Dante’s
scrutable, but still calls Ulysses Ulysses again and comments
In “Il canto di Ulisse” Levi Levi’s search for meaning in
as both author and participant the Lager and Ulysses’ search ‘Think of your breed; for brutish ignorance / Your mettle was
grapples with questions sur- for meaning in Inferno. Levi not made; you were made men, /To follow after knowledge
rounding man’s desire to begins his meditation abruptly, and excellence.’ As if I also was hearing it for the first
search for meaning. For Levi, “…the canto of Ulysses.” It time: like the blast of a trumpet, like the voice of God.
man hungers for meaning, is motivated initially by the For a moment I forgot who I was and where I am.3
and attempts to discern the desire to teach Jean Italian, but
content of lived experience is soon transformed into an
The impact of this moment that he and Jean are engaging
according to principles of opportunity to discover mean- is tremendous for Levi who in conversation seems to fill his
reason. Levi’s reflection on ing in the inferno of the Lager. seems to have received a kind soul with an affirmation of his
Dante’s canto di Ulisse from Levi first draws the parallel of divine revelation about his own humanity. The essential
the Commedia establishes between Dante’s text and the situation in the Lager as well difference between Levi’s search
an implicit parallel between current situation of the two men as what it means to be a man. and that of Dante’s Ulysses
On Ulysses’ words, men follow is the role community plays
‘…So on the open sea I set forth.’ Of this I am certain, I am sure, after knowledge and excellence, in deepening one’s ability to
I can explain it to Pikolo, I can point out why ‘I set forth’ is not pursuing the great questions of pursue knowledge and excel-
‘ je me mis’, it is much stronger and more audacious, it is a chain man’s existence in an attempt lence. Ulysses abandoned the
which has been broken, it is throwing oneself on the other side to discern meaning. On all of very members of his community
of a barrier, we know the impulse well. The open sea: Pikolo Levi’s descriptions, the Lager is that Levi emphasizes must be
has traveled by sea and knows what it means…there is nothing essentially a place of dehuman- remembered. In engaging in
but the smell of the sea; sweet things, ferociously far away.2 ization, breaking down what it the search for meaning with
means to be a man in the minds another Levi affirms the need
of the prisoners. The revelation for community and friendship.4

His interpretation of the side of a barrier, crossing into the
from Dante’s Ulysses that men
passage points towards the unknown, driven by the human
are made to seek after knowl-
similarity of their situation in impulse for meaning. Jean knows
edge and excellence and the way
the Lager to that of Ulysses, what the open sea means and
throwing himself on the other thus its particular relevance for
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Memory and Connection
to the Past
Se questo `e un uomo is essen-
tially a collection of memories.
Elsewhere in his work Levi
described himself as “a normal
man with a good memory.”5
Levi was an author who was
very concerned with human
memory and memory’s role in
the communication of truth
about the human condition.
In this section I will address
Levi’s emphasis on the power of
memory to create connections
with the past. This is significant
both on the level of being as
an essentially human capacity
associated with meaning, and
on the level of the ability of
memory to recall instances
of lived human experience,
especially in moments when
one’s humanity is in doubt.
Within the narrative,
Levi begins his journey with
Jean speaking about various
memories that shed important
light on Levi’s subsequent
exegesis of Dante’s text. Levi
writes, “We spoke of our hous-
es, of Strasbourg and Turin, of
the books we had read, of what
we had studied, of our mothers:
how all mothers resemble each
other!”6 In this brief exchange
between the two men, their
memories enable them to
establish a link with their past
lives. Memory, in creating
that link between the past and
present, allows Levi and Jean
to reflect on a time when their
humanity was not somehow
in question, a time when they
knew they were in fact men.
Levi relates as much of the
canto as he is able to remember.
He struggles to translate and
comment on the fragments he
is able to recall, while stitching
together what he has produced.
Here memory performs the
same act of linking Levi in the
Lager to words and ideas that
transcend the Lager, allowing
him for a time to forget who he
is and where he is. Levi’s lapses
in memory point to the power
of memory to transcend imme-
diate circumstances. He writes,
“I would give today’s soup to
know how to connect ‘the like
on any day’ to the last lines.”7
In asserting his willingness to
surrender this ration, Levi is es-
sentially claiming that he would
have given his life to remember
the way the final lines of the
canto are connected. For Levi, it
would be better to contemplate
the imagery of Dante’s text
with Jean in the manner of
men. The capacity to remember
and to relate one’s memories to
another is something uniquely
human. The power of memory
is further attested to as Levi’s
rendering of the canto sparks
other memories, notably of his
home in Turin, “…do not let me
think of my mountains which
used to show up against the
dusk of evening as I returned
by train from Milan to Turin!”8
The pain of memory is lasting,
yet revivifying, echoing Levi’s
sentiments earlier in the book,
“For a few hours we can be
unhappy in the manner of free
men.”9 There is something
uniquely human about the pain
one can suffer from a memory
that while transporting one
from his or her environment
makes them acutely aware that
it will only be temporary.
Language and Community
One’s ability to search for
meaning and reflect on lived
experience in memory are
ultimately frustrated without
the capacity to express oneself
in meaningful language. As
with the power to discern
meaning, and reflect on
memory, the use of language
is something that is essen-
tially human. Furthermore, in

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order for communication to be
meaningful it must be directed
towards a listener, establishing a
community. In this final sec-
tion I will show how language
facilitates the creation of
community between Levi and
his readers as well as between
Levi and Jean in the Lager.
The epitaph from Coleridge’s
“Rime of the Ancient Mariner”
is found at the beginning of
his work, I sommersi e i salvati,
“Since then at an uncertain
hour, / that agony returns, /
And till my ghastly tale is told
/ This heart within me burns.”10
Levi writes of the burning
desire to share the “ghastly tale”
in the Preface to Se questo `e
un uomo, “The need to tell our
story to ‘the rest,’ to make ‘the
rest’ participate in it, had taken
on for us before our liberation
and after, the character of an
immediate and violent impulse,
to the point of competing
with our elementary needs.”11
Both of these statements echo
similar sentiments of a violent
impulse to share one’s story
with others as well as notions
of community and otherness.
Levi is deeply concerned with
one’s ability to communicate
meaning to others. In I som-
mersi e i salvati, he writes:
Thus, to speak is something that ideal listener throughout Levi’s
is essentially human. It is the frantic lesson. Levi mentions
manner in which one relates to his “great attention” and “how
“the rest”. The exercise of lan- good Pikolo is”.13 Jean partici-
guage is carried out in commu- pates verbally only once, but for
nion with other human beings. a majority of the time follows
The main action of Levi’s Levi’s reflections intently,
commentary in Il canto di Ulisse deepening his own reflections
is an attempt to establish a on their condition in the Lager
form of community with Jean as they are implicitly compared
by teaching Jean his native to those of Ulysses. Levi writes,
language. Jean is depicted as the
…he is aware that it is doing me good. Or perhaps it is something
more: perhaps, despite the wan translation and the pedestrian,
rushed commentary he has received the message; he has felt that it
has to do with him, that is has to do with all men who toil, and
with us in particular; and that is has to do with us two, who dare to
reason of these things with the poles for the soup on our shoulders.14

Jean affirms Levi’s burning reflect with him on the great

Except for cases of pathological incapacity, one can and must com-
desire to speak by providing
municate…To say that it is impossible to communicate is false; one
him with a willing ear to listen.
always can. To refuse to communicate is a failing; we are biologically
Beyond mere courtesy, however,
and socially predisposed to communication, and in particular to its Jean has been affected by Levi’s
highly evolved and noble form which is language. All members of the story. In sharing his transla-
human species speak, no non-human species knows how to speak.12 tion and commentary, Levi is
able to deepen Jean’s ability to
questions of meaning they face
in the Lager. This experience
of communication shared
between the two men allow
both to recognize the humanity
of themselves in the other. For
Levi and Jean, who dare to

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reason about these things in the
Lager, shared communication is
another way in which humanity
may be retained. This is the
fact of man’s life on earth that
Dante’s Ulysses neglected.
In separating himself from
human community in order
to search after knowledge and
excellence he rebelled against
man’s natural impetus towards
fruitful social interaction and
the virtue of friendship.
Thus far, I have attempted to
show an understanding of man
as rational, linguistic, and social
in Levi’s relation of his encoun-
ter with Jean in Il canto di Ulisse,
but to reduce Levi’s relation of
his encounters in Se questo `e un
uomo to a dogmatic definition
of man, however, would be
offensive to the complexity of
Levi’s text. As we have seen
Levi’s work is characterized by
its emphasis on the particularity
of human experience. Levi
chooses to relate his experiences
as experiences of individuals. As
author, Levi invites the reader
to become participant in those
experiences and engage the text
as a living strand of conversa-
tion on what it means to be
human. His reconstructions of
his human encounters provide
the basis for the search for
meaning, investing his readers
with a sense of purpose as they
follow his thought in the text.
Levi’s memory provides the area
in which the search for meaning
is carried out. He invites the
reader into his most intimate
thoughts with all the urgency of
the original moment. Both the
invitation and sense of urgency
are expressed through Levi’s use
of language. Language creates
the relationship between the
speaker and the listener in a
manner that demands of the
listener a willingness to reflect
with Levi on the nature of
man. In the same way Levi’s
encounters are necessarily
singular, so too is the response
to Levi derived from his
readers. In Il canto di Ulisse Levi
offers his own commentary
and interpretation of Dante’s
poetic text with a particularity
of circumstance that provides
new meaning to the text itself.
By allowing the reader to
follow his journey with Jean
through Dante’s text. Levi has
provided us a model to follow in
interpreting his own. Probing
the depths of meaning that are
present, taking adequate time to
reflect what we have managed
to grasp, and finally carrying
on the conversation once more,
deepening our understanding
each time we return. Se questo
`e un uomo does not offer us a
finalized definition of what it
means to be a man, but rather
invites the reader along the
path of Levi’s own search for
meaning through his memory
and expressed in his language
indicating that these three
components of man’s nature
were essential to his under-
standing of what man is. V
Cited:
1 Se questo `e un uomo, p. 15-16
2 Ibid, p. 119
3 Ibid, cf.
4 Inferno XXVI, 94-99, “No
tenderness for son, no duty owed
/ To aging fatherhood, no love
that should / have brought my
wife Penelope delight / Could
overcome in me my long desire /
burning to understand how this
world works / and know of human
vices, worth and valor”; note 9
5 Levi, Stories and Essays, quoted
in Woolf, “From If this is a Man to
The Drowned and the Saved ”, p. 35
6 Se questo `e un uomo, p. 117
7 Ibid, p. 120
8 Ibid
9 Ibid, p. 82, “A Good Day”
10 Coleridge, ‘The Rime of the
Ancient Mariner”, 582-585
11 Se questo `e un uomo, p. 15
12 I sommersi e i salvati, p. 89
13 Se questo `e un uomo, p. 118, 119
14 Ibid, p. 119-120

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 LOST PIECE: Issue IV an undergraduate journal of letters
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And How He Is
A Poem

Scott Posteuca
Class of 2011
Philosophy Club

It is so easy just to throw up

your arms and to pretend It seems to me that by being
it is all pretend. man, I demand certain
The nauseating drone of the alarm clock things from the Reality about me
—tiresome, bothersome, a nuisance : for one
“Get up,” it says, “Get up and go... go... go...go... go...” that it be more
tiresome, monotone, and clueless— more than just pretend
fails under quick fingers more than just a dream
and we sink :for another
into that it be worthwhile,
dreams... worth a great deal
dreams do not complicate (worthy of a sunset,
(don’t say there’s nothing to do in the doldrums...) perhaps, on a warm summer
dreams are easy. day at the edge
of the sea;
But that is just the thing worthy of a deep look
(Aye, there’s the rub): into its vast,
Perhaps it is too easy, this throwing up, this pretending, shimmering eternity;
too easy to be worthy of a good whiff
the proper response to it of the salt
all (life, work, love, breathing), all spray of unknown Adventure)
that being as man entails.

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S X S X

:and for another, perhaps

most importantly,
that it be
real, that it be
relevant, that it
exist, that it not be

w
a lie!
Man, for him to exist
as man,
requires
demands,
depends upon
Truth;
and how he is
restsless upontil he befriends it. V

28 29
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV
S X
Bayview
A Story
William Stewart
Class of 2012
Istum
The clocks all look out
toward the shore, each tick
and each tock pointed to the
shore. It is a city of hands,
asymmetrical pairs, one little,
one big. Soaring above the
streets and smokestacks, the
time-piece towers stand over
the factories and warehouses,
solitary sentinels of the surge
and setting of the day. The
sweeps obscure the faces as
the hands wave in and out the
highways, the railways, the
port lanes. Even the summits
of the churches inhabit a
breed of these mechanical
star-gazers, a metronome
for the worshipers and their
God. My footsteps along the
side walks are matched by the
tolls of the hour: inhale, high
tide, tick all mirrored with
the tock, low tide, exhale.
Madeline and I found our-
selves in a land of rummage
sales and violin repair shops
that day. For her, it was a
slow stumble through a frag-
mented memory of disinterest
and the impatience of an
eight-year-old: underexposed
negatives that would never
quite fully develop. For me, it
was a chance to retrace an all-
too-hurried, frantic and lost
afternoon when the blackness
of the sky began to fill the
cab of the pickup as the radio
blurted warnings of impend-
ing weather. We decided to
walk the streets we had only
the faintest remembrance of.
The sign just said books,
vertically, three feet tall,
beginning just above the
crown of my head. It may
have been lit at some point,
but the hours had corroded
its wires and cracked its glass.
On the window glass was
posted ‘Closed’ but also ‘Open
June 19-20.’ Craning my
neck, I opened the door.
‘Close the door!’ came
30
an undergraduate journal of letters
S X
the reply. ‘Close the door!’
We skirted hurriedly
through the doorway as the
voice emerged from beneath a
precariously balanced teepee of
dust jackets and first editions.
‘It’s air conditioned.
Naturally air conditioned,
see,’ the teepee explained.
The chief who emerged was
ancient, with three days of
acid-free paper stubble embel-
lishing his chin. His pants
hung high, suspended by elastic,
the brass clasps worn with age.
Glasses, thick with text, shaded
his brilliant, sunken eyes, the
arms running from the heavy
lenses to his tired ears across the
valleys of his cheeks and temple.
I quickly stepped to the
side, out of the way, leaving
Madeline to greet him.
‘The place is open,’ he
answered absently when queried
if we could look. ‘I’m only here
for a few minutes. Probably
about fifteen. I just have to
finish this letter. But you are
31
welcome to look around.’
Hoping to stumble across
some priceless treasure bound
with glue and string, I turned
down the miniature isle,
drawn by the shelves upon
shelves of forgotten best-sellers
and abandoned novelty.
But he continued,
trapping Madeline.
‘Nicer in here than it is out
there, eh? Cooler down here.
That’s why I say ‘naturally’ air
conditioned. Just a few win-
dows and plate glass. Keeps it
cooler in the summer. I just am
writing this letter. I don’t really
own the place, just I’m running
it for the day. But that’s why
I didn’t want you to have the
door open for too long. It lets
all of the cooler air escape.
Like this, see, there is no extra
bill. People don’t think of that,
though. But it helps you not
have to pay. So that’s why I put
there, on the sign, “naturally”
air conditioned. See. Because
there is no real air conditioner.
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV an undergraduate journal of letters
S X S X

But it’s conditioned air. It’s just
been conditioned by the build-
ing. As long as it is different
that the air outside, it’s con-
ditioned. So this air is colder
than the air outside but it’s
colder because of the building,
so it’s naturally air conditioned.
Anyway, I’m just finishing
writing this letter then I need
to go, but you can sure look
around here while I am here.’
He shuffled back into
his cavern of binding and
Cubs-Indians on the radio.
Madeline laughed at me with
her spread eyes as I sniggered
into a volume I had absent-
mindedly pulled off of a shelf.
The shelves appeared towers,
stacking up to the low ceiling
instantly, crammed with every
variety of book, every variety of
time, every variety of subject,
and in no particular organiza-
tion. I left her by the sections
on Lincoln and Bestsellers,
loosely designated, tip-toed
past our book and baseball
crier, and gracelessly scrambled
over box and bag into the far
back corner of the store. The
entire shop could not have been
more than 200 square feet.
I recognized even less pat-
tern on these shelves, with
signed copies sharing space
with pulp fiction and nudists.
‘How am I going to finish
this letter? It is a book,’ he
muttered to himself, droning
off into indecipherability but
certainly remaining in the
realm of audibility. The players
were tied in the 11th inning.
He just wanted the company.
‘Ralph Nader could have
been president!’ He snapped
out of his contemplations
when Madeline asked to
make a purchase, but not
before dragging the front
end of his derailed train of
thought through his teeth.
‘O, these are old ones,’
he commented. ‘You ever
know about,’ asking her about
some long-forgotten great.
‘What?! You never heard of
him?! I can’t believe that. One
of the smartest men to ever act.
He played in, and then he was
in. Maybe you say it is because
you are young. But you know
who Charlie Chaplin is. If I
ask you who Charlie Chaplin
is, you would know who he is,
wouldn’t you? That just doesn’t
make sense because you don’t
know about one guy who was
later than one, but if I ask you
about Chaplin, you would know
him, but not the younger one.
‘But what about Ralph
Nader?’ resurrecting his old in-
ternal debate. ‘You know about
him. He almost could’ve won
the last election. The one before
last. He would’ve had enough,
but, they always do that kind
of thing. You know that if the
people who voted could’ve voted
instead of the electors, because
you mean to tell me that the
electors vote the very same for
all one guy as just the people
voted for, but when they all go
to one side, instead of how they
used to decide for every person,
each one to his own vote, you
know? But, instead, he didn’t
get the votes, so they couldn’t
elect him, but if they had just
let the votes fall as they were,
he could’ve taken enough away
himself. He could’ve been
president. A run off, at least.’
I laughed, feeling bad
that I had stranded her
again with his rambles.
‘Alright, let’s see what we
can do here. I probably am
going to leave in about five
minutes. I want to get to
church a little early today. So
I will probably leave in a few
minutes. But I think it will
be, let’s see. Two books, hmm,
yea, two books, two dollars.
Thank you. I guess now I can
close up and head out.’ He
shut off the radio mid-pitch.
I clamored out from behind
the avalanche of books above
me and handed him my choice.
‘Heh, we were about to

32 33
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV an undergraduate journal of letters
S X S X

close up. What do you have
there? Ah, a Merton. Disputed
Questions? I have never, I don’t
remember this one. Let me see.
I have more Merton here in the
office. But I don’t know about
this one.’ He gestured to a wall
of the teepee, and I carefully
inched out a well-read copy of
The Seven Storey Mountain.
He thumbed frantically
through an appraisal book,
considerably flagged and
underlined and circled. Calling
out four digit numbers of prices
and explaining that he usually
charges some incomprehensible
amount for his books, depend-
ing on ten percents, the phases
of the moon, and the Chinese
New Year, he tried to determine
the going rate for my choice.
His thought process was spo-
radic, most of it leaking through
his mouth. But it was too
much, even for him. He ended
up reluctantly asking me for $10
for both. I was happy to pay.
When I asked him when
he would be open again,
he shook his head.
‘Today is the only day.
Then it will be closed until
September. But it’s not mine
anymore, see. I sold it to anoth-
er guy. I have to go in for treat-
ment. Surgery for my heart. So
there’s not really time for me
to finish setting the shop up.
But I think he will finish that
back room that you were in,’
gesturing to the natural disaster
that I had just escaped from.
As we turned to
leave, I stopped.
‘Ayn Rand, you say? Ain
Rand? Ain. Yea, I think I
have some right here. Right
here. Somewhere on this
shelf. I think so. I just put
some up there. It might be
side ways. Hmm. You just
have to look.’ He trailed off.
‘Don’t worry about it. There’s
not enough time. Besides, you
need to get going. Church?’
The door closed emphatically
behind us. We reached the top
of the street, turned at the inter- have been swallowed up by
section, and I cast a glance back the storefronts abutting it,
over my shoulder to the crack in swallowed up by the city that
the masonry from which we had took no notice of it, swallowed
just exited. Open one day the up by the clocks that soared so
whole summer. Half an hour far above its basement stacks.
later and the bookseller would The sidewalk carried
have failed to even exist for us. our feet around the block:
The serendipity of the step, step, high tide, low
afternoon, stepping into the last tide, tick, tock. V
15 minutes of a man’s career,
to listen to him calmly finish
a letter to his brother, it was
like catching an extra inning
of game whose turbulent at-
bats were not betrayed by the
placidity of the identical scores.
Inside the naturally air con-
ditioned basement, where the
only windows looked straight
up to the sky, time had paused
to let us into a story that would
end as soon as we reemerged
into our city of clocks. Had I
walked back down the street to
the sign that had not glowed
“books” in twenty years, I
have no doubt that I would
have found the shop to already

34 35
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV
S X
Interpretations and Intersubjectivity
An Essay
Mark Tancredi
Class of 2011
Istum
Suppose there is a man
living on a deserted island
who has never known another
person, but has instead raised
himself entirely and learned
independently all those things
that he needs to know about his
behaviors. His behaviors might
be peculiar from our point of
view. Perhaps he scratches his
ears with his foot or snorts
when happy or talks to himself
by slapping his face and clasping
his hands around his arms or
performs any number of other
odd rituals. Suppose also that
there is a man living in our own
society who exhibits all of these
same behaviors. If we reflect on
these two persons, is it not pos-
sible for us to say that the first
is sane while the second insane?
And would we not say this
because of the contexts in which
their behaviors developed?
What is understandable in light
36
of a man’s being alone on an
island might be incomprehen-
sible for a man living in New
York City. But do we not also
recognize in the man from the
island an altogether different
understanding of what we call
“happiness” that owes itself to
that emotion’s being cultivated
in a different context? We might
think that the man from the
island understands “happiness”
in the same way we do—that
he understands at base the same
emotion—and that he is simply
acting it out in a different way.
But what reason do we have to
think this? Why do we feel that
“happiness” is pure and simple
and that emotions are uniform
and unaffected by the practices
that embody them? Is it not
possible that the island-man’s
“happiness” and our “happiness”
are similar but not the same,
in the same way that an Oak
and a Maple are recognizably
different and yet both trees?
And now I ask, why should
an undergraduate journal of letters
S X
the man from the island have
any behaviors at all? If they
are outward demonstrations
of something intrinsic to him,
who are they demonstrations
for? That is, why should he have
behaviors rather than mere acts
of instinct? If I rub my eye to
signal that I am tired, what
distinguishes that behavior from
my rubbing my eye because
there is an eyelash in it? How
is it that another person can
interpret my behavior? What
does that other person need to
know? If my intent is what is at
issue, there must be something
that supplies others with
knowledge of my intent. For if
my friend asks (or suggests) that
I am tired and I insist that I am
not, he may still argue with me
that I am, and argue further
that that is the reason that I
rubbed my eye. This can only
be because he has interpreted
my action in context. This, I am
going to suggest, tells us not just
about actions and behaviors, but
37
also about emotions. Behaviors
give expression to emotions,
but they also do something
more: they provide identity and
substance to emotions; they
help to define emotions rather
than merely embody them.
***
Emotions are contextual; the
ability to identify a particular
emotion as “happiness” or “joy”
is more than simply putting
a name on it. Naming is only
one part of identifying, and
the name “happiness” is only a
label, just as “Mark Tancredi”
is merely a label for me.
“Happiness” stands in place
of all those features that are
held together in the emotion.
But those features for which
“happiness” serves as shorthand
are not qualities of only the
emotion; they are also quali-
ties of its use. Thus emotions
are not basic entities that just
need to be named. Identifying
an emotion means noting its
features along with something
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV an undergraduate journal of letters
S X S X

about the appropriate situations
that evoke those features.
Notice that this does not mean
that I must identify all those
situations, but it does mean that
situations provide a component
of the emotion’s identity; in
experiencing situations, I
learn the emotion’s identity.
“Happiness” is not something
internal that merely responds to
a given circumstance. If it was,
we could call something “happi-
ness” by describing just its fea-
tures without noting anything
about the context in which it
is experienced. But this is not
possible, for what would we say?
Even if the subjective “feeling”
of happiness does not change
with circumstance, the identity
of that feeling does. Here I am
not simply saying that the same
basic emotion can be given
a different name depending
on the context. I am instead
suggesting that the identity of
an emotion is contextual; the
context does not serve simply
to provide a name, but it serves
to provide an identity. Context
feeds back onto the emotion of
interest and makes us under-
stand it and understand how to
act on it. Even if “excitement”
and “fear” subjectively feel the
same, they are not separated
only by context; they are phe-
nomenologically distinct.
An emotion is not an entity
that we know from experience
or that we can isolate and
describe the features of.
Nothing can be said about an
emotion except that it is an
emotion (and perhaps that it is
pleasant or unpleasant) unless
context is taken into account.
***
Consider how one learns to
act on a very basic emotion—
sadness, for example. While
crying may be universally
consistent, it is largely instinc-
tive as a behavior; mourning is
neither of these things. If I am
to mourn, I must first learn to
recognize those situations in
which mourning is appropriate.
I then learn the appropriate
behaviors to exhibit, words
to speak (“I’m sorry for your
loss,” “My prayers are with
you,” etc.) and activities to do
in such situations, and later I
begin to repeat them. Finally,
I make them my own. Only
at this point can I be said to
understand the sadness that
calls for mourning, for I now
understand how to express sad-
ness to other people. Only then
can I go through a card aisle in
a grocery store and understand
why different cards are grouped
in different sections. But more
importantly, I learn something
about emotions and the actions
they might elicit at the same
time; the actions provide scope
and detail to my emotions, and
as I begin to clarify my emo-
tions, I also begin to understand
how I might put them to use.
If I were later to understand
some other way of expressing
sadness, I would then have
learned more about sadness.
The movement is dialectical,
and without such a movement
my emotions remain just emo-
tions; they are not “sadness”
or “happiness” or “anxiety”.
That I can observe happiness
in a very young infant says
relatively little about the infant
and comparatively more about
socialization. That I can, in
fact, interpret happiness from a
smile says much about me. That
an infant can smile is perhaps
reflexive; that that smile can be
a response to the infant’s feeling
of what I may call happiness is
more significant; but that I can
call that feeling “happiness”,
that I can interpret the move-
ment of an infant’s lips as a
smile, that I can read the child
as conveying a recognizable
emotion to me when I cannot of
course know first-hand what the
child is feeling suggests some
level of intersubjectivity. It is

38 39
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV
S X
not that I am projecting onto
the child, if this is understood
to mean that I am ascribing
behavior to the child that the
child does not intend, for I
can never know what anyone
intends unless I interpret their
behavior in the same way that
I interpret the smile of an
infant. What this suggests is
that emotions are neither basic
nor distinct entities. They are
also not firmly ingrained, and
particular emotions need not
be universally felt. Rather,
emotions are something of a
capacity, something awaiting
development and clarification
by interpersonal relationships.
***
We spend much of our lives
focused on emotions—on
satisfying them, on rectifying
them, on assuaging them, on
pursuing courses of action that
will produce the most of certain
kinds of them—but we often
do not give thought to what
informs them nor, indeed, to
what forms them, except when
40
it is a convenient reason for us
to discount objections to our
own thoughts. So “happiness”
is generally thought good to
produce, but rarely thought
good to form and even less
likely to be thought of as some-
thing that needs to be educated
or learned. (What would that
even mean to most of us?) And
gut reactions—what we “just
feel”—are deemed reliable and
should be listened to; unless,
of course, that gut reaction is
that of a friend with whom we
disagree. But in this case, what
are we left with? Weighing one
person’s gut reaction against
another’s? My sorrow to my
neighbor’s pride? As long as
emotions are common currency
for talking about right and
wrong behavior, we will never
actually talk about right and
wrong behavior. Nor will we ac-
tually talk about emotions, since
to talk about them would be
fundamentally to talk about the
behavior that molds them. V
an undergraduate journal of letters
S X
People By Day…
A Thought Experiment
Stephen Lechner the morning? Constant IV?
Class of 2011
Istum ***
Now say that while a person
Imagine that a new drug is under the influence of this
becomes fashionable and highly drug, they retain an appearance
accessible. It makes a person much like that of any other
rational human being, but that
feel really good, it makes them
at some point they begin to
forget their problems for a
act in an irrational manner.
little while, it cures simple
They begin to do things that
depression temporarily but
they would ordinarily not do,
thoroughly, gives them a sense
whether or not those things are
of companionship with others
things that they would want to
who take the drug, provides a
do under normal circumstances.
certain boost or high that can
They moan and groan a little,
make even the most stressful
they find suddenly that they
situations become a Sunday
can dance and sing when
picnic, and has a bearable health
previously they could not, and
recoil—definitely not enough
they suddenly begin making
to cause serious injury, and only
love to any other human being
enough to cause a slight dis-
of the opposite sex (or of the
comfort that is much less than
same) that they find the slight-
the typical stresses of daily life.
Question: Would you take est attraction to. They do all
sorts of ridiculous yelling and
the drug? If so, how often? On
special occasions? In tough screaming and singing and
times? On holidays? On stumbling and jumping and
weekends? After a hard day’s crawling and spitting and biting
work? After work? During and howling and even some of
work? When you wake up in the unspeakable, but they do so
41
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S X S X

mostly amongst themselves and
instances of bad things like ac-
cidents, violence, injury, assault,
death, rape, etc… are almost
always amongst themselves
and even then have the reputa-
tion of occurring so seldomly
that one need not worry that
they happen to oneself.
Same questions as before.
***
Now say that while a person
is under the influence of this
drug, they retain the appearance
much like that of any other
rational human being, but that
at some point they begin to act
in a more seriously irrational
manner. They gain unexplain-
able strength and a certain
hunger for flesh and blood along
with an inability to distinguish
between other animals and
one’s own kind, although
they strangely do not have an
appetite for anyone who is also
under the influence of this drug.
They tend to roam universities
(it is popular especially amongst
young people) at night in flocks
looking for sources of flesh and
blood and have been witnessed
to be capable of tearing animals
apart as a means of satisfying
this hunger, but they rarely ever
kill people, since people quickly
learned to avoid them (they can-
not move about very quickly, for
they become slow and clumsy)
and to lock their doors at night
(they do not hunt people in
their rooms, but there have
been instances when they have
mistaken other rooms for their
own and things have ended up
badly). Let’s say that for some
reason the proper authority is
either uninterested or incapable
of stopping people from taking
this drug and that the drug
is sufficiently available that
anyone who wants it can get it
with little effort, and they do.
Question: Assuming that
you would not take the drug
(although you might, given
its positive effects), do you get
angry at these people?
Note that the effects of this
drug wear off within eight hours
or so (or whatever is a good
night’s rest) leaving the druggy
as something like a supposedly
normal person, so several of
these people who walk around
as zombies at night are the same
people who you go to class with
in the day—yes, even the same
people who work hard during
the day and get A’s (A’s!) in
their classes and go on to get
high paying jobs. Their nightly
activities might affect their daily
activities, but not enough that it
be noticeable to the professors,
rectors, parents, etc… or at least
not enough for them to care or
do anything about it. It is so-
cially accepted that these people
do what they do at night and it
is socially abnormal for people
to complain about this or to
think it strange or stupid, etc…
Question: Do you complain
in any way? Do you pretend
not to think it strange?
***
Say that one Saturday night
you walk in the hall of your
dorm past a young man, a class-
mate of yours named Bob, who
is under the influence of this
drug and whose appetite find’s
you likeable to a half-pound
burger. He begins stumbling
after you and wailing, and you
shake your head in pity for him
as you usually do to people
in such situations (especially
Bob), and you make for the
exit door behind you. To your
distress, the door is inoperable.
You do not know whether it
be jammed, locked, blocked
from the other side by another
drugged person, but neither do
you have time to find out before
Bob walks up to you and sub-
sequently devours you. You do
not particularly like Bob, and
for the time being you cannot
think of another drugged up
human being by whom you
would more despise being de-
voured. You turn to meet him,
find the hall sufficiently narrow

42 43
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV
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that you cannot circumvent him
without some probable contact,
and discover that he is about
five hobbles away. You coolly
walk up to him, take your bottle
of Guinness that you have been
drinking and, as he lifts his
hungry, shaky arms towards
you, you bash the shapely
glass bottle over his forehead
(he is a little taller than you)
sending beer and glass flying
across the hall in a glittering
golden spray. Bob stumbles
to the ground and with little
hesitation you walk past him
to your room to go to bed.
You lie awake for a while that
night because of a complex
combination of feelings: you
are shocked because you have
nearly been devoured, you
are angry at Bob for nearly
devouring you, you are mourn-
ful that you had to waste a
half-bottle of Guinness in
order to save yourself, and
you are very proud at having
successfully broken a glass
44
an undergraduate journal of letters
S X
bottle of beer over someone’s perhaps with a chair this time
head just as one sees in the instead of a bottle? If in fact
movies. It shattered beautifully. you do repeat said action, do
Question: Do you hate Bob? you realize beforehand that
Question: Do you find it odd you will have to convince the
that you do not find it odd that professor of the soundness
this sort of thing happened? of this explanation upon the
*** completion of said act lest you
Two days later, you have to find yourself in the hands of
give a presentation in class. At some uninformed and punish-
the question-answer part of the ing authority? If in fact you do
presentation, the first person to repeat said action, how do you
raise a hand to ask a question suppose Bob might react? V
is none other than a sane and
sober Bob, a perfectly normal
Bob except that he has a black
and blue bruise on his forehead,
the appearance of which he
cannot seem to remember.
Question: Do you have a
reaction to his question? Do
you listen to his question? Do
you answer his question? If
you do answer his question, is
your answer non-violent? Can
you give any explanation as to
why you might feel the sudden
urge to repeat what you did
to him two nights ago, except
45
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV
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Penury Everlasting
A Poem
Nick Brandt
Class of 2012
T
A flighty flair for affluence,
Mocks the tyrant poverty,
Basking in the garden of earthly delights,
It rests on the golden ashes,
Of its predestined forefathers.
Many will go, many will go,
And I will stay, for this I know,
That just as the sun rises in May,
So also my golden earthly bouquet.
It is the constant gardener,
The still point in Eliot’s turning world,
Because McMansions have McOwners,
McMarkets have McBrokers.
Many will go, many will go,
And I will stay, for this I know,
That just as the market paves its way,
So also my golden earthly bouquet.
Was it not Matthew who dared proclaim,
“The poor you will always have with you?”
The poor reap harvests of harvests not theirs,
Devouring the sweat of laborious lament.
46
an undergraduate journal of letters
S X
Many will go, many will go,
And I will stay, for this I know,
That just as the farmer grows his pay,
So also my golden earthly bouquet.
And I am not their savior,
I am the captain of Her Majesty’s Jewel,
The ship of the line,
The treasure trove of prosperity,
The perfect target,
For vicious piracy.
Many will go, many will go,
And I will stay, for this I know,
That just as the sea holds its sway
So also my golden earthly bouquet.
And even when I die, this much I say,
Much like your poetry, so must gold stay,
And shine in brilliance upon my grave,
Bathing me in sunlight, as a light upon a wave. V
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 LOST PIECE: Issue IV
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A Portrait of T. S. Eliot
A Story
Josef Kuhn
Class of 2011
PLS
Old men ought to be
explorers, thought one as he
ventured out the door into
the grey London street, once
cobblestoned, now paved.
History always gets paved over,
but Eliot was conscious of the
cobblestones buried beneath his
feet; his footsteps sent vibrations
down to them, which they sent
back up, slightly altered. He
received these intimations of the
past into his head and churned
them about as he walked, eyes
downcast and brow furrowed,
trying to apply words to the
shadow-pattern shapeshifting
through his mind. He looked
up for one second and noticed
the day was overcast, or maybe
it was just the twilight. A black
cat flitted across the sidewalk
in front of him, disappearing
behind some rubbish bins.
The street lamp sputtered, the
street lamp muttered—yes,
48
the street lamp was talking to
him! He, Eliot, twenty years
of age, his grey hair combed
neatly so that no one would
ever suspect—he was secretly
training to become a prophet.
Wait—that man there, the
one with the briefcase, smells
dusty, like he stepped right out
of Ezekiel. A terrifying vision
suddenly flashed before Eliot of
a brown scar of earth, the dried
husk of the Th ames, winding
under London Bridge, and the
million umbrellas of London
open on the bridge, waiting for
a drop of rain, but none came
and they were all just blown
away, along with everyone’s
top-hats. And then they all
just stood around, looking
dumbfounded and glum.
As he progressed down
Bloomsbury Way, the prophet
fingered the lapel of his green
jacket. Green, on the one side,
but red on the other; he was
sure people could see it, the
blood from his bullet wound,
an undergraduate journal of letters
S X
soaking through the fabric of
his left shoulder, the blood of
the Lamb. It was on his face,
too; he could feel it, warm and
sticky, although he could also
feel plants growing there, grass
and clover; these spread down
across his jacket, which was,
after all, a lively spring green.
His visage hadn’t always been
so springy, so sanguine; back
in the days of straw men, living
in limbo, he had powdered his
face a pale green and stalked
through the streets like a living
disease. It was his need, then,
and his burden, to question
everything, even asking who he
was. Thomas, he found, for the
dubious Apostle; Stearns for his
brooding countenance, driving
all easy companionship away.
But he was also an Eliot, with
roots dug down into the earth of
East Coker. Both of these faces
were his, and only the vertex
of the two could point him
on toward the horizon. Yes, it
had taken him a long time and
49
much searching, many infernal
nights, to find that there are
only two ways: the way up and
the way down. And the only
way up is the way down. And
the only way out is the way in.
There are only two ways,
Two-Face Eliot repeated to
himself as a mantra while he
passed a church, St. Peter’s
or St. Paul’s. As a boy, in a
white-washed room with low
ceiling and wooden benches,
he had eaten bread, and under
high stone vaults trimmed with
gold flourishes, he had eaten the
Lord. He remembered fishing
in the mud of the Mississippi
and foraging for crabs on the
coast of Massachusetts. The
sea-breeze wafted into his
nostrils as he played among
the rocks, Mother watching
him closely because of his weak
legs. Dear Mother, where is
she now? He owed so much
to her—his education, his
appreciation for letters, his
desire to know God. And later,
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV
S X
when he had read Pascal, he
had thought back on her, her
simple acceptance of miracles,
and realized she had been right.
So the end of all his learning
was to arrive at his summer
home back in Gloucester, back
where he had started, and to
know it for the first time. V
50
an undergraduate journal of letters
S X
A Girl without a Country
An Essay
Maria Santos
Class of 2011
PLS
It’s Salsa Night at Legends.
I’ve never been before, but
my friend Kelly promised
that she knows some guys
who are great dancers. She
was right. My dance partner,
one of her friends, guides me
effortlessly across the floor.
He twirls me around, his
movements smooth and fluid.
He is sure and graceful, poise
incarnate. I trip, mid-twirl,
and step on his foot. Again.
He gives up after a few
minutes. There’s no hope of
teaching me to dance. He’s one
in a long line of failed instruc-
tors, including my mother,
all my high school friends,
and several ex-boyfriends.
I stand by the wall looking
for Kelly, who is nowhere to
be seen. Silently, I reaffirm my
vow, broken again, to avoid
dancing at all costs. Kelly
flutters over at last, breathless
51
with excitement. It takes me
ten minutes to coax her to
leave. We scurry through the
cold night, relaxing at last
in her Walsh Hall room.
“I’m so jealous of your
Cuban genes,” Kelly giggles.
She is still thinking of the
dashing boys who asked her
to dance. “How much better
my salsa would be! And my
tango and merengue, too.”\
I begin to point out, “Being
Cuban doesn’t make you a good
dancer, as I am living proof,”
but I stop myself. There is no
point in arguing. I learned
that at a high school dance
three years ago, when my date
actually got mad at me for my
admittedly clumsy dancing.
“You have to actually move
your hips,” he lectured with
mounting frustration. Finally,
he burst out, “Come on, you’re
Cuban! This is in your blood!”
Is there a gene for dancing?
If there is, why am I apparently
the only Cuban who it skipped?
 LOST PIECE: Issue IV an undergraduate journal of letters
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***
What does it mean to be
Cuban? What qualities, physical
or intangible, am I lacking?
However you define “Cuban,”
I don’t fit the description. My
parents used to be Cuban.
Now they live in Chicago. In
fact, with my light brown hair
and pale skin, Midwestern
accent, and Fighting Irish
pride, I’m a better fit for
South Side Irish myself.
My grandparents used to
tease me for my “gringa” accent
when I spoke Spanish. Now
they pretend not to notice that I
barely speak Spanish anymore,
only throwing in the rare
“muchas gracias” or “te quiero.”
I sued to live in Miami, where
everyone spoke Spanish. Now,
my family doesn’t even speak
Spanish at home. My few
Spanish phrases are a final ploy
to prove to my grandparents,
and really to myself, that I
am somehow still Cuban.
In one sense, nothing can
change me from being Cuban.
Cuban blood flows in my
veins- whatever that means.
But in actions and appearance,
I’m as American as the Fourth
of July Parade, as “white”
as The Preppy Handbook.
I hate that choice I’ve had
to make again and again,
between being “white” and
being “Hispanic.” I first
noticed it when I started taking
standardized tests. They ask
you to “Choose one” in the
Race category. I feel like a liar
when I fill in the “Hispanic”
bubble. I always do anyway. It’s
a statement, a protest of one.
And of course, I hoped it would
help me get into better schools.
The thought behind that
hope was the worst of it, actu-
ally- when people assumed that
I got into Notre Dame because
I am Hispanic. It makes my dad
furious that people think that.
“Is there a school where you
get affirmative action for being
rude?” he exploded once, when
a friend’s mom said that my
race must have “really helped”
in my college applications. My
dad went to Harvard and then
to Columbia Medical School,
and my mom holds a Ph.D, so
they are convinced that it was
my naturally inherited ability
and not my race that earned
me a spot at Notre Dame. I
try to believe that my parents
are right, but I know my high
school grades were no better
than those of my friends who
weren’t admitted here.
Am I a fraud? I wonder,
sometimes, if Notre Dame
only let me in to boost their
reputation for diversity. I was
a poor choice, if that’s the
case. I don’t look “Hispanic”
and I have no interest in any
of the multicultural student
agendas they like to publicize.
Before I decided to come
here, Notre Dame invited me
to spend a weekend at Notre
Dame, an event for prospective
minority students. I never
even replied to the invitation.
The event scared me, partly
because I knew I wouldn’t fit in.
I could picture it in my head:
random white girl who can’t
speak Spanish surrounded by
students imported direct from
Puerto Rico. I was afraid of
feeling out of place, but I was
more afraid that I would be
exposed as a fake. One look
at my pale face, my thin hair,
and my hopelessly butchered
Spanish, and they would never
believe that I’m Cuban.
***
I can’t prove that I’m Cuban,
I’ve realized. Examine my
blood. Test my genes. You’ll
find no special evidence.
That is what makes me lie,
telling anyone who asks that
I’m fluent in Spanish. That
is why I make a big show of
camaraderie whenever I meet
another Hispanic. It’s why I
say silly meaningless things
like “Americans don’t know
how to show emotion” or

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“Cubans have a much better
sense of style.” I am clinging
to an identity of which I am
almost completely ignorant.
My racial identity crisis has
only grown worse since I got to
college. Here at Notre Dame,
I’m awash in a sea of All-
American varsity, polo shirts,
and Ugg boots. My friends
who attend Northwestern
joke, when they visit, that my
school looks like a live J. Crew
Catalogue. I often dress and
look like a prep myself. When
I tell people that I’m Cuban, at
first, they never believe me.
***
What do you become when
your nationality is just a label?
I’m not the immigrant from the
Old Country who mourns her
children’s detachment to their
heritage. I’m those children’s
child, and I do not know what
my heritage is. I don’t even
know if it exists. After all, the
Cuba of my grandparents was
not the Communist Cuba of
today. Miami, that haven of
refugee Cubans, is an interna-
tional city which is much more
American than the die-hard
Cuban abuelos like to admit.
The Cuba I try to identify with
may exist only in the minds of
my grandparents’ generation.
Still, I cannot stop searching.
I have always been defined, at
least in part, by my Cuban-ness.
I was the only “Hispanic” girl
in my elementary school class.
I taught the other girls nursery
rhymes and playground games
in Spanish, passed down from
my mother. I fell asleep most
nights of my childhood to my
mother singing Spanish lul-
labies. My dad says a blessing
in Spanish whenever my friends
come over for dinner, perhaps
his own small way of asserting
that he is still Cuban. I used
to play a game with my sisters
called “Escaping from Cuba,”
based on my grandparents’
fascinating stories of fleeing
Castro’s Communist regime.
On Christmas Eve, my family
eats a traditional Cuban meal
and holds a parade through
the house with images of the
Nativity, a Cuban custom.
Ideas and images of Cuba,
sometimes garbled, dominated
my childhood, and continue
to arrest me at family events.
That part of my identity is still
too present to be abandoned.
***
Last summer, my boyfriend
brought me to his annual family
reunion for the first time. His
relatives interrogated me.
“What does Cuban
food taste like?”
“How do you feel about
the United States’ relation-
ship with Cuba?”
“Do you prefer to be
called Cuban-American or
Hispanic? Are you offended
by the term ‘Latina?’”
They had never met a
Cuban before. They were
so kind, so genuinely inter-
ested- and I was so ignorant.
I was defined, again, by an
identity I don’t recognize or
feel. I felt like an ambassador
sent to represent a country I
had never visited. Perhaps I
will always feel that way.
Race is a tricky thing to
define. Morgan Freeman asked
that he no longer be called
“black,” believing that the best
way to end racism is to stop
talking about it. On surveys and
census reports, my dad refuses
to choose between “Hispanic”
and “White.” Instead, he checks
“Other” and writes in “Human.”
I will never learn to Salsa,
and my Spanish is a long way
from fluent. Yet whatever it
means to be a Cuban, I am
one. That is the truth behind
the “Cuban-American” label.
I am lucky enough to live in
America, where I am defined
by my talents rather than my
ancestry. And I am lucky
enough to have an ancestry,
still unfamiliar to me in many
ways, that nonetheless gives

54 55
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Goodbye
A Story
me traditions and customs Javier Zubizaretta
Class of 2011
that are fairly unique. Raised Film, Television, Theatre
more American than Cuban,
my heritage at times feels like The bags were packed.
just a label, a bubble to fill in. The rooms were in order. The
Perhaps it is time for me suits were pressed and the
to burst that bubble, reach shoes polished. Everything
out to my ancestry, and make and everyone had long been
that identity my own. V prepared for the twenty-fifth of
April. We were ready, set, go.
Father John would be there
with us. His sour-lipped,
screwed-tight face would take
a break from supervising horny
undergrads to provide the much
needed support. He instructed
us on the etiquette: Don’t fall
to pieces, don’t say you know
how they’re feeling, just say
your peace and move along. He
made a crack at my black-on-
black-on-black suit, shirt, tie.
How fitting – a priest saying
you wear too much black. I just
assumed the color appropri-
ate, but then we were off.
***
At a truck stop halfway
between nothing and more
56
nothing – South Bend and
Cleveland respectively – we
bought candy. We bought sodas.
We bought milkshakes. We
bought ice cream. We bought
the accoutrements we felt
necessary for a road trip. We
snickered at the mullet hair-do’s
and joked about the guides
to Amish country. We were
giddy. The iPod was DJ as the
road spun a party on past. We
guessed the drivers in upcoming
cars – perhaps a single, blonde
white lady age 35, perhaps a
husky, balding Asian man aged
60, and so on. We moved on to
guessing zodiac signs and when
I announced “Cancer!” the car
fell quiet and I felt stupid.
***
We were in the parking lot.
Father John met us there. A
white sedan pulled up and out
stepped a pair of zebra-print
stilettos with a 16-year-old
attached. Make-up caked and
bra doing wonders, we did
our best to look away – no,
57
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S X S X

to look aloof. A devilish grin
slipped out of Father John,
“Hmph. Didn’t realize we
were in the red light district.”
God it was hilarious, this
new memory we were
so spoiled to make.
***
St. Patrick’s Day. Freshman
year. Hair was growing back
and alcohol was no longer off
limits. Celebrations were in
order. After the obligatory
Guinness and fiddle music,
Captain Morgan and a blister-
ing Salsa filled the room.
Girls were dancing, we were
red in the face, and within
an hour I was offering my
shirt up for singles.
***
We stilted through a mile-long
line of terribly polite and ter-
ribly condolent Midwestern
folk in blazers and cardigans.
Between the litany of flower
arrangements and warm af-
ternoon sun, the building
was terribly and irrevocably
pleasant. We shared anecdotes
with the Midwestern folk
about our football team.
And so we came into the
main hall and there he was, laid
out in his suit and apparently
taking a nap as well-wishers
streamed past. There was no
exclamation point, no question
mark, just a simple period.
There he was. There we were.
There were his parents. It
was as perfectly arranged as
the red and white carnations
surrounding his coffin.
The surprise and exclama-
tion came when we turned to
our left and saw a display of
photographs, from his birth
through elementary school
and on to his college days.
And there in plain sight for
family, friends, and seemingly
the whole of Cleveland, was
my drunk ass parading around
with a four-leaf clover necktie.
And Father John, whose job it
was to prevent such libatious
revelry, was standing behind me
smirking to the high heavens.
“Hmph. Didn’t know you
could move like that.” And so
we laughed. We laughed! We
laughed with such nerve we
should have been ashamed.
***
His father tried to hide it,
but his mother acted upon it,
making sure each detail was
in order, that my bed on the
couch was comfortable, that the
fried shrimp was to my liking.
You could see it though, that
inhumane burden laid upon
them. They had gone across the
river Styx, witnessed the blood
and bile poured out, the poison
and radiation injected in, they
knew what it was to suffer. Yet
now was Easter and the friend
from college was coming to visit
and the pain was assuredly over.
We were preparing for
brunch. Matthew was still in
the bathroom and I was waiting
in the bedroom. Mr. Molloy
entered. It wasn’t for lack of
sleep the night before but he
looked tired. He spoke earnestly
to me, gratefully. “I just want to
thank you for coming out.” Oh,
it was nothing and thank you
for having me. “It just means
so much to know Matthew has
such good friends.” Perhaps I
blushed. “These past two years
have been so difficult for Mrs.
Molloy and I, it’s just nice to
know…” And then Matthew
entered the room. We were
both embarrassed. Matthew
that I should learn of any
weakness, me that I should
be considered a good friend.
***
Perhaps they hadn’t suffered
enough, perhaps watching
tumors devour your son’s brain
wasn’t enough to justify their
grief, but there they stood
next to his coffin. Each well-
wisher was greeted warmly, a
quiet thank you, an occasional
embrace, perhaps even a chuckle
at some shared memory. Their
stiff-upper lip decorum of-
fered an empty assurance. I

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told myself they were okay,
we were okay, I was okay.
But then they saw us.
Mr. Molloy crumbled first.
His face fell to the floor and
flooded with tears. I fumbled
in my mind as this grown
man wrapped his arms around
me and cried buckets on my
shoulder. The words, “It was
an honor to know your son,”
stumbled out foolishly.
We were herded forward,
knelt before him, and perhaps
I said a prayer. Nick and
John and Jacques were to my
left – shaking as heavy tears
fell down their ruddy cheeks.
This was death. Not a goldfish,
not a border-collie, not a
great-grandma, but a friend,
a peer, a child like ourselves.
We weren’t prepared. We
hadn’t even brought Kleenex.
And dammit all to hell but
I couldn’t cry. Not a single tear
would come out. I would gladly
have poked myself in the eye
for one purposeful drop. All
I could do was hold on to my
friends as they bawled fero-
ciously and gravity gave way.
***
We played a movie trivia
game that night. In competi-
tion with his friends from
high school we shouted out
the answers – Kevin Spacey!
Revenge of the Nerds! Toto!
As the game neared its climax
I surveyed the room and re-
minded myself that the person
connecting this odd collection
of strangers was awaiting his
burial. It would have been
an appropriate moment to
feel remorse, but no. Just
another statement. No tears.
I stepped outside with his
friend Sara – a slender girl
with ivory hair – and sat on
the back bumper of somebody’s
truck. The stars were out.
She gave me a bracelet that
read “Cancer Sucks” – so
people remember that life
is still great, she told me.
“I’ve lived across the street
from him my whole life,
whenever his light was on I
knew he was still up and we
could talk. And god I’d talk to
him. He coached me through
every boyfriend. He hated all
of them. Hated them. And
you know how he is, if he
really didn’t like the guy he
wouldn’t talk to me for weeks.”
We both smiled at this. I put
my head down and watched as
Sara swung her feet in the air.
“When he graduated we
finally admitted we liked
each other, but we decided
we wouldn’t start dating until
he finished chemo.”
And now he’s
dead, I thought.
She didn’t know what she
was going to do without him
and I didn’t know what to say
so we just sat there and watched
the stars for a while longer.
***
I was in bed. The Ferry
family – it was our first time
meeting them – had opened
up their home to us. The Ferry
children were sent elsewhere
so the boys from Notre Dame
would have a place to sleep. I
was in one of the girl’s room
and staring up at the daisy-print
walls I felt – nothing. I wasn’t
numb. Numb comes after you
feel pain. No, I was simply
laying there growing more and
more frustrated with myself –
for god’s sake your friend just
died! Cry a little! Something!
I considered whether I even
liked Matthew, whether I was
even his friend. I thought back
to any grievance we commit-
ted to each other – he once
asked me to attend a special
Mass for a fallen friend and
I feigned sick, wanting a few
more hours in bed. He once
insulted my writing. I would
welcome any excuse for my
apathy, but instead just felt
further like an asshole.
I flipped through the grieving
stages. I tried on anger, tried
to get mad at him, at God, at

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the world but it just felt silly. I
tried on depression too, I thought
about seeing his body in the coffin
and his parents and my crying
friends, but when nothing hap-
pened it just reminded me of how
awful I must be. I called home
but “Everyone grieves differently”
wasn’t a satisfying answer.
After a while I just
went to sleep.
***
The Mass was lovely. The
choirboys gave an aching
rendition of Ave Maria as they
wheeled in the coffin. Father
John gave a touching homily.
We all shared in Communion
and selfishly, I could only worry
over how I wasn’t feeling.
His mother and father placed
the white cloth over his coffin
and the presiding priest made
mention that like baptism, first
communion, and confirmation,
death was another rite of initia-
tion, that it was another step in
life. The bagpipes began their
moaning dirge and finally I cried.
Perhaps for Matthew, perhaps
for his family, but mostly I
cried for life. That life was
formaldehyde in an oak coffin.
That life ended so horribly. That
life ended at all. We walked
from the church and into a world
bursting of springtime petals
and blooms that would fall and
fade and die. I thought of my
parents, that they looked older
than I remembered. That they
would die. That I would die.
And because we are gluttons
for punishment, we had to bury
him in the ground. And because
it couldn’t get any worse, it started
to rain. We huddled about the
gravesite beneath a canopy of
collective umbrellas and watched
as the ceremony continued, as the
Molloy’s were forced to say good-
bye. I swear I heard his mother
say, “It’s okay, Matthew, we’ll be
right here,” but she was too far
away for that to be possible. A gap
appeared in the umbrellas above
me and rain was dripping on my
suit. A woman in her eighties
with lines scouring her face away – not even the cancer.”
turned and said, “Oh, you’re She looks like she’s
getting wet.” I pushed through doing really well.
the bodies in black and hid “She is. She’s a smart girl.”
my face in the car’s back seat. We told everyone
*** goodbye, an incongruous
There was a reception word with no real mean-
later. It was hosted at St. ing, but after learning of
Bernadette’s Elementary farewells, we meant it. V
School. As we munched on
cookies and felt guilty for
each bite we got to take,
Sara came over. She knew
we were leaving soon and
wanted to offer her farewell.
In the far corner of the room
I saw his sister, Ashley.
The pre-teen was wearing a
bright dress of purple and
green. She was laughing
with the girls around her.
I asked Sara how
Ashley was doing.
“I talked to her yesterday
and she’s doing really well.
She just told me, you know,
we had almost thirteen
years together and they were
great. Nothing can take that

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 LOST PIECE: Issue IV an undergraduate journal of letters
S X S X

LOST PIECE
an undergraduate journal of letters

Colophon:

This journal is compiled entirely from the

works of undergraduate scholars at
The University of Notre Dame.

The editors of Lost Piece: An Undergraduate Journal of Letters

are indebted to Dr. Cecilia Lucero for her invaluable assistance on
behalf of The Center for Undergraduate Scholarly Engagement.

The editors also extend thanks to the

Undergraduate Research Opportunity Program,
and the Institute of Scholarship in the Liberal Arts,
both of which are directed by Dr. Agustin Fuentes.

Stephen Lechner, Editor in Chief

Raymond Korson, Executive Editor
Josef Kuhn and Conor Rogers, Associate Editors

Lost Piece was designed in Adobe InDesign, CS5;

VOLUME I, ISSUE IV its body copy is set in 12 pt Adobe Caslon Pro.
Getting to Know You This publication was designed by
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