“You will.”: In the latest Harper Reviewletter, cofounder and former coeditor in chief Suzanna Murawski questions the premise of the statement, “you should love your country.” Invoking Ernest Hemingway’s 1929 novel A Farewell to Arms, Murawski depicts a conversation between the main character, Henry, and a priest who has decided to visit him in a field hospital in Italy. Henry has fought in Italy’s army, suggesting some sort of love for the country. But Henry is missing the wish, the compulsion, to love Italy. In her analysis of the passage, Murawski argues that one can be obliged to serve or sacrifice, but “‘should’ implies that we could equally choose not to honor an obligation.” True love, however, cannot be chosen—one simply will love, whether they have an obligation to or not.
Elizabeth Eck, senior editor
Let there be (more) light: The Poetry Foundation’s “More Light! Luftwerk x Aram Saroyan” exhibit centers on a poem. Here it is: lighght. Aloud, the transmutation from word to poetry is imperceptible. It exists only in sight, as the second inaudible “gh” does a digraph’s silent work to lengthen “i.” In this work, Saroyan lowers the threshold of poetry to the level of the letter. Another “l,” another “i,” another “t,” makes the word weigh; another “gh,” and it remains perfectly light on the tongue. Read it holding “ghgh” in mind—the word catches on its way out. This is a private poem, as all poems are, but even more so: privacy is its subject, the condition it makes explicit through form.
Later, I sat in a Poetry Foundation reading, coincidentally titled “A Library of Light.” Good as the three poets were, a reading felt too public after the exhibit. Text must first be known within the quiet of a person, then wrested into speech, each expression necessarily creating another problem of expression. The page is the place that makes poetry possible. Speech can take place in the dark, for sound has no need for a common medium. “lighght” needs light.
Later, I sat in a Poetry Foundation reading, coincidentally titled “A Library of Light.” Good as the three poets were, a reading felt too public after the exhibit. Text must first be known within the quiet of a person, then wrested into speech, each expression necessarily creating another problem of expression. The page is the place that makes poetry possible. Speech can take place in the dark, for sound has no need for a common medium. “lighght” needs light.
Emily Sun, assistant editor
In this university, we believe: Last week, the Chicago Center for Contemporary Theory resumed its discussion on the University of Chicago’s commitment to free expression and institutional neutrality. Moderated by history professor Jonathan Levy, the panel consisted of sociology professors Eman Abdelhadi and Robert Vargas and history professor Gabriel Winant. In a large Cobb Hall screening room overflowing with stern-faced, notebook-toting attendees, the professors addressed the questions at hand: What does the Kalven Report’s doctrine of institutional neutrality—core to the University’s understanding of its political role—mean in the face of suppressed student protests and interwoven university financial and social obligations? And given that the Kalven Report itself acknowledges limits to neutrality in situations that “threaten the very mission of the university” in which it is required “to defend its interests and its values,” what are these values? Who determines them?
Panelists lamented the powerlessness professors experience due to opaque decision-making above and the toothlessness of nominal representative mechanisms like the faculty senate. “We have no power,” they concluded. “So how do we build it?”
After over an hour of discussion, the panel broke for Q&A. The hands of half the audience shot up.
Panelists lamented the powerlessness professors experience due to opaque decision-making above and the toothlessness of nominal representative mechanisms like the faculty senate. “We have no power,” they concluded. “So how do we build it?”
After over an hour of discussion, the panel broke for Q&A. The hands of half the audience shot up.
Declan Rexer, senior editor