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Art

How to Build a Paradox: Making the New Jerusalem

The text the bishop suggested for my remarks today comes from Doctrine and Covenants 45:66: “And it shall be called the New Jerusalem, a land of peace, a city of refuge, a place of safety for the saints of the Most High God.” This was a delicious topic for me to think about—the idea of a city on a hill, a heavenly city called Zion, is a subject that has occupied poets as often as it has prophets, and the vision of this city has inspired many of our loveliest hymns, which have been very pleasantly running through my head for weeks now. 

Stephen Webb: In Memoriam

When I heard the news that Stephen Webb had passed away on March 5, 2016, I mourned the loss.

Mothers, Daughters, Sisters, Wives: Ceaselessly into the Past | Karen Rosenbaum, Mothers, Daughters, Sisters, Wives

When reading Karen Rosenbaum’s short story collection Mothers, Daughters, Sisters, Wives, I kept thinking about the end of The Great Gatsby and Fitzgerald’s haunting conclusion: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”So it is with the women who populate Rosenbaum’s fourteen stories in this collection. The past defines them, breathes always within them.

Mormon Tradition and the Individual Talent | Mary Lythgoe Bradford, Mr. Mustard Plaster and Other Mormon Essays

In his essay “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” T. S. Eliot writes that tradition “cannot be inherited, and if you want it you must obtain it by great labour.”This has always underscored for me the importance of knowing your literary tradition, of reading widely and deeply, and of exposing yourself to a variety of great voices. In many ways the work I did in graduate school was a clunky attempt to cultivate what Eliot calls “the historical sense,” an awareness of tradition that “compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones” but with “the whole of the literature of Europe” and “the whole of the literature of his own country” in his mind as well.

The River Rerun

Morning 3, Nankoweap Camp  Across the river, she sees a big brown lump shamble over to the water’s edge. She wants it to be graceful, sleek, to glide through the water, not lumber like a…

My Sadness

My sadness eats sauerkraut because she’s allergic to sauerkraut.

My sadness roams heating ducts, shuffling through the lint.  My sadness sharpens her teeth.  

My sadness starts the avalanche she gets caught in. Then I can’t breathe.