The Quad – Winter 2014 by Grove City College

he T Winter 2014

uad Q Grove City College

Editors’ Note We do survive every moment, after all, except the last one. -John Updike

The Quad Senior Editor John Gordon Junior Editor Laura Egan Department Editors Rachel Pullen (Creative Nonfiction) Nick Hiner (Poetry) Luke Sayers (Essays) Blake Denlinger (Book Reviews) Taryn Cole (Short Stories) Assistant Editors Adeline Fergusen (Creative Nonfiction) John Hermesmann (Poetry) Alicia Pollard (Poetry) Daniel Rzewnicki (Short Stories) Julia Connors (Book Reviews) Daniel Chapman (Essays) Art Director Rebekah Fry Art Director’s Assistants Alyssa Baldwin Austin Zick Jenna Hershberger Design and Layout Editor Abby Cliff Style Chief Laura Storrs Copy-Editors Emily Bach Rachel Reitz Becky Tzouanakis Austin Zick Peter Riley Distribution Chief Mary Leone Conundrums Tucker Sigourney Marketing Director Mia McMahon Faculty Advisor Dr. H. Collin Messer Editorial Advisory Board Dr. Joseph D. Augspurger, Dr. Daniel S. Brown, Dr. James G. Dixon III, Dr. Joshua F. Drake, Dr. Michael F. Falcetta, Dr. Gillis J. Harp, Dr. Charles E. Kriley, Dr. Julie C. Moeller, Dr. Jennifer A. Scott, Dr. Kevin S. Seybold Cover Art Richard Christman

We are busy. At this time of year evening darkness comes earlier and the nights start to become longer – a blink at 7:30 turns to midnight and midnight to 8 a.m. classes. Our lives are dominated by the looming of papers, reports, presentations and finals. It’s easy to go on autopilot, to focus on the horizon and find yourself suddenly in your family’s living room at the beginning of winter break, the stress of the semester thankfully behind. We understand. We’re students, too. But Updike has prompted me to reconsider the nature of this projected respite. I often find myself looking toward the relief – toward the next week, toward the closest break, toward the end of the semester. There can be a fatalistic slant to it – looking at “survive” as the only way to describe the struggling dullness of day-to -day life, hoping for some sort of “seize the day” idealism where the focus on death prompts some sort of appreciation of life. But there’s a second way, I think, to read the quote – to take “survive” as encouragement. We are in the world and must live in it. It’s not the reality of death that makes the moments so sweet, but the reality of life. Among the many great pieces in this issue, Blake Denlinger ponders the nature of the existentialist world in his essay, “The Longest Death-Scene in History: Thoughts on Hemingway and Thomas Merton,” while Brian Davison attempts to derive his own sense of meaning in his essay, “Inflections on the Word ‘Thing.’” Chris Prosser explores the nature of progress, and Jared Billings captures music in his poem, “homeless jazz on an empty street corner except for me and you.” This issues’ cover also marks a conclusion to Rich Christman’s fantastic series focusing on the colors and emotions of the seasons. See Rich’s Artist Reflection for insight on his method and influences. We hope that you enjoy this issue of the Quad, and would like to thank all of the authors who submitted pieces, our hardworking staff, and most of all our readers, for without you, our efforts here would be without completion.

John Gordon Senior Editor

Laura Egan Junior Editor

Volume 7, Issue 2, Winter 2014 The Quad is published quarterly by students of Grove City College and funded by the college. The works in this magazine, however, do not necessarily represent the views of Grove City College, the editors, the advisor, or the editorial advisory board. The editors are responsible for the selection of articles; responsibility for opinions and accuracy of facts in articles published rests solely with the individual authors. The Quad grants permission for any original article to be photocopied for local use, provided that no more than 1,000 copies are made, are distributed at no cost, and The Quad is properly cited as the source. Anyone may submit to The Quad. Pieces are selected by a blind submission process. Submissions must be sent to quad.submissions@gmail.com. Include what department you are submitting to, year, campus mailbox number (or address) with your name and use 12 pt Times New Roman font, double spaced; when citations are necessary, use Chicago style. Any rejected submissions which are not returned will be destroyed. Accepted submissions may be withdrawn at any time. Anyone interested in writing a review should contact the editors. The Quad is available online at www2.gcc.edu/orgs/TheQuad

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VOLUME 7 ISSUE 2

Contents 4

how the leaves no longer fall

Nick Hiner

Poem

Inflections on the Word “Thing”

Brian Davison

Essay

Postmodern (The Despair)

Chris Prosser

Poem

The Train Rider

John Gordon

Short Story

homeless jazz on an empty street corner except for me and you

Jared Billings

Poem

Like it’s Going Out of Style: Life is Meant to be Spent

D. M. Bowman

Sola Scriptura

Chris Prosser

Safe and Sound

Emily Lundburg

Creative Nonfiction

The Longest Death-Scene in History: Thoughts on Hemingway and Merton

Blake Denlinger

Essay

Unfinished

Angela Kim

Short Story

The Brick Man

James Moore

Poem

Progress

Chris Prosser

Poem

Artist’s Reflection

Richard J. Christman

Conundrums Viking Conundricles, Part Two: Turning Back

Book Review Poem

how the leaves no longer fall Nick Hiner

how dare life leave so soon how the years pass and fade but the end of things proves painful to those yet possessing life: a man evading snowy pall for half his years, lover by his side for longer—weeping still ensues how trees, the royals of nature, drop their laurels to appease the gods of time; behold their humiliation, forced to beg in the snow naked for three days— no, three months of harsh penitence how melancholy ensnares those who observe the wavering exhale of nature’s night, despite circumstance or company— biting winds, grass trod to dirt, the first time a steaming drink cannot shake blues from tingling fingertips how dare life leave so soon

Nick Hiner (’15) is still proud of the Flat Stanley he made in 3rd grade.

Inflections of the Word “Thing”

Brian Davison

“A Sarah Lawrence English Major who began poking about in a dogfish with a bobby pin would learn more in thirty minutes than a biology major in a whole semester” -Walker Percy, The Loss of the Creature

’ve found that the eraser of a mechanical pencil does not dribble as well as the classic Ticonderoga’s pink protrusion. It has taken many tests and many absent answers for present questions to become so picky in my nervous test taking habits. Throughout my time being told things, I’ve also found that I am able to face facts and quickly forget them. Well, I would like to think I have not forgotten them entirely, but merely their names. If a rose by any other name would smell so sweet wouldn’t a patella still jiggle on my leg if I called it that-jiggly-thing? I believe it would. However, the test-graders seem to desire some higher degree of exactness. I sometimes find this exactness to be tedious and fail to see it as anything but confining. In Walker Percy’s essay,“The Loss of the Creature,” he hints at ways by which we might be freed from this feeling of confinement. But before we can see the solution, it would help us to understand the issue that Percy and so many other more prominent writers have identified. The problem is, or is perceived to have, that when we develop words and terminology, we believe that we have developed the ability to be what we would like to say be exact. But there’s something we lose when we become exact: we become vague. Words are necessary abstractions and that is not to say that they are not true but that they, of necessity, talk of realities in terms of genus and species. If I wish to refer to my knee I must preface it with “my” before I can rescue my body from all other knee inclusive organisms. Or, I might try to preserve my knee’s unique identity by calling it Brian’s knee. However, despite the size of my ego, I have recognized that I am not the only Brian in this world and “Brian’s knee” again fails to salvage my knee’s unique characteristics from the great sea of knees out there more than prefacing it with “my”. The pronoun “my” would seem to be specific because

it is bound to the speaker but it is not bound to the situation. When I write, my joints bend smoothly and without pain. Once my cartilage starts to disappear and my muscles atrophy I can affirm what I now suspect. The pronoun “my” ties my subject to a moving and changing body. A body which, I assume, will be quite different when forty winters pass through it. The statements I now make about “my” anything will all be false later. The pronoun “my” is intrinsically linked to the speaker and all speakers, aside from supernatural beings, are tied to time. Therefore, the use of pronouns also ties whatever it may be that I wish to discuss to time and, therefore, change. So, how can we refer to our immediate experiences, that is to say, stuff? If you have ever driven a car full of little ones you know the answer. If you have not driven a car full of little ones then let me explain. You, an adult with a driver’s license and rational faculties, are in the driver’s seat. The children, with curious stains on their clothing and wandering eyes, are in the back seat. At some point during your drive a child will likely say, “What’s that?” or “Look at that thing!” This experience can be frustrating because the child has succeeded in being exact. When a speaker, in the instance above, a child, says “that thing” they have let it be unnamed. They have kept it from class and have also left it in the present. It is not what that thing will be or what it was or even what it, perhaps not so simply, is. Meaning, the attention that it received from the child was received due to it being what it was at that moment. Now, fittingly, you, the driver, are flustered with the child because you, due to the speed at which you are going, have failed and will most likely continue to fail at answering the child’s inquiry. Probably more frustrating to you, an adult with a developed brain, is that the child, with an undeveloped brain, did not realize that you could not

see where they were pointing. You, in the vehicle, and mankind, in the vehicle of time, have a problem with pinpointing things. We cannot pinpoint things because things are both the point and that which we attempt to use to point towards it. So, to be more honest, we have a problem with insisting on attempting to pinpoint things. Even this essay is an outworking of a person who is trying to pinpoint the problems of pinpointing pinpoints all while using the annoying prickly term for exactness that is “pinpoint”. We attempt to articulate without ambiguity because we are attempting to attend to our situation. Attention, however, is something that we, regardless of time or place, are rarely capable of giving. Percy identifies instances where we are gifted with attention. The examples he provides are of those who have discovered. The miracle of discovery is not in the object discovered but in the discoverers sudden and unusual ability to see all things as unique things. It is because of our occasional ability to recognize all things as unique that Percy writes in his essay “The Loss of the Creature,” “A Sarah Lawrence English Major who began poking about in a dogfish with a bobby pin would learn more in thirty minutes than a biology major in a whole semester.” Because that lady, devoid of the ability to name what was in front of her, would be able to see what was in front of her. If she was placed in front of a classroom to

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present her findings she might be able to show them more about that dogfish by inflections of the word thing and the use of her pointer finger than any of the other students may be able to see with all the technical terminology that they’ve half-forgotten and the safety goggles they have misplaced. It is at this point that you may deduce the lie of the argument. Inflections of the word “thing” and pointer fingers, though they may clearly explain the relations of the dogfish’s organs, do not free us from language or time but it merely begins to construct a new language of inflection and body that could just as quickly be blamed for our inability to attend to the thing. This language, though in its aural aspects is no different from our daily speech, differs greatly from much of our daily language in its import. All language changes under the influence of experience, and experience is attained when we attend. When attention born of respect for the subject informs our tongues we may be able to communicate. It is this reality that allows Percy to extol the understanding of the girl with bobby pin. It is respect that allows for communication even if that communication is achieved by the cribbed language of the inflection of the word, “thing.”Q Brian Davison (‘15) is from Wawaland which is a region no less imaginary, though less recognized, than most states. Once he graduates, he is hoping to teach high-school students English Literature and have his kingship of Wawaland reinstated to him.

Postmodern (the Despair) Chris Prosser

To me, epistemology is just a hollow tree on which all knowledge hangs, e’er crucified but never brought to trial. I know not how many days it lays, or if the stone will roll. What postmodern blood! and ought it verily be drained? I would empty all to see, postmortem, beauty flood. I’m ashamed to have a mind that wallows in unknowing. Whenceforth came this doubt, and by what power is it growing? I look up for Moore and feel the Pounding of the Hughes, and surely, what was sown is reaped through Frost -- modernity is gleaned. --I have heard the sound but not the tune. Old prophets mutter. On go older songs, but haughty silence still surrounds. I would soon return to truth if any could be found.

Chris Prosser (‘15) wrote these poems.

The Train Rider John Gordon

fell off a train. That’s the short version of it. I fell off a train that was traveling around 50 miles an hour. I’d been riding that train for about two hours until I got tired of the cold wind, so I decided to get off, wherever it was. That sounds like a math problem that my son likes to solve. A man rode on the train for 2 hours and where the hell is he now? I don’t expect you to solve it. I’ll just tell you the answer. I got on the train in Indianapolis; snuck right up to the tracks in the rail yard where they load all the coal onto those flatbed cars. There was a peg sticking off one of the sides; I put my foot on it and boosted myself up and made a little hollow in those coals, laying down a blanket I had in the trunk of my car so I didn’t fill my pockets with coal dust. I lay as snug as Christ in the manger. The conductor didn’t see me. I knew enough about riding trains from my friend J.P. Wentworth that I picked a car that was at least fifteen back. Conductors can’t see anything past the eleventh car, including the engine car, J.P. says. He says a man can go just about anywhere as long as he finds the right train. All trains were the right trains for me, I suppose, since I didn’t have the slightest idea on where I was going. I was supposed to be going to work. It’s what I told my wife and my kids when I left the house this morning. I hopped in my car with the intention of stopping down at the gas station to buy a new pack of cigarettes, but then I found myself driving outside of town where the railyard was. I felt this pull in my chest that told me to climb up on one of those cars and ride it until I didn’t want to anymore. My wife might call that God. J.P. didn’t have a name for it, but every time I talked to him about his train car experience, a subject that was so fascinating I couldn’t really explain it, he just said I had the genetic make-up of a train-hoppin’ hobo, no matter how stable my job was and how many kids I had. I wasn’t sure what to call it. When I met my wife, I might have agreed with her. I would have felt this emotional pull and gone right to our neighborhood parish to brag about it. When the pastor himself had blessed my emotions, I would have gone back to the rail yard, hopped the fence, and waved to the cavalcade that followed me. I would have blown my wife three kisses, one for her and one for each kid, and then nestled down into the coal and put a hat over my eyes and let the movement of the car rock me to sleep. Not anymore, though. I haven’t told my wife yet, but I decided about six months ago that I didn’t want to be religious anymore, on account of the potlucks. There were far too many potlucks for my liking. So many potlucks that I decided I would risk my eternal soul just to escape them. Look: I can survive just fine without the Almighty, on account of reading Kerouac and a couple other books J.P. loaned me that hit me right in the heart. I read the Bible too, the stories of Sampson and Daniel and some others like that, and none of the men seem to be stuck in the same way as me. Personal and unique, that’s what they’ve always told me, but every time our church got together they’d insist that we were sinners all the same. Being a sinner is not something I have factored into my life. When asked about myself, I say “I’m a mattress man – all sizes: twin, double, queen, king,” and then I’d shake their hand and smile and try to get them to buy the most expensive mattress in the store. Saying “I’m a sinner – all types: envy, stealing, blasphemy – I’ve got it all” just didn’t roll of the tongue in the same way. My wife is a good Christian woman though. She prays before dinner and even sometimes before lunch. She goes to church every Sunday and holds a Bible study in our house once a month. My kids go to Sunday school. They’re good Christian kids, too. I’m just a bad apple, I suppose. I can’t help but feel like an apple because of all that Genesis business. I rode that train for just about two hours and didn’t pull my hat over my eyes once. When the train started chugging along and I knew the conductor wasn’t looking, I’d poke my head over the side of the hollow I created and looked at the countryside, dappled with all the fall colors so much that it looked like a painting. The number of train cars behind us seemed to go forever. It looked like all the coal beds still had their peaks, which was disappointing since I was hoping that

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a couple hobos would be aboard to teach me the ropes. I’m a fast learner. J.P. Wentworth said so and he is the smartest man I ever met. He owns three bookshelves and has read all the books on them. Most days he stays in the library and thinks about things, these big heady subjects that I don’t understand until he explains them to me. When he does, I feel real restless and want to do something with my life. J.P. calls it “the monotony of modern man,” and says I’m damn brave for living in it. He says he wishes he could join me, but he was very lucky to get his stipend each month since his uncle died and therefore can exist outside of the created order. There’s a room on reserve at the hotel with his name on it and he eats lunch and dinner out every night. J.P. has a woman, too, but when I suggested that he and his woman and my wife all go out to dinner, he avoided the question. One night I went out with him to get a couple drinks when I told my wife that I was out running errands and a man came up to J.P. and asked about his woman and said J.P. owed this man some money. When J.P. couldn’t pay the man hit him in the gut, and I threw a rock at the man and he waved a gun around and told J.P. to think about what we did. When J.P. got up and the wind went back into him, I asked if his woman was a whore and he hit me in the face. I don’t think my family will miss me. Janie is growing up faster than I can account for. She’s starting to spend every evening out of the house somewhere and is coming back too late at night for my tastes. There’s a boy who comes to church with my wife and me sometimes, who’s sweet on her and she seems to be sweet back. His father bought a mattress from me when his son got his own room and they threw away the bunk beds and closed up the matter of his brother for good. When the shipping company got mixed up and sent him two beds instead of one, his father cried and then called our store to complain. I sympathized with the man, but he still yelled at my manager and told him what a good-for-nothing our company was, and what a good-for-nothing the shipping company was and how he had half a mind to cause us some grief of our own. He calmed down when my manager offered him a free box spring, though. That’s the problem with people, J.P. says. They’re always stopping up their emotions. They feel really intensely for about five minutes and then they get tired and find themselves wanting to go to bed more than anything else. The only way a man can really embrace himself, J.P. says, is to feel that intense emotion for his whole life. He told me any time I felt that I should follow it, and I could glimpse the ideal like Plato. Being like Plato sounded fine to me. But now this boy was hanging around Jamie too much and it bothered me no matter how much I sympathized with him because of the beds and his dead brother. Someone told me at work that he got arrested once because he drank too much scotch and swore at a police officer but when I asked Janie about this she said it was a misunderstanding and my wife told me that he was a nice boy who came to church with us and anyways how can a boy be blamed for what he does when he’s had too much scotch? I guess I agreed but my son laughed about him and said that he can’t be blamed more often than he can nowadays and Janie told him to stop talking or else he’d regret it. My son is the second smartest person I know besides J.P. He knows more mathematics but can’t really explain them to me even when I ask. If he has a girl he won’t tell me about her, but I kept telling him that he could have the car if he ever wanted to take her out to see a film or something. Hell, I’d say, and try to slap him on the shoulder, I’ll even pay for it. My wife would sometimes ask him about girls at school and he’d laugh. He laughed at a lot of things the older he got. After I rode around for about two hours I decided to try and stand up to survey the countryside and maybe move from one car to another. It felt like I was standing on a hill of sand. Every time I took a step little pieces of coal would trickle over the side and hit off the metal with little plinks, so I took an extra big step and tried to dig my feet into it. Right when I was taking the big step, the train hit a bump in the track when it was changing direction and I fell and the little pieces of coal went plink, plink, plink and an avalanche of them fell over the side and took me and my blanket with it. I hit the ground and got the wind knocked out of me just like J.P. and just lay in a heap for about fifteen minutes. A piece of

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coal dug into my side and I felt like I had brush burns all down my back where I slid. When I opened my eyes a little bit after hitting the ground I saw my blanket caught on the train and flapping like a flag as the train chugged away. The wheels kept rolling real close to my head and I felt the ground shake and the sound kept rushing in and out every time a gap in the wheels passed my ears. After I caught my breath I almost lost it again because I started laughing for no reason other than I thought I looked quite the sight, a dirty, train-hoppin’ hobo falling off a car and landing in a heap, all bruised and covered in coal dust. I felt something poking into my chest and when I reached down I saw it was my nametag that I have to wear at work. The pin had come loose and was poking me right where my heart was. The little spiral that held the pin in place was bent out of shape and the sharp end pointed right out and left a little dot of blood that stained the coal dust on my shirt. I timed the space between the wheels and managed to slip the nametag in between and started laughing again when the train rolled over it and shattered the plastic and bent the pin even more out of shape, and swept it under the train and out of sight. Once the sound of the train disappeared and I took stock of my scenario, I decided to make a pilgrimage along the train tracks to find the next rail station and maybe grab another train or get a bite to eat. I had enough money in my wallet to buy a meal or two and decided that even if I found a bank I would pass it by and leave all the accounts intact as the day I decided to leave. I figured if it was a sign from God or Plato or myself that I should have got on to that train I might as well be monastic about it and only keep what is in my wallet or what I can earn on the road. They won’t know where I’ve gone, and the only person who would have a clue about my whereabouts would be J.P. and that’s because I asked him so many questions about what life would be like as a train-hoppin’ hobo. Everyone will be happier, I think, if I just kept riding the trains. I know my wife would be. I’ve seen how she looks at Janie’s guidance counselor. We have to have weekly meetings with him to discuss Janie’s future and how she’s failing school and I can’t usually go because of work. But the one time I did go, he talked about my daughter like he was her father and I was just some stranger who just met her five minutes ago. My son would get the car. J.P. might miss me, but I’m not sure he misses much of anyone. I don’t think I can go back and see him, anyway, in good conscience. If I did I’d just be following that pattern that J.P. says other people get trapped in like, only riding a feeling for about two hours until I fell off and decided to go home. So I’ll keep getting on trains until I decide where I want to go in which case I’ll find a new train that goes to that place and make a hollow in the coal like I did the first time around, but this time I’ll make sure not to stand up and I’ll ride it all the way to its destination. When someone asks my name I won’t tell them I’m a mattress salesman or a sinner, but I’ll just say I’m a man who likes to stay on trains until they get where they’re going and that’s why I’m all covered in coal dust if you’ll excuse the mess. I’ll say I’m a man in transit, and try to hide my smile even though I know that’s the literary way of saying that I’m not sure where I’m going. Then I’ll shake their hand and ask them if they have any family and if perhaps they’d like any tips on riding trains. Q

John Gordon (‘15) has never ridden a train. His parents did take him to a trolley museum once, but he mostly remembers eating snow cones.

homeless jazz on an empty street corner except for me and you Jared Billings blue slides into blue and I breathe and she breathes and we breathe in the blue swooning moon, lapping the street’s edge and fooling our ears, a master in blue, spoon-feeding us with waves and ripples of deep aural color. sweet, sweet soul, injecting the classic junkie. tapping and beating blues. “You know it, Joe.” it sounded like a car crash, but a good one, like when you hit the juice and you fly into a wall, and it hurts bad but you’re flying nonetheless. I let out a breath and Joe trashed it with his sax. jam, jam, jam, it gets inside you like the juice. sweet, sweet tunes, velvety tunes, mixing with Ashton smoke, smoking blues. He smolders on 5th ave. and he taps: one, two. sweet blue love in the night under the street lamp light. 5th ave blues, ladies and gentlemen. he don’t need no stage, rolling thunder in its smoothest form. don’t put down the sax, Joe.

Jared Billings (‘15) is an Economics major, and he hopes to become a proficient woodworker and letter-writer.

Like it’s Going Out of Style: Life is Meant to be Spent D. M. Bowman

ey, you. Yes, I’m talking to you. You, the science major an apology is strong. We can safely ignore the messiness the who is dabbling in poetry or other arts unwillingly. world throws at us, or excuse it at the very least. (After all, You, the artsy major who is trying to find the key to life in things like that could never happen at a Christian college, literature or music or psychology. You, the professor of arts right?) We hide behind our majors and studies, expecting or science (take your pick), burdened with our peers and professors to understand. (“I tests and papers and office hours. Parents just have so much studying to do for these Death By Living, N. D. and children. The young and the not as tests.” “I’m an English major so I have to Wilson. Thomas Nelson; young. You are racing toward your death spend all my time reading.”) From Chemis2013. 208 pages. $19.99 and picking up speed every day. And that is try to Communications Studies, Sociology Paperback. precisely what Death By Living is all about. to Secondary Education, and Business to From a whirlwind trek across Europe Biology, Wilson’s challenge breaks through with four young kids to the graveside of two dearly beloved all walls and apologies. He dares to ask the unthinkable: grandparents, N.D. Wilson pulls no punches and will not “What have you done with your life?” rest until he has drunk a full portion of life and then some. Certainly the above writing seems like an odd way for Colored by images that are both profound and understand- one to begin a book review. The reason for my casual and able, Wilson’s rhetorical style hints at a strong Lewisian somewhat didactic tone is found in Death By Living itself. influence. He doesn’t want to preach, he wants to fellow- N. D. Wilson writes in an almost whimsical style, reminisship. He wants a reader that will come on his terms, but cent of C. S. Lewis. But, more than that, he writes to you as come as a fellow human, who must live in this world and a friend. Before continuing, I ought to add that I too find one day die in it. myself apologizing for my life instead of living. That is why A loose sequel to his 2008 book, Notes from the Tilt-A- I recommend this book to all of my brothers and sisters in Whirl, Death By Living celebrates the crazy ride of life with the Lord. Wilson genuinely faces life’s greatest challenge the reality of death in full view. If you want a feel good book and asks his readers to do the same. to make you think that your life is together, this will only His laugh does sometimes stick in his throat and, to be leave you in tears. If you want philosophy, go to Derrida or sure, there will be times when ours will too. The subtitle Kant. Wilson will just laugh and shrug his shoulders. of Death By Living is perhaps as profound as the title itself: While he could debate philosophy with the best, on Life is Meant to be Spent. Indeed, one would be hard pressed account of his liberal arts education and Calvinist upbring- to find as accurate a synopsis in as few words. Even before ing, N. D. Wilson chooses to look at life in more personal, he puts one word on the page, Wilson takes his rhetorical more physical, terms. Death By Living is a response to the gloves off. And then the cover is opened, and pages are reality that, if we do not bury our loved ones, they will bury turned, and the ride begins. One hundred and eighty-five us. What, then, are we to do? Though he does not explicitly pages later, Wilson lets you off, feeling dizzy and not sure if bring it out, Wilson‘s answer echoes a small kernel of truth you want to scream or cry or vomit. What started as a short from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Self-Reliance:” “I do not essay (seriously, read the introduction) has grown over sevwish to expiate, but to live. My life is not an apology, but eral years into a manifesto of life that does its best to model a life.” life itself. To use Wilson’s own words: “This book is linear At Grove City College, the temptation to make our lives like my novels are linear, like a river (with rapids and falls

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and rocks and eddies and chutes) is linear, the linear of a long sea-heaving wave rolling its thundering shore-pound up the coast” (xii). Not straight as an arrow, but as straight as that which it seeks to capture. As a wordsmith, I have found few to rival Wilson at his best, and Death By Living is, at least in this writer’s opinion, his best. To heartily recommend this book would not do it justice. N. D. Wilson has here captured a slice of life, as it is meant to be. The book is well worth a weekend of reading (yes, take the whole weekend when you have it, you don’t want to rush) with a warm fire and a nice cup of whatever you fancy most. It is a common admonishment to not end a piece with a quote, for “this is your work and you have earned the right to the last word.” However, in this case, I have not earned that right. Because the best way to review a book is to present its highlights for consideration, the last word belongs to N. D. Wilson; leaving me to close with a passage from Death By Living:

Clear your throat and open your eyes. You are on stage. The lights are on. It’s only natural if you’re sweating, because this isn’t makebelieve. This theater is for keeps. Yes, it is a massive stage and there are millions of others on stage with you. Yes, you can try to shake the fright by blending in. But it won’t work. You have the Creator God’s full attention . . . You are spoken. You are seen. It is your turn to participate in creation. Like a kindergartner shoved out from behind the curtain during his first play, you might not know what comes next, but God is far less patronizing than we are. You are His art, and He has no trouble stooping. You can even ask Him for your lines. (7) Q

D. M. Bowman (‘16) is one of those crazy people who enjoys writing papers and reading stacks of books. When not being an English major, he’s usually mucking about in the woods or splashing in streams as he races toward his own death.

Sola Scriptura Chris Prosser

The Book sits on the altar, as the people dance, a newborn golden calf. That which was from the beginning is out of reach, as it ascends the rocks of Sinai, seeking holy mediation. Quick the stiff-necked tribe demands more palpable enshrinement, raises holy books, and cries â&#x20AC;&#x153;This text alone! This word alone!â&#x20AC;? Are these your gods, O Israel, who brought you out of Egypt?

Safe and Sound Emily Lundburg

Air is the most expensive component for building in New York City. Our tour guide was gesturing at the canyon walls of steel and concrete. If you take a jar and seal it shut in Times Square, you can sell it at home and make lots of money. That’s what he said as we sat on the second deck of the red bus. I laughed, picturing myself getting a glass jar across security just to have it smashed in a suitcase as the train lurched on the way back to the airport. Yeah, right. Air. What a weird way of viewing Manhattan. It’s not the 33.77 square miles of land, the foundation of the borough that is the most important factor. The only direction left to build is up, which is why air space is available for purchase. Air is something intangible, but it is real and concrete in the industrial world nonetheless. The double-decker tour bus slowed to a stop and I stood up to find my jeans soaked through and sticking to my red plastic seat. My parents, two brothers and I were garbed in the cheap transparent blue-tinted parkas that were as efficient as old saran wrap against the torrent of rain. We were the only people brave enough to face the water spewing from the miserable, gray clouds looming over the Big Apple. I felt bad for the Tour Guide. I wondered if we had sat below then he wouldn’t have needed to stay up top. Despite the wet, muted blocks of skyscrapers set against slate clouds, I beamed. There was so much to see and do here. The red, yellow, purple, green, and blue of the United Nation flags sharply accentuated the rectangular landscape. We snapped a quick family photo in front of the flag row, the black Donald Trump monolith, the Empire State Building. Point, smile, click. Hurrying before we missed it. We just finished visiting Trinity Church at Wall Street and Broadway, familiar to me from the first National Treasure 2004 movie. Nicolas Cage and Sean Bean had been “there.” Cool. The bus tour was over now, so we had time to explore. We crossed to the other side of the street, avoiding the puddles near the gutters, and entered a gray building. I found myself squeezing inside a narrow hall, pushing past my six-foot tall little brother. As I passed under the glass doorframe, I started—it was like stepping into a cold tomb. Suddenly, the water flicking off the tires, the honks of traffic, the clap of shoes on slick pavement, the laughter beneath the loud umbrellas as the pedestrians walked - all of that trickled away. Transitioning from something exciting like the Trinity Church movie scene to a compact memorial was a stark contrast. I felt exposed, unprepared. This was New York City. History built upon history. Newly erected buildings oddly juxtaposed with old, moss covered churches. The memorial in which I stood was its own little world. The walls were cream-colored, complementing the black and white photographs. But these were not old pictures. The memorial was full of artifacts less than a decade old. In another six weeks, the new National 9/11 Memorial Museum would be open to the public. But since we were sight-seeing, my parents had rounded up me and my brothers to see this miniature, temporary museum. How could we miss visiting another famous site? So I walked around, my mind in a weird place—enjoying family vacation for a day and a half and now not sure what to make of this. I’d rather not be there at all. I’d rather be on the other side of the building walls. Far away. Far up. What if the building walls were 13.5ft thick. Would you feel safe inside? With steel columns and spandrel plates separating you and the weather outside. What if you were in a skyscraper. What if there was 1,058.4ft between you and the ground. That’s a lot of air. How much would that cost in “air space” here in New York City? How could you measure that air? The highest building I’ve ever built must have had cheap air. I remember when I built a skyscraper. To do it right, you start with two by six blocks and try to match those with identical or complementary bricks. But the construction market has many challenges. First, it is necessary to sort through and claim all your bricks. Once you put them all in one place, you pick out your site (a green square was my favorite workplace) and start on the foundation. Then you work your way

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up, buying air space, bribing your neighbors in the adjacent building that a couple feet is plenty of a scenic view from their third story windows. So right beside their building you lay your cornerstone and build so that your bricks only five feet away are the first thing they see when they wake up in the morning. It pays off being a woman in the industry. You can get anything you want if you ask nicely and bat your eyelashes. My brothers fell for that every time. It’s weird to think that’s what I remember from that day. The day that reality seeped through the bedroom walls. I had walked out of my bedroom that day. Mom was on the phone. My brothers and I found out we didn’t have school. We were excited and happy. But most of it is disoriented. It’s hard to remember when it’s something I don’t think of much. I do remember the Legos, though. We went inside and dumped thousands of pieces on the floor. You could build basically anything you wanted to. My brothers and I, we created worlds. We spent all that day in my brothers’ room, building, tearing down, building again. It became a ritual after a couple hours. We built skyscrapers and bartered for our bricks. But that’s hard work. We got hungry. We ventured out of the “safety zone.” I remember entering the family room, where my mom was perched on the couch, flipping through channels. I remember seeing impressive “special effects” on the 17 inch Sony screen. Lots of dust and smoke. Two skyscrapers on fire. Click. A Boeing 767. Click. The same towers, street angle. Click. More smoke. Click. Black dots jumping out of windows. 1,058.4ft of air between them and the ground. Click, click, click. I got bored. I wandered to the pantry, scanning for Life cereal, the maple and brown sugar kind. You can only take so much of that stuff on TV before it all starts looking the same, nothing new. You return to your “safety zone” and keep building. If the skyscraper doesn’t work, tear it down. Flatten it. It’s fun to sort through the rubble. It’s like wading through water with thousands of pebbles bumping against your ankles, sticking sharply to the bottom of your feet. You pick up the pieces and life goes on. You build a horse stable, a blue and green suburban neighborhood, you cram as many Lego minifigs into a gray church as possible. Sometimes building with Legos felt like church. It’s something you do. You can either enjoy it and get something out of it or you can just go through the motions and let your mind wander. You can look at the remains of past Lego creations and you can reuse them to make something new. We found out about the 9/11 attacks from my grandpa, who called Mom in the morning before 7:00am. It was irregular. Even us kids knew that nobody calls on someone’s home phone before 9:00am unless it’s important. But we were already behind the times. Eastern Standard Time was three hours ahead of us and we were worlds away, safe on the Pacific Oregon coast. 2,926 miles and three mountain ranges separate us and Manhattan. I hid in my bedroom that day, a seven-year-old choosing to build Legos and block herself from the real world. I tried to put as much distance as I could between me and the television. Nearly a decade later, I walked out of the temporary 9/11 Memorial, crossed another street, and stood inches away from the chain-linked fence. I was standing where it happened. That fence was a perimeter, a holy barrier protecting the sacred rubble. Miraculously, Trinity Church, the church George Washington attended as president, stood untouched by the collapse of the towers. I had no idea the church was that close to the attacks. My family and I stood there at the fence for about 15 minutes. My dad had purchased a book of the photographs from 9/11. He held it open, aligning the black and white street and crushed van from 2001 in front of the very same street here in 2011. We wondered at the devastation of the photographs, holding up those pictures against the real backdrop. The memory of those images from ten years ago layered on top of our vacation day in Manhattan. We kept walking and went to see the Statue of Liberty. We had spent an entire 45 minutes at Ground Zero that August day. Weeks before the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. But we had to hurry. There was still so much to see and do before night fell. And even then, how glorious it is to see the bright neon lights of the Big Apple flashing,

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yellow, red, green, reflecting in the wet pavement, framed by the black sky. We had paid our respects at the memorial. We continued on with our lives. We poked our heads out of our bedrooms, watched the TV, and returned to our “safety zones.” At home, somewhere, the black and white 9/11 book lies forgotten amidst the stacks of other books we own.Q

Emily Lundburg (’16) is an English and Communication Studies double major from Canby, Oregon. Her favorite coffee shop is Dutch Bros. and her favorite card game is Dutch Blitz.

The Longest Death-Scene in History: Thoughts on Hemingway and Thomas Merton Blake Denlinger

n the fiction of Ernest Hemingway, we meet a world that is dying. It is a world in which evil advances unchecked by redemption. In every war, both sides lose because both sides are wrong, or at least equally driven to destruction by mutual folly. Individual people suffer the corruption of their mortal bodies, betrayed by bodily frailty even if they escape bullets. All submit to the world as described by Frederic Henry in A Farewell to Arms. That world breaks everyone, and those who will not break it kills. “It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially,” he says. “If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.” Hemingway’s response is the now-cliché “grace under pressure.” He issues an imperative: face the nada with a variety of stoicism built on strength and composure. At times, the reader of Hemingway is tempted to believe that this approach to life is all that is left. Truly, in the wake of the frequent bloodbaths that punctuated the twentieth century and amidst the perpetual conflicts that give the twentyfirst an Orwellian sense of constant crisis, Hemingway’s portrayal of a dying world seems fitting. The temptation to mournfully proclaim the death of the world is strong. But the reader of Hemingway who pays attention to the present world is faced with a conundrum. The world hasn’t died. This is a curious thing, and one that should give us pause. How can it be that a world which is always dying never dies? Today, people continue to be born, plants grow and produce fruit, and the sun also rises. Great evil can and often does flourish in this world, but it crumbles. Every tyrant in history has eventually met his end, and despite the alarmist cries of conservatives in America (among whom I number myself), one suspects that life will continue, that whoever happens to be the current president probably isn’t the antichrist, and that people will still find blessings in life

two hundred years from now, even if the United States of America has splintered into something completely unrecognizable or swollen into the socialist nightmare that haunts the darkness around good conservative beds. Into this tension between life and death steps Thomas Merton, the 20th Century Catholic writer. In The Seven Story Mountain, Merton makes a suggestion that gives hope to the weary reader of Hemingway’s dying world. Though Merton’s words are bathed in Catholic sacramentalism, they hold much that rings true for any Christian: And yet now I tell you, you who are now what I once was, unbelievers, that it is that Sacrament, and that alone, the Christ living in our midst, and sacrificed by us, and for us and with us, in the clean and perpetual Sacrifice, it is He alone Who holds our world together and keeps us all from being poured headlong and immediately into the pit of our eternal destruction. (41, emphasis added)

Protestants (of which, again, I am one) will take issue with phrases like “sacrificed by us” and “perpetual Sacrifice.” But for my purposes here, I hope that such objections will fade in comparison to the more central point of Merton’s words. Speaking in resounding echoes of Colossians 1, Merton explains how it is that the world is always dying but not yet dead, despite the spiritual death of each human soul in need of redemption and the eternal destruction he deserves. The solution is grace. The longer the world goes on in the aftermath of writers such as Hemingway, the clearer become the necessity and reality of grace. The melioristic structures of modernity have crumbled under the assaults of world wars, scientifically motivated genocides, and the truth-telling of writers—like Hemingway—who showed the inevitability of that collapse. But still, life continues, and one is reminded of the testimony of Scripture. Adam and

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Eve sinned in the Garden, and God gave them grace rather than the instantaneous death that they deserved. Cain killed his brother, and God provided for his safety. Evil that merited total destruction filled the earth, and yet God set his grace upon Noah and, through him, the future of humanity. This pattern is at work throughout Scripture, climaxing of course in the great redemptive work of the incarnation of Christ. In Scripture, God repeatedly preserves His creation by His grace, forestalling judgment again and again. Before I go on, I should emphasize that judgment is forestalled by these acts, not abrogated. I could easily present a parallel narrative highlighting the displays of God’s justice in each of the moments I just described. His justice will be accomplished, and his enemies will eventually meet their eternal destruction. I have no desire to suggest anything different. But what I do want to suggest is that there is hope for the reader who, like me, has been at times bogged down by a bit too much of Hemingway, Sartre, McCarthy, and others. Such writers are right to paint the world in dark shades. In many ways, it truly is a dark and fallen place; and the bloody collapse of modern aspirations of a utopia built by human hands was a crisis with consequences that endure today. But it is not the ultimate crisis. Rather, though of a merely historical rather than a redemptive-historical nature, the crisis of the twentieth century bears a striking kinship

with the crises of Adam and Eve, Cain, the Flood, and so many others: God’s grace intervenes, forestalling judgment. Christ continues to hold the creation together by His grace. For all of the truths that Hemingway reveals in his works, he cannot account for this indispensable truth. As evidenced by his reference to Ecclesiates in the title of The Sun Also Rises, Hemingway is certainly aware of a merciless and vain cycle of existence. But Merton understands the continued life of the world perfectly: the world is always dying but never dead because Christ is keeping us from being “poured headlong and immediately into the pit of our eternal destruction.” The result is that, in an odd way, it is a delight to consider the bleak despair of Hemingway’s nada as I have, on beautiful sunny days in a Lancastrian October that calls to mind Keats’s “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.” Today’s sun has risen and this season’s harvest has matured a century after the cataclysm that rocked the world and inaugurated Hemingway’s despair. This endurance in spite of depravity should give us hope that the Creator is not done with his Creation just yet. It was hardly Hemingway’s aim to provide such a hope, but perhaps Christians should thank him for pointing them indirectly but inescapably to the grace of God on display each time the sun rises again over this struggling world. Q

Blake Denlinger (’15) is an English major who finds that books are both the cause and the solution of most of his problems.

Unfinished Angela Kim

t was an ordinary wooden brush, dipped in oil paint the color of spring. First paint, then clear turpentine that filled the air with an unearthly stench, swirled together and spread across the blank canvas in a careful stroke. The hand held the brush uncertainly, a sharp contrast to its owner, a girl with long hair, eyes focused on a single task. In her mind, she could picture the painting without a fuss or a second glance, but whether her hands would comply… that remained to be seen. Memories floated. Blurred enough to cause confusion and yet clear enough to cause pain, a touch and a smile—a glance. Dark, serious eyes and the scent of sunlight—her fingers strangled the handle of the brush as she refocused her mind on the task in front of her. She looked down. As if on its own accord, the brush moved across the canvas, leaving behind traces of grass and flowers, a grand tree with branches reaching out to the sky. Soon the sky followed, forget-me-not blue and streaked with sunshine, like a hazy, summery day. Her mind wandered, and she painted thoughtlessly. Several blinks later, a bench appeared—almost out of nowhere— snugly set in a bed of green grass, empty and inviting. It was set just under the shade of the tree, cool and protected from the heat of the sun. For a moment, the girl hesitated. Then, almost nervously, she swirled the brush in another pot of color and painted the silhouette of a girl, not unlike herself. Long hair, small, perched on the edge of the bench and staring at the sky. Even though only the side of the girls face was shown, framed by locks of dark hair, she seemed to be smiling. Another memory—heart racing—a presence standing close; he was familiar and solid and real, so different from reality. In reality, he was far away. He was worlds away, almost like a dream. The sort of dream that hurt to think of—not because it was a nightmare—but because she wished it was real. Was it real? Did it ever happen? At this point, she could hardly remember. Time had flown by. It’s been over a year. Again, on its own accord, the brush moved again, painting the silhouette of a boy, strong and sure. He could have been anyone, the back of a head, seated on the bench beside the girl. He could have been a stranger. Rain dropped onto the outline of the boy, still to be finished. Not rain, but tears trickling down the girl’s face, dripping onto the painting itself. They blurred the outline of the boy, and when she tried to wipe them away, the painting only smudged a little more. The boy really could be anyone now. The girl still looked like her. The sun still shone and the grass and flowers were as bright as ever. Like a great protector, the tree reached out with its limbs to protect the bench with a calming shade. Everything was the same except for the boy. A silhouette. The back of a head. A stranger. The tears continued to stream down her face. Frustrated, she wiped at her eyes, pushing the canvas away. Another set of memories came to mind, clearer than the others. Confusion—a purposefully turned head—a sad goodbye. Then silence. The brush dropped from her hand. With effort, she leaned over and pulled the canvas towards her once again. She picked up a white handkerchief and wiped away the painting of the boy from the bench. She wiped him away from her memory. The place beside the girl looked so empty, the mark on the handkerchief dark and smudged. She stood and left the room, left the unfinished painting on her desk. She would come back to it later, the girl decided. When things were more certain, and when he was more than a dream. Q

Angela Kim (‘18) is majoring in Communications Studies and obsessively enjoys reading, writing, and going on adventures.

The Brick Man James Moore

As machinery destroys And nature rebuilds; The erection of majesty On brightly woven tapestry. Surrounded by Earth Growing its tide, Green fingered beauty And red brick pride, The man-made mountain Of hearth-made stone Sits upon His great green throne. But that was an age ago. What machinery has built That nature destroys; The once mighty majesty Engulfed in beauty’s travesty. As the young brick wearies To Ivy’s ploys, Her lover, Oak, with his broad arm, The brave man’s wall destroys. But that was an age ago. The wise old Brick Man Lives in a forest, once the edge of a field; Where cruel sun his bricks have faded The tree gents now have shaded.

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His friend, Oak, Once young and rash, Now father of the forest, Embraces him, forgetting their past. Sweet Ivy, Changed from her devious youth, Cloaks him in warmth; Her kind beauty’s proof. Ages have past and now they stand Together in harmonies hand; Earth’s green beauty, And the old Brick Man.

James Moore (‘16) is from Waterford, PA. While at Grove City College, he has been integrally involved on Orientation Board.

Progress Chris Prosser “Soggy feet no more will creep along the cool, mud-wooden street. The hills will linger, moaning.” Ten by ten the honest men endeavor to bequeath, the end of younger things yet forming. “Sulfur streaks and acid leaks will simmer as the factory speaks, while Gaea gives to groaning.” Sluggish men must hear it said that satellites are on the mend and cast aside their stonings. “Out will go the stonings, and about will rise the loneliness of dark and lamplit streets.” One must seek atonement for the backhills and their moaning, but the workplace must ascend. “Gaea’s unheard groaning will raise heartache for the droning of the melancholy steel entropic beat.” One must think of honing all these younger things now formed. Paltry flecks of wisdom reach their end, and there is laughter, there is blood about the street.

Artist’s Reflection Richard J. Christman

he 20th century Spanish master, Pablo Picasso, once declared: “there are painters who transform the sun unto a yellow spot, but there are others who, thanks to their art and intelligence, transform a yellow spot into the sun.” Color, just in itself, is truly something wonderful. A simple splash of a particular hue can evoke human emotion, change a mood, or characterize an entire season. What would autumn be without the color orange? It’s barely imaginable. And why stop there? In the hands of the artist, exposure to the color red can raise your blood pressure, and an icy blue can give you shivers. Vantablack is so dark that when you let it fill your vision the human brain loses the ability to keep balance. This fascinates and energizes me. Through paint and pigment, the artist is able to convey tempers and ideas that would take exhaustive words to describe with the same potency and the same truth. Photography is also, of course, brilliant. With the click of a button we can freeze a perfect image, creating a painting with just light and time as materials. This revolution of ease and accuracy gives dual life: to a precise world of fine-art photography and to the visually vague abstractions of modern painting. There is a beauty in both; a photograph being able to capture a moment in time – an image with all its notes and nuances exactly as it is – and an abstract canvas – able to connect simply and clearly to the rawest part of the visual and emotional experience with nothing but color, line, and shape. When approached with the idea of doing a cover series for The Quad magazine, I thought; why not marry these two art-style bombshells? The Quad represents to me a place where all sorts of talented artists collaborate to bring joy, inspiration, and a Godly vision to our campus and community – all while training the glory on the One who gives talent and takes away. I considered that a mixed media, focused on the community, themed in the beauty of seasons, characterized and empowered by raw color, fit the proverbial bill nicely. In these past four pieces I have striven to capture the spirit of each time of year through an original film photograph captured in Western Pennsylvania within the bounds of that time. Then, as both a visual push toward the season and as an eye-directing injection of the life in the image, I added oil paint directly to the black and white photograph. Each piece wears a unique spectrum color that I find to epitomize the season – cadmium yellow for the spring sun, sap green for the summer leaves, vermillion for the fall foliage, and cerulean blue for the icy winter drift. Finally the color was blended into titanium white, in step with the motion of the image. A personal hero of mine, Swiss draftsman and sculptor Alberto Giacometti said “the object of art is not to reproduce reality, but to create a reality of the same intensity.” I hope this series has created or bottled some of the whimsy of the seasons for you viewers and readers – and if not, at least I hope you said “hey, what a cool picture”. Art for art’s sake, right? From me, my lenses, and my paints: It’s been an honor. Q

Conundrums Turning Back (Viking Conundricles, Part 2)*

Thanks to you, your party lands safely on the coast of an unknown country in a matter of days. Overcome by a desire to explore, Olaf Smitsglomen leaps off the boat and decides immediately to lead a party inland - you volunteer to go along. It isn’t long before you come to a large and ominous-looking stone with even more ominous-looking markings etched onto it. You are just about to go see what you can make of the markings when a gnome leaps out from behind the stone (which startles you a bit, but you manage to keep most of your dignity). He introduces himself as “Pistachio,” and mumbles something in a nearly indecipherable gnomish accent. Then he hands you a ball with the letters “Pc-W” written on the front, does a little more incoherent mumbling, and bounds merrily off into the forest. That interruption out of the way, you walk up to the stone and take a look. You find a message and a list written in Ancient Sweltzhoffendish. Luckily, you once spent a whole year in the mountains with the northern Sweltzhoffen tribes, and having built a strong friendship with a poet named Moben Wengell, learned enough of the ancient dialect that you can now provide a passing translation: To locate the famed Orb of Abounding Shininess, you have to… 14-10, 8-20, 6a-8, 19a-64, 7-3, 7-8; 18b-129, 5a-7, 17-3, 5-12. Frankly, you couldn’t possibly care less about how shiny the orb is, but when you tell Olaf about the translation, he comes to the conclusion that there isn’t anything in the world he wants more; you must - absolutely must - learn what it takes to find this orb. Well, what do you tell him? *See the autumn issue for backstory.

Submit your answers to quad.submissions@gmail.com. The first person to correctly solve The Monty Hall Problem will receive a free book of their choosing. Correct answers will be published in the next issue.

The Quad purchases all its books through Hearts & Minds, an independent bookstore in Dallastown, PA â&#x20AC;&#x201D; You should too. Visit www.heartsandmindsbooks.com for book recommendations on any topic and information on placing orders.

The Quad | Winter 2014

Volume 7 â&#x2122;Ś Issue 2 The Quad c/o John Gordon GCC #807 200 Campus Drive Grove City, PA 16127