Literary Magazine - French-American School of New York

Débuts
Spring 2014
The French-American School of New York
Literary Magazine
Reflections
Editor-in-Chief:
Mireille Bejjani ‘14
Art Editor:
Lelia Kacha ‘14
Editors:
Tatiana Hadchiti ‘14
Emma Guyot ‘15
William Mason ‘16
Staff:
Kiara Bernard ‘14
Aliénor Motte ‘16
Alice Garnier ‘16
Emily Kramer ‘17
Faculty Advisor:
Lauren Weisholz
-Emanuelle Rizk (‘14)
The staff of Débuts would like to thank the English, French, Spanish and Latin teachers and the students
who submitted material to the magazine.
We would also like to thank art teachers John Murray and Merrill Gisondo for providing the artwork.
And finally our thanks to Alexandra Creteur for her support in the publishing process.
Cover art by Lelia Kacha (‘14)
Preface
Table of Contents
The word “reflection” can take on several definitions, many of which are
represented in this magazine. The analytical pieces must involve the writer’s reflection
on and consideration of another’s work as a necessary first step in the writer’s own
production. Many of the works are reflections themselves, as students transform one
form of literature into another (for example, creating art out of prose). Then there are
the pieces that contemplate and react to a character, an idea, a concept, or even oneself –
current seniors will all agree that there is no self-reflective process more grueling or more
all-consuming than writing college essays. Finally, the artwork included is a reflection of
the pieces to which they are attributed, selected to draw out an idea included in the text
and heighten its effect through visual representation.
On the whole, this entire magazine is a reflection of the French-American School
of New York grades 6 through 12, which is after all its goal. The integration of pieces
written in not one but three foreign languages, mixed in with the texts written in English,
demonstrates the multicultural nature of the school and the seamlessness with which
individuals of different backgrounds come together to form a diverse student body unlike
any other.
As you discover these pages, please take some time to reflect on what this magazine
and everything in it represent for you.
Happy reading!
Mireille Bejjani (‘14)
Editor-in-Chief
Walt Whitman Pastiches p. 1
All in a Summer’s Day p. 7
Morning Theme p. 9
-Trajet du Matin (p.9)
-Rush Hour (p.10)
Conversions p. 12
-Prose poem (p.12)
-Prose based on Art (p.13)
-Art based on Prose (p.17)
-Poetry based on Prose (p.21)
-Sentence Expansion (p.23)
-Latin bucolic translation (p.25)
Inspired by Classics p. 27
Adding to Classics p. 29
-In the style of James Joyce (p.29)
-In the style of Charles Dickens (p.31)
-In the style of J.D. Salinger (p.34)
Reacting to characters p. 36
-Christopher McCandless (p.36)
-Nick Carraway (p.37)
Creations in Fantasy p. 38
-Fables (p.38)
-La Primera Nube (p.43)
-Nouvelle Fantastique (p.44)
Reflecting p. 47
-on Landmarks (p.47)
-on Puritan Times (p.52)
-on the American Dream (p.59)
-on Death (p.61)
-on Love (p.67)
-on Family (p.69)
-on Yourself (p.70)
• Auto-biography (p.70)
• College Essays (p.72)
-Lelia Kacha (‘14)
Walt Whitman Pastiche p. 77
BEGINNINGS
Sunrise
The glowing crescent is weary after counting all its sons and daughters and is now falling
asleep,
His cousin slowly takes his place and illuminates the soil like never before
The birds, awoken by Nature’s perfection, acclaim its beauty with their shrill voices
The clouds, silent and peaceful are slowly passing over our head, advancing in their long
journey
The morning fog, pierced by the sun’s rays, is protecting Mother Nature’s body from our eyes
of sinners
The water calmly flowing down the stream welcomes deers and rabbits, thirsty after a long
night
As I wake up undraped in the soft grass, wet from the light dew, (for I know it)
I find myself wondering at the soil’s hair, dancing with the morning zephyr, (surely it is alive)
The trees, jealous of the grass, wiggle their branches and leaves as if a living soul animated
them
All this agitation brings a generous amount of air to my nostrils
This felt like Mother Nature had just yawned in my human and imperfect face (come listen all!)
This divine breath traveled through the forests and through the woods, waking up the rest of
the wild animals
The second part of splendid Nature is now awakened
The frog, croaking, swims across the duck pond, stretching its body parts
The spider drinks the dew glued on her filament and inspects it, patiently waiting for her next
prey
The mouse coming out of his cave, stares at the burning fire who is lifting himself in the
horizon
The squirrels, hungry, are searching for acorns and walnuts under the wiggling trees,
The deers and rabbits coming back from the stream, are wandering around the place, dulled
1
-Astrid Filipov (‘18)
Nature’s pure work is now all alive and united, ready for another warm and peaceful day
As for me, I discover and explore it, hoping to correct my human infirmities and to purify my
soul if it’s God’s will.
If it’s God’s will.
-Gregoire Woo (‘17)
Walt Whitman Pastiches
2
WALT
WHITMAN
Different
My life, every moment from my childhood, from my story,
Based on the books of others, that have lay there pass to be followed
To be a mentor towards death, towards another life, another place
Towards an area of no judgments of no intoxication
Out of reach from all the pain and the terror that rests on the shoulders of others
Of the weak, the faint-hearted, the ones that will die of agony.
I shall not be as they are, delicate, suffering of open wounds for all to see
I shall be a warrior and fight for life and freedom of society
I shall save myself from the culture that has disappointed many men and will disappoint many
more
I shall live, I shall do, I shall be, a story of my own that has not yet been written or been acted.
Full of pain are the people of this world, and full of pain is this world.
Different I shall be, the opposite of the citizens of those golden cities,
Of those golden boys, of those golden girls that live the life that was written for me, for you,
For the world and every delicate flower
Out of the darkness I shall be, different, for every part of me is unique.
-Charlotte Estampes (‘17)
-Chloe Sonnois (‘14)
Temporal Illusion
“Future” is merely a concept,
It is not so much, or so little, as a limitless goal.
Tomorrow is a day, and just like any day,
It will get here: no doubt about it,
But by than I will have landed upon a reincarnation of tomorrow
Similarly to the ideological belief that is the future
The tomorrow will slowly arrive, morph, progress, and ultimately slow down
Until an unsettling stop- vanishing, leaving room.
Therefore I can experience a new one whilst looking forward to yet another
It is consequentially that I realized that the globes,
Despite circular and cyclic in appearance
Are an interminable plateau
Bent by an ancillary concept based on our own non-understanding of time
PA S T I C H E S
Thou Shalt comprehend and appreciate this
Thou Shalt not regret or praise any point in time
Thou Shalt use what is provided, when provided, and until no longer provided
For it is only once you are enlightened as such
That you will gain a leading edge on satisfaction
3
-Théo Jaquenoud (‘17)
4
Walt Whitman’s Recess
-Clara Martin (‘14)
I see and hear your games beneath the falling snow.
The creaking swings, the thud of a ball kicked well, by limbs gentle and strong, the ice crunching beneath your shoes.
What of you, bright children? Your voices rise and fade, drifting in slanting rays, crossing
continents vast and immeasurable, from Africa’s forbidding shores to bustling ports of
Scandinavia.
Your songs quiet now beneath the drift of snow, and I feel my body, as good as yours secure
this
bench.
Taking my rest, I invite you, professors, to do the same.
Like sparrows flocking to the weather’d eaves, you gather, crowding in warmth and fellowship.
The mathematician with his theorems, proofs, graphs and charts comes,
The artist with her hands, graceful, gentle, finely moulded, comes,
The linguist, words spanning the oceans of the world, comes,
Scholars all, weighted by tradition or borne alike on flights of imagination, all come and gather,
All equal and embraced.
Your voices lift in the steam of coffee black, tea from India, water bottles sleek and gurgling
from
a
springs in our deep Earth. (Have
you thought much today of the Earth?)
You eat, chattering in sun now streaming, embracing, running, gaining strength, always in
ceaseless
motion.
How were you to know I was there?
Hark, the bell! As from the ship’s tall mast, or the clock tower’s ancient stones, the ritual begins- I see your strong arm rise and ring it true!
Through tides pulsing with children, I rush to join you in hallways vast & light.
Finding you at last! I hook my arm, robust and liberal, round your handsome waist, buoying
your flagging spirits, male and female, equal and alike!
You smile knowing I am there, patient, firm, alive, and secure in all that is not alive.
I hear the chime electric; the rush of tables, laughter, pencils, bags, books, chairs, doors, and a
call to silence.
-Jim Lawhon
5
TEACHER WORK
6
Based on
Summer in a Day
by Ray Bradbury
The girl opened the door completely. I was dazed by the light for a second as I stumbled out of
the closet. I stared at them blankly. “Thanks,” I said blandly, and walked towards the classroom
alone.
-Gaby Hauy (‘20)
-Inès Jurgens (‘15)
Margot’s Diary
I looked at the boy with disbelief. He was saying that the sun wouldn’t come out today.
“No,” my lips moved, but no sound came out. “All a joke!” the boy spat. I kept staring at him,
not wanting to accept what he said. “Hey everyone, let’s put her in a closet before the teacher
comes!” he yelled, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “No.” I finally managed to get the word out as
they started dragging me into the tunnel that held the closet. I squirmed, then started kicking,
then pleading, then crying. “No, no, no!” I thought as they tried to push me into the closet. It
was the only word that came to mind. I tried kicking again, and this time my foot scraped a boy’s
side. At first he jumped back, then looked me straight in the eyes. “Kicking isn’t going to save
you now!” he sang, enjoying himself. Tears welled up in my eyes. I wasn’t going to able to see
the sun... But how? I had been waiting for this for so long... They finally managed to push me
into the closet. I lunged at the door, but they were faster than me, and closed it quickly. “No...
No! Help! Help!” I screamed, banging myself against the closet’s sides and front. “Help!” I hollered once more. I wasn’t sure who I expected to hear me. The teacher? It was very doubtful.
None of my classmates were going to help me, that was obvious. I heard them walking out of
the room, and thought I heard my name being whispered a few times as they did. Tears streamed
down my face. This couldn’t be happening. Someone would come to help me. I threw myself
against the walls of the closet a few more times, then gave up. I collapsed against the back wall.
I cried silently. I hated this stupid planet. I could hear the teacher coming back and asking if
everyone was there. “Help!” I cried desperately. She had to come get me. But she didn’t. I
could hear the children’s excited cries, and the door open as their cries of happiness died out.
I could imagine them streaming out into the golden sunshine, enjoying themselves. Even the
darkness in the closet seemed lighter. I sobbed and sobbed. Everything I had wanted since I
came to Venus was gone, just like that. Gone until the next seven years. I clutched my knees to
my chest and rocked back and forth weakly. My head was spinning, and I felt faint. After what
seemed like an eternity, I heard small footsteps walking back into the classroom. I looked up at
the closet’s ceiling. It was all over. My ears perked up as I heard my name being said. “Margot.
Margot!” the faint voices said. I sniffled as I heard footsteps coming into the room where I was. I could feel them there, in front of the closet. Little whispers rippled through the tiny group
of kids. “Well, go on.” I heard one of them say, louder than the whispers. Someone stepped
closer. The door of the closet creaked, and a little stream of lamp light crept into the darkness.
7
Margot’s Summer in a Day
“No!” I said. But it was too late; they were already closing up on me and pushing me into
the closet. They then locked the door and left me there. I know all the children hate me, and say
mean things behind my back. After a few minutes, I heard the teacher coming in a saying “ Ready
children?” And of course everyone said yes, and I wanted to shout out, but for some reason I
had lost my voice. I heard them all going outside, dashing for the doors. I suddenly dreamed of
life on Earth, seeing the sun every day, not just two hours every seven years. More than anything,
I wanted to be back home with my mother and father. I really hate it here on Venus, because it’s
so different from Earth. The children here have been here since they were small, but I only came
here five years ago, and I can clearly remember days when I was at home. I saw light creeping
through the locked door and heard children screaming and laughing.
I sat here for two hours, and just when I was thinking of screaming out, I saw that the
light was gone, and I could hear the rain against the wall. “ Margot!” I heard a girl cry. The voices
became indistinct after that, because I wasn’t listening. I hoped they were going to free me. Then
the door opened…
-Sara McSweeney (‘20)
8
Trajet du Matin
Les portes du train s’ouvrent
et je monte à bord du 7 : 22 pour Grand Central.
Je m’assieds dans le wagon, je sors mon ipod
en laissant la musique entraîner mes pensées sur tous les aspects de la vie.
Le contrôleur apparaît pour vérifier mon ticket. Je le lui montre.
Satisfait, il continue sa tournée.
Une fois replongée dans mon petit confort, je ferme les yeux…
Quand je les rouvre, le monde a disparu : on est entré dans le tunnel.
Le conducteur, de même, annonce que si on reste dans le train après cet endroit,
on sera considéré comme clochard.
Je rejoins la foule qui se dirige à toute vitesse vers la sortie au bout du tunnel.
J’attrape un café et un chausson aux pommes puis je sors.
Ca sent la cigarette, le café et l’énergie. Ca me plaît.
-Tesher Zafrin (‘18)
-Elisabeth Delay (‘18)
The honking of the cars, the changing of the street lights, the pace of the pedestrians,
The roar of the cars, the speed of the trains, the STOP sign of the crossing guard,
The long line of school buses, the fury of drivers in idling cars, the lingering groups of school
kids,
The lights of the taxis, the rush of late-arrivers, the voices in the overflowing passenger cars,
The fuss of the children and their parents, the shuffling of the newspapers,
The blaring of the inaudible loudspeakers, the ringing of the schools bells,
And the announcement that you have reached your final destination.
I was boiling mad!
(Would I be late for school? Would I be late for work?)
The traffic was endless!
As I sit on the crowded train, I attempt to immerse myself in my paper ignoring all of the
chatting that surrounds me.
But I can’t help but notice, a man opposite me, twitching his leg, tapping his foot, scratching
his head, and humming a tune.
As I look around the train, I can’t help but notice that many others are doing the same.
My mind starts to drift and I realize that I am now twitching my leg, tapping my foot, scratching my head and humming a tune.
On this slowly moving train we are in unison.
Any slight progress is music to my soul
In my case, slow and steady does not win the race
I must be diligent, persistent, and steadfast in order to beat the Rush Hour.
Rush Hour
The sun has barely risen over the darkened horizon
The moon and the stars have slowly made their way back behind the clouds
The street lights are no longer illuminating the asphalt streets
The masses have awoken and are preparing for their day’s journey
I am among the throngs.
As the masses awake, the sun begins to shine and the birds begin to chirp
As the masses prepare, lights flicker on, all through the once-dark town
As the masses depart, the roar of their engines envelops the town like a blanket
As the masses converge, the once free-flowing stream is now at a trickle
This is Rush Hour.
9
As the masses reach their destination, the town is tranquil.
No longer does the stress shake the population
No longer can you hear the roar of the engines, the honking of the horns, the blare of the
trains, and the murmurs of the children
No longer can you see the alignment of the yellow buses, of the yellow taxis, and the dark
suited commuters.
I am slowly sipping my coffee and relaxing after my long commute
But my day is not over, as I must prepare for the evening Rush Hour.
-Maxime Fouilleron (‘19)
MORNING ROUTINE
10
Sdgpiuegj
In a rather doomed attempt to be freed from the daily pressure of producing rigorous work and
to be able to sleep at least seven hours, I initiate my writing session, scribbling words over virginal pages gradually disappearing under the black inked scrawls. I can already sense the spectre of
Frustration in the corner of my room, overshadowing Fatigue and her little minions Surrender,
Sloth and Sleep, the four pairs of blank eyes staring at me like a fool prey.
Yet, my desperate and tired gaze is led to the brightly lit Word document on the screen of my
Toshiba computer, opening its wide spectrum of endless drafts for my deranged and unrelated
thoughts continuously running through my mind. Efficient method, I thought. How naïve. I begin to feel the used plastic of the black keys, now suffering from the monopoly of the delete key,
my eyelids weighing like a box full of books as time runs its course. Nevertheless, what seems
impossible has to be done. And while bullet-points align endlessly, Frustration pushes me in an
attempt to drown my head into the keyboard, while Surrender, Sloth and Sleep execute a ghostly
dance around my waist like Indians around a fire. Did they possess me already? I could do it
tomorrow. Ha, what an innocent yet tempting thought, to believe that my homework can be accomplished between five and six in the morning, that I’ll suddenly possess the ability to restrain
my stream of thoughts in one page, one well-written page.
Eleven pm. Fatigue’s shadow wraps my weary body little by little in a chilled cape, as sentences
add up in decently organized paragraphs on the blurred screen. Words merge into each other as
my eyelids gradually fall, Fatigue herself holding my eyes shut, while two of her minions display
their enjoyment of my fall into Sleep’s cold hands by their disfigured faces. No. A sudden movement of mine repels the five demons haunting me for the last couple of hours, as my sluggish
fingers type the final word of my piece.
victor.
-Irene Woo (‘15)
-Louis Le Jamtel (‘16)
11
PROSE
POEM
12
PROSEbased onART
Norman Rockwell, The Gossips
The striking and unique painting The Gossips by American artist Norman Rockwell is a
beautiful and amusing depiction of how gossip flies from person to person until it comes back
to its original source. Its creator, Norman Rockwell, was a talented 20th century artist and illustrator. Rockwell captures on canvas the different reactions people have towards gossip. When
staring at this painting, I feel the need to study every person individually due to Rockwell’s detail
in painting realistic features such as the crinkles on the leather gloves of one woman, or the hair
curlers of another; such is his talent with a paintbrush and extraordinary perception of the human condition.
Norman Rockwell was born on February 3rd, 1894, and died on November 8th, 1978,
During his lifetime he created hundreds of paintings with the themes of family, children, and
patriotism, and draw the cover illustrations on the Saturday Evening Post for over forty years.
Rockwell’s paintings are charming and genuine. They often remind his admirers of moments in
their lives that he captured on canvas, as simple as Coming and Going or Freedom from Want,
which surely make people recall their childhood days and cherished moments with family.
Gossips’ attention to detail and honest depiction of ordinary people as well as their caricatured reactions is eye-catching, and unique work of art that the viewer is not inclined to soon
forget. It offers beauty, detail and color, but it also depicts a humorously realistic illustration of
what real-life people, are like. Rockwell does not shy away from wrinkles, rotting teeth, graying
hair, or crooked noses. He manages to create likeable and sweet personalities emanating from
these people, who look like they might be your dear aunt or beloved neighbor. Some react with
laughter, shock or anger to the gossip, which is actually about the painter himself, another comic
characteristic of the painting. None of them seem to have a mean bone in their body, despite
their gossip. However, gossip is not always a laughable matter. It can ruin a person’s life, and
can make the person concerned miserable. A side of Rockwell’s painting that is slightly harder to
detect is its seriousness, but the caricatured expressions that its characters wear create an amusing effect.
Norman Rockwell created an extraordinary masterpiece by confronting the reality of how
gossip travels, and by being blatantly honest about everyone’s endearing imperfections, such as
the incapability of keeping your mouth shut, as well as the different response gossip obtains
from different people. Gossip can be amusing, but it also has the power to ruin a person’s life
and make his/her miserable.
The Gossips is a beautiful and engaging painting that will make any viewer contemplate
the mysteries of his or her own life.
-Elizabeth O’csay (‘18)
13
“Rockwell does not shy away from wrinkles, rotting teeth, graying hair,
or crooked noses. He manages to create likeable and sweet personalities
emanating from these people, who look like they might be your dear aunt
or beloved neighbor.”
14
Claude Monet, La Liseuse
Une jeune femme nommée Alexandra était assise sur l’herbe et lisait dans une prairie derrière chez elle. Elle était gracieuse, vêtue d’une robe longue très seyante, à traîne. Ses cheveux
bruns étaient recouverts d’un léger chapeau de couleur rose clair. Elle tournait les pages de
son livre une par une, avec une délicatesse inexplicable. Le roman entre ses mains était un des
nombreux chefs d’œuvre de Guy de Maupassant, Bel-Ami. Cela faisait trois jours qu’elle l’avait
commencé et elle avait hâte d’en connaître la fin. Après quelques heures de lecture, elle touchait
maintenant au but. Du bout du doigt, elle tourna les derniers feuillets avec impatience. Elle atteignit la dernière page mais celle-ci manquait. Elle souleva sa robe pour voir si cette maudite
page avait pu se détacher et glisser sous elle. Elle se leva et regarda autour d’elle, en vain. Elle
rentra chez elle et se mit à chercher dans toute la maison mais, malheureusement, ne trouva rien.
Il ne lui manquait qu’une page, mais elle était prête à tout faire pour la trouver. Elle courut à la
librairie de sa petite ville pour acheter un nouvel exemplaire du roman. Le libraire lui annonça
que ce livre était en rupture de stock et qu’il allait être difficile d’en trouver un sur-le-champ.
Désespérée, elle rentra chez elle et reprit ses recherches. Elle n’allait pas se laisser décourager si
vite. Il lui fallait trouver une solution. Elle se rappela que, peu de temps auparavant, une rumeur
15
ART
to
avait couru, selon laquelle la guinguette préférée de Maupassant était située près de chez elle et
qu’il la fréquentait souvent. Elle pensa que si elle s’y rendait tous les jours, elle arriverait bien à le
rencontrer et pourrait ainsi lui demander la fin de la passionnante histoire. Donc, comme prévu,
elle se rendit tous les jours à l’auberge et y resta des heures.
Un mois passa, et toujours pas de Maupassant en vue. Un jour, cependant, elle aperçut un
homme portant une sacoche en cuir qui alla s’asseoir à une table au fond de la salle, à l’écart du
monde, pour ne pas être dérangé sans doute. Une bouffée de joie l’envahit, elle s’approcha de lui,
s’excusa et lui expliqua son histoire. Il la regarda longuement, comme perdu dans ses pensées.
Puis, ils se donnèrent rendez-vous le lendemain pour que l’écrivain puisse lui remettre la fin de
l’histoire. Le jour suivant fut un des plus beaux jours de sa vie. Guy de Maupassant lui tendit
une enveloppe dans laquelle se trouvait la fin du roman. La main tremblante, elle la saisit et alla
s’asseoir confortablement à l’ombre d’un arbre. A l’abri des regards, elle ouvrit l’enveloppe qui
frémissait dans ses mains. Elle ne fut pas déçue par la chute du roman. Elle tomba sous le charme
de l’écrivain, ils se revirent à plusieurs occasions et un amour passionné naquit entre eux. Ils finirent par se marier et, quatre ans plus tard, Maupassant publia une nouvelle qui connut un grand
succès. Ma Femme était directement inspirée de son amour pour sa jeune épouse Alexandra.
-Julie Bernard (‘18)
PROSE
16
WORD
THE SCARLET LETTER
CLOUDS
Assignment: Word clouds are visual representations of text, representing, through the vary-
ing size of the words in the word cloud, the relative importance of those words to the text.
Compile a list of words and phrases you feel represent key elements of The Scarlet Letter and,
based on the number of times those words appear in the novel, create, then analyze, a word
cloud.
I chose the words above to show three important aspects of The Scarlet Letter: the relationship between Hester and Pearl, the relationship between Hester and Puritan society, and the
relationship between Hester and Puritan religion. Hester and Pearl are “mother” and “child”,
separate from the “world” of Puritans due to Hester’s “sin”: committing “adultery”. The two
are constantly “seen” and judged by others, including by the clergy who make her an example.
However, Hester’s punishment is given as a chance for her “soul” to be saved, so she can become
a better person.
The words that seem to be most important to the novel are the names “Hester” and
“Pearl”, followed by the terms that characterize their relationship “child” and “mother”. The
last word appearing more than 150 times is the word “see” and its variations (such as “seeing”
or “saw”). The “scarlet letter” appears less than 100 times in the novel, showing that that term is
not as important as the previous five. I think the terms “Hester”, “Pearl”, “child”, and “mother”
are so important to the novel because Hester and Pearl are the main characters of the novel, the
relationship between them being the driving force behind the plot. The word “see” is also very
important because it highlights the theme of surveillance present throughout the novel and the
importance Puritan society gives to appearances.
However, I find it very interesting that the nouns “adultery” and “atonement” appear exactly 0 times in the entirety of the novel. These two A words are very different, one describing
Hester’s sin, the other a possible consequence of Hester’s punishment. Hester’s sin is never explicitly stated to be adultery, and the scarlet letter A on her chest is never concretely defined. This
is important as it allows the A to be a symbol that can change, that can have multiple meanings.
The fact that “atonement” is never uttered throughout The Scarlet Letter is at once startling and
understandable. Startling because one would expect that Hester’s punishment would make her
atone for her sins, but understandable because as one reads the novel, one realizes that Hester
doesn’t think of her trysts with the minister being wrong, viewing them as sacred in their own
right.
-Emma Guyot (‘15)
ARTbased onPROSE
17
-Emma Guyot (‘15)
18
The Letter “A”
I chose to represent these 13 crucial Scarlet Letter words in my word-cloud for various
reasons. First of all, I chose to show the importance of motifs such as surveillance through eyes,
truth, lies and revelation with light and dark, but also the recurring scaffold showings throughout the novel which represent the evolution of the plot through Dimmesdale’s revelations. Hester’s sin, symbolized by the scarlet letter sown on her bosom is the main theme of this novel,
and the offspring of her shame, her child Pearl, is an essential character: she is considered
as a reflection of her mother’s wild side, but also seems to communicate with nature. And of
course, religion and God are in the middle of this novel set in Puritan America.
As shown clearly in the word-cloud I created, Pearl’s name and her various designations
such as a “child” are the words which seem to appear the most often in Hawthorne’s novel. The
author emphasizes the importance of this family created by sin by using the word “mother”
many times to refer to Hester. Indeed, Hester’s implicit sin, adultery, is omnipresent through
this motherhood and this child. As said above, the motifs of eyes, light and dark appear a lot, as
motifs usually do, and the scaffold representing Dimmesdale’s various attempts to reveal himself
is also a key place in the novel, which justifies its many appearances as a word. The scarlet letter,
title of Hawthorne’s novel, is obviously the revolving point of this plot, but the meaning of this
letter A is never revealed, the word “adultery” doesn’t appear once in the novel, which is why I
chose to shape my word-cloud into an A, to show its omnipresence but its absence at the same
time. Hester’s sin is a source of shame and rejection from the Puritan society she lives in, this is
why “shame”, “god” and “sin” appear numerous times and are relevant to the plot.
-Juliette Groffilier (‘15)
PROSE
19
to
ART
-Juliette Groffilier (‘15)
Word counts
Eyes: 96
Pearl: 250
Nature: 77
Child: 222
Light: 51
Mother: 185
Dark: 40 God: 32 Scaffold: 30
Sin: 44
Letter: 137
Shame: 40
Scarlet: 115
20
Found Poetry in The Scarlett Letter
Pearl
Assignment: Found poetry is the art of taking an existing work and rearranging and refash-
ioning that work—or excerpts of that work—into poetry. Using words and phrases from
Chapter 6 of The Scarlet Letter, create found poetry that reflects your interpretation of Hester
Prynne’s daughter, Pearl.
Her mother’s only treasure
Immortal Flower
From the unspeakable abyss of
guilty passion
Emblem and product of sin
Brought forth in Eden
Evil spirit
Incapable and unintelligent of human sorrow
She would be convulsed,
all in disorder
Shadowy reflection of the evil and the untempered light
Imbibing her soul.
Lovely and
Perverse,
An airy sprite
with a mocking smile,
The plaything of the angels was a demon offspring
Deep stains
Of infinite variety
Invested her with
Rank luxuriance
Dark and wild peculiarity,
Being of great price
Little Pearl,
Her mother’s only treasure.
-David Guyot (‘15)
21
PROSE
Born outcast of the infantile world
Innocent life
Immortal flower
There was no physical defect
Native grace
Faultless beauty
Emanuelle Rizk (‘14)
A glimmering light that comes we know not whence
And goes we know not whither
Accompanied by a wild flow of spirits
The plaything of the angels
So perverse
So malicious
Her mother’s only treasure
What an Airy sprite
Daemon offspring
An evil spirit prompted her
With a mocking smile and a birdlike voice
It was like the phantasmagoric play of the northern lights
-Belle Carroll (‘15)
POETRY
22
Expanding a sentence
Assignment: Choisir deux phrases et les developper en deux paragraphes, creer un contexte, en
utilisant le preterite et l’imparfait.
They brought me many gifts. Ellos me trajeron muchos regalos.
En el año 1976, caminaba solo el las montañas de Méjico, con el motivo de explorar las cadenas
montañosas del país y descubrir lugares novelos. Llevé bastante provisiones para durar dos semanas. El segundo día de la segunda semana, vi cosas y paisajes increíbles e imponentes, pero
por primera vez vi un pueblo pequeño que no estaba sobre mi carta. Me acerqué y observé a
aldeanos que cultivaban lo que parecía a arroz y mujeres que se ocupaban de niños al mismo
tiempo que cocinaban. Decidí acercarme más y presentarme al pueblo, porque necesitaba agua.
Cuando entré en el aldea, todos pararon lo que hacían y me miraron. Era como si nunca hubieran
visto un humano antes. Un hombre, que parecía el jefe de todos, dijo algo que no comprendí.
Todos se precipitaron y me trajeron muchos regalos. Finalmente comprendí que creían que era
un Dios.
-Clara Martin (‘14)
He opposed the construction of the monument. Se opuso a la construcción del
monumento.
Pedro comía su desayuno cuando el empleado de correo tocó a la puerta y depositó el periódico.
Sacó Pedro de su ensueño, y fue a coger el correo. Vi el gran titular sobre la construcción de un
monumento en el parque cerca de su trabajo. Eso le puso nervioso porque significaba más circulación y mucho ruido. También, el parque estaba un lugar adonde Pedro comía todos los días
de la semana durante su pausa. Empezó su día de mal humor. Trabajó bien por la primer media
de su día y para almorzar, fue al parque. Miraba todos los arboles que le rodeaban y a los pájaros
bonitos. Un pájaro llamó su atención, y fue si especial que sacó una foto. De vuelta a su casa,
buscó el pájaro por el internet y encontró que era un pájaro en vía de extinción. Ahora, se opuso
a la construcción del monumento.
-Sixtine Bone (‘16)
23
-Lelia Kacha (‘14)
Spanish
24
BUCOLIQUE 1 (églogue 1), v. 1-27
Translation
Meliboeus
Tityre, tu patulae recubans sub
tegmine fagi,
silvestrem tenui musam meditaris
avena.
Nos patriae finis et dulcia linquimus
arva ;
nos patriam fugimus. Tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra
formosam resonare doces Amaryllida
silvas.
Mélibée
Toi, Tityre, étendu sous le couvert d’un large hêtre,
tu étudies la muse des forêts en jouant un air
champêtre sur ton pipeau. Nous, nous quittons
les frontières de notre patrie et nos campagnes
car nous en somme chassés. Toi, nonchalant à
l’ombre, tu apprends aux forêts à faire résonner : «
Amaryllis est belle ».
Tityrus
O Meliboee, deus nobis haec otia fecit.
Namque erit ille mihi semper deus. Illius
aram
saepe tener nostris ab ovilibus imbuet
agnus.
Ille meas errare boves, ut cernis, et ipsum
ludere quae vellem calamo permisit agresti
Tityre
O Mélibée, c’est un dieu qui nous a donné ces
loisirs. En effet, celui-ci [Octave] sera toujours
un dieu pour moi. Un tendre agneau de nos
bergeries sera souvent sacrifié sur son autel.
C’est grâce à lui que mes mes vaches peuvent
vagabonder, comme tu le vois, et que je peux
jouer à loisir tous les morceaux sur ma flûte.
Mélibée
Certes, je ne t’envie pas, je t’admire plutôt.
Tout est tellement troublé, partout dans
Meliboeus
nos campagnes! Voilà que j’en suis malade
Non equidem invideo, miror magis :
et pourtant il faut que je conduise droit
undique totis
devant mes chèvres. Regarde celle-ci, je
usque adeo turbatur agris ! En ipse capellas
peux à peine la faire avancer! En effet,
protinus aeger ago, hanc etiam vix, Tityre,
après avoir mis bas tout à l’heure sur
duco.
une roche nue, elle a abandonné deux
Hic inter densas corylos, modo namque gemeljumeaux, l’espoir du troupeau, parmi les
los,
denses noisetiers. Je me souviens que
spem gregis, a ! silice in nuda conixa reliquit
des chênes frappés par la foudre nous
Saepe malum hoc nobis, si mens non laeva fuisset,
prédisaient souvent ce malheur, si
de caelo tactas memini praedicere quercus.
seulement mon esprit n’avait pas été
Sed tamen iste deus qui sit da, Tityre, nobis.
aveuglé. Mais, Tityre, dis-nous donc
qui est ton dieu.
25
Tityrus
Tityre
Urbem quam dicunt Romam, Meliboee, putavi
La ville qu’on appelle Rome, Mélibée, sot
stultus ego huic nostrae similem, quo saepe
que j’étais, je l’ai pensée être semblable à la
solemus
nôtre, où nous avons coutume, nous bergpastores ovium teneros depellere fetus.
ers, de conduire les tendres petits de nos
Sic canibus catulos similes, sic matribus haebrebis. Ainsi j’imaginais les chiots semblables
dos
aux chiennes, les chevreaux à leurs mères ;
noram, sic parvis componere magna solej’avais donc l’habitude de comparer les grandes
bam.
choses aux petites. En vérité, cette ville a élevé
Verum haec tantum alias inter caput extulit
la tête au milieu des autres, ainsi qu’en ont
urbes,
l’habitude les cyprès parmi les arbustes flexibles.
quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi.
Meliboeus
Et quae tanta fuit Romam tibi causa
videndi?
Tityrus
Libertas…
Mélibée
Et quel motif si important t’a poussé à voir Rome?
Tityre
La liberté…
-Les latinistes de 2nde: Martin Groffilier, Alexandra Guillot, Martin
Nicolaï, Matheo Rémy, Capucine de Talhouët, Thomas de Villemejane
-Carlota De Bretteville (‘19)
26
As three words slide off her lips for the first time
her gentle hazel eyes shimmer;
this must be why they call it eye contact.
Because truth flows in halcyon colored torrents
between the soft pine tree leaves of trust,
passion is sprinkles of brown sugar that catch the lamp light,
and her pupils are pools of dark black ink
that only spell the word love.
When the sun shines down onto earth
its rays caress the water,
and the river pains a golden reflection onto its skin.
Light crawls through the grass
and the blades sing in shades of yellow-green.
For the flowers, the warm this like a lover’s kiss,
and they come alive in bright colors and soft smiles.
Homeric Similes
Homeric Similes
Death
She feels like the end is nigh. She can no longer respond to “Mama”
Or “Baby”. She had known that she would die
When she was diagnosed with black pox. There was nothing that could heal her.
Gazing unto the blank ceiling, her husband’s tears land on her pale brow.
Looking up, she said “Save me”. But only death heard her,
And it whispered back “No”.
The turtle faces the night sky, just as it had done
The past seven nights. Death is slowly getting to it,
As hunger and fatigue had earlier that week. Nothing
Can turn it back from on its shell; except a miracle.
But even miracles sometimes arrive late, and the creature
Crawls slower and slower into nothingness.
-Arthur Bassas (‘16)
-Aliénor Motte (‘16)
She falls. Her cry for help resonates throughout the air as she hits the cold and hard surface.
Suddenly, everything blurs. The blue lake envelops her as she struggles frantically, gasping for
a breath of pure air. But the weight is massing at her sides, dragging her slowly and ruthlessly
into the blackness. The surface ripples as her hand, with a last urge for life, tries to grasp for
something, anything that can save her from the mass hauling her deeper and deeper. As she
attempts a final desperate shriek for help, water engulfs into her throat, and obscurity wraps
around her. Everything becomes still. Not a single movement is observed on the blue waters,
only the still reflection of the black sky and the red rising sun. The fight is over.
The prey struggles for freedom from the sly grasp of the snake,
Which skillfully surrounds its next victim, strangling it to the point of suffocation.
The miserable animal, its wheezing corpse dangling down abnormally,
Enveloped by the cruel embrace of the reptile,
Gasps for a saving breath, a final call, as the trap envelops it,
Drawing it farther and farther away from the light, closer to darkness.
The living body becomes inert. Death has seized it.
-Capucine de Talhouët (‘16)
27
-Juliette Dupéré ‘15
28
ADDING
to the
CLASSICS
Dubliners Creative Writing
Assignment: Amazing news! James Joyce’s ghost has arisen from its slumber to ask you to add a
paragraph to a story in Dubliners. Given your close attention to his style, he feels confident that
you can do his work justice.
This paragraph should be inserted after the first paragraph of “Eveline” .
From their high perch, her languid eyes observed a group of children playing on the small
merry-go-round out front. She looked on as they spun round and round, smiling and laughing;
she watched a girl—who reminded her much of herself—blow dainty little bubbles into the
darkening sky. Like the children’s cares, the bubbles spun weightlessly in the wind around them.
One time, she too played on that same merry-go-round and blew bubbles into the air—O, what
she would give to be a cheerful child once again! When the sun had almost sunk in the horizon,
she watched as a brown-clad woman detached herself from the side of a house to gather the
children.
In the blink of an eye, they were all gone, leaving behind an empty merry-go-round and
bubbles, as a thick grey fog invaded the street.
- Léa Jabbour (‘14)
-Alexandra Ubalijoro (‘15)
To be inserted in “Eveline,” as a concluding paragraph.
She returned home and sat in her usual spot at the window curtain, inhaling the familiar
odor of dusty cretonne. She looked out the window and recognized some of the passersby, taking the same route to and from work every day. Thoughts began to fill her head. She thought of
her mother, and the promise Eveline had made to her to keep the home together. Her mother
would be proud that she didn’t go off with Frank—or anywhere, for that matter. Eveline’s eyes
shifted to her father, sitting at the kitchen table, his daily bottle of whiskey in his hand, the strong
smell of alcohol permeating the surrounding atmosphere. That familiar odor oddly comforted
her—even though the man himself was not the most warmhearted person. She knew that smell;
she knew where it came from. She glanced at the photograph of the priest, the one who was in
Melbourne now. She began thinking of Frank and the station, and the adventure she could have
embarked upon—just like the priest had done. But she couldn’t have left home. For her mother’s
sake. For her sake. Her father’s booming voice broke her reverie.
—What are you doing here? Go! Dinner, now! I’ll beat you! Go! Just like your mother…
Eveline rushed out. She thought of the station again, and the image of Frank calling to
her from beyond the barrier. She pictured the black mass of the boat and imagined what she
would have felt if she had followed Frank—a sense of freedom from her father’s violence, from
her routinely life in Ireland, from all responsibility. She was paralyzed in Dublin, and she knew it.
She yearned for escape—but it was far too late.
-Tatiana Hadchiti (‘14)
To insert at the end of “After the Race,” after “Daybreak, gentlemen!”
Jimmy went up on deck and leaned against the railing. The pale, early morning sunlight
struck his grey eyes harshly. A fish broke the surface of the water and he watched the ripples
spread, enclosing the fish in endless circles. Noise from a nearby dock broke Jimmy out of his
reverie. Goodness! Jimmy muttered under his breath as he quickly ducked back inside the cabin
lest he be seen in his groggy, disheveled state. The grand appearance he had made the previous
day would be ruined if anyone of importance spotted him still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
In the cabin the men were preparing to leave, having decided that the night’s festivities
were well over. Jimmy followed their example, combing his hair with his fingers and brushing
off his clothes, while Villona nonchalantly played one more piece on the piano. They all walked
out to the street to hail cars. Though Villona suggested to Jimmy that they walk home and savor
the morning air, the young Irishman could not give up another opportunity to make a public appearance in a fine automobile with his famous acquaintances. So they piled into a large car and
chatted as it pulled out into the street and carried them to their destinations.
-Mireille Bejjani (‘14)
In the style of
29
JAMES JOYCE
30
Great Expectations Creative Writing
Assignment: Using your knowledge of Charles Dickens’ style and of Great Expectations, write
a passage that introduces a new character to insert in the book.
The Tutor
I was returning home from Miss Havisham’s, when the most peculiar gentleman came to
me, and he had obviously heard of my fortune. He addressed me as such:
“Sir, are you the mister Pip I have been told about?
-Yes, I replied.
-I am Mr. Mercedes, and I am here to offer you a tutor.”
Interested, I replied:
“And who might this tutor be?
-He goes by the name of Laurence Delphire, and I highly recommend him for a young gentleman such as yourself.
-Where might I find this Mr. Delphire? I asked, intrigued.
-In London, on 51st Corner street. If you would like, I could organize a session with him for
you?
That would be very kind,” said I.
After this discussion, he invited me to lunch, so he might tell me more about this tutor,
who seemed very nice. At this point in my life, I was very trusting and naive, and I was absorbed
by Mr. Mercedes’s description of this tutor, which made him seem tolerant and encouraging
while still managing to keep his students on track. Mr. Mercedes himself had been educated by
this tutor, and he spoke very admiringly of him, as if he himself wished to have the qualities this
man possessed.
Mr. Mercedes was a tall, slender man, with a pointed nose and hair slicked backwards with
oil. He smelled of flowers, and I presumed that he had been meeting someone before, as he appeared slightly more embellished than he might have otherwise. His face was sly and his features
were angular, his lips were pursed and his eyes looked down on me with a condescending air,
as if I was still the person I had been before, and he wore a constant frown, which most probably caused the wrinkles I saw on his face. When he talked to me, he made solid eye contact, as
if he were reading me like an open book, which made me nervous because I had a few secrets
to hide. He wore a black suit, which shined in the light and gave him an air of business, and his
pants were tailored to fit precisely so as to make him look even more sly. He seemed to me a man
of wealth, and he acted as if he were a gentleman, though also as if he considered every man
smaller and less important than himself. His shoes were pointed and appeared to have a shard of
metal at the tip of each.
CLASSICS
I could tell that this man was not a man to be trifled with; he looked as if he could stare
down a herd of bulls — even though I had never seen a bull in my life before, I had heard of
their fierce reputation as killers and disembowlers and had no wish to meet them, unless accompanied by this man who would easily dispatch them by suing them hornless. He radiated power
and cunning. I was almost as scared of the man as I was of the bulls, though I did not show
it, lest he be spited or insulted and take his wrath out on me. Although I was bestowed with
great expectations and had the right to be superior to all those in this town, which I was already
ashamed of, this man obliterated that right and made everyone seem equally small and weak, like
a rat in a mouse’s claws, its life and essence being played with like a toy. This made me uncomfortable, as I had grown to like the aura of superiority that I had and that others perceived.
-Claes Boillot (‘19)
This scene is taking place after
Miss Havisham gives 25 guineas
to Pip and Joe.
-Oriane Fouilleron (‘20)
Due to the charitable gift
of 25 guineas presented by Miss
Havisham, my beloved sister
obliged me to go to the butcher
(a rather dull fellow). She gave me
this order under the pretense that
she wanted to thank Mr. Pumblechook for all his help. Now
the butcher — who was named
Mr. Hester, and may I add, was a
bachelor — was a rather cynical
character who was unbearable to
be around if you weren’t on his
good side. His physical features
seemed to appropriately reflect
his pessimistic view of the world,
with his head being large and out
of proportion with the rest of his
body, his stare being blank, and
his lips being cracked, and also
the unknown monstrosities hidden under his clothes. His body
32
was large and his arms were as strong as Joe’s considering he had to cut hard pieces of meat for
a living. His left hand was a testament to his butchering skill, with all his fingers except his pinky
and thumb having been cut off. His left claw was the only amusing thing about him. Overall, he
was a very unattractive man, though this did not stop him from badgering every woman who
visited the store — particularly my sister. This was one advantage of sharing blood with Mrs. Joe
Gargery, for I was one of the only people he was ever not terrible with.
Mrs. Joe had lent me a reasonable amount of money to buy enough beef for four people
(Mrs. Joe, Joe, Mr. Pumblechook and I). I walked around half an hour to Mr. Hester’s shop, with
only one brief interruption from an obnoxious boy — common may I add — who followed me
around imitating everything I did. After I showed no sign of discontent, he eventually left and
signed off with a grunt.
When I arrived, Mr. Hester — dressed in his apron — waved me in with his claw and
showered me with questions concerning my sister (he hadn’t seen her in a while) to which I responded to with “Yes” or “Quite” and even “Perhaps”. He finally asked me the reason for my
visit and I said:
“Mrs. Joe would like a nice cut of meat for four.
-Ahh, Mrs. Joe, he retorted. Anything for her. I think’ve got something in the back.”
As I was waiting for the return of Mr. Hester, I perchance glanced around the shop. I
noticed the filthiness of the shop. I noticed the blood stains splattered across the store. I noticed
the smell of rotten meat. But lastly I noticed a man staring at me. He attentively looked at me,
as if he was trying to read my mind, know my secrets. He was a small man, with vibrant blue
eyes. His clothes looked common enough but his stature gave off a certain sense of gentlemanly
charm. His blue eyes hid something grim behind his stare. That stayed with me. When Mr. Hester returned he arrived with two cuts, I assumed one was for the other man. I paid. He gave the
gentleman his share of meat with a grunt and then handed me mine and said “Tell your sister
I said ‘halloa’” with a smile that made my stomach turn. I amicably smiled back and rushed out
the door to return to my common home of peace and quiet. The man followed me out.
Several minutes into my journey home, I noticed the man again. I also felt his presence
the whole way back, and I felt his stare burning my back. I tried to take a different path home
or take a longer road, but he still walked behind me. Once I arrived home, he left me, but I have
reason to believe he stayed around the area for a while. My sister was pleased with my successful
delivery and prepared the meat for the arrival of Mr. Pumblechook. She made sure I gave her
back all the money I had left and then waved me away.
-Mathieu Salz (‘19)
In the style of
CHARLES DICKENS
33
Creative Writing
In the style of
J.D. SALINGER
Milk
I got home today and was hoping to drink a nice cup of milk. I was really thirsty and
all, but it’s the kind of thirst you get when you really want milk. It’s a helluva special feeling. It
doesn’t go away until you drink milk, I mean, water or juice just won’t cut it. Anyways I got home
and I had this feeling and all, so I went to the fridge and pulled it open while plugging my nose.
A really bad smell comes from the fridge whenever you open it. It smells bad. It really does. It
smells like someone puked and put it in a cup and stuck it in the goddam fridge. Anyways, with
my nose plugged I opened the goddam, smelly fridge. Then I pulled out the milk carton. It was
light, but I just thought it was because we were running low on milk. I opened it and took a swig
from it, but not a single drop of milk fell onto my goddam tongue. I spent a helluva long time
trying to shake out some milk. It was empty. It really was. I was really angry and all, because I had
that special feeling I get when I want milk and I wasn’t able to satisfy it. It drives me crazy when
someone finishes the milk carton and doesn’t have the goddam decency to throw it out. I mean,
what if someone important and all came over and they asked for milk and you couldn’t give any
to them? All because someone decided to leave an empty milk carton in the fridge and so you
thought you didn’t need to buy more. Once I had this kid over, when I was younger than my
kid sister Phoebe is. She’s a helluva great kid, Phoebe… Anyways this kid, Alex was the “cool”
and “popular” kid. He was a phony. They always are. He was at my house and he wanted some
milk with his cookies. So I went to the fridge and all to get the milk out. Then I brought it to the
table and gave it to him. He tried to pour some milk into his cup and all but nothing came out.
His face turned red. It really did. He thought I had given him an empty carton on purpose, to
embarrass him and all. But I swear I didn’t. He never came back to my house, after that. I didn’t
care though. He was a real phony. I just hope old Phoebe doesn’t bring one of her friends over
when we have no milk left. Someone would at least know to buy some if there wasn’t an empty
carton in the fridge. I don’t know why people leave empty milk cartons in the fridge. It’s annoying as hell.
-Gabrielle Swartz (‘17)
34
Reacting toChristopher
Characters
McCandless
from Into the Wild
Anti-McCandless
-Francesca Hampton (‘15)
The Perfect Family
I was just exiting the bar, from which I had been kicked out of for getting excessively
drunk. I had finally found a bar that allowed me to drink something other than Coke. But I was
depressed because I thought about Sally and eventually Phoebe. It just got me drinking more and
more until I was too drunk to walk and was kicked out. I was pretty annoyed, but I was getting
tired anyways so I started heading towards my hotel. On my way there, I passed a photography
shop. In the window, I saw a family picture. That killed me. They looked happy but they were
just models and it was fake. In that “family”, there were the two parents: a daughter and a son.
They were all sitting on the stairs of a giant mansion. The mother looked like she had spent
her entire life dressing and applying make-up for the occasion. She had an excessive amount of
lipstick and eyeliner. It was clear she had colored her hair blonde but it was in fact brown; that
killed me. The father had perfect dark hair that might have been combed for days. He was wearing a white shirt and black dress pants like he was going to a wedding or something. The children
were a little more casual, but were still overly dressed considering they were around 4 years old.
The daughter was wearing a white Sunday dress filled with red flowers. The son was wearing a
pair of Converse, a green short-sleeved shirt and a white pair of shorts. I finally started heading to my hotel but for the rest of the night, but I could not help kicking myself thinking how
phony that family looked. Once I did reach the hotel, however, I just couldn’t help comparing
these phonies to my own family. My mom and dad definitely resembled the two parents in the
picture. My mother always took twice the time it took her to get dressed to apply her makeup.
My dad was getting a haircut every 2 weeks. He always did that, my dad. It killed me. However,
the phony kids could maybe compare to D.B. even though he had once been true to himself, but
Phoebe and me, there was no way we were that fancy, even Allie who had passed away was truer
than them. I just went to sleep after that because it just made me depressed.
-Casimir Vinciguerra (‘17)
35
In my opinion, Christopher McCandless is a delusional, naïve, ungrateful young man who
had the brilliant idea of trekking in the wilderness of Alaska. Many people such as Jon Krakauer
are fascinated by the story of the adventurer that is Christopher McCandless. I, however, fail to
see why a young man who abandoned his entire family to isolate himself from society and ended
up perishing in the discomfort of a sleeping bag in the wilderness should receive the amount
of attention given to him. I understand that McCandless wanted to follow his dreams, achieve
spiritual awareness by isolating himself from the rest of the world, and get in touch with nature
and all of its beauty, but I believe he is nothing more than a curious boy who wanted to explore
the wilderness and ended up succumbing to its dangers because he underestimated the territory.
On top of this, McCandless withdrew himself from society without telling any of his loved ones
and he left them searching for him hopelessly and worrying about him constantly. I believe that
the story of Christopher McCandless is a pretentious one that does not deserve the awareness
it has gotten. Many hikers have traveled to Alaska and perished due to its harsh conditions but
virtually none have received the recognition McCandless has. What makes McCandless different
from the others? His annotations in his books? His social skills? His passion for life? His excellent grades? None of these aspects of Christopher McCandless are convincing enough for me to
believe he is not just an eager young man who travelled to Alaska unprepared and who suffered
the consequences.
-Marc Jabbour (‘17)
Pro-McCandless
Christopher McCandless was a young adult who envied adventure. He wanted to live his
life to the fullest. Because of that, he left everything behind, let nothing come in his way, and
went on a great journey. On his voyage, he might of have been a little careless. Eventually, that
might have led him to his death. The fact of being careless should not be taken as an example,
but when he lived his life the way he wanted, didn’t let society control him, he did an amazing
thing. He should be a hero and be recognized for his great mind. Not only was he adventurous,
but also he was also academically amazing. There aren’t a lot of people who would actually have
the guts to do what he did. He should be viewed as a role model. He is the image of life on this
earth. He was an amazing human being, a genius, an inspiration to all. Christopher McCandless
should stay in everybody’s mind and he is now part of history. Even though some people might
think he was crazy, they have no right to say that because they do not know what he went though.
They don’t know how he saw the world. He was a unique human and no other could replace him.
-Hector Sonnois (‘17)
36
Nick Carraway
from The Great Gatsby
Analysis of Nick Carraway
In Chapter One of The Great Gatsby, the reader gets a perspective of who is telling the
story. The narrator is Nick Carraway, an ambitious young man fresh out of Yale, suggesting that
his family, which descends from the Dukes of Buccleuch, is wealthy enough. He works in the
bond industry during a time in which the economy was booming. He lives in East Egg New
York, near the present-day Hamptons near a lake and neighbors a majestic mansion owned by a
man named Gatsby.
Nick Carraway starts off the narration by sharing advice his father gave him with the
reader. He was once told that: “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one, just remember that all
the people in the world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had” (Fitzgerald 1). This moral
advice serves as an introduction to Nick’s personality because it justifies his reserved nature and
his inclination to refrain from making comments. This reserved judgment, which he believes “is
a matter of infinite hope” gives the reader a fair opinion of what is happening (Fitzgerald 2).
Due to this characteristic, Nick could be considered a bystander by reacting to his environment
instead of taking charge. Furthermore, from a narrative standpoint, this allows the true personalities of the characters to be exposed. As an illustration, the reader can feel Daisy’s internal
conflicts and how she does a good job covering up her emotions. In a dialogue with Nick, Daisy
does most of the talking and explains how she hoped her baby was a girl and that “she [would]
be a fool [because] that’s the best a thing can be in the world” (Fitzgerald 17). In other words,
Daisy does not want her daughter to care or worry about problems that she has to deal with, like
the struggle of her marriage.
Nick is simultaneously introspective and extroverted, which is in a way paradoxical. For
instance, when Daisy says he reminds her of a flower, his rather introverted side is shown by not
replying. However, his extroverted side comes out in the narration when he flatly states, “This
was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose” (Fitzgerald 14). That being said, he may not be a
great person. He is very judgmental when expressing his feelings internally but does not publically shows them.
The reader learns that Nick narrates with sarcasm and honesty. This use of sarcasm appeals to the reader because it breaks the barrier of formality. For example, when narrating a
scene: “Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough…” (Fitzgerald.
15). In addition, this positive trait allows the reader to trust the story from his perspective. He
seldom mentions Gatsby, but when he does he seems to build up the reader’s interest in him,
making the reader feel that Gatsby does in fact have a legitimate role in the near future.
-Alex Sherman (‘17)
37
CREATING
FABLES
Chuey the Golden Doodle Knows...
One day, a cat with a very high I.Q. was born. As he grew up, nobody he met could ever
outsmart him, which made him very arrogant, and he thought he was the greatest of all. One
day, he went to the dog world to make sure he was better than all dogs…
“Hello,” the cat said, “May I please see the smartest of your kin?”
“Hello,” a dog said, “Go to the cave of modesty and meet Chuey the golden doodle. Chuey
knows…”
“Where is this cave?” asked the cat.
“Follow your heart,” responded the dog, “That is the only way to know, unless you meet Chuey. He knows…”
The cat got very annoyed and thought the dog was not very smart or helpful, so he went to find
another dog.
The cat walked and walked until he found a river where he knew he would find lots of
dogs, because he knew they loved water. When he got to the river, he saw a group of dogs swimming and playing in the water. The cat, of course, hated water, so he went up to the dog nearest
to the bank of the water.
He leaned over and asked, “Do you know where the cave of modesty is?”
The dog replied, “Follow your heart and the wind. Turn in a circle until you find the direction in which it smells like the sea and follow it. Chuey the golden doodle knows…”
The cat got even more annoyed. “Everybody keeps saying that,” he thought, “I think this Chuey
will be very dumb and arrogant, not like me,” and he walked away without saying thank you.
The cat started walking along in the direction of the sea, but of course he couldn’t use
his heart because it was fogged up by arrogance. When the cat got to a mountain, he saw a small
hole and decided to go in. There he met Chuey.
“Hello,” said the cat, “apparently you are Chuey the smart and the great. Everybody says you are
the smartest of dogs.”
“Hello,” said Chuey, “I do not like being called smartest. I like to live an ordinary life and
will give you a simple question just like I give everybody. Most of them pass it or learn how to be
humble and care about others. Here is my question. If you and your best friend were competing
in a contest and you knew that you could win, would you let him win?”
At that moment, the cat felt very embarrassed because he had never thought about his
friends. He did not answer because he was so embarrassed. When he went home, he learned
how to be modest and humble and took care of others.
-Collette Wicks (‘20)
38
The Snow Leopards and the Deer
A long time ago, snow leopards were different. They didn’t have long tails to keep them
balanced on rocks and they didn’t hunt big animals such as deers and horses. The snow leopards’
favorite thing to do was playing games with other populations for a whole day. They called that
day game day.
The story that I am going to tell you starts on a game day. The white leopards were playing with the deer. After playing every game they had in mind, no one knew what to play; for
that reason, everyone was trying to think of
-Yassmine Rohlf (-17)
a new game.
“I know what to play!” one of the deer said,
“We can play tug of war.”
“What is tug of war?” asked a snow leopard.
“It is a game that I made up. We need to get
into groups of two: one snow leopard and
one deer. We have to pull the other team
across the center line. To do this, we must
use a rope and pull against one another until
they come across the line in any way, or if
they choose to forfeit,” explained the deer.
“How can we play that game?” asked a snow
leopard to the deer, “There is no sign of any
rope.”
“I have an idea.” another deer said, “Every
snow leopard has to get into pairs. Then they
will tie their tails together and we will be able
to play tug of war against each other.”
Consequently, every snow leopard paired
up with another snow leopard and the deer
played the game using the snow leopards’ tails
as ropes. While playing the game, the snow
leopards’ tails grew longer and longer until
they were very long… After they stopped
playing the game, all of the snow leopards
wanted revenge against the deer and tried to
chase them. However, they tripped over their tails and fell. By the time they untied their tails, all
the deer were gone.
After having stretched tails for more than a month, the snow leopards realized that their
long tails helped them keep their balance when they tried to jump from rock to rock. They used
that advantage to try to hunt the deer that tricked them into getting longer tails. All of the snow
leopards gathered around a big rock to make a plan on how they would devour the deer. The
next day, the snow leopards followed their plan very carefully.
They went to the deer and said, “We forgive you for what you have done to our tails.
These tails have not been a disadvantage to us, but a big advantage! We came here to have another game day. Are you willing to play a wrestling game for the first game?”
“Of course! We are so sorry for what we have done to your tails.”
So the deer started wrestling with their antlers. However, their antlers eventually got stuck together.
“The apology was never accepted!” said all of the snow leopards.
They devoured all of the deer. Because the deer were too big to eat them all, they saved
some for the big feast they were going to have the next day. From that day on every snow leopard
used their stretched tail to hunt deer.
The deer had learned their lesson, and never tricked another animal again.
-Emilie Nuyttens (‘20)
The Cunning Fox
Once, in an animal village near a forest, lived a small but clever fox. He had, however, a
reputation of being absent minded and stupid. One day, he came across the most illustrious
animal in the village, the anteater. The anteater was mean and self-obsessed; in fact, he was the
origin of the gossip about the fox being clueless.
The entire village mocked and taunted the fox. He was furious and decided to seek revenge against the anteater by selling him a useless object in exchange for his fortune. “Hi,” said
the fox to the anteater, as he walked towards the town hall, “would you like to purchase this
twig?”
The haughty anteater replied, “You silly fox, why would I need a twig when I have my strong and
powerful snout. My snout is renowned, indeed it is the longest snout of any anteater, measuring
at least twenty-five inches.”
“Ah,” replied the fox, “this is no ordinary twig, it is a magical twig that can provide you with all
the ants you can ever desire. This way you can rest your magnificent snout and not ever have to
get it dirty again.”
“I will think about your magic twig, fox and let you know.” The anteater turned to walk away,
swinging his massive tail, almost knocking over the poor fox. He slowly lumbered passed the
fox, laughing.
“Wait!” shouted the fox. “The anteater in the neighboring village asked me for the twig, but I
wanted to offer it to you first, as you are by far the superior anteater.” The fox smiled as the
anteater turned towards him. He knew his prey was interested.
“So that beast in the neighboring village wants the twig.” The anteater thought to himself, I
F A B L E S
40
must have this twig at any cost. “I will take the twig off your hands, Fox; it will be my pleasure
to prove to you that this twig is worthless.”
“My dear friend, the other anteater offered me all of his belongings to get this twig. I will
expect more from such an eminent anteater as you.” A flicker of doubt passed through the anteater’s eyes. The fox knew he had to move quickly to snare his victim. “I tell you what, you give
me all your stored goods for the winter. You can easily gather more, once you have the magic
twig.” Reluctantly, the anteater finally agreed and gave the fox all of his belongings.
Winter was quickly approaching, and the anteater set out with the magic twig to replenish
his store. As hard as he tried, the twig would not provide him with any ants. Finally, he understood that this was no magic twig; it was just an ordinary piece of wood found on the ground.
He worried how he could survive the winter.
A month later, the poor anteater was malnourished, cold, and had lost all feeling of selfworth. He slowly and sadly made his way through the village, walking through the quiet snow
covered streets, sniffing in the garbage for scraps.
As for the fox, he now had a sense of pride, having finally accomplished such an incredible
feat. Because of his riches, he was now the number one animal in the village. As the respected
fox wandered the streets, chuckling with joy, he crossed paths with the miserable anteater.
“Why are you so sad?” asked the fox.
“Since you have stolen my fortune, I have not been able to find any food. That twig you
sold me was worthless!” The anteater went on to tell the fox that he was no longer angry at him,
as he now understood why he had tricked him.
“I’m so sorry I tricked you; I was so caught up in making you pay for ridiculing me, that I
lost all control of myself!” said the apologetic fox to the sorrowful anteater, who was desperate
for help.
The fox fed the anteater and allowed him to spend the winter in his hovel. The two became good friends and each changed for the better due to this experience.
The fox had learned that revenge isn’t always so sweet.
-Oriane Fouilleron (‘20)
Three Squirrels
A long time ago, in the Kingdom of Acorn, there lived three friends: Oliver, Arthur, and
Bunce. Each had had only recently left the care of their parents and the three squirrels were going out to make their way in the world. Now it so happened they passed the lair of an old dragon
who had recently died of leprosy, and being a dragon he had left behind a huge cave full of gold.
So the threesome divided the gold evenly among themselves and split up each going respectively
to the cities of Oak, Maple, and Pine. Oliver bought himself a house and a ship full of goods,
and so became a merchant and over time he became quite rich. Arthur bought himself a farm,
and though he was never as rich as Oliver, he was happy amid his sheep and cattle. The two
visited each other often and had many good times together; however although they sent letter
41
after letter to Bunce it was in vain, for he never responded. The reason being that, upon arriving
in Pine he had, quite suddenly, realized he could not part with his gold and so he had taken up
residence in a cave and there he sat on his pile of gold for many years. And so it went on for a
long time until a great drought hit the land.
Arthur’s crops dried up and died so he was forced to sell his farm and moved from town
to town working odd jobs: he was a waiter for Acorn Dining, an advertiser for When Winter
Comes acorn bank, and a lawyer for a batty old man who claimed to have been sold poisoned
acorns. Finally, one very, very hot summer’s day he came to the town of Pine. He was very tired
for he had walked all day and was near the end of his strength so he rented a small room in the
Pine Nut Inn with the last of his money. There he heard talk of a strange old squirrel who lived
in an old abandoned woodpecker hole in the upper branches of the pine that the city was situated in who had rooms and rooms full of gold. The following day Arthur attempted to find a job
in the city; however, because of the drought, he did not succeed and was forced to sleep on the
streets that night. The next afternoon he found he still lacked a job and finally he decided to go
to the old squirrel’s cave to beg for some gold. So he set out and walked and walked and walked
and walked. He walked for three days without finding anything and at the end of the third day
he sat down on an old lumpy branch and thought “ If I were an old, insane, gold-hoarding squirrel, where would I go?” he said to himself. Suddenly he was roused from his reverie by an angry,
hoarse voice yelling:
“GET OFF OF MY DOOR YOU GREAT OAF!”
“What?” said he, quite startled.
“I SAID GET OFF OF MY DOOR, YOU DIMWIT!”
Arthur got up and looked around searching for the source of the strange noise. Finally, he
peered down at the branch he had been sitting on and to his amazement saw the faint outline of
a door; then, as if by magic, it opened. Arthur ventured inside and discovered room upon room
full of gold. At last he came to the last room and was just about to turn around when he felt a
cudgel club him in the back of the head. He had just enough time to see his old friend Bunce
standing behind him muttering about his gold before he fell unconscious.
Oliver had not been much affected by the drought and was in the middle of breakfast
when Arthur came charging in and told him of his ill-fated encounter with Bunce. The two discussed the matter deeply for a long while before finally deciding to go to Pine. When the two
arrived at the town they told the villagers of Bunce, and the villagers went with them to see the
mad squirrel. When they arrived there they were greeted by a charging Bunce holding a long
golden sword. However, upon seeing that his opponents outnumbered him, Bunce turned and
fled. Arthur and Oliver pursued him for many days but were unable to find him. So they returned
home and Arthur used Bunce’s gold to buy an irrigation system for his farm.
-Noel McGory (‘20)
LESSONS in
LEGENDS
42
La Primera Nube
Hace mucho tiempo, las nubes no existían. El cielo era siempre azul. Nunca llovía: siempre estaba soleado. Había demasiado sol para los hombres. Siempre se quemaban por el Sol.
También, conseguían a menudo golpes de calor. Ellos estaban demasiado en el sol.
El Sol tenía problemas también. No le gustaba ver a los hombres enfermos y quemados. Le hacía
sentirse triste. Además, sentía que a los hombres no les gustaba él pero les gustaba la Luna. El
Sol tenía celos: quería que a los hombres le gustara.
Un día, mientras el Sol y la Luna cambiaban de posición, el Sol preguntó a la Luna:
“¿Por qué a los hombres les gustas tú pero no les gusto yo?”
“Porque cuando estoy aquí, los hombres no tienen mucho calor, descansan.”
El Sol intentó hacer menos calor para que a los hombres les gustara. Funcionaba pero los hombres continuaban hablando mucho de sus problemas y se quejaban demasiado. A menudo, el Sol
necesitaba descansar.
El Sol preguntó otra vez a la Luna mientras cambiaban de posición:
“Te gustan los hombres? Son tan molestos!”
“Sí, no me molestan,” respondió la Luna.
“Pero hablan mucho de sus problemas! No te molesta?”
“Cuando estoy aquí, es la noche. Los hombres duermen. No hablan mucho y si no duermen,
hacen la fiesta. Es muy divertido a mirar!” “Tienes suerte…” dijo el Sol tristemente.
“Necesitas descansar. Intenta no escucharles. Duerme…”
El Sol intentó lo que le dijo la Luna, pero no funcionó. Los hombres continuaban molestando al Sol. El Sol se puso tan molesto por los hombres que una mañana, se convirtió alérgico
a ellos. Cuando el primer hombre se levantó y salió afuera, el Sol estornudó. Su estornudo creó
una nube: la primera nube.
Hoy, cuando los hombres molestan al Sol, él estornuda y no les escucha. Los hombres
comprenden que molestan al Sol y se comportan mejor para que las nubes desaparezcan. A los
hombres les gustan las nubes a menudo porque sino, tendrían demasiado sol. Las nubes ayudan
que los hombres y el Sol se lleven bien.
-Gabriella Swartz (‘17)
43
CREATION
in
Spanish
NouvelleFantastique
Le Miroir
Je m’assis à la table de la petite cuisine de mon ami Gérard, où quelques autres proches
étaient en train de se raconter des histoires d’aventures et de voyages. Je m’installai doucement
afin de ne pas interrompre le récit du jeune homme qui parlait à ce moment-là. Il se trouvait
que l’homme en question venait juste de terminer son histoire, et le groupe autour de la table en
réclamait une autre.
Je me levai, faisant grincer les pieds de ma chaise sur le plancher de tuiles et demandai le
silence. Mes amis se turent immédiatement, remplis d’anticipation pour écouter ce nouveau récit.
Avant de commencer, je prononçai ces mots :
– Ce que je vais raconter est un fait très étrange. Je ne veux faire peur à aucun d’entre vous, donc
si quelqu’un pense qu’il sera mal à l’aise, je vous en prie, n’écoutez pas mon histoire.
Je respirai longuement et m’aperçus que personne ne s’était levé. Je repris d’un ton sombre :
– Ce fut lors d’un de mes derniers voyages en Ecosse. Avec un ami, François, nous avions visité
presque toutes les attractions touristiques et même les endroits moins connus du pays. Ces lieux
et leurs environs nous fascinaient, ils nous attiraient même comme des aimants.
Un matin, après une courte nuit de sommeil, j’appris du concierge de notre hôtel que des
enchères d’objets antiques se déroulaient dans une vieille demeure qui servait de musée depuis
un certain temps. Nous prîmes rapidement la décision d’y aller, et peut-être d’acheter quelques
objets qui nous paraissaient frappants. Nous nous dirigions joyeusement vers l’ancien manoir
lorsqu’il commença à pleuvoir. Notre enthousiasme fut emporté par les torrents qui s’abattaient
sur le toit de la voiture. Enfin arrivés, nous prîmes quelques journaux pour nous protéger la
tête des larges gouttes, mais cela ne servait à rien, car le vent poussait la pluie sur nos visages.
Quelques hommes avaient des parapluies, mais ceux-ci étaient retournés par les rafales de vent
violent.
Nous parvînmes tout de même à entrer dans le manoir, où je posai mon manteau trempé
sur une vieille chaise de bois et mon chapeau sur un petit crochet fixé au mur. Quant à François,
lui, il garda son pardessus car c’était un homme qui avait facilement froid. Nous entrâmes dans
le grand salon, où se trouvaient toutes les autres personnes présentes pour les enchères.
Après avoir acheté quelques objets, François et moi restâmes quelque temps à l’intérieur pour
attendre la fin de la pluie et observer de plus près nos nouvelles acquisitions. J’avais acheté un beau
vase de porcelaine, alors que François était parvenu à s’emparer d’un miroir ancien. Celui-ci était
en bois, gravé d’oiseaux et d’animaux variés. Le verre était étonnamment propre, même s’il n’avait
pas été nettoyé depuis des années. Je le regardai pendant quelques longs instants, émerveillé par
son détail et sa beauté. Nous retournâmes ensuite à la voiture garée devant la résidence ancienne
et nous nous dirigeâmes vers notre hôtel.
44
Nous arrivâmes à Paris deux jours plus tard. Avant de rentrer chez moi, j’accompagnai
François chez lui afin de l’aider à installer le miroir dans sa chambre. Mon ami se regardait de
tous les côtés, content de son image, tandis que je souriais, amusé par ses drôles de grimaces. Il
me salua et je partis, le remerciant de m’avoir accompagné en Écosse. Enfin parvenu chez moi,
je posai le vase dans mon salon, sur un petit meuble qui ne m’avait jamais servi et, fatigué, je me
couchai immédiatement.
La semaine suivante, je reçus un appel de François, qui parlait d’un air angoissé :
– Je pense que j’hallucine, dit-il.
– Mais non, mon ami, répondis-je d’un ton ferme. Comment serait-ce possible si vous étiez en
parfaite santé la semaine dernière ?
– Mais je vous assure que j’imagine des choses qui ne sont pas vraies. Sinon, comment expliquer
ce phénomène étrange…
– Quel phénomène ? demandai-je, soudain un peu inquiet.
– Le—le miroir, balbutia-t-il, il ne reflète pas mon image…
– Mais c’est ridicule, François ! Je l’ai vu, votre miroir, après les enchères, et il me semblait parfaitement normal !
– Peut-être pour vous, mais aujourd’hui, je me suis réveillé, et je ne me suis pas vu dans le miroir.
C’était un vieil homme qui m’observait…
Je raccrochai et des images saugrenues volaient dans ma tête. Je montai alors dans ma
voiture et allai rendre visite à François afin d’examiner moi-même ce miroir de malheur. En
me garant devant son appartement, je constatai que le ciel était devenu sombre ; il me semblait
qu’un orage allait attaquer Paris dans quelques instants. J’entrai dans l’édifice, puis courus jusqu’à
l’étage du domicile de mon ami. Je cognai à la porte et le son résonna dans le couloir sombre.
Il entrouvrit sa porte, comme s’il pensait qu’un criminel ou un fantôme l’attendait dehors. Son
visage était pâle, blême, et je vis des traces de gris dans ses cheveux bruns. Etaient-elles déjà là
lors du voyage ? Laissant de côté ce détail, je m’empressai de lui demander exactement ce qui
s’était passé. Il me raconta la même histoire qu’au téléphone, donc je lui coupai la parole pour lui
demander de voir le miroir.
Il l’avait placé dans sa chambre, car c’était un grand miroir d’un mètre de haut qui ne rentrait que dans cette pièce. Je m’observai attentivement dans le verre, content de mon reflet, et
constatai que rien d’anormal ne se présentait. Je levai un sourcil vers François, à qui j’annonçai
avec un petit sourire : « Je pense que vous avez vraiment perdu la raison ! » Il entra lentement
dans la chambre, évitant de se contempler dans le miroir, contrairement à moi. Pourtant, lorsqu’il
passa devant la glace, il ne se produisit rien d’étrange, mais j’observai des gravures minuscules
sur le cadre de l’objet. Au-dessus du miroir se trouvait le visage d’un enfant, à droite celui d’un
adulte, à gauche un vieil homme et en-dessous un cadavre. Mes yeux s’élargirent de surprise. Je
n’avais pas imaginé qu’une gravure aussi désagréable se trouverait sur un miroir si délicatement
orné.
RIORIMMIROIR
45
-Lelia Kacha (‘14)
Quelques semaines s’écoulèrent avant que l’évènement le plus étrange se produisît. Je
reçus un appel d’un ami, Mathieu, qui habitait l’appartement en face de celui de François. Son
débit était très rapide et j’entendis sa voix craquer. Il pleurait. « Que se passe-t-il ? » lui demandaije, étonné. « François—François est—il est mort. » À cette nouvelle, je raccrochai, fort inquiet et
arrivai au vieil édifice quelques minutes plus tard. Mathieu était dans la chambre de François et
il se tenait maladroitement devant le corps de celui que j’avais si bien connu, avec qui j’avais partagé de nombreuses aventures merveilleuses. Le mort avait les yeux ouverts et un air de terreur
était imprimé sur son visage livide. J’y observai aussi des rides minuscules, des plis qui n’étaient
pas là la dernière fois que nous nous étions vus. Des touffes de cheveux gris parsemaient son
crâne. « François est mort de peur, » chuchota Mathieu. « Il tenait des propos dénudés de sens,
il répétait que ce n’était pas possible, qu’il ne pouvait pas se regarder car il ne se voyait pas. C’est
le squelette, Mathieu, ne le vois-tu pas ?! disait-il. Il a poussé un long cri, puis il s’est bouché les
oreilles, mais moi, je n’entendis rien. Il avait prononcé ces paroles : Il rit, je l’entends partout ! Le
cadavre décharné, il rit de moi ! Je n’en peux plus ! Je n’en peux plus… Et puis là, ses yeux se sont
élargis, sa bouche s’est ouverte, et il a éclaté d’un esclaffement démoniaque qui s’est transformé
en un cri horrible marquant la fin de sa vie. »
Deux jours plus tard, après le service funèbre de François, je pris le miroir et je le vendis
à l’antiquaire le plus proche, qui l’accepta avec plaisir. Depuis ce jour, je ne le vis plus jamais.
Je terminai mon récit et je remarquai les visages pâles de Gérard et des autres hommes attablés. « C’était sûrement une histoire inventée » murmurèrent-ils à voix basse. « Je ne le sais pas,
mes amis, répondis-je, mais François est réellement décédé. Peut-être est-il devenu fou : je n’en
ai aucune idée. Mais pour le moment, on n’a aucun moyen de savoir la vérité… »
-Saraswati Vadnais (‘18)
46
The New York High Line
The mile long New York High Line is no mere walkway for pedestrians to get from one
place to another. It thrives in the city like a meadow in the midst of glass and cement mountains.
The southern part of this transformed railroad opened in 2009, and in 2011, the northern part
was completed and opened for the full enjoyment of New Yorkers and of the rest of the world.
It provides a unique view of the bustling city under the feet of the pedestrians on this aerial foot
path. This beautiful, elevated garden was built in 2004, by the Friends of the High Line group,
who provided Manhattan with a structure that would change its face forever.
During the early 1800s, freight trains carrying raw and manufactured goods roamed above
the lower west side of Manhattan. In 1847, street level trains were allowed in New York City,
but so many accidents ensued as a result that a different plan needed to be thought up. In 1929,
the High Line’s construction commenced in order to allow the trains a place to operate without
causing the many accidents. The making of these elevated tracks was completed in 1934. They
connected directly to factories and warehouses and passed above the center of blocks as not to
disturb the roads and in order to avoid additional problems. The rails were used until 1980, and
then were abandoned, falling into disrepair and becoming home to drought-resistant plants and
trees. In the 1990s, Mayor Rudy Giuliani wanted to destroy the now defunct High Line, arguing
that it could serve no further purpose; the mayor could not have been more wrong.
In 1999, the Friends of the High Line group, founded by Joshua David and Robert Hammond, two Manhattan residents, decided that they wanted to keep the rail road and make it into
a public park. This idea was inspired by the Promenade Plantée in the 12th arrondissement of
Paris, an elevated park filled with lush greenery constructed on top of unused railways. In 2004,
as people increasingly strolled around, pedestrians started to wish for more places to stretch their
legs. In order to fulfill the desires of the New York citizens, the city council gave $50 million to
fund the building of this raised park. Its erection was also supported by Mayor Bloomberg, the
mayor of New York City.
The New York High Line allows people to come together to experience Manhattan in a
totally different fashion. Instead of walking along the streets among the towering, overpowering
skyscrapers, people can stroll above the sidewalks and feel as if they are part of the tall buildings
surrounding them, a part of the great city that towers above all others. While moving forward
LANDMARKS
on the mile-long walkway, they feel as if they are somewhere else, and nature, with its flowers,
plants, grasses and birds has taken over the city. A truly amazing point to be made about the
High Line is its cleanliness. There is almost no trash to be seen, which adds to the pedestrians’
feeling that they are no longer in the middle of Manhattan. The modern benches and relaxing
rest areas allow people a few well-earned moments of respite. This atmosphere provides peace
and serenity, without the everlasting rush of noisy vehicles.
Although the railroad tracks are still there, unchanged, they are framed by lush green grass
and sweet blossoms that people may not find anywhere else in Manhattan. Also, the bird-feeders
placed next to the old tracks are truly works of art, attracting doves and sparrows all day, and
placing warm smiles on the faces of even the most solemn of visitors. The modern and the old
blend together in this example of architecture. The tracks make people feel as if they are out
in the country, walking down an old road surrounded by wildflowers. The artistic talent of the
James Corner’s New York-based landscape architecture firm is the group that literally brought
the High Line to life. With its 210 species, comprised mostly of American native meadow plants,
grasses and flowers, the High Line is truly a place of beauty.
The High Line provides the city with something it has never had before: a place of true
relaxation, just as welcoming for tired families as it is for botanists or even bad-tempered office
workers after a particularly demanding day. This is a place where anyone can stretch their legs,
think, and just appreciate everything around them while observing the city in a way that most
have never seen.
-Saraswati Vadnais (‘18)
“It thrives in the city like a meadow in the midst of glass and cement
mountains.”
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49
LANDMARKS
El Acueducto de Segovia
50
on
REFLECTING
RELIGION
Opposites can be Similar
The way Puritan religion is viewed differs a lot whether you see it from the inside or the
outside. Two stories help describe this statement. The first one is “Of Plymouth Plantation”
which was written by a Puritan idealist, William Bradford (1590-1657), and the second is “Young
Goodman Brown,” written by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864), a non-puritan.
Both short stories give a point of view on the Puritan religion. Both stories agree that Puritans
are strongly dedicated to God. Everything was “noted … to be [done by] the just hand of God”
(Bradford). This is the Puritan’s explanation for both terrible and joyful things such as death and
birth. They do what pleases God, God, God and only God. The word “God” is included in every
reasoning.
Where Hawthorne and Bradford disagree is in their evaluation of this religious reasoning. Hawthorne portrays it in a negative manner and Bradford a positive way. In “Of Plymouth
Plantation” puritans are crossing the Atlantic Ocean on a miserable boat and half of them die
but still they “bless… the God of Heaven” which “br[ings] them over the vast and furious” body
of water (Bradford). Bradford, as an idealistic puritan, believes this the right thing do to.
However, in “Young Goodman Brown,” Hawthorne brings forward the “evil purpose” the puritans had in their private lives (Hawthorne). He despises that in company of others puritans show
their dedicated religious side. While, in private they have a hidden, dark side. Puritans would
discuss evil things they commit during secrete nightly meetings in the woods. Hawthorne’s main
character, Goodman Browns learns that some of his idols the “exemplary dame, who … [is] his
moral and spiritual adviser […and] the minister” were part of those evil affairs. Some of these
included burning down Indian villages and the Salem Witch Trials. Hawthorne describes puritan
faith as being awful because it keeps them from being human. Free will no longer exists in their
lives because of this religion which haunts them.
It is not because two stories are about the same religion that their messages are the same.
“Young Goodman Brown” and “Of Plymouth Plantation” are perfect examples for this. Both
insist on puritans’ highly religious belief but portray them in opposite ways. Because of these
differences they are known as two contrary stories.
-Emma Kuhn (‘17)
-Sebastian Lamy (‘18)
51
PURITANS
52
Puritans: Hypocrites or Not?
The Puritans were a group of people who originally came from England or Holland. In
England, the national religion was Catholicism, but England had its own church called the Anglican Church. Everyone was expected to be part of it. The Puritans, on the other hand, were
English people who denied the fact that they belonged to the Anglican Church because to them,
they belonged to another religious group called Puritans. Puritans were people who believed in
God but not the same way as their country’s ruler expected them to. This is why they were persecuted, massacred, or incarcerated. The Puritans in Holland faced the same hardships. Finally,
they had the chance to leave England and Holland to go to the new land across the Atlantic.
This voyage was very perilous, but these people were so desperate that they were willing to risk
everything to be free to practice whatever religion they desired. Two authors have written about
these people (the Puritans), their beliefs, their voyage to the Americas, and their adventures once
they arrived there in two different stories. Both William Bradford and Nathaniel Hawthorne
have their points of view on the Puritans and both of them bring up interesting arguments about
what kind of people they were.
William Bradford, who wrote Of Plymouth Plantation, was actually present when the Puritans left England and went to the New Land; he himself was a Puritan. Bradford describes the
Puritans as very close to God, pure of heart, perfect or flawless (without sins) and very formal
people. The way he describes his religion shows us that it was a harsh religion. For example,
he says that many of the crew members disliked Puritans and kept on mocking them, then before the end of the voyage “it pleased God” (Bradford 24) to sicken one of the crew members
with a bad disease which he died of and “was the first thrown overboard” (Bradford 24). This,
Bradford and his people believe to be the work of God and his will to help them since they are
so loyal to him. He and his people believe the death of a person is a sufficient punishment for
someone who has done a little wrong to them. He says that the victim got “the just hand of
God upon him” (Bradford 24), which means that Puritans think of mocking as a sin and so does
God and basically death is a good enough punishment and its result is rejoicing. Something that
is questionable as well is the fact that according to Puritans, whatever happens to a person, it is
because they deserved it and that God has planned it for him or her. It is debatable whether this
is logic or not and whether it is morally right, but this is the Puritan’s mentality as described by
Bradford.
On the other hand, Nathaniel Hawthorne, who is the author of Young Goodman Brown,
does not have the same viewpoint as Bradford. Instead of seeing the Puritans as pure of heart,
flawless, and close to God, Hawthorne describes Puritans as people who were so repressed that
most of them rebelled and began worshipping the Devil but claimed to continue worshipping
God. This makes them frauds, hypocrites, and liars because they said they were doing something
and they were actually doing the opposite. An example of hypocrisy is when Goodman is walking with the devil-like figure and sees his Catechism teacher. Not wanting to hurt her or have
her see him with such company because it would hurt his reputation, he hides behind bushes.
Nevertheless, she seemed to recognize the man and he addressed her as “old friend” (Haw53
thorne 4). This proves that she also was a servant of Satan. All Puritans were not like that; based
on Hawthorne’s story; some Puritans like Goodman Brown were naïve, gullible, and overly optimistic. They wanted to believe the best in everything and everyone. This, as Hawthorne shows
us, can be very misleading. Unfortunately, the fact that they were naïve mostly resulted in their
transfer into the worship of the Devil and the perversity.
The truth about Puritans may never be told or known, because all these are hypotheses
or conjectures of what kind of people they actually were and what kinds of characters they had.
Some like Bradford say that they were perfect and felt very close and connected to God, others
such as Hawthorne say the opposite. The fact that they were forced to lead perfect and flawless
lives accumulated into so much pressure from a repressive religion that it made them lose their
minds and leave all that is good behind for a more relaxed and carefree religion, the worship of
Satan. Whether they actually did this or not and if they actually were hypocrites is not clear but
it could have been a possibility.
-Clara-Hannah Sobouti (‘17)
-Chloë Sonnois (‘14)
“Bradford describes the Puritans as very close to God, pure of heart, perfect or flawless
(without sins) and very formal people...Instead of seeing the Puritans as pure of heart,
flawless, and close to God, Hawthorne describes Puritans as people who were so repressive that most of them rebelled and began worshipping the Devil...”
54
THE SCARLET
LETTER
by Nathaniel Hawthorne
Creative Responses
Chapter 20
At this point in the novel, Dimmesdale has decided to join Hester and Pearl on a journey
to Europe, where they believe that they will be able to have a better lifestyle. They plan on securing seats on a boat to England that is departing soon. Hester has removed the scarlet letter from
her bosom, to the dismay of Pearl, and they believe that they will be able to establish anonymity in a new location. Dimmesdale, who is now becoming increasingly unhealthy, has begun to
see things in a new, strange light, which might suggest that his illness is making him delirious.
He begins to have urges to voice his most recent thoughts to everyone he passes, including his
church elders that would not be pleased. When he meets a strange old woman, he is tempted to
tell her about his “unanswerable argument against the immortality of the human soul” but bites
his tongue. His behaviour becomes even stranger when he dismisses a woman whom he had
recently converted in fear of demoralizing her. It is clear that the only reason why she agreed
to be converted was because she had a sexual attraction to him, and it seems as though he realizes this and all he can do is ignore her to ensure her salvation. This is his reason for completely
passing her without a second glance. Dimmesdale makes a few more strange encounters before
meeting Mistress Hibbins, a widow who is thought to be a witch, who mocks his behaviour and
offers to accompany him to the forest. This encounter is the one that has the biggest impact on
Dimmesdale when he agrees, because he fears that he may have made a pact with the Devil.
Later, Chillingworth, who has been posing as a physician and treating Dimmesdale for the
past few days, is surprised when Dimmesdale returns home and states that he no longer needs
treatment. Chillingworth’s ulterior motive to treating him was to find out whether or not Dimmesdale was really Pearl’s father. He does not question him even though he is slightly suspicious
as to whether or not the younger man has discovered who he really is. At the end of the chapter,
Dimmesdale throws his Election Day sermon in a fire and rewrites what he believes is a better
version.
ened it. Mistress Hibbins is not a very present character in the novel but when she does appear, it
is important to pay attention. Usually, this woman appears in a moment where a criticism of Puritan society is being suggested by the author, whether it is hypocrisy or another aspect. Another
important theme is Dimmesdale’s struggle to discover who he really is, and the passage where he
burns what he had written before proves this. He is torn between what he wants and what society
wants, yet he cannot help but value the beliefs of Puritans. When he ignores the newly converted
woman, it shows just how torn he is internally-- he converted this woman to Puritan religion to
ensure that she remains pure and innocent but now he disagrees with everything that he used to
preach. Had he been in his right mind, he could have saved this young woman from falling into
the trap that is 17th century Puritanism.
Rationale: I chose this cover to represent Dimmesdale’s constant struggle to find himself. In the
photo, we see an overview of a few similar looking umbrellas and then we are shocked to see that
one of them is a different colour than the others. This yellow umbrella represents Dimmesdale
in the Puritan society and how he is trying to distance himself from their beliefs. However, even
though the umbrella is a different colour, it is still doing the same thing as all the other umbrellas.
This represents how even though Dimmesdale is trying to separate himself, he is still conforming
to society in some form because he is reluctant to completely leave what has always been there.
-Jurnivah Désir (‘15)
Analysis: In this chapter, the reader gets a sense of how naïve Hester and Dimmesdale actually
are when they plan to flee to Europe. Instead of doing something completely new to change
their society, the couple decide to escape (or mask) all of these problems. Also, when Dimmesdale announces to Chillingworth that he no longer needs medication, it is heavily ironic: he states
that these meds came from a “friendly hand”, but he is no longer in need of them. This is ironic
because of Chillingworth’s ulterior motives, making his hand nowhere near “friendly”. Moving
on, the idea of sin and witchcraft seems to be a reoccurring theme. Dimmesdale’s behaviour is
beginning to seem a little alarming, and his encounter with Mistress Hibbins might have wors55
56
Chapter 22 – The Procession
As soon as Prynne turns ‘way from her husband,
A procession in the town square takes place.
At first arrive soldiers, then are summoned
Appointees; and, pious as ever, the face,
Admired by all, of Dimmesdale, fervent,
Alone. Passionate man yesterday, he
Appears aloof, while Hester is buoyant.
A rift splits the two. She thought they were free !
About then, Pearl is told by the captain
All the old man’s plans; he wants to prevent
A rapture that seems never will happen.
Alien witnesses, with the facts present,
Almost could not discern the rough, strong bond
A minister and woman had long spawned.
-Elliot Bolzam (‘15)
The Scarlet Letter was written in 1850 by Nathaniel Hawthorne. However, the novel is
set in Boston in the 1640s, approximately three decades after Shakespeare’s death. I chose to
attempt to write a synopsis of the twenty-second chapter using a form (or constraint) from the
period: the Shakespearean sonnet. This type of sonnet is composed of three quatrains and one
couplet; each line of verse is supposed to be in a iambic pentameter; the rhyme scheme is ABAB
CDCD EFEF GG.
I chose to begin each of the fourteen lines in my sonnet with the letter “A”. I probably
sacrificed some quality of writing in doing so, but such an emphasis is placed on the letter in the
novel that I felt it was both necessary and interesting.
I tried to portray the mood and feel of the text in the best possible, yet compressed, manner. For
instance, Hawthorne’s “before Hester could call together her thoughts” (149, chapter’s opening
line) leads to “as soon as Prynne turns ‘way from her husband” in my poem. I also wanted to
magnify Dimmesdale’s strange state of mind. Hawthorne explains to us that “there was his body
[…] but where was his mind ?” (152), and I translated this to “Dimmesdale, fervent, / Alone.
Passionate man yesterday, he / Appears aloof ”. Additionally, the American author insists on two
contrasts in this passage. The first, the opposition between the frail Dimmesdale from the forest
and the solemn Dimmesdale heading the procession, appears in the lines cited above. The second, the contrast between Hester’s optimistic and hopeful attitude and the minister’s seemingly
other-worldly stance I represented as follows: “Alien witnesses, with the facts present, / Almost
could not discern the rough, strong bond / A minister and woman had long spawned”.
Finally, I tried to rapidly convey the complex situation Hawthorne presents, in which the
ship’s captain informs Pearl (who in turn tells her mother) of Chillingworth’s new trick, in the
following manner: “About then, Pearl is told by the captain / All the old man’s plans”. Overall,
the sonnet’s constraints trimmed some meaning from the story but also forced me to select the
portions I considered essential from the chapter; someone who has not read the passage should
be able to understand the story from the chapter.
-Elliott Bolzan (‘15)
REFLECTING
on
PURITANNATIRUP
57
-Mony Krafft (‘17)
RELIGION
58
REFLECTING
IDEA
on an
The End of the American Dream?
It is probably an accurate assumption to state that everyone has a different idea of what
embodies the American Dream. While some imagine a particular lifestyle, others see only the
basic principles for which America stands: liberty, equality, and justice, the values that cause so
many people all over the world to abandon their homelands and build themselves a life here.
From my perspective, the idea of the American Dream is that anyone, regardless of their ethnicity, social background, beliefs, or gender, has the opportunity to be successful. However, while
the American Dream is sound in theory, in reality it is just that: a dream. Not everyone is able
to achieve this ideal lifestyle, and the ways in which people are granted that mobility are limited
when they are put to the test.
It is difficult, for example, to achieve success when poorl­y educated. Unfortunately, a
good higher education costs money, and not everyone is able to afford it. While public schools
in theory should all be the same, they differ drastically based on the property taxes paid by the
town in which they are situated. And those who do not have the means to go to a good college
very rarely are able to achieve their goals and lead a financially secure life. All of this, of course,
ties back to money. While the American Dream promises that social background is of no importance in your road to success, your social class and that of your parents does very much affect
the opportunities you have in life. As previously stated, it is very difficult to be successful without
money, which contradicts the American ideal that anyone can build themselves up from scratch.
Gender might not be as important in success as it once was, but its discrimination is very much
present in the workforce. It is estimated that women are paid seventy-five cents on every dollar
a man makes for similar work. It is more likely that men will be hired for certain jobs—those
concerning manual labor excluded—and women for others. Gender is not the only area in which
people are discriminated. Even when successful, there are still feeling of discrimination and racism towards people of certain ethnicities—African Americans, for example, were excluded from
the American Dream until the Civil Rights movement in the 1960s—sexual orientations, and
religions.
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The values represented in the American Dream sound very simple, but to achieve them is
much more difficult than it appears. Many have already dismissed the American Dream as something that no longer exists. Others see the American Dream as something very real, something
within America’s grasp. But if this is the case, we have not achieved it yet. However, when a man
of bi-racial parentage born to a single mother can rise to graduate from two of the country’s top
schools to be President of the U.S., it is a strong reflection that the American Dream, though
threatened, is not yet dead.
-Amelia Getahun-Hawkins (‘17)
-Camille Semeneri (‘16)
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FACINGDEATH
Myth Research Paper - The Death of a Loved One
The death of a loved one is an event that everyone experiences during their lifetime. Lives
are often transformed by such loss such as in the ancient myth “Pyramus and Thisbe,” where
both Pyramus and Thisbe die for one another. Another myth that uses this theme is “Orpheus
Goes to the Underworld,” because it shows what people would do to get their loved one back.
The myth “The Voyage Below the Water” contains the theme the death of a loved one to show
how heartbreaking death can be. In “Death Coach” the man dies and does not have any more
pain; however, his wife’s pain starts. In “Jaguar” the man repays Jaguar by killing his wife, so
Jaguar wants revenge because of his sadness. As shown above, when someone dies, the one who
loves him/her is devastated.
The Asian myth “Pyramus and Thisbe” is the story of two lovers, Pyramus and Thisbe,
who live in the same building; however, their houses are separated by a wall. They are not allowed
to be together because of their parents’ rivalry. Through a crack in the wall, they whisper their
love for each other. One night, they arrange to meet by Ninus’ tomb by the mulberry tree and
state their feelings for each other. Thisbe arrives first, but upon seeing a lioness with a mouth
bloody from recent kill, she hides in the tomb, leaving her scarf behind. When Pyramus arrives,
he is horrified at the sight of Thisbe’s scarf and assumes that a fierce beast killed her. Pyramus
kills himself with his sword, splashing blood all over the white fruits of the mulberry tree, turning them red. Thisbe returns and sees Pyramus lying dead on the ground under the mulberry
tree. Thisbe stabs herself with the same sword. In the end, the gods forever change the color of
the fruits of the mulberry tree into dark red to honor the forbidden love.
The theme the death of a loved one is used in the myth “Pyramus and Thisbe” to show
how love can be so strong that a person cannot live without his/her love. Pyramus “die[s] rather
than liv[ing] without [Thisbe]” (Horowitz 18). This shows that Pyramus dies and that he is loved
by Thisbe and his parents. Thisbe is so sad that “she [throws] herself forward onto the sword”
(Horowitz 18). This shows that Thisbe loves Pyramus so much that she kills herself too. She
is loved by her parents and by Pyramus. In conclusion, Pyramus and Thisbe love each other so
much that they kill themselves rather than live without each other.
The Greek myth “Orpheus Goes to the Underworld” is the story of a man named Orpheus who is a gifted musician and plays the lyre so well that his music soothes savage beasts.
One day his loving wife Eurydice is bitten by a snake and dies. Orpheus travels over the icecovered mountains and through deserts to the Underworld. He begs Hades to allow his wife to
come back on earth and plays his lyre so the god would agree. Hades accepts to let Eurydice
follow her husband back to the afterlife; however, during the trip, Orpheus has to promise not to
look back until both he and his wife are safely back under the sun. When traveling back to earth,
61
Orpheus doubts Hades and is worried that he had not sent her after all. To reassure himself that
all was fine, he risks a quick look behind him, and loses his wife forever.
The myth “Orpheus Goes to the Underworld” contains the theme the death of a loved
one to show why Orpheus travels for a very long time, without water, food, or rest. Orpheus
wants to save Eurydice; however, “he [knows] she [is] dead” (Wiseman and McLean 144). This
shows that Eurydice dies in front of the one she loves. When Orpheus is traveling, the only
songs he plays “[tell] of [the] great sadness he [feels] in his heart” (Wiseman and McLean 144).
This shows that Orpheus truly loves Eurydice and is miserable that she is gone. As shown above,
the death of a loved one is used in this myth when Eurydice is lost and Orpheus heartbroken.
-Josephine Robb (‘?)
The North American myth “Death Coach” is about a man who becomes very ill in the
middle of the night. His wife sits by the window holding her husband’s hand, and feeling his
pain. Even though the woman knows that her husband will pass away, she does not want to believe it. Suddenly she hears hooves stamping on the ground, thinking that it is a doctor. When
the lady looks out the window, she sees a black coach with no one in it. It is the Death Coach.
She hears the coach stopping in front of the door. The man’s spirit gets out of the bed and goes
to the door. He looks back at his body, and he leaves forever with the Death Coach.
The theme the death of a loved one is used in the myth “Death Coach” to show that
sometimes you have to let go of someone you love. When the women comes to her husband to
give him a kiss she “feels his last breathe on her lips” (Schlosser). This shows that the wife gives
62
DEATH
the man a kiss right when her husband dies. When her husband dies, “her [pain] has just begun”
(Schlosser). This quote shows that his wife really loves him and that she is sad that he has died.
The myth “Death Coach” was created to give the reader a tragic moment. In conclusion, the
death of a loved one is used when the man dies and his wife is heartbroken.
The myth “Jaguar” is the story of Jaguar, the master of fire. He is very skilled in hunting
and cooking meat. The villagers use their hands to hunt and eat their meat raw, but Jaguar has
bows and arrows and cooks his meat. One day, he sees a poor hungry man in the woods. Jaguar
takes him with him and gives him some good meat. Jaguar teaches him how to make fire and how
to hunt. The man repays him by killing his wife and stealing his fire. Since then, the jaguars have
been waiting for their revenge from the people.
The myth “Jaguar” contains the theme the death of a loved to show how trust can lead to
death. The man is so selfish that he “kill[s] [Jaguar’s] wife” (Scholastic). This shows that Jaguar’s
wife is dead because of a man who was trained by Jaguar. Jaguar is “waiting for revenge” (Scholastic). This quote shows that Jaguar loved his wife so much that he really wanted to get back at
the man. As shown above, the theme the death of a loved one is used in this myth when Jaguar’s
wife is killed, and Jaguar is so sad that he wants revenge.
The North American myth “The Voyage Below the Water” is the story of a man named
Bordeau who is very wealthy, and he has a wife and children. One day, his wife dies and lives
beneath the water with all the ancestors. Bordeau is truly sad and does not want to eat or dance.
The houngan, the Vodoun religious leader, decides to go below the water, and will try to talk to
her. The next day, the houngan goes to the closest river. He walks into the river until he disappears. When three days are past, the houngan gets back to earth, and he goes to Bordeau’s house.
He tells Bordeau that Bordeau’s wife told him, “When one is dead, one is dead, but when one
is alive, one must live” (Stern 3). The houngan gives Bordeau his wife’s earring. Bordeau understands that he should live, so he eats and dances.
The myth “The Voyage Below the Water” contains the theme the death of a loved one to
show how love can be very heartbreaking. Bordeau was very happy until “his wife die[s]” (Stern
1). This quote shows that he has a wonderful life, but it becomes sad when his wife dies. Bordeau
says to his friends, “What does all this mean to me know that my wife is gone?” (Stern 1). This
shows that he is extremely sorrowful because of what happens to his wife, and does not care
for anything anymore. As shown above, the theme the death of a loved one is used in this myth
when Bordeau’s wife dies.
As shown above, humans were devastated when someone they loved died. Today, humans
are still struggling to understand the meaning of death. These myths have shown that no one
grieves in the same way. For example, someone may disbelieve that this person actually died, or
someone may think that if they die as well, their grief will stop. Other people have physical pain,
for example, tightness in their throat and pain around their heart. The theme the death of a loved
one is used in myths to show people how death is a part of everyday life, and everyone has to
understand that whatever is born must die.
-Emilie Nuyttens (‘20)
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Mauvaise Journée
Je me levai, m’habillai et regardai ma montre. Mince, dix minutes de retard. Je bus mon
café en vitesse et me brûlai la langue. Ça commence bien ! J’oubliai de me raser, je courus au
lavabo et, par manque d’attention, je me coupa la joue. Allons, laissons cette maison de diable
tranquille, pensai-je.
Je sortis sur-le-champ et traversa la rue, bang !
Il faisait sombre. Très sombre. Il devait être sept heures du matin ; qu’est-ce qui se passait? Le silence. Un silence tellement intense qu’on aurait pu croire que tout le monde criait. Je
ne pouvais plus bouger… « Cours ! Bouge ! ordonnai-je à mon corps. » Je courus à l’intérieur de
ma maison, j’étais terrifié ! Mais mon café été toujours là, sur la table. Tranquille.
Je me sentais mal. Je vomis. J’avais mal à la tête, je ne comprenais plus rien. Je sentis quelqu’un me prendre par le ventre et je perçus la lame d’un couteau qui me transperçait
l’abdomen. Je criai de toutes mes forces : rien. J’étais couvert de sueur, et, d’un coup, une odeur
forte me piqua le nez et j’ouvris les yeux.
« Voilà, monsieur, vous resterez à l’hôpital pendant un mois ou deux encore. Vous avez
de la chance d’être toujours en vie, vous étiez officiellement mort pendant quelques minutes. Pas
mal d’être réveillé par le choc d’une voiture dans le dos le matin, n’est-ce pas ? »
Après cet accident, l’homme a porté sur la vie un regard différent. Tout était clarifié, les nuages
étaient beaux, les oiseaux chantaient bien et les ennuis de sa vie quotidienne se sont effacés. Il
rencontra une jolie fille et ils se marrirent deux ans plus tard ; son travail resta monotone mais il
ne laissa pas les détails de cette sorte l’empêcher de vivre. Il aurait dû être mort, mais la mort lui
a accordé une seconde chance.
-Tesher Zafrin (‘18)
-Laure Couperier (‘?)
64
The Book of Horrors
It was Thursday, May 12, in the year of our Lord 1865, at the time when night is at its
darkest. It was the new moon, and clouds obscured what little light the stars gave. On the road,
a horse could be heard galloping, as one James Thatch made his way to McEnrow castle. In his
hand, a letter dating from the prior week, announcing his maternal great-uncle was dying and
that, being the last descendant of what the letter described to be “the great McEnrow family,
Counts of the McEnrow province, from which many prominent historical figures descended”,
he was to receive all the inheritance. And so, with the promise of money, Thatch hastily packed
a couple of belongings, sent word to the bank for which he worked that he’d be gone a few days,
and departed, at first at a slow, steady trot, and now at a full gallop, eager to escape the dark
night and the whispers turning the harmless sounds of rustling leaves and the howling wind into
promises of ghouls at every corner, ghosts behind every bush, and death looming over him.
After a few tiresome hours of riding, Thatch could finally distinguish a castle’s outline
through the curtain of darkness. As he was dismounting, a strange, small man dressed in an impeccable tuxedo came from the castle gate and introduced himself as Edward Andrews, the valet
of, as he described, “the great McEnrow family, Counts of the McEnrow province, from which
many prominent historical figures descended”.
“I take it you are James Thatch, son of the dying count’s niece?” asked Andrews
Too tired and saddle-sore to actually respond, Thatch simply nodded, and after a gesture
from Andrews asking to follow him, both men hurried inside, eager to escape the gloomy setting in which they were. After Thatch was given a quick tour of the castle, he was showed to his
room, assured that he would speak to his great-uncle on the morrow, as the Count was currently
sleeping.
“And don’t hesitate to call on me if you require anything” added Andrews before leaving
Still stunned by the enormity of the estate he had just toured, Thatch tossed and turned
for some time before deciding to explore that which will be his more thoroughly. As he regaled
himself in the lavish halls and the superb paintings, Thatch eventually stumbled into a library.
Deciding that reading was just what he needed to slumber, he started searching for an interesting
novel. After quickly skimming the bookcase, he saw a book open on a small table next to a chair.
Intrigued, he looked at the book, which was open to the middle of a tale called: “The Disease”.
When he closed it, he saw the title, surrounded by gold borders: “The Book of Horrors”, with
no indication of who was the author.
Returning to his room, Thatch entertained himself with a tale of werewolves. Eventually finishing that particular story, Thatch put the book down, deciding that, as he was not even
mildly scared, “The Book of Horrors” was a bit of a disappointment, but good entertainment
nonetheless. And that night, Thatch dreamed of being a lord, and the riches that came with it.
A couple hours after Thatch succumbed to fatigue, those who were still awake at such an hour
heard howling, which in itself was strange, as no wolves lived in these parts. The people who
heard it, though, were more concerned about the howling itself, which sounded otherworldly
65
and chilled them to the bone with such dread as they had never felt before. They silently prayed
they would never come face to face with the beast uttering these terrifying cries.
The next morning, at the outskirts of the village located a mile or so from Castle McEnrow, a body was found, slashed and cut so it was barely recognizable, with the face too destroyed
to distinguish what had been an expression of terror. Looking at what seemed to be marks made
by claws and teeth of enormous proportions, minds immediately went to the dreadful howling
heard by some last night. These tidings, though, didn’t reach the castle until it was too late.
-NgoHai Nguyen (‘17)
Having been told that his great-uncle was too sick to see him today, Thatch wandered the
grounds of his soon-to-be property, growing increasingly furious about the great-uncle’s stubbornness to live, and eventually lost track of time. When night came, he made his way back to
the castle, and after an exquisite dinner by a chef renowned across the whole country, Thatch
settled in his bed with his book, and read another “horrific” tale, this one about a man consumed
by greed, which led to his coming face-to-face with Death, the Reaper of Souls, the Great Darkness. Entranced by his novel, Thatch only looked up when he heard his door open, expecting it
to be Edwards asking if he needed anything.
In another part of the castle, Edwards was actually cleaning a priceless Ming dynasty vase
from China, when he heard a scream reverberate across the whole castle, laced with fright, then
die out as quick as it had started. Hurrying towards the source of the shriek, Edwards entered
the room of Master Thatch, only to stop dead in front of the sight that welcomed him.
Sitting on his bed was Thatch, his skin so pale he could have been mistaken for a ghost,
with the most terrified, shock-filled expression marked on his face, so that Edwards doubted he
could ever forget it. On Thatch’s lap was his book, his finger just under the final four words of
the tale: “and so he died”.
As Edwards caught sight of something in his peripheral vision, he turned around.
There, on the wall, written in blood so black it seemed to have been drawn from shadows,
was a single word.
Horror
-Sebastien Lamy (‘17)
66
REFLECTING on
Amor semper amor
L OV E
Depuis le début de la création artistique, l’amour est un thème récurrent chez les auteurs. À Rome, au premier siècle avant Jésus-Christ, Catulle traite principalement des relations
amoureuses dans ses poèmes ; une femme, Lesbie, est souvent le sujet de son discours. À travers
son œuvre, les écrivains qu’il a influencés, et les artistes en général, il est clair que nous pouvons
qualifier le sentiment amoureux d’intemporel. Cependant, il est important de distinguer les différents sens de ce terme. « Intemporel » est souvent utilisé au sens figuré, et dans ce contexte, il
signifie « étendu dans le temps ». Au sens propre, le mot indique une dissociation complète de
la notion du temps. L’amour, dans un premier temps, est intemporel, au sens figuré, à l’échelle
d’une vie humaine ; ensuite, il l’est également à l’échelle historique ; enfin, l’amour l’est aussi au
sens propre du mot.
Pour Catulle, l’amour est un sentiment qui perdure au long de la vie d’un individu.
D’abord, nous pouvons remarquer que le poète écrit au sujet de Lesbie plusieurs textes, à des
périodes espacées de sa propre vie. Une telle dévotion à une femme peut être dite intemporelle.
De plus, dans sa 51ème ode, Catulle emploie de nombreux termes suggérant la continuité de
l’amour dans le temps : « qui sedens adversus identidem te » (v. 3) et « nam simul te » (v. 6). Ces
mots, qui peuvent être traduits par « sans cesse » et « chaque fois », impliquent un prolongement
temporel de l’amour. Dans un autre poème, Ad Lesbiam, Catulle évoque de nouveau un amour
durant une vie entière : « Nox est perpetua una dormienda » (v. 6). La « nuit perpétuelle » de
Catulle et de Lesbie fait contraste aux levers et couchers du Soleil, trop ancrés dans le temps («
Soles occidere et redire possunt. » (v. 5)), et suggère que l’amour est un sentiment existant jusqu’à
la mort. Certains pourraient penser que l’amour dont traite Catulle n’est pas réellement intemporel, à cause d’un vers dans le huitième de ses Poèmes : « amata nobis quantum amabitur nulla
» (v. 5). Le contexte du passé de la phrase pourrait suggérer que l’amour est une phase de la vie
comme une autre, qui prend fin éventuellement. Mais en réalité, Catulle prend la peine d’écrire
au sujet de Lesbie et de l’attaquer avec une certaine sensualité (« cui labella mordebis ? » (v. 18))
parce qu’il est blessé et jaloux, ou du moins nostalgique. Ces sentiments qu’il éprouve sont analogues à l’amour, et ce poème démontre donc lui aussi que le sentiment amoureux détient une
certaine intemporalité à l’échelle de la vie humaine.
L’amour est aussi intemporel d’un point de vue historique. En effet, de nombreux auteurs
et artistes à des époques distinctes traitent de l’amour, s’inspirant souvent de leurs prédécesseurs.
Une preuve concrète de l’historicité de ce thème apparaît dans un texte de Sappho, poétesse
grecque : « Il goûte le bonheur que connaissent les dieux » (VIIème siècle avant J-C). Cette bribe
de phrase est reformulée de manière très similaire par Catulle six cent ans plus tard : « Ille mi
par esse deo videtur » (Poèmes, LI). Enfin, après plus d’un millénaire, Ronsard reprend une idée
proche : « Je suis un demy-dieu […] » (Sonnets pour Hélène, 1578). Mais ce n’est pas seulement
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la comparaison de l’homme à un dieu qui est commune à ces textes
: ces poèmes sont tous construits sur le même modèle, développent
le même thème et nous montrent que le sujet de l’amour est une valeur constante à travers l’Histoire. Ils décrivent tous des conséquences
semblables de l’amour : « ma langue est là comme brisée », chez Sappho, « lingua sed torpet », chez Catulle, et même « je ne pouvois parler
» (Phèdre), chez Racine. Une telle reprise de la structure d’un texte
serait considérée comme du plagiat de nos jours, mais est en réalité
un éloge de l’amour et de son importance endurante. Que ce soit à
la fin du XVIIIème siècle, avec la peinture de François Gérard, ou au
Psyche et l’Amour
XXème, avec l’étude sous forme d’essai de Roland Barthes intitulé
Fragments d’un discours amoureux (1977), les artistes ont continué à être François Gérard (1797)
intrigués par l’amour au fil des siècles.
Enfin, l’amour est intemporel au sens propre du terme : dissocié de l’espace temps. Cette
conception de l’amour apparaît dans le 51ème des Poèmes de Catulle, où les verbes du poète
romain ne sont conjugués principalement qu’à un temps : « spectat et audit » (v. 4), « lingua sed
torpet » (v. 9), « flamma demanat » (v. 10). L’emploi presque constant du présent de l’indicatif
ne permet pas de créer d’écarts temporels : le texte entier est disjoint du temps. La même notion apparaît en 1897 chez Edmond
Rostand, dans Cyrano de Bergerac : le baiser devient « un instant
d’infini qui fait un bruit d’abeille ». Un « instant », idée trop petite
pour être quantifiée, et l’« infini », concept trop large pour être
conçu par l’Homme, donnent une impression d’intemporalité
confuse par leur contradiction. Cette forme d’intemporalité apparaît aussi dans le domaine de la photographie, où il est facile
pour l’artiste de rendre le temps insignifiant et figé. Robert Doisneau, dans son Baiser de l’hôtel de ville (1950), arrive à dissocier
un acte amoureux du temps, en rendant les protagonistes nets
et leur environnement flou. Cet illustre photographe a également
représenté deux amoureux s’enlaçant à Paris lors de l’occupation
allemande en 1944. La capacité des individus concernés à ignorer
le climat politique de leur environnement traduit l’intemporalité
de l’amour, sentiment qui n’est pas perturbé par de simples évènements chronologiques.
Amour et barbelés
Ces quelques cas de création littéraire et artistique présentent l’amour comme un sentiment à la fois éternel et distinct du temps. Gé- Robert Doisneau
néralement, ces définitions paraîtraient contradictoires . Pourtant, elles peuvent
coexister et le terme « intemporel » est capable de les exprimer toutes deux.
-Elliott Bolzan (‘15)
68
on
REFLECTING
FAMILY
Assignment: ¿Que diferencias hay entre tu y tu padre o madre? Describe un momento cuando
descubriste que teníais algo en común.
How are you different from your father/mother? Describe a moment when you discovered that
you had something in commun after all.
Hay muchas diferencias entre mi padre y yo. Primero, mi padre es muy alto y delgado, pero
yo soy más corpulento. Luego, tenemos ocios diferentes para divertirnos. A él le gusta mucho
quedarse en casa, leyendo un buen libro cerca del fuego. Nos pide siempre que nos callemos para
que pueda leer. No le gusta mucho el ruido, y prefiere estar sólo. Yo hago el contrario: me encanta hacer deporte y actividades físicas, pasar tiempo con la gente, y salir con mis amigos. Tengo
que moverme, si no me siento mal, no estoy contento, como si me faltara algo. Finalmente, su
personalidad es mucho más seria que la mía; suelo hacer el cómico, y me encantan las bromas.
Aunque no nos parecemos, un día me dí cuenta de que no somos tan diferentes. Estábamos en casa de mis abuelos, y mi abuela sacó una vieja foto de mí
de cuando tenía cinco años. Empecé a quejarme de lo feo que era y de que mi abuela no hubiera
debido mostrármela, y todos se pusieron a reir, como si fuera divertido. Cuando pregunté porque
todos estaban ríendose de mí, mi abuela me miró y dijo: “Es verdad que nos estamos riendo de
la foto, pero no de ti.” Estaba muy confuso de que dijera eso. Mi padre me miraba con intensidad, como si buscara algo escondido en mi cara. Cuando no dije nada, puso su mano sobre mi
hombro y dijo sonriendo, “Esa foto, no es de ti.”
-William Mason (‘16)
-Alexandra Ubalijoro (‘15)
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SELFREFLECTION
Terence Martin, le meilleur professeur ?
Sujet : En cours de rédaction de votre autobiographie, vous évoquez un maître, une maîtresse ou
un professeur (masculin ou féminin) qui a compté pour vous. Que vous a–t-il apporté ?
En entrant en sixième, ma vie fut bouleversée. Soudain, j’étais au collège. Je me sentais différente, plus âgé, plus muûre, mais le grand bonheur pour moi cette année-là fut d’avoir Terence
Martin comme professeur d’anglais. Je fus affectée et touchée par plusieurs maîtres et maîtresses
dans ma vie qui était encore courte à ce moment même, mais Terence Martin était sans aucun
doute le plus dominant. C’est lui qui m’a le plus touché.
Avant ma première classe, j’avais demandé à de nombreux élèves plus âgés que moi à qui
ressemblait M. Martin. Ils me dirent que c’était un vieil homme qui donnait beaucoup de devoirs
et qui se fâchait très facilement. Naturellement, j’eus très peur. J’étais effrayée d’entrer dans sa
classe. A onze heures, c’était l’heure du premier face à face. Mes camarades avaient surement
entendu les mêmes rumeurs car eux aussi étaient pétrifiés. Quand M. Martin nous ordonna
d’entrer en classe, tout le monde se précipita vers les bureaux du fond. Notre professeur se leva
de sa chaise. D’après leur description, les « grands », comme mes amis et moi les surnommions,
semblaient avoir raison, mais peu de temps après, ils furent contredits. M. Martin nous offrit un
accueil chaleureux. Il nous affirma que l’on pouvait lui poser toutes les questions que l’on avait à
propos de son cours ou de l’école. Au cours de l’année, il nous apporta de nombreux moments
de rire, de joie et de bonheur. Il racontait souvent sa vie. Il nous expliqua qu’il avait arrêté de
fumer, qu’il avait perdu du poids et que ses enfants lui apprenaient de nouvelles choses. C’était
cependant avant tout, un enseignant fantastique. Nous fîmes énormément de littérature et de
vocabulaire, tout cela dans la bonne ambiance. Il m’impressionnait à chaque cours avec sa bonne
humeur et son sourire toujours présent au coin de ses lèvres. Il était vraiment le meilleur professeur.
Je possède des milliers de souvenirs de ces cours d’anglais, mais le plus important est celui
où il m’a apprit à ne pas avoir peur de m’exprimer à voix haute devant de nombreuses personnes.
On lisait une pièce de théâtre de Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream pour être plus spécifique. M. Martin demanda à Paul et moi de nous porter volontaires pour lire et jouer une scène.
C’était une des premières fois que je devais lire devant ma classe, je me sentais très nerveuse.
70
Paul lut la première réplique. Quand ce fut mon tour, je tentai de continuer la lecture mais je fus
interrompue par notre professeur. Je m’attendais à ce qu’il me fasse une critique mais il décida de
m’offrir des conseils. Il m’ordonna de respirer afin de me calmer. Une fois que j’eus fait cela, il
me demanda de chanter une chanson. Je ne le crus pas mais il ne sourit pas. Il me conseilla donc
de réciter l’hymne national américain de sorte que chaque mot soit déclamé d’une manière plus
forte que le précédant. J’exécutai sa demande. Je criai à la fin et quand je finis, il m’applaudit. Il
commença un long discours dans lequel il m’expliqua qu’il ne fallait pas être effrayé de parler
devant d’autres personnes, que c’était nécessaire pour aller plus loin dans la vie. Au fil de l’année,
il m’imprima des discours fameux, comme ceux de Martin Luther King, et me demanda de les
lire à la classe. Très rapidement, je fis de grands progrès. Aujourd’hui, je ne suis plus nerveuse de
devoir parler devant un public et cela, je le dois à mon professeur de sixième.
Dans ma carrière scolaire, jamais un professeur ne m’a marquée plus que M. Martin. Il me
semble que c’était le maître idéal. Il nous apprenait énormément et arrivait aussi à nous intéresser
et à nous faire rire. Je l’ai adoré, mais tristement, il est mort lorsque j’étais en cinquième. C’était
la premiere fois que je vecu une telle chose et cela ne me laissa pas de bons souvenirs. Je pleurai
tous les soirs pendant deux semaines. C’est tellement triste qu’un homme si parfait vive une vie
si courte; cela est injuste. M. Martin occupe une grande place dans mon cœur. Il m’a apporté
énormément et je ne pourrai jamais le remercier. C’était, selon moi, le meilleur professeur.
Jusqu’à aujourd’hui, je pense souvent à M. Martin. C’est lui qui m’a le plus aidé à progresser en anglais, et ces progrès, je les ai pris avec moi jusqu’en Terminale où je dus affronter la
professeur la plus terrifiante de ma vie durant mon oral d’histoire […].
-Zoe Lapomme (‘17)
-Marie Creteur (‘15)
71
COLLEGE ESSAYS
John Legend once said, ‘’ Experience is a great teacher’’. As a growing adolescent, I definitely relate to this quote. Experiences are necessary to life and unique to every individual. They
teach us lessons that shape our identity and attitude through life. Even at such a young age, I
have experienced a considerable amount of different situations. The most significant event of
my life thus far is the earthquake that occurred in Haiti on January 12th, 2010. While it was a
tragic circumstance, it taught me a lesson that I regard as a blessing.
On a peaceful January afternoon, everything that I previously took for granted was challenged.
I was at a tutoring session with my math teacher and my older friend Gabrielle when
around 5 pm, the board I was working on violently started shaking. At first, I attributed the incident to the passage of a big truck then carried on with my work. However, when the trembling
movement of the ground persisted over 45 seconds,
I sensed that the event was far less trivial that what I
had originally thought. I turned to my teacher in desperation only to realize that he had abandoned us. An
overwhelming sense of betrayal shot through me. I instantly realized that one should not rely on people for
important matters. What a shocking wake-up call that
was! Never have I experienced the real world with such
intensity. My friend was petrified. I was left to take matters into my own hands and save ourselves from the imminent collapse of the building. With a sudden rush of
adrenaline, I grabbed my friend’s hands and rushed out
of the building in the middle of the streets. This moment was my most abrupt transition from childhood to
adulthood. Ever since, my way of thinking matured and
I became more responsible.
A huge cloud of dust had embraced the whole
city. Outside was a heart-wrenching picture of collapsing buildings, recurring celestial flashes, bloody corpses, - Clara Martin (‘18)
and erratically moving cars and people. We later came to find out that the celestial flashes were
American satellites documenting the earthquake as it was happening.
Reality has never felt so harsh. I was in a state of paranoia. All I could think about was my
family and friends, silently praying that they were safe and sound. When my dad eventually came
to pick us up after fighting through the rubble in the streets for two hours, I realized that family
72
bonds are the most important and that family is the only constant in life. When we finally made
it home to the rest of the family, I hugged everyone while tears of joy and gratitude were rolling
down my face.
This event was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it has destroyed my country and
separated me from my parents, but on the other it has taught me valuable lessons that follow me
through life. I am now more content with the little things that constitute life such as waking up
healthy every day, having a shelter, food on my table, parents and relatives who want the best for
me and push me to my extreme potential. Although I had to leave my country and parents in
order to pursue my education in New York, I was blessed to have had this golden opportunity.
Lastly, it taught me to never take anything for granted because we never know when life decides
to take you or your beloved ones away. After this experience, I am able to say to myself that because I lived through such horror I can undertake anything that life has in store for me.
- Christy Joseph (‘14)
My bedroom is my haven, a collage of colors and textures that represents a piece of my
life. Of course, I am aware that my life-sized collage may not appeal to everyone. My father says
the walls make him dizzy, and my mother is always after me to “get more organized”, but even
they have to admit that my room is a metaphor for me. Lying on my bed or sitting at my desk, I
look around and relive my travel adventures, artistic experiments, and musical phases.
When we first moved into our house, my room was comprised of plain white walls and
bare wood floors. It was devoid of personality, but it was also the perfect canvas on which I
could begin to display my interests, moods, and dreams. Music has always been a very significant
part of my life, and I wanted to see my music as well as hear it, so I hung album covers on the
walls—Bach’s ‘Sonatas for Violin and Harpsichord’ sits right next to The Rolling Stones’ ‘Sticky
Fingers’. I have also pasted up bottle caps from different exotic drinks I’ve tasted, coasters from
my favorite cafés all over the world, lomography pictures I’ve taken with my Diana F+ camera,
and newspaper clippings I’ve collected during my voyages to Asia, Europe, and Latin America.
A postcard from Alsace, my family’s village in France, shares space with an article about finding one’s passion by Steve Jobs. These items not only remind me of my life journey, they also
encourage me to keep seeking new adventures.
If a stranger walked into my room, he or she might think I had taken a course in Bedouin
decorating. Draperies hovering from the ceiling create a tent-like interior, while the smell of
burning incense tangoes around the free space. Garlands of tiny fairy lights give off a magical
73
PERSONAL STATEMENTS
glow. When I curl up on my faded Oriental rug with its fraying fringe, and sip a cup of tea, I feel
transported to another country, perhaps even another century. Through my resourcefulness and
imagination, I’ve learned to use my free time wisely: my decorations enable me to travel in the
comfort of my own home.
Unfortunately I can’t spend all my time lounging on patchwork pillows, listening to music
and reading Agatha Christie novels. My room may be my retreat, but it is also my office. A large
wooden desk, a tag sale find I like to imagine was once owned by a famous author, is where I do
my schoolwork. With homework music playing in the background, usually something classical,
my tent morphs into a place of business. For a few hours every night, a bright white reading
lamp eclipses the twinkling fairy lights, and when my arduous work is done, I brew a pot of tea
and slip back into my tent.
Fifteen years have passed since we moved into this house, and it is now difficult to find
a bare patch of wall. I guess it is a good thing that I will be going off to college soon, because
I have nearly run out of space to display the pieces of my life. But even when I am no longer
sleeping in my tented bedroom every night, it will await my return, and still be my sanctuary, my
personal museum, the mosaic of my life, and an evolving work of art.
- Chloë Sonnois (‘14)
- Julia Swerdlow (‘18)
74
Understanding a culture
In southern Lebanon, in a demilitarized zone just north of the Israeli border, Mona Khalil
works to protect green and loggerhead turtles that lay eggs on a small beach. I volunteered for
her project for a few days last summer. Alongside her helpers, I walked the length of the beach
at five in the morning to pick up trash, monitor turtle activity, and protect any new nests from
predators. This experience was one of many that contributed to my rediscovery of Lebanon and
of myself.
For 14 years, Lebanon to me was summers at my grandparents’ mountain villa, where I
read books, ate fresh figs from the orchard, and spoke a few words of Arabic. I didn’t realize how
little I had learned about the country during that time until I spent my freshman year of high
school in Lebanon, living with my grandparents in Beirut. As a student at the Jesuit school my
father and grandfather had attended, I took classes taught in French and Arabic. That’s when I
began a slow, exhilarating familiarization with a complex culture that can be hard to understand.
I was impressed by the Lebanese people -- their contagious warmth, their strong family principles, and their pride in their country despite their irreconcilable religious differences. I
was awed by the contrasts in the Lebanese landscape, from sun-baked beaches to snow-capped
mountains, from ancient cedars and Roman ruins to modern downtown Beirut.
But what really struck me during my year abroad was my first encounter with anti-Americanism. I could see that one of my new friends was irritated by the United States’ interventionism in the Middle East. I was defensive at first, and tried to argue that American idealism was
sometimes taken too far but had good intentions. Then I noticed that her point of view was
shared by others.
I had never really put much thought into Middle Eastern politics before, because I had
considered the subject too difficult for me to grasp and too remote from my life in New York.
Living in Lebanon and talking to friends there encouraged me to change this position and to
tap into the wealth of national and historic knowledge that I had in my father and grandfather.
I began to see the complicated structure of the Lebanese government and the tenuous balance
that maintains peace among the numerous religious groups. The more I learned, the more I felt
I could look at the world from a whole new perspective.
When I later participated in the turtle project, I realized how well the turtles and their
protector embodied everything I have come to admire about Lebanon. The turtles have survived
despite military activity, pollution, and predators, just as Lebanon has prevailed through civil war,
periodic explosions, and outside interference. Both of these successes are due in large part to the
Lebanese people. Their optimism, adaptability, and determination keep their country going, and
Mona, fiercely wielding these qualities, keeps the turtles alive.
I finally have an understanding of Lebanon, after visiting every summer, living there for a
year, developing new friendships, and exploring places like the turtle project. I no longer feel like
an American with Lebanese heritage; I consider myself truly Lebanese-American and aspire to
represent the best of both countries. In embracing the other half of my identity, I have experienced the process of accepting another point of view and am now more open and flexible. I not
only perceive situations from the two angles of my heritage, but can also more easily appreciate
other perspectives. I am lucky to be equipped with two lenses with which to see the world – one
from a superpower that works for the greater good but occasionally does damage along the way,
and one from a dot on the map where, despite daunting odds, people give everything for what
they love.
-Mireille Bejjani (‘14)
“I was impressed by the Lebanese people – their
contagious warmth, their strong family principles,
and their pride in their country despite irreconcilable
religious differences.”
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The Ocean and the Sunset
When the Ocean finally comes to rest,
When the Sun gleaming over it, just peaking
above it
When its final last rays fade away slowly,
The only thing that’s left, is the flooring
sound of the last tide,
And the shattering of the waves onto the
cliffs,
And the settling of the water upon the
mighty beaches,
And the uncertain shift of the dry
microscopic sand particles, each one so
similar yet so different.
The Ocean spread over the coasts of every
continent,
The Ocean, the vastest body of water known
to man,
The Ocean, the wildest and most mysterious
place in the Earth,
Is where the most relaxing thoughts can
come from the calm, soft, and sweet sounds
of the Ocean
So ravishing, gorgeous, and dangerous place
man has ever tried to explore,
And yet, its anatomy is so complex, its
-Zoe Guyot (‘18)
autopsy has barely been started in the 2000 years of the research
And as the sun and the tide and the waves and the water and the sand
Peak, floor, shatter, settle, shift, and grind,
He is watching above the Ocean, letting one smile slip off of His lips
Courtesy of the success of his most stunning creation, the Ocean
-Timothée Vinciguerra (‘17)
WALT WHITMAN
PA S T I C H E
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