capossere

We need the sight of the stars and their gentle, nightly reminder of our small place in the universe. Otherwise we might become as the characters in Asimov's story who, knowing no stars but their own until the 2,049th year, are stunned by the appearance of so many millions. They find it a crushing blow. Faced with sudden insignificance, driven mad by the swift inconsequences of their lives, their civilization crumbles. The universe is not what they thought it was. It seldom is.

Recently I stood in our driveway and in a moment's time counted the stars—Little Dipper, the North Star, and a few I could not name. Eleven in all. Tycho Brahe, from his island stronghold of Uraniborg, counted a thousand. Hipparchus of Nicaea about the same. Granted, tonight was overcast, a poor night for stargazing made worse by the damping light of a gibbous moon. But a handful more would have made the total no less meager, and there is something in me that sighs at such an empty sky. The stars of my childhood have, like the moments of my life, like the memories of my father, winked out one by one, leaving the night diminished, and me outside wondering what greater world I will show to my own small and wondering son. (27-28)

Bill Capossere. "Man in the Moon." Harper's Magazine. February 2006. 25-29.

nietzsche

To allure many from the herd—for that is the purpose I have come. The people and the herd must be angry with me: a robber shall Zarathustra be called by the herdsmen.

Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the good and just. Herdsemn, I say, but they call themselves the believers in the orthodox belief.

Behold the good and just! Whom do they hate most? Him who breaketh up their tables of values, the breaker, the law-breaker:—he, however, is the creator.

Companions, the creator seeketh, not corpses—and not herds or believers either. Fellow-creators the creator seeketh—those who grave new values on new tables.

Companions, the creator seeketh, and fellow-reapers: for everything is ripe for the harvest with him. But he lacketh the hundred sickles: so he plucketh the ears of corn and is vexed.

Companions, the creator seeketh, and such as know how to whet their sickles. Destroyers, will they be called, and despisers of good and evil. But they are the reapers and rejoicers.

Fellow-creators, Zarathustra seeketh; fellow-reapers and fellow-rejoicers, Zarathustra seeketh: what hath he to do with herds and herdsmen and corpses! (11)

Nietzsche, Friedrich. Thus Spake Zarathustra Trans. Thomas Common. Mineola, NY: Dover, 1999.

o'neill

Forlorn hope is from the Dutch for lost troop. How sad the swords and beautiful. All love does ever rightly show humanity our tenderness. (35)

O'Neill, Jamie. At Swim, Two Boys. New York: Scribner, 2001.

peters

Once when I was little Dad let me try on his hunting jacket. It was huge; it hung to the floor, and it stank. But what I remember most was the weight. As if that coat would break my knees and drag me down and trap me inside and smother me. That's how it felt with Liam. Like I was trapped. Suffocating.

Was that fair? No. Life wasn't fair. Liam proved that. (180)

Peters, Julia Anne. Luna: A Novel. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2004.

kingston

I learned to make my mind large, as the universe is large, so that there is room for paradoxes.
—Maxine Hong Kingston

cicero

For what is...so pleasing to the understanding and the ear as a speech adorned and polished with wise reflections and dignified language? Or what achievement so mighty and glorious as that the impulses of the crowd, the consciences of the judges, the austerity of the Senate, should suffer transformation through the eloquence of one man? What function again is so kingly, so worthy of the free, so generous, as to bring help to the suppliant, to raise up those that are cast down, to bestow security, to set free from peril, to maintain men in their civil rights? (293).

Cicero. "From De Oratore." Trans. E.W. Sutton and H. Rackham. The Rhetorical Tradition: Readings from Classical Times to the Present. 2nd ed. Eds. Patricia Bizzell and Bruce Herzberg. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 2001. 289-339.

anzaldua

There are more subtle ways that we internalize identification, especially in the forms of images and emotions. For me food and certain smells are tied to my identity, to my homeland. Woodsmoke curling up to an immense blue sky; woodsmoke perfuming my grandmother's clothes, her skin. The stench of cow manure and the yellow patches on the ground; the crack of a .22 rifle and the reek of cordite. Homemade white cheese sizzling in a pan, melting inside a folded tortilla. My sister Hilda's hot, spicy menudo, chile cordida making it deep red, pieces of panza and hominy floating on top. My brother Carito barbequing fajitas in the backyard. Even now and 3,000 miles away, I can see my mother spcing the ground beef, pork, and venison with chile. My mouth salivates at the thought of the hot steaming tamales I would be eating if I were home. (31)

Anzaldúa, Gloria. "How to Tame a Wild Tongue." 50 Essays: A Portable Anthology. Ed. Samuel Cohen. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 2004. 22-34.