Great Poetry Performances

Not actually Keats, but close enough

Not actually Keats, but close enough

The experience of hearing a poem recited is very different from that of silently reading it on the page, and ideally the performance should enrich our experience of the poem. Alas, many poetry readings fail to deliver. Naeem Murr fisked them all in a hilarious essay: “Why is it that so few poets think about the importance of leaving their audience wanting more—or at least not wanting to self-harm? We’ve all experienced it. A lively, engaging, funny person takes the podium. We adore her; we’re ready to adore her work. And then it’s as if someone has pulled a string in the back of her head to release the “poetry voice” from her abruptly expressionless face.” Now, it’s kind of unfair to attack poets too harshly for not being great performers. Composing and performing are two very different skills. But some performances are better than others, and it’s worth seeking them out. With that in mind, here are some of my favorites.

The Three Year-Old Who Memorizes Poems

This little guy is not only ineffably adorable, he also has serious interpretive chops. This is his performance of Billy Collins’ Litany. See how he tumbles forward when he says “the evening paper blooooowing down an alley”? An adult couldn’t pull that off, but it’s perfect for him. The way he modulates his voice, rising and falling, is more sophisticated than Billy Collins’ own recitation. The way he plunges down again at the end of the poem (“But don’t worry…”) makes him sound like a miniature Dylan Thomas.

Dylan Thomas, “Poem in October”

You can’t talk about great poetry performers without bowing down before Dylan Thomas. Whether he’s reading his own incantations or the war poems of Wilfred Owen, you won’t think about anything else while you’re listening. I could recommend many selections: “The Hunchback in the Park,” A Child’s Christmas in Wales ( a short story)… Or you could just spring for this 11 CD collection of his recordings, which is worth way more than $25.

This High Schooler Reading Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Man-Moth”

You have to scroll down a ways to find Kareem Sayegh. I’m sure all the girls in his class had a huge crush on him. The way he interprets this delicate, Tim Burton-ish poem, with wry coolness and little fraying moments of vulnerability, is enchanting.

A Seriously Disturbing One By–Who Else?–Sylvia Plath

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. In this poem, Plath is Nurse Ratched, Mommy dearest, the HR lady from hell. Or something. Her voice is lye and honey.

Robert Hass, “Faint Music”

I didn’t expect to like this. I’ve not read much of Hass, and had a vague understanding that he was yet another academic hippie lefty poet. But I stumbled across these recordings and listened to them without reading the poems first – and I liked them better that way. There’s the faintest hint of gravel in Hass’s voice, and the poems slip through transitions as dreamlike as San Francisco in its states of light and fog.

Seamus Heaney’s Poem for His Mother

He wrote this sonnet after her death. His voice, so kind, so Irish, is always a pleasure to listen to.

Benedict Cumberbatch Reading Keats No I Can’t Stop Myself

I will let the women of YouTube speak for me: “I like this more than I like the crème filling of an oreo…” “BOOM my ovaries are gone.”

7 Reasons To Read A Prayer Journal, by Flannery O’Connor

Have you ever read something ineffable? Something so sublime that it was hard to talk about with anything resembling coherence? If so, then you’ll understand why it is so difficult to articulate my experience of reading Flannery O’Connor’s intimate and soul-baring A Prayer Journal. I closed the book with a combination of awed silence and heart-soaring joy. I’m afraid no critical, dry-as-dust objective review is possible for this reader. My sincerely heartfelt appreciation of this uniquely personal book by one of America’s greatest writers can, however, illuminate seven reasons why you need to read this book now.

APrayerJournalCoverFirst, some back story . . . Flannery’s friend, the scholar William A. (Bill) Sessions, was doing his own research in the O’Connor archives when he discovered the writer’s old Sterling composition book tied up in a stack of papers.  The journal, to be released November 12 by Farrar Straus Giroux, Flannery’s long-time publisher during her lifetime and the first new title FSG has had the privilege to issue by the author in decades, has been carefully edited by Sessions. The slim hardcover is exquisite, quietly simple and graceful in its presentation, and includes an Introduction by Sessions, as well as a facsimile copy of the entire journal so interested readers can read the prayers Flannery composed in her own hand. The journal’s contents, as well as its very existence – coming first now in the chronology of her published works – make clear that Sessions’ find will change the face of scholarship on Flannery’s life and work. But that, significant though it is, isn’t one of the seven reasons why you should stop by your local bookstore and pick up a copy of A Prayer Journal as soon as possible.

Reason #1: You will encounter a side of Flannery you’ve never known. The journal is a cry of the heart so deeply intimate I wondered at times whether I should be reading it at all. Indeed, to do so is a thorough privilege for it is the account of a soul’s singular yearning for God and is wholly different from any other published work of Flannery’s – it is the raw, plaintive voice of a young woman thoroughly in love with her God, who seems to behave with His beloved like the elusive bridegroom in the Song of Songs. Not one of her letters collected in The Habit of Being compares to the intense honesty and painful sincerity of the writer’s voice in these prayers to God. We may think we know her well from her letters, but we will come to know her more deeply and in a different way through this journal.

Reason #2: The journal echoes the gorgeously stirring mysticism of some of our greatest spiritual writers. Reading certain sections of A Prayer Journal call to mind the resplendent descriptions of the spiritual life written by St. Therese of Lisieux, St. John of the Cross, and others. It is the rare 22-year-old who describes God as “the slim crescent of a moon . . . [which] is very beautiful,” while viewing herself as “the earth’s shadow . . . [which threatens to] grow so large that it blocks the whole moon.” Flannery confesses to being “afraid of insidious hands . . . which grope into the darkness of my soul,” begging God to be her protector, shielding her against those things which would tear her away from Him. In her fervor, she begs for an all-consuming desire for God that would essentially cause her to die of love:

“Dear Lord, please make me want You. It would be the greatest bliss. Not just to want You when I think about You but to want You all the time, to have the want driving in me, to have it like a cancer in me. It would kill me like a cancer and that would be Fulfillment.”

Is this not the numinous language of a mystic, who in the intensity of her desire already possesses that which she so longs for? In Flannery’s prayer, we are reminded that the intensity of our faith is not measured so much by feeling or emotion, but by the depth of our desire. The saints teach us that the desire itself is indeed the answer to the prayer. I confess to wondering, as I read: if the cause for canonization for G.K. Chesterton is successfully opened, can the cause for the little hermit of Anadalusia be far behind?

Reason #3: Flannery’s prayers offer a model of the rightly ordered use of one’s gifts. Wholly honest with God about what she wants in life – to be a great writer and to write a great novel – Flannery is also thoroughly convinced that her gifts come from God and should therefore be directed to His service. She asks God to “let Christian principles permeate my writing” and that she be given a “strong Will to be able to bend it to the Will of the Father.”  She is very aware that it is God’s spirit moving within her that allows her any success in the practice of her craft, asking God to “take care of making [the story she is working on] a sound story because I don’t know how.”  She acknowledges repeatedly her understanding that without His grace, she will never achieve what she hopes to accomplish with her art, stating simply “God must be in all my work.” Ideally, the rightly ordered use of our gifts would help us along the pathway to sanctity. Flannery knew this when she prayed: “Dear God, help me to be an artist, please let it lead to You.” The journal offers a portrait of the artist humbled and prostrate in the face of her gift – “Don’t ever let me think, dear God, that I was anything but the instrument for Your story” –truly, a model for us all.

Reason #4: You will see the genesis of a novel. This is no small thing. Flannery’s first novel

Flannery O'Connor holding a copy of her novel Wise Blood.

Flannery O’Connor holding a copy of her novel Wise Blood.

Wise Blood was published in 1952, five years after she ceased keeping the prayer journal. However, the novel grew out of several shorter pieces published previously. In the journal evidence of her repeated pleas to God to help her to write a novel, and the brief articulation of a controlling idea with which she is preoccupied, call to mind the components of what would eventually become the saga of Hazel Motes. Thus, it appears that the idea for Wise Blood was already germinating during the time Flannery was writing the journal. Interestingly, the prayer journal predates the earliest letter in the volume of her collected letters, which is dated June 19, 1949, two years after writing in the prayer journal ceased. In that letter, Flannery is on the lookout for an agent to represent her novel Wise Blood.

Reason #5: Flannery articulates the need for a clear Catholic worldview as the thread with which to weave a novel. Towards the end of the journal, Flannery is immersed in pondering her literary philosophy and the role of the Catholic artist. Clearly she recognizes, perhaps through the grace of her prayer, that she must be accountable for her use of her gift in relation to her faith. She writes,

“To maintain any thread in the novel there must be a view of the world behind it & the most important single item under this view of the world is conception of love – divine, natural, & perverted. It is probably possible to say that when a view of love is present – a broad enough view – no more need be added to make the world view.”

She articulates clearly here the acceptable separation between the ways in which a purely secular view of love (pure physical desire) would be realized in a novel against the realization of love in the work of a writer inspired by an awareness of Divine Love. Flannery was never shy about her devotion to her Catholic faith, clearly evident in from her collected letters and numerous essays. When asked to speak publicly she emphasized the truth that her faith was the reason for everything she did and the perspective from which she viewed the world. The existence of the journal solidifies this view in a unique way, ensuring no one will ever be able to look at her work in the same way again.

Reason #6: Here you will find a kindred spirit in the experience of suffering. In her letters, Flannery’s tone is often no-nonsense and, if one does not understand or appreciate her dry wit, she might come off as harsh or abrasive, potentially causing the casual reader to forget how much she suffered over the course of her life. The prayer journal shows this suffering in all its nakedness. She suffers doubt and anxiety about her life and her vocation. She suffers from an acute awareness of her “mediocrity” and her pride’s inability to cope with it. She suffers torments of the flesh and the mind. She suffers because she cannot suffer well. For love of God and for the sake of those others – “the dead people I am living with” – she repeatedly asks for the grace necessary to handle suffering.  The journal shows the truth of her inner struggles and makes her more approachable, opening the door to the possibility of true friendship with someone who knows the difficulty of living an authentic spiritual life amidst great suffering.

Image of Our Lady of Perpetual Help

Image of Our Lady of Perpetual Help

Reason #7: Flannery models and emphasizes the need for simple entrustment to Mary. There is a sense throughout the journal that the goal of the artist is to practice her craft with the heart of the tax collector.  Flannery’s devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary is a consistent prayer throughout the journal. The focus of her devotion to Mary as Our Lady of Perpetual Help is significant, expressing the necessary awareness that the need for perpetual help supposes a corresponding acknowledgement of perpetual weakness in oneself. The image of Our Lady of Perpetual Help is of a protective mother, carrying her child. When one considers the extreme suffering of mind, body, and soul Flannery experienced throughout her short life, one is reminded of the need to admit one’s helplessness and weakness, to trustingly allow another to carry you in her arms to your final destination. The journal is a beautiful reminder of the truth that God’s power is made perfect in our weakness and that it is He alone who works in us and through our gifts to the extent that we are able to admit of our need for help in dealing with our weaknesses. Flannery lends her voice to the chorus of many saints who have for generations emphasized that entrustment to Mary is the safest, surest path to Christ.

The existence of A Prayer Journal is surely cause for great rejoicing.  It is safe to say that no one who reads A Prayer Journal will ever be able to look at Flannery’s work in the same way again and that pondering it will shed light on the many beautiful and challenging ways it appears her

Flannery O'Connor, 1947 -- during the time she composed A Prayer Journal.

Flannery O’Connor, 1947 — during the time she composed A Prayer Journal.

prayers were answered throughout her life. It is quite fitting that the gift of this journal comes during the month of November, a time when we celebrate our belief in the communion of saints. Surely, as a faithfully departed soul, whose writing in A Prayer Journal and throughout her life testifies to her intention to live a life of holiness, we can count Flannery as one of our friends in heaven who, along with the recognized saints of our faith, stands before us as a model of what it means to live a life consecrated to Christ and His Church and who provides guidance and encouragement so that we who are left behind will have the strength to persevere. A late encounter with this stalwart friend in faith has the potential to change your life, which is the very best reason for reading it.


Contemplating a Literary Relic: Reflections For Writers

The écritoire (writing desk) of St. Therese of Lisieux has been making a quiet and brief pilgrimage to a smattering of parishes across the country. While the humble little desk might not be cause for much excitement for those devoted to St. Therese, devotees of the Little Flower who are also writers will find much to ponder and pray over in contemplating this literary relic.

The writing desk of St. Therese of Lisieux. Photo used with permission: Archive du Carmel de Lisieux

The writing desk of St. Therese of Lisieux. Photo used with permission: Archive du Carmel de Lisieux

Long before she became the saint we know and love today, Therese was both a writer and a painter. Known the world over for her spiritual autobiography, The Story of a Soul, Therese’s other writings are virtually unknown; yet she was a talented writer who dabbled in many forms. According to the Lisieux Carmel Archives, Therese wrote eight theater plays, 62 poems, 95 letters, and 21 prayers, in addition to the three manuscripts that comprise her spiritual autobiography. Her plays were produced in the Lisieux Carmel for the entertainment of the sisters and novices – there are even photographs of Therese in the leading role of her heroine, Joan of Arc. Her poetry is deeply moving and introspective, its style reminiscent of the consummate poet and Carmelite, St. John of the Cross, whose works inspired and influenced Therese. And a majority of her written works were composed on this little desk, making it a uniquely literary spiritual relic.

Sadly, I learned the desk visited a parish in my diocese, just 8 miles away, the day after it departed. But as Therese says, “Everything is grace,” and simply knowing the relic existed and had been near held some special gift for me. As I pondered what I know of Therese and her life as a writer, I realized there are graces to be gained from contemplating the relic, whether or not I was privileged to see it. The desk is is a reminder that Therese’s little way of spiritual childhood is not only appropriate for living our daily lives, but for living our writing lives as well. Following are some things I reflected on while contemplating the desk which serve as a reminder that there can be no separation between daily living and my writing life.


Therese’s desk is a reminder that God is pleased with my effort. She always said that since she is such a little child, she could never be expected to do great things; rather, it was enough for her to trust in God and allow Him to work greatness through her, if He desired. Just as a parent is pleased when she sees her daughter make the great effort to take her first steps before falling down, so God is pleased when I take the gifts He has given me and do my best to practice my craft and bring ideas and inspirations to fruition. But without God’s help, my effort won’t come to much. The desk reminds me to do the best I am able, trusting God to handle the rest and to make up for everything I lack.

Embracing crosses

Therese suffered greatly—physically, emotionally, and spiritually—during much of the time she spent writing her autobiography, poems, plays, prayers, and letters. Her simple desk reminds me that the practice of my art will be paved with crosses. Sometimes these will take the form of simple irritations—my son may need my attention during my scheduled writing time, or perhaps my writing time is fraught with paralyzing “writer’s block.” Other crosses will be more humiliating and challenging—perhaps my work will not be well-received or will be misunderstood or mocked, perhaps the birth of a particular piece of writing will bring with it great pain, perhaps in spite of my “effort,” all of my work will come to nothing. The life of the artist in any field is fraught with struggles, uncertainty, and often pain. But the desk reminds me that my art is a key part of my pathway to sanctity and holiness. I can expect nothing less than to meet the cross of Christ; Therese reminds me to ask for the grace to embrace it.


This charming watercolor from the Lisieux archive shows Therese writing, overshadowed by the

Watercolor of Therese writing Manuscript A. Used with permission of the Archive du Carmel de Lisieux

Watercolor of Therese writing Manuscript A. Used with permission of the Archive du Carmel de Lisieux

Holy Spirit, with the statue of Our Lady of the Smile looking on from the doorway.  The little écritoire is a reminder that the practice of my literary art must come from an attitude of entrustment (especially to Mary) and prayer. In his book My Vocation Is Love, Jean Lafrance points out that for Therese writing was an act of prayer:

“She did not merely write for the sake of writing or to be read, but to pray . . . The book of Therese’s writings brings home to us in a particular way how writing can help us to pray . . . Therese does not write to look at herself but to contemplate Jesus’ privileges in her soul.”

I may not be called to write a spiritual memoir, but as a Catholic writer I am obligated to reflect the workings of grace on the human soul through the characters I realize in my work. Contemplating the desk reminds me of the need to entrust the right exercise of my literary gifts to the One from whom they come, so that my work might reflect His work and presence in the world.


Therese approaches her writing with a childlike simplicity that leaves no room for anxiety, stress, or doubt. She writes: “I am not breaking my head over the writing of my little life. It’s like fishing with a line: I write whatever comes to the end of my pen.” (Last Conversations 63) In his beautiful book Journey With Therese of Lisieux: Celebrating the Artist in Us All, Michael McGrath suggests the importance of modeling Therese’s attitude in our own work and posits that Therese was only able to create her masterpiece because she did not have “the distraction of perfectionism lurking over her shoulder.” Little children do not worry about being perfect—little children give themselves over totally to the experience of creating art. They revel in paint, they babble unselfconsciously, excited by the new sounds and words coming from their mouths. The desk reminds me that God has blessed me with the talent to write and that part of showing my gratitude for this gift is to share it unselfconsciously with others. Pride of perfectionism has no place in the right exercise of my gift. The desk reminds me to approach the practice of my art with the enthusiasm of a child at play.


Therese, in her simplicity of faith, knew the truth of J.R.R. Tolkien’s principle of “euchatastrophe” (or the joy of a good ending) before he ever explored it in his essay “On Fairy Stories.” The principle is present in the Word of God itself and so is a foundational principle of faith. Therese knew that, if done in the proper spirit of love for others and devotion to God, her words had the power to help lead souls to Christ. There are many stories of conversions and healing via one individual’s experience of another’s written work. One has only to recall Edith Stein’s powerful encounter reading the life of Teresa of Avila. More recently, as efforts are underway to open a cause for his canonization, we are hearing stories of people moved to conversion by the works of G. K. Chesterton. John Keats, who lost his Christian faith, still never lost his belief in poetry’s power to heal a weary soul. As a Catholic writer, I need to be conscious of the power my words have to effect change in each person who encounters my work. Therese’s desk—and her works—remind me of the truth of the joy of the happy ending and inspire me to follow Tolkien’s principle of eucatastrophe in my own writing.

It is an intensely intimate and inspiring gift to observe and contemplate the tools and products of another writer’s commitment to the craft, to witness and study the fruits of their dedication to their gift. Therese’s writing desk reminds us all that the path to holiness and the practice of one’s art go hand-in-hand. Each rightly-ordered effort at practicing our given artistic gifts can become one more opportunity, one more moment of grace, in which God can work to baptize our imaginations.

For thorough and continuously updated information about the tour of Therese’s writing desk, the cause for canonization for her parents Louis and Zelie Martin, and everything related to St. Therese, her spirituality, and the Carmelite heritage, please visit Maureen O’Riordan’s excellent site St Therese of Lisieux: A Gateway.

Introducing the J.F. Powers Prize for Short Fiction


J.F. Powers

“One foot in this world and one in the next”: that’s how J.F. Powers described the Midwestern priests he wrote about in his fiction. Having one foot in another world can be awkward, and Powers’ characters are known not for their graceful mysticism, but for the humiliating and mordantly entertaining stumbles they make while trying to live their faith. We’re looking for carefully crafted short stories with vivid characters who encounter grace in everyday settings—we want to see who, in the age we live in, might have one foot in this world and one in the next.

The judges will be Eve Tushnet, Andrew McNabb, and Matthew Lickona, and the winner will receive $500. There is no entrance fee. The winning story will be announced in February, 2014 and published in Dappled Things, along with nine honorable mentions. Please submit your short story (no more than one, no previously published work) to our website by November 29.

Click here to make your submission and see the writer’s guidelines.


I think it’s possible to write something, for me to write something, that even God might like. It’s possible for me to hit a note, to get in a mood, to write something that is worthy even of God’s attention. Not as a soul seeking salvation, but just as entertainment for God. This may be blasphemous to say, but I believe it. I don’t think God is there and we’re here, and there are no connections. I think there are connections, and I think art is certainly one.        

- J. F. Powers

‘Banned Books Week’ Winding Down

book-2aI just realized that Banned Books Week is almost over and I haven’t celebrated it with a banned classic yet. I’ve been so absorbed in Gann’s No Such Thing as Silence that I almost missed the celebration altogether. Thankfully, I checked the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library (KVML) website yesterday to see what they were up to, or I would have missed out completely.

For those who may be unfamiliar with Banned Books Week but want to know more, the KVML’s website and the American Library Association’s website are great places to start. My interest with the movement is not so much in saving the Captain Underpants books of the world (no matter how funny they are), but rather with celebrating the once—banned classics which have become a part of the literary canon. I don’t always agree with what the authors have to say and some go a bit further than I’m willing to follow, but I fully support an author’s right to express his/her view of existence, so long as the point is made intelligently and the piece itself has been well crafted.

Some of my favorite books can be found on the ALA list of “Banned Classics.” For instance, there’s Joyce’s, Ulysses, which (among so many other things) showed me just how unfocused and multi—threaded the thoughts in my mind truly are. There’s also Updike’s, Rabbit, Run, which opens with a wonderful illustration of a married young man confronting the enormity of his vocation (of course Harry doesn’t respond as we’d hope he would, but then would the story still be worth reading if he did?). There’s also the “Banned Classic” I most recently read, Slaughterhouse—Five, by Kurt Vonnegut — a writer that both Graham Green and Walker Percy held in high esteem.

Catholic authors have also fallen victim to censorship. The ALA list contains both Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings (this one baffles me), and Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. I can see why Brideshead would upset some, but that’s only when it’s been given a superficial and/or incomplete reading. A deep reading reveals a work so totally infused with the workings of God and Grace toward the salvation of the (very flawed) major characters, that you would be hard pressed to find another comparable piece of fiction. The extremely powerful deathbed scene in particular is one of my favorite moments in all of literature.

So which “Banned Classic” am I going to choose? Every time I scan the various lists, I seem to find one that I hadn’t noticed before. This year’s surprise came from the KVML website where I found John Gardner’s, Grendel. Who could have banned this book? Haven’t they seen the picture on the cover of the Vintage edition? Grendel looks like a harmless kitten, mewing softly for a saucer of milk. A Google search lead to a page that claimed the book was banned for the usual reasons, such as complaints that it’s a bit to graphic, and it’s told from the viewpoint of a viscous monster whose thoughts/feelings contradict the standards of traditional morality. With the last item, I would assume that (given an appropriate reading) we will find ourselves on safe ground, as Gardner was responsible for polarizing so many people with his insistence On Moral Fiction (a work Tuscany Press approves of, but the great Frank O’Connor did not). At any rate, my interest is piqued, and I’ve found my choice.

“Valjean’s nobility inspires us because it is ultimately expressed in the quotidian and the domestic”

Leah Libresco of Unequally Yoked offers an insightful response to The New Yorker critic David Denby’s pan of Les Miserables, in which Denby argues that “Saints don’t make interesting heroes.” The editorial board of Dappled Things holds no official position on the merits of the recent film adaptation, but Libresco’s post is a thoughtful examination of virtue as exemplified by the character Jean Valjean.

…we can see the fruit of making the right choice day by day.  It’s not winning the right to a love interest and getting a big, dramatic kiss at the climax of the story.  It’s the development of phronesis or practical wisdom.  By choosing the right thing day after day, Valjean is strengthening his conscience so that the wrong choice feels awkward and alien to him.

Read the whole thing.

Our Future Is in Your Hands

Dear Friends,

We are sorry to report that the response to our fundraising appeal sent a few days ago has been dismal. A few donations came in during the first hours after the e-mail went out, but the trickle has quickly dried up. We are still far away from our fundraising goal. At this point in the magazine’s life, there is no wiggle room for having a campaign that does not meet its goal. If the campaign is unsuccessful, the magazine cannot make it through the coming year, which we think would be a serious blow the cause of creating a vibrant Catholic culture. Great art that glorifies God and ennobles the human person does not easily happen in a vacuum, the random product of some lone genius, but rather requires a cultural context in which it can develop and flourish. That’s what we help create. Please donate today by clicking here. Don’t think that someone else will do it instead; that hasn’t happened. And please know that any amount is welcome.

All the growth and successes we have had this year, triumphs for the cause of achieving a revitalized culture, in no way imply that we are less vulnerable to financial constraints. If anything, they mean the opposite, since growing the magazine means that it becomes more complicated and costly to manage subscriptions, submissions, and distribute the journal. We are at the end of an explosively successful year in terms of growing our readership (our most successful yet, in fact). Is this the time to call it quits? If you don’t think so, please help us keep going. Donate today.

Had Trouble Donating?

During the first 30 minutes since our first e-mail was sent out, there was a glitch in our website that may have kept some people from being able to use PayPal. Please note that the problem has been fixed and if you click on the PayPal “donate” button, you should now be taken to the correct page where everything should be self-explanatory. However, if you are not comfortable donating online, please send a check by regular mail, payable to Dappled Things Magazine, Inc., to 600 Giltin Drive, Arlington, TX 76006.


Reviewed by Meredith Wise


by Ron Hansen
Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008
227 pages, $23.00

The first thing to keep in mind about Exiles, if you are going to avoid being disappointed, is that it is a novelized biography rather than a conventional novel. Ron Hansen imposed some very strict limits on his invention, which he summarized in a discussion on the web journal InsideCatholic: [Read more...]

Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Once Upon the Ruins

Bernardo Aparicio Garcia 

The bitter blend of sweat and blood on her forehead glistened under the mid-afternoon sun as she darted between the mounds of brick and stone on the street. The sky was overcast with towers of smoke that watched like sad sentinels over a dead land that seemed to fade away down below. Now that the guns had been quiet for two hours, Sara could hear nothing except her own heavy breathing pounding in her ears like blows of thunder. [Read more...]

Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Catholic Classic Translated in New Dappled Things

The SS. Peter & Paul 2012 edition of Dappled Things has just been published, and among its many offerings, it includes an excerpt from the first translation since 1939 of a classic of Catholic literature: Leon Bloy’s The Woman Who Was Poor.  The issue also features an interview with the translator, DT Assistant Editor Joshua Hren, whose own literary work has been deeply influenced by Bloy. As Hren explains, The Woman Who Was Poor (La Femme Pauvre) played a crucial role in the conversion of luminaries such as Jacques and Raissa Maritain, and the painter Georges Rouault:

Raissa [Maritain] recounts how she and Jacques encountered Léon Bloy. Steeped in the intellectual nihilism of their times, troubled specifically by a scientific determinism the tenets of which they deeply understood and by which they were left in anguish, the two young geniuses, who were then courting, made a pact to commit suicide together on a given date, unless they should come in contact with absolute truth. If the world lacks absolute truth, as they had been taught, then existence, they concluded, is too cruel to countenance any longer. There is a remarkable earnestness to this proposition, even as it is extreme and dark. As their search for this truth ticked away, they happened to read a review of La Femme Pauvre that touted the novel as one of the only French works of the age that flashed with genuine metaphysical insights.

Upon reading the novel, they found themselves, “for the first time . . . before the reality of Christianity.”

We’re very excited to bring a portion of this classic back to print, and we hope you will relish it as much as we have. You can enjoy these and other offerings for free online, including the striking paintings of David Anthony Harman, but only  print subscribers get the full range of what we publish. And, as many new subscribers write to tell us after receiving their first issue, at only $19.99 a year you’ll only wonder why you hadn’t done it sooner.