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Saturday, July 10th, 2010
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The Jesuits place a high value on the written word, so much so that they hire an outsider to run the literary magazine. Under the direction of Batya Pinter, The Millstone garners recognition as one of the finest publications produced by any high school, private or public, in the United States, its stories and poems one step removed from the divine Logos, its contributors destined to achieve great things, heirs to the throne of Carver and Cheever, tutelary gods that guide the pens of these fledgling scribes and lead them toward the sweet promises of alcoholism and sexual dysfunction.
With the release of each issue, agents and publishers scour the journal, hoping to discover and capitalize on the most original voice of a new generation, some enfant terrible who will gleefully stir up trouble on the literary scene, but The Millstone has, at least so far, produced only well-mannered boys who dwell on mainstream subjects that are almost hagiographic in their depictions of common people. According to these young writers, the world is populated not with cynics and miscreants but with unrecognized saints who quietly feed the poor and provide shelter for the homeless. These contributors, while a bit idealistic as teenage boys are apt to be, do occasionally recognize the sad fact that life is not without its tragedies
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and injustices, and from time to time they write about the unexpected loss of a loved one--an ailing grandmother, parish priest, family dog. Sometimes they even write an unconventional love story, chronicling the secret liaisons of a couple whose forbidden relationship, depending upon the temperament of its author, comes to either a comedic or catastrophic end.
Despite the journal’s repetitive themes, Eddie Campbell invariably picks up the latest edition. Copies are scattered around campus like stale breadcrumbs left for the screeching grackles that swoop from their roosts high on the gothic bell tower. Glancing left and right to make sure no one sees him, Eddie stashes the journal in his book bag and scampers to the library where he hides in an alcove among so many forgotten books. There, safe from the ridicule of his friends, he holds the magazine close to his nose, takes in the heady perfume of glue and ink, and strokes the glossy cover page. For an hour he immerses himself in the stories, his eyes growing misty at the splendor of the imagery and the slightly discombobulating effect of the parataxis style of the prose, the journal’s trademark.
As he finishes the last story his admiration turns to envy. They make it seem so easy, these writers, so simple. Sometimes it’s hard for him to believe that these are his fellow classmates. They seem wise beyond their years and possess an uncommon ability to translate their experiences into words that continue to mystify and evade him. How do they intimate suffering without sounding puerile and self-serving? How do they describe the mystical without sounding like lunatics and zealots?
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