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Esprit Fall 2008 Home
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Contents
Front Cover:
gone
Inside Front Cover:
Metropolis
Windowed World
Sincerely, Holden Caulfield
From My Wanderings
Untitled
Meeting Marge
Volume IV
Mosaic Reflection
Happiness Is a Warm Gun
Untitled
Whitman's Words
Metacliché
Stagnation
no school today
"Where's the Beef?": A (Very Close) Critical Reading
Untitled
Cranberry Sauce
Cast
Broken Muses
Majestic
Astigmatic
Inside Back Cover:
Verticalité
Back Cover:
Sprite
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From My Wanderings
Matthew Vita
Gabriel De Testigo
Ironically, little is known of Gabriel De
Testigo’s life outside of what he reveals in My Wanderings. The
memoir reveals that he came from a poor family, learned to write while
studying to become a printer, but joined the army as a result of a long
feud with his master. Records show that, as a soldier, he traveled
extensively and, later in life, he put his knowledge to use as a
successful merchant. This profession also afforded him the time to
write. Though De Testigo’s poetry has drawn more attention from
critics, My Wanderings
reveals the inspiration behind a number of works, including his
discovery of a mysterious notebook while serving in the Americas. This
notebook would become a clear influence on his play, Tomorrow’s Memories.
The memoir itself is composed in a rather simple manner, lacking the
tightly controlled style which De Testigo has become known for. Also,
it lacks many concrete details. These characteristics have led many
critics to assume that the memoir is an early work, though others argue
that it was composed rather late in De Testigo’s career and is
merely an early draft. Regardless of the causes, the manuscript was
never published in De Testigo’s lifetime, and many of its pages
have been lost or damaged. The pages which survive were salvaged by
Miguel De Testigo, the author’s brother. The manuscript has
changed hands repeatedly, but was procured by The University of Madrid
in 1907.
From My Wanderings1
“The Red Bank Bible”2
hideously scared, but still an admirable commander.
Each night, the men stood watch in shifts. In addition to the posts surrounding the encampment3
itself, there were a few scattered in the surrounding forest in an
attempt to widen the camp’s perimeter. One of these posts, the
farthest from the camp, stood on the bank of the river. It was called
“The Post at Red Bank” because of the unusually red sand
along that area of the river. The men told ghost stories, but I assume
that the red hue came from a high amount of clay or some naturally
occurring mineral. The superstitions were popular however, and due to
this, and the distance, the post was often left empty. It soon became a
disciplinary post: poor conduct, drunkenness, slovenliness, and any
other infraction warranted a night at Red Bank.
On the night in question, I earned my time at Red
Bank by alluding to an officer’s mother. Towards midnight, I
heard some creature moving about in the brush. I armed myself, fearing
a predator of some kind, and certainly would have killed the man had he
rushed from the brush. Though, as I reflect back, I realize that it
would have made little difference. However, it so happened that the man
crawled from the brush and cried for water. I quickly gave him a drink
from the river and then carried him into the post. He had a terrible
fever, but quickly fell asleep once I had settled him. I ran the entire
way back to camp to fetch the doctor, but when we arrived back at Red
Bank the man had died.
The body was cremated immediately as infection was
a constant fear in the forest, but I took the time to search the
man’s pockets before the disposal. I discovered only a small
Bible and the remainder of a pencil. These artifacts quickly slipped
from my mind, and I did not find them again until my return passage to
Spain. I then discovered that the Bible housed not the word of God, but
the words of the departed man. He had crudely bleached the pages and
used the book to record his own thoughts.
The first few pages of the Bible were devoted to
the story of a traveler and learned man. He had come to the continent
with an expedition, was lost from his party, and surely would have died
had he not stumbled upon a small tribe deep in the forest. The greater
part of the journal-Bible contained a detailed account of his stay with
this tribe, though the account ends before giving any explanation as to
why he was again lost in the forest. I have reproduced the man’s
account here, and have taken the liberty to correct any error in
grammar or spelling so that it may be more easily read.4
* * *
I have discovered the
cause of my failure to learn their language: they use no tense to
denote time. With this revelation, and some time, I have begun to
communicate with them. I have come to believe that they do not perceive
time as passing. Time certainly goes on around them, but they are not
concerned. Here, I have seen no person dwell on the past. I have seen
no person plan for the future. The tribe is wholly present.
If I were to describe a journey to these people I
would do so in the present tense. But, stranger still, they assume some
part of me is still traveling, as though my memories of the journey
were as real as I. My life is a web of possibilities of which I
represent only one. I believe that to forget this memory of the
journey, of this possible me, is the same as killing that me. Just as
they die, so too do their memories. When a person dies he begins to
fade away, the body first and, later, the memory of that person. For
this tribe, a person remains alive until he is forgotten.
* * *
I admit that when I finished reading this account I
assumed the writer had lost his mind in the jungle. A tribe whose
language lacks any tense to denote time is one thing, but a people who
do not perceive the past or the future is another. Such an idea is
madness; do they not see the motions of the stars? Surely these people
cannot exist.
What human could exist without acknowledging time?
No man can see another die without admitting that he too will share in
that ultimate fate. Is it not the knowledge of time which sets us above
the beasts of the world? Do we not harness the movement of the very
world we live upon to track the passing seconds? Time is our crowning
achievement. It is central to our existence.
Yet, as I read over the lunatic’s account I
found myself slowly convinced by his gospel. I now find myself
entertaining his account. I often wonder, did their language, with no
way to denote time, limit their reality, or was the limit imposed on
the language because they never came to the realization that time is in
constant motion? I often wander around this circle in disbelief.
The journal outlines many aspects of the
tribe’s culture, but I have found myself most intrigued by the
prospect of their memories. To think, to be remembered is to achieve
immortality. It is not surprising that the journal makes no mention of
art. For the tribe, stories told about an ancestor or friend are of the
greatest importance because to forget the story is to kill that person.
I write to document my thoughts, which occurred in
the past, in an attempt to preserve them for the future because, in my
society, only art can preserve a man. But for the tribe it is the human
memory, not art, which becomes a monument to outlast the ages. Could
art ever exist in such a society? Certainly the tribe could never weave
tales as great as Homer’s. What member of the tribe would second
guess Odysseus’ return after twenty years? Why would Achilles
seek revenge for the death of Patroclus? These men were remembered, and
so very much alive. Tragedy, for the tribe, is to be forgotten, and at
that point does it matter?
Art is more than simple memories. If we burned all
of Plato would he be remembered? Would his words live on through us?
They would, they demand it. I am wrong to call these words of mine art.
They are nothing more than vessels which carry my thoughts throughout
time. Art is crafted. We do not simply recount events; we create out of
our very souls. We give birth. We breathe life into the letters.
15??
1602
1 Translated and edited by Maria Gabriella.
2 This subtitle was added by
the editor. The section follows a gap created by missing pages. Of the
remaining pages, the section begins with page 42 of the manuscript.
3 Because of the missing pages
the exact location of this encampment and the mysterious “Red
Bank” are unknown, though researchers suggest a variety of rivers
in both Central and South America.
4 A sketch of the unnamed tribe
describing various aspects of its culture, such as its social
hierarchy, family structure, and living conditions, follows. The
editors have chosen to include only the short passage concerning its
language and concept of time. |
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