I am an artist. Never mind which kind of artist, for it is such an onerous thing to have to deem oneself this or that. I would like to make a proposal to you both.…My proposal verges on the simple. I would like to shoot Mr. Cruise and a (sexless) 5-year-old into outer space. They will be contained within a capsule (a word that needn’t be treated with orthodoxy) that NASA will have to approve, if not design. They will be launched into a sector of space, the coordinates of which are consummately unimportant.
“The worst dream I ever had involved a house and a field. I was outside the house, under a big sky. It was all Technicolor blues and greens. I had gone to this house to help save my “best friend,” a sort of grimacing scarecrow figure, from persecution. He was accused of having committed a murder with an ax. The body of the dream consisted of the straw man chasing me over rutted roads and into a field, finally catching up with me where I was halted at a tall, wooden, electrified fence. All this under a wide, solidly blue sky.”—Rebecca Wolff, The Beginners.
The sowings, the harvests, the wine-presses, all those familiar things which the Scriptures mention, formed a part of her life; the word of God sanctified them; and she loved the lambs with increased tenderness for the sake of the Lamb, and the doves because of the Holy Ghost.
She found it hard, however, to think of the latter as a person, for was it not a bird, a flame, and sometimes only a breath? Perhaps it is its light that at night hovers over swamps, its breath that propels the clouds, its voice that renders church-bells harmonious. And Felicite worshipped devoutly, while enjoying the coolness and the stillness of the church.
“Wasn’t the point, for a while at least, to arrive at a perfectly meaningless name, so as to imply a certain anti-necessity to the magazine’s existence? The New Hungarian Quarterly almost gets there, but “Hungarian” tilts it just over the edge into whimsy or obscurity, maybe. Maybe not. The backstory is so charming—but the theft is too clever? “New” is a great word for adding a kind of vague pomposity. The New Leader, the New Republic, the New Criterion, maybe the New Masses—when you look at them a second time, they are crazy, awful, arrogant names, but “New” somehow covers their asses. That’s what might recommend something like the New Dial—I mean, dials hardly even exist anymore, and maybe “New” adds enough charge that no one will notice? (Whereas the Very Obsolescent Dial would be bad Barthelme.) But it might be just too innocuous.”—
Sam Frank, email from September 25, 2007, 1:25 a.m.
From the selected correspondence of Triple Canopy, before the magazine had settled on a name. Read more from the archives of firstname.lastname@example.org in "Re: Our Name."