Articles

  • Nov 27, 2024 | commonwealmagazine.org | William Davis |Charles McNamara |Stephen Pope |Regina Munch

    NativityIf you squint slightly you will be able to see,deep in the donkey’s slitted eye, the whole scenereflected. Used to being pushed off to the side,he stands stolid and docile beside an overturnedbucket and a bale of hay hurriedly strewn aboutwithout much thought, or afterthought. The lightis dim except for some unaccountable glimmerthat seems to come from above, circling the smallcentral scene.

  • Nov 27, 2024 | commonwealmagazine.org | Charles McNamara |Stephen Pope |Regina Munch

    A Desert CompassI read the article “Elegy” by Kathleen Hill (September) with a mix of delight and misplaced nostalgia, as the nostalgia is not mine. My parents met in Zinder in the early 1970s and maintained a mostly written correspondence with Fr. Guy Romano until his passing a few years ago. My childhood was peppered with anecdotes, goatskin wall hangings, and songs in Hausa—so much so that it inspired me to launch my own nonprofit organization, Akoma Ntoso Foundation.

  • Nov 27, 2024 | commonwealmagazine.org | Patrick T. Reardon |Charles McNamara |Stephen Pope |Regina Munch

    Lucy Richardson was deceivedby the voices, overpoweredby the visions, covered over. She let herself be duped. She embraced her deception,locked it in her heart with a thousand keys. Ridiculed the livelong day,mocked by every mouth. She shouted. Warned violence,destruction, thunder and fire. Taunted by passersby. A womanof sorrow, acquainted with infirmity. Insult and reproach were her dailybread. Her good they made evil,her evil good. She determined to warn no more. No more spew grim prophecies.

  • Nov 27, 2024 | commonwealmagazine.org | Stuart Dybek |Charles McNamara |Stephen Pope |Regina Munch

    The tracks of whatever he’s been following endat an abandoned mill where a river exhalesfrom a beaver dam, without pausing to breathe in. He needs to retrace the waffled prints he’s stampedon fields and pastures whose barbed fencesare drifted over, and that wind is swirling away. He didn’t set out snowshoeing across an erasedlandscape to wait beside a river while it prayed.

  • Nov 27, 2024 | commonwealmagazine.org | Paul Lauritzen |Charles McNamara |Stephen Pope |Regina Munch

    I have always enjoyed walking in cemeteries. They can be places of serenity where it is possible to escape the noise of everyday life. But when I strolled through Montparnasse Cemetery in 2019, it was not as refuge from the hectic pace of a trip to Paris. My visit was, instead, a kind of pilgrimage to the final resting place of many important writers, including Samuel Beckett, Charles Baudelaire, Simone de Beauvoir, and Jean-Paul Sartre.

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