Literature isn't necessarily a polite art form. Though poetry and prose can sometimes display the bearing and dignity of a French courtesan in the banquet hall of King Louis, or maintain a stolid Oxford tone that blushes at vulgarity and harrumphs at the slightest social faux pas, there are most certainly specimens of writing that virtually seethe with growls of the savage and the bestial. Consider the boasts of Beowulf in the mead hall, Odysseus slaughtering all 108 of Penelope's suitors, Bloom's daylong journey though the innards of earthy Dublin, or the starlight romps of Henry Miller in the brothels of dreamy Paris. This is the kind of literature that could rearrange—even break—the carefully designed furniture placed just-so in your mind. Books with sharp parts, they cut deep and leave their scars. This is literature that pushes against taboos, challenges even the most hardened of readers, and shatters preconceptions like mere toys made out of glass. What can be better than that?

Writing is a tricky form, both to produce and to consume, because it requires a long benefit of hours and very often an exacting mind. You must be able to live in time, with the absorption and restraint of a Benedictine monk. To test your tolerance, crack open one of those massive 19th century productions by Proust or Balzac or even Dickens and see if they don't require any labor on your part; if you are willing to do the heavy lifting, you will soon discover that those great novelists, so long removed from the current scene, can still reveal important truths about our humanity and our lives. But simply eating the leaf of the patience tree won't magically supply an abundance of mental fortitude, just like a few peremptory keystrokes on your laptop could never conjure up the astonishment of a human masterpiece. Art is a demanding djinn, in any medium, and in order to tame the demon we must surrender our very selves. "You have to put your whole soul into it," Treasury Agent Dave Foley says to the eponymous anti-hero in The Friends of Eddie Coyle, essentially warning Eddie of the perils of half-hearted snitching. Or, to conjure up one of my favorite gems, from the Vietnam-war film 84 Charlie MoPic: "If you're gonna be a bear, be a fuckin' grizzly." Whether you're pouring out prose or flinging paint on a canvas or immersing yourself in a thousand-page tome, the same principle always applies: be patient, be bold, be grand (or, to put it more simply, in the words of our former First Lady: "Be best!).  

In this wonderful issue of The Match Factory, you will encounter a revolving platter of grand delights, each piece belting out a cherished song, exuding a dazzle of color, or simply exulting in the pleasures of life. Brilliant writing and visuals abound. Gillian Goris's poem, "Yemaya's Homecoming," gives us the portrait of an ecstatic self-surrender, as the Yoruba ocean goddess overwhelms the narrator with her forceful waves. "More Love Hours Than Can Ever Be Repaid," Tallulah Klein's forceful tribute to workers (inspired by the art of Mike Kelley), demonstrates how multitudes of wage earners live thanklessly due to feckless employers. Eve Rafael's "Warp and Weft" is a visionary poem that summons a number of bards to ply their poetic yarn through the sensuous ravel she has devised. Kylie McKeon's "Pistolero," a seeming homage to the Cohen Brothers' The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, provides an action-packed revenge narrative staged in the dry and dusty western territories. "Cruel City (Reconciliation)" and "Far Too Late To Think This Much" both imagine a future apocalypse lightened throughout by declarations of hope, and Tayo Van Beever's heartbreaking poem about a narrator recalling the angelic mother who passed from this earth too soon is one that is sure to bring you to tears. 

The short stories in this issue are nothing short of brilliant. Eli Kurland's blazingly original tale "The Countdowner" envisions the life of a NASA countdowner who takes his job way too seriously. This imaginative story features a hilarious cameo by Sesame Street's own avian giant, Big Bird, that should not be missed. Scout Baldwin unleashes a fiendish horror tale from the laboratory of her brain, "The Pyre," in which a shipwrecked man is set adrift on a lonesome sea, and must resort to gruesome measures in order to survive. "The Many Ways the King Did Not Die," by Samuel Holovacs, is a magnificent story with cleverly staged and entertaining set pieces swirling within a circular narrative. Vivian Zhang's "White Sneakers" sympathetically relates the story of Mei, a young girl who hails from bustling Guangzhou, China, who is forced to navigate the choppy American waters of a suburban junior high school. 

There are also a trio of smartly observed writings on David Cronenberg's 2005 action-thriller A History of Violence, along with Kimberly Lim's sharp, astute analysis of the arthouse hit Anatomy of a Fall and a plangent, beautifully written review of a powerful film whose subject is deafness, The Sound of Metal. Raoul Barba offers up his exuberant take on a Peter Gabriel concert he attended, while David Steindl's "Big Man" is a luminous personal meditation on his admirable father and the perplexing, galling issue of gun violence. 

There is so much to enjoy in this issue! And please don't forget to submit your best writing to this year's annual contest—the deadline is April 1st. 

As ever, I wish to thank Laurie Johenning, Director of Operations in the Humanities & Sciences Department, for all of her patient care and hard work in helping to put together this issue; Dr. Kyoko Miyabe, Chair of the Humanities & Sciences Department; and to all of my colleagues at SVA, who work damn hard to inspire all their students.