Meet Patty, Who’s Disrupting the Peace with her New Novel [Q&A]

Patty Yumi Cottrell is a Hamline alum with a Bachelor of the Arts in English. She'll be returning to campus this month to read and discuss her novel Sorry to Disrupt the Peace. The reading group is open to students, alumni, faculty, and staff members Thursday, April 13th from 11:30 am - 12:30 pm. A public reading will take place at 7 pm later that day in Giddens Learning Center 100E with a reception following in the GLC Art Gallery.

Rooms Never Without Views [Essay]

In America, one might have an attic, a cubbyhole, but in France an entire, once livable room is preserved for the past's relics because days gone by deserve their own private enclave. A chest of priest's vestments in perfect condition from, no one knows for sure, 1920s? Newspapers in yellow bundles that crumble apart rotten communion hosts. They detail events of world wars and the deaths of presidents. Boxes of dolls from many childhoods of at least three generations of women. Life size babies with disconcertingly human eyes and coifs of horsehair. A tin container containing medallions of religious belief: blue jewel Marys, crosses with green serpents entwined, other crosses with ornately tortured Jesuses in tears of blood, and simple Celtic-like crosses aged in bumpy accretions of tarnish and mold obscuring silver plating. A find to excite even the staunchest of atheists. Boxes of postcards from such places as Lourdes, the Pyrénées, Corsica, Paris, Nice, Menton, Tunisia, Algiers– Europa Exotica. The photos they contain...

A Newer Realm of Poetry – Ai Quing

Ai Qing (1910—1996), originally named Jiang Haicheng, belonged to Jinhua County, Zhejiang Province of China. He was the son of well to do land owner. He spent his first five years living with his nursemaid, a poor peasant woman, on whom he later wrote a poem that went on to become his most famous piece. In 1928, he was enrolled in the state-run West Lake Art School.

The Invitation [Short Story]

One winter night, well after most God-fearing, good people had gone to sleep, flashing red lights stabbed at the darkness, reflecting off the wet white surface of snowbanks as an ambulance sped down French Road, past the garage, past the playground, hanging a left on Main Street toward the school district’s administrative offices. The boys inside turned on the siren—unnecessary in the absence of traffic, but they could hardly help themselves in the thrill of the moment, called to the scene in a matter of life and death, and not on account of one of the senior citizens they were always too late to help. Holly Meacher had called them and explained in teary, breathless sentences that her husband—a man who, by all accounts, was in the prime of his life—wasn’t breathing, dear God, he wasn’t breathing.