Research: Journals
The Journal
Issue 33.1
J. David Stevens
LiterallyGavin was from the country and took everything literally. Out back, we shot him, and he died. We stabbed him, and he died. We strangled him, and he died.
"Some things are only metaphors," Bob repeated. Gavin nodded. We impaled him on a stake, and he died.
"These country folk aren't the swiftest fish in the pond," George said.
We set Gavin on the chair again. We explained figurative language. We reminded him that words can mean one thing but another thing, too. The greatest problem with the contemporary readership, Harold confirmed, was its association of each word with a single, specific meaning. It was unsubtle at best, functional illiteracy at worst.
We tied Gavin's limbs to four horses and set them running in opposite directions, tearing him apart. He died.
This was too much for Tom. He set Gavin on the chair and asked him about the reading list he'd been assigned. "For example, despair is not always despair," Tom opined, his usual line. "Sometimes it's art."
"You might try Zola or Dreiser," Bob said.
"The Book of Job would be best," George added.
But Gavin shook his head. He was from the country, and country people just didn't think this way. Maybe if there were one sure thing, he said, that never changed no matter how relative everything else was, then he could offer it to his people as a kind of promise. They had sent him to the city to learn, and he wanted to teach them something.
We thought for a moment. "There's no saving everyone," I said. Bob, George, Tom, and Harold nodded. As Gavin pursed his lips in consideration, Tom took an axe and split his head down to the collarbone. Gavin died.
"What else can you do?" George said.
