After a hundred years
Nobody knows the place,—
Agony, that enacted there,
Motionless as peace.
- Emily Dickinson

Here at Whistling Shade we are not terribly interested in cannons or reputation. We thought it might be interesting, though, to take a step back from the furious clamor that is contemporary publishing and speculate on which living writers will have lasting power. For the feature article in this issue we chose a hundred years—long enough for fads and prejudices to run their course, and the writing to sink into cultural terra firma. At this distance any fame achieved through cult status (Charles Bukowski) or persona (Jack Kerouac) has pretty much drifted away, and the work must stand on its own or be forgotten.

In retrospect, it should have been obvious that John Keats and not John Keble was destined to be read by posterity. But working on the ground floor, as it were, it’s not always easy to separate the wheat from the chaff—particularly not in early 21st century, when thousands of novels and poetry collections are published each year, to a deafening literary buzz. We must also keep in mind that time does strange things to a text. A quiet domestic novel by, say, Anne Tyler might seem prosaic to the readers of today—but in a hundred could appear as quaint and enchanting as Pride and Prejudice. Sophisticated or avant-garde writers might not fare as well. Anne Bradstreet referred to the verses of then-celebrated Guillaume du Bartas as something far above her “obscure Lines”, but her simple, hand-spun poems are still anthologized, while the complex epics of the French poet are now unknown. We have any number of du Bartases in our own time. Along with simplicity, many “classic” works typify a society (Buddenbrooks), or forge a new genre or mythology (Waverly, Le Morte d’Arthur). They also have that certain timeless quality that seems to hover, halo-like, around all great art (the poems of Gabriela Mistral).

Most books will not become classics, even if they deserve to be. At best a few surviving copies might find rest on a dusty book shelf somewhere, lost worlds occasionally re-explored by a curious reader. This should not be too upsetting. All literature—whether a hundred year classic or poetry chapbook published yesterday—seeks the same destination: the home of the reader who, if it is a good book, will be enlightened, touched, entertained, possibly even inspired. With that in mind, welcome to the Winter 2005-2006 issue of Whistling Shade. You will be among the select few to first meet Justin Teerlinck’s gay Buddhist monks, travel to an unfinished house in Bulgaria with Zdravka Evtimova, or understand, along with Mike Young, that faith is a sock. The first readers, but perhaps not the last—only time will tell.