Bryce Taylor
Bryce Taylor
Recent Stories
Poetry: For Michele
She would have walked the stage in May and left
Boustrophedon
“A straight line first,” my father said, “then turn
A Prodigal Winter
Much could be made of winter’s first real flurry
Taylor: Una familia de Armas
An Essay
De Armas. “Of weapons.” My half-Cuban mother’s maiden name. Which is conceivably related, in some murky hereditary way, to the fact that most of my relatives, on her side, appear to be drawn to vocations not incomparable to that of a soldier. They’re lawyers battling for justice, pastors battling for faith, CFOs battling for solvency. And of course there’s that cousin of mine, Caleb, who went all the way with it and became an actual soldier, in the Army, driving tanks and everything.
Taylor: Goodbye, Salinger
Untimely Mediations
I’m not sure I would be writing if Salinger hadn’t written. During spring break of my senior year in high school, I was in my cousin’s apartment in Florida, finishing up Salinger’s “Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters” before going to sleep for the night.
Taylor: Waking up and finding the light
All night, my eyes were downcast, tethered to books and papers and the computer screen. Enervating flatness. By the time my work was done, the night sky was hinting at daylight, and I knew I’d reached the point of no return. I turned to Thoreau.
Taylor: A principal worth the name
Last week, a band of courageous Yale students marched around campus and put their chalk to the concrete, advancing new names for those residential colleges whose eponyms either supported slavery or owned slaves themselves.
Taylor: Working out the passions
“Please do not expectorate in the drinking fountain.” This is the genial greeting you receive as you take a drink in the “Ace” Israel Fitness Center in the Payne Whitney Gymnasium. Typical Yalie multi-tasking — hydrate while beefing up your vocabulary.
Taylor: A worm amid tombstones
Black metal spears, their tips pointed skyward, line Grove Street in legions. They form a fence, and behind them are graves. One might wonder, trudging along the sidewalk, what invisible army it is that holds these spears. One might feel grateful that they protect us from the dead.