Editor's Letter
On the Special "Schism" Issue
As I sit at my son’s swim practice, watching the dividers cut through the water—blue and yellow pulsing in alternating waves—it’s hard not to think about division. The pool is clearly demarcated, an oblong rectangle, its edges sharply defined. It ends, and the space is closed. I wonder if it’s possible to feel the same about our current moment in history—a moment that, like the pool, seems both sharply outlined and yet, oddly, open-ended.
The theme for this issue, Schism, emerged after reading José Hernandez Diaz's poem “The Mirror World.” The way the poem captured the sense of fragmentation, of a world that no longer felt whole, felt deeply familiar. As I read it, I couldn’t shake the growing sense of unease that’s been creeping into my life and the lives of so many others—writers, artists, creatives, and even people simply trying to make sense of their place in a world that doesn’t feel settled.
These are strange days. I don’t want to say that we have it harder than those who came before us—history has never been kind, and it’s unlikely the world has ever been free from conflict and turmoil—but I do feel as if we’re standing on the precipice of something we’re struggling to describe. The unease is palpable. It’s as though we live in a kind of "mirror world" where things are out of place, and answers are scarce. Like the puzzle pieces of history—pieces that once seemed so easy to fit together—are now more puzzling than ever.
Diaz’s poem captures the essence of this dissonance—this otherness. It’s a world where the mirror does not offer clarity but only more distortion. And as I read through the submissions for this issue, I saw that same sense of fractured reality reflected in the work. These artists and writers are grappling with the hardest questions—questions that seem to have no answers—and yet their work asks us to confront them head-on. What is the nature of life, love, death, beauty, sexuality, the body, community, and spirituality in a time like this? What happens when the things we once knew no longer make sense?
The art and literature published in this issue are filled with those kinds of questions. They don't promise solutions. They simply hold up the mirror, inviting us to look deeper into ourselves, into each other, and into the space between. In Richard Fisher’s article for the BBC, he asks if we’re living at the "hinge of history." It feels like we are—caught somewhere between what was and what is yet to come. And while this space can feel uncomfortable, it is also where the most vital, urgent art seems to be taking shape. The contributors’ work in this issue reflects that moment of tension—raw, unvarnished, and un-sugarcoated. It doesn’t pretend to have all the answers. What this issue does have are pieces that speak to one another, fragments of a conversation that is far from finished.
This issue is also a response to the overwhelming weight of the times we live in. As I watched a documentary on the Herculanian Scrolls, I was struck by the image of people fleeing the eruption of Vesuvius, clutching the works of literature they wanted to preserve. The scrolls, after all, were among the first things people thought to save. This is how we, too, turn to art in moments of crisis—seeking to preserve our voices, our thoughts, our collective humanity. Just as those in the Mansion of the Herculaneum Scrolls grasped at words to save, so too are we here, grappling with our own understanding of the world through literature and art.
One piece I’d like to especially highlight is Adedayo Agarau's essay "What in the World is Happening in Nigeria? On the Recent Explosion of Nigerian Poetry on the World Stage," which I personally commissioned. It’s a timely exploration of the seismic shift in global literary consciousness around Nigerian poetry and an essential response to a global question: what does it mean when a wave of artistic energy rises from a place often overlooked by the mainstream? As a poetry editor, I’ve been having this conversation with many editors, and Agarau's essay offers a glimpse into what’s working, what’s possible, and why Nigerian writers are making such an impact right now. I believe it speaks to the larger "schism" we are living through—one that’s not only political, but also deeply creative. Agarau’s essay reminds us that, in spite of the countless hardships we face—the act of creating, of making art, persists. And in this persistence, perhaps there is hope.
I’ll leave you with a story I’ve shared before—a juror once asked me why my writing was so “sad.” It was an innocent enough question, but it struck me as telling. Why does art so often have to be happy to be considered successful? Why can’t it be messy, troubled, complex? These pieces in this special issue reflect a moment in time that is, by its very nature, uneasy. But they also reflect the resilience of artists who refuse to turn away from the hard questions. Art was never meant to grapple with the easy subjects, and in these pages, you’ll see that struggle laid bare.
As you read these works, I hope you find a snapshot of what artists are grappling with—what they are thinking, what they are working on, and what they are committing to in these difficult, fragmented times. We may not have answers, but perhaps we don’t need them. For now, we are here, sharing our voices and our questions.
Oh, and I want to thank Sanchari Sur Editor-in-Chief for her generosity of spirit and willingness to take a chance on me to put this special issue together, and for Shanai and Ryanne for putting up with my numerous emails and questions. You are incredible.
Take care and happy reading.
— [Puneet Dutt]
Guest Editor, Ex-Puritan Magazine
