Editor's Note
For all that is said about empathy, what is actually meant?
Empathy would be much more easily grasped if it were a dirt bike, with 8000 horsepower, twin-sided swing arm rear suspension, and decked out with flame decals. You could pull up to the front steps of your date’s house on the night of the big dance and knock on the door. Her father would answer and he’d say, hold up, son, how do I know you’re a decent enough fella to take my daughter to the dance? Oh, is that empathy I see? Have a great night.
Maybe it could be a goofy hat, destined to be a slightly cocked adornment on an amiable face. Or more ephemeral: the whisper of mustard-inflected air from the initial pump of the bottle. Or just a rock somewhere, undistinguishable from all others in appearance, but definitely empathy.
As long as empathy is not stocked on the shelves of CVS, it is especially worthwhile to search for it wherever possible.
At an adult recreational league football game. In the silt of the Great Lakes. Cruising the streets of Tokyo on your hog.
You could be speeding through the back alleys, utterly cranking on your ape hangers, and then at a red light you look over and there it is. Cracking the visor of your helmet (decaled with flames), you catch a glimpse of it through a tinted window. With just three revs and an exchange of knowing nods, you could be locked in a death-defying drag race with empathy itself.
That night could last forever; you will never forget the burning smell of cutting righteous drifts alongside the ability to feel and understand others.
You do not need to be a savage road warrior to practice empathy. Even now, with my chopper in the shop, I’ve found a considerable amount of empathy in the process of developing this edition of The Penn Review. I like to imagine all authors in the most favorable way possible, as people with the most insatiable desire to achieve their goals, who have something they absolutely must express, who have spent the total summation of their life just to submit to our magazine. A kind of artistic speed demon. At least, that’s the way I’d like to be thought of when I am read.
It has been an honor to read every piece that has been submitted. I hope you are able to feel that same ferocity in the works we’ve selected, in any artist’s endeavors, and in the way hotdog vendors apply condiments to your tubes.