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VOLUME VI SPRING, 1963 NUMBER 3

TABLE OF CONTENTS

RISIPORIAD © 5 2 oe ee ee 3
CONTRIBUTORS and EDITORTS NOTHS225625 2 40
FEATURE

Interview with Ralph McGill..33..34 0) ee 4
FICTION

The New River by B. Tolson. Waite: 3.5 = ee 12

James Davis and Kattie by Millard Maloney...»

HouseTof'Cards by Larry Biivatdss 3 6 ee a 24

Wisteria:by Sue-Ellen Brid@era. 2 8 Eee SS 28

Carnation for Summer by Pat: 5. Wie 82
ESSAYS

William Faulkner"His Descriptions of Nature by

Mary E. Poindextertc 20

Only the Image Reappears by Sanford Peele__...-_-_____________ 26
POETRY

Cat, by Helen Jenning#ij6> 7 3 ee 19

Into:a Pruned ParkTby:.B. Poon: Wii eas 26

En'~Marienbad by Sanford -peeie 2s se 31
REBEL REVIEWS

Reviews by Ben Bridgers, Gene Hugulet, Jim Forsyth, and Brenda

Canine a eS ea 36

COVER by Larry Blizard
PHOTOGRAPHY by Junius D. Grimes III

THE REBEL is published by the Student Government Association of East
Carolina College. It was created by the Publications Board of East Carolina
College as a literary magazine to be edited by students and designed for
the publication of student material.

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1420, E.C.C., Greenville, North Carolina. Editorial and business offices
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EDITORIAL

In the interview with Ralph McGill in this issue
of the REBEL, he gives an interesting answer to
a question concerning the morals of American
youth. The question was, oDo you think that
the morals of American youth are undergoing a
transition today?� The basis for this question
was an article by Fred and Mary Heschinger in
a recent Sunday New York Times Magazine.
Their feeling was that our morals are undergoing
a definite liberalization, if indeed, they are not
becoming libertine. Their chief basis for this
is the open and frank discussion of sexual and
moral problems which they say prevails on to-
dayTs college campuses. They apparently disap-
prove, and feel that it is the responsibility of
colleges and universities to exercise in loco pa-
rentis to force adherence to traditional moral
standards where it appears that the students
themselves have not been so reared prior to col-
lege as to make such measures unnecessary.

Mr. McGillTs answer to the question was that
he believes it is not that our morals are under-
going any tremendous transformation, but rather
that the American youth of today are simply more
honest than they were in the Victorian era or
the era of the twenties. The Victorians were
hypocrites, and the twenties he calls the days of
the silver flask and bath-tub gin and the flapper,
of free-love and necking, of Greenwich Village
and ~the revolt in literature. Today, he continues,
seems comparatively mild.

We are not wholly in accord with Mr. McGill.
Bath-tub gin has simply been replaced by tax-paid
whiskey; the flapper has been replaced by great
groups gyrating some new craze called the thun-
derbird; Greenwich Village is still around and
the revolt in literature has more or less quieted
into commonplace acceptance. But the fact that
these things are more above board does not make
them necessarily quieter. It may make them
noisier.

But we do agree with Mr. McGill on one point
and disagree with the Heschingers. The open dis-

cussion and acceptance of the existence of prob-
lems of sex and morals is advantageous and should
not be perverted or controlled extensively by any-
one. If traditional moral standards are disap-
pearing, then it is not the responsibility of indi-
viduals who still wish to adhere to them to enforce
that adherence on others who do not. In fact, it
seems natural enough that with the disappearance
of the shibboleths and fears that sustained certain
moral attitudes and practices long after their
practical value had ceased to exist, the moral
values themselves should change or at least become
more honest.

As evidence of the benefits to be reaped from
wider and more open acceptance and discussion
of attitudes and practices that have existed all
along, we would point out the number of books
and movies that are accepted today that would
never have passed a board of censors ten years
ago. And these books and films are not trashy
Fabian types, but make a real contribution to con-
temporary American art. Books like MillerTs
Tropics have only in the last five years been
printed openly in the United States. Catch 22,
by Joseph Heller, which may well be regarded
as one of the great war novels of America, would
not have had a chance for open publication had
it been written ten years earlier. Certainly, it
would have had nothing like the wide public dis-
cussion it is currently receiving.

A recent movie, Hud, according to the majority
of the critics is an open and honest presentatior.
of an S.0.B. (Something they seem to think is
typical of contemporary society). It would not
have been produced five years ago. And the fail-
ure to produce such a movie, or to publish such
books would have been a failure to give to the
American public the honesty and integrity they
deserve from art. Consequently, if openness and
honesty are to be viewed by the Heschingers,
et al as indices of moral transition and decline,
we are heartily in favor of it, tradition notwith-
standing.

4
i
i

Ralph McGill was born in Tennessee and edu-
cated in the public schools of that state and at
Vanderbilt University. He came of age at a time
when the South was being changed and shaken
and as editor of the Atlanta Constitution has
championed the rights of freedom for a new and
better South. His recent book, The South and
the Southerner was winner of the Atlantic non-

fiction award.

Juterview with

RALPH McGILL

Interviewer: Has there been a failure in lead-
ership in the deep South?

Mr. McGill: Yes. I donTt think thereTs any
question but what there has been a failure of
leadership in the deep South. I donTt know that
this was a conscious failure. I believe that in re-
trospect we ought to be ashamed of this failure,
and probably are ashamed of it, because we should
have known that change was coming; and we
should have made some move to take care of it.
This we did not do. Here in Atlanta, for example,
I remember writing some months or weeks, at
least, before the nineteen fifty-four school season
that the decision was certainly coming, that it
could not be anything except what it was"a de-
segration decision, and that no one was doing any-
thing about it. The school board was not, the city
government was not, the newspapers were not, and
none of the P.T.A.Ts were discussing it. There

4

was a great silence, and yet everyone must have
known this was coming.

Now this was true all over the South. Here was
the great decision that broke the log jam. It had
been in the works a long time. Some people acted
surprised when it came, but it was not really a
surprise. We had had the previous decisions in
some years before. In fact we had already had
Negroes in Southern universities before the nine-
teen fifty-four school decision. L.S.U. had given
graduate degrees to two Negroes in nineteen
fifty-two or three. At the University of Arkansas,
there had been over a hundred graduate degrees
given to Negroes before the T54 decision. Texas
and Oklahoma had also admitted Negroes to grad-
uate schools. And yet we all sat back and waited
and waited, and did nothing . . . and acted, when
the decision came in May, T54, as if this were a
great unpleasant surprise. So there was failure,
and there has been failure since.

THE REBEL

~~

Interviewer: To what extent do you think that
this failure in the leadership has been responsible
for the problems in the South?

Mr. McGill: I think largely responsible. Not
wholly, perhaps, because I would be the last to
ignore the facts of tradition and the facts of cus-
tom, cemented by years of observance. But none
the less, I think I would have to say that failure
of this leadership to act responsibly is in the
main the reason for our troubles.

I donTt know if you remember how it was after
this decision. There was a period there of some
weeks, really about a couple of months, in which
there was a sort of silence. People said, oI donTt
like this school decision, but I guess I knew it
was coming;� or oI wish it hadnTt come; I hate
it; I donTt like the idea of my children going to
school with Negroes, but the Supreme Court has
ruled, and I guess weTll have to observe it.�T This
was pretty general. In my analysis of it, I rather
think that the fault lies chiefly in Virginia. Vir-
ginia is one of our most respected states, or was.
Virginia has a great tradition of civil rights,
human rights, the great tradition of Jefferson, and
all the other Virginians who contributed so much
to our history. At the time of this decision the
demagogues, such as our Marvin Griffin, then gov-
ernor of Georgia, and others over the South were
not being listened to very much, because they
werenTt too respected, and people would choose the
Supreme Court over them. But all the sudden,
here came Virginia, led by Senator Byrd, a re-
spected figure of conservatism, and Virginia began
talking about interposition. We may laugh about
this now, but for a time Virginia in effect threw
the cloak of her great respectability and tradition
about the backs of rascals and prejudiced de-
magogues, and all of the worst elements in the
South suddenly found that they had a respectable
leader, Virginia.

Then really the dam broke. All these people
came screaming out; the legislatures met; they
began to pass all sorts of foolish restrictive legis-
lation; and the air was filled with defiance. But
I think without any doubt, had the real business
leaders and the decent political leadership and the
clergy stepped forward, in that lull that followed
the decision, there would not have been the trav-

ail we now have.

Interviewer: Do you think that the church,
both black and white, has failed the South in the
integration crises or in the time leading up to
these crises?

Mr. McGill: Well, with certain notable excep-

SPRING, 1963

SSS

tions, I donTt think thereTs any doubt but that the
church in general has failed. I know that this is
probably the cause of more private agony on the
part of Southern ministers than any other thing
that has happened in their life time. ITve talked
to a great many. I have on my desk as we talk now
letters that have come in just in the last few days.
I have letters from ministers in Birmingham, and
these are really pathetic letters. ITve letters from
others who just sort of pour out their agony. What
can they do, they ask. The power structure of
their churches, the big givers, the men who are
the deacons, the elders, the vestry"they all along
have been on the side of the status quo. They have
joined in and supported the Bull Connors, the
Ross Barnetts, and the George Wallaces. And
the minister either makes a decision to resign or
to speak out and be fired. Over a hundred South-
ern ministers have been booted out of their
churches. Or shall they say, oWell, I will try to
stay here and hold this together, and slowly work
it out, if I can.� And I donTt criticize these men.
I criticize some of these who have gone with the
mob, and some of them have gone with the mob.

In Mississippi, some very fine young Methodist
ministers have been kicked out of their churches.
And there have been some loud voices of other
churches down there going with the mob. And ITm
an Episcopalian. WeTve had our own shameful
ministers in some of the Southern states who have
gone with the mob. The Baptists, Presbyterians,
even some of the Roman Catholics have had trou-
ble. But I think that thereTs a change, now. The
Roman Catholic church has moved strongly, the
Presbyterians recently have taken action, the
Episcopal church, Methodist, others .. . So I think
thereTs a change. But I donTt think even the
church itself would deny that it has been a failure
in these early years of this great problem.

Interviewer: Do you feel, as Tom Pettigrew of
Harvard, that integration is a function of urbani-
zation, that it will come first in the large cities and
then filter down to the rural areas?

Mr. McGill: Oh, I think this unquestionably,
and I think this would be a wise plan and policy.
I have editorially urged this from the beginning.
Rural population is declining everywhere. ItTs
moving to the cities and to the suburbs. This is
where the people are, and I think this is where the
energy and the money for legal cost should be
spent, in the cities; and then, once this is won, the
rural areas will have to fall into line. But I think
it is folly to spend a lot of time and energy in the
small town.

Interviewer: What do you feel is the real basis
for segregation? Why do you think so many
Southerners unreasoningly hate the Negroes?

Mr. McGill: Well, ITve thought about this a lot,
as obviously you and your associates have. And
it might be a good time for me to congratulate
you on this magazine you get out up there. ITve
had the pleasure of reading the copies youTve sent
me before your coming. TheyTre really tremend-
ous. I havenTt seen anything anywhere in the
university life of America thatTs better than this.

Well, I think a lot of it is fear"economic fear.
You take the poor white, and you know this prob-
lem of poverty and discrimination is not just the
Negroes. This is where we make a great mistake
in our thinking. Do you know that if you go up
in Chicago, in Pittsburg, and Philadelphia, and
New York, in all of these places, as well as in De-
troit and Seattle, and other areas, there are some
of the most pathetic people youTve ever seen. They
are referred to in these cities as ~Southern hillbil-
lies.� Now these are the poor whites who are not
skilled, who are not educated, who in the heyday of
the industrial revolution had jobs in the tire
factories and in the big automobile assembly
plants. They donTt have them now. TheyTre most-
ly all on relief. Most of them live in little en-
claves in Negro sections of these industrial cities.
They are looked down on by everybody. And what
we have got now in the great industrial cities all
over this country is what I think might be classi-
fied sociologically as a new minority"a new min-
ority of our time. This is the poor uneducated,
unskilled, white man who is on relief just as badly
as the uneducated, unskilled, unemployed Negro;
and these people make up a class which is just
about unemployable. I donTt know that theyTll
ever really be able to hold well-paying jobs in this
industrial society of ours ever again.

Now there are several million of these, and they
are pretty well distributed all over this country.
This is a phenomenon that we have not quite

6

caught on to, come aware of, rather. Now these
people"you take a fellow whose world is pretty
well crumbled around him, he isnTt getting along,
heTs unemployed, and heTs always believed that
his white skin entitled him to something better in
life, and he isnTt getting it. You get out of this
some real hatreds. You go down in the rural
areas where farm life is pinching and where
population is leaving and poverty and the great
corrosive difficulties of trying to live on a small
piece of land, stare them in the face daily and
when they see the educated Negro, and they read
about the rise of the African nations and they see
on television the French-speaking or Oxford-
English voices of Negroes from Africa, this
doesnTt set well.

I sometimes think that weTre getting some bad
reporting out of this violences of Birmingham or
Little Rock or Oxford. After all, I think you
and I"all Southerners"want to keep in mind
that historically the Southern Negro has been and
is a pretty fine, decent, amiable, kind, person. This
is historically true. And if we allow this big
picture of the American Negro, who is trying
just to be American and who wants to share in
the American promise"if we allow this big pic-
ture of a fine, decent person to be obscured by the
little picture"letTs say the photographs out of
Birmingham, showing the dogs and police club-
bing Negroes and knocking women down and
carrying them and throwing them in wagons,
their patrol wagons, or buses"in these small pic-
tures you might have had say, twenty, thirty, may-
be fifty persons. This is a very powerful picture,
but this is a little picture. There are several mil-
lions of Southern Negroes, and if we look at our
history theyTve made a remarkable contribution;
and if we lose sight of the fact that they are try-
ing just to share in this American promise. .
WhatTs wrong with the Negro, if heTs qualified,
voting? WhatTs wrong with him, if heTs skilled,
holding a job? WhatTs wrong with him, if he can
pay for it, and heTs clothed and orderly, being able
to eat in a restaurant? You donTt have to sit at
the table with him if you donTt want to. WhatTs
wrong with him going to a movie in the front door,
rather than having to go to the alley and climb
up into a balcony?

I think we in the South have got to face these
things and get the thing into perspective. After
all the skyTs not going to fall if the Negro has a
lunch and he can pay for it. He isnTt going to
come over and sit with you unless you invite him.
You donTt have to sit with him unless he invites
you and you wish to accept. We greet these great

THE REBEL

fears which are based on nothing. You get people
who actually say, oWell, the next thing, the gov-
ernmentTll be saying youTve got to invite them to
your house.� Well, this is bunk"you know that.
And they say, oWell, you going to have to marry
the Negro?� Well, I think the ordinary marriage
is tough enough; and certainly the person con-
templating any sort of omixed� marriage with a
person speaking a different language or a differ-
ent color would certainly be wise to give great
thought to it. But this is certainly a personal
thing, and not a matter of law or social obligation
or anything. We have allowed, I think, the makers
of myths and the shouters of lies to take up too
much of our time.

Interviewer: In the NegroTs wish for integra-
tion, what value do you think rioting as in Bir-
mingham has had?

Mr. McGill: Well, I think the Alabama thing
has had, and is having, a therapeutic value, just
as, I think, Little Rock did, and Oxford, and other
lesser riots; but especially these big ones, es-
pecially Birmingham, which had a longer period
of time, and which as we talk is still a hot spot.
There comes a time in a manTs thinking when heTs
got to make up his mind. Something like Birming-
ham happens, and he must at one time or another
say to himself, oIs this what I really believe? Do
Bull Connor and Governor Wallace"do they re-
present my thinking? Is this the sort of America
I want? Is this the sort of South I want? Is this
the real Southerner in action in Birmingham? Do
I want to join him?T I think he must go through
some kind of reasoning like this. Now, obviously
there are some in this thing who say, oYes, Bull
Connor is my idea of a Southerner. Governor
Wallace or Ross Barnett"theyTre my bold idea
of a Southerner.� But I think most Southerners
are not thinking that. So I think these things have
a therapeutic value. I know there must be a lot
of cities saying, oI pray to God we never have
a Birmingham here.�

Je 4) Se EF : \

Fa?

SPRING, 1963

Interviewer: Perhaps weTve just been lucky up
until recently, but why do you think North Caro-
lina has been able to handle the integration prob-
lem reasonably successfully, while some of the
other Southern states have not?

Mr. McGill: Well, I think that youTve had there
some public leaders, and you have had some news-
papers which have permitted, or rather, have in-
sisted on a discussion of this. The people in North
Carolina by and large have been made aware for
a long period of time that this issue existed, and
that some decisions had to be made. I think this is
why we were able to do pretty well in Atlanta.
This is why Nashville, Tennessee and other South-
ern cities that I could name and those in North
Carolina have been able to do better than the deep
South. LetTs turn over to Mississippi and Ala-
bama. With the exception of Hodding CarterTs pa-
per, and two weekly papers in Mississippi, the
whole press was on the side of violence and of, well
not violence; they were on the side of the extrem-
ists. This was true in the city of Jackson, Missis-
sippi, the capital of the State, and Natchez, and in
Vicksburg, and in all of the major cities of the
state. There was no other coice; there was never a
debate or, to use the new fangled word, dialogue.
There was never a dialogue. The same is true in
Alabama. It was just about four or five months
ago that the papers in Birmingham began to turn
against Bull ConnorTs ideas and methods. Just a
few months ago they were saying what a great
fellow Bull Connor was, and he was the sort of
leader they wanted as Commissioner of Police. So
the newspapers in Montgomery and Birmingham,
the two major cities, have been very critical of the
Supreme Court, of all of the decisions and talked
a lot of nonsense about federal imposition of pow-
er and all this. The people of Mississippi and
Birmingham never got an opportunity to be heard.
There are many decent people down there... in
both of these states, who donTt think this way.

But I think that in North Carolina you were
lucky in having some newspapers that spoke out,
some clergymen, some business people, some edu-
cational leaders who were willing to take a stand.
This means a great deal. This is the difference.
Some of your students also took stands.

Interviewer: How has the distribution of the
Negro and the Negro problem throughout the rest
of the country affected the viewpoint of other
areas toward the South?

Mr. McGill: I mentioned earlier this phenomen-
on, and a disturbing one of the national distribu-
tion of the product of several generations of seg-

|

regation. HereTs a region which had, like all agri-
cultural regions all over the world, a lower income
than the rest of the nation. To this day the per
capita income of the South is lower than the rest

of the industrial states. We didnTt have enough
money for one good school system"we tried to
maintain two. Until a year or two ago, there were
many rural regions, areas in the South that had no
Negro high schools whatever, and very poor white
high schools. There are still high schools in the
Southern states that do not teach any advanced
mathematics. Georgia Tech has to flunk out about
40 percent of its freshman class, coming from the
high schools largely of Georgia, because they are
not prepared to stay at Georgia Tech. I donTt know
about the University of North Carolina, or your
own college, but I would imagine you would find
some very dismaying statistics of fine young men
and women who have come from high schools
which have simply not prepared them to stay. Now
here in the South, we have grievously discrimi-
nated against generations of white and Negro
children; and now they are in Washington, D. C.
This is a dangerous situation. They, white and
colored, are in all the great industrial cities, and
they are not educated or skilled enough to hold
jobs. This is a national fact which is beginning
to, in some areas, cause people to think; in some
areas itTs causing animosity toward the South for
sending up all these illiterate, uneducated people
who drift off into crime. I think we ought to
wake up to the fact and the meaning of two statis-
tics: one is that for the first time in the history of
the United States, for the very first time in the
history of this great country of ours, the highest
percentage age-group unemployment is in the
youngest age-group, eighteen to twenty-six. For
the first time the young people coming into the
work force are increasingly unable to get jobs.
Why? Too many of them are unable to fill jobs.
Too many of them are the drop-outs, or poorly
prepared, or the failures in high schools. This
is a fact.

WhatTs the other statistic? It is that the great-
est increase in crime is in the same age group.
LetTs put two and two together. A great many
of these youngsters get married. They canTt get
work, married or unmarried. So they turn to
stealing, or to hold-ups, all forms of delinquency.
And this is two and two, makes four. We neednTt
kid ourselves. WeTve got a very bad situation
among a certain percentage of our young Ameri-
cans. And this is not good. This has never hap-
pened before. This is a development of the last
ten or fifteen years. ItTs just now beginning to

8

bear fruit, you might say; and a very ugly fruit it
is.

Interviewer: I was reading an article recently
in the New York Times Magazine on the change
in morals in American youth, discussing primarily
college students. Do you think that we are in a
transition period morally today?

Mr. McGill: Well, ITm not sure that I do think

so. Then we come back to what do we mean by
omorally ?�

Interviewer: LetTs just say standard morals.

Mr. McGill: Standard morals. The Victorian
standard morals, or the twentieth century stand-
ard morals? Standard morals? Gee. ITm sixty-

five years old, just barely. I remember after the
first World War. That was when there came the
great revolt in America. And I would say that the
generation of the nineteen-sixties is fairly calm,
compared with the generation of the twenties.
These were the days of the silver flask, and the
bath tub gin, and the flapper, and of free love,
and necking, and Greenwich Village, and the re-
volt in literature. This was when Southern writ-
ers began to come along, and they were all writers
in rebellion. It was all literature of protest against
the status quo, against the old South, and against
the old Victorian confinements. These were the

days of the novelists that shocked America, and
so forth and so on.

I would say that the morals of American young
people today are more honest. I think they have
been getting more honest since the twenties than
they ever were before. I was asked out the other
night by some youngsters to go to a college dra-
matic group giving readings from John BrownTs
Body. And when it was over, they asked me to go
to one of the little sort of coffee house clubs, except
it was more beer than coffee. I was sitting around,
and they werenTt drinking any beer. They were
having coffee or soft drinks. But I looked around,
and most of them had beer at the tables, some
pitchers of beer or bottles. Some were having
coffee or soft drinks; and I thought to myself that
this was a more honest way of doing things than
in my generation in college; of course, my genera-
tion coincided with prohibition when everything
was furtive and secretive, and hidden and illegal;
I think this is better than our way. Now I donTt
know if this fits into morality. ITm not too disturb-
ed about the morals of young people today. I
think probably theyTre better than those of their
fathers.

THE REBEL

Interviewer: Do you think itTs possible to shock
America now?

Mr. McGill: Well, not in the sense, perhaps,
that they were shocked in the twenties. As I said,
or think I said, that this was a Victorian stand-
ard, against which the twenties were rebelling. So
that today youTve got a much more sophisticated
America, and youTve got a much more mature
America, I think. Certainly a younger maturity.
I can remember when I went to work on a news-
paper. We didnTt even use the word ocancer�
then. We certainly didnTt use the word osyphilis.�
We couldnTt discuss the problem of such a real
big thing then, in those days, venereal disease in a
city and how a great many innocent people were
infected with it, and so forth. We"great taboo in
those days"couldnTt use the word oleg,� couldnTt
speak of oleg.� It was just a lot of Victorian taboo,
some of it very foolish. Now today maybe we go
too far; maybe we're a little too free; but at least
it isnTt furtive, and it isnTt clandestine. It at least
has the virtue of being above board and honest,
honestly admitted, or honestly discussed. I think
you shock America today with some of the things
that come along. But I think itTs a more investi-
gative, more"America more willing to discuss
itself. This is one of the things the twenties did.
Gee, we began to look at each other.

Interviewer: Do you feel that federal pressure
behind integration will further minimize state
sovereignty?

Mr. McGill: Well, do you know, youTve just
asked a question which ITm sort of glad you asked.
Do you know there isnTt any such thing as state
sovereignty, and hasnTt been since seventeen
eighty-nine? We have all been listening to South-
ern politicians talk about the great sovereign state
of North Carolina or Georgia or Mississippi or
something. Now this is bunk. Have we got time
for me to read you something out of the Constitu-
tion? ITd like to get it out of a drawer here.

SPRING, 1963

What I have is a World Almanac with the
Constitution of the United States in it. And I
want to read something from Article Six of the
Constitution of the United States. This is not an
amendment. This has been in there from the be-
ginning, and says this under Section Two of Arti-
cle Six:

This Constitution, and the laws of the
United States which shall be made in
pursuance thereof, and all treaties made,
or which shall be made under the author-
ity of the United States, shall be the
supreme law of the land; and the judges
in every state shall be bound thereby,
anything in the Constitution or laws of
any state to the contrary, not withstand-
ing.
Then, Section Three:

The Senators and Representatives before
mentioned, and the members of the sev-
eral state legislatures and all executive
and judicial officers, both of the United
states and of the several states shall be
bound by oath or affirmation to support
the Constitution.
Now, how can you say that a state is sovereign if
it is bound by the Constitution and if it is bound
by the courts of the United States, and if the
state courts are bound by a decision of the federal
courts, and if the representatives and senators and
governors, and all executive and judicial officers
of the United States and of the several states are
bound by oath to support the Constitution"how
can you say there are sovereign states? This is
bunk.

We had a confederation, you know, after 1776;
and we had sovereign states in it, thirteen of
them, and they warred against each other. They
set up tariffs, and they worked themselves in to a
point where a couple of them were threatening
to go back to join England again as colonies. It
was a little Balkan set up, and it failed. So they
had to get busy and set up a central government,
and a constitution. And when that was adopted
in 1789, then the old sovereign state idea died.
Now the Confederate States recognized this when
they set up their constitution. They recognized
there was no sovereign state in the United States
Constitution"that they were quitting"because
they went to great pains to say that under their
constitution, that is the Confederate States, there
were sovereign states. Now if you will go to your
history teacher, American history teacher, or if
you will check any reputable historian he will tell
you that insistence on state sovereignty really
made it impossible for the Confederate States to
win the Civil War. The most grievous hurt they
had was the States Rights or State Sovereignty

complex. North Carolina was a great example of
this. Vance and all the others leading a great
-movement there were declared traitors by Jeffer-
son Davis and others and the same things hap-
pened in Georgia. Governor Brown. The States
RightTs theory of the Confederacy or the fact of it,
really made the Confederacy impotent. But there
is no such thing as a sovereign state in the United
States. This is just bunk. WeTve listened to too
many political speeches.

Interviewer: Would you say the potential con-
flict between the White and Black in part accounts
for the wealth of material that the Southern wri-
ers have had to deal with?

Mr. McGill: In part, but I donTt know that the
great flowing of Southern literature came out of a
conflict between the Negro and White. This is
something that has developed rather late and it
distresses me. I think the Southerner, the White
Southerner, knowing the real Southern Negro,
owes it to himself and his region not to let the
rascals and the violent people take over. I think
that the Southerner has developed the literature
he has because he has a great sense of history.
Probably because he had a sense of living in a
region that knew defeat, occupation by an army;
he grew up as youngsters of no other region did,
save some of those in New England, hearing his
grandfather talk about historical events. You
gentlemen missed it. But I as a youngster used to
know Civil War veterans. Both armies. I would
listen by the hour to their talk. My grandmother
talked about seeing the soldiers come. All this is a
part of the Southern heritage. Quite different be-
fore the Civil War. We had no literature before
the Civil War. We didnTt have much until really
about 1912-15 it began. We had none during the
Reconstruction period or after, but somehow it
began to come. I donTt know. We could have a
great debate on it, but I think itTs basically that
Southerners live closely with history and sociologi-
cal change, sociological pressures, such as no other
region has had.

Interviewer: What would you say is the best
contemporary fictional treatment of the South?

Mr. McGill: I donTt think you could say that
any of it could be taken as picturing the contem-
porary South because this would require great
generalities and there are many oSouths.� North
Carolina isnTt very much like Georgia. Your his-
toryTs different; your economy has been different;
your political history has been much more sound
and honorable than ours. You early went after
good roads and you early went after education,
way ahead of any other Southern state. Ken-

10

tuckyTs history is not like MississippiTs, or South
CarolinaTs is unlike Tennessee. I donTt think your
question will stand up because it implies that there
is a generality of Southern expression.

Faulkner, in my opinion our greatest, I suppose
this is an opinion pretty generally shared, reflected
a small region of Mississippi. Now many of his
characterizations had general application, but not
too much. He was writing about the area of Mis-
sissippi. Take Erskine Caldwell who, I think, in
one or two of his early books is really pretty good.
I think Tobacco Road is a good Wook. It was writ-
ten about real people. Erskine CaldwellTs father
was a Presbyterian minister, a very fine man who
devoted much of his life to the people of oTobacco
Road.� This was the real name of the region. Not
a region, an area. And Caldwell, this was his best
book, I think, because he lived it; he saw it with
his father ; he had a feeling for these people. These
were real people and he didnTt exaggerate them in
the book. But they were just a small back eddy of
people. You couldnTt apply Tobacco Road to all
of Georgia, although some people did. I donTt know
that your writers in North Carolina reflect the
whole South.

Interviewer: To what extent do you think the
image of the South in the eyes of the rest of the
country, has been created by the writings of Cald-
well, Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Flannery
OTConnor and these people?

Mr. McGill: Well, I suppose that they have, in
the minds of the average person created an image
of the South; but I donTt think, in the eyes of the
thoughtful person. No person, no thoughtful per-
son, could look at one of the tortured plays of
Tennessee Williams and really think this repre-
sented the South. His characters and their very
grievous psycho-analytical problems or natures
could be of any region. HeTs seen fit to place them
in the South, but I think Tennessee Williams re-
flects his own tortured childhood. His mother has
just written a book, or rather a book written by

THE REBEL

her has just been published. It pretty well ex-
plains Tennessee Williams, I think. Some people
are pretty well inclined to rubber stamp, to read
Faulkner and stamp the whole South by that or
Tennessee Williams. Just as some people look at
Bull Connor or Barnett and stamp the South with
Connor or Barnett or Orville Faubus in Little
Rock; but I donTt think that this is generally true.

Interviewer: Do you think that the bias of the
Negro writer has prevented him from a fair and
honest treatment of the problems between the two
races?

Mr. McGill: I think the bias of the Negro press

has certainly been harmful. I think this has been
irresponsible. Certainly some of the white press
has been equally irresponsible. But I think the
Negro press has been too much so, almost unani-
mously so. ITm talking about the newspapers, not
all of their magazines. There have been some
biased Negro writers, but I donTt think that this
is an indictment that could be drawn against them
generally.

Interviewer: Well, for example James Baldwin
or Ralph Ellison.

Mr. McGill: Well Baldwin, it might surprise
you to know is under severe criticism from a great
many Negro critics. They are saying that Bald-
win is writing too much out of his neuroses, out
of his own experiences, and he doesnTt really speak
for the Negro. I think Baldwin is a magnificent
writer. Some of his conclusions all of us in the
South would have to admit, or agree with, but
here again, I donTt know that you could say that he
is biased; or Ralph Ellison. TheyTre writing out
of a certain fury or inability any longer to accept
the fact of segregation and all that it has meant,
especially to the intellectual. Of course, the intel-
lectual tends to forget what it has meant also to
the average Negro. To the, what you might say,
the mass of Negroes most of whom have come
lately from plantations and farms into Southern
cities .. . but then thatTs too long story to get into.

Interviewer: Do you think the areas of intense
revolt, intense problematic rioting, again as in
Alabama, could have been anticipated; and if so,
could some strategy heve been conceived to avoid
mob rioting?

Mr. McGill: Well, I think so. Birmingham is a
unique sort of city; itTs not a Southern city, really,
as we think of Southern cities. This is a city thatTs
pretty new. It just got going a little ahead of the
turn of the century. It never knew anything of
magnolias or crinoline or quadrilles or lace and old
mansions or banjo and julep. It was strictly a
sweat, steel, slag, smoke town. They discovered
iron ore and coal, and limestone all together there.
This was to be the new South. Birmingham was
the new SouthTs town; it was going to be"was the
great industrial city. And itTs today the only
purely industrial city in the whole South. And it
attracted to it the people from the sharecropping
tenant farms, and it attracted the Negro, too, from
the same situation; they brought with them their
illiteracy and their fears, their economic insta-
bilities, insecurities, the prejudices. This has been
a town that has known violence a long time; dur-
ing the unionization of the miners, the steel work-
ers, there were many dynamite explosions, many.
And many people were killed ; and shootings. Well,
come on up to the present. Certainly, the people
of Birmingham knew this was coming. And up
Ttil about four or five months before it came they
were supporting the wrong people. They were
supporting the status quo, the Bull Connor atti-
tude of repression and fill up the jails. Now thatTs
no longer an answer. And, yes, I think had the
merchants who finally met, had they met a year
ago, had they asked for the support of the papers
and the clergy, had they started a program of
public education, I think they could have done
what theyTre now going to have to do"desegre-
gate some of their eating places, hire some Negroes
in their businesses; Yes, this could have been an-

ticipated.

SPRING, 1963

11

FIRST PRIZE
REBEL PROSE CONTEST

THE NEW RIVER

By

B. TOLSON WILLIS, Jr.

It had been raining every day for weeks until
the river swelled and writhed in its banks like a
full-bellied woman in labor. The soldiers on their
haunches sat close to their dome yurts, and the
steam from the rains rose from their bodies and
their black wool shelters so that a stench hung
heavy in the air. They would sit still or squat in
a circle around the fire but even then their dark
eyes rolled up toward the clouds looking for the
rain.

Yesterday, they had waited patiently, search-
ing the skies and leaving the circle only to herd
the horses back in close or to collect dung for the
night fire. But the rain never came and mum-
blings about a renewed attack on the walls hung
as heavily as the night fireTs smoke.

The dawn crept out of the gray mist and stretch-
ed its limbs, casting smeared prints on the solemn
walls of the city. The soldiers began to move about
in the heavy smoke of the morning fire. A man
hobbled out of the ring of smoke-clouded yurts,
moving slowly as if an infant on unruly legs.

Everything was beginning to move in the camp.
On a rise a little away from the yurts, a mounted
figure stood in statued form. The dew still clung
to his leather cap but had begun to trickle down
his overvest in the new heat. His shaggy steppe
pony stood stiff-legged with his head hung down,
asleep, and the manTs bowed legs clung to the
shaggy mountTs barrel on either side, his feet al-
most touching in the undergirth. His head hung
heavily on his short chest, but the eyes were sharp-
ly awake, studying the wall as though searching
for some sign of weakness. Perhaps there was a

12

crack. The wall stared back; the new sun burnish-
ed its high facings.

Among the men below there was a hoarse cry
and all eyes darted toward the north. The soldiers
grabbed their curved bows and shuffled toward
the closest of the herded ponies on the fringe of the
encampment. One rider galloped toward the rise
while the others mounted and rode toward a line
of ox-carts still toy-like in the distance. When the
rider reached the rise, he drew up beside his lead-
er. ~o~Mongi Khan, look to the north. The grain
carts are coming and the Persians come with
them.� The speakerTs yellow face was young and
smooth and as he spoke his dark eyes flashed un-
der the irregular bangs of black hair.

Mongi Khan raised his head slowly, still looking
at the wall. oIt is good that the grain comes,� he
said heavily. ~o~The menTs bellies have grown taut
as bow strings.�

The young manTs long lids knitted, then he spoke
again. oSurely our leader heard me say the Per-
sians come. Our armies rode to victory through
the armies of the North. Their heavy chariots
could not stop us, but here in the South the Chinese
hide behind their walls. The Persians bring their
wisdom to destroy the walls. Now we shall know
victory again.�

Mongi Khan spoke. ~You are young and the
dreams of victory are still sweet. I have been
fighting in this alien land for six years and it is
always the same. Only the wall is new. But you
are right. This is good news.

oBut my heart remains heavy to think that the
last message I received could not have been also

THE REBEL

good. The rain has been little where my brothers
roam the steppes and the eweTs udder has gone
dry. My son had no milk; now only his spirit
guards the herd and cries in the night. What re-
ward can another victory bring? The last brought
a return home and the birth of my son. My son is
dead now. Who is left to reap the glory of my
victory over the wall?� The two horsemen were
silent as they rode toward the yurts.

The day failed softly. A soldier hobbled out to
gather fresh dung for the cook fires. Around the
fire soldiers squatted and traded stories, their
faces flushed with thoughts of plunder. The arkhi
was passed many times around the circle until
the goatskin hung limp. Their glazed eyes glisten-
ed when they spoke of the council between their
leaders and the Persians.

In the tent the small fire cast wavering silhou-
ettes on the felt walls. The Persians sat on their
soft cushions with their plans rolled out in front
of them. The mongol khans squatted by the fire
waiting for them to begin.

oWe have surveyed the wall and found that
they are too thick for our rams and catapults. Be-
sides they are built in a series, possibly as many
as eight or ten in all.�

oHave you traveled so far from Persia to tell
us this?� The young khan exclaimed.

The Persian smiled. oThe young in conquest
must learn the patience of old rulers,� he said.
oThe walls are strong, but there is a flaw in the
cityTs defence. The ruins have worn themselves
out and soon the river will fall. This river flows
under the north wall and out under the south. We
will turn the river at the north wall. A new river
bed must be dug. When the river falls, the new
bed will be opened and the river will flow around
the walls. When the river no longer flows through
the city, the gates must be opened or they die of
thirst.�

Labor gangs were herded to build the new river
bed. The rains no longer came and the workers
fell on their hoes in the heavy heat. The stench
of the dead followed the broad trench as it snaked
around the west wall and slowly moved back to-
wards the south. New gangs were herded in by
the Mongol horsemen to replace the men that fell.
The Persians worked in shifts driving the diggers
day and night. After six months the new river
bed was completed. Only a small dike held the
river back on the northern end of the new bed.

Mongi Khan sat on the rise above the northern
wall and watched the workmen break the dikes.
The river swirled and writhed against the new
banks and then began to move toward the south
once more.

SPRING, 1963

The days grew more intense and the cooler
nights seemed to pass too quickly. The horsemen
discarded their leather over-jackets. They watch-
ed the walls day and night. Each night the defend-
ers crept to the new river and were killed.

Mongi Khan sat watching his horsemen strung
out along the new river. They suddenly moved to-
wards the wall. Mongi Khan saw scattered figures
running back toward the wall but still holding
water skins. Many fell in the first barrage of
arrows loosed by the Mongol horsemen.

Mongi Khan rode closer. Lying in the dust
were not fallen soldiers but old men and women,
their gnarled hands still clutching the punctured
skins of their water vessels. Mongi Khan reined
in beside the leader of the band. His eyes were
dark and narrow. oHai! Are you soldiers or
wolves that drag down only the old?�

oIt is part of their plan to get water,� the leader
replied. oFirst they sent their soldiers and we de-
stroyed them. Then they sent their children and

we rode them into the dust. Now they send their

precious ancients. We must stop them all.�

oEnough! When the old ones come again, let
them drink. Take their water vessels but let them
drink.�

oThey will soak their clothes and try to take
water into the city in their mouths!�

oEnough!� Mongi Khan turned and rode away.

The young Khan rode towards the new river.
His eyes flashed and he screamed for the leader of
the river patrol. oOx! Stupid Ox! Why are these
allowed to drink?�

oMongi Khan willed it so.�

oMongi Khan is no longer the leader. He has
swallowed dust and stones and lies dead in the
old river bed. I am the leader. Ride them down!
We must break their will before the rains come
again.�

Mongi KhanTs crooked legs lay sprawled out be-
hind him. His neck seemed broken and twisted
under his body. The hot wind swirled pools of fine
white silt around his crumpled form lying in the
old river bed.

The clouds moved slowly, piling up overhead
and the fine wisps of silt settled over Mongi Khan.
Then came the first drops, pelting the silt and
raising tiny puffs of white smoke. The puffs be-
came heavy clouds as the rain increased. Small
rivulets began to flow around the white form
lying in the river bed. They broadened and began
to rock the body, finally lifting it. Slowly the body
floated down toward the city. The new waters
flowed softly through the iron-grated opening in
the wall, leaving the body to gently bump against
the iron rods.

13

and

KATTIE

By
Millard D. Maloney

JAMES DAVIS

14 Ae THE REBEL

| had my jacket slung over my shoulder, and
I could feel the lining of it growing hot against
my back. I was kind of tired, and I reckoned that
the girl was too. WeTd walked over five miles.
When we got to a good sized tree I said, oLetTs
sit down.T�T We moved to the side of the road, and
I spread my jacket for her to sit on. She began
to cry. I eased her off my jacket a little bit so I
could get to my cigarettes in the pocket. When
I got to the pack I seen that there wasnTt but one
cigarette left. I lit it and handed it to her. She
took it, but didnTt take a good drag on it. She just
sat there, holding the cigarette with one hand and
wiping her eyés with the other. As I watched the
smoke float upwards I got to thinking about the
time we were in that nightclub in Raleigh"weTd
gone up there for the weekend to see the oMid-
nighters�"and she was holding a cigarette then,
just like she was now, in that loose way she has
so that it looks like sheTs about to drop it. That
was when it happened, I guess.

oMiz Turner said it wonTthurt much,� I said.
Even while I was saying. it I knew it wasnTt the
right thing to say; and long after ITd said it, even
after weTd gotten up and started walking again,
I could hear it: oMiz Turner said it wonTt hurt
much.� She didnTt say anything. I sat there envy-
ing her the cigarette"wishing sheTd take a drag
on it and hand it to me"and trying to think of
something pleasant to say. I carried on a conver-
sation with her in my mind: oYou know I love
you, donTt you, Kattie?�

oUh-huh,� sheTd say, oI know it.�

oYou know if there was any way at all to get
out of this I wouldnTt let you go through with it,
donTt you?�

oT know that, James,� sheTd say, oI know that.�
Instead I said, out loud, oWe ainTt got much fur-
ther to go.� She was still crying. I put my arm
around her and pulled her close to me. oHush,� I
said, and I kissed her on the temple. Her hair
was wet, and it smelled of tears and sweat. oHush
now,� I said. oAinTt no need of acting up like
that.� And I felt like I was her father right then.

All of a sudden, in that funny way women have
of changing their minds like their minds work on
strings, she stopped crying. oCome on James,�
she said. oWe gotta get going.� We got up, and
after I had dusted my jacket we started down the
road again. We were going to a place called
Granite Quarry. ItTs so small it ainTt even listed
on county maps, let alone North Carolina, or Unit-
ed States maps. The first thing you come to on the
road we took is a big magnolia tree. Right along
side of it is a white frame house with big columns,

SPRING, 1963

and a little way down, just after a store with a
neon Pepsi-Cola sign, is the colored section. When
we got to the magnolia tree I said, oYou want to
rest a while?�

oWe almost there, ainTt we?� She asked.

oYeah� I said.

oThen come on.�

Katie wasnTt but nineteen, but I felt right then
like I was her son.

I kind of had a picture in my mind of what the
house would look like. It belongs to a woman
named Miz Thomas. Miz Turner had told us it was
the biggest house in town. I figured thereTd be a
big living room with lots of furniture, and bare
floors. And I figured thereTd be one of those signs
saying oGod Bless Our Home� or something, I
was right about everything exceptthe floors.
There was a big rug in the living room, and so
many small ones that I kept tripping on them.
There were lots of little doo-dads around too, on
the mantle piece and on the tables. On one table
there was one of those monkey things you see
everywhere: see nothing, hear nothing, say noth-
ing. \I never did like those things.

L.was wrong too about Miz Thomas. I'd always
imagined that women who did that kind of work
would be big and fat and evil-looking. But Miz
Thomas wasnTt big, she wasnTt fat, and she wasnTt
evil-looking. She was in her late thirties, ITd say,
kind of thin, with a pleasant face. In fact, she
looked just like the kind of person youTd expect
to see pushing somebodyTs baby down the street
on Sunday afternoon. When we told her that Miz
Turné? had sent us she acted like we was old
friends. After we had chit-chatted a while she
said, oWell I guess we had best get started.�

I stood up and paid her the amount that Miz
Turner had told me to, and after sheTd counted the
money she and Kattie got up.

oYou can stay out here if you want to,� she
said. oOr you can take a walk. Hither way is
okay.�

oThanks, I think ITll take a walk.�

oAlrighty, we'll see you in about half an hour.�

oA half-hour?�

oMmmmm .. . better make it forty-five min-
utes.�

I left. I wanted to say something to Kattie, but
what could I say? Good Luck? The damned thing
about life is, it seemed to me then, that there ainTt
never nothing to say when life and death is in-
volved. So I just left.

I walked down the street, trying my best not
to think of anything. But it didnTt work. I found

myself picturing what was going on back there

15

at Miz ThomasTs. Then, walking by a bunch of
children playing, I seemed to hear the girl scream-
ing with pain, and Miz Thomas saying, oHush
now, it wonTt be long.�

I went into a store and bought me a bottle of
wine ... but I could still hear the sound of her
screaming and it was near Tbout driving me
crazy. I felt like snatching the top off the bottle
and drinking the wine down right there. I walked
out of the store and looked around for a shady
tree, and when I found one I sat down under it
and opened the bottle. The wine was sweet, and
the gurgling sound it made drowned out the
screaming some. I even thought of saying a pray-
er for the girl, but I figured it would be dis-
religious to pray while I was drinking, so I didnTt.
Then I got to wondering what the child might
have been, a boy or a girl, and who it would have
looked like most, the girl or me. And after
the third drink of wine I got to wondering if it
would have been a real child at all. oGod forgive
me,� I said, and I took a good long swig.

When I got up I was half-drunk, and real un-
happy. I went back to Miz ThomasTs house and
rang the doorbell. There was no answer. I rang
again. No answer. What a nice front porch I
thought, and I waited. A real nice house too. If it
wasnTt for them monkeys in there me and Kattie
could.live here real nice. It would have been a
girl Tll bet. Ugly and wrinkled at first, like most
babies are at first, then pretty once she came out
of the hospital. Still no answer. I rang the bell
again, loud and hard. Miz Thomas came to the
door. ~Hi,T she said smiling.

oHow is she?� I asked. She looked at me as if
ITd asked something outrageous.

oSheTs fine.�

oCan I see her?�

oSure, come on in. SheTs in that room right
over there.�

When I got into the room the girl was lying on
the bed fully undressed. She looked tired and ex-
hausted, I thought. But if youTd seen her face
right then youTd have sworn sheTd just come from
a party. I didnTt feel happy or surprised or re-
lieved or nothing. I just stood there, leaning
against the door and looking at her. She never
looked prettier, I swear. Nice dark skin, and long
dark hair falling down around her shoulders. I
went over and kissed her, and I hated myself for
wanting her again.

oHowTd it go?� I asked. oDid it hurt much?�

oTt wasnTt bad.�

oThatTs fine,� I said. ~oThatTs just fine.�

~o~WhereTd you go?� she asked.

oT took a walk.�

16

oTI know, but where?�

oJust around. How do you feel, Kattie?�
oT feel fine.�

oCan you walk?�

oSure I can walk.�

oThen letTs get out of here.�

oT canTt go right now.�

oHow come you canTt go?�

Miz Thomas said I got to lay down for a half-
hour.�

oThen will you be alright?�

oT donTt know.�

oWhat do you mean you donTt know?�

oTt ainTt over yet.�

oAinTt over yet?�

oNo. It takes .. . donTt lets talk about it, James,�
she said. She pulled my head down and my face
was in the pillow beside her, and I could hear her
hair crackling like thunder in my ears. oTell me
everything, James.�

oT saw an old colored man,� I said, talking into
the pillow and not thinking of what I was saying,
just talking, ~~in a brown raincoat, it was kind of
strange because I never seen anybody wear a
raincoat in the summer before. I saw a bow-legged
boy rolling a hoop down the street with a stick,
and just before he got to me the hoop wavered
and fell just like a coin when it stops spinning.
I saw a cloud in the sky that looked just like a
horse, and then I saw roses and people and houses,
and when I looked at the cloud again it didnTt look
like a horse anymore, it looked like a woman with
wild hair. I sat down under a tree and there was
a huge heart carved on it with an arrow through
it and the initials MM and KN. Are you feeling
better, Kattie?�

oTell me some more.�

oHow come it ainTt over yet, Kattie?�

oTt takes twenty-four hours, tell me some more,
James.�

oTwenty-four hours!...

eg i

oJesus!� I said and I raised her up from the
pillow.

oYou ought not to say that,� she said. oYou
done told me plenty times not to say it.�

oHush,� I said.

oDonTt tell me to hush. You the deacon of the
church, ainTt you? You ought to...�

oHush!�

oYou ought to know better than that, and a
widowed man to boot. You really should know a
heap better, James Davis. You with a grown up
son almost my age. YouTre old enough to be my
daddy, James. Tell me, youTre supposed to know
everything ainTt you? Then why donTt you

�

THE REBEL

answer me? AinTt you got nothing to say? You
thatTs got the message of God and gives it to the
people every Sunday morning.� She grunted and
laughed. oYou gave me a message alright! Yes
sir, I got your message.�

I didnTt say anything. I was lying flat on my
back now, staring up at the ceiling with the girl
young and naked and beautiful lying beside me.
When she calmed down I said, oDo we have to stay
here all that time?�

oNo. We can go in a little while. It happens
tomorrow.�

oMiz Thomas gonna be there?�

oNo. She done all sheTs got to do.�

oYou sure?�

oSure ITm sure. What time is it?�

oFour-thirty.�

oT got to lay here about five more minutes.�
She crossed her legs and sighed. I hated myself
all over again for wanting her so much.

** * *

There was one bus from Granite Quarry to
where we lived that left at six thirty every even-
ing, so we took it. Nothing happened on the way.
We sat on the back seat and the girl slept with her
head on my shoulder most of the way. When we
got close to home I started thinking of people we
might meet, and what theyTd think and say. The
girl must have been thinking the same thing be-
cause she said, just before the bus stopped, oI
guess ITd better go on home alone.� I didnTt say
anything because I knew it wasnTt no time to
argue. When we got off the bus I took her by the
arm and started towards my place.

oJames, I reckon ITd better go on home.�

oTTm taking you over to my place.�

oYou know what folks will say James: ~His wife
ainTt been dead a month yet, and him runninT
around with that girl .. . and him a deacon of
the 4,420"

oHush,� I said. oEach one of us got his own life
to live. If you start worrying what people say and
think, youTll wind up sittinT in a corner some-
where. Come on.�

oJames, my daddyTll kill you if he ever finds
out.�

oT ainTt studying Tbout your daddy ... I ainTt
only older than him but ITm bigger too.�

When we got to my place I pulled the shades
and turned the lights on. The girl sat on the bed.
I took my jacket off and looked in the cabinet to
see how much liquor there was, because I figured
she might need it. There was almost a full bottle
of Little Brown Jug, and I was, happy about that.
I poured a drink in a small glass and handed it to
her. Then I poured myself one and said, oHereTs

SPRING, 1963

to it,�T but she had already drank hers.

oMiz Thomas said I was to walk around a lot.�

oWalk? How come?�

oShe says that makes it easier.�

I thought for a while, and in spite of what I
had told her I really didnTt relish the idea of any-
body seeing us together. Then I said, ooHow about
dancing then?�

oYeah,� she said.

We must have danced for over an hour, me
guiding and her following, close and warm, with
all the sins in the world spinning around in my
brain.

oWait a minute,� she said. And we stopped
dancing.

oWhatTs the matter?�

oNothing. Just wait a minute.� She put her
hand to her forehead and sat on the bed. I sat
down beside her and moved her hand away and put
mine where hers had been. Her forehead was
warm, but I couldnTt tell whether she had a fever
or not. She put her hand to her stomach and made
a face. Not a painful face. The kind a woman
makes when she sees something she doesnTt like.

oT reckon ITd better call Dr. Branch.�

oDonTt be a fool, James.�

oDoes it hurt real bad?�

oNuh-uh.�

oAfter youTve rested a little while I think we
ought to dance some more.�

oTI donTt feel like it, James.�

oTtTll make it easier for you. Miz Thomas knows
what sheTs talking about, so you ought to...�

oT done told you I donTt feel like it, James.
Please leave me alone.�

She lay down and turned over on her right side
facing me, with her hand resting on her stomach.
I got up and started looking around for a blanket
to throw over her, but I changed my mind. She
was sweating. I changed the radio station to some
fast music, and I turned it up loud.

oCome on,� I said. ~oLetTs dance some.� I took
her by the hand and began pulling her up from
the bed.

oDonTt, James.�

oCome on.�

oNo, donTt.�

oLetTs get with it honey. ThatTs little Benny
Harris on the sax. Little BennyTs your favorite,
ainTt he?� I snapped my fingers in time with the
music with one hand and pulled her up with the
other. She sort of half-laughed and half-cried and
got up. I held her close and we moved around in
a two-step off time.

oFeel better?�

oUh-huh. A little.�

17

I kissed her cheek and held her closer. After a
while I could feel her fingernails biting into my
back, and just for a brief instant I could hear the
screaming again, like I did back in Granite
Quarry. I moved back a little.

When the song was over I turned the radio
down. Then I poured two drinks and handed her
the bigger one. She drank it down like it was
medicine and then she lay back on the bed. She
looked good lying there. Looking down at her I
thought, ~ooWhat the hell, that would be more fun
than walking or dancing.� Then I called myself
the dirtiest name I could think of. Out loud I
said, oItTs about time for you to get some sleep.�

It must have been five oTclock on the morning
when I woke up. The sun was just rising, and
through the shade, the soft light of morning made
the room look like rooms in dreams.

I raised myself on one elbow and looked at her.
I wanted to kiss her, but I was afraid it would
wake her. She woke up anyway, moaning. I
could see from the way the sheet fell over her that
she had her hand on her stomach again. Only
this time it was lower than it had been the night
before. She sighed. And she smelled like morn-
ing.

oHowTs it going, Kattie?�

oNot so hot.�

oNot so hot?�

oNot so hot.�

oCan I get you something?�

~Nai?

oA glass of milk? An orange?�

oNo, James. Nothing.�

oCan I do anything at all for you?�

oYeah. You can do something for me, James.
Take me to Raleigh, right now. Chicago, New
York, any place. But right now.� She doubled up
right sudden like, with her knees up close to her
chest. She was crying. I wished right then that
I could go through what she was going through;
that I could do it for her, or either with her. But
I didnTt say it. A man canTt say a thing like that
to a woman and sound like anything but a damn
fool. So I just lay there with my arm around her,
staring up at the ceiling. ~Tell me something
funny,� she said.

oLike what?�

oLike anything. Anything funny.�

oAlright. I'll tell you the story about Sam the
Man.� And I couldnTt remember the story word
for word, but I did my best.

When I had about half finished the story the
girl laughed and started beating on my chest.
Only she wasnTt laughing, I found out. She was
making the kind of sound a child makes some-

18

times, so that you have to wait a while before you
can tell whether itTs laughing or crying. So I
didnTt finish the story. I just lay there and looked
at her.

We laid there an hour or two, with her tossing
and turning and telling me it wasnTt any need to
get Dr. Branch because there was nothing he
could do noways. Then I got up and fixed break-
fast. I figured sheTd want to have hers in bed,
but she said no. She had gotten up and put some
clothes on and sat down at the table. She ate
hearty, and I was glad. She didnTt have her hand
on her stomach anymore. In fact, if you had seen
us right then you would have thought there was
nothing wrong at all.

After breakfast she took her clothes off and
got back into bed. I tried to get her to dance, or
even to walk around the room a little, but she
wouldnTt hear it. In a little while she fell asleep.
I started cleaning the place up, but I was afraid it
would wake her so I stopped. I sat in that wicker
back chair for a while. But I couldnTt stand do-
ing nothing so I got up and started cleaning again,
real soft like. When the place was clean I washed
the dishes and sat back down. The girl groaned
and I looked at her, but she was still asleep. I got
up and shined my shoes, then I put them back
under the bed and sat back down again. I went
over to the window and looked through the cur-
tains. There was nothing to see but the house
across the street, and ITd already seen it eight
million times. It needed painting; has needed it
for going on two years now. I felt like going out
there and painting it myself. ITd paint the front
porch first, just like the front part of your body is
the first part you wash, then ITd get the sides and
the back. ITd fix the back stairs where those steps
are loose, then ITd paint them too. Maybe ITd weed
out the garden and plant some collards and stuff.
I was thinking of that when the girl woke up.

oJames.�

oYes?�

oT thought you was gone. What time is it?�

oNear Tbout three oTclock. You want something
to eat?�

oNo. I ainTt hungry.�

oHow do you feel?�

oT donTt know. I donTt feel nothing at all. Noth-
ing.� She was quiet for a while and then she said,
oTI been having the craziest dream. Did you hear
me laughing?�

*No,TT

oT dreamed I was in a boat with a man. A sail-
boat. But I couldnTt tell whether the man was you
or somebody else. Anyway, there we were, and
the man was rowing the boat and telling me a

THE REBEL

joke. I canTt remember what it was now, but it
was so funny that we both got to laughing and the
boat turned over and there we were in the water,
just laughing our fool heads off. You didnTt hear
me, James?�

oNo, I didnTt Kattie.�

oThatTs when I woke up and felt for you and
you werenTt there. You ainTt going no place are
you James?�

oT ainTt going no place, honey.�

oTf you do will you take me with you?�

oSure I will, honey.�

oWhat time is it, James?�

oA little after three.�

oI wish it was after three tomorrow, or next
week.�

oDo you want an orange?�

oNo. You ainTt going to leave me are you,
James?�

oYou know I wouldnTt do nothing like that.�

oThen what are you standing so far away from
me for?�

I went over to the bed and sat down beside her.
Then I leaned over and took her in my arms.
oJames,� she said. oJames.TT She was crying, and
I could feel her fingernails biting into my back.

Around five oTclock I was sitting in the chair
reading the paper. The girl wasnTt crying or
groaning or anything, she wasnTt asleep either.
She got up real casual and went to the bathroom.
She was gone about twenty minutes I reckon be-

fore she came out, still undressed, and changed the
radio from the news to some music. Then she
started dancing by herself; not wild or anything,
just dancing. I thought that was a good thing be-
cause of what Miz Thomas had said, so I just sat
there and watched her moving her hips and snap-
ping her fingers and looking so good I could have
worshipped her.

oYou feel alright?�
oSure I feel alright,� she said. ~I feel fine.�
oItTs about time.�

oYeah.�

oYou reckon Dr. Branch might...

�

oAinTt no need of no doctor. ItTs all over.�

MOVERT oe

= Gan

oDamn,� I said.

oDonTt say that,� she said and laughed. She
turned the radio up, still laughing, and she got to
dancing right wild like, kicking her legs up and
singing along with the music. When she got tired
she flopped on the bed and looked at me. She
smiled. I got up and turned the radio off and sat
down beside her. She was breathing fast.

oITm glad itTs over,� I said, and leaned over and
kissed her. I could see the tiny light reflections
dancing in her eyes. I kissed her again, soft.

oJames, James donTt. James, darling . . . please
donTt...� and I could feel her nails biting into
my. back...

Cat

The white cat

sat there

and watched me.

How patient and calm and eternal he is.

I could be that way if I were

made of glass too.

SPRING, 1963

"Helen Jennings

19

WILLIAM FAULKNER"
HIS DESCRIPTIONS OF NATURE

By

Mary E. Poindexter

Anyone who has read a bit of FaulknerTs writ-
ing can understand why he has been a despair or
a delight to the critics since his first books were
published. Early studies of his work were, accord-
ing to Hoffman and Vickery, ~~devoted to expres-
sions of disgust, horror, and distress over what
Faulkner was doing or failing to do.� Reviewers
did not pause in this distress long enough to find
out what he was trying to do. One puzzled critic,
Beach, wrote, oThe relative popularity of this
writer is a strange phenomenon, so almost unbear-
ably painful in his subject-matter,� almost immed-
iately adding (what it seems impossible not to con-
cede), oBut he is one of the greatest literary
talents of our day.� Kazin, after saying,

It is not strange . .. that his scene
should always be murder, rape, prostitu-
tion, incest, arson, idiocy (with an occas-
ional interpolation of broad country
humor almost as violent as his traged-
ies); or that the country of his mind
should be a Mississippi county larger
than life, but not visibly related to it. .
admits that he is one of the oAmerican demigods"

living big, writing big, exuding a power somehow
more than their own, a national power in which
they share.�

More recent, sympathetic critics have been fas-
cinated by the many aspects of FaulknerTs writing,
the omyths� he may or may not intend to convey
(in fact, the whole underlying wherefore of his
writing) ; his many structural experiments; his
use of stream-of-consciousness; his vocabulary;
his syntax; the psychological meaning of his
writing and the psychological accuracy of his
character portrayal; his universality; his hum-
our; and, what I find an interesting small part of
his genius, his use of nature descriptions.

20

Two comments, one by Campbell and Foster and
one by Faulkner himself, on FaulknerTs use of
humour seem to me to be applicable to his de-
scriptions, too. o... it gives, in the case of fron-
tier humor, a softness, a bearableness, or a more
diffused focus to a scene which otherwise might
well be starkly tragic, melodramatic, or over-
emotional.� In the terrible tale of Mink Snopes
and his hunt for the body of the man he had mur-
dered, could we stand the brutal realities without
such passages as

The night was moonless. He descended
through the dry and invisible corn, keep-
ing his bearing on a star until he reached
the trees, against the black solidity of
which fireflies winked and drifted and
from beyond which came the booming
and grunting of frogs and the howling of
the dog. But once among them, he could
not even see the sky anymore, though he
realized then what he should have be-
= that the houndTs voice would guide
im.

In the second place, as Faulkner himself says of
humour, oWe have one priceless trait, we Ameri-
cans. The trait is our humor. What a pity it is
that it is not more prevalent in our art... Oné
trouble with us American artists is that we take
our art and ourselves too seriously.� It is the
genuineness of the humor and the genuineness of
FaulknerTs love for the world of the South he de-
scribes that help rescue his writing from the deep
involvement he might otherwise succumb to.
Where he has neither of these in his work, he
falls into such convolutions as Absalom, Absalom!

There we find, as Kazin says,

... some fantastic exertion of the will,
of that exaggeration which springs from

THE REBEL

a need to raise everything in Yoknapa-
tawpha County, Mississippi, to its tenth
(or its hundredth) power because there
is not sufficient power or ease in his con-
ception of the South, or human existence

in general.
The very fort of his novel"the complication of
having Quentin and his roommate at Harvard try
to reconstruct what happened in the fantastic tale
of incest and miscegenation, from bits of hearsay
and from all letters and legends"all this proves
what George OTDonnell says,

... Mr. FaulknerTs difficulties of form
derive, in part, from the struggle that he
has to make to inform his material. The
struggle is manifest, even in the prose it-
self. Discounting the results of plain
carelessness in all of the books, the corre-
lation between the fictions and the qual-
ity of the prose in Mr. FaulknerTs books
is instructive.

In his violent effort to have Quentin explain the
South, to answer the questions o~WhatTs it like
there? What do they do there? Why do they live
there? Why do they live at all?� Faulkner gets
lost in some of the hopeless involvements of which
he is quite capable. Of Miss Rosa, talking to
Quentin about Sutpen:

Meanwhile, as though in reverse ratio to
the vanishing voice, the invoked ghost
of the man whom she could neither for-
give nor revenge herself upon began to
assume a quality almost of solidity, per-
manence. Itself circumambient and en-
closed by its effluvium of hell, its aura of
unregeneration, it mused (mused,
thought, seemed to possess sentience, as
if though dispossessed of the peace"
who was impervious anyhow to fatigue"
which she declined to give it, it was still
irrevocably outside the cope of her hurt
or harm( with that quality peaceful and
now harmless and not even very atten-
tive"the ogre-shape which, as Miss
ColdfieldTs voice went on, resolved out of
itself before QuentinTs eyes the two half-
ogre children, the three of them form-
ing a shadowy background for the fourth
one.
And all this is evoked in a ghost world. It just

does not ring true"these people do not belong to
their world. They move in a vacuum. Hemingway
says if you do not have place, you don~t have any-
thing, and these dream figures have no place in
which to live and move. There is cold and discom-
fort in QuentinTs college room. We can believe
that; but the mansion of SutpenTs Hundred, built
by the sweat of shadowy wild Negroes out of the
swamp which did not really exist, began a brick
house, and was finally a wooden structure com-
pletely destroyed by fire. The unbelievable Judith,
who dreamed of a shadowy fiance, Charles Bon,

SPRING, 1963

walked with him in an unsubstantial garden.
Henry killed Bon in a hearsay driveway to the
dream house. Old Sutpen allowed his son, Henry,
to vanish like a puff of smoke"Henry, who was
the son to complete the odesign� of his life. The
reason for the rupture was melodramatic and fan-
tastic: HenryTs dearest college friend was, in fact,
old SutpenTs son by a former marriage to a woman
who was part Negro. So, for two reasons Bon
could not marry Judith. By this story of am-
bition, prejudice, struggle, incest, miscegenation,
murder, and bitterness, Quentin was to explain
the South. We need something to give us a tie
with this strange world which Faulkner peopled;
perhaps some description of the place these tor-
tured creatures lived would be the answer. Absa-
lom, Absalom! is the sort of writing Kazin must
have had in mind when he said that Faulkner tries
o. . . to express the inexpressible, to write the
history of the unconscious, to convey some final
and terrifying conception of a South that seems
always to exist below water...� In contrast to
this work, The Hamlet, The Sound and the Fury,
and AsI Lay Dying, surely three of his best books,
never fail to have a sense of place. In The Sound
and the Fury, the events, though as melodramatic
as in Absalom, Absalom! are always played out
against a world that has substance, and reality,
and beauty, and meaning. These people see, and
hear, and smell, and love, and hate the world they
live in.

But Faulkner does not use his descriptions of
nature only as a background for his charactersT
actions. Warren realized the importance of these
descriptions and wrote

The vividness of the natural back-
ground is one of the impressive features
of FaulknerTs work. It is accurately ob-
served, but observation only provides the
stuff from which the characteristic ef-
fects are gained. It is the atmosphere
which counts, the poetry, the infusion of
feeling, the symbolic weight.
One of the special uses that Faulkner often

makes of lyrical background is to intensify natura-
listic tragedy. The Quentin section of The Sound
and the Fury is an extended example. Reminis-
cences and mental torture are interspersed with
accounts of inconsequential actions of the moment,
and with lovely descriptions of the things Quentin
saw"the water, in various aspects, foreshadow-
ing his death"and other scenes, besides.

The bridge was of grey stone, lichened,
dappled with slow moisture where the
fungus crept. Beneath it the water was
clear and still in the shadow, whispering
and clucking about the stone in fading
swirls of spinning sky.

21

And, again,

I could not see the bottom, but I could
see a long way into the motion of the
water before the eye gave out, and then
I saw a shadow hanging like a fat arrow
stemming into the current. Mayflies
skimmed in and out of the shadow of the
bridge just above the surface . .. The
arrow increased without motion, then in
a quick swirl the trout lipped a fly be-
neath the surface with that sort of gigan-
tic delicacy of an elephant picking up a
peanut . The fading vertex drifted away
down stream and then I saw the arrow
again, nose into the current, wavering
delicately to the motion of the water
above which the Mayflies slanted and
poised.
And other things he saw, besides the water .
the boy who did not go swimming.

The first boy went on. His bare feet
made no sound falling softer than leaves
in the thin dust. In the orchard the bees
sounded like a wind getting up, a sound
caught by a spell just under crescendo
and sustained. The lane went along the
wall, arched over, shattered with bloom,
dissolving into trees. Sunlight slanted
into it, sparse and eager. Yellow butter-
i flickered along the shade like flecks
of sun.

These are not just backgrounds"they seem to
hold meaning within meanings.

This meaningfulness is often so intense that it
becomes a symbol"the smell of honeysuckle and
QuentinTs feeling for his sister Caddy; the idiot
BenjyTs flower or jimson weed that he used to
decorate his little family graveyard, and which he
carried wherever he went. In Delta Autumn,
there is the extended use of the doe symbol: the
conversation of the hunters about the doe and
why they are not to be shot, young EdmondsT em-
bittered remarks about the fact that there are al-
ways doe and fawns aplenty in this world, the
odoe hunting� he was teased about, all lead up
to the appearance of the mulatto girl and her
baby ; and in the end, when the old man asks what
sort of deer Edmonds shot, he answers his own
question with, oIt was a doe.� This is the sort of
symbolizing, with richness of context, that de-
lights the lovers of Faulkner.

One of the most surprising of Faulkner~s uses
of lyrical background is the sort found in The
Hamlet, where it is a shaft of pure beauty shot
into a low comedy situation. When the citizens
of FrenchmenTs Bend were chasing the spotted
horses, and Varner was going to attend to Henry
ArmstidTs broken leg with his veterinarianTs plum-
ber-like tools

They walked in a close clump, tramping

22

their shadows into the roadTs mild dust,
blotting the shadows of the burgeoning
trees which soared, trunk branch and
twig against the pale sky, delicate and
finely thinned. They passed the dark
store. Then the pear tree came in sight.
It rose in mazed and silver immobility
like exploding snow; the mockingbird
still sang in it.

Some contrasts are dramatic when, as Campbell
and Foster said, ohe manages with technical ex-
pertness this moving juxtaposition of the lyri-
cal... and the terrible.�T In The Hamlet, when
Mink Snopes, being carried to prison, tried to
jump out of the surrey,

. .. his head slipped down into the V
of the stanchion . . . and the weight and
momentum of his whole body came down
on his vised neck . . . But after a while
he could breathe again all right, and the
faint wind of motion had dried the water
from his face and only his shirt was a
little damp, not a cool wind yet but just
a wind free at last of the unendurable
sun, blowing out of the beginning of
dusk, the surrey moving now beneath an
ordered overarch of sunshot trees, be-
tween the clipped and tended lawns
where children shrieked and played in
bright fresh dresses of afternoon and the
men coming home from work turned into
the neat painted gates, toward plates of
food and cups of coffee in the long begin-
ning of twilight.

Campbell and Foster also wrote that oAt times
in FaulknerTs imagination, . . . the natural back-
ground supports the events of the story, not by
contrast but by a pathetic-fallacy coloring that
gives nature tragic characteristics like those in
the story.�T The doctor, in As I Lay Dying, wait-
ing for Addie Bundren to die, sees her youngest
son sitting disconsolately in the heavy atmosphere
of an approaching storm,

The durn little tyke is sitting on the
top step, looking smaller than ever in the
sulphur-colored light. ThatTs the trouble
with this country: everything, weather,
all, hangs on too long. Like our rivers,
our land: opaque, slow, violent; shaping
and creating the life of man in its implac-
able and brooding image.
Faulkner had a feeling for a cosmic background,

to which he relates the current world of appear-
ances. Of Vernon and Jewel trying to recover
CashTs tools in the swollen river, in As I Lay Dy-
ing, he says,

From here they do not appear to vio-
late the surface at all; it is as though it
had severed them both at a single blow,
the two torsos moving with infinitesimal
and ludicrous care upon the surface. It
looks peaceful, like machinery does after
you have watched it and listened to it for

THE REBEL

a long time. As though the clotting which
is you had dissolved into the myriad or-
iginal motion, and seeing and hearing in
themselves blind and deaf; fury in it-
self quiet with stagnation.

And in AddieTs words about her life, he moves

from the commonplace to something greater,
oT would lie by him in the dark, hearing
the dark land talking of GodTs love and
His beauty and His sin; hearing the dark
voicelessness in which the words are the
deeds, and the other words that are not
deeds, that are just the gaps in peoplesT
lacks, coming down like the cries of the
geese out of the wild darkness in the
old terrible nights, fumbling at the deeds
like orphans to whom are pointed out in
a crowd two faces and told, That is your
father, your mother.�

In such stories as The Bear and Delta Autumn,
Faulkner reaches great heights in his portrayal
of nature. In his feeling for nature woods, wild-
erness, fields, streams, are not just so much wood-
ed or denuded space. The land is a heritage and
trust given to men, and their use of it and their
attitude toward it are important. Warren wrote,
oIn FaulknerTs mythology man has ~suzerainty
over the earth,T he is not of the earth, and it is the
human virtues which count"~pity and humility
and sufferance and endurance.T � Man has not
regarded his trust properly, and he has to atone,
somehow, for his profligacy. As Cowley says,

Here are the two sides of FaulknerTs
feeling for the South: on the one side,
an admiring and possessive love; on the
other, a compulsive fear lest what he
loves should be destroyed by the ignor-

ance of its native serfs and the greed of
traders and absentee landlords.

He describes the delta as

This land which man has deswamped
and denuded and derivered in two gener-
ations so that white men can own planta-
tions and ride to Jim Crow cars to Chica-
go to live in millionairesT mansions on
Lake Shore Drive . . . No wonder the
ruined woods I used to know donTt cry
retribution ... The people who have de-
stroyed it will accomplish its revenge.
In his mind, in the words of Warren, oThe right

attitude toward nature is associated with the right
attitude toward man, and the mere lust for power
over nature is associated with the lust for power
over other men...� But there is something that
man can do to right the wrong done to the land"
at least Ike McCaslin thought so when he was
twelve and had just shot his first buck and Sam
Fathers had marked his face with the blood, oI
slew you; my bearing must not shame your quit-
ting life. My conduct forever onward must become
your death.�

SPRING, 1963

In the final analysis, FaulknerTs descriptions
of nature are a fine integral part of his books and
stories, providing background, furthering the ac-
tion by contrast or by augmentation, revealing
inner meanings and pointing up greater import-
ance in situations than he could show in any other
way; and the reason that he is so successful is
that his observations stem from a genuine love
for the land in which he lives, the South. It is, as
Cowley saw it,

a brooding love for the land where he
was born and reared... ~this land, this
South, for which God has done so much,
with woods for game and streams for fish
and deep rich soil for seed and lush
springs to sprout it and long summers to
mature it and serene falls to harvest it
and short mild winters for men and ani-
mals.T

Who could tell more graphically how the land
was, and how it is now:

At first there had been only the old
towns along the River and the old towns
along the hills, from each of which the
planters with their gangs of slaves and
then of hired laborers had wrested from
the impenetrable jungle of water-stand-
ing cane and cypress, gum and holly and
oak and ash, cotton patches which, as the
years passed, became fields and then
plantations. The paths made by deer and
bear became roads and then highways
with towns springing up along them and
along the rivers .. . the thick, slow, black,
unsunned streams almost without eur-
rent, which once each year ceased to flow
at all and then reversed, spreading,
drowning the rich land and subsiding
again, leaving it still richer.

Most of that was gone .. . Now the
land lay open from the cradling hills on
on the east to the rampart of levee on
the west, standing horseman"tail with
cotton for the worldTs looms"the rich
black land, imponderable and vast, fec-
und up to the very doorsteps of the
Negroes who worked it and of the white
men who owned it; which exhausted the
hunting life of a dog in one year, the
working life of a mule in five and of a
man in twenty ... the land across which
there came now no scream of panther
but instead the long hooting of locomo-
tives: Trains of incredible length and
drawn by a single engine, since there was
no gradient anywhere and no elevation
save those raised by forgotten aboriginal
hands as refuges from the yearly water
and used by their Indian successors to
sepulchre their fathersT bones, and all
that remained of that old time were the
Indian names on the little towns and us-
ually pertaining to water"Aluschas-
kuna, Tillabota, Homochitto, Yazoo.

23

HOUSE
OF
CARDS

By

LARRY
BLIZARD

Silently he hunched over the card table staring
in mute fascination at the thing before him. He
hesitated"then, taking the remaining card, he
placed it on the very top of the others, and the
flimsy structure seemed complete. ITm getting
better at this, he mused, yes, much better than I
used to be. He sat thoughtfully, hand on his chin.

At that moment, a voice broke into his medita-
tion. oDon,� it called from the kitchen; oDon,
cTmon, itTs ready.�

The kitchen of the little apartment was hot
and filled with smells of cooking. The man named
Don came in, yawned, brushed cigarette ashes
from his t-shirt and seated himself at the little
table. The woman who came to sit down across
from him was little different from so many wo-
men who inhabit three room apartments filled
with ash trays and empty coffee cups and drawn
shades on Sunday mornings.

oHowTs the soup,� she asked, brushing a lock of
brown hair from her forehead.

oHm? Oh, o.k. I mean, fine.�

24

oDon-�T

oHm b gd

oDTyou have to go out again tonight?�

oYeah. Some things I gotta clear up.�

oDon, youTve been gone two nights this week
already. How longTs it gonna keep up?�

oLook, thereTs this work I gotta get done"Un-
derstand?�

Her face, usually cheerful, clouded. She started
to say something, but looked away.

oJimmie broke his truck today,� she said finally,
oT told him youTd fix it.�

oChrist, what am I, made out of money or some-
thinT? CanTt that kid take care of anything I
getTm? Where is he now anyway?�

oHeTs at the DavisesT. Little Johnny invited him
over for supper and to watch television.�

The Davises. Now who the hell are the Davises,
he wondered to himself. Christ, I donTt know any-
body or anything that goes on around here. I
wonder if I even know her, he thought, staring at
the woman across the table. She sat in faded cor-
duroy slacks, brown hair in a bun, looking out the
steam fogged window. She always had a nice
figure, he mused. Her brown hair was long once.
Pretty hair, he told himself. oI like long hair,� he
told her one night when the October moon hung
low amidst fog shrouded trees and the two of them
were huddled together by a stone ledge, her per-
fume floating on the frosty air and the warmth
of her breath against his neck. He had buried
his face in her hair then, in her pretty hair. She
had promised she wouldnTt cut it. Never, she had
said. He thought he knew her then. Now he
wasnTt sure.

The remainder of the meal passed in compara-
tive silence, save for an occasional comment from
her. He pondered his reflection in the soup"
touseled hair, pale complexion, slightly pock mark-
ed face. He rubbed the stubble on his chin reflec-
tively; dipped his spoon and watched the ripples
break the image of him into a thousand disjointed
fragments, ate his dessert and lit his cigarette.
More ashes on his t-shirt now. Pretty hair. O her
pretty hair.

Once more in the living room, he held the little
red truck in his fingers, felt the place where it
had been broken.

oWhaddhe do, throw it against the wall or some-
thingT ?�

She replied from the kitchen but it was lost
amid the clatter of running water and rattling
dishes.

He put the truck back on the table. oHoney,� he
called, oI think ITll go now.� No answer; only run-
ning water. oHoney"?�

THE REBEL

Then she was before him coming out of the
steamy kitchen, an apron around her middle, a
dish in her hand. She brought her slightly flushed
face up close to his. oDonTt be too long, huh,
honey ?�

He hugged her briefly, feeling the warmth of
her against him. No perfume now, only smell of

soap"running water and rattling dishes in the
kitchen.

Outside the apartment now, he felt the cool
November wind against his face as he strided
along, walking with hands in his pockets, should-
ers hunched forward, walking as though in a
dream, as if lost in troubled thought, seeing noth-
ing on either side of him. I donTt mind working
these nights he told himself; sometimes I need
to get away; I need to think. Rounding a corner,
he felt once more the wind in his face.

He noticed the lights on even before reaching
the office. Probably McKeever or one of the others
working late. Pushing open the glass outer doors,
he walked quickly down the hall to the office where
he worked. He saw the door open, the lights on.
He walked in, but wasnTt prepared to find"no,
not McKeever"no, only McKeeverTs secretary all
alone in the office, sitting at her desk.

olTm sorry, Mr. Adams, I just thought I would
come up here and work on_ some typing.�

He studied her a minute"blonde, blue eyed
Faye: always a warm feeling at the sight of her
in the office clatter of typewriters, the clicking of
high heels"blond hair, cashmere sweater the
youthful laughter over coffee at 10 in the morning.

oHello, Faye.� After standing in the doorway
for a minute, he walked over to his desk and sat
down. He fumbled around, rearranging his pap-
ers, dusting off a little gilt-framed portrait; he
opened a drawer, closed it, absently opened anoth-
er. She had resumed her typing. The keys tap-
tapped, her head bent forward, blonde hair falling
down over the front of her shoulders. Looking
at her more closely now, he saw for the first time
her red rimmed eyes, the wadded up hankerchief
on her desk. SheTs been crying, he thought, puzz-
led, fighting back a desire to reach out, touch her.

o__Been crying,� he blurted out finally.

oWhat?� she turned to him.

oI said youTve been crying,� he observed, and
wondered to himself oNow why the hellTd I say
that?!�

She made a little laugh. oWhy"yes, I guess I
have,� she said, as if it were news to her. He
watched her thoughtfully. oWhyTve you been
crying,� he asked. Dammit, he cursed himself, itTs
none of my business; whatTs gotten into me?

Now she turned completely around to face him,

SPRING, 1963

picked up her crumpled up hanky from beside
her typewriter, gave him a look that women will
when about to pour out their innermost secrets,
and began to tell him about Frank. oFrankTs my
fiance, you know. We've been engaged for three
months. She held up her hand for him to see, the
glittering ring shining brightly against the dark
background of her cashmere sweater. WeTre go-
ing to be married this Christmas; that is, I think
we are.

oWe were up at Deerfield Lake last weekend"
had a great time, a swell time. Frank was so won-
derful"everything was so wonderful. We were
with some of his friends from college you know.
All this month, weTve been looking at houses. We
had a real dreamy one picked out.� There was
a distant gleam in her eyes now. oWe were going
to have a new car and everything. But, every now
and then, ITm not sure. I donTt know. Like today,
we had lunch together. He seemed strange, al-
most like he didnTt want to get married. I"I guess
thatTs why I was crying just now, Mr. Adams. ItTs
just the uncertainty of it! But one thing ITm
pretty sure ofTT"her voice lower, the gleam in her
eyes again"~oI know we love each other!�

She looked at Adams; her eyes misty. oYou
know what love is, donTt you Mr. Adams, I mean
you being married and a family and all. You
know what it means, donTt you?�

He sat there, looking at her, feeling a helpless,
empty feeling inside him. He coughed; oI donTt
know,� was all he said.

oT_T guess ITd bettar go home now, Mr.
Adams,� she said at last. oITm terribly sorry to
be such a bother but thank you so much for your
kindness.�

oTT]] see you to the door.� He coughed again, got
up from his desk.

oMy carTs right outside,� she said putting on
her coat and wrapping her scarf around her neck.

He walked with her to the door. As she step-
ped out on the sidewalk, she turned to him and said
once more, oYou know how it is, donTt you, Mr.
Adams?�

He didnTt answer; merely stood there in the
shadows of the doorway watching her drive away.
At last, he turned and walked slowly back down
the hallway into his office.

Once more at his desk now, he poured over his
papers, glancing only briefly at the little portrait
on the desk. It was a portrait of Eleanor and
himself smiling happily together, he in a suit, she
wearing a sweater, her long brown hair falling
over her shoulders. At the bottom of the picture
was inscribed: Deerfield Lake, August 23, 1956.

25

FIRST PRIZE
REBEL POETRY CONTEST

Into A Pruned Park

Into a pruned park filled with shouts

scuffed toes, skinned knees
and ring around the rosy,

came a group of evening ladies

the afternoon rain pounding the roofs

having roused them before their hour of purpose.
I pondered one of them that stood alone

feeding the pigeons, her feet set wide apart;
smiling a faint smile, a pure smile,

childlike, no more nymphlike

in spite of the rouge and powder.

Having stared until my face turned hot,

I looked down and there,

in a puddle between my legs

I found her yet again transformed"

Diana feeding a young deer.

Then a late raindrop, perhaps a tear,

dashed the puddle bearing it all away.

Now, after other rains and other afternoons,

only the image reappears.

By B. Tolson Willis, Jr.

Only The Image Reappears

There is a danger in coming to interpretive
terms with poetry, a danger of allowing the in-
terpretation to stand as definitive of the poemTs
meaning and value. After the book is closed, the
tone of the component whole gives dimension to, if
only for a moment, the awareness of the time and

26

place we are slowly sinking back into. With the loss
of that wrought-up awareness, there comes the de-
sire, the need to say something about IT. In the
search for an approximating reason for our will-
ful suspension of disbelief, we return to the poem
with our tools of analysis. Structure, substance,

THE REBEL

and sound are submitted to divisions"narrative,
dramatic, and lyric; metaphor, simile, hyperbole
"in short, the poetTs workbench is paraded out as
explanation of his achievement. The reader, con-
ditioned to the workbench, is aware during the
very experience of the poem of aspects of tech-
nical excellence that are not analytically distinct
from the experience but serve to enhance it.
Criticism, interpretation, and biographical game-
playing, in their proper roles as handmaidens,
offer an invaluable footnote to the history of art
as experience of the deep and richest meaning.
All of this is probably commonplace knowledge to
those of us who have played ChaucerTs Chaunte-
cleer to an amused inner voiceTs Pertelote; how-
ever, for the student blinded by the radiance of
definitive evaluation, it should be remembered
that the piece of bright puzzle taken from what-
ever the source outside the poem does not fill in a
gap nor cover a defect, but rather illuminates by
way of another readerTs perceptive reading a
possible interpretation. With this in mind, I
should like to explore certain aspects of the art
of Tolson Willis as it appears in oInto a Pruned
Park,� published above.

The poet as speaker in oInto a Pruned Park�
assumes the role of one between the worlds of
Eden and awareness. It is significant that the
park is pruned, and that, though the children play
with oskinned knees� at oring around the rosy�,
the speaker is aware of another presence in the
garden; voluptuous and sensuous, this presence
is announced by a subtle change in rhythm. The
jerky, tangential joy of children with oscuffed
toes, skinned knees and ring around the rosy�
gives way before oa group of evening ladies/the
afternoon rain pounding the roofs/having roused
them before their hour of purpose.� The last
three lines create an essential counterpoint to that
which the children in their portion of the park or
garden represent. It is not as whore or prosti-
tute that the poet focuses upon this aspect of the
garden but as oevening ladies� whose occupation
is alluded to most significantly in the seductive
rhythms of their presentation. The effective-
ness of the evening ladies, as a matter of rhythm,
depends upon a parallel visual and vocal accele-
ration of sensation as the eye and ear pass from
the innocent pleasure of the children to that
pleasure which othose roused before their hour

of purpose� excite. The speaker has allowed ob-
servation and sensation to mingle and flow, per-
mitting the reader to recreate without his (the
speakerTs) direct statement, the theme of the
poem"that being the marginal reef between inno-
cence and awareness of its passing.

From oI pondered one of them that stood alone�
unto the close of the poem, the poet attempts to
reconcile experience in the form of one singled
out before her ohour of purpose.� Step by step,
he erases the aspects of what she seems to be, what
she by seeming is, to touch that in her which has
its foundation in observation of the children.

I pondered one of them that stood alone
feeding the pigeons, her feet set wide apart;
smiling a faint smile, a pure smile,
child-like, no more nymphlike

in spite of the rouge and powder.

The irony of oHaving stared until my face
turned hot� cannot be too greatly stressed, for it
is at this moment that the speaker is most aware
that, in his very attempt to elevate the girl (expe-
rience) to the realm of meaning, there exists a
note that Wallace Stevens struck as othe bases
of their being throb.� This reference to the nat-
ural world, whether written in the girlTs recogni-
tion of the speakerTs stare or coming directly from
an intuitive knowledge of the paradox, is an
achievement of dramatic tension supporting the
swift alteration of focus in

I looked down and there,

in a puddle between my legs,

I found her yet again transformed"
Diana feeding a young deer.

From the girl downward to her image in the
water, the reader travels the full distance of the
poetTs paradox. The speakerTs eye moving down
his own anatomy takes in the natural world; and
with the implied position of his body matching
that of the girl, oher feet set wide apart�, he sees
the majesty of her posture transformed, elevated,
cast against the reflected heavens as oDiana feed-
ing a young deer.�� That the world should intrude
in the form of a raindrop or a tear of his own
shedding is not to dismiss the perfection of the

moment.

After other rains and other afternoons,
only the image reappears.

By Sanford Peele

SPRING, 1963

27

28

SUE BRIDGERS

A spider, its thin front legs arched against its
web and its hind legs dragging lifelessly behind it,
moved swiftly up the tiny thread. Patsy, letting
her hands dangle beneath the soap suds for a
moment, watched the spider. The summer had
brought him, she knew, to spin his web outside
her window. At least, heTs on the outside, she
thought. Before long theyTll be all over the house.
She brought her hands up from the dishpan. They
were red from the hot water and her white nails
glistened with wet smoothness. She slid the fry-
ing pan, white with cold grease, into the water
and it disappeared beneath the mound of suds.

oTTl] have to let it soak,� she said aloud. ~Should
have poured that grease out while it was hot.�

The spider had started back up its web.
The body was small and brown, shaped like a dia-
mond. oITm tired, spider. You should be, too.
Why donTt you stop and rest a minute.� She
smiled. The spider would rest. Later, when the
web was complete it would lie still and wait for
the little night bugs that flew toward the kitchen
light and thumped against the screen.

Patsy untied her apron and crammed it inside
a drawer.

oPatsy!� The front door slammed and the hall
door opened almost immediately. oPatsy, did you
sweep the porch? It donTt look like 4 Sige

THE REBEL

oComing, Mama. ITm coming.� Patsy looked at
the spider. oWork, little spider,T she said.

oThereTs no rest for me either.�

The parlor was cool and almost dark with the
venetian blinds pulled tight against the afternoon
sun. Mama lay on the sofa, a newspaper under
her feet and a cloth across her forehead. ~So hot,
Patsy, I canTt hardly stand it,� the woman whim-
pered. Her hand hung off the sofa and Patsy
noticed the whiteness of her arm and the bulging
blue line of her veins close beneath the skin.
Mama had such tiny arms and hands and feet.
The arm moved slowly and the hand clutched the
forehead and the damp cloth.

oI know, Mama,� the girl said gently. oWhy
donTt you go to your room and ITll cut the fan on
and you can maybe sleep a little.�

oT canTt never sleep, child. Been years since I
couldnTt really sleep. Other folks got so much to be
thankful for. You donTt know what itTs like to
lie awake till morning.�

oT know, Mama. Why donTt you try, Mama. It
wouldnTt hurt to try.�

oTired of trying, Patsy.� She took the cloth
away from her eyes and looked at the girl. Patsy
stood near the window and a pattern of light that
crept between the blinds and the window fell
across her face. oGo sweep that porch now. ITm
all right. If I could just rest easy some...�

Patsy leaned against the porch railing and put
her face close to the wisteria bush that grew along
the railing. The blossoms hung heavy on slender
stems and as Patsy touched them, the cool, fragile
petals seemed to cling to her fingers. ~~Wisteria,�
she said softly. ~Wisteria.� The word had a
sweet, lingering sound like a memory. Patsy smil-
ed. oA memory... wisteria.. .�

oThink ITll have to have that old wisteria bush
cut down,� Mama said. oCanTt stand those bumble
bees all summer and them blossoms mess up the
porch so.�

oNo, Mama!� Patsy wanted to scream. oNot
the wisteria, Mama.� But she sat silently, staring
at the pan of peas in her lap. Finally she looked
at Papa, her eyes pleading; then she went back
to shelling the peas, her fingers hesitant and trem-
bling.

oDonTt you bruise them peas, Patsy.�

oITm sorry, Mama,� Patsy drew a quick breath
and looked again at her father. ~Please, Papa,�
she said softly.

oDonTt see no reason for cutting that wisteria,
Maggie,� he said slowly. oPatsy sweeps the porch,
donTt she?�

oDonTt see no reason to keep it either, Jim.

SPRING, 1963

�

Just more trouble. And them bees.� Mama dis-
connected the iron and sat down next to a stack
of white shirts on the sofa. ~I do declare, I am so
tired. Jim, youTve got more shirts. No man
ought to have that many shirts.� She mopped her
face with a handkerchief.

oAbout the wisteria, Maggie,T Papa dropped
the newspaper on his green leather foot stool and
stood up to face the window and the quiet cloud-
less night. ~Patsy likes it"� he paused as if to
find strength in the silence. oI like it, too, Maggie.
LetTs keep the wisteria.�T

oWell, I never.�� Mama breather heavily and
her bosom rose beneath her cotton smock. oAll
this racket over an old wisteria bush. Why, out
home Mama use to cut her wisteria back every
year. Nobody said a word. WouldnTt have even if
theyTd wanted to. Nobody bothered Mama.� She
mopped her face again and brushed back straggly
hair from around her ears with her hand. oGo
get me a glass of water, Patsy. Ice water, if you

please. ItTs a wonder I ainTt died of heat before
now.�

Patsy sat the pan of peas on the floor. oYou
want some ice water, Papa? ITll bring you some if
you want it.�

oHow about me going back to the kitchen, too,
Patsy. I'll crack the ice for you.� He looked at
his wife. ~~LetTs keep the wisteria, Maggie,� he
said gently.

oAll right!� Mama was upset and she wiped
the beads of sweat off her chin and neck. ~Keep
the wisteria. Make the porch a mess, but mind
you, Patsy Hodges, youTll keep it swept!�T

oYes, Mama.� Patsy moved quickly, quietly
toward the kitchen.

oJim, donTt you sneak no drink in there.� Mama
was breathing heavily and her voice went up and
down with her breathing. ~Patsy, you tell me if
he takes a snort. No excuse for wasting money
on liquor when thereTs things we need and it
makes you smell like...�

oDammit, Maggie, shut up!T

Patsy unbuttoned her blouse and rubbed the
damp cloth over her face and neck. The fine
sprigs of black hair were damp and curled around
her face. The bathroom light glared and she
closed her eyes. With her eyes still shut, she
dipped the cloth into the basin of clear water and
lifted it slowly to her neck. She squeezed the
cloth gently and the water trickled down her chest
and into the softness of her cotton slip. She felt
it against her breasts and then her stomach. The
cool trickle against her hot skin made her body
tingle. She smiled and opened her eyes.

29

oPatsy!� It was her motherTs voice and the
sound, although muffled through the closed door,
was importunate and grating.

oYes, Mama,� Patsy answered and buttoned her
blouse hurriedly. oITm coming, Mama.�

oBring me one of those pink pills, Patsy. And
a glass of water, honey.�

oYes, Mama.� Patsy pulled the stopper from
the basin and the water gurgled in long gulps
down the drain.

Carrying the pill and glass of water, she went
into MamaTs bedroom. Mama was in bed and in
the darkness Patsy could see the pink form across
the white sheet.

oShall I cut on the light, Mama?� she asked.
The fan hummed softly and the body turned to-
ward her in a heavy, tumbling action.

oHeaven forbid, Patsy. The light wouldnTt help
this headache.� Mama raised up and took the
water and the pill her daughter handed her. oTm
just going to have to hire somebody to do the iron-
ing, child. I get a headache like this every time
Tiron a big load.�

oTTl] do it, Mama,� Patsy said as she put the
empty glass on the bed table. oTTll iron tomor-
row.�

oBetter start real early then, in the morning,
while itTs a little cooler and thereTs a breath of
air. Is that fan turned up, Patsy?�

oYes, Mama. ItTs as high as itTll go.�

oITm going to have to have a better fan, Patsy.
All these things we need, and Jim donTt seem to
see it.� The form turned back over toward the
wall.

oGood-night, Mama,� Patsy said. oI hope you
can sleep.�

oThank you, honey.� The bed rocked slightly
as Mama settled herself. oITm tired of trying
when it donTt do no good.�

The rocking ceased and Patsy crept out, her
bare feet settling soundlessly onto MamaTs fifty
dollar rug.

The brick porch was cool beneath her feet and
she stood very still, letting the coolness move
slowly into her body. The moon was high and
white against the darkness.

oPapa,� Patsy said softly and she heard the
sound of feet turning toward her and the move-
ment of hands along the porch railing.

oHello, baby,� Papa said. He was leaning
against the railing above the purple blossoms of
the wisteria. The light of his cigarette flickered
in the shadow of the bush.

Patsy moved silently to her fatherTs side and
put her hand over his. oSuch a pretty night,

30

Papa,� she said, looking at the silhouette of the
house across the street and then up at the moon.

Her father smiled. oSuch a pretty face in the
moonlight,� he said gently.

oThank you for saving the wisteria, Papa.�

oI always liked wisteria,� he said. He freed
his hand and caught a bunch of blossoms in it.
oSomehow, I always thought it meant some-
thing special.� He dropped the blossoms, embar-
rassed by what he had said.

Patsy moved closer to him. Then she leaned
over the railing until her face was against the
blossoms. oYes, Papa, something very special.
Like a memory.� The fragrance of the blossoms
rose and the leaves rustled at her touch.

oAre you very unhappy, baby?� Papa asked.
His eyes were so dark they seemed purple.

oOh, no, Papa,� she said, as if to comfort him.
And then suddenly knowing that he needed more
to comfort her, she said, oMama is always so
tired, Papa. I just get tired sometimes, too.�

oPoor little Patsy. Only sixteen and already
tired.� He put his hands on her arms and drew
her backwards until her shoulders were against
his chest. He felt her shoulder blades against him
and the soft, slender firmness of her arms. oHave
I failed you so, Patsy, that you are tired and old,
too?�

The girl smiled sadly and moved forward to
look up at the moon. oNo, Papa. You are very
good to me.� Then, as if the moonlight had
brought harsh light and had broken the spell of
the night, she said, oCall me early, Papa. ThereTs
the ironing still to do.�

oGood night, Papa,� she said as she moved
silently toward the door. The door was open and
the light from the hall fell across her face. oPapa,�
she said, othe wisteria .. . not so much a memory
as a dream.�

The next morning Patsy did not see the spider
moving up and down its web. Finally she raised
the window and found it in the corner of the win-
dow sill, its legs curled close under its body. She
knew that it was dead. She picked it up gently
in a napkin and lay it in trash to be burned. She
did not want the ants to find it.

oPatsy.�

oYes, Mama.�

oPatsy, I sprayed insect killer in that window
sill last night, but youTd better do it again. Them
spiders get in the house and youTll never see the
end of Tem!�

Patsy looked down at the diamond-shaped body
on the napkin. oYes, Mama,� she said and went
about her work.

THE REBEL

SECOND PRIZE

REBEL POETRY CONTEST

SPRING, 1963

En Marienbad

Shall we, Oarystis, stepping to the sunTs
marginal reproof, turn even as the water
turns, jet by jet upon its own elation,

and don the golden masks of yet another
loverTs transformation? What have we to lose
who drift again beneath a sea of ormolu

and bronze that suffers no change but shifts,
as candles leaning toward their light

bend smoke and phantoms from the door
where something enters unannounced and cold.

Your turn, the profile of an age, Egyptian artifice
where bone and shadow swirl,

lost in gradual green to gold repudiation

of the eye; how long since flesh

was not enough to bind a wanton reality.
Again, relieved of my awareness,

you permit the presence

of some other time, imaginationTs

arm, and move away, drawn

by music I am no companion to.

Yet beauty of the fictive line remains when you,
as now, are out of all my touching.

Crippled by your absence time

turns in to where

the points of your transparent

gown, swept like indigenous flames

up the spiraling marbled stair, are
supplications, abstractionTs meager sacrifice
of meaning, hurled as crumbling statues
through the halls occasion carved, the
veritable Versailles of breathing wholeness.

By Sanford Peele

31

SECOND PRIZE

REBEL PROSE CONTEST

CARNATION FOR SUMMER

By

Pat R. Willis

The ambulance had already come and gone.
There were still cars parked in front of the house
and in the drive-way. A tall, balding man stood on
the front porch and talked in hushed tones to
another man who looked uneasily toward the
door. Frances smoothed the wrinkles from her

dress. It was hot. The cotton material stuck to
her back, and the armpits were already discolored
with sweat. She wiped the top of her lip with
the back of her hand before she thought about
lipstick, and grimaced when it came away streak-
ed with red.

I suppose my lipstick is smeared, but they won't
notice. They will be too upset.

oHello, Frances.� The balding man turned
away from the other man. The other man squinted
his eyes at her, as if he were trying to place her.
His top lip curled up. Frances thought he looked
like a rabbit.

oHello, Uncle Ned.� She had always called

32

LouiseTs kin by the name that Louise used. Now
she felt a little ridiculous. She had not seen him
for years. Now there was no need to call him
uncle. oI come as soon as I heard...� This too
was kind of silly. The rabbit man was still wond-
ering. She knew she had never called him uncle.
oI passed the ambulance on my way.� She wond-
ered why she said that. But things like that mat-
tered. Nothing else ever quite fitted.

oThey've taken her away.� oHer� meaning
Louise. Funny to think of Louise dead. Frances
could not quite picture Louise in a coffin with her
hands serenely folded across her abdomen. Her
hands were too fidgety. They should do something
about folding her hands.

oWhere is Aunt Eve?� There, too, the use of the

familiar kinship seemed odd to her. That was
over too, now.

oShe is inside. SheTll want to see you.� Uncle
Ned seemed revoltingly grave. Frances remem-
bered him best making pennies disappear or turn-

THE REBEL

ing them into dimes. She never remembered him
serious. She didnTt like him serious.

oHow is she?� This was automatic.

oKeeping it back. She hasnTt shed a tear.�
Frances noticed that his eyes were watering. It
bothered her to see a man cry. They ought to
stand up better.

Eve Johnson sat beside her husband. She held
onto his hand and stroked it. Her husband had
been crying, but now he sat and just allowed the
tears to roll down his checks. He did not wipe
them away. Eve Johnson looked up. oCharlie,
hereTs Frances.�

Frances did not know what to say. Both of
them raised their eyes to her. Both of them wait-
ed, expecting her to say something. Something
comforting, she guessed.. But she could not. She
would not bring anything out. She groped behind
her and found a chair, then scraped it forward
closer to them, because she guessed she should try
to get a little closer. Her eyes remained fixed on
them, fascinated. Eve Johnson started to speak,
but she only swallowed and remained silent. Char-
lie JohnsonTs AdamTs apple bobbed frantically in
his throat. His voice shook. oITm glad you came,
Frances. Louise would have wanted you here.�

Frances rubbed her eyes. There were no tears.
I ought to cry. ItTs natural. All people cry when
somebody dies. oThey told me. I. . . I was shock-
ed.�

oWhy did she do it, Frances? I canTt under-
stand it. There must be some mistake. Louise
didnTt want to kill herself.� Eve spoke audibly,
There was no shakiness in it.

Why ask me? DidnTt Louise explain it? DidnTt
she go out with the proper drama? WhereTs the
note? DidnTt she say, she killed herself for the
good of all concerned? Why ask me. oDid she...

uh... leave anything?�
oNothing. I canTt understand it.� Eve Johnson

stared past Frances. Her eyes focused on nothing.
They had the appearance of mirrors in which
nothing is reflected. oCan you think of any-
thing?�

She remembered Louise; the wide eyes with
all the questions in them. The long thin fingers
busily pulling and probing at her cuticles. ~ooWhat
can I do, Fran?� She had resented a little LouiseTs
unloading. Why not? Louise always unloaded.

oMy baby ... the only baby I ever had. Why
did she go like that, Frances? It canTt be like they
say.� CharlieTs voice was wavering, probably
bordering on hysteria. He couldnTt control it.

oCharlie...� Uncle Ned stepped inside the
door. He hesitated and rolled his eyes toward the
ceiling. The rabbit man was grinning behind him.

SPRING, 1963

oWe got to go to the funeral home. TheyTll want
somebody there.�

oTTll go, Charlie.� Eve rose to go.

oNo.� Charlie said. oITll tend to my baby. I al-
ways did. When she was alive I did. Now sheTs
gone, ITll still tend to her.� Frances tried to see
Louise as his baby but she could not bring the
image. For a moment she saw the paradox in it
and felt a tinge of amusement, but she made it
pass quickly and did not have to hide it. oTITll get
the insurance policies.�� He turned to leave the
room,

oWait, Charlie.� Eve Johnson followed him.
Frances turned to look around the room. She
had been aware of the others in there but she
had paid them no heed. It seemed improper to
concentrate on anyone else with the Johnsons in
there. She moved her eyes to the tremendous bulk
of a woman seated in the comfortable chair by the
window. Frances did not recognize her. Perhaps
a neighbor. The fat woman wept openly, glanc-
ing frequently towards the others and dabbing
her eyes with a white lace handkerchief, probably
kept for special occasions like this. The fat woman
looked toward Frances and the small eye slits
closed a little and became alarmingly appealing.
Surely she doesnTt want a shoulder to cry on.

oShe went to see you last night, didnTt she?�
The fat lady asked. Was she being indicted?

oYes. For a little while.� Frances hated to
answer her questions. What right? What cause?
Who was she? Who are you that she did not go to
you, or ever would go to you, to tell you she was
pregnant. You would have cried with her. Maybe
thatTs what she needed and you always needed
or wanted to need and didnTt have it. You would
like to talk about it. I would not.

oHow did she act?� The fat lady asked and
squeezed a tear from her right eye which she im-
mediately dabbed with her lace handerchief.

oAll right.� Frances looked at the fat.lady. She
was again bodily crying, the great rolls of flesh
shaking. A minor earthquake, she thought and
suppressed a laugh. How horrible if I should
laugh.

Frances heard her name called. She got up to
answer and found Eve Johnson waiting in her
bedroom. The shaft of sunlight from the open
blinds fell on her red hair and made it glisten. It
almost animated her. She sat on the sidé of the
bed with her hands in her lap, idle. Frances was
not quite rid of her surprise at Eve JohnsonTs
calm. She waited for it to break in the privacy of
the bedroom. She even prepared herself for it.
She was alert to any motion of the first gust to

appear. But it did not.
33

oJT wanted to talk to you alone. You saw her
last. Talked to her. Why did she do it?�

Frances felt a roar and a rush in her head. Why
should she have to say? oItTs strange that she
didnTt leave a note.� Frances said. They generally
do, she wanted to add. That would be a bit cold.
This is like a mystery. I am the one witness. It
rests with me. Perhaps I can tell it. Imagine say-
ing it again and again. Telling what she said;
what I said.

Frances could see the face of Louise; the tight-
ness and the nervous hands. She could hear her
talking. Brad! Brad! Brad! Before then. Every-
time. All the time. Gushing, gooing, stalwart,
safe. Until then. Then protected. She could hear
LouiseTs words, clean spoken, not threatening,
but half-determined and a little crazed. Some
great sacrifice for some great love. Frances at
the moment loathed Brad. And Louise. Her
mouth was dry and she wanted a drink of water.

oWe couldnTt find a note.� Eve Johnson was say-
ing. oDid she mention anything to you?�

oNo. If she had, I would have tried to stop her.�

oYes, I guess I know. I hadnTt really thought of
that.�

Then Frances saw it. The impact of it had not
touched Eve. She could not experience LouiseTs
death until she understood it. Yet the strain was
beginning to reveal itself in the lines of her face
even while the stone-like calm was still there.
The baffled look made Frances a little sorry. But
there was nothing she could do, really. She sat
down on the bed beside Eve. oLouise only stayed
a minute. We talked awhile; then she left. I was
going to call her today or she was going to call me.
I canTt remember. It seems a long time back.�

oT donTt know what happened. I canTt under-
stand it. We left last night before she did. Went
to the movie. Charlie likes Westerns. So we went.
Louise said she was going to ride over to your
house. We asked her to go with us but she wouldnTt.
Said she just didnTt feel in the mood. Said she
was going to see you. When we got back, the house
was dark. We figured she was still with you, but
she was in bed. Had on her pajamas and the fan
was running. So we didnTt think anything about
it. When we got up, I tried to get her up. She al-
ways ate breakfast with her daddy before she
went to work. HeTd eat early because he doesnTt
go to work until nine-thirty and she has to be
there an hour earlier than he does. But she was
dead. Just dead.

oT called the doctor. Then he came and called the
police because he found the bottle of sleeping pills.
Nothing. We donTt even know why she did it. Said
theyTd have to perform an autopsy, but that isnTt

34

a reason. ThatTs all he said.�

oAutopsy? Are they going to perform an au-
topsy ?�

oYes. Just to tell us she really did die from an
overdose of sleeping pills.�

oDonTt worry, Aunt Louise.�

oT canTt understand it.�

You will understand it soon. You will and be
disgraced by telling yourself you are and you will
hate Louise because she is your flesh and blood
and has done this thing. But you wonTt tell any-
body else and they will remember her to you as
the child she was and talk of the yellow dress she
wore to a certain birthday party. And you will
suspect that I know. But you wonTt ask, and I
won't tell. Aloud, Frances said, oThere are some
things we can never understand.� She did not
want to sound philosophical, but in spite of her
discomfort she said, oNo matter what happens,
it will be difficult to understand Louise. None of
us can feel what she really felt.�

Others were coming to offer their sympathy.
The men stood in bunches on the porch and smoked
in quiet circles. They offered bits of sayings and
contemplated the prospect of death, but they put
them aside. Frances watched them through the
window. They were framed by the organdy cur-
tains but dimmed a little by the screen in the
open window. They were talking about the thirt-
ies as the days of the real suicides. The last year
of the twenties; yes, and the early thirties. Self-
murder was not unusual and you just waited to
see who was to go next. Then they wondered why
she did it, but she saw them glance uneasily in the
window and hush themselves.

The women came in, adept and practiced in the
art of sympathy and leaned low over Eve Johnson
and were perhaps, Frances thought, a little disap-
pointed that Eve did not accept their willingness
to be cried upon. They can not turn to Charlie be-
cause heTs a man and it is up to men to attend to
him. But they could whisper that he certainly was
taking it hard but that Eve was holding up good.
But when those kind of people break"watch out.

The women had been busy. They had baked
cakes and had carried them into the house. They
had made steaming dinners and had laid them on
the table and then presided over them, listening
of the due compliments and waiting for the thank-
youTs that came. They could be called kind and
they would listen with their eyes directed at the
floor and agree that it was a terrible thing to have
happen and if there was anything they could do,
just let them know.

oThe Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.� And the sun

THE REBEL

glared on them and beat on them. The heat of the
day brought sweat. The menTs collars crumbled
and dark blotches appeared in the armpits of the
womenTs dresses. The mourners bowed their
heads and peeped through their eyebrows at those
who were crying and those who were holding up.
Their eyes skimmed over the flowers. The voice
of Mr. Williamson, the preacher, floated over their
heads. He talked of times and seasons; he could
not make LouiseTs soul ready for heaven, and he
could not speak of her going to God, so he left
the final judgment to one whom he called better
qualified. For an instant, Frances wondered if
Mr. Williamson were himself convinced. His face
was slick with sweat and red with heat. When he
bowed his head, the bald spot gleamed in the sun
and shone like a mirror. She tried, nevertheless, to
grasp what he was saying. But all seemed lacking
in meaning, in vitality. Louise was dead. The
child inside her dead. There was no longer any
crisis. Neither the child nor Louise would have to
explain. Frances looked toward Brad. She had
seen him once before at the JohnsonTs the night
after LouiseTs death. She had hated him then.
Had hated remembering Louise say his name.
Had hated the sound of his name and the image
of him, and LouiseTs fear for him, afraid to tell
him; not wanting, she had said, him if he had to
marry her. SheTd rather be dead. But he was
good. Good Brad, Frances thought. Yet he was
crying; an easy thing to do now that it was all
over.

The Johnsons did not accuse him. They told
him about Louise. They did not ask him anything.
But they did not take him into the bedroom to talk
privately with him and they soon managed to
leave him alone. He had stood in the middle of
the room, fidgeting with his cigarette, staring first
out of the window and then toward the door.
Frances had passed him without speaking. Then
he moved beside her. oYouTre Frances, arenTt
you?�

oYes,� She started to walk pass him.

oYou donTt like me?� She saw him for the first
time straight in the face. He startled her.

oT donTt know you. I only know what Louise
told me.�T He was too short, she noticed. His blue

eyes were vacant. He had pudgy hands. She was
afraid heTd touch her with them.

oT loved Louise.�
That makes everything right? oDid you?�
oYou think all this is my fault?� He seemed

pitifully amazed. She wanted to hit him in the

face.
oYes.�

SPRING, 1963

Now, he looked bedraggled in his blue suit and
uncomfortable in his tight collar. He twisted his
neck and ran his finger along the edges of his
collar. He was standing a little apart, and as if he
had felt that she was looking at him, he turned
his head toward her. They looked steadily toward
each other for a moment, but she shifted her po-
sition and looked again toward Mr. Williamson.

Then suddenly the grave was covered and the
flowers banked on it, and in little bunches, the
people turned away to go back to their cars. Eve
and Charlie Johnson moved closer to the grave
and Brad moved nearer to them. He stood fasci-
nated by the multicolored grave. Frances turned
to go, but stopped to watch Brad and Eve and
Charlie Johnson. Brad did not speak to the par-
ents. Frances wondered if he could have known.
No, he could not have known. He stooped down
over the grave and pulled a red carnation from its
place in a wreath.

oStop it! DonTt touch it.� Brad swung around,
Eve Johnson had lunged at him, restrained now by
her husband.

oTTm sorry. I... I just wanted a flower. I just
wanted the flower.�

oYou killed her, damn you. You killed my
baby.� Eve Johnson shrieked. Those late in leav-
ing turned around to stare.

oWhat?� Brad stood there with the red carna-
tion in his hand.

Eve Johnson lay in her husbandTs arms and
wept. She had turned her head away from Brad.

Frances stepped close to Brad. She held his arm
at the elbow. o~YouTd better go, Brad. SheTs upset.
She doesnTt know what sheTs talking about.� Still
with the carnation in his hand, he turned away
from her. oSheTs just upset, Brad.T�T Frances said.

Eve Johnson shook and rolled her head on
CharlieTs shoulder. ~o~Why donTt you take her home,
Uncle Charlie?� Frances asked.

oHe did cause it, Frances. We know that.�
CharlieTs words were even, but they were spoken
almost absent-mindedly. oYou donTt know,
Frances.�

oT know, Uncle Charlie. But he doesnTt know.
He doesnTt know a thing about it. He loved
Louise too. He canTt help it. Louise wouldnTt tell
him. So what could he do? What could you do?
Or me? Or even Louise?�

oWhy is our baby dead?�
started to move with his wife.

oYou know, Uncle Charlie.
there is to it.�

Charlie Johnson walked with his wife leaning
against him.

Charlie Johnson

And thatTs all

35

THE REBEL REVIEW

House of Glass

Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters
and Seymour"an Introduction

Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour"an
Introduction. By J. D. Salinger. Boston: Little, Brown and
Company. 1963. 248 pp. $4.00.

Little, Brown and Company, according to their
very lucrative arrangement with J. D. Salinger,
has released two more of his longish short stories
in one volume. The two stories, oRaise High the
Roof Beam, Carpenters� and oSeymour"an In-

36

troduction,� were both published, as have been
all of his short stories for the past ten years, in
the New Yorker, in 1955 and 1959 respectively.
Mr. Salinger, the T. E. Lawrence of American
letters, has not, it might be noted, put in an ap-
pearance in the four years since oSeymour.�
Until the appearance of oSeymour,� the short
stories of Salinger fitted into (and also probably
influenced) the general pattern of short stories
published in the New Yorker, The stories have
dealt only with two or three characters at a time,
concentrating on a moment of crisis in the life of

THE REBEL

one of those characters. There has been an ob-
viously frugal plot and the emphasis has been on
the emotional estrangement of the characters,
either with one another or with the world. The
narrative technique has centered upon brisk and
often flashy colloquial dialogue, with the descrip-
tive prose used much like stage directions in a
play, giving the reader a very visual impression
of the action.

The first story, oRaise High the Roof Beam,
Carpenters,� fits neatly into this pattern. It is in
the same vein as both oFranny� and oZooey� and
some of the earlier stories"revealing telling tid-
bits about Seymour by showing what happened
to other members of the Glass family. This par-
ticular story deals with the day of SeymourTs
wedding. But as might be expected with the elus-
ive Mr. Salinger, Seymour himself does not ac-
tually appear in the story. We are only told about
him. What we do see is BuddyTs harrowing ex-
periences at the wedding when Seymour fails to
show up. Most of the story takes place in a New
York City taxi where Buddy is trapped with the
maid-of-honor, her lieutenant husband, an aunt
of the bride, and an old diminutive gentleman who
is obviously but thankfully mute. Buddy then
takes them to the apartment he shares with Sey-
mour and the enraged friends of the bride calm
down slightly beneath a balking air-conditioner.

Technically this story is an advance for Salinger
because in it he handles the tricky problem of
mutiple conversation (that of more than two
people at a time) convincingly. But as far as the
story is concerned, the reader will probably pre-
fer some of the earlier stories.

It is, however, oSeymour� that is the more in-
teresting of the two. It is begun with a quotation
from both Kafka and Kierkegaard and then
launches immediately into the single-channeled
mind of Buddy Glass. He talks, in the beginning,
about himself, the general reader, and after a
while, about Seymour. But this talk is more in
the form of personal musing, as if Buddy were
writing in his diary or giving us a long monologue
harangue over the telephone. This is anything
but a short story.

But on this occasion ITm anything but a
short story writer where by brother is
concerned. What I am, I think is a
thesaurus of undetached prefactory re-
marks about him. I believe I essentially
remain what ITve almost always been"
a narrator, but one with extremely pres-
sing personal needs. I want to introduce,
I want to describe, I want to distribute
momentos, amulets, I want to break out

SPRING, 1963

my wallet and pass around snapshots,
I want to follow my nose. In this mood,
I donTt dare go anywhere near the short-
story form. It eats up fat little undetach-
ed writers like me whole.

Buddy spends most of the 137 pages like this,
talking about himself. He seems to be a mutter-
ing hypochondriac who is beginning to crack
under the strain. The strain being, of course, the
contradiction between the examples and teach-
ings of Seymour and the fact of his suicide. And
while Buddy often seems to be trying to justify
his brotherTs suicide, it is merely that he is try-
ing to understand it himself.

The entire story is built around this and we are
allowed to see Buddy bare himself, to see the real
Buddy Glass"for it is only in seeing and under-
standing him that we (and Buddy too) can ever
hope to understand Seymour.

There is, however, something disturbing about
the Glass family, and it is not its precociousness,
its honesty, nor its morality. While Seymour
taught each of the other Glass children to love,
they mistakenly love the other people, those un-
fortunately damned with blind sensibilities, out
of a sense of duty. They do not love people for
themselves, but because they have been taught to
do so by their beloved guru, their family saint who
committed suicide.

And though granted that their loving for any
reason is better than not loving at all, it does seem
incomplete and not quite as good as it should be.

"BEN BRIDGERS.

Purely By Accident

Jack Be Nimble. By George Cuomo. Garden City: Dou-
bleday & Co., 1963. 231 pp. $3.95.

George CuomoTs first novel, Jack Be Nimble,
presents a cynical commentary on the football-
dominated institutions of higher learning in
America by examining such an institution through
the eyes of the shrewd and ambitious Jack Wyant,
a student who recognizes"somewhat in the man-
ner of SalingerTs Holden Caulfield"the ~~phoni-
ness� of it all.

The phenomenal narrator, Jack Wyant, who is
working his way through a large midwestern
university, takes the reader through three as-
toundingly hectic days of dodging and devising,
love-making and party-going. The packed sche-
dule is the result of JackTs many jobs: he manages

37

""

to serve as sports correspondent for the town
newspaper, campus representative for Royal King
cigarettes, writer of themes and term papers for
football players, and as personal tutor and guard
for star halfback oDancer� Danciewitz. Although
the action is filled with many minor episodes, all
relating to JackTs attempt to satisfy his many
jobs, the main thread of the narrative seems to be
concerned with his relationship with oDancer,�
the conventionally stupid football star.

Hired by the local football boosters, Jack finds
it his duty to see that ooDancerTT passes his courses,
reports to practice, adheres to training regula-
tions, and stays as happy as possible. This be-
comes a difficult assignment because oDancer� re-
fuses to behave as a typical football player should
behave. Having been deluded by the college re-
cruiter into believing that he has enough intelli-
gence to benefit from attending college, he is
sincerely interested in his schoolwork and insists
on doing it himself. To make matters worse, he
falls in love with a girl who supports him in his
ambition to oget an education.� The crowning
difficulty lies in the fact that oDancer� hates foot-
ball and everything that goes with being a Satur-
day afternoon hero. Solving these difficulties, and
thus keeping oDancer� on the team, constantly
taxes JackTs seemingly unlimited supply of in-
genuity and energy. The three days described in
the novel bring this unhappy situation to its
climax.

Throughout this rather elaborate plot, the au-
thor manages to sustain a scathing commentary
on football-centered institutions of higher learn-
ing. Jack, in true picaresque fashion, serves as
the voice through which the author expresses his
personal animosities toward schools that devote
more time and money to building winning football
teams than to enriching the academic program.
Occasionally, when the disparaging of the athletic
program boils over, the cynical tone spreads out to
become a sneer at college life in general: frater-
nities, English instructors, courses, general in-
telligence level of freshmen, and student morality.
Activities in colleges most assuredly offer a rich
ground for criticism; however, one tires of read-
ing sustained cynicism.

The desire to ridicule seems to underlie and
guide every aspect of the novel. The characters
are unreal because they are too often used as mere
focal points for the satirical purpose. For ex-
ample, Benny Johnson, the leader of the local busi-
nessmenTs fan club, is the embodiment of Babbit-
try. Pug, the football coach, has all the character-

38

istics that one expects to find in the football coach
at such an institution. Neither character has a
single feature which would mark him as an inter-
esting person in his own right. J ack, the narrator,
is completely unbelievable. oDancer� is the only
character that shows a spark of originality, and
that, I think, is purely by accident.

Jack Be Nimble has little merit as a novel; but
it is cleverly written in places, and it does provide
a compact statement of all the conventional gripes

at what goes on all too often in many American
colleges and universities.

"GENE HUGUELET.

Racing Nowhere

The Edge of the Alphabet. By Janet Frame. New York:
George Braziller. 1962. 303 pp. $4.95.

The Edge of the Alphabet, written by Janet
Frame, makes use of the seldom used stream of
consciousness which is generally accredited to
James Joyce and used by others such as Gertrude
Stein and Virginia Woolf. At first it may be diffi-
cult to grasp; but when the reader realizes what
the author is doing, it provides a better descrip-
tion of the characters than can usually be accom-
plished by any other means. In stream of con-
sciousness, we are told exactly what the character
is thinking, not just what he is doing. The book
begins by indentifying the narrator, Thora Pat-
tern, who usually stays in the background except
for an occassional comment. Thora Pattern lives
at the edge of the alphabet and omade a journey
through the lives of three people"Toby, Zoe, Pat.�

Toby is the epitome of utter and dismal failure.
Plagued by epilepsy, he dropped out of school at
an early age to avoid embarrassment. He was
constantly sheltered by his mother, who tells him
that he will be a great man some day; oremember,
Napoleon was an epileptic.� She also managed to.
find time to tell him of all the sacrifices she has
made so that he might be happy. TobyTs depend-
ence on his mother haunts him long after her
death and often takes the form of resentment.

Zoe is a middle-aged schoolteacher, retired, aca-
demic but not educated; there is a difference.
When she gets well into her thirties, it dawns on
her that she has lost her proverbial oschool-girl
figure� and has yet to find a husband. Under the

pretense of doing oprivate research� in London,

THE REBEL

she hopes to find a mate. She has bought an ency-
clopedia of sex but still failing to attract men, she
takes her chastity with her to a suicidal grave.

Pat never amounted to much either. Originally,
he was a bus driver but later he took a job as a
stationery manager in a large city store. oJust
how much blank paper do you need, sir, to match
your blank life?� He likes to compensate for his
short-comings by talking about the important peo-
ple he supposedly knows"various businessmen,
artists, doctors, etc. His brother, he claims, is a
district attorney in the United States.

Sometime during TobyTs stay at school, he
wrote a paper on the Lost Tribe; his teacher
thought it was excellent and read it to the class.
Since that was probably the only thing he ever
accomplished, he decides to write a book on the
Lost Tribe; rather than finding himself, he feels
that he must travel far beyond himself. In order
to write this book, he feels that he must travel
to London. ~Writing for Toby was an arduous
task, as if a limbless man were setting out to
dance.� He boards a ship which will take him to
London; and on the trip he meets Pat, who shares
a room with him and Zoe. Through their eyes,
the reader is told what people look like; the pre-
tentious describe the pretentious.

oThe edge of the alphabet where words crumble
and all forms of communication between the living
are useless. One day we who live at the edge of
the alphabet will find our speech.

oMeanwhile our lives are solitary, we are cap-
tives of the captive dead. We are like those yellow
birds which are kept apart from their kind"you
see their cages hanging in windows, in the sun"
because otherwise they would never learn the lang-

uage of their captors.�
oBut like the yellow birds have we not our

pleasures? We look long in mirrors. We have tiny
ladders to climb up and down, little wheels to set
our feet and our heart racing nowhere; toys to
play with.

oShould we not be happy?�

"JIM FORSYTH.

Eternal Perversion

Eternal Fire. By Caulder Willingham. New York: Van-
guard, Inc. 1963. 630 pp. $6.95.

Caulder Willingham could not have chosen a
more appropriate title for his powerful new novel

SPRING, 1963

than Eternal Five unless perhaps it might be Eter-
nal Perversion. The story is a maze of perverted
characters caught up in a fascinating theme of
evil, destruction, and immorality.

The plot is strong, revolving around a court-
room trial in which Harry Diadem attempts to
defame Laurie Mae, his distant cousin. All this
is brought about by the Judge, who is the uncle of
Laurie MaeTs fiance, Randy. Randy knows noth-
ing about his own financial situation, and the
Judge is slowly embezzling him. But if Randy
marries Laurie Mae, the JudgeTs crime will be
exposed and he will have to turn the financial
affairs over to Randy.

The handsome but perverted Harry searches
for a permanent peace with himself. He is willing
to sell his motherTs name for the fortune that the
Judge offers him to defame Laurie Mae in court.
In the trial, however, the judge attempts to double-
cross Harry with the disclosure that Harry is part

Negro. The Judge weaves a web of destruction
around himself.

Laurie MaeTs story is one of the soul searcher.
She tries to conform to RandyTs world of Southern
aristocracy, tea parties, and snobbery, but she ~too
tends toward perversion. She dreams of suicide,
while on the surface she appears calm, intelligent
and poised. Whitt, another blackmail accomplice
of the Judge, thinks he is being followed by a
opig dogT which we see later as a symbol of his
conscience.

Ironically the only innocent person in the story
is Hawley Battle, the physically twisted, mentally
retarded boy who watches over Laurie Mae every
waking moment and believes her to be his dead
mother come back to him from heaven.

The story attempts a realistic study in the per-
version and degeneration of the deep South. The
outcome of the trial and the incidents which follow
lead to violence and murder. In the end only
Laurie Mae and Randy are left to pick up the
shattered pieces of their lives. There is no glam-
our in this story. It is realistic with a vengeance.
WillinghamTs greatest force lies in his ability to
reveal the personalities of his characters through
their own thoughts.

Apparently the author sees the South only in the
context of perversion. He certainly seems to have
come in contact with enough of it!

"BRENDA CANIPE.

39

Contributors Notes

B. Tolson Willis, a senior Social Studies major
originally from Elizabeth City but now making
his home Greenville, won first prize in both
categories of this yearTs REBEL Writing Con-
test. His poetry has appeared in the magazine
before.

Sanford Peele, graduate student in Education
from Wilson, won second prize in the poetry
category. He is currently represented in New
College Writing #8.

Pat R. Willis, a member of the English faculty,
won second prize in the prose category. As
a graduate student at East Carolina she con-
tributed a short story to the Winter 1961 issue
of the REBEL.

Millard Maloney is a senior from Norfolk, Vir-
ginia. His short story was written for Ovid
PierceTs Creative Writing class.

Larry Blizard, now: with a Master of Arts
degree, ends his long time association with the
REBEL with his second story to appear in the
magazine.

Jim Forsyth, sophomore from Greensboro, makes
his first entry in the magazine.

Brenda Canipe, sophomore from Rockingham and
a frequent contributor of poetry, appears this
time as a reviewer.

Sue Ellen Bridgers, the Book Review Editor,
allows us to print another of her short stories.

Gene Hugulet is a graduate in the English De-
partment.

Mary Poindexter and Ben Bridgers are members
of the English faculty.

The judges for the Fourth Annual REBEL Writ-
ing Contest were Mary Poindexter, Louise
Adams, and Edgar Loessin, all of the East
Carolina College English Department.

40

EdlitorTs Note:

It has been my pleasure and good fortune in
the last three years to work closely on the REBEL
with a number of people. I feel that they deserve
mention other than having their names printed
on the staff page.

Mr. Ovid Pierce has been the advisor of the
REBEL since its foundation, and to him it chief-
ly owes a large measure of the success it has en-
joyed. But not only has he been literary advisor
to the magazine; he has befriended every member
of the staff and shared with them the wisdom and
knowledge of which he has such an abundance.

Dr. James Poindexter and Dr. Horton W. Emer-
son, who is no longer at East Carolina, have acted
in the capacity of my unofficial advisors. Their
counsel has been invaluable.

Some members of the staff have drifted in
and out, but Jack Willis, Sue Bridgers (formerly
Sue Hunsucker), Larry Blizard and Milton Crock-
er have been with the REBEL as long as I have.
They have been its mainstay. Next year some
of them will remain and to them will be entrusted
the reputation and quality of the REBEL.

One newcomer this year, Frieda White, al-
though primarily a member of the student news-
paper staff, has done more to relieve the burdens
of editing and rewriting than could rightfully
be expected of anyone.

To these people, and to the others who have
advised, assisted, or simply listened at the right
time, I would like to dedicate my efforts with the
REBEL in the last years.

JuNius D. GRIMES III

MEMBERS OF
THE REBEL
STAFF WILL BE
IN ATTENDANCE

DURING SUMMER
SCHOOL AND WILL
BE COMPILING COPY
FOR THE FALL, 1963
ISSUE.

THE REBEL

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