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Editor John R. Reynolds
Art Director Sid Morris
Business Director Preston Pipkin
Associate Editors John Fulton, Rod Ketner
Copy Editor Franceine Perry
Poetry Editor Charles Griffin
Reviews Editor Robert McDowell
Photography Editor Walter Quade
Advertising Director Grey Upchurch
Exchange and Subscriptions Director Patience Collie
Typist and Correspondence Director Catherine Norfleet
Publicity Director John Sherman
griffin
Staff: Pat Arnold, Margret Gorrell, Stephen
Harrison, Stephen Hubbard, Keith Parrish, Bill
Suk. The Rebel is a student publication of East
Carolina University. Offices are located on the
campus at 215 Wright Annex. Inquiries and
contributions should be directed to P.O. Box
2486, East Carolina University Station,
Greenville, North Carolina 27834. Copyright
1969, The Rebel. None of the materials herein
can be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission.
Subscription per year, $6.00.
Untitled
letters to the editor
editorial
doris betts
if i know you
silence
flowers bloomed
photo-essay
john jr. is a jew
catching saradove
tar river poets
the dillinger days
paul paul and more paul
the snow is muddy
oh, yeah
to h.b.
october
on the summer's pier
love, song of the seasons
eastern north carolina
arts festival winners
photography
art and design
cover
pertalion
5 claire pittman
7
Sr
9 jrr, sh, wa
15 lynn quisenberry
16 claire pittman
16 claire pittman
18 walter quade
25 albert pertalion
28 stephen hubbard
28 eileen barnum
30 robert mcdowell
33 robert mcdowell
34 joseph harrison goodwin
35 archie gastor
36 eileen barnum
36 eileen barnum
37 rush rankin
38 charles griffin
4]
walter quade
sid morris
sid morris, walter quade
EditorTs Note:
| have worked on seven issues of The Rebel, beginning
back in the fall of 1967, and this is my last one. It is
a very rare thing in life when one person is allowed
within such a short period of time to count as his
friends so many wonderful people. | would like to take
this small space to thank all the members of the staff
for all their toil, and their patience, and, especially,
their friendship.
Lastly, | would like to dedicate this book to one very
special friend " ~my heart moved only by you.T
s1ieu
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nsmsti4d s1islO"
Dear Editors:
How nice it would be if every North Carolina state legislator could be furnished with copies of the Winter
REBEL! Your interview with Paul Green, one of our most distinguished humanists, and Attorney General
Morgan shed optimistic light on the cause of the abolishment of capital punishment in our state. It does
appear that this dire need of legislative reform might be effected before liquor by the drink!
; C. Johnson
To the Editor:
Having just read your Winter issue on capital punishment, I would like to give a quote some twenty-
five hundred years old upon the subject of punishment. So, from PlatoTs Protagoras, oNo one punishes the
evildoer under the notion, or for the reason, that he has done wrong"only the unreasonable fury of a beast
is so vindictive. But he who desires to inflict rational punishment does not punish for the sake of a past
wrong which cannot be undone; he has regard to the future and is desirous that the man who is punished,
and he who sees him punished, may be deterred from doing wrong again.�
(name withheld)
Dear Chip: .
I have had time now to examine The Rebel, which I picked up in Raleigh yesterday. I must tell you
that in my college days at the University of South Carolina, I was editor of The Gamecock (the weekly) ,
The Carolinian (the monthly) and The Garnet and Black (the annual) .
Your magazine made me feel so ashamed of my puny efforts in the college literary field.
You really have a dynamic publication of which to be proud.
I have made arrangements for a copy to get in the hands of every member of the House and Senate
of North Carolina as well as certain State Officials. I am sure that such a well designed and conceived maga-
zine as The Rebel will have a significant impact.
Again, congratulations on your issue.
Marion A. Wright, President, North Carolinians Against The Death Penalty
Letters
to the
Editor
eee
Positive moments are rare. But, on a day like today, it is a good time for writing editorials. To-
day is the first day that the Crab Apple trees bloomed in pink, beautiful blossoms on campus. (This
editorial is mostly for the people who have taken the time to notice those trees, in front of Rawl and
New Austin Buildings) on days like today.
The Rebel office is right across the street from Raw] and you can see the trees from the windows.
This whole issue of The Rebel is about those trees. Those trees represent springtime. But, they
represent much more to the people who take the time to notice them. Springtime is a time that seems
to say, othere is much goodness in life, in living.T The same day that the trees bloomed was also the
day following a bombscare in Rawl. It was the day following the day that four black students were
arrested in the cafeteria for disturbing, ~the normal operations of the university.T It was the day follow-
ing a night of unrest among black students and white students. It was two days following an address
by President Jenkins outlining what steps had been taken to meet the black demands on campus. The
whole point is"which of these events was more important.
In a time when young people, especially, seem to be absorbed in the issues and realities of the war
in Vietnam, or racial confrontation and crisis; when the mass media seems to dwell on these subjects, it
seems that some outside force is at work to deprive youth of the pleasures of being young, of noticing a
Crab Apple tree in bloom, and letting that event be the major event of the day.
What we have failed to realize is that perhaps more attention to these beautiful things in life could
lead us to a deeper appreciation of what it is to be human, could give us a better method of dealing
with each other. To put it simply, perhaps the lesson of life is learning to appreciate it.
In the past issues of The Rebel we have dealt with the problems of the poor in GreenvilleTs slums.
We have dealt with the problems of the war in Vietnam, and the draft. It the last issue, we dealt with
capital punishment in North Carolina. In this issue, we would like to deal with spring time. All these
issues and problems of our time have their place of importance, but so does the enjoyment of spring.
What we have tried to do with this Rebel is provide a release, relief, escape from the constant
bombardment of our minds and souls by the mass media with the gruesome realities of our time. We
have tried to produce something similar to a spring day. Perhaps, somewhere between these pages, we
have caught a glimpse of it.
doris betts
Doris Betts is an outstanding Carolinian,
teacher, author and critic.
She is the author of Tall House in Winter,
winner of the 1957 Sir Walter Raleigh award
for best fiction; and The Scarlet Thread, Sir
Walter Raleigh award for best fiction, 1965.
She declares that she is not a novelist, how-
ever, but a short story writer. Among her
collection of short stories are The Gentle In-
surrection and The Astronomer and Other
Stories. In addition, she has contributed to
various anthologies and magazines.
H OW do you do these interviews? Do you
just talk a long time and then take whatever
suits you? | donTt want to panic you. | know
you've got to get back to Greenville.
Well, we edit them... .
ThereTs a good interview with Sylvia Wil-
kinson and one with Terry Sanford. In fact,
thatTs the first thing | read in The Rebel.
The interviews have been the trademark
of The Rebel for a long time.
Its the closet thing we have to the Paris
Review interviews, in the Southeast, certainly.
Not many magazines do it, anyway.
You worked on The Record and Landmark,
a daily newspaper in the early 1950Ts in
Statesville, N. C., didnTt you?
Yes. ITm from Statesville... it was such a
liberal paper then, a real crusader. | donTt
know whatTs gotten into Jay Huskins lately.
It sounds like Jesse Helms .. . Yes, | worked
with the newspaper then. | also have worked
with the Chapel Hill Daily and the Sanford
paper. | still do some reviewing.
Do you think a newspaper career is a good
avenue for writers?
No. | donTt think so. When you have been
writing all day for a newspaper, worrying a-
bout periods and commas, you are not going
to go home and write. Now, its all right if
you work for a newspaper and then take a
year off to do your writing"that works. You
do get an interesting life out of a newspaper
career. Exciting things happen.
| | HAT are your hobbies? What do you do
for relaxation, to get away from writing?
Well my latest thing is a Honda, that ITm
trying to learn how to ride. | havenTt learned
how yet, but | am getting there. Have you
ever pushed a Honda three blocks up a hill
to your house because you couldnTt get it
started? . . . And then, Chapel Hill has been
a great release for me. | teach classes there
10
twice a week. For five years | lived down here
in Sanford thinking | was a Jane Austen or
somebody. And | wasnTt. You know its good
to be with young people. They are always
bringing you books or getting you involved in
things. Most young people | know are by far
more intelligent than adults. Also, | have my
duties here around the house, three children,
two teenage girls and a boy who will be nine
this month. You know, | have the chores of
washing the dishes and cleaning the house
and fixing supper. And then when | go up to
Chapel Hill, along about Pittsboro it seems
that one door closes and anther opens. A
whole new kind of experience. And it results
in a kind of schizophrenia. Is Bertha Harris
teaching a creative writing class at E.C.U.?
No. SheTs teaching some general courses.
What did you think about Bertha HarrisT book,
Catching Saradove?
| reviewed it for the News and Observer,
and what was so surprising was they took
out my critical remarks. | had reviewed the
book favorably. But they took out my critic-
isms. | have never had an editor do that be-
fore and | really donTt know why he did. |
enjoyed the book, the parts about North
Carolina were especially good.
H AVE you got any new things on the
drawing board?
ITve been working on a novel so long itTs
embarrassing to mention it anymore, either
in public or to my editor. Yes, ITve got a novel,
and since September ITve done about ten
short stories. ThereTs something about teach-
ing thatTs very exciting for a writer. Or, |
find it so. ThatTs the reason why | asked what
Bertha Harris was doing at school, somehow
| thought she would be teaching some writ-
ing classes. Maybe after three or four years
of teaching it would get to be oppressive and
tiring and use up. .. . But, in answering your
question, | have written ten short stories
since September, which for me, anyway, that
is a lot of production. And they are out, two
or three have been taken. ITd rather write
short stories and never have to write another
novel.
Who was the composer who worked about
eight years on his first symphony? Maybe its
going to be your best....
No, | donTt think so.
The Scarlet Thread? Better than The Scar-
let Thread?
Well, that wouldnTt be saying much. | donTt
think ITm a novelist. And, | donTt... ITve
never written a decent chapter, to say nothing
of a decent novel. And, | would never fool
with them if publishers didnTt insist.
| enjoyed The Scarlet Thread. Maybe it was
because...
It was a bad book.
Maybe it was because | related it to...
Statesville.
Statesville.
Yes, well | did too. ThatTs the only excuse
. . . Well, | really think thereTs something
entirely different from short story writers and
novelists. Some day, some foundation is go-
ing to do a study and they are going to find
people who are good at short stories have a.
certain kind of metabolism; and they move
at a certain rate; and they digest food at a
certain rate; and their thyroid is thus and
such and, novelists are some other breed of
cat entirely. Very few people are good at both.
They are usually one-sided. The good short
story writer is not the same as the good
novelist. And, of the two skills, | would like
to be a good short story writer.
Do you think everyone has a book in them,
if they are a writer? At least one book?
It may be a novel. | have two students right
now who are working on novels. And, | have a
feeling that if you have a novel in you as a
young writer, itTs always shaped. It has an
organic form, and all the teacher can do Is
stand out of the studentTs light a little bit
and hope that he will get it out in the shape
his life has made of it thus far. The second
novel, one reason | think that it is so much
harder, is because he is not drawing on that
energy and well spring that has accumulated.
Now, he is beginning to do it consciously.
ba
And, thatTs a disadvantage in a way. ItTs a
harder hurdle.
But, | think itTs unfortunate that most of
our creative writing classes have to be the
short story form, because | think there are
fewer people who are good at short stories.
And, young writers, particularly, | think, have
a certain contempt for the tight discipline
which really a good short story requires. And,
ITm not sure that a beginning writer ought to
start with tight discipline. He ought to start
with hanging just as loose as he can hang.
You say that the short story is a secondary
form? In other words the novel is preferred?
No. Well, the novel is more popular in
America. | think the short story is much har-
der to write, requires a great deal more skill,
and never has as much popularity. It is no
more than people who prefer a string quartet
to symphonies. There is a difference in size
and scope, that makes one more appealing
than the other.
HY is it that you feel that the short story
is more difficult than the novel?
ThatTs not just my opinion. That is a gen-
eral opinion. Faulkner said this, that he first
wanted to write poetry because thatTs the
hardest and then short stories and then a
novel. Because in the novel you can be care-
less, youTve got so much space to work with.
So much time.
So much time, scope. . . . Size alone will
carry your mistakes. And, in the short story
they just show up terribly. . . . TheyTre just
glaring. And, | think Frank OTConnor said that
he thought many novelists had been inferior
writers, but few short story writers. And none
of them had lacked a sense of theater. So, |
think the short story is much closer to poetry.
Both have to be very distilled, very compact. .
And, much closer to the play . . . where what
is significant is what you leave out. So, that
what is left tells it all. And, | think itTs much
harder to leave out than to put in. Nobody
likes leaving out. ThatTs no fun. You feel you
are leaving out the adjectives that you did
the best, and that you loved rolling on your
tongue. So, it does require more discipline.
And, |Tm not at all sure thatTs what young
writers ought to be doing in college classes.
Although, the writers of the sixties are sort
of soured on discipline anyway.
| can think of any number of very fine
short story writers who have begun to turn
the form upside down and inside out. And,
thatTs all to the good. Because the trouble
with the disciplined form is something like
the sonnet"you always run the risk itTs going
to freeze in place and die. ItTs not so hard to
learn some kind of story form. But, then If
you freeze it and it loses vitality itTs just an
artificial, hot-house flower kind of thing.
Who do you think are the best short story
writers, right now?
ThatTs a mean question . . . Well, among
the women . . . Eudora Welty, a southerner;
Katherine Anne Porter, Tilley Olsen. ITm try-
ing to think of some of the late ones whom
ITve read... | think Max Steele is a fine short
story writer. He teaches at Carolina.
| think the best short story writer and the
one everybody ought to read if they want to
write short stories is still Chekhov. Because
we all forget how much he did at the first of
the century. Everybody thinks present tense
is brand new, you know, but he did many
stories in the present tense. He is the one you
can read the longest with the most profit.
And, his economy fascinates me.
His letters are really...
Yes. ThatTs wonderful advice for writers
... in those letters. . . . He had that kind of
temperament. He started to say, the older
he got the more he wrote. The more it seem-
ed to him nothing was sufficiently short.
ThatTs the short story writerTs problem. To
know how much you can leave out, and still
have your cup run over in some fashion. Still
have that luminous quality.
| still think . . . | feel like Faulkner, if one
were really gifted one would write poetry,
next to that short stories. Then if you have
large, expansive personality and material, the
novel.
| | HAT about ChekhovTs statement that it
should be just like the thing itself, if people
are sitting at a table having a meal, it should
be just like that. But, it should somehow say
(and thatTs the problem) it should somehow
say that these peoplesT lives are being torn
up.
You pick the one moment that, that distills
everything thatTs worth saying about these
people, or seems to be. :
It seems to be a more realistic, or more
accurate description of life than... than like
you can find in James, or...
Welt uk
N OBODY likes to say anything bad about
James because he is like God.
Oh, | do. | think heTs a terrible bore. James
has gone out of style. Edith Wharton has gone
out of style. Because they worked on that
realistic level, supposedly. And that linear
level. And, in a way, | think whatTs happened
is that the poem and short story have gotten
much more alike. They are dealing more in
images and quick associations. You donTt
need all that junk. You donTt need to get him
up early in the morning and take him through
all this process. .. . Henry James, now there
is an example. When Henry James wrote
short stories they had all the grace of a wet
cotton bale . . . big, bulky, endless things.
The novels are another matter. You can enjoy
the fact that he gets discursive for its own
sake. But, in the short stories you couldnTt
put up with it. And, he never did learn that
he couldn't run his mouth that way. Not in
the short stories.
You think his plays are about the same
way? The plays seem to be...
| better not get on to sounding like an ex-
pert on Henry James, because that would
sound like | read him a great deal, you know,
for my own edification. And, | read him as
little as possible, except for the prefaces to
the novels. Now, he had a lot of good things
to say about writing. Also, | donTt think the
reader today is as patient with that sort of
thing. Maybe itTs what McLuhan says-"that
we are really not patient with the left to right,
and the whole slow build-up when we have
been accustomed to getting things pictured,
and all their associations right there .. .
which ought to mean the short story is going
to come into its own. But, | have no faith in
that.
What do you think about McLuhanT s The
Medium is the Massage?
It just knocked me out when | read i And
. well, | thought at first that he was kind
of spitting in my temple. HeTs saying, you
know, all the time weTre spending learning
to do this, and learning to do it better...
You donTt realize that you are a monk still
working on that illuminated manuscript, and
meantime GutenbergTs got the printing| press
coming over here. And, you donTt realize it,
but you are sliding down, becoming obsolete.
So, | resented that, bitterly. But his) argu-
ments were so good, | had no very} good
answers for them. . . . | hope heTs wrong.
Especially when he confronts you with the
simple thing"the simple little box called the
TV, that you had never really paid that: much
attention to, because you were oriented to-
ward a different medium. And, then he tells
you that is the major fact, that is the major
conditioning element.
That is the nervous system now of the
global village, so he says .. . | do think from
listening to students that many more stu-
dents are turned on creatively toward film
now, than they are toward writing of any kind.
Or, that if you have a student and heTs good
at writing, maybe heTs not good with the me-
chanics of writing, but he has whatever that
X-quality is, that shows that he looks at things
differently, and sees all their implications,
one time, in the synthesis, heTs apt to be tak-
ing film also, and gravitating toward film, |
think. | think if | were in college now, and
wanted to be creative, | would certainly have
a fling with film. . . . Do you have much of a
film department?
None at all. ItTs really pitiful.
That does seem to me where itTs really at
now. :
I. a terribly interesting field. And, there ©
Is just so much you can do. Visual communi-
cation has just really gone out of sight.
And it is something that you can now teach
for more than making a living, which used to
be the way you taught it. You know, you are
going into TV, or into filming. You can teach
it as you do art or music, for a creative kind
of joy.
You think the writer and the typewriter is
on the way out and the filmmaker and the
film editor is on the way in?
| donTt know. In my bleak moments, yes,
| think so... . | donTt know. | think perhaps
writing and reading will go back to being
what it used to be. Something that belongs
to a smaller segment of the population, and
goodness knows it doesnTt belong to a very
large part now. Still, considering mass edu-
cation, thereTs still a very small number of
people in this country who buy books, and
read books. | sometimes think there are more
people who want to be writers than there are
who want to be readers.
| | HAT do you think about the new genera-
tion, these people who will be the writers of
tomorrow?
Well, from watching students at Carolina,
which is the closest end of the funnel that |
have to look through, | think they are very
impatient with nearly all the old things. Which
is great. ThatTs healthy, thatTs good. The
themes of many... well, | will back up and
tell you this. Max Steele teaches with me, too.
He is in New York this week, as a matter of
fact. He is giving a speech to a psychologistTs
group. And it came about because he made a
talk at an alumni luncheon, and the speech
was picked up and appeared in the book sec-
tion of the New York Times. It had to do with
the fact that students nowadays are writing
12
about how alienated they are. And, that you
are standing up there all the time saying what
fiction is about, it is relation of person to per-
son. And the students are saying, you are
always saying write out of my experience and
thatTs not what my experience is. My expe-
rience has to do more with isolation. So you
just hush up and let me write what ITm writ-
ing.
What Steele is going to do is give the plots
of two or three stories that he has recently
seen. Let me tell you one of them, because
| think they have more to say about writing
nowadays than any principle would do. One
of them, for instance, is about a soldier boy
whoTs standing outside a telephone booth,
and thereTs a sergeant inside making a call.
And, itTs pouring down rain. And, the only
other telephone booth is two miles away. HeTs
been out there now for fifteen or twenty min-
utes, and every now and then he taps on the
glass door to see if he can get in. And, the
sergeant waves at him and goes on talking.
What he wants to get in for is heTs being
shipped out to Vietnam and he wants to call
home and tell his family that heTs going. This
goes on and on; the rain comes down, and he
keeps tapping on the glass. And the sergeant
doesnTt let him. HeTs been out there maybe
an hour, two hours, wet to the skin. Finally,
the sergeant opens the door of the booth,
reaches behind him to the receiver and yanks
it out of the wall, the wire out. Then, he steps
out and hands it to the soldier, and goes
away. And, the soldier of course is totally dis-
connected from what he can hear, but he
comes in and dials the number and then be-
gins to give his message, without knowing
how it is received, or how anybody will react.
And, thatTs the end of the story. ItTs a story
of non-communication, or one way communi-
cation, or isolation. Lots of students are using
the telephone. And, | think thatTs a real mod-
ern symbol for something.
And what you say about these stories is,
well whatTs the plot, whatTs the motivation,
whatTs the build up. And the thing is, you just
canTt say some of the same things. .. . These
stories have something to say. They seem to
say something terrifically about life.
oe
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Silence
Flowers bloomed sweetly and strangely in Eden
And softly fell fruit to the ground;
A man and a woman walked slowly, talked lowly,
Now there is not a sound.
"Claire Pittman
There are signs on April
Saying, ~~Do Not Enter,�T
Spring is a one-way street
And there is danger
For an old man alone
Who cannot see the way.
"Claire Pittman
16
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When the Newmans moved into our neighbor-
hood, they settled in my great-aunt EmmaTs
sprawling old green frame house on the corner of "
Sabine Street and Huron Avenue. The house no
longer belonged to Memmy"as I called my great-
aunt; she had sold it years before I was born, but |
it was still called Emma CrawfordTs place. When
the Newmans moved in, I was going on nine, now
ITm ten.
The Newmans were Old John Newman, who ran
a credit clothing store across the street from the
train station; Ester Newman, Old JohnTs wife; John
Junior, their fat little boy who was little because
I was a year older than he was; and their nanny
goat that they kept tied in their back yard be-
cause Old John had to have goatTs milk for his
health. Ester and Old John had two older sons,
but they no longer counted because they were mar-
ried and gone.
|
|
|
|
|
HEN the Newmans moved into MemmyTs
house, they transferred their letter to our church,
Superior Avenue Baptist. The old people in the
church were always talking about how Old John
was still a Jew, but he joined the Baptist Church
because it was good for his business. After all the
kids heard this we would sometimes go over to the
corner of Sabine and Huron when there wasnTt any-
thing else to do on a Saturday and call John
Junior a Jew.
oJohn JuniorTs a Jew. John JuniorTs a Jew.T
Everyone would sing-song sort of silly. John Junior
would get mad and say that he wasnTt a Jew.
oTTm a Syrian; thatTs a lot better than a Jew,�
he would say.
One day my mother heard of this and called me
inside.
oFoster McTaggart, I donTt want you to call
John Junior a Jew, do you hear?�
oWhy, Mother?�
oDo you know what a Jew is?�
oNo.�
oThatTs what I thought. Foster (Mother used
her talking-to tone of voice.), a Jew is someone
who believes in Judaism. ThereTs nothing wrong
with that, but all you children are calling John
Junior a Jew because you think itTs something bad.
He knows that and it hurts his feelings. Besides,
the Newmans arenTt Jews anyway; theyTre Baptists
just like we are. Now promise me you wonTt say
that anymore.�
No sound.
oDo you hear me, Foster?�
oGol-lee, Mother.�
Well. t
oAll right, I promise.�
9
HAT did it. I couldnTt call John Junior a Jew
any more. I could never intentionally break a pro-
mise to my mother. The few times when I had gone
against my word, mother had always cried. She
wouldnTt punish me; she just cried, and sometimes
sheTd ask herself, ooWhere have I failed?� I couldnTt
take my motherTs crying.
oBesides,� I thought, owhat good is it calling
John Junior a Jew if it was just some religious
name?�
One day not too long after the Judaism talking
to, we were all sitting around on my porch not
26
doing much of anything when Tooty Gibbons
walked up and announced that he knew something
about John Junior that we didnTt know. Tooty
was about a year younger than everyone else and
he was always bringing up some secret he knew
so he could tell us and be in the group"at least
for as long as the secret was new. :
oWhat?� someone asked.
oJohn Junior doesnTt wear regular shorts.�
oWhatchewmean?�
oHe doesnTt wear regular underwear like we do.�
Regular underwear was white boxer shorts that
we all wore so we could use them for swimming
if we forgot our trunks when we went to the gravel
pit. I thought only Catholics wore those jockey
shorts.
oHow do you know?�
66
Y brother figured it out. Old John and
Ester havenTt got any daughters and the only
menTs underwear that they ever have drying on
their line are Old JohnTs one-piece union suits. My
brother says Old John probably makes John Junior
wear the rotten old girlsT britches that he canTt
sell in his store.�
Everyone stared at each other, and then we tore
off to look at the wash behind John JuniorTs house.
Sure enough, there were the large one-piece union
suits; some large womanTs stepins; and some smal-
ler girlTs step-ins hanging among the sheets and
towels of EsterTs laundry.
This was unbelievable. But it must be true; they
were hanging right there.
oT still donTt believe it,� I said.
oWhat dT you mean, Foster? You see them hang-
ing there?� Popsey Lively said. Popsey was the
oldest member of the gang and the leader. The
step-ins hanging on the line were all the proof he
needed. He began to make plans to get John
Junior.
oOn the way to school tomorrow, weTll take his
trousers off and settle it for sure,� Popsey said.
The next morning everyone was hiding in Mr.
WhiteTs garage by 7:15. School started at 8:00 and
Popsey had insisted that we should be hidden in
plenty of time to catch John Junior when he came
by. John Junior walked to school by the alley that
ran behind Huron Avenue, and Mr. WhiteTs garage
doors opened onto the alley, making it a perfect
spot for an ambush; PopseyTs mind had hit on the
idea almost at once.
The victim came by about 7:30; and after the
excited, giggling, snickering wait, everyone burst
out of the garage and surrounded John Junior be-
fore he could run.
oWhat dT you want?� John Junior asked around
the circle.
oDonTt be afraid, John Junior,� Popsey stepped
forward. oWe only want to see what kind of under-
wear youre wearing.�
My part of the circle was close to Popsey, so T
had a good look at John JuniorTs face. It turned
white as a fish belly when he heard PopseyTs
words, and the body connected to that face grew
stiff as a poker. The circle closed in and knocked
John Junior over. Popsey loosened his belt and
fly and pulled down the grey poplin trousers. John
Junior rolled over, hiding his face; he was crying.
We could hear him sobbing.
Everyone started grabbing for books and run-
ning away toward school. In the frenzy of the get-
away, I ran too, staying with the group for about
fifty yards. Then for some reason I canTt remem-
ber, maybe because John Junior was crying so, I
did something the gang never forgave me for do-
ing. I stopped running and walked back to where
John Junior was lying in the alley.
He had pulled his trousers up, but his face was
still hidden and I could hear sniff-sniffing coming
from under his arms where his head was buried.
ONTT cry, John Junior, donTt cry. Every-
thing will be all right. Tell your mother to get you
some white underwear, then you'll be like every-
one else.� After I said that, John Junior turned
and looked at me for the longest kind of time.
Then he got up and headed toward school. He
didnTt take the short cut through the alley the
way we all went, but walked over to Superior
Avenue which took him to school the long way.
J
by al pertalion
nJr.isa
Q7
Eric
sorensen
Catching Saradove, by Bertha Harris, (Harcourt,
Brace & World, Inc., 1969, 240 pp., $4.95.)
Saradove Racepath loves, runs, dreams, feels,
cries for herself in Miss HarrisT first oextraord-
inary� work. The author combines unique ability
with ungraceful flare suitable for the adolescent
to marvel with beneath bed linen and behind the
eyes of-the American married couple.
Saradove in the beginning of the book is the
mother. Suddenly, she is the adolescent in sunny
North Carolina. Moments later, she is with her
radical demonstrator, and then with her female
lovers. Last, she begins life again in the world
where the young try to become older.
The name Saradove remains a part of the fan-
tasy creation of the author. The white wings of
SaradoveTs flight, however, get soiled in the course
of the book. She becomes Saradove for love to
escape the loveless state of her parents, Olympia
and Duncan, and her dreamland spreads quickly
to all of her world where she learns to love her own
kind of people. And Saradove begins her many
escapades and loves all within her dreamland as
the reader becomes entranced with Saradove, the
mindbender.
In Saradove, Miss Harris masters the art of
conversation. The dry sentences of Hemingway are
gone. JoyceTs flavored gems are improved. Her
dialogue is like the tape-recorder conversations of
modern novelists. The characters ~are real even
within the realm of fantasy. One weakness is that
the book lags at times and the reader lags with it.
Some parts are easily put aside. Still, however,
there remains the $4.95 work of art for people to
buy and wonder at.
"Steve Hubbard
28
capps gritt in
Tar River Poets, (Rayford Printing Company,
1969, 30 pp., $1.00.)
DonTt call this a review. Call it a letter, or ojust
words.� I donTt believe in that demi-god, demi-
savage known as the critic. He spends too much
time enjoying the exercise of his omnipotence. At
any rate, I am not a critic. I donTt believe in good
and bad. I donTt think anyone can really be objec-
tive about poetry, no matter how hard he pretends,
and I choose not to pretend .. . the point being,
read this book and write your own words about
it, as I am talking to you, as I am talking to three
poets who have talked to me. All I can tell you is
what I have heard them say.
Frederick Sorenson talks about war and peace,
about the seasons, the Civil War, and life on the
Tar River. His poem oFarmerTs Warehouse� well
exemplifies the style of life in a town where to-
bacco is mayor, treasurer, and sometimes, God.
Romanticism trickles through the lines of his
poetry, with a use of simple words and free verse
which are continued in the works of the other two
contributors.
An exception is in the poetry of Richard Capps,
where his use of rhyme throws an extra barb into
the sarcasm of his words. Capps speaks out against
a lot of institutions, such as too many sidewalks,
pseudo-archaeological expeditionists, and funda-
mentalist Christian doctrine. After having read
oThe Word� in the East Carolinian, I was par-
ticularly pleased to find someone willing to speak
out who took more of a Nietzchian view of religion.
CappsT oObservations in a Business Office� could
serve as a prophecy for the majority of male grad-
uates from E.C.U. this spring, given another ten
or twenty years. His poem oBetween� is worth
remembering. It is the epitaph of his businessman: o ~BornT and ~DiedT and ~Now here liesT with nothing
in between.� If a man can hold onto words like this, they will keep him from falling into such an event-
less life and nameless death.
The section of Charles GriffinTs poetry begins with oAre You a Ninety-Seven Pound Weakling.�
After reading this poem, one begins to wonder whose side of the fence Griffin is on, if anybodyTs. The
final irony of GriffinTs irony is that his meaning gets lost in the act. What he is saying in oA Married
ManTs Opinion� is the truth, as anyone knows who has seen GriffinTs beautiful baby girl. In oThe Storm
Trooper,� Griffin gives a pointed example of how environment can have devastating effects upon an
individualTs outlook. One powerful description of young men today is in oFor a Fretful Rebel: ~Cannon
Fodder.T � Every time one sees a troop of green boot-camp recruits in file, those lines are apt to come
to mind.
I think this book could have borne a title more appropriate than oTar River Poets.� At least in
the case of Charles Griffin, the experiences related encompass life far outside the realm of eastern North
Carolina. The major flaw I find in this book is that most of the poetry is not exciting. The poetry would
make good prose, but it is an inherent quality of poetry to be a mode of expression which transcends
the prosaic. Some of the poems represented here would have to do a little transcending before they could
be considered as such. However, this book ought to command attention merely because of the series it
represents"an attempt to foster an air of intellectualism on the E.C.U. campus. When the campus
blooms intellectually, so will the books published in the East Carolina Poetry Forum Series.
"KEileen Barnum
reviews
29
version of Bonnie and Clyde gave to the outla
of the thirties.
The Dillinger Days chronicles the violence of
| the thirties with sufficient detail to overwhelm = :
| the reader with the ena s eee 6f one law enforcement agency.
HooverTs refinements in the field of. scientific
ee Oey are to be commended, but his at-
> HooverTs rep-
a _erimebuster was made in this era.
ok oe ave
: been written at ae quar Indeed,
might have. Toland
cipal characters of the soirees. Sec eas ; )
ogangsters� themselves are no longer alive to tell i se ee Matt Leach"not a member of
their story. the FBI, but @n affiliate law officer. Hoover used
In The Dillinger Qays, Toland" att mpt : = == this hyperbolic technique in describing most of the
oPublic Erfemies� from Alvin Karpis to Eldridge
Cleaver.
Tft-you create a public enemy: of colossal danger
Sete
and sophomoric i in his
chological motivations.
TolandTs
interest j
which
R:
» you! pian an accom-
ot heroie fropottions and an q.
aos
ain
se
ie
Se
So _
aR
ae SRE EE
Se ihiieas
Aas:
ea
Sie
aul paul and more paul
& clip-clop the magic mule
apostate paul world-traveller
mender of miles"and souls
regular contributor to the corinthian book-club
nobody remembers how he died
but you canTt live without him
"Robert McDowell
33
i
! The snow is muddy,
The heavy ice from the pine branches
shatters on the ground...
Spring is near.
5
The pine cone floats on the lake:
Washed ashore and
Washed out...
Washed ashore and
Washed out...
11
The sun burns down on the lonely beach;
Giant waves alone break the silence "
| am the Sand.
"Joseph Harrison Goodwin
Oh, yeah.
LifeTs a mystic woman,
And ail your thoughts are bare.
You're just another moment,
Oh, yeah,
Why should she care?
Oh, yeah,
why should she care?
sheTs seen everything,
Been everywhere.
Oh, yeah.
Why should she care?
You starve the light of new tomorrows,
To dodge more heartbreak so you say.
Your flowers all turned black from sorrow,
You spread your wings and fly away.
| could tell her you wear flowers in your hair.
| could say you wear shoes of solid gold
| could tell her you expect her to be fair,
and that you speak not to the ear, but to the soul.
""Archie Gastor
om
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7% H.B. s
Time has stopped
At twelve
Beneath its chiming blade
My ogresT blood-reeking
Breath draws me
Into their more-empty
-than-loneliness hunger,
Vacuous, insatiable;
While you,
Planter of crimson
Flowers that grow only,
Are not near enough
Or strong enough,
Being only human
| doubt,
Deeply,
Whether life is worth
Dying for ". .
"Eileen Barnum
October
Maim virgin beauty
with ten thousand black
gashes and blood
10:00 comes tomorrow...
Pierce tender gypsy ears
November brings
a silver tambourine...
Pawn the heavy flesh
for angelsT wings
with a two-week guarantee.
| want to taste you naked
Melt
Into your flaming soul;
Mold
My iiquid with your firm hands
Gently
Whisper the breath of love
Lips pressed to mine,
Fill me
With your strength that | may face
lifeTs subtler atrocities.
oe "Eileen Barnum _/
on the summerTs pier
poked in the ocean's eye
we cuddle.in-the cheek
of dawn each day.
Waiting: for striped trout
to-strike our lines
and when she strokes
my chest and asks me
if | still love her
| tell her each dawn
that yes | do
even when | don't
perhaps the tenuous thread
of some diurnal fear
keeps her hanging on
_ . like a delirious fish
that struggles
on a barbed hook
to stay hung
and | keep reeling
gently, gently
"Rush Rankin
Love, Song of the Seasor
n the land is growing strong
love is the kind of thing
you and your wife can hold
y carefully in your arms
e she sleeps her dreamless slee
you know the hold of fresh
eyes and the tender tenacious
the long morning hours without :
the agony and the pleasure
eeing your love made manifest
ne small sleeping smile.
Charles Griffin
BERR AY PONSA ELT LNG HINT BATTS FOUN RN ARETE
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ects
the end
|
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