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About Our Contributors

Bernice Kelly Harris is a noted North Carolina
novelist. Our interview with her was conducted
at her home in Seaboard, N. C. The questions were
made up by our staff.

Sue Ellen Bridgers was once Associate Editor
of the REBEL. She was recently married to Ben
Bridgers, a former contributor to the REBEL.
SueTs short story in this issue is her third appear-
ance in the magazine. Marital bliss has not inter-
fered with her creativity.

Bud Wall is not a regular member of the staff.
We have enough trouble as it is. Bud is a senior
from Monroe, N. C. His work has appeared in
shows and galleries throughout the country.

Pat Reynolds Willis, B. Tolson Willis, and San-
ford L. Peele are members of the Greenville Poetry
Group. Mrs. Willis is married to B. Tolson Willis,
who has a moustache. Sanford L. Peele is un-

married and has a beard. They are frequent con-
tributors to the REBEL.

William H. Grate is a member of the English

faculty. His book review in this issue marks his
first appearance in the REBEL.

Dwight Pierce and Fay Nelson are members of
the staff. Dwight has had poetry published in the
past by the REBEL. This is FayTs first appear-
ance.

Since art is an integral part of the REBEL, a
few words should be said about our new art staff.

With this issue, Duffy Toler assumes the duties
of Big Chief of the REBELTs art staff. He is as-
sisted by Ben Hill, Doug Latta, and Louis Jones.
Duffy deserves high commendation for his efforts
on this first issue of the academic year.

Louis Jones begins his second year as a member

of the art staff. Louis illustrated the short story,
Gentle Defender.

Doug Latta, a transfer student from Mount
Olive College, is a newcomer to the REBEL. The

portrait of Bernice Kelly Harris was done by
Doug.

Ben Hill drew the pen and ink illustration for
the book review section. Ben, a senior from Kin-

ston, N. C., is also a new member of the art staff.

FALL, 1963

NUMBER 1

THE REBEL

EDITORIAL

FEATURE
Interview with Bernice Kelly Harris

FICTION
Gentle Defender, by Sue Ellen Bridgers

POETRY
Ave, by Pat Reynolds Willis
Dry Arrangement, by Sanford L. Peele
Winter Walk, by B. Tolson Willis, Jr.
Of Tongues and Rain, by B. Tolson Willis, Jr.
The Coming of the Rain, by B. Tolson Willis, Jr.

o~Between the essence and descent falls the
shadow...� by Sanford L. Peele

Gray-Glassed Fruit in a Bowl, by Pat Reynolds
Willis

Aerial Vintage, by Sanford L. Peele

Our Pain, by Pat Reynolds Willis

An Axis of Smoke, by B. Tolson Willis, Jr.

Sacramental Gift, by Sanford L. Peele

Art Noveau, by Sanford L. Peele

To the Hostess, by B. Tolson Willis, Jr.

A Glaring Vindictiveness, by Pat Reynolds Willis

ART
Bud Wall, Artist

CRITICISM

The Names and Faces of Heroes: A Point of View
by Pat Reynolds Willis

REBEL REVIEW

Reviews by Dr. William H. Grate, Dwight Pearce,
Fay Nelson, and Staff.

COVER
Bud Wall

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

NOTICE"Contributions to THE REBEL should be directed
to P.O. Box 1420, E.C.C., Greenville, North Carolina. Editorial
and business offices are located at 30614 Austin Building.
Manuscripts and art work submitted by mail should be accom-
panied by a self-addressed envelope and return postage. The
publishers assume no responsibility for the returneof manu-
scripts or art work.

STAFF

Editor
J. ALFRED WILLIS

Associate Editor
Bit GRirrIn

Book Review Editor
Wanna Duncan

Copy Editor
DwieHt PEARCE

Art Staff

Durry ToLer, Bic CHIEF
Louis Jones
Dove Latta

Ben Hy

Typists and Proofreaders
Friepa WHITE
JAN CowarD
R. W. GoLLoBin
ALBERTA JENKINS
HELEN JENNINGS
Sure Jones
Fay NELSON
Ray RAYBOURN
Tom SPEIGHT
JERRY TILLOTSON
Rosert EH. WIGINGTON

Faculty Advisor
Ovip WILLIAM PIERCE

Circulation
Alpha Phi Omega Fraternity

EN
Fy, a

Member Associated
Collegiate Press

EDITORIAL

Richard B. Sewell in his Vision of Tragedy
states that the artist must have two postulates
for his tragedy: man is free, free to choose, and
evil is real, ever menacing and inevitable. These
postulates only seem valid at a peak of civilization
when dogmatic, static modes of thought produce
a sophistication that mitigates the moral and
ethical foundation of civilization. The resulting
struggle so rends and warps the society that the
bewilderment and inexplicability of the prima-

tive view of ooriginal terror� returns.

This is what the NegroesT civil rights movement
has done to the South. But then the Southerner
has always been at the limits of his possibilities
finding his philosophies no longer effective in fight-
ingT the ooriginal terror� of immediate and
inimical destruction. This is what Faulkner cap-
italized on and other Southern writers who are
This is the
reason for the SouthTs present dominancy of the

able to mirror the SouthTs people.

oAmerican literary scene.�

The Southern people are daily confronted by
their annihilation. It is the problem of physical
welfare. It is the problem of living with other
people. It is the problem of preserving heritage
so that each generation will not have to start all
over again. It is the problem of trying to live
instead of just exist. It is the problem of ascer-

taining the value, purpose, and best form of gov-

ernment. It is the problem of anti-social behavior
and how to deal with it. It is the problem of the
proper use of natural resources. It is the prob-
It is the
problem of Why are we here, Whence did we come,

lem of the proper use of knowledge.

and Whither are we going.

The ~osophisication� of the new South has
mitigated the moral and ethical foundation of

FALL, 1963

American civilization. It was not meant to. The
Southern Middle Class saw their nation after
the Civil War and Reconstruction in debt, financi-
ally and intellectually impoverished, politically
corrupt, and suffering from an inferiority com-
plex. They set about to ~~redeem� their land and
in doing so these merchant-industrialist redeem-
ers fixed the modern SouthTs patterns of race, poli-
tics, economics, and law"the o~white manTs bur-

�

den,� minority rule through ocourt house rings,�
the dollar is god and how to get it is the religion,

and the caste system.

These are also the patterns that the Southerner
is no longer finding effective in the confrontation
of his problems. There is a perceptible alteration
in the o~sophisication� of the New South. North
Carolina is faced with statistics such as an esti-
mated 5,000,000 population by 1967-68; only 32
percent of North Carolinians over 25 have a
high school education; in 1960 the per capita
income for the state was $1,574 while for the
United States it was $2,223; 25 percent of all
North Carolinians live on farms and only 8.6
percent of these farms have an annual gross
sale of $10,000 or more (the national average is
21.5 percent). The state has prepared itself for
these social responsibilities with the North Caro-
lina Fund.

Yet osophisication� and tragedy still remain.
It can be the story of a mother whose child goes
to an over-crowded under-staffed junior high
school while nine blocks away there is a partially
completed stadium worth $35,000 built from vol-
untary donations collected by a committee of
eight respected businessmen. Or it can be the
story of the child. Or it can be the story of the

eight respected businessmen.

In 1939 the University of North Carolina Press
published its first non-fiction book. That same
year the Mayflower Society awarded its cup for
the best published book by a North Carolinian, for
the first time, to a woman author. In both in-
stances the book was the novel Purslane and the
author was Bernice Kelly Harris. Since then she
has had six novels published by Doubleday and
Company. Doubleday will publish a_ seventh,
Santa on the Mantle, this Christmas season. Also
next year the University of North Carolina Press
recalling its event of a quarter century ago will
publish a book of Mrs. HarrisT reminiscences,
Southern Savor.

Mrs. Harris lives in Seaboard, North Carolina
where she taught public school for many years.
She is now teaching a creative writing course at
Chowan College.

Interview with

BERNICE KELLY HARRIS

Question: How did you come to know the rural

class of people?

Answer: I grew up in a country community in
Wake County"an unusual country community
that produced some great people. One was an
ambassador to Germany (thereTs a marker in the

community to him). It produced religious lead-
ers, leaders in education, doctors, and one writer
that I know about. I knew the people; they were
the salt of the earth.

4

Gerald Johnson in reviewing Purslane, which
depicted country life, headed his review in the
New York Herald Tribune oHilarity among the
Sharecroppers�. Of course Gerald Johnson knew
my small farmers were not sharecroppers. But in
that decade so many novels were concerned with
the down-trodden, the despairing, the depressed
farming people of the South that the reviewer
used that surprising heading"the surprise word
ohilarity� to suggest that happiness and content-
ment are found among farm people; that was be-

THE REBEL

ing overlooked in that particular decade. Then,
of course, I have known Northampton people;
ITve known the small farmers and the landlords of
big plantations who have had a great deal of land.
ITve known sharecroppers whoTve worked for
them. ITve heard their stories; ITve had dozens of
interviews that I have taken among the farming
people, among them, the sharecroppers. So I
feel that I have known the people that I write
about.

Do we ever really know people, though? There
was a poem. I canTt think of the author, but it
was a recent poem in a magazine that asked that
question or, rather, suggested this. (ITm para-
phrasing.)

Always we walk among unknown people,

guessing them. And sometimes there is a

pulse that pounds in a rage of recognition,

so that we come to know the people we guess
as somewhere ourselves.

There is established this identification with these
unknown people that we walk among, guessing
them. In other words, there is mystery in people,
and I have just said, oI know the people I write
about.� But do I, really? I have perceived some-
thing about them, and I have recorded that per-
ception, illuminated it, I hope.

Question: In Bernice Kelly Harris: Storyteller
of Eastern Carolina by Richard Walser, you have
said that you have never completely created a
character. Do you transplant them from their
original situations, or do you leave them in the
same situation in which you find them?

Answer: I transplant them, if that seems to
be indicated. I was called a storyteller of East-
ern Carolina, but I never have felt that I was
much of a storyteller. My concern was with peo-
ple, and I put them in some kind of story. But
in the sense of plot complication and situation, I
have never felt that I had strength in that re-
spect. I do think that I have interpreted people.
I have given meaning and significance to those
facets of character that I have perceived.

For instance, there is this character, Caroline,
who has been called memorable. She has been
used in two novels and a play. This was an insig-
nificant little woman, illiterate, who had an aspira-
tion, a very lowly one, it seems. The ambition of
her life was to live among landed people and have
a grave among them after she died. For that she
worked, she slaved"she was truly a voluntary
slave. No one wanted her to work the way she
did, but she was working for a cause, for an iden-
tity of a sort. She was a homeless little woman,

FALL, 1963

and the Black Beast of her life was the Poorhouse
(as it was called in those days). She was willing
to do anything to keep from being sent there. But
her ways were not tolerable to the people among
whom she lived. Finally places gave out, and she
was sent to the County Home. There she found an
identity. That had been in her struggle all the way
along, though it never was really defined or under-
stood. She became oMiss CarolineT, this little wo-
man who always had been just oCaTlineT�T among
old and young. When she left the people at the
County Home to visit among her former employ-
ers, she told them that she would be back soon.
They would say, oHurry back, Miss Caroline. We
shall miss you.�T She became restless, even among
the landed employers that she had formerly served,
and finally said that she had to go back home.
Home for her was being Miss Caroline, being
missed. So the people felt that she had rejected
them, and one woman expressed it, oCaTlineTs
gone off to the Poorhouse and got the big head.�
And a big head it was"the same kind of big head
that every person has who has longed for an iden-
tity and finally gets it.

There are many people like this that I could
name. Sounds a little presumptuous, a little
pompous to be naming my book characters, but
they were drawn from life. And your original
question was: Did I o. . . transplant them from
their original situations ...?� Many of them re-
mained in their situation, and a story was con-
trived or developed which fitted their situation or
fitted their character, as perceived.

There are areas in people unexplored, just as
there are areas in space; and they mystify us. We
donTt know why. We have to assign motivation
sometimes. ITm thinking of one of my characters
drawn from a person in real life. He was a man
who had a strange compulsion to feud with
his neighbors even when there was nothing to
feud over. He had to fall out with people, and
after that he had orgies of making up. The
neighbors were mystified. Why did he do it?
Then during these orgies of making up, he gave
such extravagant gifts that they were afraid they
would boomerang and give him something else to
fall out about. The manner of his death was no
less mystifying than that of his living. He drank
laudanum, and the only clue they had to his man-
ner of death was his exclamation repeated over
and over as his neighbors walked him, trying to
keep him awake. Before he settled into his last
sleep he said, oLeave me alone. Just leave me
alone. I want to sleep a thousand years.� They
carved on his tombstone the words: o~Must Jesus

5

bear the cross alone and all the world go free. No,
thereTs a cross for everyone, thereTs a cross for
me.� ItTs in the cemetery in the country church-
yard at the old neighborhood in which I grew up.
The neighbors realized there was some cross, there
was something they called a cross, some strange-
ness about him. And we assign motivations.
Perhaps itTs presumptuous, but we have to per-
ceive and interpret and then assign motivations
for what they do. And so his motivation was not
assigned to him, but to a young man that I had
in the first novel who drank laudanum, and the
motivation is clear in this case.

Question: Why do you write?

Answer: I expect my answer is that of other
writers"oI donTt know.�T I do know that I was
impelled"I always wanted to write. There was
nothing in my background to prompt it. Actually,
when I was a little girl, novels were not in very
good repute among the good people. And that
did not mean just the trashy kind. We had some;
we had some trash that we passed around among
one another. I used to order Mary J. HolmesT
novels for seven cents a copy. But at the same
time I was reading Dickens and Scott and Eliot.
But novels were not in such good repute. And I
wanted to write one. I wrote a novel when I was
eleven years old. It filled a whole tabet full of
words, but it was poor stuff. A cousin of mine
who was my agent (we were eleven and twelve)
asked a State College professor (it was A & M
then) to read it. He commented about the youth
of the writer. ThatTs all he had to say. ThatTs
about all he could say. It was terrible stuff. But
I wanted to write good novels.

When I became a teacher I transferred my am-
bition, or my desire to write"I donTt think it was
ambition"to producing a writer from among my
students. (ThatTs one of the reasons that I am
trying to do a creative writing course over at
Chowan College. I did one a semester last year,
and I discovered some talent. ITm still interested
in discovering writers.) So that lasted until the
1930's, and I tried after I stopped teaching to
organize a group of women who might write a
play (my interest at the time). But I was un-
able to get too much out of the community women.
I wrote some plays. One of the community plays
was bought by Samuel French, incidentally. Then
I started writing myself and the first part of the
1930Ts I wrote plays. But the characters that I
had in these plays called for more treatment than
I could give them in the one-act plays. So I wrote
Purslane, which depicted the people that I had

6



known when I was growing up"something of
their fineness, of the salt of the earth that they
really were.

I am thinking of the woman at seventy-six who
joined an adult illiteracy class, and who learned to
read the twenty-third psalm, which was the ambi-
tion of her life. I heard her read it one afternoon.
There was a great deal of militancy in her read-
ing, as there was in her living. Her philosophy
of life was not to make a mess of living or of dy-
ing. Though that is stated negatively, she lived it
affirmatively. When the time came for her to go,
she made her own preparations. She did not want
to bother neighbors. She knew that her time was
at hand. So she dressed herself as she wanted to
be buried, and sat in a chair waiting for death as
for company. SheTs buried not very far from
here. And that woman"her militant living"has
been helpful sometimes when I was hesitant about
things. There have been many people like her
that I could bring to mind. SheTs one.

So I believe that people have impelled me more
than any other one thing. ITve never known any
outstanding dramatic happening to prompt me
particularly. But I have known dramatic people,
to me they were dramatic. I believe that most
writers have something of that impelling.

Question: How do you teach creative writing?

Answer: I noticed that Reynolds Price suggest-
ed in his interview in the Rebel that in creative
writing courses the most important thing is to
read. I couldnTt agree more with him in that
respect. I enjoy reading the North Carolina
writers at present. I think we have a wealth
of writers in North Carolina. We have, each year,
a writersT conference. I think when we come
together we realize just what literary vitality
there is in North Carolina. And of course your
own professor at East Carolina will remain among
my favorite authors"American authors; I donTt
mean North Carolina writers, I mean American.
HeTs atrue artist. That is true of others in North
Carolina, too. I have a great many favorites.
And it would be difficult, really, though it would
be helpful, I know, for me to specify just who
maybe influenced me. To tell you the truth, they
are ~somewhat out of style"Dickens, Scott, and
Eliot. When I was a child I read them, along
with Mary J. Holmes. They have influenced me
to this extent"they made me want to read, love
to read. And reading is a great part...

I was interested, too, in Mr. PriceTs statement
that to call it creative writing is a little pompous.
It is hard to name. It is hard to give a name for

THE REBEL

what we try to do in these courses. We donTt
teach, that is clear. We donTt attempt to teach
when we are conducting a course, but the most
important thing is to create a climate of apprecia-
tion for the ideas that the young people have, to
encourage them to develop these ideas. ThatTs the
most that we can do. If I had had this when I was
young, how wonderful it would have been, I think.
Someone who was interested in my ideas. They
weren't very important then, but they may have
been shaped toward importance.

I had a course at Meredith College that was or-
ganized for three students who wanted to write.
But we read, and our only writing was an impres-
sion of the things that we read"not that we wrote
anything creative, as we call it. But we wrote a
sort of theme on the work. Mine was O. Henry"
and now he is out of style, too!

Question: How have you overcome the problem
of articulately expressing the inarticulate charac-
ter? Or maybe it is not so much articulate ex-
pression as articulate perception.

Answer: By selecting significant details and by
selecting something of the philosophies of life
found among the inarticulate. That sounds like a
big word to apply to these insignificant people.
(No one is insignificant, however.) But they do
have a philosophy of life, and they express it in
words which are not always used by the articu-
late, but they are able to say a great deal that is
inspiring to the person who perceives what they
are trying to say.

I listened to the rural people talk. Accuracy was
no virtue on the part of the writer at all"faith-
fulness to the dialect, that is, the idiom of people.
For many times I jotted down notes as they talk-
ed and recorded their manner of talk. Some of
their expressions (these are incidental, really)
help to portray the circumstances of their living.
They do not have anything to do with the human
qualities of the people. They are outside, they are
external, but they help in the realization of per-
sons.

Question: Do you consider yourself a local color
writer?

Answer: You spoke a minute ago about the
Storyteller of Eastern Carolina. Eastern Carolina
happens to be the locale, but I have hoped that
there is a universality in my people that does not
confine them to a certain locale. (That is except,
as I said, these external things like the manner of
their talk, their customs.)

FALL, 1963

I had an intimation of universality when I look-
ed at the jacket cover of the first novel, Purslane.
On the jacket that was sketched for the University
of North Carolina Press there is pictured a Wake
County farmer with a hoe. And in the background
there is the farm woman. Robin Darwin, who inci-
dentally is the great grandson of Charles Darwin,
drew the jacket sketch for the English edition.
He pictured the same people, but in English dress.
The English would understand these rural people.
TheyTd understand them, particularly because the
man in the foreground of DarwinTs sketch, who
is supposed to be Uncle Israel of Wake County, is
John Bull"the epitome of John Bull for the Eng-
lish people. And as we look at it we see that these
external differences have nothing to do with the
human qualities that are portrayed.

I was interested in that observation, also in the
fact that a reviewer of Janey Jeems in New York
wrote that she had spent two hours one summer
afternoon in the Blue Ridge mountains of North
Carolina. She wondered, as she looked at these
mountain people, what they were like, what their
manner of life was, how they talked. ~oNow,� she
said in the review, oI know because I have read
Janey Jeems.� Janey Jeems happened to be a
story about two lovable Negro characters who had
aspirations. They were of landless generations,
and they were of slave ancestry, as is stated in the
book. They translated their aspirations into
white steeples to worship under and into what
they called title deed land to pass on from genera-
tion to generation. At first I was disconcerted by
the reference to my Eastern North Carolina char-
acters who live near Elizabeth City in the cotton
and peanut country"I was disconcerted that they
were placed in the mountains. And then I thought,
oWell, ITve made the point after all. These human
qualities could be placed anywhere, among people
anywhere.� And I believe that has bearing on the
universality that I said I hoped my people have.
Then there was a writer in New Zealand who
chose the very same title that I did the same year,
or about the same year. I never would have known
about it, but he happened to see a review of Sweet
Beulah Land in some papers that were brought
there, he said, by United States Marines. So he
wrote me, telling me about his work. I have a
copy in my bookcase upstairs. He called it Sweet
Beulah Land, and it was about the rural people of
New Zealand. He said that though there are dif-
ferences, of course, there is a striking similarity
in those human qualities that I wrote about in my
Beulah Land, o

Question: Would you say that the strength and
greatness of the Southern literature lies in its por-
trayal of rural areas and rural people? Would
urbanization destroy the SouthTs literary output?

Answer: I believe that as long as there are
people, changes such as from agrarianism to ur-
banization are not going to destroy the interesting
aspects of living. Human relationships remain.
They suggest stories. Stories come out of these.
So urbanization is not going to destroy the literary
output as long as there are people, and people
arenTt going out of style. They will continue to
interest and prompt perceptive persons to write
and record their qualities and the triumphs of
spirit that are to be seen.

There was a little old woman here who used to
peddle garden produce, and that was at a time
when other people were going on relief. But she
preferred to peddle butter beans and blackberries,
just as the peddlers, in days when I was a child,
peddled their goods. She peddled her sacks of
garden produce; and when her sales were inade-
quate to pay the rent on her little shack, she was
evicted. (That was the story of the 1930Ts, when
so many evictions occurred. People had to take up
residence in"well, in churches sometimes. I
wrote a play about a family that did take up resi-
dence in a church after eviction.) She set up
housekeeping alongside a highway right out from
town. What an open house she had. It was all
in good humor, good spirit. The vitality of people
will not change under urbanization. And that is
fast coming, because the people of Sweet Beulah
Land are so different in Northampton County
now. The sharecroppeprs that were so prevalent
then"landlords who had twelve, now have two or
three. That has changed so greatly. But in what-

ever circumstances of living they find themselves,
there is a story about people.

I read a story not long ago about the time when
there would be a world of concrete and steel. One
marmalade tree was left on earth"just one tree.
And the town fathers wanted to uproot it. It was
a tourist attraction, but they could not spare the
spot of earth. It all had to be concrete. But one
person loved earth enough to plant and guard and
cherish a little shrub, a tree. As for me, I have a
sense of the land and I canTt imagine how it would
be to a writer without it. But then Carl Sandburg
in his poetry, of course, interprets the industrial.
And so thereTs poetry in steel and concrete. There
are stories of people who are going to be in a world
of steel and concrete. They will be different from
the stories of the land, but there will be stories,
I believe.

Question: Politicians and newspapermen are

describing the oNew South�. What is the oNew
South� that you see?

Answer: The New South that I see has to do
with the change from an agrarian to an industrial
South and even more to a change in peopleTs think-
ing. Writers will be affected by the change in
manner of living and of thinking. They will not
have the South of Thomas Nelson Page. But they
will have people"people with aspirations differ-
ent from title-deed land to pass on from gen-
eration to generation, but with aspirations even
in a world of concrete and steel, with frustrations
and with crosses to bear, with something of mys-
tery in them, with triumphant spirit. Yes, weTre
changing our thinking and our customs. We
wouldnTt go back. I wouldnTt go back. Sometimes
we love to reminisce about the good old days, but
I like the days that weTre living in.

THE REBEL

THE NAMES AND FACES OF HEROES:

A POINT OF VIEW

By

Pat Reynolds Willis

As too often happens, a second book is discuss-
ed and reviewed in terms of the excellence and
stylistic accomplishments of its predecessor. This
critical timidity usually presupposes a prophetic
quality in the first work; too often it becomes a
sort of soothsayer forecasting critical acclaim or
damnation for the second attempt in which the
writer must, with some Herculean effort, surpass
himself. In the case of Reyonds PriceTs The
Names and Faces of Heroes, a book of short
stories, we have found too many reviewers touch-
ing lightly on the stories; or obviously waiting for
another novel; they recall the art and excellence
of A Long and Happy Life conjoined with only a
smattering of critical interpretation of the various
stories to be found in the writerTs latest offering.

This singular fault may be attributed to the
contemporary opinion of the novel as the pinnacle
of prestige and money making; even the best story
writer is often forced to grind out periodically a

FALL, 1963

novel for the edification of his publishers and the
public. Mr. Price, although in all probability not
a victim of this particular demand, has been un-
worthily used by some reviewers who are seem-
ingly novel-crazed and cannot put aside for a
moment their obsession, in order to interpret fully
works of art in a legitimate medium. In short, a
few stories included in The Names and Faces of
Heroes, even more strongly than A Long and

Happy Life, indicate that Reynolds Price will take
his place among the giants of contemporary fic-
tion. In at least two of the stories, Price has not
only revealed a mastery of the traditional form
but also has managed structural innovations us-
ually reserved for much longer works.

In order to attempt even to approach a just
examination of The Names and Faces of Heroes,
this observer feels it necessary to approach each
story individually; for the short story must be

9

taken as an artistic entity, and no amount of
groupings according to theme, situation, style,
etc., can justify a obook� review when obviously
unity results only through the fact of binding.
Even the thematic quest for heroism found in
PriceTs stories only loosely binds these separate
works together.

The two stories that are easily the most ingen-
ious indicators of PriceTs future stature as a writ-
er are oTroubled Sleep� and oThe Names and
Faces of Heroes.�T The latter is perhaps also the
best and most moving story in the book. Both
stories make a rather peculiar and successful use
of the I-narrator as two persons: one, the actual
boy participant in the story; and second, the ma-
ture man who, revealing and telling, finds insight
that may be gained only in recollection. In both
stories, the first is a boy, perhaps in early puber-
ty, and the second is the boy matured to man who
recalls. In each there is also a merging of past
and present, so that the awareness of the man is
found in the patches of light and shadow of the
boyTs perception.

oTroubled Sleep� is a relatively simple story
of a boy and his hero cousin, Falcon Rodwell, who
learn of love after a quarrel, by the light of the
moon, and in the adolescent worship of a life in
death. There is indeed in this story the lack of
articulation that Rosacoke Mustian, in A Long
and Happy Life, suffered from. But this is finally
alleviated through a spiritual and physical touch-
ing, a thing so delicate that the boys in their
proper ages cannot fully realize. This joining is
particularly evidenced in the boy narratorTs dream
of Fale on the raft and in the mature narratorTs
evaluation that ohe (Falc) turned just his eyes
toward the sound of his old name, but they looked
straight through me and on past as if I had never
come at all this way to join him.� And at last
the two boys are spiritually joined when oI turned
towards him and"not knowing what it was to be
Falec"I laid my arm on his chest which was the
part of him in the light, and sometime"sleeping,
I think"he took my hand.�

In the title story, the narrator relives for a
moment a time and incident when, as a boy, he
understood without knowing it the conception of
hero. There is in this story a curiously surreal-
istic quality that casts the light of a childTs incom-
prehension and distortion over his father, so that
this parental symbol of religion, manhood, and
love is revealed through a montage of times and
places to produce a manTs pattern of life and hero.
The boy, the participant, is unaware, but the man,
the recaller, has found in the boyTs sight and hear-

10

ing an insight into the father. It is this timeless
awareness that gleans from the boyTs participation
and the manTs recollections a hero stronger than
the father in life because late realized. Heroes fin-
ally are not made by war or by personal bravery,
as the boy thought; they emerge from knowledge
and love, as the man discovered.

As in the first story, the realization comes only
after both sensual and spiritual revelation, for in
both stories the ideal and/or the perception must
be firmly grounded in the body; and exploration
must be complete and comprehended before the
coming of insight and maturity. And in these
stories, insight comes with a merging of the then
and now; past must be present; present, past be-
fore a full understanding is attained. Technically,
these are the most exciting stories in the book;
but in oThe Names and Faces of Heroes,T tech-
nique and subject matter are so married as to
produce as fine a short story as any this observer
has read.

In a similar vein is oMichael Egerton,� a hero
much like Falcon Rodwell of ~Troubled Sleep,�
but here the hero labors under the burden of a
broken home and a new father to replace one he
is not ready to replace. Yet this story is so
weighted with stock situations and stock reac-
tions that it becomes hardly more than a rather
objective variation on a theme which has, unfor-
tunately, too few variables to explore. Unlike the
other two stories, ~~Michael Egerton� has no in-
tricacy of presentation"which is definitely need-
ed"and there is little in the story except the won-
derful fluidity of rhythm that is characteristic of
PriceTs style. Michael Egerton, like the others,
is belatedly recognized as hero, but one wonders
why it should matter since the narrator, although
aware, is apparently not moved.

Another hero, indeed and recognizably so, is
Uncle Grant in the piece of the same name. But
unfortunately, this piece is not a story"only a
sketch"and it became little more than an auto-
biographical reminiscence which, interestingly
enough, reveals the writer, his family, and all the
personal particulars which the public seemingly
likes to know. There is here a similarity, and
perhaps this similarity is justification enough to
include a sketch in a book of short stories; the
writer, like the mature man, finds through recol-
lection a man worthy of respect and admiration.
He finds that the man whom he had assisted in a
somewhat hurried theology of salvation had been
the winner after all. But other than this similar-
ity of theme, oUncle Grant� is a sketch which
perhaps the followers of Mr. Price will enjoy for

THE REBEL

the specifics of names and places, times and events
that must have been meaningful to the author.

The three remaining stories are for the most
part competently written and one of them is quite
a fine story in the traditional sense. All three
reveal Price as a capable writer who knows his
characters and region well. Again these are
stories which involve personal perception into the
matter of the heart, the matter of living and rec-
ognizing a meaningful association of ideal and
reality. Each of these stories is concerned with
an incident, a moment of knowing. In presenta-
tion of this moment, these stories are not unlike
those previously discussed. But in technique and
subject, they are decidedly in the vein of A Long
and Happy Life.

In fact, the story, oA Chain of Love,� has as
its central character the familiar Rosacoke Mus-
tian, still inarticulate but still sensitive to the
living rhythms of those beloved and those perceiv-
ed. Rosacoke, tending her hospitalized grand-
father, finds in the death of a stranger and the
vigil of his son a belated expression of her own
inability to understand and, paradoxically, her
own knowledge of a beauty that is finally life
itself. RosacokeTs sorrow and her thwarted de-
sire to express it finally erupt because oshe hadnTt
ever told him (the stranger) of any of this kin"
out loud"that she felt for them.T�T This is Rosa-
cokeTs need and her sorrow, and even when she
voiced it, safe within the confines of her grand-
fatherTs room, oher words hung in the room for
a long time.�T

In spite of the delicate and sensitive treatment
of RosacokeTs growing awareness, the story itself
is a little long in getting started. Perhaps the
early details regarding the grandfather, the other
members of the family, the trip to Raleigh, etc.,
are useful in building character. But they are
also a little aimless and somewhat misleading,
since it is hard to determine just how these de-
tails pertain to the situation at hand. The story,
however, once it gets started is moving and is a
highly competent unfolding of an inarticulate sen-
sitivity.

The two remaining stories, to this observer,
have a bit of the quality of tone and atmosphere
that so characterizes many of the stories of Eudora
Welty. oThe Anniversary� is in scene and char-
acter not unlike Miss WeltyTs oAsphodel,� and
oThe Warrior Princess OzimbaT� is somewhat
reminiscent of Miss WeltyTs oA Worn Path.� The
first again concerns a look into the past; this time
an old maid reveals the story to a Negro child
while they take flowers to the grave of her financé.

FALL, 1963

Here the moving incident is that which occurred
in the past, but the knowledge is not so much in
the mind of the narrator as it is in that of the
boy who listens but who knows the story from
others. Here, as in oThe Warrior Princess Ozim-
ba,� Price is successful in straight narration; and
in the spells of silence between the threads of
story, the writer completely infuses place and
tone with theme.

This Welty-like infusion of the place and tone
is very capably presented in oThe Warrior Prin-
cess Ozimba,� clearly one of the best stories in the
book. Here again we have a visit to the past, the
past in the form of Ozimba"old and blind and
confusing all chronology into the here and now.
The narratorTs bringing of the 4th of July gift of
tennis shoes to Ozimba is merely the impetus of
the old Negro womanTs excursion into the realties
of time; and in this confusion of the narrator with
those who gifted before him, the reader may find
a beauty and a knowing that would have been
impossible to conceive had it not been for Ozimba.
The unperceived knowing of-Ozimba somehow be-
comes a known truth for both her and the narrator
when she, without sight, re-sees birds in chim-
neys across the road from her cabin. The narra-
tor says

I looked without a word to where her open
eyes rested across the road, to the darkening
field and the two chimneys, and yes, they were
there, going off against the evening like out
of pistols, hard dark bullets that arched dark
on the sky and curled and showered to the
sturdy trees beneath.

Reynolds PriceTs main talent may be stated
simply as a knack for telling a good story. This
is the most important characteristic of the com-
petent writer of fiction. All of these stories, even
the less successful ones, exhibit that quality. And
PriceTs ease of rhythm, his simplicity of language,
and his almost tender tone toward his subject
matter combine with this story-telling talent to
produce a method of presentation that is gratify-
ing and even exhilarating. PriceTs narrative tech-
nique, as exemplified in oTroubled Sleep� and
oThe Names and Faces of Heroes,� is early in-
dicative of a man who knows his craft and, at
the same time, is not afraid to depart from the
osafe and proven� types. It may well be that here,
as the craftsman, Price will take his stand in
American fiction. But it is PriceTs insight into
and his sensitivity toward human relationships
and their importance that lingers in the mind of
the reader after style and technique have been put
aside with the closed book. .

11

THE REBEL

GENTLE DEFENDER
Sue ingen

Foo a distance, as Madge Whitchard moved
down the road, the people gathered about the open
grave were like tiny clusters of black insects hov-
ering in the summer heat. As she grew closer
the forms separated, and she shaded her eyes
against the sun to distinguish the figures"the
Etheridges close together on one side, the minis-
ter standing straight at the head of the grave, his
Bible open in his hand, and then the others, their
heads bent and their hands folded across their
stomachs. Mrs. Whitchard came to the edge of
the huddle of townspeople and stopped. She had

FALL, 1963

not wanted to come and now could not make her-
self go closer to the casket and the mound of soft
dirt. It was too soon since she had stood close
looking down into the grave of her husband"too
soon and yet four winters ago. Forever would be
too soon.

o. . and in the shadow of death, to guide our
feet into the way of peace.�

Yes, the way of peace. She looked at the family.
Mr. Etheridge wiping his eyes at the memories
of his life with the woman; their children"Mat-
tie, twenty-one and lean like her mother, destined

18

to marry a Westerner and go with him in a bat-
tered truck to Texas; Tom, nineteen, a silent
struggling Tom for whom Mrs. Whitchard felt a
fleeting flood of joy and sadness sweep across her
heart; Julia, holding her little brotherTs hand
tightly in hers"the child Curley looking at the
casket and then up to Julia, his longing to under-
stand the works from the Bible and at the same
time to burst into long-held tears full of his
misunderstanding heavy on his face.

o=. from ~dust to: dust:: ...�: No; not dust to
dust. From memory to memory, perhaps. Of the
smiling lips of her husband on their wedding day.
Of their trip from Boston to North Carolina full
of expectancy and happiness. Of their joy in the
big house all alone waiting hopefully to fill it with
babies and even greater joy. And then his death.
The coldness of that winter that left her barren
and alone at twenty. Her job as school teacher
where she had found new hope in chalk dust and
the minds of eager, excitable children. Here she
had found herself, and although shadowed by
lonely nights and infrequent but nevertheless in-
tense longings for the lights and pavements of a
city, she was happy.

More than once she had almost gone back to Bos-
ton, at least for a visit; but the summers had
worn on, hot and sticky, and knowing she couldnTt
really afford the trip, she had kept the plan in her
mind and talked of going and what it would be
like. The thoughts gave her quiet joy and so she
never went.

Now she looked back at the family. The still,
humid air hung on their foreheads and lips, and
she saw Tom dig into his pocket for his handker-
chief and wipe his forehead hurriedly. Dear Tom,
she thought for a moment. Dear Tom, if only I
could make you understand. Someday I will.
Someday, Tom, without wanting to, youTll let me.
She looked at the child Curley. Eleven years old,
he stood stiffly in his borrowed black suit, his fore-
head wrinkled as he shut his eyes tightly while
the minister prayed. A good mind, she thought.
They all have good minds. Julia, Tom, Curley...
_ Tom perhaps better than the others. She couldnTt
be sure. It was four years ago, Tom. I was a
widow at twenty and you were almost a man. That
is why it happened, Tom"not because of us but
because of the time. Oh, Tom, I will make you
understand that there was no shame in it. No
shame and no sorrow.

oBut deliver us from evil, for Thine is the king-
dom, the power, and the glory forever. A-men.�
The minister closed his Bible, and the men moved
silently to cover the grave and strow the meadow
flowers across the fresh dirt. The family stood

14

there, the longing in their faces, their heads bent,
while the people moved around the grave and stop-
ped in front of the man and the children to squeeze
their damp hands and speak their names softly.
Mrs. Whitchard turned to go. Matilda Etheridge
is dead, she thought sadly. Dead and buried, and
now our work lies before us. Even for me there
is the work"the life-giving work.

oBoston is so far,� she said later that afternoon
to Mrs. Baldree, her neighbor, ~and I doubt itTs
any cooler. I think ITll just stay here. ThereTs
only one more month before school starts.�

oAnd itTll be cold fore you know it,T�T Mrs. Bal-
dree said from her porch. oCome November we'll
have a hard frost.�

So came November with its biting morning air
and then Christmas vacation burdening the earth
with heavy snow and cold wind. The air was still
icy and the snow packed hard and frozen on the
road when school started again in January. Tom
Etheridge brought Curley in the wagon. They
stopped in front of the school and Mrs. Whitchard
came out to meet them. It had taken three or
four hours to drive the five miles into town, and
their faces were swollen and red and their voices
cracked like thin ice when they spoke. Mrs. Whit-
chard helped Curley off the wagon. His hands
and knees were so stiff he could hardly move. Mrs.
Whitchard stood with her arm around Curley and
they both looked up at Tom.

oPa said if youTd keep ~im till the ice thaws heTd
greatly thank yuh,� he said and, without looking
at either of them, handed down a small bundle
wrapped in newspaper. The teacher took it.

oTell your father ITve been wanting company,�
she said, taking CurleyTs hand and rubbing it
gently to give him warmth. Curley looked at the
snow on his boots.

oTell your father,� she said, othat ITll take good
care of him.�

Tom flicked the reins and the startled mule
snorted and almost slid on the ice. The wheels
slid and then caught in the snow beneath the ice.
The wagon screeched and then moved.

oBye, Tom,� Curley yelled. The wagon was
moving faster. TomTs back was straight and
thin, and the inside flap of his wool cap was pulled
down inside his coat collar so that he seemed not
to have a neck. He didnTt turn when Curley call-
ed to him.

oMaybe he couldnTt hear you,� Mrs. Whitchard
said when she looked down at the boy and saw
tears like flakes of snow sticking to his cheeks.
But she knew Tom had heard. She cuddled the
child against her side and led him gently into the
warmth of the schoolhouse.

THE REBEL

T om Etheridge had been late to school that first
morning. He stood in the doorway, his hair a
dark, tangled mass across his forehead, his big
hands dug into the pockets of his dungarees, his
head bent forward as if he had to stoop beneath
the threshold. He had walked the five miles into
town, across the barren cotton field, catching now
and then a thin, brittle cotton stalk and pulling it
up with one quick jerk. When he reached the
road, he had walked on the far side from the fence
and field, beneath the pine trees, and had moved
slowly, brushing the dust from his shoes and the
cuffs of his pants as he went. Now he stood in the
doorway feeling his height and looking first for
his eight-year-old brother Curley amidst the faces,
then at the front of the room"the blackboard
freshly washed and glowing with rich blackness,
the teacherTs desk on the platform, shining like
the board and not yet soiled with sweaty finger-
prints and spilled ink. The room was quiet, as if
its cleanness commanded reverence.

oThatTs Tom,� a voice said.

Tom looked at his shoes and then at the teacher.
She was standing near the window, her back
pressed against the window sill. Tom thought
she was the prettiest woman he had ever seen.
She smiled, and her face was suddenly alive with
tiny creases at her mouth and eyes. She went
toward the front of the room and Tom watched
her skirt move against her legs. He looked at his
shoes again and cleared his throat. The sound
growled and then cracked. oITm Tom Etheridge,�
he said slowly.

oTom.� The teacher studied a sheet of paper
and then looked at him. oOh, ITm sorry, Tom.
Find a seat.� Her eyes moved quickly across the
room until she pointed to a vacant desk near the
window. The desk was big and dark looming
among the smaller, light-wood desks like a heavy,
awkward monster. Tom stood beside the desk.
oItTs too big for Tom,� the voice said. Tom touch-
ed the flat surface of the desk with his hand. It
was smooth and clean. Then he bent himself
until he appeared folded and slipped into the seat,
his body never touching the writing slab in front.

oI told Tya,� the voice said. oItTs too big.�

Tom slipped to one side as far as he could and
looked at the vacant space beside him.

oYou donTt mind, do you, Tom?� the pretty
teacher was saying.

oNo, MaTam.�

oT really think youTll find it more comfortable,�
she said, smiling.

oYes, MaTm.�

The teacher was standing in front of him. Her

FALL, 1963

skin was white and clean as his mamaTs milk-
glass pitcher, and her words came clipped and
gentle. She was holding a sheet of paper. ~You
arenTt on the list, Tom. Did you come to school
last year?�

oYes, MaTm.� Tom looked at her hand. The

fingernails were white and smooth. oI came till
spring.�

,

oT see.T The teacher was nodding her head, and
the brown curls piled high above her white fore-
head danced with the movement. oITve been hav-
ing all the chil"pupils"write their names on the
list Tom. ITd like you to write yours.� The words
were not demanding but seemed to tell him that
writing out the letters was a wonderfully exciting
thing to do.

With the paper in front: of: him and a pencil
tight between his thumb and index finger, he be-
gan the letters. She did not stand watching him
make the solemn T-@-M, but went to the front of
the room and talked softly té the class about how
they would say the allegiance to the flag every
morning, standing straight at attention, their
right hands flat against their hearts.

Tom finished the letters andooked at them
standing straight and narrow: across the page.
Julia always said he had a fine print, that he had
a knack for making all the letters even. Now he
studied each letter:~critically. The ot� looked
short, so he lengthened it with a slow, deliberate
motion. :

oAll finished, Tom?� She was standing in front
of him.

He looked at the letters once.more and shoved
the paper across the desk to her. She picked up
the paper and glanced at it. Her eyes were the
color of wood smoke rising in a hazy spiral above
the smoke-house chimney. ~Very nice, Tom,� she
said. oVery nice.� ~ a

oTom prints good,� the voice said.

oHush up, Curley,� Tom muttered, his head
bent. He could feel the vacancy in the air and
knew that she had moved silently across the room.

oTTll be very proud when you can print like that,
Curley,� she said from the platform.

Tom looked at the books stacked carefully on
his desk. None of them were.puckered and rag-
ged. He lifted down the top one and put his hand
flat on the cover. He could feel the tiny threads
worn through to the cardboard. Then he opened
the book. Learning Figures he read from the
first page. There was writing on the page done
by a scribbling hand and a dull pencil. Tom found
his eraser in his pocket and rubbed it against the
page. The eraser was so small 4nd rounded that

15

Tom could barely keep it in his fingers. He had
had the eraser for many years, since he first came
to school, and now he looked at the black smudges
where he had used it on the page. oAinTt worth a
damn,� he thought bitterly and crammed the
eraser back into his pocket.

The inside cover of the book was covered with
names all written in ink, some printed with fat,
round letters and some sprawled across the page
in hurried, careless long-hand. Tom studied the
names. oAlice Albright"1901.� That was Molly
AlbrightTs oldest sister. He looked around for
Molly but she wasnTt there. oSheTs too old, I reck-
on,� he thought. oMattie Etheridge"T04.� His
sister. He had MattieTs book. He smiled and
turned the page. Slowly he turned them, one by
one, noticing now and then MattieTs thin, slanted
pen strokes and smiling at what she had written.
oGeorge and Mattie� he read and then a few pages
farther o~Mattie loves Willie.�� He closed the book,
thankful that it, with his sisterTs girlish love, be-
longed to him, to be kept close within the silent
caring of his heart.

After school, he stood outside the door waiting
for Julia to leave her circle of friends. Curley
saw him and leaving the younger boys came to
stand next to his brother, his face flushed and
proud. oI thought you wont coming, Tom,� he
said. oI shore was glad when yuh did.�

oT donTt know if ITll come tomorrow,� Tom said,
looking at his books.

oWhose books you get? I got Johnny True-
loveTs spelling and Frankie BurtonTs reading,�
Curley said.

oNobodyTs,� Tom said, still looking at the books.
oTell Julia to come on,� he said. oITm gonna start
on down the road.�

Curley ran off for Julia, screaming her name
and spilling his books as he went. They caught up
with Tom about a quarter of a mile down the
road.

oWait, Tom!� Julia screamed while Tom stop-
ped and waited in the middle of the road, watching
the dust fly up about them and JuliaTs yellow hair
bounce on her shoulders as they ran.

They slid into him with a flurry of thick dust,
their faces red and their chests rising heavily for
breath. Then they walked silently, careful not to
kick up dust, their heads bent against the after-

noon sun.

oTI like the teacher. SheTs nice,� Julia said.
oDonTt you think sheTs nice, Tom?�

oTom might not come back,� Curley said.

oOh, Tom. You better. She liked you. DidnTt
you hear what she said about your printing?�

16

Julia shook her head back and the yellow hair fell
about her shoulders.

oYeah.� Tom kicked the dust. It covered his
shoes and he kicked again.

oTI bet youTre the best pupil sheTs got,� Julia
said.

oSheTs pretty, ainTt she, Tom?� Curley said.

oT donTt know,� said Tom.

oShe is pretty,� Julia said. oSheTs got the nicest
hair. I bet itTs soft as a tabby cat.�

oSheTs got a funny way of talking,� Tom said
slowly.

oThatTs Tcause sheTs from up North. Annie
said her mama said she was from Boston. You
know where that is, Tom?�

oUnh-uh.�

. oIt?s up North,� Curley said.

oWe know that, silly.� Julia scratched her neck.
oShe came down here with her husband and he
died so she just stayed.�

oShe ainTt very old,� Tom said.

oAnnieTs mama said sheTs just twenty,� Julia
said. oThat ainTt much olderTn you, Tom.�

They crossed the road and began walking down
the cotton rows. oAnyway,� Julia continued, oI
think sheTs real nice.�

oWe got a pretty teacher,� Curley said to his
father that night. They had finished supper and
Matthew Etheridge sat on the porch, looking at
CurleyTs books by lamplight. ~Pa, Tom says he
might not go to school anymore.�

Matthew Etheridge closed the book and struck
a match on his shoe. The tiny flame moved in the
darkness to the bowl of the pipe and then disap-
peared for a moment. Curley heard his father
sucking on the pipe and then saw the little puff of
smoke rise from the bowl. Mr. Etheridge leaned
back, his feet on the porch railing. The chair
creaked as he moved. oSometimes, son,� he be-
gan, owhen a boyTs almost a man, he sorta gits
between things and donTt know what he oughta
want and like. So he donTt want nothingT and he
donTt like nothinT.�

oTom ainTt like that, Pa,TT Curley said. ~Tom
knows lots of things.�

oYeah. He knows lots of things and lots of
things he donTt know. TainTt nothinT wrong with
that. He just ainTt sure what he knows is right.�

oTI donTt understand, Pa.�

Mr. Etheridge slid his feet to the floor and the
front legs of the chair settled on the porch. oWhen
youTre sixteen, you will,� he said as he shut the
screen door behind him. Curley sat there awhile,
smelling the tobacco from his fatherTs pipe and
listening to the water drip from the pump into

THE REBEL

the bucket in the yard.

oCurley!� It was Tom.

oITm cominT,� Curley answered.
lantern, he went into the silent. house.

A few weeks later, Tom Etheridge stood in
front of the blackboard, his back to the classroom
of empty desks, looking at the figures on the
board. He stood on one foot, the other foot prop-
ped on the floorboard. The figures were not his.
The numbers were big and round, unlike his own
straight, narrow ones.

oYou canTt take the little numbers from the big
numbers all the time, Tom. When you have a big
number like 326 and want to subtract 236 from
it, you have to take the 3 from the 2 even though
it looks like you canTt.�� Mrs. Whitchard stood on
the platform next to Tom, a piece of chalk in her
hand. She copied the problem on another section
of the board and said, ~Now watch, Tom.�

Aloud as she followed the subtraction of the
numbers, her voice quiet and patient. ~Now do
you see?� she asked. oIf you donTt, Tom, we'll
do some more tomorrow.�

oIT ainTt sure,� Tom said. His face was sweaty
and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

oWell, donTt worry about it. Subtraction comes
hard to me, too,� Mrs. Whitchard said. oYou just
keep working at it.�

Knowing the lesson was over, Tom stepped
down from the platform and went to his desk.
His books were turned sideways in his desk and
he bent down to pull the right one out.

oYou going home now, Tom?� Mrs. Whitchard
was standing behind her desk, a yellow sweater
over her arm.

oYes, MaTm,�
under his arm.

oT thought ITd go down to the spring for
awhile. If youTre going that way...�

oYes, MaTm.� Tom wiped his eyes again and
then rubbed his sweaty hand on his pants.

oGood,� she said breathlessly.

The spring lay deep in the woods and they
followed the dogwood trees, ~their splintery
branches bare and brittle, until they came to the

soft earth where moss lay like a blanket across
the ground and the water bubbled softly beneath

the surface.

oDo you ever come here?� she asked softly.

oT used to. Me and Julia. We found it a long
time ago.�

Mrs. Whitchard sat down on the moss. oItTs
so cool. I miss the coolness, Tom. In Boston...�
She looked up at him. oOh, sit down and stay
with me awhile.�

Taking the

Tom stood up with his books

FALL, 1963

Tom laid his books on the ground and then sat
down, his legs under him.

oYou wonTt get moss stains on you,� she said.
oSometimes I lie down"the groundTs so cool and
I never get it on me.�

Tom straightened out his legs.

oWhen I was a girl in Boston, we had a pool. It
was tiled, of course, and very artificial, but I
liked it.�� She was taking off her shoes and Tom
could see her white legs beneath her skirt. oYou
donTt mind, do you, Tom?� she asked. oSometimes
I just want to feel the ground with my feet.�

oI got to go home,� Tom said suddenly.

oOh, Tom, donTt spoil it,� she said gently. oI
really havenTt anyone to talk to"except women,
of course, and they"well, you wouldnTt under-
stand, being a man.�T

Tom looked at the pool of water. oJulia and
me"we used to come down here and wade in the
water. ItTs too cold though.�

oTs it? ITve never even put my hand in.� She
leaned forward and her hand disappeared beneath
the water. oOh, it is cold.� She smiled and drew
her hand from the water. The whiteness of her
skin glistened with wetness and she touched her
cheeks and neck, leaving tiny droplets of water
on her skin.

oT like your country, Tom,� she said suddenly.
oI like your people. FamilyTs strong here. I like
that. ItTs strong in Boston, too.� She smiled.
oWill you get the farm, Tom, since youTre the old-
est son?�

oYes, MaTm. I reckon so.
nothing Tbout it, but I reckon so.�

oThatTs the way it is in Boston.� She was still
smiling, and the tiny creases in her face were so
close Tom could have touched them without hardly
moving.

oT got to go, Mrs. Witchard,� he said.

oAll right, Tom,� she said . oSo have I.�

He watched her pull on her shoes and lace them.
He wanted to help her but he couldnTt move. Then
she stood up. oITm ready,� she said. He got up.
His pants felt damp where he had sat.

They walked slowly through the woods. Tom
touched the branches of the dogwoods as he walk-
ed and then let his hand rest on his hip, not quite
in his pocket. He didnTt move it when he felt cool
fingers against his palm. He felt his hand sweat
and then his face and neck turned red, but he
didnTt look at her or turn away. The cool fingers
moved around his hand until the palms were to-
gether, his heat against her coolness.

The afternoon was hazy with dust and heat.
The woods was dark with the sliadows of sunlight

Pa donTt say

17

against the tall pines; and their foot-steps soft
and slow on the narrow path, made short rustling
sounds.

They were almost at the end of the path where
the woods met the road when she stopped and, still
holding his hand, pulled herself up to him until
her breath was across his face and her breasts
touched his chest. The kiss was gentle, as if her
lips had barely found his. Then their mouths
were tight and damp against each other; and her
hair, the soft brown curls across her forehead,
touched his face and eyelides. He had dropped
his books and was holding her. He had never
held a girl before and his hands were restless
against her back and then down to her waist.
Then he moved. His hands hung loosely at his
sides. He knelt and picked up his books, his eyes
never straying to her feet close beside him or to
the hem of her skirts which touched his hand as
he fumbled for the books. He walked toward the
bright opening in the trees, was suddenly on the
road and then into the cotton field across it. An
old colored man in the next field walked behind a
plow turning up cotton stalks. He was singing
and the deep, mournful tune found Tom and
brought swift, hot tears to his eyes. ~Nobody
knows my sorrow...T Tom wiped his face with
his sleeve. ~Nobody knows the trouble ITve seen,
Glory ...�T The tears sprang into his eyes again
and his body shook as he choked and swallowed.
oHallelujah.�

: were standing in the kitchen, a massive
room full of the smell of cured ham and damp
wood. oYou can sleep here, Curley,� the teacher
was saying. The bed, a narrow quilted berth, was
in the corner.

oYou can have your own basin there and this
can be your closet.�� She was opening the pantry
door and showing him a bare corner with shelves
and a pole across the top with hangers on it. He
looked at the bundle wrapped in newspaper.

oTT]l get you some pants and shirts and things,�
she said.

The boy sat down on the bed and opened the
newspaper. A plaid flannel shirt, neatly folded,
lay on top. He moved it and looked for a moment
at the white underwear. oMama used to make
me shirts and things, but . . .� his voice trailed

off in a sigh.

oWell, Curley, why donTt you put your things
on the shelf, and Saturday ITll get you another
pair of overalls and a shirt.� She looked at his

18

wool coat on the hanger. It was worn and the the
red plaid was faded to a rosy color. It had been
TomTs coat.

oYou donTt need to do that, Mrs. Whitchard,�
the boy said. He was sitting on the bed holding
the underwear.

She sat down beside him. oI want to, Curley,�

she said. oI miss not having someone to do
things for.�

oMama use to make me things,T�T Curley said.

oT know,� she said gently, her hand resting on
his. ~Now I can make things for you.�

She stood up. ~Now, Curley, how about help-
ing me get the wood off the back porch.� She
pulled his coat off the hanger and held it while
he slipped his arms in. ~Curley,T she said sud-
denly, pulling him down into a sitting position
next to her, ohow would you like to have another
name?�

oMy nameTs Etheridge,� the child said. oLike
Pa and Tom.�

oT donTt mean Etheridge,� Madge Whitchard
said, smiling. oI mean Curley. Your hair isnTt
very curly anymore and youTre almost a man.
What do you say we call you by your real
name?�

oItTs John David,� Curley said, careful to pro-
nounce the words distinctly. oI know.� She
touched his cheek. oWhat do you think, Curley?
Maybe this is a good place to do it"here away
from your real home.�

oYes, MaTm,� he said. oMama called me Curley,
but that was Tcause I had such curly hair. I guess
it would be all right.�

oJohn David is such a fine name. I know sheTd
like it.�

Mrs. Whitchard clapped her hands together.
oSo which will be it, John or David or John
David?�

oWhat do you think?T Curley asked.

oOh, I donTt know. John.� She thought a mom-
ent. oDavid... I know, Curley, why donTt we
call you Jay.�

oJay,� said Curley softly. oJay.�

oItTs a sort of nickname,� Mrs. Whitchard said,
oJike"like Tom is short for Thomas.�

oJay,� he said.

oYes,� she said, pulling his coat tight around
him and buttoning it quickly. oJay Etheridge.
Mr. J. D. Etheridge.�

The boy laughed and the laughter sprang into
the room to fill it instantly with pleasure and
warmth.

oLetTs get in the wood, Jay,T�T Madge Whitchard

THE REBEL

said. And then, stooping to face him, she said,
oTtTs all right, isnTt it, Jay?�

oYes, MaTm. ItTs just fine.� The boy was
smiling. The smile spread across his face and
then, as if it had moved from him to her, she was
smiling, too. The tiny creases around her eyes
and mouth came with the smile and her eyes, the
color of wood smoke, were alive with the joy with-
in her.

A month went by. Jay learned to answer to
his new name, to love the kitchen where he spent
his afternoons and nights studying his lessons at
the table with the smells of hot food and burning
wood about him and being warm in the quilted
bed, curled up in the darkness while the flames
lay in glowing ashes in the fireplace. The ice did
not thaw and Tom did not come into town. Sud-
denly it was mid-February. Jay made a special
valentine"a red paper heart with scraps of lace
he found in Mrs. WhitchardTs sewing basket
around it and the words BE MY VALENTINE
printed with blunt, white chalk across the front.
On the back he wrote, LOVE, JAY. He didnTt
give it to her at school where the other children
gathered around her desk to watch for her pleased
smile when she opened the special one"the valen-
tine from each of them. He put the card on her
plate at supper and, unable to watch her as the
others had while she read it, he looked down at his
plate, humming softly to himself. Finally, he
looked up. She was leaning forward, her elbows
on the table, her head bent over the plate, and the
valentine in her hand.

oMrs. Whitchard,� Jay said.

She lifted her napkin from her lap and touched
it to her eyes.

oJay,� she said, her head still bent. oJay.�

oT made it. I took some paper from the package
at school, and then those pieces of lace outa your
basket. I didnTt think you wanted Tem.�

oYou go on and eat, Jay,� she said, her voice
quiet and quivering as she rose. oI donTt want
anything right now.�

oTtTs all right, ainTt it?� Jay sked.

She was almost at the door. oYes, Jay. ItTs all
right.�

He ate his supper silently, careful not to drop
his knife or to slide his chair on the floor. When
he finished, he washed his plate and glass and was
putting them away when she returned, her eyes
red and her face freshly washed and powdered.

oJay,� she said. oDo you know, Jay?T She
stood with her arms around him and suddenly she
pulled him close to her, holding his head against
her breasts. oOut of all the valentines ITve ever

FALL, 1963

had, yours was the only one that was really
meant,� she whispered.

She had never put her arms around him before,
and now he felt the warmth of her body and the
sweetness of her lavender smell became a part of
him. He pushed himslf closer to her until his
head ached with the smell and, not understanding
what she felt and said, he knew he loved her.

In early March, the ice began to thaw. The sun
burst red and hot in its new found freedom from
the clouds; and the earth, soft and damp with
thawing, was dark and rich. The country people
had begun coming into town. Slowly they came,
the wagon wheels turning in the soft dirt and
stopping on the wide main street where the stores
stood waiting.

Madge Whitchard was in Mr. MilstoneTs grocery
store when she heard the creaking rusty wheels
moving slowly to the center of town. She paid
Mr. Milstone, and her grocery basket on her arm,
left the store to stand on the wooden sidewalk. It
was Tom. Inside the store when the creaking
sounds had been only sounds, she had known, and
now she stood waiting for him to see her and
stop the wagon. He looked up, his eyes black
beneath his hat and his mouth a narrow line
clinched hard at his jaws.

oTom,� she said. He saw her lips move and
form the word. ~~Tom.�

He pulled his hat down on his forehead and
flicked the reins across the muleTs back.

oTom,� she cried. oJay"Curley .. .�

The wagon was rumbling down the street, but
TomTs body didnTt give with the rhythm of its
motion. She leaned against the hitching post and
watched the wagon turn the corner and disappear.

oAre you all right?T Mr. Milstone was saying.
He was wiping his hands on his white apron and
the smell of fresh meat was about him.

oYes"yes,� she started.

oT thought you was Tbout to faint,T�� he said.

oOh, no.� She was smiling and brushing loose
curls from her forehead. oITm all right, Mr. Mil-
stone. Really.�

She walked home slowly. The basket was heavy
on her arm and she could feel the indenture of
the handle on her flesh. oSo he didnTt come for
Jay,� she thought. .

oFlour and sugar,T Tom said over the counter
to Mr. Milstone.

oFlour and sugar,� Mr. Milstone said thought-
fully as he moved down the row. oMrs. Whitch-
ard was in here awhile ago,� he said, bending
over the flour barrel. ~oSheTs still keeping the boy,
isnTt she?� The flour dust rose and stuck to Mr.

19

MilstoneTs apron and arms.

oYeah,� Tom said.

oFine boy. He comes in sometimes for the
groceries. Fine boy.� Mr. Milstone pushed the
lid down on the flour barrel.

oHas he grown much?� Tom stared at the floor.
oT ainTt seen Tim.�

oSure has.� Mr. MilstoneTs voice rose over the
pouring of sugar into the metal can. oThat Jay is
some boy.�

oJayitTT

oEverybody calls him Jay.� Mr. Milstone was
back behind the counter looking at Tom. oSixty-
five cents,� he said.

Tom stretched to pull the change from his pock-
et. oSixty-five cents,� he said, dropping the coins
into Mr. MilstoneTs hand.

oYou oughta go by and see that boy,� Mr. Mil-

stone said.
oT got to get home,� Tom said. And then, turn-

ing suddenly at the door, oDonTt tell Tim I been,�
he said.

oSure, Tom,� Mr. Milstone said, his forehead
wrinkled into a frown.

Mr. Milstone watched Tom untie the reins from
the post and climb on the wagon. oAnna!� he
called to his wife at the back of the store. oAnna,
the next time you see Madge Whitchard, you tell
her Tom EtheridgeTs been in town!�

Anna Milstone came from the back of the store,
her iron-rimmed glasses barely on her nose.
oWhy?� she asked.

oWell, he ainTt goinT by to see the boy.� Mr.
Milstone put the money in the cash box and slam-

med it shut.
oTt ainTt none of our business what Tom Eth-

eridge does,� Anna said.

oAll right, Anna,� Mr. Milstone said. oAll right,
but I still think she oughta know.�

I want to know, Madge Whitchard thought as
she and Jay walked home from school. I donTt
want to pry. I know how they carry their hurt
silently, but I must ask him.

oJay, where is Julia?� she asked finally.

oShe got married,� Jay said. oRight after Mat-
tie went off, she married Johnnie Sullivan.�

oThen there was just you and Tom and your
father?� she asked.

oYeah. Pa got sick, though. Me and Tom did
all the chores.� Jay sat down on the porch.
oMrs. Whitchard,� he said, owhy donTt Tom
come?�

She sat down beside him and took the books
from his lap. oHe will,� she said gently. oWhen
itTs time, heTll come.� She put her arm around

�

20

him. ~Do you want to go home, Jay?�

oIt ainTt that,� Jay said slowly. oItTs just that
sometimes I miss him and Pa. I donTt see why he
donTt come.�

oHe will,� she said. oI promise. He will.�

April came and found the teacher waiting anx-
iously for Tom to come. She wanted Jay to stay
with her. Her need for him had grown with her
love, but the silent wondering within her about
Tom made her frightened. Finally, torn by JayTs
longing to see his brother and her own fear of
seeing him, she walked the five miles to the Eth-
eridge farm.

Tom was on his knees beside a block of earth
covered with white cloth. He had pulled back a
section of the cloth and was examining the small
green plants, his fingers touching gently the tiny
stems and leaves.

oTom,� she said.

He looked up. His face, dark and scowling,
moved as he squinted his eyes and and his jaw-
bones clinched beneath his cheeks as his mouth
moved. He stood up slowly, his frame unfolding
until he towered over her.

oTom,� she said again softly.

oCurley,� he said. ~HeTs all right?�

oYes.� She rubbed her forearm with her
hands and her skin was white against the green-
ness of her dress. oHeTs grown at least an inch,
maybe more. I bought him some new pants and
shirts and things.� She was smiling and the lace
across the bodice of her dress rose with her
breath.

oTTll pay you,� he said. ~~When the cropTs in, I'll
pay you for it.�

oNo, Tom,� she said quickly. oYou know I
didnTt mean that. I love him. I want to give him
things.�

oT didnTt want to take Tim there,T Tom said
slowly.

oT donTt blame you,� she said. And then, look-
ing up at the sun she added, oItTs so hot out here.
CanTt we find some shade?�

oThere ainTt much shade around,T Tom said
and bent back over his tobacco plants.

oPlease, Tom,� she said. ~I want to talk to you.�

He stayed at his work and so she stood next to
him, her shadow cast across the white cloth.

oThe plants are pretty,� she said. oI remember
the first time I saw tobacco. It was like a jungle,
green and wet with rain. The blossoms were still
there 3"

Tom didnTt answer.

oT remember that I wanted to pick one but the
stalk was too high to reach. My husband said it

THE REBEL

was sticky and coarse, anyway. I thought they
were pretty though, and fragile looking.�

Tom loosened the dirt around a plant with his
fingers.

oT missed Julia,� Mrs. Whitchard said. oJay"
we call him Jay now"said she married the Sul-
livan boy.�

oYeah, as soon as she could,� Tom said. oYou
call him Jay.�

oT thought it was better.� She sighed. ~He
wonTt want to be called Curley when heTs a man.�
She smiled. ~He liked it fine when I told him Jay
was short for John like Tom is for Thomas. He
misses you, Tom. I donTt think he wants to come
home as much as he wants to see you. I didn't
know what to tell him when spring came and you
didnTt.�

oT just didnTt,�T Tom said. ~ITve been busy.�

oHowTs your father, Tom?� she asked. oJay
said he was sick.�

oHe killed himself. I found him in the shed,
hanginT there so frozen he swung like a piece of
timber.� He shrugged. oSo I took Curley to
town.�

oTo me,� she said almost to herself.

Tom turned his shoulder, his eyes black in the
shadow of his eyelashes. ~Where else could I take
Tim?�T he asked coldly. oI couldnTt let Tim stay here

"

and see it, could I?�

oIT want him to stay with me, Tom,� she said
softly. ~o~He misses you and your father, but maybe
I can be some sort of mother to him.�T She looked
down at the tiny plants. oSo many things are
small, Tom, and then suddenly, big and lovely and
out of reach. I donTt want that to happen to Jay
and me.�

oTTm gonna sell the place and go somewhere, get
a steady job,� Tom said softly. oITll send you
money.� He touched the green leaves gently.

oWill you come by sometimes and see him?
You donTt have to see me. Just tell me and I'll
not be there.T�T Her voice was trembling.

oTTll come. It wonTt matter when,� he said.

Tom knew she had gone. Her shadow moved
across the cloth and disappeared in the dirt. He
turned his head after a few minutes and saw the
bottom of her skirt lifted out of the dust, then the
skirt itself, the small waist, the white lace collar,
tiny brown curls against her white neck, her
head, billowing brown waves caught in curls at
the crown. Then he bent back over the plants,
lifted one out of the dirt, and touched the leaves
until they bent back and showed the center, a tiny
white beginning of a blossom that in July would
burst into a flower, pale pink and fragile, reaching
toward the sun.

FALL, 1963

21

BUD WALL
Artist

oEnigma� is a word that fits Bud Wall very
well. There is little agreement among his friends
as to what he really is. He is colorful; he is un-
predictable; he is egotistic. And"the one point
in which everyone seems to agree"he is extreme-
ly talented. He is also inarticulate and, because
of this, one would hardly suspect from talking to
him that he possesses the great sensitivity that is
evident in his art. Ask him why he paints and
the most you are likely to get is a puzzled look.
But in terms of art, he is more than articulate"
he is eloquent.

BudTs talent has not gone unnoticed. . Indeed,
although-he is still a student, he is already some-
thing of an established artist. Some of his more
impressive accomplishments include: First Prize
in the North and South Carolina Spring Art
Show; First Prize in the All Florida GovernorTs
Art Show; Second Prizes in three of the Sarasota
Art Association shows; Third Prize in the First
Annual Miami International Art Show; the Gold
Medal Award from Ringling School of Art; and he
staged a one man show for the 1960 Miss Uni-
verse Pageant. Le Revue Moderne, a Paris art
journal, recently published a biographical revue
of Bud and his work.

Bud (his full name is Weldon Texas Wall, III)

22

and his wife, Nita, live on the outskirts of Green-
ville in a modern apartment fairly overflowing
with artwork of every description. He is fond of
pointing out that two small tables in the living
room are made from the ruins of a shipwreck that
he found on the outer banks of North Carolina.
He has converted one bedroom into a studio and
it is a maze of canvases, paint cans, paint brushes,
drills, paintings and sculpture in various stages
of completion, and an orange cat that stays con-
stantly underfoot.

His current pet project is an Aztec calendar
which, he explains, he has always wanted and
plans to put under the shower when it is com-
pleted to give it a weather-beaten effect. Last year
he started a small scale craze for little stone
statues which he calls oTikiTs� and there are still
several of these standing around his studio. He
admits that he cannot find it in himself to throw
things away.

Bud has been studying art, formally, for the
past seven years and he will readily admit that he
is tiring of the academic life. He attended Ring-
ling School of Art in Sarasota, Florida, for three
years, a junior college for one year, and has been
at East Carolina College for the past three years.
He will graduate in the Spring of 1964.

THE REBEL

23

MONK OF THREE EVILS. Pen and Ink.

FALL, 1963

BLUE RAIN FISH. Polymer.
Third Prize, First Annual Miami National Art Show.

CATHEDRAL RUINS NO. |. Pen and Ink.

24 THE REBEL

es
ve ees
ORAL NG

adel
aw FR

Setratg oh.

! MOTHER AND CHILD. Pen and Ink.

FALL, 1963 25

i
1
|
i]
|
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=
7
e
os
©
°
a
ui
oc
FE

Ww
=x
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3

BAITHOUSE.

THE REBEL

FALL. 1963

CHRISTIAN RUSSIAN.

Pen and Ink.

27

One year ago four poets (now decreased by one)
associated together in an experiment of communal
criticism and discussion of their own poetry. They
made no attempt to stylize a poetic movement but
insisted on retaining their individual expression
and theory. One year has passed and they feel
that the atmosphere they have created has been
beneficial to their poetic output and manner.

GREENVILLE
PoeETRY
Group























Ave

Come, lady, where the camilla is spent
(We called them japonicas in the early spring
When jonquils, once wild daffodils,

Met some morning sun
And opened womb-like mouths to fetch

That down a little too warm for season.)
Like a brown cloud-covered moon
Where the touch wrinkles and saddens.

A tulip tree blooms beside the window.
Inside, the very young tinkle with poetry
That hardens on their lips

Like so much ice when spring comes
Arm-in-arm with a winter

Who will not hasten to another hemisphere.
Come, lady, where tulip tree

And camilla grow, a row, a row.

Teach me, lady, those centuries

Of spring blooming and new color

Born of seeds planted"

(Some say in the late fall

By the wind before the earth hardened ;

And some say from bulbs
That forsook their natural tenure

To lie dormant
Until some shaking warmth awakened them.)

Teach me, lady, the icons of summer.

"PaT REYNOLDS WILLIS

Dry Arrangement

We shall put away the flowers of this day

As two committing dry arrangements of the fall
to fire;

When chair, couch, wick and broom,

All furniture of these, the familiar rooms,

Have fed flame, then this will, too.

Art is, after all, something like the match girl,
Saving what is best till breath cannot care

To distinguish snow from the gathering glory
Frozen beneath the lamp.

I will not play love carried to the brink of moon-
light

Nor symmetry of care, like pears,

Polished where the lingering sun banks a golden
line.

Oh, no, it was living all the dumb mouse panto-
mime,

All the furious scratchings in the wall,

The exit-entrance riddled cheese;

We built, moved in, and then tore down

A mine and thine sensation of sacrifice.

Here, having all that I gave up,

And will gladly give again till gone,
I reconstruct the porch, the window,
The cupola, and now the dome,

Circa 1880" institutional Gothic,

Tasteless to the bone.
"SANFORD L. PEELE

THE REBEL

Winter Walk

The leaf meal lies fallow under my feet,
lifting mold in the swing of my walking,
raising veins past silver faces;
and before my foot, the succulence
of a surging season gone,
turning before my eye the organic dust
once known as heat and liquid motion"
motion the moon turns out in scuddy clouds"
The night has brought ice,
holding fast young limbs in their notches,
and bearing gray smoke from my mouth.
I see all, shown in dew,
pearling the weaker limbs
and painting the broken leaves
until they are of that promise,
the promise drawing me close beside this creek,
holding me fast to my most secret place.
Though my head rings with cracking ice
and my feet sting with winter breath,
the promise still holds my eye
to the drooping of the trees,
fixing the wit inside me
now upon that flash of white"
heavy wing and fluted thigh,
ancestral bird, Heron glide!
And I must sing again the leaf meal,
the season gone, the motion,
and I must sing again the motion of my thigh,
sing again the crusted ice on young limbs,
the breath that makes smoke in the night
and sing again the remembered heat
and the wind in the swing of my thigh.
Heron, Heron,
Rise to my thigh,
Rise to my mouth
And set my tongue to glide
Home fast with the truth I own.

"B. TOLSON WILLIS, JR.

FALL, 1963

Of Congues and Rain

I hear the oak beside my window moan,

Moaning over the wind,

wind that holds me tight in my sheets

and I feel the oak lean,

hear it heave and let go a limb

cracking on the wind,

and the crack becomes a sigh;

The sigh in the throats of woman

loosing a child after long labor.

And the coming of the rain

in thunder and in cloud

tasting of trees and bearing the scent of the young
fills me with the knowing of it,

and I am dazed in the lightningTs flash all green,
and in the night above the wind

I hear the lapping tongues of earth,

earth full of tongues and rain.

"B. TOLSON WILLIS, JR.

Che Coming of the Kain

I stand ankle deep in mud

soft furrowed earth"the lips of a grave
the sides of it yawing away,

falling back like the slack arms of a youth.
I knew the rain would come,

bringing a blessing to this ground

for my mind is filled with fertile memories;
I knew, just as I knew his face,

just as his soul must know,

the tear I shed for remembered days;

And the knowing has a song,

a song of rising in the morning

and walking out together"

I know that this is not the stuff of prayers,
though they too have their place,

nor is it of nail or hewn boards

and thatTs the beauty of it.

"B. TOLSON WILLIS, JR.

29

oBetween the essence and
descent falls the shadow...�

They gather there, loveTs court of barbered
Variables, upon the margin of full light;

Pale, bejeweled, soothed by oneTs own proximity,
They twitter and subside into the graceful
Posture of a twilight penance. Borne upon

That golden rack, imagination with her
Lacquered nails must preface sweat, the ancient
wound,

And give directions flow, turn the lamb

Into her fold, ring down the dark perfection

Of this night. And thus they come into

The bright arena harried by the sighs

They cannot now remember, are aswirled

Like gilded leaves into a vague tableaux,
Verisimilitude breaks thereon and drags
Unredeemed, a broken likeness to the heart.
Laocoon has here the human twist,

The serpents repeat their ritual of possessing
While mankind writhes for a shadowed audiencesT
benefit.

We cannot see, saddled with mindTs August light,
The shadow of their art lifted in release,

Are held upon the raging floor

By phantoms of their cruel extravagance.

Lip to lip, jelly of ambiguous mold,

Their ardor swings the sterile goal

Toward its spent conclusion; mirror

Of our partial pendulum, we hang

Upon the strained reflection of

A grief called love; sperms rupture

In the human fern, uncurls a massive

Fist of mangled absolutes to wither

In natureTs uncompromised sun.

Our loves are more, much more,

Than this procession of bare feet
And bared performance of loveTs inmost hour.

"SANFORD L. PEELE

Gray-Glassed Fruit Iu A Bowl

Insensitive to yesterday pain,
I did me remember morrow"
Gray-glassed fruit in a bowl,
The two are one.

Moon was yesterday"
Sanctioned silence of ivory"
Carved in cold stone

And pressed into the sky;
Too high to touch,

Near enough to chill.

Morning moon is morrow,

Still high, still cold,

Yet carved and pressed ;
Better the then than tomorrow
For past is sheen ago,

And afterwards still to shine.

"PaT REYNOLDS WILLIS

Aerial Vintage

Effacious astronaut, time blooms
In a vision of the hemispheres
Twirled like a green ring

Between the magiTs tapered fingers
All transparent, wholly motion
Made marvelous; while art,

The siren song in menopause,
heaves herself upon a rock

To see what having always seen,
The ritual soul, rubbed

In the glowing dark
Amends nothing, drives nowhere, no-one

Nearer than the jubilee of yet
Another circling achievement.

SANFORD L. PEELE

THE REBEL

Your Pain

Your pain for me is circumscribed

To fit my fever; to outlast

The days and nights of heaven overstarred

And fancy fixed habits; to come

Again in hours of dawn or before the night;

A wished for seeking, your pain and called;

Returned to the twilight; oh, then!

Let the chase of it sing

And moan in the reeds and rushes and in stirrings

Of water, and the light of it

Softly float downward to the grace of the eddy.

And let the little fishes open

Their mouths and drink the salt taste, brine ton-
gues lapping;

For evening descends, quilts ablaze

Cover the sprinkling of the pain and all

Is quiet"slumbering against

My breast, the head of it secure.

"PAT REYNOLDS WILLIS

An Axis of Smoke

Healer of the bodyTs wounds,

defiler of the vain or humble face,

metronome of humanityTs breath,

maker of dire hours and glorious seconds,

we of the worldTs most immediate mark

have wrought you to a dispassionate abstraction
and we stand beyond fearTs gothic door

innate in our own desperateT guises.

These are the last lean words
before I assume my place,

wheel half-way round

as though upon an axis of smoke
and turn the soulTs bright stones
upon an opaque mirrorTs face.
Sigh out the seasonTs latent resolve
before we turn about again.

Time, you are our impunity.

"B. TOLSON WILLIS, JR.

FALL, 1963

Sacramental Gift

The air, thinned to utter blueness

At the edge, demands a ceremony, simple
And serene. Your voice, a bee

In the tall clover of your throat, conveys

A current of that joy, torn from the far
Spring, where what might be is scarcely
More than a golden crocus banked with snow.

Obsequious days, providential and obtuse,
Drop off the rim of value, a clutter

Of dray suicides, balance nothing, and
Tip the equilibrium of this green

With scarce a gray mothTs feather weight.
Thus, drudgery to imagine more,

Resolves into the darkness of your hair
Falling toward my face.

We have survived an issue of repentance
Posted on the intervening time

Between this ascension and that other.
Our passion has no dedication now

To the chaplet, wreath and weary
Ostentation of yet another lovely pose.
We now know the dramatist personnae
Flaming on the verge of sorrow was

A nimble acrobat of private justice
Quick to pry the hot advantage home.

"SANFORD L. PEELE

31

Art Noveau

Michaelangelo, high among the stars he made,
Converged upon a higher blue, the tent

Of heaven come alive with muscle and

Aching bone ripped to God-head.

What strips of flesh the dwarfish Florentine
Stitched across heavenTs open eye are not
The song come whole from any gutter

The world gives nor furious pick meal
Parcel, politics, or labored love,

Unravelled on the eve of artTs accomplishment.

Thus, the raucous rumor of art espaliered

On oology� or oism� would ooze the paint away
Were all led loquacious to the feast

Where free men find no freedom in a face
Unlike their own, yet them, their multiplied
Amazement honed into a singular sufficience.

Come through the catalogue"critical
Compendium of the mice that tie their tails
For one free ride on the problematical
Hurdy-gurdy of an ageTs only wholeness,
Who cart away the cheese they quarried
Crying how theyTve blessed the trap.

Amphigerous apostles of the golden cage,
They twine their lost Aprils round

The sucker of the rose, deveined,

The perfumed particle, they wear it

In the curled accoutment of powdered hair,
Bald assertion, plumed in very baldness,
Bears the folicle to fashion for

Definitive beauticians of ois� and oought�"
Petite appointment for a classic bun,

Rage of the well-reddened roots this year.

Extravagance and laughter, the art in art
Inbred, promotories fed on iridescent light,
Low, where tumbling toward the waves, Circe

And her sailors ply their furious trade,
Love and war and tales of mounting twixt

The twain ;"
whole joyous hag of the possible heaven,

You lead the wide biography of pain

In upward, spiraling light; uncurling
Your fistfuls of gay foam,

They stream into that grotto of the night.

"SANFORD L. PEELE

Co Che Hostess

Should I summon quaint words,

my comely, winsome; my dearest lass,
and allow their archaic tones

to preserve a distance more than years
between our deft accoutement of smiles?
Or should I play the silent fool,

standing by the door,
making breaths with a chessmanTs gait

behind dull hooded eyes?

Elevators are for such thoughts,

but tonight they merely absorb the time
from mezzanine to numbered door,

for I have a dozen gladiolas as a lark

and reasons to leave early.
"B. TOLSON WILLIS, JR.

A Glaring Vindictiveness

A glaring vindictiveness"some minutae
Which men term noon"

Will swell to ebbed pre-eminence

In fall days without long light;

But one old frost-eyed man,

In solitary corduroy

Brown as his hand has been,

Rankles one new match of sun

To fire his pipe.

"PaT REYNOLDS WILLIS

THE REBEL

THE

REBEL REVIEW

Look Ma, No Hands

Vv. By Thomas Pynchon. New York: J. B. Lippincott,
1963. 493 pp. $5.95.

The literature of absurdity multiplies. An-
other novel joins the procession of absurd plays
and novels popularly classified as obeatnik.� Novel
is a loose term and this is only loosely a novel, but
who expects form and organization in an absurd
universe? In fact, the essence of the philosophy
behind the book and the whole movement, if we
can call it that, is the complete denial of relations,
not to speak of values. This is particularism. The

FALL, 1963

universe consists of particular objects and events
related to each other in no meaningful way.

There are no such things as personality or
character or motivation. The human being is an
infinite succession of discrete psychic states. There
is no oI� that remains constant, not to speak of
a osoul.� Ego is an illusion.

Some Victorians and their predecessors, the
eighteenth century French atheistic rationalists,
the idealistic reaction intervening, maintained a
set of values strangely similar to the Christian by

33

retaining faith in o~the army of unalterable law,�
that is in science. But the new science is lawless
"relatively, uncertainty principle, quantum me-
chanics, ete. Science has let man down. oI can
connect nothing with nothing,� and not only Mar-
gate sands. Nihilism.

This is the ~new philosophy� that puts all in
doubt with a vengeance. In philosophic passages
barely related to the story Pynchon promulgates
his doctrines. Previous philosophers have reach-
ed similar conclusions and advocated suicide or
at least withdrawal to an aerie a la Robinson
Jeffers, but like high metabolism flying insects,
PynchonTs characters choose frantic activity as
a kind of beatnik o~engagement.� Have you ever
watched flies flitting about the kitchen, swatter
in your hand? Their actions are absurd. See
the pretty analogy?

The quest motif, one of the archetypes, is the
basis of much literature"The Odyssey, The Faerie
Queene, Huck Finn, JoyceTs Ulysses, The Waste
Land, and so on. Therefore an absurd novel must
feature an absurd quest. The title refers to Sten-
cilTs quest for oV�, who is evidently feminine and
possibly someoneTs mother, maybe StencilTs own.
Neither the reader nor Stencil ever finds out who
V is. Get the point? Perhaps it is oV for Vic-
tory� ironically viewed. Anyway, Stencil, no
longer young, is a former British civil servant
become beatnik bum and devoting himself to seek-
ing V over the Western World and the Near East,
until a Mediterranean waterspout mercifully lifts
and drops the ship in which he is sailing, a ship
with a figurehead of Astarte, the goddess of sexual
love. IsnTt that cute? There are many other
echoes of the V motif. For example the promiscu-
ous Victoria"all women in the novel are that"
and the savage former village colony Vheissu to
which Godolphin, the seventyish Britisher would
like to return. But mainly Godolphin wants to
return to the South Pole in the dead of winter
and not obecause itTs there.� He had completed a
winter trek there previously, but for some vague
reason had never admitted his feat. Get it? All
quests are spinach.

The other leading character, a young American
named Profane doesnTt quest at all; he just drifts
from sewer to sewer"literally: thatTs his line"
but mainly from one female to another. By the
way did you know that sex is absurd too? Prac-
tically all the women in the book are nympho-
maniacs (wish fulfillment?) and all the standard
perversions are mentioned and accepted, except
possiby necrophilia. Mara, an avatar of Astarte,
exemplifies this when she disrupts the SultanTs

34

harem, eunuchs and all. But none of it is any
fun at all, simply a natural act like defecation.

The real absurdities of modern technology also
attract PynchonTs notice. One of ProfaneTs num-
erous jobs is with Yoyodyne. A New Jersey toy
manufacturer discovered that his machinery could
be more profitably used fulfilling government con-
tracts, and all this before the Space Agony. Pro-
faneTs job is to watch two dolls. One is a rubber
and plastic thing that measures crashes, impacts,
o~oTs� and suitably and measurable flies apart un-
der stress. The other is a transparent mannikin
with simulated internal organs including the sex-
ual, used to measure radiotion doses. In the Ger-
man Southwest Africa chapter Mondaugen, a
German, calmly measures and records osferics�T ;
that is, radio static. All about him in the fortified
farmhouse the white settlers spend their time in
riotous living while waiting for an army to arrive
and massacre the revolting natives for them. It
doesnTt show up. All this shows the absurdity of
imperialism.

There are surrealist touches, not exactly origi-
nal. A woman in the African compound wears a
glass eye containing an operating clock for iris.
The Bad Priest in Malta, pinned under a beam
after an air raid is taken apart by the children,
who hate him. She turns out to be a woman. On
her scalp under a white wig is a two color tattoo
of the crucifixion. In addition to false teeth, she
too wears a glass eye with clock iris. Her high
heeled golden slippers are pretty, but she wears
them on artificial limbs that easily come off. And
last, but not least, in her navel is embedded a star
sapphire which must be cut out. This anti-reli-
gious allegory is not very subtle, is it?

Art is absurd too. Slab the painter daubs can-
vases, each depicting somewhere Cheese Danish
#56, a breakfast offering of the Automat.

The time sequence extends from the 1890Ts in
Egypt through both wars to about 1957. It is
necessary to show the absurdity of the whole mod-
ern world, of everything within living memory,
of British imperialism as well as the Cold War
and the Age of Prosperity.

The work is not satire. Satire presupposes
values and Pynchon professes none. What is the
book then? It may be an attempt at a great philo-
sophic novel. As such, I fear it is unsuccessful.
Or it may be a jeu dTesprit, a loosely organized
picaresque narrative that was loads of fun writ-
ing. However, I fear Pynchon means to be seri-
ous. But the drive to show off gets the better of
him. ~Look Ma. No hands!�

"WILLIAM H. GRATE

THE REBEL

The Sin of Their Race

Go Tell It On the Mountain. By James Baldwin. New
York: Signet. pp. 191. $.60.

James Baldwin has created a novel of strong
characters"a veritable palate of people with
whom he covers the canvas of Go Tell It On the
Mountain. The theme is age old"that of othe
searchT. It is of the desire of a young Negro boy,
John, to exceed the bonds of the tradition of his
evangelist father and the confinement of his race.
It is of JohnTs struggle to stand on equal footing
with his unsympathetic father, who sanctimon-
iously presents the facade of the LordTs Anointed
despite the hidden fruits of his unsanctimonious
youth.

The characters are attended with scrupulous
detail. Through skillful use of the oflashback�,
Mr. Baldwin reveals forces which have shaped
each individual. All have places in the ocongrega-
tion of the Saints� and yet each has a complete-
ness, an independence. Under scrutiny, John is
perhaps the least successful of the characters. It
may be his symbolic role .. . or that he seems to
have the least faith of the author. Whatever it
is, all the undulating semi-climaxes fall perhaps a
little flat at the denouement. It is as if Mr. Bald-
win were a little dubious of his character, writing
a little more from a previous conviction than a
present one.

At any rate his other characters have a definite
potency. They are Negro and they are endowed
with a racial urgency. The novel portrays their
fears"fears of awful realities at the hands of
whites, fears even to walk into a white section of
a city, or past a group of white boys congregated
on a sidewalk. There are insults shouted, brutal
injuries .. . the dreadful confinement because of
the sin of their race. They are fearful and they
are struggling for their only glory in salvation.

It is from this"the glory in salvation with the
impatient rhythms of the prose, the strong mo-
tion of the narrative, the feeling with which the
characters are presented"that the novel is en-
dowed with a reminiscence of the Negro Spirit-
ual. And from this lusty, rhythmical quality
comes the true beauty of the work.

FALL, 1963

Mr. Baldwin is a Negro writing of Negroes,
and writing well. Above the social outcry there
is undeniable artistry.

STAFF

And Freedom In Bondage

Look to the River. By William A. Owens. New York:
Atheneum, 1963. 185 pp. $3.95.

Look to the River is the story of a young boy
in search of freedom. Jed, the boy, is gripped by
memories of an unhappy past. Born with a spirit
of adventure, Jed takes to the open road. Jed
bounds himself to a farmer for $12.00 for which
he must chase blackbirds out of the cornfield from
March until January. The blackbirds are JedTs
private dream and symbol of unlimited freedom

. of life. Into this world of bonded freedom

comes John, the peddler. -With an air of excite-
ment he had never known before, Jed listens to
the stories of the road, of the world, and of the
freedom he could have as JohnTs helper. Bound
to the blackbirds and to the farm, Jed accepts a
watch from the peddler to seal their bargain.
Jed will go with the peddler when he works out
his bond. Later in the year of loyalty, because of
a ostolen� watch, because of an old biscuit, and
because of human compassion Jed begins to run.
Each successive incident makes freedom seem
further and further away.

William A. Owens has used four incidents in
the manner of pre-climatic climaxes. These inci-
dents are given in a capable artistic style, but
without the extensive coverage that is needed to
assure the reader of their importance. Mr. Owens
leaves the reader in a vacuum between each of
these incidents. The final involvement with the
complete plot leaves much to be desired. When
the plot approaches denouement, the reader is still
left insecure as to the importance of the pre-
climaxes. This technique may well be employed
to advantage if the author has sufficiently involv-
ed the pre-climaxes within the complete story.
This reviewer feels that this involvement has not
been attained to that degree which the rest of the
novel requires.

In Philosophy of Composition, Edgar Allen Poe
has said, oIt appears evident, then, that there is
a distinct limit, as regards length, to all works
of literary art"the limit ofa single sitting .. .�
Mr. Owens has certainly achieved this standard,

35

but it has been achieved at the expense of the
reader and the quality of the novel.

Look to the River is a strongly appealing novel.
It could be called an expanded ostory that is
short.� Each word wields power and molds a
character as challenging as Tom Sawyer, as en-
chanting as Jane Eyre, and as unpredictable as
Huck Finn. The events described hardly seem
important in the face of the fierce defiance that
Jed exhibits. To become involved with the char-
acter, Jed, one must forget the basic theme, free-
dom of individual desires, wants, and needs. Look
to the River approaches the plateau in literature
reserved for simple, yet adequate books about
youth and its freedoms. This plateau is not overly-
populated by books with the power, the appeal, the
compassion, and the understanding of William A.
OwensT Look to the River.

"DwIGHT W. PEARCE

Wonder of the World

The Great Infidel. By Joseph Jay Deiss. New York:
Random House. 1963. 595 pp. $5.95.

Sainte Beuve, one of the greatest of all French
critics, once declared that all literature, if it was
of any merit at all, enriched the human mind.
Joseph DeissTs The Great Infidel does have a last-
ing effect on the mind. It is, however, more tiring
than enriching.

The Infidel, Fredrico II, King of Sicily and Holy
Roman Emperor, was a free thinker who did
exactly as he pleased. His sexual, religious, po-

36

litical, and scientific ideas were so completely un-
acceptable to the period in which he lived that he
was excommunicated three times.

In order to retain the loyalty of his subjects,
Fredrico was forced to fight the Papacy constant-
ly. Mr. Deiss has conscientiously reported each
minute and repetitious detail of the battle. The
Pope labeled Fredrico a sodomite, a murderer, a
sensualist, an infidel, and a traitor. Fredrico
accused the Pope of exploitation of the peasants
for his own private gains, of lack of concern about
the welfare of the people and of corruption.

As a whole, FredricoTs life was rich, full, and
certainly never without excitement. His entire
reign was marred by invasions from hostile neigh-
bors and by revolutions within his own kingdom.
FredricoTs skill and versatility in handling these
constant problems was a marvel, and his title,
oWonder of the World,� was a richly deserved one.

Perhaps because one can never really know an-
other completely, especially from reading docu-
ments and historical accounts about him, Fredrico
seems unreal. Mr. Deiss at first made Fredrico
seem warm, intelligent, and highly capable. After
a while Mr. Deiss seemed to lose complete touch
with his character. His sole purpose became re-
lating as many facts about FredricoTs later life
as he could. The results were a dramatically
changed character and an immediate loss of the
readerTs interest.

Thus, a book that showed great promise became
completely bogged down in the wordy battles be-
tween the Pope and the King and in a seemingly
desperate attempt to relate every possible fact
about FredricoTs life.

"Fay NELSON

THE REBEL

ee ed

2 oo

Realizing that due to unfamiliarity with authors
students often purchase worthless books, the
REBEL publishes this guide list of paperback
books as a service to our readers.

ART
Greek Painting by Pierre Devambez. Viking-
Compass. ($2.25).

Egyptian Wall Paintings by Christiane Des-
roches-Noblecourt. Mentor-Unesco. ($.95).

Paper Folding for Beginners by W. Murray and
F. J. Rigney. Dover. ($1.00).

BUSINESS

Essays in Persuasion by John Maynard Keynes.
Norton. ($1.85).

The Process of Economic Growth by W. W. Ros-
tow. Norton. ($1.95).

Learn to Count On Your Fingers by Walter
Falkner. Bowen. ($1.23).

EDUCATION
The Future of Public Education by Myron Lie-
berman. University of Chicago Press.
($1.50).

The Education of Teachers: Concensus and Con-
flict by G. K. Hodenfield and T. M. Stinnett.
Spectrum. (1.95).

ENGLISH
AxelTs Castle by Edmund Wilson. Scribners.
($1.45).
Practical Criticism by I. A. Richards. Harvest.
($1.45).

The Elizabethan World Picture by E. M. Tilly-
ard. Modern Library. ($.95).

FOREIGN LANGUAGE

The Life of Lazarillo de Tormes: His Fortunes
and Adversities (Translated by W. S. Mer-
win). Anchor. ($.95).

HEALTH AND PHYSICAL EDUCATION

How To Be Fit by Robert Kiphuth. Yale Uni-
versity Press. ($1.95).

HISTORY

The Age of Jackson by Arthur M. Schlesinger,
Jr. Little, Brown. ($2.95).

The Anatomy of Revolution by Crane Brinton.
Vintage. ($1.25).

The Uses of the Past by Herbert J. Muller. Men-
tor. ($.50).

MUSIC
Beethoven and His Nine Symphonies by George

Grover. Dover. ($2.00).
Essays on Music by Alfred Einstein. Norton.
($1.65).
MATHEMATICS

Numbers: Rational and Irrational by Ivan Ni-
ven. Random House.

College Algebra by A. Adrian Albert. Phoenix
Science Series.

Vector Analysis by Kenneth S. Miller. Charles
E. Merrill Books, Inc.

Sets, Logic and Axiomatic Theories by Robert
R. Stoll. Golden Gate Books.

POLITICAL SCIENCE

Marx and the Marxists by Sidney Hook. Anvil.
($1.35).

The True Believer by Eric Hoffer.
($.50).

SCIENCE

Porpoises and Sonar by Winthrop N. Kellog.
University of Chicago Press. ($1.50).

Mentor.

ABC of Relativity by Bertrand Russell. Men-
tor. ($.50).

SOCIOLOGY

Caste and Class in a Southern Town by John
Dollard. Anchor Press.

The Sane Society by Erich Fromm. Rhinehart.

Man and Society by Samuel Koenig. Barnes
and Noble, Inc.

Patterns of Culture by Ruth Benedict. New
American Library of World Literature.

THE STUDENTTS SUPPLY STORES CAN LOAD YOU UP WITH
EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KEEP GOING AT
EAST CAROLINA COLLEGE.