[This text is machine generated and may contain errors.]

Notes On Our Contributors

Tommy Jackson, a junior art major from Wash-
ington, N. C., makes his first appearance in this
issue of the REBEL, with a play, Voices, which
was performed as the work-shop production of
the Playhouse last fall.

Milton G. Crocker, now living in Richmond,
Virginia, is a former member of the REBEL
staff and a frequent contributor to the magazine.
He is presently a book reviewer for the Richmond
Times-Dispatch.

Dr. R. R. Napp, an assistant professor of sociol-
ogy at East Carolina College, makes his first con-
tribution to the REBEL. He is co-author of the
book, Breaking Down the Barrier (A Human Doc-
ument on War), which was reviewed in the
Spring, 1961, issue of the REBEL.

Hannelore Rath Napp, the wife of Dr. R. R.
Napp, is a former German national. She makes
her first REBEL appearance with her book re-
view in this issue.

Walter J. Fraser is a graduate-assistant in the
History Department, making his first contribu-
tion in the book review section.

Dr. George A. Cook is a professor in the Eng-
lish Department and author of a critical biogra-
phy of John Wise. He has made frequent con-
tributions to the REBEL publications.

Robert E. Wigington is a senior majoring in
English. With this issue Bob makes his first
appearance both as contributor and as Fiction
Editor of the REBEL.

James Forsyth, a former East Carolinian staff
member from Greensboro, North Carolina, is a
frequent reviewer for the REBEL.

Ruby Taylor Collins lives in Greenville. She
makes her debut as a REBEL reviewer.

John C. Atkeson, Jr., and Joseph 8. Bachman
are members of the History Department faculty.
They make their first appearances as REBEL re-
viewers.

Jan Coward, a Junior music major from Green-
ville, contributes his first REBEL review.

Ronald W. Gollobin is a member of our staff.

VOLUME VII

WINTER, 1964. NUMBER 2

THE REBEL

EDITORIAL

FEATURE
Interview with Louis D. Rubin

A Human Account of a German Student Riot, by
R. R. Napp ;

FICTION
Voices, a play by Tommy Jackson
Summer, a vignette by Robert Wigington
A Sweet Good-bye, a vignette by Ronald Gollobin

POETRY
The Southern Horn, by Milton Crocker
Bormus, by Milton Crocker
Naiad, by Milton Crocker
Laurel, by Milton Crocker
Helen of Troy, by Milton Crocker
Helen of the Trees, by Milton Crocker
Lotus-Eaters, by Milton Crocker
Sybil, by Milton Crocker
Huntsman of Harz, by Milton Crocker
Francois VillonTs Jailer, by Milton Crocker
Nightmare, by Milton Crocker
Homecoming, by Milton Crocker

CRITICISM ii diieaicieatccemnae, cutee
Pound: His Literary Influence, by James Forsyth
ART
Delta Phi Delta Portfolio

REBEL REVIEWS

Reviews By John C. Atkeson, James Forsyth, J oseph
S. Bachman, Hannelore Rath Napp, George A. Cook,
Walter J. Fraser, Jan Coward, Ruby Taylor Collins,
and Staff.

COVER

Louis Jones

The REBEL is a quarterly publication of East Carolina
College. Editorial and business offices are located on the cam-
pus at 306 Austin Building. Inquiries and contributions should
be directed to P. O. Box 1420, Est Carolina College, Green-
ville, North Carolina. Manuscripts submitted by mail should
be accompanied by a self-addressed envelope and return post-
age. The publishers assume no responsibility for the return
of contributions.

STAFF

Editor
J. AvFRED WIL LIs

Fiction Editor

ROBERT WIGINGTON

Book Review Editor

Wanna DUNCAN

Copy Editor
Dwicnr PrARCE

Business Manager

Tom SPEIGHT

Art Staff

Durry ToLer, Bia Curer
Lovis JONES
DouG LATTA

BEN HILi

Exchange Editors

ALBERTA JENKINS
Sue JONES

Typists and Proofreaders
JAN Cowarp
R. W. GoLiosin
HELEN JENNINGS
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Ovip WILLIAM PIERCE
Circulation
Alpha Phi Omega Fraternity

Member Associated
Collegiate Press

4

EDITORIAL

Morais acts bring into comparison manTs
Vision of justice with the evils that may be
Covered by the curtain of social and political
Mstitutions. Kent, in King Lear, is a sim-
ble, blunt man, aware of a sense of duty to
the king. His profane cursing of the fawn-
Ing courtier, Oswald, puts him into the
Stocks. Oswald, in ShakespeareTs imagery,
Was made by a tailor and as Lear later says:
Through tatterTd clothes small vices do
appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all.�
Na similar respect, Martin Luther and an
%bscure Sorth Carolina politician Calvin
Taves found that denouncement of robe-
Covered vices may lead to the ostocks.�

Martin Luther could not act against his
Conscience and nailed his Ninety-Five
heses to a church door in Wittenburg,
axony. As a result, he was ex-communi-
ated by the papacy and declared a political
Cutlaw by the empire. But the Protestant
eformation attests the impotency of these
Measures of Pope Leo X and Emperor
harles V. Calvin Graves was not so for-
tunate as Luther for not acting against his
Conscience. Graves was speaker of the
North Carolina Senate in 1849. The Senate
ad split over a measure proposing a rail-
Toad (from Goldsboro through Raleigh to
harlotte) which would link eastern North
arolina to western North Carolina for the
first time. GravesT home county of Caswell
°pposed the railroad bill, which would by-
Pass Caswell, in favor of another railroad
ill proposing a route from Danville, Vir-
8inia through Caswell to Charlotte. The
Measure had passed the House and was tied
M the Senate. Graves cast the vote that
Made the Goldsboro-Charlotte road law.
his vote ended his political career and he
Sunk into historical obscurity.

Both men were acting out of conviction
at they were right no matter what the con-

Winter, 1964

sequences. As Martin Luther said at
Worms: Hier stehe ich. Ish kann nicht an-
ders. Gott heff mir. Amen. [Here I stand.
I can do no other. God help me. Amen.]
Graves is of less historical significance to
be sure, but his behavior was none the less
virile.

Such a stand is a moral act and should be
the one serious decision of the college stu-
dent. All other decisions"whether he
should work to live or live to work, whether
he should take an AB or a BS degree"are
minor. But up to now, the student has had
no concern for moral issues. He has been
concerned with the financial security that
his diploma may bring. Pragmatism has
replaced the oidealism of youth.� The stu-
dent has been taught to respect the retribu-
tion that might occur if he rebels against
the immoral actions of dishonest men. The
college administration is concerned with
education"the disciplining of the mind;
not with morals"the disciplining of the
heart. Intelligence stems from the disci-
plined mind. And college is based on the
dictum of Lao-tze that the only condition
upon which the conscious cosmic orderliness
(his term for God) allows man any freedom
of behavior is intelligent action. When he
breaks this condition, man is punished for
his folly by the consequences of his act.
Moral action is useless or, at best, melodra-
matic.

This attitude is dangerous because it al-
lows no vision of justice for the student to
judge the acts of his fellow men. He may
recognize a fellow classmate cheating on an
examination and say nothing. If he does
not protest, he condones cheating. When he
condones cheating, he is responsible for
cheating. Likewise, he is responsible for
the mindless posturing, the absence of any
profound ethics, the ridiculous antics, and

8

the useless suffering of his classmates, pro-
fessors, deans, and college president. Ulti-
mately, he is responsible for the nausea that
swept the country in November when John
F. Kennedy was assassinated.

The moral act may be expressed in the
pragmatic world. LutherTs protest of the
sale of indulgences was not useless; neither
are the NegroesT protests of segregation.
Calvin GravesT affirmation of good for the
whole rather than for the few was not melo-
dramatic; neither are the German studentsT
affirmation of their Studentenfreiheit that
Dr. Napp describes in his article.

- year about this time, Bill Griffin,
then editor of The Hast Carolinian, and I
had just returned from a trip to Atlanta.
We had had visions of working for a news-
paper. But until we received college de-
grees, newspapers would only consider us
newsboys. We applied, without results, to
the state and city employment commissions
for jobs allied with writing. Then we
searched the want-ads. We answered one
ad calling for omagazine representative.�
A company was hiring fifty young men in
the college age bracket to sell magazine sub-
scriptions door-to-door. These fifty were
to be sent to the west coast where they would
pass themselves off as college students work-
ing their way through college. Their ogim-
mick� was claiming to have entered a omag-
azine subscription selling� contest. Another
ad asked for opublishing agent.� A sta-
tionery company wanted college-age men to
canvas college campuses selling stationery
to fraternities. An encyclopedia firm ad-
vertised for proofreaders, re-write, and
copy men. These positions had been filled,
we were told; but they still had some open-
ings in selling.

By the second week in Atlanta, Bill and
I had run out of money. We had paid in
advance for our room at the YMCA, but we

could no longer afford the ten cent hamburg-
ers at the oKrystals.� So one morning I
joined the line of farmers and unemployed
to sell a pint of blood to the blood bank for
five dollars. Bill, though, had gotten up in
a different frame of mind and checked out
of the oY.� With the money that was re-
funded from the unused portion of our
rent, we bought enough gas to return to
North Carolina and to our friends and rela-
tives. Bill went home to Jacksonville and
I came back to Greenville.

I felt awkward being out of school, so I
looked for a job. The college gave me the
name of a man who offered part-time em-
ployment. I phoned him and he said to come
over and talk to him at his office.

His office was over a loan company. When
he learned that I was unmarried, he shook
his head and said that he had asked the col-
lege to send him married students. They
were usually in debt and needed money.
Such a situation insures him against a stu-
dent who would not work. But I told him
that I needed money and I was a worker.
He offered me a job selling cemetery lots to
Negroes.

I met him the next morning. It was a
Saturday morning and we drove out the
Bethel highway to see the cemetery. As we
drove, he told me some of the procedure. We
were to work from a list of prospects that
had been compiled by a loan company of
Negroes who were good loan risks"having
just worked off a loan, or having good cred-
it. The cemetery company was not in a
position to finance a grave lot so the Negro
must borrow the money"preferably from
a loan company. It is very important to
catch the Negro with his wife because the
signatures of both are required on loan ap-
plications. Thus nights and Saturdays were
the best time to work. We reached the
cemetery, and I saw what there was of it.
It was still under odevelopment� and con-

THE REBEL

Sisted of a barren muddy field surrounded
by straggly pines that could not even be sold
for pulp wood. Then we went to see pros-
pects.

The ospiel� would go something like this:
Hello, is your wife at home? Would you get
her please, because I have something very
important to talk about. How do you do,
maTam. I represent something new in
Greenville that will bring dignity and status
to you and your family"a perpetual care
Cemetery, Green Lawn Memorial Estates.
Perhaps you have seen the white perpetual
care ceremony between Greenville and little
Washington and noticed how attractive it
is; Now you too may have the dignity and
beauty of a cemetery that is as good as the
Whites. We are calling on you because your
Name is on the list of the leading families of
the Negro community and we want you to
add your prestige to our cemetery. For this
Service we will sell you your lot at a discount.
Perhaps you know Reverend So-and-so who
has just bought a lot for his family? Or
are your acquainted with Mrs. So-an-so?
She teaches at Winterville and has just
bought a half lot for her and her husband.

Are you acquainted with perpetual care
Cemeteries? It means that your loved ones
Would not be left uncared and unweeded in
Some grave in the middle of a field or un-
Sightly corner of an old church yard. There
are no more space in church yards around
here for burial, so Reverend So-and-so told
me. And we all know how unmindful the
future generation will be. There is no as-
Surance that you will be cared for. Now
With perpetual care you and your loved ones
May lay beneath green grass all year round
"mowed and trimmed eternally.

Let me show you my book. Here you see
the Estate with the lots indicated. IsnTt
this a beautiful one and convenient too. Mrs.
So-and-so bought that one. This is just the

WIntTEr, 1964

front section. Later on two more sections
will be added. But I know that you want to
be on the first and the best. Here is a copy
of the letter from Mr. Blount of the band
that states that Green Lawn Memorial Es-
tates has established a fund that will gua-
rantee perpetual pay for a caretaker and
upkeep of the cemetery. My license from the
state of North Carolina that allows me to
sell cemetery lots. This statue of Jesus
Christ will be imported from Italy to stand
in Green Lawn. And here is the cement rep-
lica of the famous Bok Singing Tower that
will be forever playing music. This is a
grieving widow being taken advantage of
by the funeral man who is pressuring her
into buying this out of the way lot he has
been trying to get rid of for ten years. Yes,
now here is the picture of the smiling widow
whose husband bought a lot in a perpetual
care cemetery. Oh, look at this beautiful
casket. And this one. I certainly would like
to go like this. These are the bronze grave
markers. You canTt mow a big lawn with
grave stones in the way. These bronze flower
holders slide right into the ground.

Finally, the family is asked which lot they
want. One lot will hold four adults or eight
children; a half lot will hold two adults or
four children. They sign a loan application,
and they will only have to pay five dollars
a week for twenty months. If the husband
dies before the loan is payed off, the insur-
ance on his life (taken out by the loan com-
pany) will take care of the loan and his
widow will not have the payments to meet.

I quit after two nights. However, I did
not tell the salesman until he came by the
house a week later to get his picture book
for a married student he had just hired. I
did not think he would understand if I told
him I thought he was crooked. I felt unscrup-
ulous selling graves to people who could
not afford the necessities of life much less
death.

Louis D. Rubin, Jr. is a Southern educator and
writer. Mr. Rubin was born in 1923 in Charles-
ton, South Carolina and was educated at the Uni-
versity of Richmond and Johns Hopkins (Ph.D.,
1954). He has taught at the University of Pennsyl-
vania and Johns Hopkins University. Mr. Rubin
has also served as the Associate Editor of the
Richmond News Leader, a Guggenheim fellow,
and a Fullbright lecturer. Among Mr. RubinTs
works are: The Golden Weather, Southern Rena-
scence: The Literature of the Modern South,
Thomas Wolfe: The Weather of His Youth.

Presently, Mr. Rubin serves as the Head of
the English Department at Hollins College, Roa-
noke, Virginia. This month, Mr. Rubin plans to
publish the Hollins Critic, a magazine devoted
to the criticism of unheralded contemporary writ-
ers and poets.

Juterview with

LOUIS D. RUBIN

Interviewer: Is Southern literature created out Welty (Welty, to be sure in the 30Ts, but still in
of a sense of nostalgia? the same era), Stark Young and Erskine Cald-
pee ee ee ee ee ee ae well, Caroline Gordon, Katherine Anne Porter,

the characteristics of Southern writing of his
generation was that it came out of a time in
which there was a crossing over from one kind
of life to another, and I think this is very much
true of the so called Southern Renascence. You
see sO many writers"John Crowe Ransome, Al-
len Tate, Robert Penn Warren, Donald Davidson,
the four poets there, and then Faulkner, Wolfe,

6

Carson McCuller a bit later"suddenly where
you have had almost no writing to speak of.
YouTre bound to look at the time and place and
ask yourself, now what caused this; what was
there about the life of the South that caused this
sudden flowering when it wasnTt there before.
You see that Southern life in the early two
decades of the twentieth century was going

THE REBEL

through a period of tremendous change. It was
�,�ntering the modern world.

The Civil War had a lot to do with this. The
South was in a state of shock for ten or fifteen
Years after the Civil War and well up into the
1900Ts. It was basically a small town, agricul-
tural situation. The cities in the South weren't
very important. It was not an urban-oriented
Society. It was a closed, fixed society where
People operated the way their grandparents did
and their parents did"or they thought so. The
result put the South in more or less of a colonial
Situation in relationship to the rest of the coun-
try, There was almost no capital to speak of.
After all, a great part of the Southern capital
Was slaves and this capital was simply wiped out.

lere was no industrialization either. Well, this
being so, the Civil War had the effect of retarding
he entrance of the South into the modern world,
retarding the urbanization and industrialization
of the South.

This involved a very evident pattern of life of
he small Southern community being very much
of a unit by itself with its existence going back
M time. The First World War really opened up
the South. This delayed process came with sort
of a cataclysmic speed. Suddenly the South be-
gan changing, and it began changing very much.
It is still changing.

In a period of change like this the person of
Sensibility asks himself oWho am 1?� oWhat is
this?� oWhat is right?� He is brought up with
Certain sets of values, things that he believes in;
he is told that these things are so, and then he
foes out into the world and finds out these things
are not so. And what several generations of
Southerners thought was truth"moral and polit-
ical"turns out to be highly debatable. What this
does, of course, is to cause confusion.

Essentially, literature is an attempt to give or-
er to human experience. This is what Faulkner
Oes. I donTt mean he sits down and says, well,
letTs see how I can give order to this experience.
Nothing of the sort. He tries to say this is what
�,�ing alive means in this person or that person.
ate points this out very nicely in his essay on
the Profession of Letters in the South. I think
�,� calls it historical dimension"a looking two
Ways. The Southerner is a modern and he sees
he past as a modern looking into it. At the same
time he is not wholly modern, because he has been
aught certain values and he sees the present
With a sense of the past.

The perfect figure to me is the poem by Allen
Tate oOde to the Confederate Dead.� This is a

Winter, 1964

man standing by the cemetery gate and he sees
the leaves falling on the cemetery. It is a Con-
federate cemetery, but it neednTt be. It is Con-
federate because itTs in the South. And he says,
how can this mean anything to me? What is the
historical meaning of these people? What does
this mean to me as a human being? This kind
of two-way vision has a lot to do with the feeling
in a great deal of Southern literature of the past.
Well, the family is changing and breaking out;
people are moving all over, the world coming in.
AndT you find almost every one of the Southern
writers at one time or the other will be dealing
with just that situation. So it seems to me that
nostalgia is very much an important part of the
literary impulse that produced modern Southern
literature.

Interviewer: What effect will urbanization and
the civil rights movement have on this nostalgia?

Mr. Rubin: Well, obviously it is changing, but
there is still a great deal of change to go. And
thereTs always resistance to change. This is going
on in the South now. I noticed in this question
here you ask about the civil rights movement.
The Negro in Southern literature has always been
an index to change because this change is sym-
bolized in the Negro. My own feeling is that a
great deal of the resistance to integration con-
sists of an attempt to try to hold on to the past"
try to hold on to a situation that one knows and
not to let go. When you let go of something, you
are in motion; and where do you go? And in the
South the crux of the matter seems to focus
around the Negro.

Think of the Negro in the local color literature
of the post Civil War period"Uncle Remus, Edwin
Russell, Thomas Nelson Page, and the Negro who
looks back on obefo de wah,� and othis ole dahky
donT wanT be free.� Then follow it right on
through, Cable up to Faulkner and beyond.
(Ralph Ellison, the Negro novelist, made a re-
mark once that Faulkner is probably the greatest
writer about the Negro who ever existed because
Faulkner looked at the Negro in every conceiv-
able kind of situation, every kind of angle and
explored this thing consumately.) I donTt think
that anyone will be able to say that social change
is no longer a factor in Southern literature.

Now, I think this is true. I spoke of this hold
of the past. I donTt think that is nearly as strong
in the post World War II writers as in the past.
They grew up with a different kind of world. It
is changing much more for them. So you donTt

7

get the same sort of historical dimension. In my
most recent book, The Far Away Country, the
last chapter is a long analysis of William Styron.
When StyronTs first novel came out everybody
said, well now this is Faulkner. I thought so too.
StyronTs Lie Down in Darkness is like Faulkner,
supposedly. ~The whole novel takes place while
a body is being taken to the cemetery which is
the situation in As I Lay Dying. The family is
very much like the family in The Sound and the
Fury"there are faithful retainers and even the
Negro preacher. It seems to be, at first, very
Faulknerian. And Styron said he started writing
it after he immersed himself in FaulknerTs work
for a couple of weeks.

But if the you really look at that book, I think
youTll see that in lots of ways Styron is one step
beyond Faulkner in terms of his attitudes toward
certain things. And that step represents an
examination of the very principles that Faulkner
automatically believes. Take the scene in The
Sound and the Fury in which Dilsy, who has been
taking care of the family, goes to church and
hears the preacher from St. Louis, the Reverend
Shegog. He gives that wonderful sermon of the
blood of the lamb. Afterwards Dilsy comes out
of the church and she says oI seen the first and
the last� and Froney says oWhat do you mean�
and she says oNever mind. I seen the first and
now I sees the last.� This is the story of the
Compson family. Compare that situation and
FaulknerTs attitude towards that Negro preacher
with Daddy Faith in StyronTs novel. I think
you'll see that itTs very different. FaulknerTs
Negro preacher is a primitive, all right, but what
he is saying makes Dilsy stronger so that Dilsy
can endure and Dilsy can take care of the family.
StyronTs Negro preacher is really a charlatan.
He plays on the gullibility of his audience. Sty-
ron seems to be examining moral religious atti-
tudes and values which Faulkner assumes and
judges the modern world by.

Quinton Compson in The Sound and the Fury,
goes to Cambridge, Massachusetts, for the holi-
day and commits suicide"by drowning. Quinton
is a kind of tragic figure. He is isolated from
time and place. The role of the Compsons in Yok-
napatawpha County is gone. He can~t play that
role anymore. ThereTs no place for a man of his
notions and his attitudes in the twentieth cen-
tury Yoknapatawpha County. The attitudes them-
selves have gone to seed"theyTve become carica-
tures of what they used to be. Now compare that
with Peyton Loftis in New York in StyronTs novel.
The tragedy is not that Peyton Loftis is isolated

8

from Port Warick. No, weTre glad to see her go t0
New York because she seems at least to have 4 |

chance there. Her troubles are personal and fa-
miliar but theyTre not dynastic. It is not the sensé
of a dynasty ending. ItTs quite true that the Lof-
tisTs once were the leaders of Virginia society"but
thatTs not very important. Her troubles come out

of her relationship with her mother and father, ,

the absence of love and the psychotic element of
her mother. This family role, this dynastic situa-
tion which you get in Faulkner"the idea of the
whole generation coming down"is missing it
Styron entirely.

Port Warwick society may be decadent when wé |
see them at that party (itTs a very fine scene a5 |

a matter of fact). It would be just like any
other modern urban society.
many of the premises on which Faulkner operates

"history, the fixed society, religious belief"in

Styron and in StyronTs contemporaries are being ©

examined, whereas Faulkner assumed them and
judged the world by them. This is what I mean

when I say that the sense of the past"that two |

way historical vision of the high Renascence is
not as important for the modern southern writer
any more.

Interviewer: In your book, South: The Modern
Southern Literature in Its Cultural Setting,
you refer to Styron, Agee and others as Southern
by virtue of their attitude toward language. What
is the Southern writerTs attitude toward language?

Mr. Rubin: This is something that academic
critics kick around a lot. I think itTs true. South-
ern literature, even back into the ninteenth cen-
tury, has been characterized by a great deal of
rhetoric"full blown, old fashioned rhetoric"and
the sound of words, the connotations of words.
Most Southern writing seems to have this rhetor-
ical sense, exploring the full resources of the
language. Look at the attempts of Dos Pasos or
Hemingway to make the language clear and as
simple as possible, divested of any heavy adjectiv-
izing. It is clipped, terse, matter of fact type of
language. Well, now, compare that to someone
like Faulkner or Wolfe or Warren or Eudora
Welty or Styron.

I did a review in the New York Herald Tribune
last month of a book about the contemporary
novel called The Critical Presence, one of those
books where people write essays on various writ-
ers. The man that did the essay on Styron jump-
ed all over him for using opain,� oagony,� and
six or eight words like that in a simple 75 or 80

THE REBEL

In other words ©

i a

Ae

. oe oo oe a | RR ee

SB

Word sentence. So, I just opened Light in Au-
Just and without much trouble at all I found a
Sentence that was about half as long and used
Just as many emotive words. This is a charac-
teristic of Southern writing. Perhaps it comes
Out of the fact that they like to hear people talk.

It is the Senator Claghorn caricature of the
Southern politician. Southern politics has always
�,�en fine, full rhetorical talk and hearing the
Politicians throw on the words has always been a
Zood old Southern tradition. This certainly has
Worked into the literature. Southern writing has
had the full rhetorical properties of the spoken
~anguage. It can be overdone. Wolfe overdoes
it a great deal. I like a great deal of Wolfe, too,
ut he just throws these abstract words all over
the place.

It is a dimension of language, and it gives a
kind of artistic dimension to the fiction. It goes
along with an attitude towards people as indi-
Viduals. They are characters. It is important
to the Southern writer.

I was arguing with Miss Welty about just this
hing, as a matter of fact. I was saying that
�,�ssentially there are two kinds of writers. (This
18 a big generalization. You could set up all these
dicotomies you want.) There is the kind of
Writer who is exemplified by Tolstoy, who is deal-
Ing with the normal, as it were, and there is the
kind of writer who is exemplified by Dostoevsky,
who is dealing with the abnormal"people who
are larger than life.

There is that line in Death of Ivan Ilitch, a
Marvelous short novel by Tolstoy. The second
Part of the novel starts off something like this:
~Ivan IlitchTs life was most simple and most
ordinary and therefore most terrible.� To me
this is a kind of writing. The people are not
larger than life. In ordinary life, in the usual,
day by day happenings of everyday life Tolstoy
shows a certain kind of drama, and pathos. It
Seems to me Eudora Welty is essentially this kind
of writer. Thomas Wolfe is this kind of writer;
Proust is, too, in a different way; Joyce, also.
Then thereTs the other kind of writer (and Tm
Not making any distinction between the two,
qualitatively) in which the characters are not
typical people. You couldnTt say of them that
life is omost simple and most ordinary and there-
fore most terrible.� ThereTs nothing ordinary in
the life of Alesha Karamazov or Thomas Sutpin.
That kind of writer aims at a person who is larger
than life and at the same time, not quite human.
And his criterion is not everyday realism. This
is the kind of writer who writes tragedy.

WINTER, 1964

a

ee

It seems to me that Reynolds Price is not that
kind of writer. Basically Reynolds PriceTs people
are simple, everyday people. By simple I donTt
mean by that they are boring or not interesting.
What is extraordinary about E. W. Gant in Look
Homeward Angel? HeTs not an extraordinary
person in the sense that there is anything remark-
able about him. He gets drunk, he seems to be
able to throw a somewhat more epic drunk than
the man down the street, but after all that is not
an unusual accomplishment. He is a stone mason,
a business man, a father. The point is that
Thomas Wolfe, picking someone like W. E. Gant,
can show the full humanity of this ordinary crea-
ture who doesnTt do heroic things"he doesnTt
ride across the battlefields of Waterloo or try to
build a dynasty. And Wolfe makes him into an
extraordinary fictional creation. To make the
extraordinary out of the ordinary is essentially
what Reynolds Price does. Rosacoke Muscian is
not an extraordinary person. She is just a little
girl who grew up on a farm and falls in love with
somebody named Wesley, and finally becomes
pregnant and gets married. Nothing remarkable
or extraordinary about that and yet Reynolds
Price can take somebody like her and show in
their everyday life the truly extraordinary human
quality of ordinary human life.

It goes beyond tragedy in a sense. It is too
realistic to be tragedy, because itTs too true to
everyday life. Both the tragic and the comic
things are qualified. Time goes past and these
people grow older. That canvas is too broad for
the romantic highlight of tragedy.

Interviewer: What was the contribution of
the Fugitives to American Literature?

Mr. Rubin: They were the exponents, first as
poets and later as critics, of a hard, disciplined,
objective, imagistic kind of writing. The best
Twentieth century poet is characterized by the
concrete properties of its images. The meta-
physicals were of so much interest to these people.
The idea that the poem must be self-contained,
the poem shouldnTt require the readerTs views on
Truth, Beauty, and Goodness in order to make it
a good poem; and this is what Fugitive poetry
was"it was very disciplined, it was a craft. It
came along at the time when poetry needed a
sense of craft. Ransome, Tate, Warren, and
Davidson, and Merrill Moore wrote a poetry which
was tremendously influential because it was good.
It had that sense of craft, that sense of the poem
being self-contained, and the proper respect for

9

both the connotative and the denotative proper-
ties of language.

A critical movement grew directly out of that.
The New Criticism was designed to criticize that
kind of poem. What does the New Criticism do?
The critic looks at the poem and says, oAll right,
this is what counts. What do these words, what
do these images, what do these configurations
do?T He judges it in terms of that. Never mind
the writerTs biography; never mind whether he
believes in virtue and motherhood or not. What
does this poem say? The Fugitives have been
very important as critics. The tremendous power
of the New Criticism and the influence of the
New Criticism has been in the fact that it has
been so closely allied with the practice of poetry.
It wasnTt something external to poetry. It grew
out of the same instinct for language and feeling
for language that made those people want to
write poems. And that accounts for the fact that
it was so valuable"because it was a way of puri-
fying poetry.

In English literature we have always had the
tradition of the poet-critic. The leading English
critics have also been practicing poets"Ben John-
son, Dryden, Samuel Johnson, Coleridge, Matthew
Arnold, T. S. Eliot. In French neoclassical litera-
ture"this is a generalization which I can make
so nicely because I donTt know very much about
French literature"the critics were not tragedians.
The great Nineteenth century French critics are
Sainte Beave and Taine. They werenTt poets.
Generally speaking, our criticism has avoided the
heavy conceptualizing, the abstract quality of
French criticism. French neoclassical criticism
of the late seventeenth century put a straight
jacket on the writers. Our criticism is much more
pragmatic.

Interviewer: Does criticism dominate the pres-
ent American literary scene?

Mr. Rubin: I personally donTt see anything
wrong with people writing criticism"thatTs be-
cause I write a lot of criticism. But you hear a
lot about the way critics are throttling poetry.
That is bunk. Critics canTt throttle poetry.

My friend Karl Shapiro, for example, has re-
marked in Defense of Ignorance that literary
fashions are set by critics. That is nonsense. No
critic has ever been able to set a literary fashion.
Literary fashions are set by poetry. It wasnTt
transition in the critical talent that changed the
creed in modern poetry. It was oPrufrock� and
oThe Waste Land.� It wasnTt the oPreface to the

10

Lyrical Ballads� or the Biographia Literaria that
created romantic poetry. It was the Lyrical Bal-
lads. It wasnTt JohnsonTs essay on dramati¢
poetry that created Augustinian poetry. Criticism
arises after the fact. It arises in an attempt t0
try to understand, codify and explore the facts
of poetry. But Shapiro says weTve got to break
up the Alexandrian criticism of our day. He
wants to do it by critical essays. The only way to
change modern poetry, if he doesnTt like modern
poetry, is to write poetry"poetry so different in
speaking for the time and so much better that it
will cause a revolution in the attitude that poets
take towards the world through language.

ITve known Karl Shapiro for years. He taught
me at Johns Hopkins in 1948-49. He is really a ©
very nice guy, very sweet, mild-mannered person.
He likes to take critical stances. He does them
for effect. As long as I have known him he has
taken one stance or another. But he follows them
out logically. If he takes a stance that calls for
a certain conclusion that this or that poet is no
good, then he says that this or that poet is no
good"even when he knows better. He thinks itTs
a good thing to have people saying things.

But going back to this business of whether
critics create taste or not"a perfect example of
the essential powerlessness of critics was the San
Francisco obeat� literature. There you have 4
school of writing which none of the respected,
trusted, influential critics of the day had any use
for whatever (personally, I think with good rea-
son). If criticism could throttle literature, the
best literature would never have been able to
catch on. Yet even so paltry a thing, so obvious 4
thing as obeat� literature sprang right up. Why?
Because there were poems that interested people.
If the obeat� literature had anything behind it, all
of the critics who were wed to the metaphysical
poem and the so called T. S. Eliot influence would
have been helpless to stop it.

And so this business about critics throttling
anything is just bunk, just nonsense. Someone
who says that shows a lack of respect for poetry
and fiction. If they think that any criticism, I
donTt care what kind of criticism, can essentially
hurt a good poem or help a bad one; hurt a good
novel or help a bad one"if they think that any
criticism can do that theyTre crazy. Criticism is a
secondary activity. ItTs always subsidiary to the
poem and the novel and itTs always going to be
that way. When a novel comes along that the
critics canTt recognize, it may lie fallow, it may
await recognition for awhile. Blake would be
an example. The idea of criticism throttling it"

THE REBEL

No indeed. Criticism is, I think, a very useful
activity"I engage in it myself"but the idea that
Criticism can throttle creative literature is just
nonsense.

Interviewer: Does the college situation place
limits on the sensibilities of the writer who is also
4 college professor?

Mr. Rubin: Anyone has to operate in a given
Situation. If you work on a newspaper, that
Places limits on sensibilities, time, and energy.
f youTre independently wealthy and you live on
ajorca or on Key West then there are probably
fewer limits placed on your sensibilities. I think
of myself as a writer who teaches, but ITm sure
Other people think of me more as a teacher who
Writes, which is probably more realistic. At any
Tate the reason I am at a college is that it is the
Closest I can get to what I am most interested in"
literature: writing it, reading it, thinking about
It, talking about it. It is the closest I can get to
literature and be paid for it. ItTs as simple as
that. I donTt know any other job that will pay
Me for doing what I like to do. I like to teach.
I like to think about books and literature and
Stories, and I like to work with people who are
also doing that. ThatTs why I am at a college.
very writer is engaged in a conspiracy against
the world, against people who would want to
Make him earn an honest living. I have found
this is the best way to doit. There are other peo-
Ple I know that it just doesnTt work that way at
all. I have known writers who take jobs which
are completely divorced from writing so that
When they do write they donTt use any of the
�,�nergy that they want to use in their writing.

I personally feel that being a college teacher
has not hurt Robert Penn Warren. At the same
time, I donTt think that not being a college teacher
has helped Eudora Welty. Eudora Welty is not

�,� sort of person who wants to teach in college.
T think that people tend to try to get the posi-
tion and do the things that they like to do. Then
hey rationalize it into a system. ItTs fashion-
able, of course, among a certain kind of writer,
Yr certain group of writers"I call it the Con-
Necticut Cocktail League, as opposed to the Ken-
yon Review League"to look down at the univer-
Sity and college teaching. They think that if
You teach in a college you live away from the
World. A remark like that makes no sense to

WINTER, 1964

me because I have never heard of any writers
who were street car drivers or bus drivers or
stevedores. I donTt see why youTre any more
away from the world if you live on a farm than
if youTre at a university. It is true that you are
around people who put a greater emphasis on
intellectual activity than you would in every day
life. I personally donTt see where this is bad. In
the Connecticut Cocktail League youTre not sup-
posed to want to teach. That makes you into a
pale, wan, intellectual kind of writer. If you can
tell me anything thatTs more sheltered than sub-
urban Connecticut"I donTt know what.

It works both ways. I donTt think it makes any
difference. I donTt think it hurt T. S. Eliot to
work at Faber and Faber or a bank. ItTs a mat-
ter of individual temperament. People like Mal-
colm Cowley try to make out rules that the writer
should do this, he should not do that. I think
they are playing games. But you have to have
something to write about, and that is what Cow-
ley has found to write about. It is obviously true
that if you have a job in which you work twelve
hours a day in a boiler factory you arenTt going
to get much written. It would be very difficult
to write in the other four hours. But within
reason is what I meant.

Malcom Cowley worked for the Viking Press.
HeTs been with the Viking Press for a long time.
It seems to me that if one is going to get condi-
tioned, one could get just as conditioned by having
to pander to the trade department of a publishing
house as one can to a classroom.

People donTt go out and live and then write

about it. They keep their eyes open. You donTt
have to live something to write about it. Emily
Dickenson is a perfect example of that. What
kind of life did Emily Dickenson have? Not a

particularly glamorous one; and, yet, she managed
to write some pretty good love poems. ThereTve
been lots of writers who have written on things
they didnTt know anything about"William Faulk-
ner never fought in the Civil War. I know too
many writers who teach, for example, to be able
to say that environment makes them certain kinds
of writers. People are writers or they arenTt
writers. It is what they do at the typewriter"
whether that typewriter happens to be located,
as mine is, in a study on a college campus, or in
the backroom of a warehouse, or in a newspaper
office, or in a house out in lower suburbia, or a
place down there on the Florida Keys.

11

A HUMAN ACCOUNT OF A

GERMAN STUDENT RIOT

R. R. Napp

During the last week of June, 1962, a series of
student youth riots were set off after police bru-
tally disrupted some student musicians perform-
ing in a sidewalk cafe near the University of
Munich. According to many students and pro-
fessors, the riots took place as a protest against
the invasion of oStudentenfreiheit�, the general
freedom cherished by German students through-
out their cultural history. The police were blunt-
ly accused of using Nazi-like tactics in clubbing
people indiscriminately and in not wearing badge
numbers for identification.

The mayor and police of Munich claimed the
participants were mostly juvenile delinquents and
that few students were actually involved. The
facts later uncovered by the press indicated that
many students were involved and that the issues
were much more complex than the mayor and
police had thought.

On the night of June 26, 1962, at about 11:00
P.M., approximately 50 mounted police clattered
toward the University of Munich through a side
street opening on MunichTs main thoroughfare,
Ludwig Strasse, in the Bohemian sector called
Schwabing. At that time, my wife, a German
teacher, and I were taking a final glas sof wine
before retiring. The teacher suggested that my
wife and I accompany him to the scene of the

12

excitement. My wife, a former German national
herself, declined, recalling similar unpleasant
events during HitlerTs reign of terror, but I ac-
cepted. While getting into the car, we were join-
ed by a female hotel clerk.

Sceptical but expectant, I began to take mental
notes on myself and those around me for future
reference. I tried to recall the teachings and
warnings of Gustav Le Bon, (1841-1931), a
French sociologist. He held that a crowd can
hypnotize even the strongest personality suffi-
ciently exposed to its influence; in the crowd,
there is an ever-present subliminal influence at-
tracting its members to herd-like behavior. In his
book, The Crowd, he states: o. . . by the mere
fact that he forms part of an organized crowd, a
man descends several rungs on the ladder of civ-
ilization.�

Arriving at the scene, we drove very slowly
through the eye of a human hurricane composed
mostly of students, with a scattering of city
toughs. They permitted cars to pass through the
congestion as long as movement was kept to a
respectful speed.

Tension was everywhere. One felt it before
actully becoming immersed in it. Waves of emo-
tion swept across the entire area like uncontrolled
electricity. One could not help feeling it would

THE REBEL

Gans .) oe. Se ae. is Ff Sew

© o

d
id

take only a simple short-circuit of behavior to
turn this milling humanity into an ugly mob.
_ We gathered under a marquee situated directly
in the middle of the crowd. It was agreed that at
any sign of acute violence we would either retreat
into a nearby alley or make a hasty departure
from the area along a sidewalk leading North.
As emotions heightened, there was violence in
the form of rock throwing and tipping automo-
biles. It was difficult to remain passive; one
Could not avoid being drawn into the excitement
Somehow, if only as a spectator. After about an
hour, we saw the mob furiously stone an automo-
bile which had not slowed while passing through
this area of human hysteria. Le Bon seemed
Justified.

If ESP could be found to have influenced the
riot, it would have been at this point; one felt a
lull in the storm of human violence"a pause that
Carried a note of warning. Glancing about, it was
evident that traffic had been discontinued at both
ends of the mob.

Unexpectedly, a voice on a loud-speaker identi-
fied itself as the Burgermeister (mayor) of Mu-
nich and requested everyone to clear the area at
Once, or suffer the consequences. We immediately
started in the direction of the North exit. Before
We could disengage ourselves from the mob, how-
ever, we were faced with a cordon of a hundred
or more policemen with locked arms and clubs
raised high.

I advanced, hoping to be permitted to leave,
since we had not participated in the violence, nor
opposed the BurgermeisterTs order. Approach-
ing the police, I tried to explain hurriedly that I
Was just passing through, as had others before
me. The police were not in a reasoning mood;
the point of no return had been reached, and they
brushed aside appeals, at the same time giving
general orders to retreat, or suffer injury. It did
not take much thinking to realize this was a trap
Sprung without due warning as punishment for
the mob. The police seemed bent on disciplining
indiscriminately all who stood before them. I
found myself forcibly shoved back into the mob,
luckily dodging a blow at my head. People be-
Zan to fall on all sides of me as the police cut a
Swath through them. Occupants of the apart-
Ment houses above began to throw empty beer
bottles and garbage at the crowd. With a half-
dozen students, I dashed into the alley previously
noted. The police were close behind as we scram-
bled over a six-foot stone wall. On the other side,
the alley was again blocked, this time by a huge
Gothic door, and there were other students al-

WINTER, 1964

Ne "" SS " = """" ""
= == = SS SaaS "" :

ready trapped there. I fortunately remembered
the structure of this type of door from my own
German student days and recalled that a lever at
the right would fully open it, even though locked.
Only after tumbling out the door into an empty
side-street did we feel safe"safe, ironically, from
the police.

The German teacher and the hotel clerk had
managed to hide while the police went by, and
rejoined me after my escape.

When the overwhelming feeling of relief had
subsided, I tried to understand what had happen-
ed. After days of reflection, I realized this had
not been an ordinary riot. Something recalled
the relations between the German police and pub-
lic of the past. Many victims had been clubbed
mercilessly; photographs and eyewitness ac-
counts verified this fact. Why had the police un-
hesitatingly beaten men and women so viciously,
in one case a woman obviously pregnant? It
appeared that the Nazi interpretation of the Kant-
ian oa priori� principle"oWhen I am carrying
out the orders of my superiors, I am not responsi-
ble for my actions.�"might still be alive.

Students, professors, and the press sided
against the authorities. One of the methods of
protest employed was the Scheigermarsch, or
silent march, a passive parade escorted (again,
irony) by the police. As a result, the courts fin-
ally took some serious action which recognized
the predominance of student rioters and their
grievances about infringements on their freedom.
There also seems to be a movement toward num-
bered police badges and towards preventing the
suspension of writs of habeas corpus, which hap-
pened to some of the arrested rioters. A recent
report from Germany discloses that the Munich
city government has made it mandatory that the
police work with psychiatrists in the training of
candidates for the force.

Interviews with the older generation revealed
antipathy about the riots. Perhaps this feeling
was based on fear of reprisals like those suffered
under Hitler. However, the students were not
willing to accept curbing of their rights, and
exhibited their displeasure not only to the police,
but also, it may be assumed, to their guilt-laden
parents, whom they regard as insufficiently anti-
totalitarian.

German democracy is not as thorough as the
Anglo-American sort, and it is obvious that the
German people have not expressed enough col-
lective interest to make it so. Perhaps these
riots indicate that the youth of today in Germany
wishes to make the change.

13

OWES

state asylum for the insane. room is small,
drab, and almost barren of furnituPe excep -a bed, a rocking chair, and a sma@ cardboard box
T ontains some childrenTs toy blocks. The@geom has one window, one door, anda large plaque
ove od which reads: GOD BLESS OUR H@ME.

As th? » opens, however, all that can baseen is a pale blue square of light, which is that light
emitted through wall, high window. All elge is obscured in the darkness. In the center of the
Stage, a faint beam © yht slowly transcendgm@from the blackness, out of nowhere. As it brightens,
@ woman can be seen in its radiant circle. S@® 1s kneeling on the floor taking toy blocks out of
® dilapidated cardboard box and piling them ver carefully on top of one another. She works industri-
Ously at this tedious task of piling blocks (the kind with the alphabet and little animals on the sides)
as if it gives her great pleasure. She continues undisturbed as the light forms a circle around her.
Then, as if suddenly interrupted by prying eyes, she turns directly to the audience with a questioning

look on her face; a gleam in her eyes.







The setting of this play is an isolat room









course, sheTll probably tear it down, you know
how children are. (She looks around, shivers.)

Such a big house, and so cold. It wasnTt always
like this, not always. I can remember when I was
a young girl, this house was"alive! Alive with
young people like myself, laughing and gay and
voices would echo through this house, so big and
old, and I would know there was nowhere else
on earth I would rather be than here. Oh, this
house was so beautiful then. There were no light
bulbs hanging unshaded from cords. There were
"-chandeliers! The house was full of chande-
liers, crystal chandeliers with reflections of light
dancing on the high ceilings and walls"cascades
of reflections showering the room like soap bub-
Haha. (Reflections appear throughout the

Christine: Wh... why are you all staring at
me like that? . Is, is something wrong?
(She looks down at herself as if to see if
her slip is showing. Then, her eyes fall to
the pile of blocks and she laughs a gentle, but
rather embarrassed laugh, realizing how silly
She must look.)
_ Christine: Oh, Ha, ha, I see. YouTre wonder-
ing what I am doing with these blocks. I guess
It does look rather strange, a grown woman play-
ing with ... oh, ITm sorry. I havenTt even intro-
duced myself. My nameTs Christine and, well
©u see, ITm doing this for my daughter Polly.

sllyTs crippled and she canTt do much for herself,
*Pecially anything strenuous. I just thought ITd
build her something to play with, poor thing. Of bles.

WINTER, 1964 15

room.) Oh, what times we did have. There were
thirteen of us girls, young, pretty and Miss Savage
just took us under her wing like a mother bird.
Most of us were orphans at the time she found
us, homeless with no place to go. It always was
a mystery to me how she managed to find us in
a big city like this.

I was living"if you can call it that"I was...
existing in a little flea trap on Dragon Street
called the Vagrant Arms Hotel, or some ghastly
name like that, when Victoria walked in right out
of the clear blue like an angel of mercy and
brought me here. I had been working at odd jobs
"waitress, salesgirl"and I was down to my very
last dollar when she came. I told her all about
my childhood . . . about how my mother died
when I was just a little girl and how Poppa had
been cleaning one of his guns that he never kept
any bullets in and had shot himself right through
the stomach with an empty rifle when I was seven-
teen and I was left alone to drift . . . just drift
alone by myself.

Victoria brought me to this house, this beauti-
ful house on Conception Street with its candeliers
and curving stairways and red carpets and I met
the other girls. I remember Victoria used to re-
fer to this place as her HOME FOR WAYWARD
GIRLS though we werenTt, really. Ha, Ha. And
some of our beaux would jokingly call it THE
HOME FOR SAVAGE GIRLS, meaning, of
course, that we were all brought here by Victoria
Savage. Oh, we had lots of beaux in those days
and we girls played hostess to young men from
some of the best families in the South.

The season was Mardi Gras when I came here
and Victoria gave a masquerade ball in the parlor
with balloons and colored streamers and confetti,
and a very select group of young men were in-
vited to be our escorts. She dressed us all in
billowing gowns of silks and chiffons"Victoria
just reeked with the milk of human kindness.

There were dragons in the streets and men in-
side the dragons and whiskey inside the men in-
side the dragons. Bloated Pinocchios and forty-
foot giants inched their way"ghosts of city
streets filled with color"and led by a monstrous
illuminated snake piercing through the crowd as
if from the Bayou swamps with a single glaring,
white eye. As our beaux arrived we each made
a grand entrance from the stairway wearing
masks of black velvet and seeded pearls. Cham-
pagne flowed from a fountain of two marble
cupids and we tripped the light fantastic to the
waltzes of Strauss.

ThatTs when I first met Jim. He was a dashing

16

Cyrano de Bergerac and I was Roxanne"Victoria
thought of everything. Jim Gaylord Coltraine
the Third! The toast of two cities"Mobile and
New Orleans. He literally swept me off my feet
that first night.

This room was beautiful then, thick tapestried
material the color of dark red wine covered the
walls and rose-colored, velvet curtains draped the
windows. I can remember when it was that time
of the month for me. I would lie here in the
dark and watch the shadows of the wisteria vine
and morning glories"silhouettes against a moon
of white ice and a sky of royal blue crepe and I
would listen to the music and laughter below.

I had many other callers besides Jim, but we
found love in this house and we married"almost
a year after our first meeting. We spent our
wedding night in this very room and I"conceived
on Conception Street. That was always sort of
a"(sadly) joke. I left this house on Conception
Street, went away with my husband of a few
hours, and we were happy for... a while. When
we returned, they were gone: Victoria, the girls,
the beautiful house... all gone. There had been
a fire and Jim and I came back to live in the cin-
ders and debris. He bought this house for me
and Polly was born here and she played among
the ashes in the charred"scarred rooms. (She
begins taking toy blocks out of the cardboard box
once more.) Those were wonderful days, care-
free days, for Polly was a healthy girl with hair
the color of champagne and she was my one joy
in life. Jim was becoming an habitual drinker
and wasnTt much of a father for our child or hus-
band for me. It was a world of roses and sun-
shine until the horrible accident.

Actually, Polly is very well-behaved for her
age. (She continues to stack the blocks.) Maybe
itTs because she canTt get around like other chil-
dren. ThatTs why I have to do so many things
for her. Jim, heTs my husband, Jim thinks I baby
her too much and he keeps telling me to let her
do things for herself, but I"well, I canTt help
feeling sorry for her. I know pityTs a terrible
thing but in a way I feel responsible for the acci-
dent. When she fell, I... no use thinking about
that now. SheTs alive and thatTs all that really
matters. (She puts the last block in place.) There
now, all finished and if I do say so myself, I think
it looks pretty good. Polly? Polly? Polly? Come
see what ITve got for you, honey. Polly? That
girl, I declare I donTt know what ITm gonna do
with her.

(She rises and walks over to the bed. The beam
of light fades away and moonlight bursts in

THE REBEL

Aw

ee ae ee, ae ee a

through the small window lighting the room clear-
ly. Now, for the first time, the audience is able
to distinguish the set as a room in an asylum.
There are bars in the window which are tinged
with white moonlight and cast long shadows
across the floor. The door in the center of the
backwall has a very small, barred window and
through it can be seen the bright yellow light from
the hallway. On the wall opposite the lone win-
dow hangs a cardboard plaque which reads: GOD
BLESS OUR HOME. Beneath this plaque can be
Seen the shape of a bed, visible only because of
the moonlight shining on clean, white sheets.
Christine walks over to the bed, reaches behind
it to a chair, and brings out a stuffed rag doll
which she hugs close to her. One leg of the doll
is badly damaged and has straw protruding from
ocame This owound� has been partially bandag-
ed.)

Christine: (In the loving voice of a mother for
her child.) See the pretty blocks. ArenTt they
Nice? (She holds the dollTs face close to her ear.)
Oh, youTre sleepy. Poor little thing, you havenTt
even had a nap all day. Alright, you can go to
bed if you want to. Yes, you can play with the
blocks tomorrow. (She tucks the doll into bed
and, pulling the chair beside it, she begins to sing
Softly.) Rock-a-bye baby

In a tree top

When the wind blows

The cradle will rock.

When the bough breaks

The cradle will fall,

Down will come cradle

Baby and all.
(Christine kisses the doll on the forehead and
looks lovingly down at it. Picking up the chair,
she walks over to the blocks, sits in the chatr with
her feet on the wooden rung, and starts to pick
up the blocks. After she has placed two or three
in the boa, she tiredly gives up.)
Christine: Golly, I feel so sleepy. I think Pll
just leave these here until tomorrow. (She yawns)
I hope you'll excuse me, but I just canTt seem to
Stay awa...

(Another yawn interrupts this last statement
and she drops her head into her lap. She remains
still and quiet for a moment, then suddenly, she
raises her head and looks around the room. She
jerks her head in every direction like a bird, as if
looking to see if she is alone. When she speaks,
She is practically another person. She has chang-
ed from the sweet mother she was to a wild fran-
tic creature. She looks with disgust at the blocks,
and savagely knocks them down.)

WINTER, 1964

Christine: That bitch! Who the hell does she
think she is .. . cooing over that damn rag doll,
talkinT to it like it was her own kid. She ought
to be ashamed of herself, actinT so damned high
and mighty when she killed the girl herself.
CanTt say I blame her though, that Polly al-
ways was a little brat. I did think Christine
had more sense than to get herself locked up in
a place like this. Now where did she go? I could
have sworn she was here a minute ago. Well, I
know one thing just because sheTs stuck here for
the rest of her life donTt mean ITm gonna stick it
out with her. (She goes over to the window,
grabs the bars and shouts...) Hey, let me out
of here! Somebody! YouTve got the wrong one.
I ainTt crazy! DonTt you see? SheTs the crazy
one, not me! Let me out! Anybody, please. . .
Let me out! And to think, that stupid bitch donTt
even realize sheTs locked up in this joint. (She
goes over to the wall plaque.) Humph! God Bless
OUR Home. Christine old girl wherever you are,
I have news for you. This ainTt exactly home
sweet home. Rag dolls, toy blocks . . . no wonder
they think sheTs crazy. Why, oh why donTt they
let me out? ITm not insane! ITm not the crazy
one! (About to cry, Christine begins to pound on
the door.) Somebody! Anybody! Please. Let me
out of here! OH GOD, LET ME OUT OF
HERE!!!

(Suddenly, there is a flash of lightning which
illuminates the stage for a split second, mak-
ing everything seem unreal and ghost-like in
its striking glare of light. This bolt of light-
ning is followed by a deafening clap of thun-
der, intense and powerful. The thunder sub-
sides to a slow rumble, and a voice which
sounds as if it comes from an echo chamber,
deep and resonant and powerful, speaks from
the darkness.)

Voice: (Accusingly) You have sinned! You
have wallowed in the depths of supreme, unmiti-
gated sin, you abide in the lodging of your rebtri-
bution, you deny the very blame of that sin! You,
Christine Coltraine, were cursed from the day you
killed your daughter, Polly, by pushing her...

Christine: (She shrinks back into the semi-
darkness, trying to get away from the terrible
voice.) No! 1... YouTre wrong. I didnTt kill her.
It was...

Voice: ... by pushing her into the tracks of
the oncoming train.

Christine: No! 1...

Voice: It is useless to deny that which is truth.
I am the all-seeing and the all-knowing; the su-
preme and divine being and yet as I speak, you

17

still deny your sinful deed shamelessly.
Christine: (On her knees, weeping.) Oh, God,
can you ever forgive me?...IdidnTt....

(The voice breaks into a wild, manical laugh-
ter. When he speaks again, the tone of his
voice has changed from the slow, hollow
sound to that of a more normal, though some-
what high-pitched manTs voice. It is a men-
acing, taunting voice and at times becomes
quite eerie as it echoes through the dark
room.)

Voice: (Laughing.) Ha ha ha. . .Oh, Chris-
tine, really! So you thought I was God? I hon-
estly didnTt think you were that far gone. I guess
I overestimated you, Christine.

Christine: You!!!!

Voice: Yes, itTs me. Jim. Remember? You
should be remembering a lot of things, Christine.
Remembering how we had to get married. Re-
membering how you left me as soon as you got
your grubby little hands on the marriage license.
You wanted everyone to think it was legal. Re-
member how you told everyone that your hus-
band was killed in an accident. Oh, I didnTt mind.
Not when I found out. Remember when I found
out that Polly wasnTt even my own kid? No, I
wasnTt even her father. You probably donTt know
who he was, do you, Christine? Do you?

Christine: Stop it! Stop it!

Voice: ThatTs right Christine, cry. Cry and
remember. Remember how you got tired of being
the little mother tied down with a little girl. You
longed for your old way of life again. Remember
how you plotted to murder your child when she
was only four years old?

Christine: I didnTt kill her. It was...

Voice: It was who, Christine? Oh, thatTs
right, there are two of you now. I suppose youTre
going to tell me it was your oother Self� who
murdered Polly. Your sweet, innocent other self
who loved Polly as a mother should; as you never
did.

Christine: What are you talking about?

Voice: I think you know what ITm talking
about. Now letTs see, are you Christine number 1
or Christine number 2? Oh, donTt look so shock-
ed. Please spare me the dramatics. You see, the
doctor gave me a rather detailed account of your
er... shall we say... illness. It was very in-
teresting. Paranoidal schizophrenia, disorganiza-
tion of the personality, introversion, he gave me
all the grusome details. The way youTve been
acting ITd say you were Christine number 1 now.
The one that I married. ItTs too bad you canTt
be the other one all the time. The doctor told

18

me she lives in a dream world; she actually thinks
this is her home. And she has Polly, or at least
she thinks she does. You, Christine, all you have
is me. Me... to remind you constantly of what
you did.

Christine: I canTt hear you, Jim. ITm putting
my hands over my ears and ITm just blotting you
out. ITm not listening anymore. Do you hear
me? ITm not going to let you do this to me!

Voice: It isnTt that easy, Christine. ITm going
to make you hear me, make you remember. Re-
member when you took Polly to the railroad sta-
tion? I was there. Oh, you didnTt see me but I
was there. I followed you and I stood and watch-
ed. I stood and watched you murder her! Re-
member when you pushed her, Christine. Remem-
ber how she looked when the wheels rumbled over
her crushed body? And the blood! Remember
that first gush of blood? It was scarlet and
formed a cross at your feet. Rather ironic, donTt
you think? Then, afterwards, there were all the
pieces .. . a million pieces and they had to clean
up the mess with a mop. ThereTs one thing Ill
remember, Christine. ITll remember how you
stood there and laughed and laughed. You were
still laughing when they took you away.

Christine: Stop it! Stop it!!! Yes, Jim. I
remember it. Every minute. I admit it! I
killed Polly. Is that what you wanted to hear,
is it? ITll tell you something ese, too. The whole
time I was wishing you were there, Jim, on those
tracks with her, scattered in a million pieces. I
was praying that you were, Jim. Oh, how I
hated you. You were the only thing that kept
me from freedom. If it werenTt for you I wouldnTt
be in this place now! I hate you Jim! I wish
you were dead! I wish it...I wishit...I
wish it...!

(She breaks into sobs. Footsteps are heard

approaching the room and Christine pulls

herself up to the window in the door. She
looks through the bars and quickly turns
around, drying her tears.)

Christine: TheyTre coming. ITve got to do
something or ITll be locked up here for the rest
of my life. What can... I know, I'll pretend to
be her! Tl be so damned sweet and innocent
that theyTll know ITm sane. As sane as they are.

(She lies down on the bed as two voices are

heard outside the door. There is a jangling of

keys after which a nurse and doctor enter
quietly.)

Doctor Anders: I thought you said there was
trouble here, Miss Nelson. Screams of violence
coming from this room.

THE REBEL

Miss Nelson: (quite smug and sure of herself)
There were. Only a few moments ago, Sir. I
heard her myself.

Dr. Anders: Everything looks fine to me.
Why, sheTs sleeping like a baby. I would advise
you to be more careful in your observations be-
fore you start running all over the hospital
Screaming bloody murder.

Miss Nelson: But I swear...

Christine (sitting up): SheTs right, Doctor. I
Was a little loud, but ITm sorry and Id like to
apologize.

Doctor Anders (gently): Well, now. I must
Say youTre being extremely cooperative about this,
Mrs. Coltraine. Not at all like Miss Nelson here
described you. I expected some two-headed mon-
Ster ... (he laughs) ... with fangs.

Miss Nelson: Doctor Anders, I donTt under-
Stand it. SheTs been absolutely impossible since
they brought her in. Screaming and shouting
and pounding on the door...

Doctor Anders (eying her): Miss Nelson, I
think youTve made a mistake. Mrs. Coltraine
looks perfectly calm to me. Maybe sheTs just
upset about coming here.

Miss Nelson: I never make mistakes as you
Will see when you have been here a little longer.
Dr. Phillips, who was here before you, God rest
his soul, always commended me on my aptitude.
_ Doctor Anders: But not your attitude, I
imagine. If you would try to be a little more
friendly with the patients and less concerned
with your sacred punctuality, ITm sure things
would run much more smoothly. Why must you
Insist on being perfect and refuse to believe that
itTs possible for you to make mistakes too, like
anyone else?

Miss Nelson: Not I, Doctor. ITm sure that this
Woman is putting on a show for your benefit.
Behind that sweet little face sheTs probably laugh-
ing her head off.

Christine: Why, 1...

Doctor Anders: ItTs alright, Mrs. Coltraine.

Christine: Please call me Christine.

Doctor Anders: Very well, Christine it is. ITm
going to be your doctor from now on Christine.
Now, tell me. Are you really as bad as all that?

Christine: Honestly, Dr. Anders, ITve been as
quiet as a mouse... (the two women glare at
each other) .. . except a little while ago when
I had a bad dream. That was the only time.

Miss Nelson: SheTs lying!

Christine: Miss Nelson obviously has some-
thing against me but I have no idea what it is
-.. why should I lie?

WINTER, 1964

SSS

Miss Nelson: Why, you little...

Doctor Anders: Now, Miss Nelson.

Miss Nelson: I suppose youTre going to take
her word, a lying, scheming little...

Doctor Anders: Miss Nelson, youTre not to
speak that way to a patient and you know it!
Now, your report may or may not be right
rer

Miss Nelson (overlapping): My report was
faultless. It was as exact as all my reports have
been for the last fifteen years here!

Christine: Well, flip her a fish!

Miss Nelson: You see. It comes out now. SheTs
nothing but a conniving little...

Christine: Why you... (Unable to control her-
self any longer, she walks directly to Miss Nelson
and slaps her.)

Miss Nelson: Ow!!!! You see, Doctor? SheTs
wild. Simply wild!

Doctor Anders: Leave us alone for a moment,
Miss Nelson. I want to speak with Christine.
(Miss Nelson unwillingly leaves the room as
Christine sinks onto the bed, crying softly.)

Christine: Now ITve messed up everything.

Doctor Anders: Well, I canTt blame you much.
SheTs had it coming for a long time.

Christine: Oh, Doctor, ITm so sorry. ItTs just
that she treats us all so mean. I hate her and I
just couldnTt hold back any longer.

Doctor Anders: I understand. Perhaps youTd
better rest now, ITll talk with you later when
youTre feeling better. Good night, Christine. (Eit)

Christine: Good night, Doctor.

Christine (with a menacing giggle): I reckon
I fooled him! Sleeping like a baby he said. Well,
Christine old girl, youTre on your way. With him
on your side weTve got it made. (She yawns and
lies down. Finding the rag doll, she flings it wild-
ly across the room.)

Christine: Damn doll!

Doll: (In a mechanical voice) Mama... mama

..mama...mama...

(Christine lies quietly for a moment then she

sits up in the bed and, as if wondering what

has happened, she runs her hand through her
hair thoughtfully.)

Christine: Wha... what am I doing over
here in bed? I thought I was in the chai...
Polly?

Doll: Mama...mama...mama...

(Christine discovers that the doll is not in bed
but lying on the floor.)

Christine: Polly? (She runs to her.) Oh darl-
ing, are you all right? What are you doing over
here on the floor? You know you shouldnTt try

19

to walk without your crutches. (She hugs the
doll close.) Your Daddy will be very angry with
you. Maybe weTd better not tell him about this,
what do you say? WeTll just keep it our little

secret. Just between you and me, o.k.? O.K.
Now, youTve got to go to bed. Do you realize
what time it is? Why itTs almost twelve oTclock.
You behave now and go to sleep. ThatTs a good
girl. (She begins to sing softly.)
Lullaby and good night
La-de-da-dum-de-da-dum
Mmm-mm-mmm .. .

(Christine kisses the doll on the forehead,
then suddenly she swings around to the audi-
ence and, as if startled by an intruder, she
clutches her heart and leans for support on
the chair.)

Christine: Oh. You frightened me. I, I didnTt
know you were still here. ITm sorry. I must have
fallen asleep. Please forgive...

(The last trails off into a startled gasp as she

notices for the first time the blocks which

have been knocked over. She runs to them,
drops to her knees and begins to caress them
gently, lovingly as she starts to pile them
again.)
... (Crying) Now who would want to do a thing
like this? After I worked and worked so hard.
ItTs not fair. ItTs just not fair. I try to do some-
thing nice for Polly and then this...... Jim!
It must have been Jim. He never liked me or
Polly. He did this. I know he did. HeTs always
been this way, hateful and jealous. Wanting
revenge just because the court gave Polly to me
instead of him. Unfit father. He was unfit al-
right. Plastered night and day! Oh, how could
he? How could he do this?

(She looks directly at the audience.)

I hate to be rude but I wish you would please
excuse me. I know itTs not nice to ask someone
to leave your home, especially when theyTre in-
vited guests but well, you can see how upset I
am. When Jim comes home ITm afraid there
might be a scene which might become unpleasant.
(She picks up more blocks.)
He really shouldnTt have done this. What will I
say to him when he comes home? How should I
greet him? Jim, I hate you! No, thatTs too harsh.
After all I have no proof it was him. Why any-
one could have been in here while I was asleep
and knocked the blocks down. But who? Jim is
the only one with a reason. JimTs the only one
who would do it. Jim.

(Christine grits her teeth in restraint while

trying to speak to the audience.)

20

Christine: My mother always told me it was
impolite to stare. Must you stare at me? (She
turns toward the window.) Jim? Jim, is that you
out there?

ManTs Voice: No lady, it ainTt Jim.
night-watchman.

Christine: Oh. Well, if you see him please tell
him to come right up. I want to tell him a thing
or two. ITm gonna give him a piece of my mind,
but good.

ManTs Voice: Sure, lady. Sure.

Christine: He should have been here by now.
If he was here when I was asleep and if he did
knock the blocks over ITm sure he wouldnTt leave
it at that. No, heTd come back to gloat and tell
me how silly I am just like always. Maybe heTs
down in the kitchen.

(She tries the door. It is locked.)
Oh, no. HeTs locked mein! Jim! (Pounds on the
door.) Jim! Open this door or ITll call the police!
Jim! Do you hear me? Jim! This is the last
straw.

(She rushes to the bed and reaches under it

and pulls out a plastic toy telephone.)

Christine: Hello? Operator? Get me the po-
lice! Operator? Operator? (She keeps trying
but gets no answer.) Good God!!! HeTs cut the
wires! He must be out of his mind.

(She throws the phone wildly across the room
and it lands close to the window. She tries
the door again, sobbing, when suddenly there
is a bolt of lightning and a clap of thunder as
before. The menacing high-pitched voice
echoes once again through the semi-dark-
ness.)

ItTs the

Voice: ItTs no use, Christine. You canTt escape.
ITm going to kill you, just like you killed Polly.
Oh, there wonTt be a train to push you in front of.
In fact, it wonTt even be a physical death. ITm
going to kill you mentally. I~m going to haunt
you until youTll wish you were dead.

Christine: No, no! What are you saying? I
didnTt kill Polly. Polly isnTt dead. SheTs right
here with me. Jim! Have you lost your mind?
Locking me in like this and then...... Where
are you? I hear you but I canTt see you. If this
is your idea of a joke, I certainly donTt think itTs
very funny. Jim. Jim! So help me Jim if you
donTt come out right now ITll scream. Do you hear
me? I'll scream!

Voice: ItTs no use, Christine. You canTt escape.
ITm going to kill you.

Christine: (She begins to scream at the top of

THE REBEL

(Approaching footsteps are heard outside the
door.)

(The doctor and nurse rush into the room. He

says something to her and she exits.)
Aiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeee !!!!

(Doctor Anders shakes Christine violently in

an attempt to quiet her.)

Doctor Anders: Now, now Christine. WhatTs
this all about? Come on, tell me all about it.

Christine: He was going to kill me. He tried
to kill me!

Doctor Anders: There, there, who tried to kill
you?

Christine: Jim! My husband. He was here. I
heard him.

Doctor Anders: Now Christine, youTve got to
Control yourself. ITve got something to tell you.
Your husband was killed a little while ago ina
Car accident close to the hospital.

(Christine drops numbly onto the bed. He

has already placed the doll in the chair.)

Christine: But, thatTs impossible. He was just
here. I saw him!

Doctor Anders: No, Christine. He was not
here. So you see, youTve nothing to be afraid of.
Your husband is dead. He canTt hurt you now.
ItTs all in your mind, Christine. ItTs all in your
mind.

(Miss Nelson returns with a glass of water.)

Doctor Anders: Here, take this. ItTll calm your
nerves and help you rest.

Christine: Tell them to stop staring at me.
Please tell them to stop staring at me.

Doctor Anders: Tell who, Christine? Who?

Christine: (Pointing at the audience.) Them,
their eyes, theyTre burning me. Burning!

_ Doctor Anders: ThereTs nothing there. Noth-
ing but a wall and youTve got to learn to accept it.
NobodyTs there, just a wall.

Christine: But, I see them!

Doctor Anders: ItTs just an illusion. Relax now
and go to sleep.

(Miss Nelson exits. The doctor stands in the

doorway, a silhouette against the bright light

behind him, and shakes his head with pity.

He closes the door and moonlight floods the

room. Christine gets up off the bed and with

great dignity approaches center stage.)

Christine: That man, you must overlook him.
Why, he thinks ITm crazy, that . . . that I suffer
from hallucinations and speak to things which
arenTt there. (She looks directly to the audience.)
But ITm speaking to you and you're there, arenTt
you? Of course. I donTt know why he refused

WINTER, 1964

to believe that I spoke to Jim, and I did you know.
Why, youTre my witnesses. You heard the thunder
and saw the lightning and the rumble. So if Iam
insane, you, too, are insane.
(Christine turns and walks slowly back to the
bed. When she reaches it, she clasps her
hands in prayer, her head tilted back.)
Christine: I am not crazy! ITm as sane as you
and you and you. (She points to the door.) Those
people who just left here, theyTre the crazy ones,
not me... (She drops to the floor clutching the
rocking chair, and cries.) ... NOT ME... NOT

(Seconds pass and there is quiet except for
the constant sobs from the figure on the floor.
The stillness is broken by a loud town clock
which announces the hour of twelve. It is a
piercing, ear-splitting sound, almost frighten-
ing as it splits the silence.)
BONG!!!!
BONG!!!!
BONG!!!!
(There is thunder and lightning.)
BONG!!!!
Voice: (Deep and powerful) You have sinned.
BONG!!!!
Voice: You have wallowed in the depths of
supreme, unmitigated sin!
BONG!!!!
(A direct beam of light shines on Christine
and the doll.)
DollTs Voice: ...mama...mama...mama....
BONG!!!!
Voice: ItTs no use, Christine. You canTt escape.
(High pitched and eerie.)
BONG!!!!
Voice: You have sinned!

DollTs Voice: ...mama...mama...mama...
BONG!!!!
(A direct beam of light shines on the tele-

phone.)

Voice on the phone: The number you have
reached is not a working number .. .

BONG!!!!

Voice on the phone: (Continuing) ... Please
hang up and redial your party. This is a record-
ing.

BONG!!!!

Voice: ItTs no use, Christine.

Voice on the phone: The number you have
reached...

DollTs Voice: ...mama...mama...mama...

Voice: You canTt escape... you canTt escape...
you canTt escape .. ..

BONG!!!!
(The curtain closes.)

21

SUSIE. Woodcut. Janet Morris.

A DELTA PHI DELTA PORTFOLIO

The art fraternity, Delta Phi Delta, was osten-
sibly founded to promote ofriendship, scholar-
ship, and recognition of achievement�, which
sounds fine, but perhaps needs a little explana-
tion. Art institutions have always existed"out-
side of a few attempts to institutionalize creativity
or establish a lobby in Congress"to bring the
artist and his public together; the art needs sell-
ing and, essentially, the artist needs exposure
and the public needs to see. It would be definitely
de trop to impute to the institutions a purely mer-
cenary character. You know the artist does not
just express himself; he expresses himself to the
world.

Especially in the classic stereotype, the artist is
isolated. Art institutions"museums, academies
"provide a means for bringing him to the world.
They pass judgment on his work, from a more
or less universal set of criteria, thereby giving
his individual expression a wider significance.
Art dealers are inadequate as his only connection
with the world because they merely expose with-
out judging. Precisely, the artist is the Id (the
vital force expressing itself according to the
Pleasure Principle) ; the art institutions are the
Superego (judging from abstract principles) ; and

22

art dealers are the Ego (operating on the Reality
Principle).

A secondary function of art institutions is pro-
moting the intermingling of artists. In intellect-
ual intercourse, and by consensus and jury, the
artists play a part in the formation of the Super-
ego. Friendship during this intermingling is a
purely personal, not institutional, matter"espe-
cially among artists. In fact, strong conflicts be-
tween the Superego and the Id are not uncommon,
and do not seem to prevent either from function-
ing.

The relationship of scholarship to art has yet
to be exactly defined. Where it is considered at
all, scholarship appears to have the same connec-
tions with art that eating has with making love.
Particularly in art fraternities, however, with
their academic connections, the promotion of
scholarship has an undeniable euphonic value.

Delta Phi Delta is an honorary fraternity. The
artists represented on the following pages, in hav-
ing been selected by the institution of Delta Phi
Delta, then, have been approved by one of the
Superego parts of the art world. The Rebel Mag-
azine now assumes its role in the dissemination of
art, and takes pleasure in invoking the Reality
Principle.

THE REBEL

Willle Marlowe.

oll.

DAVID.

23

WINTER, 1964

UNTITLED. Oill. Henry Harsch.

THE KISS. Woodcut. David Burkette.

24 THE REBEL

UNTITLED.

Winter, 1964

oll.

UNTITLED.

Pat Waff.

Woodcut.

Ed Henry.

26



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44 | | |
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THE REBEL

SELF PORTRAIT. Watercolor. Doug Latta.

STILL LIFE. Oil. Billie Stewart.

WIntrr, 1964 27

Che Southern Horn

Ah yes"we too have known, have seen,
against the fields of Shiloh
the brighter red against the green
as the rain was falling slow .. .
(And the silent figure never born
Broke the silent night with silent horn)

We might have worn the sun,
been lovers, you and I"
had we been born to run
beneath another sky . .
(But the silent figure never born
Breaks the silent night with silent horn)

The mansion rots beneath the rain...
the yard grows thicker still with weeds;
such is our lot"a little pain"

the kindness of forgotten deeds .

(And the silent figure never born

Breaks the silent night with silent horn)

28

MILTON CROCKER
Poet

Kormus

And on such a day
heard we another tale
told by sea-side and
in distant land,
of Bormus also, who, once,
in harvest season
went by autumn wood,
by autumn glade,
seeking water for the reapers;
and by the water-pool was seen
and never seen again.

Nalad

oAnd by the water-pool
on such a day,
up from the grotto
cool and sweet,
we leave the grotto for the rocks,
preening our hair in the wind,
and talking of many things:
fair Echo,
who came and went
on such a day
and sighed for love
and disappeared ;
and of Iphis,
who hanged himself for love
when turned from the maidenTs door
and she, fair Anaxaretes,
was turned to stone...�

THE REBEL

Laurel

iT)

up from the grotto, close and fair,
come we on such a day,
combing their locks in the wind.
And by the waterTs face,
of such a day, came Daphne,
fair Grecian girl,
fleeing ApolloTs hand.
Daphne, the riverTs daughter,
and the tree taking root
even under eye....�

Helen of Croy

oNor shall we come again to Corinth,

nor into Thrace,
nor Thebes,
wind kicking heel,
wind bearing us out;
shipboard, wave-stock,
smack of the salt-wind
on battered lip...
dreaming of Helen,
LedaTs daughter...�

Helen of the Crees

And I have seen her,
Helen of the Trees,
walking in the grove
of a summerTs day.
I have seen her
in the garden,
her shadow rising on the wind.
Hear me!
I have seen her;
blond tresses,
gossamer-gowned on the green grass,

Silent foot carrying the dance into silence.

I have seen below the olive trees

What none has seen before

When the wind has turned them
green and black.

WINTER, 1964

.. up from the rock-pool, cool and sweet,

Lotus~Eaters

And in the spring
gather lotus leaves,
green and thick,
nor ever think again of home.
By fireside and
many miles away
girls grow old
and will not wait...
and will not wait...
The tale of Troy
was never told;
we are not men
but ghosts

who have not heard the sirens sing .. .

Sybil

Gone

the gods of the wood .. .
hamadryad, nymph ...
nebG s+ RE «vs

gods of the wood.

what has the world left us?

By sea, the wrecks that once were ships.

by glen, the ghosts that hover.
We will go by the water-course
looking for a glory ...

and we will never come again .

29

Huntsman of Harz

(And Hencklenberg dying said,
oT care not for Heaven"
but only the hunt"!�
oThen hunt forever!� said the priest.)

There"

by slope, by fir,
leaf-shadow and the evergreen vein,
wind came upon us;
and by the waterside,

the shadow on the grass. .
saw we the hunter;
saw below the belly of morning
the grey hounds go before...
and the cold shadow
on the grey morning sky ...

Francois VillonTs Jailer

(Addressing him on the eve of his last departure)

30

Aye, Villon, I have known them too,
the friends I gained and lost,

the fire that burnt the yew,

and those who heeded not the cost

of such a game as they played at,

but in the end were eaten by the fire;
who talked again of this and that

and then went quickly by me to retire.
But neither I nor you can say

in what chambers now they lie"
some we know have found some way
to fix old Time"a bitter lie"

but what is that to you and I

who care not ever for the cost

of the chamber in which we lie,

nor for what we may have lost.

I make my own bed"as you"

and each prisTnerTs another task

to me, as your days are to you.

I only do"I do not ask.

Be away! I tell you!"Be away!
ThereTs nothing now to hold you here.
The fogTs thick"a bleak December day.
By night youTll be long miles from here.

Nightmare

There are no whistles
in this land... no travelers
will try these roads at dusk
for food or forage.
Along this shore no grey gulls wheel
in slender arcs to try the sky
or stretch their feathered wings
in vain against the wind.
In this land the pebbles
have a will...
rocks rise up and know.
The very trees have thought
and try their thick dry speech
in the sad grey hours before twilight"
surely here no human hands
will try the window-latch
or roses climb toward the yellow light;
those we meet by moonlight,
midnight, by sun-high mid-day
speak with a dying rattle in their throats;
their eyes avoid us, hands seeking
the limits of perception, borders of the room.

THE REBEL

Homecoming

How should we

feeling the omnipotent presence
invade the room

like subtle sleep

in the dreams of a madman
place upon the shelves

all our wares

in neat and gleaming rows

the shining glass of them
already magnifying the cracks
that spread down the side.

And how should we arrange
the knick-knack stands

that line the grey walls

of our cell

with their little figurines
blue-eyed and stiff

watching us in the night
through animal eyes.

Winter, 1964

That night along the ferry road

the wind whispered of autumn things
and the June night turned chill

with the burden of jagged piece
dropped out of the universe

the vast mechanism gone awry

and the hands on the clock

spinning around too fast.

I remembered mist

above deserted streets

and once the looming shape

of a big grey dog

who knocked over a garbage can
and ran away

frightened out of his wits

by the sound of his own folly.

The dog had never come back
but I had.

So now I would go

down once familiar streets
looking for the thread

that wasnTt there

and watch big blue buses
pass me by.

And soon I would go back

and stand beyond the mirrorTs image
where the jagged edges

formed bloody patterns

on my brow

and hear

from far away

beyond the bright green cabinet doors
the endless dust rising

and the cracks growing larger

and the figurines would begin to scream
louder

and

louder.

31

POUND:

HIS LITERARY INFLUENCE

James Forsyth

oSo long as you are alive, your case is doubtful.�

"Albert Camus, The Fall

ee on Ezra Pound, Ernest Hemingway
once said that Pound was a major poet who only
devoted about one-fifth of his time to writing
poetry. The rest of the time he spends helping
advance the fortunes of his friends. ~He defends
them when they are attacked, he gets them into
magazines and out of jail. He loans them money.
He sells their pictures. He arranges concerts for
them. He writes articles about them. He intro-
duces them to wealthy women. He gets publishers
to take their books. He sits up all night with
them when they claim to be dying and he wit-
nesses their wills. He advances them hospital
expenses and dissuades them from suicide. And
in the end, a few of them refrain from knifing
him at the first opportunity.� Later he said:
oLike all men who become famous very young he
suffers from not being read. It is so much easier
to talk about a classic than to read it. There is
another generation . . . and this generation is
reading him.�

In 1963 Ezra Pound was named the winner of
the Academy of American Poets award for Dis-
tinguished Poetic Achievement. As Hemingway
said, his achievement in literature goes far be-
yong the original work he had done. In recent

32

years, several critics have attacked PoundTs handl-
ing of younger writers. The basis for their criti-
cism has been that he tries to dictate too much to
them what they should read. The best answer for
them is in PoundTs A B C of Reading:

oYOU WILL NEVER KNOW either why I
chose them or why they were worth choosing, or
why you approve or disapprove any choice, until
you go to the TEXTS, the originals.�

Pound realized early, and tried to teach to
others, what many aspiring writers never learn"
in order to write correctly the writer must have
a solid background, a frame of reference for what
he is doing. He attempts to explain it by com-
parison:

oYou canTt judge any chemicalTs action merely
by putting it with more of itself. To know it,
you have got to know its limits, both what it is
and what it is not, what substances are harder or
softer, what more resilient, what more compact.

oYou canTt measure it merely by itself diluted
with some neutral substance.�

This article will attempt to show just a small
amount of the vast influence he has had on a few
writers who obviously have been selected because
of their importance.

THE REBEL

II

Like many of his contemporaries, Pound left
America in favor of life in Europe. One of the
Teasons he went abroad was to meet William But-
ler Yeats, whom the young Pound considered to
be one of the greatest poets of the previous cen-
tury. Pound wrote his father, Homer Loomis
Pound, in May, 1911:

oYeats I like very much. ITve seen him a great
deal, almost daily ... He is, as I have said, a very
&reat man, and he improves on acquaintance.�

William Carlos Williams, former school-mate of
Pound and also a famous poet describes the rela-
tionship between the two writers:

He knew Yeats slightly while in America but
to my knowledge did not become thoroughly
acquainted with YeatsT work until he went to
London in 1910. There a strange thing took
place. He gave Yeats a hell of a bawling out
for some of his inversions and other archa-
isms of style and, incredibly, Yeats turned
Over all his scripts of the moment to Pound
that Pound might correct them. That is not
imagination but fact. Yeats learned tremen-
dously from PoundTs comments.

As Dr. Williams pointed out, the younger poet
did have a profound effect on Yeats, whose poetry,
Pound felt, should have been more odefinite and
Concrete.� When he could not convince Yeats to
Change his style in 1912, Pound altered some
boems that Yeats had given him to send to Har-
Tlet Monroe, founder and editor of Poetry. One
of the poems which was revised is oFrom the
Antigone.� The original draft reads:

Overcome, O bitter sweetness,

The rich man and his affairs,

The fat flocks and the fieldsT fatness,
Mariners, wild harvesters:

Overcome the Empyrean; hurl

Heaven and Earth out of their places"
Inhabitants of the soft cheeks of a girl
And into the same calamity

That brother and brother, friend and friend,
Family and family,

City and city may contend

By that great glory driven wild"

Pray I will and sing I must

And yet I weep"OedipusT child
Descends into the loveless dust.

Winter, 1964

""""""""

After Pound revised it, the poem read:

Overcome"O bitter sweetness.

Inhabitant of the soft cheeks of a girl"

The fat flocks of the fieldTs fatness...
hurl

Heaven and Earth out of their places,

That in the same calamity

Brother and brother, friend and friend,

Family and family

City and city may contend...

The second version is a great improvement, cer-
tainly more concise, even to the untrained ear. As
well as his direct influences, PoundTs work on the
Japanese Noh plays helped to give Yeats a new
kind of direction. Norman Jeffares in his biogra-
phy of Yeats wrote: othe Noh drama of Japan, to
which Ezra had introduced him. He found these
plays an incentive to return to an early ideal of
recreating the Irish scenery he loved by means of
an art form.�

For a brief period, Pound wrote strongly under
the influence of Yeats. In The Poetry of W. B.
Yeats, Louis MacNeice points out Pound under the
influence of Yeats in these lines from Personae:

There are many rooms all of gold,

Of woven walls deep patterned, of email,

Of beaten work; and through the claret stone,
Set to some weaving, comes the aureate light.

Pound soon abandoned this for more intense verse.

Pound and Yeats always remained close friends
and their intimate association was beneficial to
both. They were neighbors in Sussex and Rapello,
and at one time Pound made it easier for the elder
poet to write by acting as a secretary to him.

Yeats showed his respect for Pound in a letter
to Lady Gregory:

He [Pound] is full of the Middle Ages, and
helps me get back to the definite and concrete,
getting away from modern abstractions, to
talk over a poem with him is like getting you
to put a sentence into dialect. All becomes
clear and natural.

III

One of PoundTs best known disciples is T (hom-
as) S(tearns) Eliot. oA damned good poet and
a fair critic,� said Ernest Hemingway, obut he
would not have existed except for dear old Ezra

33

�

According to Eliot, his first meeting with
Pound was arranged by Conrad Aiken:

I had kept my early poems (including
~PrufrockT and others eventually published)
in my desk from 1911 to 1914"-with the ex-
ception of a period when Conrad Aiken en-
deavoured, without success, to peddle them
for me in London. In 1915, (and through
Aiken) I met Pound. The result was that
~PrufrockT appeared in Poetry in the summer
of that year; and through PoundTs efforts, my
first volume was published by the Egoist
Press in 1917.

Actually, he met Pound in 1914, and getting
oPrufrock� published was not as simple as he
makes it sound. Previously, Pound and Aiken
were the only people, including Eliot, who saw any
merit in the poem that Eliot had written during
his sophomore year at Harvard.

On 30 September, 1914, Pound wrote to Miss
Monroe concerning Eliot:

He is the only American I know of who
has made what I can call adequate prepara-
tion for writing. He has actually trained
himself and modernized himself on his own.
The rest of the promising young have done
one or the other but never both (most of the
swine have done neither). It is such a com-
fort to meet a man and not have to tell him
to wash his face, wipe his feet, and remember
the date (1914) on the calendar.

Pound sent to Miss Monroe EliotTs oThe Love
Song of J. Alfred Prufrock� in October, 1914, for
Poetry. Several months went by and the Eliot
poem still did not appear. In May, 1915, Pound
sent her an acid note on the April issue which be-
gan with this comment: ~My gawddd! This is a
rotten number of Poetry!� ~oPrufrockT� appeared
in the June issue.

Getting oPrufrock� published was a start, but
nothing compared to the work Pound had to do in
editing The Waste Land several years later. Tran-
sitions in it are due to the editor. The original
composition was probably based on the methods
used in the earlier Cantos.

At the time The Waste Land was being edited,
Eliot was working in London and Pound was in
Paris. There was much correspondence between
the two men, but a good deal of it has not yet been
published. Part of one of PoundTs letters to Eliot
reads:

34

Caro mio:

MUCH improved. I think your instinct
has led you to put the remaining superfluities
at the end...

IF you MUST keep Tem put Tem at the be-
ginning of ~April cruelest month.T The POEM
ends with the ~Shantih, Shantih.T

The thing now runs from ~April . . .T to

oshantihT without a break, and let us say the

longest poem in the English langwidge. DonTt
try to bust all records by prolonging it three
pages further.

My squibs are now a bloody impertinence.

I send Tem as requested; but donTt us Tem
with Waste Land.

Attached to the letter was a poem, oSage
Homme�:

These are the poems of Eliot

By the Uranian Muse begot:

A Man their Mother was,

A Muse their Sire.

How did the printed Infancies result

From Nuptial thus doubly difficult?

If you must needs enquire

Know diligent Reader

That on each Occasion

Ezra performed the Caesarian Operation .. .

Eliot replied, in part:

Cher maitre: Criticisms accepted so far as
understood, with thanks.

1. Do you advise printing ~GerontionT as a
prelude in book or pamphlet form?

Perhaps better omit Phlebas also???

Wish to use Caesarian Operation in italics
in front. Compliment appreciated, as
have been excessively depressed.

A section of PoundTs answer goes:

I do not advise printing ~GerontionT as
preface. One donTt miss it at all as the thing
now stands. To be more lucid still, let me
say that I advise you NOT to print ~Geron-
tionT as prelude.

I DO advise keeping Phlebas. In fact I
moreTn advise. Phlebas is an integral part
of the poem; the card pack introduces him,
the drowned phoen. sailor. And he is needed
ABSolootly where he is. Must stay in. Do

as you like about my obstetric effort.

THE REBEL

Just these segments of three letters show that
Pound had quite a lot of influence on The Waste
Land, and perhaps explains why it reads so much
like the Cantos. The reader should realize that
oCaesarian Operation� has been omitted and
oGerontion� was printed separately.

Eliot wrote in 1946:

It was in 1922 that I placed before him in
Paris the manuscript of a sprawling, chaotic
poem called The Waste Land which left his
hands about half its size, in the form in which
it appears in print. I should like to think that
the manuscript, with the superseded pass-
ages, had disappeared irrevocably ; yet, on the
other hand, I should wish the blue penciling
on it to be preserved as irrefutable evidence
of PoundTs critical genius.

Eliot dedicated The Waste Land to oEzra
Pound, il miglior fabbroT�"the master worker, as
Dante had used in reference to Aranut Daniel.

Pound thought The Waste Land was oa master-
Piece; one of the most important 19 pages in
English.� Pound hoped Eliot could be provided
With another income than the one he was earning
at LloydsT bank. The pressure of the work had
already given him one breakdown and he was on
the verge of another. The Waste Land was writ-
ten during his recovery in Switzerland and the
foreign phrases are the talk of other patients.

Eliot has also helped Pound with his work.
Pound recognized EliotTs critical abilities and, on
SCcasion, sought his advice. When Pound first
Started on his major work, the Cantos, he said:
oEliot is the only person who proffered criticism
Mstead of general objection.�

IV

About the same time that Pound was editing
The Waste Land, he was pushing the stories of a
young American journalist who had taken up resi-
dence in Paris, Ernest Hemingway.

Charles Fenton, in The Apprenticeship of Ern-
est Hemnigway wrote:

It was from Ezra PoundTs edicts about
imagism, in fact, from their application to his
Own verse, that Hemingway profited most
Strongly from the exercise of writing poetry.
He employed the same intensely concentrated
Pattern that he would use in the important
Prose exercise of in our time.

Winter, 1964

Hemingway was a bit shy of taking his work
to Pound for advice, so he often took his material
to Gertrude Stein, who made the statement o~You
are all a lost generation,� with appears opposite
the title page of The Sun Also Rises, or Fiesta,
the title it is printed under in England. Heming-
way learned a lot from Miss Stein, but she later
stabbed him in the back. Hemingway tells about
it in a conversation with his brother, Leicester:

But I really did learn from that woman.
And I learned from Joyce and Ezra at the
same time. Gertrude was a fine woman until
she went so completely queer. From there
she got worse and convinced herself that
anybody who was good was also queer. From
there she got worse and convinced herself
that anybody who was queer must also be
good. But before she went way off, I learned
a lot from her.

But Jeeezus, that book Stein put in last
year was full of malicious crap. I was always
damned loyal to her until I got kicked out on
my backside. Do you think she really believes
she taught me how to write those chapter
headings for in our time? Does she think
she or Anderson taught me how to write the
first and last chapters of A Farewell to Arms?
Or Hills Like White Elephants, or the fiesta
part of The Sun Also Rises? Oh hell. I talk-
ed the book over with her all right. But that
was a year after it was written. I didnTt even
see her between July twenty-first when I
started it, and September sixth when it was
finished.

When Pound would read a draft of a Heming-
way story, he would blue-pencil out most of the
adjectives. In making speech ofit� the character
speaking, Pound is second only to Hemingway,
who may have learned from him.

In 1923 Pound contracted William Bird to print
a series of booklets.. oGen. size about 50 pages
(??? too short for you.). Limited private edtn.
of 350 copies, 50 dollars down to author, and an-
other 50 later.� The sixth volume was Heming-
wayTs in our time. The first edition inscribed:

This book was printed and published by
Bill Bird . . . I introduced Bill to Ezra Pound
and Ezra suggested a series of books... Bill
said, ~What about Hem?T

~HemTs will come sixth,T Pound said.....

In May of this year ScribnerTs will publish
Ernest HemingwayTs memoirs of Paris in the

35

twenties.

We can only hope that they havenTt
altered it to protect some sort of public image.
When released, it should give valuable informa-
tion about the part Pound played in HemingwayTs
career. It must have been considerable, because
in 1954 Hemingway wanted to renounce the Nobel
Prize in favor of Pound.

V

There are many others who, somewhere along
the way, fell under the influence of Pound. As
Iris Berry said: ~~Pound was everybodyTs school-
master and more"he really bothered as to wheth-
er his ~DisciplesT had enough to eat or read the
right books or met the appropriate elders.�

Robert Frost probably did not learn anything
from Pound, but it was PoundTs review of A BoyTs
Will which helped push Frost to the fame he was
to enjoy until the time of his recent death. His
review certainly helped in the U. S. because Amer-
ican publishers had refused to print his book.
They did not consider it bad, just too different.
Others who fell under his influence at about the
same time are William Carlos Williams, e. e. cum-
mings, H(ilda) D(oolittle), T. E. Hulme, Mari-
anne Moore, D. H. Lawrence, and so on.

James Joyce had fought for ten years to have a
book of short stories, Dubliners, published. One
firm backed out. Finally, with the help of Pound,
Dubliners was published in 1916 in book form,
about the same time his Portrait of the Artist as a
Young Man appeared.

Before being printed as books, they were serial-
ized in The Egoist. In a review of Dubliners,
Pound wrote: ~Mr. Joyce writes a clear, hard

36

prose... . these stories and the novel now appear-
ing in serial form are such as to win for Mr.
Joyce a very definite place among contemporary
English writers.�

Joyce never required much editing, and prob-
ably resented being called oEnglish.� Pound did
not like some parts of Ulysses, and, according to
Eustace Mullins in This Difficult Individual, Ezra
Pound, ohe balked at FinneganTs Wake.� Not
only was there trouble getting that one published,
they had a hard time just getting someone to set
the type.

Probably the man who knows Ezra Pound the
best is T. S. .Eliot, who has worked with him for
almost half a century. Perhaps Eliot best sum-
med up PoundTs contribution to other writers in
this statement:

oNo one could have been kinder to younger men,
or to writers who, whether younger or not,
seemed to him worthy and unrecognized. No
poet, furthermore, was, without self-depreciation,
more unassuming about his own achievement in
poetry. The arrogance which some people have
found in him, is really something else, and what-
ever it is, it has not expressed itself in an undue
emphasis in his own poems. He liked to be the
impressario for younger men, as well as an ani-
mator of artistic activity in any millieu in which
he found himself. In this role he would go to any
lengths of generosity and kindness: from inviting
constantly to dinner a struggling author whom he
suspected of being under-fed, or giving away
clothing (though his shoes and underwear were
almost the only garments which resembled those
of other men sufficiently to be worn by them), to
trying to find jobs, collect subsidies, get work pub-
lished, and then get it criticised and praised.�

THE REBEL

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(oe,

SUMMER: A VIGNETTE
By Robert Wigington

In the summer of 1950, they were drafting men
Tom the National Guard because of the war in
Orea. We were used to that now. At first,
oVeryone was a little frightened. Father bought
Slx bottles of liquor because he was afraid that it
Would be rationed. Mother fussed a good deal
About it. She would say, oItTs a terrible thing.
d be ashamed of myself. TheyTll probably ration
food too, Did you think of that?� On the Fourth
of July, Father and Uncle Jim drank a bottle of
�,� liquor. We spent the afternoon in the park.
Mother made sandwiches and potato salad and
ather bought some soft drinks and canned beer
@nd put it in a plastic bucket filled with ice. He
also brought a very large bottle of dill pickles.
here were a lot of people at the park, but Father
and | played catch with a large, yellow, rubber
ball. Mother and Uncle Jim rested on a blanket
Under a grotesque oak tree. Father kept his liquor
the white cabinet above the kitchen sink.
The first I remember of the war was that win-
ter, Mother and I planned to go to the movies.
° was a movie named oChampion�. Mother said
that She did not believe she would like it, but

Winter, 1964

rather than disappoint me, we went in a cab.
You could hear the chains click on the highway.
There was a two-way radio on the cab; and, at
uneven intervals, a voice sounded but I could not
understand a word. They were very busy. The
driver asked Mother if he could pick up an extra
rider. In the falling snow, a young woman came
from a lighted porch. The house was hard to
distinguish in the snow. Mother and I sat in the
back seat. She rode with the driver. She was
very pretty with long, black hair that hung over
a leather jacket. She had a very white face. Her
cheeks were a rose colour. She used a lot of lip-
stick and it looked very damp and thick in the
light of the street lamps that reflected off the snow.
She worked the night shift at the Western Union
office. She was already late for work.

oMr. Simms called three times. ITm sorry,� she
said.

oNo. ItTs fine,� Mother said.

Mother had a soft husky voice. It sounded fun-
ny closed in the warm cab with the snow falling
about us.

oIs Johnny doing all right?�

oT havenTt heard from him for over a month.�
oMargieTs husbandTs in the service,� the driver
said. He was a young man with sharp features.

He had a very pointed chin. He kept his hat
cocked up on top of his head. Later, Mother told
me he was an alcoholic and had a hard time keep-
ing a job.

oHe got extended when the war broke out,� the
driver said.

oItTs really horrible,� Margie said turning in
the seat and looking in the back at an angle. oTITll
get four or five letters at a time.�

oItTs so cold in Korea,� Mother said.

oYou sure that the boy doesnTt mind?� Margie
said.

oYou donTt mind picking the lady up do you
Davie.�

oNo. Of course not,� I said.

oThe last letter, he wrote me about all the
tanks. He said that now they were running all
the time.�

oYou canTt stop tanks with M1Ts,� the driver
said.

oItTs pitiful,� Mother said.

oWe've only been together for two years,� Mar-
gie said. oThat was in Atlanta just after we were
married. John was stationed there then.�

MargieTs husband and the driver had gone to
high school together. Before his marriage, John
had decided to be a career man in the Army.

On Friday mornings in the summer, Mother and
I bought groceries. She bought all the groceries
for the weekend on Friday. In those days, we
walked to the store. It was a small neighborhood
grocery. There were large, dark barrels of salted
fish sitting in front of the meat counter. The
customers in the store looked very hard at you if
your wire basket was stuffed to the brim. There
had been a run on sugar. One Friday, there had
been no sugar at all. Mr. Jones said not to worry
because he would have some in three days. Mr.
Jones owned the little grocery. He was an old
man with silver-grey hair and Mother said that
he had been in the grocery business for a very
long time and could be trusted to keep his word.
It was very hot carrying the brown, thick bags
heavy with food. I was always in a sweat when
we got home. After we had put the food away,
Mother and I would sit on the shaded, front porch
and have an iced drink and watch the slow mov-
ing traffic in the brilliant sun.. In the shade of
the porch, talking quietly, a light summer breeze
coming through the trees slightly stirring the
leaves, the sweat would dry and I would feel stiff
and constricted.

38

During that summer, I did not get up in the
mornings until very late. Mother would be work-
ing around the house, washing, dusting, sweeping;
doing the necessary chores of daily life. Mother |
wore a kerchief about her head. I would eat in
the kitchen by the enamel ice box. Usually, I had
milk and cereal and bananas. I truly loved ba-
nanas. If I were in no rush, I would fry the
bananas in a skillet. Eating in the kitchen, I
would read the newspaper. Father had read it '
before he had gone to work at the factory and it
often was quite messed up. In the afternoon,
Mother would read the paper rocking on the |
porch. I was interested in the sports page be
cause Philadelphia was doing well in the Na-
tional League. I did not think they would win
the pennant. The Phillies were a very young ball
club and did not have much experience. Besides,
Curt Simmons had been drafted into the Army.
In the newspaper, there were pictures of Randy
Turpin and his mother. Turpin had outpointed
Sugar Ray Robinson in a fifteen round bout. Tur-
pin was the middleweight champion of the British
Isles. After the fight, he was middleweight cham-
pion of the world. I truly hated Robinson. |
thought that maybe someday I would become 4
prizefighter and I would not let that happen to me.
A month after the fight, there was a picture of
Robinson playing golf in Florida. There was 4
Negro caddy in the picture and Robinson had his
arm about the caddy and they were both smiling.
It was dark and cool inside the house. Out in the
street, the glare of the sun was a bleached white.

On a long August afternoon, I sat in McCallTs
Rexall drugstore and watched the fan. The fan
had four long arms and hung in the ceiling over
the gleaming soda fountain. The fan did not seem
to stir any air at all. It would move very slowly.

Outside, there was a black, moving thunder-
cloud. You could see the jagged lightning and
feel the booming, resonant thunder; suddenly, it
was much cooler. In the store, the overhead
lights would flicker and the fan would slow up.
It began raining large, heavy drops as Bob Fitz-
gerald came in.

oYou almost got wet,� Dottie said. .

Dottie kept the soda fountain at McCallTs. She
was short, middle aged, with a drooping, buxom
body. She wore a great deal of rouge; and, in
her white, slick, nylon uniform, she looked as if
she were a toy doll won at a carnival.

oYes, I did,� Fitzgerald said. He nodded to me
as he very deliberately poised himself in a booth.

I smiled at Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald was captain of the football team in

THE REBEL

his senior year of high school. My mother and his
Mother were in the Forest Hill Book Club to-
&ether.

It was raining very hard now and the torrents
of wind would blow the rain against the plate
8lass window. In the back of the store, Mr. Mc-
Call was preparing a prescription. His head was
down intent on his work. I could see him through
the small window that he handed the prescriptions
through.

oLet me have a coke, Dottie,� Fitzgerald said.

oHowTs it with with you, Bobbie,T Dottie said,
Scooping ice into a glass.

oPretty good,� Fitzgerald said, smiling with a
Small, deliberate, compaction of his face.

Dottie brought Fitzgerald the coke. She seemed
to flap when she walked.

For a very long time, we were all silent. Dottie
Wiped the counter with a towel. You could hear
the hum of the fan.

_ oTTve been drafted,� Fitzgerald said.
tg to Korea, Dottie. By God, I know.
Pm going.�

FitzgeraldTs voice was low. It was as if he were
talking to himself.

oThatTs bad.� Dottie said.

oGraduating from high school and all,� Fitz-
8erald said, omaybe ITll stay in the States.�

oSure,� Dottie said. oI bet you will.�

el itzgerald was making rings on the table with

18 glass. He was looking at the raindrops on the
Window. Dottie watched Fitzgerald.

oI really donTt mind,� Fitzgerald said. oIt

probably wouldnTt be as bad as itTs made out to
.�

oTm go-
I know

oYou know itTs not. The best way is not to
think about it.�

oItTs just that the guys that want to come back
Never do,� Fitzgerald said. oBy God, they really
Never do.�

oItTs not like that,TT Dottie answered.

In the patter of the rain, DottieTs voice was soft
and clear.

oYes, it is.�

errs voice was soft, cutting, and very
igh,

oMy father never came back from Germany,�

itzgerald said thinly. ~oHe wanted to come back.

�,� had a wife and a kid to come back to.�

oThat kid Compton from Oak Street, he got
drafted too,� Dottie said. oI bet you guys go in
together.�

_ oItTs just funny about the guys that donTt make
it,� Fitzgerald said.

Outside, after the rain, there was a clear, fresh

Winter, 1964

You could hear the water running along
the gutters in the street and hear it splash and
gurgle into the drain. At the corner of the street,
there was a very young poplar tree and the tor-
rents of wind had blown against it very hard and
there was only one thin green leaf dangling in

smell.

the air.









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A SWEET GOOD-BYE: A VIGNETTE

By Ronald W. Gollobin

She stood tall on the top step of the front porch
looking down at him with that funny half smile.

oTTve been honest with you, Jennifer,� he told
her.

oWell you might have been lately, Robert, but
you werenTt at first.�

oYou always bring that up, donTt you?�

oItTs always true isnTt it? Does it ever change?�

oNo, it never changes.�

oTTm sorry, Robert. I really am.�

oNo you're not,� he said.

oListen, you donTt know what I think. And
until you do know, you should shut up.� She
looked at him and smiled. oYou can go around
all you want saying what a damned dirty trick it
was, but I donTt care, Robert, I really donTt.� She
leaned casually against the brick column and let
the wind blow her hair across her forehead.

oTTll be damned if I go around saying anything,
Jennifer.�

oWell go home and brood, then,� she told him.

oO. K. Jenny,� he said. oYou keep the ring if
you want.�

oAs a souvenir?�

oYou bitch! You stinking low-life bitch. You
didnTt have to say that.�

oT think youTre precious, Robert,� she told him,

40

still leaning against the brick column. Robert
stood very still with his hands and his knuckles
all white.

oWhy are you calling me ~RobertT all of a sud-
den? Since when did you get so formal?�

oLetTs donTt get rotten, Robert.�

oQO. K.,� he said nodding slowly, oO. K., ITm
sorry. I have a bad temper and I shouldnTt have
said that.�

oOh you have a nice temper, Robert.�

oYou can go to hell!�

oYou certainly are emotional today. ItTs really
so immature.�

oYou certainly are bitchy today, Jennifer.�

oIT wonder why you get so emotional?T she
taunted in a low voice. oOh, I know why. Poor
Robert, he canTt stand to lose anything, and if he
does, he comes around squeezing his sour grapes
all over the place.�

oDamn you, Jennifer. Damn you to hell!�

oTtTs really so immature, Robert.�

oO. K., Jennifer,� he said. ~oLetTs talk about
why you get so bitchy. LetTs discuss it awhile.�

oOh hell, Robert, why donTt you grow up? ITm
just playing with you. You stick your stupid
neck out and then cry when it gets chopped off.�

oNo, letTs talk about your bitchiness.�

THE REBEL

oWho the hell are you to make the rules, Rob-
�,�rt? You have to learn that when you play with
SOmeone else, they make rules too. But Robert
Pouts if people violate some article of his ~codeT.�

oYou donTt want to talk about it, do you, Jenni-
fer? YouTd rather not discuss why Jenny is so
bitchy.�

oYou cut that out, Robert.�

oNow we see the picture change.
Come back to earth and talk sense. How do you
like these games, Jennifer, and these rules?
ArenTt they fun?�

oLetTs stop now, Robert, before we get too ugly
to each other.�

oO. K. Jenny"weTll stop now. Just donTt for-

Now we

Set that I can play games too.�

oYouTre such... such...a damned fool. You
are a pig-headed fool and you want to rub your
Sour grapes in.�

oT thought weTd quit,� he said. She stood up
Straight.

oHa!� she laughed. oAre you going to pout
again because I didnTt play by the rules.�

oTTm not going to pout.�

oBully for you, Robert.� She leaned her head
4 little further back against the brick column and
Smiled a beautiful smile at him. oWhy donTt you
&0 play with somebody that plays by your rules,
Robert? Then you wonTt have to pout.�

oITm sick of this rule business. Is that what
Your faggot friends over at the theatre taught
you?�

oWhoTs a faggot over at the theatre?� Her
head came off the brick column.

oWho isnTt?� Robert laughed.

oYou donTt know anything, Robert. You think
all writers and actors are faggots.�

oI certainly donTt have the perspective on it
that you do, I mean sleeping with them and all.�

oThat was nasty, Robert.�

oI also certainly donTt fool myself into thinking
that people are interested in me because ITm
Such a smashing great actress.�

oIf youTre going to call a spade a spade...

oITm going to call a spade a dirty shovel.�

oI am not that. You get that straight, Robert,

�

Winter, 1964

�

Iam not...a...� She was no longer leaning
on the brick column. The wind was blowing her
hair down in her face.

oOf course you still have two more months be-
fore it really starts to show. By then, you can
probably figure out which faggot is the father.�

oTTm not that kind, do you hear me?� she asked.
Robert pretended not to hear and went on.

oTwo months, Hmmmmm. Two months and
there goes the figure. There goes that ninteen
inch waist. But then there are always plenty of
young mother types needed on the stage.�

oYou bastard!TT she screamed.

oSpeaking of bastards,� he continued calmly,
owhat would be a good name. Horace? No, letTs
see, a little more theatrical, hmmm; how about
Oscar? Oscar! Oscar W., Junior.�

She ran down the steps swinging gildly. Rob-
ert caught her wrists. He held her away slightly.

oLetTs see, Jenny,� he continued in the same
mild tone. oYou and Oscar can play games to-
gether. You can play ~which father is the faggot?T
or you can play ~pin the rap on the faggotT !�

She tried to bite him but he caught her head
and held it away.

oT know what ITve done, damn you. I know,�
she said.

oYes, but do you know with whom?�

She kicked him in the shins twice. He laughed.

oDamn you, I know who the father is, but ITm
not going to tell you, you spiteful bastard.�

She kicked him again, hard.

oNo, no, no, you canTt tell me because all the
other faggots would get mad if they found out
your faggot had been sleeping with a woman.�

She quit kicking and sat down on the bottom
step with her hair in her eyes. She was crying
with her head bowed.

oYou try to act so superior, Bob.�

She looked up, a blank running face.

oThey were all so... sophisticated. I thought
[os =

Robert stood straight and said, oGood luck
Jenny.� He watched her cry for a minute, and
then walked across the yard to the sidewalk and

out to the street.

Ning >

Voyage of the Calypso

The Living Sea. By Capt. J. Y. Cousteau with James Dugan.
New York: Harper and Row. 1963. 328 pp. Ill. One Map.

Twenty years ago, two men, Jacques Yves
Cousteau and Emile Gagnan, achieved a goal
sought by men for centuries. They developed a
simple device which permits a man to go beneath
the surface of the sea and to remain there for a
considerable length of time, untethered by connec-
tions to the surface and unencumbered by bulky
suits. Their device was named the oAqua Lung.�
Subsequently, the oAqua Lung� has become fa-
mous through the production of the award-win-
ning film oThe Silent World� and the publication
of the book of the same name. Using this device,
hundreds of thousands of people have viewed the
undersea world at first hand.

Cousteau quickly recognized the efficiency of the
oAqua Lung� in marine biology and archaeology.
The Captain set to work to acquire a ship and to
organize a team of scientists and divers. The ship
was an ex-U. 8. Navy minesweeper, named oCalyp-
so�. His organization became known as the
Calypso Oceanographic Expedition. The Living
Sea is the narrative of this oceanographic group
and of some of the results of their efforts.

From the decks of the oCalypso�, numerous ex-
periments and discoveries were made. For in-
stance, Dr. Harold Edgerton of Massachusetts In-

42

stitute of Technology developed flash and camera
equipment capable of operating under great pres-
sures and photographing the bottoms of the deep-
est oceans. Auguste Piccard, one-time professor
of physics at the University of Brussels, directed
the trial descents of his bathyschaphe invention,
a maneuverable man-carrying vehicle capable of
descending to the maximum depths of the oceans
without reliance upon surface connections. The
Calypso Oceanographic Expeditions have explored
reefs, ancient wrecks, and the sea bottom; they
have seen dolphins at play, witnessed sharks feed-
ing, observed strange rectangles of pebbles con-
structed by octopi for unknown reasons, and de-
veloped new insights into the ecology of the sea.

CosteauTs interests pass mere exploration; his
work has resulted in significant gains not only
for the scientific community but also for the world
at large. He works for the day when men may
enter the osilent world� and stay for months at a
time to study more effectively the oceanic environ-
ment and to develop its resources. This is the
real core of CosteauTs interest. The value of this
interest rests in the fact that demographers pre-
dict that the earthTs population will double to six
billion by the year 2,000 A. D. The population
boom will place a severe strain on the resources
of the land. One answer to this problem is the

THE REBEL

Idea of ofarming� the sea. From the sea, we ob-
tain not only fish and water, but also seaweed,
Plankton, and other organisms useful as food-
Stuffs, as well as nearly every mineral required
for industry. Oceanographers believe that the
resources of the sea are virtually limitless.

Believing that men must be able to live in the
Cean to manage these resources properly, Cous-
teau and his research team have begun a remark-
able project. In 1962, Cousteau established oCon-
tinental Shelf Station One� off the coast of France.
This was a cylindrical tank placed in forty feet
of water. The tank was designed to serve as a
Warm, dry living space for two men. It could be
�,�ntered and left at will. The object of the station
Was to determine the ability of the men to live
and to work under water and to return to normal
atmospheric pressure without suffering ill effects.

he experiment lasted a week and was a complete
Success. Cousteau thus demonstrated that there
1S no practical limit to manTs living under pres-
Sure, Now, he looks forward to a series of Con-
tinental Shelf Stations populated by numbers of
People. These stations would be designed to or-
8anize and to oversee the ofarming� of the sea.
Since the publication of The Living Sea, Cousteau
has successfully established an underwater vil-
age in the Red Sea in which men have been able
to live and to work for thirty days before return-
Mg to the surface.

If Cousteau and others in the same field of study
are correct, it would appear that man, already on
the threshold of outer space, is on the threshold of
another space, what Cousteau calls oinner space.�
With the world population explosion, the work in
Mner space may prove to be of far greater im-
Portance to manTs long-range survival than the
�,�xploration of the stratosphere.

Although The Living Sea makes fascinating
reading, it possesses some serious defects. First,
It re-covers roughly the same period of time in-
Cluded in The Silent World, published ten years
80. It would not be unreasonable to think that
there would have been sufficient new material
developed since 1953 to avoid this re-coverage. In
addition, a large part of the material covering the
Period 1953-1963 has received prior publication
NM the National Geographic Magazine. Even the
Photographs, admittedly magnificent, cannot com-
Dletely escape this criticism. There are twenty-
four pages of color photographs and sixty-four
Pages of black and white photographs. Of these,
Wenty color and twenty-one black and white pro-
tographs are credited to the National Geographic

agazine. Certainly, in some twenty years of tak-

Winter, 1964

ing underwater pictures, Cousteau could have
found a complete set of previously unpublished
photographs for use in a new publication. These
defects contribute to a belief that The Living Sea
was done hastily and with a minimum expendi-
ture of time and effort.

Despite these criticisms, The Living Sea is
worthwhile reading material not only to persons
interested in undersea activities, but also to all
persons interested in the future of the human
race. If Cousteau is to be believed, we may find
the solution to many of mankindTs most pressing
problems by conducting an orderly invasion of
the sea. If this is done, one can only conjecture
what effect this invasion might have on the socio-
logical and political development of man.

JOHN C. ATKESON, JR.

British Comedy

Afternoon Men. By Anthony Powell. Boston: Little,
Brown and Company. First American Edition. 221 pp.
$4.00.

Afternoon Men, Anthony PowellTs first novel,
is a satire on a cross-section of London Bohemia"
a small group of people which Gertrude Stein
called oa lost generationT�"during the years of
confusion between the two wars. The characters,
oddly enough, remind the reader somewhat of the
ones in Ernest HemingwayTs The Sun Also Rises,
but PowellTs are not nearly so well developed.
Mr. Powell is better at letting the reader know
who is speaking. At any rate, the Englishman
seems to have been influenced a great deal by
Hemingway. Any further comparison to Hem-
ingway would be unfair to Powell.

The main character, if there must be one, is
William Atwater, who, unlike the others in the
book, admits that he has no real talent. Atwater
has a job in the art museum and the only ambition
he has is for the committee to supply him with a
swivel chair for his office. He attends an occa-
sional art exhibit of one of his friends, but only
to see if he can recognize the models"a more
legitimate excuse than many have for going.

The book is a series of incidents which are
amusing, but do not make up what could actually
be called a story. There is no real beginning or
end, and no real development. The people just
exist and donTt learn anything by their existence.
It is just comedy. British comedy is unusual, at
least by American standards. None of the char-
acters in Afternoon Men are absurd, or make ab-
surd statements just to be funny. The humorous
things they say and do are all feasible, some by a

43

little stretch of the imagination.

In a club of some sort where the story opens,
Atwater and a few of his friends meet and later
leave to go to a party thrown by a couple that
someone in the group knows. It is a miserable
party and everyone sits around wishing everyone
else were in hell. An American publisher, Mr.
Scheigan, gets so drunk he goes to sleep on the
floor, but seeing him there gives the room a lived-
in feeling, and because when sleeping he does more
for the party than when awake, he is allowed to
rest. At the party, Atwater meets a girl called
Lola who annoys people by chattering about Ber-
trand Russell. Apparently, however, a chatter-
ing girl isnTt too annoying to Atwater for Lola
ultimately succumbs to his seduction. Part of
Mr. PowellTs description of that seduction is very
amusing.

oSlowly, but very deliberately, the brooding
edifice of seduction, creaking and incongruous,
came into being, a vast Heath Robinson mechan-
ism, dually controlled by them and lumbering
gloomily down vistas of triteness. With a sort of
heavy-fisted derterity the mutually adapted emo-
tions of each of them become synchronised, until
the unavoidable anti-climax was at hand. Later
they dined at a restaurant quite near the flat.�

Raymond Pringle, an artist with little artistic
ability invites Atwater and a few other guests
to spend several days at his country retreat. In-
cluded in the party are the worldly Harriet Twin-
ing, who Pringle has decided to marry, and Hector
Barlow, another artist, but one who enjoys more
talent and considerably more success with women.

Pringle and Atwater walk to the downs one
evening after dinner and when they return find
Hector and Harriet engaged in a bit of play on
the sofa. Pringle rages for a while but when his
wrath is spent, the entire party retires for the
evening.

The following day, Atwater and Harriet go for
a stroll along the cliffs above the beach. From
this vantage point, they notice Pringle on the
beach below and watch as he undresses and steps
into the water. Thinking that he is going for a
swim, Atwater and Harriet walk on and slip into
a small woods for a bit of entertainment. When
they return to the cottage, Pringle has not re-
turned.

After a while, the guests get hungry and decide
to eat without their host. On the dinner table
they find a note from Pringle saying that he will
not return. The first decision facing the guests
is whether to look for Pringle before or after
eating. One of the ladies delays their decision
by suggesting that the note is simply one of
PringleTs pranks. The guests try to hide their

44

hunger by poking at their food very disinterest-
edly.

Later, Pringle does return"he decided against
it. Art and suicide are not his talents. He was

picked out of the water by some fishermen in 4 |

small boat. When one of the fishermen comes by
to claim the clothes loaned Pringle, the guests
cannot decide how much to award him. Ten shil-
lings is too little and a pound is too much. So
they compromise, fifteen shillings.

Afternoon Men was originally published by
William Heinemann of London in 1952 and is
presently being reissued in America because the
authorTs current Music of Time series has revived
interest in his earlier work. Afternoon Men is

not a deep book, but it does provoke some good |

thought and gives valuable insight into his later
books.

"JAMES ForsyTH

The House That Walpole Built

No. 10 Downing Street. By Rubeigh James Minney. (Bos
ton: Little, Brown and Company, 1963. 483 pp. $6.95.)

The story of a house constitutes a subject which
the general public ordinarily considers appropri-
ate for bedtime reading. No. 10 Downing Street
is something of an exception to the rule, however;
since it bears only the faintest resemblance to
things reminiscent of Storyville. It will, never-
theless, find its greatest appeal as excellent bed-

time reading, though principally for Anglophiles |

who"sadly"are becoming increasingly rare.

Author Minney, born in Calcutta, was educated
at the University of London where he specialized
in history. His new volume is a perusal of nearly
three centuries of the lives and times of English
notables who have occupied the famous residence
on Downing Street, the home of British prime
ministers since the days of Sir Robert Walpole in
the early 18th century. The story begins with a
sketch of the Harvard trained, sometime Puritan
minister, Sir George Downing, (1623-1684), and
an account of his devious methods in acquiring the
property which bears his name. The structural
changes which have marked the history of Num-
ber 10 receive careful treatment throughout, and
constitutes a feature of special interest. The book
continues through the occupancy of Harold Mac-
millan, who vacated the premises in 1960 to
permit extensive repairs.

The principal appeal of the work lies in the

biographical portraits of the great and near-great |

statesmen who have occupied the residence and
the sketch of events in which they were involved.
One gains an intimate and colorful knowledge of

THE REBEL

2 Os a a

~>. -_ wee eS ae le... UL mS

o

Personalities which are at least vaguely familiar,
&. g., Pitt, Wellington, Disraeli, Gladstone, Lloyd
George, and others, though the incidents surround-
ing them are often of slight importance. They are
Seldom uninteresting, however. The volume is
then a happy mixture of gossip and fact, well
researched and thoroughly entertaining, but hard-
ly important as history. It is well illustrated,
Contains a thirty page index, and includes an ex-
tensive bibliography. Appendices show the floor
Plans of the residence prior to the reconstruction
begun in 1960 and the list of occupants, including
their dates of occupancy. This volume will de-
light the Anglophile in his leisure moments, but
Others may find it tedious.

JOSEPH S. BACHMAN

Ritterkreuz

Cat ana Mouse. By Guenter Grass. New York: Harcourt,
Brace & World, Inc. pp. 189. $3.95.

Guenter Grass, a powerful and imaginative nov-
Clist of postwar Germany, staged the setting of
Cat and Mouse around Danzig. One has to under-
Stand the history of this city and its people in
°rder to understand fully the mentality of the
Characters in this book. Rather reserved and in-
dependent, these proud people represented more
han the average people of Germany during the
Third Reich.

The hero of this book is Mahlke who is barely
14 when our story starts. Completely unaware of
the political extremities, this boy lives by the law
°f compensation forced upon him by a petty bour-
8eoisie. He looks different"ergo in order to sur-
Vive"he has to find a way to be different. He
Cloaks the real Mahlke in an aura of myth and
�,�roism. Although somewhat strange to his con-
temporaries, he gains their respect. He stands
Sut! His huge AdamTs apple, the sign of preco-
olous virility, seems to be at once embarrassment
8nd stimulation. Mahlke has to excel to be ac-
Cepted. Yet all this time no one really seems to
Now him. Does he know himself, or is he just
4Scinated with his self-imposed role? He finally
Manages to get expelled from his school because
of a rather symbolic prank. He stole the symbol
of achievement, the oRitterkreuz,� from one of

�,� countryTs young heroes during a speech given
by this insignificant bourgeois. Wherever Mahlke
80es, he seems to leave a myth unequalled by his
Peers behind him. His reputation as a lover
Matches that of the daredevil. Again he stands
Sut! He seems a devout Catholic, yet he declares

Winter, 1964

emphatically that he doesnTt believe in God. oA
swindle to stultify the people. ThereTs only Mary.�
Then Mahlke becomes the hero"he is awarded
the same oRitterkreuzT�T which he once took from
the young speaker. Returning home, the deco-
rated Mahlke has to experience the bitter truth
that he still is not accepted by his petty society.
This seems to be the end for our sergeant"he is
tired of compensation, and yet, he finds a way in
death to keep his peers wondering what really has
become of the oGreat Mahlke.�

Guenter Grass beautifully characterizes Mahl-
keTs friend Pilenz who is drawn to Mahlke in a
deep psychological way. Pilenz wants to shake
the image of the oGreat Mahlke� during his school
days and later on in life, but he never seems to be
able to overcome this shadow. He was the one
who sicked the cat on MahlkeTs mouse (as the
unusual excrescence of cartilage was referred
to).

The cat"or in a much deeper sense, society"
was ready to jump on Mahlke because he was at
once different and, henceforth, strange.

Cat and Mouse is a brief and compact novel and
the art form is deliberately different from pre-war
German literature.

HANNELORE RATH NAPP

Monument To A Family

The Moonflower Vine. By Jetta Carleton. New York:
Simon Schuster. 1962. 352 pp. $4.95.

When Jetta Carleton was in college at the Uni-
versity of Missouri, she wrote well enough to win
the Mahan poetry, essay, and short story prizes,
the highest literary awards of the university. As
a collegemate of hers, I am pleased to see her
amply fulfilling the promise of those early years
in a first novel of wisdom and sustained interest,
The Moonflower Vine.

Miss Carleton is recalling her own life in the
setting and the family that she writes about. She
grew up in the southwestern Missouri section be-
tween Joplin and Kansas City and came from a
family that roughly corresponds in members and
background to the Soames people of The Moon-
flower Vine. It is easy to see the author raising
a monument to her family, or to some oneTs fam-
ily, in this book.

The story handles admiringly father, mother,
and three daughters. There is another daughter,
Mary Jo, pretty much identifiable with Miss Car-
leton herself, but she is so much younger than her
sisters that she seems to belong to another genera-

45

tion, contemporary with Peter, a grandchild that
Matthew and Callie, the parents of the girls,
bring up. Peter and Mary Jo are brushed over
in the novel; they figure only slightly in the open-
ing section of the book that is devoted to a picture
of the family when the parents are old. Every
other member of the family has a section to him-
self.

The first section not only emphasizes the family
in its annual reunion when the girls"Jessica,
Leonie, and Mary Jo (Mathy has died) "are home
on summer vacations but also the blooming of the
moonflower vine (Calonyction Tuba, a poisonous
plant of rank growth, and fragrant, eight-inch
blooms that flourish from midsummer until frost
over a wide range of the Mid-West and West).
Watching the evening blooming of this plant has
become a family ritual, and unusual efforts are
made to be present when the milky-white, trum-
pet-shaped flowers unfurl.

Once the reader has settled down in the family
circle, he must be prepared to jump up and read
through sections on Jessica, the eldest daughter,
who elopes with a hired hand from the Ozarks;
Matthew, the father, who, though a small-town
superintendent, would not let go of the farm ac-
quired at marriage; Mathy, the daughter who
remains always inexplicable to Matthew as she
marries her fatherTs most wayward pupil, Ed
Inwood, and dies in a plane crash, barnstorming
in Texas; Leonie, the most dutiful but the most
unloved child who also marries Ed Inwood; and
Callie, the illiterate wife, who keeps all the family
together by the amalgam of her love and under-
standing. It is in this last section of the book
that a well kept secret is revealed.

In these few sentences devoted to the gist of the
book, I have revealed but little of the charm of
its style. In choice of word and phrase Miss
Carleton again and again refreshes the reader.
Miss Carleton calls tombstones othe furniture of
the deadT; has her father sleeping ~~busily� ; hears
tunes ofull of backcountry woeTT; and knows a
familiar region can be otreacherous with memo-
ries.T But the humanity of the book, the good-
ness of human feeling shining through the pages
leaves the deepest impression. Callie yearning
back over fifty years to baby half-brothers that
their mother didnTt want; Tom, JessicaTs first
husband, dying in the baggage car of a train;
and a gypsy winning his way through the world
with a harness bell tied to his shoe"these mom-
ents and others come out of the heart-gripping
vibrancy that characterizes the whole novel.

GEORGE A. CooK

46



Paradise On Earth

The Garden. By Yves Berger. Translated from the French
by Robert Baldick. New York: George Braziller, In¢.
1963. 226 pp. $4.00.

Contrary to the poetTs lament that man cannot
conquer time, Yves Berger, a twenty-seven year
old French author has created an anonymous pro-
tagonist who relates by flashback the causes which
have led to, and the trials he has overcome, iD |
immobilizing time.

The narrator and his sister, Virginie, several
years his senior, were reared in the cloistered
atmosphere of the rambling family estate near
Avignon. Their father, to protect them from the
oevils� of mid-twentieth century society, engaged
tutors for math and science while he guided theif
progress in languages and history. Gradually,
however, their other subjects were eliminated and
the children passed their days immersed in their
fatherTs obsession, the ogolden age� of history;
Virginia in 1842, ~~a paradise on earth,� when time
should have ceased to exist.

Showing an aversion to these concentrated
studies, Virginie was sent to the University at
Montpelier; the father and son, drawn closer to-
gether, devoted more time to their dreamy, end-
less readings and reflections. When Virginie re-
turned for the holidays, she realized her brother "
was sinking into a reverie of fanciful visions of |
the past, infected with the same obsession which |
consumed her father. Despising their preoccupa-
tion with the past and believing she could save her
brother, Virginie finally gained her fatherTs con-
sent to enroll her brother in the University.

Securing a room for him next to hers, Virginie
encouraged her brother to make friends at the
University, but his childhood seclusion and his
innocent dreams of the past made it impossible
for him to communicate. Unable to awake him to
a real world of life and death, she orders him to
move into her room and begin a book about Vir-
ginia in 1842. With this arrangement, Virginie
hopes to offer oinspiration� for the book, a medium
through which she believes her brother will re-
gain reality by writing himself out of the past.

But Virginie fails to stimulate his imagination
for writing by taking him to burlesque shows and
introducing him to pornographic literature. As
a last resort, she seduces him. She uses this in-
cestuous relationship to reward him for his prog-
ress, and under these terms, he frantically com-
pletes the book. But when Virginie reads the fin-
ished work, she realizes that her brother is still
manacled in the past for the book is filled with

THE REBEL "

"". 3 {ee eee ee eee

Aw

oVisions conjured out of nothing, mirages.� Mar-
tyred, destined for a life of prostitution, Virginie
leaves him oin the darkness, in slavery.�

The narrator ends where he has begun, in his
fatherTs garden, days merging with the nights,
time suspended, and the realities of life, love and
death successfully submerged in his unconscious.

Yves Berger has maintained an entrancing,
ethereal atmosphere throughout his novel; conse-
quently, the characters are only partially develop-
�,�d. Published in France as Le Sud, The Garden
Was awarded the Prix Femina and sold 130,000
Copies several weeks after its release. Perhaps
this success was due to the seduction scenes where
the author belabors his point often with tragic:
Comic results.

"WALTER J. FRASER

Oh, Lord!

lt Is Time, Lord. By Fred Chappell. New York: Atheneum,
1963. 96 pp. $3.95.

Mr. Chappell comes close to raising the doc-
trine of original sin to a level with the Greek
tragedy of fate. However, the major portion of
the novel is concerned with JamesT attempts on
the personal and artistic levels to acknowledge
his responsibility for his world. It is when Mr.
Chappell moves down from his mountain Eden
Into the waste land of piedmont North Carolina
that his control deserts him and the beautifully
Mtegrated echoes from Genesis begin to clash
With an imegaery of urban experience that re-
fuses to be poetized into significance.

The out of work and spiritually crippled nar-
Tator allows himself to be sucked into a sordid
trio of red-necks"July, Mavis, and Preacher.

hen James continuously complains of their
Physical and moral crudity in tones that suggest
* Superior if degraded sensitivity, we become anx-
~ous for some manifestation of action or thought
that will sooth a growing alarm that Mr. Chappell
does not feel his narrator should exhibit anything
More than a languid ability to phantasize. And
Phantasize he might, had his imagination been
Constructed of anything more solid than the flat
Cardboard contours James offers as his encounter
With the world. Judy and Mavis, Apex factory
Workers, are depicted as little more than sexual
ratification in mill uniforms. They are all that
'S unattractive in appetite, devoid of aesthetic
Qualifications whereas the little wife who lives a
Number of miles to the west on Winston supervises

amesT children and the shattering remnants of
heir married life with the cool efficiency of one

Winter, 1964

possessed of the patience of Job, radiating from
the frail beauty of a mountain flower. It is to
her that James returns after his lusty bouts with
Judy in Apex to look upon his wifeTs goodness and
sleep in peace among his own cool, clean sheets.

The suggestive image of evil and the recogni-
tion of evil is in the person of a red-haired stranger
who parked with his town whore behind the barn
and was refused assistance by JamesT Grand-
father. Later, this same obush� of red hair
turns up on the head of Preacher, a cool apostle
of the sawdust flap-tent type of Evangelism. It
is Preacher who lures James off to the hell hole of
Apex and introduces him to the lively ladies of
romance"Judy and Mavis. It is Preacher who
pays the price for JamesT sin. JudyTs husband
kills Preacher, mistaking him for James. It is
salvation through the sinful who sacrifices, know-
ingly or unknowingly, himself on the altar of
involvement and is true, true to the spirit and
experience of life. We only wish that beneath
the structure, the ideal of how it is all to work,
there might have been enough compassion and
love to make the resolution meaningful. Mr.
Chappell has not remembered that one of the
bitter-sweet results from the fall from innocence
was humanity and the subsequent prickly pear of
art to manifest this coundition in all its ecom-
plexity.

In a very real sense, there would seem to be no
central character or characters in It Is Time, Lord,
but rather a sensibility, created by Mr. Chappell,
in the very act of attempting to create for himself
a meaningful pattern from a residue of memory
anl imagination haunted by faces and names.
James is a sort of Ulysses we have come to recog-
nize as the Homeric hero in the work of Joyce
and Proust. His rearch and the grail of redemp-
tion that might possibly lie at the end of that
odyssey is a mastering of self through the par-
ticular form he as a writer has chosen to create
from within. It is the particular infolding nature
of It Is Time, Lord, this fictionalized biography
of a writer who is himself a failure, to lure the
readerTs critical attention away from the manipu-
lation or lack of it by Mr. Chappell and to hold
accountable the demure unprepossessing James.
We are vulnerable beyond any specific canon of
critical theory to the particulars of human expe-
rience rendered in art to such a pitch that if
resolution of conflict is impossible, there must,
at least, be felt a community of spirit with the
artistTs attempt, a recognition of having partici-
pated in the look, feel, and taste of an experience
merging on all levels of significance. The experi-

47

ence Mr. Chappell offers in his novel is significant
only in isolated scenes that serve by their very
power to make the remainder of the work seem
an exercise in critical theory, a format utilized at
the expense of content.

"STAFF

oMan Come of AgeT�T

Honest to God. John A. T. Robinson. Philadelphia: West-

minster Press. 143 pp. $1.65.

The Anglican Bishop of Woolwich, John A. T.
Robinson, has let a religious skeleton out of Chris-
tendomTs closet. Admitting, as a bishop, that
Christianity must undergo a radical revolution if
it is to serve a secular and non-religious world, he
has questioned the traditional mode of Christian
expression. Restating traditional orthodoxy is
not enough; a new expression must be found.

Because of the immense intellectual advances
of the past century, according to Robinson, the
oman come of ageT can no longer accept a god oup
there� or oout there.� This god image is being
pushed further and further out of his domain; he
is meaningless. Dr. Robinson says that god is not
a being in space whose existence we have to prove,
but the oground of our being, our ultimate con-
cern, what we take seriously, the source of be-
ing.�

What is the place of Christ in this Christianity
of new expression? Does oman come of ageTT have
to believe that Christ was only God come to earth
disguised as man? Christ, Robinson believes, was
the man for others because he was love incarnate.
Because Christ was love, he was in perfect har-
mony with the Father. But to be the man for
others, he also had to be entirely man, the servant
of the Lord. Dr. Robinson feels that the virgin
birth can be symbolic only, symbolizing that Jesus
Christ was not born by the will of man, but ac-
cording to the will of God.

Believing that the scriptures do not suggest
that Christian ethics are for the religious only,
but for all men, Dr. Robinson thinks that we
should have a new morality. It is a morality
where nothing is prescribed but love. Dr. Robin-
son feels that man will evaluate a problem more
carefully if he relates the problem to love rather
than to the question, oWhatTs wrong with it?�

Much of what is purported in Honest to God is
drawn from the theologies of Paul Tillick and Die-
trich Bonehoffer who speak of a Christianity of
new expansion for oman come of age.� For the
first time, this complex theology has reached the
layman in simple, concise, and definite terms. It

48

is an attempt to get beyond dishonest confessions
by Christians and dishonest rejections by non-
Christians. Also, Honest to God attempts to an-"
swer the question, oWhat is Christianity?� and "
to find a place for this Christianity in the moder? >
world. Although RobinsonTs book has been label-
ed heretical, many questions have been asked that
will not soon be answered.

JAN COWARD

A Little Martyr Can Go A Long Way

The Faith ful Shepherd. By Lucette Finas. English trans
lation by Ralph Manheim. New York: Pantheon Books:
1963. 248 pages. $4.50.

The Faithful Shepherd is a psychological study "
of a young Parisian man, newly married, strug-
gling to find an identity of his own. Never having "
been able to accept anything at its face value,
Armand is tortured by each casual remark made
to him. Armand dissects each situation complete- "
ly, imagines himself the victim, and mulls over
many possible solutions for his conjectured prob-
lems. As a child, Armand was the martyr for
each incident that occurred. If anyone were hurt;
Armand would reconstruct the incident with him-
self as the injured person"even to the point of
inflicting upon himself actual, physical pain. !

Armand and his wife agree that each may have "
an affair if they wish; neither will be jealous of
the other because otrue love� will triumph. But,
French or not, nature intervenes. Armand in-
mediately becomes jealous of his wifeTs lover, but
endeavors to keep face by buying presents for thé
intruder. Yet, when Armand suspects his wifé
of giving the approved lover presents, all pre
tentions are swept away and ArmandTs jealousy
is more than obvious. As a defense mechanism,
Armand takes a mistress, but his conscience i§
bothered by an overriding sense of guilt.

Living more in his imagination than in reality;
Armand finally drives himself to insanity. T0
show sympathy for the Jews who were persecuted
in World War II, he attempts to burn himself
alive. Armand indeed is a complex character:
His complexities are not explained.

The Faithful Shepherd as a novel has no con- |
crete plot with which the reader can be excited.
If vagueness can excite and sustain, The Faith-
ful Shepherd is a book well worth reading. If the
reader is seeking a complicated plot with an en- j
tertaining denouement, The Faithful Shepherd
will simply gather dust.

RUBY TAYLOR COLLINS

THE REBEL