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TUKEY | (Pree irict wees Somme
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ato" -- Welcome to --
Ové SUPER MARKET = RESPESS-JAMES >
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Intersection Ayden-F armville Highway
Greenville, N.C. PLaza 2-4160
Cola
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S & H Green Stamps
? the REBEL
BRYAN HARRISON, EDITOR
DAVID E. LANE, MANAGING EDITOR + HUGH AGEE, BOCK
REVIEW EDITOR - BOB HARPER, ART EDITOR - MARTHA KEL-
Box 1420
- A ANTS TO THE EDITORS:
East Carolina College LAM, EXCHANGE EDITOR SSIST 3
Greenville, North Carolina JUDY BISHOP, MARY ELLEN MARSHBOURNE
NANCY DAVIS, BUSINESS AND ADVERTISING MANAGER
JOHN FILICKY, ASSISTANT
OVID W. PIERCE, ADVISOR
FICTION
The Journal by Rachel Steinbeck 7
Black ManTs Requiem by Robert L. Harper 10
The Knife by Mary Margaret Kelly 12
POETRY
Poems by EPS 6
F orest Fire by Dorothy Flynn 14
Her Immortality by John Hudgins 17
Kaleidoscope by Lewis Gordon 17
FEATURES
Two sketches by Mary Ellen Marshbourne 15 -
The Rebel Yell ee
The Rebel Review 18
DISTRIBUTED BY ZETA PSI ALPHA SORORITY
PRINTED BY OFFSET PRINTING COMPANY, GREENVILLE, N.C,
VOLUME 1 NUMBER 3 WINTER, 1959
Published by the Student Government Association of East Carolina College. Created by the
Publications Board of East Carolina College as a literary magazine to be edited by students
and designed for the publication of student material.
NOTICE --Deadline for material for the Spring issue of The Rebel is April 8, 1959. Con.
tributions may be submitted in person to the editors or by mail: Box 1420, ECC. Editorial
and business offices are located at 309% Austin Building. Manuscripts and artwork submitted
by mail should be accompanied by a self-addressed envelope and return postage. The pub-
lishers assume no responsibility for the return of manuscripts or artwork.
WINTER, 1959
the rebel yell
If recent events on the campus proved anything at all they clearly revealed how a mature
body of men and women can divert its energies to matters of secondary importance. If each
minor crisis can cause a student body to lose its perspective, it can be concluded that it has
not created for itself an intellectual climate.
Recently we have become increasingly aware of the importance of atmosphere on the
college campus. Perhaps this year does mark a turning point in our school's history. If so, it
is time for intelligent criticism and honest introspection. We must begin by making an honest
and intelligent inquiry into the standards and values by which we live.
First we might ask if ours is an institution which provides for an intellectual atmos-
phere. As East Carolina begins to share an increased load of the stateTs educational program,
it does so primarily as a place for teacher training.
Consequently, it means that most of our students are specializing as undergraduates. We
may discover that they know how to teach, but that they lack a basic knowledge of their sub-
ject matter. Furthermore, the demands of specialized education seriously limit an intimate
study of the humanities and natural sciences.
Undergraduate school should be a place where the student is presented the essential
questions. It should be a place where the student learns to think for himself.
Mark Van Doren, a celebrated teacher of English at Columbia University, points out:
In school they (the students) were expected to memorize and learn; in the final
stages of education they will be expected to specialize; but in college, and no-
where else, their business is to discover their own minds and to start using them in
the best way of which they are capable.
Are East Carolina students discovering their own minds and using them in the best way?
If not, we may ask are they being forced to too much memorizing, too much specializing?
Also, deadening of our atmosphere may have resulted from an abundance of dead weight
on the campus. Of course, in a democracy we want to provide for everyone as much education
as possible. Nevertheless, we can carry our concern for democracy too far---if the penalty
imposed on the select few is too great. It can be said with some justification that there are
many people here who do not belong in college. And, often as not, these people dictate the
tone of the entire school.
It is difficult to see how people who have not become sufficiently exposed to a concern
with permanent values can produce an enduring and healthy atmosphere. And it is indeed im-
possible to create this atmosphere among people who are not even capable of perceiving those
permanent values.
Most of our students are able to think for themselves and are discovering their own minds.
We should provide for them an opportunity to enjoy intellectual activity on the campus. It
should be these people who control the atmosphere of the college.
This is one task with which we must come to grips. Is ours to be a school of irrespons-
ible people clinging to false notions and to secondary preoccupations? Or is ours to be a
college of vigorous and active people whose energies radiate from genuine intellectual inter-"
est?
* * *
f the REBEL
Great art transcends time and place. The following was written bySu Tung-PTo, a chinese
poet who lived from 1036 to 1101:
I am old, sick and lonely.
I make my home on East Slope.
White, sparse and unkempt
My beard mingles with the wind.
Often my little boy is delightfully astonished
To find roses on my cheeks.
How should he know, I smile,
That they are the redness of wine.
* * *
One of the many problems student writers must be concerned with is the problem of con-
creteness in writing. Especially since the advent of the so called ~~beat generation.TT Writers
who embellish their meaning in vague abstractions and pointless gimmicks are, of course,
inconsequental to the main stream of good writing.
They are guilty of an indolence which has no place in writing, and no writer will ever be
a legitimate one until he imposes on himself a discipline that the art form demands.
Whether or not they are influenced by the modern fad, students often fail as writers be-
cause of an inability to write in concrete terms.
The fact that writing demands specific language can be demonstrated by an observation
of Ortega Y Gasset, a famous Spanish critic of art and literature, who, in one essay, said:
~When I read in a novel ~~John was peevishTT it is as though the writer invited me to vis-
ualize, on the strength of his defination, JohnTs peevishness in my own imagination. That is
to say, he expects me to be the novelist. What is required, I should think, is exactly the
opposite: that he furnish the visible facts so that I obligingly discover and define John to be
peevish.TT
If students learn nothing else about writing in college they should realize the validity
of fresh and clear language.
* * *
In this issue of THE REBEL you will find, we hope, the best fiction being produced on
the campus.
The Journal is a short story by Rachel Steinbeck, a senior from Greenville, N. C. Al-
though she has been interested in writing since entering college this is her first short story.
Miss Steinbeck plans to graduate this quarter.
Black Man~s Requiem is the first published short story by Robert L. Harper. He has been
a steady contributor to The Rebel and has maintained a high interest in writing. Heisa
senior from Tarboro, N. C.
The Knife is by Mary Margaret Kelly. Although this is her first short story she has been
active as an artist and an actress while on the campus. Recently she played a leading role
in the East Carolina Playhouse production of The Potting Shed. She is a senior from Salis-
bury, N. C.
Evelyn Patricia Smith (EPS) has one previous poem published in The Rebel. Miss Smith
has written poetry consistantly her three years in college. She-is from Washington, N. C.
John Hudgins, a junior from Charlotte, has published poetry in all three issues of The
Rebel.
Forest Fire is Dorothy Flynn's first poem. She is a sophomore from Richmond, Va.
WINTER, 1959 5
The Poetry of EPS
How many minutes will wander past,
Before I reach my goal?
How many hours will tread, not fast,
Before I find my soul?
I've watched it glide so slowly by,
Quite close enough to reach;
But now it's sailed again to hide
On some forgotten beach.
The days march on a legion,
No human power can hold.
With restless step I seek ----
My soul to find and keep.
Enveloping black
silent black
deathly stealthy creeps around
tiny fingers of light seep
through the darkness
pointing the way
into laughing living day
My feet sink into the sand
making small patterns along the beach
ever-changing patterns
never alike -----
but each related to each.
Tomorrow if I walk this way
the patterns will be gone
washed by the tide-----
but new patterns will appear
side by side -----
for footprints on the sand cannot hide.
I float far out into space
where no one can see me
and I can perceive no face
where nothing can touch me
and I can not desist.
I drift aimlessly upon the deluge of eternity
where I can not achieve my desires
and no desires can be consumated in me.
the REBEL
The Journal
by Rachel Steinbeck
June 10, 1956: Well, I am in the salty town of
Highport, and it is all I expected. My hotel is
rather rustic, (a little too much to my liking)
but the food is good and the view is refresh-
ing. I thought I would keep this journal to
help me remember my days here if I ever care
to reminisce.
This afternoon after I arrived, I walked
down to the main part of town to view the
docks, etc. Everything appeared sleepy and
peaceful. I talked to the owner of the grocery
store, and he told me about the big fishery
just a few miles from here. He said he would
like to show it to me during my stay, but I
declined. He was nice and didnTt smell too
highly of fish, but one canTt be too careful.
(There, I used two tooTs in that one sentence
--but since this is my vacation, I~ll let it
stand.)
At 3:35 I was back at the hotel, and
things were extremely quiet. Since no one
was about, I decided to stay awhile down-
stairs. The parlor is a large room with three
divans and many large comfortable chairs.
One wall--the outside one--is completely
covered by large windows that overlook the
sea. I remember thinking as I stood there that
I had seen the ocean only a few times in my
life. When Mother and I went, we never went
swimming because she said there were too
many diseases carried by sea water. The
ocean may carry diseases, but it is also beau-
tiful. I can hardly imagine anything harmful
coming from such beauty.
We had our evening meal at 6:00 and after-
wards we broke up into little conversational
groups as people do in such circumstances.
I talked with a professor and his wife who
WINTER, 1959
know some friends of mine in Baltimore. The
professor has retired now, and he and his wife
are resting up before going abroad for the
summer. We had a stimulating talk about some
of the more impressive European writers, and
we were quite in agreement on several mat-
ters. I enjoyed the evening.
June 11, 1956: I woke with a start this morn-
ing to find that it was already 8:30. It took
me less than a half an hour to get dressed
and go down for breakfast. I ate leisurely by
myself and then the whole day lay open for me
to rest. What a problem I make of resting! I
laugh to myself when I think of how many
people would rush about in order to have time
to rest. My afternoon was spent in painting.
I've started a scene of the docks. It may not
look very realistic, but all the boats will have
clean coats of paint in my picture. Churchill
said that nothing frightens a man more than a
blank piece of canvas before him which he
knows he must fill. I felt that way, too; and I
moved my easel eight or nine times before I
found my exact spot. So far I have blocked in
the boats and part of the docks.
Last nightI slept well. The ocean crashed
outside of my window all night, but it didnTt
keep me from going to sleep quickly. Tonight
I donTt feel very tired.
June 12, 1956: All day the rain has poured. I
went down to the dining room for my three
meals, but the rest of the time ITve been in my
room. Since everyone had to stay indoors, the
house seemed rather crowded; and there was
nothing special to do. The ocean has tried to
beat itself out, I believe. I opened the window
just for a moment this afternoon, and the roar
was deafening. One could imagine all sorts
of voices in the ocean if he listened hard
enough. Even I thought I could hear Mother
down there, but I shall never breathe that to a
soul.
The professor was in the parlor without
his wife for awhile this morning; and when I
walked in, there was a definite note of wel-
come in his voice. We talked only of the
weather (and actually not long about that)
but he was disappointed when I started to
leave. I shall watch him closely from now on.
Since I haven't mentioned my room in my
journal, I shall do so now. It is small--1l! x
9T at the most. On one wall that is at right
angles with the window stands the dressing
table and next to it is the closet. Across from
the window is the door to the hall and beside
the door is a wash basin (situated in a very
poor position, I might add). On the third wall
is the writing desk at which I am now Sitting,
and beside me is the bed. That is the only
thing at all singular about the room--the bed.
It must be old, because the last bed I saw
-- which even closely resembles this one -- was
the one I slept in at GrandmotherTs when I was
a child. It has four large posts and the head-
board is completely covered with a carving.
In the center of the headboard stands a naked
cherub, and he has gathered around him all
kinds of animals and flowers. The little boy
stands so high above everything else that
only his feet have any connection with the
rest of the headboard. Someone has taken a
great deal of time to make such a piece of
furniture.
June 14, 1956: Yesterday was like the day
before, and today has been like the preceeding
two. I feel that the ~wrath of the Gods!T is
upon us, and this rain will never stop. The
professor was not quite so subtle today when
we met after breakfast. I had taken my coffee
into the parlor to drink it while I read the
daily paper; and after I was finished, 1 glanced
around to find a table to place the cup on.
(Of all the times I've said never to use a prep-
osition at the end of a sentence, and now I
just used one!) Well, as I sat there, the pro-
fessor and his wife came through the room;
and he leaned over to take my cup for me. His
hand brushed mine for only a moment, but |
know that he had it all planned. I acted as if
I didn't notice, and he took it just as calmly.
Tonight I had supper in my room. I am
getting so I like to look at the little cherub
standing above my bed. His smile is very
sweet for such a wooden baby. As I sit here
and gaze at him sideways, he looks real.
Mother could not have found anything wrong
with a noiseless child like this. I dreamed
about Mother last night, and when I woke her
voice was still with me in the breaking of the
waves beneath my window. I explained about
the man at the grocery store, and she was
pleased that I had made no plans to see
him again. Then I told her about the professor
downstairs, and we have decided that it would
be better for me to remain in my room than to
be exposed to something which may turn out
to be embarrassing.
June 15, 1956: The sun came out this evening
just in time to go down, and the paper says
there will be fair weather tomorrow. When the
rain stopped today, we all left the house. I
had my sweater hanging in the closet at the
bottom of the stairs; and when I reached for
it to put it on, there stood the professor to
help me. He smiled a very secret smile at me
which I am sure his wife didn't notice even
though she was standing right there. Some
women never see what ishappening right under
their noses. They invited me to walk with
them, but I am certain the atmosphere would
have been strained if I had done so. Because
the day was so nearly gone, I had no time to
continue my painting.I shall do that tomorrow.
Right before I fell asleep last night, I
changed all the covers on my bed to open at
the foot instead of at the head of the bed.
That is so I can look at Jonathan before I go
to sleep. (I have named the wooden cherub
'! Jonathan.TT It seems to me he should have a
name as the rest of us). I was right. Mother
does like him, and that is very important. She
said he had a o~rightTT look about him which
few children have now. I donTt think I actually
saw Mother last night since I was already in
bed with the lights out, but she saw Jonathan
well enough to give him a thorough inspection.
I just wish that he didnTt have to stand in the
same place all day. He would be such a com-
fort to me if he could go with me on my walks
and watch me while I paint.
June 16, 1956: I slipped from the house early
this morning and almost completed my boats.
I saw the professor and his wife walking down
at the docks and they waved to me. The pro-
fessor is trying so hard to be casual, but I
have decided not to speak with them anymore.
It will be best.
How hard it was for me to leave Jonathan
today! We have been together almost a week,
the REBEL
mdI feel that he is partly mine. He and Mother
get along well together. Last night she sat
at the head (or foot-- whichever you prefer) of
the bed and fed him his supper. He didnTt say
much because he is only a child, but his eyes
danced at the jokes Mother was telling him.
I felt too foolish to ask for baby food at the
grocery store for I did not want to explain.
up by taking several jars of
vegetables and meats and leaving the money
near the cash register. It had been a long time
since my heart beat so excitedly. I ran most
of the way back to the hotel and was so happy
to find Jonathan still waiting for me. (Poor
boy! He dislikes standing in one place all day
just as badly as | hate to see him unable to
move.) I thought it over and decided to take a
small file and see if I could gradually saw him
away from the headboard. How could a little
boy put up with all those dreadful animals all
lay? And they are wooden at that!
. 7 r .
Finally | ended
bids sd
a oe } ° \/ / = lL, - »1)
June 20, 1956: My lays nave pbpeen so fuil
] | a ee " m ae si
lately that I have been unable to keep uy
journal every night. The day after my last
ant went back down to the town to buy a
file. When I came back I asked the hotel man-
ager if he would have my meals sent up to my
room from then on. My work keeps me too busy
to go downstairs to eat. Mother is with me
most of the time now. She is sitting at the
dressing table combing her hair. The breeze
from the ocean becomes forceful at times; and
tonight, when she came in, her hair was blown
all about. I listen very carefully when she is
not here so I wonTt miss her when she knocks
on the window for me to let her in. It gets
chilly standing out there and I did not bring
any cold tablets with me.
sntry |
~ ALi y A
Jonathan doesnTt like the baby food too
much, but he seems to be terribly impatient
for me to finish my filing. So far I have filed
a line about 1%''T Iong where his feet are at-
tached. The progress is very slow.
June 23, 1956: My work is about over. Tomior-
row Jonathan shall be free! He and Mother and
I are going to have a celebration after my task
is completed. I can~t write more now because
my hand was cut today
the file, and it is painful for me to write.
wh T elinned wi
wnen i Silppeda wlth
June 24, 1956: Jonathan can play around now
till his heart's content. A child does so much
for one. | even believe Mother is beginning to
see how much he means to me. We talked a
long time today, and she says she is getting
tired of going back and forth. Tomorrow will
be her last time to come, and she wants me to
go back with her. There are many things to do
if I do take the trip. Jonathan is enthusiastic!
June 25, 1956: I have packed
put the baby tood onthe top shelf of the c
-_" .
my ciotnes. an
T Are ic im~A nN t+- + re ++ P 1 +
here is no need to take it if Jonathan won't
eat it. We plan to leave in a few minutes.
tr th
V
Motner 1s here and she keeps running
window and back! We
just right. I will wait for my evening meal to
be brought up so that the tray wonTt sit out-
side my door all night. I am too excited to
eat! This is it! This has been a glorious va-
cation!
want everything to go
The Highport Chronicle June 29, 1956
Late yesterday afternoon two fish-
ermen stumbled across a woman's body
lying with some driftwood on the shore
near Point Star. As yet no positive
identification has been made, but parts
of a suitcase found nearby indicate...
CLIFFTS RESTAURANT
Near the College on Fifth Street
WE TAKE PRIDE IN SATISFYING
OUR COLLEGE CUSTOMERS
KNOW HOW, WHEN, AND WHERE TO SAVE
YOUR MONEY PROFITABLY.
SEE US
HOME SAVINGS AND LOAN
ASSOCIATION
405 Evans St. Greenville, N.C.
WINTER, 1959
Black Mans Requiem
Father used to say that Mutt was the
meanest nigger that ever lived. Mutt lived on
our place for two years before father ran him
off. He was big and black, as black as mid-
night with a long, crooked razor scar on his
face. That scar was the only white thing about
Mutt, and that wasnTt really white, but kind
of pinkish.
It was in the fall of the last year Mutt
stayed with us that father said he was gonna
get rid of him and Sally Ann---that is, after
we cropped tobacco and settled up. Father
was scared Mutt was gonna kill Sally Ann and
he didnTt want no killing on his place.
Sally Ann was MuttTs wife, or at least
they lived together and had two children.
Mutt used to beat her almost every Saturday
night after he came back from Johnson's Cross
Roads, full of wine and feeling mean.
Billy, my older brother, and I used to
sneak down behind MuttTs tenant house on
Saturday nights and listen to him beat Sally
Ann. We could hear Mutt cuss and yell and
Sally Ann scream like bloody murder. Several
times we thought heTd killed her, but she al-
ways showed up Monday morning looking
bruised and beat up, but still able to work.
One day, when Mutt was shrubbing the
ditch banks down by the south pasture, Billy
asked him why he beat Sally Ann.I was scared
it would make Mutt mad, but he flashed a big
white-toothed grin and said, '~SheTs my woman
and I gots to make her ~have.TT
Mutt swung the shrub blade a couple or
more times and looked at Billy and me. ~You
white folks donTt understand us colored
people,'T he said. ~ITm a good worker and
10
by Robert L. Harper
Cap'n Thomas knows it.I! like to stomp around
on Saturday nite, and dat's all right.TT
Mutt started back shrubbing and didnTt
notice us any more, but muttered something
about the good Lord making him the way he
was. Billy and I went back to the house.
We finished cropping tobacco and, after
it was sold, father settled up with Mutt and
helped him move with the truck. Mutt moved
to Mister WinstonTs farm across the creek,
about three miles from our place. He didnTt
get mad at father for asking him to leave. Mutt
said father was a good boss man, and he
couldn't stay at one place too long no how.
We didnTt hear much about Mutt that win-
ter or next spring. Once or twice Billy and I
would see him down at JohnsonTs Cross Roads
and he would act right nice, calling us Mister
Billy and Mister Joey. Sometimes heTd give
us a piece of candy, then heTd walk over to
the nigger store where there was a pool table
and juke box.
It was early summer when we were top-
ping tobacco, when we heard about Mutt's
trouble. Mutt had been down at the Cross
Roads drinking wine and raising cane, when
this creek nigger came at him with an emp-
ty bottle. It was over some high-yellow gal.
Mutt ducked the bottle and cut the creek
nigger about thirty stitches worth. The sheriff
caught Mutt the next day and carried him down
to the county jail. Two days later Sally Ann
came over to our house while Billy and me
were playing in the yard.
~Mister Billy?!T she said. ~TI wants to
see Cap'n Thomas.?T
Billy ran into the house to get father
the REBEL
while Sally Ann waited at the back door. She
didnTt look bruised or beat up, but she looked
like she felt mighty bad over something. Father
came to the door smoking his pipe.
~*Well, Sally Ann, what can I do for you?!T
he asked.
Sally Ann looked down at the ground for
a while before she answered. TTCapTn Thomas,
MuttTs in jail,TT she said. 'TCapTn Thomas
won't stand his fine.T!
Father took a long pull on his pipe and
studied the nigger woman for a long while.
~'How much is Mutt's fine?!T he asked.
~'Twenty-seven dollars and cost, accord-
ing to the judge, but we pay it back, honest,
CapTn Thomas,T!T the Negro woman pleaded.
Father muttered to himself a few minutes,
acting like he was going to bite the pipe stem
off.
~Well, I might ride into town tomorrow,
but I ainTt promising nothing,TT father said as
he turned back to the house.
~'Thank you, Cap'n Thomas, thank you,
suh,'T Sally Ann said to fatherTs back. Billy
and] watched her walk slowly out of the yard.
Father drove into town the next morning
in the pickup truck. The county jail is a big
gray stone building near the warehouse area.
It smells of fried fat back and molasses. The
jailer led father back through the cell-block
to MuttTs cell. When Mutt saw father he jumped
from his bunk and rushed to the barred door.
"Cap'n Thomas, Lawd Gawd, Cap/n
Thomas, ITm glad to see you,TT Mutt yelled.
~Mutt, you're a sorry nigger,TT Father
said.
"Yes suh, Cap'n Thomas. Please, suh,
can't you get me out of this place?!T
Father studied Mutt a long time, pulling
on his pipe and looking serious.
~Mutt, you~re a mean man. DonTt you think
it would do you some good to pull alittle
time? It sure wouldn't hurt you,TT Father said.
"'Cap'n Thomas,TT Mutt said, looking at
father sorrowfully, the scar on his face grow-
ing almost white.'TI ain't mean, Cap'n Thomas,
I ain't done nothing wrong. I just do what I
got to do. Don't let me go on no road, Cap/n
Thomas, please donTt,TT Mutt breathed deeply.
'T was on the road once, CapTn Thomas. I
ainTt the kind of man to be on no road gang.T
Father paid MuttTs fine and got back home
by dusk dark. He didnTt mention Mutt for the
rest of the summer, but Billy and me talked
WINTER, 1959
about him from time to time.
It was early October when it happened.
Father learned of the murder at the Cross
Roads. Mutt had killed Sally Ann that Saturday
night. HeTd beat her once too often to 'Tmake
her ~have.TT The sheriff tracked him with
hounds down the creek bed. Tuesday after-
noon Mutt was captured.
Father went to the trial, but he never
went to see Mutt. His sentence was for twenty
years and he stayed in the county working on
the road gang out from the prison farm. The
gang did most of its workin the fall, repairing
the dirt roads for the market season. Mutt's
job was to handle shovel and pick while three
guards watched over him and the other con-
victs. The three men were armed with two
shotguns and a 30-30 lever action rifle. The
guards seldom concerned themselves with the
prisoners, but Mutt attracted attention from
the head guard.
~He's a good worker,TT said the head
guard with the 30-30. ~TBut heTs got that look
about him. He might just make a run for it
some day.TT
~He'd never make it,'T the short fat guard
answered.'! He ought to know that.TT
~Por his kind, it donTt make no differ-
ence,'T the head guard said.
Mutt worked hard, for he always had, but
he never laughed with the other convicts or
showed his white-toothed grin. And he did
make a run for it.
It was close to quitting time, when Mutt
layed down his pick, jumped the ditch bank,
and walked slowly across the cotton field.
~'Halt,'! cried the short, fat guard. T~Halt,
or I'll shoot.?T
Mutt kept walking. ~THalt, you damn fool,T
the guards yelled.
~He ain't gonna stop,TT said the head
guard as he raised the 30-30. ~His kind donTt
stop.!T
The rifle made a loud report. It could kill
a deer at a hundred yards. It killed Mutt at
fifty.
One of the guards turned the dead man
over with the toe ofhis boot. Mutt was a black
nigger, black as midnight, except for the
razor scar.
~'Reckon he didnTt know we'd kill him?TT
asked the fat guard to no one.
o'T think he knew,'T said the man with
the rifle.
11
the Knife
Jody noticed immediately the small card
fastened to the locker with three bold strips
of scotch tape. It was a white note card of the
type Jody himself had often used to take down
notes which the English department required
of struggling freshman English students. The
letters were neatly printed in black ink. It
wasn't the note card itself that attracted
Jody's attention. Other boys coming in from
their gym classes paid little orno attention.
In fact, probably not five out of the hundred
or so boys who passed through the locker
room could have told him that on that partic-
ular morning, a note was taped to the door of
locker 347; but Jody saw. The small rectangle
attracted his attention as if it had been framed
in a flashing green and red neon sign.
The note read, ~TAnyone knowing the
whereabouts of my two-blade pocket knife,
please let me know. It is black with silver
trim. There is a small V-shaped notch in the
large blade near the handle.TT
Jody looked around. By now the crowd
had thinned out of the dressing room. He
walked over to his own locker. Slipping the
catch back, he opened the door. A crumpled
shirt lay on the shelf. Lifting it, he looked
at the object lying on the green metal beneath.
It was the pocket knife, black with silver
trim.
Glancing around to make sure no one was
near, Jody picked up the knife and turned it
over in the palm of his hand. It lay there,
heavy and cold. Jody opened the blades care-
fully. There were two of them. They were
ordinary-looking pocket knife blades. The
large one had evidently been used to cut
something too strong, for near its base was a
neat V-shaped chip.
12
by Mary Margaret Kelly
Jody closed the knife with a snap and
placed it in his pocket. The clock on the wall
told him it was almost time to be at the hard-
ware store where he worked every afternoon
after classes.
As he walked down the street, the knife
jostled heavily against his leg. It was heavy
--heavier than heTd realized when he first
saw it yesterday morning. He hadn~t meant
to open the locker. His shoulder bumped the
the catch as he passed and the door swung
open. He stopped to close it and saw a silver
gleam inside. Pausing a moment he saw the
gleam come from an ordinary pocket knife
lying just inside the door. A wallet, a ring,
and some change lay nearby. He picked up the
knife to look at it more closely when a sud-
den noise caused himto shut the door quickly
and whirl around. ~TGosh,'T he thought, 'Tsome-
one might think I was plundering in someone's
locker.T!
He walked quickly to his locker, intend-
ing to get his books when a cold weight
bumped against his leg. A quick grab into his
pocket produced a slender black knife bord-
ered with silver. The knife! How could he
have it? He didnTt mean to pick it up. What
could he do? The only logical thing--turn
around, walk back to the locker, and put it
back. Retracing his steps, he started to car-
ry out his decision when the sight of a tight
group of boys standing around locker 347,
stopped him. A voice rang out, ~T/SomebodyTs
taken my knife, the one Grandpa gave me.
That makes me mad. Who got it?TT
Why hadnTt he stepped up and said,
~'HereTs your knife. I took it from your locker."
But he hesitated. A strange thought occurred
the REBEL
to. him. What if he returned the knife and saw
a hostile look in the eyes of the owner? Sup-
pose he turned and saw that same look mir-
rored in the faces of the others around him
--the look of disbelief. The look that would
brand him a thief. ~~Once a thief, always, a
thief./T The words floated over and over in
his mind. He had hesitated. The moment for
his escape passed.
Now he would wait until the boys left
and would sneak the knife back into the lock-
er. Yes, that was it. No one need ever know.
Until he had heard the footsteps retreating,
echoing down the long corridor of green, still
lockers, he pretended to be tying his shoelace.
Then and only then did he dare to look up.
They were gone and he had been granted
another chance. He casually slid his hand
over the square boxes until it came to rest on
locker 347. With a furtive glance, he casually
slid his hand down until it touched the pad-
lock. The cold steel of the lock held the door
to the locker immovable. Nausea gripped him.
He sat heavily on one of the low wooden
benches. His escape was cut off.
He hadnTt slept at all well that night.
Visions of accusing fingers troubled his
sleep. Once toward morning he fell into a
deep dream where he saw the knife creep from
its place in the dresser drawer and wrap it-
self around his neck like a snake. He woke
with a strangling sensation in his throat and
a ringing in his ears.
And today there was the small white
note card on locker 347, ~/Anyone knowing
the whereabouts...'! Why, that was the way
the posters in the post office began. Jody
shivered involuntarily. He was no criminal,
not like those mute, tightlipped men of the
posters. He had done no wrong. Today he
almost walked right up to the knifeTs owner
and told him the whole story; but at the last
minute his knees weakened and his courage
failed. Why would anyone believe so improb-
able a tale? People just donTt go around ac-
cidentally picking up knives from other
peopleTs lockers.
He had lived the moment of return in
his own mind many times that day--the ex-
planation, the giving of the knife to its right-
ful owner, the look of surprise changing into
doubt and accusation. Even to his own ears,
the words he rehearsed so carefully sounded
hollow and flat. ~~Here is your knife. I ac-
cidentally picked it up.T!
As he walked in the door of Hodges
Brothers Hardware Store where he worked,
WINTER, 1959
Jody once again revived the thought that he
had tried all day to ignore. There was anothe
solution. He could keep the knife. If he were
careful... He quickly shut this thought fro
his mind. Perhaps he really meant to slip
the knife into his pocket and was only fooling
himself with excuses. He shook himself
mentally. Of course not, he thought. But still,
was he capable of such a thing?
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts,
he hardly heard Mr. Jim's cheerful, ~TGood
afternoon,TT but he answered from habit. He
quickly slipped on his working apron and
busied himself sorting nails in a big wooden
bin. As usual, the hardware store was busy.
Jody worked steadily, filling orders by in-
stinct. He had worked for Mr. Hodges for
three years. He could tell you where the
Phillips screws, the miter boxes, the horse
muzzles, or the three-penny nails were lo-
cated without having to think. He liked the
smell of leather and metal. He liked to climb
the tall ladder which rolled along the front
of the shelves on greased rollers fastened at
the molding.
This afternoon, however, the store was
not a friendly retreat but an oppressive cham-
ber. It was as if the pile of woolen horse
blankets in the rear of the building had been
unfolded and spread over the entire store. The
heat and dimness seemed to close around
Jody and hold him prisoner. Familiar objects
took on fantastic shapes.
The only thing real to him that afternoon
was the large glass case in the left hand
corner near the front of the store. It wasa
painful reminder of the lump in his pocket for
it was here that Mr. Hodges kept the complete
stock of knives. To Jody the case seemed to
grow as the afternoon wore on. Now it was a
black square monster in the late sunlight.
Jody could hardly stand to know it was there.
He tried to keep his mind elsewhere but his
eyes were drawn to it again and again.
It was about five thirty, almost closing
time. The front door opened and one of Jody's
neighbors, Mr. Madison, came in. ~~Hello,
Jody,TT he smiled. ''Can you help me? I want
to buy a pocket knife for my grandson's birth-
day.!!
Suddenly it was more than Jody could
bear. He paused abruptly. ~TI'Tm sorry, Mr.
Madison,TT he said. ~TPerhaps Mr. Hodges can
help you. I've got to go.'T
He walked quickly out of the store and
13
down the street. At the edge of town he broke
into a run. He ran until he came to the woods
which separated the town from the country-
side. In the distance he could hear the river.
Stumbling over roots and frantically dodging
clutching vines, he came at last to the edge
of the rapid river. He stopped and reached
into his pocket. Slowly he drew out the knife.
He looked at it lying in his palm, cold, metal-
lic, and impersonal. He looked at it long and
carefully, turning it over and over. After a
quick flick of his wrist, it flew out over the
black water. The late afternoon sun flashed
on it for a moment as it arched through the
air. Then it descended with a soft kerplunk
and sunk to the bottom.
Forest Fire
by Dorothy Flynn
Flaming Flashes turned dark to light,
Crackling, clashing, dancing in the night,
Burning, turning all the forest dark,
Heedless, hideous, thoughtlessness had sparked
The sickening roar of fire.
Howling, growling, wailed the scented trees,
Flipping, flapping wings of birds and bees,
Fleeting, fearful animals made haste
Running, shunning, trying to escape
The wicked roar of fire.
Calm, deserted, black against the sky,
Vacant, vain, despoiled lands comply
To smoke, stifling air that has no breath;
The wounded, wanting, lifeless forest left
By the wicked roar of fire.
Little can be said for love
Except that it is sad.
It is sad at the first parting of lovers;
It is sad when lovers quarrel.
It is sad when lovers lose themselves in one another;
It is sad when it is ended.
Little can be said for love
Except that it is sad.
the REBEL
MARY ELLEN MARSHBOURNE
WINTER, 1959
«
a ie
~ 9
R ;
MARY ELLEN MARSHBOURNE
the REBEL
Her Immortality
by John Hudgins
finished, we looked up through the trees
and heard the whisper of the leaves.
the pine thistles whistled softly.
sometimes, sad Rena burped, or belched
his song above the crazy cricket jazz,
deep throated, mournful forest song.
along the woody avenue
wings whirl like ~lectric fans.
the nocturnal noises never cease
more distinct because the quiet increased.
and sights of living neon signs
are seen among dark evergreens.
screened light lay on her face and traced
the silhouetted leaves, black lace.
now she sleeps, I hear her when she breathes
above the rustling of the leaves.
Kaleidoscope
by Lewis Gordon
Through nightness, blackness damp
Over fluid covered linear organs
My auto rolls, touching at circle point,
(spinning licorice doughnuts on the silver on glass reflecti
Swiftly towards an ephemeral triumvirate of
Fall-fire red
Quick top-of fire yellow
and the final gutter-coal green glow
and then the road home.
Another stringy, tar-humped, thread-patched stretch
That extends into perspective
Around the girl-cheek curve that leads,
Not out of town,
But through a screwhead where a railroad runs on top.
And I turn left; the rare-green glow on dashboard arrows
And the soft, dry-mush sand
Crumples, like a bed-warm blanket as I turn.
Then sound sequence:
The metallic cricket gritter of handbrake,
Quick click of ignition off
Andi the last of spark-timed breathing
And the last of muffled fume.
WINTER, 1959 17
the rebel review
The Poignancy of the Past is tere
The Post Reader of Civil War Stories. Edited
with an Introduction by E. B. Long. Garden
City: Doubleday. 331 pp. $3.95.
The Post Reader of Civil War Stories
contains some of the best fiction written
about the Civil War. For the most part, these
stories are on a far higher level than the
average Saturday Evening Post short story.
It includes works by William Faulkner, John
Marquand, Stephen Vincent Benét, McKinlay
Kantor, Clifford Dowdey, James Warner Bellah
and other recognized writers.
The introduction to this little volume is
the best statement on Civil War fiction I have
seen. E. B. Long, a Post editor, explains:
"Tt is past time for the historians to do their
work. It is time now, perhaps past time, for
the statesman, the politicians, the citizens
to do theirs. Then, too, there is room for the
dreamer, the creator, the weaver of story, to
do his. All of these must pickup the challenge
left by the 32,000,000 or more souls of the
dis-United States of the 1860's. It is for each
of us inhis own way to make use of this cata-
clysmichuman experience. For it will be there
anyway, ours for always and always. We can-
not blind ourselves to it. We cannot forget
600,000 lives sacrificed to Civil War. We can-
not, we shall not, escape it.T
The writers in this volume pick up the
challenge. They catch the spirit of the time,
the place, and the 32,000,000 souls. After
reading the entire book you feel as if, fora
moment at least, you have lived through the
War. You get to know the young officer who
failed in battle, the general who relies on a
private to turn the tide of a campaign, and the
men around the campfires -- gaunt, hungry and
battle weary.
You meet the young widow who is be-
sieged by a life of drabness, the little boy
who learned the meaning of war and death,
and the yankee soldier who found love through
an enemy.
You are able to see, in retrospect, the
human problems and emotions created by our
historyTs most important crisis. This book is
more fascinating reading than Civil War his-
18
tory, which is in itself good reading.
You will find William Faulkner at his best
in Ambuscade and Mountain Victory; The
poetic language of Stephen Vincent Benét,
the warm imagination of James Warner Bellah,
and the authenticated description of McKinlay
Kantor gives to the volume a unique variety.
~'These stories will not solve the quest-
ions of the Civil War. They will not clear up
the perplexing issues of that day, or our day.
That is left for the historian, and, we hope,
the politician. But these writers have felt a
challenge and have met it. They have told
their stories of the greatest emotional turbu-
lence this nation has ever endured. To them
it was not a dream. The poignancy of the past
is here, and with it those whohave bequeathed
their fields, forests, mountains and battle-
fields for us to ponder and perhaps to under-
stand.TT
A Dream
and Red Dust
Dream of the Red Chamber. By Tsao Hsueh-
Chin. Garden City: Doubleday Anchor. $.95.
This translation of one of China's great-
est novels is likely to prove both interesting
and frustrating to the reader. The general
theme of the book, that despite the apparent
glamour of earthly life (referred to as the
Red Dust), the only real joys and true ful-
fillment are to be found in a spiritual type of
life, is presented interestingly enough. The
futility of worldly life, even among the rich,
is clearly shown in the story.
However, several obstacles tend to pre-
vent the reader from gaining a full insight
into the thoughts expressed by the author.
Although the material wealth of the family
with which the book concerns itself approaches
the amount of luxury in many American homes
today, and although the reader can appreciate
many of the problems the characters are faced
with, there nevertheless remain differences,
-BRYAN HARRISON
the REBEL
both obvious and subtle, which prevent the
American reader from feeling the way about
a situation that a member of the house of
China would. Possibly some of this difference
is caused by the fatalism of the East, but in
any case it gives the reader the feeling that
he is not quite seeing things in the light the
author intended him to.
The introduction of a mystical element
at the start of the story, and the references
to Buddhist and Taoist concepts are hard for
the reader to grasp, even should he have some
acquaintance with Oriental thought. Then too,
there are places when the reader may sense
that the translation is unable to express some
of the finer shades of meaning, thus placing
drab phrases where the reader will feel some-
thing more descriptive ought to go.
All in all, the Dream of the Red Chamber
is quite interesting, especially to someone
with a little backrgound in Oriental thought,
but it is also a hard book for the reader to
gain a completely clear insight into the situ-
ations and thoughts expressed in the story.
-NORMAN KILPATRICK
/; h Tr/gutn gl G & vil M an
Francois Villon. By D. B. Wyndham Lewis.
Garden City: Doubleday Anchor. 452 pp. $1.45.
Francois Villon is one of the most color-
ful and mysterious characters in all of litera-
ture. Among the more outstanding of the French
poets, he is the product of fifteenth century
France where he spent his known life, dis-
appearing from the pages of history forever
in 1463. Mr. Lewis has done considerable
research to make this a factual biography, but
the utter lack of material available make the
result an interesting and rather authoritative
assumption. Little is actually known about
this blackguard of French poets and yet Mr.
Lewis has full account of life...how is it?
Dr. Samuel Johnson said, 'TNobody can write
the life of a man, but those who have eat and
drunk and lived in social intercourse with
his.TT Lewis replies, ~'This I beleive is true
and I have done it. Villon I know now almost
as I know some of my friends-or more...]
know his temperment. I know his faith, and
I have at one time or another fallen into some
of his follies...!T Villon, he must have known,
for the picture he paints is vivid, life-like.
Lewis explains that he has walked the same
Paris streets where Villon trod five centuries
ago; he has handled Villons original manu-
scripts.
In the foreword he warns any but the.
WINTER, 1959
more diligent student from proceeding further;
the pendant and haphazard scholar will be
wasting his time. On the contrary, the book
is designed for!T ...those dear souls who love
high poetry...TT and for any who have suf-
fered misfortunes such as Villon suffered.
This ~~high poetryT! abounds. Fortunately for
those of us whose meager French compre-
hension doesnTt encompass fifthteenth century
poetry, all of the French is translated; how-
ever, as is usually the case, much is lost in
the translations (most of which are very liberal
rather than literal) and it's well worth the
time of even a mediocre student of French to
have a go at the original.
Mr. Lewis has divided his work into four
basic segments. A brief ~~PreliminaryTT lays
the foundation, giving a candid view of the
history of the times, and a glimpse at the
France and Paris of VillonTs time. Paris with
its stench, its dingy little quarter for stud-
ents, its monasteries, and its muddy streets
are painted in living detail.
The second part is 'TThe Life,TT formerly
Francois de Montcorbier (after his real father).
Villon was the surname of a relative who
adopted the child. This confusion is typical
of VillonTs life---student, thief, poet, chaser
of women, and twice condemned to death.
France was a disturbed and petulant country
during Villon's life. Dishonesty and immoral-
ity were the rule rather than the exception;
Villon was no exception. At the last death
sentence, late in 1462, we lose Francois
Villon. He was not executed, this we know,
but then?
The last two sections of the book con-
tain some of his works. 'TThe Works,TT and
~TThe Cream of the Testaments,TT give a no-~
tated and translated capsule of the outstand-
ing works of a truly great poet.
Francois Villon was an intriguingly evil,
mysterious and extremely intelligent man;
his poetry is artistically beautiful and in-
trinsically great; his biography is poignant
and inspiring.
They Die
As They Live
The Flesh of Kings. By Armin Frank. Garden
City: Doubleday. 276 pp. $3.95.
The Flesh of Kings is a novel of a man
and his two sons who live in the back country
of Southern Ohio. The father, Coit Disko,
spends his life with a guilty passion over the
-CHARLES JENKINS
19
death of his wife. His sons are molded by his
passions. They die as they live---self suf-
ficient, withdrawn, immune to the laws of
other men, and convinced that they must do
what they must, regardless of the consequences.
Armin Frank's characterization is ex-~
cellent. He himself never says that the Dis-
kos are unorthodox characters, but lets them
tell the reader through their own conversation
and action. In the novel the DiscoTs enemies
are not merely foils, but are portrayed as
living breathing people.
Another strong point of this novel is the
descriptive passages. The author describes
the country-side of southern Ohio and its
people with equal depth and perception. Good
characterization and vivid description are
elements of a compelling novel and that is
exactly what The Flesh of Kings is.
However, Armin Frank sometimes tells
his story in a mystical manner. The reader
feels the action is obscured in shadows. And
at the end of the novel all the shadows are
not completely cleared away. At times, the
author speaks of death, doom and inevitability
in an elusive manner.
All things considered, the novel is worth-
while reading. The suspense is fascinating
and once the reader begins, he will be forced
to finish.
-SANDRA PORTER MILLS
A New History
A History of Europe by Henri Pirenne. Garden
City: Doubleday Anchor. Volume I From the
End of the Roman World in the West to the
Beginnings of the Western States. 278 pp. $.95.
Volume II From the Thirteenth Century to the
Renaissance and Reformation. 349 pp. $.95.
oThe History of Europe,TT says Jacques Pi-
renne, the author's son, ~~is the outcome of
all the research which my father had under-
taken during the thirty-five years which he
had devoted to history before 1914; it is the
synthesis of all his knowledge, ripened in
meditation...TT In light of this statement,
these two volumes can scarcely be overlooked.
Pirenne began the first draft of his History
in 1917 while a prisoner of the Germans. He
died in 1935. In between these dates the
author never had the opportunity to go back
over his manuscript and amend it with more
detailed references, which may account for
some of the rough spots in his work. Never-
theless, it is an outstanding effort.
In some places, Pirenne seems to be re-
/
20
peating what others have said before, but he
offsets this with vaulting observations and
challenging conclusions.
In Volume I, Pirenne points to the ex-
pansion of Islam in the seventh century, which
resulted in the isolation of Europe with the
closing of the Mediterranean, thus forcing it
to become '~a world apart, able to count only
on itself, and in respect of its further de-
velopment it was thrown upon its own re-
sources.!!
It was the cities that created a new order
of things, and with this new order came the
bourgeois, which was instrumental in the de-
velopment of national characters.
In his overall view in the second volume
of seething Europe, torn between the material
and the spiritual, Pirenne lays the ground-
work for the Renaissance and the Reformation.
In it he says that ~Tthe influence of the Re-
naissance upon civilization was by no means
as efficacious as its early years might have
led man to expect. Another force, even more
powerful--the religious Reformation -- began
to clash with it at the very moment when it
was beginning to trace the direction of intel-
lectual progress, and it was their twofold
actions, sometimes combined, but more often
opposed, that determined the destinies of the
modern world.T!
PirenneTs History is a work which may be
enjoyed by layman and historian alike, for it
is written in a clear, fluid style. In compai-
son, however, it is doubtful that this work
will ever equal in stature PirenneTs history of
Belgium.
-HUGH AGEE
A New Litera Ture
The Goncourt Journals, 1851-1870 by Edmond
and Jules de Goncourt. Edited, Translated,
and with an Introduction by Lewis Galantiere.
Doubleday Anchor. 377 pp. $1.25.
The Goncourt Journals strike a warm note
in the reader's veins, for the brothers Gon-
court have written about people, and what
could be warmer or more entertaining? In these
excerpts taken from the original nine volumes,
Edmond and Jules de Goncourt present to the
reader valuable insights into the lives of such
greats as Flaubert, Beaudelaire, Victor Hugo,
Zola, George Sand, and Gautier.
It is stupid to live in a time of growth,T
the Goncourts reflects in 1860, but their exist-
ence, and the work that they did was anything
but stupid. If the journals are at all accurate
the REBEL
(and there is little reason to doubt their ac-
curacy), then Edmond and Jules de Goncourt
certainly rank among the most dedicated
writers of all time.
The style of the Journals is delightful.
The Goncourts were truly masters of words.
Any writer could not help but profit by read-
ing them.
Poe, whom the French have taken to
heart, appears often in tne Journuls. 'TRead-
ing Edgar Allan Poe,'! the Goncourts say, T~is
a revelation of something that criticism does
not seem to suspect the existence of Poe, a
new literature, the literature of the twentieth
century: the scientific miracle, the creation of
fable by a + b; a literature at once mono-
maniacal and mathematical.TT And this written
in 1856.
The reflections of Flaubert concerning
his own work are particularly interesting. At
one point, he is quoted as saying, ~TWhen I
write a novel, I have in mind rendering a
colour, a shade...In Madame Bovary all I
was after was to render a special tone, that
colour of the mouldiness of a wood louseTs
existence... My first ~Madame BovaryT was
to have been set in the surroundings and
painted in the tone I actually used, but she
was to have been a chaste and devout old
maid. And then I saw that this would be an
impossible character.?T
The death of Jules in 1870 marks the end
of a fruitful era for the Goncourts. In time,
perhaps more of their work will be translated
into English. If the Journals enjoy the re-
ception they warrant, then that time will not
be too far off. HUGH AGEE
Esprit On the Yalu
Band of Brothers. By Ermest Frankel. New
York: The Macmillan Company. 360 pp. $4.50.
Ernest Frankel is a native of North Caro-
lina and Band of Brothers is his first pub-
lished novel.
Band of Brothers is the story of a comp-
any of 250 marines and their mission to take
and hold Bad Girl Ridge for four miserable
days and of their part in the strategic with-
drawal of the United NationsT forces from the
Yalu River.
In weather 20 below zero, with bodies
numb, limbs frost-bitten, stomachs empty,
muscles fatigued, and thinking power slowed,
the marines fought off attack after attack by
WINTER, 1959
the hordes of Chinese ~~volunteersTT and held
every frozen inch of Bad Girl Ridge until the
mission was complete.
Band of Brothers is a story of the Able
Company CO, Captain Bill Patrick, and his
fight for command, leadership, his menTs con-
fidence, and most of all--confidence in him-
self for leading men in combat. It is a story
of Andy, the lst Lieutenant of the company,
who stood erect while enemy machine gun
bullets sang by his head. Of the men, there
was F'iresteen, waiting for a letter from his
wife to see if he had left a kid in the oven;
the Negro, Huckabee, a Navy medic, who carez
for the wounded and dreamed of being a gre:
surgeon; Dorn, a U. S. Army soldier lost fro-
his outfit, who crossed over to Bad Girl Ridge
and later said, ~~Once a marine, always z
marineT'; and Choy, the South Korean inter-
preter, who insisted that American civili:-
zation was on the inevitable decline.
Band of Brothers re-emphasizes the oli
theme that war is hell. It increases your know-
ledge of the Korean War and makes you more
appreciative of the men who fought it; be-
cause ~~somebody had to do it.T It is the
story for Americans, about Americans, U. S.
Marines, their esprit de corps, their Semper
Fi, and their ~Tcome and get us you sonofa-
bitch!T spirit.
There is an unusual amount of combat
in Band of Brothers, It is filled with laughs
and sentiment; sentiment not just for those
who fought, but for those who are unconcerned
and will never know and understand the price
paid so painfully by so few for such little
glory . SAM DAVIS
Helly oes Lightly
Breakfast at TiffonyTs. By Truman Capote.
New York: Random House. 179 pp. $3.50.
Holly Golightly goes lightly through these
pages. She is observed by a writer who looks
at her objectively, but falls in love with her
as she goes. The reader will fall in love with
her, too. She will be one of the most fasci-
nating women you meet in a current novel.
This is the story of a young woman who
wanted to have breakfast at Tiffany's. She is
always surrounded by admirers, is offered a
movie contract, but turns it down, and has
periodical spells of ~the mean redsT! which
is distinguished from the old fashioned
oblues J~ We think that Holly has lived this
way all her life, until her husband shows up
to take her back to the farm.
21
All of Holly's friends are, in their own
way, just as amazing as Holly herself. Truman
Capote has created some beautiful characters,
although I don't feel that this book represents
the best he can do. In his past writings we
realized he was a prodigy, but now he is a
grown man, who has gained a reputation for
things other than his writing. And certainly
he should be expected to do better than Break-
fast at Tiffany's.
Capote has a great natural talent. He has
a fascinating control over the language. But
his vision is at this time definitely limited.
Breakfast at Tiffany's is a clever, delightful
novel and an evening devoted to it would be
far from wasted.
-JOE SWARTZ
Haiku
An Introduction to Haiku. By Harold G. Hend-
erson. Garden City, New York: Doubleday
Anchor. $1.25
It is doubtful that the average reader in
this country who includes poetry in his menu
will know much about Japanese poetry, par-
ticularly haiku. However, there appears to be
a growing interest in this delightful and un-
usual (by Western standards) form of poetic
expression. An Introduction to Haiku will
prove to be of great value to anyone who
seeks to know more of the magical, seven-
teen syllable poems that have been popular
in Japan for centuries.
Mr. HendersonTs book is patiently and
painstakingly presented. He strives to cap-
ture the full impact of the haiku in every case,
and where his translations appear inadequate,
it may be attributed to the Herculean task of
bringing a synthesized image across a for-
midable language barrier.
The study of Japanese poetry necessarily
requires one to put himself as much as pos-
sible into the Japanese frame of mind for the
fullest enjoyment; yet, many of the poems
have the necessary quality of universality
that renders them enjoyable under any cir-
cumstance.
HUGH AGEE
Of Modern Love
Balthazar. By Lawrence Durrell. New York:
E. P. Dutton and Co., 1958. 249 pp. $3.50.
In the words of the author, the central
topic of Balthazar is ~Tan investigation of
modern love.TT And yet it is not a sensual
novel in the physical sense--it is a created
mist of feelings and sensations, not objects.
It is a strangely beautiful and extremely
sensitive book.
This is not a ~~once you pick it up, you
canTt put it downT book. In fact, the poetic
imagery of Mr. Durrell is better savored if the
reader does not attempt to gobble it voracious-
ly at one sitting.
Taking place in and around the city of
Alexandria, the novel investigates the mys-
terious intermeshings of its many characters
--Justine, Nessim, Melissa, Scobie, Cleo,
Pursewarden, and a host of others. The cul-
mination of this is a macabre murder at a
party --a murder with a mistaken victim.
NANCY LILLY
To: Staff and Students East Carolina
From: Mahlon J. Coles
Subject: Expanded Book Department
literature is also available.
Students Supply Stores
EAST CAROLINA
We invite you to browse our remodled and enlarged ~~PaperTT Book Department.
These ~o~AnchorTT titles, reviewed in the current issue of The Rebel, are on
display: Haiku - History of Europe - Goncourt Joumals - Francois Villon -
Dream of the Red Chamber. A wide selection of Study Aids and other good
COLLEGE
22
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