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EDITOR__. Roy Martin
BUSINESS MANAGER David Smith
ASSISTANTS TO EDITOR J. Alfred Willis
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BOOK REVIEW EDITOR _Pat Farmer
ASST. BOOK REVIEW EDITOR Denyse Draper
EXCHANGE EDITOR Carolista Fletcher
ASST. EXCHANGE EDITOR Sue Ellen Hunsucker
ART STAPF. Al Dunkle
Bob Schmitz

Mike Miller
Larry Blizard
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EDITORIAL
REBEL YELL ...

FEATURE
Interview With Jonathan Daniels_

FICTION
Son of Silver by S. Pat Reynolds. Mamba ree
Where Is Harry Stewart? by R. Elfreth ce.

ESSAYS
The Character of Jazz by Jan Wurst a
William Faulkner and the South by Junius D. Grisiee! I
Sir John Suckling by Sherry Maske

POETRY
The School Marm by Kay McLawhon
The Sound by Jim Stingley, Jr.
Chance by Sarah Hansen
Sonnet I by Sarah Hansen
Sea Lonely by Sarah Hansen
Distance by Sanford Peele
Seer by Sanford Peele
Green Rhythm by Sanford Peele
The Journey by Carl Yorks.

News by Sue Ellen Hunsucker..
Spring by Denyse Draper.
ART
Jazz Series by Larry Blizard_.
Ceramics by Bob Schmitz and Bob Butler

REBEL REVIEW -

Reviews by Tom Seating Daxtell Surat. an. Ellen Hunsucker,
Pat Harvey, B. Tolson Willis, Jr., Denyse Draper,
John Quinn, and Staff.

COVER by Mike Miller and Bob Harper.

THE REBEL is published by the Student Government As-
sociation of East Carolina College. Created by the Publica-
tions Board of East Carolina College as a literary magazine
to be edited by students and designed for the publication of
student material.

NOTICE—Contributions to THE REBEL should be diréct-
ed to P. O. Box 1420, E. C. C. Editorial and business offices
are located at 30914 Austin Building. Manuscripts and art
work submitted by mail should be accompanied by a self-
addressed envelope and return postage. The publishers
assume no responsibility for the return of manuscripts or
art work.

~~»

7 ( By

age

SS
nN
¥
ns

THE REBEL
—dAssociated Press

Interviewer: Define the role you think East
Carolina College should play in the state educa-
tional system.

Mr. Daniels: It seems to me perfectly clear
that the very growth of East Carolina is the best
evidence that it has and must play a large place
in the educational system of North Carolina with
its location in eastern North Carolina. There is
a demand for that school and it has grown and
shown vitality. One of the things that worries
me sometimes is that East Carolina has not yet
decided exactly what it wants to be. Some years
ago you decided, with wisdom I thought, to take
the word “teachers” out of the name of East Caro-
lina Teachers College. That meant that you were
not merely going to be a normal school, but the
college meant to be a school in which the liberal
arts and a liberal education could be secured by
the wide circle—a wide area—in eastern North
Carolina and beyond. Now the question which
arises is where do we go from here? Obviously
East Carolina cannot grow and be what it should
be if it is merely dominated by the school of edu-
cation or by people who are merely interested in
producing teachers. Frankly, I think more col-
leges are stunted by over-emphasis on courses in

WINTER, 1961

Interview With

JONATHAN DANIELS

teaching methodology than by any other thing. I
think all scholars today realize that the least vital
schools in all our colleges and universities are the
schools of education. We have too much about
the business of teaching people how to teach,
rather than teaching them something to teach.
But I don’t think that East Carolina should en-
deavor to go forward to be a university. What I
think we need in North Carolina, and I think
East Carolina must play a very important part
in this, are liberal arts colleges. By liberal arts
colleges, I mean colleges in which, perhaps, the
B. S. as well as the B. A. Degree should be given.
And beyond them, a few (two at least, State
College and the University) places where gradu-
ate work and graduate degrees are given. I think
that East Carolina has shown a vitality that has
lifted it high above the normal school, and I
think it would dissipate its energies if it tried to
go on and be a university.

Interviewer: What significant developments
do you see in the South since you wrote A South-
ener Discovers the South?

Mr. Daniels: There’s a lot more paint. I see
some dissipation of degrading poverty. But I see

3

a lot of people leaving the South. They are par-
ticularly leaving the area around East Carolina
College. That comes, of course, from the mechan-
ization of our farms; it comes from the lack of
jobs in the towns. I see much that is encouraging.
We are cleaner, richer, better fed; but I think
sometimes we are apt to mistake the apparent
advance at home from an advance which is com-
parable with the advances in the rest of the coun-
try. That is to say, we go forward, but the areas
with which we compare ourselves go forward too.
I have a hope sometimes that we are getting away
from the stereotype of a south that was always
lamenting its poverty and, at the same time, al-
ways singing of its magnolias. I think we’ve got
to realize that if we advance at all, it must be
in terms of a world advance, certainly a national
advance. I think we have made great progress
in the twenty years since I wrote A Southerner
Discovers The South. But sometimes I think we
kid ourselves, because if we look at the statistics
the relative relationships don’t change as much
as the picture we see out of the window.

Interviewer: Do you regard North Carolina
as one of the forward-looking states of the South?

Mr. Daniels: Well, of course I do. It’s a strange
thing about this state. Somebody once said that
it was a state that had less to forget than the
great plantation states. And so we weren’t caught
so much in the ante-bellum stereotypes and pic-
tures. We were a state of small farms. Yet the
whole history of North Carolina before the Civil
War was a story of stagnation. They called us
the “Old Rip” among the states. Some people
said that we stayed asleep while other states stir-
red. There was just beginning to be an awakening
in North Carolina when the Civil War came and
thwarted it. Then there were long years of
poverty, stagnation, a sort of a stubborn liking
for old ways—no taxes, poor schools that lasted
all the way up to the Aycock administration.
There was an awakening then. I hope that there
is an awakening now. But, you come from East
Carolina College. I went to the University. I
have had my doubts in recent years as to whether
or not the University quite deserves, as not so
long ago it did, to be called the “Capital of the
Southern Mind.” I don’t find the books coming
out of the University of North Carolina Press. I
don’t see personalities like Odom, Greenlaw, and
Graham. I find a certain routinism in the Uni-
versity. I’m not sure that’s not true of all colleges

4

and this college generation. We made Communism
so repulsive, and McCarthyism intimidated us so
much that there doesn’t seem to be any radicalism
for young people to turn to, any freshness of
thought. So sometimes (I hope not at East Caro-
lina) in some places where the young congregate,
what used to be creative radicalism has turned
into a sort of beatnik stagnation. So I think North
Carolina is a forward-looking state. Once again,
we used to say that we were a vale of humility
between two mountains of conceit. Sometimes it
seems to me that in recent years we have been
a little more boastful about our intellectual prog-
ress than was justified. We are a forward-looking

state, but there is a long way forward for us to
look.

Interviewer: Do you feel that the resources
of the eastern part of the state have remained
untapped ?

Mr. Daniels: I don’t feel that they have re-
mained untapped. I think that we are too apt to
think of Eastern Carolina as a sort of separate
area different from other sections. If you go into
the old agricultural regions of any state in the
South, where mechanization is in progress, crop
controls are in force, the change is different. We
like to live easily in Eastern North Carolina. We
like fishing; the June German brings young peo-
ple hundreds of miles to dance; the Piedmont
grows rich, and sometimes we stay happy with-
out enough. There is a spirit there—of complac-
ency, I think—and one of the most destructive
forces is the fact that too many of the small towns
have been too bitterly competitive. I know there
was one industry that was about to come to East-
ern North Carolina. They went to Rocky Mount,
and were told all the disadvantages of Wilson.
They went to Wilson and were told all the dis-
advantages of Rocky Mount; so they decided to
go to some other state. The resources of Eastern
North Carolina, like the resources of every sec-
tion, are the people. There are no finer people
on earth than the people of Eastern North Caro-
lina. But sometimes, they have been too content.
There hasn’t been enough effervescence. We like
the old ways, as all agrarian civilizations do. Now
we are caught in the pinch. We can’t support the
people on the land. We haven’t got the jobs in
the towns. And I think Eastern North Carolina
has got to develop its resources. You remember
the story in Uncle Remus, when Old Uncle Remus
was telling the little boy about the fox chasing

THE REBEL
the rabbit, and the rabbit climbed a tree. The
little boy said, “Uh, oh, Uncle Remus. Rabbits
don’t climb trees!’ and he said this rabbit was
*bliged to climb. I think Eastern North Carolina is
*bliged to climb and I have the hope that a part of
the vitality that we’ve got to have in that area is
going to come from such an institution as East
Carolina.

Interviewer: Do you see any signs that it will
shortly make its contributions to the state?

Mr. Daniels: Well, it’s always made contri-
butions to the state. It is true that at this moment
we don’t seem to be getting as much intellectual
vitality, political vitality, from the East as from
the Piedmont, and the Piedmont present from
Raleigh to Charlotte. But you must remember
that our heroes—they come, all of them—I sup-
pose McKeever is right on the border, old man
J. Y. Joyner—you go down a list—Jarvis, who I
believe established East Carolina—have got to
come again. Things move in cycles. I don’t think
that the fact that our greatest men in the past are
not equaled by North Carolinians now is the sign
of any sort of decadence or slipping back in our
people. Things move in cycles and I believe there
will come from Eastern Carolina in its turn, and
in its necessity, contributions to North Carolina
which will both serve that section and serve the
state. And in that relationship I would like to
say this: we are not going to serve North Carolina
by insisting that Eastern North Carolina continue
to have a larger representation in our legislature
than in proportion to its population. We’ve got to
be willing for the state to grow as it grows, and
if we try to put any curbs on the democracy of
other people we’ll put them on ourselves as well.

Interviewer: Do you feel that by its restraint
North Carolina has set up a pattern for integra-
tion.

Mr. Daniels: Well, I think that North Caro-
lina has had great good sense and great good
luck. We adopted, as you remember, the Pearsall
Plan overwhelmingly. I was against it, but it
was adopted. Yet since it was adopted nobody
has mentioned it; we haven’t used it. When some
Indians tried to use it, why we pushed them away.
The Pearsall Plan today is a complete dodo. There
is nothing you can do with it. School assignment
law, however, is a sound law if it is approached

WINTER, 1961

with good will. Now, all of us recognize the diffi-
culties and the dangers involved in this situation.
But obviously, the law is there. We’re not forever
going to be able to, well, shall we say, avoid it.
There’s going to be more integration. I think
that it can be accomplished if our people—our
best people—dominate, without too much damage
to our customs and our happiness. But I think,
and this leads me to the next question, that we
all have to realize the fact that we are not different
from people elsewhere. We could have an explos-
ion and we could possibly let the least intelligent
whites and the most vociferous colored people lead
us in the difficulty. But I hope and pray, and I
believe, that this state will avoid any situation
comparable to Little Rock or New Orleans. But
your generation has got to take the lead in the
intelligent solution of a problem which, by no
means, is one in Eastern North Carolina. It is not
a problem in North Carolina alone—or the South.
We have to realize increasingly that we white
people are the minority in the world, and that
what we do in Pitt County is soon known and
discussed and has its effect in Pakistan. We don’t
live in Eastern North Carolina. Unfortunately, in
our age, with the communications and the collis-
ions, all of us have to realize that we live in the
world.

Interviewer: Do you feel that Kennedy’s elec-
tion was indicative of lessening religious discrimi-
nation?

Mr. Daniels: I think that that’s a very com-
plex question. I hope so. I do not, however, be-
lieve that the people of North Carolina have
changed their notions about the separation of
church and state. I think there’s belief that Mr.
Kennedy was candid and honest when he expressed
his faith in separation of church and state. You
boys are too young, however, to make a real
comparison between the campaign of 1928 and
the campaign of 1960, in each of which a Catholic
was a candidate for presidency. In 1928 we not
merely had Catholicism, we had a Catholic, who
in his personality represented the differences be-
tween a certain type of city man that seems
strange to us. We’ve been taught for years that
Tammany Hall to which he belonged was a danger
to the country and the Democratic Party. And
it’s difficult for people today to believe how great
was the emotionalism that surrounded the issue
of prohibition. The churches in 1928 were not
merely concerned about the fact that Mr. Smith
was a Catholic. The Methodists and other protes-
tant churches were also much concerned about
the fact that he was a Catholic who wished to
abolish the Prohibition Amendment. So that
campaign was very much more complex in terms
of its emotions, its prejudices, country against
city, Protestants against Catholics, than the one
just passed. John Kennedy, after knowing another
Harvard man named Roosevelt, didn’t seem a
stranger to us as Al Smith and his brown derby
did in 1928.

Interviewer: Would you care to comment about
the alleged machine-controlled politics in the state?

Mr. Daniels: I don’t think there is any such
thing as a machine in North Carolina. Undoubted-
ly there are little county cliques; there.are class
groups; there are conservatives versus liberals.
But I don’t believe that any man within the last
decade has made any progress at creating any-
thing that would compare, for instance, with the
Simmons Machine which existed thirty years ago.
Undoubtedly courthouse rings, conservative and
liberal organizations, try to exert pressure and
often do. But I don’t see how anybody could think
that there was a machine control when in the last

primary we had four candidates for Governor, no
one of whom could exert crushing power or cer-
tainty of election. We are a good “scrapping”
people in North Carolina, and we’re not going to
let any single machine or power dominate us.
What we’ve got to have is vitality in the people,
thoughtfulness; and the one thing we don’t need
in Eastern North Carolina, or anywhere else in
this state, is docility. And the one thing that I
think that we need most in boys like you at East
Carolina and other colleges, and in the young men
growing up around them, is the determination that
docility is not going to be the mark of your gener-
ation. Let’s get going. Don’t be afraid of ideas.
And to go back to the beginning, the one thing
that can be most important at East Carolina is
that it be a center of ideas, and welcome for ideas,
in the region it serves. I like to see North Caro-
lina when it’s stirred up. When it’s sitting on
its seat and just looking over the end of the fishing
pole, we’re in a bad way. When people are de-
bating and discussing and disagreeing, North Car-
olina is in a healthy state. I wish East Carolina,
I wish Eastern North Carolina plenty of contro-
versy. Keep them stirred up, because when peo-
ple are stirred up they’re alive ; when they sit down
and stop talking and stop doing, they’re dead.

THE REBEL
A Word Said... -

Under the direction of President Leo Jenkins
and a committee of local people, plans are being
discussed which are directed towards making this
college the cultural center of Eastern North Caro-
lina. This is a natural action. With its position of
influence in this section of the state, East Caro-
lina should be recognized as a focal point of cul-
tural activity.

However, the principal obstacle to this move
will be the school itself. Is East Carolina ready to
accept such a distinction as this? Are we ready
to take in hand the responsibility it embraces?

At the present time, these questions draw a
negative answer. We are not prepared. Once
again the attitude of a great percentage of stu-
dents and faculty here can be described as apa-
thetic. Steps must be taken to alleviate this situa-
tion, else the plans underway will be useless.

Perhaps the first step to remedy this situation
is through a process of conditioning. By this we
mean, conditioning which will lead to the emer-
gence of an atmosphere which will accept the re-
sponsibilities involved with being the cultural
center of this section.

How can this atmosphere be evolved? It is the
feeling of several connected with this move that
the first step would be to begin a movement here
on this campus which would bring about an
awareness of the past—the heritage of Eastern
North Carolina. We share this feeling.

Eastern North Carolina has a great heritage.
The beginnings were with the Roanoke Island
settlement, 1584-1587. Then in 16638, Charles II
granted to the eight Lords Proprietors the Caro-
lina Charter. It is to these men, Edward Hyde,
Earl of Clarendon; George Monck, Duke of Albe-
marle; William Lord Craven; John Lord Berkely ;
Anthony Ashley Cooper, Ear] of Shaftesbury; Sir
George Carteret; Sir William Berkely; and Sir
John Colleton that we owe our beginnings.

In addition to these individuals, North Carolina,
and specifically the Eastern section, has produced

WINTER, 1961

many notable figures. For example, James Iredell,
Nathaniel Macon, Willie Jones, and in our own
century Charles B. Aycock, the great “education
governor,” came from Eastern Carolina environ-
ments.

There are other aspects of our heritage from
which we could draw. Perhaps with some of these
elements forming the basis, a program could be
inaugurated here, recognizing our past, and sub-
sequently an atmosphere capable of accepting the
responsibility of being this section’s cultural
center could be created.

To clarify the preceding statement, this pro-
gram could possibly take in the establishment of
a Hall of History which could house documents
and relics of our past. Also, perhaps statues and
other memorials could be erected honoring the
individuals who have been prominent in our his-
tory.

But this entire movement is not solely our re-
sponsibility. Although the college will be expected
to play the dominant role, it is also the respon-
sibility of the people of Eastern North Carolina.
This area could take the initiative set forth by
the leaders of this plan by aiding in the establish-
ment of these symbols of the past. For example,
the counties which are named for people such as
Iredell, Jones, and the Lords Proprietors could
honor their namesakes by means of some type of
memorial to be placed here at the college. Event-
ually, we believe, this action would result in an
enlarged sense of history and a deepened per-
spective of our past and heritage.

The significance of this entire movement is
enormous. It is one of the most important awak-
enings which could take place in the life of this
college. Too, it is a rightful move, for East Caro-
lina College deserves to be the center of Eastern
North Carolina, not only culturally, but also in-
tellectually. The potentialities which lie in this
college are innumerable.

—MARTIN
The Rebel Yelk

In addition to the regular work involved with
the publication of the Winter Issue of The Rebel,
one of the principal projects during the winter
quarter has been the writing contest.

This year’s contest, to date, can be considered
as very successful. This is evident in view of the
number of manuscripts which have been submit-
ted since the first notice of the contest was circu-
lated.

The current contest was scheduled on February
25th, the final day of the Winter quarter. How-
ever, one development has caused the editors to
extend the deadline date until April 1, 1961. The
change is due to the donation by Sigma Sigma
Sigma Sorority of $25 to be used for awards. This
brings the total prizes offered to $30.

This action by Sigma Sigma Sigma is a signifi-
cant mark for both The Rebel and the sorority.
For the magazine it is a sign of support offered
by the student body members, and for the sorority
is displays a mature sense of values which are
vital to the growth of this college. To the women
of Sigma Sigma Sigma, the editors extend their
gratitude for the support they have shown for
the magazine and for its purposes.

In this issue many strides forward have been
made. It has been the objective of the staff to
present to the student body a magazine which re-
flects growth from issue to issue. This growth to
which we refer embraces the size of the magazine
(number of pages), and the number of fiction,
non-fiction, and feature articles contained. Growth
also refers to the quality of the material used.
In all of these instances, we believe that the maga-
zine has progressed with this issue.

In this issue there have been many changes
made in design. This is due primarily to the
efforts of the new art staff composed of Mike
Miller, Larry Blizard, Al Dunkle, and Bob

Schmitz. These four from the art department
have assembled the art work for this issue and
have played prominent roles in the task of design-
ing. The editors extend their commendation for
a job well done.

Also in the realm of art, the staff owes thanks
to Bob Harper who furnished the cover photo-
graph. The surrounding design for the cover was
done by Mike Miller.

The feature article for this issue is an inter-
view with Jonathan Daniels. Mr. Daniels, North
Carolina author, is prominent in many facets of
the life of the state, and is perhaps best known as
editor of the Raleigh News and Observer.

Other works appearing in this issue include
essays written by June Grimes from Washington,
N. C., and Sherry Maske, from Rockingham. The
other non-fiction contribution is an essay on Jazz
by Jan Wurst.

In the field of fiction, S. Pat Reynolds, a grad-
uate assistant in the English Department, and
Elfreth Alexander, graduate student and last
year’s contest winner, present “Son of Silver”
and “Where is Harry Stewart?” as short story
contributions.

The poetry section for this issue contains selec-
tions by Sarah Hansen, Sanford Peele, Carl Yorks,
Jim Stingley, Jr., Sue Ellen Hunsucker, and Kay
McLawhon.

Book reviews for this issue wehe done by Tom
Jackson, Darrell Hurst, Sue Ellen Hunsucker, B.
Tolson Willis, Jr., Pat Farmer, Denyse Draper,
John Quinn, and Pat Harvey.

Harry Golden, busily completing his new book,
Carl Sandburg, and also preparing for his trip to
Israel to cover the Eichmann trial for Life, was
unable to complete the second installment of the
Fall Issue’s interview. Thus, it will not appear.

THE REBEL

SON OF SILVER

By S. PAT REYNOLDS

The street urchins’ moved-back and forth to
and from the grocery store on the corner, going
with empty Pepsi bottles and nickels clinking
against the glass and*coming back drinking. ‘They
walked or rode bicyclés. “They walked with their
heads up,: looking around; or with, their heads
down searching the dusty sidewalks for treasure.
Or they rode their bicycles with great curves, in
and around the parked/ cars, sometimes running
up on the sidewalks ‘where. they left corduroy
prints in-the dust. And they yelled at ¢ach other,
stopping to examine’ themselves-together. or.they
waved to their images on the other side of the
street.

“Hey you, Mickey, I got a knife. My daddy
give me a knife.” The red-headed oné sat on his
front steps, and Mickey crossed thé street over
to him. Mickey didn’t believe the other boy, and
he held his Pepsi-high, swilling-it-in and smacking
his lips loudly in his doubt.

The red head,..to.convince Mi¢key, said, “Did
you know my daddy give me a pocket knife?”

“Naw. Where’s that knife?” Mickey asked,
holding his Pepsi by the bottleneck.

“Tn the house on the mantel piece. We could play
mumbly-peg.”’ Red head looked at Mickey’s Pepsi.
It was nearly half gone and the brown foam
floated sweetly on top.

“You ain’t got no knife.” Mickey caught him
in the wide brown eye and then raised the bottle
to his lips again.

“T have, too. My daddy give it to me. He found
it on the street. Me and Sammy’s going to play.
mumbly-peg.”

“Can I play?” Still a little doubtful, Mickey

WINTER, 1961

was almost-finished with his Pepsi.

“Naw.”

“Get the knife and let me play. “You want
the rest.of this Pepsi?”

Frances liked to watch thems She often sat
on her front porch and watched them. They had
something that.she didn’t. have, and she couldn’t
quite call it by name. They had the street diplom-
acy of giving. and taking away with one fine
sweep. They seemed freer than herself and not
free but-bound-by laws she did not know.

In-her own days her running had-been stopped
at.the-six foot fence that walled the backyard
which Papa had put up “to keep her in and the
trash out” is*what he said. She had felt little of
what. was going on outside that fence; but-that
little she felt shyly and intensely, peeping through
the slits in the fence and feeling the ridges of
the wood in her fingertips.

Still, there had \been a few things that the
fence didn’t keep out, things.that came back
swiftly to her as she watched Mickey and Red-
head in their barter“across the street. These
things were those that she had-done-holding onto
Mama’s hand. But they were good, not adventur-
ous good but there they were, waiting to wink
at you-when you remembered them.

She-had-entered a new place, although she had
entered it every-Saturday morning; but it was
fresh each time, and as she-walked with Mama
through the aisles of the city market,-stepping
over the puddles-of water that stood on the cement
floors, she could see the colored lady with her head
tied-up in a blue scarf, shelling beans and throwing
the hulls on-a-piece of newspaper at her feet. She

9

went there with Mama and held onto Mama’s
dress because once she had not held on, and some-
how had moved away to look at the zinnias in
tin cans and then had come back and taken
hold of a dress and looked up, but when the lady
looked down, it wasn’t even Mama. Oh, she had
been scared then, and there had been something
in her throat she could not swallow, but she had
held onto the lady’s dress, looking up with the
lady looking down, until Mama called her from
across the aisle where she had been buying coun-
try butter. Then she had run to Mama, embar-
rassed because she could feel the lady still look-
ing at her.

The smells and sounds in the city market were
tingling and serious. She had never smelled them
or heard them anywhere else. They were new
and wonderful and always different, taking her
unaware because it seemed that she never ex-
pected them, even when she walked through the
arched door and saw the colored lady who always
sat in the entrance of the old stucco building. She
knew her by face just as she could recognize the
city market when she passed it—but they never
spoke to her nor did she speak to them. She
just passed them every Saturday morning.

Live, caged chickens squawked and complained
about their cages, and once she touched one
through the wicker cages and it pecked her finger.
She pulled her hand out quickly before Mama
could see her, before Mama could shake her head,
the silent signal that she was doing wrong. Dom-
inick, White Leghorn, Rhode Island Red, they all
watched her with beady eyes, blinking every now
and then, while Mama picked and made choices,
and she felt sorrow for them secretly and worried
about them and wondered how they felt about be-
ing eaten. And she felt ashamed that she would
eat the one Mama was buying.

Smoked meat curtained the stalls, and a man,
a country man who had blood on his apron, looked
over the counter at her and teased her with ice
chips in his long, hairy hand. But she would back
behind Mama so he couldn’t reach her. He drip-
ped liver, thumped great chunks of red meat; he
cut off pork chops for Mama, just right so she
would buy them, and he must have been very
strong because he could hold a big ham up high;
he could: hold it with one hand and point with
the other. And Mama chose, carefully, and she
took her time, and then she crammed the brown
bags down into her shopping bag and went on
over to the vegetables.

Frances remembered that the city market was
wide and somehow ripe with the people who sold

10

there and with the people who bought there. They
intermingled, yet remained distinct and separate
and would go their own ways. Calm and dignity
in overalls and print dresses waited before her,
behind the stalls, and she stood before them look-
ing. They did not hawk their goods and were
ready to show them when the buyers came, and
they would not press the buyers to select. A
country girl with an apron around her waist, with
pigtails and barefoot, would return Frances’ stare,
and Frances secretly wanted to be the country
girl; then Mama sedately exchanged her money
for fresh grown peas, and the factions would part,
but the country girl would remain for almost the
whole week with Frances. Saturday morning be-
came afternoon, and on their way from up town
she and Mama would pass the city market again,
but then it would be silent and empty and a bean
would be left lying, a few dried vegetables, a
sucked-out grape hull. And the wall of a fence
could not keep this out, and she could take it
with her and the back steps would become her
market and she could see the buyers who came
for her chinaberry beans.

But once she found a way outside the six foot
fence that kept the trash out. But then she had
not realized that the little boy who lived in back
of her was trash, that his daddy was a drunk
who painted houses when he was sober, that his
mother had big fights with his daddy. And when
his mother’s eye had been sore, looking like
Frances’ knee when she had fallen down the steps,
she was sure that his mother’s eye hurt and want-
ed to ask her about it until she heard Mama telling
Papa that the Blands had been fighting again and
that old Jim Bland had hit his wife in the eye.
When Mama told Papa that, Frances couldn’t
hear anything that made her believe that Mama
was sorry about Mrs. Bland’s eye and maybe it
was wrong for Frances to be sorry and maybe she
shouldn’t want to play with Jimmy Bland. But it
would be good to play with Jimmy if Papa ever
left the gate unlocked. Jimmy had a wonderful
horse fixed up on his banister and a string tied
on it and a pillow to sit on it and her picture
book horses weren’t like that and not as good
because you couldn’t ride them, only play like
you rode them, and that wasn’t good when Jimmy
whose daddy hit his mother’s eye had a real horse
or almost a real horse and Mama why can’t I
play with Jimmy and ride his horse? Because you
can’t and that ends it and you know your Mama
won’t change her mind because she never did no
matter how long you sat and pouted and how
much paper you chewed up pretending you were

THE REBEL
a goat. Anyway, you were too ashamed to cry
because Papa always pointed at you and said,
look what a fix her face is in. And you looked
in the mirror one day and there it was red and
splotched up and screwed up like on Halloween
when you wore a mask and jumped at Papa from
behind the door. But you still wanted to play
with Jimmy and ride his horse and you knew you
would if you ever got the chance and maybe Papa
was at work and Mama sitting on the front porch
crocheting. And then the day came that you
stood on the apple crate and tip-toed until you
reached the latch and the gate swung wide open,
and there you stood on the apple crate, scared but
a good feeling scared, because there was the alley
right there and just a few steps away Jimmy
sat on his horse and rode all the way to Texas
and back. Jimmy watched you but did not say
anything. And you walked up his steps without
even looking at Jimmy but you knew he had stop-
ped riding and was back from Texas and was
looking at you straight and waiting. Then you
walked up to the horse. Couldn’t you almost
feel him shaking beneath Jimmy? You moved
your hand down slowly feeling the horse’s neck
and it was soft and warm to you. Jimmy got down
off his horse and all he said was “He won’t hurt
you. He’s real tame. He’s the son of Silver.” The

Son of Silver. You wondered if you would ride
the Son of Silver. The name just came right out
of your mouth as if you had been saying it for-
ever, the Son of Silver. The riding was wonder-
ful, and the Son of Silver was tame but he carried
you far away and did not bump you. And you
knew you were moving because you closed your
eyes and the alley was gone and the ground
under you moved and the trees around you whiz-
zed by like riding on a Sunday afternoon with
Papa driving. But then the Son of Silver brought
you back. He must have brought you back be-
cause something jerked and there was Mama
pulling you off the horse and taking you back
into the yard and closing the gate and switching
your legs until they burned like fire. And maybe
you cried but not loud because Jimmy was watch-
ing you, and not because the stinging hurt, al-
though it did hurt you because the Son of Silver
brought you back. And then you hated the Son
of Silver and you hated Jimmy and before Mama
dragged you in the house you screamed at Jimmy
who still watched, standing beside the Son of
Silver. You yelled at Jimmy, “Your daddy hit
your mama in the eye and I hate you and I hate
the Son of Silver.”’ Next day the latch was on
the outside of the gate and only Mama and Papa
could open it.

Che School Marm

The school marm kneads my bisquit dough brain

Confines me to a pan of conventional shape

Pops me into preheated oven to bake

Where sweating shriveling i burn on the rack

Lump-crusting flanking charcoaling to black.

Freedom regained i emerge from the dungeon

Unleavened unyeasted cooked through and

through.

Devoid of all thought complacently tame

Safely i rest in the marm’s hall of fame.

Unfit for man’s bread the world is my claim

And i like the school marm win the world’s praise

With navy blue gabardine slick-seated cliches.

WINTER, 1961

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THE REBEL

Jazz, they say, came up out of the cotton fields, out of the
sweat-drenched soul of man himself—man the individual, who
said about life what he himself had to say. It made its way to
Chicago, New York and other places and ended up finally in
smoke-filled bars on shabby, half-lighted back streets. It exists
there today, for all to see, as but one more symbol of a decaying
institution: the individuality of man.

—tLarry Blizard

WINTER, 1961

Y
ae

13

Music

THE CHARACTER OF JAZZ

By JAN WURST

Jazz is America’s one true art form. From its
humble beginning among the Negro slaves in the
South, jazz has risen to its present place as
America’s one original contribution to music, and
has taken its rightful place as a great part of our
American culture.

Many people, however, still do not accept jazz
simply because they do not understand it. If one
knew a little about the characteristics and origin
of jazz, he might understand it, and thus be able
to enjoy it. Woody Woodward, in his book Jazz
Americana, gives this excellent definition of jazz:
“JAZZ (jas) n. a native American music, a popu-
lar art form, begun by the negro, originally in-
fluenced by African and Caribbean rhythms and
popular musics available to the negro around the
turn of the century. A product of the instantan-
eous rather than the premeditated, characterized
from the beginning to the present by three basic
elements: improvisation, a unique time concep-
tion, and a range of sounds distinguished by their
individuality.”

The very earliest jazz musicians were mostly
Negroes who could not read music. It was neces-
sary, therefore, for them to improvise as they
played. Improvisation, then, is the ability to
make up tunes or to add variations on a given
melody without previous arrangement. Usually
a chordal sequence is made up in advance to give
the music some form, but this is merely a guide
for the soloing artist and does not limit his free-
dom to express himself completely. Occasionally,
two or more musicians may improvise at the same
time, producing counterpoint, in which the second
and third melody lines complement the first.

14

Improvisation is probably the most important
characteristic of jazz because it makes every per-
formance unique. No matter how many times
the same group of musicians perform the same
song, each rendition will be entirely different from
the other.

The time concept in jazz is more unusual than
in that of other music. There is always a constant,
driving four beat rhythm, which is usually played
by the string bass and drums. Normally, accents
would fall on the first and third beats of every
measure, while the second and fourth would be
relatively weak. In jazz, however, the musicians
play unexpected accents with great freedom on
any beat in an irregular manner. The piano and
guitar further syncopate the rhythm by adding
chordal effects on the off beats. The soloist then
adds his rhythm and may either play slightly be-
fore the beat, on the beat, or slightly behind it.
All of these rhythms together produce a rhythm-
ical counterpoint which is a direct result of the
Afro-American influence.

The sounds of jazz are another very unusual
feature. Almost any sound that a musician can
make on his instrument is acceptable in jazz. It
may be a dark, strident sound, or it may be a light
pure tone with no vibrato. Each sound reflects
something of the personality of the individual
performer.

Jazz was born in New Orleans nearly one hun-
dred years ago. The Negro slaves took the cur-
rent popular hymns and added to them the
rhythms of their African tribal chants. These
became the Negro spirituals that we know and
love today.

THE REBEL
W. C. Handy, a famous Negro composer, is
largely responsible for the popularity of the
“blues,” which is based on the work songs and
“sinful” songs as they were called.

The blues are characterized by the flatted third
and seventh degrees of the diatonic scale, which
give it the mournful sound. The blues reflected
the melancholy of the Negro and his lamentable
fate.

Early in the 1930’s some fine artists, Benny
Goodman and Count Basie, for example, started
a new movement called “Swing”. This style
has a comparatively strict form but still
has plenty of free rhythm. This was the era of
the big band in which the full band played rhyth-
mic and melodic patterns simultaneously or al-
ternated between the brass and saxophone sec-
tions with an occasional inprovised solo. It was
at this time that the guitar really came into its
own and replaced the banjo. “Sweet swing” was
similar to “hot swing” except that it was mainly
for dancing. It was a compromise between real
jazz and the kind of music that was acceptable by
“society”. Among the many bands who played this
sweet swing were the Glenn Miller and Tommy
Dorsey bands.

In the early ’40’s came a new bouncy type of
jazz called “Boogie Woogie,” which has a distinc-
tive, choppy dotted eighth and sixteenth note
rhythm in the left hand bass line of the piano.

With the coming of World War II, the big bands
were forced to disband for various reasons, and

the small combo of three to five men became pop-
ular.

After the war was over, the teenagers needed
something with a real beat so that they could
dance to it. “Bebop” was born. It had a good,
steady beat just right for dancing. Bebop was
one of the first forms in which the drums broke
away from the strict rhythmic patterns and start-
ed on its own syncopated phrases while only the
bass and guitar continued with the basic four
beat pattern. Charles Parker and Dizzy Gillespie
were the two men who did the most toward estab-
lishing bebop.

Meanwhile, on the West Coast another move-
ment started which became known as the “cool”
or progressive jazz. This type of jazz, while still
using the basic beat, is more subdued and relax-
ing, and appeals more to the intellect rather than
the feet. The musicians were striving for a dif-
ferent sound and the use of many new instru-
ments heretofore unheard of in jazz became popu-
lar—among them the flute, oboe, baritone sax and
mellophone.

What the future holds for jazz only time will
tell. But surely it will increase in quantity and
quality, in styles and concepts as it continues to
be explored. As Woody Woodward says, “For the
first time in the history of jazz, it is being accepted
for what it is—a medium of emotional and intel-
lectual communication; America’s native art form.
Jazz is being listened to, finally—unfettered by
fads and dance crazes. This is the Jazz Age!”

Che Sound

The sun rises
over the sound

revealing marshwater and boats

moving to the sea.
Rays cover

wiregrass and earth
full of holes

sand-fiddlers and fleas
blends rainbows

in the salt-spray

WINTER, 1961

turns grass
brownish green.
Skeletons of
men, boats, crabs
bleach
deathly white.
Water and boats
return
the sun goes down
it is night.
—JIM STINGLEY, JR.

15

Poetry

by

Chance

The cat, known as a sly and secretive animal
Has a rival here. A minute spider,
Tiny, but fat with intensely bent legs.

Secretively he darts and dances
From twig to twig
intently spinning his intricate web.

Such a forlorn and unlikely place
To weave a web—Beside the sea
With only sand and sea shrubs for his foundation.

Yet on and on quickly, quietly
Back and forth spinning silver threads
Fragile enough to catch sea spray.

Fragile, yes, but subtly so
This is no web to catch sea spray
It is strong enough to withstand the night wind.

For after the tide of night

Dead fish float in and are left drying near the web
And then come flies.

16

SARAH HANSEN

Sonnet 7

Through Autumn’s mist serenely did you come
Holding, it seemed, her beauty in your eyes.
Her calmness dwelt with you as if her home
Were there among the wind, your gentle sighs.
And like the gentle murmur of a stream

You spoke, and then a portion of her heart
Came unto me, a golden sunlit gleam

That filled my soul and warmed the deepest part.

So calm, serene, yet stately as a Queen,
I watched you pass, in beauty’s splendid robe
Against a backdrop—Autumn’s painted screen
And in my heart you found a life’s abode.
So there you live, yet never will you know
I feel you breathe when leaves of Autumn
blow.

THE REBEL
pe Nee 2 ache Bie Pg

a: ed. 2. ORV ae - 2 2. pee? 5%
os + ys be MRED

gig PERS oe Si

Sea Lonely

This ache I feel is my sea ache

It comes to me often, this longing for the sea;

Today it came when I saw a thousand trees
on a distant mountain

Blowing in the wind with a blue mist over all.

I thought of the sea and I ached.

Yesterday it came when I lay on a rock.
It was a large, flat, gray rock
With the sun shining on it and the water
running around it.
I closed my eyes and what I heard was
the song of the sea.
And I thought of the sea once more and ached.

One day it came when I walked down a
lonely path.
It was raining—a mountain kind of rain,
misty and caressing.
I tasted salt on my face and what I felt
was not a tear, but the kiss of the sea.
‘ And I thought of the sea once more and ached.

The ache comes often; I cannot stop it.
In my fingertips, my arms, my legs, and

heart I feel the ache.
It is there and has become a part of me
Because the sea is a part of me, and is away
The ache has come into the place of the sea.

WINTER, 1961
POEMS

Distance

Within the light your single presence
draws down refracted dust

as bright creation through

the blazing leaves a red rib

plays upon.

How might the touch dissolve
beneath the wonder of a gaze

that webs the distance with thunder.
A bell of longing

can draw one from the stream
where nightly bobbed

a shrivelled moon,

an ancient walnut next the eye.

18

by

SANFORD PEE

Seer

The years of dry grass

have reached the sea, burning.

I am no fisherman

nor carpenter of dreams

to tread on green unsinking,

nor build a crucifix of sand.

It is the slim meridian unsolid,

the equinox of is between the shafts

There is no wise dispenser

of bread, nor end written on the sea,
but only Cassandra

the tool of gods

serenely plaiting her hair

before Agamemnon’s red doors.

She smiles an absent smile

for the elders

who tread the burnt plain, expectant.

LE

of seem.

THE REBEL
Green Rhythm

We began with spring,
and chartered our Autumn Love
with the rampant growth of green.

We were old with bright memories
of yellow afternoons shot through
with bare perception of twigs.

Ours was a green rhythm,
growing in the hazy aftermath
of solitude.

And the days wound themselves
about our simple source,
drawing the fine blunt threads
of early loom into a

grace singularity.

A red gull,

the devotee of foam,
winged inland

from her island source
to announce with
savage wing

her sea-locked
admiration of all green.

And from a brilliant vision

that once possessed a tree

she spoke of green eternal
heaving with the quest for foam.

That green delineation of our form
has not withstood the measure

of the sun nor has it survived

as epitaph for mourning.

But it, thwarted by a season sure,

it has endured in subtle

folds of green the

promised harmony of Eternal Spring.

WINTER, 1961 19
ART DEPT

PHOTOGRAPHED BY JIM KIRKLAND

Torso constructed of thrown shapes with black gloss glaze.
(27” high) Schmitz

THE REBEL

Stoneware pot with freely poured earth color-
ed matt glazes allowing clay body to show
through.

(6” high) Butler

Stoneware bottle with wax-resist

and sgraffito slip decoration

showing through a matt glaze.
(15” high) Schmitz

WINTER, 1961 21
Vase with charistic throwing
rings producing a strong rhythm
on the surface beneath green
glaze.

(13” high) Schmitz

Stoney matt glaze over assembled thrown
shapes.
(11” high) Schmitz

22 THE REBEL

Multiple ashtray and wing jug
slip decorated with pale blue
matt glaze.

(6” high) Schmitz

=

Slip decorated vase with gloss
glaze.
(10” high) Butler

WINTER, 1961 23
William Faulkner
and The South

By Junius D. GRIMEs III

The novelist sometimes comes closer to discover-
ing and transmitting the essence of historical
truth than does the professional historian. “Faulk-
ner,” said the muse, “look in thy heart and write,”
and Faulkner wrote. He gave us “a picture of
the South .. . tossed at us apparently haphazard,
yet more complete because more stimulating to
our imagination, than in many volumes of detailed
family chronicles.” He has captured on paper the
traditionalism of the old planter aristocracy and
the turbulent reality of their downfall in the more
recent generations. He has successfully painted
for us the portrait of the southern patriarchal
family and has pitted their increasing inadequacy
vividly against the ruthless cunning of the rising
poor whites. Under his pen we see the decay of
the traditional South. We watch this disintegra-
tion take radically different forms in the families
of Sartoris, McCaslin, and Compson. Additionally
we see their downfall speeded by the driving thirst
for power of the Bundrens and MacCallums and
Snopeses. Here is the battle between southern
traditionalism and contemporary naturalism and
exploitation.

But in Faulkner’s portrayal of these families
he does not succumb to all the old romantic south-
ern legends. He does not transplant an aristo-
cracy en masse from England. His aristocracy,
the Sartorises and Compsons and McCaslins, is
such by virtue of hard work and qualities of
physical energy and dogged determination. The
ancestors of this group came to the South when

24

it was still virtually a frontier; immigrants, in-
dentured servants, they were all of common origin.
As W. J. Cash says, “From the foundations care-
fully built up by his father and grandfather, [a
‘Sartoris, a McCaslin, a Compson’] . . . began to
tower decisively above the ruck of farmers, pyra-
mided his holdings in land and slaves, squeezed out
his smaller neighbors and relegated them to the
remote Shenandoah, abandoned his story-and-a-
half house for his new ‘hall,’ sent his sons to
William and Mary and afterward to the English
universities. . . . These sons brought back the
manners of the Georges and more developed and
subtle notions of class. And the sons of these in
turn began to think of themselves as true aristo-
crats and to be accepted as such by those about
them—to set themselves consciously to the elabo-
ration and propagation of a tradition.” The aris-
tocratic families in Faulkner have passed this
point where they wrested the land from the wild-
erness. But Faulkner implies this background
of common origins and the rise of the planters
in Sartoris when he says that old Colonel Sar-
toris could watch from his veranda-the two trains
a day that ran over the railroad he had built,
seeing them “emerge from the hills and cross the
valley into the hills, with a noisy simulation of
speed.” The Sartoris legend dominates the book,
even though its founder has been dead for years.
Of Colonel John Sartoris, he says, “freed as he was
of time and flesh he was a far more palpable
presence than...” many of his living descendants.

THE REBEL
Here was one of the southerners who had laid
such stress on the inviolability of personal whim,
full of “chip-on-the-shoulder swagger” and puerile
brag, and generally ready to “knock hell” out of
anyone who dared to cross him. Faulkner de-
scribes him as such a man. In Sartoris, old man
Falls, an aged contemporary of the Colonel, re-
lates the incident concerning the Colonel and two
carpet-baggers who brought negroes to vote. The
Colonel just sat calmly in the door of the polling
house and looked. The two men quailed and ran to
their boarding house and the Colonel said, “All
right, niggers, you wanted to vote, vote!” The ne-
groes scattered. Then the Colonel picked up his
derringer and walked with dignity down the street
to the boarding house and up the stairs and shot
the two yankees. He came out and apologized to the
landlady and said he hoped she would have the
mess cleaned up and send him the bill. This is
the description of a man of violence, but this
violence was not unnecessary brutality. It was a
product of the period, fixed by social example.
For such men this action was the only really
correct and decent relief for wounded honor.

Further, what would today appear as useless
risk of life was part of the established tradition of
the time. Even in the vices of men like John
Sartoris, there was brilliance and magnificence.
One observer, Judge Baldwin, says of such a man,
“Attachment to his friends was a passion. It was
part of the loyalty to the honorable and the chival-
ric... . He never deserted a friend. .. . Starting
to fight a duel, he laid down his hand at poker,
to resume it with a smile when he returned, and
went on the field laughing with his friends, as to
a picnic.” Thus in the opening pages of Sartoris,
Aunt Jenny, a last remnant of that brilliant gener-
ation, relates the story of her husband Bayard
Sartoris. He was a captain under Jeb Stuart and
on a foraging party behind enemy lines, he heard
a captured major say, “‘At least General Stuart did
not capture our anchovies. Perhaps he will send
Lee for them in person.”

“ ‘Anchovies,’ repeated Bayard Sartoris, who
galloped nearby, and he whirled his horse. Stuart
shouted at him but Sartoris lifted his reckless
stubbon hand and flashed on; and as the General
would have turned to follow, a yankee picket fired
his piece from the roadside . . . and behind them,
in the direction of the invisible knoll a volley
crashed. A third officer spurred up and caught
Stuart’s bridle.

“ Sir, sir!’ he exclaimed. ‘What would you do?’

WINTER, 1961

“Stuart held his mount rearing . . . and the
noise to the right swelled nearer. ‘Let go, Alan,’
Stuart said, ‘he is my friend.’

“‘Think of Lee, for God’s sake, General!’ the
aide implored. ‘Forward!’ he shouted to the troop,
spurring his own horse and dragging the General
onward....

“*And so,’ Aunt Jenny finished .. . ‘Bayard rode
back after those anchovies, with all Pope’s army
shooting at him. He rode... right up the knoll
and jumped his horse over the breakfast table
and rode it into the wrecked commissary tent and
a cook who was hidden under the mess stuck his
arm out and shot Bayard in the back with a der-
ringer’.”

Further, the first Colonel John Sartoris had been
conscious of a deep sense of moral obligation to
his less fortunate neighbors. He must set them
examples of conduct too impecable to be question-
ed; he must advise them correctly and guide them
away from trouble; there is no place in his ethnic
ideology for bland mistreatment of any man, white
or black. He must act according to tradition and
honor, but these traditions as yet are not inflex-
ible. In short he must be a patriarch. At any rate
the poorer classes did not look upon him with
hatred or even envy. They saw in him the father
image, and so old man Falls could say to the
Colonel’s grandson when he returned a pipe given
him by the Colonel many years before, “I reckon
I’ve kept it as long as Cunnel aimed for me to.
A po’ house ain’t no fitten place for anything of
his’n, Bayard. And I’m gwine on ninety-fo year
old.”

In John Sartoris the reader sees gentility and
a figure of respect. This is also evident in the
fragile figure of Aunt Jenny Sartoris, and to some
degree in old Bayard Sartoris, the banker of a
later generation. But the majority of the charac-
ters in Faulkner are the sons and grandsons of
these soldiers and builders. They have lost, to a
large degree, that knowledge of common back-
ground with the lower class southern whites. They
have developed a striking self-consciousness and
have grown more complex. Their’s was not the
burden of weary hours in the field that their an-
cestors had known. These sons and grandsons
have gone to the best schools in the country and
have grown scornful of the common man. They
are haughty, with the pride of possession and
birth completely over-riding that gentility and
kindliness that had for so long perpetuated their
system. As Cash suggests, even at the peak of

25
their power, the southern aristocrats could not
endow their subconscious with the calm certainty
bred of the artistocratic experience. Within their
inmost confines they carried nearly always the
uneasy sensation of inadequacy for their role.
The result, especially in the later, less vital gener-
ations, was a marring of the true loveliness of the
aristocratic manner, a too heavy condescension,
the too obvious desire to impress with their rank
and value. And if this was inoffensive or at least
ignored at home in the presence of neighbors, it
appeared overbearing and brutal away from home.
Especially was this characteristic evident in the
presence of anyone suspected of doubting or not
being sufficiently impressed by these claims. Thus
the younger generations of Sartorises and Comp-
sons have reached that inevitable point in the de-
generation of their class, where upon contact with
outsiders, or non-sympathetic, even antagonistic
neighbors, the sense of inadequacy is all consum-
ing. Their responses to this modern situation are
varied. What Faulkner represents as reckless self-
destruction in the Sartorises is a slower but more
extreme and tragic disentegration in the Comp-
sons. When Jason Compson turns from clan loyal-
ty to class awareness and false pride in The
Sound and the Fury, he repudiates not merely
his inheritance, but a way of life. Of all this young
generation only in The Bear, when Isaac Mc-
Caslin decides to forego his heritage and expiate
the evils of the past, is there any intimation of
any resolve.

But if these later generations of the aristocracy
were degenerating from the inside, they also
were being pushed by an outside force. This ex-
terior force was the ruthless and amoral drive
to power of the poor whites. This group is intro-
duced in Sartoris. They were members of a
“seemingly inexhaustible family which for the
last ten years had been moving to town in driblets
from a small village known as Frenchman’s Bend.
Flem, the first Snopes, had appeared unheralded
one day behind the counter of a small restaurant.
.. . With this foothold and like Abraham of old,
he brought his blood and legal kin household by
household, individual by individual, into town and
established them where they could gain money.
Three years ago, to old Bayard’s profane astonish-
ment and unconcealed annoyance, he became vice
president of the Sartoris bank. . . .”

These Snopeses were, as much as the planter,
a product of the soil and even more of their era.
With the incipience of the Civil War they had

26

come into their own. They had, with cunning,
hoggery, callousness, brutal unscrupulousness and
downright scoundrelism, waged their own private
war upon both sides, turning everything to their
own profit. Among its members this family could
list idiots, thieves, murderers and numerous other
types of unsavory characters. Faulkner has been
accused of sensationalism in their treatment, but
this is not altogether fair. While he does indulge
in quite vivid descriptions concerning the more
degenerate members of the tribe, he does so for
a purpose. For example, his picture of the idiot,
Icky Mope Snopes, in The Hamlet, is carried to
the extreme; but his treatment is at least partially
sympathetic and arouses a certain pathos. He
illustrates the complete ruthlessness and lack of
any ethical conscience in the Snopeses when they
turn the boy’s weakness into a sideshow for per-
sonal profit.

Of course all of Faulkner’s poor whites are not
of such calibre. In Sartoris, the family visited
by young Bayard upon his grandfather’s death
is aptly described by Cash. A certain softening
of the backwoods heritage takes place and the
members of this group “took on, under their
slouch a sort of unkempt politeness and ease of
port, which rendered them definitely superior, in
respect of manners, to their peers in the rest of
the country.” Here is a poor family that, even
so, had a “kindly courtesy, an easy quietness, and
level-headed pride” that is identifiable at times
with the best manners of the old aristocracy.

But for the most part this is not the case. The
majority of Faulkner’s poor whites are true de-
scendants of Ab Snopes. Ab had a compulsion.
He not only felt spite and envy for the planters,
he was consumed by hatred for them. For some
inexplicable reason he had an extraordinarily vivid
sense of being brutally and intolerably wronged.
Possibly this was because he lived at a time when
the old frontier individualism was dying out and
the social structure was becoming fairly rigid. If
there had ever been any opportunity he had not
availed himself of it; but in the story Barnburning
he, as the patriarch of the clan, breaks the way
for the family invasion by threatening to burn
the barn of any landowner who opposes him.
Thus in The Hamlet his son Flem is hired as a
clerk in a store in Frenchman’s Bend in the hope
that he will keep his father from burning the
storekeeper’s barn. From hence he eventually
takes over the entire village, and from there he
goes to the town of Jefferson and vitiates the

THE REBEL

surrounding country-side like the “flow from a
poisoned stream.” These were the people into
whose all-engulfing lust for power the Sartorises
and Compsons and McCaslins were drawn.

To thoroughly understand why these families
fell victim to the Snopeses it is first necessary to
understand the complete repugnance of the plant-
ers (after the class had attained true develop-
ment) to anything that hinted at deception or
chicanery. And these elements were the life blood
of the Snopes’s rise to power. The planter aris-
tocrary had already been described as members
of “a dying class who cling to their self-loving
myths of the past, glorifying themselves with the
gaudy legends of their ancestors until the sound
of their own names becomes to them like ‘silver
pennons downrushing at sunset’.” The old tradi-
tionalism had solidified until it emboidied princi-
ples which almost precluded any action in the
world of the Snopeses. Here is the essence of what
O’Donnel calls the conflict between traditionism
and the anti-traditional modern world in which
it is immersed. The Sartorises must act tradition-
ally, or with an “ethically responsible will,” but
the Snopeses acknowledge absolutely no ethical
responsibility. Thus the quandary.

The whole body of Faulkner’s work presents, in
various social conditions, an elaborate series of
moral contrasts that comprise the responses to
modern life illustrating the various moral courses
open to the South. For example Quentin Compson
in The Sound and the Fury is the only identi-
fiable figure from the Sartoris world. But his re-
action has been to “formalize” or lose the ac-
curate sense of the tradition and substitute a
romanticized version. He ultimately realizes that
he is totally ineffectual in the Snopes world and
with this realization of his failure he kills him-
self. Jason Compson, Quentin’s brother, survives
and holds his own against the Snopeses, but only
by becoming a sort of glorified Snopes himself;
and Faulkner’s image of Jason is by far the most
unpleasant and degrading one of any of his char-
acters. Faulkner obviously has no use for the
Snopeses, but he has even less use for the apostate
traditionalist.

Also in The Sound and the Fury Candace
Compson feels her sense of quality has been vio-
lated by a Snopes and hence stems her conflict.
She is faced with either the outrage of some
quality for which Aunt Jenny DuPre Sartoris
“stands as a symbol as in Sanctuary (or Sar-
toris), or the acceptance of a role which means

WINTER, 1961

a subjective sense of exclusion from her world.”
Aunt Jenny is the shining example of old southern
womanhood—“her delicate features and white
hair, her heroic past, including her dance with
Jeb Stuart and the times she dominated carpet-
baggers and confederate skulkers by her com-
manding presence.” And when her niece-in-law
confesses in a later story that she has been black-
mailed by a Snopes, Aunt Jenny dies in her chair.
This was the final indignity to the Sartoris stand-
ard, destroying her will to live.

For a good contrast between the Sartoris ideal
and the Snopes reality there is Horace Benbow
as he appears in Sanctuary. He must make the
Sartoris values prevail in the Snopes world. The
opening scene presents the contrast between the
traditional and the naturalistic, exploitive atti-
tudes by placing them in juxtaposition. Benbow
is afraid of Popeye, the killer and sadist from
the Snopes clan, who has him at gunpoint near a
small spring. But even under these circumstances
when Benbow hears a Carolina wren sing he trys
to recall its local name. He says to Popeye, “And
of course you don’t know the name of it. I don’t
suppose you’d know a bird at all without it was
singing in a cage in a hotel lounge, or cost four
dollars on a plate.” Popeye has no feeling for
nature, but on the other hand he is a definite part
of nature. While Benbow may have some aesthe-
tic appreciation that Popeye does not feel, he is
still on the outside looking in. Popeye is, in the
story, the incarnation of those bestial qualities
that exploit nature, but at the same time are an
intricate part of it. Because it is his world Popeye
eventually conquers, and Benbow, for all his ap-
preciation, becomes merely another ineffectual
anachronism.

This is William Faulkner. He presents on one
side the people who represent or accept the Sar-
toris standards—the DeSpains, the Sutpens, the
Compsons, the Benbows, the Griersons, the planta-
tion aristocrats and civil war heroes. On the other
side are the Snopeses, Ab Snopes, the barn burner ;
Montgomery Ward Snopes, the draft dodger; Mink
Snopes, the murderer in the Hamlet. Here are
clowns, pimps, blackmailers, perverts, sadists,
idiots, and so on, operating through “that technic-
ally unassailable opportunism which passes among
country folks—and city folks too—for honest
shrewdness.” And all of these become as palpable
under the genius-guided pen-of William Faulkner
as the ghost of Colonel John in the opening scene
of Sartoris. s

27

WHERE IS HARRY STEWART?

By R. ELFRETH ALEXANDER

It was a nightmare come true. Incredibly, I
can still remember every fantastic detail. It was
a warm evening in August, 1943. The birds,
hundreds: of martins, it seemed, were dipping
and swirling about the yard, creating dark streaks
against the lavender and pink sky. The cedars
were lacy and the pear trees thick and green
and heavy with their fruit. Frogs croaked mourn-
fully, uncannily rhythmic. The waves of the Albe-
marle Sound lapped the shore quietly, and tall,
matchstick-like pines swayed gently. The Scarlet
Letter lay open and unread in my lap, and I would
have been asleep but for the hard, uncomfortable
wooden corners of the chair continually prodding
me back into consciousness.

The slow, stealthy movement at the end of the
porch touched off an alarm in my brain. It went
off slowly and cautiously, and I recall fixing my
eyes on the pear tree before turning my head
sharp and quick. My heart shut off my breath,
and my eyes flew open wider and fixed themselves
unblinkingly on four figures at the end of the
porch. There were a swarthy blonde, stocky, with
thick muscular forearms extending from the odd,
colorful shirts, which hung loose about their
waists. I sensed a strangeness about them, and,
paralyzed, I gazed somehow at once into three
pairs of pale, blue, opaque eyes. The fourth person,
who had been obscured by the porch railing, was
bending now and sliding his feet cautiously on
the porch. He was light, too, and dressed in a

28

white T-shirt and khaki trousers such as the ma-
rines wore at the base nearby. All the figures
began moving, and I saw them as if they were
reflections in water and moving in liquid, melting
motions. The figures came along the porch on
their bellies, under the window, and to my chair.
One of the men held a carbine or gun of some sort,
and as the shirts fell away from the bodies of the
other two, I saw leather gun holsters. I sat in a
state of lethargy, my whole body as uncontrolled
as if a streak of electricity had flown through it,
dismembering nerves, and leaving them twanging
like a popped elastic band. Then, the serviceman
crouched by my chair. Instinctively, I drew away
from him, and tried to raise my body. Fright had
left me helpless, and as I sat, dumb and uncompre-
hending, my eyes staring hypnotically into his,
he motioned with his head toward the house, and
asked, “‘Is anyone home?”

The question went into my brain and stayed.
I was unable to form an answer. “Is there any-
one inside?” he asked again, and the urgency, the
demand in his voice made me say, sounding
strange and hollow, “There is no one here but me.”

I saw and felt the relief in the men and the
marine, and as they rose to their feet, I could
see in their faces also their satisfaction of my
youth, of my femininity.

They never doubted for a moment that I had
not told the truth, and no longer bothered to shield
themselves from anyone inside the house, but

THE REBEL

peered cautiously toward the field and the dirt
road that ran a mile to the highway, obscured by
tall corn.

“Germans,” the marine’s voice thudded, and
the word pounded into me like molten fire, deaden-
ing and burning, spreading in engulfing waves,
digging scorching hollows of terror and pain.

“We need a motor for our boat,” the tallest one
with the carbine said in a soft, steel-core, British-
accented voice, his whole confident manner in-
congruent with the situation.

“Get them a motor, honey, and we’ll be all
right,” the marine said. His voice was taut, but
controlled, and the pronouns “them” and “we”
told me that he was not a willing member of this
alien group—that he was a compatriot.

I rose and led the way off the porch to the
shed. I flung open the door and stepped back, in-
dicating with my hand to the Germans that the
motor was inside.

“You,” waved the English-speaking German to
the marine, “get it.”

The marine bent his head and went inside. I
leaned against the door, holding it open. The
Germans and I stared at each other, and I could
see in their faces that they were laughing at me,
laughing at my fear, at my youth. In their eyes,
I could see myself. A bony girl looking much

WINTER, 1961

younger than nineteen, her straight blonde hair
straggling down from where it was pinned care-
lessly on top of her head, her bare feet and legs
showing from under the skirt a hard summer
tan, and one of my college “P. E.” shirts tied in a
huge knot at my waist—everything to indicate
that I was country bumkin, harmless, with eyes
too big and too frightened and too transparently
blue to hide a significant thought.

The marine came out with the motor. Without
a word, he turned toward the path leading toward
the sound. I hesitated by the shed door, until a
German motioned with his head that I was to
follow. Like a cornered animal, I skidded with no
thought of direction between the two Germans.
One’s arm shot out and caught me around the
shoulders, striking my neck and cutting off my
breath. He sent me with an indulgent shove after
the marine as easily as if I were a child. Tears
sprang in my eyes and my ears roared with anger
and fear while they investigated in their strange
guttural language the fuel in the motor. Even
then, I can recall beginning the puzzle. There were
two pieces at that time—my being alone, and
the motor being filled with gas.

As we walked beneath the velvet pines, I felt
the absurdity of it all. The familiar redbirds dart-
ed above, their lilting “‘you, too, you, too” echoing

29

in my ears. The putt-putt of a distant John Deere
tractor faded out as we half fell and stumbled
down the bank to the sound shore.

The marine flung the motor on the skiff, and a
motion of the head from the English-speaking
German sent me scurrying in, rushing to be near
the marine. In my haste, I cracked my shin on one
of the seats, and fell awkwardly. In no time, the
marine started the motor with a roar, tilting the
small boat sharply so that all our heads were
thrown back with a snap, and the German officer,
sitting on the bow, was almost thrown in the
bottom of the boat. I glanced at the marine’s
face and saw a mass of fury. Then, a barking
from shore made us all turn our faces desperately.
The Germans snatched their pistols from the
holsters and the one in the bow swiveled around,
cocking his carbine. On the bank, running pre-
cariously near the edge, raced one lone dog—Turk.
His bark was full of indignation for not being
taken along. From out in the water, I could see
his furiously wagging tail, the tail that was sup-
posed to have been clipped, for he was half pedi-
greed boxer; but we never had the heart to take
him to the veterinarian. Where had he been? Had
he been chasing a rabbit? Treeing a squirrel?
If he had been home, he would have warned me
of someone’s approach, and perhaps this whole
nightmare would not have come about. Aunt
Sally’s fiancé had returned from the war last week
with a wounded leg, and Mother and Father had
gone there to spend a few days. My brothers and
sisters were visiting an uncle in Norfolk, Virginia;
and I, with no one to see me go, except one stac-
catic dog, was speeding down the Albemarle Sound
with one unknown serviceman, three of our coun-
try’s enemies, and the United States Marine Base
blinking its lights securely about two and a half
miles across the Sound.

The two Germans faced me and the marine,
kept their holsters undone and the pistols par-
tially out. However, their eyes kept straying out
in the sound and toward the shore with the ill-
concealed curiosity of children. The officer kept
glancing in our direction. Finally, he gave us no
further attention, leaving us to his subordinates.
It was through this that the marine and I worked
out a system whereby we could carry on a con-
versation. By turning his head as if to look be-
hind us, he could speak almost in my ear, my
flying hair hiding the movement of his lips.

“They picked me up about a mile from the
Marine Base where I was fishing,’ he said.

30

“They’ve got a sub down around Norfolk, and a
boat farther down the sound waiting to take them
to the sub.”

The Germans were looking at him suspiciously,
and I was unable to answer.

A few minutes later, I managed to say, “But
whatever do they want up here?”

“The Marine Base,” he replied. ‘“They’re a re-
connaissance detail sent to the Marine Base.”

The marine, in a spurt of anger, opened the
small horsepower motor until it sounded as if it
were going to fly apart. The officer gestured to-
ward him menacingly, and he turned it down. It
was a foolish action, because now the Germans
watched us closely, and it was some time before
we could talk again.

I thought, “So that’s why they’re dressed as
they are—fishermen,” and I saw the significance
of the reed fishing poles carelessly thrown in the
bottom of the boat.

“But what happened to their motor?” I said
against the buffeting wind as I turned my head.

“Never had one,” the marine answered. Chuck-
ling ironically, he added, “They underestimated
the distance from the sound to the base. Now,
in order for them to make it back to the boat in
time to catch the sub, they’ve got to move pretty
damn fast.”

We had to stop talking then, and the fear was
beginning to leave me enough presence of mind
to think. So, they hadn’t accomplished the mis-
sion—that explained why the officer was so agi-
tated, so nervous, so preoccupied. Or did it? Was
it merely that he was afraid of being in an enemy
country, of not catching the sub out? Then, by
the stiffness in his bull-like neck, the calm voice
with underlying steel strength, I knew he was
the universal type who knew little fear, who
would not fail; and, with a start, I realized he
hadn’t—he had the marine. Couldn’t the marine
tell them more about the base then they could
have ever found out for themselves? Was kid-
napping their original intent? And, in a new light,
I turned to look at the marine, wondering if he
knew; by the wary intelligence in his eyes, the
hard, determined, scared white about his mouth,
I saw that he did.

I was overcome then with a chill. The air had
cooled; the spray of the water had dampened my
clothes. Yet, whether it was cold or an onslaught
of nervousness, I could not tell. I began to trem-
ble so I could barely stay on the seat. The marine

THE REBEL
looked toward me anxiously. I gritted my teeth
in an effort to keep them from chattering loudly.
With a gesture similar to humble obeisance the
German on the left pulled a blanket of some sort
from under the nook in the bow and, smiling,
passed it to me. The marine helped me arrange
the blanket over my shoulders while both Ger-
mans smiled tolerantly. Against all reason, I
found myself thinking that back home they were
probably nice German boys.

So, we rode on; and I saw that part three of
the puzzle had fallen into place—the marine him-
self. Suddenly, I found myself wondering just
where I fitted in. I added weight to the boat, thus
slowing it down. I gave the marine an ally ...
and horror spread over me again. Why had they
brought me along? I searched their faces anxious-
ly for the answer.

Some fishing boats were coming towards us,
and the officer motioned frantically for the marine
to go in to shore. We eased in quickly, hiding
among the trees there. A wild, white bird with
long legs and a huge wingspread flew up unex-
pectedly and all of us jumped.

It became too quiet for us to talk, the boat al-
most idling as we moved carefully among the logs,
weeds, trees and stumps along the swamp—the
shore had disappeared long ago, and only a tangle
of vines and a mass of trees hung with heavy grey
moss were there to see us.

The German at the bow was still furtively look-
ing at his watch, and I could almost see him mak-
ing calculations. He and the other two began to
talk excitedly, urgently. Soon, he motioned for
us to head back out into open water.

The marine turned his head and said against
my flying hair, “I’m going to crash into a fishing
stake in a minute. Dive deep and quick so the
motor or the boat won’t strike you.”

The Germans were looking at us suspiciously.

“Tl tell you when,” the marine turned and his
words blew around my head like the wind, buffet-
ing and confusing.

The fishing stakes sped by the boat. I held my
body tense, ready to jump. The marine, sensing
my tautness, laid a careless hand over my knee.
Its pressure told me, “not yet.”

As the fishing stakes sped by, I held my muscles
tense, prepared to jump when the pressure of his
hand relaxed. He caught my eye and motioned
to a stake about two hundred feet ahead. The
purring motor echoed through the swamp. I held

WINTER, 1961

my body tense until I trembled from the effort.
I must have been visibly poised to jump, for the
marine carelessly moved so that his shoulder
forced me to relax my pose. Would I be able to
dive? I had dived before—off an anchored boat,
off a diving board, off a bank. Would I be able
to dive deep enough and fast enough to avoid
being hit by the boat or the motor? What did
the marine intend to do anyway? How would he
dodge three Germans? Probably the guns would
be lost in the dark, sandy bottom. Would I spoil
everything by not being able to get away? The
stake was drawing nearer. I refused to allow
myself to look at the rushing water any more,
because the more I looked, the more uncertain I
became that I could dive overboard.

In an effort at self-control, I fastened my eyes
on the hand with the steady, confident pressure
on my knee. It was a broad, bony hand. The nails
were square; and all the fingers seemed to have
an unusual crook. Suddenly, the hand lifted,
spread, with all the fingers apart, like a maestro
commanding a great swell, and my body struck
water. I could feel the boat turn from under me
as in a last violent spurt it swung up against the
stake. Painfully, my fingers were bent backward
as they unexpectedly struck bottom. I struggled
to my feet and found the water to reach to my
chin. The stake was undoubtedly a broken-off
one, disallusioning as to the depth. The water
should have been at least fifteen feet deep here.
The Germans were splashing about, all thrown
clear of the boat. They were between me and
shore. I widened the distance between us by
heading out until my feet left bottom. I saw no
sign of the marine. Had he been hurt? Killed?
The Germans were evidently as bewildered as I.
The marine’s body appeared up near shore, where
he had swum under water.

“Stop!” the officer cried.

I tucked my chin down and propelled myself
under, letting my breath out in small bubbles, and,
to keep my feet under, pushed them in the sand.
Desperately, I swept over the sand with my hands
and dug with my feet. I thought my lungs would
burst, but I knew that I must reach shore, too.
I heard a shot, and then another, and felt the
water along my back part with a zing. I was
forced to come up for air. I had swallowed water
and lost all co-ordination. I heard the Germans
rushing towards me, and blind with water, I
stumbled ahead. I had swum almost to shore, and
the stumps and seaweed were.thick. I fell and

31
a knobby cypress knee pounded into my chest.
I heard myself cry out as I struggled for breath
in a last terrified plunge toward the shore. A
sharp hand clamped itself on my shoulder and I
sank in the water, writhing, to rid myself of it.
Others grabbed me, and before a pain wiped it-
self over my face, leaving my lips bleeding, I
heard myself screaming.

The German officer talked and gestured excited-
ly toward shore while the other two held me.
Everything got quiet, and the frogs and insects
hummed monctonously. The Germans were listen-
ing intently for a sound from the marine. So
swift I didn’t even see his hand, the officer slap-
ped me a horrible blow across the face. It hurt
so much I couldn’t scream, but sucked in my
breath and was unable to breathe out. He called
to shore, his voice bouncing off the trees.

His hard fists pounded into my body and face
so fast the pain seemed continuous.

“Don’t!” a voice called from shore, and through
the haze of my pain-blinded, tear-filled eyes, I
saw the white of the marine’s shirt.

Part four of the puzzle fell into place. There
had been no fishing net to entangle the Germans;
nor enough water to keep them preoccupied with
staying up or to enable me to swim well to safety.
Also, I knew now why I had been brought along.
It was quite evident that the Germans didn’t see
me as an ally to the American, but rather as a
hostage for them. With a completely sinking
sensation, I realized they were right.

The German officer was consulting his watch
often now as we clawed our way through the
murky swamp. He set a pace meant to meet a
deadline. I was barefooted, my clothes wet, and
so uncomfortable and hurting I lagged behind,
falling over cypress knees that jutted up in the
dark. Sometimes I fell over things that weren’t
even there. The muck often enveloped me as far
as my knees. The mosquitoes were vicious, and
bit through the clothing.

After about three miles’ walk, the officer stop-
ped to confer with the other two. I slipped to
the base of a tree on high ground, completely
fatigued. The marine knelt beside me. “Are
you all right?” he asked, his voice full of con-
cern. I nodded, too pained and too weary to
speak. It was way into night now, and I could
only see the white of his shirt as he knelt before
me and the lightness of his hair when the moon
struck it.

32,

“T’m sorry about back there,” he said, popping
a twig impatiently. “Are you sure you're all
right ?”

I recall I hated myself right then. I knew I
had ruined his chance for escape—and mine, too.

The mosquitoes hummed continuously. I could
not talk. My throat tightened ... “I’m sorry.”

“Forget it,’ he said brusquely. He kept on
popping twigs. Reluctantly, he added, “The of-
ficer told me if they don’t make the boat... I
hope to God they do.”

I surprised myself by saying, “Don’t worry.”

As we rose to our feet, I saw his eyes. They
were hurt, naked in animal fear; and yet I could
tell that whatever happened, it would be done
courageously, with integrity. I wondered doubt-
fully if I looked the same way.

It did not seem strange to me then that we
should find a fishing skiff in excellent condition,
with a motor; yet, I remember slipping another
piece of the puzzle into place—part five.

We crossed the sound and under the highway
bridge. I wondered if the marine knew that he
would be taken with them. When he got too
close to a barge from the pulp mill at Plymouth,
they threatened me with a gun. I realized escape
probably would not have been too hard for him
had I not been along. In a desperate lurch, I tried
to jump overboard—the barge would see me; but
the German beside me roughly snatched my free-
dom away.

On the eastern side of the bridge was a beach
resort. The music carried out to us over the
water. A little farther down the beach, we edged
into a small cove. There, waiting for them, was
a small yacht such as is used in deep sea fishing.
They paid no attention to me, but motioned for
the marine to climb aboard—then I had been
right.

“You'll not take him!” I screamed. I stood up,
rocking the boat dangerously.

The men on board—they were foreign, too—
became very silent. The officer laughed. It was
a hard and bitter, triumphant and sarcastic laugh.
I turned and glanced at the marine. He was at
gunpoint. The officer reached and jerked me by
wrist so that my head flew back and I struck
the sore place on my shin. Without thinking, I
flung up my right arm and struck him with my
open hand as hard as I could in the face. I heard
the marine shout, “Dive! Dive!”

Before I dived, though, I gave the officer a

THE REBEL

shove with both hands that sent him crashing
upon the bow of the boat and the anchor there.
The water was plenty deep, clear of stumps, and
I dived clean and swift. My right hand was numb
from striking the officer, but I kept my fingers
together and my strokes were strong. Shots were
echoing around me. I swam until I reached the
weedy, stumpy shore; then, I lumbered to my
feet and began stumbling to shore. They were
trying to get the motor in the skiff started, and
I could well tell the marine was not helping them.
When I reached solid ground, no one was follow-
ing me, but I kept on running.

I ran until I reached the beach resort. I could
see couples dancing there. I cried and tried to
run faster. I saw a car near the driveway, slip-
ped into it and tried through my blurred eyes to
find the ignition. It had no keys. I crawled across
the seat and out the other door into a pickup
truck. It started immediately, although to this
day, I do not know what I did. I started in re-
verse and backed into something. The gatekeeper
turned and looked strangely at me, waiting for
me to stop and survey the damage. When I
didn’t, he stepped out in front of the truck. I
had gotten it into forward gear by then, and
crushed the accelerator to the floor. His face
looked as if someone had thrown a lemon pie into
it when he jumped back and I sped by. About
three miles down the highway, I turned up the
road leading to the marine base. The guard at
the gate thought I was drunk and playfully block-

ed my getting out of the truck. Hysterically, I
begged him to let me through. Finally, he phoned
for an M. P. to come get me and take me to an
officer. About fifteen minutes later, he came.

No one believed me. “A German sub at Nor-
folk?” they laughed. “Germans on the Albemarle
Sound?” All of them stared at me from around
a shiny desk, not daring to believe. I screamed
at them. I implored them in the softest of whis-
pers, begging them to believe, to rescue the ma-
rine. ‘“What’s his name?” they wanted to know.
I couldn’t tell them. They laughingly told me
that many marines were on leave—that they had
no way of checking immediately who was actually
missing or on leave.

“Tt’s not important who he is,” I cried. I asked
to take them to the spot where the yacht was and
where the skiff was probably still moored. I
pointed out my bruised face. At last they made a
call to Norfolk to check carefully for a sub there-
abouts, but the call had no force behind it. It
was given lightly. Finally, they called out a search
for the yacht. I stood there crying, knowing that
part six, the final part of the puzzle that spelled
safety for the Germans, had fallen into place.

A week later, I was called to the base and told
that a marine officer by the name of Harry Stew-
art had gone AWOL, and that he fit my descrip-
tion. No German sub had been found in or around
Norfolk or on the Atlantic Coast.

With my eyes, I blamed them. What about
Harry Stewart? Where is Harry Stewart?

Che Journey

Words Upon the Wind
Confessor of life, hide in death.
Contorted, twisted by the worldly winds—
A man so lost unable to grasp
A simple word, a syllable of trust.
There is no man whose mind controls
All that life and man has willed.
An innovation of his choice,
Chosen perhaps to meet tomorrow.

WINTER, 1961

Judgment passed, to answer once
His futile plea, his humbled faith.
Only again can he fulfill
The citadel of remembrance.
A payment for life cannot be asked.
One life’s worth is not another.
Confessor of life, you’ve paid your price.
Eternal mercy and all it gives
Restores to you your heart and pride—
An element of hope
That someone kind might speak his name.
At last in time, the menace of the past
Goes down to death,
Prelude to a novel birth.
—CARL YORKS

SIR JOHN SUCKLING
An Essay

By SHERRY MASKE

Sir John Suckling had a beard that turned up
naturally and an easy impudence that not only
won the hearts of the court ladies of the seven-
teenth century but is equally irresistible to female
hearts of the twentieth century, which have de-
veloped an immunity, composed of two parts
boredom to one part over-exposure, to the sugary-
sweet love lyrics of other centuries.

Sir John’s life, like his poetry, was gay and
irresponsible. After graduating from Cambridge
he toured the continent. Back in England he lived
the life “with an abandonment” expected of
Charles’ courtiers. Roberta Brinkley tells us that
he was the “darling of the court,” having ‘wealth,
wit, and a bachelor state to establish his popu-
larity.” He was a great gamester, both for bowling
and for cards; and his popularity apparently didn’t
extends into all areas, for, says Douglas Bush, “no
shop-keeper would trust him for 6d.” Not content
to wager his money on cards and bowling, Sir
John is said to have invented cribbage.

Politically, Suckling sided with the king rather
than with the Puritans; apparently the king’s
cause was one of the few things he took seriously.
For his part in trying to rescue Strafford from the
tower in 1641, he was forced to flee to France,
where, it is said, he committed suicide. Other
accounts say that he was killed by a vengeful
servant. (There is no account of the nature of
the servant’s grudge against the gallant Sir John;
possibly the poor servant did not possess a beard
that turned up naturally and, constant associa-
tion with one so blessed by nature being a con-
tinual reminder of his own inadequacies, he finally

34

chose this drastic means of relieving his torment.
Or, more prosaically, the servant may have dis-
approved of his master’s politics.)

This is, in brief, an account of Sir John Suck-
ling’s life; he was born in 1609 and died (by what-
ever means) in 1642, at the age of thirty-four.
The details of his life gain great significance when
viewed in conjunction with the environment in
which he lived and wrote.

Sir John’s immediate environment was that
of the court, which Herbert J. C. Grierson de-
scribed as “the Court, the corrupt, ambitious, in-
triguing, dissolute but picturesque and dazzling
court.” Grierson speaks of the young courtiers
as spending their days in “dressing, mistressing
and compliment.” Louis B. Salomon, commenting
on the moral tone of the court, wrote: “The im-
morality ... if not greater than that of any
other period, was at least more open . . . cynicism
became a mark of ‘fine-gentlemanship’.”

Suckling lived in a literary environment which
was in a state of change. Until this time, love
poets had written of honor and chivalry, idolizing
the objects of their love, extolling their perfect-
ions, but expecting nothing in return. By the
middle of the seventeenth century, according to
Salomao, poets were not only

striking out for freedom from amorous servi-
tude, but refusing to take love seriously at
all. The revolt against traditional love in
poetry never reached a greater peak either
in degree or in numerical strength than it did
while this mood was at its height . . . love,

THE REBEL

metaphorically speaking, was a creature to
be patted on the head like a child, so long as
it amused, and to be hustled off as soon as it
became troublesome.

This attitude is the prevalent one in the poems of
Suckling.

This was the environment in which Sir John
Suckling lived; the immoral, cynical, gay life of
the court and the changing attitude toward love
poetry are each reflected in the poetry he wrote.
He was also influenced by the two most important
poets of his day, John Donne and Ben Jonson.

Suckling is classed as one of the Cavalier poets ;
these poets, we are told, “caught from Ben Jonson
the love of sharp outline and the easy expression
characteristic of the Cavalier lyric.” And Grier-
son wrote that Donne instilled in them “the pure
doctrine of the need of passion for a lover and a
poet.” Suckling reflects the metaphysical strain
of Donne in this sense, although Douglas Bush
says that it is “chiefly the cynical strain of the
young Donne that Suckling carries on.” The in-
fluence of both Donne and Jonson is reflected in
this poem of Suckling’s:

Out upon it! I have loved
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings
Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.
(“Out upon it! I have loved”)

Grierson adds that, of all the Cavalier poets, “the
gayest of the group is Sir John Suckling.”

Although it is generally agreed that no one
of the Cavalier poets approaches the greatness of
either Donne or Jonson, their poetry has certain
qualities (most evident, I believe, in Suckling)
which recommend it. Grierson comments that
the poetry of the Cavaliers displays a “neutral”
style which is equally appropriate to prose and
verse, and is entirely that of an English gentleman
of the best type. This style is exemplified in what
is probably Suckling’s best-known poem, “Why
So Pale and Wan:”

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can’t move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?

WINTER, 1961

Why so dull and mute, young sinner,
Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
Saying nothing do’t?
Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her.

If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her.
The devil take her!

Very little has been written about Suckling’s
poetry ; occasional references are made to him in
material concerning more important figures. These
references, however, often reflect some facet of
either the poet’s personality or his poetry or both.

Salomon speaks of Suckling’s “insolent aloof-
ness,” and of “that fresh, simple vigor, that artis-
tic sincerity, that characterize .. . Suckling... .
even in... expressions of nonchalant disdain.”
Suckling, according to Salomon, treats love as a
feast, except that he threatens to “rudely call for
the last course ’fore the rest. Having swallowed,
as it were, his dessert, he immediately casts his
eye about for another banquet.” In the poet’s own
words:

And O, when once that course is passed,

How short a time the feast doth last!

Men rise away, and scarce say grace,

Or civilly once thank the face

That did invite, but seek another place.
(“I Prithee Spare Me, Gentle Boy.’’)

Sona Raiziss speaks of “Suckling’s light irony.”
C. V. Wedgewood comments briefly on “Sir John
Suckling, who always had a refreshing vein of
common sense.” Dryden said that he expressed
better than any other poet the conversation of a
gentleman; poetry was to him only an avocation.
In “A Session of the Poets,” in which the poets of
his day are appealing to Apollo for the crown of
poet laureate, he wrote of himself:

He loved not the muses so well as his sport,
And prized black eyes, or a lucky hit
At bowls above all the trophies of wit:

Dryden summed up the gallant Sir John in
these words:

For us he typifies, more than any other of
the Cavalier poets, the cloak-over-the-shoulder
pose which they liked to affect. He is the
gayest, wittiest, and most superficial of them
all.

35

News

They are telling it

In the streets.

No one will say the
Name.

They are people without
Faces, having only voices.
They speak of the ground
And the cool nights,

I am afraid.

No one will say the Name.

Perhaps it is someone
That I used to know.

So long I have been away.
A figure without a face
Speaks loudly.

I shudder as I hear

That piercing voice.

Someone is sobbing softly.

Someone is dead.

The name they call is mine.

—SUE ELLEN HUNSUCKER

Spring

It was spring. And there was this kitten.
(Pansies clustered around steps
looking up with rainbow-colored grins.
Spring
wearing a skin-tight dress of downy green
with apple blossom and new grass smells
for perfume...
And there was this kitten.)

He sat blinking the house-darkness away
And his eyes caught and held the brightness
of morning sunlight,
Then
Fluffed black powderpuff hair out
around a plump body
And ate a bug.
(a caterpillar hunched itself up
on a pansy in front of him,
became the victim of his bug-lust.)

And there was this kitten...

The noise of the air rifle blended
instantly

With ordinary sounds of nature—
with the angry bee arguments
and repeated bird calls.

Its bullet made no noise
entering the softness

That was the kitten’s breast and heart.

The dead kitten lay like a small black period
on the lawn.

The food-smell of the blood trickling
from his breast

Attracted a large fly

Whose green body

Caught
and

Held
the brightness of morning sunlight
as it began to eat.

—DENYSE DRAPER

36 THE REBEL

THE REBEL REVIEW

What is a book and what is its purpose? Why
should an individual read? These are two ques-
tions that plague not only the publishing world,
but the conscientious readers who endeavor to
penetrate the land of the printed word.

For our purposes, let us define a book as a
written or printed narrative or record by an in-
dividual who has seen or who has conceived a
situation which he wishes to relate to the read-
ing public. He takes the situation, studies it, lets
the idea impregnate his mind until finally the
idea becomes so powerful that he records it in
written language.

The author may have several or just one pur-
pose for his book. He may wish to convey to the
reader an awareness of a situation, or perhaps,
wish to present his ideas concerning a specific
subject. But whatever his purpose, one must read
creatively to grasp the author’s intent.

This leads to another question—why should an
individual use time and energy reading? The
reason should be, as we see it, TO GROW, TO
LEARN, and TO REAP THE HARVEST OF THE
MIND! How dull and boring this world would be
without books. How could we ever be able to visit
foreign lands and observe cultural difference?
How could we be able to grasp a better under-
standing of our world and of our time? How can
we learn of the advances in science? How could
we compare our ideas with those of modern, bril-
liant thinkers? In books we find all the human
emotions and more. We find treasured moments

WINTER, 1961

of serenity, self-analysis, and simple pleasure
which causes us to be aware of our place in the
earth’s time cycle.

In the last several years masterful books have
been written which are destined to be placed in
the literary hall of fame. How many of the fol-
lowing list have you read?

EXODUS—Leon Uris

ADVISE AND CONSENT—Allen Drury
HAWAII—James Michener

THE LOVELY AMBITION—Mary Ellen Chase
SERMONS AND SODA-WATER—John O’Hara
DECISION AT DELPHI—Helen Mac Innes

THE RISE AND FALL OF THE THIRD REICH
—William L. Shirer

THE ORGANIZATION MAN—
William H. Whyte

THE WASTE MAKERS—Vance Packard
TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD—Harper Lee

THOMAS WOLFE: A BIOGRAPHY—Elizabeth
Nowell
ACT I—Moss Hart

ONLY IN AMERICA—Harry Golden

THE DARKNESS AND THE DAWN—Thomas
B. Costain

THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATE—Morris L. West
GRANT MOVES SOUTH—Bruce Catton
THE LONELY CROWD—David Reisman
THE LEOPARD—Guiseppe Di Lampedusa

37

|
|

“Her Majesty, Queen of England...”

Decision at Trafalgar—Dudley Pope. Philadelphia: J. B.
Lippincott Company. 1960. $5.95.

A little over 150 years ago Napoleon Bonaparte,
trying to build his empire, was doing a pretty
good job.

In the spring of 1805 England watched, fear-
ing invasion, as barges assembled at the channel
ports on the other side. There was only one
chance for England to stop the little French Em-
peror. This chance was Horatio Nelson and the
English Navy.

In this book Dudley Pope has given an excellent
and valid account of the decisive naval battle that
won for England not just the war, but undisputed
supremacy on the seas for over a hundred years
as well.

For those who know the ways of the wind and
the sea, Decision at Trafalgar is an adventure
in sailing; to historians it is a documented record-
ing of the past, and to the rest of us it is a roar-
ing story, vivid in description, intricate in detail,
fascinating to read.

Supplementing the fine technical and descrip-
tive writing are 16 pages of photographs, 18 bat-
tle diagrams and 20 line drawings. These illustra-
tions add quite a bit to the book and are especially
helpful to a landlubber who needs help under-
standing the technical language of a sailor.

The book is a vivid and striding re-creation of
the conditions in the navies of France, England,
and Spain. It allows the reader to stand beside
Nelson and feel the roll of the deck and the tingle
of battle excitement. The technical details, his-
toric background, description, and documentation
make it a notable book well worth reading.

Tom JACKSON

““Confederate Raiders’”’

The Bold Cavaliers—Dee Alexander Brown. J. B. Lippin-
cott Company. ($3.75)

Dee Alexander Brown in his captivating prose
has written another stirring novel on the Civil
War. The Bold Cavaliers follows the story of
Morgan’s Second Kentucky Cavalry in its struggle
to aid the southern cause from the time of the
battle of Shiloh until the fall of the Confederacy.

38

Coming from a political divided homeland, Ken-
tucky, into a war which pitted brother against
brother, these bold young men attained fame in
the struggles which followed. They distinguished
themselves by reaching farther into the North
than any other Confederate fighting force.

The so-called “alligator-horses” were planters,
merchants, blacksmiths, horse breeders. Original-
ly all were sons of the blue grass country; but as
time passed and “the raiders” increased in size,
the ranks were filled with troops from several
surrounding states.

The ‘Second Kentucky’ led by John Morgan en-
gaged in the harassment of military supply, the
destruction of arms and stores, various skirm-
ishes and several full-scale battles. Morgan’s men
inflicted losses on the northern forces which, per-
haps, helped prolong the time the Confederate
forces remained in the field of battle. “The Raid-
ers” who were feared and respected by the North
were loved and admired by the South.

Both Morgan and many of his men were cap-
tured and imprisoned during the war; however,
most of them managed to return south and rejoin
their beloved outfit and continue to fight.

Following the death of the “Second’s” valiant
leader, John Morgan, supplies, ammunition and
good horses seemed slowly to trickle to a stop.
The unit was soon dismounted and their last for-
mation was met to escort President Davis and
the Confederate Treasury further south.

The legend of the Second Kentucky cavalry
was drawn from letters, memoirs, and news ar-
ticles which told the stories of the men who
served under its pennon: John Morgan, Basil Duke,
Tom Quirls, and James Ellsworth. Brown has
skillfully created a story to present with great
vividness and color those Bold Cavaliers as true
fighting men of the Confederacy.

DARRELL HURST

“Nobility from Within”

The Interpreter—March Cost. J. B. Lippincott Company.
($3.75)

March Cost has once more brought to her read-
ers an exciting novel of romance and suspense
ealled The Interpreter.

Olga Kalyazin, the heroine of the story, who
was the wife of a Russian baron, becomes a de-

THE REBEL

partment store interpreter in Stockholm after
fleeing from Russia during the Revolution of 1917.
Under the assumed name of Madame Molsalsk,
Olga puts her fluency in seven languages into
practice in order to make her living as an inter-
preter.

While in Stockholm, she encounters Alexis Sar-
ansk, her old lover, and learns that her husband,
from whom she has been divorced for many years,
is not dead. Her renewed love for her husband
makes their ultimate meeting a time of tense
excitement and suspense.

The novel takes its reader from Stockholm to
London where Olga accepts a position in a museum
in which her own dowry is exhibited. Her efforts
to hide her identity and her chance meetings with
her past bring adventure to the plot of the story.

This book is filled with lovely words and vivid
descriptions, for Miss Cost weaves a truly pic-
turesque atmosphere around her characters,
especially in her descriptions of European cities.
She says of Stockholm: “Stockholm lay tranced
in a sun-struck aftermath. Any other city, after
such a day, might have steamed or sweated, but,
spaciously lapped by air and water, its building
rose around her calm, sedate—civic or domestic
monuments to native strength, only lightly graced
by French influence.”

Thrilling suspense mixed with a true protrayal
of human nature are evidence of the author’s
unique writing skills and make this adventure of
chance called The Interpreter a story to remem-
ber with pleasure.

SUE ELLEN HUNSUCKER

“An Exciting Two Hours”

Pennies from Hell, David Alexander. J. B. Lippincott
Company, 1960. Price: $3.95.

Another mystery hits the newstand; probably
just as poorly written as a thousand others. If
any critic bothers to review it, his criitique would
say that the author types better than he writes.
But this form of literature is read by: the upper-
class, middle-class, and lower-class; all of whom
enjoy the short pleasures they bring. Pennies
From Hell, is such a novel.

David Alexander’s short novel is a fast-moving,

WINTER, 1961

action-packed story. Perhaps his characters are
not the boy-next-door type, but they do seem
realistic. His two-syllable words may not be the
best words of description, but they do serve their
purpose. The story moves and this is the secret
of his book, as well as any mystery.

An outline of this novel of menace does not
provide the necessary stimulus to rush out and
buy it; but if one wishes to be entertained with-
out exercising anything except the fingers in turn-
ing pages, this is the book to choose.

Joe Conners takes the leading role and, from
the time he leaves prison until his disgusting sur-
prise on the last page, the reader is with him—
wondering whether his problems will deteriorate.
They never do.

Poor Joe stole $129,000 and like all juries in-
terested in justice they decided prison was to be
his home for a few years. Unfortunately, after
eight years the man who lost this sum of money
has not forgotten the incident, and throughout the
major portion of the novel, his paid stooges hound
Joe until he finally commits murder. Unlike many
thieves, Joe is a family man and his young daugh-
ter’s welfare is the reason for his thievery. But
the apple of his eye turns against him and her
ingratitude climaxes on ‘The End’ page where
the reader decides children are a menace.

The last page will surprise, disgust, and prob-
ably make the reader mad. But after impatiently
turning page after page, absorbing every incident,
you can forget it within five minutes without any
damage to the mind.

PAT HARVEY

““Touchdown for the Irish’’

Knute Rockne’ Francis Wallace.
pany. Price: $3.95.

Doubleday and Com-

Francis Wallace treats Knute Rockne with
warmth and understanding in this biography of
a great football coach. Wallace’s friendship with
Rockne as a student at Notre Dame, and in later
years, gives him a personalized insight into the
coach and the man.

Rockne is a sterling example of the American
success story. A Norwegian immigrant in 1883,
an outstanding end for Notre Dame in 1918, and

39

finally, the coach of “the fighting Irish” until
his death in 1931—all this was Rockne and all of
Rockne was this.

The man, Rockne, is depicted as a stern dis-
ciplinarian whose genius for innovations and un-
derstanding of psychology aided him as Notre
Dame’s head football coach. Once when he was
asked, “What makes a man?’’ Coach Rockne re-
plied, “Stay clean, stay strong.” Yet along with
his sterness, Rockne had a sensitivity which is
revealed in Wallace’s description of his corres-
pondence with a crippled child during the trying
days of 1928—his worst season. Rockne, brawn
and brain, will always be remembered in the hearts
of football fans as one of America’s greatest
coaches.

Mr. Wallace has written a well defined bio-
graphy of a great man; however, his background
as a newspaper correspondent often makes the
story seem ‘pieced together’ from former news
articles.

B. TOLSON WILLIS, JR.

“I Vant to be Alone .. .”

Garbo—Fritiof Billquist. G. P. Putnam’s Sons. ($4.50)

Where are the words to capture the intangible
quality of Garbo? To each of us in our own way
Garbo denotes the ideal, the mystery, and the
sorrow of life.

Friend and colleague of Garbo, Fritiof Billquist,
has written a simple but eloquent biography of
the famous motion picture star. From Sweden
to Hollywood and then to the barrenness of Gar-
bo’s present life, the reader is allowed to view
Garbo with her talent, her virtues, and her faults.

However, the reader is often puzzled by Bill-
quist’s inadequate knowledge of his subject—at
times he seems to peer deeply into her soul—but
then it seems as if Billquist disappears within
Garbo’s thoughts.

The book is well worth reading for it gives a
startling answer to Garbo’s talent and tells more
about the legend of a mysterious woman in con-
temporary society.

FLIP

40

“Sir Arthur”

A Biography of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—John Dickenson
Carr. Doubleday and Company.

It is probably safe to say that anyone who en-
joys reading mystery stories today has at some
time read most of Sherlock Holmes’ adventures,
and that many have enjoyed these adventures
who do not usually like detective novels. Since
his creation, Sherlock Holmes has become a minor
national hero and a part of our vocabulary—yet,
little is known about his British creator, Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle.’ This fact in mind, the
famous mystery writer, John Dickenson Carr, has
written an absorbing biography which snaps and
sparkles with the indomitable personality of a
man who was a doctor, an amateur detective, a
popular novelist, and a spiritualist.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle did not particularly
like his most popular creation, Holmes; it was
only the repeated insistences of his publishers,
laden with increased royalty checks, that persuad-
ed the Doctor to continue the literary life of the
detective. Doyle’s dislike for him was evi-
dent when he casually wrote, “I think of slaying
Holmes in the last and winding him up for good
and all. He takes my mind from better things.”
The “better things” mentioned were events of
far-reaching importance, including becoming a
front-line doctor in the Boer War, writing political
pamphlets, and solving crimes in the best
Sherlock Holmes manner. Doyle’s life included
romances of a most elevated kind. He carried on
a platonic relationship with a woman he passion-
ately loved for nearly ten years, because he was
married. His ailing wife held his “utmost affec-
tion,” but not real love, and shortly after her
death, he married the woman for whom he waited
a decade.

Through painstaking research and the ability
of a master writer, Mr. Carr conveys the deep
anguish and tribulations which the lack of a con-
crete faith gives the Doctor’s life. One of the most
interesting highlights of the biography is Doyle’s
final and complete acceptance of spiritualism as
the foundation of his religious beliefs in later
life. It is through such episodes that the shadowy
figure of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—the reluctant
creator of Sherlock Holmes—gains life and sta-
ture.

DENYSE DRAPER

THE REBEL

. . . A Hero’s Head

From Shakespeare to Existentialism, An original study of
Goethe, Hege, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Filke, Freud, Jas-
pers, Heidegger, Toynbee, by Walter Kaufmann. Anchor
Books( Doubleday & Company. Inc. Garden City, N. Y.
1960. $1.45.

Hamlet: Then you live about her waist, or in the
middle of her favors?

Guildenstern: Faith, her privates we.

Hamlet: In the secret part of fortune? I, most
true! She is a strumpet. What news?

* * *

I can only speak of the sections in this book,
From Shakespeare to Existentialism, dealing with
Shakespeare, Nietzsche and Rilke.

Mr. Kaufman’s objective is to reidentify the
real hero in literature—Aristotle’s great-souled
man, Shakespeare’s tragic (unpathetic) hero,
Nietzsche’s Ubermansch and his Rilkean counter-
part. All of which (after Mr. Kaufmann’s thesis,
with which I thoroughly agree) proves the world
and literature don’t need the Christian saint,
the ‘clawless’ hero (the lost generation product
and its present day inheritors. Mr. Kaufmann
points up the fact that it was in the great hero
of Sophocles and Shakespeare, the non-christian
hero, Oedipus, Antigone, Hamlet, Brutus, that
the Greek principle of agape, self-sacrificing love,
was contained; it was outside, beyond, the Chris-
tian pale that honour lived—to wit, we don’t need
T. S. Eliot today at all, nor Anglicanism either.
(Incidentally, Mr. Kaufmann also gives some
answers to T. S. Eliot’s complaints about Shake-
speare, in particular to Eliot’s Seneca essay and
that old objective correlative dodge.)

When dealing with Nietzsche (apropo of the
hero) Mr. Kaufmann is more sparse and less clear,
certainly less inspiring. Of course, Nietzsche him-
self—in Zarathustra—presents a too dismember-
ed image of the hero. In any case, it is not through
Kaufmann but through the source itself that the
reader will understand (the Nietzschean hero).

Mr. Kaufmann’s main service is that he puts
the guts back into reading, and consequently back
into life. Of course, it is we ourselves who must
do the reading and the living.

Mr. Kaufmann also instructs the writer that
greatness is still possible in our age, fashionable
though the Willy Lomans and the Anne Franks

WINTER, 1961

may be, that the dishing up of weakness is not
substantial literary food but merely sauce over
putrefaction. Of necessity, the crowd must be
dismissed, if the writer would not be a flea on
Fortune’s crotch; love must be restored to its
true integrity if the writer would not be a ped-
dling Paris.

JOHN QUINN

ENTER NOW!

REBEL
Writing Contest

lst Prize - - - - - - - $15.00
2nd Prize - ----+-- $10.00
3rd Prize - - - - - - - $ 5.00

Winning Entry To Be Published
In Spring Issue

SHR? STORIES,
POETRYSESSAYS

Prize Money Donated by
Sigma Sigma Sigma

41

at

ALWATS FIRSE. 3 UAL TY!

GREENVILLE, N. C.

TAFF OFFICE EQUIPMENT
COMPANY

REMINGTON STANDARD AND PORTABLE
TYPEWRITERS

COLLEGE SCHOOL SUPPLIES

214 E. Fifth Street Greenville, N. C.

Music Arts

COMPLETE
MUSICAL
LINE

Hi-Fi - Instruments - Records

Phone PL 8-2530 318 EVANS STREET
GREENVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

BELK-TYLER’S

The shopping center for men and women of
EAST CAROLINA COLLEGE

“‘Save with Safety”’
at BBEK> F¥LER’S

VILLAGER SPORTSWEAR

fall op

222 EAST FIFTH STREET

“BASS WEEJUN” LOAFERS

(men and women)
BROWN & BLACK

Student Charge Accounts Invited

OU |

COCA-COLA BOTTLING COMPANY, GREENVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

A

42

THE REBEL

Be Sociable
AOL
Have A Pepsi Se SIN ;

The Light Refreshment

* 4

Riggs House | | 4.8. ELUNGTON & C0.
Restaurant

BOOKS, STATIONERY AND
OFFICE SUPPLIES

OPEN 24 HOURS

422 Evans Street

Greenville, North Carolina

1201 Dickinson Avenue

STEINBECK’S

“Smart Clothes for College Men”’

STEINBECK’S AT FIVE POINTS
Phone PL 2-7076

WINTER, 1961 43

Owen G. Dunn Co.

“Anything For Any Office”

PRINTERS, LEITHOGRAPHERS,

RULERS AND BLANK BOOK MAKERS

Phone ME 7-3197 New Bern, N. C.

44 THE REBEL

DRIVERS WHO KNOW BYRON

GO simep

COLLEGE SUNOCO SERVICE LN <4
CORNER 5TH AND READE STREETS A.
For Pick-Up and Delivery Call PL 2-9385 “Give away thy breath!”

From My 36th Year, line 36

7 A.M. to % Hr. After Dorm Hours Each Night

Discount To All College Faculty
Students and Staff

COMPLIMENTS OF

Student Supply Stores

“FIRST IN SERVICE”

Your Center for:

PAPERBACKS COLLEGE SUPPLIES
STATIONERY SOFT GOODS
GREETING CARDS

Wright Building and South Dining Hall Ground Floor

* F

ig
2
~*

very fime you
d cool shade, so a Salem gi
7 i pea spe or