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T CAROLINA COLLEG
GREENVILLE, N, Gein
Student's Supply Stores
oinst Ju Service�
On the Campus
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T
VOLUME VI FALL, 1962 NUMBER 1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
4T ee 2 ee 3
SeeIRUTORS ee
FEATURE
Interview with Betty Smith sical aca, saga we
FICTION
Quiet Contradiction by Sue Ellen Hunsucker___.__-_____- eee
Harvest by Jo Ann Leith re RAS Meee Retest 12
DRAMA
The White Picket Fence by Harlan Mills nce _..28
ESSAY
Notes on ai Poetry Festival by Milton G. Crocker ARON.
POETRY
A Summer Poem by Brenda Canipe__....------------------" Pane ee eT
I Who First Found Spring by Brenda Canipe Rake ere
Alone by Denyse Draper 9 fon calle Py IRA At� it 39
ART
Francis Speight: The Artist in Residence pais ila ada 23
. REBEL REVIEW
, Reviews by Mac Hyman, Dr. George W. Baker, Richard T. Davis,
Bob Bowman, and Joyce Crocker Eee
) COVER by Larry Blizard.
| THE REBEL is published by the Student Government Association of East
; Carolina College. It was created by the Publications Board of East Carolina
; College as a literary magazine to be edited by students and designed for
the publication of student material.
l NOTICE"Contributions to THE REBEL should be directed to P. O. Box
: 1420, E.C.C., Greenville, North Carolina. Editorial and business offices
are located at 30614 Austin Building. Manuscripts and art work submitted
by mail should be accompanied by a self-addressed envelope and return
postage. The publishers assume no responsibility for the return of manu-
scripts or art work.
STAFF
Editor
Juntus DANIEL Grimes III
Associate Editor
J. ALFRED WILLIS
Book Review Editor
SUE ELLEN HUNSUCKER
Business Manager
WANDA DUNCAN
Advertising Managers
FAYE NELSON
Bog BowMAN
Art Staff
LARRY BLIZARD
Louis JONES
Durry TOLER
Exchange Editor
CAROLISTA FLETCHER
Assistant Exchange Editor
SANDRA EDWARDS
Typists and Proofreaders
Ray RAYBOURN
MARKY JONES
LOUISE ROGERS
JupY SULLIVAN
JOYCE JORDAN
Faculty Advisor
Ovip WILLIAMS PIERCE
Circulation
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Representatives
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11 West 42nd Street
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THE REBEL |
) In recent years, readers have seen the death of many
established magazines, but they have seen the birth of
few new ones. To survive these lean years, magazines
needed strength and vitality, and this need has resulted
in a desperate scurrying to manufacture these qualities
when they did not exist.
The college magazine does not encounter quite the same
problems as does the professional magazine. Infrequently
does it depend on numerical and monetary reader support
for its existence, and consequently there should not be the
absolute necessity to please an ever-larger group. But the
magazine shakeup has reached the college level, and most
college magazines are cautiously probing the uncertain
path of the future in an attempt to find pitfalls. Some
did not begin to probe early enough.
For example, humor magazines on the college campus
rapidly near extinction. And in an apparent headlong
effort to truncate an already brief future, they skip as
gaily as the two oimpractical� pigs into the bared fangs
of the wolf of obscenity, and their own annihilation. Col-
lege humor magazines never had much apparent purpose
r except to entertain readers; but originally this entertain-
ment took sophisticated and satirical directions. Today
it rarely satirizes anything, and usually panders our
most base proclivities. Their jokes not only reek from
the muck underneath, but turn green with the slime of
stagnation on the surface. They are crude, stale, and
impalatable.
But many schools were cognizant and overtly abandon-
ed their humor magazines. However, phoenix-like, humor
. magazines have reappeared in the form of the general-
feature magazines. These magazines claim analogy with
Esquire, and in their format, they combine humor, fea-
tures, poetry, fiction, news and art. They are a journalis-
tic grab-bag for the indiscriminate reader.
Why do college editors prefer ooeneral-feature�T maga-
zines? They purport a responsibility and a desire to
please the students. But we believe that there is another
responsibility inherent in the publication of a magazine:
the responsibility to attempt to improve the discrimina-
tion of the readers whenever possible. This responsibility
entails the publication of something other than a grab-
bag. It requires vitality and a refusal to hide sloppiness
in a hodge-podge. It requires cognizance of the need for
change. It demands insight and determination by stu-
dent editors so that new trends will be honest improve-
ments, not merely old ideas in new dust jackets.
"->p>"-DO--UMm
| Fatt, 1962
4
wright and a newspaper woman. After studying at the
University of Michigan, she spent three years in New Haven
as a student at the Yale Drama School, wrote articles for
the N.E.A. syndicate, the
Detroit FREE PRESS. In 1937, she came to the University
of North Carolina with the Federal Theatre Project and
decided to make Chapel Hill her home.
and was a feature editor on
A recipient of a Rockefeller Fellowship in drama and a
DramatistsT Guild-Rockefeller Fellowship in playwriting,
Miss Smith has had numerous plays published. She is the
author of three novels: A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN,
TOMORROW WILL BE BETTER, MAGGIE-NOW.
A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN, published in 1943, has an
average sale of 20,000 copies each year.
and
Juterview with
BETTY
Interviewer: To what extent has your residence
in Chapel Hill modified any pre-conceptions you
might have had about the South?
Miss Smith: Well, it hasnTt modified any be-
cause I always wanted to come to the South and
ITve been romantic about it.
to come here, I came.
to do a job and when the six weeks were up, I was
supposed to go home but I arranged to stay. I
was in Federal Theatre and they sent four of us
down here for six weeks to be exposed to Paul
GreenTs Lost Colony. When that was over, I pack-
ed up, gave up my house, got on a bus, went two
blocks and told the man to stop. I wanted to stay
here forever.
fessor Koch and said could they do something to
keep me here.
arship of a thousand dollars, and when that ran
out, they got me another one and I wrote A Tree
Grows in Brooklyn on it.
the best thing I ever did because it put Brooklyn
When I had a chance
I came here for six weeks
So I called up Paul Green and Pro-
They got me a Rockefeller Schol-
No, coming here was
Betty Smith began her writing career as both a play-
SMITH
into perspective. I had thought that home was
just commonplace stuff. When I got here I found
it was so different. I stayed here and I liked it
because the living was easy and the children were
safe. I had always lived in a big city and this was
sort of wonderful to me.
Interviewer: Do you think the atmosphere in
the South is more conducive to writing?
Miss Smith: Absolutely. Because itTs not a
formal way of life. ItTs easier to know people and
the living is easier. ItTs not so cold in winter and
things are easier to come by, especially in a college
town. ThereTs access to the library and there are
people who are writing around you. When I lived
in Brooklyn, before I came here, I was known as
a lady who went to business every day. But when
I came here there was a small reception and I was
introduced as a writer. That had never happened
to me before. So, I had to live up to it. I think
most of the people who come here and want to
THE REBEL
Write succeed in writing because there are so
Many writers, and itTs contagious. Unknown peo-
Ple that you never knew could write their names
°r even spell out their names have become very
Successful writers from this part of the country.
Interviewer: Do you think you will ever write
4 Novel about the South?
Miss Smith: Well, yes, I will. But I have to
Set a perspective on it. ITve only been here
tWenty-five years. I think a person has to be born
ond brought up in a place to get the feeling of it.
Sa child, you know more things than you think
you know. Impressions"first impressions" are
SO important. Right now, ITm writing a book
about a college"about married students in col-
*ge"and itTs a composite of all the colleges ITve
fen to. ItTs of North Carolina, itTs of the Uni-
Yersity of Michigan and of Yale. ThereTs a cam-
Panile from here that I use and thereTs something
from Michigan that I use and a little bit from
ale. Yale doesnTt fit in too well because itTs more
formal than these colleges. A lot of things from
ere are in the book, although I donTt call it the
iversity of North Carolina. I donTt call it any
WNiversity"no name.
Interviewer: A couple of years ago John Ehle
ad an article in the News and Observer saying
hat the University of North Carolina had for-
*ited its position as the cultural and intellectual
"a of the South. Do you think that UNC still
S the leading intellectual center?
Miss Smith: Well, of course, it is. I think that
at he said might have been legitimate if he re-
red to playwriting. At one time, this was the
sag of the playwriting medium"especially
�,�-act plays"it had a great reputation with Pro-
*ssor KochTs folk plays; but I think since that
~me a lot of novelists have come from here. Why,
ohn Ehle himself has published four novels while
- lived here and one of his students, I think, has
lah shed a novel. A boy named Roark has pub-
a and a man named McKenna is having a sen-
is onal success. Every place you look someone
Writing a book.
I donTt know whether the South as a whole has
een down in production of good novels, but cer-
Inly Chapel Hill has not. Do you know that
arper, my publisher, is publishing four novels
Y Chapel Hill writers this year"not North Caro-
Na writers but Chapel Hill writers. By me, Mc-
an, John Ehle, and Doris Betts, I think. But
ur novels are coming from Chapel Hill for one
t
li
FALL, 1962
publisher. I think that Chapel Hill is the fore-
most writing town in America, barring none. And
also, I was with Jessie Raeder in the English de-
partment. I spent the afternoon in one of her
classes today and youTd be surprised by the promis-
ing writing thatTs coming out of there. They are
all honor students and they are all seniors, but
some of their work was read and the excellence of
it is surprising. I donTt think John was referring
so much to the writing. We have talked about
people in the arts and it is too bad that the forma-
tive years of their lives must be devoted to being
a sophomore or a freshman. Our contention is
that they should be allowed to come here after
one year of college and go right into the writing
courses and not have to wait until their junior or
senior year. The best writing years, the provoca-
tive years and profitable years, are between eight-
een and twenty-two, when you get material to-
gether, and when your point of view begins to
jell. To devote those precious years to trigonome-
try and ancient Rome and all of those things in
science is a grave mistake. A writer is an im-
pulsive person, not a good student especially.
There shouldnTt be too much education. I think
they should graduate from high school. I think
they should have maybe a year in general college.
But I donTt think there should be all these years of
languages and arithmetic and science.
Interviewer: Is it possible to teach creative
writing?
Miss Smith: Yes, Ithink so. But if you are too
scholarly, if you know too much, you get in the
way of the writer. The writer writes out of his
emotions and his experiences and a too well-train-
ed instructor would be apt to go off the track. He
knows too much. He analyzes too much. He
doesnTt work with his emotions and instincts. Of
course, most of these writers here have had the
full college course. But they write in spite of it,
not because of it. They might come out of it with
full experience of college life and write about col-
lege life as F. Scott Fitzgerald did. But as far as
I know, Eugene OTNeill never had a full college
education, nor Sinclair Lewis. I donTt know about
Hemingway, but I donTt think Robert Burns ever
had a college education.
Interviewer: How would you go about teaching
a creative writing course?
Miss Smith: Well, you tell what the elements
of a book are. When you start you want to prove
something"whatTs your theme? Do you want to
5
prove, asin A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, that pover-
ty can be transcended, or as in my new book, that
it is not the big things in life, the great fortunes,
but the smaller advantages that occur from day
to day that make for happiness and contentment?
And then go about proving it"who is your char-
acter who is going to carry the burden?
But the way they teach here, somebody writes
something. They are told to write, and then the
thing is read and criticized, praised or condemned.
And thatTs the best way to teach writing. Get
them to write anything. If you give them a lot
of rules and plots and all that, it might be a year
before they get into writing. Miss Raeder some-
times starts off her classes"a brand new class
and people in it who have never written before
(or supposedly have never written before)"and
says look out the window for two minutes and then
she calls out, oSit down and write your reactions.�
Some people say the clouds are very nice. Others
say the girls are wearing shorter dresses this year.
Everyone has a different reaction. And you tell
them something about form. A novel can be two
hundred pages or six hundred and it can be about
one character or sixty characters. ThereTs more
scope to it. And once in a while, you give a lecture
on the use of words and how much dialogue should
be used. I personally write everything in dialogue
because I had a very tight training as a playwright
for many years at Michigan and at Yale. Novel
writing is a new thing to me. I write everything
in dialogue and then transpose it. I keep the best
lines of dialogue. Every line of dialogue must
either advance the plot, show characteristics, or
be interesting in itself. You must have at least
one of these elements. If you have all three, you
are pretty wonderful. If you have-two, you are
very good. You just cannot have people talking
idly. The dialogue must do something.
We go at it that way. There really is no form
for teaching writing. There are no rules.
Interviewer: What books do you suggest that
your students read?
Miss Smith: Well, I always say if you want to
write like Faulkner you should read Shakespeare.
If you want to write like, oh, some modern per-
son, like Salinger (I donTt like him.), read Hem-
ingway. But if you do read people like Zane Grey
or the quick writers, you write confession stories.
Read better than you write. I advise everybody
to read War and Peace"not War and Peace, Crime
and Punishment"I canTt read War and Peace my-
self"although ITm working on it now. But read
Crime and Punishment, because that has plot, that
6
has character and what it says is that nobodyTs
wrong and nobodyTs right. ItTs a rare thing that
you understand why this man committed murder.
You donTt condone it but at least you understand
it.
Interviewer: What is the difference between |
writing a book to make it appeal to the popular
mind and writing for critical acclaim or a lasting
purpose?
Miss Smith: Well, if you write for yourself, |
write as best you can with nothing in view. DonTt |
slant it, donTt copy, donTt be too much influenced.
If you must be influenced, be influenced by the
greatest writers there are. But, if you write for
money, you donTt write well because you are al- |
xious to please and to make it look good to a cer-
tain reading audience. If you write because you .
feel so deeply that you have something to say, and "
that youTll die if you donTt say it, you might be suc- |
cessful and you might get money. And if money |
comes your way, donTt reject it. Once you write
a book that you like, fight to get all the money that
you can, but donTt sit down to write for money:
It doesnTt work. You have to please too many peo-
ple. You must decide whether you want to write
good books or popular books.
nn
Interviewer: Do you think the most interesting
work, at least in the novel field, is still being done
in the South?
Miss Smith: Yes, I think the most important
work is being done in the South. I canTt name any
other place that is so prominent. I canTt think of
any good writers from Connecticut or from Mass-
achusetts or from the Middle West. It used t0
be the Middle West, you know, way back. There
was Sandburg, and Sherwood Anderson of Wines: |
burg, Ohio, one of my favorite writers, but today |
I think that the best writing is coming from here:
And oddly enough from New York City. ThereTs
quite a gush of good novels coming from the Met-
ropolitan areas. I think the best Negro novels are
written by the northern Negroes.
Interviewer: Which southern writer do you
think best portrays the South?
Miss Smith: Faulkner. I donTt know of any
other southern writer who did as well. There is
Carson McCullers. But her work was general. It
could be the west or the southwest. I canTt thinkT
of any others. I think Paul GreenTs work is theT
lyrical South. HeTs very lyrical in his work, but
his most successful work is historical stuff, you
THE REBEL
know The Lost Colony and all that. But I read
aulkner and it sounded real and true in his atti-
tude towards the Negro and the NegroTs attitude
towards his characters. In the books he had all
f the phases. In one book that I read the Ne-
8roes talked among themselves in one way and
talked to the white people in another way and the
Whites talked to the Negroes in another. He has
all those nuances. I think heTs got it better than
anybody ITve ever read.
Interviewer: What is the difference between
Popular books and good books?
Miss Smith: A good book lasts. That is my one
feeling about it. A quick book like Peyton Place
or Forever Amber is very big for a couple of years,
ut it never is spoken of in classes. My idea of a
800d book is, itTs being required in a college Eng-
lish course. ThatTs my criteria and also that the
lbraries stock it, you know, not just for new
°oks, but that it is in the stacks. Of course, that
Will take in Zane GreyTs stories, and I donTt think
oMat he is particularly a good writer, but it takes
' most of the classics and a good book like The
rapes of Wrath. ThatTs a book for the ages, and
also Gone With the Wind for its historical value,
ond also most of. HemingwayTs books, and of
oourse, Mark TwainTs books to go back and so on.
I You have to read something. In my day, when
Went to college, it was This Side of Paradise, the
- Scott Fitzgerald book, and The Great Gatsby,
8nd also one or two of Ben HechtTs books, and
�,�rwood Anderson. Those are all books that are
"ead year after year by different generations. I
am very proud to say that it will be twenty years
Pigg year since the publication of A Tree Grows
n Brooklyn. It is still selling two or three thou-
Sand copies a year to high schools and to colleges.
18S on the approved reading list. I think the war
°oks like From Here to Eternity are halfway in
tween, but they lose out pretty soon in five or
�,�N years.
_ think Thomas Wolfe was one of the best writ-
= that ever came out of the South. Not for his
P aterial, but for his great pouring out of things
ie his details and the authenticity of the dialogue
= the actions. I think Look Homeward Angel
Nd Of Time and the River are two of the best
eg published. I donTt read them anymore. I
dag them when I was younger, but now I donTt
id them so much. But thatTs good writing be-
. Use he broke down the barriers of too much form
. & novel, so many chapters, so many pages. He
�,�nt at it and wrote eight hundred pages and let
© chips fall where they might.
Fat, 1962
Interviewer: Sometime last year Lionel Trill-
ing made a comment to the effect that he thought
writers should live in urban areas. He felt that
there was a certain immaturity in provincial or
rural writers. What do you think about this?
Miss Smith: Oh, I think that if a person has
lived in a town from birth and has grown up and
been educated in that state, that he should go to
an urban area to write, just for perspective, be-
cause things loom up a little differently. You get
a little too detailed if you write in a place in which
you live. I think that if you want to write about
New York City, go down in Tennessee and live,
and eat in the places there and shop in the stores
there, and see the whole thing. Then the city
comes into perspective. Sandburg is from Chica-
go, but I think that he wrote his best stuff when he
was out of Chicago. He traveled around a lot.
You know, ITm all for that. I donTt believe that
you have to continue living in the place that you
are writing about. If I moved back to Brooklyn,
ITd write a very good novel about Chapel Hill be-
cause the difference in the people, the difference
in the food, the difference in their point of view,
the sharpness of the city person would make me
see all of the things here. I am so used to these
things now that they donTt stand out. I take them
for granted. But if I am away for two weeks, I
begin to see how people talk and I begin to count
on certain people, even my daughter. She was
brought up here and now is in Washington. She
was here this weekend and she said, oI forget how
it is here.� She went with her daughter Candy to
see the free movies and it was raining. They
stood there and she said a boy came without say-
ing anything to them, a young fellow that had been
waiting to get in, and put the umbrella over them.
She heard somebody conversing about Gaithers-
burg, Maryland and said, oDo you come from
Gaithersburg?� And he said, oNo, but my friend
does.� They found out that they had mutual
friends there, and then a girl came out and some
boy said, oDo you have a car?� She said oNo,�
and he said, oYou wait here and I will get mine.�
She said that that couldnTt have happened any-
where except Chapel Hill, in a college town. oIn
Washington,� she said, oYou stand in the rain and
nobody is going to offer you part of his umbrella.
They might swipe yours from you. And nobody is
going to say, ~I will take you home,T because it
would be dangerous to accept such an invitation in
a big city.� She said that she had forgotten how
wonderful everything here is. She had been away
quite a while.
She writes, and she may write; she is a potential
7
writer. SheTll write about the South, I believe, be-
cause she talks about it all the time"of the dif-
ferent things out here, how the chrysanthemums
come out here sooner than they do up there, and
how the strawberries are different, and how lush
the growth is here and how stingy it is there. But
if she remained here, she would probably get
bored by it, and say how nothing happens here.
Interviewer: Then you donTt believe either area
displays any inherent immaturity.
Miss Smith: No, itTs simply this. I never wrote
of Brooklyn while I lived there. I wrote of it
while I lived here. When I stayed in Brooklyn, I
never wrote any books because all of the things
I saw meant really little to me. I was aware of
them, but I thought that that was the natural
trend of things and it wasnTt interesting. I came
here and these people were something, were in-
teresting. Oddly enough, the book is not popular
in Brooklyn. They say that it is not so, that I
have spoiled Brooklyn and keep tourists away.
They say I have maligned Brooklyn, that the peo-
ple are not poor, that they live very comfortably.
But of course the people who buy books and read
books are the people who live comfortably. The
tenement kids (you know now it is the Puerto
Ricans who are the downtrodden) donTt read those
books, and if they read that book about Brooklyn,
they would say, where is this place? Because
there is nothing like that in their life. But I do
think that a writer should get out of his own en-
vironment when he has soaked it up. You know,
when he has gotten everything out of it. And I
think that while he is living there, he should not
consciously be aware of how things are. I think
that all of these things stain his mind; I donTt
think that he should sit up and say, oI will take
note of this, and write about it someday.�
Interviewer: What is the finest thing to you
about being a writer?
Miss Smith: Because I can live so many lives
at once. It is like a shy person who goes to a
party where everybody is bright and pretty and
clever, and this person has no wisecracks, no re-
partee, and then he will go home and lie in bed
awake, and think of the things he could have said,
or should have said. And you can write that down.
There are a lot of points of view I have and a lot of
things that would otherwise be repressed. But I
can write, and I can make my own world in my
writing. In A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, the back-
ground was very poverty stricken and sordid, but I
can think of it now. When I was a girl I used to
8
think, this is a dream. I donTt believe this, and if |
you had one apple, it was so wonderful"or an |
orange. We had an orange at Christmas. We were
very poor. An orange meant so much to me. And
I can write those things and let them out of my
system. I let myself go and write my opinions of
people. And write the thoughts that I think. 1
canTt go around telling my thoughts to people.
You know they would be bored stiff, but I can
write all of these things. A book is a companion.
It is a best friend and I can tell it anything that |
want. I can make the people be real who were
cruel to me, or I can make them very nice to me in
the book. I can take a character who gave me 4
lot of anguish and make a very gallant guy out of
him in the book the way I had wanted him to be-
And I can make an ideal mother, or if I write
about a mother who is cruel and strict with her
children I can write about her as a very sympa-
thetic, understanding person. I make my ow?
world that way, and that is the best thing about it.
Also, I like the prestige of being a writer. I like
the label. I did a little acting in my time, and |
was a newspaper woman in my time, but now whet
they say, what is your occupation? I say author!
or novelist! And people say, what do you do? You
live at Chapel Hill, what do you do? Work at the
University? I say, No, lama writer. And I never
fail to thrill, seeing my name in print. Betty
Smith is a common name, but even if I see it in
print in connection with somebody else, I get 4
little bit of . . . No, I think that what I like best
about writing is that I can live so many lives. Be-
cause no matter what you say, all writing is auto-
biographical. You canTt write about anything un-
less you know, have seen, or have felt it, or have
heard about it first hand. And because of that,
it is autobiographical. You canTt write about 4
man unless you have known not one man, but you
take a composite. You take five professors that
you knew, and you make one ideal professor out of
them, with all of his spoils and all of his riches.
The people in my books are my dear friends, and
anything that I want to get off my chest, a wo-
man character gets it off her chest. Such great
agony in childbirth"nobody wants to sit around
and listen to it. But in a book, I can write all of
the gory details. ThatTs what I think that I like
best about writing. Somebody listens to me. AS
a shy child in a big family, it was always, oKeep
quiet, keep still we are not interested,� and also i?
the neighborhood, oShe has always got so much
to say, all of the time.� So I got so I didnTt say
anything, I wrote it. That is why I am very hap-
py now, writing. And even if nobody published
my work, I would still write.
THE REBEL
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SUE ELLEN HUNSUCKER
I... man leaned against the counter, his face
urnt rusty brown and his cigarette loose between
= lips So that it dangled when he talked. Ben
a Watching the cigarette flip and flop, wondering
it didnTt fall. It had burned until it was
pia Ost half ashes and they didnTt fall either. They
omed glued on.
I mean I told Tem,� he was saying, his hat push-
re on his head and his elbows resting on the
all er. oI told Tem"I said I wish I could send
ry you black bastards back where you came from
Africa, I mean.� He paused and the ashes
a �,� almost at the filter. The man worked the
pe ning stub around in his mouth as if it were a
_,2ar, took one drag, and dropped it on the floor.
ga younguns,� he said, shaking his head and
exp ening the cigarette butt with his foot. oThey
old �,�ct you to give Tum somethinT for nothinT. The
Se " know you gotta work like pure hell to get
x ollar. ThatTs what I got to do and I ainTt no
mn nigger.�
t cloneipacgeg at the scab on his knee cap and
ie aaeai a little piece of the thin crust off to see
Yellow �,� sore was underneath. The sore looked
expo like a pale egg yolk and the air stung the
Sen Sed place. oQuit that,� said Lou Anne. oDo
vant to git it inflicted?�
* " no, Lou,� Ben said, sticking his knee up
. er face, obut ainTt it already?�
ant hardly help it, you ignoramus, when
. Sg ya dirty fingers in it.� Lou Anne peered
she �,� sore, first at the scab and then sideways so
oTt " see the pus and swelling underneath.
ty Sorta runny,� she said, pressing the scab
yY with her finger.
ed
Fant, 1962
oHey, what you trying to do? Squirt me in the
eye?� Ben moved his knee and put his hand over
the sore.
oYou better go home and git your Mama to put
some alkehol or somethinT on it,T Lou Anne said
gently.
oReckon I better git home at that. Mama says
PapaTs coming home soon. He ainTt been home in
two nights and Mama must miss him real bad
~cause I woke up and heard her crying.� He look-
ed down at his hand and remembered the sore
under it. ~But I ainTt gonna put no alkehol on it.�
oYou better, Ben Parson!� Lou Anne moved
closer to him. oCan I see it one more time, huh?�
Ben moved farther down the box, his hand still
protecting the sore. oWhat for?� he wanted to
know.
oTCause I wanta see a live knee sore fore it
dies. TCause you gonna die, Ben Parsons, if you
donTt wash it out with alkehol.�
oWho says?� Ben still hid his knee.
oMamaTs a nurse, ainTt she? I know all about
knee sores from Mama. ITm nine, ainTt 1?�
Ben shrugged and worked his fingers against his
knee so that Lou Anne could almost see the scab.
oNine ainTt much,� he said.
oOlder Tn you. A whole year older.� Lou AnneTs
lip shot out, and her pony tail swished as she lifted
her head.
oWell, you ainTt no bigger,� Ben said defensive-
ly.
oWell, ITm smarter. Now, let me see.�
For a moment Ben was sure she was smarter,
so he moved back down the box beside her and
9
lifted his hand off the sore carefully. oNow donTt
you go touching it,� he warned.
oITm not, silly.� Lou Anne had her face so
close to his knee that Ben could feel her breath on
the open part of the sore. ~Hey, thereTs a bug on
here!�� Lou AnneTs head bobbed up and almost
hit BenTs chin as his head went down.
oYou already got bugs and you ainTt even dead
yet,� Lou Anne said.
oHell, Lou, that ainTt nothinT but a gnat.� Ben
picked the gnat off and mashed it between his
fingers. He stood up. oITm going home now.
You coming?�
Lou Anne looked up, her blue eyes sparkling
and her mouth wide in a toothy grin. ~oAinTt
never walked home with a corpse before.�
oShut up, damnit, or youTll be dead first,� Ben
threatened.
oYou ainTt gonna murder me, Ben Parsons.
White folks got laws against it. Just niggers kill
each other,� she said as she followed him out of
the store.
They walked slowly, Ben with his hands in the
pockets of his shorts, his left leg stiff as he moved,
his eyes on the sidewalk so he wouldnTt step in
the fresh tobacco juice the colored men spat as
they talked in the afternoon shadows, their voices
husky until they burst into cackling laughter.
Some leaned against the telephone pole and others
squatted with their backs against the battered
brick buildings. Lou Anne walked a little ahead,
her left hand outstretched, slapping the parking
meter posts as she passed.
Ben sat down on the front steps when he got
home and leaned against the porch post. Sunday,
the half-breed collie dog from next door came
over and laid down next to Ben on the step.
oHey, there, old boy,� Ben said softly and be-
gan rubbing the dogTs head with one hand while
he kept the gnats off his knee with the other.
o~PapaTs coming home right soon, Sunday.� Ben
stopped rubbing the dog and looked down the
street. The dog lifted his head, whimpered, and
then began to hassle softly. Saliva rolled around
the edge of his mouth and finally dripped to the
cement.
Ben smiled. oYeah, boy, PapaTs gonna come
walking right down that street and heTs gonna
stop and look up at that sweet gum tree on the
corner and say ~Damn fine looking treeT and pat
the old bark and pull a leaf and say ~Bring that
home to Mama Tcause she dearly loves the smell,T
and then heTll sniff it a little and grin and push
his hat back on his head.T�T Ben looked down at
10
the dog. oThatTs what Mama says, Sunday. She
says heTs gonna take off his gun and his hat and
put Tem on the top shelf and say, ~GunTs a danger-
ous thing, son,T and ITll say, ~ITm gonna be a police-
>
man, too, Papa.
Mrs. Jonas who lived next door came out and
hollered, oSunday!� and the old dog went loping
off to his supper.
Ben hugged his legs and leaned his head against
his knees until he heard an automobile come up
the street and stop. It looked like an ambulance,
except that it was black instead of white and red
like the one his papa sometimes rode in. Ben
couldnTt even see a red light on the ambulance
and he couldnTt see in the long windows because
there were curtains on the inside.
Ben had just disappeared into the house when
the men drew the long steel box out of the back
of the ambulance. The men carried the box care-
fully, slowly up the walk and onto the porch where
BenTs mama met them.
It was almost dark when Lou Anne came and
sat on the porch beside Ben. The front door was
shut and they couldnTt hear the soft, hushed
voices inside. Ben looked back at the white
wreath on the door. Lou Anne looked, too. The
gladioluses were turning brown around the edges
and the big white bow looked like it belonged on
a birthday present.
oWhen my grandpa died,� Lou Anne said, ohe
had so many flowers you couldnTt see him.�
Ben looked at the ground. oGoddam, Goddam,
Goddam,� he muttered.
oI think lots of flowers are nice, donTt you?�
And then, without waiting for an answer, she
said softly, oMy papa says your papaTll have
more flowers than anybody since everybody liked
him so well.�
Ben picked at his scab. Finally, he cleared his
throat and spoke. oI thought you said just niggers
killed each other.�
oWell, I donTt know everything,� Lou Anne said
defensively. She looked down at the scab and
then at Ben. Tears left clear, clean streaks on
his cheeks.
Lou Anne put her arm around his shoulder and
pulled him until his head was cradled against her
neck. Then she swayed gently, holding him like
her Mama used to hold her when she cried.
After awhile, she stopped swaying and said
gently, ~ooYou ainTt gonna die, Ben, even if you
donTt put alkehol on that sore.� She relaxed her
arms a little and then felt Ben pull closer to her,
his head heavier against her shoulder. oBut, to-
morrow ITll put some on it,� she said.
THE REBEL ©
A Summer Poem
I can still remember
trong arms that held me
na Summer night,
�,�neath the great, grey
Shadows of the elm.
Days Wwe spent with the
ild sea and swift wind
long the silver slope,
atching grey waves change
© Emerald, then Amber,
nd back again to grey,
Nd spoke of places far away...
Nother land .. .
Nother time .. .
N ights we spent in
lence,
istening to the quiet
arth sounds,
a
�,�witched by counting
L �,� tumbled into
ethargy and sleep.
Fat, 1962
The gold, mellow days
Melted under the lazy
Summer sun...
Each day sweeter than
The Ast 3s
The flaming sky at last
Gave birth to Autumn,
And all too suddenly
The sharp cold breath
Of Winter
Spread across the earth,
And with it came the rain. .
Then slowly, slowly . .
The orchards lost their
Pale and solemn faces,
Spring breathed a
Sweet sigh across the
Earth,
And the Earth woke,
And laughed and grew warm . .
And love wore on . .
But as the days grew softer...
Mellower .
We knew...
For lovers always know,
That love is never twice the same... .
And when the lazy Sun
Hurled Summer to the earth again,
I knew before I woke
That still, soft morning
I would find him gone . .
The mocking summer days wear slowly on .. .
"BRENDA CANIPE
11
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ed
Zz
Zz.
x
O
-_
THE REBEL
I, was hot. The road stretched ahead of me,
Shimmering in the heat. The air blowing in
through the open windows was stifling and dusty.
For the past hour and a half, since I had crossed
the Indiana-Ohio state line, I had driven on the
new highway"new to me, anyway. A lot of
things would be new to me; ten years changes
things and men.
I was passing wheat fields now; immense gold-
�,�n-brown carpets that swayed ever so gently in
the hot July sunshine. On both sides of the road
the grain grew. I had forgotten how the wheat
looked when it was ready for harvest. Mid-July.
N another week or so the golden shafts would be
replaced by ugly grey stubble, left in the fields as
he huge combines swept through like lumbering
Monsters gobbling up everything in their path.
I wished I could have waited another week before
ooming. I liked the idea of watching the com-
bines do the work.
Ten years since I had had a part in a wheat
harvest. But we never used a combine. We al-
Ways rented a threshing machine. Man, that was
back-breaking work. Neighbors with their wag-
Ons and teams of horses came early in the morning
and spent one day on each farm feeding the cum-
�,�rsome threshing machine. A pitchfork was your
best friend, almost, in those days. Tossing wheat
bundles all day long, a fellow got pretty expert at
Wielding one. Grabbing the tied straw shafts as
he machine coughed them out; stacking them in
Neat bundles; working on the machine itself for a
Change, watching the bags filling with the tiny
Wheat grains; grabbing the filled ones and tossing
them onto a truck moving slowly beside you; that
Was manTs work.
I smiled remembering those days. Always hot
en. And there wasnTt much time, or occasion,
°r conversation. Every man had his chore and
© stuck to it, silently, almost resignedly.
it bene how vivid a memory can be, even when
oa asnTt been recalled for a long time. I must be
Membering all those things because ITm getting
Close to home now.
wom Now there was a word I might have
me argument about. Home for me, really, was
an odd miles north. Home was Gary, Indiana,
it out as un-farmlike as you can get. And I liked
- WouldnTt think about changing. Home to me
as my wife Sue and our little boy. Home was
�"�y job there as a salesman with Modern Pre-Fab
" Home was my house, not too big, neat,
Spectable, in a new development, with nice
Fat, 1962
neighbors. And heme was the reason I was trav-
eling in this heat, alone, on an errand I hated.
It really started a few months back, in the
spring, when the weather was getting nice and
the neighbors back in Gary were getting out in
their yards and doing things. My next door neigh-
bor, Jim Anderson, had some fence people come
out to give him an estimate on fencing in his yard.
ITm usually a pretty easy-going guy, but that hit
me wrong and I got hot under the collar and one
thing led to another and Jim and I had a few
words. Actually I apologized later, and Jim never
did put up the fence, but it got me to thinking.
Got my wife Sue to thinking, too.
One night, soon after the fence incident, when
she finally got the baby settled for the night, she
curled up on my lap.
oYou really were pretty rough on Jim, you
know.�
oYeah, sure.�
oT mean it, honey. All the poor guy was doing
was finding out how much it would cost to fence
in his yard. ThatTs his privilege, you know.�
oFence in his yard? And for what? Keep out
my kid, or something? WhatTs the matter, he too
good for the rest of us, or something?�
Sue was silent for a few minutes. oJed, what
makes you so sensitive about people not liking
you, about shutting you out? Why are you offend-
ed when youTre not invited every place, or included
in everything that goes on around here? This
isnTt the first time something like this has hap-
pened. There must be a reason.�
oOh sure. Get out the psychology book. Find
out what happened way back in my childhood that
I donTt want to remember. ThatTs the solution,
isnTt it?�
oITm serious, Jed. Something or somebody hurt
you terribly sometime. ItTs true you might not
remember, or might not want to remember.�
oDrop it, will you, Sue. Knock it off. I'll call
up Dr. Head-Shrinker tomorrow !�
We didnTt talk about it any more then, but that
doesnTt mean I didnTt think about it a lot. I knew
what my otrouble� was, all right; ITm not that
dumb. The fence was a sort of symbol, I guess
youTd call it. Shutting us off from the neighbors,
keeping us apart in a way. I liked my life the
way it was, with cook-outs and card parties and
borrowing tools and sugar. Anything like the
fence that seemed to put us on the outside was too
much of a reminder of what my life had been
when I was growing up.
13
Cr BOSS. 1///S 2 2." UP
i
m,
)
I grew up right here, in this land of golden
wheat. Really grew up, I mean. I wasnTt born
here but came to live here when I was a little
skinny guy of thirteen, almost afraid of my own
shadow. My folks"well, my mom died when I
was little and I donTt remember her"but my Dad
and I traveled the crop circuit. Beans in Texas,
fruit in Florida, berries further up the coast, al-
ways following the harvest. We never had a
home, but we never went hungry either, and my
dad was good to me. If we stayed in a place long
enough, I got to go to school, but I always knew
it wasnTt for long. And kids have a peculiar way
of letting you know that you donTt belong. My
dad was proud of the way I caught on to the les-
sons and he always seemed sort of sorry every
time he had to take me out of school to move on.
I really donTt know how we came to be in Ohio
that summer. We had never worked that far
north before. But we came home the summer I was
thirteen, just in time for the wheat harvest. We
even stayed a little after the harvest"and that
took a good two weeks"and were getting along
fine. One night my Dad went into town"he
didnTt drink much, we never had the money for
that, and I donTt begrudge him a momentTs pleas-
ure because he had a rough life"but the lights
failed on our old jalopy and Dad hit a bridge abut-
ment and was killed, just like that.
Everybody here in Woodville was nice to me.
They gave Dad a decent burial, but I knew they
were wondering what to do with me. It was old
Mrs. Henby who suggested that I go live with
the Scotts. I didnTt know the Scotts except that
we had worked their harvest, too. Seems they
had lost their only child, a twelve-year old son, a
few months back and Mrs. Scott was taking it
real hard. It seemed the logical solution, to a lot
of folks around here, to have me go live with the
Scotts.
It might have been logical, but it never worked
out. I remember the day I went to live there. I
had been staying with the preacher and his wife,
and Mr. Thomas took me over to the Scotts one
afternoon in August. He tried to explain to me
how it would be living at the Scotts.
oYou see, Jed, Mrs. Scott is a fine woman, and
sheTll be good to you. ItTs just that youTll have to
be understanding and give her time. She and Mr.
Scott were married a long time before James,
their son, was born. She loved him very much,
and now sheTs lost him.�
I looked at Mr. Thomas and wondered: didnTt
I love my dad, too, and didnTt I lose him? Will
14
somebody give me time and understanding, too? "
But I didnTt say anything to him, or anybody,
because I didnTt have a choice.
Mrs. Scott wasnTt there when we arrived, but
Mr. Scott was. I liked him right away, but I
wished he would talk more. He was so quiet, and
he kept his eyes down toward the floor most of
the time. He seemed in a hurry to get outside and
back to his work. He showed me to my room.
There was a bed with a patchwork quilt, a braided
rug on the floor, a ~o~oGod Bless Our Home� em-
broidered on a cloth over the door. The window
looked out across the kitchen garden. It wasnTt
the room their son, James, had had. I found out
later his room was kept locked and nobody went
in except Mrs. Scott.
Supper that night was a solemn affair with just
Mr. Scott and me. I was beginning to wonder if
ITd ever see my new oMother.� After supper Mr.
Scott took me for a walk around the farm. He
seemed to come alive out there in the fields and
when he was showing me his fine livestock.
oJed, ITm glad you came. YouTll be good for
for this house. Good-night, son,� he said, as he
left me at my room.
Strange how a person will remember little
things like that, even conversations.
I saw Mrs. Scott at breakfast the next morning,
but she didnTt sit down to eat with Mr. Scott and
me. She had a slight frame, and her bones seemed
to stick out all over. She wore her hair pulled back
so tightly it pinched her eyes in at the corners
and gave her an almost Oriental look. When I
came into the kitchen she was standing at the
stove watching pancakes brown. She turned and
looked me straight in the eyes as she pulled a
chair out from the table.
oThis will be your place, Jed.
pancakes.�
I liked all Mrs. ScottTs cooking. And she was
generous, always heaping my plate up high and
asking if I wanted seconds. There was always an
apple and a few cookies or a glass of milk waiting
for me when I came in from the fields, or later on,
from school.
I hope you like
School was rough at first. I was put back in
the fourth grade, and then they stretched things
for me. I didnTt know any of the other boys there
and didnTt know how to get to know them. But
it didnTt take long before a few of the boys let me
know ITd be welcome in their group. I worked
hard and made up one grade that year. Miss
Spencer said if I studied during the summer |
could probably go to the sixth grade soon after
THE REBEL |
School opened. That part didnTt bother me.
What I was worried about was not having any
Close friends. Once two of the boys came home
from school with me and I invited them in the
Ouse. Mrs. Scott was there sewing, and she
looked up in a quick jerking way and left the
Toom. That night Mr. Scott asked me not to bring
anybody home with me for awhile yet.
The house was quiet; the Scotts didnTt own a
Tadio, or if they did they never played it. Neigh-
bors didnTt drop in, and the telephone rarely rang.
We went to bed soon after supper and got up early
n the morning. We stayed busy; we never went
any place, not even church.
Christmas we didnTt have a tree, but the Scotts
8ave me a new green sweater that Mrs. Scott had
knitted herself, and I found a Bible on the chest
_ my room, the first book I ever owned. The
Scotts didnTt give each other gifts.
It didnTt take me long to realize that Mrs. Scott
Was most comfortable if I was not in the room
When she was working. So I ate with the two of
them, but then I excused myself and went to my
room. I never brought anybody home with me.
I dia my chores and kept to myself.
Iran away twice. DidnTt get far, just down the
Toad a little. I guess I expected them to find me.
Was right there in plain view on the highway.
the Scotts never said anything to me about it, we
Just went on like before.
I did my share of work on the farm. Mr. Scott
Was a hard-working man, but not like my Father
Who always worked for someone else. Mr. ScottTs
Work meant something more, for when his harvest
Was in he could see and feel and taste and hold
°n to the results of all his labors.
I liked the summers best, and the wheat harvest
ton! all I liked the idea of neighbors working
ener. One. big team, getting a job done. Hard
York it was. Blisters raised on my hands and
8ot black, and my legs and back ached until I felt
~ never walk straight again. But there was a
~Maraderie among us, in spite of our silence as
We Worked. We all belonged here, together, doing
1S job.
And thatTs how it was for three years. The
tage Were good to me, gave me a good home, good
oare, but they didnTt give me the one thing I de-
~Ired above all others: a feeling of belonging.
os left for good when I was sixteen. I guess you
py Say I ran away again, but I did a good job
se It that time. I struck out away from the high-
" Got to Indianapolis and enlisted in the
~my. I served three years, even got to Korea.
Faun, 1962
I met a lot of fellows in the service who were out-
siders, like myself. But the funny thing was,
even they never counted me among their crowd.
I had folks as far as they were concerned, a family
and home, something most of them never had. A
lot of times I wished I were back with the Scotts.
At least they were something solid and real to
hang onto.
But | never went back to see the Scotts. I sent
them a card the first Christmas I was gone, and a
picture postal from Japan telling them I would
soon be out of the Army. Nothing personal. No
return address. Of course I never heard from
them. When my hitch in the Army was over, I
went to Gary. Worked in a bank for a while, did
some radio broadcasting work. Finally settled
down to a happy life, finally convinced in order to
obelong� I had to work hard, constantly.
Two weeks ago a letter postmarked ~Woodville,
Ohio� came addressed to me. I was in Chicago at
a conference, but Sue called to tell me she had
forwarded it. The letter was from Mr. Scott.
oDear Jed, Just a line to tell you Mrs. Scott is
seriously ill. The doctor thinks she hasnTt much
longer. She would like to see you before she
goes"weT'd both like to see you. The Red Cross
got your address for me. It would mean a good
deal to us if you could come right away.�
I crumpled the letter in my fist. It made me
mad. I didnTt owe the Scotts a visit. Mrs. Scott
had had three years to tell me anything she wanted
to. I had a home of my own now, where I belong-
ed, and I wanted no part of old memories.
I called Sue that night to tell her about the
letter. She knew about my dad, and everything,
and that I lived with the Scotts for three years,
but I never told her how I lived there, always on
the outside looking in, never really belonging.
oAre you going, Jed sf
oI didnTt think I would. I had planned on a few
days at the beach with you and the baby.�
oJed, I think you should go.�
oSue, you donTt know anything about it. ItTs
hot, and ITm tired, and I want to come home.�
oDo you want me to go with you?T I could get
Mother to come stay with the baby for a few
days.�
oNo, no, Sue, donTt do that. TTll"TITll think
about whether to go or not. You stay there. ThatTs
where you belong. I'll let you know what I de-
cide.�
And here I was, just a few miles outside of
Woodville. So, what did that prove? That sub-
consciously I believed I owed the Scotts some-
15
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thing? And what did I have to say to the Scotts?
Hello and how have you been the past ten years?
And have you kept my room locked as a shrine,
too?
Not really very funny. The Scotts would be
changed, of course, just as I had changed. Now
Mrs. Scott was seriously ill. Even as I drove
nearer the farm, I dreaded the meeting more and
more.
It was a little after five when I drove up to the
ScottTs back door. The place had changed a good
deal. Run-down, needed paint. Garden was a
patch of weeds. Barn looked empty, no signs of
horses or cattle anywhere. It was too quiet.
The screen door swung open and Mr. Scott
came down the steps, hand outstretched, to greet
me.
oJed! Jed, my boy! YouTre looking fine! Why
didnTt you let us know you were coming? I didnTt
know if youTd get my letter"if the address was
right.�
Mr. Scott looked the same, only thinner and
white-headed. I thought for a moment he walked
straighter, taller, more sure of himself, but I could
have been mistaken.
Mr. Scott kept pumping my hand.
really glad to see me.
I looked at the fields.
oAre you still farming all this, Mr. Scott?�
oNo, Jed. ITve rented out my fields for the past
seven years. Got to be too much for an old man.�
He winked at me, but then sobered.
oMrs. Scott hasnTt been well for a long time.
Not long after you left, Jed, she seemed to give up.
You know what a fine cook she was. Well, she
got so she never noticed when it was meal-time
any more. Paid no mind to her garden. Just sat
and stared out the window most of the time. I was
afraid to leave her alone so much. She really
missed you, Jed. Oh, she never talked much, you
know that. That wasnTt her way. She took losing
our boy so hard. Then after you came, she had
a reason for living again. You left too soon, Jed.
You should have given her more time.
Well, that really caught me off guard. Mr. Scott
was almost blaming me! All the ten years I'd
been gone I blamed Mrs. Scott for my troubles.
He was
Every time I was rebuffed by anyone, every time
I had an insecure feeling, every time I had to
fight and push my way so I could belong to a
group, I blamed Mrs. Scott. But Mr. Scott had
said: ooYou should have given her more time.�
We went inside. The kitchen was cool and
dark. Mr. Scott explained.
oT pull the shades early in the morning. SortaT
keeps the kitchen cool. ItTs been so hot lately.�
I looked around the big, roomy kitchen. Same
table and chairs. I had an urge to sit down in my
place again, feel the hard wooden back of the chair
against my spine. If I closed my eyes I could hear
Mrs. Scott telling me that was my place.
I turned to Mr. Scott.
oMrs. Scott"how is she?�
The old man sank down on a chair. Now his
head bowed in the familiar way I remembered and
his eyes sought the floor.
oNot good, Jed, not good at all. The doctor says
it is just a matter of time. I donTt know why
she hasnTt given up before this. SheTs been so
poorly for so long. YouTve been on her mind for
a long time, too, Jed. She said she had to see you
one more time.�
I pulled out the chair in my place, sat down and
reached my arm across the old manTs shoulders.
oITm glad I came, Mr. Scott. ITve been wanting
to come for a long time, too. I think I know what
Mrs. Scott wants to tell me. And I have some
things to tell her, too. WeTre a lot alike, she and
I. ItTs taken us both a long time to realize that
everybody in this world is different, and that
means that each of us can give only what he has.
Mrs. Scott took me in when I had no place to go.
Took me in and cared for me when every time
she saw me it must have been like a knife turning
in her heart remembering the son sheTd lost. She
couldnTt tell me she cared for me, not in words,
but I wouldnTt be here today if I didnTt believe
with all my heart that she loved me dearly.�
I looked through the kitchen window, past the
golden wheat fields.
oItTs harvest time, Mr. Scott. Time to finally
count up all the hard work youTve been doing. I
need to tell Mrs. Scott her work has paid off, too.
I want to show her a picture of my son, James
Scott. Can we go in to see her now?�
16
THE REBEL
NOTES
ON A POETRY FESTIVAL
by
MILTON G. CROCKER
AM tending a poetry festival such as the one
aia ema in D. C. was somewhat akin to wan-
c. g into a nudist colony fully clothed. That
» ONe tended to feel somewhat odd at first; and
�,�N one saw that everyone else looked odd too
Mr : first glance. The feeling of oddness, as
Libr; . Quincey Mumford, Chief Librarian of the
~had of Congress, pointed out, was probably
a. this was the first event of this sort to
Bea �,� supported and arranged by the Federal
~ oes ... of course, in co-operation with
The Ollingen Foundation of Harvard University.
é Sia themselves and, indeed, a good number
i . guests looked as if they expected the place
~ momentarily surrounded and all of them to
arrested and put away.
Sa Shortly the feeling of newness and exposure
Hea Pe and we chatted amiably with anyone who
* near us or anyone who would listen.
Fay, 1962
The Poetry Festival was actually the birthday
party for Poetry Magazine. The small quarterly
which has outlasted most of its contemporaries
and quite a number of larger and more wide-
spread-in-appeal magazines was fifty years old
this year. And what can be more natural on a
fiftieth birthday than a party? And what a party
it was! The party was represented by at least
twenty of the most well known poets in the United
States and an audience of almost equally impor-
tant commentators, critics, publishers, and lesser
poets. It lasted three days, during which time
everyone, even the lesser knowns, got a chance to
be heard.
The introductory speaker was Mr. Mumford
who pointed out the novelty and import of the
Festival. Mr. Mumford went on to say that the
Library of Congress (and the government) has
a responsibility to the arts. He thanked the Bol-
17
lingen Foundation for their help in the Festival
and spoke of the successive editors of Poetry
Magazine who succeeded Miss Harriet Monroe
after her death in 1936. He spoke of the theme
of the Festival,"friendship among poets (an
item which I was to wonder about later and over
which I am still a bit dubious).
The second speaker was Mr. Morton Zabel, who
was the direct successor to Miss Monroe. Mr.
Zabel is a soft-spoken man, in his sixties, who
spoke of the topic for the mornings discussion"
oThe Role of the Poetry Journal.� Mr. Zabel
concluded that it is the duty of the poetry journal
to publish the best poetry being written. He fur-
ther concluded that the poetry journal in order to
survive has to guard against the inertia of an
established institution. He commented that no
one expected such little magazines as Blast to last.
In the words of Mr. Zabel:
A poetry journal must have dedication,
modesty, a sense of proportion .. . and
the magazine must be supported by the
poets themselves . . . a poetry journal
must be an act of confidence .
Mr. Zabel spoke intimately of the figures in Amer-
ican literature which it has become the style in
my generation to look up to as all-knowing, all
pervading members of the hierarchy whom one
hesitates to approach. Truly, this was a lesson
in itself; an example of Mr. ZabelTs own modest
yet firm approach to American literature. Mr.
Zabel then concluded by saying:
The last fifty years of poetry have been
the richest in American history ... no
one, no prophets could have foreseen
this . . . not even Whitman .
Mr. Henry Rago, the third speaker and present
editor of Poetry then pointed out: Miss Monroe
decided to found Poetry in 1911 during her trip
around the world. She was over fifty before she
even conceived the idea. The opportunity was of
her own making; very few had the insight she
possessed, the ability to perceive the future of
American poetry; in short, she had the grit. She
discovered PoundTs A Lume Spento, Personae, and
Ezxultations in London in 1910 and this probably
led to her later decision. She was the first Ameri-
can to really discover the angry expatriate. Dur-
ing the succeeding years Pound was trying any-
thing that seemed new, anything that smacked of
vers libre and sensationalism; in a word, Pound
shocked the American public and the English
public into accepting the new poetry, the modern
18
poetry. So spirited was he, so varied, and so
much obsessed with what was new and unusual,
different, violent, that had he been the principal
editor of Poetry Magazine the whole thing would
probably have failed. Miss Monroe was at times
forced to stand him off with determination. But
as the first foreign editor, Pound introduced such
noteworthy poets and poems as T. S. Eliot and
his oLove Song of J. Alfred PrufrockTT; and he
first made Robert Frost known to the American
public through his reviews in Poetry of FrostTs
first two books, which had to be published in Eng-
land. But perhaps Pound was right in his assump-
tion that owhat is good is new... you must Make
It New...� Without his obsessions and driving
force the whole school of modern poetry probably
would not have developed.
The fourth speaker of the morning was Miss
Louise Bogan whose first poem published in
Poetry appeared in the elegaic issue after Miss
MonroeTs death. Miss Bogan is a tall, handsome,
stately-looking woman with a New England ac-
cent. She said:
Poetry was pamphleteering (in a way)
for a particular art... the imagists con-
densed and intensified language, they
abolished the sentimental.
Miss Bogan concluded her remarks by empha-
sizing that the American poet of today is not as
isolated as was his predecessor fifty years ago
when Poetry was being founded. Since then a
lot of changes have occurred. The knowledgeable
amateur has become an important part of Ameri-
can society. And the poetry journal has changed
its status too; today our poetry journals are re-
garded as documents to be preserved and cherish-
ed. The very fact that we were there at that
time under the auspices of the government proved
the merit of Miss BoganTs words.
Mr. Kunitz, the last speaker of the morning,
emphasized the role of the poet in our modern
society. He called the poet and the writer the free
men of our times. The writer is even more dif-
ferent now because of his freedom and individ-
uality. His work is worth nothing as a commod-
ity. He has precise indirection. The society
industriale can never understand him. And to
make matters even more complicated the poet
cultivates the myth of his own difficulty. Mr.
Kunitz concluded:
The writer must always be busy in his
search for style. The style emphasizes
the age in which he lives. Those hand-
THE REBEL
fuls who listen to the prevailing tune will
play it back ... but differently. ~
the writer must always keep testing the
limits of his difficulty; because a writer
is either experimental or dead.
The poetTs art tends to be secret, pri-
vate; popularity soon loses itself in vul-
garity and repetition. Our age demands
no secrets...
At this point we had our first discussion period
and a number of prominent people in the audience
Tose and were introduced and made comments of
One kind or another (including me, who wasnTt
very prominent but couldnTt resist the impulse).
It was time for lunch and we went out into the
Sunlight. It was one of those bright fall days
Which come occasionally in late October. It was
Warm and sunny and the grass on the Capitol
lawn felt springy and alive under our feet as we
Walked across toward downtown Washington.
That afternoon the poets read from their own
Works. Karl Shapiro, Mark Van Doren, Louis
ntermeyer, Delmore Schwartz, Muriel Rukeyser,
John Crowe Ransome, Howard Nemerov, William
Meredith, and Leonie Adams. All of these people
are fine poets and it was a fine afternoon; unfor-
tunately, however, some of them do not have the
best reading voices. Delmore Schwartz, for exam-
Ple, although a very fine poet, is not a very good
Teader; and Muriel Rudeyser too comes across
much better on the printed page than she does
When she is doing her own reading, although she
4S a most pleasing voice.
And suddenly it was evening, and we were
Walking back through dusk on a windy street to
he final lecture of the day.
Randall Jarrell was the speaker, and he was
troduced by Mr. Heckscher, the Consultant to
© President on Arts. In his introductory re-
Marks, Mr. Heckscher made much of the fact that
Poets are odd people .. . who wish to be left alone.
© implied that the governmentTs interest is sym-
Olic of something larger, and he made what I
Ought was one of the most beautiful statements
" during the whole Festival in or out of the
a of poetry: oPoetry is the sea into which
the rivers of this generation flow.�
The title of Mr. JarrellTs lecture was oFifty
oet of American Poetry,� which soon turned
ran An Evening with Randall Jarrell: His Likes
Dislikes.� Mr. Jarrell began by saying
. ather humorously) that it took fifteen minutes
aa. an hour to pack in the fifty years of Ameri-
: Poetry and although he was only supposed to
Peak for an hour, if we would bear with him he
FALL, 1962
would take fifteen extra minutes. Mr. Jarrell
then proceeded to speak for an hour and forty-five
minutes.
The balance of his lecture was spent in discuss-
ing people who were his contemporaries, but who
werenTt there to defend themselves.
E. A. Robinson expresses human sympa-
thy, and understanding of humanity...
Robinson hates hypocrisy as did Twain
... his poetical language is paradoxical
... few good poems, but we respect him.
... Edgar Lee Masters tells of a bygone
America...
After this statement concerning Masters I could
only breathe heavily and sigh, oThank Heaven!�
Mr. Jarrell then went on to dispose of: Carl
Sandburg, whom he doesnTt like because he has
oNot quite a style;TT Lindsay, whom he likes and
whom he compares to William Blake; Robert
Frost, whom he likes and whom he praised for
twenty minutes or a half hour (Frost was sitting
right in front of him. I mean, I like Frost too.
But is it criticism of a literary nature?); Ezra
Pound, whom he dislikes intensely and whom he
ridiculed by quoting neither from his poetry nor
his rather extensive works of valid criticism and
translation but instead by reading from one of
his pro-Nazi works; Wallace Stevens, whom
(Wonder of wonders!) he likes; William Carlos
Williams, who is obiased by his Imagistic views.�
And on and on and on he went with his olist.�
There were many, many more whom Mr. Jar-
rell didnTt like and whom he managed to ridicule
although he did not offer much valid criticism.
(Notably: Anyone connected with Eliot or Pound
in any way; his far-flung jibes reached as far as
Hart Crane and Archibald MacLeish and even
down to the Beats, when he concluded that
Good American poets are individual and
rare. Poets are ruined by groups writing
manifestos. The Beatniks were ruined
thusly . . . the Beats naturalness is a
learned imbecility.
and"concerning Edna St. Vincent Millay: o. . . itTs
too bad that more of our modern poets donTt write
poems that can be read in a canoe.� However,
at this point everyone had stopped laughing and
we all just wanted to get out and away from him.
My only impression from Mr. JarrellTs lecture was
that I found him tiring and somewhat of a bore.
II
The second day began. The weather was sud-
denly harsh and cold. Down East Capitol Street
19
where we were staying the spectres of what had
once been beautiful flowers shook beneath the
pelting of a rainy, windy day. A scrap of paper
blew by us as we walked out in the morning air.
But the poetry conference went on, unmindful of
weather or Cuba.
Robert Penn Warren had been scheduled for
chairman that day, but was too ill to attend the
festival and Richard Wilbur, a pleasant, ener-
getic, young man of about thirty-five, took over.
Babette Deutsch was the first speaker. Her sub-
ject: oThe Poet and The Public.� Miss Deutsch,
a small woman with hair now turning white,
speaks in a New England accent"slight but no-
ticeable. She is so short that looking down on
her from the audience you suddenly realized that
she has to look almost straight up to see over the
podium. Miss Deutsch is the author of over
eight books. She opened her remarks by stating
the resemblance which exists between the art of
poetry and the ability to make a speech. oA
speechmaker resembles a poet in that every word
counts.� Miss Deutsch continues:
The heart was the seat of feeling for
Coleridge. The poet must feel: and he
must always be strange. Remember the
poem and the manner of Li PoTs dying:
And Li Po died also;
He tried to embrace
A drunken moon
In the yellow river.
EZRA POUND
For the poet there must be a metaphor-
ical drowning also. The poet may also be
doomed to oblivion . . . oand none shall
speak his name...� Li Po died long ago;
he died in a faraway land after writing
in a strange hand...
Miss DeutschTs remarks became more decidedly
angry and short as her speech progressed.
... poets are human beings. Villon, Rim-
baud, Pound, all have an intelligence of
the heart . . . the public is a huge, face-
less, amorphous thing . . . the Congres-
sional Anthology issued a few years ago
was composed of mixed pieces. The an-
thology was sponsored by a prayer group.
There were 103 selections, most of which
were pious. The favorite poem then was
oIf� by Kipling; the favorite poem now
might well be oThe Gift Outright.� ...
the Soviet Union case is different. The
poet there writes for a large audience
. .. the poet is a member of the public
too... but he must understand himself
Grats...
After Miss DeutschTs speech Howard Nemerov
was introduced. Mr. Nemerov had read the day
before and I was looking forward to his speech
very much. I was not disappointed in him. He is
a marvelous looking individual with an ironical
twist to his mouth and a way of speaking which
makes you think that heTs always going to say
something funny or something very important;
he has almost silver-white hair cut short in a flat-
top. Nemerov is an active man. During World
War II, he flew for the Canadian and American
air force; he is the author of novels, a critic, 4
short-story writer, and a teacher as well as 4
poet.
Mr. Nemerov recalled the first beginnings of
wanting to be a poet, the myth of beginnings which
all poets invent, the vanity and the dislike for the
public which most poets go through. Mr. Nem-
erov concluded:
... no one is drafted into poetry. Poetry,
however, does exert power into the world
of reality; therefore, it has an audience
... somewhere.
But poetry is subversive. It teaches free-
dom. ... we write at last because life is
hopeless and beautiful.
The next speaker was Mr. Karl Shapiro, one-
time editor of Poetry himself, and present editor
of The Prairie Schooner. Mr. Shapiro won 4
Pulitzer Prize for his poetry in 1945 and was ©
poetry consultant to the Library in 1946 and he ©
has published at least one book of criticism. He
began by saying that, concerning the poet and his
public, he doesnTt know what a poetry public is.
Almost every other art has a public. Even the
classics are enjoying a re-birth in America; but
there is still no public for modern poetry. Another
thing, Mr. Shapiro pointed out, American poetry
is in such a small quantity ... D. H. Lawrence
seems strangely American alongside some of our
modern American poets; and neither our critics
nor the poets themselves think in terms of 4
national poetry ...
...in the 19th century we can count about
one and a half American poets. We are
now honoring the dawn of American
poetry. We are in our Beowulf years.
With this Mr. Shapiro ended his lecture and 4
rather heated discussion ensued, during which
quite a number of guests and poets and poets and
poets exchanged blows with one another (of 4
verbal sort). Then followed a short lamenting "
period in which the question of the poetry audi- "
THE REBEL
Me, Mae. Te A NR
2 SS ee a PS .
�,�nce again came to the fore. This concluded when
Mr. Kenneth Rexroth rose and said:
Allen Ginsberg, whether you choose to
regard him as a poet or not, sells more
than all the rest of us here put together.
About 100,000 copies a year .
. and the second morning was gone and it
Was time for lunch and walking back through the
Cold afternoon to rest for a few hours.
Then it was back to the library for another
afternoon of readings. The readers were John
erryman, Gwendolyn Brooks (who is probably
the finest Negro poet this country has ever seen
and who manages to somehow escape from racial
aspects most of the time). J. V. Cunningham,
Richard Eberhart (who was once a fine poet but
Who has now, unfortunately, given up poetry for
The Saturday Evening Post), Louise Bogan, Paul
Engle, Henry Rago, W. D. Snodgrass (who is a
young poet with a good talent and who seemed
Perfectly delighted about something all through
he Festival), and Allen Tate (an erudite and
amazingly learned poet with a great deal more to
© said for him). The afternoon passed too
SWiftly, and I left the Library that afternoon with
o haze of beautiful and dark impressions racing
With delicate speed across my mind.
The evening of this second day was the climax
~4 the Festival. Robert Frost was the speaker
hat night. The auditorium was filled and over-
lled and Frost received the warmest welcome
hat I saw anyone get during the Festival.
Mr. Louis Untermeyer introduced Mr. Frost and
SPoke of his own first encounters with the poetry
of Frost many years ago. I believe that one tends
° take too lightly such personalities as Unter-
"laa for, while his poetry is not great poetry,
rg beautiful to see these two knowledgable
Ividuals seated together, each complementing
he Other on that stage .. . Frost with his snow-
Sie hair the color of a New England winter,
» but with the fire still bubbling in him, still
oting ... Untermeyer, a tall erudite man, tend-
& toward the lankiness which we associate with
4wkwardness, but poised, assured, speaking in
°w familiar tones of Frost and other people he
ad known.
ee rent rose and spoke of youth, of ofishing in a
= I stream� and of people he himself had known,
= his own poetry, of the fact that his first poem
a published in 1882 by Susan Hayes Ward in a
©Wspaper and was called oMy Butterfly�. . -
-+. real grief is a woe which you can do
nothing about ... poetry is about grief.
Fat, 1962
Politics is about grievance .. . I always
liked nonsense verse . . . when it was
funny...
Mr. Frost read from his own poems and added a
line to one of them that night. He spoke of his
trip to Moscow and commented on his impressions
of the U. S. S. R. and Khrushchev.
And then it was over. The whole audience rose
in a body and gave Mr. Frost a standing ovation.
He came back and stood for a moment at the
podium and talked of his friend Ezra Pound and
rather pathetically of Miss Monroe. . . oshe want-
ed to be remembered for her poetry . . . but it
didnTt quite measure up to it...�
The last day arrived. We had rushed back and
forth so much that it seemed sometimes we had
been doing this all our lives; Washington was
agog since the Cuban situation had arisen. Pick-
ets paraded in front of the White House carrying
signs. The signs proved that at least two groups
were picketing at the same time; two groups pick-
eting for exactly opposing things...
The morning lecture for this third day was
oThe Problem of Form.� The speakers were
Allen Tate, Leonie Adams, and J. V. Cunningham.
John Crowe Ransome was the chairman. Leonie
Adams was late because of taxi trouble and for a
while everyone was wondering if she was going
to make it at all. This made Mr. Tate the first
speaker. Miss Adams came in early in his lec-
ture and was ushered to her seat.
Mr. TateTs lecture centered around the four
causes mentioned and outlined by Aristotle; a
point which had been begun in Mr. RansomeTs
opening remarks. Mr. Tate concluded by apply-
ing a more scientific approach to the problem of
form. Sometime during his lecture I found my
head swirling as he talked of ospatial distribu-
tion� and mathematics. He ended by saying:
... poets are always partly formalists,
partly expressionists ; at times one more
than another ... poetry is a disorderly
Ps 3 One
The next speaker was Miss Leonie Adams. Miss
Adams chose to approach poetry from a scientific
angle also. She talked of oorganic form� and de-
fined it as oa vital fusion of form and content.�
She ended by saying that opoetry moves toward
song but cannot reach gl
The last speaker of the morning was the one I
found most pleasant, J. V. Cunningham. Mr.
Cunningham is a large man from the west coast
who dresses informally and walks with large sure
21
|
|
it}
\
steps. His voice is exactly what you would expect
from him"large and resonant and appealing. Mr.
CunninghamTs approach to the problem seemed
closely akin to existentialism; a semanticistTs
holiday (you know"the one where the semanti-
cist or the speech teacher spends his holiday giv-
ing speeches). Mr. Cunningham said:
We have too many choices in our society
... We give a positive value to informal-
ity ... we praise oreal speech.�T What is
unreal speech? Form is regularity"it
is that which remains the same when
everything else is changed . . . form pre-
cedes its existence. .
In conclusion he said that we have no place to go
except, paradoxically, back to regular meter and
form.
This last afternoonTs readings were given by
R. P. Blackmur (a writer almost classical in im-
petus), Katherin G. Chapin, Bebette Deutsch,
Langston Huges, Randell Jarrell (whose poetry
was not quite as bad as his speech), Stanley Kun-
tiz, Ogden Nash (who made quite a success with
his verse and who was highly liked by the other
poets), Kenneth Rexroth, Richard Wilbur, and
Oscar Williams.
The last lecture was given by Sir Herbert Read.
Sir Herbert began by stating that in view of his
subject, oA View of American Poetry from
Abroad,� AmericaTs greatest poet was Henry
James because of the scope and depth of his
work.
Bernard Shaw called America and Eng-
land otwo nations divided by a common
language� ... Henry James compels by
the range of his perception ... American
poetry was born of a clash of forces...
Whitman was a revolutionist ... a dead
end; most of American turned away
from Whitman... After Whitman
came Pound as an international influ-
ence; he lost the road of Whitman, he
defected, and a great poet was lost to
America . . . William Carlos Williams
took his place...
Sir Herbert went on to say that Pound had be-
come a Confucian or a European; Eliot has also
been lost to American verse ... There was more,
of course. Sir Herbert talked of Hart Crane and
Wallace Stevens, Marianne Moore and Robert
Lowell. But at this moment my mind went back
to the first day we arrived here, went over the
events which had happened since that time. I
felt bad that such a thing must end.
Sir Herbert closed his lecture with a word re-
22
forging that strong tie which has always existed
between England and America: ~To be an Eng-
lish poet is to be in the best tradition.� And then
it was over for good. The people left; I left. We
stopped for a moment and chatted with Kenneth
Rexroth in the foyer outside.
J Who First Found Spring
I who first found spring...
Who touched the sunlight
Caught upon jade boughs,
And watched the same sun
Sprawl along the riverTs edge...
Found loveTs delicate soft wings
Hidden among the bittersweet of fall;
And silently left spring behind,
To live with shadows, smoke and amber leaves.
"BRENDA CANIPE
THE REBEL
- FRANCIS SPEIGHT
Che Artist In Residence
~i two-story frame house loomed darkly over
i reet, and we peered in at the windows. oAre
r Sure this is the right place?�
xes. Maybe heTs not home.�
He must be. He said he would be.�
we rang the doorbell, and in a moment a
oy came on way down the back hall and then
us " Speight opened the front door. He led
a. down the hall and into the room where
son was coming from. In the room were the
- ~ of two Greeks, two bronze casts of the work icc mnt i We 40
ucca Delarobia, an easel, two straight-back sion it can be humble; it can be eloquent;
Chaj .
airs and a studio couch. This was all the furni- it can be rough; or it can be just plain pretty
ure we saw. and still be art. At the same time, itTs a
. . comment on the artistTs life, and itTs di icult
aoe hiv vite rear pmtes si: 4 " for people to understand pode :
ives. H ; SO ee ._ "FRANCIS SPEIGHT
Nisin e asked if we would like to look at the
all Ings, and we followed him back into the
~Bali erd and into another room. Paintings hung
gia walls, paintings sat on the floor and
ka Ings were stacked in the corners. Most of
8 tigre were of the Schuylkill Valley, par-
* abd the Manayunk-Roxborough area. This
" �,� region in which Speight is said to be the
@n of landscape artists, and he has dedicated
23
HOLY FAMILY CHURCH OIL 24x 30
SCHUYLKILL AT MANAYUNK OIL 28 x 36
First Altman Prize for Landscape"1958
most of his life to its celebration. He likes to paint
during the early morning or the late afternoon,
when the sunlight plays around the edges of ob-
jects and creates a counterpoint world of shadow
and light. This world draws him in and its dim
lights infuse his canvases. His painting is like
his speech"wary of overstatement.
oBut in this one I was experimenting,� and he
pointed to the painting of The Holy Family Church
in front of us. oI generally paint things with the
light on the side, but that time I waited until mid-
day and looked for a rooftop to reflect the light
from the sky. You see, all the shadows are simpli-
fied. You canTt see the windows in the buildings.�
And we moved on around the room and into the
next room.
THE REBEL
we = Ww oe a ee |
evr 3
_ Someone observed that one painting looked as
if it had been done by someone else. Speight fold-
�,�d his arms and looked intently at the painting.
oWell, that oneTs my wifeTs.� Then, oShe may be
better than I am, you know.�
There were paintings in every room, both up-
Stairs and downstairs. In one room, the floor was
Covered with canvases. oThis is the drying
Toom,� he explained. oBut those in the corner
Were painted when I was a student. That was my
fatherTs old horse and cart and I took them out
of the barn and hitched them to the fence and
Painted that picture.�
Francis Speight, a quiet and modest man, was
brought up on a farm in Bertie County, North
Carolina. He was graduated from Wake Forest
College and went to Chanderly Art School in
ashington, D. C., intending to learn enough art
to illustrate the stories he hoped to write. oI knew
I wanted to do something, but I wasnTt sure what
It was. First I thought ITd write; then I thought
I'd write and illustrate my stories; and then I The floor was covered with canvases.
decided I would just be an illustrator. But some-
Ody told me to go see Daniel Garber, and I wound
up at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts
Studying under him.�
STRAW FOR THE CITYTS HORSES OIL 36 x 46
Sesman Gold Medal for Landscape
FAL, 1962 25
REMNANT NO.1 OIL 22x 30
a a a. a TEER a Oe
CANAL SCENE OIL 40x50 1926-29
Reproduced in Carnegie Institute
International Exhibition Catalog in 1929.
Speight became a good friend as well as a favor- SpeightTs work has not gone unnoticed. He "
ite student of Garber, and it was probably the received the First Hallgarten Prize, National "
influence of the older man that guided him down Academy of Design, 1930; the Kohnstamm Prize,
the quiet stream of landscape painting while the Art Institute of Chicago, 1930; the Landscape
| currents of contemporary art swept erratically Prize, Connecticut Academy of Fine Arts, 1932;
| on. the Bronze Medal and Third Clark Prize, Corco-
26 THE REBEL
eae reer rr -. sine air Ein EN ORR CB ITERATE TE
HALLOWEEN NO. 3 OIL 24 x 28
Collection. David Warren
Edenton, N. C.
Tan Gallery, 1937; the First Altman Prize for
andscape, 1951 and, in 1955, the Obrig Prize at
�,� National Academy. His canvases hang in the
Permanent collections of the Metropolitan Mu-
Seum, Pennsylvania Academy, The Art Gallery
of Toronto, Butler Institute of American Art, Nor-
ton Gallery in Palm Beach, Memorial Art Gallery
'n Rochester, New York, Museum of Fine Arts,
Oston, and Pennsylvania State University. In
962 he was awarded an honorary Ph.D. from
ake Forest College.
He had been at the Pennsylvania Academy, as
Student and teacher, for forty-one years before
© became East Carolina CollegeTs Artist in Resi-
once in 1961. oITve always wanted to come back
to North Carolina and paint,� he said, obut this
Was the first chance I got.�
How long does he plan to stay? As long as he
Nds something important to do. He told us, oI
4venTt retired. ITve come back home, but ITve
oome back home as a work project. I want to stay
%8 long as I can or until I feel I should go some-
Place else, ItTs sort of hard for me not to look
°wn the road and look away off.� HILLSIDE IN WINTER OIL 38 x 48
27
Faux, 1962
THE WHITE PICKET FENCE
a play in one act
HARLAN MILLS
oIt was a great mistake, my being born
a man, I would have been much more
successful as a sea gull or a fish.�
oThatTs morbid craziness ...�
(A fallout shelter located under a nondescript
farmhouse in Rock Wall, Texas, just outside
Dallas. Winter, 1982.)
(The decor is one of studied simplicity. A print
of StuartTs George Washington hangs from the
plaster wall. Also in the room are the following:
An open dictionary on a stand, a sherry decanter
and glasses on a high shelf, a hand wound victrola
and scattered records, oil lamps with flower print
shades, a series of drawers in a cabinet"such as
a revolving dental cabinet (Circa 1882). The
drawers are marked as to contents. A violin sits
in a chair. On a tall easel there is an unfinished
painting of a grotesque nude woman. The table in
the center of the room is covered with a game of
monopoly. Play money is stacked in neat piles.
There is a pipe in an ashtray next to the game.
Smoke rises from the pipe. Mozart plays on the
victrola. A small tinsel Christmas tree stands in
the corner.)
28
"EUGENE OTNEILL
(An old woman in her seventies crawls through
a tunnel into the room. She carries a flashlight
which she places in the drawer marked oflash-
lites.� Mary is the womanTs name. She wears 4
very plain dress and looks like Grant WoodTs
American Gothic. She puts on a bright red robe
with an Elizabethan collar. She sits at the game,
rolls the dice and moves her red piece forward.
Continually glancing back over her shoulder, she
cheats a few spaces and snitches a few bills from
the bank.
An old man in his seventies crawls in and puts
his flashlight in the drawer marked oFlashlites.�
His name is Joseph and constitutes the second
half of the Gothic couple. He puts on a bright
yellow monopoly piece. He winds the Victrola and
sits down to play.
King, a young man in his twenties, crawls in
and puts on his black robe and hurries to the
game. He takes off his robe and starts to craw!
back out.)
THE REBEL
Aw we -~ ' -_-_ =_
-
sw he
eae ES ses we
KING: Play for me. I forgot to close the door.
MARY: I'll have to play for King. (KING
EXITS. SHE NODS.)
JOE: Do, by all means, play for King.
MARY: Thank you.
JOE: (EXAMINING THE PLAYING
BOARD). Are you there?
MARY: Yes. I rolled doubles.
JOE: I'll bet.
MARY: Are you insinuating...
JOE: (CORRECTING HER MOVE). That is
Supposed to be KingTs knight.
MARY: I donTt like it any more than you do.
JOE: Monopoly? Or playing for King?
MARY: DonTt be a poor sport. You never go
°n like this when you win.
ees ThereTs no sense in quibbling over the
e things. But then again, if you didnTt have
�,� money to get the nice ones, you have to com-
Promise and make the little ones do. Some things
8et me down. Change the record. I am too nerv-
°us for Strauss.
MARY: How about some Haydn. You love him.
JOE: Not the Messiah though.
MARY: Oh, no. Not that tired, old thing. We
ave the tree.
JOSEPH: Something simple. Just strings.
MOVEs) thatTs...
BRARY: Cello? (KING CRAWLS, UNNOTIC-
N » INTO THE ENTRANCE OF THE TUN-
EL).
os: If you must. (WHILE SHE GOES TO
E VICTROLA, HE CHEATS AT THE GAME
TR OVING HIS PIECE FORWARD AND HER
ER CE BACKWARDS AND BY TAKING SEV-
AL BILLS FROM THE BANK). We... have
- - Quite a selection . .. but not enough...
. ... ITll have to do something about...
at... soon.
i MARY: There. Something simple and from the
= (THE OTHER SIDE OF MOZART
AYS.) ItTs Bach. YouTd never guess it though.
en: I would guess Haydn. Haydn, Haydn.
- (BLOWS A KISS).
MARY: Music is all in the mind.
JOE: One. Two. (PAUSE.) Eh.. .? No.
Specially the new music.
a ervan I wonder where King is? I donTt know
ether he would want me to buy or sell.
HOE: HeTs probably still watching the sky.
©... Tl play for him.
YatARY: What? Well, letTs alternate. (PAUSE).
We » definitely. He was scanning up there while
ae there. He could be shielding us from the
FALL, 1962
JOSEPH: WeTre ready for the worst. Little
good we'll get from knowing when it is coming.
WeTve done all we can down here. Your play.
MARY: He was fascinated with watching it.
JOE: Fascinated? Not hardly. But smiling
though. ThatTs a change. HeTs young. Sherry?
MARY: Oh 1. cd Bcc Da COO es
Well, I. . . Please.
JOE: Where is it?
MARY: What do you mean owhere is it?� You
know perfectly well where it is. Stop trying to
distract me from the game. I am after St. Charles
Place and you well know it.
JOE: Of course I know where it is. DidnTt I
put it there myself. On the shelf. I would say that
was the sherry up there, would you not?
MARY: Please. I am trying to concentrate on
Marvin Gardens. The glasses. Get the glasses.
TheyTre next to the decanter.
JOE: Perhaps you are taking something for
granted. I have my needs too. Just a little more
consideration in your voice would help out a
great deal. ITve lost a son. I have lost more. My
fatherTs gone.
MARY: It is some sense of guilt that makes
you go into that before you start on your sherry.
The boy is gone. The parrot is in parrot heaven
and you have nothing to fret about. Pour.
JOE: ITm going to have a seizure too. You are
picking up traits from Helen and Tena and
Blanche. At Mr. JackTs. Where is King? Why
doesnTt the afternoon shape up?
MARY: Dr. Boddo told you not to complain.
HeTs doing everything he can. He says to take
it easy.
JOE: I think I have had enough of this music.
I canTt concentrate either. I detest Handel. Too
many strings. After sitting through eight hours
of that whining thing every day. (POINTS AT
VIOLIN). I am in no mood for more of it from
that scratchy thing. (POINTS AT VICTROLA).
MARY: You specifically asked for strings.
JOE: I was being witty.
MARY: Tongue in cheek, no doubt.
JOE: You seem to get the picture.
MARY: Stop the Strauss then if you must.
DonTt you have your way in all things. In oabso-
lutely� all things. (HE TURNS TO THE VIC-
TROLA. SHE CHEATS).
JOE: ThatTs why our marriage is a success.
MARY: What marriage? Pushing each other
around in this hole like we were living well.
ThereTs nothing high on the hog about this pit.
ITm sorry, Joseph. I know itTs the only way to
survive. But the scratchy records, and the sweet
29
wine. I know. We eat squarely. I can thank you
for that. WeTll be ready when they find us. We
can wait like cornered gophers"like you say
ogophers� for the osnake� to come ... Your
move.
JOE: DonTt start your forensics.
MARY: Not on your life.
JOE: Save them for King. He is the only one
around here who appreciates your extemporane-
ous devices. When he is around here...
MARY: I am silence itself.
JOE: Who said that?
MARY: It wasnTt literary allusion.
JOE: I have an education, my dear. You donTt
have to keep reminding me that I had the educa-
tion. Why must you? Is it part of your plan?
MARY: DonTt be asinine. You havenTt touched
a drop yet.
JOE: I intend to do so. Shortly. Please hush
enough for me to think.
MARY: You can only move forward. What are
you thinking about. (KING CRAWLS ON UP
THE TUNNEL OUT OF SIGHT). No. DonTt tell
me. More than likely about King watching the sky
again ... or the parrot, thatTs a favorite subject,
or the boy"lying with his shaven body in some
valley ... unclaimed. You have a one track mind.
JOE: Iam all in with your point after point
trying to prove to me you are right. I know, for
GodTs sake, I know so concretely, that you are
right everytime. In every instance.
MARY: Then serve the sherry. And stop dick-
ering over Connecticut Avenue. It isnTt worth it.
Half a glass for me though. And you might serve
up one for King. HeTll need warming over when
he comes down.
JOE: Go ahead and play for him. ITll get his
sherry. He wonTt drink much. Not with the sky
threatening like he says. Days like this, he hardly
touches a drop. I know that.
MARY: I know that too. You donTt have to
explain everything to me like I am a senseless,
uninitiated child of twelve. I know more than you
give me credit for. Put that in your pipe.
JOE: Poppycock ... absolutely, poppycock!
MARY: DonTt use that word. It is inane and
meaningless. I have asked you not to use it.
JOE: ThatTs the first time ITve used it today.
I love words.
MARY: Joseph. Are you losing your memory?
Are you going to show your age by losing your
memory? Was the parrot not lesson enough?
JOE: It happens to the best of us and when
you get right down to it, Mary, I think it runs in
the family. If I can consider Father as family.
30
Perish the thought. I havenTt used it. . . before.
MARY: You said it right in this room. Just
a moment ago. On the way for the sherry.
remember distinctly.
JOE: Poppycock?
MARY: Absolutely ...
JOE: You are insane. That proves it. ThatTs
the first time ITve used it today and ITll have you
use some respect in your little rebuttals. I donTt
like that tone of voice.
MARY: I am not talking about opoppycock.�
I am referring to oabsolutely .. .�
JOE: Drink up and forget. I donTt follow you.
MARY: The word is absolutely. ITve grown
tired of begging you to refrain from using it in
front of me. Have you lost all consideration?
JOE: I have never used the word. Why would
I when I know very well you detest it? I know all
After that scene on the Green, how
could I, in my right mind, allow it to pop out"I
donTt how carelessly. You have a habit of draw-
too well.
ing lines around the finest points. Actually.
MARY: What if I were to get sick? Then you
would have more consideration, perhaps. I guess
it takes something like that with you. You donTt
understand anything unless someone shouts at
you. Your disregard for your father was neatly
shifted to me. I get the brunt of your ingratitude.
It certainly didnTt take me long to catch on to
that.
JOE: How can you sit there and go on like that
with the sky threatening? The Enemy could come
ITve done all I
can. ITve made all the arrangements. If you are
going to let economic pressures turn you into @
through that tunnel any minute.
sour old woman, then I am going to take off.
MARY: Where would you go? Just tell me
where you would go? And while you are think-
ing, move! (PAUSE). These little quibbles keep
us going, I suppose. Keep the blood circulating.
LetTs try not to refer to each other as old, though.
I think we could draw a line there, Joseph.
JOE: Do you want to live a life of illusion,
Mary? If you do then ITll call you othe girl from
Next Door.� You are seventy-two. I am seventy-
eight. Move.
MARY: You did say it. On the way to the
DonTt you
look like that. How dare you suggest that it was
sherry. (PAUSE). Wait a min-ute.
Lis-ten.
Better drink the sherry.
I... Are you inferring...
JOE:
King.
MARY: DonTt say anything about fussing. He
hates it so, and I just donTt want to get him all
THE REBEL
It will work
well where you need it most. Listen. Here comes
er = se
Towed up. HeTs been so worried today.
JOE: What reason does he have to hang around
fre now? He won the last real dollar just then.
He has won all our money. We have nothing left
he can take.
MARY: (SLAPS JOSEPH). DonTt you dare
Say a thing like that! What he has won from us
Would have been our sonTs if he had survived the
War. (KING CRAWLS INTO THE ROOM).
: JOE: So you like to think ... Well, well! King,
°y! What do you look all flustered about? Get
te a tablet, Mary. Boy, your sherry is on the
able, (MARY GOES TO THE CABINET).
MARY: King, come here.
I KING: I was watching the sky. All directions.
Just felt something was up. I looked over toward
allas. ThatTs the way theyTll come if they come.
thing. The sky was empty. Not even a bird.
�,�n I noticed something back up in the North.
oving slowly this way like a Blue Norther.
u've never seen anything like it. Like a cloud
winds. And it was making a sound. Like zzzzz.
hes Worse than I could ever tell you. And the
rain ow of it moved underneath it, like it was a
oi storm. With hail. ITve got to go back up and
ad uy rifle. I'll do the best I can. I wish you
tive oane so we could know for sure. I am posi-
it "ee is the Enemy. It looks like this is it. But
as | r d be our corps in a counterattack. As soon
- nd out, ITll be back down. This shelter is the
Place for you now.
HWARY : Oh, King, darling. (EMBRACES
do ). Be careful. Be careful. What would we
Without you? You are like our son now. Please
© Careful.
"geek If you get caught, donTt tell them about
Cengy ot either side. TheyTd only include us in a
o4S and then weTd be responsible again. Re-
Fay, 1962
member: MumTs the word.
KING: No matter what happens, ITll return.
Stay here. DonTt come out for any reason. Do
you have everything you need?
JOE: ThatTs a question. WeTve been down here
years just for this moment. I hope they attack.
MARY: Who?
JOE: I donTt care which side now. ITm going
to die before anything happens. Get him a tablet,
Mary. (SHE GOES). Get up there and fight.
Fight for the right. (IN A WHISPER). Have
you got the real money? I want it now.
KING: I didnTt have time to get it.
JOE: You have every cent to our name. [I let
you win for a commission, not for the cash.
KING: I know. I will bring it as soon as I can.
MARY: Oh, precious darling. (SHE RE-
TURNS). Crawl on up and be careful. We'll play
for you. Above all, be careful.
KING: Goodbye. I will return. (HE EXITS
WITH HIS RIFLE WHICH WAS HIDDEN UN-
DER A CHAIR).
JOE: And soon! There goes a smart kid.
MARY: I'll get the record. (TAKES A SPE-
CIAL RECORD FROM A FOLDER AND
PLACES IT ON THE PHONOGRAPH).
JOE: Put it back. ThereTs nothing up there!
He just forgot his rifle and had to come back for
it. ThatTs what I like about the kid. He beats us
at this game, takes all our money, but he has a
sense of responsibility to us. He adds a bit of
excitement for what he takes. ThatTs nice of him.
ArenTt many around like that. Nice kid. Glad
weTve got him.
MARY: I believe him. I think this is it. And
itTs about time. Do you know where everything
is? TTll check the wick. (SHE INSPECTS A
PRAYER CANDLE. LIGHTS IT, AND BLOWS
IT OUT).
JOE: If this were the end, what difference
would it make? ITm getting tired of this place any-
way. The parrotTs gone. The boyTs gone like his
hair. And now our little friend is our only devia-
tion. HowTs your sherry?
MARY: (THINKING) If I did say oabso-
lutely� I promise you, I donTt recall. A pure slip
of the tongue. It happens to me frequently, I
have been told, during the excitement of competi-
tion. Good sherry. Dry.
JOE: Too warm.
MARY: Yes.
JOE: This shelter is designed wrong. The
shelf is too high.
MARY: Heat rises.
JOE: ThatTs no old wivesT adage.
31
MARY: Tale.
JOE: Pardon?
MARY: Excuse me. It was just the sherry.
(PAUSE).
JOE: You are certainly excused. But not the
architect. But what use is it to fuss about it now?
MARY: You are right. The hole has been dug.
We are in it. The shelter has been built. Nothing
can be done about it. HereTs seven hundred for
two hotels.
JOE: How do you expect them to design for the
oopeople-who-do-things- as - they -should-be-done?�
What do they know about sherry shelves? All
they know is poverty. They are inept these
days. They spend all their time figuring strain
and stress. TheyTll put the shelves too high be-
cause they arenTt going to live down here. All
that paper wadded up on the floor doesnTt make
them efficient. Holiday says they canTt get a wine
cellar built right anywhere. A lost art. All over
the world.
MARY: Not even in Paris.
JOE: Why would you say Paris? You didnTt
read the article?
MARY: There is more than one copy in circu-
lation, certainly.
JOE: Do tell. ItTs your move. I wish you would
pay attention to what youTre doing.
MARY: I saw it hidden behind the commode.
JOE: Have I no privacy?
MARY: Lincoln took off his shoes to think.
JOE: ThatTs a fopTs legend. Where do you
think King has gone? Just to the top, or com-
pletely away?
MARY: No use to change the subject on me.
I know where you do your serious study.
JOE: ItTs a better magazine than that trash
you read.
MARY: How do you know what I read?
JOE: I donTt suppose I hear you at the club.
In the buffet line with Helen. Under the umbrella
at the games with Blanche. Cackling like hens over
the films. Look at you react. You can certainly
hand out the gibes, but watch, just watch you take
them. I wish I had a mirror!
MARY: ThatTs a cliche to hide behind.
JOE: You read them at the beauty parlor, no
doubt. ThatTs an extravagance that will stop
when they take over.
MARY: At least that is more respectable than
your holiday.
JOE: Respect? I live my life for my own self.
Respectability comes after that task is done. Even
at my age. Especially in the john.
MARY: YouTve hit the nail on the head, and
32
ITm glad of it. Of course. I do read more of the
trash down in Mr. JackTs. But who doesnTt. He
drapes it all over the armrests of the dryers.
JOE: And whatTs wrong with your hair dry-
ing machine.
MARY: It broke. Everything breaks. You
know that.
JOE: I got it for you thinking that it would
save us a little. Where does it all go? Oh well,
itTs gone now and ITm glad. The Calcutta Pool,
the hopeless nights losing to King at Monopoly,
and to Helen.
MARY: Leave Helen out of this. She is at least
unique.
JOE: ThatTs what you said about King. Where
is he now? Out there watching for the end.
Looking at that horrible mess in the sky? What
a morbid sense of humor he has developed.
MARY: He keeps in touch with reality.
JOE: You'll be watching the ten oTclock news
the next thing I know.
MARY: If we had a set! (THERE IS A MOAN
OF PAIN AS KING COVERED WITH BLOOD
CRAWLS INTO THE TUNNEL). I wish.. -
(WHEN SHE REALIZES THAT THE SOUND
IS ONE OF TERROR, SHE SCREAMS AND
GRABS AT JOSEPHTS THROAT. HE LAUGHS
VIOLENTLY AND PUSHES HER BACK. SHE
RUNS TO THE VICTROLA AND BEGINS
PLAYING THE NATIONAL EMBLEM MARCH.
IN A FRANTIC RUSH, SHE LIGHTS THE
PRAYER CANDLE AND TURNS OFF THE
OIL LAMPS. JOSEPH CEASES TO LAUGH
AND DANCE. HE TURNS TO LOOK IN THE
TUNNEL. KING DRAGS HIS BODY INTO
THE ROOM. JOSEPH STOPS THE MUSIC).
JOE: Boy? Is this the end? Have they finally
come?
KING: Oh. Oh. A damp cloth. Quick. ITm
afraid they got me. Just like a war movie. But
this time itTs not so funny. It was them. I meat
every one of them too. They came out of the sky
just like I knew they would. There was no stop-
ping them. My rifle was like a broken toy.
MARY: HereTs the cloth. Let me do it.
KING: (SCREAMS) DonTt touch me!
JOE: Stand back. Give him air. No, Mary!
YouTre standing in front of the duct. Move over
here. Get the boy a tablet.
KING: No. I donTt want anything. ITll be all
right.
JOE: Let him clean off his own wounds while
he can. ItTll make a man out of him yet.
MARY: How can you talk like that?
JOE: Some people donTt want their heads held:
THE REBEL
ou
ild
al,
ol,
ly,
ist
re
id.
at
L
Do they, King?
KING: ThatTs right, sir.
aad Stop grimacing, Mary. The boy knows
in 0 take pain. Any normal man would be cry-
&. He hasnTt flickered a muscle. Where is the
Wound, boy?
Nc: They were all in uniforms. Not march-
g, but instead"running. Like wild animals.
whe give them those pills, you know, that make
ea men strong like supermen. They can go for
ag S without sleep. You wouldnTt believe it
~ �,�n you watch them come down out of the sky.
1S ghastly. They swarm over the fields with
a eetinee. And when they find a shelter,
ag sink a bomb and stand back. It doesnTt take
dog " to get down inside and pull off the
os Each platoon has a quota to meet. After
oitl ss covered a county, you can see the holes all
~ e place. They even have some kind of stuff
wits, spray on the bodies so they"turn to dust"
gpa stinking the place up. If theyTve gone
~ allas then ITd hate to think of what has
Ppened. I donTt know what to tell you to do.
ly is no place you can escape to. There is no
Pe now. DonTt tremble.
MARY: King!
eg ThereTs nothing you can do. Sit here.
in he game and wait. Talk and wait. TheyTve
What a and years figuring out how to do just
i 3 eyTre doing. There is nothing, nothing we
che to stop them now.
ey Stand back, Mary. Back over there.
MARK 'AKES A PISTOL FROM A DRAWER
i. ED DIRTY SOCKS�.) You see this pis-
"al ly ItTs ready to fire. And ITll use it if I
itTs 0. Your game has been well rehearsed, but
4 gimmick that has failed. Take it from a man
Pant, 1962
who knows what perfection is. I see through your
game. I donTt know what it adds up to, but ITm
stopping it right now. ITve got my rights.
MARY: Put that gun back. Joseph! He is
our son now!
JOE: Son? This rat? Mary, your son was a
bigger man this this. Look at him groveling on
the floor with all that blood running down his
face. Is that the face of your son? I will tell you
ono!� ITve lived in this hole too long, King, not
to know a rat when I smell one. And if you follow
me, too long not to know ketchup when I smell it!
Take the towel, Mary. (SHE TAKES THE TOW-
EL AND SMELLS IT). Taste it. I said taste it!
There. Ketchup, am I not correct?
MARY: Yes. King, what is the meaning of
thin? x:
JOE: Quiet, Mary. Listen to me, boy. We have
taken you into our shelter here and treated you
like our own son that we lost in the war. My wife
here has taken you into her heart and loved you.
I have grown to have great confidence in you.
When you won some of our money with this game
you brought, I told myself, oall right, Joseph, let
the boy win. HeTs not cooped up in a hole trying
to hang on to the little bit left in his life. He is as
free as the birds are free. The threat, the ulti-
mate threat does not reduce him to the size of a
gopher, of a mouse that only comes out at night.
He doesnTt snivel around for assurances of secur-
ity and benefits. HeTs got guts. Nothing can stop
this boy, I said!� Not that I put my ambitions
and dreams in you. No. ITve had a good life. ItTs
been small and unexciting some people might
think, but itTs been a life that I could understand.
ITve been fortunate to have a wife like Mary to
live beside me and to care for me"in this hole
trembling for our lives. I donTt know what youTre
doing with all that muck on your face. I donTt
know what your game is this time. YouTve taken
everything weTve got as far as ITm concerned.
ThereTs nothing else in this place you can use.
Why didnTt you stay after you came in here for
your rifle? Why didnTt you keep your exciting
little stories to yourself and burrow in with some-
one who could offer you more?
KING: Itis ketchup. I didnTt mean for you to
think it was blood. It is ketchup. I put it on
myself so that I would look wounded and dead
when they came this way. It was all I could do.
My rifle was just like a toy gun. ItTs absurd, but
it saved my life, and perhaps it kept them from
coming up above with their machines that would
find you out. Perhaps this junk saved your own
lives. Please believe me. I watched them swarm-
33
ing towards the South. They can go a week. No
telling how much longer they have till they stop.
They might come back. I watched them move
away listening to them buzz"perhaps the sound of
the machines they*carry"I listened to the explo-
sions every time they found a shelter sunk under
the fields. I saw and heard the extermination. I
didnTt know where I could go, so I came back here.
The scream you heard when I came into the tun-
nel was beyond my control. I am so ashamed you
have to know what a fake I am. After all the trust
you have put in me. I am so ashamed. But you
are all the family I have. Where else could I go?
MARY: You have come to your rightful home.
Have we lost all love, Joseph? Put the gun away.
There. Get up, King. When I... Well, I...
I just donTt know what to say... ITm going to...
(no, ITm not). There.
JOE: Control yourself, Mary. If thereTs one
thing I canTt stand itTs a crying woman. Get up
off the floor, boy. If youTre going to be living down
here until it all blows over you are going to have
to help out. We do everything ourselves.
MARY: How can you be so matter-of-fact at a
time like this? I am beginning to think you donTt
want the boy to stay. Or do you have something
else up your sleeve?
JOE: I try to have a seeming reserve with no
one, but an actual reserve with everyone, espe-
cially my wife. Now, King, since youTve never
stayed here over night, you know nothing of our
Plan-in-Case-of-Discovery. We will have to figure
out a way to put you in our act. In case we are
discovered here, we have a little something we do
to prove that we are absolutely worthless to any
society and therefore perfectly all right like we
are. You will have to fit into the plan. It is our
34
only hope for survival.
MARY: He could be blind.
JOE: Too easily tested. Insanity can be detect-
ed too. There is a problem.
MARY: Crippled? T. B.? No, I donTt guess
so. How soon do you think they will be back in
the neighborhood ?
JOE: Play some more Haydn. This is too much
for me. There is so little time.
KING: Do you have anything with some down
beat, you know?
JOE: Even though you are the one with our
money, King, this is our house. And as long as
you are under my roof, you are going to listen to
the things I listen to and furthermore . . enjoy
them. (MARY PLAYS MOZART).
KING: All right.
JOE: ThatTs a oyes sir� from now on. You are
no longer our guest. You are one of us. Put on
your robe and letTs finish the game while we dis-
cuss what your protection will be.
MARY: I feel fine. Perhaps the shelf is at the
right level.
JOE: Sherry makes everything seem right.
You see, King, we have a simple life together, but
it is our own life. I said for you to put on your
robe. And drink your sherry.
KING: Well... sir. There are a couple of
things I need to do before I move in. I need to
return this monopoly set. It isnTt mine. The guy
it belongs to is headed for Houston to find his sis-
ter. I told him I would try my best to get it to
him before night time.
MARY: WonTt that be a dangerous trip? All
the way to Houston. It seems that they would take
Houston before they would Dallas.
JOE: I understand, King. I am sure you are
doing the right thing. Bring the box for the game,
Mary. It has certainly been like another person
in the house. We have all enjoyed having it here.
I guess you might say it took the parrotTs place.
We used to have this parrot"but I wonTt go into
that now. You will learn all about our pasts when
you return. If something should happen to you
and you didnTt return, I trust that you will keep
the location of our shelter a secret.
KING: It is my friend who is going to Houston,
sir. Not I. I will be right back. I promise you.
JOE: There is one thing I would like to ask
you. Is all our money gone? Really gone. Com-
mission and all.
KING: I'll tell you when I get back. It must be
getting dark. I must hurry.
MARY: I will have a nice something sweet
waiting when you come back. Your favorite. And
THE REBEL
ct-
ess
in
ich
re
ave, ice cold drink. YouTll like that. And then
© can think up something for you to use in case
o4 do discover us.
ING: What do y ?
: you use? TAKES THE
GAMR),
EOARY : WeTve assumed the names of Mary and
Seph because of a certain religious implication.
tf never can tell what might help.
x OE: You return and then we'll talk about
Uch things as that.
aING: I should be back in an hour or so. Bye
(HE EXITS CARRYING THE BOX).
OE: Well. ThatTs that. The monopoly set is
80ne for good.
MARY : Seems funny already, doesnTt it?
OE: Well. WhatTs gone"Ts gone. We'll just
to make do without it.
ARY: LetTs just donTt talk about it for a
whi ;
a ItTs too good to be true. We have gained a
JOE: (TOASTING) To jail. And hereTs to
th
gh motto of the monopoly. oGo to jail. Directly
Jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect...�
Ca.)
eae: "i.e hundred dollars.� The record
~ Opped, hasnTt it? Joseph, you live in your
World when you are winning.
! Do you call this winning ...? We havenTt
come es son. DonTt you see? The boy will never
When ea Not unless heTs left something else.
Rever f e took our last dollar today, I knew heTd
t A �,� back. Oh, there are always Fridays when
". ged comes. But thatTs hardly worth his
a ot after the big stakes. CanTt play for
Play tase after the big stakes. CanTt play for
stuf " after youTve gotten used to the real
back ¢ 0, Mary, this isnTt winning. He came
or the monopoly. There is no enemy. There
Sain
Pau, 1962
is nothing coming out of the sky, no extermina-
tion, no troops. If I hadnTt caught him on the
ketchup, thereTs no telling what he would have
taken. Maybe you. He came back for all he could
get. But I only let him take what was rightfully
his. HeTll move on to Houston and work the pits
down there. HeTll go far. ThereTs no doubt in my
mind. As for the enemy and their swarming over
the countryside with machines that buzz"poppy-
cock!
MARY: I'll say it again. You live in your own
world when you are winning. Thank the Lord I
have my interest in Painting and Victorian Poli-
tics.
JOE: As if that was all you have. (PAUSE).
You only believe the things you want to. HeTs not
coming back down here. HeTs got the game.
MARY: What was that meant to mean? Too
much sherry and excitement for you. Warm sher-
ry at that. I bet youTd like some more of that
drink I fix. With the lemons. WouldnTt smooth
things over though. You wouldnTt drink it today.
Because he might come back"despite your void
of faith in human nature. Too bad you have no
instinct. You have too much faith in hotels on
State Street and three or four houses on Baltic.
I may live what you call an illusion, but I have
faith. ITm happy. I have my art.
JOE: (POINTS AT NUDE). Do you call that
art?
MARY: (POINTS AT VIOLIN) And that!
JOE: This is a stalemate. We need the game.
Put on some music. KingTs not coming back. He'll
never play for fake money. HeTs a product of the
new educational systems. He plays to win.
MARY: Leviathan.
Joe: If he comes Friday, I'll take him then.
Unless the enemy wipes us out with their buzz
bombs. (LAUGHS). Fat chance! What an imag-
ination! What inventive coils his brain must
have! ITm green with envy! (MARY GOES TO
THE VICTROLA). LetTs have something lively.
Something with a down beat. Not like all the senti-
mental junk we have to sit through every night
of our lives. What is this world coming to? I
canTt stand to come home again after ITve gotten
out.
MARY: If you ever did. DonTt be petty. YouTre
~upset about King.
JOE: To hell with him. ITm talking about you.
You feed me the biggest line of bunk every time
I start to go. I guess thatTs something to come
back to? Is it? Well, is it?
MARY: I suppose you donTt like my dress
next. I suppose you donTt like your robe either.
35
After I dyed it to exactly match your monopoly
piece. It wasnTt an easy task making these things.
I took my sewing basket to club every day. Those
were the days. All the girls were green with envy
"as you say"because I was interested in my fam-
ily life. I have tried so hard to please you. I
knew that the times you left werenTt successful,
that it was hard for you to come home in the end,
but I also knew that yellow was your favorite color.
(THE RECORD RUNS DOWN).
When I stopped having Florence Mae make
ThelmaTs Cake, it wasnTt because I suspected you
and Thelma of anything. It was legitimately your
favorite recipe. I never let you know that I knew
you suspected me of knowing about you and Thel-
ma. It was because of your health. Your ath-
leteTs heart. You canTt ply yourself with calories
any more. I go out of my way to help you and
Dr. Boddo. I pretended to develop an aversion to
cigars when he took them away from you. I
claimed I had a trick knee when he made you give
up tennis and golf. I switched to sherry ... for
you. Just for you, darling. I am on your side,
believe it or not, Joseph.
I took that recipe and destroyed it for good.
For your own good. I had to let Florence Mae go
of course, but that was just because things were
getting tight. I could have made the cake. I can
cook. It wasnTt that. It was for your own good.
I didnTt stop doting you with your favorites,
though, did I? I merely stressed the few you had
left. I made you a yellow hat for New YearTs
eve. Did you think that was just an accident?
You remarked at the time . . . that it was the only
yellow hat there. All those sequins took time.
That robe took time. Notice the little embroidery
on the sleeve. See it. Yes. Just a bit of mean-
ingless nonsense for decoration. Just a tidbit of
me that doesnTt make any sense perhaps to you
but livens up your evenings when you try to figure
it out. I did it while I was waiting for Rena to
deal me four cards. I had the ace of hearts and
I was going all or nothing for a Royal Flush. I
was looking for a sign.
I got so involved that I didnTt notice I was
putting the monogram on the sleeve instead of
over the heart. When the cards came to me, I saw
that she had dealt me a King of Hearts and a Ten
of Hearts... and a Three of Clubs and a Seven of
Diamonds. Maybe that was the sign.
I chuckled to myself... and did just what you
see now. Just a confused little muddle of noth-
ing. ItTs interesting though.
You see, Joseph, I trust my love for you. ThatTs
why I let myself go on so. WeTve gone through too
36
much together not to really have something right
in there holding us together. You can grump off
when you do go, come back without any warning;
take my shag balls at the club without mentioning
it to me, read Holiday on the commode . . . Just
remember and never forget, ITll wait for you,
Joseph, ITll wait for you.
JOE: I donTt like you to get serious like this.
It isnTt a real marriage when you embarrass your
mate. ItTs better to quote the columns and read
the reviews than to be critical. I want to go on
record right now and ask you for the last time to
please watch your criticisms. King could be
standing right outside that door. He could come
crawling in here at any moment. Let family talk
be kept in the family. I am dead serious. I ap-
preciate the yellow things. I have little left in
my life that I do enjoy. ITve given up all my
favorite habits just to stay alive. I want you to
continue to surprise me with yellow things and
othings,� but I also feel that you are fishing for
compliments when you bring the subject up like
you have just done. I wonTt be able to appreciate
anything else that is Yellow. How could I? Not
even this robe. I am the man of the house.
MARY: DonTt be so pretentious. DonTt be 8?
haughty and condescending. I have treated you
only with most tender respect. I have never queT
tioned your virility.
JOE: And I trust you never will! I hope our
marriage is founded on a firmer rock than that.
MARY: And as for that"let sleeping dogs lie:
JOE: ITm going out to find King. ITve had to?
much sherry to let him get away without taking 4
piece of my mind with him. ThatTs what he should
have come back for.
i
THE REBEL
right
p off
ning;
ning
Just
you,
this.
your
read
o on
1e to
| be
ome
talk
ap-
t in
my
u to
and
for
like
jate
Not
» $0
you
1es-
our
lie
too
g a
uld
MARY: I continue to go unnoticed and unap-
eeeiated, despite al! my little sacrifices, my little
ons to mediocrity in order to make you
ss appy home down here at 4908. Drown my anx-
Pt In the music of the masters, in an occasional
: wl of wine? My only consolations. My con-
Sations. (SHE PLAYS MUSIC).
; JOE: (SITS) Come here. Now I want you to
Ome here, Mary. (SHE SITS ON HIS LAP). I
Sught the lemon drink was wonderful yesterday.
MARY: You noticed.
": Yes. It was delicious. You sat on my lap
his. We sipped lemonade together. Just like
>a wonderful years before the war when we
: a fussed at each other. We got all of our
a off scolding the parrot . . . for messing up
Saying those obscene things .. .
ted ARY : It wasnTt fresh lemon juice. It was bot-
. JOE: I gathered that. I know what ITm drink-
a. But nevertheless, it was wonderful of you
sel? : mention it to me until now. By forcing my-
~s 0 enjoy it, perhaps I enjoyed it more than I
°uld have if I had fussed.
otT: I do all I can with the household bud-
ri oseph. I always keep a fresh lemon in case
fone like King drops in. For peels in drinks,
© grate on meringues. But generally I make
° with bottled juice.
thy oat I know, I know. WeTve let that game get
~ef of us. WeTre just behind right now. Pil
a oe and talk with him. If he comes to live
ick ike he says, ITll win it back. Things will
With "" Perhaps Friday. We just canTt play
ills " artificial money. ItTs too easy to run up
hat way.
pARY: I stretch things.
= E: | know. But I appreciate it when you let
ee the little discoveries. DonTt you feel
: better when the compliments come from
and not from you?
I sony: ItTs when you say things like that that
i Meager and petty. I donTt want to be a
te aneean You know that.
T : Look at me. There. Now relax your face.
he DonTt you see someone who loves you.
: * things I told King when I was mad"those
ate �,� things I feel about you. I just donTt go
. ng around the house barefoot and I just donTt
do. you all the time. There are things I just donTt
St
ar
ru
nary: Of course. ITm such a fool.
M E: Absolutely.
": Joseph. (PAUSE). Yes. ThereTs a
* Go again. Say it. Go on.
Pau, 1962
JOE: DonTt make fun of me. ITm serious.
MARY: Please. For me.
JOE: Absolutely.
MARY: There. See. ItTs not ugly when itTs
said with love.
JOE: Absolutely.
MARY: Absolutely. A little while ago when it
was just thrown off the top of your head it was
hideous and out of place. Now I can accept it for
what you do mean when you say it. Absolutely.
There. I can say it too.
JOE: Words keep us apart, perhaps.
MARY: Absolutely.
JOE: Words are only symbols for ideas that
change...
MARY: Absolutely...
JOE: I must make a confession to you, Mary.
A confession that makes me feel like a child and
a fool. There is no sophistication to break the fall.
Honestly. I must say ... I have been cheating on
you.
MARY: ITm glad youTve told me. I suspected
it when I saw your rage at that boy. And Joseph,
I have been cheating on you too. Perhaps we can
forgive and forget since heTs gone now. I think
we can, because I think youTre right. He wonTt
come back. ITve known all along. ThatTs why
ITve been so cross. You understand?
JOE: Absolutely.
MARY: Iamso glad you just came out with it.
That proves this little episode has opened some
doors that have been shut too long. All over that
stupid game.
JOE: By helping him win our money, I plan-
ed to pay him a commission and thereupon make
you think we were penniless which would insure
my position in the house.
MARY: I suspected it for a long time. Oh,
little things give you away. The flick of a wrist,
an unexpected change of subject, certain awk-
ward pauses and contradictions that seem to crop
up out of the blue. Sometimes I notice a quiver of
your eyelashes when I look deep into your eyes.
There comes a certain wince on your face when I
mention particular things. ITm glad King doesnTt
have to hear any of this. It is something I
wouldnTt want him to know I know. ItTs some-
thing I wouldnTt want to get out of this room. Do
you agree?
JOE: Absolutely.
MARY: There! The wince. The quiver. Oh
darling, you need me. My little sacrifices that go
unnoticed, well, I have found my way of compen-
sating for them"not just in my art and my inter-
est in Victorian politics"oh, yes, in a form of self
37
nent ere rate
attention, one might say, something forbidden
sneaked in under the tension of possibly being
found out, an indiscretion . .
JOE: Absolutely.
MARY: Absolutely. We have grown so much
alike. Sherry. Haydn. And getting a little on the
side. (PAUSE). There. The wince. The quiver.
The pursing of the lips. Those lips. We have both
been cheating on each other"perhaps for differ-
ent reasons. Yes, my nude is young but grotesque.
Your song is only a whining thing. Our intentions
are far beyond our capacities. Perhaps that is
the reason for our divinity.
JOE: You cheated me and I cheated you under
our sophisticated chatter, while King drained
away everything we had with his promises of
secret power. (THERE IS THE SOUND OF
SEVERAL PEOPLE ENTERING THE TUN-
NEL). Get control of yourself. WeTve waited all
these years for this. WeTve done it again and
again. Now the test comes.
MARY: Help me, Joseph, ITm afraid.
JOE: It takes them thirty seconds to get down
the tunnel. Move!
MARY: Yes! (THEY KISS QUICKLY AND
BEGIN THEIR ROUTINE. THE ROBES ARE
PUT INTO A DRAWER MARKED LAXA-
TIVES. MARY TAKES AN OLD SHAWL AND
A BASKET OF KNITTING FROM A DRAWER
MARKED GARTERS. JOSEPH LIGHTS HIS
PIPE, WIPES BROWN CIRCLES UNDER HIS
EYES AND TAKES AN UNFINISHED CROSS-
WORD PUZZLE FROM A DRAWER MARKED
RAZORS. MARY PUTS ON A RECORD WHICH
PLAYS LOUDLY. IT IS THE NATIONAL EM-
BLEM MARCH. SHE LIGHTS THE PRAYER
CANDLE AND PLACES IT ON A SMALL
SHELF UNDER GEORGE WASHINGTON.
THE CHRISTMAS TREE IS PUT ON THE TA-
BLE. AS THE GRUNTING NEWCOMERS,
DRESSED IN MILITARY UNIFORMS ENTER,
JOSEPH SAYS CORDIALLY IN A MIDWEST-
ERN ACCENT:)
JOE: Well, well, well... howdy folks. Come
right on in this house. (THE CHIEF, FIFTY-
TWO, POINTS TO THE FLOOR. HIS ASSIST-
ANT, TWENTY, THROWS KING ONTO IT.
THERE ARE MACHINES THAT BUZZ AT-
TACHED TO STRAPS OVER THEIR SHOUL-
DERS). Momma, get the boys some of your oat-
meal cookies. They look like they could use Tem.
MARY: What a surprise! WhoTs this here?
Cookies? Just took out a fresh batch...
CHIEF: Do you recognize this man? He
. you know?
38
brought us here and said that you would vouch
for him. Is he yours?
JOE: Our son was killed in the services many
years ago. We donTt get out much you see. We
live a very quiet life down here in our shelter:
DonTt bother no one. No one bothers us.
KING: Joseph, tell them. Tell them, ITm your
son. Mary listen. It just takes one word. TheyTré
going to take me to the... (THE ASSISTANT
CLAPS A PLASTIC TYPE OF A BAG OVER
KINGTS HEAD . .. SMOKE COMES OUT OF
a)
MARY: My goodness! I wish I had one of
those things for Joseph here. JosephTs my hus
band. My name is Mary. WeTre just plain folks:
Mary and Joseph. WonTt you sit down.
CHIEF: DonTt let the vapor bother you. It is
harmless. It will put him at ease. The poor boy
is frantic.
JOE: Take off your satchels. They look heavy:
son.
CHIEF: No. YouTd be surprised. They aré
very light. Good cookies, madame.
JOE: Those are radios or something?
CHIEF: They are used for detecting fallout
shelters. Big nuisance. You wouldnTt believe it-
All day long climbing in and out of holes in the
ground. I'll tell you straight from the shoulder:
ITll be glad when all this is over.
MARY: WhatTs he talking about, Poppa?
JOE: She hasnTt been out in fifteen years, son:
Say something to make her happy.
CHIEF: Delicious cookies. Best ITve ever eat-
en. Must use ginger.
JOE: Says he loves your cooking, Momma.
MARY: Well, thank you. ITll give you a hug
for that. (SHE HUGS HIM).
CHIEF: Take him on in. ITll be along in a bit-
That will be all. (EXIT KING AND ASSIST-
ANT).
JOE: Do you destroy the shelters in this part
of the country?
CHIEF: (YAWNING) Oh, yes. We havé
quotas. Depends on the size of the town, you see
Quite an elaborate plan, really. WeTre over thé
hump now I think.
JOE: Momma! ThatTs your song. (SINGS)
Oh! The Monkey wrapped his tail around the flagT
pole.
MARY: (GETS UP TO DO A LITTLE JIG:
JOSEPH LOOKS AT THE CHIEF AND TAPS
HIS HEAD TO SHOW THAT MAMA IS OFF
HER BEAM. THE CHIEF, YAWNING FURIE
OUSLY, STARTS TO LEAVE.) (SINGS) Ob:
THE REBEL
canTt let up for one moment. Not until we die.
MARY: (SINGS) Oh, the monkey wrapped
his tail around the flagpole.
(THE LIGHTS FADE TO DARKNESS. ONLY
THE CANDLE UNDER GEORGE WASHING-
TON BURNS AS THE MARCH PLAYS).
uch oe Monkey wrapped his tail around the flagpole.
7. OE: WhatTs a seven letter word means Land
any the Free?
We CHIEF: Take it easy. (EXITS.)
ter: ak (GOES TO DICTIONARY) Sing, Mom-
a. TheyTll be watching us from now on. We
� Alone
are They canTt make me love them"people.
I stand untouched in the incessant swirl
of their pseudo-tragedies
and saccharine joys.
out
it.
the They canTt make me love them"
er; Any more than the pallid grey raindrops
Groveling face down in the dust of the cobbles
Could make my eyes sting with
on. anger
or tears
at- or joy.
They canTt make me love them"
ug Any more than sanguine burgundy wine
Spitting crystal bubbles that shatter on my nose
vit. Could make hands grasp with
T anger
or tears
rt or joy.
ve They canTt make me love them"people. )
2e. I stand untouched, and only now and then |
he do great shouts of emptiness )
spew from my silent lips. )
5) "DENYSE DRAPER
Se |
G. |
»S
~F
IJ
nh,
pL Pant, 1962 39
THE REBEL REVIEW
O\izpRo0
But ThereTs A Catch...
Catch-22
Catch-22. By Joseph Heller. Dell Publishing Company.
1962. 463 pp. $.75.
Yossarian, World War II bombardier still alive
after some forty missions and determined to
stay that way, has a strange notion in his head.
oTheyTre trying to kill me,� he tells Clevenger, a
friend of his who is mad.
oNobody is trying to kill you,� Clevenger cries.
oThen why are they shooting at me?�
oTheyTre shooting at everyone,� Clevenger an-
swers. oTheyTre trying to kill everyone.�
oAnd what difference does that make?�
To Yossarian, of course, none whatsoever. As
he points out later to someone who tries to explain
things to him: oGet it straight. Anybody who
40
is trying to kill me is my enemy.�
And this definitely includes the Group Com-
mander who by this time has raised the required
number of missions to forty-five. He does this
for a very good reason. He wants his outfit t0
make a very good showing so that he can become |
a general.
So Yossarian finally decides to go mad, the way
everybody else is, and he goes to tell Doc Daneek@
about it. But Doc Daneeka (oa man whose ide@
of a good time is to sulk�) has troubles of his ow?
the main one being that he has been drafted just
as he was beginning to make good money, and has
no sympathy for Yossarian. oYouTre wasting you!
time,� he tells him.
oCanTt you ground someone who is crazy ?�T
THE REBEL
U
oOh, sure. I have to. ThereTs a rule says I
ave to ground anyone who is crazy.�
" thereTs a catch, he explains. oAnyone who
reall Ss to get out of combat isnTt really crazy. The
nek 4 crazy ones are those who wonTt ask. If you
SK to get out of combat, you are obviously not
Crazy,�
aon this is only one of the catches in this really
im adrdinary novel that has been moving along
all sebagai for nearly a year now before fin-
end eginning to emerge as some kind of peculiar
inal erplece. Certainly it is one of the most orig-
ee written in years. Its humor at times 1s
even levably cruel ; it is shocking, outrageous,
oes poe sage at times, and yet it has in it a pecu-
mea lice in Wonderland quality that teases the
er along, convincing him of almost anything.
; Are these characters real or fantasy? Are they
aracters or caricatures? There is Major Major,
mee rather mad squadron Commander who does
and pag to have anything to do with anybody,
in ay his own catch. oDonTt tell anybody ITm
an oe tells his sergeant, ounless ITm out. If I'm
tall a all right to tell them ITm in. But if ITm in,
and em ITm out; then come inside and tell me,
a after have left, you can tell them I am in.�
~i Major, whose name and resemblance to
ald Fonda have somehow warped his life, thus
S with the world the best way he can.
epee is Milo Minderbinder, the epitome of all
Benin operators who have ever lived, a financial
ete S Who is convinced that the war could be run
orig through private enterprise. In one fan-
Stic chapter, he comes close to proving this
fata he, as mess officer and head of a buying
ea icate has by this time come into control of a
cir planes, both American and German, con-
wit " the Americans to bomb a bridge and
own | e Germans to defend it. He is running his
te ittle war and much more efficiently, it seems,
i a of the governments. Your credulity
that xed along through all this by the mere fact
" " have known people who think like this.
hig "s seems to establish this and then allows
such oeno ger to explode, carrying the story to
While ee of absurdity that you begin after a
Ogic 0 accept this mad world with all its strong
- as willingly as you accept the ghosts of
; �,�speare.
bles = inadequate and unfair to take a few exam-
. ee of a novel like this for any fair showing.
all, ig One, the quality, that strange reality of it
80 ee missing when not seen as a whole,
it sounds a bit far-fetched. And it is far-
Faun, 1962
fetched in a way: the characters do not speak the
way people ordinarily speak. They say usually
just what they think and feel, as in the novels of
Dostoevsky. The interesting thing is that once
you are engrossed in the book you accept this as a
perfectly natural thing. Why, after all, should
men practically already doomed to death bother
with trivial lies? It seems most sensible that they
should talk this way.
Naturally, it is something of a jolt to be sud-
denly confronted with madness ; therefore, at the
beginning the reader is slightly dubious and a
little impatient. After being conquered by the
first few chapters, though, his resistance gives
way as the novel sweeps along at an exhilarating
pace, springing one delightful surprise after the
other. Heller is savage at jumping on twists of
thought or peculiar logic; he seems to revel in mad
logic at times as much as the incorrigible punster
must revel in words. Yet at the same time there
is sensitivity and insight, so that the waves of
laughter sometimes seem necessary to hold back
cries of complete frustration.
It is all too good to last, and sad to say, it
doesnTt. Toward the end, as happens in most
serious comedy, comes the somber note, the
descent from its high level of absurdity, until it
reaches that plane of stark realism, which in most
novels would seem powerful, but somehow here
seems to let the reader down with a sour taste in
his mouth. This is natural, it seems, and was on
the authorTs part an admirable attempt to round
the whole book off into an artistic whole. But
comedy is the hardest kind of writing in the world
to end satisfactorily. Tragedy moves from its
very beginning toward a dead end, cutting out
possibilities of escape from the tragedy as it nar-
rows down; comedy, on the other hand, inherently
tends to expand, piling one possibility on top of
another, building up momentum, until the only
way to stop it is to deny its existence"to make it
take a serious turn. This Heller attempts to do
at the end, but it is not artistically sound. He
forces Yossarian to face up to a moral problem
that seems petty in the shadow of the first of the
book, and the reader is left with a feeling that he
has been cheated, maybe lied to, along the way.
However, if it is a lie, it is an interesting one
in the first part, and well worth reading. It is a
dazzling performance at times.
"Mac HYMAN
41
A History of the Cold War
A History of the Cold War. By John Lukacs. New York:
Doubleday & Company, Inc. 1962. $1.45.
Why the United States and the Soviet Union
are engaged in a titanic struggle for existence is
a compelling question for all Americans. Though
many Americans often try to side-step the fact of
this struggle, either by ignoring it or by seeking
such opiates as entertainments, they can only tem-
porarily do so. Asa national group, and also as a
part of humanity, we Americans must confront the
terrifying issues that not only our national sur-
vival but also our personal survival are at stake.
Historically, ideological and national clashes were
both geographically and technically limited, but
since World War II, the first true world war, there
has been an increasing polarization of all nations
to either the United States or Russia. More im-
portant, each of these colossi, as the standard-
bearer of many nations which espouse a common
body of beliefs, has become responsible for their
defense and has at its command terrifying nuclear
and biological weapons to fulfill this responsibility.
Hence, the questions of why this polarization of
nations came about and what the historical nature
of their struggle is demand answers in order that
an informed citizenry will realize how America
stands today and the possible solutions for our
dilemmas.
Professor John Lukacs, historian and essayist,
addresses himself to seeking at least a partial
answer to these questions. Beginning with the
assumption that a nation has a character which
is the sum of its past political, economic, social,
and cultural development, Lukacs then suggests
that we learn and discern the nature of the present
polarization by studying the history of each of
the combatants and the nature of their historical
relations.
First of all, therefore, Lukacs very briefly re-
lates the course of Russian-American relations
through the Second World War, stressing the lack
of causes for animosity and clashes. For the post-
war years, when the Cold War begins to take shape
and to crystallize, Lukacs provides a fuller de-
scription of the events. His chronicling is car-
ried through to 1961, and though adequate as a
capsule summary, his narrative is so incomplete
as to demand the reading of supplementary studies
of each major area of the American-Russian rela-
tions. Indeed, the student would be well advised
to turn to Thomas A. BaileyTs America Races Rus-
sia for the pre-revolutionary period, to George F.
KennanTs Russia and the West for the Soviet-
American relations under Lenin and Stalin, and
42
to Hugh Seton-WatsonTs Neither War Nor Peace
for the Cold War itself. LukacsT interpretations, |
such as his view that Harry S TrumanTs contain- |
-
ment policy was more of an inevitable response t0 |
Soviet expansion rather than the beginning of 4
dynamic policy of countering Soviet designs, re-
quire the use of these other studies.
None the less, in the second half of his study;
Lukacs makes a notable contribution to our under-
standing of the present conflict by his provocative
odescription, through a historical approach, of
important tendencies, convergencies, conflicts,
misunderstandings, and movements of the tw?
great protagonists of the World Struggle.� By
juxtaposing the two national characters and civ-
ilizations, Lukacs convincingly shows that the na-
ture of the current struggle of the two powers is
not one of light against darkness or of good
against evil. He shows, rather, that there is
much common ground for understanding betwee?
the two powers because of historical and natural
similarities and because of the increasing mutual
interchanges between the two cultures.
Lukacs does not suggest that this growing
ground for understanding will of itself bring
about the end of the Cold War. But by showing
that the present conflict is not one of diametri¢
opposites, he gives us some hope that the higher
morality of mankind might prevail above that of
simple national aggrandizement. Finally, he hopes
that the people and the leaders of these nations
will realize that othe problem of morality already
transcends national decisions not only in at
ethical but in a practical way� since mankind noW
has the power to destroy itself.
Thus LukacsT book is deserving of a wide read-
ership, and since not the least of its qualities i8
its inexpensive format, this study belongs in every
library.
"Dr. GEORGE W. BAKES
The Will To Live
The Will To Live: Selected Writings of Arthur Schope�"�
hauer. Edited by Richard Taylor. Garden City, New York:
Anchor Books, Doubleday & Company, Inc. 1962. 365 PP
$1.45.
Leibnitz maintained that this is the best of al!
possible worlds. Schopenhauer concluded that it
is the worst of all possible worlds.
A signal service is performed by Professo
Richard Taylor of Brown University and Anchot
Books in this publication of selected writings °
the man who turned Romanticism into pessimis�"�
Professor Taylor, in his editing, keeps faith with
Schopenhauer by following the format which ©
THE REBEL |
t
r
f
i
rgnoPenhauer adopted in The World As Will and
hile ue complete exposition of his doctrine.
and th rawing heavily from the second edition
Part vi aie supplementary essays of this four-
delit ork, Professor Taylor again demonstrates
a and makes a helpful contribution by inter-
Which i essays from other Schopenhauer works
Th 1 luminate and illustrate his basic insight.
aes. title, The Will to Live, is certainly an ac-
distin) " for these essays which propose to
is Prof he essence of SchopenhauerTs thought. It
also ge ss ieiesd TaylorTs contention that these essays
of aly e to demonstrate the compelling brilliance
eXamin sag which coupled detailed empirical
© uny = ion and daring metaphysical speculation
editor eil the meaning of existence. And yet, the
when seems to detract from this high purpose
oSopa digm his nineteen-page introduction, he ap-
uddin por much appreciative of SchopenhauerTs
a g rilliance as desirous to use the attendant
tie - a switch� on his own owhipping boy.�
Rey the impression that Professor TaylorTs
thei ion for SchopenhauerTs thought arises out
c ag mutual rejection of any optimistic con-
agreem about existence rather than from their
oee ent on the structure of existence. None-
Sentin , this book accomplishes its purpose in pre-
oe . the heart of Arthur SchopenhauerTs
Th. t.
Ure a of Schopenhauer lies in his depart-
~ igang point of KantTs classical distinction
ooan anes is� (the thing-in-itself) and owhat
eadin . le. While Kant disparaged any path
oWw oward what is,� other than a hint of
iveg " to be,� derived from moral impera-
that Pay openhauer opens the way by affirming
. = a is acertainable. That is not because
~lon of it, ect on it, but because we are an expres-
i _ than thought (Descartes : I think,
i �,� Tam) and that which lies closest to us
oWhat Semel nature is not thought, but will.
structibl therefore, is will. This will is the inde-
in all "�"� kernel of being and it expresses itself
pen en enomenon. This approach marks Scho-
Lica] er as the forerunner of such phenomeno-
a ontologists as Husserl, Heidegger, Kafka,
arcel.
ig wa penser not only affirms that owhat is�
8 acge he observes its indifference to individ-
ees its sole purpose in the perpetuation of
raws th through the species. Therefore, he
Neonge; e conclusion that this will is blind and
New ManTs onarrow breast� is too small
Omen; this infinite striving and he, as all phe-
a, is dashed about in the endless profusion
exj
Pau, 1962
of life. The will alone is immortal. Man, despite
his quest for a meaningful existence, emerges as a
mere expression of the will and lives only to per-
petuate existence. Serving that end, he, like a
fly or a flower, falls back into the nothingness
from whence he came.
The reader will be fascinated to follow Schopen-
hauer as he unfolds this thought through a pene-
trating examination of such subjects as life, death,
insects, sex, comparative anatomy and zoology.
Confirmed pessimists will find a patron saint.
Perhaps a few excerpts will bait the courageous
Davids began taking on this Philistine.
oHuman life must be some kind of mistake.�
oWhoever seriously thinks that superhuman be-
ings have ever given our race information as to
the aim of its existence and that of the world, is
still in his childhood.�
oTo desire that the individuality should be im-
mortal really means to wish to perpetuate an error
infinitely.
Readers of this book should not be limited to the
scholarly: student. Although a reading knowledge
of Latin, French, and German would make avail-
able the frequent untranslated quotations, all
serious readers will find these essays not only
accessible, but challenging and provocative.
"RICHARD T. DAVIS
Short Pleasures
By Anne Bernays. New York: Doubleday
1962. 228 pp. $3.95.
Anne Bernays, a newcomer to American writ-
ing, is a graduate of Bernard College and a former
columnist for Town and County Magazine.
After graduating from Bernard, she ofell in
with a gang of brilliant, disreputable people"in-
tellectual snobs and pre-Kerovac beats.� From
these people, Miss Bernays has drawn many of her
ideas for Short Pleasures.
In Short Pleasures, Miss Bernays relates the
actions of Nicky Hapgood during her years in
boarding school and junior college. Nicky expe-
riences the usual growing up pains.
Her boarding school career is remarkably nor-
mal. Following her entrance into junior college,
Nicky, in an effort to meet the demands of society,
drifts into an engagement with a dull but present-
able young man named Bradley. Their relation-
ship during college is strikingly assuasive for
Nicky. Bradley is too far away for any associa-
tion except daily letters and an occasional week-
end, but he serves as the excuse Nicky needs to
avoid emotional entanglements with men closer
at hand. Only NickyTs perceptive young brother
Short Pleasures.
and Company, Inc.
43
:
sees Bradley as he really is, oan amiable jerk,�
and in spite of her secret misgivings, Nicky is
unable to admit to herself that the engagement is
a mistake.
While her parents enthusiastically plan a huge
wedding, Nicky becomes more confused and de-
pressed. Unable to escape the trap she has un-
wittingly walked into, she rebels against Bradley
and the society he represents. Only three weeks
before the wedding, she runs away to New York,
pawns her engagement ring, and flees to a middle
western city where she attempts suicide.
Her suicidal attempt fails but, nevertheless,
frees her from the anxiety imposed on her by a
regimented society. Nicky is able to understand
herself as an individual and to accept the imposi-
tions forced on her by her family and friends.
About the only good thing Anne Bernays accom-
plishes in Short Pleasures is characterization.
Miss Bernays has captured the freshness of youth
in a faithful rendering of the language in which
Nicky Hapgood thinks and speaks: oThere was
no doubt in me: I wished my mother dead. I
realized that this is the kind of emotion a person
is supposed to forget. I never did.�
Beyond characterization, the purpose of Short
Pleasures is illusive. There is no visible purpose
for Short Pleasures except perhaps as entertain-
ing escape reading.
"BosB BOWMAN
The Life of Lazarillo de Tormes:
His Fortunes and Adversities
Translated by W. S. Merwin. The Life of Lazarillo de
Tormes: His Fortunes and Adversities. Garden City, New
York: Anchor Books. Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1962. 95¢.
In 1554, three editions of Lazarillo de Tormes
appeared. The first edition had appeared in 1553,
and immediately this anonymous little book be-
came popular with the entire literate Spanish
world. Its birth was the birth of the picaresque
novel.
Essentially, the picaresque novel is a series of
realistic episodes narrated in an autobiographical
form by the picaro or rogue who links the episodes
into a chain. The picaro has certain distinct
characteristics: His birth is low and uncertain.
He is forced by circumstances to become a servant.
He passes from master to master in order to pro-
vide himself with sustenance. He lives by cun-
ning and trickery. His various adventures or
mis-adventures satirize the various classes of so-
ciety. In spite of his misfortunes, the picaro re-
mains optimistic.
44
oIt is only right, to my mind, that things "
so remarkable, which happen to have remain- _
ed unheard and unseen until now, should be
brought to the attention of many and not lie
buried in the sepulcher of oblivion. The
reader may find matter here to entertain him,
and even he who does no more than dip into
this book will have his reward in pleasure.�
Thus Lazarillo, hereafter called Lazaro, begin
his tale. He reveals his parentage as being ex
tremely low and leads us into the tale of his first
master, a blind man, who onext to God himself:
had given me most of the qualifications which
made it possible for me to attain my present posi-
tion.� Lazaro was taught the thievesT jargon and
other tricks of the trade necessary to stay alive.
Forced by hunger to leave the blind man, La
zaro entered the services of first a priest, then 4
squire, a Friar of the Order of Mercy, a seller of
indulgences, a chaplain, and a constable. Enriched
in experience, Lazaro finally obtained the positio2
of town crier, married a servant woman of thé
Archpriest, and found himself entirely satisfied.
W. S. Merwin has translated this novel int0
English with great skill. He has successfull¥
transposed the idiomatic expressions of old Span-
ish and obsolete terms into readable, entertaining
English. "JOYCE CROCKES
CONTRIBUTORS
Larry Blizard, a member of The Rebel art staf
is a graduate student from Whiteville, North
Carolina.
Milton G. Crocker, a frequent contributor to Thé
Rebel, is a junior English major from Greet
ville.
Jo Ann Leith makes her first appearance in thi$
issue of The Rebel.
Harlan Mills is a member of the English faculty:
He took his MasterTs degree in Fine Arts 2
Yale.
Mac Hyman, a member of the English faculty,
the author of No Time for Sergeants.
Dr. George W. Baker, who received his Ph.D. fro�"�
the University of Colorado, is a member of thé
Social Studies faculty.
Brenda Canipe, a junior from Rockingham,
making her second appearance in this nssue 9
The Rebel.
Richard T. Davis is pastor of the Winterville BaP�
tist Church.
Joyce Crocker is a foreign language major fro
Greenville.
Louis Jones is a member of the art staff.
Sue Ellen Hunsucker and Bob Bowman are mel�
bers of the staff.
THE REBEL ©
fe.
a
L |
The FAST CAROLINIAN
Invites qualified writers to
join its staff
ALL, 1969
45
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