<?xml version="1.0"?>
<TEI xmlns="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0" xmlns:xsi="http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema-instance" xsi:schemaLocation="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0 http://digital.lib.ecu.edu/tei/xsd/tei_P5.xsd">
  <teiHeader>
    <fileDesc>
      <titleStmt>
        <title>
        </title>
        <author>
        </author>
        <respStmt>
          <resp>Text encoded by</resp>
          <name>Digital Collections</name>
        </respStmt>
      </titleStmt>
      <publicationStmt>
        <distributor>East Carolina University. J. Y. Joyner Library</distributor>
        <address>
          <addrLine>Digital Collections</addrLine>
          <addrLine>Joyner Library, East Carolina University</addrLine>
          <addrLine>East Fifth Street, Greenville NC 27858-4353 USA</addrLine>
        </address>
        <date>2012</date>
      </publicationStmt>
      <sourceDesc>
        <bibl>
        </bibl>
      </sourceDesc>
    </fileDesc>
    <encodingDesc>
      <samplingDecl>
        <p>All quotation marks retained as data.</p>
        <p>All end-of-line hyphens have been removed, and the trailing part of a word has been joined to the preceding line.</p>
        <p>All smart quotes have been converted into straight quotes.</p>
      </samplingDecl>
      <classDecl>
        <taxonomy xml:id="LCSH">
          <bibl>Library of Congress Subject Headings</bibl>
        </taxonomy>
      </classDecl>
    </encodingDesc>
    <profileDesc>
      <creation>
        <date>
        </date>
      </creation>
      <langUsage xml:lang="en-US">
        <language ident="en-US" usage="100">English</language>
      </langUsage>
      <textClass>
        <keywords scheme="#LCSH">
          <list>
            <item>
            </item>
          </list>
        </keywords>
      </textClass>
    </profileDesc>
  </teiHeader>
  <text>
    <body>
      <div type="other">
        <p rend="align(centerbold)">[This text is machine generated and may contain errors.]</p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0001" />
        <p>
          <lb />=<lb />=<lb />oO<lb />4<lb /><lb />UV<lb />Ke<lb />n<lb /><lb />uu<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0002" />
        <p>
          <lb />
        </p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0003" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />
          <lb />
          <lb />
          <lb />
          <lb />
          <lb />
          <lb />
          <lb />
          <lb />
          <lb />
          <lb />
          <lb />VOLUME X FALL, 1966 NUMBER 1<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb />ART PORTFOLIO 31<lb /><lb />CONTRIBUTORST NOTES 48<lb /><lb />DRAMA<lb />The Fiend by Nancie Allen 4<lb /><lb /><lb /><lb />EDITORIAL 3<lb />ESSAY<lb /><lb />Functions of Religious Language by Houston Craighead, Jr. 22<lb /><lb />FEATURES<lb />Interview with Dr. Thomas J. J. Altizer 11<lb />Interview with Dr. John C. Bennett 14<lb />Photographic Essay by Henry Townsend ab<lb />FICTION<lb />Wintertime and Not One Posy by Worth Kitson 28<lb />The Gift by Ronald Watson 37<lb /><lb />POETRY<lb />Ode to Baie de Touraine by Guy le Mare 9<lb />Rue 21 by Pam Honaker 16<lb />Asha Yeats by Pam Honaker 26<lb />I Became a Leaf 27<lb />CMF Because by Pam Honaker 27<lb />Teod by Guy le Mare 27<lb />Protest #1 by Brenda Hines 30<lb />Protest #2 by Brenda Hines 30<lb />Eel Grass by Pam Honaker 40<lb />Poems by Worth Kitson and Lola Johnson Al<lb /><lb />REBEL REVIEW<lb />Reviews by Dr. Henry C. Ferrell, Ronald Watson, and Pat<lb />Wilson 44<lb /><lb />COVER<lb />By Cherry Parsons<lb /><lb />THE REBEL is published by the Student Government Association<lb />of East Carolina College. It was created by the Publitations Board<lb />of East Carolina College as a literary magazine to be edited by stu-<lb />dents and designed for the publication of student material.<lb /><lb />Contributions to THE REBEL should be directed to P. O. Box 2486<lb />E.C.C., Greenville, North Carolina. Editorial and business offices are<lb />located at 300 Old Austin Building. Manuscripts and art work sub-<lb />mitted by mail should be accompanied by a self-addressed envelope<lb />and return postage. The publishers assume no responsibility for the<lb />return of manuscripts or art work.<lb /><lb />Copyright applied for, 1966<lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0004" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />STAFF<lb /><lb />EDITORIAL LAYOUT<lb />RON WATSON, Editor MaArGo TEU, Editor<lb />BETTIE ADAMS, Associate Editor CARYOL WRIGHT, Assistant<lb /><lb />PAT WILSON, Assistant Editor<lb />CAROLYN MADDREY, Book Review Editor<lb />PEGGY TAYLOR, Poetry Editor<lb /><lb />BILL RUFTY, Fiction Editor<lb /><lb /><lb /><lb /><lb /><lb />SANDY THOMAS, Exchange Editor<lb /><lb />JOANNA MUZINICH, Critic<lb /><lb />BUSINESS<lb /><lb />HENRY TOWNSEND, Business Manager<lb />DAVID CROTTS, Assistant<lb /><lb />ALAN MERRIL, Assistant<lb /><lb />GENERAL<lb /><lb />KATHY REECE<lb /><lb />BETSY CHICKERING, Editor BRENDA HINES<lb /><lb />CHERRY PARSON, Assistant PAM MCKITRICK<lb />LisA HATCH PAM HONAKER<lb />DIANA HOOPER BECKY BROWN<lb /><lb />LYNN PORTER<lb /><lb />ADVISOR<lb />OVID PIERCE MEMBER ASSOCIATED COLLEGIATE PRESS<lb /><lb />2 THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0005" />
        <p>EDITORIAL....<lb /><lb />RESPONSIBILITY FOR ALL<lb /><lb />The forthcoming session of the North Carolina<lb />General Assembly will decide the immediate fu-<lb />ture of East Carolina. For nearly a year East<lb />Carolina has been campaigning for independent<lb />university status. Although opposition has been<lb />heavy, particularly from the Piedmont and from<lb />the Consolidated University proponents, support<lb />has been strong from the Coastal Plains section of<lb />the state. And the outcome may also depend upon<lb />such diverse subjects as liquor-by-the-drink and<lb />reapportionment.<lb /><lb />East Carolina has been fortunate to have a uni-<lb />fied approach to independent university status.<lb />The students, faculty, administration, and board<lb />of trustees have all been in relative agreement as<lb />to our goals. One wonders, however, if all of the<lb />above are aware of the responsibility involved in<lb />being a university.<lb /><lb />The administration seems to be the best prepar-<lb />ed to accept university status. Despite the tradi-<lb />tional cries of oinefficiency,� oultra-conservative,�<lb />and obiased against students,� they are probably<lb />one of the best prepared administrations in the<lb />country for the transition from college to univer-<lb />sity. Their main weakness is the lack of institut-<lb />ing certain academic programs in certain areas.<lb />East Carolina is in definite need of a full seminar<lb />program, a reading week, and a hard-core honors<lb />program. These programs can come only from<lb />the administration. Hence, it is the responsibility<lb />of the administration to institute them if the need<lb />exists.<lb /><lb />Our faculty may be a more serious problem.<lb />To some persons a tendency exists to accept less<lb />than college standards. Some students believe that<lb />many faculty members take a legalistic, or too<lb />rigid approach in the humanities. Others feel that<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />entirely too many objective tests, such as true-<lb />false, multiple-choice, and fill-in-the-blank are be-<lb />ing used, but it must be said that this problem is<lb />universal. And still others feel that essay or sub-<lb />jective tests are being graded too easily. Whether<lb />or not any or all of these complaints are justified,<lb />the faculty must continuously evaluate itself and<lb />be aware of the possibility that these complaints<lb />may be true. If academic excellence is a reality<lb />at East Carolina College, it is the faculty that must<lb />maintain and require it from the student.<lb /><lb />Easily the least prepared, however, for uni-<lb />versity status is the student. Many students at<lb />East Carolina do nothing more than just barely<lb />get by. We have no interest in academic communi-<lb />ties. We do not take advantage of the cultural and<lb />academic affairs that are present. We seem afraid<lb />to enter into a faculty-student relationship. In<lb />short, we are in an apathetic daze of non-entity"<lb />afraid to see and afraid to be seen. While the<lb />reputation of a school may depend on its faculty,<lb />its worth depends on its students. If we are to<lb />become a real university and not one in name only,<lb />the students must accept the ultimate responsi-<lb />bility.<lb /><lb />We seek to become a university, and well we<lb />should. The time will never be better than the<lb />present. Many of the above faults are being elim-<lb />inated while many others will take time to correct.<lb />The process of becoming a university is neither<lb />easy nor fast. But, the Consolidated University<lb />and the Piedmont newspapers notwithstanding,<lb />we are ready. Being ready is only the beginning,<lb />however. If we are to be the great institution<lb />that we seek to be, we must be ever-improving,<lb />ever-changing, and ever-progressing. And that<lb />we must be always.<lb /><lb />EDITOR<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0006" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />THE FIEND<lb /><lb />First Place Fiction<lb />by<lb /><lb />Nancie Allen<lb /><lb />Cast: Paige, a college student/ Kelly, PaigeTs<lb />roommate/ Angela, PaigeTs friend/ College Boys:<lb />Van, Frank, Cory, Ted/ LadiesT Club: Eleanor,<lb />Mamie, Grey, Lettice, Dana/ Jock, an artist/<lb />Helena, JockTs wife/ Carwana, PaigeTs aunt/ Jan-<lb />itor.<lb /><lb />Time: The present, in the evening.<lb /><lb />Place: The lobby of an art museum, shortly<lb />before closing time.<lb /><lb />KELLY: (Looking bored) Hey, Paige, how much<lb />longer are we going to have to sit here?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Till Aunt Carwana comes.<lb /><lb />ANGELA: Why?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Because she said to wait here in the<lb />parlor until she finishes her trustee meeting.<lb /><lb />KELLY: YouTre not going to leave your painting<lb />up for her to see, are you?<lb /><lb />ANGELA: She has to leave it up until the exhi-<lb />bitionTs over.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Yes.<lb /><lb />KELLY: Gee, Paige. You heard your aunt. She<lb />told you not to exhibit. She told you to enroll in<lb />Physics 101.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: (Returns to sofa) I know.<lb /><lb />KELLY: ITve got an idea. (Rises, goes toward<lb />picture as soon as the exhibit is over) ITll grab the<lb />painting and fly with it to our room, Paige.<lb /><lb />ANGELA: But thereTs no need to, Kelly. It<lb />isnTt signed. Paige, your aunt wouldnTt know it<lb />in a million years. (Moves to other pictures.)<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Believe me"sheTd know. Carwana has<lb />a sixth sense.<lb /><lb />KELLY: (Returning to her chair) Gravy. Sup-<lb />pose the trustee meeting beats the exhibition to<lb />the finish?<lb /><lb />ANGELA: Kelly, youTre a worry wart. ItTll take<lb />her aunt hours to put that speaker ban through.<lb /><lb />KELLY: I understand. Win or no hundred-<lb />thousand dollar gift to the college.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: No, no. ItTs not that at all. ItTs not<lb />CarwanaTs money. ItTs her. ItTs her force and<lb />persuasiveness that moves people.<lb /><lb />ANGELA: But when itTs irresistible force against<lb />immovable objects"<lb /><lb />PAIGE: CarwanaTs generous. Why, just last<lb />month she donated a new wing to Lefentante Gen-<lb />eral Hospital.<lb /><lb />KELLY: O.K., O.K. (Angela walks to the door<lb />and looks out.)<lb /><lb />ANGELA: (Moving to center stage) I donTt<lb />see anybody. Sure is quiet.<lb /><lb />KELLY: Hey, letTs go, Paige.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: No, ITve got to wait for her. But you<lb />and Angela can leave. I know youTve got things<lb />to do.<lb /><lb />(Angela and Kelly exchange glances. Angela<lb />returns to the chair.)<lb /><lb />ANGELA: We'll wait. But the exhibition is<lb />bound to be over by now. We havenTt seen any<lb />viewers for an hour. (Begins rummaging in her<lb />purse for a half-eaten apple.)<lb /><lb />KELLY: This is like sitting up with a corpse.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Is it that bad?<lb /><lb />KELLY: (Apologetic) ITm sorry, Paige, I did-<lb />nTt mean it the way it sounded. ITm keeping my<lb />fingers crossed that it will win. (Angela rises,<lb />walks over to the painting at center, stands star-<lb />ing at it.)<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0007" />
        <p>FALL, 1966<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0008" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />ANGELA: (after a pause)<lb />Kelly?<lb /><lb />KELLY: oThe Fiend.T (Bends over to read in-<lb />scription) oThe Fiend.�<lb /><lb />ANGELA: But itTs so much more.<lb /><lb />KELLY: Why is it called oThe Fiend?�<lb /><lb />PAIGE: You know why, Kelly.<lb /><lb />KELLY: Well, I know your Aunt Carwana calls<lb />abstract art fiendish. But"<lb /><lb />ANGELA: ThereTs a chained spirit, struggling<lb />to be free"<lb /><lb />KELLY: WhatTs his fright?<lb /><lb />ANGELA: Himself, maybe. (Exchanges glances<lb />with Paige, slowly walking to front stage center)<lb />ItTs all the proud tyrants. ItTs the brightest angel.<lb />And despite the false pride which seems forever<lb />to chain man to the cloak of darkness, there is al-<lb />ways the stirrings toward light"toward the morn-<lb />ing star.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Angela.<lb /><lb />ANGELA: Yes, Paige, I see all that in oThe<lb />Fiend.� And what I see is beautiful. (Paige and<lb />Angela exchange glances and both smile.)<lb /><lb />What do you see,<lb /><lb />ANGELA: (Looking at watch abruptly) I do<lb />have to go. Good-bye, Kelly. (Leaves without<lb />purse)<lb /><lb />KELLY: Bye.<lb /><lb />ANGELA: (Returning to get purse) Oh, Paige,<lb />ITm proud of you. Good-bye. (Angela leaves. Paige<lb />smiles. )<lb /><lb />KELLY: (Rising and going to sit beside Paige<lb />on sofa) Paige, I do want you to win. When the<lb />judgesT decision is made, I hope it will be: oThe<lb />Fiend,� unsigned, winner of the tuition grant.<lb />Why, then youTd be free"free of your aunt and<lb />you could paint your abstracts in spite of her ban.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: (Rising to front stage center) Well,<lb />whatever happens, I know I have to create. (Wist-<lb />fully) At night I dream, and in the morning my<lb />hands move over the canvas, putting my dreams<lb />there! You do see, donTt you? (Moves across stage<lb />to back of chair)<lb /><lb />KELLY: Have you ever stopped to think that<lb />maybe your aunt wouldnTt be so opposed to your<lb />taking art if you painted scenes from nature"<lb />trees and birds and stuff like that"art that says<lb />something?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: I paint asT I feel"I have to, Kelly.<lb />ThereTs so much beyond the canvas.<lb /><lb />KELLY: (Warningly) Sh! Guess the exhibition<lb />isnTt over. Here come three guys.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Come over here to sit down. LetTs pre-<lb />tend weTre just viewers.<lb /><lb />KELLY: (Nodding, she moves quickly to the<lb />other chair. Four college boys enter. One remains<lb /><lb />silent throughout the scene, they are typically<lb />campus types. They go to PaigeTs painting and<lb />stare at it.)<lb /><lb />VAN: Hey, Man! This is what I call gone. ItTs<lb />the wildest.<lb /><lb />FRANK: ItTs a scarecrow if you ask me.<lb /><lb />VAN: No, Man. ItTs my Uncle Lamas. Exactly<lb />his expression when I ask him for more cash.<lb /><lb />Cory: Ah, fellows, you just donTt appreciate<lb />art. (The other two boys groan.)<lb /><lb />FRANK: Well, pal, I appreciate art that looks<lb />like art. This thing must be a joke.<lb /><lb />VAN: A poor joke, Man.<lb /><lb />Cory: I see a struggle.<lb /><lb />FRANK: Yeah, yeah. (Reads title) It says oThe<lb />Fiend.� (Steps back.) Some fiend, isnTt it, Van?<lb /><lb />VAN: Oh man! A fiend! How terribly horrid.<lb />(Putting on an act) ITm so frightened.<lb /><lb />FRANK: My gal knows it isnTt safe to be around<lb />a fiend.<lb /><lb />Cory: O. K., you clowns.<lb /><lb />VAN: Oh! Frank, heTs going to sic the fiend<lb />on us! LetTs fly.<lb /><lb />FRANK: Yeah. (Van, Frank, Ted leave)<lb /><lb />CoRY: Come on, you goons. A lot of people<lb />may be in this painting, the same as me. I hope<lb />this painting wins.<lb /><lb />VAN: Man, old Cory is nuts"nuts! (The boys<lb />leave)<lb /><lb />KELLY: Ah, wise guys. (She moves slowly to<lb />stand before oThe Fiend,� looking searchingly at<lb />it.)<lb /><lb />PAIGE: (Follows Kelly, observes her concentra-<lb />tion) What now?<lb /><lb />KELLY: ITm looking for myself.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Oh?<lb /><lb />KELLY: The one called Cory saw himself.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: He did, didnTt he?<lb /><lb />KELLY: (Returning to face Paige) Paige, how<lb />much does your art really mean to you?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: ItTs my life. Oh, if you just knew what<lb />itTs like to create colors and lines and form, to<lb />make them speak for you"<lb /><lb />KELLY: Your aunt says youTve got to be a doc-<lb />tor. And sheTs paying the bills.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Art is my life.<lb /><lb />KELLY: If it comes to a showdown, what about<lb />tuition ?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Tuition?<lb /><lb />KELLY: Would you wash dishes for art, wait on<lb />tables?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Well, there are grants.<lb /><lb />KELLY: (Warningly) Here come some women.<lb />More viewers. (Paige motions for Kelly to again<lb />be seated. Four or five women, mostly middle-<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0009" />
        <p>aged, enter chattering.)<lb /><lb />ELEANOR: Wonder if weTre the only club"<lb />(Spies girls, calls out to them.) Girls, have any<lb />other clubs attended the exhibition?<lb /><lb />KELLY: HavenTt any idea. (The girls withdraw<lb />among the paintings.)<lb /><lb />GREY: (Pointing to ~The FiendT) This one,<lb />Lettice! (Thumbing through her notes) Abstract<lb />"abstract. (Finds it) Ah, yes. Abstraction, as<lb />you know, can be defined as the abstract qualities<lb />that exist in every form of art. (Consults notes)<lb />Contemporary abstract painting is devoted to<lb />these values. Objects and form are broken up in<lb />this art form.<lb /><lb />MAMIE: Grey knows so much about abstract<lb />art.<lb /><lb />ELEANOR: What is it called?<lb /><lb />GREY: oThe Fiend.�<lb /><lb />LERRICE: ItTs cute.<lb /><lb />MAMIE: IsnTt it darling! I just love abstract<lb />art.<lb /><lb />ELEANOR: I do too. Look at those colors.<lb /><lb />LETTICE: So symbolic of a friend.<lb /><lb />GREY: ItTs oThe FiendT, Lettice. Not friend.<lb />(Lettice shrugs and returns to realistic paintings,<lb />takes a look at the title.)<lb /><lb />MAMIE: This gets my vote. TCourse, ITm not a<lb />judge.<lb /><lb />ELEANOR: Mine, too. ItTs the only abstract I<lb />see. ITm for abstract art!<lb /><lb />MAMIE: Oh, I am too. (Mild pause) I want<lb />some coffee. (Dana enters)<lb /><lb />DANA: So here you are, girls. ITm late, I know.<lb />But ITve had some thinking to do, and I decided to<lb />take a quiet stroll around the campus.<lb /><lb />MAMIE: Eleanor and I are going on for coffee.<lb /><lb />GREY: All right.<lb /><lb />(Two women leave. Grey continues) Now, donTt<lb />tell me, Dana. YouTre still undecided about your<lb />vote.<lb /><lb />DANA: Yes, Grey. I never rush into anything.<lb /><lb />GREY: YouTve had plenty of time. ItTs not that<lb />much to it. We are only voting on whether to put<lb />pansies or peonies around Benjethy CartwellTs<lb />statue.<lb /><lb />DANA: Every issue is important, and this one<lb />is especially so.<lb /><lb />LETTICE: Now, thatTs nice, Dana. ITm always<lb />rushing into everything. I just donTt think too<lb />much.<lb /><lb />(Dana looks at the paintings and spies oThe &gt;<lb /><lb />Fiend.TT)<lb /><lb />DANA: (Aloud) Hey"(There is a note of rec-<lb />ognition in her voice.)<lb /><lb />LETTICE: What?<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />(Dana walks closer to the painting and smiles.)<lb /><lb />DANA: Now thatTs unusual!<lb /><lb />GREY: You mean that abstract thing?<lb /><lb />LETTICE: I think itTs cute.<lb /><lb />DANA: Revealing.<lb /><lb />GREY: It reveals what?<lb /><lb />DANA: CanTt you see it?<lb /><lb />LETTICE: Well, I donTt see anything.<lb /><lb />DANA: I see a prisoner trying to escape.<lb /><lb />GREY: I see colors .<lb /><lb />LETTICE: Oh, dear"lItTs time to vote. Come<lb />girls). Anyway, I donTt understand your talk"<lb />something escaped indeed.<lb /><lb />DANA: Although you two donTt see it, it does<lb />make sense to me. (Three women leave.)<lb /><lb />PAIGE: (Looking at her painting, then to Kelly)<lb />ITm looking for something.<lb /><lb />KELLY: Yes?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: For myself.<lb /><lb />KELLY: Oh. (Seeing two viewers entering at<lb />front, Paige goes to back of sofa.)<lb /><lb />(Jock, a young man in his late twenties, enters<lb />with Helena, his wife, a woman impeccably groom-<lb />ed and richly dressed. Jock is the conventional<lb />garret-type artist, a pose he cultivates according<lb />to HelenaTs specifications. Jock breaks away from<lb />her and moves quickly to oThe Fiend,� and is ab-<lb />sorbed by it.)<lb /><lb />Jock: (After much thought, breathing out ec-<lb />static approval) This is"This is"<lb /><lb />HELENA: ItTs monstrous. ItTs the worst thing<lb />ITve ever been subjected to. And youTve dragged<lb />me around to see some pretty bad art.<lb /><lb />Jock: Will I never be able to show you, Helena.<lb />Things you need to know are spread right here<lb />on this canvas. ITve got to buy this painting.<lb /><lb />HELENA: You'll do nothing of the kind.<lb /><lb />JocK: But ITve got to have it.<lb /><lb />HELENA: And where would you get the money<lb />to pay for this terror?<lb /><lb />JOCK: ITd get it.<lb /><lb />HELENA: I wouldnTt give you five cents to buy<lb />the likes of this.<lb /><lb />JocK: (Musingly) If I had looked at this often<lb />enough"these chains"Why I might have broken<lb />away from my lesser self.<lb /><lb />HELENA: Come on, Jock. (She pulls him with<lb />her.) YouTre under contract to Father, you know.<lb />The azaleas for my solarium, and then"<lb /><lb />JocK: (Looking back) But thatTs how I want<lb />to paint"in symbols.<lb /><lb />HELENA: Not with my money! If you want<lb />money for this painting, go dig a ditch! (Exits)<lb /><lb />Jock: (Sighing, shrugging) Back to the aza-<lb />leas. (Exits)<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0010" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />KELLY: Can you beat that"heTs not even strain-<lb />ing against the leash!<lb /><lb />PAIGE: But starvation is very real, Kelly. It<lb />does take money.<lb /><lb />KELLY: He could dig ditches, couldnTt he?<lb /><lb />(A judge walks in and pins a blue ribbon on<lb />oFlowers�, then exits)<lb /><lb />KELLY: You lost, Paige. ITm sorry. oFlowers�<lb />by Harley Devaris.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Did I? Did I lose?<lb /><lb />KELLY: You saw the judge.<lb /><lb />VQICE: (Outside) Paige! Paige Reed!<lb /><lb />PAIGE: ThatTs Aunt Carwana.<lb /><lb />KELLY: (Rushing over to picture oThe FiendT,<lb />starts to take it down.) ITll take it up to our room<lb />before she sees it.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: (Quickly) No, leave it.<lb /><lb />KELLY: But her ban"<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Leave it.<lb /><lb />KELLY: O. K. (She starts for the door) ITll be<lb />back.<lb /><lb />(After KellyTs exit, Aunt Carwana strides in.<lb />She is an impressive woman, well-dressed, the tail-<lb />ored type. She heads at once for the sofa.)<lb /><lb />CARWANA: So here you are, Paige. Ohhhh!<lb />ITm tired. (She sits.) Paige, what a taxing day!<lb /><lb />PAIGE: You must have read the announcement,<lb />Aunt Carwana. I exhibited.<lb /><lb />CARWANA: What? You didnTt!<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Yes, I exhibited oThe Fiend.� I lost.<lb />oFlowers� won.<lb /><lb />CARWANA: Well, never mind. ITm going to over-<lb />look it. I know what ITll do. ITll take you and your<lb />roommate out to Carte Inn. How does that sound?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: ITm sorry, Aunt Carwana, but Kelly and<lb />I will be busy during the dinner hour.<lb /><lb />CARWANA: Oh, JTll attend to that. You'll be<lb />glad to know J won. The speaker ban was finally<lb />passed, a victory for the forces of right.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: ITm not glad, Aunt Carwana.<lb /><lb />CARWANA: I fought so hard for this ban, and<lb />you are against me?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: I am not against you, Aunt Carwana.<lb />But I am for free speech.<lb /><lb />CARWANA: I never heard you talk like this be-<lb />fore.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: I havenTt been saying what I think.<lb />Now I must. Because of oThe Fiend.�<lb /><lb />CARWANA: What? (Paige rises, moves over to<lb />the painting.)<lb /><lb />PAIGE: (Pleading) Aunt Carwana, look at my<lb />picture. And tell me what you see. (Carwana<lb />sits undecided an instant, then rises and walks<lb />over to the painting.)<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Do you see me in it? Or"or yourself?<lb /><lb />CARWANA: Heaven forbid!<lb /><lb />PAIGE: But you do see thereTs a chained spirit,<lb />struggling to be free?<lb /><lb />CARWANA: (Turning back to her chair) How<lb />absurd! I do know that ITm ashamed that it bears<lb />the name of Reed. Now will you give up this folly,<lb />this fiendish art, and follow the sensible plan for<lb />your ife?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: No.<lb /><lb />CARWANA: (Rising and thinking) Then I will<lb />have to withdraw all support.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: I do appreciate the help you have given<lb />me.<lb /><lb />CARWANA: (Sternly) ItTs over. ITm through<lb />with you. Do you realize what that means?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Yes.<lb /><lb />CARWANA: (Changing to a softer tone) What<lb />will you do? Starve?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: ITll wash dishes, wait on tables" (They<lb />look at each other. Neither flinches.)<lb /><lb />CARWANA: (After a pause) Where is your<lb />pride? (Pause) What of my pride. I was going<lb />to make you the best doctor Reed Hospital ever<lb />had! Change your mind and come with me now.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: No.<lb /><lb />CARWANA: (Long Pause) Please! (Paige nods<lb />her refusal. Carwana squares her shoulders.)<lb />Goodbye, Paige.<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Goodbye, Aunt Carwana.<lb />walks toward sofa, begins crying.)<lb /><lb />(A Janitor comes on stage and sweeps floor,<lb />moving quickly across floor. He notices Paige,<lb />continues to sweep and then stops and curiously<lb />stares as Paige rises.)<lb /><lb />PAIGE: Fiend, they say we lost today. But we<lb />won, too, and Tomorrow" (She is suddenly star-<lb />tled as she sees tears in the FiendTs eyes.) Why,<lb />Fiend, you are crying. There are tears in your<lb />eyes, as though theyTre reflecting light. DonTt<lb />weep. YouTre breaking the chains. YouTre emerg-<lb />ing.<lb /><lb />(As Paige stands gazing in wonder at her paint-<lb />ing, Kelly quietly re-enters and stands near her<lb />friend.)<lb /><lb />KELLY: ITm here Paige. Can I help?<lb /><lb />PAIGE: (Without looking at Kelly) Kelly, look.<lb />The dark pride dissolving in tears . . . the eyes<lb />turning toward the light . . . DonTt you see the<lb />tears in those eyes?<lb /><lb />KELLY: (Very gently) Yes.<lb /><lb />(Kelly takes Kleexex and wipes the tears out<lb />of PaigeTs eyes as all lights fade out except one<lb />dim spot on the janitor, who stands puzzled for a<lb />moment, shrugs shoulders, and then sweeps on off<lb />stage.)<lb /><lb />(Carwana<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0011" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />Ode to Baie de Courane LL<lb /><lb /><lb /><lb /><lb /><lb /><lb /><lb /><lb /><lb /><lb /><lb />The time has come for dawn at the forlorn<lb />Entombment of civility. White sails<lb /><lb />Announce the coming of the junks as they =<lb />Seurry across the glistening bay. Wispy © ae<lb />Clouds start to move in endless procession""==" :;<lb /><lb />To the waiting sea. Light reflécts from the ~ ~~<lb />Shrouded mountains and strikes gentle<lb />Ripples as they traverse the war-torn bay.<lb /><lb />The dawn brings new life to the hordes of men<lb />That are encamped around the slopes of the<lb />Encircling mountains. Another day<lb />Awakes anew the cries of death, the smell<lb />Of guns, the sense of loss. Only the bay<lb />Remains impervious to the drama.<lb /><lb />Oh, bay of such exuding calm, can not<lb /><lb />You tell us your secret? Your eyes have-seen<lb />The depths of Man; there surely must :<lb />Exist a way to end this-foolishTstrife. -"/<lb />Tell us what we must do beforeTs too late<lb /><lb />To hope for naught but death, The Eternal.<lb /><lb />Dusk closes around the bay as sun and light<lb />Retreat beyond the ring of stone and earth<lb /><lb />That man has called mountains. The wind bre<lb />Still answer to his tortured question. But<lb />Man sleeps in ignorance, not ever to<lb /><lb />Know that the bay and earth endure al<lb />While man is but a brief, small dot<lb />The infinite life spectrum Nature<lb /><lb />aT<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966 9<lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0012" />
        <p>THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0013" />
        <p>One of the chief topics of discussion among both<lb />clergy and laymen alike is the current theology<lb />which proclaims the death of God. In seminaries,<lb />in churches, and in the colleges throughout the<lb />country, deep discussion and debate rages over the<lb />subject. Is God dead or is He alive? The Rebel<lb />interviewed two of the leading men in each of these<lb />fields: Dr. Thomas J. J. Altizer of Emory Univer-<lb />sity, Atlanta, Georgia, who is a oGod-is-dead�T<lb />theologian, and Dr. John C. Bennett, President,<lb />Union Theological Seminary, New York City, a<lb /><lb />S oGod-is-alive� theologian. Their observations and<lb />remarks in this contrasting interview reveal very<lb />clearly two positions of current theology. (The<lb />boldface type indicates a member of the Rebel staff<lb />speaking.)<lb /><lb />GOD<lb /><lb />The first question we have for you is exactly<lb />what do you mean by the oDeath of God�?<lb /><lb />Most fundamentally, I believe that the God who<lb />is manifest and revealed in the Bible and in the<lb />Christian faith as the transcendant Lord and the<lb />sovereign creator has died, and that God is no<lb />longer actual and real. In this faith today, we can<lb /><lb />know his death as a full manifestation and incar-<lb />D Jef D Pe nation of the sum of Christ.<lb />wes © Does the Death of God Movement have a future<lb /><lb />in Christianity?<lb /><lb />Of course, because as I understand it, it is only<lb />the Christian who truly knows the death of God,<lb />and the death of God is a full manifestation of the<lb />Christian faith itself, and that it is only the Chris-<lb />tian who can truly live and rejoice in the death<lb />of God.<lb /><lb />Who, or what might be a better question, takes<lb />the place of God in the new theology?<lb /><lb />As a whole, as I see it, I would say, what is hap-<lb />pening here decisively is that Christ is becoming<lb />the full and only center of things and that this is<lb />a form that understands Christ as being totally<lb />present now, present in such a way as to appear as<lb />a consequence of the Death of the Transcendant<lb />Lord.<lb /><lb />Dr. Altizer, when did God die?<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966 11<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0014" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />Well, as I understand it, God died most funda-<lb />mentally, most primarily by becoming incarnate<lb />and by dying on the cross and that the original<lb />death of God on the cross occurred in the individ-<lb />ual Jesus Christ, in the original form of Christ,<lb />and has since then slowly, but very decisively, be-<lb />come natural, manifest, and real in history, in<lb />consciousness, in experience, so that now, that<lb />original death of God is manifest and real to every<lb />man who lives in our history and in the contempo-<lb />rary movement of our history.<lb /><lb />Does this mean that God did this voluntarily<lb />or was it a necessary act on His part, or just what<lb />exactly was the motivation behind it?<lb /><lb />Of course I couldnTt, and donTt really think any<lb />theologian could give a motivation of God. But I<lb />think that we can say that this act of self-dissolu-<lb />tion and self-negation occurred to actualize the<lb />total form of redemption and of life.<lb /><lb />I have heard one word and seen one word con-<lb />stantly in articles referring to the Death of God<lb />theology. The key word is responsibility. As I<lb />understand it, man becomes responsible for many,<lb />many of his actions, he takes the plain and full<lb />responsibility for what he does. If this is true, is<lb />man capable of accepting this responsibility?<lb /><lb />That is a very good question: is man capable of<lb />it? But on the other hand, I think that man must<lb />be capable of it. There is no hope unless he can<lb />accept this responsibility. But any form of hu-<lb />man dependence upon an outsider, or transceind-<lb />ant, or distant other in our time is either becom-<lb />ing impossible or repressive or self-negating. I<lb />should say that it is only in so far as man can<lb />assume in some sense a genuine and full and total<lb />responsibility that he can truly be alive and live in<lb />our generation.<lb /><lb />Dr. Altizer, do you believe in an after-life ac-<lb />cording to the orthodox Christian view?<lb /><lb />No, and by the way, I donTt believe that many<lb />theologians do; that is to say that the Christian<lb />and common idea of personal immortality never<lb />was a true component of Christian faith; it is in<lb />origin and in nature fundamentally pagan and<lb />non-Christian. I believe on the contrary that it is<lb />only in so far as we pass through an actualized<lb />death ourselves thatT we can undergo a union with<lb />Christ. Now this doesnTt mean, however, that<lb />there is no hope for the future. I think that the<lb />hope for the future is in the triumph of the body,<lb />the total body, the total reality of Christ in which<lb />every form of life and energy, we trust and hope,<lb />will appear to be real, even if it is transfigured and<lb />non-individual and non-ego.<lb /><lb />12<lb /><lb />Dr. Altizer, can the Death of God theology have<lb />a positive effect on Christianity as we know it, or<lb />does the church fundamentally need to change its<lb />organization, structure, and outlook?<lb /><lb />Again, I think that the church is already funda-<lb />metnally changing its structure, faith, and outlook.<lb />This process is rather well-advanced, and must,<lb />of course, continue, move ever forward in a more<lb />comprehensive and radical direction. We can see<lb />this in the Vatican II and the changes that are<lb />sweeping the Roman Catholic Church. Also, I<lb />think in many of the frontiers of Protestantism<lb />and in everything we have traditionally known as<lb />the Church, as worship, as witness, and as Chris-<lb />tian life, most pass through a radical change, a<lb />radical reformation.<lb /><lb />Dr. Altizer, do you foresee the possibility of<lb />yourself being called a conservative?<lb /><lb />Yes. As a matter of fact, I already am called<lb />a conservative by some, and, I can imagine as<lb />time goes on, I will increasingly be so identified<lb />unless I go further to the left than I already have.<lb /><lb />In our talk with Dr. John C. Bennett, President<lb />of Union Theological Seminary, he seemed to<lb />think that the Death of God Movement, although<lb />having very positive effects on the church and<lb />Christianity today, is just another passing phase<lb />of theology that has no substantial hope for any<lb />real grounds in the future. How do you view<lb />this?<lb /><lb />Well, it is very difficult to predict the future.<lb />I think that I would agree that it is certainly a<lb />passing phase in theology. However, I believe<lb />that all theological expressions are passing phases<lb />in theology. There is no such thing as a form of<lb />theology that can perpetuate itself indefinitely. To<lb />the extent that it does, it is a sickness in theology<lb />or in the phase of it. However, it is my belief that<lb />the Death of God theology is the expression of a<lb />movement that is going to transform theological<lb />thinking. Even though it may be a minor expres-<lb />sion, I think it is a genuine expression, certainly<lb />in terms of theological options at hand which are<lb />very, very few. One of the problems in the theol-<lb />ogy of the last generation is that it has been so<lb />dead. There has been almost nothing happening<lb />of any substance in the theological world for a<lb />whole generation. I mean that all the major theo-<lb />logical work was done in the twentieth century<lb />by men who are either dead or in their seventies.<lb />We have been living in a theological void for the<lb />past generation, and we are now beginning to<lb />move out of it.<lb /><lb />Dr. Altizer, are there many theologians or<lb />philosophers who have influenced your theology?<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0015" />
        <p>Oh, a great many. It seems to me that I have<lb />tried to give witness to the major ones in my<lb />works. Do you mean contemporary theologians,<lb />or what do you mean?<lb /><lb />Yes, contemporary theologians.<lb /><lb />Yes. Well, I have certainly been influenced by<lb />Paul Tillich, although I donTt know whether you<lb />should call him contemporary since he is dead. I<lb />have also been influenced by Rudolf Bultmann and,<lb />for that matter, by Karl Barth, Heidegger, Sartre,<lb />and by a great number of literary critics and<lb />others.<lb /><lb />Many theologians I have talked to feel that Bon-<lb />hoeffer very possibly was the one who, you might<lb />say, started this theological direction. Is this<lb />true, and as such, has he had any influence on<lb />you, or has it just been a passing influence?<lb /><lb />Well, I think it is true that he does belong at<lb />the fountainhead of this movement. It just so<lb />happens that I, myself, was not decisively affected<lb />by him simply because I had, in effect, reached my<lb />position before I had read the late papers of Bon-<lb />hoeffer. But, nonetheless, I certainly would place<lb />him at the forefront of this movement, meaning<lb />more particularly, his late papers and not his<lb />earlier theological work.<lb /><lb />Dr. Altizer, usually when we hear of the Death<lb />of God theology, it is in relation to you and Wil-<lb />liam Hamilton. Is this a growing movement now<lb />in this country and are more theologians joining<lb />with you in this approach to theology?<lb /><lb />I think that it definitely is a growing movement<lb />and that more theologians are publicly associating<lb />themselves with the movement. I think that theo-<lb />logians have been doing this kind of work for<lb />themselves and in many cases, or in some cases,<lb />for many years. There are a number of theolo-<lb />gians that one can now say are publicly identified<lb />with the Death of God movement. However, one<lb />of the problems today is that we donTt have much<lb />communication. There is no such thing as a<lb />national theological society in this country. There<lb />is no way by which we can meet under normal cir-<lb />cumstances. Communications are not good. We<lb />are trying to correct this to some extent. How-<lb />ever, in terms of this Death of God Movement,<lb />there is something for the public that is a recent<lb />event, and I think that it is going to take a little<lb />while before we can have any objective knowledge<lb />of how broad a movement it is in American theol-<lb />ogy. But I do think that there are a significant<lb />number of theologians who, by one means or an-<lb />other, are practicing the Death of God theology,<lb />the radical theology, or are thinking in these terms<lb />and working in these terms.<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />Dr. Altizer, does the phrase ototality of man�<lb />have any significance in the new theology?<lb /><lb />Well, it certainly could have, depending on what<lb />one means, of course. I would interpret it in some<lb />sense as meaning a particular totality of man re-<lb />leased in this era, in our time and that man has<lb />opened himself to total existence of the flesh and<lb />the here and now of immediate existence. There<lb />is a new kind of total humanity. There have been<lb />other kinds before, of course, but I mean the<lb />classic paradise of a totality of humanity ; the mys-<lb />tical one when man exists totally in and as a pre-<lb />mordial, external being. Now I think that we are<lb />seeing the opposite of that. We are seeing a new<lb />paradise of a totality of humanity which is exist-<lb />ing here and now time and flesh and in the im-<lb />mediary of GodTs great existence.<lb /><lb />You have mentioned that you have been influ-<lb />enced in the field of literature quite a bit. Who<lb />are some of the figures in literature who have in-<lb />fluenced you and why?<lb /><lb />You mean writers primarily?<lb /><lb />Yes sir.<lb /><lb />Well, a great many. One is William Blake, but<lb />I have been decisively affected, and I think most<lb />theologians have, by Dostoevsky. Among mod-<lb />ern writers I would include Proust (Hrothgar),<lb />Joyce, and even to some extent by Eliot and Yeats.<lb />Also, I have been very much affected by literary<lb />critics. I suppose the most recent literary critic<lb />who has decisively influenced me is Northrop<lb />Frye.<lb /><lb />One last question, Dr. Altizer. Henry, you have<lb />an analogy. Would you mind mentioning that<lb />analogy and checking its validity?<lb /><lb />The analogy was that given the situation where<lb />two parents have a child and, for some reason,<lb />this child is threatened and the parents choose to<lb />give their lives voluntarily for this child. This<lb />puts the child in the position where the only in-<lb />fluence the parents have over him is memory of<lb />his teachings, what they have taught him in the<lb />past. They have no direct, present influence,<lb />realistically speaking. Would you say that this is<lb />analogous to what the Death of God theology is<lb />talking about?<lb /><lb />In part, but only in part. I would also want to<lb />say that, if you are willing to stretch it biologically,<lb />if we are to stick to the analogy, in some sense<lb />through the death, the predetermined death of the<lb />parents, their life is present in the child in a new<lb />form. It is not in just the teachings or even the<lb />love which is a model for the child, but in a very<lb />real sense, their life and energy are now present<lb />and real inside, within, at the center of the child.<lb /><lb />13<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0016" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />Seavert<lb /><lb />Doctor Bennett, although this question has<lb />been asked many, many times, usually on the<lb />other side of the fence, what does the Death of<lb />God Movement mean to you?<lb /><lb />Well, I think that it means that a great many<lb />people are disillusioned about Christian faith as a<lb />reality as they have understood it, that the sym-<lb />bols about God, the images of God, are no longer<lb />convincing, and also that there is a very great<lb />sense of the absence of God in the real world, a<lb />tragic world in which there is so much evil, that<lb />it is hard to point to the actual activity of God in<lb />this world. Now one of the characteristics of the<lb />Death of God movement, the most important, is<lb />that it is a movement within the church, within the<lb />Christian circle, quite honestly so. These people<lb />believe that there can be a different statement of<lb />what Christianity means, in the sense of a God<lb />who transcends the world. And they do this by<lb />emphasizing, very much, Jesus Christ. This means<lb />that they seek to be a Christian group or Christian<lb />individuals, and to a very large extent Christ<lb />seems to take the place of God.<lb /><lb />Well, the word oGod� is, of course, tossed about<lb />rather freely and quite often. Attempting to de-<lb />fine the undefinable, could you give a limited con-<lb />cept of God?<lb /><lb />Well, I think the concept of God that represents<lb />the main tradition is that God is the creator, He<lb />is independent of the world, the world depends up-<lb />on him, and God is present as an active redeemer<lb />as well as a creative force in the world. God, from<lb />the Christian standpoint, is never just humanity<lb />seen in a different light, but God transcends hu-<lb />manity, judges humanity and also seeks to trans-<lb />form humanity. Now it seems to me that what<lb />the Death of God people do is to locate God, or<lb />locate what is to them the supreme object of the<lb />faith and obedience in Christ as a man in the first<lb />century. I think this is so very largely so in the<lb />case of Hamilton. With Altizer I think it is rather<lb />different. There is some sense of the living Christ<lb /><lb />14<lb /><lb />and the Holy Spirit becoming a reality in the world<lb />which is the equivalent or does duty to a consider-<lb />able extent to what some people use the word<lb />oGod� to describe or to designate.<lb /><lb />Dr. Bennett, do you believe that the death of<lb />God can have constructive results on the modern<lb />Christian Church?<lb /><lb />Well, I think so. I think anything that shocks<lb />people so that they look at their thinking, look at<lb />the things they have taken for granted, and find<lb />new ways of expressing what they mean is to the<lb />good. Why, there will undoubtedly be a lot of<lb />people who will be hurt in the sense that their<lb />faith will be shaken by it within the church and<lb />they may give up any relationship to the Christian<lb />faith. Actually, the Death of God theologians,<lb />because of their very great emphasis on Jesus, are<lb />not likely to leave the Christian faith. But many<lb />people influenced by them only get the negative<lb />side of this and they wonTt get the positive Chris-<lb />tian side at all. There will be some loss at that<lb />point but I think that by and large the churches<lb />are better for being shaken up by this kind of<lb />movement from time to time.<lb /><lb />Is there any future for the Death of God Move-<lb />ment? Will it last any longer than a couple of<lb />years?<lb /><lb />I think it is very unstable and likely to fall apart<lb />myself. After all, everything changes anyway.<lb />No theological movement stays put very long. I<lb />have outlived several myself that were deemed to<lb />have been very solid. And this is itself quite un-<lb />stable, particularly because of the combination of<lb />the denial of the reality of God the Father, and<lb />the great stress upon Jesus without God the Fa-<lb />ther. It seems to me the whole context of JesusT<lb />life is denied.<lb /><lb />Dr. Bennett, you have mentioned the effect of<lb />the Death of God Movement upon the Christian<lb />faith. What effect do you think there will be on<lb />people who are not in the Christian faith?<lb /><lb />I have no idea. Many of them will say oI told<lb />you so, long ago.� And you have that reaction.<lb />I think others will say, ~ooHere there is something<lb />new going on in the church, letTs look at it.�<lb /><lb />Do you think it will stimulate thinking?<lb /><lb />Oh, yes. I think it will. It will depend on whom<lb />they read. I think that if they are led into Bon-<lb />hoeffer, for example, they would necessarily be led<lb />into something that would open up all kinds of new<lb />horizons to them.<lb /><lb />Dr. Bennett, it seems to me that one of the<lb />keystones of the Death of God Movement is its<lb />belief that (1) Man is completely free"has com-<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0017" />
        <p>plete freedom of action"and (2) that he has com-<lb />plete responsibilities for his actions in the world.<lb />Do you agree with this and how does this com-<lb />pare with the more traditional forms of theology?<lb /><lb />Well, I donTt agree with it, nor do I agree that<lb />traditional forms of theology tend to oppress man<lb />or leave man overwhelmed by divine power and<lb />divine initiative. It seems to me that the carefully<lb />stated traditional forms of theology have usually,<lb />in all cases, have usually made a very important<lb />place for human freedom, for the capacity for this<lb />weak, finite, creature to resist the creator. This is<lb />something which is taken into account in theology.<lb />There are some extreme forms of Calvinism, to<lb />be sure, that donTt really allow for this except<lb />with some degree of inconsistency perhaps. On<lb />the other hand, I think that to say that it is possi-<lb />ble for any finite person whose life is within the<lb />social web and who is conditioned by his own past<lb />as we all are conditioned by our pasts, any such<lb />person is absolutely free. I think the number of<lb />alternatives may be enlarged; the freer man has<lb />more alternatives to choose between, but they will<lb />be limited. And the moment you take count of<lb />manTs social responsibilities, then alternatives be-<lb />come very much limited, limited because of the<lb />past. Anyone who is talking about absolute free-<lb />dom is talking about himself as an individual in<lb />a vacuum.<lb /><lb />One of the key words to me in the Death of God<lb />Movement is the word responsibility. I would like<lb />to ask you to take the other side of the fence for<lb />a moment. One of the things that really bothers<lb />me about the theology is the fact that in the con-<lb />cept as it is developed now, there is no after-life.<lb />To put it on finite terms, there is no reward, there<lb />is no punishment. It seems to me that this in a<lb />sense takes away a lot of the incentive of man.<lb />Why should he accept such responsibility? It<lb />would seem to me that some people I know of could<lb />be completely evil in the traditional sense of the<lb />word and be completely free with no bothering<lb />about what they are doing, no fear, and to them<lb />there is much more incentive to be evil than to<lb />accept responsibility for their acts.<lb /><lb />Here are you saying that people do accept re-<lb />sponsibilities because of fear of future punish-<lb />ment? Of course, this is basic.<lb /><lb />Along these general lines, yes.<lb /><lb />Well, I would think that it may well be that a<lb />certain amount of social discipline has been main-<lb />tained by that, and the absence of that will remove<lb />the discipline to a certain extent. And this may<lb />be a loss. On the other hand, on the terms of per-<lb />sonal character, people who are responsible will<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />choose a better rather than a worse course. Be-<lb />cause of the fear of future punishment, some are<lb />doing the right things for the wrong reason. Now<lb />in order to keep some kind of a tolerable situation<lb />in the world it may be that a certain amount of<lb />this is all right. But it is not a way in which<lb />Christian character is developed. And I am won-<lb />dering myself if this is not now present among<lb />many citizens no matter with what their conscious<lb />theology is concerned. There have been periods<lb />when the fear of Hell was a very vivid experi-<lb />ence. This was something too limited; it undoubt-<lb />edly would bring this kind of discipline. But<lb />today, is that very common? That vivid fear of<lb />hell as though it were something we could imagine<lb />as a great threat? Is that operated with the Death<lb />of God theology or with fundamentalists? I donTt<lb />know.<lb /><lb />I guess what I am saying is that I believe that<lb />man is basically selfish, not necessarily in the nor-<lb />mal connotation of the word. But that all of his<lb />drives, wants, his actions are basically motivated<lb />by a selfish outlook. And if you take away any<lb />incentive, to act justifiably to his fellowman, it<lb />seems like this could increase to a tragic degree.<lb /><lb />What is your concept of the after-life?<lb /><lb />Well, I donTt have any concept of the after-life<lb />that I could describe. I think the Christian teach-<lb />ings about the after-life, or about the resurrection,<lb />immortality, are ways in which it affirmed that<lb />God is not defeated by death, by our death, and<lb />that somehow there is meaning in our life in spite<lb />of death. The faith, a positive faith in the face<lb />of death is, I think, what Christianity must always<lb />stand up for, and this comes more from faith in<lb />God than from faith in survival.<lb /><lb />One last question. Is there room, particular-<lb />ly on the staff of the main conservative seminaries<lb />for the so-called left-wing or radical theologians"<lb />do they have a place in the seminary?<lb /><lb />It all depends on what you mean by oconserva-<lb />tive.� I think the answer is oYes.� I donTt think<lb />that you would go out and find different Death of<lb />God theologians to occupy your major chairs of<lb />theology, but I think it is good to have such a per-<lb />son on the faculty. What they did at Colgate-<lb />Rochester where Professor Hamilton, who is Pro-<lb />fessor of Theology and taught the major course<lb />in theology, was to keep him on the faculty, and<lb />he now teaches the Philisophy of Religion, the Re-<lb />ligion of Literature, and probably the Hamiltonian<lb />Theology. No, I believe that in many groups of<lb />theological seminaries, the more conservative that<lb />they are, the more they need somebody to shake<lb />them up.<lb /><lb />15<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0018" />
        <p>First Place Poetry<lb /><lb />16<lb /><lb />Rue 2]<lb /><lb />Iam so longing...<lb /><lb />Iam so long inlonging .. .<lb /><lb />I am\so long in longing to belong . .,.<lb />You follow? Must I explain again...<lb />All right, Sport,<lb /><lb />ITm leaving, this minute,<lb /><lb />Keys in throbbing fist,<lb /><lb />Crumpled HarperTs in shoulder bag,<lb />Damp tissue in waste can<lb /><lb />With all the rest of my dowdy,<lb />Watered-down dreams.<lb /><lb />And if anyone is the wiser"<lb /><lb />I think ITm the wiser, Sport.<lb /><lb />Not wiser than you;<lb /><lb />I didnTt mean that:<lb /><lb />You lie theré listening to the 7:55 news<lb />Whilé.I go out to face<lb /><lb />The glass-eye morality of the world,<lb />The world steeped so far in the memory<lb />Of lost words and empty poems<lb /><lb />That it canTt remember<lb /><lb />Its own little red pulsating body;<lb />The.world too good to leave:<lb /><lb />The green park strewn with<lb /><lb />Do Not Walk On The Grass Signs<lb /><lb />So easily-made into sailboats .. .<lb />Can2t-you see, Sport, there,has to be red!<lb />Violent; searing, plunging red<lb />Makes.thé world go round<lb /><lb />And the world is my oyster, Sport,<lb />Lshall not want"<lb /><lb />Oh, isnTt thata scream,<lb /><lb />I shall die ITshall positively<lb /><lb />¥ou shattered a lot more than my glass eye, Sport.<lb /><lb />Mr. Vacanteyes, Mr. Softmouth.<lb />But ITve had all the red I want<lb /><lb />And ITm leaving<lb /><lb />Just as soon as you unlock the door.<lb />Unlock the door.<lb /><lb />The door was locked?<lb /><lb />PAM HONAKER<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0019" />
        <p>The proverbial beauty which is found in the<lb />eye of the beholder finds its most noticeable form<lb />in beautiful women; probably no other single ob-<lb />ject has given more satisfaction to man or been<lb />so greatly expounded in art and literature than<lb />has feminine beauty. With this idea in mind,<lb />The Rebel presents a photographic essay on fem-<lb />inine beauty . . . collegiate style, since in its col-<lb />legiate aspects the appealing qualities of woman-<lb />hood are no less the subject of ponderance, artistic<lb />expression, and a great many admiring glances.<lb />The following pictures, some candid, some posed,<lb />attempt to display such beauty in its variety, in<lb />its scope, and in its appeal.<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />ABOVE LEFT: Brenda Mizell displays a dis-<lb />quieting effect as she waits for a friend at the<lb />Roaring Twenties in Greenville. UPPER RIGHT:<lb />Sweet, often fearful, always demure, Brenda rep-<lb />resents the classic example of womanhood. LOW-<lb />ER RIGHT: Anticipation and a touch of joy glow<lb />in BrendaTs eyes as she sights something that<lb />pleases her.<lb /><lb />17<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0020" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />RIGHT: Connie and her<lb />friend Joanna seem to be plan-<lb />ning how they can best use<lb />their feminine wiles on their<lb />unsuspecting escorts.<lb /><lb />18<lb /><lb />LEFT: A night of wine and music are in the<lb />offing as Connie House waits by the organ at the<lb />Candlewick Inn for her lucky date. ABOVE:<lb />Candlelight sets the mood for an enchanting eve-<lb /><lb />ning...<lb /><lb />and an enchanting look.<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0021" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />i a} ty a<lb /><lb />~<lb /><lb />7. ta<lb />al ai ra rt<lb /><lb />ABOVE: Their planning done, Joanna and<lb />Connie return to their dates, stopping for a last<lb />minute survey of the situation. RIGHT: Joanna,<lb />a woman of beauty, charm, and grace. Joanna, a<lb />woman of depth and appeal. Joanna, a woman to<lb />boost the morale of all men. And above all, Joanna,<lb />a woman of true spohistication.<lb /><lb />LEFT: An open hearth, a<lb />fireplace, and who needs a fire<lb />with the warmth of ConnieTs<lb />smile to kindle the flame in<lb />any heart. But nights of beau-<lb />ty and enchantment must end,<lb />and a slight look of nostalgia<lb />crosses her face as an evening<lb />of evenings comes to a close.<lb /><lb />.<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966 19<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0022" />
        <p>Although work on THE REBEL is often hectic<lb />and hard, life for the staff also has its moments<lb />of joy, as Margo Teu, copy editor, illustrates.<lb />ABOVE: oWho, me?� asks Margo delightedly<lb />when the phone rings. ABOVE RIGHT: Indeed,<lb />Margo seems a bit out of focus as that important<lb />someone asks for a dinner date. RIGHT: Margo<lb />ponders for a moment the evening ahead as she<lb />slowly replaces the telephone receiver.<lb /><lb />20<lb /><lb /><lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0023" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />| ABOVE: Anne seems to contemplate some<lb />course of action as she stops for a moment by one<lb />of the many campus trees.<lb /><lb />ABOVE: Beauty in its pur-<lb />est form radiates from Anne<lb />Young as she reclines on a<lb />deserted outdoor table.<lb /><lb />RIGHT: Anne pauses to ad-<lb />mire the beauty of nature but<lb />she herself has a beauty which<lb />man cannot hope to equal.<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966 21<lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0024" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />contemporary<lb /><lb />Cy<lb />-O<lb />sO<lb />&amp;<lb />©<lb />x,<lb />4.<lb />insight C<lb />(eo)<lb />)<lb />hy,<lb />Sho :<lb />Mh,<lb />god<lb />xo :<lb />ee images<lb /><lb />Ss<lb />Sn,<lb />Gps<lb />Co,<lb />theologian<lb />»<lb />3 we<lb />+ or<lb />a N<lb />i)<lb />22<lb /><lb />The<lb />Functions<lb /><lb />Of<lb /><lb />Religious<lb />Language<lb /><lb />FIRST PLACE ESSAY<lb />by<lb /><lb />HOUSTON CRAIGHEAD, JR.<lb /><lb />The purpose of religious language as the writer<lb />conceives it is two-fold. The first purpose is really<lb />not to say anything at all. That is, it is not to<lb />describe to us any matter of fact. It tells a person<lb />nothing about the world of science. It tells him<lb />nothing about any ometaphysical beings.� It<lb />doesnTt say or tell him anything whatever. Its<lb />function is to show him something. In Wittgen-<lb />steinTs phrase, the o~mysticalTT cannot be said, it<lb />can only be shown. Religious language is, in this<lb />sense, attempting to oshow� something. It is<lb />attempting to produce within the listener an oin-<lb />sight,� a oseeing into something.� It is not giv-<lb />ing the listener any information. It is somewhat<lb />analogous to contemporary art in this sense. That<lb />is, just as contemporary art is not attempting to<lb />paint accurate pictures of houses, trees, and<lb />horses, religious language is not attempting to<lb />give a description of the world of fact. Contempo-<lb />rary art breaks up its subject matter and spreads<lb />it about the canvas. A human figure may be brok-<lb />en into many pieces, with a hand here, a leg here,<lb />a face there, etc. This is not a picture of an actual<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0025" />
        <p>man as he looks to the scientific observer. This is<lb />an attempt to portray a feeling about man. It is<lb />an attempt to create within the observer an o~in-<lb />sight� as to just how the artist himself may feel<lb />and as to how the artist feels about contemporary<lb />man. Religious language is attempting something<lb />similar to this. It is trying to produce within the<lb />listener an oinsight� into how the speaker feels<lb />about the world. It is trying to get the listener to<lb />experience within his own being the same feeling.<lb /><lb />The second function of religious language is<lb />ointerpretative� in nature. That is, it provides a<lb />person with a particular way to interpret or look<lb />at his life. It suggests categories within which<lb />it calls him to frame his approach to existence. It<lb />takes the humming, buzzing complex of experience<lb />and imposes upon it a certain interpretation. It<lb />claims that if he will look at all of his experiences<lb />in terms of these particular categories, then his<lb />experiences will take on meaning and significance.<lb /><lb />This paper will now attempt to explicate in<lb />greater fullness what it means by these two func-<lb />tions of religious language.<lb /><lb />First of all one might say a word of justification<lb />on behalf of the theologianTs use of language. If<lb />the theologian is unusually vague and overly sym-<lb />bolic, mythological, and even paradoxical and<lb />poetic in his use of language, one ought not to be<lb />surprised. For he has stated beforehand that<lb />that toward which he is pointing is a mystery. In<lb />attempting to bring the listener to a situation in<lb />which he will have an oinsight,� the theologian is<lb />dealing with something unlike any other type of<lb />experience. Indeed, it is the belief of the theo-<lb />logian that what is oprehended� (to use White-<lb />headTs term) by the listener in such an insight is<lb />God Himself, mysterious, ineffable, and wholly<lb />other. As Hepburn has said: oWhatever our final<lb />judgment, the theologian certainly deserves the<lb />utmost logical tolerance in trying to make his<lb />case.�<lb /><lb />If the theologian is speaking of something su-<lb />pernatural, how could he possibly say anything<lb />literal about it with natural language? And clear-<lb />ly, the only language he has is natural language.<lb /><lb />In attempting to show something with theolog-<lb />ical language, one will find himself using different<lb />types of language in many different ways. He<lb />may even assert direct contradictories. Ferre<lb />makes a point by saying that even in his everyday<lb />experience with the natural world, one sometimes<lb />asserts contradictories in attempting to describe<lb />the phenomena which confronts him. On a par-<lb />ticuarly humid day one may say, oItTs raining and<lb />itTs not raining.� ~Perhaps the English language<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />is not yet equipped to indicate the more-than-<lb />drizzling but less-than-sprinkling condition of the<lb />atmosphere.� So one may, at times, speak of God.<lb />One cannot pin down exactly what he means,<lb />what he points toward. One may want to say<lb />that God loves us but that he does not love us.<lb />He means that God loves us in a strange way<lb />which is not like human love but is something like<lb />it. One immediately asserts the contradictory in<lb />order to point toward the ineffable which he is<lb />attempting to get the listener to osee.�<lb /><lb />The Bible does this. In scripture one finds the<lb />combination of gross anthropomorphism and re-<lb />pudiation of anthropomorphism. He finds images<lb />and rejection of imagery. Contemporary theology<lb />has the task of presenting its myths in a way that<lb />these myths are meaningful when not taken in a<lb />literal sense. One must hold the tension. He must<lb />affirm but immediately negate nearly every point.<lb /><lb />Ian Crombie, in his article oThe Possibility of<lb />Religious Assertions,�T points out that in oneTs at-<lb />tempt to show something, he uses language to ofix<lb />the reference range� of his theological discourse.<lb />He specifies the general limits of what we are talk-<lb />ing about. This is done by the elimination of all<lb />improper objects of reference (like finite things<lb />or empirical events). He also suggests areas to<lb />which theological language is akin, areas such as<lb />ethics, the philosophy of history, etc. By so doing,<lb />one points beyond his ordinary world. He negates<lb />those omatter of factT ways of being and continues<lb />to negate them, thus fixing the reference range of<lb />his language as being outside these realms. Out-<lb />side these realms he cannot say anything (that is,<lb />give factual statements) but can point toward<lb />something.<lb /><lb />Ian Ramsey, in his book Religious Language,<lb />gives several illustrations which are somewhat<lb />analogous to what this paper is about. The most<lb />impressive example is the one in which Ramsey<lb />describes the situation of daily riding on the train<lb />with a particular man and after a while coming<lb />to know him fairly well in terms of his needs, his<lb />actions, his responses, etc. But one day he says<lb />offering his hand: oLook here"ITm Charles Mil-<lb />ler.� ~At that moment there is a disclosure, an<lb />individual becomes a persorf, the ice does not con-<lb />tinue to melt, it breaks. He has discovered not<lb />just one more fact to be added to those he has<lb />been collecting day by day. There has been some<lb />significant ~encounters,T which is not just a moving<lb />of palm on palm, no mere correlation of mouth<lb />noises, not just another nodding in some kind of<lb />mutual harmony.�<lb /><lb />A very interesting comparison can be made be-<lb /><lb />23<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0026" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />tween what he is trying to say here and what Witt-<lb />genstein said in his Tractatus. McPherson even<lb />compares WittgensteinTs notion in that book to<lb />Rudolf OttoTs Ideas of the Holy. In the Tractatus<lb />the only questions about the world that can be<lb />raised and answered are those about how the world<lb />is. These sorts of questions fall within the do-<lb />main of the sciences. However, the theologian is<lb />asking a different kind of question. As Wittgen-<lb />stein says: oNot how the world is, is the mystical,<lb />but that it is.� (And strangely enough, Wittgen-<lb />stein sounds a great deal like Heidegger at this<lb />point.) Wittgenstein goes on to say that whereof<lb />one cannot speak, one must be silent. However,<lb />this writer would disagree with him here and say<lb />that whereof one cannot say anything literal<lb />thereof, one must not try to say anything literal.<lb />But that does not mean that one cannot use words<lb />to opoint toward� the omystical.� He may not<lb />say anything but he has the possibility of showing<lb />something. That is, oneTs language may be non-<lb />sense, but it is extremely important non-sense.<lb /><lb />There must, certainly, be some kind of criteria<lb />for one to use in determining just what symbols<lb />he shall use in attempting to opoint towardT�T the<lb />omystical.� One criterion which he might pro-<lb />pose is that the symbols should come out of his<lb />own time. That is he would be erring if he<lb />attempted to point with a symbol which had no<lb />relation whatsoever to the contemporary man with<lb />whom he is speaking. Some examples of this may<lb />be seen in certain schools of Christian theology.<lb />Many theologians continue to use, for instance,<lb />the symbol of the slain lamb and its blood in con-<lb />nection with some kind of interpretation of the<lb />crucifixion of the Christ. This symbol bore deep<lb />meaning for the early Jews who were well ac-<lb />quainted with the full existential meaning of the<lb />slaying of a lamb in sacrifice to the God whom<lb />they feared. Contemporary man has little, if any,<lb />comprehension whatsoever of this. One is at a<lb />loss as to how we could possibly use the symbol of<lb />the ~Lamb of God shedding his blood for our sins�<lb />in any kind of meaningful way at all in our time.<lb />This is not to say that there is no possibility for<lb />such a symbol to call forth an oinsight,� but the<lb />likelihood of its doing so is very small.<lb /><lb />Perhaps a much better symbol in connection<lb />with this particular event would be to speak of it<lb />in terms of a Word spoken into oneTs existence<lb />from the omystical�? which lies both within and<lb />beyond oneTs existence. Granted that this symbol<lb />says nothing literal whatsoever. Neither does the<lb />one of the lamb. But one has more chance of<lb />grasping an inclination of what is being shown<lb /><lb />24<lb /><lb />when he speaks in terms of a Word because he<lb />lives in a world of great communication in which<lb />one speaks to another in all types of conversation,<lb />whether it be face to face or by long-distance<lb />telephone. However, in the midst of all his fren-<lb />zied talking, he seems to communicate very little<lb />that is deeply meaningful. To say to one of the<lb />20th century, who knows something of the inner<lb />feeling of aloneness and darkness, that there has<lb />been a Word spoken to him into his darkness,<lb />which proclaims to him that there is the possibility<lb />for him to live in this world is much more signifi-<lb />cant than to say to him that the Lamb of God shed<lb />his blood for his sins.<lb /><lb />Another criterion which one might propose is<lb />that the symbols used should be coherent with one<lb />another. That is, to attempt to use symbols which<lb />admit of no correlation whatever between one an-<lb />other is a practice that will get one into great dif-<lb />ficulty. For instance, it seems to be a mistake if<lb />one attempts to unite the symbols of the philosophy<lb />of history of the Eastern religions and those of the<lb />Western religions. The Western religions (Chris-<lb />tianity and Judaism) conceive of history as a<lb />straight line, purposive, with a beginning and an<lb />end. The Eastern religions conceive of history as<lb />a cycle with no beginning and no end, much less<lb />any purpose. To attempt to use both these sym-<lb />bols in pointing toward the omystical� in history<lb />would confuse more than illuminate the listener.<lb /><lb />Of course, a final criterion might be whether or<lb />not the symbol actually does its job. That is, does<lb />it work? Are persons listening to discourse car-<lb />ried on in terms of a particular set of symbols<lb />really coming to ~o~see� what it is the symbols are<lb />pointing toward?<lb /><lb />This paper comes now to the second use of re-<lb />ligious language: the interpretative.<lb /><lb />Religious language omakes sense out of life.�<lb />That is, in light of the oinsight�? which the reli-<lb />gious persons claims to have been part of, and,<lb />what is more, claims to, in some sense, continue<lb />being a part of, life now takes on a new olight,�<lb />a new perspective. Crombie points out that one<lb />may learn much from the writings of Kafka and<lb />Huxley, not in a literal way, but in a way which<lb />makes us see life differently. o. . . what we learn<lb />from Kafka or Huxley is not that the real world<lb />is like the world they create; rather, having trav-<lb />elled in imagination to a very different world,<lb />when we come back to the real world we see it a<lb />little differently and the difference seems to be<lb />gain. The unlifelike element in the fictional world<lb />is a device which makes us see things which are<lb />present but overlooked, in ordinary experience.�<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0027" />
        <p>ee " oe<lb /><lb />Religious language gives a person ocategories�<lb />or a ostance� or oposture� from which to live his<lb />life. Frederick Ferre, speaking of the great reli-<lb />gious symbols, says: ~They reflect a pattern or<lb />organization of these depth experiences and if<lb />responded to affirmatively can mould oneTs total<lb />response to his world: implicitly embodying a<lb />scale of values, an emphasis of outlook, a domi-<lb />nance of drive which provides a distinctive<lb />~stanceT or ~postureT toward the normal flow as<lb />well as the great crises of life. Such great symbols<lb />may be called ~organising images.T �<lb /><lb />This is the side of religious language which one<lb />can interpret literally. That is, a person may use<lb />religious language in this way and actually show<lb />to another the object of which he is speaking in<lb />his existence. One will always want to add that<lb />othis is not all I mean� but, within his existence<lb />he can point to something actual, literal. Take the<lb />statement oGod is holy,� for instance. First,<lb />within one literal existence, what does he point to<lb />with the term oG-o-dTT? God is, supposedly, that<lb />which is always present, never changing, eternally<lb />real, forever dependable. What is there within<lb />oneTs existence which is this? Within some per-<lb />sonTs existence everything which he touches is<lb />transitory, passing on, changing. Whether it be<lb />persons, things, societies, or what have you, they<lb />are all changing and passing on. OneTs life itself<lb />is passing away and he will someday die. Within<lb />all this, what is there that is always present?<lb />Nothing, except that everything is continually<lb />passing on and is transitory. In other words,<lb />oGod� is the linguistic symbol for the fact that<lb />life is, more than anything else, in constant flux,<lb />change, transitoriness, passing-away-ness. God<lb />is this fact! What does one mean when he says<lb />that God is holy? For something to be holy means<lb />that one stands in awe and humbleness before it.<lb />There is an element of fear that the full realiza-<lb />tion that existence is completely transitory and in<lb />no way stable creates within one a sense of awe,<lb />fear and angst. One has the sense of being able<lb />to cling to nothing whatever. The only thing he<lb />has left to cling to is the fact that this is the way<lb />things are. Thus, interpreted into his existence<lb />literally, this is what the statement oGod is holy�<lb />means. Some would want to say that the state-<lb />ment means more, but the omore� can only be<lb />shown, not said. :<lb /><lb />Or take the statement oGod loves.� Interpreted<lb />literally into existence one might say that when<lb />faced with the deepest crises of life, when stand-<lb />ing in what Karl Jaspers calls the oborder situa-<lb />tions� of existence, when one has realized that<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />oGod� (as defined above) has utterly crushed him<lb />and will always continue to do so (the Bible pro-<lb />vides an excellent parable in the Book of Job),<lb />when he sees that there is no hope left at all, the<lb />Christian claims to have felt within his own being<lb />a strange power which tells him that nevertheless<lb />there is the possibility to live. To say that oGod<lb />loves,� thus interpreted into existence, means that<lb />when completely crushed by the force of existence,<lb />one has yet found that there is the possibility for<lb />him to live with gladness, with meaning, and with<lb />hope. That is not all. Some mean more by the<lb />statement ~God loves� but what that ~~moreTT is<lb />cannot be said, only shown. The New Testament<lb />states this mythologically by saying that Jesus,<lb />when crushed by the Force of his Existence in<lb />terms of a horrifying crucifixion, still found that,<lb />even though crucifixion was the most real thing in<lb />his existence, there was still the resurrection<lb />through faith in God. In fact, Jesus called this<lb />God oFather.� However, in so doing, Jesus was<lb />not saying anything at all. He was conveying no<lb />information. He was attempting to show some-<lb />thing, namely a particular way in which one might<lb />approach his existence"i.e., with the stance that<lb />the crushing force of oneTs existence is actually<lb />analogous to oneTs loving father. But to realize<lb />the full impact of this, one must know the meaning<lb />of an oinsight.� This oinsight� can only be shown,<lb />not said.<lb /><lb />These religious statements can become trans-<lb />lated not only into a way in which to view oneTs<lb />existence but also into a way of action. How<lb />should one act toward his neighbor ?"God is love.<lb />What shall one do with his enemy ?"~o~God was in<lb />Christ reconciling the world... .TT As Ferre says:<lb />oHere is meaning, volumes of the deepest mean-<lb />ing, waiting to be translated into the fabric of<lb />specific act and concrete life-pattern. It is because<lb />we are here dealing with the most important sort<lb />of meaning which any language can carry that<lb />talk about God is incomparably vital, despite its<lb />non-literal significance.�<lb /><lb />Thus, one has seen the two uses of religious<lb />language which this paper proposes. The first one<lb />is to oshow� one something, to point him toward<lb />the omystical,� call him to an oinsight.� The sec-<lb />ond function, which is only really meaningful<lb />after one has been part of the full meaning of the<lb />first function, is to interpret the everyday goings-<lb />on of his life. One uses his myths about miracu-<lb />lous births, resurrections, creations, and so on, in<lb />order to bring about an oinsight.� Then one<lb />interprets these myths into concrete realities<lb />which confront him in his actual existence.<lb /><lb />25<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0028" />
        <p>POET'S<lb />CORNER<lb /><lb />Asha Yeats<lb /><lb />I can remember that girl.<lb /><lb />I can remember the day she died:<lb /><lb />A long hot day in the Georgian summer,<lb /><lb />And one that few people noticed<lb /><lb />Save those of us who knew its significance.<lb /><lb />A grave day, with petulant clouds suspended<lb />In a low-slung, dusty-looking sky,<lb /><lb />Green-hued in the west, and softly glowing<lb /><lb />As before a storm. And there was a storm,<lb />But not one that most of the people knew about.<lb />I know about it, but I was closer to Asha Yeats<lb />Than most people.<lb /><lb />She was my mother.<lb /><lb />She had a slack long body with thin strong arms<lb /><lb />That could sweep you from the ground into the air<lb /><lb />And whirl you around until you laughed and<lb />laughed.<lb /><lb />We had fun together, Asha and I.<lb /><lb />She was young and vibrant and bold<lb /><lb />(I myself was nine years old)<lb /><lb />With thin-boned hands, and graceful and fine<lb /><lb />The year I was nine.<lb /><lb />And a wide mouth that laughed often.<lb /><lb />The girl with the yearbook smile, Asha Yeats.<lb /><lb />My mother.<lb /><lb />We did the housework together, Asha and I,<lb /><lb />Whistling and winking like sooty-faced chars.<lb /><lb />But I remember the day she put down her dustcloth<lb /><lb />And untied her tired hair<lb /><lb />To help a little colored girl who lay<lb /><lb />With her feet in the gutter,<lb /><lb />Bitten by a mad dog.<lb /><lb />Asha Yeats on her knees in the gutter<lb /><lb />(While the neighbors watched from their win-<lb />dows)<lb /><lb />26<lb /><lb />Picked up the little nigger child and<lb />Took her to the county hospital.<lb />ThatTs not done, said the neighbors.<lb />In the deep South, thatTs not done.<lb /><lb />And then things happened to us.<lb /><lb />Dead things appeared in the front yard:<lb /><lb />Mice, birds with torn wings, a rabid kitten,<lb /><lb />And then one morning, a little curly-haired dog<lb /><lb />With a torn throat.<lb /><lb />Asha Yeats covered my eyes with her firm hands<lb /><lb />And closed the blinds.<lb /><lb />And we never told.<lb /><lb />There were bad smells and a broken window,<lb /><lb />And we never told. And a fire in the toolshed<lb /><lb />That Asha put out with a blanket<lb /><lb />Because the hose was missing and the spigot clog-<lb />ged.<lb /><lb />But we never told.<lb /><lb />And Asha Yeats grew lonely and old.<lb /><lb />Her pale eyes deeply set in her quaint head<lb /><lb />Blinked in open defiance like a sullen-faced char<lb /><lb />Until blinking was a drudge and breathing a chore<lb /><lb />And she took sick and didnTt work anymore.<lb /><lb />She dragged herself to my bedroom<lb /><lb />And there she died, her weak cries<lb />Splintering my brain and staying there,<lb />Crumpled grotesquely on the white sheet,<lb />My hands on her eyes,<lb /><lb />My handkerchief over her mouth.<lb /><lb />I was there, but she died alone,<lb /><lb />As she did everything.<lb /><lb />And here is where she lies, alone<lb /><lb />Nestled in the roots of a pine tree<lb /><lb />With so much to be proud of.<lb /><lb />Pam Honaker<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0029" />
        <p>J Became a Leaf<lb /><lb />I became a leaf.<lb /><lb />I sprang from the fingertip of a tree.<lb /><lb />I greened and grew.<lb /><lb />I covered a bird, nourished an insect.<lb /><lb />I dripped of rain.<lb /><lb />I slept on the wind.<lb /><lb />I became vibrant with red, warm with golden.<lb /><lb />I became tired.<lb /><lb />I aged brown, grew weak, let go.<lb /><lb />I dripped down and laid beside a moss, beneath a<lb />rabbit.<lb /><lb />I became moist and fed the earth.<lb /><lb />Ceod<lb /><lb />I see and feel the warmth and touch<lb />Of eyes that pierce my depth until<lb />I can no longer face the source<lb /><lb />Of their disquieting power.<lb /><lb />My mind rebels against the thought<lb />Of alien control and though<lb /><lb />Such alien control is all<lb /><lb />Too inevitable, I must<lb /><lb />Remember that obedience,<lb /><lb />When blind, only leads me<lb /><lb />Down to insensibility.<lb /><lb />Were I to pause, however, and<lb />Relax in the absorbing gaze<lb /><lb />Of those circles of deep power,<lb />Realizing that they seek not<lb />Control, I would see their beauty.<lb /><lb />GUY LE MARE<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />CMF Because<lb /><lb />Two fingers following the curve of the chair-arm<lb /><lb />Were her only proof that he was there<lb /><lb />As the walls of the room surrounding them<lb /><lb />Came and went with the shades of twilight.<lb /><lb />The words were right for some purpose,<lb /><lb />But not theirs, falling as they did on distracted<lb />ears<lb /><lb />Like a dream neither could remember,<lb /><lb />Until he became more cross with himself than her<lb /><lb />And tenderly took leave.<lb /><lb />From the window she watched him<lb /><lb />Cross the street, unwilling to grope for words<lb /><lb />Worthy of being called across the distance"<lb /><lb />This before she saw the coat, folded sleeves to-<lb />gether<lb /><lb />On the winey new-covered chair.<lb /><lb />oYour coat is still here!�<lb /><lb />She cried, her outsretched hand expressing all<lb /><lb />That she could not, she<lb /><lb />The no longer cherished.<lb /><lb />PAM HONAKER<lb /><lb />27<lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0030" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />Second Place Fiction<lb /><lb />Wintertime<lb /><lb />And Not One Posy<lb /><lb />by<lb /><lb />Worth Kitson<lb /><lb />It wasnTt fair to be so cold and still not snowing.<lb />If itTs going to just be cold, well okay ... but<lb />when itTs that cold, and it looks like itTs going to<lb />snow, and the weatherman and your father and<lb />even the old janitor at school all say it will, and<lb />then it doesnTt"thatTs a pretty sneaky trick for<lb />the sky to pull.<lb /><lb />Miriam hated"really hated"her black wool<lb />skirt. That skirt, with its knife-edged pleats<lb />swinging so jauntily in the wind, had no right to<lb />act so smart when she, who had been nice enough<lb />to wear it out once in a while so it could see some-<lb />thing besides the inside of a closet, was feeling<lb />plain rotten.<lb /><lb />A yellow paper slid out of her notebook and flut-<lb />tered to rest on top of a puddle which could have<lb />been lovely slush if the day hadnTt decided not to<lb />snow. The paper floated in a lazy circle for a<lb />minute, so Miriam stopped walking long enough<lb />to step on it. It sank and she got her shoe wet.<lb />The new black suedes, there they went...<lb /><lb />oSomeday theyTll stop putting corny messages<lb />about citizenship and scholarship and rot in our<lb />report cards,� she said aloud. ~Then I'll stop<lb />dropping them in mud puddles.� She turned<lb />angrily at the corner and walked on. ~~Rats!�<lb /><lb />As Miriam stopped for a light, Mrs. Keil drove<lb />by, then pulled over to the tired gray curb. ~Want<lb /><lb />28<lb /><lb />a ride, Mimi honey?� she called in her purry PTA<lb />president voice.<lb /><lb />Miriam smiled sweetly and shook her head. o~No,<lb />itTs such a great day I think ITll walk,� she called<lb />back and waved gaily as she crossed the street.<lb />oThank you, though.�<lb /><lb />oDonTt honey me, sweety,� Miriam said venom-<lb />ously as she walked on down the sidewalk. oAnd<lb />if my name was Mimi, ITd ask you to call me Mimi.<lb />My name is Miriam. ITd rather have everybody<lb />call me Harry than have you call me Mimi. Call<lb />me that again, sister, and youTll never see my<lb />mother at another one of your meetings.�<lb /><lb />A little boy on a red tricycle turned in his seat<lb />and stared curiously after Miriam as she walked<lb />by him, oBuy Christmas seals or your teeth will<lb />rot for sure!TT Then she walked regally on. The<lb />child sniffed reflectively and squashed a worm<lb />carefully with the front wheel of his trike, leaving<lb />an anonymous brown and green smudge on the<lb />pavement. ~Poor Posie,� he said quietly to the<lb />spot, then sighed a tired little sigh and rode slowly<lb />on down the block.<lb /><lb />Miriam had started to cry. It was bad enough<lb />to be crying at all while you were walking down<lb />some street, without your nose getting all red like<lb />a three-year-oldTs. She couldnTt decide whether<lb />to pull out her lace handkerchief from Brussels or<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0031" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />use the pale green Kleenex she had found in the<lb />home-ec room that day, so she let the tears stay<lb />cold on her cheeks.<lb /><lb />oSo I got a D in math. Everybody gets a D<lb />sometimes. Just because my brother was so hot-<lb />shot in math that doesnTt mean /Tm supposed!<lb />Abraham Lincoln probably got a D in something<lb />one time. And did he get into trouble for it?� she<lb />demanded of the stop sign on the corner. It stood<lb />in the cold wind looking impassively out at Mir-<lb />iam from its blank red face. oNever mind,� she<lb />said gently and turned down her street.<lb /><lb />When she reached her front door, Miriam took<lb />the Kleenex out of her pocketbook and wiped her<lb />face. She rang the doorbell, listening to the faint<lb />chime somewhere deep within the house. A min-<lb />ute later a flood of warm yellow light came to the<lb />door as Estelle opened it.<lb /><lb />The small black woman sighed impatiently.<lb />oMimi, whyTd you make me come all the way out<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />the kitchen to let you in your own house when the<lb />door ainTt even locked?�<lb /><lb />Miriam pushed past her and cried, oDONTT<lb />SAY AINTT! And never call me Mimi again!�<lb />She ran up the stairs: her Latin book fell to the<lb />carpet with a dull thud and lay incongruously on<lb />the deep green until Estelle retrieved it a minute<lb />later and started slowly upstairs.<lb /><lb />In her room Miriam unzipped the hated black<lb />skirt and flung it behind the door where it sank<lb />into a strange sort of pile of pleats. She jerked<lb />her window open and snapped off the light. The<lb />silver-blue evening blew in across her bed in soft<lb />gusts: she lay in the cold and shivered, feeling<lb />{stelle standing at the top of the stairs outside<lb />her room. She wiped her face on the bedspread,<lb />a pale unknown color in the odd, cold light of the<lb />room, and listened silently to EstelleTs knock.<lb /><lb />The door opened wide. Estelle put the Latin<lb />book gently on MiriamTs desk and walked slowly<lb />to the open window. She looked at the girl on the<lb />bed, and then back out the window; taking a bottle<lb />of spray cologne from the dresser, she sprayed the<lb />curtains billowing in the icy wind. She looked at<lb />the dainty gold bottle for a long time, then set it<lb />carefully back where it had been. She turned once<lb />more to the open window and said, oItTs snowing,<lb />baby Miriam ... itTs snowing the very first golden<lb />snow I ever did see.� Then Estelle walked from<lb />the room, closing the door quietly behind her.<lb /><lb />Miriam got up slowly and moved to the window.<lb />The film of sweet-smelling curtains blew across<lb />her face as she gazed out into the silver night and<lb />said softly, oPlease call me Mimi,� and she loved<lb />Estelle, the silent snow, and her strange unsetted<lb />word with all her heart.<lb /><lb />29<lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0032" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />SECOND<lb /><lb />Protest No. 7<lb /><lb />The quiet world within calls gently<lb /><lb />And I,<lb /><lb />Slipping from silence to sunlight<lb /><lb />Lean against a burnished tree.<lb /><lb />And I,<lb /><lb />Turning from knells to tambourines<lb /><lb />Sing with a copper leaf.<lb /><lb />Half the world is sunlight<lb /><lb />Losing the rest to shadows<lb /><lb />And I,<lb /><lb />Weaving their whispered whimsies<lb />Am aware.<lb /><lb />Brenda<lb /><lb />Hines<lb /><lb />PLACE<lb /><lb />POETRY<lb /><lb />Protest No. 2<lb /><lb />I wear you softly"<lb /><lb />With gentle folds on my dark hair;<lb />Naturally"some color you<lb /><lb />But I have looked up and seen a tinted trail<lb />Left by laughing stars;<lb />Limply"some hold you<lb /><lb />But I have seen a floating cloud<lb /><lb />In the early morningTs warmth;<lb />Loosely"some press you with routine<lb />But I know a river can flow<lb /><lb />Freely and swell out of its banks;<lb />Meekly"some taunt you<lb /><lb />But I have seen a silent wisp of joy<lb />Blowing lightly in the wind<lb /><lb />And I recall the dreamer<lb /><lb />Who taught me to wear you softly.<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0033" />
        <p>Art Portfolio<lb /><lb />First Place Art (Woodcut) By JULIA COBLE<lb /><lb />Boy Named Michael<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0034" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />Breakfast in Taiwan Second Place Art (Oil) By DoT HARMON<lb /><lb />32 THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0035" />
        <p>o<lb /><lb />SNOd WVHVAS<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0036" />
        <p>|<lb />i}<lb />za)<lb />co<lb />a<lb />|<lb />x<lb />a<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0037" />
        <p>Or a bi ee<lb /><lb />Ie owe<lb /><lb />a : iene sagen errn gig Soi, sin, lB b Pe rr tk at<lb />OS ee Sa - a eae aT, "<lb />eS yee a Oe eg * se ~ah ae a Hee en<lb />bis ¢ Oe er a eS Ne<lb />2 ee iionar * EPRI PE Soe ate<lb />tne Eee ca Fe ea<lb /><lb />nae is<lb /><lb />Lie]<lb />co<lb />a<lb />re<lb />Zi<lb />4<lb /><lb />"&amp;<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0038" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0039" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />THE<lb />GIFT<lb /><lb />Ronald Watson<lb /><lb />The road was as timeless as Spain herself. In<lb />the dim, distant days before men saw fit to record<lb />their thought and deeds, it had served as high-<lb />way for the fair-skinned natives of the region,<lb />curling along beside the sea, rising and falling with<lb />every nod of the hills that rolled down from the<lb />mountain. Legions of soldiers, caravans of gypsies,<lb />throngs of poor fishermen, and beggars had trav-<lb />eled there. In the spring it wound through gaunt-<lb />lets of heather, and farther south, groves of<lb />oranges; but in winter, as now, the road was buri-<lb />ed beneath shadowy drifts of snow and was blend-<lb />ed with the land as it flowed down to the sea. It<lb />was little used now; there was a new highway for<lb />motorists driving between Barcelona and Valen-<lb />cia. Now the road was left for pedestrian wander-<lb />ers who made their tedious way from the Prat de<lb />LTo bregat, through Castelldefels, to Stiges, and<lb />back again.<lb /><lb />He was an old man, living in a time when men<lb />of his kind died young in behalf of glorious<lb />dreams, and he carried himself with the broken<lb />resignation of having missed his one opportunity<lb />for salvation, for greatness, for eternity. There<lb />had been a time, perhaps, when his eyes shone<lb />with the light of what he must do; but they were<lb />cast over now, sad, pensive, regretful that they<lb />had not seen that which they were meant to see.<lb />They were buried, forgotten in a face which was<lb />drawn with hunger, forested by gray stubble. The<lb />old man carried his head low, chin held tight<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />against his breast, for the relentlessly torturous,<lb />snow-swept afternoon screamed about him and bit<lb />at every patch of unprotected flesh. His lips were<lb />blue, his face crimson with the cold, and bits of<lb />moisture had frozen on his brows and in his beard.<lb />The ragged gray overcoat, which had served the<lb />old man for many winters, was pulled tight about<lb />his body, and his hands were plunged deep in the<lb />warmth of its pockets. It was hard for him to<lb />see, for the snow fell in windy blankets and blurred<lb />the harsh, bleak grayness of the day; and so he<lb />stumbled on, stopping at intervals, with his back<lb />to the wind, to take the four small potatoes from<lb />his pockets and turn them slowly in his hands as<lb />though committing to memory their contours.<lb /><lb />Clouds dwelt like smoky shrouds just above<lb />the earth, blotting the mountains from view, and<lb />the sea was covered with a fine, dull film of mist,<lb />and the black water glistened with an invisible<lb />light. The high wind, swirling, carried the falling<lb />snow and then laid it in pockets of the ground,<lb />piling it higher about the naked trees and shrubs,<lb />covering everything with a frozen whiteness that<lb />was the color of bones. Somewhere the sun was<lb />shining, but here there was no warmth; only the<lb />coldness of hunger and fear of death.<lb /><lb />The desolation of the day spoke in eloquent<lb />monotones of the tragedy that was being played<lb />out in the very land through which the old man<lb />plodded. There was a war. A horrible, hateful,<lb />personal war, carried on with a furious, deliberate<lb />languor that was more terrible than the iron and<lb />dirt and blood. Men killed and were killed blindly,<lb />indiscriminately, never knowing why, aware only<lb />that they all suffered a great injustice and must<lb />account for it. Brother turned on brother, father<lb />on son, and all across the country, men lay dead<lb />with tears in their eyes, their lives over before<lb />lifeTs meaning had come clear. Nearly a million<lb />men. And, more painful still than that was the<lb />suffering of the families, the hungry families of<lb />old men who found it necessary to travel by foot<lb />over many miles, through the unbearable winter,<lb />in search of food.<lb /><lb />oSoon, viejo,� the old man mumbled to himself.<lb />oSoon you will be home.�<lb /><lb />Home. What was it?A drafty cellar, without<lb />light or heat, hidden in the dark, upset stomach<lb />of Barrio Chino, the Old Town, a dwelling place<lb />that had been used by families such as his for<lb />seven hundred years. The old man thought of<lb />the calle which ran outside the windows of the<lb />cellar; a wide gutter, transport for the filth of<lb />Barcelona, its cobblestones slimy with the residue<lb />of rainfall and rotted garbage, its dismal walls<lb /><lb />37<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0040" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />oozing and sweating dank moisture. Narrow<lb />though the calle itself might have been, a child<lb />might, with a minimum of effort, extend his arms<lb />and flatten his palm against the truculent bricks,<lb />the buildings which enclosed it, none more than<lb />sixty feet in height; they fairly brushed one an-<lb />other at their rooftops, thus excluding the light<lb />of day and holding the alley in a perpetual state<lb />of somnambulistic darkness. And this was where<lb />his children played"in the same alley, playing the<lb />same games, perhaps, as had the children who suf-<lb />fered through kinder winters in the time of El] Cid.<lb />And yet, despite this gloom, there was life, a sus-<lb />pended kind of life, without hope, with no future<lb />save the relief of death, nothing more than an<lb />intake of sooty breath and the physical processes<lb />that sustain existence. He knew they would be<lb />waiting for him to return with the food that would<lb />mean another minute or another day of numb,<lb />empty existence. His wife had given way to the<lb />strain and the years and the war, and now she sat<lb />alone in a grimy corner, staring out at the rest<lb />of their little world with unseeing eyes, never<lb />speaking, never hearing, never caring to live or<lb />die. The children, four of them, were huddled<lb />together about the fire, keeping it alive, kindling<lb />it with whatever could be found, waiting for a<lb />spring that had never come, not counting the<lb />hours or the days or the weeks or the years, just<lb />waiting. oWhat fine men and women they might<lb />be, if only I were able to free them.�<lb /><lb />The old man felt the tears freezing on his<lb />cheeks and his hands sought refuge with the po-<lb />tatoes in his overcoat pockets, squeezing them as<lb />if to extract their special magic. Such simple<lb />things as small potatoes. Elsewhere in the world<lb />they were fed to swine and discarded in surplus.<lb />They were a universe, a tiny wrinkled universe<lb />through which revolved the planets of the old<lb />manTs existence. Yet, they were still potatoes. But<lb />the old man did not see this; he could not com-<lb />prehend that it was only food that he was carrying.<lb />He plodded on as he dreamed his dream.<lb /><lb />oSomewhere beyond the mountains, some day<lb />when there is no war, there will be a cottage, a<lb />neat white cottage, floating on an ocean of lux-<lb />urious grass that ripples in the breeze from spring<lb />to spring, grass that never dies, grass that is al-<lb />ways green. My wife will sit by the door of the<lb />cottage and watch the children as they run across<lb />the meadows and play among the trees, and the<lb />sun will shed its warmth over everything.� Such<lb />dreams came to him frequently: when he sat be-<lb />side his wife in the cellar, holding her hands to his<lb />to warm them; walking the streets of the City in<lb /><lb />38<lb /><lb />search of firewood; traveling alone through the icy<lb />barrenness of a coastal winter. But they were only<lb />dreams. There was nothing real now but the emp-<lb />tiness in his heart and in his stomach, nothing<lb />real but the four potatoes that he carried in his<lb />pockets.<lb /><lb />They had not come easily to him. They had<lb />meant long hours of walking through the merciless<lb />snow, stumbling in drifts along the road, stopping<lb />without shelter to rest, standing with the crowd at<lb />the docks at Stiges, watching the horizon for the<lb />ship from Grottes du Drach, on the far side of<lb />Mallorca.<lb /><lb />oWhat fine men those sailors were, to risk<lb />their lives to bring food to the hungry men and<lb />women on the mainland. How many there had<lb />been waiting!<lb /><lb />oLiterally hundreds: tired and cold and hun-<lb />gry, thinking of a family at home; and surely there<lb />had been those with no family at all.<lb /><lb />oPerhaps,� thought the old man, oit is a thing<lb />to be thankful for, having a family. Or perhaps it<lb />is a thing to regret. We stood there throughout<lb />the day, restless, impatiently, hopefully. It<lb />seemed as though the ship would not come. But<lb />at last it came, and when it docked everyone fell<lb />silent, intent, knowing that of all those waiting,<lb />there must be those who would go away empty-<lb />handed; each determined not to be among the un-<lb />fortunates. Then came a great pushing and swell-<lb />ing toward the sacks which were opened on the<lb />boards of the wharf. A portion of the whart gave<lb />way beneath the weight, and some of the people<lb />plunged into the icy water. Loud frantic voices<lb />cursed anonymously, arms flailed in the air, feet<lb />kicked at whatever stood in their way. The crowd<lb />had fallen upon the potatoes like demons, a great<lb />surging wave of humanity that was inhumanity,<lb />enveloping, devouring ...� The old man had<lb />found an alien strength to struggle, but still he<lb />was an old man and he had grown weary, his<lb />face bleeding, limbs aching, and he had gone away<lb />from the crowd to sit by himself, and he had cried<lb />for his failure. There had been four small potatoes,<lb />lying beside a piling, ignored by the throng, and<lb />the old man had fallen upon them and carried<lb />them away as quickly as he could, fearful that<lb />someone might notice and take the prize from<lb />him. He was bruised, and his body ached from<lb />his effort, but now, as he neared the City, he felt<lb />little pain.<lb /><lb />oSoon, children. Soon you will eat.�<lb /><lb />As the old man came around a bend in the<lb />road, cut off by a high drift of snow, he saw<lb />them: four of them, standing outside the shack,<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0041" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />smoking cigarettes and talking.<lb /><lb />oThese are the Italians,� thought the old man.<lb />Dressed in the drab green of the Italian army, they<lb />were members of a regiment of mercenaries, paid<lb />murderers, descendants of the condottieri of Bor-<lb />gia and the Medicis. They had come in a boat from<lb />Mallorca where they had joined their comrades at<lb />Valencia, and together they had cut a swathe up<lb />the coast, burning and pillaging, driving civilians<lb />from their homes, killing all that resisted their<lb />way. They were paid rebels, hired to oppose the<lb />will of the people, and it was a hard thing for the<lb />old man to see them standing on Spanish soil,<lb />where they had no right to be.<lb /><lb />oPossibly they do not understand what they are<lb />doing,� thought the old man. oMaybe I should<lb />not hate them. They are men like me. Perhaps<lb />they need pity instead of hatred.�<lb /><lb />His eyes were passive as he approached. The<lb />shack, from which a spiral of gray smoke circled<lb />upward out of a tin chimney and blended with<lb />the haze, stood at the bridge which led across the<lb />Llobregat, the river that ran down from the North<lb />and sliced the road just before it forked into<lb />Barcelona. oWhat right,� thought the old man,<lb />drawing near to them; owhat right have they to<lb />come with their guns and stand on land of Span-<lb />iards?� He was depressed at the sight of them,<lb />but his expression did not change.<lb /><lb />There was a great urge within him to speak out<lb />against the foreigners, to scream his protest in<lb />their faces, to defy them and defy their guns, but<lb />something checked that urge. Perhaps it was the<lb />thought of his family, cold and hungry, waiting<lb />for him, depending on him, that cautioned him<lb />against anything foolish; perhaps it was that, tell-<lb />ing him to take care and not to fail them, no<lb />matter what he felt. Always it had been so; al-<lb />ways there had been some hesitancy within him,<lb />some reluctance to strike out, and always he had<lb />told himself that it was wise to remain silent. He<lb />was becoming unsure of that.<lb /><lb />The Italian who must have been in charge<lb />stepped into the road and blocked the old manTs<lb />way. oStop where you are, old man.� He was a<lb />giant, made more imposing by the bulk of his gar-<lb />ments, and there was an austere fire in his eyes.<lb />In his hand he held an automatic pistol as though<lb />it were a toy, and he pointed it at the old manTs<lb />belly. The other three guards dropped their cig-<lb />arettes in the snow and circled around.<lb /><lb />oWhere are you from, old man?�<lb /><lb />oBarcelona.� His eyes were closed. oToday I<lb />come from Stiges.�T<lb /><lb />The huge Italian scratched the back of his neck<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />with the barrel of the pistol. ~Your business?�<lb /><lb />oT am a traveler. Nothing more.�<lb /><lb />oYou would not be bearing food or weapons,<lb />would you?�<lb /><lb />oIt is forbidden.� The old man now knew that<lb />he would be searched, and he clutched the pota-<lb />toes in his pockets with increased intensity, draw-<lb />ing from them what strength he could. The pity<lb />in his heart began to turn to hatred as the Italian<lb />came forward. Through the tips of his fingers<lb />he felt a voice speak to him: oFight, old man.<lb />Do not let them take from you what you have<lb />earned. Think of the children. Fight.�<lb /><lb />oSo it is. Take your hands from your pockets<lb />that you may be searched.�<lb /><lb />oGod, Italiano"four small potatoes for a fam-<lb />ily of five that waits, starving, in a cellar in the<lb />City.� The old man fell to his knees in the snow<lb />and extended his hands before him, grasping<lb />there the potatoes, potatoes so small that two of<lb />them did not take up the space of his hands.<lb /><lb />oIt is forbidden, old man!� A heavy foot fell<lb />and kicked two of the potatoes into the snow.<lb /><lb />oHow easy it would be, Italiano, to say you<lb />found me with nothing. How easy to let me pass,<lb />and forget.�<lb /><lb />oForbidden. Do not ask. You are a conquered<lb />people.�<lb /><lb />oConquered! Never! Never by you Italiano!<lb />The swine that grovel in the mire have more right<lb />to the land than you!T�T The old man tried to<lb />stand, clutching the soldierTs coat for support, but<lb />the pistol fell on his head. Sprawling in the snow,<lb />the whiteness of it maderizing with his blood, he<lb />saw the haze grow grayer still and felt the heavi-<lb />ness close about him. The inhumanity lost its<lb />dimension and became a smell, a physical sensa-<lb />tion, and the old man spoke to a tormentor he<lb />could not see. oHow little decency there must<lb />be with you. Have you no concern for the chil-<lb />dren of the world, who know nothing of this war<lb />but its horror? Have you no respect for their<lb />right to grow and make their peace among them-<lb />selves? What of the children, the cold and hungry<lb />children who wait forever...�<lb /><lb />The snow fell and swirled soundlessly above<lb />the earth, and the long.day became dark. The<lb />soldiers walked away, back to the shack, and they<lb />smoked again and did not look back to where the<lb />old man lay in the snow, still clutching one of the<lb />potatoes. His hands and his face were turning<lb />blue with the cold, and heavy lids closed over<lb />eyes that had never seen till now; eyes that looked<lb />upon endless fields of green beneath a warm, full<lb />sky of cotton clouds and blue... .<lb /><lb />39<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0042" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />40<lb /><lb />Eel Grass<lb /><lb />There it is, the sea just as I remember it,<lb /><lb />Sounding the leaden echo of my younger self,<lb /><lb />A sea-elf with eyes as big and colorless as anemones,<lb /><lb />Brown hair that spread and floated of its own accord<lb />in the brown-green water,<lb /><lb />Brown spider-crab legs that carried me down the beach<lb />to find conch shells which housed the sea.<lb /><lb />I remember the sea seen through younger eyes than mine now.<lb /><lb />I remember the arrogant odor of putrid sea-life,<lb />of blanched eel grass and heated sand.<lb /><lb />I remember tales full of the fears of childhood,<lb />told by an old colored woman rotting by the sea,<lb />rotting under the rich, life-giving sun.<lb /><lb />I left when youth manacled itself to youth<lb />and I was borne, screaming, away.<lb />I left in bitterness which dreaded recall,<lb />yet here I am again, to shriek in delight<lb />as the sea tries to carry off bits and pieces<lb />of my salt-washed toes.<lb />What is there about unfulfillment that commands a return<lb />to childhood and childish haunts"<lb />gentle, melancholy childhood?<lb />I know! One last run down the conch-strewn beach ;<lb />A breathless plunge into the chill-streaked water ;<lb />And the prickly caress of a horseTs tail.<lb /><lb />But I left. And now the ocean is as far removed from me<lb />as youth from age. Even the memories are mist-<lb />enshrouded phantoms that desert me for their<lb />Mother Sea.<lb /><lb />And in the mist I see a child who jealously eyed<lb />the horizon and asked,<lb /><lb />Mommy, whatTs over there?<lb />England.<lb />Why canTt I see it?<lb />YouTre not big enough.<lb />Can you see it?<lb />Oh, yes.<lb />Then lift me up,<lb />YouTre"too"hig. . .<lb />Defeat is something a child learns quickly.<lb /><lb />Now the wind skitters along the sand wielding an odd pen"<lb /><lb />a tumbleweed"which leaves the incomprehensible scrawl<lb /><lb />of a soulless scrivener.<lb />I canTt understand its foreign strain, where<lb />Once, I would have understood.<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0043" />
        <p>FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />Now all I hear is the roar of six brown leaves<lb />falling on a grave. Whose grave?<lb />The old croneTs whose black, wrinkled face<lb />with its peculiar twitches and discolored pits<lb />held me, damp and quivering, in a spell<lb />while she incanted witch-tales and stories<lb />of sea horrors?<lb />Whose filmy, redstreaked eyes followed my every move,<lb />in her hut or in my own bed?<lb />Whose harsh cackle chased and caught me in the privacy<lb />of my own nightmares?<lb />Yes, and so she gets not primroses, not even eel grass,<lb />but six noisy brown leaves,<lb />Echoed by the bellow of a sea that charges and falls<lb />like an animal under rein.<lb />The poor sea, in a bit too small and saddle too heavy<lb />that makes it pitch and thrash, hurtful and hard,<lb />bitter and then exhausted.<lb />If only my hair fell to my waist instead of my shoulders,<lb />If only to the sand instead of my waist, and<lb />I would leave strange tracks on the sand,<lb />an animal from the sea who lost her way<lb />going from the Strait of Messina to NeptuneTs castle;<lb />Daughter of Scylla, whose hair burns the meek sand<lb />on which it trails.<lb /><lb />And even that is unfulfilled.<lb /><lb />Once, I didnTt know it couldnTt be, for childhood is<lb />as real as sunburn, as lucid as jellyfish tentacles<lb />when their meek owner is out of water<lb /><lb />(I used to drape them on driftwood twigs for scrutiny<lb />before flinging them on the sand to roast) ;<lb /><lb />While adulthood is stark and unlovely, a vicious sea-<lb />parasite that eats away at childhood until nothing<lb />remains but a barnacle-encrusted bone fragment"<lb />adulthood itself,<lb /><lb />Yet to a child as intriguing as the half-buried wreck<lb />of a scow,<lb /><lb />Or more like a half-buried starfish that, when you run<lb />to pick it up, you see what appeared to be<lb />buried is broken off anyway.<lb /><lb />That seven-eighths of the iceberg you hear about<lb />isnTt really there at all.<lb /><lb />It has never been this cold here before.<lb />I am being sent away.<lb />I will leave again, with my memories"<lb />I have filled them in as best I could"<lb />the sand in my clothes, the salt in my hair,<lb />And"to press in a dictionary which will breathe<lb />a vague sea-odor"a few blades of limp eel grass.<lb /><lb />Pam<lb /><lb />Honaker<lb /><lb />41<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0044" />
        <p>POEMS<lb /><lb />"misgiving sits<lb />upon my thoughts<lb /><lb />as a<lb />silent<lb />k<lb />(such as the<lb />angry young<lb />k<lb />in knock<lb /><lb />which would be<lb /><lb />much more<lb />knocking<lb />if the<lb /><lb />k<lb /><lb />were but pronounced)<lb /><lb />and<lb />who<lb />knows<lb />why<lb />but<lb /><lb />i<lb /><lb />:<lb /><lb />From far above<lb /><lb />From up there<lb /><lb />my head<lb />up<lb />where the air moves green<lb /><lb />down<lb />to deep below my feet where<lb />roots are growing, silent and unseen:<lb /><lb />I love you all those places,<lb /><lb />42<lb /><lb />the empty spaces full<lb /><lb />of this love &amp; ee<lb /><lb />And me full too<lb /><lb />of knowledge of air<lb /><lb />and green roots<lb /><lb />of wonder of you"<lb />Me, in between,<lb />A small thing and simple,<lb />But of a sudden seen<lb />With a hundred different faces for the smiling of it.<lb /><lb />Little gold-eyed child named Charlie:<lb />Fingers tiny enough to pat a bug"<lb /><lb />Heart so huge and full of music that he does.<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0045" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />watching moon<lb />see it yet<lb />encircled by soft-fluff<lb />much like dandelion-stuff<lb />inside my sleep<lb />colours here are new<lb />with just being born<lb />oO ] a and sounds are shy to<lb />touch the ground<lb />modulated echos<lb />(in the pale light<lb />of keeping you)<lb />are syncronized to<lb />your sleepTs breath<lb /><lb />johnson<lb /><lb />\\ itTs been a drop-and-still-night<lb />since iTve been waiting<lb />for your call<lb />first a tray of ice cubes<lb />polycromed cold<lb /><lb />and then a glass<lb />of dark liquid<lb />now holding a red and tiled floor<lb /><lb />kiss me between<lb />a space no<lb />wider than<lb />a slip of<lb />paper between<lb />the barks of a tree<lb />listen<lb />can you hear<lb />day come to fetch us<lb /><lb />a checked blanket back<lb /><lb />and a wall itTs light enough<lb />to the south of me now<lb /><lb />keep my thoughts I can find my way<lb />surrounded and my back to my room<lb /><lb />moves ambushed<lb />days are separate<lb /><lb />from night<lb /><lb />by means of<lb /><lb />the sun" winds-day<lb />brightness wednesday<lb /><lb />and a dark that is i repeat your name<lb />so black<lb /><lb />and hold you<lb />as a thread"<lb />water, pale, thread to ground<lb /><lb />i can only think of you<lb /><lb />in a race for time<lb /><lb />to invade a second long enough<lb />for<lb /><lb />one silver breath winds-day<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966 43<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0046" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />Crisis<lb /><lb />Radical Theology and The Death of God. By Thomas J. J.<lb />Altizer and William Hamilton. New York: The Bobbs-<lb />Merrill Company, Inc. 1966. 202 pp. $1.85.<lb /><lb />The most explosive crisis that Christianity is<lb />facing today is a radical theology known as the<lb />oDeath of God� movement. o. . . God has died in<lb />our time, in our history, in our existence,T declares<lb />Thomas J. J. Altizer, and the Church has reacted<lb />as though it were a man confronted by an alien<lb />monster for the first time. Actually, the oDeath<lb />of God� movement may be said to have started<lb />with NietzscheTs proclamation that God was dead.<lb />But theologians chose to regard the words of Nietz-<lb />sche as the babblings of an insane and sick man.<lb />Therefore, when the news media started publiciz-<lb />ing the movement in late 1965, the Church was<lb />caught totally off guard.<lb /><lb />The two men most responsible for the move-<lb />ment, Thomas J. J. Altizer and William Hamilton,<lb />started their work in the early 1960Ts. Their book,<lb /><lb />44<lb /><lb />in Christianity<lb /><lb />Radical Theology and The Death of God, is a col-<lb />lection of essays that have been written by each<lb />since 1963. It must be said from the outset that<lb />this book is not intended for the casual reader.<lb />Each essay abounds in references to philosophers<lb />and other theologians, each essay is in technical<lb />language, and each essay is aimed at a limited au-<lb />dience. But despite these shortcomings (short-<lb />comings only when viewed by the lay, or non-<lb />theological reader) Altizer and Hamilton have<lb />written a book that should open the eyes of all men<lb />concerned about their destiny and the future of<lb />Christianity. Their book is also one which should<lb />remove many of the misinterpretations and mis-<lb />understandings about the Death-of-God theology.<lb />For instance, many people believe that the radical<lb />theologians are denying the existence not only of<lb />God, but also of Jesus Christ. This fallacy is ex-<lb />ploded by Altizer and Hamilton when they say<lb />oAlthough the death of God may not have been<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0047" />
        <p>historically actualized or realized until the nine-<lb />teenth century, the radical theologian can not dis-<lb />associate this event from Jesus and his original<lb />proclamation.� The radical theologians believe<lb />strongly in Christ; indeed, He is the foundation<lb />for their theology.<lb /><lb />To dismiss Radical Theology and the Death of<lb />God as sensationalism or as the babblings of<lb />extreme left-wing theologians would not only be<lb />unfair, but also idiotic. Altizer and Hamilton have<lb />presented a book that bears deep thinking and<lb />analysis, one which requires an open mind and a<lb />sincere, thorough evaluation of individual beliefs.<lb />No individual with any reasoning ability can af-<lb />ford to shut the door on the thoughts, the insights,<lb />and the provocations that are presented in this<lb />book. And if it does nothing else, it will have<lb />served a great purpose by causing the traditional,<lb />conservative Church to re-evaluate its position in<lb />both theology and in the world.<lb /><lb />"STAFF<lb /><lb />A Case For Conservatives<lb /><lb />The Triumph of Conservatism: A Reinterpretation of Amer-<lb />ican History, 1900-1916. By Gabriel Kolko. New York:<lb />The Free Press of Glencoe, 1963, $7.50, 344 pp. Notes and<lb />index.<lb /><lb />Bernard Kolko fashions a provocative study of<lb />the motive elements that shaped the Progressive<lb />Period of American history. Claiming a startling<lb />reinterpretation of the era between 1900 and 1916,<lb />the author furnishes evidence which he holds<lb />strikes down the otraditional view� of the age.<lb />oBusiness leaders and not the reformers� provided<lb />the primary solutions oto the emerging problems of<lb />an industrial society.� To accomplish this result,<lb />business groups dominated the political process<lb />sufficiently to guarantee that othe basic social and<lb />economic relations essential to a capitalistic so-<lb />ciety� were maintained. The eventual product<lb />was opolitical capitalism� and the underlying<lb />Spirit of the epoch was conservative. As these<lb />years were the water shed of the twentieth cen-<lb />tury, these conservative interests determined the<lb />Shape and attitude of governmental institution<lb />that would guarantee the triumph of conservatism.<lb /><lb />Kolko harms his case in attempting to unravel<lb />the gordian knot of historical causation, with one<lb />twift stroke of an all-embracing theory. By criti-<lb />Cizing the results of the Progressive business reg-<lb />ulating laws as being conservative, he falls victim<lb />to the same error as did contemporary critics in<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />ascribing commanding power and influence to big<lb />business. Kolko paints a dark picture of the pro-<lb />gression impulse by emphasizing the oconspiracy<lb />theory� of history. He sketches a small group of<lb />dedicated men, pulling wires and pushing buttons,<lb />who were able through their immense economic<lb />power to influence the whole society and its gov-<lb />ernment. He neglects to treat the persuasive role<lb />of farmers, labor and middle classes in the legis-<lb />lative accomplishments of the period.<lb /><lb />His claim to originality of interpretation lacks<lb />a firm foundation in the historology of the period.<lb />Arthur S. Link, George Murry, Robert Wiebe,<lb />John W. Blum and others have already presented<lb />indications that the business interest helped to<lb />define the new regularity laws. At the same time,<lb />these earlier authors have been inclined to offer<lb />other causes than strictly economic factors that<lb />contributed to the events of the period. Kolko<lb />performs a positive service in emphasizing that<lb />conservative leaders were capable of answering<lb />the needs of an industrial state, even if partially.<lb />He also indicates that these interests did join<lb />hands with true reformers to accomplish their<lb />separate ends. As in the tracing of the passage<lb />of the Federal Reserve Act, the activities of such<lb />fundamental conservatives as Carter Glass are<lb />delineated. This emphasis is needed as recent<lb />studies have increasingly tried to shape political<lb />leaders of the era into the progressive mould,<lb />whether they fit or not.<lb /><lb />Kolko underlines, if not for the first time, that<lb />the big business community when given the oppor-<lb />tunity to practice lassiez faire and free competi-<lb />tion opted instead for controlled and regulated<lb />markets to reduce the profit absorbing battles<lb />between competitors. Although he overstates his<lb />case he makes a worthwhile contribution by af-<lb />firming in the Progressive era what some suspect<lb />of contemporary events: Business doesnTt always<lb />practice the preachments it gives.<lb /><lb />The work offers evidence of major research and<lb />contains an example of a historian well in control<lb />of his material. KolkoTs style, if not as fetch-<lb />ing as that of Goldman, certainly contributes<lb />pleasurably to the bookTs success. The publisher<lb />has gone to no great expense in either the binding<lb />or by placing the footnotes at the end of the text.<lb />The book is particularly recommended to those<lb />who would search for historical evidence that re-<lb />futes the contention that present governmental<lb />agencies are regulating bureaus and are the result<lb />of infiltration by the agents of international Com-<lb />munism.<lb /><lb />Dr. HENRY C. FERRELL<lb /><lb />45<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0048" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />46<lb /><lb />The Return<lb /><lb />of Jennings<lb /><lb />Randolph Hearst<lb /><lb />Strike from Space, Schefly and Ward, Alton, Ill., Pere Mar-<lb />quette Press. 1965. 216 p.p. $.75.<lb /><lb />There existed in this country a time when sen-<lb />sationalism in writing was considered othe thing.�<lb />Regardless of the consequences to individuals, cor-<lb />porations, or even the country, the object of sen-<lb />sationalism was to get readers for newspapers,<lb />periodicals, and books. It mattered not how you<lb />enticed readers just so long as you did entice them.<lb />One must say, in all fairness, that this time in our<lb />history justified much of the sensational journal-<lb />ism that was present. Many people were shocked<lb />into action to alleviate many of the abuses of<lb />society that journalism had uncovered. But in<lb />many instances, the harm resulting exceeded the<lb />positive accomplishments. This was the age of<lb />Jennings Randolph Hearst.<lb /><lb />The reading public gradually became tired and<lb />disgusted by journalistic sensationalism. The<lb />United States became a more sophisticated nation,<lb />its reading tastes became refined, and the age of<lb />Hearst disappeared. Unfortunately, after reading<lb />Strike from Space one may easily feel that the age<lb />of Hearst has not departed, but has been lying in<lb />ambush waiting for the right moment to reappear.<lb />And Communism, the obogey-man� escape for all<lb />ills, has provided that moment.<lb /><lb />Strike from Space was written by political sci-<lb />entist Phyllis Schlafly and Rear Admiral Chester<lb />Ward, USN (Ret.) and deals with international<lb />affairs directly related to the United States and<lb />the world Communist movement. Its analysis is<lb />extremely conservative, its style is sensational,<lb />and its conclusions are unsupported. It relies on<lb />emotionalism and the manipulation of facts. Its<lb />point of view is steeped in the belief that the Com-<lb />munists, through the liberals, will get us if we<lb />donTt get them first. In short, it presents an argu-<lb />ment that, while very plausible in many places,<lb />turns one against what the book is arguing for.<lb /><lb />This is not to say that Strike from Space does<lb />not present some excellent analysis and observa-<lb />tions. Why was Krushchev ousted? Why has he<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0049" />
        <p>been seen moving freely around the Kremlin? The<lb />State Department answers are entirely too pat at<lb />this point. But Schlafly and Ward ruin their<lb />analysis here (they feel that Krushchev inadvert-<lb />ently revealed parts of a gigantic Russian plan for<lb />world domination and then voluntarily stepped<lb />down as an example of party discipline) by resort-<lb />ing to the use of fear. They attempt to make one<lb />so afraid of the consequences that will ensue if one<lb />doesnTt adhere to their course of action that he<lb />will immediately demand the removal of his Sena-<lb />tor and the impeachment of the President. They<lb />categorically deny the possibility of any other in-<lb />terpretation of the facts. They donTt seem to<lb />realize that the world of international power poli-<lb />tics presents many oanswers� to a question, none<lb />of them the oonly� answer.<lb /><lb />Despite the interesting, and sometimes shrewd,<lb />analyses, the impact of the problem that concerns<lb />all Americans and despite a clear, concise use of<lb />words, Strike from Space, because of its sensa-<lb />tionalism and appeal to emotionalism, should do<lb />the position of the authors more harm than good<lb />among clear-thinking persons.<lb /><lb />RONALD WATSON<lb /><lb />Act Responsibly In Love<lb /><lb />Situation Ethics, The New Morality by Joseph Fletcher.<lb />Philadelphia: The Westminster ress. 1966. 168 pp. $1.95.<lb /><lb />The New Morality, author Joseph Fletcher ac-<lb />knowledges, is not really new; situations ethics is<lb />simply a new name to describe an old practice of<lb />letting the circumstances determine the response.<lb />In modern times the words osituation ethics� often<lb />have the connotations of free or relaxed moral<lb />standards, but this is not the approach that the<lb />author takes.<lb /><lb />Dr. Fletcher, a professor of Social Ethics at<lb />Episcopal Theology School, Cambridge, Massa-<lb />chusetts, sees the situational approach as the only<lb />logical response an intelligent person can make.<lb />But he is careful to point out that his oNew Mor-<lb />ality� is definitely a system or series of laws that<lb />can be written down and amplified in every suit-<lb />able case. Situation ethics is not a system that<lb />works every time; rather it is a method which<lb />helps the responsible person make decisions.<lb /><lb />The basis for these decisions is love. Love is<lb />everything to the situationalist. Realizing the<lb />many different meanings often given to the word<lb />love, Fletcher uses the term agape, the Greek name<lb />for the higher term of love which is unselfish and<lb /><lb />FALL, 1966<lb /><lb />concerned for others. Using scriptural back<lb />ground and also statements by leading theologians,<lb />Fletcher writes in six of his chapters about various<lb />aspects of love and ethics, oLove Only is Always<lb />Good,� oLove is the Only Norm,� oLove and Jus-<lb />tice Are the Same,� oLove is Not Liking,� oLove<lb />Justifies Its Means,� and oLove Decides There and<lb />Then.�<lb /><lb />The two extreme approaches to morality are<lb />the legalistics, in which laws are followed to the<lb />letter, and the antinomian, in which no laws are<lb />followed. Seeing both of these extremes as unde-<lb />sirable, Fletcher proposes that the situational ap-<lb />proach is the only sensible one. He seems to forget<lb />that very few people are strictly legalistic or anti-<lb />nomian, and that there is a lot of middle ground<lb />between the two, especially toward the legalistic<lb />side. He would call those who try to follow moral<lb />laws they believe in (i.e. usually church laws)<lb />illogical because they often act in a predetermined<lb />manner. Laws and conscience to Fletcher are only<lb />relative; he seems to think that everyone is like<lb />himself.<lb /><lb />But everyone is not like Fletcher. Situation<lb />ethics may be all right for those who have the in-<lb />telligence and experience and responsibility to<lb />make decisions in love (This is Christian ethics,<lb />non-Christians following situation ethics would,<lb />hopefully, act in love also. Dr. Fletcher never<lb />draws a clear picture of the non-Christian situa-<lb />tionalist). Many people, though, need to have<lb />clear-cut laws to follow and would not welcome<lb />the thought of living under their own moral codes.<lb />Self-responsibility (and possibly little strict re-<lb />ligious training?) is the prime requirement to any-<lb />one living under situation ethics.<lb /><lb />Another objection to FletcherTs stand on the<lb />New Morality could be owho is right in deciding<lb />what is loving?� What is agape to one person may<lb />be the opposite to another. Situation ethics would<lb />work for a particular individual, but were it ever<lb />adopted as a kind of omoral� system, problems<lb />would arise in determining what actually would<lb />be the more loving way.<lb /><lb />Situation Ethics: The New Morality, if not<lb />changing a personTs moral code, will at least ac-<lb />complish one major purpose: readers of the book<lb />will examine their own reasons for their actions.<lb />All the interesting examples and excellent docu-<lb />mentation make a good case for situation ethics.<lb />Leaders who continue to follow the legalistic side<lb />of morality are challenged to know their reasons<lb />for following this course. Whatever else he does,<lb />Fletcher will at least cause his readers to think.<lb /><lb />PAT WILSON<lb /><lb />47<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0050" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />48<lb /><lb />CONTRIBUTORST NOTES<lb /><lb />This is Mr. Houston Craighead, Jr.Ts first year<lb />of teaching at E.C.C. and his first appearance in<lb />the Rebel. He is from San Antonio, Texas, and<lb />was educated at San Antonio Junior College, the<lb />University of Texas, and Baylor University, where<lb />he received his B.A. and M.A.<lb /><lb />Pamela Joyce Honaker won the first prize of<lb />the RebelTs poetry contest. She is a freshman<lb />English major from Portsmouth, Virginia.<lb /><lb />Brenda Carroll Hines, another freshman Eng-<lb />lish major from Smithfield, N. C. won the second<lb />place in the poetry division.<lb /><lb />A junior English major from Williamston, N.<lb />C., Nancie Allen, won first place in the fiction divi-<lb />sion with her excellent play.<lb /><lb />Pat Wilson, a book review contributor, is a soph-<lb />omore English and Political Science major from<lb />Durham, N. C.<lb /><lb />Guy le Mare, a Gardner, Montana, English ma-<lb />jor is a junior. He is better known as oSmoky<lb />the BearTT.<lb /><lb />Dr. Ferrell is one of the more outstanding mem-<lb />bers of the History Department. This is his first<lb />contribution to the Rebel.<lb /><lb />Hank Townsend, a Political Science major from<lb />Arlington, Virginia, is the staff photographer and<lb />a senior.<lb /><lb />Ronald Watson, the Esteemed Editor, is a Polit-<lb />ical Science and English major from Greenville.<lb />He is a senior.<lb /><lb />Worth Kitson is an ECC extension student from<lb />Kinston.<lb /><lb />Julia Coble, first prize winner in the art division,<lb />is a junior art major from Fayetteville.<lb /><lb />Graham Rouse of Havelock, who photographed<lb />the inside front cover, is now a senior psychology<lb />major at ECC. Rouse is a transfer student from<lb />N. C. State School of Design.<lb /><lb />All of the above, with the exception of the editor,<lb />are first contributors to the Rebel. The staff sin-<lb />cerely hopes that they, and others, will continue to<lb />contribute such outstanding work to the magazine.<lb /><lb />THE REBEL<lb /><lb /></p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0051" />
        <p>
          <lb />
        </p>
        <pb facs="00062568_0052" />
        <p>
          <lb />
          <lb />THE EAST CAROLINIAN<lb /><lb />since 1925<lb />othe student's voice�T<lb />winner of the<lb />Columbia Scholastic Press Association<lb /><lb />Medalist Certificate<lb /><lb />the Student Newspaper published twice-weekly<lb />at East Carolina College<lb /><lb />Business Manoger<lb />Richard Daves<lb /><lb /></p>
      </div>
    </body>
  </text>
</TEI>