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EO EE ES EE:-prorrisEditor John R. ReynoldsArt Director Sid MorrisBusiness Director Preston PipkinAssociate Editors John Fulton, Rod KetnerCopy Editor Franceine PerryPoetry Editor Charles GriffinReviews Editor Robert McDowellPhotography Editor Walter QuadeAdvertising Director Grey UpchurchExchange and Subscriptions Director Patience CollieTypist and Correspondence Director Catherine NorfleetPublicity Director John ShermangriffinStaff: Pat Arnold, Margret Gorrell, StephenHarrison, Stephen Hubbard, Keith Parrish, BillSuk. The Rebel is a student publication of EastCarolina University. Offices are located on thecampus at 215 Wright Annex. Inquiries andcontributions should be directed to P.O. Box2486, East Carolina University Station,Greenville, North Carolina 27834. Copyright1969, The Rebel. None of the materials hereincan be used or reproduced in any mannerwhatsoever without written permission.Subscription per year, $6.00.

Untitledletters to the editoreditorialdoris bettsif i know yousilenceflowers bloomedphoto-essayjohn jr. is a jewcatching saradovetar river poetsthe dillinger dayspaul paul and more paulthe snow is muddyoh, yeahto h.b.octoberon the summer's pierlove, song of the seasonseastern north carolinaarts festival winnersphotographyart and designcoverpertalion5 claire pittman7Sr9 jrr, sh, wa15 lynn quisenberry16 claire pittman16 claire pittman18 walter quade25 albert pertalion28 stephen hubbard28 eileen barnum30 robert mcdowell33 robert mcdowell34 joseph harrison goodwin35 archie gastor36 eileen barnum36 eileen barnum37 rush rankin38 charles griffin4]walter quadesid morrissid morris, walter quadeEditorTs Note:| have worked on seven issues of The Rebel, beginningback in the fall of 1967, and this is my last one. It isa very rare thing in life when one person is allowedwithin such a short period of time to count as hisfriends so many wonderful people. | would like to takethis small space to thank all the members of the stafffor all their toil, and their patience, and, especially,their friendship.Lastly, | would like to dedicate this book to one veryspecial friend " ~my heart moved only by you.Ts1ieu

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Dear Editors:How nice it would be if every North Carolina state legislator could be furnished with copies of the WinterREBEL! Your interview with Paul Green, one of our most distinguished humanists, and Attorney GeneralMorgan shed optimistic light on the cause of the abolishment of capital punishment in our state. It doesappear that this dire need of legislative reform might be effected before liquor by the drink!; C. JohnsonTo the Editor:Having just read your Winter issue on capital punishment, I would like to give a quote some twenty-five hundred years old upon the subject of punishment. So, from PlatoTs Protagoras, oNo one punishes theevildoer under the notion, or for the reason, that he has done wrong"only the unreasonable fury of a beastis so vindictive. But he who desires to inflict rational punishment does not punish for the sake of a pastwrong which cannot be undone; he has regard to the future and is desirous that the man who is punished,and he who sees him punished, may be deterred from doing wrong again.�(name withheld)Dear Chip: .I have had time now to examine The Rebel, which I picked up in Raleigh yesterday. I must tell youthat in my college days at the University of South Carolina, I was editor of The Gamecock (the weekly) ,The Carolinian (the monthly) and The Garnet and Black (the annual) .Your magazine made me feel so ashamed of my puny efforts in the college literary field.You really have a dynamic publication of which to be proud.I have made arrangements for a copy to get in the hands of every member of the House and Senateof North Carolina as well as certain State Officials. I am sure that such a well designed and conceived maga-zine as The Rebel will have a significant impact.Again, congratulations on your issue.Marion A. Wright, President, North Carolinians Against The Death PenaltyLettersto theEditor

eeePositive moments are rare. But, on a day like today, it is a good time for writing editorials. To-day is the first day that the Crab Apple trees bloomed in pink, beautiful blossoms on campus. (Thiseditorial is mostly for the people who have taken the time to notice those trees, in front of Rawl andNew Austin Buildings) on days like today.The Rebel office is right across the street from Raw] and you can see the trees from the windows.This whole issue of The Rebel is about those trees. Those trees represent springtime. But, theyrepresent much more to the people who take the time to notice them. Springtime is a time that seemsto say, othere is much goodness in life, in living.T The same day that the trees bloomed was also theday following a bombscare in Rawl. It was the day following the day that four black students werearrested in the cafeteria for disturbing, ~the normal operations of the university.T It was the day follow-ing a night of unrest among black students and white students. It was two days following an addressby President Jenkins outlining what steps had been taken to meet the black demands on campus. Thewhole point is"which of these events was more important.In a time when young people, especially, seem to be absorbed in the issues and realities of the warin Vietnam, or racial confrontation and crisis; when the mass media seems to dwell on these subjects, itseems that some outside force is at work to deprive youth of the pleasures of being young, of noticing aCrab Apple tree in bloom, and letting that event be the major event of the day.What we have failed to realize is that perhaps more attention to these beautiful things in life couldlead us to a deeper appreciation of what it is to be human, could give us a better method of dealingwith each other. To put it simply, perhaps the lesson of life is learning to appreciate it.In the past issues of The Rebel we have dealt with the problems of the poor in GreenvilleTs slums.We have dealt with the problems of the war in Vietnam, and the draft. It the last issue, we dealt withcapital punishment in North Carolina. In this issue, we would like to deal with spring time. All theseissues and problems of our time have their place of importance, but so does the enjoyment of spring.What we have tried to do with this Rebel is provide a release, relief, escape from the constantbombardment of our minds and souls by the mass media with the gruesome realities of our time. Wehave tried to produce something similar to a spring day. Perhaps, somewhere between these pages, wehave caught a glimpse of it.

doris bettsDoris Betts is an outstanding Carolinian,teacher, author and critic.She is the author of Tall House in Winter,winner of the 1957 Sir Walter Raleigh awardfor best fiction; and The Scarlet Thread, SirWalter Raleigh award for best fiction, 1965.She declares that she is not a novelist, how-ever, but a short story writer. Among hercollection of short stories are The Gentle In-surrection and The Astronomer and OtherStories. In addition, she has contributed tovarious anthologies and magazines.

H OW do you do these interviews? Do youjust talk a long time and then take whateversuits you? | donTt want to panic you. | knowyou've got to get back to Greenville.Well, we edit them... .ThereTs a good interview with Sylvia Wil-kinson and one with Terry Sanford. In fact,thatTs the first thing | read in The Rebel.The interviews have been the trademarkof The Rebel for a long time.Its the closet thing we have to the ParisReview interviews, in the Southeast, certainly.Not many magazines do it, anyway.You worked on The Record and Landmark,a daily newspaper in the early 1950Ts inStatesville, N. C., didnTt you?Yes. ITm from Statesville... it was such aliberal paper then, a real crusader. | donTtknow whatTs gotten into Jay Huskins lately.It sounds like Jesse Helms .. . Yes, | workedwith the newspaper then. | also have workedwith the Chapel Hill Daily and the Sanfordpaper. | still do some reviewing.Do you think a newspaper career is a goodavenue for writers?No. | donTt think so. When you have beenwriting all day for a newspaper, worrying a-bout periods and commas, you are not goingto go home and write. Now, its all right ifyou work for a newspaper and then take ayear off to do your writing"that works. Youdo get an interesting life out of a newspapercareer. Exciting things happen.| | HAT are your hobbies? What do you dofor relaxation, to get away from writing?Well my latest thing is a Honda, that ITmtrying to learn how to ride. | havenTt learnedhow yet, but | am getting there. Have youever pushed a Honda three blocks up a hillto your house because you couldnTt get itstarted? . . . And then, Chapel Hill has beena great release for me. | teach classes there10twice a week. For five years | lived down herein Sanford thinking | was a Jane Austen orsomebody. And | wasnTt. You know its goodto be with young people. They are alwaysbringing you books or getting you involved inthings. Most young people | know are by farmore intelligent than adults. Also, | have myduties here around the house, three children,two teenage girls and a boy who will be ninethis month. You know, | have the chores ofwashing the dishes and cleaning the houseand fixing supper. And then when | go up toChapel Hill, along about Pittsboro it seemsthat one door closes and anther opens. Awhole new kind of experience. And it resultsin a kind of schizophrenia. Is Bertha Harristeaching a creative writing class at E.C.U.?No. SheTs teaching some general courses.What did you think about Bertha HarrisT book,Catching Saradove?| reviewed it for the News and Observer,and what was so surprising was they tookout my critical remarks. | had reviewed thebook favorably. But they took out my critic-isms. | have never had an editor do that be-fore and | really donTt know why he did. |enjoyed the book, the parts about NorthCarolina were especially good.H AVE you got any new things on thedrawing board?ITve been working on a novel so long itTsembarrassing to mention it anymore, eitherin public or to my editor. Yes, ITve got a novel,and since September ITve done about tenshort stories. ThereTs something about teach-ing thatTs very exciting for a writer. Or, |find it so. ThatTs the reason why | asked whatBertha Harris was doing at school, somehow| thought she would be teaching some writ-ing classes. Maybe after three or four yearsof teaching it would get to be oppressive andtiring and use up. .. . But, in answering yourquestion, | have written ten short storiessince September, which for me, anyway, thatis a lot of production. And they are out, twoor three have been taken. ITd rather write

short stories and never have to write anothernovel.Who was the composer who worked abouteight years on his first symphony? Maybe itsgoing to be your best....No, | donTt think so.The Scarlet Thread? Better than The Scar-let Thread?Well, that wouldnTt be saying much. | donTtthink ITm a novelist. And, | donTt... ITvenever written a decent chapter, to say nothingof a decent novel. And, | would never foolwith them if publishers didnTt insist.| enjoyed The Scarlet Thread. Maybe it wasbecause...It was a bad book.Maybe it was because | related it to...Statesville.Statesville.Yes, well | did too. ThatTs the only excuse. . . Well, | really think thereTs somethingentirely different from short story writers andnovelists. Some day, some foundation is go-ing to do a study and they are going to findpeople who are good at short stories have a.certain kind of metabolism; and they moveat a certain rate; and they digest food at acertain rate; and their thyroid is thus andsuch and, novelists are some other breed ofcat entirely. Very few people are good at both.They are usually one-sided. The good shortstory writer is not the same as the goodnovelist. And, of the two skills, | would liketo be a good short story writer.Do you think everyone has a book in them,if they are a writer? At least one book?It may be a novel. | have two students rightnow who are working on novels. And, | have afeeling that if you have a novel in you as ayoung writer, itTs always shaped. It has anorganic form, and all the teacher can do Isstand out of the studentTs light a little bitand hope that he will get it out in the shapehis life has made of it thus far. The secondnovel, one reason | think that it is so muchharder, is because he is not drawing on thatenergy and well spring that has accumulated.Now, he is beginning to do it consciously.baAnd, thatTs a disadvantage in a way. ItTs aharder hurdle.But, | think itTs unfortunate that most ofour creative writing classes have to be theshort story form, because | think there arefewer people who are good at short stories.And, young writers, particularly, | think, havea certain contempt for the tight disciplinewhich really a good short story requires. And,ITm not sure that a beginning writer ought tostart with tight discipline. He ought to startwith hanging just as loose as he can hang.You say that the short story is a secondaryform? In other words the novel is preferred?No. Well, the novel is more popular inAmerica. | think the short story is much har-der to write, requires a great deal more skill,and never has as much popularity. It is nomore than people who prefer a string quartetto symphonies. There is a difference in sizeand scope, that makes one more appealingthan the other.HY is it that you feel that the short storyis more difficult than the novel?ThatTs not just my opinion. That is a gen-eral opinion. Faulkner said this, that he firstwanted to write poetry because thatTs thehardest and then short stories and then anovel. Because in the novel you can be care-less, youTve got so much space to work with.So much time.So much time, scope. . . . Size alone willcarry your mistakes. And, in the short storythey just show up terribly. . . . TheyTre justglaring. And, | think Frank OTConnor said thathe thought many novelists had been inferiorwriters, but few short story writers. And noneof them had lacked a sense of theater. So, |think the short story is much closer to poetry.Both have to be very distilled, very compact. .And, much closer to the play . . . where whatis significant is what you leave out. So, thatwhat is left tells it all. And, | think itTs muchharder to leave out than to put in. Nobodylikes leaving out. ThatTs no fun. You feel youare leaving out the adjectives that you didthe best, and that you loved rolling on yourtongue. So, it does require more discipline.And, |Tm not at all sure thatTs what youngwriters ought to be doing in college classes.Although, the writers of the sixties are sortof soured on discipline anyway.| can think of any number of very fineshort story writers who have begun to turnthe form upside down and inside out. And,thatTs all to the good. Because the troublewith the disciplined form is something likethe sonnet"you always run the risk itTs goingto freeze in place and die. ItTs not so hard tolearn some kind of story form. But, then Ifyou freeze it and it loses vitality itTs just anartificial, hot-house flower kind of thing.Who do you think are the best short storywriters, right now?ThatTs a mean question . . . Well, amongthe women . . . Eudora Welty, a southerner;Katherine Anne Porter, Tilley Olsen. ITm try-ing to think of some of the late ones whomITve read... | think Max Steele is a fine shortstory writer. He teaches at Carolina.| think the best short story writer and theone everybody ought to read if they want towrite short stories is still Chekhov. Becausewe all forget how much he did at the first ofthe century. Everybody thinks present tenseis brand new, you know, but he did manystories in the present tense. He is the one youcan read the longest with the most profit.And, his economy fascinates me.His letters are really...Yes. ThatTs wonderful advice for writers... in those letters. . . . He had that kind oftemperament. He started to say, the olderhe got the more he wrote. The more it seem-ed to him nothing was sufficiently short.ThatTs the short story writerTs problem. Toknow how much you can leave out, and stillhave your cup run over in some fashion. Stillhave that luminous quality.| still think . . . | feel like Faulkner, if onewere really gifted one would write poetry,next to that short stories. Then if you havelarge, expansive personality and material, thenovel.

| | HAT about ChekhovTs statement that itshould be just like the thing itself, if peopleare sitting at a table having a meal, it shouldbe just like that. But, it should somehow say(and thatTs the problem) it should somehowsay that these peoplesT lives are being tornup.You pick the one moment that, that distillseverything thatTs worth saying about thesepeople, or seems to be. :It seems to be a more realistic, or moreaccurate description of life than... than likeyou can find in James, or...Welt ukN OBODY likes to say anything bad aboutJames because he is like God.Oh, | do. | think heTs a terrible bore. Jameshas gone out of style. Edith Wharton has goneout of style. Because they worked on thatrealistic level, supposedly. And that linearlevel. And, in a way, | think whatTs happenedis that the poem and short story have gottenmuch more alike. They are dealing more inimages and quick associations. You donTtneed all that junk. You donTt need to get himup early in the morning and take him throughall this process. .. . Henry James, now thereis an example. When Henry James wroteshort stories they had all the grace of a wetcotton bale . . . big, bulky, endless things.The novels are another matter. You can enjoythe fact that he gets discursive for its ownsake. But, in the short stories you couldnTtput up with it. And, he never did learn thathe couldn't run his mouth that way. Not inthe short stories.You think his plays are about the sameway? The plays seem to be...| better not get on to sounding like an ex-pert on Henry James, because that wouldsound like | read him a great deal, you know,for my own edification. And, | read him aslittle as possible, except for the prefaces tothe novels. Now, he had a lot of good thingsto say about writing. Also, | donTt think thereader today is as patient with that sort ofthing. Maybe itTs what McLuhan says-"thatwe are really not patient with the left to right,and the whole slow build-up when we havebeen accustomed to getting things pictured,and all their associations right there .. .which ought to mean the short story is goingto come into its own. But, | have no faith inthat.What do you think about McLuhanT s TheMedium is the Massage?It just knocked me out when | read i And. well, | thought at first that he was kindof spitting in my temple. HeTs saying, youknow, all the time weTre spending learningto do this, and learning to do it better...You donTt realize that you are a monk stillworking on that illuminated manuscript, andmeantime GutenbergTs got the printing| presscoming over here. And, you donTt realize it,but you are sliding down, becoming obsolete.So, | resented that, bitterly. But his) argu-ments were so good, | had no very} goodanswers for them. . . . | hope heTs wrong.Especially when he confronts you with thesimple thing"the simple little box called theTV, that you had never really paid that: muchattention to, because you were oriented to-ward a different medium. And, then he tellsyou that is the major fact, that is the majorconditioning element.That is the nervous system now of theglobal village, so he says .. . | do think fromlistening to students that many more stu-dents are turned on creatively toward filmnow, than they are toward writing of any kind.Or, that if you have a student and heTs goodat writing, maybe heTs not good with the me-chanics of writing, but he has whatever thatX-quality is, that shows that he looks at thingsdifferently, and sees all their implications,one time, in the synthesis, heTs apt to be tak-ing film also, and gravitating toward film, |think. | think if | were in college now, andwanted to be creative, | would certainly havea fling with film. . . . Do you have much of afilm department?None at all. ItTs really pitiful.That does seem to me where itTs really atnow. :I. a terribly interesting field. And, there ©Is just so much you can do. Visual communi-cation has just really gone out of sight.And it is something that you can now teachfor more than making a living, which used tobe the way you taught it. You know, you aregoing into TV, or into filming. You can teachit as you do art or music, for a creative kindof joy.You think the writer and the typewriter ison the way out and the filmmaker and thefilm editor is on the way in?| donTt know. In my bleak moments, yes,| think so... . | donTt know. | think perhapswriting and reading will go back to beingwhat it used to be. Something that belongsto a smaller segment of the population, andgoodness knows it doesnTt belong to a verylarge part now. Still, considering mass edu-cation, thereTs still a very small number ofpeople in this country who buy books, andread books. | sometimes think there are morepeople who want to be writers than there arewho want to be readers.| | HAT do you think about the new genera-tion, these people who will be the writers oftomorrow?Well, from watching students at Carolina,which is the closest end of the funnel that |have to look through, | think they are veryimpatient with nearly all the old things. Whichis great. ThatTs healthy, thatTs good. Thethemes of many... well, | will back up andtell you this. Max Steele teaches with me, too.He is in New York this week, as a matter offact. He is giving a speech to a psychologistTsgroup. And it came about because he made atalk at an alumni luncheon, and the speechwas picked up and appeared in the book sec-tion of the New York Times. It had to do withthe fact that students nowadays are writing12about how alienated they are. And, that youare standing up there all the time saying whatfiction is about, it is relation of person to per-son. And the students are saying, you arealways saying write out of my experience andthatTs not what my experience is. My expe-rience has to do more with isolation. So youjust hush up and let me write what ITm writ-ing.What Steele is going to do is give the plotsof two or three stories that he has recentlyseen. Let me tell you one of them, because| think they have more to say about writingnowadays than any principle would do. Oneof them, for instance, is about a soldier boywhoTs standing outside a telephone booth,and thereTs a sergeant inside making a call.And, itTs pouring down rain. And, the onlyother telephone booth is two miles away. HeTsbeen out there now for fifteen or twenty min-utes, and every now and then he taps on theglass door to see if he can get in. And, thesergeant waves at him and goes on talking.What he wants to get in for is heTs beingshipped out to Vietnam and he wants to callhome and tell his family that heTs going. Thisgoes on and on; the rain comes down, and hekeeps tapping on the glass. And the sergeantdoesnTt let him. HeTs been out there maybean hour, two hours, wet to the skin. Finally,the sergeant opens the door of the booth,reaches behind him to the receiver and yanksit out of the wall, the wire out. Then, he stepsout and hands it to the soldier, and goesaway. And, the soldier of course is totally dis-connected from what he can hear, but hecomes in and dials the number and then be-gins to give his message, without knowinghow it is received, or how anybody will react.And, thatTs the end of the story. ItTs a storyof non-communication, or one way communi-cation, or isolation. Lots of students are usingthe telephone. And, | think thatTs a real mod-ern symbol for something.And what you say about these stories is,well whatTs the plot, whatTs the motivation,whatTs the build up. And the thing is, you justcanTt say some of the same things. .. . Thesestories have something to say. They seem tosay something terrifically about life.

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SilenceFlowers bloomed sweetly and strangely in EdenAnd softly fell fruit to the ground;A man and a woman walked slowly, talked lowly,Now there is not a sound."Claire PittmanThere are signs on AprilSaying, ~~Do Not Enter,�TSpring is a one-way streetAnd there is dangerFor an old man aloneWho cannot see the way."Claire Pittman16

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WED GPy{4> /When the Newmans moved into our neighbor-hood, they settled in my great-aunt EmmaTssprawling old green frame house on the corner of "Sabine Street and Huron Avenue. The house nolonger belonged to Memmy"as I called my great-aunt; she had sold it years before I was born, but |it was still called Emma CrawfordTs place. Whenthe Newmans moved in, I was going on nine, nowITm ten.The Newmans were Old John Newman, who rana credit clothing store across the street from thetrain station; Ester Newman, Old JohnTs wife; JohnJunior, their fat little boy who was little becauseI was a year older than he was; and their nannygoat that they kept tied in their back yard be-cause Old John had to have goatTs milk for hishealth. Ester and Old John had two older sons,but they no longer counted because they were mar-ried and gone.

|||||HEN the Newmans moved into MemmyTshouse, they transferred their letter to our church,Superior Avenue Baptist. The old people in thechurch were always talking about how Old Johnwas still a Jew, but he joined the Baptist Churchbecause it was good for his business. After all thekids heard this we would sometimes go over to thecorner of Sabine and Huron when there wasnTt any-thing else to do on a Saturday and call JohnJunior a Jew.oJohn JuniorTs a Jew. John JuniorTs a Jew.TEveryone would sing-song sort of silly. John Juniorwould get mad and say that he wasnTt a Jew.oTTm a Syrian; thatTs a lot better than a Jew,�he would say.One day my mother heard of this and called meinside.oFoster McTaggart, I donTt want you to callJohn Junior a Jew, do you hear?�oWhy, Mother?�oDo you know what a Jew is?�oNo.�oThatTs what I thought. Foster (Mother usedher talking-to tone of voice.), a Jew is someonewho believes in Judaism. ThereTs nothing wrongwith that, but all you children are calling JohnJunior a Jew because you think itTs something bad.He knows that and it hurts his feelings. Besides,the Newmans arenTt Jews anyway; theyTre Baptistsjust like we are. Now promise me you wonTt saythat anymore.�No sound.oDo you hear me, Foster?�oGol-lee, Mother.�Well. toAll right, I promise.�9HAT did it. I couldnTt call John Junior a Jewany more. I could never intentionally break a pro-mise to my mother. The few times when I had goneagainst my word, mother had always cried. ShewouldnTt punish me; she just cried, and sometimessheTd ask herself, ooWhere have I failed?� I couldnTttake my motherTs crying.oBesides,� I thought, owhat good is it callingJohn Junior a Jew if it was just some religiousname?�One day not too long after the Judaism talkingto, we were all sitting around on my porch not26doing much of anything when Tooty Gibbonswalked up and announced that he knew somethingabout John Junior that we didnTt know. Tootywas about a year younger than everyone else andhe was always bringing up some secret he knewso he could tell us and be in the group"at leastfor as long as the secret was new. :oWhat?� someone asked.oJohn Junior doesnTt wear regular shorts.�oWhatchewmean?�oHe doesnTt wear regular underwear like we do.�Regular underwear was white boxer shorts thatwe all wore so we could use them for swimmingif we forgot our trunks when we went to the gravelpit. I thought only Catholics wore those jockeyshorts.oHow do you know?�66Y brother figured it out. Old John andEster havenTt got any daughters and the onlymenTs underwear that they ever have drying ontheir line are Old JohnTs one-piece union suits. Mybrother says Old John probably makes John Juniorwear the rotten old girlsT britches that he canTtsell in his store.�Everyone stared at each other, and then we toreoff to look at the wash behind John JuniorTs house.Sure enough, there were the large one-piece unionsuits; some large womanTs stepins; and some smal-ler girlTs step-ins hanging among the sheets andtowels of EsterTs laundry.This was unbelievable. But it must be true; theywere hanging right there.oT still donTt believe it,� I said.oWhat dT you mean, Foster? You see them hang-ing there?� Popsey Lively said. Popsey was theoldest member of the gang and the leader. Thestep-ins hanging on the line were all the proof heneeded. He began to make plans to get JohnJunior.oOn the way to school tomorrow, weTll take histrousers off and settle it for sure,� Popsey said.The next morning everyone was hiding in Mr.WhiteTs garage by 7:15. School started at 8:00 andPopsey had insisted that we should be hidden inplenty of time to catch John Junior when he cameby. John Junior walked to school by the alley thatran behind Huron Avenue, and Mr. WhiteTs garagedoors opened onto the alley, making it a perfectspot for an ambush; PopseyTs mind had hit on theidea almost at once.The victim came by about 7:30; and after the

excited, giggling, snickering wait, everyone burstout of the garage and surrounded John Junior be-fore he could run.oWhat dT you want?� John Junior asked aroundthe circle.oDonTt be afraid, John Junior,� Popsey steppedforward. oWe only want to see what kind of under-wear youre wearing.�My part of the circle was close to Popsey, so Thad a good look at John JuniorTs face. It turnedwhite as a fish belly when he heard PopseyTswords, and the body connected to that face grewstiff as a poker. The circle closed in and knockedJohn Junior over. Popsey loosened his belt andfly and pulled down the grey poplin trousers. JohnJunior rolled over, hiding his face; he was crying.We could hear him sobbing.Everyone started grabbing for books and run-ning away toward school. In the frenzy of the get-away, I ran too, staying with the group for aboutfifty yards. Then for some reason I canTt remem-ber, maybe because John Junior was crying so, Idid something the gang never forgave me for do-ing. I stopped running and walked back to whereJohn Junior was lying in the alley.He had pulled his trousers up, but his face wasstill hidden and I could hear sniff-sniffing comingfrom under his arms where his head was buried.ONTT cry, John Junior, donTt cry. Every-thing will be all right. Tell your mother to get yousome white underwear, then you'll be like every-one else.� After I said that, John Junior turnedand looked at me for the longest kind of time.Then he got up and headed toward school. HedidnTt take the short cut through the alley theway we all went, but walked over to SuperiorAvenue which took him to school the long way.Jby al pertalionnJr.isaQ7

EricsorensenCatching Saradove, by Bertha Harris, (Harcourt,Brace & World, Inc., 1969, 240 pp., $4.95.)Saradove Racepath loves, runs, dreams, feels,cries for herself in Miss HarrisT first oextraord-inary� work. The author combines unique abilitywith ungraceful flare suitable for the adolescentto marvel with beneath bed linen and behind theeyes of-the American married couple.Saradove in the beginning of the book is themother. Suddenly, she is the adolescent in sunnyNorth Carolina. Moments later, she is with herradical demonstrator, and then with her femalelovers. Last, she begins life again in the worldwhere the young try to become older.The name Saradove remains a part of the fan-tasy creation of the author. The white wings ofSaradoveTs flight, however, get soiled in the courseof the book. She becomes Saradove for love toescape the loveless state of her parents, Olympiaand Duncan, and her dreamland spreads quicklyto all of her world where she learns to love her ownkind of people. And Saradove begins her manyescapades and loves all within her dreamland asthe reader becomes entranced with Saradove, themindbender.In Saradove, Miss Harris masters the art ofconversation. The dry sentences of Hemingway aregone. JoyceTs flavored gems are improved. Herdialogue is like the tape-recorder conversations ofmodern novelists. The characters ~are real evenwithin the realm of fantasy. One weakness is thatthe book lags at times and the reader lags with it.Some parts are easily put aside. Still, however,there remains the $4.95 work of art for people tobuy and wonder at."Steve Hubbard28capps gritt inTar River Poets, (Rayford Printing Company,1969, 30 pp., $1.00.)DonTt call this a review. Call it a letter, or ojustwords.� I donTt believe in that demi-god, demi-savage known as the critic. He spends too muchtime enjoying the exercise of his omnipotence. Atany rate, I am not a critic. I donTt believe in goodand bad. I donTt think anyone can really be objec-tive about poetry, no matter how hard he pretends,and I choose not to pretend .. . the point being,read this book and write your own words aboutit, as I am talking to you, as I am talking to threepoets who have talked to me. All I can tell you iswhat I have heard them say.Frederick Sorenson talks about war and peace,about the seasons, the Civil War, and life on theTar River. His poem oFarmerTs Warehouse� wellexemplifies the style of life in a town where to-bacco is mayor, treasurer, and sometimes, God.Romanticism trickles through the lines of hispoetry, with a use of simple words and free versewhich are continued in the works of the other twocontributors.An exception is in the poetry of Richard Capps,where his use of rhyme throws an extra barb intothe sarcasm of his words. Capps speaks out againsta lot of institutions, such as too many sidewalks,pseudo-archaeological expeditionists, and funda-mentalist Christian doctrine. After having readoThe Word� in the East Carolinian, I was par-ticularly pleased to find someone willing to speakout who took more of a Nietzchian view of religion.CappsT oObservations in a Business Office� couldserve as a prophecy for the majority of male grad-uates from E.C.U. this spring, given another tenor twenty years. His poem oBetween� is worth

remembering. It is the epitaph of his businessman: o ~BornT and ~DiedT and ~Now here liesT with nothingin between.� If a man can hold onto words like this, they will keep him from falling into such an event-less life and nameless death.The section of Charles GriffinTs poetry begins with oAre You a Ninety-Seven Pound Weakling.�After reading this poem, one begins to wonder whose side of the fence Griffin is on, if anybodyTs. Thefinal irony of GriffinTs irony is that his meaning gets lost in the act. What he is saying in oA MarriedManTs Opinion� is the truth, as anyone knows who has seen GriffinTs beautiful baby girl. In oThe StormTrooper,� Griffin gives a pointed example of how environment can have devastating effects upon anindividualTs outlook. One powerful description of young men today is in oFor a Fretful Rebel: ~CannonFodder.T � Every time one sees a troop of green boot-camp recruits in file, those lines are apt to cometo mind.I think this book could have borne a title more appropriate than oTar River Poets.� At least inthe case of Charles Griffin, the experiences related encompass life far outside the realm of eastern NorthCarolina. The major flaw I find in this book is that most of the poetry is not exciting. The poetry wouldmake good prose, but it is an inherent quality of poetry to be a mode of expression which transcendsthe prosaic. Some of the poems represented here would have to do a little transcending before they couldbe considered as such. However, this book ought to command attention merely because of the series itrepresents"an attempt to foster an air of intellectualism on the E.C.U. campus. When the campusblooms intellectually, so will the books published in the East Carolina Poetry Forum Series."KEileen Barnumreviews29

version of Bonnie and Clyde gave to the outlaof the thirties.The Dillinger Days chronicles the violence of| the thirties with sufficient detail to overwhelm = :| the reader with the ena s eee 6f one law enforcement agency.HooverTs refinements in the field of. scientificee Oey are to be commended, but his at-> HooverTs rep-a _erimebuster was made in this era.ok oe ave: been written at ae quar Indeed,might have. Tolandcipal characters of the soirees. Sec eas ; )ogangsters� themselves are no longer alive to tell i se ee Matt Leach"not a member oftheir story. the FBI, but @n affiliate law officer. Hoover usedIn The Dillinger Qays, Toland" att mpt : = == this hyperbolic technique in describing most of theoPublic Erfemies� from Alvin Karpis to EldridgeCleaver.Tft-you create a public enemy: of colossal dangerSeteand sophomoric i in hischological motivations.TolandTsinterest jwhichR:» you! pian an accom-ot heroie fropottions and an q.aosainseieSe

So _aRae SRE EESe ihiieasAas:eaSie

aul paul and more paul& clip-clop the magic muleapostate paul world-travellermender of miles"and soulsregular contributor to the corinthian book-clubnobody remembers how he diedbut you canTt live without him"Robert McDowell33

i! The snow is muddy,The heavy ice from the pine branchesshatters on the ground...Spring is near.5The pine cone floats on the lake:Washed ashore andWashed out...Washed ashore andWashed out...11The sun burns down on the lonely beach;Giant waves alone break the silence "| am the Sand."Joseph Harrison Goodwin

Oh, yeah.LifeTs a mystic woman,And ail your thoughts are bare.You're just another moment,Oh, yeah,Why should she care?Oh, yeah,why should she care?sheTs seen everything,Been everywhere.Oh, yeah.Why should she care?You starve the light of new tomorrows,To dodge more heartbreak so you say.Your flowers all turned black from sorrow,You spread your wings and fly away.| could tell her you wear flowers in your hair.| could say you wear shoes of solid gold| could tell her you expect her to be fair,and that you speak not to the ear, but to the soul.""Archie Gastor

omi |ieiqiii |1aiii]i]ifaEd1||ityrt|7% H.B. sTime has stoppedAt twelveBeneath its chiming bladeMy ogresT blood-reekingBreath draws meInto their more-empty-than-loneliness hunger,Vacuous, insatiable;While you,Planter of crimsonFlowers that grow only,Are not near enoughOr strong enough,Being only human| doubt,Deeply,Whether life is worthDying for ". ."Eileen BarnumOctoberMaim virgin beautywith ten thousand blackgashes and blood10:00 comes tomorrow...Pierce tender gypsy earsNovember bringsa silver tambourine...Pawn the heavy fleshfor angelsT wingswith a two-week guarantee.| want to taste you nakedMeltInto your flaming soul;MoldMy iiquid with your firm handsGentlyWhisper the breath of loveLips pressed to mine,Fill meWith your strength that | may facelifeTs subtler atrocities.oe "Eileen Barnum _/

on the summerTs pierpoked in the ocean's eyewe cuddle.in-the cheekof dawn each day.Waiting: for striped troutto-strike our linesand when she strokesmy chest and asks meif | still love her| tell her each dawnthat yes | doeven when | don'tperhaps the tenuous threadof some diurnal fearkeeps her hanging on_ . like a delirious fishthat struggleson a barbed hookto stay hungand | keep reelinggently, gently"Rush Rankin

Love, Song of the Seasorn the land is growing stronglove is the kind of thingyou and your wife can holdy carefully in your armse she sleeps her dreamless sleeyou know the hold of fresheyes and the tender tenaciousthe long morning hours without :the agony and the pleasureeeing your love made manifestne small sleeping smile.Charles GriffinBERR AY PONSA ELT LNG HINT BATTS FOUN RN ARETE

ects

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