■ IMORRY‘S DELI(IN THE UNIVERSITY BOOKSTORE)IS NOW SERVING HAND-SCOOPEDJUMBO SCOOP 47*2V2 JUMBO SCOOPS 93*All ice cream served with whipped cream, cherry and a cookie!The best buy in town on our own special blend of ice cream.ENTER MORRY‘S“BEST CHOCOLATE COOKIE ON CAMPUS”RECIPE CONTEST & WIN S20000!!Morry’s is determined to sell the best cookies on cam¬pus. (And, for that matter, in the City of Chicago.)That’s why we need your help. We’re looking for thebest cookie recipe we can find, so we can either bakeour own cookies, or set you up in your own businessbaking cookies for all the Morry’s Deli’s.If you think you’re the best cookie chef on campus,here’s your chance to prove it and win $200.00!! MORRY’S COOKIE CONTEST!Bring to Morry’s Campus Deli byMarch 18 to enter!NameAddressPhonaBRING IN THE ENTRY BLANK BY MARCH 18 TO ENTER. AND WATCH THE FRIDAY,APRIL 1 ISSUE OF THE MAROON FOR THE TIME & PLACE OF THE JUDGING. EN¬TRIES WILL BE JUDGED ON THE BASIS OF1. TASTE 2. EASY AVAILABILITY OF INGREDIENTS 3. AMOUNT OF PREPARATIONFrom all of us to all of you... We’d like to take this opportunity to thankall the students, faculty & administrators who made this year a greatsuccess for Morry’s.Chubby ChuSmiling JackIrish JoeMikeSammy Big KimTwo TonsSnake House WilliKirk DouglasHunter Crazy Eddy Miss To/Mr. Mike SuchinSix Finger Suk Suk TooSonny WinaiSupan Joyand Morry Hot SumaleeFat ArtSutomAllisonBig Bad Tony Mr. ChickenNunPaulRapbiGaryMORRY’S DELI • UNIVERSITY BOOKSTORE2—Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983RockefellerChapelof Holy Communion10 amReligious InstructionFor Children11 amUniversity Religious ServiceROBIN W. LOVIN-Assoc. Prof, of Ethics & Societyin the Divinity SchoolCAMPUSSUBSCRIPTIONS TOStic;\TcluJJorkQmesare now available at a 30% discount rateprice. (Discount only tor weekday paper.)Newspapers are available by 8:00 a.m. onthe day of publication when classes are insession. Daily discount rate is 35*. (Paperswill be discarded after the day of issue.)Sunday papers are available on a subscrip¬tion basis also, but no discount is given.(Sunday papers will be available for pick upafter 8:30 a.m. bn Monday with Mondaysissue.)Your paper can be guaranteed for the firstday of service on March 28 only if paymentis received by March 24. Any orders re¬ceived after March 28 will be prorated ac¬cording to the number of delivery days leftin the term. Please mail or drop off the bottomportion of this slip to:The University of Chicago BookstoreGeneral Books Department970 East 58 StreetChicago, Illinois 60637Count m« In tor The New York Times! I will subscribe5 dsys • dsys T dsys Sundey onlyEnclosed is my check for$Please make checks payable to The Universityof Chicago Bookstore, General BooksDepartment.WINTER TERM-ends Merch 18Mon-Fri. $17 50Mon-Sat *2065Mon-Sun $43.15Sun only $22 50SPRING TERM-March 28-June 10Mon-Fri. $18.90Mon -Sal *22.05Mon-Sun. $44.55Sun only *22 SOThere will be no delivery during exam week and holidaysName Address JLJunction" by Maddy Paxman: p 5V .,Dario said in 18%, "Who is there that is not a romantic?"j:, ..And in the same van I say, "Who is there that is not a surrealist?"-Gonzaio Rojas■wSaw shh5 % tnK" V' ««m tt«v. yt'' lafKikKUiW * < l fp-fy 4*"Sisterhood is Not Powerful Enough" by Sarah Herndon: p. 7k flip* ^ *by Cambel McGrath: p. 8by N. Butcher, p. 10Prose poem by Sharon Peshkki: p. 11Poem by Nadne McGann: p. 13Intmwew with Gonzalo Rojas: p. 14Poems by John Schulman: p. 17Interview with John Holander: p. 19"What's in a Name" by David Lefever: p. 20"I Keep Forgetting that People Die" by Marfta Kinney: p. 22grey city calendar: p. 24-.§>#. y yIgw,wMak ^mm■Poem by E. Goodstein: p. 25Poems by Daniel Brownstem, Jeremy Downes,Jenny Nlueler, and David Sufivan: p. 28,v mso uimmmEditors: Keith Fleming, Paul O’DonneiiEditorial Staff: CampbeH McGrath, Jon Rob¬erts, John SchulmanProduction: Nadine McGann, Beth Miller,David Miller, Paul O’DonnellThe Chicago Literary Review is publishedquarterly by The Chicago Maroon, the OFFI¬CIAL student newspaper of the University ofChicago. Editorial and business offices arelocated on the third floor of Ida Noyes Hall,1212 East 59 th Street, Chicago 60837.Phone, 753-3265. This issue is vol. 92 No.42. i-Copyright 1983 Chicago Maroon.Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983—3The Parkshoreannouncesa restructured rental & purchase program1 bedroom, 1 bath2 bedrooms, 2 baths3 bedrooms, 3 baths4 bedrooms, 4 baths from 714 sq. ft.to 1,183 sq. ft.from 1,543 sq. ft.to 1,777 sq. ft.from 2,053 sq. ft.to 2,079 sq. ft.2,291 sq. ft. from $1,785 to $2,958down paymentfrom $4,629 to $5,331down paymentfrom $6,159 to $6,210down payment$6,873 down payment• a variety of units from one to four bedrooms with spacious rooms, hardwood floors andlarge closets• located on the lake near bus and IC• rehabditation with emphasis on energy conservation• 24-hour security For information call:. parking still available • nslest^h• affordable financing is already in place Chicago, Illinois 60615for this unique co-operative 684-0111i. 'FI .•••••■ * •"•• • i; ;; The Chicago MaroonX Publication Notice:\l Next issue: April 1, 1983Today’s publication ofX... •' • •’ \ The Chicago Literary Review.. . ' '': :: marks the end of•• publication for Winter• ■ 1ij Quarter.Following Spring Break,, ! publication will resume; 1| ' Friday, April 1. Normaleditorial & advertisingr !' ' : : deadlines will apply.• f'" y ■ ; £... ^Department 6jfyiusic\' presents /Friday, March 11 — Musique de Joye8:00 p.m., Goodspeed Recital HallCourtly Pastimes: Italian Madrigals and Ricercars for LuteMusique de Joye, vocal ensemble, with Marc Southard, lute.Admission is FREE.Sunday, March 13 — Carole Morgan, flute3:00 p.m., Goodspeed Recital HallA program of Flute and Harp music performed by Carole Morgan andJan Remer. Music by Andriessen. Rochberg, Britten and Rorem.Admission is FREE.Thursday , March 17 — Chamber Music Series: Kalichstein Trio8:00 p.m., Mandel HallJoseph Kalichstein, piano; Jaime Larodo, violin; Sharon Robinson, cello.Haydn’s Trio in G, Hob. XV:25; Mendelssohn's Trio in c, op. 66;Beethoven's Trio in B-flat, op 97 "Archduke”.Admission is $9 (UC students, $6).Tickets and information at Department of Music Concert OfficeGoodspeed Hall 309 (962-8068).SPRING QUARTER PREVIEWSunday, March 27 — Rockefeller Chapel Choir and Orchestra3:00 p.m., Rockefeller Chapel. Bach, B-Minor Mass RodneyWynkoop, conductor. For tickets call 962-7300.Sunday, March 27 — Vocal Recital8:00 p.m., Goodspeed Recital Hall.Jonathan Miller, bass and Tambra Black, mezzo-soprano. Music ofHandel, Vaughn-Williams, Mozart, Brahms, Ravel and deFallaAdmission is FREE.Thursday, March 31 — Noontime Concert12:15 p.m., Goodspeed Recital HallMary Boodell, flute and Eric Weimer, piano. Music by C.P.E BachEnesco, and Nielsen. Admission is FREE.Jim4—Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983 usicMUSICMUSICChukkiback Junctionby Maddy PaxmanThe train clanks to a halt. I peer outbetween the iron bars of the window,trying to catch the name of the sta¬tion—it’s three hours since we leftJammu, so by my reckoning we shouldbe arriving at Pathankot about now.Most people in the carriage are sleep¬ing, stretched out on the woodenbench seats, draped in loose cloths—mouths open, bare feet twitching.From the “ladies’ compartment”comes the sound of a child crying. Istare out once again at the dark plat¬form. I know Pathankot is a majorjunction but this station is definitely abackwater. There aren’t the usualhordes of salesmen at the windows,wielding piles of bananas, unshelledpeanuts or puris with vegetablesauce—just the solitary "tea-wallah”,chipped cups clanking in his metalbucket, his chanting cry shatteringthe silence: “Chaiiii! Chaiiii!”.The blue-uniformed attendantpasses through the carriage checkinghis list of passengers. I shouldn’t real¬ly be in this carriage as I have not re¬served a sleeper, but the mad crush ofthird class looked too daunting afterthe twelve hour bus journey downfrom Kashmir. I touch his arm; “Whattime do we arrive at Pathankot?”He looks at me over the top of hisspectacles. “Madam, this train doesnot stop at Pathankot!”Silently, I curse the ticket office at¬tendant who gave me repeated assur¬ances that this train would be allright. Now what am I to do? I could goon to Delhi, I suppose—but that wouldmean an extra day’s travelling to getback to Dharmsala, where I’m head¬ed.“Let me see your ticket please.” Igive it to him, fixing my face in asplaintive an expression as I can mus¬ter. As if 1 could persuade him, bribehim even, to stop the train at Pathan¬kot just for me. He seems a little flus¬tered.“You must get out at this stationand wait for the next train to Pathan¬kot. I will instruct the station masterto look after you.” I look dubiouslyout at the small empty platform in themidst of night-bound fields. No signeven of a village, just a few stationbuildings. But I don’t really have anychoice, so I grab together my belong¬ings and step down from the carriage.The train windows look warm and in¬viting and for a moment I am torn.This sort of confusion has happened tome so often in India—I am annoyed,but I can't find it in me to be truly wor¬ried. I know that if I am just patient,*things will work out.The attendant is talking to the sta¬tion master—a tall Sikh with whitehair beneath his turban and a fiercegrey beard. As I approach them, thewhistle blows for the train to leaveand the attendant scurries away withnever a backward glance. I am leftalone with the Sikh. The train slowlygathers steam and the safe, lightedwindows move by, faster now, andare suddenly gone. The station mas¬ter turns and walks back down theplatform towards one of the build¬ings; bright light shines from the opendoorway of an office. We enter in si¬lence. In the back there is an old,black telegraph machine, with lots of plugs and wires, from which emanatesa series of high-pitched whines andbuzzes, like the sound of an old valveradio. Despite its obvious antiquity, itstill seems somewhat incongruoushere in the middle of nowhere.There’s also a desk, heaped withpapers and forms covered in Sanskritscribbles—one wall of the room islined with molding manilla folders,tied in bundles and probably datingback to the Raj. The walls are crackedwhite plaster, a bare bulb danglesfrom the ceiling—I see a lizard streakalong and disappear behind a filingcabinet.The station master motions to an un¬steady wooden chair. “You may sithere,” he tells me, then turns awayand seems to be attending to busi¬ness. Obediently, I sit down. One ortwo men have wandered into the of¬fice to have a look at me; they clusterby the station master, laughing andglancing in my direction.“Urn, excuse me.” They ignore me.“I wonder if you could tell me whattime the train will leave, the one forPathankot.”The station master looks at merather derisively. “The next train toPathankot is seven o’clock.’ I look inhorror at the old clock on the wall;11:30 p.m. That means I’ll have tospend the night here. “Oh goodness!Isn’t there a bus I could take?” Theylaugh.“You must wait here for the train.Do not go outside the station on anyaccount.” This is said in such a tone ofmenace that I immediately shake myhead; perhaps there are bandits outthere.“But surely you don’t expect me tosit here all night. I must have a bed, aplace to sleep. Isn’t there a ladies’waiting room?” I ask hopefully.Exasperated, the station master de¬taches himself from the group andwalks past me to the door of the of¬fice. He points down the platform.“Waiting room, last door.’ He looks atme again, then sighs, “Come!”, andstrides off pulling a large bunch ofkeys from his pocket. I trot after him.When he unlocks the door of the wait¬ing room I note with relief that thereare two beds, wooden frames strungwith rope matting. I make towardsone of them.“On these beds” the station mastersays quickly, “two policemen are sleeping. Here you can sleep.” Hepoints to a dirty patch of the concretefloor in the far corner. This is too muchfor me. My mind fills with images of anightmarish nocturnal assault at thehands of two policemen: such thingsare not uncommon. Also, I’m begin¬ning to lose my temper.“The train attendant promised methat you would look after me. I wouldnever have got off the train if I’dthought I would be treated like this.You can’t possibly make me sleep onthe floor, in the same room as twomen. Why..." I notice with someamusement that my voice is taking onthe clipped outrage of a British Mem-sahib. Suddenly I have the sensationof acting in a second rate situationcomedy. “Why, you would never ex¬pect an Indian women to undergo sucha thing. I think it’s disgraceful!” I fin¬ish with a flourish.The station master is somewhattaken aback by my outburst. He looksfor support to the bedraggled groupof onlookers who have gathered outof thin air at the sound of raisedvoices—people who probably spendtheir whole lives within the confinesof the station, observing the comingand goings, the petty dramas. Theysmile, bemused but unhelpful.I sense that I am in charge of the sit¬uation now. “I insist that you find mea bed, there must be one somewhere.Tell your men to bring one out and putit on the platform here.”Resignedly the station masterrelays my message in Hindi to one ofhis ‘staff’, who saunters off. “We willfind a bed,” he tells me, in a tone ofdecision that suggests it was his ideain the first place. He tells me it is bet¬ter to leave my luggage inside his of¬fice, so I unpack my sleeping bag andhaul my backpack into the room.When I emerge once more to the plat¬form, two men are just plunking downa wooden bed. I have a moment ofsatisfaction to think that I have prob¬ably deprived a policeman of a decentnight’s sleep.“Bring it over here, please.” Theydutifully stagger over and depositthe bed outside the door of the office,against the wall. Now that I am deaitwith, the station master ignores mecompletely. The others drift gradual¬ly back to whatever they were doing,except for two teenage boys, whohang around to see me lay out my bedding. I scowl at them and theyscuttle off, giggling. I take off myshoes and slip into my sleeping bag. Itis hot and sticky but I will need it tohide from the mosquitoes. Anyway Ifeel more secure, clutching my docu¬ment wallet to my chest and pullingthe bag over my head. The bag withmy camera in it digs uncomfortablyinto my back, and my feet dangle wayover the end of the bed.It is a bizarre, restless night. Mos¬quitoes continually whine about myears and from time to time I am awarethat one has sneaked past my de¬fences and is feeding on my neck orarm. The station master’s officebuzzes all night with telegraph mes¬sages, there is the coming and goingof heavy footsteps. Once a train ar¬rives and sits at the station for tenminutes while the “chai-wallah”makes his rounds. No one gets on oroff. I sweat considerably inside thethick sleeping bag and shift uncom¬fortably on the small rope cot—wak¬ing every so often from fitful dozingto clutch fearfully at my belongings,or gaze uncomprehendingly aroundthe dark station.Then, sometime in the night, a drystorm begins. The heat intensifies, thesky seems about to burst—it is filledwith strange colours, looming clouds.But not a drop of moisture falls - thestatic currents begin to send flashesof sheet lightening across the sky, ac¬companied by the crackling and boom¬ing of thunder. Sheet after sheet of in¬tense brilliance illuminates the littlestation, the narrow iron tracks, thesleeping bodies further down theplatform, disguised as bundles ofrags. Momentarily I see the fieldsstretched out in the white glare, thenthey plunge once again into black. Ilie awake for what seems like hours,marvelling at this show of celestialmight. At last I drift into a deeperstate of sleep, where my dreams re¬turn to England.It is with some surprise, then, that Iwake abruptly to find the early sun¬light filtering through the haze ofdawn. This is my favourite time ofday on this continent—before theheat has built up, with a drowsy pallenveloping everyone and everything.Many of the sleeping “bundles” arestill inert, and I am astonished at thenumber of people with whom I haveshared my “bedroom”. The chai-wallah is still snoring, his stove is coldand the remains of the night’s stickybrew look uninviting in the bottom ofhis pot. Two or three young men areup already, hanging around under thepeepul tree smoking beedees andchattering noisily. They are dressedin tailored shirts with pointed collars,above loosely tied lunghis—one hasthe red turban of a railway porter.Behind them, a large sign which I hadnot previously noticed proclaims thename of the station—“ChukkibackJunction”.It is still only 5:30 but I can nolonger sleep, so I get up and begin toroll up my bedding. The young menconfer quickly and one approaches,smiling broadly. “Pathankot?” he en¬quires. I nod. “Come!” he beckons andbegins to lead the way out of the sta¬tion. I don’t understand—surely thetrain stops here, or have I once againbeen misinformed? Then I see that heis pulling out one of a stack of tri¬shaws—bicycle rickshaws—and isChicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983—5Chukkiback Junctiondusting down the torn plastic-coveredseat. It suddenly occurs to me thatperhaps I am not as far from my desti¬nation as I thought—if it’s accessibleby rickshaw. I must still look doubtful,for he stops brushing and says. “Tenrupee?’’ then, almost immediately“Eight?’’. “Five.’’ I say decisively andrun in to get my pack. The stationmaster is nowhere to be seen.As he pedals through the countryG.W. 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Relieved, I tap the driver on theshoulder; “Buses station.’’ He nodsand pedals more furiously than be¬fore, squeezing his horn to warn straypedestrians and cows of our precipi¬tous approach.Arriving at the bus station, I noticethe sign—“Pathankot". I clamber outof the rickshaw and give the driverten rupees. He beams and pedalsoff—why does one always feel com¬ pelled to bargain the price down, andthen tip heavily, to make up for theeffort expended? I just have time fora cup of hot, sweet tea and one of thefly-blown pastries from the glass caseof the refreshment stall, before the6:40 bus leaves for Dharmsala. Thebus is surprisingly empty. Near theback I notice two European women—they turn out to be English and havetravelled from Amritsar. I plump my¬self down in a seat next to them.“You’ll never guess what has hap¬pened to me’’ I begin.The finest beer brewed and bottled in Canada. 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Evanston, II 60201 2566 N. Clark St.. Chicago. !L 606J4(above County Seat)864-4441 880-5400 Sisterhood is Not Powerful EnoughMy sister and I were walking on Michigan Avenue.She said, “Let’s tell of our emotions.” How could I an¬swer her? While she talked there were boys on street-corners drowning me. While she discussed, against thegranite, under the loom of forty stories full of air-condi¬tioned offices, the newspaper vendors opened theirjaws. A wave of sound washed out of them, over me,blocking her out entirely—a heaving and an inhumanblare, it was as if a demon for selling Sun-Times andTribunes had taken out their eyes and vacuumed theirbodies of soul. It was a sound for bringing small craft inacross the lake through heavy fog; an empty sound, forfilling up with trout, carp and coho. The city paradedabove their oblivious heads like a debutante, gliding inand receding, stoic, like those girls filing by all in white,a little ominous, like an egg vanishing into a python’sgullet. “Tell me how you feel.” She probably had heardsome blonde woman in a down coat talking to her lover:her eyes probing, his, skittered along the floor, hers,pinning his down to the one square cold linoleum tile shehad chosen for him. Tell me how you feel.How does she feel? I feel with my sight, with the mem¬ory of feelings, through their passages of depth andbeauty, first by gnawing and by tearing through thebinding cloth of them, then, like a naked mummy mouth¬ing at the breath that was real never more than onceand has always already escaped, I guess blindly at theshape of what has taken place. My emotion is only whatI imagine the emotion should have been. So I fall shortbehind an unknown image, frustrated always, anxious.But after every disappointment I still grab for it, theinstant they call enlightenment. This is a hope againsthope, hope with only hope to support it, not just thehope that I will one day capture the feeling, but thatwhen I do it will be devastation, a revelation beyondwhich no thought is necessary. Love, the hope remains,love of even granite. Death is it? Is it the dream of in¬jection into the thick blood of a universe revolving inthunder, speeding so no human voice can stop it, itsenormous will pulling me out of thought? If I said to her,yes this is my hope to be exploded onto the pavement,would she understand the pain it causes me to be holedup in this small, reasonable body? For twenty years wehad assumed a knowledge of each other, a common lan¬guage and a shared sensibility. How was I to answerher when, with this weight of moment after momentpiled on my exhausted senses, pummelling me, pressingme to try to catch once more a glimpse of the bright-feathered bird that eludes me just barely, that showsitself so flaming and flies away in a rush until I amstrung throughout with the trembling wire of seeing it,my arms, reaching, fingers, splayed, taut—with thisthrilling, my eyes begging sight itself—She asked for a feeling worded?Sarah HerndonChicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983—7Approaching WinterI thought of you today,of our walks in the snow,and the night we lay in the snowin the graveyard, circled by sadAmerican flags,and I was sad and happy at once.You never got my letters, I guess,although I swear I sent them,poured my soul out to you even.When I called the number in Santa Claraa man answered, you had moved,and left no address.Tell me, Barb,What is the hunted feeling the greysoft-edged stone thrusts deep in my stomach?Why are there always churchesand graveyards materializingin the sacred air?Why are they always there,solid and real-like the chapel we found in the snow that night,and the place ringed by torn flagsand dead rose-bushes,like the weeping statue hovering now in the mist,tearing its sweet hair andrising above the street. . .Already the wind off the lakesmells winter.Soon the first snows will come,bury Chicago, sweep eastto Massachusetts where the tomb-stonesgather around the chapel in the night.The drunken stars we discoveredare there still, Barb,singing like old Irish sailors,plaintive, irreverent, melancholy. New Ways of Seeing VeracmzWe sense that all is revelation:the maimed pellican washed up at high tide;Venus rising over the tooth-like hills;the names of the great Aztec cities—Atzcapotzalco, Chapultepec, Mexico,it’s not.It’s not the wind and concrete benchesof the break-water, the two of them asleepamidst the whores, the beggars, the hot, salt sea;not the awakening, the globe-headed insectsucking plasma, the white-shouldered volcanolooming over Veracruz, materializinglike the war-god Huichilobos,and vanishing into the orange clouds;not the thing they couldn’t see,swimming below the surface of the black water,wrinkling the web of light,the yellow arc of lines and shapes,the crescent of palm trees and street-lightsthat was the city.And imagistic dawnsaw rag-tag boats rocking,while the one-armed sailor,sleep in his eyes, sits on the railingand shits in the water.And dirty-faced young Hernandohawking sea-shell crucifixesand mermaid key-rings.What does he know of benediction?His pockets are filled with smooth stones.Grand Lake, ColoradoComing down the air is stacked up like milkcrates. Bearded, hair thick with insect-repellent, you laugh, and trail-dirt packshard against your feet. Trees sliver thelake. The gravel roads are steep and thefirst tourist cabin offers chicken fried steak.Afterwards, showered of the earth, shaved,a hotel pillow is immaterial: but enough.Charlie ate nachos, drank two beers’. The TVshowed a plane coming in for an emergencylanding, covered live.Later you notice the beauty: plank walks,yellow water, the children of Grand Lakeplaying ball before the movie. Up at Hayn-ach we worshipped the Indian gods of Char¬lie’s creation, saw the meadow transformedby moonlight, trees more than trees, deermoving at the salt-lick. Hail was pearls em¬boldened. Above the timber-line you walksummer snow, wade a pool of glacial silt,track old Ute trails across the tundra, eyesshading a rim of peaks. Coming down wemet riders, found Charlie’s stick in a field offlies, wandered into town.Charlie bugs the operator for dimes, callingBaltimore for news of his father. The greenis left to the cannon. 8 jp’clock: the night isblue coming over blue pines, aspen lintingblack tanks, timber burning red on rock.You shout to Charlie but the lake is yellow,air purple with night. You laugh and thewind slaps it back in your teeth. Rifle, Colorado1 doubt they were used to strangers in theRifle Cafe, wrapping their sausage in pan¬cakes a little after dawn. I think the earnestwoman frying eggs and the girl with thecowboy-hat tracing hor finger throughspilled flour were mother and daughter. Idoubt the lined man at the bar was eitherfather or brother. I don’t know where theguides would lead their parties to hunt forWhite-tail and Big-horn that day. I don’tknow how often they came to the Cafe, orwhat they ate, or what they thought about.I don’t know what their names were, wherethey lived, whether their families raisedcattle or horses, or stayed in bed in themorning. I do know that there were cowboy-hats and dirty orange workmen’s gloves,the pancakes were good, the coffee wasstrong, Main Street was gravel, the riverran by, the sun rose just as we got there,night left the Rockies reluctantly, the snowand timber diminished in day-light, themountains emerged slowly with dawn —high country in winter is beautiful and lone-iy., Sit, ColoradoThe night crossing—empty ski-towns, miningtowns, full moon on the light snow, Mike hadslept since Denver. Dawn came over themountains behind us and the West appearedslowly out of the winter air. To describe Siltwould require a tactile vocabulary to matchthe roiling high-country, purple and duskfading down from the peaks: long grazingplateaus above the river, savage dun-palepastels, the cliffs, rock gulleys each shade,each stone itself. Five horses walkedthrough the tall grass down to the young Co¬lorado River to drink — the ice was break¬ing up, mist was rising from the water. Thenthe long pull — Martian Utah, sad LasVegas, the ponderous San Bernardino des¬ert, Baker, Barstow, Los Angeles. In Bar-stow I stopped for coffee. After ten minutesat the red counter the aproned womanasked us all to leave. The kitchen was onfire and our coffee was free. Looking backthrough the plate-glass window I saw pies inthe rack: Lemon Meringue, Apple, Cherry,Coconut Creme, Dutch Apple. Flying antswith pale wings pattered against the glass.Mike sat up and his hair was splayed withsleep as the fire-engines races past us intothe parking lot. That was Barstow. 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Washington St., Chicago, IL 60602312/977-0300 MAKELATE NIGHTSGREAT NIGHTSATMORRY’SDELIFROM 7:00 PM - 10 PM///>PffllFwith the purchase ^of any 2sandwichesHot, jumboPastrami sandwichesHot, jumboRoast beef -|sandwiches AWi i5969@1 (MMith purchase ofd pints of Morry’sSpecial Blend^ Ice Cream IuVvAT-• Jumbo Turkeysandwiches• Jumbo ItalianSausage sandwichesICORNED IncrediblekBEEF LOVERS BuySPECIAL Save $$$Min purchase, ^ 1 lb ,iAAjMCOME TO MORRY’S• Great Food• Incredible low prices• Fantastic savings• Friendly serviceMORRY’S LATENIGHT SPECIAL“BEST BUY IN TOWN”MORRY’S DELI5500 S. CornellChicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983—9_SummerWalking home down the pathThrough the field of unripe corn,I thought of my mother waiting in the kitchenScrubbing turnips, listening for my step,While my father, half-asleep on the couch,Waited for dinner. The late afternoonGathered like a closing flower.The cries of cicadas resonated in the green heat.Before I reached the front gate,I head from the kitchen windowFish sizzling, my mother calling my name.Evenings, after dinner,My parents always argued about thingsIn front of the television,She chiding in her small voice,He grunting out sentence fragments.They drank sake together.I washed the dishes,Opening the window a little, to watchThe twilight sky over the cornfield: greatAnd pale, except for the splashOf new stars, still few and isolated,But suggesting constellations.—N. 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I enjoy my contactLenses made byDr. Kurt RosenbaumOptometristKimbark Piaza1200 E. 53rd St.493-8372 A-ACTIVEBUSINESS MACHINESSales ■ Service - SuppliesTYPEWRITERSADDING MACHINESELECTRONIC TYPEWRITERS& CALCULATORS—SAME DAY SERVICE-10% Discounton Serviceto StudentsVisa/MC1633 E. 56th St.Corner of 55th & Cornell752-0541THE FLAMINGO APARTMENTS5500 South Shore DriveSTUDIOS & ONE BEDROOMS•Unfurnished and furnished•U. of C. Bus Stop•Free Pool Membership•Carpeting and Drapes Included•Secure Building - Emily's Dress Shop•University Subsidy for Students & Staff•Delicatessen *Beauty Shop•Barber Shop •T.J.’s Restaurant•Dentist •Valet ShopFREE PARKINGMr. Keller 752-380010—Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983by Sharon PeshkinThe water is without color tonight — just a deep void. If I am to tip over, will it bouy me upthe daytime lake, or suck me down to its depths? Yet it accepts my paddle so gracefully,and a ne\w^sweetness sounds in the drops which fall musically back into place after each stroke.I belong hereThe fog which surrotmcls the shoreline dissipates by the center of the lake, as though anyprotection the lake needs is uhf^cessary out here. It seems either to trust my canoe or to claimit, for it lets me slice through its calrftr-c^flective surface without objection. It seems to accept —perhaps even welcome — my presence.Gliding slowly and silently now I place my padcfte-^^y my side. I can no longer disturb thewater nor determine the direction my canoe may take. TTre^tillness of the lake, my canoe atrest, I lay back upon the wooden gunwales to join with the lake astts^flects (upon) the sky.Here are the strong stars which rule the night sky of the wildernes§>staring down at eachlonely soul below with cruel clarity. One cannot retreat to the noise of the cityhocclothe them¬self in the mask of identity. The stars penetrate deeper, implanting a poem in the ownears which the frail human mind is not tuned to hear. Yet my eyes witness a beauty they canntknow. A wave of empathy courses through me, fills my lungs with cool air and my eyes withwarm tears. So small, so temporal, so very all alone. I am joyously trivial in the face of thisvast beauty I cannot know.*****I feel the dew on my eyelids, the sunlight on my face. The gentle lapping of the lake haskissed my canoe awake and we are drifting once more. Today the lake is sparkling and cheer¬ful, the sky a solid ceiling of certainty. And the world is, after all, my playground. . • *i ri \ . *HYDE PARK UNION CHURCH5600 S. Wood lawn Ave.Church School (all ages) 9:45 a.m.Worship Nursery Provided 11:00 a.m.W. Kenneth Williams, MinisterSusan Johnson, Baptist Campus MinisterCome, Worship, Study, Serve JAPANESE PRINTS.Woodblock print reproductions ofmasterpieces by ukiyo-e artists hand-carved according to the originalby expert craftsmen. 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Curator of the Smart Gallery, will give aninformal gallery talk on the exhibition.Three illustrated lectures will be held in conjunction with the exhibition on thefollowing Sunday afternoons at 1:00 p.m. in room 157 of the Cochrane-WoodsArt Center:• March 20, “Vessels for Hearh and Health: Medieval Ceramics in Context”LINDA SEIDEL, Professor, Department of Art and the College•April 10, “Italian Renaissance Majolica: Dishes that Tell Stories”EDWARD A. 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K>8312—Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983I nChicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983—131At this time of yearthe ground is not warm yet,but t am.I lie down,back to the earth, face to the sun,feeling the grass with my handsbut not tickled by insects on my arms.I stop thinking,settling in, opening up,but the sun demands attention drawing heat to my face,and the ground declares its presence pressing cold to my back.Feeling into the groundI resurrect images of breaking winter —Melt, snow! sink into the depths of the earthand there evaporate,as the sun, shinjng high and mighty,pulls away the coveryou so glintingly reflectfrom her inner-seeping warmth.A moment of chilling shade, and then I am reminded —the sun always comes on the wing of the wind,and remains, commanding,as the wind flies on leavingcurrents of air, disturbed, undulating,free to receive light, to become themselvesheat-infiuencing messengers of life,gently floating, sun-invested, firmly going through all.—Nadine McGannAs the sun moves back and forthI feel the movement of heatand sense the movement of light.I remember evenings, quiet times,when sitting on the porch l swayed with the airwhile crickets and birds vied for the moment,precipitant shadows followed pockets of tenuous light,as if the hour was unable to decidewhat direction the day might take;so now I suddenly become so thoroughly aware —the intensity of heat quick-burning sharp on my face,the permeating cold sending shivers of discomfort— that my body is blocking the sun from the ground,and cold and heat meet within me,fighting to define the season.Above all, Gonzalo Rojas is a poet.As a professor of literature, directorof universities, magazine editor, re¬cipient of various awards, as an exileand a man in inner exile he has re¬mained, above all, a poet. To date hehas published six books of poetry: Lamiseria del hombre (1948), Contra lamuerte (1964), Oscuro, (1977), Tran-stierro (1979), Del relampago (1981),50 poemas (1982). His works havebeen translated into eleven lan¬guages. Many critics have calledRojas the greatest living Chileanpoet, a formidable claim consideringthat Chile has produced two NobelPrize-winning poets in the last 35years, Gabriela Mistral and PabloNeruda. Some critics^ have gone evenfurther. Ricardo Gulion has describedRojas as “one of the great poets ofour time.”A diminutive, pacific man, Rojasspeaks deeply, emphasizing everydeliberate syllable as it flows. Rojasmight be mistaken for a notary or anaccountant were it not for the powerof his speech, the great paternal ex¬pressiveness of his hands and child¬like eyes.This fragmentary interview was ex¬cerpted and translated by LarryKrasner, Editor-in-chief of the Ro¬mance Language Review, from aseries of five conversations with Gon¬zalo Rojas. Other parts of these dis¬cussions will appear in the originalSpanish in the Romance Language Re¬view later this Spring.LK: Mr. Rojas, I’d like to start with afundamental question. What is poet¬ry?GR: You begin with a very seriousquestion (laugh), serious and com¬plex. I would respond to your ques¬tion on the nature of poetry, aboutthe idea of the nature of poetry, orabout the name and nature of poetrywith that first phrase with which theshort prologue to my book From theLightning (Del relSmpago) begins.Someone else’s phrase, not mine,written by Antonio Porchia: "One writes poetry not knowing how” (“Lapoesfa se hace no sabiendola hacer”).That is the first thing. Now this seemsa contradiction because then onecould say ‘if it is not known how, andif one writes not knowing how, thismust mean that a form is never goingto be achieved.’ And hasn’t Goethesaid for his part, Goethe who is afterall an authority in Western tradition,and a lucid man, hyoerlucid, hasn’t hesaid that all poetry is form and thatthere is no art but of form? 1 certainlydo not disagree with that. I have toachieve form. I have to structure athought. Chaos approaches me, as No-valis would say (now you see how Ialways talk of the Romantics), thegreat Novalis whose name is Friedrichvon Hardenberg, a man who signedhis name as Novalis, N-O-V-A-L-l-S. Hedied at 28, lived at the close of the18th Century and died in 1801, alsoominously. How curious. He used tosay that in the depths of all true poet¬ry Chaos appears. One half-seesChaos. That is to say, in poetry, whichis form and is structure and cosmos atthe same time one nevertheless seesChaos. That idea is a word, a saying,a dictum, a phrase which seems trivi¬al, or can seem trivial, yet is verystrict because it permits us to illumi¬nate the irrational, unconscious game,the darkness, what is enigmatic, theenigmatic weft which is under oramong the words. Do you under¬stand? So then, if I accept “one writespoetry not knowing how” as an arbi¬trary plan, it is for no other reasonthan that I want to put in relief the vi¬vacity and spontaneity of this luxuri¬ant, new, living word which is theword of the poet. It is that sense inwhich I accept that one writes poetrynot knowing how. Of course this is acontradiction of my own work becauseI have shown as much as one is ablemy preoccupation with the rigorousword, with the rigor of the word. Onthe one hand I accept the idea that po¬etry reveals Chaos, but on the otherhand l am Mallarmdan and Valerian(speaking of Valery, I accept the pos¬ tulate of Valdry) with reference to theidea that one should be responsiblefor all that buzzes, sounds, appears inhis construction. There is no line, nosyllable, no vowel that doesn’t cometo have meaning up to the pointwhere one believes that it can havemeaning. Now then, the meaning attimes exceeds that, surpasses,and is more than what one wanted tosay. There is more in the word of thepoet than what he wanted to say. Youknow that this is a problem. This iswhy it is so difficult to rationalize thenature of poetry. What more could Itell you?LK: You once said that poetry is notmade with words alone, but with si¬lence.GR: How else? I think on this deeply.It is already in the system of lan¬guage, isn’t it? I’m also thinkingabout how there is poetry-conduct.(Thus, again in the Romantic wave.)And before answering your last ques¬tion about the value of silence insideof the word, silence, word, silence andword, I want to tell you that when Isay poetry is conduct I accept the sys¬tem of the German and English Ro¬mantics for whom one does not try tobe a poet, and separate what onewrites from how one lives, but tries tolive a poet. Poetry as life, poetry asconduct. That is the first thing, no? It’sthe first thing because, even thoughonejiasn’t written books, the truth isthat his work cannot be separated ordiversified, his work of writing fromhis breathing, from his manner ofbeing and thinking and acting. I be¬lieve in this. Now then, going towardthis play of the line, the verse, thestrophe, the construction, the text:Yes, I truly think that in the musicalscore of the poetic insight, or semi-in¬sight, there is the word but there isalso silence. There is what is writtenand what is not written. I speak of amusical score because just as in musicsilence is necessary for understandingthe meaning, so it is in the play of po¬etry. At least I see it that way. This is.why in my work the rhythmJs an ab- Fragments frorInterview withsolutely necessary key and back¬ground for the work of the poet, in thework of the poet. A breathed, writtenpoetry in which operates sonorous¬ness at the stratum of sound, themeaning at the semantic level, andthat sort of level of silence in whichthe ineffable is almost touched, whatcannot be said. That is also clear in mywork. All this was given to me. Did Iread it in books? I believe I read it inbooks. But it was given to me as poet¬ry was given to me since I was a boy. ihave told you about a physiologicalaspect, and yet a fundamental pointfor your understanding the shop, theinner workshop of your poet friendwith whom you are speaking. I was astutterer. I have told you that,haven’t I?LK: Yes.GR: Then that difficulty I had inbringing words out created in me abetter disposition for hearing words,and for playing the game of substitu¬tion, and for creating an imaginativespace which permitted me to simultan¬eously approach and separate myselffrom reality as the spider makes hisspace. Notice how strange that is.Hmmm...there are so many things thatcould be said. Well, in the end I am nota theoretician and it is difficult for meto propose some keys to the nature ofpoetry without having to raise objec¬tions to them immediately. For exam¬ple, I am not entirely in agreementwith the Surrealist keys to poetry....LK: Mr. Rojas, what is the nature ofthe poetic word?GR: Hmmm...I am going to explainto you how the word was given to me,how l discovered, how it was present¬ed to me, when I was a boy, a child,because all of this exercise and workof the poet bears an extremely pro¬found relationship to his first stratain existence. Again Baudelaire: hehas said ‘the true homeland of poetsis infancy.’ Childhood is the poet’s ho¬meland. My opinion is that it doesn’tmatter if they begin to write late,that one delays, writes his worksafter 30. Still the luxuriance, fresh¬ness, the play of the first age is beat¬ing. When I was a small boy and wasliving in the Gulf of Arauco, which is avery beautiful region of the long Chi¬lean land, a region named Arauco be¬cause exactly there is where that ter¬rible war, the War of the AraucanConquest was fought. The Indians, theaborigines there, are called Araucansand “Arauco” means ‘clayey earth.’The water and earth are togetherthere. In mapuche “—co” meanswater. Arauco. I was born in this re¬gion. It was night in my little town ofLebu. “Lebu” is a very pretty word inCarbon CoalVeo un rfo veloz briilar como un cuchillo, partirmi Lebu en dos mitades de fragancia, lo escucho,lo huelo, lo acaricio, lo recorro en un beso de nfflo como eritonces,cuando el viento y la lluvia me mecfan, lo sientocomo una arteria m£s entre mis sienes y mi almohada I see a swift river shine like a knife, splitmy Lebu into fragrant halves, I hear it,I smell it, I caress it, I travel back over it in a child’s kiss as then,when the wind and the rain rocked me, I feel itlike an extra artery between my temples and my pillow.fEs el Esta lloviendo.Es Si. Mi padre viene mojado. Es un olora caballo mojado. Es Juan AntonioRojas sobre un caballo atravesando un rfo.No hay novedad. La noche torrencial se derrumbacomo mina inundada, y un rayo la estremece. It is him. It Is raining.It is him. My father has come home wet. It is the smellof wet horse. It is Juan AntonioRojas on a horse fording a river.It is a nothing new. The torrential night coliapseslike a flooded mine; the lightning makes it shudder.Madre, ya va a llegar: abramos el porton,dame esa luz, yo quiero recibirloantes que mis hermanos. D^jame que le lleve un buen vaso de vinopara que se reponga, y me estreche en un beso,y me clave las puas de su barba. Mother, he is almost here: let us open the door,give me that light, I want to receive himbefore my brothers. Let me take him a good glass of wineso he will feel better and hug me and kiss me,and stick me with his beard.Ahf viene el hombre, ahf vieneembarrado, enrabiado contra la desventura, furiosocontra la explotacion, muerto de hambre, allf vienedebajo de su poncho de Castilla. There he is, he is coming homemuddy, raging against his bad luck, furiousfrom exploitation, dead of hunger, there he isunder his Castilian poncho.Ah, minero inmortal, esta es tu casade roble, que tu mismo construiste. Adelante:te he venido a esperar, yo soy el s^ptimode tus hijos. No importaque hayan pasado tantas estrellas por el cielo de estos aTfos,que hayamos enterrado a tu mujer en un terrible agosto,porque 16 y ella estais multiplicados. Noimporta que la noche nos hava sido negrapor Igual a los dos./ Pasa, no estes ahfmirandome, sin verme, debajo de la lluvia.Gonzalo Rojas Oh, immortal miner, this is the oak houseyou built yourself. Come in.I have been waiting for you, l am the seventhof your sons. No matterthat so many stars have crossed the sky of these years,that we have buried your wife In a terrible August,for you and she are multiplied. No matterthat the night has been blackfor both of us.“Get inside, don’t stand therelooking at me, not seeing me, under the rain.”14—-Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983rom the LightningHh Gonzalo Rojasback- the language of the aborigines. Itn the comes from “LeuftT” which meansritten deep tempest.... This night the skiesroua- burst into a torrential rain, a common, the occurrence in this excessive, wild ge-and ography of the Southern world. And,which from my oak timber house I and mywhat eight brothers and sisters contem-in my plate a spectacle of thunderclaps andDid I lightning flashes and a lot of waterit in above the roof tiles and planks. Itpoet- seems like the world is going to burstsoy. I or disappear. Through the windows>gical we see the lightning bolts and thepoint noise of the sea below — all very, the beautiful because we lived on theriend bank of the sea. Clearly I had seen/as a such things before. I was six then andthat, remember similar spectacles fromeven earlier. But that night one of mybrothers said, “lightning” ("rel6mpa-id in go”), and that word which he repeat-ne a ed or I repeated, “lightning, light-ords, ning, lightning,” that little word wasstitu- so rich in meaning for me, such a keylative to understanding all the brilliancejltan- that was presented there, becauseyself from the buzz more than the pro-3 his paroxytonic sound: “relampago”t is. with the play of the ‘e’, ‘a’, ‘o’, I wasi that seeing movement, a vivacity, I wasn not seeing a force. And I recall that ther me word stayed in my little child’s headre of more than the wild, natural spectacle,bjec- Do you understand? This shows howxam- words act on the poet almost magical-ment |y. And they awaken in you the primi¬tive animal that you are. Since I was are of child it was not strange that it awokein me a pri-mi-tive resonance veryplain pertinent to the primitive mind,me. In what I have written, which is notsent- voluminous as you know, the wordhild, “lightning” (“relampago”) appearswork often. Since then “lightning” has ac-pro- quired an existential dimension. Lifetrata is a lightning flash. The dream is ahe lightning flash. Man is a flash of light¬ens ning. We live in a lightning flash; we3 ho- are born and we are unborn. There isssn’t a text of mine which speaks of thelate, Ephemeral, how we are born and un-orks born in the Ephemeral ("Nacemos yesh- desnacemos en lo efimero”). So then,Deat- this vision which I surprised in thatwas night of my childhood is very perti-is a nent, very constant, obsessive. ButChi- “lightning” had gradually acquired a1 be- larger meaning. Now when I publish ater- book that is a small anthology, like ajean small summa poetica, entitled Fromthe the Lightning (Del relampago) just as I:ans could put "On the Brevity of Life” asrth.’ Seneca wrote, I simply use a term(ther which goes with my soul, “From thesans Lightning.” It is as if I said ‘I’m going> re- to talk about the lightning; this is ther* of lightning bolt.’ This is a treatise. Id *r> know that poetry is never a treatise, but I also play this game. Someonecould probably say, without abuse ofconfidence or interpretive delirium,‘ah, this man feels he is part of thelightning; he is from the lightning andno other part. He feels no security. Hepostulates the insecurity of man andthat insecurity is the phosphoric inse¬curity of the light and of the shadowof the lightning.’ It is not in vain thatthe first book of Rojas, Gonzalo who isspeaking to you, was called The Mis¬ery of Man (La miseria del hombre).LK: Mr. Rojas, did you write poetryas a child?GR: When I was a child I used to sitIn front of a rough wood table. I usedto stick a knife in the table. If theknife vibrated, I would write. If not, Iwould go outside.LK: And did the knife vibrate moreoften than not?GR: Look, clearly, this has to do withconcentration. If the knife vibrated itgave me a rhythm so that I felt withthe vibration of the knife there was avibration not only of the word, but ofa complete thought. And with thedepth, with the penetration of theknife there was a concentration in theobject. And a very concrete concentra¬tion, a very concrete concentration.That is the idea, for my poetry is con¬crete; it’s not an abstract poetry. Sud¬denly it leaps into flight in abstractair, but in truth it touches the things.Touches, smells. In the end, I want totell you I feel through my senses.LK: Did the classics influence you asa young poet? Did you read the Clas¬sics?GR: Even though I did not have abookish nature, I discovered the clas¬sics through a natural enchantmentwith the great collection of Rivaden-eira. From that time on Garcilaso wasmine, as well as Saint John, Quevedoand Aldana, all in growing desire, asit probably happened to many accord¬ing to the testimony of Dano or Neru¬da and the like. They entered my verybreath like an endless harmony, andit was that oxygen that permitted meto play the game of sound and sensewithout forgetting the Fundamental.Thus I arrived at 1938 at the age of 20 with Mandragona, that is, Surreal¬ism, in my mind and the classics in myheart.LK: Mr. Rojas, I notice you writeabout freedom. Do you consider your¬self a political poet?GR: Freedom. Yes, well that is thebusiness of poets, isn’t it? Freedomthat at times one confuses with soli¬dary salvationism or total adherence:that has happened to me. Not much,since from the time I was a child myonly action or militancy was poetry.But it has happened to me. Of course,not to the point of confusing poetizingwith politicizing as that would be ser¬vitude and a withdrawal from theMystery. And I believe in the Mys¬tery. Now that I have been stuffeduntil I am filled up with whateverkind of partisanship, without everhaving yielded to its temptation, I amnot about to adhere myself to thePharisaism of keeping silent. Of dirtysilence, because if you do not speakout your tongue parches, and thengoodbye my poetic insight.LK: Mr. Rojas, have you ever livedin exile?GR: Yes, I have been an exile.LK: And how is it that now you havemanaged to return to your country?GR: i returned to my country be¬cause it has been necessary for me tolive in it. After some problems, diffi¬culties which have happened to manyothers, I was enabled to return to mycountry. Now I am doing my workfrom my own air, my own oxygen, myown light.LK: Speaking of places, do you mindif I change the subject a little bit?What is your favorite city, Mr.Rojas?GR: I like New York. I am a NewYorker in my soul, eh? That is my bestworld where I feel one with the frenzyand the discipline at the same time,because that is what New York givesyou. Also New York is an extraordin¬ary world, one could say an excre¬scence of the planet not only becauseall the races gather there, all the in¬ventions, but because there is a spirit.How strange that it would be thespirit of ancient Imperial Rome or Ba¬ bylon, that old world. But that is howit is, isn’t it? Spirit where one finds abeggar, courtier, the man of greatwealth. But it always gives me agreat free impulse. It unties liberty inme. So, you see, you have not changedthe subject. Also, the simultaneity ofNew York is a treasure, isn’t it? Ev¬erything is happening at the sametime and at all hours. And all the atro¬cities and (laugh) virtues and holyacts are taking place so it seems a lit¬tle like the human soul (laugh). Verybeautiful, huge world, New York.There are people in the world wholove Paris. I like it; I have lived inParis. But I prefer — I like New Yorkvery much. They are always distinctthings. Naturally, cities are alwaysdifferent.RLR: Mr. Rojas, you began andended your public reading at Interna¬tional House on February 17th with anew poem, “Concert.” I understandthis poem is unpublished as we speak.Would you say a few words about“Concert”?GR: This poem has to do with whatMallarme said, ‘one writes the Book.’Borges also has said this. He has de¬fended the idea of the Book. We aremany who believe in the Book. I knowthat someone could say ‘yes, but thatpoem treats literary matters; it’s agame of allusions and references.’ Ithink there is truth in that. But I thinkthat, without defending the poem inthe least —■ poetry defends itselfalone — here the Book is breathing, isbreathing this thought and not onlythe thought of poets, also of philoso¬phers visible or invisible, also ofpainters.... You know who Paul Celanis? He is a great poet whom I adore. Idiscovered him late too. Are thesepoets communicating vessels? Ah, ldon’t believe at all, my dear friends, Ihave no faith in originality. We aremembers of a chorus. Poets are partof a chorus. The most that I can do isparticipate in the chorus, and eventhis was given to me. It is an optionand I must be worthy of it. ThisCelan could have been mybrother. I agree with him in so much,and even his syntax is so close toConcertoEntre todos escribieron el Libro, Rimbaudpint6 el zumbido de las vocaies,jningunosupo io que el Cristodibejo esa vez en la arena!, Lautrlamontaull<5 largo, Kafkaardi6 omo una pira con sus papeles; —Loque es del fuego al fuego; Vallejono murio, el barrancoestaba Heno de 4l como el Taolleno de lucilrnagas; otrosfueron invisibles- Shakespearemont<5 el especticulo con diez milmariposas; el que pas6 ahora por el jardfn hablandosolo, 4se era Pound discutiendo un ideogramscon los ingeles, Chaplinfilmando a Nietzsche; de EspaTiavino con noche oscura San Juanpor el ^ter, Goya,Picassovestido de payaso, Kavafisde Alejandrfa; otros durmieroncomo Herlclito echados al sol roncandodesde las rafces, Sade, Bataille,Breton mismo; Swedenborg, Artaud,Httlderlin saludaron contristeza al publico antesdel concierto;6quehizo am Celan sangrandoa esa horacontra los vidrios? ConcertAmong all they wrote the Book, Rimbaudpainted the buzz of vowels, no oneuncovered what Christhad once drawn on the sand! Lautreamonthowled mightily, Kafkablazed like a funeral pyre with his papers:To fire what belongs to fire; Vallejodid not die, the abysswas filled with his presence like the Taowith lightning bugs; otherswere invisible; Shakespeareput on the show with ten thousandbutterflies; the one who strolled in the garden talkingto himself just now as Pound discussing an ideogramwith the angels, Chaplinfilming Nietzsche; out of Spaincame St. John with his dark nightthrough the ether, Goya,Picassodressed as a clown, Kavafisof Alexandria; others sleptlike Heraclitus lying in the sun snoringfrom the depths, Sade, Bataille,Breton himself; Swedenborg, Artaud,Holderlin greeted the audiencewith sadness beforethe concert:whatdid Celan do thereat that hourbleeding against the glass?translated by Robert Lima, Gonzalo Rojas, Larry KrasnerChicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983—15Gonzalo Rojasmine.... This man really was me, real¬ly is me. Do you understand me? Hereis the defense of to be. In all my poet¬ry the defense of to be is present.The poet should lose or try to losethe lyric speaker, the persona of hispoems. He is always in danger of thehypertrophy of the “I.” He shouldspeak less personally. By reducingthe “I” he loses emphasis. Upon losingemphasis he enters the chorus. Poetryshould be made by all and not by one.So the idea of originality is humbled.LK: So is this why you do not believein originality?GR: Or at least I don’t pursue it. Togo down to the origins is one thing,and toward the origin — to be goingincessantly toward the origin. But it isanother very distinct thing to plan tobe original. When someone planssomething he is commiting a basicallyvain act. He is worrying about how ‘Iam.’LK: There are some references in“Concert” that I didn’t understand.For example, why is Chaplin filmingNietzsche?GR: To me Chaplin is a poet. He is acreator. He painted. He acted becausehe was an actor, but he was just asmuch a filmmaker. That is, he showedthe world from a camera since hemade movies. So, he films a subject ofsuch crazy thought as Nietzsche, whois a progenitor of a whole philosophywhich is almost a philosophy of non¬sense but also of profundity. That isthe idea. Now, it seems to me a verycurious thing that in this chorus ofghosts congregated there, somethingis very silent, mysterious, secret, andit is the concert itself. Notice that thethree figures who greet the audiencewith sadness are three madmen....aconcert that doesn’t come to pass. Forwhat reason? Because the poet, forme, is one who tries to decipher man,decipher the world, decipher the enig¬matic weft of the world. That is whathe attempts, but he only achieves itvery incompletely. He achieves it inthe lightning flash at most. So thenthis concert is the attempt to show theworld and they greet the public sadlybefore the concert. When there is aconcert there is an audience — the au¬dience is the readers, the listeners....Why do they greet the audiencewith sadness? Because they know thefarce of writing. I, who write books,who believe in the word, who thinkthat the word is really the house of tobe, the dwelling of fo be, neverthe¬less think that it is an unachievabletask. I mean what so many poets sure¬ly have observed in this fantastic ex¬ercise of naming the world. I meanthat to almost write is a farce, a verytragic farce. That is why the linereads that way. The concert nevertakes place. That is to say, the Book isnever written. And even so, among allthe Book is attempted....poem reads“his papers” because Kafka request¬ed that his works be burnt. ...theword of Kafka, all his observationswith respect to reality, for me arefire. So naturally he wanted to throwthem to the physical fire....LK: The reference to Ezra Pound,does this have to do with God walkingin the Garden in Genesis?GR: No, it has to do with — well, yes,that is the idea — speakirig with theangels. You know Blake, for example,saw the angels. He saw them, no? Hesaw them on top of a cherry tree.Swedenborg, another of the insanemen who appears here, also talked to the angels. In the same manner Pounddiscusses an ideogram.You know that Saint John wrote“Dark Night of the Soul.” Well, out ofSpain came St. John with his darknight through ether.... Look how thegame is interrupted: “Picasso/dressed as a clown.” You know thatPicasso painted clowns in one periodof his work. So then I take advantageof the internal rhyme in Spanish (Pi-casso-payaso). I discredit him, commitsacrilege by converting him into aclown, but a metaphysical clown. It isa fairly complicated poem, isn’t it?Isn’t it comical that a philosopherlike Heraclitus, Bataille. Breton him¬self are snoring in the sun. They arelying in the sun like drunks (this is theidea), snoring from the depths. Tellme, don’t the dead snore in the sun?Even though they’re under the earth,they are burned by the sun which fallsabove in summer, for example. Theyare asleep but not only in the sense ofsleeping, rather snoring. Do you un¬derstand? This is characteristicallyexpressionistic poetry....now it is revealed to me. See whatthe incredible secret of poetry is like,the unconscious thread of the poeticword. At the beginning I said “buzz.”Then I used another word of sound:“snoring.” When one dies it is saidthat he ‘falls to the sleep of death.’Try to follow my thought. I am makingfun of that absurd, ridiculous, boringexpression. 1 prefer to say: ‘here I amlying in the sun (I’m dead) snoring(alive) from the depths. I keep onbreathing and snore. When does onesnore? When he is drunk.’ I am drunkfrom the intoxication of life anddeath. I am drunk like those bees whobuzz there, like the lightning bugs. Iam within that living intoxication.This is a poem of great vi-va-ci-ty. Ev¬erything at this concert is alive.But what interests me most is theclosure of this poem, when it says“what/did Celan do there/ at thathour/ bleeding against the glass?”And here is the most extraordinarypart because there is a blank space,eh? An interruption, a violent cut.“What did Celan do there?” said asone would say “What the hell didCelan do there?” Celan, this greatCelan, this man who committed suicideat 50 years of age. This “bleedingagainst the glass” is very interesting.I couldn’t explain it to myself beforewhen I wrote it. But “against theglass” is farther away than the spec¬tacle of this concert. It is as if someonewere leaning against the glass,watching the spectacle of the con¬cert.And he appears bleeding. Bleedingsignifies sacrificed or done some dam¬age. Don t forget that this man com-mited suicide. He is alive, beatingstill, against the glass, against whatseparates — panes of glass separate,don’t they? — what is closer to andwhat is farther from the spectacle.That is the idea. It gives a much moreghostly conception. Remember I haveto'd you I am Celan. In certain flamen-can pictures, especially flamencanpaintings, the creator of the work ap¬pears. He can be seen looking throughan eyehole, a hole at the outer edgeof the painting. I am not at the con¬cert, but am transfigured into Celanby the kinship between the vision ofthe world that the poet Paul Celanhad and Gonzalo Rojas has. It is a se¬cretive poem but it can be takenapart. And then it is understood.LK: Thank you, Mr. Rojas.GR: Thank you. SEEKINGSUBMISSIONSfictionpoetrywritten in theRomance LanguagesSubmission boxes:Cobb130International HouseRomance LanguageOffice, WieboldtRomance LanguageLounge, Wieboldtor call Larry Krasner363 6026RLR funded by SGFCBach B Minor MassSunday, March 27, 19833:00 pmRockefeller Chapel Choir and Orchestraconducted by Rodney Wynkoop5850 S. WoodlawnTickets: 962-730016—Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983I am PersephoneI am Persephone bare breasted in the green,weeping, filling my skirt with lilies as of oldwhile my king below palms oil into the dark horses,waiting. What stirs my thoughts?Perhaps the whispers of my mortal enemiescrouching in bushes, cursing mefor the year of poor wheat. Or maybethe pulse length of these flowerstall as stalagmites. As he said before I left,his hands bulling into me, “If those abovecould but realize their glorylies in the season of death.”Nymphs reported me atop my black throne,indulging in a pomegranate,taking those seeds padded by bloodone by one, i had the composure of a queen.The air full of flowering dust.My life was a pure curse: I loved it.If those mortals could but realize the beautyof the grain’s sparseness they scythe.Black PaperAs there are two men in me,the one talking to you now,the other, running offlike an addled twin brother,thus it was he who lay in her bedand I who arranged his bonesfor my comfort, his handson her long bodyand he staring at the moon for me,disturbed: I thought of the giantkiss of light circling usand he of black paper with a hole.She asked me what I was thinkingand he told her my old dream:stumbling through rhododrendronin the rain, miserable.Later, the moon blanched the roomlivid white, the glare of his motionin my body feared me and later stillshe asked what he was thinkingand I told her his dreamof the rhododrendron bloomingin spring, flowers delicate as watermelting in his handgiving off a heat only hecould imagine. Stuck here, meand my other, always engagedin this battle of brothers. SonnetDelmore Schwartz spied on Eliot overseasthe way I watch you arm in armwith he whom I have never seenwho loves you with his teeth, hard& sharp as a pine splinter. Eliot’ssex life. Eliot downing five martinis.Eliot accepting in Stockholm, helotsin the crowd thinking him a god. Heknows the hair on your legs & the noiseyou make in dark which straining I canimagine, hearing it so long in day’sabsence it ceased to be a sound. Wanwith my own rumors l thrive on youas Schwartz loved the Eliot he never knew.The Source of the Riveri.I never found. Four yearsamong the insects of the junglelogging them in my journalrinsing my eyes in the river.I broke through the bush the lake’s first sightpredicted in each parting of fronds:a hint of blue beyond trees, onlyclouds, bloated over savannah,aching with water. Grassland’s edge.White streaks! No. Moths.My heart flapped its talk to the river, its sourceI never found.II.I skirted the mountain with my riverfinding only insects, nervous cloudsin mouth, eyes, saliva runny and black,lids pasted open with oily fragments.Mountain fading into red like an old moon.I scratched drawings by dark of their noise,bodies never long in one place. The river’strickle stopped, only a hum, skirting me,blurring the mountain near the river —III,.I don’t know who kissed in me this lust to go on,salmon flies settling in my rust tracks, moonbreaking, dust red through trees, singingthe vague origin of my search.Sonnet on the Yang-TzeYou twitch; a dream awakes you. I am nextto you, my eyeballs row across shut lids.You take up oars again, your muscles flex,one dream comes back, like fish ascending, lipsspread wide for air — where I arise, my haira stream of algae, body, silver, wet,and dive into the river, my deep lair.We’ve gone too long and not a town seen yet.The river, one huge steamy mirror. Dreamsmake me come to. A river god hove youaway. My love, don’t swim. Stay here, the gleamsof minnow frighten me! This river brewsin me the vapor of our death, afloatand drifting past our villages in this boat.—John Schism an*Chicago Literary Review Friday 11 March 1983—17TRENCHCOAT A JERRY LEIDER PRODUCTIONDAVID SUCHET • GILA VON WEITERSHAUSEN • RONALD LACEYMusio by CHARLES FOX written by JEFFREY PRICE «? PETER SEAMANProduced by JERRY LEIDER Directed by MICHAEL TUCHNER TECHNICOLOR®Released by BUEVA VISTA DISTRIBUTION CO . INC © 1983 Buena Vista Distribution Co . Ino□Hi DOLBY STEREO |* jPGiPARENTAL GUIDANCE SUGGESTED &STARTS TODAY AT A THEATRENEAR YOUSERVE IN APPALACHIAi *. m -zmmams..?May 21 -27, 1983July 23 -29, 1983August 6 - 12, 1983NEEDED: Catholic men to work with the Glenmary Home Missioners. a society ofCatholic priests and Brothers serving the poor of AppalachiaM Please send information about vour summer volunteer programs■ I‘leas e send information about (ilenmary's work with rural people of Appalachia andflu- SouthReverend John GarveyGlenmary Home Missioners Ropm 9 3Box 46404Cincinnati, Ohio 45246Name AgeAddressCity State Zip __ TAlSAfliVfJMCHINESE-AMERICAN RESTAURANTSpecializing in Cantoneseand American dishesOpen Daily 1 1 A.-8:30 P.M.Closed Monday1318 E. 63rd MU 4-1062GRAFF &CHECK1617 E. 55th St.APARTMENTSFOR RENTLarge2%,4 & 6 rm.apts.f/msneduz/eGrcupbasiayBU8-5566 MetropolitanCommunity Churchof the Resurrection5638 So. Woodlawn 579-1299Outreach to the Gay CommunityWorship - Sunday 3 pmJoin Us Now!Uglu Duckling^ RENT-A-CAR1608 E. 53rd Street$14.50 per day 200 Free MilesBetween 1C Tracksand Cornell 667-2800The Parent’s Associationof theUniversity of ChicagoLaboratory SchoolspresentsThe Gilbert & Sullivan Opera Co.** in fc*H.M.S. PINAFOREMandel Hall, 57th & UniversityFriday, March 11 at 8 P.M.Saturday, March 12 at 8 P.M.Sunday, March 13 at 2 P.M.Evenings: $7Matinee: $4All Seats ReservedTickets on sale at Mandel Hall Box Office,962-7300Unsold tickets will be available—2 for theprice of 1—90 minutes before eachevening’s performanceMARCH SPECIALSheboygan Bratwurston a home-bakedFrench Roll,withfresh fruit & aglass ofAugsburger(on tap)$2.95667-200018—Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983John Hollander: The Moral and Intellectual Dimensions of a PoetJohn Hollander is the author oftwelve books of poetry to date andhas recently completed his thirteenth,still in manuscript form. He is equallyrespected as a critic, and has longtaught at Yale University. This inter¬view was conducted early thisquarter by Judith Silverstein, whenMr. Hollander was visiting the Uni¬versity under the auspices of the En¬glish Department.JS: You talk about the relationshipbetween music and poetry in The Un¬tuning of the Sky, and you also use alot of color imagery.JH: Well, in that one poem, in thatlong poem.JS: Well, I don’t know. I found a lot ofgreen. . .JH: That might very well be. In thatlong poem, ^‘Spectral Emanations,” Ican tell you about it, I suppose — it’s asort of hunt across the solar spectrumfor the significance, the meaning ofmoving from one color to another.JS: Yeah, I noticed a kind of layeringof diction. You had sort of scientificwords that gave the sense of the spec¬trum as different wavelengths oflight, and then very powerful Biblicalimagery. How do you reconcile thosetwo?JH: Well, it’s all in the language andall in my experience. It’s all there. Isuppose one thing you might sayabout it is that my father is a scien¬tist, a physiologist, and I did havesome scientific training. And I sup¬pose I read and was interested a littlemore in mathematics than other peo¬ple might have been. And when l wasyoung I wanted my poems to be readby philosophers and scientists be¬cause I felt this was part of my world.Later I discovered that philosophersand scientists didn’t read poems, andalso that I couldn’t think as I used towhen I was young about writing for —I had to be writing for myself or someinvisible readers I’d conjured up sit¬ting over my shoulder, probably. Butcertainly that was true, and sciencehas been part of my world. There aretimes I’ve read Scientific Americanmore than literary reviews.JS: You have a very eclectic ap¬proach.JH: Well, that’s it. I suppose that any¬thing I’ve ever been interested in andheard about is part of the world, in¬corporated into experience, into auto¬biography.JS: In this interview in American Poet¬ry you have some nasty things to sayabout people who write from experi-©neeJH: Well, I didn’t — no, no, I don’tthing that was the case. I think we allwrite from experience. It's just aquestion of what you mean by“from.” The only, uh, I did havesome—JS: Well, your complaints seemed tobe against writers who think that it’senough to just distill experience with¬out bringing some thought to bear onit.JH: That’s right. I mean a pure reac¬tion to experience, unmediated byanything else is the scream that youemit if you drop something veryheavy on your toe. Now that’s a directresponse, unmediated, and yet it hasabsolutely nothing to do with poetry.I think the whole point about that isthat poetry is fiction, fiction that in¬vents our very idea of what experi¬ence is, and when poetry has most todo about life, it is most fictional aboutlife and what life is. And that’s be¬cause our very experiencing of lifethat we think is unmediated is itself afunny kind of poem we’re writing forourselves all the time. JS: What are your ideas about the lim¬itations of representation, in art andin language?JH: I think of course representation islimited by definition in one way, but itis far more unlimited in its lack of ri¬gidity in connection to what is repre¬sented than the authenticity of thething which is being represented. Isuppose that poetry, which is repre¬sentation, well, you see, any fiction ifenough people agree to use it andstop calling it a fiction becomes a per¬fectly good reality.And I don’t think that poetry whichis simply polemic with a jagged right-hand edge is not what I mean by poet¬ry. No more, you see, than anythingwritten in — well, up until the Mo-derinist period anything written inrhymed verse would be called bysome people a poem, and people whoreally knew what poetry was had toteach that, no, just because it rhymeddidn’t mean it was poetry. This, inci¬dentally, was one of the great uses offree verse and modernism, becauseyou could show something that waspoetry and that wasn’t rhymed, andso what makes rhyme-jingle rhyme-jingle doesn’t make poetry poetry.Now today we have just the opposite.Anthing with a jagged right-handedge and sincere is poetry. Just theway there were a lot of people whothought that anything that was senti¬mental and jingled was poetry, andthey’re just as wrong.Philosophy has developed some ofthe criteria for what art is. Poetry isart. So that there is a certain amountof making in it. I mean I could retreatto a certain kind of copout, retreat tothe etymology of “poetry” and theGreek word for “making,” and soforth. A poem is a lot more like abeautifully crafted pot or jar than it islike a picture or something or a repre¬sentation, that is, the two aspects orrepresentation are (a) the structure ofthe representing entity itself and (b)its relation to what it is repre¬senting.JS: Can you react to this quote ofAllen Grossman’s; he said this when Iinterviewed him last quarter: “Thereare no standards for poetry at thepresent time, there is no person mak¬ing judgements about poetry whosejudgements make a difference.” Whatdo you think of that?JH: Well, I think it’s true to a degree.Allen is some years younger than Iam, but we both started writing aspoets at the same period, the 1950s.At that time there were a number ofpeople who had authority. By which Imean that if any of those people hadnoticed what I was doing, and had said a kind word about it, I wouldhave felt, well, at least I’m in theright ballpark.JS: Critics at universities?JH: No these people weren’t all at un¬iversities by any means. Some ofthem were, some of them weren’t.They were poets and critics. Therewas a standard of criticism, so that ifone were serious, one would beashamed to produce ridiculous gar¬bage.JS: Piles of garbage on "the floor,right? What happened?JH: There are no people today withthat kind of authority. I can think of anumber of very good critics of verse,somebody who if they write some¬thing about a book that says it’s veryvery good, I will go read it. Not be¬cause the person has said so, but be¬cause the person could not say sowithout pointing out something, be¬cause the people just don’t blither,they have very high standards. Butthese are not people with...JS: This is not a school of criticism.These are individuals whose opinionscommand respect. Why did there usedto be and there isn’t any more?JH: Oh, that’s a long, complicated, sadstory. It has to do with the decline ofjournalism generally. There are notthat many newspapers, magazines;the quarterlies are not what theywere. There are some good quarter¬lies now, but a lot of them aren’t whatthey were, also, there is a lot morewriting in verse than there every was— you see, to detect bad free verseyou need a better ear than to detectbad jingle. Which might be an argu¬ment for saying — even though I don’twrite rhymed syllabic verse myselfnow — that there is something naturalabout jingle. So that anything with ajagged right-hand edge is publishedand approved of, as if there were nostandards that had to be met. Well, Idon’t think it’s that different fromprose, if you look at the fact that nonewspaper today except maybe theWall Street Journal has a copy deskanymore.JS: That makes it sound as if — okay,the changes in journalism — but thatmakes it sound as if free verse con¬fused everybody.JH: It isn’t that free verse confusedeverybody, it’s that everybody wasencouraged, without engaging anypossible critical standards to dothis...you see you talked about an ac¬ademic. I would call academic poetrytoday — most poetry is terribly aca¬demic in that it was produced by writ¬ing classes. You see, nobody in mygeneration spent much time in writingclasses, and if you ever took a class with a writer, it was always a class onsome text, and the writer was teach¬ing as a teacher. And there weren’twriting workshops. Now there arewriting workshops even in highschool, because in high school theydon’t teach people to write prosewell, so instead of that they sendthem to writing workshops wherethey produce shoddy things which arethen approved of because they’re sin¬cere.JS: Do you teach writing classes, poet¬ry writing classes?JH: I teach one verse writing class ayear at Yale. I never did before. Allthe time I’ve taught I’ve never donethat. As a poet on a university campusI’ve always been a literature profes¬sor; I teach texts. But I have taughtone verse writing class, an upper-level verse writing class. But it’s aclass in how verse is put together.JS: So the focus is technical, ratherthan on sincerity or whatever.JH: Yes. I think tnat can be taught,particulary because people don’tleern it by themselves. I want to teachinte'ested students to be able toteach themselves, Vhich is the wayreal writers always learn. There’salways some teacher in your life whoteaches you how to teach yourself. Ithink that’s the way it goes.JS: So in answer to the question, whatshould somebody who wants to be apoet do in college. . .JH: I would say study things. If youwant to study literature, that's allright, but study hisiory, or studyscience, or study languages in particu¬lar. And if there are other peoplearound writing, well, you can showwhat you write to them and look atwhat they do. But I would think that ifyou want to write poetry you mustread the greatest poets.JS: I want to ask you about bears.Why does everyone now write aboutbears?JH: I don’t know about bears. (He isannoyed at this question) Are peoplewriting about bears?JS: Well, The World According toGarp, John Irving, and I’ve just beenreading the biography of RobertLowell, and he had an obsession withbears, and you have a number of bearpoems. . .JH: Hmmm. Maybe we were all peoplewho n very early childhood had ted-dybears. That’s possible. . .I meanbears I think are remarkable. Del-more Schwartz wrote a wonderfulpoem called “A Fable of the Bears inWinter,” and then there’s that Alaskabrown bear poem. But that was be¬cause of a wonderful exhibit in NewYork at the museum of Natural Histo¬ry which I had, again, grown up with.A huge Alaska brown bear, seven oreight feet high.JS: A stuffed bear.JH: Yes, yes, a couple of stuffed bearsin a beautiful environmental group.JS: Hmmm, teddy bears and museumexhibits. . .JH: Teddy bears and museum exhib¬its, and having heard stones aboutbears, bears in American Indian cul¬ture and bears in fairy tales.JS: Of course, I don't want people tothink that Dears are your majortheme or something. Speaking ofwhich —JH: I think I don’t have themes.JS: I’m finding this very difficult. Itrying to —JH: Pin down what it's all like.JS: Yeah, I wanted to ask you aboutyour major —JH: My poetry, I don’t know, it’s thepoetry of a meditative Jewish intel¬lectual. You can think of my work askind of secular Midrash.Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983—19by David LeFeverShe is naked except for her black high-heels. Her mo¬tionless body leans awkwardly against a mirrored wall.Without expression in her face, her blank eyes stareback at the spotlight above. Suddenly, a loud, fast, dis¬torted rock song shoots through the bar. Reluctantly,she begins to swing back and forth at a pace muchslower than the music demands. She reaches up andhoids one of her sagging breasts, exaggerates a frown,and pretends to wipe a tear from her eye. Then, as if wehave all enjoyed her parody, she lets her breast drop,forces a big grin, and momentarily quickens the pace ofher grind. Two men abruptly stand up and walk out.Meet Dixie — or was it Daisy? I drank too much to re¬member her name; it was a stage name anyway. Dixiedances at The Fireplace, a once respectable establish¬ment in the still respectable Dupont Circle area. Theawning that once shielded outside diners from the swel¬tering Washington, D. C. sun is now a lattice of gray,rusting pipe. The ornate wood molding that outlines theexterior is rotting, and what paint is left is peeling intochips the size of dollar bills. But the fireplace of TheFireplace still remains. Cut into the beveled corner ofthe building, encased in white brick, an protected by aglass front, a seductive fire with tall, leaping gasflames beckons the reluctant inside.Dixie's eroticism was lost years ago, as was her en¬thusiasm; now she executes a ritual that has been per¬formed far too many times. No one seems to complainthat the details of her perfunctory poses are indistinctin the smoky haze and dim lights. Though I have neverwitnessed “erotic entertainment’’ before, Dixie doesnot hold my attention. It is April, but I spot a string ofunlit red and green lights still strung loosely above theworn dancing platform. “TODAY'S SPECIAL,’’ accordingto the handwriting on the chalkboard placed slightly tothe side of the dancers, is fried chicken and mashed po¬tatoes for $3.45. I can not imagine eating mashed pota¬toes while watching nude dancers. I glance around andnote that nobody is eating. My chair, with its beige tub¬ing, yellow wood, flat seat, and small square backrest,is unmistakably a discard from a local public school. Itry hard to make myself look and feel at ease.Dixie climaxes her ordeal by lighting a match whichshe has somehow stuck to one of her nipples. The nine orten men that comprise this sparce Saturday night audi¬ence are unimpressed. In fact, the men, most of whomare alone, appear comatose. The song ends, and an old,drunk man propped at the bar pierces the silence withhis boisterous clapping. Out of reflex, I join in — thoughfar less excitedly. Dixie surprises me by lifting her headand glaring at me with unexpected intensity. Boasting acoy smile, Dixie ambles over. She sits down without aninvitation.I am sufficiently curious and sufficiently drunk to pur¬sue a conversation. I immediately compliment her danc¬ing, and she perks up. She assumes the initiative andruns through the standard inquiries. As I am telling hermy first name and a simplified explanation of my work,I realize she is even older and less attractive than sheappeared while dancing. Her face is worn, her browneyes tired, and her crowsfeet pronounced. Her dirty- blond hair is uncombed and unwashed, and I think it oddthat she wears no makeup. Her pink ankle-length outfitis frayed, dirty, unrevealing, and unbecoming; it re¬minds me of a nightgown my mother often wears.The oriental waitress, who barely speaks English,strolls up and removes my empty bottle of Pabst. Shewaits for an order I offer to buy Dixie a drink if it costsno more than a beer Dixie asks for a vodka and tonicand instructs the waitress to charge $1.50 instead ofthe usual $2.00. The waitress turns back to me andstares indignantly when I tell her I am not ready for an¬other beer.Sipping her drink, Dixie emphatically insists that sheenjoys dancing. Predictably, she expounds on the goodfeeling that an entertainer receives from positive audi¬ence reaction. I ackowledge that it takes talent andpractice to be a good dance. She reminds me dancing isphysically demanding. “I’ve worked some of the bestWhat's in a Name?places, like the Gold Rush. You know the Gold Rush don’tyou — on 14th Street. They get some good dancers. Menlike my act, you know. I give a good show," she statesproudly. I see no point in asking how many years agothat was. Instead, I smile because I like that she pre¬tends, perhaps believes, that her livlihood is more legit¬imate art than cheap, lewd entertainment.Dixie senses my growing interest in what she is say¬ing, and she askes me how old do I think she is. I looksincere and say mid-twenties. With a genuine smile, shesays, “You won’t believe this but I’m thirty-seven.’’ Ibelieve her. Despite visions of her flabby backside andsoft stomach, I exclaim that she is kidding. She is anx¬ious to insist it is true. Actually, for a woman approach¬ing forty, Dixie looks great; she is right to take pride inher age. The waitress comes by and Dixie orders an¬other drink.I ask Dixie if she is a hooker. With no resentment ofmy question, she pronounces, “No. I don’t do that. Look,I’m married.’’ She holds up her hand and for the firsttime I notice a small gold band on her ring finger. “Myhusband’s a tree surgeon and makes all right money.We live out in Virginia,” she adds. I wonder outloudabout what a husband thinks of his wife stripping for other men. She hesitates and tells me that her husbandlikes her dancing, but he really didn t come to see herperform very often. Her tone is more strained and hergestures more subdued. I drop the subject.Dixie's confidence returns when she tells me that shemakes $60 a day, plus tips, and often works five or sixeight-hour shifts a week. I confess that she earns morethan I dc. ! see that the other girl dancing while Dixierests has a red garter holding several dollar bills. Dixiesays that she wears no garter because, “I don’t likethem feeling my thigh. I let them put a tip in my shoestrap, but they can't touch nothing else.” I nod, though I-suspect that it is far more revealing for her to lift herfoot up to the gentleman’s table to receive a tip than tostand flat-footed and have a bill placed inside agarter.Unprompted, Dixie tells me a story about how she wasdancing at a “high-class place” and had to defend her¬self against a man who had mistaken her intentions. “Atthis place,” Dixie reminisces, “I kept a baseball bat bythe stage. I can take care of myself, you know. This guytried to mess with me, and I hit him across the face withthe bat. I’m pretty tough if you don’t act right.” I thinkthat Dixie would not be dancing at The Fireplace if shewas as innocent as she suggested, but evidently shewanted me to behold her puritanical side.Dixie takes advantage of my receptive ear andbegins to ramble about her girlfriend who moved to afarm. I try to be polite, but I am distracted by the otherdancer who is younger, thinner, livelier than Dixie, andcloser to meeting the heightened expectations withwhich I had begun this evening. To avoid rudely turningmy head, I attempt to catch her act from her reflectionoff the mirrored wall. My view is obstructed, though, bya Icirge painted sign proclaiming, “9 INCH PIZZA — THEBEST IN TOWN.” The price of $3.60 is sloppily coveredwith masking tape and $4.00 is written below in blackmagic-marker. A lull in Dixie’s monologue jolts my at¬tention away from her competition.“How long have you been dancing,” I ask. “Since six¬teen,” Dixie replies unemotionally. “I never finishedschool, but school’s all right,” she adds. Dixie asks whatI studied. She convinces me that she would have been agood social worker because of her interest in psycholo¬gy. She once helped a girl who had run away. “I let thegirl cry on my shoulder,” she says very seriously. “I feltreal good about helping her. I know that I could be goodat that sort of thing.” I believe her.It is Dixie’s turn to dance again. The life seems todrain out of her as she trods up to the platform. Shegrabs a napkin from the bar and blows her nose. I amthirsty and finish off the drink that I bought for her. I donot feel cheated that it was only ice water. I watch Dixiemore intently this time. She detects my gaze and smiles.Dixie enjoyed our conversation, and so did I.She drops her nightgown and is naked except for herblack high-heels and a small gold ring. Reluctantly, shebegins to swing back and forth at a pace much slowerthan the music demands. She reaches up and holds oneof her sagging breats, exaggerates a frown, and pre¬tends to wipe a tear from her eye. I stand up and walkout.CONSIDERA PERSONALCOMPUTERSEE HOW THE KAYPRO II PORTABLE COMPUTERCAN ENHANCE WHAT YOU DO:WORD PROCESSOR— prepare & print papers briefs &booksDATABASE MANAGER—catalog & retrieve references,precedents, bibliographiesELECTRONIC SPREAD SHEET—manage a business, do finan¬cial analysis, prepare taxesDATA TERMINAL— communicate with other com¬puters for complete portabilityCALL RENE POMERLEAU AT 752-7362VALUE ADDED SYSTEMS1701 East 53rd St. • The Del Prado Mezzanine • 752-7362Training & Technical Assistance-Printer, Modems & SuppliesALL THISAND MOREFORs179500 ALAN MONTE FIORE (ED.)Philosophy in France TodayESSAYS BY.' BOURDIEU,DERRIDA, LEVINAS. LYOTARD, RICOEUR. ETC.ROSALIND COWARDPatriarchal Precedents:SEXUALITY AND SOCIAL RELATIONSSEMINARY COOP BOOKSTORE5757 S UNIVERSITY 752-438120—Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983yiT~n 111 m 11 n 11 rr~KTonight at 7:15 & 9:30 pm: Peter Sellers as the clum¬sy yet inimitable Clouseau in Blake Edwards’THE PINK PANTHER STRIKES AGAIN.Tomorrow at 7:15 & 9:30 pm: Another showing ofPeter Sellers in THE PINK PANTHERSTRIKES AGAIN.Sunday at 8 pm: ALEXANDER NEVSKY comes toCobb Hall.All films in Cobb Hall, 5811 S. Ellis.Separate $2.00 admission for allshows. Phone our 24-hour Filmlinfor more information: 962-8575NT I I I I I I DOC FILMS-6 17Potato Hot Breads=SaucePlus the bountiful Freshtastiks Pood BarWe now have all you can eat Breakfast BuffetSat. & Sun. Adults $4.50 - Children $2.50 flood thru March 15,1t«35239 Cottage Grove Mon-Thurs 11-10 Frt 11-11Sat 9-11 Sun 9-10PHOTOGRAPHIC & OFFICEFILMpkocessingRENTALSRATTER IE SRADIOSFRAMES MACHINE DEPT CAMERASPHOTO ALBUMSDARKROOM EQ.CASSETTE TAPERECORDERSVIDEO TAPEUNIVERSITY OF CHICAGOBOOKSTORE58TH ST. 962i7558 199 CLASSROOMS,MOUNTAIN VIEW.Ail our windows open to a great climate for learning: summer school in theColorado Rockies. Study Shakespeare under the stars, explore our rivers andsnow-capped mountains, and take classes w ith world-famous lecturers. We offerhundreds of academic courses, a w ide arrav of professional performing artsand recreational activities, and a distinguished guest and resident faculty.If you're window shopping for an exciting educational adventure, call us forinformation on our 24-hour line: (303) 492-7424, or write for a free catalogueUNIVERSITY OF COLORADO-BOULDERCampus Box 7Boulder, Colorado 80309Please M'nd me information on the following lutOProgramsPERFORMING ARTS' Colorado dancf festiv alluno 3-30~ COLORADO MUSIC FESTIVAL|uw 23-Julv 2*“ COLOR ADO SHAKESPEARE FESTIV Allulv R August IS- MLSIC THEATRE FESTIVALtune fi-Julv 23~ TEACHER RECERTIFICATION PROGRAM~ MOUNTAIN RESEARCH STATION (FieldEcology, Field Techniques in EnvironmentalScience, Mountain Geomorphologv MountainClimatology |I RECREATION PROGRAM AND FACILITIES~ SCHEDULE OF COURSES AND APPLICATION~ HOUSINGThe L nn ersitv ot Colorado DISTINGUISHED VISITING PROFESSORSSHIRLE3 CHISHOLM — first Hack, woman to enter Congress and to run torPresident ot the United States Women and Public Police"lulv ll-August 12DAVID L COSTILL— international leader in Exercise Physiology "ScientificPrinciples of TrainingJune b-Julv HTORL TAKFMITSL AND BERN ARD RANDS -contemporary composerswill lointlv teach Music in the 2IRh Century with master classes, incompositionlune 27-Julv ISTEW ART L LD ALl lormer Secretary ot the Interior under li>hn FKennedy The Environmental Movement Its Evolution and Impact on theBuilt Eny ironmentJuly 12-August 12ACADEMIC CALENDAR IUNE b TO AtcPsT 12, 1*83Name-Add rts> _Cit\Mail to University CoWado BoulderCampus Box 7Boulder CO80KN(303t 492-7424Line open 24 hoursan Equal Opportunity Affirmative Action institutionFar EastKitchen1654 E. 53rd St.955-2200Weekly LuncheonSpecialTuesday, March 15 •Saturday, March 1911 a.m. -2:30 p.m.TOMATO BEEF,FRIED RICE,fZ $239we accept major credit cardsr A PEASANT LUNCHFrench Onion Soup AuGratin served with Cheddarand Swiss Cheese andCrisp, Fresh Apple Wedges.French Bread from ourmorning oven—and a glassof house wine of yourchoice.*3.9553^ St.667-2000Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983—21I Keep Forgetting that People Dieby Martha KinneyBob Warhol used to speed around inhis parents’ fancy cars. One time hetore down a country road somewhereout in Arizona completely naked withhis girlfriend, the two of them drunkand happy until a cop started to chasethem and Bob floored it to escape.They finally were pulled over andforced to get out of the car naked. An¬other time he and Tootie took a trainall the way to Florida, rented a roomin a nice hotel then brought a bottle of Jack Daniels to the beach and got sodrunk that they passed out on thesand; got sunpoisoned to blisters andcame home on the next train, bundledin ace bandages and sloshing downwhiskey.The first time that I saw Bob he waswandering around barefoot and long¬haired at the beach. He stood with onehand on hip, smiling toothy and angel¬ic while his best friend and cohortChris Joyce, the big druggy in town,tried to pick me up, “Hey Martha, you wanna smoke a joint?’’The first time that I met Bob I wassitting through the first fifteen min¬utes of Biology class in my freshmanyear of high school and listening tothe fascist ex-football coach teacherMr. Barry explain what a hardcorecourse this was when Bob wanderedin late — a sophomore held back infreshman Biology, a scraggly guywith the most honest eyes. We tookeach others’ blood — he was type 0, lwas type B — and he was as afraid toprick my finger as I was to prick his.That fall we dissected frogs together,watched movies on the hazards ofsmoking and drinking, and togetherwe weathered the moods of Mr.Barry, the heartless professor withthe red vein that bulged across hisforehead whenever he yelled at Boband tried to humiliate him in any waythat he could.I was a good student. I studied andmemorized all of the definitions, Iread all of the material, I came toclass on time, performed all of mylabs gracefully and always cleanedup with Ajax and alcohol afterwards.But Bob was a bad student. He didn’tdo any of the work, he never studied,insisted that he couldn’t memorize thedefinitions, never read any of the ma¬terial, not once did he arrive on time,he was clumsy in the lab and alwaysleft me to clean up the alcohol that hehad spilled.One time Bob had to write a historypaper about the Civil War. He didn’tknow the dates. He didn’t know the country. He was lost in his own elationand suffering. He asked me over tohelp him with the paper. His motherliked me because I was helping Bobwith his homework, but I rememberthat she went out after dinner and Iwas surprised that she had left us allalone. They lived in a big house andBob had a water bed. We started totalk about the paper and then Bobwhispered that his girlfriend wascoming over and so we waited for her,and I tried talking about the paperand he said, “This is great, Martha, Iam going to get a C on this paper andthen I am going to go to college andthen I am going to be a banker...’’, butwe were waiting for Ne! and she cameand then Bob asked me to write thepaper for him but I wouldn’t. I wantedhim to start it so he started it and hecouldn’t even write a sentence.Bob couldn’t write one sentence buthis mother owned a Mercedes and aCadillac. She had a second husbandwho hated Bob but left her lots ofmoney when she divorced him. Thenshe dragged her son with her to ahouse on the other side of town andthen I lived just three blocks fromBob. He started dating Liz Niel — agirl who smoked Camels and drankmore whiskey than he did — but shecould keep a job and she even went tocollege. They loved each other fierce¬ly but Bob went away to college andleft her for some noisy girl. They cameto see me in Berkeley. My house washaving a party with a band and lotsof beer. Both of my brothers came andXBisfc> pn?nefion theEve of St. Patrick’s Day atINTERNATIONAL HOUSE1414 E. 59th ST.. Ifen// mc/ude&•BALMANOON SKINK (Soup)•SHEPHERD’S PIE• IRISH STEW•CORNED BEEF & CABBAGE• CORNISH HEN•CREAMED HADDOCK• DUNMURRY RICE•BRUSSEL SPROUTSAU GRATINWitA comfi/unenta/y'Stout anc/ ci/eLIVE ENTERTAINMENT BY:iJamArae/Z/ jtAa£icWEDNESDAY • MARCH 164:30 P.M.-7:00 P.M. TWO FILMS ON PALESTINE“We the Palestinians**A detailed historical account of the Palesti-nian/lsraeli conflict. From Palestine's begin¬nings to the 1970s the film is vivid, clear andtechnically first rate.Thursday. 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I D.The University of Chicago BookstoreOffice Machines & Photographic Dept.970 East 58th Street 2nd Floor962-7558 • 5-4364 (ON CAMPUS)22—Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983I fell in love with the guitarist; andBob came too, with his new girlfriend.I was laughing a lot and dancing and Itried to talk to Bob but he was up¬tight, the first time I ever saw himthat way. It was strange to see himnervous and pale in a lively crowd,and although he was smiling I couldsee that something was happening tohim. He was so much thinner and al¬though I had never had any before, Iknew now that I really didn’t haveany control over what was happeningto him. I remember one time I had lefthis house late at night and walkedhome in the falling snow and shiveredbecause I knew that he would die,that he would die really soon.Then one time months later l sawhim at Quint’s house. He was sitting ina chair and leaning over to one side. Itlooked like one half of his face wasparalyzed and I wanted to shake himand say, “What the fuck are youdoing, this isn’t funny anymore!’’ ButQuint nodded me away and told methat he had just done some bad drugand was still coming down. So I wentto Tootie’s and he said that they bothhad quit but that Bob had startedagain, only cocaine and booze for Too-tie but Bob was shooting up. And atone point they were doing acid ail thetime and then Bob did speed for sixmonths. But Tootie couldn’t be aroundhim anymore because they had had afight and Tootie had given up.You see it wasn’t the drugs. His sou!wa always pure. He was never machoor leather or chains in his habits, only soft and quiet. The only harsh thingthat he did was to break up with Amy,though I suppose he may have doneworse things because we never gotclose for long before he was off again.I do know that he had a brawling jazzsinger older sister who lived in thecity and avoided her Mom and herbrother as much as possible. She camehome one Christmas and we wereover playing pool and Cheryl waslaughing hysterically in thebathroom. Bob said she just did somegreat stuff and he winked at me but Ididn’t wink back. “You’ll kill your¬self,” I said and was quiet about allthe academic achievements I hadamassed since high school days.There was even a time when Bobwas in love with me and I grew warmand tingly at the thought. It was whenhe first came into Biology, those earlydays when we shared the wintermornings, when we smirked togetherat all the clean-shaven spoiled subur¬ban brats. Not that I was any better, Ijust felt different and special becausehe smiled at me a lot.Our mutual friend Tootie was a boyI had loved in the first painful mo¬ments of my childhood. Tootie and Ihad raised each other secretly. Heknew all my loves, he held me, ido¬lized me, made me into this greatwoman when really I was just anotherchild hungry for security and affec¬tion.Tootie came to me one night,knocked on the door. It was a schoolnight and I had just taken a showerSuNDAY LUTHERAN CAMPUS MINISTRYAugustana Lutheran Church5500 S. Woodlown Ave.8:30 o.m. — Sermon 8 Eucharist9:30 a.m. — Sunday School 3 Adult Forum:'The Liturgy"10:45 o.m. — Sermon G Eucharist6:00 p.m. — Campus Ministry Supper ($2/person)SUNDAY • MARCH 27 • 1:00 P.MFREE KITES!HYDE PARK KIWANIS CLUBFor info call Joe Clark 241 -6220 and Mom said, “You have a friendhere to see you.” We went down intothe basement, down into the dark,and he put his head on my lap and hiswhole body was shaking and he toldme that he had almost committed sui¬cide; but at the last second he hadthought of me and he had wanted tolive. I always wondered why. Now Isee it was the love that grows out ofweeds, the kind of affection he hadgrown accustomed to. And Tootienever killed himself, at least hehasn’t yet, and I hope that he doesn’t,though I feel that I have given up onhim because he likes to fight and hewent to jail once for giving a man aconcussion. But in his hair-rippingnights he has come to me with shot¬guns and lain them at my feet andsaid, “I want to kill myself but I don’twhen I am near you.”And I wonder if there was ever awoman like that for Bob. And, if therewas, it would be so awful if he hadgone to her and lain the gun at herfeet and she had kicked him in theface, though I guess his mother did itlong ago and so did his Dad. So I guessall this time has just been the delaybetween the trigger pulling and thegun firing and there was nothing thatI could do though I thought that at onetime I could have helped; but I don’tknow a thing about guns and even it 1had a wedge to slide in there Iwouldn’t know where to slide it; isn’tit that the stuff explodes from the im¬pact of the weight?So the door isn’t slamming across the street anymore. The wind hasstopped its tearing at the trees. It’seven starting to get dark on the daythat Hilary told me in an offhand waythat Bob Warhol had killed himself,and I ran into the bedroom and I cried,heaved so hard, it hurt so much, “Whydid you tell me? Don’t tell me thosethings!" I don’t want to know that allthose people in my past are dying. It’slike stealing the rockers from mychair and I don’t want to hear it. Wewere talking about how I didn’t havemany friends from high school and shesaid, “But Martha you do havefriends from home,” but then shestarted to name a few and she toldme, she said, “Have you heard thatBob Warhol killed himself?”All of a sudden there is this tunnelbelow me. Once I thought I was sittingon a concrete slab but now it turns outthat all this time it has been erodingand soon I wilt be hanging over thisbottomless tunnel with nobody leftfrom my past. I wonder if this is howI’ll always feel when somebody dies.But then I am lying on the bed and Irealize that Bob wanted to and thatmaybe he is having a good time nowanyhow. But still it makes me feel soblind. I keep looking at how beautifulthe trees are and I forget about it.The simple light in the sky is enoughto blind me from it. If I hear a song Iam happy to forget the wailing.Something inside me keeps makingme forget that people die, somethingthat I cannot control, something Idon't ever want to.ST PATRICK’S DAY SALE(Sale dates: 3-11 to 3-17)SPIRITS750 ML BEEFEATER GIN 7.99750 ML GORDON GIN 4.99750 ML GRANTS SCOTCH 8 YR. 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PATRICK’S DAY6:00 P.M. AND 10 P.M.FREE TICKET WITH S5.00 PURCHASEKIMBARK LIQUORS & WINE SHOPPE1214 E. 53rd St. • In Kimbark Plaza • 493-3355Stare Hours: Sun. noon • midnightMon. • Thurs. 8 a.m. - 1 a.m. • Fri. & Sat. 8 a.m. - 2 a.m.Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983—23i«p 1STUDY IN EUROPEThe University of Louvain (est. 1425)Leuven, BelgiumoffersCOMPLETE PROGRAMMES IN PHILOSOPHYFOR THE DEGREES OF B.A., M.A., AND Ph.D.plus A JUNIOR YEAR ABROAD PROGRAMMEAll Courses Are In EnglishTuition is J 1,500 Belgium Franks ($250)Write to: Secretary English ProgrammesKardinaal Mercierplein 2B-3000 Leuven, Belgiumc \This SummerBill Benway, “Cop Car in Africa: An Election in the Bottomlands”, 1983FILMThe Pink Panther Strikes Again (Blake Ed¬wards, 1976) Tonight and tomorrow at7:15 and 9:30. Doc. $2.Alexander Nevsky (Sergei Eisenstein, 1938)Sun 13 Mar at 8. Doc. $2.Six of a Kind (Leo McCarey, 1934) Thur 17Mar at 8:30. LSF. S2.Heinrich Boell on Film Through March onTuesdays at the Goethe Institute, 401 NMichigan (329-0915); on Thursdays atFacets, 1517 W Fullerton (281-9075).Rediscovering French Film Through 26 Marat the Film Center at the School of the ArtInstitute, Columbus and Jackson.443-3737.THEATERAmadeus A much-heralded “class” play ac¬cording to all the media hype. I found,however, this historical drama about Mo¬zart and the arresting idea that he mighthave been murdered by a rival composer,Salieri, nothing but a well-researchedstudy. That is, well-meaning and utterlylifeless. At least it might spur Mozart’srecord sales. Blackstone Theatre,through April 3. 977-1700. $15-32.50.—KFARTArl of the Avant-Garde in Russia Fab showcloses Sun 13 Mar at the Museum of Con¬temporary Art, 237 E Ontario. Today andtomorrow, 10-5; Sun, noon-5 . 280-2660.$2.Emerging Paintings by young local artists.Through 30 Mar at the Renaissance Soci¬ety, 4th floor Cobb. Tue-Sat, 10-4; Sun,noon-4. 962-8670. Free.Medieval and Renaissance Ceramics Through24 Apr at the Smart Gallery, 5550Greenwood. Tue-Sat, 10-4; Sun, noon-4.753-2123. Free. Lecture by Linda Seidel,“Vessels for Hearth and Health,” on Sun20 Mar at 1 in Cochrane-Woods 157, alsofree.Fantastic Visions Paintings by Bill Benway,Susan Bloch, Tony Kazlauckas, EllenGOODBYE KEITH;GREY CjlYPARTY103) SATURDAY] •; •AT DAVID ft All AMY'S Levin, and Jim Lutes and sculpture byChristine O'Connor. Benway’s combine in¬tense coloration and impossible situa¬tions; almost surreal. Bloch’s show oddcharacters in strong color; not quitePaschke. Kazlauckas’ are large, figura¬tive, male forms; scary. Levin’s depictcouples in a neatly-grown jungle; nice.Lutes’ vary: some are realistic portray¬als, others abstract; all are at least a lit¬tle weird. O’Connor’s pieces don't usethree-dimentional space in a traditionalfashion but are amusing nevertheless. Al¬together a very good show. Through 9Apr at the Hyde Park Art Center, 1701 E53rd. Tue-Sat, 11-5. 324-5520. Free.—DMPaul Strand This medium-sized show pres¬ents a number of the New York avant-garde modernist’s better-known imagesin several versions made with differentprinting materials and methods. It’s notin retrospect surprising that he settledeventually on the colder tones; others(Stieglitz, Steichen) did too. But whetheror not Strand’s explicit or implicit under¬standing of the transition to harder pre¬sentation found similar expression inother choices, particularly composition, isunclear. The transition to ‘straight’ pho¬tography implies a degree of formalism,but Strand’s variety is not excessivelyformal in relation to other examples ofstraight photography. This is evidencedby the relative preference these picturesgive to their centers at the expense oftheir edges and corners. None approachabstraction in the term’s usual sense. Inshort, Strand photos care greatly for thedirect representation of their subjects;and they’re really more interesting forhow they go about doing this than forwhat they manifestly ‘show.’ That theysucceed in their endeavor indicates notonly what some might call the artist's ge¬nius, but also the extent to which theworld now appears to conform to this sortof representation of it. Through 24 Aprat the Art Institute, Michigan at Adams.Mon-Wed, Fri, 10:30-4:30; Thur, 10:38-8;Sat, 10-5; Sun, noon-5. 443-3500. Admis¬sion discretionary except Thur, free.—DMPhotographers Invite Photographers Wide-ranging show of contemporary Americanphotography. Through 2 Apr at NAMEGallery, 9 W Hubbard. Tue-Sat, 11-5.467-6550. Free.Woman Is Watching You Paintings by JanetCooling. Through 23 Mar at Nancy LurieGallery, 1632 N LaSalle. Tue-Sat, 11-5.337-2882. Free.Performances “Selected Scenes from an Il¬lustrated History of the World” by Mi¬chael Meyers on Sun 20 Mar and “Select¬ed Scenes from Micropolis” by TheodoraSkipitares on Sun 27 Mar. Both at 4 atthe School of the Art Institute, Columbusat Jackson. 443-3710. $4.Kenneth Josephson 120 work retrospectiveopens Fri 25 Mar, 5-7 at the Museum ofContemporary Art; info above. At Cornell University you can enjoy aremarkable variety of courses andlearning opportunities. In a setting ofbeautiful lakes, parks, ravines, andwaterfalls, you can fulfill requirements,accelerate your degree program, orsimply take the courses that you’vealways put off. Ithaca, a smallcosmopolitan city, is located in amagnificent, varied countryside thatoffers you water sports and ball games,climbing and camping, theater andoutdoor concerts, soaring and biking,birding and hiking... Call or write to seefor yourself why Cornell is the place youshould be this summer.Cornell University Summer SessionB12 Ives Hall—Box 15Ithaca, New York 14853607/256-4987PRESENTSTHECANDOLI BROTHERSMarchlthru March 12MCCOY TYNERMarch 14 thru March 26L CLARK TERRYMarch 29 thru April 9Bring in this ad and we ll waive one cover,when one cover charge is paid.Valid through May12,1983.Continuous entertainment from 8 p m Performancesbegin at 9 p m. Tuesday thru SaturdayThe Holiday Inn Lake Shore Drive at Ontario Street-943-920024—Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983Buber once said “we mustmust imagine the real”, referring,at least, to the Bomb. Now Iputter from one bulletin board to another,posting; I collect signatures, scatterinformation. Gestures.I cannot imagine the real. I caneat and sleep without wondering. . .I talk about tomorrow.I hold my maybes tight andtry not to think of pillars of salt.(Einstein must have wishedto reclaim his elegant figures of thoughtfrom this nuts and bolts world, to turnthe internal vomiting of mushroom clouds backinto letters squirming on a page. TheRoosevelts, the men with the solid lines,are not dismantlers; they had survivedpeace at any cost, saddened.)A gentle man, in love with city harmonies,carries cigarettes that the jobless mightbum them, matches for striking up conversation.He is not a smoker, too preoccupiedwith the possibility of survival.Once he studied medicine or law, it doesn’t matter.Now he is sickened, turnsfrom piano to bongos to Russian,walks the dirtied streets wonderingwho he’s going to be talking towhen the sky turns red.E. GoodsteinFriday, April 8 • 7:30 & 10:30pmPeoples Church of Chicago941 W. LawrenceTickets: $10.50% $9 00 Reserved Seating($7.50 disabled, under 12 & over 60)I Information, Childcare reservation 8 ticket mail order' (SASE by 3/28): Midwest Women's Music Dist, 1420f Emerson St., Beloit. Wi 53511. 608/362-3222 Also at[ Ticketmaster outlets 312/559-1212 HWatch for Weavers ' reunion film "Wasn 't That A Time/"on PBS/WTTW-11, 3/16 8 3/19In ConcertTogetherwith JEFFLANGLEYSUSAN FREUNDLICHSIGN LANGUAGE ARTIST tDoes the End ofthe Term Mean theEnd of Your HospitalInsurance Protection?Short Term Hospital plan providesfast low cost "interim" coverage ifyou're in between jobs, or recentlygraduated.It offers a choice of 60, 90, 120,or 180 day protection. Comprehen¬sive coverage. Low rates. And thepolicy can be issued on the spot.That quick.Let me tell you the details of thisquick coverage plan.Lord & RogersInsurance Agency4747 West Peterson Avenue Suite 400Chicago, Illinois 60646282-6900 STUDENTS RATEStudents rate with us. If you're 18 or older, deposit. Most major credit cards acceptedall you need to rent from us is your current but not required. You pay for gas and returnstudent I.D.. valid driver’s license and cash the car to the renting location.Son-discountable rale applies tothis or similar-size car and is subject to chanqe without notice Specific cars subject to availabilityYou deserve National attention.National Car Rental'Available at:191 North Dearborn 236-2581640 South Wabash 922-26043115 N. Broadway 525-63457600 West 95th St. (Hickory Hills Car Clinic) 593-1410Palwaukee Airport (Wheeling, IL) 520-1670Lake St. & Rt. #53 (Addison, IL) 773-3117Midway Airport 471-3450Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983—255309 S. Blackstone • 947-0200OUR FAMOUS STUFFED PIZZA IN THE PAN IS NOWAVAILABLE IN HYDE PARKOPEN 7 DAYS A WEEK • 11 AM TO 12 MIDNIGHTCocktails • Pleasant Dining • Pick-Up‘Chicago’s best pizza!” — Chicago Magazine, March 1977‘The ultimate in pizza!” — New York Times, January 1980493-0666 • CALL ANYTIMEMies Promontory—New listing. 2 bedroom, 2 bath. $45,000.Co-op. Board approval required.University Park—North tower facing north! 1 bedroom. Pric¬ed to sell at $37,500.A “Million Dollar'” Kitchen goes with this 3 bedroom, 2 bathvintage condo at Jackson Towers. $112,500.Starter Condo—56th & Kimbark. (How much closer can youget to campus?) 3 rooms. $39,000.East Hyde Park—3 bedroom, 2 bath. Light, light condo. 55th& Everett. $62,000. Seller anxious.$25,000—3 bedroom co-op near Law School and new Centerfor Research Libraries. Lots of natural wood. Remodeled kit¬chen & bath.Condo On A Single-Family Home Type KenwoodBlock—Prarie School 2xh flat has 8 rooms, woodburningfireplace, garage. First time offered. Large studio alsoavailable. Both for $140,000.BRAND Used desks,chairs, files,and sofas8560 S. ChicagoRE 4-2111EQUIPMENT Open Daily 8.30-5Sat 9-226—Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983 SPACELooking for housing? Check InternationalHouse, tor grad students and for scholarsvisiting Chicago. 753-2270, 2280.Clean quiet building IV2 & 2Va studio apts New¬ly decorated included all utilities and Ap¬pliances. 225.00 to 270.00 mtb. 493-5250.CONDO FOR SALE1450 E . 55th StreetOne bedroom unit in move-in condition. Ownerleaving country Must sell! Pool. Indoor Park¬ing. Health Club. 24 Hour Security.Call Olga or Al 334-0010MATANKY& ASSOC.HPK Studio a/c lakeview 300 mo NOW 285 1835dys 363-0889 eve. Free Security FOR SALEBuick Skylark 1971. Good running condition,new tires, clean interior, no rust, tuned up.$800. Call 753-0049 or 753-0335.New Kenmore Dryer $150, Old Maytag Washer$50. Both $150. 955 4992. You haul.i960 VOLVO PV544 engine rebuilt ex. mech.condition MUST SELL $2000 or offer Call 5386979.1974 VW 412, auto. New battery, two Michelinradials under 1 yr. old. 108,000 mi. Enginegood, body needs works. Very reliable. Asking$700.962-8952 days 486-8348 eves/weekends.Stereo Sansui receiver 20w/channel AR turntblE lectrovoice speakers $125 955-4992 753-3870.Male room mates wanted to share spacious 3bedroom semi-furnished apt w 2 cats at 54th &Ingleside beginning spring quarter. To see call962-8184 9am-5pm.Attn, professors. Must rent: Gracious 3 bdrm.3 bath apt., East Hyde Pk., lake view. Conve¬nience, security, parking. Call Day/Eve. 643-1935.6100 S. Dorchester, 2 BR apts for rent, 1 & 2bath, cptd., stove & refrig., all electric, securi¬ty buzzer, 1 yr. lease, 1 mo. sec. dept., no pets,$435-5450. CALL Sharon at 369 8484 for appt. &SPECIAL rent rebate offer good till 4/19/83.Studio April 1 5539 S. Kimbark, main room,dining rm., kit., walk-in closet. Sunny-quiet.$300-CALL N. Devetak, 667-4008, 8 + 05, or leavemessage.Fern roommate wanted for 3-bed apt. 54th &Ellis. Partly furnished sunny bedroom, onminibus routes $175/mo call 947-0360 after 6p.m.APT FOR RENT6101 S. GreenwoodOne months rent will move you in. No securitydeposit required. Best credit application willbe accepted. Call 731 0303, 8am 8pm or 4932525.KIMBARK-IN HYDE PARKLimited Time OnlyThree bedrooms, 2 baths, Va block from shopping center, 4 blocks from the U of C. Studentdiscount will be considered. Apartmentavailable immed. Remodeled throughout. $650.Call Parker-Holsman Co. 493-2525Roommate Wanted: Large two bedroom apt.male, grad stu preferred. $230/month. CALLPatrick, 752 7152.Studios, one bedroom for rent. Grad. stud,pref. close to U of C. 238-7941. (May 1 & July 1) PEOPLE WANTEDPaid subjects needed for experiments onmemory, perception and language processing.Research conducted by students and faculty inthe Committee on Cognition and Communication, Department of Behavioral Sciences.Phone 962 8859.OVERSEAS JOBS - Summer/year round.Europe, S. Amer., Australia, Asia. All Fields,$500$ 1200 monthly. Sightseeing. Free info.Write IJC Box 52-14-5 Corona Del Mar, CA92625.Bookkeeper/accountant part-time. char. 684-4300Self defense teacher for children needed, HydePark Jewish Community Center. Experiencein teaching martial arts, preferably Judo, tochildren necessary. Monday class. For moreinformation call 268-4600.WANTED2 tickets to graduation 3-18 Will pay. CALLTim after 6: 871-0464.SERVICESJUDITH TYPES-and has a memory. Phone955 4417.JAMES BONE, EDITOR TYPIST, 363 0522.PROFESSIONAL TYPING-reasonable rates,684 6882MOVING AND HAULING Discount Prices onall moving and hauling free packing servicefree estimates references courteous Bill 493-9122. If no ans keep trying!Passport photos while you wait. On Campus.Other photo services available. 962-6263.Psychologist forming therapy group in HydePark to change women's longstanding struggles with uncontrolled eating. RosalindCharney, Ph.D. 538 7022.PROFESSIONAL TYPING. Large or smalljobs. Competitive prices. 324 5943, 667 4285.CATERING. Custom menus for alt occasions.Wendy Gerick 538-1324.Discount Moving and Hauling ReasonableRates and Free Estimates Seven Days a WeekDay and Evening References Available. CallTom 8-10 am 6 to 10 pm at 375-6247.Toddler Childcare Available. Experiencedcaregiver, small group, all day. 684 2820.Exp. Typist Turabian Phd Masters theses.Term papers Rough Drafts. 924-1152.DELI TRAYS - Cheese + cracker, fresh fruit,fresh vegetable + dip, sliced assorted meats,and anti pasto trays. Hyde Park Cafes 667-3000.SCENESWriters workshop PL 2-8377ROOMMATE wanted for comfortable,spacious apt w/frplce & hardwd firs in gothicbldg, top security, 2 blocks to campus; sunny,quiet room avail 3/24$275/mo; 241-6150 after 7pm.PAY ONLY $122/mt.: For rent + heat untilOct 1 at 53rd +Kenwood call early evening -684-8024.2 BR APARTMENT near 52nd and Blackstone,$355 call 684-5814 evening.BEVERELY SHORES - For Rent, by month 3bdrm turn. hse. -$540/mo. - utls. incl. - in woodswalk to beach 45 min. from U of C - Avail. May1 - ref. & sec. dep. required - 549-4186IN THE HEARTOF HYDE PARKBeautiful studio apt. for rent. Agent onpremises. 5424 Cornell Ave. 324-1800.SPACE WANTEDWanted Immediately: Black, mature non¬smoking female seeks 4 or 5 room apt, sharedapartment or home furnished or unfurn, htdmust be roach or rodent free, clean, quiet safe+ secure no children Hyde Pk or S. Shore 2381032.Gilbert & Sullivan's H.M.S. Pinafore,presented in Mandel Hall, 57th & University,March 11th & 12 at 8pm, March 13th at 2pm.Tickets at Mandel Hall box ottice, 962-7300.COOKING CLASSES. Chinese and Interna¬tional series. Wendy Gerick 538-1324.Quiche! Made ot all butter crust and variety ofnovel fillings. Hyde Park Cafes 667 3000.THAI COOKING CLASSES. For informationcall Wendy Gerick'sCooking School. 538 1324.RIDESGoing to Denver March 16 need riders. 7523029.Need ride to Wash DC during spring break.Will share expenses. Robert 363-8189 eves.Take me back East! Boston or NYC...as longas 1 leave this prairie for Spring Break. Anytime after March 16. Naturally, I'll share allexpenses. Call Kerry, 493-4471. Keep trying,leave message, I want to return to civilization!PERSONALSLook, we'll eat your cat, then if you feel a bitguilty about it afterwards we can dig a graveand you can throw up into it.To the Shoreland Resident who found mywallet in the vicinity of the Cove last Wed nightor Thursday: Thanks for returning it! KJMShorelandite w/sprained ankle: I still haveyour bike contact me soon Woodward CourtISRAELI FOLKDANCINGMondays 8:00 p.m. Blue Gargoyle 5565 S.University, 2nd floor. DONATIONS: $100Teacher: Dalla Paludis. Sponsored by HillelFoundations.GRADUATE STUDENTSWANTEDGraduate students are needed to judge the Na¬tional Parliamentary Debate ChampionshipsThey will be held at U of Chicago on April 8-9.Help: We will pay $5 per round (there will be 6rounds). No experience is necessary, we willtrain. If interested, call Vincent Hillery-241-7488, Ralph Casale-752-2240 (ext. 1601) or LisaBeckerman 753 2233 (ext. 315).APARTMENTSAVAILABLEStudios, one, two + 3 bedrms some Lake viewsnear 1C, CTA + U of C shuttle, laundryfacilities, parking available heat + water in¬cluded. 5% Discounts for Students - HerbertRealty 684 2333 9-4:30 Mon.-Fri.PDP-11 PROGRAMERSkilled in FORTRAN, MACRO-11 Assemblylanguage, and the Rt-11 operation system,needed urgently to write/modify programs forthe analysis of digitized speech waveforms. Noprior knowledge of speech analysis necessary,but prior experience of real-time programm¬ing of advantage. Will pay well for a high-levelof skill; the programs must be within 2 - 3 mon¬ths. Phone Professor S. Monsell (Dept, ofBehavioral Sciences) at 962-8834, or leavemessage at 962 8859.LATIN COURSEThrough CCTS at LSTC by appointment. CallFather Zborowski 324-2626 or CCTS 667-3500 x266.5234 S. Dorchester Ave.Walk to museums, parks, the lakeSTUDIO APARTMENTSFurnished and unfurnishedutilities includedLaundry roomSundeck • Secure buildingCampus bus at our doorCall 9-5 for appointment324-0200 LANGUAGECOURSESThrough Chicago Cluster of TheologicalSchools at the Lutheran School of Theology (on55th St.) Professional instruction by experienc¬ed teachers and/or native speakers in FREN¬CH/GERMAN/LATIN/SPANISH. Fees rangefrom $80 for 10 hours of instruction per quarterto $220 for 50 hours. SEE BELOW FORSPECIF ICS or CALL CCTS: 667 3500. ext. 266.FRENCH COURSESThrough CCTS at LSTC, Rm. 206. Beg. March30, 7-9 Fee: $110. for info/reg call CCTS 667-3500 x 266 orM. SCHN E IDE R 947 8176.GERMAN COURSESThrough CCTS at LSTC, Rm 203I Two quarter course (2nd qtr), beg. March 29,83II ADVANCED READING. Beginning March31, 1983. Wed. 7:30-9:30, fee $110III 16-WEEK INTENSIVE (Iwkbreak) Beg.March 28, 83 M/Th. 7:30 9:30, fee $220.IV CONVERSATION FOR STUDENTS WITHREADING KNOWLEDGE. By appointment.For infor/reg. call G.F. Miller, PhD. (nativespeaker) 363 1384 or CCTS 667 3500 x 266.GILBERT & SULLIVANH MS. Pinafore at Mandel Hall, 57th & University, Friday, March 11th & Saturday, March12th at 8 PM, tickets $7; and Sunday, March13th at 2 PM, tickets $4. Tickets at Mandel Hallbox office 962 7300.SPANISH COURSESI Beginning Spanish: Mo. 5:30-7.00 Rm 206 Fee$80. Beg. March 28 for info/reg call instr. C.Rosario 288 8289 or CCTS 667 3500 x 266.II INTERMEDIATE SPANISH: Tue. 6-7:30Rm 206 Fee $80. Beg. March 28. For info/reg.call instr. K. Beekie 947-0203 or CCTS 667-3500 x266.WANTED: ARTISTS ANDCRAFTSPERSONSArtisans 21-the gallery run by the artists, 5225 S.Harper, in Harper Court has a few openings forartists-craftspeople. For infor call 288 7450.Weekdays 12 6 Sat. 12 5 Sun. 1-4.POLARITYBALANCINGTo release tension and to re align you with thenatural healing energies. Non sexual l’/j hourmassage $13. Call Bob Reuter at 324 7530 for in¬formation or an appointment. Thank you.HELP FOR MONEY!If you are a Graduate Student, we will pay you$5 per round to judge at the AmericanParliamentary Debate Charmpionships. It willbe held on April 8-9 at the U of Chicago. Therewill be 6 rounds of debate, so you could earn upto $30 for listening. At U. of C., you do thatanyway, so anyone is qualified! If interested,call Vincent Hillery, 241-7488, Ralph Casale753-2240 (ext. 1601) or Lisa Beckerman 753-2233(ext.315).UNITED JEWISHAPPEALImmigration. Hospitals. Homes and centersfor senior citizens. Emergency aid for Jewishcommunities around the world. In Israel, theUS, and elsewhere, the UJA helps people in allthese ways. We are one and we need you tohelp in this spring's UC UJA JUF campaign.For more info, call Dave at 493-7651. ST. PATSINTHE PUBCelebrate St. Patrick's Day with Brian andPeggy Highland. Hill St. Blues 9 pm. Live con¬cert 10 pm-midnight. Emerald Isle Euphoria:Guinness Stout + Harp Lager at $1.25. 21 +over. Memberships at door.FULLTIME SECRETARYPermanent, good typing skills to train formedical dictation -f word processing in HydePark Call Charlotte 684 4300HOTLINEWhen there's an emergency or when you'redown Dial 753-1777 from 7pm-7am.CAMPUS DISTRIBUTORUSA Today, the new national newspaper, needa campus rep to sell and deliver newspapersM F mornings on campus run your ownbusiness good earnings call P Glancy 800-36830240 or 953-2111.CATSHomes wanted for 2 affectionate cats (mother& son) Neutered, housebroken, all shots. Fern,shorthaired tabby, and longhaired ginger tom.Call 643 1251 after 6.SOPHOMORESAnxious to explore a new career path? Con¬sider the field of compensation and benefitsUnique paid internship opportunity.Sophomores only. Must have minimum 3.0GPA. Limited number of applications still being accepted. Inquire at U. of C. Placement Of¬fice in Reynolds Club or contact:I.F. INTERNSP.O. Box 69Brookfield, Wl 53005414 786 6700OFFICE ASSISTANTBright and cheerful individual with interest inforeign languages, wanted to answer phonesand assist with general office duties Will trainon word processor. Opportunity for advance¬ment. Call 332-6577.AMADEUSAward winning Broadway play. Discount tktsfor April 3 pm $8.75. On sale until 3/18/83 SAORm 210 Ida Noyes 753-3592.ST. PATSINTHE PUBCelebrate St. Patrick's Day with Brian andPeggy Highland. Hill St. Blues 9 pm. Live concert 10 pm-midnight. Emerald Isle EuphoriaGuinness Stout + Harp Lager at $1.25. 21 +over. Membership at door.STUDENT DISCOUNTSSee Amadeus, the Mikado and Twyla TharpDance Co Call 753-3592 for info.IRISH DINNERon the eve of St. Patrick Day, InternationalHouse presents a Gaelic menu that includesBalmanoon skink (soup), shepherd's pie,creamed Hadjock and Dunmurry rice. Complimentary stout and ale with live entertain¬ment by SAMHRADH MUSIC. Wed., March 16,4:30p.m.-7:00p.m. 1414 E 59th. WATCH YOUR PLANTS THRIVEin this southeast corner condo nearcampus with extra large sunporch,new kitchen, 17 x 13 dining room, 2bedrooms and bath. Natural woodmantel and doors make this unit veryspecial. $60’s.COMPLETELY REMODELEDstudio apartment. New walls, kitchen,bath, carpeting. It sparkles. Conve¬niently located in central Hyde Park.It’s a buy. $20’s.UNDERSTANDING SELLERSWILL HELP you find financing to fityour needs. A lovely 1 or 2 bedroomapartment in University Park maynow be possible for you. Off streetparking is included.LOCATION - LOCATION - LOCA¬TION - in the golden circle, this 2bedroom and 2 studies condo is anideal campus home. This unit has alovely yard, modern kitchen, andsuper space for study. Price reduced -$60’s.SPACIOUS STUDIO - 2 large roomsin this walk-to-campus building arepriced right for the single homebuyer. Large closets, oak floors, lotsof sunlight, and excellent campuslocation make this a good buy. Low$30’s.OPEN HOUSEOn Cornell AvenueSaturday, March 12th1-3 p.m.5522 Cornell5439 Cornell5443 CornellHILD REALTY GROUP955-1200BEAUTIFUL HAMPTON HOUSE ... 1 bedroom. A special home with 24hr. security and safe parking. Large,lovely rooms. Completely remodeled.Carpeting. Views of park and lake.The mortgage is assumable. This onefeels like home $50‘s.LARGE BACKYARD, hardwoodfloors and spacious rooms highlightthis 3 bedroom condo in a recent con¬version. Mid $50’s.LIVE IN THE CITY/live in the coun¬try. Now you can do both in thissecluded country home right in HydePark. A most unusual property with 4bedrooms, 2 baths, and over sized liv¬ing room - dining room area and eat-inkitchen. This is a gardeners delight.Affordable, too. Low SlOO.OOO’s.CLASSICAL CHARM PERVADESthis converted hi-rise building. Highceilings, large bay windows, cedarclosets and spacious room designsmake these 2 and 3 bedroom unitsespecially attractive. 0% or low in¬terest financing arrangements areavailable. Price includes newly sand¬ed hardwood floors and as is ap¬pliances. 2 bedroom/2 bath $60’s, 3bedroom/3 bath $80s. Financing ar¬rangements to fit your needs.PRICE REDUCED - this price can’tbe beat for a 1 bedroom at the Hamp¬ton House. Excellent securitybuilding, newly decorated, ready formove-in.LOVELY OAK WOODWORK,brick-faced sunporch, back among thetrees and a light southern exposure allmake this 1 bedroom (or convertible 2)condo in the $60’s on the edge of the Uof C campus a special selection.hilq realty group1365 E. 53rd St., 955-1200Cornell Law SchoolUndergraduate Prelaw ProgramJune 6 to July 19, 1983A demanding six-week programfor college students who wantto learn what law school is like.For further information write to Jane G. Death.Cornell Law School, 634 Myron Taylor Hall, Box 15,Ithaca, NY 14853Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983—274Curry PowderIn the crowded market stalls,on a spit over a row of fatstuffed sausage intestines,amid the loud buzzing fliesand close sweaty housewives,and foreign voicesand squabbling merchants,was skewered the red headof a pig.So covered in curry powderthat droplets congealedalong the closed eyelids,and ran in rivuletsthrough its stringy beardand fat formed creases.Curry, to protect its bodylessdead grinning facefrom diseases.—David SullivanOrange JuiceThere were melancholy wisps of snowcreeping out of a low cloud-cover;I thought that the way they caughton concrete underfoot was special,and they reminded me of the cold,and of putting my hand in your pocket,holding your curled fingers under mine.You were mixing orange-juicethe other day when you were here;you woke me with the sound of waterrunning cold into the bottle. It Isn’tas though I had wanted more than orange-juice.But there it was today, half-emptiedin my disordered refrigerator,with pulp like orange broken ice at the top.It is odd, now that you have written,told me how odd it is, that l didn’t noticehow it was that you were leaving;last night, or this morning maybe,I started singing “Loch Lomond’’ to myself(I was doing the dishes or something,and dried my hands on your cotton towel),and suddenly I noticed you were gone.Damn, but it’s funny in a way,if you like perversity of thought:I recalled the tangled minds we had, for monthswrapped in the problems of sex.And now you’re gone. All of our problemsare solved now.—Jeremy DownesIt is that I realize the possible beautyof such colors as I look at her facewhen she is wearing acolored scarf!—Daniel Brownsteln Meeting the DeadlinesEach year is layered,monotonous, like the seaas it rushes to clear its own path —an unexpected swell at your backpushes you over the next riseto face another, identical. This istrumped-up progress, supported and damnedby the persisitent horizon, still,to loiter here is to drown.IIIIV I have given myselftill the end of winterto mend friendships splitdown the middle like trees.I have given myself till summerto shed my old selvespainlessly in the grass. A slicknew seif emerges quick as a knifeand goes off to doggedly slam its headagainst new heels, moving alwaystowards the parting of the lawneven as it parts the lawn.The deadline, before me, Is irresistible.Like punctured spaceit pulls the days toward it.Still it supplies energywhile devouring it, since onehastens to meet it, believingIn fresh starts — ^~ £$ %■ "but I begin to suspecta fallacy — when the yearis ringed like an onion with deadlines,with no straight path cutting through;I begin to mistrust them as distancemarkers, as augurs of a futurefirmly held and unconditional,where one works for the dayand freely loots the wide world.—Jenny Mueller28—Chicago Literary Review, Friday 11 March 1983