Ricardo Gullon p.6 Tristan Tzara p.193 June 1983Aa%KSATURDAYSDINNER ■SPECIALSATMORRY'Sin the "C" Shop5:00 p.m. to 7:15 p.m.OUR FAMOUSV2 BBQ CHICKENwith cole slaw, roll, potato chipsand beverages ONLY259JUMBO HOTPASTRAMISANDWICH ONLY159JUMBOITALIAN SAUSAGETOPPED WITH OUR OWNSPECIAL SAUCE ONLY| 09JUMBOTURKEY SANDWICH ONLY159ONLYHOT DOGS 39(BUY 3 CHICKEN DINNERS IGET 1 MORE ' 1 FREEBUY 3 SANDWICHES 1GET 1 MORE 1 FREEBUY 2 SANDWICHES get 1EITHER AN ICE CREAM or BEVERAGEl FREEMORRY'S DELIIn the "C"-Shop1131 East 57th St. The Medical Alumni Association^ presentsThe 1983 Scientific ProgramTODAY!Billings Hospital Auditorium - Room P-117Featuring:1:35 p.m.: The Doctor's Lady with the Bound Feetllza Veith, Ph.D., D. Med. Sci. 'Professor Emeritus, Department of History ofHealth Sciences and Psychiatry, University ofCalifornia-San Francisco2:00 p.m.: Chronobiology of Sleep and Wakefulness in ManElliot D. Weitzman, M.D. '55Professor of Neurology, Director of the Institute ofChronobiology, Cornell University Medical Col¬lege, New York Hospital - Cornell Medical Center,New York3:00 p.m.: Privilege vs. ResponsibilityEdith H. Schoenrich, M.D. '47, M.P.H.Associate Dean for Academic Affairs, The JohnsHopkins University School of Hygiene and PublicHealth, Baltimore3:25 p.m.: The Rational Place of Limb Salvage Resectionsin Sarcoma SurgeryWilliam F. Enneking, M.D.Distinguished Service Professor and Eugene L.Jewett Professor Orthopaedic Surgery, College ofMedicine, University of FloridaFor further information, call 962-6567.Open to the PublicSUMMER COURSESINTENSIVE COURSE June 13 - August 19, 9:15 - 12:00 M-Fin Hyde Park. This 10 week introduction to Mandarin Chinese covers thematerial presented in most lst-year college level courses. Special attentionwill be given to current popular usage in the Peoples Republic of China. Basiclistening and speaking skills will be developed in the first half of the course,primarily through sentence pattern drills and 'free conversation' exercises. Inthe second half, Chinese characters will be introduced, and students will learnto read and write in Chinese as they continue to improve their oral and auralabilities. $690 fee includes text and language tapes. Enrollment limited to 12.EVENING COURSE - BEGINNING w u-August 18, 6:45 - 9:00 Tuesday & Thursday evenings in Hyde Park. Thiscourse will cover Mandarin Chinese pronunciation and basic everyday con¬versation. Students will learn to use the official Pin-yin system of romaniza-tion. $250 fee includes text and tapes. Enrollment limited to 12.EVENING COURSES - INTERMEDIATE& ADVANCED Advanced. Please inquire.INSTRUCTOR Chen Yang Borchert - Senior Lecturer in Chinese.Former writer & editor for Radio Peking.For more information, pleasecall afternoons or evenings.493-64202—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983ftttGSALE DATES: 6/1-6/4FEATURING GREEK &MIDDLE EASTERN FOODS!FRESH!REG. 12 PACKSESAME or WHEAT 6 PACKSYRIANPITA BREAD17 OZ. BERTOLIREG. 3.07OLIVEOLREG. 3.69FETACHEESEFRESHGROUNDLAMBNEAR EASTGRECIAN DELIGHTFROZENGYROS16 OZ.ZIYAD BRANDSYRIANFALAFELORGANICMEDJOOLDATES32 OZ. JARSALAD DRESSINGMIRACLEWHIPCERTUSAVERBIG ROLLSCOT CQiTOWEL 3910OZ.TROPICANAFRUITDRINK6 0Z. TINCONTADINATOMATO 4/OQiPASTE 0/09BROCCOLIFINER FOODS.SERVING.53rd PRAIRIE SHORESKIMBARK PLAZA 2911 VERNONWhere Y ou Art A Strange' But Once’ Poems by Mite Alper, Ann Keniston, Jeremy Downes, and David SuKvan: p. 5Tribute to Ricardo Gullon: p. 6"Celebration" by Amanda Lee Brooks: p. 8Honorable Mention — Chicago Literary Review Short Story ContestPoems by John Schulman: p. 10Poems by W.R. Johnson and Robert Lima: p. 12"Dreams" by Minhhuyen Nguyen: p. 14Winner — Chicago Literary Review Short Story ContestAn Interview with Wliam Gass: p. 16Five Poems from Dada: p. 19Poems by Campbel McGrath: p. 20Portrait of Isaac Rosenfeld: p. 23Translations from Sanskrit: p. 25"I Gave My Love a Chenry" by Terra 2poryn: p. 26Honorable Mention — Chicago Literary Review Short Story Contest'The Soldier's Wife" by N. Butcher (Poem): p. 29emsommsimEditor: Paul O’DonnellEditorial Staff: Nancy Butcher. Campbell McGrath, Jon I. Roberts. John Schulman. Judith SilversteinProduction: Nadine McGann. Beth Miller, David MillerThe Chicago Literary Review is published quarterly by The Chicago Maroon, the OFFICIAL student newspaper of the University of ChicagoEditorial and business offices are located on the third floor of Ida Noyes Hall, 1212 East 59th Street, Chicago IL 60637. Phone. (312) 962-9555This issue is vol. 92 no. 59 ^Copyright 1983 Chicago Maroon.The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—3DISCOVERHIDDENTREASURESatHYDE PARKARTISANSOPEN HOUSEJune 4 & 5Original Batiks,£}) Paintings,Drawings, JewelryWearable Art, Ceramics,Greeting Cards, aMenagerie of StuffedAnimals and More!All But Hidden Away At57th & Woodlawnat the Unitarian Church2 blks west of the Art FairHours: Thur 12-3; Fri 12-3Sat 12-4: Sun 10-1Extended Art Fair Hours:Sat 12-5; Sun 12-5RockefellerChapelHoly Communion10:00 & 11:00a.m.Religious Educationfor Children11:00a.m.University Religious ServiceMARTIN E. MARTYFairfax M. Cone DistinguishedService Professor in the DivinitySchool and in the Committee on theHistory of Culture12:15 p.m.Carillon Tour & Recital International HouseSpeaker Series PresentsMr. Larry BloomAlderman of Chicago’s Fifth Ward“HAROLD WASHINGTON’S ELECTION& THE FUTURE OF COALITION POLITICS”Wednesday June 8 International House8:00 P.M. • Homeroom 1414 East 59th St. PRESSES up to 25x58...Fast print to 22x28The Southside's largest andmost complete print shopOffset & LetterpressLAYOUT & ARTPHOTO COMPOSITIONOver 100 typestyles forbrochures, books, ad books- all your printing needsComplete Bindery includesa stitching, perfectng, plastic binding, diecutting, embossing, hotstamping, eyeletting, tinning NPRINTHU 7-3142 UNIONLABEL5832 So. GreenIT'S 22 YEARS LATER,AND NORMAN BATESIS COMING HOME.OPENS JUNE 3rd AT ASELECTED THEATRE NEAR YOU 8m4—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 198311»Collecting ThingsThere are seashells on the window sill.He is touching them and tryingto remember their names.He wants to be a philosopheror a poet. He thinks he understandsThoreau, the ideathat it is easier to beclear waterthan a fisherman. He wantsto make up metaphors but thingskeep changing: the seaturns shells, pebbles,everything to sand; Thoreauwas not a philosopherbut a boy trying to bea man. Every fishermanneeds a line, a hook,a little practice. His poemsand essays are fullof the beach, the sky,the woman he loves. Shemoves as easily as an ideathrough his mind. To himshe is as simpleas the tears she weepswhen peeling onions;when he holds her, he thinksof other men lyingwith their lovers andis reassured. Sometimeshe tells her of the bookshe reads and then pointsto the window as ifthat could explain the thingsthey do notmention, whetherto have children, the qualityof love. When she sleepsbeside him, he touchesher eyes and repeatsmarianne, mariannewithout thinkingof anything else. His deskis covered with papersand beyond, the dunes are alwaysthere, the tideis coming in, and the windis flailing the thin grasses.— Ann Keniston Advice to an InsomniacTry adding up the hours you have frettedOut of sleeplessness. Think what portion of a lifeWhose length those hours might comprise.Every reproachful minute in the darkWith the radio booming Mahler, whom you hate!Think of the child you might have bredOut of that regret and the foredawn’s riotOf birdsong. Those vacant wakeful hours,Strung one to one, get you a daughter —Or would have, were the night and youMore than old friends who like to knockA glass back now and then and weepOld miseries together.But the night is an old lover,Married to an unacknowledged rival.What does she see in him? And why has he let herLose her figure? All those waking dreamsFidgeting always in the corner of your eye,Tumbling like puppies that crouch and shiverWhen you draw near, are other men’s childrenWho will not call you Uncle. I rode on a trainOne night with a child named HopeWho recited each word like a prayerOr a lesson but sobbed at the sight of meNext morning. Real children are a dreamThat need never recur, a singular occurrence,The ultimate in one-night-stands. Maybe it’s timeYou started a family. Begin by marrying the morning.—Mike AlperForYou who speak simplyof pain, and painfullyof pleasure, who holdout hope against allBluesBlue is the colorof my true love’s hair,the dyeing ritualnow grown habitual LetoShe is chewing eucalyptus,and carries four-leaf clover:the moon demands precautions.She isn’t taking chances;with her teas, datura, vervain,leaving her insensatein incense-clouded chambersunder DelosShe is taking chances.— Jeremy Downes hope. Robert Creeleyyou tear youself intwos, in threes, an oldhitch-step wailingblues. Is there, everanother way to writethen from ones ownself -ish -less -ness.— David Sullivan— David Sullivan ■The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—5^ oybJaiti—♦»ADavidMiller * "• ■ "" ■ ™Departure of theby Mercedes JuliaThe renowned literary critic andprofessor in the Department of Ro¬mance Languages and Literature Ri¬cardo Gulldn is finishing his lastquarter at the University of Chicago.Mr. Gulldn is one of the world’s lead¬ing authorities on nineteenth- andtwentieth-century Spanish and LatinAmerican literature. He is author ofmore than two dozen books, over six-hundred articles, and has presentedat least a thousand lectures over thelast fifty years in Europe, and inNorth and South America. Since 1974,he has set standards of excellence ineducation and research for the De¬partment. His vitality and good na¬ture, matched with a broad knowl- Gentleman Scholaredge of literature, have inspiredstudents and faculty here, as well asthe authors and poets who have atone time or another been the objectsof his investigation.Mr. Gulldn has brought distinctionto the Department of Romance Lan¬guages merely by his association withthe University. His role, however, hasbeen an unusually active one. His ac¬tivities on campus have helped tocreate an atmosphere conducive toeducation and research. Through hisconnections in the literary world, theUniversity has been fortunate to hostlectures and readings by major Hi¬spanic writers. Recent visits by Span¬ish author Juan Benet and poet Jos4Hierro were made possible by his friendship with them. He has aidedcampus literary efforts as well. The1974 Chicago Review issue on LatinAmerican Literature was in large partsuccessful due to his guidance.The poets, writers and artists withwhom he has worked, among themJuan Ramdn Jimenez, Jorge Guillen,Joan Miro, and Jorge Luis Borges,have felt his influence on their work.When Nobel prize winner Juan RamdnJimdnez intended to rewrite all of hisearlier poems in prose, Gulldn wasable to convince him to leave them asthey were, arguing that they be¬longed to an earlier period. His contri¬butions to literary criticism have ledAngel del Rio to refer to him in the au¬thoritative Historia de la literaturaespahola as one of the most importantliterary essayists of our time, saying,“his erudition and deep understand¬ing of Spanish thought and writings iscoupled with good taste and impartialjudgment.”Among his best known books are(titles translated): Autobiographiesof Unamuno, The Techniques ofGaldds, The Secret Galleries of Anton¬io Machado, The Poetry of Jorge Guil¬len, Contemporary English Novelists,Space and the Novel, From Goya toAbstract Art, and Psychology of theAuthor and the Logic of the Charac¬ter.In addition to teaching a full courseload during this past year, Mr. Gulldndelivered talks throughout the U.S.and Spain on Jimdnez, Ortega y Gas¬set, Garcia Lorca, Guillen and others.He is also a prolific letter writer, an¬swering letters from all over theworld seeking documentation andleads for other writers.Mr. Gulldn’s awards accumulate ata commensurate pace. Last year hereceived the Gold Medal from the In¬ternational University in Santander,Spain. This year he has been inter¬viewed on Spanish television severaltimes, and was nominated Man of theYear in Leon, Spain. He was recently honored with the title of Ashbel SmithProfessor Emeritus at the Universityof Texas, where he taught for sometime and was given a homage-recep¬tion by the Association of SpanishDoctors and Professionals in Miami.Students at the University of Chica¬go will remember him most as an ex¬cellent teacher. “I get very excitedwhen I see a spark go off in the mindof a student,” Mr. Gullon has re¬marked. “Young minds keep one in astate of alertness — teaching is a con¬stant challenge.” And Mr. Gulldn’smind is young and vital, perhaps theyoungest in the Department. His senseof humor makes classes very inter¬esting, and the wealth of anecdotalmaterial he supplies about modernauthors, many of them personalfriends, provides students with avaluable framework for better re¬search and comprehension.Teaching is Mr. Gullon’s highest pri¬ority, and he has said that he is hap¬piest when teaching undergraduates.Despite the great quantity he haspublished, he says, “Teaching comesfirst, then writing. I feel that the em¬phasis on publishing at the expense ofteaching is harmful.” The most criticalevaluation of Mr. Gulldn is that hepushes his students hard, requiringthem to give their all. His stay at theUniversity of Chicago has been ex¬tended past retirement age once, andwhen it was announced that thiswould be his last regularly scheduledquarter, the students in the Depart¬ment petitioned unanimously that hebe retained.Mr. Gulldn is a sociable person, whoenjoys a cup of coffee, a beer atJimmy’s, or a party. He is a very openperson who makes people feel athome in his presence.Few people know that literaturewas a passion of his at a time when itwas not his profession. Mr. Gulldnwas a distinguished prosecutor for 25years, and served as Assistant Attor¬ney General and Attorney Generalfor the provinces of Soria, Alicante,Santander, and Madrid prior tochanging his career. While AttorneyGeneral, he was already editor of anumber of literary magazines and acontributor to Ortega y Gasset’s eliteliterary journal, Revista de Occi-dente. His transfer to his position inSoria came about at his request be¬cause he wanted to be close to thesource of Antonio Machado’s best po¬etry.Ricardo Gulldn was born in 1980 inAstorga, Spain to a well-known fami¬ly of the region. He was married toLuisa Palacio in 1934. He has threechildren and three grandchildren. Hisson, Germdn, has followed in his fa¬ther’s footsteps as a professor ofSpanish and Latin American litera¬ture at the University of Pennsylvan¬ia.A number of books have been writ¬ten about Mr. Gulldn’s work and areavailable, including Los Anos Santan-derinos de Ricardo Gulldn, by AurelioCantalpiedra and Pablo Beltran deHeredia, La obra de Ricardo Gulldn,by Barbara Bockus Aponte, and ahomage paid to Gulldn by Spain’smost distinguished literary journal,Insula (June 1971). A small bibliogra¬phy of his work may be found in Dr.Aponte’s book and in the Insulaissue.While Mr. Gulldn will continue to beavailable for a few weeks each yearduring the Spring quarter, his depar¬ture will be felt as a great loss to theUniversity of Chicago.Ricardo Gulldn (right) and Jorge Luis Borges, spring 19806—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983r \DR. M. R. 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Chicago"Knowledge of artis not enoughto make one a criticany more than knowledge of artis enough to make one an artist.The student who turns to art inorder to avoid reflecting upon hiscondition may become a special¬ist, a connoisseur, but not a critic.For the latter exists through curi¬osity, indignation, and the widestpractice of intellectual freedom"The art critic is the outpost ofthe an educator."So wrote Harold Rosenberg inCriticism and Its Premises, one ofthe essays in the selection ARTON THE EDGE Creators and Sit¬uations. Reviewing this volumein The New York Times BookReview, Corinne Robins said ofthis particular essay: "To mymind, his piece on art criticismand the distinction between itand art history is alone worth theprice of the book."Now available in paperback isthe above selection and fiveothers by the notable art criticfor The New Yorkerwho, untilhis death in 1978, so brilliantlychronicled a rapidly changingand intensely exciting period inAmerican art.Art on the EdgeCreators and Situations75 b&w illus. $8.95Act and the ActorMaking the Self$7.95The De-Definitionof Art53 b&w illus. $8 95The Tradition ofthe New $795The Anxious Object39 b&w illus. $7.95Artworks andPackages168 b&w illus. $7.95The University of CHICAGOPressAvailable at campus bookstoresDrawing of Harold Rosenberg.Courtesy of Willem de KooningThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—7Celebrationby Amanda Lee BrooksThe ferry goes from Lagos Island to Vic¬toria Island, and the water, which in LagosHarbor is brown, turns to blue: sparkling,glittering blue when it is afternoon andthe equator sun is orange. There is no line,no demarcation where it changes color,and when I see the blue, the brown is diffi¬cult to remember.“Before you leave, before you return tothe U.S., I will take you to Tarqua Bay,’’Christopher promised in way of an apolo¬gy. “Tarqua is for swimming. Many Ameri¬cans go there. You will prefer it.’’The rush of people pushed us into a largeshed, then toward the dock where theferry waited. We sat together on a cover¬ed deck, and when the boat started, wewatched downtown Lagos recede from us.The smells of sewage and garbage werewashed away by the raw wet sea-smell.The raucous carhorns were no longerheard, replaced by the sounds of waterlapping against the ferry, of murmuringvoices, laughter, and the deep, sad boathorn.I shifted my weight in the hard woodendeckchair, thinking, this is the way theytook, the slave ships: out of the lagoon andaround Lagos Island and into the Harborand down, down into the Bight of Benin.The Bight of Benin, few return thoughAmanda Lee Brooks received her M.A. lastyear in the Department of English, andshortly thereafter she won the NationalEndowment for the Arts/Illinois Arts Coun¬cil Artist-In-Residence Award (and is theonly Black writer in the program thisyear). She is also working on a historicalnovel set in West Africa for LouisianaState University Press. She is presently aPh.D. student in the Department of Histo¬ry, in Area and Language Studies (Afri¬ca). many go in. That was the old sea songwhich British sailors had sung. My fore¬parents would have sung it differently:many go out and few return, the legacy ofreversal in this place where white was eviland death, the sign of the leper, in thisplace where darkness was beneficent.Apapa Wharf was straight ahead of us.The ferry stopped there briefly, discharg¬ing some passengers, picking up more:workers in khaki shorts and teeshirts,market ladies with huge straw baskets offruit and many children. Then the ferrycruised out into the Harbor again, crossingpast Apapa, toward the mangroveswamps of Ogogoro.“You are quiet. Probably you are angrybecause we cannot swim.” Christophermurmured.He should have been named Akindele, orOlusegun, some Yoruba name filled withthe music of the tonal language — I hadcome from Chicago to date a man calledChristopher. “But I told you,” I protested,“this is fine, this is beautiful. I don’t havea swimsuit, anyway.” He stared at me,dark brown oblique eyes in the darkbrown face. Maybe he would next say thatwe didn’t need swimsuits.I turned away from him, studying the un¬inhabited shoreline of Ogogoro, swampand jungle, huge mangrove roots graspingthe water like fingers, stunted, strangelyformed trees like twisted dwarves peo¬pling the luminous green landscape.In Chicago it would be Christmas: coldand late morning. Lagos Island was to ourright, distant and dreamlike, its tall build¬ings gleaming like minarets in the after¬noon sun. In Chicago my childhood friendDebra wouid be opening her storefrontchurch. She would think of my promise tovisit the church, to bring my children andsing hymns, and she would smile lovinglyat my lie. The boat horn sounded mourn¬fully, enveloping me in a heavy, cloyingsadness. Perhaps there would be palmwine at Victoria Island; Christopher and Iwould get drunk and I would listen as hecalled me his beautiful omowale sister(“child-come-home” was what the Yorubacalled Black Americans — Christopher wasYoruba) and we would make love and I would forget it was Christmas some¬where.Christopher had leaned back and closedhis eyes. His hands grasped the sides of hisdeckchair. The hands were scarred — hewas a woodcarver — and the veins andsinews bulged under the dark brownskin.It was a half-mile walk from the ferrylanding to the beach on vast and sparsely-populated Victoria Island. The elaborateFederal Palace Hotel was near the ferrylanding, but we walked away from it. Thepeople with us on the ferry seemed toevaporate in the small tangled groves, theclusters of elephant grass, the sandywaste of the beach. They dissolved in thetiny inlets fringing the surf.No one swam: the strong, murderousblue waters of the Bight bore a fierce anddeadly undertow. The setting sun’s moltenlight was now strained through a beige-grey cloud curtain.Christopher and I walked down thebeach. I noticed that some people waded inthe water, taking care not to walk far out.Some, who ventured out too far, foundthemselves swept into the foaming waves;they gasped and shouted and fought, aswith some living presence, clawing theirway back into shallow water.Christopher took my hand, and held it aswe walked. He moved slowly, with econ¬omy and ease, as if every move had beenthought out. We had walked here longago, I felt. Perhaps I had dreamed it: thebeige sand beaten by high, gently-roaringfoam-crested waves; the wind-whippedpalmtrees growing up to the edge of thesand — their frenzy of rustling fronds; thescreeches of gull-like birds swooping,crashing, diving above us.I had dreamed this, yes. Not known, butfelt, in rounds of endless lives, the frag¬mented visions of ancestral memories. Ihad seen this place before. The sea hadsteadily eroded the beach, sucking out thesand to make small quiet rivers and poolsextending back from the shore line. Wecame to a tiny grotto formed by the over¬hanging palms; a boy was spearfishing ina small pond.The boy was waist-high in the water, barechested. In his right hand he held aspear. He peered intently down into thedark, clear, palm-shadowed water. Wewatched him from where we stood on thesand, looking back into the dimness of hisgrotto. He plunged the spear into thewater, then brought it up. There was alarge fish, struggling and wriggling, im¬paled on the end of the spear. He took thefish from the spear and flung it on thesand. He saw us watching him, and hesmiled.We walked on, down the beach, sandalsoff now, wading in the water, feeling thepull of the sea at our feet.“Lord Olokun, the god of the sea, hasfeet which are mudfish swimming in oppo¬site directions,” I said. He laughed, hold¬ing my hand, for a moment, tighter. Iwould beg him for a woodcarving of Olo¬kun to place on my coffeetable.He let my hand go, and it hung limply be¬side my skirt. He was digging into the sandwith his fingers, prying up a large greyshell. He rinseo the shell in the water, andexamined it closely, his oblique brighteyes studying its color, lines, and forma¬tion. His fingers rubbed the shell to feel itstexture, and finally he pressed it to myear, standing close to me, in front of me,his eyes looking at my face.I turned my face so that I looked outover the sea, wishing for a second that Iwas on one of the bright-sailed fishingboats out far from the shore. I heard thesea in the shell, frenzied murmurs of a dis¬tant crowd; I smiled at the image of mil¬lions of tiny market women and wood-carvers pressed into the coils of the shell. Isaw his eyes as I smiled; they were widewith questioning. I smell the rank, sensualsea-scent emanating from the shell, andwith it was mingled the scent of his body:male sweat strained through cotton andthe hint of some masculine cologne.A new sound rose over the sound of thesea in the shell, over the shrieking birdsand the splashing of the waves: it was atentative, metallic chatter of tambourines,the fluttering notes of a flute, and the softmeasured poundings of drums. Chris¬topher knew. His eyes looked from myface, beyond me. He nodded. “They arebeginning.”He took the shell from my ear and wecontinued down the beach, toward the newsounds. Back from the beach now, was arolling plain of darker sand, isolatedclumps of trees and tufts of wind-driedgrass. There were many tents pitched onthe sand: most were small and khaki-col¬ored, but there was one large tent in themiddle of the smaller ones — huge, coloredwith green, white, red, and black stripes.A group of persons stood on the beach-plain, back from the shoreline. They wereclad in long robes of either blue, green, orwhite. All Africans, they were groupedaround a middle-aged African woman whowore a dark robe and gele, headwrap, ofsome rich, silken-looking fabric. The fabriccaught and held the light, splintering itinto fragments with each rustling breeze.Some of the group held large fans almostas tall as the woman they sheltered. Otherpeople held tambourines, two men werethe drummers, and there was anotherman, young, standing off from the group, aflute to his lips. The notes that he playedwere formless and random to my western-oriented ear, like the meaningless soundof a bird: high, feral, and haunting.The group, all ages, began to sing as itwalked across the sand to the water; therewas a lead singer, the woman in the darkrobes, and the group was the antiphonalchorus. The words were unknown to me,but the voices, the structure of the singing,the rhythm of the music — it was the blacksongs I had sung and heard in church whenI was a child.I was going to join them; I thought Chris¬topher was leading me to them. The songbeckoned, it enticed me to join the singers,the waves of rhythm and music widening inever-spreading rings around me. Theywould soon dance, I knew. And yet Chris¬topher’s scarred hand held me back, pull¬ing me down gently to sit in the warm sandsome distance away from them.They were dancing now, their robesmoving in the evening air, the fans waft-8—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983ing slowly above the woman — large fans,some of straw, some of feathers. Theydanced down to the water, and into thewater, unafraid of Lord Olokun’s under¬tow which beat with a vehemence aroundtheir robes. I thought for a moment theywould dance into the sea, that the womanand her followers and their fans anddrums and tambourines and flute would allwillingly drown and float away.But now the dancing stopped. The musicof drums, tambourines, and flute contin¬ued with pulse-beat throb, quietly. Thewoman was taking a few of the groupapart from the others, and one by one shewas immersing each of these few into thewarm, salty water.Surely Debra would forgive my lie. Hadshe really expected me to come to thesmall black church? When I did visit, hereyes would be very wide in her dark-brown face at seeing me, and she wouldsmile. The shiny blue walls of the HeavenlyRest Baptist Church would shine wetlyunder the fluorescent light, and Debrawould be sitting on the rostrum with hergospel singing group, waving one of thosecardboard fans which advertised a funeralparlor, seeking to cool off a bit in the swel¬tering heat of the church (it would be sum¬mer when I visited — yes, this coming sum¬mer).The church would be crowded with blackpeople dressed in their Sunday clothes:men in grey tailored suits, women in wide,pastel-colored straw hats, and little girlswith elaborately-braided hair. Therewould not be enough seats on the hardwooden benches, so people would spill intometal folding chairs, or stand along thesides or back of the room.Debra would give me a build-up. Shewould tell the audience, When I woke upthis morning, I heard the Lord tell me thatthis was going to be a day I’d remember.And now all of you are here — more peoplethan I ever remembered being here be¬fore—Amen.Debra, my best friend in Wendell PhillipsHigh School, tall and dark, with wonderful,heavy, black hair that I would comb andbraid or wrap in metal rollers (because shehad fixed my hair the week before);Debra, the one I waited with, outside theOakwood Theatre, coaxing boys to payour way in; Debra, with several childrenand a ruined marriage, and then Jesus.—to praise the Lord—Amen.—and back there, I see a girl I went tohigh school with. I’m so happy to see youagain.And she would say my name, and theeyes would look at me, Debra’s and theothers’. And I would feel like I had thosemany years ago when my grandmothertook me to those black nationalist meet¬ings and said I was her granddaughterand that I would save the world.The baptisms were completed and thegroup left the water and slowly dancedback to the tent area, their robes pastedwetly against their bodies. The dark-cladwoman noticed us now. She stopped, herface turned toward us. The fans pausedabove her head. She was too far away forme to see her expression, but the attitudeof her body was braced, waiting.Debra would sing a song for me, herloud, marvelous voice filling the crowdedroom, the other ladies in her gospel groupand then the whole church, responding inchorus. The clapping hands and stompingfeet would sound with the resonance ofdrums, and Debra would dance, her bodygraceful and sure beneath her long bluerobe.Christopher also watched the priestess,a faint smile tilting his mouth, and perhapsby his look he estranged the woman fromme, telling her that I was not of this place,and that I sought only a respite fromChristmas, and a draught of palm wine.The priestess turned her face from us,looking straight ahead as the groupdanced toward the tents. Soon, like night-blooming flowers, we saw the glow ofnewly-lighted torches thrust into the sandagainst the early night. The smoky scent ofburning palm-oil mingled with the smellsof the sea and the wet sand. PHOTOGRAPHIC & OFFICEFILM MACHINE DEPTPROCESSINGRENTALSBATTERIESRADIOSFRAMES CAMERASPHOTO ALBUMSDARKROOM EQ.CASSETTE TAPERECORDERSVIDEO TAPEUNIVERSITY OF CHICAGOBOOKSTORE970 EAST 58TH ST. 962i7558 5254 S. Dorchester Ave.Walk to museums, parks, the lakeSTUDIO APARTMENTSFurnished and unfurnishedutilities includedLaundry roomSundeck • Secure buildingCampus bus at our doorCall 9-5 for appointment324-0200JIJSI WHIN ycu IHCUCHI ITWA§ §ATT l< C© 4 I INIII ... .|I’§ fUf 41 lift Of IKGIANT 114 IMA SALE!All Single Albums To 12.98 List.Doubles, Boxsets & AccessoriesSinglesSelected Games 15% OFF!*10% OFF!*1.00/OR AS MARKED*30% OFF!* Does not apply to records already on saleTHE PHOENIX!5706 S. UNIVERSITY • REYNOLDS CLUBThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—9tf the Snow Fals in the NightMinutes after the mentioned timeI suspect she will not arrive,and listen more closely to the Brahms trio;he was a man who led a sheltered lifeeying Vienna through the slanted phraseof his window's view, turning backto note the vibrant life of a wood floor.Vienna was full of such womenas the one I wait for — they finishone century with ease, stridingto the nest of a new. Brahms likedhis stump of body, the barkexpanding with beery air.A parquet floor, a grainy chaos.These small minutes as she arrivesI conclude a person is always in the midstof a passing, never the bleak haltwhen one peers through the morningand realizes the snow has fallen in the nightsomething finally there.Brahms couldn’t grow his drift of breadtill late in life and diedbefore the century gave itself up. July 1962Ask anyone. They’ll tell youhow John L. Kennedy of the Giantswas batting at the root of the diamondin the third. Hit oneout of the park, how my dadpassed Forbes Fieldlistening to the game in his Studebaker& the ball gonged the roof.Such an event happens to few.A cheap stadium bandstill crashes in his ears,the game almost as clearas the years that followed:the beds smoothed in panic,the aborted sabbaticals,the attempted beards, and me,born five days beforeJFK was shot. We goto the game not for the gamebut that foul that 31,000and Clemente can’t getand secretly hope for no seats leftso to stay just outside the park& field the history drives,but, you know, the balldidn’t even dent the roof.Some urchin carried it offclutched against his stomach. Apples and PeachesAir raining about meI see peaches in the distance.I see stubbleI see stemI see peaches in the distance.Peaches on the tableApples on the chair;Air raining about meThrough my scattered robes.I see curtainsWrap around a tea-pot,An impassioned still appleIn the fling of a napkin.Peaches with the cleftPeaches with the groin —I see peacheson the table through the air.THE TIME IS NOWWhy rent a phone when owningyour own phone is much moreECONOMICAL?• It’s legal-approved by federalgovernment• Eliminate rental costs FOREVER!• Easy to install yourself• Assorted styles & colorsCONVENIENT ON CAMPUS PHONE CENTER!We sell QUALITY Stromberg - CarlsonUNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO BOOKSTOREOFFICE MACHINES & PHOTOGRAPHIC DEPT.970 EAST 58TH ST.962-7558 Type of Illinois Bellphone monthlyrentalDesk phoneRotary dial $1.07Touch Tone 1.74Princess phoneRotary dial 2.76Touch Tone 3.73 iTrimlineRotary dial 2.91Touch Tone 3.88(IBX 5-4364 and 5-4365) m TWO YEAR BOOKSTOREWARRANTY90 Days Over the CounterDefective Unit Exchange*This warranty extends only to the originalpurchaser and does not cover damageresulting from accidents, neglect, misuse orfailure to follow the use and care instructions.10—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983, , i , •. » \ it- t I * » I « i l , » t j i i*Last Night's DreamMelon and drinking from a tap,all I recall.No there’s more, I dreameda night and you in it,we loved on a wide couchupholstered yellowthat I knew.and beside us a Gouda cheeseuncut on the mahogany table.How beautiful you were!hunched asleep your head on my chest,calling my dream name at dawn,then eating melon with me in the sun.We drank from the sink.No, I must’ve told it backwards:we had canteloupe and ginout of the bottle in the morning.You had broken my glass mugs.We fought. I cannot helpsaying this without passion,your shouts made no sense.Later, drunk, you whimpered against my belly,I roused and wanted sex,gin frothed in my throat,I couldn’t talk.But, now I thinkthe Gouda that stood,still arid ^ed,on the gleaming mahogany table,occupied some other dream.To be there, with you, all I wish. -John SchulmanCPIN-IT PRESENTS A SALE ON° ALL CBS CLASSICAL L.P.’s(Sale Ends June 19, 1983)Performances;*5BRAHMSPIANO CONCERTO N0.2SERKINSZELLCLEVELANDORCHESTRA PerformancesECOPLANDAPPALACHIAN SPRING SUITEaSALON MEXICO • OANZON CIBANOBERNSTEINNEW YORKPMLHARMOMCu Cirrat Performances LVPROKOFIEVCLASSICAL SYMPHONYBIZETSYMPHONY IN CBERNSTEINNEW YORKPMLHARMOMC Cirrat Performances 4RACHMANINOFFPIANO CONCERTO NO. 2RMSMMOfPSGANMGRAFFMANBERNSTEINNEW YORKPMLHARMOMCaGRAFIBERN!NEW 1PMLHAfl !Hi; Cirrat Performances ft.COPLANDBILLY THE KIDRODEOBERNSTEINNEW YORKPMLHARMOMC^ Cirrat Performances !_ j' R A V C LBOLEROLA V41S£ 4LB0RABA DQGAACtOSODAPHNIS ET CHLOC SUfTI NO. 2BERNSTEINnmmmmwmvmiwcGREAT PERFORMANCE SERIES REG. 4.98 NOW 3.99MASTER WORKS SERIES REG. 8.28 NOW 6.49DIGITAL SERIES REG. 10.68 NOW 8.49Spin-It •C (iirrat Performances |AB A R T 0 KCONCERTOFOR ORCHESTRABOULEZNEW YORKPMLHARMOMC^3 Cirrat Performances 4MENDELSSOHNTCHAIKOVSKYVWUN CONCERTOSISAAC STERNORMANDYPHLAOELPHIAORCHESTRA‘T threat Prrfarmanrrs IS A I NT-S AC N SURmPHOIHNO. 1 I M C MINORBERNSTEINNEW YORKPMLHARMOMCI I I ! I I I t I »N■ EH1444 E. 57th • 684-1505SPIN-IN NOW. SPIN-IT-LATEH. BUT SPIN-IT! !®k%cat PerformancesBIZ I TCARMENsnmmmsminSTOAOWSIQNATIONALPMLHARMOMCit t i f si I II® <*irr«t Prrformanrrs ^4.MUSSORGSKYPICTURES AT ANEXHIBITIONAMGHTONBALDMOtWnNNBERNSTEINNEW YORKPMLHARMOMC-. ^Vimit Prrformanrrs+‘SERKINSCHUMAAMiPtANOCONCERTOmm PHILAOELPHU ORCHESTRAPIANOQUINTETWUFFv 1 cirrat Prrformanrrs $c^icc[q°rmjENCAPfnCCIOESnGNOLm mmniUMUUMKThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—11Days at GreenwichThe Sun at NoonThe sun at noonbleaches bones of whalesand other mammalsupon the beaches ofthe southern spherewhere they have cometo restThese bonesmay have the samedenouementwhile still aliveif they have strayedand lost tenacity.— Robert LimaFigure of Jackson MacLowYou, sitting thereacross four pieces of wood,shaped,wait the meantimeof the air-conditioner, .the expresso machine,pulling your hair beardaway elastic faceto your breath.You, whisperedin laughter in another acrossabused and nervousuntil yourself were an acrossharsh in constrained bitternessof defense —excommunicated.— Robert Lima When Essex danced upon her glittering floor,Turned her about him, shifted, paused, returnedWhere the bright music motioned, when she glimpsed,Spun from the grace and force of his lifted arm,The tender fierceness of his youthful lips,Or when she placed her fading hands uponThe easy shoulders or the slim, hard hips —Then Gloriana knew why she had borne,For fifty years, the boredom and the pain.When Gloriana strolled there, dressed in flame,Beneath the sorrowing trees, then stopped and gazedInto his face, the usual fear and angerDrained from her ravaged, marvelous eyes, her smileA girl’s, her beckoning gesture firm yet shy —Then Essex guessed his death and he knew whyHe took his doom with joy from those wise hands.— W.R. JohnsonPortrait of Raccus as a Young BureacratSchooled by those who don't know what they wantAnd so by those who know their wants too well,I measure out my water and my wineWith exact hand, lest one the other spoilTo dark excess or bright, I eat my greensWith adequate oil, nor salt nor pepper spare,If only beauty urge me, use prevail.But am the creature of my artifact,For outside, ever menacing and bright,The ghosts of greed and lust their bliss defineIn charming paradigms, a rainbow’s orA peacock’s glistering wit. yet worse were a plateWith cresses heaped, a jagged crust, a spoonOf wood set spare upon a Spartan table,Desire eschewed and dangers of desire.And dream my face a glass where loves and hatesCould equipoise attain were these hands stillThat clasp the silvering sphere, and watch the painBeneath the metal and behind the eyesUndo the courage and confirm the lies.— W. R. JohnsonW.R. Johnson is a professor of Latin andGreek at the University of Chicago.Robert Lima is a professor in the Depart¬ment of Romance Languages at Pennsyl¬vania State University. His translation ofGonzalo Rojas’ poem “Carbon” comple¬mented the CLR interview with Mr. Rojas12—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGOREUNION COMMITTEEpresentsTHE FIRST ANNUAL 1TIMBARK LIQUORS^ & WINE SHOPPE1214 E. 53rd St. • In Kimbark PlazaSale Dates: June 3 thru June 9eumonA 2.5 MILERACE THROUGH THEUNIVERSITY CAMPUS WINE1.5 ltr Inglenook Navalle Rhine, Chablis $3.991.5 ltr Gallo Premium Chablis, Rhine $3.993.0 ltr Carlo Rossi Chablis, Rhine, $3.99750 ml J. Moreau Chablis (French import) $7.49750 ml Piper Extra Dry Champagne $12.99750 ml Mouton Cadet $4.99750 ml Asti Gancia Spumante $7.99750 ml Pouilly Fuisse 1982 $8.99750 ml Erika Liebfraumilch $1.99750 ml Anselmi Soave $3.49SATURDAY • JUNE 49:00 AM LIQUEURS1.75 ltr E. & J. Brandy $10.99750 ml MarteU $12.99750 ml Hennessy VS $12.99STAGG FIELD TRACK$2.00 Fee • Finish at Bartlett GymT-Shirts to first 100 registrantsRegistration closes at 8:45 amPrizes to top finishers in each class LIQUOR1.75 ltr Gordon Gin $9.991.75 ltr Canadian Mist $10.99750 ml Usher’s Scotch $4.99750 ml Old Forester-86 $5.991.75 ltr Bacardi Rum $10.79750 ml Smirnoff Vodka-80 $4.99Sun. - Noon - MidnightPhone: 493-3355 Hours: Mon - Thum. 8 am -1 amFn. & Sat. 8 am - 2 amThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—13Dreamsby Minhhuyen NguyenThe first time the dream came, itwas shooed away by the children’smidnight squabble over short ends ofa blanket. When Loan returned tobed, she was simply too angry attheir selfishness to remember any¬thing else. Then in the following night,it slithered once more into her dream¬ing consciousness and her memorysnapped. She saw herself again spy¬ing on a fifty-odd-year-old man downa deserted street. He was a stranger,who bore her father’s broad, friendlyback and salt-pepper tufts of hair. Al¬though she was stepping on the tip ofhis afternoon shadow, he was obli¬vious to her. Silently he walked, jolt¬ing the black head of a small child inhis arms up and down, up and down.She had followed him for whatseemed like days and was afraid thatat any moment, he would turn aroundand strike her. Why did I feel like athief when he was? she asked herself.He’s stealing my baby, my Ruby. Whoelse but Ruby could have that slightlytwisted neck? She saw also the rest ofthe child’s hidden body as though theman’s back had momentarily turnedtransparent: a body contorted into afetal ball from which arms and legsthat didn’t seem to belong to herhung.—Excuse me, sir.She timidly began but the man kepton walking. She repeated more loud¬ly, “EXCUSE Me, Sir,” and strode fas¬ter to catch up with him. He was run¬ning now, no, gliding rather, like onan ice rink, still not looking back.“Wait, wait, where you going with mybaby?,” she shouted, “Ruby! Mama’shere. Ruby!” She leaped to grab hishair, and stumbled into space,screaming.Loan woke up, hollowing with name¬less fears. Dong’s breathing wasswishing in the dark. “Brink backRuby, bring back Ruby,” the alarmclock was whispering to her from thenight table. “Bring Ruby back, bringRuby, bring Ruby back,” her heartanswered excitedly. She turned onher side, nudged Dong’s back with herknees and deliberately let her armfall heavily across his hip. His bodyjerked aside to give hers more spacethen became still again. She stirredharder against him.—Huh? What is it? C’mon, Loan, letme sleep.She was no longer alone. He musthave heard the clock for he was ask¬ing her more gently:—Couldn’t you sleep?Appeased, she pretended to beasleep, murmuring “huh” in reply.After he had gone back for anotherdream, she continued her vigil. Sheknew the man carrying Ruby was stillout there somewhere in the murkyair, waiting to re-enter her dream,and she wouldn’t let him. That is, ifMinhhuyen Nguyen is a senior in the College. she could help it. She wasn’t so stupidas to underestimate his power. Shehad only Dong and the children,Happy and Chrysanthemum, on herside, but he had Ruby and along withthat child everything else that hadever matteed to her on his.Sponsored by the United MethodistChurch of Jeffersonville, Indiana, onthe fourth of July, Dong, Loan andtheir children were the very first ref¬ugees to come to this town. Stagger¬ing down the steps of a red-white-and-blue Greyhound bus coming fromFt. Chaffee, Arkansas, they weresmothered by red carnations, hellos,camera flashes, and even fireworks.While Dong thanked their greeters inhis broken English, Loan smilingly ob¬served the faces surrounding her.They were friendly, candid faces thatused to speak their minds, robust,happy faces that had not once kissedthe lips of Hunger. Under their roar¬ing laughters, they, too, were watch¬ing her as they watched a bride,whom they were eager to meet, yetonce met, didn’t know what to say.Through the veil of myths and facts,they were looking at each other now.Soon enough, she and her family mustshed their cloak of war and they,their shield of peace and freedom, tolove one another.Life in Jeffersonville still had thescent and the crispness of new clotheseven after four long months. Loan dis¬liked the ways in which shoppingcarts collided in the Winn Dixie super¬market checkout lines, and automo¬biles strolled hand in hand on thestreets in morning rush hours. Donghated the mustard and ketchup on hisMcDonald’s cheeseburgers, but thechildren went wild over SaturdayBugs Bunny hour. In the morning whenthe children had left for school, Mrs.Nichols, a deeply religious elderlywoman who winked ‘Good morning,dear’ at Loan, came by to teach En¬glish. In their first few sessions to¬gether, French was their common lan¬guage. Loan had studied it in highschool and Mrs. Nichols had majoredin French Literature in college. If Loandidn’t know an English word, Mrs. Ni¬chols would usually try to explain it inFrench. Sometimes, Loan told herabout Mr. Le, her father, about hislove for early morning promenadesand pipe smoking. Mrs. Nichols ex¬claimed:— I think I like him!— Like? You wing love him. He eezvery nice.— Oh, I don’t know, I can’t stand thesmell of pipe smoke.— You what pipe smoke?Why in the world would Mrs. Nicholswant to make a pipe stand on itshead? The older woman squinted hereyes, squeezed her nostrils with onehand and waved the other back andforth across her face. Loan under¬stood and started to giggle. She wasno better than a toddler whenevershe had to juggle English syllables onher tongue.At least Dong was making a lotmore syllables than she. He had start¬ed working as a welder in a machineshop and taking computer classes onMonday and Wednesday nights at alocal high school. In the evening, theyall ate dinner in front of the televi¬sion, impatiently switching from CBSto NBC to ABC to watch the newsabout the refugees. Most of the time,understanding only half of what’sbeing told, they just looked at the pic¬tures. “Eh, love, that man looks likeBrother An, you think?” Dong cried out from time to time. Or Sister Rose.Or Aunty Beauty. Or Uncle Integrity.Dong was as anxious as she was. Theywaited restlessly for a flash of Mr. Leand Ruby across the 16 x 12 inchblack-and-white screen. It hadn’tcome yet.Sometimes, after the children hadbeen tucked in, they sat shoulder toshoulder on the living room sofa. Nowords had passed but each knewwhat the other was thinking. Dongtinkled the keys on his long thumb,which was longer than her indexfinger:—Want to take a ride around theblock? They did just that, drivingaround and around the neighborhoodin their ’70 blue Pinto. Loan wasstraitjacketed in her winter coat; thesynthetic fur lining of the hood tickledher neck. Autumn in this land is beau¬tiful, painted in numerous colors, butit chilled her bones and even herthoughts. Purplish maples disco-danced on the sleeping lawns and thesky’s cheek was powdered pinkishorange. All the stars of Heaven weregathered on the light posts. It feltgood to be in motion when everythingelse around them was stumbling.Why did the man come this night ofall nights? she wondered, lying su¬pine and immobile so as not to disturbDong. She had cried yesterday after¬noon over a picture in Good House¬keeping of a pretty model who wasputting on a flowing white gown andfacing a sunlit bay window. The lineunderneath it read, “Keep that fresh-dressed feeling all day, every day!Carefree Panty Shields.” Tearscoursed down her cheeks and wet thepage. She must be crazy to weep overnonsense like this, yet what a relief! -after months of being too busy cop¬ing. You don’t belong here, no sir, shetold the man waiting in the dark, youbelong on the other half of theworld.Saigon toward the end of April be¬came as crowded as Tokyo. Refugeesfrom other cities walked its well-paved boulevards and were stared atas though they were foreign visitors.The angry men who had chased themaway were now squatting besidetheir cannons on the hills that wereonly two hundred fifty kilometersfrom Saigon. Mr. Le came from its out-skirt to stay with Loan and her chil¬dren. She was glad to see him. SinceGlory Elementary School, like others,had been closed for the summer, shedidn’t have to teach anymore and wasgrowing desperate from waiting fornews of Dong, who was stuck in Qui-Nhon with his military communicationunit. Long lists of dead soldiers keptarriving from all over and werequickly crumpled by frantic fingersthat traced and retraced the red-inked names.After two full weeks spent readingnames at the army headquarters, shedecided to stay home and played withthe children to distract herself, butDong’s smile was pasted on their up¬turned faces. Her bed grew too large.His writing desk was too neat. Sheworried that she worried too muchabout where to go in case of an evacu¬ation. Happy, six, and Chryssie, five,were both old enough to obey her andrun on their own feet, but Ruby, onlythree, was also misshapen. MakingRuby, the Creator must have fallenasleep and attached some old man’slegs to her body, instead of babyishhealthy, chubby ones. His error wasRuby’s and her fate.At the hospital, Loan didn’t know which she hated more. The pitiful eyesof the nurses, who were helping her tobreastfeed Ruby, or Ruby’s entan¬gled limbs, which were so thin thatshe could easily break them had shetried to unknot them. Her father andDong came to visit them. They actedas if nothing had gone wrong, askinghow she was and cooing Ruby, but shecaught that fleeting frown on her fa¬ther’s forehead and felt Dong’s tenta¬tive touch on Ruby.After Ruby’s birth, Mr. Le came tosee them more frequently than beforeand brought the children little toysmade of pine cones. He would tell heras they sat with Ruby on the hammockin the garden:—She’s exactly like you. you know,when you were little. Screaming allthe time. Your poor ma, she’d worriedherself sick over you. . . OOOOooooyou little cactus, what are you lookingat me for? Don’t know who I am? I’myour Grandpa. Hey Ruby, say ‘Grand-Pa’.I love you, Pa. She was his onlydaughter. Since her mother’s deathtwenty-eight years ago, when shewas only four, he hadn’t remarried.“Sticky Jewel” he nicknamed her forshe had always clung to his pants likeleeches, even though her real namereferred to some sort of heavenlybirds that came down to earth once ina millenium. “My Sticky Jewel wouldbe very jealous if I did,” he used totease his matchmaking friends. Heseemed to find life satisfying enoughjust to sit and read to her excerptsfrom literary works that he taught atVan-Hanh University. So Ruby washer thorny cactus; someday, Ruby’srare, bright flowers might bloom.Two days before Saigon fell, Dongcame home. As soon as she saw hisworried face, she swallowed hard herjoy. The two men immediately startedto discuss about the current situation.Dong wanted to move his family tosome safe place before reportingback to his division three days later.—You’ll do what?—I have to, love.—If you’re going back, I’ll stayright here, so you know where to findus.—Listen!—What about the kids? I can’t hand¬le them all alone even with Pa's helpand especially in a strange place. Noplace is that safe these days.—Please love, don’t start.—I’m not starting anything.Ruby’s cries stopped them and Loanran to pick her up. Dong poured him¬self some water from the kettle on thestove. Loan surprised him. Duringseven years of their marriage, shehad been managing their family verymuch alone, now she talked of beingunable to handle anything withouthim. He was pleased and frustratedat the same time. She was right,though. There wasn't any really safeplace in the world anymore. He usedto believe Saigon was safe. It hadgone on living joyfully, fearlessly,while the rest of the country cringedat the sounds of gunfire. The warnever seemed to be more than amovie until now. The 1968 Tet Offen¬sive was only a shocking accident butthe disease had finally spread to thishealthy brain. People from othercities came here when their citieswere taken, but where could the Sai¬gon people run, except in circles or tothe sea?Ruby was smiling at him. Here,cactus, come to Daddy. The first timehe saw her, she was a mass of knotted14—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983arms and legs. How could God let athing like that live? In his life, he hadseen his comrades’ faces blown off,seen legs dangling from bodies oozingblood, seen faces turned dark in pain,but nothing had made his insidefreeze like the sight of Ruby. He hadfelt anger, fear and pain before, butin front of Ruby, he tasted also shameand impotence. He’d joined the armyafter reading Tuan: The Young Viet¬namese Man and Men in TurbulentTimes. He dreamed of peace, indepen¬dence and liberty for a homeland longdisfigured by bombs and poisonouschemicals. He had distributed foodand clothing at orphanages andchanged bandages for the soliders inmilitary hospitals, but he could touchonly Ruby’s nose. No one had handedhim a scalpel, “Here, man, fix yourdaughter,’’ as his father had handedhim a shovel when he was thirteen,“Son, go to work on the land.’’ Hechose not to plow the land of hisparents but to fight for it instead. Ifthe land was his people's legacy,what about the war? What aboutRuby? She was his reality.He found it difficult to explain toHappy and Chrysanthemum Ruby’scondition. Were all babies like thatwhen they were first born? No, theywere not. Then why was their babysister? He took Loan’s advice and toldthem the allegory of the Creator andHis mistake. Chryssie commented af¬terward, “He shouldn’t have donethat. He deserves a spanking.’’ He’dexpected more pointed questions andwas grateful that they accepted thestory as it was, and Ruby as she was.Ruby fascinated them like one ofthose wounded sparrows, who oftenstrayed into their backyard. Theycontrived to save her tidbits of sesa¬me cakes, almond cookies, and spoonsof cod liver oil but were told to waituntil she grew bigger.Grow she did, painfully slowly. Herlimbs became straighter but the back¬bone kept her bowing like a supplicat¬ing monk. Being a difficult infant atfirst, gradually she held her peace,swallowed what was given and criedonly when she was hungry. In themeantime, Dong was strangely drawnto her, more than he’d ever been tohis other two children when they werebabies. It wasn’t because of her al¬mond-shaped eyes that looked at himwithout blinking. Nor was it becauseshe wouldn’t grab his wiggling fingerand only threw him one of her tooth¬less grins. That little girl of his hadspirit. She fought well those thingsshe could. Admiringly he’d stood forhours to watch her gasping and suck¬ing the milk bottle in Loan’s hand. Herburps were quiet sighs.Neither he nor Loan mentionedleaving again until later that samenight when the bombs rocked Saigon.For five straight hours, Mr. Le, Dong,Loan and the children huddled underthe big brass bed. The rockets sound¬ed as though they were brushing overthe thin roof and crashing in the back¬yard. They could enter the housethrough the windows anytime. Whilethe children hid their faces in thewarm cracks of the adult bodies, theadults prayed loudly as if partakingin a shouting contest with the bombs.“Nam mo quan the am bo tat cuu khocuu nan (Oh, Bodhisattvas, save usfrom dangers),’’ they beseeched inunison. Dong paused to whisper gra¬vely, “We’re going to get out of herealive.” Only the bombs answeredhim.The dawn arrived suilen with wor¬ ries. As soon as the room became visi¬ble to them, Loan and Mr. Le rushed togather the few bags of clothes andfood that were already packed forthe purpose, while Dong went out toscout the city. By the time he cameback, they were ready to go.—Where are we going?Loan asked him as their jeep turnedonto Unification Boulevard. He kepthis hands steady on the wheel, hiseyes on the road:—The harbor. Hope it’s open. Theroad to Tan-Son-Nhat Airport hasbeen closed since eight-thirty lastnight.Buses passed them. They bulgedwith people and luggage. Impassivefaces draped their dirty windows.What were they thinking about? Shefound herself looking for places mas¬ticated by last night’s bombs, but in¬stead, only saw several street ven¬dors smiling the smiles of survivors, intheir usual pavement slots. Theirskins were only a shade or two lighterthan those of the eggplaonts theywere selling. Why didn’t they run likeeverybody else? Didn’t they know,the next time the bombs came, andthey surely would, they would spareno one. Bombs had neither eyes norhearts.—Look, those people are still sellingtheir food!The men glanced at the smiling ven¬dors.—They’re no fools. They're choosingtheir lives just like us.The harbor was flooded by peoplewhen their jeep stopped in front ofthe gate. Several MPs who pacedback and forth in the middle of theroad, pistols and clubs in hand,bawled:—Nobody can enter here. Go home,go home.Their jeep rolled slowly forward. AnMP pointed his gun at them.—Go home, I say. Turn around andgo home. There’s no need to run any¬where. We’re still fighting. Go andfight. Dong poked his head out, hisvoice was dangerously patient:—We know. Just want to get mywoman and children to a safe place.Surely you can understand that?His temple twitched nervously. The man pointing the gun at their jeepasked another who appeared to be incommand:—Lieutenant, let them through?The lieutenant’s gaze pierced each ofthem. At long last, he waved:—Yeah, let them go through.A throng of people hurried by as theygot off the jeep. Loan inspected thecrowd on the dock:—If all of us can’t get on together,let’s all stay.—Let’s stay close together.Mr. Le took Ruby from Loan’s handsso she could swing her bags onto hershoulders. Loan picked Chryssie upand Dong carried Happy. Pressingforward through a wall of backs, theywere finally close enough to see thegreen sandbags piled on and arounda raft. Loan could see the dark waterbelow. Another wave of peoplepushed forward. “Mama!” Chryssiescreamed into her ear. Her bags werepulling her back. She saw Dong jumpdown.—Dong!His voice rose above the others.—I am all right!—Dong! Help me! I can’t get to you.—Calm down, love. Just throw meyour bags. That’s good. Now hand meChryssie. Good. Now, jump, love.Jump and I’ll catch you. Happy wasclinging to his legs. The half-a-meterseparation between the raft and thedock felt like a kilometer. Dong’shands bit hard her shoulders but atleast they were solid, definitely bet¬ter than the empty space in whichshe’d been falling. A man landed andsent them sprawling on another fami¬ly-—Dong! Where are Pa and Ruby?—Oh, my God! Where are they?Aren’t they behind you?—Pa? Pa? Ruby? Ruby? Dong!Where in hell you think you going?Her fingers twisted the tail of hisshirt. He turned slowly around. Theyfaced each other as if for the firsttime.—Are you leaving us?Her voice was low. He looked down ather fingers netted in his shirt. He hadintended to go back and find Mr. Leand Ruby, bring them there, thenleave them. He must go back and fight, like the MP had said, fight for aplace to call home. He told her:—I’ll go look for Pa and Ruby. Youstay here to watch the kids.—No, I am going with you.—Now, Loan, listen to me!She hated the authority in his voice.She would not show him that she wasafraid of his anger.—Please, Dong, please don’t leaveus.—I’m not leaving you. I said I will golook for Pa and Ruby.—Please don’t leave us. Let me gowith you.—The raft is full! Let’s go!The raft captain bellowed and theropes were quickly untied. On thedock, people scurried around like antson a dead mouse. The bridge of armsbetween the moving raft and the dockwas abruptly ripped apart, leaving agash of space and swirling water be¬tween. Dong yanked himself freefrom his wife’s hand and watched theshore he loved receding. When we geton another ship, I would find the wayback, then I’d bring them back withme when everything’s all right, hetold himself. Loan’s face was on thesandbags next to him.According to three acquaintances oftheirs, whom they ran into in the refu¬gees’ camp, Mr. Le had decided to re¬turn home with Ruby after being sep¬arated from them in the crowd. InSeptember, his long letter, post¬marked from Ho-Chi-Minh City, thenew name for Saigon, confirmed thosereports. “...I’ve received your letterand thanked the Heaven for havingprotected you through all dangers....Don’t worry,” he wrote, “aboutRuby or me. We’re doing just fine. Youmust try not to be sad, must go on liv¬ing as before, and remember to takegood care of my grandchildren...Let'skeep praying that one day, not veryfar, we’ll meet again.”The morning light that spattered onthe beige walls of their bedroom re¬vealed nothing. The man carryingRuby was no longer there, but sheknew he'd be back for she couldn’tforget him yet. He carried with him abed of thorns, which kept a yogiawake in his meditation. Dong andshe would never have a full sleep.The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—15it li death, itjW c\emt* i«> p< i jxrtuate ™<>>»s <■* <Jtv young, it **g«ettatf,< “ by death, might pass into' cdffltttWd this .n i tptt-il itradt■;***> ** th<- ifirmr and thrt«h.t' I h, / h„,i-i<n<t and Out<•-i^h o»« -.ft,tie. tilling rtitrin*- < r to totrsi.iH d( .nil. ii, postponeiheif vn ;■< <■ tin- lu.M.itot, v hclK-razadr’s< >n Hf fi aih flight, tii k»-vp outsidethis uft.-.i <if narrittne, orI '<> is.tui <iff ileatfi. Writing hatii i< t<> thi- vn iifii. ot iiftt: it is mm *,, ' >Uf ' ' ' ^ '* <^H"' !,<>l it< i tf •<» if(»(<‘sf tited in<■ i -it sjt? ,ilxIII! iti lix- viJUi-i\ vitv existence.i **-Kf It,id i!h- <J,m piovidinij t;;tmortality.tt . 1 "• piiMKimg nrtmott.itt<><•<. ■*>«' K ,ha* *' ‘,H- **iti susi ,)M. ,, •>* i-n tsiitiiiji atnl disiilt is also mil. I, ,, , ‘ *' * ?• ?»: of till lllltllij; MllljtS |'s individual! .on,„v,„(u.s!|KU |« St|s :J|> ix-IWlTI!Ill the (ask of i mi. iwith the .ititliot ifSJattit'TUl :>»tl(Hit li' l!< knit's in.il ji-i.»noii.|ii|>sWh.il is noli,.is ,i .. . . s . 1 It .I. >; ft,- i;/'•:;u >>.;;« ■ ort ll-fj V. fit |tM-n:,! „ .'.V?»«.». j ’.si.,,..#n:t'ii s s,J»tH i}K The Heart of theWilliam Gass is one of the United States'leading men of letters. Aside from his ex¬ceptional novels, among them In the Heartof the Heart of the Country. On Being Blue,and his forthcoming The Tunnel, Mr. Gassis a professor of philosophy and an essay¬ist. His preface to In the Heart of Heart ofthe Country is among the finest essays onfiction and creativity. Mr. Gass visited theUniversity on May 26 under the auspicesof Chicago Review, and granted a rareface-to-face interview. After his readingof a short excerpt from his new novel, Mr.Gass spoke to Judith Silverstein before re¬turning to St. Louis, where he resides anateaches.JS: Well, I’d like to ask you when youstarted writing, and was it a response tobeing in Ohio?WG:Well, I don’t think it was a response tobeing in Ohio. I started writing in highschool fairly seriously. I had a column inthe paper and all that, and I turned outreams of stuff. A lot of it was terribleprose poetry, sort of Whitmanesque withlines and that junk. And I think most of itwas not so much a response to Ohio as, youknow, the kinds of adolescent responses toimmediate adolescent concerns — theworld’s pretty small then. And then as Iwent off to college I stopped writing, notjust because I stopped in a formal sense,but I couldn’t write with any ease anymore. When I was in high school I wroteeasily and then all of a sudden — boom! —and I couldn’t.JS: Yes, you write in your preface to In theHeart of the Heart of the Country that it’swhat the beginner thinks he knows thatmakes it easier for him to write — youcould write more easily in high school be¬cause you didn’t know what you weredoing.WG: Yah, yeah, you don’t get aware ofwhat you’re doing. And it all looks good,you know, it looks great. And then you seeit later and it’s terrible.JS: Yeah, that can be embarrassing. Sowhen did you start writing again?WG: I decided I’d stop trying to be a writeruntil I got my degree.JS: In philosophy.WG: In philosophy.JS: How do you fit philosophy and fictiontogether? Well, you have a philosophy offiction, but how has your study of philoso¬phy played into your writing?WG: As soon as I got my degree I decided,now I can start back; I’ve got somethingthat’ll give me a living. I can start backwriting.JS: (laughs) Philosophy?WG: Well, it does. But um, I decided that Iwould go back to my writing with a philo¬sophical bacKround; that is, what philoso¬phy does is play with concepts, and theideas it uses are immensely rich. All youhave to do to turn it into fiction, conceptualfiction, not fiction of the ordinary kind, issimply to set aside the worry aboutwhether it’s true or not. Now obviously,not every philosophical system can betrue, because too many of them contradictone another. So most of them are false, orfictions, and they’re fictions in which peo¬ple are living.JS: Private realities. WG: Well, they’re not even so privatewhen they control, let’s say, society. Likesuppose you have not just a philosophicalview, but a religious view, or a moralview. It can be a whole society in whichpeople are living. The interesting thingabout reality to me is that — whatever it is— it will permit people to live inside all ofthese myths.JS: You write about some theological “rea¬lities” in Omensetter’s Luck. But nowwe’re getting to some interesting ques¬tions. Reality and fiction, and what youcall “metafiction.” What’s the relationshipbetween reality and fiction?WG: Well, fiction is a kind of metaphoricalmodel, I think. A novel is a huge metaphorthat involves the world, whatever it is outthere. But, again, it can’t involve theworld as such directly. What it does is in¬volve our accounts of the world, the worldas we see it. I mean, if I’m reading a novel,let’s say, by a Japanese, obviously my un¬derstanding of the world, my sense ofwhat is real, is quite different from his.Nevertheless, I can enter into that worldof his, quite differently, again, than a Jap¬anese would. So it’s a kind of elaboratepoetic relationship. Metafiction is dif¬ferent. Metafiction is, a “metaphorabove.” It’s a metaphor which controls themetaphor itself. I mean, sometimes it’s anovel about a novel. But that’s too silly;it’s too simple. Metafiction is a fictionalidea of the fiction itself. A simple examplewould be Richardson’s deciding to write anovel in the form of a bunch of letters. Thenovel itself, and all the actions, the historyof Clarissa Harlowe, all of those actionsare metaphorical models of the world asRichardson thought he saw it. But the ideathat it’s all letters is a supermetaphor forthe text itself. The idea of metafictioncomes out of a previous philosophical posi¬tion called the problem of a metalan¬guage, which is a language about lan¬guage.JS: Semiotics, the idea of the sign, and soforth.WG: That’s right. Or, again, in mathema¬tics, where you have a theory about thenature of mathematics itself. Arithmetic isa system of mathematics, but a theory ofarithmetic is a metalanguage, a meta-mathematical system. But actually, I don’twrite as many metafictions in that senseas a lot of people do. My metafiction has todo with what my metaphors for the textare. For example, the novel is conceived asa tunnel. Now, the text is a tunnel. Thetext is also a model for the world, so tospeak.JS: So the title of the novel you’re workingon now, The Tunnel, is a metaphor for thatnovel.WG: That’s right.JS: I’d like to ask you about your place inthe American tradition. Your themes arevery like Edgar Lee Masters and Sher¬wood Anderson, small town porches.WG: I took, particularly for the first novel,deliberately American, very much Mid¬western themes—JS: Omensetter’s Luck.WG: Yah, Omensetter’s Luck. I pickedthese themes deliberately. But I don’tthink that the midwestern writer has everbeen anything I’ve admired very much, or was influenced by. The influences on meare largely European, also the major fic¬tion, obviously, it’s trite but, you know,James and Joyce and Faulkner.JS: The inventors of the modern novel.WG: Yes. In other words, it’s the nature ofthe novel that has had more influence thanlocale. I draw upon, of course, the locale Iknow.JS: You’re really drawing upon the heri¬tage of Modernism, which is an awarenessof the nature of your materials. And, uh, Iwas going through old New York Timeslooking for what critics said about you in1967—WG: (Laughs)JS: —and one of the things they said aboutyou was that your themes were stubbornlyunfashionable, and another complains ofyour heavy reliance on James Joyce. Howhave you taken Joyce into your work — orcome to rely on him heavily?WG: Yeah, well, I was very much in¬fluenced, when I was younger and tryingto form my own style, by Joyce, and of allthe people that have influenced my work,Joyce had the most immediate and proba¬bly poor effect. I have a natural affinityfor playing around with the sounds of lan¬guage—JS: And making lists—WG: —and making lists, so Joyce pushedme in the directions that I was alreadyleaning. And he’s not a figure you shouldimitate. It’s much better to imitate or learnfrom the lesser figures like GertrudeStein, where I think I’ve learned a greatdeal more than anywhere else. But she isnot as overwhelming as Joyce is. My prob¬lem is to move away from Joyce.JS: (laughs) I think we’re all, yes, living inthe shadow of Joyce. You wrote an essayabout Gertrude Stein, maybe you couldtalk about that a little bit, or about soundand sense.WG: See the thing that’s interesting to meabout Gertrude Stein is that, first of all,she’s very much misread, because peoplethink she’s dumb. She’s very smart, sheknows more—JS: Because of the repetitions, and thekind of naive—WG: Yes, they're the kind of childlike form,and so on. She buries within those factorsher experiments, and an enormous knowl¬edge, theoretical knowledge of the natureof language and the nature of the sen¬tence.JS: What kind of theoretical knowledge?WG: She knew a lot about what she wastalking about. After all, she did study phi¬losophy; she was a student of WilliamJames, she was a friend of Whitehead —she was capable of understanding thesethings. She didn’t choose to write aboutthem, and approach the problem in a con¬ventional way, but the things are there.She was, I think, one of the best of theAmerican theoreticians. Also the fact thatshe was a woman, you see, and writing allthis funny stuff. She was not supposedto—JS: I’m glad I didn’t have to point thatout.WG: Yes, well, of course.JS: Hmmm, I’m looking at this list of youressays. What you read today was, amongthe many other things, an incredible char¬acter study, the creation of a character,the button Culp wears, the details. You’vewritten about this, too, your conception ofthe character in the novel. Could youmaybe talk about that a little bit, and usesome examples from your own novels sowe can get a sense of how your theorymoves in your work?WG: Well, in the piece I read, Culp, thecharacter I’m trying to create, is simply asource of language. That is, what a charac¬ter is in a novel is simply where the lan¬guage comes from. The major character inmy novel is this man Cohler, because thewhole novel, really, flows out of him.JS: That’s very much an idea of semiology, in anthropology, that we are language. mWG: Yeah, that’s what — that we’re made stof the language and we're the source of it. veNow what happens is that, for me, a novel wlor a character is two things. First, it’s that nowhich a great part of the language modi- sdties, which it is about. Now a lot of the I dstuff in that story I read is about Culp, it JSmakes him, or it tries to make him, but it Walso tries to make him so that he will be alithe source of more language. Dickens does toit better than anybody. He creates a char- apacter by making language about the char- miacter — but why? So that he can speak. ttvAnd when they speak, that source, that re- Arally gives them their character. HiJS: Hmm, a character is a pattern. coWG: Yeah, so a character can be a moun- thitain, anything. I mean Malcolm Lowry, he thimakes a volcano, gives him language, it’s wta source as well as an object. wcJS: I’m divided about what to ask you. I’d latlike to ask you about Wittgenstein, be- hecause he's very fashionable here right now en(laughs). geWG: Oh is he? thiJS: And your escay “Memory of the Mas- JSter” tells me that you knew him very well, wiand that you feel a certain affinity with Wlhim. ifWG: Well, mainly, I think, his influence on beVV y v V V V V V VV V V v V v V V V\/ v V V V V V V V'/VVVVVVVVV \/ V v V V V V VAn Intervie16—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983Heart of the Writerme is, well, first of all, there’s a strongde streak of Positivism in my background, ait- very great relief that a great deal of what/el we believe is a lot of nonsense. But a lot of’at nonsense only from the narrower, sort ofdi- scientific, hard-boiled, point of view, whichhe I share.it JS: You’re a materialist,it WG: Yeah, roughly, sort of. Again, materi-be alism, you see, is itself, as soon as you tryes to make a metaphysics out of it, comesar* apart in your hands. But what influencedar~ me about Wittgenstein more than any of*k. the things he said — it was his manner,e- And there there’s a very close connection.His sense of creativity and perfection, andconstantly beginning again, all of thesein- things that he showed were simply any-he thing that a poet or a painter, or anybodyt’s who’s doing any creative work at all,would be impressed by. In my piece I corre-I'd late him with Paul Valery, who’s anotherie- hero of mine, precisely because of this>w enormous perfectionism, this attempt toget everything right finally, to think itthrough correctly...is- JS: Painstaking, dedicated, and in loveill, with language, I think.th WG: But also aware of what it can do to us;if we give ourselves to it too readily it wilion bewitch us. JS: Do you mean the danger of creat¬ing...unhealthy realities? Realities thataren’t good for us?WG: Well any reality that isn’t true, thatyou’re living in, which isn’t real, but youthink it is, is unhealthy. And the questionis, of course, how do you — how many ofthese realities, how many of thesetheories, do we need? Very few.JS: But fiction’s job is to make as many aswe can think of.WG: Oh, sure. And then we live in them inthis very careful way.JS: Fiction contributes to the realities thatwe live in? By contributing to the life ofour language?WG: Well, yes, but also, it creates — I meanmost of what we live with are fictions. Thequestion is, are they good ones, are theyput together, are they beautiful? Or arethey shallow and cheap and junky and con¬stantly asking us to nvstake them for thereal thing?JS: I want to refine a few distinctions here— between the fictions that we live in andthis fiction on these pages that you write.What’s the distinction, and what’s the rela¬tion?WG: Well, if I pick up my novel, say, or col¬lection of short stories, whatever, I knowthat I am participating in an experience ofVV V v V VV VV VV V vw■ftIf ' V V V VV V V VV VV VV V V VV ,V Vj Vew with William Gass language. It will, of course, have its re¬ferential side, in which, then, it appears tocreate a kind of world. This world is a kindof linguistic illusion, and you then experi¬ence it as you’re reading the book. But if Ipicked up another kind of book, say MaryBaker Eddy or the Bible or something, Imight think I wasn’t in a fiction, I mightthink, this is an account of the world. Andit isn’t, as far as I’m concerned. It’s a won¬derful fiction, but it’s not an account of theworld. Very few things are.JS: Then what’s a bad piece of fiction? Cer¬tainly not its correspondence to what wethink of as reality.WG: Well, that is. . .ah, thin, and cheap, un¬interesting.JS: That is, how good its form is.WG: Yeah.JS: Now if anybody writes carefully, youwrite carefully. What is the function ofform?WG: Well, crudely, it’s to hold things to¬gether.JS: But doesn’t it communicate it itself?Why should one be careful about formwhen writing a novel, and less so whenwriting a philosophical tract?WG: Oh, you’d be — they're differentforms, that’s all. Both of them have to beforms. There are all kinds of forms, there’saesthetic form, there's mathematical form.Ah, mathematical form determines validi¬ty. The soundness of the philosophical sys¬tem is not only determined by its struc¬ture, form is certainly a great part of it.JS: Well, I guess it’s that you unexpectant-ly employ poetic forms in non-poetic con¬texts — sudden invasions of metaphor andvisa-versa. What’s behind that?WG: The question of whether you get it jus¬tified depends on whether you've ultima¬tely got a book which has got the right sortof structure which can digest all that. Be¬cause what I’m deliberately doing is put¬ting in a lot of different types, genres, dif¬ferent sorts of things. And the question is,can those be related in a meaningfulwhole? And that we will see, whether I cando it or not.JS: So you’re trying to synthesize — whenyou write you're synthesizing severalforms, and you’re drawing from philoso¬phy and what else? What feeds your fic¬tion?WG: A lot of areas. The graphic stuff, ofcourse, a lot of music. There are certainforms in the piece that couid be calledfugues, variations on a theme, and so on.JS: Hmmm. Odel, Escher, and Bach.WG: Sure, and there are lists, and tables,and graphs. All of which, of course, ultima¬tely has to be related in a larger whole.JS: How would you relate all this to the de¬velopment of the novel? A hundred yearsago if you had done this it would havebeen unacceptable. Is the trend in fictionthat it isn’t a form of its own anymore butsomething whose job it is to synthesizeother forms?WG: Well, it’s always had that problem.It’s always tended to do that. The earlynovel was really an imitation of otherforms anyhow, like bundles of letters, orfake journals. So there's nothing newabout that.JS: But didn’t it pose as an account oflife?WG: Well, first you have to ask the ques¬tion, how did it try to imitate life? What itdid was imitate the forms that had beenused for factual accounts. So Defoe pre¬tends that he’s really writing a storyabout Moll Flanders, that he’s fixed up thelanguage a bit, but it’s really a true story.Now we know it isn’t a true story, but thewhole form is that of a biography. And soit gets its notion, or its feel, of realism bysimply adopting a form used for “real”things.JS: When you teach philosophy do youhave your students read fiction?WG: It depends. I have a course called Phi¬losophy of Literature, and in that coursethey read literature only, and I do the phi¬losophy in class. They can’t read both;there’s not enough time.JS: How do you apprach that course?WG: Well, what I do is to try to disclose thestructure of, say, the novel, and interpretthat structure the way the philosopherwould disclose and interpret the structure of the world. In other words, I approachthe novel as if it were creating a world,and I now say I am a philosopher and I amlooking at a world — what is its nature?JS: Interpreting the world of the metaphor— The World Within the Word. Well, let’ssee — what’s On Being Blue about?WG: Well, language again.JS: Well, I know what’ it’s about, it’s aboutsex. On Being Blue is about dirty words.Well, talk about them, use them, let’s see ifwe can’t get a few by. What world do theyevoke that you enjoy them so much?WG: I think it’s part of their special statusamong the words of the language. I meanwe have certain sets of words which arenever used in ordinary speech or in ourthoughts to one another. For example, theLatin names of the plants, all of that,that's one kind of language. And thenthere’s the group which we think and use alot, but we nevertheless forbid somehow.So there’s a whole tenison in these, and inparticular some of the so-called four-letterwords, which I think are extraordinarilyinteresting words. A lot of, of course, thebest dirty words are Scots. I don’t knowwhy this is, but it’s true.JS: (laughs) Yeah, they have a fine crudesensibility. . .WG: Burns of course loved them, knew howto use them, to celebrate them. So I’m in¬terested in words which have particularlyelectric character, so that it’s difficult touse them a lot, because they have beenmisused, and they’re disliked so much. Butagain, On Being Blue is really about dirtywords and not about dirty things. My lan¬guage is often foul in my books, but rarelyare my works erotic or scatalogical, thewords are.JS: You play with the words, but you don’tplay with their meanings. So what’s theguiding thread of this book, what’s thelow-down on dirty words?WG: Well, bascially, that they’re dirty be¬cause people don’t love their language,and that what good writing is is love la¬vished on speech.JS: Love is also something you talk abouton the part of the reader. You propose theideal reader, in what I thought was one ofthe most beautiful parts of that preface,and talk about the relationship betweenreading and 'writing. What is the idealreader? How should a student approach atext, philosophy or fiction?WG: Weil, my feeling is quite differentfrom the common view. First of all, there’sa great difference between, say, philoso¬phy, and literature in this respect. Phi-loosphy is written to be talked about.That’s the purpose of writing philosophy,to produce more texts, talk, and ex¬change. Whereas the purpose of a literarywork is to be enjoyed, contemplated, ab¬sorbed, and so on, to be experienced. Theideal reader, for me, allows the text to in¬terpret them. That is, it isn’t as if I come toa text and say, I’m going to interpret thisbook. That’s the arrogant critic’s position,generally. But I’d rather the book read thereader. If i read Beckett, for example,whom I like very much, he’s interpretingme, I’m not interpreting him; he’s rear¬ranging my world. The ideal reader for meis the reader who will take the patience togive themself to the text.JS: Accept.WG: Accept the text. And create it. Sing it.Listen to it. Be there in it. I’m not so muchinterested in interpretation.JS: Then what do you see as the role of thecritic? I notice a note of disdain for thatcritic.WG: Most critics are really out to get thebook. They want to surround it, like the su¬burbs. That means you won’t be able toget to the heart of the city unless you gothrough them. A good critic can help usread, though, teach us how to read thebook, how to give ourselves to the book,and also, celebrate the book. I mean if I goto Paris and love it and write about it, Ican also go to Madame Bovary and love itand write about it. But I’m not interpret¬ing Paris.JS: Well, I hope the critics celebrate TheTunnel. I’m eager to see it myself, aftertoday’s reading.WG: Thank you.JS: Well, thank you.The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—17SUMMEROK THEQUADSStay In Shape All Summer W itliEclectic Ed Mini CoursesAerobic Dance M + W 5:15 $25African Dance M + W 6:30 pm. $25Belly Dance Tu 5:15 pm. $15Beg. Ballet M + W 5:15 pm. $35Beg. Jazz M + W 6:30 pm. $35Beg. Modern Tu + Th 5:15 pm. $35Int. Modern Tu + Th 6:30 pm. $35Jamnastics Tu + Th 5:15 pm. $35Sign up in Rm. 210 Ida Noyes beginning June20. Classes start the week of June 27th. 10am. -4 pm. (Schedules subject to change)Noontime Xotes-Every Tuesday +Thursday in Hutch Court Free!6/21 Friedlanders & Hall 6/23 Parrs Smith Ensemble6/28 Freedy Hague Trio 6/30 Alexander & Noelle7/5 TBA 7/7 The Balkan Rhythm Band7/12 Roberto Clemente 7/14 Russian Folk EnsembleHigh School Steel Band 7/21 Akio Sasajima Trio7/19 Peggy & Brian Hyland 7/28 TBA7/26 Lin Shook DanceAugust Schedule TBASOQ Films 82 in Air Conditioned CobbHall-Watch Maroon for Show Times6/22 The Candidate6/29 Citizen Kane7/6 Laurence or Arabia7/13 After the Fox7/20 Laura7/27 Sea of Grass8/3 Mr. Hulat's Holiday8/10 My Darling Clemintine8/17 The Day the EarthStood Still 6/24 The Wind + the Lion7/1 Breaking Away7/8 Love & Death7/15 The Howling7/22 My Body Guard7/29 Importance of Being Ernest8/5 Funny Face8/12 Time Bandits8/19 You Only Live Twice 6/25 2001: A Space Odyssey7/2 Thief7/9 Apocalypse Now7/16 Cutter’s Way7/23 The Rose7/30 Dirty Harry8/6 Godfather I8/13 Godfather II8/20 ExcaliburDiscount Tickets - Plitt & Rose Theatres, Mar-riot’s Great America tickets available at theUniversity Ticket Center located in the ReynoldsClub, 11 am. -7 pm. M-F, call 962-7300Special Ravinia Festival Lawn Tickets - soonavailable for select performers inquire at SAO,Rm. 210,962-9554Ice Cream at Ida Noyes - The Bakery is openM-F 9am-8pm featuring the best of Haagen Daz,& baked goods.— SUMMER WITH SAO —ACTIVITIES LIVE:753-2150 BLUE CROSS/BLUE SHIELDSummer 1983Off-Quarter CoverageJune 10th is the DEADLINE forenrollment!Applications are available inAdministration 103.Off-quarter coverage is available to degreestudents who are registered and participate inthe University Blue Cross/Blue Shield Plan thequarter prior to the off-quarter and who expect tobe registered and participate the quarter follow¬ing off-quarter. Off-quarter coverage is availableto degree students for one quarter of non¬registration in a 12-month period. Application foroff-quarter coverage must be made in theRegistrar’s Office and the fee must be paid uponapplying.18—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983■i-i'1Hin|H1is D AfA E PARISMARS 1920Medusa GeorgiaI do not sleep GeorgiaI shoot arrows into the night GeorgiaI wait GeorgiaI think GeorgiaFire is like snow GeorgiaI hear every sound without exception GeorgiaI see the smoke climb and fly GeorgiaI walk in the steps of wolves in the shadow GeorgiaI run here in the outlying streets GeorgiaHere is a city that is the same Georgiathat I do not recognize GeorgiaI hasten the wind Georgiaand the cold and the fear GeorgiaI flee GeorgiaI run GeorgiaThe clouds are low they are going to fall GeorgiaI extend my arms GeorgiaI do not shut my eyes GeorgiaI call GeorgiaI cry GeorgiaI call GeorgiaI call you Georgiawill you come Georgiasoon GeorgiaGeorgia Georgia GeorgiaGeorgiaI do not sleep GeorgiaI wait for you GeorgiaGeorgia—Phillipe SoupaultSinister right — dextrous left — superior hypercriteSpirits with no light and no Don QuixoteArts to starboard, red and green to portwith no vessel.Why transform men into animal foeti.My tongue becomes a road of snowCircles form around mein a bathrobeExterior eventsNapoleonModern ideasProfound artists reunited in canonwho deceiveArtists of the wordWho have but one hole for mouth and anusI am the lover of the worldThe lover of unknownsI am looking for a Sun.—Francis Picabia Colonial SyllogismNoone can escape fateNoone can escape DADAOnly DADA allows you to escapefateYou owe me: $943.50More drunks!More airplanes!More vigor!More urinary tracts!More enigmas!—Tristan TzaraXXIII XXVIIII wait for lettersI wait for deathI wait for the streetcarThe tomorrows of todays will become yesterdaysETERNITYTo your health!It is cold, I wait for Summer—Pierre Albert-Birot Small white table a pot of honey a pharmacist’s flask aglass a spoon inside tic toe tic toe tic toe ten till 5 abed a man recumbent Albert-Birot the neighbors are breakingwood over my head someone sings on the right speaks on the leftthe children cry below the window the railroad passesat the end of the streetmen Germaine Dolliecrowd ParisPekinginfinities someone was saying they heard the fire-music danceNew YorkUniverse—Pierre Albert-Birot-Translated by Ben Powel and Paul O'DonnelThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—19Vt>-i,1*1 Train to Baltimore. 3/22I come to you with flowers, love,one-from-the-heart for your birthday,all I can afford, really, last dollars gone.In the station I buy a Post, act naturalwhen the lady with the Ouija-boardmutters imprecations, and pig-tailedsisters assault me with nursery-rhymes:“Ashes, Ashes..." Smiling, content,I scan the sports. How could anyonebe happier?And the train is smooth northto Baltimore, flowers a yellow spectacleon the seat beside me, cold springparading the window with daffodilsand black pines. See me, love!I come to you with heart-on-sleeve,my love an avid, earthy sun!But getting up the floor is wet,too many bundles, too few hands, no timeto stoop, train already moving...Thusthe prophecies of tooth-less women andlittle girls in train-stations are fulfilled.Thus I come to you, love, empty-handed,pride torn at the knees, my neart a golden flowerfor your hand, petals beating rose-bloodat the sight of you in Baltimore,sky grey but moist with spring,train running slow north to New Yorkwith daisies and chrysanthemums. Duck, North CarolinaWalking sand the beach is hotall the way from Duck, south to Kitty Hawkor further. Up ahead your sister ransacksthe sea, pulling clam-shells, mussels,talking ocean. Walking surf the bottomslides to sand-bars, greener depths. We knowblue-fish are runningbut when tide goes silverwe’re walking flesh, quick bodiessmacking legs. Minnows run in shallows: no luck.Waves leave them dry on sand, blue-fishcatch them leaping in silver jaws. We reachto touch them in the white ocean, water cool andwhite, alive on our hands.Five minutesand it’s over, water breaking green,minnows wriggling on the beach. Already gullscircle. A black man casts far outand takes two blues. His bucket is full.The school recedes past shoals, seeksthe depths.Hand in hand we know the taste of salt,weeds and sand on our legs, winda hand to smooth your hair. We find them here,Elizabeth, in the shallows where we walk:tiny crabs like revelations,briny oysters and meat for the table,the heart’s hard answers.Pennyiess at the DefiSaturday morning and a big, blue sky,wind off the lake cool, “refreshing’’, one might say,cars motoring smoothly, pulling in and outof ample parking-spaces, the proper mirrors consulted,an economic use of the horn,money in the meter, baby in the car-seat,me in the deli saying Fuck. To explain: it shouldn’t be like this.I’m not poor. A simple mistake,a wallet forgotten. It could happen to anyone.But Tree-man glowers, uninterested in excuses.No length of talk will do — that’s clear.One’s moral sense is easily piqued:this isn’t right. I’m not poor.I’ve never even been — hungry. I just don’t have the...The Tree-man is immovable, rootedto his convictions.Tree-man, two years ago I saw you fall,limbs like limbs, wooden, stiffly tree-like.The name stuck. Since then I’ve seen youhere and there, from a distance, but never talked.And now it’s come to this, hawking $1 subsat Morry's, happy with your tray of foil-wrapped goodies,a dime commission on each one sold.A bitter history unfolds. In Baltimorethe General Congress of Labor won the 8-hour day.The “Working Men of Dunkirk, NY" frameda manifesto: the 5-day week is a worker’s right.It was 1866, Tree-man, the Civil Warengendered “reform”. Since then, a handfulof riots, soon forgotten, corrupt pension-fundpresidents, ‘a century of progress’ leadingin an inalienable, historical movement to you,Tree-man, to your foil-wrapped sandwichesglinting in the sun this Saturday morning.In 1846 a million Irishmen died in the famine,“poor devils, not the rich". Marx tellsof Gamlingay, “the wretchedest villageto be found anywhere". “A deadly lassitude,a hopeless surrendering up to filth reignsin Gamlingay." We don’t have potato famines,we’ve got Iowa. We’ve never had a million starve to death,never will, perhaps. And Gamlingay? Maybe not.I understand your feelings, Tree-man.You come to work each morning confronted by abundance:banana peppers 2-for-25c New York Cheesecake —mocha, chocolate, or cherry — 954, Corned Beefw/Chopped Liver $2.59, pickled tomatoes 14c each(14c for God’s sake, a nickel and a dimeand a brand-new 1983 penny for change.)But there’s need, too, Tree-man. You’ve seen it,south on Woodlawn, or doled out along the Dan Ryan20 stories at a time. We all know it’s there.Not even the most avid attempt to deny it.They just give reasons: a lack of will, moral lethargy,“a hopeless surrendering up to filth".And there’s hope, they say. The hope we clutch to our hearts;each one of those kids could be President.The uninvited spectors of inequality and whatare brushed aside like harmless bogeys,like the animate, sword-rattling skeletonsof Saturday morning Sinbad movies.Haven’t you seen those Cabrini Green tumblers on TV?Black kids from the ghetto vaulting gracefully over obstacles,a new urban symbol. So easy, in America,to leap and spin through the air,to cart-wheel up-and-out of poverty,to seize success and happiness, just twoof a handful of inalienable rights.And gang-wars, rape, drugs? Nine brothers at home?I said each one of those kids could...No, our America has no hidden skeletons.Ask the Korean guy slicing pastrami:it’s the land of opportunity, of equalityand justice, of peace and ease at median incomein Hinsdale and Midlothian and Downer’s Grove.The good, we say, outweighs the bad...For this we love it and are blind to its faults.Blear-eyed, hungover, I stand at the counter,craving Italian sausage.. “One sum of moneyis distinguishable from another only by its amount."Yes, Karl, but see the cars moving effortlesslyup and down the street. The ease, the shining chromium!Chicago is beautiful this morning, despite itself.Tomorrow? Tomorrow I will have money,could have it now, a short walk home.Money to buy egg-salad, and Pepsi, to have my car washed.Tree-man, I salute you. I envy you your lack of conscience,your easy acquiescience to a system not-all-that-bad.Workmen raise clouds of dust by the new hospital.A slick, yellow Chevrolet rolls to a stopat the intersection and waits, engine pulsing.The sun lustres rich America, and I — (say love, say love) —accept it. I accept it, right or wrong.Tree-man, your roots are strong. I make no vows.Your eyes flash like digits in their sockets,they sing to me, they stare me down —“Relent. Relent." I will. I have.—Campbell McGrath20—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983: ■MEDICAL SCHOOL APPLICANTSAccelerated three-year program ‘ointly with St George'sUniversity, and major southeast U S A. universityWe have placed hundreds of students into the best Englishspeaking foreign medical schools ..Including St George'sUniversity in the world's highest ECFMG averageEnglish speaking school.Call or write for our 1983 Bulletin describing how we can helpyou obtain a quality medical education."Pay only on acceptancePersonal, professional Caribbean specialists since 1975MedicalEducationalCorporationFlorida offica 2119 Embassy Drive, West Palm Beach FI 33401New York office 11701 Park Lane South, Kew Gardens NY 11418(305)683-6222 (212)441-7074New and RebuiltTypewriters,Calculators,Dictators, AddersCasioHewlett Packard REPAIRSPECIALISTSon IBM, SCM,Olympia, etc.FREE repairestimatesTexas InstrumentCanonSharp RENTALSavailable withU. of C. 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Clark SI., Chicago. II 606)4(above Countv $ttt>864-4441 880-5400^ JThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—21THE 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 •BeautyShop•Barbershop •T.J.'s Restaurant•Dentist *Valet ShopFREE PARKINGMr. Keller 752*3800 /i111111111111111 ttkTONIGHT at 7:15 and 9:30: You’ve seen “Return of the Jedi” —now see the film that started it all! Jay Ward’s AN EVENINGWITH BULLW INKLE AND FRIENDS - and may the Moose bewith you!SATURDAY at 7, 9 and 11: Peter Cook is the Devil, Dudley Mooreis Everyman, and Raquel Welch is Lillian Lust, the Babe with theBust, in the Faustian film favorite, BEDAZZLED! 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IIby the MaroonOpen DailyFrom 11:30 a.m.to 9:00 p.m.5228 Harper 493-2559Eat more for lessA Gold Mine Of Good FoodStudent Discount:10% for table service5% for take homeHyde Park's Bast Cantonas# Food Some very funny business.PARAMOUNT PICTURES PRESENTS AN AARON RUSSO PRODUCTION ■ A LANOIS/FOLSEY FILMDAN AYKROYD-EDDIE MURPHY-"TRADING PLACES’’-RALPH BELLAMY-DON AMECHEDENHOLM ELLIOTT AND JAMIE LEE CURTIS-EXECUTIVE PRODUCER GEORGE FOLSEYJR.' HARRIS & HERSCHEL WEINGROD • PRODUCED BY AARON RUSSODIRECTED BY JOHN LANDIS A PARAMOUNT PICTURE .*0*.Copyright' MCMLXXXIII By Paramount Pictures CorporationAll Rights ReservedV i/RITTEN BYTIMOR RESTRICTEDUNDER I? REQUIRES RCCOMPRNTINCMRERT OR RDUIT GURROIRRStarts Friday, June 10th at a Theatre Near You.22—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983Whatever Happened to Isaac R.?by John SchulmanPart OneOccasionally and without hope I ask forIsaac Rosenfeld in the used bookstores Ifrequent. Rare the booksellers who knowhis name, and rarer still his books, thoughthey were published by major houses.Even in Hyde Park, where he lived in thethirties and again in the mid-fifties, hisname and work are unfamiliar. Strangethat he’s unknown when his contem¬poraries — Saul Bellow, Delmore Schwartzand John Berryman among them — standnow at the peak of their popularity. Amajor biography of Berryman was justpublished a few months ago; Eileen Simp¬son’s Poets in Their Youth is somewhat of abest-seller; Bellow, of course, has won theNobel; and Schwartz’ books fetch over ahundred dollars in their first editions,most likely because of the excellent biog¬raphy by Atlas and the two New Directionsreprints. Yet, disregarding a few disserta¬tions, no critical work has been done on Ro¬senfeld, a man whom Bellow called, “oneof America’s finest writers” (Partisan Re¬view, Fall 1956). How did it come to bethat Rosenfeld, a man loved and respectedby his colleagues and students could endup in such obscurity?Part of the reason seems to be his char¬acter. John Berryman wrote a poem abouthim:Of Isaac RosenfeldI never knew him. We hailed, here orthere,and friendly words about eachother’s bad& halfway works we mouthed, andclowned. I hadbriefings on him, years, over thewaters. Fairshowed yet his promise; he enjoyeddespair,did wrong, set living people roaringor sad,loved was, empty months mastered,sore made & glada wife, and liked children — fromacross, now down;and so they loved him back. Onlythey said‘He ought to be a father, not a child’his own child too said so. I have toglareinto a room where, half-through, hecrampt dead,where all his lovers, seeking his cry,drown,and solo I reel in a word dispelled.Bellow describes him as sickly, comical,mystic, and a lover of failure, “satisfiedwith the mild form of social revolt whichtheir incomplete ruin represented.” Bel¬low continues, “Many loved him. He wasan extraordinary and significant man”(Partisan Review, Fall 1956). Perhaps itwas the peculiar circumstances underwhich Bellow wrote his two articles on Ro¬senfeld, one an elegy written just after Ro-senfeld’s death and the second a forewordto a posthumous book of Rosenfeld essays,but the tone of the two essays is that of aman writing about a legendary figure. ForBellow it was an honor to be Rosenfeld’sfriend. Yet he lived in filth and abhorredsunlight: “...there sometimes werecockroaches,” Bellow writes, “springingfrom the toaster with the slices of bread.”(An Age of Enormity, p. 13) King Solomon,in a story by Rosenfeld of the same name,sits around in shirt-sleeves, bunions on hisfeet, and plays pinochle. Somehow it wasRosenfeld’s youthful brilliance and laterhis defeatism, which attracted Bellow,who looked on him as the tragic hero of Ju¬daism.Born in 1918, dead of a heart attack atage 38 in 1956, he grew up in Chicago and went to college at the University of Chica¬go along with Bellow in the early thirties.Bellow remembers, “We are on a surrea¬listic kick and have put on a play by Oscar(Tarcov) called ‘Twin Bananas’ in the lobbyof Harper Library, all three of us repre¬senting headless men.” Later, Rosenfeldmoved to New York to study philosophy atNew York University. He gave that up in1941 and began his literary career, join¬ing the staff of The New Republic, becom¬ing an editor there. Ten years later hemoved to Minneapolis where he taught atthe University of Minnesota, then movedto Chicago to teach at the University in thelast two years of his life. He was married,had some children. He lived on WoodlawnAvenue. All who were acquainted with himloved him. A group of fervent students fol¬lowed him around in Minneapolis and an¬other group in Chicago. He's been de¬scribed as a brilliant conversationalist,holding his cigarette with a “Russian un¬derhand.” Married, showing great prom¬ise as a critic and short story writer, noonesuspected that he’d end his life in misery,alone.Despite the great burst with which hestarted his career, I see hanging aroundhis life and work a constant preoccupationwith failure, as other authors (like Berry¬man) concern themselves with death andsuffering, and others with love, or politics,or racism. Rosenfeld published only onebook during his life, the partly autobio¬graphical novel, Passage From Home (Dial1946). After his death a collection ofessays was published, An Age of Enormity(World 1962) and a collection of shortstories Alpha and Omega (Viking 1966).This sparseness of publication alone indi¬cates a desire for obscurity.In Passage From Home, about a Chicagoboy named Bernard growing up in a miser¬able Jewish household, failure becomes aglorious thing, for with failure comes theattainment of eternal truths. During a staywith his beaten-down grandparents, Ber¬nard and his grandfather visit Reb Feld¬man, the local savant, who is on hisdeathbed. Feldman leans up and speaks ina whisper, the old men bending forward tohear, and "later, when we came to takeour leave, I could see that my grandfatherwas transformed into a new person. A lookof completeness lay on his face, an expres¬sion of gratitude as if for the ecstatic un¬derstanding to which Feldman had led him.Though unable to understand, I had sharedthe experience of that ecstacy, and I, too,felt grateful for it.” (p. 94) Later Bernardremarks, “This represented what was bestin their lives and in Jewish life, so I nowfelt that possession of such understandingwould be the very best of my own life, andknowing the truth, itself a kind of ec¬stacy.” And at the close of the book, Ber¬nard says, “Our lives contain a secret, hid¬den from us. It is no more than therecognition of our failing; but to find it isall of courage, and to speak of it, thewhole truth.” (280) I do not want to ap¬ pear too heartfelt in what I say, but itstrikes me that Rosenfeld, in his own life,was striving for just that brand of ecstacy,the achievement of eternal truths that donot appear after study of the worldly, theintellectual, but in the unlikely setting ofthe poor, the urban and the Jewish. Thus inhis brilliant essay, “Adam and Eve on De-lancey Street,” it is watching an East Sidedeli slice up Kosher Fry Beef which sets offin him a long thought on the nature of mod¬ern Judaism. Bellow writes, “Ecstacy waswhat he pursued, and he paid the cost insuffering, a horrible and bloody cost...Heendured boredom and deadness, despair,and even madness.” Bellow concludes, "Hewon.” It follows, that his work would beunknown, unread: isn’t it best that thework of a “prophet” (As Theodore Solo-taroff called him) should lie unnoticed inthe bin of the Jewish bookseller? CertainlyRosenfeld would like that! And second, Ro¬senfeld did not believe that obscurity wasfailure. It might appear failure, but one’sworth really had nothing to do with fame.Solotaroff writes that Rosenfeld’s conver¬sations are more remembered than hiswork.Even so, his literary brilliance was ad¬mired by fellow authors. The literarymovement which encompassed him, agroup of writers who published in the Par¬tisan Review, The Nation, Commentary,the Kenyon Review, and The New Repub¬lic, enjoy now the reputation as being oneof two major 20th Century Americanschools, the other being the Southernschool. Starting around 1934 with the firstissue of the Partisan Review, these au¬thors, mostly Jewish, began chronicling innovels, short stories, and criticism, thealienation of the intellectual and the Jew,the defeat of religion, and their own radi¬cal views on politics and the state of theworld. Toying with Marx, Freud and Wil¬helm Reich, feeling the burden of his Ju¬daism, and a graduate of the University ofChicago, a glamourous place for writers inthe thirties, he fit right in. “Almost over¬night this young unknown from Chicagoemerged as the rising star on the NewYork literary scene and one of the key rep¬resentatives of the post-Marxist, post-De-pression temperament,” writes TheodoreSolotaroff. “Besides Rosenfeld, therewere Bellow, Delmore Schwartz, AlfredKazin, Irving Howe, Leslie Fiedler, RobertWarshow, to name only some of the promi¬nent ones.” (Age of Enormity, 23, 25)He fit right in, but soon was on the fringeof it all. While others, like Schwartz,greedily sought fame, Rosenfeld shunnedfame as he shunned sunlight. While othersbecame entangled in post-war politics, Ro¬senfeld stayed from political writing ex¬cept where the Jews were concerned. Thestories of his which start off politically,like “The Colony” and “The New Egypt,”inevitably turn to discourse on human na¬ture. While others, like Kenneth Burke,Philip Rhahv, Yvor Winters and the rest ofthe New Critics, wrote for the elite and theintellectual, Rosenfeld wrote thousand-word essays and reviews for the uneducat¬ed.Here I must say outright that my intentin writing this article is to renew interestin Rosenfeld. I say, without shame in mytactlessness, that his work moves me withits eloquence, its sadness, and its charm.Every once in a while Passage From Homecomes out in a paperback reprint. None ofhis books are in print now, and let us allhope that his work comes back once moreinto print. Why else, other than this,should I write an essay on books imposs¬ible to find?Part TwoRosenfeld attended the University ofChicago in the 1930’s and taught here asan instructor in the English department, in1955 and 1956. He wrote an essay aboutHyde Park, “Life in Chicago,” in which re¬ports the character of the university whilehe was there. The quality of life he sawthen is interesting, if compared to thatwhich we see around us today. The stu¬dents were mostly “yaks” to wrote, “whoviewed life not as an adventure, but as aninvestment.” He found the intellectual lifeof the University mainly in the bars: Jimmy’s, the Compass Tavern, the Univer¬sity Tavern, and Stineway’s on 57th. Here,he writes, the ideal of the student “(was)to lead a passionless, ‘cool’ life, exposed,but uncommitted, to many worlds and tobe au courant in them all: to be able tochatter — actually drone — of drama,books, art, jazz, hi-fi, Aristotle and otherphilosophers...to avoid extremes of roma-ticism in sexuality or love, all extremes offeeling...Intellectuality is cultivated asmindlessness.” (An Age of Enormity, p.335) The faculty, he depicts as conserva¬tive, married, middle class. Altogether,Rosenfeld thought the University confusedand directionless. Hutchins’ administrationhad ended a few years previous, andLawrence Kimpton was the Chancellor, aman who declared that the University wasno place for “Queers.” “By queer,” Rosen¬feld writes, “Chancellor Kimpton meant in¬tellectuals.” Nevertheless, tag ends ofHutchins stayed on, despite increased en¬rollment of “apple-cheeked boys, andgirls.” Hutchins and Aristotelianism weresynonymous to Rosenfeld. Here was a con¬fused community, wanting to be both anIvy League-type school and an institutionof serious thought.Already in Rosenfeld’s day, the Univer¬sity, the Southeast Chicago Commission,the Chicago Housing Authority, and theHyde Park-Kenwood Community Confer¬ence, were “cleaning Hyde Park of unde¬sirables.” (328) After Rosenfeld died,most of the bars that he wrote about — allbut Jimmy’s — were bought out by the Uni¬versity.To what new region did the intellectuallife — however terrifyingly portrayed byRosenfeld — migrate? Not to other bars,certainly, and not to coffee shops or toMorry’s. This is a question I can’t answerThe cold, but somehow thriving, intellectu¬al community life as Rosenfeld reports it,has tor Rosenfeld a moral: that it is impos¬sible to have a healthy community of sa¬vants in America. “The University of Chi¬cago,” he concludes, “has gone the way ofother universities.” I see in this essay, as Isee in his other work, that some love of theprivate life, that same yearning for aninner ecstacy at the expense of a commu¬nal one.Part ThreeHere, then, is a man who should be recog¬nized, especialiy around here. How did theother writers of his generation achievefame, reprints, and the honor of criticalwork? An easy answer is to say that Bel¬low, Schwartz and Berryman were betterwriters, that Rosenfeld doesn't deserve tobe reprinted. Yet how can one know hisquality until reading his work? Secondly,one could say that his explicit Judaismkept him from a popular audience. Whydid it not keep Isaac Bachevis Singer, orSholem Aleichem? A third answer might bethat Rosenfeld didn’t really want reprintsor fame. My reply to this is more compli¬cated. and confuses even myself. CertainlyRosenfeld’s attitude toward life had some¬thing to do with his present obscurity, yetthere are other authors who print in smalleditions (or don’t print at all, like EmilyDickinson), who really do not desire fame,but have it nonetheless.It has something to do with how hisbooks were published. As I said, his bookswere published by major houses. Yetsomehow they were not reviewed by manypeople. Not reprinted. Were not distribut¬ed well. Rosenfeld was a product of theAge of Criticism, which we still live in,where success must be preceded by a goodreview in a major magazine, good distri¬bution, perhaps talks on the radio and TV(Bellow on Dick Cavett), resounding praisesprawled on the back of the dust jacket.All this, and nothing to do with the realworth of the book, or the author.The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—23It ( I • t * V -JWaple Cree 3nnPut the pastin yourfuture!LIVE IN AN HISTORIC LANDMARKThoroughly renovated apartments offer the convenience ofcontemporary’ living space combined with all the best elementsof vintage design. 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FALL INTENSIVEClasses StartingTHIS MONTH4WK/GMAT/LSATSPEED READING NEXT MONTHSUMMER GMAT/SAT.SUMMER ACT/MCAT...SPEED READINGThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—25by Terra ZiporynMy desires in life are simple enough.I’ve never asked for much, not much at all,but somehow, it seems, I’ve received evenless. Better to give than to receive, theysay, but what they don’t realize is that it’simpossible to give if you have nothing atall. I have nothing, and I’ve been givennothing. Zero plus zero makes zero. I'dlike to be able to give, of course, theoreti¬cally anyway, but right now I just want.That’s okay, isn’t it? It’s the Me Genera¬tion after ali.Now then, my wants are really simpleenough. I want a body that’s passable in abikini. I want someone to come home to. Iwant a warm puppy and a warm baby. Iwant a smile from my neighbors when wepass each other on the stairs. I want ahouse with a separate dining room and awasher-dryer. And I want someone to buyme a box of chocolates.None of my deepest desires is so outra¬geous. None is inconceivable. As a matterof fact, my Horatio Alger upbringing tellsme that if I work hard enough I can achieveevery one of them. Now that’s a comfort¬ing thought, isn’t it? To be able to workand become satisfied, to be basically ful¬filled — that’s something to be rather elat¬ed about. There will always, of course, beless essential desires, longings for fursand swimming pools and year-longsprings. In this sphere I would like a greatmany things. I would like the sky to be for¬ever filled with those lovely pink clouds ofsunset. I would like to be five again. Iwould like to kiss every baby alive. Iwould like peace on earth, good willtoward men. I would like to live forever. Iwould like movies to be free. I would likeTerra Ziporyn is working on her Ph.D. inhistory of science I GaveMy Lovea Cherrypuppies to be able to tell me theirthoughts. I would like my love to give me acherry that had no stone (all chocolate-cov¬ered cherries have no stones). And I wouldlike my love to love me. I would love mylove.But just to have the essentials fulfilled isconsoling enough. Though most of thewants depended on other people, it oc¬curred to me one day that there was noreason why I couldn’t get to work. Perhapsthe world cannot be exactly the way Iwant, but here are some things I can dosomething about. However, some were outof the question. I was not about to go on adiet or get pregnant, and my landlord didnot allow pets. I was sick of procrastinat¬ing, sick of brooding, sick of scheming, andso I decided to get my chocolates. Choco¬late has always been my last-resort com¬forter, and I was in need of a last resort.There were clumps of wet, soiled kleenexballed up under my bed, around my phone,over my bathroom sink, and inside my re¬frigerator, and I had no other alternative.If I want to ieave a party I can and if Iwant to cry I can and if want a chocolate-covered cherry I can have one. It’s myparty, and I can cry if I want to. And so, asresolute as a dieter the night before a dietbegins, I set out to find myself a box ofchocolates.. The ad said: “Wanted: male. Aged20-50 , 5’5-6’5, 150-250 lbs. Hair: brown,grey, black, or red. Eyes: same. Call555-5555, and be prepared to supply abox of chocolate-covered cherries.”I do so want my heart to be overflowingwith love. I want it to desire the world, tothrob proudly in life’s glory, to beat madlyat the sight of another lovely human beinglike a puppy dog’s wagging tail. But myheart is so filled with hate, only hate, thatI can hardly even imagine anymore the possibility of that love.It is so strange, I suppose, that I contin¬ually regard my heart as something like abox of Fannie May chocolates, the kindsome lucky ladies receive from their beauson Valentine’s Day, heart-shaped boxesbearing invitingly-filled drops of choco¬late. There are coconut creams and walnutclusters and chewy caramels, and younever really know exactly which one you’llbe swishing through your mouth whenyour hand waves indecisively over allthose captivating creations in their tinypaper wrappers. And even though mostchoices are fairly satisfactory, there’salways one candy in particular that youreally want when you delicately lift thatbrown morsel out of its wrapper, one spe¬cial candy, even if you can’t name it at themoment. For me it’s a chocolate-coveredcherry. Whenever I bite into a candy, sometiny green-eyed imp inside points out thatit may be good, but it’s not a cherry. And,the worst is when you bite in hoping for acherry and you get a mouthful of teeth-cracking, hard, bitter buttercrunch thatbreaks up into sharp brittle pieces andcuts your tongue instead of running andgushing and spurting sweet and soft redjuice. I hate that. If I could have my way,every box of chocolates would consist en¬tirely of chocolate-covered cherries. But,as my mother always said, the world can’talways be exactly the way I would like itto be.I was painting my fingernails when thefirst one called."Hi,” he said. “I responding to the ad.I’m 40 and 57 and 190 and brown andbrown, and they’ve stopped making choco¬late-covered cherries.”“Nonsense,” I said. “I saw one on analbum cover.”“That was a simulated one,” he said con-fidentally. “But, at any rate, I wondered ifyou might be willing to give your vital sta¬tistics too. Just so I know what I’m re¬sponding to.”“No,” I said, preparing to hang up. “Youdon’t sound like you’ll do. Good-bye.”The next caller — a 35-5’10-150-blond-grey one — said he hadn’t been able tofind any chocolate-covered cherries as yet,but he wondered if chocolate-covered rai¬sins might do. No, I told him firmly. Andthat ended that. I only got two other calls,one from a health nut who wanted to helpme “take leave” of my dangerous nutri¬tional practices, and another who lisped soterribly that *l couldn’t ascertain whetheror not he would be able to procure the can¬dies. I returned to my fingernails.Hands have never held much fascinationfor me. I look at eyes, at bellies, _at hairnormally, if I look at anything. SometimesI just sit glowering unto myself. But latelyI’ve been looking at hands. They all haverings, these hands, bands of gold wrappedtightly around the ring finger of the lefthand. How this particular custom of mark¬ing married people evolved I couldn’t say,but something about it strikes me as ex¬ceedingly primitive. I think on some tropi¬cal islands, for example, unmarried girlswear flowers tucked behind their left earswhile their married counterparts garnishthe right side. Or is it the other wayaround? At any rate, the territory is un¬iversally marked. How did all those menget nabbed? How did all those schemingwomen latch onto satisfactory men whoswore to love them until death did theypart? I don’t like people.Nobody loves me, everybody hates me,why don’t I eat some worms? What do loveand hate have to do with eating worms —or eating anything for that matter? I don’tknow, but when I was little, the kids usedto chant that to each other: “Nobody lovesyou, everybody hates you, why don’t youeat some worms?” We are put on thisearth to love each other — or what is it allfor? — and yet all they do is let you eatworms. I hate worms. I don’t want to eatworms. But you can’t always get what youwant.But you get what you need. What do Ineed? I need what I want. Right now it’s achocolate-covered cherry. No one evergave me a box of chocolates. It comes fromhaving been somewhat plump all my life.Plump, fat, pudgy, obese, corpulent, large, stout, flabby, call it what you will, ifany of these adjectives pertains to you,believe me, people don’t give you boxes ofchocolates. There was a record album — Idon’t remember whose — with a half-eaten, oozing chocolate-covered cherry onthe cover, blown up to monstrous propor¬tions, and headed with the words, “That’swhy you’re overweight.” I always thoughtthat album was maddeningly wrong. Peo¬ple aren’t overweight because of choco¬late-covered cherries: overweight peoplenever get any chocolate-covered cherries.Inside me, they say, is a thin person. In¬side me, I say, is blood. It’s not fat blood orthin blood; it’s just your average every¬day type-0 positive blood. Red. Oozing.Oozing through a heart which keeps pump¬ing it around so I can live and love. So I canlive. Everyone wears a ring.The women’s libbers say that you can’twait around for a man to fix up your life. Ifyou want something, you’re supposed todo it youself. I liked that idea. Men had away of twirling you around, leading youwildly in circles so long that you couldn’tremember what it was you wanted in thefirst place. For a while you thought youhad it, and then, when the dizziness start¬ed wearing off, you realized you wanted itmore and had it less than ever. If I wanteda chocolate-covered cherry, I was going tohave to find it on my own.I was not looking for Mr. Goodbar. Inever did like nuts. Just a plain ol’ choco¬late-covered cherry, thank you. So simple,so pure. Sure, the cherry’s been sugaredover, coated in the thick red juice, dippedin tough brown hide. But somewhere un¬derneath all that sugar and chocolate andsorbital is a fresh, natural cherry, pickedoff some real, natural cherry tree thatgrew in the sun and gave birth to thou¬sands of bright red balls. What did they dowith the stone? They can take the cherryout of the tree, but they can’t take the treeout of the cherry. Or something like that.And yet, I don’t give up easily. Besides, Ibegan to think, who were these men any¬way? If they were calling me, then, pre¬sumably, they didn’t have rings (I insistedon retaining a small degree of idealism).And although it was becoming inductivelyclear that men without rings would not beable to procure that precious little item forme, perhaps I was being harsh. Perhapsthey could get it, but just didn't know theycould get it yet. Perhaps if I gave one achance...I put the ad back in the paper the nextweek and waited. For a while, nothinghappened. I tried to ignore the silence, be¬ginning to wonder if the first man wasright. Perhaps they really had stoppedmanufacturing them. Undoubtedly thewhole thing had something to do with reddye H2. But it had to be a plot: cherrieswere naturally red. It was the chocolatethen, just too expensive. People werepretty tight with their money those days.I started thinking a lot about red be¬cause the phone wasn’t ringing, and workwas boring, and loneliness was forever. Isaw red, I read red, I turned red. Thephone sat silenced. Cherry red. Stop signs.Anger. Blood. Menstruation. Finger nailpolish. A mating monkey’s bottom. Lip¬stick. Roses. Red. It is the cherry that I re¬ally like in the chocolate-covered cherries.Chocolate you can get anywhere. Browndoesn’t really appeal. Red is the thing. Thebest of times, the worst of times. What ismore beautiful than a rose? What is morerepulsive than anger? My love is a red,red rose. My hate is a red, red anger.Finally the lisping man called me again,and I was forced to hang up on him. I feltbad: he couldn’t help it if he lisped, andimagine how many ads he had been an¬swering and how many receiver-slams hemust have experienced. His voice was hor¬rible, true enough, but then if I had an¬swered any of those ads for “female, bigtits, s&m” and had had the receiverslammed down on me? Even once? I wouldhave been devastated. And yet whatcould I do? There was no conceivable wayfor me to imagine a lisping man maneu¬vering me a chocolate-covered cherry inthis tight market.The next man who called, however,seemed definitely conceivable. He said he26—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983was 30, six feet two, 200 lbs., red-headed,blue-eyed and he spoke clear, unmistake-able English. I asked him if he liked choco¬late-covered cherries. He told me he lovedthem. Would he be interested in hunting acouple down with me? Certainly, he said. Igave him my address and told him to getover to my place immediately.The first thing I noticed was that he hadno ring. He did indeed live up to his physi¬cal description except that his eyebrowswere orange, not at all like Aaron’s.Aaron had dark, curly brown ones. But,then again, I hadn’t specified eyebrowcolor.“So,” I said as he walked in.“So,” he said. “You’re fat.”“Yes,” I shrugged. I really wasn’t thatfat; I just had some unwanted flesh hereand there. “Nothing a piece of candywouldn’t cure,” I teased. He grinned. Hedidn’t seem to mind me too much, andbegan taking off his jacket.“I’m Lacey,” I said.“Hi. I’m Waldo.”“Waldo!” I laughed. “That’s a funnyname. I didn’t know anybody but cartooncharacters were named Waldo.”“We’re even,” he said. “Can I sitdown?”I nodded and motioned to one of the liv¬ing room armchairs.“So,” he said again, lowering himselfinto the chair.“So,” I echoed.“So, the thing is, you wanted a choco¬late-covered cherry, isn’t that so? Or wasit the alligator negligee?”“The candy,” I said. “Do you answerthese ads a lot?”“Not really,” he shrugged. “Just whenI’m bored. I’ve met a lot of interesting peo¬ple though.”“Really?” I said. “Like who?”“Oh, I don’t know.” He tapped his shinyred shoes together like Dorothy in The Wi¬zard of Oz.“I’ve never seen shoes like those,” Isaid. “For men.” Didn’t angels wear redshoes?“There’s a move called The Red Shoes,"he said. “About a ballerina.”“Oh,” I said. Presumably he consideredthat a sufficient explanation.“These things aren’t all one-sided,” hesaid.“What do you mean?”“I mean, I answered the ad for a reasontoo. You may have wanted someone to getyou a chocolate-covered cherry. I wantedsome conversation.”“Oh,” I said. I hadn’t really thoughtabout that part of it before. “Well, I guesswhile we go out looking, I could talk toyou. Is that all right?”“I guess so,” he said. “Let’s go.”So we walked to Fannie May and FannieFarmer (why is it that all candy ladies arenamed “Fannie”?), and I told him aboutAaron. I had met Aaron, I said, almost ayear ago at The Music Box. He had seemedkind, had a way of looking right at youwhen you talked, and had an endearingfreckle right in the middle of the cleftunder his nose. He had brown hair andbrown eyes and a wry comment for every¬thing.“So you like brunettes?” Waldo askedme, sounding somewhat disappointed.“No,” I said. “I don’t like anybody. Iliked Aaron.”“But he was a brunette, right?” askedWaldo, confused.“Here’s Fannie May,” I said.We went into the shop and lookedaround at the neat little rectangularboxes of chocolates, each wrapped creati¬vely in cellophane and each placed decora-tively on the wall. We looked into the glasscounter to see a display of which candieswere in each box, and everything lookedbrown and round and not particularly dis¬tinctive.“Which of these assortments have choco¬late-covered cherries?” I asked thewoman behind the counter.“Cherries?” she said. “We haven’t hadany this year. There was a cherry blight,you know. The worms ate the crops, andthere’s been a terrible shortage. We dohave chocolate-covered strawberriesthough. They make a terrific special des¬ sert.”“No thanks,” I said, almost able to feeltears in my eyes. “Come on, Waldo. Let’stry Fannie Farmer.”We had to wait though because Waldohad been sold on the chocolate-coveredstrawberry and bought one to eat duringthe rest of the walk.“I don’t see what the difference is,” hesaid to me as we walked out of the doorand he placed the brown blob between histeeth and began sucking it noisily. “Ifthere aren’t any cherries around, a straw¬berry seems an acceptable substitute.”“If you can’t be with the one you love,love the one you’re with,” I said, pullingahead stubbornly towards Fannie Farm¬er.Huh?” he said.“I don’t know,” I said. “I like the waythe cherries gush around in your mouth.Strawberries aren’t juicy enough.”“I like the chocolate best anyway,”Waldo admitted, and I wrinkled up mynose at him.“You don’t have to be here if you don’twant,” I said.“I know,” he said. He stayed at my side,and I tried to talk more, so that hewouldn’t feel so used.But Fannie Farmer had been hit by theblight too. Waldo bought another choco¬late-covered strawberry and asked me if Iwanted anything else. No, I told him. Iwould look more tomorrow. Would I like togo over to The Music Box with him and talkmore? No, I said, I wouldn’t. He wentaway.In search of the chocolate-coveredcherry. I thought it out. One: I could stopeating and paint my face and love andlove and love until he comes along with ared heart-shaped box filled with choco¬lates. But not only would that take toolong: they all have rings. Besides, rightnow there was only hate. They say it takesmoney to make money. It takes love tomake love. Worms alone, I’m sorry to say,won’t do it. So then, I’d have to find mydearly desired candy without love in myheart.The next day, Waldo-less, I tried the gro¬cery store, the dimestore, and the drug¬store, the butcher, the baker and the can¬dlestick-maker, but had no luck at all. Ohwell, I thought, I might as well go homeand wait. Surely the cherries were notblighted forever: the world went on andon, and cherry trees kept blooming andfruiting. And when the cherries camearound, someone would surely coat a fewwith chocolate. Perhaps in a week, amonth, a year...until then I would go on,waiting and working.The fact is, of course, that I've eatenvery few chocolate-covered cherries in mylife, and I could certainly wait a bit more.They’re not the kinds of things they dishout at school cafeterias, after all. As amatter of fact, I can only remember onespecific instance of a definite experiencewith one, and that was when my parentsreceived a box of chocolates for Christmasand offered my sister and me one eachright before bed. My sister pulled out anut cluster, and I got a chocolate-coveredcherry. But since then I honestly can’t re¬call any other time I've tasted one.A few mornings later my doorbell rangand a uniformed man handed me a pack¬age. It was long and flat and had a littlecard attached. Confused, I took the boxfrom the man and signed a paper he gaveme, unconvinced that this delivery couldreally be for me. I wasn’t expecting any¬thing.But it was for me. From Waldo. The cardsaid, “I couldn’t find any cherries, but Ithought these might do for the moment.Waldo.”It was a touching card. Truly heart¬warming. I opened the box to find anarray of Fannie May chocolate butter-crunch, each individually wrapped in itsown brown paper just like the candies inmy parent’s assortment. A box of candyfrom a man! A box of chocolates! I smiled,for it was a novelty. But they were butter-crunch and I hated buttercrunch.. Why, ofall choices, did they have to be butter-crunch? Besides, they were from Waldo.He’s such a clod. 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Check InternationalHouse, for grad, students and for scholarsvisiting Chicago. 753-2270, 2280OWNER SELLING 3d fl Condo, large & bright,3 br/2ba/L R / D R/sunr m, oak floors,washer/dryer, near transit & stores, excelAssoc., locked parking, $73,000, call after 6:30,684 7622.Summer sub w/fall option. Lg, sunny studio at53 & Dorchester in bldg w sunroof, laundry,secty guard, on city, campus busrtes. AvailJune $299 Fall, Summer negotiable 241 5919eves.CHICAGO BEACH APARTMENTS5100 S. CornellApts available. Studios $280, lbedrooms $380Decorated + refurnished Rents includeutilities. Enjoy a view of the lake & skyline inyour Hyde Park apt. Call 493-2525. Ask for MrWardian. Parker-Holsman Co.E l TOWNHOUSE56th & Harper — Owner: 643-0959Excell Cond! Many Extras! 4br 2’/2 bath, famrm, AC, carpeted, w/d, freezer. S135K ImmedOccup5218-28 WoodlawnNear the U of C campus & shopping. One & twobdrm. apts. avail, for immed. occ. Rents startat $380. For an inspect, call 643-6428, ask forJohn or Parker-Holsman Co., 493-2525.STUDIO APARTMENTS $250 Hild Realty 9551200SUMMER SUBLET: 1 RM in 2 BDRM APTFurn w/carpeted Ivg rm Laundry fac. in bldg10 min. walk to campus. Avail June 15 - Sept.$180/mo. 947-9379.Lovely Studio Condo 55th nr UC Univ Park poolAC 24 hr security rent avail JuneSUNNY. AFFORDABLE, 2bedroom apartment. Modern kit¬chen with double oven; oak floors.Walking distance to university. Ex¬ercise room in basement. Exeellentcondo association. Priced to sell.NEW LISTING! 3 bedroom condo.Move-in condition. Large fencedyard - perfect for children. Somenatural wood; original stainedglass. Light and bright. Frontporch. Assigned parking space.Ray School district. $60’s.WHY RENT when you can ownyour own sharp 2 bedroom. 1 bathcondo with all appliances and oversized closets. Lots of electricaloutlets too. Maintenance includesheat, management and insurance.Super convenient location. MidS60’s.HILD REALTY GROUP1365 E. 53rd St.955-1200 HYDE PARK UNION CHURCH5600 S. Woodlawn Ave.Church School (all ages) 9:45a.m.Worship Nursery Provides 11:00 a.m.W. Kenneth Williams. MinisterSusan Johnson. Baptist Campus MinisterCome. Worship. Study. Serve1 enjoy my contactLenses made byDr. Kurt RosenbaumOptometristKimbark Plaza1200 E. 53rd St.493-8372The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—27MA1I7 THAT YOU’VEn!\/WV TIME TOLOOK....Say “Yes” toMichigan!Herbert Hideaway—$89,900Contractor's Own Custom BuiltHome on 6 AcresTwo Houses on One Lot$44,900Rent one. enjoy the other Locatedacross from the marina in New Buf¬falo. Great idea for a second homeSerious Space—$67,500Five beautifully wooded acresFive bedroom house. Two largebarns, garage, and other buildingsin excellent condition.Just refurbished inNew Buffalo-$29,900Three bedrooms, attached garage,ready to move in.Grand Beach —Should be more than $102,500Very desirable location, all kinds ofgoodies Come & see’Say “Yes” to Harbor Country,wine country, good biking, soundsleeping & great garage sales!Only 75 minutes from Hyde Park.ClydePAPPASReal Estate108 N. BartonNew Buffalo, Mich.(616)469-4802Ken WESTERSales Associate(312) 947-0557 eves.(312) 493-8167 days Classified Ads1 BEDROOM avail, in 2000+ sq ft Apt. LR, DR,Sunporch overlooking Lake and Park.Spacious, elegant. On minibus route. Friendlyroommates. $170 incl. heat, utils, extra. Call643 0310 or 962-8301 (Cliff, afternoons).SUMMER SUBLET w/fall option, 54th andHarper lrm in 2bdrm apt available June 12.Nonsmoker only, graduate woman preferred.CALL Martha 684-1735. $220/mo.For Summer and Fall: bedroom & small studyfor $180 or larger bedroom for $195 in large 5 brapt at 55th & Kenwood. Must be willing to keepplace clean; older preferred Apt has 2 cats,late hours, calling 667-8948.SUMMER SUBLET w/fall option, 54th andEllis, lrm in 3bdrm apt. available June 15,$183/mo, CALL 684-1735.1 BDRM SUBLET June-Sept: 5400 Harper, 9thfl, clean, comfortable, lake breeze, near Coop,ICG, Jeffrey Ex. Nonsmokers. $230 Call Jerryafter 5pm 241-6677Summer Sublet 57 + Drexel, clean, cheap 752-8358 1 bedroom in 4 bdr. apt.WANTED: roommate to share 3 bdrm subletfor smr $150/mon 4 blks from Reg call 3-2249rm 3310 if no answer Iv. message.1 bdrm in huge turn 3 bdrm apt safe bldg 5433Cornell near Coop buses 1C lake on UC bus rteJune and yearlong 288-0948 Debbie or John.5405 S. Woodlawn 2Rm 3Rm Apts, furnished643-2760 or 667-5746 Ms. Green.Avail now. 6 rms 2 bath large rooms-nr UofCBus park lake reasonable inc. heat water AvailJune 15 fine 4 room nr UofC inc heat 288-0718Sublet w/opt to rent studio apt avail 7/1. TheVersailles. 241-7993, 947-0483lyr. lease. 2 WEEKS FREE RENT avail June15 275 inc. Util. Clean, Safe, Bus. Penny 643-0757Room for rent in home of professor utilityAPARTMENTSFOR RENTGRAFF &CHECK1617 E. 55th St.Large2'/i,4 & 6 rm.apts.STmmec/urftQixafiasicyBU8-5566 room (washer/dryer), kitchen use, phone in¬cluded. Harper and 55th street. Lady prefer¬red. Call evenings 324 3484.Large, lovely Ibr+study apt for sublet, June 17thru Aug., Quiet, on campus, $1000 for summerwill pro-rate if nec. Dates meg. 947-0213.BEAUTIFUL! Summer sublet-Hyde Parkstudio/student. Lake view. Approx. 6/27-8/12.Call: 324-1287; 256 1246.One furnished room in 5 bedroom apt. 55th 4-Kenwood, 186.40 + elec. & phone. Friendly cat4- dog. Non smoker. Call 947-0184.Furnished studio sublet w/fall option. 190/mutil incl. Dorchester & 53rd. 643-0197.Condo 57th 4- Woodlawn, Must Sell By June16th 3 bd, V/2 Ba, Study, Lg. Remodeled Kit¬chen W/App Hardwood floors. Mid $60's. Call752 3982Large, remodeled 1 BR w/sanded floors avlb.for immediate sublet w/option to lease in fall.5479 Everett #1N Contact Mr. Traskos at 684-6300 Wolin-Levin Inc.SUMMER SUBLET $150(NEGOTIABLE )54TH 4-WOODLAWN WASHER + DRYER INTHE APT. 363-4341 BTW 530-630PM1 room in 3-bedroom apt 57th & Harper. $142 4-utilities summer sublet available 6/15 with falloption. Quiet, female preferred, doglover amust Call evenings Lisa 752-5860.FOR SALE BY OWNER 2BR Campus4-Shopping Bath + Kitchen Newly Remodeled,LR DR Bale Hdwd Firs Quiet 4- secure LOW$60'S. 241-7425 now.SUMMER SUBLET JUST $120/mo. Spacious,clean room in 4-bdrm apt. w/living rm & kit¬chen. 54th & Kimbark. Call 363-7435 now.Summer sublet 59th +Harper: Large bedroomin 3 bedroom apt. Furn, ac $150/mo call 752-3581SUMMER SUBLET, June 15-Sept. 30. 2 RM inspacious, renovated 3 BDRM 2 BA apt. Ideallocation—54th + Kimbark, close to campus,Mr. G. Rent $150 $175, NEGOTIABLE; Junerent paid. Call 363-1078 or 363-3493: ask forMike.GREAT SUMMER SUBLET 574-Harper$l40/mo.4-util. 2 cats, 2 people. NO smokers.Penny 643-0757.G.W. OPTICIANS1519 E. 55thTel. 947-9335Eyes examined and Contact Lomas fitted byregistered Optometrists.Speciaists in Oeofity Eyewear at ReasonablePrices.Lab on premises for fast service - framesreplaced, lenses duplicated and pre¬scriptions filled.■ — —i — CUT THIS VALUABLE COUPON ^■ — amamoMamOne FREE Kodakcolorprint!■ Pay lor three get thetourlh color print treeprocessed by Kodak■ Bring in your tavoriteKodacolor him negatives,color slides, color pnnts orinstant color pnnts * Pnntsmade trom one or moreshots■ Otter ends July 20. 1983'No combination ol pnnts slidesor KODACOLOR Film negativeson a single order will be honoredunder this oflermodel camera1342 E. 55th • 493-6700 1i28—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983t lUR/iij vyyfcjy «/|L» 2 Rooms for Summer: $90 & $140 per monthNegotiable: safe, furnished, accessible. 753-2240 Rm 1016 nonsmoking woman only54th + KIMBARK SUBLET-fr bdrm in 3br apt$150/mo Option for fall Female preferred 3245357VINTAGE REHABBED 7 RM. CONDO sunny,spacious, 3 bdrm., 2 bth, blt-in bkcase, dngrmw/blt-in china cab., mdrn. kit. avail. 7/1/83.$700/mo. Call 861-1179 or 324-5116.Sunny spacious 2BR 2Bath LR DR great EastHyde Park location Av 6/15 New lease 8/1 Ex¬tra Storage $575/mo (includes heat) Call 752-4345.Room available July 1 fall option pt furn nonsmoker female quiet no pets $135/mo 4- util56th & Kimbark Call Janet 667-4954 753-2734.FEMALE ROOMMATE wanted for eithersummer or longer. Room in 3-bdrm apt 56th 4-Univ. 643-2454.Sublet sunny large lbr fall option at 54 & Ken¬wood $370 neg. 955-907756th & Kimbark Need male to share large sun¬ny BR in 3BR apt for summer. $125NEGOTIABLE Beautiful-Must See Call 753-2240/1312or 1401Bedroom available for the summer in spaciousapt near campus. Rates/dates neg 752-1099 or288 5140Summer in Indiana Dunes? Sublet near beachand train. One hour from Hyde Pk. $200/mth 6-10/Sept. Call Chris 753-4850 (days) 219-874 5338(eve and weekend)JULY OCCUPANCY 2BR nr campus +shopping New kit+Bath Hdwd firs Bale QuietSecure Apt $600 incl heat 241-7425Superior Housing for 6/15 on. furn. student kit¬chen. Light modern. A/C. 56th-Harper 667-1171SPACE WANTEDIf your apartment will be avail Aug/Sept/Octfor year PLEASE call Meg 493 6420 REWARDOFFERED!2-3 BEDRM in Hyde Park WANTED, startsoon UofC employed rent 300/400 please call:Peter 753-8682 leave message.WANTED rm in grp house/apt starting Sept orOct for male grad May be willing to pay part ofsummer rent Call Alan 753-0107 keep trying.Wanted: Two bedroom apartment near cam¬pus, circa $450 a month, starting September 1call David Brooks at 363-4300 Ask for SpudResponsible Couple MD-PhD seek apartmentor house-sitting opportunity for 1983-84 after6:pm 955-6462— PERSONAL COMPUTERS—Sales, Education, Service,Computers, printers, modems and supplies.AUTHORIZED KAYPRO DEALERVALUE ADDED SYSTEMS1701 E. 53rd Street 752-7362CONTINENTALBREAKFAST•Fresh-baked croissant•100% fresh-groundColumbian Coffee•Fresh-squeezedorange juice*2.00Now open at 6:30 am53^ St. & typed667-2000*The Soldier’s Wife(upon reading a story by Yukio Mishima)She is white and exquisite,Pale as lilies exceptFor the carefully rouged mouth.Kneeling on the grass mat, she foldsHer white kimono under her feetAnd looks across the room at her hus¬bandWho has committed seppukuIn the name of .the-Imperial-Forces.She prepares .to jofn blm, knowing .Courage is no longer ar> issue.-She leaves a note: “For every-Soldier’s wife, this day must -come. ’ • * .Next to his: “Long liveThe Imperial Forces!’’ She poisesThe bluish point of her daggerIn front of her throat, nearThe place which is still redFrom her husband’s kisses.— N. ButcherCONDO FOR SALE56th & Kimbark, 2BDRM, Eat-in Kitchen, FullDr 4- Pantry, Safe, Sunny Court Yard BuildingPleasant Views, $66,000 Call 876-3512 Days. large 3-bedroom condo/apart, in Hyde Parkfrom Aug. '83-June'84 while in residence at UC.Please contact John Andrews at 753-3444 orwrite directly to: Dr. Bk Matilal, All Souls Col¬lege, Oxford Oxl 4AL England.UNIV PARKSUBLETFurnished Studio from June to Sept 15 Rent 300Call Jay Aragones at 947-8743 or 753-2249.ROOM FORWOMAN STUDENTfor July 4- part of Aug in large house 6 min toUofC $130 per mo full use of kitchen Call 962-8033 Iv name ask for Randy.SUMMERSUBLETUniv. Pk. Condos. 2br/2ba Convenient to Univ,shopping and 1C. Swimming pool, exerciseroom (with whirlpool) and sunroof available.24 hr security. $650/mo. 962 1514 days 288-5238eve.OXFORD PROFESSORwife and two children seek to rent home or TOWARD SECURITY21 unit apt bldg in Hyde Park offered to thewise investor for immediate possession Datasheet available by mail from Mr. Gray at 461 -1093.CLOSE TO CAMPUSWe've saved the best 'til last! 3 bedroom apt in¬expensive ’/2 blocks from campus & fieldhouse(56th & University) spacious kitchen very con¬venient back porch $175/month/room.FOR SALEPASSPORT PHOTOS WHiLE YOU WAIT!Model Camera 1342 E 55th 493-6700.Leitz HM Lux 4 Objective Microscope W/case$1000, New Volkswagen AM/FM Stereo CarRadio $40, Couch $40, Chair $15, End Table $5.752 3982.APT. SALE : Desk$40, K2 180 skis, 5 string ban-Used desks,chairs, files,and sofasBRANDEQUIPMENT 8560 S. ChicagoRE 4-2111Open Daily 8:30-5Sat. 9-2 jo, bk case $15, sunlamp $15, table. Call 929-0457 evens.VICTORIAN BU FFET-carved mahoganybeveled mirror. 3drawers-3doors Ideal forRenovated Victorians and Brownstones 2328208 APT SALE Beds, Bookcases, Dressers, .Tables, Rugs, Lamps, TV. Sat, May 28 5146Harper. 12-3. 643-339510 speed bicycle Lotus Excelle Shimano 600EXcompts. Almost brand new $200 or best offerPhone 363-3493 ask for TedTELEVIDEO 950 TERMINAL FOR SALE: 4 1974 CAPRI V6 automatic, snowtires, runspages int memory-great for use w Amdahl & good, $995 or best offer, call 753 3526DEC20. $825. Michael Dalby, 752 2342. 962-8794.Kenwood (*m mFEATURE OF L..«, Boo-£THE WEEKB~,oo- ^6 Rooms2 Bedrooms & Study| --1144 Square Feet r"nc-JI—-r*79,50© hi*LLl J<£±tate. Co.493-0666The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—29*Y Canon•Programmedautomation,•Automatic filmloading•Optional CanonSpeedlite 244T •Uses more than 50Canon FD•Includes CanonU S A, Inc.,one-year limitedwarranty/registration cardw ith50mmf. 1.8MINOLTAXG1A classic of 35 mm ‘Sculptured ergonomicsimplicity body• Aperture-priority Minolta USA 2-yearautomation plus full Limited WArrantymanual control included3rFnZ£ with50mmNIKON FM2with 50 mm/f. 1.8Nikon Lens•Total manual control•Flash-sync speed of1/200 sec helps eliminate ghostimages• Interchanging forcusing screens•Full information viewfinder•Energy Saving on/off meterswitch.NIKONWe take the world'sgreatest picturesmodel camera1342 E. 55th493-6700 Classified Ads71 Volkswagen Beetle rebuilt engine cassettedeck new exhaust system automatic stick $1500493-4985 ask for EdythSofa, chair, table, 11'xlV crpt; good shape;324 4572FOR SALE. Colonial sofa bed Double bed mat¬tress 4- frame Both one year old. Call 643-5944or 947 8388FOR RENT large well maintained studio apt.$290/month including heat 51st & Harper. Call643-5944 or 947-8388Ten-Speed w/Lock, Air Conditioner, EndTables Bed Frames, Prices Negotiable, Phone752-1099LEAVING COUNTRYSALESapporo '81 Mitsubishi-made A/C cruiseAM/FM exc-eng/bdy 5-speed $5700 neg $500,below book Must sell by June 10 Call Shigeru at955-1169.OLD'S CUTLASS SUP 77Auto trans, p.b., p.s., air-cond, am-fm stereoV8 excellent cond. $2400, call 363-5775. for one-year-old in our home. Start July 1st.Call evenings or weekends 752-0743.Student or students to take over NEW YORKTIMES campus route for fall term. Jobs dutiesinclude set up, selling and early-morningdelivery of the NEW YORK TIMES. For fulldetails, please call New York Times at 2291650.One opening in ongoing women's therapy grpin early June '83. Ages 25-32. Screening inter¬view, N/C Mary Hallowitz MSW/CSW 947-0154SPARE TIME INCOME; Our products aredesired by many. Just place and collectquarters. For information send $1 to:Brightstar Ind. Inc. 2240 S.E Thompson, Cor¬vallis, Or, 97333Two-year analytic research position with amajor consulting firm available 9/1 to B.A. orB.S. graduate with outstanding academicrecord, who seeks exposure to dynamicbusiness environment before pursuinggraduate management education. Stronganalytic capability and some exposure toeconomics, business, or statistics required.Some computer capability desirable. Sendresume to Manager of Analytic Services andResearch, Two First National Plaza, Suite2600, Chicago, II. 60603PEOPLE WANTEDPaid subjects needed for experiments onmemory, perception and language processingResearch conducted by students and faculty inthe Committee on Cognition and Communica¬tion, Department of Behavioral Sciences.Phone 962-8859. AfternoonsFULL-TIME BABYSITTER WANTED to caremarian realty,inc.mREALTORStudio and 1 BedroomApartments Available— Students Welcome —On Campus Bus LineConcerned Service5480 S. Cornell684-5400 ROOM/PARTIAL BOARD in exchange for"Being There" after school hrs for workingMom's 6th grader. Must be responsible andlike brash, witty, know-it-all type of kid. Startdate flexible. Require academic yr commit¬ment. Close tocampus. Call eves: 955 8321.A 24 year old good looking university studentmust go to St. Louis for two-weeks to Masters-Johnson forSEXUALTHERAPY.He needs anaccompaning female partner. Time, expenseswill be paid. Write P.O. Box 1541 Skokie, Il¬linois 60076.Experience drawing teacher for child. Smallstipend available. Call 643-5589.Experienced Secretary to a research professorUgly]) ticklingRENT-A-CAR1608 E. 53rd St. 667-2800(Between 1C Tracks & Cornell)IntroducesWEEKDAY SPECIALSMon-Thurs $10.95/Day50 total miles free!!WEEKEND SPECIALSFri-Sat-Sun $17.50/Day200 total miles free!!Technology’sLeading EdgeBe a science or engineering of¬ficer in the Air Force. If youhave a science or engineeringdegree, maybe you can qualifyto join our dynamic team. Seean Air Force recruiter today.SSgt. Steve Thompson536 S. Clark St. Rm. 352Chicago, IL 60605663-1640A great way of Me30—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983 Send resume to ISBP, 5741 Drexel, 60637.Fem. roommate to share beautiful 2-bdrm apton Hyde Park Blvd twn 55 + 54 sts Grad stu¬dent or working woman preferred 288-2622avlb. immed.University Church 5655 S. University-seeksfull-time secretary/bookkeeper to begin 7/15.$11,000 per year. Call 363-8142 for details.SERVICESJUDITH TYPES-and has a memory. Phone955 4417.JAMES BONE, E DITOR TYPIST, 363-0522.PROFESSIONAL TYPING, Reasonable 6846882.Passport photos while you wait. On campus.Other services available. 962-6263.PROFESSIONAL TYPING. Large or smalljobs. Competitive prices. 324 5943, 667 4285.FLOYD'S DECORATIVE SERVICEInterior & Exterior Very Neat & ProfessionalBest references Very Reasonable Over 20years In The Hyde Park Kenwood Area CALLFLOYD 221 5661SUMMER PIANO LESSONS for children andadults from U of C music student. $13 per hour.Call BJ Russell 962-7628 or 493-2970.TYPIST exp. Turabin PhD Masters thesisTerm papers Rough Drafts. 924-1152.MOVING & HAULING. Discount Prices.Free—Packing Service Free—Estimates.Free—Packing boxes & crates delivered. N/C.Free—Padding & dollies. References. Call Bill493-9122.Professional indexing and abstracting servicesfor books, Journals, and manuscriptsReasonable rates. Please call Patricia OTuama 955-9166.NEED ATYPIST?Excellent work. Reasonable Rates. Tel: 5367167SCENESP\ZZA every FRIDAY at the BLUEGARGOYLE. Full take out service available.5655 So. University. Open M-F 11:00AM2:00PM 1 blkeastof Regenstein.WANTED4 Tickets to6/10 10.00am graduation ceremonyWilling To Pay For Them Call 253 5738Convocation Tickets: 3 tickets wanted for 6/10session. Will pay. Please call Mark, 962-7326 or726-1541 day, 536-5749 or 965-6192 eve; leavemessage.SIGMUND FREUD STANDARD EDITIONwanted compl. works please leave offer forPeter at 753-8682Ticket to 6/11 graduation will pay $$$ Call 36306796-7pm.MetropolitanCommunity Churchof the Resurrection5638 So. WoodJawn 579-1299Outreach to the Gay CommunityWorship - Sunday 3 pmJoin Us Now!Studios, 1 & 2 BedroomApartments AvailableSome Nice Lake ViewsGood LocationHeat IncludedParking AvailableCALLHERBERT REALTY684-23335 % Student Discounts9:00 AM. 4:30P.M.Monday thru FridaySat. 10^RttBflRIDESShare Driving-Expenses with me to LosAngeles. Cal. ASAP Please call P. McCracken324 8308/1959.Ride Wanted Weekends Hyde Park to Ann Ar¬bor Mi and back or vice versa. 643-4986 eves.LOST AND FOUNDLost: Black German Shepherd mix - "Andy".Friendly. Near 57th 4- Harper. REWARD. 493-6420.PERSONALSKasha,Only tor Michael Nouri? FlashdanceCute guy in Modernism—did you ever tind out?The TypistTo all those wonderful radicals at CAUSE,NOMOR, etc. Have a good summer tra—-s.The TypistPHOTOGRAPHY STUDIOPortraits, Weddings, and Special Events arenow being booked by Hyde Park's newest por¬trait studio. Call and speak with Ron Milewskiat The Better Image.1344 E . 55th St. 643 6262STEP TUTORINGHelp a child feel bright and intelligent.Volunteer to tutor elementary and high schoolstudents, spring and/or summer qtr. contactMike (eve) at 241-6394 for more information.ATTENTIONJUNE GRADS:Are your parents alumni? Siblings? Aunts?Uncles? If so, we'd like to take yourphotograph (and theirs) for FAMILY ALBUM,on Graduation Day. Come in to the Universityof Chicago Magazine office at Robie House andsign up beforehand, so we can find you on thebig day.LANGUAGE COURSESSUMMER SESSION 6 Weeks June 22-July 13,'83 through Chicago Cluster of TheologicalSchools at the Lutheran School of Theology of¬fers professional instruction by experiecedteachers and/or native speakers in FRENCH/GERMAN/LATIN. See below for specificsor call CCTS: 667-3500 ext. 266.FRENCHCOURSESthrough CCTS at LSTC . 6 weeks: June 13 to Ju¬ ly 22. Advanced Reading: TTh 7:30-9:30; Fee:SI 10 Intermediate Conversation by arr. For in¬fo and reg. call Margery Schneider 947-8176 orCCTS 667 3500 ext 266GERMAN COURSESthrough CCTS at LSTC. 6 weeks: June 13 toJuly 22.INTENSIVE GERMAN: Section I Mo-Fr 911am, rm309 Section 2: Mo-Th 5-7:30pm,rm309. Fee: $220 (60hrs)ADVANCED READING: T/TH 8 10pm, rm309. Fee $110CONVERSATIONAL GERMAN(intermediate): M/W 8-10 p.m.CONVERSATION FOR STUDENTS WITHREADING KNOWLEDGE to be arranged. Forinfo and reg. call instr. Gerlinde F. Miller(PhD) native speaker (363-1384) or CCTS 667-3500 ext 266LATIN COURSESthrough CCTS at LSTC by appointment. CallFather Zbowski 324-2626 or CCTS 667-3500 x266ACHTUNG!TAKE APRIL WILSON'S POPULAR GERMAN COURSE AND HIGH PASS THE SUMMER LANGUAGE EXAM! Classes will meetM-F from June 20-July 22. Three sections: 10-12, 1-3 4- 6-8. For more information and toregister, call : 667-3038.THE EDITORS GROUPEditing, research, consuHation. Professionallytrained editors with editing, publishing,teaching experience. Manuscripts, disserta¬tions, reports, etc. By the hour, by the project.Free estimates. Dan 288-2520 or Jeff 743-4214eves. —SHAPIRO DUE DATEArt to Live with pictures are due Wed 6/8return them to Rm 210 Ida Noyes please. 50over due charge per day.WANTED: CHILDRENPHOENIX SCHOOL in Hyde Park has fallopenings for independent, sociable children,age 5-10. PHOENIX is a parent cooperativeschool that stresses academic skills and en¬courages intellectual curiosity. 2 teachers pro¬vide individually paced instruction to a totalenrollment of 15 children. Call 493-8207, even¬ings. HIDDEN TREASURESOPEN HOUSE June 4 and 5 at HYDE PARKARTISANS Batiks Paintings DrawingsJewelry Ceramics Greeting Cards StuffedAnimals and More! All but hidden away at 57thand Woodlawn in the Unitarian Church. Thur12-3 Fri 12-3 Sat 12-4 Sun 10-1 Hours during ArtFair Sat 12-5 Sun 12-5 Beautiful Art to Treasureat Reasonable Prices.RUNNERSANDJOGGERS WANTEDregister for Reunion Run-2.5 mi-Sat. June 4Stagg Field 9am. 2$ gets you a t-shirt and achance at glory! Come out and run w/an alum!NOAM CHOMSKYand others will speak on Israeli Arm sales inCentral America at DePaul University, 25 E.Jackson on Sat., June 4, starting 10:30 am.ORIENTAL CARPETOPEN HOUSE-SALEGoing to the 57th Street ART FAIR/lf you en¬joy art then you will really appreciate the ar¬tistic beauty woven into each of our uniquecarpets. This is our last sale of the year andwill offer incredible discounts on all ourcarpets. This includes a recently arrived shipment. For more information call DavidBradley at 288 0524.AEROBIC DANCESummer classes Mon&Wed. 5:15pm starts 6/27for info call 962-9554.U.S. INTERVENTION Classified Adsin Central America and the role of Israeli armssales are topics of a conference at DePaulUniv., 25 E. Jackson, from 10:30 am to 5:00 pmRamos, (FMLN-FDR-EI Salvador) andBishara Bahbah (Harvard Univ.)JAZZ, BALLET,MODERNSummer classes start 6/27 Mon-Thurs 5pm-7:30 for info 962-9554.ISRAELI ARMS SALESto Central America is the topic of a day-longconference at DePaul University, 25 E.Jackson on June 4. Noam Chomsky is afeatured speaker. Starts at 10:30 AM, Admis¬sion $4.PUB CONCERTSSat, June 4, 10:30 Hear the Visitors after theDizzy Gillespi Concert (over at 10pm) Thurs,June 9, Nicki D 4- the Blue Chips 10-midnight.Members 214-AFRICAN DANCESummer classes Mon&Wed 6:30pm starts 6/27for info 962-9554TIREDOFTHEOLDRUNAROUND?for a change of pace come to Stagg Field Sat6/4 9 am for the 2.5 mi. Reunion Run -2$ freeshirt.PUB MOVIESTues, June 7, BLAZING SADDLES 74-11 Wed,June 8, AFRICAN QUEEN 74-11. Members,214-JAMNASTICSsummer classes start 6/27 Tues&Thurs 5:15pmfor info call 962-9554.493-0666 • CALL ANYTIMETWO WEEKS ONLY$57,900Below appraisal. Goes to$59,900 after June 1. Lakefrontcondo-2 baths, 5 rooms. Tip-topshape. Owner leaving forBaltimore. Near 50th &Cornell.WHAT? FREE ASSESSMENTS? Well, for six months, so you can get a runningstart in your new lakefront apartment, owner will escrow the assessments. Stunn¬ing lake, city and park views. Excellent floor plan of four bedroom, threebath—everything new . 53rd and Outer Dri\e. S139.9(X).“PROFESSOR S ROW”Near 52nd & Greenwood* New listing* Garage (brick)* Large yard* Double living room* Woodburning fireplace* Three bedroomsFEA TVRE OF THE WEEKA TOUCH OF LUXURY$148,500Near 55th & Lake Shore DriveSee Hyde Park's mostelegant ten room,Lakefront, apt. residence.To settle estate. New on thespring market.The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983—3132—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday 3 June 1983