Fiction by;A Martha KinneyLarry CohenPoetry by;A John Schulman^ David SullivanPhoenix Poets;A ReviewedAn Interview with Alan ShapiroZuckarman Bound;Peter Himnielstein on PhSp Rothr, LENTForty days and forty nights. Why bother?What difference does it make?Find out with us.+The Episcopal Church at the University of ChicagoTHURSDAYS AT NOONBOND CHAPELON THE QUADS SUNDAYS AT 5:30 PMBRENT HOUSE5540 WOODLAWN AVENUE/Dear Neighbors and PatientsI would like to introduceDr. Brian Oswald who hasbecome associated withme. As you know I havebeen serving the HydePark-Kenwood communityfor over 40 years.Dr. Oswald is highly experienced in all phases of optometricservice, including pediatric eye care for your young familymembers. I hope and know that when you meet Dr. Oswald youwill agree with my choice and be pleased with his service.Cordially:Dr. Kurt RosenbaumDr. Brian OswaldOptometristKimbark Plaza 1200 E. 53rd StreetChicago 60615Phone: 493-8372752-1523Hours: Monday & Thursday: 10:00 a.m. - 7:30 p.m.Tuesday, Wednesday & Friday: 10:00 a.m. - 6:00 p.m.Saturday: 9:00 a.m. - 3:30 p.m.INTRODUCTIONSPECIAL$20 °°0FFCOMPLETE PAIR OF GLASSESDr. Kurt RosenbaumDr. Brian Oswald1200 E 53rd in Kimbark Plaza 493-8372* 752r]2532 — The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984 WE’VE BEEN KNOWN A WHILE FOROUR FULL SERVICE. VERSATILEXEROX0 COPIESAnd now we re becoming known for ourInstantCassetteTapeCopying ServiceCOPIES AREOUR SAGCOPYWORKS LtdTHE COPY CENTER IN HARPER COURT288-2233AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATIONPART-TIME EMPLOYMENT TELEMARKETING PROGRAMThe American Bar Association is looking for people tocontact its members nationwide by phone to discussthe public service, education and membership pro¬grams of the Association.If you possess good speaking abilities and can make apositive impression over the phone, you may qualifyfor one of these positions.The salary will be $4.50 per hour. Day and eveninghours. To apply contact Cynthia Baniak, between 1p.m. and 4:45 p.m.947-3956The Spring Quarter issue of theChicago Literary Review will fea¬ture several special features. Thesecond annual CLR short-fictioncontest will award a $50 firstplace prize, and all HonorableMention entries will be printed aswell. Additionally, the issue willfeature a dual theme: FEMIN¬ISM/BASEBALL. Members of theFeminist Literary Criticism Semi¬nar-Group will edit a special sup¬plement concerned with feministliterature, while the regular CLRstaff searches for works somehowrelated to America’s pastime. Allcontributions for the fiction con¬test should be submitted under apseudonym, with . an attachedindex-card giving the author’sreal name, address, and phone.Please drop all contributions —for the contest, the feminist sup¬plement, the baseball issue, orregular submissions — in the CLRbox in the Maroon office, room303, Ida Noyes Hail; or mail to theMaroon address below. Chicago Literary ReviewContentsPoems by Wack' ******* Stoyva. and G. W«a» *^ ^ by David Su«van p. 5Zuckerman Bound by Peter Hjmmelstei" p. 6Phillip Roth’s Anatomy ol an ArtiBog‘tiChicki kSJW*1 W \sfrt O*®*' ftwr on ^ Rob&t Hobbes9 p. 10_ c1_t otrggt bv Deane Biw® P- ^A Porirsit from L 61st SVee^SixBe*®'1®4Editor: Campbell McGrathEditorial Staff; Deane Bivins,Daniel Brownstein, Jim Dunn,Elise Eisenberg, Peter Hirnmel-stein, Victor King, Rainer Mack,Christopher Pearson, Tad Pethy-bridge, Leslie Rigby, Jack I. Rob¬erts, Johanna Stoyva, David Sul¬livan.Production; Jim Dunn, RainerMack, Campbell McGrath, LeslieRigby.Advertising Manager: ChrisScottThe Chicago Literary Review ispublished quarterly by The Chica¬go Maroon, the OFFICIAL studentnewspaper of the University ofChicago.Contributions, business or edi¬torial questions should be direct¬ed to the third floor of Ida NoyesHall, room 303, 212 E. 59th St.Chicago, II. 60637, or call: (312)962-9555Cover photo by Carolyn SchneiderThis issue Vol. 93 No. 41©1984 TCMgcj/CLR WK*Poems 1ftAn Interview with Alan Shapiro p. 15-Mrtlfn IhM ^ M ^ nI*** S’*9'" titer*® \GnwV P- 1ftStoryhHm Tm Beta, Snp.28*** Pearson p, 21Bn**®The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984 —- 3Untitled StudyingToday she’s topless behind Arnie’s on State,and giggling, teetering on her heels —later, walking north against the coldwith black wool up tight against her chin,she hears Jimmy’s sax mellow in the bluster,and sees him. He’s easy and good,a couple of coins and a few words,never a question for her. She sees himmost days, alone on the bridge,where she’ll stare for hoursinto the dark river and ask himwhy he’s there;tonight, he doesn’t hear her —but she’s screaming, she knows, shefeels herself tearing at his saxaphoneand throwing it into the chill —listening to its dull crashon the pier below, therewhere she once sat in thearms of a lover.Tomorrow her eyes are pitch black,like night against the blueand green freak neon laughter.— Rainer Mack My roommate held upwhat looked to me like a long piece of string,but I didn’t have my glasses on,and couldn’t seeitclearly,so I took a step toward him.It was a chain of staples stapled together!“You did that?”I asked.“I did that!”he said.“Amazing.”—G. WilliamsThe French ChefHer crew films the dark chocolatespread thick on sheet pans:how the workers roll itin their buttered hands,submerge fudgey spheresin a cauldron of milk chocolate.It hardens around the soft truffleinnard in the heavy factory air.She takes a bag full homefor her guests.each diner gets five, and a plateof sliced oranges dribbled withglistening sauce.—Johanna StoyvaThe University of ChicagoJohn M. Olin CenterpresentsERNEST FORTINProfessor of Philosophy and Theology, Boston CollegeDANTE AS REFORMER: THE POLITICS OF THEDIVINE COMEDYTuesday, March 27,19844:30 p.m.Social Science 1221126 E. 59th Street4 — The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984And Then ?The WordI’m at a loss before I have begun.Each word veers away, memory makes spaceuseless — Pinetrees on the ridge clusterdensely, in dead needles we would weasel,bellies down, searching for our enemieswho were whispering louder than was wise.But they were planted for the week of Christmasand we could only stay down for an hourbefore the patience of hunters made us restless.Upright, needles and pitch stuck to our hands,we laughed, believing what was called friendship;that there were a thousand permutations,that every childhood game had endless endings,that here was sanctity, the word “pinetree”.By TwosEverywhere there is a thin snowand a grainy clear light.Beach chairs collect the dustalong their endless uprights.Stiff old folks descendingfrom the last high bus stepreach out their arms for support,their shoes lightly scrape pavement.The scuff marks their feet makein the morning will remainuntil late afternoon. In Miamithere are only two directions;from the bus to the nursing home,and back. Winter is short, thank god. Then I followed them to their park, their bench,framed by the file of denuded fig trees,and watched the laughter of conspiratorsrise together in their brittle shared breath.I took a long lunch break and headed home,then I followed them to their park, their benchwhere they sat, two bleak figures like loversin a movie I wasn’t intended to see.Watching the laughter of conspiratorswithout hearing anything but the snow,at least I’d imagined I did, I had beforewnen I followed them to their park, their bench,(so black and white, and perfectly soundless),at least the snow moved, wetly smacking eyesthat watched the laughter of conspiratorsand cried. The rows of trees were like spiked fists.I watched the laughter of conspiratorsand the thin snow coating their twin shoulders;then I walked through the park, to their bench.—David SullivanMOVIES 11 pmMarch 13/14 TommyROCK VIDEOSEach Friday Night11:30 p.m. - 1 a.m.OPEN DURING FINALS WEEK4:30 p.m. -1:30 a.m.HAPPY HOUR DAILY • SPECIAL PRICES!4:30 p.m.-6:30 p.m.NOW FEATURING MOLSON GOLDEN ON TAP!Ida Noyes BasementMembership required21 and over Sunday, March 18th, from 3 until 5 p.m., Hyde Parkauthor Alzina Stone Dale Hill autograph copies of herOutline of Sanity: A Life of G.K. Chesterton justpublished in paperback.Thursday, March 29th. at 8 p.m., the “Hyde ParkPoetry Series continues with a reading by KathrynHellerstein. A poet and Assistant Professor of Englishat Wellesley College. Ms Hellerstein has publishedpoems of her own and translated the experimentalverse-narrative in New York by the Yiddish poetMoyshe-Leyb Halpern.The “Hyde Park Poetry Series'* is hosted by theSeminary Co-op in connection with Pocket Poeticsand the Chicago Literary Review .Monday-Friday: 10 a.m. - 10 p.m.Saturday: 10 a.m. - MidnightSunday: 10 a.m. - 8 p.m.1301 E. 57th STREET•684-1300The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984 — 5do you care? To you it’s all funand games. But that isn’t theway it is to the rest of us.And Zuckerman truly feels himself tobe a bastard, but in more than onesense; the anxieties that have comeback to haunt him have changed form,multiplied, and sprouted teeth. Hisquest for himself and for self-expres¬sion has not resulted in art, Zucker¬man believes, nor has it been a har¬mless, quixotic journey; rather it hasbeen an egocentric, self-indulgent The crippling of his upper torsowas, transparently, the punish¬ment called forth by his crime:mutilation as primitive justice. Ifthe writing arm offend thee, cutit off and cast it from thee. Be¬neath the ironic carapace of atolerant soul, he was the mostunforgiving Yahweh of themall.However, it is not just the angry godof the Old Testament plaguing himthrough his unconscious, Zuckermanquickly realizes. Certainly Zuckermanfeels a little guilty, he is not the mostsecure man you will ever meet, but hisunconscious has been his creative im¬petus and artistic director, as it is forall writers. “The chief obstacle to cor¬rect diagnosis in painful conditions,’’an introductory quote taken from atextbook of orthopaedic medicinestates, “is the fact that the symptomis often felt at a great distance fromits source.’’ And the source of Zucker-man’s present physical and mentalconditions is in part his unconscious.But Zuckerman’s doubts aboutwhether the writer’s art is morallyright is a more important one.Zuckerman’s subject is gone. InZuckerman Unbound the disappear¬ance of Jewish Newark and the deathof his fater indicated his subject wasgoing. But in The Anatomy Lesson theby Peter HimmelsteinIn the elegant and touching first in¬stallment to Philip Roth’s Zuckermantrilogy, 1979’s The Ghost Writer,Zuckerman is a literary wunderkindwho has hardly come to terms withhimself or his art. Unlike his brotherHenry, whose meteoric rise in theworld of dentistry is hailed by theZuckerman family as a great advancefor the Jews, Nathan’s success is metwith at best anxiety and at worst out¬right contempt. Judge Wapter, an unc¬tuous self-appointed defender of Ju¬daism who years earlier had writtenyoung Zuckerman a college recom¬mendation, urgently questions Zuck¬erman on the merits of a recently pub¬lished short story after beingapproached by Zuckerman’s disconso¬late father:Aside from financial gain toyourself, what benefit do youthink publishing this story in anational magazine will have for(a) your family; (b) your commu¬nity; (c) the Jewish religion; (d)the well-being of the Jewish peo¬ple?Can you honestly say thatthere is anything in your shortstory that would not warm theheart of Julius Streicher or Jo¬seph Goebbels?Although absurdly stated, the moraldilemma of the Jewish writer, or anywriter for that matter, is clear: isruthless exposure to be admired ashonesty and art or to be condemnedas ingratitude and exploitation? Thisdilemma is the first seed of anxietythat grows and continues to shape theZuckerman character in ZuckermanUnbound (1981) and threatens to de¬vour him in this past year’s The Anat¬omy Lesson.In the ironically titled ZuckermanUnbound Zuckerman must face theconsequences of a national sensation,his latest novel, Carnovsky — a bookwhose obsession with the penis andall its possibilities compares only withRoth’s own Portnoy's Complaint.Zuckerman has definitely been “un¬bound” in order to write this book,but whether he is now a bird in flightor a convict on the run remains to beseen. Zuckerman has moved into anexpensive Manhattan apartment, haselaborate tax shelters being con¬structed for him, has slept with an in¬ternational film star, who leaves himonly for Castro, and gets seatedpromptly at Elaine’s. But soon, withhis father’s heart attack and thetransformation of Newark from aJewish community into a black ghetto,Zuckerman’s insecurities come back toplague him like the furies in Aeschy¬lus’ Oresteia. His father has calledhim a bastard with his dying breathand his brother, after a drunken con¬fession of his extramarital affairsand dissatisfaction with his careerand family on the plane flight back toNew Jersey, confirms it in one ofRoth’s most powerful scenes:You are a bastard. A heartlessconscienceless bastard. Whatdoes loyalty mean to you? Whatdoes self-denial mean, restraint— anything at all? To you every¬thing is disposable! Everyting isexposablel Jewish morality,Jewish endurance, Jewish wis¬dom, Jewish families — every¬thing is grist for your fun-machine. Even your Shiksas godown the drain when they don’ttickle your fancy anymore. Love,marriage, children, what the hell farce with very real consequences,the death of his father for one.Furthermore, Zuckerman is a bas¬tard now in a literal sense; he is notonly fatherless but homeless as well.In his melancholy Zuckerman takes hischauffeur-driven limousine back tothe Weequahic section of Newarkwhere he grew up. His old house hasan unkempt and dilapidated look to itnow, weeds for a front lawn and acold chain link fence. “ ‘Who you sup¬posed to be?’ ” the black man withthe German shepherd on the frontporch wants to know. Indeed. Thequestions which torment Zuckermanare left like a bad after-taste at theend of Zuckerman Unbound: does thewriter serve anyone but himself?;and, has the writer a true social func¬tion?The Anatomy Lesson takes place afew years later in the early 1970’sand we find Zuckerman now lying flaton his back on a sponge-rubber play-mat, nearly incapacitated by inexplic¬able, firey pain. He lies there pros¬trate, head resting on an oldthesaurus, watching Nixon on T.V.through prism glasses (“...the onlyother American he saw daily whoseemed to be in as much trouble as hewas”), and serving the dubious func¬tion of a male whore to a retinue ofmistresses. The pain he feels is sogreat and mysterious that it hastaken on a life of its own, within Zuck¬erman, controlling him. “Just havinga neck, arms, and shoulders,” is forZuckerman, “...like carrying anotherperson around.” In its magnitude andmalevolence the reader is reminded,undoubtedly intentionally, of no lessthan Kafka. Yet, Roth is not simplyemulating Kafka’s threatening uni¬verse, but seems specifically to havethe concrete image of the elaboratetorture device of Kafka’s short story“In the Penal Colony” in mind. Zucker¬man is pinned to his playmat by thepain the way the prisoner in thatshort story is strapped onto the ma¬chine as his crime is slowly etched outonto his back.But what crime has Zuckerman com¬mitted? Well, the obvious answer is atrite piece of pop-psychology: Zucker¬man feels tremendous guilt for be¬traying his family and the Jews forthe sake of his so called art and uncon¬sciously he is punishing himself. Andfor a moment Zuckerman almost be¬lieves it: death of Zuckerman’s mother signalsthat his subject is truly gone. Roth hasdeveloped Zuckerman’s mother,Selma, into a tenderly comical andmemorable figure:...a little brown-skinned blondhaired woman waiting at theend of the corr'dor when he(Zuckerman) gets off the eleva¬tor with his bag: the uncon¬strained grin, the encompassingdark eyes, the sad, clinging em¬brace, instantly followed bygratitude. Such gratitude! It wasas though the President of theUnited States had arrived at thecondominium to call upon somelucky citizen whose name andaddress had been drawn from ahat.When I write that his subject is gone Iam not merely writing about the twi¬light days of Jewish Newark and thedeath of Zuckerman’s parents. The“subject” of a writer is what supportshim morally; it is what legitimizes hissocial function. Mrs. Zuckerman’sdeath pulled the last of Nathan’s fe¬eble supports out from under him.Only in The Anatomy Lesson do wediscover the intense level of their re¬lationship. In one particularly bizarreand strangely moving scene Zucker¬man comes upon a book entitled YourBaby’s Care among his mother’sthings and finds a stain on a page in¬structing that the breasts should beemptied every 24 hours:His mother’s milk had stainedthat page. He had no hard evi¬dence to prove it, but then hewas not an archaeologist pres¬enting a paper: he was the sonwho had learned to live on herbody, and that body was now ina box underground, and hedidn’t need hard evidence...Clos¬ing his eyes, he put his tongue tothe page...When Zuckerman’s mother was alivehe could face all the criticism, all thenarrow-minded accusations of self-hate and anti-Semitism, because heknew that his mothher down in Miamidid not listen to a single word of it. Hismother’s love always supported him;someone would take the witnessstand should he ever really get in tro¬uble and swear that he was a good boy, kind, loving, considerate. Afterthe funeral, after his brother Henry’shour long eulogy, Zuckerman over¬hears an elderly woman say, “he’sthe dentist and he writes better thanthe writer.” Perhaps she is right. No¬body needs his mother to defend den¬tistry, but Zuckerman needs his to de¬fend being a writer.While Zuckerman lies on his play-mat sipping vodka through a straw,smoking pot, and popping pain¬killers, as he allows his mistress tocook for him and to straddle him andto sit on his face, Milton Appel, an¬other self-appointed defender of Ju¬daism but also a respected literarycritic, reviews “The Zuckerman Case”and finds his literary output to be, toput it mildly, worthless. At the sametime Appel has let it be known that hewould like Zuckerman to write a fewwords on behalf of Israel after theworld-wide condemnation of the YomKippur War. Zuckerman senses a slypersonal attack here: the Gentileswill listen to Zuckerman because hehates the Jews as much as they do. “Inyour (Appel’s) view, it isn’t derangedIslam or debilitated Christianitythat’s going to deal us the death blowanyway,” Zuckerman fumes in a gemof pathological logic,but Jewish shits who write bookslike mine, carrying the heredi¬tary curse of self-hate. And allto make a dollar. Six milliondead — six million sold. Isn’tthat the way you really see it?When told how ludicrous and childishhis anger is by one of his mistresses,the twenty year old, self-possessedrich girl from neighboring Finch Col¬lege, Zuckerman roars at her in a clas¬sic Roth line: “I’m a petty, raging,vengeful, unforgiving Jew, and I havebeen insulted one time too many byanother petty, raging, vengeful, un¬forgiving Jew...”Clearly what he needs, Zuckermanconvinces himself, is to become a doc¬tor. “Other people,” Zuckerman rhap¬sodizes, “somebody should have toldme about them a long time ago.” Andso, he packs his bags, pops some pillsand flies out to Chicago where he wasonce happy as an undergraduate totry to get into the Pritzker School ofMedicine. Zuckerman is sick of the ex¬ploitation and endless self-analysis ofthe writer’s life. “My life as cud,that’s what I’m running out on,” Zuck¬erman explains to his old roommateBobby, currently an anesthesiologistat Billings Hospital. “Swallow as ex¬perience, then up from the gut for asecond go as art. Chewing on every¬thing, seeking connections — too muchinward dwelling...too much burrow¬ing back.” Writing once was as essen¬tial to Zuckerman as breathing, notjust a means of self-expression, but ofself-justification; he could not under¬stand how people could live theirlives without sitting down and tryingto work them out on paper. But that isthe lot of the intellectual: not to behappy simply living without thinking.Zuckerman’s decision to become a doc¬tor, then, is not a mock-heroic gestureto lift him off his playmat, rather it isa laughable capitulation to tradition¬al Jewish values and to respectablesociety in general.The Anatomy Lesson is the largestand most richly textured of the trilo¬gy. Hence, there is a great deal moreto say about the novel and already agreat deal I have left out. However,this is a good opportunity to draw toa close because Zuckerman’s severemid-life crisis is really indicative ofThe Anatomy Lesson’s, and indeed thewhole trilogy’s, larger theme. Zucker¬man’s greatest problem is in defininghis relationship as a writer to society.In this sense, Zuckerman has a lot incommon with Thomas Mann’s TonioKroger and Aschenbach of Death InVenice fame. Zuckerman, because heis an artist, is an outsider who feels asguilty as a criminal, especially amonghis own people. His rapid degenera¬tion after his mother’s death is the re¬sult of his moral weakness combinedwith his natural unwillingness to be a“normal, productive member of soci¬ety,” like his brother Henry.In The Anatomy Lesson’s penulti¬mate scene in a Chicago cemetery,Zuckerman makes a weak attempt toContinued on page 116 _ The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984The Chicago Maroonwill resume publicationFRIDAY, MARCH 30,19841984 PASSOVER 5744APRIL 17-94Hillel will place you for Seder and have2 meals a day throughout Passover.If you are on Hillers mailing list, your in¬formation and reservation forms will bein the mail first week of Spring Quarter.If you don’t receive it, pick it up atHILLEL, 2715 S. Woodlawn 752-1127THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO DEPARTMENT OF MUSICPRESENTSThe Gilbert & SullivanOpera Co.inPRINCESS IDAMANDEL HALL, 57TH STREET & UNIVERSITY AVENUEThursday. April 5 (Patrons' Gala) at 8 P.M.Friday, April 6 at 8 P.M Evenings: $8Saturday, April 7 at 8 P.M. Matinee: $4Sunday. 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Ted wipes the bar, cleans thesink, pours himself a ginger-ale, andseats himself at the end of the bar.With the fans off, the room is quiet,calm, shades of brown blending; onlythe snores of Mickey, Sammy, andLouie sleeping, tonight, as everynight, when years ago, the boys in¬herited their father’s shops withinmonths of each other, and feeling thenew manliness of their situation,chose Ted’s bar as their meetingplace.Tonight has been long, loud, frus¬trating. Mickey, a butcher, was in asorry mood, and his friends could donothing to console him. A short Jewishman, the years of labor and loss markhis face, his eyes droop with regret;his hairline receded, but then, at theback of his skull, shocks a thick ofgrey hair. Mickey once had a chanceto go to medical school, but when hisfather suddenly died, Mickeygrabbed the store, remembering thehappy, comfortable life his father hadgiven him. He saw his future throughthese memories, and he settled backbehind his counter to watch his salesdwindle. Today, he waited the wholeday without one customer.“Not one! Not one! Goddammit!Sammy! D’ya hear what I’m saying?I’ll go broke! I am broke! — they’lltake my shop away! Louie? Guys,what’ll I do?”What can they say? Business is badall over. How can they give sympathyto their plight, when their own are nobetter? Three friends, friends sincechildhood, three rollicking kids grownold together. Sammy, Ted’s nephew,is tall and thin, his clothes baggy,flapping dejectedly when he walks inthe wind. His hair is still red; his facestill covered with fat, dark freckles;but his walk is slow, his knees a con¬stant source of distress. Every day atfive o’clock he leaves his shop, stopsnext door at Mickey’s, then down thestreet to Louie’s barber shop.“How’s business?” they say.“Not good.” they answer, and sayno more until they’ve reached thebar. Then the same old schtick at thedoor:“After vou!” were staying at the bar later, andcoming in earlier, tired, but only frombeing bored. Their talk was less andless hopeful, their voices learning theraspy, nasal, slurred word, garbledby beer and cigarettes. Ted began tohate serving them. But he was com¬mitted to it — as their businessesfailed, they needed him more andmore, and he could not refuse them.Louie, the dumbest of the three, butalways the best-looking, begins tostir in his barstool, lifting his headslightly. He drinks all day, sitting in abarber chair, watching t.v.; the occa¬sional old timer coming in for a crew-cut. He’s a great barber, but he ref¬uses to cut hair unless he can cut itshort. For a long time, years, Louiestood in his window watching peoplewalk by, frowning at all the hair hesaw. Then he began bringing sixpacks to work. He lifts his head again,this time he glances quickly aroundthe room, wild-eyed, his face stillpressed flat from the bar. He seesTed, smiles. He sees himself in the mir¬ror, wipes away the ashes from hisear, and smiles again.“G’night Ted!” he mumbles, prodshis partners awake. “C’mon guys!Let’s get outta here so Ted can sleep!”Sammy sits up, and helps him shakeMickey. “Wake up! Mickey! Wake up!Let’s go!” Mickey wakes up, then re¬members why he’s upset, and startsgrumbling. Louie and Sammy pull onhim, but he sticks to his barstool. Hewants another beer. Ted says no way. Mickey gets louder, and angrier.“Ted!” he yells. “Look at me! Do Ilook like a happy man? I’m losing myshop, my life, and you won’t give me alousy beer? A stinkin’ beer? What amI gonna do? What am I gonna do withall that meat?!” Sammy wraps hisarm around him, ruffles his hair, hugshim, friends.“It’s okay Mickey, it’s okay! Louieand I’ll buy some from ya tomorrow.Huh, waddaya say, huh? C’mon, let’sget out of here! G’night Ted!”“I want a drink.” Mickey standsstill. Ted sighs, drags himself to hisfeet, rustles around in the fridge for acold beer. This is the way it is. Watch¬ing three men on the way down, andall he can do is give them a beer tocushion the fall. The friends havegone, the bar is closed, and Ted slow¬ly climbs the stairs to his rooms. Hefeels guilty, a burden weighing on hismind, hunching him over, crippling hisfingers; but his thoughts are alive andclear, and the guilt cuts even moredeeply.Last month on Ted’s birthday, theyraised their glasses in a toast —“Three cheers for Ted! The bearerof our pain, the healer of our misfor-tune!”cried Sammy.“Three cheers! Three cheers!” criedLouie.“Cheers cause we’d be dead with¬out him!” cried Mickey, and that’swhen Ted first had his idea. He let itgrow, argued with himself, approach¬ing the problem from every angle,weighing the odds, the pros, the cons,taking the devil’s side, acting as God,figuring every possible alternative,and seeing none work except one.One idea glares out at him in hisdreams, and even now while awake,tonight, watching the three asleep athis bar, he could see the idea in action.Still, his sleep is restless, as if some¬where along the line his body ceasedto find any comfortable positions tosleep in, forcing him to lie on his backuntil sheer exhaustion closes hiseyes.The next day, two men from thebank pull up in a long black car infront of Mickey’s shop, and close himdown. Mickey pleads with them, butthey resist, reading outloud fromtheir papers. Sammy runs in, seeswhat’s happening. He yells, curses,and finally pushes the bankmen intothe street. Mickey sits in a chair in thecorner, his mouth open, a steak in one hand, and half a chicken in the other.Louie comes running over, and thethree sit silently in the shop for therest of the day.The bar finds three long faces; butsoon they are drunk, and yelling hys¬terically. They are friends, they grewup together, they love each other. To¬gether they face the world, andthough they fail, friendship clouds themisery of life. There is no hope, butthere is comfort. Finally, they passout. The bar is empty, Ted locks thedoor. He walks behind them andstares at the back of their heads. Howcould he be content while these sleep¬ers suffer? He can’t. He goes behindthe bar and stands in front of them —their pale, lined faces transformedinto innocent smiles, dreaming of thehappy days in the past when theywere young. He kisses each of them onthe head and starts to cry. He shufflesto the closet in the back of the room.Ted steps in and hesitates. He hasstopped to quell the last rise of doubtwithin him, and once done, the burdenis already lifting. He smiles sadly,picks up his chainsaw, and starts themotor while walking to the bar. Hesays a short prayer, then — zip — zip— goes Mickey’s head, — zip — goesSammy’s head, and — zip — goesLouie’s; the job is finished. Now Tedpicks up the heads and puts them intothree large jars; he wraps the bodiesin large white sheets, hoses the baruntil the blood is gone, loads the threefriends into the trunk of his car, anddrives them to a spot in the hillswhere three graves have been dug. Aburial, a small funeral, no finalwords. Back at home again, Tedclimbs upstairs and falls soundlyasleep.The next day, Ted wakes feelinghappy and refreshed. The variouspains in his body have disappeared,his head feels light and giddy. Hestays in bed all day, relaxing. The barcan wait; he folds his arms behind hishead, and stares at the ceiling. Onlylate in the afternoon does he descendthe stairs into the bar; but he doesn’tunlock the door, and he leaves thelight off. He pulls up a barstool, and abottle, and for the first time intwenty-two years he gets himselfdrunk. Shortly after five o’clock, hesits still at the bar, waiting for Mick¬ey, Sammy, and Louie to come walk¬ing in...but then Ted remembers; hesmiles, and gasps happily as his heartbreaks.GASPAR AND THE GIRL WHO COULDN'T TALK“No”, after you!”“But I insist! After you!” until final¬ly they all pile in at once, chuckling,calling for Ted, calling for beer. Loudthey were tonight — foaming andfrothing and spilling all over them¬selves; handshakes, vows — friends!Sammy tried to cheer Mickey up bytalking about the old days.“Remember Mickey? Huh? Ya re¬member the great times we used tohave? Huh? Mickey? Huh?”“Yeah, I remember. Back when wehad money, back when life was good— before the stinking shops! beforethe stinking supermarkets came inand took all our goddam businessaway! Yeah, yeah, I remember! Oh! IfI could only live this life again!”Ted remembers, too. He’s past sev¬enty; his legs don’t feel so good,there's this constant tingling, and he’salways tired. But he remembers! Hewas an old man when they were kids,back when they talked of the future,of success, of second and third stores,of wife and children — success. Tedwas only too glad to serve them backthen, when they’d drag in after awhole day of busting butt, when theirevery thought was given over to theimprovement and expansion of theirfutures. They’d come in, Ted wouldsmile, pour them a couple of beers,and then they were off to an earlysleep, and an early morning. Butafter five or six years of this, they Jan. 3 She cooks! She cleans! And allfor me!...a girl!...thin, but flabby,pampered...powdered...neversweats...a girl!...moved in one nightafter too many beers...hasn’t left formore than the hour it took her to gether clothes...can you blame her? Whatdoes she know? Her father droppedby one day, took her out..came backwith a bag full of fancy underwearand a box...a pat on the rear and he’soff! She hesitated in front of me, thenput her clothes away...the box on thewindowsill...her favorite posession: abox filled with other boxes, smallerand smaller, each box for a differentpiece of a fragile jewel¬ry...junk!...that’s what it is!...lies,fake diamonds...! cracked one in myteeth! But if that’s all it takes to makeher happy...sometimes I read to herfrom the book I’ve beenreading...sometimes I play my saxo-pone for her...she likes anything Ido!Her name? How should I know? Shedoesn’t talk! Never a word from hiskitten!...her name? I haven’t eventhought to ask her...but she’s a goodlistener!...she let’s me talk! I’m happyenough with the cooking and clean¬ing!...food the tike I’ve never tast¬ed...I’m a god to her! She’s a saint! Aprincess! A humble slave and I theKing! What luck! What sex! Non-stop from day one! That first morning...theworst hangover in the world! Icouldn’t turn my head...the pain! Shecured me in seconds with a drink shemixed up in the blender...she...thatwonder!...then breakfast, a mas¬sage!...a bath!...and then on top of memoaning and groaning like I’m Johnnythe Wadd!...no wet kisses, no cud¬dling...straightening my chair for me,warming up the t.v. ‘Gaspar!’ Ithought, ‘You’ve found yourself ajewel! A treasure! Don’t let her leave!But she’s going nowhere.Jan. 10 Her father dropped by with asix pack and a couple of porn maga¬zines. She rushed back and forth be¬tween us, not knowing who she shouldserve first. She went to him, he turnedher angrily and sent her to me.“She’ll learn, Gaspar! Don’t de¬spair! You’ve got the pick! The Queenof the year!” He patted me on theback, chuckled...a fat, ruddy manwith a healthy wet cough, deep andbooming...he used it to good ef¬fect...he coughs!...she jumps! “Goodstock here! Fine breeding! Taught bythe best! Never cries, never com¬plains! Her mother’s daughter! You’rea happy man! I can see this al¬ready!”He left smiling, grunting...a job ful¬filled! One last word of advice! “if she gives you any trouble, any trouble atall, just rap here on the mouth! Onegood whack’ll do it! Two on the roughdays! She’ll fall in line!” — and he isgone, singing down the steps...ahappy man! But what about me? Shewas already on my bed watching mecome closer...no questions...no judge¬ments in those big water-filledeyes...tears? No, not from my hand,but only because she is more beautifulin tears...she bites her lip...a fire inmy trousers! No resistence from her,no deamnds...l do as I please...sheknows the routine...! don’t say aword! I don’t have to!...she’s up toprop the cushions of my chair, turn thelamp on, open the book to thepage...the life!Jan. 12 I turn on the t.v. and she holdsthe antenna where the reception isbest...fetching a beer for me afterevery inning, folding back the pagesfor me...a goldmine!...what luxury!I’ve been calling her Mrs. and sheloves it! A little giggle, a flirt...I pullher down on the floor...and she lovesit! Then we’re back in our positions,she in her chair next to the t.v. lean¬ing on my every word...doesn’t takeher eye off of me for a second!...I tellher how I quit my job, and how I suedthem when I fell down their stairs...asettlement to support me for life and8 — The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984then some...but she’s not here for mymoney! She wants nothing! All sheneeds is to be near me!...Stay!...yes!Stay and fix me dinner!Jan. 19 I can say no wrong, I can neverdisagree with her — she knows thetruth when she sees it! I talk aboutbaseball, I tell her a lie about how Ialmost had a spot with the Cubs but Igot hit by a wild pitch that put me outof the game forever, and of course Itell it to her with all the power and en¬thusiasm of a real story...and sheswallows it up even though I musthave told it to her fifty times al¬ready...but still she laughs at all thefunny parts! And she cries! Andcringes whenever I get to the partwhere I can hear the bones breakingin my arm...she cries about it! How'sthat for love? She scratches my back,combs my hair, trims by beard, andsmiles a beautiful, shy, submissivesmile. She cleans my toenails, myears, brushes my teeth, wipes mynose, wipes my behind, and flushesthe toilet for me...for me!Feb. 29 Met her father on thestreet...calling to me from down theblock, pulled me into a bar. Onebeer...three...six...both of us bub¬bling over with health and happiness,the good word, pats on the back, anda squeeze on the knee! We shookhands again and again, our hands softand melting together...“Gaspar! Gaspar!” he yelled, “Ga-spar! She’s been treating you well I see. Tell me, when was the last timeyou’ve seen your toes?!’ He giggled,poke me in the ribs, “We’re twinsnow, Gaspar! Isn’t this a sight? Didn’tI tell you? Are you not the happiestman on Earth? See what a goodwoman can do for you? Her mother’sdaughter! Her father’s jewel!’The time flew...“No hurry!’’ hecried...no hurry...no anxieties...nomountains to climb...no worlds to con¬quer...peace, serenity, content¬ment...we talked all night...soon amere look from each other wasenough to set us off into a frenzy oflaughter...we shook the whole bar!“She loves you Gaspar! Of courseshe does! What else can she do? Herswas the most perfect of upbringings!Thank me! Thank me for your belly!”We hugged and tossled each otheruntil the bar was dark andempty...two happy drunks. We endedthe evening with a toast to Woman¬hood, God, and Beer, drooling, andstumbling over each other on the wayto the door. “A perfect evening, eh,Gaspar?” He thumped me on the backone last time...I pinched hischeek...we wobbled our separateways...she was watching for me fromthe window! But then, she was downat the front steps, helping, half-carry¬ing me up four flights of stairs...lay¬ing me on the bed...taking off myclothes...kissing me...falling asleep ina dream....April 18 She’s sitting there on the bedin the corner, she’s been sitting there all day because she’s sick, and I guessshe doesn’t want me to get sick eitherso I don’t go near her...I haven’tmoved all day; the t.v. on but I’m notwatching; hungry but I’m not eating;the newspaper twice read going onthree; thinking I should get myself abeer; thinking I’ll sit a while longer;thinking I’ll finish that book...I pick itup, but its been too long, and I don’tknow who is Mathieu, and who islvich...l don’t care...I cough and shejumps...I cough again...I’m thirsty butshe can’t move...pale, sick...sex...Icough again, clean out my finger¬nails...she’s sick...she's sick...sittingaround here all day like she's waitingto get better.Suddenly she jumps up and runs intothe bathroom...moaning, cursing,grunts of pain...she has a nicevoice...she’s in there a while...she’ssick...sick...but now she’s cleaningup...the water running...flushing thetoilet...she opens the door...pale, sick,death-like...a child...into the kitch¬en..^ beer for me...into thebed...curled up against the wall...apeaceful contented life...July 13 Her father came by, pulled meout of the room. He was excited, ev¬erything shook...so happy to see me!I’m his proof — he’d done so well withher! Like a doctor who’s saved a life,like the carpenter of the King’s favor¬ite throne. He dragged me to the bar,to a corner table. He looked round theplace, but the room was empty. Froma box he pulled a leather halter and a couple of nipple rings, he grinned.“For the wife tonight! Yessir!There’ll be some noise at the house to¬night! Wifey’s been a naughty girl,eh, eh Gaspar? Heh, heh!” He laughedloud and hard, and I laughed. “Everynight a new adventure! But I don’thave to tell you that, eh? Hermother’s daughter, eh? Her father’spride!” Laughter still louder and call¬ing for more beers., .adven¬ture...when was the last time I’d beenoutside? drunk again, waddling outat closing...his fat behind squeezinginto a cab...his fat face pressedagainst the rear window...I....I...in astore window, I...I didn’t have aface...I don’t have a body...like a car¬toon .... G a s pa r the friendlyghost...balloon man...fat...She helped me up the stairs...worryand concern on her face...herthoughts...her mother’sthoughts...her father...an angel...apriceless treasure...a box full of trashin a box full of trash in another andagain...she places her hands on me,but I’ll have none of it...No!...Feb. 22 Her mother’s daughter...herfather’s dream...six months...I whist¬le, but no song comes out...ayear...two years...her father’s cre¬ation...I ran out of ideas some¬where...not a thought left...a yearand another year...I suppose if I stillcould...think...I’d kill her...I don’tknow...her mother her fa¬ther...she...GOD! WHY IS SHE SOQUIET!CRIMEThe whole of my feverish activityresolving into nothing, I turned outthe light to a sleep featuring the sameold recurring dream. In this dream, Isit in a crawlspace peering throughholes drilled into the wall. Beyond thewall is an old dining hall full withthick wood tables and intricatelycarved high-backed chairs. The tablesare all covered in white; white cloths,white china, even the silverware hasivory handles. In the center of eachtable is a bouquet of white roses setin a white porcelain vase. Lights glaredown from the ceiling. Fully coveringthe wall opposite me is a depiction ofthe Ascension; all the figures dressedin flowing white robes, but swallowedby the more intense white of the des¬ert sands. The room is immaculatelyclean, and somehow I know that I canlick every inch of the room and berewarded by only the most pleasantof tastes. Far off to my left at thefront of the room two great bronzedoors open, and in walks a rabbi,quickly followed by a priest. Both arein black, but so far away I can barelysee them. They sit down at the headtable and soberly cut their steaks.They eat quickly, stuffing the foodinto their cheeks, burping happily.Towards the end of the meal, therabbi lays down his knife, and shouts:“I want milk and cookies! Where arethe milk and cookies?” his voice echo¬ing back and forth the walls of theroom. No one answers him, but heyells anyway, out of breath and turn¬ing green from the exertion. Finally,the priest digs into his vestments, andgives the rabbi a handful of wafers.They leave, and the thin strain of anangelic choir descends upon me, like ashroud, coming closer: a multitude ofhigh shrill voices coming closer likeHeaven has come to greet me. Onelow, booming voice is added to thechoir; the tramping of feet, and thedoors swing open. The choir walks in,hundreds of young girls in demurewhite dresses: high collars, lace, andhemlines to the floor. Now I recognizetheir song as a cat food jingle from at.v. commercial; seventy-five partharmony with the one bass laying thebottom. The girls take their seats asthey finish the song, and in a simulta¬neous gesture, flick their napkins,and fold them in their legs. The girlseat their spaghetti, sucking the longpieces down their throats, tomatosauce staining their lips. Directly infront of me is a dark, loutish girl, herhair a thick, tangled mat; her shoulders as big as my calves; shehunkers down low over her foodf, anddoesn’t raise her head at all, save forwhen another girl remembers thatthey all forgot to say grace.Hundreds of girls eating spaghettiall at once, filling the hall with oneloud wet slurping noise; no one talks,but they way they twist their forks,the sauce that flecks their dresses,the vast array of feminity. . . I ampressed up against the hole in thewall, looking from girl to girl, wipingthe sweat from my forehead. Sudden¬ly they all stand up and begin to singagain—this time an airline commer¬cial—the fat girl in front of me singswith her mouth full, her voice deepand thundering, bits of spaghettistuck to her chin.I woke up the next day and got outof the house as soon as possible. Thesun was shining so I went down to thelake, and sat all day in an abandonedwarehouse. I spent the time drawingup the list over and over, memorizingthe plan, and plotting the schedule forwhat I was about to do; what changedmy life. Many years had I wrestledwith the problem; but two weeks agoI found the solution, and the night be¬fore was filled only with last minutedoubt and counter-argument, andwhen I knew that I could answer anypossible question of morality, I wasresolved.What was my problem? I lost myface; I no longer knew who I was. Callit a search for identity, but I lost myface during a tampon ad, and it wasall gone: the eyes, the nose, the lips,the chin. . . my face. What was my fa¬vorite color? My sun sign? My pantssize? I couldn’t see the traffic lights,hear horns honking, or smell the mix¬ture of pizza and Thai food from thetwo restaurants down the block.Newspapers had no meaning for me,voices were garbled, and music mademe cringe. I withdrew; I no longerknew where society ended and Ibegan. I spent a long time locked up inmy room, studying for the answer,when at long last, I had identified theessential separation point that wouldbring my face back to me, identifyingmy place in the world. It came onenight during a Starsky and Hutchrerun. I studied my plans one finaltime, and then I smiled.I ran from the warehouse, downseveral alleys, and a couple of crossstreets, until I stood on the corner op¬posite a small Pakistani—run grocerystore. I checked the clip on my gun, noteven bothering to conceal it from thesight of anyone who might walk byme, and wedged it back under my belt. Stepping across the street, Ipulled on a ski mask, and walkedstraight to the back of the store. Thecashier only grunted, not looking upfrom his porn magazine. I glidedthrough the store; everyone of theitems on my list were exactly where Ihad memorized them to be. I pulled acan of mashed beets, and put it in abasket. I grabbed a jar of jalopenos,a tin of spam, and one of hash, a largesoggy chunk of limberger cheese, abottle of carrot juice, a can of rawclams packed in heavy oil, a bottle ofolives-stuffed-with-cheese, and fi¬nally a box of those incredibly dryNorwegian crackers, and stuffed it allinto my basket. I stopped to makesure I’d remembered everything. Thecashier turned the ‘closed’ sign on thefront door, and settled back againwith his magazine. I checked the foodone more time, and finding the listcompleted, I dumped the contents ofmy basket on the counter. I pulled mygun, and with a John Wayne drawl Isaid:“Eat it.”, pointing at the food. Thecashier stared at me, frightened andconfused, backing away. I waved thegun in front of his nose, then pressedthe barrel against his forehead. Iadded a growl, and said: “Eat it. Eatit all. Right now, or you die. Got me?”Immediately the clerk fumbled ner¬vously with the food, dropping thebottle of olives on the floor. I openedthe jar of jalopenos, and poured someinto his hand. He looked at the food,then he looked at me. “Go on, eat it!Eat it!” I hissed. Slowly, reluctantlyhe brought the peppers to his lips,then forced them in quickly, only tospit them out again seconds later. Iscooped up the half-bitten food andbarked at him: “Eat it, or die, dog-breath!” and wedged it back into hismouth. Tears poured down his cheeks,his nose dripped violently all over thefloor, his face turned a bright red,then went suddenly pale. I made himdrink some of the carrot juice, and thecombination of the fire in his diges¬tive system with the putrid liquid wasagain too much for him. He gagged,and only stopped when I explainedthat if he wanted to throw it up andsave it for dessert would be fine withme, but he was going to have to eat itall.I wanted to see him eat the rawclams—he swallowed them like a pro,his adam’s apple bobbing rapidly upand down. Seeing the prowess he dis¬played with these last fruits, I nextheld up the runny hunk of limbergercheese. He cried out in terror, his faceturning white as I brought the moundcloser and closer. “Please!” he begged me, “Not limberger! I’ll shitfor a week! I’m funny with limberger.Please!” but this was too perfect tobe coincidence so I lay the cheese onthe counter, grabbed his head, andbrought his face down in it; he poppedup again, the goo wedged in his nos¬trils, his eyes, but mostly his mouth.“Please!” he was crying while hechewed. “Not limberger!” he sobbed.I pictured him on the toilet after allthis food, and laughed. Now was thetime for a Spam-beets-hash combo. Imade him mix it up on the counter andswallow every last crumb. I poked afew of the olives into his mouth, andfollowed them with another handfulof jalopenos. The cashier could barelystand the humiliation; I felt great—Ihad been right. The operation ransmoothly, and felt as natural to me asbreathing. I finished the crime withhalf the box of crackers, and a pint ofJack Daniels, and laughed with gleethat he could keep it all in.I ran out of the store, leaving himstanding there choking and burping. Ithrew the gun and the ski mask in agarbage can, and kept running, jog¬ging around the park, along the lake,dancing across the bridge. I heardbirds singing; a frog jumped into apond doing a somersault onto a lilypad; the gentle sounds of a lonesometrumpet player drifting by. . . I foundtenderness; I’d found an infinity ofme—touching clouds, stars, China. Myface was back, only sharpened andchiseled with the knowledge of cer¬tainty. Every person I passed thatnight was swallowed up within me,awed by the power that radiatedfrom my whole self. I stopped traffic;streetlights flickered on and off as Iran by; a rapist stopped and staredat me in wonder, and lost his quarry.At home again I sat in front of the mir¬ror for more than an hour, staring atmy face, feeling the hard distinctivelines of it: the noble brow, the solidchin. I slept that night with a serenityI have never known, and the dream. .Now I’m standing inside the dininghall, at the place where the rabbi andthe priest once ate, the room now asty—garbage piled high on the floorlike the remains of a thousand par¬ties; pictures of naked men cover thewalls. The girls laugh and scream,running around in their underwear,digging into the spaghetti with theirfingers, throwing it, rubbing it allover their bodies. I jump from table totable, wriggling like a snake throughpiles of spaghetti—the dark loutishgir' pokes me with her fork and gig¬gles.The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984 — 9Boied Chicken on Fridayby Or. Robert HolzbergLife in the Bronx when I was grow¬ing up was never what anyone wouldcall a peaches and cream existence.There was a depression and peoplewere struggling to make a living. Ididn’t know anything about that. Myworld was bounded by my neighbor¬hood. Down stairs was the candystore, next to it was the grocery and apaint store. My school, P.S. 63 wasacross the street and down the blockand the library, where I spent as muchtime as I could, was two blocks away.Those were the boundaries of myworld on weekdays. On weekends,my parents would take me to BronxPark. We would hire a rowboat androw for an hour on the lake. DuringJuly and August, instead of BronxPark, it was the beach at Rockaway.So it went, a rather ordered exis¬tence. There might have been a disas¬ ter fifteen blocks away, but I wouldnever know of it. It could just haveeasily have happened in Yugoslaviafor all the impact it had on me.My family had a ritual. Every Fri¬day night my Mother cooked a chick¬en. She didn’t fry it or roast it, orstuff it, she boiled it. She cut it intopieces and put it into a pot with somecarrots and soup greens and let it sim¬mer. The signal that told me it was Fri¬day was not just the end of the schoolweek, but coming home from school,climbing five flights of stairs and find¬ing that pot on the stove. Even beforethe door was opened I knew the chick¬en was boiling by the smell whichdrifted like a fog through the cracksof the front door. I hated chicken inany form, but especially boiled, witha fierce passion. My brother loved it,my father loved it, my mother lovedit. It caused me to turn green with nausea.Every Friday we went through thesame ritual. Suppertime came and thefamily went into the kitchen for din¬ner. My Mother pulled the chicken,wet and glistening, from the pot andserved it. My Brother would take abig piece, my Father would take* a bigpiece, I would take nothing. Thenbegan the weekly torment. “Robert,take a piece of chicken.” “I don’twant any.” “TAKE A PIECE OF CHICK¬EN!” “I HATE BOILED CHICK¬EN!” My Mother and Father looked atme, my Mother with an unbelievingexpression. “You hate boiled chick¬en? How is it possible for anyone tohate boiled chicken? Just try a piece,you’ll love it!” Now the tug of willsbegan. “Ma, please, I don’t like it,just give me a cream cheese sandwich,that’s all I want.” “Just try a piece.”“No” “Look, I’ll cut you just a little bit.” “I don’t want any, I don’t likeboiled chicken, I don’t care if I neversee another piece of chicken for fivehundred years!” This went on for agood half hour while the rest of thefamily was busy gnawing boiledchicken and leaving the bones on theplates in front of them. Finally wereached the end. “Allright, take acream cheese sandwich. No wonderyou are so thin, living on cream cheesewhen you could be eating chicken! Fi¬nally I was able to get the sandwichand get out of the kitchen, away fromthe smell and away from the pot.I lived in the Bronx until I was four¬teen when the family moved to Wash¬ington Heights in upper Manhattan.Every Friday I fought the same battle.Every Friday my Mother was sur¬prised that I hadn’t developed a pas¬sion for boiled chicken over the week.She lived in hope that one Friday Iwould suddenly waken to thewonders of boiled chicken. I neverdid.Thinking back over it, I must havebeen a great disappointment to her.HILLEL KOSHER LUNCH PLANNOURISHING, HOT KOSHER LUNCHESSERVED MONDAY-FRIDAYAT HILLEL HOUSESPRING QUARTER KOSHER LUNCHCONTRACT WILL COST $190,00IF INTERESTED, PLEASE CONTACTHILLEL NOW!TELEPHONE: 752-1127HILLEL HOUSE • 5715 5, WOODLAWN 5309 S. 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This little known (butperfectly legal) method is surprisinglyeasy to use when you know how.ORDER NOW!Why keep suffering? Read this book.Sells for $11.00 plus $1.00 shipping,total $12.00 to EDITOR, 1316 S.E. 4thSt., Suite 50, Minneapolis, MN 55414.Money back guarantee. •FREE - Gifts for the kids *FREEVITAMINS -FREE MagazineSubscriptions »FREE CASSETTETAPE ($11.95 value) «FREE ColorPosters *FREE Films »FREETravel Guides »FREE BOOKS - Onhundreds of fascinating subjects•FREE Road Atlas of the US"Many gifts are so heavy it takes$2.00-$3.00 postage to send them toyou. Your only cost - a postcard!' ’• FREE Correspondence CoursesThis Book Will TRANSFORMyour LIFESHIPPING ADDRESSNAMEADDRESSCITYSTATE ZIPTHIS OFFER GOOD UNTIL MARCH 30th, 1984.by Deane BivinsI can remember stumbling shame¬lessly into love at the tender age ofseventeen on a warm July night in Ox-boro, New Hampshire. We merelywalked quietly down to her father’spasture where pleasure was at oncegranted, cautiously using that sacredrubber apparatus that would hopeful¬ly prevent the perpetuation of my lin¬eage. After that she had gone tosleep that night I slipped away andwandered aimlessly about the housewith the naive notion that some mysti¬cal feeling would unexpectedly seizeme, making the loss of my virginity anunforgettable moment in this timelessjourney that some people dare to call“life”; but unfortunately, this partic¬ular journey seemed to continue in itsannoyingly aloof and natural manner.While the familiar rancid smell of anold air conditioner filled my lungs and lems.It was during these horrendousmonths of isolation that I began tofeel like a prisoner. Everyday I sat atmy window and watched the samewomen strutting back from LexingtonAvenue with their personalities pre¬packaged by Bloomingdale’s. Inciden¬tally, I noticed that New Yorkersnever walk or meander, they eithergallop or strut. If you’re ever walkingin Manhattan without any particulardestination in mind you’ll still findyourself rushing to get “there” andonly eventually realizing that you’rereally not supposed to be going any¬where at all. It was when observa¬tions such as this one entered my con¬sciousness that I realized I needed toescape. The only problem that re¬mained was what to do once I gotaway.That afternoon, as I was fidgetingaround my room in a state of anxiety, type, I finlly found it. So before Iknew it I was perched at the door stepof Isabel’s studio, knocking timidly ather iron door.Suddenly the door flung open and avery beautiful but dishevelled girlstood in front of me. I asked her if shewas Isabel. She quickly wiped thepaint from her hands and after lettingout a long “yeaaah” she surrenderedthe left hand to me with a smile. Atfirst I had trouble fusing her westernaccent with her beatnik appearance,but I later found out that she wasfrom Zodiac Springs, Arizona, whichaccording to her, was named after the“astronomical sign”. Apparently shehad once been a waitress in a dinerwith very starchy hair and bright redfingernails, but after discovering herartistic talents one afternoon whilecreating patterns with the ketchupand mustard squirters she decided tomove to New York. So with the arriv- grance of their soap, or the scent oftheir delightfully grimy sweat I tendto shiver upon inhalation and myblood rapidly rushes to its designateddestination. In this case it was thesweet smell of oil paint, turpentine,and cheap perfume that touched mynostrils and gave me a spontaneouserection that I had no chance of hid¬ing. I remembered how many timesthis had happened to me at a dance,or in a class room when the femaleodor managed to come my way, butthen 1 usually had a handy book bag,or an overcoat to conceal my excite¬ment. This time, however, there wasno hope for me. She would either haveto accept my gracious offering, orwait until my soldier decided to sur¬render. Fortunately, she chose theformer.The next morning I found her sleep¬ing head neatly situated in my rightarm pit, and her blob of chewing gumA Portrait From E. 61st Streetthe mosquito nipped at my bare armsthe joy of “manhood” was supposedlyfermenting inside of me without theleast bit of notification. Had I rea¬lized, however, the imminent disas¬ters that were lurking behind me Iwould have traded everything forone last fleeting moment of adoles¬cence; but as usual, there were otherforces in control.In the months that followed I foundmyself getting into too much troubleover the dangerous allure of the fe¬male species. Three boarding schoolshad already politely asked me toleave as a result of what I consideredvery natural behavior. The variousdisciplinary committees at theseschools, however, felt that it wastheir moral duty to release me fromtheir righteous communities on thegrounds that young gentlemen of theepiscopal persuasion did not have theright to life, love, liberty, and thepursuit of snatch. So most of my earlyrelations with women were literallysevered by neurotic prep schoolteachers whose so-called “integrity”was usually a sign of frustration andweakness. I became so incensed overthe issue that I actually telephonedone of the headmasters to give himmy personal dissertation on what Ithought were the “new ethics” thatmodern men, such as myself, would ul¬timately be forced to follow. My pon¬tificating probably sounded prettyhalf-baked now that I think about it.The only line that I can distinctly re¬call went something like, “those whofrown upon the bad morals of othersare most likely regretting the factthat they’re not having as much fun!. .. Hello” At this point I realized thatmy listener had hung up long ago.I was later confined to my father’sapartment on East 61st Street in NewYork to examine the meaning of mylife under the guidance of a strongmale figure. What this meant was get¬ting drunk in the afternoon and hav¬ing Dad bitch at me after he had had afew drinks himself. Occasionally hewould take me out to dinner and re¬minisce about his early days with theforeign service. After a few moredrinks he would manage to prove,through a rather complicated dis¬course, that today’s international af¬fairs would have been completely dif¬ferent if it were not for him and theboys at the embassy. It never seemedto occur to him, however, that if diplo¬macy had begun at home it certainlywould have helped our domestic prob- I began glancing through one of thosebohemian periodicals that they pub¬lish in lower Manhattan. My fatherbought them occasionally to check outthe night club listings. He was intoyoung women these days so I supposehe felt obligated to conform to asomewhat more hip frame of mind. Ican remember him dressing for a dateone night: after doning his usual grayattire he rushed furtively to the backof his closet, and with a childish grinon his face he slipped on his new pairof pink Fiorucci shoes. I’ll have to givehim credit for trying I suppose. Any¬way, as I was fingering through thismagazine I ran across a rather inter¬esting ad, at least it interested me. Itread: “Model needed for portrait ar¬tist-impressionism, realism, abstractexpressionism, and neo-classical noth¬ingness are my specialties—ContactIsabel Lynn —204 West SpringStreet—In Dibecca.” At first it tookme a while to find out what all thesewords meant, much less figure outwhere Dibecca was. So after lookingthrough my father’s art books I decid¬ed that engaging in a little neo-classi¬cal nothingness with someone by thename of Isabel Lynn would not be abad way to break the humdrum rou¬tine of a Thursday afternoon on East61st Street.Once three o’clock rolled around Irushed down the back stairs to avoidthe doorman, who was no doubt act¬ing as my father’s agent. I thenwalked east a few blocks and de¬scended into the fateful subway sta¬tion, where the purchase of a tokenmeant that Isabel would inevitablybe mine.It took me a while to find Dibecca,but after questioning a few police¬men, one punky-looking character,two rather intimidating lesbians, andone other person, whom, on account ofhis extremely normal appearance, Iwas unfortunately unable to stereo- al of her artistic life style she had al¬lowed her stiff hair to wilt naturallyinto a state of enchanting chaos. Atpresent she had almost perfected theboho appeal except for the accent andthe occasional reverberating sound ofWrigley’s Spearmint Gum smackingagainst her white teeth.We talked for a while, about theweather and about art; and after Ihad run out of quotations from my fa¬ther’s art books I suggested that weshould get to work. She then beganeyeing me with that typical scrutiniz¬ing look that artists are supposed tohave, appropriately placing herthumb between her face and mine.Even though I didn’t put much stock inher opinion it still made me nervous tohave someone looking at me so close¬ly. Finally, after going through herritual, she asked me to undress and si¬tuate myself on the floor. This was ex¬actly what I wanted to hear.She then left the room for a few sec¬onds as if the act of undressing wouldembarrass me more than actuallybeing nude. I didn’t quite understand.Anyway, when she returned shefound me in all my glory.“Realism,” she said sardonically.This suddenly made me nervous. Iwanted her to paint me in a series offunny cubes and angles, or in thegenre of neo-classical nothingness(whatever that was), but she was ad¬amant at this point and had alreadybegun to sketch me.There was no time to waste now. Ihad to make my move before she gottoo much of me in her little sketchbook. The opportunity finally camewhen, after giving me a long inquisi¬tive look, she dropped her pencil. Irushed over to pick it up and suddenlyfound that she was sitting next to me.I suppose all men have different waysof being aroused by women; my par¬ticular weakness happens to be gthefemale odor. Whether its the fra- stuck behind her left ear lobe. Shehad somehow managed to transferthe little disgusting item from hermouth to the back of her ear beforemy lips touched hers. I then realizedthat if the only thing I thought aboutwhile gazing at my sleeping beautywas how this oral transaction oc¬curred, then I definitely was not inlove. I knew I had to escape beforeshe woke up and forced me to tell hersomething about myself over a cup ofherb tea and granola chips.After I got dressed and stole a glassof milk from her kitchen I tiptoed tothe front door and began to open it,praying that she would not stir. I thenremembered that I was forgetting thevery thing that I had originally cometo Isabel for, or actually, it was thething I thought I wanted from Isabelat that point in time, but it was some¬thing that I did not originally want,and would not admit to myself at thatpoint in time that it was somethingthat I did not originally want, but Inow wanted it, but was still confusedas to why I wanted it. As usual thepast fourteen hours had been a seriesof illusions stacked upon illusions. So Idecided to deceive myself with ratio¬nal explanation, which would com¬fortably conceal all of the previous il¬lusions. The explanation wentsomething like, “why else would Ihave gone to a portrait artist but tohave a portrait done of myself?” Ithen walked over to her desk,grabbed the sketch of myself, andmade for the stairs, wondering whatmy father would say to me when I gothome.Once I got back my father and I ar¬gued for hours. I won’t bore you withthe details, but I will say, just so you ,can have the pleasure of laughing atme. that I tried to tell him about a mil¬lion different plausible stories as towhy I had been out all night; need-lesss to say, he didn't believe one ofthem. After a while I got so confusedthat I began to forget all about IsabelLynn, making it impossible for me totell him the truth anyway. So you'reprobably wondering how I was ableto tell you the truth. Well, to tell youthe truth, I don’t realy know how ithappened anymore. The only thingI'm still sure of is that my sketch istucked away in the top left-handdrawer of my desk, which, as I hopeyou know, is in my father’s apartmenton East 61st Street.jk.ZuckermanContinued from page 6murder this enemy, respectable soci¬ety, that is swallowing him whole. Thescene is both pathetic and chilling, re¬calling another short story by Kafka,"The Judgement.” Bobby’s father iskneeling before his wife’s grave, wip¬ing the falling snow off the stone. Hewails over his own loss, but also overhis son’s inability to have childrenand the loss that is to the Jews. Zuck¬erman, in Mr. Freytag's words, “snapped.” Zuckerman pounces onMr. Freytag and attempts to stranglehim:“What do you see inside yourhead? Genes with JEW sewed onthem? Is that all you see in thatlunatic mind, the unstained vir¬tue of the Jews?”"Zuck, no— Zuck, the dead!”"We are the dead! Thesebones are the Jewish living!These are the people running theshow! ... Freytag! Forbidder!Now I murder you!”Thankfully, before Zuckerman can do any damage the pretty blond-hairedLutheran who has been driving himaround pushes him off and Zuckermanfalls face first onto a gravestone, isknocked out and, finally, shut up.In the hospital Zuckerman slowlyrecovers. Bobby phases him out of hisaddiction to the pain-killers and Zuck¬erman begins to regain some of hisold vitality. However, Zuckermanwanders about the hospital and, de¬spite all of the horrors he sees, stilldreams of being a doctor. ”... asthough he still believed,” the last sen¬tence states, “that he could unchainhimself from a future as a man apartand escape the corpus that was his.” Critics in general have found this end¬ing disappointingly ambiguous. Butthey are mistaking the inherent para¬doxical relationship of the artist tosociety for ambiguity. Zuckerman,like all artists, needs to maintain acertain distance from society and yetis still dependent upon and intimatelyconnected to it. The only question thatreally remains is whether Zuckermancan find reason and strength enoughto survive the moral conundrum ofbeing an artist. One can only look toThomas Mann for as fully developed atreatment of the artist’s life as Rothhas given us in the Zuckerman trilo¬gy.The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984 — 11RockefellerChapelSUNDAYMarch 11,19849 a.m.Ecumenical Serviceof Holy Communion10a.m.Discussion Class:“The Sermons ofMartin Luther King Jr.”11 a.m.University Religious ServiceBERNARD O. BROWNDean of Rockefeller Chapel12:15 p.m.Carillon recital andtower tourNow available in paperback.APalestinianStateThe Implicationsfor IsraelMark A. Heller“There is nothing in the litera¬ture comparable to what MarkHeller has done...His analysis isinformed by a deep firsthandknow ledge of Palestinian andIsraeli societies, and a thoroughgrounding in the relevant histori¬cal, geographic, strategic, andmilitary literature.”— Nadav Safran,author of Israel — The Embattled AllyCenter for Strategic Studies, Tel-AvivUniversity _J6.95HarvardlPaperbacksFrom Harvard University PressCambridge, MA 02138APARTMENTSFOR RENTGRAFF &CHECK1617 E. 55th St.Soadous. mwIv-ducoratud 1 Vh,—A— - Jt — 0 ■ Iiamvaamstuqios • i uearoomapartments in a quietBU8-5566 Landscape &PeopleSummer 1984Field ProgramsIRELANDJune 12-28ENGLANDJuly 1-29SWITZERLANDAugust 2-20Explore a fascinating varietyof urban and rural landscapes,learning about the environ¬ment, history, and the linkbetween people and place.Outstanding European faculty.Credit possible.For details please contact:SCHOOL OF ARTS & SCIENCESRO. Box 5545, Berkeley, CA 94705(415) 549-1482 LLIANCEIn (.FORTE HER V IRI) Sll IIIcNow-March 25Wed-Sat, 8 PM Sun, 2:30 & 7:30 PMUC students only $3 with Student Rush!(Rush tickets strictly subject to availability. Call for details.)Call 753-4472 Visa/MC/Amex^ COURT^AtHEATREThe University of Chicago • 5535 S. Ellis Ave.IILn 1886, following a shipwreck off the west coast of Africa, an infantchild became part of a family of apes who raised and protected him.As he grew, he learned the laws of the jungle and eventually claimedthe title, Lord of the Apes.Yet, years later, when he was returned to civilization, he would remainuncertain as to which laws he should obey... those of man...or those of the jungle.Now, the director of “Chariots of Fire” captures this epic adventureof a man caught between two different worlds.LORD OF THE APESA HUGH HUDSON FILM Starring RALPH RICHARDSON • IAN HOLM JAMFS FOX and introducing CHRISTOPH FR LAMBERTANDIE MacDOWELL Music by JOHN SCOTT Produced by HUGH HUDSON and STANLEY S. CANTERScreenplay by P H. VAZAK and MICHAEL AUSTIN Based on the story “TARZAN OF THE APES" by EDGAR RICE Bl'RROUGHSPGjrMBffW.«HCMBit! PB5S&35S? Directed by HUGH HUDSON l AR/AN* trademark IAR/ANo»nrri hv trigar Kh r Horroitghv lit* andu»fH bv Marnrr Bros lm bv itrrmiwinti o12 — The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9,1984Lines Bordering on LoveShadows of the Flying PigeonsWhat glare splintered the pane,impaled you to your bed that morning?The sun. Whose shoes besideyour bed, you did not know.You gaped blindly, turnedshuddering to face the wallwhich blazed white. Thank God thenfor the crazy flutter,each wing pump pressing from its lungsa bleat, and for the long coo of the still one. We hiked through locust and tulip.Here’s a path, you said.I dropped back and followed.Sun coated dross underfoot green.You told me what phase you were inand I told you what phase I was in.Soon, night. In the valleymist seeped up. Mist, I told you.Then, stop, I said. You stoodvery still, you wore green.Come here. You turned, I bentand found you that one columbineorange and red even in the dark.Your lips opened. Someonewrought those petals very carefully.An Open Air Production ofThe Marriage of FigaroMy friend saw bats circle the stagewhen all the infidelity began. At firsthe thought them barn swallowsthen knew better; I told hima newborn bat clings to the motherwith hooked teeth, their screamtelling them the shape of night.So you can imagine, I said to my friend,how they must’ve honed inwhen sonar revealed a hollow castle,Countess Almaviva singing an ariaon the Count’s desertion for Susannawho did not love him,but shunned him with amorous eye.The Field, Deathswath of vetch runs yellow the rise.Fevered spiders skitter the grass,spit their mesh which does not catch.Lopped clover heads cup the few dropssplashed from a white and heavy skywhose pressed air quivers a birch.The final twitch of his hair brushesa worm risen from the sweep of rootwhose tips glitter the earth to guidethe dead: their eyes jarred back,grimy jewels beheld, they rise. Plans for a BiographyThree Dusseldorf winters in that orphanageand then McMurray PA.What was it like?“That house was palatial.I ran chamber to chamber,discovering lightswitches for the first time.’’We'll meet next week.We conversed through oat fields, orchard,to Saint Elizabeth’s. To queries:“Here I wrote my first poem,’’ he saidwaving to a bank where grew a tulip tree,“called ‘The Chicanery of Sleep,’ and herewas where marriage went awry”point to a struck apple tree.We saw the church through a black walnut’s branches.All this had no real bearing.At last the questions:Where will you die?What will you hold in your handand what will you wearas Death unfolds above you?What will you say to Death on his approach?To these also he had ready answers.Of course, so entranced I wrote down nothing.And a biographer’s memory always strays ...I recall one reply only. But to what question?“Pomegranate, a white melon, lemons pale as light bulbs,apricots, one grapefruit, some nectarines:”those, my biographer, are the six fruitswe must remember.”At Dinner, and AfterThey wined me till even the chairgrew faint and staggered from my rocking.The candle light’s dull ovalundulated on the ceiling.Her mother poured me yet more burgundywhich threw a deep jewel my silverware caught.Tines and spoons gleamed in the dark:when were we to dine? Another bottle.Her father carved an ox leg, —John Schlllmanher mother had gone to the wine cellar.Alone with her; she took meto the Turkish rug, we danced.Slumped on her shoulder I could not hearthe music to which she pranced.The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984 — 13»v«* ; | *• » M rtjf/.l.i., ,>;lThe Courtesy by Alan ShapiroUniversity of Chicago Press, 198361pp., $5.95Strangers by David FerryUniversity of Chicago Press, 198351pp., $5.95by Tad PethybridgeThe inaugural releases of the re¬vived Phoenix Poets series of the Uni¬versity of Chicago Press arrive withmixed results. The two volumes,Strangers, by David Ferry, and AlanShapiro’s first full volume of poems,The Courtesy, are neither failures norcompletely successful. If a consistenttheme could be found for the volumestaken together, it would perhaps bealong the lines of a constant and con¬scious expression of intelligence, ofintellectual activity and the poet’smind at work. This is not to say anovert intellectualization of the poet¬ry, but merely an awareness of “in¬telligence” as a thing desirable in andof itself in the poems. However it ismore difficult to generalize about “...all I was supposed to fearI crushedwith my mother’s iron....and nothing happened:only the washer jerkedinto its spin, and made me waita little longerfor my blood to turn to salt,for my hands to wither,for pain.But nothing happened.”Much is happening, however, in thethoughts of the child-poet, as is in thethoughts of every youngster whobreaks something forbidden, whethera sacred object or Mom’s favoritelamp. The movement from the insulat¬ing exaggeration of fear to a more insight which makes a great poem ef¬fective.This is not to say that the poems in“The Crossing” are bad poems. Sha¬piro has throughout a gentle sensibili¬ty to the troubles of the world, thespaces — between each other andwithin ourselves — that we must fill,gingerly or unknowingly, to live. Attimes the poet helps to fill them with astartlingly unique, beautiful image,Birds of a Featherthese two volumes than it is to pointout some of the significant dif¬ferences, and to consider the books ontheir individual merits.Alan Shapiro, a lecturer in the De¬partment of English at NorthwesternUniversity, was on campus earlier thisyear to read from his recently pub¬lished book. Mr. Shapiro’s bearing atthe reading — unornamented, confi¬dent but self-conscious, precise, andconcerned with detail — is echoed inmuch of his poetry. The Courtesy,after one introductory poem, is divid¬ed into two main sections: “TheStorm,” comprised mainly of sharplypersonal poems, often scenes of thepoet’s youth; and “The Crossing,” inwhich the poems deal with broaderthemes moe relevant to “adulthood”.Shapiro proves to be at his best in theearlier poems, which, through theirpoignancy, have more of a universaleffect than do the poems in “TheCrossing”.“The Storm” begins with two poemsinvolving Jewish ritual and religion.The theme set, however, is not that ofJudaism, but that of childhood, the re¬ligion being, as an unconscious but im¬portant part of the child’s life, a win¬dow through which the child can beseen, like Frost’s New England orRockwell’s Anytown, USA. It doesn’tmatter, in the opening lines of thefirst poem, “On the Eve of the War¬saw Uprising” in what religion theblessing is being given; a universalcharacteristic of childhood is underconsideration.My uncle said, ‘this is Elijah’s wine.’Till then I mimicked listening, wide-eyedwith piety, while underneath thetableI kicked my brother back for kickingme.The second poem, “Mezuzah,” dealswith the enormity of childhood guilt.The Mezuzah, the poet explains in aheadnote, is a small case containing aparchment scroll on which a portion ofDeuteronomy is written. Whoeverbreaks this case “will incur God’s ev¬erlasting retribution.” Sure enough: mature understanding of the respon¬sibility for, and consequences of one’sactions is one of the many watershedsof growing up, and is rendered herewith painful accuracy.Perhaps it is the lack of a unifyingcontext, a true focus, which makes thepoems in the second section, “TheCrossing,” seem less powerful. Someof the later poems seem to wander,not only as a group, but even withinindividual poems. Consider the firstand last stanzas of “Fossils”:The fossils of the warmbright sunlight of the yearflicker from these dry leavesfalling through the garden air.past days are no less past:however near they are,they touch us with the bright,cold comfort of the stars.The poem begins with great prom¬ise: a striking metaphor and an en¬lightening revelation of the relation¬ship of two seemingly unconnectedthings (“sunlight...flicker(s) fromthese dry leaves”) buttressed by asubtle technical control of allitera¬tion, rhythm and rhyme. The secondstanza, not given here, its mainly con¬cerned with pushing the poem along.The third stanza, specifically the finalmetaphor, is disappointing. Thephrase “...the bright,/ cold comfort ofthe stars.” has a glittering beauty toit, but on close inspection, the artseems empty. What is “the bright,cold comfort of the stars”? The phraseevokes distance, remoteness; it seemsto suggest that stars are comfortingbecause they are bright, yet distant,and to suggest that “pastdays...however near they are” touchus the same way, and are comfortingfor the same reason. These ideas arecounterintuitive; we think of our“past days” — our memories — aswarm and near, not as cold and dis¬tant. There is nothing wrong with apoem contradicting our assumptionsabout an attitude or belief, showingus a new way to see things we takefor granted, but it must do more thancontradict; it must be to some degreeconvincing, at least enough to makeus question our original assumptions.The poem does not convince me that“the bright, cold comfort of the stars”is the source of the pleasure in mymemories. It is an image purely rhe¬torical, not backed with the power of as in “First Night,” a poem about afirst sexual encounter, in which thepoet admits awkwardness, thensays:...yet our uneasinessbecame a kind of ease:the way rain in the trees,after a rain, is keptby each impedimentfrom falling, as it falls.Shapiro has an affecting sympathyfor the painful beauty of the common¬place and a soft, elegant voice for ex-pressng it. When at his best he is afine poet indeed.If Shapiro’s book has us looking atthe familiar through old windows toshow us new things, David Ferry’sbook, Strangers, has us lookingthrough the lens of a camera, at fleet¬ing ideas and images, often strangeand seemingly unconnected. The poet¬ry here lies as much in what is omit¬ted, the connections between things(or lack thereof), as it does in what isprinted on the page. The style of thepoetry echoes the concerns, ex¬pressed but not summarized in theepigraph to the book from which theauthor draws the title: “Think thouhow that this is not our home in thisworld, in which we are strangers, onenot knowing another’s speech andlanguage.”We, too, are made strangers —strangers to the poems. These poemsare not easily accessible, as are mostof the poems in the Shapiro work.Many of Ferry’s poems have in themobscure quotations (explained innotes at the end of the book) andcryptic or foreign-language titles. Un¬doubtedly the poet is trying to createan attitude of alienation both fromlanguage and the world, but often increating these alienating mysterieshe has not included anything to prickthe interest, to spur the reader to in¬vestigate and attempt to solve thepuzzle.An aspect of Ferry’s work which isinteresting, and significant of hiswork as a whole, is his proclivity forshort, sometimes very short, poems.It requires a certain amount ofcourage to write a short poem; it isnot at all simple to suggest enough invery few words, to give the poemweight. Ferry finds an ingeniousmethod to help accomplish this task intwo poems titled “At the Hospital.”This is not a poem in two parts, or acontinuation or variation on a theme(as Ferry does earlier in the book in“Evening News I” and “Evening NewsII”); these are two separate poems,one on page thirty-eight, and theother on page forty. The first reads:How beautiful she’d become:strange fishIn that aquarium; Rare find,She swam in that element,In the body’s knowledge.The second reads:She was the sentence the cancerspoke at last,Its blurred grammar finally clari¬fied.Both of these are, in themselves,fine poems. Both offer evidence of apoet with a distinctive and an originalstyle: the first offers a metaphorcharming in its oddness yet eerily de¬scriptive; the second an almost meta¬physical challenge to the cause and ef¬fect of illness, expectation, and hope.Much more is implied by their linkagethrough title: there is space, move¬ment between the two poems, yet atthe same time they are, in some sense,interchangeable, equivalent. I findthis type of challenge more interesti¬ng than others Ferry sets forth; I am forced to e>reasoning, ipoet’s parasolve a puz;no idea wfthem, or eStrangers i:and rewarcworth readiwill find lift1lenge of Ftsubject matfascinating vPoetry amAn InterviewAlan Shapiro’s first major collection of po<ry, The Courtesy, has just appeared as partthe Phoenix Poets series of the UniversityChicago Press. A former Jones Lecturer in tStanford University Creative Writing Cent*Mr. Shapiro currently teaches in the depament of English at Northwestern Universiand was the Visiting Poet at the UniversityChicago in 1981. This interview was held wCampbell McGrath in Mr. Shapiro’s Evanstresidence.Chicago Literary Review: Let me ask yabout the title of your book, The Courtesy.was proposed at your reading here on campthat there was perhaps an etymological senof connection between this and a sort“courtliness” about your poetry. Do you fiany connection here?Alan Shapiro: I wouldn’t want to have to tswer that from the etymological stand-poialthough it’s a very interesting questi<What I would say is that, in my work, I’mterested in forms of consideration — formsconsideration and the price you pay in oreto act decently towards another pers<There’s a wonderful quote from J.V. Ciningham that describes the dilemma tlthese poems try to articulate. He says th“Only the insanely selfish can integrate ex|rience to the heart’s desire, and only the ertionally sterile would not wish to.” It’s 1rare occasion when your own impulses asomebody else’s needs coincide. The majoiof the time, acting decently to somebody erequires some sort of renunciation. And sontimes the price of acting decently cangreater than the value of the decent act.And this experience can take any numberforms. The poem “The Courtesy” deals witlverion of it — the speaker of the poemcurious about what it’s like to be dead, but14 — The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9,1984- • ' '3>v***+£\>t^Vgg^^g&jS^fetf&S_ _. ^sK*>.^~~>v *£Nc«VvST^oJvl^^'f* xTC'v4*W"*^%^X x;■ ”7 ^ \v \,7avX Ov*yo %v^ /£X?^*t\jr r*°<ysi t■ •i<viL.’’V<^wvb i*"*v;x *~*f ^ ^ > X™*'; «o*%***#* <**&/■„,■. Wfiy. '■ *\J- +,J'"/ A "”«i ^ - 0 V1X?%,f*~vN '**»*• ->* WSCrXo*1. .«* <CV\,*cCV *■*'%vV^X*.\V *1\Ivj to examine my perceptions, myning, in the mottled light of the3 paradox, rather than trying toa puzzle with pieces missing andea where to begin looking foror even if they exist at all.gers is a book both frustratingrewarding, and ultimately wellreading. While the lazy readernd little, anyone up to the chal-of Ferry’s distinctive style and:t matter may slowly uncover aating world all his own. After a hiatus of more than a decade the University of Chicago Presshas resumed publication of the Phoenix Poets series, volumes or origi¬nal poetry dedicated to “integrity and independence from fashion”.The series, its current incarnation edited by Robert von Hallberg, Asso¬ciate Professor of English, promises releases by both new and pre¬viously-published poets, and the first installment brings us one of each:Alan Shapiro’s first major collection, The Courtesy; and David Ferry’sfifth volume, Strangers. It is a welcome move for the University to getin step with other University Presses, such as Pittsburgh, Wesleyan,and Yale, in supporting the poetry industry. The series, under Mr. vonHallberg’s direction, should prosper; It’s first selections, while unevenin quality, are both enterprising and certainly “independent” works.Even good ideas sometimes falter in execution, though, and whilenothing major seems to have slipped yet, our reviewer, Tad Pethy-bridge, had several technical criticisms. The mottled, “composition no-tebook”-like covers of the two books is drab bordering on just-plain-ugly. Unless a series is truly unified in some thematic sense, is it reallynecessary, or even advisable to subject it to this sort of visual deper¬sonalization? It was found “highly disturbing” that The Courtesy in¬cluded a sheet of errrata indicating several typographical errors. Suchan unfortunate slip-up does not speak well of the professionalism of aprestigious University Press, our reviewer felt, nor of the esteem inwhich it holds its poets.Before its discontinuance the Phoenix Poets had published works byHoward Nemerov, Thom Gunn, and John Logan, among others. If thecurrent bird can do as well, it may be many years before it need self-immolate again. I?fWVX'v'X «Sr& vj*v' ♦‘LN-L **.*“' 'V, . a**X riv^Sx5VV: v»c;Lv*<xt' -ind Academia/iew with Alan Shapiropoet- dead friend in his dream is pretending to bepart of alive, and so he can’t ask him. It’s more impor-»rsity of tant that he renounce that curiosity in the in-r in the terests of the friendship than it is to indulgeCenter, it.depart- CLR: Your work seems to have a highly per-iversity, sonal sense of occasion — childhood memories'rsity of or a sense of nostalgia often act as a spur, as?/d with the poem you mentioned exemplifies. Is therevanston any way you can determine why this sort ofoccasion is important to you?sk you AS: Well, it’s clearly very hard to say whyrtesy. It you write about what you write about. For mecampus this sense of occasion has to do with the thingsI sense that interest me, or that require clarity. Onesort of of the writer’s responsibilities is to makeou find what interests him, or what obsesses him, in¬teresting to somebody else. You clarify it toto an- yourself, and in that act of clarification maked-point, it accessible to another’s observation. So forjestion. me the sense of occasion really comes down toI nn in- some concern, consciously or unconsciously de-Drms of manding to be heard. Most of the poems in then order book deal with problems or dilemmas. Theyperson, aren’t happy poems. There are some funnyf. Cun- poems in the book, but even those aren’t\a that happy. For me, and this is not true for every-/s that: body, and in some ways it’s true only for thee expe- period in which those poems were written, thele emo- act of writing is very closely related to a kindIt’s the of therapeutic act — it’s a way of objectifyinges and and giving external form to a number of con-najority fusing problems. You do this in the hope ofdy else freeing yourself from them, but of course thisI some- never happens entirely. Clarity isn’t power,Dan be or psychological well-being.CLR: Your book is divided into two sections,Tiber of “The Storm” and “Crossing.” What’s the sig-» with a nificance of this division?oem is AS: Actually, those titles are somewhatbut his heavy-handed and I almost wish I hadn’t used them. The first refers to the “storm” of child¬hood, and the poems in the first section dealheavily with childhood and family, with grow¬ing up and assuming an identity. The secondhalf is just a “crossing” into some sort of amature consciousness.CLR: Do you perceive a distinction betweenthe “personal” and the “public” concern inpoetry? Do you feel that American poetrytoday tends toward the personal?AS: I think that the notion of public and pri¬vate are in some ways specious categories.This distinction turns what should be mutuallyimplicatory spheres of life into mutually ex¬clusive ones. If you write well enough .anddeeply enough about a “personal” concernit’s going to have public dimension. In writingabout it you are turning a personal act into apublic one. To recast your question, I thinkthat a lot of American poetry, and I think thisgoes for all the different schools, while ratherdeft and well-crafted, is emotionally and in¬tellectually dead. And perhaps this has some¬thing to do with the proliferation of creativewriting programs. Someone interested in po¬etry and mildly talented can go to graduateschool in creative writing and earn an MFAdegree. He can learn to write poems that areformally pleasing; he can master all thevarious contemporary conventions; everynow and then he can come up with an arrest¬ing turn of phrase, a tricky metaphor andpublish a poem in the New Yorker or the IowaReview, maybe even publish a collection withKnopf, and yet have absolutely nothing tosay. Twenty years ago he would have put hispen and paper away with his High Schoolyearbook and gone into Aluminum Siding.Today he makes a living teaching other mildlytalented aspiring poets to write the samedead verse, the same well-wrought urns fullof emotional and intellectual ash. SeamusHeaney makes a useful distinction in an essayof his between craft and technique. Craft, hesays, is a poet’s facility with words, his ver¬bal dexterity. Technique, on the other hand,involves a poet’s character, his stance towardlife, his vision of the world. Diverse and plura¬listic as it is, the American poetry scene suf¬fers from an excess of craft and a deficiencyof technique — style dissociated from serious content, or as the poet Ken Fields is fond ofsaying, all hay and no cattle.I suppose it’s hypocritical of me to badmouth a profession that essentially supportsme. But the writing classes I teach are reallyliterature classes disguised as creative writ¬ing. I try to teach students how to read poemsand think about them through the practice ofwriting them. As Flannery O’Connor used tosay, I try to stifle as much creativity as Ican.CLR: Your poems tend to be very metrical.Even when not strictly so, they seem to carryan awareness of metricality. Is there a con¬nection between your desire to somehow re¬strict creativity, in the sense of establishingparameters, and your working in meter?AS: All poetry is metricai (even free verse) inthe sense of establishing to some degree orother a repeatable pattern of sound that canbe expressively varied. Repetition and varia¬tion, repetition and surprise, require eachother. And the more firmly established a pat¬tern is, the more significant and striking eventhe slightest departures from it can be. So, no,Tneter doesn’t inhibit creativity, it releases it,helps give it a coherent and dramatic shape.Metrical conventions, and formal properties,in general, aren’t artificial constraints im¬posed upon experience, a weighing of the selfdown in chains in order to demonstrate one’sskill in getting free; they’re expressive re¬sources. Valery says somewhere that, in asense, the structure of the human hand is arbi¬trary and caprious. But in another sense thinkof all that the hand enables us to do. In writ¬ing, say, pentameter couplets, you work andrework your ideas across the line and fromone line to the next, refining and polishinguntil the ideas fuse with the form, become theform. That process of refinement is really aprocess of discovery, for as you work andrework your sentences through the linesyou’re coming to perceptions that can some¬times be smarter than you ever thought youcould be. And different meters, differenttunes, can lead to different kinds of discover¬ies. Meter in and of itself has no value what¬soever. Its sole value lies in what it enablesyou to say, in the life it enables you to recoverand clarify.The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9,1984 — 15AMON-FRI 9:30-601 SATttOO-SOO SUN1Z00E00 NEW CLASS AT HILLELSPRING QUARTERINTRODUCTION TO THE CRITICAL STUDYOF THE HEBREW BIBLETeacher: Mr. Joel Kaminsky, U.C. DivinityGrad Student Former Student atthe Telshe Yeshiva in ClevelandDate: WednesdaysBeginning: March 28Time: 7:30 p.m.atHILLEL HOUSE • 5715 5. 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Cornell684-540016 — The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984. < t ■ i i t u i nArt, Remember the LivingBack slightly shifted and turned to one side,Slabs of strength suffer on your shoulderbladesLimber of motion, motionlessGazing, turned to go.They run after you wearing the wrong shoes,Throwing the wrong weapons, and wantingA meeting across the expanse of dark water.A fighter’s red cape flapping,Your familiar is innocence so black.So many birthdays like tickets to a show.They hang on the names thread through their collarsAnd lunge after yours, thinking to fix it on the chainAround their necks like another gleaming bar.Water dark as your eyes, going awayYour back makes light of the emptiness —The gulls circle squealing imitation.You turn only once,Looking back, your wide black pupilsEngulfing your face.— Jacquelyn HoggeConcord Convalescent HomeYou’re ninety singing simplyto me your childhood rhymes.Yesterday youimmigrated to Chicago afraidof not speaking English.Today in Poznan,a white dress for first communion.Now strappedin a wheelchair, silentbetween visits, you ask me“Kim ty jestes?”"I’m your grandson.”A smile as I untie youand we walk. Later you ask“Kto to jest?”No one answers.— Jerry Kapus The Way BackDriving back without you from the houseon the west edge of the swamp, I need —though still a stranger in this county —no map to guide me through. One roadI know so well each curve each dip each rise.Ten more times and I could drive it blind,blinded like the deer my headlights findat five, half hidden in mist, eyes wide.Blue sparks jetted as the key hit the lock,the door opened and I slid into warmth,a day’s warmth retained. I roared out of the drive.Maybe you stood at the window and watchedtwo red lights receding into the rushes.Stopping at the diner on Randolph Pikefaces rose from cups of steaming coffeefrom plates of crust and wilting lettuce.The waitress, too tired to speak; her song:Mister, I’ve lived in this town all my lifeso if you’re going to come in herejust make sure you’re someone I know.Last night with you I turned my backon the yellow knife moon in the windowfearing as I turned that it might cut.While others sleep, the radio’s softer breathstrengthens me against the strengthless night.A shame to be so far from home, distancedin years’ unrest, in calendars of loss.At memory’s edge,a child waits for night’s black weight to fallupon his lids, stone heavy. He dreadsthe rapping of black branches on dark windows,hands of strangers begging to come in.— Jack I. RobertsThe dinosaurs went blindIn a sandy place sinners with eyes like pinsCarry cases and wear yellow ties.Golden light, the tip of a great pyramid,Blinds the plainAnd to the west they troup,Following significance into the city.Before the walls, where the plains and the skyCircle in eternity,A twisted trunk curves up from the desert,Limbless, a bodyMosaic-ed to the bone,Colors tremble on its skin, gracefulAnd still.The filers angle their way around itTaking notes on its locationFor further recitation, butNever lifting well-trained faces,Pacing leashedIn thought downturned,Sifting golden grains of sand.— Jacquelyn HoggeThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984 — 17There’s an absolute silence in thestudio; the students must be busypainting. I hear the sound of muffledvoices...My sister is talking to theteacher. Disturbing bits of the conver¬sation wedge through the slits of mymask and into my ear; “...it isn’tfair...it makes it harder to paint...’’She is complaining that I am her sis¬ter.All of a sudden I am embarrassedabout my situation. I can’t see but Iknow that I am naked and sitting on apurple draped rectangular box. I amwearing black stained wood withfeathers glued to the forehead andcurling around my chin. It’s a crow’smask. The crow’s feathers chafe mybare neck. There is one cold handclamped on my bare knee and anotheron my shoulder; I visualize the newmale model sitting next to me, his out, so two people could never be com¬fortable in here. When the male modeljoins me I have to slide behind thesink just so that he can open thedoor.“Come in. Here’s a towel.” I toss hima brown sheet. He wraps himself andleans nervously againt the door. Awicker basket — my prop bag with itstwo cloth handles sewn awkwardlyinto the ribbing — is tucked betweenmy feet. I pull a paperback from itand start to read.Before I finish the first paragraphhe asks, “How am I doing?”“Fine.” I don’t look up. We can hearthe students moving around out there— pushing back their easels and talk¬ing. We both are secretly envious;while they are committed to express¬ing themselves in full color on largestretches of canvas, we two are con- ly we never were just Maggie and Hi¬lary, but always the “little girls”.Once we even ran away together, ateraisins in our cardboard fort in the ra¬vine, and the sounds of the ghosts inthe leaves scared us home.So sisters grow apart. We won’t begoing home now. Billy will give me aride on his motorcycle. He standsevenly, his hands on his hips. UnlikeHilary, whose ideas and gesturesflicker mysteriously against the whiteof the administration building, Billy isa solid body of triangles and squares— a comforting, knowable blacknessagainst the city sky.She is silent. She has tried. “Let’sgo, Billy,” I say. She swings her legsdown. “Goodbye,” we hardly say asshe tosses her cigarette and slips in¬side. We scoot down the stairs and outinto the lot.pig’s mask turned in trembling ques¬tion towards mine. His body is shak¬ing and it makes me nervous.I have never allowed myself to tre¬mble like this. Modelling is my art andI have perfected it. My job is to in¬spire the students, not to jitter ner¬vously in my flesh. I can stretch andturn and freeze in any position. Iknow how to draw interesting lineswith my arms, create incredibleangles with my legs. I am the artistwho manipulates my shadow into theperfect composition of body and wall.The students’ job then is to record mywork, which they all do, as I am thebest model at the school. I am proudof this; to have no inhibitions and tocarry a large bag of colorful props —this is my art.Unfortunately, however, my sis¬ter’s conversation makes me moreacutely aware of the other model’shands. I shouldn’t think about or asso¬ciate myself with his obvious unpro¬fessionalism. He’s clumsy; he doesn’thave a robe or a timer. My sister istrying to assert that I too am not aprofessional, that I have no right tobe here. But Mom always said:“above all else, and for as long as youlive, you must be faithful to eachother in every situation, as sisters.” *She isn’t faithful, though. We don’teven know each other.Now I can hear her laughing and al¬though she’s just uncomfortable. I re¬sent it. I did not choose to model forthis class or for this teacher. Becauseof this rigid pose he chose all feelingends at my ankles and wrists. I haveto think hard to visualize my handsand feet and when I do, I see themturning blue. There also are no holesin this gritty mask. I can only imagineby black bead eyes. There is a suddenping — the timer. I jump off the boxand bow out of my mask for thebreak. There are rings of light andheads floating around me. 1 knowshe’s smiling but I can’t see her; I amblind to all the faces. The tops of theeasels look like tombstones — in theirbrowns and greys, in their deadlyperfect order, in their ominous sur¬faces and what they might be hiding. Iam disoriented. I reach for my robe,strut into the corner and disappearinto the model’s closet.There isn’t much room in here, notmuch room to hide. At one time thiswas probably a minor refuge for thejanitors. There’s a paint splatteredsink, but I wouldn’t drape my clotheson it. There’s also one chair — a metalfoldout crowded into the corner bythe sink. The beige walls look like irri¬tated skin that’s aging; they have de¬veloped wrinkles, cracks, majorblotches. They bear revealingchanges of color — black and purplebruises of age. Someone has ham¬mered them full of one-penny nailsand around the sites of infliction plas-’ter is constantly crumbling to thefloor.The door is too small and it’s mount¬ed on the wrong side. There’s a draftyfour-inch gap between it and thefloor. It swings inwards rather than fining ourselves to the closet for ourfive minute break. He’s slapping hisleft foot noisily on the other while hecontinues to stare at me, making itdifficult for me to read.“What?” I ask defensively.“What?”“Fine, really?” he wants the truthand I am going to give it to him.“Well,” I stammer, “SOME peoplethink that they can just take off theirclothes and make a living at it. BUT,they are wrong, Modelling, is HARDHARD work!”Now I know that I have offendedhim. He stops slapping his foot and Igo back to my reading. There is, ofcourse, a long uncomfortable silencein which he is breathing too hard andthinking too much. He’s upset.“You’re doing fine,” I finally concede,even look up at him and smile. “Justrelax. The pose is difficult,” I admit,“with the masks and the six full hoursof it.”“O.k., o.k..” His insecurity sparks asense of helplessness in me. He clearlyfeels overwhelmed by his situation.Sitting here in the closet with him, Iam beginning to feel that way aboutmine. I think about my sister, can’t be¬lieve she laughed at me.“Just remember what I said,” I com¬mand in a voice loud enough that anyinterested student might hear me —the female model — a harsh butknowledgeable voice in the closet,“Modelling is NOT an easy job."’“But it pays well,” my sister says,watching Billy carefully. We three areout on the studio porch at sunset. Mysister is smoking a cigarette and sit¬ting on the black rail. There are thingsshe is telling me with her impatientvoice and her defensive posture.There are things that I want to tell hertoo, but I won’t. There was the timethat I knew best the smoothness ofyour skin, the smell of your hair afterswimming in the lake in summer. Be¬cause I myself was the boniest child Imarveled at the width of your feet,the perfect roundness of your fingers.I loved you because you were bigger,you slept easier and snored louder;when I shivered I could cuddle nearyou and get warm.. But now I amnineteen. We both are numb; we nolonger share our secrets. We tell themto strangers — boyfriends — instead.I lean up against the brick wall andwatch her rippley silhouette as shepulls the smoke into her mouth.“You are working long hours,” shesays. She wants to make conversa¬tion, she wants to get along.“Yes, so?” She’s embarrassed mein front of the teacher and now shefeels guilty. We are sisters, after all.We braved the dark together, enact¬ed romantic fantasies together asgirls, grappled on the bathroom floorone night wondering what real lovewould be like.But now she’s the artist and I am themodel. She’ll keep painting when I gohome. We can’t reconcile our separa¬tion; as the two youngest in our fami¬ I love riding with him in the eve¬ning. The buildings and cars disap¬pear in the mist. If it’s cold we strapthe prop bag to the seat and wrap awool blanet around us. We gulp thefrost. I’m happy to be clothed again,he to be naked to the wind.“Faster!”“Watch it!”We ride directly to our favoriteMexican restaurant and order chick¬en tostados and two Dos Equis beers.Years ago he helped paint the muralthat spans the wall, so as usual wetalk about its various flaws. “Herhands are too large.” He points to anIndian woman holding flowers.“You need to work on foreshorten¬ing, and what are those?”“Cactus seeds.”“Cactus seeds! They look like chick¬en eggs. Hilary can’t foreshorten ei¬ther.”“What’s it to you?”“Nothing, just noticed it today. Imodeled for her class.”He is noticeably silent. Then he asksin a careful voice, “Did you apply forthe grant?”“No.” It was he who wanted me toapply for the grant, not I; he who isalways mentioning my “future ca¬reer.” He wants me to be busier, as ifmodelling isn’t enough. ‘My lifeshould have more purpose, likeyours,” I say cynically. He is workingfor an artist while also going toschool. “Why would I apply for agrant anyway, I wouldn’t know whatto write.”The waitress comes with our foodand he eats ravenously; I pluck at thechicken with my fork.We ride back to the house in silence.I live in an old woman’s attic. He turnsoff the engine and pulls the bike ontothe sidewalk as I unstrap my bag andtiptoe up the stairs. “Wait!” he whis¬pers, careful of waking the land¬lady.“No!” I’m surprised at my own fe¬rocity. “You don’t even know me!” Heis on the sidewalk. Of course you don’tknow me I think as I lean against thedoor of the old house. I sleep alone ona foam pad in an old woman’s attic. Ilive for free amongst the boxes and'the dusty mirrors with the spidersand the mice and the one broken win¬dow that admits too much winter air.You don’t understand why I readGothic romances by the light of a low-watt bulb, why I tell myself stories inthe dark. Even the woman doesn’tknow me. She asks only that I washher dishes once a day. She offered tolet me sleep on her sofa in a backroom but I refused. How could eitherof you, or how could my sister, or howcould anyone understand my comfort?I’m still enjoying my new freedom,don’t have time to think about ca¬reers or possessions. Sure it’s scary,but I love the spiders and the splin¬tery floors; they’re all mine. Just amonth since I left home and havefound my own place.“Please wait, he says again. Ireach for the doorknob and turn it; Icould never explain, but I don't go in.“Every morning I wait for the bus. Istep up, slip my quarters in the slot,and slap my zany bag of props on mylap. Obviously people wonder at theTurkish sword and the ripped umbrel¬la poking up at my face, but I wear awide-rimmed hat so they can’t seeme.” He follows me up the stairs. “Ilove that hat.”“It’s got button-on-interchangeableroses, of all colors.”“I know.”“No you don’t!” I almost shout.“That bus ride is an adventure, not ahassle!”Poor Billy. He nods. “I don’t have toBE a movie actress,” I tell him. “I justimagine that I’m one.”“That’s why you wear that blackcape and those black gloves,” hewhispers. We stop talking. I havebeen yelling in the dark.“I’m sorry, Mag.”“I’m sorry too.”There are these nights, these lonelyangry nights,,#nd we hate them. I askhim to come in and we creep up to theattic and light a candle. We lie on ourbacks and he makes shadows with hisarms — sad and lonely creatures withdrooping torsos dancing melancholyon the rafters. Then we make love inthe flickering restless light.Upon waking I knew. At first I feltmore satisfaction than fear. It wasright, completely natural, expected —that I should be pregnant after suchlove. I had fallen asleep on top of him;his body was warm and soft as I nes¬tled into his shoulder then rolled ontomy side. I should be careful. I shouldbe frightened. I know I am pregnant;it feels wonderful. I’m not afraid. Iwon’t ride the bus, I won’t need toyell, I’ll be an excellent model-preg¬nant woman, then mother with child.We’ll ride together to the store forfood. We’ll build a cradle and put it inthe corner. We don’t have to get mar¬ried. This child is a gift we’ll accept.He’ll have to work harder though, itseems so unexpected.I rubbed my belly gently thenwatched him open his eyes. I wouldhave to say it as if it was awful; it re¬ally was awful; but only to a distantpart of me. “I’m pregnant,” I said in adetached voice. Why did I have to sayit. We could just be happy. We wouldhave it; it would grow up effortlessly,independently.“You’re not!” he exclaimed. Youmust know I am, you are, we are to¬gether pregnant.The sun brushed the rafters and Ipulled back the sheets. “Let’s getup.”“You’re pregnant.”“Let’s eat breakfast.” Ham andtoast and orange juice and eggs. Let’sride to work. We’re afraid. Let’s rideto work together. Put on your shirt,oh please don’t say it don’t think itdon’t feel it, it’s awful when you feelit like that!I have to tell Hilary. She will not ap¬prove. She’s smoking a cigarette onthe porch again. I’m in my bathrobeand on break again; I left the malemodel in the closet. Billy has gone towork. The same sun that touched usthis morning shimmers in her hair. Iwill tell you. Remember the time thatyou broke the antique lamp and I con¬fessed, saying we both had broken itwhile fighting? Remember the waythat we both were punished. It waseasier for you that I was spanked too,and we played cards in our room forfour Fridays following?“I’m pregnant.” I say, sliding myslipper across the floor.“Maggie,” she blows the smoke outand throws down her cigarette,“You’re not!”“I am.”“Did you get a test?” She hopes I’llsay no.“No, but I know that I am.” Why doyou care. I am having the child. Ohwe’re not on the soaps don’t look atme like that. I’m just telling you,that’s all. I almost turn away.“Stop that!” she blurts, “ARE youpregnant?” then she examines mewith her sharp sister eyes. “Oh Mag¬gie, you are!”She hugs me, and I am embar¬rassed. I feel so pathetic; was I want¬ing this attention? I try to pullaway.18 — The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9,1984“Please don’t Maggie.”“Don’t what?” I ask defensively.“Don’t pull away from me.”She was thinking something elseand what she was thinking is right.I’m not old enough and despite my de¬clarations of independence I’m stillfrightened. She’s not being malicious;she really is concerned. “How faralong are you?”“About fourteen hours,” I smile. It’sridiculous — that it seems so muchlonger. My break ends and Hilarystares after me as I re-enter the stu¬dio. All the students are at theireasels and I resume my pose. A fewminutes pass before the porch dooropens and she floats in on a triangleof sunlight. She comes to me, and, forthe first time ever, in front of all thestudents, she acknowledges that I amher sister. “Please, Maggie,” shetouches my naked shoulder with herwarm hand. “Please, please, please,”she says softly, “please don’t haveit.”After this, I see very little of my sis¬ter. I begin to spend all of my nightsat Billy’s. We lie awake and discussthe possibilities. ‘It’s up to you Mag,”he tells me.“I know.” I wonder if he is ready tobe a father; he’s so young, doesn’teven have a bank account, doesn’teven have whiskers.“It’s your choice,” he says againand again so that I begin to wonder ifhe really means it.Some nights we just decide to havethe child. On these nights we listen tojazz and Billy makes a fire. We planour finances, his schooling (while Iworry about mine), our engagement,and the birth. How will we tell ourparents? We definitely won’t start ajoint bank account. He’ll continue tostash his money in the oatmeal cartonand I’ll continue to hide mine. We’lllive in his room, but I’ll also keep theattic space for myself. Such planningis aways a celebration and after¬wards we always cuddle.On the following mornings we bothawake long before the alarm and rideto my house with tools and fabric. Imake curtains while he repairs thewindow; we’re always busy with ourpreparations. One morning the oldwoman asks us why we are sliding herboxes around jn her attic at sevenA.M. We don’t tell her that we aremaking room for me to exercise,though she certainly can sense our ex¬citement.Even these days when the newsense of purpose inspires me to be anavid eater and an excellent model, Iworry. I always delay telling my sis¬ter my decision. She'll have to askherself, I tell myself. The excitementnever lasts long. In the evenings whenI see Billy, when I see his clay-cakedclothes, his dirty hands and tired face,I lose hope.“You’re too young to be a father,” Itell him. “Look how tired you are.” Hecan only nod, exhausted from havingto support and agree with my everythought.On these evenings as we sit to¬gether and eat cereal at the card¬board table, I begin to imagine us asparents; I’ll become the henpecker, hethe wife-loather. Our child will haveto grow up eating Fruit Loops, in dirtyclothes, in melancholy dusty rooms.“Well, have you decided?” my sis¬ter asks.“I don’t know, I don’t know yet.”Whenever I ride the bus I feel sick.Other nights, we think we are tooyoung, we have no money, we don’tbelieve in marriage. We fall asleepwithout hugging, stay on our backsand look up at the ceiling, two bodieslying squarely in the bed. In the morn¬ing I continue to lie in this positiion —body stiff, legs straight, arms at side.Billy rises and dresses in his workclothes — paint-covered pants, plas¬tered shirts — then he comes andkneels by the bed.“Please Mag,” he begs. “You haveto get up, you have to go to work.” Amobile I made hangs above the bed.He watches me watching the card¬board stars.“You don’t understand,” I tell him.“I’m sick.”“But you’re not sick.”“I am sick!” “With what?”“You know with what — I’m preg¬nant!” Doesn’t he understand? Abor¬tion is an operation so pregnancy’s asickness.“Please don’t feel this way.”‘I can’t help it.’“But you decided last night not tofeel this way.”“WE decided,” I correct him. “Andyou’re the one who doesn’t want tohave it.”‘I’ll have it, I’ll have it!” he starts tocry now.“Oh, I know,” I can’t let him cry.“Please go,” I ask, carefully devoidof emotion.He waits a while, always wishing tobe closer. Wanting a hug, he sits onthe crate that I painted for him once —happy ghouls dancing in a stream —while I lie stiff on his bed. Eventuallythe alarm that we have set rings. Herises and unplugs it, moves to thedoor. Unhappy, he leaves for work.I spend these days in bed, call insick. Arid I dream. I am lying in bed;Billy is there in the dream too. Suchdramatic pain on my face and in myvoice that he bends nearer, places hishands on my shoulders, squeezes untilhis fingers pinch my bones. The wholeday spent sinking on his mouldy mat¬tress. Could I raise a child here any¬way? His turquoise walls blacken ashe peers down, that great squareface.Hilary is also in my dreams. Never Ialone. They build a fire and I thrustmy hands in the coals. “Don’t!” theyshriek and pull them out for me. Theyare always there — hovering, de¬manding, stopping me. They haunt mydaylong nightmares. I am modeling;they painting, silent brushes movingpowerfully. They are the watchingand the all-knowing universe op¬pressing me and I can’t move. I haveto wake up. Alone in the house. Hislaundry a pile of shedded smelly skinson the floor. His books still in boxes.His sculptures are cornered together,covered with sheets and gatheringdust. I lift my knees and make a val¬ley with the blankets. He owns a lot ofjunk. A shoebox overflowing withmatches when he doesn’t even smoke.Piles of wrinkled paper with nothingwritten on them. Broken pencils and.inkless pens. Scratchy records andbroken bicycles, TV’s without faces,antennae, extension cords. The childwill suffocate. Will have no place tocrawl but into the pile. I can’t live therest of my live with his laundry.He comes home at dusk when I amlistening to his phonograph — someold scratchy blues record he found atthe dump. He spent the day loading akiln, painting one corner of a canvas,one figure in a mural. We hug. For thefirst time I look at him. It hurts to seehis face, his green eyes spinning in¬ward, the deaths we’ve inflicted.When we both feel it, we can do noth¬ing but cling. ^ There finally comes the eveningwhen I have to decide. Billy is work¬ing late so I ride the bus again, blackcape, gloves and hat. The driversneaks peeks at me in the overheadmirror. I soon get out to walk.I’ve been afraid of walking lately.The sun might be too piercing, thepassing people too curious. Theymight stare. I avoid reflective store¬fronts, not wanting to watch peoplewatching me — mysterious woman incape. When I walk around the block Isee the neighbors pruning their rosebushes. Two women wearing colorfulsweatsuits jog by, faces tomato-redand smiling. They probably jog thisway every day; why haven’t I noticedthem?It’s still early evening when I reachthe pier; the joggers plough pastwhile the fishermen set up their all-night lean-tos. My cape flutters openand exposes my legs as I make myway in the wind. Hilary and I walkedhere once. We hugged; we walkedarm and arm; together we made facesat the fishermen, I haven’t walkedhere since then. I forgot the splashyseas — of salt and people — the risingbuoys and the bobbing hatted heads.The little kids' in klunky boots, thesmiling old men with the hooks in theirhats.The pier glides out fearlessly overthe shark-filled bay. I can’t see thesharks, but the fishermen say theycatch them all the time. People jogwith the push of the wind at theirbacks while I walk directly into it.“Hey!” some guy yells.“Hey!” I yell back. Over the railthere are rotting buoys bouncing onthe violent waves. I am pregnant, Iam just as much alive, just as vulnera¬ble as the fish swimming in thatwater. I am just as much eggs andheart and skin. I continue to walkuntil I reach the end of the pier. It’s ahaunted place; once it did not endhere with these bars and this wirefence. I stand on a tackle-box andwatch the lopped off wooden pillarswalking out to sea. The city cut it off;the pier was too much to maintain.The joggers and the fishermen com¬plained — the end of a life, the hem¬ming in of freedom. Much further outthe pier begins again. Only one cen¬tral segment has been chopped intothe sea, to avoid problems with teen¬agers. Out there where the pierbegins again is certainly a lonelyplace.I’m alone too, Behind me the pierbounces, sways with people, lives,dreams. Could we live that way?Abortion is this violence, the neces¬sary lopping off. Where I stand thereis no more walking on the bay. I willhave to turn back, or resurrect themissing section. My fingers get cold,my cheeks salty. My ankles ache. “Mydecision,” I think, and I don’t missanyone, not Hilary, not Billy. I couldstand out here all night. It getsdark. The buoy that I’ve been watchingdisappears in blackness withoutchanging its steady rising and falling.The darkness comes so suddenly thatit could be another wave. Behind menow I can see spots of light — the gar¬bage can fires — and listen for thehuman noise, look for the colors. Istand in cold and comfortable silenceand watch the circles of yellow-orange glowing.Then I return, walking slowly andlistening for the radios. The firesgrow, burst to lifesize as I approachthem. The old men’s faces smile andwrinkle as they bait their lines in thehot light. They listen to jazz. Littlegooey organisms squirm orr theirhooks — creatures unknown to me.These people are happy. Their bluetarps waver on bending framesabove their heads. They smile warmlyand point to their coolers. I nod happi¬ly-Instead of walking to Billy’s, ' gohome. The old woman is surprised tosee me; I have not slept here in awhile. Then tonight I read a -omanceby the old light, peaceful after thewalk, thankful to be alone. When I fi¬nally fall asleep, I dream about themissing part of the pier. ’ have lookedeverywhere for the materials to sal¬vage it. In my dream I am calmly saw¬ing beams from the rafters and stack¬ing them in the corner. All the suppliesare in my attic; I pull the nails fromthe floorboards. When I awake thenext morning, most of the work isdone.It’s still raining. Dirty drops trickledown the panes in Billy’s room whereI sit and wait for my sister to comewith the truck. The room is still unfur¬nished; piles of tools and junk line thewalls — crates holding clothes, booksin piles, tools in boxes. I sit on the oldcrate raised up on bricks that we havebeen using as our bed frame. Thesheets and the moth-eaten blanketsare tangled around my bare legs.Lois, Billy’s landlady is reading anewspaper in the light of the nextroom. I watch her from the darkness.We have not told her. The lamp shadekisses a circle of light to her matronlypuff of hair. We ll never tell her.Billy has gone upstairs to call Hilaryagain. “Of course I will take youMag,” she said over the phone. Wehave not talked for days but I knowthat she will come; she is my sister.We don’t want to be late. The appoint¬ment is for twelve-thirty and it's al¬ready twelve. We still have to crossthe bridge and find a parking space. Iwonder if it will be hard to find one ona rainy day in March.I can hear the rain dropping ontothe ashes and the burnt two-by-foursin the fireplace. Lois is turning thepages slowly. As I stand the clammi¬ness shrouds me. I go to a crate andpull out a pair of baggy black pantsand an old cashmere sweater.The old house creaks as Billy comesdown the stairs and into the room,fully dresssed. “There's no answer,she’s on her way.” He takes off histattered jacket and lays it on the bed.He has brushed his hair and is wear¬ing a clean shirt, his nose is shiny, hisface scrubbed clean.The front gate rattles open.Through the picture window we seeHilary taking monumental strides upthe walk. She’s tied a black andorange bandana around her head andis kicking forward in her big greengaloshes. I recognize the stripedwrap-around pants she has tuckedinto her boots. She's knocking at theglass and Lois puts down her paperand goes to the door. In comes my sis¬ter; we haven’t talked for days.“Maggie!” when she hugs me I canfeel the dampness in her clothes."We should go.” They each hold oneof my arms and turn to the door.“I need shoes,” I say.‘You can use my jacket,” she says.“Here are a pair of socks,” hesays.We all ride together in the cab ofthe old Ford pickup and I sit in themiddle. The window on the passengerside won’t close so a wet cold air tearsinto the cab. Hilary wraps a blanketaround me. Soon we are crossing thebridge and we can’t see anything.Only the white hood ahead of us. Upabove there are vague shadows ofContimmd on page 72The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984 — 19Early MarchPartsof the mattedbone-whitegrassaregreen!The mattedrootsof the bone-whitegrass aregreen——Daniel Brownstein All Through ItalyMeeting again in the morningI thought of a bouquetof flowersand it was like aflower, or at least the scent of one,that I could smellall through Italyso I returnedI could not leaveit was morebeautiful each time, a scent thatset the world aliveShort Poem in a Courtly MannerEven if I were blind,I could still be able to sense youby the sounds you make while moving,for they are just as beautiful, just as such,as anything about.ARE YOURCOLLEGE FINANCES INCRITICAL CONDITION?Joining the Army Reserve can reduce yourcollege costs. If you qualify, our Educational Assist'ance program will pay up to $1,000 a year of yourtuition for four years.If you have taken out a National Direct or Guar-anteed Student Loan since October 1, 1975, ourLoan Forgiveness program will repay 15% of yourdebt (up to $10,000) or $500, whichever is greater,for each year you serve.If you’d like to find out more about how aReserve enlistment can help pay for college, call thenumber below. Or stop by.ARMY RESERVE.BEALLYOUCANBE.SFC LOPEZ484-488020 — The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984Let’s Have Babies7n Wien wirst du ja Onkel Max kennenlernen.roof.Sally was a, was a, blue.mistakes; red berries,ordeal on the stairway,do not sing to me.no secret, only strength whispers(pink fishes)Not having been around I don’t know,silence; the airspace crawlsordinary persimmons/unloved smoke —(I won’t;I will emerge with demanding,more satisfying stories)the bridge:a fat ‘there-ness’, the form thatenergy leaves,I want you,quickly — the whirring like insectsthe auto. The of each moment’stwist of love’s thrust, intention;“Do not go gentle...that good night,’’growing up to learnstrangers, Uncle Max—Tim Belton Let’s have some babies, you and me,we’ll give them all some nameslike Hope or baby Emilyand Nicholas or James.Let’s all play games and watch cartoonsand lie in a big brass bed;let’s all eat cake and macaroonsand Christmas gingerbread.Sundays we’ll dress in fancy clothes,go for a promenadeand try hard not to pick our nosewith the babies on parade.Let’s swing on swings, let’s slide down slidesand always look for love;let’s play with cats and ducks besidesand never push or shove,And raise these babies until they’re grownwith all our love and caresso they’ll have babies of their own,so we can play with theirs.—Christopher PearsonUntitledIf words are everything —spring a word, flutter a word,birth a word, life a single syllable —then I say:in this verbal world of printed passionslet us lace word to wordlet us ramble wet sentenceslet us mingle words in fluent phraseslet us ignore the fatefulobligations of these plastic pens.—Christopher PearsonEND-OF-THE QUARTER SALE!BEERSCHLITZOLD MILWAUKEEHAMM’SPABSTOLYMPIA24-12 oz. cans i'DMHl(warm only)IMPORTEDBECK’S6-12 oz. bottles(warm only) Sale dates:3/9-3/15 WE DELIVER !$10.00 minimum *‘plus delivery chargeWE ACCEPT VISA/MASTERCARD & CHECKS«34$7*10 French: WINEOver 10.000 wines!STROH’S6-12 oz. cans(warm only)STUDENT DISCOUNT CARDSAVAILABLE W/STUDENT I.D.SMIRNOFFVODKA LIQUOR & POP$499 O’DARBY’S $/IRISH CREAM ' 99MARTELL $VS COGNAC 11"«6"SC29(BACARDI RUM JSEAGRAM’SVO AllLiqaor750 ml MAKER’SMARKPEPSI6-12 oz. cans $099$129Kimbark liquors& WINE SHOPPE1214 E. 53rd St. 493-3355In Kimbark Plaza Hoara:San.: NooaMldal«htMoa.-Thara.: 8 a.m.-l a.ai.FH.i9sl:l«.a.-S m.m. PARTAGER (Red, White, Rose)PERE PATRIARCHE (Red, White)LE PAPILLON (Red, White)MOUTON CADET (3 ltr) reg. 24.99Italy:CANEI WINESREUNITE WINESFONTANA CANDIDA (Frascati)Germany:BLUE NUNKELLERGEISTERKREUSCH MOSELBLUMCHENCalifornia:FETZER CABERNET SAUVIGNONFOPPIANO CHARDONNAYVINLAND ZINFANDELANDRE CHAMPAGNEKORBEL CHAMPAGNECOOK’S CHAMPAGNE 2/$jJ00$3*9SJ9S$2i«2/$50°2/$5°°$3*92/$5°0*6*VHQ-NAKEDContinued from page 19the bridge’s great metallic beams.We’re driving into another city. Wefind the street and the number. “TheWomen’s Health Center,” — a twostory rectangular building squattingamongst the high rises. Hilary leavesus at the corner and goes to park thetruck.Billy and I push through the glassdoors and ride the elevator to the sec¬ond floor. “Family Planning” is paint¬ed on the door. Once inside we padacross the bright green carpet past aperfect row of chairs and up to thecounter. No one is at4he desk. Genericfamily photographs are hung below aplastic sunshine clock. In one a womanis holding an infant and smiling; in theother, an athletic young girl is stand¬ing on a set of bleachers and wavingat the camera.“Your name.” An angular womanwearing glasses and dressed like anurse appears suddenly as if out ofone of the many envelopes stacked onthe desk.“Maggie,” I say quietly.“Are you here for the clinic?” Hervoice is harsh now.“Yes.”“Fill out this form.” She pulls a pinkform from a pile of papers and handsme a clipboard and a pen. We sit and Iwrite down all the needed informa¬tion — name, age, date of last period,marital status, approximate date ofconception, reason for abortion. Rea¬son, I think, I had wanted to run. I hadto have one foot in front of the other,arms in carriage position at sides. Ihad to watch the red sign at the end ofthe pier — way ahead there — I didn’twant anyone to pass me, but a runnersped by; she had a dark tan. I lookedat my pear-yellow arms. Little burstsof warmth would come to my fore¬head and temples. They’d trickledown the side of my face. I had tobreathe steadily, my whole bodybegan to sway. The sky was darken¬ing quickly and the pier spun outahead of me — a delicious ribbon ofblack licorice to be gobbled up — I hadtongues on my feet and teeth on myknees and gums on my arms andsteady breathing lungs in my steadyswinging hips. I was tasting the airand the sky and the sea, the pier tast¬ed like licorice, reason. There’s a boxnext to the word “Voluntary” and Icheck it. Billy carries the form to thedesk.“How will she pay?” I can hear herask him.“What?” he asks. I move to thedesk.“With Medi-Cal.”“Do you have your stickers?”“I do.”My sister arrives and we all sit to¬gether until the woman behind thedesk announces into the microphone,“Come with me, ladies for the clinic,”as if we all aren’t sitting right next toher.“I’m scared.”"Don’t worry, you’re strong,” theyboth reply, I am hugging them whenthe nurse says, “Excuse me miss, weare only having the discussion, abso¬lutely no reason to be upset. Sheclasps her hands and nods disdainful¬ly at us. Then I stand and follow herthrough the door.* * *“The reason that we do this,” thenurse explains, “is to get the patientsto talk about the operation. We wantto be sure that the operation is rightfor you." There are diagrams of thefemale and male pelvic regionsframed and under glass on the wallbehind her head. We four sit in plastichard-backed chairs in a circle semi-formal classroom style. All three ofthe other women cross their legs neat¬ly under and then fold their hands likethey would fine linen on their laps.“You see,” she paused dramatical¬ly, “this operation is not for every¬one, and we want to determinewhether or not it is for you.”I pull my left knee up to my chest.“So, what we will do is we will goaround the circle and each of us willexplain why we are having the opera¬tion.” SPRINGI pull my other knee up. “Also tellus,” she over-enunciates, “whether ornot you have had the operation be¬fore and if so, how many times, andhow did you react to the operationthen.”There is a silence, save the buzzingof the overhead lights. “You may saywhat was positive about your pre¬vious experience or even what wasnegative." (Another pause.) “Comenow, let’s help each other out.”The black suited woman pushes abrown curl away from her glasses andrecrosses her legs. “I have had theoperation once before,” she says in alucid business-like tone, “and it wasabsolutely painless. I have no hesita¬tion whatsoever about the opera¬tion.” She tightens her lips into ashort smile, makes a cursory circle ofthe group with her eyes, then re¬crosses her legs and sits back into astraight-spined position.The nurse speaks gently. “Whygreat! And thank you for sharing thatwith us.”The woman wearing sandalsstraightens her legs and slips herhands onto the chair under he knees.“Myself too. I have had it once, and Ihad no problems at all. The peoplehere were quite nice.” She smiles andstretches her ankles out into the circleof knees.Aside from my wrinkly trousers,there is one other pair of knees com¬pletely covered and those belong tothe woman in bluejeans. She rubs herupper arms and then the back of herneck. Her leather purse is swinging onthe side of her chair. “I have had theoperation three times.” Dark redstick lines her swollen lips. All threewomen bend their heads and lean for¬ward, as if ready for a long story. Thenurse nods her head approvingly. Thelady in the bluejeans pulls a file fromher purse and starts grinding hernails lightly. “My first time, I didn’twant the operation, emotionally. Thatmade it painful, physically and emo¬tionally. “The second time, I knewwhat it would be like so I was ready.The third time I wanted it. I got it andI felt great afterwards. Went outdancing, had a great night.”All the women smile. Oh no, it's myturn. But how could she say that? Icould never feel that way.“Despite all your successes,” thenurse is making an undirected speechthat is directed at me, “there aresome people who really don’t wantthe operation and therefore have agreat deal of trouble and experiencea great deal of pain. These girls needmost to talk about the operation.”All the women look at me. I lookdown at my knees, my vision startsblurring. The fluorescent lightingshifts the angle of the floor. I havegot to say something. “You see,” Isay as my voice falls. “The truthis...that I have never had the opera¬tion. I don’t know what it will belike.”Silence. Obviously what I have saidisn’t enough. “I am having the opera¬ tion because it isn’t practical.” Tearscome. “It just isn’t practical for some¬one my age.”“What isn’t practical?” one womanasks.“To have the operation?” the nurseasks."No,” I say, rubbing my fists in myeyes, “to not have the operation.”The bluejeaned woman leans overand touches my shoulder. The black-suited woman touches my knee.“Someone please explain the processof the operation,” the nurse says.“Sure,” says the lady in bluejeans.“They put you in a robe and cover youwith a blanket. You lie down. The doc¬tor comes and gives you a basic pelvicexam.” .“His name is Dr. White and he’svery nice,” the nurse interjects.“The most important thing is torelax.”“Yes, relax,” I sob quietly.“Then when it is time for the opera¬tion, they take you in and slide youonto a table.”“Janis will be with you.”“She is Dr. White’s assistant andshe will be your companion for theday.”“They have a machine that workslike a vacuum.”The woman in the black suit inter¬rupts, “Oh is it suck? I thought it wasscrape.”“It’s both,” the nurse replies, “suckand scrape. They stick the tube in,Janis will hold your hand, into youruterus and vacuum it out. Then theygently scrape the uterine walls to besure nothing is left behind.”“Does it hurt?” I ask, squeezing mythighs together.“Only a little.”“There will be contractions whichresemble period cramps, though a lit¬tle more intense,” the nurse assures.“If you don’t relax it will hurt.”The session is over. I go back out tothe lobby. “I’ve got to relax!” I prac¬tically shout as I squeeze the hands ofmy sister and my lover.“Calm down Mag.”We wait another fifteen minutes. Iconcentrate on my breathing — inthree, out three — then thrust myselfinto an issue of Psychology Today.There is a poster picture of the forestthat is tacked to the wood pamneling.“Today is the first day of the rest ofyour life.” Sure. Billy cuddles with mebut I resist and sit up straight. I mustbe calm, relaxed. God how muchlonger do I have to wait? The lady atthe desk goes back into her envelopeand all the women reopen their maga¬zines. The lady in the bluejans smilesat me.“Maggie.” A short plump womanappears and calls me back to theoperating room.“Goodbye.” Billy and Hilary hugme. “You are strong.”“I know. It will be alright.” I thenleave them that way — confident andbreathing regularly.Janis gives me a white sheet towrap myself in. She draws blood frommy thumb. Then Dr. White comes in,rolling the machine ahead of him. Heappears to be giving it suck at the endof its long snout with the tip of his fingers. He is testing the suction. An¬other tube runs out the other end ofthe machine down into a bucket on thefloor that is lined with a plastic bag.Dried blood lines the tube. “Drawyour knees up and spread your legsMaggie,” Janis says gently. Shesmiles a dough-boy smile and Dr.White examines me with his finger.“Just right,” he says. “Just abouttwo months old.”Janis gives me her hand. “Now youknow what we are going to do, so justrelax. It will only take a couple ofminutes.”“Yes.’ I grab her hand as Dr. Whitebegins. “Nooooo,” I wail softly.“Now Maggie don’t say that!’Pleeeeaaaassseeeennnnnnoooooooooooo.”“do you want me to stop?” Dr.White frowns impatiently.Noooooooooo. My baby, my kid, mywomb. “Come on Maggie, just relax.Look at the poster on the ceiling.” Theforest again. The trees. Today is thefirst day of the rest of your life.“NNNNOOOOOOO!” I screech and liftmy arms; Janis pushes me to thetable.“Now be good Maggie!”“OOOOUOOOUUUOUUUUUU.PLEASE STOP!” I can feel a scrapinginside my womb and then intense con¬tractions grip my lower back.“Noooooooo,” I cry.“Maggie!” Janis slaps me. “Stopthat! Do you want to scare the othergirls? What’s wrong with you?”My whole body, starting in thewomb begins moaning, weeping,wretching. My back, my belly, myface I throw into violent contortions.“Oh God Nooo!” I shout from the dee¬pest depths of consciousness. Myheart bangs against the back of mythroat. I shake my head from side toside, “No, No. No!”“Maggie!” Janis slaps me again.“It’s over! It’s over!’I look up. Dr. White has disap¬peared and taken the vacuum and thehose with him. There is a bucket full ofblood on the floor. Oh God, I close myeyes and start rocking slowly.I am wheeled into a nearby room.The walls are green. Violence, thatgreat sedative, has numbed me.There is cramping in my womb. A pho¬tograph of the ocean is tacked to thewall. Below it there is a calendar. Ilook for the day — March 27. It’sspring.“We have someone here who is veryupset, Maggie.” The nurse looms overme like an ugly stamp block my vi¬sion. Behind her is Billy. He burst.0upon me sobbing. “Oh Maggie, Mag¬gie, I’m so sorry...”“It’s o.k., it’s o.K ” I think I feelcalm. I stroke his head. “I’malright.”“Oh Maggie, what did they do toyou? They were hurting you!” Iscratch the back of his scratchysweater, look up into his green-greyeyes. “Hey,” I say, “I’m o.k.”“Oh Mag,” my sister strokes myforehead. “I love you.”They hold me on both sides. Then Icrack in two. But they hold me there —my sister and my lover — like twohalves of a mold. They preserve Mag¬gie, until the universe stops its pro¬testing.22 — The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984Ironweed by William KennedyViking, 1983227pp., $14.75 (hard cover)If you’ve never been to Albany,reading the novels of William Ken¬nedy will make you wish you had. Thethree novels in his so-called Albanycycle, Legs, Billy Phelan’s GreatestGame, and Ironweed, will convinceyou that either New York’s Capitolcity is about the hottest place going,or that the great writer’s gift of mak¬ing his chosen world, be it e’er so hu¬mble, seem fabulously rich and excit¬ing lives on in the able hands of Mr.Kennedy. Unfortunately, not all thenews is good. Ironweed, billed as asort of culmination to the cycle, andwinner of the National Critic’s CircleAward for fiction in 1983, is reallyjust another installment in the ongo¬ing story, or stories, and a highly dis¬appointing one at that.Ironweed is the story of FrancisPhelan, hobo, wino, story-teller,former third-baseman for the Wash¬ington Senators, husband, father, andself-proclaimed “warrior” and pro¬tector “of saints from sinners”. Fran¬cis’ only problem is that he kills peo¬ple. And then he runs away. Hedoesn’t kill them maliciously; theyjust sort of end up dead. The first is astrike-breaker, villain and symbol ofoppression, whom Francis fells with aperfectly thrown stone; next is hisown infant son who slips from hisgrasp as he lifts him and breaks hisneck on the kitchen floor. Both ofthese killings precipitate what be¬comes Francis’ hall-mark — flight.Francis runs away for years at a time,and experience pangs of guilt and re¬morse over his wife and family, andthe deaths he has caused. While on theroad, steadily declining to his hobostatus, he kills again, in a shanty¬town, smashing against a pillar a fel¬low bum who attempts to cut off Fran¬cis’ feet with a meat-cleaver so as toacquire his shoes. The final killing, oc¬curring in the course of Ironweed, isagain in Hooverville, with a baseballbat.What’s a nice guy like Francis doingkilling all these people? This seems tobe the central question Mr. Kennedysets himself to explore at variousmetaphysical depths in the novel. Thisalong with “why do we live?”; “towhat extent are we responsible forour actions?”; “can you go homeagain?”; and the like. If it all soundsheavy-handed it’s only because it allis. The fine touch Mr. Kenney dis¬played consistently throughout thefirst two books has been replaced bylead-gloves.Legs and Billy Phelan's GreatestGame were, at their most basic level,“good reads”. The novels crackledwith banter as Mr. Kennedy demon¬strated an unmatched ear for dialectand jargon. The plots were straight¬forward, and the characters operatedtotally believeably within theirfringy world. In Ironweed, Mr. Ken¬nedy’s clear attempts to paint on alarger canvas, as it were, end up look¬ing contrived, cliched, and often bor¬dering on the pretentious. Open dis¬cussions, allegedly occurring inFrancis’ soul, of heavy, metaphysicalconcerns like death and man’s fatehave little place in the world of skid-row Albany as Mr. Kennedy has de¬tailed it, at least not judging by theirlack of success here. The dead, thoseghosts who “haunt” Francis’ past, lit¬erally walk the earth, appearing insporadic epiphanies which feel heavi¬ly contrived. The conclusion, withFrancis, the former wielder of death,now stalked by death in his turn, hisfriends picked-off one by one, hasgreat inherent power, but is renderedabsurd by Francis’ final decisionwhich goes so clearly against his char¬acter as to defy belief. The finalpages are even written in an off¬hand, deliberately vague style, as ifMr. Kennedy himself couldn’t quitebelieve what he was saying.William Kennedy is clearly a nove¬list of genuine talent and great imagi¬ native powers. It is no wonder that hefailed at working the metaphysicaldepths whose shoals have sunk manya good writer. Ironweed, for all itsflaws, has its moments. But they areheavily out-weighed by its seriousmis-calculations and poor execution.If he stays away from the “deep”water Mr. Kennedy’s next bookshould be a delight to read. In themean time try Bill Phelan’s GreatestGame.Sure Signs: New & Selected Poemsby Ted KooserU. of Pittsburgh Press, 1983Ted Kooser is the poet of a place:Nebraska. Like Richard Hugo’s Mon¬tana or William Carlos Williams’ Pat¬terson, the Nebraska of Kooser’s po¬etry is part documentation and partfiction; and just as his work cannot beseparated from its locale, so theplace, once you have encounteredKooser’s carefully crafted vignettes,cannot be divorced from his work.Sure Signs, Kooser’s latest book ofpoetry, continues his exploration ofthe slowly diminishing world of smalltowns and large farms that constituterural Nebaska, and captures both theinhabitants’ livelihoods, and their pa¬thos and loneliness.Like Nebraskans themselves, TedKooser's poetry possesses a disarm¬ing plainness that could easily be mis¬taken for clumsiness or lack of subt¬lety. But underneath the casual voiceand the simple surfaces without poet¬ic devices, there is a dangerous andpowerful undertow. The nuances ofrural dialect, the pre^se descriptionsof discarded objects or abandonedhouses, and the poet’s empathy withhis landscape and people serve to pullthe reaa^i into his vision. Ted Kooserhas the ironic distai ;e and the spiritu¬al affinity which allows him to ap¬proach his subject f'"*m every anglewithout ever condescending, or mak¬ing the reader feel t..at he is lookingdown on the amusing though blame¬less, common man.The first poem in the volume, “Se¬lecting a Reader”, chronicles themovement of a woman who fingersKooser’s own book in a shop, reads afew line'; closes it, and leaves. Thepoet harDors great affection for thisreader; she is simple, strong-willed,not easily impressed, and takes onlywhat she needs. She decides to spendher money on something more practi¬cal, and Ted Kooser is all in favor ofher decision. It is a wonderful intro¬duction to both Kooser’s seriousnessand his humor, and that rarest of qua¬lities in a poet, a down-to-earth senseof his own importance.Kooser’s poems are often as easy toread as good newspaper prose, withwhich they share a direct and plainstyle. Yet Kooser is possessed with asubtlety of expression equal to W.C.Williams’, and the authenticity of hiswork is beyond reproach. In “TheWidow Lester” Kooser presents anaging spinster who craves the worldof love, but finds it unobtainablebeyond her hardened heart and calci¬fied spirit:Then I met Ivan, and kept him,and never knew love.How his feet stunk in the bed-sheets!I could have told him to wash,but I wanted to hold that stinkagainst him.The day he dropped dead in thefield,I was watching.I was hanging up sheets in theyard,and I finished.When Ted Kooser writes this wellabout the characters and places of hisNebraska, his poetry transcends re-gionalsim and becomes a testimony tothe stoic durability of individualstrapped in an emotionally and physi¬cally isolated world. Against a back¬drop of frustration, anguish, andyears of silence, the rare moments ofcommunication his characters shareare all the more poignant. TedKooser's poetry may be limited interms both of its scope and its geo¬ graphical regionalsim, but it is pre¬cise, subtle, and finely-crafted; betteran accomplishment on this scale thanthe “larger” failures so common in po¬etry today. —DSMaking Certain It Goes OnThe Collected Poems of Richard HugoNorton, 1984455 pp., $25 (hard cover)In an autumn-issue CLR article inpraise of the distinctive poetics ofRichard Hugo, a blast was leveled atthe publishing industry, who, despite“ghoulish proclivities” regarding re¬cently deceased authors, had failed torecognize Hugo with a volume of col¬lected poems. Only a few monthslater, (an example of the kind of pullthe CLR has in the publishing world)here it is, Making Certain It Goes On,The Collected Poems of Richard Hugo.The book is definitive: all eight booksof Hugo’s poetry are here in full (twopoems have been deleted from GoodLuck in Cracked Italian and one addedto What Thou Lovest Well RemainsAmerican at Hugo’s request), as areuncollected poems written before hisdeath. The book is truly a treasure, asthe earliest books were out of printand unavailable, and is a necessarypurchase for any lover of Americanpoetry, despite the steep cover price.Enough has been written of Hugo inthese pages, and let me just add thatthe new poems, if not revolutionary,are quite beautiful indeed, and onlyunderscore the tremendous vitality ofHugo’s work, and make his loss morebitter. The last lines of “Ashville”,Hugo’s elegy to Thomas Wolfe, couldstand as his own:Some are doomed to small lives andsmall stones.Others drive on in wide fictions.Others with silk girlsin Ferraries. We don’t get quite thewhoie way back.That’s good. There's this grave. Thenthere’s that.Right now, this odd road north.-CMRobert Penn WarrenChief toseph of the Nez Perceby Robert Penn WarrenRandom House, 198364pp., $5.95Inside the Onion by Howard NemerovU. of Chicago Press, 198463pp., $11.95 (hard cover)Howard Nemerov and Robert PennWarren have a number of things incommon: they are both highly hon¬ored, older poets, both having wonBollingen prizes, and both the Pul-litzer, Nemerov in 1978, and Warrenfor the third time in 1979; they areboth “grand fathers” (sic) of currentAmerican poetry, Warren the patri¬arch of Southern lyricism, and Ne¬merov a leader of the intellectual-po¬etic school; they both have had aremarkable number of books pub¬lished, twenty-four for Nemerov, andthirty-eight for Warren; and theyboth have recently released collec¬tions which may be viewed as signifi¬cant, cumulative works for their ca¬reers. The volumes themselves haveless in common than do their authors:Warren’s Prince Joseph of the NezPerce is a book-length historical poemabout the Nez Perce Indian’s bitterfight for survival in the 1870’s and80’s; Nemerov’s Inside the Onion is acollection of reflective, sometimesphilosophical, often whimsical poemswith no grand, connective theme.Both books are worthy of readingboth for themselves, and for whatthey show us about the work of their< Books In Brief ► eminent authors.* * *Nemerov’s poetry combines vividimagery, craft, sweeping generaliza¬tions, fine particulars, and a toneoften ironical or humorous to create aunique voice. Sometimes annoying,the sense of humor is nonethelessvery amusing, as in “Literalists of theImagination at Odds”. The poembegins: “The fountain’s silver pulse/Falls in a filthy pool”; then, quick toretort, a new voice enters the poem:“—what a filthy male/ Chauvinist re¬mark!” After skipping a line, the firstvoice gives its reply:But all I said was justThe fountain’s silver pulseFalls in a filthy poolGo to Lewis ParkAnd see it any time you like,and again:Lewis Park? I knew itYou just keep out of my LewisParkThe “Bard Himself” is finally calledupon to solve the debate and restoreorder.While engaging and enjoyable, Ne¬merov’s work is finally too diffuse,too buried under vague emotionsrather than clear perceptions. A cen¬tra theme involving the idea of writ¬ing and the poet as creator or artist,as embodied in the concentric rings ofthe onion of the title for Nemerov,never gets fleshed out clearly, and isleft a vague suggestion, too weak togive the volume a needed unity or co¬hesiveness. While it is representativeof his work as a whole, and certainlyworth reading, tis is not Nemerov’sfinest poetry. Only its author’s witand constant intelligence salvagessome dreary writing.Robert Penn Warren has construct¬ed his history of the Nez Perce andtheir chieftan, Prince Joseph, on twodistinct levels: an imaginery level ofWarren’s own thoughts and insightsinto the events; and a documentarylevel composed of scraps from histori¬cal documents, ranging from newspa¬per accounts of the day to the mem¬oirs of key figures. Much of myadmiration for the poem stems fromits sheer ambitiousness. The complex¬ity involved in unifying this vastamount of material and creating fromit a poetic text is staggering. Yet, forthe most part, Warren succeeds quitewell in creating an American epic.The poem’s epic intentions are an¬nounced right off the bat through po¬etic devices of alliteration and repeti¬tion reminiscent of epic Anglo-Saxonverse:The Land of the Winding Waters,Wallowa,The Land of the Nimipu,Land sacred to the band of old Jo¬seph,Their land, the land in the far agesgivenBy the Chief-in-the-Sky.The poem’s language in part works tosuggest a sort of Indian chant, an evo¬cation of the Indian world.-Yet it is in¬formed with all the modernity of War¬ren’s poetic brilliance, workingsimultaneously in both the epic andpersonal-lyric modes. It is this last,the personal level, which gives ChiefJoseph its greatest power.As the reader learns in the final sec¬tion of the poem, at once its epilogueand its core, Warren has been in¬spired in part by a visit to a monu¬ment to Chief Joseph at Snake Creek,outside of Great Falls, Montana. Thepoet’s personal connection with theIndian transcends the interveningcentury and brings the statue to lifein Warren’s mind:And thereHe stands, the gray shawl showingThe four bullet holes, and hoof-prints seenIn now hypothetical snow,Marking the way he had come. I,In fanatic imagination, saw—No, see— the old weaponOutthrust, firm in a hand that doesnotTremble. I see lips move, butNo sound hear.The reader senses the poet's personalcommitment throughout, and ismoved. The two levels of text, finallyunified in this concluding segment,are both effective, and both artfullywrought. Warren is above al a crafts-Continued on next pageThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9,1984 — 23Continued from previous pageman, and the volume rings with finelines, stanzas, phrases.Chief Joseph of the Nez Percebrings together three of Warren’slife-long interests, all of which he haswritten on in book form: history,America, and race-relations. Thepoem is an epic truly American, a taleof the native people and of their sup-planter. Warren, having won everyaward short of a Nobel Prize, couldtake pride in this poem as a cumula¬tive effort in a rich career. Now 79,and still writing, it is unlikely he willdo so. Whatever he sets his hand tocomes out a delight to read, and fansof contemporary poetry can cherishwhat they have already, while await¬ing more to come from America’s pre¬eminent poet. —DB, CMIn Search of Our Mother’s Gardensby Alice WalkerHarcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1983397pp., $14.95by Johanna StoyvaIn Search Of Our Mother’s Gardensimpressed me as a moral and intellec¬tual pep-talk of the first order. Theprose selections have been culledfrom Walker’s contributions tovarious magazines and journals dur¬ing the past fifteen years. The topicsrange from “womanism” to the CivilRights Movement to Walker’s taste inliterature. The number of pages de¬voted to discussion of her own work issmall, and no elegant theories of liter¬ary criticism are advanced. What thebook is concerned with are the experi¬ences and ideas that Walker feels con¬tributed most to her development asa black woman writer. Even if thereader is not a black woman aspiringto write, the book is a pep-talk be¬cause of Walker’s perceptive, ‘com¬mon sense’ outlook, and her commit¬ment to the value of everybody’s“story” being told.This commitment originates, to alarge degree, in the deprivation shefelt when she discovered — first at Spelman College and later at SarahLawrence — that the story of blackwomen was completely ignored in herliterature classes: “I began to feelthat subtly and without intent or mal¬ice, I had been miseducated. Forwhere my duty as a black poet, writ¬er, and teacher would take me, peo¬ple would have little need of Keatsand Byron or even Robert Frost, butmuch need of Hughes, Bontemps,Gwendolyn Brooks, and MargaretWalker.” Walker went in search ofblack women writers, which lead toher discovery of Zora Neale Hurston.What Walker admires most aboutHurston’s work is its “racial health; asense of black people as complete,complex, undiminished human beings,a sense that is lacking in so muchblack writing and literature.” Hur¬ston’s work saddens her too though —the section on her is entitled “ZoraNeale Hurston: A Cautionary Tale anda Partisan View” — because her bril¬liant, devil-may-care spirit was even¬tually crushed by the inability of thecritics to judge her work on its’ ownmerits. According to Walker, most ofthe Hurston criticism is more interest¬ed in her lovers and her “rags” —what they called her traditional Afri¬can headdress — than in her books.She believes women, and especiallyblack women, must steel themselvesagainst the damaging effects of thisconflation of life with work if they areto avoid ending up as Hurston did; herlater work was pallid and she diedpenniless.Walker’s estimation of the CivilRights Movement is that it has movedblack Americans from the position ofa silent second class to that of a vocalsecond class. She likens racism inAmerica to “...the creeping Kudzuvine that swallows whole forests andabandoned houses; if you don’t keeppulling up the roots it will grow backfaster than you can destroy it.” Oneaspect of racism that particularly con¬cerns her is its existence within theblack community. She claims thatmost male leaders of the black com¬munity have married light-skinned black women. The implication is thatthe desire of black politicians forachievement in predominantly whiteU.S. politics has influenced the aes¬thetic values of many blacks towardplacing in high esteem the physicalcharacteristics of what is in them¬selves. Walker finds this contemptibleAlice Walkerin the politicians, but basically leavesit at that. She does not discuss poss¬ible manifestations of this adoptedwhite aesthetic, and I think many ofher readers would be interested inknowing her opinions on a more per¬sonal level. For instance, take thecase of a young black woman from apredominately white middle class su¬burb who straightens her hair andlikes the way it looks. She is put intoan extremely uncomfortable positionwith regard to the cultural aestheticof her heritage and that of her imme¬diate upbringing. Walker does nothelp her to reconcile the two in a waythat will help her understand themrather than be consumed with guiltabout them.Walker is not a separatist (frommen) “except periodically, forhealth.” She believes the goal of wo¬manism is to find a shared plane forthe sexes just as the goal of the CivilRights Movement is to find a shared plane for all races. She is optimisticabout the possibilities of both. Withregard to the shared plane of thesexes, she feels a major obstacle forblack women in “The Myth Of TheBlack Superwoman” which has it thatshe is “...a woman of inordinatestrength, with an ability for tolerat¬ing an unusual amount of misery andheavy, distasteful work...who doesnot have the same fears, weaknessesand insecurities as other women, butbelieves herself to be, and is, in fact,stronger emotionally than most men.”I would argue, and I doubt thatWalker would disagree, that thismyth is not confined to black women;that traditionally many women havebeen accorded these ‘abilities’ andhave been expected to live up tothem. When they have failed to do sothey have felt themselves to be shirk¬ing their ‘natural’ responsibilities.How is communication possible be¬tween a ‘Superwoman’ and a manwhen he believes her capable of mira¬cles, and when she feels obliged torush into phone booths because shefeels she is the only one who is cap¬able of dealing with certain situa¬tions? It cannot, really, and that iswhy Walker refused to endorse Mi¬chele Wallace’s book, from which theabove ‘Superwoman’ description istaken.Walker tends to deal on a sweepingscale with movements and ideaswhich affect individuals very person¬ally, as evidenced earlier by her criti¬cism of the influence of the white aes¬thetic only in relation to politicalleaders. Another example of this isher story of a visit to Cuba where shesaw some soldiers dying their hairblond and using make-up: “...if a rev¬olution fails to make one comfortablewith what one is...can one assumethat, on a personal level, it is a suc¬cess at all? Then again, it may be thata revolution frees a person to dowhatever they wish to their looks.”This appeals to me,” she says, “prob¬ably because I sometimes paint myface, and I would not like to endure aContinued on next pageRESULTSNOT PROMISESKaypro, you can writeig, complicated texts easily.Ana simpleWith along, comjsimple ones, too. 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V . Antenna • Sew Ceramic Tile• Inti Control Heat • New Appliances• Wall to Wall Carpeting • Night Doormen* Central Air Conditioning1 Red room from $40$ - 2 Bedroom from $525B / n 5200 S. BIA I KS TONE A VE.1 BLOCK WEST OF HARPER COURTlon.-hri. 0-6 Sat. 12-6 Sun. 12-5 6X4-M666:*24 — The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984Continued from previous pagespeech about why I do it.” This is aspersonal as she gets. She moves im¬mediately to a discussion of the ‘euro-peanized’ Cuban aesthetic — typifiedby the all-blonde cast in a movie shewas shown about the Cuban schoolsystem. I do not dispute the impor¬tance of discussing generalized socialtrends, but I wish it were balancedwith greater emphasis on the individ¬ual’s concerns.Throughout the book she maintainsan objective distance that is at onceimpressive and disturbing. She tells,in a very good, long interview, of anabortion and a period in which sheseriously contemplated suicide with adetachment reminiscent of The ColorPurple; she lets the events speak forthemselves.In Search Of Our Mother’s Gardensis subtitled ‘‘womanist prose.” Shedefines a womanist as “A black fe¬minist or feminist of color. From theblack folk expression of mothers tofemale children “You acting woman¬ish,” i.e., like a woman...willful be¬havior...Womanist is to feminist aspurple is to lavender.” Walker’s bookis very womanish. She unhesitatinglytakes sides on complicated issues andwith equal self-assurance does nottalk about what she does not care to.She caters to no one, not even thereader. The book’s main title origi¬nates in the gardens Walker’s mothergrew in the humble places her familylived. (Walker’s favorite place towrite is a room with a garden win¬dow.) Says Walker: “...it is to myMother — and to all our Mothers whowere not famous — that I went insearch of...the creative spirit that theblack woman inherited.” Realisticand inspiring — that is Alice Walker.-JSOerek WalcottMidsummer by Derek WalcottFarrar, Straus, Giroux, 1984$12.50 (hard cover)A beautiful book of fifty-twopoems, thematically related, whichdescribe a year from one summer tothe next. Mr. Waicott has an assured¬ness in his poetry nearly unmatchedin contemporary quarters; fiery lan¬guage, beautiful images and meta¬phors, each poem a complete piece,and also a part of the cycle. Whetherdetailing his native Caribbean, jour¬neys to Rome, New York or France, orconsidering the relationship of thepoet to the painter, Mr. Walcott is sel¬dom off target. Few more rewarding,consistently intelligent and excitingpoets are to be found in the worldtoday. —CMRates of Exchangeby Malcolm BradburyAlfred A. Knopf, 1983$13.95In the “Author’s Note” to his latestnovel, Rates of Exchange, MalcolmBradbury prepares his reader forthis “paper fiction”: “This is a book,and what it says is not true...as theliterary critics say, I’ll be your im¬plied author, if you’ll be my impliedreader; and a£ they also say, it is ourduty to lie together, in the cause, ofcourse, of truth.”Bradbury tells greater lies andtakes greater risks than most authorsin plotting this cause. It is constantly,and fortunately, lost, buried, or mis¬interpreted by the characters of thenovel, who are, like Bradbury him¬self, coyly and comically pedagogic. Bradbury claims he wants his fictionsto remain fictions, and instructs hisreader to trust only the novelists,who, (unlike politicians, priests, aya¬tollahs and economists), “never pre¬tend that the result is anything morethan a useful fiction.” Rates of Ex¬change, however, is full of preten¬sions and suggestions, and Brad¬bury’s truth is ridiculously andcleverly displayed. The result is acomic and apt, as well as a merelyuseful, fiction.Rates of Exchange is a risky noveland Bradbury’s attitude is fortunate,as he deals with two themes (current¬ly trends), that are easily renderedobnoxious and didactic: Life BehindThe Iron Curtain, and The Meaning (orlack of it) Behind Words. The centralfigure in the novel is the British lin¬guist, Dr. Angus Petworth, whoknows all about “analogic and digitalcommunication, the codes of semes,the post-vocalic Irl,” an expert on“real, imaginary and symbolic ex¬changes among skin-bound organismsworking on the linguistic interface,which is what the linguists call youand me.” It is the summer of 1981,and Petworth has been sent by theBritish Council to an imaginary Sovi¬et-Bloc country. He is an ideal Britishproduct, part of a Cultural Exchange,exported to lecture on that valuablecommodity, the English language.The title of the book is the meta¬phor for all of Professor Petworth’sconfused adventures during his twoweek trip. In Slaka, the capital (“acity infinitely rich in this and no lesslacking in that”), Petworth is igno¬rant of the value of the ‘vloska’ andthe ‘bitti’ when he arrives and knowslittle of the language when he leaves.And to extend the metaphor, inSlaka, as elsewhere, “it seems life isnothing else but making a trade, find¬ing an equivalent, striking a bargain,forcing a value.” Unfortunately, Pe¬tworth is not terribly competent inany type of exchange or communica¬tion: practical discourse, gesture,love, touch, all these bewilder him,even in his own country. He recog¬nizes symbol as symbol, can distin¬guish “langue” from “parole,” “sig-nifier” from “signified,” but cannotunderstand or define, much less form,an opinion on, the meanings of the ob¬jects and acts in these systems andcodes. Petworth is an undefined anduncertain object, open to interpreta¬tion, a man whose meaning and valueis defined by others, or more fre¬quently, ignored. “He is a person ofno great interest, not a character inthe world historical sense, a manwaiters neglect and barmen save tilllast.”Rates of Exchange is not, however,the familiar sermon on the meaning¬lessness of the individual who iscaught in the scientific web of signsand symbols, insignificant and imper¬sonal handshakes and glances. Eventhough the words Petworth uses maysignify one thing in one country andsomething else in another, or ultima¬tely mean nothing at all, Bradbury’sown energetic and imaginative style,the vigor of his quirky prose, provesthat words and signs, however min¬dless or bewildering, do act and doentertain. The “grammar” and sym¬bols of places and crowds — airports,hotels, castles, bedrooms — crowdand infect the air, their very weightstimulates, as well as confuses, “per¬sonless” Petworth:“Beyond the people are longdirty windows, lit by the nowfading sunlight; beyond the win¬dows Petworth can see yet morearmed men, walking up anddown a forecourt to inspectmore people — who lift luggage,carry flowers, tote backpacks,enter small orange taxis, orwait patiently at a place calledBUSOP, where more batteredblue buses with bulbous nosesstand with their doors tightshut. And further on still,beyond all the busy people,there is a landscape, of widehedgeless fields, trees, woodenhouses, a small hill: poking up inthe middle is the golded onion.And beyond the onion must bethe city, with its lives and reali¬ties, cemeteries and cathedrals,ministries and museums, hotels and bars, customs and conversa¬tion. He is here, within thegates, come, in his flat earthshoes, to visit.”Nor is Rates of Exchange a gratuitousexplanation or condemnation of lifein the Soviet-Bloc, a world, which thedustjacket inaccurately declares, “weare (luckily) unlikely to encounter onour own.” Bradbury describes this un¬named country in fine and animateddetail, he even gives a brief historyof the land and its leaders, and whatemerges is a fairly representative ac¬count of Soviet-Bloc anxiety and bu¬reaucracy. But Bradbury is more in¬terested in the ways in which thisforeign world is very much our own.He emphasizes that Petworth’s un¬derstanding of and faith in his ownvalue and “text” is too slight to allowhim to probe and denounce that of theSlakians’.Malcolm BradburyConsider what Petworth leaves be¬hind him: “a habitat of sorts: a smalloffice in a Bradford college, linedwith books, where he teaches thevowel-shift and speech act...a small,fairly modern brick house of faintlyrising property value on a bus routeconvenient both for the college andthe city; in the house, a quantity ofcontemporary, which is to say al¬ready out of date, furniture: and adark wife, contemporary too, awoman of waning affections, bleaklyhungry for a revelation, evidentlydisillusioned, in these therapeutictimes, with...well, what? It is a littleshaming to say that he does not quiteknow.” It seems, to Petworth, thatperhaps his wife is waiting to be awidow.In Slaka, Glit and Nogod, Petworthstill feels empty and incomplete, “dis¬mantled and deconstructed, like somefictional sentence: but he has compan¬ions, directions, somewhere to go.”Indeed he does, and his companionsare boisterous, rude, affectionateand sly — remarkably human andthey bring Petworth’s fiction to life.He is alternately scolded and pursuedby his young guide and interpreter,Marisja Lubijova, both stern and flir¬tatious, a scholar who argues on He¬mingway's behalf, “I think he well un¬derstands the plight of the modernwoman.” She introduces ‘Petwurt,’(Petvurt, Pervert, Pitworthu, Petwitas he is variously called by his newcomrades), to the peculiar Slakianform of “self-criticism” and the na¬tional peach brandy, rot’ vitti. Thereis the “magical-realist” writer,Katya Princip, in her loose batikdress and white sunglasses, withwhom Petworth makes various typesof exchanges. She “witches” Pe¬tworth with her unusual insight, ablend of naivete and an assertive andpenetrating wisdom of the world his¬torical type, or mystically Marxist.Katya wants to make Petworth acharacter (“Are you a stone, Pe¬twit?”) and give him a story, and shebegins with her enigmatic and pre-sciently allegorical story of PrinceStupid, who is on an unfinished jour¬ney somewhere and searching forsomething. But it is the mysteriousand persistent buffoon and academic,Dr. Plitplov, who helps Petworth dis¬cover the story’s end. Plitplov ap¬pears throughout the novel, whis¬pering his strange and troublingmemories of Petworth’s life and wifeback in England. He seems to knoweverything and everybody, yet atthe same time to know nothing at all.Plitplov is a master of verbal dis¬guises: “One must be an artist here in relations in order to survive,” he tellsPetworth in his frequently twisted,but always curiously accurate, En¬glish. Plitplov gives Petworth hisplot, a story of love and adventure,but it is unknown to Petworth untilthe end of his trip. Plitplov makes Pe¬tworth an effective and historialcharacter. Although still somewhat“personless,” Petworth is ultimatelya significant human symbol. rThis is the secret of Petworth’svisit, and the reader, like Petworth,finds clues to it through the other in¬cidents in the novel, the small changethat make up the bulk of Petworth’sexchange. He encounters numerousuniformed Slakans with their variousways of handling the red-tape aroundPetworth; drunk Party officialschauffered round in black RussianVolgas with drawn yellow curtains; astuttering British diplomat, Steadi-man (“you have now entered a loo en¬tered a loo entered a lunatic econ¬omy,” one of the more innocent of hisstutterances), and his bored and lasci¬vious wife, Budgie. Petworth lecturesthe wrong audience in one city and inanother he speaks before roundwomen professors who think Marxistthoughts and knit, students who writedissertations on such topics as the po¬litical poems of William Woolworth,English author of “Prelude.” He eatssoup with feet in it, the squish of aplum, the veal of a cow cooked as notin any other country, a special grassthat grows under the sheeps on amountain — native foods as translat¬ed into ‘Englishu’ by Marisja. Pe¬tworth is bombarded by the country'swonderful oral tradition: “we like totell stories,” which are invariably fullof interruptions, contradictions, de¬bates on proper English, and endlesstoasts with rot’ vitii.This is a witty and stylish and rau¬cous book, but it is never haphazardand rarely tiresome. As Plitplov tellsPetworth, “In my country your toomuch is only a little,” and it is easy toaccept and enjoy this. Bradbury is in¬terested in the words, as well as theissues, of language and communica¬tion. Rhythm, rhyme, the length andletters of words and phrases are es¬sential to Bradbury’s images and‘dialogi.” His style is unique and sti¬mulating and he never lets up. In ad¬dition to his earlier fiction, includingEating People Is Wrong and The Histo¬ry Man, which won the Royal Socie-tyof Literature Award in 1975, Brad¬bury is an active and accomplishedliterary critic. This interest and famil¬iarity is apparent in Rates of Ex¬change, and literary theory fans willprobably enjoy his cheeky use of thenomenclature and references toBarthes and Saussure, as well as hisown steady and ironic “analysis oftext.” This is about as self-referen¬tial as writing can be.Now and then the whole business ofwords is not terribly interesting orenterprising, with sequences like“meeting and greeting, driving andarriving, tending and mending, li¬quoring and succouring, showingslides and fixing rides, detaching andonwardly despatching.” At times thepedantic tone is cloying — “in therooms, professors come and go, talk¬ing of T.S. Eliot.” Bradbury alsomakes the mistake, although infre¬quent, of abruptly explaining Pe-tworth's state of mind and the authorseems to be reviewing his own book.For example, a hotel room is “a fit¬ting landscape for solitude and mis¬ery, an appropriate outward archi¬tecture for the psychic world within.”This is unnecessary after Bradburyhas already drawn a more originaland suggestive description using allof Petworth’s bewildered senses, andhere the self-consciousness of Brad¬bury’s style is annoying.These are small complaints about aforceful and enjoyable novel. Brad¬bury keeps his story alive and intelli¬gent and Rates of Exchange avoidsthe less promising patterns of similarnovels. For all of the pain and confu¬sion that signs and symbols cause andexacerbate, and for all of our despairover what words can and should do,Bradbury emphatically agrees withthe notion that we do share a commoncurrency. While me may not recognizethe ways we exchange it, we can useit with ease and often in very surpris¬ing places. _lRThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984 — 25CLASSIFIEDSPRICED TO SELL NOW! 5 roomco-op. 2 bedroom plus sunny den -great for plants! Woodburningfireplace, bookcases, carpeting,assigned parking space. Very at¬tractive, quiet stable building withpark and lake views. South Shore.$18,000.MOVE-IN CONDITION. 2bedroom, 2 bath condo in clean,light modern elevator buildingwith many amenities. On the busline for easy trips to the Loop andcampus. PRICED TO SELL INTHE LOW $50’s.ANNOUNCING A MAJOR AD¬JUSTMENT in the asking price ofthis spotless Victorian, turn-of-the-century, 6 bedroom, 2'A bathhome. It boasts a lovely double liv¬ing room with formal dining roomfor gracious entertaining. What apleasure to cook in this modernair-conditioned eat-in kitchen.Earn extra income by renting anyor all of the spaces in the 6 cargarage. Realistically priced at$110,000.UNIVERSITY PARK. 2 bedroom,2 bath. Faces north. Lovely viewof the city. Interesting mirroredwall in living room. Come take alook! Priced at $65,000.OVERLOOK THE PARK THISWINTER in a very light, 1bedroom in South Shore.Available now in co-op buildingwith elevator - only $16,000.LARGE 4 BEDROOMS, 1'/:baths in move-in condition nearpark. Southern exposurethroughout the length of the apart¬ment, plus modern kitchen com¬plete with washer and dryer. Allfor $72,500 - so act now and callfor an appointment. SPACE -Large 1 bdroom apt. near campus, quiet call:days, 324-3100, ext 471/nights, 363-8455 Price$420.00. Excellent condition, spacious.FEMALE ROOMATE wanted w/2 others Non-smoker grad stdnt preferred. 53rd & HarperOn 3 campus bus routes 184.70 or less 241-6380eves.For rent or sublease from April 1: 2 bdrm, 2bath apt in 56th St Highrise, 2 blocks from 1C$729 a mo; Includes 24 hr doorman, centralheat and air. Stunning view. Call 752-1081.Large 2Vi rm studio avail Apr quarter throughAug with option to renew One mo rent FREECall 288-2313 before 12 pm. Keep trying!Garret Apt. 4V2 rooms large master bdrm.smaller study or kid's room very conv. located55th & Cornell Prefer married couple staff orgrad/stud, call 726-3966 leave name & number.$440/mo.4-rm. Condo for sale. 1-bdrm. Full din 2 bl.tpcampus. Low assmts 56th & Kimbark Securecourt bldg. eves. 241-6325.4 BED, 2BA condo, rent or purchase. 52nd $725incl heat. 684-5030 bef 9am or eves.CONDO FOR SALE Spacious, beautifullyrenovated 4V2 room in grt location 1 BR, modkit DR, Oak firs, molded ceilings, no bugs, ex¬cel managmt, low taxes & assmt, $44500, 643-2934.Small bedroom and private bath available insunny three bedroom apartment Share the aptwith a graduate couple. Near Regenstein, Onminibus route. $170 a month plus utilities &deposit. Non-smoker preferred, call 288-8722.Furnished apt. One bedroom available in aspacious two bed-room apt. for Spring Quarter(dates flexible) Great location (58th and Ken¬wood.) Great condition $200/mo. Call 241-6070.East Hyde Park Condo-3BR, 2 Bath, Totallyredecorated Custom kitchen, Hardwood floors,stained glass By owner $69,800. 363-4691.1 BDRM IN 3 BDRM ON B BUS, CONV ALLPUB TRANS NR SHPNG, LDRY IN BLDG,LAKE VIEW 22nd FL RENT S179/mo AVAIL4/1/84 241-6481 eves.Room in large house to sublet or assume lease$185 -4- utilities. Amm. Occ. 324-0737.1 room in 3br apt 54th & Kimbark until June 15close to shopping on B route, laundry in bldg,sunporch $217 or best offer 624-3145 Carol.Studio avail. May 1. Quiet grad stud pref. Utilities incl. $250 & $290 Pis leave mess, if noanswer. 241-6875.LARGE sunny 4rm apt avail NOW on Everettand 55th $410/mo incl heat Call Maureen962-1700 days (Iv message) 643 5642 eves &wkends.LARGE SUNNY rm in beautiful 3br 2bth 53rd& Harper $200/mo + util call 643 5635.Room available in modernized 4 bedroom 2bath apartment at 57th 8< Drexel. $135 permonth plus utilities. Laundry and air condi¬tioning! Responsible nonsmoking graduatestudent preferred. 241-6045 or 962-1653.Can Be 2 OR 3 Bdrm56th 8< Kimbark, Oak Firs, Sunny Well KeptBldg. Full DR, $60,000. Call 876-3512 OR947-9432.Fern Rmmt to share beaut 2bdrm on Hyd pkBlvd near 55 grad wkg wmn only $225 per mo288 2622Lrg Studio 55 & Evertt 160/month avail, immed753-8342 rm 1212 Chris.Female roommate wanted to share Ige furnish¬ed 2 bdrm apt close to campus begin anytimein March Rent at 75/mnth Call Miriam at667-0445 or leave a message 263-1889(days) or674-3715.Roommate wanted. 5 rm bdrm apt in Hyde Pk2 blks from lake. $225 for all Greg 667-1329SPACE WANTEDLooking for nice 3 bdrm apt near campus. 753-2240 #1418 Please leave message and phone.FOR SALETDK SA90 Tapes 3.49ea or 10 for 29.90 ModelCamera 1342 E 55 493-6700Helena Szepe, Old, Rare & Used Books in allfields. (First Editions, Art, Early Imprints,Scholarly, Foreign Language, etc). 1525 E.53rd St. (Hyde Park Bank Building), Suite 902Fri. & Sat. 11-5, and by appt. Call 493 4470.Hewlett Packard 41CV 2/ x-functions moduleBarely used, 1 year old. $150 or best offer624-3145 Carol.TRS 100 Portable Computer for sale, 20% offcurrent retail price, used 2 months. Perfect fornote taking, weighs only 5lbs. Has 24Kmemory, software for Basic 8. woodprocess¬ing. Call Bill Sterner 962 7172 & leave amessage.72 Nova 2door good condition 6 cylinder call288 5295after 6 p.m. or weekends.4 BEDROOM* 1 'A bath co-optownhouse for only $87,000.'That’s right - only $87,000, and ona private street in Hyde Park withcentral air, backyard, and verylarge, protected children’s playarea. 55^o of monthly assessmentis tax deductible. Finished recroom and office in basement com¬pliment this gem of a buy. Call foran appointment.SPRING BARGAIN! 2 bedroom,1 bath condo in secure courtyardbuilding. Track lighting,carpeting, and more! Centrallylocated, walk to campus, transpor¬tation, shopping! Can’t be beat for$55,000.THE RIGHT LOCATION ANDTHE RIGHT PRICE! Lots ofstripped wood in this 1 bedroomcharmer. Sunroom and built-inbreakfront with concealed bedmake this really special. $47,000.OWNER SAYS SELL! Supercabinet kitchen and family room.Dining room can be expanded ifyou need just 2 bedrooms, or youcan retain the removable wall andhave 3 bedrooms. This is a real buyat $52,000!TIRED OF RAILROADLAYOUTS? Enjoy the open feel¬ing of this gracious co-op. Each ofthe 3 bedrooms boasts a full bath.There’s a large kitchen and all thestorage you’ve ever hoped for. Theconcierge will receive your guests,and a doorman will help you withpackages.JUST LISTED! The Narragansettis synonymous with elegantsophistication and prestigiouslocation. You must see this ex¬cellent 2 bedroom, 2'A bath con¬dominium! You will love thewarmth of parquet floorsthroughout, carved moldings inthe gallery and a very pleasant ar¬rangement of rooms. All this andmuch more for an unbeatable priceof $52,000!!THIS BRIGHT, MODERN,clean, secure 2 bedroom, 2 bathcondominium is in the right loca¬tion at a great price: $61,500. Allsystems are excellent. And there’sa pool and health club, too. Cometake a look and then stay to enjoythe beautiful spring flowers!!HILO REALTY GROUP1365 E. 53rd St. Put the pastin yourfuture!LIVE IN AN HISTORICLANDMARKThoroughly renovated apartments offer the convenience ofcontemporary living space combined with all the best elementsof vintage design. Park and lakefront provide a natural settingfor affordable elegance with dramatic views.—All new kitchens and appliances —Community room—Wall to wall carpeting —Resident manager—Air conditioning —Round-the-clock security—Optional indoor or outdoor —Laundry facilities onparking each floor—Piccolo Mondo European gourmet food shop and cafeStudios. One, Two and Three Bedroom ApartmentsOne Bedroom from $505 • Two Bedroom from $700Rent includes heat, cooking gas, and master TV antennaOffice hours: Sat 11-5, Sun 12-5,^ Or call for information andMon-Th 12-7, Fri 12-4 -i'yyi- - appointment—643-1406.it--, .1.(fOmdenmeftime16h2 East 56th Street^In Hyde Park, across the fxirk fromThe Museum of Science and IndustryFxjiuil Housinv Opportunity b\ \1ctr<ij->!*•> In,7t — The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9,1984 PEOPLE WANTEDPeople needed to participate in studies onmemory, perception, and language process¬ing. Learn something about how you carry outthese processes and earn some money at thesame time! Call the Committee on Cognitionand Communication, afternoons at 962-8859.Paid subjects (min. wage) wanted forbehavioral research. Must be avail. 3-4days/week (3-6 wk) for I’/? hr. each day.Scheduling flexible Call 225-0158 for info.Please leave message if unavailable.Research assistant familiar w/microcom-puters (preferably IBM-PC), proficient in atleast one programming language, to designprograms for conduct of psychological ex¬periments and analysis of data. Call TomTrabasso, 962 1587.Ida's Cafe seeks a SERVER-COOK-KITCHENHELPER to assist'in the preparation and serv¬ing of the best food on campus. Experiencehelpful. Please contact Bea Porter at Ida'sCafe.ADVERTISING/PRODUCTION/OFFICEassistant needed for Spring quarter. Excellentphone skills and experience w/newspaperlayout/paste up a must. Evening work twice aweek students only, please. Call 962-9555AFTER MARCH 25 to set up an interview appointment.SAS PGMRS/ST ATISTICIANS. Consultingpositions in business. Excellent salary. 3/4-fulltime. Also summer only, call 324-1794.Bilingual Japanese English person forfreelance inferpreting or guide work. 363-6214.Dog Walker, Vic. Shoreland Res. 5 days AM &PM, call 288-6266. Mon-Thursaft 7pm. Refs Re¬quired.SERVICESJUDITH TYPES-and has a memory. Phone955-4417.Professional Processor/Typist/Editor: 363-0522PRECISION PLUS TYPING-1 BM WordProcessor-Fast accurate service at reasonablerates includes editing. 324-1660.Moving and Hauling. Discount prices to staffand students from $12/hr. With van, or helpersfor trucks. Free cartons delivered N/C Pack¬ing and Loading services. Many other ser¬vices. References. Bill 493-9122.Passport photos while you wait. On Campus.Other photo services available. 962-6263.ARCHITECTURAL QUALITY REMODELL¬ING Reliable, neat, guaranteed on-time com¬pletion. References available. LOSETH CON¬STRUCTION CO. 363-2202.PROFESSIONAL TYPING, reasonable. 684-6882TYPIST Exp. Turabian PhD Masters thesesTerm papers Rough Drafts. 924-1152.HYDE PARK PSYCHOTHERAPYASSOCIATES: We work together to offer helpfor a wide range of problems. Most of our of¬fices are in the university area. Answering svc.288-2244.TYPING - Experienced Secretary typesReports, Dissertations, Tables - All Material,Grammar Corrected. 1 Day Service MostCases. 667-8657.Experienced UC trained psychologist HydePark and Loop Insurance Norton Knopf. 363-5011.DAYTONA BEACH. MARCH 17-24. Spend Spr¬ing Break getting a tan in Sunny Florida. 8Days/7 Nights at the INTERNATIONAL INNon the beach for only $139 per person. For in¬formation and reservations call SUMMITTOURS 1-800-325-0439.Babysitting my place graduate wife com¬fortable comfy house inexpensive rates call363 8942NEEDATYPIST?Excellent work. Reasonable rates, tel. 536-7167.Graduation pictures. Application photos. Callus. THE BETTER IMAGE 1344 E 55th 643-6262.Passport Photos While-U-WaitModel Camera 1342 E 55th 493-6700.WEDDING PHOTOGRAPHYElegant and Contemporary. Your weddingPhotography deserves the thoughtand care you've given your relationship andthis special day! Stop in and see our work!WRITING A PAPER? A BOOK? A PLAY? letWordpower type It for you on an IBM PC. Ac¬curate results, low rates. 486-2683.Typing — fair priced, rush jobs, editing. Alsoby dictaphone/phone dictation. English,French and Hebrew. Call 667 0956.Roosevelt Univ LSAT GMAT Prep Loop &Suburbs, Free Sample Class at R 6:30 LSAT3/29, GMAT 3/28. 341 3660.SCENESWRITERS'WORKSHOP PL2 8377J % 'j^ppPERSONALSTo Rachel Freud: Live it up in France!!!Andmay you have many more parties to come-DoraSpirit of inquiry, indeed! Why not ask howmany angels can dance on the head of a pin(head)?Calculator Woman: whoops, it is mine. Pleasecall, JonathanEric-Thanks for sharing my climax.PETSAdorable young fabby kitten found at 50thPlace urgently needs home; days-2-1937/eve-324-0541.LOST AND FOUNDSony Walkman left at Eckhart Library. If youknow tape inside, it's yours. Ask at Circ. deskMon thru Fri, 9-5, at Eckhart Library.Found: Pocket Calculator picked up February22nd in quad. Call Debbie during day-962-1095THE GROUPGALA hosts a discussion/coffeehouse everyTues at 9pm at 5615 S. Woodlawn Preced at 8 byinformal Coming Out rap group. All interestedmen & women, old & new are welcome. 962-9734.4TH YEARUNDERGRADUATESEarn $4.00 in less than 30 minutes by par¬ticipating in a study on long term memory.Call 962-8859, after 1pm.THE MEDICIDELIVERS! 667-7394Sun-Thurs: 4pm-ll:30pm, Fri-Sat: 4pm-12:30am.LESBIAN? GAY?GALA holds a Discussion/Coffeehouse everyTue at 9 pm at 5615 S. Woodlawn Friends, food,conversation in unpressured setting 962-9734FINALS CRUNCHGOT YOU DOWN?Under too much pressure before final exams?Don't know if you'll get that last paper or problem set done? Not able to spend enough timewith a boyfriend or girlfriend because you have too much? The hotline is willing to lend anear and listen. You can call us seven nights aweek, 7pm-7am Our number is 753-1777.STEP TUTORINGHelp a child teel intelligent: tutor area elemen¬tary or high school students. If interested, callEd 753-2233 (127x).MONEY NOW!Earn extra cash for spring break! Peopleneeded for paying studies on memory and lear¬ning during their free time in finals week orspring break. Call 962-8846 between 9 and 5Mon-Fri.FICTION WRITINGWORKSHOP. Will release your creativeenergy. Satisfaction guaranteed. Sat or Sunnoon. Call Shouri Daniels (Molly Ramanujan)eves 667-0673.RESUME SERVICEExtensive type styles & paper selection. Pro¬mpt service. Copyworks 5210 S. Harper 2882233.ORIENTAL CARPETSWe have received a small shipment of olderoriental carpets. Included are: several longPersian runners, midnight blue 9'xl5' Kerman,Caucasian rugs (some collector quality), andother tribal rugs. We also have a few of therichly-colored 100% vegetable dye rugs beingmade in very small numbers in Turkey.Recently we have added a "bargain base¬ment" which offers good carpets in the $150range. As usual, prices for all our carpets arevery fair for the exceptional quality. For moreinformation call 288-0524 evenings/weekendsLANGUAGE COURSESClasses in FRENCH, GERMAN, LATIN,SPANISH for graduate students are offered atLutheran School of Theology, 1100 E. 55 Str,through Chicago Cluster of TheologicalSchools. For further info see specific ads belowor call Gerlinde F. Miller, program coordinator at 363-1384. Please NOTE: The 6-WEEK SUMMER SESSION 1984: June 11 toJuly 20.FRENCH COURSESthrough CCTS at LSTC: I Reading Course(lOwks) Tue 5-7pm, Rm 206. beg. March 27, 84.FEE: $110 II Advanced Reading(4wks): Th 5-7pm, Rm 203, beg Inarch 29,84. FEE: $45. Forinfo and reg. call Mary-Louise Holman-Bekkouche 667-2312 or 962-3481 or G.F. Miller,progr. coord. 363-1384.Regents parkIN HYDE PARK ON THE LAKE• Complete computer roomwith Modem connection toDEC 20 computer oncampus• Shuttle bus at door toUniversity of Chicago &Michael Reese Hospital• 24 hour doormf*maintenance/o• Convenient shour Market*in-t• Enclosed sup'garage • Marinas nearby• Nine minutes to Loopting/Dishwasherer/Valet Service24-hour Servicelubs private roof-topbus at door toMODEL OPEN DAILY 288-50505050-5020 South Lake Shore Drive Chicago, IL 60615ByThe Clinton CompanyTHE FLAMINGO APARTMENTS5500 South Shore DriveSTUDIOS & ONE BEDROOMS•Unfurnished and furnished•U. of C. Bus Stop•Free Pool Membership•Carpeting and Drapes Included•Secure Building - Emily's Dress Shop•University Subsidy for Students & Staff•Delicatessen •Beauty Shop•Barber Shop •T.J.'s Restaurant•Dentist •Valet ShopFREE PARKINGMr. Keller 752*3800 GERMAN COURSESthru CCTS at LSTC: I TWO QUARTERCOURSE (2nd) Th 8-10pm, rm 206, beg March29,84. FEE: $110 II ADVANCED READINGWed 7:30-9:30pm, rm 206, beg March 28,84.FEE: $110 (reg fee of $10inc; III 16 WEEK IN¬TENSIVE (till July 19,84), rm 206. Mo/Th 6-8pm, beg March 26, 84. FEE $220. IV W-Qtr-INTENSIVE (con't to April 26), rm 206 Tu/Th11-lpm, beg. March 27,84. CONVERSATION(Beg III) Tu 8-10pm, rm 205, beg March 27,84.FEE: $110 (reg fee of $10inc) INTERMEDIATE CONVERSATION (III) Tu 6-8pm, rm 205 beg March 27,84. F E E $110. For in-fo/reg call Gerlinde F. Miller PhD, nativespeaker, prog coord, 363-1384 or LSTC GradStudies 753-0725.LATIN COURSEthrough CCTS. For further info call FatherRichard Zborowski 324-2626 or G.F. Miller,prog, coord. 363 1384.SPANISH COURSESthrough CCTS at LSTC: Beg Spanish (III) Wed7-9pm, rm 203, beg March 28,84. FEE : $110 In-termed. Spanish (Reading): Th 7-9pm, rm 203beg. March 29, 84. Fee: $110. For further infoand reg. call Abe Gonzales 493-9656 or G.FMiller, progr. Coord. 363-1384. SAVE THE MEDICION 57TH ST.We need dedicated Medici patrons to circulatepetitions and distribute bumper stickers insupport of the Medici on 57th St. Hyde Parkwithout the Medici? If you are interested callDiane at 241-5068COLD CASHCold cash for March 16th graduation ticketscall Bess at 241-7018.HOME COMPUTEROWNERSTraveled abroad with your PC? I'm writing onthe subject; need personal experiences. CallMatt at 962-7680 (days), 288 1911 (evenings).LIBE RAL? CHRISTIAN?Can one be both? "Process Thought and theLiberal Christian Lifestyle": Discussion withFranklin Gamwell, Dean of the DivinitySchool; Sunday, March 11. Eucharist 5:30;Supper 6:30; Program 7:00. Brent House 5540South Woodlawn Avenue.STUDENT GOVERNMENTHEALTH CARE TOTHE POOR IN THE U.S.This Course offered SPR 84 examines somefactors in illness and problems in health caredelivery particularly affecting US poor, &looks at realistic goals & strategies for healthcare delivery. No prereq. Open to gradundergrd & prof students. Course 0PED469TTh 11:30-1:30pm 50-100 units.GOOD FOODDon't worry about finding food during finals.Come to a delicious complete 4 course spaghet¬ti dinner (vegetarian), served 6:00-8:00 pmtomorrow. Tickets, 53.50, are available at thedoor. Ida Noyes Library. Sponsored by UCAnimal Welfare Groups.ANXIOUS?SEEKINGTREATMENT?Selected volunteers will receive free anxietytreatment at the University of ChicagoMedical Center in return for participation in athree week evaluation of drug preference. Par¬ticipants will also receive 560.00 for their par¬ticipation in the evaluation. Involves only com¬monly prescribed drugs at therapeutic doses.Call 962-3560 for information or to volunteer,Monday through Friday 10:30am-3:00pm. The Student Government Assembly will con¬tinue to meet on Thursdays next quarter firstmeeting will be 1st week Thurs 3/29 7:00pmCHINESE-AMERICAN RESTAURANTSpecializing in Cantoneseand American dishes.Open Doily 11 A.-8:30 P.M.Closed Monday1311 E. 63rd MU 4-1062TheChicagoMaroonStudent Newspaper of theUnWentty of Chicago*om493-0666 • CALL ANYTIMEFEATURE OF THE WEEK1528 E. 59tn Street•TWO BEDROOM CO-OP, LOVELY WOODWORK.INSIDE PARKING! BOARD APPROVAL. $54,900.TWO ON THE PARK(East View, that is.)•4 BEDROOM CONDO, 2 BATH. $85,000.•3 BEDROOM, 2 BATH, BUNGALOW LAYOUT,LOVELY WOODWORK. $72,000.The Chicago Literary Review, Friday March 9, 1984 — 27Canada’s Bear of Beersis here!Down from the North Woods of Canada comesGrizzly Beer. Not just another Canadian beer, but a rare breed of brew.An authentic Canadian lager—naturally aged, so it’s remarkably smooth. With a flavorno other Canadian beer can stand up to. The bear of beers is here!CANADA’S BEAR OF BEERSImported by Van Munching & Co., Inc., New Mark, N.Y.