Interview wiffiNews Buds byFriday June 1, 198-.Fiction by Amy Slvermanwith Frank BidartWinnersfSUPPLEMENTARYSTUDENT INSURANCESummer 1984Off-Quarter CoverageJune 8th is the DEADLINE forenrollment!Applications are available inAdministration 103.Off-quarter coverage is available to degreestudents who are registered and participate in theUniversity Plan the quarter prior to the off-quarterand who expect to be registered and participatethe quarter following off-quarter. Off-quartercoverage is available to degree students for onequarter of non-registration in a 12-month period.Coverage is also available for one quarterimmediately following receipt of a degree.Application for off-quarter coverage must be madein the Registrar's Office and the fee must be paidupon applying.THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGOCHAMBER MUSIC SERIES 1984-1985Friday Evenings at 8:00 P.M. in Mandel Hall57th Street and University AvenueNov. 16 MUSICAL OFFERINGto celebrate the Bach and Handel Tricentennial,a virtuoso Baroque ensemble of five playersDec. 7 QUARTETTO BEETHOVEN DI ROMApiano quartet of former soloists of 1 MusiciFeb. 8 GUARNERI STRING QUARTET“world’s master of chamber music”Feb. 22 VERMEER STRING QUARTET“among the top quartets active today”Tickets and information available at:Department of Music Concert Office5845 S. Ellis Avenue, Chicago, 60637Goodspecd Hall 310 962-8068 May 3 JUILLIARD STRING QUARTET“first family of chamber music”SERIES$36 general$33 UC faculty/staff$25 UC studentSINGLE(10 general)($12 general,concerts of Feb. 8and May 3)($6 UC student)($7.50 UC student,concerts of Feb. 8and May 3)CMS subscribers aregiven a discount,whenever possible, onthe price of admission toother Department ofMusic eventsCurrent subscribers’ seatsheld until July 10, 1984Single tickets go on saleafter November 1, 1984(all programs and datesSubject to change) Register NOW for Summer(gmssras idJazz DanceYogaBallet IBasic KarateModern DanceAerobicsBallroom Dance• Sign up in SAO, Room 210Ida Noyes Hall• Classes begin second/third weekof Summer QuarterIN SOME COUNTRIES, POETS CAN BE JAILEDFOR WRITING WHAT THEY THINK.THIS ONE WAS:Badar Abroo is a poet and a student imprisonedsince 1980 in Karachi, Pakistan. He was arrestedfor allegedly publishing anti-governmentliterature. Amnesty International, the nonpartisanhuman rights organization, believes him to be aprisoner of conscience - a person imprisoned forhis political beliefs who has neither used noradvocated violence.WE NEED YOUR HELP TO FREE HIM.Please write to urge Abroo's immediate release to:His Excellency President and Sahibzada Yakub Ali KhanGeneral Mohammad Zia-ul-Haq Ministry of Foreign AffairsThe Presidency Shahrazad BuildingMuree Brewery Road ' Islamabad, PAKISTANRawalpindi, PAKISTANFor more information, call Dan Herwitz, 684-7745or Patti Gossman, 241-6039.2—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984The second annual short-fiction con¬test was an overwhelming success, at¬tracting approximately seventy-fivesubmissions. The first place awardwinner is Lenette Sadek for her storyThe Fence. In addition two non-awardwinning stories by the same authorare included. The second place awardwinner is Kerry Dolan for Climbing,while Alan Enzer receives honorablemention for Death by Confusion.Next year’s editors of the ChicagoLiterary Review are Leslie Rigby andDavid Sullivan. They will be workingon the orientation issue throughoutthe Summer and welcome articles, re¬views, fiction and poetry. All submis¬sions can be dropped off in the CLRbox in the Maroon office, room 303,Ida Noyes Hall; or mail them to theMaroon address listed below.literal ftevie*■Editor: Campbell McGrath JrStoyva. David Sullivan.Staff: Deane Bivins, Daniel Brown-stein, Jim Dunn, Robin Einhorn, PeterHimmelstein, Alison Winters.Production: Rainer Mack, CampbellMcGrath, Leslie Rigby, Johanna Stoy¬va, David Sullivan.Advertising Manager: Chris Scott.The Chicago Literary Review is pub¬lished quarterly by The ChicagoMaroon, the OFFICIAL student news¬paper of the University of Chicago.Contributions, business or editorialquestions should be directed to thethird floor of Ida Noyes Hall, room302, 212 E. 59th St. Chicago, III.60637, or call: (312) 962-9555. MI Three stories by Lenette Sadek p. 5The Fence first Place, CLR Short Redon ContestEmbocfiemnt: An Interview with Frank Bdart p. 6CSmbing by Kerry Dolan p.8Second Place, CLR Short Fiction ContestBrownstem, Christopher Pearson,and Johanna Stoyva p. 10Five Prose Poems by Campbell McGrath p. 11Reviews by Robin Bnhom and David Sullivan'Tuchman’s Folly" and "Heaney's Sweeney" p. 12Death by Contusion by Alan Enter p. 13Honorable Mention, CLR Short Redon ContestFour Poems by David Sufivan p. 14Poems by Jerry Kapus, Rainer Mack, and Jutfth Peraino p. 14Douglas Unger's Leaving the LandA Review by Lesfie Rigby p. 27%- ■ ■ >1m* w. m SI -Feminist Literary SupplementEditorial Board: Nancy Aronson, ShawnHall. Pam Johnson, Elizabeth Lichten-steinj Kathy Lindstrom, Jane!Mueller, Aileen Philips, Susan Rosen¬berg, Colleen Thorne, Carol Wolfe.Staff: Catherine Barinas, MarciaStein, Elaine Tite, Melissa Ulloa.Production: Shawn Hall, Linda Lee,Kathy Lindstrom, Elizabeth Lichten¬stein. m * iThis issue Volume 93, No. 58. f'Copy-right 1984The Chicago Maroon, The Universityof ChicagoTCR/gcj/CLR Feminist Literary SupplementNew Buds by Aileen Phips p. 16Rve poems by Shawn Hal p. 19Poems by Martha Otis and Johanna Stoyva p. 20An Interview with Marge Piercy p. 21A Feminist Calendar p. 22fin in Eden by Amy Silverman p. 23Poems by Jessica Malone, Margaret P. Mine,Maria Vertreace and Alison Waiters p. 25• '. * i v ‘ . . •*— , i ...I warnsCow^r graphic by Aileen PhilipsFriday June 1, 1984—3■««(Chicago MaroonneedsYOU!Writers, editors, and free¬lance contributers for SummerQuarter issues wanted.Please contct Cliff Grammichin room 303f Ida Noyes Hallor call 962-9555First issue: DON'T LET HIM DRIVE.Men and women who wouldn't think ofpointing a loaded gun at a fellow humanbeing, think nothing of drinking and driv ing.Drinking turns a car into a lethal weapon. And drunk drivers kill more than 25.000people each year. A person under theinfluence should never be allowed behindthe wheel. Lets not meet by accident.American College ofEmergency I^ysiciansfeaturingauthentic SouthAsian Cuisine,complim en tarybeverages, andmusical background4:30 - 7:00 pm inour Dining Room. 59th St. • with specialguestsSAMHRADH MUSICplus open mic hostedKristin Erickson9:00 pm - 1:00 amUnder the Stars in ourCourtyardFree Admission753-2270 for InformationNINTERNATIONAL HOUSEOF CHICAGOsalutesJoin usINDIANDINNER for our special eventsINTERNATIONALCOFFEE HOUSEWMmmmmThe FenceFirst Place, CLR Short Fiction ContestA sparrow, his wings at his sides, sail¬ed through the narrow gangway, into thelarge green leaves hiding the grapesbeneath on the tall leaning fence. Thesparrow darted onto the ground where adog slept in the cool hole it had dug. Thechain on its neck, with license tag andrabies tag, clattered as the dog spranginto the air and snapped its jaws overthe sparrow. Annie opened her mouthwide and screamed. Markie’s facewrinkled and tears ran into the cornersof his mouth. Annie ran to the dog’shole and with her two small fists clob¬bered the dog on his hind leg. The dog jumped from the hole, jaws clamped,teeth bared, the edge of a wing at oneside, a leg like a fancy frayed toothpickfrom the other side. The dog prancedthrough the yard and galloped when An¬nie came near.The neighbor lady called from behindthe large leaves,“You babies ok Missus?’’Roy looked out from the back porchwindow into the neighbor lady’s yard.He could see the two yards from wherehe stood. He smoked a cigarette. Hecalled to the neighbor lady, “I told youto fix that fence.’’Markie lay over the other dog’s back. He sucked his thumb, looking up at hisfather on the porch. Annie had crawledbeneath the porch, her knees in hereyes.“Fence you property. You fix,” theneighbor lady called back to Roy.Roy came downstairs into the yardand coaxed Annie from beneath theporch. He told Annie, “If that old ladywould fix this fence the birdies wouldn’tbe getting hurt.”Annie sighed a sob and yelled,“That’s not what happened Pop! Thedog is bad.” Annie stamped her foot.Roy stood up and watched the dullsilver green undersides of the largeleaves as they flapped in the wind.“All she has to do is wire this fence,”he said, “that would pull it up.”The neighbor lady came through theback gate. She was an old woman withshining chestnut colored hair. She hadseven children born in the house behindthe large leaves. She carried a bowl inone hand. It was filled with the purple grapes from the fence.“For you babies,” she said.In her other hand was a bottle of winemade from the grapes.“For you Missus,” she said.The children sat on the walk, makingfaces, eating the grapes.Inside, the children in snap sleepers,Markie lay his head on his teddy bear,his back side up, watching Ns fatherand Annie sitting together on Annie’sbed.Roy told Annie, “That stupid oldwoman next door. She kills birds.”Annie drummed her little fists into thesoft bed. “No no Pop,” she began toscream.Lenette Sadek is a bank analystwho lives in the suburb of PortagePark, and these stories are her firstmajor publication.I woke up with a praying mantis inmy bed this morning. He was dead. Imust have crushed him. He probablygot in from the magnolia tree. Thebulbous eyes were dead. The littlearms, like human arms, were dead. Itwas as if I had aborted during thenight. The thought of those little armsdisturbed me. Still in bed, I picked upa book of short stories. I read:The warm urine soaked Rachel’sbed. She awoke and looked at astar in the sky, heard the faraway sound of night droning inthe still heat. She climbed downfrom the bed and pulled thechain. A light shone in the room.She pulled her undershirt withone pink rose stitched onto itover her head. She pushed herwet panties to her ankles. Herfather came to her bedroom,rubbing his eyes.“Why is your light on?” heasked. Rachel picked her pan-ties up on her finger andstretched them to her father. Heslapped Rachel on her bottomand told her to get back nto thebed.“There,” her father pointed,“in the corner, sit there. Pull your legs up while I make thebed.”Rachel’s father stretched theclean sheet across the bed, look¬ing at the face inside her legs.The urine burned Rachel, as thetears that burned the sores onher lips. The beaded chain thatheld to the light clicked againstthe metal beige circle againstthe ceiling. In the dark room thenight shone a patch onto thefresh white sheet. Rachelsmelled her father’s sweat inthe shadows, like the smell ofthe cool black dirt beneath theback porch.My husband came into the room andsaid, “Don’t you have a doctor ap¬pointment this morning?”Two hours later I sat in Dr. Fripping-dale’s office with a questionnaire ona wooden board across my lap. Iread:Have you ever thought of com¬mitting suicide?Do you smoke?Have you ever been recommend¬ed for psychoanalysis?Do you become depressed? Mantis InWho would ever make such a state¬ment about the self I wondered. I re¬membered that those were the wordsof a man in the art gallery. He waswith another man and a woman. Fre¬deric Bazille looked out over hisshoulder, over his long sleeved whiteshirt, buttoned at the cuffs, out intothe gallery from his self portrait. Thelook of his thin face, the expression ofhis eyes, it is my father’s look, my fa¬ther’s eyes, except that my fatherwas larger in his long sleeved whiteshirt, buttoned at the cuffs. The threepeople step between Frederic Bazilleand me. One of the men say, in a voicetoo loud, it makes a little ring in thegallery, invades the sleeping hay¬stacks of Monet, he says, ‘Who wouldmake such a statement of self?”There is a blue light in the haystacksthat pains the brown in my eyes.I told the questionnaire lies.I followed Dr. Frippingdale througha corrider of rooms, to the room at theend of the hall with a skull on the My Bedtable and green drapes across thewindows. He swims up before menow, like the crooked heat of the des¬ert, Dr. Frippingdale, with sharpridges in the dark of his dark eyes,holding and staring somethingsmooth, fluid, metallic. He asks mewhy I have come to see him. I have tothink. Pains. Blurred numbers. Tinywords scattering, dropping from thepaper. He nods his head. His eyessweep as they move away from me,they strike as they return. He tellsme, “I will push this way. You resist.”He pushes. I resist. He pushes. I resist.Many times.In another room, the sun sparksacross the silver needles of acupunc¬ture. Beneath the slender silver I findthat my body is not solid, is not im¬penetrable. The sun enters me withthe silver. The doctor turns the need¬les. There is a stiff pain through thetop of my flesh, a pain like brokenglass with the sun shimmering acrossit, as I consider exits.A Catholic JewWe pass the fountain in Grant Park onour way to St. Peters.“Frannie, don’t tell anyone I comehere,” I tell her.“Why are you so neurotic,” she asks.“I’m not neurotic. I’m excom¬municated. There’s a difference.“Listen,” Frannie tells me. She wearsa large white hat today and a black suit.A gold chain hangs over her whiteblouse. We pass a woman wearingpaper flat shoes cut low to the toe look¬ing into a shoe shop window of paperflat shoes cut low to the toe. My hus¬band tells me women will never be equaluntil they get out of high heel shoes. Ilook at this woman and wonder if she isequal. My shoes are flat on the earth butthat doesn’t count. The bones acrossmy toes and my pelvis are malalignedand give me great pain. The doctor ofacupuncture is going to realign mearound some meridian and I will berid of my great pain. I hear Frannie sthree and a half inch heels striking the pavement. Frannie is equal. Fran¬nie is more than equal.“What did you say Frannie?"“I said, just because you’re excom¬municated does not mean that you can¬not enter the Catholic Church. But I’llstill question it, Ruth. I think you’re en¬titled to an annulment.I tell her, “We need each other tofigure out our own lives. I mean all of us,the human race.”“You’re off the wall again,” Franniesays. “It’s that stupid divorce to thatstupid man. Your past haunts you.”We are whispering in the back of St.Peters.“Please don’t use those phrases,Frannie, off the wall. I don’t watchbaseball. He wasn’t a stupid man. Hewas very bright. His penis didn’t likeme.”An old woman walking in front of usturns at me with a crooked finger overher lips, the sign of the cross. Shehisses, Shhhhh! There are young nuns,dressed in black and white, long gowns, lined up at the confessionals. They holdprayer books to their bosoms. Two ofthe nuns whisper. All of them are youngexcept the fat one in the rear who lookslike a boxer. She reminds me of SisterBernadette. Sister Bernadette was anun who taught my father when he wasin boarding school. I never saw her butmy father told me about her. She usedto make mistakes in geography. Fatherwould correct her in class. “Sit downyou little son of a bitch,” she would say.Then a day or two later, she would tellFather she had investigated what he hadsaid and told him he was correct.Frannie’s heels clack on the marblefloor. I am a ghost. St. Therese Avilstands within the wall.“Good morning Sister Therese,” Isay.“What did you say” Frannie asks.“I said good morning to SisterTherese.”“It’s Saint,” she tells me.“I don’t call her Saint because there’stoo much distance between us then.”Frannie and I kneel down.“There’s distance between thesisters and myself too. Because of theman who came beneath my sleep at theedge of a song that plays in my head.” A monk, round in the middle like a bar¬rel, stands on the altar. A tall burningcandle splits him down the center of myvision. His severed brown robe remindsme of the brown slated gate onSouthport Avenue near St. AlphonsusChurch when I was six years old. Therusty hinges squeaked. Finally it washalf opened and half closed one day. Itstayed that way.“Where are you going?” Frannie asksme.“To Holy Communion,” I tell her.“If you really feel excommunicated,don’t. You’ll feel worse,” she says.“I can’t go to Holy Communion. Mygrandfather was a Jew.”Frannie says, “It’s not making anysense."“He was a Jew,” I tell her. “An oldJew with a circle of white hair, a crown,a halo. He loved my father. These thingsmake him ancient, and holy.”“I never knew you had a Jewishgrandfather,” Frannie says.“He was not accepted.”“Because he was a Jew?” Frannieasks.“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.We didn’t go to his funeral. On Fran¬nie, I’ve missed Holy Communion.”The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1. 1984—5Poetic EmbodimentAn Interview with Frank Bidart' itoFrank Bidart is one of the mostprominent and controversial poetswriting today. In his three publishedvolumes — Golden State, The Book ofthe Body, and The Sacrifice — Mr. Bi-dart's dramatic monologues and in¬tensely autobiographical poems tracethe internal landscapes of characterswith few poetic embellishments. Thefollowing interview was held withDavid Sullivan on May 17, before Mr.Bidart's reading at the University.CLR: ft seems that an important ideabehind your poetry has been tobridge the gap from your own pri¬vate fife to public responsibility byadopting the voices of public charac¬ters like Ellen- West and Nijinsky.Have you consciously attempted tounite the two in your books of poet¬ry? * /;Frank Bidart: Well yes, I've certainlyfound that I can write about thingsthat are important to me more freelyand with greater intimacy in anotherperson’s voice. That’s a mysteriousprocess that I don’t quite understand.It is the case that a persona can re¬lease what you can’t say any otherway. For example Nijinsky, in thescene in the snow, can have a 'dia¬logue, a rather angry dialogue, "withSod. I don’t know how to have such adialogue in my own voice.~Thougl|&t acertain level one does nave such dia¬logues, I just don’t know how to makea poem out of that. J mean Nijinskyknows how, but l don’t. It can only-happen in Nijinsky's voice.CLR: Do you find yourself becomingobsessed with these characters? Doyou read everything you can aboutthem oefore you write? I remember inthe Nijinsky poem you take quotesfrom his wife, Romani's, biographyand from Nijinsky’s diary.FB: Well, when I wanted to write thatpoem about Nijinsky f read every¬thing I could find, and there’s a greatdeal. With Ellen West there's only theBinsv,anger essay, but it’s a greatessay, and the analysis in contrast tothe case history part is very elabo¬rate. It’s a profound essay which 1worked very hard to absorb. Certain¬ly in the case.of Nijinsky i feit that if apoem were to be any good it had to/',nd up, or exist, in the full fight ofeverything we know about him. rnepoem pulls together bits and piecesfrom many sources, not only the onesthat are directly quoted.CLR: When you’re writing these Dra¬matic monologues do you feel you’reattacking some of your own personalproblems0The issues that those poems areabout are very important to me, andin each case the book tnat the poem, isin revolves around those same issuesThe poem <s one way of getting atthose ies They’re at least as per¬sonal and important to me as theissues in the explicitly autobiographi¬cal poems. ICLR: It seems that the characters inVour dm'na- ■ ondloguea are all un¬balanced in somewas anorexic, NijmsK)zophrenic, Herbert White wds cropn le Each seems to oe tryingput tWO together thatjuite natcl up, for Eflen Westthere's a kind of war be-twee i her aspirations and her body.CLR: Do you find that in your own life?:ir cattle that isn't expressedexplicitly?FB: I think that the issue is. as yousay, that each of these characters isat a point of crisis. How does one...if i,in an apartment in Cambridge, medi¬tate, issues’about the rp.ind-body prob¬lem, how do I give the discussion asensi of \e s essity? How do I communi¬cate the sense mat the mind that iscontemplating these questions is notsimply ruminating without muchsense mm-gency, of intense/0 m■■terature very often themost h important issues : have beendealt With by characters that are at apoint of crisis. The ratiocination ' orconfrontation with issues happens inthe context of a drama, a drama thathas forced the character to deal with' ese issues. Ham'et doesn t say "tobe or not to be" in the first two min-ites ./ the play, before he has any3 He thinks about that line Ina certain context On the one hathis communicates that he is not mere-:y ruminating, but that he is think nge he has to think. It also me insthat any conceptual statement andthe extent of it’s meaning is con¬trolled by the context, by one’s sensepf that character at that moment inthe drama. Statements may or maynot nave a general applicability ormeaning, but one knows that they arethe insights arrived at by that charac¬ter in that context. You can’t take astatement like “the rightness is all"or "the readiness is ail#f out of con-i#xt and say well mat's what Sha¬kespeare thinksCLR: Bui in a Shakespeare play thecontext Invol es a broad r. a <-> ground?r characters and situatinto which the character enters; inter¬nal mental thoughts only come afterwe have heard a vast amount of regu¬lar dialogue. However, your poemsalmost atways start with the internalmenial conflict of the sole characteralready at the point of a crisis. Sohow does this idea of framing, of giv-ng characters a context, relate toyour own poems? •FB: Well, I mean that every statementmade by the character is made in thecontext of the action. The action has■ < ;un before the poem begins, butfrom the beginning any statementmade by the character is made underhf >r< ssure of an action: a dramaticsituation, or crisis, that the characterin. I think this reflects, on my parta certain distrust of concep-sments that are simply ab¬ stractly true. On the other hand we doneed to conceptualize and figure out- confront these issues tf athave ao a ngle answers. Tnat need i;pr ifou d and everyone feels tI think a poem should be able to re-Wept our inevitable conceptualizing ofour lives. It's not as if we have ourlives over here and our ideas some¬where else, but how do we show therelation between our actions and ourcircumstances? Now, I think that ev¬erything I’ve been saying reflects thefact that for the most part I'm a dra¬matic ana narrative poet. ! don'tthink my shorter poems are as goodas the longer ones, the dramatic andnarrative ones. I think what that an¬swers for me is the wish to have cf ar-acters generate ideas and conceptua¬lize at the same time. As a reader weknow that any assertion is in the con¬text of an action, and therefore isn’tnecessarily simply the author's asser¬tion about the world.CLR: Well, that idea of assertionbeing in the context of an-actionseems to relate to the prevalence ofbodies in your poetry —■ ~ TFB: Right. Very much. The Ellen Westpoem begins with her making certainassertions about what she wants tobe and asking why she is a womanrather than a man. Those’ questionsseem rather abstract, as if she werecontemplating those issues, onedoesn t know exactly what bearing. have on her life. In that con*' «’it’s a little shocking to discover thatweighs 92 pounds. You n.v,:i.:ethat all this thinking is happening in’• e m dst of a drastic concrete situation. Something a little like that hap¬pens in the Nijinsky poem where youhear him asserting that he’s not him¬self — he talks about Sacrifice, War,Guilt, God. Madness, the grand ques¬tions; then you see him throw his wifeand child downstairs. It makes you re¬alize that, there's a disjunction be-tweer the earnest pursed of idea .and the way part of his psyche is en¬gaging in drastic actions that are byno means in control. It’s not that thephysical world has a life of it's own,but the physical actions of the chararters reflect a part of their psy hescannot acknowledge con- cep tually I mean, in the case of Ni¬jinsky, tm He tells people thathe's only pretending to bef*$#®ne I -;ause he's a good actor. He teaudience of the poem that he's not in¬sane, but part of him knows b*'8 ift»sane. The physical actions of the char¬acters reflect part of their ownpsychic life that they cannot deal withor acknowledge.CLR: It seems that these actions aregiving the, characters single answersin a way that their minds can't. Ni¬jinsky's oody m the War dance bringstogether the conflicts that his tor¬tured mind can’t solveFB: Well, m the case of Nijinsky, whathe performs is an action It is an at-tempt to resolve the dilemmas thathe’s in the midst of. He does create awork of art. and that work of art hassome power according to the testimo¬ny of those who saw it. The work ofart is an action, it's something thathappens in the real world. It does notm fact resolve all his problems, but itis the closest thing to a resolution thathe can achieve. It is an attempt to dosomething that can’t be done, to joinhis guilt to the world’s guilt, and toexpiate both in his action. There's acertain amount of eloquence and pa¬thos in such action, though it cannotachieve what he wants it to achieve:but that isn’t to say that it achievesnothing There is a mystery in the re¬lation between the mind and physicalaction that is acknowledged in reli¬gions by the notion of a sacramentFor them it is not enough for some¬thing to happen in the mind of a per¬son; an action has to occur, a physicalevent has to take place that marksand embodies the act of the mind andthe spirit. In that sense Nijinsky’sdance is an attempt to join the bodyand the mind. Ellen West says in herdiary that a work of art is the mutualpermutation of the world of the spiritand the world of the body. This getskind of complicated, but there is a cer¬tain amount of clarity >n Ellen West’ssuicide, it embodies her pychic dilem¬mas, and in a sense resolves them.Binswanger. in the essay, says thatthe only alternative for her was pro¬gressive disorientation, in that senseher act of self definition is also an act6—The Chicago l Horary R*vj*w Friday Jury T, t5Sof self annihilation. There is a clearindication in Binswanger that this isbetter than mere survival, but ofcourse the purity of that act was pur¬chased at a very great cost.CLR: You seem to treat the body in away similar to that in which othermetaphysical poets treat the exter¬nal world. I’m reminded of Rilke writ¬ing about animals, or Roethke, mak¬ing the physical world so alive thatthe internal mental conflicts cease toexist. You seem to be headingtowards a different kind of resolu¬tion. You very rarely describe bodiesin your poetry, and yet they seem tobe a constant presence which the mindbattles against, or struggles to unifyitself with. Why do you think you turnaway from the external world to theimmediate world of the body?FB: I guess I think that the essentialdramas in our lives revolve aroundthese psychic dramas, the spirit divid¬ed against itself, or at war with itselfas a body in a physical world. I don’thave much feeling for “Nature’. WhenI’m in a room full of people I don’t no¬tice what they’re wearing, I don’t no¬tice the color of their hair. But I think Idon’t notice those things because theydon’t impose themselves upon me asessential or full of meaning. Of coursethey are full of meaning, but to gettheir meaning you have to know animmense amount about the peopleyou’re looking at.CLR: Do you focus on the words thatare said, or the peoples’ actualbodies?FB: The things that I remember are al¬most always bits of conversation, anexpression, or some little dramatic in¬terchange between two people. I lookfor some little event that is a way toget at what is really going on. I feel,and I think most people feel, a dis¬junction between the surface of socialrelation and what people are reallyfeeling. I want to pitch my poems atthat level of motives and purposes.CLR: If your poems are addressing thehidden mental state of your charac¬ters through these disjunctures, andattempting to indicate somethingabout the larger conflicts going on in¬side them, why did you choose to write poetry rather than plays?FB: For a play to work a great deal ofthe meaning of the play must be em¬bodied by people moving around onstage, or maybe, in the case of Beck¬ett, being immoble onstage. But inany case the actual physical presenceis crucial to the action of the play. Idon’t seem to know how to set charac¬ters in motion on a stage and havethat movement be an essential partof the play. I hear it very much in theterms of voices, and voices talking tothemselves. Maybe one’s sense ofthose voices is colored by the reportsyou get of their actions, but I don’tknow how to embody the drama bythe action you see.CLR: That sounds somewhat likeDylan Thomas’ Unde, milkwood, inwhich disembodied voices speakabout their past actions.FB: That’s right.CLR: In your dramatic monologuesthose characters like Nijinsky andEllen West seem able to come to somefinal physical action, though in yourown poems you seem much more resis¬tant to arriving at a final answer. Atthe end of the early poem about yourfather in Golden State you say thatafter all this work all I’ve got is themere “glitter” of life.FB: Right. I don’t know how to readthe photograph at the end.CLR: Do you feel that you can come toa more complete answer when youare working in other voices? Or doyou find that your own problems arejust more complex?FB: I think that what all poems haveto have is an action. And every actionhas a beginning, a middle and an end,and that end has to communicatesome sense of resolution. But youhave to write a conclusion in whichnothing is concluded, and there aremany ways of doing this. You wouldnot guess that the last chapter ofUlysses would be a dramatic mono¬logue by Molly. That ending gives thereader a sense of conclusion and reso¬lution though it doesn’t in any simplesense resolve anything, but there is arightness about it that everyonefeels. One has to find that type of con¬clusion within the material one is dealing with. I think that there can bea kind of finality in the action of acharacter that’s not me. becauseone’s own life doesn’t have such clear¬ly defined outward actions. But Ithink that the autobiographicalpoems, just as the non-autobiographi-cal poems, must have an action. Theresolution may not be an outward act,but merely the contemplation of one.CRS: In poems like “Golden State,”from the first book, and “Elegy” fromthe second, you seem to start from aspecific action — meeting your fatheragain, or the death of your dog — andthen fracture from that. That processof extrapolating from one physicalaction to a long chain of mental ac¬tions seems to relate to what you saidabout listening and watching otherpeople and trying to see into theirpersonal dramas.FB: I think you’re making a very goodpoint; which is that the autobiograph¬ical poems often are confrontingsomething in which the action of thepoem is the successive stages of that confrontation. Whatever resolutionhappens, does not happen through anoutward action — whereas, as yousay, Ellen West does something verydecisive, she kills herself. Nijinskyperforms the dance and then goesinto an asylum. The autobiographicalpoems start with a given relationshipwhich is then, like a crystal, turnedand turned again to reveal differentfacets. The progressive thinkingthrough one's experience of the poemis the action of the poem, but ofcourse that does not result in a physi¬cal action on the part of the speaker.In a sense all the physical action isover when the poem begins, and thepoem is the progressive stages ofthinking through their relationship;the thinking through is the action ofthe poem. The outward act performedis the writing of the poem. In “Elegy”the final act is the writing of the vil-lanelle, that is the embodiment of theresolution and the lack of resolution.CLR: Giving it a body?FB: Yes, precisely. Giving it a body./•MUSlOMdSiOMUSlC^CJ THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO!? DEPARTMENT of MUSICPresents:OFriday, June 1 - Collegium Musicum ConcertJT* 8:00 p.m., Goodspeed Recital Hall17th Century Music From Germany and EnglandVocal and instrumental music by Michael Praetorius,o Heinrich Schutz, Matthew Locke, and others.Mary Springfels, director xo Benjamin Lane, guest directorAdmission is free. dSunday, June 10 - Youth String Sinfonia Cn7:30 p.m., Goodspeed Recital HallJeanne Schaeffer, conductorMusic from the 17th and 18th Centuries, including OConcerto Grosso in D minor by Antonio Vivaldi.Admission is free. *>o THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO X2 CHAMBER MUSIC SERIES 1984-1985Friday Evenings at 8:00 P.M. in Mandel Hall &November 16th Musical OfferingDecember 7th Quartetto Beethoven di Roma nT February 8th Guarneri String QuartetFebruary 22nd Vermeer String QuartetMay 3rd Juilliard String QuartetSERIESo $36 general$33 UC faculty/staff 2$25 UC studentTickets and information available at the Department of f/TMusic Concert Office, 5845 S. Ellis Avenue, 60637(GoH 310) ovlUsIOM'JSlC^MVSU COUPON • CUP THIS COUPON • CUP THIS COUPON • CUP THIS COUPON • CUP THIS COUPON • CUP THIS COUPON • CUP THISCLASS DISMISSED!Finals Week Happy Hour Specials!2 p.m. to 5 p.m.Monday, June 4 - Friday, June 8WITH THIS AD ONLY-Any mixed well drink - $1.50!Sangria by the liter - $6 - 40% off! (reg. $10.50)Banana, Strawberry, & Raspberry Daquiris!BEER SPECIALS TOO - BY THE PITCHER:• Budwelser reg. $3)^5 $3• Miller Lite reg. $^5 $4• Heineken reg. $^0 $5SNACKS TOO!- Homemade Guacamole dip- Nachos- BBQ Chicken WingsPlus burgers, salads and a completelist of appetizing entrees!You needed a break, you got it!On HarperMon. thru Thurs.11:30- 10:30 p.m.5211 S. Harper Court • 667-4008HOURS:Fri. and Sat.11:30 a.m. - MidnightSunday Dinner2 p.m. - 10:30 p.m.THIS COUPON • CUP THIS COUPON • CUP THIS COUPON • CUP THIS COUPON • CUP THIS COUPON • CUP THIS COUPON • zThe Chicago Literary Review. Friday June 1, 1984—7It was the summer I was twelve andRobin was thirteen, the summer"Rock the Boat” was a big hit and thehustle came into vogue. Box radioseverywhere played it; and younggirls threw off their buffalo sandalsto dance the hustle with their girl¬friends on street corners, at least inour neighborhood. Puerto Rican girlsclutched at the ankle braceletsaround their necks and tearfully sur¬rendered their boyfriends to theMarines...to the accompaniment of“Billy, Don’t Be a Hero.” Rosana toldme the song gave her strength. It wasthe only way she could do it, she toldme, it was the only way she could letJohnny go.Robin and I were best friends,though from the outside no two couldhave been more different. Her choiceof me (and it was nothing less thanthat) mystified me then and still does.She befriended me when none of theother girls would — I read too much, Iwas not cool. But everyone liked ing test. She waited outside while Iconfiscated a pack of chewing gum.“Not big enough," she said, shakingher head. I went back inside andproudly returned with a large box ofgoldfish food and a bottle of nail po¬lish remover. “Not bad for starters,”she said.Another trial: I would have tosneak out of my bedroom window at 3a.m., run through one dark alley,scramble over three rusty fences, andwalk the remaining block betweenmy apartment and Robin’s. There wewould smoke cigarettes, drink beerand watch late night movies togetherwhile I taught her the names of thestars. I discovered the emptiness at 3a.m. — the garbage cans and far¬away car horns and barking dogs. Iceased this particular adventureafter the night I received no answerto my calls of Robin’s name, no an¬swer to the rocks at her window. I be¬came suddenly, acutely aware of myaloneness. “Robin, Robin,” I pleadedClimbingSecond Place, CLR Short Fiction Contestby Kerry DolanRobin. Her reputation was impeccableand already familiar to me by thetime we met. She dropped out ofschool, it was said; she lived aloneand drank and cursed and beat upneighborhood boys with a recklessfreedom none of the other girls werelucky enough to possess.As we became friends 1 learned theexaggerations of these stories. Robindid, she confessed, go to school“every once in awhile.” And shedidn’t really live alone, though I sup¬pose in effect she did. Her mother, apuffy, dizzily drunken woman, spentmost of her time at a local bar calledThe Matchbox. Now and then hermother would return home — some¬times with a salivating lover, some¬times not — but most nights Robinwas alone.I never actually saw Robin beat upa boy, but I have no doubts that shecould and did. In any case, she wastough and no one tangled with her. Tomy young, romantic mind she was ahero beyond all others, a Pippi Long-stocking on a trashcan island. Pas¬sionately grateful for her friendshipat first, I was like an eager puppy,chasing after her, lapping at herfeet. until my voice began to frighten me.A man with a dog appeared. “What-eha doin’ out this late, honey?”, hesaid, and I ran and ran, my shoelacesbecame untied, but i kept running,and like a smart criminaf, didn’t stopto look over my shoulder.As I taught Robin some of the thingsI'd learned from books, she taught bethings too. How to properly intermin¬gle curses with my speech, a fine artfew people can master. How to inhalecigarette smoke. “You’re doing it allwrong,” she told me when we firstmet. "It’s like this” — she took a puff— “Muthafucka,” She inhaled deeplythen blew it out in a cool stream.“Muthafucka makes it go down.”She was right, it did. I practicedlong hours in front of the bathroommirror when my mother wasn't home,trying to perfect my new habit. I ex¬perimented with different ways ofholding my cigarette: between indexand middle fingers, sleek and lady¬like; between my index and thumbwhen I wanted to be a tough street¬walker. t mouthed words to the mir¬ror with my cigarette. Coolly, “Man, fwas so wasted last night.” Authorita¬tively, “Chico’s a fuckin’ scumbag.”Yet for all my efforts I knew JIt was no simple matter to become afriend of Robin’s. There were trials topass and loyalties to prove. First shetook me to Woolworth’s: the shopiift-Kerry Dolan is a senior in the col¬lege and graduates this spring. Nextyear she plans to attend the CofumMiof Journalism in New York would never change. I could never betike Robin, much as i wanted to. Ohshe was cool, cooler than all the girl¬friends of the Czars, the fashionablegang we sometimes hung aroundwith, regardless of the hours theyspent preening. She wore anythingwith style: curlers and kerchief, bluenail polish, oversized sunglasses, oricy pink lipstick, a shade obsoletefound in a bargain bin at a DuaneLiterary Review, Friday June 1, 1984 Reade drugstore. She walked in barefeet on hot cement — her silverypainted toes radiant with sunlight —while I worried about glass.But during the rare excursions wemade to the beach she was trans¬formed — into a scared little kid withblue bony legs, clinging to me whenthe waves came, those pathetic trem¬ors of waves, really, at BrightonBeach.We spent most days sunbathing onRobin's fire escape on beach towels —mine had the figure of a shapelywoman in a red and white polka dotbikini; Robin’s had a drawing of Ste¬vie Wonder with a rainbow comingout of his head. We listened to re¬cords, the same ones over and over.The Supremes. Laura Nyro’s GonnaTake a Miracle, Tough girls with sou)like us.As I lay on the towel I wrote fe¬verishly in my notebook, i composedlists, endless lists. I made lists of ev¬erything — people i hated, pseud¬onyms i would assure in later lives (Iwas particularly fond of “HeatherDarnell”), cities i would live in. Thepossibilities seemed endless, i wouldgo to London and wear a trenchcoat. iwould go to Hollywood and writescreenplays — easy work, t knew,weaned on soap operas my mind wasfilled with trashy dialogue, t wouldmake a lot of money but l wouldn’tkeep most of it — just enough to buy aswimming pool. A pool better thanthe one in the neighborhood with itsscummy floors, doorless concretedressing rooms and young motherswith nests of chirping children.Maybe I would invite my old friendsto the pool. Come, take a break fromthe fire hydrant I would tell them; Iwould have to see.The gridding of the fire escapeburned through the towel against mystomach like hot pokers and the af¬ternoon sun scorched my back, but itfelt good, almost, and it helped putme* in the right mood for the newstory l was writing:God he hated L.A., thoughtJim. It was so hot in the summerhe had to change his underwearthree times a day. He thought ofthe summer three years before .. . nude sunbathing with Liz onthe roof of their beach house,sweet skinny-dipping in theocean. Liz, with her chestnutbrown hair and her goddamnsun reflector that practicallyblinded him.i’ve got to stop thinking abouther, Jim thought as he was jolt¬ed back into reality. I’ve got toaccept the fact that it’s over. Lizis gone and she’s never comingback.I chewed on my pencil, readjusted thesunglasses on my nose, thought hard.Great beginning, but where can it go?Should Liz return to town? And wheredid she go anyway?The needle on the record playerwas skipping over the last grooves.Robin looked up accusingly from hercopy of Seventeen. “It’s your turn tochange the record.” “I’m busy,” Isaid. “Can’t you do it?”She sighed and stood up. “I don’tknow what’s so important that youcan’t even get up to change a god¬damn record.” She tugged at the rearof her bikini and took the record off.It was a small, portable record playerwe placed in the windowsill by thefire escape. “What should I put on?”“i don’t know. Make up your ownmind.” Some days she annoyed me. Iknew I could never ask her adviceabout my stories. There were wholerealms of topics l could never discusswith her. When I lent her Catcher inthe Rye, my favorite book that year,all she said after reading it was,“That Holden’s a pretty cool guy.” Iwas appalled; one of the greatestnovels ever written and that’s all youhave to say? Sometimes I realtythought she was a moron.Other days we went to Maria’shouse. Maria lived up the street from me and her family was a scandal tothe block. The stoop of the Fernandezhome was painted orange and theirdoors, aqua. It was a garish spectaclein a row of mud-colored brownstones.Their house was stuffed with childrenand numerous transient friends andrelatives. Yells and curses, in Span¬ish, could be heard through their win¬dows at all hours. If all this wasn’tenough to condemn them, Mrs. Fer¬nandez was spotted regularly at theA&P shoping with food stamps. Whilethe rest of the people on the blockdidn’t have more money, at leastthey had pride.Robin and I gravitated to the housebecause it was a place where real-lifedrama were staged. Mr. Fernandezhad deserted the family nine yearsbefore, and no one had heard fromhin since. Robin and I saw photos ofhim — a beautiful young Latin with amoustache. We loved making upstories to explain his mysterious dis¬appearance. Robin liked to imaginehim dead. A passionate death:washed up on the shores of Rio deJaneiro in tattered swimming trunks.(Neither of us were quite sure whereRio de Janeiro was, though we knewit was further south.) I imagined himin China — a dirty-dealing exporterwho wore pinky rings and kept ayoung Chinese mistress with porce¬lain skin.Armando, the oldest son, was thesixteen year old leader of the Czars,and members of the gang congregat¬ed at the house regularly. Lucy, fif¬teen, was the unmarried mother of aone year old. Rosana, their highlyemotional fourteen year old sister,locked herself in the bathroom foreighteen hours in early July, threa¬tening to kill herself after her boy¬friend Johnny broke the news that hewas leaving for boot camp in aweek.Robin and I are sitting on Maria’sstoop, eating Italian ices, it is one ofthe hottest days of the summer andour ciothes are still damp from thefire hydrant.“The police came around lastnight,” Maria says. Her lips arebright orange from the ice.“What did Armando do now?” Iask.••Maybe he shot sofneone else in thebutt,” says Robin, laughing. A fewmonths earlier Armando was arrest¬ed for shooting the member of a rivalgang in the left buttock.“No,” Maria says, oddly bored. La¬tely — since she’s developed a crushon Armando’s friend Joe — Maria hasbeen fixing her hair a great deal andnot thinking about much. “The policeweren’t looking for Armando, any¬way. They were looking for UnclePepe.”“Who?” I ask.“Didn’t you see that guy passed outon their stoop the other day?” saysRobin.“Yeah, but I just figured he was afriend of Armando’s. That’s youruncle, Maria?”She nods. “My mother wouldn’t lethim inside the house. She told us toleave him on the stoop and ignorehim. She thinks he’s a criminal.”“So is your brother,” says Robin.“How come you don’t leave him out¬side?” She cracks up, as usual, at herremark.“No but my uncle’s a real crimi¬nal.”“Oh. Well what did he do?” I ask.She shrugs. She moves her head inan effort to see her reflection in themail slot on her front door. “I don’tknow. They think he smuggled somedrugs out of Puerto Rico. Mayberobbed a bank too.”“God, nothing tike this ever hap¬pens at my house. Did they catchhim?”“No. My mother —* 1 don’t knowwhy she did this, she says she wantsto get rid of him — told the police shehadn’t seen my uncle.”I walk into the house to get a glassof water. Mrs. Fernandez is sitting atthe kitchen table drinking a cup oftea. “How are you?” i ask, touchingher shoulder. She is a plump, earthywoman who works nights in a shoefactory down by the pier. She likesme because she thinks I’m a nice girl,but we have difficulty communicat¬ing: her English is poor, and my Span¬ish, minimal.She smiles. “The Lord will help us,"she says. She opens her left hand andreveals the red rosary beads in hersweaty palm.The Lord, I think, as I mechanicallyrun through the family crises in mymind. Yes, the Lord’s really out therepitching for you.I smile back. “I’m sure.”Outside Armando shows Maria andRobin his new switchblade. It is cleanand shiny as he makes a gash in theleg of his army pants, demonstratingthe blade’s skill. Blood wells up onthe calf under his pants and Mariaand Robin stare at it, mesmerized.“So would you let a guy feel youup?” Robin’s bare legs are drapedover the back of a beat-up green sofachair in her living room. She is sippinga lemonade, she is testing me.I take a drag from my Marlboro.“Well ... I guess it depends.” Exhale— I have recently mastered the trickof talking before blowing the smokeout.“Depends on what?”“You know, on how I felt about him.I mean, if I was serious about the guyI might.”“Well, what about Mark — did youdo it with Mark?”“Oh no, Mark . . . Mark was such aboy." I have created Mark out of thinair for fear of sounding inex¬perienced and become nervous when¬ever his name is mentioned. I havetold so many stories I can’t rememberthem all, and I’m afraid of slippingup. “He was really in love with me,but I just — I couldn’t get into it, yaknow?”She nods her head emphatically.“Baby, you’re telling me.”I am dying to ask Robin these ques¬tions, to ask her so many things, but Idon’t dare. She is beyond question¬ing. I wonder what happens behindthe doors but I don’t like to thinkabout it. It doesn’t seem possiblethere’s a connection to the doors thatclose behind her mother — her ma¬scara-smeared cheeks and saggingbreasts I know she lets men touch. Iimagine the scenes: she unbuttons herblouse wearily. Let's get on with it.He pinches, slobbers on her black braas she giggles.But Robin — skinny little buds ofbreasts smaller than mine eventhough she’s a whole year older. Ican’t think what she does behind thedoors. She is beyond man, and womantoo. Sometimes I felt like grabbingher hand, saying, “Come on, come on,let’s go, let’s run far away together.”We could escape where no one couldbother us and even on an island we’dget by with my brains and hercourage. I was the British archaeolo¬gist — not quite hip — but I wouldknow which trees to cut for shelter.And she would fell the trees andlaugh in the rain and I would huddleunder the palms to keep dry.“There’s such power in the night,” Isay. I lean over Robin’s fire escape,hoping to drink in the night air. It isalmost ten p.m. and I must go homesoon. “It’s the only time dreams seempossible to me.”“What dreams?”I think for a minute. “I wish I had atrumpet. Some saxophone player —Sonny Rollins, I think — used to playhis saxophone on the BrooklynBridge at night. It was before he be¬came famous and he didn’t have an¬yplace else to practice. That’s whatI’d like to do. Just play my trumpetall night long.Robin laughs. “How’d you get to beso weird?”“I’m not weird. Don’t you have anydreams?”“Yeah. I want to marry a rich hunkand live in a big house. I’d buy beauti¬ful clothes, a couple of sportcars,maybe some diamond jewelry.”I sigh, exasperated. “That’s notvery original.”“Well, I’m sorry I don’t want tohang out on a friggin’ bridge allnight.” She tosses her lit cigaretteand it bounces it off my right sneaker.Annoyed, she goes into her bedroomand shuts the door. These little spatsbetween us have become more fre¬ quent. She turns her record player onto its maximum volume until I leave.Maria and I meet the Czars on theirusual street corner. It’s been over aweek since I’ve seen Robin. It is lateAugust and the rain which stopped anhour ago makes the streets look var¬nished in the evening light. Chicobrought his box radio, and Billy and Iare dancing barefoot to the Spinners’song, “I’ll Be Around.” We are bothwearing cut-off denim shorts and myhair is fixed in several long braidsthat flop around when I move. Billyhas liked me all summer, and though Ifind the attention flattering (he isolder — fifteen — and a well-respect¬ed gang member), his violent purityfrightens me. I am convinced he couldkill someone without hesitation.“You’re beautiful — like a prin¬cess,” he says as we dance. “Will youmarry me?” He laughs.“Nope.” I shake my head. “I’m notgetting married” — I twirl around —“ever.”“How about just going out with methen?” He leans close and his lips al¬most touch mine.“I don’t know — maybe. I have tothink about it.”“I don’t see why girls have to thinkso much.”Maria and Joe are entwinedagainst a car, kissing. The others aresitting against the graffiti-coveredbrick wall, drinking and laughing. Iwonder where Robin is. It seems agessince I’ve seen her. She’s become in¬creasingly irritated with me and I’vebeen afraid to visit her. I know herreputation for tiring of friends. Butnow I have an excuse — I can ask heradvice about Billy. We can whisperand laugh and everything will bealright again.Exhilarated, I run the two blocks toher apartment and ring the bell.After a few minutes, Robin buzzes mein and I run up the stairs to her door.She opens it slowly, leaving the chainon. I can only see one of her eyes andit looks creepy.“What do you want?” she asks inan annoyed voice.“I just ... I wanted to see how youwere, that’s all.” I am puzzled and alittle embarrassed.She removes the chain, opens thedoor a little more and comes out tothe hall. I am shocked when I see her.She is wearing a pale yellow slip andsimulated pearls she must have sto¬len somewhere. Her make-up is cakedon and makes her look ridiculous —like a kid who’s snuck into hermother’s cosmetic case.I stare at her wide-eyed. “Sssh,”she says, putting her index fingers toher lips. “I’ve got company.” She stu¬mbles a little, obviously drunk.“Who?” I must say too loud, for sheshushes me again.“Scully.”“Scully. What are you doing withhim?”“She shrugs. “We just had a littledate.”“A date1." I say, too loud again.“You had a date with that jerk?”She grabs my arm and squeezes ithard. “Would you shut up? He’s in¬side.”I wrest my arm away. “Ow, thathurt.”“Well, good. You shouldn’t talk soloud.”“Look, I don’t give a shit what thatasshole hears. I think you should stayaway from him, Robin.”“I’ll do whatever the fuck I please.If I want to blow Scully, I will.”“What?” I still do not comprehendthe situation. ‘‘Are you fuckingaround with him?” She giggles. “Areyou?” I grab her arm angrily.“Answer me.”She pushes me away. “Whadda youthink? What are you, some kind ofnun?”“No, but... Robin, he's such a scum¬bag. Don’t you have any self-respect?”She opens her door. “Get out ofhere.”“I’m not going to leave you withhim.”“I said, get out of here! I’m sick ofyou. You’re becoming a real pain inthe ass.”“You’re just saying that becauseyou want me to leave.”She mimics me in baby talk. “No I’m saying that because I mean it.” Shestares at me with an awful grimace onher face. “Goddamn know-it-all, Ihate you.” She pushes me. “I hateyou, I hate you!” she nearly screams.“I’d love to kick your ass.” Sheshoves me again.I am angry and hurt, but I don’twant to fight. “You’re pathetic,” Isay. “I thought you were so strong,but you’re just pathetic.”“Oh go on, you with your big words.That’s all you are, a bunch of bigwords." She shoves me again.“Come on Robin, I don’t want tofight you.”“Why not, sissy?”“Because.” I give up. There's no usetalking to her. I turn to leave and shepunches me hard in the back of thehead. The blow leaves me dizzy for afew seconds; then I lunge at her. Ipush her into the living room of theapartment and we roll on the floor,punching and kicking each other.There’s no scratching or hair-pulling,though; we fight like men. I am sur¬prised at the hatred I feel as I hit heragain and again, as though if I hit herenough I could punch out the stupidi¬ty, hammer out the differences be¬tween us.I fight well; and since Robin is drunkand a less formidable opponent thanusual, I soon have her pinned to theground. But it feels good and I keeppunching her in the stomach until shescreams for me to stop. I feel lost in adream as I stand up and examine her,an unfamiliar creature it seems,writhing on the floor, clutching herstomach. Scully comes out of the bed¬room with his shirt unbuttoned and abottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.“What are you two girls doing outhere?”I stare at hime, dazed. His whiteprotruding belly revolts me morethan anything I’ve ever seen, and Imove toward the door. “Hey, don’tgo,” he says. “The three of us couldhave a lot of fun together.”“Go fuck yourself.” I walk out thedoor and run down three flights ofstairs in a panic, feeling that I will notbe able to breathe until I get out¬side.But when I’m finally out there.Robin is too, stalking from one end 01the fire escape to the other like cmadwoman. “You think you know everything, don’t you?” she yells“Well, you don’t know shit." She spitsand a thick wad of saliva lands on myhead. I leave it there and continue walking. “You’re sitting around,waiting for some miracle, but thereain’t gonna be one. There AIN’TGONNA BE ONE. ASSHOLE.” Shelaughs drunkenly. I wince at herwords, but I keep walking and thering of her voice grows dimmer anddimmer. I look behind me briefly —one last glance — before I turn thecorner, and she is sprawled like a bro¬ken marionette on the floor of the fireescape, feet dangling off the side,still shouting at the streetlight infront of her.After that summer, I wanted to for¬get. I turned my mind to what Ithought were the finer things in life,and I didn’t want to remember PuertoRican girls and lipstick and darkalleys. I didn't want to rememberRobin. I went to a high school thatwas an hour's train ride away, andmade cultured friends who went toplays and read poetry. My oldfriends, my old haunts, were simplydebris I passed through on the way tothe train station.Occasionally I would run into Robin,on the street, in grocery stores. We dexchange birdpecks on the cheek. Iwould hear later that she was awhore, but it didn’t matter, I wouldn’tlet it. Remnants of another life shud¬dered away.But now in my dreams, fragmentsof the life return. I run to meet pres¬ent friends and suddenly find myselfwandering aimlessly in alleys. A fig¬ure lurks in the dark outside my win¬dow with a switchblade. In a dreamI’ve had several times, I am trappedin a house of mirrors filled with re¬flections of myself, each one dif¬ferent. I cut my hands on the glass ofthe mirrors which are old, coveredwith cobwebs. There is laughter in theair; I cover my ears with glass-splin¬tered hands, but it won't go away.It sounds like Robin's laughter, butof course I must be imagining it. She’sgond, isn’t she? You're safe. It re¬minds me of a time she laughed likethat, the time she talked me intoclimbing to the top of the VerrazanoBridge with her, a cool rainy summernight when it seemed the world wasfull of possibilities, when all I couldhear was Robin's voice far above me.laughing, urging me on. My feet werestuck to the cold, slippery rung And Iwondered, with a sick feeling, if Iwould pvpr bp hravpThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984—9Epiphany in Gold, Green, and RedYou were holding themin your hands!Coloredmittens!Untitled -Daniel BrownsteinIt is not the sunwe think of when the dayturns suddenly orangenor the orange we rememberas the sky turns red.When we sit as we doand watch the world turn blueas if it had always been blueand flicker off the snowinto the deep of our eyesas if it always hadit is not the darkness we imagine.Like music, like incensethe colors touch everythingI am Adam, you my Eveconstantly namingand renaming the animals. 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Bangkok IIThai RestaurantOriginal taste of Thai foodOPEN 7 DAYS A WEEK•LUNCH & DINNER*Daily 11:30 a.m. -10:00 p.m.Fri. & Sat. 11:30 a.m. -11:00 p.m..CARRY OUTS:493-10001604 E. 53rd St.iG—The Chicago Literary Keview, Friday June 1, 1984<* 4* • f * *Five Prose Poems by Campbell McGrathfrom E: A Love PoemOne night in Florence we found a dead cat on the sidewalk,poisoned or fallen from the roof, body stiff with rigormortis. You were drunk and happy and couldn’t understand.You wanted to bury it, call the police, throw it in the river.Panicking, you grabbed at passers-by. I had to drag youaway, down the street and into the little cafe called Roberti-no’s, where slowly you calmed. The one-eyed waiter broughtus wine, and good bread, and veal with lemon.After midnight, on the way home, we stopped on thebridge and looked down at thousands of fish spawning inthe Arno, seething in the silvered dance of life and genera¬tion, flashing backs breaking the black surface of the river— No, the lights trick us. Bloated, the fish hang with theirbellies in the mud, blindly sucking trash from the dirtywater, thousands hanging in the shallows, barely visible,taking what the current brings. On the bridge we stand look¬ing down and down, alone with the night, waiting.Behind our hotel we find the city walls descending a steepslope through a neighborhood quiet with Sunday afternoon.We look for food but the bar has no tables, the restauranttoo expensive. Hungry, we climb the hills of wild flowersand thorns, sit all day feeding peanuts to ants as the sunclocks the valley’s circumference, hours chronicled like sta¬tion’s of the cross.At day’s end we make our way down, pushing through alight that cleaves to skin. With all of our change Elizabethbuys fresh melon ice-cream. Sunlight brims the rim of moun¬tains with gold. Delicious. In Verona you sit up in alarm at night. There’s a woman inthe room. She’s crying out. She’s right underneath the bed,moaning in pain. We listen. Not our room: across the alleywhere a blue light flickers behind half-closed shutters. Notpain: ecstasy. Nothing to worry about. We lie together,sweating in the heat, listening to the woman quiver on theedge, rising and falling in waves, endless, an hour now atleast, no sound of a partner, on and on, serenading thecourtyard, teenagers, old women with sills of yellow flow¬ers, other lovers listening in shuttered rooms, us — a sweet¬ly human music, one voice for passion in the hot, communal,Italian night.In the Boboli gardens we wander shaded paths of cork¬trees, wysteria purple and white overhead. In a bowl be¬neath the hill there is a still pool of water stocked with carp.In the center is an island reached by a narrow causeway.Around the glade, an arbor and hedges, statues sentinel inthe green. The island is rampant with red-flowering shrubsin urns. The causeway is lined with minature citrus trees inearthenware pots: lemon, box-orange, grapefruit. Thecauseway gates are locked. There is no way to reach the is¬land.5:43 AM: the street is deserted and air brushes cool throughgauze curtains — the coldest night we have seen in Italy, thefirst breath of autumn in Rome. Above the roof-garden thesky is wine-dark, deepest blue before black. Orion, alone inmy square of vision, wheels across the night towardsdawn.This silence is a miracle here, where card-players gatherbeneath our window after breakfast and last all day, ram¬paging and cajoling, the hood of a car for a table. Up anddown the streets the gold-smiths’ shops are shutteredclosed. No cars honking, no scooters revving up or screamsof agony and triumph over pinochle. Silence, grave Orionabove, Elizabeth warm and asleep in bed, the first breath ofautumn signalling change.Today we will go to the zoo. Tomorrow we’ll board a jetand fly across the Atlantic, a flash of silver at 40,000 feet:the closest we’ll ever come to Orion. As far as we’ll ever befrom Florence, Verona, Rome.The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984 11Tuchman's FollyThe March of Folly:From Troy to Vietnamby Barbara W. TuchmanAlfred A. Knopf, 1984$18.95 (hard cover)by Robin EinhornWith nine books and two PulitzerPrizes to her name, Barbara Tuchmanis one of the most prominent histori¬ans in the United States. Her knackfor transforming archival materialsinto well crafted and suspensefulstories has brought her a large fol¬lowing among general readers. In a1981 volume of essays, PracticingHistory, Tuchman lashed out at aca¬demic historians, who do not take herwork very seriously. She accused theacademy of forgetting that the func¬tion of historians, like other writers,is to communicate their insights andshe ridiculed professional historiansfor lack of originality, internecinequarrels and turgid prose. Her popu¬larity and the obscurity of most histo¬rians doing research on the cuttingedge of scholarship present the his¬torical profession with a real chal¬lenge.It is in this context that Tuchman’snew book, The March of Folly, is sur¬prising. Tuchman strays from the surepath of narrative into the usual pre¬serve of cloistered scholars: the anal¬ysis. She thinks, however, that shehas good reason to take this leap inthe dark. Tuchman has put her fingeron a law of political history over¬looked by historians, political scien¬tists and philosophers. She has founda phenomenon so pervasive as totranscend time and place, a variablewhose explanatory power compre¬hends nearly all of history’s con¬ quests, revolutions and wars. Bar¬bara Tuchman has discovered folly.Despite an attempt to endow thisinsight with conceptual rigor, folly re¬mains murky, subjective and essen¬tially ahistorical. Tuchman definesfolly as “a perverse persistence in apolicy demonstrably unworkable orcounterproductive.” Further refine¬ment only increases the ambiguity,leaving Tuchman plenty of room tomaneuver as she ranges from BiblicalIsrael to the nuclear arms race rack¬ing up the examples of governmentalstupidity.She designates as counterproduc¬tive those policies that do not conduce‘‘to the welfare or advantage of thebody being governed,” as though theidea of rulers being responsible to cit¬izens were a timeless constant of his¬tory. “Demonstrably unworkable”provides further problems. “To avoidjudging by present day values” Tuch¬man limits her inquiry to ‘‘episodeswhose injury to self-interest was re¬cognized by contemporaries.” Howmany contemporaries? Which contem¬poraries? Do any nay sayers count? Itmust have been a rare policy thatprovoked no detractors, no oppo¬nents who linked its implementationwith some potential armageddon.But The March of Folly betrays lit¬tle effort to view the past on its ownterms. Montezuma, Tuchman ex¬plains, continued to believe that Cor¬tez and his army represented the godQuetzalcoatl even though ‘‘it wasplain enough from the visitors' cease¬less demand for gold and provisionsthat they were all too human, andfrom their constant rituals in worshipof a naked man pinned to crossedsticks of wood” that they had nothing to do with the Aztec god. Plainenough to whom? The Japanese at¬tacked Pearl Harbor out of a ‘‘cultur¬al ignorance, a frequent component offolly.” There mav be a lesson there.The penalties for Montezuma’sfolly were pretty straightforward —death, conquest and destruction. ButTuchman attaches a much longer termpunishment to the folly of Rehoboam.The son of King Solomon, Rehoboamrefused to lighten the tax burden onthe ten tribes of Israel and announcedhis decision in rather harsh terms. Asa result of this single act the Jews suf¬fered “exile by the waters of Baby¬lon, then revival, civil strife, foreignsovereignty, rebellion, another con¬quest, another farther exile and dis¬persion, oppression, ghetto and mas¬sacre.” Lest the reader dismiss thischain of causation as a rhetoricalflourish, Tuchman repeats that the“alternative course that Rehoboammight have taken...exacted a long re¬venge that has left its mark for 2800years.” This is preposterous. Reho¬boam may singlehandedly havecaused a civil war and the division ofBiblical Israel that facilitated the As¬syrian conquest. He did not cause theNazis.After discussing the nature of follyTuchman goes on to illustrate its his¬tory in four cases: the Trojan decisionto admit the wooden horse (the “pro¬totype” of folly), the provocation bythe Renaissance Popes of the Refor¬mation (her phrase), the British lossof America (also known as the Ameri¬can Revolution) and America’s be¬trayal of herself in Vietnam (in herown culture Tuchman is at her journa¬listic best).The general reader is intended tobe awed by the breadth of Tuchman’sknowledge. And it is broad; sheknows a little about an incredibleamount of different things. But sheguards against attempts to read crit¬ically through a peculiar use of foot¬notes. To say there are few noteswould play into Tuchman’s anti-aca¬ demic hands. Yet her extraordinarystyle of notation can only be intendedto frustrate the reader who tries touse the notes. With no footnotenumbers in the text, Tuchman includesat the end of the book a list ofphrases or names, each with a cita¬tion. Only a handful concern mattersof interpretation.On the American Revolution, atleast, Tuchman's reading did nothingto impair her conclusions. She misin¬terprets British Parliamentary poli¬tics by repeating the charges of itsmost vituperative detractors insteadof relying on the historians who haveseen beyond partisan attacks. Shedismisses the theory of virtual repre¬sentation as “convenient” and por¬trays British officials as stuffydrunks addicted to gambling. Shestrains to make the British look stu¬pid and corrupt. Why else would theyhave committed the folly of trying totax their colonies?On the American side, she fails torealize that the colonists thought ofthemselves as British subjects, which,by the way, they were. To say thattheir wilderness experience madeAmericans hostile to “a faraway gov¬ernment of lords in silk knee-breeches” is simply untrue. That far¬away government was theirgovernment and those lords weretheir nobility. They did not mock thesilk knee-breeches but aspired tothem.Tuchman’s history contains noheroes. Her version of the past is in¬habited by a series of buffoons whosepride, avarice and other assortedvices cause them to blunder their waythrough seemingly simple situations,unable to see their own interests. Ac¬ademic historians may continue to ig¬nore Tuchman’s work but her chal¬lenge must be met. Scholars mustcourt the general reader. Unless theydo, educated non-specialists will re¬main at the mercy of writers likeTuchman if they take any interest atall in history.Sweeney Astrayby Seamus HeaneyFarrar, Straus, Giroux, 1984$12.95 (hart cover)by David SullivanThe poet Seamus Heaney was bornin the town of Mossbawn, CountyDerry, in the north of Ireland. Thissmall farm upbringing as a Catholicon the edge of the Ulster troubles isthe source of much of the tension andemotional resonance of his first fivebooks of poetry. But Heaney hasnever been content to feed off the vi¬olent, seemingly endless, religiousand social confrontations of his re¬gion. Instead, his poetry delves be¬neath the dramatic events to probeinto the psychic ramifications of suchdisjunctures. The metaphors he turnsare primeval and distinctively Irish:the quagmire of peat beds that coverthe landscape with uncertain footing,the sacrifical corpses that were un¬earthed from the bogland, the vik¬ings who raided Ireland long beforethe English. For his latest book, Hean¬ey has turned inland again, to a medi-val Irish work called “Buile Suibhne”,which he translates as Sweeney As¬tray.Introducing this book-length poem,Heaney writes that “the literaryimagination which fastened upon(Sweeney) as an image was clearly inthe grip of a tension between thenewly dominant Christian ethos andthe older, recalcitrant Celtic tempera¬ment.” This tension is swiftly articu¬lated in the opening section of thepart-prose, part-poetry narrativewhen the angry king of Dal-Arieabuses the cleric Ronon who curseshim. It is in the fulfillment of this cursethat the poem truly begins. In themidst of the battle, suddenly,Vertigo, hysteria, lurchingsand launchings came over him,he staggered and flappeddesperately,he was revolted by the thoughtof known placesand dreamed strangemigrations.His fingers stiffenedhis feet scuffled and flurried, his heart was startledhis senses were mezmerized...and he levitated in a franticcumbersome motionlike a bird of the air.And Ronan’s curse wasful filled.Heaney sees the travels of thisfrightened bird-like madman thatSweeney has become; eating water¬cress, drinking Church’s holy water,and eloquently lamenting his fallenstate, not only as a metaphor for reli¬gious and political struggles, but forthe artist himself. For Sweeney is abig-bodied, strong-headed Celtic kingwho, flitting like a bird, survives hishardships and separations throughsong. These utterances of Sweeneyare almost always written in four-line, three-beat stanzas which cover arange of poetic expressions: laments,dialogues, litanies, rhapsodies,curses. The language is tough anddirect. Like much of Heaney’s work itcomes directly from Northern Ire-landers who are described in a poemby the late W.R. Rodgers as:an abrupt peoplewho like the spiky consonants ofspeechand think the soft ones cissy;who digthe k and t in orchestra, detectsinin sinfonia, get a kick out oftin-cans, fricatives, fornication,staccato talk,anything that gives or takesat tacklike Micks, Teagues, tinker’sgets, Vatican.Throughout Sweeney Astray Heaneyattacks the difficult issues of separa¬tion, penitance, and longing for love,with biting Anglo-Saxon words thatleave little room for thin metaphysi¬cal meanderings. Heaney chose thiswork because of the simplicity of itslanguage, based so much on the phys¬ical world of Ireland, as well as on itsmetaphorical affinities to his own sit¬uation.Sweeney becomes intensely awareof his surroundings after his mata-morphosis. In introducing the book, Heaney'sHeaney writes “his Kingdom lay inwhat is now south County Antrim andnorth County Down, and for overthirty years I lived on the verges ofthat territory...in sight of some ofSweeney’s places and in earshot ofothers...my fundamental relation...istopographical.” The poet has alwaysbeen attracted to the physical, thethings at hand, but his praise of thelandscape is not mere flattery butrather a sign of a deep commitment tohis homeland. The vigor of the poet’slanguage constantly offsets the deep-seated melancholy of Sweeney’s la¬ments. The very trees in the woods aswell as the places mad Sweeney trav¬els take on a mythical significance.I shift restlesslyon the plain of Boromafrom Benn lughioneto Benn Boghaine...as I gather cressin tender bunches,four round handfulsin Glen Bolcain,and unpickthe shy bog-berry,then drink waterfrom Ronan’s well.My nails are bent,my loins weak,my feet bleeding,my thigh’s bare—But to have ended uplamenting hereon Ailsa Craig.A hard station!Heaney has managed to balancethe more emphatic high-pitched pas¬sages of emotion with the groundednames of the region. The book is anarrative, and through the intention¬al flatness of many of the prose sec¬tions the lyric ascension of Sweeney ismade more brilliant. This device alsohelps alleviate Heaney’s principle po¬etic problem, which is that he is too Sweeneyclose to his words. Like the WelshmanDylan Thoman, Heaney often packs somuch into his drumming, consonant-heavy language that we must stepback to breath it in. Sweeney Astray,with its lyrical lifts and drops, is aforeign air in which we must stayawhile in order to assimilate.Though Heaney’s translation ad¬dresses the themes of artistic separa¬tion, religious and political animosity,and madness, its central contention isthat we can still communicate againstsuch a dreary backdrop. The stron¬gest passages invoke the tersebeauty of the Irish landscape, and theuneasiness of the madman’s attemptat establishing communication withothers. But in those passages he doesfind some comfort, however tenuousit is. For Sweeney the mythical powerof the physical world, and real com¬munication, is only understoodthrough the survival of hardships andthe artistic gift of song.The losses that are inherent in thisprocess, for Heaney the artist, as wellas for Sweeney the madman, aresummed up in the bargain the protag¬onist strikes with another mythicalcharacter: mad Alan of England. It isa compelling scene because eachfights so hard for his word, and whatis earned is ambiguous and fragile aslife:Whoever of us is the first to. hear...the wheep of plover disturbed inits sleepor the cackle of feet in witheredbranches,or whoever of us is the first toseethe shadow of a bird above thewood,let him warn the other.Let us move alwayswith the breadth of two treesbetween us.And if one of us hears any ofthese thingsor anything like them,let both of us scatter immedi¬ately.A nervous young man with brownhair and glasses found a shady spotbeneath a tall elm and began writingin his notebook:Sept. 5Professor Bean is obviously a ge¬nius, as inspired as he is inspiring, athin, wiry man with boundless en¬ergy^ who as a teacher manages tosoar even above his material. In fact,his mind is so obviously pre-occupiedwith weightier issues, that despite myfrequent corrections, he invariablymispronounces my name.The publishers were clearly im¬ production of Sophocles' Anti¬gone. Rabbi Kensington Stoop,the company’s director has chosento eliminate the characters of An¬tigone and Creon whom he con¬siders superfluous to the true in¬tent of the play. Instead Stoopemphasizes the role of Polyn-eices, Antigone’s dead brother.Stoop himself plays the lead —and here with remarkable re¬straint — lying towards the top ofa large pile of dead Theban war¬riors. Because most of the play’s“action” takes place off-stage, aged to avoid. The last item was anunstamped envelope addressed to“Loocipius Bean,” which after a mo¬ment Brown opened and read with apuzzled expression.Bean,I am on to your game. It wouldbehoove you to desist before Iam forced to retaliate,You-Know-Who.Professor Brown did not know “who”or for that matter “what.” For sever¬al minutes he tried to make some produced several of my classmates tocorroborate his claim. What could Ido? He knew I wasn’t yet ready to ex¬pose him; I had no other option but toadmit “my mistake” before the classand take the make-up. Even Tiffanyhas begun to doubt me ...Oct. 18Mr. T. decides to murder Houseman,who immediately becomes aware of itand forces Mr. T. to confess; he diesdoing penance and becomes the pa¬tron saint of Akron.Death by ConfusionHonorable Mention, CLR Short fiction Contestby Alan Enzerpressed with my experience at Yaleand immediately appointed me Rac¬ism Editor of The Pedant.Sept. 7I asked Pierre directly whether ornot he was a pansy. As I suspected, hewas and admitted it. He seems tothink he inherited it from his parents,both of whom were flaming homosex¬uals. His father had been sent to pris¬on for bestiality and there corrupted.At first he had stolen a spoon and at¬tempted to dig his way out of the cell.Unfortunately, he contracted BlackLung after three days and never re¬covered. I pity Pierre.Sept. 12My story on the Jehovah’s Wit¬nesses has stirred up quite a scholarlydebate on campus. Apparently noteveryone is willing to concede thatthey are in fact a genetically distinctrace, and even my Mutations profes¬sor expressed some reservations.Only Tiffany Tupbender was quick tosupport my position in a letter to theeditor, in which she rather persuasi¬vely argued “everybody makes mis¬takes.” Naturally, I am undeterredand Friday’s article on quadraplegicsshould be equally provocative.Sept. 14Idea for a film based on my rela¬tionship with Bean set in a monasteryand starring John Houseman and Mr.T. Houseman plays the intimidatingFather Superior; Mr. T. is a young no¬vice who desperately wants to im¬press the old Jesuit. He is a wiz atwine-making and defending dogma,but Houseman suspects he lacks truehumility.Sept. 20O’dooly’s class in Behavioral Psy¬chology has become clearly ridiculous.I would certainly drop if it weren't forTiffany, who manages to introduce asubtle erotic element into nearlyevery experiment. Today I was askedto watch Dildo Girls while she whis¬pered breakfast foods into my ear.That I became obviously excited by“pancake batter” confirmed her hy¬pothesis that dairy products are themost sensual food group.Sept. 21My last series of articles on theJews of Chad was so popular that Ihave been promoted to CampusEvents Editor. I here reproduce myfirst front page:Professor Emile de Fou was unani¬mously chosen the winner of lastweek’s William F. Buckley look-a¬like contest, de Fou, the de Sadeprofessor of Egyptology and Ren¬aissance Poetry, is a well-knowneccentric about campus and agreat favorite amongst his stu¬dents. The contest was held at Oc¬ular Hall soon after de Fou hadcompleted his special lecture onthe aa/bb rhyme scheme. The eve¬ning’s host was none other thanLoocipius Bean, wise-cracking hus¬band of Dean Cathleen Bean.Curiously, Mr. Buckley himself en¬tered the contest and took fourthplace, as most judges consideredhim too short. Though lookingnothing like Buckley himself, deFou managed to outwit the judgesby wearing a false beard andglasses as Buckley is thought todo while sleeping.The Retro-Progressive TheatreCompany celebrated their fiftiethanniversary with a daring new one is forced to imagine the actualevents, with Stoop’s almost im-perceptable reactions as our onlyclue.Sept. 25Bean humiliated me before the en¬tire class again today. For some rea¬son he seems to have singled me outas the target of his twisted humor. AsI began reading my paper on Shake¬speare’s use of the semi-colon, a lowbut distinct buzzing sound became au¬dible, I’m certain I was not imaginingit — Bean was humming. Each time Iglanced at him, he stopped, staringback with that insipid grin. NaturallyI became nervous and for several mo¬ments spoke of Titus Andronicus as hismost accomplished work. Several stu¬dents began to giggle and, lookingup, I almost certainly spotted Beanwith his tongue outstretched and hisfingers wiggling before his nose. I be¬came even more flustered and wassaved further embarrassment only bythe end of class. Insidiously, hepraised my presentation and evengave me an “A,” despite my unfortu¬nate decision to use only foreigntranslations.Oct. 1Out drinking with Tiffany and herfriends at the Demi-Urge Tavern. I en¬tered the heated discussion of Sartre,arguing that “emptiness without re¬demption bores me no end.” I couldsee she was impressed and decidedthat tonight I would allow her to se¬duce me. I maneuvered her into mytop bunk in a manner not unlike thatof “Gilligan’s Island.” When I finallywas able to remove her blouse, sheregained consciousness and through adrunken haze of insecurity and secondthoughts asked “What do you wantfrom me?.” Naturally I panicked andthough my memory is somewhatblurred, I seem to remember askingfor troop movements and the namesand assignments of all her contacts.Oct. 4Jelly Beans, Lima Beans, BakedBeans, Teddy Beans, The Jolly GreenBeanKidney Beans, Navy Beans, ArmyBeans, Marines’ Beans, The HomeTeams’ BeansCreamed Beans, Latrine Beans,Lean Beans, Obscene Beans, The Not-What-lt-Seems BeansUpstream Beans, Mexican JumpingBeans, String Beans, Steamed BeansThe Temple of Dreams’ BeansUnredeemed BeansProfessor Lawrence F. Brown quiet¬ly opened the stairway door andpeered into the hall. There an over¬weight girl stood urgently knockingon his door. Brown slipped quicklyback into the stairway and held hisbreath. With a heavy sigh, the girlspun and marched toward the eleva¬tors. As soon as he heard the doorsopen and close, he dashed to his of¬fice, key in hand. An instant later hewas standing in a small messy room,overrun with opened books and vol¬umes of scattered notes.Brown hung his coat, looked about,hesitated for c. moment, then bent topick up the papers that had accumu¬lated under his door. In addition tothe standard notes from his wife’ssecretary, there was an urgent re¬quest for an extension signed “MaryBeth Cunningham ” whom he decidedmust be the girl whom he just man¬ sense of the letter. Finally a Knowingsmile passed over his face and hebegan an anonymous note to Profes¬sor Hong Phong O’dooly.*******Oct. 10Tiffany remains something 'of anenigma to me even now, though Iknow her more intimately than any¬one. Even with the scar tissue, she isabsolutely beautiful and despite this,seems to have had very few boy¬friends in the past. Why then did shechase me so, throwing herself at metime after time, though I hesitated torespond? Why now that she has wonme over, does she act so morbidly andeven on occasion deny the seriousnessof our relationship? She is a coldwoman, intellectually overgrown, in¬secure and totally self-centered. StillI love her passionately and she withas much tenderness as she is capableof.Oct. 15All semester we have been studyingShakespeare’s comedies. Why then,was Bean's midterm on The Cante-bury Tales? When I first saw theexam, I thought it might be some sortof mistake. I glanced at my neighborand almost certainly saw him writingsomething about Puck. Clearly, Beanhad chosen this moment to test me. Irallied my memory and where itfailed, invention. I wrote a brilliantessay on the juxtaposition of thetales, and .three terse pages onChaucer’s verse, which, though I hadonly seen the movie, was an un-paralled success. I eagerly await mygrade, knowing that regardless ofthe mark, I had scored a great moralvictory over Bean.Oct. 17Somehow Bean has pulled off astunning coup. With feigned regretand obvious amusement, he ex¬plained that I had apparently wan¬dered into the wrong classroom and Oct. 20Obviously Bean has perceived thatthough my life seems set apart by anumber of odd activities and relation¬ships, the foundation is stable. Tif¬fany is my strength and Bean knowsit. Just yesterday I spotted him in thebio-chemical lending library pretend¬ing to read Cruther’s monumentalwork on the cacti of Japan. He musthave seen me for when Tiffanyshowed up he carefully avoidedgreeting her and instead checked outthe book. I have just bought the gaso¬line and tonight I will learn whetherhe has stolen her.Oct. 21All is lost. I have failed.Last night, after Tiffany had fallenasleep. I removed the gas from be¬neath my bed and began applying itto our bodies. I then woke her and ex¬plained my idea for a suicide pact.Even before I could ready my lighter,she had dashed into the shower andbegan screaming about a lunatic. Nat¬urally I assumed this was the delayedeffect of a nightmare, and pursuedher into the bathroom. In a matter ofmoments it became clear, I naturallyexcuse her bitter remarks; she wasnot to blame. Bean has corrupted her,as a means to satisfying his insati¬able lusts. I don’t know what driveshim, but he has left me with no option:Bean must die.Oct. 23It is done: Bean is dead, long liveLoocipius Bean. I don’t believe I leftany clues and his body is well-hidden.Even if I were discovered. I am sure nojury would ever convict me once thetrue facts came to light.Rabbi Kensington Stoop was watch¬ing the Retro-Progressive playersdisassemble the set to Antigone, andas usual was feeling rather sad.Stoop was especially proud of thisproduction, not the least part of whichwas the popular support for his singu¬lar interpretation of the play. For twoencore weekends, Stoop had perchedhimself atep- the pile of armoureddummies that were now being re¬moved one by one.Pierre had already moved six ofthe bodies when he came across onehe couldn't lift, one that was begin¬ning to decay, was dressed in an oldtweed suit, and looked just like Pro¬fessor Lawrence F. Brown.Driving Western BnoisI thought I saw a boyleaning on a fence andlooking across the roadwhere I was a boylooking across corn fieldsand speeding to Chicagobut I passed fast, hustlingfarm insurance out ofFarmington. Did I seehim, or, remember him?-Jerry Kapus painting blue, Route 66we met with latin hornsand a pink lacquertable for our beeryou said“the past is a desertthat we colorwith our tears’’you were beautifuldark-eyed and bronzeI drove you homespeeding through the Mojaveon a desolate Route 66we spent the nightin your broken bedand rose earlyto watch the watercolor sunrise over the painted desert-Rainer Mack IndecisionChairs are always there.She sat down beside the smileand wonderedif they would ever meet.-Judith PerainoNote Left in MontanaIf I’m herenext winterkeeping down elk meatcut with beef fatI’ll cut kindlingfor your stovethe short stout stickswhittled thinner by thirdsat each blowbut this summer it’sArizonaThere there’sa cactus that shedsit’s needle guardedgreen fleshafter a hundred yearsor sothe clustered bonessawed smooth by gritthe wind carriesclatter hollowlythrough the nightstheir rythmns likeyour litanyso cold-so cold-so coldthat you shoutedas you rolledyour white fleshnot white gainst snowimpressedwith your shapeThe compacted printslead backto the earthbermed saunawhere I stand listeninglaughingsteamHacking icerememberthe axehead’ssecuredwith a wedge of hickorysnitched from your wife’sfirewoodIn the desert’s heatI’ll be justbreaking ground Held AgainstMountains of snail shells’f hollow hulls clack on our plates:My Qlieen S Customs the inner ears’ shape.In certain countries it’s impoliteto finish all one’s food;in others it is impolitenot to.I am a simple scurrying servantcopying every whim you choose,or a jester stuffing my gaunt jowlsagainst you.A LifeRed-green wild rhubarb spear-rootsshooting up from the fallen garden’shaphazard growth, indistinguishablefrom the field’s new hay it’s fencedoff from, are all that’s left ofsomeone’s patiently cultivated bed—Charlotte Carolina Holmes, diedhusbandless, the town record reads.Their bittersweet hair-like strandsmeld with stawberries in the tartsyour hands prepare this end of September.Yesterday the fence came down.— David Sullivan14—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984Hyde Park BankBringsMONEY NETWORKto theReynolds ClubApply for your card today.That’s right . . . the bank thatbrought Money NetworkrM toHyde Park now brings the sameautomatic banking convenience tothe Reynolds Club. 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You can:• deposit and withdraw directly fromchecking & savings accounts.• transfer money between accounts.Whether you put money in. takemoney out or transfer funds, yourbanking is done in record time.APPLY TODAYStop by Hyde Park Bank soon to pick upyour application for a Money Networkcard. A checking account is required. Ifyou're not already one of our checkingcustomers, now would be a good time tobecome one.With Money Network, you've got shortlines, long hours and all those locationsto gain!The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984—15-(NEW BUDSby Aileen Philips FENhopr<thewoan<“I find myself more and more attracted to theporous, the statement that permits interpretation(penetration?) rather than positing an absolute.Not vague — / want each component to be clearbut a whole that doesn’t pretend to be academic,ultimate. ”(Anita Barrows, For the Etruscans)“Well, as in cells and sprouts, growth occurs onlyat the edges of something. From the peripheries,as Klein says. But even to see the peripheries, itseems, you have to be on them, or by an act ofrevision, place yourself there. Refining andstrengthening the judgement you already havewill get you nowhere. You must break set. It’s ei¬ther that or remain at the center. The dead, deadcenter.’’(Joanna Russ, How To Suppress Women’s Writ¬ing)“an art object may then be nonhierarchic (an ob¬servation which Shieia de Bretlivifle makes aboutquilts) showing an organization of material infragments, breaking hierarchical structures,making an even display of elements over the sur¬face with no climactic place or moment; having thematerials visually organized into manycenters.”(Du Pfessis, For the Etruscans)“If for us the void which culture abhors, is irresist¬ible, we will jump without a moment’s hesitationor resistance, at the most arming ourselves withsome kind of braking parachute that will allow usto keep it in reserve. We would rather learn toland than give up soaring — we will not allow our¬selves to be surrounded or subjected, we are else¬where.’’(Catherine Clement, Enclave Esc lave)“There are no grounds for establishing a dis¬course but rather an arid millenial ground tobreak, what I say has at least two aims: to breakup, to destroy; and to forsee the unforseeable, toproject.”(Helene Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa)“I try to distinguish between two meanings ofmotherhood, one superimposed on the other: thepotential relationship of any woman to herpowers of reproduction; find the institution, whichaims at ensuring that that potential — and allwomen — shall remain under male control.”(Adrienne Rich, Of Woman Born)“Women's mothering, like other aspects ofgender activity, is a product of feminine roletraining and role identification.”(Nancy Chodorow, The Reproduction of Mother¬ing)“In women there is always more or less the othermother who makes everything all right, whonourishes and who stands up against separation;a force that will not be cut off but will knock thewind out of the codes. ”(Helene Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa)“Far from existing in the mode of “inner space”women are powerfully and vulnerably attunedboth to “inner” and “outer” because for us thetwo are continuous, not polar.”(Adrienne Rich, Of Woman Born)“Truly to liberate women, then, means to changethinking itself: to reintegrate what has beennamed the unconscious, the subjective, the emo¬tional with the structural, the rational, the intel¬lectual; to “connect the prose and the passion” inE.M. Forster’s phrase; and finally to annihilatethose dichotomies."(Adrienne Rich, Of Woman Born) I was thinking I could sit down and establish aneat, clear cut place to start — a stand that wouldexplain where I’m coming from, but I realize thatthis project itself is a string of beginnings, all com¬ing up together: a row of buds in soil which is newand nourishing to all of them. “We’re coming!We’re coming!’’ they shout and push their sproutsup and their roots down and just grow like crazy,all over the place.Those buds sprout with vigour because theyhave been offended — by the hundreds of rulesand constrictions which keep them buried andblind from sunlight. / have been offended by thehundreds of rules and constrictions which form avise grip on my head and heart to steer mythoughts, words, appearance through the properchannels, to package them up so tight that theproduct can’t breath. I don’t recognize it any¬more. By the time I’ve finished all the scrapingand shaving which the rules have dictated, bothmy product and I are lifeless. I can’t imagine wedo anyone else any good.So I wonder why the rules and I don’t get alongand I realize that we don’t have much in common,in fact we are antagonistic to the needs of theother. Where did they come from? Why have Ibeen so blind to their power? I guess I should beasking myself how I can give these rules such abeating if I’m going to go ahead and use them toenter the common world of human beings — to usewords, sentences, paragraphs, to communicate atall with a solidly established language. I’m afraidto go too far in breaking these rules and alsoafraid not to go far enough. They keep me safebut they blind me to irresistible potentials of newgrowth.I was asked for 10 to 12 pages, not I assume ofdance, of song, of color, of sensation, but I wasasked, I assume, for 10 to 12 pages of words. Asimple, obvious request which I should take forgranted because it seems to be a traditional re¬quest, and I am a traditional student, at a tradi¬tional institution. But, the course for which this re¬quest was made is not a traditional course. It is acourse about WOMEN! It did not exist before afew ambitious women got together and createdit. It does not adhere, in spirit, to established tra¬ditions and conventions. It does challenge them. Itis not listed in the published course descriptionguide, it meets at lunch hour, and part of thereading material is out of print. The course seemsunobtrusive but it has attacked the very institu¬tion under which it exists — not the U. of C. in par¬ticular, but the established patriarchy in WesternCivilization which has given rise to all such aca¬demic institutions, social institutions, political in¬stitutions the list goes on to infiltrate allaspects of our culture.For me, the experience of being a woman under¬neath these colossal structures and their rules islike the experience of motherhood superimposed,as Adrienne Rich describes, on the institution ofmotherhood. Specifically my relation to my ownmother, wherein she is inherently whole and natu¬ral in her loving and at the same time a product ofthe institution: a warm nurturing source, and aplastic fabricated power. I am standing withinand being fed by this colossal structure and at thesame time being crushed by it. I believe the valueof feminist ideology is in uncovering, exploringand sharing women’s experiences and ideas inorder, ultimately, to bond and revitalize 360° ofhumanity.So where did those rules come from? To myknowledge, Plato was the first to make themind/body split — the first to accuse the passionsof the soul of evil. Women were immediately asso¬ciated with the body — a carnal badlands of pas¬sion. Men were associated with the logical, ana¬lytical functions of the mind. This dichotomy gaverise to principles in the service of the state. Thelives of men were split into public and privatehalves. The highest, the most important — the“public” man, appeared in the political realmwith other men to make rules and to set stan¬dards for all aspects of society. The world was ca¬tegorized, organized, hierarchized. The passionsof human nature were exiled from this realm onaccount of their “unstable” nature. Passion couldnot be dissected by the minds of men. Since theycould not control it, they condemned it, along withwomen, to the darkest corners of the privaterealm. Even there, the passions of human natureand the women which embodied it were subjectedto patriarchal power, as enemies to be harnessedand controlled. It is no wonder that women, whoepitomized the mystery of nature and its power,were feared and thus oppressed. Their mindsunfed, their bodies feared, women were kept onsimply as receptacles for childbearing.Institutions of the modern world are erected onthe “stable” foundations of these body/mindsplitters. Social institutions prescribe and enforcesuperficial conventions, political institutions con¬tinue to fall victim to the interests of powermongers, academic institutions dictate ideas andrhetorical forms for theii students, and Mother- “if woman has always functioned within the dis¬course of man...it is time for her to dislocate this“within,” to explode it, turn it around, and seizeit; to make it hers, containing it, taking it in hermouth, biting that tongue with her own teeth toinvent for herself a language to get inside of.”(Helene Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa)“I find that a both/and vision moves me mostwhen it is in motion, that is, when dialectic, whenbom of shifts, contraries, negations, contradic¬tions, when linked to personal vulnerability.../want to embrace movement, not fetish posi¬tions... in a family argument? where both, whereall, are right? generates another model of dis¬course.”(Du Pfessis, For the Etruscans)“True, the old values are at the center. But thecenter is such a dead center. I think the sacredcanon with its holy writ is really boring and frus¬trating its priests half to death. ”(Joanna Russ, How To Suppress Women’s Writ¬ing)“where the border between life and art is down,is down!”(Frances Jaffer, For the Etruscans)“your body must be heard...Censor the body andyou censor your breath and your speech at thesame time.”(Helene Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa)“my body knows unheard of songs.”(Helene Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa)“The Body, and its language, which is of course,all language. These notions of writing from theneck up. All that fear, almost terror, of thewomen at Barnard, of being caught in the old ste¬reotype — women/body, mother/nature, an inferi¬or kind of mind, and flee it sisters, deny it don’tbe trapped by our own feminism.”(Frances Jaffer, For the Etruscans)“The feminist vision...will I believe, come to viewour physicality as a resource, rather than a des¬tiny... In order to live a fully human life we re¬quire not only control of our bodies (though con¬trol is a prerequisite); we must touch the unityand resonance of our physicality, our bond withthe natural order, the corporeal ground of our in¬telligence. ”(Adrienne Rich, Of Woman Born) feisil<ce?tidde?CISwhpershetonarcforSyesof :resh3Sproof iin stmarTmytn inmysuitacredeeexcisideandlateiTcrigicto ppresWfeeliitselin win piIsthatcialreasIntalkstualouthertion:“1tescP«A!itafarteuithInesseseefrombodiBibouioneOiandmonourstaningstradThe’lookI (selfmotlmendo \us ibodwhathatthe(likemovbodandwasallypowatariwonfastI !of Vtionif isstea16—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984EMIMST • LITERARY • SUPPLEMENThood has been institutionalized to insure thepropagation of patriarchal interests. These arethe self-glorifying institutions which subject theworld to their own self-serving systems of rulesand principles.New Buds can’t grow in hard plastic. They needfertile soil, of an inseperable body/mind mix.The blank pages sat for a while absorbing manysilences — unacceptable modes of rhetoric. Thesepages resist the form or mode which demands acertain prescribed structure: on the macro-level, atidy, efficient, butcher job progressing in an or¬derly and logical way, and on the micro-level, con¬cise, rationally dissected ideas forming sentenceswhich are bordered by token capital letters andperiods. Writers and thinkers for centuries haveshaped (confined?) their expressions to fit thisform. But at what expense have ideas, emotions,and sensations been shoved into this rigid formfor an elite, highly “civilized” audience?So what am I proposing? The value of chaos?yes, and the frenzy of passion, and the exposureof silence. Not a form which determines what willresult by it, but which exists as a result of whathas passed through and thereby created it. Am Iproposing to throw out order? Only to the extentof eliminating the rules under which order serves.Institutions should not determine the course of hu¬manity’s life flux.There have been so many rules drummed intomy head on how to write, how to think, what tothink, that I’m worried whenever I try to channelmy self through words that the self-conscious re¬sult will inevitably be perverted. When I comeacross a right word, or combination of words, adeep heat pushes out of my gut in recognition andexcitement. It is not the rules which strike my in¬sides, but the embodiment of something honestand pure which some envious critic latches ontolater for the purposes of analysis and imitation.To set up self serving systems of analysis andrigid, prefabricated forms is a trap. f do not wantto prejudice my choice of content by the limits of aprescribed and conventionally acceptable form.What can I do? Simply have enough faith andfeeling for what I want to say so that it shapesitself the “right” way? Yes! it should be a processin which rules, categories, hierarchies, are uselessin production.Is this really possible? how do I know for surethat I have escaped the entrapments of my so¬cial education and cultural conditioning? or thereasoning powers of my own head?In Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook, Annatalks about the structuring powers of the intellec¬tual associations of memory. She tried to writeout her experiences but found the structures ofher memory had been already shaped by cogni¬tion:“The trouble with this story is that it is writ¬ten in terms of analysis of the laws of dis¬solution of the relationship between Ella andPaul. I don’t see any other way to write it.As soon as one has lived through something,it falls into a pattern. And the pattern of anaffair, even one that has lasted five yearsand has been close as a marriage, is seen interms of what ends it. That is why all this isuntrue. Because while living through some¬thing one doesn’t think like that at all.”In avoiding such entrapments I believe that it isessential to turn to our bodies as a resource — toseek an experience of the world which resultsfrom an intermixing of our heads, hearts, andbodies.But in what proportion? how clear cut are theboundaries of these elements? how do they affectone another?Our bodies give us information about ourselvesand the world around us. We bring (or shouldmore often) our knowledge of the world back toour bodies and their memories which serve as astandard of reality against which to test our find¬ings. Bodies have stories of their own which aretraditionally guarded against by rational heads.They are consequently a resource too often over¬looked.I discovered my body as a source of power andself knowledge in a modern dance class mymother took me to before I started school. I re¬member closing my eyes and trusting my body todo whatever it did. After class our teacher askedus all to sit down and talk about what part of ourbody we liked best. I said I liked my eyes best forwhat I could do with them. It occured to me laterthat I wasn’t talking about my eyeball eyes onthe front of my face but the inner eyes of my body(like Virginia Woolf’s “lamp in the spine”). I couldmove to the music, to the bodies around me, to mybody itself but this inner eye, which gave birthand control to movement, came as an instinct thatwas completely spontaneous rather than ration¬ally planned out. It had escaped those rationalpowers which are conditioned to send signals toalarm the body that people are too close, gravitywon’t let me do that, the scene is shifting toofast etc.I stretch this analogy to encompass the positionof women in a patriarchal society which has tradi¬tionally used women’s bodies against them. Ufeelit i* vita! that bodies be sought as a resource instead of stifled as a ball and chain to liberation “The discovery that mind and body are one!”(Frances Jaffer, For the Etruscans)‘‘Text: my body — shot through with streams ofsong; I don’t mean the overbearing the clutchy“mother” but, rather, what touches you, the equi-voice that affects you, fills your breast with anurge to language, and launches your force; therhythm that laughs you, the intimate recipientwho makes all metaphors possible and desirable;body (body? bodies?), no more describable thangod, the soul, or the other; that part of you thatleaves a space between yourself and urges you toinscribe in language your woman’s style.”(Helen Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa) from oppression. I feel the power and knowledge.of the body when I throw mine up into the air androll like a barrel side-ways. If high heels feeluncomfortable, dangerous, then why is wearingthem socially acceptable and furthermore sociallyreinforced in popular culture. On the other hand,women who find them comfortable or fun shouldbe free from the implications of “fuck-meshoes.”Why was I taught to cross my legs (at the ex¬pense of varicose veins) and why was Nel Wright(of Toni Morrison’s SULA) taught to pull her blacknose with a clothspin? Why are women condi¬tioned into roles and systems they can feel arewrong? Our bodies are real and valuable re¬sources for tapping into to uncover an under¬standing of ourselves and the rest of the world aswe discover and explore with the reciprocalpowers of our minds and bodies — together.I want the body and its inherent, naturalpowers that my mother bore me with and not thebody that institutions of the patriarchy teach meto have.My mama,This is the letter i never wrote because your voice still has that sweet and anxious edge to it. this isthe letter i always put off because “it’ll be better to talk in person, where screams and hugs carrymore weight than words”....but then i’m home to visit, we sit person to person in the house that youtidied up just for me, drinking tea is nice — the room is nice — everything is so goddamn nice — i’mafraid to break the spell.and i think “soon the formalities will be over and we can relax and yell like we used to and then i canexplain.” there’s so much i’ve wanted to explain and now it’s clogged up on all of these formali¬ties.of course, we want to keep things civilized? we’d like a neat and tidy conflict that we can dissect andthrow in the tidy waste basket hidden under the sink, throw it in with ail the plates you smashed on thefloor, i sound so mean, am i angry? YES. angry with myself for keeping it in so long and angry with youfor making everything so nice and tidy that there seems to be no place for my anger to splatter.do you know what i d like to yell about? oh please let’s yell — just the way it feels inside, instead oftaking a deep breath to stall and buy rational time for the emotion to be packaged up into, tidy bund¬les — pretty, censored, lifeless.Why don’t we just vomit it all out for crissakes — spill out our guts on the. floor with hot tears andhandfuls of hair. Then we’d reaily have something to work with — a real language to share. Don’t yousee how the way we’ve been taught to communicate has shut us up?You teach me the way to be a “good girl”: how to dress, how to do my hair, what to be when i growup. you do this for me because you want me to be happy, to be successful. But i don’t want that kind ofsuccess by formula. I want to be be be — I already am!this is what i’d like to yell about because i know there is a part of you that doesn’t believe in theseformulas either, those tidy formulas seem just as fake as the tidy house and teacups when i come tovisit, it’s not realty you — i know you are just as big a pack-rate as i am. you've got better things to dothan to spend the day house cleaning, i like it when you spread yourself out to live with — stacks of youon the sofa and piles of you on the floor, and odds and ends in the middle of everything. Daddy doesn’tlive here anymore, please don’t shelve yourself away.i love it when you let the house go wild, i wish the natural flow would extend into your organizationof me. wy can’t i be a painter like you are? i mean like you are after being a mother....and why did youmake mothering a priority, to continue long after i could walk? For as long as i can remember you'vebeen a mother before anything else, god, it seems like you’ve sacrificed everything for me and Grace.Is it really worth it? i keep getting the sinking feeling that i’ll turn out wrong — not what you wantedat all — a miscarriage by the standards of all these formulas you’ve handed me. how could i make it upto you?MO —- THER i don’t want to change, i’m comfortable without a shape, it doesn’t matter anyway, I’mnot trying to fill a role, a niche in any institution, yes, i combed my hair, oh let’s just get on with itplease? i don’t want to be a correctly dressed robot tike the ones in the magazines. They want to dressus up in those “sexy” high heeled shoes to keep us off balance — to make sure we can’t run away — tomake sure that after eight hours our feet will expire so we will go home to be sheltered — to makesure that we lean on them for strength and stability.yeah, i know there was a time when i would have traded my right hand for a pair of high heels.i had a dream:I was walking home and on the way I met awoman on the sidewalk, broom in hand. She wastaking out the garbage. The first thing I really no¬ticed was the stuff she was throwing out: severallarge paintings, some unfinished, all in brightlively colors. “These are beautiful” I said lookingat them. “My husband and I are throwing themout” she said. “You are both painters?” I asked.The paintings looked like they’d been done byone artist. She didn’t answer and went on ‘Weneed more room for the children you know.” Ilooked at her. She was robust and strong, herthick dark hair was pulled into a tight knot at theback of her head. She had a proud, well-definedface. It was tired looking and she never let hereyes meet mine. Her eyes were focused down¬ward as she explained about the paintings. Shetalked mostlywith her hands. She’d stop andscrew up her face trying to translate her Spanishphrases into English, ‘po ahead and tell me inSpanish” I said even though I don’t speak the lan¬guage myself. I just knew I’d understand whatever she had to say.l “What's your name?” Iasked. “Ella” she said: I jumped excitedly. Mymother’s name is Ella and she’s just like....” whensuddenly a little skinny girl with dark hair ran upand pointed to me then dashed off. “Come back’her mother cried and ran after her. The little girldidn’t listen and skipped away. Her mother ranbut couldn’t catch her and returned. She sweptthe dirt around the garbage pile, tidying thingsup. I admired the paintings again and also a bigoak framed mirror leaning against them. On theother side of the paintings was a big mattresspropped against a tree and between it and thepaintings was a huge and beautiful quilt. “Youmusn’t throw all these things away.” I said. Thewoman kept on sweeping. ‘You take them,” shesaid. I started to drag them home. “Coffee?” shesaid. “I make you some”. “No, no,” I said, “an¬other time maybe? I’m in a hurry.” She noddedand kept on sweepingI really did want to have coffee with her but notin that big old house which had exiled her paint¬ings, her mirror, and her mattress with the prettyquilt, but where would we meet?I felt elated, sad, ashamed.i must learn from her.I must free her.“the artist must possess the courageous soul thatdares and defies.”(Kate Chopin, The Awakening)‘‘Institutionalized motherhood demands ofwomen maternal ”instinct” rather than intelli¬gence, selflessness rather than self realization,relation to others rather than the creation of theself. ”(Adrienne Rich, Of Woman Born)“The species takes residency in the female andabsorbs most of her individual life.”(Simone deBeauvoir, The Second Sex)‘‘She is the incarnation of the species, she repre¬sents the promise of life of eternity. ”(Simone deBeauvoir, The Second Sex)‘‘...the children. They were a part of her life. Butthey need not have thought they could possessher, body and soul.”(Kate Chopin, The Awakening)‘‘She would give up the unessential but she wouldnever sacrifice herself for her children."(Kate Chopin, The Awakening)The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1964—17Fwill hold anORGANIZATIONAL MEETINGfor Summer QuarterSUNDAY, June 4*1:00 PMat5472 S. HARPERAPT. 1The first issue of Summer Quarterwill be publishedJUNE 29-All are welcome to attendthis meeting— The university Theater at the university of Chlcaoo presentsThe Hyde Park JCC Community TheatreSaturday •JUNE 9 & 168:30 p.m.$8.00 and $6.00SundayJUNE 10 & 173:30 & 8:00 p.m.$6.00 and $4.00Tuesday, Wednesday& ThursdayJUNE 12r 13 & 148:00 p.m.$6.00 and $4.00Downstairs Theatre REYNOLDS club5706 S. UniversityTICKETS NOW ON SALE... 268-4600FOR INFORMATION, RESERVATIONS & MAIL ORDER ... Sonya Bums,Hyde Park Jewish Community Center, 1100 E. Hyde Park Blvd.,Chicago, il 60615 CROUP rates available.Tickets also available at university Theater box Office962-8787TIKKUN LEL SHAVUOTAll night Torah Study Sessionin Bible, Midrash, Talmud,Mysticism, Philosophy, and LiteratureTUESDAY, JUNE 5Beginning at 10:00 p.m. and continuing until sunrise.Refreshments available.AT HILLEL HOUSE,5715 WOODLAWN AVE*THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO ALUMNI ASSOCIATIONSALUTESTHE 1984 ALUMNI ASSOCIATION AWARD WINNERSALUMNI AWARDSThe Alumni MedalPETER G. PETERSON, M.B.A. 1951The University Alumni Service MedalJOHN (JAY) BERWANGER, A.B. 1936Public Service CitationsEDWARD M. HAYDON, Ph.B. 1933, A.M. 1954HARRIS L. WOFFORD, JR., A.B. 1948JAMES ZACHARIAS, Ph.B. 1934, J.D. 1935Professional Achievement CitationsJESSIE M. BIERMAN, M.D. (Rush) 1927LEON BOTSTEIN, A.B. 1967DEANE R. HINTON, A.B. 1943The Alumni Service CitationC. RUSSELL COX, S.B. 1937, S.M. 1939, M.B.A. 1950THE ANNUAL AWARDS ASSEMBLY4:00 p.m., SATURDAY JUNE 2,1984BREASTED HALL, THE ORIENTAL INSTITUTEFOLLOWED BY A RECEPTION5:30 p.m. - HUTCHINSON COURTNO TICKETS ARE REQUIREDHOWELL MURRAY AWARDSMARK CONTRERASROBERT FISHERANNA HUPERTKAREN KITCHENKRISTEN MCCUEJANET LEE REYNOLDSHELEN STRAUSTHOMAS UHLTIMOTHY WONG18—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984, f.\Jj \tLi ,Vf S> ?' ' • * * * • JFEMINIST«LITERARY*SU PPLEMENTPOETRY BY SHAWN HALLHunting Myths: 1Fearing their own unearthlinessmen have dreamt of suppressing mensesfor centuries: watching menses andplacentas drop to earth before themfeed the earth, bring it to life.Red making the wild rutting feverrun through all mating beast, makinghim plant his seed, making him ploughwhile the moon rising full intune with the woman-god he cravesshines like his fevered breast for herbut throws suspect shadows when hewakes in the night. His medicineconjured, her touch real: the whore, holekeep her hidden! Only the blood ofkilling holds sacred, only the cupthat he can fill holds the sacrament!Placentas and menses droppingto earth, sucklings being rippedfrom the breast. “No longer will the earthnurture me” he cries, cast from the womb:his mind sets to making myths.The rising sun becomes his, thesinking sun hers. She walks on footpathsto the water edge while he hidesbehind dark trees, starving himselfto become the beaver, the bearuntil he craves again sweet earth.Evoking FuckSucking and gruntinglike Levertov’s pigs rocking,the surgeons latex glovesnapping shut, his fistjelled for the punch —fuck over, under, orfuck, I forgot mymoney. Oh fuck myboot lace broke.Fuck me lover do itmore often or notthat way you don’tdo it right.We are all blood rushingto the great mons preparing andprotruding from the earth’ssurface, gathering us infor the big bang thatfucks the earthfucks us — spews us intothe universe like particle spermsoul and dust seeds strewnand lost forever, while behind usthe earth, exploded, will relax andcrumble, moist and warmgood and fucked: nicegoing.Instruction for Hooking a MinnowHook the minnow inthe meat of its back, inline with the back bone. Thenit will sit upright likefish do, when it sits in the lakehanging from the endof your line: its tiny tailflicking like a small tonguespitting high pitched curses.It looks more naturalthat way. Remember notto squeeze too hard or tohook too deep. If you hookdeep you’ll pop its thin whiteair bladder and thenit will float. If you squeeze toohard, you’ll pop its eyes out. The planet Venus was thought to bearlife for many years because of its thick,Earth-like cloud cover, assumed to keepthe planet cool under high temperatures.Russian probes first attempted to land onVenus with no success, radio contact beingcut off at first contact with the atmo¬sphere. Later, probes were able to land,but communicate for only a matter of min¬utes. Why? The temperature on Venus wasfound to be 900°F, atmospheric pressure acrushing 90 times that of the Earth’s, andthe clouds made up of droplets of corro¬sive sulfuric acid writhing in a carbondioxide atmosphere.Venus, the mysterious plant of love,wasn't everything scientists and sciencefiction writers had hoped for, but official¬ly, science declared it the female planet,and named its topical structures with fe¬male names, by means of radar mapping.But for some reason, when they, the maledominated profession of science, cameacross the highest mountain, they namedit Maxwell. And this is what inspired meto write this poem.Probing the Planet of LoveRenting the Same Roof: A Last ImprintTaking a space in the living roomby crates of books and thestereo, like a cat on the floor asI lay in darkness interruptedby rays from the streetlight, newlyerected thanks to ourolder neighbors, your bed abovesang out as if it had springsand rested above the carpet formore bounce but it was the creakingfloor and the old sagging staircasesinging along as you pushed themto dance with you as youcried out in pleasurestep turn step turn step turn. They found you’re notthe Garden of Eden theythought. No lush hips orforbidden fruits danglingfull with intoxicating juiceslike those of yourfantasized inhabitants.Oh, how they longedto reach you, Venus.How they longed tocaress you,possess you. Butyou crushed andburned their probing touches,revealed youraggresive flesh,fierce pressure, weathermore raging than theangriest goddess — spittingacid rain.But the dream didn’t die:they labeled yourfeatures after yoursisters, exceptthe highest peak.“Oh, no,’’ they said,“We’ll call thatMaxwell. A woman can’t havethat kindof erection.’’tatUvThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984—19/FEMINIST • L I T ESummer PreviewsAlready I’ve seen ankles sweat and horses rise hotFrom the cement, already heard she-cats moaning atMidnight, wind-chimes and dark pianoStrains draining from an open screen across the street.The tires grinding gravel down there could be here in my room —And in the city’s ferment the boundaries warm and expand, so closeThey dissolve until July and August liquify in the sun andA fat brush smears their colors across the palate.What slices cleanly in winter slidesLike melted ice cream down the gutter —I laugh less in summer.She invaded me the last time in a fever,Diminished everything to tiny ants crawling the sidewalk,Horribly insignificant. A brutalMurder occurred in the papers.A man killed his wife and arms and legs were foundFar from the site of her body. The same dayUnthinking, I put cacti in my terrarium —Succulent and green they were and I watered them a bit, put themIn a well-lit window. The next day they burst andSlowly I cleaned the dirty, humid jar.I took six cold showers that day, walked into the coolWhite bathroom where the faucets dripped and the toilet sweatedAnd I cut and chopped until my head was bare. Thenext day I woke in cool white cotton sheets, ran out toThe dew among the morning in my naked head —And still I could not strip a brutal murderFrom burst cacti,Moaning she-cats, sad piano strainsAnd dirty ice creamSliding down the gutter —Or the arms and legs,Or theBody.— Martha Otis r a R Y • S U P P L E M E N TDesireLeather jacketjangling boots hebit off the end of his tongueand slipped it into my mouththrough the slippery sealof our lips.I raised my fingersto my mouthextracted the glistening moundand pressed it into his palm.— Johanna StoyvaOut WestCome here.Let’s make surprising sense together —Right here.Sometimes I wish I could playThat frank Woman —Maybe the cowgirl in chapsLassoing with fine skill — riding in neat circlesMatter-of-factly, knowing what I’m doingAll the time — knowing that me and the calf,We’ll be friends in a pretty big way, evenWhen I have to keep him in line.We’ve both got the same wind blowing down from the mountainsThrough our chests, and hoofbeats in the eardrumsDay and night.Well, now —The sky between usHas a mighty thick pulseWhen we dare to look at each other and laugh,Two bare faces like those mountains.And why should we shoulder our saddlebags and walk off toHave our grub sitting on the edges ofSeperate bunks?If you came knockingI’d spill the beans and stomp to the door —Pull you inside,And we’d shed our dusty jeans,Leave them on the floorWith the creased brown leatherAnd make lovely, unexpected sense together.— Martha OtisSANFORD June SpecialEXTRA FINE POINT(0.3 mm line width)Black No 39001Rad No 39002Blua No 39003Graan No 39004v allow No 39005Oranqe No 39006Brown No 39007Purple No 39006Pink No 39009Turq Blua No 39010(Formarly No 2901)MAJOR ACCENT*Color codingPrintoutsReportsMemosPOCKET ACCENT*Reg. $8.28 doz.Now $4.52 doz.or 40‘ each Expresso.Polymer Point PensSPECIAL INK FORMULA-WON’T DRY-OUTReg. $8.28 dozNow $4.52 doz.or 40c eachCALLIGRAPHIC GIFT SETReg. $5.00Now $2.99 MEDIUM POINT(0.5 mm line width)Black No 29001 Red No 29002Blue No 29003 Green No 29004Yellow No 29005 Orange No 29006Brown No 29007 Purple No 29008Pink No 29009 Turq Blue No 29010Gold No 29015(Formerly No 2900)<0001\MEDIUM POINT(2.5 mm. line width)Reg. 89‘Now 69‘ eachWhile supplies last atThe University of Chicago Bookstore • Stationery Department2nd Floor • 970 E. 58th St.962-8729 or I.B.X. 5-410320—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984FEMINIST LITERARY ^SUan interview withMarge PiercyMarge Piercy is the author of eight novels,including Woman on the Edge of Time,Braided Lives, and, most recently, FlyAway Home. She is also the author of ninebooks of poetry, a play, and a book ofessays. This interview was conducted byElizabeth Lichtenstein and Kathy Lind-strom on March 27, 1984, while Ms. Piercywas in Chicago. Ms. Piercy presently livesin Wellfleet, Massachusetts, and is work¬ing on another novel.Chicago Literary Review: Could youperhaps discuss a few women authorswho had an influence on your workearly on?Marge Piercy: Certainly I think deBeauvoir was a very important rolemodel for me. She was publishing sig¬nificant amounts before I startedwriting and publishing. Doris Lessingis very exciting to me, but I was al¬ready publishing when I read her. Si¬mone de Beauvior was an incrediblyimportant example because shewrote as a woman and she wrote po¬litically. She wrote novels which wereboth personal and political, and thereseemed to be nobody else that wasdoing anything like that.Joanna Russ and I often exchangethings. We have an intellectual con¬versation through the mails that hasgone on for ten years, and we’re veryclose in that way. We read things ofeach other’s, or tell each other thingsto read. We try out ideas on eachother, and complain a great deal. Avery complaining, very kvetchy sortof correspondence that goes back andforth. So there’s a constant, probablymutual influence there. We try to helpeach other.CLR: Who do you see as your audi¬ence? Do you write to somebody?MP: Different novels sometimes havedifferent audiences. For instance, FlyAway Home is very much a women’snovel; Vida wasn’t. All my novels arequite different, one from another,and approach things in a very dif¬ferent manner. Fly Away Home is anovel much more attractive to middleand upper-middle class women thanWoman on the Edge of Time is, be¬cause of the class identification of itsheroine. When somebody asks mewhat novel they should read or readnext, I think about who they are, andI think about what would appeal tothem. The different novels have a dif¬ferent appeal. People who like Dancethe Eagle to Sleep enormously wouldnot usually be crazy about Fly AwayHome. People who like The High Costof Living, a very tight, classical novelabout class, which was reviewed inthe States largely only in terms of itslesbian protagonist, attracts dif¬ferent people than Small Changes, avery full, rich, almost Victorian novel,in which the details of daily life areextremely important. So there arevery different types of books — thereare different types of people wholike skinny books and fat books, re¬gardless of anything else about thebooks.CLR: Do you enjoy writing poetry asmuch as fiction?MP: I work equally in both. My poetryis much more personal. I’m alwayssaying the poems to audiences, sothere’s a continuity with them. But Idon’t have a preference for one or theother form, or I wouldn’t work inboth. I do have a preference for boththese forms over plays; I only wroteone play and I may never write an¬other one. It was all very interestingbut it didn’t grab me in the sameway.Why do I write novels'* Telling a story seems to me a very basic humanimpulse and I am one of those nove¬lists who believes that the novel is, inits essence, telling a story. The novelis about time. The novel is the bestexploration, I think, of certain repe-tetive and non-repetetive patterns inhuman life. And I think that the im¬pulse to tell a story goes back to try¬ing to find those patterns and under¬stand them. Life is so chaotic andthere is so much we don’t understand.So you look for those patterns thatbegin to make sense to you, a moralsense. The patterns are what happento certain kinds of people when theymake certain kinds of choices. Howdoes the story work itself out? Andyou do it in a novel with a purity andattention to the form and patternthat you never can isolate quite sonicely in life.I think all of those reasons are thereasons why you write novels andpeople read them. And I also believethat the imagination in itself is an im¬mensely liberating human faculty;what you cannot imagine you cannotwork towards. Liberating the imagi¬nation is a very important thing to doin the world. I also think that em¬pathy is the basis of ethics. And whena novel gets you to empathize withsomebody who you would not normal¬ly speak to, such as Consuelo, that’simportant. She’s not normally some¬body you’d look twice at in the street.If you can make her reality from theinside real to you, an act of empathyhas occurred, which has enriched yourimagination about the people you willencounter. We’re always in our ownskins and one of the only ways to getout of them, besides the intimate re¬lationships we have with other peo¬ple, is those pseudo-intimate relation¬ships we have with characters innovels, whom we often know betterthan our college roommates, or thepeople we live next door to.CLR: Then your writing a novel is alsoa way for you to get to know a char¬acter?MP:Very much so. Often what fasci¬nates me in fiction is the road nottaken. The choices I didn’t make.CLR: We were interested, in SmallChanges, in the details of Miriam’s ca¬reer as a computer analyst. It seemedto open up a kind of character,woman character, that one doesn’thave a role model for.MP: The computer work in the novel isvery real. I’ve had people in the com¬puter field write and offer me jobsfor Miriam. They say, “here’s some¬thing she’d really like to do.’’ It doeswork on that level. It was very impor¬tant to me. Mostly, when writerswrite about scientists, they don’twrite very well about them, and I re¬ally wanted to deal with science fic¬tion. One thing that was on my mind— it was very early when I was writ¬ing the novel, ‘70, ‘71, ‘72, ‘73 — wasthat it was just the beginning of em¬phasis on careers for women. And Ithought, that’s very interesting. Butthere are also sharp limits to the sat¬isfaction of careers. So I wanted toshow in Miriam the limits to the role-playing available to her in a numberof different fields. Here’s someonewho’s really very good at what shedoes, and yet there are certain limitsin the system to her satisfaction, evenbeing passionately involved in herjob. Certain ways in which the use towhich her work will be put is dubioussometimes as a way of making a corefor her life, that she can always beproud of and be nurtured by. I was in¬terested in creating a very real ca¬reer for her so that thp problems she would be dealing with would be realproblems.CLR: How did you research that? Didyou talk to women in the field? Doyou have experience in it yourself?MP: No. I pick all this up for a novel:all the psycho-surgery jargon forWoman on the Edge of Time, for in¬stance. It’s learning languages. Youdo a lot of it by learning the lan¬guage, then it’s a combination of thatand talking to people in the field. Iknew a number of people who were inthe field, and I’d been curious for along time about it, so I accumulatedmaterial, like I always do with thingsI’m curious about. I’m always clip¬ping, putting things away, and mak¬ing notes and so forth, on a whole lotof subjects I think I’d be interestedin.CLR: In regards to language, youcreated a new, futuristic language forWoman on the Edge of Time.MP: Well, I just thought that the char¬acters in that novel should not soundlike contemporary Americans. Lan¬guage always evolves and is changedby the people that use it, and I wouldhave the society reflect that. But Ivery much didn’t want the new lan¬guage to get in the way of being ableto follow the story, so l didn’t makevery fundamental changes in thestructure. Besides, since Shake¬speare, language has changed verylittle. Idioms change, that's the mainthing that happens. Idioms and pro¬nouns change, “Thou" and “thy’’ and“thine" dropped out of the language,and here I’m just assuming the pro¬nouns have gone on changing.What I do is simply use the thirdperson plural. It’s the only neutral, in¬clusive pronoun we have. Peoplehave asked me why I don’t use ‘per’in my own writing; it belongs to thatbook, it’s a usage of the future.Always in other books I’m enteringsomebody’s consciousness, and I tryto write in a language which has in¬tegrity according to the consciousnessof the person I’m in. In Jill, in BraidedLives, I use a fairly rich language.The language of Woman on the Edgeof time is different from the languageof Vida or Braided Lives, or Fly AwayHome, because they all speak for dif¬ferent consciousnesses. I try to createa language transparent to that con¬sciousness. As I said before, I writevery character-centered fiction. Andentering the 'characters, I try tocreate them, until I can move from theinside out. The language that I try towork for in each books is, I supose, anattempt to create the idioms of thatcharacter, or those characters. Thenovel I’m working on now is in eightvoices, quite complex in idioms, it re¬P P L E M E N Tquires a multitude of viewpoints.CLR: One of the functions of yourcharacter-centered fiction is to pro¬vide your reader with the chance tosee into the life of someone like Con-suleo, yes?MF: Yes. That’s especially true ofWomen on the Edge of Time. For mostreaders it requires less of an act ofimagination to enter Daria of FlyAway Home, though not all of myreaders. Alot of my readers areyounger women, who require an actof imagination to enter a forty-threeyear old woman, because olderwomen are so devalued by this soci¬ety in general. I’m asking a reader toenter into a character like Leslie,who’s a moralist, a very stronly de¬fined lesbian, very passionate aboutkarate, but very apolitical, or I’masking them to enter the life of a fugi¬tive like Vida, living underground.All require an act of imagination tosome degree.I’ve had many letters on everynovel, in fact, from many people, tell¬ing me they are the character, or thisis their life. And I think it’s very im¬portant for people to find in fiction,and in art in general, that depictionof their experiences: as women, tosee our particular traumas and ad-* ventures and misadventures andgrowth experiences depicted. Thatkind of vindication, or seeing one’s*3 own experiences and feelings por-* frayed in art, is an important one.CLR: In your writing, then, are youlooking for, or hoping for a politicalreaction as well?MP: Well, novels are not pamphlets,and cannot, due to the length of timeit takes to write them and the diffusenature of people reading them, pro¬duce a particular political reaction.They cannot get people to go and sup¬port a particular political prisoner, orvote or not vote for a certain candi¬date, or go and engage in a particularkind of political work. The kind of po¬litical effect a novel has is by liberat¬ing the imagination, by increasingempathy which is the basis of morali¬ty, by raising political consciousnessand being able to, in general, raiseoptions, and questions, or enlightenin that respect.Many people will simply recognizethemselves in the books, or simplyread the books as good stories. Thereis no way of programming the re¬sponse of readers. Anyone whothinks there is hasn’t spent enoughtime talking to their readers. BecauseI give poetry readings, and goaround a great deal, I meet a greatmany of my readers. And therefore, Iprobably have a great deal moreface to face contact than most writerswho are not poets would have. Youget to meet, in the course of a year,thousands of people who read yourbooks, and you realize after awhile,if you have illusions about what peo¬ple get out of your books, just whatexactly they do get. You learn thatpeople take from novels very muchwhat they want, and that what youput there and what they carry off isvery different. They take what theyneed. Of course, they can't take whatis not there at all. You hope thatsomeone can’t ready Woman of theEdge of Time and find further reasonfor prejudice against Hispanics. Butthen, from Fly Away Home, onewoman will sieze upon Daria’s love ofcooking and gardening, and say, it'salright for me to want to cook andgarden; a warm, sympathetic charac¬ter in this novel does that, and that’sreinforcement for me. Perhaps an¬other woman will sieze upon Daria'snew political involvement with thetenant’s group. People will find innovels oftentimes what they need tofeed a specific hunger.CLR: Is your poetry, then, a more im¬mediate way of getting a reactionfrom people?MP: A very similar thing is true withpoetry. People take the poems theywant from a book, and ignore theothers, I think. But poetry is certainlycontinued on page 14“... Telling a story seems to me a very basichuman impulse and I am one of those novelistswho believes that the novel is, in its essence,telling a story. ”“... I also believe that the imagination in itself isan immensely liberating human faculty; that what,' you cannot imagine you cannot work toward. ”,The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984—21MA CA'AAAAAAX X A AX XX XXXX X X V WX X/A XYVYYYYVYWXWWVYVW\X X XAAA AX V XXX/XX/X XX WAY VVVNAA , X XWWomen and Children First, a bookstore at 922 W. Armitage, 871-7417, has weekly.events on Tuesdays at 7:15 pm. $2.00:June 5th — an editor and publisher from Spinster’s Ink. will talk about the press’ new:ibook, Out From Under: Sober Dykes and Our Friends, an anthology about recovery::from substance abuse within the lesbian community.June 19 — Yvonne Zipter and Jorjet Harper will read from their writing. Friday, June[<29 at 8pm — Mary Daly will lecture and read from her latest book, Pure Lust. Through:Women and Children First, she will read at the Wellington Ave. Church at 615 W. Wei-;^lington. $5, $3 unemployed.Kinheart Women’s Center, 2214 Ridge Ave, Evanston, 491-1103, has drop-ins everyThursday at 8pm for ail women and every Friday for lesbians only. Call them for infor¬mation about discussion and support groups. They also put out a very complete month¬ly calendar of women’s events, available at feminist bookstores.\,June 8— Book discussion of Susan Brownmiller’s Femininity, at Kinheart.Black Maria, a feminist literary magazine is accepting submissions through the sum¬mer. PO Box 25187 Chicago, 60625.The Chicago chapter of the Feminists Writer’s Guild, “open to any woman whG con¬siders herself a feminist and take her writing seriously,’’ has several projects going,Including fiction and poetry workshops. Their next general meeting will be June 25 at[7pm at Women and Children First. For information on becoming a member and/or sub-y^scribing to their newsletter, call Joyce Goldenstern at 772-5022.Jane Addams’ Bookstore, at 410 S. Michigan, 663-1885, and Mountain Moving Cof-\feehouse, at 1655 W. School St., 769-6899, also have occasional events of literary in¬terest.RockefellerChapelJUNE 3,19849:00 a.m.Ecumenical Serviceof Holy Communion10:00 and 11:00 a.m.Religious EducationClasses11:00 a.m.University Religious ServiceBERNARD O. BROWNDean of RockefellerMemorial Chapel12:15 p.m.Carillon reciatal andtower tour liT a-2r*kmis Outward Bound course,to be a different person.Outward Bound is more thana trip of high adventure.It’s discovering yourself.Learning that you’re better thanyou think you are.And finding out how to workwith others.Come join us on a wildernesstrip of excitement andself-challenge.You may come back a betteryou. Hang in there!Send for more information:NameStreetCity State ZipSchoolCheck the courses that interest you:Canoeing DesertWhite Water Expeditions —Rafting WildernessBackpackingMountaineering Outward Bound, Dept. CH.384 Field Point Rd.Greenwich, CT 06830Phone toll free (800) 243-8520No experience necessary.Outward Bound admits students of anysex, race, color and national or ethnicorigin. We are a nonprofit organization.Scholarships available.Sailing — Outward Bound*The course that never ends22—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984FEMINIST«LITERARY*SUPFUN in ED EN^ a short storyby Amy Silverman“ ‘Passing by the marble works, Isaw Helene among the tall dahlias inthe garden. I went in, we exchangegreetings, and I helped her to fastena fallen stalk to its stake. I stayed fora quarter of an hour at the most. Mycoming had surprised her, she wasmuch more embarrassed that I took asan unmistakable sign. She loved me, Ifelt it through and through; suddenlyI was happy and self-assured, Ilooked at her with tenderness ....’”Elliott read quietly, and she saw apiece of old mucus that dangled fromhis nostril flutter with his breath.Nina sat stiffly on her towel. Herback was so straight that she couldfeel the straps of her bathing suit diginto her shoulders. Her head felt hotfrom the sun that beat through thelight haze, attracted to her black hairthat never bleached.Elliott was on his towel, leaning onone elbow, squinting into the littlebook. The shape of his arm made thehairs fan out in his armpit.Those hairs have been there for along time, she thought. He’s old. I’mnineteen and he’s thirty-three.“ ‘After a hot climb, I lay down. Ilooked over the fertile countryside tothe round Staufen Mountain in thedistance and, feeling deeply satisfiedwith the whole world and myself,basked in the noonday sun.’ ”Nina went on: His face has wrinklesaround the eyes, which are yellowaround the iris. His skin has been cov¬ering his body for a long, long time. Iwonder how many tans it has had? Hewas born in the forties. He had toldher his age and she had counted back.She thought: I wasn’t even born in thefifties.“ ‘What is most beautiful and in¬ward and precious cannot be put intowords. But I wish that night wouldcome again for me.’ ”Nina saw that there were grains ofsand creeping up her legs, which hada matted shine from the saltwater.She slid her heels under the towel andput her chin on her sticky knees. Mov¬ing her eyes to the left, she peered atthe text.“ ‘There we sat, slightly enlaced . . .,’ ” Elliott read. No, Nina thought. It’s"slightly enlaced.” You’re wrong.“ ‘And as she pressed close to me,holding her breath and shuddering atevery caress, her dejection and mel¬ancholy affected me he wenton. Infected, Nina yelled to herself.She lowered her eyes. She saw hisknobby, hairy toes. His ankles turnedout; his calves bellied down like gela¬tin. Nina looked back at her own legswhose hair she had shaved off. El¬liott’s legs had black kinky sprouts.Suddenly Elliott stopped reading,and his normal voice, cracked like anadolescent’s, said, ‘‘How are you?”Nina looked at his pulpy, squaremouth and honey-colored eyes thatwere streaked from swimming andsunning. His sunken cheeks were pale,only a little pink over the bone. Hiscurly hair was stiff with salt and flatfrom being rested on. She saw piecesof grit among the hairs on his chest asshe avoided his eyes.“I'm ... I’m fine, I guess. I don’tknow.” She laughed nervously, thesmall folds of her stomach drummingher thighs. ‘‘I mean, I’m no differentfrom before.”He always did that. She never wasany different from any other time heasked. She thought that peoplealways asked each other how theywere when they were in love in themovies. Did Elliott’s asking her thatall the time mean he loved her?“OK,” Elliott said. "Do you want togo into the water again?”“I don’t know. OK. I guess so.” Ninawasn’t sure just what she wanted todo. She didn’t want you to love me,she thought.She food, flicking the back of herbathing suit down. She brushed thesand off of the backs of her legs an<1 ran two fingers under the straps ather shoulders. Elliott got up and mold¬ed her hand into his. The crash of thesurf and the sounds of the people onthe beached roared quietly in Nina’sears. She kept her hand as dispas¬sionate as a foot as they walked. Shefelt embarrassed for them both; peo¬ple walk in such a silly, stomping wayon sand. But Elliott smiled, walkingbowlegged, and when they reachedthe water he dragged her with him ashe dove. But Nina shook her handfrom his when she was ankle-deep,and stood for a while letting her feetsink into the sand. The little wavescoming up around them weren’t verycold, and she felt the sick sensation ofseaweed between her toes. Shewatched Elliott as he heaved hisscrawniness into a splashing butterflystroke, then flipped onto his back towave. But she just walked shakilyinto the water, avoiding rocks withher feet and pushing her stiff hair be¬hind her ears. She snuck little pinchesof the small rolls on her stomach asshe tucked her arms around her mid¬dle. She watched her thighs quiver asshe rested her feet on the uneven bot¬tom.When she was waist-deep, shefanned herself out to get wet andthen stood, looking out at the ferryseveral hundred yards offshore. Sherealized that most of the freckled,sunburned, beach-bagged and knap-sacked people that were scattered onthe beach had come from it. Why can’tElliott be a native of the beach townwho’s just infatuated with me, andwhy can’t I just be someone off theferry who can get on later and neversee him again? Then she realized: Nomatter whether I see Elliott for anhour or a year, I’m still going to haveto put up with this men business for aslong as I’m a woman. I’ll still have toput out the energy not to be rude orsnapping or mean. She thought: Theway I’m feeling is my fault. He can’thelp it.Elliott stood up from where he hadbeen lolling and flipped the frisbee toNina. She felt the electric sensation offear that she’d drop it, but she caughtit neatly. She concentrated as sheflung it back to him, and it floatedperfectly in the air, yet as he tried tocatch it with the back of his hand, theway the young, tanned beer-drinkerson the beach did, it bounced off hisfingers and splashed several feet outto sea. Nina felt a shock again, but helaughed like a puppy. Nina felt awfulto have to smile back at him; she feltbig and terrible in her small superiori¬ty. As Elliott dove playfully after thedisc, she thought: Why do you keepmaking me want to shake you andsay, “I’m ugly, stop saying I’m beauti¬ful, I’m fat, stop saying I’m in greatshape, I’m uncoordinated, stop lous¬ing everything up and making melook controlled.”? Elliott grabbed thefrisbee saying, ‘‘Sorry! I’ve neverbeen very good!” He smiled, and Ninamanaged to crinkle up her eyes athim, thinking: You say that when youare good and you’re being modest,not when you stink.Suddenly a pain jounced her foot,and she doubled in surprise; lookinginto the water she noticed a crabsplayed on the sand with one claw up.“My God! Crabs!” she said to herself,and heard Elliott’s ‘‘Where? Oh!”Nina saw him crumple and dance withthe hip-high water thumping aroundhim. "There’s a whole battalionaround me!" He laughed, pointing onail sides of where he was standing. "Ithink we can avoid them. Here!” Hethrew the frisbee to her again."No, I’m going back.” She felt in¬vaded, as if she had been stung by abee in her own bathroom, and shepushed her way back to the beach."All right. Mind if I come?” Heseemed to be shouting through a verythin atmosphere.“Fine " She thought: Te!! me what you’re doing, don’t ask me. For thefirst time in her life, she realized howimportant it is for men to be what areconsidered to be, in a social sense,men.Back when they had met, in a book¬store, she had thought he was so at¬tractive with his slender body andtender face, that she had thrown awhole stack of romances into a bin.But lately his awkwardness hadbegun to annoy her. He called con¬stantly and asked for her for hertime, of which she gave him less andless, and this beach trip, she had de¬cided, was going to be the time whenshe told him how she felt: You disgustme.As she lay on her towel, she thoughtabout attraction. I liked the way hemoved, once. ! wanted him to kiss me.When he did, my chest got tight. Doesthat mean I liked it? I didn’t knowwhy he was attractive; most likelythe same things that repulse me noware what were so interesting before.When Elliott flopped on his towel, shesurveyed him: his shoulders lookbony, his back pimply, his legs de¬formed, his hands too feminine, hisbuttocks puny, his feet gargan¬tuan ....Elliott said, ‘‘I feel so good here,Nina. This is good, I know it. Do youthink so, Nina?”Stop saying my name! ‘‘Fine, Iguess.”“We’re good together, I think. I seeus as being so alike. What do youthink?”How can we be alike if one of us isdisgusted with the other? “It’s OK, Iguess.” Oh, Elliott, I can’t tell you howI feel because you feel so good.Three teenaged girls then settledseveral feet away. They spread outtheir towels and put lotion on theirbodies. Nina thought: Am I like them?They looked like the kind who spendall summer at the beach, working on atan that culminates near Labor Day,only to fade after a few days indoors.What’s the use, Nina thought, ofworking so hard at something when itdisappears so fast?Elliott leaned over her and ad¬dressed the group of girls. “What areyou reading?” He smiled at them, theway a man smiles as he talks towomen while accompanied by the onehe considers his own.“East of Eden," the one closest tothem said. She had tiny features likea fashion magazine portrait, and hertanned eyelids were closed halfway.Her bathing suit was tight and min¬ute.“I loved that book. Did you everread it, Nina?” Nina shook her headas she lowered it back down, afterseeing the other two girls lean for¬ward and cock their heads like Japa¬nese dolls, so that they could checkout the male fac^ that went with themale voice. "I read it in college, andstarted it again recently, but didn’tfinish it. You know how hard it is tokeep reading something when you’renot in school. Do you find that hard?You’re in school, aren’t you?”“Not during the summer, no,” one ofthe other girls smugly put in, as thefirst answered, "I like reading in thesummer.” Is she flirting? Ninathought. Why would she want to?“Let’s go somewhere," she said intoElliott’s ear. “I’m hot.”“OK,” he said. “Where?” He tossedhis head up at her as she pushed her¬self onto her feet.“How about some fruit or some¬thing?” she said, her chin deep in herneck as she picked up her towel.“OK.” Elliott said, "Bye!” to thegirls. “Have fun in Eden.”The nearer girl smiled at him whilethe other one said, “How can we be inEden without any guys?” and thethree laughed.Don’t you see they’re laughing atyou? Nina thought."That’s a great book,” Elliott P L _E M E N Tswerved toward her to say as theywalked up a small grassy path to thestreet.“Oh, Elliott.” Nina squirmed intoher shirt and wrapped her towelaround her neck. The stones in thegrass poked her sun-numbed feet,and a sweat formed on her lip andneck.They went into a small fruit storewhich had everyday fruit at highprices. They stood for a moment look¬ing at the array, Elliott suggestingand Nina shaking her head.“I don’t want any, Elliott. Really,it’s OK. The prices are too high. Let’sforget it.”“No, if you want some, I’d be per¬fectly happy to get it for you.” Helooked at her sincerely. He looked lu¬dicrous in his bony body and swim¬ming trunks in the flourescent store.“It’s too expensive!”“That’s OK, Nina, I’m playing. Don’tworry,” he said, and squeezed herarm.He thinks that I want to spare him!“No, really, Elliott. I’ll wait outside ifyou want to get something for your¬self."She heard his voice as she wentthrough the door, checking her reflec¬tion in the glass: ‘Til get you some,too!”Nina tried to find some shade, andafter some time Elliott came out of thefruit store. From around the corner ofthe building, Nina watched him paceand peer around with hawk-nosedearnestness.“Elliott!” she called as sheemerged.His head swung and jerked, lookingfor her voice.“Elliott.” She touched his shoulder.“I got us some cherries,” he said.“Do you want some?”“I told you I don’t want any.” Themeanness is slipping out, Ninathought. I have to be careful.“But you said you were hungry!What’s wrong, Nina?” Ellliott touchedhis fingers lightly to his chest, settingthe bag down on the pavement. “Areyou tired? Do you want to gohome?”“No, I’m not tired.” She could seehow submissive he was to her new,harsher words. What had she beenafraid of? “And I don’t want to gohome. Stop asking me questions allthe time.” She thought: I’m finallydoing it. “I wanted to leave the beachbecause I didn’t like the way youwere talking to those girls.” Just lookat him. I’m abusing him and he’s tak¬ing it.But Elliott’s abashment was re¬placed by a smile. “I didn’t know thatyou minded my talking to otherwomen.” He smiled more. Ninathought: He thinks I’m jealous!Doesn’t he see how nasty I’m being?•‘Elliott, you can talk to women allyou want. It’s just that those girlsmade you look foolish.” My God! It'sworking. Look at that face. “Let's justgo home.”Elliott sat down on a bench next tothe sidewalk. He picked up the bag ofcherries and looked at it, and then ather. He offered it up to her, and shecould see the supplication in his eyes,which seemed to make them morebloodshot and moist. She leanedslightly and firmly took some fruit.She put a cherry into her mouth andbit the meat off of the pit. Elliott hadturned his head down again. She wastempted to spit the pit at him. What acreature, she thought. As if he’s beenwhipped. So this is a man?Nina felt that with little effort shecould lift a foot and step on him. Shesaid, "And anyway, Elliott, I wouldhave rather had grapes.”The face he lifted to her hadstopped entreating. “What?” Hestood up. “What's with you, Nina? Wewere having a perfectly good day,having fun. I thought you were a littlequiet, but that was OK. But what’s allthis?”My God, Nina thought. He's actuallyyelling at me. She felt her handsclench in anxiety and realized thatshe still held some cherries, nowcrushed. She had to look up at him."For Pete’s sake, Nina, what’swrong?”Nina stared at him. She now feltvery small and pale. She felt moresweat on her lip and neck, and thather skin was tight. Sand seemed to becontinue* on page 24The Chicago Literary Review, Friday. June 1; 1984—23 'ithographbyHugoAhnF E M I N I S T • L I T Econtinued fromSon in ®enin her bathing suit. Elliott’s chestlooked huge and strong, and she feltafraid of his arms.“I . . . ” She couldn’t get a graspagain on the anger she had bran¬dished.“And besides, Nina, I don’t care if Ilooked like a fool. I do what I enjoy. Idon’t care how other people think Ilook.” He stopped looking at her andpicked up the cherries from the bench.“Maybe you should adopt some ofthat attitude.” The bag collapsed inhis first, fruit falling on the pave¬ment.“I . . . ” Nina was baffled. Maybe heisn't going to like me any more. Isn’tthat what I wanted? But I feel awful.What’s going on? “I don’t knowwhat’s wrong, Elliott. I just felt ag¬gravated for some reason. Maybe Iwas hungrier than I thought.” The ex¬cuses came less easily. What if hedoesn’t believe me?“Well then why didn’t you say youwere hungry? For Pete’s sake, Nina,be honest. Just don’t say you don’twant anything and then complain thatI got the wrong stuff. That’s unfair.You should know better than that.”Even his lips looked strong.Nina stiffened, but not from embar¬rassment. She just had a realizationthat shook her: Elliott is a real man.His firmness thrilled her and hispower made her want to be held byhim.“I’m sorry, Elliott. Honestly. I’ll bemore honest from now on. I’m sorry.” She smiled at him, and once more hisface became tender. He really is beau¬tiful, she thought.His strong arms reached for her andshe entered them, feeling warm andsecure. The hairs on his chest feltoverwhelmingly masculine.Nina felt happier than she could re¬member. A real man! Holding her!And he event wants to! She felt sowarm toward him that she even want¬ed to kiss him. She had been lettinghim kiss her for weeks, but now shewanted to. As she lifted her face tohis, she anticipated seeing the fullmouth and dark lashes resting on hischeeks, and once again felt the tight¬ness in her chest that she had beenlonging to regenerate. But her headturned slightly, and instead she sawthe three teenaged girls walking onthe other side of the street. The shockof fear leapt into her body as she sawtheir heads turn her way. They’regoing to see us! The nausea of embar¬rassment took her over. She saw inher mind how she and Elliott looked; aslightly fat, dopey-looking girl and askinny, dopier-looking — what noundescribes him now? boy? man? — hug¬ging. She looked down and saw thefamiliar, knobby toes, and pulledaway.‘‘Oh, are you sunburned? I’msorry,” Elliott said, touching her light¬ly with his ten fingers.Nina was trying desperately tokeep her shoulders from hunching andher ears from smoking. R A R Y • S U P“To be honest,” she said, “I’d reallylike to go home.”The next morning, Elliott called. Shewas eating breakfast and answeredthe phone as she looked at the televi¬sion section for the movie pages, outof habit.“Hello, Nina, how are you?” El¬liott’s voice cracked.“Well, fine, I guess, I mean, it’smorning. Nothing’s happened to meyet. I don’t know.” Here it goes again,she thought. I’m so tired of it. She feltgroggy, not really sure of what day itwas, what time, whether or not shewas real at all. She turned the televi¬sion set on to a movie station butturned the volume off. Van Johnsonand a woman actress whom she didn’trecognize were sitting in a park.“I just wondered how you were, andwhether you wanted to do anythingtoday.” Elliott’s voice came into herear, as her eyes drifted here andthere over the screen.“Well, I don’t know. I’m kind oftired. What did you have in mind?”Her voice sounded abstracted, amonotone. Must I always have to dealwith this? Can’t there be a day when Ican forget that I’m a female?“Well, I thought that maybe I couldcome out and we could go for a walk,or do something more exciting. It’s upto you.”“I’m kind of tired, Elliott.” Shestuck the receiver in between herneck and ear and went over to the re¬frigerator and got out a grapefruitsShe opened a drawer, got out a knife,and began to slice it in half.“Well, Nina, we could just sit.” Hepaused. She dug the seeds out of thecenters of the two hemispheres andflipped them into the wastebasket,thinking: I said his name, he said mineright after; did he think that I was es¬tablishing some kind of intimacy withhim? She sat down again. Van John¬son and the woman actress were lead¬ing up to their first kiss. He was play¬ing with her hand and leaning closewhen Elliott’s voice continued: “Ormaybe you’d rather get together to¬morrow?”“I don’t know.” Nina was clatteringsilverware around in a drawer,searching for a grapefruit spoon. “Idon’t know, Elliott.”“Look, Nina, you seem so detached.What’s wrong?” His voice waspressed close to the mouthpiece; shecould hear his intake and outtake ofair more clearly than before. P L E M E N T“Nothing ...” Finding a spoon, sheexamined it for nicks and fingered asmall dent in the bowl. Van Johnsonand the woman actress had somehowmade it to an apartment and were sit¬ting on a couch, her head on hisshoulder, his hand caressing her neck.I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’tknow.“It’s just that I’ve been lookingback on yesterday, and somethingwas wrong. Did I make you feel un¬comfortable?”Oh, how I hate making you feel youhave to ask me that! “I guess I’vebeen kind of removed with every¬body, Elliott.” You disgust me, andyet I pity you so much. “I kind of feelapart. It’s not you.” It was the bestexcuse she could think of on the spurof the moment, yet as she said it, sheput her spoon down and realized thatit was true.“Well, it’s good that it’s not me —“Really it isn’t!” She had to con¬vince him, and at the moment she feltlike crying.“— But that kind of attitude isn’treally fair to others, is it? You can’tjust block other people out, you know.Relationships take work.” His voicehad moved away from the mouth¬piece. Nina flipped a segment ofgrapefruit around in her mouth. VanJohnson was kissing the woman ac¬tress, and then mumbling in her earsomething to make her smile.“I guess it’s not,” Nina said. Whocares, she thought.“When can I see you?”“I don’t know. You can call again, ifyou want, sometime. Maybe I’ll bebetter then, Elliott.”“OK,” he said tenderly. “Take careof yourself.”“Bye.” Nina continued to watch thescreen. As the couple embraced, sheswallowed another piece of fruit.“Bye, Nina. See you soon.”She kept her eyes on the televisionas she hung up the phone. Turning upthe volume, she moved her chaircloser to the set and ate her grape¬fruit voraciously. Then she grabbed abox of crackers and munched them asshe settled in to watch the rest of thepicture. It was over quickly, ending ina flurry of rice. She tried to summonthe warm flush that always ranthrough her when she saw these kindsof movies, but couldn’t. I never likedVan Johnson that much, anyway, shethought. She flipped through themovie section to see what was onnext.MARGE PIERCYcontinued from page 21more immediate in both what makesit happen and the ability to say it topeople. There’s much less lead time inthe whole thing.Of course, what I write is informedby the fact that I have feminist, leftpolitics. In the same way that JohnUpdike’s novels are informed by hisviews on men and women and rela¬tionships and social class — or thatNorman Mailer’s novels are informedby his politics. My books are often re¬viewed in terms of the ideas in them. Idon’t have any desire to concealthese views, they are part and parcelof my writing and my world view, inthe same way that Eliot’s religion wasa part of his. There are people wholike one or another of my books, whodon’t agree with my politics. It usedto surprise me but it doesn’t any¬more. And there are people whosepolitics are close to mine who hate mybooks. They think there’s too muchsex in them. They don’t like sex inbooks.CLR: You’ve said before that youwould not term the future society inWoman on the Edge of Time a utopia,because it is basically accessible. Yet!in Woman on the Edge of Time whatwe don’t find out is how to get to sucha society, how to attain it.MP: We all know. Sure we do. We allknow that everything has to be done,and that there are all sorts of worthy organizations, and the way thingspush on us hardest is the way weshould be pushing back. And if we’rewilling to put effort into it, we canchange things. It’s a question of peo¬ple being willing to get off their be-hinds and do something — whichdoesn’t consist of going to three meet¬ings and getting bored because theworld hasn’t changed. It doesn’t con¬sist in taking part in two marchesagainst nukes and saying, “Well, I’vedone my part; now the world is safe.”It consists of living a life which is po¬litical, which has that dimension forall the years of your life. Whenenough people do that, societychanges in the direction you want itto. The people in power never stopdoing that. So when you don’t do it,you leave things up to them, and theyproduce the world they want to pro¬duce. And I think everybody reallyknows that: it’s a question of whetherpeople really want to push or not,push themselves and push together.If you want to change things, youhave to get up and get out. You haveto go to boring meetings; you have todo the work; you have to talk to peo¬ple who don’t already agree withyou; you have to do all sorts of thingswhich are slightly out of the way ofwhat is most pleasant to do. Becauseif you don’t do them, you don’t get thesociety you want.24—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984M N LITE R U M NIn the Boathouse PeggyStanding in a garage which houseshulls of mastless boatspacked on their sides for winter,almond shapes pressedback to front like spoonsI ask if people ever lay so close.I see my parent’s divorcein this scene: they stand,a grainy reflection in the windowI face, waiting out the rain.Lines of water merge and siftlight tracing their shadowover the boats.Observations Your house shimmered in fir and hearthstoneand bayberry in cloisonne’ jarsand lavender sachet in lace bagswith white satin bowsIts grey stones and red fireplace conspiredand winter lostI touched the globe of your womb— vast incomprehension —and felt the childfelt her shift and stire beneath my palm:there is more life within youthan in all of Philadelphia.— Martha M. VertreaceThe hanging dust, sedimenton shelves of folded sailssinks the outline of their separatefigures into shadow.Except for my mother’s hair,light and random as steam,their faces are flat medievalportraits. Their eyes may be openor closed, their bodies nudeor covered,the image obscuredby veins of water along the glass. Andrew, Three Years,Eight Months— Alison Winter Ubiquitous hominculus.My two-legged mosquito,You prick me continuouslyWith your young, undulledPerceptions,You plague me constantlyWith your eternal questions —Why, Why, Why, Why, Why —After a winter of stiff blue foldskeys in my pocketsand seams running straightdown the sides of my legs,wearing a dress in the springis like walking through water. There are no short answersTo such long questions!Sometimes I cannot hold youClose enoughOr hug you hard enough,But now, please, QUIET!drawing byOliver Mechatie Look into yourself for answers.You, small and new,Still able to flyOn mosquito wings,Are closer to the truthThan I,Wing-stripped,Stretched thin,Stung bloodless,Sucked dry.— Margaret P. MineYOUR ON-CAMPUSPHOTOHEADQUARTERSSales-Repair-SuppliesVISA' • Rentals by day - week - month:Cameras, projectors, screens, recorders(w/valid U. ofC. 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Mannering, D.D.S.Hyde Park Bank Building1525 E. 53rd St. • 643-9639STUDENT DISCOUNTS AVAILABLE!SATURDAY AND EVENING APPOINTMENTS AVAILABLE!More people have survivedcancer than now live in theCity of Los Angeles.We are winning.Please support theAMERICAN CANCER SOCIETY”26—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984mLeaving the Landby Douglas UngerHarper & Row, 1984$13.95by Leslie RigbyDouglas Unger, a graduate of theUniversity of Chicago and the IowaWriters’ Workshop, has written askilled and insightful first novel.Leaving the Land is a quiet and pow¬erful story about progress and tech¬nology and the loss and decay thatthey, aided by hope and misunder¬standing, leave in their wake.Through the life of Marge Hogan and,in the second half of the book, thememories of her son, Kurt, Ungercharts the course of the displacementof a whole community of South Dako¬ta family farmers with the advent ofagribusiness after World War Two.There are some inconsistencies in sucha structure, and the ending is a disap¬pointment, Unger comes too close tosumming up what he lyrically formsand textures throughout. But on thewhole Unger draws his story graceful¬ly, the weaknesses of the novel seemlike land tilled but left untended, ab¬sorbed by Unger’s detail and theweight he gives to his characters andtheir turbulent tie to the land.The Hogan family lives eighteenmiles outside of the small town ofNowell, in the “gumbo,” on the “Lazy-U R” farm. The father, Ben, is a suc¬cessful farmer because he never stopsworking, but also because he is an as¬tute businessman: “He kept his fenceshorse high, bull strong and hog tight.When he first homesteaded, thosefences only closed in a hundred andsixty acres. But over the years, heavoided borrowing too much moneybecause of his talent for constructingnew machinery from pieces of old ma¬chinery and because of his foresight inraising beans when everyone elsewas raising corn, raising corn wheneveryone else was raising beans,raising milk cows when everyone elsewas raising sheep, raising sheepwhen everyone else was milkingcows. So by the time the war camealong, he had bought up three of hissuccessful neighbors who had goneunder during the Depression.” BenHogan’s attitude toward his land andtoward his neighbors is commonamong all of Nowell’s residents, andit is an ominous sign of the more vio¬lent and disruptive business that is tocome. Marge’s mother, Vera, is a con¬stantly ailing woman who cooks, cans,cleans, works all day, and when she istoo tired to stand, sits at the kitchentable and counts her gallstones, whichshe preserves in a canning jar.Marge’s two older brothers spendmost of their time working with Ben,driving into town, fixing cars, huntingin the Black Hills and teasing Marge.This calm childhood is drasticallydisrupted by the bombing of PearlHarbor, but even before the war,there is something far from idyllicabout this for Marge: the crops mightbe golden, but life outside of Nowellcertainly is not. There is somethingthat itches and festers, Marge is notonly a dreamy young girl, but a veryconfused one. She wants to find love,even though she doesn’t believe in it.She wants to please her parents, whoscold her “You won’t get nobody” forcoming home too early from her dateswith Burt Cooney, a real rube inMarge’s eyes. But Marge also sensesthat she will always be alone, and re¬cognizes that she has no idea of whatshe wants, or of what she can actuallyhope for.With World War Two, the Hoganfamily and the Nowell communitychange almost overnight. Thebrothers are killed in action andMarge and her father try to adjust tothe new conditions of farming, whichthey rapidly have little control over.The USDA “encourages” farmers toraise only turkeys, and after a periodof rather benign talk about subsidiesand supervision, a wholesale com¬pany, Safebuy, moves into Nowelland establishes a virtual farming andmarketing monopoly in the region.The consequences are vast, andUnger’s achievement is largely one ofunraveling all of the overlapping andmaddening tragedies that follow.Safebuy begins by buying turkeys— which are everywhere, dying,fighting, killing each other, losingtheir feathers — from the farmers. Later it establishes a turkey process¬ing plant and eventually buys theland out from most of the community.They do this with big money, govern¬ment help, lawsuits and intimidation,but also by using individual farmersagainst one another. An effort by BenHogan and others to sell their turkeysin Omaha and against federal regula¬tions is sabotaged in a most gruesomeway by farmers who had already co¬opted and joined Safebuy. Thosefarmers who do not sell to Safebuyare quickly ruined either by the com¬ ings piled in living rooms, in drive¬ways, in the streets.” Years later,when Kurt returns, the town is a ghosttown, except for a few eccentric sur¬vivors: “What wasn’t finally sca¬venged over the years by peoplepassing through doesn’t look as if itever belonged to anyone now. Thistown is like a sprawling, ragged, sag¬ging heap, washed by fifteen seasonsof winter to the same shade of grayas a pile of old barn boards.”The Hogan family’s relationshipwith this crushing process is all the Unger abandons his characters for awhile so he can make the transition toKurt’s homecoming. There is a lot ofdomestic dialogue and drama, Margehas some fairly provocative dreams.All of this is symbolic, but not very en¬gaging, at times too sentimental (a laConway Twitty and Loretta Lynn) forUnger’s earlier, more complicatedsensibilities. The writer is either hold¬ing onto his meanings or else lettingthe reader draw the most simple con¬clusions.The weakness of this part of theSouth Dakota BluesDouglas Unger's Leaving the Landpany or by pressing bank mortgagesand abrupt foreclosures. The Safebuyturkey scheme does not last verylong. A few years of disease, a lot ofinept management and constant fight¬ing among members of the communitypersuade Safebuy to transfer its ma¬chinery to Minnesota. After the tur¬key plant closes down, however, Sa¬febuy is still in the region, but now itgoes into the wheat business, and con¬sequently, into the practice of lettinglarge plots of land lie fallow in orderto qualify for federal wheat allot¬ment subsidies. With this move,Nowell becomes obsolete, abandonedslowly at first, and then with a frenzyand mindlessness that is chilling: “Astorm of ancient factory dust and bitsof white feathers swirled through thedeserted turkey yards. Men were outnailing For Sale signs in front ofhouses. Then after a long time whenthere weren’t any houses sold, firstone family, then another, then a fewmore slowly packed their things,struggling out across their lawns withfurniture and boxes...There wasweeping, work-sharing, the most im¬movable and comic possessions left asgifts. Then the squeezes among neigh¬bors, the hand-waving as solitary ve¬hicles strained to get out of this townfollowed by the last calls of friend¬ship, the final calls of grief among thewomen... Panic set in more deeply.Families were leaving every day,more and more with an air of emer¬gency. There weren’t enough avail¬able trucks to carry off all theirthings. Farewells began to happen inan instant or not at all. People evengrew afraid of telling neighborswhere they were moving becausetheir creditors might track themdown. Some families were simplygone without a trace. Their houseslooked as if they might come back —old clothes, unwanted furnishings,other assorted and scattered belong¬ more complex because of Ben’s last¬ing and stubborn refusal to sell out,and because Marge has an affairwith, and eventually marries, Safe-buy’s lawyer, Jim Vogel. The secondhalf of Marge's section of the book(although the whole story is properlyhers) introduces this tension butUnger initially does not make it veryinteresting. His characters becomemuch simpler than the reader hasbeen led to expect, Unger is too readyto move on to consequences thandwell on the possible reasons, and hischaracters confuse the reader as muchas they confuse themselves. Margecomes into Nowell one day in the sum¬mer of 1945, sees a man in a sports-jacket driving a convertible, accom¬panying the Safebuy procession ofbulldozers, tank trucks and trailerhouses. She stays with Vogel in hishotel room for five days, he rarelyleaves for work, they drink, theyfight, they make love, they have awk¬ward heart-to-heart talks about com¬promise and commitment. Vogel tellsMarge, “You’re the kind of womanwho deserves someone who’s willingto tear down the wall,” and ignoresher for a day. Marge resolves not tolet go of Jim one minute, and then isswearing at his audacity for askingher to marry him the next. Marge’s in¬consistency is part of her character,although here she loses her characterin fits of gloominess and outragewhich are rather contrived, and notjust by Marge but also by the author.Unger does not give Vogel enough vo¬lition to allow him to be even indeci¬sive. It is not the implausibility of theaffair or of their marriage (whichstartles Jim, but does very little toMarge) which is frustrating for thereader: mistakes are what many ofUnger’s people are made for. It israther the obliviousness with whichJim, Marge, Vera and Ben deal witheach other for forty pages or so. book is accentuated by the strengthof Kurt’s memories, which take thereader back to the earliest days of hisparents marriage. Kurt’s voice andhis brooding, insightful — at times abit too precocious — perception putsthe novel back in focus. The selectivememories of Kurt have the curiosity,astonishment, and lyricism of the ear¬liest passages about Marge. They aremarkedly different, and stronger,from the end of the first section, andfrom the final chapters of the book,when Unger changes years so sudden¬ly he nearly separates himself fromthe strength and seriousness of Kurt’sreflections. Unger gives memories allthe force of his craft. Like MarilynneRobinson, whose recent first novelHousekeeping bears much in commonwith Leaving the Land, Unger writesabout an unusual past that is so unfor¬gettable and obviously important tohim (whether or not it is actually his)that it is impossible to pick it apart oreven to measure it. The intensity ofKurt’s memories is so moving and sogradually and carefully formed thatUnger’s hasty treatment of the pres¬ent is perhaps understandable, but inthat case he should have ignored itand not included the overtly symbolicreminder at the end of the novel.But Unger should continue to tell hisstories in whatever way he chooses,as Leaving the Land has an emotional(and topical) force that is both haunt¬ing and luminous. There are survivorsin Nowell, and elsewhere, there is akind of life and a last hold on the pasteven in a ghost town. Unger showshowever, with devastating, and ap¬propriate, conviction that the tradi¬tions which do persist, and the land it¬self, have been rendered so bleak asto defy even symbolic significance.Readers will remember this book witha knowledge of how easily dreams, aswell as farms, go bankrupt and areforeclosedThe Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984—27Selected Storiesby Robert WalserVintage Books, (Random House),1983In paperback, $5.95Random House has collected forty-two prose pieces by the Swiss writer,Robert Walser, (1878-1956), of whomHermann Hesse wrote: “If he had ahundred thousand readers, the worldwould be a better place.” Walser’s in¬fluence on other German-languagewriters of the early twentieth century— including Franz Kafka and RobertMusil — is generally recognized. Hisown brooding imagination and pecu¬liar irony, preserved in these transla¬tions by Christopher Middleton andothers, is finally available in an inex¬pensive volume for an expandedreadership.The stories, written between 1907and 1929, range from two pages tofifty. Like Kafka, Walser blends hal¬lucination with a clinical detachmentand realism, he writes about both themundane and the unimaginable with acomical sobriety. Sometimes Walser isgentle, lyrical and mildly satiric, buthis vision is ultimately one of pro¬found discontent and pessimism. Thelongest story in the collection, “TheWalk,” is excellent: humorous, de¬spairing, beautiful and complete. Inall of his stories, Walser forcefullyelaborates his own maxim: “We don’tneed to see anything out of the ordi¬nary. We already see too much.”Other stories which stand out in thislong overdue paperback edition are“Flower Days,” “Kleist in Thun,” “So!I’ve Got You,” “Nothing at All,”“Sort of Speech,” and “Nervous.”-LRParts of a World:Wallace Stevens Rememberedan oral biography by Peter BrazeauRandom House, 1983Wallace Stevens remains one of themost enigmatic and distant poets ofthe 20th Century. A career insurance-executive in Hartford, Connecticut, hekept himself virtually secluded fromthe literary world. With only a hand¬ful of close friends, and seeminglystrained family relationships, his lifeas man and poet is an elusive mys¬tery. Peter Brazeau’s biography ofStevens attempts to break throughthe mystery by providing an exhaus¬tive amount of personal commentaryby people who knew the poet. Theproblem is that Stevens did not allowmany people into his private world,and so Brazeau must rely heavily onmore or less tangential acquaint¬ances. The result is something like atravelogue, a snapshot account ofSteven’s life, with only occasionalpenetrating insights. We see Stevensas others saw him, and not as he sawhimself.Peter BrazeauDespite this necessarily cursorytreatment, the book does provide aninteresting glimpse of Stevens in¬teracting within his professional andcultural milieu. It is enjoyable to fol¬low the poet as he travels yearly tothe Florida Keys for vacation withJudge Arthur Powell, and there, tohear of his fist-fight with Ernest He¬mingway. As well, we are intriguedto see how differently he was per¬ceived — by some as merely arogantand proud, by others as warm and af¬fectionate. Brazeau’s oral biographyapproaches an intimacy that is re¬freshing and absorbing, if not entire¬ ly illuminating. There is a sense ofhonesty and fond rememberancethroughout a story that, if nothingelse, paints a colorful picture of anoften somber personality. —RMWallace Stevens er, shortstop for the White Sox, “asgood a needle as anyone on the club.”As he acknowledges at the end of thebook, Harry Stein has researched hissubject thoroughly, but he carries italong with his own people and theiranimated careers. Die-hard baseballfans will probably be the onlyreaders interested in distinguishingfact from fiction, as Stein weaves thetwo together in the convincing storiesof Pond and Weaver.Pond’s memoirs are the more inter¬esting of the two: Stein, through BuckWeaver, writes in a rather unaccom¬plished, and at times tedious, Runyon-esque style, and the baseball jargonbegins to lose its appeal around1916, although some of the novel’sbest scenes do take place in the lock-erroom and on the road with theWhite Sox. Luther Pond’s section onTy Cobb, “Introduction to an Enigma,”stands out as a story on its own, andfeatures the greatest game of 1912,when “athletic looking” fans from thestands were recruited to fill in for thestriking Detroit Tigers in a gameagainst the Philadelphia Athletics. Raymond CarverCarver’s work, which its mass-marketpaperback form seems to indicate asits intention, Fires is a fine volume.The veteran Carver-reader can pickand choose among its offerings, butwill probably end up returning to thethree earlier volumes of stories tofind the writer at his best. —CMBooks in BriefX. * C 'Literary Theory: An Introductionby Terry EagletonUniversity of Minnesota Press, 1983In paperback, 9.95 This and similar episodes make Hoo¬pla an energetic example of historicalfiction. —LR Twentieth Century Pleasuresby Robert HassEcco Press, 1984$17.95 (hard cover)This is a valuable introduction to lit¬erary theory for those interested butwith little formal background in thesubject. Eagleton’s aim is to popular¬ize literary theory, and he succeedswith colorful and straightforward ex¬planations and concise, but fairly com¬prehensive, histories of the varioustrends and “isms.” Among those thatEagleton examines are Formalism,New Criticism, Hermeneutics, Struc¬turalism, Semiotics, ReceptionTheory, Deconstruction and Psychoan¬alytic Theory, and he gives particularattention to influential individuals,including Roland Barthes, JacquesDerrida, Freud, Northrop Frye, JuliaKristeva, Jacques Lacan, I.A. Rich¬ards and Ferdinand de Saussure.The strength of Eagleton’s bookcompared to other similar surveys isthat his critiques are conscientiouswithout being impartial, and he leadsthe reader to the questions and prob¬lems that are debated among contem¬porary theorists without dismissingthe importance of any particularschool of thought. Eagleton’s own ap¬proach to the question “What is Liter¬ature?” is specifically ideological, butit is committed rather than dogmatic.His argument — that all literarytheory' is necessarily political — issuggested more through his forth¬right and responsible assessment ofother theories than in his polemicalconclusion. In order to make theorymore accessible, and also to strength¬en his own argument, Eagleton oftendraws analogies which reach out oftheory and literature itself. At timeshe relies on somewhat corny jokesand rather simple comparisons, butthey are rarely frivolous and areusually astute. Literary Theory,(which includes an excellent contem¬porary bibliography), is refreshingand intelligent as well as informative,surely an achievement for any type ofintroductory study. —LRHooplaby Harry SteinAlfred A. Knopf, 1983$14.95Fun and Crimes in the early 20thcentury. Hoopla is a novel filled withlively portraits of memorable charac¬ters of sports and journalism: TyCobb, Charles Comiskey, William Ran-dolph Hearst, Ring Lardner,"Shoeless” Joe Jackson, and manymore. The story of the years leadingup to and immediately after theWorld Series Scandal of 1919 is toldalternately by two bitter and humor¬ous old men: Luther Pond, an aggres¬sive and irascible sports reporter inhis day, (“men would have traded ayear of their lives for five minutes ofmy time”), and George “Buck” Weav¬ Harry SteinFires by Raymond CarverVintage, 1984$3.95 (paperback)This is the book in which RaymondCarver confirms what we alreadyknew or suspected: that he is still thebest short story writer around, butfar weaker in other genres. This vol¬ume of “essays, poems, stories,” in¬cludes as well an interview with Mr.Carver from the Paris Review, andthe best and worst of the Americanwriter are on display. The best, asalways, are the stories, only seven innumber, at least two of which will befamiliar to Carver fans. The worst isthe poetry, over-represented by fiftypieces which comprise the majority ofthe volume. Mr. Carver’s poems verymuch resemble his stories. They arecolloquial, prosaic, fragmentary, andtend to center upon the type of bi¬zarre or inexplicable incidents whichenrich his fiction. The results end upsomewhere between tough-guy poet¬ry and dream-like mini-fictions, an un¬happy mix which inspires us to hopethat Mr. Carver sticks to fiction withthe time his generous MacArthurFoundation grant will surely affordhim.Somewhere between these bestand worst worlds are the two essayswith which Fires begins and the inter¬view with which it concludes. Theessays, somewhat rambling discur-sions on writing and life, provide in¬teresting peeks at Mr. Carver’s de¬velopment as a writer. He credits suchdiverse sources as John Gardner,Flannery O’Connor, arid Gordon Lishwith inspiring or aiding him along hisdifficult path to success. The inter¬view provides such highpoints as Mr.Carver’s discussion of his past alcoho¬lism, a time in his life when he was “abankrupt, a cheat, a thief” and “aliar.” As an introduction to Mr. This volume of essays, reviews and“memoirs” provides the first publica¬tion of Mr. Hass’s prose writings inbook form. Mr. Hass’s two books ofpoetry — Field Guide, winner of theYale Younger Poets Award in 1973,and Praise — have placed him amongthe top handful of poets writingtoday. In this book, subtitled “Poetryon Prose”, the author’s voice is clear¬ly that of the poet, first and foremost.Mr. Hass cares little for the amenitiesof literary criticism, and wanderswherever he chooses, from poet topoet, and from poem to poem within apoet’s work, in the field which he soclearly loves. Whatever sense of fin¬ality of judgement or of academicrigor that may be lost in the process,is more than made up for by the in¬sight and poetic sensibility which Mr.Hass brings with him to his work.The range of Mr. Hass’s interests istruly vast: from Robert Lowell toRilke to James McMichael. The essays“One Body: Some Notes on Form” and“Listening and Making” shed light onMr. Hass’s theories of poetics andhow he goes about the task of being apoet. His essay on James Wright isvaluable for its insight on that poet’swork, and when Mr. Hass commentson his experiencing a reaction to thebrutality in human sexuality, thereader who recollects “Against Botti¬celli” can return to that poem with anew angle on Mr. Hass’s attitudes.While the volume is often difficult tokeep at for more than a short sitting,the rewards for the patient readercan be great. Taken ith Mr. Hass’sbody of excellent poetry, the wisdomand insight of, Twentieth CenturyPleasures would certainly seem toqualify Mr. Hass above most contem¬poraries for the role of commentator.The title of twentieth century poet isone to which Mr. Hass can easily layclaim. —CMRobert Hass28—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984CLASSIFIEDADVERTISING jClassified advertising in the Chicago Maroon is$2 for the first line and $1 for each additionalline. Lines are 45 characters long INCLUDINGspaces and punctuation. Special headings are20 character lines at $2 per line. Ads are not accepted over the phone, and they must be paidin advance. Submit all ads in person or by mailto The Chicago Maroon, 1212 E. 59th St.,Chicago, III. 60637 ATTN Classified Ads. Ouroffice is in Ida Noyes Rm. 304. Deadlines:Wednesday noon for the Friday issue, Fridaynoon for the Tuesday issue. Absolutely no exceptions will be made! In case of errors forwhich the Maroon is responsible, adjustmentswill be made or corrections run only if thebusiness office is notified WITHIN ONECALENDAR WEEK of the original publication. The Maroon is not liable for any errors.SPACEStudios, one, two & 3 Bedrms some Lake viewsHeat included. Laundry facilities. Parkingavailable. 5°® Student Discounts. HerbertRealty. 684-23339-4:30 Mon • Fri.Sublet with option to renew. Clean 2 bdrm aptat Cornell and 50th. Nice view close to shopping, bus, 1C. Avail. June 1.955-9077.SUMMER SUBLET 56th 8. Dorchester, large 1br. Sunny, good security, well furnished.$340/mo. (negot) 643-6046.Fern rmmte to share beaut frnshed apt close tocampus $275 begin July 1 or before Call Miriam667-0445 or leave message 674-3715.4 Bedroom 2 Bath Kenwood Condo. Huge Living Room with 17' oak build in. Dining Roomwith 14' oak built-in. Oak Butler's Pantry Eat-in Kitchen. Private back porch. #2,6,28 1 blockaway. UC bus route at corner. For sale byowner. S87,000. 268-3494.Large 1 BR apt with oak floors. Avail June 29Located at 56th/Kimbark S525/mth ph 684 36885 rm. ideal apt. on UC campus. Summer subletw.poss. opt to renew. $500 per mo. neg. 3486792.TUDOR HOME in great Kenwood location. 31/2 bdrm. 2 bath full bsmt. w/bar, marblefrplc, french windows, oak firs slate roof & 2car gar by Owner 924 4103 188,500Charming hse. cent. H Pk. 7 rm w.lge. kitch. 3ful bthrm. fnsh. bsmt. dbl. gar. frt. grdn. backside grass yds. new appl. & amen, incl cent.hi/a. cond lots more move in cond. $159,900.288-8177 aft 7 pm.56th & Harper condo. 2 bdrms, large, kitch,w/all mod. appl, Ivng, & din. rms. beautif.hdwd firs., a/c, sunny bk. porch, wlking. dist.to UofC, 1C & shops. $60,000. Ray 890 9390.Summer sublet w fall option turn eff no util$275 1st 2 mos cash n advance no deposit forsummer 643-7962 late eves, (avail. 6/15 or 7/1).Female grad/employee to share 6 rm turn aptw 2 females 5711 So Kimbark. 5185 inc. util.Avail 7/1 call Minna 962-1517 or 667-7611.FALL OPTION 1BR IN SPACIOUS 2BR SAFEAREA, B BUS, COOP. FURN RENT & DATESNEGO eves 947-9011.ONE YEAR SUBLET FURNISHED APT.APARTMENTSFOR RENTGRAFF &CHECK1617 E. 55th St.Spacious, newly-decorated IV], 2Vi,studios & 1 bedroomapartments in a quietwell-maintained buildingBU8-5566The Closer You Get The Better We Look!Hyde Park’s Completely MenApartment ResidenceA Short Walk From The lake And:Harper Ct. • University of ChicagoThe /. C. • RestaurantsIncludes• Master T.\. Antenna • Sew Ceramic Tile• Ind. Control Heal • Sew Appliances• Wall to Wall Carpeting * Sight lioormen• Central Air ConditioningI Bedroom from $405 - 2 Bedroom from $5255200 S. BIACKSTOAE AYE.1 BLOCK WEST OF HARPER COURTk i ni.6H4-S666 Easy Hyd. Pk. 2 bedroom, 1 1/2 baths, study.Refinished wood work, oak floors, fireplace.All appliances. 12 or 13 mo. lease, starting inlate July/early Aug. $825/mo. (incl. heat) Caravailable. 752-3489.Arrange as 2 or 3 Bdrm, 56th & Kimbark, Sunny. Washer, Dryer, Dishwasher, Oak Firs,Priced To Sell, $56,000. Call 876-3512 or 947 9432CONDO FOR SALE BY OWNER: 2br, sunny,large liv rm, bright, Irge din rm, wb fireplace,oak firs, low mnthly assessmt, lovely bldg,walk to univ. call 324-2588.4 Room co op apt. for sale. Walk to Campus.$14,900. Negotiable. 536-3881.QUIET GRAD student wanted for nice, sunny3 person apartment near Co op and I .C. $185 &utilities, available June 15. 667-2273.STUDIO and ONE bedroom apts. nowavailable 52nd & Woodlawn. 5220-S295. 684-5030bef 9am, eve.Summer sublet only. 56th & Dorcnester. Onefully furnished bedroom in large furnishedbright and secure 3 bedroom apt to share with2F. Laundry in Bldg. Close to amenities &trans. mid July to Sept end (dates neg) 288-1991Sublet July-August to Responsible Party Lovely 5BR house with yard Blackstone & 57th 9470778 Rent Negotiable. 1BD in 3BD Apt for summer sublet. Great location at 55th and Ellis $150 per month. Call Mikeat 363 3468 or Adam at 288 0860.SUBLET 1 of 2 bdrms in sunny 3rd fl apt withNO ROACHES, furnished, 54 & Harper $150nego non-smoker grad student pref 947 9720.SUMMER 1 turn Irge sunny BR in 3BR apt.Lndry in bsmt. Rent negot. 56 & Univ 947-8277.Vintage 3 bdrm. 2 bath apt. with wbf avail.June 15th $650 per month. Two months Securitydeposit required no dogs. 643 4253 or 1846 after5.One bdrm. available in 4 bdrm. 2 bath apt.w/huge kitch. ana a/c. Two blks from campusRent 150/month w/100 dollar deposit. CallCraig 947-0586.FEMALE RMMATE WANTED in two b/roomgorgeous & safe apt. avail imm for summerAND nxt yr. 56th Wdlawn. Must see it! 947-8676Carol.1 bdrm apt to sublet for summer w/option torenew. Excellent location on B and C bus rts.Well maintained building (54th & Cornell.)Rent 5165/mo. Avail now. Call 684-6533.SPACE WANTED2 bedroom apt needed by couple should be nearBillings Hosp. Burke 491-1892.SUMMER SUBLET Spacious 2 bedroom apt ina safe building in 4700 S. Lake Park Laundryfacilities in the building Very sunny iake frontview Rent Negotiable On the D route mini busCall 924-1092 or 268 7244.Room for rent in sunny, quiet, spacious apt.VERY close to campus, available mid June$l40/mo 4- utils, female preferred. 288-0546.condo for sale by owner 3950 N Lsd. 16th fl., 24hr sec. indr store, clnrs, parking. 10 min toloop, bus at door, must sell by June 975 1292.Female roommate wanted to share moderna/c 2 bedroom 2 bath apt at 5050 S Lake Shore.Available now or Sept $317. 947-0332.Fully furnished 2-room apt near 48th & Greenwood campus bus stop. Large, bright, clean,frig and microwave oven, but no kitchen. Aircond, tile bath. 5300/mo includes electricityGrad student preferred. Ive name, phone, at285 5392. ,For Sale By Owner: Spacious One Bedrm Condo 3rd fl-very sunny 3 blks to UC call 947 9208.Apt on 3rd floor of Kenwood home availablelate summer in exchange for time with kids 17,15, 11. Pleasant neighborhood on UC Busroutes. Please call 548-0016 with references. Two mature responsible law students (29,25)want to rent a 3 to 5 BEDROOM HOME for the1984 85 academic year. We are nonsmokersand have no pets Please call Joshua Hornickat 684 5929 or Doug Weinfield at 288-3457.Thank youPHI GAMMA DELTAfor pole-sitting in our behalf.Thanks also to the manystudents and faculty whocontributed to the care ofLa Rabida's chronically illchildren.LA RABIDA CHILDREN'SHOSPITALand RESEARCH CENTEREast 65th streetat Lake MichiganChicago, Illinois 60649Put the pastin yourfuture!I.IVF IN AN HISTORIC LANDMARKThoroughly 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,Afon-Th 12-7, Fri 12-4 Or call for information and. appointment—643-1406(jCMen i ieie#fonsel(w2 Fast S6th Street''In Hide Park, across the park fromIhe Museum of Science and hidustnJ-Aju.t! 11 niMOje < 'run*?' \!.m.igtt! h* Mtn*\ Im W: MINOLTA:: AFC :World’s■Smallestlly Automatic]15mm• Infrared Autofocus• Decision-free program expo¬sure• All glass f/2.8 lens for crispclear pictures• Optional accessory flash• Minolta USA 1-year limitedwarranty included$12995The NewVision oFPhotographyNOW RENTINGIVIDEO MOVIESilHundreds of titles!II One free 24 exposureI film with each roll of col-ior film brought in for pro¬cessing and printing,Iwith this coupon only.|Does not include discfilm.OFFER EXPIRES 6/8/84model camera1342 E. 55th493-6700The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984—29FOR SALESIMMONS FULL SIZE SETExtra firm inner spring matt, & box. Brandnew, still wrapped. Value $325 for $95. Freeframe & delivery. 883-8881.1978 Honda Civic 43,000 cerfified miles, hat¬chback, stick, almost new tires, am/fmcassette radio. SI,800.493-9122.21' wooden sloop 7'6" beam, 4'8" draft main,genoa jib staysail Built 1937. Crosby design 5' 2hp Seagull, dinghy, stored Rentvers. day 2-1930evening 643 5669$1500.BICYCLE High Quality full OR 25" chromolyframe, Shimano 600EX perfect condition $250;SPEAKERS Criterion 4way gd cond $65 Chas947 0974.SAILBOARD FOR SALE - bic dufour v. ing, abs12x27" w/fixed daggerboard, custom regattasail & 14' 9>2" polyester mast, matching lifepreserver. Won in radio contest, only in wa*eronce. $600 or best offer, Ms, Demp 684-4610days, 783-1873 evenings.VW'79 DASHER 2 dr. completely new sr tiresno rust, 53K miles, am/fm, ac, 4speed, exccond., 52750/offer call 955-6362Large condo for sale 3BR 3BA 51st at lakebalcony, buses, I.C. $77,500. Owner 366-7383BED FOR SALE full sz mattress boxspring &frame, all like new. Must sell—moving $150ngtble. 241-5596 eves.RUMMAGE SALE-Sun., June 3; 5125 Kenwood; 9:00AM.Piano tor sale Jansson spinet S750 well main¬tained, handsome cherry cabinet, 493-4387 evesafter June 16, call 493-1694.1980 Buick Skylark. 26,700 miles, AM/FM st,A/C, new battery. Ex cond, runs well. $4200 orbest otter. 643-0795 (keep trying).PEOPLE WANTEDPeople needed to participate in studies onmemory, perception, and language processing. 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.ACTIVIST: MAKE DEMOCRACY WORK IIlinois largest public interest organization hassummer and full time positions available in itspolitical outreach and fundraising staff. Shapeenergy, toxic, and utility rate policies. Salary$160 220 & benefits. Hours 1:30 to 10:30 P M.For interview call: 427-6262 Illinois Public Action Council.Students needed to babysit in my homethrough the summer. Occasional evenings only324 9533.STUDENT CREDIT UNION is looking fordedicated volunteers interested in office operations and banking. Apply in person or callDavid at 324 1890.Studios, 1 8l2 BedroomApartments AvailableSome Nice Lake ViewsGood LocationHeat IncludedParking AvailableCALLHERBERT REALTY684-23335 % Student Discounts9:00 A.M.-4:30P M.Monday thru Friday Room in Kenwood home in exchange for driv¬ing and cooking for 14 yr old girl beg septfemales preferred 642-9269SERVICESJUDITH TYPES-and has a memory. Phone955-4417.JAMES BONE Word Processor/Typist/Edifor: using the IBM Displaywriter system.363-0522PRECISION PLUS TYPING-IBM WordProcessor-Fast accurate service includesediting. 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. 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Fast, accurate, call 667 0956 (evenings)WE DDING Photography & InvitationsYour wedding Day should be special. It's atime of gathering and celebration with yourfriends and relatives. Good professional por¬traiture and documentation of this specialevent lasts forever. Visit with us.The BETTER IMAGE 1344 E.55th 643-6262Video tape rentals VHS only. Ask about our Introductory Specials. Model Camera 1342 E 55thHYDE PARKCharming, vintage buildingin East Hyde Park now hasa limited selection of lake,and park view apartments.Situated near I.C., we offerStudios, 1 & 2 bedroomunits with heat included!University of Chicagostudents, staff, ana facultyare offered a ten percentdiscount. For further infor¬mation, Call324-6100CALLHERBERT REALTY684-23335 % Student Discounts9:00 A.M.-4:30P M.Monday thru FridayTHE FLAMINGO APARTMENTS5SOO South Shore DriveSTUDIOS & ONE BEDROOMS•Unfurnished and furnished•U. of C. Bus Stop•Free Pool Membership•Carpeting and Drapes Included•Secure Building - Emily's Dress Shop•University Subsidy for Students & Staff•Delicatessen •BeautyShop•Barbershop •T.J.'s Restaurant•Dentist •Valet ShopFREE PARKINGMr. Keller 7S2'380030—The Chicago Literary Review, Friday June 1, 1984• — —■ - I - w w...units with heat included!University of Chicastudents, staff, anare offered a ten igcatdiscount. ForfurtK 1motion, Call acuityercenter infor-324-6100 st.SUMMER BOARD CONTRACT at Phi DeltaTheta. Any combination ot 5 lunchs and 5 din¬ners. $5 each dinner, $3 each lunch. This willOnly be ottered if enough people sign up. SoCall Now! Scott at 753-3990 or 752-6878.CUSTOM BOOKCASES —Designed and builtto order to add attractive efficiency tohallways, closets, studies. 684-2286.BICYCLES FOR RENT & SALE BRAD LYT-TLE 324-0654.Established women's therapy group forgraduate women ages 25-35, opening onemember. Screening interview required, N/C.One opening, also career women's group ages30-40. Mary E Hallowitz, MSW, CSW, ACSW947-0154. you? Mad at your boyfriend or girlfriend forbreaking up? Got something on your mind thatyou don't want a friend to know about? TheHotline is here if you want someone to listenand share. You can call us seven days a week,between 7pm & 7am. 753-1777.THE MEDICI DELIVERS!667-7394Sun-Thurs: 4pm-ll :30pm, Fri-Sat: 4pm-12:30am.*BEST BREAKFAST!-The Medici on 57th Street serves breakfastfrom, 7:30 to 11:30 every weekday. Hot from-the-oven Croissants, Omelets, Waffles, Pan¬cakes, Eggsetera and our incredible coffee, ofcourse. Make your breakfast a tasty one!!CARPENTRY and REMODELING Call David684-2286SCENESBuffet Dinner and Music in the Garden, June 2at Crossroads, 5621 S. Blackstone. $3.00 adults$1.50 children no reservation necessary.AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL meets atCrossroads (5621 Blackstone) on Monday, June4, at 7:15 p.m.LOST AND FOUNDSTUDENTS Please come to the Registrar'sOffice (Adm. 103) before you leave for theSummer if you have lost ANYTHING. Allunclaimed articles will be disposed of at theend of Spring Quarter.Someone took my Calvin Klein denim jacketand I loved it. Please at least put the keys inmy folder Melissa Kaleta 324-1107.PETSLOVELY KITTENS-FREE. For adoption,need T.L.C. Call Ruth 221-7064.PERSONALSTo the Mole—so they let you out of the closetfor the summer, huh? Have a happy one—rt.Martin, mon vieux, quel plaisir de quitter ledesert culture, hein? Enfin on va vivre. TLDWE E BS need love too.Pookie & Pina—Looking forward to a long, hotsummer w/ both of you guys. Happy 20th R JG! FEELINGTENSE?...ANXIOUS?NERVOUS?Selected volunteers will receive free anxietytreatment at the University Medical Center inreturn for participation in a 3 week evaluationof medication preference. Participants willalso receive $60.00 in return for their participation in the evaluation. Participants must be 21years of age. Involves only commonlyprescribed medications at therapeutic doses.Call 962-3560 for information or to volunteer.Mon-Fri, 10:30am-3:00pm.ACHTUNG! GERMAN!TAKE APRIL WILSON'S FIVE WEEK GERMAN COURSE & HIGH PASS THE SUMMERLANGUAGE EXAM! Classes meet M-F,beginning June 18. Two sections: 10:30 12:30 &6-8pm. Readings include Kafka, Freud, Nietzche, Buber & more! For further information,and to register, call: 667-3038.KIDS: EARN CASH!If you are in grades 1 thru 7, you can earn S4/hrby being in fun study at U. of C Call 962-8846for info.LANGUAGE COURSES6 WEEK SUMMER SESSION : June 11 July20. Classes in FRENCH, GERMAN, LATIN,SPANISH are offered to all graduate studentsby the Chicago Cluster of Theological Schoolsat the Lutheran School of Theology. Seespecific ads below. For information andregistration call Gerlinde F. Miller, PhD, Program Coordinator 363-1384.TWIMC thanks Arthur.Fabulously handsome, fun loving,photographer, 19, seeks warm, loving, likeminded female. Any age, any size. Must be anavid reader of Bloom County Reply to: themole, in the closet, in the business office.NOT FEELINGAS HOT AS THEWEATHER YET?Has the coming of Spring left you behind in thecold of winter? Is there a problem you thoughtwould go away over break that didn't? Afraidto come out of winter hibernation? Call us atthe Hotline if you want to talk. You can call usseven days a week, 7pm-7am at 753-1777.LONELY OR UPSET?Are you angry about what a friend has told FRENCH COURSESthrough CCTS at the Lutheran School of Theol.BEGINNING READING: T/Th 8 10 pm, room203; FEE: $120 (reg. fee S20 incI); beg. June12. ADVANCED READING: Th 68 pm;rm203; FEE: $75; beg. June 14. For info andregistration call Mary Louise HolmanBekkouche at 667-2312 or 962 3481 or GerlindeF. Miller, Program Coordinator: 363-1384.GERMAN COURSESthrough CCTS at LSTC. All classes in rm 309. 6WEEK INTENSIVE: Section 1: M-F 9 11 a.mSection 2: M Th 5:30-8 pm; beg. June 11, 84.FEE: $230 (registration fee of $30 incl.). ADVANCED READING: T/Th 8-10 pm; FEE:S120, (reg. fee of $20 incl); beg. June 12, 84.CONVERSATION for BEGINNERS: T/Th11:30-1:30; (or by arr); FEE: $120 (reg. fee S20incl). CONVERSATION for students withreading knowledge: M/W 8-10pm; FEE: S120SHARE UFE —DONATE BLOODuniversity of Chicagomedical centerBLOOD BANKCall 962-6247 for appointment ACTIVISTS!Work for social and economicchange Illinois Public ActionCouncil seeks articulateindividuals to work inprogressive politics. Job focus isfundraising and public outreach.Hours: 1:30 p.m. -10:30 p.m. .Starting salary $160/week.v Pf LOOP& ^ 427-6262I’m a 22 year old high school dropoutwho will earn $40,000 in 1984!cfnonn0/1 mX,e,arnin^ .so rar ,at $15.50/hr. plus overtime, I'll earn over540,000 for 1984 as a lithographic stripper/fiim assembler in the GraphicArts Industry. I love my job and now I want to tell others how to teachthemselves as I did. If you've thought about the graphic arts but weren'tsure if it was right for you, find out now by sending for POCKET PAL, thebest and most comprehensive book I know of if you're searching for oneot the numerous challenging, creative, well-paying career opportunities ingraphic communications such as printing, publishing, advertising,photography, computer programming, graphic design, layout artist, orsales. I his industry makes up one of the largest manufacturing industriesm the world today. This is definitely not one of those get-rich-quickschemes, it s for men & women serious about their career future.Send check or money order for $9.95 (postpaid) and I'll include my list ofbooks and publications covering the industry plus a brief informative let¬ter on how I eot involved. Or send just $2.00 for the list and my letter(money refundable towards first order) to:Roger Horton, Horton Enter¬al (i^' Kenosha, Wl 53140. Please allow 2-3 weeksfor delivery. And welcome to an exciting career!( .1-4 ) 1 ‘Ml*(reg. fee of $20 incl). For info and reg callGerlinde F. Miller, PhD (UC), native speaker363-1384 or LSTC Grad. Studies Office 753-0725.LATIN COURSESthrough CCTS at the Lutheran School of Theol.BEGINNING LATIN: by arr. (1st session Mo,June 11, 6-8 pm; rm 203). FEE: $120 (reg. $20inc). INTERMEDIATE LATIN: by arr. (1stsession Mo, June 11, 8-10, rm 203). FEE: $120(reg. fee of $20 incl). For info and reg. callKathy Krug, MA (UC) 643-5436 or Gerlinde F.Miller, Progr. Coordinator 363-1384.SPANISH INTENSIVEthrough CCTS at the Lutheran School of Theol.CONVERSATION AND READING: M-Th 6 8pm; rm 206; FEE: $230 (reg. fee of $30 incl);materials provided. For info and reg callIsabel Civil, ABD (UC) 493-2418 or Gerlinde F.Miller, Program Coordinator 363-1384.$60! $65! $75!GET HOME CHEAPLY BY GREYHOUNDCHARTER! GO TO NEW YORK CITY $65WASHINGTON, DC FOR $60 ORBOSTON/NEWHAVEN for $75! UCSTUDENTS ONLY! PLENTY OF LUGGAGESPACE ! CALL 947-0558 NOW!!!SENIOR WEEK JUNE 1-8PUB NITE, ALUM PICNIC, PRESIDENT'SRECEPTION, CLASS PARTY. See MaroonadsSUMMER GRADS TOO!NEED GRADUATION TIXGet Big Bucks: call 222 56659 5M F.PREGNANT?UNDECIDED?Consider all the options. Want to talk? CallJennifer — 947 0667 —anytime.GRADUATE STUDENTSAlleviate academic anxiety this summer byregistering for the Office of Continuing Education's "Reading French" course. In just sixweeks this non-credit course will prepare youfor the Graduate Foreign Language Exam inFrench — and another requirement will bitethe dust! Class schedule: Monday Friday, 9:30A M.-12:00 noon, June 18-July 27. Cost: S200.Registration deadline: June 1. For full information and to register, call ContinuingEducation at 962-1722.SUPER FLOSSMOORHOMEEnjoy the finest schools, walk everywhere dayand night, 30 min. frm. Univ. of Ch. 5 bdrms.2.5 baths, family fm. wth firpl. eat in kit. quali¬ty constr. wood deck wth grape arbor, woodedlot 4- more $148,500. Ann Butler. Baird &Warner 481-1855.GAY LESBIANPRIDE WEEKUC GALA will march in the Chicago Gay PrideParade Sun June 24. Meet 1pm Addison &Halsted and look for the UC GALA banner.Also Inter collegiate Dance Sat June 23, 9-12 atMedusas. For further info: 962 9734 or 929 4357.5254 S. Dorchester Ave.Walk to museums, parks, the lakeSTUDIO APARTMENTSFurnished and unfurnishedutilities includedLaundry roomSundeck • Secure buildingCampus bus at our doorCall 9-5 for appointment324-0200FOR SALEBY OWNERCo-op apartment onBlackstone near 57th.Prime location-walk tocampus, schools, stores,train, beach. Sunny liv.rm., din. area, 3 bedrms.,2 baths, eat-in kitch. Backporch and safe, largeyard. Well mad. andmaintained o-flat. Lowtaxes and assess. $72,500.Call 752-2554 forinfo, or appt. MUSICAL?Blackfriars is now accepting proposals for itsfall '84 production. Do you want to direct ashow? Let us know. Drop off a proposal in ourIda Noyes P.O. Box or call Dan Beimer at 753-2240.CHINESEA ten week intensive course in beginning Mandarin Chinese, and evening courses at thebeginning, intermediate, and advanced levels,will be offered this summer by Cheng YangBorchert, Senior Lecturer in Chinese. Formore information, please call 493-6420.AN ORIENTAL CARPETMAKES AN UNUSUALGRADUATION PRESENTI will soon be shipping most of my carpets toMaine (for summer sales). Before I do, I willoffer many carpets at 10-15% off their alreadylow prices. Included in this sale are severalfloral design room-size carpets as well asmany tribal geometric scatter-size and prayerrugs. To take advantage of this once-a year opportunity call 288-0524 for an appointment.INFANTCHILDCAREAVAILABLEFulltime infant childcare available beginningin July/Aug in nurturing and educational homesetting. Long term care preterred. Refs. 684-2820.RIDESAfrica 84: Lagos 900.00 round trip from NY;Nairobi 1,050.00 round trip from NY. stopoverLondon. Call 947-2164 days 596 4303 eves.RIDGEWOOD BLOCK SALEBlock Sale, Ridgewood CT, Sat, June 2 (Rain.Sun) 10-4. Betwn Kenwood, Dorchester, 54 55.RESUME SERVICEExtensive type styles & paper selection. Prompt service. Copyworks 5210 S. Harper 288-2233.DO YOU ENJOY ABEEROR COCKTAILINTHE EVENING?Selected volunteers will receive $160.00 inreturn for participating in a 3 week drugpreference study (7 evenings over a three weekperiod). Takes time, but is FUN! CALL 962-3560 Mon. - Fri. 10:30 a m.-3:00 p.m. Must bebetween 21 and 35 years of age.FOLK DANCEInternational Folk Dancing will continue in thesummer Mondays (beginning & interm levels)and Fridays 8-12 pm in Ida Noyes parking lot(inside if rain). Beginners welcome. StartsMon, June 18.STANLEY H. KAPLAN LEDUCATIONAL CENTERJune ClassesSUMMER TIME/GMAT/LSAT/GRE/SAT/ACTSUMMER TIME/MCAr/SPEED READING/ESIJuly ClassesLSAT...ILS . SPEED READING ESLPREPARE FORMCAT * SAT * LSAT * GMAT * GREGRE PSYCH * GRE 0IO * OCAT • VAT • MATINTRODUCTION TO LAW SCHOOL* SPEED READINGSSAT*PSAT* DAT* ACHIEVEMENTS* ACT* CPATOEFL * MSKP * NMB I 11.111* ECFMG * FLEXN-CLEX*CGFNS*FMGEMS*NPB 1 *ESL*NCB 1SPflNG. SUMMER FAIL INTENS/VESCourses constantly updated flexibleprograms and nours Visit any center andsee tor yourself *ny *e make tnedifference Speed Reading Coursefeatures Free Demo lesson—Cali fordays & timesP>«p*ra*on Sp*CM*sa r «» 'AWARLINGTON HEIGHTSCHICAGO CENTERHIGHLAND PARKLAGRANGE CENTER (312(312312(312 437-6650764-5151433-7410352-5840Ouw* N V Stai* Only Cm Ton FrM aoc 2ZS i ’82Cantos m Map< u S Ce*» Pu*no Rice Toronio Ceneo*marian realty,inc.IBREALTORStudio and 1 BedroomApartments Available— Students Welcome —On Campus Bus LineConcerned Service5480 S. Corned684-5400 EXAMS GOT YOUDOWN?Want to know when your finals are?Frustrated about a professor or a TA? Don'tthink you'll be able to finish a paper or haveenough time to study for an exam? You cancall the Hotline and talk to someone in confidence about whatever's bothering you.INTERN'L COFFEEHOUSEHostess Kristin Erickson welcomes specialguest performance for SAMHRADH MUSIC onFriday, June 1, 9pm-lam. Open mic performers also welcome In the courtyard,weather permitting, free.INDIAN DINNERl-House Dining Room will be featuring authen¬tic South Asian cuisine, complimentarybeverages and musical background on Friday,June 1 from 4:30-7:30pm. 1414 E. 59th St. FREEZE WALK10 K Walkathon to raise money to defeatReagan, Percy and the rest of the championsof the nuclear arms race. Walk beginsJune 16, 10 AM at the Shiloh Baptist Chur -4840 S Dorchester. For info & pledge for'- o962 6007, 947-8895. Sponsored by Illinois FreezeVoters.I WANT MY JACKETSomeone took my Calvin Klein denim jacketand I loved it. Please at least put the keys inmy folder Melissa Kaleta 324-1107.ATTENTION!TO ALL UNIVERSITY STUDENT FEDERALCREDIT UNION MEMBERS: If you do NOTreceive your statements by mail, ther youMUST bring 3 self-addressed envelopes to fheoffice in the basement of Reynold's Club, sothat we may send your statements to you dur¬ing the summer.INTERNSHIPSVolunteer Internships are available for nextschool year at the University Student FederalCredit Union. Positions open in publicity, vaultoperations, loan department, membership services, computer operations, and tellering. App¬ly NOW for next year's positions Call DavidRiver, Director of Personnel at 324 1890 formore information.SHAPIROPAINTINGSDUEAttention students with Shapiro paintings! Allpaintings must be returned to the Student Ac¬tivities Office, room 210 Ida Noyes Hall, byMonday, June 4th. 50 per day fee!NUCLEAR FREEZE1st Cong Dist Nuclear Freeze Coalition meetsWed, June 13 at the Blue Gargoyle at 7:30PMInfo: 667-1409.CHINESE-AMERICAN RESTAURANTSpecializing in Cantoneseand American dishesOpen Daily 11 A.-8:30 P.M.Closed Monday1318 E. 63rd MU 4-1062 IMAR00N -I3629SSS1STUDENTS INVITEDTHIRD ANNUALPOLICY SCIENCESUMMER INSTITUTESeminar on Policy SciencesProfessorsGarry Brewer, YaleWilliam Ascher, Johns HopkinsJUNE 20-22, 1984POLICY SCIENCE SYMPOSIUMCall or write:Institute of Social and Behavorial Pathology5741 S. Drexel753-2347yfysf/'o/n493-0666 • CALL ANYTIMEOPEN HOUSEJUNE 10(a week from Sunday)1 - 3 p.m.Hyde Park Boulevard Beauty!*FIVE BEDROOMS*SUNSHINY NEWL Y SANDED FLOORS* FRESH L Y DECORA TED*TWO EXTRA SUNROOMS* PARKING*$106,5405434 Hyde Park BoulevardRENT WITH OPTION (or rent $500)56th & Kimbark - 4 sunny rooms $41,000Assumable mortgage at 11 7/8%NEAR THE WINDERMERE ...6 roomsplus sunroom. Brick garages $72,00056th & Harper - 5 rooms large brickporch - modern kitchen - beautiful oak floors$60,000The Chicago Literary Review. Friday June 1, 1984—31ART FAIR SPECIALSBEERWINESMICHELOB6-12 oz.BOTTLES$039 GANCIA BLACK TOWERASTI SPUMANTE LIEBFRAUMILCH750 ml ~ 750 3/$10MAR IN ^ _REBATE -33$6" 3/*7 Tomer,£ITjLANCERSWHITE, RED, ROSE,VINO VERDI 750 ml GEORGE DUBCEUFBEAUJOLAISWINES750 ml*2” $5»*BECKS6-12 oz. Bottles*359or MOLSON6-12 oz. Bottles«359or 750 ml SOAVEBOLLA PAPILLIONRED, WHITE, ROSE750 ml iAvfi*s3/s10 3/s10 $2^9 $199KORBEL ANDRECHAMPAONE ^OIAMPAONE^MAR IN _REBATE " l.5V27*5**750 ml$6"750 mlkVknnesSIC0U«' LIQUORJACKDANIELS$799HENNESSYCOGNAC750 ml$1199COURVOSIERCOGNAC750 ml*12”STOUCHNAYAVODKA750 ml$799 MARTELL VSCOGNAC SOAVEFOLONARI1.5liter7*10750 ml$io»»BACARDIRUM$999 BOOTHGIN1.75liter1.75liter750 ml CROWNROYAL*10” $8»»MARTELL VSCOGNAC^50 ml*10” R CCOLA2 literplasticWE DELIVER !$10.00 minimum ** plus delivery chargeWE ACCEPT VISA/MASTERCARD & CHECKS K IMBARK LIQUORS& WINE SHOPPE1214 E. 53rd. St. • In Kimbark PlazaPhone: 493-3355iiglF&S-8am-2amHOUrS- ^“^"Noon-Midnight • M-Th-Sam-lam