Applications To TheCHICAGO BUSINESSFELLOWS PROGRAMfor Summer, 1986will be accepted untilWednesday, April 9in Harper 264from present Third-year College StudentsAn application consists of the regularGraduate School of Business applica¬tion, two letters of recommendation,and GMAT and/or GRE scores. Pick upan application and get information inHarper 264.Questions? 962-8620 ST. PATRICK’S DAY DINNERAT INTERNATIONAL HOUSE1414 E. 59th ST.Menu includesBalmanoon Skink (soup)Shepherd’s PieIrish StewCorned Beef & CabbageCreamed HaddockDunmurry RiceBrussel Sprouts au GratinWith complimentarystout and aleLive entertainment bythe traditional Irish sounds ofBAAL TINNEMONDAY, MARCH 17, 5 - 7:30 pmPHYDE PARKHARPER CT. at 53rd St. 288-4900Call For Friday Show TimesTOTALLY REMODELED!NEW SEATS, PROJECTION & SOUND.THREE NEW THEATRESSchedule times startingSaturday December 7,1985COLOR PURPLE1:10, 4:00, 6:50, 9:45 PG-13HANNAH AND HER SISTERS pg.«2:10,4:10,6:10,8:10,10:10CROSSROADS2, 4, 6, 8,10BACK TO SCHOOL - STUDENT SPECIAL*★ SPECIAL PRICE - $2.50 Mon.-Thur. Last Show★ The drinks are on us —EREE DRINK with medium popcorn purchase*with U. of C. student I.D.CHILDREN UNDER 6 NOT ADMITTED AFTER 6 P.M.$2.50 UNTIL FIRST SHOW STARTS Rockefeller Memorial Chapel5850 S. Woodlawn962-7000Sunday, March 16th9:00 a.m. Ecumenical Serviceof Holy Communionwith Sermon.11:00 a.m. Convocation SundayBernard O. Brown,Dean of the Chapel,Preacher12:15 p.m. Carillon recitaland tower tourWednesday, March 19th6:00 p.m. House Eucharist andStudy FellowshipWednesday, 6:00 p.m., ResidentMasters’ Apt., Woodward Court,5825 S. WoodlawnPalm Sunday, March 33rd4 p.m.MESSIAH by G.F. Handel___ (TICKETS: 962-7300)2 CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986H.D. Collected Poems, 1912-1944by Hilda DoolittleTwo downstrokes, a cross bar, and a dot. Singledownstroke, semi-circle, second dot — H.D., HildaDoolittle. Having seen these initials signed to the ImagistManifesto and in various works of Ezra Pound, Iimagined H.D. to have been a satellite of Pound — thather poems would be finely wrought but of limited scope,on the order of In A Station Of The Metro, quoted herein its entirety: “The apparition of these faces in thecrowd;/Petals on a wet, black bough.” Instead I foundthat, while her scope is less than that which Poundeventually achieved in The Cantos, it is comparable, andthat she succeeds where he failed. Her works palpate theconnection between the personal, the historical, and themythical, without losing sight of the present, and ques¬tions related to the actual living of life.H.D. was bom in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, in 1886.Her mother was Moravian, “allied to The Mystery andto love feasts” (Tribute to Freud by H.D.), andmusically inclined. She was the favorite of her father, aProfessor of Astronomy at the University of Pennsylva¬nia. He had hopes that Hilda would become a mathema¬tician or a scientist, but she was drawn to the creative,artistic world her mother represented, although shealways felt a certain distance in their relationship. Shewent to Bryn Mawr, where she came to feel that, “Imust choose, because my life depends upon it, betweenthe artist and the scientist. I manage in the second yearof college to have a slight breakdown and I manage toget engaged to Ezra Pound” (Tribute to Freud). Theengagement to Pound was broken-off, but they remainedfriends. After leaving Bryn Mawn in 1911, H.D. went toLondon, where Pound was working as a scout for Poetrymagazine. He submitted six of her poems, signing themhimself “H.D., Imagiste.” In 1913, she married RichardAldington, another signer of the Imagist Manifesto.They were divorced in 1917. During a four year period,from 1914 to 1918, she and D.H. Lawrence exchangedletters and poems, but their friendship ended abruptly. In1933, and again in 1934, she was in analysis with Freud,who helped her to reaffirm and further explore hercreativity, which had been shaken by the upheaval of thepreceeding years.H.D.’s early poetry is steeped in references to AncientGreece. Louis L. Martz, in the introduction to thisvolume, argues that these references function as a“mask” which enabled H.D. to disguise very personalpoems for presentation to the public. For example, thesituation described in three unpublished poems whichwere written after the break-up of her marriage toAldington, Amaranth, Eros, and Envy, was alteredinitially so that it harmonized with various Sapphicfragments, which were then published. In the threeoriginal poems, a woman is deserted by a man foranother woman. In the published poems, a woman isdeserted by a woman for a man. Clearly, the masktheory is not unreasonable, but to consider the Greekallusions purely in terms of their masking function is todo these poems a disservice. The intellectual and spiritual affinity H.D. felt for Greek myth and poetry should notbe relegated to the status of emotional camouflage. Hertranslations attest to this:I crept through the woodsBetween the altars:Artemis haunts the place.Shame, scarlet, fresh-opened — a flower,Strikes across my face.And sudden — light upon shields,Low huts — the armed Greeks,Circles of horses.I have longed for this.I have seen Ajax.I have known ProtesilaosAnd that other Ajax — Salamis’ lightThey counted ivory discs.They moved them — they laughed.They were seated togetherOn the sand ridges.(Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulis)If all H.D. needed was a mask, she could have found onethat didn’t have knowledge of the Greek langauge as aprerequisite.There are other factors which may have contributed toH.D.’s early Greek period which are overlooked inMartz’s introduction. To write well using themes fromGreek literature and mythology earns an author a certainintellectual status. It also eases the doubt which anywriter, especially early in her career, feels when she asksherself, “Why should they want to hear what I have tosay?” Though it may be small, there is always a segmentof the reading public eager for poetry which smacks ofAncient Greece. This last point does lend itself to themask theory, but what it comes down to is that neither anattempt to mask, nor to prove one’s intellectual abilitycould produce poetry such as H.D. writes in her earlyThree Days with JoycePhotographs, captions and introduction by Gisile FreundPreface by Richard EllmannAn author can easily become a symbol. When a workpenetrates a reader, becomes a part of their reality, abasis not only for thought but for the qualification of thatthought, then the author of the work vanishes into thework’s construction. That is not to say that the reader isnot aware of the artist but rather the artist has risen toimage, to a symbol of a personal interpolation of thework. When the reader recalls the author (in much thesame way as recalling a memory or reciting a poem) theyrecall a creation, an idealized and perhaps romanticizedform who embodies the reconstructed meaning not onlyof the work but of an existence altered by the work.Yet when one discovers a photograph of the symbol,the symbol often dissolves to the simple reality fromwhich it came. The author becomes just that: a personseparated from their works by the act of creation, and thereader finds that they can no longer merge art and artistinto a philosophical and poetic motif. Yet there is abeauty in the descent to reality — a beauty that derivesfrom the recognition of a separate, unassimable genius,from an idolatry turned admiration. One acknowledges apresence behind a work, one as encounterable as thework itself.Three Days with Joyce, a photo-essay showing theauthor at work (on Finnegans Wake), at his publisher,and with his family, depicts the wonderful banality withinwhich genius-symbols often live. The majority of photo¬graphs portray not an artist but a man, not a symbol butan author. The sense of Joyce one receives from thephotographs is that of man of studied elegance, ofdelicate gestures and refined movements which create acareful formality. The way he descends upon a chair, thedelicate way he holds his cane, the ironic and humoroussmile he gives to his grandchild — all these moments,these fragments of a life, will not ascend to symbol butrather confront a reader with a reality that will not allowidealization. For even though the majority of the photo¬graphs show a grace and presence and beauty, there arethose which show an old, at times bitter, man.Yet even in this mixture of pessimism (Freund calls ittragic) and formality, one gets an intimation of Joyce'sgenius. However, this is not the sense of symbol butrather of separate truth, for the feeling of his genius herecomes from image and not from his art. The exactness ofhis elegance and the presence he projects indicate aconstant (though seemingly unconscious) calculation ofposition and presentation. One observes a man whostudies each gesture, who seems to know the reaction he will produce yet nonetheless produces it casually.If one adds the photograph of a corrected proof fromUlysses, one can see that this studied formality (almostan aloofness) extends to his work: there is an incredibleexactness in the correction, in the fact that one wordtakes on an immense importance, in that Joyce knowsexactly where each word and phrase must be placed.These qualities produce a sense of the artificer, of Joycealways present behind his words calculating and creating,just as he seems to measure his situation as he forms it.Yet against this near symbolic image is a photograph ofJoyce correcting proofs of Finnegans Wake. In thispicture, one cannot deny the physical presence of theauthor; he does not exist constantly scheming in theabstract area between words, but rather sits with histypical grace, nonchalantly changing a word or a phraseas if the mistake has been an oversight (this is, of course,SKi***^ . »'***? <■#«*< x! ,< ’ V* <-»*' ■■■*■. , k. . , r -St, if,.?.. It»« . ■».« f*’ . ■>..<«* si. . „ («*>'»« *4+*>, W‘ 41 . . - << ,*.ifuj. , i « i ■ ■—«*. << I." '1i ■ <> , (4 .In. ' . *«... . ,>:!«•> wife**ft -,<• ft '. * ' 4* >? f ?<’> ’ t '« fV 4 ^-r«av"tt v 4'**••* <••< **<■ ff ’ j. jfWalC « <V *((> Wfc> ■?■< <W< ■ • „n n W* *» i >| 'tW- tl '• >» » ' '»<•>. 4>> s . O', A* A' : r p*f\i**- V •.«, „. V- ... > V, . ■* 4. i TV**A'.' V, '■* '.V. -n Lj w ... n jpn.itjS»<x ?i \»i ia*» a tsv Hte *'» >K»irf.v* *<&»*< ■>) • r'AUVftV , i... ■ >> *„,>(. k trf m,„ tin <4,-y. , ■ n <i]/*** •» >• " > 4t V-h.’iatf fy/.A „>»»».*• I*- W.IX. . ■ t 4 # * ,«««■•. a» TTtfAf f,t. Ha« 4 4 i'Mt »4t :.y fx ■■u-r b-.m VwM»n . r| V- t 4».' <♦ *«»w «4 n>«S *b4 « tr* **&+!*»< «.(1 (>». * O a| li, jJ ' Wfe. <4 mfnrnr\ IV '»<• . . ■ .»*,!.. ,.*l **i 5«-». «• w f*fcy ,4 i..U *!„*., -rtto, 4(4^4„ 4 “ ** I »m t* W V -•<*> .4 kiUH4 yMMl ,, * ' xll *•*■?♦* tiff# .. ^ y, i. ...4n tm ^ TI f f \ 1 Mf'X'.-.A* < -n. ,JV .k<bn i,a X, lintjV< **t ,l»n m an, 4., .Revisions of Ullyses’ manuscript. ■ ■■ ■■ ■■ c-years. They are poems of deep, precise beauty, carvedby a powerful hand, telling ancient myth from a femininepoint of view, as in Eurydice:At least I have the flowers of myself,and my thoughts, no godcan take that;I have the fervour of myself for a presenceand my own spirit for light;and my spirit with its lossknows this;though small against the black,small against the formless rocks,hell must break before I am lost;before I am lost,hell must open like a red rosefor the dead to pass.When Pound learned of H.D.’s sessions with Freud,he wrote to her, “I can’t blow everybodies’ noses for’em,/have felt yr./vile Freud all bunk/...instead of stick¬ing to reading list left by Dante/...you got into the wrongpig stye ma chere./But not too late to climb out”(Tribute to Freud). H.D. ignored these pearls ofwisdom and remained in the “style”; she did climb,however, not so much away from Dante’s reading list asinto herself. Though she was writing in the 1930’s, shepublished only a few works, and there was suppositionthat her creativity was spent. Trilogy, published in 1942,categorically denies this. These poems possess the preci¬sion and richness of her early works, newly empoweredby the conviction that she herself is the lodestone of herpoetic voice:“What is the jewel colour?”green-white, opalescent,with under-layer of changing blue,with rose-vein; a white agatewith a pulse uncooled that beats yet,faint blue-violetit lives, it breathes,it gives off — fragrance?(Tribute to the Angels)...but Kaspar knew the seal of the jar wasunbroken.he did not know whether she knewthe fragrance came from the bundle of myrrhshe held in her arms.What Kaspar knew, H.D. discovered.It may seem that I have concentrated too much on themen in H.D.’s life, but these relationships point tosomething which I found striking about her career. In amale-dominated field, she maintained her own identity ,yet thought of herself as a writer, rather than a womanwriter. With authority equal to that of her better-knownmale associates, she speaks of human experience — in afeminine voice.by Johanna Stoyvaa false image; Joyce painstakingly corrected and rec¬orrected his proofs).The photographs, however, force the viewer to ask:“Is that Joyce?” The reader finds the realization ofimage difficult — is the tall, gaunt, delicate, and sadlooking man the artist who wrote A Portrait of theArtist as a Young Man? Where is the irony, the acutesense of Irish tragedy, the mocking humor yet transcen¬dent power? How can the Joyce present in the photo¬graphs match the Joyce of the imagination? He cannot.However, the realization does not upset the reader butrather produces not so much a tenderness or admirationbut a feeling closer to understanding: in a simplicity ofexpression in which the photograph and the reader areunited, one begins to see the secret of a great genius, amystery which emanates from a lack of secrets. Thesymbol does not exist in the photograph. What one findsis a solidified image, the core of the symbol; Joycedissipated to himself.by Michael SohnJoyce in the real world.CHICAGO UTERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 3UnveilingHDJoyceasNormalHumanTheAvedonStare In the American Westby Richard AvedonAttempting to create a critical structure for the purposeof interpreting art (or specifically art books, which differonly in that they are owned in mass, and hence,obviously, do not constitute single exhibited uniqueobjects) is a difficult task. According to what criticalstatements may the artwork be validated, may it beconsidered worthwhile? According to what alternateviewpoints may the artwork be dismissed? Are either ofthese critical viewpoints relevant in contrast to thevisceral aesthetic response that the art elicits? To whatextent is any critical envelope necessary in the completecomprehension of art beyond that nebulously definedvisceral response? If the critical envelope tends toevaporate (as is the case here) in the face of thisresponse, is this in and of itself grounds for dismissal ofthe criticism? Does any evaluative discussion of art,therefore, by necessity exist entirely at odds with theproper response the artwork elicits?The question hinges on certain decisions that must bemade about which of the various nonaesthetic propertiesof art are relevant to its categorization and evaluation andwhich are not. In The American West is a problematicbook because it seems to demand analysis on the basis ofits social role and its intention. The uneasiness withwhich the book has been generally regarded has to dowith these questions, as there seems to be a considerablefear of “misrepresentation” and “misinterpretation” ofRichard Avedon’s purpose, and this fear tends to cloudthe strictly aesthetic response the book demands. In The.American West is particularly problematic because itexplains nothing of its origins or intentions. As Avedonexplains in his terse frontispiece:The Amon Carter Museum in Fort Worth, Texas, andits director, Mitchell A. Wilder, had built a uniquecollection of nineteenth- and twentieth-century photo¬graphs of the West. Wilder saw a portrait of WilburPowell, a ranch foreman, which was one of a seriesof photographs I had taken on July 4, 1978, in Ennis,Montana. He proposed that I continue this work withthe sponsorship of the Museum. We agreed that anexhibition would be completed in five summers, thatit would open at the Amon Carter in the Fall of 1985,and that the original negatives and a set of printswould become a permanent part of the museum'sarchives.Thus, the book is ideologically purposeless, direction¬less; an object existing for no sake but its own. In thislight. I feel justified in discarding, at least initially, thefrequently voiced complaints that are built on the mis¬conception that the book is in any way a social documentor a work of art created for the express purpose ofmaking any sort of statement that may be drawn out by acritical process. Avedon, in this self-effacing explanation,implicity insists that the book must be accepted on itsown aesthetic terms.In The American West, then, is fundamentally anaesthetic statement and as such is an illustration of theextent to which the inferred social and declarativefunctions of visual art in our culture are absolutelyshackled to its aesthetic sensibilities. The book is abrilliant piece of work precisely because it is such adeliberate exploitation of the fundamental fabric ofphotography. Avedon understands the deceptive romanticpower of his art so completely that he can assemble thisvolume of meticulously photographed, painstakingly re¬produced and documented “journalistic” portraits ofindiscriminately chosen ungroomed and unposed WesternAmericans (from Arizona, California, Colorado, Idaho,Kansas, Montana. Nebraska, Nevada. New Mexico,North Dakota, Oklahoma, South Dakota, Texas, Utah,Washington, and Wyoming) and somehow transform itinto, among other possible readings, a romanticised,fictionalized vision of the dashed hope and the nobilityand strength of character of the ageless DowntroddenAmerican Individual in the face of adversity and hard¬ship. These portraits are not in any real way “fashion”photographs, but Avedon is primarily a fashion photo¬grapher, and he uses the complex and compellingdynamics of fashion photography so skillfully that thephotographs are seamless; they evade all criticism. Asfashion photography may be viewed as a complexcomponent of the mass culture that is inseperably relatedto the moral and aesthic socialization of the individual, ahighly skilled fashion photographer such as Avedonsucceeds in his art by making skillful use of those iconsand symbols that evoke responses fundamentally con¬nected with this socialization.Avedon’s intrusion into his otherwise predetermined James Kimberlin, drifterState Road 18, Hobbs, New Mexico, 10/7/80process of portraiture had to do with the selection ofsubjects and the verbal interaction that provoked thedesired pose. It was exclusively an aesthetically drivenprocess on Avedon’s part; he combed crowds “lookingfor the faces that I wanted to photograph.” Avedondescribes this selection as he reflects on the process ofthe book:The structure of the project was clear to me almostfrom the start and each new portrait had to find itsplace in that structure. As the work progressed,the portraits themselves began to reveal connec¬tions of all kinds — psychological, sociological,familial, physical — between people who hadnever met...The subject imagined, which in a sense is me,must be discovered in someone else willing to takepart in a fiction he (sic) cannot possibly knowabout...His need to plead his case probably goes asdeep as my need to please mine, but the control iswith me.Despite all disdain one can muster in approaching thebook, one’s criticisms melt in the face of the actualportraits, each of which is fascinating and many of whichare moving or even wrenching, whether one accepts thisexplanation or not. The portraits are mirrors held up tothe viewer, revealing, not the subjects, but instead theextent of the viewer’s own unavoidable tendency to,when presented with certain vaguely familiar images,immediately read culturally accepted myths into them.Because of Avedon’s self-effacing technique, if a viewerdenounces the emo tional power of the images ascontrived, manipulative, or exploitive he or she mustrecognise that the logic necessary to do so denounces theiconic power at all visual portraits, photographic orotherwise. These photographs are devoid of context, butthis does not in any way delimit their iconic power. Thelack of contextual information in the photographs merelyallows a more liberal degree of inference and thereforean easier transition from photographic portrait to rec¬ognisable myth.Avedon’s sole admission in his introduction is that theportraits are “Active,” which perhaps implies that theyare dishonest. However, while the portraits are blatantlyActive, they are photographically honest, as Avedoninsists:A portrait is not a likeness. The moment anemotion or fact is transformed into a photograph itis no longer a fact but an opinion. There is nosuch thing as inaccuracy in a photograph. Allphotographs are accurate. None of them is thetruth.As the photographs are created according to a technicalsystem of absolute “objective” honesty, the implicationof Avedon’s statement is that photography itself isimplicity dishonest in a way that is buried in the viewingprocess. Avedon is masterful in his creative use of thisfundamental dishonesty: the romanticization that is in¬escapable when one looks at a photograph. Under¬standing this phenomenon as well as he does, he requiresnothing else to create his art, and his photographs makeuse of nothing else.The aesthetic beauty of the photographs is undeniable.However, the question arises, what is being aestheticallyappreciated? The subjects? The photographs? The ac¬curacy and sharpness of the 8” x 10” view camera? Thefundamental characteristic of Avedon’s technique is hisdecision to be process-oriented to the exclusion ofconventional photographic procedures which are aimed atsponteneity. This particular book is not so much astylistic statement as a part of an evolving technicalcontinuum, for while it is immediately apparent thatAvedon has photographed all of these subjects in es¬sentially the same way, what cannot be known from thebook alone is that Avedon has not proceeded muchdifferently than he has in photographing hundreds ofmodels, actors, public Agures, and even his own dyingfather. Unlike such photographic portrait artists as BruceDavidson or Irving Penn, Avedon produces his portraitsaccording to an established system consisting of strict,largely predetermined rules of order. Having invented hisaesthetic system — the white paper, the Axed large-format view camera, the indirectly reftected ambientsunlight, the close range, the high-speed Aim, the medium exposure, the pose that is not a pose — Avedonseems content to operate according to this system byrote, allowing assistants to take care of each of thesefactors save the last, and stepping behind the camera (ormore accurately next to the camera, four feet from thesubject, far from any viewAnder) in order to verballyevoke the proper Avedon stare. By virture of this systemthere is by necessity an avoidance of the spontaneous, theemotional, the unexpected. Any possible intrusions orvisual information that might distort the camera’s straightsterile “objective” reading of the subject are in this wayedited out; indeed, Avedon edits himself out, edits outthy surroundings, the context, the background. There areno conventional poses, there is no grooming, no changein technique from image to image. The visible clamp-shadows of the photographic plate attest to (or seem toattest to) the untampered-with quality of the negatives;the black, numbered edges indicate that the prints areuncropped and unretouched. Every opportunity for dis¬torting or affecting the image is thus removed; thephotographs are made dogmatically, unhampered by anyartistic decisions save an editing process that seems tofavor the photogentically textured and attractively com¬posed images at least as much as it favors the attractive,jarring, or evocative-looking subjects chosen for thebook.This obsessive, near-scientiAc method is, of course,overwhelmingly intrusive. By removing all expected orconventional portraiture techniques, Avedon emphasis thepeculiar qualities of photographic reproduction. Avedon’sminimal no-style is in this way the ultimate stylisticconceit; it is photography stripped down to its essence:the chemical process of photography itself becomesAvedon’s stylistic statement. These portraits are, again,perhaps more “about” the camera than about the sub¬jects: One Ands oneself admiring, with a sort of objectivescrutiny, the sharpness and texture of the images, theaccuracy with which a strand of hair, a tom cotton t-shirt, a brass denim-jacket button are reproduced. Im¬mediately, of course, one realizes with a sort of horrorthat one is also subjecting a face smeared with coal-dustor slaughterhouse-blood to this blind aesthetic scrutiny,and abruptly the meaning of the portraits shifts.The faces, revealed harshly by the unflattering large-format camera, simply look into the lens, and the utterblankness of their resultant expressions is startling.Avedon has discovered that a face allowed to relax into apassive stare produces a frozen reproduction that de¬mands far greater scrutiny than a smiling or frowningface, and these farmers, ranch hands and drifters exhibita passivity that is near alarming. The faces are ciphers,Rorschachs; in posing to reveal nothing they seem toexhibit themselves completely.The dishonesty of these “honest” portraits is thusextremely difflcult to pin down. The photographs are,again, ultimately a testament to the romanticism that isinherent in photography itself. The images are beautiful,they are “artistic,” and yet they are blatantly devoid ofdeliberate artistry; to achieve their desired effect theyrequire no creative tampering because they exploit theaesthetic envelope that the viewer unconsciously has beentrained to bring to bear in regarding a picture. Avedonarbitrarily selects, for example, an unemployed, dish¬eveled blackjack dealer named Carl Hoefert from acrowd in Reno, Nevada, places him for a few momentsin between a white sheet of paper tacked to a wall andhis camera, and instructs him simply to look at the lenswhile he trips the shutter several times. In this simplejournalistic action he somehow creates an image thatseems romantic, mythic, iconic, and in some waysymbolic of the plight of the downtrodden individual.Where does this romanticisation occur? Searching for themeaning that he or she feels must be present in theimage, the viewer unconsciously transforms this photograph into myth. In the blatantly Actional world of thephotograph, there is no crowd, no wall, no camera, nophotographer. As Avedon explains:These disciplines, these strategies, this silent thea¬ter, attempt to achieve an illusion; that everythingembodied in the photograph simply happened, thatthe person in the portrait was always there, wasnever told to stand there, was never encouraged tohide his hands, and in the end was never in thepresence of a photographer.We unconsciously read the portrait as we would apainting, seeing a richly textured image of Carl Hoefertstaring directly at us from some abstract aesthetic locale,surrounded by stark white space, regarding us with awry, accusatory squint. Despite our most strained at¬tempts it is flatly impossible to regard the image anyother way. Avedon merely hastens the process after thefact, as all photographers do, by selecting the plate thatcombines the most striking facial and bodily expressionwith the most attractive visual composition.By removing all variables from photography Avedonuncovers, and exploits, the fundamental “Action” pre¬sent in photography itself, and builds a narrative tech¬nique upon it. By unconsiously reading a “story” intothis deliberate aesthetic vacuum, to explain its existence,the viewer cannot help but perceive a narrative beautylatent in the image. The simplicity of Avedon’s chosentechnique at once masks photography’s complex power ofdeception by stripping it of every conventional story¬telling technique, and in the very act of doing so makesuse of this power to an even greater degree thanpreviously possible. Perhaps in this, Avedon understandsphotography more completely than any other current photographic artist. Armed with this knowledge, he managesto create portraits of astonishing mythic power whilebarely departing from the most straightforward operationof a camera — and there is a perverse, almost admirablehonesty to this achievement.by Jordan Orlando4 CHICAC.O LITERARY RFVIFW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986The View From Nowhereby Thomas NagelWhite Noiseby Don DelilloThat books somehow indicate the contours of con¬temporary experience seems fortuitous, peripheral, detrop. Even a truly terrible work, Ulysses, tantalizes thereader with a stream of consciousness that collapses intoa “stream of literature,” given the modernist revenche-ment which appropriated the randy, petty and banal sortsof journalism. Perhaps the tight coefficient of inbreedinghastened the exhaustion of coherent genres; today oneoften comes across incestuously spawned authors whorace toward a strabismic glance of the apocalypse. Ifthat’s the project, then the best perspective won’t be fromground zero; the core’s bleak vitrification could nevermatch the far more natural, modem and stimulating voidthat shall be brought to us on television.So, one of the sharpest analytic philosophers inAmerica today has just published an extended reflectionon the self, situated as “a momentary blip on the cosmicTV screen”. The View From Nowhere hereafter (TVN)involves so many important themes, in the theory ofknowledge, the metaphysics of mind, ethics and theproblem of free will, that only after rerunning thearguments might one notice the crux is the ego, of bothtranscendental and particular varieties. TVN’s cover, ahaunting landscape painting by Caspar David Friedrich,reflects the same artistic sensibility and topical relevanceone instantly spots in the vanitas on the jacket of MortalQuestions, Nagel’s last book. Readers who enjoyed theperspicacity and topical directness in Mortal Questionswill gain a deeper understanding of virtually everythingexcept sex by reading TVN. If Wittgenstein ‘rewrote’ theTractatus to get the Philosophical Investigations than itis natural to assert the direct genetic descendance of thenew Nagel from his previous two books. The busycuriosity of Mortal Questions as it leapt from braincommissurotomies to public ethics, over to the absurdand the first-bat experience of a bat is now happilymarried to his earlier Possibility of Altruism’s formalKantian unities. The result is a work which offers a freshvantage point from which to consider even the oldest andleast changed tenets in Nagel’s Philosophy.The catchy term in the title refers to the camera angleon the world accessible to consciousness once it takes upan objectifying attitude. The aim of this professed realistis to do philosophy that moves between the falselyrigorous Scylla of overobjectifying scientism and theswirling, swallowing Charybdis of skepticism(epistemological or moral). The very scope of this taskredefines our intuitions on how these different questionsswing together. This not-overly long book manages tothread through the same space travailed in RobertNozick's profoundly clever Philosophical Explanations.Nagel handles the subtlest houses of cards with anadmirable touch, and yet never relents on his pursuit ofthe most direct, play fill and true-to-experience formula¬tion. He has constructed a tacit existence proof for thepossibility of doing serious philosophy without gametheory’s matrices, cybernetic’s click-and-buzz terminol¬ogy, nor the by now familiar waves of private notions oncomplementarity in quantum mechanics.The virtually willful ignorance of the last theory mayappear to some a strategic error; even if philosophersgarble their physics, it may still be closer to reality thanthe tidy conceptual descriptions within our verbal grasp.Only one argument is advanced for ignoring quantummechanics’ “ineliminable observer”: the observer won’tnecessarily share any of the most salient dimensions ofhuman consciousness that Nagel wants to keep in theworld. There may be good reason to beep our philosophyfrom sinking where it can't swim amidst the confusion inmodem physics; quantum has yet to find a lucid,intelligible, and coherent exegesis. It may be of interestto ask what Nagel risks by neglecting to align or collatehis theory with current physical science? Is there somelack, a pocketed, papered-over inconsistency? No, at thepoint where the two theories overlap Nagel appears tohave duplicated the orthodox Copenhagen interpretationwithout explicitly trying.To grasp this, one must understand how Nagel charac¬terizes objectivity. A reader ought closely scrutinize theworking assumptions as first laid out. This is one bookwhere the introduction is essential for taking the reader(at least this one), up and into the crux of the book.Nagel conceives objectivity as method, not as if it were arealm of completed being. This is then an objecivityapart from and prior to objects. The term “objective”refers primarily to beliefs (hence it is a question of howone arrives, and not where one ends up). Naively, peoplealmost equate “objective” with truth. The program forNagel is to show how we lose truths by trying to collapsereality into hard-edged, presumably physical objects onthe one hand, and on the other become separated fromthe useful introduction of the concept of objectivity in arealm where method may be the only truth, namely inethics and morality. Observe how he explains, in¬tuitively, his notion of gradated objectivity: “A view orform of thought is more objective than another if it reliesless on the specifics of the individual’s makeup andposition in the world...or on the character of theparticular type of creature he is. The wider the range ofsubjective types to which a form of understanding isaccessible—the less it depends on specific subjectivecapacities—the more objective it is...The standpoint ofmorality is more objective than that of private life, butless objective than the standpoint of physics.”Although his idea of degree is suggestive, it’s not clearhow this works. What peculiar logical dimension could yield such homogeneity in ascent? Particular concretetruths about one’s subjectivity are described as being lostin a bigger picture. If so, how can “containment”operate consistently? Moreover, Nagel apparently as¬sumes that the process of stepping further and furtheraway from one’s own situation, the method of ob¬jectification, will somehow itself be agreed upon fromthe beginning. Suppose I objectify my view first byignoring my economic interests, and another personfilters out, on that first level, his biological sex as merecontingency. Now, the likelihood that we will share anybeliefs is in no way guaranteed by the pseudo-geographicfact that we are both looking from a window one-storyabove ground. Moreover, if judgments and values atlevel n influence the evaluation of precisely what level isN+1, then we seem to have uncovered a source ofdisagreement, intractable out to an arbitrary level ofabstraction. The many modal variants in transfinite fixed-point theories of truth may dissolve these difficulties forNagel; going either way on this, some recognition of theproblems in rank-indexing families of objective belief-spaces seems to belong here.Perhaps to even pose such questions betrays an ant’seye perspective. The questions Nagel raises never kinkinto the sterile stacks of ordinary academic queries.When he wonders how close we can ever possibly cometo knowing what a cockroach tastes when eating scram¬bled eggs, the little gaps in any objectified scheme takeon probative force. His tack in refuting Davidson on thelimits of language shows typical Nagelian verve. Imag¬ine, he argues, that a retarded Davidson, whose mindcould never develop beyond the intelligence of a 9-yearold. were to make the analogous claim that nothing couldpossibly exist beyone the linguistic concepts he posses¬sed. From our moderately less retarded stance we couldsee that he was mistaken. So, he claims we mayintelligibly assert that there exist more complex anddiverse aspects of reality than our language and sciencewill ever reveal. ,. . his own silent musings areThis theme returns frequently in Nagel’s robust realistwork. As he examines the difficulties in tying thesubjective mental world with the physical descriptionaccesible from externalized perspectives, he is resignedto assent to a tentative dualism which hopes for some asyet unrevealed nexus. Or again, he sympatheticallyconstructs the arguments of his moral opponents, andthen offers his own appealing view of deontologicalnorms with the explicit qualifier that we have not, andperhaps may never, be able to adopt any single moralstance free from the tugs exerted by contrary points ofview. But the tone is never defeatist, and one would haveto go back to William James to find a philosopher whoso tenaciously holds onto, and brilliantly exemplifies, theinexhaustible heartiness and clarity of mind that can bebrought to bear on a task which is recognized to beessentially uncompleteable.Aid in fleshing out the view from nowhere can besighted from another quarter. While the objective selfmay seem the most natural analysis for a philosopher,there is a far more common understanding current. Thesuburban wisdom is essentially that it is not a faculty ofevery subjective consciousness, but rather inhabits everyliving being."For most people there are only two places in theworld. Where they live and their TV set. If a thinghappens on television, we have every right to find itfascinating, whatever it is.” This theory is emitted earlyin White Noise by Alfonse Stompanato, the chairman ofthe American Environments Department at the College-on-the-Hill (tuition: “$14,000, including Sundaybrunch ’). Don Delillo’s latest novel radiates waves oflight, variously hilarious, sarcastic, and outre. After wehave gropingly pieced back together that shell-shattered,kaleidoscopic Blitzkrieg in Pynchon, and have becomesomewhat adjusted to Barthelme’s rain of dazzling,concrete universal non-sequiturs. White Noise vaults thenovel into new ground. Dellilo has previously shown offhis shrewd and dark vision with forays into the tangled skein of college football and nuclear war planning (EndZone), the international set of English speakers who liveand work abroad, fraught with terrorism, cults and thearcheological ruins of past marriages(The Names) and thehomotopic sphere of astrophysicists and mathematicianswhose lopsided intelligence leave them in well-fundedresearch projects acting out their infantile emotionalneeds (Ratner’s Star); This diverse cluster of novelsonly samples his output. All of his work has been re¬issued for the 80’s, and the stream of cover blurbs testifyto a craftsmanship where each book (whichever in theseries), is critically noted to go beyond his previousefforts. And yes, White Noise is without doubt his finestachievement. The smart-alecky tendencies are left behindor enveloped in a striking form that justifies andsubsumes every smaller cleverness. Fetishists of narrativetechnique will rejoice in Delillo’s transformation. At leastsince McLuhan’s collage of photos and snappy commer¬cial-length quips as a tentative mirror of the TV subject,the notions of narrowed attention, the drift towards ever-increasing sensationalism in the packaging of informa¬tion, the vapid switching to another channel have beenpublicly appropriated. Writers have tuned in, but eventhe best work measured its success by simulation, as if itwould be authenic were it capable of being played on theTV. White Noise suddenly takes us to a world that’s notjust on, but seems to be transmitting its photon stream ofpulses from within the tube.First contact with Delillo dialogue can be dizzilyintoxicating. Even hardened intellectuals, over-read andfagged out on the whole exercise, can be moved to shutup and just read, for the book's duration. Everyone inWhite Noise, even the children, speaks with the acuityand surface cleverness ordinarily found only in one’sown remarks. Literature has been billed as the way to seeas others see. Delillo’s smoothly, insidiously hits thescene so sharply on-target, one follows the life events,digressions and dialogue without any abrupt need to getup and change one’s perspective. The effect is sub¬versive — the hyper-typical relevance of every pulseleaves you lying there watching your life stream by, onlysomehow you’re more clever, on point, discerning thegenerating patterns of our culture, tuned into the fre¬quency of everybody's stereophonic FM whines. Thetrick may be labeled “sexy nihilism”: we’re seduced toparticipate in our lives, because suddenly we feel bitch¬ing clever enough to adequately criticize it.The central nebulous mass of personality postures,concealed fears and particularized points of irritability isJack Gladney, head of the department he cannily createdin ‘68, Hitler Studies. In some senses, he remains anarrator, since it frequently falls to him to put quotesbefore a collapsing TV packet of words. It is not easy todiscuss just how many patterns are woven through theTV-voice, yet the easy appearance of TV rad-dosageselectrifies the whole screen. TV is quoted and misquoted,characters posture and unconsciously simulate weath¬ermen and gameshow hosts, and the voice comes fromthe living room or foot of the bed as the ever presentother to say: “the crowds aren’t booing, they’re yelling‘Bruce-Bruce’.” Gladney’s daughter murmurs whileasleep “Toyota Corolla”, and there are strings of brandnames or consumer items introduced from nowhere,spoken by no-one, threading the seams of the collectiveexperience.Although TV, the medium that eats its own babies,does crucial work in the novel, supermarkets provide thecentral socializing site, tabloids generate bits on scienceand the dead, and some industrial conglomerate contrib¬utes the apocalyptic “air-borne toxic event” that occa¬sions much reflection.Gladney’s wife, Babbette, also adds to the text por¬nography she likes to read along with her husband, solong as it doesn’t have “anything that has men insidewomen, quote-quote, or men entering women. ‘I enteredher’. ‘He entered me.’ We’re not lobbies or elevators.”If one generalizes this clue, it indicates another centralprinciple involved in the construction of Delillio’s novel:although Gladney ostensibly narrates, his own silentmusings are almost indistinguishable from his publicremarks. On this point, there seems at least to be an airof paradox behind the surface shrewdness spoken fromevery mouth. In the past, e.g Ratner’s Star, the uncannyverbal intelligence of the characters (in spite of theirbeing mathematicians and scientists) worked against theaim of displaying the mathematical subculture. WN’sacademic atmosphere facilitates bursting persiflage ofcleverness, but there is something more happening.Perhaps Delillo is not ignoring the exceptional ar¬ticulateness of the entire crew . We are confronting againthe dimly understood but tenaciously trusted hope thatour ability to strikingly describe our experience might beinfluential in shaping that experience. But when everyone’s lucidly verbal, it turns out that the voided self-evasive whining just persists at a higher frequency .Conversation becomes a bulimic session of self-indulgence alternating with cynical critiques of the sur¬rounding environment. I do not mean that this is all thatoccurs; only notice that the quantity of whispering anddelusive babbling is preserved when shifted into theworld of brilliant deflection and gorgeous post cardsunsets induced by industrial pollution.To collate these two novels, each in its fashion athantopsis surveying the intersection of technology andscience and the inescapable subjective fear of dying,could not add to their intrinsic charms. There is no moresignificant evaluative dimension than that of “the inter¬esting”,—on this plane, we can assert that we have foundtwo works which indicate an author can grow more adeptand interesting as he ages.by Charles AaowlCHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 5EverythingWasOnTVLastNightSome rent just an apartmentOthers... a Lifestyle!* '■/. -e ir 7 ’<X. 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OLIN CENTERpresentsa lecture byElliott AbramsAssistant Secretary of Statefor Inter-American AffairsonAMERICA’S ROLEIN THE WORLDWednesday, April 2, 1.9X63:00 p.m.Breasted Lecture Hall1155 East 58th StreetCHICAGO IITFRARV REVIEW—FRIDAY march \4, 5^6Next-to-Last Thingsby Stanley KunitzIn the Paris Review interview printed in Next-To-LastThings, Stanley Kunitz observes: “...the poems of minethat stay freshest for me in the long run are thearchetypal ones...I mean archetypal in the Jungian sense,with reference to imagery rooted in the collective un¬conscious.” The poems and essays collected here vergeon the archetypal, the transcendent, the numinous, draw¬ing on sources such as The Cloud of Unknowing andMeister Eckhart. For Kunitz, transformation and tran¬scendence are the touchstones of true poetry.With the exception of The Tumbling of Worms, poetrycomprises the first section. The poet enters into adialogue with shape-shifters, with himself as creator,with the natural world as locus of personal discovery. InThe Snakes of September, the poet encounters twomating snakes, although he thought that the season hadgrown too cold for snakes to be about. But those snakesare “defiant of the curse/ that spoiled another garden.”Invoking the wisdom metaphorically linked to snakes, hestrokes their twisted bodies:After all,we are partners in this land,co-signers of a covenant.At my touch the wildbraid of creationtrembles.The Abduction goes deeper into a dream-state, recal¬ling a woman spirited away by grey hounds and broughtbefore a royal stag, who paid her homage, “till suddenlyyou found yourself alone/ in a trampled clearing.” Thepoet wonders whether the world of “engines of the nightthrumming/ outside the east bar window” has any claimto the woman who lies next to him “in elegant repose,/ ahint of transport hovering on your lips.”The innocence of the Garden of Eden hinted at in TheSnakes of September resurfaces in this poem, with asuggestion of danger:Out there is childhood country,bleached faces peering inwith coals for eyes.Our lives are spinning outfrom world to world;the shapes of thingsare shifting in the wind.What do we knowbeyond the rapture and the dread?The poet wakes into the innocence that is the creativeact. Beyond the rapture and the dread lies the dream-statein which the poet creates his own world, which respondsto his quickening touch as did the snakes.Kunitz prefaces Racoon Journal with the etymology of“raccoon” from the New World Dictionary: “from theAmerican Indian (Algonquian), arahkunem, ‘he scratchesCross Ties: Selected Poemsby X. J. KennedyOn the back flap of Cross Ties, X.J. Kennedycharacterizes himself as “one of an endangered species:people who still write in meter and rime.” As his quipsuggests, Kennedy has the burden of overcoming thecontemporary prejudice against such poetry. Seasonedwriters in writers’ workshops counsel would-be poets thatis difficult to publish poetry using end-rhyme, and thatthey would do better to avoid it altogether, in favor ofinternal rhyme. In his essay Fenced-in Fields (in Claimsfor Poetry, edited by Donald Hall) Kennedy elaborates:“It has become practically an act of civil disobedience towrite a sonnet. Opt for the villanelle and you cringe,waiting for the tap of the nightstick at your door.” Apoet can get away with off-rhymes, or even the occa-River RoadsThat afternoon we walked above the riverI wanted you to know everything at once,a landscape it took me months to learn,how the light touches a bridge silvermiles away, the streams that leadinto the Missouri below — Hart, Apple Creek,and the roads that wind near the river,how one tree in the ravine will turn red soon,others a paler shade of green to seemfor one fall day as they do in spring,and the light here, how it is never the same.How haze hangs over the river roadseven into spring when the fog liftsquiet laughter in the morning air,something breaking free, the world for oncecoming clean, even then a haze will veilthe currents of the river, lace the road,and so driving there in early springor late summer means following a voiceboth soothing and disturbing, although softerthan despair, say as in winter when from roomsabove the city you don’t know if peoplepassing below are speaking or only followingtheir own white breath, but around the lackof edges, a certain clarity emerges.by Jane Hoogestraat with his hands.* ” The poem portrays raccoons, as theyoverturn garbage cans, drown a menacing Labradorretriever, uproot plants and bulbs. These driven animalspersist “because they’re mad/for bone meal,” and seemto be in control of their world:To be like Orpheus, who could talkwith animals in their own language:in sleep I had that art, but nowI’ve walked into the separatewilderness of age,where the old, libidinous beastsassume familiar shapes,pretending to be tamed.The innocence of the poet as world-maker through hismagic cannot protect him from something “that curdlesthe night-air./ Something out there appalls.” The rac¬coons hang from his screen door, lurk “where shadowsdeepen:”They watch me, unafraid.I know they’ll never leave,they’ve come to take possession.The scratching and digging of the raccoons resemblesthe work of the sculptor who must physically rearrangehis world to achieve mastery of it, and indeed, Kunitzhas produced some sculpture — wire pieces and assem¬blages. In The Image-Maker, the poet hears the farthesthidden stars summoning him:I listen, but I avert my earsfrom Meister Eckhart’s warning:All things must be forsaken.God scornsTo show Himself among images.The poet-seeker is warned that what he seeks liesoutside the realm of art, that the rush of history canoverwhelm the childlike innocence of the artist.Lamplight: 1914 begins by saying that he remembersmost the “first flying steamkettle/ puffing around thebend,” rather than the killing of the Archduke atSarajevo. Frightened by the flash of cannon fire, hishorse bolts, “leaving me sprawled on the ground.”Nevertheless, his creative urge to remake the worldsurfaces in spite of these events:I stood on the rim of the buggy wheel and raisedmy enchanter’s wandwith its tip of orange flameto the gas mantles in their cagestouching them one by onetill the whole countryside bloomed.The longest poem of this section, The Well fleetWhale, tells the story of a finback whale which found¬ered on the beach at Cape Cod. Kunitz prefaces thisremarkable poem with the journal entry describing hisencountering the whale: “I put my hands on his flanksand I could feel the life inside him. And while I wasstanding there, suddenly he opened his eye. It was a big,red, cold eye, and it was staring directly at me. Ashudder of recognition passed between us. Then the eyeclosed forever.”sional closing couplet, but many modem readers see truerhyme as the literary equivalent of gaiters and crinolines.If there is any justification for this prejudice, it lies inthe fact that many people first encounter poetry in thetick-tock of nursery rhymes, or the sledge-hammer effectof end-rhyme which occurs in greeting-card verse.Stylistic freedom becomes, and rightly so, a breakingfrom such patterns; unfortunately all some poets achieveis a fuzziness which masquerades as free verse, Frost’sproverbial tennis game without the net.Kennedy collects some of his best work in Cross Ties,in which the rhymes neither thump the reader intosubmission, nor go galloping breathlessly away into theOlympian sunset. This collection exhibits the variety ofstyle and subject matter achieved after many years ofpracticing the art and craft of writ ing. In the notes tothis volume, Kennedy himself explains the ordering ofthe poems:For a reader who might care to trace the progressof my work, or its deterioration, I have sortedthese poems into five sections: then, within eachsection, arranged things from early to late, follow¬ing the order in which they first appeared. Inbetween these five acts, each section called anIntermission offers light refreshment.What the reader encounters are poems ranging from aNorfolk shipyard to Secaucus; from a delicate elegyabout the death of a young girl who jumped rope to KingTut. Whether the poet pokes fun at teenagers who seemto be “Plugged in, stone dead, sleepwalking into trains”with “transistors stuck to their brains,” in The MediunIs the Message, or whether as in the poem Cross Ties, heaffirms his vocation as poet, as one in touch with themythic: “When I spill/ The salt I throw the Devil someand, still,/ I let them sprinkle water on my child,” thepoet emerges as one who closely observes life, makinghis view available to the reader in metric form.In the essay previously cited, Kennedy explains his useof metrics as a proper mode of expression for thecontemporary age:Kooky as it may sound to affirm this, there arestill, after all, rhythms perceptible in the seasonsand tides, in the succession of daylight and dark,in the beating of the blood against the heart-valveand artery. Such facts make us wonder whether, inidentifying the irregular with the natural andorganic, proponents of open field poetry aren'ttaking a limited view.A poem such as Nude Descending A Staircase.evoking a painting by Marcel Duchamp, gives evidenceof the poet’s mastery of meter and rhyme In this poem,as example, the proper blending of these elements servesto move the eye through the images, much as one would The poet identifies with this whale and his fide.Recognizing that die whale has language as he himselfdoes, the poet describes it as “an eerie medley of clicks/and hoots and trills,/location-notes and love-calls,/whis¬tles and grunts.” While its song varies from soundinglike smashed furniture to a creaking door, nevertheless itis a “song with endless variations,/ as if to compensate/for the vast loneliness of the sea.”The whale’s movements were graceful, “pure energyincarnate/ as nobility of form.” When dawn found thewhale stranded on the rocks, the crowd lyhich hadcheered him now came forward to take samples of hisblood and strip his skin for souvenirs. Like the poetKunitz describes so often, the whale had brought “themyth/ of another country, dimly remembered.”In his own element, die whale shared that innocence towhich Kunitz alludes, existing in a space apart from theevents of the day: “While empires rose and fell on land,/your nation breasted the open main,/ rocked in theconsoling rhythm/ of the tides.” But by coming ashore,out of its “wide primeval element,/ delivered to themercy of time,” the whale lost its innocence: “You havebecome like us,/ disgraced and mortal.”The essays in part two elucidate Kunitz’ poetry as wellas explore other writers. In the essay on Keats, Kunitzremarks: “I can think of nothing more miraculous thanthe power of the mind to transform, to connect, tocommunicate,” an affirmation of his poetic thrust. Kunitzis convinced that “at the center of every poetic imagina¬tion is a cluster of key images” which are unalterable,and “that go back to the poet’s childhood.” Theseimages are “usually associated with pivotal experiences,not necessarily traumatic.” And yet later, he writes thatpoets “keep shaping their metaphors out of the ruins oftheir existence, in contradistinction to the powerful onthis earth; whose stock-in-trade is the fable of theirvictories.”The essay entitled The Wisdom of the Body is aphilosophical discussion of the familiar question of thebody-mind-spirit linkage, with poetry as emergent fromtheir interplay. “The words of a poem are charged withthe wisdom of the body and if they are trapped into printthey jump from the page because they are so vibrant withgesture;” therefore, “our best songs are body-songs.”This observation goes far beyond the leaden discussionsof rhyme and metre which make up the bulk of so manydull poetry handbooks.The collection ends with Seedcom and Win fall, agathering of aphorisms and journal entries whose in¬fluence flows throughout the book. This slim volume is asleeper; it has not been widely reviewed, just as Kunitz’work in general has not enjoyed the popularity of manypoets of his own generation, such as Robert Frost orRobert Penn Warren. This collection represents a uniqueopportunity to probe the life and thought of the poeticimagination. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that his titleis a fib.by Martha Vertreaceview a painting:Toe upon toe, a snowing flesh,A gold of lemon, root and rind.She sifts in sunlight down the stairsWith nothing on. Nor on her mind.We spy beneath the banisterA constant thresh of thigh on thigh—Her lips imprint the swinging airThat parts to let her parts go by.One-woman waterfall, she wearsHer slow descent like a long capeAnd pausing, on the final stairCollects her motions into shape.Many reviewers have made much of Kennedy’s criticalstance in some poems, or his mordant humor in others.Such poems come from the double-edged blade of thepoet’s love and fascination with the world, and yet hisdesire for change. Kennedy could write In a Secret Field,quoted here in full:StealthilyThe snow's soft tonsBy the airUnbearableAccumulate.That same poet writes in The Korean Emergency ofcallous American GIs among people devastated by thewar:Spilling from floating nets their fathers poled.Sharp-beaked bambinos in wrapped-rag shoestoreThrough Gi cans for our potato peels.Shivering. Although it didn't seem too cold.Looking at this volume, a reader can well understandwhy the Los Angeles Times awarded Kennedy the po?«rvaward among its annual book prizes.CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14. 1986 7PenultimateWordsTrueRhymeRevisitedIBM PC. nM XT. ComM Poftabto. zsndh *OOmoto(Compagl > Owner*“WHAT IF.HP Offered You ItsPowerful Vectra PC and Money Back?Now for a limited time, Hewlett-Packard will!When you trade-in your IBM PC, IBM PC/XT,Compaq Portable, or Compaq Deskpro computerand upgrade to the powerful Vectra PersonalComputer, HP will give you up to $1000 backBut there’s more...The Vectra PC is fully IBM PC/ATcompatible. And it runs thousands ofprograms up to 30% faster And it takesup 30% less desk space.For more informationcontact the MicroComputer DistributionCenter at 962-6086 INTRODUCING:The Magical PoetNORMAL GREETING CARDS are fine, butlet’s face it..they aren’t very personal. They canbe from anyone to anyone. The Magical Poetchanges all that. The Magical Poet writes a custompoem for and about a person using the more than25 million combinations in its memory. It asks youthe customer five questions about the person forwhom you are creating the greeting card. Thenthe Poet writes a 24-line poem which it offers onits screen for approval. When you decide to buy,the Magical Poet prints your specialized card.After it prints the poem, you can combine yourmessage with a beautiful card front to make aunique and uniquely personalized gift.IflR<5IflR’SGlfTSroCfiPDS HOURSMON-THURS: 10 AM-7 PMFRIDAY: 10 AM-8 PMSATURDAY: 10 AM - 7:30 PMSUNDAY: 11:30 AM-5 PM1605 fflST 55IH SMI CIKfWO.11.60615 (312)955 -4600OUR FAMOUS STUFFED PIZZA IN THE PANIS NOW AVAILABLE IN HYDE PARKCocktails • Pleasant Dining • Pick-up''Chicago's best pizza!" - Chicago Magazine, March 1977"The ultimate in pizza!" - New York Times, January 19805311S. Btaekstone Av«.947-0200Open 11 a.m.-mldnlpht Monday-Thursday11 a.m. Friday and SaturdayNoon-Midnight Sunday(Kitchen closes half hour earlier) ANNUAL 5( )"" OFFWe Don't Promise A Great Perm, We Guarantee It.RegCustom Perms $30 $60NOW $15-*30’haindtapin* anti Mviini not included‘double pruccM dithtly hitherPERM SALE FOR OUR NEW ASWELL AS ESTABLISHED CLIENTSThehair performersFamily Styling CenterNOW FEATURING!!THE INDOOR TANNING SYSTEM1621 E 55th STREETChicago. IL 60615 (3! 2) 241 -77788 CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986Fiction by Edward Hamlin11/20/1972 Interviewer: Charles R. Ford.The informant is a Tibetan male, 31 yrs of age, withexceptionally smooth skin and almond-shaped eyes. Hisblack hair is cut in a Western style with a straight parton the right. He wears a white shirt and tie, but hastaken up at the last minute a traditional Tibetan jacketof bright red silk which he holds folded on his knees.His English, delivered with a faint British accent, isfairly good, and as usual I have not corrected occa¬sional errors in locution. He watches me with a certainnervousness as he talks — perhaps because we aresitting in the Headmaster’s office of the old Catholicschool at Jedzong Hill Station, Himachal Pradesh,where he spent much of his early life. It is 2:30 PMwhen the interview begins.INF: Charles, yesterday you asked me about my cousinNorbu. “Norbu” is “Jewel,” as you know, but it is avery common name and you mustn’t be misled by it.Norbu was a few months older than me. When hismother was still carrying him a Britishman kicked herstomach and did something to him — up here (rubs thetop of his head). Since then he was not always so clear.And when we were seven, maybe eight years, mycousin Norbu started having the fits. First was here inthis school. Norbu falls on the ground and turns blue,lets go the water, does his face like...monkey. (INFmimics an epileptic seizure, head thrown back, jawstretched wide open, Fists clenched.) Brother Ivan wentfor the doctor, but all us kids just watched, keeping outthe way. An old lama came saw it and said it was a’dre, what is the word?CRF: Demon?INF: Yes. Demon. The lama said Norbu would be onegreat priest because he could already take demons intohis body and fight them. That’s how it was, you see,Charles — we were just ignorant. Since it was beforethe Cultural Revolution we didn’t even have Chinesescience, we didn’t know anything! So they said mycousin Norbu was a great sorcerer, magician likePadmasambhava (mythical shaman and Buddhist mis¬sionary.) But really he just had fits and wet hisbritches.CRF: Didn’t your own accident happen around thattime?INF: I was walking in a storm and lightning struck nextby me. Came quick up through the ground and threwme down. I couldn’t remember about it until later.Then they thought I might have the magic too — theymade me to sit in the forest at night like Norbu, andwrap in ice robes in winter, and throw rice at all thebig events. Charles, I didn’t want to be this at first, butthey made me to think I was having the magic, and Idid what they said. I was only ten, what did I know?You didn’t choose the magic.One night they made me to sit all night next to acorpse in the graveyard, even to sit and meditate on itschest! I did, Charles — by then I wanted to be magical.But next day they told me I wasn’t magical. Not likeNorbu. Norbu was having fits every other day. Norbusaid the future and went alone into the forest, some¬times for days, until he got starving and black... Theymade him the big priest. They said all the old dead priests were inside him. They made a house for him atedge of the forest.(INF pauses and looks through the window at theHimalayan peaks. He goes on in a quieter voice.) But Istudied. He had fits and I studied the English at VidyaGhose’s house — Vidya Ghose an old Indian knowingthe English well.Then People’s Liberation Army came. 1952. 1953. Iwas with Vidya Ghose and they marched by and putfire to the house... I got him safe on the street butcouldn’t get his wife and daughter — the old punditheard them screaming, terrible, terrible screaming, andhis heart burst and he died. Right on the street.Squatting and holding my legs. (There is a long silence;INF stares into the red silk jacket folded on his knees.)Chinese are a fine people, they have taught me somuch, but the PLA were leopards. Killers...bad timethen.When the Chinese took over they came with theirown doctors — trained in England, America, UnitedStates! And they check everybody left alive, giveeverybody the bioscope, give needles... People hatedthem, Charles. People rather be sick.They come to Norbu’s house in the forest andeveryone’s already there because he’s having fits at thetime, making animal voices, twitching, rolling inmud... It’s why people come. But those doctors comein and give him a needle and he goes to sleep, fooh!(INF twists his hand.) And pills to take for the fits.My cousin Norbu thought the pills were Chinesefood: he didn’t see them clear at first, just took themand wondered why the demons were all gone. Thensomeone told him they were Chinese ’du-tsi (a Buddhistmystical food) and he take even more of them. Neverthe fits. Everybody thought this magic was gone. Theyweren’t coming to him. They left him alone.He came to me sad but I wouldn’t see him — I wasstudying Chinese at the PLA school and didn’t havetime. (Pauses.) I wouldn’t speak to him Tibetan. OnlyChinese, which he didn’t know. (Pauses). Was wrongabout this and many other things, Charles.(INF silent again.)Chinese stayed, Charles. I had the first post as cadre teacher, teaching Chinese to the village when I wassixteen years. This was before London, you know —that was ’64. I married a PLA girl, Shi-hua. I had alife, but I didn’t see what I see now.Norbu was — nothing then. Everybody went awayfrom him when the fits stopped. He drank chang toomuch, sleep days. Never came in from the forest.Charles, he was really lost.(INF clears his throat repeatedly and loudly.)But one day my cousin saw what the pills did, whythe magic was gone. He feeds them all to his yak andstarted his demon chants again. Winter and cold, therewas plenty of snow and ice...Next day my cousin Norbu left the forest and went tothe army camp. Soldiers were all eating rice by thefire. Norbu passed a big truck and see the key inside.One of the Brothers at school once taught him to driveon the old hospital wagon: he loved driving, to go faston curves. So Norbu starts the truck and goes off onthe road, up, up, up into the mountains, fast, chanting,wants to escape the PLA, the Brothers, everyone,probably me too...I watched the truck up the hills and knew he was toofast. There was plenty of ice, like I said.And the demons came back.(INF breaks off.)At this point in the interview the informant made acharacteristically Chinese gesture to conceal his face,raising the red silk jacket and turning his cheek to itwhile letting his straight hair fall into his eyes. Butafter an uncomfortable silence he dropped the coat andstraightened the narrow black necktie of his teacher'ssuit, pulling himself up a bit, avoiding the interviewer’sgaze until he had composed himself. When a large andnoisome fly landed on the pane next to his head heuttered an unintelligible phrase in Chinese and caught itdeftly in his hand, careful not to crush it.INF: (Presents fly to CRF in his closed fist.) Mycousin Norbu. (Smiles.)The Interview is the winner of the CLR winter shortfiction contest.The Orchardby Benjamin TammuzTranslated by Richard FlantzBy reworking on old biblical story in a modem setting,Benjamin Tammuz examines the relationship between theJews and Arabs in the Middle-East. He takes the biblicaltale of Ishmael and Isaac as the basis for The Orchard,and places his own characters, Obadiah and Daniel, inPalestine from World War I through the formation of thestate of Israel. The historical setting of the novella is notSonnet for ShiraWe fight to be alone. It is confused.We each can reach inside the other’s breastAnd split the bone shell wide, as if to wrestThe organ out; it’s purple, black, too bruisedTo bear close fists — both of us want a wordOr sentence, breath, caress, a glance, soft kissTo reach inside — perhaps it comes to this:We both want all our whispers, lost sounds,heard.For if they’re heard, forgiven. So I believe,Or hope, or need to hope. I drop and kneelAnd, face doused in the earth, ask all to feelForgiveness for the cleft, those left who grieve.Perhaps there is a reason we are torn.Perhaps you’re not forgiven till you mourn.by David FrankelSonnet for Shira is the winner of the CLRWinter poetry contest. unfamiliar to Tammuz, who emigrated from Russia toPalestine in 1924. He has lived most of his life inPalestine and Israel as an art critic and literary editor foran Israeli daily paper.As the narrative begins, the elder and illegitimatebrother, Obadiah, arrives in Palestine, having fled fromhis Russian home. Obadiah detests his Jewish father, whoseparated him from his Arab mother many years earlier.He still vividly recalls the sad scene, watching his motherweep inconsolably in the streets as his father drove themaway in a carriage. Obadiah’s deep-seated hatred extendsto everything connected to his father, including his ownhalf-brother Daniel.In Palestine Obadiah becomes overseer to an orchard,and comes under the tutelage of the narrator, an ag-ronimist in the region who is hired to train him. Soonafterwards, the narrator's own orchard is devoured bylocusts and he loses his mind. He recovers somewhat,but cannot guarantee the accuracy of his narrative, due tohis questionable sanity.Later, Daniel arrives in Palestine and unwittinglypurchases the orchard where Obadiah works, and en¬gages himself to Obadiah’s mute lover, Luna. Luna andthe orchard become connected and interwoven imagesthat form the central focus of the book. The strugglebetween the brothers, epitomizing that between Jews andArabs, develops around this central image, giving thestory an allegorical character. This parabolical style addsto the book’s biblical qualities. Much like a biblicalstory, the novella has a very simple structure that relieson images laden with meaning, particularly the orchard.The narrator’s doubt about his reliability as a story¬teller helps to uncover the novella’s principal theme.“Not much time remains for me to understand what hasbeen and to imagine what is yet to be after me. I strainwith all my might to bring before my mind's eye aii thethings as they happened, but they insist on mixingtogether and erupting, refusing to lie still. Nevertheless Iwill not let them be. Perhaps I will yet manage to seestraight. From the day my mind became deranged, in thatcursed year of the locusts, there is no trusting me or mystories. But I will go on telling. Because if I don’t tellthis story, who will?” In fact, he represents the ideal andmost sane narrator possible. He cared only about or-chardry, and in certain sense, died when his orchard was destroyed. As he observes the struggles around him, hetries to understand the motivations of Daniel, Obadiahand the other participants. But being dead inside, hecannot find the reasons for this fighting, which finds itsroots in such passionate and unreasoning hatred asObadiah has for Daniel. These emotions mix events together and make them erupt, not allowing the narrator tomake sense of them. He thinks that his jumbled view ofthese incidents results from his insanity , when it actuallyreflects the insanity of the incidents themselves, and hisown clearheadedness.The explosions of animosity that he witnesses perpet¬uate the cycle of resurrection and destruction — sym¬bolically represented by the orchard and Luna — andform the primary character of relations between Jews and"Arabs. The orchard completely mirrors this circularprocesses, beginning as a thick, dry and dying mass oftrees, then flourishing under Daniel's care, and ultimatelygetting destroyed by Daniel in a fit of madness.Luna's role in this cycle is less clear, and perplexesthe narrator more than anything else. As the years go by.Luna seems to get younger and younger, until sheeventually looks younger than her own son. The narratorconjectures that. “Perhaps she was not bom of woman atall, but of a process, one of the processes of time,without beginning and without end.” Luna is, in fact,bom of the endless process of resurrection and destruc¬tion. and grows younger because she thrives on theanimosity — the lunacy — between Daniel and Obadiah.which is a central part of this process.Tammuz’s cyclical theme becomes effective only in thenatural flow of the simple allegorical form it assumes.The intense and irrational hatred between the Jews andArabs that it deals with is difficult to understand at all.Tammuz’s plain bare story helps eliminate any ambiguityabout the nature of this relationship. Like a parable, hisstory and theme are not new, but rather ones that need tobe retold so that we are continually reminded that certaintypes of hatred and strife have no real cause — nobeginning and no end.^ by John GetzThe Orchard is printed by Copper Beech Press a.k.a.the Brown English Department. They receive fundingfrom the Rhode Island State Council on the Arts, and theNational Endowment for the Arts.CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 9TheInterviewSensibleInsanitye e— — ”Blank Rounds: The Exhaustion of a Genre\»' a. . -Jf* . «>.,'' 4 'Y 7-\VjL' J:.\ 1Everything’s already been said over and over again.Is there a thing of which it is said,“See, this is new”?We say, “Oh, I've already read thatstory." and “I already know how that episode of The Waltonsturns ou t Because we*re suffering from brain fade.you’ve not read the book, nor tried any of the exercises, but you havecounted the number of pages in the book, and the very thickness of it allwas so intimidating, that you’ve decided to toss in the towel before youeven begin. Exhaustion may be acquired or i*herited—in any case it alters the aspect andvalue of things.By ’exhaustion’ I don’t mean anything so tiredas the subject of physical, moral, orintellectual decadence, only the used-upness of certain forms or exhaustion of certainpossibilitie$--by no means necessarily a causefor despair" (p. 267).Initially, most patients were surprised, even shocked, tolearn that they were unable to conceivemale patients referred to intercourse as “shooting blanks.”“Baskerville, you blank round, dis¬cursiveness is not literature.”The priest was too tired to look at any more books, and therefore proposed thatthe rest should be burned, contents unknown.»<frs of livino fn CJealh the n0vel bare,y imp^ges on the prob-now the voice of God ceases to bring “words” to the land. Later rab¬binic tradition dated the cessation of prophecy to the missions ofHaggai, Zechariah, and Malachi. The gates of revelation w ere closedbv God Himself in order to protect His w ord from those w ho bringfalse words. It became time to explore what was already known.Everything the current methodologies can do. Dostoievskican do better. This does not mean current research is insignifi¬cant. It will be very significant, indeed, if it can catch up someday with the superiority of gTeat fiction, not through more fic¬tion, but through a language systematic enough to reach otherdisciplines. Where shall we find language innocent enough, howshali we make the spotless purity of our intentions evident“OH I wish there were some words in the worldthat were not the words I always hear!” SnowWhite exclaimed loudly. > “Murder and create!M Henry said,1 HAVE NOTHING TO SAY AND I AM SAYING IT.and that was weak, but we applauded, and SnowWhite said, “That is one I’ve never heard beforeever;” and that gave us courage, and we all began tosay things, things that were more or less satisfactory,or at least adequate, to serve the purpose, for thetime being.Ho I became a hack-writer, and sorrowfully, hat deliberately,‘pot my Pegasus into heavy liar ness,' as my betters had donebefore me. It was miserable work, there is no denying it—onlynot worse than tailoring.I had no time, beside, to concentrate my thoughts sufficiently for poetry; notime to wait for inspiration. From the moment I had swallowed my breakfast, Ihad to sit scibbting off my thoughts anyhow in prose; and soon my own scantystock was exhausted.He bent over the typewriter and began pounding its keys../ , -.r y% 4, vv i > 0*5 U*:vjao* >£*$**%*£.'-ft*>!i>: <r> ,» 'y' But before he had written a dozen words, Shrike leaned overhis shoulder. “The same old stuff,” Shrike said. “Why don’t yougive them something new and hopeful?. Tell them about art.“Oh no,” he said. “I can’t do that. No one can.'‘The poet,’ it is said,* and by an intelligent critic, ‘the poetwho would really fix the public attention must leave the ex¬hausted past, and draw his subjects from matters of present im¬port, and therefore both of interest and novelty.’“Oh no,” he said. “I can’t do that. No one can.The astonishing defenders of Gongora vindicated him of the chargeof innovation by means of documentary proof of the perfectly erudite ancestryof his metaphors. For classical minds the literature is the essential thing, notthe individuals.4. For a similar fantasy see '.’Where Am I?” in Dennett. But more closely related to whatI am saying is the fascinating discussion of self-identification in Evans, pp, 249-55.George Moore and James Joyce have incorporated in their works the pagesand sentences of others _, ue cannot hope to free ourselves fromthe t> runny of . ustom Our excess,ve awareness of theuisniution between the irtdnidu.il and mankind has led to anovervalnanon of social differentiation a. the expense of naturala "ulus between men as 1, elements of nature and 2) membenof a common species.Even whenthe learning process does enter into the development of the behavioral pattern,it still can be demonstrated that the basic pattern is inborn.The physiological satisfaction of communication is secondary to the satisfactionof terminating the restless, seeking behavior with a flick of the pen.Stylistic effects are dictated by a set <>t conventions whichconstitute a repertory ol universal—or quasi-universal—prescriptions. These prescriptions reflect a social, or collective, con¬sciousness. The collective consciousness delegates to words thefunction of expiessiug its full scope anil weight. Words are com¬municable symbol\ interchangeable commodities.Ho I became a hack-writer, and sorrowfully, but deliberately,‘ put my Pegasus into heavy harness,’ as my betters had donebefore me. It was miserable work, there is no denying it—onlynot worse than tailoring.e , , , I was forced to beg, borrow, and steal notions andfacts wherbver I could get them.HOW WE GET OUR IDEAS Thcy ate four.d, not createdThat our ideas are mostly second hand is a belittling idea to most, for we liketo impose ideas on others as our own.f°°dmu^goodbooLtOUJ<*>d. good clothes t dtep healthy, wavs7y r ‘°comfortahN, a^s to livehouse£* and man v ml, ,.JUstby readingg aaverttsements.*****“The flow is constant,” A Ifonse aaid. “Word*, pictures, num¬ber*. fids, graphics, statistics, specks, waves, particles, motes.tfv o v- da*.#*', Kv-10 CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986The •relation-between language and the world cannot be stated in a languagewhich only shows the world and does not (because it cannot) show therelation of showing itself.The whole develops in an imaginary realm, where the relations between wordsand forms have no objective, representational intent, but recreate among them¬selves their own intrinsic relations.Wc do not come to write better; all thatwe can be said to do is to keep moving, now a little in thisdirection, now in that, but with a circular tendency should thewhole course of the track be viewed from a sufficiently lottypinnae Given the compulsion to create “somethingentirely new" the nightmare of the dead generations willoverpower the consciousness, the ghosts will walk, andwhatever novelty comes into existence will be the unwilledand unpredicted effect of time’s ironical victory.Invariably, this irony informs the apparently ineluctable processesof the creation and collapse of meaning systemsThe zeneral theorem about entropy, "disorder can onlyincrease in an isolated system," amounts to saying that no.*^anonlydegrade the orderliness of the message; it cannot increase Plarized information; it destroys intent. (&5-S&)Linguistic fission.Less than the measured heft of ordinary language.Less than sentences and phrases.Less than number words. /He uses himself up inthe effort to preserve as long as he can the delicate, weakand humanly desirable world of prose.Mallarm^, the Hamlet of writing, as it were, wellrepresents this precarious moment of History inwhich literary language persists only the better tosing the necessity of its death.In the historical drama the dailyworld of prose is in constant precarious motion toward itsextinction in the poetic, non-stop growth just isn't possiblefor Americans or anybody else. For we live in what I'velearned to recognize as a tight ecological system: asmallish planet with a strictly limited supply of every¬thing, including air, water, and places to dump sewage.Mulch, glunk, wort and urg. Nameless wastes.At the bottom of every situationlies the poetry of its ultimate wreck.Less than words.Less thanword fragments.Upon the arch over the fur.hest sepul¬chre there is an inscription, in which, nt'tercleaning uway the dirt, the following frug-inentu of words have heen nu de out, therest being altogether effaced, or so de¬stroyed as to be undiatioguisliable ;NOTN JTOHI* ITINPACPACKMAN IST A C VATI ON IS I*1 SITAE1N1I0CaOCO H ECO ItAlthough, from what remains, the senseof the inscription cannot be understood, itmay he affirmed that the characters whichare visible are almost all Latin.established meanings have turned to stone.1 poems begin, usuallv L - 77 “""P0* a P°em. Ther gm, usually, somewhat in this vein- “Finely* "8hty-°ne/ Nevertheless she’s lots of fun G"*But found it itnporoble to, H7 ■ “’ntinue.y ** months on end. g sarae••Even . joke,” L A. Richards remarked, “is for Tolstoy only . jokeso |ong as all men may share in it, i truly revolutionary amendment.“Even a joke," l A. Richards remarked, “is for Tolstoy only s joke” °ng “ men may shire in it, a truly revolutionary amendment.“Even a joke." I A- for Tote^y onlylong as all men may share in it, a tru.y1,118 1» ita saturation point.SOAll the key words in this explanation, bythe way, are totally misleading due to the everyday quirks of language.”Passages like the previous one make up the greater part oPworld literature.Organized by Charles Aaowl, Gideon D'Arcangelo, and David McNultyWhere we got our words: Barth Barthelme Barthes Wittgenstein FriedrichWest Borges Cage Books in Print 1981-1982 Don Delillo Pater Picabia GirardSears Catalog Charles Russell Nietzsche N.O. Brown Emerson Mary ShelleyPope Poe Cheerios Box Jonathan Swift Larry Speakes George SandVirgimaWoolf Wright IA Richards Marshall McLuhan Gray’s Anatomy MallarmeQuine Peter Volpe Matthew Arnold Alton Lock? Sandauer Fletcher SanderTanya Roberts Thomas Aquinas Wordsworth William Hazlitt Walter MarxJunior World Encyclopedia Ecclesiastes Schlott Schwatz Irving Lewis VineT.S. Lawrence Keats Nathaniel West Time Magazine Keith Brennan TzaraCHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 11IsthereLifeAfterReagan?DiscipleofDr.Spock A Parent’s Guideby Dr. Kart SpedDr. Kart Sped, the-noted child therapist, has recentlyevaluated the theories of his former colleague andmentor. Dr. Benjamin Spock. During the late 60's andearly 70’s Dr Spock advised America’s parents to raisetheir children in environments that were conducive tolove, understanding, and friendship. The adherence tothis ideology, claimed Spock, would allow young peopleto develop into sensitive, creative, and free-thinkingindividuals. However, in Speel's new book, A Parent’sGuide to the Creation of an Automaton, he denies therelevance and importance of Spock's theories. “It is nolonger necessary, or for that matter, advantageous tofoster sentiments of kindness within the nuclear family.Parents must begin to cultivate within their children a 3desire for achievement, and a lust for power.”Speel's analysis, although very critical of Spock’s %theories, is actually based on the same hypothesis: the ■§aim of raising children is to create socially adjusted “individuals. In the past decade, however. Speel has come pto realize that mere social adjustment, as an ideal, has |only succeeded in breeding what is known in Speel’sterms as the “closet neurotic.” These, he claims, areindividuals who merely appear to be socially adjustedwithin arenas which exemplify normal and constructivebehavior. An example of such an arena, according toSpeel, would be the area within one’s home which issolely dedicated to the viewing of television. Speel claimsthat the “closet neurotic,” otherwise known as thesocially adjusted individual, commits the psychologicalerror of exploring his individuality in privacy; whereasthe “normal neurotic,” otherwise known as the sociallymaladjusted individual, is not self-conscious about theexpression of unconventional desires. Speel feels that the“closet neurotic,” or socially adjusted human being,always poses a threat to the fabric of society because heis potentially a “normal neurotic.” “Within most so¬cially adjusted individuals,” says Speel, “there exists thepossibility of what is known as ‘personal growth’, whichinevitably leads to the abnormal and epiphenomenal Dr. Karl Speelprocess of ‘expressing one’s true nature’, which in turnleads to destructive, unconventional, and anti-social beh¬avior.”In Speel’s attempt to extinguish the possibility of“closet neurosis” within the maturing child he has givenbirth to a new theory known as “conditioned con¬formity.” Within Speel’s ideological framework thereexists three primary goals. The first concerns the an¬nihilation of the child’s imagination, the second pertainsto the discouragement of the child's spiritual and emo¬tional growth, and the third (and most important, ac¬cording to Speel) relates to the development within thechild of a deep-seated hatred for his peers.Upon establishing his objectives Sped concerns him¬self with the creation of an environment in which theautomaton can mature successfully. In relation to theannihilation of the child's imagination Sped advises parents to raise their child in a veritably antisepticenvironment. “The intrusion of nuance and disorder,”claims Speel, “will only be detrimental to the child,causing him to become aware of the mystery, complex¬ity, and richness of human experience. A child's roomshould resemble the inside of a gerbil cage, completewith water bottle for nutritional purposes, and metalexercise wheel for the perpetuation of muscular devel¬opment.Concerning the discouragement of any type of emo¬tional and spiritual growth, which, according to Sped,only breeds weak individuals who harbor perverse noti¬ons of altruism. Sped advises parents to make everyeffort to desensitize their children. Successful des¬ensitization can only be achieved if, first of all, commu¬nication among family members is kept to a minimum.Language should be utilized only for utilitarian purposes.Conversation must concern itself solely with the mobi¬lization of material items from one designated area toanother. Children must also be encouraged to indulge insuch communication inhibiting activities as televisionviewing and radio listening, particularly when the radiotransmits its sound waves directly into the child's audioorifice by way of an ear plug apparatus, rendering thechild unable to absorb any natural sounds which mightgive birth to what Sped refers to as an “aestheticawareness.”Finally. Speel’s last goal, to develop deeply rootedsentiments of hatred within the child, is necessarybecause hatred breeds anxiety, and anxiety in turn createsenvironments that are conducive to competition, andcompetition is necessary for the success of a consumersociety. Thus, according to Sped, the automaton (alsoknown as the “socially constructive individual”) must befueled by hatred, otherwise he will be devoured, diges¬ted, and excreted from the bowels of our economicstructure. In order to foster the necessary hatred theparent need only refrain from sheltering the child. Asufficient level of contempt will flourish within the childas a result of direct exposure to the world he will beforced to inhabit.by Deane Bivinsi! Reagan. God, and the Bombby Frank KndmanReading this book, a Tom Lehrer song called “We Will All Go Together When WeGo,” a satirical look-on-the-bright-side-of-nuclear-war ditty kept running through myhead. It became less funny as the reading progressed. The book is a frighteningindictment of the Reagan administration's presentation of the Soviet Union as an “evilempire” and their manipulation of this propaganda as a justification for nuclear armsbuildup and warfighting principles. Knelman has researched this book intensively, usingextensive sources and little-known but well documented facts, and has extrapolated fromthese the relationships of the title trilogy.A central issue in this book is that of the “secret agenda”, a plan which Knelmanclaims underlies White House and Pentagon actions in matters relating to nucleararmament and policy. This is embodied in two security documents, National SecurityDecision Document #32 and Single Integrated Optional Plan #6 (which were “leaked”to public press), which Knelman quotes from other sources. “The essence of the plan is‘decapitation’ of the Soviet state through defeat in a limited or protracted or initiatednuclear war, using both military' and economic diversions...Above all, the plan requiresthe will and means to fight a nuclear war and win it through nuclear superiority” (p.19). This is reflected in the statements that many advisers to Reagan have made, sayingin essence that nuclear war is winnable and should not be feared, and the losses to the“victor” in a nuclear arms confrontation would be nearly negligible. The “secretagenda” creates myths and half-truths which are necessary to the administration’sjustification for nuclear armament. Knelman spells out these political myths in thesecond chapter; these include “survivability” of nudear war, infallibility of space-based weapons (SDI or “Star Wars”) as well as other weapons, and a general tunnelvision on such matters as Soviet weapon strength and U.S. vulnerability. Theadministration s objective is triumph over the “focus of evil”, the USSR, at any cost.Having established a clear purpose in Reagan’s dealings with the Soviet Union,Knelman spends much of the book debunking these myths. Particularly offensive is theInsomniaOne leaf plays its sandpaper noteOn an empty street.Unfallen leaves rattle like paper bells.No. There are no bells at night.Instead the sound of sugar, measured for a cakeOr just poured onto the floorOr broken waves hissing up the shore.All night, the trains slide along the bridgeMoving without depth, flat against the sky.Each its own shadow.Buildings are shadowsOf something too far away to see.I’m a building I’m a wave,even dreaming.by Joe Washington. -— ■■■■ -CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW-! Reagan concept of “survivability” or “winnability” of a nuclear war. Should a nuclearwar occur (a situation becoming more and more likely as Reagan continues aspresident), the widespread destruction it would cause would make any attempts at“normal” life ludicrous and impossible. In spite of widely documented and publicizedmaterial from various scientists and scientific communities about the dangers of nuclearwar, Reagan persists in believing that life after a nuclear war would not differ greatlyfrom life before. Knelman creates a chilling scenario from this amassed evidence,proving the ridiculousness of Reagan's claim. In my opinion, it would be sufficient toexamine the “survivors” of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs, weapons of relativelylow destruction capability in comparison to weapons currently in U.S. arsenal, torealize the annihilation possible in a nuclear confrontation between the two super¬powers. As Knelman points out, however, Reagan was voted by a panel of historiansthe president most ignorant-of history. Evidently this extends to an ignorance of thehorrors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki as well.Another myth of the Reagan administration is that of normal superiority, culminatingin the implied idea that “God is on our side”. Reagan’s religiousness seems to be acheap, narrow sort of evangelism, perfectly embodied in his friend Jerry Falwell, thetelevision preacher who rails against the enemies of the Lord like homosexuals, heathenJews, and misguided feminists. It is comforting to know, as Knelman documents, thatCatholic bishops have united in their condemnation of the inhumanity of nuclear war, ashave several other religious groups. It is questionable whether a God whose mandate is“Love your fellow man” could sanction such wholesale butchery as Reagan con¬templates through nuclear war.It is difficult to have respect for Ronald Reagan after reading this book. Hisdisregard of social welfare policies and education in favor of defense in his nationalbudget is absolutely stupefying. His accusations of the Soviet Union’s abuses of humanrights, though not misdirected, also have no credibility in the face of his own flagrantabuses of human rights; not only through the nuclear arms race, but also through hisignorance of poverty in this country and his traffic with the government of South Africaand the contras Nicaragua, internationally denounced as ignorant of human rights. Hisself-appointed role of guardian (read; dictator) of the morals of the American people,and for that matter, of Western civilization, strikes one as being laughable, and yet atthe same time bordering on autonomy. “Reagan...represent(s) the worst traditions inAmerica — racism, chauvanism, and political bullying”. Add to that religiousoppression — though it is claimed that America is a nonreligious country, the Christiantradition remains very strong, particularly in the hands of the Reagan administration asa defense against die “evil empire”, the Soviet Union. (Can there be a “Star Wars”without a Darth Vader — at least in Reagan’s black-and-white conception of the armsrace?)Knelman is an intelligent and thorough researcher and writer. A broad spectrum ofknowledge, comprising such elements as military policy, physical and biologicalsciences, linguistics, and social and political criticism, are all part of this book.Knelman can be repetitious in emphasizing a point or a series of points, but that doesnot reduce their import or their sometimes terrifying content. Words begin to take on anew horror; phrases that may seem innocuous become frightening tools for theadministration’s “secret agenda”. The book is not light reading, nor is it comfortable.But there is hope, and it lies in the people of this and other countries who must becomeinformed and take it upon themselves to protest Reagan’s policies and actions. I feelthis is an important book for anyone who is aware of the threat of nuclear war andwishes to know more about the policies and politics surrounding it. Information has thepower to save this earth and its people.by Laura RebeckMARCH 14, 1986 ————Put the pastin yourfuture!LIVE IN AN HISTORIC LANDMARKThoroughly renovated apartments offer generous floor space com¬bined with old-fashioned high ceilings. Park and lakefront providea natural setting for affordable elegance with dramatic views.—All new kitchens and appliancesWall-to-wall carpeting —Resident managerAir conditioning —Round-the-clock security—Optional indoor or —Laundry facilities onoutdoor parking each floor—Piccolo Mondo European gourmet food shop and cafeStudios, One-, Two- and Three-Bedroom ApartmentsOne-bedroom from $555 • Two-bedroom from $765Rent includes heat, cooking gas and master TV antennaCfOMmnerejhoi'tse1642 East 56th StreetIn Hyde Park, across the park fromThe Museum of Science and IndustryEqual Housing Opportunity Managed by Metroplex, Im KQUARK LIQUORS U WINE SHOPPE1 “ ' KALI OATti 3/U |e J/3B/BB,1214 East SSrd Stmt • In Kimbark Plau 493-3355MICHELOB24-12 02. Btls $399 GREEN BEERV4 BARRaORMR 3 DAYS M ADVAMCSFUU MYNUMT I14Sbun* CANTEVA L1.5 Lite, 53 99 UN-53.99 imaiMAIMM MBAT1 COST fR 1 A 53.49-53-5013 MMUM HBATI 99*COLONY15 liter 3/57-99-54 00 3 /$wNNLM HAH / V PAPILLON1.5 Litsr $459RIUNITE750 ml 7*7” KELLERGEISTER750 ml $2^9SUTTERHOME750 ml. $399 UHIFRAUMIICH1.5 Ul»r $299BUBBLES$259 SPARKLINGCODORNIUextra dry. brutSPIRITSJAMESONIRISH WHISKEY$999A i TASTING MARCH 4 4 IS. 1944/ ! 2-9 p*» $499■BLACK BUSH*18"ONCE SOU) ONLYOVERSEAS DOM RUINAT$29**IRISH MIST750 ml.$12"CLUBCOCKTAILS3/*10 BACARDI RUM1.75 Itr$10" WATERFORDIRISH CREAM-52 00HAA-IN ISA 7THEUBLEIN PREPAREDCOCKTAILS$399TASTING MARCH 15. 19862-9 ptr> JIM BEAMI75i.tr $10 99-1 50 ™MAM.-* SATEMURPHY’Sw IRISH WHISKEY® 750 ml ^700llRRHY 5 * g BAILEY’SIRISH CREAM$10"BARTLES 4 JAYMESWINE COOLER4-1202 Btls $2” ABSOLUTVODKA © \$g99 WPEPSI, DIET PEPSI,PEPSI FREE, DIET PEPSI FREE 21* $]19Mo*- Thurs , 8 om lom, Ffi Sot 8o©> 2om, Su© NoOf\-M*dr\*gt'tw© accept Visa Mastercard & checksCHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986BreathingLifeIntoLiterature Sometimes a book consumes itself while being read,and in the process, the reader. The author leads you on,down alleys and into regrettable circumstance, seducingyou with a meaning that’s always on the next page, untilfinally, at the height of suspense, you find that you arethe murderer. Some books bum up while you read them,and change your life.Most good books are versatile enough to tell you whatyou want to hear. But sometimes the dynamic between abook and your life is so tight that the two lock togetherinseparably. I began reading Gravity’s Rainbow byThomas Pynchon, on the advice of both of my mentors,during the month before I would leave for Europe on anindefinite trip. I found it impossible reading. I could getthrough around ten pages a day tops, and even then Iwasn’t sure what had happened. I laughed though; Iknew the joke was funny, even when I didn’t get it. Thethickest weave of plots and subplots and superplots sooverloaded my conception of novelty that I was free tolearn a whole lot from the book. I ended up in Englandwith it for a while, where 1 read it under sodium streetlamps on the highway, feeling comfortably wretched. InCalais, I went in with two guys on a twenty dollar hotcar with British plates. We decided that Spain was theplace to go, because it was the orange season downthere.We stopped in Bergerac and stole some salami.Py nchon started to tell me about Byron the immortal lightbulb, an adventurer who ends up in just about everysignificant scene. Things were connecting in a way that Icouldn’t put my finger on. We walked down CyranoStreet, but I didn’t mention it to my companions, whohadn’t heard of the play. So. I mailed a post card hometo myself, so I wouldn’t forget.Pynchon went on.When something real is about to happen to you, yougo toward it with a transparentsurface. parallel toyour own front that hums and bisects both your ears,making your eyes very alert. The light bends towardschalky blue. Your skin aches. At last, something real.We didn’t have any papers for the car and we wereworried about getting into Spain. Looking over the map.we found the thinnest road that crossed the border andwent there. We figured that if we got there in the middleof the night we might be able to get by unnoticed.We got to the border but they didn't let us through.Dark men carrying machine guns told us that Spaindidn’t open until 7:30 in the morning. We would have tospend the night in the narrow strip of turf betweencountries called the No-Man’s Land. Neither France norSpain. The two guys I was with took the chance to getsome sleep. I laid down on a pile of gravel under asurreally bright sodium light. Then after three months ofstruggling through a couple of pages at a time, makingmyself trudge through the swamp of Py nchon’s intention.I plowed through the final fifty pages.‘ 'Now everybody— ’ ’I climbed up the mountainside, away from the borderstation. My skin ached. I walked for a long time alongthe No-Man’s Land. Sure enough the moon was full, andaround it was inscribed a perfect circle, half the size of the sky. I burnt the book then, turning the pages with myfoot until the flames consumed it. It was my book.This book was my anti-novel. Gravity’s Rainbow isapocalyptic—and it was the last book I ever read. Sincethen my whole approach to literature has been entirelyoverhauled—much less innocent and embracing. Youspend the whole time wading through Pynchon’s doctrineof paranoia (“Paranoia is just the realization that thingsare connected."), and at the end of it, you’re paranoid.Then you realize it is the book itself that’s out to getyou. Any book that purports to describe a phenomenon isultimately successful when it becomes that phenomenon.Then it is truly convincing literature. By destroying itselfas it was created, Gravity’s Rainbow became an etherealsubstance that pervaded all aspects of my life. And ifthat’s not cause to be paranoid, I don’t know what is.by Gideon D'ArcangeloWHAT IS TOO OLD TO HAVE FUN? YOU CAN’TBE TOO OLD TO SPY EXCEPT IF YOU WEREFIFTY YOU MIGHT FALL OFF A FIRE ESCAPE,BUT YOU COULD SPY AROUND ON THE GROUNDA LOT.from Harriet the Spy,by Louise FitzhughIt would be impossible to say what parts of this bookheld the most fascination for me at nine. At twenty-fivethe book reads backwards as replacement for diariesdestroyed in adolescence; reads now as Secret History,supplement to fashionable texts with pretensions ofrevealing the always already there.Discovered the summer of 1969. it was on GladysMarchi’s sixth grade reading list. Gladys’ sister was afourteen-year old hippi. She was headed for the publichigh school, wore see-through blouses, shook the housewith Carole King, and spent the afternoons in her atticbedroom with her friends and her parents’ alcohol (astain running down the side of the house evidenced theuncontainable amusement). She was probably against thewar. That’s how the world was divided up. even in Madmagazine. Hawks and Doves.We were kids. We played “Mean Mother” with a girlGladys’ father picked up from somewhere in the inner-city on weekends. I wore homemade peace signs andshopped with my mother at the Fort Wadsworth com¬missary.There were no obvious politics in Harriet the Spy,but her world did seem just as insane as the one thatsurrounded me. That rare book that did not speak inhushed tones while the children were around. It franklyportrayed the simple-minded, the deranged, the nasty;and suggested that those with the inside story on whatwas really going on were the marginals of society—thedelivery men, the nurses, the spies. Life was nasty andbrutish, but to be dealt with.“None of that. Tears won’t bring me back.Remember that. Tears never bring anything back.Life is a struggle and a good spy gets in there andfights. Remember that. No nonsense.” Dealt with even when peers were out for blood:PERHAPS I CAN TALK TO MY MOTHERABOUT CHANGING SCHOOLS. I HAVE THEFEELING THIS MORNING THAT EVERYONEIN THIS SCHOOL IS INSANE. I MIGHT POS¬SIBLY BRING A HAM SANDWICH TOMOR¬ROW BUT I HAVE TO THINK ABOUT IT.Before she went downstairs she began to think about thefact that her room was in the attic. She wrote:THEY PUT ME UP HERE IN THIS ROOMBECAUSE THEY THINK I’M A WITCH.And, to deal with this strange environment, the advicefrom the wisest character in the book ran contrary to allrespectable morality:Now in case you ever run into the followingproblem, I want to tell you about it. Naturally, youput down the truth in your notebooks. What wouldbe the point if you didn’t? And naturally thosenotebooks should not be read by anyone else, butif they are, then, Harriet, you are going to have todo two things, and you don’t like either one ofthem:1) You have to apologize.2) You have to lie....But to yourself you must always tell the truth.Harriet the Spy is a text I continue to resonatewith—jouissance then and now.by Michele Marie Bonnarcns1 read Conrad’s The Secret Sharer before going tosleep one night two years ago. It was about a youngCaptain on his maiden voyage. He is a stranger to hiscrew. The first night on board, he is outside on anchorwatch, and he sees a ladder on the hull that has been leftout. He goes to pull it up and finds a man hanging on toit. The man says he’s been swimming since morning andasks if the Captain will invite him on board, or should heswim on until he dies. The Captain invites him into hisown cabin, and lends him some night clothes. The twomen are doubles of each other: they are dressed alike,they look alike, they think alike. The man’s name isLegatt, and he tells how he came to be swimming allday. He was the first mate on a ship called the Sephora.During a storm he got into a fight with another crewmember, waves crashed on them, and Legatt is foundholding the neck of the crew member who had died.Legatt was judged to be a murderer and locked up. Heescapes and swims to the Captain’s boat. The Captain,who is the narrator of this story, can’t and won’t tellanyone of Legatt’s presence on his board. They sharethis secret. The Captain of the Sephora comes lookingfor Legatt, but in vain. The Captain and Legatt becomeso close through their talks in the cabin that they are in asense one. They are seven miles from shore, too far forLegatt to swim. The Captain risks his boat, and the livesof his crew, by coming close enough to shore for Legattto swim in. At parting, he gives Legatt his white hat. Htcomes within inches of capsizing the boat, his crew thinkthat he has lost her. but he commands them to follow hisorders. As they pull away, the Captain sees the white hatbobbing on the water, and he knows that his other halfhas made it, free.A month later, I was lying in bed, late, thinking. I wasplanning on leaving home with a friend the next day tofind a job in Colorado. It would be my first time awayfrom home, and I was leaving without my parents’support. I was scared about leaving. What would it belike? Could I take care of myself? My parents didn’tseem to think so. My friends’ parents didn’t think so.Suddenly The Secret Sharer came back to mind, and atthat moment it all made sense. It was about in¬dependence. The Captain on his first voyage, with a newcrew to whom he was a stranger, and the First Mate whohad not quite reached the Captain’s level, being younger,a fugitive, who had been forced to leave his ship — bothwere trying their hands at being alone, by choice and notby choice. Each found solace in the other, and then whenthey were ready, they parted, two whole individuals Iwas amazed by the story and started to cry.by Krishna RamanujanI can easily trace my current views of literature, andof its capabilities and values, back to 1980, when I wasthirteen, and I spent part of a summer with friends inConnecticut. As I had just finished The Lord of theRings (which I had intended to save for the summer) Iasked my father to lend me some books for the month Iwas to be away. He produced a stack of novels from hisshelves, the topmost of which was his battered collegecopy of The Stranger (1946) by Albert Camus.The Stranger had an unbelievable effect on meliterally from its first sentence (“Mother died today”) toits last (“For all to be accomplished, for me to feel lesslonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day ofmy execution there should be a huge crowd of spectatorsand that they should greet me with howls of execra¬tion.”) What was startling was not as much the powerfulemotional current of the book, as I had encountered suchcurrents in books before, but the seeming sourcelessnessof the current, it emergence from the apparent vacuum ofthe story. The novel contained none of the easily visibleattributes that I had, by that time, grown used to findingin books and interpreting as devices a novellist uses inorder to invoke sympathetic responses in the reader.Where previous favorite novels had been long, TheStranger was very short; it was not overly dramatic or“sweeping” in its scope; it described routine, mundaneevents with mundane declaratory sentences. The maincharacter was not large-scaled or heroic or outstanding inany immediately visible way; he was instead simple,unassuming, iresponsible, occasionally detestable, and14 CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986entirely unheroic.But the spell that the book cast was mystical. Thepower of the novel emerged slowly out of nowhere,untracable to the events described, the words chosen orthe sentences presented. As I finished the book I beganalmost hysterically to praise it to my friends, butimmediately I found myself at a loss when asked whatspecifically was so memorable about the book. Norecount of story or of the storytelling technique, noquoted passage, however breathtaking in the context ofdie narrative, seemed adequate in conveying the book’simportance. To this day I have not heard or read oneanalysis of The Stranger that I can entirely agree with;most interpretations that I have encountered seem in¬accurate or irrelevant, and the attempts that come closestare ultimately either complacent academic dogma orsmooth reductions of the novel’s “themes” and “mes¬sage” down to explanations that are irrefutably consistentand yet somehow always seem to miss the point.In retrospect, The Stranger awakened an aestheticresponse, the responsive chord that Rilke calls “Thebeating of the other wing” that is perhaps the commongoal of all writers. The novel was morally accurate, butthe urgency of the moral statement clearly rested on thebook’s aesthetic accuracy; on a selective prose thatreorganizes and observes reality according to an impliedsystem that is responded to not logically, or emotionally,but, it seemed at the time, somewhere in the grey areabetween the two.I remember saying at the time that there was an“absolute truth” to The Stranger, and this quality stillmanages to shock me with every rereading as greatly asit did six years ago. The accuracy of the book isexpansive; the od ’ tone of sadness and futility taintedwith unreasonable hope that the novel’s 150 pagescontain is fragile, intangible, and yet somehow applicableto everything. It is a novel about humanity, about thefundamental fabric of living a life. Even now as I attemptto describe it in this cursory way the words employedseem artificial. Terms I have since learned such as“existential” and “modem novel” and “antihero” areof course accurate, but weighed against the visceralresponse that the novel evoked in me back then, theseterms seem false, a laughable application of academicjargon culled from criticismThe Stranger itself emerges unscathed from all this. Itis for me, simply, the first book that I read to have thatmystical quality, since encountered many times again, bywhich it managed to speak through the decades and thetranslation directly to me—to somehow bypass the me¬chanics of fiction and jar me directly, almost physically.The “themes” of the novel expand effortlessly outwardbeyond any descriptive envelope. There is, for thisreason, a peculiar 5.-oprietary feeling I have for it—TheStranger seems to belong to me. The illusion has beencreated that no one else could understand it properly, andwhen others discuss it it seems an affront; even almostsacreligious somehow.The Stranger was my first real encounter withliterature; the first time that I recognised that literature,as I still believe, is a thing of irreplacable value. Camus’novel moved me to continue reading and to begin towrite. As I studied the book I eventually began to uncover Camus’ technique—to notice the backstage ac¬tion, so to speak, in repetitions of words or descriptivedetails—and recognise that the book’s casual tone maskswhat must have been a fanatic concentration on eachword choice. When I read The Stranger for the firsttime the simple act of writing seemed to surpass itself; itfirst seemed to me, then, a fundamentally crucial humanactivity, as I still believe it to be. A writer of fiction canpotentially perform the sort of magic for a reader thatCamus’ novel performed for me. By some conjuringtrick, a writer can freeze on paper forces that can neverbe completely understood or explained, but only felt, andthe result of a writer’s solitary labor, when experiencedin this way, has the power to bolster the reader in his orher struggle to contend with the world, to experience joyand sorrow, to continue in the necessary actions of livinga life, momentarily transfixed by an illusion of order thatsomehow overcomes one’s sense of futility.by Jordan Orlando“You must change your life”—Rainer Maria RilkeOde to a Grecian TorsoMany years ago, in the dusty bookshelves of a rentedsummer home (filled with once-read rejected paperbacksand classics too dry for anyone to read) I found a bookwhich never would have appeared in my own home. Itwas that pulp classic of the seventies, that proudgrandfather of a daemonic and generally dreadful genre;it was none other than The Exorcist, by William PeterBlatty. Not normally attracted to horror stories, I plungedinto this one hurriedly and excitedly, intrigued by what Ihad heard on the grade school grapevine. (Does shereally vomit on her mother? Does she really put acrucific in her—ugh!) I had finished it within 48 hours offinding it. I quickly regretted trying to digest that gristlypiece of schlock whole, unchewed even!The book is about an adolescent women losing controlof her changing body (she apparently loses control of hermind in the bargain too, but that’s constructed as more ofa function of her body problem that anything else; Imean, satan really turns her head around, literally).“Demonic possession” is a metaphor for developmentand the confusion that goes with it — a laughable ployhere, used to try to scare girls into thinking that theirbodies are uncontrollable, intractable, and hideous. Fearof sex and sexuality, fear of difference, fear of adult¬hood, just general all-around fear of women and theircraziness and wierd bodies, are all encapsulated andpromoted here.The big guns of patriarchy are called in to rescue thispoor girl from her body — Science (capital S) andReligion (capital R). But the Doctors can’t find anythingwrong, and even the Handsome Young Priest has a reallyhard time — that’s how monstrous little (Blake? Blythe?Blair? — I’m sure it was a B1 name) has gotten.Meanwhile poor mom must feel like she's running theboarding house made in hell, with all these expertsstomping in and out, consuming the abundant stream ofcoffee and sandwiches coming out of the kitchen. And things must not get any easier for mom when her poorlittle darling throws her boyfriend out the window. Ithink this is meant to imply that if mom had beenmarried, instead of divorced, and little B1 had had astrong masculine role model in addition to her mother’sinfluence, she wouldn’t have been so susceptible to thisparticular brand of “female trouble”. Poor old boyfriendbears the brunt of her resentment, dies writhing on thepavement. However the plot leads up to it, I can’tremember, but eventually several sessions with theHandsome Young Priest bring little B1 around. Thankgod, no more floating over the bed, no more weirdvoices.How did this book change my life?Well, my first response to it was, Oh my god, this isexactly the kind of thing that could happen to me! (Nolack of imagination afflicted me, you see.)I began to live in fear of demonic possession or suddeninexplicable death (the latter fear having come from mynew idea, gleaned from the book, that my body was thiswierd alien thing which I could not predict). Mymemories of a fairly innocent interest in the occult,which I had frequently indulged in the public library twoyears previous, came back to haunt me. Hadn’t I alreadyproved myself suspectible to unholy temptation? Simul¬taneously I totally rejected any belief in hell or the devil(agnostic/humanist, then as now) and yet felt I was alikely candidate for possession. I began to sleep poorlyand have anxiety attacks — suddenly becoming paralyzedby fear for no apparent reason, having irrational anti¬pathies towards certain foods or practices, having chronicnervous stomach and breathing difficulties, etc. Just likewith little B1 , the Doctors could find nothing wrong,not that I was surprised. And of course I was not sonaive as to believe that religion could be of any use tome — I knew perfectly well that my symptoms werepsychosomatic. I also knew that they weren’t really aboutthe book, or about demonic possession, but were rather amanifestation of deep anxieties which I was repressing —anxieties which most girls exhibit at that pivotal age,because those anxieties have to do with the rapidlychanging body. I came to terms with these anxietyattacks by calling them by name — being my own littleanalyst, trying to interpret my fear, confront it at itssource, and alleviate the symptoms by addressing thecentral issues. Only in our culture (where narcissism is away of life) is there so much Freudian theory floatingaround that an eleven year old girl would figure all thisout for herself.So I don’t blame the book. The Exorcist, for puttingevil ideas into my head or anything like that; I’m quitesure that the hysterical impulse was all my own. But Iwill always think of The Exorcist as the book thatbrought all these things out in me; it gave me a wholearray of images and symptoms from which to choose inmanifesting my own anxieties.Little B1 was my role model for hysteria. It’s adumb book though, because of the way it fragmentsbody, mind and soul. It would have been a lot moreinteresting if little B1 had had the gumption (or theopportunity) to come to grips with her problem herself,like real little girls do.by Stephanie BaconWhen you read, what is it that you do? The sign whichwe most rely upon in judging the worth of an endeavor— that it produced some tangible effect — is of no use tous in considering this question. In simple terms, moneyis the effect of working, energy is the result of eating,comminication is the effect of speaking, Even when yougo on vacation, you can prove that you were doingsomething by showing photographs of yourself to yourfriends. Certainly, you could also show photos ofyourself at the library, “That’s me crossing my legs, andthere I am again, underlining an important passage,” butthese would not describe the act of reading as fully as aphotograph of you in the water would explain swimming.Yes, of course, a photograph would describe reading inso far as it is something which you usually do sittingdown, and with an open book in your direct line ofvision, but this is completely inadequate; a visuallyrealistic representation of an internal act is not neces¬sarily a realistic representation of this act. In a societywhich trusts the information received by its eyes beforeall else (as an example, consider the image which hasbeen elected President of The United States), readinglooks like a highly untrustworthy occupation because itproduces neither an object (writing not being a necessaryeffect of reading), nor an image.Besides being proof of activity, of effort, objects andimages constitute a shared experience among those whoperceive them. The images on prime time television canbe experienced by people, individually or in groups, infront of TV sets across the country. This provides a linkbetween different members of the population, contributing to whatever sense of national identity we may have.You could travel from New York to Hawaii and probablyget a dozen responses when you arrived at the Honoluluairport and asked what happened on Dynasty that week.Shows like Dynasty grease the wheels of social inter¬change by providng a neutral topic of conversation topeople of varying backgrounds and opinions. Politics,religion, one’s personal life — all of these are riskiertopics. A book does not share itself so readily, or with aswide an array of people, as does a visual image. The actof reading is solitary, and even when the reader’sresponse to a work is articulated, a comparatively smallnumber of people will ultimately share in it. It maytherefore be viewed as ungiving, elitist, and anti-social.Even in a university community, where many peoplehave read the same books, and where many people are able to intelligently discuss a book which they have notread, there is sometimes a reluctance to have thesediscussions. I wonder if the natural desire to get awayfrom shop talk fully accounts for this. Perhaps there iswithin us a deeply embedded grain of suspicion thatalthough we have been reading all day, we have in factdone nothing because we have nothing to show for ourwork.When we finish a book, have we even had a realexperience? No, not on the order of mowing the lawn ordrinking a beer, but I think a comparison can be madebetween reading and the certifiably real experience ofsmoking a cigarette. We smoke to prepare for an outputof energy, or to relax after exertion. Reading can prepareus for an as yet unexperienced situation or place in thefuture, and the novel before bed can act as a soporific.We smoke and read out of boredom, because it makes usmembers of a certain group, because turning the pagesand lighting another cigarette give us the sensation ofprogress, and simply because we find the taste ofcigarettes pleasurable and we like the feel of a book inour hands. We smoke even though we know it may killus, saying “to hell with longevity” because, in theaddict, this flirtation with death can at times bringexperience closer, and at other times makes it moredistant. (Sally is very nervous, so she smokes a cigarette.The cigarette, in this case, becomes a sign to herself andto the outside world that she is feeling nervousness, butat the same time, may reduce the total number of timesshe will experience this feeling). Smoking gives a feelingof punctuation, of control, of order.Similarly — crudely put — the amount of time youspend in reading about chocolate sundaes may reduce thenumber of chocolate sundaes you actually consume inyour lifetime, but it will make those sundaes which youdo eat richer. You can read about chocolate sundaes offifty years ago, of twenty years ago, of two months ago.You will become conscious of the chocolate sundaeabove and beyond your own spatiotemporal existence.You cannot read about chocolate sundaes of four hundredyears ago, and you (probably) cannot read about them inthe literature of every language. The experience of eatinghowever, can be read about in the literature of all times,and of every language; should we therefore contentourselves with the madeleme of Proust? Should we goback to antiquity and read Petronius’ description of foodin The Satyricon? Those who argue the supremacy of the new would seem to think so. Because the partyscenes in The Great Gatsby are reminiscent of those inThe Satyricon, are we to regard the work of Fitzgeraldas superfluous, even as something we would be better offwithout? Or have we forgotten Petronius already, and hasFitzgerald done us a service in continuing this tradition?Aside from any other merits The Great Gatsby maypossess, it connects us with our past, and gives uspleasure in reading— offerings which should not bedismissed as simple variations on a theme.The idea that though we progress in many ways, weremain essentially the same and that therefore, to writeand read about our particular experience is of value onlyin that it satisfies the desire, by now habitual if notbiological, to turn the page and flick the pen, seems tome to be the response to a recent disillusionment. In theface of thousands of years of literature, and millionsupon millions of books, we can no longer deludeourselves that we can write or read one book which willsum up all experience, take stock of it, and make senseof it. Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Proust. Joyce — noneof them has done this. This illusion has justified a lot ofreading, and inspired many writers, but in our time it hasbecome unreasonable and impotent. We must come togrips with the fact that we are part of a process, ratherthan a progression.1 would like to call the atomic bomb to the attention ofthose who complain that there is nothing new. Surely thepossibility of the annihilation of the human race, andtotal destruction of our planet, qualify as new. Thispossible destruction, coupled with the fact that ourindividual life expectancies have been greatly extendedby the same economic, political, and scientific forceswhich converged to create the atomic bomb, shouldprove to be a rich source of works which manifest notthe mere desire to write, but the desire to continueliving.To those who say that everything has already beensaid, I say that you are not listening. The literature whichhas been created under die illusion of progress has beengenerated almost exclusively by men. With half of thestory missing, it’s no wonder they couldn't get it right. Ido not say that our influence will be to enable literatureto uncover “the true order” — this is a superfluousendeavor. I say that we stake our claim to create theillusions which empower, and that you have not yet seenwhat these will do.by Jotuuutm StuyvaCHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 15OnReadingNoBiologicalBasisforBias Myths of Genderby Anne Fausto-SterlingThe belief that inherent biological differences betweenfemales and males determine both the structure ofsocieties and the place of women and men within thosestructures is certainly not a new one. The use of scienceto buttress these claims is also not new. In 1879 GustaveLe Bon, one of the chief founders of social psychology,declared: “All psychologists who have studied the in¬telligence of women, as well as poets and novelists,recognize today that they represent the most inferiorforms of human evolution and that they are closer tochildren and savages than to an adult, civilized man.”Though this knowledge was ostensibly the fruit ofperfectly objective, neutral science, Le Bon did not missthe social implications of these findings. “A desire togive them the same education, and. as a consequence, topropose the same goals for them, is a dangerouschimera.”Despite the tremendous advances made in all areas ofscientific inquiry, natural, biological, and social, sincethe time of Le Bon, the belief that women are innatelyinferior to men is still an integral part of the beliefsystems of many scientists and laypersons alike. Thisbelief has received a great deal of backing from recentfindings in the study of sex differences in a variety ofareas of human functioning, perhaps the most importantof which involve cognitive abilities. Aside from verbalability and qualities important for childrearing, in whichwomen “naturally” excel, the picture looks very bleakfor anyone unfortunate enough to be born female. Men“naturally” excel in visual-spatial ability, mathematicalability, achievement motivation, aggression, analyticreasoning and higher level cognitive processing, to give apartial list.Have those of us who view women as in some waysdifferent but in no given sense inferior to men beenfooling ourselves all this time? Is it time to face up to theverdict of science, the dispassionate arbiter of disputesover the nature of human beings, that no matter whatkind of society we strive to create, as Edward Wilsonstates, “even with identical education and equal access toall professions, men are likely to play a disproportionaterole in political life, business and science”?In a spirited and well-written discussion of much of thescientific literature concerning differences between thesexes and the larger social issues surrounding this area ofstudy, Anne Fausto-Sterling says no. Myths of Gender:Biological Theories About Women and Men is im¬portant and enjoyable reading for those of us who stillbelieve that egalitarianism isn’t so crazy after all. It iseven more important (though possibly less enjoyable) forthose who believe as Wilson does.Fausto-Sterling, (henceforth referred to as FS), anAssociate Professor of Medical Sciences at Brown Uni¬versity, argues convincingly that many of the differencesbetween the sexes ostensibly demonstrated by scientistsfrom a number of fields simply do not hold up underclose scrutiny. “In a sense, what I do throughout thisbook is take a flashlight and shine it in the unlit cornersof other people's research.” The result is a book that hasmuch to offer as an assessment of claims of innatedifferences between the sexes, as well as an excellentillumination of how purportedly objective, neutral scienceoften reflects the biases and preconceptions of its partic¬ipants.Myths of Gender is written from an appropriatelyinterdisciplinary perspective, and should be of interest toreaders of varied backgrounds. Though trained primarilyin developments genetics and having worked mainly inmedicine and biology, FS demonstrates a sophisticatedunderstanding of the social and psychological aspects ofthe scientific enterprise. It is this combination of hard-headed scrutinizing of empirical research and humanisticappreciation of the implications of scientific work forhuman lives that makes MOG important reading forthose interested in any aspects of human behavior.FS begins by illustrating the fact that scientific at¬titudes and findings concerning the causes of the behaviorof men and women have far reaching effects on ourlives. She notes that recently revived and ostensiblyscientifically supported beliefs in the biological deter¬mination of human social behavior, are accompanied byfrightening attitudes among highly educated scientiststoward such unfortunately common atrocities as rape andwife-beating.Some sociobiologists have gone so far as to assert thatrape is simply a man’s way of maximizing his geneticcontribution to future generations when other methodsfail, and is likely to prove unpreventable unless we arewilling to resort to methods which might be worse thanthe crime itself. These claims are perhaps even exceededin their audacity by those of Katharina Dalton, a Britishphysician and primary publicizer of premenstrualsyndrome (PMS), who warns that women who reporthaving been abused by their husbands may have actuallyinjured themselves in the midst of hormone-inducedtantrums without even realizing it. “When a womandemonstrates bruises as signs of her husband’s cruelty itis well to remember the possibility that these may bespontaneous bruises of the premenstruum.” Dalton hasalso testified in court on behalf of a woman who killedher boyfriend by running him over with a car, claimingthat PMS was the cause of the behavior and the womanwas thus not to be held responsible for her actions. Thewoman received a conditional discharge from jail as aresult.Of course, the economic sphere is another area inwhich the alleged biological inferiority of women has opportunities and income between the sexes that exist inour society. It is difficult to overestimate the importanceof rigorously scrutinizing scientific attempts to determinejust what biological differences between the sexes actu¬ally exist.A major undertaking in MOG is an evaluation of theresearch literature on purported cognitive differencesbetween females and males. FS points out that a greatdeal of this research suffers from shaky and sometimeseven blatantly flawed methodology. Many of the asserteddifferences simply do not hold up under close inspection.Failures to replicate findings of differences in cognitiveabilities are common, as is widespread acceptance ofbiological theories of the sources of abilities withoutadequate empirical support (and even in the face ofevidence contradicting them).FS concludes that, in general, purported differencesbetween the sexes in cognitive abilities are small ornonexistent. Equally important is that the sources ofwhatever differences do exist are open to question; thedata currently available do not in any way rule outenvironmental factors. She believes that while it ispossible that innate factors may be required to accountfor some differences between females and males in scoreson tests designed to measure cognitive abilities, it is farmore likely that these differences can be adequatelyaccounted for without reference to genetic factors.FS is also critical of much research and theorizing inthe areas of sexual differentiation and gender develop-TwilightThe big black ashSeems filled with wheels,A ruckus of birdsSqueaking like wooden cartsThat wheel in the trees,Hurry to the fairPulled by donkeysWho balk, their heads bowed.Their sound hauls up the light,Keeps it from fallingAround the neat housesFilled with china cupsUntil Bang bang —A garbage canLid, a man bendingAnd birds burst from the leavesSilenced, undisguised, a lifeLeaving its body.And the light hangs,An essential confession,A last masterpieceBefore it lays downBehind the horizon.by Carolyn Steinhoff Smith ment. Scientists working in this area often conceptualizemales as normal and females as different due to the lackof male hormones such as testosterone. She asserts thatresearchers and theorists have failed to adequately in¬vestigate the possible active roles of “female” hormonessuch as estrogen in sexual differentiation; one does noteasily find scientists who characterize males as potentialfemales who lack sufficient levels of estrogen, whilethose who characterize females as potential males wholack sufficient levels of testosterone are common. Read¬ers who are familiar with Carol Gilligan’s criticisms oftraditional theories of moral development may see closeparallels in FS’s criticisms of theories of sexual differ¬entiation and gender development.In addition to her interesting and intelligent discussionsof differences between females and males, MOG isgreatly strengthened by FS’s understanding of and con¬tinual emphasis on the dynamic and mdamentally inter¬active nature of genetics and environment in the produc¬tion of behavior. This relationship renders attempts torigidly partition the causes of behavior into genetic andenvironmental components futile. FS s transcendence ofthe commonly assumed but false dichotomy betweennature and nurture is a major reason for my strongrecommendation of this book.Similarly, her rejection of biological reductionist at¬tempts to explain all behavior in terms of simple linearunicausal models which ignore the multiplicity of con-tributants to behavior and begin and end with theassumption that biology is really the cause of what we dodemonstrates FS’s sophisticated understanding of thetopics discussed in MOG. As she points out, proponentsof biological determinist views of human behavior do notsimply practice bad social science; “simple, unidirec¬tional models of biological control of human behaviormisconstrue the facts of biology. ’ ’Her criticisms of biological determinism also appro¬priately include the traditional biomedical approach to theunderstanding and treatment of psychological disturb¬ances. A further example of her firm grasp on thecomplexity of the causes of human morphology andbehavior is her realization of the fact that conditionsaffected heavily by genes are not by virtue of theirgenetic nature unchangeable. The belief that genetic =fixed and unchangeable is extremely common; it is, asFS makes clear, however, simply wrong.FS joins other scholars in pointing out glaring logicalerrors in the reasoning of sociobiologists, as well as theirastonishing ability to attribute any and all behavior tobiology while ignoring obvious and compelling socialfactors. Of particular interest is her discussion of the useof language by sociobiologists who attempt to impart toanimals the ability to rape, ignoring the obvious differ¬ences in the consequences of forced copulation in humanbeings and insects (as well as the conventional definitionsof the word “rape”).Her criticisms of sociobiology include a reasonedrefutation of the often made claim of sociobiologists thattheir views are simply the results of hard, objectivescience. She makes the crucial point that most soci-obiological theorizing results in no empirically testablehypotheses; the models of biological causation of beh¬avior are constructed in such a way as to be capable ofaccommodating any kinds of behavior whatsoever, ren¬dering them fundamentally useless in scientific terms.In addition to her excellent understanding of crucialissues basic to the study of biological and social contrib-utants to human behavior and differences between fe¬males and males, FS demonstrates an appreciation of thefundamentally political nature of human enterprises,including science. “One central contention of this book isthat there is no such thing as apolitical science. Scienceis a human activity inseparable from the societal atmos¬phere of its time and place.”FS rejects the claims of biological determinists thatthey are simply objective scientists discovering andcommunicating politically neutral facts, as well as thetactic of disregarding critics of their work by labelingthem as members of special interest groups. She assertsthat nothing in the data on sex differences suggests abiological explanation for present levels of political andsocial inequality, and that “Society incurs the greatestcosts from social policy based on biological views aboutthe origins of political equality, poverty, and equalopportunity and the (im)possibility of social change.”The political and social lesson of her analysis is,according to FS, that the current focus on potentialbiological reasons for inequality is destructive, andshould be replaced by a commitment to educational,political, and social equity, in which an emphasis on thesearch for ways to promote equality would fuel researchinterests, rather than desires to justify existing inequities.It should be blatantly obvious at this point that myreaction to MOF was overwhelmingly positive. The onlyarea in which I feel compelled lo criticize FS is in herdiscussions of statistical methods, which are not par¬ticularly clear, especially the section concerned with thelogic of hypothesis testing. While it is not uncommon forstatistical reasoning to be explained in a confusingmanner, I would not recommend getting one’s firstexposure to basic statistics from MOG.As FS states in her conclusion, MOG is not acomplete treatment of all areas of research where biolog¬ically determined female/male differences have beenasserted. It is however, an important contribution to ourunderstanding of ourselves. I have only touched here onsome of the major themes in the book, hoping toconvince the reader that if you are interested in humanbehavior, MOG is definitely worth reading.by David Nichols16 CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986CUSTOMER INFORMATION FROM GENERAL MOTORSHOW TO AVOID THE DANGERSOF COUNTERFEIT AUTO PARTSINFERIOR PARTS COULD THREATEN YOUR SAFETYToday, a counterfeiter! no longer has to print phonytwenty-dollar bills. Sellingimitation automotive replace¬ment parts —packaged toresemble products from legit¬imate manufacturers—is bigbusiness.For people who buyand use counterfeit autoparts, though, the conse¬quences can be costly. Forexample, body panels mayrequire expensive labor tobring their finish quality upto the rest of the car. Bogusoil filters have failed after200 miles, causing unpro¬tected 'engines to seize up,requiring their completereplacement.Inferior transmission |fluid has solidified at 0°Fahrenheit, ruining trans¬missions. 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UCH• Tetsl fer leases• Shippmg A Head•TetslI have enclosed totalpayment in the followingcheck ewoey erderVISA MasterCard(Personal Checks must be clearedprior to Shipment)i^ru< » - — ■ —. ■• Nn latfi* Im wdri Phm• We w* keep Ml pre»Cfip«»—i — Ohfar raw dan• eo*. el t(M taaaat erdared are w ear■wantary and ready fa ba iMpped iaMbaarl.CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986CityofSilence/OrdealbyRoses intense trethat cannot partakYes, it was a strange city to which I was taken...acity not to be found on the map of any land, acity of awesome silence, where Death and Erosfrolicked wantonly in broad daylight on thesquares... —Yukio Mishima The collection begins with a non-photo;quence of images suggesting conceptionPrelude, the opening section, immediatelythe violence-in-bcaaty motif, presenting figegg and the penetration" of fertilization,stirring image in the seven piece folio, ancharacteristic of the collection as a whole, iipastel depicting the descent of a beautifulwhelming paternal figure felling fromt tlvirtually swallow the receptive female figifaces upward, welcoming the destruction. Thipiece gushes with a turbulent psychedelicfills the frame and prepares us for the violeito come.“Yet you can laugh at his madness? Asso admirably put it, ‘men are all mad wlare alone.’ ’’—Yukio 1Part Two, The Citizen's Daily Round, mimadness of all human beings. The isolatehuddles from the world and discovers hisliness amid the immensity of the universe. Tllays over the marble zodiac, prostrate, vtrubber hose. He holds the rose tentativelyand nose. The first photo of the book striltworld to life before our eyes. A ghost, MisKparalyzed, his gaze directed obliquely towaripast the rose tied around his white neck. Hethe grainy stone on which he stands, as if alhis environment — an environment whichstrange cries of excitement, only silent acquidespair.The mouth cBA RA KEI: Ordeal by Rosesby Yukio Mishima and Eikoh HosoeFrom the fall of 1961 to the summer of 1962 YukioMishima and Eikoh Hosoe remained in that city. BARA KEI is the photographic record of their stay.Subtitled Ordeal by Roses, BA RA KEI is a dirge¬like composition, a tragic visual novel which'presentsthe fixations of Mishima as a model for the humanendeavor. A silent script of isolation and despair, thephotographs pronounce Mishima's infatuation withflesh, beauty and death. It is easy to spot in thiscollection the personal tensions which were to lead tothe author’s ritualistic public suicide nearly ten yearslater. The book, like Mishima himself, challengesconventional notions of aesthetics and thrusts the viewerinto a world of intriguing, if unsettling, images.The book’s five explicitly divided sections progressthrough a macabre development. Beginning with aviolently surrealistic consummation and ending with abeautifully tragic death, the images cry out the agonizedloneliness of imprisoned humankind. We are bound bya severe natural discipline which lashes us to ourselves.But within our tiny comer of the universe, withinourselves, lies a beauty dependent on the harmony ofpurity and destruction.Any interpretation of these complex pieces seems tospilll unavoidably into a private prejudice of one sort oranother. The pictures allow it; the abstractions escapethe mechanical reproduction of images successfullyenough to live freely in an unbound imagination. All inall the photographs are austere, scolding, alienating,violent and coarse. Together they are beautiful.Looking back at these pictures through Mishima’ssuicide they can seem the prophetic self-indulgentobsession of an egomaniac. But after the photographssuggest these surface impressions, they still have moreto say. Mishima lived a theatrical life and died atheatrical death. In their tense self-consciousness, theseimages reflect that style. The photographer has con¬tributed as well. Hosoe’s camera has, to some degree,stripped Mishima of his identity, reducing him to amere prop in an elaborate composition. Now a com¬ponent of the concrete world, Mishima, in his formality(he is man, a human with a head, eyes, and blood)becomes a powerful means to abstraction.The tools of abstraction in music or fiction, to citeMishima’s private theater, differ from those of photog¬ raphy. Notes and words are already abstract entites, forwords reflect only shadows of images and ideas, andmusic plays upon our deepest sense of pleasure andpain. Photographs, however, can easily fool us intobelieving their abstractions, for they approximate anactual act of perception.Hosoe manipulates the fiction of perception remark¬ably well. He captures a Mishima void of specificidentity, yet still an individual (“I was trained until itmeant exactly the same to me whether I stared into thelens or turned by back on the camera.’’) Hosoecomposes biographical photographs, yet photographswhich abstract Mishima from his body, leaving the linesand densities of the human form to interact with itssurroundings.Hosoe employs sharp tonal contrasts and conspicuousgrain to harden the flesh. Often the stark figure ofMishima seems to blend into the visual landscapebehind him. He becomes the stone on which he standsor the floor on which he lies stretched or crumbled.Hosoe completes the austerity of his style by consist¬ently filling his frames with inordinate blacks and heavyleaden grays. Stern and forbidding, the dirge proceeds. So too is the birThe calf is pure when tlflows,and the hound ipure.The madness begins to surface in part three. TlLaughing Clock and the Idle Witness. In his most activstate. Mishima, our witness — our creature — slumjon chairs holding a stopped clock, he peers out frobehind his own caricature and displays an insaifreedom from the despair he discovered early in liftNo longer inhibited and submissive, the witness tries iremove himself from time, from experience — from tlwhole of tangible life — to stand over it. listening ithe hollow echo of his own laughter. A thread <confidence worms its way into his consciousness atinspires him to reach out to his fellow creatures. 1“Even before this I had seencamera that were akin tois not so much simplymechanical sorcery...” ’s worl—Yukio MishinWhat is most impressive in Hosoe’s work is hisintriguing and meticulous ability to combine images. Inthe fourth section, Divers Desecrations, he explores thetextures of composites. Burning images into and overone another, he combines three or four components (itbecomes difficult to tell exactly how many, the fusion isso precise), in a singularly arresting vision. In oneparticularly ironic print, the human face, a rose, athorny stem, and a painting by Botticelli create a tersevisual poem weighing the central tensions of thecollection in a perfect tonal balance. Hosoe dis¬assembles conventional images to reconstruct a newedifice of visual expression. He destroys the legend ofMishima and builds in his place a new man, andextracted essence of the old. “It follows18 CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW-Truly, man is like a mighty tree,lord of the forest.His hair is its abundant foliage,his skin enfolds him as the bark,the blood runs from his skin as theresin springs from the bark.And the blood that flows from the slain manis as the sap of the tree that is felled.— Upanishads BA RA KEI is quite a challenging book. Itsintentions are as dark and confusing as the subjecthimself. If Mishima had not committed suicide, andspecifically if he had not performed a ritualistic publicsuicide, this book would undoubtedly seem an exericsein self-indulgence: the “martyred” artist lamenting hissense of unconventional aesthetics. But anyone familiarwith the enigmatic figure of Mishima must wonderabout the consistent pathos the collection reveals.Like the man himself, the book resists scrutiny.Superbly bound and beautifully organized, the technicalproduction invites a savoring of the images. And thereis much to admire in the compositions; they are forcefuland provocative. But the emotions aroused by the bookleave the viewer disengaged and wandering around anunsettled part of the mind. No doubt this was theintention of the artists. These photographs uprootconventional notions of asthetics not just in theiraccurate portrayal of the bewildered tension that wasMishima, but in the mournful tones of Hosoe’s produc¬tion. His work oversaturates the eye in a perfectharmony to the frustration it seeks to capture. The bookis alluring, but once open, only the bravest will poreover each complex image to untangle the intriguinglayers of meaning. I make no claim to understand thework as a whole. I’m not sure there is a “work” tounderstand. I prefer to think of the collection as animposing monument you take in slowly, or as Mishimasuggests, as a strange city to which you are takenalmost against your will, but one you find worthreturning to over and over again.by David McNultyth of a woman is always pure.: bird as it plucks the fruit,n the mother cow’s milkid that has caught the deer is—Code of Manuree. The>st active- slumps3ut fromi insaner in life,s tries tofrom thetening tohread ofness andures. Hevorkishima discovers the myths of conventionality and begins hisdescent into an aesthetic of death. He rejects conven¬tional sexuality. Bored with the stolid tensions betweenmale and female, he turns to homosexual contact. Hecontinues to taunt convention and finds comfort in theworld of death. The creature carves his initials into hisown wounds and stands laughing at the spectacle he hascreated.The divinity seen within this eye is the Self.—UpanishadsAt the height of illusion, the idle witness transcendseven his own creations and believes in his invisibility —his immortatlity. The fourth section of the book. DiversDesecrations, presents the creature deluded under theinfluence of art. Past creations fill the “eye” and the“I” in the visual pun which opens this folio. Hosoesuperimposes Renaissance paintings over and around ahuge eyeball, reflecting the impact of the artistictradition on the individual, who sees his own morbidimage in every painting, only deepening his illusions ofimmortality. But death nevertheless awaits.vs that these works are vibrant with a frail yettremolo of emotion — the emotion of the testimonytake of the slightest objective credibility.” — Yukio Mishima-photographic se¬ction and birth,liately establishesng figures of theation. The most!io, and the mosthole, is a delicatejautiful yet over¬turn the sky tolie figure, whichon. The followingsdelic surf whiche violent madnesss? As Mauriacnad when theyifukio Mishimarnd, murmurs theisolated creature■s his utter lone-:rse. The creatureate, wrapped inlively to his lipsk strikes a harsh:, Mishima standstoward the floorck. He fades intoas if absorbed bywhich admits noit acquiescence to The rose that appears consistently in the earliersections of the book now assumes center stage, in theconcluding section. Retribution of the Rose. All pre¬tentions fade and our lonely creature realizes the pain ofextinction. The clipped rose, symbol of beauty anddeath assaults him now. All the manifestations of beautytestify to his mortality . He stands next to a painted tree,naked and vulnerable,waiting for his sap-like blood toflow while the image remains. The great tragedy ofdeath is the painful realization of unattainable per¬fection. The rose approaches the ideal, as does art, andthe subtle ripples of delicate flesh. But all ultimatelyfail, leading him to more profound delusions as themasses of art and legends grow . Finally defeated, aloneand wretched, he dies. “So the collection draws to itsclose, with death, and ascension to a dark sun."'- . ■aEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 19Round trip. Any where we gp.This Spring Break, if you and your friendsare thinking about heading to the slopes, thebeach or just home for a visit, Greyhound* cantake you there. For only $99 or less, round trip.From February 15 through April 27, all youdo is show us your college student I.D. cardwhen you purchase your ticket. Your ticket will then be good for travel for 15 days from the dateof purchase.So this Spring Break, get a real break.Go anywhere Greyhound goes for $99 or less.For more information, call Greyhound.Must present a valid college student I.D card upon purchase No other discounts apply Ticketsarenomransferable and good for travel on Greyhound Lines, Inc . and other participating earners Certainrestrictions apply. Oner effective 2/15/86 Offer limited Not valid in Canada© 1986 Grevhound Lines, Inc rAnd leave the driving to us.74 W. 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Thebook, edited and translated by David Unger, has been brilliantly collected to representevery piece of Parra’s poetic puzzle, but the translations to English that appear oppositethe Spanish originals, are sloppy. Unger over-translates; he adds a poetic style that isnot implicit in the original. Everytime we see the word “ruso” translated to “red”when “russian” would have sufficed, and everytime the speaker of the poem switchesfrom 3rd person to 1st person as it is transferred to the English, we can feel themanipulation of an over zealous translator whose excitement often distorts the imageand the message of the poem.The value of publishing poetry in a bilingual text is clear. It opens up the world ofNicanor Parra to an audience that ranges in Spanish education from fluency to none.But sloppy translations, careless or manipulative, destroy any reticent impact that couldbe passed along interculturally and interlinquistically. Parra’s genius, his innovation andnuance, is in his revolutionization of literary expression. His antipoetry tears at the veryroot of traditional poetics, at the belief that poetry should be rhetorical, obscure anddignified. To say that poetry “should deal with real issues’’—cultural, religious, andpolitical problems— is not to say anything new at all. As the old saying goes (and suchold sayings are generally worth repeating because they do keep going),“...it’s how youplay the game.” And in poetry , it is how you say/write within that linguistic game,about those problems that continually plague humankind, that creates the nuance ofcontemporary stylistics.A story of oppression under an authoritarian rule, the hopeless wondering of Chileanexiles, a tragedy only surpassed by the almost intolerable apathy that remains for thosewho choose not to leave their country, is the only story. As Parra writes in poem LVIIin Nuevos Sermones y Predicos del Cristo de Elqui (1979) (New Sermons andPreachings of the Christ of Elqui):Impossible entender a los chilenos los quese quedaron aqui no piensan en otra cosaque en irse “este pais no sirve para nada ”los que se fueron suenan con volver in-utilmente porque no se puede madre miaque estas en el cielo santificado sea tunombre dejalos regresar a la patria nopermitas que mueran en el destierro. Hard to understand Chileans those thatstayed here think only of gettin out “thiscountry’s good for nothing” those who leftonly dream of coming back what’s the usesince they can’t our mother who art inheaven hallowed be thy name let themcome back to their homeland don’t letthem die in exile.But Parra realized early in his career, that he had to find a new vocabulary and anew method of telling the story if it was going to deal with the specific concerns of histime. He came up with a kind of tragicomic colloquialism inspired by Kafka and WaltWhitman, and by his latent yet primal love of mathematics and mathematical theorems.In his own words, his personal poetic is a search for the economy of language,“maximum content, minimum of words...no metaphors, and no literary figures.” Theultimate burden of interpretation must remain with the reader. In the poem Test fromthe book, Ejercicias respiratorios (1964-66) (Breathing Exercises), Parra lays out thepossibilities for what an antipoet might be, but the reader is forced, in the most blatantand ridiculous way, to decide for her/himself which is right:Que es un antipoeta:Un comerciante en umas y ataudes?Un sacerdote que no cree en nada?Un general que duda de si mismo?Un vagabundo que se rie de lodoHasta de la vejez y de la muerte?Un interlocutor de mal caracter? What is an antipoetSomeone who deals in coffins and urns?A general who’s not sure of himself?A priest who believes in nothing?A drifter who finds everything funnyEven in old age and death?A speaker you can’t trust?The Poet DescendingThe poet descends to a seat of bells.The sea, he says, can be written in a single wave,Summerized to perfect form in the center of a palm.The rock at the shore casts a shadow he doesNot know. Puzzled, he tilts his head and touches stone —Ah now I remember he says, it is you.Bewilderment can reign no longer in the obstinance ofPoetry; one writes to capture water. Edicts calm hisPerception of a cloud; it is clear he says, it must be clear.Looking at his hands he laments the explanation:Of you they wish me to speak, to write of you aSentence emerging from obscurity. Yet do I see you?I cannot need; your eyes speak no longer of night but theSpace of the sky sunk to the sea. What do I have?Poetry compressed to an orange, to a common fruit.I am tired of images confronting in their solidity.Can no one see my face lost in a star? Celestial gamesProvide little joy. What was has become a grin.Color at last from the grave. The tomb of theSea whispers rhythmic grammer to the sand.Why am I still here?The poet descending does not ask but speaks.The sea to him is little more than a mark, aDeep bum upon the eyes. I have seen you,.He says, watched you from a seat raised fromStone, and at a time I thought you spokeSoftly, that you provided a vocabulary whoseUnity permitted a construction. I thought thatYou must be for me a symbol of a dark return,Of a wing thrust upon night to sculpt stars. Yet onlyNow, only with the water actually touching my feet,Only at the return, do I realize that I was a fool. Un bailarin al borde del abismo?Un narciso que ama a odo el mundo?Un bromista sangrientoDeliberadamente miserable?Un poeta que duerme en una silla?Un alquimista de los tiempos modemos?Un revolucionario de bolsillo?Un pequenp burgues?Un charlatan?un dios?un inocente?Un aldeano de Santiago de Chile?Subraye la frase que considere correcta. 1 A dancer at the edge of a cliff?A narcissist who loves everyone?A joker who goes for the jugularAnd is mean just for the hell of it?A poet who sleeps in a chair?A modern-day alchemist?An armchair revolutionary?A petit-bourgeois?A fake?a god?a naive person?A peasant from Santiago, Chile?Underline the right answer.Parra’s style is irreverent. Forget witty and ironic; that’s also been done before. Heis perhaps so successful at tearing down the ivory towers of religiosity and bourgeoisiebecause he was and is intricately connected to both. Parra, who was raised as a strictroman catholic, found himself fighting for the right to express his personal beliefs inthe anticlerical and masonic highschool that he attended in Santiago, even though hechose to accept the scholarship to that particular school, in his earliest act of adolescentrebellion against his religious upbringing. Parra ungraciously rapes the sacred, at thesame time that he passionately looks to it for an escape from the world of intelligiblebeings. In Nuevos Sermones y Predkas del Cristo de Elqui (New Sermons andPreachings of the Christ of Elqui), Parra rather immodestly allows himself, as speaker,to become a reincarnation of Christ. During the Pinochet regime, the voice of Christ ofElqui has become one of his most important literary weapons, allowing him to commentindirectly on religion and politics through the inconsistencies in the speaker’s character,rather than by admonishing particular officials in the government.Parra’s earlier poems represent his most aggressive and powerful moments —politically, though not necessarily stylistically. Under Allende he was able to be theantipoet of minimal rhethoric. maximum content, swirling in a cloud of optimumirreverence. In poems like No creo en la via pacifica (I Don’t Believe in the PeacefulWay), Yo no soy un anciano sentimental (I’m Not a Sentimental Old Man), and YoJehova decreto (I Jehova Decree), Parra explodes the abuses in his country, identifyingthe culprit, the United States, in an anti-luxurious sarcasm that is, at times, hysterical inits almost simpleton maneuvers: “Ustedes me ponen los nervios de punta.../sidestruyen el mundo/creen que yo voy a volver a crearlo? (“You people give me thecreeps.../ if you destroy the world/ do you think I'm going to create it over again") YoJehova decreto.The book, Antipoems: New and Selected is, despite some technical problems, aparticular delight for the reader with a basic understanding of the Spanish language whowould be able to pick out those jutting descrepancies in translation that should not beoverlooked. David Unger may not be the most orthodox translator, but he has selecteda marvelous collection of poetry representing the passage from youth to old age in therepertoire of 70 year-old Nicanor Parra, and the historical tumbling of one abusivegovernment and its passage into the next. Unger seems particularly excited by themusicality of Parra’s poetic anarchism, and he makes a special note to remind thereader of Parra’s musical as well as mathematical background, and also to point out thatNicanor Parra’s sister, songwriter, Violeta Parra, created an international LatinAmerican anthem with her song, “Gracias a la vida”. As he promised in 1954 with thepublication of Poem as y anti poem as (Poems and Antipoems), not a single book ofpoetry idealizes in the romantic tradition: “La palabra (arco iris) no aparece en el enninguna parte,” (“The word (rainbow) can’t be found anywhere in it,’’), Parracelebrates his cynicism and his self imposed limitations, beating his chest behind thebars of literary autorepression. He graphically puts the strait jacket on his own work, asif to contradict himself and actually become a part of the overpowering pedegogicalmania that is destroying his society:ADVERTENCIASSe prohibe rezar, estomudarEscupir, elogiar, arrodillarseVemerar, aullar, expectorar.En este recinto se prohibe dormirInocular, hablar, excomulgarArmonizar. huir, interceptar.Estrictamente se prohibe correr.Se prohibe fumar y fomicar WARNINGSNo praying, no sneezing.No spitting, eulogizing, kneelingWorshiping, howling, or coughing.No sleeping permitted in this areaNo inoculating, talking, excommunicatingHarmonizing, escaping, catching.Running is absolutely forbidden.No smoking. No fucking.by Michael Sohn ...yet all the while underneath flows the steady and conscious resentment: “puta quelos pario! /que se habran imaginado de mi?” “Little sons of bitches, who the hell dothey think I am’”by Carole ByrdCHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 21OvertranslatingtheAntipoemNature,Beauty,andtheInvolvedReader Reader as ProtagonistDoll's boy's asleepunder a stilehe sees eight and twentyladies in a lineThey're all there, all waiting for me I think. I’m notstraightening my collar, not checking anything, notworrying at all. “eight and twenty ladies,” I canidentify, I can. Is it so strange to find myself there? Oneis pale with dark eyes and dark hair; she pouts slightly.Another wears a periwinkle dress. Rich brocade, finelace, guaze, blue denim — all looking rather sympatheticthis particular afternoon.the first ladysays to nine ladieshis lips drink waterbut his heart drinks wineI’m the subject of talk this evening? How nice. My,how perceptive...I’m a hidden beauty; that’s what Ialways thought. You’ve got to see me both inside andoutside.the tenth ladysays to nine ladiesthey must chain his footfor his wrist's too fineDelicate, “fine,” yes, well — not weak, but very“fine.” Chains? I won’t be locked up. We will engage,“tenth lady”, my foot to your foot, my heart to yourheart. Handholding, however, always leads me to theMama-Dada frame of mind, something I don’t par¬ticularly like. I don’t want to be dragged by you, I willnot drag you. Let’s just say. Miss tenth lady, we take oursteps together. My wrist might be touched, but notchained.the nineteenthsays to nine ladiesyou take his mouthfor his eyes are mine.I don’t want to be taken, I didn’t think I would bewhen I came here. What are you planning? Twenty-eight“ladies” pulling me apart in a rather unconventionalfashion? “Mouth, eyes, divvy ’em up!” No! I noticesometimes that we don’t mind destroying the integrity ofjust about anything or anyone when we want to claim itfor ourselves. The pieces surpass the whole when one isin a “taking” mood. I’m not at all impressed. “You takehis mouth”. Another takes “his tool,” some lust after“a piece of tail”...no, I won’t partake of this scene atall. I won’t be destroyed for selfish pleasure. We willboth walk away whole from each other in this relation¬ship. We will walk away even fuller than whole becauseof this relationship. But I keep my eyes, and my mouthand you keep yours thank-you.Doll's boy’s asleepunder the stilefor every mile the feet gothe heart goes nineAh—cute...well? Not really. Not cute at all when youthink of it. I don’t want to be “taken,” pulled apart,mawled, destroyed. I say I don’t want to, but then if Irefuse to be taken, and you demand only to take, am Istuck forever here under this stile? I feel lonely, I dowant, but I won’t be taken. I don’t like playing thisdrama over and over again. Taken, not taken, I close myeyes and...I'm getting nowhere.I’ve often thought that a clear description of somethingexternal to me, a poem for instance, demands an Shekhinahby Eleanor Wilner“With whom she was so loving-angry” is a line fromEleanor Wilner’s poem, Emigration, the first poem inShekhinah. The hyphenated “loving-angry” is a perhapsaccidental piece of self description on Wilner’s part.Shekhinah's content is the anger of contemporary femi¬nism, but interestingly Wilner chooses to express thatanger in asthetic, gentle, almost ethereal poetry. Theeffect is a sort of “loving-anger.” I think Shekhinah is afine example of an author with a message and a craftboth, and she is equally integral to, and intrigued by,both. By avoiding the stridency of a strictly feministvoice, Wilner lends the effectiveness of understatement toher task of re-shaping myth.Re-shaping myth is a colossal task, something likepushing a gigantic rock up a hill and never getting to thetop, ever. In the face of the enormousness, and for allpractical purposes, impossibility of changing our per¬ception of myth, one wonders why Wilner would eventry. The first reaction might be, “oh, that’s brave tofight duragatory stereotypes and harmful prejudicesagainst so many odds.” But that’s not what emergesfrom Wilner’s poetry. She is not a pioneer female poetyelling down the chauvenistic misrepresentations ofwomen in mythology. She is rather a gentle voice, and aweak voice, resigned to the fact that contemporary poetryis not strong enough to change myth and resigned to thefact that even as she tries to change myth, she herselfrelies on it and uses it, as all poets do, referentially. Andthis is where the subtler understanding of Wilner comesobjective language. Feelings? Feelings have their place inan objective context, as long as they are properly labelledas such: “In my opinion,” “I personally,” etc... Untilnow I’ve assumed that in describing a poem, somethingoriginally external to me and still external to myaudience, I am least confusing when I utilize thelanguage of the observer. “Surely, ‘Doll’s boys’ by e.e.cummings,” I might conclude, “is a worthy object ofconsideration, a potential ‘good read’ for any of you.”I am playing a rather foolish game, however, in callingthis poem the “object” of my consideration. I am theobject of my consideration when I read poetry, not thepoem. If I like this poem, I will say “I like it;,” but Iwill be lying as all reviewers do when they objectify. Intruth, I liked the way this poem has allowed me toexperience myself, nothing more. I will take a certaindegree of liberty in preaching, however, that this poem,among others in Tulips & Chimneys by e.e. cummings,offers you a similarly pleasurable self-experience.by Stefan KerteszEpilogues1. Baroque men grasped termination.The harpsichord tossed upa steel note that hung like Nijinsky, thendropped,echoless.Gold filigree coiledlike a good night of love-making,then surfaced, a strand that stoppedat the delineated air.2. We end in different media,cutting flesh with butter knives,turning away like moles from a vein ofstone.In any case, we end.Phantom limbs tingle, grow strong, andache.Dogs whine for dead masters,masters expect greetings from dead petswith rubber steps, bright barks and meows.3. One morning you find yourself having stayedupall night, trying to fix a memory,holding hours by the legsbefore they could carry away more details.For a second you let it not be —it breaks, a sac of watersthat soak your bones.It stays with you freelyas you button your coat, prepare to leave,watching ice cubes melt in your coffee. in. She wants mytical women to be seen as individuals,not as prototypes. There was perhaps one Penelope andone Eve, but there are alternatives to waiting endlesslyfor your epic husband or taking your god-man husbanddown the long-slide into original sin and utter depravity,having just lost paradise. Wilner creates alternatives to,not replacements of, mythical women.So this is what Shekhinah establishes: contemporarypoetry is not a strong enough voice to change myth, norwould Wilner necessarily change myth even if she could,she uses myth herself in its traditional referential capac¬ity. We can interpret Wilner’s recreation of mythicalwomen as an aesthetic and poetic exercise as well as afeminist manifesto. Her new women are alternatives to,not replacements of, their earlier mythological females.by Ellen StreedFacing Natureby John UpdikeThe jacket of John Updike’s fifth book of poetry,Facing Nature, displays the marble head of a Gorgon, acreature from Greek mythology, whose otherwise-humanvisage wears a hideous grin with four fangs and aprotruding tongue. The unsettling jeer on this piece ofancient statuary hints at a theme with which to approachthese varied poems, for the most part previously pub¬lished in magazines such as the New Yorker. Updikefinds himself mocked by the world (“a kind of joke, apop-up book”), where the banality of human experiencetriumphs over the seriousness of human intent, and wherethe countenance of reality laughs at our folly and in sodoing bares pointed teeth. But the grimacing face belongsto the author as well: Updike winces at the oppression ofTime, and responds to the pain of realization with asmiling wit that hides his discomfort. His poetry balancesthe truths of death, love, sex, and art with the casualtrivialities of life. He looks on the Gorgan’s stone face,and returns the glare, his expression locked in words.Updike divides his collection into four sections ac¬cording to form and subject; the best and most consistentof these is the opening sequence of twenty-three sonnets.These poems resemble actual sonnets only in their lengthof fourteen lines and their singular purpose. Withouteither a rhyme scheme or a metrical construction,Updike’s derivation of the classical form lends an addedauthority to his already strong poetic voice. Some of theclosing “couplets” are particularly powerful. “Theplanet’s giant motion overpowers us./ We cannot stopclinging where we are.” At the same time, Updike willcontrast his sonnets’ tacit formality with amusing yetprecise imagery and word play. For example, Ohiobegins,Rolling along through Ohio,lapping up Mozart on the radio(PianoConcerto No. 21, worn but pure),but quickly precedes into metaphysics,I learned what human was:human was the musicnatural was the staticblotting out an arpeggio.The companion poems The Dying Phobiac Takes HisFears with Him and No More Access to Her Underpantsare juxtaposed under the heading Two Sonnets WhoseTitles Came to Me Simultaneously, but do not deal sofrivolously with their subject, the transience of psycho¬logical bonds. Concluding the section, the eight “SpanishSonnets” weave together Updike’s reflections on thedread of existence revealed by insomnia during a trip toSpain. He considers aspects of his personal life againstthe backdrop of Spanish culture, and finally resolves hisanxiety, realizing that “tulips outnumber truths in myMadrid.”The common denominator to the sonnets is the tyrannyof time, and the second section of poems also reduces tothis mutual theme. Updike’s pervasive wit again findsmany opportune moments to surface, but at times seemsforced or misplaced. He employs more successfully theunmomentous experiences of daily life to make his point,as in An Oddly Lovely Day Alone and Sleeping withYou. Nature appears throughout in many diverse formsand intensities: the seasons; natural phenomena such asrain and shadows; paintings of Winslow Homer, EdwardHopper, the Abstract Expressionists, and Vermeer; andmemories of travel. As with the first section, the lastpoem here, The Moons of Jupiter, is the longest andmost ambitious; Updike visits the planet’s four majorsatellites, and juggles descriptions of their terrains withscenes of his Ufe to create a dramatic collage ofobservations.This “scientific” voyage leads into the third group ofpoems, Seven Odes to Seven Natural Processes, in whichUpdike selects natural forces such as evaporation andentropy as hubs for his examination of our relationship tothe universe. These poems sometimes become boggeddown in their literal terminology, but their breadth andintermittent lyricism always manage to pull them free.Updike closes the book with a collection of light verse,which I find a little anticlimactic after the elaboratesequence of “Odes.” It is important to remember,though, that trivialities are an integral part of existence,and can offer their own form of enlightenment. FacingNature thus has its lighter moments which do not detractfrom the merits of more weighty poems. Updike showshimself in this volume to be extremely conscious ofTune, and able to approach it on a number of levels. Hisskill with language, his wit, and his range of thoughtwork together to create a book of poetry which willappeal to a variety of tastes and moods.by Gary Roberts22 CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986ITWva 4RELATED 2SBMCB OWith the American Express® Cardyou can buy everything from newspectacles to some pretty spectac¬ular clothing. The latest in audioequipment and the latest albumsThe Card is the perfect way to payfor just about anything you’ll wantduring collegeHow to get the Cardbefore you graduate.Because we believe that college is the firstsign of success, we've made it easier for youto get the American Express Card. Graduatingstudents can get the Card as soon as theyaccept a J10.000 career-oriented job. 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Michigan • Chicago 60605922-9012, x22224 CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 19861^-irr-ii-i-iri-Tifr^-■->------■ 4:- /In recent times it is only very rarely that the nationalor even the local press involves itself on mattersprimarily of architectural aesthetics. Yet last Septemberthe New York Times ran two articles, the Chicago SunTimes an editorial, and the Chicago Tribune a front-pagearticle, on what was essentially a question of architecturalinterest. The incident that sparked off this unprecedentedpress interest seems, by itself, trivial enough: the addi¬tion of a canopy by one competent though mediocrearchitect, Robert Nevel, to a building by another, WalterNetsch. What was at stake, though, was much more thana dispute between two little-known architects. The build¬ing in question was the library on the campus of theIllinois Institute of Technology (HT) planned and de¬signed by Ludwig Mies vander Rohe in'the 1940’s and50’s. Netsch’s library, built in 1962, was Miesianenough, being mostly an abjectcopy of the adjacentCrown Hall, one of the most successful of Mies’ workson the HT campus. Netsch’s library had many faultsperhaps the most glaring of which is that its entrance,flush with the building’s facade, lacked identify (unlikeCrown Hall) and offered no protection from rain andsnow. In May 1985 the Chicago firm of Mekus/JohnsonInc. was employed by IIT to redesign, among otherthings, the plaza in front of the library. The firm’sarchitect, Nevel, first redesigned the paving and land¬scaping of the plaza and then decided to add a canopy toidentify and protect the entrance. Instead of the Miesblock in which the library had been built, the canopy wasred, blue, yellow, green and white and, unlike anycanopy Mies ever designed held by guide wires. Animmediate furor ensued and it was almost immediatelyclear that the canopy would not survive. Every critic tooksides and the only compromise offered was a somewhatridiculuous suggestion by the Sun Times editorial: “Paintit black.’’ Within a day the canopy was taken down atthe behest of IIT President Thomas Martin and GeorgeSchipporeit, Chairman of ITT’s School of Architecture.Meanwhile Nevel staged a solemn protest in front.According to Nevel’s critics, including Netsch, Nevelhad violated the “Miesian vernacular.’’ For Mies’ fol¬lowers this was tantamount to sacrilege. For Mies’ criticsincluding, for instance, the happily uninformed “pop”polemicist, Tom Wolfe, nothing could be better. Ac¬cording to them it is this vernacular that has convertedour cityscape into a jungle of glass, steel, and concreteboxes. Postmodernism, represented by Nevel, is archi¬tecture’s only hope; modernism and the so-calledInternational Style, which embraced Mies, is happily leftdead. The debate still rages. Two things are certain,though. First the style developed by Mies (and a handfulof others), whatever it is called, has easily been the mostdominant influence on twentieth century architecture todate. Second, while the style has spread, it has destroyedcities from Chandigarh to Brassilia: only a very chosenfew have been able to master its content. But the few thathave — Mies, Gropius, Oud — have left monuments ofmodem architecture that will not be easy to surpass.Mies van der Rohe was bom on March 27, 1886. Aspart of the celebrations marking his centenary this yearthe University of Chicago Press has issued a criticalbiography (the volume under consideration) by FranzSchulze, an architectural critic and historian long knownfor his interest in Mies. Schulze attempts to provide acritical account of both Mies’ personal and artistic life.The attempt is ambitious: the debate surrounding thevalue of Mies’ work is far from over and any attempt atcritical assessment is yet fraught with danger. Schulze’sbook is remarkable, all the same, and until a more distantassessment of Mies (and, perhaps, even necessarilydistant from Chicago where Mies lived and built for thelast thirty years of his life) is possible, it will remain thestandard scholarly work on its subject. The scholarship ismeticulous and the choice of illustrative diagrams andphotographs clearly explicates the text.Schulze followed Mies’ life and career from hischildhood in Aachen, through his apprenticeship andearly career in Berlin, to his last decades in Chicago.Considerable attention is paid to Mies’ very early work- the Riehl House (1907), Peris House (1910-11),Werner House (1912-13) — which shows Mies buildingfairly conventional houses with standard exteriors thoughvastly simplified interiors. Mies’ evolution into themodem style was slow, coming much later than the firstinnovative efforts of Gropius or Le Corbusier. In the1920’s, however, he designed five unbuilt projects thatamply demonstrated his mastery of dynamic asymmetricspace and the new glass and steel construction that weresoon to become the hallmarks of the new architecture.Only with the Wolf House (1925-27) did Mies actuallybegin to build in the new style in which he reached hispeak in the Tugendhat House (1928-30) and the GermanPavilion at the Barcelona Exposition (1928-29).The second phase of Mies’ career begins with hisimmigration to the United States in 1938. During his firstdecade here he built in glass, steel and concrete, and wasoften aggravated by the wartime shortage of materials.Much of his least successful work dates from this periodduring which, along with other projects, he designed andbuilt considerable sections of the Illinois Institute ofTechnology. Enclosed space had already become standardto his work and some of the innovative use of space ofthe new architecture was lost. This period ends with 860-880 Lake Shore Drive (1948-51), with which begins thetriumph of steel and glass that characterized the lastphase of his career. Vast symmetric enclosed volumesdominated this period and space becomes more staticthan in any previous phase of his career. The NewNational Gallery at Berlin (1962-67) was the largestenclosed space (27,000 square feet), he ever built thoughin the unbuilt Convention Hall Project for Chicago(1953-54) he had conceived of an even larger space (over50,000 square feet) inside free even of supporting *****The Library: Marks left by Nevel’s post-modernist canopy are still clearly visible and the entrance still leaves muchto be desired.German Pavilion, Barcelona (1928-1929): Financial problems (caused by the Depression) forced this structure to bedemolished as soon as the exposition ended. It has been reconstructed this year on the original site as part of thecentenary of Mies’ birth. Notice how Mies separated out the function of the wall (to divide spaces) and of the column(to support weight). Frank Lloyd Wright, who is said to have been quite impressed with the structure (in spite of hisusual disdain for European architecture), once remarked: “Some day let’s persuade Mies to get rid of those damnedlittle steel posts that look so dangerous and interfering in his lovely designs.”columns. Mies died on August 19, 1969.Functionally the Berlin New National Gallery was amiserable failure: it was almost impossible to exhibitmost works of art in a space so large. Another functionalfailure according to most assessments, was the Farns¬worth House (1946-51) in Plano, Illinois, the last single¬unit residences Mies built (except for one in Connecticuthe later disowned). Mies’ minimalist tendencies reachtheir peak here. Functionally the most important contri¬bution Mies made in this period were in his high-rises,the best-known of which is the Seagram Building (1954-58) in New York. By collecting the building’s services,including utilities and elevators, around a central axisMies freed the perimeter of each floor as much aspossible. The open space could now be adapted towhatever function that was appropriate (with freestandingwalls when necessary). Meanwhile the modular facadebecame standard. It was copied and hackneyed by almostthe only public interior Mies designed for a building nothis own. The stark elegance of the interior, as designedby Mies, was yet required to harmonize with the Club’stradition*! furniture. every other architect most of whom lacked Mies’ senseof proportion and almost none of whom had his feelingfor detail. It is fair to assess that these hackneyed boxeshave done much to ruin our cityscape. Hence the cholericof his critics but it seems somewhat odd that Mies mustbear the blame for the failures of his mimics.Schulze’s book leaves almost nothing to be desired.There are two points though, that could have been treatedwith greater care. One is that Schulze simply seems toassume a fairly continuous transition from the early Miesto the late. This continuity is far from obvious. Thecontrast between the free dynamic interiors of theBarcelona Pavilion, Brick Country House Project or eventhe Tugendhat House and the enclosed symmetric staticspace of the Farnsworth House or the Berlin NewNational Gallery is sharp and clear. Similarities in style,aside from Mies’ usual attention to material and detail,are harder to discern. No transitional work bridging thetwo styles comes to mind. Perhaps Mies never reallyintended to build a residence as dynamic as the unbuiltBrick Country House Project — afteT all, though theTugendhat House is dynamic the separation of interiorfrom exterior space is explicit. The point would bearfurther investigation.Further Schulze makes much of Mies’ pedestrianinterest in philosophy — Augustine, Aquinas, etc. — andits influence on his work. The connection is far fromclear. Mies’ later work is supposed to embody “ration¬alism” probably because it is symmetric (usually square).Yet most of this work is barely functional: it is easier tosee this work as archaic than as “rational.” Even termslike “constructivist” or “classicist” are sometimes usedwith reckless abandon. Which is unfortunate —a carefulanalysis of such terms, and associated styles, wouldcontribute much towards the clarification of die aestheticsof architecture.by Sahotra SarkarCHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986iOntheOccasionofMies’CentenaryMr.FosterMoreMies aa— pCrown Hall (1950-56): Perhaps the most successful of Mies’ Structures at IIT, Crown 6 feet above the ground to provide light and ventilation to classrooms and workshopsHall houses the School of Architecture. The large interior (120 by 220 feet), covered below. The shared open space of the main floor was supposed to reflect the sharedby a suspended roof, is remarkably free of any supporting structures, and offers a values and. therefore, the common goal of all the diverse activities carried on in it.premonition of Mies' later obsession with enclosed open spaces. The floor slab is raisedFiction by Margot StevensonI am neither a religious person nor a person who iswont to wax rhapsodic about general features of our lifeon earth. Maybe I believe in some force or energy inthe world, but in my view there is nothing that betterapproximates true boredom, insipidness, and a badlyspent afternoon than talk about aesthetic and spiritualmatters. Once every three weeks for seven minutes ifyou get a hankering. I take a cold shower.I used to be the sentimentalist who defined the word.Our family goes to the beach in New Jersey for amonth in the summer. When I was thirteen, I gratifiedmyself by dutifully taking my notebook to the beach,preferably on windy and dark days. Undeniably thebeach was beautiful.One day a little girl asked me to lend her thirtycents. She said that she had to have a “dream-sicle,”—namely, an orange popsicle with vanilla icecream inside. She assured me that she would save thepopsicle for after dinner. I admired the girl’s decencyeven when the borrowing money became a routine,because she always promised not to eat the ice creamuntil after dinner. “Why would I do that? I don’t liketo begin my vegetables with an orange tongue.’’Decency notwithstanding, the girl showed up at myhouse one day to tell my father that I owed her twodollars and forty-five cents for good humors! (I hadgiven her my address because she showed an interest inmy bottle cap collection.)The point of this story is that my self-consciouslybeautiful experiences on the beach when I was thirteenwere exclusive of this encounter with the greedy littlegirl. That is, luckily most of what I wrote that summeris illegible and written in pencil. The rest of it I burnedlast year when I grew to mistrust the written word. Thereason that I am sure I will find no mention of the littlemonster in these scrawlings is because 1 had a case of adissociated sensibility, caused by the books and poemsthey had me read in my eighth grade classes. Beacheswere places for the stark beauty of a nature which is atonce prehuman and superhuman. Maybe I am ungrate¬ful or was just immature.In my opinion intellectuals are worse than crasssentimentalists, because they are intricately, method¬ically, and covertly sentimental. Maybe a person has aposter of a puppy dog in his closet, or tacks a woodenplaque on his mother’s door which says, “World’s BestMom (and Grumpiest).” These are specimens of sen¬timentality. But what harm do they do?In contrast consider my father's friend, Mr. Foster.When Mr. Foster visited us at the beach last summer,he recited Blake’s poetry to me. Granted I was gratefulfor the sound of a voice. Now that I am disaffectedwith any such thing as a life of the imagination, myvisits to the beach have dwindled to one week, duringwhich I don’t even bother to take off my jacket almost.My father asks me whether I am about to go some¬where since I habitually hunt in my handbag as if forkeys to a car. Would that I had a car! Well that’s myfather’s illogicalism.So Mr. Foster recited poetry to me while I pacedback and forth in the living room, complaining thatthere were no clay courts in the vicinity. They replacedclay tennis courts with hard surfaces because hardsurfaces require less “upkeep”!! Really I am not soungrateful. I like to precociously maintain that the world has gone to hell ever since the sixties, when Iwas born.After Mr. Foster recited to me about how thechimney sweep becomes more sooty as he moves frominnocence into perilous yet transformative experience, Isaid to him, “All this talk about the common man, Mr.Foster. The closest thing I know to one is our postman.Do you think it’s fair or maybe irrelevant that atholiday time the kids in the neighborhood march rightto our door, and shamelessly lift up our wreath in orderto take from the mail slot the envelope we leave for thepostman? We’ve stopped leaving ten dollars for thepostman at holiday time.”Mr. Foster thought that either number one I am asuperficial interpreter of Blake, or number two, Iwasn’t listening, or number three, his favorite per¬ception of my character, that I like to “argue for thesake of arguing.” So what does that mean anyway?“See!” Mr. Foster will say. I argue with that also.Wouldn’t you argue? Has Mr. Foster ever seen atiger? I don’t mean at the zoo, nor on African Safaris.Vicarious and vicarious again. I mean “see” in theBiblical sense if you will. Down on all fours in thejungle, hunting and living like a tiger. In my view noperson has the right to claim appreciation of a tiger,alleged burning bright eyes notwithstanding, until thesaid person has made every effort to understand thesaid tiger’s total way of life. Mr. Foster says that thatis a fatuous as well as “trivially impossible” demand. Isee the point. But emotion over generalized conceptionsabout innocence and experience grieves me whenattached to a person who has never even seen a tiger.Mr. Foster and I had fun unmixed with combat whenMr. Foster disintegrated briefly during his visit. He hadbeen to the supermarket. After conceding to use thebackboard at the hard courts, I was home putting cremebetween my toes. Mr. Foster said that his day had been“terrifying, stranger than strange.” A person besiegedby such mercilessly capricious bewilderment as besi¬eged Mr. Foster that afternoon looks for a brute fact bywhich to anchor himself. Mr. Foster wanted grapejuice.I think that a good motto is “all in good time.” Iwas curious to know what happened to Mr. Foster. “Iwas really frightened, but it was nothing,” he said. Butsince Mr. Foster was in shock, I decided that mycuriosity would be satisfied all in good time, and thatMr. Foster needed to hear about something verycalculable in this life. I told him about my contactlenses. Dirt gets into one’s eyes easily when one wearsglasses, but then again it gets out easily also. A personwho wears glasses may be expected to wipe away dirtfrom her eyes some six or eight times a day. Forget iton the other hand if the unlikely occurs and one getsdirt under one’s contact lens. One had better learn tolove that speck introduced to one’s world because onlyan expensive expert chemist will succeed in removingthe dirt from that contact lense. Moreover, I added,most expert chemists supposedly reside in communistcountries, whether or not that makes a practical differ¬ence.Although Mr. Foster did not answer to the content ofwhat I said, I think that he appreciated my gesture ofsoothing his mercilessly capricious bewilderment bytalk of the smallest least theoretical part of this world.The word is “bathos,” I think, —going from thesublime to the ridiculous—, because his experience at the supermarket apparently transported him to another,if not higher, region of experience than is ordinarilyencompassed by everyday life. What was unpredictablewas that the next minute, after I finished my speechabout contact lenses and while we finished our grapejuice, Mr. Foster’s fanciful streak came right out ofhim. My grape juice “mustache” was the occasion fora hilarity in Mr. Foster that I had not seen since thetime when he was drunkenly transfixed by the express¬ion “bleary eyed.”Here was the man who had told me that the romanticpoets had a “deliciously contradictory sensibility” intheir “elitest celebration of the common person,”because of which delicious contradiction Mr. Fostermade a practice of memorizing a romantic poem beforebed on Thursday nights. However what frightened Mr.Foster away from the supermarket was an oversizedpair of hands. Mr. Foster had been vulnerable thatafternoon to a tiny very small woman clad in a magentatwo pieced bathing suit— “not a bikini,” he said, “atwo-piece.” She had reached for the box of croutons atthe supermarket. Mr. Foster told me that he thinks thatcroutons are a festive food and though I had never seenit before, it’s true, I think too. So he was going to buysome croutons to go with the raw spinach he saw in ourrefrigerator when the little woman’s monstrous handshad the same inclination. She got up on one of thosestools on wheels they have in supermarkets and reachedfor the seasoned croutons. Her hands were as big as thecover of a National Geographic! So he thought.Mr. Foster was a bit ashamed of having gone out ofcontrol to the extent that he didn’t even buy thecroutons. I suspect that the accuracy of his report whenhe first related the incident dissolved later into a stillsmall desire to persuade himself that he is not animpulsively unreasonable person, because, still in asmall way, Mr. Foster wanted to discover from thisincident the relationship between madness and miracle.He explained that maybe it was a supernatural phe¬nomenon—a tiny woman with huge hands. More likelythe hands were rather the “occasion for” than the“cause of’ his impatience, fatigue and ensuing lack ofrestraint shown by leaving the store without the crout¬ons. One has to understand the conjunction of sen¬sations; the hands together with the magenta suit andthe Musak rendition of the “Camelot" song, “YouMay Take Me to the Fair,” which played in thesupermarket. Beyond that, the magenta bathing suit hadbeen explicity excluded from the store by the sign inthe window, along with food and spitting. There aremany teenagers in the vicinity. But I don’t spit anyway.I think that experience quickly turns into a slogan,because Mr. Foster has since wondered in my presenceat the fact that the “sun is a powerful thing.” I thinkthat it is appropriate t<o call this maxim he derived fromthe incident in the supermarket a slogan. He decidedthat his sensation of the oversized hands was an opticalillusion prompted by a sort of sun stroke. We have nottalked about the incident many times. But it came upagain when I went with my father and Mr. Foster tosee the play The Master Builder. I applauded Hilda inthe play when she said that she stopped reading becauseshe finds books “irrelevant.” I pointed out to Mr.Foster the wisdom of Hilda’s abstinence. Mr. Fostersaid, “Take a book to the beach even if you don’t readit. You can use it to block the sun. You have toremember that the sun is a powerful thingC”26 CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986•CELEBRATE•SPRING BREAK ’86" Ft Lauderdale ■on the beachFT. LAUDERDALE'S PREMIERECONCERT AND DANCE CLUB7 am to Noon - “EARLY RISER”BLOODY MARY SPECIALFor you agrty rtaors, hava a Bloody Mary and KEEP THE MUG!10amto6pm POOLSIDE PARTIESUVt D. J. EMCEEING POOLSIDE CONTEST • WATER VOLLEYBALLTOURNAMSNT-PRKESaPICHUG RELAYS-FREET-SHIRTRBLAYSTH1BKLLYFLOF CONTEST « AND CLIMAX THE OAY WITH... 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Harvard UniversitySummer School - -Please send a Harvard Summer School catalogue and application for.□ Arts and Sciences □ Secondary School Program □ Drama□ English as a Second Language □ Writing □ DanceQ Health Professions ProgramNameStreetCity StateHarvard Summer School20 Garden Street, Dept. 364Cambridge, MA 02138 U.S.A. ZipEYEGLASSESOUR REGULAR PRICE•COMPLETEsingle visiondesigner glasses$3375Offer expires 3/20/86Contacts & SpecsUnlimitedGOLD COAST1051N. Rush St.(AtStale/Ccdar/Ra*,Soioooa Cooper Drap)642-EYES CHICAGO3144 N. Broadway880-5400 CONTACTLENSESOUR REGULAR PRICE30 day extendedwear lenses$2495son M \ I» \M> H\l S( H \\1>IOMBOM ,i . I’KOH sslON \| YYYMIDI I ION \1 KlOl Ikl I).Offer expires 3/20/86Contact LensesUnlimitedEVANSTON1724 Sfcu— Aw. CHICAGO3144 N. Broadway880-5400 GOLD COAST1051 N.RMhSt.(At642-EYESCHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 27CLASSIFIEDS*QUALITY MEATIS WHY MOO & OINK HAVE MADE..CALUMET MEAT COMPANY THEIR HOMEE HOME OF WOO &0HTlobodif cTheata l/ouTSetieti,%jt '■.■pwipwiDKAA-CLASSIFIEDADVERTISINGClassified 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 $3 per line. Ads are not ac¬cepted 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 IL 60437 ATTN Classified Ads. Our office is in Ida Noyes Rm. 304. Deadlines: Tues¬day & Friday at 5:00 p.m., one week prior topublication. Absolutely no exceptions will bemade! In case of errors for which the Maroonis responsible, adjustments will be made orcorrections run only if the business office isnotified WITHIN ONE CALENDAR WEEK ofthe original publication. The Maroon is notliable for any errors.SPACEAPARTMENTS AVAILABLEStudios, one, two & 3 bedrms some lake viewsnear 1C, CTA & U of C shuttle, laundry,facilities, parking available, heat & water in¬cluded. 5% discounts for students. HerbertRealty 684-23339-4:30Mon. Fri. 9-2on Sat.A lovely Kimbark crossing condo 5112 Kim-bark. Three bedrooms plus a maid's room orden. Third floor. Assessments are $231.45 plus$20. for parking. Only $69,500 URBANSEARCH 337 2400.Campus studio unfurnished available now $350phone 962 9724 evenings 493-1091.Riverfront vacation home 1/3 share. Rotateweeks with 2 other owners. 124 mi from HP. X-ctry skiing, canoing, gardening. 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Available March 30.Rent is $210 per month including heat.Graduate student or professional preferredNonsmokers only. Laundry in building, parking available. Call Jonathan at 962 1653 orSarah at 962 1336 days, or 643 2087 eveningsHuge 15' x 18' room avail, in 3 bdrm apt 5532 S.Kimbark. 2 blks from campus hrdwd firs, sunporch, laundry facilities. Fern grad/prof. pref.Avail 4/1 w/option for summer and leaserenewal $275/mo. call 288 5963 anytimeNow available, a lovely one bedroom apartment at the Newport with southern views of thelake plus an indoor garage space. Reasonablypriced at $55,000. To see call Urban Search 3372400 Female professional looking for femalegrad/professional to share 2 bedroom, 2bathroom apartment in the Windemere. Call962 1653, leave message with Jonathan.3 bdr. avail. 5-1 near UofC. 5414 Ingleside $630.Call 667 5153 or 684-8596.FURNISHED rm in 3bdr apt. $180/mo + utiltill June 955-0729, am s, after 11pm, wkndsbest.PEOPLE WANTEDOVERSEAS JOBS. 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Qualified candidates callDorothy Raden at 962-7453.Mellow Yellow Restaurant is now hiring full &part time waitstaff. Apply 1508 E 53rd St. M-Fbetween 9 11am.Babysitter (prefer mature student) to pick up 2girls (5 yr. old from school and 2 yr. old fromday care) at 3:15 PM M-F and spend until 5:45PM with them, spring quarter. Refs, req'd. 2682461 eves. Before 9 PM or weekends.SERVICESJUDITH TYPES and has a memory. Phone955 4417.LARRY'S MOVING & DELIVERY. Furnitureand boxes. Household moves Cartons, tape,padding dolly available. 743-1353.UNIVERSITY TYPING SERVICEWordprocessing and EditingOne block from Regenstein LibraryJames Bone, 363 0522PASSPORT PHOTOS WHILE U WAITModel Camera & Video 1342 E 55th St. 4936700.JUDITH TYPES and has a memory. IBM compatible. Quiet Writer printer Your disk ormine. Phone955 4417.TYPING by Experienced Secretary, allmaterial thesis tables languages etc Elaine667 8765.BABYSITTING-student's wife, full or parttime(weekends and eve.), lovely care 324 3125eve. Spr brk in Florida! 1 roundtrip Chicago Miamiairline "companion” ticket (buy 1 2nd free).Good until Aug. 27th $100. Call Dale 962 9477.WANTEDWanted: Queen size mattress 8< box springframe if possible. Call 643-1568 evenings.LOST & FOUNDSunglasses, Anne klein, brown. Lost near Reg.or Searle possibly, around Feb. 18. Reward.Suzle 752 4590 or 962 7209.PERSONALSFRIENDS DON'T LET FRIENDS DRIVEDRUNKASHUMASHUM, the program in the liberal arts andsciences basic to human biology and medicineAPPLICATIONS DUE THE FIRST WEEK OFTHE SPRING QUARTER. Questions? Call 962-7967.MAC LASER PRINTINGLet us print your Macintosh document on ourLaserWriter. Give us a disk with your docu¬ment on it and receive back the disk and print¬out. 50c per page. Top-Of-The Desk, Inc 947-0585 evenings and weekends.-M-DELICIOUS-M-NUTRITIOUS-J-M-EXPEDITIOUSThe Medici on 57th delivers every menu itemfast and fresh! Try our new spinach pizza, it'ssecond to none. 667-7394.CONCERNEDABOUTYOUR WEIGHT?We are looking for people who are concernedabout their weight (and overweight) to participate in a study to evaluate drug preferenceand mood. Earn $150 for your participation inthis 4 week study. No experimental drugs andminimal time involved. Volunteers must bebetween 21 & 35 years old and in good health.For further information call Karen between8:30 11:30am at 962 3560. Refer to study W.PSYCHOTHERAPYGROUPS FOR WOMENOpening in psychotherapy group comOosed otgraduate students professional women. Issuesrelated to personal growth, relationships, andachievement. Screening interview, no charge.Mary E Hallowitz MSW CSW ACSW 947 0154.MACINTOSH UPGRADES128K 512K $249 120 day warranty, housecallsCYBERSYSTEMS667 4000.SET CREW WANTEDPeople wanted to build the $et for" Hay Fever" by Noel Coward. Ifyou're around during SpringBreak, come and BUILDIII Shortinformational meeting Sat. March15, 3 p.m., 3rd floor, Reynold$Club. Or call 363-8198 and watchthe theater board at ReynoldsClub for details. FAST FRIENDLY TYPING & EDITINGTheses, resumes, all mat'ls 924 4449.FOR SALEIBM SYSTEM 370's Have both MODELS 138 8.148 telex + storage technology disk drives.Call 8, leave message. 643 626283 mazda GLC delux air, cruise, sunroof, $2995.493 0070,910 0222.VINTAGE CLOTHING SALEMarch 15, 16. 12 noon-6 pm. Completely restocked with everything in men's and women'sclothing and accessories. Start spring inHEAVEN at 6981 N. Sheridan. HOTLINE LISTENSIf you have a problem or need information orreferrals anything from film times topregnancy info call us, 753-1777, 7pm 7am.We're there and we can help.BABYSITTER. REFERRALSParents, students Student Govt, otters treebabysitter referrals. Sugn up to sit or get referral at Ida Noyes 306 or 962 9732.CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 ttS&FUNPeople needed to participate in studies otlanguage processing, reasoning, and memory.Will be paid $4-5 per session. Call 962 8859 between 8:30 and noon to register.WENEEDYOU!PLUS3FRIENDSTo participate in a drug preference study thatinvolves spending one evening each week forseven weeks in our recreational area from 7-11pm. Afterwards you and your friends will berequired to stay overnight in the hospital. Eachperson will be paid $245 for their participation.No experimental drugs involved. Subjectsmust be between 21 and 35 and in good health.Call 962-3560 Mort-Fri. 3:30 6pm. to volunteeror for more information. Study is conducted atthe U of C Medical Center.APARTMENT WANTEDOne bedroom or studio wanted near campus.Must allow dog and have fenced-in backyardfor same. Call Larry at 684-6788 or 962 9555.CHOCOLATE SOUP CAFEEnjoy pastries and hot drinks in a candlelightcafe atmosphere with LIVE ENTERTAIN¬MENT. At Hillel House, 5715 S. Woodlawn Ave.WORD PROCESSINGText processing for papers and articles. Finalcopy done on Laser Writer. Specialized fontsavailable soon. Top-Of-The-Desk, Inc. Phone947-0585 evenings and weekends.AV SERVICESPassport photos, printing, developing, andmuch more. Located in the basement of Bill¬ings Hospital, room S-30. For further informa¬tion, call 962 6263.ARE YOU ADISCRIMINATINGPERSON?If so, you can earn approximately $200 for par¬ticipating in a research study to determinewhether you can discriminate between the effects of one drug and another. No injections orexperimental drugs are involved. Minimumtime is required. Volunteers must be between21 and 35 years old and in good health. Formore information call Karen at 962 3560weekdays between 8:30 & 11:30 a m. Refer tostudy N.ALI BABA & THE FORTYTHIEVESCARPETSALEOpen house-sale Sat-Sun March 15-16 11AM-7PM. AM Baba and his thieves have stored lotsot oriental booty in my home. It has become a'smugglers den' for not only carpets, but also;Japenese prints, silk weavings, silver tribaljewelry, and gem-quality lapis lazuli (to besold by the gram). Mr. Baba and I have reached an agreement and will be selling these 'hotitems.' I will also be selling unusual antique 8,new carpets from private collection ALL NEWCARPETS- 25% OFF! All customers buyingover $250 will be eligible to win a prayer rugworth over $350! For further information or address, please call 288 0524.BOOKS-COLLECTIBLEFine books in all categories. Also $2 search service. TITLES, INC. 1931 Sheridan Rd.,Highland Park. 432 3690 10:30 5:00, closed Sunday.SEEKING TREATMENTFOR ANXIETY?Selected volunteers will receive 6 weeks of freetreatment for anxiety at the University OfChicago Medical Center in return tor participating in a 3 week study to evaluate drugpreference. Involves only commonlyprescribed drugs. Participants must be between 21 8> 55 years old and in good health Forfurther information call Karen at 962 3560 between 8:30 8, 11:30 a.m. Refer to study A.QUALITY HOUSING!!Roommate wanted: 1 room 8, own bath in v.Ige apt. 15 min to quad; on D bus route; use ofIge kitchen & more. Liberal veggie pref 493LANGUAGE COURSEStor exam preparation and conversation (beginning and advanced) will be ofered in the SpringQuarter to all Graduate Students through theCommittee on Academic Cooperation at theLutheran School of Theology (1100 E 55th St) inFRENCH ‘GERMAN * LATIN * SPANISHCourses begin between April 7 and 11. For further information call Program Coordinator:Susanne Schafer 493 43505508 South Lake Park Ave.GRACIOUS FAMILY HOME with all the work done!Well designed kitchen with cooking island; familyroom on the third floor has cathedral ceiling andwoodburning fireplace. Large private yard; leadedglass windows and many other features make this sixbedroom home a must see. $320,000. LouiseCooley.THE POWHATAN. Hyde Park's (and possiblyChicago's) most beautiful cooperative apartmentbuilding. New offering of a beautiful threebedroom, three bath unit with exquisite antiquewood panelling, working fireplace, spectacular lakeviews and many custom features which must be seento be appreciated. Amenities of the building includeindoor swimming pool and dressing/shower area,penthouse ballroom with full kitchen. 24 hour door¬man and attended elevator to your door. Cash forequity, $185,000.GREAT CAMPUS LOCATION. Perfect starter con¬do at 58th and Blackstone. One bedroom with fulldining room. Sunny living room with bay window.Updated kitchen. S41,000. Marie Wester, (res.947-0557)$— INTERNATIONAL NIGHTS —A Salute to Foods from Around the WorldMarch 17,18 & 19 The Best of the British IslesIreland, England, Scotland and Wales, Scottish Smoked Salmon, MulliganStew, Sausages and BreadsMarch 24, 25 & 26 Russian CuisineBuckwheat Blini, Pickled Mushroom Salad, Boiled Beef with Horseradish,Black Bread. March 31, April 1 & 2 German FaireLiverdumpling Soup, Sauerbraten with Spaetzel, Marzipan - Apricot Torte,BEER!April 7, 8 & 9 Northern Italian NightsCalamari all olio, Ravioli stuffed with Lobster and Spinach, Veal Picante,Italian BreadApril 14,15 & 16 Slavic SpecialtiesDill Soup with Veal and Sour Cream, Musaka, Crepes, Celeriac Salad, HotStrudelApril 21,22 & 23 Belgian OfferingsFondue Bruxellaise, Waterzooi of Chicken Fruit Cream, Dark ChocolateCreamsDONT MISS THIS TRAVELOG OF GUSTATORIAL DELIGHTSFor every International Meal purchased, Mallory’s will donate onedollar to the HP CHAMBER OF COMMERCE OUTDOORSCULPTURE FUNDCALL EARLY FOR RESERVATIONS 241-5600 Curtain CallingFor the serious theatrestudent, Northwestern offers aspectrum of opportunitiesincluding a Celebration ofMusical Theatre and aSummer Drama FestivalStudents may perform in athree-play, repertoryseason—in workshops thatteach dance, scene work andmusical comedytechniques-in cabaretshows-in a childrens theatreproduction.Northwestern’s performingarts also include otheropportunities such asMime,Acting, Stagecraft, Jazz Band Community>Chorus, evenPsychology of MusicThese and 240 other coursesare described in the 1986SummerSession CourseBulletin. Order your freecopy-includingregister-by-mail forms andinformation about our newmulti course tuition discountfor visiting students.8-week session,June 23-August 166-week session.June 23-August 2Call Toll Free during regular office hours:1-800-562-5200 ext. 300NORTHWESTERNUNIVERSITYSummerSession2003 Sheridan Road, Evanston, IL 60201 (312) 491-5250Academic excellence in a most favorable climateUNIVERSITY TRAVELIN THE HYDE PARK BANK BLDG.SUITE #5011525 E. 53rd St., ChicagoSPRING BREAK SPECIALS•TO FLORIDA, THE CARIBBEAN, MEXICO, EUROPE•SKI PACKAGES ‘HOTEL RESERVATIONS•CRUISES *CAR RENTALSSTUDENT TRAVEL SPECIALISTS•DISCOUNT AIR FARES *YOUTH HOSTEL INFORMATION•CHARTERS *TOUR PACKAGES•EURAIL PASSESWE SPECIALIZE IN FINDING LOW FARES FOR DOMESTIC AND INTERNA TtONAL TRIPSMaria A. Spinelli667-6900HOURS: WEEKDAYS8:30AM6:00PM; SATURDAY9:00AM4:00PMCHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 29UncleWillDimProspectsin’33 Budding Prospectsby T. Coraghessan BoyleThis is a fun book, the type you always hope todiscover just before a long, boring car ride through Iowaor some other wasteland. Light and vibrant, certainly notcontaining any themes worthy of a freshman Englishpaper, Budding Prospects offers the readers pleasuresunsullied by contemplation or perplexity. And whenyou’re finished with it, remembered are not any drolllessons or magnificent, unanswered questions, but simplythe thrill of turning the pages quickly, flying throughchapters, too impatient and delighted to read carefully,furiously munching on Mr. Boyle’s fine adventure. Thisis primal satisfaction — this is your money’s worth.Our narrator, Felix, thirty-one, divorced, unemployedand drifting into the big oblivion of middle age withnothing worth noting, is invited by his wealthy, swingingfriend Vogelsand to partake in a pot-growing venture.Felix will provide the labor, Vogelsand the start-upcapital and a parcel of land in verdant Humbolt County,Cal., while a third partner, Dowst, who has recentlygraduated with a Masters in botanical science, will guidethe project from the more technical end. Proceeds,Vogelsand triumphantly predicts, will top $1.5 million,to be split three ways.Felix accepts, and after recruiting two friends to helpwith the work, leaves San Francisco flat for nine monthsof life close to the soil — too close, as it turns out.Arriving on the property, affectionately called the‘summer camp,’ Felix discovers the cabin provided byVogelsand is far less than ‘perfectly adequate’ ac¬commodations promised; it is a pigsty. Vogelsand hasalso exaggerated the seclusion of the camp, failing tomention the nosy neighbor Ed Sapers and his dementedoaf-son, Marvin; discovery of the summer camp remainsa nagging threat for Felix and his friends, but the theybravely break soil, awaiting the two-thousand seedlingspromised by Dowst.Dowst produces the seedlings, late, and, of course,amounting to a few less than two-thousand. But whocares?, the campers figure. A little less than one and ahalf a million split three ways is still alot for three guyswith nothing. And yet, as misfortunes accrue, the triorealizes that they will receive far less than what theyexpected. Late planting of the seedlings reduces theproject yield. Unnamed rodents destroy the plants. Bears sabotage the crucial irrigation system. Blackmailers de¬mand bribes. And the most painful blow of all — themale plants, amounting to half the crop, must be cutdown in order for the females to bud, producing avariant of marijuana known as ‘sensimilla’ which deliversa knockout buzz and, of course, commensurately higherstreet values.Eventually we understand that Felix and his friendshave been shafted, that their nine-months of hard laborhave been nearly wasted, that their nerves have beenunduly taxed by ever-present fear of detection and arrest.They have been taken advantage of by Vogelsand, theircrops ignored by Dowst, who loses interest in theproject. Their failure, though, makes for a great story.Mr. Boyle’s portrayal of the many country charactersencountered by the weed tillers is superb, arid his proseis very fresh, if perhaps a bit ostentatious. The subplotsare excellent complements, especially one dealing with amacho state trooper’s vendetta against Felix. Included isthe token romance, and an unexpected ending nicelyrounds off the work. Little more needs to be mentioned.Budding Prospects is perfect for the reader interested inan entertaining, quality novel.by Rich Rinaolo1933 Was a Bad Yearby John FanteI was studying history when the squeal of the bed-springs seeped from Bettina's room. Grandma Bettina,deadly enemy of the light company came to the kitchendoor in her flannel nightgown. She was a small fierce oldlady with hands so fleshless they seemed like clawsclasped upon the small mound of her tummy. Her hairwas white as linen, the skin at her temples so pale andtransparent you could almost see inside her head. Shespoke only Italian and pretended not to understandEnglish whenever the subject matter dispeased her.Grandma Bettina has become very real to me throughthe writing of John Fante in 1933 Was a Bad Year. Ihave learned about her as if learning about a friend; Ifeel the same difficulty when called upon to describe her,as 1 would with a friend. Because of her richness, Ialways feel as if she has to speak for herself.“There he sits”, she kept nodding. “The brilliantyoung American, the product of an American womb, the pride of his dim-witted mother, the hope of the cominggeneration, there he sits, burning electricity. ”“Grandma, I’m trying to study. ”- “And what are you studying, O wise and clevergrandson? Is it a book atx: hunger and men walking thestreets seeking work? Is it a book telling of your fatherwithout a job for seven months, or is it the rich promiseof golden America, land of equality and brotherhood,beautilul America stinking like a plague?”All of Fante's character’s in 1933 Was a Bad Yearpaint a picture of reality as large as life. They are bothhumorous and tragic. Grandma Bettina is not just ahumorous old woman, but also a woman who, tom fromher native land by her husband, is forced to live out herlife as an alien during the Depression. Fante’s achieve¬ments with characterization only make the failure of plotdevelopment in 1933 that much more disappointing.Many of his scenes work well alone, but together theybecome lost in the story as a whole. However, because Iwas uncertain of exactly how the plot failed, and hadenjoyed the characters so much, I turned to another ofFante’s works, Ask the Dust. This only left me moreuncertain. The plot is better, but the characterization isweak. So I turned to a third work, Dreams FromBunker Hill. This one coheres more strongly because itis more a series of vignettes than a linear plot. Thescenes work together as a whole, but in the way thatevents form a life rather than in the way pieces form apuzzle. Though I enjoyed Dreams From Bunker Hill, Istill thought that Fante’s style could find a more suitablemanner of expression. Because of the vignette style hadbeen closer, I turned to The Wine of Youth, a collectionof short stories also recently published by Black Spar¬row.The Wine of Youth is by far my favorite work ofFante’s. The short story format allows him to create hischaracters without having to sustain a plot for very long.The Wine of Youth works as a whole, but in a uniqueway. The characters are always very similar, but notidentical. This allows Fante to create the depth of a sortof Everyman character. Each short story sheds new lighton, and discloses a new side of the human character.Fante's work paints a picture of life that is life-affirming without reminding us of a holly wood musical.His tragedy is real, and his humour, poignant andsignificant.by Erika RubelFiction by Jane LawrenceHe is sitting at the kitchen table in the house heshares with my great aunt. Behind him is a pot-belliedcoal stove that seems ridiculous in the heat of aSouthern Illinois summer. Electric fans whir in everyroom of that little house, and Aunt Liddy stands silentlyat the range amid the fragrance of frying chicken andthe faint sickly-sweet smell of bottled cooking gas.Uncle Will sits in his pants and undershirt, smokinga cigarette and drinking cold beer from a bottlealthough it is barely 11:00 a.m. His face is flushed andhe speaks in a booming voice that has its own echoesbuilt in. He is a retired coal miner who dabbles incounty politics, and for reasons which I do notunderstand, most everyone in the family seems todisapprove of him. It is a disapproval expressed notwith words, but rather the lack of them.“Where’s Will?’’ my grandmother might ask hersister.My great aunt would press her mouth into a hard lineand answer, “I don’t know.’’ And a silence would fallbetween them like a window shade pulled down on asultry afternoon while I waited for the logical questionswhich were never asked.But as I sit now at the kitchen table with him, thesmoke from his cigarette tickling my nose so that I want to sneeze, I am unaware of anything but a senseof pleasant companionship. With everyone else, I amknotted with the expectation of censure.“Git outa that woodpile! It’s full o’ rusty nails an’black widders. D'ya wanna get bit up an' die?”“Don’t jump on the bed. You’ll break it an’ yerdaddy’ll whup ya.”“Eat yer greens. Yer blood’s too thin; that’s whyye’re so lazy.”My Uncle Will does not holler at me when he findsme playing Superman with my cousin on the garageroof, and he does not ignore me now. He treats mewith courtesy and talks to me as though I were agrownup.One day at my grandparents’ house, I discover aphotograph on the mantle of the parlor fireplace. It isUncle Will and a beautiful girl I don't recognize. UncleWill is as handsome as a movie star in his broad-lapeled suit, his hair so black, his jaw hard and smooth,and his eyes, looking away from the camera, are filledwith mirth as though he is about to laugh out loud. Thegirl whose shoulder leans easily against his chest isAunt Liddy. I don’t recognize her at first because in thepicture she is smiling, and Aunt Liddy doesn’t smilemuch. I ask £ran about it.“Folks gits weighed down. Honey,” she tells me.“Why?” I ask. Gran takes the picture from my hand and peersclosely at it before putting it back in its place. “You’llunderstand when ye’re growed up,” she says.On a fall afternoon. Uncle Will and my father andmy grandfather decide to go squirrel hunting in thewoods behind Uncle Will’s house. My father figuresthat I am old enough to learn about killing animals andmakes me come along. Uncle Will wears an old plaidshirt and a duckbilled cap and carries his gun easily, asthough he'd been bom knowning how. He is a deadshot, and I notice the quiet way he goes about shootingand dressing his squirrels.My father, on the other hand, is a sloppy hunter. Hewounds a couple of squirrels. After the second wound¬ing, he pushes me toward the bloody spot on theground where the dying squirrel is twitching andstraggling.“This here’s what you do,” he says. There issomething in his voice that is smug and self-satisfied.As I watch, he grabs the dying squirrel and twists itshead off. “You hush up,” he tells me when I burst intotears, “or I’ll give you something to cry about.”That night, ten of us sit down to a dinner of friedsquirrel but I can eat nothing. The food congeals on myplate as I sit with head lowered. All around me peoplearc eating and talking with great enthusiasm. UncleWill’s face is bright red and sweat is gathering at histemples and rolling down his cheeks like tears. In mymisery I can sense a current running between us. It islike the flow of water or electricity or the bond ofblood. Uncle Will is talking too loud and my great auntattempts to silence him with shooshing noises. I thinkthat she sounds like the old laying hen in the chickenyard that chases the younger chickens away from thefeed corn. I ask to be excused from the table.“No,” says my father. “You’ll eat your dinner ifyou have to sit there all night.”There is a brief embarrassed silence before Granasks, “Sister, pass the potatoes.” A fork clinks againsta plate and then Uncle Will’s fist comes down on thetable. Water sloshes out of glasses and onto the tablecloth.“For Chrissake,” he rumbles, in that voice that isnot really loud but which carries its own echoes, “leavethe child alone. Ain’t there enough of us in this worldalready?” He lurches out of his chair and out of theroom. In the confusion that follows, I slip out the sidedoor. Uncle Will sits on the verandah shaking, his headbetween his hands.Uncle Will dies of cirrhosis of the liver when I amsixteen, but I’m not allowed to go to the funeral. It isfinals week and I must stay at home and study.“It started with the mine explosion,” Gran tells meone night a week or so later as we wash the supperdishes together. “Will traded shifts with Uncle JoePoole and the next morning when the sirens went off atfour o’clock, he always said he knew. For three days,the men of the day shift got drunk and went down intothe mine to collect the arms and legs and torsos of theirneighbors and kinfolk and bring them out in canvasbags.”30 CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986/Tlie great beers of the world go by one name: Lowenbrau. Brewed in Munich.Brewed in England, Sweden, Canada, Japan and here in America for a distinctive world class taste.IkWoudCalisFokLowburauC1986 MiUer Brewing Co Milwaukee, Wl. For best supportingrole on “The Exam,”the envelope please.It's Stanley H. Kaplan Fiftyyears of test-taking techniquesand educational programs havehelped over 1 miilion studentsgain more test confidence andbetter exam scores. So if you reup for the SAT, LSAT, GM AT,MCA! ORE. NTE, CPA. or anyother exam, nominate Kaplanfor best supporting roleIKAPLANSUN U Y H K API AN EDUCATIONAL CENTER LTDmarian realty,inc.mREALTORStudio and 1 BedroomApartments Available— Students Welcome —On Campus Bus LineConcerned Service5480 S. Cornell684-5400APARTMENTSFOR RENTGRAFF &CHECK1617 E. 55*h$tSpacious, nawly-dacoratad1 Vi, 2 Vt. 6 room, studios 41 bedroom apartment* ina quiet, well-maintainedbuilding.Immediate OccupancyBU8-5566//////■/////////////////////////////////////////. /////////. 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It’s the only guide you’ll ever need.“Unique and uniquely appealing...The more I read other guidebooks, themore I like LET’S GO.”—Time Magazine“Interesting and lively.. .the coverageextends far beyond the beaten path.”LET’SGOHarvard Student Agencies, Inc.EUROPE • USA • BRITAIN &IRELAND* FRANCE • ITALY •ISRAEL & EGYPT • GREECE •MEXICO • SPAIN. PORTUGAL &MOROCCO • CALIFORNIA &PACIFIC NORTHWEST$9.95 each (Europe, $10.95) ST» MARTINIS PKCSS CHINBi-AMERISpecializing in Can toneseand American dishesOpen Doily 11 A.-8:30 P.M.Closed Monday1311 K. MrdMUfcUtt.r DR. MORTON R. MAS10V ^OPTOMETRIST•EYE EXAMINATIONS•FASHION EYEWEAR(one year warranty on eyeglassframes and glass lenses)SPECIALIZING IN• ALL TYPES OFCONTACT LENSES•CONTACT SUPPLIESTHE HYDIPARKSHOPPING CENTER1510 E. 55th363-6100INTERNSHIPSUMMER JOBSCall 817-927-0135Or after 5:00to10:00 PM CentralCall 512-335-8156C.E.S.JNC (Fee)AM proceed* benefit the performance organization* of the Department of Music Ticket* at University Bo* Office, 962 7300 Visa and MasterCard accepted32 CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986Angstby Helene Cixous-It is impossible to say just what I mean!The Love Song of J. Alfred PrufrockHelene Cixous Angst is a wonderful book which willprobably not be enjoyed by at least half of the peoplewho read it. Like or dislike is not dependent on genderdistinctions, as some might expect when reading a novelby this polymorphous French feminist, but on a willing¬ness to patiently encounter the myriad of symbols, doubleand triple entendres, and conhised signifier, signifiedrelationships. The pleasure of reading Angst comes fromthe brilliance of Cixous’ handling of the symbolic, andthe elegance of her prose — this novel intends to conveya feeling, not tell a story — in 200 plus pages Cixouscommunicates the character of “angst." Essentially shesays, “Welcome to my nightmare,” in a manner moreeffective than the straightforward prose of Sartre'sNausea or Camus’ The Stranger All three authorsdetail the essential nature of the individual’s alienationfrom society and self, but Cixous makes it real by puttingthe reader inside the heroine's subconscious. This womanwho tells us, “An hour before I existed. I believed inmyself, not a moment ago I was called Helene,” doesnot revel in her anxiety, but tries to overcome it. Thequestion to be answered is, “Who is the victor in thispsychodrama?”Cixous is not an existentialist, but a deconstructionist,and the refusal of that discipline to provide obviousreferences of objective meanings is evident: the reader isnever sure if love is a means of affirmation or denial oflife, if sexual intercourse is vitalizing or mortifying, ifwriting is a means of revelation or obfuscation ifdiscourse is a means of communication inferior to thesilence which can fill rooms, and if the body is a site ofself-annihiliation or self-discovery. Confusion is in¬creased by the fact that what few character names thereare change during the novel, and that there is no plot,>>>►►►►► only a kaleidoscope of images.Angst begins with the heroine’s statement, “This is it:the scene of Great Suffering. During this scene theimpossible takes place: my death attacks me, life panicsand splits in two; one life tears at the other which has itby the throat, biting,” and becomes more abstruse, moreimagistic, more seemingly disjointed. Secured within thisavant-grade prose style is the story of one woman’sattempt to understand her relationship with her malelover and her body, and to realize the therapeutic valueand possible salvation inherent in writing the story ofone’s life experiences. Cixous differs from Prufrock inthat she chooses to not say what she means in order toconvey the frustration of this unnamed heroine with thecontent of her existence. Specifically, the fact that shehas deified her lover — which is evidenced by heraddressing him as “god,” “When god, the one you love,is lying down in front of you.” Cixous’ protagonist hasan inability to write despite her need to write to liberateher body, and she feels that discourse is inadequate toexpress her feelings because language is a site of disease.“They slung at me all the words that paint the world inmuck...pierced my brain reaching love’s bed.. Their pus-filled language must have been my first language ofdeath.” Another major theme is the sadomasochisticreality of relationships, “Love is drunk with dread,tricked, tripped, put to bed between sheets of pain, madeto dream cruel dreams.” The delineation above is ofcourse incomplete — Angst cannot be delimited intosimple themes because it is a prose rendering of anemotion, and emotions are not simple.Still, the emotional content of this book is notobscured by the ambiguity of the symbols and conflicts.Cixous is uninhibited in her portrayal of this woman'sanguish and it is the book’s truthfulness which makes theprose beautiful. Putting theories of personality develop¬ment aside, Cixous’ message about self-appreciation issimple and elegant, “What does self-love depend on?The dress you clothe your soul in. If you wore one youwould be seduced.” Her striking oxymoron, “Drowsy,so peaceful...inside love’s soothing disquiet,” is an accurate portrayal of the violent nature of passion. Theheroine’s plea, “Someone wants me to lose my head.They are trying to trap me...they wont’ tell me my nameto help me come back to my self...It’s a question ofnames. I am ready to confess everything, “is reminescentof David Byrne’s “Give Me Back My Name” on theTalking Head’s new album Little Creatures', Byrneechoes the frustration of this unnamed heroine when hesays, “There’s a name for it/And names make all thedifference in the world. . .Something must be returned tous.” Cixous is touching on fundamental questions: Whatdoes my name have to do with who I am? How do Iappreciate myself? Why isn’t love always great? This is astory of female consciousness, but the gender specificallyof the heroine does not preclude universality.Besides, who is this woman who expresses agony overself-loathing, and the erotica of, “It began by: yes. Oui.Ja. I don’t remember what language anymore. As if I hadasked him for something. And the letter was answering:yes. Yes. Here I am. Open mouthed. And I saw thetongue moving. As if you were asking god: are youthere? And he said: yes, I’m here. In your mouth.”Cixous’ prose is vital, emotional, demanding and un¬deniably beautiful. In this novel there is the same beautymixed with pain apparent in “The Old Guitarist;” is itthe pleasure of Picasso’s brilliant use of different shadesof blue or the poignancy of the emaciated Old Man thatmakes us cry?The problematic relation of this woman with the thingsand people around her may be translated to the reader ofthis novel (Angst will give you angst, as much becauseit’s a difficult novel as because it’s effective) and that iswhy it is not a book for everyone. Readers must becomefamiliar with the style (the first fifty pages are hell) andlet it flow over them and into them. This is a beautifulpiece of art, and part of the brilliance of Cixous is thatshe demands interested, energetic reading concurrentwith passive absorption. Patient readers will be gladwhen at the end they are able to feel the awesome andelectrifying paradox that is woman.by Theresa Brown► ►►.►►►►►►►►►►►►The Use of Pleasureby Michel FoucaultThe Use of Pleasure, posthumously translated from the French by Robert Hurley, isthe second volume in Foucault’s four volume History of Sexuality. Michel Foucault isnot known for his general readablity, but in this undertaking his style seems less densethan it easily might be. I believe this is due primarily to the three part structure he hasgiven his argument, which renders it more “digestable” than some of his previousworks; he develops it from the theoretical level (in the introduction) to an intermediatelevel (in the first part), wherin he interprets some central ideas (of the historical field)in light of his theory, finally to the level of historical texts in which he supports andfully develops his thesis, and answers questions (of specifics) which he raises whiledeveloping his thesis (most of the book is dedicated to this level).As a historian, Foucault presents his material responsibility, making certain toexplain his methodological underpinnings; in this case, he especially needs to articulatehis methodology because he undertakes a “theoretical shift” away from his previousmodes of historical analysis. He chooses to examine "desire” and “pleasure” ratherthan “sexuality” (which is a problematic term for him due to its culturally-specificconstitution), and his analytic approach to studying the geneology of desire is to focushis study on the agent of desire, the Subject. More specifically, he focuses on Modes ofSubjectivation or Practices of the self, by which he means the complex interrelationsbetween one’s conscious choice as to directions in which one develops (“forms ofsubjection”) and the particular moral configurations of one’s milieu (“codes ofbehavior”). Throughout the text Foucault maintains the distinction between Forms ofSubjectivation on one hand and Codes of Behavior on the other, and he emphasizes thatboth are autonomous but can interact in complex ways.What I find most noticeable about this dynamic model is its negative nature: Foucaultanalyzes the subject, the individual agent of desire, not through a direct analysis ofdesire but throughf a study of the moral disapproval that particular pleasures mayarouse. Behind this negative dynamic lies the heart of Foucault’s new approach: that theintersection of pleasure and disapproval are constituted under four specific themes,which Foucault refers to as “points of problematization” or “themes of austerity”.Specifically, these four themes are: the life of the body, the institution of marriage,relations between men, and the existence of wisdom. These themes are worked and re¬worked throughout Foucault’s discourse; Foucault claims the legitimacy of these themesof austerity to be valid in Western culture regardless of the time frame. He says that“one ought to imagine...that very early in the moral thought of antiquity, a thematic complex — a 'quasi-thematics' of sexual austerity — formed around and apropos of(these four axes) ... as if, starting in antiquity, there were four points of problem¬atization on the basis of which — and according to schemas that were often verydifferent — the concern with sexual austerity was endlessly reformulated”. Foucaultsees each of these themes of austerity as “tied to an axis of experience and to a clusterof concrete relationships: relations to the body, with the question of health, and behindit the whole game of life and death; the relation to the other sex, with the question ofthe spouse as privileged partner, in the game of family institution and the ties it creates;the relation to one’s own sex, with the question of partners one can choose within it,and the problem of the adjustment between social roles and sexual roles; and finally,the relation to truth, where the question is raised of the spiritual conditions that enableone to gain access to wisdom”,In most of this volume. Foucault applies this paradigm of desire to classical Greekculture, specifically to free Greek males. The results of this analysis are extremelyinsightful, and he analyzes his historical texts thoroughly providing a solid initialframework for the study of the geneology of human desire in the Western world.Foucault argues that in the Greek context problematizations that give rise to specificsexual austerities originate more in the forms of subjectivation than from a code ofbehavior, meaning that a sense of style or aesthetics played a greater role than law inregulating sexual behavior. (Feucault counters the standard historical view of rampantand universally condoned promiscuity among free males in Greece with a differentview: promiscuity may have been more prevalent, but certainly not universallycondoned. The texts he provides illustrate that point.) The title of the book. The Use ofPleasure, is a translation of the Greek chresis aphrodision which refers to the idea ofthe free male making stylistic choices as to how to manifest his desire; the field inwhich he makes these choices is not regulated by any codified system.Foucault’s thesis is interesting and possibly very important. It is difficult to assess atthis point because although he claims that his paradigm is temporally constant, it hasonly been applied to one time period. His ultimate goal was an examination of the“desiring subject” in antiquity was a geneological preliminary. The next book in thetetralogy, Care of the Self, Foucault says will deal with the Greco-Roman period; thefourth volume, The Confessions of the Flesh, due to be published posthumously, willexamine the formation the doctrine and ministry concerning “the flesh”. This studypresented The Use of Desire is not yet available as a complete work, this secondvolume raises many interesting questions about the nature of subjectivity, the nature ofsocial constraints, and the dynamic between the two.by Larry Hanbrook»•••••••••••••••••••000Gender JusticeDavid L. Kirp, Mark G. Yudof, and Marlene StrongFranksI made a big mistake when I appraised this bookbefore having read it. I assumed it was another feministtreatise that women are in chains, that life is hard, thatthings “aren’t fair”, and I dismissed it because I findthose arguments dull and silly, rationalizing failure andlooking backward instead of looking forward to a societyof greater liberty and opportunity for every individual.But Gender Justice is worth reading, and from avariety of different angles. It is at once a history, aphilosophy and a legal account. It covers, for example,court decisions, labor laws, the changing structure of thefamily, affirmative action, ‘leftist feminism’ and biolog¬ical determinism’. The approach is humanistic, analyticaland cool-headed. The key value is choice. For Kirp,Yudof and Franks, gender justice means individuals’freedom to choose their own lives without the limitationsof sexual stereotypes. One of their arguments is that theeffects of paternalism were negative because women weretreated differently from men, “protected” socially and inthe eyes of the law, and this limited choice to traditionalgender roles.“Women were victimized by policies designed toprotect them — policies that for this very reason, denied them the chance to make basic decisions for themselves.That proposition is true both of the common lawunderstanding of women, and in the view of womenembodied in the twentieth century rules about workingconditions. Men too were victimized by these laws,which imposed upon males the burden of the providerrule.”One of the most interesting passages, which epitomizesthe originality and objectivity of this book, speaks to the“tyranny of the new” where people feel forced to throwoff traditional roles and where not choice but percent¬ages, quotas — ends — are valued in the name of makingsociety ‘equal’.“Imposition itself is the bad. not the particulars ofwhat is being imposed. To insist, for instance, that aworld where some women stay in their homes and raisechildren is an unjust world implies that those womenhave made the wrong choice. Yet if the decisions werereached when women had realistic opportunities to pur-use other careers, on what moral basis can anyone standoutside as judge? To remove individuals from an historicera when one's gender stood as proxy for one's properrole in life, only to impose upon them a regime in whichone's gender becomes a reason to discard those rolesmerely reflects a tyranny of the new, a form ofstereotyping as debilitating to autonomy as the earlierconventions. The authors are of the few writers on gender to draw aclear line between the public and private spheres of life;labor, laws and politics on one side, love, family andidiosyncrasy on the other. They do not advocate anoverlarge government role. Change comes and has comein easing laws that restrict individual volition, not bygovernmental invasion of the private sphere where prop¬ensity and self-interest lie.This book is no diatribe; it speaks clearly and ration¬ally. But it is not stale; it contains the spark of color thatintelligence and originality bring. The point is, despitewhat the title had made me assume, I hadn’t heard it allbefore; it isn’t simply old material in a new package.The reach of this book extends to the modem debatesabout comparable worth and mandatory maternity leave,analyzing both in detail and leaving them by the side ofthe road for fresher, more effective alternatives. If ittends to take unorthodox or unexpected positions, it isoften because the authors have taken more into consider¬ation than do some politicians who would legislate onthese questions, and what they advocate consequentlymeans more than slogans.The only real problem with this book, besides being alittle long and occasionally repetitive, is that the title, andthe blazing red cover may hide the fact that it is ascholarly historio-legal essay on justice and liberty .by Christine VoulgarehsCHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 33Pleasure,Policy,andPolymorphousSexualityIndex ReviewsH. D. — Collected Poems 1912-1944 by H.D. reviewed by Johanna StoyvaNew Directions, 1983, 629pp, $15.95Three Days With Joyce by Gisele Freund reviewed by Michael SohnPersea Books, 1985, 69pp, $17.95In the American West by Richard Avedon reviewed by Jordan OrlandoHarry Abrams, 1985, 184pp, $40The View From Nowhere by Thomas Nagel, reviewed by Charles AaowlOxford University Press, 1986, 257pp, $17.95White Noise by Don Delillo.Penguin, 1986, 257pp, $9.95Cross Ties: Selected Poems by X. J. Kennedy reviewed by Martha VertreaceU of Georgia Press, 1985, 168pp, $12.95Next-to-Last Things by Stanley Kunitz, reviewed by Martha VertreaceAtlantic Monthly Press, 1985, 130pp, $17.95The Orchard by Benjamin Tammuz reviewed by John GetzCopper Beech Press, 1984, 88pp, $6A Parent’s Guide by Dr. Karl Speel reviewed by Deane BivinsI of U Press, 1986, 324pp, $17.95Reagan, God, and the Bomb by F. H. Knelman reviewed by Laura RebeckPrometheus Books, 1985, 343pp, $18.95Myths of Gender by Anne Fausto-Sterling, reviewed by David NicholsBasic Books, 1986, 349pp, $18.95BA RA KE1: by Yukio Mishima and Eikoh Hosoe, reviewed by David McNultyAperture, 1985, 62pp, $35Antipoems: New and Selected by Nicanor Parra, reviewed by Carole ByrdNew Directions, 1985, 209pp, $8.95Facing Nature by John Updike reviewed by Gary RobertsKnopf, 1985, 110pp. $13.95Shekhinah by Eleanor Wilner reviewed by Ellen StreedU of Chicago, 1984, 107pp, $6.95Mies Van der Rohe: A Critical Biography by Franz Schulze reviewed by Sahotra SarkarU of Chicago, 1985, 355pp. $39.951933 Was a Bad Year by John Fante reviewed by Erika RubelBlack Sparrow Press, 1985, 127pp, $14Budding Prospects by T. Coraghessan Boyle reviewed by Rich RinaoloPenguin, 1985, 326pp, $6.95The Use of Pleasure by Michel Foucault reviewed by Larry HanbrookPantheon, 1985, 374pp, $22.95Gender Justice by Kirp et al reviewed by Christine VoulgarelisU of Chicago, 1986, 246pp, $15.95Angst by Helene Cixous reviewed by Theresa BrownRiverrun Press, 217pp, $6.95ArticlesBlank Rounds by Charles Aaowl, Gideon D’Arcangelo, and David McNultyBreathing Life into Literature by Michele Bonnarens, Stephanie Bacon, Jordan Orlando,Gideon D’Arcangelo, and Krishna RamanujanOn Reading by Johanna StoyvaReader as Protagonist by Stefan KerteszFictionThe Interview by Edward HamlinMr. Foster by Margot StevensonPortrait of Uncle Will by Jane LawrencePoetryRiver Roads by Jane HoogestraatSonnet for Shira by David FrankelInsomnia by Joe WashingtonTwilight by Carolyn Steinhoff SmithThe Poet Descending by Michael SohnEpilogues by J.D. SmithArtworkAll illustration in the issue is the work ofMarc Lawrence, unless otherwise specified.CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986 CH,C*G.LITERARY REVIEWQUARTERLYFriday, March 14, 19863457791212 Editor — Gideon D'ArcangeloStaff Writers — Stephanie Bacon, DeaneBivins, Theresa Brown, Carole Byrd, LarryHanbrook, Stefan Kertesz, David McNulty,Jordan Orlando, Krishna Ramanujan, RichRinaolo, Gary Roberts, Erika Rubel, MichaelSohn, Johanna Stoyva, Ellen Streed, KathySzydagis, Martha Verteace.Contributors — Charles Aaowl, MicheleMarie Bonnarens, Anjali Fedson, DavidNichols, Laura Rebeck, Sahotra Sarkar,Christine Voulgarelis.Production — Stephanie Bacon, GideonD’Arcangelo, Marc Lawrence, Jordan Or¬lando, Davie McNulty, David Miller, KrishnaRamanujan, Laura Saltz.Advertising Manager — Paul LuhmannOffice Manager — Jaimie WeihrichBusiness Manager — Larry Stein1618 The CLR would like to thank the ChicagoMaroon, the Grey City Journal, and theSeminary Coop Bookstore for their help withthis issue.21222225303033 Submission Guidelines — Deadline for springissue is May 8, 1986. Submissions of fictionor poetry should be anonymous and ac¬companied with an envelope containing theentrant’s name and address. All entries will beconsidered by the entire editorial board. Nomore than four pieces will be considered forone issue. Enclose SASE if you want yourwork returned. The CLR will not be respon¬sible for lost manuscript, so send copies. Weencourage all entrants to get involved with thepaper. Our address is 1212 E. 59th, Chicago,60637. Our office is in Ida Noyes 303 (962-9555). Office hours are Tuesdays from 7-9p.m.333310141522926307912162122 CLR Editorial Policy — A great deal of oureffort goes into establishing an editorial policythat will be sound and consistent enough to bemade public. We feel that the more coherentour method of selecting original fiction andpoetry, the more comfortable writers will feelin entrusting us with their work. If writersbelieve that their work is being fairly andthoroughly considered, then the acceptance orrejection of it will carry some significance.Furthermore, the reader will feel that some¬thing more than whimsy or nepotism went intothe choice of the work published.Decisions are made by the Editorial Board,which is currently made up of thirteen mem¬bers. The Board is comprised of staff mem¬bers who have expressed some commitment toestablishing a strong voice for the paper.All work is considered anonymously. Eachpoem is presented orally, followed by dis¬cussion among the group. Voting is by secretballot, with the choice to abstain always open.In the event of a tie, the editor’s vote iscounted twice.Fiction entries, because of their bulk, aredivided up individually among the Board forfirst perusal. It is the responsibility of theBoard member to decide which stories deservefurther consideration.A difficulty arises when somebody on theBoard is submitting their work. It’s no sur¬prise that of the people on campus interestedin critiquing fiction and poetry, some arewriting it and may want to publish. To allowmembers of the board to submit, and stillperserve their anonymity as entrants, theywere required to abstain from the voting andchallenged to treat their work as objectively as’possible in discussion.The plan above is the most viable we havecome up with, faced with the problematic taskof judging original work. It is difficult toavoid the accusation of having an editorialpolicy based on favoritism, or having noeditorial policy at all. Naturally, we want toavoid this, and are open to all suggestions.The Editorial BoardDeane BivinsGideon D’ArcangeloJohn GetzStefan KerteszDavid McNultyJordan OrlandoKrishna RamanujanGary RobertsErika RubelMichael SohnJohanna StoyvaEllen StreedKathy SzydagisCopyright 1986 TCMgcj/CLR’-~TTir^.mntlMiil.ll■III.-r,Vr--mn-■■■r.~.T-.y„nrtMr,ri|THERE’S PLENTYTHERE'S ONLY ONE LITE BEERMILLER Lin.Friends don't let friends drive drunk.THESTUDENT GOVERNMENTOF THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGOPROTESTS THE PROHIBITION OFTHE LASCIVIOUS COSTUME BALL1.) The Administration has shown insensitivity to student wishes and alack of confidence in students’ rights to administer their own fee pro¬perly. The Administration’s decision shows that students no longercontrol their own Activities Fee. The Administration must not dictatehow students spend this money.2.) The Administration has not justified prohibiting the LCB; it has notproven that this year’s Ball would be unsafe given the measures putforth in Student Government’s extensive proposal.3.) Over fifteen hundred students attend the Ball. No other campusevent is this widely attended.4.) The Administration believes that by cancelling the LCB it im¬proves the image of the campus. In truth, it only deflates an alreadylimp student morale.WE CALL ON ALL STUDENTS AND FACULTY TO PROTEST BYMAKING THEIR VOICES HEARD BY DEAN CHARLES O’CONNELLAND PRESIDENT HANNAH GRAY(Resolution adopted by unanimous vote of the SG Executive Council)March 9,1986 CUSTOMIZEYOUR CLASS.Kinko’s Publishing Group offers faculty members many innovativealternatives and supplements to traditional teaching toolsYou can utilize a wide range of Kinko’s services-such as obtainingpermission to use copyrighted materials, or publishing anddistributing your own custom texts.Call today for answers to how we can help you with youreducational needs.kinko's1309157th643-2424NEW HOURSMaa-Fri Sat Saa7 a.ai.-10:00 R.ai. 8 a.ai.-6 p.ai. 11 a.ai.-5 p.m.YAKOV SMIRNOFFFAMOUS RUSSIAN COMEDIAN“I LOVE AMERICA BEGOF LITE BEER, AND YOU GIN RUSSIA,PARTI1906M*«?rBwif.qCc V *ao*«o VViL CHICAGO LITERARY REVIEW—FRIDAY MARCH 14. 1986 35* •Special Announcement year to the members ofprogress in divestment.The number of signatures was »the 10% of Senate membes reqStatutes to have the President hoThe members of the Senate iappointed foil and associateprofessors who have IIn a turn of events almost without precedent atthe University of Chicago, the Faculty Senate willmeet in Mandel Hall on Thursday, April 3, at 4:30to discuss divestment from South Africa. Themeeting has been convened as a result of a petitionsigned by more than 150 members of the Senate,who called for the meeting to discuss and vote onthe following motion:The Faculty Senate of the University of Chicagocalls upon the Board of Trustees to begin theprocess of divesting the University of its hold¬ings in corporations, banks, and other en¬terprises that maintain investmens in the Re¬public of South Africa. We ask that the Boardannounce a time schedule for total divestment ofthese holdings, and make reports at least twice a of supply*g forft^SKtrfftomSoi“YantaitteAdmMi- ncM rerim in Soo*sit-in in the atures was facilitated byassistant professors who have been on the facultyfor at least one year. Hie Statutes require at leastone meeting of the Senate each year to hear foePresident's State of the University address and “fe>discuss matters of University interest.*’ This year’sPresidential address had to be cancelled because ofthe death of Edwin A. Bergman, former Chairmanof the Board of Trustees. The only other specialmeeting of the Senate in University history wascalled by the then President of the University,George Beadle, in the spring of 1966 “partially inresponse to a petition from ten per cent rtf theVe are mostlividuals and■Mj&J'