John Adams High School - Clipper Yearbook (Ozone Park, NY)

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The Incomparable Muriel Zeiler I HAD never heard of Henry Iames until about a year ago when I read the novelette, Daisy Miller. After that first introduction, I delved into the other works of this fictionalist and discovered him to be an excellent writer. For many years, Iames' books lay dormant, and then quite recently the movie, The Heiress, based on his novel Wash- ington Square, caused his books to start moving off the library shelves all over the United States. He was again acclaimed as one of the best authors in American literature. I wish to share my opinions and reading experiences with you, so that you, too, may derive some pleasure from his books. Washington Square was the first of Iames' works to be revived. The title is a bit deceiving. The Heiress, as used for the film, seems to be a far better choice. The plot of this reward- ing novel concentrates on the single tension between father and daughter over a suitor. It is a brilliant analysis of a father's relationship with his daughter, but at times it becomes over- done and dry. Although the descrip- tions are too detailed, they are vivid. Olivia de Haviland and Montgomery Clift helped to make the film a great success. I'm sure you will find the book just as fine. The Turn of the Screw, which was the basis of the play, The Innocents, is an intriguing story. lt is a simple ghost tale dressed up with character studies and colorful descriptions. The aes is Q ,- . A t. e g I QMTT' Zip supernatural plays the most important role in this tale. Even the unusual title is thought provoking. ln l'The Turn of the Screw, Henry lames gets away from his usual European setting and writes a spine-tingling story. His use of language is so exact that you will hold your breath in excitement. A relatively unknown fact about Mr. Iames is that he renounced his American citizenship before we entered World War I and pledged his alle- gience to England. Even though it has been said that he deplored America, he was characteristically American at heart. He liked to portray American characters against European back- grounds. Iames set the stage for his intricate plots there because he was more familiar with that continent. In his green years his family traveled to Europe often and while there, he fell in love with its romantic Hothernessf' Pandora and The American take place in Europe, but they were written for and about American people. If your interest in this author has been aroused, go on to discover lames' works for yourself. He has influenced the art of fiction more than any other American or English author. Enjoy his novels, for they are outstanding and, truly incomparable. 23

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Unknown Word Lillian Grannas THE OLD hospital is dim and cold, and the only sounds that are heard are those of the nurses' heels as they click down the hall. Would you like to accompany one nurse on her visits to the different rooms? I think you'd find Ann's tour most interesting. See that room over there? Well, if you promise to be quiet, Ann may let you go in with her. As you enter the room, you find yourself getting a chill. It seems much colder inside the room than it is in the corridor, but come in anyway and listen to an interesting tale. This room was occupied by the vic- tim of the brutal gang killing that was publicized recently, and the victim died in this very same room. Oddly enough, this room is also occupied by his killer. The killer, let's call him Ioe just for convenience, arrived here just in time to see the victim die. Although the police searched loe's face for emo- tion, he showed no traces of it, that is, until the victim uttered a strange word with his last breath. Then foe cringed as if the syllable had caused some powerfully frightening remem-- brance to come into his mind. He staggered back and, striking his head at the temple, he fell. I-le was put to bed in this room, and ever since then he has had fits of uneasiness. With the occurrence of these fits, one can see the strength being steadily drained from him and, with a weakened sob, he murmurs that strange word over 22 and over. When these fits have passed, he refuses to divulge the meaning of this unknown syllable, and he blanches at the mere mention of it or its unintelligible pronunciation. As the days have passed, Ioe has gradually become worse, and the mysterious word is muttered more often than ever. As yet, no one has been able to distinguish that sound from a sound with a meaning. The doctors all doubt the fact that he will live until the trial. Perhaps the reason for this slow and frightening death is the cause of some spirit, and perhaps it isn't. Who are we to tell? The room is becoming noticeably chillier now as though there is some- thing in this room of death that is seek- ing the warmth of our bodies so that it may either live on or be reborn. Perhaps it is the spirit of the victim longing to corne back to life so that it may gloat as it sees the flame that rep- resents Ioe's life become smaller, smaller, and then non-existent. lt may be Ioe, trying to retain his grip on life, no matter how grim it is and no mat- ter how little it has to offer him in the future. ls it my imagination, or is the room regaining its warmth? Stealing a look at the killer's face, we realize that the spirit of the victim has won a victory, for the eyes of the killer shall never see again to carry out his evil plans. Yes, loe died and with his death, there came into the room a renewed warmth. But it left behind a group silent in its wonder as to the signifi- cance of the mysterious word that had been uttered with the last breath of both the victim and the killer.

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I Must Write Joan Burnos TlME lS infinite. Time is intangible. Yet we grasp at it, reaching into the unknown .... The words flowed from the pen unevenly, haltingly. Suddenly David threw the pen down. The ink splattered on the paper in little black pools in which he could see his reflec- tion laughing up at him, pointing at him. The room rocked and echoed with the reflected laughter. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it sub- sided. The room became quiet again. Through the thick heat of the summer night the noises of the street below reached David's window. Familiar noises, for Seventh Avenue was alive with people, laughing people, sweat- ing people, sad people. The regimental click of heels on the sun-heated pave- ment formed a steady, precise beat in- termittently With low voices and shrill laughter. Somewhere a radio blared out the Star Spangled Banner. A ball game was about to begin. David could see the people in the ball park under the glaring floodlights which brought out all the imperfections in their clothes, skins, and, to an imaginative person, even their souls. He could hear the crack as the bat connected with the twisting ball. Oh, yes, there was no doubt about it. David had a great imagination. He could write any- thing from trivial stories for pulp mag- azines to articles on the care and pres- ervation of lampshades. This wasn't what he wanted, though. David wanted to Write something great, not for glory or money, but because it was within him and it had to find an outlet before it ruined him. 24 David walked towards the table and reached for a pack of cigarettes, only to find it empty. He crumpled the cello- phane wrapper in his hand. Empty, he muttered, just like all the people and things around me. That was enough of allegories, he had to have a smoke. He closed the door of his apartment without bothering to lock it. What had he to lose? Nothing of value in his home. lf anyone needed it more than he, he was welcome to it, He walked to the drugstore, ac- knowledging his n e i g h b o r s as he passed them on the street. He regarded them as simple creatures with no wills of their own. The unexplorative look in their eyes sickened him. Then he passed the only man he had ever felt any pity toward. This was lan, who before the war had been a promising contemporary artist who showed the most magnificent possibilities. During the war his optic nerves were injured, resulting in total blindness. He became an embittered old man at thirty. To David, lan signified his own future, but he was afraid to think of what was to come. The proprietor of the drugstore was standing outside, 'lHi, Steve. How are you tonight? For some reason this man had always refused to call David by his right name and stubbornly per- sisted in calling him Steve. He gave the excuse that he had once known a man named Steve who so closely resembled David that it was uncanny. David hated this store because the odors of the chemicals, tobaccos, and confec- tions so cluttered the air that he could almost feel the walls reaching into him, trying to steal his own supply of oxy- gen. He took the pack of cigarettes and put fifty cents on the cash plate. Need