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

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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

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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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any razors? Got a new shiprnent of sbaing cream, press a button and it s all latherea, how about . . . hey, Steve you forgot your cnangefu David walked out into ite saeet feeling contempt for Lie greedy liitle man who '.'1ouldI.'t let you out of ide store wiiiout a lengthy sales talk. Unfortunately, David was not ite polite type. He refused to listen to iiis idle chatter. He turned to ao back to his amit- nient, but for some reason, some un- seen force compelled hirn to walk in ine opposite direction. He walked west, towoads me Hudson. Between the warehouses there were little inlets of water, not little really, but in corn- Loarison to the rest of the river they looked so tiny, The water was black ana greasy. 'libre oil slick from the lux- ury liners and little tugs clouded out the beauty and mystery of it. Sudden- ly, David realized why he had come here. He laughed at himself, at his subconscious being for even hinting at this answer. But David was afraid. Perhaps someday his will wouldn't be strong enough to overcome this idea. He knew he must accomplish one thing before he would relinquish his right to life. He had to release what was be- hind that black veil in his mind, the words and feelings that tickled his fin- gertips but never poured from his pen. He turned and walked back to his home, He wondered what the people on the street were thinking. He won- dered if they had been made in such a complicated pattern as he. He re- ceived no answer from the giddy senseless movements of these common- ers. David saw a blind man sitting on the pavement. There was a cup in his hand, a beggars cup. He somehow re- minded David of lan, young bitter lan. Bitter, but David was bitter too. He loathed every living thing because -i 4. 1 X. Q52-. f Q. F ' ' 5 Q I T'-ni J ' T1 CT? ' lfgxx o ff. I LX 1 f' 111-'ff' . i ' 1355923 -if . f - -fav-, 1 ffl' .1 ' -2 . ,' ' 'IZ JJV . ' s- f .n -- 1-fe-2-A fp 9 , V A x ,. ,QQ . X ?,-Qflf f . f f- .jo ,I . T--.J -do 1 they could not understand and accept Suddenly, David knew what be must write. The wonderful feeling of released pressure rnade hir: smile. He was happy now. He started to rung he could barely keep from laughing aloud. He ran, not seeing because he jf was blinded by the words he must cap- ture and record before they escaped into the ether, never to be found again. There was a loud sound and David was thrown into a world of blackness, a world where words and emotions swarmed around him clear- ly, so clearly that he understood him- self and all other things. iPaper, he called, l've got to write it down, help me to write it down, l can't lose this. Before him floated a maze of white. There was someone bending over him. He ached all over, he saw many faces: funny, he didn't recognize anyone. The strange faces seemed to merge in- to one, the one bending over him. The lips on the face were saying, He's dead. But l'm not dead, David called, get me paper. l can't lose this. l've got to leave this for you. Please, l know what l have to write now, l can't lose it. But the face leaning over him heard nothing, not a word. David saw the hands that belonged to the face bring a blanket up over him, cov- ering him, his body, his head. He couldn't cry out for no one heard him. The words he had known, now dis- appeared before him and once again David was lost. 25