Southwest High School - Roundup Yearbook (St Louis, MO)

Page 32 text:

THACKERAYS VANITY FAIR Reviewed by JOAN BURGESS Did you ever see a puppet show? Were you amazed to see how some artist's nimble fingers could transform Wooden dolls into living, breathing persons? Shakespeare once said, All the world's a stage and all the men and women, merely players. Come with me then to Vanity Fair, the place where you get a double treat, the place where William Thackeray ably dangles his human puppets about on a glittering glamorous stage. Let us call the stage set London, although Vanity Fair can and does take place anywhere where there are human beings. The time is during the early 19th century when Napoleon had his greedy heart set on taking England. Our players-well, there are a variety of them, hypocrites, bullies, quacks, fools-every type of person is represented in Vanity Fair. There are nice people too...but you will meet them later. Now, the curtain rises. It is time for the play to begin. What is the matter, dear audience? You say you are bored with Vanity Fair? You say it has no plot, nov hero? You say it is nothing but a grotesque display of society, the characters' lines are meaningless and irrelevant? Let me give you a word of advice . . .dig deep into each line 5 look past the gaudy costumes and into the hearts of the characters, and you will see what a masterpiece Vanity Fair really is. In all fairness, I must explain to you that there isn't much of a plot. When the book was first written it was entitled Pen and Pencil Sketches of English Society and that is exactly what it is. The word sketches , however, hardly describes the rich, full portraits painted by Thackeray in his book. What little plot there is, centers around two girls, Becky Sharp, an impudent upstart of a nobody, and Miss Amelia Sedley, a young lady of beauty and graciousness. As the plot unfolds, these two friends, for they are friends at the beginning of the story, having both been graduated from Miss Pinkerton's finishing school, are heading for London to take up their respective places in society, one as a lady befitting her station, and one to be a governess in a highly esteemed London family. From this point on, the scene changes. Becky Sharp, a very ambitious girl, is loved and admired by her aged employer, Miss Crawley. That is, until she marries Miss Crawley's favorite nephew, Captain Rawdon Craw- ley, of His Majesty's army. Ah, yes, there is a great difference between a beloved servant and a niece by marriage. Need I say more? Is it necessary to say that Rawdon and his darling wife are banished from the Crawley house and the Crawley fortune forever? The idea! A Crawley married to a common girl! But now let us see what has happened to Amelia. Poor Amelia. Just a few hundred pages back she had been a radiant bride in London society, married to that gallant soldier, Lieutenant George Osborne. But now Amelia Osborne, widow, sits in her dreary house, willing to live only for the sake of her small son, so much like the dear departed George. What has happened? It is a short, but sad story. She was married. She was happy. Her father went bankrupt. George's father disinherited him because he married the daughter of a poor man. Amelia was sad but she still had her beloved George. George was sad but he still had his beloved George. Finally beloved George was killed, Twenty-eight

Page 31 text:

raged through his brain like a fire through a tinder-dry pine forest. Every nerve and muscle fiber in his body strained forward as do the side-rods of a powerful locomotive. VVhat he would do when he did find it-the alternate possibility he did not even consider-he did not know, his only thought was to get there. He could sleep only when he found a place where wild beasts could not attack him. He thought that possibly he could find a cave, or something to serve the purpose in the low cliff that he sighted ahead and to his right, so he turned toward it. As he came near the cliff, he felt the dread chill coming on him, like the insidious advance of a lion toward its prey, so, hoping to reach shelter before it struck, he stepped up his pace. Sud- denly the jungle ended sharply as if limited by an invisible wall, and he burst out into a grassy plain. There, not one hundred yards ahead, was the cliff. Opening invitingly in the face was a cave. It seemed to beckon to him as if some kind providence had placed it there especially for his use. Here at last was shelter, and the entrance could easily be closed against animals. He broke into a run, but as he did so a. wave of dizziness hit him with the force of a .45 slug. He paused, shook his head and started forward again. Ten, twenty, twenty-five yards he went, then fell. He knew this chill was going to be severe. He must reach the cave! He inched himself forward toward the cave-painfully, digging his fingers into the ground and grasping the saw-edged grass. Sweat glistened on his brow, his muscles stood out like whipcords from his emaciated frame. He stopped, then gritted his teeth and went on. The cliff seemed to float in the air, pinwheels of light danced in his fever-stricken brain. He lay still. ' Jonathan Black awoke in unfamiliar surroundings. He was being borne on some kind. of litter by natives unlike any he had ever seen. They saw that he was conscious, and setting down the stretcher bade him sit up, he did so. One of them stated in perfect English, You have been pre- pared , and swung his arm out in an arc, gesturing for Jonathan to look into the valley. There before his startled eyes lay not the ruins of a civilization long dead, but a living city-a city such as he had imagined had existed here ten centuries ago. Silver spires grasped at the sun with their dainty fingers, there was a glint of yellow metal from the streets. Drifting up to him came the sweet strains of an unknown melody played upon an unknown instrument. Thoughts raced through his mind. He knew he must return to the outside world. His name would go down in history with those of Columbus, de Gama, and Magellan. He stood up and followed his guides triumphantly into the city. PK Pl' The helicopter of the rescue party, sent out when the news of the attack reached civilization via the jungle grapevine, settled down on the small prairie. The two men stepped out and ran over to the still figure lying a few paces from the mouth of a great cave. , One bent over himg then looked up and spoke, Well, Spike, he's dead. Too bad, the world lost a great explorer in Dr. Black. Dead, huh? How long's he been dat-aways ? Looks like only about an hour, maybe less. An hour or so sooner, and we might have saved him, but you know, from the look on his face I'd swear he died happy. Twenty-seven

Page 33 text:

fighting for his country. And perhaps it was a good thing that he died. For then Amelia never need know that George Osborne didn't love herg at least not as much as he loved himself, clothes, money, Wine, and Women like Becky Sharp. Right here it is only fit that I introduce William Dobbin. There is one like him in every crowd, big, ox-like, not too bright, but willing to do anything for a friend. I need not say much about Dobbin, except that he loved Amelia with every bit of his big heart. And now back to Becky . . . but I cannot go on forever! After all there are sixty-four chapters, seven hundred fifty-four pages, to this play. How long would it take me to tell the Whole storyg to reveal all the characters to their fullest extent? So I will just say that beguiling Becky, by slightly devious methods, climbs the ladder of London society all the way to the topmost rung, past even her noble husband. I will say, too, that Amelia becomes a pitiful figure, not because of her poverty, but because of her extreme loneliness. Fortunately, however, the conclusion brings poetic justice and Amelia and Dobbin live happily ever after. As for Becky. . .she finds that itls a long climb up, but a short fall down. A FIRE By DICK K1RscHTEN Wz'llowy wisps of smoke float like a mist: Dashing darting dots of orange and yellow dance about. Flashing fingers of flame reach skyward, a glowing hand in the dark. Crisp crackling crimson flames roar like a storm. Sirens soon scream alerting the night of its danger, Dying embers spit forth steaming clouds of indignation. Streams of water, a killing blanket smother the blaze. MY CITY By CLAUDEAN KING The sun loves my city, too! It comes beaming on the men and their brooms, Cleaning her pathways, dirty with millions of footprints. Footprints of the milkman, clanking, clinking through his routeg The grocer, feeding my city's people, the salesman, selling her produce: The teacher, guiding my city's future leadersg The housewife, gaily preparing for the return of her husband. The sun comes to rest for lunch right above my city. Her people rush, run, scatter, scramble through her streets. After work my city's people rush home in clanging streetcars, Rambling busses, beeping taxis, cars with screeching brakes. The sun sets on my city with an extra radiance, it seems. Then the moon shines, brightly reflected in the river on My city's border. Twenty-nine