University of Miami - Ibis Yearbook (Coral Gables, FL)

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SOMK SPEAK IT So they WENT: Scotty Mason to war, Miss Margaret McKenna. J. Ralph Murray, and Gordon Laurie Thomas just went. Into the Mulish department, for one semester, came Trustee Virgil Barker, also lecturer in art, who delighted blase students with clever quotable remarks. Camps till divided into pro-and anti-Tharpians, depending on whether you meant the man or the professor. Mrs. Natalie Lawrence of the sweet low voice read Shakespeare to charmed classes, while her office companion. Mrs. Mary Clarke, wondered if freshmen ever grew up. Out of the library came K. Malcolm Beal and from the journalism department came Simon Hochbcrger, teaching a few stranded classes. Bushed ami harried Miss Mary B. Merritt found that in addition to her other multitudinous problems, she must needs continue to teach English. And Dr. W illiam L. Halstead continued to amaze students with his light whimsy in elec- tive courses and his tough, academic attitude in those which arc required. Reduced in number, the English department could still claim personalities who made underclassmen want more or murder. Winter Institute wasn't this year, and neither was English Honors. It just occurred that they both dissolved into mists, probably because of the war. But the Snarks (named for the mythical half-snail, half-shark) were very much alive. If you don’t believe it just listen to this record (impressionistic of course, hut how else would you describe that nebulous body?) of a more or less typical meeting of the writers’ honorary: “Who'll read tonight? W ill you start. Rodney Winfield?” Poetry of sense and movement. Poetry of richness and rhythm. “Read it again. Color and vihrance. “You’ve got something there, hut .. “One word was wrong. “. . . break in the rhythm . . .” “Rewrite, rewrite, rewrite.” Front row: Noblott. Smith. Mr . Lawrence. Stark. Levin. Greenfield • Back row: Reich. Diamant. Winfield are Snarke.

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liner, and Fay Hunter. Renee Greenfield, in her longest sustaining role, made thirty-two beards. And there you have it— the story of drayma here this year. It all began with “Judgement Day” being postponed last year. This year saw the beginning of the last stages—ut least in part for the duration. W ith that sad. sad story, we ask you: Is there a man among you who can truly say. They did not try. For regardless of the worth of the attempts, the dramatics did try. —BEBE FINE MAN. Heirs of an illustrious tradition comprising the annual follies and full-length dramatic production, the four members of Theta Alpha Phi did not begin this year bewailing their fate. All officers in good standing (Barbara Wedlock, president: Charlotte Motter, vice-president; Lowell Veach. secretary, and Manuel Roth, treasurer) they started in October to make plans. A name for this year’s Follies didn't arrive right away, but the theme was a natural. “This Changing World.” Skit ideas popped up. They were going to show life around school, in the army, in a ration line, taking a physical examination, how to keep the enemy from listening, etc. One idea for a running gag was to have a soldier make the rounds to see what’s going on during his first leave. Veach would have been a natural for the part, except that he was having to spend every spare minute studying navigation to get an officers’ rating. The Hurricane chorus was scheduled to be, for one of their girly-girly numbers, a set of USO hostesses. It was a very pretty idea, except that right about then the football team moved out practically in a body for military srevice. A few other little difficulties came up. There were the inevitable transportation problems. Sororities, not having houses, could rehearse potential skits only in the theatre, which was never available. The cause ol it all is Thota Alpha Phi with Voach. Willock. Mrs. Mottoi. C. Motter. on tho sola and Craver. Hayos. Lowi . Woiss and Planicko. Backstage space was rapidly shrinking away. Anyway, Theta Alpha Phi submitted its plans with the comment that Theta Alpha Phi was brave, very brave indeed, hut it was no go. That was about February. But hope was still alive. Ruth Jane Craver, June Deutsch. Patricia Auerbach, Fred Miller, Betty Batch-eller. Mary Ruth Hayes, Judith Weiss, Elaine Planek, Bill Diamant. Merry Lewis, ami Lester Moore accepted bids to membership. The annual drama production was still to come and the administration had amazingly approved the idea of presenting The Man Who Come to Dinner. Moreover, sets were available, having been bought the year before from the “Theatre of the Fifteen.’ A cast was assembled, including Lloyd Symansky (alum). Alan Collins and Leonard Muller (faculty members), Moore, Ruth Craver, Willock, Diamant, Dick 'Price, and Mrs. Alan Collins. They changed the name of Robert, the camera-fiend, to Roberta, and east Elaine Planek in the part. Sheldon Cour-slum, Frank Edwinn, Irving Epstein, Merry Lewis, Jing Troetschel, were also cast. Moore, Collins, and Diamant went into the army. Mr. Muller was taking a war course and Bee Collins was studying navigation. Dick Trice was flying the Africa to Orient route for Pan-American that month. Etc., etc., etc. .— DOROTHY LEVIN 27

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“And you. Bill Diamant. What will you read?” Prose, choppy prose of satiric humor. “But you stretched the point. Bill, it sounded forced.” “Oh, I though it was good. “You, William Reich, are you going to read?” “I’ve read once at a Snarks meeting. What more do you want? Pass me by.” Rita Smith has done it. She's had stories published. And her soft southern voice reads a story of idealized musicians. “But they do speak that way,” she contends, “I write about them the way they are.” “Too educated . . . hard to believe.” “But they are. They are. “Well. let’s get on. How about you. Eddie?” And RosenofT reads. The same old words sound new and amazing woven in patterns of musical prose. Atmosphere. Dialect and atmosphere, and rich, new worlds. “My horse, Rinaldo . . . athletes ivith muscles, flex, flex, flex . . . ami the noose-liver.” “Form, Eddie, form!” “My style is my own.” There’s no disputing, so now a poem from Justice. Don begins . . . Myriads of symbols, impressions, epigrams, tigers, ami towers. “But what does it mean?” “Do you mean it to say . . .?” “Think for yourself. I won’t tell.” Lester Moore sat quietly and hardly read, he and Herbie Glazeroff and Barbara Nehlctt. “What’s become of Buggy?” “Cohen, you mean? He’s in the navy.” “Remember the sonnet he wrote about being alone on a ship’s deck at night?” Barkas clears lib throat and in his public voice begins his poetry, or stories Love and melancholia. A delicate, blonde beauty Mr». Lawrence. Dr. HaUtoad. Mi « Merritt. Mr. Beal, Dr. Tharp and Mr. Kochberqer. all member of Engli h faculty are eilent for picture. raptures, and passions of love. Disillusion! “Good. Hal. good. You’re getting better. Must have been fun. Autobiography, of course?” “No. no.” lie grint . hut inside you continue to think. Dotty reads poems, short, crisp, journalistic thing. on the ocean and life. hy is the world, why am I? etc”. Renee, Morley, or Greenfield, or Judith, what will you read? Ambitious plays? Your latest theme? Or a modest poem? “Room for improvement, but you’re on your way.” “Rewrite, rewrite, rewrite.” If there’s still a minute, I’ve a poem or two, and it isn’t feminine. It’s on sweat and guts. “Not your medium, you’re not at home here. “But I won’t he feminine.” “It’s ten o’clock.” “Can I take you home?” “Sure.” “Good, we’ll stop for a beer on the way.” --MARGERY STARK 29