University of Denver - Kynewisbok Yearbook (Denver, CO)

Page 31 text:

GUEST ESSAVS it'll??? 7.171 i l W l,.

Page 30 text:

n Dec. 13, as Poles slept, the tanks rolled in, taking up strategic positions in the heart of Warsaw. The Polish peo- ple woke up to find themselves under martial law, all communications within their country and into the outside world cut or severely restricted. The army, under Communist par- ty head General Wojciech Jaruzelski, had begun their long-expected counterattack against a year of social unrest led by Solidarnosc, 0r Solidari- VVJ '!h 1 W'A; e1, 'llt W 1 1?. e 1., II f .. ty, the nationts first-ever officially recognized trade union. The erackdown caid the U.S., and two of Polandts highest-ranking Am- bassadors, was a direct result of Soviet pressure on the Polish puppet regime. The two Ambassadors resigned and sought asylum in the States; Ronald Reagan imposed sanctions meant to register Amerieats great displeasure. but he did not go as tar as he emild have. Amerieais European zillies were predictably more middle-oli-the-mtttl about the whole matter, sayttlg ngshi bad thing, but that the SOVIetS ie not necessarily be behln i wn. UMktwcxanwhile, the Pepe askaegaigg fellow Poles not to use Violenci1 isvheafl eaeh other. yet let it be knOWIt was with the broken tr Wuleszi was kept under houte nd co the short term, the army at munist party had won 11.1 tort. but the country was In hard period ahead. aetical W U for a 10H:

Page 32 text:

. j'iLg; t n.X, xxxxxxxxxxx l IIIIH I'A-Cs .1--- - - . , By Dave Von Drehle am alone in my kitchen. On the stereo Rubinstein plays Rachmaninoff. I first heard this melody in high school, and I swore it was the most beautiful in the world. It was the only great melody I knew. ? here are no more easy answers. I College has come between me and that cer- tainty. Now I know Handel and Haydn. Mozart and Mendelssohn. Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. Chopin and Couperin. Telemann and Tchaikov- sky. I canit say what is most beautiful anymore. On my wall is a print of a Monet. itBoats at Argenteuilf it is called. Two years ago I knew it was my favorite painting in the world -- the shimmering orange boathouse and the white sails reflected in single broad brushstrokes on the sky-blue water. But in college I have seen the masterpieces of Michaelangelo and Manet; Picasso, da Vinci, Degas and Van Gogh -- a thousand breathtaking canvasses. I cantt say any more which is my favorite. And I was no different than any high school sophomore. I knew Catcher In The Rye was the greatest book ever written. Then came Shakespeare, Dante, Milton, Dickens, Twain, Melville, Goethe, Thoreau, Augustine, Homer, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Cervantes, Tolstoy and the rest. And whois number one? I thought I knew right from wrong. Then came Ben- tham, on the one hand, and Socrates on the other. I thought I knew the way the world worked. But Hobbes and Jefferson cantt both be right. I thought I knew what beauty was. But then there was Plato, and to confuse mat- ters, Kant. I thought at least I knew where money came from. Wrong. Smith and Marx each makes a powerful argument. And on and on. I feel as though light years have come and gone smce I left my high school; put letter jackets and Jacked-up Camaros and meeting the gang at Mickey D,s behind me. In those days I knew all the answers, tJust lik . . e I thought I could wr1te until I read Steinbeck,s Travels Wm. Charley. lid sell my soul to be able to write just One Of the perfect, plain sense sentences of that book. But it wouldntt work. Marlowe tells us all about soul sellingI. College Was to be tolerated -- a waystation where my tthe-knows-it-allv, papers would be issued. Then on to a career. I had it all picked out. Not anymore. I am reduced to an endless stream of questions: What shall I do with myself? What do I want? What is best? For me? For others? What do I believe? Why? Who cares? Who should? ths to say? Surely this is not what college was meant to do. In a sense I am stripped of confidence in my ideas, in my capacity and my ability. College has dragged me into the presence of the greatest minds and talents of all history, and made me look. I am like Lotls wife, who looked back at the power of God as he destroyed Sodom and Gomor- rah. She was turned to a pillar of salt. live looked at the power of the greatest men, and I am transfixed and im- mobilized by it. For to struggle, grovelling, for kernels of knowledge already chewed and spit out by the great men seems so futile. And it seems so useless to seek after truths -- not if they couldnlt find them. To make matters worse, I am not nearly finished with college. If trends continue, who knows how I might end up: a blithering idiot? An analyst on the Chicago Board Of Trade? A congressman? But then, illuminated this night by the work of Fara- day and soothed now by Mozart; allowing my troubled, unsure mind to tumble through the jumble of these tighIIY' packed college years spent shattering my false truths on the anvil of great art and ideas, I pause. Thoughts of the many great already, thoughts of many more. I used to know all the answers, but the easy answers are gone. And I am We in awe than I was then, but I am less lonely. Less alone 111 the lost crowd of twenty-first century folks. A slick trade, perhaps. men live mentioned D . ave Von Drehle served as editor of the Clarion for the academic year 1981-82. iitlnmlhmnl tlluiemul , minim llfltllt michaclH's' MlllldM'i Sa'elopsllat'll I frlieliomhd' i Mimi a oiledaidofld llelylodudapu' Il'illtddjrm.l Mll-wlih Immu- llllparm' . a WE: Emittm'