Wesleyan University - Olla Podrida Yearbook (Middletown, CT)

Text from Pages 1 - 262 of the 1967 volume:

III u virumm'riln'll HYH'Ill lilu' ll'mlmuli. I the H'umivnal of'moml mpmrcs IIIU mwull pusmgo of Iinn' nmn' mmmmbb llmn Ilu' momvmx oftln' individual Could. One man's chlt'um ix u purmlv ij'rogcn moments, visions privy to his sphere. III in own way. lln' nuu'rm'mm Uflln' rumpus paxscs in life in a kuliudmvoping vision 0fpurlivulurx: individual pw'wnulilim, personal ideas; ideo- logical conflicls. cmgllivling uml dislinvl liws la! in u lmrnmny .lklrji'om Imimn. This juxtaposition Ql'vulues um! uclirms isfumlumcnml m the tuneup! Qf'lllm'crxity vdm'ufivn. h providex Ihc mmmplu'rv in which tlisumion ix I'Rlz'min Um! growth is genuine. In .wurc'hingjbr Illa mus m w'c'riln' Ilw lUl' 01'.lele m1 institutimz. Ilu' vunmu'nmmrfinds himself sifting a mm! dqu of vmnmnnpluw imlmlahx, rclulul. unique and ulwu-n shifting. Herc than are IIIL' vnmponvlm Uj'mvll man's lllulvum; Ilu' unlcr is ours. um! IIIU ideas and pvrmnuliiizis illimllionull'x mm-unirw'xul. U'c avoid duu'riplinm of 1,10 universal us wall as vnnwt'mlmn 0f Iln' pcrmnul rixiun. Thaw urv Iml SH'IIUN of what Wesleyan life I'SUI'IAA'1101 llH'vY UH' ullvmplx m Il'ua' .wmc ujllln' t'mllruxlx,jinnIpmitinm. challenges. I'vslmnxm uml cliW x in 1111' life arml I'IIVIiIHIinII. Such institutions exisl only through the presence of individual states ofmiml whose personal pursuits P. I 0L S 7. .I 0.. r .I. 0L 7. I I 1. ..I .l I 1. .,I :l p .I at I l .I l. l C 1.. .l H r. 0L 1. .I .I. v cancel, interim I'I'Itersecf, Everyday backgrounds and the routine moments in them constitute the univer- sityhs' metabolism. Digestion ofvitul matter and the ensuing growth occurs in the aeeumulution 0f e.tcperience, fact and opinion. The fundamental concerns of responsible human beings are always close to hand, but the process through which they becomefamiliar often seems somewhat indirect . . . lulk, talk, mlk. And 1111' Iulkw' H'iilz IIIC mm! cva'ivm't' in the pailmulmzy mvtlmnixm 0f uu'un'nvm 1's IIIU tmclwr Ilw muxn'r 0f minutiae, mml-vsl Ql'tln' obvious, wlmsv pmlurv mm! lu' Illa! pruriwm' um! ax'lwriwm' sensing Ilu' zlcmundx of HM all too imputium xm- dvnl mind. He must avoid m'u'xiimulurimz through ch'rsimplilh'urion, am! on Illt' other lmml prevent intellectual ,mrulysis. Sometimes he does not succeed in striking this balance. In this process Qfexposure where the culmination seems to be forever deferred. the student discovers that, like the frog who makes his way out of the well every inch by falling back two out Ofthree, he progresses best while standing still. Tln' mulvriul um Oflvu .wum UIHHUH. The student handles, in thy umrw 01' u day, u mrrt'nl rzi'infm'nmlion. Svlwliun Lyl'l'vquvml-x IIUIIII'tll.' dululllex UIIIU lln'flonl' IH'IHTUII Ilu' ,msz'smr's dusk and tho Almlwm. Marv nflvn Ilmn HUI. it lands in Iln' .xlmlwn'x lap, uml Willi 51!le Iz'guluriI'x uml UII muminu impun, Ilml an iIIpuI-jum um rmull. H'lu'n Ihv urgz' fur UIIIpIIIkalIUn . . . The smdcm comes to a standstill . . . y 10 d e .w v w. e b m S .0 . I ..l I l I. w; I .C S I. I. xi , .I l personal fullilllm'ms, Wesleyan lili' ix marked Ihc'rtffbrv by the Iwzxion bvin'cvn Iho mmim' and NW XpUCIUCII- lur. The daib processes lead to moments qffinulity and exhibition in whose thrust the growth of rlw sma'cm mind and tho univwxs'ity soul is mmalizcd. These instants chreative decision are either gratuitous and sudden or the products Qfsingle-minded labor. They either come with the simplicity Ofdawn or in the Violent upheaval Qfmass COI'IVI'Crion . . . BE A T .wLLmMs EN K! xC$ L M . u ix ,XA .SVrun'mmls um! mumfc'xmw usizlv. Illilllx'illg is not a wrlml pIM't'xx. ll ix u mmlylir re- action within Ilw mind; 1'! is u synllu's'is using wards and dam mkm U!!! of rvlcmm .s'vquma' us sivppi; .s'mnm' . . . Hma' Ilu' linear mnpul QI'nme'iu! dam not IIHIIl lI the rhythm Qf'lmrning. umprvlzonsinn mmm in smldmjhlxlm', 51'1le mmlnm in Iln' mulilfc WC M'lw'l mid UXlH'llill'. Such creative 171017101115 dwnand 1111 mvareness 0f the limits, goals and 11'zecl'za1zics of group action combined with the assertion of the primacy of free thought. Some synthesis must come of so much exposure: 28 it is the sum total of the thought, expertise and personality necessary to navigate the academic ocean. And in the tonalin of these decisions, Iapmuvwsm world esrablishes its pattem 0f gwwih. The institution . pasjiist mover beconws, in the long IIIII tlzgr'fi lzii II is x , moved most Individual eonvietiom. through their diversity and cooperation, maintain the evolution of their societies. The institution serves its role in the world at large in much the same way, becoming the asylum 0f the eternal potential, a C harenton in whose baths the pretentious 0f the ruling orders are played out. We welcome the eclectic and the diiettante, because the polyphony of opinion in this Class of 1967 is the surest way to avoid a Class of 1984. . . . 31 OLLA POD RIDA I967 Wesleyan University Midd lllllll C nnnnnn icut Beneath Ihe Wesleyan of individuals, mood, and moment, there is another Wes- leyan, where Change, though evident, main- tains a dl'ffbrent pace. Growth here is either abslrac'tly distant, j?nancial and administra- tive, or in the highly concrete reality of physical expansion. . M hm g. 3mg M The life of the university progresses in larger time units than the semester and the year. The major responsibility of the uni- versity is to its traditions, past, present and fitture. rs; :1; mm! Even so, there is ajuxtaposition on this plane . . . that of the new growing out Of the established, the differences between the two reflecting at once continuity and Change. 37 I967 was a war like all other years at Wesleyan: 0119 marked by perec'rs, propositions and protests. While North College directed Wesleyarfs expansion, discussion and dissent at Lawn Avenue focused on the occupancy of existing real estate. As Wesleyan's boundaries continued to creep all over Middletown, the university found itself considering the question of whose juris- diction a studenfs mind is under. CBC Elections Candidates Air Views In PAC Speeches The largest numbey 0! CBC canv' thlvnt unu-mment must lit' thur- didam erytprugmed their platform. uuuhgomgly L'l'lllL'Cll 0f udmumtm- to an audievwc o! 14 candidate:-- tmn policy, Art-mlt mul. eNprL'lJlly ll iuniors and 3 sophomorelhem- tm'tlumtmn. tlw xtntlrnt trnter, Krad- phmized the lune: o! roedutation and communication in their sptechu. lldtt' mlntation. the t'xpunsitm 0t thr library .md the lung tt-rm planning Other issues that came up hewenlly Hf thtt 0 !um included lhe graduate program, parv ielal hours. the proposed Adriwry KEN BAAR Boavd. the role DI the Oldgol'MZ CBC' Ko-n Bdur, qu-akmu nvxt. .ilw UNI NIP tommiltee SHIINIHF- pmutul nut tlth thr transition In lht' Th? Midi ! direigent? V 0 ml Mlmumtmtlon aml thtt innnmrnm' wt in ? 0' drug FUN'OL With 80! ! fantltlv't'iilnns on the gnuluatt- 5t l'lUUl imtl didales saying that thvre should b? tm-rlmation Will rwunrv Npt'Ctltl vt- Im'rl enforcement of Ike law. and tom hy thn' CBC tu IIHLP studt-nt one saying Illa! a student shtmldvammn Lnuwn. Emir mitl tlmt tht- hare the freedom to do will! hisluuluumu CBC hml mmh- .t xmrt mind what he wants lim long as helwtluu'nt lmt tlmt leaves othev mind.- alone. On Memo: bogged down on minor mum, issue of the Advisory Board. whichl Balm in will b? a qunlion on the ballot nextlxtn-xsml that tllt' twu xnmt important Monday, only one candidate expn-ued a negative opinion. i Follnwl'ng are the ham? points 0! the speeches: Ill .ulmlmstrtttmn, It sophmnorc lnnlt-pt-ntlt-nt, mum in llh tuimpuuzn W'l'rt' mulnlt RANDY ARENDT Randy Arendt, Eist to speak. em- . phasized that the changeover of col- legt' mlmimstmtiom this Summer will give student Eon-mment a chance to greatly increase its influence. lluwh vvvr, before studt-nt gou-mmt-nt can be ellectite. it must solve the ques- tion of CBC communications with the Administration, its own commit- tees, and the student body. said tht-i Delta Tau junior. l A'M; BM' To improve communications, Arentlt suggested that the next CBC conniving stutlt-nt wpport lnr coe-ducu- tinue pressing for 3 CBC seat on thettmn and making uwd books :uailuhlt- SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1967 Wnn- i-xtt-mlm: lllnruq lquH mu thv tlpt'll until tmght, .mtl thl'llllJ .uul lnulm-t ntpurb lln thr strum Lu p- manlt lm IHlll 1 JOHN BARLOW Jnhn Bdrltmz .i from Alpha Dn-lt, tlvpartml trnm tht- tm- mphnnmrr tlltmnul t.nnp.uun xpu t h lit Hillt- m: ntlllu Imtmllx llmt lu hml In H1 tttillxltll I'll hum. l! llu lhtllllltll type, mud lhltl m u: lull mm In Luth In mtutltnt L'nxummtutx lllth'tt'l, lllls yum I .uu tnnlumtul urth ii Ullltt tum xxlmh t', rmitmus 1m iu-muml mll-h.unu I, WHO! I: nu tinu- lhwh-turr. i tnxpouxtlnlltt In Imwlt .mt! tn mmmm 4A Im II I ttmpumnm 'qu Iun hum iithlly .mil nw .ilmxv plniitmn lldrlmw ullt'ntl .A v-Inx M Humm- 0t whnh Imnlutl tho tor- ut polity m that a thh-ym Inuh IL'MltllLtlt' min umnt lvnmlv guest lo: the night so long an both mt-mhers .m cmmntmu imtl nu mu- Invmhlmrs u tht- s'tutlt-nt, nut SJB mcmlu'nt hlxtltllljl, tmnx. um lHIllJtIUlI wnttrn :1 At t mmululutlons muhlrwuttlunvn or n tlhlllllit'tl.' In tult .i Illn-ml imtl llt't-lltlllhtllu stutlrnt umvrnmt-nt tn; tut Wilhm its llnlltdtltllh wnth unnwtmn .uul lmlv urgx-tl that on tht' sulm-t-t ol tlftlth tht- .xtutlt-nt should huu- lrt-mlum Ax long .h hr llOt'S not llllt'rlt'l't' With xmnt-mw t-lw, lessm-xx nl tritumu. ln- Burlnw .ilm unplmsIIA-tl tht- nm-tl for d stuth-nt tttlttt'r. .m upumlvtl psychiatric program. dlltl umm-tlitltr zlttmn nu uwtlut'ulinn. ilm-mini: .t xitlmtmu like tt'mlt-ymfs Wht'l't' wumr THE WESLEYAN ARC US .t m, ..I, 7me Ilu- t W Inmlwn. in wrwntul m .luut l-i llur l L'lr.ll1.IHIl.IHI1'1llll.tl tllr lml llmt cllltllll-Hltlt'r tlnl nnl nul- Illt thv t-lmtwn Itnmtltlltmu.il until .iltI-r It was 1 hr CBC .u irn'lt'xunt t that thy hut 'tutinn n'- t'f could elm'tion. that deci- xinm us to the validity of an election. Up To Students 080 Must Repr CBC Must Face ttThe Board maintains l Should Stay In CBC Needs New Life Are Run Althoug necessary f0. 3 last-minut: poll enough counts of th: Tom Craig ' off election advisory b0 Prefe esent CBC Prese CBC CANDIDATES ANSWER QUESTION exclusively to, the Wesleyan rumpus tag. Vietnam. the draft, Ptol. ID Graduate programs at Wesleyan should be trnlargetl, maintained as 5l 1 tfavor, opposel student evaluations of teachen. Bl I favor tNovember, February, twice yearlyt CBC elections. This table contains the candidates' response: to the iollowmg xliort-answer questions: ll The CBC should exercise tmore, less. tulwut the unmet control over student publications. 2l The CBC tshould, should notJ take positions on issues important tn but not relating 4i The integrated dorms program should be texpzmded, eliminated, maintained as ist 7l I favor tcoeducatjon, a coordinate women's college, :1 continued till-malt- student body; M l Itavor, opposcl the CBC form of government. at oppose. you: essayl. ED VVesley-an's present xizc is ttoo small. too large. about rightl. lOl l tlavor, opposel the system of class ranking. is, reducedt ID I favor a tmure liberal, more uonservativel SIB. 12l I favor C'hzlnds off, limited control, strict controD of drugs at W control, specify methods in your essayl. The Table t-ontains the choices listed above; an asterisk indicates declined to answer the particular question. S The candidates also xuccess or specific failu lack of communication ton, however, felt that administration aHairs. I student representation the CBC's reorganizuti mm mm 3' Barlow Craig Crisnin Emerson Estron Hill MacAdalns Manuel Murtlt Schramn Tall ; 53 ? same '95: '955 same same same same same same same same 5 n , . ' - - AA . 3 malht Tom C'mgl reggae mgggt wk ? Of a 3 candidatu, WOUM Randy Arendt has long shown a deep interest m student proble- 4 malnt. pruwde J r ? expand mainti lent; ' dealing with u tmulty '4' ! xtmng L-oncrrn for the role of the CDC in campus affairs. HIS ab 5 faVOI'l udmimlmlm favor favor, I limitatiom d m Pmrmml 0' the organm-r .md .m industrious worker have been evident in his a 6 thCE CBC' and will twice NOV pa in drfini'lg u MW mle for the two stlluol publications, the Pledge Period Activities Committee, 7 Cnnmutter uml- i on Craig undwstands that the CBC gown relations. Arendt's concrete ideas concerning such issues coord. f , , coord male I d d , , . t m CBC 8 oppose Gun wauh m favor favor I OtIt-mme :m mgmf'mm '5511'35- posed graduate student tax would help turn e . away 9 , H15 Upcnnt-xx to right right satisfy the need for u morr vigorous perious tendency toward inertia. His idens and euthusmsm 10 i' 1nd realistic CB opgose ODQOSE pmudt .1 sumtdntial lMSP fur an active and effective CBC 11 I'm Mark Estren'i Ilb Ilb vn achievements on WESU and the John Barlow has noted that hl' is nut the pt 'tical type. We 12 m Student Edm-a' hm hm tee have clearly demonstrated his program is a demand for liberalism and expe mentation in de imagination and exceptional capacity for work. With Estren on the CBC, studenh muld ht- assured of a cnnsistently active and innovative govern- mvnt, Wt- support his proposals concerning a stronger relationship between thv CBt. .tlltl uh t-mmnittees, Estren's demonstrated commitment to etudent weltm- tlvllltl ln- mm. more- ritecthrly utilizvd on the CBC. Wn- raulurw Charlie Hill tor both hix suuml pruponJlx .unl his quiet ability in: u-mihli- rrllwtinn. Hill's idea: concerning thr reorganization of CBC had Succeeded illxtudrnt uou-nmwnt inditate ntamive thought. and drst-rn- careful con-; ' Schramm Citttd 35 '3 failsidt-mtmn. His proposal: tor the publication of the CBC budget in the Argus. tn 0 . 1967 CBL' the rapidly changing academic and social problems of Wesley work in mmpus runwurrit-ular activities has given him a wide purspeutiu- Wt- hm! hm proposals for reorganizing the call .Irxpetliting tlu- mmtruction at a student union. and establishin College muiphiut hoard, together with his deep L'oncem for the xturlt-nt's lrt-mloln. to represent a refreshing change from past nmnlx-rs. In shurt, wr believe Barlow. by virtue at his ori i xtmightlnrwnrd confrontation of the issuet, would contnbute u ; vunuuutI-C. nlunu nuyLM .mn um yup wu his year in the SAC and EPC. Tarleton saw the dt, Barlow, Beeman, Craig Win CBC Race; Off Wednesday Will Determine Fifth Member mean students circulated petitions to obtain tlu- 73 xignutuivx lusion in the official ballot for Monday evening's tilitl t'lt't'lloll. ite-in candidate, William O. Beemzin '68, Wis lllt' unlv UIIU to i in the initial tally for election to the Commiiti-i'. ln xulm-iluvnt :ferential-order votes, Randy Arendt '68, John Barlow 1M and ere also elected, leaving the fifth position to lw illlt'tl by a run uled to be held during the Wednesday evem' 13: mull. r enactment. d amendments to the CBC constitution receiwil simple nmjunty o achieve the 2A, majority necessary for passlgi'. The proposal sue received 547 affirmative votes while 292 students mtt-tl ire. Although 472 students voted to change CBC clu-tiuns from mber, 380 voted against the proposal, leaving tln' :unumlmt-nt hort of passage. Conversely, the referendun propmzil seeking $25 for swings was approved 440-390 since it nvctlt-d only a voting in the CBC election was the heaviat in recent Itt'zlrst casting ballots. Bccrnml i'nit'rgvtl iit'torious in tho t-uunt uf candidatcs placed in the first five positions hy the x'ntvrs. amassing 459 votes, nvt-i-sxury lnr olwtmnr llt' rccoiwd his greatvst support from independents, and pollrtl :it luist 24 first prt-l'i-rt-nt'c totes in each of nine fratemitics. Bccman was thus oloctvd only eight hours after he entered the race. Milt Christianson '60, the only other writc-in candidatv to rccmvo noticeable support, polled 33 votes, 20 of them from Psi U. Arendt surpassed the necessary total of 484 votes when the sixth place prvart-nccs wore tallied. illltl hL' continued to gain support throu h the N5 nmintlor of the count to cnn'rgv with 531, the greatest overall vote tal y. Receiv- ing 54 votes from Delta Tau, his own fraternity, Arendt also accumulated sizeable blocks from independents, Alpha Dolt, and Psi U. Toni Craig. vlct-tt-d 0n the lmsis of eighth preference V0105, showed his greatest strength in his own house. Psi U, and also received 30 or more votes from Alpha Dt-lt, Chi Psi, and Delta Tau Although he had only 446 first four morc than the total preference votes. he exceeded the necessary number in the eighth place preferences, and concluded with A total of 514 votes from all positions. The possibility of electing kl fourth member to the 196768 CBC was in f limited candidate 1hr Lilmt sti-p in the controversial College Body Committm- vlvrtions oc- currvtl Litt- Thursday wht'n Lhc hVede nvStlJy m'oning runneoff. tlvsignml to i-lm't .1 fifth CBC member, was nullil fivtll imtl n nvw rumoff waking on n malonty nits system was scheduled for next Monday. The four mcmhvrs brought to of- ficr during the original vlvction last Mnnday-Rnndy Arcndt, John Barlow, Bill Bminmn, and Tom Craig-will rennin in their posts. However. Bob Su'nsk, .1 writc-in candidate who re- ceived the most xotvs during the Wulnosdny run-off, W111 not be recog. nizvtl as the fifth CBC member un- less he gains .1 majority in the up- coming toting. Swnsk, a Junior in Psi U, received 147 of the 529 Votes Cast, with 51 of his total coming from his own fra- tvmity and 27 more from Chi Psi. He ran 14 votes ahead of Mike Mac- Atlams, who received the most vota of any of the candidates from inde pendents and gained additional sup- Mike Wolfe, the other write-in can. didate receiving substantial support, polled 117 totes, also with a strong following of independents. Mark Estren, with 97 votes, gained support from a wide selection of houses. He was followed by Charlie Hill with 90 votes; Bob Taliaferro with TS, Bob Crispin, who polled 74 as prcuous candidates Dick Emer- withdrcw from the race in his favor; Bill Schramm with 60; and Bob Tarle- ton mth 14. The 2.2 other writein iotes are enumerated, and a more dE tailed breakdown of All votes pre- sented, in the table on page 3. When contacted after the results of the Wednesday evening run-off had been announced, Svenslt expressed pleasure and surprise at the outmme of a campaignn which he and Lloyd Buzzoll, a fraternity brother. had in- port from his fraternity, EclecticJ son, Tom Manuel, and Wally Murfit 1 itiatcd that afternoon. Svensk stid 0f Svensk By Vlrite-ln Nullified; ce Svstem To Be Used Monda y, i In Ann'lwrk prcnul iltllllll'JtlIHl fur the SIBK fur thinning Hi .i m.tn ISu'nsltl who lull shown vyiiirism fur the stmlvnt unv- his conclusion. m- t'l'llllll'lllt Bob Srtmk 'svnnus doulit until the end of the lcount when John Barlow, n sopho- lmore In Alpha Delt. received 18 lfourtm'nth place votes to give him I tfinnl total of 498 votes, sufficient for vinction, As the table on page 2 in- tlimtcs. therefore. his total vote hs' iwrll as those of several candidates i running close behind himl was great- ly stimulated by voters who either listed all fourteen candidates, or who loft blank or filled with pleasantria the spaces lwtwecn their first five lchnicos and those candidates they illenst wanted to 500 vlcctod, Thu Argus suit ttmugl; urges the student body to reflect upon its recom- nwmlntmnx .nul tn i-lt-i't Messrs, Arendt, Barlow, Craig. Estren, Ind Hill tn the follow Bali Committee In Monday's balloting 404 votes in the tirst fh-rXIEZh tour- tvonth Pl-ICPSt 115- was followed closely in the final tally by Mark Estren who arcumnlnted 416 votes which were lquite evenly distributed around the Immpus, and Charlie Hill with 413, who experienced his greatest success in his own fraternity of Gamma Psi. Bob Taliaferro notched the eighth position with a total of 377 first lthrmuzh fourteenth place votes. whilel ibh Crisnin accumulated 315 mdi Bill Batman Dick Emerson 312. Bill Schramrn nearly doubled his first preference votes by concluding with 300 In- position votes. Wally Murfit. sup- ported primarily by votes from Deb hand Psi U, polled 268, and Ken tContinued on Pugs 2t SJB Adjudicates Disputed CBC Run-Off; Names Svensk Fifth Committee Member Tliv tlispntcd CBC election reached its final phase Sunday night when the Student Judiciary limrtl tlt't'ldrt'tl Bali Sx'vnsk's nm-off victory to bc nilidi The tune ims thnm'n lwforv the 518 when repri'wntntivvs fur mndidntcs Mike MnCAdams and Bolt Mcnslt .ippmrotl at .m upon hearing Sunday :iftvnmon to urge the 518 to adjudicate the m.tttt-r. In .1 two hour tlclutc. the Elections Committee. Cliff Arnelwt'k arguing for MaCAdams, .intl illt' CBC m.tintnincd that there should he a new election. Mikv Foagley: Peter Bell. and Steve Clmnct'. ntpn'wnting Swnsk. urged the $113 tn nphnltl tho nm-off nnd Svenxkis Victory. All partn-s .igrm'tl in udi'anu' that 1llt' SJB decision would not he treated :15 i1 prt't'vdcnt. 1 lirivfly. tliv 5,15 statement. rmid by Chairman Andy Ackemann. found that while the Chairman .of NW Eltlttiltlllh Cummittvc his the right to nullify .in election with proper grounds. no such About the time that iiA PA TH Y buttons be- gan appearing, a record l4-man ballot 0f CBC candidates sent the annual elections into chaos. From the shambles, more cries for reform were heard. Wesleyan has always been in flux, but rarely has so much been exposed to debate as at this point in its history. g grounds t'xistt'tl in this CJSC. l Tliv nrgumvnts wore lung .1 t Hilt'tl Cllt? polity 5 Cliff ArIu-lit't'k. rcprvwnting ittilllltilllltt 11'lklllllilll1 umlt-r tlit' Quint . much minim ue iuuy serueu at this time and will probably de- mand a constitutional amendment. However, for the present, as it has al- ways been our policy to support the independent actions of our commit- Even the receptacle ofltistory, the 011a Podrida, went into the throes ofself-examination and iconoclastic behavior. The daffodils are now in bloom 0n the grave of the 1966 Zeitgeist, but the coanict it caused was but one aspect ofafar reaching mood of critical introspection. PUBLIC AFFAIRS CENTER Professor Wendell Bell Dept rlmmalS nc'nololy Ylel Political Attitudes In New Nations: The Base of the Caribbean PAC LOUNGE Thursday, Dec. 1 - 8 RM. WESlEYAN UNIVERSITY MIDDLETOWN, CONN. -PRESENTSI IN CONCERT CHUCK BERRY -nwmIra THE TYMES -ANDI EXCITERS PLIIS LITTLE BOBBY AND THE SOIIL ROCKERS SUN. - NOV. 13 2:0010500P FRIESI'IMAN B GAHALL TICKETS SI 50- LLLLLLLLLLLL THES DOOR THE STUDENT EVENTS COMMITTE PRESENTS Father GIIIII IIIIId C. A. S. FELLOW AATHE FUTURE OF BELIEIOW' Thursday, Nov. 17 8:30 P. M. C. S. S. LOUNGE BATEBNITIES: JUSTICE Eon ALL? A Symposium L'EST SPEAKERS: T C. WILLIAM KERR, Alodmzfor Assistant Provost STEPHEN L. DYSON Assistant Professor of Classics JOHN C. HOY Dean of Admissions LOUIS O. MINK, J R. Cu-chairman, CSS PHILIP POMPER Instructor in History Delta Sigma Monday, October 10 8:00 P.M. Wesleyan Student Events Committee Presents the tirst in a series of talks on THE FUTURE OF THE NEGRO MOVEMENT Sunday, November 20 MARTIN lUTHER KING, JR., 8.81.0. Black and white: The Future of Race Relations in America McConaughy Dining Hall 8:30 P.M. AN,OUTSTANDINGCONTWPORABUOET :IrmmecorsHEISLPVGETR The Assembly Commltt and :1: The College of ; :prmnt JOHN mm noNdRstouM: - - I Wesleyan u ' il DECEMBER 9 womer Wuslllmonnll: :41: 8:00 RM. C4 v I A 1 1 w-I-I'M-m-m xxxxxxx vav-Immmx-I-v-m-s-p PRESIDENTS STAFF ROUND TABLE MESSRS: BUTTERFIELD, HALLOWELL, HOY,IDZERDA, MATTHEWS,PATON ' ' , AND ROSENBAUM 0 REPORT OF DECEMBER TRUSTEES MEETING . - 0 OPEN AGENDA: ANY QUESTION IS FAIR GAME WEDNESDAY, DEC. 7; 01 PAC. 7:30 P. M. REPORT OF STUDENT EDUCATIONAL POLICY COMMITTEE - LIVE ON W. E. S. U. SUNDAY, DEC. 4; 10:00 P. M. W rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr THE WESLEYAN STUDENT EVENTS COMMITTEE presents RALPH N ADER Author of Unsafe at Any Speed OCTOBER 13 - 8 RM. Memorial Chapel Reception at Gamma Psi following speech E l E CTION PIIRTq 8 NOVEMBER 1966 8:30pm Television coveraga QRefreshments tuba Served SPONSORED BY THE BROTHERS OF ECLECTIC The Wesleyan Commmity is Invited. Wesleyan University presents Me D I N I Z U L U AFRICAN DANCERS SINGERS DRUMMERS Wesleyan Cage Friday, February 10,1967 at 8:30 PM. Admission $1.00 Ticket: on lilo at Wesleyan Music Demnmwt and Gallon Store. the AMERICAN SOCIETY FOR EASTERN ARTS NORTH INDIAN MASTER OF THE SAROD WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY CONCERT SERIES TUESDAY. OCTOBER 25, 1966 Wesleyan Student Events Committee Presents: Dr. Joseph Kaster will speak on WITBIIBRAH 8:00 P.M. Memorial Chapel Halloween Night - Oct. 31,1966 52 fWmeuW-wammwangKNTYTWAQ?itwhi?WWWQA$MN5km$HRE$ AY. OCTOBER 28 8:30 SKI J AMES h MISSISSIPPI DELTA BLUES SINGER durum AND PIANO PLAYER W AT ALPHA DELTA PHI , poaotdnblmHlsmdndwhcmm Monnmvemoumm. Of-ltthe Jumpmmmmmhismr BobSladmomeewYotkTmu 'mmeMsmppi singersSkipwasoneof the most distinctive. G-lis ap panacea: NWhmmof the MngentsofdeutivaL Samuel B. Clumsondxeallum BluesatNewpodh Skip has played at: d1: Newport Folk Festival C64, '65, 66d the Philadel- phia Folk Pectin! C65, '66J and Carnegie HAIL He recently released a new L? on Vanguard Rumds. TH F, SMITH COLLEGE AND WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY GLEE CLUBS with Chamber Orchestra Present: Josquin Des Prhs Missa Ave Maris Stella Haydn Te Deum Laudamus Monteverdi Magnilical Bach Cantata No. 150 SUNDAY 23 OCTOBER 1966 AT 7:15 RM. l'ndcr Ihc direction of: James I'Snnkhauscr Richard VVinsluw THE LIEBESLIEDER WALTZES, Opus 65 Johannes Brahms Wesleyan University Memorial Chapel DIDO AND AENEAS Henry Purcell Open to thv public without charge. Wesleyan is not an ivory tower, but neither is it the real world. Tom Wolfe Its concerns are more stridently debated only because the echoe 0f the teapot in which they occu add to the tempestuousness 0 its controversies. $r $993 a m- wmmmk Km II has its symbOls? its traditions and-its stabilityfand pursues its life with a reicolu? tion that only truly self-possessed ark ganisms can develop. ' 73;; , The Athletic traditions . . . are some of Wesleyatfs most hallowed symbols of continuity and personal con- tribution to university life . . . In their m0- ments of turbulence and the calm tableaux that appear seasonally, Wesleyan most expresses the facets of character and am- biguities of mood that permeate its campus. . . 57 WE'RE NUMBER ONE N WW B acapvwa a a a l Transcienee and permanence, tradition and experi- ment, all surround the most pivotal moment of the vear. . . Wesleyan's president far 24 years, a man whose decisions have estab- lished at Wesleyan the juxtaposition offunctional Change and functional regularity that we have sought to describe here, steps down from his 0197ce this July . . . A man has been chosen as his successor who is familiar with the stable and the fiuid in the Wes- leyan atmosphere. 76 Thu Bulmjfivld udminixtmtion will be dis- tindb rwncmln'rwl us Ilw f70wering 0f Wasiqvml us a mmpm us well as a human insrimlinn . . . berm! as u mun Qf'prodigious ability and opwlm'vs' ofmiml. The cominued growth of Wesleyan is the responsibility of everyone who en- gages h I'mself in its life. But the president is the symbol ofrhis growth. 1 J .33 h' . min! i w: $$29$4:0? .z mwvu mxmw N. WW ? W a m was a fM 7w' , Wan: m amp NW at? M Victor Butterfield represents the attainment of national excellence in liberal arts education, through carefully implemented experiment in conjunction with painstakingly planned physical expansion, J?mmcial security, and diverchation of institutional resources. 5 South College is the focal point 0f the Wes- leyan that presen'es itself by change. Here a new chief executive will take up residence in the offices overlooking the familiarjiieutles arouml Andrus Field. His job will not be an easy one. Because of its investment in change, Wesleyan cannot be eusin comprehended and controlled. Alive with the contributions of its individual personalities, moods and ideas; its elements, but on their replenishment. This is the responsibility of the man in South College. Weslemn is at a turning point . . . President- eleet Etherington will find mueh t0 mntimie in his pretleeessofs philosophy and achieve- ments. He will be challenged by the mereurial moods of a changing campus. It is to be hoped that he will Challenge Wesleyan us did the man'he follows. Why are these men laughing. 84 ,,A..ID....na D,e Ilt , 1 Chi P,Si s ,n o m m C Delta Tau 91 v v ' $$5$3ng Gamma Psi Eclectic Kappa Alpha WEEYLAN PUBLIC AFFAIRS QUARTERLY Vol. 1, No. l W1nlerl967 EDITORS: Mark Nagclbtrg Richard Grnnm Michael Kaufman Wllham Klabcr STAFF: James Havelln Robert chal Phllip Zaleski Randall Arendt Richard Simons Richard Hand Steven Novick John Fago Peler Lev The Wesleyan cArgus A. CLIFFORD SAXTON, IR. Editor-ln-Chbl MARK J. ESTREN ERIC D. BLUMENSON Managing Em Am. Editor G. BRADLEY 1mm DONALD T. MILLER Spam Editor Photography Educ: JUNIOR EDITORIAL BOARD C. Wanton Bali: III - S 01:11 P. Barlow S, 4 ' Event- ik'mu A. Administration mum M. Gilmm'e, II M Anthony . Mohr College Body Baa: iohn S. Wilson, J: Spam BUSINESS m! M? m3 J 5W 0 ma Michael 1.11M 691mm 3434mm -.w .w Cmm MW 96 ,, 'ESS jI'JlH flip; Fem: macaw .l.lnhnqa ' . O K rt. L w , . , f x v ' L , L 'V 47'07Ww VJ 5' , DNAL I ,me gm? Iv, ,4 6:.. I? Dun HALLQWED Swan: I WESU Robert Weisbuch, President Robert Tarleton. General Mgr. Steve Englehart. Personnel Director Michael Fink, Business Mgr. Dixon Miller. News Director Douglas Smith. Technical Director Charles Ziff. FM Program Director Dan Rosenheim, Program Director John Wilson, Sports Director 97 98 TNE Cardinal Key Samuel T. Barnett Stuart H. Blackburn Jeffrey C. Camp Dustin P. Carter John W. Elias Eric W. Esterhay Steven K. Farnham Walter L. Filkins John S. Goldkamp Edward W. Hoyt D Arcy H. LcClair James L. Martello Jerome S. Parker Steven B. Pfeiffcr Steven B. Remmcr Peter Sicgle John B. Sheffield John W. Sitarz Francis R. Spadola John S. Wilson Gregory W Wrobcl CBC I966 Leonard Bergstein Eric Blumenson David Eger Reuben Johnson Timothy Putnam Don Logee Ken Schweller Bob Tarleton Tom Craig Rick Omata Sandy See Lloyd Buzzell Rich Burns John Steele John Ashworth James Devine Tony Rotundo Harry Hcrrmcns Bob Bourke Dick Emerson Greg Angellini Jeff Arnold Cal Hay Terry Fralich Tcd King Ken Roberts Paul J arvis Joel Worthman Mike Floyd Matt Lamstcin Sandy Stamper Larry Weis l967 Randy Arendt John Barlow William Beeman Robert Svensk Thomas Craig Rich Zweigenhaft, Mystical Barbara Brogin, Sammy Nigh, Steve Chance, Ted Smith, Bill Cooper, Tom Drew, Mike Cro- nan. Mystical Seven Skull 8 Serpent . Ed Simmons, Pat Dwyer, Bob Dyer, Walt Long, Mike Ketcham, John Logan, Howie Foster, Jeff Hicks, Wayne Diesel, Len Berg- stein. FOOTBALL Johnson, Stowe. Congleton. Dominick. Morningstar. Dibble mo-Capm. Dwyer Co-CapM. Foster. Hickel. Gulick. Logan. Bergstein. Corr. SECOND ROW: Kenny. Russell CoachL Grockowski Urainem, Norris. Corbin. K. Dwyer. Filkinsh Cooper. Mihalec. LynchV Henningsen. Taylor. THIRD ROW: Hannington, Macdermott, Wilson. Canoni. Hayes. Farnham. Tabor. D Ancona. Ketterer. LeClair. D Ama1o Mng. FOURTH ROW: Eek. Edgar. Nichols. Trachik. Pfeiffer. Crockett. Manin. Wasserman. Bryant. Blackburn. Carter. Missing: HicksL SOCCER Back Row: Plagenhaff. Tobias. Siebert. Elliott. Ziegen- hagen. Peterson. Cornwall. Clark. Stewart. Mgr. Middlv Row: Cunningham. Kiem. Wilcox. Conners. McCoy. Willits. Hoyt. Currier. Front Row: MacAdams. Remmer. Oliver, Diesel Co-cath, Johnson Co-capm, Micheletti, Prol, Terry. 101 de:OOmmOW0 Front Row: L to R Tom Drew. Karl Furstenberg and Jeff Galloway Co-Captains. Rick Beach. Scumd Ruu': John Sheffield. Dan Wood. Alan Thorndike. Silas Wild. Amby BurfouL Couch Swanson, 102 WRESTLING Fran! Ruu': Steele. Marshall. Townsend. Vila. Martin. Patrick. Pulames. Sm'uml Row: Long. Fr. CouchV Polhemus. Arnold. Parmer. Logan Co-capIaim Reed KbCaptainL Sherman Hughes. Curler. Macdermotl 1Varsily CoachL 3 '6' mullet g A SQUASH Back row: Gord Quimby. Bill Gardner. Bob Elliott. Bill Nicholson. Dick Dearney, Bob Smith, Orrin Baird. Stan Plagenhoff moacm. Front row: Harry Nothaker. John Lacouture. Don Stone maptaim Chuck Hollen, Dave Garrison. Andy Barada 104 SWIMMING 200 BACK STK. 315165 R.KETCHA'MHMTVESLEYAN 2:01.; 3:53;: m 500 FREESTYLE PORTER $5 - WESLEYAN 5:2I.3 um ' c'uANT VAN KEN! E200 annsrsrx, l66 3 ' 2:253 Front row: Kelly, Martin, Putnam, Tichenor. Second row: Hartley. Ullrick. Gallas, Kelcham, Miller, Broker. Third raw: McCurdy. Stewart. Mgr., Miller, D., Goldkamp, McMackin, Wil- lits. Stone, Margolius, Stone Edgar. Asst. Coach. Missing: Chance. Kerr. Zeigenhagen. 105 BASKETBALL Burk run : Trainer. Grockowski, Nimchck. Siturz. Rcisncr. Knox. Eslcrhuy. Spadolu. Helgrcn. Wrobcl. Front row: Mgr. Martin. Carlson, Manuel, Lapuc Co-cath, Ryan Co- cath, Rainey, Emerson, Coach Wood. HOCKEY Back Row: Spurrier Coacm, Rossman, Gar- rett, Ericka 66 , Gibson 66 , Wann, mad- ger 66 , Furstenberg, Rua, Mgr. Front row: Waugh, Corbin Captaim, King, agorenson 66L Butler, Bagg, Plehaty. Missing: Costin, Lansing, Glassanos, Quinn, Ingraham, Stem, Calhoun, Silverman, Baggerman. 107 LACROSSE First Row: Rich Levi. Sam Barnett. Bob Dyer C0-CapIJ. Ed Simmons. C0-Cath. Barry Edwards. Tim Corn- wall, Howie Foster. Second Row: Jim Sugar. Bob Watson Tory Peterson. Len Bergsteim George Henningsen. Walt Filkins. Coach Haninglon. Third Raw: Steve Farnham. Stu Blackburn. Mike 103 Terry. Jack Williams. Front Row U to n: Paul Nibur. Jeff Oram-Smilh. John Elliott. Kark Furstenberg. John Logan. Second Row: George Amarant. Ed Hayes. Carl Culler. Chris Greene, Bill Collins. Howard Sherman; Third Rou'. Bob Smith. Dick Emerson. Amby BurfooL Eric Esterhay. Neal Owen. Fourth Raw: Coach J. E. Swanson. John McConnell. Jay Edelberg. Dave Webb. 109 TENNIS Second Row: Andy Barada, Steve Knox, Brad Oliver, Stan Plagenhoff. Front Row: Sandy See, Jon Clark Cap0, Dave Garri- son. BASEBALL Top Row: Chuck Hill Mng. Dave Whitaker. Paul Mack. D,Arcy Le- Clair. JeiT Camp. Paul Nimcheck. Middle Row: Coach Daniels. Frank Hoder. Jacques LeGette. Bob Crispin. Pete Hardin, Steve Horvat. Dave Losee, Jim Mortello. John Meir. Don Russell. U:resh. Coachy Front Row: Wayne Diesel. Ned Preblc, John Andrus. Pat Dwyer Wo-Captj, Jeff Hicks Wo-capm, Lee Brundage. Dave Gruol. Missing: Jerry Martin. John Sitarz. Greg Wrobel, Fran Spadola. Krcmcr. Kctcham. Seibert. Kcim. Capt.. Ken- nedy, Kelly. Mathews, Sichol, Coach Wood. 1966 Varsity Crew. Righr to lefI: Guardstein, Coleman. Buzzell. Macoy. Hughes, Murfit. Shoburt, and Crockett. Missing members of 1967 crew: Reppert. Lipsky. Hamlin. SENIORS Richard D. Aaronson Andrew C. Ackemann Terrance M. Adlhock Lawrence J Allen Jr. Peter B. Allison John M. Andrus John J. Arnault Clifford Arnebeck Jr. Charles Arrington III Malcolm L. Astlcy :- W'illiam W. Azano Lawrence E. Bagg 115 Charles E. Baker Franc A. Barada Jr. Richard W. Beach I VVuItor B011 11 Peter A. Bell Thomas A. BC Leonard J. Bergstein Thomas A. Bertocci R. Cameron Billmyer Bruce A. Birchard F . Alexander Blount Jr. S. David Blinn John St. A. Boyer Robert L. Brady James Branigan Jr. Robert L. Brown Lee J. Brundage H7 Jacob P. Bryniczka James B. Bushyhead III David L. Butler Robert V. Callahan Thomas L. Campbell Jr. James N. Cawse Steven K. Chance James S. Chisholm Jonathan S. Clark 118 Richard I. Clemmer John M. CoHin Richard S. Collins Frederick U. Conard William C. Congleton H9 James R. Conner Anthony H. Conte William S. Cooper Philip M. Corkill C. Alan Corr Charles J. Cronan Peter T. Darby F rederick W. Davies Jr. 120 Kenrick L. Day Richard M. Dearnley William I. Dibble R. Wayne Diesel Dirk A. Dominick Murdo M. Dowds Jr. Thomas M. Drew I21 Stephen C. Duck J. Patrick Dwyer Robert H. Dyer Jr. Richard C. Eells David A. Eger John P. Elliott Robert L. Elliott Thomas H. Etkin Michael R. Feagley 122 Kenneth W. Fitch Daniel J. Fleming III John M. Frisbie Jay B. Fraser Howard K. Foster 123 Karl M. Furstenberg David C. Gabel John F. Galloway William L. Gardner Donald R. Gerber Arne L. Cray 124 Charles B. Green Jr. James L. Guard Ronald E. Cwiazda Richard F. Haglund Jr. Gregory A. Gulick Peter L. Haggerty Paul R. Hales I25 Thmnas B. Halliwcll James 1. Harper Stephen A. Hass Alfred W. IIcaly jzunos Il. lchdcu Charles J. Hcgvner Elliot S. Helfer Oliver W. Hickel III George L. Hicks Jr. 126 Charles R. Hollen John J. Horan Jr. Joe Kelly Hughes Cary F. Johnson Reuben Johnson III 127 Aidan D. Jones Kenneth D. Jones Michael W. Kaufman Carroll S. Keim Michael W. Kelly Thomas E. Kennedy III James M. Kenney III Robert R. Kesner 128 Michael D. Ketcham Michael E. Klein James A. Koziell 1. Richard B. Krell R. Paul Kropp Ir. Anthony C. Lame Peter D. Lesley J. David Levy Jr. 129 130 Robert D. Levy Louis E. Loeb John R. Logan III Walter D. Long . I Karl A. Maier Peter A. Martin Eugene N. Martini Kevin F . McCarthy Michael W. McCord Edward McCune George E. McKechnie Lawrence B. McMillan 13! Michael N. Mcllen Wyilliam T. Merkel David H. Miller Norman F. Miller Philip J. Miller Norman H. Moore Donald W. Morgan Bruce L. Morningstar John Brendan Murdock 132 Ian M. Mytelka Alan W. Neebe F . Sugden Murphy 133 Paul W. Nibur Samuel H. Nigh Jr. Charles R. Nicita Steven E. Novick JeHrey C. Oram-Smith Randall M. Packard David K. Patrick Robert E. Pawlowski 134 Steven C. Pfeif Charles F. Plenge John C. Phillips Jr. John R. Polhemus David F . Powers Edward G. Preble G .Joseph Prendergast III Timothy J. Putnam 135 John L. Rainey Peter C. Reed Donald F. Reeder - W Robert A. Reisse G. Thomas Reynolds Jr. William C. Richlin Kevin B. Robinson Joel J. Rottner William C. Rowe Robert P. Hunk Robert J. Ryan Mark A. Scarlett Harry M. Shallcross Christopher Sieger Edward B. Simmons Jr. David M. Simons 137 Dennis R. Smith Joseph B. Smith Theodore C. Smith Jonathan D. Squire Carlton H. Stauffer Jr. Bernard Steinberg Donald C. Stone Jr. Richard B. Stout Jon B. Stover 138 Paul A. Stowe James A. Sugar David C. Sweet Clinton R. Swift William D. Tanner John W. ten Broeke Alan S. Thorndike 139 Y Michael P. Tine Paul H. Tomasko Andrew J. Ullrick James S. Vaughan William W. Vernon Robert P. vom Eigen I. Joseph H. Weinstein John R. W ells Jr. William F. Wertz f, Ralph R. White Jr. Jeffrey R. Wibberley Mark R. Wiener Paul N. Wilcox Christopher Williams 141 Andrew M. Witt Donald D. Wolff Jr. Richard L. Zweigenhaft Bruce E. Wycoff Daniel H. Wood 142 Abdullah M. Al Dabbagh Lawrence A. Allen James D. Andrus John R. Bailey Richard K. Beebe Peter E. Bertozzi Charles T. Burgc David F. Cadbury Anthony S. Cuprio James Ronald Carlson Michael B. Carrithers Brian N . Clmmak Stanley Constantin Jonathon J. Dickinson John E. Dooley Arthur Cingrande Leon Codehaux III Richard E. Hand Robert K. Hanson David L. Hawk Stephen C. Hughes James C. Kates Gerald M. Keneally M yron H. Kinberg William Klaber III Peter 11. Lapuc James A. Lcydcn IV J. Paul Littell E. Christopher Livesay E. Craig MacBean William F. Macoy Robert P. Marshak Jeffrey A. Marshall David Santee Miller Russell Mills Steven A. Mower David C. Munro Justin J. Mutrux Marc E. Nitsche Richard W. Page Arthur S. Parsons David J. Patterson Michael A. Pawel Joseph L. Payne Mark R. Reindorf Sibley P. Reppert Irvin E. Richter John C. Roberts McCugiC B. Rogers T homas W. Ross III William T. Rowe James L. Ruhlen Stephen C. Sellers Brian A. Sichol Christopher Sidoli Charles G. Stiles L. Kenneth Sw1ger Jr. G. William Vetter III David R. Wallace Timothy F. Walton 143 SENIOR PATRONS Dr. and Mrs. Herber+ N. Jones Mr. William J. Pfehc Mr. J. Leslie Harper Mr. A. M. Thorndike Mr. Harry Lesley Mr. and Mrs. John Marshall Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds Churchill Miller Mr. and Mrs. CarHon H. Sfauffer Mr. and Mrs. Thomas R. Diesel Mr. and Mrs. Pasquale P. Tine Mrs. Sara D. Helfer Mr. Junius W. Birchard Mr. Frank A. Kozie Mr. and Mrs. Earl S. Hollen Rev. and Mrs. John R. Loganl Jr. Rev. and Mrs. R. Cameron Billmyer Mr. Charles M. Repper+ Mr. and Mrs. William E. Rowe Mr. and Mrs. Roberf Kesner Mr. and Mrs. S. Rains Wallace Mr. and Mrs. Frederick U. Conard. Jr. Mr. and Mrs. John C. Phillips Mr. Harry M. Shallcross Mr. Clinfon E. SwiH Dr. and Mrs. Roberf W. Drew Mr. and Mrs. Frank A. Ke+cham Mr. A. B. ZweigenhaH Mr. and Mrs. Donald A. Eells Mr. and Mrs. L. Kenne+h Swiger Mr. and Mrs. F. A. Barada Mr. John Weed Powers Mr. and Mrs. Herber+ S. Bailey. Jr. Mr. and Mrs. Roberf B. Krell Mr. Oscar D. RoHner Mr. and Mrs. Harold Oram-Smifh Mr. and Mrs. John R. Wells Dr. and Mrs. Lowell Brown Mr. Leonard S. Wiener Mr. E. CliH'on WiH. Jr. Mrs. Donald 0. EllioH- Mr. and Mrs. James Bushyhead Mr. and Mrs. Henry M. Chance II Mr. and Mrs. Leo Klein Mr. and Mrs. Richard J. Congle+on Mr. David Sanders Clark Mr. William F. Darby Dr. and Mrs. Edwin L. Lame Mrs. Eugene R. Mar+ini Mr. and Mrs. Elmer W. vom Eigen Mr. Thomas L. Campbell Mr. and Mrs. Abraham Squire Mr. and Mrs. Joe B. Morningsfar Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd N. Day Mr. and Mrs. William J. Dibble. Sr. Mr. and Mrs. Sam Nigh Mr. and Mrs. William R. Sichol. Sr. Mr. William F. Azano Mr. Edwin LevyI Sr. Mr. and Mrs. Aaron J. Sugar Mr. and Mrs. William Klaber. Jr. Mr. and Mrs. Harry W. Loeb Mrs. F. Sugden Murphy Mr. and Mrs. Charles S. Nicifa Mrs. Andrew Ullrick Mr. and Mrs. Max Weins+ein Mr. and Mrs. E. W. Conner Mrs. Mil+on S. Wycofmc Mr. and Mrs. Alfred A. Healy Mr. and Mrs. Howard Gulick Mr. Rober+ Kropp SENIOR PATRONS Dr. and Mrs. James Kaufman Mr. and Mrs. Charles H. Plenge Mr. Charles E. Dearnley Mrs. Thomas Halliwell Mr. Richard L. Jones Mr. and Mrs. M. S. Sfeinberg Mr. and Mrs. Allan McCune Judge and Mrs. Alfred J. Cawse Mr. and Mrs. Oliver W. Hickel Mrs. Clare Munro Mr. and Mrs. Louis F. Coffin Jr. Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Carlson Mr. and Mrs. William John Tanner Mr. K. Fifch Mr. and Mrs. C. F. Baker Mrs. Mary 6. Cooper Mr. and Mrs. William Fos+er Mr. and Mrs. J. Roy Murdock Mr. and Mrs. Henry J. Miller Mr. Frederick W. Davies Mr. S. Theodore Ber+occi Mr. and Mrs. Herberf D. Kelly Mr. and Mrs. Collier A. Ellio+ Mr. and Mrs. Murdo M. Dowds Sr. Mr. and Mrs. William W. Parsons Dr. and Mrs. Dan Burge Mr. and Mrs. Lyman B. Andrus Mr. and Mrs. Arnold O. Pufnam Mr. E. Boyd Livesay Mr. and Mrs. Thomas W. Ross Mr. and Mrs. C. J. Cronan Ill Mr. and Mrs. Roy L. Johnson Mr. and Mrs. Philip L. PaHerson Mrs. Mari'ha S. Miller Mr. and Mrs. Douglas S. Chisholm Rev. and Mrs. John R. ScarleH Mr. and Mrs. W. K. Allison Mr. Colber+ L. Andrus Mr. and Mrs. J. S. Vaughan Mr. and Mrs. Edward W. Merkel Mr. and Mrs. Frederick A. McCord Mr. and Mrs. James J. Fraser Mr. and Mrs. John P. Collins Mr. and Mrs. Alberf Furs+enberg Mr. and Mrs. Roberf Pa+rick Mr. and Mrs. Daliel P. Tomasko Dr. and Mrs. Padie Richlin Mr. and Mrs. Rober+ B. CarrH'hers Mr. and Mrs. Joseph B. Robinson Mr. and Mrs. Wafson E. Morgan Mr. and Mrs. Richard I. Clemmer Mr. and Mrs. J. V. Keneally Mr. Carroll R. Keim Mr. and Mrs. Richard K. Beebe Dr. and Mrs. Royden AsHey Mrs. Marion E. Hagger+y Mr. and Mrs. Edward C. MacBean Mr. and Mrs. George J. Prendergas+ Mr. and Mrs. F. W. Pawlowski Mr. and Mrs. William F. Dwyer Mr. L. Walfer Eger Mr. and Mrs. Anfhony L. Con+e Mr. and Mrs. George L. Hicks Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Arnebeck MERCHANT PATRONS WaH' and Decibel Hof-Brau Tavern Color Mar+ Inc. Middle+own Pla+e Glass Company Regal Men's Shop SENIOR DIRECTORY AND ADVERTISEM ENTS AARONSON, RICHARD D.-500 Prospect Street, New Haven, Connecticut; Major: English Ind. ACKEMANN, ANDREW C.-Wake Robin Road, Sudbury, Massachusetts; Major: French; Eclectic, Chairman of the Student Judiciary Board ADLHOCK, TERRANCE M.-56 Ridge Road, Utica, New York; Major: History, Independent; Yacht Club, Debate Club 1Secy1 Argus 1Beat Chief and Ir. Editor1 History Club 1Chairman1 Wesleyan Volunteers 1Project Chair- man1 CBC Library Committee Chairman, Cardinals 1Mgr1 Wesleyan Alumni Scholarship, Freshman Debate Award, Davenport Scholar, Newspaper Fund Award, Dean's List 1,2,3 AL DABBAGH, ABDULLAH. M.-32 Knighfs Park, Kingston. oneThames, Surrey England; Major: English, Independent ALLEN, LAWRENCE A.-29 Rumstick Road, Barrington, R. 1., Major: Government, Alpha Delt ALLEN, LAWRENCE J1, 111-1419 Shands Court, Kirkwood, Missouri; Major: CSS, Beta Fraternity steward ALLISON, PETER B.-170 Wellington Road, Garden City, New York; Major: English, KNK ANDRUS, JAMES D.-Ro11te 5, Box 241, Wayzata, Minne- sota; Major: Art; KNK ANDRUS, JOHN M,-47 Oak Lane, Essex Fells, New Jersey; Major: History; Psi U ARNAULT, JOHN J.-84 Elm Street, Homell, New York; Major: English; DKE ARNEBECK, CLIFFORD, J11.-1503 Red Oak Drive, Silver Spring, Maryland; Major: CSS Eclectic ARHINGTON, CHARLES, 111-711 Greenwood Road, Wil- mington, Delaware; Major: Physics Alpha Delt, Soccer, Track, Wrestling, Fencing Club, Vice President of Fraternity, Dean1s List ASTLEY, MALCOLM L.-1012 N. Sheridan Avenue, PittSe burgh, Pennsylvania; Major: English Commons Club, President Of Fraternity, Director of Student Employment AZANO, WILLIAM w.-37 Springr Lane, Milford, Connecti- cut; Major: Psychology, Gamma Psi BADANES, STEVEN P.-668 Brentwood Drive, Orange, New Jersey; Major: Art Chi Psi BAGC, LAWRENCE E.-A1vord Street, Box 19, South Had- ley, Massachusetts; Major: Physics: Delta Sigma BAILEY, jOHN u.-53 Hun Road, Princeton, New Jersey, Alpha Delt BAKER, CHARLES E.-28 Jefferson Road, Scarsdale, New York; Major: English, Psi U Cardinals 1,2,3,4, Chapel Choir 2,3,4, Glee Club 1,2, Argus 1Reporter and Assist- ant Editor, Winchester Literary Society 1Vice PresidenU Wrogmm Chairmam Dennis List 1,3,4 BARADA, FRANC A., 111.427 Clermont Lane, St. Louis, Missouri; Major: Biology, DTD BEACH, RICHARD w.-130 Pinecrest Road, Durham, Nodh South R. W. CAMP COMPANY The Best in Clothing for Wesmen 412 MAIN STREET MIDDLETOWN, CONNECTICUT It's no place 11ke home RED GARTER STEAK HOUSE E. Main 51., Meriden Over 40 basic banking services +0 help you. your family and your business live beHer financially CREATING A BETTER TOMORRO 1 THE CONNECTICUT BANK AND TRUST COMPANY 30 Office: . . . Serving 2l Connedicui Communifies Member Federal Deposif Insurance Corporafion Carolina, Major: English Commons Club, Track, Cross Country, Debate Council, Student Representative to Alumni Council BEEBE, RICHARD K., JR.-33 Prospect Avenue, North- ampton, Massachusetts; Major: English; EQV, Outing Club, Wesleyan-Middletown Tutorial Program, WCCR, Dean,s List 131311, WALTER, 11.-109 Ball Road, Mountain Lakes, New Jersey; Major: Psychology DKE, Track, Cross Country, Wesleyan Volunteers, Snow School Project, Young Re- publicanis Club, Companion Program at Connecticut Valley Hospital, Raymond Dodge Psychology Club Wes- leyan Scholarship, Dean,s List, National Science Founda- tion Research Grant for Senior Year; National Science Foundation Teaching Fellow BELL, PETER A.-115 Overlook Drive, Syracuse, New York; Major: Covemment; Alpha Delt, Phi Beta Kappa, Basketball, Vice President of Senior Class, Sports Editor for Argus, Dorm Counselor, Companion Program, WESU, Student News Bureau, Fraternity Social Chair- man, Student Worker for Freshman Dining Hall, Daven- port Scholarship, Dean,s List BELL, THOMAS A.-Box 207, Faunsdale, Alabama, Major: English; Delta Tau Delta University of the South Order of Gownsmen, University of the South Choir, Glee Club, Freshman Rules Committee, Fraternity Ocher, Wesleyan Glee Club, Wesleyan Volunteers Dean,s List BERGSTEIN, LEONARD J.-2592 Mercer Court, Yorktown Heights, New York; Major: Government, Chi Psi, Cardi- nal Key, Skull and Serpent, Football, Baseball, Lacrosse, Freshman Senate, Student Judiciary Board, Secretary to CBC, Dormitory Committee, Dormitory Counselor, Chairman of Wesleyan Volunteer Program, Chadboume Award, Chi Psi Fraternity Award, Davenport Scholarship, Edward Bennett Rosa Worthy Student Award, Deanhs List, Rhodes Scholarship Nominee, Keasby Foundation Award Nominee BERTOCCI, THOMAS A.-985 High Street, Bath Maine; Major: History; Commons Club Cardinal Key Vice President, F raternity ORicer, Dormitory Counselor, F reshman Orientation Committee, Squash, Lacrosse Tutorial Program, Glee Club, Dean,s List BERTOZZI, PETER 13., Ja.-Main Street, West Croton, Massachusetts; Major: Chemistry Independent, Wesleyan Scholarship, Dean,s List BILLMYER, R. CAMERON, JR.-1528 Dauphin Avenue, Wyomissing, Pennsylvania; Major History, Delta Tau Delta, F reshman Football, Band, Fraternity Social Chair- man, Dean,s List BIRCHARD, BRUCE A.-207 E. Valley View, Hackettstown, New Jersey; Major: AnthwReli BLINN, s. DAVID-Valley Road, R.F.D. 1, New Canaan, Connecticut, Major: English Delta Tau Delta, Swimming, Tutorial Program, Wesleyan Volunteer Fire Department, Initiated Connecticut Valley English Teaching Program, CBC Social Committee, Co-Chairman for Fraternity Rushing BLOUNT, FREDERICK A.-2540 Forest Drive, Winston- Salem, North Carolina; Ind., Major: English, Cardinal Key, Football, Dorm Counselor BRADY, ROBERT L.-Spruce Path, Ledgewood, New Jersey, Major: History. Chi Psi BRANIGAN, JAMEs-S Brundage Street, Armonk, New York; Major: History, Eclectic BROWN, ROBERT L.-1513 Coolidge Avenue, Baldwin, New York; Major: Economics, Ind. BRUNDAGE, LEE J.--79 Edgemont Road, Scarsdale, New York, Major: Government; DTO BRYNICZKA, JACOB P.-335 Greens Farms Road, Westport, Connecticut; Major: History Beta, WESU, Chairman of the J.F.K. Library Fund Drive, Dean,s List, Wesleyan Summer Study Grant BURGE, CHARLES T.-3979 Pinehill Place, NW. Atlanta 5, Georgia; Major: History Independent, Phi Beta Kappa, Honorary Thorndike Scholarship Glee Club, Volunteer Program, Chairman of Student EPC, Deanhs List, Sopho- more History Prize, Weller Prize, Spinney Prize, Wise Prize, William Day Leonard Award BUSHYHEAD, JAMES 13., 111-31 Portland Drive, St. Louis, Missouri, Major: COL Alpha Delta Phi, Wrestling, NAACP Tutorial Program, Volunteer Program with C8100 CoQQins jewegen ahIhOhON'N-NIN-h-w-w-wm Fine Watch Repairing .s.x-sox.e.s.s.s.s.x.sm WATCH ES HAMILTON e BULOVA -. - LONGINES STERLING 8. PLATED SlLVERWARE DIAMONDS -:- JEWELRY -:- GIFTS 347-0513 323 MAIN STREET MIDDLETOWN, CONN. Compliments of CROSS STREET GROCERY Open' 7 Days: 7 A-.M. to 9 P.M. 130 Cross Street 347-1875 Middletownhs Largest and Most C omplete Dept. Store Complete Menhs Furnishings On The Main Floor MAIL OR PHONE ORDERS: 346-9292 Open Tuesday and Friday Nights Until 9 pm. Middlesex Hospital, Companion Program, Dean,s List BUTLER, DAVID L.-11 Foster Circle, Wenham, Massachu- setts; Major: Psychology, Freshmen Senate Delta Tau Delta, Hockey, Companion Program, Tutorial Program, Dean List CADBURY, DAVID F.-108 W. Phil-Ellena Street, Philadel- phia, Pennsylvania, Major; Art, Independent CALLAHAN, ROBERT v.4414 Emerson Place, Uniondale, New York; Major: Government Psi U, Swimming, La- crosse, Dorm Counselor, Freshman Senate Wesleyan Volunteers, Treasurer of Fraternity, Dean,s List CAMPBELL, THOMAS L., JR.-Edgew00d Road, Pittsburgh 15, Pennsylvania; Major: English DKE CAPRIO, ANTHONY s.-168 Magnolia Street, Providence 9, R.I., Major: Romance Languages Gamma Psi CARLSON, JAMES R.-23 Stewart Center, Oberlin, Ohio; Major: Physics, Ind. CARRITHERS, MICHAEL 11,-2551 Waldean, Colorado Springs, Colo., Major: COL, Independent CAWSE, JAMES N.-7 Haynes Street, Staten Island, New York; Major: Chemistry, Independent Football Manager, WESU, National Merit Scholarship, Deunk' List Sherman Prize, Summer Study Grant CHANCE, STEVEN K.-Warren Avenue, Malvern, Pennsyl- vania; Major: Government, Psi U Vice President of Fraternity, TNE 4Secy and Treaw Cardinal Key 4Treasurer1 Mystical Seven, Swimming, Lacrosse, Argus Dean4s List CHERNACK, BRIAN N.-12200 S. 69th Avenue, Heights, Illinois; Major: English Alpha DeIt CHISHOLM, JAMES s.-3400 Applewood Road, Midland, Michigan; Major: Anthropology, DKE CLARK, JONATHAN s.-3631 Tilden Street, N.W., Wash- ington, D.C., Major: History Cardinal Key, Soccer, Squash, Tennis 4Captain1 Alumni Coordinator and Vice President of Delta Kappa Epsilon CLEMMER, RICHARD 1.-R.D. :ttl, Glenmoore, Pennsyl- vania; Major: Physics, Independent COFFIN, JOHN M.-1178 Lowell Road, Schenectady, New York; Major: Biology; KNK COLLINS, RICHARD s.-479 Sage Drive, Pittsburgh, Penn- Palos 11' MM; JEWELERS - SILVERSMITHS - DIAMOND MERCHANTS 471 Main Street. Middleton . Conn. Compliments of RICO'S RESTAURANT Italian American Cuisine 465 Main Street 347-4224 Charge Accounts, Checks Cashed Compliments of THE MIDDLETOWN PRESS Middletown, Connecticut CAPITAL BILLIARDS 656 MAIN STREET 12 P.M.-'l A.M. $1 per hour-2 Players $1.20 per hour-3 Players sylvania; Major: Government Independent, Freshman Football and Golf, Tutorial Program, WESU, Argus, Dean,s List CONARD, FREDERICK U.-22 Sunset Farm Road, West Hartford, Connecticut; Major: Biology, Cardinal Key, House Manager of Fraternity, Teaching assistant in Biology Department, Dean,s List CONGLETON, WILLIAM 0-120 Ridgewood Avenue, Glen Ridge, New Jersey; Major: History Chi Psi, TNE, Foot- ball, Dormitory Committee Chainnan, CBC PPAC Committee, Dean,s List CONNER, JAMES R.-1609 Colonial Mr. Drive, Lancaster, Pennsylvania; Major: Economics, DKE, Soccer, Track, Rugby, Tutorial Program, Dean,s List Horace White Scholar CONSTANTIN, STANLEY-56 Speir Drive, South Orange, New Jersey; Major: History Chi Psi CONTE, ANTHONY 11,-835 Mountain Avenue, Springfield, New Jersey; Major: Government Chi Psi COOLEY, JAMES 0, 111-2309 Chain Bridge Road, Wash- ington, D.C., Major: French COOPER, WILLIAM s.-7364 Pershing Avenue, St. Louis, Missouri; Major: Economics DKE CORKII.L, PHILIP M.-308 Linden, Oak Park, Illinois; Major: History, Delta Tau Delta Baseball, Golf, Volun- teer Program, Representative to National Fraternity Con- vention, President of Fraternity, Dean,s List CORR, C. ALAN-193 Old Kings Highway, Wilton, Con- necticut; Major: Biology; Independent, TNE, Football, Basketball, Rugby, Deank List, Awarded Best Defensive Back in New England 1966 CHONAN, CHARLES 1., 1v-4701 Murphy Lane, Louisville, Kentucky; Major: Government Eclectic, Mystical Seven, President of F raternity, Chaiman 0f the Board of House Presidents, Football, Track, Wesleyan Volunteer Pro- gram, NAACP Wesleyan Tutorial Program, George F. Baker Scholarship, Dean,s List DARBY, PETER T.-24 Jennings Avenue, Southampton, New York; Major: English, Beta Companion Program, Dearfs List DAVIES, FREDERICK w., JR.-121 Hewlett Avenue, East Patchogue, New York, Major: History, Gamma Psi, Base- ball, Fraternity Rushing Chairman, Fraternity Athletic Chairman, Dean,s List DAY, KENRICK L.-20 Devon Road, Darien, Connecticut; Major: Physics, Delta Sigma Fraternity House Manager, Band, Orchestra, Wood wind Ensemble, Glee Club, Outing Club, Dean,s List DEARNLEY, RICHARD M.-1979 Country Club Drive, Hunt- ingdon Valley, Pennsylvania major: Economics, Com- mons Club DIBBLE, WILLIAM J.-4 Wildflower Trail, Greenwich, Connecticut; Major: History DKE, Cardinal Key, TNE, Football eCaptaiM Track, House Social Chairman, CBC Social Chairman DICKINSON, JONATHAN 13-17 Harborville, Avenue, Mil- ford, Connecticut: Major: French Independent DIESEL, R. WAYNE-IS East Road, Storrs, Connecticut; Major: Government, Chi Psi DOMINICK, DIRK A.-5823 S. E. 94th, Portland, Oregon; Major: Classics, Eclectic, TNE, Football, Track, Dean's List, Edward Bennet Rosa Worthy Student Award, Regional Scholarship DOOLEY, JOHN E.--321 Lovell Avenue, Elmira, New York; Major: Biology, Alpha Delt Golf, Fraternity OfEcer, Newman Club, Volunteer Program, Wesleyan Scholarship DOWDS, MURDO M., 13:24 Briarwood Trail, Weymouth, Mass., Major: Psychology DREW, THOMAS Ms-20 S. Meadow Lane, Barrington, Rhode Island; Major: Mathematics Eclectic, President of TNE, Bumbate, Mystical Seven, Cross Country, La- crosse, Wesleyan Yacht Club, Electic Rushing Chair- man, CBC Rushing Chairman, Tutorial Program, OEO Summer School, Sherman Prize for Freshman Mathe- matics, Deanes List DUCK, STEPHEN Cr5001 E. 82nd Street, Indianapolis, Indiana; Major: Biology Commons Club, Cardinal Key, Companion Program, Wesleyan Tutorial Program, Volun- teer Program, Chapel Board, Church Youth Group, Dean,s List DWYER, J. PATRICK-24 Greene Terrace, East Hartford, Connecticut; Major English DKE, Skull and Serpent, Football eCo-Captaim Baseball eCo-Captaim Deanes STANDARD TIRE COMPANY, INC. Goodyear Tire Dealer Tel. Middletown DI. 6-9812 Tire Repairing Vulcanizing I 17 Main Street Middletown ONROURKES DINER BACON BROTHERS, INC. Plumbing, Heating, Hardware 359 Main Street 347-2593 GO GULF TONY AND LOU'S SERVICE CENTER Complete Automotive Service 100 MAIN STREET List, Wesleyan Scholarship, Scholar-Athlete Award from N.C.A.A. DYER, ROBERT 1-1., JR.-213 Southway, Baltimore, Mary- land; Major: Psychology, DTD EELLS, RICHARD 0,-48 Willard Street, Hartford, Con- necticut; Major: Mathematics EGER, DAVID Ae-Brunswick Hills, Troy, New York; Major: Philosophy ELLIOTT, JOHN P.-2550 Eldridge Circle, Golden, Colo- rado; Major: Psychology, KNK Cardinal Key, Cross Country, Track, CBC Rushing Committee, Deanes List ELLIOTT, ROBERT L.-5866 N. Lake Drive, Milwaukee, Wisconsin; Major: Government, Commons Club, Base- ball, Squash, Rugby, Volunteer Program, Companion Program, Sigma Chi Boys Club, Dean,s List ETKIN, THOMAS H.-668 Sewell Place, Teaneck, New Jersey; Major: Chemistry, Delta Sigma, Wesleyan Orches- tra and Woodwind Ensemble, Volunteer Program, Rich Prize in Mathematics, Johnson Prize in Physics Dean,s List FEAGLEY, MICHAEL PL-Church Street, Marlboro, New Hampshire; Major: Covemment Psi U, Editor of the Wesleyan Argus, President of Fraternity FITCH, KENNETH W., JR.-42 Sunset Drive, Bedford Hills, New York; Major; Theater Delta Sigma FOSTER, HOWARD K.-6 Colonial Place, Pittsburgh, Penn- sylvania; Major: Chemistry Commons Club, Co-Chair- man of the Honor System Committee FRASER, JAY B.-108 Pine Ridge Road, Reading, Massa- chusetts; Major: English, Alpha Delt FRISBIE, JOHN Mr3 Yarmouth Road, Chatham, New Jersey; Major: Covemment, Psi U FURSTENBERC, KARL M.-North Broadway, Upper Nyack, New York; Major: Psychology, Inde endent, TNE, Track, Captain Cross Country, Hockey Cfub, Companion Program GABEL, DAVID-1250 Cliff Drive, Santa Barbara, Cali- fornia; Major: Classics, Delta Sigma GAETA, ANTHONY, JR.-338 West Shore Drive, Wyckoff, New Jersey; Major: Government Chi Psi, Cardinal Key Society, Student Judiciary Board, Dormitory counselor, Wesleyan Tutorial Program, Convocation Committee, In- ternational Affairs Committee, Deanes List, Davenport Scholar GALLOWAY, JOHN F1-90 Mt. Pavon Road, N.W., Atlanta, Georgia; Major: History, History Independent, TNE, Track and Cross Country 1Captain ,67, All American 1661 International Affairs Committee 1Co-Chairman1 Student Events Committee, Argus, Regional Scholarship GARDNER, WILLIAM L.-Purchase Lane, Aye, New York, Major: Economics, DKE, Squash, Track, Golf, Social Chairman of Fratemity, Deads List GERBER, DONALD R1-113 Crawford Avenue, Syracuse 3, New York; Major: Religion, Gamma Psi, President of Fraternity, Companion Program, Cardinal Key, Dormi- tory Committee, Dennis List mNCRANDE, AHTHUR-Herrick Road, Boxford, Massachu- setts, Major: English, Independent CODCHAUX, LEON, 111-85 Audubon Blvd, New Orleans, Louisiana, Major: Psychology, KNK GRAY, ARNE 1,.-R.F.D. 1, Shurpsville, Indiana; Major: Psychology, Eclectic GREEN, CHARLES 11., JR.-34 Surrey Lane, Tenafy, New Jersey; Major: History, DKE GUARD, JAMES L.-122 Lockwood Road, Riverside, Con- necticut; Major: Art, DTD CULICK, GREGORY A.-3770 Timberlane Drive, Enston, Pennsylvania; Major: Government, DKE, Football, Base- ball, WESU, Newman Club CWIAZDA, RONALD 12-580 Shuttlemeadow Avenue, New Britain, Connecticut; Major: COL HAGCERTY, PETER L.-109 Murdock Street, Brighton, Massachusetts; Major: English Independent, Theater, Wesleyan Scholarship HACLUND, RICHARD F.-376 Park Terrace, S.E., Cedar Rapids, Iowa; Major: Physics Independent, Cross Coun- try, Track, Orchestra, Dormitory Counselor, Argus, Der Deutsche Verein, Sherman Prize, Phi Beta Kappa HALES, PAUL IL-328 No. Central Avenue, Clayton, Missouri; Major: Psychology, Beta HALLIWELL, THOMAs-28 Rose Street, Paterson, New Jersey; Major: Geology, Indopondont Deank List HAND, RICHARD 12-221 Coodmank Hill Road, Subbury, Massachusetts; Major: Art EQV HANSON, ROBERT F.-11 Bronkside Avenue, South Fort- land, Maine; Major: Psychology Commons Club, Base- ball, Companion Program, Tutorial Program, Fraternity President HARDING, R. THEODORE-2135 Horton Street, Toledo, Ohio; Major: Russian; WESU, Freshman Senator, Camelan, Tutorial Program HARPER, JAMES J.-315 Sagamore Drive, Rochester, New York; Major: CSS, EQV HASS, STEPHEN A.-6833 Ardleigh Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; Maior: Chemistry, Independent HAWK, DAVID L.-151 Irwin Avenue, Pittsburgh, Penn- sylvania; Major: Chemistry, Independent HEALY, ALFRED w.-2301 Crawford, Alton Illinois; Major: CQS HEDDEN, JAMES 11.-1544 Ostrander, LaGrande Park, Illinois; Major: CSS Alpha Delt HEGENER, CHARLES J.-4907 Eastchester, Sarasota, Flori- da; Major: English, Gymnastics, Companion Program, Dearfs List HELFER, ELIOT 5-245 Parkview Avenue, Bronxville, Compliments of the COCA-COLA BOTTLING COMPANY OF MIDDLETOWN, INCORPORATED 275 MAIN STREET Charge Accounts, Checks Cashed New York; Major: CSS, EQV HICKEL, OLIVER w., 111-13 Granada Way, St. Louis, Missouri; Major: Economics, DKE HICKS, GEORGE L., JR.-5 Fairfield Street, Newtonville, Massachusetts; Major: Biology DKE, President Skull and Serpent, Cardinal Key, Vice-President TNE, Presi- dent of Fraternity, Football, Basketball, 1co-captain1 Volunteer Program, German Award for Scholastic Achievement, Demfs List HOLLEN, CHARLES R.-309 Elmdale, Akron, Ohio; Major: CSS, Independent, Delta Sigma Rho-Tnu Kappa Alpha, Squash, Tennis, Vanderbilt Debate Council, Wesleyan NSA, Wesleyan College Bowl, Rum and Gun Club, International Rotary Fellowship, Rhodes Nomination HonAN, JOHN j., JR.-13428 Conway Road, St. Louis, Missouri; Major: Biology, Beta Wesleyan Volunteers HUGHES, jOE K.-BOX 10545, El Paso, Texas; Major: Eng- lish, DKE, Varsity Crew Dormitory Counselor, Cheer- leader, Dean1s List HUGHES, STEPHEN G.-P. O. Box 340 Santa Fe, New Mexico, Major: CSS, Al ha Delt JOHNSON, GARY F.-59 0d Highway, Wilton, Connecti- cut; Major: Psychology, Chi Psi jOHNSON, REUBEN 11., 111-15 Eastwood Road, Storrs, Connecticut; Major: CSS, Eclectic TNE, Soccer 1Co- captaim College Body Committee Chairman, Tutorial Program, Dormitory Counselor, Rugby Club, Dean's List, Davenport Scholarship, Preceptor in American History for CSS, Raymond J. Walsh Memorial Soccer Award JONES, AIDEN D.-11 Harlech Drive, Wilmington, Dela- ware; Major: English; DTD Freshman Soccer, Wrest- ling, Freshman Senator, CBC Dormitory Committee, NAACP-Wesleyan Tutorial Program, Dormitory Coun- selor, Wesleyan-Tuskeegee Exchange, Dean's List JONES, KENNETH D.-478 Carey Avenue, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania; Major: Government Beta, Wrestling, Com- panion Frog, Deanis' List RATES, JAMES G.-104 Ogden Avenue, White Plains, New York; Major: COL KAUFMAN, MICHAEL w.-182-43 Radnor Road, Jamaica, New York; Major: Biology, EQV Crew Team, Editor 1Public Affairs Quarterlw Wesleyan Volunteers NAACP- Wesleyan Tutorial Program, Teaching Assistant, Dean's List KEIM, CARROLL s.-20 East 9th Street, New York, New York; Major: PsycMFrench; Eclectic; Fraternity Officer, Soccer, Squash, Golf, Raymond Dodge Club. Dean1s List KELLY, MICHAEL w.-1266-43rd Street, Des Moines, Iowa; Major: English; Commons Club KENEALLY, GERALD M.-4 Barry Lane, Westport, Con- necticut; Major: English; Independent KENNEDY, THOMAS 13., 111-251 Red Oak Road, North- brook, Illinois; Major: Government; Commons Club KENNEY, JAMES M., 111-4 Nimitz Place, Old Greenwich, Connecticut; Major: Economics; KNK, Cardinal Key, Soccer, BHP Secretary and Treasurer, Newman Club, Volunteer Program, Tutorial Program, CBC Parley Com- mittee, Davenport Fellowship, Horace White Fellow- ship, Dean1s List KESNER, ROBERT R.-1 River Glen, Hastings-on-Hudson, New York; Major: Psychology, Independent KETCHAM, MICHAEL 0-127 Lincoln Road, Westfield, STEVE'S PACKAGE STORE Steve Dzialo, Permittee We Carry All Legal Beverages Foreign 81 Domestic Tel. 346-7081 Middletown, Conn. 125 Washington 51. New Jersey; Major: Economics DTD KINBERG, MYRON H.-1246 Moncouer, Creve Couer, Missouri; Major: Religion, Gamma Psi KLABER, WILLIAM, 111-54 E. Cedar Street, Livingstson, New Jersey; Major: CSS, Independent KLEIN, MICHAEL E.-63 Muriel Avenue, Lawrence, New York; Major: Chemistry; Ind. 1De1ta Sigma1 Cardinal Key, Track, Cross Country, Argus, WESU, Tutorial Program, Orientation Committee, Dean,s List, Chemistry Fellowship KOZIELL, JAMES A.-70 Boston Road, 13-315, Chelmsford, Massachusetts; Major: Philosophy, Beta, Companion Pro- gram, NAACP-Wesleyan Tutorial Program KRELL, RICHARD B.-427 Campbell Street, Geneva, Illi- nois; Major: History; Psi U Knopp, R. PAUL, JR.-Box 1085, Conrad, Montana; Major: CSS, Independent LAME, ANTHONY c.-518 Auburn Avenue, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; Major: American Studies; CC, Argus, WESU, Companion Program, Deanis List LAPUC, PETER H.-330 Elm Street, Meriden, Connecticut; Major: Economics, DTD Basketball, 1Co-Captain1 Wes- leyan Scholarship LESLEY, PETER D.-5615 Netherland Avenue, Bronx, New York; Major: Psychology, Independent, German Club, Outing Club, WESU LEVY, J. DAVID, JR.-509 W. Polo Drive, Clayton, Mis- souri; Major: History, Alpha Delt LEVY, ROBERT D.-2319 Joseph Street, New Orleans, Louisiana; Major: Art History, Psi U LEYDEN, AMES A., 1v-98 Paulding Drive, Chappaqua, New Yor ; Major: CoL; Alpha Delt LITTELL, J. PAUL-733 Bevier Road, University Hights, Piscataway, New Jersey; Major: HistoryXReligion; In- dependent LIVESAY, E. CHRISTOPHER-Parkview Apartments it633, 200 Swanton Street, Winchester, Massachusetts, Major: Biology, Eclectic LOEB, LOUIS E.-79 Ladue Estates, St. Louis, Missouri; Major: PhilosophyXEQV Cardinal Key, Cannon Club, Junior Phi Beta Kappa, Wesleyan Tutorial Program, CBC Curriculum Committee, Rushing Chairman for EQV, President of Fraternity, Ayres Prize, Cole Prize, Davenport Scholarship, Allied Chemical Foundation Sleholarship, Wesleyan Memorial Prize, Marshall Scholar- s 1p. LOGAN, jOHN R.-1230 S. 2lst Street, Philadelphia, Penn- sylvania; Major: CQS, Independent, Theta Nu Epsilon, Skull and Serpent 1Secy-Treas1 Football, Wrestling 1Co- Captaim Track, TNE Award, Edward Bennet Rosa Worthy Student Award LONG, WALTER D.-576 Westminster Avenue, Elizabeth, New Jersey; Major: History Chi Psi, TNE, Skull and Serpent, Football, Lacrosse, BHP, Dean,s List, President of Fraternity MACBEAN, E. CRAIGe-749 Bair Road, Berwyn, Pennsyl- vania; Major: English, Independent, LaCrosse, Theater, WESU MACOY, WILLIAM 1-'.-11351 Mosley Lane, St. Louis, Mis- souri; Major: COL; Alpha Delt, President of Fraternity, Crew Club 1Captain1 Outing Club Theater, AIESEC, Olin Scholarship MAIER, KARL A.-468 Sportsman Road, Orange, Connec- ticut; Major: History, Beta MARSHAK, ROBERT p.-1075 Park Avenue, New York, New York; Major: COL; Independent MARSHALL, JEFFREY Ar350 E. Water Street, Lock Haven, Pennsylvania; Major: Government; Beta MARTIN, PETER A.-125 Westminster Center, Staten Is- land, New York; Major; COL, Independent MARTINI, EUGENE N.-2345 Haven Ridge Drive, Atlanta, Georgia; Major: Religion DKE MCCARTHY, KEVIN F.-806 Lake Avenue, Greenwich, Con- necticut; Major: Covemment, Psi U MCCORD, MICHAEL w.-331 W. Cliveden Street, Phila- delphia, Pennsylvania; Major: Government, Independent MCCUNE, EDWAnD-IOG Arlington Avenue, Petoskey, Michigan; Major: Biology, Alpha Delt MCENTEER, JAMES-814 N. Monroe Street, Titusville, Pennsylvania; Major: English MCKECHNIE, GEORGE Es-RD 2 Tara Lane, Montville, New Jersey; Major: Psychology Alpha Delt, Fraternity OfEcer, Track, Glee Club, Chapel Choir, Companion Program, WESU, Dean,s List MCMILLAN, LAWRENCE B.-481 Freeman Avenue, Strat- ford, Connecticut; Major: English Eclectic MELLEN, MICHAEL N.-60 Kensington Heights, Meriden, Connecticut; Major: ArUHistory DTD, Track, Tutorial Program, Companion Program, Wesleyan Scholarship Dean,s List MERKEL, WILLIAM T.-11 Annwood Lane, Cincinnati, Ohio; Major: CovernmenUDTD MILLER, DAVID H.-260 Elm Street, Oberlin, Ohio; Major: Government; DTD, CBC Rushing Committee 1Co- Chairmam CBC Rushing Violations Committee, Basket- ball, Golf, Volunteer Program, Dormitory Counselor, Wesleyan Scholarship MILLER, DAVID s.-Perkins Road, Boothbay Harbor, Maine; Major: English; Independent MILLER, NORMAN F.-3750 Tuxedo Road, N.Y., Atlanta, Georgia; Major: History, Alpha Delt MILLER, PHILIP J.-235 N. Third Street, Lewiston, New York; Major: History; Eclectic MILLS, RUSSELL-915 N. Chauncey Avenue, W., Safay- ette, Indiana; Major: CoL; 1nd. MOORE, NORMAN 11., JR.-234 Albion Avenue, Woodside, California; Major; English Psi U MORGAN, DONALD w.-77 Peterson Place, Lynbrook, New York; Major: Psychology, Delta Sigma MORNINGSTAR, BRUCE L.--1640 Oak Avenue, Menlo Park, Calif., Major: Government; DKE MOWER, STEVEN A.-Box 397, Hanover, Indiana; Major: Government; Psi U MUNRO, DAVID 0-5310 So. Cornell, Chicago 15, Illinois; Major: CSS, Independent MURDOCK, JOHN B.-Peapack Road, Peapack, New Jersey; Major: Economics; Independent MURPHY, FREDERICK s.-125 Gates Avenue, Montclair, New Jersey; Major: History; Chi Psi MUTRUX, JUSTIN J.-7 Sumac Lane, Ladue, Missouri; Major: German; EQV MYTELKA, JAN M.-172 New Providence Road, Moun- tainside, New Jersey; Major: Economics Chi Psi NEEBE, ALAN W.-417 Elmwood Avenue, Woodbridge, New Jersey; Major: CQS, KNK, Soccer, WESU, Com- Compliments of . . . SEARS 222 MAIN STREET putar Labatory Staff member NIBUR, PAUL w.-Lloyd Road, Bernardsville, New Jersey; Major: English; Delta Tau Delta, Truck, Band, VVesk-yzm Volunteer Program, Deank List NICITA, CHARLES R.-1074 Palmer Avenue, Larchmont, New York; Major: English; Psi U, Argus, Fraternity Officer, Volunteer Program eAssistamt Clmirmam Chair- man of the United Fund Drive NICE, SAMUEI H., JIL-IZS Hollins Drive, Santa Cruz, Cali- fornia; Major: Art History Psi U NITSCHE, MARC E.-Old Branchville Road, Ridgefield, Connecticut; Major: CSS Independent NOVICK, STEVEN-ZQ Rynda Road, Maplewood, New Jer- sey; Major: Psychology; Independent onAM-SMITH, jEFFREY 0-91 Fernwood Road, Summit, New Jersey; Major: Biology Delta Tau Delta, Track, Volunteer Program, Companion Program PACKARD, RANDALL hL-4 Mill Road, New Canaan, Con- necticut; Major: English; DTD PAGE, RICHARD w.-11 Boxwood Drive, East Greenwich, R.I., Major: English; EQV PARSONS, ARTHUR s.-1150 Tellem Drive, Pacific Pali- sades, California; Major: CSS, Alpha Delt PATRICK, DAVID K.-160 Prospect Street, East Orange, New Jersey; Major: Art; Independent, Wrestling, Dcarfs List PATTERSON, DAVID J.-23 Beverly Road, Cedar Grove, New Jersey; Major: English, Commons Club PAWEL, MICHAEL A.-12 Cutheil Lune, Great Neck, New York; Major: COL PAWLOWSKI, ROBERT E.-l Elizabeth Road, Portland, Connecticut; Major: English Eclectic PAYNE, 103121111 L.-Peachtree Road, Duluth, Georgia; Major: CSS, Beta, Debate Team, Companion Program, Volunteer Program, Fraternity omcer PFEIF, STEVEN 6,-435 Crestwood Road, Fairfield, Con- necticut; Major: Government Eclectic PHILLIPS, IOHN 0-1600 Arch Street, Philadelphia, Penn- sylvania; Major: Theater Delta Tau Delta PLENCE, CHARLES F.-Wcst Portal Road, R.D. 1, Asbury, compliments of FRED'S PACKAGE STORE 534 Main Street 347-6353 Lastrina's PARADISE RESTAU RANT A Paradise of Fine ltalian-American Foods Where Wesmen Meet Phone DI 6-6482 12-14 Main Street Middletown New Jersey; Major: Government; Delta Tau Delta poummus, JOHN u.-B0x 1H, Washington Crossing, Pennsylvania; Major: History Chi Psi, Fnotball, Wrest- ling, Rugby, XVesIeynn-Tutorinl Program, Argus, Dean,s List POWERS, DAVID F,-424 Main Street, Poland, Ohio, Major: English; Delta Tau Delta pnulsu; EDWARD G.-50 Huverstmw Road, SuHern, New York; Major: Psychology, DTD Football, Baseball, Rugby, Companion Program, Wesleyan Volunteer Pro- gram. PRENDERCAST, G. jOSEPH, 1-519 Country Club Drive, Woodbmok, Wilmington, Delaware; Major: Govern- ment; Commons Club PUTNAM, TIMOTHY J.-337 Highland Avenue, West New- ton, Massachusetts; Major: HistorwReligion, Alpha Delt HAINEY, JOHN L.-2148 Horace Avenue, Abington, Penn- sylvania; Major: History; Independent REED, PETEn-Sl Newton Street, South Glens Falls, New York; Major: Economics; Independent Football, Wrest- ling, eCo-Cuptaim New England Champion, Cardinal Key, Hedden Scholarship, Horace White Scholarship, Demfs List mansmm, DONALD w.-179 Woodland Road, Madison, New Jersey: Major: CSS; Alpha Delt HEINDORF, MARK 11,-92 Bayberry Lane, Westport, Con- necticut; Major: French; Independent Track, Orchestra, Wesleyan Scholarship, Demfs List REISSE, ROBERT A.-812 E. Cravers Lane, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; Major: Physics Delta Sigma, Swimming, Fraternity Officer HEPPERT, smLEY P.-77 Country Club Drive, Port Wash- ington, New York; Major: CSS EQV, President of Fraternity, Crew, Preceptor CSS, Davenport Scholar- ship, Dean,s List REYNOLDS, c. THOMAS, JR.-123 McCosh Circle, Prince- ton, New Jersey; Major: History Chi Psi RICHLIN, WILLIAM CAR.-196 N. Wyoming Avenue, South Orange, New Jersey; Major: History Track, Volunteer, Program, Dormitory Counselor, Dean,s List and Summer Study Grant RICHTER, mva 11-155 Rose Circle, Middleton, Connecti- cut; Major: Government; DKE ROBERTS, JOHN c.-81 St. George Court, Warwick, R.I., Major: CSS; Gamma Psi ROBINSON, KEVIN B.-U.S.O.MJV APO San Francisco, California; Major: CSS; Alpha Delt ROGERS, MCCAGIE 13., JR.-212 William Street, Middle- town, Connecticut; Major: CQS BOSS, THOMASv-l709 N. Tejon, Colorado Springs, Colo- rado; Major: Music; Independent RO'ITNER, JOEL J.-19 Lawton Road, Manchester, Con- necticut; Major: Chemistry; Psi U ROWE, WILLIAM C.-415 Lakeview Drive, Brandenburg, Kentucky; Major: Mathematics, Delta Sigma, DeanUs List ROWE, WILLIAM T.-1859 Marine Parkway, Brooklyn 34, New York; Major: English; Ind. EUHLEN, JAMES L.-R0ute itS, Baldwin City, Kansas; Major: Chemistry; Independent RUNK, ROBERT Px-62 Maple Street, Milford, Connecticut; Major Psychology; Psi U Year Round Air Conditioning MAIN STREET P A I. A C E 346-2422 HOME OF THE FINEST FILMS FROM HOLLYWOOD :FSpecial Art Film Showings for Groups Where The Big Picture: Play RYAN, ROBERT 1.-137 Fairland Drive, FairEeld, Con- necticut; Major: Economics; Eclectic; Baseball, 1Cap- taim TNE, Baker Scholarship Horace White Scholar- ship, Deank List SCARLETT, MARK A.-Box H, Manlius School, New York; Major; English, Alpha Delt SHALLCROSS, HARRY M.-16 Everygreen Center, Moun- tainside, New Jersey; Major: History, Eclectic SHERMAN, ROBERT N.-21 Dick Drive, Worchester, Massa- chusetts; Major: Religion Independent SIBLEY, jOHN A., 111-165 W. Wesley Road, N.W., Atlan- m 5, Georgia; Major: Government, Magna cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, Alpha Delt sK:HOL, BRIAN A.-10 Viola Road, Suqem, New York, Major: Government; Independent 5100141, CHRISTOPHER-BOX 181, Pine Street, Pine Plains, New York; Major: History, Independent, Dean's List SIECER, CHRISTOPHER-1757 Main Street, Northampton, Pennsylvania; Major: Psychology, Beta, TNE, Cardinal Key, Wrestling: sIMMONS, EDWARD 1a., JR.-51 Bellvale Road, Mountain Lakes, New Jersey; Major: Economics, Chi Psi. Skull and Serpent, Lacrosse eCaptaim Football, Rugby, Fra- ternity OHicor, Volunteer Fire Department, WESU, Deank List SIMONS, DAVID M.-2040 Hoover Road, Schenectady, New York, Major: Government; Independent, Wrest- ling, Committee on New Fraternities, Deank List SMITH, DENNIS R.-15 Camden Road, Aubumdale, Massa- chusetts, Major: Economics, DKE, Psi Beta Kappa, Fra- ternity Ocher, WESU, Volunteer Fire Department, Kent Literary Club, Dean's List, Thorndike Scholar, Horace White Scholar SMITH, JOSEPH 8,-1022 W. Slst Street, Denver 15, Colorado; Major: History; Ind. Tutorial Program, Com- punion Program, Davenport Scholarship, Dean's List SMITH, THEODORE c.-16 Green Avenue, Rye, New York; Major: English; DTD, President Cardinal Key, Mystical Seven, Football, Chairman of the Honor System Com- mittee, Dormitory Counselor, Cardinals, Glee Club, Tutorial Program, Dean,s List, Fraternity Scholarship Award SQUIRE, JONATHAN D.-11 McKeever Place, Brooklyn, New York; Major: Mathematics; Alpha Delt STAUFFER, CARLTON 11., JR.-1560 Hillcraft Lane, York, Pennsylvania; Major: Economics, Psi U., Fraternity Presi- dent, Rushing Violations Committee, Freshman Senate, PPAC, Volunteer Program, Winchester Literary Society Companion, Program, Dean,s List STEINBERG, BERNARD-7901 Cannon Avenue, University City, Missouri; Major: English, Gamma Psi STILES, CHARLES c.-200 Highland Avenue, Short Hills, New Jersey; Major: Philosophy, Independent STONE, DONALD c., JR.-4200 Centre Avenue, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; Major: CSS Independent STOUT, RICHARD B.-Black River Road, Pottersville, New Jerseg: Major: Government, Chi Psi, Football, Lacrosse, Rug STOVER, JON R.-453 N. Street, S.W., Washington, DC, Major: History; Chi Psi STOWE, PAUL A.-l7820 Lake Road, Lakewood, Ohio; Major: History; Chi Psi SUGAR, JAMES A.--3306 Labyrinth Road, Baltimore 15, Maryland; Major: CSS EQV SWEET, DAVID c.-Central Drive, Briarcliff Manor, New York; Major: History Commons Club, Basketball, CBC Athletic Committee, Volunteer Program, Dean,s List SWIFT, CLINTON R.-4 Tyler Road, Branford, Connecticut; Major: History; CC swxcER, L. KENNETH, JR.-311 W. Columbia Street, Falls Ehurch, Virginia; Major; Theater, Independent, Dean,s ist TANNER, WILLIAM D.-329 Tuttle Parkway, WestHeld, New Jersey; Major: COL; Gamma Psi, Squash, Tennis, Companion Program, Volunteer Program TEN BROEKE, JOHN w.-RFD 1, Lime Kiln Road, Ridge- field, Connecticut; Major: Chemistry, Beta THORNDIKE, ALAN 5:72 S. Howell,s Point Road, Bell- port, New York; Major: CQS, Alpha Delt TINE, MICHAEL P.-174 Dix Road, Wethersfield, Con- necticut; Major: Mathematics; KNK, Deanis' List, Sher- man Book Prize, Wesleyan Scholarship TOMASKO, PAUL H.-15 Homestead Avenue, Garden City, New York, Major: Economics, Alpha Delt ULLRICK, ANDREW J.-387 Plymouth Road, Union, New Jersey; Major: English Independent VAUGHAN, JAMES s.-The Manor House, Lydiard Mili- cent near Swindon, Wiltshire, England, major: History; Psi U, Swimming, PPAC Chairman, Fraternity President, Harrington Improvement Award, Dean,s List VERNON, WILLIAM w.-601 NW. 49th, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma; Major: History Eclectic, President of History Club, Dean's List, Junior Fellow at Center for Advanced Studies, Student Judiciary Board, Dormitory Counselor, Edward Bennet Rosa Award, Regional Scholarship VETTEH, 1;. WILLIAM, 111-3784 Central Park, Las Vegas, Nevada; Major: COL Alpha Delt VOM EICEN, ROBERT P.-Washington Valley Road, Mor- ristown, New Jersey; Major: Government; Alpha Delt, Football, Student Events Committee Chairman, Outing Club, Davenport Scholarship, Dean,s List WALLACE, DAVID R.-Woodland Street, Hartford, Con- From the Girls at the Gaslight necticut; Major: C011; Independent WALTON, TIMOTHY F.-7214 Maple Avenue, Chevy Chase, Maryland: Major: Theater Alpha Delt VVEINSTEIN, VIOSEPH H.-3420 E. Superior Street, Seattle, Washington; Major: CSS Beta, Frzltemity President, Vice President AIESEC, Basketball, Baseball WELLS, joHN R., JR.-325 Old Lancaster Road, Devon, Pennsylvania; Major: PsychologwReligion, Delta Tau Delta, Wrestling, WESU, Fraternity Officer, Wesleyan Scholarship WERTL, WILLIAM F -3 Hillcrest Place, Mendham, New Jersey; Major: COL; Independent WHITE, RALPH R., JIL-SIOO Ampthill Drive, Alexandria, Virginia; Major: Government, Gamma Psi WIBBERLEY, JEFFREY R.-N. Main Street, Stonington, Connecticut; Major: COL; Independent, John Wesleyan Club Treasurer WIENER, MARK n.-3501 Section Road, Cincinnati, Ohio; Major: English; Chi Psi; Wrestling, Fraternity Execu- tive Committee, College Body Rushing Committee, Dean's List WILcox, PAUL N.-1010 E. Washington Lune, Philadel- phia, Pennsylvania; Major: Biology; Alpha Delt WILLIAMS, CHRISTOPHER-10 Daniel Street, Idi-Oro, via Yaba, Lagos, Nigeria; Major: CSS, Independent WITT, ANDREW M.-349 Chestnut Hill Road, Wilton, Con- necticut; Major: Theater; Chi Psi WOLFF, DONALD 0., JH.-6606 Kinsman Road, Pittsburgh, Pmmsylvaniu; Major: English Psi U WOOD, DANIEL 11.-3018 Bvrnard Drive, S. Fort Mitchell, Kentucky; Major: Chemistry. Independent WYCOFF, BRUCE E.M2521 Maywood Drive, Salt Lake City, Utah; Major: CSS, Delta Sigma ZWEIGENHAFT, RICHARD 1, -4514 Truymore Street, Be- thesda 14, Maryland; Eclectic Major: Psychology; Mysti- cal Seven, Big Brother Program, Davenport Scholarship Eomitory Counselor, Thorndike Scholarship, Dcank ist Compliments of MIDTOWN PHOTO CENTER MAIN 8i COLLEGE STREETS DI 6-2456 Complimenk of KRENZ RESTAURANT 544 Main Sheef Middlefown. Conn. from Jan, Ann, Barn, Madie, and all the GDl's of F.S.C. PETERZS TYPEWRITER COMPANY 143 William Street 347-6088 Rentals . . . Service . . . Sales . . . Supplies FOREST CITY Cleaners and Launders, Inc. 50 William Street, Middletown, Conn. Better Laundering Santone Dry Cleaning Compliments of DIDATO6S ATLANTIC SERVICE STATION CORNER OF BROAD AND WILLIAM STREETS 346-9743 BRADBURY. SAYLES. O'NEILL. INC. 405 Lexingi'on Ave. New York l7. 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I967 OLLA PODRIDA Editor Associate Editors Editorial Consuhant Photographers Thanks Michael Ford Rehill David Duggan Henry St. Maurice George Curth Donald Miller James Sugar Douglas Coombes Guy Baehr Skip Murphy William Boynfon Steve Murphy William Edelheif John Comn To: Barbara Brogin for getting things done; Bill Churchill, Dave Marr, and Mary Glennon of Public Relations for all their help; Dick Hahn and John Briggs for their art with a camera; Matt Vikikos, Stanley ldzerda, Dick Lippincoff, and Dick Johnson, for moral support; and Jim Findley, Hank O'Neill, Mike Gilroy, and Margaret Lawrence of Bradbury, Sayles, and O'Neill, Inc. reflection the wcslcyan quarterly Contributors Robert Benson Richard Goodwin Richard Wilbur Timothy Putnam A. S. Wensinger Steve Hughes Karl Scheibe and Philip Shaver Walt Odets Peter Boynton Charles Wuorinen I. A. Richards Joseph Elder Earl G. Witenberg Stephen Spender Nelson W. Polsby Edifors: John Bailey John Briggs John Crigler III Michael Wolfe Associa+e Edifors: Michael Carri+hers Jon Crysial David Duggan Andrew Gaus Walf Odei's Michael Rehill Edmund Helminslri Jon Squire Sibley Repperf I967 Wesleyan Universify. Middlefown. Conn. tltc strange affair 0f the 4617555 margarct Or what a medieval historian docs robcrt bcnson In a recent essay, W. H. Auden commented on one of the problems that poets encounter in their everyday life. Like the rest of us, whenever he struck up a conversation with someone in a plane, ship, or restaurant, he soon faced the inevitable question, 'iWhat do you do? Since the true answer invariably provoked a glassy stare and quickly slowed the conversation to a halt, he sought a more appropriate answer, and one which would cut off further questions. His eventual solution was to reply, iTm a medieval historian? No doubt Auden is right: Most people are filled with awe, envy, and contempt by the disquieting news that one is a professional poet. For those of us who live our lives, so to speak, in prose, it is difficult to avoid speechlessness when meeting someone who spends part of his existence in a dif- ferent dimension. By saying that he is a medieval historian, he could hope to escape at least the awe and the envy. From my own experience, however, the medieval historian is scarcely in a better posi- tion than the poet, for the medievalistis interests and activities are almost equally strange and un- familiar. Of course, Audenis answer - iTm a medie- val historian a does not explain what a medievalist actually does. These pages are a case study, an at- tempt to give a measure of meaning to that answer. In the winter and spring of last year, I was sitting in the Vatican Library, reading a selection of the twelfth- and thirteenth-century Latin manuscripts in that incomparable repository. For several weeks I was engrossed in an elegant little volume, leather- bound and metal-clasped, which is catalogued under the call-number H.13 of the Archive of the Basilica of Saint Peter. H.113 contains an unedited work called iiThe Ancient Rhetorici' tRhetorica antiqual, written about 1216 by a certain Master Boncom- pagno of Florence. He was a professor of rhetoric at the University of Bologna, and the author of many workseincluding a collection of love letters. He was learned, had good connections at the papal court, and knew something of constitutional and administrative law. The Rhetorica antiqua is a col- lection of model letters for all possible political and administrative occasions, both secular and ecclesias- tical: it is a formulary book. It embodies a few genuine documents, but most of its letters are ad- mittedly invented, though sometimes invented on the basis of actual events. Much of it is, like the field of rhetoric itself, concerned with problems of public administration, and specifically, about half of the book is devoted to Church affairs. It is ob- vious that such a collection is enormously valuable to the historian. In studying the life of any insti- tution, one must always be aware of the standard forms for each occasion - of iiForm 203K, or what- ever the number may be. In short, the Rhetorica antiqua presents what a well-informed contemporary thought was, or should be, the standard operating procedure. Mri Benson is a professor of medieval history at Wesleyan Curiously, Boncompagno's Rhetorica antiqua has been little studied for the particular purposes of ecclesiastical history. In 1933, however, Geoffrey Barraclough published a long and important article which drew heavily on the Rhetorica antiqua, which demonstrated its significance, and which provided, in an appendix, the Latin text of some letters ap- pearing in the Rhetorica. Professor Banaclough is, of course, a medieval and modern historian of great distinction, who has held various professorships, has written many books, and has directed the Institute for Historical Research in London. His article analy- zes the procedure in the creation of bishops dun'ng the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and concen- trates its attention on the papacy,s role in the eleva- tion of bishops. It is, in fact, universally regarded as the standard treatment of this subject. Barracloughs article first aroused my curiosity about the Rhetorica antiqua, and furnished my rea- son for studying it while in Rome. Indeed, his article addresses itself directly to some of the quesh'ons that are central for my own interest in medieval history: Like most societies t including our ownl, the medieval world devised an elaborate network of concepts to justify, express, and conceal the awful realities of power. I am fascinated by this process and, particularly, by the different ways in which medieval men conceived the highest governing of- ficers-emperor, king, pope, archbishop, bishop. Moreover, I have usually found that the most re- warding way to study this subject is to examine the theories and acts surrounding the bestowal of power. Hence my interest in the history of ecclesiastical election. For anyone interested in the development of the Church,s constitution in the Middle Ages, election is a central issue, since dun'ng the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the popes, bishops, and abbots e the ruling elite of the Church e were normally selected by various electoral procedures. As a tech- nique for the recruitment of qualified persons to positions of leadership, election was risky. Personal ambition, dynastic rivalry, political interest - these and other factors exerted an undesirable influence on elections. Frequently, the outcome was an elec- tion iiin discordil: either a disputed election, in which someone denied the suitability of the candi- date or contested the validity of the proceedings; or else a double election, in which different factions among the electors designated two candidates for the office. Not at all surprisingly, Boncompagnois Rhetorica antiqua devoted much attention to the diverse problems of ecclesiastical election, and an entire section of his treatise appears under the rubric, iiConceming letters which are prepared for those who are elected in discord? The twenty-two letters of this section provide a documentary record of four case histories: a double election to the arch- bishopric of Magdeburg Uetters 1-8l, a disputed election to the archbishopric of Palermo tletters 9-10l, a double election in the abbey of Cluny tletter ll-lSl, and finally a double election in the convent of Saint Lawrence, whose locale is unspeci- fied tletters l6-22l. In the first of the eight letters concerned with the conflict at Magdeburg, a group of canons of Magdeburg cathedral inform their candidate of his election as archbishop. Unfortunately, as they ex- plain, another candidate has also been elected, and therefore the case must be decided at the papal court, where it will presumably be handed over to judges-delegate. Although the authors of the first letter believe that their own candidate has the bet- ter claim, they prudently suggest full precautions: You should quickly despatch your messengers to Rome, lest the opposed party trip you up by getting, through entreaties and gifts, judges-delegate who will show favor to their party. In the second letter, reluctant to face iithe malice 0f litigants,u the candidate is unwilling to accept his election. In the third letter, however, his electors persuade him to accept by explaining that the arch- bishop of Trier, uwho is newly returned from Romef, considered the expenditure of 5000 marks sufficient to secure the archbishopric of Magde- burg. The fourth letter contains the archbishop- elect,s exuberant acceptance of his election, and the assurance that he is ready to spend iitwice as miich,, if necessary. In the fifth letter, the archbishop-elect writes to a certain cardinal, states that he is sending him 5,000 marks, and asks him that it be iidivided and spent usefully? specifically, the archbishop- elect suggests that 1,000 marks be given to the pope, 500 marks to the popes brother, and the remaining 3,500 marks to the various iicardinals, notaries, chap- lains, and other officials of the Curia. In the sixth letter, the cardinal replies blandly that he has done whatever he can, but warns the archbishop-elect that the papal Chamberlain is angry that iihe did not get greater gifts. In the seventh letter, the archbishop-elect receives the bad news from his own messenger: the cardinal was playing a crooked game, and the other candidate distributed 10,000 marks 50f which the Chamberlain is said to have got one third, for which reason the venal Curia has yielded to the one who offered more. Finally, in the last letter of the sequence, the messenger of the successful candidate announces the victory. Now the disputed election at Palermo: When a new archbishop was elected at Palermo, some of the cathedral Clergy were prepared to assert his moral unfitness for the archiepiscopal office. Ob- viously, it is easy to raise - and difficult to dis- prove a objections against a mans character. The archbishop-elect therefore wrote to a cardinal, re- questing his aid in securing the popes confirmation of this election, and sending the cardinal 300 gold bezants as a gift. Apparently without difficulty, the cardinal arranged that the election be confirmed, and he transmitted to the arohbishop-elect the docu- ment of confirmation together with all kinds of thanks to your generosity for the 300 gold pieces. In his article, Professor Barraclough not only dis- cusses the case histories of Magdeburg and Palermo, but furnishes the text of both sequences of letters. With little allowance for literary exaggeration, he takes the two incidents at face value, and accepts them as typical procedures at the papal Curia - perhaps even tthough this speculation, he admits, cannot be proveno as real historical incidents. For his view, moreover, there is imposing evidence: It cannot be doubted that the Rhetorica antiqua was intended as a serious and practical work, and that its documents were intended as models for actual usage. Indeed, in 1216, before arm audience which included a papal legate as well as the faculty of the University of Bologna, Boncompagno read the Rhetorica antiqua aloud, and, as Barraclough argues, its contents must therefore have found approval in the highest circles. The occurrence of such incidents must, of course, be tied to the tragically inadequate fiscal system of the papacy. During the 150 years before Bon- compagno wrote the Rhetorica antiqua, Latin Christendom had expanded in all directions, and the tasks of the papacy had expanded to its borders and beyond. In increasing numbers, judicial appeals were directed to Rome, and the popes power was felt among Latin Christians throughout Western Europe and the Mediterranean. A large bureaucracy was necessary, and the cost of this huge govern- mental apparatus was growing rapidly - but, at the same time, the papacy had little assured income, and could not afford to pay fixed salaries. Conse- quently, whoever had business with the Curia had to be ready to hand out expensive presents and to pay large fees. Though the papacy itself desper- ately tried to reform this system, no adequate alter- native was possible. The pope, the cardinals, and the other high officials were entirely dependent on the gifts and fees attached to the exercise of juris- diction. As Barraclough maintains, the incidents of Magda- burg and Palermo must be seen in the context of the thirteenth century,s problems and values. Still, the inadequacies of the papal financial system do not fully explain them away, nor is Barraclough entirely convincing when he insists on subtle dis- tinctions-for example, between a customary gift and a shameless bribe. Taken at face value, and judged by the standards of the thirteenth century or of the twentieth, such incidents present an ap- palling portrait of venality and corruption at the heart of the Roman Church. Yet astonishingly, Bar- raclough does not explicitly point out the most shocking aspect of these two case histories from the Rhetorica antiqua: By including them in a formu- lary book, Boncompagno offered them as model correspondences, so that others could turn to these letters, and could appropriate their format and wording for correspondence necessary to gain the confirmation of a contested election at the papal Curia. In other words, Boncompagno apparently conceived and intended these two case histories as standard operating procedure for the guidance of any prelate in this predicament. Studying manuscript H.13 in the Vatican Library, I began by reading the case histories published by Barraclough, and then went on to read the last series of formularies i'for those who are elected in discordii lletters 16-22l, a series that Barraclough did not regard as worthy of discussion or publica- tion. This last series opens with a letter from a group of nuns of the convent of Saint Lawrence, reporting to their bishop the news of a double election. Their letter begins conventionally with a statement of the spiritual and temporal damage caused Iby the discord of the electors? They them- selves have elected lithe lady Margaretf whom they compare, punning on her name, to la true pearli, Unargarital; love of word-play was, of course, com- mon in the thirteenth century, and is evident even in such serious documents as papal decretals. Then the tone of the nuns, letter changes abruptly as they boast that Margaret excels among women Iin wisdom as well as in the shape of her body, ltam sapientid quam formd corporisl. Thereupon the nuns provide an exuberant description of the de- sirable young woman whom they have chosen as abbess-elect: She is skillful in speech, graceful in ap- pearance, and well put together. She has teeth as white as ivory, she has golden hair, and her eyes shine like morning stars. She is kind, charming, lovable, and sweet. But, the nuns explain, the other faction within the convent has elected a certain old creature by the name of Brigid, whose eyes'i tnote the contrast with the relucent MargaretD are darkened by ex- cessive age, and who is, and has been, odious to all for her disgraceful morals? The first letter con- cludes with a request that the bishop advise the convent as may seem to him appropriate. Medieval Latin manuscripts do not offer a re- laxing hobby: The script is heavily abbreviated; a single symbol or a couple of letters may indicate a long word. Medieval scribes often made mistakes, Neither a grammar nor a comprehensive dictionary of medieval Latin is available. In short, on reading the first letter about the abbess-elect Margaret, my initial reaction was to assume that I e or the scribe - had made an improbable series of errors. There was, however, no mistake. In the second letter of the sequence, the bishop expressed his anger at the nuns and his indifference over damage to the convent, because, as he ex- plained, On every occasion, yoa have defied our admonitions and our orders, not considering how rash it is to oppose the commands of your bishop. Thereupon, the group of nuns replied: If, from a lack of prudence, we have opposed your commands, we are thor- oughly grieved. Still, we tearfully beg your forgiveness for the wrongs com- mitted. Somewhat mollified, the bishop answered philo- sophically: The unstable nature of women seems to repent quickly, but it rarely per- severes in the intention of repentance. However that may be, we have caused the entire matter to be entrusted to the decision of our Chamberlain. In the next letter, the bishops Chamberlain wrote to the group of nuns and advised them: The lady Margaret should come to the episcopal palace by night, dressed in a mans clothing, since the bishop wishes to question. her diligently for some days concerning the entire elec- toral proceedings, so that he can make known his definitive decision canoni- cally. And with her, send the lady Brigid, since I want her to sew some clothes for me. To this, the nuns replied: Tomorrow toward dusk, Margaret and Brigid will come as you have said. But trouble yourself to take care, lest per- haps the sisters should think something. For we have invented a story that they must visit their sick mothers. Immediately after this letter comes the final letter of the sequence, in which the bishop wrote to the convent, confirming Margaretls election and order- ing the nuns to obey her as abbess. In these letters about the abbess Margaret, Bon- compagno has told his tale with great skill and economy. Indeed, in a purely literary sense, by virtue of the epistolary form in which all of these case histories are presented, Boncompagno has capitalized on two advantages characteristic of the epistolary tale as a genre: F irst, by the confronta- tion of different voices and by the juxtaposition of different points of view, the sequence of letters can create the dramatic effect of dialogue. Second, the reader is enlisted as an active collaborator, for his imagination must supply missing narrative details - incidents not explicitly mentioned, but whose occurrence is implied in the letters. There is thus a tension between the substance of the text and the implicit but omitted informah'on; this tension not only heightens the interest and dramatic force, but also provides unlimited opportunity for irony and humor. Behind the letters about the abbess Margaret, two intertwined stories are clearly discernible - in fact, a double success-story: Margaret gets the confirmation of her election, and the bishop gets Margaret. This double story has the air of a tale widely told and half believed. But obviously one would search in vain for a particular convent of Saint Lawrence in which a real Margaret was elected and confirmed under the circumstances re- lated by Boncornpagno; that is to say, these letters do not constitute a historical record. Rather, the story,s literary affiliations link it with some of the thirteenth-century romances and, in the following century, with Boccaccio. It parodies the style of serious documents concerned with ecclesiastical election, and it satirizes the justice of electoral pro- cedure as well as the sexual morality of the clergy. Yet it is satiric without bitterness, and its true ob- ject is not only, in the bishopls words, iithe un- stable nature of women? but the weakness of all mankind. Here one is reminded of the gently satiric temper of Boecaeeiok tale tDecameron 9.2l about an abbess who has been discovered in an affair with a priest: it is, she remarks at the end of the story, iiimpossible for frail human nature to defend itself against the stings of the flesh. In the thirteenth century, however, a tale about the misbehavior of a nun was not always intended as satire. For example: A certain young abbess found herself pregnant. Shortly before her baby was due, it was announced that the bishop was about to Visit the convent and to inspect conditions there. If discovered pregnant, the abbess would, of course, have been in serious trouble. In her prayers, how- ever, she had always been particularly devoted to the Virgin Mary. 0n the evening before the bishopis visit, the Virgin appeared. delivered the abbess,s baby, and left the infant with a nearby peasant family. On the next day, the abbess - slender again e greeted the bishop, who was doubtless de- lighted with conditions in her convent... Repeat- edly re-told in the thirteenth century, this story clearly belongs not to the satiric tradition, but to the popular devotional literature about the Virgin Mary. Though it seemed to me certain that Boncom- pagnols story about Margaret was satiric, I could not readily explain the presence of broad satire in a work like the Rhetorica antiquu, most of which is, beyond any doubt, serious and practical. This difficulty vanished when I learned that the ancient Roman rhetorieians had sanctioned the mixture of the comic and the serious. Consequently, in the Middle Ages, the juxtaposition of humor and serious- ness can be found in the most diverse kinds of literature, from epic poetry to saints lives. After reaching these conclusions about the story of abbess Margaret, I re-reatl Boneompagnds letters on the elections at Magdeburg and Palermo. Sud- denly these letters appeared in a strikingly dif- ferent light. The final letter in the Magdeburg cor- respondence was especially revealing: The provost of Cologne, who was re- cently despatched to the papal Curie against you, helieuetl that he had ex- ceeded your party in the amount of money paid. But by the grace of God and by the merits of the blessed mar- tyrs Albinus and Rufiuus, . . . the lord pope, . . . when he had quashed the election of your opponent in full con- .s-islory, solemnly and magnificently confirmed yours. By invoking iithe blessed martyrs Albinus and Ruf- inus, Boneompagno was referring to the colors of pale silver and red gold tulhum and rufumi. The iimerits of these iimartyrs were, of course, the money paid to secure the popels continuation of the election. XVith this reference to iiSaint Albinus and iiSaint llufinusf, Boneompagno evoked an entire tradition of anti-lloman satire. Albinus and Rufinus were first mentioned in an anonymous satire of the late eleventh century: when the archbishop of Toledo wanted an appointment as papal legate tso the story goesy he gave. the pope some iirelicsl, of Saints Albinus and Rufinuseand thereupon became legate. By the early thirteenth century, these two pseudo- saints were a stock joke throughout Europe. The point of the joke depended on the. Roman Curia,s widely recognized reputation for insatiable avarice ea reputation that grew directly from the indispen- sable system of gifts and fees. I11 fact, men laughed over an acrostic that used the name of the City to indicate the motto iiAvarice, the root of all evils? Radix Omnium Malomm Avaritia In the same vein, a contemporary parody of the New Testament savagely attacked the greed of the pope and 0f the Curial officials, portraying the Curia as a place where the poor could find no justice, but the rich could buy anything. To sum up: Boneompagnds stories about the dis- puted elections at Magdeburg and Palermo must be added to the list of anti-Roman satires. Despite Professor BarracloughIs interpretation, the letters on Magdeburg and Palermo cannot be regarded as ordinary historical documents, commemorating spe- cific events or neutrally reflecting widespread prac- tice. Rather, these letters must be assigned to an essentially literary tradition, which was immediately recognizable by Bonwmpagnds contemporaries. In- deed, the presence of these letters in a formulary book heightens the irony of Boncompagnois intent. Moreoven since satire depends upon calculated ex- aggeration and distortion, one can draw no safe inferences about the extent and seriousness of the abuses satirized. Clearly, Boncompagno did not compose this section of the Rhetorica antiqua for the guidance of those engaged in seduction or simony tthat is, the purchase of an ecclesiastical officei. He wrote neither to describe nor to ad- vocate usage, but to indict abuses - and7 of course, to provoke laughter. This would be an appropriate place to stop. Still, I cannot resist the temptation to ask one final question: If my interpretation is correct, why did Professor Barraclough make this mistake? Of course, this is a speculative question, since I do not know enough about him to venture a psy- chological explanation or to apply the sociology of knowledge to this question. But Id like to suggest a tentative answer: One can, I think, distinguish two remarkably different styles in the interpretations that historians give to events. In the terminology that a friend of mine has coined, they could be characterized as the KICee-Whizi style and the iiYes-yes-of-courseI style. The assumptions of the IIGee-whizlii historian are: Everything is connected to everything else, and proper explanation requires the tracing of as many of these connections as possible. Consequently, a proper explanation always contains surprises, and it is more complex than you had expected when you began. His key word of praise is Iibrillianti, or iiimaginative. The assumptions of the iIYes-yes-of-coursey, his- torian are: Proper explanation relates an event to its immediate context. A good explanation seldom contains surprises, and it is usually simpler, more obvious, more commonplace, and more matter-of- fact e in short. more a matter of everyday expe- rience e than you had expected when you began. His key word of praise is IisoundI or Iiclear? Barraclough is a splendid example of the IIYes- yes-of-coursei, style. Typical of this tendency is his explanation of the significance of the imperial coro- nation of Charlemagne on Christmas Day in 800. The opposing school - the iIGee-whizV historians a explain the coronation by tracing it into a vast and intricate network of political, philosophical, theological, and ecclesiological developments during the previous 500 years. Barraclough, on the other hand, explains the coronation with reference to the local politics within the city of Rome during the previous two years. In his treatment of these two case-histories - Magdeburg and Palermo e Barraclough interprets them in the classic IIYes-yes-of-course style. He accepts the letters in a matter-of-fact way, he re- lates them to the immediate context of the tragic papal fiscal system, and he therefore consciously re- jects the complicating possibility of a significant connection between them and the satiric tradition that was already fully developed by 1216. Yet perhaps this categorization misses the most obvious explanation for Professor BarracloughIs mis- take. In one of her casual essays, C.V. Wedgewood remarks that a historian should be a very good man. I find this View appealing but dubious. It is, however, clear that a historian should at least be a man of sturdy common sense. Let us give an example: In the sixth or seventh century, a scholar named Virgilius Maro wrote a grammatical treatise e a most extraordinary work, full of words in- vented in much the fashion of James onceis Fin- ncgmfs IVake. Virgilius ascribes four genders to Latin tinstead of the traditional threei, tells of two grammarians who debated for fifteen days and nights without stopping about the inchoative tor inceptiyei forms of the verb, and discusses two other grammarians who had an equally protracted dispute about the vocative of the word ego! Modern scholars have developed elaborate theories to ex- plain Virgilius Maro - indeed, the theories are almost as extraordinary as the work itself. But until recently, scholars were reluctant to apply the simplest common sense and accept the obvious con- clusion that Virgilius Marois treatise is a charming spoof, a joke, a hoax. In plain English: There are times when a sense of humor is not the least important qualification for a historian to possess. The Presidential Speech richard goodwin In a recent Esquire column Malcolm Muggeridge - the British essayist whose literary skills generally exceed his intellectual powers - attacked a volume of speeches by Harold Wilson. He spaciously ex- tended his contempt to the literary qualities of the speeches made by most of the public figures of this and other times. It is true that political speeches rarely make great literature. However, to criticize them on this ground shows, not literary judgment, but ignorance of the condition and function of a political address, more particularly of the purpose of a Presidential paper. A Presidential speech or message is not a compo- sition but an event. It is directed at a specific and living audience and is intended to influence their action or attitudes. General philosophical reflections for their own sake make an occasional appearance, but even the Inugural, the most self-consciously literary of all addresses, is designed to summon sup- port, understanding or admiration for the present policies and direction of the President. Presidential papers are rarely composed with an eye to their enduring literary qualities. Eloquence is both de- sired and sought, but it is an eloquence that will move people in the present; bring them to their feet Cheering, compel immediate reflection, or in- spire fairly immediate emotion, admiration, or in- dignation. At times such eloquence is touched with the inspiration that allows it to speak to the future, yet it is hard to imagine a President consoled by the thought that a speech that was widely criticized and attacked would be admired by the critics and historians of later generations. This helps explain why, at least in our own his- tory, all memorable speeches are linked to impor- tant events or to moments of historical significance. Mri Goodwin, speechwriter tor Presidents Kennedy and Johne sent is a tellow at the Center tor Advanced Studies. Their greatness depends upon the quality of their response to danger and opportunity. It is hard to imagine Calvin Coolidge, in his time and with his policies, making a great speech, even with Heming- way, F aulkner, and F rost as his writers. Memorable phrases such as iiCive me liberty or give me death, llLiberty and union, now and forever, one and in- separablef 0r iiThe only thing we have to fear is fear itself, awake imagination and feeling because they were noble responses to a great cause at a grave moment. The same words spoken to a Cham- ber of Commerce Convention in a time of prosperity and serenity would be ludicrous. The fact that so few Presidential speeches have entered historical memory is more a consequence of their nature than their quality. Even of Inaugural addresses how many can remember more than lef- fersonls first, Lineolnis second, Roosevelfs first, and Kennedyk; and of these only Lincolns the unique product of our single poet-President, exists in more than a few aphoristic remnants. tHistory has not yet had time to judge the Kennedy addressj The speeches of Franklin Roosevelt were one of the most important and brilliant instrumen. i of his Presidency. Yet few can recall more than a dozen lines from his thirteen years, and many volumes, of papers. Still they served his purpose well. They gave tone and purpose to his administration, created the atmosphere and support for enduring action, and are invisibly woven into the fabric of his achieve- ments and the judgment of history. A Presidential paper may express universal truths, but it does so on behalf of particular purposes. It can only be fully judged, therefore, in the context of the concerns, attitudes, and circumstances of the time. In tum it often reveals many of the unarticu- lated, half-conscious assumptions of political life. What a President says, how he says it, and what he fails to say, reflects not only his personal beliefs but his estimate of the national temper and a judgment REDS X, yEEmEE M . , m l ii? as to how far he can reach in advance of common acceptance without forfeiting influence and power. Lincolnls expressed ViCVVS on the inferiority of the N egro and Theodore Roosevelt's attack on the male- factors of great wealth, coming from men of gen- erous Vision and great political skill, tell us, in dif- ferent ways, about the nature of the American they led; and although both men stand high in contempo- rary admiration, scarcely any political figure of na- tional ambition would consider making their phrases and attitudes his own Nearly all Presidential papers are shaped to a mixture of purposes. They may be intended to ex- plain a program, educate the public to new responsie bilities, create pressure for the passage of legis- lation, answer or damage an opponent, win votes, disarm the opposition, or enhance the standing and hence the power of the President. The long and detailed messages to Congress, besides explaining programs, provide facts, information, and arguments to the many political supporters of particular poli- cies who are excluded from inner councils and are beyond the reach of personal communication. Often Presidential papers are designed, hopefully and sometimes skillfully, to influence the opinions of editorial writers and journalists in a way favorable to the Administration, and in any event to compel their attention. Sometimes they are intended and timed to make news, permitting the Administration to dominate the front pages in order to enlist sup- port for an objective, to create a general impression of action and command, or even to obscure mis- fortune. A modern phenomenon, at least in its frequency, is the speech carefully and meticulously crafted to speak to other countries, conveying subtle messages to their leaders of broader assurances to their people. It is almost always true that there is no finally authoritative public statement of foreign policy until the President has spoken e a state of affairs that often requires subordinate officials to produce rapid clarification of their previous re- marks. No speech on any aspect of foreign policy, even if addressed to the American people, can be delivered without careful appraisal of every sen- tence for its possible impact on other countries. More generally, and most importantly, a speech can he a rallying cry or a sermon to lift the spirits of the faithful, sway the unconverted, and inspire, persuade, and tempt people toward the Presidents concept of our national objectives and responsi- bilities. This potential for educating the public to an awareness of danger tRoosevelt before World War Ill or to responsibility tTruman and Point Foum or to action consistent with our more noble ideals tLincohfs Second InauguraD - a potential vastly increased by radio and television - is not only an important use of the speech but one of the most powerful and effective instruments of Presidential government. In modern times the Presidential speech has also become a principal vehicle of policy-making, a technique and a tool with which the President runs his government, makes his decisions, and conducts his office. The concerns of the Presidency are so burdensome and varied that the small group at the peak of the bureaucratic pyramid, the President and his highest advisers, can only concentrate their concerns on a limited number of major issues at any one time. New ideas and proposals, especially when e as is usually the case e they have sub- stantial opposition in the executive branch, rise to the level of Presidential decision and action with great difficulty. The speech is one of the extra-legal and extra- bureaucratic techniques devised to circumvent cum- bersome processes. Once the President decides to deliver a speech on a particular topic, however gen- eral the direction, that decision often compels the contending forces within the government to grapple with judgments, facts, and arguments that have been postponed or ignored. The very process of drafting, and the review of proposed drafts by interested officers and departments tsince a Presidential speech automatically commands the priority at- tention of the highest officialsl requires that all concerned deal with the specifics of a particular problem and accept or reject ideas which have found their way into the typewriter. It is more dif- ficult to express a judgment about a proposal in specific written form than it is to discuss it in casual meetings or conversation especially when it may be necessary to defend that judgment to the President. Often the fact that a speech is to be given compels advisers to come up with new ideas for a President who is usually more impatient and anxious to break new ground than those around him. Most importantly it raises issues to the level of Presidential consideration and puts them in con- crete terms that require commitment and decision. That, of course, is exactly what the President had in mind when he decided to make the speech and selected the topic. That helps explain why so many major breakthroughs in modern American policy made their first appearance in a speech. The Marshall Plan, Point Four, and many other policies of great significance were thoroughly studied and acted upon only after they were announced e an announcement that sometimes caused a hurried and frantic effort by the government to find specific ways to carry out general phrases which had be- come a Presidential commitment. The effectiveness of a President as speaker and writer must, therefore, be judged by the extent to which he fulfills these manifold purposes. If his papers are helpful instruments of policies that ad- vance the goals of the society and leave a lasting imprint on the life of the nation, then they are suc- cessful, however little they appeal to a later gen- eration of literary critics. If in the process we are left with a few words or paragraphs that can lift and direct the feelings of the future, then all reason- able expectations have been surpassed and history has been enriched. Poetry and Happiness richard Wilbur Frankly, the word significance gives me a chill, and so the title of these remarks is not iiPoetIy and Significance,u but iiPoetry and Happiness? I do fervently hope, however, that happiness will turn out to be significant. I am not perfectly certain what our forefathers understood by iithe pursuit of happiness.n Of the friends whom Iive asked for an opinion, the majority have taken that phrase to mean the pursuit of self- realization, 0r of a full humane life. Some darker- minded people, however, have translated iihappi- ness as material well-being, or as the freedom to do as you damn please. I caift adjudicate the mat- ter, but even if the darker-minded people are right, we are entitled to ennoble the phrase and adapt it to the present purpose. Iim going to say a few things this afternoon about the ways in which poetry might be seen as pursuing happiness. There are two main ways of understanding, the word iipoetryf, XVe may think of poetry as a self- shaping activity of the whole society, a collective activity by means of which a society creates a vision of itself, arranges its values, or adopts 0r adapts a culture. It is this sense of iipoehiy which we have in XVallace Stevenss poem, iiMen Made Out of Words? where he says The whole race is a poet that writes down The eccentric propositions of its fate. But iipoetryll may also mean what we more usually mean by it; it may mean verses written by poets, imaginative compositions which employ a con- tlensedt rhythmic, resonant, and persuasive lan- guage. This second kind of poetnj is not uncon- nected with the first; a poem written by a poet is a specific. expert, and tributary form of the general imaginative activity. Nevertheless, I should like to begin by considering poetry in the second and re- stricted sense only, as referring to verse produc- tions written by individuals whose pleasure it is to write them. Back in the days of white saddle shoes and the gentlemaifs grade of C, college undergraduates often found that they had an afternoon to kill. I can remember killing part of one afternoon, with a Mn Wilbur delivered the following lecture last spring at Wooster College in Woostert Ohio at a symposium on HThe Arts and the Pursuit of Happiness? He had been asked to speak on l'Poetry and Significance. literary roommate, in composing what we called A Complete List of Everything. We thought of our- selves, I suppose, as continuators of Dada, and our list, as we set it down on the typewriter, amounted to an intentionally crazy and disrelated sequence of nouns. A section of our list might have read like this: Beauty, carburetor, sheepshank, pagoda, ab- sence, chalk, vector, Amarillo, garters, dromedary, Tartarust tupelo, omelet, caboose, ferrocyanide and so on. As you can imagine, we did not complete our list; we got tired of it. As in random composi- tions of all kinds - musical, pictorial, or verbal e it was possible to sustain interest for only so long, in the absence of deliberate human meaning. Never- thelesst there had been a genuine impulse under- lying our afternoonk diversion, and I think that it stemmed from a primitive desire that is radical to poetry - the desire to lay claim to as much of the world as possible through uttering the names of things. This fundamental urge turns up in all reaches of literature heavy or light. We have it, for example, in the eighteenth chapter of Hugh Loftingk Story of Doctor Dolittle, a chapter in which all children take particular joy. As you will remember, Doctor Dolittle and his animal friends, on their way back from Africa come by Chance into possession of a pirate ship, and find aboard her a little boy who has become separated from his red-haired, snuff- takiug uncle. The Doctor promises to find the little boys lost uncle, wherever he may be, and Jip the dogr goes to the bow of the ship to see if he can smell any snuff on the North wind. Jip, it should be said is a talkingr dog, and here is what he mut- ters to himself as he savors the air: Tar,- spanish onions: kerosene oil; wet raincoats; crushed laurel-leaves; rub- ber burning; Iace-curtains being wushcd-No, my mistake, Iace-curtains hanging out to dry; and foxes-hun- th'etls of ,cm . . . These are the easy smells. Jip says; the strong ones. When he closes his eyes and concentrates on the more delicate odors which the wind is bringing he has this to report: Brick.s-,-old yellow bricks, crumbling with age in a garden-wall; the sweet breath of young cows standing in a n10unfain-streum: the lead roof of a dove-cote-or perhaps a granary- with the mid-day sun on it; black kid gloves lying in a bureau-dmwer of walnut-wood; a dusty road with a horses, drinking-trough beneath the sycamores; little mushrooms bursting through the rotting leaves. .. A catalogue of that sort pleases us in a number of ways. In the first place, it stimulates that dim and nostalgic thing the olfactory memory, and pro- vokes us to recall the ghosts of various stinks and fragrances. In the second place, such a catalogue makes us feel vicariously alert; we participate in the extraordinary responsiveness of Doctor Dolittleis dog, and so feel the more alive to things. In the third place, we exult in lipis power of instant desig- nation, his ability to pin things down with names as fast as they come. The effect of the passage, in short, is to let us share in an articulate relishing and mastery of phenomena in general. That is what the cataloguing impulse almost al- ways expresses - a longing to possess the whole world, and to praise it, or at least to feel it. We see this most plainly and perfectly in the Latin canticle Bencdicite, omnia opera domini. The first verses of that familiar canticle are: 0 all ye Works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever. 0 ye Angels of the Lord, bless ye the Lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever. 0 ye Heavens, bless ye the Lord: praise him and magnify him for ever. 0 ye Waters that be above the firmn- ment, bless ye the Lord: praise him and magnify him forever. I needn't go on to the close, because I am sure that you all know the logic of what follows. All the works of the Lord are called upon in turn e the sun, moon, and stars, the winds and several weathers of the sky, the creatures of earth and sea, and lastly mankind. There is nothing left out. The canticle may not speak of crushed laurel leaves and sycamores, but it does say more comprehensively, iiO all ye Green Things upon the Earth, bless ye the Lordli; it may not speak of foxes and of young cows in a mountain stream, but it does say, ilO all ye Beasts and Cattle, bless ye the Lord. What we have in the Benedicite is an exhaustive poetic prog- ress from heaven, down through the spheres of the old cosmology, to earth and man at the center of things e a progress during which the whole hier- archy of creatures is Cited in terms which, though general, do not seem abstract. It is a poem or song in which heaven and earth are surrounded and captured by words, and embraced by joyous feele 1n . Tt is interesting to compare the strategy of the Benedicite to that of another and more personal poem of catalogue and praise, Gerard Manley Hop- kinsis iicurtal sonnetl iiPied Beauty. Glory be to God for dappled things- For skies of couple-colour as a brindled cow; F or rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim,- FreSh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches, wings; Landscape plotted and pieced- fold, fallow, and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled twho knows howPl With swift, adazzle, dim; He fatherS-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him. As in the old canticle, God is praised first and last; but what lies between is very different. Hopkins does not give us an inventory of the creation; rather he sets out to celebrate one kind of beauty e pied beauty, the beauty of things which are patchy, particolored, variegated. And in his tally of varie- gated things there is no hierarchy or other logic: his mind jumps, seemingly at random, from sky to trout to chestnuts to finches, and finally, by way of landscape, to the gear and tackle of the various trades. The poem sets out, then, to give scattered examples of a single class of things; and yet in its final effect this is a poem of universal praise. Why does it work out that way? It works that way, for one thing, because of the randomness which I have just pointed out; when a catalogue has a random air, when it seems to have been assembled by chance, it implies a vast reservoir of other things which might just as well have been mentioned. In the second place, Hopkins,s poem may begin with dappled things, but when we come to ugear and tackle and trim? the idea of variegation is far less clear, and seems to be yield- ing to that of character. When, in the next line, Hopkins thanks God for iiAll things counter, original, spare, strange? we feel the poem opening out toward the celebration of the rich and quirky par- ticularity of all things whatever. The great tug-of-war in Hopkinsis poetry is be- tween his joy in the intense selfhood and whatness of earthly things, and his feeling that all delights must he referred and sacrificed to God. For Whit- man, with whom Hopkins felt an uncomfortable affinity, there was no such tension. It is true that Whitman said, TI hear and behold God in every object? yet the locus of divinity in his poetry is not Heaven but the mystic soul of the poet, which names all things, draws all things to unity in itself, and hallows all things without distinction. The di- vinely indiscriminate cataloguing consciousness of VVhitmanls poems can consume phenomena in any order and with any emphasis; it acknowledges no protocol; it operates, as Richard Lewis has said, iiin original, spare, slow; sweet, sour,- a world . . . devoid of rank or hierarchy? In Section V of the iiSong of Myself? Whitman describes an experience of mystic illumination, and then gives us these eight remarkable lines: Swi tly arose and spread around me tle peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson 0f the creation is love. And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields, And brown ants in the little wells be- neath them, And mossy scabs of the worm fence, h e a p i d, stones, elder, mullein and pokeweed. That passage happens to proceed from God to man to nature, but there is nothing hierarchical in its spirit. Quite the contrary. This is the Whitman who said, III do not call one greater and one smaller . . . The Insignificant is as big to me as any? He speaks in the same rapt voice of men and women and moss and pokeweed, and it is clear that he might have spoken to the same purpose of ducks or peb- bles or angels. For Whitman, as for the Zen Buddhist, one thing is as good as another, a mouse is sufficient Ito stag- ger sextillions of infidels, as Whitman says, and any part, however small, includes by synecdoche the wonder of the whole. I could go on to speak of still more list-making poets. I could quote the Rilke of the Duino Elegies, who asks Are we perhaps here merely to say, House, Bridge, Fountain, Gate, Jug, Fruit-tree, Window, 01' Column or Tower. . .. In our own immediate day there would be David Iones, Theodore Roethke, and Ruthven Todd in their later work; and indeed, there have been poets in all lands and ages who have sought to resume the universe in ordered categories, or to suggest its totality by the casual piling-up of particulars. But Ilve given enough examples already, and my aim here is not to make a catalogue of poetic cata- logues, but to suggest by a few illustrations that the itch to call the roll of things is a major motive in the writing of poetry. Whether or not he com- poses actual catalogues like Whitman or Hopkins, every poet is driven by a compulsion to designate, and in respect of that drive the poet is not unlike people in general. We all want to be told, for no immediate practical reason, whether a certain column is Ionic or Corinthian, whether that cloud is stratus or cumulus, and what the Spanish word for groceri, is. If we forget the name of a support- ing actor in some film, or the roster of our Su- preme Court bench, we are vexed and distracted until we remember, or look it up in some book of reference. If we travel to the tropics for the first time, and find ourselves surrounded not with oaks and maples but with a bristling wall of name- less flora, we hasten to arm ourselves with nature-books and regain our control over the landscape. The poet is like that, only more so. He is born, it appears, with a stronger-than-usual need for verbal adequacy, and so he is always mustering and reviewing his vocabulary, and forearming himself with terms which he may need in the future. I recallthe excitement of a poet friend when he discovered in a mush- room guide the word duff, which signifies iidecaying vegetable matter on the forest floorf' He was right to be excited, I think. Duff is a short, precise word which somehow sounds like what it means, and it is a word which poets must often have groped after in vain. My own recent discovery of that kind is the term for the depression in the centre of ones upper lip. It had annoyed me, on and off, for many years that I had no word for something that was literally under my nose; and then at long last I had the sense to enquire of a dentist. He told me that the word is philtrum, de- riving from the Greek word for iilove-potionf, and implying, I should think, that the upper lip is an erogenous zone. That sort of word-hunting and word-cherishing may sound frivolous to some, and it must be ad- mitted that the poets fascination with words can degenerate into fetishism and the pursuit of the exotic. More often, however, such researches are the necessary, playful groundwork for that serious business of naming which I have been discussing. Not all poets, especially in the present age, can articulate the universe with a Beneclicite, or possess it by haphazard mysticism, but every poet is im- pelled to utter the whole of that world which is real to him, to respond to that world in some spirit, and to draw all its parts toward some coherence. The job is an endless one, because there are always aspects of life which we acknowledge to be real, but have not yet truly accepted. For an obvious example, one has only to think of those machines which science has bestowed on us, and which Hart Crane said it was the great task of modern poetry to absorb. The iron horse has been With us for a century and a half, and the horseless carriage for eighty-odd years, but it is only in recent decades that train and car have con- sorted easily, in our verse, with hill and ship and hawk and wagon and flower. And indeed there are still readers who think it unpoetic to bring a pick-up truck into the landscape of a poem. The aeroplane has the aesthetic and moral advantage of resembling a bird and of seeming to aspire, but it took some hard writing in the thirties to install such words as pylon and aerodmme in the lexicon of modern verse. And for all our hard writing since, we have still not arrived at the point where, in Hart Craneis words, machinery can form iias spontaneous a ter- minology of poetic reference as the bucolic world of pasture, plow, and barn? The urge of poetry is not, of course, to Whoop it up for the automobile, the plane, the computer, and the space-ship, but only bring them and their like into the felt world, where they may be variously taken, and to establish their names in the vocabu- lary of imagination One perpetual task of the poet is to produce models of inclusive reaction and to let no word or thing be blackballed by sensibility. That is why I took a large pleasure, some years ago, in bringing off a line which convincingly employed the words reinforced concrete? And that is why William Carlos Williams, with his insistence on noting and naming the bitterest details of the American urban scene, was such a hero of the modern spirit; he would not wear blinders in Ruth- erford and Paterson, but instead wrote beautifully 0f peeling billboards, wind-blown paper bags, and broken bottles in the gravel, claiming for poetry a territory which is part of our reality, and needs to be seen and said. For poetry, there is no such thing as no-man,s-land. The drive to get everything said is not merely a matter of acknowledging and absorbing the physi- cal environment. The poet is also moved to desig- nate human life in all its fulness, and it may be argued, for an extreme example, that the best of Henry Miller arises from a pure poetic compulsion to refer to certain realities by their real names. Mr. Millers best is not very good, actually, and Aretino did it far better some centuries back; but there are passages in the Tropics which are clearly attempt- ing, by means of an exuberant lyricism, to prove that the basic four-letter words are capable of aug- menting our literary language without blowing it to pieces. I expressed this view not long ago, when testifying for Mr. Miller at an obscenity trial, and the judge replied only with a slow, sad shaking of the head. But I remain unshaken. I donit think that Mr. Miller succeeds very often in his aim, partly because the words he champions are what the theater calls bad ensemble players. But as for his aim, I recognize it as genuine and would call it essentially poetic. Thus far I have been speaking of poetry as an inventory of external reality; now let me speak of poetry as discovery and projection of the self. The notion that art is self-expression, the expression of ones uniqueness, has provoked and excused a great deal of bad, solipsistic work in this century; never- theless, the work of every good poet may be seen in one way or another as an exploration and decla- ration of the self. In Emily Dickinson, for instance, we have a poet whose most electrifying work is the result of keen and dogged self-scrutiny. Having spied for a long time on her own psyche, she can report that iiWon- der is not precisely knowingJ And not precisely knowing not? Or she can produce a little poem like this, about how anguish engrosses the sense of time: Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms contain I ts past, enlightened to perceive New periods of pain. Those lines are a pure trophy of introspection; they are not the re-phrasing of something known, but the articulation of one personis intense inward ob- servation. Yet because they are so articulate and so true, they light up both the poets psychology and everyone elseis. Another version of self-discovery is implied in Edwin Muifs statement that iithe task of a poet is to make his imaginative world clear to himself? What Muir meant was that every poet, owing to his character and early life, has a predisposition to project his sense of things by telling this or that story, by using this or that image or symbol. It may take a poet years to stumble on his destined story or symbol and set it forth, but for Muir they are always vaguely and archetypally there, at the back of the poets mind. When we say of a poet that he has found his subject, or found his voice, we are likely to be thinking about poetry in Muiris way, as a long struggle to objectify the soul. Marianne Moore sketching her first emblematic animal, Vachel Lind- say first attempting to catch the camp-meeting cadence, Frost first perceiving the symbolic pos- sibilities of a stone wall a at such moments the poet is suddenly in possession of the formula of his feelings, the means of knowing himself and of making that self known. It was at such a moment that Rilke wrote in a letter, iiI am a stamp which is about to make its impression? As I have said, these moments of self-possession can be a long time in coming. Looking back at his early poems, and finding them cloudy and abortive, Yeats sadly wrote in his Autobiographz, iiIt is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is? It was late in his life that a Scots poet whom I knew, while buckling his belt one morning, heard himself saying the Lords Prayer, and concluded that he must be a Christian after all. Or to speak of a deconversion, there were eight years of silence between the clang- orous, prophetic early books of Robert Lowell and the publication of Life Studies, in which a flexible. worldly voice suddenly speaks, with a whole per- sonality behind it. What had happened to Lowell was, in Yeats, phrase, a iiwithering into the truthf, and some such process must occur, I think, in the life of every poet. It is Yeats above all, in the present age, who has preached and embodied the notion that poetry is self-projection; that the poet creates his world iilock, stock and barrel out of his bitter soul? iiReve- lation is from the self? he said; and though his way of putting it altered, he never ceased to think as he had done in 1893, when he wrote in his book The Celtic Twilight, What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident? And are there not moods which need heaven, hell, purgatory and faeryland for their expression, no less than this dilapidated earth? What's fundamental in poetry, according to that definition, is moods - that is, the poefs repertory of emotions, his spectrum of attitudes. All else is instrumental; persons, things, actions, and ideas are only means to externalizing the states of the poets heart. Before Yeats was through, he had as you know constructed a visionary system full of cycles and interpenetrating gyres which embraced all pos- sible experience, all human types, all ages of man, all ages of history, this world and the next. It was a vision as inclusive as that of the Benedicite, but whereas the latter was for its poet an objective poem, Yeats, vision is all a deliberate ramification of his subjective life. The phases of the moon, the gong-tormented sea, the peacockis cry, hunchback and saint, Cuchulain e the ground of their reality is the various and conflicting spirit of the poet. When the young Yeats says Before us lies eternity; our souls Are love, and a continual farewell, and when he later proclaims that umen dance on deathless feet? he is not expounding the doctrine of reincarnation, but exploiting that idea as a means of expressing his own hearfs insatiable desire for life. The spirits who brought Yeats the substance of his system did not bring him an epitome of external truth; rather they said, iiWe have come to give you metaphors for poetry? And when Yeats felt that certain of his expressive fictions were exhausted, he turned for a new start not to the world but to what he called, in a famous line, iithe foul rag and bone shop of the heart? I have said something now about two impulses of poetry e the impulse to name the world, and the impulse to clarify and embody the self. All poets are moved by both, but every poet inclines more to one than to the other, and a way of measuring any poetis inclination is to search his lines for moments of descriptive power. Description is, of course, an elaborate and enchanted form of naming, and among the great describers 0f the modern pe- riod are Hopkins, or Williams, or Lawrence in his animal-poems, or Marianne Moore, who once de- scribed a butterfly as iibobbing away like wreckage on the sea? And then there is that thunderstorm in a poem of Elizabeth Bishops, which moves away, as she tells it, in a series Of small, badly-lit battle scenes, Each in Another part of the field? Or there is the beautifully realized little sandpiper, in her latest book, who runs iiin a state of controlled panic along a beach which iihisses like fat? Now, Yeats had his sea-birds too, and in his youthful novel John Sherman there were some puf- fins very accurately observed; but soon he became concerned, as he said, with iipassions that had noth- ing to do with observationf and the many birds of his subsequent work are a symbolic aviary of no de- scriptive interest. Yeats rarely gives us any pictorial pleasure, in birds or in anything else, being little concerned in his naming of things to possess them in their otherness and actuality. Nevertheless he, like all poets, is a namer; and Miss Bishop, for all her descriptive genius, is like all poets a scholar of the heart. It is a matter of proportion only, a mat- ter of ones imaginative balance. And having said the word iibalancef, I want to offer a last quotation from Yeats, which speaks directly to the question of art and happiness. In a letter to Dorothy Wellesley, written sometime in the 305, Yeats said, We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us. That is an observation about life in general, but above all it applies to poetry. We are happy as poets, Yeats says, when our thoughts and feelings have originals or counterparts in the world around us - when there is a perfect conversancy or con- gruence between self and world. In Yeats,s poetry, the chief symbol for such happiness is the marriage- bed, and his artful lovers Solomon and Sheba, each striving to incarnate the others dream, represent the mutual attunement of imagination and reality. Keatsls lovers Madeline and Porphyro, in uThe Eve of St. Agnes? accomplish the same miracle and sym- bolize the same thing; each, without loss of reality, becomes the others vision, and the poem is one solution to Keats,s continuing enquiry into the right balance between vision and everyday experience. Elsewhere he employs 0r espouses other formulae, as in the poem ITO Autumn? where imagination does not transmute and salvage the world, but rather accepts it in all its transient richness, and celebrates it as it is. There is a similar quality of acceptance in Robert Frostls poems about imaginative happiness, and I am going to read you one called iiHyla Brook? By June our brookls run out of song and speed. Sought for much after that, it will be found Either to have gone groping,7 under- ground lAml taken with it all the Hyla Breed That shouted in the mist a month ago, Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snowl - Or flourished and come up in jewel- weed, Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent Even against the way its waters went. Its bed is left a faded paper sheet Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat - A brook to none but who remember long. This as it will be seen is other far Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song. We love the things we love for what they are. It doesn,t trouble him, Frost says, that the brook on his farm runs dry by June, and becomes a gulley full of dead leaves and jewel weed; it may not be Arethusa or smooth-sliding Mincius; it may not, like Tennysonls brook, go on forever; but it has real and memorable beauties that meet his desire. Loving it for what it is, the poet does not try to elevate his subject, or metamorphose it, or turn it into pure symbol; it is sufficient that his words be lovingly adequate to the plain truth. In another and compa- rable poem called iiMowing, Frost builds toward a similar moral: iiThe fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows? One doesn,t think of Wallace Stevens, who so stressed the transforming power of imagina- tion, as having much in common with Frost, and yet Stevens would agree that the best and happiest dreams of the poet are those which involve no denial of the fact. In his poem ICrude Foyer? Stevens acknowledges that poets are tempted to turn inward and conceive an interior paradise; but that is a false happiness; we can only, he says, be contentJ At last, there, when it turns out to be here? We cannot be content, we cannot enjoy poetic happiness, until the inner paradise is brought to terms with the world before us, and our vision fuses with the view from the window. Regardless, then, of subjective bias or of a rever- ence for fact, poets of all kinds agree that it is the pleasure of the healthy imagination to achieve what Stevens called Iecstatic identities with the weather. When the sensibility is sufficient to the expression of the world, and when the world, in turn, is answerable to the poets mind and heart, then the poet is happy, and can make his reader so. Now, if I were satisfied with my use of the word world, which I have been saying over and over in an almost liturgical fashion, I might feel that I had come near to the end of my argument. But world, in contemporary usage, is a pauticularly sneaky and ambiguous term. I see that I must try to use it more precisely, and that once I have done so there will be more to say. What might I mean by world? I might mean what Milton meant when he spoke of iithis pendant world? that is, I might mean the uni- verse. Or I might mean the planet Earth; or I might mean the human societies of Earth, taken together. Or if I defined world by reference to the soul or self, I might mean what a German philosopher called the iiNon-Egofl or what Andrew Wyeth meant when he called one of his paintings liChristinais World? I am sure that you have all seen that touching painting of VVyetHs: it shows us a crippled girl sitting in a field of long grass, and looking off toward a house and ham; her Iiworldl consists of what she can see, and the desolate mood in which she sees it. Literary critics, nowadays, make continual use of the word world in this last sense. They write of Dylan Thomasls world of natural process, Conrad Aikenls world of psychic flux, John Ransomls gallant and ironic world of the South, or the boyish, amoa rous, and springtime world of E. E. Cummings. Any of us could assign a Iworld, in this sense, to any poet whose work we know; and in doing so, we would not necessarily be blaming him for any nar- rowness of scope. Robinson letters on his mountain- top by the Pacific, writing forever of hawks and rocks and of the violent beauty of nature, was not prevented from speaking, through his own symbols and from his own vantage, of God and history and cities and the passions of men and women. Like any good poet of this American century, he found images and symbols which could manifest the moods of his heart, and elected a world of his own through which the greater world could someway be seen and ac- counted for. And yet if one thinks back to the Italian fourteenth century, if one thinks of the iiworldii of Danteis imagination, how peripheral and cranky Jeffers seems! ,Danteis poetry is the work of one man, who even at this distance remains intensely individual in temper and in style; and yet the world of his great poem was, for his first readers, quite simply the world. This was possible because he was a poet of genius writing from the heart of a full and living culture. He lived and wrote, in Stevens, phrase, at the center of a diamond. I bring up Dante not merely to belabor the present with him, but because there is something which needs to be explained. We are talking of poetry as a mode of pursuing ha piness; we live in a century during which America rhas possessed many poets of great ability; nevertheless, it is not secret that the personal histories of our poets, particularly in the last thirt years, are full of alcoholism, aberration, emotiona breakdowns, the dinng-up of talent, and suicide. There is no need to learn this from gossip or biography; it is plainly enough set down in the poetry of our day. And it seems to me that the key to all this unhappiness may lie in the obligatory eccentricity, nowadays, of each poetis world, in the fact that our society has no cultural heart from which to write. Alberto Moravia, in a recent article on a great American writer and suicide, Ernest Hemingway, describes our country as I a minor, degraded and anti-humanistic culture? and observes that our typi- cal beginning novelist, lacking any faith in the re- sources of culture, confines himself to recounting the story of his youthfl Having done so once success- fully, the novelist proceeds for lack of any other subject to do it again and again, and, as Moravia puts it, mirrors increasingly, in the mechanization of his own work, the mechanization of the society for which he is writing? I am sorry to say that I cannot brush aside Signor Moravizfs general judg- ment upon us. I wish that I could. One can protest that not all of our novelists are the prisoners of their own early lives, and that most of our poets are cultured in the sense of being well schooled in the literary and artistic tradition. But one cannot deny that in the full sense of the word culture - the sense that has to do the humane unity of a whole people - our nation is impoverished. We are not an articulate organism, and what most char- acterizes our life is a disjunction and incoherence aggravated by an intolerable rate of change. It is easy to prophesy against us. Our center of political power, Washington, is a literary and intellectual vacuum, or nearly so; the church, in our country, is broken into hundreds of sorry and provincial sects; colleges of Christian foundation hold Classes as usual on Good Friday; our cities bristle like quartz clusters with faceless new buildings of aluminum and glass. bare of symbolic ornament because they have noth- ing to say; our painters and sculptors despair of achieving any human significance, and descend into the world of fashion to market their Coke-bottles and optical toys; in the name of the public interest, highways are rammed through old townships and wildlife sanctuaries; all other public expenditure is begrudged, while the bulk of the people withdraw from community into an affluent privacy. I could go on with such sweeping assertions, and soon, no doubt, I would go too far, and would have to admit that anarchy is not confined to America, and that here or there we have the promise of cultural coherence. But I would reluct at making too much of the present boom in education, or the growth of regional theatres and sym hony orchestras. Such things may be good in themse ves, but they are not the kind of culture I am talking about. Houston has an admirable symphony orchestra, but the nexus of human relations in that city is the credit card, and where art does not arise from and nourish a vital sense of community, it is little more than an incitement to schizophrenia. The main fact about the American artist, as a good poet said to me the other day, is his feeling of iso- lation. T0 Dante, at the other extreme, the world appeared as one vast society, or as a number of in- telligibly related societies, actual and spiritual; his Commedia was the embodiment and criticism of a comprehensive notion of things that he shared with his age. Or think, if you will, of the sure sense of social relevance with which Milton embarked on the writing of an epic poem which was to be exemplary to a nation. Or think of that certainty of the moral consensus which lies behind the satires of Alexander Pope, and makes possible a wealth of assured nu- ance. How often, I wonder, has any American poet spoken so confidently from within the culture? I began by distinguishing two ways of under- standing the word poetry: first, as verse composi- tions written by individuals, and second, as that en- semble 0f articulate values by means of which a society shapes and affirms itself. It is the natural business of the first kind of poetry to contribute to the second, clarifying, enriching and refreshing it; and where the poet is unable to realize himself as the spokesman and loyal critic of an adequate cul- ture, I think that his art and life are in some measure deprived of satisfaction and meaning. To be sure, every poet is a citizen of the Republic of Letters, that imaginary society whose members come from every age and literature, and it is part of his happiness to converse, as it were, with the whole of tradition; but it is also his desire to put his gift at the service of the people of his own time and place. And that, as I have been saying, is a happiness not easily come by in contemporary America. It is possible, however isolated one may feel, to write out of ones private experiences of nature or God or love; but oneis poetry will reflect, in one way or another, the frustration of ones desire to participate in a corporate myth. In some of our poets, the atomism of American life has led to a poetry without people, or an art of nostalgia for childhood. Elsewhere, we find a confessional poetry in which the disorder and distress of the poets life mirrors that cultural disunity to which he, because of his calling, is peculiarly sensitive. When the poet addresses himself directly to our society, these days, it is commonly in a spirit of reproach or even seces- sion, and seldom indeed in a spirit of celebration. I do not hold the poet responsible for that fact. At the close of one of his eloquent poems, Archi- bald MacLeish exhorts the modern poet to iiInvent the age! Invent the metaphorli, But it is simply not the business of poets to invent ages, and to fashion cultures single-handed. It may be that Yeats,s Ire- land was in good part Yeatsls own invention, and he may have made some of it stick; but America is too huge a muddle to be arbitrarily envisioned. The two modern poets who tried to put a high-sounding interpretation on our country - Lindsay, whose Michigan Avenue was a street in Heaven, and Crane, whose Brooklyn Bridge leapt toward our spiritual destiny a ended by taking their own lives. Now, all I wanted to say was that the poet hankers to write in and for a culture, countering its centrifugal development by continually fabri- cating a common and inclusive language in which all things are connected. But I got carried away by the present difficulty of attaining that happy utility. Of course I have overstated the matter, and of course there are fortunate exceptions to be pointed out. Robert Frost was strongly aware of the danger that accelerating change might sweep our country bare of all custom and traditional continuity; some of his best poems, like iiThe Mountain, are about that threat, and it is significant that he defined the poem as a momentary stay against confusion? Frost staved off confusion by taking his stand inside a New England rural culture which, during the height of his career, still possessed a certain vitality, and remains intelligible lif less vitall today. In general I should say that Frost assumed, rather than ex- pounded, the governing ideas and ideals of that culture; but that, after all, is the way of poetry with ideas. It does not think them up; it does not argue them abstractly; what it does it to realize them with- in that model of felt experience which is a poem, and so reveal their emotional resonance and their capacity for convincing embodiments. I was looking the other day at what is doubtless the best-loved American poem of this century, Robert Frostis iiBirchesf, and it occurred to me that it might be both pertinent and a little unexpected if I finished by quoting one or two things about it. When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boyis been swing- ing them. But swinging doesnit bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morn- mg After a rain. T hey click upon them- selves As the breeze rises, and turn many- colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sunis warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-erust - Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away YouYI think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right them- selves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the iee-storm I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows - Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his fathefs trees By riding them down over and over again U ntil he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kickingr his way down through the air to the ground. 80 was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to he. Itis when Iim weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwehs Broken across it, and one eye is weep- mg From a twigs having lashed across it open. lid like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin oven May 110 fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Eorthis the right place for love: I donit know where itis likely to go better. Id like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow- white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. To begin with, this poem comes out of the farm and woodland country of northern New England, and everything in it is named in the right language. Moreover, there are moments of brilliant physical realization, as when the breeze iicracks and craze? the iienameli, of ice-laden birches, or the birch- swinging boy flings out and falls in a perfect kinetic line, iiKicking his way down through the air to the ground? The poem presents a vivid regional milieu, and then subtly expands its range; naturally, and almost insensibly, the ground and sky of New England are magnified into Heaven and Earth. Considered as self-projection, iiBirchesii is an example of how the pentameter can be so counter- pointed as to force the reader to hear a sectional and personal accent. Frosfs talking voice is in the poem, and so too is his manner: the drift of the argument is ostensibly casual or even whimsical, but behind the apparent rambling is a strict intelli- gence; the language lifts into rhetoric or a diffident lyricism, but promptly returns to the colloquial, sometimes by way of humor. The humor of Frostls poem is part of its meaning, because humor arises from a sense of human limitations, and that is what F rost is talking about. His poem is a recommenda- tion of limited aspiration, or high-minded earth- liness, and the birch incamates that idea perfectly, being a tree which lets you climb a while toward heaven but then iidips its top and sets you down again? This is a case in which thought and' thing, inside and outside, self and world, admirably cor- respond. Because of his colloquialism and his rustic settings, Frost has often been thought of as a non-literary poet. That is a serious error. Frost was lovingly acquainted with poetic literature all the way back to Theocritus, and he was a conscious continuator and modifier of the tradition. Formally, he adapted the traditional meters and conventions to the natural cadence and tenor of New England speech. Then as for content, while he did not echo the poetry of the past so promiscuously as T. S. Eliot, he was always aware of what else had been written on any subject, and often implied as much. In iiHyla Brook? which I read to you a few minutes ago, Frost makes a parenthetical acknowledgement that other poets - Tennyson, Milton, Theocritus per- haps - have dealt more flatteringly with brooks or streams than he feels the need to do. In iiBirchesf, Frosfs reference is more specific, and I am going to re-read a few lines now, in which I ask you to listen for the voice of Shelley: Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon them- selves As the breeze rises, and turn many- colored As the stir cracks and cmzes their enamel. Soon the sunis warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust - Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. Many-colored. Glass. The inner dome of heaven. It would not have been possible for Frost to pack so many echoes of Shelley into six lines and not be aware of it. He is slyly recalling the two most cele- brated lines of Shelley,s Adonais: Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, Stains the white radiance of eternity. Such a reminiscence is at the very least a courtesy, a tribute to the beauty of Shelley,s lines. But there is more to it than that. Anyone who lets himself be guided by Frostis reference, and reads over the latter stanzas 0f Shelleyls lament for Keats, will find that iiBirchesfl taken as a whole, is in fact an answer to Shelley,s kind of boundless neo- Platonic aspiration. It would be laborious, here and now, to point out all the pertinent lines in Adonais; suffice it to say that by the close of the poem Keatsls soul has been translated to Eternity, t0 the eternal fountain of beauty, light, and love, and that Shelley, spurning the Earth, is embarking on a one-way upward voyage to the Absolute. The closing stanza goes like this: The breath whose might I have in- voked in song Descends on me,- my spirifs bark is driven Far from the shore, far from the trem- bling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given; The massy earth and sphered skies are 'riven! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adomzis, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. Frosfs answer to that is, uEartlfs the right place for love. In his dealings with Shelley,s poem, Frost is doing a number of things. He is for one thing conversing timelessly with a great poem out of the English tradition; he is, for another thing, contend- ing with that poem in favor of another version of spirituality. And in his quarrel with Shelley, Frost is speaking not only for his own temper but for the practical idealism 0f the New England spirit. Frostls poem does justice to world, to self, to literary tradition, and to a culture; it is happy in all the ways in which a poem can be happy; and I leave it with you as the best possible kind of answer to the question I have been addressing. Dyslexia 01' Why johnny Cant Read, Skip Rope, or Tell Time timothy j. You are only half-disaplined if you know the truth but can? execute it. If you are only half disaplined you can not fully enjoy life. What is stated above is the argunet as I see it pre- sented, This argunet is supported by the story of the offial. If the argumet above is proper than the illistration is poor since it doesin prove that the official doesnlt enjoy life. What does the author of the paragraph above, a 19-year-old high-school graduate, have in common with a lS-year-old high-school dropout who cant read tiRun, Spot, run? a 12-year-old girl who cant skip rope or tell time, and an eight-year-old boy who hasn,t yet learned the alphabet? All are now recognized as sharing in a set of learning problems, variously termed developmental dyslexia, specific language disability, word-blindness, or perceptual motor handicap. Dyslexia, often misdiagnosed as sub-normal intelligence, low motivation, or brain damage, is believed to handicap 10927 of otherwise normal American Children and may be solely respon- sible for 4070 of remedial reading, writing, and spelling problems. The development of knowledge about the nature and treatment of dyslexia has been slow. Dyslexia was iidiscoveredT before the turn of the century by a British opthalmologist by the name of Morgan. However, British research in the field, which con- tinued into the early twenties, failed to produce any major implications for education. The first signifi- cant program of remedial work for dyslexic children was developed by a young Danish woman, Edith Norrie, after World War I. Miss Norrie discovered what is now called dys- lexia in the best possible subject for research: her- Tim Putnamt a senior majoring in history and religion. spent the summer in Fryeburg. Maine as a tutor in a school for dyslexic children. putnam self. A bright, healthy child, she utterly failed to learn to read, write, or spell in the Danish public schools. When she finally did succeed, as a young adult, in teaching herself to use the written lan- guage, she set out to find and help children with similar language problems. She found them, in abundance, in Schleswig Holstein, a Danish province ceded to the Prussians in 187 and recovered by the Danes after World War I. There, inbreeding in resistance to the Prussian occupation had produced a substantial number of iiwordblindi, Children. These children, of average or above average intelli- gence and sound physical and psychological health, had perplexing and stubborn difficulties in learning how to read, write, and spell. They failed at the most elementary level: they simply could not iicallT 0r decode the words in the simplest of texts. To them the printed page offered infinite possibilities of interpretation, or none. They had to build up by constant drill the habit of read- ing from left to right; not even this came naturally to severely afflicted dyslexics. Then began the long process of establishing a firm connection between given letters and given sounds, which, for many dyslexics, required that every iiwrongh possibility be tried and rejected, before the iirightl, one was established. The most difficult letters for the dys- lexic to distinguish were those that looked like other letters or their mirror image, or letters that represented similar sounds. Particularly troublesome iicritical pairsii were I; and d, d and t, m and n, h and p, f and u, ctkl and g, and almost all vowel sounds. Several months and in some cases even years were needed to establish the phonemic basis of written language, which normal children learn rapidly. But learning to make the basic discrimina- tions was not half the battle. Oral reading requires that a student put together these learned sound- symbol correspondences at a high rate of speed. Dyslexic students found this difficult. The more severe cases had a hard time blending sounds represented by letters together to make a word, even one they already knew from speaking. A student might spend more than a minute sounding out f-a-s-t and blending it together to get the sound that he then suddenly recognized as part of his vocabulary. The slowness of this process was extremely frus- trating to the dyslexic student who, being bright, had a command of the meaning of words far be- yond his decoding ability. When confronted with an unfamiliar word in a sentence, the dyslexic often guessed, on the basis of what he thought should come next, and he usually guessed wrong. Many of the brightest students learned to read by connecting the general shape of the word with its meaning and the meaning with its sound. But this provided no basis for writing and spelling, which requires a knowledge of all the proper elements in the cor- rect sequencwexactly where the dyslexic student often broke down. The writing of dyslexic students showed strange irregularities: words and syllables missing and letters upside down, backwards, or out of order, as well as the more expected confusions of similar sounding letters. It was as if each stu- dent had his own private written language: many a teacher trying to teach her pupils to correct their careless mistakes, has asked a dyslexic child to read aloud a paper containing several mistakes of the type just described. The dyslexic usually fills in all the gaps without even noticing them. Consequently, even with years of training in the sound-symbol structure of language, many dyslexic students will never develop good language habits. For, though they may be able to spell and read acceptably when they concentrate on the proper order of sounds and letters deliberatell , they will most likely never be able to do so from habit. This description of the dyslexic problem and the remedial work with basic language structure that follows from it were worked out by Miss Norrie and a Danish neurologist named Hermann during the twenties and thirties. Although they were having success teaching reading, writing, and spelling, where standard methods had failed, recognition of dyslexia as a legitimate learning disability came very slowly. The dyslexic could be too easily written off as lazy, dull, 0r brain-damaged, though none of these diagnoses led to treatment that helped the dyslexic child in any way. But Norrie and Hermannis conspicuous success drew increasing support, and in 1939 a private foundation, the Wordblind Insti- tute, was established in Copenhagen. Similar institutes were established in this country. An outstanding American neurologist by the name of Orton completed, during the thirties, a brilliant description of the problems which composed the dyslexic syndrome as it was then understood: right- left confusion, symbolic confusion, jerky handwrit- ing, omissions, reversals, etc. His work led him to suspect that dyslexic problems could be described as the failure of one hemisphere of the brain to gain a dominance over the other. But Orton had no real impact on American education. Only after the war did institutes in Denmark and America gain enough experience with large numbers of dyslexic Children to establish a basis upon which research could move closer to the physiological basis of the problem. In 1956, Charles Drake, then Dean of Men at the Foundation tsecondaryi School of Berea Col- lege discovered the Wordblind Institute while on a F ulbright in Denmark. The work of the Institute was a revelation to Drake, who saw in its findings a better description of several of his own iiproblemii students than psychologists were giving him at home. He had been bothered by bright and diligent students with serious language problems, most of whom had been labeled by psychologists as having iimental blocks or primary emotional disorders. That label didnit check with his knowledge of the students; iiwordblindnessi, did. Drake returned to Berea and began a thorough study of underachievers in the Foundation School, and found his hunch confirmed. He then embarked, together with Dr. Charles Shedd of Bereais Psy- chology Department, on a protracted study of the nature of dyslexia and the development of educa- tional techniques to cope with it. Next he founded the Reading Research Institute at Berea in 1959 as a summer research and intensive remedial training program for dyslexic students, and later a similar center in New England, presently based at North Yarmouth Academy in Maine. These Institutes and a few others like them throughout the rest of the country have contributed greatly not only to the development of remedial techniques but also to research into the physiologi- cal basis of dyslexia. As residential communities, they allow the entire life pattern of the dyslexic child to be scrutinized, both formally and informally, for distinguishing characteristics. In such a situation, not only have many hypotheses been confirmed or exploded, but many important discoveries have been made by accident that have guided further re- search. One thing that began to become clear through this work was that dyslexia was not only, nor even fundamentally, a language learning problem. Lan- guage difficulties had been noticed first because they most seriously handicapped a Child in our society, but round-the-clock observation of dyslexics showed that they had trouble with virtually all sorts of tasks which involved small-muscle control. Many dys- lexics were slow in developing an ability to use scissors or send Morse code, as well as having trouble with handwriting. The optometrist connected with the Fryeburg Institute, Dr. Louis Annapole, discovered in many dyslexics an eye co-ordination disorder entirely unknown in the general popula- tion: cross-eyed at Close range and wall-eyed at a distance. In other words, they had not quite de- veloped the habit of adjusting their focus for changing distances, and tended to overcompensate slightly. F urther study showed that even when the dys- lexic student developed a high degree of small- muscle control when paying deliberate attention to the task at hand, he still was unable to main- tain a constant rhythmic motion while concentrating his attention elsewhere. That was clearly borne out by a disastrous ex- periment with folk dancing at one of the summer institutes, which completely frustrated a talented professional instructor. The complete chaos that re- sulted from the grand-right-and-left 0f the Virginia Reel confirmed the directional confusion that Orton had noted, but the general inability of the students, many of them good athletes, to follow a rhythm when surrounded by distractions indicated that something important was wrong with the neural mechanism that allows normal individuals to de- velop the habitual smooth timing that underlies a sense of rhythm. Dyslexic children proved slow in developing any sort of habitual rhythmic skill, whether in a large- muscle activity, like dancing or skipping rope, or in small-muscle control, like writing, reading, or sewing. The fact that small-muscle control develops more slowly in all children than the control of large- scale movements, and that written language requires a very high degree of habitual rhythmic skill, sets up the written language problem for the dyslexic child. A confirmation of the hypothesis that dyslexic problems were basically problems of habitual pat- terned muscle control was provided by the total failure of the iilook-sayi, system of reading instruc- tion to help dyslexic students. The iilook-sayll sys- tem, which became very popular in this c011ntry after the war, places the emphasis in teaching read- ing on semantic and not phonemic units. It oper- ates just as its name suggests: the student is shown the written form of a word that is already part of his speaking vocabulary and reads by recognizing the total shape of the word. This method became popular because it produced quick results. Parents were pleased that their children could Tread, care- fully prepared texts almost immediately. The only problem with this method of teaching is that it relies on the students ability to remember each word independently of all others. The pupil learns no relations between sounds and letters; he must infer them. The consequences of this oversight for the teach- ing of spelling are grave. Dyslexic students, of course, suffer miserably under such a system, which gives them absolutely no support at all. Those of highest intelligence eventually develop large vo- cabularies based on immediate recognition and thus read with good comprehension, but they confuse similar-looking words and, of course, they simply do not learn how to spell. This sort of education produces 19-year-old high-school graduates with I.Q.,s of 140 whose spelling is literally indecipher- able. The failure of the iilook-say system to aid the dyslexic student and the fact that the system has created spelling problems for many students who might otherwise have developed good language habits indicates the fatal oversight of this system: Oral reading, writing, and spelling are complicated small-muscle activities that involve the rapid pro- cessing of correlations between sounds and letters arranged in constantly varying sequences. Often this processing must be accomplished while atten- tion is directed elsewhere. This ability must rest on a thorough knowledge of all the souud-letter correspondences themselves, which can only be developed by differentiating the actions connected with the elemental phonemic units. The dyslexids problem with language can be described as slow- ness and inefficiency in developing these differen- tiated actions. That View is supported by the fact that even the most stubborn cases of dyslexia finally succumb to a carefully worked-out differentiation process where all the actions are performed on a large scale. Stu- dents trace letters at three to one hundred times normal sizes, and learn the alphabet and simple words by jumping, climbing, or throwing games. If the acts connected with the different sound-letter correlations are different enough so that they can- not be confused with one another, even the most severely afflicted child will learn. When Drake visited the Wordblind Institute in 1956, Miss Norrie had spoken to him about a strange characteristic behavior in her older students: they often seemed to become drowsy and less effective after fifteen to twenty minutes of work. At the time, Drake wrote this off to motivational factors. Such explanations were not unusual: many sup- posed dyslexics were reported by their teachers to be often drowsy, yawning, and inattentive in class, or else restless foot-tappers and finger-drummers. This was taken by those skeptical of dyslexia to in- dicate that their failure to perform well was due to an emotional problem, and by believers in dys- lexia to be an indication of resignation and frus- tration after years in school systems that failed to meet their needs. But tutors at Summer Institutes reported repeat- edly that apparently diligent students became drowsy and ineffectual sometimes seemingly against their will. They reported great variation in levels of performance: when Tiupf, a student performed almost as a normal child would and seemed to learn rapidly; when iidownf, he would forget the most basic material and increase his mistakes five- fold. Tutors devised methods for keeping per- formance levels high: switching tasks often, moving about, tracing letters on a rough surface like sand- paper, etc. It began to become clear that for many students the linking of key distinctions to large- scale movements was important simply because the movement kept the student awake. This wide variation in degrees of arousal, together with the search for the locus of control of timing of patterned actions, was enough to pin down the prob- able physiological seat of the problem. In the late 1950s much was learned about the iiinternuncial areas of the brain, in particular the reticular for- mation of the brain stem, that fitted the dyslexic syndrome. The reticular formation, which had not, until recently, been considered of much neurological significance, was discovered to be a major control center for sensory and motor impulses. The forma- tion was discovered to be responsible for diverting a small amount of the energy received from sense organs and the muscles from its destination in the sensory cortex and spreading this energy selectively throughout the cortex in such a way as to keep par- ticular areas alert and allow others to rest. Without this activation from the reticular formation any par- ticular area of the cortex would remain dormant even when receiving sensory information. This dis- covery appeared to have a direct relation to dys- lexia. If a childs level of arousal was impaired, that would stymie the learning process, and the impair- ment might well take place where the level of a- rousal is regulated. Furthermore, the reticular formation was dis- covered to play an important role both in organiz- ing sensory data and feedback from muscle move- ments and in regulating the timing and co-ordination of both consciously directed and reflex movements. It was discovered that the violence of the knee-jerk reflex of a monkey, for example, could be modified by stimulating, different areas of the recticular for- mation. This discovery also appeared to have im- mediate significance for the understanding of dy- slexia. If the recticular formation was not function- ing properly, then the integration of unfamiliar sys- tems, like written language, would be adversely af- fected, and so would the ability to develop smooth and reliable habitual skills or to follow a rhythm, or to write smoothly, or to handle letters and words in order without losing track of any. The problem remained to discover what the na- ture of the breakdown in the reticular formation was. In 1965 Broverrnan at the Worcester Founda- tion discovered an atypical distribution of the waste products of noradrenaline in the urine of adults showing dyslexic symptoms. Noradrenaline is a se- cretion chiefly of the adrenal cortex but also of key cell groups throughout the nervous system, and it is important in the metabolism of the reticular forma- tion but not that of the cortex. This discovery may explain how intelligence functions could remain rela- tively unaffected by dyslexic problems. An observation by the tutorial staff at the Frye- burg Summer Institute in 1965 of unusually high sugar and candy consumption opened investigation of blood-sugar regulation in dyslexic children. F urther tests are being conducted with both sugar and noradrenaline levels in the blood, a test for nor- adrenaline direct in the blood stream being just de- vised this summer at Harvard Medical School. One current expectation is that dyslexia will eventually be traced to a complex hereditary hormonal imbal- ance. Charles Drake, now head of the Perception Edu- cation and Research Center in Wellesley, Mass, reports that two patterns of imbalance are discern- ible in the scores from the sections of the Wechsler intelligence tests: while the more typical dyslexic child has tended to score far higher on the sections measuring his verbal ability than on the sections that require him to perform manual tasks such as block design, a small but growing group shows the opposite pattern. This second group typically comprises the early- developing, well-built, well-coordinated child whose language problems are not as severe initially as those of the first group. However, there seems to be a lower ceiling on his potential ability. These students are often also exceptions to the arousal problems of the first group in that they are more often restless, hyperactive, and hard to get started on a problem. Current speculation proposes that opposite ends of some curve of hormonal balance may be repre- sented by these two groups. The more commonly recognized dyslexic may prove to have a subnormal supply of noradrenaline and the less severe but more stubborn second group such a high level of noradrenaline that it is bound up or neutralized as excess insulin is, and s0 rendered ineffective. Present tests are inconclusive, but the atypical blood-sugar regulation suspected in dyslexics tends to point in this direction, since many cases of atypi- cal regulation are due to excess and not deficient insulin supply. Finally, it is suspected that these two groups may turn out to represent early thigh-levell and late tlow-levell development patterns. Loretta Binder and Katrina deHirsch are presently doing important work in this area. Now, finally, after years of neglect, the child with a learning disability is beginning to get at- tention from physicians, neurologists, and educators. Two medical conferences this year will be devoted to learning disabilities, and at least two states, Mas- sachusetts and Connecticut, have recently passed laws requiring local school systems to provide for dyslexic problems. Private institutions like the Reading Research Institute and the Perception Edu- cation and Research Center continue to develop new remedial techniques: Chemotherapy. Controlled experiments were con- ducted this summer at the Reading Research In- stitute with small dosages of pyridoxine hydro- chloride tvitamin B6l, which produced a variety of affects, mostly positive, on arousal levels, but no measurable group improvement in learning abil- itv. Rhythmic Training. Rhythmic training has markedly reinforced the development of language skills. Ed- L Enlarging the scale of movements aids retention. win Wright of the Reading Research Institute Staff has developed a highly successful program for teaching handwriting to music. Thomas Brophy, also with the Institute, is developing a program of rhythmic training for elementary grades. Elements of this program were tried at the Institute this summer with great success. Early Detection and Preventive Training. Several programs for diagnosing dyslexic problems in pre language structure training are currently being de- veloped. Preliminary reports indicate that one pro- gram, implemented in a California school system, has had some preventive effect. Dyslexia and Higher Education. A full understand- ing of the nature of the dyslexic syndrome has im- portant implications for higher education. In ad- dition t0 the 10927 of our population seriously handi- capped by dyslexia, it is estimated that an ad- ditional 15h: show some recognizable symptoms of the syndrome. Many students who have no con- spicuous difficulty with their native language founder when they encounter the compressed lan- guage learning of high-school or college foreign- language courses or face the strange language of higher mathematics. These problems can now be distinguished from laziness in most cases, and schools are no longer justified in assuming that language learning problems can all be explained away by lack of effort. Forward-looking colleges will recognize that many highly qualified students will have language learning problems, and they will provide either special slow-track courses in foreign languages or flexible language requirements to meet their students varying abilities. Hopefully, also, small arts colleges such as Wes- leyan will consider accepting small numbers of out- standingr men with severe dyslexic problems. At present, only Western State Kentucky has a pro- gram for dyslexic students, including tutorial as- sistance, special study set-ups, etc. It should be ob- vious, however, that the intelligent dyslexids arousal problem and high verbal ability suit him much bet- ter t0 the small liberal arts college, where the seminar is the typical class format, than to a uni- versity lecture hall. At present, many outstandingly creative, highly motivated dyslexic students who have mastered their problem enough to graduate from high school are given no opportunity for a col- lege education. From my experience in working with these people, I would say it is not only they who are missing out on a great opportunity. heinrich von kleist Essay on the Marionette Theatre l1810l translated by 4.5. wemz'nger During the winter of 1801, a winter I spent in the city of M . . ., I met in one of the public parks there Monsieur C.... a gentleman who had but recently been named first dancer of the Municipal Opera, yet who was already the idol of his audience. I told him how astonished I was at having seen him on occasion among the spectators at a marion- ette theater which had been crudely assembled on the market place and by Virtue of its little dramatic burlesques, served up with song and dance, seemed to be the delectatiou of the public. He assured me that the pantomime performances of these dolls pleased him greatly and suggested that any dancer who was seriously preparing for a life in ballet would likewise do well to go there for a few lessons. Since the manner in which he said this Clearly had nothing about it of banter or the incidental, I sat down beside him to discover if possible what lay at the roots of such a bizarre statement. He began by asking me if, in fact, I might not Gentlemen: Here is Ueber clas Marionettentheater. I had thought I might have had time to do the three Kleist 'letters for you. but as the weekend turned out I barely had time to get this tinished. tAs I said. the thing was literally reworked and typed in the tront seat of a speeding VWi But I hope it doesn't seem soil I've always thought this a wondrous and mad little piece. 50, by the bye. did ETA. Hottman. the tirst to have recognized its worth 'lSehr sticht hervor der Autsatz ueber Marionetten- Theater. he wrote to a triend halt a year atter H.V.K. blew out his brains. He was discussing the Berliner Abendblaetter. the periodical Kleist edited during the last year 0t his lite and in which the essay appeared...$o tar as I know only one other English rendition has been published twenty years ago in PARTISAN REVIEW by one Eugene Jolas. and a bad iob at work it is. ASW. agree with him that certain of the movements of these dancing puppets, especially of the little ones, were most graceful. I said that of course I should have to agree with him. I was put in mind of a particular group of four little peasants 0n strings dancing a frantic roundelay and said that Teniers would have been hard put to paint it as prettily. What on earth is the mechanism of these figures, I wanted to know, and how is it possible, without having myriad wires dangling from one,s fingers, to manipulate their individual limbs to accord so nicely with the rhythms of human movement, even with those of the dance? He answered that, for goodness, sake, I must not bewilder myself by imagining that the operator had first to arrange and then to activate each separate limb for each moment of the dance. Every moving body, said he, has one center of gravity, and it is enough to have control of this center where it lives, in this case in the very core of the marionette. Its arms and legs, which are nothing more than pendulums, will always manage to follow along mechanically and with no further prompting. He added that this sort of motion was a very simple one; that whenever the center of gravity was moved along in a straight line, the appendages auto- matically described curvilinear paths; and that whenever the doll was shaken in one of a hundred arbitrary ways, the whole figure would suddenly burst into a kind of rhythmic blossom very like a dance. This observation gave me a little insight into the iipleasure which he claimed to glean from the marionette theater. But at the time he made it I had not the slightest notion of the conclusions which he was later to draw from it. I asked him if he thought the operator of these puppets had to be a dancer himself or had at least to be more than casually acquainted with such theories of beauty as have application to the art of the dance. He replied that even though the mechanical as- pects of such a performance might seem to be simple, there was indeed no reason whatsoever for assuming that it could be carried out successfully without the requisite sensibility. Yes, the line that the center of gravity has to de- scribe, he said, is a very simple one, to be sure. In most cases, he thought, it was a straight line. In cases where it was curved, the laws governing its curvature, it seemed to him, were of the first or at most the second order of complexity, and in no case had to do with anything more rarefied than the ellipse, that is to say, with the curvilinear motion most natural tbecause of our jointed constructiom to the human extremities-and as a consequence set a simple task for any puppeteer to perform. And yet,...and yet when we look at it from another point of view, this same line is something most mysterious. For, he said, it is nothing other than the path of the dancefs soul; and he had grave doubts that it could be apprehended in any way other than by having the operator project him- self into the center of gravity of the marionette, in other words, by having him dance. All I could say to this was that I had always had the impression of a certain lack of inspiration about the whole procedure and had pictured to myself an operation rather like turning a handle on a barrel organ. Oh, but not at all, he answered. On the contrary, the relationship of the puppeteerls fingers to the movements of the dolls attached to them is a quite involved and artful one, something like that of numbers to their logarithms or the asymptote to the hyperbola. He believed nevertheless that even this final shred of intelligence could be removed from the marionette theater, that the puppets, dance could be translated into the mechanical realm altogether and regulated, just as I had suggested, by a sort of hurdy-gurdy crank. I expressed my astonishment again at the atten- tiveness which he seemed willing to lavish on some- thing I had always thought to be a frivolous and vulgar offshoot of one of the noble arts. Not only did he evidently think it capable of evolution into a higher form, it even seemed he was himself ac- tively engaged as patron to such a progress. He smiled-and was in fact bold enough to assert that, if he could ever find a technician willing to construct him a marionette to accord with the set of stipulations he had in mind, he could make such a doll perform a dance which neither he nor any other of the first dancers of our dayanot even Vestris-could dream of performing. Have you ever. . ., he asked, when he saw me staring at my feet in silence,...have you ever heard of those mechanical legs which British artisans have learned to construct for unfortunates who have lost real ones? I said I had not, no. I am sorry you have never had the opportunity of seeing one. For if I were to assure you that these same unfortunate fellows can actually dance with them, I fear almost you would doubt my sanity. What did I say? Dance? The circle within which they are able to move has a fairly short radius, to be sure. But the movements they can produce within its strictures have a control, ease, and grace about them such as to astound any sensi- tive observer. Aha, I said, then you have obviously answered your own question and already found your man. Any artist who could construct such a remarkable set of leg and thigh bones would certainly be able to manufacture a whole marionette to your specifi- cation. What, I asked him tsince this time he was the one who seemed to be staring at the ground in silenceL . ..just what are those stipulations which you would make for the construction of your clever puppet? Nothing, said he, which you would not be likely to find in those other contraptions: lightness, bal- ance, mobilityebut all to a much higher degree. Above all I should insist upon a more natural place ment of the center of gravity. And the advantage that this marionette would have over a living dancer? Advantage? First of all a negative advantage, my excellent friend; namely, that such a thing would not be affected. For as you surely know, affectation arises whenever the soul tthe Dis motrixl is located at any point other than at the center of gravity of a body in motion. Since a wire or a thread is the sole connection with the center controlled by the operator, all that the puppets limbs can do is to be what they are, simple pendulums and to act ac- cording to the laws of inertia-a splendid dispensa- tion, but one which you would seek in vain amongst the vast majority of our dancers today. Just look at La P . . ., he went on, when she is dancing her Daphne and glances around at Apollo in pursuit. Her soul is sitting in the small of her back. She bends as if she would break and looks like a naiad fresh from the School of Bernini. Or young F... as Paris, standing in the midst of his three goddesses and presenting the apple to Venus. His soul, his vis matrix tmy god, it is a horror to beholdl has settled itself in his elbow. Such abominations-and he seemed to be cutting his examples short-can no longer be avoided since we have eaten of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. But Paradise is barred against our re-entry and the cherub is at our back. We shall have to take the trip around the world and see if some back door to Eden may not be standing ajar. I laughed. Naturally, I thought, the spirit can hardly err where it is not even present....But I saw that he had still something to say and begged him to continue. What is more, he said, puppets have the mar- velous advantage of being antigrave; weightless, if you will. They know nothing of the inertia of mat- ter, that most potent of all the forces arrayed against the dancer; for the power which raises them into the air is greater than the one which would chain them to the ground. What would our good Mlle. C... not give to be lighter by sixty pounds or to be aided by an equivalent counter- vailing force during her entrechats and pirouettes? But marionettes, like elves, need the earth only to swoop down upon during their flight and touch now and again, so that a moments friction may revitalize the rhythmic swinging of their limbs. But we . . . , ah, we need the earth as a resting place where we can recover from the exhaustion of dancing. And so we must produce pauses perforce, pauses which have no essential connection with the dance at all and which oblige us to invent a series of subter- fuges and camouflage to make them seem to elapse as quickly as possible. I said that no matter how cleverly he was able to weave the web of his paradoxes, he could never make me believe that a mechanical doll could be the receptacle of more gracefulness than the human body. He countered promptly by insisting that it was a sheer impossibility for a human being even to approach the puppets latent qualities in this re- gard. Only a god, said he, can take the measure of dumb matter. It is at this point, my friend, that the two ends of our ring-shaped world meet and mesh. I was more and more intrigued but had no idea how to reply to such extraordinary statements. It would seem, he said tand he took a pinch of snuffl that I had never read the third chapter of Genesis with adequate comprehension. Whoever did not understand this first moment in the edu- cation of the human race could hardly be drawn into an intelligent conversation about its subsequent periods, not to mention the final chapter of all. I said that of course I knew what disorders in man,s native grace had been effected by our lapse into self-awareness. Before my very eyes, I said, a young man of my acquaintance had, as it were, lost his innocence because of a Chance observation and random remark; despite every conceivable endeavor he had failed ever again to regain Paradise. But what conclusions, I wondered, would you be able to draw from this event and its aftermath? And he asked me to tell him about it. Once, perhaps three years ago, I told him, I was swimming with a young man whose whole being seemed to radiate a marvelous sort of Charm. He was still in his sixteenth year, I should judge, and only far in the distance could one detect the first embryonic traces of the vanity evoked by the favors of certain ladies. As it happened, we had been in Paris a short time before, where we saw the statue of the boy removing a thorn from his foot. tThe copies of this work, you know, have made it quite famous and by now can be seen in almost any German collectiond As he was sitting on a stool and drying one of his feet, he chanced to catch a glimpse of himself in a large mirror on the wall and was instantly reminded of the statue. He smiled . .. and told me of the discovery he had made. In point of fact I had made the same discovery at the same instant. It may, however, have been to test the security of his innate grace, or it may have been to confront his vanity with a little healthy challenge ein any event, I laughed and told him that he was seeing things. He blushed and lifted his foot a second time to demonstrate the resemblance to me. But as anyone could have predicted, his very first attempt was a failure. Progressively more frustrated, he raised his foot a third and then a fourth time; he raised it perhaps ten times in all. But in vain. He was altogether incapable of producing the same gesture. There was, as a matter of fact, something so comical about the series of gestures which he was producing, that I could barely restrain my laughter. From this day, indeed, from this very moment on, a strange and subtle transformation took place in this young person. He began daily to spend hours before the mirror; and one charm after an- other fled from him. An invisible and mysterious power, it seemed, descended like a network of iron over the free play of his gestures. And by the time a year had passed there was no longer a trace to be found in him of that loveliness which had entranced his secret admirers. There is another per- son who was witness to that peculiar and unhappy incident and who could verify what I told you, word for word. Permit me to seize the occasion, said Monsieur C . . ., and there was a friendly smile; for now I must tell you a story. You will have no trouble in grasping its appropriateness, none at all. During; my trip to Russia I spent some time at one of the estates of Baron von C . . . , a Livonian nobleman. His sons were very keen on fencing and dueling at the time; the younger son particularly, just returned from the university, seemed anxious to play the role of virtuoso. One morning in his apartment he offered me a rapier, and soon we were fencing. Yet it was quickly apparent that I was the better swordsman. His passion in the matter seemed to confuse him. Nearly all my thrusts found their mark, until finally his rapier was knocked into a corner. As he was retrieving it, he said, half in iest, half with a touch of embarrassment, that he had met his master, but added that everything in the world is bound sooner or later to meet its master as well, and that he intended to lead me to mine directly. The two brothers shouted in anticipation of their amusement. Come on; down to the wood- shedsl and they grabbed me by the hand and led me to a bear that their father, Herr von C. . . , had reared and was having trained on this estate. As I approached him, the bear stood up on his hind legs, braced his back against the post to which he was chained, raised his right paw as if ready to strike a blow, and stared me straight in the eye. This was his fencing stance, it seemed. I thought I must be dreaming to find myself opposite such an antagonist. But: Thrust! Thrust! the Barons son was shouting, and see if you can make a point against him! When I had recovered somewhat from my surprise, I came at him with my sword. The bear made a flippant little motion with his paw and parried the thrust. I tried to trick him with a series of feints. The bear did not move a muscle. Again I fell upon him, but this time with so sudden an attack that had my object been a mans chest I would never have missed. The bear made a flippant little motion with his paw and parried the thrust. I was by now in nearly the same state as young Herr you C . . . a short time before. The clownish solemnity 0f the bear had begun to rob me of my composure. I was frantically thrusting and feinting; sweat trickled down my face and body; all in vain. It was not merely that the bear, like the arch- fencer 0f the Earth, was able to parry my every thrust; when it came to my feints-no human fencer could ever approximate him hereehe simply could not be fooled. His eye boring into mine, as if he could read my very soul there, he stood, his paw raised for the blow; and whenever my thrusts were not seriously meant, he froze in concentration. DO you believe this story? Completely! I exclaimed. I should believe it of any stranger; all the more readily of you-it has the ring of truth to it. Well, then, my excellent friend, said Monsieur C . . . ,you have everything you need to understand what I now have to say to you. We can see that as the power of abstract thought in the organic world grows weaker and dimmer, grace emerges with proportionately greater command and radiance. Yet this is not the whole of it; for just as two lines just short of intersection on this side of a point, after an instantaneous passage through infinity, suddenly I'eemerge on the other sideeor as the image reflected in a concave mirror, after it has vanished into momentary infinity, suddenly is there again before our Visionejust so is the grace of in- nocence suddenly reemergent after knowledge has passed through its infinityt as it werwand in such a way, mark me, that it appears in its purest form simultaneously in those projections of the human form which have either no shred of self-conscious- 11655 at all or consist of nothing else; in other words, in a puppet or a god. Which means, I said a bit abstractedly, that we should have to eat again from the Tree of Knowl- edge in order to return to the state of innocence? Exactly, he answered. That is the last chapter in the history of the world. Los Hermanos Penitentes Weep, weep, Penitente Weep until sin is lost In redeeming tears- Weep for your insolent fault! The stanza is chanted harshly by the two com- panions of a man struggling painfully up a cactus- strewn path. Over his shoulders and about his chest the branches of a choya cactus are bound, and over this his arms are crossed. From a stiff hand a rosary hangs, its uneven swing a measure of the penitentis painful pace. Now that my strength is failing, I go to my Redeemer! Come, if you want to be pardoned, Come to the temple and hear the voice. Over the droning exhortations of the two com- panions a pito iflutel shrills its unrelated melody. The penitent approaches a large cross, falls, falls to his bare knees, and crawls forward. His trousers have been rolled above the knees, and his calves are pain- fully wound with horse-hair r0 6; they seem barely able to carry him to the foot 0 the cross. The man prostrates himself in a bed of cactus and lies motion- less while a prayer is read by the Rezador ireaderi who led the procession. The man rises and crawls backwards for a distance until he is helped to his feet by his two companions. Return, my God-Sovereign! In the Gospel of God The sinner is exhorted, Come to the temple and hear the voice. Steve Hughes is a senior in the College of Social Studies. He is a native of New Mexico and this past summer conducted tor his thesis 5 study of a New Mexican village. One unusual aspect of his study is revealed in this essay. Steve hughes The man, his companions, the Rezador, and the Pitero iflute playerl return to the morada, a small windowless adobe building, at the base of the hill. The door closes and all that remains is the still cross and the echoes of chanting and the piping pito. These images and echoes are the last of a religious spirit which disappeared from Christendom hun- dreds of years ago. The chants are distinctly Gregor- ian, and the music of the pito more specifically early Spanish or Moorish. The cross and the tableaus year- ly witnessed beneath it also hark back to a kind of Christian penance whose mystic extremity is un- heard of today except in Northern New Mexico and parts of Colorado. Here, each lenten season, Los Hermanos Penitentes iThe Penitent Brothersl literal- ly heed the invitation of Christ to iitake up your crosses and follow mefi and during a several-week period they prepare for and act out the drama of the trails, suffering, and crucifixion of Christ. The acts of penance, like the one described above, are a great part of these rituals. The practices are os- tensibly carried on because they secure an easier condition in the life to come for either the penitent or for some person dear to him. However, the supposed divine origin of these practices and the complemen- tary mystic character of the alabados ichantsl seems to indicate that there is a good deal more involved El lthese rituals than a simple and barbaric religious a it. In the stanzas quoted above, and throughout the entire lenten rituals, a belief in the correlation be- tween suffering and redemption is predominant. This understanding of the relation between suffering and redemption is quite literally founded in a blood knowledge: religious union with God is a destruction of individual integrity; and suffering is a destruction of physical integrity. While Los Hermanos engage in small-scale pen- ance rites some time before Easter, the real specta- cle is the public penances and crucifixion which take place during Holy Week. At this time the villagers gather to watch the unreal sight of several massive wooden crosses staggering across the skyline and the half-naked, barefooted men who strain to hear them by the crossbeam on their shoulders. Each of these penitents is accompanied by two men and preceded by the Rezador and Pitero. These processions also include many other penitents who suffer in varying degrees. Flagellants, using whips of braided yucca cactus spines, create a sodden rhythm as they raise the lash over first one shoulder and then the other. Behind them comes a man dragging a heavy cart by a horsehair rope that cuts deeply into his neck and shoulders. On the cart is seated a figure of death, a black shrouded skeleton with obsidian eyes. The bent posture of the figure is a reflection of the withered old women who watch it pass, thinly whis- perin their prayers. Their hands, delicate with years of toi , clutch their black shawls about them, reveal- ing only a V-shaped patch of face. The procession leads past them to a large cross where the penitents prostrate themselves with arms outspread during the praying of the Rezador. Two other men have brought a platform bearing a life-size figure of Christ, which is robed in red and whose long black hair falls over a blindfold. This figure bears a remarkable resem- blence to much Early Medieval Art, and this re- semblance hints at the relation of these rites to the present-day penance rites of Seville, or to the six- teenth-century Anabaptists and the Hagellant orders in fourteenth-century Germany and Northwest Eu- rope and thirteenth-century Italy. The features of the Penitente Christ are noticeably more coarse than those of its European counterparts, and as such they are an accurate register of what happened to the Spanish settlers and the Christianity their Franciscans brought with them to the pitiless territory of New Mexico. The Carreta del Muerto i the cart bearing the death figurei is unique to the Penitentes; but it is not a su rising artifact for a people with whom death must e a preoccupation in a land where life is an endless struggle. The background of these Peni- tentes is as much in the dry, eroded hills and leafless cottonwood trees as it is in early European history. The Rezador finishes his prayers and the penitents rise and resume their lashing or take up their crosses again, continuing on to the morada. In this way the suffering of Christ and his journey to Calvary are re-enacted. The symbolic and real culmination of the Peni- tente re-enactment is the crucifixion. It is only in the last generation that the practice of crucifying one of the Hermanos has been nearly terminated. In some of the more rural settlements, however, as in the past, the crucifixion is not merely a symbolic act. Alice Corbin Henderson in her book Brothers of Light provides a first-hand description of one such crucifixion. Her description commences as she and some of the villagers are sitting on a hill outside the morada waiting. The morada meanwhile gave no sign of life, save for a thin line of smoke going up from the chimne and, in watching the people on the hil ide, we had almost for- gotten the object of our waiting, when, without any preamble whatsoever, a man came out of the door of the morada and commenced to di a small deep hole a little way in front of t e house. The whole hill- side became hushed at once, and everyone crowded along the stone wall. Another man came out of the morada to help the first, and the two tested the depth of the hole by settin up in it one of the wooden crosses whic were stacked up in front of the morada. Evidently the hole was not deep enough, so after more digging it was tested again-this time with a heavier and much bigger cross, evidently to their satisfaction, for the cross was then taken down and carried into the morada. For some time nothing happened. Then, finally, a group of men came out carrying a small wooden platform on which stood the al- most life-sized Crista in a red dress. Again, the door opened, and the heavy cross, with a living man bound upon it, was carried out, with its cross-beam upward, through the door and laid upon the ground with its foot on the ed e of the hole made ready to re- ceive it. Siwa and carefully the cross was raised into place, turned facing the morada, and made firm; and on the cross hung the supreme penitent, in imitation of his savior. Facing the penitent on the cross stood the red-robed Crista, who, with eyes no longer blindfolded, thus acknowledged his living disciple. At the foot of the cross, the Her- mano Mayor and other leaders of the Broth- erhood knelt praying. The black-cowled figure on the cross wore only the white cot- ton trousers rolled up as a loin cloth. His wrists and arms were bound to the main timber by a horse-hair rope. Around his chest, a band of linen supplemented the rope, and eased the strain somewhat. For ten, fifteen, seventeen minutes-and they seemed ages long as we waited-the figure hung on the cross; then the black- cowled head suddenly fell forward, the body slumped, and the men slowly lowered the cross and carried it into the morada with the limp figure hanging on it. The men with the Crista followed singing and closed the door upon them. The Penitente re-enactment of the crucifixion of Christ is a most profound and beautiful relic of a kind of faith and religious experience that is no longer a part of the Christian heritage. This kind , of religious practice has its origins in the early European practices of flagellation, and if Los Her- manos Penitentes do not have a direct historical tie to the penitents in Spain, they are at least bound spiritually to them and their tradition. Early rec- ords of the Spanish conquests show that in fact such practices were brought into the New Mexican territory by the Franciscans. The Penitentes as a separate cult probably emerged sometime between the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, for dun'ng this time the territory was almost isolated, and had little guidance of any kind from either spiritual or temporal authorities. The natives were left to tend to their own needs for christenings, bap- tisms, and funerals, particularly after the Mexican Revolution, for at this time the Franciscans were expelled. In the Penitente re-enactment of the crucifixion there is both the tradition from Europe and also the kind of knowledge, hidden deep in the fibers of everyoneis memory, of what wisdom can come through great suffering. The Hellenic directive about wisdom through suffering has permeated the modern world to a considerable extent, and so the idea of suffering is, if not understood, at least palatable to Western thought. The kind of suffering that charac- terizes the Holy Week rituals of the Penitentes, how- ever, transcends the mere attainment of knowledge, and in some respects is calculated to break the lim- its of knowled e. In short, union with God through suffering is un nowable. The best place to turn for a treatment of the meaning of the Penitente rites of the Hermanos is in the text of their alabados. Sinners, sinners, Who suffer for I esus And who will feel the nails Of our father Jesus, In these arms outstretched Here is the Divine light! In his brotherhood we take, Our father Jesus. In these stanzas, as in those that follow, the grandest themes of religion are treated in a way unique to the Penitentes. These themes are based on the knowl- edge that participation in the Iife-death-resurrection symbol of Christls crucifixion leads to a union with God, and that real wisdom beyond knowing is to be had through the greatest suffering. This understand- ing of birth through death is expressed in three dif- ferent modes of these peoplels character in their alabados ichantsi: a simple and rural resignation to the end of life almost like the sense of a change of seasons, a Catholic understanding of sufferin as part of Gods design leading to a heaven and ager- life, and a remarkably so histicated mystic under- standing of the way of lifg in which suffering and allegorical death lead to a transcendence 0f the senses into a Divine Light. What a wearisome journey And such a hard road! Now I am oing to another life, As my G0 has determined. This stanza is not a jeremiad, but a statement of the capacity of these people for enduring ac- ceptance, which an arid life has taught them. In the context of the ritual of penance, this ability to ac- cept the sacrament of suffering is essential to get- tingr beyond the weariness and pain, and to being able at last to utter iINow . . . f My strength has all left me, And my mind has left me; Now I leave all the pleasures Of this world so confusing. In this stanza, as in the one preceding, the transi- tion between the first two lines iwhich state the condition of transcendencei and the last two be- ginning with iiNowI I which tell the end of the transcendencei, the jump is from suffering into wis- dom. Suffering destroys not only the singular integrity of mind and body, but also the division between them. In the iiNow . . . that follows, the kind of distinctions that set off pain from pleasure, mind from body, and which make the world so confus- ing are left behind. This theme is elaborated in the seven verses that follow. They are a remarkable collage of the simple secular, religious, and mystical statements on the condition of dying. It becomes clear from these stanzas that death and suffering are, for the Penitentes, not a mere preoccupation, but in fact are seen to be the implement of salvation. In the procession to the cross, it is notable that death, in the Carreta del Muerto, is quite literally carried with the penitents. The sepulcher is my bed, The earth my proper seat; And souls are frightened When they consider themselves inside. Now I am going to the Church Preceded by prayer, And by all my kindred Whose hearts are broken. What one cannot see, When he stops to consider, That this bitter step All have got to take it! This life is a riddle, And it keeps us in a dream, And we invent amusements In order to support the pain. F mm the earth I was made, And the earth shall eat me, The earth has sustained me, And at last I shall be earth aLso. Good-by, all this company, All has been completed; Put me in the sepulcher In the earth of forgetfulness. In God I await repose, In God I await consolation, Trusti in His tremendous iustice He wil open Heavenis gate. Very few men ever actually die during the rites of penance or the crucifixion, and in fact great care is taken of the flagellants and the crucified man. This is a tacit assumption in the use of death imagery, and is a further insight into the allegorical nature of the death involved in penance. The final scene in the Penitente re-enactment of Christi crucifixion takes place in the chapel of the morada. Here the earthquake that followed Christ,s death is dramatized. All candles are extinguished, after the people have come in to sit, men on one side and women on the other. A place is made for some flagellants, and the doors close them into darkness and a cacophony of chain-rattling, tin-beating, and fearful moaning. This is interrupted only occasional- ly by a prayer from the Penitente Mayor. This rite is perhaps the most purely dramatic part of the Lenten season. As such, it emphasizes how much the entire procedure is a stark parable of the loneliness of these people and their country. That the story of the Passion must be re-enacted rather than just symbolically represented in a ritual is im- portant. These people at once believe that they are unique and individually important in the eyes of God; and yet their knowledge of Original Sin gives them the quite contrary belief that they are wretched to the core. The result is a kind of anxiety, which is the fear of sin, or a dread of not having lived com- pletely or fear of death. That is the kind of anxiety that is necessary to both the origin and the maintenance of strict social mores- reflected quietly in the division of men from women in the morada during the ritual of the Tinie- blas iearthquaket. So profound is this inhibiting anxiety, which demands of people: iiWatch yourself, that a mere symbolic re-enactment of Christis death would be insufficient. The drama provides a means for integrating the sacrament and ritual of suffering into the framework of a pageant 0f rebirth. The fact that the entire Lenten proceedings is a drama rather than a pure ritual is an indication, further, of what it is that makes these practices unique in the modern Christian world. Penance in this day is a question of begging forgiveness, and generally re- ceiving it at the hands of an intermediary agent. The Penitentes are not begging forgiveness for their sins, but are purging themselves of them. Rather than having someone to show them the light, they seek for it within themselves. Inasmuch as it takes great belief to experience such suffering, the distinctions between belief and experience, mind and body are shattered, and the penitent is assumed into Tithe earth of forgetfulnessf, To yield to death is to cease fearing it and to be born anew. I am of my Jesus the brother, I belong to Jesus and always will, Because I yield gladly, And to I esus I surrender. Acknowledgments The texts of the Penitente alabados and much of the inspiration for this paper came from Alice Corbin's Brothers of Light New York, 196m. Mr. Paul Horgan of the CAS was kind enough to give me his time and thinking, and was a great help to me. Transformation of Social Identity A Study of Chronic Mental Patients and College Volunteers in a Summer Camp Setting karl scheibe and phillip r. shaver It is no longer novel to doubt the legitimacy of the term iimental illness. Objections to it might be- gin with the allegation of implied dualism and the suggestion that mental illness is a metaphor mas- querading as reality. Also, one might object that the term umental illnessi' is a vestige of the pro- prietary jurisdiction of the medical profession for problems of behavior deviance; a jurisdiction that physicians arrogated from theologians in the sec- ularistic trend following the Renaissance. Third, there is the practical objection that it has proved unworkable to group behavior disorders, which are of necessity socially relative, with physical disorders, which are not, since effective cures for behavior disorders have not been developed and existing remedies are at best irregular in their success. Even though psychologists, sociologists, and psy- chiatrists have objected forcibly, it is still appro- Friate to describe any shift in concepts as iinew, or in practice iimental illness, is still firmly en- Mr. Scheibe is an assistant professor of psychology at Wesley- an. He has been the director since I964 ot a proiectt conducted by the National Institute of Mental Health. to evaluate the Service Corps Program. Mr. Shaver graduated from Wesleyan in I966 with a major in psychology. He has acted as a research assistant to Mr. Scheibe, spending the summer of I965 at the Service Corps Camp and the summer of I966 doing tollow-up work. He is currently studying social psychology at the University of Michigan. trenched. One thinks of Conanfs observation that theories are not destroyed by negative criticism, only by better theories. This paper is meant to describe a single example of how a concept might be evolved to replace the concept of mental illness, though the experience to be described-a summer camp for chronic mental patients staffed largely by non-professional college students-was less a product of theories about social deviance than of the needs of a state mental hospital system. Some Theoretical Background Foxtunately, there have arisen out of the objec- tions to the iimental illness metaphor some sug- gestions about how the problems in question-mal- adjustment, bizarre behavior, delusions, etc.-might otherwise be handled. Some of these suggestions are remarkably close to what was already happening in Connecticufs summer camping program. Of partic- ular use are Sarbinis suggestions tin presst that iimental illness'i and the process of becoming a mental patient may be viewed as a process of the degrada- tion of social identity, which might at least theoret- ically be reversed. A persons social identity, Sarbin reasons, derives from the particular set of social positions he has validated. The roles associated with these positions, to varying extents, may be achieved by personal ef- fort or ascribed as part of a ilbirthrightfi The chronic mental patient has been stripped of his achieved statuses, and is considered a deviant from most of his ascribed statuses. To be a sick person is to be a person temporarily without basic human rights, such as the right of deciding where to live, what to eat, and what to wear. To be mentally sick is to be without basic human status, for effective mental functioning is an essential human attribute. That does not mean that mental patients are treated cruelly, in the ordinary sense. The same hu- manitarian ethic that protects animals and Children from physical cruelty also protects the mental pa- tient. Patients may even be greatly admired within the mental hospital. However, the basic fact of life for the chronic mental patient is that he has failed at proving himself a fundamentally sound human being. Living in a chronic ward with his fellows under the supervision of authoritarian caretakers and yielding to prescribed medications from often unseen physicians, the Chronic patient is constantly degraded. Whether this condition can be reversed is not immediately clear. Success does not automatically follow from merely agreeing to rehumanize the Chon- ic patient by involving him again in achieved posi- tions and granting him his human dignity. Yet it is clear that if rehumanization has any Chance of success, the ordinary way of life of mental patients is diametrically opposed to this possibility. As many authors have argued, the mental hospital, like the prison, is a dehumanizing and pathogenic agent. The camping program to be described here is one possible way of promoting persons out of the mental patient role. Also, ample attention will be given to the performance and reactions of the involved stu- dents, the agents of potential change. THE CONNECTICUT SERVICE CORPS CAMPING PROGRAM Since the mid-fifties, more and more non-profes- sional people, notably college students, have become engaged in work with chronic mental patients in institutions. In most of the programs described, stu- dents visit a large hospital once or twice a week to talk with the patients, take them for walks, involve them in games, and so on-in short, to bring some of the iioutside6 environment into the hospital. Scheibe has reported on a more intensive program, the Connecticut Service Corps, inaugurated in 1963 by the Connecticut Department of Mental Health. Students are assigned to four state hospitals, Where they are given living quarters and $200 for a two- month summer project. They spend a regular work- ing week on chronic wards working with patients. In 1963 and 1964 some of the students acted as staff for a two-week camping program. In 1965 a special camp was built for chronic patients, to be operated for a full summer and staffed by its own unit of the Service Corps. This summer program, occupying most of July and August, 1965, is the subject of the following description. The au- thors will try to assess the reactions of volunteers to the experience, and to record ways in which the camping program may have affected a group of institutionalized patients. Description of the Camp The camp was located in a forested area on the banks of a small freshwater lake in northeastern Con- necticut. When the summer program began, the campsite was almost completely undeveloped. Pat- ients and staff lived in large army tents raised on wooden platforms. Breakfasts and weekend meals were cooked on an open fire; other meals were brought in from a local high school. Two swimming areas were roped off in the lake near the tent area, a shallow one for non-swimmers and a deeper one. An arts and crafts program was conducted in a converted pumphouse near the lake. Recreation facilities were built by the inhabitants of the camp during the summer: a boat-launching ramp, a diving raft, and areas for basketball, volley- ball, badminton, and horseshoes. Several indoor games like checkers and cards were also provided. Staff The program was directed by a clinical psycholo- gist. His assistant, a member of a college athletic de- partment with no previous experience in mental health, was titled program director. Both lived in tents with their wives and children. The rest of the staff included a quartermaster ta psychiatric aidel, a waterfront director, an arts and crafts in- structor, a camp crafts director, an athletic director talso an aidel, and a nurse. Besides these professionals, there were 17 college students chosen by the American Friends Service Committee who had applied as summer volunteers. Though chosen separately, they were considered members of the Connecticut Service Corps. They were aged 18-27 and came from 15 colleges in 10 states. Except for college courses in psychology and sociology, none had been trained to work with men- tal patients; 13 had rarely or never visited a mental hospital. One volunteer, a girl from Ireland, arrived after the program had begun and was therefore ex- cluded from most of this study. All further specific references to the students will therefore include only the other 16, eight males and eight females. Work Routine Plans had been made early in the year to erect permanent buildings at the campsite-complete with water, electricity, and indoor cooking and recreation areas, but unforeseen complications delayed con- struction. Therefore, when the student volunteers arrived, they had to erect tents, build washstands, dig fire pits, and clear paths. By the time the first patients arrived, the woods had been transformed into a habitable camp, but living conditions were still primitive. To develop the camp further, the daily program had to include work as well as recreation. Staff and patients always worked together-at everything from chopping trees and clearing stumps to building fires and cooking breakfast. A typical day included work projects in the morning and early afternoon, as well as a swim before lunch, sports, arts, and crafts in the later afternoon, free time after supper, and an $1611ng program of singing, skits, charades, and the 1 e. The Patient-Campers Seventy-nine adult patients lived at the camp for some period of time, 49 for two weeks, eleven for seven weeks, three for four weeks, one for three weeks, and the remainder for one week. All patients were adult residents of chronic wards in Connecti- cut,s four state mental hospitals. Length of stay since latest admission ranged from one to 33 years and averaged 12.15 years. Patients were selected at the discretion of each of the four state hospitals; the criteria were by no means uniform. Sometimes patients explicitly asked to go to camp and were sent. Other patients were iidraftedfi Some patients appear to have been sent to camp as a reward for good behavior-others were sent lifor their own goodf, sometimes with less than a days notice. These varying procedures led to some prob- lems. M odes of patient-staff interaction Deliberate efforts were made to abandon the ill- ness metaphor while patients were at camp: they were always referred to either by name or as iicam- pers rather than patients. This was part of a larger attempt to break down the iihelper-helped relation- ship characteristic of mental hospitals. Roles that set one erson above another were avoided as much as possi 1e. Moreover, no one wore a white uniform and the few hospital personnel employed bore titles reflecting their status in the camp, not in the mental health profession. Most of the patients received medication, but it was distributed inconspicuously by the camp nurse and was seldom a topic of conversa- tion. The student volunteers who provided most of the enthusiasm and energy for the program were rela- tively unfamiliar with professional language, and they tended to approach patients in normal ways, treating them as people-people with liidiosyncra- cies,n but not with iisymptomsf, Students were en- couraged to fashion their own techniques for deal- ing with blatant deviance, rather than accept a sin- gle approach. In terms of the theory expounded here, the be- havior of staff to campers may be seen as an ac- ceptance of the campers most fundamentally as per- sons, not as patients. Since the patients were first presented to the students at camp and not in the mental hospital, the acceptance was easier. The naivete of the students was also important. For their behavior with the campers was based on their deal- ings with iinormalsfi They had no experience on xiihich to draw for treating the campers as ilmentally 1 . Moreover, the camp setting offered abundant op- portunities for recognized achievements, however transient their effects on the social identities of the campers. Originally, the camp had been conceived only as a recreation medium. But, as it developed, several hours a day were taken up by relatively hard work, and many of the campers seemed to en- joy contributing to the effort. Diligent or excellent labor was regarded with honest gratitude and praise from fellow campers- patients and staff. Camp improvements were appre- ciated by the entire iicommunityf, One of the male campers indicated increased interests explicitly: iiI haven,t felt like working in over five years, but be- ing here makes you feel alive and you want to work. You know that every little bit of work you do is going to add to the camp and is going to benefit somebody? In the hospital many of these patients had no jobs. Those who did have jobs or were in occupational therapy often worked away from their wards, so that positive valuation from fellow ward members was rare. At camp there was a wide variety of activities. Therefore, an individual had many opportunities to establish a reputation for effort or skill. Some of the men, for example, surprised the students with their ability to use camping and building tools. Others proved to be talented athletes tdespite, in many cases, the dulling effects of drugs and pro- longed inactivity on the wardsl. Women were en- couraged to help with cooking and cleaning, and frequentl they made known at breakfast that iiI cooked t ose eggs you,re eating? or le the one who volunteered to get up at 6:30 A. M. to start the fire? Also, they could participate in the daily arts and crafts projects. The evening program gave all the campers a chance to perform before a group. Some were good singers, a few had acting ability, and most were willing to try-especially with support and coaxing from the students, who contributed ideas for skits and charades, partners for duets, and encourage- ment when it was needed. Campers were, for the most part, allowed to dress as they pleased. In some cases the hospitals issued them special camp clothing-shorts, sweatshirts, sum- mer blouses, etc., so that personal identity might have been easier to establish by dress than it is in the hos itals where dress is quite undistinguished and uni orm. While the atmosphere was always rel- atively informal, students sometimes attempted to transform an unkempt, indifferent hairdo or outfit into something more attractive. Camp life demanded a considerable degree of independence and responsibility. Campers could de- cide how they would spend much of each day tal- though a suggested program was outlined by Ian- ning committeesl. They were expected to ulfill committee assignments, just as were staff members. Their suggestions regarding changes in schedule or planned activities were accepted as serious and worthwhile. Experienced campers took responsibility for showing newcomers around the area and for ex- plaining such customs and rules as lunch line pro- cedure and smoking and waterfront regulations. Interpersonal conflict and problems did arise fairly often, but they were handled with relative ease by the clinical psychologist-camp director. He could ob- serve the entire context of problems and could deal with them immediately. He reported: The professional person, because of his continuous observation, is in a better posi- tion to handle crisis situations with a patient -on the spot, instead of through second- hand or superficial channels. Thus, when a patient is upset and wants to iitalki to the therapist, the therapist doesnt have to guess or infer what the total situation was, but is able to see the circumstances that surround- ed it and then better evaluate the situation. A clear example of this occurred when a patient this summer suddenly stormed out of the tent, determined to go back to the hospital and extremely angry with a Service Corps girl. Having seen the situation de- velop, I was able to talk to the patient with all the relevant facts and was able to show her what had happened. Handling the pa- tients feelings on-the-spot thus made it un- derstandable to the patient and she was able to see that her reaction was inappro- priate. This led to a serious introspection of her typical way of relating to people. Miseman, by permission, from his report to the Connecticut Department of M ental Health. i F urthermore, since the director spent the greater portion of each day with the patients-working, swimming, singing, and eating-he was seen as less professionally distant than hospital doctors. STUDENT REACTION Living with chronic mental patients 24 hours a day might be expected to have a significant effect on untrained college students. In order to assess the students, reactions, they were given a four-hour battery of tests and questionnaires in group sessions during the first week of the summer program, before any patients had been sent to the camp. A revised battery of similar length was given in the last week of the program, after all patients had returned to their respective hospitals. Elapsed time between the two administrations was about seven weeks. Ques- tionnaires were designed to elicit opinions from the students about mental health, mental hospitalization, and the potential of the camping program. Individual taped interviews were conducted with all students at the beginning of the summer, and again at the end. In addition, one of the authors spent the sum- mer at camp and kept written observations of inter- actions, activities, and problems. F ollow-up questionnaires were completed by mail six months after the termination of the program to determine vocational goals at that time, extent to which they had maintained contact with patients, and what they thought looking back on the summer experience. It may be simply stated: there were virtually no negative effects on the students. No one dropped out of the program because of disillusionment or depression, nor was anyone asked to withdraw. There were indications of mild depression toward the end of the first week, when the magnitude of their chal- lenge became apparent. But no student showed signs of serious emotional disturbance during the summer. None required more than routine counseling from the camp director or a few days away from the camp. REACTION S OF PATIENTS It is difficult enough to obtain a valid measure of improvement in chronic patients, and even more difficult to relate observed change to a specific cause, such as the camping program. Release rates, which can be meaningful indices for shorter-term patients, are low by definition for chronic patients. Also, in this particular case, several other factors that have impinged on some of the patients may have effected change independent of the camping program-for example, ward changes, changes in medication tin- cluding experimental drugsl, changes in hospital organization, and new therapy programs within the hospital. Given these difficulties and limited informa- tion, we must interpret cautiously. At the close of the camping season each of the students was asked to rate each patient on a six- point evaluation scale which included the following descriptive phrases: ll Significant therapeutic gain, better ad- justment, likely to have a lasting effect. Zl Had an enjoyable experience, but it is unlikely that there will be any signifi- cant long-term gains. 3i Although not significantly changed, was a therapeutic agent for other patients. 4i Seemed neither to benefit from, or be harmed by, the experience. Sl Had a negative effect on self or other patients. 6i I didnt get to know this patient well enough to judge, or I cant remember this patient. Of the 79 patients, 40 were rated by at least one student as showing a significant therapeutic gain. Nine of the 40 were so rated by over half the stu- dents. This category was used an average of 10 times per student for the 79 patients-five of the 10, on the average, being applied to the llfull summer campers. The second category was used most fre- quently, corroborating interview statements that even in cases where patients, performance did not promise dramatic recovery, the camping program had at least given pleasure to the campers. The fifth cate- gory Chad a negative effect? was used on an average of five times by each student, half of these describing three particular patients from the lifull summerll group ttwo of whom were returned to the hospitalsl. A follow-up study of patient records was made approximately one year after the camping experience. At this time nine of the 79 patients had been dis- charged from the hospitals ttwo of these to convales- cent homes, the others were not released to institu- tions l. One other was being considered for discharge. Since these figures give no information about most of the patients, and do not supply causal links, psy- chiatrists who were responsible for the patient-cam- pers were asked to evaluate the campls effects. Most of them had not seen the camp and were not in- volved in its operation. Therefore, their impressions can be considered relatively unbiased by personal connection with the camping program. All gave favorable reports. Some attributed signif- icant patient improvement to the camping program tineluding three dischargesl. Specifically, several patients became more interested in the possibility of their release; they spoke more frequently of con- ditions outside the hospital. Some were noticeably more confident after finding that they could live successfully among normal people away from the hospital. Some were more interested in working and have since found outside jobs. All the psychiatrists interviewed agreed that their patients enjoyed going to camp. Getting out of the hospital and into a more varied and active environ- ment was seen as beneficial for almost all patients. In short, the camping experience was described as at least enjoyable, and at most a significant contrib- uting factor to the improvement of a few patients. SPECIAL PROBLEMS One great need is a follow-up program in the hos- pitals, so that patients who are helped by the camp experience will not be allowed to sink back into the familiar routine of ward life. The military axiom that one should take pains to reinforce success might well be applied in the mental hospital. There is no evidence that special efforts were made to pre- serve apparent patient gains made at camp, such as beginning group therapy sessions with them. Probably the greatest problem for the future will be resisting iiinstitutionalization of the camp itself. As plans for another summer unfold, it is clear that medical experts, larger professional staff, and per- manent buildings and equipment are thought to be the natural characteristics of a second-generation program. This trend is encouraged by the occasional occurrence of medical problems-for example, drug overdoses taken by patients who conceal and collect pills. Recently proposed solutions include stricter reg- imentation and supervision of patients, which would obviously run counter to the camps treatment ob- jectives, and additional medical staff members, which would further suggest the medical atmosphere of the mental hospital. As the camp becomes better established and more developed, fewer work opportunities will present themselves. If the camp is to maintain its effective- ness, new ways must be conceived to interest patients and involve them in activities. As permanent dwel- lings are added, great care will be required to dis- courage the natural equation of wards and cabins, day room and recreation hall. A picture of fifty patients sitting complacently in cabins, dining hall, and recreation hall is not difficult to imagine. The purpose of getting chronic patients out of the insti- tution and into an active environment could dis- appear if the camp became an institution DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION The theories in this paper were developed quite independently of the camping program. Both de- velopments are evidence of important changes tak- ing place currently on theoretical and practical levels to transform the problem of mental illness into some other kind of problem, for which, hopefully, a more adequate solution can be found. In presenting the elements of a particular trans- formation of the problem of mental illness together with a description of the Service Corps camping program, it may seem that we have gained no evi- dence for the value of the transformation. Few of the patients iigot well? Many probably will not be lastingly affected by the camping program. Yet, our interpretation is that we have obtained good evidence for the viability of this approach. At least we have succeeded in demonstrating the pos- sibility of a non-patient sort of life for chronic pa- tients complemented by non-professional staff. More- over, all who attended the camp agreed that the time spent there was not dead time or inmate time; it was a worthwhile human experience. The uniform positive reactions of psychiatrists to the returning patient-campers is very encouraging. As for the camping program itself, there are sev- eral signs that it may develop toward the ends of patient responsibility and community acceptance and respect, rather than toward the end of becoming a fresh-air mental hospital. A further possibility for which some hope is warranted is that the students who participate in this and similar programs will provide an informed and dedicated force for estab- lishing similar programs in other places. Finally, the camp program demonstrated, for a fairly representative sample of mental patients, that they are at least transiently responsive to attempts to restore their lost identities. Patients appreciated being listened to and attended to. They appreciated being socially recognized for commendable perform- ances. The real prospect for the future is that a means might be devised, perhaps as an extension of present volunteer programs, for the more perma- nent social rebuilding and promotion of those who are now called mentally ill. It might be suggested that psychologists stop asking for a cure for mental illness. Instead, let psychologists ask how it might be possible to transform degraded social identities. The camping program described here may be a prototype for the answer to this question. Photographs In this short collection of photographs I have not attempted presentation of a coherent theme, except I might take the opportunity to make a short state- ment on what I feel is the nature of photo-journal- ism. Photo-journalism is the recording of people, some- times well-known people, but more frequently, and more importantly, those unknown faces we all feel we know. I don't mean to bring down the put-on of self-known irrelevance; however, I would like to make a Single point: There seems to be a bit of fantasy surrounding photography and its status in the creative world. Many people have an idea that photographers are artists and photography is art. walt odcts There is no one who is more assured by other crea- tive people of his status in the creative world than the photographer-the assurance being so great that a credibility gap develops. I suppose that everyone, photographers included, would like to think that he is an artist; but the fact is that I can think of only one photographer whom I could consider an artist, Henri Cartier-Bresson. It seems to me that no single photograph makes a man an artist, a qualification which really can- not be applied to the poet or painter. No single photograph is the kind of thing I would view for nearly the amount of time I might spend, say, on a painting. In short, photography is a process of selectivity, but one limited to visual phenomena which are filmable. Photography is not an activity of creation, but at best the creation of an attitude. Futhermore, a photograph is not something as seen through the eye of the photographer, but rather something seen through the lens of a manufactured piece of equipment, a fact which cannot be ignored. Between photographer and subject there always exists an unimaginable amount of equipment tsome of which can be avoidedi and the camera is never the natural extension of the photographers hand that the brush is of the painters Aware of photographyis involvement with technology, some people have de- clared it a iimodern-day art.n I find that extraordi- nary. If the photographer is to function as a true artist, seeing as no one has before, he has all this to overcome-for the camera, with which he must work, is not nearly as limitless as the eye, the mind or the hand. This classifying spirit, this distinction between photographer and artist, may be unnecessary and nivial and I donlt mean to sound as if it is really too important, even to photography. But many photog- raphers, considering themselves artists, begin to do things which are wholly ridiculous, something which, again, is not too significant. What I do mean to say is that the photographer is a craftsman and only infrequently a good and honest one, one who can go about his work quietly and present it for what it is. Walt Odets is a sophomore maioring in Eastern religions. Wesleyan UniversH-y Paris ,. L. ll I II II II II I I I I l The Lafe Paula Sfrasberg New York Haifi Nora Haifi Nancy Haifi .JI . Q. . . . ' :NQI Boise. Idaho 3-. s i..ii.?s.2xi. peter boylmm A Pitta of KM 511155 You wouldn,t suspect it, I think, but for years now my summer life has been one long sequence of par- ties, and the grandest sorts of parties, too-parties given by the very, very rich. And to this day both my parents enjoy hearing my accounts of them. When were settled in the kitchen, sipping at a little port wine, Mother will tell us about a town she once lived in that we used to think of moving to, then my father will talk about a farm heis had his eye on for a while, then theylll want to know about my most recent party. One thing to tell you first is that they all took place in the areas that lie around our town, areas I knew well even as a boy, although before my paper route was taken away from me by violence, I had to pedal along the winding lanes that run off Ocean Avenue almost too rapidly to enjoy the sights; later, when I felt that I could travel more slowly, I came to savor things; and still later, when I was afoot, I came to ap reciate them most fully. Along Ocean Avenue itsel , though, I,ve always felt that a person can ride quite fast and still not miss what there is to be seen. For instance at one point you pass along a wall that is probably half a mile in Mr. Boynton is the acting director of the College of'Letters. Last spring he published his first novel. Games in the Darkening Air. He is now working on a new book due to be released in I968. length, that wall is also slightly over eight feet high according to my most careful estimates, and has beautiful bits of colored glass along its top, and has only one gate, or only one way in tthe seaside doesn't count but even there, up from the high- water mark, the wall only becomes something else- a hedge of low, spiny shrubs, quite beautiful, that the wind has swept and drifted for as long as they have been there, and from which I broke a tiny piece one night that I still keep on my shelfl. My town is something of a summer town, by which I mean that many people live there only in that season and come from Boston and Philadelphia to take up their few months, residence in it. Their houses and yards, of course, occupy far more room than the town itself does. The rich do spread them- selves out; the poor tend to huddle-you might think for warmth, but I think the reason is more interesting than that. They donit seem to care very much about scenery and prefer to watch each other, and for that, of course, you have to be close together. No point in being off somewhere behind shrubberv and walls if your aim is to know what your neighbor is up to. All that-I mean my paper route and the fast ped- alling that it requiredwwas in the old days and things have changed. A small car now does what I used to. But things had changed even before that car came along. A boy down the street beat me up one day. He took my job away too, though I must say I eouldnlt blame him for that. It seemed to me the best job by far to be had in those parts for anyone our age. It was odd jobs or fishing for most of us- welre a seaport town-and fishing appeals to very few of us as a sport. And of course the paper route offered, as well as a dollar and a half a day, this continual procession of very great places to the eye: velvety lawns, almost endless gardens twe in the town heard of one that employed forty gardeners the year around, but to that one the owners came very seldom, and I speculated as to what their other house might have looked likel; and of course the famous people themselves, one family of which even made the bicycle I rode. They would notice me on it one day, I liked to think, and would stop to talk; and I would say, Itis an extremely good product that you make, and tell them how I had come by it; then they would say, Come on in and meet our Children, have a dip in our pool. There were other families, too, who made famous products, and I used them when I could. One of the families made a brand of soup, for example, and we had it at home now and then for a treat, and another made something that would make hair grow that I bought my father for his birthday. I collected bits of those products or their labels that I found washed up along the shore below their houses. So there was all that for the boy on the paper route to appreciate. Beauty like that isn,t in the eye of the beholder; it,s undeniably there; and each morning at four I would set out with my heart filled with anticipation. So I didnt blame the boy down the street for taking the job away. We were all poor. And as for the Violence, where I live that is the way you assert yourself and I myself have been triumphed over so often that I am left with no very strong feel- ings upon the subject. But he broke my bicycle, too, and that I found difficult to forgive-I heal in a fairly short time, but it took me nearly the rest of the summer to find parts that would fit, or that I could make fit, to get that bicycle to working once more. When I did, I set out on it immediately, by then having almost forgotten the cause of it all, to view my estates, as I had come humorously to call them, and by that carelessness ran into the boy again, whose name was Ralph and who came upon me stopped by a gateway and looking up at it. I imagine he thought that I had plans for recapturing the route from him; at any rate he flew at me and knocked me down several times, though he failed to hurt the bike. And following that I had to become more cun- ning in my travels and my sight-seeing. Until then, I believe, my cunningness had consisted solely in discovering vantage points, but after that second and quite severe beating it was exercised in avoiding Ralph, since he was fierce-most of the boys who live where I do are, and all of them are tough, and Fm not, or not in their ways. Iim tough about rain and cold and things like that, and a good pedaller, or was when I had the bicycle, but my battles gener- ally cost me a tooth and some blood, and if they got me down, occasionally a bone would be damaged in some way. These encounters happened just often enough to make me fairly nervous, but not often to spoil my tours. And after a week of not meeting him I would become cheerful at them again, and plan new routes for new vistas; and of course not having to travel so rapidly I made real progress in discovering vantage points, which I referred to technically as points of view. And I would talk to myself about them, quite as if I were, in fact, conducting a tour. Now from this slight knoll if you look sharp, I would say, you will see four of I think twelve ehimbleys of the stone house lying just over there-four was as high as I got to see, but by estimating, and by taking in the shape of the house, as much of it as I could see, I came up- on the figure twelve as a reasonable one. But then, in my careless good humor, I would forget myself and Ralph would be upon me and give me a bloody eye or mouth to help me to remember him and my place. All this led finally to a very serious change in the way I conducted my life, which I will tell you about. What happened was that I lost my bicycle, too; and since I couldnt imagine how I would ever get another one, at first I was disconsolate. But bad at times has a way of turning into good for me. If things were always easy I don,t think we would ever improve. Be that as it may, this is how it came about. I had had a flat and came wheeling in on foot one afternoon, and as I passed a front yard not far from my own, five or six boys, whom I knew from school and from living so close to, having not much else to do, I suppose, came out to watch me. One of them said, Ralph says he beats you up all the time-is that true? I admitted that it was. One of the others said, Well, if he can I can-and he came out and did. I was afraid for the bike, but they didnit think of that then, being interested in me. When I got up he knocked me down again. So I stayed on the grass while they talked me over. And that was the begin- ning of harder times for me, because after that they would lay for me, and take turns trying me out when they caught me. And since not many of us had bi- cycles it was not long before they questioned my right to and one day took it from me, and that, I'm afraid, made me cry. I went to our back yard and sat under a squash vine we had growing on some poles and wondered what would happen to me next. Because my father worked at mowing lawns and clip- ping hedges-not those of the places I have described for you, just the lawns and hedges of people a little above us in station and income, and it wasnt much of a living he made at it either, so the miracle was that I had had a bicycle at all. No miracle, as a matter of fact-I had found it at our town dump one morning, in the early days of picking through it looking for odds and ends-and almost in working condition, too, so I supposed it must have belonged to one of the children I saw issuing from the gate- ways in cars now and then. All I had had to do for it was to acquire a few parts; and in almost no time I was pedalling through the countryside discovering those fine houses. I think none of the other children even knew they were there, so Closely did they hang around the town and haunt the corners. So that by the time they took the bike from me, I was an old hand at spying along a wall, and since there was little I could do about getting it back, I made the best of things, and began to set out on foot. And that worked perfectly. For one thing, with my bicycle among them now, they seemed to lose interest in myself and laid for me less assiduously; and for another it became easier to avoid Ralph. Generally Ion foot nowl I could see him coming before he saw me and duck behind a bush or rock. The bicycle had been actual- ly in the way, I realized. Only when I came to the gateway of the people who had made it would I feel the loss-no chance at all remained that they might invite me in; my only link with them had been broken; through I could see the gate better and ap preciate the size and importance of it, and note how the driveway disappeared so cunningly into the trees, and even see a patch of lawn way off, shining like a bit of sea glass in the sun. And dont think I wasnt tempted then to walk right in and duck around in the shrubbery beyond it. I was leery of dogs though, because one of the places I knew had big white ones. So even that wasn,t all bad. Nothing is-Ilm firmly convinced. So as of old my mornings or afternoons, and some- times the whole day, would be spent out there among the estates. But by then, and partly due to Ralph again, the neighborhood had begun to realize that I had this rare pleasure and to turn its interest my way once more. And though I went out almost always too early for them to spy me, coming back was another matter. There were two gangs of them, generally against each other, but both, I soon dis- covered, against me. Where could I have been, and what up to? I,m sure is what passed through each of their minds. And of course Ralph told them what little he knew. There he is, I heard one of a group sing out Inot the group that had taken my bike but the rival one, I thinkl. They closed in on me. But my cunningness came to my rescue again. I found new ways to approach home. I would sneak along a back fence, duck into goldenrod, hide behind a hen house or garage. Listen. Dart across an open patch of grass. I was quite fast afoot if not strong. And I grew to like coming home that way. I made a virtue of necessity-a phrase I had read some- where in a school book I liked-which in our world you really had to. Also, in the same book, entitled How to Excel In English, I learned the beautiful word assiduous and came for a while to use it a great deal. Even so-I mean despite my evasive tactics-they caught me from time to time, because it soon became a game for them, too, and various of them, as they had before, would take turns on me, and my nose got broken and more of my teeth came out. It finally got so, of course, that again I was driven to alter my procedures. I would stay indoors almost as long as it was light, then would slip out our back door and be off. And in that way I dis- covered the glories by night of those houses I had admired by day. And I could really see them better at night. The gateways would be lighted up, for one thing-and from time to time, by hanging around one, I would see cars arrive and depart-for parties, I soon gath- ered. In one car once I saw the most beautiful sight almost of my entire life up till then: a woman was driven out, and under the lights I could see jewels glitter; she wore a white fur; she had rubies and flowers in her hair, which was blue. She was quite old, and I remember, wishing that I hadn,t noticed, that her skin hung down from her chin and jaws as if it were no longer hers. But as she passed in that great black car I saw her only as jeweled and nod- ding I and to me, I thought, forgetting that I couldn't be seen, and waved at herl under huge purple flow- ers of a kind I had no name for. So I came to take up my stand near certain gate- ways. From those vantage points I knew so well now, I would look for the houses that had the most lights on, then head for the gate; and from there, from a bit of shrubbery or tucked behind a tree, I would watch the coming and going. And how beauti- ful those people looked to me, especially the young girls, in silks or sweaters and scarfs, or with long golden aims, often waving at others in other cars- the young men, too, with short hair and stripped jacketseand cars unlike any in our town-cars with wire wheels, and with tires strapped on-with sever- al Windshields, with long silver horns-or low and sleek and fast looking cars that would arrive scatter- ing pebbles and dust, as if impatiently. I would crouch for hours and had, on cool nights, a costume of my own that I wore against the damp or the fogs which haunt our shore. The foggy nights, in fact, I liked almost better than the Clear or the moonlit, because then great headlights would emerge in dazzling blurs of gold light-and what car would it be with headlights of that magnitude? vou would wonder. Who would be in it? How would they be dressed? Then up the winding driveways they would swirl, brushing the foliage with gold paint, vanishing into rubies. Thatls what they did in those houses, I came to discover-I had always wondered; they had parties. And with so much ground to cover, and on foot now, remember, I had to look sharp and move fast not to miss one-which I hated to, the coming and going both; I would have a sense of not having been asked, even of not having been wanted. And thats how I began to go to my summer parties. And how beautiful the houses themselves were at night, the inhabited ones-gold hives of lightehoney- combs of the winged folk-castles-palaces. I won- dered then, or used to when I was still quite young, who beat them up, who took anything at all from them, so far away they seemed. so untouchable, they in their golden world, whisked here and there, im- mune to, in fact not even knowing about, the dark world where I was. And very great they were, the ones along the shore. One had, my father had heard, over two hundred rooms; and I can well believe it -a house of towers; I came to love it best; and saw it once, when I had come there in daylight, with long banners drifting and sinking in the wind and great tents on the lawns. What could exist in such a house, I would wonder, but beauty and light? And think of the food, think of what they would have just for breakfast-sausages and eggs, orange juice and a melon of some kind, and maybe F rench toast. And when I still dared to I would come out in the day to see if the children were playing; and they were once-at a party of their own, I think, because a good many of them were there, all in white, and only a few adults, not in white, some of which I took to be guards for the littler ones be- cause one of them eyed me suspiciously so that I went away. And it was along there, too, that I found thingsethe bits and remains of their products, for example, that I told you I collected. But other things, too-such as cork, such as the bones of fishes, tongues and vertebrae-and certain stones, and pieces of sea glassvand a kind of shiny, black, hard seaweed, dried, that I thought very beautiful-all of thilgh I took home in a box I carried, and put on my 5 e . So that all that had happened as a result of the boys in my neighborhood laying for me was that I had been forced into a life that had proved more exciting and more brilliant than ever. I had thrived in adversity. And of course I was beaten up less often, tooe-a relief, because the beatings used to scare me quite a bit and they had hurt one of my legs by then, which made fast running, that is, from party to party, more difficult; and then no longer having to fear for my bicycle had from the start proved a simplification. As these circumstances altered the routines of my life, I soon became used to appearing only at night, to play, that is. The earliest I would go out would be about seven, in fact; that gave me just time to get to a gateway, or, as was sometimes the case, to the shore below the big houses, where too I could find things in the waning light, those lovely things Ilve told you about. I dont like the phrase, I lived for the nights; my life has always been rich to me whatever the time of day. For instance, I enjoy sleeping-four or five hours of good sleep has always been a real pleasure, especially when Iim a little tired, and with a good deal of running to do, I fre- quently was. Food, too-we eat a lot of hot dogs with Frenchls mustard at my house and Fm very fond of them indeed; we eat a good deal of peanut butter, too, and quite a bit of bread-perhaps as an economy measure, though all three of us enjoy this food, with potato salad as our favorite vegetable- it,s like a picnic we once had. Because for one thing I hadnlt been bringing in any money for a long time now. My father didnit complain; he had a suspicion I wasnt getting along with the boys in the neighbor- hood too well; also, being a strong man himself, he thought of me as frail. I forget what I told him about the newspaper route, but I made up some clever story which set both our minds at ease on that score. I did try being a delivery boy for the market we have but they soon took that away from me, too. It was odd, but as soon as the other boys would see me doing something, they would resent it. Ilm not sure why; it might just have had to do with my mother, who was a lady-and still iseand in our neighborhood a lady is an object of suspicion to young and old alike. She drank, ever so little, and Ilm afraid word got around about that, too. It was all right for my father to-all the men did-but to see her come down the sidewalk for the milk a little unsteadily was cause for comments, and I got my share of those and thought them completely unjusti- fied. His old lad is a boozer, one of the boys in the, gang said one agternoon. I said, She is not, but she is a lady. And he knocked me down for contradicting him. That was when I lost a fourth tooth-or I think it was then-though its hard to remember when and where they came out. My feeling about my teeth is that they come out more easily than other boys, because of our diet. I read somewhere, in my science course, I think, about calcium, and our diet didn,t seem to provide much of that, in fact avoided it assiduously. Well, theylve got to come out sooner or later is my view of things, and I think having them knocked out is no worse than having a dentist drill them out, because even though Yve never been to one of them, live heard stories, and I wouldnt go to a dentist for a piece of red glass, even now. So my father would mow a few lawns or clip some hedges, then he and my mother would get a nice bottle of red wine, always an occasion for them, and sit in the kitchen with the radio turned on and the blinds down; then they would talk. They would give me sips, too. And we used to talk about all sorts of things, but always got around to a farm my father said he had his eye on and had done work at, too, once, that he thought he might buy one day, al- though with what we werenlt clear; but it was some- thing he and my mother liked to talk about, and that I did, too, because the farm was not far from some of the houses I watched at most often and even the idea of living on it was extremely pleasant. Hu- man nature is full of hope, and I think I ought to say right here that none of us has ever lost a particle of it. So cheerful did our conversations become when they had the red Wine that I wouldnt even go out partying then, as I called it to myself, but would sit home with them and listen to the talk; and heady talk it was. My mother, for instance, liked to tell us about a town she had once lived in before she mar- ried my father, whom she had met during the war, and about a school where she had had the highest marks in history and had been considered, she told us, a very promising student. She made that town seem as pretty as a real one to us; I knew it well- the lake it had-the town square with a bandstand in the middle-its main street-one or two of its big- gest houses tnothing like mine, Fm afraid, though of course I didnt tell her I thought thatl. My father and she used to talk of moving to it, as an alternative to the farm, I think, when we had the wherewithal. Also, he was thinking of getting a much better job, except that he wasnt educated or even a very smart man, Fm afraid, and there weren,t many around for what he was. Though nearly bald, my father was strong and well made but had been only to the fourth grade. We did very well though and had a set of oak furniture that we were extremely proud of even though we had very few people to show it to. We might have had more with more money, I thought; hence that was cause for sorrow and worry to me, to think that I contributed so little as I grew older and the neighborhood gangs set upon me more fiercely, even though they told me that it didn,t matter at all, my mother and father did, and that we were doing very nicely as it was. One of the things that happened though was that I found at the dump bottles from the big parties I watched that frequently had liquors still in them, of various kinds, and by pouring these all into one I would be able-oh, as often as once every two weeks-to fill one and bring it home as a treat. And that did cheer things up, let me tell you. Our talk would get gay, indeed, even giddy-plans developed before our very eyes, and life seemed for a while to be a good deal more promising than it often actually was. I used a flashlight for those excursions to the dump, because by then I wasnt being seen out of doors any more than I could help being. The flashlight was another of the prizes that I found out there incidentally, and all I had had to get for it was a bulb and some batteries, and make a little spring to hold them in, and then it worked good as new and was quite powerful-I could spot a rat with it forty feet away. It was the rats against me out there at night, but I was not a bit scared and was only bitten really hard once, on the leg tnot my bad onel, by one I had cornered by mistake. Ilm not afraid of animals though, if we except those white dogs; I found the neighbors could be a good deal fiercer than any of them. In fact the dump became one of my two sources of supply for the things I collected-the shore being the other. I got all kinds of things from it-things that often I could think of no immediate use for but could imagine some future one-so into the box I had for them, or up on the shelf if I liked their looks, they would go. I had stopped school by then, I think I should tell you. I had gotten all the way to the tenth and that seemed far enough. Because the boys were lay- ing for me more and more as it became clearer to them that any one of them could knock me down. I believe a feeling had begun to go around among them that until they had they couldnt join the gang, either one. So quite often I didnt make it as far as school, or would arrive in no condition to do my best work, and it gradually became apparent to me that it wasnt essential that I finish my studies. We had some books home, among them almost a com- plete set of the Book of Knowledge, and of course How to Excel in English, and I found magazines out where I found the bicycle and the flashlight, and would read those, and that seemed to be enough. My mother would have wished me to continue, but as she said herself, Schooling isnlt everything-Look at those fine marks I made in history-And what good did they do me? You must have been wondering whether I had any friends, and the answer is that of course I did; everybody has at least one; and if you wonder fur- ther why you havent been hearing about him, the answer to that is that I only had him a relatively short time. But I cant imagine anyone,s never hav- ing had a friend; that would seem to accuse him of some very great shortcoming, like selfishness, or pride. I met mine in the sixth grade when we were paired off on a science project and found him to be very nice and liked him right away. Our project was to collect things-right up my alley-and I was very eager to begin as soon as possible tlike my mother I was quite a good student and once made an A in the very subject the project was now inI, and what we were to collect, best of all, were sea- shore things-seaweeds and shells mostly-and these we were to arrange in a certain way-not the way I myself would have, but according to a scientific plan our book told us of, which I was perfectly will- ing to do. He had never been out to the shore. I learned that almost at once, because when I took him there he was alarmed by the big houses; then soon came to be impressed with all I knew about them, the people I had seen there, what just one of the boats cost t1 had found a magazine at the dump that had given that secret away, and you wouldn,t believe how much if I told youl. The collection came along very fast at first, but then, as is true of collections, was soon full of twos and threes of the same things. You get to a point, you know, where you have almost everything but the rare, and the rare of course is hard to come up- on. I had run across this fact in looking for a piece of red glass along that shore. Out of hundreds of green and blue and white and brown ones I had only this one very small piece of red, about as big as a pea-and look and look, as I did, for another, it was no use. Thafs the curious fact about sea glass -no red. I said to him, Perhaps youid like me to show you some of the houses back in the lanes. And we went to observe them that very afternoon. He was a lover of them in no time, an addict. When I saw that he was, I told him that I even went out at night and that at night you could see the houses best, because of all the lights. And of course you know what happened next. I took him with me to the parties. We had great luck that first time, too, which you hear is often true for beginners; it was a Saturday night though, so not too surprising that the party we went to excelled almost any I had been to myself that summer. Car after car wheeled through the gateway, and from our place, squatting quite comfortably in some clipped privet nearby, we saw them very close to-and the faces, and the clothes, the jeweled ladies, the furs, the great flowers. Glitter glitter went the cars-whoosh whoosh on the graveled driveway-and once a great horn sounded. We were elbowing each other and giggling almost constantly as one or the other of us would see something special. And we came home late and tired, and filled with almost too much party. One of the happiest evenings of my life, I must say, and I still cherish the memory of it. I donlt keep things only 011 a real shelf, I have a shelf in my mind where other sorts of thing go-an imaginary piece of red glass as large as a quarter is there, for example; impossibilitiesethings that you hardly expect to exist; and yet Ilm practical about it and allow nothing really impossible to stay there for long. And we went the next Saturday night, too, and in no time were going out both Friday and Saturday, wearing our party-going clothes-sneakers for run- ning and double suits of underwear for the cold, and nothing too bright. I even had him over to our house once, when my parents were out, to show him our oak furniture and several silver spoons my mother had, and was going to show him my collection, then didn,t, and am glad now I didnt, because word would have gotten around about that, too. Because what hap- pened next I dont like to think about, since in the eighth grade, a bad year for that, he joined one of the gangs and I lost him. And the way that happen- ed was this-they caught us both one afternoon as we were setting out and beat him up. They beat me up, too, of course, though for a moment, with him on my side, I put up quite a fight, scared as I was and always have been of them. But he wasn,t ac- customed to it himself. And when they caught us again, that was the end. I think they made him tell them about the parties, too, though I didn,t find out about that until later. Or even that he had gone over to them until I saw him with them one afternoon. I had been sitting out on our porch, having kind of run down myself but thinking that he might come around and want to go out and look for red glass. When I saw him with them my heart gave this fun- ny jump-funny because it seemed to miss what it jumped at and fall in the weeds out there and lie still. Four or five of them were walking close to- gether, talking over a plan, it looked like, and he was at the edge of them, just following. And I think I still thought he was going to come on over, or give a signal, or something. But I must say I never so much as moved, or looked at him even, when he went on by. I sat there quite a long time, I think, perfectly still, as if waiting for my heart to come back to me; and when my mother came up the walk and said to me, in some surprise, Why, whats the matter? I remember looking at her through a blaze of light so bright I could hardly see her when she knelt beside me and wiped at my face with her hand; and then thinking that at least she wouldn,t go telling anybody. Well-once with that bicycle, and once with my friend-but ordinarily you donlt catch me at something like that, let me tell you. So hels up on the shelf too, now, and though I think I ought to take him down, canit bring myself to yet; the practical and the possible aren't always my strong positions. I have regions in me that I allow, if ever so seldom, dreams to enter and be enter- tained-nothing too wild, of course. But after that I could go the shore parties again the had been afraid to, I forgot to tell you, afraid of the crabs out therel, which was something; I cant say that I had been missing them, but it was compensation, of a sort. I didnt know any of the girls at all, to speak a moment longer about friends. None of them would have the slightest thing to do with me, for one thing. I didnt blame them. What they wanted was a boy who could knock down at least one other boy, and not just be knocked down. They wanted a boy, too, with long hair who could dance and chew gum and buy a soda now and then; and by that time I was out of money and didnt know how to dance very well, though my mother had once practiced with me. I saw several I would have liked to talk to, but they were very uppity with me and made it crystal clear that they didnlt want to talk back. VVeIl, none of them had the big houses to watch, or the parties, to which theirs were very small doings indeed. But even though they wouldn,t speak to me directly, I had heard them talk about me at school a few times. They talked about a party one of them was going to give-and she was going to have everybody, they said; and one called Helen said to her, I hope yorfre not going to have him, meaning me II was up in my classroom window and they were below it, during a recessy, and the other one said, Why, I hadn,t even thought of such a thing; and Helen says, Well, look out is all I can say, hell go to parties hes not even asked to. And the other one said, The crumb. One of them did speak to me. She came over from a group and said, what,s so good about your old oak furniture, Mr. Smarty? And I said, I didnt say it was so good. And she said, What did you take Billy to see it for then?-we gave our oak furniture away-nobody wants that anymore, thafs old-fashioned. Another one came over and said, We hear you live on peanut butter at your house-is that true? And I said, it certainly is not-we have pie even for breakfast, and F rench toast-quite often, too-and we eat with silver spoons. I'll bet, she said. Yes, we do, I said-and we use them all the time, not just for company. Silver, she said-whatIs so good about that?-we have a whole silver tray and not just some spoons. And one of them said, Who says your mother is a lady? And when I said, I sav she is, a boy she was standing with said, We all know what she is, and when 1 said, What? and he told me. we had a fight in which I got knocked down several times and had to go home. They could silence me, but I wasnt giving in to anything without a struggle. So I didn,t get along with the girls. On the other hand, I didn,t notice that Billy did either, even though he belonged to the gang, so I dont call that all my fault. I got quite sick one summer, when I was nearly fourteen and still going to school, and the doctor, who was a nice man and had been to our house twice before, came and looked me over and talked to me for a while. All that was the matter just then, though naturally I didnit say so, was that one of the gangs had caught me the day before and I hadnit gotten over it yet. But I heard him say down- stairs, Somethings hurt that boys heart is whafs the matter with him. XVell, he was wrong, but a nice man anyway. Because the next night-no, two, I guess-after, I was coming home from a big party and who should I meet but Ralph, just standing under a streetlight with another boy. I was so full of party still and it was so late I hadn,t even been watching-and when I saw him my heart gave a big jump and started to pound-there was nothing wrong with it at all. Ralph said, There goes the peeping Tom, when I passed, but I didn,t say anything, because I was afraid of him. He wasnit that much bigger than me, but he was a lot stronger and a lot lot tougher. I was glad to get past without a bone broken, or a tooth lost, I can tell you, because I didnt have too many left. And was more careful after that, because as they got older, of course, they could hit harder, and they stayed up later, having money to spend, I suppose, on girls and sodas, so even at night I had to learn to sneak past them coming home. About our finances though. You must wonder whether I had any money of my own, or ever made any contribution at all to our family fortunes. Well, I certainly did. As I had begun to drop out of school, I had taken to making things from all I had aC- cumulated. And they were beautiful, if quite small, the things that I made-really beautiful. I would pick out the prizes from my collection-things any- one would have wanted-and sit and look at them until an idea occurred. My mother had bought me some glue, and of course I had bits of cork and pieces of wood, and little bits of iron and labels, and some really wonderful little fish bones that looked exactly like glass almost, transparent, sort of, and of course a lot of real glass, though still no red but that one little piece I was saving. I had some tceth-mostly cats and fish-and I had some nice bits of plastic of bright colors, greens and yellows, and one or two pieces of that of red. And with these I began to make attractive-wellu-arrangements, I guess you could call them. And my mother would buy them from me. Not that she could pay much, of course-her house cleaning activities didnlt bring in any fortune. But my needs were, as I,Ve said, not very numerous, and once in a while now I was able to buy them some wine and at Christmas or a birth- day, which in my family we observe quite assidu- ously, a real present like cigars or something good to eat, nuts, for example, or a nice bit of cheese. My mother, with her artistic sense-and remember that she had once been a very good student, and was still a lady-appreciated my arrangements and could even discern the more successful among them. Iill take that one, she would say after a showing, when I was prepared for her to see a few more, and buy one if she felt like it-and always after looking them over very carefully; she made no snap deci- sions, let me tell you; it was fun for her, and for me very exciting-always the chance that she wouldn,t really like any of them, although I,ll say right here that that never happened; she always liked at least one. My father liked them, too, and over wine of an evening, when we had it, he would talk about an ex- hibition for the summer folk, who, he claimed to know, were interested in things of that sort. Mother was willing to loan her best ones, she said. Then we could move to her town, my father said-or look at another farm he knew about. And of course in time that came to be one of our favorite subjects. As I think I said somewhere, were great kitchen talkers. And I think thatis all. Except that I take quite a bit more wine now than I used to, being almost thirty-I think its thirtyeI take nearly a full glass; and itis heady stuff and almost too much for me, even with all those years of sipping with them; and our talk gets very giddy now indeed, and the plans we have-really almost too beautiful, so that we get terribly excited, Fm afraid, about the possibilities, and laugh-my father even bursts out into song, and my mother will join him-oh, I will, too-the three of us-verse after verse of an old favorite of his-about a man who lost a toe, and then a foot. Which is about all, I guess. Since we seem to have settled down. I go out very seldom in the daytime now. 111 go to look along the shore when my stock gets low, though usually just for the sunsets and a piece of red glass. I wear an overcoat and a hat I found, so that no one will know me. And once in a while 111 go out to buy something I,ve saved for tI wouldn,t want word to get around that I dont, you knowl; and I go quickly, even though the boys and girls I knew are married now and no longer hang around the yards and corners, and come home quick- ly too; though not so quick as to be conspicuous. Living in a small neighborhood you have to be care- ful of appearances and I know the neighbors watch all three of us-Iive seen them behind their curtains peeking out. They want to see my mother when she goes down for the milk. When I go out at night, which I do only in the summers when the parties are going, I go by the back way, down a little alley of sorts that runs behind our yard. VVhois giving it tonight? my father will want to know-he and my mother like to hear about them-and IIll guess as to who it may be. I watch the papers for them now and know their names-yomfd know almost any of them. The old ladies in flowers and diamonds, Iive come to like them best-in furs, too, if it,s a chilly or a foggy night-often white ones. Ilve even come to know some faces in the cars that pass, and have seen some of them grow older, still going to the same old parties like myself. Though if its a cold night I may even skip one now. Sitting out behind a bush you feel the damp, or I do, even with a scarf I wear that I got for a birthday, and I cant move around as fast as I used to; one of my legs hurts me quite a bit when I try to. And thats about all, I guess-except, I suppose, for one thing more. I saw my old friend pass our house the other day. And it was very exciting. I had been sitting out on the front porch watch- ing a sunset, something, I think, I tend to do more and more of now, and here in the growing darkness suddenly he was, coming along-in fact he was al- ready quite close before I had spotted him. Well, I almost jumped tbecause he doesnt live up our way at all, and not even near itl. And what was so terri- ble was that there I sat-right behind this big thick clematis vine-wouldn,t you know it-where he couldn,t even have seen me if he had looked. And I dont think I can tell you how I moved. In a town like ours you don,t take chances on a thing like that, because-well, it could be-oh-like going in to a great party you hadnit been invited to, or like coming upon a piece of red glass that was only plastic-where I live it could be that terrible, to nod at someone, especially to an old friend, and to find that they werenlt nodding back at you. But I did move-I stood up-though it took the greatest single effort I have ever made. I only remember that I heard myself saying to get up, that it didnlt matter- and I remember just that I found then that I had. I had risen and had stepped up to the porch railing. I was standing by it, thin and pale as a shadow, I guess-and scared as I have ever been in all my life. Yet straight as an arrow, tooe-you coulddt have missed, you could have hit anything in the world with me then you had cared to aim at. But he went by. I didnt move at all. In fact I dont think I even watched him from then on. I stood and saw the darkness in the street flow like a tide across the lawn and sidewalk; but wouldn,t let it make me go indoors, or budge; be- cause Fm not to be beaten as easily as all that, you let me tell you. It had been my sunset, hadnlt it? well, it was my darkness, too! So there are moments now when I feel that I don,t care to live for a long time-a few more parties and sunsets-some talk about the farm-I don,t see what more a person needs. And yet as I,ve told you, hope in my family is something we,ve never lost a particle of; so that I still dream of a single perfect arrangement, to be crowned with a piece of red glass as big as a dime-as big as a quarter maybe; and I suspect that even to think that with luck I could find one will keep me looking along the shore a good while yet, or till everything I have is gone from that shelf of mine. On Contemporary Composition Charles wuorinen A Lecture Mr. Wuorinen delivered the following extemporaneous lecture in the College of Letters lounge on November 28. Speaking to the general topic of Contemporary Compositiorf his discussion included the development and topology of the several schools of imodernii composition and an investigation of the position and influence of the composer in the university. Mr. Wuorinen is currently teaching at Columbia University, where he is co-director of the Group for Can- temporary Music. When I was asked to speak to you, I wondered what approach to take. I decided there wasn,t much point in attempting to give an exegesis of my work or the work of people I regard as colleagues, punctu- ated by taped examples each ten seconds long. I decided to confine myself instead to something more general and I hope relevant, namely the change of orientation which has taken place in the composi- tional profession since the Second World W ar. To begin: I think it possible to divide the current compositional scene into three major areas. One is the area best known to the general public: the music that is simply a continuation, in suspended animation, of the late nineteenth-century tradition: it includes composers such as Menotti and Barber. These people belong to the world of iishow bizf, commercial en- tertainment, and social respectability. Another is the large group of Icomposers con- cerned with indeterminate music of one kind or another, and this group, I imagine, is particularly well known to you here. I neednit mention it either, except to repeat the obvious: that within that compositional approach there is a wide range of in- ternal differentation, determined, if nothing else by the degree of specification that is given to the various compositional elements dealt with. Neither of these two areas concerns me particularly either personally or professionally. What I do consider important, not so much musically as sociologically, is the area that lies be- tween these extremes, the music that springs most directly from the achievements of the great central figures of the earlier part of the century: Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Webern, Berg and Varese to whom might be added a few somewhat less-known younger fig- ures. This type of composition has proceeded with unbroken continuity since the Second World War, most particularly in the United States. I dont speak of European music because I dont regard it any more as being particularly significant. I want to talk not about what this latter range of composition constitutes, but rather the position that it has begun to occupy, and especially, its chang- ing relation to the iiarts. But first, I think itis necessary to define the milieux in which various composers operate. As I said, the most conservative wing is still connected mainly with show business; therefore theyire part of what the popular press regards as the serious music world: Lincoln Center, the big orchestras, and so forth. On the other hand, the indeterminate wing oc- cupies a position that is a little harder to define. As far as its public position is concerned, it is consid- ered by laymen the most Iavant gardef and there- fore is usually the least accepted. Yet, strangely, there seems to be a real connection between some of the practitioners of that kind of music and some of the practitioners of the most reactionary, as witnessed by the great commercial success-in the Lincoln Center sense- of a man like John Cage. This is not our concern. Our concern is to define the position occupied by composers of the middle group, and that position is explicitly connected with the university. The history of composers in the university is uniquely an American phenomenon; a comparable situation does not to my knowledge exist elsewhere. And it is interesting that in spite of the many disadvantages associated with university affiliations, a vast, and in- creasing, number of composers from all over the world are arriving in America seeking university positions-indicating that as bad as we have it, we have it in some respects better than many abroad. The entry of the majority of American composers into the university environment was, of course, dic- tated initially by economic necessity. The com- posers, positions were not precursors of the pres- ent generationls holding university positions, nor did they foreshadow the kind of compositional thought now characteristic of university composition- al circles. Forty or fifty years ago, such composers were forced into university positions by the great dislocations in the music business that occurred in the earlier parts of this century, particularly as a result of the First World War. These composers had no place in the public iimusic world,, of their time, and as a result were forced to teach. The notion of having composers on university faculties became accepted during those years, so that after the Second World War and after the resur- gence of compositional activity that it had inter- rupted, it seemed reasonable for all kinds of com- posers to become involved in university musiC-even composers who previously would not have consid- ered university positions at all appropriate. Since then, and especially in the last decade, most of the significant compositional activity in this country has become concentrated in the university. The univer- sity has become for the American composer not mere- ly an economic haven but a milieu in which serious professional activity can take place. At this point the traditional Character of the uni- versity began to affect the act of composition itself. Instead of regarding composition as primarily an intuitive matter or a matter belonging to that arbi- trary grouping of activities known as iithe artsf, the university composer begins then to artistically re- gard composition as primarily an act of thought. And since this is in line with the tradition of the univer- sityis interest in sponsoring responsible intellectual activity and discourse, the composers involved in uni- versity music tend more and more to take that posi- tion. But there is something more significant: it was composers, not concert managers, performers, or con- ductors, who initially became members of university faculties; it was composers therefore who came to be responsible for the direction of the musical life in their universities. I dont speak, of course, of football bands, do, but of serious activity. This is most powerfully demonstrated in areas where the university is the only significant local cultural in- stitution-for example, the great state universities in the Midwest. There the impact of the composeris pre- sence has been marked indeed. The availability of faculty positions to composers, free of the presence of a pre-existing commercial musical structure, has made it possible within the university tand, by extension, to a certain point Out- side of iti for the university composer to take over many aspects of musical life as they relate to his work that previously he had abdicated to others by custom or necessity. When I speak of activities relevant to his work, I really mean almost all as- pects of music, since obviously the composer is the centrally important musician: everything proceeds from him. Under the auspices of this new milieu and its in- tellectual Climate, the composer took over the per- formance and the direction of performance of his own works and those of his colleagues. In other words, he undertook direct responsibility for the realization in sound of the compositions he had created, a respon- sibility that he had previously relinquished. The enor- mous increase in composer-performers during the last ten years is directly ascribable to the presence of the composer in the university. Even composers who do not perform have become active in directing and supervising university-based performance ensembles. Now there are such ensembles at Columbia, Rutgers, Mills College, the State University of New York, of Buffalo, the University of Chicago, the University of Illinois, the University of Iowa, and in many other universities as well. All this results from the composefs insistence on taking direct control over the realization in sound of his work, an insistence that springs from his re- action to the tendency toward irresponsibility, lazi- ness, and hostility of performers. The other side of this concern lies in the establishment of the means of production for electronic music; that is totally a uni- versity phenomenon. Since university electronic mus- ic studios came into being, it is true, there have developed a few independent studios; but even numerically they are not nearly so significant as those housed in universities. The point is that there is a direct relation between the desire of the composer himself to control directly the realization of his work by supervising the per- formance of live instrumentalists, and the desire of a composer to impress his compositional specifica- tions directly on magnetic tape, so that again he may be in direct control of both the composition and its subsequent outward realization. Now perhaps it is worthwhile to say more about the relation between the needs of composers and the electronic medium in general. In this connection I want to clear up an obvious fallacy frequently re- peated in the popular press, the notion that any significant number of composers became involved in the production of electronic music from an in- terest in what are often called iinew sounds. The point is that for thirty years various means had been available to create some kind of synthetic music, music which was fixed in some reproductive medium, not dependent on the vagaries of individual performers. The best-known example is the hand- written sound track, which was there to be exploited tbut which never wasl ever since sound films came in. No, it was not the wish for new sounds; nor was it the invention of the tape recorder during the Sec- ond World War-though that of course made matters easier in the subsequent development of electronic music. It was rather that the compositional profession itself had developed to the point where various re- quirements, various needs for differentiation, speci- fication, and detailed distinction could no longer be met by live performers. Therefore during the late Forties a number of composers began to find that it was impossible, unreasonable, irrelevant to expect from ordinary instrumentalists the kinds of control and the range of articulation that they wanted. It was the compositional need, therefore, not the presence of a collection of technical apparatus, equipment, or modes of approach that dictated the enormously rapid rise of electronic music. But again, to come back to my central suggestion, the composi- tional need could be implemented only by virtue of the availability to so many composers of university resources, indeed the need to implement it also oc- curred to a very large degree became of the pres- ence of composers in the universities and because of the reciprocal influence of the university intellec- tual milieu, the tradition of the university as a patron of serious intellectual activity, and the compositional discipline itself. Now there are other areas in which the university milieu the composer has espoused begins to have influence. Probably the most important concerns the role of composer as teacher and maker of musical discourse and generator of the only valid musical traditions. Many university composers now regard verbal intellectual responsibility as a major part of their professional obligation-not merely as a routine part of their iiteaching responsibility. The words they now speak about music are no longer public relations, or metaphysical mouthings, but indicate a grasp of the basic structural premises underlying the act of composition. It is this attitude toward discourse that forbids me to talk superficially to you about technical matters. I would rather speak in a vaporous sociological way than be found guilty of falsifying some technical or professional matter under the guise of giving you an insight-which I actually couldnit do without con- siderably more time. Nevertheless, the notion of verbal responsibility, and the desire to acquire pre- cision in defining musical phenomena and their meanings has in turn dictated the result: it has profoundly changed the position of composition within the general range of intellectual and artistic activity. For a long time, music has been grouped with the iiartsl-painting, sculpture, writing, etc. These activities are supposed to have something in com- mon with composition and in the relatively recent past they certainly did. Im sure youire familiar with the extensive and productive use nineteenth-century composers made of literary and pictorial materials; it was characteristic of nineteenth-century compo- sers to use compositional means for reflecting extra- musical meanings. For those composers, writing, literature, painting, etc., had a direct professional relevance, because they were used in carrying on compositional activity. If Beethoven used self-generated pastoral images to motivate his Sixth Symphony, one can only trace this practice to an intellectual milieu that suggested, first, that music could be representational, and sec- ond, that literary, narrative, or sequential description was relevant to such representation-not to any iiin- nateii connections of such images with composition. But of course this approach to music is no longer significant. We therefore see no need to maintain the linguis- tic fallacy that a set of activities called by the same name are necessarily interconnected. It is more relevant to examine the interests of practitioners in a given field and see what those activities have in common. Iim not going to attempt to do that here because it would demand an expertise and general knowledge that I donlt have. Nevertheless I would like to call to your attention that, in the attempt to understand the music of many contemporary composers it would be more revealing to examine the ancient connections of music and mathematics t by which I mean, in our case, pages one and two of a book on set theoryl, as well as those with analytic philosophy, the study of logic and other areas of that sort. Mathematics for example, is not so much something composers use professionally, as a characteristic interest of com- posers; and of course I do not here refer to the whole range of areas having to do with synthetic sound production: ordinary hi-fi electronics, com- puter technology, psycho-acoustics, and so forth- which are of such current iipracticalll concern to com- posers. The notion that composition is an iiartl, is a recent one. Among the liberal arts, music was always in- cluded in the quadrivium: mathematics, astronomy, geometry, and music, the other subjects being verbal- ly oriented: grammar, rhetoric, and logic. Only in the early 15th centu1y, for example, did the University of Bologna finally separate music from the quadri- v1um. I mention this to indicate first, that the association of music with mathematics and the sciences is more ancient than the association of music with literature, painting or the other arts; second, that all these groupings are necessarily arbitrary, and only relevant in the appropriate historical context. Consider, for example, that schools of architecture and medicine are almost always associated with uni- versities. Then you see the point: they have nothing necessarily to do with the disciplines that universities have traditionally sponsored-but a number of au- thors of late antiquity, considering the classification of human knowledge, included those fields in their lists of the liliberal arts? I conclude by making, first a plea for an under- standing that what I,ve said is not radical but tra- ditional, and second, by asking you not to commit the customary error of assuming that because a group activities are lumped together they necessarily have any interrelation. Mencius Through the Looking-Glass This odd title comes from T. S. Eliot. He wrote to me in 1930 twhen I was working in Peking at Mencius 0n the Mindi, speaking probably of his own early Sanskrit studies, that reading in a remote text is like trying to be on both sides of a mirror at once. A vivid and a suitably bewildering image. To ask how exact it may be would be just to raise the prime question: iiWhat is understanding? anew. I have not made it easier by adding in Alice. Lewis Carroll had his twists as we know. If we want to understand adventures in Looking-Glass land, we wave somehow to guess what the principles of the KViStOItiOH are. They are not obvious. So the doc- trines of Mencius and their adventures in my mind as I write and in yours as you read might seem strange, indeed, to Mencius were he watching them. They have to be because of the changes in the media. It is not our fault or his. The distortions come from the photography, the telescopy . . . the operations, far more mysterious than radar, through which alone we find anything in him to see. Com- pare: M encius said, iiMen talk loosely be- cause their words are unlikely to be put to the test. Everyone wants to be a teacher; that is one of lifeis problems? iDobson, 7.1m Mencius said, iiMerfs being ready with their tongues arises simply from their not having been reproved. The evil of men is that they want to he teachers of others? iLegge, 4A 23i Mr, Richards has been at the Center tor Advanced Studies since September I966. Mencius Through the Looking-Glass is part at his torthcoming book So Much Nearer Home: Notes toward A World English scheduled to be published this spring. i. a. richards Reports on two radar screens. What in their signals could account for the differences? How easily we see the 19th- and 20th-century settings of the trans- lators here! How delightful the contrast isl And what, through it all, may Mencius, own meaning have been? Mr. Dobson,s charming, readable, current-Eng- lish version comes out of more than half a working lifetime on the detail of Archaic Chinese. Yet it is not, he points out, intended to supplant the defini- tive translationi of James Legge, published in 1893. Instead, it is to convey something of the pleasure iifrom Mencius as a work of literature to a wider audience than students of Archaic Chinese. And it should succeed in this as well as in forwarding the aims of scholarship. But look again and ask again what these aims are. This sample illustrates only minor divergences; in general the rule is: the more important the utterance, the greater the dis- crepancies between translations. The mirror image has its point. What we see there most readily are our own concerned or con- tented faces or, as here, urbane or condemning. That is what a looking-glass is for, and who will say it is not a very useful thing? But, if it is Mencius we want to meet, we need other devices: among them a display of diverse translations from diEerent translators in different periods to protect us against over-simplifying our conception of the task. To en- joy Dobson,s version fully we need to have Leggds tor Couvreurisi open on the table too to help us in recognizing its felicities and theirs. And also the Chinese characters, if only to hold constantly before us the contrast between a succinct and resonant ut- terance and the relatively relaxed ramble of vocables readable English sentences employ. The original was composed to be known by heart and cited with au- thority. Even with such helps-and in part because of them-we are not very likely to be able to say, ex- actly and clearly, what Mencius thought. Insofar as his thought was dependent on his age and tradi- tion and our thought is dependent upon ours, we cannot be very faithful to it, however hard we try. Making up for ourselves as good an account as we can of the society and tradition Mencius lived in, soaking ourselves in his reading and writing-the way of scholarship-may be our best resource; but it cannot be expected to turn us into Mencius. It is much more likely to turn Mencius into us! Mencius was not a modern scholar, trained in the fabulous discipline of contemporary research, bal- anced and sobered by an awareness of the hopes and despairs of how many ages. Knowing even all about the thought of Mencius would not be the same thing as having it. It wouldn,t even be a good preparation for that. And to have it in some measure and if possible make a reader have it is my aim here. I will only delay a few pages before beginning this essentially magical, dra- matic, or poetic attempt. Mencius was a teacher, not an expositor. He was not giving a lecture on Mencius. At important points, he did talk about his teaching, but that was to make it stronger. His audience was to be helped and improved. He was not presenting a view to be discussed and criticized. When from time to time he gives out one of his great secrets of the conduct of life in an anecdote or a formula, the thing to do is to remember it, treasure it up and live with it for a time, and see what it does to you thereafter. Mencius gets these secrets himself by a process he only hints of. It is up to us to guess what it was. It certainly was not in the least like anything the main Western philosophic tradition would recognize as philosophic method. It is a question indeed if the iithoughtii of Mencius is Ithoughti at all in any accepted Western interpretations of that word. That might sound derogatory. We are apt to give iithoughti, a higher rank and dignity than feel- ing,,. The point is that for Mencius no such division has been made. For Mencius the intellectual and the moral are not separate. The suggestion that there was some important distinction to be made between intellectual knowledge in general and right living would probably have made no recogniz- able sense at all to him. For Mencius-and this seems to be true, with some doubtful exceptions, of all early Chinese philosophers possibly until Sung times-the mind was not so split. There was no separate problem of truth or problem of knowledge. There was no epistemolo y, no theory of ideas, no logic-in the modes of t ese things which belong to the intellect- ual mainstream of Western thinking. There was no such thinking in Mencius or for Mencius. In a sense, the intellect was never invented by the Chinese, and it may be doubted whether, outside the sci- ences, it has been imported and transplanted by them. One of the interests of Chinese ithoughtii is that it lets us ask Ourselves sharply whether the in- tellect has been on the whole a useful invention to man. It is well for those who believe in it to say so, in an age in which it has been openly and variously attacked ithink of Bergson, D. H. Lawrence, and Hitleri. Chinese studies help us to realize that the intellect tas something separate from the whole man, as an instrument of pure theoretic inquiry, the rational organl is a cultural invention, a Greek invention probably. Man is not born with it; he is not, by nature, a rational animal. He becomes one through education into a tradition which gives him tin this sensel reason, which installs in him this feature of possible human design, as a given feature may be put into one design of airplane and not into another. It is well to remind ourselves too that even such a fundamental feature as uthe intellecti, may seem to be has upkeep charges. As Angus Sinclair put it, such a selecting and grouping iiis a continuing process which must be sustained if our experience is to continue as it is . . . if for any reason a man follows a different way of grouping in his attention then the experience he has will be different also . . . Knowing is not a passive contemplation, but a con- tinuously eHort-consuming activity. Take this far enough and the probabilities of our comprehending Mencius will look low. It asks us to conceive that our concepts are less stored in containers than kept up as a breed may be. All this is preparatory. What we have to prepare for is the probability that, as Mencius begins to speak for himself, the words will mainly carry ideas of the Western tradition which Mencius would know nothing of. I have listened to very learned scholars, Chinese and Western, lecturing to me on Mencius. What I mostly gathered was which West- ern philosophers had most captured their imagina- tions. Probably that-in my own case-is all that I will be able to show you. I ought to give one other example-for those not familiar with the condensed and cryptic style in which Mencius spoke-to let them see how easy it is to read ditterent things into his words. One of his key remarks has been translated as follows: IV, 11, 26. Legge All who speak about the natures of things have in fact only their phenomena to rea- son from, and the value of a phenomenon is in its being natural. Ugall That which everyone below heaven calls nature is nothing but habit; and habit has its roots in gain. Couvreur Everywhere under heaven, when we speak of nature, we have in mind natural eHects. The special characteristic of nat- ural effects is that they are self-acting. Three utterances on three different topics. Word for word it goes like this: Heaven below their talk Nature about causes only Causes use profit as root And now I do my best to disappear, and we will pretend it is Mencius who comes through the mirror and addresses you. IV, II, 26. IiWhat I dislike in your wise men is the way they niggle and chip. If those wise ones would do like Yii when he moved the waters, no dislike for wis- dom. Yii moving the waters did what was without toil. If the wise ones did what is without toil, their wisdom would be great? VI, I, 6 A disciple, Kung Tu Tse, said to Mencius: iiKao Tzu says iMan,s nature: without good, without not- good , iiOthers say, iMan,s nature: can be good, can be not-goodf iiOthers say, iSome natures good, some not good, iiBut you say, Nature goodf iiAll these wrong? Are they? Mencius said, iiIn the impulses which make it up, our nature may be seen to be good. Thus I call it good. When men do evil, that is not fault of their natural powers. iiSympathetic pity; all men have that. iiShame and avoidance; all men have that. iIReSDect and reverence; all men have that. iiSense of right and wrong; all men have that. uSympathetic pity is human-heartedness. Jen iiShame and avoidance is righteousness. Yi iiRespect and reverence is good behavior. Li Sense of right and wrong is wisdom. Chih iiHuman-heartedness, righteousness, good be- havior, wisdom are not influences infused and mold- ed into us from without. We already have them; only we do not realize this. Therefore I say, iSeek then get it, let go then lose it, Men are incalculably diEerent here because unable to make the most of their powers. In a fruitful year, the children are most of them reliable, in a bad year they are most of them violent. This is not because Heaven gives them different powers but because their minds were trapped and drowned. Only that! iiThings of the same kind are alike. Why doubt it only of man? Mouths have the same tastes, ears hear sounds the same, eyes see the same beauty in colours: are minds alone without their sameness? What is the minds sameness? Its name is Order and Right. It is the Sage who first grasped the same- ness of the mind. Order and Right are agree-able to our minds as grass-fed grain-fed animals are agree-able to our mouths. iiAll men have a mind which pities others. The ancient kings had it, so they had a government which pitied others. With a pitying mind acting through a pitying government, ruling the whole world is like turning something round in the palm. IWhy do I say, All men have minds which pity others? Even today a man suddenly perceiving a child about to fall into a well has a shuddering qualm of sympathy and pity-not in order to strike up a useful acquaintance with the Child,S parents, not to get a great name for sensitivity with the neighbors, and not because he just dislikes the sound of the child thudding down into the well. iiFrom such things we see that iilVithoul pity and sympathy, man is not, IWithout shame and avoidance, man isnot, iWVithout respect and reverence, man isnot, iiWithout sense of right and wrong, manisnot. iiPity and sympathy is the active principle of Uenl Human-heartedness; shame and avoidance is the active principle of IYU Righteousness; re- spect and reverence is the active principle of tLil Good Behavior; sense of right and wrong is the active principle of tChihl Wisdom. iiTo man these four principles are as his four limbs. Having them, to say iI cannoti is to rob him- self; to say of the Ruler he cannot is to injure him. Since we all have these four principles, if we know how to develop and fulfill them, it is as a fire that begins to burn, as a fountain that begins to flow. If fulfilled they are enough to guard the four seas; if not fulfilled, they are not even enough to let us serve our parents. IV, II, 18 A disciple said to Mencius, iiConfucius praised water saying, iWater! Water? What did he so ap- prove of in water? Mencius said, iiHere is a spring; it gushes out, unlessening day and night, fills its courses and Hows to the four seas. Such is a source. This, in water, he praised. But, if there is no source, in the rainy months the Eelds are all filled, but while you wait they are dried up. Therefore, when his reputation exceeds the facts, the superior man is ashamed. IV, II, 19 iiThat wherein man differs from the birds and beasts is small and slight; common folk let it go, the superior man keeps it? These then are for Mencius the four virtues: Hu- man-heartedness, Righteousness, Good Behavior, and Wisdom, which together form man,s essential nature and from the fulfillment of which his per- fection comes. We easily misconceive them and obviously they are untranslatable by simple names in our tradition. The overtones of Jen for example are quite different from those of the word Love, to us. Jen lacks the erotic, the affectionate, and the theological uses which make the word Level for us one of the pivotal points of the Western mind. It spans no such hierarchy of meanings-from the most transcendent: for example Aristotle,s iiAll things are moved by Love,, or Danteis inscription over Hell Cate, iiWhat made me was . . . the eternal lovef, down to Alexander Bainis view that love is the response to soft surfaces at the right temperature or the schoolgirls I love candyf On the other hand Jen has plenty of widely spreading links and ample reverberations in Chinese. It sounds the same as the word for man. Its character looks as if it meant, iiWhat two men have in common, or itWhat is mutual between men? It is charged with some of the feelings we put into human; ihumane: lhu- manityi-though we must beware of just putting in our ideal of man. What was by Mencius, own account his own greatest merit? One day a disciple spoke to him as follows: Dare I ask, master, What you are best at? Mencius replied, I know Words, I excel in cul- tivating my vast chiif, thao jun chih chii: vast flowing passion nature: animal spirits, vitality l. iiDare I ask, master, what is this vast chit ? Mencius replied: liHard to say. Most great and adamant is ch32 When straightforwardly culti- vated without being injured, it fills everywhere be- tween heaven and earth. It matches Yd tRightl and Tao tthe Wayl without being daunted by them. It comes from the accumulation of Yi. It is not some- thing which single right acts may make use of. If our conduct dissatisfies us, then the chi is daunted. The disciple asked again: iiWhat is knowing Words? Mencius replied: iiWhen Words are one-sided, I know where the speaker is blind. When Words are extravagant, I know what pit he has fallen into. When Words are evil, I know where he is lost. When Words are evasive, I know where he is at his wits end. Such Words growing in the mind are injurious in the government; carried out in government, they are injurious in affairs. A Sage, when another comes, must be in agreement with my Words? The chief of Mencius, Words was that Hsing, human nature, is good. Necessarily there is much in Mencius still point- ing to our future. The designs being uncovered by modern biology and explored through the new models for the working of the brain may make his prime doctrine: Man by nature is good-especially relevant. To believe this may seem to some to be a mere feat of wilful optimism. To a culture like ours, built in part upon the conception of original sin, such a belief may seem dangerous, either blind or pit-fallen or lost or at an end of its poor wits. But Mencius was not blind to or unafraid of evil or at his wits end. The world he lived in had plenty of evil to show. The Seasons went astray; Princes were cruel and incompetent; War raged throughout his time; Hoods broke loose; despair was widespread. iiThe black-haired people? he said, iido not know where to place their hands or feet? All this he deliberately set out to remedy. These evils were for him a gigantic reHection of a frustration in man,s mind. Only if the mind could return to its true nature and find itself again, could all this be set right. With the mind turned round, setting things right would be no more toil than tuminE a pebble round in the palm of the hand. For him t e cardinal virtues were what can be trusted, and human nature was that in us through which they could be trusted -that which made them trustworthy, namely our true selves. What is there here for us? Nothing directly perhaps. But such an opportunity as few other Sages offer of considering anew for ourselves what we may put our trust in. We have our resources too, on which we too little reilect. And we may learn to know ourselves the better for studying a teacher who has been second only to Confucius in his influence on the mores of the Chinese people, helping in a large measure to sustain the most stable, the longest lasting and one of the most satis- fying modes of human living that have been tried. ilWhat to do! What to do'Pii said Confucius, In- deed I do not know what to do with a man who does not ask himself this? We may ask ourselves this-and its companion question: What are we do- ing?-the better for traveling into a remote world and imagining another order of morality not less lofty and exacting than any we may be trying to achieve. Psychoanalyst: Philosopher? dr. earl g. witenberg The traditional theories of psychoanalysis, in their efforts to be respectable and au courant with physical and biological science and in their efforts to erect frameworks from which quantifiable data may be derived, have by and large ignored the source of their data. They have concerned them- selves with the nature of man. They speak of con- cepts such as the life instinct, penis-envy, Oedipal complex, death instinct, homosexuality, as eternal verities, as having to do with nature, not with nurture. Men are condemned to lead lives of quiet desperation because of their basic natures. Man has been banned from the Garden of Eden and may not return. He must forget his original experience. He must lose the use of his senses: his tactile, his olfactory, his auditory, and his visual. This is be- cause he and his body are sources of disgust or anxiety for him. The anxiety is discussed, the source is presumed to be internal. Recent revisions of theory have paid attention to methods of perception, learn- ing, and cognition. Unconscious and conscious are no longer viewed as exclusively intrapsychic. Peo- ple have been characterized by their styles of notic- ing and thinking. Then transactions have been added to the purview of the theoreticians; games people play are made explicit. Learning theory is woven into the Procrustean bed. The theoreticians are able to tell us about Moses, DaVinci, Freud, Luther, Wilson; and now Chambers and Hiss. In the lives of these men whom they did not know, they surprisingly are able to find confirmation for the postulates they had previously constructed. The Dr. Witenberg. a practicing psychoanalyst, is a I938 graduate of Wesleyan. where he also received his master's degree in chemistry. He is currently head of the William Allison White Psychoanalytic Institute in New York City. Practitioner? effort to be scientific in the natural sense has led theorists to use physical models, electronic models, and biological models. Analogies become homo- logies. This has resulted in a reilication of concepts such as transference, unconscious, denial, splitting, and projection. The natural scientist has to report only his experience of things, never the way things experience him. Two electronic machines may have transactions between them. Chemical and biological systems transact. But human beings not only trans- act but experience each other. While psychoanalysts have a broad interest in the work on the inborn capacities and differences among us and the results of the physical, chemical, and physiolo ical studies in human beings and the moral and psitical issues of our day, their primary data and even their wis- dom derive primarily from the psychoanalytic, the psychotherapeutic process. The essential ingredients of the psychotherapeu- tic experience are two persons who agree to meet at a regular time and place: one is a therapist, one is a patient. The goal is for these two to meet, to accept and then discard the props, the pretenses, the masks, the roles, the defenses, the transference and counter-transference phenomena, that keep two people from having a true encounter. You can see that the experience and the behavior of both par- ticipants have to be available. This in no way im- plies that the therapist is as verbal and as much the center of the field as the patient. The consulting room is filled not only with the patient and the therapist but also with the relationships the patient has had with people in the past: the ecstasies, the disappointments, the wounds, the tragedies. It is also peopled by the relationships with significant people from the past of the therapist. He hopefullv knows them, has worked through his anxieties, and has integrated himself. The therapist has to know how he is experiencing the patient so that he will be able to respond honestly. He of course must not intrude his own needs upon the patient. Un- remitting concern, respect for the patient are a sine qua non of this relationship. R. D. Laing has delined psychotherapy as an obstinate attempt of two persons to recover the wholeness of being hu- man through the relationship between them. It is a process and a technique whereby one is experi- enced by the other; wherein the inappropriate, the carry-overs from the past are delineated; where what has been forgotten is remembered; and where some- thing additional is discovered and where something new is added. There are moments of discovery, disappointment, anger, love, hate, envy, and ecstasy, all within this relationship. It is a re-seareh of what has been lost, what has been gained, of what has been diminished, and what has been aggrandized. To know oneself as one is known by one other per- son is the goal. This is the goal for each psycho- analyst. He is a participant observer, as Sullivan said, in the finding of the personal world of the individual, so disrupted by his upbringing. He helps the individual to be more like the self he would have been if there had not been traumatic events in his life. He tends to be a good practitioner some- times in spite of his theories rather than because of them. The implications are that emotional diiheulties are evidenced in an interpersonal iield. They stem from earlier interpersonal experiences and can be cured by the social interaction between an expert and patient. Also implied is that there are possibili- ties for communication and collaboration in an in- terpersonal relationship between the mentally dis- ordered and the mentally ordered, between saint and devil, between criminal and judge, just so long as contempt and guilt are absent. This type of social situation is reciprocal and may be transformative. That is, in this relationship the impact of one person on another may result in change. Knowledge and reality are safe and better to face than any fantasy construction or denial of reality. Destructiveness al- ways impedes change. There are no special accom- modations of one person for the other outside of physical or organic needs. The psychoanalyst needs a theory that will take into account the relevant social context of his work. He needs to include both his experience and be- havior and the experience and behavior of his pati- ent in his theory. What is meaningful in his practice is the reciprocal experience and behavior between the patient and him. From such a theory testable hypotheses may be erected. The broader applications of the theories of psychoanalysis to such fields as education, politics, art, literature, biology, chemistry, and history are best left to experts in these fields. If the enzyme chemists, e.g., find the absence of a specific enzyme system determines a specific behavioral develop- ment in a specific individual, this is of great interest to the psychoanalyst but is not to be subsumed in his theory. The experience and behavior of such an individual in relationship with another person is his province. The National Election of 1964 Strategic Considerations The presidential election of 1964 was an import- ant event for students of American politics primarily because it broke some of the rules that politicians had lived by for a generation, and that had been codihed in the texts and analytical writings of political scientists. Nevertheless, in the end this elec- tion confirmed more of the conventional wisdom than it undermined, and thus it preserved relatively unscathed the principal explanatory paradigm of political science in the field of American electoral politics. The main assumption in the conventional theory is that politicians like to win and that they want to win the Presidency most of all. F rom this and from findings about the behavior of voters, one could deduce a series of propositions that would describe with tolerable accuracy the tactical moves of Demo- crats and Republicans, of the party in power and the party out of power, in a normal election year. Reviewing a few of these propositions in the light of the strategies the parties actually adopted in 1964, and in the light of the results, we will see how this election was an exception and-even more unusual- an exception that reinforced the rules of the game as they had come to be understood. The Republican Strategy For Republicans involved in presidential nomi- nating politics the most important fact of life is that their party is without question the minority party. The Survey Research Center at the University of Michigan has found repeatedly that about three quarters of their samples eligible to vote claimed a party identification; of these, three fifths were Democrats. In a presidential election where party considerations were foremost, and allowing for the greater propensity of Republicans to turn out and vote, it has been argued that the Democrats could expect to win, with about 53 or 54 percent of the vote. This is close enough to kindle hope in Re- Mr. Polsby is a professor in government. He recently re- turned from a two-year leave at the Center for Advanced Studies in the Behavioral Sciences at Stanford University. The following article is reprinted with the permission The Brookings Institution. Washington D.C. nelson W. polsby publican breasts; despite the clear Democratic ma- jority in this country, it must be assumed that either major party can win a presidential election. But over the last thirty years it has generally been neces- sary for the Republicans to devise a strategy that could not only win, but win from behind. The strategic alternatives available to Republi- cans boil down to three possibilities. First, Republi- cans can attempt to deemphasize the impact of party habit by capitalizing on a more compelling cue to action. The nomination of General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the most popular hero of the Second World War, overrode party considerations and is a clear example of the eHicacy of this strategy. Efforts to play upon p0 ular dissatisfaction in a variety of areas also exemp ify this strategy-but these dissatis- factions must already exist in the population, and must be widespread and intense before they will produce the desired effect. When issues do come to the fore in a compelling way, the payoff to the advantaged party is sometimes enormous, because these are the circumstances under which new party loyalties can be created. Another possible Republican strategy, similar in some ways to the Erst, also seeks to depress the importance of party in the minds of voters by blur- ring the differences between the parties, effacing certain of the stigmata that have attached to the party over the years tfor example, iiparty of the richll. This strategy gives full recognition to the arithmetic of Democratic superiority, and also to the unit rule of the electoral college, which allots disproportionate weight to votes cast in the large states, which often contain the heaviest concentra- tion of traditional allies of the Democratic party. Although it has been used often, by Republican nominees such as Wendell Willkie, Thomas E. Dewey, and Richard Nixon, with results that always fell short-sometimes barely short-of victory, this ilme-tooi' strategy has over the years become in- creasingly controversial among Republicans. The fact that no Republican candidate has actually been able to win with it has created doubts about its eHicacy. The me-too strategy may entail advocating policies generally favored by most American voters, but this approach apparently does not correctly mirror the sentiments of Republican activists. Critics of the me-too approach have argued that this strategy merely alienates potential Republican vot- ers while failing to attract suHicient Democrats. Alienated Republicans, so goes this argument, see- ing no difference between the policies espoused by the major parties, withdraw from politics into apathy. Thus a third strategy, whose claim of victory is based upon the presupposition of a hidden Republi- can vote, can be identified. This was the strategy pursued by the Goldwater forces in 1964. Its main characteristic is the attempt to sharpen rather than blur party lines on matters of substantive policy. As readers of the newspapers are well aware, this third strategy was not first settled upon unanim- ously by Republicans who then looked around for a candidate to carry it out. Rather, the strategy was adopted from the beginning by those within the party who iirst decided to advance the Goldwater candidacy. Indeed, even the slogan Goldwater used, TA Choice not an echo, contained an implied rebuke to the iime-tooii approach. In selecting Senator Barry Goldwater at the national convention, the Republi- can party chose a strategy of sharp and general op- position to the incumbent Democratic administra- tion on such matters as government intervention in the economy, the extension of government-sponsored welfare and medical benelits, and the use of the powers of the federal government to further the cause of civil rights. The change in direction that this represented for presidential Republicans was not accomplished without cost. Many Negro delegates to the Republi- can national convention expressed dismay at the turn of events; so did party leaders and candidates from the urban Northeast, who were beaten back in attempts to strengthen the civil rights plank of the platform and to insert a plank criticizing uextrem- ism. Senator Goldwater, throughout the platform battle and thereafter, adhered to an uncompromis- ing line with impressive fidelity. He and his allies withstood all attempts to amend the platform from the floor. For his running mate Goldwater bal- ancedi, his ticket by choosing a man almost as con- servative as he is, Representative William E. Miller of New York. And when the time came to bind up his partyis wounds and unite them for action against the Democrats-which is one traditional function of the acceptance speech-Goldwater seemed to be addressing these words to his fellow Republicans: iiAnyone who joins us in all sincerity we welcome. Those, those who do not care for our cause, we don,t expect to join our ranks in any case. And let our Republicanism so focused and so dedicated not be made fuzzy . . . Immediately thereafter came his famous allusion to the platform battle: TI would remind you that extremism in the de- fense of liberty is no Vice. And let me remind you also that moderation in the defense of justice is no virtue? Throughout the campaign, the Coldwater-Miller ticket continued to diHerentiate itself sharply even from Democratic policies likely to be favored by audiences the candidates were addressing. Another feature of the Goldwater strategy was his unequivocal bid for support from the South and his forthright sacrifice of Negro votes. Whereas Vice President Nixon did his best in 1960 to appeal to both Southerners and Negroes, Coldwateris cam- paign was marked by attacks upon the Supreme Court; by reminders that he had voted against the Civil Rights Act of 1964 because he believed sec- tions of the bill were unconstitutional; and by promises that a Goldwater Presidency would restore nlaw and order in the streets and would not tolerate civil disobedience and demonstrations of a kind as- sociated by many of his listeners with the civil rights movement. In all of these particulars, the Senators cam- paign represented a sharp departure from Republi- can tactics of the recent past. The Hidden Vote Hypothesis The overwhelming magnitude of Senator Cold- wateris defeat and the disastrous consequences for the Republican party at the congressional and state levels invite the exercise of hindsight. But, for once, hindsight merely confirms foresight. It was apparent before the election as well as afterward that the factual grounds supporting the notion that there is a ihiddeni' Republican vote, waiting to be tapped by an unequivocally conservative candidate, are weak indeed. Let us examine the evidence. First, where can the Republican vote be hidden that this strategy seeks to tap? Presumably not among Democrats, at least outside the South, since this approach relies so heavily upon sharpening the Cleavage between the two parties. N or can there be much of a hidden vote among disaffected conservative Republicans who fail to turn out, since the best knowledge we have of Republicans is that they do turn out and vote Republican. The only other location for the hidden vote is among those who profess to no regular party afliliation-roughly 25 percent of the potential elec- torate. What is known about these people that would lead to the conclusion that they can be moved to vote Republican by a highly ideological appeal based on conservative and right-wing doctrines? There is, in fact, no reason at all to suspect that these people can be reached in this way. All the available information on party neutrals indicates that they are much less interested, less informed, less likely to seek information about politics, and much less likely to vote than are regular partisans. Non-afEliates are relatively unconcerned about is- sues and are only dimly aware of political events. Efforts to reach this population, to attract their at- tention, are likely to fail. Attempts to outline issue- positions to them, to engage their support in behalf of any self-consistent philosophical and political position, seem as futile as the famous campaign to sell refrigerators to Eskimos. There is a well-known suspicion, voiced from time to time by imaginative writers, that conserva- tive elements of the population are in fact alienated from politics and sit in the wings, frustrated, im- mobilized, and without party loyalties, until some- one pursuing a Coldwater-like strategy gives them the iichoiceii they are looking for. This is probably a canard. What fragments of evidence exist point to the probability that dedicated conservatives and right-wing ideologues who are sufliciently interested in politics to hold strong opinions about public policy do in fact belong to political parties and par- ticipate actively in them. Outside the South, it seems certain, these people are almost all Republicans. Thus the hidden vote that Goldwater hoped to attract was probably hidden inside the vote Richard Nixon received in 1960. Another assumption underlying the Goldwater strategy was that it would be possible to attract this mythical hidden vote in substantial numbers with- out losing the allegiance of large numbers of more moderate people who supported the almost success- ful candidacy of Richard Nixon in 1960. In the event, this proved impossible to accomplish. An enormous number-probably about 20 percent-of Nixonls 1960 supporters voted for Lyndon Johnson in 1964. But this outcome might have been extra- polated from poll and primary election data in the preconvention period which showed that even among Republican voters Goldwater enjoyed far from overwhelming support. In addition, Goldwater aroused great antipathy in the general population. According to the Gallup poll in mid-September, 38.3 percent of their re- spondents expressed definite hostility to Goldwater tincluding 14.7 percent expressing the most extreme hostility on an eleven-point scalel, while only 8.1 percent expressed any antipathy at all toward Presi- dent Johnson. Likewise, on a number of issues, Louis Harris surveys found that sizable majorities in the general population defined themselves as opposed to positions they believed Senator Goldwater held. Reasons for Coldwatefs Nomination If the Goldwater strategy for victory was trans- parently implausible and his showing in the public opinion polls and in presidential preference pri- maries indifferent, how did the Republican party come to nominate him? This question is difficult to answer fully, but it is of great importance, because it is Senator Coldwateris nomination more than any other event in this election year which challenges the textbook explanations of American electoral politics. My explanation-which I regard as partial and plausible rather than definitive or scientifically es- tablished-has several main points. First, there is the weakness of Coldwateris op- position within the Republican party. There was a fatal Haw, for example, in the candidacy of Nelson A. Rockefeller. As each new incident unfolded in Governor Rockefellerk private life-his divorce, his remarriage, and the birth of Nelson A. Rockefeller, In, just days before the California primary-his presidential candidacy became less and less tenable. Yet Rockefeller was the only Republican willing to contest the primaries openly with Goldwater. Henry Cabot Lodge, who won the early-bird New Hampshire primary as a write-in candidate with 35 percent of the vote and who showed write- in strength in the Massachusetts, Texas, Illinois, and Nebraska primaries, refused to resign his ambas- sadorship to Vietnam in order to come home to campaign. This may have cost him the Oregon primary, which he lost narrowly to Rockefeller. Lodgeis strategy could be defended on the grounds that he is an indifferent campaigner and hence was less likely to damage his candidacy by his absence. On the other hand, it cast grave doubts upon the seriousness of Lodges interest in the nomination. For party professionals, these doubts seem to have reinforced preexisting antipathies toward certain of Lodgeis personal mannerisms, and many in addi- tion still nursed resentment over Lodge's active role in securing the Eisenhower nomination of 1952. The attractive, though inexperienced, William Scranton adopted a Stevensonian posture of reluct- ance. But unlike Stevenson, who was the designated successor of President Truman in 1952, Scranton could never manage to win more than qualified en- couragement from General Eisenhower. No doubt the Scranton campaign was delayed not only by the hesitancy of the candidate, but also by the hope that Rockefeller and Goldwater would eEectively cancel one another out in the primaries. This hope was dashed by the unexpected Rockefeller defeat in California. By the time the Scranton campaign got started, too many people had been otherwise com- mitted. Only a force maieure, such as the Eisen- hower blessing, could have shaken the situation loose-but instead, Eisenhoweris main impact was to delay Scranton,s entry into the race until after the crucial Covemorsi Conference in early June-giving him less than a month to campaign before the con- vention began. Finally, Richard Nixonis candidacy seems to have been hampered to a remarkable degree by his own activities following his narrow loss of the Presidency in 1960. In 1962 he ran for governor of California and lost, creating some skepticism in the minds of party leaders about his continued popularity with voters. Nixon compounded his problem, moreover, by his immediate reaction to this defeat. His bitter, recriminatory tand also somewhat disconnected and emotionall remarks about press coverage of the campaign were given wide publicity, including on- the-spot radio and television, and handed a potent weapon to his future opponents. Shortly after this debacle, Nixon gave up his titular leadership of the California Republican party and moved to New York City, where he entered the private practice of law. But unlike Thomas E. Dewey, in whose steps he seemed to be following, Nixon retained a suf- ficient interest in public office to embark upon a low-key campaign for the Presidency, which con- sisted-in the absence of any more tangible resources -of statements reminding Republicans of his broad ideological acceptability to all wings of the party and of his general abilities as an experienced cam- paigner and public servant. These statements were understandably received with something less than enthusiasm by party leaders who had made com- mitments to other candidates; but even among the dwindling uncommitted tfor example, at the Cover- nors, Conferencel, Nixon seems to have created a negative impression by eHorts in his own behalf that could not be energetically seconded by some identi- fiable bloc of troops at the national convention. In addition to the various flaws in the candidacies of Coldwatefs potential opponents, the Republican party in 1964 was somewhat more loosely organized than usual in many states. Normally, state party or- ganizations are unified by incumbent governors. Without the centralizing forces of state patronage and coherent party leadership embodied by a man in the governors chair, state parties tend to frag- ment into local satrapies and territorial jurisdictions which can be played off one against another by astute aspirants for the presidential nomination. The lack of strong leadership at the state level also means that a set of presidential preferences and a strategy for pursuing them is less likely to be worked out in advance and agreed upon by all elements of the state party. Decentralized state parties thus be- come happy hunting grounds for early starters in the presidential sweepstakes. They can move into a vacuum, make alliances and receive commitments, and build dele ate strength from the ground up. In 1964 the Repu lican party held only sixteen gover- norships. The advantages to Coldwaterk early can- didacy are obvious. The Goldwater forces seem in fact to have cap- tured a number of state conventions with the device of mass amateur influx which Dewey and Henry Cabot Lodge used to seize so many southern states from Taft in 1952. A mountain state Republican senator, who had assumed that he would be his delegations favorite son, was shocked to find that his state convention had elected a Goldwater dele- gate slate. uThere were people at the convention? he said, iithat Iive never seen before? One assumption underlying this idea seems to be that professional politicians would never, if left to their own devices, have supported a candidate who promised to be as weak as Goldwater. Even if they entertained small hope of winning the Presidency, these politicians had a stake in the preservation of party competition further down on the ballot, where the right candidate for the Presidency could at least attenuate the effects of the Johnson coattail. Such considerations, it is suggested, are bound to be less salient t0 amateurs, who are more likely to value ideological purity above all other considerations. There can be little doubt that in addition to his unimpeachably conservative voting record in Con- gress, Goldwater made a general appeal based on ideological considerations, laying particular em- phasis upon issues of morality and rightness iiin your heart'i and on vague complaints about uniden- tifiable malaise in American society. These sorts of appeals can be contrasted with the identification of specific issues, the making of promises about the content of policies, and the suggestion of concrete steps to be taken. This latter approach can be used when there is a speciiic coalition of interest groups to be put together. But Senator Goldwater took a novel public posture with respect to interest groups: 91f I had to cater to every special interest in the country to get elected, I wouldn,t want the job? This seems to have struck a note of responsive- ness among a great many of the delegates to the 1964 Republican Convention. Interviews with 150 Goldwater delegates at San Francisco brought re- sponses such as the following: The delegates are for Goldwater because they agree with his philosophy of government. Thatis what you people will never understand-weire com- mitted to his whole approach? . . . iiHe is straight- forward. uHe does not compromise? iiHe doesnit pander to the public; he,s against expediency. He is frankf' He has courage? iiHe stands up for what he believes? . . . iiHe votes his convictions when he knows heis right? iiHe doesnit go along with the crowd? . . . One colloquy went as follows: Interviewer: What qualities should a presidential candidate have? Delegate: Moral integrity. 1.: Should he be able to win the election? D.: No; principles are more important. I would rather be one against 20,000 and believe I was right. Thatis what I admire about Goldwater. He,s like that. Thus it is plausible to argue that Goldwater may have appealed to professionals-despite the misgiv- ings of many of them that he could not winvon the ground that he represented their predominantly conservative views of public policy. To amateurs, his appeal seems to have been general, and not tied to any particular issues. The general stance was negative, vague, and highly charged emotionally. We are accustomed to reading about new faces at national conventions. Each election year, so it seems, some leading politician well known to mem- bers of the press is irked to discover that his delega- tion has been taken over by strangers. Indeed, at both the Republican conventions of 1952 and 1956- one a hard-fought contest among factions of the out-party, the other a love-feast dedicated to the renomination of an incumbent-large numbers of regular delegates had not served at the previous convention. Nevertheless, the Republican conven- tion of 1964 was extraordinary: 74.3 percent of the delegates had not been at either of the two pre- ceding conventions. Thus the proportion of new faces was extraordinarily high, and so also, we may surmise, was the number of amateurs, of persons moved by passionate conviction and relatively in- sensitive to demands for compromise or the necessi- ties of team play with copartisans whose general orientation to politics, or whose policy preferences, differed from their own. In short, it appears that while Goldwater failed to bring out a hidden vote in November, he may well have changed-at least temporarily-the com- position of the activist core of the Republican party. The Democratic Strategy If Senator Coldwatefs nomination was unex- pected and his campaign strategy unorthodox, ac- cording to the best available knowledge of presi- dential elections, the Democratic strategy was a model of orthodoxy and scarcely needs either de- scription or explanation. Most of the resources available to President Johnson have already been mentioned: incumbency, the halo effect resulting from the trauma of his predecessofs assassination, which undoubtedly pro- longed his honeymoon with the press and with Con- gress, and his leadership of what, after all, is the majority party. Johnsonis main problem, standing in his way when he sought the nomination in 1960, was the fact that he was from the South. Indeed, labor and civil rights groups had opposed even his nomination for the Vice-Presidency in that year. But the pas- sage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 with vigorous support from the President served, as no honeyed words alone could possibly have served, to under- score to liberal Democrats that Johnson understood the necessities of the times as they understood them, and demonstrated that he was ready, like President Truman and Adlai Stevenson before him, to sacrifice the demands of the South where they conflicted with the demands of the rest of the Democratic coalition. The Democratic convention of 1964 seated rep- resentatives of the predominantly Negro Freedom Democratic Party of Mississippi in a compromise approved by the White House. Television viewers whose memories ran back four years remembered Joseph Rauh, a prominent leader of the liberal Americans for Democratic Action and delegate from the District of Columbia. When the word went out that Senator John Kennedy wanted Lyndon Johnson for his running mate, Rauh seized the nearest micro- phone and pleaded over nationwide TV, iiDon,t do it, Jack? In 1964, appearing as counsel for the Free- dom Democrats, Rauh flayed the regular Mississippi delegation for repudiating the leadership of iiour great President Johnson? Thus far had Johnson come in allaying the fears and winning the support of his partyis liberal activists. The choice of Senator Hubert Humphrey as his vice-presidential candidate sealed the bargain. In this way, before the campaign began, Presi- dent Johnson solved his major problem-to unite the Democratic party behind him. Once the cam- paign was fairly started, it rapidly became apparent that Johnson had no further problems. To win he needed only to refrain from rocking the boat. On the Democratic side, the campaign was unexcit- ing. A comprehensive statement of the Presidents views in a book published for the campaign was justly hailed by critics as comparable only to the prose of Warren G. Harding in unexceptionable blandness. The President sensibly refused to debate with his challenger on nationwide television. He shook thousands of hands and exuded hospitality and sympathy for disaffected Republicans-some of whom turned out to be prominent businessmen and former members of the Eisenhower administration who endorsed him publicly. For once, the Demo- cratic party had less difficulty than its opponent in financin the campaign. As t e campaign wore on, the message of the polls, now suitably chastened by the debacle of 1948 and hence especially cautious in the face of over- whelming evidence of a Johnson landslide, became unmistakable. The outcome could hardly be re- garded as a surprise. Picking Up the Pieces Despite the size of Johnsods victory, Goldwater supporters were saying after it was all over that the 26 million people who voted for their man consti- tuted an endorsement of right-wing Republicanism, although the figure represented a decline of over seven million from the vote for the 1960 Republican candidate, and was a stunning 16 million fewer than voted for the winner. Such a reaction would not surprise students of messianic movements and of other organizations heavily dependent upon faith rather than rational calculation as a method of achieving internal cohesion. But political parties in the United States cannot long survive solely as ve- hicles for drastically unpopular doctrines, no matter how passionately these doctrines are upheld by the minority of activists who believe in them. Indeed, a clamor among Republicans for a iinew image was not long in coming. A month after the election, the Republican governors met for two days in Denver and issued a statement endorsing civil rights and condemning radicalism whether of the right or left. Writing in the January 1965 iSSue of Fortune, Republican Representative Gerald R. Ford of Michi- gan suggested that his party in the House abandon its attempts to coordinate with leaders of the South- ern Democrats. In spite of the misgivin s of some of his colleagues about the im ort of t is article, Ford, running on a linew image, platform, success- fully displaced Charles Halleck of Indiana as He- publican leader of the House at the start of the Eighty-ninth Congress. At the same time, Barry Goldwaterls handpicked chairman of the Republi- can National Committee, Dean Burch, was forced out of office. His successor was Ray Bliss of Ohio, preeminently a rationally calculating organization politician, used to testing his personal preferences against political realities. According to reports, iiThough a staunch conservative in his own think- ing, Bliss was fearful of the eHect of a Goldwater candidacy in ,64. He arranged to tie up the Ohio delegation behind the favorite-son candidacy of Governor James A. Rhodes? Associates say Mr. Bliss is basically rather conservative and that his personal beliefs probably closely paralleled those of former Senator Barry Goldwater. But he also be- lieves that Republicans, as a minority party, need to draw moderate voters to win, and he tends to shy away from extreme candidates. To an outside observer, the lesson of this election for Republicans seems remarkably clear; as always, a question remains as to who within the Republican party will be charged with interpreting that lesson. Normally, this task falls to officeholders of the de- feated party. No one can believe, on the record of their past performance and preferences, that the elevation to leadership of Ford and Bliss heralds a drastic leftward turn in the policies espoused by the leaders of the Republican party. Rather, both men recognize the need to strike a bargain with reality. Whether merely giving ground before popular sentiment will be enough to trans- form the Republican party from a minority to a majority party may be doubted. But there is less doubt that such a leadership is capable of attracting a larger share of the voting population than un- yielding candidates and leaders are. It may be that some pro-Coldwater Republicans recognized that their chances of winning the elec- tion were slim, but believed that even a debacle in 1964 would enhance their long-run chances of con- trolling the Republican party and in possibly push- ing political dialogue in this country to the right. Judging from the activity of the Eighty-ninth Con- gress, and from the tendency of political parties to cohere around elected officeholders rather than de- feated candidates, this seems to have been a gross miscalculation. Conclusions and Speculations A cliche of American politics holds that Republi- cans cannot get themselves elected, and Democrats cannot govern. If the Republicans had their mo- ment of truth for this generation when they finally tested the hidden vote hypothesis in a Presidential election, a similar period of illumination took place for the Democrats as they discovered durin the first session of the Eighty-ninth Congress whet er a vigorous President and overwhelming majorities in both houses of Congress would suche to allow them to put their program into effect. It is a rare election which provides even a partial test of popularly held notions about parties or the party system. This one helped us understand something about the problems of the Republican party in winning elections. And it also was instructive about Democrats. N0 estimate of the net effect of the election on the Eighty-ninth Congress can fail to note an in- crease in the floor strength of the Democratic ma- jority in both houses. That is to say, on most matters brought to a vote, and especially on matters of high priority to the Johnson administration, the Demo- crats had more than enough votes to win. With its loose rules of germaneness, the Senate provides few obstacles to floor action, since any bill bottled up in committee can be attached as a floor amendment to any other bill by any Senator. But in the House bringing bills to a vote has over the years been more diHicult. The intricate and strict parliamentary rules of the House, the rigidities of its internal structure, and the conservatism of Democratic lead- ers of key committees have in the past effectively kept bills off the floor-including some bills the Democratic leadership wanted to pass and were con- fident they had the votes to pass. In the Eighty- ninth Congress this bottleneck was broken. At its first session, the rules of the House were changed so as to facilitate Hoor action; the Speaker is now allowed at his discretion to call up bills for floor action after they have been reported by a commit- tee tfavorably or unfavorablyl and at least 21 days have elapsed; bills may be sent to conference by majority vote instead of by unanimous consent or, failing that, through the sometimes intransigent Rules Committee; and the aetty twenty-four-hour harassment of the demand or an engrossed copy of an amended bill is abolished. Thus the liberal majority in the Democratic caucus made it proce- durally possible for the Eighty-ninth Congress to govern according to the rule of the majority party to an extent greater than in any Congress since the overthrow of Speaker Cannon in 1910. Party ratios on committees were changed to reflect the Demo- cratic majority; and an ambitious legislative pro- gram was enacted. It is diHicult to assess the net effect of this elec- tion on the party system. Despite what appear to be prompt and meaningful measures within the Be- publican party to mend the damage caused it by Senator Goldwateris candidacy, the eHort may be insufficient to prevent an effective shift in this coun- try to a one-and-one-half party system, a shift that has been in the making for some time. This is not necessarily a deplorable development, even to staunch defenders of a vigorous two-party system. For it may be that ultimately the health of a two- party system depends upon the capacity of the two parties to agree on most issues and at the margins offer alternatives attractive to slightly different com- ponents of the population. This makes for disagree- ment on live issues, not on issues already settled and part of an overriding national consensus. There seems to be no reason, other than empty piety toward the abstract idea of two-party competition, to reward with public oHice an out-party that fails to seek out new opportunities to appeal to the preferences of voters. , lama 04mg . Qtr4$ .nxesast nu The question is not whether enough Republicans are ready to adapt to these preferences, for it is ap- parent that they are. A more serious problem for Republicans to face is whether the opportunity will soon arise for them to capture the loyalties of enough voters to return them to power for any lengthy period of time. I am speaking now not of a momentary aberration but of the creation of long- term party loyalties. The great historic opportunities for the creation of party loyalty seem to have been associated to a certain extent with domestic disas- ters, but even more, it seems to me, with the entry into suffrage of great numbers of people similarly situated. The prospects for civil war seem dim; we are now growing accustomed to the role of the government in putting a floor on many aspects of the economy which heretofore were capable of com- bining and producing drastic depressions. And so the Republican Chances to create on account of domestic crisis lasting adherents among those who now vote Democratic must be rated as slim. What is worse, from a Republican standpoint, the Cold- water candidacy seems to have solidified a trend, visible since the New Deal, away from the Republi- can party of the last great bloc of voters to enter American political life: the Negro voters. Once Negroes everywhere vote, the long march toward universal sullrage in America will have ended. Even allowing for the past instability of the Negro vote, the loyalties of the Negro seem likely to be pre- dominantly Democratic. Looked at in this light, and projected into the medium-range future, the Cold- water candidacy was a disastrous bargain for the Republican party. It is much easier for a political party to win new friends than to convert old antagonists. The decision of Senator Goldwater and his advisers to lock the Negro out of his historic home may have had a greater impact on the Re- publican party,s future fortunes than any other strategic choice of 1964. Finally, what conclusions can we draw from the experience of 1964 about the political institutions engaged in the process of choice? One conclusion from this election year would be that national con- ventions are possibly overrated as decision-making bodies. They are not now taken seriously as de- cision-making instruments of the party of an in- cumbent President. Looking at the high turnover of delegates, and at the success both of Senator Ken- nedy in 1960 and of Senator Goldwater in 1964, it could be plausibly argued that increasingly com- mitments to candidates are being made earlier and earlier in the nominating process, even when the nomination of the out-party is being contested among several factions. The number of iirst-ballot nominations since 1928 suggests that important things are happening even in the out-party before the convention meets. Over this time-space each party has nominated ten presidential candidates, eight of whom have been nominated 0n the first ballot. All seven incumbents seeking renomination have received first-ballot nominations; and so have nine non- incumbents. Nationwide television coverage of the primaries gives early-bird candidates a head start on the free publicity of the election year. Private polls t as well as those published in the newspapersl put more information about the com- parative popularity of candidates in the hands of party leaders earlier than before. Thus the pressures upon state party leaders to decide what they want to do seem to be urging them to make decisions earlier in the election year-before national publicity creates a rush of sentiment in one direction or another that takes matters wholly out of their hands. When one or a few party leaders come to feel the need for early decisions, soon the others must follow suit or lose their own room for maneuver. These early decisions must, perforce, take place at widely separated places on the map, thus enhancing the bargaining power of candidates, who can deal with party leaders piecemeal under these circumstances, rather than having to face them en masse at a con- vention, where they can wheel and deal with one another. If this tendency is correctly identified-and I should argue that it is a tendency for which only scattered and inconclusive evidence can presently be assembled-it leads to the further conclusion that over the long run, as mass communications media continue or possibly increase their saturation cover- age of early events in the election year, successful candidates tat least of the out-partyl increasingly will have to have access to large sums of money apart from the funds generally available to the party, a large personal organization, and an extra measure of skill and attractiveness on the hustings and over television. In these circumstances, other resources-such as the high regard of party leaders- would come to be less important. It seems to me that most of these qualities I have named-early candidacy, opulent private fi- nancing, and strong personal organizations-char- acterized both the Kennedy and Goldwater pre- convention campaigns; and both these out-party candidates overcame strong misgivings on the part of leaders of their own party whose main concern was winning the election. Time will tell whether candidates of the out-party in future years read the signs similarly and plan their campaigns ac- cordingly. The Distorting Mirror Recently I have been reading several books by English travelers in America and by American travelers in England in the last century. The Eng- lish travelers are Mrs. Trollope, Miss Harriet Marti- neau, and Dickens: the Americans are Henry Adams, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Emerson. Also, bridging the two sides of the Atlantic with trach going across both ways, is Henry James. One might equally well describe his marvellous book The American Scene as being written by a European as by an American. The overwhelming impression you gain from Dickens and Mrs. Trollope is that in 1850 the Eng- lish traveler was well advised not to come within spitting range of any inhabitant of the United States. From Hawthorne you gain the impression that while English cathedrals remain beautiful Eng- lish women are of a hideousness without parallel in history and geography. So thick, so gross, so mal- formed and coarsely tinctured are they, that these upper and middle-class English ladies drive Haw- thorne into an almost sadistic frenzy. He wonders why British husbands do not take up knives and try to cut their ladies into pieces and then assemble them into shapes more resembling ideal American Mr. Spender has been at the Center for Advanced Studies since February of this year. Stephen spender womanhood. One thing that books called by names such as English Traits tEmersonI or American Society t Harriet Martineaui makes one wonder about is the value of generalizations. The kind of generalization whereby Matthew Arnold seizes on one article in a Boston newspaper to construct on it a gigantic picture of a philistine America before he had been there, tempts one to think that the habit of gen- eralizing from particular instances about whole na- tions, is intolerable. Any and every generalization tthis is one safe generalizationi provokes examples of exceptions. Realizing this, Dickens, before draw- ing up a formidable list of American failin s, de- clares that there is a class of Americans w o are the exceptions, iiby nature, frank, brave, cordial, hospitable, and affectionate. Cultivation and re- finement seems but to enhance their warmth of heart and ardent enthusiasm . . but the enerali- zation Dickens made is that the majority o Ameri- cans are given over to the real instead of the ideal, are victims of Universal Mistrust, humorless, dull and of a foul growth feeding upon a Iicentious and wicked press. Nevertheless I think that we are more justified in generalizing about national characteristics than about anything else. The reason I think this is be- cause when we talk about French, Germans, English, Russians, Americans, etc. we are talking about peo- ple. And there is nothing we can do in talking about people except generalize from particular instances. Every Character in a novel, however distinct and peculiar he is, is also a generalization: because we only observe and are interested in his peculiari- ties when they are part of our general view of hu- manity. When we talk of the English, the Ameri- cans, the French, etc., we are exchanging impres- sions of persons belonging to those nations and discussing what in them seems particularly English, American, or French. Consider an observation such as this from the Education of Henry Adams: The English mind was one-sided, ec- centric, systematically unsystematic, and logically illogical. One might think this refutable by many English exceptions. Yet if it pro- vokes the reader into looking for ex- amples of English people who demon- strate these qualities one sees that it does throw light on the English mid- nineteenth-century character. It is the kind of observation generalizing hu- manity that is a starting point of fic- tion. A novelist might write a novel in- venting such a character as Henry Adamsi Englishman. To do so he might have to create a situation such as that in which Adams had his insight into deeply revealing English behaviour- when he was in London where his father was American Minister at the time of the American Civil War. The generalization would then be provided with a dramatic historic context which resulted in the English statesmen and 017ic1'als whom the zoung Adams met observin these Eng ish characteristics, within t at situation. Another thing to note about Adamsis observa- tions is that they are of English eople who were reacting to him, revealing these characteristics, be- cause he was an American. As often happens when people from different countries with a whole his- tory of attitudes behind them meet, the observer influences the nature of the phenomenon observed. Generalizations about each otheris countries and countrymen are to the highest degree relativist. Reading these travel books one is struck that the reaction of the traveller is the result of his belong- ing to his own country, so that at times one wants to kick Dickens or Mrs. Trollope, Hawthorne, and Emerson, and say iiPlease stop being English or American for a moment, and you will see things quite diEerently. Here is a assage from Mrs. Trollopeis Domestic Manners of tlpte Americans, in which what today we might call the double-take of English lady at her most English to American lady at her most Ameri- can is painfully obviousz-tPerhaps I should ex- plain that Frances Trollope was the mother of the novelist Anthony Trollopel. One of my friends startled me by one day saying in an affectionate but rather compassionate tone, iiHow will you bear to go back to England to live, and to bring up your children in a cauntry where on know you are con- sidered as no getter than the dirt in the streets? I begged she would explain. iiWhy, you know I would not af- front you for anything: but the fact is, we Americans know rather more than you think fm, and certainly if I was in England I should not think of as- sociating with anything but lords. I have always been among the 191.51 here, and if I travelled I should like to do the same. I donit mean, Iim sure. that I would not come to see you, but you know you are not lords, and therefore I know very well how you are treated in your own country? Here Mrs. Trollope is observing how American her friend is in observing Mrs. Trollope being Eng- lish. The fact that the English lady tas seen in the mirror of the American ladyis mindi is a distorted image is something Mrs. Trollope can do nothing about. For to protest would seem-in her friends, the American ladyis mind-another aspect of her Englishness. Thus this very elementary situation has considerable complexity of the kind that Henry James was to explore again and again in his novels about the American and European situation. The metaphor of distorting mirrors reflecting into one another carries I think quite a long way. The Englishman looks into the mirror of the Americans mind, the American into that of the Englishman, and sees himself reflected, and the mirrors also re- flect images and the mirrors themselves into one another in an infinite receding series. The facts, the geography and history, the ac- cumulated statistics do of course play their part in correcting the distortions. One knows that objec- tively, factually, the American lady is not being quite fair to Mrs. Trollope in her view of the social acceptability of the Trollopes in England. But the relativity of immense geographical American facts as against historic and traditional English ones is exactly what Americans and English in their inter- course have been least able to harmonize. Indeed they produce violent mental distortions with some- times dramatical physical results sending Americans hopping across the Atlantic ito employ a phrase in an article in Boston newspaper which Matthew Arnold takes heavily ironic exception tot and Eng- lishmen hopping the other way, the Americans in search for traditional values, civilization, the Eng- lish for new life, the breath of democracy. Mrs. Trollope has a gift for supplying the reader with archetypes of confrontations expanding outwards into ever widening circles. Thus she tells us of her meeting with the gentleman from Ohio who iidrew out his graduated pencil-case, and showed me, past contradiction, that the whole of the British domin- ions did not equal in size one of their least im- portant states. . . . iiNorf she continues, will she forget iithe air with which after the demonstration, he placed his feet upon the chimney-piece, con- siderably higher than his head, and whistled Yankee Doodle? The gentleman from Ohio had a point, the force of which the past hundred years have confirmed. In the anecdote Mrs. Trollope with her dignity represents of course the whole weight of English tradition. It is diflicult to put tradition in one scale and geography in another, expecting them to bal- ance; they are somehow incommensurables. No one reveals this more vividly than Emerson in his Eng- lish Traits, in the first chapter of which we get the English side of the scales, and in the last with a bewildering switch the American. In the first chapter, arriving in England, he writes: A wise traveler will naturally choose to visit the best of actual nations,- and an American has more reasons than another to draw him to Britain. In all that is done or begun by the Ameri- cans towards right thinking or practice, we are met by a civilization already settled and overpowering. The culture of the day, the thoughts and aims of men, are English thoughts and aims. So much for the English side of the scale. But on the eve of his departure from England, Emerson seems to have delivered a homily to Carlyle, the last person whom one can imagine listening for two minutes to anyone else, but still this is what Emer- son, that most truthful of men, reports himself as having told Carlyle; I told Carlyle that I was easily dazzled, and was accustomed to concede readily all that an Englishman would ask; I saw everywhere in the country proofs of sense and spirit, and success of every sort; I like the people; they are as good as they are handsome; they have everything and can do every- thing; but meantime I surely know that as soon as I return to Mas- sachusetts I shall lapse at once into the feeling, which the geography of American inevitably inspires, that we play the game with immense ad- vantage; that there and not here is the seat and center of the British race; and that no skill or activity can long compete with the prodigious natural advantages of that country, in the hands of the same race; and that Eng- land, an old and exhausted island, must one day be contented, like other par- ents, to be strong only in her children. But this was a proposition which no Englishman of any condition can easily entertain. This passage is, obviously, of interest in show- ing that American pundits could even in 1856 stretch what today is called the iicredibility gap. For it is scarcely thinkable that Carlyle could have listened without interrupting to a discourse so long and expressing such views. But there can be no question-but that Emerson cannot really relate his geographical vision of America to his historical one of England. Henry James spent a great deal of his life trying to do this. One of his most famous attempts is his early biography of Hawthorne in the passage where he weighs the disadvantages of the New Englander, Hawthorne, working in Salem and writing his American notebooks about what seemed to James such unrewarding material, iicharacterized by an extraordinary blankness, with the lot of the novelist living in England. He provides his famous list of what he considers positive advantages to the Eng- lish novelist against negative disadvantages to the American: No State, in the European sense of the word, and indeed barely a specific national name. No sovereign, no court, no personal loyalty, no aristocracy, no church, no clergy, no army, no diplo- matic service, no country gentlemen, no palaces, no castles, nor manors, nor old country houses, nor parsonages, nor thatched cottages, nor ivied ruins; no cathedrals, nor abbeys, nor little Norman churches; no great universi- ties, no public schools-no Oxford, nor Eton, nor Harrow; no literature, no novels, no museums, no pictures, no political society, no sporting chss-nor Epsom, nor Ascot! Reading this list one gets something of the distorting mirror effect with which English and Americans look at one another. For what strikes me at once is that no Englishman would have com- piled quite so inclusive a list. Dickens and Mat- thew Arnold certainly would not hold up several of the items on this list for admiration-not Eton and Ascot, for example. What they really thought was that America should have a better press, better educational institutions, and a more interested and interesting culture. Great Architecture, they did wish America had, but Henry Jamesls list is really a bill of attainder, since whatever institutions America might intro- duce along the most traditional English lines, they could only parody the English ones twhich they sometimes do, as one sees in the architecture of US. campuses, e.g., Yale Universityl. Since the mid-nineteenth century-to skip a hundred years-evidently the side of the scale in which America sits has entirely overweighed the side in which there is England, and, indeed, most of the world. One might almost say that America has become not only the geography which it always was, but history, modern history, the history that most concerns us. What is quite evident is that there is no equipoise. Either Americans go to England or Europe, as Henry James, Eliot, and Pound did, or the English come here. When one has left all other considerations of why they go aside, one discovers that they go, when they go, in more than a touristic sense, go as it were to life-giving waters, because they feel that one place has become the center. What kind of a center? Above all, I think, the center of the language. And here I am not meaning just the English upper-class idiom or the American New York, Southern or Midwestern, I mean the center where the meanings of the words most By home. Henry Jamesis list of things, sovereign, state, court, church, castles, manors, abbeys, etc., is really a list of symbols to which words attach themselves, to which they refer. He means that when any writer in 1865 uses these words in the English language they tend to Hy back to their authentic referent the English sovereign, state, court, castle, manor. He means also that the list adds up to a formidable past and present that makes the English language center in England. In the life of Hawthorne, he praises the American writer for being provincial: by which he means that the stature of an American writer who remains in America is attained by realiz- ing the limitations of his cultureless environment, by being that which James praises Hawthorne for being-provincial. He must use limited local his- tory like that of Puritans in a New England village, symbols and words with local associations, religious ideas working within a narrow and shallow circle, avoiding symbols that fly across the Atlantic to the center where symbol and word are one, where a king connects with a traditional king, a tower with a Gothic cathedral. A nation wins its independence, politically, geographically, from colonialism. Following on this there is a further struggle to create its independent soul. That is largely done by creating its language, and by this I do not mean just its idiom but making the environment the center of the language that people use in its country. Unfortunately-perhaps cruelly-there can only be one center of a language. Everything outside that center is peripheral, pro- ducing the kind of problems of being provincial that may lead to extraordinary victories, like that of the. Irish writers. English in England is now provincial to America, and that may lead to splendid as well as sad results. Certainly one of the most important things that have happened in the twentieth century is that America has become the home and center of the English language. Gandhi and Industrialism joseph W. elder In the pattern of classical Hindu philosophy, Candhfs goal in life was to attain moksha-release from the cycle of reincarnation. In his autobiography he wrote: What I want to achieve,-what I have been striving and pining to achieve these thirty years,-is self-realization, to see God face to face, to attain Moksha. I live and move and have my being in pursuit of this goal. All that I do by way of speaking and writing, and al my ventures in the political field, are directed to this same end. The classical Hindu pattern for attaining moksha required a man to renounce his family and 0c- cupation and ultimately to become a wandering mendicant. Gondhi agreed that man achieves sal- vation through renunciation-but a renunciation of a different sort. While he was in the Yerauda jail, he wrote: . . . Renunciation . . . does not mean abandoning the world and retiring into the forest. The spirit of renunciation should rule all the activities of life. A householder does not cease to be one, if he regards life as a dut rather than as an indulgence. A mere nt who op- erates in the sacrificial spirit will have crores ltens of millionsl assing through his hands, but he wil, if he follows the law, use his abilities for service. Mr. Elder is an associate protessor in the departments ot sociology and Indian studies at the University of Wisconsin. This article is a selection from a book manuscript on Hindu society and industrialism he is writing this year while a Fellow at Wesleyen's Center tor Advanced Studies. Only a few months before his death he stated: ICertaz'nj difficulties appear to have given rise to the current conception of sannyasa fremmciation of the worldj . . . Such sannyasa may be necessary for some rare spirit who has the power of conferring benefits upon the world by only thinking good thoughts in a cave. But the world would be mined if every one became a caoe-dweller. Ordinary men and women can only cultivate mental detachment. Whoever lives in the world and lives in it only for serving it is a sannyasi. In short salvation for Gandhi came through renunciation-renunciation expressed in detached, selfless service. His views echoed those passages in the Bhagavad Gita that urge action for its own sake, with no regard for the ends. Gandhils innovation was his stress on service as the highest form of action. What form of society and what type of eco- nomic system would best enable men to dedicate themselves to the service of others? Gandhi found clues to the answer in 1904 when he read Ruskin,s book Unto This Last on a train ride from Johannes- burg to Durban. As he understood it, Ruskin was saying: ll the good of the individual is contained in the good of all; 2l 3 lawyeris work has the same value as a barberls inasmuch as both have the same right of earning their livelihood from their work; and 3l the life of the tiller and the handicraftsman is the life worth living. Through further reading, Gandhi discovered others like T. M. Bondaref and L. N. Tolstoy who also held that man should earn his bread by labor- ing with his own hands. Characteristically, once Gandhi was convinced of the validity of a position, he changed his life accordingly. This he now did. With the help of some friends, he bought a farm near Phoenix, in the Transvaal, moved the presses and 0113065 of the magazine Indian Opinion to the farm, and assigned an equal monthly allowance of three pounds for the composer, editor, and errand 0y. In 1910 Gandhi needed a base of operations closer to Johannesburg and his campaign for equal treatment of Indians. Again with the help of friends, Gandhi established Tolstoy Farm. Here, twenty-one miles from Johannesburg, he began his economic experiments in earnest. Those living on the farm prepared their own bread, marmalade, and caramel collee, as well as sandals and furniture. In organization the farm was similar to the traditional Hindu dshmms of gums and their disciples; Gandhi retained in his own hands the authority for manag- ing the farm. There was to be no smoking or drink- ing, n0 meat-eating, and, for a time, no eating of cooked foods or drinking of milk. One could use public transport only when on an errand for the commune; otherwise one had to walk. During the day adults instructed the children in their school lessons. At night everyone slept on the ground. There were no servants; all the work on the farm was done by the participants. Gandhi intended Tolstoy Farm to be Ta sort of co-operative common- wealth,, where participants in the struggle for equal rights llwould be trained to live a new and simple life in harmony with one another. The pattern of a religious cooperative com- munity continued in Candhfs later dshrams in India -Satyagraha ashram Uirst near Ahmedabad and later on the Sabarmati Riverl, Wardha ashram, and finally Sevagram ashram in Segaon, a village close to Wardha. From his experiences within his own dshrams, and from his observations of India,s strug- gle for independence, set against a world back- ground of the Bolshevik revolution, the inter- national depression of the 1930s the emergence of totalitarianism, and World War II, Gandhi formu- lated his own economic blueprint for India. This blueprint included serious criticisms of industrial- ism. Candhils earliest statements on the topic of in- dustrialism are recorded in Hind Swarai or Indian Home Rule t1909l. Before writing the book, Gandhi had read Romesh Chandra Dutt,s Economic His- tory of India, in which Dutt described how the British colonial administration and the Manchester mill industry shattered Indials village economy based on handicrafts and agricultural self-suil'lciency. Gandhi saw in this both an economic and a moral lesson. The economic lesson was that India was partially responsible for her own ruin, because she had cooperated with Manchester by buying Man- chester cloth. The moral lesson was that this co- operation stemmed from a basic human weakness- materialistic greed. Machinery stimulated greed, and greed in turn stimulated machinery. To restore the healthy economy of pre-British India, it was necessary to attack both. Gandhi wrote: Machinery has begun to desolate Europe. Ruination is now knocking at the English gates. Machinery is the chief symbol of modem civilization; it represents a great sin. . . . As long as we cannot make pins without ma- chinery so long will we do without them. The tinsel splendour of glass- ware we will have nothing to do with, and we will make wicks, as of old, with home-grown cotton and use handmade earthen saucers for lamps. . . . Ma- chinery is like a snake-hole which may contain from one to a hundred snakes. . . . I cannot recall a single good point in connection with ma- chinery. . . . If, instead of welcoming machinery as a boon, we should look upon it as an evil, it would ultimately go. At this time Gandhi did not distinguish between machinery and the industrial system that used ma- chinery. By the 1920's Gandhi had introduced this distinction. In 1924, to the question nAre you against all machinery? he replied: How can I be when I know that even this body is a most delicate piece of machinery? The spinning wheel itself is a machine,- a little toothpick is a ma- chine. What I object to is the craze for machinery, not machinery as such. . . . I am aiming, not at eradication of all machinery, hut limitation. Gandhi even admitted that might be morally justified: some machines Take the case of the Singer Sewing Machine. It is one of the few useful things ever invented. . . . Singer saw his wife labouring over the tedious process of sewing and seaming with her own hands, and simply out of his love for her he devised the sewing ma- chine, in order to save her unnecessary labour. He, however, saved not only her labour but also the labour of everyone who could purchase a sew- ing machine. When reminded that factories would be required for the production of Singer Sewing Machines, Gandhi agreed but added: . . . lFactories ought to be workingj not for profit, but for the benefit of humanity. This mad rush for wealth must cease, and the labourer must he assured, not only of a living wage, but a daily task that is not a mere drudgery. . . . The saving of labour of the individual should be the object, and honest humanitarian con- siderations, and not greed, the mo- tioe. . . . Therefore, replace greed by love and everything will come right. By 1925 Gandhi was even more specific in his separation of machinery from the industrial or- ganization usin machinery. By then he was ad- vocating the w olesale adoption of hand-spinning as one method of attaining Indian independence; and he recognized that the spinning wheel itself was a machine. Organization of machinery for the purpose of concentrating wealth and power in the hands of a few and for the exploitation of many, I hold to be altogether wrong. Much of the organi- zation of machinery of the present age is of that type. The movement of the spinning wheel is an organized at- tempt to displace machinery from that state of exclusiveness and exploitation and to place it in its proper state. Un- der my scheme, therefore, men in charge of machinery will think not of themselves or even of the nation to which they belong but of the whole human race. The next year Gandhi was even more specific in his condemnation of industrialism. He observed: Now that we know the use of steam and electricity, we should be able to use them on due occasion and after we have learnt to avoid industrialism. Our concern is, therefore, to destroy in- dustrialism at any cost. To Gandhi, iiindustrialismi, now became syn- onymous with mass production and centralized coordination of production. When Gandhi was in London for the second Round Table Conference in 1931, he and an American press correspondent discussed the general topic of industrialism. In this discussion Gandhi spelled out some of his criticisms of mass production: . . . iiMass production is a technical term for production by the fewest pos- sible number through the aid of highly complicated machinery. I have said to myself that that is wrong . . . concen- tration of production ad infinitum can only lead to unemployment. You may say that workers thrown out of work b the introduction of improved ma- 0 inery will find occupations in other jobs. But in an organized country, where there are only fixed and limited avenues of employment . . . this is hardly possible. Are there not over three millions unemployed in England today? During the 19303 Candhi drew together within a single framework such scattered aspects as his hand-spinning program, Ruskins and Tolstoy's ideals, the anti-imperialism of the Indian National Congress, and a religious asceticis distaste for greed. The axis of this framework was decentralization- decentralization of both production and consump- tion-with the establishment of autonomous village communities throughout India as the goal. Whereas in the 19105 Gandhi had been supporting the growth of village industries because they were Indian, in the 19303 Gandhi was supporting village industries because they were carried on in villages. Industrial production, even if it was Indian in- dustrial production, should be abandoned in favor of cottage industries. In 1934 Gandhi wrote: Our clear duty is . . . to investigate the possibility of keeping in existence the village wheel, the village crusher and the village pounder, and, by advertis- ing their products, discovering their qualities, ascertaining the condition of the workers and the number displaced by the power-drioen machinery. . . . What is needed is protection of the village crafts and the workers behind them from the crushing competition of the power-driven machinert, whether it is worked in India or in foreign lands. In 1936 Gandhi visited Segaon, an impoverished village in the Central Provinces, and chose to es- tablish an ashram there. This time the purpose of the ashram was not simply to serve as a spiritual retreat for him and his disciples; it was also to serve as an economic model for what Gandhi felt Indiais villages should become. Gandhi derived at least part of this economic model from his view of what Indiais economy had been in ancient times. Our ancestors . . . set a limit to our indulgences. They saw that happiness was largely a mental condition. . . . It was not that we did not know how to invent machinery, but our forefathers knew that, if we set our hearts after such things, we would become slaves and lose our moral fibre. They, there- fore, after due deliberation decided that we should only do what we could with our hands and feet. Th saw that our real happiness and healt con- sisted in a proper use of our hands and feet. They further reasoned that large cities were a snare and a useless en- cumbrance and that people would not be happy in them. . . . They were, therefore, satisfied with small villages. They saw that kings and their swords were inferior to the sword of ethics, and they, therefore, held the sovereigns 0f the earth to be inferior to the Rishis lHimlu seersl and the Fakirs lMuslim holy menl. Regardless of the historical accuracy or inac- curacy of Candhils picture of ancient India land in many respects it is not accuratel, this picture enabled him to channel an element of Hindu legitimacy into his economics experiments. Within a few years, Sevagram, as Gandhils new ashram was called, was producing its own milk, butter, and other dairy products, growing its own vegetables, and raising part of its own cereals. It had its own herd of cattle and goats. But it pos- sessed no machine more complicated than the spin- ning wheel and weaving loom. Gandhi at one point even discussed the possibility of dispensing with money and using a warp length of a single thread of yarn as the lowest measure of value. Thus the penniless boy standing in front of the sweetmeat shop would only have to go home and spin the required length of yarn to get his coveted sweet- meat. However, this abandonment of coinage was never effected. Within Sevagram itself Gandhi was able to supervise and, to an extent, control what items were consumed by ashram members. But Gandhi could not exercise such personal surveillance over the consumer habits of the total Indian population. To create a public consciousness willing to use village gar instead of factory-refined sugar, homespun khadi instead of mill cloth, and hand-made paper instead of factory paper, Gandhi drew upon a classi- cal Hindu virtue-the reduction of wants. As early as 1916 Gandhi had said: . . . When we had that there are many things that we cannot get in India, we must try to do without them. We may have to do without many things which we may consider necessary; but believe me, when you have that frame of mind, you will find a great burden taken off your shoulders. . . . From the economics point of view, this reduc- tion of wants fitted well into Gandhiis program for autonomous villages and cottage industries. For if people diminished their wants suHiciently, they could be satisfied with Village products. Gandhi recognized that the India of the future would require some heavy industries. What to do with the heavy industries posed a problem, for they permitted the concentration and accumulation of capital. In the 19205 and early 1930s he suggested that one way out of this dilemma was to have such heavy industries belong to the people, who would operate them through the State. But from what Gandhi saw of Nazi Germany, Italy, the Soviet Union, and Japan during the 1930s, he developed a genuine mistrust of the State. In a discussion with N. K. Bose in 1934 Gandhi declared: The State represents violence, in a concentrated and organized form. The individual has a soul, but as the State is a soulless machine, it can never be weaned from violence, to which it owes its very existence. H ence I prefer the doctrine of trusteeship. From time to time during earlier decades Gandhi had suggested that factory owners and other wealthy persons should consider themselves trus- tees of their wealth, keeping only what was neces- sary for their legitimate needs and using the rest for society. Now this doctrine of trusteeship pro- vided a solution to the dilemma that allowed both for heavy industries and for reasonable equality of income. In 1940 Gandhi wrote: . . At the root of this doctrine of equal distribution must lie that of the trusteeship of the wealthy for the superfluous wealth possessed by them. For according to the doctrine they may not possess a rupee more than their neighbours. How is this to be brought about? Non-violentlyP Or should the wealthy be dispossessed of their pos- sessions? To do this we would naturally have to resort to violence. This violent action cannot henejit soviet . Society will be the poorer, for it will lose the gifts of a man who knows how to ac- cumulate wealth. Therefore the non- violent way is evidently superior. The rich man will be left in possession of his wealth, of which he will use what he reasonably requires for his personal needs and will act as a trustee for the remainder to he used for society. Gandhi found scriptural sanction for money- making in one verse of the Isha Upanishad, the verse that for him contained the iiwhole essence of Hinduism. His English translation of the lines was as follows: God the Ruler pervades all there is in this Universe. Therefore renounce and dedicate all to Him, and then enjoy 07' use that portion that may fall to thy lot. Never covet anyhodyis posses- ston. As Gandhi interpreted this passage, it is not im- portant whether one acquires wealth or fails to acquire wealth. But it is important to renounce whatever wealth one has, whether much or little, and to dedicate it to God. Then and only then is one entitled to enjoy that portion of the wealth that one requires. Gandhi denounced the traditional way in which Hindus had used their wealth to gain religious merit. We cast a morsel at the beggar come to our door, and we feel that we have earned some merit, but we really thereby add to the number of beggars, aggravate the evil of beggary, encour- age idleness and consequently promote irreligion. According to Gandhi, trustees were to use their wealth in such a way as to bring fundamental im- provements to society-more schools and hospitals, more shelters for stray cattle, and more employ- ment centers for the unemployed. Their funds should spread cottage industries, uplift hariiam tun- touchablesl, and help establish the autonomous village communities Gandhi envisioned within India. If the trustees were also employers, they should see to it that their laborers had ample food, good and sanitary dwellings, all the necessary education for their Children, ample leisure for self- education and proper medical assistance? Gandhi had few illusions about how diHicult it would be to convince the wealthy industrialists and landowners of India to become trustees of their wealth: Absolute tmsteeship is an abstraction like Euclidis definition of a point, and is equally unattainable. But if we strive for it, we shall be able to go further in realizing a state of equality on earth than by any other method. The final years of Gandhiis life were busy ones. From 1942 to 1944 he was in jail, and from 1946 on he was immersed in the attempt to quell com- munal riots between Hindu and Muslims that eventually cost him his life. His preoccupations left him little time or energy either to establish Seva- gram as the blueprint for all Indian Villages or to convince even one such close millionaire friend as the industrialist C. D. Birla to adopt his iidoc- trine of trusteeshipfi But Candhfs economic plan for India did not end with the assassinis bullets in 1948. After his death, his economic ideals were carried forward by the Sarvodaya movement. Vinoba Bhave became the spiritual leader of the movement, and in time the group came to include such well-known figures as J. B. Kriplani tat one time member of the Lok Sabhal, Jayaprakash Narayan tex-leader of the So- cialist Partyl, and I. C. Kumarappa, one of the movements most eloquent spokesmen. The move- ment has experienced internal differences. For ex- ample, one heated dispute centered about the use of electricity, with one faction maintaining that electricity had created unemployment and should not be used unless its price were raised sixteen times to enable human labor to compete With it. Despite such differences, members of the Sarvo- daya movement have shared certain assumptions about the nature of society, and the way in which society can be reformed. Sarvodaya assumes that centralized production is a result of greed-motivated investment of capital and requires the exploitation of human labor. This exploitation, in turn, leads to the separation of the wealthy and the poor, resulting in classes and class conflict. Since the poorer class cannot afford as many industrial products as are produced, domestic markets become glutted. The captains of industry, seeking additional markets, turn their attention to foreign countries, especially non-industrial coun- tries. The expansion into overseas markets leads to imperialism; imperialism leads to war. In short, industrialism in the context of a world armed with nuclear weapons can lead to world destruction. In the words of Vinoba Bhave, Sarvodaya is iian ap- peal to men and women all over the world who are trembling with fear of war and hunger for peace? The parallels between this Sarvodaya economic interpretation and that of classical Marxism are striking. Classical Marxism and Sarvodaya even share the same goal of the withering away of the state-although classical Marxism accepts Violent revolution as a valid mechanism for achieving this goal; whereas Sarvodaya rejects violence and ad- vocates the achievement of this goal through chang- ing menis hearts. Aside from rejecting violence, the major di- vergence of Sarvodaya from Marxism concerns its attitude toward the iimeans of production? Classical Marxism maintains that the iimeans of production, should belong to the proletariat. Sarvodaya main- tains, as Gandhi did, that those very iimeans of production, must be rejected. According to Sarvo- daya, decentralization of the economy is the funda- mental method of achieving an ideal state. Under decentralization each individual owns his own means of production, and his labor is exploited by no one else-hence wealth is more evenly distributed throughout the society. This more equitable distri- bution of wealth leads to more widespread purchas- ing power and therefore to more effective demand. Since demand is close to the source of supply, it exerts its pressure on production more immediately, thereby eliminating inHations and depressions. The absence of centralized wealth or power removes the danger of wars. As each villager-producer be- comes an entrepreneur, he assumes responsibility and business-like habits, and thus the total moral stature of society increases. Under such circum- stances, the bullock and the wooden plough are superior to the tractor, and the hand-driven shuttle to the power loom. The village barber is better than the barber from Madras, and the village tailor than his counterpart in Connaught Circus. Where critics have indicated that this type of economy will reduce the standard of living of some, the Sarvodayans have replied that it will increase the standard of living of many more and that an excess of wealth actually endangers rather than enhances a mans spiritual life. What should be done with heavy industry in the ideal state remains an ambiguous area of Sarvodaya doctrine, just as it remained an ambigu- ous area within Gandhfs own thinking. Some mem- bers advocate nationalization of basic industries in order to supply power and semi-processed materials for the village economy. Others reject nationaliza- tion and recommend some sort of regional coopera- tive ownership of basic industries. Still others re- ject heavy industry entirely, maintaining that they allow for concentrations of wealth and power and are therefore potentially dangerous. One point at which the Sarvodaya movement differs from Gandhi concerns his concept of trus- teeship. The Sarvodaya view is that the wealthy should not be left with their fortunes to decide how they may use them to aid society, or indeed if they will use them for society at all. Rather, the wealthy should be relieved of their excessive wealth through persuasion and nonviolence. On the whole, these diEerences between Gandhi and the Sarvodaya movement, or within the Sarvo- daya movement itself, are minor. Gandhi and members of the Sarvodaya movement, as Hindus concerned with the establishment of a moral so- ciety, have been convinced that a decentralized, village-based society generates greater virtue and spiritual growth. They are committed to protecting and enlarging the scope of Indiais villages, her tra- ditional cottage industries, her traditional products, her traditional needs, and her traditional circles of economic exchanges. Likewise, Gandhi and members of the Sarvodaya movement have been committed to reversing Indiais trend toward industrialization. They see industrial- ism bringing in its wake certain inevitable evils- materialism, exploitation, godlessness, and violence. They feel that unless India succeeds in avoiding industrialism, she will deserve the fate that must surely befall her-the fate of the western world. One must not lose sight of the fact that Gandhi and the Sarvodaya movement represent a minority viewpoint within Hinduism. The conscious efforts and plans of other Indian leaders to expand India,s industrial section stand in sharp contrast to Gandhfs position. Nonetheless, the fact that he has occupied a place of such eminence in Indian thought makes an examination of his position relevant in under- standing relationships between Hindu society and industrialism. This is the last issue of iireflectioni for the cur- rent academic year. The editors of the magazine wish to thank all of those who have thus far offered us their encouragement and support this endeavor. We hope that for you, our readers, hreflection', has been the mirror of its name: some tentative in- dication, at least, of the varied kinds of intellectual activity that take place on the Wesleyan campus. In the past two issues and in the present issue we have tried to present the gamut of that activity- carried on, as it is, by professors, students, alumni, visiting lecturers and fellows at C.A.S., all of whose words have here rung with the clear tones of the professional. Ultimately the aim of this magazine has been to afford the various members of the Wesleyan community the opportunity to express themselves on the subjects in which they take their greatest interests. iiReflectionii we feel has remained unique from the long-standing quarterly publications torf Prince- ton and Columbiai which originally served as its models: for it has been a magazine conceived by, edited by and including the students. And as we are all, in the end, students one may properly say that it has been for students that iireflectiOni, was intended. the editors