Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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MASMID 11 ' TBoard of Editors -■ ' im B BBBMBK H S B If JKS M ! HI ' f K ' WM T B- Hk BL ' ilMfeflHM K BEK ' ' ' - ' j s -■ -. ,? P , m , -,:• : . -« ' i • lip: ' ' :- ;.;iip W f -r --■, !-.- ■ ' - . ' ■■■■: ' ' • ■ V.;- - ' . ; ' (Seated left to rijsht) Emanuel Neustadter, A. Herbert Greenber , Editor-in-chief Jndah Shapiro (Standing) Ralph M. Weisberfter, Israel Upbin, George E. Gross

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10 MASMID devoted to learning, which feels that both Jew- ish and general knowledge are desirable for a cultural development and essential to a rounded Jewish personality. But it hopes to be a col- lege in which the harmony of life may be re- vealed and a cultural and spiritual point of view may be inculcated; so that those who come to know its influence may bear the spirit of their Alma Mater into the wider university of life, and through the activity of their later days realize in their own being, and in the lives around them, the true culture and devotion to knowledge and to the things of the spirit which it is the hope of the Yeshiva College to sustain. INDICTMENT A mental Reign of Terror, Of Nihilism, Thoughtless bombs exploding Shattering idols to dust, with cruel heedlessness. Iconoclast! Radical! Agnostic intelligentsia! It all ends in dreary isolation. Sedate chaos And a huge blank waste Of elemental disintegration. C. H.

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14 MASMID (SL th By A. Herbert Greenberg Youth T IS the youth in me, seething like 3 carefree laughter stemmed by a re- straining palm, that is drawn to the vigor of the ocean. We exchange secrets and histories and often art ' less boasts until the hush of the sunset puts weariness into our talks. And then we dream. In my dreams the longings I have confided to the ocean are fulfilled — and I always feel the near- ness of the ocean. At sunset the ocean is mighty. The setting sun showers it with golden tints. At the edge of this gold-strewn expanse the sun sinks like a fiery galleon, to be lost in the cold bosom of the sea. Then a breeze freshens and the ocean laps soft lullabies and caressing endearments. . . . The ocean is sincere — with the sincerity of Dostoyevsky ' s Idiot. Sometimes, when the ocean is raging and bellowing, I sit on the beach with my knees clasped and I exult in its mighty idiotic fretting. Its moods are not intensified or dissipated by pretentious thoughts. They are spasms of naive outbursts and — presto! they are spent. The enormous strength surging through its bosom can be surly, and it can gurgle like a cooing child — as if its burly spirit were being curbed by our God of Tides. TTien the ocean is silent and hides deeply within itself. And I watch it and I am amused, for I know its mood will pass like a fleet, chill breeze, and its quips and pranks return. The ocean is a fine story-teller. It boasts of sturdy seamen who had set out along its shores in frail vessels. The ocean laughed at their puny, futile voyages. In cruel, capricious amuse- ment it tossed their tiny vessels against cliffs or swallowed them into its depths. And once in pure fun it let a dreaming sailor from Genoa traverse its wide bosom. . . . Then ships with metal sides undertook the same voyages; darkening the heavens with black smoke and spattering the ocean with oil. Their proud efforts were amusing and very often an- noying. What had been before a prank was now becoming commonplace. And the ocean would heave its mighty shoulders and would swallow a ship and its terror-stricken passengers in a mighty gulp. Survivors claimed they had heard screams of hysteria rising from the ocean; but the ocean knew it was no hysteria they had heard. It was only a chuckle. . . . That was my youth ' s version — the impetuous, carefree version of my youth. Age Many years have elapsed and I have become old and feeble. Cares have taken me away from the ocean. The flush of water through a faucet makes me start at times with pangs of memories. I see my ocean evaporating — and its water run through labyrinthean pipes; its freshness tum- bling into fetid, rusty sinks, its green clearness in clean tiled basins. Then the heavens mollify the fretting ocean with stinging downpours of rain. And the ocean smarts with the joy of the sting- ing and lashes and fumes in maniacal ecstasy. But I am old and feeble. I despair to think of how my mind has become musty and worn, while the ancient, childish ocean lives so vigor- ously — perennially young. I sometimes feel the ocean has fooled me. Our talks seem to have been just puppy-tales and not the mighty confidences I used to enjoy. I still long, nonetheless, for the ocean ' s companionship Besides, my youth has passed so blandly and with such soothing indifference. . . . My life has receded into the impotence of retrospect. I cannot come to grips with myself I cannot identify the laughing, mythical youth who spent carefree hours musing with the ocean a half-century ago. Eternities seem to have passed before me and they are merely chipped fragments of colossal existence. I have hoped that the ocean would grow aged, too. It would be nice for two old friends to bask in the sun- shine and swap stories. . Across arid waste-lands, through bustling cities and finally to the brink of the ocean — exultant! So Balboa must have felt when he gazed across the huge expanse of peaceful waters that sep- arated him from the horizon. My own waters are peaceful, too, now. Night is falling and above the oppressive hush I can hear the soft, endless lapping — like a m-ghty cat lappmg up milk. It soothes me, that lapping! Like a mighty, passive cat lapping up the edge of the beach with inward peace and ease. It has set a chord athrobbing within me and a gulp at my throat. Between its lapping I can feel the staid, mystic ocean telling me: It is the beginning of all things. The Spirit