Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 17 text:

MASMID 15 of God moved upon the face of the waters — the purity, the deep fathoms of the waters. . . . Generations come and generations go and every- thing stands in place; but the Spirit of God had moved upon the face of the sacred waters and had left there the silent wisdom of His creation. Impetuous generations, heedlessly unaware of the sentiment of the creation of the ocean where the Divine had traced the infinite permanence and the order of things. Generations are feeble, everything is moving, hurtling — except the silent, permanent waters. Creation astounds me — its simplicity, its utter permanence and enduring wisdom and aloofness from trivialities. My Bible and Koheleth are forgotten. The ocean is telling me all this! Night has fallen silently. The lapping goes on incessantly and omnipresently. I am not iso- lated and querulous any more. I am part of the rhythm of the lapping, I am part of the glow of the reflected moon, I am part of the vast ex- panse of ocean. No! I feel equally vast and immense. But time is moving. Night will fade into day and with it this night ' s glamour. Every moment now is pregnant with fervor and futile understanding. I see now that it is the transcen- dental that stirs me; the groping in the darkness that hurts and enthuses me. Tonight alone will remain poignant for me forever; it cannot be utterly dispelled by the dawn. Nor can it be continued by the dawn for the beguiling, insipid cares of Life ' s living will shackle me. Life ■will blur my vision and my brain become unwieldy. If time could but stop now and things cease to be. Despair is my pain and refuge. I know there will shackle me. Life will blur my vision and I suffer with the knowledge of their inevitable regime. I would evade life in the rapture of my despair — like heavy clouds crammed into my head. Stop! This treachery is within me. I seek refuge in the gloom of the shadows, but time will pierce them. Then I will have sad, recurring memories but not the intense melan ' cholia of shrugging off life. Bah! The utter will be more moods, oppressive with reality; and treachery of everything! DIARY There are times we set out in the morning, Open-mouthed, for light; And we are prepared to gulp down The sun in the heavens With the thirst of a giant To quench the emotions of youth. And times come when there falls upon our heads But one solitary ray; And our souls, from this small quantity of light. Bow down, become weary. Yearn for darkness. And, subdued, retire into the shadow. B. Z. A.

Page 16 text:

14 MASMID %de By A. Herbert Greenberg Youth T IS the youth in me, seething like ' TTjf carefree laughter stemmed by a re- 1 straining palm, that is drawn to the J vigor of the ocean. We exchange secrets and histories and often ar t- 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. Then 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 indifi erence. . . . 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 o!d 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 lapping 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 mc and a gu ' p at my throat. Between its lapping I can feci the staid, mystic ocean telling me: It is the beginning of all things. The Spirit

Page 18 text:

16 MASMID By TREBREH And Terah too Abram his son, and Lot, the son of Haran, his son ' s son, and Sarai, his son Abram ' s wife, and they went forth with them from the Ur of Chaldeas to go into the land of Canaan; and they came into Haran and dwelt there. — Genesis, Chapter XL I IS LIFE was a hurly-burly of plati- tudes, young Abram felt. He was bewildered at its vagueness. Within him flowed sentiment, kindliness for his brethren. But his surroundings flowed like a sluggish river — wearily, feebly. He fancied with trepidation the ready niche in life that awaited his occupancy. He was naively bewildered — like a frightened deer separated from the herd. At night Abram wandered below starry heav- ens, attracted strangely by the twinkles in the en dless space above him. They were so utterly beyond his ken they pained him with heartache and despair. They offered him refuge from his evanescent environment at least. They offered him a void whose immensity he could despair of. His own void he lived in was so utterly petty and trivial and crushing in its petty way. He did not feel contemptuous of himself, for his life was like the will-o ' -the-wisp. It always seemed distantly and vaguely annoying, although even under closer scrutiny he seemed to be bask- ing in content. Sarai, always sedate, cool and firm, did not soothe Abram now. Abram longed for the balm of an uplifted face, a sympathetic glistening tear on a tawny cheek gleaming in a cool, shimmering dusk. Not a cold sapience, but something warm and enveloping! The dark-eyed, lissome women of Haran lived vigorously and did not snivel over the day ' s tasks. In passing they always had a beckoning, significant nod. They had strength; strength to lift heavy earthen jars of Vv ater, strength to em- brace with passionate, crushing hugs — their lis- some bodies straining and swaying like an adder. Like the adder, they had venom in them, too, Abram knew. He could see it in the glints deep within their eyes. They had cruel laughter that had a mingling of hysteria and derision in it. Laughter that chilled one ' s marrow and left one shivering as with the ague! II The grass had shriveled into dry wisps and almost endless wanderings away from Haran had failed to discover new pastures. The herds were woefully thinning out and the Haranites walked about in ill-temper. Drought and winds had ruined pastures and hunger weakened the fret- ful nomads. Abram walked among the Haranites, who turned away from him to hide their resentment. Brethren of my heart, Abram cried out de- spairingly, your gaunt cheeks rend my breast more than is the power of your keen blades. I have taken you from Haran and you have built homes in strange places. Here you have famine; in Haran you can break bread with my father, cold Terah, and with leering Baal. To the south is Egypt, and there, too, is food to fill out your cheeks and your paunches. But you will live there shackled to content and gluttony. More than your hunger for food is your gnawing hunger for freedom. In Egypt you will have food, but you will live in fettered hospitality. Do Eroch or Babylon call you? Do you crave for the stifling crowds that din the ears? Babylon of the manifold voices and ugly cries; its huge towers that have housed mighty Nim- rod. The people of Babylon cannot leave their city. It is their pasture, and their gluttony has made them add wall upon wall. Now they are shadowed in darkness and a flicker of sunshine dazzles them. They are bustling but, like a tumbling brook, they know not whither. Sturdy brothers and loving sisters! Egypt calls with fattened cattle. Our gaunt desert calls with bare, outstretched hands, but with sunshine and stars at night and a cool breeze. And it has the evening music of Anu. In Egypt our women will be coveted like the murky river covets the cool, rapid streams. But our destinies are in Egypt; lest we bury each other in the sands we love. But our sojourning there must be short, ere we, in crawling obei- sance to comfort, forget the desert of our