Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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M A S M I D EDITORIAL DOLDRUMS Upon looking through other college pub- lications whose predominant tone is good cheer and jolly wit a definite uneasiness stirs through us. If a college publication repre- sents the frame of mind of the student body, our temperament has surely not been a deni- zen of the more sporty spheres. We have had a serious dearth of articles of the jollier sort. Our articles seem to be the weighty articulation of sighing Hamlets — heavy- hearted with soliloquies and ponderous medi- tation. Yet we feel the source of expressiveness in us is the same as in our more jovial compeers. We know we can learn to respond just as warmly to good-chser and jolly wit — for we feel a ripening congeniality in us. Yet our laughter has been like the arrested smile of the Mona Lisa — like the slow thawing of ice-peaks. We know of a place where there was no laughter — but it was the habitat of Gulliver ' s senile Surbrugs. College, however, is the habitat of youth — and youth without jollity is a lesser form of spiritual impotence or torpor. Must this emotional jading come with in- tellectual consecration? Then is not all knowledge an insipid thing if it brings with it an incapacity for joy in life? Perhaps we need not go so far in denunciation. We feel this half-baked lethargy cannot truly be traced to devotion to books but rather to a misdirected zeal and to an uncalled for clois- tered isolation. We have denied ourselves wholesome so- cial lives that could include the virtues of intellectuality without the vice of excessive virtue. It is to this denial of a wealth of extra-curricular experiences that our social torpor can be traced. Where is a spokes- man to represent us in oratory, in debates, in dramatics ? Our athlete is a sulking Achilles — and we ' ve a crying need for him. We have been standing upon a fertile soil: and a wholesome social tree should have long ago, from deep-thrust root, have lifted leaves of pleasant association. All we ' ve achieved is a weed here and there. Class room atmo- sphere fades in time: but a walk, confidential exchanges, fraternity, a rousing school song and extra-mural competition — these engen- der sentiments that linger after integrals and ' ' ergil are forgotten. They are the oft-men- tioned ties that bind, infusing vigorous life into colorless creatures of clay. WANDERER O wandering Jew! Soul without peace or rest! Thou hast traversed the seas, the breakers ' foam: Hast wandered far from thy beloved home — That holy land with milk and honey blest. Thou travellest ever o ' er East and West, And art compelled, from land to land, to roam: For branded as the student of one tome. Thou art forever the unwelcome guest. But Jew! Though wanderer, despised, disdained, Thou hast refused to perish or to yield: Thy faith in thy Creator has not waned. Hast been devoted to His Word — thy shield. And, Jew, such hope and trust must be repaid; The Merciful will bless thee with His aid. Joseph Kaminetsky

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M A S M I D Board of Editors Reading left to right Bernard Greenberg, Abraham S. Gutterman, Hyman Muss, Charles Hirshfeld Herbert Greenberg, editor-in-chief, Ralph M- Weisberger, Israel Upbin

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M A S M I D Jacob out of Books By Herbert Greenberg i T was shearing time in Padan-aram. The warm air echoed with the swish of the heavy shears and with the trembhng ma-a-a of the bewildered sheep. Sometimes a helpless ewe started to stray away, but that only meant that Jacob or another shepherd boredly shooed the wan- derer back into place. The ewe never re- belled; she just plodded dully back in meek return to the flock. The sheep were so utterly guileless in their feeble bleating over repressed wants or sud- den stabs from the shears that Jacob ' s heart expanded with tenderness for them. Con- fronted with wily Laban, Jacob, too, had been feebly bleating, he brooded. Away from Laban Jacob would become viol- ently exasperated. How blandly the pomp- ous sheik had again and again pretended concern over Jacob ' s poverty: and Jacob had been shooed into place again. There was no rebellion — only a dull plodding. And pau- pered Jacob had served while Laban ' s graz- ing flocks had fattened and multiplied. Memories were like bits of wool at shear- ing-time, Jacob thought. You nimbly ran through them: sometimes with an amused smile on your lips. And sometimes you came across some wool your shears had spoiled- clean, soft wool, but your shears had cut into it badly. It clung to your fingers and to shake it off seemed villainous. It had been so clean and pure — and a bit of a thoughtless- ness of blind impatience had spoiled it. There were memories that clung to Jacob in just that way. There was the sad memory of a half-blind old man in Canaan, sitting silently at the opening of his tent. His face was relaxed, and the peace of patient old age was upon it. His beard was flowing white and his blank stare was steady and piercing. Then, too, one always felt that there were hidden eyes behind the unseeing ones — sober. hidden eyes that saw into the spirit of things! When wronged they seemed to become hurt and sad, and the hurt and sadness were more troubling than the most venemous rebuke. Those eyes still lived and judged in far-ofl Padan-aram — in the heart of Jacob. The old man was quietly grieving with the peace that comes with resignation and humility. And with his grieving came wis- dom and understanding. But it was a sor- rowful wisdom. It was a humble insight, that came with sadness for a son who had left the strength of the earth of Canaan for the refuge of Padan-aram. Yes, there was strength in Canaan. The fertility of the earth showed strength, and the languor of the warm air was as strong as heady wine. Age and death came to Canaan like a sun- set, thought the old man. He thought how the light of one ' s life dimmed slowly, the warmth cooled, the twilight glimmered, lin- gered for a beatifiic moment, and then slowly lost itself in the vastness of the dark — and the old man would be content. There was no fear of death in Canaan. There was reverence for it, and humble submission and trusting impotence too, — at life ' s dusk. But who could tell of the fright of death in Padan-aram, and the panic of living there — and the haunting death in life. But in Canaan there was the contentment of a warm sun by day, and the silvery beams of a hurrying moon by night. And the cool, starry nights when one wandered afield dreaming . . . when the scent of the flowers strengthened, and cold laden breezes freshened and clusters of stars twink- led coldly; there were endless walks then for lovers. And the old would feel a bit cold and would wrap themselves more tightly and nod asleep over vague recurring memo- ries: while through the hush of night the fer- tile land lay bared in peace.