the
MOSAIC







the
MOSAIC
literary journal










INTRODUCTION
The Mosaic,
literary journal of Marist College, exists for
the benefit of all students in providing both a means of en-
couragement to those ambitious for intellectual growth and
expression, and a vehicle for carrying this expression to all. By
means of such an intellectual exchange and proving ground,
our college actively sponsors the Christian man of learning
whom it hopes and expects to produce.
This man of learning, our contributor, ideally pictured, is
some one with a product of his own serious creative effort
which he wishes to share with all, which he feels can
with,
stand the test
of
public scrutiny and impart something
of
his
vision of the world to his fellow men. Both his work and his
vision, he feels, are of a literary and intellectual maturity which
can be recognized by all, and in which all will be interested.
Such an author has attained that degree of union with his
fellow men wherein he knows instinctively that the whole man
in his reader must be appealed to, and thus regulates his ori,
ginality accordingly; he is no stranger to the norms of taste.
We hope that
The Mosaic,
composed as it is of many small
living expressions of the scholarly life, may in its tum be one
facet of the Marist College student's intellectual, emotional,
and moral growth towards the ideal
of
the Christian student,
towards the formation of a mind which is truly learned and
truly Christian.
STAFF
EDITOR
William Moran
AssoaATE EDITORS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bro. William Cowie
Bro. James Gara
Bro. James Heany
James Maloney
Bro. Vincent Poisella
BusINESS MANAGER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John Buschemi
FACULTY ADVISER ............ George Sommer,
M.A
COVER DEsmN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . E
.
Rimai Fischer

















TABLE OF CONTENTS
Toynbee'
,
s Next Ledge: One World . . . . . . . . . . . . .
.
. .
.
.
5
Bro. Eugene P. Zanni
Guys Don't Get Married; They Just Change Mothers. . . . .
9
Ray Mulligan
Age of
.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Bro. Eugene P. Zanni
Three Images . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
.
.
.
. . . . 11
Edward G. Matthews
The Reasons For The Lasting Success
of
Shakespeare's Tragedies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
.
.
. .
.
. . . .
. .
. 13
William Moran
A Metaphysic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Robert Snyder
And They Shall Win
22
Charles Cassidy
Picture At A Window
27
Bro. James Heany
Russo~Byzantine Art
.
. . . .
. .
. . . .
.
. . . . . . . . . . .
.
. . . . . . .
.
. 27
Michael Perry
A Winter's Pensive Moment
31
Bro. John King
The Death Of A Day-Nurse
32
Joseph Cavano
How Fortunate The Frog . .
.
.
.
. . . .
.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
.
. . . 33
Joseph Robillard
Forever
A Stranger
......
.
...
·
........
..
............. .
34
Bro. James Heany
The Prizefighter . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
.
. . . . .
.
.
. .
. .
.
.
.
.
. .
. . . . . 38
Bro. Ernest G. Beland
A Summer Shower
39
Gerry Marmion
On The Bridge
40
Bro. James Gara















TOYNBEE'S NEXT LEDGE:
ONE-WORLD
The next ledge above, unlike the ledge immediately below,
is
invisible to climbers who are striving to reach it. AU that they
know is that they feel compelled
to
risk their necks in the hope
of gaining this next ledge and in the faith that the endeavor is
worthwhile.
A.
J.
Toynbee,
Reconsiderations
If
a man who lived a confined life in a small flat of bustling
New York City -
a man who knew no world but the sooted
brick tenement walls and pigeon-burdened TV antennas of
hi
s
hedged-in existence -
were to be transported suddenly to
s
o
me mountain out of his clime, that man could look back on
the panorama of the relationship of his neighborhood to the
city, the-city to the sea and Hudson, and his own petty existence
the vast world about him. In like manner Arnold Toynbee
has attempted to step out of his age
.
The Englishman's history
i
s
a
g
allant effort to see the relationship of the part to the
wh
o
le without losing sight
of
the whole; he has worked to
relate the ages of human history one to another, to find some
ob
s
ervable pattern to history, to indirectly prophesy the future
from the pa
ti
tern of the past. His vision is an overview un-
equalled scope.
To present history as he sees it, Toynbee breaks it down
into what he calls the smallest possible units of study, civiliza-
t
io
ns. To us the
s
e "units" are massive galaxies of ages
,
with
each age and its myriad nations composing a world
of
study in
their individual selves. But Toynbee moves among his dissec-
tions of the human
s
pectacle with an easy confidence. He
explains their personal morphologies, he demonstrates their
common sharing in a universal pattern, and with a wise man's
seer instinct
,
he points a finger towards future proba1bility.
He
doe
s
not see our own age as the ultimate culmination of human
progress, but rather as one leaf swirling in the stream of its
civilization's durance: "What we propose is to ao for civilized
societies something of which anthropology is doing for the prim-
tive
s
pecies." To understand Toynbee as he meant us to com-
prehend him, we have to grasp the central themes of his history,
and especially this point of view that he looks from.
Toynbee looks upon time as a near-eternal scale
.
The lrngth
5








of man's existence juxtaposed with the geological limitations -
if they can be called limitations -
is nearly insignificant, says
Toynbee. Within human prepotency he cannot see the begin-
ning of the temporal sequence, nor can he vision the end; he
stands as if on a straight line, seeing beyond his left hand no
end, and past his right, no end; still, human history is within
this no-end to no-end. It is this proper relationship of human
history to time that Toynbee often hammers at teacher-like.
His viewpoint, his overview, his aim, his perspective, his vision,
his outlook, is the history of the human spectacle set
within
this concept of time, is the study of civilization and their rela-
tions to one another within the whole
of
human history.
Nonetheless, "Toynbee is still a child of his time." Despite
his telescopic viewpoint, he is no better at judging contempo-
rary events than contemporary historians, declares Harrison
Smith. Irregardless of his sincerity towards objectivity, a man
cannot entirely separate himself from the culture in which he
was bred. With this Toynbee heartily agrees. Says he, "One
cannot ever be quite sure that his impression of the character
of his own times is going to be confirmed by the judgment
of
posterity."
If
his age mirrors the philosophy
of
materialism, the
~rwinian logic of progress, the benefits of mutual cooperation
in business, governmental socialism, and church worship, and
the scientism
of
a shortsighted era pressed with the threat of
the Bomb, so Toynbee does reflect its spirit both in unaware
acceptance of its modicums and in reaction to them
.
The British historian has applied his system in an interpreta-
tion of our own day, and of course, his application
i
s structured
around his view of the po~ition of Western Civilization in the
pattern as a whole. He believes that there will be an establish-
ment of an American-European "universal state," and that, in
time, the West along with the Russian Byzantine Civilization
will fall -
but not necessarily so. In their wake will com
e
the germ of a hoped for "one-world" society. Toynbee seems
to believe that the pattern of the evolution of civilizations points
to the establishment of his single world-wide society of men
different from both the Marxian classless society, and the
Augustinian City, but he only describes it as the "next ledge"
without precisely defining its character. The "one-world" im-
minent with the "next ledge" will have for its "rib" the herit-
age of Modern Wesern and Btyzantine Civilizations; its stimula-
6







tion will be the "challenge" of the hope of the elimination of
want through technology, and of war by each nationality's
recognition of their part in the community that is mankind; its
survival
will be determined presumably by the "response" to
this "challenge." Nations are today to civilizations what civili-
zations
will be to the "one-world" federation. Toynbee did not
say
ultimate civilization
This prospect for a unified world will be a challenging op-
portunity for solidly estabhshed peace on our planet, if -
IF -
it comes about. "The unification of the whole of mankind is
undoubtedly, a revolutionary prospect; yet it is not something
that is quite without precedent. There have been foretastes of
this prospective age of literally world-wide uniJfication in a
number of previous local unifications." The onrush of such a
world unity has become inevitable because of technology's
shrinking of the communication barriers to make the whole
world comparable to the size of a Grecian city-state. At present
the West is moving toward a super-state, an ecumenical em-
pire, which "he thinks will probably stem from either the Soviet
Union, or, preferably from the United States, rather than grow
out of the United Nations, although he considers the United
Nations an indispensable 'interim instrument,'" comments P.
L.
Ralph. Nonetheless, Toynbee sternly warns that if a nation-
alistically-minded world does not change its spots, it will be
destroyed as the self-sufficient Greeks were centuries ago.
Our own age of a few generations is one of revolution in
social change: we are struggling from individualism to social
interdependence because of technology's giant-steps forward.
"I see at least three forces at work which are militating against
freedom and telling in favor of totalitarianism: the pressure of
population, the dangerousness of the high-powered tools with
which we have now equipped ourselves, and the demand for
social justice. All three forces are driving us toward the regula-
tion and regimentation of life." For these the professor prescribes
three cures: birth control, the re-establishment of a religious
footing for society, and a world government where free enter-
prise is varied with socialism. But take warning. T oyn:bee says
"forces", but he is not a determinist. He firmly upholds the un-
certainty of the development of history due to the freedom of
the human will; he maintains emphatically that his "laws do
not govern the causation of history, that human freedom is a
7








reality, though the freest and most effective of our choices may
not always be the particular choice that is nearest in time to the
final event." Consequently, Spenglerian, Hegelian, and Marx-
ist influence is here clearly rejected; history is the record of free
human acts, not the chronology of predetermined events.
Essentially, Toynbee's theory of history is a universal syn-
thesis of those minutiae of man's story as they have been un-
covered and analyzed by innumerable other historians. Through
the use of second sources, Toynbee has done in the twentieth
century what Ranke would have liked to have done in the nine-
teenth: he has marshalled together every pertinent, related art-
ifact and synthesized them into one amalgam.
In
doing so he
had made errors, as he candidly admits. In doing so he has
mythologized, he has played the religious mystic, he has em-
ployed intuition, and he has prophesied. But in the multi-
roomed treasury of man's vast bank of knowledge in today's
world, there is not too much else a single man can do but to
take the work of others on their own authority, risk error, and
shape it into some plausible scheme if he is to attempt to intel-
lectualize the whole picture of history.
It
is up to the historians
of the present and the future to judge his facts and to fill in
the gaps of his history, but it is not their place to debunk his
system before it can be demonstrated to be substantially based
on error. Hundreds of minute studies are needed before Toyn-
bee can be either hallowed or condemned.
For the present, I think that Toynbee's contribution of a
definite pattern of history is of great immediate value, be it right
or wrong
.
It
fills in what seems to be a need of our age to re-
evaluate itself in relation to the whole of mankind rather than
to continue to concentrate on the tiny national interests of our
contemporary world. Toynbee reiterates constantly the need
for a "one-world" attitude if we are to preserve mankind in our
atomic age. Nationalism is selfish, he says, and it must be sacri-
ficed to the good of mankind
.
In any case, as one critic has put it, T oyn1bee's pattern is
certainly something that future generations will have to con-
tend with, for it may very well be as influential a plan as St.
Augustine's. We must give Arnold Toynbee credit for being
the first -
since Augustine -
to attempt to encompass the
whole of mankind in one sweeping vision. And he may very
well be the last to attempt it alone.
BROTHER EUGENE
P.
ZANNI
8








GUYS DON'T GET MARRIED;
THEY JUST CHANGE MOTHERS
It
must be almost fifteen years since I heard that remark.
It
was on a Saturday afternoon and we were sitting at the bar
in Frank Schillen's Little Grill on Central Avenue, two blocks
north of the racetrack in Yonkers, New York. Bob Sackett,
one of the boys, was going to marry Lettie McLaughlin, one
of the girls, next Sunday in St. John's Church. By this time,
about half the gang from Frank's had gotten themselves mar-
ried and some of us who were still hanging around were sort
of speculating about how different, and quiet, the place was
beginning to seem. Once in awhile, one of the married guys
would bring his wife around on a Saturday night - there was
a little room to dance in front of the bar and between the tables.
But for the most part, once a guy got married, he was pretty
much out of circulation
.
You couldn't ever figure him for
sure, for an all night card game, or a late, late round of the
joints down in the Bronx, or even a short-notice ride over to
the Hudson Theatre in Union City, on a Sunday afternoon,
just across the George Washington Bridge. We were warming
up to this subject of what a change a guy had to figure on
when he took
THE
jump, when old Fran1< broke in, in his usual
laconic way, and g:we us one of his frequent pearls of wisdom-
this bit about guys just changing mothers when they got married.
I don
'
t remember much of the debate which followed, just
the remark, and, you know, the longer I'm married, the more
impressed I am with the truth of Frank's words. He was
phophetic - for me anyway. And, I think Cathy and I are a
fairly typical couple, raising a typical family in the atmosphere
of the typical marital relationship.
In the years before the fateful step I lived at home with
my Father and Mother. My only older sister was married.
Things were pretty good for me at the homestead. I had a part-
time job while going to school on the G
.
I. Bill during the eve-
ning
.
Pop took care of the overhead, and Mom was always
good for a fin when the change was scarce. I got up late on
my days off, always had clean, pressed clothes, and even found
my shoes polished, mo.stly. The cooking was out of this world,
and my only concern was seeing to it that I was getting mine.
I saw to it.
9








Cathy tells me, that with minor qualifications, her single
days were likewise carefree and with little obligations. Since
we've gotten over the honymoeon, however, her way of life,
she
·
has informed me, has undergone a series of quiet and some
not-so-quiet revolutions. I'm still eating wonderful meals; she's
cooking them. I still have clean, pressed clothes; she works this
in between diaper changes and the milkman, breadman, and
breakfast dishes. My Mother did the cleaning and dusting in
my Father's home in Yonkers; Cathy does the cleaning and
dusting in our home in New Windsor.
If
I got sick before I
was married, my Mother stopped everything to take care of
me. Cathy is a registered nurse who practices in our house on
Beattie Road. Mom used to listen when I moaned about that
guy I worked for in the A
&
P store; who do you think Vstens
when I moan about this guy I work for now?
Before I became a father. I knew some kids of relatives,
friends, and the people next door. I got a kick out of romping
~round with them, sometimes -
not for real long stretches,
mind you, a little of that kind of togetherness goes a long way.
Now that I'm a father, I get a kick of romping with our kids,
sometimes -
and, Cathy says it usually isn't for long stretches,
eithet.
Frank knew what he was talking about he said guys just
change mothers when they marry. For the most part, the
typical married man makes a relatively small adjustment com-
pared to his wife in taking the matrimonial step. He keeps his
job, his friends, his night for bowling, his fishing trips - in fact,
most of his lying-around-the-house habits. Cathy says she'll be
satisfied just to keep her sanity.
RA y MULLIGAN
10











AGE OF
Eon-old idiot boy
With
a
new toy.
How long
BROTHER EUGENE
P.
ZANNI
- - C r - -
THREE IMAGES
I
Quartering on the rolling sea
My
ship
spews forth the
sun-flecked
foam,
Then slips
Among the shallow shelves:
To rest.
Then rises once again
To where the spindrift sings.
Sails belly full again
Beneath the wind's full press:
To
sail
on.
Timbers creak
And rigging strains
To croon soft melodies
Which I alone
-
~an
hear:
For lone am I
We sail my ship and I
In
smaller company
of fish,
'times
gtulls
No person though
W/e know
No port have we
Or
sail
by fixed line,
But as the wind, go where we may
Past points of no return
11








II
Summer's passing is in its time
Its passing is in its being.
Warm days turning to warmer
Warm days turning to cool.
The living leaves gladden
In
their veined vestments they fall.
The passing of Summer is mourned
By children who measure by days;
By elders who measure by years;
By dying who measure not.
Doves call to hear who is left,
To see who will go
The pulsing earth;
Verdure that creeps on velvet shoes,
Softly, fully, greenly.
Living leaves darken, cool, recede;
In parti-color they retire.
The bare earth left, naked.
The promise of Spring,
Promise
of
life,
Is in the Earth, the root, the bud.
Viable lies.
III
Sea laden air,
The soft swish of surf upon the sand,
Gulls' cries,
Salt tang,
Triton's sphere.
Combind, rolling, surging
Falls the sea.
Billowing breaking, foaming
To rest upon the shore.
Only
to return, vagabonds,
Sliding, gurgling, slithering to the sea.
Pebbles crinkling the smoothness of the sand
Echoes amid the roar.
12










THE REASONS FOR THE LASTING
SUCCESS OF SHAKESPEARE'S
TRAGEDIES
In this article I will attempt to list the reasons for the last,
ing success
of Shakespeare's tragedies. Shakespeare dramatic
works have been held in high esteem by almost every generation
for thre~,hundred and fifty years. His works have transcended
international boundaries and have, like fine wines, mellowed
with age. I believe that his plays are successful because of the
character in them. I have selected
Macbeth, Hamlet,
and
Othello
to demonstrate my opinions. The conclusions which
I have drawn are based upon these three plays, but I believe
that they are applicable to all tragedies. I will postulate five
traits
that the characters
in
these outstanding dramas have in
,
common and off er them as a norm by which characters in
other tragic writings may be judged.
If
the characters in a
tragedy possess all of the traits that I will discuss, the play will
be a great tragedy; if they possess only some of the qualities
the play will have less of a chance of being successful.
My basic assumption is that the characters in Shakespearean
tragedies are different, but yet they are the same. Hamlet is a
prince of Denmark, Macbeth is a Scotish nobleman, and Othel,
lo is a Moor living in an Italian milieu. Obviously, these men
are three distinct individuals, living in three different cultures,
but they all have certain qualities in common. In this article I
will attempt to show that Shakespeare fulfilled the require,
ments that a dramatist must fulfill, in regard to characters, 1n
order to write successful drama.
Before going into any discussion
of
characters it is necessary
to point
,
out that a character is not exactly the same in each pro,
duction. The lines are the same in every presentation, perhaps
it might be better to say that they should be the same, but how
they are said is different. Different directors, working with diffe,
rent actors, make the same character appear in a variety of
ways. The playwright had a particular character in mind, but
the director and actor may offer us a character that is entirely
different. A villain can almost be made to appear as a "good,
guy", or at least a likeable "bad-guy". Casting, movement, tonal
inflection, and facial make,up all have an important effect on
audience interpretation, especially in this era when great lite,
13






rary works are being televised or filmed. A director might cast
an effeminate actor as Hamlet and have him make certain act-
ions whenever Gertrude is on stage with the result that we get
he impression that prhaps the poor boy has an Oedipus com-
plex. Claudius, on the other hand, might be cast as a pleasant-
looking fellow with an athletic build, soft spoken, and graying
at the temples. Such a Claudius would not have the external
appearance of a villain, and this might soften the audience's
?ttitude toward him so that it might begin to think that this fine
fellow could not be all bad and it is that sissy Hamlet that is
causing all of the trouble. Thus, a director can interpret the
playwright's material and produce an entirely different play.
The above are all problems that can be expected to be en-
countered if a production has been seen.
If
you are reading the
plays you have the lines as they were written and you must
form your own mental pictures. The reader's interpretation
also may not do justice to the playwright's characters. To feel
the emotion that good drama is capable of generating it is im-
perative that a live production be seen. The printed word, when
read, has a negligible ability to produce emotion. The intona-
tion of the actor gives the word life.
In
producing an emotional
reaction it is not what is said that is of primary importance,
but rather, how it is said. To illustrate this point the word you
is useful. Taken out of context it has no real meaning, but it
will qualify my premise. You? You. You! The average per-
son will ignore the punctuation and will read the three words
words as though they were the same. In a production an anor
leaves no doubt which word was in the script.
If
a question is
asked the tonal inflection will denote this.
If
it is an exclama-
tory sentence the actor will spit the words out and this imme-
diately communicares a strong emotion to the audience. Move-
ments on stage are also very important in arousing the au-
dience's passions. An actor screaming You! and making a
menacing gesture is certainly more capable of stimulating emo-
tions than is the printed word. To study a particular character
a careful analysis of his lines should be included. The con-
clusions I draw are based upon reading and seeing the plays
under discussion.
For the past thirty or forty years the American Theatre has
had its greatest successes in what is generally called "musical
14








comedy." Those shows which have had the longest runs on
Broadway have been filled with singing, dancing, extravagant
costuming, elaborate sets, and as little act<ing and plot develop-
ment as possible. Broadway's latest triumph,
Subways Are For
Sleeping,
exceeds the above "requirements" because, as several
critics have pointed out, it has no real connecting theme and
really is more of a review than a musical comedy. I have heard
it said on several occasions that America's only contribution to
the theatre is a musical comedy. I am not going to argue this
point, it may be true, but it does not help to explain why so
many people attend a "heavy" drama. When I use the term
heavy drama I have Shakespeare's
Macbeth, Hamlet,
or
Othello
in mind. Whenever these productions are offered by a qualified
company there is a "sell-out" for a nigtht or several weeks, de-
pending upon the population of the area. This phenomenon
might be explained by the fact that critics, college professors,
and educated men in general all praise William Shakespeare
until, to the average person, he is more like a god than a man.
Many people see the same Shakespearean plays several times.
The typical white-collar worker might be tempted to attend a
Shakesperean production because it is "the thing to do", but I
do not believe that he will go to see another, let alone the same
play, unless there is some reason for all of the praise. The magic
elixir found in Shakespeare's plays is the skill with which he
presents his characters.
In the eighteenth century an intellectual movement was
begun that has caused the period to become known as the "age
of reason." Scientific knowledge became the only kind of knowl-
edge worth having. This type of thinking infiltrated the tiheatre
In the nineteenth century the arts had to prove themselves
reasonable and useful. An economist, Jevons, pointed out that
the only true value is extrinsic value, that is, a thing has no
value unless something can be gotten out of
it.
The populace
accepted this theory wholeheartedly and the theatre was forced
to accept it for pecuniary reasons,
if
for no other. This meant
that future drama would
be
the accumulation of fact upon fact
until some degree of truth was arrived at.
In
the drama of today the emotion we feel is a remembered
emotion, not a new one. According to the doctrines of realism
a playwright must ask us to verify what he offers out of our
of our own experience. He puts us in a position whereby we com-
15









pare what he has done with what we already know and in so
doing we form a sentimental relationship with his character.
Is this not the case with O'Neill's plays? O'Neill's works are
enjoyable, but his characters are people that I already know
.
This is true of all of his plays, but especially of
The Iceman
Cometh. I have met them in some bar, or have read about
them in an account in the Daily News, or have given them
dimes or cigarettes on the comer.
There is another kind of theatrical experience, the kind we
have in coming to know Hamlet, Othello, or Macbeth. Very
few of us, if any, have ever known a person whose uncle killed
his father and then married his mother, yet we can know
Hamlet. There is a strong emotional response, it is unique, it is
not a response evoked by past experience, and it will have little
effect on our everyday live. We would not even dare attempt
to apply the actions of the Prince
of
Denmark in the probl
e
ms
that we encounter in our own sometimes stormy intra-family
relationships. We do not depart with utilitarian knowledge;
rather, all we get from a Shakespearean drama is an experience
that is emotionally stimulating while the action is taking place
on the stage, and only while the action is taking place. After
we have left the theatre we do not feel the same emotions
that we felt when the blood-stained Macbeth enters and Lady
Macbeth says simply, "My husband!" The characters are the
important things in Shakespeare's dramas; it is the characters
that make his works great. In Shakespearean tragedy scenery
and costuming are non-essential because we become so absorbed
in the characters that we are interested in only what they do
and say, and not in how they are dressed and where they are.
For example, there was a television production of
Hamlet a
r
bout
two or three yea-rs that was set in nineteenth century Prussia.
Naturally this necessitated different set designs and costumes,
but the emotional response was still felt. The characters, Ham-
let and Claudius, are outstanding regardless of the garb they
wear or the set in which they are placed.
It
is not necessary to state that Shakespeare "borrowed" his
plots. He often wrnte two or three plays in a year, but in his
case, haste did not necessarily make waste. He would take a
folk-tale or a play by some other man and add a little here
take a little from there, and then offer it to the public. Gener~
ally, when an artist copies another man's work his efforts are
16








considered inferior and cheap because they lack "inspiration."
Somehow Will produced plays that are masterpieces, and the
or,iginal works are forgotten by all but Shakespearean scholars.
His plots are almost all very simple-in fact, prose summaries
would not cause any one to want to read the plays themselves.
How can this be? Can a simple plot, stolen at that, be greater
than all other drama? Never! But this is what has happened.
It
has happened because Shakespeare was a master, a master
of characterization. He had the ability to present a protagonist,
and secondary characters, with a minimum of words and a
maximum of dramatic effect.
It
is as though he abstracted from
the non-essentials of a character and presented only what was
needed to make him intelligible to us: his humanity. Shakes-
peare's characters are so appealing because they have the same
desires and faults that we have. We all have, to a limited de-
gree of course, Macbeth's desire to get ahead, Othello's nobility
and jealousy, Iago's cunning, and Hamlet's indecision.
Any piece of good fiction must contain a conflict of some
sort. A man can be pitted against nature, or he can do combat
with another man, or he can be the vict
,
im of an internal strug-
gle. Shakespeare never has his characters battle the elements,
but it is difficult to decide which of the other two types of
conflict he used in these tragedies. Shakespeare always has two
characters opposing each other, but the internal conflicts of a
character are also present.
In
Macbeth,
is the key struggle
between Macbeth and Malcolm and his followers, or is it be-
tween conscience and human desire run rampant? Is the con-
flict in
Othello
between Iago and Othello, or is it really a case
of Othello being torn between his
,
inborn belief in the honesty
and sincerity of his friends, and the way facts seem to present
themselves? Is Hamlet fighting Claudius, or is his an internal
problem of honor? In the three questions arised above there is
definitely a struggle between characters, but I believe that the
real conflict, the conflict that makes these tragedies great, is
the internal one. Each character fights with himself and in the
end his worst enemy is himself. Othello was good in every
respect save one; he was jealous. When jealousy took control
of his reason he was destroyed. Macbeth had his character
flaw, as did Hamlet. Because this internal struggle on the part
of the character is by nature personal, we are affected by it
more strongly. We all have our personal problems and this is
17










why we can feel the emotion of a character who is undergoing
personal torment greater than if the conflict was external.
Another feature that is common to the tragedies under dis-
cussion is character contrast.
In
Othello
we have the trusting
Othello and at the same time we have the cunning, calculating
Iago.
In
Hamlet
Claudius is an unscrupulous man and Hamlet is
a man of honor and principle. The hero is always basically
a
good
man and this makes his downfall and death all the more tragic.
We do not feel any great remorse when Claudius dies because
he had no redeeming qualities, but Hamlet's death moves us.
If
the Moor would have succeeded in his attempt to kill Iago
8
highly responsive audience might have greeted this action
with a cheer, but Othello's death moves any audience.
If
Hamlet and Othello did not possess the virtues that they had,
and if they did not haveClaudius and Iago as antagonists, that
feeling, that atmosphere, which is the essence of tragedy would
be lost.
Shakespeare was not aware of psychology, at least not as
we know it today, but nevertheless his characters are not drab,
lifeless individuals; they are human in every sense of the word.
Shakespeare was a shrewd observer of human actions and
thoughts. He realized that human emotion is a complex mix-
ture and wrote in such a manner that his characters run the
gamut of human emotion. His characters are not always stately
or simple and not always serious or humorous. He understood
men and had the ability, more so than any other playwright,
to synthesize their actions to produce great drama.
As I have already stated there is a character contrast, but
equally important is this contrast, this diversity, wiohin a given
character. Macbeth was not always the villain we see in the
later scenes. It is true that during his conversation with the
witches we get an indication that he is ambitious, but we have
no reason to believe that he will become a ruthless killer. By
virtue
of
the fact that he was made Thane of Cowdor by the
king one can conclude that the man had some merit. Because
the king slept in his house and believed himself safe there is
little reason to doubt Macbeth's loyalty before his conversation
with the witches. He wants to be king, he believes the witches'
prophecy, but he hesitates to kill the king because he is in his
house. Certainly this is indicative of a certain sense of honor.
I think that if Duncan was in another nobleman's house Mac-
18











beth might not have hesitated at all. He kills his king and then
takes the necessary measures to ensure his retention of the
-
kingship for his life and for his descendents. When
Lady
Macbeth goes insane he is kind and gentle with her. Thus
we have a complex Macbeth: as they play opens he is a good
man, as it progresses he becomes a murderer, and later he is a
compassionate husband and at the same rime he is a tyrant.
Othello also exhibits the complexity characteristic of !-luman
emotion. Quotations from the play will demonstrate this more
aptly tJhan prose statements.
In Othello
(I, ii, 59--61), the Moor
is confronted by the outraged Brabantio who wants to kill him.
Othello could easily have killed him,
but instead
says:
Keep up your bright swords, for
the dew will
rust them.
Good
signior,
you shall more command with years
Than with your weapons.
He later says of Desdemona, "Damn her, lewd minx! 0, damn
her!" Certainly he is no longer calm or gentle.
In the fifth act he becomes a raving madman:
Cold, cold my girl!
Even like thy chastity, 0 cursed, cursed slave!
Whip me, ye devils,
From the possession of this heavenly sight!
Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulfur!
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!
(V,
ii,
274-279)
In the scene in which he dies he is once again gentle and noble:
Soft you; a word or two before you go ...
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you
speak
Of
one tJhat lov'd not wisely but too well;
Of
one not easily jealous, but being wrought
Perplex'd in the extreme.
(V.
ii,
338-46)
·
Another reason for the success of Shakespeare's tragedies
is the fact that his characters are men of spirit.
They
fight,
and keep on fighting until they reach their tragic ends.
If
Macbeth would have given up after he had killed Duncan
there would be no play; if he had crumbled after he saw
Banquo's ghost there would have been a play, but it would
19



not be the great drama that it is. Because Macbeth fought for
for so long he is a strong character, dramatically speaking, and
because Lady Macbeth crumbled mentally and may have com-
mitted suicide, she is weak. Macbeth continued to plot and
fight in the hope that he could overcome the witches' pruphecy,
and when Birnam wood did come to Dunsinane he said:
Why should I play the Roman fool and die
On mine own sword? while I see lrives, the gashes
Do better upon them.
(V. vii, 30-33)
His last words were. "Lay on Macduff!/ And damned be him
that first cries 'Hold, enough!' " Macbeth lost this encounter
but he is a great character in literature because of hris tenacity,
because he would not give up.
Iago is an out and out villain. He has none of the qualities
that make him admirable in the eyes of the audience, but he
is good dramatic material because he is a fighter. He hates the
Moor and sets out to destroy him. Othello's innate nobility
prevents Iago from being successful in the beginning, but he
kept scheming against Othello's goodness and ultimately suc-
ceeded.
Claudius also fought to keep his position. He sent Hamlet
to England with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, but this attempt
to l'id himself of his nephew was unsuccessful. He then ar-
ranged for Laertes to duel with Hamlet.
If
Laertes' swords-
manship could not kill Hamlet then the poisoned sword might,
if not this, then the cup of poison would. The untiring spirit.
of
such a character contributes greatly to the success of a play.
In
concluding this article, let me briefly summarize the five
traits that the characters possess which I believe to be the
reasons for the lasting success of Shakespeare's tragedies.
The protagonists are undeniably human. They have the
same vices and virtues, to a greater or lesser degree, that we all
have. We can appreciate the downfall
of
the "hero" because
it is a result of a weakness within him, and :we all have our
weaknesses.
There is a struggle between two characters, but the major
conflict is an internal one. Because it is internal it is capable
of producing a greater emotional impact upon the audience.
20







In
each play there is a character that is good and one that
is evil. This contrast hel,ps to increase the tragic atmosphere
and makes tihe death
of
the character all the more moving.
The characters are not emotionally static. Their change of
moods makes them like living people and this helps to bring
about empathy. Because the people in the audience are able to
identify themselves with a character an intimate bond is formed
between the two so that the emotions are more easily stimu-
lated.
The characters in the play are men of spirit, men wh
o
fight
to get what they want until they have gasped their last breath.
These men may be villains but because they will not accept
defeat while there is life in them they contribute greatly to the
success
of
the play.
- - o -
A METAPHYSIC
To act or not to be
Imperfection through potency.
Essence and existence being one,
And one, necessarily, exceeding two.
It's, primarily, our forms that matter.
WILLIAM
MORAN
"But what is gained by such silly patter?"
"True reality through transcendent thought."
"I find more reality in the Jabberwok."
ROBERT SNYDER
21






AND THEY SHALL WIN
Here in the land
of
zombie, in the land of the living dead,
Through the snow of an ancient land they tread,
To the state-owned mine, on the state-owned land,
These state-owned men.
The icy blast of a gusty northern wind drives the snow on
relentlessly, swirling, drifting and filling the nooks and hollows
of this barren Siberian waste. Its silent body covers the tracks
of the early morning risers, and like death wipes out the mem-
ory of those who have gone before. And Camp 29 like the
eternal snow
of
this frozen wasteland also performs its job,
covering the foosteps of those who are unlucky enough to enter
the portals of this far-flung outpost. Political prisoners, enemies
of the state, comprise the guest-list of the community. Here
there are no births but only deaths as the population rises and
falls from day unto day. The peasants of the state call this the
land of the zombie; the inmates, the living dead. Few leave its
confines except to enter into a new state -
the state of death.
Unlike concentration or labor camps scattered about other
parts of the slave empire, you find no barbed wire, no towers,
no elaborate cortege of the military beating a path through
the snow on parade before their posts. There are no search-
lights nor are there any dogs. Here the barren ice and snow
serve these purposes, their icy hands enveloping the would-be
escapee. Against this frozen background ten wooden buildings
rise above the snow like the dry and weathered fingers of an
old man pointing to the sky. Thin wisps of smoke rise upward
from soot-blackened chimneys against the dull gray overcast.
Here and there the rattle and clank of a convented half-track
bites its way through the newly fallen snow, moving toward
some unknown destination away from the boundaries of the
Camp, or as on some mornings, dropping one or two gray and
stiff bodies into the mortuary of snow located near the peri-
meter of the camp.
And, as if to complete the macabre scene, large holes dot
the surroundings, like mouths agape with metallic tongues
of rail stretching forward from their black esophagi. These
22






are the mines, where salt is chipped in the chill interiors and
carted to waiting tractors. And while sale pours from a million
shakers this morning, existence at Camp 29 goes on.
It was on such a morning that the enemies of the state
awoke from their drugged sleep of fatigtue by the harsh yell
of a burly guard applying his lead-filled billy to the soles of
feet not so quick to rise. Once awake and fed on the black
bread and porridge of the peasant they were marched off to
the mines through the snow, its cold tongue licking at feet
which protruded through torn and broken leather. Halting at
the mouth of the subterranean passageway they were divided
up ino working parties and sent on their way through the
numerous channels hewed out
of
the white cubical crystals
which sparkled in the glare of an occasional naked bulb erected
to illuminate the way through these damp and gloomy recesses.
Dispersed two hundred feet below, the parties divided into
groups of three, one digging the salt with a short-handled
pick from the walls
of
the small cavern while the other two
loaded it into bags which they carried through the tunnel
and put into an iron car whose contents were later taken to-
the depository in the compound.
II
Miklovich Barenslav swung his short pick against the shiny
white crystals embedded in the wall before him
.
Crack!
Salt chips tumbled to his feet like so many diamonds shim-
mering in the false light of the electric lamp hanging near his
head. Crack!
.
His muscles rippled with each swing through
his drab gray peasant's uniform, his body hardened from the
swing of the axe fourteen hours a day for five months. The
light threw a grotesque shadow against the wall of his six-foot
frame, and sweat formed in little beads upon his brow, trickl-
ing down his forehead, the salt stinging his eyes. Miklovich
was but twenty-six when he entered Camp 29 as a political
prisoner from Munsk (in Qeorgia) and so for the next fifteen
years Camp 29 was home unless the regime toppled or an-
other unforseen event occurred.
Crack! The axe bit its steel tooth into the surface of the
wall and the beads of sweat streaked the grime-covered face
and mingled in the dirty black beard above which two red
rimmed eyes peered neither to the left nor the right. Miklo
23






paused in work as his two companions, the carriers, returned
to the place where he was carving crystals from the wall.
Pavlov Smergrev had been here the longest of the three, in
fact a little over a year to which his thin wiry stature, his hol-
lowed-out consumptive look, and spasms of a hacking cough
attested. His fellow carrier, Gustuv Ludman, a short and squat
Hungarian Jew had been here the shortest time of all. A brief
two months before
,
like Miklovich and Pavlov, he had been
accused and convicted of reactionary teachings and
3
crimes
against the state.
Miklo wiped the sweat and grime from his brow with the
sleeve of his shirt as he paused in work and watched Gustuv
and Pavlov merge from the shadows of the dimly-lit corridor
and come within view toting empty bags slung over their
shoulders.
Silence was the order while at work but seldom obeyed
at these depths. Yet any conversation was comprised of sub-
dued tones as respect for a precaution against the billy of the
single guard who controlled the movements of the thirty who
worked this section
of
the mine.
Pavlov's hollow cough resounded against the walls and
echoed back and forth through the narrow confines. "Your
cough gets worse my friend. Have you seen the guard at the
hut about medicine?" Miklo's voice asked.
"It seems that you are not here as long as I thought you
were. I expect that from my friend Gustuv here but not you
Miklo." Pavlov's hand clenched his chest as a fit of coughing
began. "I asked a few months ago and was clubbed for my
pains. I don't ask now."
"But surely they'll send you out of here to a hospital for
that cough Pavlov," replied Gustuv.
"No, no my friend, that's your youth speaking. There is
only one way I'll leave this stinking hole and that's stiff like
the rest."
"But Pavlov," pleaded Gustuv, "can you just give up. You
must have some hope, something somewhere. How can you be
so resigned that it will end right here once and for all?"
"G
"
d P I
ustuv, answere
av ov, wiping spittle from his gray
streaked beard, "I came here with six others and now all are
24





dead except me. Look at me, Gustuv. I am thirty-nine and
have the look of one ninety. Soon I too will be dead. The
people are driven from place to place like animals. They own
nothing and want for everything; food, clothing, a home
of
their own, anything which they can call their own. Their
own children denounce their mothers and fathers in the street.
They're afraid to answer a knock at the door for fear it's the
MVD coming for them. And still you ask me why I don't
have hope for a future. There's no future, here or anywhere.
Why then should I be concerned of dying here or anywhere
else? ls it not all the same?"
"You're right Pavlov." said Miklo.
"It
doesn't matter where
you die, the dirt is no different here than elsewhere. But I
think you're forgetting something more important. You talk
only of death." Pavlov moved his mouth as if to speak. "No,
don't stop me." Miklo paused. "How should I put it. Every-
one is moved by the fear of death. We have seen so much
of it that we accept it without really trying to do much about
it. Is this important? Certainly we'll all die someday. More
important is the way we die. Should we die like animals
,
groveling in the dust of the mine or on our feet like men
fighting for what we believe in. Here's the hope which per-
haps Gustuv spoke of. The hope that we and others will stand
on our feet and for once fight back. And this applies even
more to us. For
if
we, who live with brutality, insults, filth and
disease can stand on our feet and fight back just once, then
there's hope. Hope that others also think as we do and if
that exists then there is a future - but it belongs to us." Crack!
Miklo's pick crunched against the wall. "Enough of this for
now, let's get back to work before the guard comes."
III
The work continued through the afternoon, Pavlov ac-
companied by Gustav carrying his sack of salt with spasmodic
fits of coughing. Miklo continued knocking the shiny mineral
from the wall, resting now and then to wipe the sweat from
his calloused hands upon his trouser legs.
Suddenly Miklovich heard his name called from around
the curve of the tunnel. Stopping, he cocked his head in the
direc:ion from which it had come. Again he heard it, and
axe m hand he started down the passage. As he rounded
25





the bend in the tunnel wall, the shadowy light revealed Pavlov
lying unconscious upon the mine floor, Gustuv bending over
him and attempting to revive the silent form.
Running to the prostrate body, Miklo asked, "What hap-
pened," "We were just coming from the main tunnel, stam-
mered Gustuv, "and he just keeled over. I tried to ~t him
up but he's out cold. What should we do Miklo?"
"I don't know but ... " Miklo's reply was cut
sh1ort
by the
gruff voice of the mine guard whose large form and scowl
moved towards them out of the shadows.
"What's this?" he asked.
"We were walking from the cart when he fell unconscious."
replied Gustuv.
"Faker!" snarled the guard, slamming the toe of his boot
into the still body. "Get up you!"
Miklo moved to
stop
him, grabbing the arm with which
he grasped Paviov in an effort to yank him to his feet. The
guard
shoke
loose automatically from Miklo's grasp and pivot-
ing quickly around, brought his club in a slanting arc across
Miklo's face.
Crunch! the
sound
of tissue and bone yielding to wood.
The force sent Miklo backwards, crashing against the mine
wall and slamming to the floor, his pick flying from his grip
and clattering to the floor with a metallic clank. Miklo lay
against the wall, his hand to his twisted nose from which a
bright red stream of blood flowed profusely. Gustuv crouched
against the opposite wall away from the obvious anger of
the guard who resumed his threats and insults accompanied
by sharp kicks and prods with his club in his attempt to raise
Pavlov's unconscious form.
Miklo regained his senses quickly as the fire of a thousand
years of tyranny leapt into his eyes. Spitting blood through
clenched and broken teeth, he moved cat-like; and chest
heaving, he grabbed the pick tightly in a grip of steel as he
rose behind the unprotected rear of the guard. In one move-
ment he brought the pick in a sweeping arc, cutting the air
as its blunt point plunged beneath the military blouse between
the shoulder blades into the soft tissue, muscle and bone of
the guard's back. The guard's face registered an instant of
26








surprise as a gurgling sound issued from deep within his
throat and he dropped lifeless across Pavlov, a crimson stain
mingling with the olive drab of the uniform around the hilt
of the pick which stuck from his back.
Gustuv walked over to the corpse and lifting its head
by the hair, spit into the sightless eyes. "Butcher!" he cried,
dragging the body from atop of Pavlov. "What'll we do now
Miklo? When they come for us we're dead."
"No! Gustuv. This time I won't wait. Must we crawl
forever before them. No, I won't wait for them to come, not
wait for death like a cringing animal trapped in his lair.
If
die we must, then let it be erect. Freedom is not bought with
words but deeds. let us stand this once. let's fight rather
than give up without hope like Pavlov here."
"But Miklo it's impossible. Just think ... "
"Gustuv, there are thirty here who would rather fight like
men than die like dogs. And maybe not even that many.
But it is a start, the beginning.
If
we don't act now, then
Pavlov is right, there is no future. Probably we'll
fail
here
but there will be others again and again and maybe they will
all fail but in the end we shall win."
Miklo bent over, lifting Pavlov's dead weight upright.
Gustav held back as Milko started down the corridor. Miklo
turned facing him.
"Come along, what do you want to do, live forever?"
And with Pavlov between them they walked down the tunnel
towards the other men.
CHARLES
R.
CASSIDY
- 0 - -
PICTURE AT A WINDOW
Heat is breathing in the air,
men hurry, in a daze,
sleeping, waking, always thus.
My life is but an instant,
haste vanishes in the dust.
BROTHER }AMES HEANY
27






RUSSO-BYZANTINE ART
THE IKON
Probably the only true authentic form of Russian art is that
type which can be called "folk." The embroidery of southern
Russia, the Ukrain, is known the world over for its simplicity
of design and brightness of color, and, as a marriage of both
of these, its extreme beauty. Another of the more famous types
of Russian art is the Easter egg. Days, and often weeks, of
patient work are placed into the intricate designs of these ob-
jects. A simple stylus and bee
s
wax are the only tools of appli-
cation for the design, and onion skins and berries are the dyes
.
Yet, these eggs are masterpieces in their own way, and they are
an intricate part of the lives of the Russian people. The egg
to them represents Christ, for the shell is the tomb in which
Christ was placed after His death; the white, the shroud; the
yellow the body of Christ. To fully understand the art
of
Russia, one must first understand the simplicity of Russian life
and thought. For us, complex Americans, this is rather hard,
for although we might comprehend simplicity, Russian simpli-
city is a complex merger of simple thought and profound reli-
gion.
Everyone who is somewhat familiar with world history real-
izes the lack of culture that dominated the history of Russia
before Peter the Great. Before his time, in terms of culture,
Russia was dead. Peter, wishing to bring his country up to the
standards of those countries to the east and west of Russia,
traveled himself, and sent men out to return with artists,
writers, poets, composers and men with just plain good ideas.
Probably the area that was enriched most was that of art.
It
was
influenced by the men brought back from Byzantium, the king-
dom of faith, of spiritual intoxication and of immortality. These
men were not chosen for their artistic talents but rather for
their form of Christianity. Peter had traveled to the west of
his empire, and probably while
·
in France or Germany saw the
religious rites of the Christianity influenced by Rome. Peter
traveled to the east, to Greece and to Byzantium, and there too,
he saw religious rites. One can almost imagine the flash
of
brightness that entered his eyes when he first entered a church
in Byzantium and saw the clouds of incense rising before the
picture-dotted "ikonistasis." Being Russian, -and having that
typical love for such things of emotional beauty, Peter chose
28







this rite in which he and his empire would worship. The art,
the feeling, the spiritual essence pleased his natural desire to
honor God.
The Byzantine artists that come to Russia painted in their
own style. Eventually, this style left the true conformity of the
Greeks and entered another form which might be called
"Russo-Byzantine Art".
It
is this art which is now being dis-
cussed.
Perhaps the best way to begin a discussion on this type of
art is to write about the artist. The largest part
of
these artists
·
were men who had dedicated their lives to the service of God
as monks. These monks of Russia had chosen this particular
state because of a sincere love of God, a deep spiritual love
which was inborn. This love is expressed in their art.
It
was
not the intention of the Russian monk to paint a rosy-cheeked,
pudgy pink plump child which he would entitle "The Infant
Saviour", nor did he intend to portray smooth, sweet skin on
a man who fasted and did penance for most of his life, such
as St. John the Baptist. The monk did not paint for the man-
carnal, but rather for the man-spiritual.
It
is for this reason
that, in order to put himself into the right disposition to do
this type of work, and to make himself worthy, the monk fasted
and prayed the psalms before starting an ikon. To bring out
the spiritual with paint, the man must himself be spiritual.
The job of the artist-monk was not just to paint, but also to
teach by his works. He used the picture method, for it was
the only one understood by the uneducated people for whom
he painted.
Many who look at a Russian ikon tend to be scornful and
critical. "It has no depth!" or
"It
is distorted!", are statements
often heard. Has it really no depth? Examine any one of these
works and see all the spiritual depth that is in the eyes alone.
These eyes, these large eyes, express a myriad of emotions.
They show, especially in ikons of the Virgin, love, sorrow, joy.
They pour forth what could never be said. The hands also
are often "distorteid" in such a way that they look over-large.
But this for a reason. They are meant to show the hands which
can be grasped by a returning son to a loving mother; to show
the hands which are a symbol of giving friendship. The Rus-
sians knew that after Christ Himself, Mary was their truest
friend. The Russian spirituality places Mary above the other
29











saints, and this too plays a great part in the art concerning her.
It
is for this reason that they rejected the Raphael-like Madonna
for something less human and more divine.
The colors which are used in this type of art also play an
important part in its makeup. The deep dark maroon-red and
almost navy-blue worn by the Virgin are representative of H
i
s
divinity. Although the colors of the garments worn by Christ
and His mother always remains the same, those worn by the
apostles and other saints can and d
p
change to
fit
the mood
of the ikon.
In almost everything, one gets out of a thing as much a
,
h
e
puts into it.
If
one wishes horror from an ikon, that is exactly
what he will get from the "grotesque" figures. Yet, if one wishes
inspiration from these
s
acred ima~s one
·
cannot help but get it.
Love of one's spouse increases as one gets to know that person
in a more intimate way. Love of this style of art, yes, a love not
not just a liking, comes from a knowledge of God, His mother,
and things divine. Russian ikons not only inspire love, but are
~
-
form of this emotion in what they give, and in what they are.
A selection from the writings of the contemporary Greek
ikon artist, Fotis Knotoglous, can best sum up the convictions
which I have tried to make clear.
"Most people have the idea that Byzantine art was good for
its time, just as Egyptian, Assyrian, ancient Greek, Gothic, Ital-
ian Renaissance were good for theirs. But in truth, Byzantine
art has eternal value, like Christianity, which expresses (as no
other form of art can), the union of God and man. And just as
the religion of Christ has been, and shall always be the truth
for the human soul and heart, so also is Byzantine art.
It
will
always speak to souls that feel the deep mysteries of religion and
the cosmos. Byzantine art does not grow old, it is always new,
like the religtion of Christ."
MICHAEL
PERRY
- 0 - -
30




A WINTER'S PENSIVE MOMENT
Simply a drop of precipitation
Very deliberate
an act of creation
Design
so unique
The perfection we seek
Could other than He fashion
it so
Perfect
exquisite
a glistening globe
reminds me
I'm thought of too
as that which falls
the wintry dew
BROTHER JOHN KING
31








THE DEATH OF A DAY-NURSE
The chill wind of March blew unmercifully against John
Peters' face. It was a typical March day, cold in what it dis-
played, yet pleasantly warm in all that implied. In his youth,
John would have enjoyed such a day. He would have run
ahead swiftly, to see what stood ahead. But today, sixty years
old, his once black hair white, his sparkling eyes dulled, there
were few highways that John had not explored. He had taught
college for many years, enjoying each with a fervor signifying
youth. All that was now gone
;
He was a lover of books, indeed
authors were his closest, his only, friends. Today, he saw that
C
o
nrad had not lied when he spoke of youth as fleeting
.
Shakes-
peare too, as if t
o
warn John of a coming day, assured him
that life had many acts. He had formed his outlooks on life
through books. To him, books were slices
of
life, stories of man
as man, a
s
him
s
elf, as an individual. He had envisioned Tom
Sawyer as typical of th
e
American youth, pipe in one hand,
fi
s
hing pole in the
o
ther. To him, Noel Airmann and Marjorie
Margenstern were typical young lovers, caught between life and
living, virtue and vice.
As a teacher, John had tried to impress hi
s
students with
this love of books and knowledge
.
But they had laughed. They
had called him "Old Ironheart". He was not friendly or out-
going they had remarked. John Peters reflected. He was a
gnarled old man of sixty, alone in a merciless world.
The cold wind continued to blow with vigor. John did not
notice this. He had not wanted it to be this way. He had
planned to be kind to his students, a friend, a companion.
But yet this was to be secondary. John could still remember
fragments of his college thesis on why he wished to teach:
"
.
.. The teacher is like a botanist, he will lie down, or bend
over backwards to witness the miracle of birth, to see the fruit
burst forth in a moment of glory from the insignificant stem.
So too will I, John Peters, do all possible to advance learning,
to see my young student, terrified, small, insignificant, burst
forth one graduation day, many years hence, a learned man,
nurtured on my soil. Thus must I be fertile, for a young plant
cannot live on aridsoil ... " How resolute he had been then.
He was a child then, looking at a wasteland yet seeing growth,
looking at the darkness yet seeing light. He had hoped to be
32










the cactus in that wasteland, hard on the surface, yet full of
life within, and aid to all who sought him. Where had time
gone?
In
the while, he had seen pimple-faced youths mature
into doctors, lawyers, teachers, religious. So too, had he seen
gangly pimple-faced youths grow into gangly pimple-faced
adults. This then was life. This was its clue. Life was fleeting,
temporal, and thus imperfect. Science had yet to invent the
machine of perpetual motion, nor life the perpetually perfect
vocation. The bitter must be taken wit~ the sweet, the good
with the bad. For every success there must be a failure. True,
he would sometimes meet obstacles. This is to be expected.
At least, he had the thrill, perhaps not so transitory, of seeing
the miracle of birth. Poor Ray Evans, three years in succession
voted ~he most popular teaoher, he had yet to witness the
miracle.
John Peters hastened his step. The cold wind felt pleasant
on his numbed cheek. He had seen the miracle before, and
would see it again. Up ahead, there was a store he had not
seen, a street he had passed by unwittingly. Yes there were
still many miracles for John Peters, unpopular, perhaps un-
loved, to see. He was now sure. Next class he would assign
Ulysses.
JOSEPH CAVANO
- 0 - -
HOW FORTUNATE THE FROG
Sunning or soaking, peeping or croaking
Or leaping from log to log,
His life may be short, but then it's pure sport!
How fortunate, the Frog!
He needn't earn wages, he hasn't for ages.
Nor depend upon folks, like a dog.
Does he fear the dark? His life
•
is a lark!
How fortunate the Frog!
What rules must he keep? Does he ever lose sleep?
Does he wish he were once more a 'wog?
Does he ever sham? He don't give a damn!
How fortunate, the Frog!
JosEPH RtiBILLARD
33






FOREVER A STRANGER
"Yes, of course, sit down, even if only for a little while,
companionship is good of an evening. What greater
shame
than to miss sharing the enjoyment of such a sunset. Look.
Down in the valley beneath us the sounds of evening are begin-
ning to call, the mantle of ql,liet is beginning to slip over the
ruckus of the day, to cloak all in silence and contemplation, ...
indeed, a suitable occupation for two such old men as we. All
the shouts of the playing field have passed, and nothing remains
now but the lull of stillness creeping slowly over the hills, even
down there extending dark fingers among bhe oaks, even here
among the gnarled old pines and their silent blanket of furry
needles. The breeze is running cooler now, rustling in and out
among the pines, bearing scents fragrant with whisperings of
the evenings when old men do not here sit to talk of life gone
by. Then there are more scents, there is no chill in it to dull
the blood, but within breathes the fragrance of the earth be-
neath, the rougth dry earth, the damp earth newly-softened by
rain in the night, the rushing grass, the trees swaying rythmical-
ly overhead with the coming of the night wind. Yes, dawn
came, a day rose out of the east, reached its noon, and fell
slowly to the west. Now it is setting, and the flaming vault of
the heavens has melted, swaddling all
iv
the flowing folds of
twilight. The clouds are crimson, but soon they too will be
dark, and gone in the night. The last few, the most golden rays
of the sun fall here with us among the crooked pines, warm,
sweet, the only light of the d0y a man can gaze into.
"Do you remember what it felt like to be young, I know I
think of it often, so often in fact, that I'm almost afraid to
speak of it anymore. But, you too are old, and know the feeling
well; I am sure you will not mind if I tell you a story, a little
poem let us call it. For indeed, someone must listen to old men.
"Yes, a wonderful feeling to be young, to feel the blood
coursing through
_
your veins, to know the charm
of
the things
of life. I remember myself as a rather scholarly lad, always
with the books, my mother's doing of course. Nevertheless. I
was strong, and even today I can soinetimes walk for almost a
day withont stopping. Socially I got along, but we certainly
weren't a very lively bunch. You know, now that I think of it
more, I realize that I must have been a rather moody fellow,
34






given to fits of temperament and such like. Perhaps it was the
middle life which smoothed it off, but now I see it more clearly.
Why, I could get so involved in argument as to merely shout
to hear my voice arguing. Often in this mood I did nonsensical
things. Once I even threw a shoe at my mother for having
misplaced one
of
my books. A pity we don't see these things
earlier.
"Well, I do want to tell you of something whioh happened
to me then, something even death may not erase. You know,
I call these stories my little poems, and I told them even when
I was young, but then they wouldn't l
,
isten to them, my friends,
and now that I am old they hear, but do not listen.
"It
was in the summer then too, just as now. I had gone
to the coast for a rest, since the city and college had gotten
me down during the winter. The spot was charming, with an
appeal which only the true artist would possibly appreciate.
I could not be lonely there, for although the company wasn't
of the best, there lay the whole world of the sea near me, the
azure blue which has drawn men throughout the centuries to
seek on it the secrets of the mystery of life. I was a young-
god
then, and in my lustihood thought I could pit my strength
against the might of the sea as it rooe and fell in the tide about
my feet.
"Yes, the sea was magnificent, beyond almost the power of
words to tell; and yet, I could not really grasp it, believe in
its grandeur. With the dawn came the sun, heralded by the
spears of the coming day, piercing the clouds, beginning to
pour out light on the serene waters beneath. This, far out to
tJhe east, where no land lay, no men to till the land, only the
sea, endless reaches of undulating expanse flowing along in
perfect harmony, the fabric of a world which man would for-
ever be foreign. During the days I took long walks upon the
cliffs which stood at its edge like a dam restraining the waters
.
From the summit of my walk I could view them all, growing
sheer up out of the sea, standing, stark, hu~, naked, in un-
bowed defiance. They looked to me then as the mute sentinels
of mankind, warriors destined to strive for eternity with the
rollers which milled and swept and clashed at their feet. From
my height it seemed as though no matter what ages had come
and gone, no matter what could be coming, these would there
35






stand, above the sea, longer than men would stand upon the
earth.
"The days of my vacation passed quickly, and I began to
feel stronger. The old power of living was with me, the shaggy
rock, the brightness of the sky above, the blue of the land above
and beyond. Life was blissful, transformed into myriad tiny
rainbows of gaiety which one by one filled the air with their
colored beams, bursting above my head in bubbles of radiance.
No dark light could come into my life, no stiffiing ogre of the
world. Life was mine to enjoy, to keep, or to throw off when
its satisfaction had passed. And so the time fled by, a cloth of
c
i
azzling threads reflected from the face of the sea. And yet,
ever and anon the waves lapped at the base of the cliffs to
which I took my solitary, windswept joy.
"One day, wanting to see the combers more closely, I
brought lunch, and reading, and clambered down the cliffs to
a spot where I could watch them come in, one by one, ripping
along the length of the coastline.
It
had been hard getting
down, and so I had no relish for going up again soon. The
morning was unusually still, and the sun had risen in a haze
from the east; the clouds had been higher and more resplen-
dent than ever before at dawn, bloodying the whole eastern sky.
Contented, though I sat reading for the greater part of the
morning.
"Over all it seemed there lay a profound quiet, tremulous,
waiting. The sun shown but dimly, in a rather grimy way, as
though oppressed by a slight haze. Even the sea had turned to
gray, the usual hard glitterings soft,-not as lovely now.
"The afternoon progressed, and wind rose in the south. At
first only a fleck appeared on the horizon, but then with great
sweeping strokes the wind began to paint the rim of the south-
ern sky with a web of cloud, moving, little by little, to the
north. I sat and watched, entranced by the imperceptible
rapidity of it all.
It
became a game to close and open my eyes,
measuring their advance by a distant promontory. The little
waves which had washed softly in and out on the little strips
of soft sand which sat at the base of the rocks here and there
grew larger, no longer rolling petulantly about in confused mis-
direction, but now little by little taking form, swelling and re-
ceding together slowly.
36





"The cloud front moved along, up from the south, sweeping
all before it and that continual but undetectable motion, wiping
away the last vestiges of blue, blanketing all in dull metallic
gray The sea had changed color and rolled itself into greater
magnitude and purpose, growing in gray like the sky. The peaks
of the combers no longer held the glinting sun rays at their
tips, and with the end of the afternoon's ending the evening
began to come. All the afternoon I had watched the waves
tumbling beneath me, from the first wavelets licking the high
rock walls in the early morning, the awesome stillness, through
the growing
of
the wind and the storm, until now. The cliffs
as I had known them had seemed to me eternal. But, what
were these mighty rocks to do against a force which rolled
more incessantly and more eternally than they at their bases.
Day by day, rolling and climbing, peaking and bursting, slowly
receding, they had beat from the first moments of time, and
would for all time. Some day no matter how eternal the rocks,
they would be worn down, would crumble, would fall in shat-
tered brittle lumps. Even before, when the little waves had
gamboled there among the gaunt hollows, how smooth the rock
had been, how easy the blending of the two, a unity, not a
barrier. Here there was contained a oneness which no man
could ever grasp within his lifteime, a unity which none could
ever learn, but the ages in which man lived. Indeed, how
could I learn such a secret, what could I do against such
a
force, for it would flow just as incessantly for eons after men
had forgotten my name, had forgotten these very cliffs. I was
no longer the master of my soul.
"As I watched, the tongues of salty bitterness became rollers
rising far out of the sea, sweeping the coast, crashing along it!'
length with the wind behind them. Night began, darker and
darker, storm and violent wind. The rollers were higher, taller,
crested with foam, and in their immense weight burst full upon
the rocks in the darkness with a deafening thunder. Up and
under they rolled, pitched, burst, tumbling along the bulk of
the boulders in rumbling fury, rebounding up almost to my
very perch. I cried out in my fear, terrified, and began to
clamber back up the cliffs, clutching at the rocks with des-
perate fingers, fleeing from the sea, the wind, from the deadly
eternally of the ,icean. Along the heights I ran, slipping and
~tumbling, shrinking against the stone next to me where the
37









path dangerously skirted the brink, until, exhausted, I came
home to the light, leaving tihe sea and the darkness behind me."
"Yes."
"Yes, the charm of youth."
"And, what a shame that life is over for us."
"Yes, we are old men."
•
And when they had gone, the pines remained, alone.
BROTHER
]AMES
HEANY
- - ( } - -
THE PRIZEFIGHTER
The sharp sound of the gong,
Muscles flexed and bodies strong
Charging one another with single purpose:
Strike the foe
~
not to displease us.
Much is given, much received.
Had the fighter been deceived?
Where lies the glory bright
Promised for immortal fights?
Blood,bespattered canvas white;
Cheering shouts of fiend's delight'
Boos mingled with the curses
Till the crowd at last disperses.
Stillness in the dressing room;
Atmosphere
of
despair and gloom.
Why
this desire to reigni
It's in the blood - it's in the vein.
BROTHER ERNEST BELAND
38










A SUMMER SHOWER
The sun was high, and a silhouette the shape of a house
was clearly etched on the burnt macadam. Shrivelling in this
shaded sanctuary stood a sun-sheltered tree, as silent and mo-
tionless as her scorched and sweltering sisters across the street.
On the porch, a collie, smothered in his suffocating fur, rolled
slowly over and back in a hot and restless sleep. All around,
.
sultry life was taking a sweaty siesta and a dream-like silence
prevailed.
Then a cloud crossed the sun; shadows melted on the street,
and a stifled sky started to bleed. A soft breeze gently caressed
the fevered town-and with it the wet kiss of rain. The collie
tenderly withdrew his swollen tongue as though he were sam-
pling a tonic. Trees, warned by the wind, stirred and rustled
in readiness for the overdue shower. The thirsty street drank
to excess and became bloated and blacker
.
It was raining heav-
ily now. Cars, like refreshed athletes, moves faster as they
splash along the sizzling street. Carefree boys with up-turned
faces blink as the crystals explode on their cheeks. A teen-age
girl with a creased and clinging scarf hurries along, her head
bent as though in embarrassed apology for curls that failed.
The wind exhales and waves of water come waltzing forward
.
Raindrops, like ,descending daggers diving downward, shimmer
and sway in the struggling sunlight. Frustrated wiper-blades,
like epileptic metronomes, tirelessly scatter the wet debris.
Pushed by the wind, the rain passes, and slowly the sun
reappears. The trees, dripping fresh and revitalized, have
donned a renewed devotion to their duties. Little brown rivers
of atmospheric blood embrace their concrete banks as they
wrinkle, and rush, and swirl--,and diminish. Shadows replace
reflections on the drying street and the only sounds are those
of an excited dog barking, and greedy drains gargling.
As it plods past a panting nimbus, the sun seems to hesitate,
and smile caustically; but the cheated doud is unafraid and
follows to retort,
"She waits for me, my lady Earth,
Smiles and waits
.
and sighs:
I'll say her nay and hide away,
Then take her by surprise."
-Mary Mapes Dodge
GERRY MARMION
-
39







ON THE BRIDGE
I
The blue, blue, blue,
One white-puffed blue,
The clear eternal blue
Patch-blues
The Muddy motion
of the flow.
The flow, flow, flow,
Shadow-patched blue-surfaced flow,
The deep earthy flow
Sweeps all
Beneath the bridge
But the shadow.
II
And O!
Summer-jilted, chill-bewitched,
Scarlet-brown gypsies
Rustle in rhythm free movement -
Twisting and turning,
And
Spiraling and burning
In
light and in shadow,
Through light and through shadow -
Down and around
And
Round and down -
Through light and through shadow -
Till passion is peace on the flow.
III
Autumn's cool breezes hands and ears and face
As spirit dances at chance glances at gypsies' dancing grace.
Nature's beauty, a dancing beauty, a faithless beauty is
quick
to pass
As swift as a shimmer in light-bright-pale-green grass.
The dust dry road leads from the bridge and flow
And like leaves leaving trees now I must
gb.
When hearts stop in beauty progress is the loss
For roads were made to wander and bridges made to cross.
BROTHER JAMES GARA
40






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