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c
arist College
1
963









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AIC







Introduction
The ancient Chinese philosopher, Confucius, once was asked
what he would do if were left to him to administer a country.
His reply was, that it would probably be to insure a correct language.
His listeners were suprised.
"Surely", they said, "this has nothing to do with the matter, why
should language be correct?"
Confucius answered,
"If
language is not correct then what is
said
is not meant, if what is said is not meant, then what ought to
be
done remains undone ... "
Now let's apply this vignette to our present situation. We, the
staff of the MOSAIC, feel that the various selections in this edition
are
the assurance that at Marist College language, in truth, is not
only correct but being intensely exploited. And we are confident,
moreover, that this linguistic e~presion will both further each
author's own quest toward self~fulfillment and render pleasure to you,
our readers, as well.






STAFF
EDITOR IN CHIEF
William Moran
AssISTANT EDITORS ............................ James Moloney
Charles
R.
Cassidy
Brother William Cowie
Brother James Heaney
FACULTY ADVISOR
......................
George J. Sommer, PhD.
PRINTED BY MARIST
COLLEGE
PRESS
3












CONTENTS
FORGET
ABOUT
THE LIVERWURST
5
Story
..................
BROTHER }AMES GARGAN
POEM
13
......................
EDWARD G. MATTHEWS
FREEDOM'S LAST
STAND
14
Essay .............. BROTHER JoHN SAINSBURY
THE PAINTING
21
Story
GERRY MARMION
THE TEMPORAL MARINER
23
Poem . . . .
.
. . . . . . . . . . . BROTHER JoHN GILBERT
AN
ESSAY
ON ART
24
........................
BROTHER JOHN KINCH
FOR
WANT OF
OKT
A
VIUS
31
Story . . . . . . .
.
.
.
.
.
. . . .
.
. . GUNTHER NEUMANN
THE JOURNEY MAN
34
Poem ................ BROTHER }AMES HEANEY
APPROACHING LITERATURE ... THEN AND NOW
39
Criticism . .
.
. . . . . . . . . BROTHER PAUL FURLONG
CLASSICAL CONCEPTS
IN
THE TWENTIETH
CENTURY
41
Criticism . . . . . . . . . BROTHER EDMUND SHEEHAN
TO
NEVER
FORGET
46
Story . . . . . .
.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . JoHN RICHARD
DRAMA
AS
A TEMPORAL
EXPERIENCE
52
Criticism . . . . . . . . . . . . BROTHER }AMES HEANEY
4










FORGET ABOUT THE LIVERWURST
That Friday I had said goodbye to Doug and we had arranged to
meet the following Monday morning and hitch back upstate after a
weekend at home. We set a place for meeting and I told him I'd be
there at seven in the morning. Now seven in the morning is pretty
early for me but hitching 100 miles is risky business and we had to
be ready to go to work that evening. Meeting Doug was a pretty
important thing to do-I sure as hell didn't want to hitch up by my-
self; Monday morning would be too late to arrange for a bus ticket
and besides, that would be expensave. So what happens, I wake up
Monday morning and it's 6:30; that's not too bad except that I have
to meet Doug about twenty miles away in a half hour. I get dressed
but ~hat's about all, forget about eating, washing will have to wait.
At ten minutes to seven, I'm down at the parkway trying to get
a r
,
ide. It's pretty crowded with traffic heading out to work in the
defense plants on the Island but one nice slob manages to pull over
and pick me up. I hopped in his '53 Plymouth and thanked him at
the same time. Without much hesitation, the usual exchange takes
place; I tell him where I'm headed and he says he's not going that
far but can give me a lift part of the way. We talk some, but not
too much-it's early in the morning, this stuff is new
'
to
me so I'm
pretty much excited, but this guy is just following his regular routine,
so he's not much interested in shooting the breeze. All of a sudden
he says that he's turning off and he'll let me out after the exit. It
was a good lift but I'm st
,
ill about 5 miles from where I should be
and its 7:30. Doug'll probably be gone by now-what a lousy break
~but, what the heck, even if I don't meet him I'm gonna have to
hitch up anyway.
I'm all set to begin hitchin' again, but I see this cop car just wait-
ing around up on the main road. He probably had seen me and was
wondering what I'd do next; well, I didn't take any chances and at
the same time tried to fake him out. Since this place was kinda
close to the city, there were plenty of buses runnin' on the main
road bringing the escaped suburbanites back to their midtown haunts.
So, I figured to myself that 15¢ won't hurt me too bad and I catch
a bus that's goin' over the Whitestone. Now I remember that I'm
supposed to meet this Doug by some outdoor movie which is near a
road that leads into the Thruway.
All
of a sudden, I see this out-
door movie in the distance so I figure I better get off that bus before
I lose sight of the landmark, I'm late enough already. So what hap-
5








pens, the bus turns and takes a road which runs right past the movie.
Y cu know how it is, when you're late everyithing works against you.
Anyway, about fifteen minutes later, that is, 8:30, I'm almost at the
movie and then I see Doug about eighty yards down the road. When
I caught up to him~boy, was I glad to see him-I told him I was
sorry for being late and thanks a lot for waiting.
He says, "Waiting? Nuts! I got here at seven-thirty, thought you
had left and I've been hitching ever since."
"You mean ya been here an hour and ya haven't gotten a ride?"
"Well, there was this dame that tells me she'll take me as far
as Queens. I was tempted to hop in and not say a word but I couldn't
be that lousy. Instead, I tell her, 'Thanks a lot lady, but Queens is
back th
a
t way where you came from.' "
By now Doug is disgusted so he says to me, "This hit-chin' 1s
screwy business, what say we go downtown to the Port Authority
and get some tickets?"
So I tell him, "We can't there's only t
,
wo buses a day; the first
one's go11e by now and the other isn't till sometime tonight. And
that's no help 'cause we gotta get back before supper or else old man
Kilstrom will give us the boot!"
As you might guess, we decided to stick to hitching. After a futile
fifteen minutes, I suggested to Dou
g
that we keep moving while we
hitch, that way we wouldn't be in the same place for long even if
we didn't get a ride.
It
might have helped morale but it didn't do
our feet any good. After about forty minutes of thumbing and walk-
ing, we lost the citied look around us and were on a country highway.
Only about five minutes after we passed the city line, some guy
stopped and gave us a lift; no kiddin', that city stinks; there's s
o
me-
thin' about the country that's free and friendly.
Any
,
way, we were glad to have this
lift, the guy was surprised
when we told him we had been hitchin' for over an hour without
any luck. Well, that's the way it is; this guy was obviously a human
being and had picked hitchers up before- for him, passing a hitcher
on the road is strange, for other guys, they've forgotten what a thumb
means. Anyhow, this Joe starts tellin' us that he's goin' up to Mt.
Kisco to pick up his wife; he had left her up there for the weekend
and was on his way to collect her. He didn't seem to relish the
task but that's the way it goes. Yeah, he was a real nice guy, told
us we could read the paper if we wanted. I wanted, so I reached
over to the backseat and grnbbed the Daily News, folded over. It's
6







funny how
guys
fold the News when they're finished
with it; you
never
get it spread out
like when
it's sold.
It
must be the natural
form of
that kinda paper;
you'd
think the
guys
at tihe News would
wake
up
and print
it that way,
so
it'd be natural. Gee, that was a
quick ride; I just
got
time to look at the .pictures and it was Mt.
Kisco already. Doug was a little disappointed, he was waiting for
the paper. The
guy
let us
out-
and like I
said,
he was a real nice-
said
he was
sorry
he wasn't going further. We thanked him and
began to figure
out
how we'd
get our
next hitch;
after
all Mt. Kisco
isn't that
far and
we had about
seventy
more miles to
go.
But luck
must have been with us,
'c&use
we
got a
lift about three minutes
after
the
Kisco guy dropped
us
off.
This
guy in a two-tone '56
Pontiac
rolled onto
the
grass and yelled
hop
in.
Just
as
we're
settling
into
place he tells us
that
he's
going
to Exit 11; now
since we're
not too
familiar
with the road (we usually
go
by 9W) Exit 11 doesn't phase
us too much,
and
for
some
reason
we
don't
bother asking
him what
town Exit 11 is in-(after
all, you
don't wanna look like a
couple
of
jerks that never did this kind
of stuff
before),
so
we
sit
back
contented.
What
happens,
of course,
this clown turns
off
about
a
mile from where he
picked
us up
and
we're no better than the way
we
started.
Now it's
about
quarter to
eleven and we still
have
69
miles to
go.
One lucky break however, that nut let us
off at an exit
and
the
state
has
a
funny habit
of putting an entrance
close to
every
exit.
We couldn't
see an entrance,
hadn't remembered
one
but walked
on
trusting that we'd come to
one soon.
And we did, it
was
just
on
the
other side of
an underpass.
Now of all
methods
of
hitching, I
ohink standing
where the
entrance
meets the Thruway is the best
even
though it's the most
dangerous
cop-wise. Anyway, we
were
late and had to take
some chances; all of a sudden
we
see
this big
trailer-truck begin turning
and
descending towards us-this might
be it I thought
and so
it was. The truck hushed to
a stop,
the
door
swung open and
we heard a funny-sounding "Gets in fellas".
It was
more like climb in; I don't ride in
trucks often and
the
seat
must
have
been about
five feet
off
the
ground.
Anyway, we
got
in and the
driver headed
out onto
the Thruway. This
guy-he
had
a
kinda
southern
drawl-was the most talkative
of all,
but in a friendly
sort
of
way; he wanted to know where we were
going, so
we told him,
but
it
didn't
seem
to mean much to him. He
said
he always took
this
route on
his
way
to Boston but that he didn't know much
of
the
surrounding
territory
except
by name from the
signs at
the
entrance
s
7





and exits. We shot the breeze for a while; he was kind of sorry when
we told him we were only sixteen. Sorry 'oause he had just been
advising us of the merits of the various towns that he normally had
to pass through. His appreciation seemed limited to one natural
resource of these towns, women. I don't remember much, but I
know that he was awfully enthused about some place called Hagers--
town in Maryland. As I say, he shut up about that stuff when we
were sixteen. Since conversation had stopped, I asked him some silly
questions like "What are you carrying." I think he said it was food,
but like I said, it was a silly question. I asked it but didn't worry
about an answer, and so I don't remember. But then I got to won-
dering, no kiddin', if he didn't get bored with all that driving and
where he stayed overnight. He said there wasn't any overnight and
pointed in back of us. I turned around and practically jumped; there
in the back of the cab, about a foot away from us and above us was
a guy sleeping. That gives you an idea of how big the cab was. So
these guys travel in teams, and are on the go for almost twenty-four
hours a day. I said, "I bet you can cover about a thousand miles a
day at that rate"; he corrected me and said the outfit expected them
to cover twelve hundred miles a day on these special runs and that
any delay had to be explained pretty neatly. Yeah, this guy was
real talkative, probably got used to talking to his partner when he
drove with him and picked us up to take up the slack. Time was
really travelling fast now and he told us that our exit was coming
up next. There wasn't much traffic on theTuryway so he just slowed
up, stopped and let us out.
We were in fine shape now; it was about ten to one and the
camp is only about twenty miles off the Thruway. Twenty more
miles and we'd be back in the juvenile jungle. Oh yeah, I forgot
to tell you we work in this summer camp run by a cheap Swede
named Kilstrom
.
Altogether, he's got five high school kids taking
care of seventy-five brats ranging from seven to thirteen. That's the
funny part of it, us two are sixteen and we're counselors for these
kids
.
Most of 'em are young but there's three that are thirteen. I
feel sorry for those kids, two of them hate the camp and don't want
to go to it but their parents don't want them home in the summer
and they're too young to get working papers. Then, the third guy,
I guess I feel even sorrier for him because he likes it at the camp,
or, at least he says so. It's not really that he likes the place, or
goes crazy about it, it's just that he comes back every year without
his parents forcing him. He's not such a big kid, but outside of the
8








other two thirteen year olds (who ignore him) and one ten year
old kid, he's the biggest kid in camp. So outside those three I
mentioned, Sammy is a good inch over every other kid. Maybe
this is why Sammy keeps coming back to camp, after all those years
of
being given a hard time by tthe other kids, now that he's fiP.ally
bigger than most kids, he wants a chance to lord it ove1 them. I
wish he's stay away though; he's a real trouble maker. It wouldn't
be a bad job if I wasn't always having to break up fights. This
Sammy has a hand in most of them; either he's pushing around
some smaller kid or else, if the kid is really small, he's arranging
fights between one of his sm~
.
ll cronies and the :;u1all kid that was
bothering him. Anyway, that
'
s what the camp is like; now let me
get back to the travelling.
We're in this hunky town called Newville which is a joke,
'cause I suspect that the newest building in that town is an abandoned
rathole somewhere. The main street of tthe town ( you can tell
because all seven of its stores are located there) is ingeniously
dubbed Center Street. These seven stores occupy most of the
buildings on Center Street, there's a few houses, a onetime hotel
and nothing much else.
All
the buildings are wooden and dingy
with age; it seems tthat they all have a sway to them. I'm not sure
what's keeping them up, maybe it's pride. After all, none of them
wants to be first to fall, especially since any one of thei:r neighbors
is about ready to give up and collapse.
H
they were all leaning the
same way, then a good wind would settle these matters of pride
and protocol by knocking them all down in one shot; but, as it is,
they're leaning every which way so that one stops the other from
falling by leaning back upon one another.
We hadn't been in this town much before; we usually head up
to Franklyn for a night out. They've got a movie house up there
and I don't think the people in Newville even heard of movies yet.
So anyway, we don't know this Newville too well, but after all
that's no problem, 'cause if you don't see what y,a iookin' for in that
town, you can be sure it's not there.
Walking down Center Street, we see something that looked like
a candy store; it had one of those Coke signs in the window showing
a faded beauty of the 1940's smiling' and drinking from a Coke
bottle that made a 90 degree angle witth her lower lip. We walked
in so the screen door slammed and the cheap bell gave out a couple
of rings as it got smacked. A pudgy litle guy pulled aside a dirty
green curtain and made ready to serve us. He was cheaply dressed;
9





didn't bother to wear the customary apron so we could see his
baggy brown pants and pea green sport shirt that had nothing
sporty-looking a:bout it. This was the first time I can remember
being in a store where the customer has the first word. He stood
there for a while challenging us to ask for something. Finally, I
said, "What d'ya have to eat here". Listlessly, he points behind
him to the shelves, all I see is cans of food and signs like "Canned
Peaches 35¢," "Potatoes, IO lbs. for 49¢," and so on. I said, "You
don't understand, we're not shopping for groceries, we just wanta
have a quiok lunch of something". Finally, he gets what we mean
and says that he's got some liverwurst and can make us some
sandwiches. Now liverwurst I don't eat at home so I'm certainly
not going to eat it when I don't have to especially in a store that
stinks even worse than liverwurst. Since that was all the choice
of cold cuts he had, we nixed the sandwich
i
dea and decided to
have some cake instead. However, he showed us the
,
cake and
we changed our minds. First of all, it wasn't packaged but under
one of those plastic display covers and secondly it looked kinda old;
in fact, I was wondering if that Coke sign out front was new when
the last piece was sold. Funny how you can think that you're
hungry and then, all of a sudden, you lose your appetite. Anyway,
I t
o
ld Doug that I'd get my lunch across the street at the
v
e
ge
tabl
e
stand and eat it on the way. He was thinking al
o
ng the same lines
so we bought a bag of peaches and set out for Camp Forrest, 21
miles to go in about three hours; it seemed like we would make it
after all.
So, we were back to our old game of hitchin'; we didn't have far
to go, but you don't see many cars on those lonely country roads.
As I finished the l,ast peach, Doug said we were smart not to get
anything in that smelly grocery store. I agreed with him of course,
that we were
s
mart, and that we shouldn't have bought anyr,hing
in that store. Why, I would't even trust the canned goads in t,hat
store. I told Doug that I was surprised that the health department
hadn't closed up the joint, maybe they had to wait until he made
a sale and at the rate that he was going, it would be a long time
before he had any customers. Then again, maybe the health depart-
ment was just waiting until the whole town fell down
.
The food back
at camp isn't anything to brag about, but at least we-the counsel
o
rs
at any rate-could go into Franklyn for a pizza or something.
Well, it was about 2: IO and still no life, in fact, we hadn't even
seen a car in the half hour that we were walking on that lousy road.








I mentioned to Doug that it was possible that we wouldn't make
it
on time; he said he was in no hurry to get there. I reminded him
of
Kilstrom's threat to fire us if we didn't get back by supper.
Doug
grudgingly agreed. I was even looking forward to getting back, after
all, practically a whole new batch of kids were coming in tomorrow
for the second half of the season and after the July crowd, these
kids would have to be an improvement. So we kept walking, and
me and Doug went through that bunch we had the first half, re~
calling some of the wild times we had keeping after them. Talking
was good, it helped pass the time and made walking easier;
but
there's a limit to the amount of walking and talking you can do,
especially when you're supposed to keep an appointment that might
louse up a whole summer if it's missed.
It
was now past three, we had seen but two cars, one big Buick
had passed us right by without stopping and the other, a Nash
station wagon, filled beyond capacity with vacationers passed us.
It
seemed that all in the station wagon turned apologetic and
quizical faces towards us ex;cept for a little blond brat in the back;
he leered back at us with a big smile that got bigger and more
contagious as the train of dust raised by the car climbed over us.
I said to Doug, that kid looks like a prime candidate for Camp
Forrest. He said no thank you, and then remarked that we had
about an hour and a half to make it back to camp. We weren't
exactly sure where we were, but it was probably still a good thirteen
or fourteen miles to go. I figured that we'd never make it walking,
and judging from our recent luck, it didn't look like we'd make it
by hitchin' either. So Doug says to me "Well, what d'ya want
me to do, get a rickshaw". Doug, he thinks he's a wise guy, so when
he can't think of anything else to say-which is quite often-he'll
try to make some wise guy comment. After he's had his big joke
I said we might as well call a cab from Franklyn; we're only twenty
miles away from there now and if it means our jobs, it'd be worth
it. Doug says that's just fine, "We hitch all the way upstate to
~ave carfare and you want to take a cab which'll probably cost us
about as much as the wh0le busfare anyway." I said I know but
what can we do, if we lose the job, we're shot for the summer.
After all, summer jobs are scarce enough when you hunt them
up in April and May so no joker is going to be able to land a job
in the middle of the summer. So it's either get the cab or hang
around the city for a month existing. Even Doug couldn't think
up any smart argument to answer me with, after all he was in
11








the same boat and realized it. He said okay, let's call. I said wait
a minute, first we have to find a house and then we have to per-
suade the people to let us use their phone. Doug held out a dime
and said he had the persuasion and that all I had to do was find
the house. So we kept walking and looking for a place to phone
from.
Of
course, we kept trying to hitch all the while, traffic
seemed to get heavier, two cars in a half hour. Then, lo and behold,
a third car comes, and by this time we're kinda disgusted, no houses
in sight and of course, no hitch. Like I was saying', we were dis-
gusted by this time so we hardly even hold out our thumbs but the
guys stops. We're ready to hop in when the guy says "Where you
boys goin' ". We told him Camp Forrest. He says you mean that
place before Franklyn; we said yeah. He tells us he's not going
that far but can t
,
ake us for the two miles that he's going in our
direction. So we hop in, a quick consultation between me and
Doug and we get an idea. So I say to the driver that we really
need to get to camp by five and otherwise we lose our jobs. He
says he's sorry; then we say we'll give him two bucks if he takes
us and he says he's glad. Funny how people respond so ably to
the color green. The commercial nature of our settlement went
a long way towards choking any
,
conversation that we might other-
wise have felt obligated to instigate. However, the driver seemed
to have absorbed that obligation which normally belongs to the
rider and he kept babbling away about camp life and good country
air. All I know is that th~re wasn't much good country air in that
car; he must have been a city guy with one of those summer
ca.bins in the mountains.
At any rate, we arrived at camp at twenty to five. We paid
off our friend and headed in to see old man Kilstrom and we were
feeling pretty chipper. Even if we had shelled out two bucks, we
still had saved a lot of carfare and had some interesting exp
r
:
riences
in the bargain. The camp certainly looked different from that
madhouse that we had spent our July in controlling. What d'ya
·
know, we're on the camp grounds and we can actually hear our-
selves talk for a change without having to strain out kids' shouts
and screams. Yes, it was really calm today, but only a day more
of that blessedness; tomorrow, the August troops would come storm-
ing in, and after a summer month in the city, they would probably
be able to challenge the July crew to a contest of noise. According
to Kilstrom, we were supposed to be in his office at five to get
instructions for the second half, and to receive our new assignments
12










of kids
.
So, me and Doug headed over to Kilstrom's office to see
the old man. I said to Doug, "Gee, I don't see any of the other
counselors, do you think the old man will really fire them if they
don't show up exactly at five." Doug says, "Nah, I think he'll just
take it out of their salaries, that way he can pay them even less
than the minimum." About ten feet away from the bungalow
that Kilstrom used as an office, I noticed a white piece of paper on
Kilstrom's door. I read the printed notice:
"This Camp closed by order of the Department
of Health, of the State of New York. This order
eff
e
ctive July 31st."
- 0 -
POEM
The turn of time,
Sun standing still,
Longer days to come
But colder yet
In seasons queer delay.
Autumn winds,
Lonely fallen leaves
Spidering across the road
On stiffened legs
And curled backs.
Clearness of air,
Clarity of the sky,
Coldness of Fall
Quicken the mind,
Lead the spirit inward.
Warmth of home,
Of friends,
Of books,
Of fireside beckons
And Winter comes.
13
BROTHER ]AMES GARGAN
EDWARD G. MATTHEWS












FREEDOM'S LAST STAND
"The only thing needed for the triumph of evil is that
good men do nothing." - Edmund Burke
There exists in the world today a system based on dialectical
materialism and the suppression of human liberties. This system's
sickle is red with the blood of nations once proudly free-now
smashed by the hammer of militaristic imperi
,
alism. This system,
the Communist Party, has the blueprint for world domination.
Under the recognized leadership of the Soviet Union, the dynamic
mission is directed against all that are non-Communist. Each day,
with subtly ruthless efficiency, their plans move closer
to
completion
as the Free World becomes the Communist World. Already half
the world population and one-third of the land area are under the
suppression of Communist despotism.
The West stands as the defender of freedom, but fights Red
Machiavellianism with the folly called the "policy of containment".
The West's last bastion is the United States,-the only nation
powerful enough to resist Soviet might. This is not to say that our
allies are not needed to defeat Communism; rather, the U.S. is the
only one capable of assuming the initiative in the urgent action re-
quired to destroy worJd Communism.
To be determined that positive action is urgently necessary, one
must be convinced of the dangerous Communist strategy. After the
danger is seen the necessary counterplans follow.
In a recent study for the Internal Security Subcommittee on
The
Technique of Soviet Propaganda
,
it was reported that: " ... there
is not a single country in the world without its legal or underground
Communist Party."
1
These well-organized, well equipped, fanatical
branches are directly controlled by the Kremlin with clearly ex-
pressed aim
s
. Lenin, addressing the Second Congress of the Com-
muni
s
t International (1920), stated:
The absolute necessity ... of combining illegal work
with legal work is determined .
.
. by the necessity of prov-
ing to the bourgeoisie that there is not, nor can there
be. a sphere
o
r field of work that cannot be won by the
Communists ..
..
2
14










Lenin likewise stated:.
... we are able to master all means of warfare, we
shall certainly be victorious, because we represent the
interests of the really advanced, really revolutionary
class.
3
World domination is the end. Whatever means further this end
are considered just and "holy" in Communist terminology.
What are the Communists doing to achieve their nefarious end
of putting mankind in chains? They are doing exactly what Lenin
advocated.< There is not
.1
sphere of international influence, nor a
field of work, which has not in some way been infiltrated. The pro-
gram is indeed massive, and affects the political, social, economic,
and even religious
spheres.
There are lavish efforts made in propa-
ganda alone. Senator Eastland (Chairman of the Internal Security
Subcommittee) said:
Abraham Lincoln is credited with the observation that
'you can't fool all the people all the time.' The Soviet
Union is paying around $2 billion to prove him wrong.
5
That's an annual expenditure of about two dollars per free men.
The U.S. expenditure in this field is just
"1¼
cents per person a
year," and "if the budgets of all
other
free nations are added the
total hardly comes to 2 cents."
6
Communist
infiltration is no haphazard affair.
It
is a carefully
planned program
intended
to form a web
of
control by permeation,
or sway,
or
discreditation of influential organizations. The late
Senator Joseph McCarthy
showed
how far the Reds had gone when
he alerted his nation. The Federal Bureau of investigation and the
Committee
on
Un-American Activities continue the discovery and
exposition. It is for this reason that they have received, and are
still
receiving, Red attempts at discreditation. Americans have the
right to ask why men listed by the F.B.I. as having Communist ties
have been hired and given access to clasified information, only to
later defect. This is but one indication that Communists have im-
bedded themselves in Government posts.
Education receives special
attention.
Mme. Labin
7
reports:
15













In Fraince, 20,000 school teachers hold
a
Communist
Party Card, more than 25 percent teach their classes fol,
lowing Communist directives they receive through in-
numerable sources ... In Italy the proportion is 40 per
cent.
8
Of
course the percentage is not as high in the United States, but
nonetheless all levels of American education should be on guard
and have no misconceptions about yielding.
9
Labor unions are often victimized, by "pink" policies and strikes
which disrupt the economy or our missile program. Again, Lenin's
dictate is faithfully followed:
We must learn how to make use of all stratagem
·
s,
of ruse, adopt illegal methods, keep silent at times, con-
c
e
al the truth, with the sole aim of getting into the
unions, staying there, and accomplishing the task of com-
munism there in spite of everything
.
10
The same framework is used effectively in other fields-particularly
the mass media. (e.g. The F.B.I. has disclosed heavy Communist
infiltration of the Hollywood industry.
Religion is ruthlessly suppressed as the "opium of the people"
(-Marx
&
Lenin) and principal enemy of the system of atheistic
materialism.
Reds are not bound by principles as we know them
.
Engels de-
clared: " ... In reality every class, even every profession, has its own
morality .... "
11
Whatever furthers the cause is right, and policy
must
be
changed to align with it. Promises no longer bind if they
do not suit the new policy.
Peaceful co-existence is a propaganda hoax, for the Party follows
Lenin who held it impossible.
The dictatorship of the proletariat 1s necessary, and
victory over the bourgeoisie is impossible without a ...
desperate war of life and death .
•
•
As long as capitalism and socialism exist, we cannot live
in peace: in the end, one or the other will triumph-a
16





funeral
dirge
will be
sung over
the Soviet Republic
or
over
world capitalism.
Contempt for death must spread among the masses
and
thus
secure
victory
...
the ruthless extermination of
the
enemy
will be their task ....
12
Nikita
Krushchev
stated (20th Congress of
the Communist In-
ternational)
on
February, 1956: "We must be
guided
by the wise
injunctions
of
Lenin in all
our activity."'"
But peaceful Nikita,
former henchman
of
Joseph Stalin, has made himself
even
clearer.
(1956) We will bury
you!
(1961) the world of
Communism is
not far
off
... The fight
for disarmament is
an active
fight against imperialism,
a
fight
for narrowing its
war potential. The policy
of
peaceful
coexistence
is
a form
of ideological
struggle ....
The Soviets
will continue
to do everything to
increase
the military
of our country
.... the victory
of
Communism
is inevitable.
With these
expressed aims, any attempt at
negotiation with the
Reds is a dangerous waste
of
time.
Of the 52
agreements
made
with
the
United
States
and
Red China
after
World War II, the result
of
2,400 meetings, the Reds have kept
just
two. Agreements
are
made by the Reds with the mental reser-
vation
that they may be
broken
when they
no
longer
serve
the
cause.
Negotiations
provide
the
Communists
with time
for
build up,
surprise
action and propaganda.
The
result of
the
arduous work
is usually
a worthless
piece
of
paper.
We
are
in
a state of
war -
a war for
free
existence
under God.
It is
called a
"cold war", but the qualifier
"cold" gives
the idea that
we are at peace.
The
Soviet Union
realizes the
actuality of
this war,
for
they
are waging
it most
effectively
while preparing
for
the final
thrust. The world is harassed with limited wars, revolutions, riots,
and
further heavy
infiltration as
the
cause of
world
domination
moves
forward.
17



The U.S. presently holds the position of the strongest single world
power. This goes without saying, however, that today Russia is not
far behind. For the past 17 years the American advantage has been
whittled down by Soviet advances insufficiently met. These past
years are years of infamy in which the United States has failed to ac-
cept its responsibility, and shown comparatively little initiative.
In
1945,
General Patton stated in no uncertain terms that Ameri-
can troops should not stop at Germany but head straight into Russia
which had made secret partitioning agreements with the Nazis.
He was instead ordered to draw his command back to allow Soviet
occupation up to Berlin. Shortly after, a truck crashed into the Gen-
eral's jeep killing him.
That same year Winston Churchill warned President Truman
of the effect of American troop withdrawal on the balance of power
in Europe. The blame for the Potsdam Conference concessions
cannot be charged to the dead President Roosevelt, nor
to
Churchill.
It was President Truman who withdrew the American forces.
Churchill predicted the Communist acquisition plan. Truman lost
Eastern Europe.
A man cannot be classed a great President who bungles his way
through office: losing China, parts of Asia, half of Europe, and part
of the Balkans to Communism.
In
1948
General Lucius Clay was silenced when holding that
our rights to Berlin be upheld by sending an armored task force
along the Autobahn to call Russia's bluff. This blunder was per-
petrated at a time when American superiority was overwhelming.
The airlift gave our rights to access to Berlin a fogged appearance.
General MacArthur, America's great military genius, saw the
necessity of striking from Korea into Red China; but he was retired
from command. Half of Korea thus fell behind the Bamboo Cur-
tain in another Communist victory. Similar incidents have since
divided other Asian countries.
Unfortunately, the tide did not turn in
1952,
nor the following
eight years. The slogan "not one inch will be allowed to fall under
Communism" sounds good. But in view of the above, we see that
18







the policy of containment is impossible and foolhardy when dealing
with the Red cancer.
President Eisenhower did nothing in response to the urgent pleas
of the legal Hungarian revolution<>!."y government of 1956. Instead,
he allowed Russian tanks to recapture and reinslave. Thus, while
busy aligning ourselves with Russia in cenr
·
mg justifiable Anglo-
French moves in Suez, we lost on two pomts.
T owarcls the end of his second term Ike allowed Cuba to slip
into Communist hands. There was no effective move in response
to the seizure of American property, illegal arrests, and suppression
of human liberties. Castro's Communist brother, as well as his own
past connection with the Party, was considered incidental until the
policy of the new government became blaringly obvious. Protest
which fell on deaf ears was the only "action" taken by the "not
one inch" President who had derreased om Armed Forces' standing
strength.
Is the pattern of disastrous American backdowns contmuing
with the present administration of President John F. Kennedy? We
see evidence of indecision and finally concession in Laos. Marines
are now in Thailand to prevent Red Laotian infringement. This is
retreat. The blockade action around Cuba is commendable as far
as it went; but it did not go far enough. Anything short of invasion
is another Communist victory and an Americar. backdown. We
must not recognize, nor allow to exist, a Sugar Cane Curtain.
People the world over, including most of those behind the Iron
and Bamboo Curtains, admire strength. We cannot buy friends;
we must win their respect by showing our strength as protector of
liberty. The United States must, at long last, properly assume its
responsibility and face Communism with a sense of war.
President Kennedy stated (April 20, 1961): "As your President ...
am determined upon our system's survival and success, regardless
of the cost and regardless of the peril." Again, these are but words.
Today we need the carry-through action that has thus far been
missing from the vital conflict.
BROTHER
JOHN
J
.
SAINSBURY
19















FOOTNOTES
1.
Labin, Suzanne.
The Technique of Soviet Propaganda
(a study for the Internal Security Subcommittee)
(Wash., D.C.: US. Govt. Printing Office: 1960) p. 2
2.
Niemeyer, Gehart, Ph.D.
Facts on Communism
Vol. I
(A study for the Committee on Un-American Activities)
3.
Ibid.
p.
53
4.
This is what Dr. Fred Schwarz proves in his revealing book
You can Trust The Communists
.
See George Orwell's
1984
for a picture of man in chains.
5.
La bin, Suzanne.
The Technique of Soviet Propaganda p. iii
6.
ibid. p. 17
7.
Winner of the "Prix de Liberte"
8. Labin.
The Techn
.
of Sov. Prop.
p.7
9.
cf.
an excellent study by Hamilton A. Long:
Permit Com-
munist - Conspirators to b'e Teachers? (Wash., D.C.: U.S
.
Govt. Print. Off.)
10. Labin.
The Techn. of Sov. Prop. p.8
11. Niemeyer, Gehart. Facts on Communism
.
p. 8
12. Hoover,
J.
Edgar.
Masters
of
Deceit
(N.Y.:
Henry Holt
&
Co
.
: c. 1958)
p. 35-6
- - - ( ) - - -
20









THE PAINTING
The key turned in the door and Ken Luteen stepped into the
office. He pushed the light switch, walked over to Mr. Gorman's
desk, and deposited the mail by the vacant
"IN"
tray. He started to
turn around, hesitated, and flicked the wet envelope into the empty
tray. Thus appeased, he retraced his footsteps across the waxed
floor-boards, took a wire hanger off the peg, and hung up his coat
on the back of the door. He removed his hat, shook it, placed it
on the peg, and closed the door.
It
squeaked. For the three years
he had been working for Gorman that noise had irritated him.
He noticed that it squeaked only when someone closed the door.
He promised that he would definitely get around to fixing it this
week.
The lonely clock, in its isolated position on the cream plaster
over Gorman's swivel chair, indicated eight-forty. He had fifteen
minutes to spend before the
"boss"
would arrive and send him
out for coffee and a hard roll.
He reached in the bottom drawer of his desk, withdrew a soiled
cotton rag, and leaning on one hand slowly wiped the surface. He
then proceeded to dust each of the three pictures in the room. He
polished the frigid glare of Oliver Wendell Holmes, stroked Lincoln's
beard, and stopped when he reached the monstrosity by the window.
In
the middle of the picture there was a kind of buckled wheel,
colored black, and darkest in the center. The space between the
outside of the circumference and the extremeties of the picture was
painted a bright azure. It looked like a stretching ink-drop on
a
sky-blue blotter. Nailed to the bottom of the frame was a piece of
casket gold in which the word
'THOUGHT'
was hammered out.
Mrs. Gorman had insisted that it be given "sufficient prominence."
Poor Mr. Gorman!
Mary Gorman, you see, was a self-appointed "modern" of weak
intellect and dominating will, who kept her husband "au courant" in
everything from the graduating class at Vassar to the latest novel
by Kerouac. She was conversant in the trivial, devoid of dignity
and discretion, and liked to think of herself as "progressive". She
bought that picture in Greenwich Village, strutted into the office
with it, and reminded her husband that "we must show good taste
in the office as well as in the home."
21




The collar around Ken's neck seemed to contract and he felt
uncomfortable. He moved over to the window, brushed the pane
with his sleeve, leaned forward until the cold glass touched his
forehead, and looked at the rain-swept street below.
It
had been raining spasmodically all morning and people were
confused as to what clothes they should wear.
It
wasn't raining
now, but the wind had risen, and nervous rain-drops skittered un-
certainly on the window-pane. The little streams continued miracu-
lously to come into being, fuse together, and multiply haphazardly,
and run their random courses down the dirt-sprinkled window
until they reached the green ledge below----where they spread slowly,
joined with the other drops, and blew off the ledge to an uncertain
location on the street below. Meanwhile other streams were born.
Ken watched the children in their black and yellow raincoats
as they came giggling down the sidewalk on their way to school.
The little boy in the yellow raincoat stopped, looked up, stuck out
his tongue, and caught the drop that fell off the tip of his plastic
hat. He smacked his lips and ran on to overtake the others.
Ken recalled the puddle-splashing days of his childhood and the
mustard baths his mother made him take. He smiled,-and tried
to remember if it was Wordsworth who wrote about the child being
father to the man.
Ryan, erect in his dark blue uniform, crossed the street at the
intersection, opened the police call-box, put the receiver to his ear,
and slowly eased the hat back on his head. The morning rain had
,oaked through his hat and left a blue rim on his forehead.
Ken remembered their schooldays together, and considered it a
shame that "ol Buzz" should end up with such a routine j1)b.
An old Negro man ambled out of a doorway near the corner.
He slouched over to the edge of the curb, turned his back to the
wind, and buttoned his flapping tweed overcoat. He pushed on the
brown hat, jamming it down over his tight gray curk He just stood
there by the street-sign and nodded his head each time the traffic
light turned green, at which time a tobaccn spit would spin through
the air and disappear in the gutter. When the light was red he con-
centrated on fwnt wind-shields and seemed to occupy himself with
the pendulous strokes 1,f the wiper-blades.
22











Ken wondered what would interest him when his hair turned
gray.
He moved away from the window and that painting caught his
eyes again.
It
was the caption rather than the painting itself that
annoyed him. Suddenly he hated that picture and this office and
the Gormans-especially Mary. Why should "THOUGHT" be painted
black?
The door opened and Mr. Gorman looked at the clock. He
wrenched off his overshoes and muttered, 'Morning, Kenneth.' He
tossed a quarter onto the wet
envelope.
Ken picked it up and went
to get the coffee.
------0------
THE TEMPORAL MARINER
The clock is but a skiff,
Upon which man takes ship hopefully,
Till Time present croosed
He lands on Time-Eternal's shore.
Sight on the waters in motion
These litle waves,
Rise, reflect a sun ray, and then,
Darken and disappear.
Time past,
Time present,
Time future,
High tide in Time-Eternal.
Billions
of
sails glide on these waters fast;
a scant few minutes are given to man to
discover Thee under nature's
.
frothy veil.
And the voyage is an open spray ...
Time! Thou pass away,
And
I
with Thee ...
23
BROTHER JOHN GILBERT








ESSAY ON ART
I am a product of my age. I shall live most of my life-probably
all of it-in the twentieth century; certainly the main part of my
productivity shall have have passed before the year two thousand.
Here I undertake to express myself on the question of art. Perhaps
if I were older and wiser in the ways of the world I would not say
the things that I wi
s
h to say. My reason for writing is a simple one;
art is a topic that many people talk about without really understand,
ing Now don't think that I am trying to educate Reople, trying to
bring them up to my level of understanding. Rather, look ar
.
this
paper as a conversation, an expression of art as I see it ,and as
f
think
others should see it. Anyone is perfectly free to disagree. Needless
to say there is much room for disagreement-especially in the area of
modern art, the abstract.
5ome people, indeed, many people, refuse to accept the abstract
as any form of anything. Yet I feel that the twentieth century has
come to express itself , to prove its difference from the other cen,
turies. I cannot help but refer to this fact continually. Why do
people reject the abstract in art?
It
is because of ignorance more
then anything else. I do not mean that they lack intelligence but
they lack information as to the nature of art. In all probability they
have never given any serious consideration to this concept
.
Thus
the purpose of this paper. I do not
,
intend to teach, I intend to start
a few cogs moving
.
I cannot cover evervthing, I can only send out
a few threads to start with.
Art cannot
be
defined as "timeless", "beautiful", "expressive".
These are descriptions, not definitions. Art is not a photographic
representation of something concrete and recognizable.
If
art were
thus restricted we could replace the brush and the chisel with the
camera, the pen and the orchestra with the tape recorder, for with
the
s
e instruments nature can be truly captured as it exists in the
,
concrete. No, there must be something more to art.
One who has read Aristotle's Poetics, knows that Aristotle re,
duces all art to "mimesis" and "harmonia" (imitation and harmony).
Now if one accepts this definition, I think he would have to
be
con,
tent with the camera and the tape recorder, for what is more perfect
in imitatmon than a photograph? What is more unified and har,
monious than the photographic reproduction of nature's own work?
24












I reiterate then, that there must be something more to art. What is
this mysterious "something more", this artistic experience or moment?
None has yet found the answer; no one has as yet hit the nail on
the head.
It
would be too time consuming to try to run through
all the propsed answers. Most of the t:heories h•rne their good
points, no one is completely wrong; but all the theories, the one that
I feel points in the truest direction is Aristotle's. For myself, I believe
that art is an imitation, but
it
is in "what and "how" this imitation
is accomplished that I disagree with Aristotle. The standard in-
t
e
Tretation of Ari,totle's term mimesis is an imitation which bring
,
concrete reality to the level of the Universal and vice-versa -
brings
a Universal to the level of concrete reality. This I agree with, but
the whole turn of thought lies in the concept "Universal".
It is generally agreed, to express a universal, let us say "man",
bv means of Aristotel
;
an mimesis, the arti,t must portray one man.
To this man the artist gives perfect physical beauty. The end result
is a "universal man", a man who is ~ike no other man because he
is perfect in every possible way. The only difficulty is that the uni-
versal man will differ from artist to artist. Just grant me this fact that
is perfectly allowable and understandable.
If
you do, you cannot
confront the modern artist who shows you his statue or painting
of man.
If
the artist must imitate this type of universal then every
artist should produce the same universal man. Actually, all that
is produced is
a
man, not a truly universal man.
But I think we can look at this idea of "universal" from another
angle, although the distinction is a hair-line one. In philosophy
courses on the college level we sometimes use the term "universal"
and "essence" interchangeably. We think of a universal idea and
an essence as being the same. I have in my mind an idea which
sums up all trees, so I call it the universal idea of tree
.
or treeness
.
When I see a tree I recognize it as such because of this idea which
I have developed from past experience with trees. The difficulty
comes in the expression of this idea to others. Aristotle savs that
the expression must
be
in the form of a universal. I must express
a tree that is the most perfect tree po'>sible. a universal tree. Aesthetic
~hough tells me that
.J
am bound to express a universal tree. I may,
if I_ wish. express not one tree in particular, but rather something
~h1~h will evoke in
others the essence of trees.
If
I express something
m 01ls that may not look like a tree. but makes you think of trees
.
then possibly this also may be caUed imitation. Johnson says in
25









Rasselas
that the poet - transposed for us into the art
,
ist - must deli-
neate in his portraits of nature such prominent and striking features
as may recall the original to every mind, and must neglect the more
minute details, which one person may have remarked and another
neglected, for those characteristics which are obvious to both the
vigilant and the careless. (see Rasselas, Chapter X. lmlac's disserta-
tion on poetry). I do not claim that Johnson is here defending mod-
ern art ..., I am rather adapting his words, although I do not believe
I am using his meaning. Nonetheless, this is my meaning, and grant-
it we can justify the abstract in art.
Let us spend the next few paragraphs discussing some technicalities
of art. In speaking of philosophy one must use frs terminology to
speak the language of philosophy. In discussing theology, one must
be aware of the nuances in meaning. The mechanic must know his
tools and his parts, the plumber his wrenches and his pipes; the
garrlener his spade and his seeds So too in art, there is a proper
terminology; a proper set of tools. The author, composer, sculptor,
and painter have their own way of saying and analyzing things.
Though this paper concerns itself primarily with the abstract in
painting, what
,
is said here holds true for the abstract in all art.
This remark is necessary lest we lose sight of the fact that progressive
jazz. free verse, contemporary music. and contemporary theatre are
all forms, or manifestations, of modern art. They all are products
of our time, and all are permeated with the same spirit - the abstract.
Whether we speak of symbolism, chromatic tones, dissonance, or
pointillism, we are speaking of art - modern.
But to return to painting, I wish to accent this area because it is
where I feel the most "at home". The terms and concepts which
I wish to discuss are few and simple.
All
painting can be analysed
with them. These basic two terms are: space and form. Most simply
stated, "space" is the area in which the painting is
,
to be executed,
the canvas or surface to be painted. In sculpture, space is the area
inside of which the block of marble occupies. The sculptor must
create the space by removing the marble which happens to be occu-
pying space. In architecture, the artist faces a situation similar to
that of the painter, the control of a spac~ by the introduction of his
architectural forms. Therefore, we can define Form as the con-
trolling factor in the artistic experience. The artist introduces forms
to his blank canvas to control it. This form may be a LaGiaconda
or it may be a dripping of black paint
.
Furthermore, it means com:
26






position. Introducing a form into a space creates a tension, i.e., a
relationship heretofore not established, which relation implies com-
position. This does not occur by chance; there must be some in-
tention in the relation. This is true for all art. Just as we must
cons:der meter, rhyme, vocabulary in poetry, so we must analyze a
painting in terms of its parts. This implies a certain destruction of
the artistic experience.
It
is by use of the terms "space" and "form"
that we can dissect our paintings, statues, buildings into their con-
s
titute parts. As this analysis gets
more and
more involved, we
extend the application of our terms to each part. We study the
painting to determine the space and form, then we analyze each
space and each form in the same manner, in much the same manner
as we cut an apple in half, and then cut each half in half, and
each quarter in half, until we arrive at a point where we can no
longer insert the knife. Once we have considered the whole, we
then go on to consider the parts. We see the landscape, the earth
against the sky then the trees in relation to the earth and sky, then
th
e s
had
o
ws. th~ shading, the texture, and so on until we have con-
sidered each part and its relation to the whole.
Along with space and form we must include the tool of color;
for if space and form express the motion of the painting, it is the
job of color to emphasize this motion and bring it to the point of
evoking an emotion in the beholder. The obvious thing is that color
is essential to painting.
We are all aware of the symbolism of colors - green for fertih
y
or hope, red for passion, such as anger or lust, white for purity, etc.
But there is also an aspect of color which conveys sensations. We
speak of cool blues and greens because they feel cool. We speak of
warm blues or greens because they feel warm. Add green t
e>
~
[,lue ;ind
i
t feels ecol; add red and it feels warm. This may seem
like nonsense, but if you want proof just notice how you feel in a
room with one predominant color scheme. Take the Chapel here
at the college for instance. The predominance of green produces
the sensation of coolness, even when you know it is really warm in-
side. The same can be said for other colors; reds and yellows are
usually hot. Colors can evoke an emotional response - an over
abundance nf dark tones cnnveys sobriety or even sorrow; light and
bright colors can be happy and gay. The primaries of red, blue,
and yellow are carnival colors; pastel shades of pink, powder blue,
pale yellnw are party colors
.
27




















Thus we see that the artist must knllw h,,w t,, apply his
t, ,,,ls
,,f
clll,,r tll his space and fnrm s,1 as to contr,11 it in the best
p,,ssihle way. He must link em,1ti,,n with motilln tll prnduce an
experience w,,rth witnessing.
Thus prepared, we are nnw able to apply nm terminolngy. It
i, :,uffic;ent t,1 say that we can apply these terms
r-,
all art -
cl2
·
·:cl
etc Frnm here lln we shall try tll concentrate lln the area
nf
the
abstract. Let us begin by analngy. Ask the average man tll define
·
a spiral staircase for y,,u . . . nntice the reaction. . . A fumbling
for w,,rds f,,11,,wed by a m,1tion nf the hand in a spiral manner.
You see, rather than defining the spiral staircase he has a visual
explanation. The secnnd analogy is an imaginary one. I am a photo-
"ro.pher (let us su
p
p,,se); I want tn capture nn c
e
llulose
~
ma,
;
s
movement
d
pe,,ple; tn be specific, I should like to phlltograph
pellple mllving in the hustle and bustle of their daily rnutine
.
I
want to capture this rnutine from one aspect - the morning rush
11llur. My scene is Grand Central Station. I choose the balcllny
as the best positi,m from whch to take my shots. From this point
I can catch the h,,rdes as they pour in and out
llf
the statilm, up
fr,,m and down to the platforms. I set up my camera, and at the
right m,1ment, snap-flash, I have my picture.
N
9
w let me explain the analogy. First, if we are permitted t,i
'.l
b
,
r1tkn th,
,,
f,,rmal mode ,,f definition to convey a Cllncrete ,ituation
in n~ality ( the spiral stairc1se), why then can we not do the same in
painting? Th
e
spiral m,1tion of my hand conveys the idea - why
cannnt I p
a
int this m,,tinn
tc
convey the idea? The essential fact,,r
,
,f
a spiral staircase, that which make:, it different from the c,llwen-
ti,,nal staircase is its m,,ti,,n. As for the second analugy, we must
1,,d,
at th
e
situati,m from the p,1int of view of the abstract artist. The
artist d,,es n,,t want
to
paint a crowd of people, he wants to paint the
nwtinn
,,f
a cniwd
,if
people moving in the hustle and bustle of their
daily rnutin
e
. What c,1uld be more typical than a change of perillds
her
e
at th
e
C,lleg
e
- llr at
:
:my college? The artist wants to dn this
in the simr
1
lest,
r
1
urest terms possible. He doesn't want tll ph,,t,,graph
fa
c
es, ,,r r
1
,>rtray
c
,,nversing students; he wants to sh,,w motinn. And
hL· d,,
e
s it in t
e
rms ,,f th
e
spir;:il staircase definiti,m. He intwduces
f,,rm
.
, that will express m,wement - some slnw, some rapid, s,,me
sm,,,,th, ,,,me tu•·hid. He will add meaning to these forms thwugh
th
e
use
,,f
c
,,l,,r. The c,,lllr suggests not the variety of character, but
m,,r
L
'
thL' c,,mr
1
k:-:ity ,,f th
e
n,utine. The forms express the main
28






movements of activity. But what about the space in which this ac,
tivity occurs. There can be no movement without a relation to some
other object, and so the artist must control his space itself in similar
terms; the space must be active too, but not in the same predominance
as the forms are. To suggest a relation a similar palette of color is
used, but the tones and shades are lighter. Sure there is activity
besides the main forms, but this other activity must not detract from
the main idea , the crowds of students flowing from the lecture hall
to lab or cafeteria and so forth. Short and simple, this is the meaning
of the tile mosaics which adorn the entrances of Donnelly Hall, but
I have tried to make the reference vague enough for the person who
might not have the occasion to study them. Needless to say, there
is much more meaning in the mosaics than this, but I feel that such
an interpretation is a starting point in a clearer understanding for
those who have no idea of what the mosaks really mean and of the
terms in which the meaning has been expresed.
It
is their simplicity
which makes them so difficult to comprehend. One tends to look
for more than there really is, and therefore he cannot understand
them. In a sense this is unfortunate.
But enough of particular references. There are other aspects of
the problem of art that you would probably expect me to cover in
our discussion. As I have stated earlier, it
will
be impossible to ccver
everything. You will notice that I have not tried to give any definition
of art: I have only talked about it and some of its mechanics. Another
basic problem is that of the critic. Who is capable of labelling art as
art anyway? Surely it is not
I!
I can tell you why I like a certain
piece of art, and why someone else may like it, but I certainly can,
not tell you just what this mysterious thing that we have called the
"artistic experience" is. As witih other mysteries of the universe
-electricity, fire, etc., I can tell you its effects, but I cannot tell you
what it is; nor can I tell you what makes it what it is. What makes
Poetry, what makes Literature? What makes a Messe Solonnelle or
a Fifth Symphony? What makes a LaGiaconda, or a David? Surely it
is not the poet, nor the author, nor the composer, nor the painter,
nor the sculptor. He is present as creator , maker in that sense , only.
He creates his work of art from mere nothings, but how conscious is
ma_ny an artist of rhe greatness of his work? For himself, his only
satisfaction is that of expressing himself well. But even at this, he
may not receive the greatest satisfaction from his greatest work. In
fact, it is often pointed out that many an artist has received more
pleasure from some of his inferior works than his "chef d'oeuvre".
29






Just what is the artistic experience that is so uncomprehensible that
the artist himself is often unable to understand? As I have mentioned
above, art must give pleasure, but this is such a relative thing: what
pleases me, may not µlease you. As a matter of fact, even that which
;:,leases me at one time may not please me at another ~ime. I may
enjoy cake and ice cream, until I get sick on them - then they no
l,mger please; I may dislike olives, but it is possible to cultivate a taste
for them, eventually coming to appreciate them. Therefore, pleasure
cannot be a standat'd for the artistic experience. And I think that
we will never be able to get ourselves a good one. There are many
factors involved, and probably n,1 set one of them is responsible for
the final product. We cannot say that the universal recognition is a
safe standard either, it is a good one in the sense that some works of
art are recognized, but it cannot account for some of the "go
o
d stuff"
that is forced
to
sit in warehouses because it hasn't been "found" yet.
In concluding I think it a good thing to point out a few facts. The
Mona Lisa captivates the hearts of millions for more reasons than her
smile; Venus deMilo isn't popular because of her embarrassed mod-
esty. The plays of Shakespeare have endured for more reasons than
their words; T.S. Eliot has not reached such stature because of his
incomprehensibility. Progn~ssive jazz is lasting because it means some-
thing. The works of Cezanne, Kandinsky, Dali, Picasso, Miro, Braques,
M,1drian, Pollack, Davis, etc. are being accepted for what they say of
the times in which they were created and the spirit in which they
say it. They reflect the culture from which they spring, and because
they reflect this culture so well they are proclaimed art. They are not
mere photographs
of
eJQternals, they are impressions and expressions
of essential realities. They are the twentieth century as it is now and
o.S
it shall appear t,1 the foll,1wing centuries.
BROTHER JOHN KINCH
- - - { ) - - -
30






FOR WANT OF OKTAVIUS
"erreicht den Hof
mit
Mueh und Not;
in
seinem Armen das Kind war tod."
Goethe, Erkonig.
"reached the castle
in
frantic sweat
in
his arms the child was dead."
He left; he did not tum, but staggered forward.
It
was snowing
and the wind was against him. He felt faint. His hands grasped a
lamppost which was covered with frozen snow. He placed his head
upon them and rested for a moment. Suddenly the clanging
of
a
streetcar was heard. The man straightened himself and walked
towards the station; the streetcar came. He dragged himself aboard
and collapsed into the first vacant seat.
"Where to?" asked the conductor.
"Doebling," he muttered. His lips were so swollen that he could
hardly speak.
"Thirty-five Groschen."
He extended his hand.
It
was blue with cold and red with scars.
In its palm lay some ch'.lnge. The conductor took the amount,
punched a ticket and gave it to him. He made an effort to pocket it,
but it was too much for him. He let the change fall to the floor.
"Jew, no doubt," said the man next to him, explaining to his
wife, but no one paid much attention to the broken man.
Since the "Anchluss", the people of Vienna were immune to
such sigthts. Some felt malice, others contempt, most indifference,
but none felt pity.
The passenger closed his eyes and let his mind wander through the
familiar road, through which his mind ha<d w-ander.ed ov:er and over
for two years. He remembered the night that they were seated in
the living room, listening to the broadcast of Schuschnigg's resigna-
tion. He saw the living room, the kind face of his wife, her brown
eyes, her blue-black hair, her chiseled features. There was also his
da~ghter, Sylvia, who was so much like her mother, perhaps not
quite so handsome, but just as intelligent and sincere.
He thought of Oktavius, who was then just a little boy of five.
31



Upon hearing the speech, Oktavius cried. He remembered, and not
without pain, how he stroked his son's head and comforted him,
saying: "Times and leaders may change, but as long as we are to-
gether, it really does not matter."
"But you may go to war and die," cried Oktavius.
"Yes, I may go to war, but I will return."
Oktavius stopped crying and listened attentively to his father.
"You see, my son, God made it so that only people who have
nothing to live for die; but, I have you and mother and Sylvia to
live for, so I will always come back to you."
"I understand papa, and I am not afraid anymore."
He kissed Oktavius.
"You are a brave boy, Oktavius, and I am proud of you."
Yes, there was Oktavius, the source of his strength, his darling,
his heir and his pride ... Oktavius, his purpose in life.
He wondered how they were and prayed that nothing had hap,
pened to them. He had friends, colleagues, neighbors, they certainly
must have looked after his family.
There were also other memories ... the mnth of November ... the
great massacre of Jews. There was the memory of that day in the
early spring on which he lost his position at the University of Vienna
because of his religion, and that day, two years ago, when they took
him away. His wife and Sylvia went to visit the Feuersteins, and
he was alone with Oktavius, reading poetry to him.
The two men entered abruptly.
"Name?"
"Professor Silberstein."
"Jew?"
After they tore the boy from his embrace, they dragged him
dt)Wn the stairs. He saw Oktavius' yearning eyes and heard his
voice call for him. He would have given his whole life to embrace
him once again.
32







He remembered how his name changed from Professor Silberstein
to Jew Silberstein. He recalled the rifle,butt, that kissed his mouth
and the lashes that spelled "Dachau" on his back. He recalled the
cruelty of the concentration camp and saw mental pictures of the
horror he found there. He felt the hate for his oppressors.
"Doebling."
The passenger opened his eyes and looked out of the window.
Doebling, his house, his family, his life, all condensed into one
word - Doebling.
Every step that robbed his breath brought more happiness into
his eyes, for every step was nearer home. In the corridor he passed
a minor. He hesitated. How he had changed - Two years!
He
studied his wrinkled face, his white hair, his multilated mouth, his
shaking hands. A man of fifty years, he muttered ironically.
"Herr Professor Silberstein?" exclaimed the landlady in surprise.
"Y\ou are back?"
"Good," he murmured with closed lips. "You recognize me. I
was afraid my family would not .
.
.. "
"Your family? Good God! Professor Silberstein," the landlady
said nervously. "I am sorry, Herr Professor, but well ... your
family
was killed, over a year ago."
He clenched and unclenched his hands spasmodically, it was
an horrible sight to watch. His mouth tore open, issuing forth
gushes of blood from his lips.
"And Oktavius?"
"He, too."
The landlady gave some details in regard to the death of his
family, offered her condolences, and explained that the apartment
was still vacant. She pressed the keys into his hand but shuddered
because she had touched a
-
Jew.
When she found him next day, kneeling lifelessly over Oktavius'
little bed, the landlady thought it strange that a cultured man,
who had lived two years of pain and hate, should now die for
for want of a little boy.
GUNTHER
L.
NEUMANN
33












I.
THE
JOURNEYMAN
Dawn
Daylight and night mingle dimly
in the massing melange of
grey at the bottom
of
the sky
and the maples along the road
li{t shaggy heads from the
to Christ Our Lord
shaggy darkness beneath
II.
into a lightening day
in which,
when come,
the night wiH be forgotten
as a dream that's passed away,
but never done.
The
Way
The road walked onward through the woods,
crossed miles by muffled steps and
shuffled years of long passed lives
which, giving life, lay dead
beneath its feet, where boulders
thrust great grey
shoulders
damply into the wandering shade
of
the noon.
And heat beat in the air,
running circles rythmically round
in the dust of the leaves near the road
where it bent :it the edge of a hill ...
aJI
in the forest where heat ran rings
about the great dry trunks of trees.
And the road ran on without stopping
through the heat
that lay in its way in the dust,
into the night, and the clouds,
and the stars, until it too found
that heat passes, and dust can give
life.
34









III.
The Truth
The
slow small
waves let
slip
their dying
strength
in
soft
flutters
on
the
sand
beneath my feet
as
numberless
others
have done
since suns
first began to total up
their
slow small
'
deaths
in marching towards the land
where
some
day I would
stand and
watch
their dyings
count,
and
count,
and count
my passing life
away.
nf
what
value,
then,
to
stand and count,
nf
what use thes~ illimitable dyings,
whether
short,
like theirs,
withcmt the
sting of
passing thought,
or long, like mine, and now
aware of
what the living ::ind the dying mean .
...
how life lived is lost,
already
gone somehow
before begun?
And yet, not valueless it is
tc1 take
and
fill
this passing cup,
•a
nd fill it to the brim with life,
till,
chuckling,
bubbling,
running riot on the
sand,
in
soft small
death it too
overflows beyond the veil
of faith, and time, and death.
Transition
Light on the distant hills in the
long warm blue l)f the afternoon
while the wind speeds on,
ruffling the tops of the trees as it goes,
as it
goes
its way in the sun and
into the night with the coming of
35










V.
VI.
evening's cool .grey dove over
the swaying treetops.
Sunset
And stillness hovers all
in the setting of the day
while one sable cloak succeeds
a hundred others flung
about the shoulders as
though from
hour to hour
to stem the chill
of
longer nights to come.
And darkness soon will fling itself again
around an endless cartwheel of
successive days and
si:lent nights,
till day ends, and night does not begin
And life shall grow
a new eternal love,
while
the passing earth goes round.
A symbolic
experience
The Life
A dark evening
while white moths littered
window panes,
I sat, and heard the world go
by,
yet never stopped to wait and
see which way it went,
but kept my thoughts and
listened at the noise
through the warm twilight
that lovely lay about me ...
in gentle folds upon the sleeping grass.
And I slept too in the grass,
and dreamed, and awoke,
36
















\'II.
having forg,,tten all the dream
and all the Inv,: :!nd all the pain,
having found peace beyond the love and pain,
and slept
again,
and dreamed again
and
lived again,
to
once
more awaken,
but this time
remembering my dream.
And when the dream was remembered,
the
evening grew
longer, longer,
until at last it seemed that
twilight would never end,
and clarity would
ever
live,
for light within
cannot
be kept in darkne~s.
And through the night the dream
runs
on, and
lives
and
loves,
not
one of
these, but both,
not
only
both, but
something
more,
(
and
yet, the
same)
to live, and never dim,
when
comes
the
dawn.
The Metamorphosis of a Person
My soul
slept
noiselessly within me
when the days of my life had not yet
A b irthda Y
awakened
and
star-scarred
darkness
poem to
purred
softly
in
every
the many
corner
to
the tune
of
the humming
spheres.
persons who
An
exercise
make
The bright flashes
of
beloved
objects
in surrealism
one man.
rose
and fell and
rose
and
fell
heating an irregular time
to
their mood
as they worked
on
in
silence
ot
·
er
the
fJatient on
the
anesthetized
table.
And
meanwhile,
within,
seas
stirred,
c·aldrons of white
heat, and
caldrons
of
red
heat, but
T
coulcl
not
see
them
flare up
37












VIII.
when the cold dry dewdrops of the world's condensed
dawns
were
placed, crystal hard, above the substance of the hearr.
I
could
not
cry out over the sweet crystal pain,
for it heaved
in running
undulations
and
stood still
in
clear white lines
when [
tried
to
catch it with
my
heart,
a heart that bruised and silently buckled
in
the dawn.
This
claum,
I
found, came at life's
noon,
when
all the world slept
on in
pleasure,
when
worms alone shared the silence with me,
and
the brilliance of a million
noons
from a forgotten cross began
to
throb within me.
Te Deurn Laudamus
Tell me where I am at dawn,
shout it on the roofs at morn
whisper it when evening comes
The beginning
of a thanks-
giving.
(soft treader on the leaves of years
that fall, ticking seconds from our lives)
and tell aloud the wonders that
my strength has loved.
Tell me where I am at noon,
when the sun has flown to top the day
and swims above the liquid earth
with feet upon
the stormy winds that sweep
the long and fluid planes of blue
we see as earth and sky.
Tell me where we are, the whole of us,
when dawn has come another time
as laughing worlds arise from
agonized horiznns to dispel our fears again,
since life has pased within its way,
paused,
begun again,
and leaped once m,)re to joy filled days.
BROTHER
JAMES HEANEY
38







APPROACHING LITERATURE ... Then and Now
Criticism, as applied to literature, focuses attention on the mul-
tiple aspects of a literary production, to the end of pinpointing their
value and efficacy in relation to an "opus" as a spatial and temporal
entity. A literary work
of
art is an
organic
unity - a union
of
parts.
Its structure represents a composite whose perfection depends upon
the quality
of
each component. As
such,
each constituent part has
a
vital
relevance and meaning in connection with the work as a
totality - a work which itself has a consequent relevance to the
spatio-temporal situation
in which it is produced.
From its beginnings, literature as an art form has undergone
manifold changes in the process of development - changes in content,
subject matter, language,
style,
and the use of techniques. The dia-
lectic of Plato's
Republic has emerged in the sophisticated dialetic
of
Marx's
Capital. From the fictional beginnings of Richardson and
Fielding have emanated the complexity and richness
of
Dickens and
Dostoevsky. The mythological poetry
of
a Milton
or
Byron is com-
pared with the
simplicity
and accuracy
of style
of a Peguy
or
Frost.
In
our own
era a prolix Faulkner is reflected against the terseness
of
Hemingway.
Regardless
of
this
organic
development of the art form, the task
of
criticism has remained basically the
same
- to help bring into
focus the function
of
the arts and
of
the humanities themselves, to
evaluate things in the light
of
certain principles which characterize
the objectives of literature, and above all, to discern the truth or
conformity to reality.
However, because of the human element involved, there is bound
to be a certain freedom
of
choice concerning the approaches to the
question
of
criticism ('freedom' being
one
of
the notable attributes
of our human make-up).
Thus Aristotle would assume an ontological method in his
demonstration
of
literature as
something
true, serious, and useful.
He attempts to discover what literature is via
observation
of phe-
nomena with a view to noting its qualities and characteristics. His
analysis of the poetry
of
his time has
survived
as the
great
monument
of righteous criticism because
of
the depth and extension of the prin-
ciples used - definitions,
objectives,
means, rules, and aesthetic values.
Longirius,
some
years later, would approach the critical "bench"
in the interests principally of one element - sublimity. His point
of departure, too, was one-sided as he considered paramount the au-
39










dience's response to the literary stimulus the basic criterion in judging
the value of a work. His ideas gave impetus to a current theory of
criticism which places emphasis on this very point - and as such it
is called the "affective theory". The Renaissance and Sidney would
attempt a return in the other direction, while at the same time grop-
ing for a weight to balance the scale of literary values. Thus Sidney
shifts Aristotle's notion of imitation in the author to imitation on
the part of the reader. The poet now creates, he becomes the
"maker"; it is the reader who imitates what the poet creates. The
notion would later gain ascendency in 19th century criticism where
the Romantic poets particularly, reverted attention to the author of
the work as the principle point of consideration - rather than regard
the product of art for its own sake. Likewise, Aristotle's "ought11ess"
of probability becomes for Sidney an "oughtness" of a moral order.
Similarly, this concept lingers in some of today's criticism, both in
exaggerated form and in balanced analysis. So that you have Marcel
More's holocaustal concept of Scobie's "sacrifice" in The Heart Of
The Matter, on the one hand; and, on the other, Robert Penn
Warren's rather concise judgment of post-war "code" as portrayed
in Farewell To Arms. In brief, Sidney's Defense of Poetry was an
attempt to combine the humanistic, neo-Platonic and Puritanic tenets
of his time.
Earlier, Horace's "unbane" treatment of the "Art of Poetry"
served to point the way
to
this Renaissance restatement of classical
aims and values. His point of view
seemed
to revolve around the
concept of literature as a structur~d thing - a product of many parts.
Among the critical values of Aristotle, Horace, Longinus and
Sidney (Plato must be considered in a different sense) perhaps those
of the Poetics remain as the inviolable countel'part
of
today's criti-
cism. Therein is elaborated seminally, if not eX!plicitly, fundamental
data of criticism applicable via extension to modern literary produc-
tion, whether fictional, poetic or other. Sophisticated concepts of
style rules, point of view, literary content and form modes of expres-
sion, diction, character portrayal, sequential action, etc. stem from
Aristotle's view of tragedy as a literary form and his noble attempt
to fathom the essential nature of what literature is in terms of mean-
ing and value apropos to a situation in time and space. And by the
law of proportionality that governs all levels of being, modern critics
might find a wealth of critical aids in the deep-rooted analysis of the
Poetics as well as in the ideas of some of the other Ancients.
BROTHER PAUL FURLONG
40
J










CLASSICAL CONCEPTS IN THE
TWENTIETH CENTURY
Classical or Graeco-Romanism is far from dead; and this is so
not because it is classical, therefore having an emotional demand
for continuation, but because it partakes of the essential. In apply,
ing this statement to literature, it can maintained that the basic
issues of classical criticism are relevant when brought to bear upon
contemporary fiction.
Of
course, at the outset of such a discussion
it must be stated that there are certain temporal factors present in
classical criticism, and these must be bypassed in its modernization
in order to appreciate the enduring.
As a point of reference for this consideration of classical tenets
in a modern-0ay context I will employ Graham Greene's
The Heart
of the Matter,
and this for two reasons. The work in itself is a dis,
tinguished, if not among the most distinguished, compassionate
r:,robings into the sublimely wretched human condition
:
Also, the
work is indicative of the current cide of European (as opposed to
American) literature which is an endeavor to re,assert the humanity
of man and his full worth in the scheme of creation; in this wise,
Greene is one with Peguy and Mauriac, Eliot and Unset as a figure
in the contemporary
Catholic
Renaissance
.
On the other hand,
while Greene stands for what is finest in our cultural milieu, he
does not necessarily represent what is typical. let it theri be un,
derstood that those traces of classical doctrine which are to be
remarked in our fiction propose the txpectation that the typical will
evolve into the superior.
Of all the classical texts on criticism, it is Aristotle's Poetics
which is today most meaningful. While perduring truth is to be
found in some aspects of imitative theury explained by Plato and
utiliarian theory urged by Horace, one can say that within the
broad outlines of the Arstotelian frame these very concepts could
be bro
ll
ght to bear significantly upon modern fiction.
It
will
be
necessary to deal explicitly with the sublime which is developed
by
Longinus and then see i+-s seminal implications in the Poetics, and
its supplementary ramifications in the
Ars
Poetica.
In
other words,
the approach is to be synthetic rather than analytic.
The matrix of classical criticism is mimesis, and for Aristotle
this involves the imitation of the form of things. Here is the finest
expression of what is misnomered, "modered realism". Realism as
41






a doctrine must be comprehended in its truest extension, i.e., the
representation of the essence of things informed with an
esse, or
the imitation of cognized reality. With this in mind attention can
be diverted to that most necessary application of critical theory,
the contemporary literary scene. To discuss current fictional trends
outside of those already broad areas marked off by an understanding
of realism is meaningless, for the point has been reached wherein
the mind of man is so troubled by the complexity of established
reality that the illusory has no place. This is a moment
to
search
for truth, not its definition.
To turn to the structure of a fictional work as found in Aristotle's
consideration of tragedy as the imitation of an action is to find the
most rounded delineation of the realistic theory in its pragmatic
context. At the outset, it must be granted that things rarely happen
as they appear to happen, and it is only through the mind's eye
that the truth of an issue, or the real, can be grasped.
Both in Aristotle and ir, the superior fiction, plot is the main
issue. Generically speaking, the novel has accepted the necessity of
olot; and in fact, the seminal idea of the novel form is that of plot.
However, when considering unity in action, there is much discrep,
ancy. Certainly no author would maintain that his work was untidy
or disunited unless he himself thought it poor; yet many novelists
maintain that unity in their work is to be grasped through subtle
understanding on the part of the reader despite a superficial dishev,
elment. Now in turning to our exemplar, it can be seen that the
concern of the great novel is, as it were, one. Greene relentlessly
pursues one thing, and this alone: Scobie's situation. Therefore,
in its more noble aspirations the current novel does etnbody the
principle of uni,ty.
In studying character one must accept the fact that those areas
in which suitable literary characters were to be found for the an,
cients have been all but shattered by two historical events: Christian,
ity and evolution. The first of these has had the effect of widening
the scope of literary interest beginning with a compassionate view of
human weakness and ending with a complete toleration of moral
evil, indeed a strange irony
.
While this approval
of
ethical deviation
does exist in many instances, there are moments of moral uplift in
current literature. Thus, the spiritual ordeal of Scobie can be seen
as an edifying example of the quest for the good. As the modern
42









novel strives after the breath of noble utterance, it does so through
characters who are constructed often with as much meanness as
greatness. Here the application of classical norms must be accom-
modated to the effects of the historical phenomenon. Revolution
has had its repercussions in literature particularly through the estab,
lishment of the bourgeoisie as the focal point of society. The Aris-
totelian "Magnanimous Man" has become the thrifty shopkeeper and
the morally feeble manufacturer. The goodness of contemporary
characters as revealed in the purpose of their action must be seen
not in light of classical objectivism, but rather with an awareness of
modern subjectivity.
At this point it might be well to distinguish the areas of realism
as ancient realism, nineteenth century realism, and the direction
taken by interpretative realism of the twentieth century or Christian
realism, which I believe is in many aspects a return to classical
realism. This is what Auerbach implies when he reveals: ..
I came to understand that modern realism in the form
it reached in France in the early nineteenth century is, as
an aesthetic phenomenon, characterized by complete
emancipation from ( the doctrine of levels of representa-
tion). This emancipation is more complete, and more
significant for later literary forms of the imitation of life,
than the mixture of le
sublime with le grotesque pro-
claimed by the contemporary romanticists. When Sten-
dhal and Balzac took random characters from daily life
in their dependence upon current historical circumstances
and made them the subjects of serious problematic, and
even tragic representation, they broke with the classical
rule of distinct levels of style, for according to this rule,
everyday practical reality could find a place in literature
only w
i
thin the frame of a low or intermediate kind of
style
.
that is to say. as either grotesquely comic or plea<.-
ant, light, colorful. and elegant entertainment. They
thus completed a development which had long been in
preparation (since the time of the novel of manners. and
more pronouncedly since the Sturm und Drang and early
romanticism). And they opened the way for
MODERN
REALISM.
which has ever since developed in increasinglv
rich form in keeping with the constantly changing and
expanding
REALITY
of modern life.
1
'Eric Auerbach,
Mimesiss The Representation of Reality in
W
csccrn
Literature, tr. Willard Trask (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1953),
p.
554.
43








Let us not confuse classical rules, which more often than not bear
the imprimatur not of the ancients but of the neo-classic pedants,
with classical realism, which Auerbach has almost lost track of
in
the above remark. And this I cited to mark the historical-literary
continuum of realism-the basis of both modern and ancient criti-
cism.
It
is in those areas that we can perceive that discontinuity
wherein classicism as a pat theory becomes inoperative today.
In actuality, there are two significant dimensions to literary theory
of antiquity as put forth in the treatise On
the Sublime. The first
of these is that of stylisic composition. With its foundations in a
stratified society, ancient emphasis on decorum in composition must
be completely remolded in order to
be
applied to
prose fiction
written in our era. True, in keeping with consistency of character
the minimal laws of decorum must find their place in our literature,
but the role of the figure is in need of re-evaluation since language
can be elevated only in relation to the position of those who
speak
or established editorial personality. The other dimension which has
more bearing upon the present literary scene is that of transport.
With Coleridge's
Biographia Litteraria the reader was reborn in
critical theory, and has remained a principal figure ever since. Now
this aspect of ancient criticism, which is by no means thoroughly
typical of Graeco-Roman culture, is present in the modern novel
within the province of illusion, or, from the reader's point
of
view,
"the willing suspension of disbelief". While grounded in reality,
the novel provides for its reader a transition
into
another order of
experience.
Today readers have in the novel a life-extention agency:
a means not to the prolongation of physical existence, but
to an expanded mental participation in the whole ran~
of human experience. As Bernard de Voto has said:
'The mass and tension of modern fiction have opened up
areas of experience, states of consciousness, and a variety
of themes if not
of
emotions that the novel did not deal
with before.' Modern fiction has overpassed former
boundaries -
strengthened, varied, developed its proces-
ses and scope.
It
reflects the activities, the complexities,
the human, social, and moral problems, the satisfactions
and inquietudes of the modem world with a more per-
vasive radiation than any other form of writing.
2
2
Helen
E. Haines,
What's in a Novel (New York: Columbia Uni-
versity Press, c. 194 2),, p. 3.
44




And this is accomplished through the conventions of our a~ where
the reader acc';:pts the transport proposed by the author, and often
merely for its own sake, and not, as Longinus decries, for the sake
of persuasion in a moral proposition.
Values of emotional release, of emotional appeasement,
of imaginative stimulus, of imaginative surrender, simple
values of entertainment -
these are all implied in the
art of the novel. Accepted by the ordinary reader
instinctively, without conscious recognition, these values
hold the secret of the novel's universal appeal; and as
the province of the novel is enlarged and enriched
by new channels of communication, by an increasingly
insistent factual reality, they make it more and more
the great medium of human understanding, the most satis,
fying means to vicarious participation in the common
emotions, the moving aspirations, the tragic experiences,
the obscure vicissitudes, and the simple pleasures of
human life and human nature.
3
Within this realm of transport, then, can be seen what was at the
base of Aristotle's moral demands upon literature, and even the
operative force of his theory of kathar-is. Association with the in,
cident in the piece of fiction brings about a salutary response in
the reader.
The sacrificial drama of Scobie becomes the comedy of human
nobility, while at the same time it is the tragedy of human folly.
It is for the reader to compassionate, to judge, to ponder, to fear.
The end of such a discussion is to realize not that the ancients
possessed the genius to prophecy and promulgate immutable literary
laws, as if by divine decree, but to realize that human nature is
itself immutable and immortal, and that the literature of man will
constantly reflect the reality of which he is aware.
BROTHER
EDMUND
SHEEHAN
,
ibid., p. 16.
45







TO NEVER FORGET
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! A harsh, domineering bell clamored
a command for all to stop work. The machines stopped. They had
whined all day as if in a giant nursery full of metal babies having
an eight hour tantrum, demanding the undivided attention
of
a herd
of blue collared governors. The bell stopped after its prescribed
twenty-one clangs and there was a brief moment of silence. The
silence was the signal for the men to raise their heads.
From a myriad of partitioned stalls and fenced in departments
came a surging swaying herd.
It
stopped in front of a punch clock.
The clock was small, wider than tall in dimension. The overall
design was in keeping with the contemporary trend; sleek and trim.
But as the herd forced itself into a procession and moved forward,
I could see nothing but a squat, gluttinous time god. As each body
moved forward, it would pause, bow its head slightly, and offer a
card. The insatiable, metal deity would devour the offering, secrete
an inky spittle from some hidden salivary gland, and spew it back
at the bearer. The procession moved on, sometimes forward some-
times sideways.
It
moved like a giant caterpillar, gathering thickly
in some areas and stretching thin in others - always moving, gather-
ing, stretching. I tried
to
free myself from t1he continual shoving
and persistant prodding that is the life of all processions. With some
effort I escaped to the front of the slithering thing and presented my
offering. Again the clock swallowed voraciously. This time as the
card received its black anointing it was accompanied by a dark
mechanical litany, before being vomited back up to me through its
cold metal throat. When I touched the card again, I felt the sick,
muddy sensation
of
profanity ooze through my body.
!
swallowed
nervously to stifle the feeling. The swallow offered no relief so I
moved on to place my card in a rack. After giving up my card to a
slot prescribed by some greater deity, whom I had never been priv-
ileged to behold, I paused to examine my conscience. Satisfied that
my obligations had been fulfilled, I turned and walked down a long
dark green corridor toward the light.
The light seemed particularly bright today and I quickened my
pace. Others too, who had gathered in the corridor noticed the
exeptional brilliance in the doorway. As we moved forward, I
could hear the murmuring and muted sound of exitement gallop
through the herd. We moved faster, past some painters who were
46





repainting the corridor a light brown hue. The light came nearer
so we quickened our step again. By the time we reached the door
we were nearly in stampede.
I leaped through the door into a bright pool of light. The
sun splashed me with its warmth and melted the icy fingers of
the cold possessive time
god that clutched at our souls from the
dark lofts of the organized barn. I took a free breath and trotted
toward my car. I had traveled several yards before
l
realized
that my wife had taken the car to complete her weekly chores.
Every Tuesday my wife drove this alleged boon of organization.
If
they only knew how it had me saddled! I shrugged my shoulders
to an imaginary audience and turned towards home. My home
was on the west end of town so I walked into the sun.
It
smacked me in the face with a gentle firmness that first startled
and then soothed me. The feeling was like that of a father who
disciplines out of love. First we are shaken by a hand of his tre-
mendous force, then we are soothed by the warmth of his love. I
glanced up into the sun. My God! How liquid, how warm, how
molten it was. I started directly into the golden sphere. I became
so blinded that it was hard to see that I was still in a corral. The
fence stretched far and wide with gates bearing shiney tables of
"Home" and "Government" and "Community" to be sure. But,
they were too heavy for one man to open, and the extremes of the
fence itself were joined together by the bands of holy o~ganization
and I was trapped inside.
I continued to stare and the feeling of capacity left me. Stare
at the sun? Why I hadn't done that since I was a small boy. How
long ago it was. Now I know the meaning of "Once upon a time .... "
There was a magic time, once, when I galloped freely through
the country grass. I pranced over stone walls and trotted through
fields. I cantered over sloping knolls and walked down country
lanes. Then came the time for relaxing. I would pl
o
p in a heap
under the warm sun, refusing any attention to my limbs whose
varied directions suggested the unsteadiness of a new born colt.
On just such a day late in September, I was plopped in my
usual fashion staring at the grass. I was watching the blades carry
on a great war. The green blades were fighting a battle with the
47






brown. September threw all of her powers to the brown and the
end of the battle was near at hand.
It
was so one-sided that even a
sympathetic vision distorted by tears could not but admit that na-
ture's final hew would be a dark, desolate brown.
My sadness was interrupted by some sounds in the distance. I
looked up to see several of my brothers in a rather loose, impatient
procession. They were moving toward the cellar entrance but their
progress was impaired by their cumbersome possessions. They clung
to a large piece of soil pipe, some scrap boards, and a round m~tal
container. I rose from my grassy bed and ran over to them. I met
them at the small entrance and we moved about in confusion for
a few moments. Then, quite unconsciously, we split into two groups.
The older three brothers collected their tender talents and loose
lumber and built a tripod of d~bious dependability. The rest of us
made motions to help, prancing about the workers, moving here and
there, but all too briefly to be of any use. We were still colts and
not used to harnessing ourselves to one task for more than a few
moments. The older trio ignored us for a time. They were too busy
with important matters
to
be distracted by our youthful antics. They
proceeded with the enthusiasm of spirited yearlings to move the
soil pipe into place.
It
was a clumsy cumbersome thing to handle.
The two would not give up, however, and after working with the
strength and patience of draft horses, they succeeded in hauling the
pipe onto the tripod. We all paused to see the crude facsimile of
a cannon.
For a few moments there was no movement; no sound. Then
someone cleared his throat.
It
was Dan. He stepped forward as
we all had expected
,
He was the natural choice for several reasons.
Among them, his past record of successful enterprises and his posi-
tion of first-born. Somehow, in spite of his tender years, he com-
manded that dignity which made him keeper of those abstract family
rights that refused to die with primogeniture. He stood directly in
front of the new born weapon that lay in its wooden cradle. He
opened the container that he bore and christened the cannon with
black powder. Next came paper wadding, then small stones, bolts,
ball bearings, and a few marbles. The rest of us watched with awe
as the curly-maned twelve-year old thrust the made-shift ram rod
home for the last time. Dan struck a match. it went out. We
shuffled about. He struck another; this time with an adroitness that
de us forget the awkwardness of the first attempt. The new
48











born spark met the fuse with a burst of enthusiasm.
It
danced
wildly along to the accompaniment
of
the spitting sputtering partner.
After exhausting the talents of the tired fuse, the r~tless spark
leaped into an ominous black powdery world and destroyed itself
in a loud
BOOM!
Destruction flashed, the cannon
split,
and we bolted. We re,
covered our composure, though, in plenty of time to see what
resembled the inventory of a hardware fire sale climb toward the
sun.
We lost the pattern for a few moments in the bright, golden
sphere,
but found it again as it broke
on
the roof
of
our neighbor's
house.
A
new pattern immediately filled the air composed of shingles
dancing crazily toward the blue.
Mr. Olkey, the owner
of
the heseiged dwelling came running
outside.
He was
screaming
wildly and looking toward the sky. He
was too exdted to be aware
of
his
screams
being part of a
strange
duet with the dying echo
of
the cannon. He could not
comprehend
what had happened. Only when the last few
shingles cascaded
from the roof and fell upon him, did he realize what had happened.
He
stood
frozen for a moment. One
of
the broken
shingles
that had
fallen chose to rest
on
his
shoulder, stayed
for the duration
of
his
dumbfounded pose. From a distance he resembled
some
s
mall town
hero with his glorious legend
blasted
.1way;
a
bewildered,
slack-jawed
commander with his
single
wooden epaulet. He moved and his rank
fell to the
ground.
He turned and faced our home, and rank or
not, his look told us that he planned to invade
our
property. He
came
toward us, not with the
speed of
a
calvary
charge, but the
sure
deliberate
step
of a milkman's mare. On and
on
he came,
oblivious
of
the bushes that were in his path
or
the long grasping
arms of the raspberry hedge that reached
out and
clutched at his
clorhes. He
saw
no obstacle through his angry eyes. Like the old
mare, there was nothing between him and his
goal
but a prescribed
number of
steps.
We had again lost the composure that we had
so
recently gained
after
the blast. Feeling naked to ourselves
and
exposed to this angry
wrath we crept to the cover
of some
large,
old
lilac bushes. By doing
so
we lost an excellent vantage point but we all considered the
sacri-
hce worthwhile.
Knock
1
Knock! The
sharp sound
told us that Olkey had reached
49





his goal. We listened to the remarks but were too far away to under-
stand all that was said. There was something about, "Who would
pay ..
.
" and, "Never in my life has anything like rhis ... " also
" ... should be punished ... ," and " ... my poor wife in the bath-
room ... ," and several unintelligible phrases. Our neighbor domi-
nated the conversation, his anger insisted on that much. Though
much of the conversation was unintelligible, we could tell from the
silent signs that his greatc::st pleasure would be to put us to the wall
and annihilate the entire group of us with our own cannon. He had
come with the sure steady step of an old milkman's mare but his
eyes were shiny and his nostrils flared like a head stallion whose
domain has been challenged.
Yet, with all of his stomping and braying to our mother he be-
came frustrated. She had received the news calmly. "Certainly we
would pay ..
.
," and disciplinary action would be meted out to the
young before the day was over. Olkey left briskly. His demands
had been satisfied and yet he looked perplexed as if something was
missing. Olkey slowed his pace and looked back toward our house.
He then continued on home
,
without ever regaining his early speed.
Perhaps he never realized that what was missing was a state of
hysteria from mother to complement his own.
In the days that would follow, Olkey's roof would be repaired.
But this day was not yet ever. Mom came down the steps and
scanned the area for her wild charges. She saw no one, we were
saved, temporarily, from reprisal by the thick lilac bushes. Mom
went back to the house and we heard no more of the incident
until father came home.
Dad sat in his usual chair ant1opating the coming meal. He
enjoyed the evening repast more than any other.
It
was more than
necessary su
s
tenance.
It
was the final nourishment of the day.
The one meal and one time whose combination provided food
and ,contemplation to nourish both body and soul. This day the
evening meal lost some of its satisfaction. After being served a
generous portion of our adventures, the metaphysical qualities
took a temporary second place. A darting sternness came to his
eyes. He looked at each of us separately. Each of our return
stares collapsed before his concentrated effort. We tried to continue
eating as inconspicuously as possible.
The silence
continued
throughout the meal.
It
was one of the loudest condemnations
50





I can remember. The meal was finally over.
It
had dragged on
but not long enough, as the demands of discipline had sculptured
a new e:x:pression on dad's face. We all wanted to leave rhe table.
But, during such moments of paternal scrutiny,
to
fade into the
activity of the evening was impossible. Dan slid from his chair as
unobtrusively as possible. He had sat only one seat away from dad
so the silent, smooth, continuous escape attempted was doomed
to
failure.
It
was like assuming an air of nonchalance while naked
in church. Dad rounded up all of his straying cha11ges. We were
corralled in the kitchen and broken of a habit that produced re-
percussions beyond our control.
It
took force, understanding, and
love applied with a sensitivity of a parent to produce a lesson
bold enough to penetrate the dense minds of us yearlings. We
were blessed with just such
·
parents. When the sun first kissed
the western mountains we were aware of what untamed energy
was capable of. When the west's purple arms embraced the hot
red sphere our corral was opened. And when the sun gave itself
completely to the earth we ran free under a new birth of stars ...
once upon a long time ago.
I was almost home now. I could see that my wife was home.
Supper was undoubtedly prepared, and on the table. Theresa
was quite dependable that way. Poor thing, she was caught up
in the race too. I entered the house and after the evening greetings,
sat down to the expected meal. I completed supper with several
oatmeal cookies. I hadn't noticed it before, but I was gradually
acquiring a taste for oatmeal. We would have oatmeal for break-
fast. I heard somewhere that it was the proper way to start the
day.
The children arose from the table and began to play near the
window.
"Oh, look at the pretty sunset", the little one cried.
I came to the window and looked out. The wide, white window
sash obstructed my view. I had to bend down to the chidren's
height to see the beauty of the sun's daily farewell to man.
JOHN RICHARD
- - 0 - - -
51











DRAMA AS A TEMPORAL EXPERIENCE
This essay is more or less an attempt to analyze drama from
what one would call ar. aesthetic approach, an approach which could
be applied to not only this particularly human form of art, but to
any other: music, painting, sculpture,
or
poetry.
Indeed, it is in
more ways than one an approach which evolved from considerations
of these other art forms, and may be thought of as an effort to
synthesize these considerations into a coherent whole. These notions
are not entirely original, but are rather developments of thoughts
culled from other sources, of which I feel conscience bound to cite
at least a few. Among them are:
The Nature of Dramatic Hlusion,
by Charles Morgian;Music
and silence, by Gisele Brelet; Notes on
the Superposition of Temporal Modes in W arks of Art, by Micheline
S~uvage (all three
·
of which appear in Susan Langer's anthology,
Reflections on Art) and Hegel's Philosophy of Art. Others will be
mentioned as they come up. Besides this there are certain other basic
orientations of thought, less apparent however, which I will try to
point out briefly as I come
to
them; though they are by no means
essential to the scheme of the whole essay, and perhaps could even
be done without. I include them to
·
open up more areas
of
interest
for the reader of enquiring mind,
as
well as for the reader
who
may
know a great deal more about the topic than I do.
I go to the theater as a person. Perhaps I have uever seen this
particular play acted out before; perhaps I have never even heard of
it before tonight. Or, I may have read it, or seen it before innumer-
able times. Whether I have or not is not really important, because
tonight I am going to
see something
that I have never actually seen
before: this particular concrete representation
of
a life situation,
a representation which will be played before me for a certain length
of time, which will end, and which will be ended as a particular
work of art with the close of the last curtain. Once that curtain
has closed, the work of art may be repeated, at another time, it may
be imitated, by the other players; but it is always
in these cases
another work of art, even though all stem from the
same
common
source. I, who go to see this particular dramatization, am going to
a unique event, and I go moreover, as a unique person, one with a
battery of life experiences especiaJ.ly my own, life experiences which
have formed me as the individual that I am and no other. I possess
them both consciously and
subconsciously, as
they have affected me
.
I react in accordance with them sometimes, and sometimes I choose
52








not to react in the manner they dictate. In the first case I
may ex-
perience pleasure, in the second, pain, tension, an unrest which I may
not even be able to explain.
This person who I am lives in an instant he would, if asked,
call the
present, but this present is not just a temporal point in the
great flux of constant duration. (The moment I call "now" is really
made what it is, is made meaningful both consciously and uncon-
sciously by these past events we have spoken of.) These past events
in my own personal inner life are also accompanied by other events
which were intrinsic to me at their time of occurrence, events which
perhaps shaped the lives of many another person besides myself.
Moreover, this immediate second of my existence before the curtain
goes up on the play that I am about to see has also a potential as-
pect; it is not only a sum of the past, it is orientated to the future
and has the potency to participate in and create in this future.
In
short,there is a separation between the play as it will be and myself,
and this separation may be said to constitute a sort of nothingness.
When we call this a nothingness, what do we mean? We know
that in philosophy, particularly current philosophy, there is a great
stress on the
person in the world. We know that there is also a great
interest in the relationship of this person as he is in himself to what
he is not. Thus did Sartre write
Being and Nothingn
.
ess, the great
existentialist manifesto, stressing especially in human relations the
"encounter" with the "other".
In
art, one must realize that the
moments of nothingness in the piece of art (the rests in music, the
areas of space in modern painting, the caesura! pause in verse, the
shell of stone which has been removed in the creation of a statue)
have an important place in the real being of the thing as it is in its
moments of even the most flamboyant existence. A thing is only
because of the things it is not: I am in that position I call "here"
because you are in the position I call "there"; I am this particular
size, shape, and so on, because of the space which surrounds me,
space in which I do not exist. In the case of a piece of music, a play,
or the moment before I turn a corner to find myself face to face with
Dali's
Christ of St. John of the Cross, there is a nothingness in regard
to the work of art, a moment made up of all my past, an instant
which will never come again. This is the moment which defines
what is to be when the curtain rises, the first instrument speaks, or
I turn that corner and see for the first time the beautiful, tortured
body
of
Dali's Christ. Not for nothing, then, did Paul Claude! write
in
Le~ Muses, the first of his Five Great Odes:
53






0 mon ame! le poeme n'est point fait de
ces lettres que je plante comme des clous,
mais du blanc qui reste sur le papier.
My
soul! the poem was never made of
these letters that
I
plant like nails, but of
the white that remains on the paper.
A more humorous example of this definition of the existent by the
non-existent may be seen in the modern statue rhat many are famihar
with, Hunger: a seemingly humanoid form in marble with a large
hole in the central portion of its anatomy.
When the play begins this crucial moment of nothingness is
interrupted, and in the vague miasma of our swirling thoughts occurs
a very important event: our first look at the stage. Speaking on a
purely perceptual level, we see space, we see forms in the space.
These forms, who are people, move, and we know then that they are
real, existing, living objects. When they speak we become aware of
them on a new level: they, as we, are persons. Above all, we, through
~heir movement and speech, are conscious of time and its passing.
But, these are notions of more interest to the impressionist or
cubist than to the critic. One seeing the above just as it was stated
would undoubtedly think it a rather incomplete and mechanical
explanation of an artistic perception, and he would certainly be right.
True, I see forms, I see movement, I hear speech, all occurring in a
certain space before me. But, why do I recognize these forms, why
do I immediately know that if an object looks like a man, and speaks,
it is a man, a character in the play? Why is this space before me
more than just a void occupied by forms? The answer to this ,pro-
vides the key to a great many more questions we
will
have to ask as
we continue to consider drama. This answer, of course, is
memory.
Lt
is because of my past associations, those
,
associations, which were
only potential before the play began. These are the means by which
I almost immediately identify all that which passes before me, and
not only identify it, but also view it in a certain light, as it has been
related to me in the past, if it has so been. But, this imposition of my
past experiences on the present moment does not relate to the
objects
on the stage on a purely conscious level: it also brings certain associa-
tions to bear on these objects which are of a more subconscious nature.
My past tends to create and give meaning to my present, meaning
which is particular to me alone, and which to a certain extent no one
54





else can share, precisely because a great deal of this is unconscious,
inexpressable. This, I believe, is the first step to what we call em-
pathy: the memoraitive creation of the present by the past, the exter-
nalization of what we are (what we have been) in a real concrete
person, or objeot. This is plausible for the following reasons: first,
our perception of objects and subsequent awareness
of
them seems
to proceed by means of association: second, the object thus perceived
takes on the nature of an image which is specifically related to each
of us; and third, this
,
irelation tends to be different for each one in
detail, though it may, and usually does, make a general impression
common to all.
Further, the spacial events we see on 11he stage are also of necessity
temporal, and each is linked to those whioh preceded it by memory.
Hence, each event in the play also has meaning as related to all the
other events before it. Through memory we find the same phenom-
enon we find in painting, in drama: movements and words become
meaningful actions, which all combined, become what we call plot
~
If
we follow the Scholastic principle, operatio sequitur esse, from plot
we obtain our fullest understanding of character.
However, our encounter with drama is more than this, although
i,t is memory which provides t:he basis for our first level, aspect, of
empatihy. We know that in watching drama, our emotions are arous-
ed, though in a lesser degree perhaps than were the emotions of the
theatergoers who were treated so harshly by Plato in the Republic.
This emotion is also somewhat extrinsic to the memorative empathy
we have discussed, although it is a direct result of it as we shall see,
and is perhaps much more of a conscious phenomenon than the mere
associations we tend to exude around the situations presented to us
on the stage. Such emotion could come about for only one reason:
namely, that these characters who act out human life on the stage
have become real to us, and we are concerned with their welfare,
their fate. Aristotle would call this th
~
e pity element of our emotional
katharsis. But, this does not tell me whence the reality of these
characters has come. Aristotle would say that there is also an element
of fear involved
.
Here perhaps, is the key to the reality of the char-
acters I behold. for one onlr fears for oneself truly, and for others
only insofar as they have become a part of oneself. When we re-
member that my image of a character is very much made of what my
Past would have me think of him, and combine this with the notion
of self-identification indicated by fear, we see a ready basis for the
55










emotional side
of
empathy: I fear for him, I pity him, beoause he is
me, he lives by means of me. Even the very sequence in which he
lives is a creation allowed by the grace of my good will. The char-
acters are real because my creative imagination has made me one with
them, and they with me so that I react to the events of the play with
them, as I would reaot
if
such things really happened to me. Drama
is not only a creative experience for the author and actor, but also for
the spectator.
The conscious state of the spectator, then, is one of emotion con-
nected with past experiences, the whole being, evoked by the identi-
ficatiion of the viewer with the actor. Dramatic illusion, that by
means of wihich this conscious state comes about, may be called a
sort
of
elan vital, elan createur:
but, insofar as I must receive
im-
pressions from that which is outside
of
me, it is also receptive.
In it, "tihe other" which is the drama, and myself, are united into
one which is
our
rapport. That this conscious state is
intimately
united with each consecutive progressing instant of my attention is
the basis of our next large consideration. But before we begin it, it is
necessary to say that this present instant I speak of is the same sort
of
instant I designate by the word
NOW.
It
is my immediate aware-
ness of the play as it moves each second away, each event away,
from the instant when it began. This instant is differentiated from
all that has gone before by change, by disparity with the past which
memory tells us has gone before. This is the difference that makes
the present essentially what it is qua present. Thus the essence of
the dramatic present for the
spectator
is its difference, and the
sign
of its passing is change, while both together make up time.
I mention time because the drama essentially is a temporal form
of art: there is division and progression in it just as there are move-
ments in the sonata, dual themes in the nocturne, subplots in the
novel, and stanzas
in
poetry. Our perception of painting and
sculp-
ture are also temporal matters, although the works
of
art themselves
do not actually change while we examine them: we only discover
new details as we continue to look at them, and consequently our
relationship to them grows more precise and
subtle
as we get to know
them more perfectly. All these forms of art, then, would
seem
to
begin and end and
be
diV'isible. All are bounded by and defined by
nothingness: though the "melody lingers on," thP. song must neverthe-
less end, just as
once
we have seen El Greco's landscape of Toledo
we must
sooner
or later tum to
see
his V~sion of St. John, and no
56












longer see the eerie valley shudder under thunderclouds. What I
wolllld like to bring out is that each of these things has a
form,
in
the :philosophioal sense of the word, a completeness which makes the
individual notes, or brush strokes, or words, unite into the one cohe-
rent whole which we would oall the piece itself. This is what makes
the work of art what it is, not only generioally, but specifically. This
is what makes Lizt's "Liebestraum" different than Chopin's "Polo-
naise in A Fl
a
t;" thougih, there are certainly many other noticeable
differences of the first order. In the temporal arts wherein the form
begins from nothingness before us,
,
and works its way to a complete
whole, the progression may take many devices and turns along the
way. Moreover, this form is divisible, and may not follow one single
thread in its development: rather it may use ait times the play of
simultaneous forms over and against one another. Thu
s
, forms de-
velop within forms, just as phrases in music cover and merge wirh
one another while all the while united by l'hyithm. In modern pro-
gressive jazz, the very rhythmic patterns may be used to offset one
another. The Renaissance contrapuntal forms of music did this with
melodies. In drama this may take such forms as the action
s
of the
different characters on the stage at the same time: or, as in
Blood
Wedding,
a play in verse by Federico Garcia Lor
,
ca, the character
s
and their essential make ups may be contrasted with one an
o
ther as
they come to
,
the fore (the conscious) in the play. The sub-plot is
another variety of this, and in such a case different situations may
contrast or harmonize with one another.
These, then, are general notions of form. But, this form is itself
composed of other elements, elements which make it one wiith the
duration in whioh it moves. These are the elements which give the
form its meaning: by
.
,
meaning I intend that which makes the play
exist for me in a special way, that dynamic relationship which unites
me with it so th
a
t there are no longer two things, but one. The three
elements are Tension, Motion, and Resolution.
When I g
o
to
a play, the pa
s
t associations I bear with me have
fallen into certain patterns: I naturally perceive certa
,
in keys in the
plot that tell me pretty much what will happen next. Likewise, the
chamoter whom I have created by my empathy also evokes certain
"stock" responses in me, which responses are founded on the
·
usual
things I would do in a similar situation
w
that in which the actor
finds himself. In the characters with whom I do not so strongly em-
pathize, there are still to be found expected patterns. Likewise, the
57






words of a charaoter as set down by the author as susceptible to many
different interpretations, and these words naturally indicate the real
chamoter
of
the person by whom they are spoken. These are the
things that are expected. But, do they always occur in the way we
expect? Not in a great drama, as most of us can testity. This is not
to say that things must develop in a way totally different from that
which we expect, but that often in drama, there is a surprising inter-
play of what we expected to see and what actually does happen.
Sometimes our expectations are fulfilled, somet
,
imes not in the indi-
vidual actions of the progressing play. The same is true of the char-
aoters: sometimes they react to their situations as we would expect
them to, and sometimes not. The important thing is that a certain
disparity has been created between what I expected to see, and what
I actually did see. There has been a tension created by the interplay
of sub-forms in the total form.
There are also other types of tension created in the very nature
of the play. Examples are that of real time as we live it, and the
imaginary time of the st
,
age into which we, by our imagination, are
drawn. There is also the fact that the play is an incomplete whole,
a thing which has burst the veil of nothingness into being, and now is
slowly working itself out towards its condusion: it is incomplete, and
is striving for completion; we might caH this the relation of process.
In addition to these there is also the emotional conflict of the char-
acters within the play, a conflict which is also our own. The point of
all these is that each is a .-elation, a dynamic one, in which I and the
play change meaning to one another constantly as it develops.
The second notion, that of motion, is really summed up by saying
that it is the constant progression of the present moment into the
future. Motion itself is incomplete, or as a Thomist would put it,
the act of a being in potency insofar as it is in potency. This, dis-
entangled somewhat, means that mot.ion is a developing potency, one
which is gradually being fulfilled: the play is moving ever more f.rom
the pure potential of the moment before the curtain went up towards
the moment of final completion. This becoming is a tension, as is all
the flux of time, for what is past is always different from what is
present, and d~sparity is at
,
the very heart of tension. And, as we
have said before, this motion is not merely simple, but complex and
organic, made up of many interrelated parts which bear relationships
to one another, and hence have certain meanings to one another.










Phrasing in music and
,
the design
of
painting by the cubists to dl'aw
our eye into the work through a particular ordered series of glances
are two fine examples. The play progresses before our eyes, but our
inner &ssociations also progress
ais
well, and the development of the
form becomes part of the mutual rapport we spoke of before.
The final
•
element of form th0t makes it meaningful i:s the reso-
l
u
tion of the tension we have just spoken of, the halting of the motion
~hat the tension moves through. At the end of the play, after the
curtain has fallen, we say that the plot has ended, been unraveled;
unity of action as Aristotle would have it, is
,
completed. The last
stray threads of plot have been unified into the climax and the de-
nouement. That inst
,
ant we have called the present now is no longer
the moving, tense, incomplete ~hing, ordered to an integrating con-
clusion, that it was formerly. ~he present has returned to me from
the play, and I am now myself again, and not t
i
he character my em-
pathy has created; the present of the play is now the past. But, it
is in this moment that ,the total play is achieved, aga
,
in by the
,
aegis
of the memory, for only in it are the forms present in the transcend-
ant form of the whole dmma unified. Then only is the complete
meaning come to, when the tension is resolved and each part has its
final meaning to the other. Yet, this memory perception is not per-
fect, but has somewhat the nature of an eidetic image: the m
o
re we
return to the play in memory, the more we see in it that we did not
see before. Through the image, the pl,ay, this time in its total mean-
ing, is once more present to me, with all the ass
o
ciations, emotions,
and unconscious elements that compri
s
e it. I have absorbed a new
experience.
It is useful to note that in this mem
o
ry image
,
the play which is
past, may have quite an effect on the other associati
o
ns of my past
life: after one sees
The Diary of Ann Frank, genicide cea
s
es to be a
meaningless word. We might call this, if we had a mind for it, the
interraction of the perfect and the pluperfect. Throu
g
h such an in-
terraction, all that we have been may
a
cquire
a
new me
a
ning,
meaning which may profoundly affect us as our lives continue
.
Such
past associations may also profoundly affect the future which is yet
to be born. Thus, a good play, from this aspect, would be
o
ne which
not only contains the most material for us to use in identifying our-
selves with the central characters, but also provides a means of taking
the most essentially real occurrences in our lives and crystallizing the
memories we have of them in the present, in the complete totality of
59










the finished drama. Yet, such a play, through the tensions engend-
ered by novelty, the unexpected, the opposed, also provides us with
new relationships, new e~perienaes to add to the substance of our
lives.
I would like to point out in passing the great likeness of these
ideas to the Hegelian dialectic of thought. For Hegel, thinking pro-
ceded not by assooiation as with Hume, for instance, but rather in
the ordered sequence of
Thesis .......... Antithesis. . . . . . . . . . Synthesis,
wherein one idea combines with its opposite, and from this combi-
nation issues a new third thing, tertium quid. The same notion was
borrowed by Marx who made it part of the foundation of his dia-
lectic materialism, only for the author of the
Communist Manifesto
it served as an economic principle. Besides, as Arland Ussher would
have it in
The Journey Through Dread, Hegel's idea was rather
strictly interpreted by his disciples, so much so that for them the
world tl)Ok ,)n the appearance of a triadically structured machine,
all problems immediately solved by means of the dialect device. No
such strict interpret
,
ation is possible with us, but rather we must be
.:ontent t,) note the resemblance between the ideas. In dramatic
evolution a number of such sequences can be n,)ticed, among them:
T ensi,)n
.
..
..
..
.
...
.
Motion ............ resolution
Incomplete .......... Action .....
.
...
.
.. complet
,
ion
Sensation ......
.
...
.
. perception .......... memory
Incompletion ..........
.
. Action ............ completion
However, that things should move in three's was certainly no new
idea for the philosopher: St. Augustine had come to this conclusion
many centuries before in studying our perception of reality.
This mention l)f St. Augustine brings us to the last point of our
enquiry, namely, what is the nature of
imitation, since Aristotle says
that Tragedy is first of all the imitation of an action, serious and com-
plete and of a certain magnitude, etc. We can hardly state baldly
that the "Stagyrite" was wrong, since this would
be
both incorrect
and presumptuous. Thus, combining his view with what we have
said so far, we will attempt to find out the real nature of this thing
that
1,,,
many critics seem rn use as a sort of mental disposal of per-
plexing pwblems: David Hume for example, who rests content with
60










hc1ymg
that since imitation is always of itself pleasureable, it supplies
the pleasure we derive frnm drama.
According to the view
of
dr,aroa we have proposed, the spectator
at the theater engages himself in a sort
of
creation in another time
and space
of
his own being: he creates an image of himself in external
reality. This image, since it resembles him, is made
of
his very essence
as a person, may be said to be an imitation, as Butcher seems to tell
us is the original meaning intended by Aristotle when he first used
the word. A true art, is one which enables me to acquire a new
existence. But, in this new reality into which
i
project myself, which
I become, my actions and reactions serve the same end as the actions
of the characters: operatio sequitur esse, and thus, seeing myself I
know myself more perfectly, my self knowledge, and self-identity,
become more complete. The drama has also synthesized my past,
so that through the vicarious action I participate in, I create myself
anew, within the framework of a new eX!perience.
All this, of course, presumes a condition of potential on the part
of man, an emptiness, which, however, he must share with all spirit-
ual and material beings in the temporal universe
It
is my semi-
automatic response of empathy which tends to fill in this void, and
perhaps we may liken this response to the unrest and madness Plato
attributes to the poet in
ION,
for both the madness of the poet and
the void which the reader is composed of are tensions of a sort:
If
the poet did not feel a sense of incompleteness in the external world,
he would not create; if the viewer were surfeited with a knowledge
of life which surpassed that of the dramatist, he might not be too
interested in drama. In the drama, I who am an incomplete and tem-
poral being always in a state of flux which leads to death, participate
in a being which, like me, is incomplete, with the exception that this
action of which it is comprised comes to completion and is fulfilled;
having identified myself with it, I too am completed and fulfilled.
A play constitutes an imitation of the totality of my own life, both
in its particular ;,spects, and also in its characteristics of division and
limi
,
tation. All art shows me what I may be, what I am in potential.
I say that St. August~ne brought us to the last point of our en-
quiry because he is a Platonist, and in discussing the end of imitation
I would like to bring up a notion which seems to be more or less in
harmony with his thought. Plotinus, a non-Christian Platonist, drew
the conclusion that many critics have censured Plato for not having
61






drawn: since the only truly beautiful things in the unqverse are the
primal Ideas in the likeness of which all reality was formed, then the
beautiful is the imitation of and pa,111::icipat.ion in these Ideas. The
artist is one who sees the essential in reality which resembles them,
and portrays what he sees in his work. All art, then, is spiritual,
and all artists are visionaries. We have said that the play is an art
form whi,ch strives to make man more conscious of himsel.f. But,
man as man, more conscious of himself, becomes more spiritual,
and for Augustine, man is first and foremost formed in the image
and likeness of God. Thus, art must, in imitating chat which is
most essenitial to man, imitate God. Further, since art is created by
a spiritual being in the likeness of God, who is the most sublime
being in creation, art is superior to nature, nature as it ex.ists in the
world. Art is even superior to that nature (in a different sense)
which we would call the nature of man, for it is capable of surpassing
the intentions of its maker. Thus, art is the seeking for God, and it
is not art which imitate nature, so much as nature is fulfilled in art
.
These, then, are the conclusions that our essay b6ngs us to.
Whether the attempt has been fruitful or not is for the reader to
judge, and he alone can tell if the words written here conform to
actual experience.
If
they have, tiheir eluoidat
,
ion may lead to a far
greater clarity of our notion of artistic perception.
BROTHER ]AMES HEANEY
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