Folio 10 by HFU Folio

olio 10

I love the city when it rains, when icy wind whips through windovi�d cliffs in towm, down town. '11,

I love the cit� when it thaws; tAe mid-day sun beckons buds on black, trees all around. ;;, \

I love the summer;·,. wet �ir hangs heavy , over,mµrky rivers where shad n� longer run. I

··�Dj..ii' ,

· \lL 11i!llJ..""

/ love.the city when it settles into autumn expectations, " when gray December days presage . . . new birth for Penn's greene countrie ·�towne. ' 1 , 11

CONTENTS POETRY

Polio 10 Page

Ode to Philadelphia, Cecilia Johnson ................ Cover Christmas Song, Kathleen Bowman ...................... 1 The Elder Tree, Cathleen Chiara Yusko ................... 2 English Concentrates, Jules Bertrand Vickers ............. 3 Rebirth, Edward Ulrich .................................. 3 No Racial Problems, Sister Florence Tumasz, C.S.F.N. ..... 4 Esgargots en Beurre, Janice Wilson ...................... 4 Poetry Writing, Jancie Wilson ............................ 4 In Praise of Life, Sister lmmaculata, C.S.F.N. .............. 6 Woman, Christina Price .................................. 8 Brazil, Peggy Ryan Moser ............................... 1 O Acquiescence, Peggy Ryan Moser ....................... 11 Regret, Peggy Ryan Moser ........ ...................... 11

PROSE Reflections of a Slave, Rosanne Cobb ................... 12 From the Round File, Regina Murphy .................... 15 Military Control, Henry Minissalle ....................... 18 Cherry Cheesecake, Regina Murphy ..................... 22 The Case for Jack Falstaff, Kathleen Bowman ............ 27 Illustrations: Barbara DiToro, Dr. Jeffery W. Loux, Sr. Suzanne, Matthew Moser, Rev. and Mrs. Stephen Dixon, Jeanne Black. Cover Design: Christina Price The Folio is a faculty-student publication of contemporary artistic expression and welcomes contributions from other institutions. Copyright@ 1977 by Holy Family College, Philadelphia, Pa. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without consent of the publisher.

Kathleen Bowman .

Christmas Song Once upon a bare, bleak day in the year of men When their hearts were numb with winter, And gray, most ordinary gray Hung on them heavy And hum-drum, come-a-day, the tedium was unleavened, And ho-hum. Eat. Sleep. Work. The sameness was leaden as the snow-pregnant sky. No wind stirred then. But there wandered onto this burial ground, the earth, An alien. Alien, I say, for his eyes - how they flashed, And his tongue was loose and free, And his face - wondrous face! It was not frozen But soft, supple, naked, ever-changing. Friend and fierce, free lover, he Who said he brought a meaning, a way To change their world from musty, ice-crusty tomb To living, loving womb Where they could be born again and again. When he passed, the heart knocked wildly in the body made new. The blood coursed through the veins As though swollen streams run springtime's rains And, oh, the fresh wind that blew was heady, Thick with promises. For the sun was his, the stars were his, The life was his. And he gave it away on the bleak, bare day. And he turned the season 'round And the world upside down And everywhere the sound Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!

Cathleen Chiara Yusko Here I stand, upon my hill, Mighty and strong, proud, full of stature and grace, Rising up out of the ground like a fortress, Inviting all men to come and partake of me. I am akin to Joshua, sounding the battle cry against the walls of Jericho. I am the elder tree. I am full of life. I have it in abundance. It shrieks through my amber veins, Coursing clear paths through downy virgin flesh. Benevolent, I nourish many. I am the elder tree. Blackbirds come to me. Standing solemn-faced, Enthroned upon my broad browned back They salute the wind. Stone-eyed, sleekly feathered, Their silence matches my strength. I am aged, yet I remember to long-ago, struggling to crack my stale seed. Everlasting seemed the time spent nestled inside that binding shell. Yet, even then, the life grew strong within me, throbbing, pulsing, quivering, a/I-consuming in its desire to push forward against the darkness, the unknowing. I remember the arduous birthing: the wrestling to transform Earth to Eden; the breaking open; and creating my own fanfare and applause as I emerged victorious, glistening . . . Here I stand, upon my hill, Drinking in the sweetness of the air, Roots now lost to the earth, gnarled fingers stretching to embrace the sky. Leaves and light and life have I gathered. I will toss them and scatter them amongst you. I am the elder tree. 2

Jules Bertrand Vickers

English Concentrates by Birds-eye and the students become a dread thinking you novel or cute as they're heard muttering, leaving the office door, "So much for that: now on to math" and all the while you feel like slashing their forearms, deep, deep enough to show them their blood runs red.

Edward Ulrich

Rebirth

Winter snow melting Bringing to life sleeping dreams Spring blooming flowers.

Sister M. Florence Tumasz, C.S.F.N., Ph.D.

No Racial Problem

God's lavish hand has sown the seeds. It's His own harvest time. And watching each He smiles to see In harvest time, Gold sheaves of souls laid at His feet, In His own harvest time. For, lo, there is no black, no white In harvest time, But burnished gold, His sole delight, In God's own harvest time.

Janice Wilson

Escargots en Beurre

The snail is slow, to be sure, His life is sometimes a bore, But on a plate, He's really great, That's where his fame is secure.

Poetry writing takes skill, You simply can't do it at will, I sit down and think But my mind's "on the blink": My limerick potential is nil.

Sister M. lmmaculata, C.S.F.N., Ph.D.

In Praise of Life

An almost imperceptible stirring within the womb A new-born infant suckling at the breast The soft purring of a kitten by the fireside The gradual unfolding of a rose petal, from bud to blossom The rustling of a leaf, changing color day by day The silent flow of water in a distant country stream The soft tones of a friend's comforting word Smiles, tears, sighs, groans, grins, Laughter, thunder, cries, sirens, shrieks LIFE Everywhere! engulfing, penetrating! So near - yet intangible So visible - yet unseen. What is it? Who can define it? Finger of God. Extension of the Creator. Overflow of the Divinity into Creation. Free gift - ours - unsolicited Too wondrous to comprehend and yet Too close to contemplate Too "everyday" to question ... "I have come that men may have life and may have it more abundantly."

Like unto us in all things save one, He took on the Human life so that we might share the Divine. This new Life - Divine indwelling. Creator and Creature within a single frame. Life added to life. Dimension of eternity. This, too, freely given. This, too, incomprehensible mystery. LIFE Whatever you are - We choose you. We hail you. We praise you.

Christina Price

WOMAN

a Woman the sum of her parts ... all in motion synchronous, musical, like glass bells rippling, golden tambourine coins

a thin loose dress, dirty-white, frayed, with laughing lavender royal buds. as she stoops, ample firm breasts nursers of progeny furtively baring themselves ... no need to bind such flawlessness, Goddess-like perfection

brown-black hair, uncovered ... stealing light from the sun, flung aside gently by brown small fingers

eyes ... white on white, reflecting all light black and moist as Gethsemane's fruit cheeks ... full, hiding bones sharply angled vaguely pink, shining from the wind nose ... a trace too long, though straight lips ... moist, imperceptively stretched into a brief smile tastes of fruits and flowers over imperfect teeth

skin ... more than physical prison, a veritable frame, glassy, creamy, dew-dusted, sun-darkened ... calluses on palms and naked feet confide she does not sit at length Jasmine, Lilacs, Spring water, Wheat surround her ... an appealing scent, reminding her of her place in life her hem passes over ... teasing the forget-me-nots who will not soon forget the slope of her thigh As a basket crude and worn nestles on her hip, supported by a dark arm Beloved, Secure woven, not too carefully, but worthy of its purpose, carrying the remnants of today joins her as partaker in - though she is Essence of now and long ago a Lover enraptured in a field on a day in June.

Peggy Ryan Moser

Brazil Belief begins and ends at two a.m. Black roach scuttles 'cross bloody rug Startled in light of scarabande gypsies Twirling on backs of fish; scald ilk ritual you are welcome O little white guest! Belief begins at two a.m. Garbage men collect offal from the city streets; shout blather as they dance attendance, Gregory. Metal crashes in wood. And catechumens of the night paid overtime for vigil

+ ; - ;

x and+

DIVIDE! dammit .. . is there no place (or is time placebo) in this hour which plays dice game with our lives? within shrunken walls of pane the divvils noise blunes in pyrimidal shape and light is white balloons in florentine shadowed pattern. Triune doubters bend in pew at two a.m. we offffffer up our indecision, Lord but YOU ASK Quare tristis es anima mea? . .. the black roach walks the floor.

Peggy Ryan Moser

Acquiescence Renaiscant vessal wormed within kept without maalox and coffee jackass rigged

travaille. REiease brendan's rope that cinque binds. Oratre, fratres! Twentieth century's rejected sham man. Sail ... Within your sole journey will be my own. requiescat in pacem Breeze.

Regret absurdities collect in life jangling jabberwocky twenteith century charm bwathlet.

Rosanne Cobb

Reflections of a Slave

Mara stared at the shriveled foot that jutted in her face. She hated that foot. Oh, how she hated that foot! It was thin and scrawny and reminded her of the clawed skeletons of the rats one found in the storehouse where she slept. "Wake up, girl!" the Master screamed. "Why is your race so slow?" Brutally, he shoved her with the heel of his clawed foot and sent her sprawling.Mara winced in pain as she landed on her back. "Use the Yasmin ointment today," the old man snapped, "not the rose. Have you no imagination?" The young girl rubbed the tender spot at the base of her spine.The evil spirit was growing inside,and she dreaded the thought of having Nart, the cook, cut it out once more. "Lazy pig," the Master shouted."Hurry with that ointment. By the gods!Your ugly body is hardly worth the price I paid for it. You creatures are a bad breed." Mara bit her lip to hold back the resentment that swelled within her. She hated him. She hated him. Yes, it was the Master himself she hated. Returning carefully to her bent position, she began the tedious task of massaging the Master's instep and heel. Long rhythmical strokes ...she must think not of her humiliation, but only the strokes ... one, two stroke ... one, two.Now,she was a little girl in a boat on a wide river that swept by her house. One-two, one-two. She remembered her father, how handsome he was with his great shoulders,his broad back and his legs- legs like two trunks of the sturdy trees that grew by the river. She remembered sitting between them as he rowed

out to fish for the evening meal ... one-two, one-two. The smell of him in memory mingled with the ointment. One-two, one-two - laughter ... "Mara, Mara ... you little pig!You're hurting me with your nails." His fist shot upward, catching her full cheek. "Out ... out of my sight!" he snarled. "And no meal today. Maybe that will teach you." He turned to the elegant woman who had just joined him in the salon."Ha!" he laughed. "They are nothing more than animals, these Slavs, and ugly creatures at that." He laughed again. "Did you ever notice how hard it is to tell them apart? Cow-eyed ...humpf! ... all of them ... cow-eyed."

The woman giggled as she snuggled in the old man's arms."Better than animals, though, wouldn't you say, my dear. I hear the soldiers are well satisfied, at least." They laughed together as Mara ran from the room, tripping as she reached the portal. Their laughter stung her heart worse than the bite of the whip.Her heart cried.It was her heart that cried now, cried inside.She no longer wept tears, for they had long since dried within her soul. In the patio she stopped by the tiled pool.She leaned over the rim and dipped her hand into the cool, clear water, bathing her bruised cheek. It felt so good, so soothing. Playfully, she rippled the water and then gazed in joyful wonder, as the pool slowly reflected back the flowers, the shrubs, and the sky above. Soon, in the midst of the flowered mirror of the water, she saw a face, her own face.She remembered that the Master had called her ugly ... a beast ... and yet the pool showed only beauty. It was her mother's face, too, she saw reflected there. Yes, it was her mother's face that looked back at her smiling, and Mara remembered that her mother had been beautiful, also. Her father had often called her mother that in his soft way, as they lay together in the corner of their little home. She still remembered his voice murmuring, "Lovely flower ... lovely night flower ... garland of my soul ....... " And she remembered most her mother's sighs. Oh, how well she remembered her mother's sighs. Never would she forget listening to them ...together.in the night ... together in their house by the wide river when she was still a young child. Mara looked again at the lovely face reflected in the pool. She touched her cheek and her image shimmered in response. It was her cheek, her face, and it was beautiful.Mara knew that she was beautiful, really beautiful, in spite of what the Master said of her and the Slavs. She stroked her long thick braid and wondered how he could think that anyone with hair the color of the sun was ugly. Rome, 38 A.O. 14

Regina Murphy

From the Round Fi le October 27, 1975

Doubleway Book Club Dept. HR 206 Garden City, N.Y. 11520 Dear Sirs: Enclosed please find one (1) copy of Macrame Your Way to Mental Health. I note that you have taken the liberty of choosing a book for me despite my expressed wishes to forego a selection this month. According to the membership agreement, I need not select a book each month; since I am only required to buy six (6) books during the year, I am technically not obliged to purchase another book unti I April of next year! I am confident that this small oversight on your part can be easily rectified. Thank you for your consideration in this matter. Respectfully, T. Mccann

November 4, 1975 Dear Sirs: What a surprise to find The Bermuda Triangle in my mailbox this morning! And how amusing your letter was! I especially enjoyed the part which stated that you reserve the right to make a selection for me each month when I choose to forego a selection of my own. How witty you are! How perfectly

clever to reword our agreement midway through the enrollment plan. Yours truly, T. Mccann P.S. Enclosed please find The Bermuda Triangle. November 12, 1975 Dear Sirs: How curious I found your most recent letter to be! Interesting, grammatically correct, clearly typed. Yet tinged throughout with what Jean-Paul Sartre liked to refer to as "nothingness." I fear that someone in your mailing department is suffering from a mild breach with the real world as we know it. Please look into it for me and let's get this disoriented business straightened out once and for all. Sincerely, T. Mccann P.S. Enclosed you will find The Stepford Wives. They will be spending the holidays with you, not me. November 20, 1975 Sirs: I received your latest letter today and found it just a bit shy of coherence: I also received my latest unordered book 10,000 Gardening Questions. Honestly, and imagine my surprise when what I thought was a free bookmarker turned out to be a bill for $13.95! How ridiculous! How absurd! How Kafkaesque! Yours, T. Mccann

P.S. Make that 10,001 Gardening Questions: doesn't anyone among your staff of personnel have an I.Q. higher than one of the hairier lichens? November 30, 1975 Gentlemen:

l'mO.K., You'reO.K.??! I'm o.k., but I'm not so sure about you people. The book is on its way back sans the money you claim that I owe you.

Leave me alone, T. Mccann December 7, 1975 To Whom it May Concern: Alright, I've had it! I am keeping the copy of Jaws (though I refuse to read such trash) and I am not, repeat not, sending you a check. I am anxious to see what your next move will be. I suspect that your shark is much worse than your bite. T. Mccann December 10, 1975

ďż˝

One more book and/or bill from you will force me to contact a few of my more impressive friends in the underworld to "take care" of the situation once and for all. I do not intend to continue this argument, and I am not willing to admit I am wrong at (in the infamous words of the Watergaters) "this point in time." Therefore, consider my enrollment ended. Over. Kaput! Don't try to find me, T. Mccann P.S. Have you ever thought of taking up macrame?

Henry Minissalle

Military Control Bernie McGraph is the rather ordinary name of a very extraordinary person. It certainly wasn't his outward appearance that made him extraordinary. He had a pale, oily look about him; and if I had to think of a color to describe him, it would be olive drab. A part which ran down the middle of his hair seemed to continue downward between widely set eyes and gaped teeth, giving the impression that his face was cracked in half. He was gawky, pimply, disheveled, and extremely self-conscious about all of these shortcomings. People didn't take well to Bernie since he had a somewhat distracted air about him. The sort that is found frequently in idiots and geniuses. Bernie was a genius. There was no limit to the versatility and depth of his mental abilities. Whether it was a symphony, a math problem, a poem, or a philosophical question, he was equally adept at reducing things to their lowest terms or elevating them to higher ones. He attacked a problem vertically, horizontally, and found more ways of viewing it than Andy Warhol in 30 bifocals. I found myself getting vicarious excitHment whenever he focused on a problem, and this fact would serve sometimes as a catalyst to his own enthusiasm. The result was that we got to be close, and I found that Bernie's friendship was even more valuable than his intelligence. He was all of the typical things a good friend should be sincere, loyal, and sympathetic. Besides these typical things, he was just a lot of fun to have around. One of his favorite practical jokes was ideally suited for heavy traffic jams. He always made a point of sitting near the window when three guys were seated in the front of a car. When the car would pull up to a red light, Bernie would duck his head under the seat, leaving the unsuspecting

pair side by side and at the mercy of motorists in neighboring cars. If the sign of a true humorist is enjoying his own jokes, then Bernie was certainly a true humorist. I remember the day Bernie received his draft notice. He was obviously rattled, but he tried to keep his sense of humor. "What the hell am I going to do? I'm Bernie McGraph, poet and philosopher, not the soldier. This will ruin my image." "Go to Canada, Bernie. Those French-Canadian girls will love you." "Yeah, they'll think I'm one of those ugly hockey players that was hit in the face with a puck.Seriously now, I have to think this thing over.I'm not interested in having my name engraved on that plaque for dead Vietnam vets they have hanging in the lobby of my alma mater." "With your brains, you'll be lounging behind some desk with your feet propped up." "Oh, of course, you're not worried. What was your lottery number again ... 532?" I have to admit I was kind of glad that my number was far from the danger zone, but I was concerned for Bernie's sake.He wasn't cut out for military life. He never participated in sports, and he only had one fight in his twenty-one years which he loved to talk about. He told the story different every time, but I had the unique advantage of viewing the action firsthand.Bernie danced around on his bandy legs looking very intense and ferocious, never throwing a punch until his opponent stumbled and fell.Then he attacked with flailing arms and legs and began tearing and gouging the guy's face until we pulled him off. He told so many people that he knocked that guy down with a left hook that I th ink he came to believe it himself. I just hoped that he could be as convincing at his induction physical when he intended to portray some sort of neurotic, unfit for duty. The night before the physical, Bernie called and asked if I'd go along with him for moral support. I always was attracted by 19

intrigue, and I was kind of excited about seeing Bernie try to pull the wool over Uncle Sam's eyes. Besides, I felt honored to be chosen as the one to see him make his final dramatic bow out of the civilian world. I picked him up in my old '53 Chevy, and we went to meet his doom. I couldn't believe how cool he was, considering the occasion. "Hey, Bernie, you're acting pretty normal for a crazy man, don't you think?" "Just drive on, sonny, drive on." When we arrived at the induction center, I was expecting Bernie to start the show with mild convulsions or something, but the curtain still hadn't been raised. Bernie sat calmly reading Newsweek, waiting his turn to see the psychiatrist.When his turn came, I tried to appear as though I were escorting him and slipped past the nurse with a patronizing nod in the direction of my friend. She seemed to understand and allowed me to accompany "Moron For A Day" into the doctor's office. Dr. Katz was a pleasant, mild-mannered fellow, wearing a turtleneck, looking expansive and anxious to relate, hopefully to Bernie McGraph. Bernie sat uneasily in a plush velvet chair that seemed out of place with the chipped plaster and faded carpets. "You'll have to excuse the appearance of my office, fellows, but my predecessor didn't share my enthusiasm for comfortable surroundings. I'm having this entire room done over to my specifications and at the government's expense. That chair you're sitting on, Bernie, just arrived yesterday. Isn't it lovely?" Bernie just stared at him for a minute, and then drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it rather timidly in the direction of the doctor. "Well, now, let's see what we've got here, Bernie...." he began and then lost himself in the letter. When he had read it through, he looked up and smiled genially and then sort of settled

back, indicating that it was time for discussion. Meanwhile, I noticed Bernie beginning to squirm in his chair, and I knew Act 1 was about to begin. "Is there anything wrong, Bernie?" "I ... I ... have to go to the bathroom." The doctor was up in a flash. He seemed to be trying to coerce Bernie out of his chair, but Bernie's knuckles were turning white as he clung to the chair and continued to squirm. The doctor had lost control by this time. He was forcefully trying to peel Bernie's fingers from their death-grip on the arms of the chair. I couldn't figure out what was going on, but at least the action had picked up.Finally, Dr. Katz, discouraged in his efforts to extricate Bernie from the chair, rushed to his desk, fumbled through his drawers until he found a stamp and an ink pad, stamped Bernie's envelope, and thrust it at him with instructions to take it to the "Rejections Desk." Once outside, Bernie handed me the envelope stamped "4-F" and said curtly, "Mission accomplished." I began to read the letter, but couldn't decipher the medical jargon. "What the hell's all this about, anyway?" "That letter says I lack something that all good soldiers should have." "And what might that be?" "Bladder control, my friend, bladder control."

Regina Murphy

Cherry Cheesecake I am one of those incurably optimistic people who believes that man is capable of mostly everything, and that, through certain brilliant flashes of creativity, man holds an ineradicable place in the universe. As I sat in the kitchen trying to think of a topic for this paper, I pondered some of the achievements of mankind: Plato's Republic, Dante's Divine Comedy, Shakespeare's tragedies, Chopin's sonatas, Monet's paintings, Einstein's E=mc2 , the Country Club Diner's cherry cheesecake. My brother sat across the table from me, reading the newspaper and sipping hot coffee while I repeatedly tore ruined ditto sheets from my typewriter. Except for the rustle of paper, there was no sound in the room. Suddenly, my brother broke the silence. '' Ah-ch-ch-c hoooooooo!'' "Did you say 'cheesecake?" I asked. "What?" "Did you say 'cheesi:lcake'? I thought you said 'cheesecake.' " "No, I sneezed." "Oh. God bless you." My brother shook his head, took another gulp of coffee, and, folding his newspaper, tie left the room. I rose from my seat to pour another glass of Fresca and then returned to my typewriter. I had skipped lunch and dinner in an effort to look my best at a testimonial banquet which I was invited to attend. As an incentive to stick to my diet, I bought a gown a size too small. I returned to my seat and nibbled a piece of melba toast to quiet my stomach (which had stopped grumbling hours before, had progressed into loud complaints, and had finally grown to a pleading soliloquy!). Again I tried to write my assignment. Placing my fingers on the keys of my typewriter, I bit my lower lip and sighed softly, 'Tm starving! Ravenous! I'd sell my soul right now for something sweet. Cheesecake! That's it! Cheesecake! just one piece of cherry cheese - "

My thoughts were interrupted by a hissing sound near the window. "Pssssst!" I turned my head but saw nothing.

"Pssssssssst!"

Looking behind me, I saw a man dressed entirely in black, standing by the kitchen door. I jumped from my seat. "W-wh-who are y-you?" I gasped. "Mephistoph - uh, John Doe." "What do you want?" "No, it's what you want. Cherry cheesecake, right?" "How do you - ?" He waved his hand in a gesture which dismissed the entire question. "Never mind that," he said, laying his pitchfork on the kitchen counter. He deftly brought out from beneath his long black Inverness a small white box which bore the name "Country Club." I began to tremble. "Oh, no," I pleaded, "please get it out of here!" He began to untie the string and open the box. He lifted the corner of the lid and peeped inside.

"There must be a million cherries in there," he laughed diabolically.

"No, please go away," I cried, less convincingly than before. I could feel my resolve begin to weaken. "Heh, heh, heh," came the demonic laughter. "I can't have any! Please! Take it away!" "Just a little peek," he chuckled, drawing the cheesecake from the cardboard box. "No! No! No! No!" "Heh, heh, heh." "Stop it!" "Just a little piece won't hurt," he said with mock sincerity. "But my dress won't - " "This is great cheesecake." " - fit and then I'll - " "It's the best cheesecake in the world." ' - have to borrow my sister's long - " "It's terrific cheesecake!" " - dress for the banquet and - " "It's a prince among cheesecakes!" "No! No! Please!" "Oh, come on. What's one little piece gonna do?" Suddenly, as though the sun had broken through the clouds, one burning thought flashed through my muddled mind. "I get it! I know what you're trying to do! I'll bet this is the way it all started. Right? It was no apple that wore down Eve's good intentions. It was cherry cheesecake, right?" Mr. Doe sat down calmly at the table and began slicing himself a piece of the temptation. "I'm right, aren't I?" He plainly ignored me. Putting a forkful of the cake in his mouth, he rolled his eyes upward with a look of rapture on his face. "It's out of this world," he murmured. "It's heavenly." "How would you know?" I challenged. "That was a cheap shot." "I'm right about the apple, though, aren't I?" He took another forkful and made no reply. "Poor Eve! She probably had to get all new fig leaves. Or worse yet, she probably had to let the seams out of all her old ones. Am I right? That's it, isn't it?"

Still he made no reply. "This," he finally said in a low voice,pointing to his plate with his fork, "is ecstasy." "Get out of - it's not heavy,is it?I don't like it if it's too heavy." "It's just right," he answered. "It's not too sweet? Sometimes they make it a little too sweet." "It is faultless cheesecake." "Wellllllll ... " "Wonderful cheesecake!" "N-n-n-n-no,I'd better not have - " "Excellent cheesecake!" "I guess I shouldn't,but - " "Inimitable cheesecake!" "Well,maybe just a little piece," I conceded. He pushed my typewriter aside and placed a piece of cake before me.Footsteps approached from the other room.I heard my brother sneeze again as he neared the kitchen. "Were you talking to somebody out here?" he asked. I turned to Mr.Doe,but he was gone. His pitchfork was no longer on the counter. "No," I said with my mouth full of cheesecake. "What's that?" he asked,pointing to my plate. "Uh, - Uhh, - cherry cheesecake - but only a little," I blushed. "After that big spiel you gave us at breakfast this morning about your diet?What happened?" "Well,I-you see,I was just sitting here and-never mind," I paused for another forkful."I meant that I was starting tomorrow, not today!" With that,I blissfully returned to my cheesecake. From beyond the kitchen window I heard low rumbling laughter; it sounded victorious.My brother shook his head while I chuckled to myself and speared the last gooey cherry with my fork.

Kathleen Bowman

The Case for Jack Falstaff 0, I should have a heavy miss of thee If I were much in love with vanity.

ďż˝se words of Prince Hal to Falstaff have been widely used to draw the thematic line of demarcation in I Henry IV by William Shakespeare. Many authors have seen the play as an expression of the dichotomy between vanity, the unbridled pursuit of ephemeral pleasures, as personified by Falstaff, and the acceptance of personal responsibility in the real world, as personified by Hal. I shall attempt to suggest a more comprehensive and unifying raison d'etre for Falstaff and the Boarshead Tavern. I shall illustrate how pervasively the Falstaff motif relates to the main characters and aspects of I Henry IV. In the lines quoted above, Prince Hal contrasts his own character, as the proper way to life, with the character of vain Falstaff. But Hal's idea of vanity is insular and narrow. His creator has a grander conception of vanity, which is expressed in Ecclesiastes: ... man goeth to his long home and the mourners go about the streets; or ever the silver cord be loose, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it. Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is vanity. 2 Th is description of vanity as the pursuit of all that is fleeting in earthly existence is much like Shakespeare's conception. The hard realist Bolingbroke, the naive idealist Hotspur, the well-balanced ruler Hal, the debauched outlaw Falstaff, all are prey to vanity. Falstaff's function is to mirror this universal

this universal conception of folly. William Empson has said that Falstaff's "incidental satire on the world can be accepted as true, but what he stands for is recognized as wrong, and he must be punished in the end ".3 To take Falstaff's function lightly, to view the role of Falstaff and the tavern scenes as merely providing contrast to the play's more serious characters (Prince Hal, Hotspur, and the King) is to shrink this play to a mere mathematical sum of its parts. But to see Falstaff and his milieu as a mirror constantly held up to the passing panorama is to appreciate that mirror as a unifying factor and an unflagging poetic commentary and to appreciate the play as a whole exceeding its parts. Falstaff is the kind of mirror one finds in amusement parks - a distorting mirror which renders things gross but keeps them on this side of reality. We laugh at such a distortion of ourselves because, in that image, gross and awesome as it is, we still recognize our own form and lineaments. We know that we have the potential to become what is reflected there. Here lies the genius of the creation of Falstaff. Throughout the history play, we watch men of serious purpose rise and fall, gain and lose. But all must pass before that mirror which flashes and gleams throughout, casting amusing or ďż˝ pathetic reflections of folly of the so-called <7 serious life. If one accepts this interpretation _ of Falstaff in I Henry IV, then Empson's moralistic position that Falstaff is wrong and must be punished is unnecessary. That conclusion belongs to a more narrow interpretation of Falstaff's function. As a mirror on the world of Henry IV, he is non-selective, amoral, and exempt from moral judgments. Perhaps it is a sense of this broad function that prompts A. C. Bradley to refer to Falstaff as a man of "infinity." 4 Bradley maintains that, although Falstaff will be rejected by Hal in// Henry IV and, although, throughout the play, Shakespeare attempts to diminish and devalue Falstaff, the attempt fails.

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The failure emanates from the fact that Falstaff is more than a wayward, vain bombard of sack to be emptied and ignored. And the extent to which Hal rejects Falstaff is the extent to which he myopically deprives himself of a well-rounded, corrective vision of himself and others. Hal becomes self-righteous and less human at the moment of his turning away from Falstaff, not because he turns his back on a friend, but because he refuses to recognize any validity in Falstaff's mirror and any vanity in himself. Nevertheless, critics have insisted on either condemning Falstaff for his immorality or loving him for his good-natured buffoonery. Though such a division of loyalties has justification, the interpretation of the play from which it arises tells only part of the story. Jonas A. Barish says that in reading I HENRY IV, the reader must reveal himself as either a sentimentalist or a moralist (depending on where his allegiance falls, with Falstaff or with Hal).5 That comment, like Empson's, springs from an unnecessarily narrow interpretation. A reader could find himself, as I have, regarding Falstaff no more as a particular personality than as a dramatic function (that distorting mirror). It then becomes unnecessary for the reader to align himself morally for or against Falstaff. D.R. C. Marsh contends that Hal is an impeccable Prince and that Falstaff is an evil influence that must ultimately be abolished. 6 In support of his thesis, Marsh elaborates on the moral inadequacies of Falstaff. Two examples will serve to indicate the error of his position. Marsh points out Falstaff's depravity as revealed in his reply to doubts expressed about the suitability of his troops: "Tut, tut, good enough to toss, food for powder, food for powder" (IV,ii,11. 56-7). Given Falstaff's function as a mirror on the world of Henry IV, the remark is nothing more than a reflection, an articulation of a folly that originates outside Falstaff. King Henry's mishandling of his kingdom and Hotspur's self-seeking for glory have made

these ragged men "food for powder." That evil is out of Falstaff's sphere. As a second instance, Marsh suggests that Falstaff's stabbing of dead Hotspur is neither admirable nor funny. Agreed. But is Falstaff to be indicted? He is once again reflecting, grossly, the folly of his world. His action illustrates humorously that something is seriously wrong with a world in which one obtains self-esteem by annihilating others. That world was not created by Falstaff, but by men who take life far more seriously than he. P.1staff and the tavern scenes consistently reflect the world's vanity. When Falstaff pretends to be the King in the tavern, we laugh at a ludicrous game. In the climactic war of Act V, the King's loyal men dress like him, losing their identities and their lives for his safety. One may properly ask where game-playing ends and "real life" begins. Both tableaux are bizarre games; only the stakes are higher. Society's conventions render one legitimate and even noble; the other, ridiculous. We are moved to laughter tinged with pity at Falstaff's faith in Hal's love for him, which he highly overestimates. He is Hal's clown. But when Hotspur makes the same mistake of misplacing his zealous loyalty and faith in his brother-in-law Mortimer, it becomes the stuff of tragedy. The substance of both Hotspur's and Falstaff's mistakes are the same. They differ in that Hotspur's mistake costs human lives, while Falstaff's costs only some sympathetic laughter. In Act II, Prince Hal describes Falstaff: "Didst thou ever see Titan kiss a dish of butter, pitiful-/ hearted butter that melted at the sweet tale of the sun's? If/ thou didst, then behold that compound" (11,iv, 11. 107-9). The image is more than an ingeniously appropriate epithet for tub o' lard Falstaff. It prefigures the reign of Hal as Henry V, who, as kings of the time were, will be referred to in solar images. Here we are given notice that those who have broken the law under cover of night will be apprehended and brought to justice. But an even more powerful reality is expressed in Hal's image. That reality is the

amount of power that one man can wield in the human community. Hal will have power nqt only like the moon's, to control the ebb and flow of men's fortunes, but he will have the power to melt men - to destroy them at his whim. Shakespeare's image, though comic, reflects a devastating reality. Falstaff's treatment of the subject of honor is a highlight of his mirror on the world. His incongruous references to other men as cowardly and dishonorable, coupled with his seeming disregard of his own scurvy behavior, is exceedingly funny. The truth reflected here is profound. Falstaff's vague, scattered references toÂˇÂˇ honor among thieves" must give us pause. If there is honor among thieves, what has honor necessarily to do with truth and virtue? Is not honor simply a code formulated by a given society of men of like beliefs? Honor, like Falstaff's scutcheon, has no more meaning outside of the society that has invented it than the grin has on dead Walter Blunt's face. The mirror passes, and we stare into the face of another shocking reality. Hotspur, the medieval embodiment of honor, sees through honor too late. He tells what Falstaff shows: "Thought's the slave of life and life's time's fool" (V, iv, 1. 81). Hotspur dies, humorless. Falstaff, full of humor, lives on to tell the story. Astere Claeyssens' opinion that "the mastery of circumstances is Falstaff's greatest pride" 7 cannot summarize plump Jack's satiric function - his mockery of the manipulative insincerity of men. Falstaff seeks justification for not reforming his thieving ways. He comically resorts to duty. "Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation" (I, ii, 1. 89). King Henry, seeking justification for breaking his vow to lead a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, invokes duty also. He must quell rebellion in the land. Hal, too, reveals himself as insincere, pragmatic, and calculating - a master of circumstances - in his soliloquy of Act I, Scene 2, in which we learn that he is bent on shaping the moment into what he chooses. He will use his tarnished reputation and his tavern companions as a foil against which he will dazzle the world.

Falstaff's use of the moment and ridiculous juggling of facts is a reflection of a lying world in which crafty men rise with impunity. Claeyssens comes closer to the thesis of this paper with this evaluation of Fallstaff: "He is constantly by his speech and actions implying a transvaluation of values. He possesses a wisdom that makes the solemn concerns of the King's court seem callow and naive beside it. The clarity of th is wisdom is unclouded by reverence for any kind of authority." 8 1 I HENRY IV, Act V, Scene 4, 11. 105-6. Folger Library (New York: Washington Square Press 1957) 2Ecclesiastes. 12: 5-8. 3 Wiliam Empson, "The Ambiguity of Falstaff,"TWENTIETH CENTURY INTERPRETATIONS OF HENRY IV, PART ONE, ed. R. J. Dorius (New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, Inc. 1953), p. 78. 4 A. C. Bradley, "The Rejection of Falstaff," TWENTIETH CENTURY INTERPRETATIONS OF HENRY IV, PART ONE, ed. R. J. Darius (New Jersey: Prentice-Hall Inc., 1953) p. 77. 5 Jonas A. Barish, "Turning Away of Prince Hal," TWENTIETH CENTURY INTERPRETATIONS OF HENRY IV, PART ONE., ed R. J. Dorius (New Jersey: Prentice-Hall Inc., 1953) p. 83. 6 D. R. C. Marsh, A CRITICAL COMMENTARY ON SHAKESPEARE'S HENRY IV, PART I (London: Macmillan, 1967), pp. 44-45. 7 Astere E. Claeyssens, LECTURES ON FOUR OF SHAKESPEARE'S HISTORY PLAYS (Carnegie Series in English, No. 1; Pittsburgh: Carnegie Institute of Technology, 1953) p. 24. 8 Ibid.

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