Volume 3 - Issue 7

Volume three, number seven I February 8, 1970

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Comment: A naked Eli, a graffiti wall that found a strange enemy and some dialogue on Yale med.

Bones and flesh You really don't hear too much talk about Yale's mission to produce a thousand leaders a year any more. Last year, with the Singer Report and its accompanying rhetoric, it was still in the air, but even then it was dying, and now, as the Seventies are upon us, Yale's obligation to give society her bankers and stockbrokers is all but forgotten.

Not only are new graduates forsaking the old ways, but a little liberation is beginning to seep down to recent alumni, too. There's one Skull and Bones man-Jerry Clark, '65-who no longer wears a three-piece suit. In fact, he no longer wears anything at all. Clark, a professional actor, has been making his Jiving in a nude revue in New York, "The Way It Is," a show of the "Oh, Calcutta!" genre that until a couple of weeks ago was playing at a new theatre on the Upper West Side. It's a long subway ride away from Wall Street.

The show wasn't very good. In fact, Clark quite frankly calls it "the worst show I've ever done." But he also calls it "liberating "which is a hell of a way for a Bones man to be making his living. "It's sort of like skinny-dippi~g," he says. "It all hinges on whether you're comfortable 10 your own body. There are a lot of people who shouldn't take their clothes off."

The cast rehearsed fully clothed; nudity did not emerge until the dress rehearsal~r a close approximation to a dress rehearsal since the confused management of "The Way It Is," an;ious to capitalize on New York's nudity craze, never got organized enough to schedule a real rehearsal. The skits-full of men's room jokes and worsewere written by a middle-aged Westchester dentist and rehearsed by the cast as the dentist's forty-ish wife sat in the front row and scowled.

Once things finally got under way-at $7.50 a head-the show began to attract fairly good crowds. Most were male-"They were all there to see the boys," Clark acknowledges-and very few were below thirty. Later in the run, many of the older Jewish couples from t~e theatre's West Side neighborhood began to fill the audtence, providing and appropriately bizarre foil for the picture of a Skull and Bones m an frolicking nude on the stage.

Jewish matrons, however, cannot make a show, even one with a Yalie in the raw. and "The Way It Is," alas, folded in mid-January at considerable financial loss.

Maybe the liberation ain't all that widespread after allwhen some of the other '65 Bones men came to see their brother make the big time they laughed, but when they came backstage to congratulate ol' J erry they seemed sort of nervous, and then they sort of gazed back and forth at their wives and they didn't know what to think.

Graffiti rapitur High class bathroom inscriptions seem to be quite the rage these days-not that they ever were not, of course, but now literacy talent is becoming increasingly visible in the handwritings on the wall. Such is the case in one bathroom in Ezra Stiles College, where a talented group of limerick and epigram writers created a stall that was a virtual gallery of eloquent graffiti. The curious flocked from miles around-well, from entryways around-to see this stall, and its creators were justly proud. They had deftly wedded man's baser instincts with the higher arts.

But alas, not all agreed, and one sad morning last week the poets-in-residence entered their inner sanctum to find their graffiti gone, the tiles washed clean. and in place of their work, a clenched, Magic Marker-red fist.

Surely, they reasoned, this could not be the work of a puritan minded custodian. It wasn't. It was, it turned out, a member of New Haven Women's Liberation who took it upon herself to censor these gentlemen's creations.

Of all people, indeed.

YAM Walking through the campus. one is impressed with the solidity of the buildings, with their sheer stoniness.

Perhaps it is this manifest capacity to endure that co.nvinces the alumni that Yale in its most essential parts ts

unchanged. From 1937 to 1966 under the editorship of Buzz Bronson, the Yale Alumni Magazine participated in this judgment. The magazine recorded the anniversaries and histories of old buildings and the groundbreakings and dedications of new ones, the successes and failures in game-by-game detail of the various teams, and in the "Class Notes," the present doings of the sons of Yale. Most of the message seemed to be that, although growing, the old blue mother was unaltered, that she is what she was, alma mater.

Perhaps that was all very true for the largest portion of Bronson's time as editor. The world was not qmte so much with Yale, and the world itself, had it been there, probably would have sat down, shut up and worked for a B.A. Now everybody stomps out or occupies. Nobody shuts up, and the worth of a BA is questioned by students and Spiro T. alike.

So Bronson's successor was in for a very different world and, as Yale became involved in it, a very different home-ground for his magazin~. In add!tion, ~he average age and degree of professionaltsm of hts audtence had shifted. About the time of Bronson's retirement, the number of alumni from the graduate schools began to equal the number from Yale College, and the number of alumni graduated after 1950 began to equal the number graduated before. It is to the credit of Bronson's successor, William H amilton Jones, that he did not ignore change or the world, and that he presumed and believed in the expertise and humanity of his readers. . .

Tony Jone's intent was to use the magazme not JUSt as a memory prod for old blues but as quite an~ther kind of prod. It became the instrument of c~nnectto.n between Yale and the issues uprooting Amencan soctety, between the Yale of now and the mythical Yale, and, consequently, between all those things and the alumni. The "Class Notes" remained. "At the University" continued, . changing only as its subject matter changed-and that ts very much. The feature articles were less about spor~s and buildings and more about facu.lty an~ student reflec~tons on their roles at Yale and Yale s role m the communtty and the country. Breaking with Bronso~·s pr~cedent, articles on issues independent of the Umverstty-drugs, poverty, educational ex_Perimcntation~ welfare reform and the family and its functtons-made thetr appear~~ce.

Joel Katz, responsible for the shape of T~ny s tnt~~t, has photographed Yale with incisiv:, touchtng p~ect~aon.

His pictures are less often presentations of ~n artt7l~ s author or action ~hots, than they are reflect tOns, gtvmg one a sense of the special ness and revelatory character of the objects and faces photographed. . • .

Katz drastically changed the magazme s graphtcs too.

The mix of heads, columns and photographs makes one glad to look and curious to read. The pri!'t stands up . straighter and sturdier more often, refu~mg the temptation to slop into a more decorattve, narrow-ltmbed and nostalgic slouch. The equality of size formerly alloted to . each word of the magazine's title-Yale as large as Alumna as large as Magazine-has been ~ist~rbed. Yal~ is biggest of all, and without closer examtnatton, one mtght take yAM to be Yale Magazine-and he would be half-close to right.

The magazine has consistently refused t~ pa~der to the need to reminisce. It is about Yale now, whtch ts far more extended than Yale then. Ex-Yalies seeking escape into thos more distant, sheltered and de~d-cnd times have been denied. J\,nd they have complamcd achingly; perhaps much as they complained ~h~n they wrote that first paper or did all that research JUntor year.

So Jones has realized his intent. The magazine has come to function for the alumni as the University once didit educates them- and not as radical to liberal, but as Socrates to the Athenians.

Jones gave up the editor's spot last summer. As a r~sult, Katz had to change his outlook from one whose pnmary concern was with the magazine's graphics to one th~t included its editorial content as well. But now Katz ts leaving too. And with him goes the dazzling fact of collaboration with Jones between 1966 and 1~69.

Ren Fructin, now acting editor, has one hard )Ob ahead.

Sandra J . Turner continued on page 15

Volume three, number seven February 8, 1970 Contents 3

The real underground by-----6 Is the novel dying?

by Henri Peyre 9 The Patriots try to change history

by George Kannar 13 Dick Cavett is a Yalie

by Martha Gershun 15 Letters: the medical school Editors: Herman Hong Paul Goldberger Managing Editor: Dan Mcintyre F.xecutive Editor: Stephen Thomas Business Manager: William Palmer Designer: Nicki Kalish Copy Editors: Richard Caples Stuart Klawans Production Manager: Jack Friedman Advertising Manager: Charles H. S. Chapman Assistant Editors: Charles Draper Bryan Di Salvatore George Kannar Edward Landler David Meter Sam Miller Circulation Managers: John Callaway Thomas Davison Contributing Editors: Susan Braudy David Freeman Mopsy Strange Kennedy Lawrence Lasker Jonathan Lear Michael Lerner Leo Ribuffo Walter Wagoner Staff: Jay Adkinc;, Richard Conniff, Jack Friedman. Joanne Lawless, Cathie Lutter, Patrick Lydon, Gus Oliver, Pat O'Rourke, Manuel Perez, Barbara Rich. James Rosenzweig. Lynne Rutkin, Ann Wagner.

THIRD CLASS NON-PROFIT PERMIT: Third Class Non-Profit postage PAID in New Haven, Conn. The Ntw Journal is published

by The New Journal at Yale, Inc. 3432 Yal.e Station New Haven, Conn. 06520, and ts printed' at The Carl Purington Rollins Printing·Office of the Yale University Press in New Haven. Published bi-weeltly during the academic year. Subscriptions for Yale students are $2.00 per year and for Yale faculty a!'d staff, $4.50 per year. For all others, subscnptions are $7.50 per year ($4.50 for stu.dents).

Newstand copies are 50¢ (30¢ for back tssues).

The New Journal © copyright 1970 by The New Journal at Yale, Inc., a non-profit corporation No material from this publication may be u~ in any form without written consent from The New Journal at Yale, Inc. Credits: John Boak: pages 6, 7, 8 Ellen Smith: cover, 3, 4, 5

3! The New Journal! February 8, 1970

At first I suppose it is the noise that you notice most, followed by the wave of heat.

It sounds like hell. Like Hell, that is. A kind of whistling, mingled with the sighing of many souls. Not an intense sound but a primeval one. You know it has been going on in there for a long time.

Tentatively you enter, and the door, old and heavy, swings shut-a bit too quickly for comfort-and you turn to lock it again with some reluctance. But you have to.

Then the sound, that geothermal sound, so unequivocally there, begins to recede and become a part of you and where you are: the Tunnels.

Everyone has heard about them. Some of them have been momentarily humanized-De Basement in Berkeley College, dramats, Merriwell "raids" on Commons in the Old Days ("Gosh, Prof., how'd the President's Cassock get up there?'}. But most, the vast and forbidden network, connecting all of Yale underground, exists as rumor-the tunnel beneath the tunnel, the

that's why Branford doesn't fit Silliman!

But does Silliman fit the impenetrable Branford attic storerooms? Try it and see.

It is the older Yale that is the mother lode of doors. Morse and Stiles, even unto Beinecke, have disappointingly finite doors, ingenuous and exposed and postwar piping, featureless and integrated paneling with lights. Where are the groaning and lockwired valves, hidden poorly behind moldering composition board insulation? No plastics. Where are the fine brass knife-switches to plunge the Old Campus into darkness in April? Where are the pipes that carry the sweltering heat to the sixth floor of Calhoun?

The infinite doors of the old Colleges and the Old Campus. You are trying your keys (all three, by this time, with two promised and one hinted) on the way back from dinner thinking you can enter the tunnels to avoid the winter rain. None of the keys work much of anything. Some firewood, wrecked bicycles, DC-AC con-

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door with no number that opens on a stairway going down, the partly overheard, lunchline conversation of that senior next door of a "secret"' below ground route edging mystically close to (penetrating?)

Book and Snake.

Keys are a requisite for the Yale tunnels.

Not special ones, but an accretion of the common passkeys that sprout from the corrupt aide, the unwary janitor, the power plant man out for lunch. But most stop at the College gates; after all one 1s enough .

They don ¡t work everywhere. You hear another rumor in the key crowd: the Grand Master. It will open any Yale (Sargent) lock. Then you begin to notice keys; trade them; and above all, copy them. A word about keys at that. Besides the room number, so homey, so used and warmly stamped, there are other signs. "LN" and "LC," in a lozenge, elsewhere maybe a faint M. They seem to be associated with the longitudinal grooves in the key. So

verters (God, imagine having one of them in the room to run the KLH?), dust, the smell of stone and exfoliating plush couches, some andirons. Nothing much.

The old darkroom, and then ... valves, pipes and noises. Finally something not useful, but interesting. And very much bigger than you had thought. And in the rear, another door, an iron door with a bar, and a different lock. Your three keys don't fit, and the door is warm. It must be, you think, the tunnels, the Steam Tunnels.

And now you know why the maintenance men have such a big ring of keys. And so you forget about keys and the tunnels for a while; over vacation and reading period, why bother?

But there was a time in the life of every Yale man in those desolate 1950's when he made it to the Tunnels. The chance would come perhaps when a door was left open next to the squash courts, perhaps when a really daring friend would unscrew

41 The New Journal! February 8, 1970

the old lock and replace it with his very own from the Bicycle Shop. But somehow, the day would come.

And then there it was. The same tunnel that James Gamble Rogers designed and didn't tell the world about when he drew up the plans for the hulks of Sterling Library and the Law School just above.... .

There is room to walk freely, to stand up, to leave the iron door a few quick steps behind before smashing your forehead on a transverse pipe ... and then you move on.

The Tunnels are not to be explored by one person. There are no maps. When you emerge your roommate sees, besides your skinned temple, that you are dusty and covered with sweat. You had hardly noticed except that the courtyard felt deliciously cool.

A few nights later, after this beginning test, the real thing, the real trip. You, avoiding the late paper, your roommate finished (as usual) with his, are glimpsed in the basement by two squash players.

dripping with scalding water and shrieking as the steam turns the corners of its constrjction. You duck by it nervously and head on slowly and suddenly emerge into light. A roomful of pipes and valves, obviously a control room of some kind beneath Saybrook. Lots of little machines, pumps, panels with switches. But too well lit to stop and hang around. Find an exit where the tunnel continues, and notice for the first time the manhole covers ten feet overhead, the gratings. That is why it is cooler. But dark again, and you talk in whispers as it gets hotter and narrower, the pipes crowding in. Then inevitably, another door. A patient selection of keys, "LN" is sticky but it works. It actually works, under the ground! A little cocky, now, and not prepared for the next door, a gate. The flashlights are failing, the heat enervating and getting worse especially where the t.unnel rises to cross something (what?) and the ceiling pinches down. You could faint in there from the heat. Next time, bring salt tablets.

the men's room anteroom. Another to wait in the room for corroboration of the "harmless prank" aspect of the raid. And another two to climb, burlap (what else?) sack in hand, up the stone stairs and to dash, cutters ready, into the light, to work swiftly, smoothly, the brain surgeons, on the glass and to remove the precious Bible, one of twelve, they said, in the world.

And then down, and back, smudged, perhaps out a Saybrook door, into the trunk with the cargo, and then ... to Argentina? Or to my room in JE, where campus police would never think to tread.

Laugh o n , you skeJ?tics, I still maintain to this day that we could have pulled it off.

Backtracking to some places where the pipes proliferate and disappear off to one side. Time to crawl a little, which is what you've been trying to avoid thinking about too much. But promises of Berkeley and possibly the Old Campus draw you on. A. very had trip, you discover, as you realize that just beyond the pipes there are about four inches of grey dust that you have just

Their message of long ago is for you: "21 ft. Vlv 234 Nov 7 36." Confident and free beneath (you think) the Berkeley tunnel heading north (you're sure). And the tunnel turns, just where it should, but does not go up the stairs and on to Commons in the sunlight, that familiar route to rainsoaked Freshmen. The tunnel goes on -the stairs, when you do come to them, go down to you, so a test is made: to climb up, and carefully open the unmarked door from the wrong side and see the friendly basement hallway. But in a new way, an alien.

So back down and gleefully on to Commons in Dink Stover's path. "Grub Street" is submerged and commodious, and even lit, and you enter the ancient kitchens but touch nothing because being there, getting there is what matters. Under Commons, Yale enters the gro.u nd with confidence and opulence with wide ramps and screened-off, pre-refrigeration vegetable coolers. It is cool and airy, and in the distant stairwell light there are the ubiquitous

An odd sight: flashlights (two), keys (up to five, now) on rings Oike the pros), tools (pliers, screwdrivers in three sizes-including a Philips head), wirecutters, compasses (BSA 1954 issue), a little string (remember Theseus?), and the most expendable jogging shirt, culled from the bottom of the bureau drawer, still redolent of the fall's bladderball.

The new lock works perfectly, the inner door opens easily, but it seems darker.

There is no dim light to become accustomed to; it is darkroom-black and you are heading north from JE in a wide high corridor, flanked by the huge pipes and their sound, following the flashlights' beam. Shortly, a branch to the left. Duck some pipes, be careful. About a hundred degrees hot, but getting cooler. Turn back from what must be the Pierson-Davenport analog to your entrance and rejoin the main stream. Another hundred yards, and the sound is much louder, and then a sharp bend, and the noise is almost deafeningdo you dare get closer? It is a huge valve,

The gate, near the Library. It's easy with some bent pliers to hold the hasp bolts through the grating. And then in the massive sub-basement of the Sterling Library.

It is big and there are large stairs and the bottom of the elavtor shaft is there-where the elevator would stop if the operator piled on a few to many negative g's on the trip down from the Boswell Room.

Where you would stop. The basement of Sterling is a bad place to be coin-theft-wise so try to find a way through. Dead end.

Big iron doors, hot to the touch. To HGS? The Law School? But all locked. And you know that up above, in the nave of the Sterling, The Gutenberg Bible rested once in splendor, lit in its glass case on a bronze pedestal, glowing all night through. (What if, years before the Beinecke had removed all hope of-if not dreams of-acquisition, the metal stairway up from the Sterling sub-sub-sub-sub-basement bad been used for the archetypical prank? The plans are laid: one group through the tunnels across the pipes, up the stairs to the door inside

bellied through. It goes well with sweat: And then in new, fresh, standing room an old ladder leans against a demolished brick wall, with more blackness beyond.

One of the old foundations. Over the top and into hands-and-knees crawling past the brick footings of Berkeley, below all the tunnels on the sand of native New Haven. You could get lost in there, easily, if your lights went out. A very bad scene to imagine.

Bricks and rubble everywhere and the constant problem of aiming the flashlight while crawling; no wonder miners wear those hats. Emerging to some more room to stand, or crouch rather, and see. a new opening ahead, over the pipes and cables.

A tunnel once again. It feels good to stand up in the heat and feel familiar concrete underfoot ... to feel familiar Yale there.

It is time for confident striding, for the knowledgeable fending off of cobwebs, and avoiding the hot pipes and looking for cryptic chalkroarks of masons and electricians and plumbers working together.

white tiles that link you to the surface.

Here are more rumors: that you can get from Commons to the Physics labs; that there are crawlways there too; that there are trunklines of cables; that it is easy to get lost, and the locks are unfamiliar; that is a winding way, fraught with cui-de-sacs.

But how does the tunnel get under the railroad tracks? You are beginning to notice the topography. There are many very old buildings on the way; do these have central heating, city power? Or are they fed too by the Plant? And the new buildings in the Kline complex. Wonder at the incredible basis of the Tower; can you crawl below those massive pediments?

Or is it like Harkness Tower, unassailable.

You remember a stone, visible from Branford courtyard ... "taken from the bedrock seventy-four feet below the ground."

Can you hear the bells there?

The sciences are best approached directly, from their own entrances, with a separate set of keys. So turn to the Law School, or to Silliman and Byers Hall and

51 The New Journal! February 8, 1970

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perhaps on to Timothy D wight. But you have seen their tunnels shining up at you in the daylight, as opulent as Grub Street.

And who can tell about Book and Snake; what strange exudate of ritual lies below its Doric block? Beinecke Library is a foregone conclusion; you have heard how it sinks three stories to a concrete slab, bow the pum ps worked night and day to keep its foundations dry, and most of all, like Morse and Stiles, it is new and bas not fou nd its aJiiance with the dirt. And so threading (the heat back again in force) east of Commons. It is very hard goingthe worst yet as the concrete walkway pinches and heaves, and loose cordons of cables make seeing difficult.

T he heat is becoming fantastic. At one abrupt rise, a sort of gas-dome (Science II is full of handy analogies), the temperature rises and the heat is very bad. Later you enter from the Law School with a lab thermometer and it reads 180 degrees Farenheit. You check your reading to be sure. That's what it is there, 180 de-

era tors insid e on your d evious way to the gym.)

So open it.

D amn, an A LARM! So walk out casually, just Yalies, r ight?

Curious, right? The bell is loud. The lights are greenish-yellow. Offices, cubicles.

Charts. A man in a sport shirt walking fast to where we are. OK , smile. "Follow me," he says, "I've got to call this in." Follow h im, docile, looking around. "Yeah."

H e goes into a little office. M ust be a complicated alarm . Probably goes off in Phelps Gate. T ake a curious walk to see the generators. T he courtyard. The big open doors. Run like hell, over the bars.

Into the courtyard. The gate. Where the hell is the gate! It is cold as hell. Look back, see him walking fast past the generators.

Over the fence. A Yale fence, wrought iron. Up . Do not slip, Do not slip.

Jump.

And run like hell towards Morse; you hear another thud, look back; it's Charlie,

DENEUVE. DENEUVE,.

DENEUVE. . Polanski's REPULSION on Saturday, Feb. 7 Bunuel's BELLE DE JOUR on Friday, Feb. 13 Shows at 7:00, 9:30, and 11 :00

Friday, February 6 Renoir's BOUDU SAVED FROM DROWNING Tuesday, February 10 Rossellini's VOYAGE IN ITALY Wednesday, Februa ry 11 Chaplin's THE GREAT DICTATOR Thursday, February 12 Hawk's TWENTIETH CENTURY

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grees. And very dark, a red dark. But the dome is passed, and the temperature drops to a refreshing 110°, wh ich is like a cool breeze as you walk together slowly toward HGS-and inevitably, what had seemed so far away, the Power Plant.

HGS is ignored. Who cares? The Power Plant. There are more pipes, more heat and a new noise. Most of all, a new noise.

The shrillness is still there, but the note, the fundamental, is emerging as a deep humming, fitted to the heat. You are conscious of the giant rushing outward of heat and power through the pipes as you wriggle and twist past the outcrops of bulkheads. You can feel yourself getting nearer.

And at last the great room opens out.

It is not a controlroom, only the pipes and cables there in the heat. But there is a staircase-metal, like a fire escape-going up to a door. Is this really the P ower P lant? The door is cool, it m ust be. (Remembering the open portals, the sandstone lions, the courtyard and the gen-

run like hell; don't look back, feel suddenly cold and naked on your left leg but run up the passage stairs, down the pasage stairs between the Colleges three at a time, to the Tower, up the stairs; don't wait for the elevator. T welfth Floor, stop. Knock.

Sheldon? Let us in? Safe. Quite safe. And tell the story....

And Tuesday to walk to the gym, curious, to see half a trouser hanging from the fence. Quite safe. •

Saturday, February 14 Bergman's THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY (extra show at 11 :00} Tuesday, Februar y 17 Renoir's PARIS DOES STRANGE THINGS Wednesday, February 18 Ford's DONOVAN'S REEF Thursday, February 19 NEW AMERICAN CINEMA

YALE FILM SO CIETY Showings at 7:00 and 9:30 101 Linsly-Chittend on

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61 The New Journal! February 8, 1970

Of course it is. Aren't we all? Poets bave been rash enough at times to repeat the idle boast of Horace (himself now hardly ever read) that they were erecting a monument more enduring than brass. Novelists never have displayed such conceit. The worm was in their juicy fruit as soon as it ripened; or perhaps rottenness set in even before the novel reached its "age of wisdom," before Flaubert, Thackeray and Henry James. A hundred years ago, or a little more, the novelist became aware of some of the potentialities of fiction as an art form rivalling and succeeding the epic and tragedy, having a structure, and adopting one or several points of view; Criticism of the novel and ever more • subtle disquisitions on how a story should be told, how time might be manipulated, how characters could weather the passing of years or bow they could even be dispensed with, grew so rife that readers who naively enjoyed being moved by a powerful novel developed the pangs of a bad conscience. How remote we are today, and even Flaubert was, from a novelist probably superior to him, because more natural and less tensely painstaking: Stendhal! The latter, after reading the famous article in which Balzac had praised La Chartreuse de Parme, published in 1839, naively wrote to Balzac: "It had not occurred to me that there could be rules. ... I had not thought about the art of making a novel. ... Following a plan refrigerates me." A score of years later, Sainte-Beuve answered a novelist, Champfleury (the one who first brandished the banner of realism), who had invited him to collaborate on a periodical devoted to fiction. "The novel is a vast experimentation ground, opening up to all the forms of genius. It is the epic of the future, the only one which modern manners probably allow. But let us not shrink it. Let us not theorize too much about it. Let us not organize it. ... All expositions and apologies should never cost us one good novel which the novelist might be composing instead of disserting!"

If the novel were dying today in the Western world, it would be primarily due to the inordinate number of disquisitions on and around it. These are done with rare subtlety by professors who are a hundred times more clever at analyzing, dissecting, elaborating and formulating their rules and their exclusions than mute inglorious creators ever were. They have confidently Henri Peyre, Sterling Professor Emeritus of French at Yale, is a widely recognized critic of the modern French novel. Among his published works are Literature and Sincerity and French Novelists of Today.

This is his second appearance in The New Journal.

asserted that no self-respecting author could, these days, tell a story as Tolstoy or Stendhal once did, claim to omniscience like Balzac or Mauriac, go unashamedly to the tragedy of today (in Napoleon's phrase), that is, to politics, as Malraux bad dared do. Their self-assurance bas unfortunately impressed a number of novelists; not so much in America or in England, where creative writers seldom read or heed what professors legislate, as in France, where much novel writing nowadays is addressed not to the reading public, but to the critics who dissert with profundity in esoteric magazines and who sit on the committees which award the coveted prizes. Any literature is in a sorry plight if it is composed with a view to disarming the objections or to currying the favors of a certain critical sect.

Professors denounced the critical conditions of the novel many times and long before the nineteen sixties. There have indeed been ups and downs, and after the splendid flowering of fiction from 1810-1880, the "fin de siec_le" er.a was remarkable for its poetic achievement, with French and Russian Symbolism, but hardly for its novels. Convincing reasons were adduced to account for the death of the great tradition. The coarseness of the Naturalists had gone too far; social issues failed to interest a selfish society; psychology had become stale. Just when fiction was pronounced dead and buried, new novelists appeared on the scene whorevived the art of the novel in several lands. aefore and just after World War I, Thomas and Heinrich Mann, Hermann Hesse, Franz Kafka, D. H. Lawrence, Joyce and Virginia Woolf, belied all the sombre forecasts of critics. In France, Gide, Proust, Malraux, Giono, Julien

Green, Ceiine, Mauriac and Bernanos turned the years 1910--1940 into a great age of fiction.

Those giants were in their turn charged with having dug the grave of an art which had, with them, exhausted all its possibilities. Joyce, Hermann Broch, Faulkner and perhaps Proust himself, may perhaps have nurtured the dream of making the survival of fiction impossible after their own achievement. It is, after all, any creator's ambition to break and kill their tool, or the mold which they had elected to cast, so that their achievement may not be degraded by imitators or eclipsed by followers who might become rivals. They succeed in that monstrously egotistical attempt only in the sense that the truest disciples of Hugo or Mallarme, of Cezanne and of Joyce, have to disown their masters and strike independent ¡paths of their own.

Periodically, foes of the art of fiction arise ¡ who question the assumptions of novelists, pour scorn over the platitudinousness of their narratives of banal incidents, smile at their desperate endeavors to make us believe in their puppets and at the contrived pseudo-mysteries which they naively forge.

Paul Valery, then the Surrealists, and many others in France-critics, publishers, even unsuccessful or retired noveliststhus assaulted the novel as devoid of inner necessity and deprived of poetry. Such incessant heckling has proved healthy for French fiction. If it achieved little else, the novel certainly tried to renovate itself.

Sartre, Camus and some of their friends in the years when Existentialism was the rage went to American fiction to find sources of renewal, thus moving away from Proustian introspection and from Mauriac's claim to godlike omniscience.

Then, with the ingratitude of all intellectual borrowers, they discarded their American inspirers. Sartre acknowledged that he had proved too severe on Mauriac in his youthful polemical article and too lenient on Dos Passos' glaring artificiality. . He reserved his bitterest animadversions for the patron saint of the younger novelists, Flaubert, chastizing himself in Flaubert for his own bourgeois features and his inveterate love for words. Like many men after their sixtieth year, he refused to see much validity in the ambitions of younger fanatics of the new novel who were taking him to task in the name of structuralism and of their theories on language. "1 have always thought that the word was a way of possessing the thing," he declared in a dialogue published in 1965 in the Revue d'Esthetique; "I refuse (the French word is stronger, "je repousse") structuralism inasmuch as it is behind me: 1 have nothing behind me." The determinism of the structure which constricts authors and characters (or mechanical actors) in the recent French novel is profoundly incompatible with the faith in . freedom and in mao's ability to create h1s own values which has always animated Sartre. A society may not, but a man may always break away from his structure and act in an unpredictable way.

If the modern novel in France is today in danger of languishing, and is indeed finding few readers relative to the greater success of traditional novelists, of sociologists, of reporters and of philosophical popularizers, it is due to a number of factors, a few of which may be mentioned here.

First to a failure of nerve in the novelist himself: to his lack of naivete and to his

..

71 The New Journal! February 8, 1970

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conviction that he henceforth Jives in the "era of suspicion" a nnounced by Stendhal: hence that there is no fundamental absurdity in the world and in man's behavior, is dead and gone. It rested upon the discarded assumption that the real is rational, hence that there is no fundamental absurdity in the world and in man's behavior, that describing things as they appear to be endows them with a significance. It is by no means certain that a return to realism is out of the question in the fiction of tomorrow; indeed there are many inventories of objects in the fiction of this very day and a lurking conviction that "les choses" a nd their obtruding omnipresence are displacing man from his erstwhile regal position as the ruler of this sublunar world. The regrettable feature of RobbeGrillet at his worst, of Pilhes and Pingel and other devotees of endless and repetitious inventories is that their realism, unlike that of Balzac and Zola, of H einrich Mann and even of Frank Norris, is not a visionary realism. It grants far too little to the eye which pierces through the behavior of people and the motionlessness of objects and which transfigures them.

Second comes the glibly repeated assertion that the novel, especially when it depicted the rise and fall of families, the conflict of father and son, and the inheritance and the dilapidation of estates, was bound up with the ascent of the bourgeoisie. Since the bourgeoisie is now in its demise or already dead, the syllogism goes, the novel is likewise dying. Nothing could be more ridiculous than the ease with which such a groundless piece of reasoning seems to be accepted by writers on fiction, old and young. For the bourgeoisie rose long before the novel came into prominence: to it were also addressed the Roman de Renart, The Canterbury Tales, Moliere's comedies, indeed the tragedies of R acine and the Miltonic epic.

The industrial revolution and the French Revolution established the bourgeoisie more firml y in its moneyed interests, in its power and in its self-contentme nt. If

novelists wrote for that class, they did it in a strange way, exposing its selfishness, its lack of charity, its greed , its secret corruption. Balzac, Stendhal, Flaubert, Zola and other novelists elsewhere acted as the determined grave diggers of the very group from which they stemmed, and the more fiercely assailed the bourgeois was, the more willingly he bought a nd often subsidized those novels. He was either incredibly naive, or incurably masochistic, or uncannily perfidious in realizing that attacks and caricatures by Daumier and Flaubert acted as a healthy safety valve and left him all the freer to fleece the poor classes and to fatten himself on the favorite pastimes of the bourgeois: gastromony and extra-marital love.

Sociologists notwithstanding, things have not changed. It will be recognized some day that the years of triumph of the bourgeoisie were not 1840 or 1860, but 1920-1970. And no decline is in sight.

The ar istocrats, who had long since ceased to count, have been absorbed by the middle class. The workmen and the farmers are so "em bourgeoises" that one h as to go to underprivileged lands of Africa or South America today to meet the true proletarians. I ntellectuals, novelists, composers, painters a ll stem from the bourgeois class or m igrate into it. Security, intellectual comfort, the enjoyment of leisure, the ambition to leave one's children better educated and richer than their parents were, the urge to invest and gamble on the stock market: all these characteristics of the bourgeois have spread to the whole society today in the Western world.

It is because the bourgeoisie is so universal and so powerfuJiy entrenched that it is, in words at least, derided and indicted by writers and by the new romantic idealists of the modem world, the hippies. If the art of fiction flourishes wh en a certain stability prevails in society and when the novelist feels attuned to his milieu, one wonders why it did with Defoe or Balzac or Dickens or Dostoevsky.

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those who lived through it; its most revolting aspects were doubtless even worse than the shame of Ju ne 1848 or of the Commune in F rance. Our sense of collective guilt about it has grown more oppressive; it is today to the credit of our civilization that such guilt is voiced more potently a propos of Vietnam or of the colonial wars waged by France after 1945 than it was during the Dreyfus case, the SpanishAmerican or the Boer wars. But it is expressed chiefly in newspapers, in speeches, in sermons, in m anifestos and in collective demonstrations. Novelists have become so concerned with technique, with portraying their own hesitations and sterilizing doubts while attempting to write their novels, and with playing hide and seek with the poor bourgeois Philistines among their readers, that they have kept shy of those momentous issues. The uneasiness of our age may well have one of its deepest sources there.

Until the Germans and the Austrians, the Japanese and the Russians come to terms with their past of 1933-1945, until the French, the English and the Americos relive, through the power of fiction, theit recent ordeals and their gigantic and often criminal mistakes, the young men and women of today will not have been purged of their sense of aljenation toward their elders and the absucd world which baffies them. I n F rance in particular, the most loudly advertized novelists have taken refuge in a new art for art's sake mood , with verbose challenges to language, which it is the fash ion to "contest." No wonder if the very word humanism, in which both Marxism and Existentialism were proud to wrap themselves up, has become synonymous with the outworn creed of men who o nce attempted to interpret the world around them and to change it. But is literature worth much u nless it does u ndertake to "changer Ia vie"?

Plot and character, as well as temporality and, alas! a poetical vision of life, have been expelled from much of the recent fiction, at least in France. An immense · amount of talent and of subtle dialectics is expended by the writers who claim to have succeeded Malraux, Green, Sartre and Camus. The result is pitifuL The insufferably mannered and boring ladywriter in Mme. Saraute's Planetarium, the even more pallid anti-heroes in Les Fruits d'or, the wandering, helpless soldier in Robbe-Grillet's Dans La Labyrinthe, the

lifeless p uppets of Mme. Duras' fiction (who only come to some real existence when tra nsposed on the screen), even the traveller from Paris to Rome in Butor's skillful La Modification fail to meet what after a ll remains the primary condition of any literary work: that they continue living with and in us, once we have closed the book. C laude Simon and the young prodigy, La C lezio, along with Beckett in L 'l nnommable, are probably the only outstanding creators of this mid-century in the realm of French fiction. Many readers have preferred, instead of laboring through those novels written for sophisticated graduate students, to go to sociological descriptions and critiques of our societies, or to direct records of crimt:s a nd confessions of murderers such as Truman Capote cleverly offered in his In Cold Blood, an u nfictional "novel." Ortega y Gasset who, many years ago, wrote an essay on the novel under the title of "the dehumanization of art," quoted Mallarme's saying: "All mastery throws a shiver down your spine" ("Toute maitrise jette le froid"). C leverness and virtuoso m astery abound in those French experimenters, as they abound in others who have not been inclined to experiment with form, like Lawrence Durrell and Saul Bellow. But warmth is lacking, as is all sense of kinship with the masses or even with the no n-in tellectual part of their potential public. Snobs, m undane upstart ladies, courtesans, workmen, lovers and, of course, children are absent from that literature. Murderers and detectives themselves act like distinguished gentlemen who must have meditated on language and read De Saussure, but they Jack sensuousness and devilry.

T he n ovel only awaits some talents who, like D . H . Lawrence or Proust, will cure it of its present cr isis of austerity. The only sure thing is that those creators of tomorrow will abide by none of the prohjbitions and dicta of present day critics pronouncing funeral orations gleefully Qver the death of fiction, and they are likely to differ from the timid novelists of today who are eschewing the challenge of life around them. Seldom has any age offered as many fascinating possibilities for bold writers of humorous or tragic fiction as our much maligned and yet heroically bourgeois era does. •

>

91 The New Journal I February 8, 1970

HISTORY IS GOING TO CHANGE, SAY THE PATRIOTS, AND THEY AIM TO HELP IT.

by George Kannar

She's a pretty girl, Annie is, as she passes by on her way to answer the phone. She leans across the desk, lifts the receiver, says in a sweet businesslike voice "All power to the people," then she giggles for a second, pauses, and completes the phrase, " Patriot Party, can I help you?"

Meanwhile out in the kitchen, a few members of the party sit around over mugs of coffee discussing the revolution's fortunes, which they feel are not as good as they might be. They talk about the situation in Norwalk High School, the Chicago murder of Fred Hampton, and the New Haven murder conspiracy trial of Black Panther Party Chairman Bobby Seale which will get underway any day now.

But all this is small talk. They've all been over this before, and it isn't the reason they've come. The real reason Is that the Patriot Party's national chairman is in town to give the New Haven branch a little publicity and a morale boost as it gets started. Their hope is to assume a position in the poor white community something like that which the Panthers are try to achieve in the black community. Right now the Patriots think the best way to win community support is to "meet the basic needs of the people" by providing whatever "the people" want, including such programs as free breakfast for two dozen children in Fair Haven, convenient medical assistance and cheap firewood.

The national chairman, Bill Fesperman, known as the Preacherman, has been with the Patriot Party since its formation about ayear ago, when a group of hillbilly radicals from. the Uptown section of Chicago broke off from a local organization called the Young Patriots and decided to go national.

The idea was to set up a national party among working class whites to overcome racism and to make the revolution. The Patriot platform is practically indistinguishable from the Panther program, as are its internal rules and regulations. From the Patriot collective in Fair Haven to the New Haven Panther headquarters a regular communications line is kept open; people shuttle back and forth all the time. In front of Liggett's the Patriot girls, like Annie, sell the Panther newspaper to arouse some interest in and to generate some financial support for the mutual cause.

The Panthers are generous in the support they have given the Patriots, ranging from the joint rally in the Yale Law School auditorium on January 16th to the constant availability of the official Panther photographer for Patriot purposes. According to the Panthers, the Patriots, unlike student revolutionaries, "understand revolutionary discipline and get away from the Cultural revolution shit. We're coming from the same trip."

Preacherman sits in the corner of the kitchen watching the local party members go about their tasks while playing with two little mullato kids, both of whom are wearing buttons with horizontal stripes of brown, white, red, black and yellow. "They represent the Rainbow Coalition," Preacherman says, and he tells of the informal working alliance between the Panthers, the Patriots and the Puerto Rican Young Lords.

Preacherman himself makes sure the revolution doesn't lose its sense of humor. His artificial revolutionary affections are few. Fesperman talks sense to his followers with an intelligence and wit which frequently leaves others behind. He is a genial, serious-minded Abbie Hoffman-serious but always on the lookout for a put-on. While the Panthers are talking about killing Richard Nixon, Fesperman says he'd rather put the President to work repainting the White House in the colors of the Rainbow Coalition button, making it a striped Executive mansion. He's happy, confident and optimistic, and he seems quite content to be making the revolution in America. " I really love this country, man. I love its rivers; I love its mountains; I love its ocean coasts. Some people say it's lousy; they say they want to get out of here, but I don't. I just want to change it and make it better."

T he Patriot Party philosophy, as Fesperman explains, is a variation of Marxism. It's a lot like the Panther theory but the emphasis on racism is less. Most of the time the Patriots have to fight the charge that they themselves are prejudiced, or at least that the people they are working with, lhe poor and working class whites, are the m ost prejudiced segment of the United States. " Well, you know, when we got started in Uptown they told us we were racist.

Well, we checked it out, and we found ount that they were racist; only they were racist on a higher level. You're racist at a high level if you're racist and you don't lay it down on the line. What you have to do is look at the class analysis, you have to check out people by their social practice. That's the way we do it. You have to check out whether or not a man's social practice is racist before you call him a racist.

"You know, you always hear that all the horrible racist oppressors are in the South. Well, that's not so. The Rockefellers don't live in the South; the Kennedys don't live there."

10 IThe New Journal I February 8, 1970

Now Preacherman gets up to stretch "Sure, we support any party or orhis legs a bit, and as he struts around ganization which serves the needs of the kitchen he looks a little more like the the people, but most people in the PaNorth Carolina hillbilly he claims to be. triot Party have not been in the old And even though he doesn't speak with movement-no peace work, or draft the bitterness of the Panthers he still resistance, or civil rights, or SDS. We've has some of the regalia of the upcoming had some of that too; we've even had revolutionist. For one thing, he cannot requests from whole chapters of the be separated from his blue sunglasses.

SDS to join the Patriot Party. But most Indoor, outdoor, rain, or shine, he wears people just come in off the street and them. He has cowboy boots too, with get to work. moderately high heels, and they stick " We have some problems, too, having out from under his light blue work pants all these different people around. These as he strolls across the floor. intellectuals come in, and they have all the solutions. Well, they want to look Other expressions of current revoluat the psychological side of everything. tionary fashion are acknowledged by They have to be remolded. And we get Preacherman. Not even he could hold street people too who come in and are up his head in revolutionary circles if all for running out and blowing up he were without his black vinyl jacket. police stations, and they have to be Practically every respectable revolutionary has a black vinyl jacket. remolded too. You can't make a revolution with just a mind or just a body.

Preacherman's jacket is hip length, You have to have both a mind and a and it has buttons, much like the ones body in the revolution to make it." worn by the Panthers. " In the meantime, though, we' re goTom Oostou, another Patriot who, ing to support some of those upperclass among other things, acts as a sort of organizations too, like the peace moveboyguard for Preacherman, stands near ment, as long as they see that the basic him in a doorway wearing his own black needs of the people have to be met. But vinyl jacket. Dostou had a personal runwe're not issue-oriented ourselves; we in with the law a couple of weeks ago, have a revolutionary program." just after the Patriots got started, and Moore takes off his coat, and everythe Party claims Dostou is the victim of one leaves the kitchen and goes into police harassment. He was picked up the front office, which probably was a on charges of non-support of his wife living room back when the headquartin front of his house on the evening of • ers was just another rundown duplex.

January 21st by detectives of the New Not that it is any less rundown these Haven Police Department and was days, but now it is the home of most of turned over to the state police, who the New Haven Patriot Party. The colcharged him with illegal possession of lective, as they call the group, exists controlled drugs and, without making for reasons of theory and of everyday any specific charges, vaguely assoconvenience. It provides an opportunciated him in a press release with the ity for the Patriots to be full-time revolmurder of a UConn coed last Novemutionaries, and it gives them a chance ber. The Patriots say the charge of nonto try out primitive socialism before support is false, and they claim they the big revolution comes along. cannot even find out who filed the comAt meetings of the collective theoretiplaint. They claim Dostou's wife, the cal and practical problems are thrashed Child Welfare Bureau and the Family out in criticism and self-criticism sesAssistance Bureau all deny it. In addisions. According to Moore, it is at the tion they say the "controlled drugs" collective T-groups that matters such found on Dostou were actually prenatal as the issue of women's liberation are pills for his obviously pregnant wife. fitted into the party's Marxist class Then Larry Moore, the New Haven analysis. chapter head enters in his jacket; only The Patriots do not have much use his is shorter, and it has a big steel for student revolutionaries in their zipper instead of buttons. It is a lot like movement, and no place at all for them the motorcycle jackets white working in their collective. The students may class boys wear around the local drivethink they are working for the same in hamburger stands on Saturday thing, but Fesperman says they have nights. Larry himself is of the working yet to show they really mean it. He has a class. He went to the University of bemused contempt for the students who Oregon in Eugene for a while and agitate for revolution. The Patriots dropped out to work with the Patriots think the Weatherman are downright when they set up a chapter here. Fesfunny, or would be if they were not doperman says Larry was such a good oring the name of the revolution so much ganizer that the national headquarters harm. in the Yorkville district of Manhattan picked him up and brought him back East. About a month ago, he was sent to New Haven to set up a branch and become its head, known as the " New Haven defense captain" with-in Patriot circles.

According to Preacherman, most of the Patriots came into the Party like Larry Moore did, with no other background in radical activity. He says they come because they see that the Patriot way is the only realistic approach to problems of social oppression.

For the Patriots being a revolutionary means being a revolutionary all the time and never being anything else. A student, they say, cannot by definition be a revolutionary. One must either be a student or a revolutionary. Among the New Haven Patriots is a former Yale student who joined the Party, but he is a rarity. The Patriots have low regard for New Haven's leading educational institution (" a big sick hunk of brain") and its students ("if you students let Chairman Bobby die in the murder trial, you' re all punks and we're going to beat the shit out of you" ). According to the Patriots' formal position as stated by Fesperman, the idea of a student revolutionary can never work. He is from the wrong social class, and he does not understand "proletariat thinking." " Proletariat thinking is working twenty-four hours a day on meeting the needs of the people." according to Fesperman. " That's why the people here live together; they can be¡here and share things, and devote their whole lives all day and all night to meeting the needs of the people. If they need money to live they can get jobs for a while, or they can hustle money from liberals like I did myself after I went up to Uptown in Chicago from North Carolina. " Hey, you know what Uptown is like?

Did you see Haskell Wexler's Medium Cool? That place where that cute hillbilly gal lived is Uptown, and you can bet that that poor little kid in the movie is still living there," and he talks some more about life in Uptown, deliberately trying to skip over mentioning that before he went to Uptown, he attended the University of North Carolina " for a while." He tries to avoid mentioning such things, to avoid letting himself look as smart as he may actually be, to make sure he really does sound like and talk like a typical working class man.

Sometimes he slips and makes a knowledgeable reference to a movie or a book that a typical " dumb hillbilly" wouldn't. But most of the time Preacherman pulls off the "dumb" stance pretty well.

While Preacherman is talking and drinking his coffee on a chair by the front window, Annie sits behind the desk, still answering the phone and listening as different Patriots file in and out. Behind Annie on the wall is a huge Confederate flag. She is wearing a button which says "Resurrect John Brown." Preacherman performs some strenuous logical acrobatics to explain the connection. " See, the way we figure it, John Brown was doing the right thing, only he was doing it for the wrong reason.

He was doing it for religion, and he should have been doing it to meet the basic needs of the people. Now if he had gotten together with Nat Turner, then nothing would have stopped them ....

"The flag? Well, you see, the reason for the flag is that it represents the South. The South is going to be where the revolution comes from. The South will rise again, only it will be different this time. C. Vann Woodward and Robert Penn Warren live around here, don't they? C. Vann Woodward writes all that stuff about the burden of Southern history. Well, somebody ought to tell that history teacher that the South's going to rise again.

..

111 The New Journal I February 8, 1970

" The poor Southerners have seen everything. They don't even know what racism is because the poor people-all poor people-practice primitive socialism. Call it Christian brotherhood or whatever you like, but it's really socialism. And maybe it's because Southerners have seen all these things that we're going to be the first to say, 'That's going far enough!'

"You see, I know the South. I know it scares some people when they see a film like Easy Rider. The bad South. But those are mostly petty bourgeois people -the ones who scare and the one who gets scared. Hell, those guys are the capitalists.

"We Southerners, we grow up thinking we're inferior. We always feel we have to prove ourselves. We could beat people up, but that doesn't prove we're not inferior. We've got to prove we're smarter too. And maybe because we've seen what we have, we'll be the first to end this system."

Then he talks for a while about the specific plans he has for setting up Patriot Party branches In the South.

He calls the whole effort an "educational" one, to change people's minds by changing their social situation through concrete action.

"We're in this class struggle. There are lots of oppressed people, and history's going to change. Capitalism isn't that bad, you know; at least it's better than feudalism and whatever went before it. History's going to change, and we're here to help it. People have to be remolded.

"We're following In the steps of our American forefathers. You know, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson and all. They say all men are equal, and then they practice slavery. Well, we're going to change that. We're going to make the country follow what the Constitution is supposed to mean; we want to put the country back together again.

"We know we can't make a conclusion for history. But we do think we see in the Rainbow Coalition the beginnings of a national liberation struggle in this country."

He is really preaching now, and no one else in the collective can get a word in. But then he realizes what he is doing and stops. He leans against the bookshelf and starts talking with Annie in a more conversational tone of voice. •

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Dick Cavett is a Y alie.

by Martha Gershun

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"

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At the Yale C lub in New York everyone gathers 'round the television screen these days to wave their handkerchiefs when, at one in the morning, the strains of "John's· Walts" mark the end of "The Dick Cavett Show." For Dick Cavett is one of them, a graduate of Yale College-dass of 1958.

And more importantly, he is successful one.

Yet there are paradoxes in Dick Cavett's success. His hours on the home screenwhere time is money is no metaphor-have been spent in conversation with Allen Ginsberg, Ralph Nader, Paul Weiss, public figures and personalities whose intelligence had remained h idden from the viewing public whether or not they had ever been · seen on television.

Cavett's first two ABC network talk shows ("This Morhing," seen daily from March 1968 to January 1969, and "The Dick Cavett Show," generally seen three times at week at 10 P.M.last summer) received a variety of accolades that only television could inspire and endure: too good, too intelligent to last, a noble experiment.

Noble experiment is television critics' talk for we know it's a wonderful show, but poor in the ratings and bound to be cancelled. Cavett's prime time nobility evoked not only critical favor but steadily (if slowly) climbing ratings during his summer joust.

The ratings, however, didn't save the show, and among its September replacements was "Jimmy Durante presents The Lennon Sisters." Cavett's reprieve came in late November when ABC hired him for its late-night talk show. ABC was worried by Joey Bishop's low ratings, so the network forced his swift retirement. Cavett's resurrection was well deserved, but television traditionally saves its best for a special kind of sacrifice; one recalls the period in the late fifties when the networks were crying "I love you but you're too good for me" to their own Playhouse 90 and Armstrong Circle Theatre.

The switch from television's Siberian summertime to the big time in the nightly talk show was as ragged as it was quick.

Cavett's first shows were technically flawed by awkward moments of suspension as cameras cut to and from commercials. Yet the content of the show rapidly took a pleasant texture, if a sometimes forced one. To an extent the program developed a liturgy. Each guest seemed to praise Cavett, applaud the real honest-to-godwe've-finally-escaped-mediocrity quality of the show, and swore they watched it every night, before the communion would begin.

And for all the frenzied hyperbole, the element of truth was there in those pronouncements. So little Dickie Cavett is arrived.

Yet, for all of the novelty the show has brought to television's entertainingly mindless talk shows, Cavett the man is in some ways a little less novel. He's like many who come more quickly to mind these days, a man of the fifties. Yale 1958: a year not often cited for stimulating events, dynamic style, or very much of anything, in New Haven or elsewhere. Cavett too is low key.

He's on but he doesn't glitter. He's funny but the laugh is in the eyes. He's built solid and small at the same time, so the impression comes in one look. He admires Jack Paar, Stan Laurel and Groucho Marx, Mar't ha Gershun is a free lance writer based in New York where she has written for The Village Voice. This is her first appearance in The New Journal.

whom he originally worshipped back in Nebraska as emcee of "You Bet Your Life," the quintessentially innocent TV quiz show that rewarded contestants with a flying duck and twenty-five dollars if they said "stove" or "motor," the evening's · secret word.

Cavett remembers Yale as being peaceful, except for the beginning of the ice cream riot. "There was rivalry," he recalls, "between a Good Humor man and someone else on the post office corner, and students took sides. But actually that was before I went to Yale."

"I remember Adlai Stevenson being booed as he came up to speak. He was in a motorcade; there was terrific booing, and I remember not knowing what the issues were."

But in the Yale of the fifties, when trainloads of seniors left after graduation for Wall Street, there was a bit of the unusual surrounding Cavett. For he was the only senior in the 1958 Class B.ook who designated his future occupation as the "entertainment business."

Although he worked as a copy boy for Time after leaving Yale, Cavett's ambitions were still directed towards the "entertainment business," directed strongly enough to land him a job on Jack Paar's writing staff after he simply approached Paar with a freshly typed monologue.

Cavett later tried out a stand-up comedy routine in nightclubs such as New York's Bitter End and the hungry i in San Francisco. He was not an immediate success, and he's still not enthusiastic about club dates. "When you're actually up doing it it isn't bad. It's finishing one that went well and thinking I've got to do another later so I haven't gained anything. If I were told by an evil fairy that I would never go back into clubs I would not be unhapy about it."

"It was pleasanter when I was in Chicago because I know some people there. I've stayed at Hefner's house, which is a funny experience. He's up in the middle of the night. He wants to play-I think it's called Risk-that game where you dominate areas of the world on a board. I introduced word games into the Hefner house. That irritated him because all the bunnies were going around playing Perquacky ... I was the insidious word game influence. I understand it's died out. It took it about a year and a half."

What "entertainment business" eventually came to mean was television, or, rather, seven and a half hours a week of public conversation about the urban crisis, Las Vegas, French cooking and Southeast Asia. He plays an excellent host. He's more sustained than Steve Allen, less threatening than Jack Paar, not nearly as innocuous as Merv Griffin, nor as slick as Johnny Carson. Cavett's guests talk for ten minutes or more without a commercial interruption, or a joke.

Unfortunately, there is the occassional tendency to facile balancings of the guest list: hence Senators Goodell and Tower come as a team. Yet, this is partially compensated for when, in his more brilliant moments, Cavatt manages to manoeuver seemingly unbalancable guests into vigorous discussions. Recently, he led Margaret Mead and Ann Corio, the queen of old time burlesque, into an amusingly revealing dialogue on sex and morals. There was Margaret Mead, the dumpy, scholarly spinster, advocating sexual and moral liberation while Ann Corio, the liberated stripper, vehemently came back arguing

for conservatism and restraint.

On another evening his guests included Johnny Mathis and Democratic Senator Gale McGee of Wyom ing, who was there to respond to Wayne Morse's strong remarks made on a previous Dick Cavett show against the Vietnam war. Backstage ten mjnutes before the taping was scheduled to begin J ohnny Mathis was hurrying around half naked in sneakers and white ducks. A tall, dark wavy-haired man in a black suit, Gale McGee, arrived with his twelve year old daughter and was directed to a secluded chamber. On the stage a young woman sat staring under bright lights into a TV camera. She said she was the "color girl", and as a visitor asked her the qualifications for the job a man in grey sharkskin gestured feverishly at her side.

Several tall men with sunglasses and silk collars and breast pockets strolled easily from camera to control booth as the announcer began to "warm up" the audience.

The announcer's name is Fred Foy, and he is familiar to many as the voice that used to roll out a mighty "Heigh Ho Silver!" during the golden '40s. He warms the audience with the same patter every night the show is taped: a laugh about the distant balcony, a mjld insult for the bandleader, a reminder about the importance of the studio applause signs.

Behind him Dick Cavett is just arriving backstage. In mustard slacks and a green cap. After he has checked with his secretary to see that the guests have arrived he retires upstairs to his dressing room to go over the opening monologue with his writers. The tight, brassy little ABC orchestra strikes up the lively introduction theme. Cavett strides out smiling, this time in grey slacks, and jokes for ten minutes.

During the commercials Cavett .talks on his desk telephone and exchanges nods and smiles with his writers, who are now in the first row of the audience. As the camera moves in for the return close-up he looks up and waits.

Johnny Mathis sings two songs. Senator McGee, his lefi foot trembling, talks for some time about Vietnam and answers Cavett's questions about the Tonkin Gulf resolution. When the band begins to play the theme for the final roll of credits, and the stage manager signals that the show is over, Senator McGee takes a piece of paper from his pocket. He wants the autographs of Johnny Mathis and Dick Cavett for his daughter. Cavett can excuse the Senator's lapse for he himself has hustled mementos of the great, even of his idol Groucho Marx.

Cavett met Groucho at GeorgeS. Kaufman's funeral. "I just decided to walk over to where the funeral was. Beautiful day.

I went in, and there was Groucho across from me, which gave me a great thrill.

I never expected that he actually existed.

All the big people associated with the Roundtable were there; it was a nostalgist's paradise. Groucho sort of split off from them. I thought I would accost him and I did, corner of 81st and Fifth. I worked for Paar at the time so I said I'm in the business. He said 'you want to walk a ways'-he loves to walk-so we walked all the way down to the Plaza.".

"Then we got to the Plaza and he said, 'Well you're a nice young man and I'd like to take you to lunch.' Since then I kept up the friendship. I still can·t believe it.'' •

Letters: What should medical education be?

Following are three of the many letters received in response to the cover story, 'Yale Med: How Long on Top of the HilJ?" which appeared in the November 23, 1969 issue of The New Journal. A reply by a u thor Jim Ross follows the letters.

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To the Editors: The article "Yale Med: H ow Long on Top of the HilJ?" by J im R oss in the November 23 issue of the New Journal has brought to light a few essential questions which face Yale University in the teaching, research and practice of its health professionals.

It delighted me that Mr. Ross began the article by describing the contribution of a medical student, Mr. Barry R and , when he spoke at the American Association of Medical Colleges. Many of us admire the courage and capability of Mr. Rand (as well as other students such as Bruce Bloch, Mary C h arlson, Richard Katzman, Jane Silver and Peter Orris) to examine, understand and search for solutions to problems in our health-care institutions. They deserve great credit for their contribution.

Mr. Ross makes clear that Yale must ask, "Are our doctors educated to meet the needs of their clients?" The question must also be asked with respect to the lawyers, architects, nurses and clergy Yale educates. Society in general and the New Haven Community in particular are saying clearly and loudly that their needs are not being met. Many of us in the Yale-New Haven Medical Center who have heard community residents such as Margaret Leslie, Rose Harris and Ronald Johnson speak, recognize that we must be willing to take their observations into account. It was unfortu nate that Mr. Ross wrote about the controversy between the Connecticut Mental H ealth Center and the community as if it arose from a personal difference between the principles involved. The real issue is the ideological difference in defining menta l illness and prescribing therapy.

Those who adhere to psychoanalytic theory a nd practice do not understand the efforts of those who help by changing the environment as well as or in addition to changing the patients psyche.

Just as important as redefining mental illness and assessing psychiatric therapy, all the health professionals at Yale University would do a great service if they redefined illness in general. Ray Duff and August Holl ingshead have suggested just that, and also implied that we understand the circumstances which cause people to come to ask for medical help-and what treatments are helpful.

Perhaps Mr. Ross's article will be the catalyst to stimulate Yale and its professional schools to redefine its goals, revamp its education and research and its rei a- · tionship with the community. Then Yale could indeed be a model for other universities to emulate.

Florence S. Wald Research Associate and former Dean, School of Nursing To the Editors: I applaud the concern of Jim Ross for the residents of the Hill, a concern shared by so many of his schoolmates. This is a welcome change from my college days in the McCarthy era when any social criticism was discouraged and critics sociaJiy isolated. I am not prepared to agree with

h is point of view which, though well intentioned, is anti-intellectual and destructive.

First of all, poverty is not a medical illness, nor is juvenile delinquency nor adult crime nor racism nor riots. Physicia ns are not trained to deal with these problems, nor are they capable of handling them without compromising everything else they must accomplish. Alcoholism and other addictions, though called "diseases," are not diseases in the same sense as diabetes or meningitis .... Lead poisoning occurs in the setting of poverty. It is really caused by social factors which involve cupidity, landlords, tenants, ignorance, neglect of children, and emotional disturbances which give rise to pica. Physicians can treat lead poisoning but have done little to prevent it. The main questions are: Should physicians take on immense social problems as subjects which are properly included among their professional duties as practitioners of good medicine? and, if so, how should they go about it?

I think that physicians have the obligation to usc their professional authority individually and in groups to bring pressur e to bear upon the political structure to provide a kind of intervention in pressing social issues which is truly the responsibility only of government. Perhaps physicians have been remiss in this and have not done enough . However, social issues are not medicine, and to include them as part of the province of practitioners or even to devote to these problems a large section of time in the medical school curriculum would be to dilute medical practice and knowledge with potentially catastrophic results. The art of medicine is so complex, knowledge so immense and yet so inadequate, the responsibility of the physician so vast and the need to act in an individual case so pressing that lives would be lost if the medical student and practitioner were also immersed in the great problems of society which have frustrated so many others who were better qualified to deal with them.

The second point is that a great medical school must regard research and teaching as its primary goals. Community serv1ce is subsidiary to these. Lest I appear coldhearted and unpractical, let me give an example. It might have been possible for someone to argue 20 years ago that money spent on basic research in virology and immunology would be better spent on the victims of diseases such as polio. Therehabilitative measures such as the Sister Kenney treatment and bracing were successful and available only to those who could pay for them. Here was social injustice! How could a medical school with any pretensions to excellence not try to provide rehabilitation to the entire impoverished community in which it was located, even at the expense of basic research? Yet the development of techniques which have all but eradicated polio from the United States would have been impossible without basic research performed at the expense of service. The practicality of basic research has been proven so many times over that further examples are unnecessary but the appropriateness of its primacy at Yale does not depend on practicality. For Yale University is in the knowledge business and knowledge is austere. It is to be pursued for its own sake and not for the many dividends it bestows.

Education and knowledge are the major concerns of Yale Nniversity; they are the whole purpose a nd justification for its existence.

I do not mean to imply that service is unimportant, but if Yale does not, through its interest in teaching and research, provide adequate medical service to the community, the city has a responsibility to provide it. Not only has the city of New Haven not provided a city hospital or city clinics, but it has not paid the Yale-New Haven H ospital for a fraction of the costs of caring for welfare cases. The responsibility for community health is, in the last analysis, the community's and not Yale's, and pressure to improve medical service should be applied not to President Brewster but to the e lected officials of the government.

J onathan H. Pincus, M.D. A ssociate Professor, Neurology To the Editors: This letter is written to correct untruths in an article by Mr. Jim Ross, published in the New Journal on November 23rd, 1969.

I. It is not true that the Hill neighborhood and the ghetto provide most of the people the medical school " needs" as quoted without correction. People need medical and health care, and the Medical Center provides most of the institution-based care for all of the neighborhoods of New H aven and the surrounding towns. Ecological data concerning patients and where "most" of them come from are easily available to anybody with a minimal degree of journalistic conscientiousness ..• 2. Neither Dr. Max Pepper nor "Doctor" Fichtenbaum (what "doctor" is he?) received a grant for a nything. Federal grants for "Community Medicine," i.e., specifically the Hill Health Center, were procured through the efforts of Drs. D. Cook, R. Weincrman, M. Pepper and F. C. Redlich. Another grant was procured for the establishment of a catchment service, i.e., total mental health services to a defined · area, the Hill Neighborhood and West Haven in this case, by Dr. F. C. Redlich, then Director of the Connecticut Mental Health Center. Dr. Max. Pepper was put in charge of this service and Mr. Fichtenbaum assigned as the chief social worker .

3. This catchment a rea contained then 72,000 people, presumably not every one of them a "potential patient." The staff of this service didn't "discover·· the conditions listed; they were well known to exist became they are endemic throughout the nation.

4. At no time was Dr. Max Pepper serving as Acting Director of the Connecticut Mental Health Center, and Dr. Redlich was not then "on vacation," out at an International meeting. He returned immediately upon being advised of the riots in New H aven. So did Dr. Gerald Klerman, who had just been appointed Director of the Center. In the meantime, Mr. John O'Connor and I were the senior members of the Department present and involved in, and responsible for the operations of the Department of Psychiatry of which the Center is a component. The second floor of the Center was not taken over by state troopers.

5. Neither Dr. F . C. Redlich nor Dr. G Klerman ever "condemned" the Connecticut Mental Health Center's action during or after the crisis. It is true that wepsychiatrists included-proved to have no competence in the logistics of emergency evacuation of a neighborhood which we helped arrange. Later there was critical

evaluation of our operation during the crisis by ourselves, and by staff not directly involved, as there should be.

6. Dr. Pepper did not leave New Haven "shortly afterwards." He moved into the Dean's office as had been planned prior to the riots to work in community medicine and health projects commensurate with his interests-a distinct advancement over his previous assignment to a single Mental Health Service unit. ...

7. There is no particular "research-service conflict" at the Connecticut Mental H ealth Center, and the operation which began under Dr. Pepper has continued to grow and develop including "effective exchange of ideas with its neighbors."

8. Mr. Harris's appointment last spring resulted from Dr. Kleeman's concern with the Center's insufficient involvement and communication with neighborhoods outside the H ill-West Haven area where we were making progress. .

9. Barry Rand and Mary Chadson are entitled to their opinions, but they should be identified as such. Miss Charlson, however, may need the services of an opthalmologist. If Mr. R and "committed a nineteen-year-old mother with two young children to the state mental institution" he acted illegally, as only a physician can legally do this. Incidentally, the CMH C is a "State Mental institution."

I 0. Beds for detoxification at the CMHC have not been "denied," although the number alotted is inadequate, but so are the number of beds for all other psychiatric conditions if they were all to be taken care of by the 67-bed CMHC. It was never designed to take care of "all" problems of any type.

I I. The Yale New Haven Medical Center is participating in the treatment of lead poisoning and always has. Prevention of this condition requires community action and health education. to which Yale is also contributing specificaly through Dr. L. Levin, who is in charge of Health Education programs in the Department of Epidemiology and Public Health.

12. Mr. Ross could easily have informed himself of these matters. He, furthermore, failed to inform himself of the complexities of the issues involved and prefers to see "gulf faction s.. and the like instead of appreciating that many people in the medical school are concerned and involved with improving health services, and in establishing community-university partnerships in these programs. Many of us have worked in this direction for many yearslong before the CMHC opened its doors, but its doors were opened because of the vision of such a community oriented mental health service by local pioneers in social psychiatry: Drs. Redlich, J . V. Coleman, M. Senn and A. Sol nit, the late B. Roberts, and Professors H ollingshead and J . Myers, and by Professors l. S. Falk and R. Weinerman in social medicine.

Stephen Fleck, M.D. Professor of P sychiatry The awhor replies:

Two of the above letters challenge my New Journal article as "untrue" and "antiintellectual and destructive:· 1 think these accusations ignore two significant limitations which I faced as a journalist in writing the article. First, my views on the sub-

...

151 The New Journal I February 8, 1970 41

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ject became increasingly biased in favor of community demands as my study of the subject continued. I made, and continue to make, no attempt to deny this. Second, I was limited by the number of sources available to me in writing the article.

My perception of the situation at the Connecticut Mental Health Center and the medical school evolved over two months of study. As my research developed my involvement increased. I attempted to be responsible, but I could not be completedly "detached and objective." Responsible journalism is not necessarily impartial journalism. It is important for the observer to present both sides, and I believe that I did that fairly. Yet as Dr. Pincus points out, my philosophy and the philosophy of Barry Rand and others clearly docs not concur with that of the intellectual establishment.

I feel that it is the primary responsibility of all of us to deal with social problems.

We cannot defer this responsibility to government. Nixon's succec;sful veto of the HEW bill indicates that unless we act as individuals nothing will be done to correct society's ills. Good medicine is not merely a textbook study. It involves deep concern for people-people like those in the Hill ghetto. If the doctor works with the community that he is trying to help, the types of problems he encounters will be decreased. Preventive medicine like this could be especially valable in psychiatry.

The community should be consulted in decisions about its health care. This will improve care-the client's perception of his care is important. It will also give the community as a whole a feeling of participation. This feeling of participation is valuable in disorganized communities.

Often the feeling of political impotence by a community leads individuals topsychiartic problems.

Medicine is a complex art. Yet the time the practitioner loses in caring about the problems of society would not lead to the loss of Jives due to medical incompetence.

Rather it would increase the physician's ability. I do not deny the value of research.

But research is useless unless there are practical results in terms of service. I cannot accept the pursuit of knowledge "for its own sake.'' If education and knowledge are the whole purpose of Yale and the justification for its existence, we should do some serious thinking about the usefulless of the university in society.

A second limitation in writing is that the journalist is restricted by the bias of the people" ith whom he talks. There is a notable tendency for dissenter<> to be more vocal than those in power. This is the case at the medical school. Ore;. Levin, Wessel and Fichtenbaum, Barry Rand, Mary charlson. Fred Harric;, et. al., were willing to talk "ith me at length on more than one occasion. Most of the faculty and administration at the medical c;chool, on the other hand. "\ere silent or uncooperative.

Man} had little to say outc;ide of flat appro" a I of Dr. Redlich's policies. Indeed, one of the most uncooperative faculty members" as Profes<>or of Psychiatry Stephen Fleck, whose letter~ appears above. Dr. Fleck refu,ed to arrange for a personal interview"' ith me, but set a time for an evening telephone conversation.

When l called at the appointed time his wife mformed me that he was not at home.

I called the next day and Dr. Fleck mimbled a few brief comments and hung up. Thus, when !>r. Fl~ck now accuses

could easily have informed himself of these matters," I cannot help but be astonished. I do not challenge Dr. Fleck's competence in his field. But his attempt to "correct untruths" deserves clarification.

F irst, Dr. Fleck points out that the medical school "feels an obligaiton to provide the best possible services to the entire community." If the medical school docs indeed hold this policy there is a curious gap between what Dean Redlich and President Brewster are saying and Dr. Fleck's statement. Brewster's Cincinatti speech, quoted at length in my article, indicates that the university is turning away from such community involvement. Redlich had said that "our professional schools would perish if we were to take on an unlimited and enormous service responsibility" (Memo from the Dean, Sept. 26, 1969). Further, this feeling of "obligation," if it exists at all, is not followed by any significant action in the eyes of the community. This vast facility stands in the middle of a rotting ghetto, proudly carrying on the traditions of intellectual pursuit.

Dr. Fleck's other points also deserve qualification: -the grant for the catchment area was, to the best of my knowledge, in fact written

by Drs. Pepper and Fichtenbaum.

-if the conditions were known to exist then nothing significant had been done about them. Further, Dr. Fleck's statement that the conditions "were well known to exist because they are endemic throughout the nation" is unscientific. A study like the one done by the Hill-West Haven staff which deals with specific needs and problems is preferable to Fleck's generalization.

-I was led to believe that Dr. Pepper was in charge of the CMHC at the time of the riots since he was the highest ranking official in New Haven at the time.

-A statement accusing Pepper of exceeding the limits of his area of competence in psychiatry seems to me to be a clear condemnation.

-Dr. Fleck sees no research-service conflict at the CMHC. This type of attitude may be at the center of the communityuniversity problem. Fred Harris, several vocal faculty memberc;, a number of students and an entire inner-city community see this conflict affecting their Jives. It takes an extraordinary degree of isolation not even to be able to recognize the existence of this conflict.

-Dr. Klerman told me, as quoted in my article, that Harris was appointed to "sensitize us to how we were being perceived by the black community."

-There are an inadequate number of beds for detoxification at the CMHC. More have been requested but "ere not granted.

Therefore, the bed~ have been dented.

-_Fi~all), ~r. Fleck conclude"> hie; letter b> srngrng pra1ses of the "pioneers" at Yale in the direction of community-univerc;it}' partnership. I have great respect for all of these men. Yet their "~ork in this field, most of" hich was done man) year'> ago, does not fuly ans\\er the questions which toda}' arise in Ne" Haven. Take some time to wander through the Hill, Dr. Fleck. The gulf between Yale and the mner-<:11) does exist; only by admitting that it exi ts can we begin to close it. By clinging to inc;ensitive, archaic policies Dr. Fleck and his colleagues demonstrate a shocking lack of compassion for the needs of those who live so close to where they work.

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