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Volume eleven, number three
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First Annual Flu Issue
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the new journal, March 3, 1978
__________________ TheNewjournal --------------conanaent A Modest Proposal The Disney Manifesto Volume eleven, number three March 3, 1978 L. Jane Dickinson Lori J. Marian Editors-in-Chief Beatrice H. Mitchell Publisher Armand LeGardeur Designer Aaron Betsky Managing Editor Karen Sideman Graphics Editor Marilyn Achiron Assistant Editor John Laing Photography Editor
Editorial Staff: Darcy DiMona, Damon P. Miller II Steve Rogers Business Staff: Susan Amron, Jim Clark, Caroline Mitchell, Gordon Robertson, William H. Wood III Graphics Staff: Karyn Voldstad, Helen Runnells, Damon P. Miller II, Geoff Piel, Craig Fitt, Bill Tarbell, Dicke Foote Friends of the New Journal: David Budil, Lenore Skenazy, C.O.D., little E.G., Snee, Roger Ferlo, David Sleeper, Jeff Warren, Charlie Krouse, Joe DiMona, Curt Sanburn, Phil Ahwesh, John Barber, Jan Kie, Peter, Agnes, Josh, Kitty, Bosco, Nigel, Erica, "Bob" , Mr. "How tall are you?", The O.C.D. Credits: Cover, staff; p. 4, Craig Fitt; p. 5, Bill Tarbell;
In 1971, two Chilean exiles wrote a book about Donald Duck. They called it Imperialist Ideology in the Disney Comic, and set out to expose . a familiar water fowl as a fiend of fiends: the child imperialist. The Christian Science Monitor's man in Santiago, Brother Sebastian, remarked that "as long as the smiling face of Donald Duck parades innocently throughout Chilean cities, as long as Donald Duck means power and collective representation, then imperialism and the bourgeoisie can sleep peacefully." Evidently, the allegations against one of America's favorite beasts stem from what he di4 to the Abominable Snowman: in one comic strip D. Duck swindled the tundra despot out of Ghengis Khan's precious stones for which he swapped a cheap watch. It was Timex model 117, with luminous digits and an imitation leopard band. From accounts contained in The Collected Abominations, the snowman's posthumously published diary, it is clear that two days before the transaction, a pregnant Kodiak bear identified by the Sierra Club as Daisy threatened to maul the aforementioned snowman if he did not hand over his Bulova "Marquis." Fearing for his life, he complied with the angry bear's requests. In a subsequent entry, A. Snowman confessed that he was a "sucker for beasts of burden" and "fair birds from ~emperate regions." Lottie Mendoza, a housekeeper in Fort Jeffrey, Saskatchewan, testified that on the night of January 20, 1942, a creature wearing Muk-luks and aT-shirt, toting a shopping bag and answering the description of A. Snowman, The New Journal is published by the New Journal at Yale, Inc., partners in publication with the Yale Banner, Inc., and is printed at Chronicle Printing Co., North Haven, Conn. Distributed free to the Yale community. For all others, subscription rate $7.50 per year.
Copyright o 1978 by The New Journal at Yale, Inc., a non-profit organization. Letters and unsolicited manuscripts welcome. 3432 Yale Station, New Haven, Conn. 06520 Phone 432-0939
_contents___________ 2
comment: manifestly ducky, modestly budgetina, animal farm revisited, linsy-chitsy
4
Layaway for Judgment Day
Aaron Betsky
in the anteroom of Justice 5
The Rise and Fall of V a story of vocation
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Tropicana
Lee Lieberman Richard Vigilante John Laing
a photo-essay
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The Human Brain
Staff
put a head together 13
Head(s)
Zimmer Voss
fiction 14
Memories of Oceania a poem
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The Great Director meet me in St. louis, louis
A. R. C. Finch
Staff
entered a bar and grill in the Italian section of Fort Jeffrey with a large canary slung over his shoulder. Joanne Watson, the harassed bird, told police that "the son of a bitch thought I was a duck. We got to this room at the back of this bar, and he took some kind of feather suit out of a shopping bag and said 'Put this on.' Then he blew up this kiddie pool, you know the kind from Sears. He filled it with water and said, 'Get in.' He was making these duck calls and splashing around me. He was starting to melt. That's when the police came in." The Abominable Snowman was· arraigned in Fort Jeffrey municipal court on January 21, 1942, on two counts of disturbing the peace, and bestiality. A. Snowman's biographer, D. Edgeworth Stickwell of Cambridge, disclosed information on Snowman's youth to Scotland Yard, after the hardbound edition of Imperialist Ideology in the Disney Comic hit the U Diversity bookshelves. According to Stickwell, A. Snowman was of Chilean descent. Anatomically, he represented a rare genus of high altitude Andes mammalia that, because of Peace Corps reforestation and guerilla warfare, migrated south to the Cape of Good Hope and north to the Aleutian Islands. It is possible, states Stickwell, that Snowman "was sidetracked" to Saskatchewan, or "got lost." At any rate, Stickwell revealed the identity of Snowman's paternal grandfather to Yard officials. Juan (Gem) Fritato, alias "Pop-Pop" in Snowman's Collected Abominations, operated a small jewelry store in Santiago and served until 1971 as quality control consultant at Timex International of Santiago. Stickwell, upon close examination of Snowman's estate, discovered a medium-sized cardboard box; it contained forty-three discontinued Timex watchbands - veritable collector's items. The most valuable one, according to the Chase Manhattan Diamond Exchange, is the imitation leopard band, which Snowman purchased from Donald Duck. This points to the fact that the Abominable Snowman was not swindled by an American bird. But it does not vindicate Donald Duck from Chilean accusations of imperialism, or Walt Disney from being American. The evidence lies in How to Read Donald Duck: Imperialist Ideology in the Disney Comic, which reads like the Communist Manifesto. Ariel Dorfma.n and Armand Mattelart think and write on that thin line between absurd viability t and viable absurdity. The book is not a work of enduring literary distinction, and the two gentlemen of Santiago remain in exile. - Roberta L Baker
Yale University finds itself in the midst of a financial crisis of unprecedented proportions. In order to achieve lasting economic equilibrium, Yale must adopt a new philosophical stance towards education. The age of carefree expansion and economic largesse is over. It is time to buckle our belts. The notion of "pay-as-you-go" has never been strong currency in the academic marketplace. It is time for the Invisible Hand to make its appearance. We must restructure Yale. In the future, all applicants to Yale must submit a non-refundable $1000 application fee. The first 2500 applications received after January I will determine the following September's freshman class. All those students· matriculating will be required to post a $100,000 bond in advance to pay for four years at Yale. There will be no scholarships or student work programs, thereby eliminating the stigma of financial inequality. In order to accommodate the great influx of new students (which will follow from the doubling of each class' size), several steps will be undertaken. All college libraries will be closed, their books auctioned, and their space converted to dormitory rooms. All living rooms in suites will become bedrooms for four students, and all off-campus housing will be prohibited. Within each college, masters and deans and their staffs will be replaced by one College Manager. Hot water will be limited to the hours of 6 to 7 a.m. Electricity will be available only during the night hours. All electrical appliances (e.g., clocks) will be subject to stiff energy surcharges. Students will voluntarily perform all custodial services in all University buildings. (Yale's blue collar strike experience has ably demonstrated the University's capacity for selfsufficiency in this regard.) All dining hall service will be contracted to the Macke Company. As they are currently run, the dining halls are both expensive and inefficient. By the introduction of automatic food vending machines, a cautious balance between cost efficiency and the dining halls' traditional dignity could be struck. Only three dining halls would be open; this is sure to guarantee greater intercollege communication. Students might not eat what they pay for, but at least they would pay for what they eat. Several far-reaching academic changes are foreseen. All special programs would be eliminated (e.g., Directed Studies). No double majors would be permitted without surcharge. Each student would take at least 75 per cent lecture courses. Summer terms will be mandatory, graduate students will be required to be unpaid teaching assistants, and undergraduate students will also be encouraged to take on teaching responsibilities. In the future, faculty salaries will be based on enrollment levels in the individual professors• courses. Tenure will not be given. Professors will be subject to a mandatory publication schedule, and in order to increase faculty competition to publish, Yale U Diversity Press will close. Early continued to page 15
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the new journal. March 3, 1978
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Statement from the Hearing on the P. Bear Incident Well, it happened at the victory celebration over at Piglet's house. That was one for Owl's re-election to the p ost of Governor-General of the Forest - you remember, the one with the 99% turnout at the polls? We were all understandably pleased with the way things had gone, though not unprepared; in fact, the invitations had been out for weeks, and of course the memorial and the catering were arranged two months in advance. But really, an election in a one-party police state is never much of a surprise. What's that? Oh yes, I admit it you'd have to be rather a fool not to recognize the set-up here, despite all that "People's Democratic Republic" nonsense (incidentally, this is a closed hearing, isn't it?). We alJ feel quite happy with the way we've arranged things in the Forest. Once we got CR out of the picture - oh, did you like that? yes, that was Roo's idea; ingenious, wasn't it? Though really, most of this was Roo's idea. He'd been reading some of CR's history books, and later, well, we all helped him get more material. Of course, we were shattered, simply shattered, by hls death - such a waste, we all felt ... and we'd no idea his mother was a loyalist; one wouldn't have thought, ., with the way CR treated her in the old days - but I suppose we'll never know. The party, yes of course. It was very nice - lots of food and drink, and Tigger had persuaded a troop of those young Mousettes to come along, so after the ceremony with the Roo memorial things began to get quite . jolly. I remember Piglet said something about his neighbors and the noise, but we sent Rabbit and a few of his friends over and there wasn't any more trouble. Well, we had music, and then dancing, and then a lot of speeches about the Glorious Martyr, and howmoving-such-a-noble-display-popularaffection-anniversary-his-infamousmurder, and then more dancing. As I said, it was quite jolly. I think it was about then that Pooh got up and started sounding off. Actually, he'd been at it for a while before we noticed - there was rather a lot else to do, you see. Pooh bad been acting glum for weeks, and we all felt he was hitting the bottle a bit hard; Piglet says he saw him crying on some little mouse-girl's shoulder earlier in the evening. At any rate, none of us were particularly surprised to see him cutting loose, so when we realized he was talking we all gathered round to listen. A couple of mice cheered, and a few others began laughing and jeering. He didn't seem to appreciate that, so I ... well, I'd always rather liked old Pooh Bear, especially after that tail incident, so I had them discreetly bushed up. We couldn't make out what be was saying, there was a lot of competition, what with Tigger and Rabbit returning, and Pooh had to start shouting - I believe he mentioned Kanga, and then plots, and traitors, and something about conscience. We aU felt this was in rather questionable taste, considering the day, and were 9 about to suggest he move on to a more congenial topic, when suddenly be gave a funny sort of wheeze and
clutched his chest. At first we were very alarmed, particularly when he fell off the table, but Owl pointed out it was just aU that drink hitting old Pooh at last, and some of Rabbit's friends helped us to carry him over to a corner to sleep it off. We all agreed he looked quite comical; the mice were hysterical with laughter. When? I understand it was about a half-hour later. Actually I wasn't there when they found out, I'd left with a friend. But, again as I understand it, some mouse-girl was going through Pooh's pockets when she began to shriek, and then of course they all saw. It came as a terrible shock to me, simply terrible; after all, Pooh had been one of us from the start, CR's favorite, so a marvelous source. I think you'll understand if I tell you I broke down and cried at the State Funeral, and Piglet Oh. Well, you're more than welcome - I'm anxious to help in any way I can to apprehend the party responsible for this monstrous crime against the State (that's from my new poster- have you seen it yet?). I'm sure that you are all as confident as I am that the perpetrator shall be brought to justice by the time the year is out, and that you will show no leniency. I know he would have wanted it that way. Thank you, gentlemen. - A /fred Sturtevant
Commacal Recent scholarship has provided a fundamentally new approach toward understanding John Milton's syntactic and semantic usage in Paradise Lost.' By systematically applying the vast compendia of modern linguistic procedures of deep structure analysis, one garners new cognitive interpretations '6f this epic poet's manipulation of grammatical, syntactical, and punctuational devices. The present study focuses our attention on Milton's punctuational notation: particular emphasis being laid to rest on his heroic use of the seemingly banal: the rudiments of English punctuation: the comma (,), the semicolon (; or • ), the colon (:), and the period (.) The occurrences in his works of the exclamation mark (!) and the question mark (?) are so rare as not to warrant their serious consideration in this study. (The interested reader is commended to two f'me articles on the frequency and specific usages of these two punctuational marks in E. I. Symington-Bradshaw's classic nineteenth century treatise: The Renaissance Comma (Princeton, 1825).) Of the many laudable exempla available for our consideration, one is chosen as a model for our comparative analysis. This aesthetic masterpiece of style far exceeds the exigencies of our explication: Not just, not God; not fear'd then, nor obey'd: (IX, 701) The casual perusal of even the disaffected reader cannot help but make him yield in submission to the wealth and regal majesty of this dulcet clause. The f'JrSt comma breaks forth with a gasconade of Milton's prosodic acumen: it initiates our analytical process. The fJrSt comma, standing in the critical position following the second word and signalling the first of two caesurae in this line, stands as an continued to page 15
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the new journal, March 3, 1978
Layaway for Judgment Day by Aaron Betsky The scales of justice are held by Liz, open-eyed clerk of the Superior Court of New Haven. She sits in her glass booth on the ninth floor of the Court Building on Church Street and controls the entrance to the jury elevator. Her captive audience (in the form of several hundred bored citizens) sits around her waiting for the crackle of the intercom, which Liz relinquishes four or five times a day to one of the sheriffs...Numbers 808, 2357, 2368, 2418..." As the numbers are called out, corresponding faces Light up, sigh, or return to their waiting, reading and needlepoint. Those called will form the basis for a jury, lost somewhere in the entrails of this large building or the criminal court across the street, pronouncing judgment on their peers. The captive citizens ar~ engaged in an exercise of patience and aggravation called Jury Duty. Most people are not alarmed when they receive the first notice from the court system that they have their number. Only when they open the mail and find that four weeks of their Life is going down the drain of public responsibility in support of the law . schools do they start to curse, connive and generally work: themselves out of this God-given right. They do this with varying degrees of success. I was one who lost. I showed up at the courthouse early one Monday morning in my best clothes, secure in the knowledge that I was a smart-ass Yalie, not a real townie. For an hour, the roll call was taken. For an hour, we watched a movie on jury duty QOt unlike those shown to snickering audiences in sex ed or driver ed. The Honorable Judge Aaronson lectured us for half an hour. For an, hour, I waited, until it was finally my turn to whisper my confession to the judge: that I was a Yalie, unacceptable and with many obligations. The wearied judge wiped his forehead, told me about the importance of youth and intelligence, and let me off with a two-week: sentence. Stunned, I retreated to my Dean in search of pity, but Mother Eli was helpless. So I told my teachers to behave and took: off for my twoweek stint. The view from the ninth floor is actually quite magnificent. From the large Assembly Room, you can look through three large circular windows out to the golden New Haven harbor and the Sound, or to the hills rolling out to Sleeping Giant. From the various lounges, Yale and Downtown stretch out in all their urban might. I chose a lounge from which I could see my neo-Gothic home, the classrooms I should have been in, the library I should have been buried in, the bed I should have been sleeping in. But Liz watches my every movement at the elevator, tells me when to come and when to go, dispenses proofs of attendance, allows favors. One absence could cost me $50. So I am confmed to the dirty, yellow-andwhite lounges, the air filled with heavy smoke, tbe temperature in the eighties. Card games, puzzles flourish, pieced together by changing bands. Knitting and talking transcend old ladies; ..My tongue is so tired, it really hurts," exclaims one worried woman at the end of the day. Forced together
mind the duty. He gets a chance to work on his needle point. He is embroidering orange flowers. He frames the works himself, hangs them or sells them. He has another hobby as well. The next day, he produces slides and samples of his work, unnaturally, a representative crosscarefully ignoring the oohs and ahhs. section of the population of Southern There are mostly partridges and other Connecticut must spend sixteen days birds of the woods, painstakingly together in close contact, forming an extended family. Jury Duty is waiting, , painted on canvas or on clay models in woodland colors. A UConn student becoming a peer among peers. intrudes into our snug group, tries to I have unconsciously chosen, along talk about Whitman with me, telling with my lounge with a view of Yale, a me the others are not students. The group of fellow waiters. Barbara is a others compare houses, places of school teacher in West Haven. Bill is work, addresses, friends, tell stories. an industrial engineer. Janet, a sec"You know, there was this girl, came retary, Bunny, a key-punch operator. to work at the office, never said Bill is retired, John unknown, small anything to anyone. Turned out, she and intently interested in everything. had this problem, you know, but she Sidney is the mystery, of unknown didn't dare tell it to anyone, you profession, quick, the cynical card know, she was sort of ashamed." player. Several minor players fill the "That's the way it is, these people fringes of the room, sometimes enterwith problems... " I feel very ing the conversation. The converproblematic. sation is aimless, searching. Barbara As the days drag on, we try and and I discuss education. "It's the
toughest job in town," she says, adjusting her glasses. "They're just not keeping to basics anymore," she smoothes her skirt, "no discipline." She discusses the trouble finding substitutes, the glut in the teacher market; I drift away. Her manner is easy, stem, I close my eyes and sec: my high school German teacher. Bill is also worried about education. about the quality of life. They discuss West Haven. Barbara is missing her vacation for this, Bill just his salary. The state pays $10 a day, plus JOe a mile. "That just about covers the cost of my sweat up here." People wonder whether to have lunch, discuss brands of cigarettes. The other Bill doesn't
remember the chant the ftlm gave us, repeated over and over again: "He who waits also serves ... he who waits also serves." We sit and wait, trying to amuse each other. After a while, you long to be called. Then: "2609..." A jump up, a wait. I enter the elevator, face new faces in silence, step off in a floor, white corridors in office light. We wait in little rooms, not Icnowing what will happen to us. The thought of judgment lurks in our minds, somewhere. We are ushered into a small courtroom, no windows, stylized furniture and the bright American flag, bidden fluorescent lights. The judge instructs us. The case seems somewhat byzantine: a
mother, daughter and two friends are suing the son and brother for a car accident that happened five years ago; it slowly emerges that Hertz is a codefendant, that they are paying the lawyer. Five impatient, black faces scan the twenty-four members of the panel, until we are led out so that questioning of the jurors can begin. The plaintiffs lawyer bas frizzy hair wears a green tie and green suit with a yellow-grey shirt. He is overweight. The defense attorney wears a J. Press suit, has a classically chiseled New England face and smiles at the jury over his Ben Franklins. This could be tough. We ftle out, wait interminably, twelve blank faces facing each other and the empty SNETCO offices across the way. Finally, we are called in again. The case has been settled out of court, as most cases are. Relieved and disappointed we reascend our lofty perch overlooking New Haven. The next day presents a repeat.of the same procedure. Same number called, same courthouse. The stenographer looks at us, bored, chewing gum with her mouth open. At the meat depot on Long Wharf, one worker had attacked another and caused him grievous bodily injury, for which he wants money. Jurors are actually called. Some are taken, some rejected. The tension in our little waiting room rises. A nationalized French woman complains about the government, everywhere and on all levels. "They don't care, they treat you like this. You know nothing. They know it all Just power, that's all, we elect them, and they get the money, and that's all they care." There is much agreement in the room. John and I discuss Washington and the allurements of power until John is called and, after half an hour of questioning, accepted. I too am called, after several more have been accepted or rejected. The first question from that same chiseled defense lawyer: Am I still at Yale. Yes. Oh yes. Do I believe that it is just to demand money in return for bodily harm? Trying to wipe the nervous smile off my face, I answer that, given the present structure of our society and the importance of money in it, I think money is as fair a reward for harm to your body as any. I am excused after this question. So goes the procedure, running through the mill, sometimes falling through it into a jury, or else stepping off for a while until we have a chance to run a couple of laps and get a glimpse of justice. Back upstairs, we play our own games now, and they make the days go quickly. Sidney, our favorite wheeler-dealer, runs the games. Dealing the cards for five-card stud, he talks of his vacation in Vegas, of the Arabs there. "They're buying up everything. What's money to them? They just pump it out. Sit down at the table. be says, this Sheik:, I drop couple hundred thousand. Nothing to them. The English own the Mall down here, know that? Sure, sure... " Time flies, as monopolymoney changes hands, greed comes out and disappears. We play monopoly, poker, learning new tricks and variations. We propose to ask the judges to join us up here. Our comer has become a hideout for decadence, full of smoke, gambling, risque jokes and even an occasional four letter word puncturing the eardrums of the silent ladies in the far comer of the lounge. I tried to work here, but gave it up. Fiercely, rm trying to unload Baltic. The jokes come quick, leaden. continued to page 13
the new journal, March), 1978
5
The Rise and Fall of V by Lee Lieberman and Richard Vigilante V's fruit selling period marked the apex of a distinguished career. The fruit business is no rags to riches fly-by-night enterprise for shifty speculators. It takes hard honest toil. But at last, V was a man of station, honored by those he loved - which is a kind of greatness. V had shifted his comer. The Greek had disappeared, a disappearance which may seem providential to the reader. The Greek had a truck. He had driven it away. Without seeming overeager, V's plywood fruit cart built on top of a shopping wagon and covered with a sheet (for decoration) approached the corner and took its place. The response of the public was gratifying. V's income doubled overnight and grew steadily after that. No longer was he put to shame by giving away bananas at three o'clock. V made confident predictions about the state of the fruit market to his friends, and his family acclaimed him as a genius. V, his father, had not always had such a fine opinion of his son. His son was a bum; a congenital and worthless bum. His son only a few months before had left Yale halfway through a tuition payment. "Leaving Yale" perhaps gives an impression of more activity on his son's part than actually took place. Better to say that there came a time when his son was no longer at Yale. Nor was he anywhere else. He was relaxing. His mother Va, who had no more regard for her son than did her husband, got V a job in a matzoh ball warehouse. This was a bit strange, since V is a notably Italian name. But V's father, who had had scholastic training, pointed out that V would not actually be working in the warehouse but on the delivery truck. Va was a bit concerned about her son's plight. But her husband, who felt strongly about the matter, laid down the law in no uncertain terms. Like Sisyphus, V was atoning for his sins by rolling an eternal matzoh ball up an endless hill. Va was much comforted. V was fired . V was next employed as a clerk on Wall Street. He flourished for a while, writing down numbers and adding or subtracting them, and answering the telephone. During his lunch hour, V watched the Greek. The Greek was a genius. He sold apples and oranges for 25e a piece and bananas at two for a quarter. He sold I ,200 pieces of fruit a day and made 900 dollars a week. V earned 80 dollars a week after taxes. V decided to emulate the Greek. Va was distressed at the notion of replacing my son at Yale with my son the peddler. V's brother, at pains to help, quietly offered to get V a job writing symphonies, so the family shouldn't worry. V senior smiled sardonically, pleased with the accuracy of his predictions. His son would be a bum after all. V obtained a licence, stole a shopping cart, bought materials, and talked eagerly about the conflict between a fast moving banana and a high priced apple. His friends regarded him with sadness. At trrst V's fruit was not greeted with enthusiasm. The passersby noticed V and the fruit, but were not impressed by the fact that he was selling it. They did not seem to realize
pocketed an apple, and strode away, having fulfilled his duty as the defender of the public peace. V's fortunes, however, were not secure. The next morning a second policeman appeared. He politely informed V that that they were part of the process. V he and his cart were in a restricted was forced to rechannel some of his area. V, firm in the knowledge of the product. He made many apple pies. municipal regulations concerning fruit V's father was pleased - he liked sellers and their carts, politely inapple pies. But with the departure of quired where wasn't a restricted area. the Greek, everything changed. The policeman informed V with pride Crowds swarmed around V's cart. that there were no non-restricted areas in his precinct, and that his Women grabbed and squeezed the fruit, even the bananas. It was okay: precinct extended several miles in every duectiori. V's ~rt was carrying a they sold anyway. Businessmen manfully plucked apples off the top of the · large, heavy, expensive load, and it cart. Children screamed for more fruit was almost lunch hour. V continued and waved sticky orange-juice-covered to sell fruit. The sight of V selling fruit drove the policeman to a frenzy. hands over their heads. Wandering minstrels attracted by the crowds sang He began to write summonses very quickly. He wrote thirteen of them. their lays and plucked their guitars Then he began· to yell and threaten V and passed their hats. V gave them with the paddy wagon. When he free apples in remembrance of his finally left, he was quite red in the brother. V did not forget his family in· his face, and V's profits for the day had evaporated. days of greatness, and they were humbly grateful. Va, moist-eyed, In the morning, the Greek was marvelled over her son. V muttered there. On the comer. V's corner. The something about Prince Hal. but Greek's comer. V pushed the cart into neither came o'er his son with his its usual position. The Greek walked wilder days nor measured what use he over and smiled. "Hello my friend," said the Greek. "What are you had made of them. In fact, he wavered between deference and a doing?" V replied that he was selling dignified and distant respect. With the fruit, 25¢ for apples and oranges and hopeful awe of the amateur adbananas 2 for a quarter. "This is my dressing the professional, he gave his corner," said the Greek. "You go back to your comer." V explained son advice about handling bananas. Once the object of scorn and derision, that since the Greek had been away for quite some time, this was now V's but now righteous and successful (or successful and righteous), V was corner. "This is my corner," the clutched to the bosom of his family Greek repeated. "You must go away." and beamed light upon them. V began to set up for the day's work. . The next day, a policeman appeared. "Okay," said the Greek. "I am going A local merchant had complained that to kill you." Fortunately, this was unnecessary. V's cart was interfering with his own When the crowds began to come, they business. Jealousy, that green-eyed came to the Greek. Not all of them, monster, hath ever been a rag tag of course. The laws of chance camp follower to the fortunes of the wouldn't stand for that. V got an great. The policeman told V to vacate occasional customer. Probability, it the premises, suggested that this seems, is only reliable when dealing might be accomplished simply by with very large numbers. How many pushing the cart round to the other businessmen did not want an apple at side of the comer, wrote a summons the moment they passed V's cart, and (for a minor violation), winked,
were yet ravenous with apple hunger a few seconds later when they passed the Greek? By the end of the day all thoughts of murder had vanished from the mind of the Greek. The . Greek, no doubt, realized that Hercules was with him. At any rate, at three o'clock, the Greek, fruitless and smiling, closed down his truck and drove away. On the opposite side of the street, o·n a comer a block away, an old woman tended a hot dog stand. She was very ugly' and entirely round except for her legs, which were square. Finished for the day, she pushed her cart over to V. "You did not do much business today. I buy from you. Give me some apples." V sold her half a dozen. She pushed her cart away, and V began to pack up his merchandise. It had begun to rain before V reached the subway station. The soggy blue cardboard apple box smeared all over V's shirt, turning it blue as well. His fruit under one arm and six frozen pie shells in the o~her, V occupied more than his share of an already irritable subway car. The subway car was made more irritable by the progress of a blind man down the aisle. He was a beggar. He held a tin cup in his hands and shook it very loudly under the noses of the passengers. As often as not, they gave him something, and he stumbled down the aisle, leaving them in peace. He stepped neatly around the pole and stood in front of V. He was a fat, well-fed blind man. The beggar cast a contemptuous glance at V, smiled at a woman wearing a fox, and collected a crisp dollar bill. V began to muse. He considered .his profits for the day, his status in the community, and, on the other hand, the rewards of the mendicant life. V calculated carefully. And so, like Homer, Milton and the glorious Panikofsky, V became a blind man. V's father was pleased by his son's classical afflliations; and after bottoming out, V's tmancial condition stabilized.
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the new journal, March 3, /978
Tropicana
by John Laing
Providenciales is one of the smaller islands in the Turks and Caicos group which lies northeast of Haiti. Rarely visited, because few people know about them and even fewer know how to reach them, they comprise no more than fifty square miles and appear on the map as small dots just south of the Bahamas. Most of the two hundred houses on Providenciales are shanty cottages owned by natives who work in the stores, the gas station and the airport - a wooden shack with a dusty dirt runway. Nearly all of the six hundred inhabitants live in an area known as Blue Hills, a strip of land one and a half miles long and a few hundred yards wide. Many have come to Providenciales from other islands, in search of a harbor from the encroachments of tourism. Conch shells and lobster were once the main exports of the island, but now the export of shells is forbidden because the more exquisite specimens of the deepest pink and blue colors have vanished from the shore. I used to spend the day trying to find and photograph these shells, but I discovered few that were as beautiful as those shown to me by the people of Blue Hills. At f~.rst I was regarded with suspicion because I was carrying a great deal of photographic equipment, but I managed to gain trust by showing around a few Polaroid snapshots and becoming a familiar figure in the area. People would pose for me with their children in front of the wood and mud houses typical of the island, laundry billowing like brightly colored sails behind them. The roads on the island are no more than sandy white tracks, stony and uneven. Great clouds of dust followed the rattling path of each passing car. I rented one for five dollars and drove about the roads to visit other beaches, the boatyard and the parts of Blue Hills I
the new journal, March 3, 1978
could not reach by foot. Long and beautiful beaches stretched the whole l~ngth of the island. Occasionally I would find an old bit of an anchor or hull buried in the sand, casting shadows on the grainy shore; bits of broken glass which had been worn down by the sea sparkled next to it. Some of the dunes near the island's only hotel, The Third Turtle Inn, rose to heights of twenty feet or more, populating the calm horizon. From¡ the moment I arrived at Provo, as it has come to be called, there was music. As soon as the plane landed, I heard a band of simple instruments. A middle-aged man began to dance and children joined in around him. I felt as though I had interrupted some ancient ritual. I later realized that the landing of the plane was a ritual - it brought food, the latest Time magazine, shoes, supplies for the two stores on the island. In the undulating pattern of life on ProvidenciaJes, its arrival was an exotic motif, forcing a comparison of the world I came from and that of Providenciales, on the island's terms instead of mine. One morning I went to the airport to wait for the plane among the variegated crowd of islanders, musacian!>, and interlopers like myself. The band began to play at eleven. The plane had not arrived at noon, and by one o'clock waiting faces began to show signs of worry. At two we wondered if the clumsy DC-6 had fi nally plummeted into the blue-green Caribbean. Finally a tall, officialJy dressed man stepped out of the scant airport building and announced that the plane had just left Miami, would arrive at four that afternoon. We heard on the one-way radio that someone had made an emergency land ing on South Caicos the night before. Amidst the general relief, a little boy ran up to me ... Will you take my picture? You haven't taken my picture yet." The sun set as the plane arrived; it would have to take off by moonlight, since the runway had no electricity. Gradually, lights from the shanties glanced off the retreating waves, the heavy plane lifted itself into the sky, and I walked on to Blue Hill!> to recapture the music of the morning.
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the new journal, March 3, 1978
Human Brain Assembly Instructions
Items needed: Two large (22" X 28") sheets of thin poster board Rubber cement or paper glue Single edge razor blade or X-acto knife Scissors Paper tape Tacks Sma/1 board (4" X 5" or larger) Carefully remove all brain model pages from the centerfold. Lay out and glue or cement the pages on the poster board. Carefully cut out all the individual pieces, notching the tabs a little more than indicated. Stack the pieces in order not to lose any. Using a single razor blade or an X-acto knife, cut all the slots, making sure to cut all the way through the entire length of the slot (better a little too much than not enough, but do not get carried away). Fold any pieces on dotted lines if so indicated. Arrange the pieces before you so that all are visible. The pieces are identified by their distinctive tab, slot, or tack numbers. Take the ·rectangular stand piece with tack numbers and place it on a small piece of wood. Tack it to the wood with tacks 1-4. Take the piece containing tab 1 and place it in slot I , slipping the cerebellum through slot zero and the splenium in the slot above it. Align tack positions 5-16 on the piece containing slot zero with those on the board and tack it down. Continue-assembling tabs and slots in order: flrst numbers, then letters, and finally Roman numerals. It would be best to tape each' letter tab and slot combination on the back side as they are assembled. Once the Roman numerals are completed, the finished cortex can be split apart slightly on the midline and slid over the stand. After careful assembly, this brain model becomes a welcome study aid. A numbered guide which provides easy identification of each puzzle piece is available, free. Write HUMAN BRAIN, cf o The New Journal, 3432 Yale Station, New Haven, Ct. 06520.
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the new journal, March 3, 1978
YALE Summer Language Institute
June 19 thru Aug. 11, 1978
Arabic Bulgarian Chinese
Intensive courses at beginning, intermediate, and advanced levels in the contemporary languages of Europe. Greek (classical and modern) and Hebrew. Elementary and intermediate Arabic and Latin. Elementary Persian, Chinese and Japanese at elementary, intermediate, and advanced levels. In addition, reading courses in French, German, Russian, and Spanish for graduate students preparing for language ex~mina tions.
Czech Dutch English Language: and Orientation French German Greek Hebrew Italian J apanese Latin Persian Polish Portuguese Russia n Serbo-Croatian
Please address inquiries ¡to:
Charles A. Porter, Director Summer Language Institute Yale University 305 Crown Street NJ New Haven, Connecticut 06520 Tel. (203J 436-4632
Spanish Swedish
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Graduate & Professional Students! Members of Faculty Families!
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If You Have The Gift of Gab. . . ... you can help Yale, and make a nice dollar while you do, by signing up as a Telephone Associate of The Campaign for Yale. You'll work two or more evenings a week (your choice of evenings; some weekend spots also open). In a convenient loca~ion (on Shuttlebus route) you'll spend three hours on the phone, talking to Yale alumni all over the country. You'll start at $4.00 an hour, with r aises likely. Plus bonus opportunities. And plenty of sandwiches and soft drinks to keep you gotng. If you're a Slow-witted Sam or Silent Sue, please don't apply. But if you can think fast, express yourself we~l, have a cheerful manner and a mature voice, call Ron Erdos at 436-0653 and let's talk.
the new journal, March 3, 1978
11
Sho-w- us the way -w-e are. Let the Yale Banner publish your
The Yale Banner will consider for publication in this year ' s yearbook all photos and any writing submitted on or before March 10, the last day before spring vacation . To submi.t materials , leave them in envelope marl<ed "photos and writing" hanging on the Yale Banner office door . If you wish your materials to be returned leave stamped self- addressed return envelope , also . Ya.Le Bc'mner Publications Third , floor , vJoolsey Hall Telephone 6- 8650 Business hours : 9 : 30- 2PM Closed Sundays and ~¡/ednesdays
,
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the new journal, March 3, 1978
Head(s) by Zimmer Voss All around the walls. Thick coffee and cream colored wood - thirty feet tall. They looked the color of infant's vomit on concrete. "It's a shame," I say to Sam, "that with all the money spent killing plants they end up with these walls the color of baby puke." "Chartle Chartle," says Sam knowingly, that being the way he laughs. H e laughs the way all of Them in the Circle laugh. They all practice it together - between trips to the bathroom to compare the sizes of their zipper stuffers - over coffee the color of infant's vomit. He will quote me in the Column tomorrow. He will print my "A Shame" as "asha-m." I have told him that is the way I think it and that is the way it should be printed. I told him that the night before when he was drunk and I had just put every pill I owned in a Vita-Mixer and blended the shit out of them. I did it in the privacy of Frank's twelfth floor penthouse. It was Frank's though I'd never met him, because he was a super rich faggot interior decorator with no taste who died. I had 'bought it and everything in it. I left it just the way it was. I have no need to change the world for me. The world changes its self for me. The change is not voluntary. The world wishes that it -didn't have to keep up with me, that it could just go off on its own and just Be. But that is impossible. If it weren't for people like me the world would be nothing. It knows that. It tries to hide the fact from me. It doesn't know that I knew this long ago. Sam was at a cocktail party to honor me. He had gotten bored and left. Right away because I wasn't there. He found me at the next party he went to. Standing alone in the corner. I was surrounded by faggots and frigid women who had heard stories. They eyed my unremarkable features with wonder lust. The women were impressed by the whispered stories. The faggots were impressed by their own opinions. These were not the people that I wanted to impress. ¡ I could only at the time think of one person that i wanted to impress. She is not impressed by any stories or opinions that she hears, though she believes them all. She knows that
everything is true. She is impressed by nothing. That is why she impresses me. Sam is drunk and in public. So is everyone. Except me. I am full of new jersey chemicals. A spoon full of them, scooped from the pile of rain bowed powder in the Vita-Mixer. In p.rivate. No one knows. Today it is Sunday. They have finally gotten around to the source of all the excitement. It is nothing by itself. But I did it. It is now the best. They have no idea why. They are moved, genuinely moved. That is because it is me that moves. They stand still. They are on a stationary train with no point of reference. I move, I am their reference, they are genuinely moved, standing stock still, eyes leaking in the speeding air. I am the best in their standards. Their standards have conformed to me. She is the best in my standards. My standards conform to her. But, because no one knows this, my standards never change. After I tell Sam how to spell ashamed, the curious do not understand. I look at their smiling, terrified faces. They need me to make them feel good. To do this my only choice is to hurt them. They appreciate my talent. They do not understand theirs is much better. It is invisible to them. They only see what is not there. I only see what is. Contact. I drill one in the eyes. She is screamingly beautiful though she looks nothing like the one I am destined never to impress. "Don't you think, love," (I call everything love, it's such an easy word to say.), "that there are no men too small, only women too big." A faggot on the fringe mumbles something about Oscar Wilde, made braver, no doubt, by his distance from me. I want to sneak through the New York City Sewer System. Up from the river, up through the trunk lines, squeezing up through the graduated capillaries, all the way up to his apartment where I would lunge up through his toilet and shove a flame thrower up his ass. I do not fear albino crocodiles. I am unlike anyone I have ever known. That is because I am just like everyone I've ever met. Here we are the morning after. We, all of us that make up this fragile, twisted, world shaking power system. My paintings surround me in the huge circle of flat, square walls. In the first
ring stand the critics experts collectors dilettantes and media remorra. They look a lot alike. They wear the same faces. It doesn't matter who made their clothes. No matter if the clothes were expensive. Still the being ¡ who made them will never wear the stupid face of those who wear them. There is no second ring. If there were, perhaps it would be manned by the sweat shop labor. But it is not. If it were, they would be just as defenseless as the first line. But then there is me. I have absolutely no defenses. I am never on the defensive. The critics do not look at me. They have nothing to say. I don't tell them anything, either in my paintings or in my press releases. I paint and speak a great deal. They have pronounced the .collection an amalgam of masterpieces. The artist has come out of nowhere to dazzle the world. It is the only thing they can say. It is their world that is meant. The paintings are shades of blue with pink outlines. The one I wanted to impress arrives. Sam disappears in a cloud of selfinflicted insignificance. So do they all. She sits down next to me. We don't look in each other's eyes. X-ray vision startles the brain. It has been years since we met. We never parted. There was nothing to part. Sh~ stares straight ahead. She is looking at one of the paintings. She doesn't survey the room or examine closely, the way the others do. She just looks. Straight ahead. Her only mistake is that she is looking at another's work. It is a painting that I don't remember doing. That doesn' t
really matter. I don't remember doing any of them. She nods. I smile and watch her nod. She was small and light and dirty as tar. But the dirty part was the part you couldn't see. At twenty she could have been the girl on the box of Ivory Snow. 1 wanted her then. I would stand at my window and scream for her. But never out loud. That is foolish. I knew it intuitively, even then. I remember my incarnations. That is the only recall that works. That is my advantage. She is now dirty on the outside. She talked it so long that it oozed like puss spittle out of her mouth and across the virgin fiber of her armor. Her hair hangs down in cottony swatches of chemical elegance. It is full of squeaky filth. It is now the color of dried blood. Her face has been re-upholstered poorly. She says that I have done a good job. She has no perception of how accurate she is. Only I do and th,at doesn't count. She has spent her life looking at paintings, studying paintings, copying paintings, talking of paintings, theorizing about paintings. She has been painting since she was six. She is slowly starving to death. I have studied people. I painted three months. I started with that one over there and finished with that one over there. I ran out of blue. She talks but her words are for herself. Everyone's are. Except mine. Mine are for God. God is blind. He doesn't see all, rather, he hears all. I tell him what he wants to hear. She says she dreams of paintings. I say that's the difference between us. I wake up exhausted with a picture in my head. I draw it.
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13
the new journal, March 3, 1978
continued from page 4 "Aaron, you get so involved , so intense," Bunny says. Ah, shucks. And so the days wear on, the puzzles become clearer, the dealing of the hand s faster , smoke and drab colors become a drab backdrop for the unfolding of time, the presence of the intercom intermittently blaring. At lunch or five, we all gather in front of the elevators like a herd of cattle in a corral, waiting to be let out. Barbara has been called to the Criminal Court across the street, a feared place of real decisions and hard chairs in a practically windowless room. We were just in the mid dle of a two- to threehour discussion of our vacations in Europe when the loss came. Sidney finished his story of the med ieval meal he had in Ireland, and then we switch back to poker. Bill and Joh n ask me to identify the various parts of Yale, which I do gladly, pointing from the window at Sterling, Branford, the gym. We talk of children, · their tricks and fears. We lose Janet to a trial, but not her monopoly board. The day goes quickly. I am called again the next day, to a different court. A tenant is suing his landlord because he slipped on some steps hanging his wife's wash. The judge jokes with the attorneys, we wear stony masks. We wait in our little rooms, talk about Carter. Nobody likes him. Slowly, a jury is called together. In the end, there are only five people left in both rooms.
Fou r of us are excused . The ro u tine is by now familiar. The week is over, a nd I look forward to not having to get up at nine in the morning. The snowstorm keeps us apart for . most of the week. I find myself missing the decadent idleness, the security of inactivity on the ninth floor, the companionship of people who will never know each other. I know the homes and gardens a nd neighborhoods of five people, I know of Bill's tennis games, of the other Bill's painting and his passionate hobbies, the fineness of his hands. I know John's political attitudes, I know Barbara's frustration, Sidney's mysteriously financed vacations in plaid pants and Hawaiian shirts. They know about my courses, my interest in architecture, my youth in Europe. I took Bunny and Janet to Claire's where they were totally astonished: "I've never had an avocado, and I don't plan to. You know, I could never get my husband in here. Never." They are astonished at Syrian bread, and I am ashamed to have brought them here, bewildered by their reactions. After lunch, they go off to the Mall, and I go off to Yale. The last afternoon, on Friday, I talk to Bill and Sidney about being a student. " If you ask me, it's mucho money for nothing," Sidney says, " no jobs. Forget it." "I'll find something," I say. "If I didn't think that, I wouldn't be
at Yale. I have faith I can make myself a life." Sidney shrugs. "It's a great school, though," Bill says. We talk about various relatives at different colieges. I am called suddenly, two hou rs before it's all over. I stand up in the J ury Box, and ask the J udge to be excused. He releases me and eight others. Several people thank me for asking him. It was a dull traffic case, anyhow. We go back upstairs, where the remnants of the group, Bunny, Bill and John, are sitting silently. We don't really have much more to say, it is the last day, after all. I start on a .puzzle, and frantically start piecing together windows and door, trying to get something coherent before the intercom crackles for the last time. Some impatient ladies are discussing Liz, angry at what they think is her arbitrary use of power. "She just loves it, like all of us," one half-whispers to another. Finally, she speaks: "O.k., five, you're all excused for the week. For those of you that are leaving us today, I'd like to say that it's been nice knowing you, you're really a nice bunch. Take care of yourselves, now." I say a very hurried good bye, rush to the elevator, ride down silently, smiling. Outside, the traffic is absolutely jammed. I'm the only pedestrian, and feel apologetic that I'll actually be home in ten minutes. It's all over. I did not get a single chance to judge in these two weeks, as is the
ca se with many people. The system of j ustice seems closer, but still foreign to me. I feel like a traitor, pretending to be a citizen of New Haven. But for two weeks we were all traitors, p retending to be one large extended family, d eriving an identity from the little blue buttons we wear. We are constituent parts of this manipulated court system, but we are innocent. In our innocence, we knew each other, we tried each other. We have performed our true civic duty: we have sat side by side, and talked, and waited.
Aaron Betsky is a registered voter and an upright citizen.
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the new journal, March 3, 1978
Memories of Oceania (Matisse, 1953) Two voices; one of them, his. The carving of paper is blessed by these, my colored hands, . . Echoing lively as creatures seen in the brown a1r of the stud1o, And building, sweet hot creatures out of the white a1r, shapes fit to jar the kisses in this old man's brain -
.·
The paper is obviously Blessed out of need. Out of· the need for smoking grades, Out of the need for blending. Its clearest texture Is the prtss of shape .. .
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And what shapes I've given to the tones of that earthwork land ! (Flat white around a charcoal rise Is the only bulge needed /
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On way he., · ... • . · • This ning a • ~niggere_d o~~~ \ A bri ~ - wa ssing nder, ·• . · And n it $u ode Stif' prima ·r s. ;. , • \ Nofcorn_e rs to. . a( 'sion, i •.':·. ~ No' k~letd~p!c .~e u~s. ~: 1 No Ao~-edged mv 10 Not · g inverse. It wen truck, truck , red, round, truck, uck, sweet, flat, · truck,, uck, stem, truck, truck ,, uck, truck, truck . And t t was th.e moment Of mytatisse vision. · · : The w le truck was filthy • But it his.ked like a silver shot. ' Come back to Matiss·e (Now, then) Come back:
,
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~ s~ark biack are the lines · Of the cane-fields erupting Erupting un.der the sun And until the only rectangle of pink that could ever shock I remember vaguely how I used to stumble Through the hot ble~tk paffls of. tf:le sinotherina monkeys '-._.. And the greehs and greens of those ·moldy old junalel ' .
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Then be brouaht And Bot oaly pink But im-.asurable c:urws And howliq. arowiJaa IGI_,.II And ~ales that floated Like badinqe OD fire And cbanjed tbe shapes of Till they ppe aDd •lanai and Stop. Hah the true~ simply by kecpiQI your eyc:a on it . Then his shaJ* wiU arow \ran-rs:nt. Slow T ossina tbcir colon Over their beell "' Just~be threw them Tog Stop. y still have ~. srow . They fi teeds, 8fO lille rrun . Like waves on the earth as he found them hung, hangmg Wait. His growing hands Threw them all in the grande)t gesture I hope he never hoped this Oceanic moment Would land anywhere at a ll And so of course he let) the edges Fade off into discord
j
A. R. C. Finch
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the new journal, March 3, 1978
continued from page 3 ominous precursor to the triumphal conclusion of the line in the colon itself. As if this were not enough, Milton teases the reader's unsatiated philological hunger with the semicolon immediately juxtaposed to the comma in the succeeding phrase. Both commas, like the fire of simultaneous artillery during the pre-dawn hours of a long and rancorous war, herald central preeminence of this semicolon. This is the Implied Majestic Dependency Usage of the semicolon, according to R. Winslow's grammatical and punctuational classifications. The succinct and indefatigable colon, falling at the end of the line when the reader is least suspecting of but another mark of punctuation, fulfills but again the Grand Design of the epic voice incarnate. Would that this might be enough, but the never tiring master delivers to us still another treat: perhaps the penultimate literary achievement: the two occurrences of the noble apostate apostrophe: a fitting conclusion.
continued from page 2 retirement without pensions will be promoted. In addition, every department will be asked to fiscally justify its existence each year. All University buildings (except Woodbridge Hall) will be subject to a modest admission charge. Library hours will be strictly limited to two hours a day, five days a week. Students will assume the responsibility for reshelving all library materials. All underutilized library collections will be liquidated, and book and periodical purchases will cease. Book gifts will continue to be received, but they will be liable to auction. Beinecke Library will be cleared of all books and will be converted into administrative offices. Payne Whitney Gymnasium will be sold to the City of Cleveland, and only pr.ofitable sports like football and hockey will continue. Yale University Police Officers will be fired. In their place, student vigilante groups will be asked to maintain law and order. Formal graduation will be eliminated; modem computer printouts will replace anachronistic diplomas. All social activities will be run for profit by the University. What has been described above, and more, has been modestly termed ..Project Profit" by its planners. Preliminary figures project a $370 million budget surplus by 1984. As early as 1981, it should be possible to begin aggressive reinvestment of this money in diversified profit-making enterprises. Target areas for capital •The primary sources for this reconsidera- concentration would include oil protion are derived in whole or part from the duction and military hardware. The following: Beinecke Rare Book and · planners look towards a time when Manuscript Library, New Haven, MS Yale University as we now know it is CCCBD 201 (1908, The Oxford Collecbut one small part of a giant and vital tion). The primary redaction appears in enterprise: the Yale Corporation. the following: Emmet Loy PhiJlips, ..A Study of Aesthetic Distance in Milton's - John Barber and Paradise Lost," Dissertation Abstracts Bill Wood International, 30 (1953), 3953-A (Oxford); Archibald Cabot Eliot Lowell, ..Unpublished Lecture Notes," the IGttredge Manuscript Collection, MS DFGG-23B, Widener Memorial Library, Cambridge Meeting Malle (1892); British Museum, Rare Unpublished Works Collection, MSS 6503-2B, In his talk two weeks ago at Yale, on loan through 1977 to Columbia Louis Malle told of his ftrst directing University Library, Willa Cather Collecexperience for deep-sea diver Jacques tion (New York), temporary classification: Cousteau ...In the beginning, I treated MS-Special-230xfBD. The author would my actors as if I were direcf,ing fiSh." like to extend his sincere thanks to the dedicated services of the Sterling Certainly this is the kind of directing Memorial Library research staff and the that Malle is rebelling against now, New England chapter of the Angloand this rebellion of immediacy is 1 American Philological Institute for their exactly what makes his movies great. cooperation in procuring these data. It wiU be interesting to see what he - William H. Wood II!
does in his first American movie, Pretty Baby, a story exploring child prostitution, which wiii soon be released. Until now, our reaction to his movies has been that of deep-sea divers in an alien French ocean, and if the Yale audience is any indication, it is an ocean of over-intellectualization and trivialization. Louis Malle managed to cope quite nicely with the vacuous questions in Linsly-Chit, answering, as his movies do, with anecdotes and imagery. His films convey their beauty in a very special way. Lacombe, Lucien traces the affair of a young French Nazi and a wealthy Jewish girl. The most important scene in the film starts with a shot of Lucien, the protagonist, crouched naked next to the body of France, who is sleeping with her back towards us. Slowly, he traces the outline of her lower back and hips, with a motion that is highly erotic, loving, and awed by the reality of the touch. The following scene shows the mutilated corpses of his friends in the harsh sun and dust of southern France. In this series of images, Malle has brought together some of the more striking contrasts and feelings possible, reminiscent of Alain Resnais' (by comparison crude) intercutting of the Hiroshima bombing with love scenes in Hiroshima, mon amour. The secret of Malle's oeuvre is a series of very simple shots: the image we can touch as the film is touching the object, thtt synthesis of all the various levels of the movie in a series of tactile images. Malle's stories are simple, almost cliched: Le Souffle au Coeur (Murmur of the Heart) deals with a young man's rites of passage from puberty to manhood. But in the images of this simple plot, Malle offers a probe into emotional, political and intellectual crises. Humor is often the centerpiece for such observations, for example, the ironic, understanding horror on the face of the young protagonist while a homosexual priest strokes his knees, or the apparently brutal slashing of the parents• "adored.. Corot by his brother, who has replaced it with a fake. Watching Malle on the stage, unpresum.ing and brilliant, was enough to restore my faith in The Great Director as well as reinforce my prejudices about Yale. Louis Malle and his movies are about that simple identification of the fictional reality with our own; we feel what the
(usually non-professional) actors feel, see what Malle sees, laugh with the fated irony of his plots. Perhaps the best way to sum up Louis Malle's work is with his (improvised, according to him) last scene of Le Souffle au coeur": slowly, one actor after another breaks out laughing over a situation that could be potentially destructive - the discovery of the son's affairs. Staged in curtain call fashion, their laugh grows and grows until it reaches out into the audience, without subtracting or adding anything, to envelop us.
-jan Kie
Mauling Malle I have come away from LinslyChittenden thinking Louis Malle is a nice man. My friend tells me that he looked, nay, glanced (like a searchlight) at me for several seconds this evening. Maybe he will make me a star. Instead of sleeping tonight I shall .think on his white sweater pure as virgin snow. Louis Malle does not make films about incest, lust or anything else which might unsettle his public. He is a nice man: good-looking, unimaginative and evidently dynamic on the set (running about in sweatbands, smoking dope). And he just sort of wishes that everyone, everybody together, could be good-looking and dynamic on the set; mothers and sons, jews and nazis... the works. This simple formula may beg too much patience from the more intellectually bloodthirsty of his audience. Perhaps someone could be mean to little children, someone could be in despair, or (HUSH) someone could be ugly. But Louis Malle doesn't believe in ugliness, he believes in me. Lacombe, Lucien and Murmur of the Heart, the two films recently shown on campus, involve a tricky dialectic; the first - how complicated everything is when nothing happens, and the second, how simple it is when everything happens. From what I understand New York critics have been going mad with joy. Maybe I too would go mad with joy if I were being paid to write reviews. I would buy a white sweater pure as virgin snow instead of the bathrobe my grandmother chose. If you had to wear the bathrobe your grandmother chose you'd be mean too. - Cina Inamorata
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Alternatives You can enroll in two different ways: Regular: take three, four, or, with permission, five courses. The term counts as a regular Yale term. Supplementary: take two or three courses and do not count the term as one of your eight (or fewer) terms of enrollment. Credits earned during the summer count towards degree requirements. The Summer Term offers interdisciplinary programs on a variety of topics as well as basic courses in traditional disciplines. Students have the options of concentrating in a single program, electing courses in a number of different programs, or taking basic courses in one or two departments (such as premedical courses).
Program Humanities- Calhoun College The Dramatic Experience The Roots of Modern Culture: Europe, 1870- 1920 Ethics Images of Greece and Rome in Western Civ)lization Film British Art (conducted at the Paul Mellon Centre in London. Application deadline: March 15th.)
Social Sciences -
Trumbull College
Problems of Literacy Social Change and Modernization Politics of Divided Societies The Information Revolution in the Non-Experimental Sciences
Joint Programs: Humanities and Social Sciences Women's Studies The Fabric of Culture: The American Experience
Natural Sciences- Berkeley College The Nature of Scientific Thought Genetics and Biochemistry Chemical Engineering
Features Rooms: Every student will have a private bedroom in either a single or a three-room double. Activities: Social and cultural activities include the Summer Film Society, the Summer Ora mat, concerts, dances, and frequent lectures. The Payne Whitney Gym is open and the playing fields, tennis courts. golf course, riding stables, and the Yale Sailing Center are available. Writing Consultation: The Summer Term offers a writing consultation service to help students improve their writing skills.
Cost
summer 78
Tuition (3 or more credits) (2 credits) Room Board (21 meals) (15 meals)
Enrollment forms are available in the offices of the residential college deans and in the Summer Planning Office, 110 SSS.
$1,785 $1 ,200 $390
$440 $346.50
In 1978, a student attending the Summer Term on Regular Enrollment will spend at least $1,000 less than in a Fall or Splling term during 1978-79. Financial aid is available. For further information, stop by the Financial Aid Office.