Phoenix - November 1962 by UT Media Center

THE PHOENIX Literary Supplement to the Orange and y\fhite

november 1962

Volume 4

Number 1

Orange and White literary Suppiement THE UNIVERSITY OF TENNESSEE Knoxville, Tennessee

editor CURTIS L. HARRIS

assistant editor ANNE DEMPSTER

art editor MALINE ROBINSON

review and exposition editor FRANCIS HOLT

business manager STEPHAN LEIBFRIED

contents

LYRIC ___ 9 Maline Robinson

LORD OF THE FLIES Ricard Wilkie

PSALM - _ C. L.H.

IN MY FATHERâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S HOUSE 15 Brian Vachon

distribution manager THOM I. EGGLESTON

advisory board Dr. Percy G. Adams, Dr. Dale G. Cleaver, Professor James E. Kalshoven, Mrs. Carolyn Martin, Dr. Stephen L. Mooney, Professor Frank Thornburg.

cover by MALINE ROBINSON

THE PHOENIX

november 1962

Lyric by MaUne Robinson Make me a tongue that I may sing to you Ever so softly Of love’s unfinishing, But inadvertent Diminishing. Make me a bough that I may bend to you Ever so gently In love’s beginnings, Its advertently Brittle endings. Make me a cheek that I may turn to you Never dissenting From love’s warm flowing. Its river that. Interminably slowing. Makes love a delta, ever returning. Inadvertently, to the quiet sea.

Lord of The Flies by Richard IV/##c/e Golding, and his novel. Lord of the Flies, pub lished eight years ago but just now receiving attention in this country,' is a story as simple yet as powerful and as inexorable as a Greek tragedy. Golding, an English grammar school teacher, has stated that he has read “abso lutely no Freud” and that the major literary influence upon him has been Greek tragedy. In addition to this sense of the power of sim plicity, Golding further resembles the Greek tragedians in his belief in the dignity of man and in the meaning of suffering. In this re spect he is somewhat unusual and refreshing among twentieth-century writers because he locates the evil obviously present in the world not in society, not in poverty, not in frustra tions and complexes, but in the innate de pravity, the “darkness” of the human heart. Man’is not the helpless victim of overwhelm ing forces beyond his control nor is he a mere collection of desires, frustrations, and tensions responding and adjusting to stimuli, but moral, responsible, and capable of overcoming a nat ural inclination toward evil. To Golding what man does rather than what is done to him is important. “The theme,” Golding writes, “is an at tempt to trace the defects of society back to the defects of human nature. The moral is that the shape of a society must depend on the ethical nature of the individual and not on any political system however apparently logical or respectable. The whole book is symbolic in na ture except the rescue in the end where adult life appears, dignified and capable, but in re ality enmeshed in the same evil as the sym bolic life of the children on the island. The officer, having interrupted a man-hunt, pre pares to take the children off the island in a cruiser which will presently be hunting its en emy in the same implacable way. And who will rescue the adult and his cruiser?” In order to remove his story from the com plexities of situation and from the limitations of realism that are inherent in a contemporary setting, Golding makes his protagonists Eng-

Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood! Chanting this ritualistic, incantational re frain, a group of plane-wrecked schoolboys on a coral island kill another boy in the belief that he is a beast, the very evil from which he is trying to save them. Their descent from rationality to savagery is now complete. Deposited on the island during some name less, future war, the boys, six to twelve years old, establish an orderly society based on rea son and parliamentary rule. Ralph (a com mon-sense leader) is elected “chief” over Jack (an emotional, violent leader). The group struggles to keep life orderly and meaningful by having laws and by hoping for rescue; but the causes of their downfall are present within themselves—in their human credulity, in their innate evil. Rumors of a lurking beast, con firmed by mis-observation, sweep the island, terrifying the boys. Jack, blood-thirsty and by this time more interested in hunting than in being rescued, kills a pig, leaving its head as an offering to the beast, stuck in the ground on a stick sharpened at both ends. As the boys are rescued by a naval cruiser at the end of the novel, only Ralph holds out against the savagery of Jack and his hunters, and they are hunting Ralph with a stick sharpened at both ends. Until recently J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, the story of a young adolescent’s search for meaning and for beauty in a phony and materialistic world, has been the favorite novel of undergraduates across the country. During the past few months, however, accord ing to a recent Time article entitled “Lord of the Campus,” Salinger’s reputation and col lege bokstore sales have taken second place to a novel which tells a fable of savagery and death on a coral island, a novel which, like Salinger’s, laments lost innocence, but which, unlike The Catcher in the Rye, places the blame for its loss on the “darkness of man’s heart” rather than on society. The new “Lord of the Campus” is William

lish school boys, places them on a coral island in the Pacific away from everyday society, and then makes the reader forget until the closing moments of the book that they are only schoolboys and that they are outside of civiliza tion proper. The reader thus concentrates ex clusively on the situation of the boys and on the' essence of their humanity—their natural ability to love and to hate, to build and to de stroy—and on their acquired ability to control these emotions. There are no girls in the book, Golding states, because “sex does not have anything to do with humanity at this level.” Lord of the Flies concerns itself exclusively with the fundamental nature of man—his nat ural inclination toward evil, his awareness of and desire for good, the ever present tension between the two—and with the effects of this dual nature on society. In 1857 R. M. Ballantyne published a book, which eventually became a sort of children’s classic, entitled The Coral Island. The basic situation of this book, two English school boys named Jack and Ralph on an uninhabited is land, resembles that of Lord of the Flies, and Golding by his deliberate references at the be ginning and at the end of his novel to The Coral Island indicates that he wishes the reader to be aware of this situational parallel. But the boys on the original coral island did in reality, in the ironic words which the rescuing cruiser captain applies to the modern Ralph and Jack, put on a “jolly good show.” Their problems, however, existed outside themselves. Evil came only from their environment in the forms of savages and pirates, not from within themselves, not from the darkness of their hearts. They needed only to overcome evils which were immediately apparent, not evil which was hidden deep within themselves, not evil which was hidden deep within themselves, not evil which presented itself as apparent good. Just as such a novel as Huckleberry Finn goes beyond the adventure story of a young boy on a raft to comment on the good ness and badness to be found in human nature, so Lord of the Flies goes far beyond the mere adventures of The Coral Island to reveal hu man nature and the condition of man. After realizing that the adult’s cruiser is only a more sophisticated and a more deadly substitute for the sharpened sticks of the boys

and that Golding’s question “who will rescue the adult and his cruiser ?” cannot be answered, the reader’s first impulse is one of despair. “And what’s the good? wails one of the boys, and the reader is tempted to join in. Obviously no such deus ex machina as rescued the boys will rescue the adult, nor will anyone save hu manity from itself. “Which is better,” cries Piggy, intellectual, aware of consequences, but physically repulsive and always speaking in a “whine of virtuous recrimination,” “Which is better—to have rules and agree, or to hunt and kill?” The answer to Piggy’s question is ob vious, but the means of translating the answer into practical reality is not. Rules are the es sence of civilization. Thus man is doomed only if civilization falls, only if men became tyrants and savages. The next question therefore is— was the degeneration of the boys inevitable and inexorable? Is the fate of the boys the fate of man? Although the book itself presents its story with inescapable logic stopping point anywhere, the answer to these questions is no. The fate of the boys is not of necessity the fate of man. Golding, in his statement of the book’s theme, said that society depends on the “ethical na ture of the individual.” In other words, peo ple, not forces, determine the “shape of a society.” The boys failed because they lacked courage, because they lacked a willingness to endure suffering, because they failed to con trol their personal desires. Thus they follow Jack, giving in to the temptations offered by his way of life; and Jack offers all of the temp tations which man must resist if he is to re main civilized, if he is to remain human. Jack is a sort of Grand Inquisitor translated into terms of action. He presents the tempta tions of many of the political systems of our day which promise happiness to man—welfar ism, socialism, communism. Jack asks only one thing in return from the boys—their free dom. Jack’s first plea is—“I gave you food.” His second is security—“My hunters will protect you from the beast.” His third is freedom from individual responsibility—at the dance of death “There was the throb and stamp of a single organism.” The three temptations offered by Jack parallel the three offered by Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor and by those of every age

good and noble in him is condemned to destruc tion. The inability of any political system or philosophy to create a perfect society, the in ability of any moral system to eradicate evil from the world are the results of the “defects of human nature.’’ Evil and injustice will al ways exist because the darkness in man’s heart will always exist. Man, however, can and must struggle, sacrifice, suffer, and even die at tempting to overcome this evil within himself. There is no means of eradicating “the darkness of man’s heart’’; there is no means of recover ing lost innocence, but man must struggle to overcome the temptations offered by Jack. Man must be responsible ; he must be capable of selfsacrifice ; he must maintain civilization, the “rules” which help him fight the evil which lurks in his breast. As Ralph says at one point in the novel—“That’s all we got.” In the recognition of evil, innocence is lost; but the evil within must be recognized if man is to endure at a level above savagery. In or der to conquer himself, man must recognize himself. The Lord of the Flies tells Simon: “Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill! ... You knew, didn’t you? I’m part of you.”

who believe that the cause of evil resides in society. The motto of Jack’s island fortress might have been that of the Brave New World —Community, Identity, Stability. In return for food, security, and freedom from responsi bility and in order to secure stability. Jack must demand the boys’ freedom. He thus be comes a tyrant, purging all that do not agree. If any of his followers balk, he threatens to take away their food and brandishes vague threats of what the beast might do. Ralph, on the other hand, can only offer freedom in the form of rescue if they keep the fire going. But keeping the fire going requires self-sacrifice; it requires that they live on less food; it requires that they endure a measure of insecurity, that they be personally respon sible. In short. Jack offers happiness and comfort, while Ralph offers freedom through suffering. And it is only through this suffer ing leading to freedom that there is any hope for them. Thus, moving back to the larger world, man must resist the easy way offered by Jack and follow the rugged path led by Ralph. T. S. Eliot’s pessimistic indictment of mod ern society. The Wasteland, concludes with a section built around three Sanskrit words, words which offer the only hope of salvaation from self-destruction for modern man—Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata—Give, Sympathize, Con trol. The society on the coral island collapsed because the boys did not give of themselves to keep the fire going, because they failed to sym pathize with Piggy who knew the consequences of actions, because they failed to control their desire for more food and for security. They were free and they gave in to the evil within themselves; they failed to bear the responsi bility of their freedom. Before they knew it, they were lost. Thus in a simple way that requires com plexity to all about. Lord of the Flies says that there is hope for man; but it is up to man. Al though Golding believes in the natural de pravity of man, he is no believer in the Puritan idea of total depravity. Man is capable of good as well as of evil. He will, because of this nat ural depravity, never be perfect, never be com pletely happy, never be able to create a perfect society. But his being condemned to imprefection does not necessarily mean that what is

w 12

Lines from Philisophenweg by Da^id Farrington Barr I walked in forests of my delight Catching Spring’s regenerate light. Moving my event-worn soul to sing, While chasing day to night. I bathed in a realm of waning hue, As dusky shadows quickly drew; Leaving sanguine day a bed Of ashed leaves and dew. While pallid, budding dawn awaits Behind the east’s resplendent gates; I find as sheen and shade caress. The faith that molds what love creates.

Psalm by C. L, H, All this mumbling afternoon! And plays a windsong. Broken-green, Upon these unleaved branches . . . All the snow-moon. Grumbling Sometimes—dancers . . . I, The little one. Jumping up and down On one foot And laughing to himself Outloud.

reading a magazine. She blushed when she looked up and saw him. “I take it from our not quite upper income version of a housekeeper that he isn’t dead yet,” he said. “You have a particularly quaint way of in quiring after your father’s health,” she an swered dryly. “My goodness gracious sakes alive,” he said, “aren’t we being formal and correct today. Fitting and formal and correct, but a reversal of temperament which I think is a little late in coming. Yes?” He walked over to the door of the master bedroom, opened it a crack and peered in for an instant, then closed it silently and returned to his sister. “What is the good physician doing in there besides doubling his fee?” he asked Martha. “He is attempting to save his life.” “To what ? I thought you said it was hope less. Malignant, and both lungs and all that.” “Has it ever occurred to you with God nothing is impossible?” “Martha dear, you are going to make me vomit. I can barely tolerate that sort of tripe from the hired help. Barely. And from you it’s . . .” “Do you really hate him that much?” she asked. “Do I really hate him that much? Who? God or Father?” “Both.” He thought for a moment. “They are per haps one and the same,” he said pensively. “Have you ever though of that?” “Edward!” “No really, you should seriously consider that. Think of what it would do all philosophi cal concepts if Father were God. And to Chris tianity, and to your marriage prospects.” “Edward . . .” “And to complete the answer of your orig inal question, no, I don’t at all hate him. In fact I respect him. He was as good a father as it was possible for him to be, a fine business man, generous, and I have found myself mildly anticipating his death for several years.” “You can be brutal, can’t you.” “Yes, I suppose I can be brutal. I can also be honest. Currently I am being the latter, and currently I find myself alone in the prac tice of that virtue.”

In My Fathers House by Brian Vachon The maid met him at the door with what was undoubtedly an expression of well re hearsed solemnity. For what seemed several second, her eyes rested upon him mournfully and he was momentarily afraid that he had missed what he had come to the house to wit ness. However, the illusion of her appearance was soon and incongruously followed by a flick of her head toward the stairs. “They are with him in his room,” she said, taking his coat and scarf. “Waiting?” he asked. “Waiting, sir?” “Are they with him in his room and wait ing, or has he managed to disguise himself as a corpse ? I am asking, dear woman, if it is finished, or still in the process of finishing.” The maid again let her eyes rest on him, but this time with undeniable scrutinization, searching for a sign which she was apparently unable to find. The sign was there, its prod uct was unmistakable, but she decided that it would be best not to risk anything. She had seen mourning relatives before. One, a daugh ter who had taken a death with particularly potent grief, had laughed uncontrollably when it was all over. One could never be quite sure about relatives. “The good Lord has allowed him to live this far,” she said. “Perhaps He will continue to spare him. It ain’t for us or any doctor in the world to say.” With that still sounding heavily in the air, she turned curtly and scuttled to the closet with his coat. Women, he thought to himself as he walked toward the stairs, at all ages are remarkable but not entirely human creatures. The phrase pleased him. The polished banister of the staircase and the familiar and untraceable smell of home pleased him also. He had been away for a long time. Reaching the top of the steps he saw his sister sitting in the hallway, legs indecorously crossed for the occasion, and

“You are to be heartily congratulated,” she said bitterly. “Oh Martha. You’re speaking in the dia logue of a soap opera. Come on, be realistic. Did you see that starched atrocity downstairs? She met me at the door looking as if she was about to lose everything that she had ever loved, and you know as well as I do that she hated him with a fairly remarkable passion.” “Would you have had her come skipping to the door grinning broadly?” “It would have at least been honest.” “You suddenly seem to be very much taken with honesty. Why don’t you go in there and see him. I believe the doctor said that it was down to a matter of hours.” “Have you been in yet?” he asked, looking back at the closed door. “Not this afternoon.” “Does he know that you’re out here ?” “I suppose so. The doctor told me to wait a bit, but I’m sure he would let you go in to see him. You’ve not been a very constant vis itor of late.” “Has Father asked about me?” “No,” Martha said. Edward took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. Then he in spected his shoes and gave each a slight rub. “I’ll confidentially admit that I’m not awfully anxious about this,” he said. “Nor courageous.” “Will you be out here?” he asked. “What would you have me do. Run down to the corner and shoot a little pool?” “Seriously, are you going to stay out here?” “Of course I am.” “Then why don’t you just come in with me?” Martha looked at him, openly contemptu ous. Edward waited, and then smiled at her with what she found disarming sincerity. “You’re going to miss a mighty fine show,” he said. She didn’t move. Finally he turned from her and walked to the bedroom door. II The bedroom was slightly darker than usual for a sunny afternoon, the shades were pulled all the way down,, but aside from that there was little to indicate sickness, let alone death, in the room. The doctor sat by the window in a large red leather chair writing in a notebook.

When Edward entered, only his eyes raised to meet him. He said nothing. “Is this all right?” Edward asked tentative ly. “I mean my coming in?” The doctor studied Edward for a long and uncomfortable moment, and then resumed his writing. “Where in God’s name have you been?” he hsked flatly. “Well I’ve had some rather important things to do in New York,” Edward offered, “but actually I only first heard about . . .” “They must certainly have been rather im portant,” the doctor interrupted, imitating Ed ward’s inflection on the last two words. “They must have been rather important indeed.” As he spoke he continued his writing. “I have called your apartment twice, each time leaving a message with the young lady who seems to be living with you.” Edward looked at the doctor closely. He came very close to telling him to mind his own damn business when he realized, for actually the first time, that his father was lying only a few feet from where he stood. “That must have been Eileen,” he said, “she comes up a few afternoons a week to work.” “Work?” the doctor asked looking up. Ed ward thought he detected irony in the voice, but the doctor’s face was expressionless. “She cleans up for me,” Edward said, “she cleans my apartment. I seldom have time for that myself. Apparently she neglected to give me your messages. The first that I heard fa ther was . . .” He cut his sentence short. “Dying?” the doctor offered amiably. “I wouldn’t worry. It is seriously unlikely that he can hear us now, and seriously doubtful that it would make a great deal of difference if he could.” Edward looked for the first time at his fa ther. He appeared to be asleep, and in alarm ingly fine health. He was a big man, and the illusions of the death bed did little to hide his size. Edward turned back to the doctor. “The first that I heard he was dying,” he said, ut tering ‘dying’ with a determination, almost for his father specifically to hear, “was when Mar tha called this morning.” “Then you have yourself a rather inept lit tle housekeeper there,” the doctor said pleas antly enough, looking fully at Edward’s face. “My two messages were succint and rather pre-

asked again, and then without waiting for an answer, “are you married?” It was less of a question than an accusation. “Yes, I got married,” Edward answered with a brave but not entirely successful at tempt at firmness. “Where did you meet an American girl in Japan?” His father asked shrilly. Edward wait ed again. It took even less time than it had before. “She is an American girl, isn’t she?” It was not really a question. “She will be in an hour,” Edward attempted lightly. There was silence, but his Father’s face was very clear in Edward’s mind. “No,” he said, “no, she’s Japanese.” Oh God, Ed ward thought. Here we go. Here goes what I’ve beening waiting for, for three months. Dear God let him be a human being. There was a long silence this time. Finally his father spoke. “Edward,” he started, and his voice was very low and per ceptibly shaking. “Edward, did you marry a Jap girl- A Jap girl!” he repeated, with an emphasis on the ‘j.’ ‘The war’s been over for ten years. Father.” “I didn’t ask you for a historical resume. I asked you a question.” “Then yes, I told you before. She’s Jap anese.” There was another silence. When his Fa ther spoke again, his words were barely audi ble. “I am going to make one phone call, Ed ward. Then I am going to get on a train and come into the city. Is your ... is this girl with you now?” “She’s my wife. Father. She is over at the immigration authority right now, and she’s my wife.” “Go and wait right there. I’ll be in town in two hours.” He hung up the phone and Edward stood for a long time with the empty receiver dangling in his hand. He knew as he had known right from the beginning what would happen. He knew very certainly and it left him numb. IV The church was very definitely too small, and it was crowded for the occasion although only relations and close friends were allowed into the funeral. Martha handled the entire affair with a businesslike calmness. She spoke to each group of people in front of the church.

cise. The first said, ‘your father will be dead in a week’ and the second, ‘your father will be dead in a few days.’ Not the sort of messages which one would ordinarily bungle, wouldn’t you say? At any rate, you seem to have ar rived at the last possible moment, and perhaps that is for the best. He is asleep now. He might wage up, and then again he might not. I believe I can’t say that with a great deal more clarity. I am going downstairs to make sev eral phone calls and to have a cup of coffee. If there is a change in his breathing, let me know immediately.” The doctor stood, and looked for a moment at the dying man. Then he turned and walked from the room, shutting the door behind him. Edward stood looking at the closed door. After a moment, he walked over to the vacated chair and sat down. His eyes carefully avoid ed the bed. Ill ‘‘Father, this is Edward,” he said loudly. There was a great deal of noise around the phone booth. “Edward?” “Yes, Father.” “Well speak up. Where are you? I thought you wouldn’t be coming in until next month sometime. What happened?” “Our regiment was the first to degroup. We were actually far luckier than I anticipated. I’ve been a civilian for two whole hours.” “Well, where are you? Are you at some sort of party? It sounds like Times Square.” “It is Times Square. That’s where I am.” “What are you doing there ? Are you com ing home?” “No. I’ve got a few things to take care of first. I’ll be home later. How’s mother?” “Your Mother is fine. Why can’t you come home now.” “There is someone with me, and we both have some papers to fill out.” Edward held his breath. Here we go, he thought. This is the beginning. “Papers? What kind of papers? Who do you have with you?” his father shouted. Ed ward wondered just how long the realization would take. He didn’t answer but just waited. It took only a few seconds. “Who do you have with you?” His father

tactfully explaining to some that there was simply no room and asking them if they would be good enough to attend the services at the cemetery. Edward admired her skill at this unpleasant task, and was grateful that she of fered to perform it. When it was time to be gin, he took her arm and entered the church. A very somber usher who Edward thought he recognized led them down the aisle and directed them into the first row. It was going to be impossible to avoid now, Edward thought. He hoped that Martha would see his hesitation and move into the pew ahead of him. She didn’t. After almost an imperceptible wait, he moved in and knelt down next to his father. It was the closest that Edward had knowledgeably come to his father since the day he had ar rived home from Japan. That had been three years ago. His father turned and nodded to him. He looked older, Edward thought, but he still was a handsome and dignified man. Ed ward returned the nod, not sullenly, but with no hint pf friendship. Both men then returned their gaze to the altar. The casket was direct ly in front of Edward and he could have reached out and touched it. He was glad that it was closed. It was difficult to believe that his mother was dead, and it was just as well that he was unable to ascertain that fact by seeing her face in death’s repose. The service was short. The ride to the cem etery was strained but it too was short. Mar tha was the only one to speak. She mentioned the names of the people who had come to the church, who had made a particularly long jour ney, and those whom she had to turn away. She expressed a little disappointment in the sermon. She spoke rapidly and Edward found himself more than a little grateful that she filled in the silence. His father stared out the window of the automobile, nodding occasion ally, saying nothing. When they arrived at the cemetery, Edward noticed, not without a twinge of unexplainable shame, that it was actually a very pleasant day. The shining sun seemed almost irrevernt as the casket was lowered into the ground. The priest said a few words over the open pit, and Edward found himself feeling a distinct lack of emotion. He was vaguely uncomfortable with the sun on his neck, but he wasn’t sure whether he felt sorrow, or what sorrow would feel like

when it came. After the words, the priest turned and shook hands of people speaking sympathetically to Edward and his father. Then he turned and walked back to his waiting car, the mourners following in small clusters behind him. Both Edward and his father re mained behind at the graveside, each alone and meditative, then quite suddenly and simul taneously, each feeling the awkwardness of their proximity to one another. His father was the first to break the three year silence. “ She was a wonderful woman. Son.” If he didn’t speak at that moment, Edward knew that he never would again .“Yes,” he said. “I loved her very much,” his father said keeping his eyes fixed on the freshly piled mound of dirt. The very simple statement was strangely unreal, or wrong, coming from his father, Edward thought. It was perhaps too human, a betrayal. “I loved my wife very much too,” Edward blurted. It had been the wrong thing to say. He had said it without actually realizing that he was speaking. “Did you?” his father asked. Edward glanced at his father and then looked back at the patch of ground ahead of him. “Did you?” his father repeated with the same passivity. “Yes,” Edward said, and then in a growing and unexplainable impatience, “Yes, damn it, I married her.” “Oh, I’m very much aware of that,” said his father. “You married her, and I had her sent back to the place she had come from because I felt deeply and firmly that you had made a serious error. You are my son, my charge on earth, and I acted in your welfare.” “My welfare!” “Or what I thought was best for you. I suppose one of us was wrong.” Edward was momentarily stopped. A tide of hot anger had risen in him but it was mo mentarily checked at his father’s suggestion that he might have been in the wrong. “Do you realize now,” he asked, “that it was you, actually you who was in the wrong?” His father looked steadily at him. “No,” he finally said, “I have realized that exactly the opposite is true.”

the room, he looked toward his father’s bed. He was startled to see him lying with his head facing Edward, and his eyes open. “I thought that you were asleep,” Edward said feeling unpleasantly shaken. “Woke up a few minutes ago,” his father said. He did not sound a great deal changed from before, his voice was a bit more subdued than usual, a bit more hoarse. “I’ve come,” Edward said. It sounded fool ish but there was actually very little to say. “So I see,” said his Father. “I suppose I should have come earlier,” Ed ward said lamely. “No,” said his Father, “quite the contrary. 1 would have preferred this dramatic initial and voluntary visit to have occurred at a time when I could greet you in a position other than the one I am in. Preferably in a week or so when I’m feeling a little more like myself. But I am glad to see you.” Edward was shocked. It had not entered his mind before that his Father was in no way reconciled to the fact that he was going to die. But thinking about it, Edward realized that this was entirely in keeping with his personal ity, that it was not possible in his father’s per sonality to accept the possibility—let alone proximity—of his own death. “How do you feel?” he asked tentatively. “Not too bad,” his father answered. “I think that the doctor must have doped me up or something. I don’t really feel much of any thing.” Edward felt a strange sense of power com ing over him. “Can you move your legs? he asked. “My legs? I don’t know. Why?” “Try. See if you can move them,” Edward said. His father looked dubiously at Edward for a moment, and then stared up at the ceiling for several seconds. Then he turned his head back to his son. “Well?” he asked. “Well what?” “Did my legs move?” he asked. There was a hint of apprehension in his voice. “I can’t really tell.” “Yes,” Edlward lied, “they moved a little.” He felt the strange new power streaming through his body. “Well fine,” his father said, obviously re-

The check was broken. The three years of bitterness which had momentarily been held began to flow and Edward felt helpless in his own words. “How can you say that? How can you be that presumptuous? And how can you begin to talk about what was best for me? Did you ever, ever know what was best for me? I mean at least be honest with yourself. You sent her back because she was Japanese. You didn’t want a yellow-skinned daughter-in-law. What would it have done to your business, or what would your friends have said? It’s as simple as that. She just couldn’t fit into your plans. Your plans! Don’t hand me any crap about what was best for me. And for God’s sake don’t stand here in front of me and tell me that you know you were right!’’ Edward was shouting his last words, but when his father spoke, his voice was calm and controlled. “Then I was wrong?’’ “Your’re damn right you were wrong.’’ “You loved her.’’ “Yes!” “And this girl you loved, when did you try to get her back ? If I was wrong, when did you ever try to right my wrong? No, Edward, one of us made an error.” He turned and walked back to the car leaving Edward alone at the grave. The car had gone all the way out of the long driveway when Edward lifted his head. When he did his eyes were smarting. The two men who had been carrying the gravestone to ward the mound stopped when they saw him. They turned their backs. A young man should be alone to cry for his dead mother. V Edward had seen his father on two sep arate occasions since the funeral. One time had been in a restaurant when they had both been embarrassed at the being in the same room as the other. The second time had been at Martha’s wedding reception. Edward had arrived too late for the actual ceremony, and more than a little drunk. It might have been a far more unpleasant scene had it not been for the fact that Edward passed out over a table shortly after he arrived. And then there was this time. There was Edward sitting in his father’s red leather chair waiting for him to die. For the first time since the doctor had left

moved toward the bed and adjusted the pillow so that the two men could look directly at each other. He wanted it exactly that way. “Well Father, you ask what I’ve been do ing, and I’ll tell you. I’ve actually been study ing for the priesthood.” “You see, I plan to be a very good priest, and then become Pope someday. Yes, Pope, and then even the Son of God.” “Don’t you blaspheme in this house!” His father was furious, and his face was visibly reddening. “The Son of God!” Edward said triumphant ly, and then with a dramatic pause, “But wait. Perhaps I am already the Son of God.” “You stop that,” his father screamed. But the scream came out a whimper. A wince of pain shut off his next sentence. Edward watched him intently. He felt stronger than he ever had in his life. He was a giant of strength. His father lay very still with his eyes pinched tight. “Get the doctor,” he whis pered horasely. Edward smiled. “Go down and get the doctor, Edward. I’m in pain.” Edward didn’t move. “Edward, Son, I’m in a great deal of pain. Please.” “Please ? Is this my father saying ‘Please’ ? What is it. Father, are you going to die?” “Please.” “I mean are you really going to die. Fa ther? Dear Father of mine? You die? I mean I just totally fail to believe that.” Ed ward was smiling openly. “Dear God in Heaven,” his father gasped. “Now that’s a peculiar thin g,” Edward thought out loud, “he’s talking to himself.” His father opened his eyes for a moment and looked at his son. He spoke with a great deal of difficulty. “Damn you,” he said. “Damn you!” Suddenly he became rigid . His eyes remained open and his mouth was frozen on the last syllable of his lifetime. Edward waited for a moment, and then walked toward the door. Pausing before it, he changed his ex pression on his face. After all, he thought, it would be awful to give the news with a smile on his face. It would be honest, but in very bad taste. He opened the door and walked mournfully into the hall.

lieved. There was a short silence. “Well, what have you been doing with yourself, Son? It has been a long time. I was thinking you didn't want to see your father in his old age.” “Oh not much,” Edward said. He felt giddy. “Martha tells me you’ve got yourself a girl.” “Martha is more tactful than thoughtful.” “Oh?” “What I have is commonly called a mis tress.” “Don’t talk that way. Son,” his Father said sternly. “Don’t talk that way?” Edward smiled, and then with feigned innocence, “but Daddy, that’s what I have. A mistress. In fact I’m proud to say that your first grand-child will be a full-fledged bastard.” “Only you will never be able to see him. And you know why Daddy?” “You’re sitting here thinking that I’m go ing to die, aren’t you? You think that I’ll die, am dying now, don’t you?” “Phrased more eloquently than I could ever hope to. Father. You are living your last hours.” “The hell I am!” This last was the climax of a growing series of statements, and Edward, certainly not wanting anyone to hear his fa ther and come and spoil the fun, immediately began the task of momentarily soothing the dying man. “I’m sorry,” he said penitently, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” His father eyed him suspiciously. After a long silence, he asked “What’s bothering you. Son? What’s gotten into you? You don’t still resent the incident when you came home from the army, do you?” “No, Father, I haven’t thought of that for a long time.” Edward was surprised at the truth of this statement. “Well then what’s wrong?” “Nothing.” “Oh come on now,” his father said but ob viously relaxing, “I am still your father. I guess it hasn’t seemed much like it for a long time, but I am your father, and I do want what’s best for you.” That phrase again, Ed ward thought. “Why you come in here talk ing about death and mistresses and bastards, what’s wrong?” He tried to lift his head from the pillow but he was unable to do so. Edward

ALL ABOUT . . . rhyme and reason Many aspiring writers are shocked when they are told that their precious experiences are not new and not unique. And many of these same people find it hard to believe that the world does not wait, holding its literary breath, for them to bestow their verbiage upon it. The truth is, though, that the world is an unromantic place, and it has its literary stand ards. No matter how pure the vision of the embryonic writer, and no matter whether or not his experience is unique, the literary world demands that he meet its standards. If he is to write, he must write well, no matter what he has to say. Those who think that their writing is val uable just because they write it subscribe to a naieve, lazy form of romanticism. They for get that we do not continue to read the works of everyone who has bared his soul. Shelley’s insides, for instance, are bearable only because he displays them beautifully. The artistry is the important thing in the works of the “great” romantics, not the romanticism. If the world does not value the “unique ex perience,” it certainly values artistic skill. But skill requires work even for those who are “tal ented.” And one acquires skill in writing the English language by reading to learn estab lished standards; he strengthens that skill by writing and writing and writing with the stand ards which he has learned always in mind, at tempting to meet them. One gets this skill by working within the traditional forms (at least until he is comfortable within them, un til he “knows” them.) And when he has fin ished this “apprenticeship,” he can make forrays into uncharted territory. It is pretenti ous to begin elsewhere.

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