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21 The New Journal I March 3, 1968

3

Annette hangs on the New Wave of surf films

by Mopsy Strange Kennedy

4

Two cellists: Parisot and Kirshbaum

by Robert Wimpelberg

9

One alumnus took upon himself the responsibility for grabbing and refilling Brewster's beer glass every time the president emptied it. It was Alumni Day by Lawrence Lasker

12

16

After the Bomb in Hiroshima: the psychohistory of the survivors

by Daniel Yergin

Letters: Air war in Vietnam and Joseph Heller In Comment: the Smith College allstar slavery conference; the Elizabethan Club, where tea is in but the modern woman is out; and a brief look fr()m behind the cameras at Mayor Lindsay's television show.

Elizabeth's Restaurant Times are changing at Yale. Take the basement room with crumbling wicker furniture that was once the women's sanctuary in Sterling Library. This room was the feminine counterpart to the Linonia and Brothers library room upstairs. "L&B," as Linonia and Brothers is known to the regulars who sleep on its leather couches, was closed to women until four years ago. Women did their light reading down in the basement next to the ladies' toilets.

Today, this basement room still lies directly under L&B in the tradition of the Martha Washington Bridge, but it has been modestly refurbished in dinky Danish modern. And Yale's lucky ladies have had four free and equal years in L&B. Yes, times are changing. Though not too quickly. Take the Elizabethan Club, which is fondly called the "Lizzie" by its regulars. Unsurprisingly and in the Yale tradition, the Lizzie-an ornate shrine to Queen Elizabeth, matriarch of an erainvites male members only into its white clapboard house on College Street.

Women may visit on rare occasions, visit and not join, the Lizzie to partake of its refined atmosphere. They may visit on weekends, as guests of members. And on spring weekends, they may sit, quietly, in the back yard.

"What is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" silently asks Her Majesty from a gold-framed oil painting above the voluptuous spread of soft cookies, dainty watercress sandwiches on crustless rye and steaming lapsang suchong tea brewed a point.

"Madam," I say to the Queen, decorously lowering my mental voice as I walk across the carpet to her table spread, "Madam, I am here in the Elizabethan Club as a humble voyeur, a tourist, a guest of a member." I listen to polite sloshing sounds made by Lizzie regulars, the afternoon tea drinkers.

"Mercy, this strained tea droppeth as the gentle rain upon my waistcoat," says an elderly indolent voice wearing an exquisite glen plaid suit with an English cut. A gentle rumble of laughter follows his remarks. T-groups among the teacups, at the Lizzie. If music had been playing, it would have been a mincing eighteenthcentury minuet. The gentleman clad in glen plaid sits with a group of four who look like the Mighty Carson Art Players

on the Tonight show playing elderly Oxonians for the insomniacs of America.

My tale's end must be foreshadowed at this point. Six important facts. (I) Following my entrance I feel a long silence with paranoia licking at its edges. This is a¡ cold winter's afternoon, a Monday afternoon. (2) And my undergraduate host, a new member, has failed to notice the sign at the door of the club. The sign, visible to members only, reads: Curb Your Girls.

(3) But I pragmatically ignore the silence. I pour the steaming, fragrant tea into my cup, load my saucer with sandwich cookies and nod to Her Majesty in Her gold frame. We share a kinship, a rapport. For we, of course, are the only females in the place. (4) I follow my host into the adjoining room.

This room is different. In it sit three undergraduates. The atmosphere, heavy compared to any other undergraduate hang-out, is buoyant compared to that in the first room. (5) A senior reads aloud from a Punch article on drug culture innuendoes. Another, who uses twine instead of shoelaces, guiltily washes down six watercress sandwiches with three cups of tea. He has slept through lunch, he explains between bites, and plans to go back to sleep again sometime before dinner.

(6) Then out of the silence in the next room, the steward of the club appears. ''I'm sorry," he announces to the far wall, "no women allowed on weekdays."

Says my host, "Does that mean-ah, er, ah." "What does that mean?''

Answers the man, still addressing the wall, "You may stay, sir, but the lady, she must go."

Says my gallant host in ringing tones, "Then I will go, too."

Then confusion, followed by an embarrassed and kaleidoscopically hasty exit. I did not get a chance to return my cup and saucer to the table or even to say goodbye to my new friend, the Queen.

Gentle ladies, I have since fumed and fussed, but to no avail. I have asked close friends to resign quietly from the Lizzie to protest my forced exit. "I knew when I joined," said one close friend, "that women were not allowed in on weekdays. Why should I quit?"

Said another, more militant friend in the legal profession, "To be absolutely correct, before you begin any litigation, you'll have to test this female exclusion clause. Your host will have to escort a peahen, a doe and a lioness to the Lizzie on successive winter Mondays. Your whole case rests on whether the only females they mean to exclude are the human ones or not."

I have spent long hours thinking things over. Gentle ladies, progress is a possibility. Remember L&B. Times are changing.

The only male in favor of women at Yale couldn't be the foot nibbler in the library stacks. We have the power.

So here's my plan. On Monday of next week, at 4:20, we meet at the corner of College and Wall. We march down to Elizabeth's Restaurant and go right inside, past the tea drinkers and cookies dunkers and right up to Lizzie herself. And we sing out, "You can get anything you want at Elizabeth's Rest-au-rant." If one of us does it, they'll think she's sick. If two sing it together in harmony, they'll begin to worry. If three do it, they'll think we're an organization. And if four do it, ladies, they'll know we're a movement.

Susan Braudy

Slavery The subject of discussion was certainly an interesting one, even if it was a little vague. You drove up to Northampton on February 9, expecting that the symposium at Smith College on "American Negro Slavery: Modern Viewpoints" would provoke scholarly discussion and perhaps philosophical dispute that might relate the historical problem of slavery to the current dilemma of race. Such a link-up did in fact take place, but it happened, as it finally turned out, as much by accident as by design. It was a subject, then, in which you had a part, both as a student and as a citizen (if the word may be used)-a subject, moreover, which took on a patina of glamor when you learned who had come to talk about it.

Among the participants was the wellknown young Marxist historian, author of The Political Economy of Slavery, Eugene Genovese, now teaching at Sir George Williams University in Montreal, who a couple of years ago, while at Rutgers, became embroiled in a nasty controversy testing the bounds of academic freedom. It began with his advocating, in class, the now not-so-unthinkable overthrow of the Saigon regime.

Richard Nixon said Genovese should be fired.

Also present, on Friday night, was William Styron, whose The Confessions of Nat Turner has dragged him into a largely pointless controversy with black militants who think that both Styron and his book are racist. In addition, David Brion Davis, a teacher at Cornell and the author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning study The Problem of Slavery in Western Culture, spoke on Saturday afternoon. There were eleven other historians present, some not as "well-known" as others, but they all had sharp axes to grind and generally seemed to know how to use them.

Four negro historians had been invited, including John Hope Franklin of the University of Chicago, but none could attend. And Harvard's Robert Coles, the author of Children of Crisis, had to back out at the last minute because of another commitment. These cancellations did not, however, prevent the affair-headlined "Negro Symposium" by the Smith College Sophian-from being, in the eyes of many, Smith's event of the year.

Several television cameras were trained from different angles on Eugene Genovese, the first speaker, and on the foUr panelists sitting beside him. The cameras remained throughout the conference, aU-seeing yet unobtrusive, save for the faithful, finally irritating ultrasonic whistle they emitted-the sound you hear, for example, if you turn on your TV set and keep the sound off. An aspect of the situation perhaps less easy to get used to was the number--one might say the sheer weight--of girls. Smith is, after all, the largest womens' college in the world, but the fact remains impersonal, an abstraction, until you sit down in the midst of about a thousand of them and open your eyes. If, when this happens, you have steeled yourself with the love of learning, the effect is, at the very least, distracting: if you are unprepared, the effect can be paralyzing. You were inclined to believe that rarely, if ever, had such a mass of femininity and such a concentration of brain-power been in the same place at the same time.

Genovese's talk, entitled "Slave continued on page 18

Volume one, number nine March 3, 1968 Editor: Daniel H. Yergin Publisher: Peter Yaeger Executive Editor: Jeffrey Pollock Designer: Ronald Gross Photography Editor: Herman Hong Advertising Manager: Jeffrey Denner Associate Editor: Jonathan Lear Circulation Manager: Jean-Pierre Jordan Copy Editor: Alan Wachtel Classifieds: William M. Burstein Contributing Editors: Susan Braudy Michael Lerner Staff: John Soak, Paul Bennett, Peter M. C. Choy, Jennifer Josephy, Larry Lasker, Christopher Little, Howard Newman, Andrew Popper, William Rhodes, Barne Rubin, Sam Sutherland, Warner Wada THIRD CLASS PERMIT: Third Class pot age PAlO in New Haven, Conn. The Ne Journal is published by The New Joum: 3432 Yale Station, New Haven, Conn. 0652 and is printed at The Carl Purington Rollil Printing-Office of the Yale University Press New Haven. Published bi-weekly during tl academic year and distributed by qualifit controlled circulation to the Yale Communit For all others, subscriptions are $4 per yea newsstand copies s~.

The New Journal Šcopyright 1968 by n New Journal at Yale, Inc., a non-profit corp ration.

Letters welcome. Unsolicited manuscrip should be accompanied by a stamped, sel addressed envelope. Opinions expressed I articles are not necessarily those of The Ne Journal.

If you are a student or faculty member : Yale, and have not received a copy of n New Journal, or know of friends who ha' not, please send the relevant names and ac dresses (zip-coded), together with a note c their University status, to The New Journa 3432 Yale Station, New Haven, Conn. 06521 Credits: John Boak: 3 Peter M. C. Choy: 9 (top, middle); 10; 11 (bottom) Andrew Popper: 9 (bottom); 11 (top) Herman Hong: 4 The Yale Journal of Biology & Medicine: Cover, 12, 14

31 'Ibe New Journal I March 3, 1968

Annette hangs ten

by Mopsy Strange Kennedy Mopsy Strange Kennedy is the wife of a Law School student. This is her third qpearance in The New Journal.

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No sooner had I stepped into the Art Gallery, where the Annette Funicello Film Festival premiere was being held, than questions began pummelling my brain.

It's Art, I thought, looking up at the Gothic arches overhead, but is it Annette? How would Annette herself feel if she were here? We were informed of her inability to "make it," which beach moviegoers bad long suspected anyway.) Perhaps this was the point, certainly an ironic one: an Annette Funicello Festival at which Annette wou.ld feel profoundly out of it, not unlike King Lear, in the play of the same naq~e, cast out of the house by his own daughters.

The film trilogy-Bikini Beach Party, Beach Blanket Bingo and H ow to Stuff a Wild Bikini-was sponsored by the Record, Yale's humor magazine. The prints of the films were so heavily booked (or closely guarded in the SAC-like underground vaults of major film collectors across the country) that the Record staff had to send to Omaha, Nebraska, to get them. The premiere, Bikini Beach Party, was attended by riff-raff who paid 69¢ ($1.50 for a season ticket) and by others invited by engraved invitation: black tie, shirts soft and/ or frilly, dress spangly, low decollete, Zhivago. Hair was done, and ties were very black indeed. Girls were bussed or came of their own volition, and there were far more of them than usual for a Wednesday night. There was a sort of Jim Crow section for the people not dressed up, but they seemed out of place and not a little cowed in the face of all the formality.

The mood was gay, but not too gay. We went through the receiving line of 25 people (who were identified by printed "My name is ..." labels) and moved on into the auditorium. There, other guests sat respectfully in their seats, neither frugging nor shingalinging it, but merely listening to the rock-'n'-roll qua rock-'n'-roll (played by the Erector Set). The band, and some of the guests, wore Mouseketeer hats.

Faces were set in muscled expressions of concern: there was a tacit understanding that this was no mere dogfood commercial we had gathered together to see.

Standish Lawder, assistant professor of history of art, had been invited to make some "remarks." Here was a man, it was clear from his bearing, who had indeed looked into the abyss of film and seen what lay at its heart. "That man has been to the movies," someone behind me said weightily, "he's really been to the movies.''

Eisenstein, Griffith, Truffaut, Godard and now this.

Mr. Lawder informed us, through slides and commentary, that these beach films did not really "need any indication to locate them in the continuum of American art," and that the "final judgment of whether or not they were true art must rest with history." The audience accepted it all as a gleam in the eye of a Larger Consciousness, something beyond both the niggly backbitting of the Cahiers du Cinema auteurs and the larger-than-life Pamela Mason Knows gossip columns of TV Screen and Movie/and. It was something that belongs to and proceeds from us all, like Grand Central Station.

In his presentation, Mr. Lawder made use of various slides from other mediapainting, photography and sculpture. Can a slide of a moonstruck man in the nude be brought to bear on the artistic aspects of Annette movies? "Yes, yes, yes," he seemed to say. This might almost be a metaphor for the whole evening. Even if

we make gestures like dressing up and having a film festival, we can never approach the essential aesthetic truth of what Annette has been and always will be. No single action or theory or moment can capture Annette, for she was, we were told, transcendent. ,In his discussion of the "fluid acting styles" in this "timeless work," Mr. Lawder made us laugh, and then flinch just a little, by forgetting Annette's real name and calling her "Miss Crudinella" one minute, and "Miss Proxinella" the next. Herepeatedly referred to her as "Anita," which was really a bad mistake. Anita is Anita Bryant, as we all know, and Annette is Annette. It seems, in view of the fact that even a post-teen like Mr. Lawder had trouble with the name, that she might have changed it to Annette Fun, but perhaps that would nave hinted that these movies were not concerned with Art, but were merely entertainment. Which they are not.

Must a picture steer clear of fun things like surfing and drag-racing to be serious?

Even Moby Dick has a few laughs.

Just before the film began, there was a standup group singalong of the Mickey Mouse Club Mambo and much discussion about whether the Mickey Mouse Club was or wasn't an allegory of Nazi Germany. One participant buried his head in his hands and spoke of "that horrible rodent Big Brother and those Brownshirt children obeying him and acting out his fantasies."

The rest of us, not concerned with what to do after our demise as Mouseketeers, or with whether we should carry an invitation to walk on the beach with Frankie (Avalon) to its illogical conclusion by mentioning marriage-("Let's go listen to the moon and leave these children," he says. "Until it's wedding bells, I'm children too, Frankie," she retorts.)-the rest of us, free from these considerations, were happy to be able to go into the deeper implications of the Funicellovian ethic.

One of the things about the movie that struck us all was how little there really was of Annette in it. But isn't that life?

Aren't our lives merely films, purportedly starring us, in which we turn out to be playing bit parts? This is a film which asks questions: Which is better, surfing or dragracing? Can coed nights on the beach coexist with chastity? Is the stuff of which evil is made a man or a Mouseketeer? Is God dead or what? And if "what," what?

The movie revolves around the surfer crowd, the Hell's Angels crowd, an English rock-'n'-roller named the Potato Bug and the older generation, embodied in the publisher of The Bikini Bugle. Frankie plays not only himself but also his rival, Potato Bug (as one might say colloquially, "he is his own worst enemy''), in the most telling intramural duality since the "Dialogue of Self and Soul" (W. B. Yeats). We are shown that fair (Frankie) is foul (Eric von Zipper) and that even foul is a l!ttle bit cute. Is Frankie the good guy standing there like an ad for men's underwear, eschewing cant and embracing good times on the beach, or is he a power-mad teenager declaring his manifesto: drag-racing is "the way we gotta live, that's what it's all about"? Even more to the point, is he the red-blooded American Frankie of Annette's dreams, or is be the pop-singing English Potato Bug of Annette's dreams?

Annette herself is a problematical heroine in this problem-movie. She is slightly apart-a girl among surfing, dancing, moaning teens, who is like a mad Hamlet commenting on the action, yet

indeed doing very little to ruffle the meadow-muffin hairdo on her head. A bit ironic, something of a "goody two-shoes" even, she seems to be waiting for something, but what is it? Her songs give us a clue: "This Time It's Love," she .singsimplying that last time it was just some sort of teenage infatuation. She does her singing on the beach, with the sunset (a sort of Gothic nightmare of vivid color) moving behind her in one of the technical low points of the film: we are meant to imagine that she is walking and the sky is standing still, not the other way around.

Annette is Everywoman. Her very Being is trying to tell us that even a rather ordinary girl can find romance. Love is not a beauty contest after all, and as evidence we note that there are other girls in the film who are far better-looking than Annette, who yet remain dateless and are, in fact, allowed only stingy consideration by the camera. These other girls are always frantically pursuing the Potato Bug and wildly frugging out their destinies, whereas Annette, though one of them, is far beyond that. She is asked to dance and refuses. Somewhere at home, we sense, there is a blondwood hope chest filled to the brim with His and Hers towels. The other girls are children; Annette is nearly a post-adolescent.

There is.a good deal of discussion, nevertheless, of the puerile, the sophomoric and the jejune. Illiteracy is held up to scorn. At one point, one character accuses another of being a traitor: "You Arnold Benedict," he says, illustrating that a little learning is a dangerous thing.

Frankie, though not solely concerned with the belle-lettristic, is shown to be in at least marginal contact with Reason. We are shown that he has read T. S. Eliot when he echoes the poet's ''All time is eternally present .. :· in his speech ''All forever is right now." "Then what about tomorrow?" asks Annette. "That's the day after tod~y," he replies, sensibly, showing that this boy knows the difference between literary sophisms and down-toearth reality. Frankie shows us again and again that he is a Seer of some kind, a maker of distinctions. For example, in discussing the difference between surfing and drag-racing, he points out that "the ocean is wild and free, something you can't change. But this [car] is a machine."

Though we were not required to sign vouchers promising not to reveal the ending, I would rather leave it undisclosed. Suffice it to say that, unlike conventional tragedies, not all the characters die in the end. Indeed, none of the characters die in the end. Our protagonist and her date work out their individual problems and identities, and we have a closing scene which shows a lot of goodnatured doing of the monkey, the frug and the jerk, with fleeting shots of Annette smiling and giggling the giggle of the just. A symbol of the fact that we're laughing with Annette, and not at her.

c

4 I The New Journal! March 3, 1968

Two cellists

by Robert Wimpelberg Robert Wimpelberg, a senior in Yale College, is president and principal cellist of the Yale Symphony Orchestra.

It was late in the evening almost a month

ago, at the reception for cellist Ralph Kirshbaum's impressive recital at Sprague Hall. The hum of conversation had gradually muted and a precipitate of champagne glasses littered the tables.

Three people stood in the center of the silent room: Ralph Kirshbaum, his pianist Elizabeth Sawyer Parisot, and her husband, Kirshbaum's teacher, Aldo Parisot.

Parisot was the first to speak. "Ralph," he said, "I w.ant to tell you that the slow movement of the Brahms Sonata was one of the most beautiful movements I have ever heard anyone play." The master's first critical words brought smiles of satisfaction. "But tomorrow we must talk about the way you played the Debussy Sonata." Parisot did not elaborate.

Kirshbaum was noticeably happy with his teacher's assessment of the Brahms.

The slow movement had insinuated itself into his musical memory as he had prepared for the recital, and it had become his personal favorite. As for the Debussy Sonata, Kirshbaum's eyes lit up as he recaptured the impressions of the recital performance a couple of hours earlier.

"I must say that tonight I was convinced with what I did in the Debussy. But we must talk about it tomorrow."

The Debussy Sonata has a tremendous significance in Parisot's long and brilliant concert career. While he has performed the piece m any times, it is always a 1962 Paris recital performance which comes first to his mind. Parisot simply overwhelmed the influential reviewers of the Parisian press, especially Le Figaro. The reviewers called it the most beautiful and meaningful performance of the French impressionist sonata they had heard. Since that time Parisot has played the Debussy Sonata and large amounts of the cello recital and concerto literature all over the world with equal success, and even today he maintains a busy concertizing schedule. .

Parisot, then, is not o nly a teacher of performance but also an active performer in his own right, with a history matched by few other cellists.

Some of what Parisot conveys to the aspiring Kirshbaum is drawn directly from Parisot's sensitive impressions of his own performance experiences. For: example, he can suggest that a certain kind of bow stroke in a certain passage of music will produce just the r ight tone to project through the p iano line, or through an orchestral accompaniment, or in the acoustics of a certain hall. Beyond the specific insights, Parisot's long and still active career (he first concertized when be was twelve) gives him an overview from which he can advise K irshbaum.

The initial precept he is quick to establish is that a performer of music cannot rest on his laurels. As he recounts: "I played three recitals in Town Hall in New York in 1963. The reviews were very good to me, but now they are almost worthless pieces of paper. So next year I will have to go back to Town H all and play again. It's like prizefighting. You always have to keep flexing your muscles." continued on page 7 AJdo Parisot is an internationally-known concert cellist and associate professor of ¡violoncello performance in the Yale School of Music.

Ralph Kirshbaum is a senior in Yale College, majoring in the theory of music, and studying cello performance with Aldo Parisot .¡

NEW MAGAZINE

NEW VIEWPOINT

~~If your father has enough money to send you off to college, you will not die in Vietnam this year. If you are a priest, a minister or a rabbi, you will not be shot at by Asian strangers.

If you are a farmer, a homosexual, an ex-convict, an illiterate, a tool-and-die maker, a married father or a scientist, do not fear: You will never fight across a rice paddy on any murderous midnight. No one in these categories is ever told that it is fitting and noble to die for one's country. There is only oneee safer category in American life. You could be a woman. 7 7

So opens "Draft Women Now." In March eye.

Must reading. Also " Donovan: Pop Visionary."

And "Warren Beatty Raps." "$8 Suit for Men." "Hitchhiking by Air." Much more.

Plus-big fat poster.

In psychedelic color for your wall.

First edition.

Collector's item.

50¢ at your newsdealer.

See him today.

While he still has a copy.

Advertisement

We, who are colleagues of William Sloane Coffin o n the faculty of Yale University, are convinced that he has acted out of the strongest sense of moral responsibility in protesting the war in VietNam, and that he has chosen his methods of protest only after careful and anguished reflection. It i.s not necessary to approve all Mr. Coffin may have done in order to have great respect for his motives for doing it.

Mr. Coffin has now been indicted by a Federal Grand J ury in Boston.

We are far from persuaded that he violated any Constitutional Jaw. An indictment raises, but does not answer, the question of guilt.

Aside from any possible outcome of this trial, we believe the indictment represents a tragic heightening of the domestic costs of the Viet Nam war.

Harlan Fiske Stone, later a Chief J ustice of the U nited States, once wrote: "All our history gives confirmation to the view that liberty of conscience has a moral and social value which makes it worthy of preservation at ·the hands of the state ... and it may well be questioned whether the state which preserves its life by a settled policy of violation of the conscience of the individual w ill not in fact ultimately lose it by th.e process." This indictment means that our government has felt it necessary to attempt by legal process to coerce the conscience of many of its people.

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~~.~eff'\rester

J. H. Hexter

David A. H lldlnll Roscoe H ill B. L. Hllleoat Frederick W. Hllles Anne M. Hintz J . L. Hll'lhfteld David I . Hitchcock Samuel H o Susan H olahan Michael N. Holahan Anthony Holland Paul L. H olmer Frederic L. H olme" James M. Holquist Edward H . Hon Dorothy M . Horstmann Henriette W , Hoskin Paul Howard-Fiandel'l Daniel W, Howe Kathleen H . Howe R . E. Hudec Frank HulTman Vernon W. H ughes Samuel P. Hunt J . Dennis Huston Franklin Hutchinson Stephen Hymer Richard A. tsay Stanley W . Jackson Nathan Jacobson Ronald Jager Patricia James Irving L. Janis James F. Jekel Robert C. Johnson Sherman E . Johnson Stuart R. Johnson Peter A . Jordan Robert C. Joy Joeeph B. Kadane Harvey W . Kaetz Fred S. Kantor Louis Kaplan Frances Kaplan Eve Kat~ J ay K at~ Joel B. Katz A. N . Kaul Paul E. Kaunlt~ Stacy Keach Vera R . Keane David H. Kelsey Kenneth Keniston A. B. Kernan William Kessen Friedrich Kessler David Kessnerr Charles A. Kiesler Chase Patterson Kimball Jobn A. Kirchner Ralph Kirkpatrick Shirley Kil'lcbner Sidney N Klaus Ed,.ard B. Klein Martin J . Klein Richard J . Klein Elizabeth P. Kll«erman William Konipber& To&hlo Kono T. c. Koopmans Lois M . Kopp H. R. Korm01 Joel L. Kraemer Leonard S . KrassMr

::errs \.~l!tt!k Robert E . Kuehn

If the underlying consensus in favor of a democratic government is to be sustained and its laws are to be obeyed, citizens should not be forced to choose between their obligation to the Jaw of their country and their moral obligation to themselves and their fellow c itizens. Wise and responsible democratic leaders avoid policies that force such a painful choice upon many citizens. T he Boston indictment hardens the lines of precisely such a choice. It also raises the possibility that the vague and shadowy charge of conspiracy may become an instrument for silencing those who would exam ine and discuss the issue of conscience.

This is what the war in Viet Nam has come to. Probably the great majority of signers of this statement share Mr . Coffin's conviction that our military involvement in Viet Nam is profoundly wrong. But even those not so persuaded cannot, we believe, escape the conclusion that here in the United States the war is eroding the constitutional, moral and psychological consensus which a democracy requires. Until now, this consensus has been one of the greatest strengths of American democracy, particularly in times of national per il.

A future generation of Americans m ay conclude that of all the staggering costs imposed on the world by the VietNam war, not the least dam aging was the confrontation between law and conscience that it thrust upon so many A mericans-a confrontation highlighted by the indictment of our colleague and others.

Thomas P. Kugelman George J . Kupcbik Robert 0. LaCamera Howard R. Lamar Sydney M. Lamb James w . Land S. Jack Landau C. T . Lane Robert E. Lane Joseph LaPalombara X. S . Latouutte William E . Lattanzi Paul H. Lavietes Standish D. Lawder Traugott F. Lawler Robert P. Lawton Kenneth R. Lea Stanley A. Leavy Mark W . Lelserson Martha F. Leonard Susan J. Lepper Aaron B. Lerner Marguerite Lerner Lowell S. Levin Murray Levine Rhoda J. Levine Stanley I. Levine Daniel J. Levinson Lewis L. Levy Gordon H. Lewis Herbert D. Lewis Melvin Lewis Ruth w. Lid~ Theodore L ld:r: Robert Jay Lifton William Lilley III George A. Lindbeck Cbarles E. Lindblom Vernon W. Lippard Ernest H . Lockridge Charles H . Long Robert s. Lopn George DeF. Lord Floyd G. Lounsbury Sidney Lovett Peter A . Lupsha Barry Lydgate R lchard L ytJe A. Lee McAlester M . Angela McBride S. Dean McBride, Jr. William Leon McBride Charles J. McDonald Roger K. McDonald S. W . MacDowell William S . McFeely James H . Mcintosh Braxton McKee Joseph H. McMahoo R amsay MacMullen Maynard Mack Paul T. Maj!ee J . H . Mahnke Anthony P. Maingot Paul Mann Elias E. Manuelidls Henry Margenau Clement L. Markert Kathryn C. Markbus Elias J. Marsh Samuel E. Martin Louis L. Martz D . A. Marvin H . M. Marvin William S. Massey James A. Mau Gustav Meier Arthur H. Mensch Gilbert W. Merkx Peter Miesuowskl Peter Millard James C . Miller Roy Andrew Miller Theodore M. Mills Murray Milne Paul S. Minear Sidney W. Mintz Allee S . Miskimin H . A. Mlsltimin Laurence Mittag J . M. Montias Charles W. Moore R . Laurence Moore Linda K. More E . S. Morjlan Harold J. Morowiu Rk.bard M . Mone Lawrence Moss 0. D . Mostow PeterS. Mueller Geoffrey P. Murray Paul Mus SylvaJn Na&Jer

Louis H. Nahum J. Zvl Namenwlrth K . S. Narendra June Nash Yale Nemei'IOn M. Nerlove Paul Newman Fred J. Nichols Michael Nimet~ Richard E . Nlsbell Sheldon Nodelman William D . Nordhaus Paul S. Norman Nea M. Norton Luther Noss Alvin Novick Gaylord B. Noyce Anthony Obei'ICball Max P. Oeschj!er James A. Ogllvy M. J. K . OlouRl!lln E . T . Onat EttaS. Onat Van Doorn Ooms Darius Ornston Philip Orville Heinz D. Otterle Howard Pack Peter D. MacD. Parker William N. Parker Hugh T. Patrick Jaroslav Pelikan Max Pepper Ellis A. Perlawlg Henri Peyrc Martin L. Pilot J onathan H. Pincus Leon Planlinga Donald R . Ploch John P. Plunkett Louis H . Pollak John C. Pope Liston Pope D. F. Poulson Thomas L. Poulson Ernst Prelln~ter Donald A. Preziosi David E. Price Derek J . De Sol Ia Price M artin Price Jules D . Prown William H. Pru.otr Gisbert:r:u Pullll:r: Dennis Rader Douglas W . Rae Gerald Reaven Fritz Redlich Charles A. Reich William E . Reifsnyder Charles L. Remington Richard Rephann RObert A. Rescorla Stephen Resnick Lloyd 0. Reynolds Charles E. Rlckart W . D. Robertson Abraham Robinson Franklin R obinson S. David Rockoff John Rodj~ers Mark Rose Peter Wires Rose J oel Rosenbaum Leon E. Rosenberg Robert F. Rosin Albert Rothenberg Irwin Rubenstein Roben Rubenstein Frank H . Ruddle Richard R uggles Joseph A. Russo William Ryan Harvey Sablnson Herbert S. Sacb Jel'rrey L. Sammons Herbert Scarf Murray M. Schacher Ciudrun Schiller Sharon L. Schindler Peter Schofer Oeor&e Schrader Sanford Schreiber Ernst Scburer John H . SebilU David Schwartz Hugb R . Schwartz Rolph L. E. Schwarunberger Conrad Seipp David Seligson Richard B. Sewall J ama Patrie!< Se"ell Robert Shapiro Michael H . Sheard

Martin Shubik Stuart Jay Sidney John G. Simon Seth Singleton A. W. Slawson D. A. Smith Gaddis SmJth John E. Smith Elizabeth Anne Socolow Robert H. Sooolow .

Albert J . Solnit Barry J. Solomon Charles M. Sommerfield Edward V . Sparer Marion J . Stano Fred I. Steele H oward Stein Robert Steinberg Donald R. Steinle Blake Stern R. B. Stevens Philip R . Stewart Hugh M. Stimson VIrginia M . Stuermer Julian M. Sturtevant Clyde W. Summel'l Raymond J. Suplinskas Jan M. Sussex Robert H . Sz:czarba Cbarles W. Talbot, Jr. Norman S. Talner Sidney G. Tarrow Eugene TeSelle C. S. Thomas David F. Thorburn George F. Thornton Robert 0. Tilman Oary L. Tiscbler J ames Tobin T:r:vetan Todorov Donald M. Topkls W. Sibley Towner Roy C. Treadway Christopher Tunnard Robert Trltlin I. P. Trinkaus David M. T rubek Edwin M. Truman 0. J. Tucker Fran~ B. Tuteur Jack TworkoY Stanley H . Udy, Jr. Jean Vacb~ 0. van Wagenen Eugene Vance Mlloi Velimirovit Miklos Veto Odlle Vetil Harold K. Voris Eugene M. WaJth Byron H. Wabman Florence S. Wald James C. 0. Walker Lucille Walton Charles W. Warren Elga Wasserman

~~rfa!'WW~on

Peter P. Wegener H ermann V. Weigand E. Richard Welnerman Gilbert Weisman Morris A. Wessel Harry J , Wexler Henry Wexler David Weinman Arnold Weinstein M artin Welt=an Harry H. Wellington H . Bradford Westerfield J oseph Westlund Kenneth B. Willer& Cynthia M. Wild John Wild John A. W ll.klnsin Robert C. Wilhelm Robert Williamson Charles Wilson John Oliver Wilson Keltb Wilson Bernard M. WoiL C. Vann Woodward Oaude Wintner Arthur F. Wright Mary C. Wrlglit Robert J . Wyman YehudJ Wyner Grace Wysbak Cbltoabl Yanaga Arthur Yelon Felix Zweig

71 The New Journal I March 3, 1968

continued from page 4 Kirshbaurn follows Parisot's axiom. He must take (and create) every opportunity possible to prove himself to the listening public, and his recent bookings show that he is confronting the challenge. In a period of about thirty days be will travel from New Haven to Washington, D.C., and Dallas, Texas, to play two full recitals and two major concertos. Parisot says, and Kirsbbaum quickly acknowledges, that all which Kirshbaum has so far achieved is but "a drop in the ocean" of that which will ultimately be demanded of him.

On the day following the Sprague Hall recital Kirshbaum met Parisot in his studio where they had agreed to discuss his performance and, especially, the Debussy Sonata. Parisot said nothing about how well Kirshbaum played the Debussy Sonata in tune, nor did he instruct him in ' any other isolated mechanics of playing the instrument. That is no longer necessary. Kirshbaum came to Yale with a rigorous technical background, bred in a European manner by his family.

"My exposure to music when I was young came entirely within my family," says Kirshbaum. "My parents, sister and two brothers all played instruments, my father conducted the civic orchestra in Tyler, Texas, and it was an implicit assumption that I, too, would take up a musical instrument. Since my father played the violin I was immediately drawn to the string family and actually took up the violin for a while. At the same time, I had noticed the cello, and eventually it became the one I really wanted to play.

So I switched."

Kirshbaum's prodigal success at an early age resulted from the sensitive care his parents took in overseeing his practice habits. He recalls how his father would supervise random sessions: "I remember playing scales and carefully maintaining the intonation and precision of tempo.

Now and then a note would not be exactly right, yet I would play on. My father never failed to interrupt, demanding to know where I was going-why I didn't stop to correct the note before going on." Unerring exactness became part of Kirshbaum's technique.

As he progressed, his father insisted on putting him into the hands of cello teachers. From age twelve, Kirshbaum and his father made weekly 100-mile excursions to Dallas for instruction-a routine they continued for six years. "In general, I didn't like the routine of practicing at that time," says Kirshbaum, "but I loved to play the cello and I thrived on the ~ltcitement of preparing for and playing Ill competitions."

At age eighteen, entrance into college was the all-important competition; Kinhbaum wanted to study his favorite SUbject, English, at a good school. Accepted at both Yale and Harvard, he chose Yale because of the added benefits in his lecond area of interest, cello performance.

In the summer of 1964 he met Parisot for the first time. Within a year his second area of interest-the cello-became dominant. Kirsbbaum was sure be wanted to be a concert cellist.

Much of the mechanical technique "hich Kirsbbaum brought to the Debussy Sonata, performed in recital this February, Was already within his control when be lrst met Parisot. However, the difference between the Kirshbaums of 1964 and 1968 lies in the change from the good technician

to the more totally sensitive musician.

This is, in great part, the result of what Parisot teaches Kirshbaum and how be goes about doing it.

In the post-recital lesson on the Debussy Sonata, as in most of his meetings with Kirshbaum, Parisot discussed the production of colors in cello playing. Parisot creates colors of tone and style and makes them clear to Kirshbaum by describing them in literal terms, in analogical terms, by referring to impressions made in outside concerts which they both have heard, by gesticulating and by playing selected passages for his student. "You see," he said, "I feel that the impressionism you created in the first movement of the Debussy Sonata should have been maintained more consistently throughout the piece. The tone should be more continuously airy, ffautando, a white sound."

The color Parisot sensed in the Debussy is just one of a whole palette of pigmented tones which Kirshbaum has worked to create and control. His ability to assimilate new styles of playing never ceases to please Parisot. "I may suggest a new kind of color to him one day," said the teacher.

"He will go home and practice and when he comes back to me in a few days the style will already be under his fingers."

If Kirshbaum had mastered the color in which his teacher felt the Debussy Sonata should be set, and had actually used the style in his performance, why did he not maintain it enough to satisfy his mentor? Kirshbaum himself answered this question in his comment at the reception: "I must say that tonight I was convinced with what I did in the Debussy."

Here lies the excitement and dynamic in the association between Parisot and Kirshbaum as cellists and friends. Kirshbaum is very much his own man and his music is also very much his own.

Parisot, furthermore, would have it no other way. "I will never take even one inch of his personality away from him.

Let's face it, he plays so well and learns so quickly he could imitate everything I do. And what would the reviewers say.

'We've just heard another Parisot.' But one Parisot being Parisot is enough.

Kirshbaum has to be himself. And this is the inspiring thing about his playing-that already everything he does is fully thought out in advance and is performed with conviction."

The creative association between Parisot and Kirshbaum is a friendship in which they share ideas, exchange criticism and catalyze their individual personalities as communicants in the medium of the cello. This is a friendship creating both a new, mature and professional cellist in Kirshbaum and a wiser, more inspired teacher and performer in Parisot. Both teacher and student are working for the day when Paris might hear a new interpretation of the Debussy Sonata, equally as convincing as the one it heard in 1962.

c

Want to climb to the top of the fashion heap?

Start at the bottom!

Introducing The Room at the Bottom ... a most delicious boutique positively awash with the newest, charmingesc, surprisingesr here-and-now fashions in all of New Haven.

(This saucy little confection

by Alvin Duskin in Monsanto Knit and Wear Dated Acrilan is typical of the surprises in store) The Room at the Bottom.

The brave new world of fashion and fun. Come on down!

the Collector 1070 Chapel Street, New

Haven

APO-Yale blood drive Pledge a pint to save a life

Solicitations: Monday, March 4 through Monday, March 11 Donations: Monday, April15 through Monday, April 22 at Dwight Hall

Thanks to: Yale Co-op, Audio Den, Bartlett-Hofman, Saks Fifth Avenue, Nieman's, The Yankee Doodle, Phil's Barber Shops, Quality Grocery, Capasso's Barber Shop, Reliance Typewriter Company

9 l1be New Journal I March 3, 1968

One alumnus took upon himself the responsibility for grabbing and refilling Brewster's beer glass every time the president emptied it. "It's your day, Kingman," he would beam each time.

"I know," Brewster kept saying. It was Alumni Day.

by Lawrence Lasker LAwrence Lasker is a student in Yale College.

This is his second appearance in The New Journal.

1 Without slowing for a girl who had just stepped off the sidewalk, the maroon Cadillac turned the corner smoothly and sped up Wall Street. The girl swore as it passed her; then, noticing that people were watching, she shrugged and crossed the street, trying unsuccessfully to keep her hair from blowing into her eyes. Up Wall Street, the chauffeur was having trouble opening the car door and keeping his hat from blowing away.

He succeeded, and an old man and his wife climbed out onto Beinecke Plaza.

They stood there blinking in the wind while the chauffeur clambered around on the back seat. He emerged with several heavy boxes, and gave them to the old man, who headed slowly over to the Beinecke Library with his wife. "That's Mr. Altshul," the chauffeur explained. "He gives books. God, he must be Class of '98," he laughed.

It was Alumni Day, Saturday, February 17, 1968, and everyone had come to give something, or remember 110111ething, or just to laugh and drink and eat pretzels with old classmates and maybe talk about Reverend Coffin and the War. Mr. Altshul plunked the boxes down on the front desk. The head librarian hurried over, wearing a blazer -tth a big gold-and-blue Yale emblem on the pocket, IDd kissed Mrs. Altshul's hand. "Let's go over to the cornerstone-laying ceremony," he said, "or we'll miss it.''

A auard led the three into the vault elevator, and the ' heavy metal doors slammed shut. The elevator took them downstairs, where they would make their way through the underground corridors to the scene of the ceremony across the street.

"Books," said the guard, opening one of the boxes on the desk. "Beautiful French books.''

2 It was just after 11 o'clock when the 12-piece Yale Band struck up "Bulldog·• to begin the cornerstone-

,

"I note in reading the history of this enterprise" -spreading his arms to mean, not just this enterprise here, bm Yale, man-"that this school was once housed on the fourth floor of the chapel. You can see, Mr. Becton. what difficulty that would arouse today."

Everyone laughed: it was the spirit, the wind pushing around the leaves and the dirt, the sun reflected from the big brass trombone; it was even the way Coffin hunched !tis shoulders to the wind and laughed. By God, Yale could laugh at itself.

Henry Becton rose to speak, and everyone found himself standing to applaud the man who had given $4,700,000 to make the new Engineering Center possible. He was brief and to the point, saying that he had done what he had done "through a slow brainwashing process.'' Again the standing ovation, the wooden chairs scraping the gravel, and Brewster was laughing and shouting, "We need an engineer!" as the men on the platform prepared to seal the cornerstone.

Someone put the box in, the metal box which, if opened several generations of Yale men later, would reveal several yellowed copies of the Yale Daily News, a couple of books about Yale, the 1968 University Catalogue, a program of events from Alumni Day, 1968, and some weathered photographs of North Sheffield Hall, Winchester Hall and Henry Becton, smiling into the camera a little self-consciously.

But now Becton was laughing genuinely as he held the trowel in his hands, scooping soft cement into the cracks of the cornerstone and trading jokes with Brewster and reporters. He gave the trowel to Brewster, who continued sealing the plaque into place. Coffin leaned over the railing and stage-whispered to the crowd.

"Kingman just made a mess!" He went to get a closer look, then ran back to give his report.

"Old Silver Trowel. He just spilled it all." Only a few people sitting in front could hear him; the others wondered what Coffin was doing, running back and forth, wondered what Coffin was saying that caused a few people in front to laugh. Then Brewster gave him the trowel, and he took it laughing and plunged it into the cement, and maybe wondered what it was like to be a bricklayer.

3 President Brewster ordered another vodka martini and turned back to the woman at his side. She had been talking to him for several minutes, ever since he had entered the President's Room upstairs in Woolsey Hall. It was the noon reception for Yale Medal recipients. "Of course he can do the work and all, but, well, I'm not sure he'd be happy here. He's pretty dependent. I guess." Her voice trailed off as Brewster thanked her and turned to speak to someone else. He glanced around the room and smiled. Under the big domed ceiling an increasing number of alumni and wives were milling and chatting and gravitating to one of the bars set up at either end of the room. "Isn't it splendid?" one women called out to Brewster. "It sure is," he agreed.

In the doorway, a small man with only a little hair left was puffing on a Kent and talking with a student, both waiting for lunch to be announced. "Well, I generally try to keep up with things around here," he said. " I don't live far away. Matter of fact, I guess the only time I didn·t show up here in the last fifteen years was two years ago when my wife was driving me home from the hospital.'. He eyed the drinks other people were holding. but didn·t get one himc;elf. "My name's William Jordan. I'm Secretary of the Class of 1915.1 guess that seems prehistoric to you, huh?" The student smiled noncommittally. "Well, it is. Only, we manage." He frowned. "But this year, it looks like there'll only be two of us at the table.'' He took a drag from his cigarette. "There are a hundred and fifty of us left, but only two of us at the table.''

As a waiter walked through the President's Room, ringing the bell for lunch, William Jordan filed downstairs with the rest of the people and headed for his table in the immense Freshman Commons.

laying ceremony, the first scheduled event of the day. A platform was set up under an elm tree near the edge of a huge pit, where tractors had been busy pushing d~rt asound for months to clear the way for the foundations of the new six-story Becton Engineering and Applied Science Center. More than a hundred Old Blues and their wives had gathered to hear President Kingman Brewster and Henry Becton himself dedicate the new building. But first, with the wind blowing in his eyes, Reverend William Sloane Coffin stepped to the lllic:rophone to give the invocation. ..0 God," he read from a sheet of yellow paper which bad been folded inside his pocket, "0 God, when ICience can greatly bless or wholly destroy, grant that 1l'hile never opposing the truth of science, we may never fear to so beyond it, lest at the first step we be free and at the second enslaved.'. His voice echoed from the loudspeaker onto the cement walls of Strathcona Hall, IDd back. "Through the work of this building, through Ill all. Lord, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done.

Amen." He sat down and then Professor Peter Wegener, chairman of the Department of Engineering, rose and called it "a great day for Yale industry.''

President Brewster was next. He was in top form.

After attributing the great significance of the ~ay to ~he 4 r.ct that this was the first cornerstone to be latd dunng IIIia presidency, Brewster used Yale history to draw a And for d~ssut, sine~ it was only fiv~ days b~jore lauJh. It was not the last time Saturday that he would WashinRton's Birthday, everyon~ had cherry pi~ with ____ Ji.Llle haJckets in tht! middle. ~~---~-~-----------~~~~~~-----~--------

10 I The New Journal I March 3, 1968

Outside, it started to snow. Big, wet, white flakes fell silently on the few alumni who were not inside eating, ll having drinks at Mory's with Old Blue classmates, or maybe visiting the Yale Law Library's special exhibit, "Remember When You Were Here."

Inside Commons, the bursary students hurried from table to table in their white coats, clearing away the plates before the awards and the speeches. But there were more than a thousand people in the hall, and the Yale Glee Club managed to get out three songs before David Grimes, chairman of the Yale Alumni Board, stood up and started the proceedings. After introducing members of the Alumni Board and announcing the four 1967 Yale Medals for "outstanding service to the University," he stood aside as President Brewster stepped to the podium. Brewster waited for his standing ovation to die down before he spoke. He did not waste time getting to his first point.

"Someone has finally proved that going to college doesn't necessarily make you richer,'' he said, his pausebroken voice ringing in the microphone. " It's not a guaranteed meal ticket." The laugh~er stopped almost immediately. " Inherited symbols of success are up to question. Today, it is very hard to make wealth or power the criterion of work." The resulting attempt at reorientation, he explained, has led to a "purpose crisisâ&#x20AC;˘ among students, particularly student activists. How should the University act in the face of this crisis?

"There are those who would ask, 'Why doesn't Yale take a stand on this, that, and the other thing?' " Brewster spent the next fifteen minutes answering this question.

And he questioned the demands of the New Left that Yale not allow recruiters from the Dow Chemical Company on campus; he questioned those who would have Yale take a stand on America's involvement in Vietnam; and he concluded that "only by indulging in the right to be wrong can we build on the wrongs of the past .... We should stick to our ancient task: equipping each generation to find their own way, even if we can't dictate that way--even if it means getting lost."

Just the other day, he told the alumni, he started reading a book on Yale's legendary Dink Stover to take his mind off the terrible troubles of today's world. But he couldn't. He found the same pattern in Stover as in so many students today: "The self-conscious confidence bordering on arrogance-the rejection of the whole establishment." Many old grads nodded; they knew jill! what he meant. And again, Brewster got a laugh from the past. "I found it there in Dink Stover-the rejectioo. the disillusionment. You might say, to use today's jargon, that he went to pot." Laughter, even some goodnatured hisses: yes, that was it, wasn't it? And hadn't Kingman just assured them, really, that at least Yale wouldn't join the ranks of the dissenters, the wavemakers who threatened to swamp the honest, hardworking citiuns of America?

And Yale had its worries, too: Reverend Coffin's activities weren't doing the Alumni Fund any good. "I understand what he's doing," one of Brewster's assistants had said a few days earlier. "I'm not at all sure I agree with him, but I do wish he wouldn't do so much.

He's upsetting the alumni." While Brewster kept his promise to wait and see what the courts did before taking any action against Coffin, the letters kept pouring in. And although the Alumni Fund kept growing year by year, wasn't it true that the total growth had dropped from $700,000 in 1966 to $50,000 in 1967? It was, and to reach the disgruntled grads, the Alumni offices had to develop "a rifteshot rather than a shotgun approach," in the words of managing director Ogden Sutro. Whenever a letter of dissatisfaction was received it would be answered immediately. If the writer was a potentially large donor, an extra special effort would be. made to put the whole thing "in the proper perspective.

Brewster had finished speaking. Over a thousand people stood up and those who knew it, who still rememberedâ&#x20AC;˘it after all these years--remembered it aftd the marriages, the wars and the obituaries--sang "Bright College Years."

In after-years, should troubles rise To cloud the blue of sunny skies, How bright will seem through mem'ry's haze Those happy, golden by-gone days!

And when it came time, the men held up their white napkins, and waved them proudly in the air, and sang " ... 'For God, for Country, and for Yale!' "

11 1The New Journal I March 3, 1968

:U

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It was over, and hundreds of grads and their wives streamed outside. No traces of snow were left; the sun was shining in a completely cloudless blue sky.lt was almost warm as people made their way to their cars, or to the panel discussion of student activism in Sprague Hall, or to a walk around the campus. William Jordan, Secretary of the Class of 1915, was grinning from ear to ear as he walked outside. He held up three fingers.

Three people had showed up at his table. He was very happy.

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Nothing unexpected happened at the discussion of student activism in Sprague. Kingman Brewster was · moderator. The panelists--sanford Elberg, dean of the Graduate School at UC Berkeley; John Kneller, dean of the College of Arts at Oberlin; former News chairman Strobe Talbott; and Assistant Dean John Wilkinsonpretty much agreed in their prepared remarks that student activists were responsible citizens after all.

The questions that followed from the audience were on tile whole more interesting than the answers, which tended to be vague or inconclusive, and the audience reaction to the questions was the most interesting of all.

Questions like "Well, how would you quell student demonstrations without using hoses and tear gas?" or "'kay, Strobe, could you tell us how you would get us out of Vietnam?" or "Isn't it true that demonstrations force opinions on people, rather than using peaceful means, where opinions have to be accepted?" received vigorous applause from the audience. But "Well, how do you test a law without breaking it and thereby rendering yourself ineffective to fight it?" did not.

Moderator Brewster summed it all up at the end with a personal observation: "As one whose patience is sorely tried by some forms of civil disobedience, and whose legal sense is outraged by it, I still am grateful that dissent exists."

6 It was getting dark when the doors of Commons were opened for a reception of the Alumni Board and the Engineering Association. It was the last official function of the day, and everyone came to have a good time and soak tip liquor and, if possible, introduce the missus to President Brewster.

One alumnus took upon himself the responsibility for grabbing and refilling Brewster's beer glass every time the president emptied it. "It's your day, Kingman," be would beam each time. "I know," Brewster kept saying. Once he laughed, "Well, I'm glad it's my day, and not Senator Dodd's day."

After speaking to him briefly, two alumni and their Wives told Brewster how nice it had been talking to him and then headed for the pretzeL and potato-chip table.

"Isn't he nice?" one of the men asked.

"Yes, and so perceptive," his wife agreed and smiled at the other woman. "Now where's Coffin?" Since the reverend's appearance at the cornerstone ceremony, no one had seen him.

"He had to go somewhere," her husband explained.

"Ob, what a shame." She sipped her bourbon.

"Personally," she confided to the other woman, "I think be's great, but he"-nodding at her husband-"goes along with Charlie O'Hearn."

The previous Monday night, Charles O'Hearn, GSsistant to the president, had addressed a large llfUhering at the Football Banquet. Reverend Coffin h4d attended the banquet, but by the time O'Hearn rose to speak Coffin had already left for a teach-in on draft 'ftistance. "I know you all agree with me," he had said, "that you'd much rather read about Yale on the sports PGge, with a winning football team, than on the front PGge, criticizing the Vietnam war or the draft." O'Hearn h4d received an enthusiastic ovation.

President Brewster was sipping beer and talking to a ltudent who was telling him about a letter he bad l!cently received from his father. His father, who had ll'aduated from Yale thirty-five years before, had "ritten, "Trying to impose one's views on others by ClaUsing mass disobedience is the opposite of the democratic system .... I feel this so strongly that I do llot propose to continue my support of Yale after my_ Present pledge is completed, nor would I have anything

to do with anyone who disobeyed the draft law." The student asked Brewster what he thought about alumni like his father.

"There are a lot of them," Brewster answered. "But obviously we can't put this place up for auction. We can't let an alumnus with a lot of money blackmail us into accepting his views." He took a sip of beer. ''A lot of people agree with Bill Coffin, and a lot of people disagree with me for not firing him. But the final decision is up to the trustees, not the alumni."

He raised his eyes from his beer. People around him had been leaving, and now only a few grads were left in Commons. Even these were emptying their drinks and collecting their wives. They would head to dinner and then perhaps to the hockey game or the basketball game, and then they would go home.

It had been dark for half an hour, but the flag outside Commons was stiJI flapping in the wind. The night was cold. A guard untied the rope at the base of the flagpole, blowing on his palms to keep warm.

An alumnus, standing in the doorway, called out to the guard, "It's been dark for a while, you know."

"I know. I'm sorry, I've been very busy. Alumni Day and all." He lowered the flag slowly and tucked it under his arm. ~

12 1The New Journal I March 3, 1968

After the bomb in Hiroshima: a psychohistory

by Daniel Yergin Death in Life: The Survivors of Hiroshima

by R obert Jay Lifton, Random House.

1 The all-clear sounded at 7:30 on the already hot morning of August 6, 1945; and the city, tense from the air-raid warning that had been given twenty minutes before, was now able to relax. A few minutes after eight, three American B-29's, initially mistaken for reconnaissance planes, appeared over the city. Seconds later, an atomic bomb exploded.

A brilliant flash of light cut across the sky. A history professor, who had been walking absent-mindedly along a dusty road, climbed to the top of Hijiyama Hill and looked down. He was shocked by what he saw, more shocked than by any of the suffering he witnessed afterward.

"Hiroshima didn't exist," he later wrote.

"That was mainly what I saw-Hiroshima just didn't exist."

A few more days passed, another bomb fell on Nagasaki, and the war was over.

The Americans came, they gave the Japanese a new constitution, and the new Japanese government provided small pensions for the hibakusha, as the survivors of the atomic blasts came to be called.

Hiroshima was rebuilt, and eventually next to the Peace Dome, a relic of a destroyed exhibition hall, a nine-story office building rose up. Both the Americans and Japanese provided medical treatment for the hibakusha. The "Hiroshima maidens" were brought to this country by private charity to have their scars covered over by plastic surgery, and the Americans in particular began a systematic study of the physical effects of the bomb.

Very quickly the world came to know what one atomic bomb, equal to 20,000 tons of TNT, could do. With temperatures up to 6000° C. at the target area, it could kill somewhere between 78,000 and 200,000 people over a period of time; it could destroy two thirds of the buildings in a city; it could cause violent, disfiguring burns called keloids. Its unseen radiation could settle over the survivors, increasing the incidence of cancer and leukemia.

But what of the effects of atomic warfare upon the minds of the 290,000 people officially classed as survivors? In the period immediately after the holocaust John Hersey wrote Hiroshima, the story of six survivors. Little happened after that.

The Japanese government, in allocating pensions, paid little heed to the mental condition of the hibakusha; the American researchers concentrated on the physical consequences. No one seemed to care what these extreme events could do to the psyche. "Do you understand?" wrote a Nagasaki physician. "Have they investigated what it does to heart and conscience and mind of those who survive? Do they have any knowledge of our society of spiritual bankrupts, now striving lamely to function as a community?" There was no answer.

Then, in 1962, 17 years after the atomic bomb, a tall, intense psychiatrist named Robert Jay Lifton, who had written a major book on Chinese brainwashing and had just been appointed to a new research professorship at Yale, came down by train

from Kyoto to Hiroshima. At this point he had been in Japan for two years, interviewing Japanese youth for a study relating individual psychology to historical processes. He had thought about the bomb during those two years, but only occasionally, and he had never before visited Hiroshima.

Drawing him to Hiroshima, however, was the dawning realization that though his subjects in Tokyo and Kyoto did not talk at any length about the atomic bomb, still it had left a tremendous imprint on their individual lives and their culture.

Lifton arrived in Hiroshima in early April, bearing letters of introduction to a cross-section of intellectuals and community leaders and planning only a short stay. He was immediately struck by the rebuilt city, still living with its A-bomb memorials and memories. "The war is over and bas been ove~; in Japan for a long time," he said later. "It's past history and that's the way it's treated, but that wasn't the way it was treated in Hiroshima. There the bomb was alive and it was with the people, with the city."

Lifton discovered that no system atic study had ever been done on the psychological reaction to the bomb. He went back briefly to Kyoto, and then returned to Hiroshima. Sometime before his secood visit to Hiroshima, Lifton had decided to study the psychological effects of the explosion. Contributing to the decision were Lifton's personal and professional interest in the Far East and Japan, his interest in studying human reactions to extreme historical situations and his concern with the psychological factors in· ftuencing war and peace.

Lifton stayed in Hiroshima for six months, interviewing two groups of sur· vivors-33 chosen at random and 42 chosen for their leadership among survivors. Finding them was not easy.

With his Japanese assistant he spent many hours that hot summer, searching out the dwellings of the hibakusha whose names they had found in the files of the Hiroshima University Research Institute for Nuclear Medicine and Biology.

The interviews, usually lasting two hours, were held in Lifton's office, or in the home of the hibakusha if he was sick or elderly. Though be knew some Japanese, Lifton relied on a translator.

At least two--and sometimes many more -sessions were held with each of the survivors.

Lifton focused his questions on three aspects: the survivor's memory of the . original experience and its meaning to hiJII 17 years later, his residual concerns and fears, and his inner struggle to m aster . his experience and come to terms with bll hibakusha identity.

Lifton had imagined that be would find many horrors, but he discovered that there is a great difference between imagirt ing and actually confronting horror in direct human terms. Every story was different. Lifton heard of encounters itnmediately after the bomb---<:hildren burned black, a child by the side of its dead mother, a corpse with the flesh burned off; of families severed forever by the blast; of a daughter sent away to the country because her dying father smelled too much; of people afraid to marry or, if married, afraid to have children; of children born deformed: ol a ~oman breaking out in red and yen~­ green and black spots a month after the atomic bomb and then dying; of people bearing the stigma of the vicious keloid

tS IThe New Joumall March 3, 1968

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llipna of being an outcast; of people llaanted in hundreds of ways by that lia8le experience of the bomb.

Lifton was shocked and profoundly lllaken by what be heard, but he forced himself to concentrate on distinct patterns IIIII in time he began to notice that a process of distancing-what he calls 1fYChic numbing-set in within himself.

In the fall of 1962, he went back to Tokyo to research some special Hiroshima problems, and then returned to the United Slates. H e employed a Japanese assistant 10 continue doing research for him while lie himself worked in this country on the Hiroshim a manuscript and a related manuaipt on death symbolism and the impact tl nuclear weapons. He finished the Hiroshim a work toward the end of 1966.

Death in Life: The Survivors of Hiroliima was published earlier this month by lmdom House. It is a moving and brilliant .-lysis of human reaction to a cataclysm; il is also a pioneering effort in what is coming to be called psychohistory.

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PJom the mass of information he collected in interviews, Lifton identified five

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in the Hiroshima survivor's peychology.

The first was the death imprint. This ..Wted from the individual's first shatterina and then recurring contact with death, iacluding fears of radiation effects. T he sarvivor tended to regard himself as weak llld victimized, and was looked on as an outcast by other Japan ese. Man y survivors WOUnd up with an absolute sense of delolation and despair. Shortly after the llcmb, an abandoned mother heard a IIIDor that no trees would grow in Hiroshima for seventy years; then her lilt possessions were stolen from the railway c:ar in which she was living. She told Uftoo of her reaction: "But my feeling ..., there was no place to go ... so if I were to die, it was all right, I would die llere where the bomb fell .... A feeling tl DOt caring-not a feeling based on llderstanding but just on not caring...."

The survivors also experienced death lfllh. An elderly lady, carried to safety alta the blast in a wheelbarrow, told Uftoo: " I heard many voices calling for llelp, voices calling for their fathers, voices of women and children .... I felt it was a wrong thing not to help them, but we were so much occupied by running away Garlelves that we left them .... Even now htill hear their voices." The unspoken lilt-accusation was that her life was saved • the expense of others.

Another protective mechanism, that of 111chic closing-off or psychic numbing, 11ft the survivors unable to feel emotions.

AJapanese army officer who directed mass Cftlnatio ns said: "After a while [the '*Jiles] became just like objects or goods -handled in a very business-like way. ·· ·We had no emotions. Because of the llccession of experiences I bad been !~~rough, I was temporarily without

leetinl."

Almost all the survivors were wary of re..terfeit n urturance; they felt the need tf lpecial attention, yet at the same time '-J resented and suspected it. Said a ~ scarred hospital attendant: " I ~'t like people to use that word ~auh~] ... to refer to u~ as. at?mic ~ maadens is a way of dascr UDJna... · . ."Yet she also said: "W e under"'- such a terr ible ordeal : .. we experi-

enced a state between death and life ... so I wish others to have a more sympathetic understanding of us."

Lifton found that the survivors resented Americans in direct proportion to the extent that the bomb bad marred their lives. In some cases, resentment and affection existed together because of the American Occupation and events afterward.

The final psychological trait was formulation. The survivor tried to create a new life; he again sought a sense of development and significance in his life.

But finding this sense proved extremely difficult. A feeling of special mission or some form of resignation seemed to be the only means.

Lifton examined artistic creation, which is one kind of formulation. He found most of the literature and art relating to the bomb to be unsuccessful because the artist was unable to master such a catastrophic experience.

Lifton found close parallels to the reactions of Hiroshima survivors in the reactions of concentration camp survivors.

He went on to conclude that we are all survivors of both those massive holocausts and, in a sense, of imagined future holocausts. While the central psychological problem in Freud's day was sexuality, the problem today, according to Lifton, is "unlimited technological violence and absurd death."

L ifton was dealing with an historical problem in his book, but he approached it with the insights of a psychoanalytic perspective. His basic aim was to illuminate the historical subject matter in terms of human psychology. This is psychohistory, and it is Lifton's p rimary intellectual concern. He doesn't believe it is possible to understand large human events without understanding psychological forces. In his own life, Lifton has found himself in various situations in which both dimensions were extremely important, and it is from such a perspective that he carries on his work.

3 Robert Jay Lifton grew up in New York City in a family that stimulated him to make his first contact with psychological and political matters at an early age. H is father bad grown up on the lower East Side and had hoped for a medical career but, lacking funds, had turned instead to business. He always took pride, however, in h aving read widely in the major thinkers as a very young man, and be always cared deeply about the underdog; certainly at least part of Lifton's- impulse to examine major historical problems arises from his father's influence.

In high school, Lifton was interested in history: at Cornell, which he entered at 16, he became a pre-med student.

He started New York Medical College at the age of 18. By the second year he wanted to be a psychiatrist. He bas never regretted his medical background; internship, in particular, offered him a special kind of human confrontation at the border of life and death. Lifton, immersing himself in his psychiatric studies in the immediate post-war years. tended to annoy teachers by insistent questioning, and even then to show h imself as something of a loner.

Then, be says, "Lots of things hap pened strangely." H e enlisted in the Air Force in 195 1 and was stationed with a group

A Yale Institutio n for U pperdassmen

141 The New Journal I March 3, 1968

of psychiatrists at Westover Field when order came to send of their number overseas. The head psychiatrist decided that the unmarried man should go, and that was Lifton. He asked to be sent to Paris, but was assigned intially to Japan.

By this time he had married, and his wife, who had been working in television, arranged for press credentials and accompanied him.

After a year in Japan, Lifton was sent to Korea, where he was the only Air Force psychiatrist in the country. He flew on a circuit from base to base, trying to deal with a large number of psychiatric problems. He attempted to find a way for the personnel to continue to function in the combat area; if there was no way, he arranged for their return to Japan.

After five and a half months on the circuit, he was ordered back to Japan; he- returned to Korea for Operation Big Switch, the prisoner exchange in 1953.

His wife accompanied him as a correspondent. He had been briefed in advance to expect some "ideological influence" (brainwashing) on the returning Gl's; but interviewing and conducting group therapy sessions with them, Lifton found something puzzling and disturbing in the confused state of many of the returned prisoners. He saw this condition as important both clinicaly and as part of a larger historical problem.

Finally discharged in Japan, Lifton and his wife started on a round-theworld trip. Hong Kong, their second stop, seemed to the Liftons mysterious and unreal, with an extraordinary air of intrigue and ferment. Lifton talked with many people and began to hear dramatic stories from Chinese and Westerners who had been imprisoned in Red China. The problem of thought reform-brainwashing-began to absorb him, especially the puzzling state of the former prisoners-of-war. With no clearcut notion of establishing a new direction of research, with only the knowledge that the work would be very important, Lifton arranged to study the former prisoners in Hong Kong. Of these two years, Lifton says with a smile, " It was the voyage of the Beagle for me, my turning point."

As Lifton talks about that period in Hong Kong, it takes on the quality of a single memory held intact. The draining emotional confrontation with the former prisoners, the frenetic search for information on Chinese history and culture, the life in Hong Kong itselfall are part of one experience. He would leave his apartment in the morning and drive to an outlying section for an intense two-hour interview with a just-released missionary, later drive to the beach and change for a swim, then spend the afternoon talking with experts and the evening studying in his apartment.

Lifton and his wife left Hong Kong in 1955. During the next four years of teaching and research, in Washington, D.C., and then at Harvard, he was writing his first book, Thought R eform and the Psychology of Tota/ism: A Study of Brainwashing in China. He defined totalism as "a tendency toward ali-or-nothing emotional alignments."

From the case histories of 25 Westerners and 15 Chinese, he abstracted the major totalist devices used to "re-educate" (make over in the communist image) the former prisoners. He also described how "thought reform," if successful, closes

the subject off and reinforces totalist inclinations within him. He made it clear fhat total ism or elements of totalism are not the province solely of communism, but appear also in our own society.

Lifton was also concerned with a more general problem, the human capacity for change. He argued that a person is in process, that change-moderate, not extreme-is vital.

In writing this book Lifton confronted a large number of problems-an alien culture, the intellectual attitude be would take toward reform, his own radical liberal ideological position, and the choice of a particular psychoanalytical tradition to follow. <;>n returning from Hong Kong in 1956; Lifton joined the Washington School of Psychiatry, a group influenced by the American psychoanalyst Harry Stack SuiJivan, who had made a special contribution to the techniques of the psychiatric interview. While in Washing路 ton, Lifton read an article on ego identity by the psychoanalyst Erik Erikson. He realized that Erikson was concerned, in a theoretical way, with the same problems of personality change that he was confronting in the "re-edu路 cated" former prisoners. Lifton was sufficiently excited to ask Frederick Redlich (now dean of the Yale Medical School), whom Lifton had met in Korea, to arrange an introduction.

Lifton went to see Erikson at the Austin Riggs Clinic in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Erikson was intrigued by thought reform, and he felt it tied into Young Man Luther, the book on which he was then working. That book, which appeared in 1958, is subtitled "a study in psychoanalysis," and it is the work that effectively introduced psychoanalytic methods into the study of history.

Since the death of Freud, there had been a shift among some psychoanalysts from exclusive preoccupation with the id and the domain of the unconscious to a corresponding interest in the ego, the conscious self. Since ego patterns persist into adulthood and are available in historical data, this approach offered a way to deal with an individual in his social and hi~torical environment. This sort of concern with identity had a special impact on Lifton, and Erikson路s notion of the phases of development and the life cycle related particularly to Lifton's concern with character change.

Lifton moved to Harvard in 1957.

There he studied China and the Orient under John Fairbank and Benjamin 路Schwartz, and was influenced by sociologist David Riesman. Another influence. though less direct, was that of Albert Camus. Lifton felt that Camus was strUt gling on a philosophical level with the satot problem at human possibilities and change that he himself was studying on a psychological level.

While in Boston, Lifton underwent personal psychoanalysis as part of his training to be a psychoanalyst. He completed the analysis, but not the training, because he felt that it wasn't . relevant to his work, and he held certalll. reservations about the way psychoanal)~ is utilized and taught.

The historical profession showed its first awareness of the contributions available from an understanding of psychology in 1957. In that year, diplomatic historian William Langer used t1Je occasion of his president's address to tbC American Historical Association to saY

IS 1The New Journal I March 3, 1968

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that, were he beginning his career anew, be would pay considerable attention to psychology, "to the urgently needed deepening of our historical understanding tbrough exploitation of the concepts and findings of modern psychology."

This decade has seen a few more books and several conferences on psychohistory.

Perhaps the most important single step was taken by Lifton and Erikson in 1966, when they decided to form what is now called The Group for the Study of Psychohistorical Process. It is an informal group that meets in a cottage next to Iifton's summer home in Wellfleet, Massachusetts. It met for seven days in 1966 and five days in 1967. Its members include Erikson, Lifton, psychologist Kenneth Keniston and historian Lawrence Chisolm (both from Yale), psychiatrist Robert Coles, psychologist Frederick Wyatt, sociologist Philip Rieff, historians Bruce Mazlish and Frank Manuel, political scientists Suzanne and Lloyd Rudolph and critic Steven Marcus.

Works in progress are presented and discussed, and ideas are tested. Lifton presented sections of the Hiroshima manuICript, and Erikson sections of the biography of Gandhi he is now writing.

Lifton says, "These meetings are a most extraordinary experience intellectually.

You're throwing your work out to really lifted people who immerse themselves in il and respond with great sensitivity."

1n addition to the survivor, Lifton has recently identified another type of man

which he thinks is a particular product of this historical era. This type is protean man-that is, a man subject to several major changes in his life patterns and ideology. Protean man is part of Lifton's focus on the changing personality that began with his brainwashing study and included the study he was doing on Japanese youth prior to the Hiroshima work. Lifton thinks universal psychological tendencies, the cultural past and the current historical trends interact to produce human behavior. He thinks that the third factor is responsible for protean man, and he points to two reasons: the historical and psychological dislocations associated with rapid technological change, and the overwhelming output of mass media.

4 Lifton looks forward to "psychohistorical breakthroughs." These breakthroughs will represent the coming together of the individual and history, and will produce a new dimension of psychic experience.

The aim, finally, is to find a model of man within history.

Lifton acknowledges that major difficulties lie in the way of these breakthroughs: the psychoanalyst tends to extract the psychological self from the historical process, while historians look toward a sequential model of group behavior that ignores individual psychology. But Lifton believes that the gaps can be bridged, and

he is willing to predict the characteristics of psychohistory: I A model of time expanded to combine and give subtle expression to man's individual and collective feelings toward pis past and future.

2 A genuine dialectic between the individual man and his historical process.

3 An idea of the past built upon a three-way interplay between the individual psychology, the cultural past and the existing historical trends.

4 A dialectic between the reality of external events and man's need to see these events through some form of symbolic re-creation (formulation).

5 A stress on man's innate need for exploration and change, at the same time recognizing the counter-trend toward stability and stillness.

Now completing a manuscript on the general symbols of life and death that is related to the Hiroshima book, Lifton says, "I'm strongly convinced that I'm moving in a very important direction, but I do have lots of doubts, including many about .my own capacity to be equal to the problems involved."

There is no question that the problems of psychohistory are large, but Lifton has already done much to meet them. His own work has proved that the psychoanalytic perspective can greatly enrich and enlarge our understanding of both individual behavior and large historical events. f~

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The article " Our Air War, by Robert Crichton" (February 4), reprinted from the N ew Y ork Review of Books, discusses the U.S. Air Force techniques in Vietnam, and damns those techniques in no uncertain terms. However, one wonders why, as the article states, the book "Air War: Vietnam was published in a silence"? Is it possibly because the book itself is not nearly as sensational as the article in the New York Review? This latter question becomes more than a mere possibility when one realizes that the editorial policy of the New York Review is only slightly to the right of Ramparts'. I doubt, therefore, whether any of the seventeen Yale staff members who found the article "exceptionally revealing" has actually read the book; and I suggest that they have displayed a receptiveness to opinions, coinciding with their own, rather than to facts. · Fred M. Reames To the Editors:

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Yale Film Society Friday, March 1 CLEO FROM FIVE TO SEVEN {1962) Agnes Varda's fascinating lyric about a young girl's two hours in Paris Saturday, March 2 THE TRIAL OF JOAN OF ARC {1962) Robert Bresson's t ruly g ripping treatment of the famous trial

TIHIE FRENCIHI NEW WAVE PART II Friday, March 8 CHRONICLE OF A SUMMER {1961) T he official m asterpiece of the cinemaverite movem ent , Jean Rouch's film revolves about a single question: "Are you happy?"

Saturday, March 9 EYES WITHOUT A FACE (1959) Georges Franju's perverse, Gothic horro r Com ing Wednesday, Marc h 13 A series of films by Josef von Sternberg

Milton Shaw's letter (New Journal, February 18, 1968) attacking those who oppose the Vietnam war pretends to be that of a rational human being. At first, I thought it was a heavy-handed satire.

Upon reflection, I have concluded that Mr. Shaw's heavy hand is quicker than his gimlet eye. The blindness which results and which he attributes to others qualifies him as an apologist of the Administration's Vietnam war policy. It is he who misses the point. True, all war is essentially immoral, but does it then follow that the Vietnam war deserves support? Murders are crimes. Although they are essentially immoral, would Apologist Shaw consent to commit one? T h e point is that the United States appears in the guise of aggressor, waging a war in defiance of the norms of international political morality and of its own self-professed ideals. The point is that the Administration indulges in distortion of history and fact, mystification and statistical legerdemain in order to propagandize a policy which it cannot truthfully justify. The point is that men should not for such a policy be placed in a position where th e "beat of battle" will lead them to commit atrocities.

In limiting himself to _a consideration of battlefield atrocities, Apologist Shaw has once. again missed the point. The point is that the United States kills Vietnamese for purposes toward which most Vietnamese are either h ostile or indifferent.

The point is that the United States commits atrocities not in the heat of battle but with cold calculation. It creates refugees through massive bombardment of civilian centers and indiscriminate artillery fire coupled with equally wanton air strikes in the countryside. It poisons the environment through chemical defoliation and crop destruction. It condones the treatment which the ARVN metes out to Vietnamese prisoners. The point is that an American, sitting in the hermetic cockpit of an F-1 00 and flying in an uncontested sky, can hardly be said to act in "the heat of battle" as he rakes a row of Vietnamese huts with 20 mm. cannon fire.

The point is that the victory which the United States seeks in this "people's war" can only be attained by pursuit of a policy the very essence of which is mounting atrocity.

Apologist Shaw is himself dimly aware of this. Rational human being that he is, he cannot forego self-contradiction.

Atrocities, he says, are commited by individuals in "the beat of battle." H e deplores this. What is his remedy for the only evil he perceives? Opponents of the war should enlist in the service in order to bring about "a minor revolution in policy."

How can "a minor revolution in policy" put a stop to the atrocities which according to Apologist Shaw are inevitably commited by soldiers in battle? After all, this war, like all wars--once again accord· ing to Apologist Shaw-is essentially immoral. New sets of participants and minor revolutions in policy cannot alter the facts of war and thereby put an end to the atrocities which he sanctimoniously deplores.

The only parallel which I can find for Apologist Shaw's naivete is his own ignorance. Does he really think that an officer ordered to level a district capital "in order to save it," will refuse to obey?

I suspect that Apologist Shaw would have opponents of the war court-martialed and executed for refusing to obey or ders rather than have them go to prison for resisting the draft.

Apologist Shaw yearns for facts, proof and special knowledge. Can he array all this in support of his contentions th at North Vietnamese Communism threatens "the American way of life," that C hina and North Vietnam operate hand in glove, that certain Communist govern· ments can be termed mature and others "immature"? Should Apologist Shaw care to inform himself about the Vietnam war, there are many books which he might find instructive. These include Bernard Fall's The Two Vietnams and Vietnam Witness, Robert Shaplen's The L ost Revolution, Jean Lacouture's Vietnam: Between Two Truces, George Kahin and John Lewis's The United States in Viet· nam, and Frank Harvey's Air War: Vietnam. Should books place too great a strain on Apologist Shaw's attention span, he might devote himself to an intelligent reading of the New York Times and the foreign press. Or is that contrary to the "American way of life"?

Frank Nestor Yale Law School T o the Editors: This is an angry reply to the complimen· tary articles on Joseph H eller you have printed. If The New Journal is to be a medium of truth rather than of star-struck opinion (as have been the references to Heller at the Yale Drama School), the Yale community should be made aware of certain facts upon which opinion may be more firmly grounded.

Joseph Heller's We Bombed in New. Haven was clearly not a welcome step Ill any direction at the Yale Rep ertory Theatre. H eller was committed neither to drama nor to the kind of cooperative production process the Drama School and Repertory Company claim to be gropin& towards. Heller approached his play first as a playful diversion from the novel he is writing, and second as literature.

Never did he accept the collaborative experience of theatre, as is evidenced.bY his adamant refusal to revise or rewn te the flawed sections of his opus. His attitude was: "I am J oseph H eller. I have written a play. It is a finished product.

H ere, do it." Great playwrights (Shakespeare, M arlowe, M oliere, etc.) have

17 1The New Journal I March 3, 1968

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always wr itten for a company; Heller writes for Heller. Dead authors have been more flexible than he. (Witness Plpp's reproduction of Hamlet which, wbatever its flaws, is true to the repertory ideal of collaboration.)

In short, flexible cooperation is a natural premise upon which plays grow into pr oductions. Without a total comm itment to process no artistic success can result.

Without process the transform ation of the private image into a n exciting public metaphor is doomed to failure.

What is especially disturbing about Heller's lack of commitment to th eatre is that he h as chosen that very thing he d isdains as the centr al metaphor in his play.

1be result is a sort of professional llypocrisy. Heller knows little about actIll and less about directing. Yet all the cbaracters in We Bombed are actors playing characters. This left the company it a real bind. On the one hand, they were committed to Heller and his reputation; OD the other hand, they were handed niles wh ich insuJted their profession.

Whatever success they achieved was a departure from the text, a departure Larry Alrick disguised by telling Heller: "These cbaracters are actors. Actors a lways improvise." This tactic worked somewhat, but only insofar as it didn't insult Heller's rather idiosyncratic sensitivity--e.g., he didn't th ink any of his characters were "really bad." Thus the company feigned loyalty to Heller while never really trusting him, a fact Larry Arrick had revealed in jest at the first reading of th e play to 1be Drama School, when he described Beller as untrustworthy.

And how could one trust e ither h im or his play! We Bombed in New H aven ildisappointing in tone, form and content.

Heller's comic mode is so shallow that he feels compelled to plunge into a "deeper," more tragic style in order to 10ice something serious. What begins as Joaeph Heller ends as Arthur Miller, the classic American explorer of troubled Ills. Iron ically, since Miller himself rarely penetrates beneath the surface of issues, HeUer's tonal shift culminates in only a le&timental splash, a just reward for his betrayal of the creative impulse.

In form, We Bombed seems inspired

by Pirandello. Yet Heller claimed never to have read Six Characters in Search of â&#x20AC;˘ Author. (I must say that Heller's public llatements are about as credible as the Pl'eaent Administration's.) I n any case, there is nothing new about this form.

Perhaps it is even exhausted. I nstead of learning from the past, however , and thereby avoiding the pitfalls of the path be had chosen, Helle r blindly marched ido the obvious traps. For example, where IDd when does the p lay occur? At a rtbearsal? Then why an audience? At die performance we are viewing, as imJIIied by the clock on the stage? Then why 1ft the actors so surprised when the curlain goes up? Is the p lay about the mem'-s of the Yale Repertory Company or lbout characters who are actors who CIDioc:identally have the same names as the llembers of the company? The production obviously made some choices to -.wer these questions, but there is one Cilllllradiction to which there is no resolu liaa.. Does H eller really expect us to accep t lleaderson's death and the following scene 1lllen the first two thirds of the p lay argue ..._convincingly th at noth ing that h ap.... on stage is real? In short, H eller ~oys an old form without b r inging '-ih understanding to it. Had h e read

Six Characters, and understood it, he might have resolved the very esthetic conflicts which destroy his play.

In content, most of all, Heller's p lay is passe. We Bombed is the most obsolete new play I can remember. It cultivates a despairing, stoical acceptance of a war machine that alone is more terrifying than the machine itself. It sees man as a dumb animal, without control over his destiny and without conscience. When Starkey's son asks his father, "Must I really go out now and be killed?" the reply is a nod from The Major. All this as if one cannot really. say no and refuse legitimate commands, as many brave men are doing today. HeUer's universe is an irreversible script written by a malignant playwright in the sky. This myth, if accepted, would be a perfect propagandistic tool for the J ohnson, or any other Administration. But the myth is easily exploded when one realizes who the malignant playwright is.

The production of We Bombed in New Haven was a valiant attempt by the Yale Repertory Company to sidestep the reputation of Joseph Heller. Unfortunately, whenever crucial issues were raised, the sidestep succumbed to reputation, which left us with an image of the blind leading the blind.

Robert S. Mandel

Sumptuous qual ity Shapely styles Sensual fee l Speedy delivery June bursar's bill Order your class(y) ring now.

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(The author of the preceding letter is a candidate for the Doctor of Fine Arts degree at the Yale School of Drama.)

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18 I The New Journal! March 3, 1968

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continued from page 2 Societies of the Americas in World Perspective," was clearly addressed to h is colleagues rather than to the audience, for it abounded in scholarly terminology which helped him make many short-cuts in compressing a complex topic into about forty minutes of disquisition. "It should have been a book," said one professor afterwards, shaking his head. Genovese compared slave societies in Cuba and Brazil with t he one in America. H e revealed his Marxist bias at the start by noting that slavery is first of all a class question, and only secondarily one of race, and he went on to say that to study different brands of slavery, you have to study the different classes th at manage them. No major socio·economic problem can be seen as purely a problem of race.

You don't have social problems without economic ones. Genovese remarked that American slavery was Jess harsh than slavery in Brazil and less permissive than in Cuba; that it was "paternalistic" (as against being purely "exploitative") because after 1808, when the ·stave trade was ended, slaves couldn't, in a sense, be "replaced"; and that the C ivil War, insofar as it was an economic conflict, was a feudalistic "revolt against the progress of capitalism."

Genovese is a good speaker and a powerful personality. It is easy to see why he has such a large following. H is speech was over the heads of most in the audience, so it is perhaps a measure of h is force that so often, as you lost the fabric

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of h is talk and looked around at the audience, you saw that sea of beribboned heads nod earnestly in collective agreement with what you wondered if it fully understood.

That evening the subject was "Slavery and the Negro Personality." The speaker, with a quintet of panelists beside him, was William Styron, who apparently has become the latest bete blanche of the black left. Actually; Styron gave what was more of a rebuttal than a speech, replying to charges of black militant critics th at he has made Nat T urner into a fictional "house nigger." An audience of about two thousand came, primarily to view the celebrated writer. Its attention was on h im, and his position on center-stage wasn't made any easier by the cold he had.

H e began by stating that he didn't like in any way "replying" to critiques of his work, but that in this case he felt compelled to do so, because the controversy surrounding his novel has become more than just literary. There were some major points of debate he would try to clear up once and for all. Noting that a collection of essays by black writers attacking Nat Turner is in the works, Styron added that he had just learned that a white citizens' cou ncil in Atlanta is preparing a similar anthology, although from a rather different point of view. He then stated h is cr itics' major points and proceded to answer them.

The real Nat Turner had a wife. Why isn't she in the novel? T his fact about Nat Turner, said Styron, is to be found in an 1861 essay by T homas Wentworth Higginson in The Atlantic Monthly. H owever, Higginson was writing some thirty years after the fact, and his sources of information are not at all trustworthy. Furthermore. the celibacy of the fictional Nat Turner is more consistent with his portrayal as a single-minded enthusiast bent on the apocalyptic righting of wrongs.

Why , in the novel, is Nat Turner educated by whites, not by blacks? There is no evidence that the real Nat Turner, to whatever degree he actually was educated, was tutored by blacks. It is, again, more fictionally consistent to see him as educated by those who will never allow h im to use the learning they give him.

Why does the novel refuse negroes lofty, philosophical outrage, "high" anger? In the novel, Nat's band responds only to personal wrongs, not ideological ones.

F or those who co uldn't read P aine or Jefferson, said Styron, the memory of a broken bone, or o f a wife or child sold into oblivion, inflicted the kind of h urt that makes a ny question ot'the necessity of ideology irrelevant.

In the novel, certain "loyal" slaves help to shoot down some of Nat Turner's band.

This sort of thing never happened in real life, as Herbert Aptheker, the Communist historian, says, and therefore this part of the novel is both absurd and dishonest.

Sty ron answered th is point by saying flatly that Aptheker is wrong. There is ample evidence that slaves fou nd slaves on many occasions. It is no more unthinkable than, for example, prison "trusties'' refusing to aid rioting fellow-prisoners.

The fictional Nat lusts after Margaret Whitehead, whom he finally kills. Tlris is a disgusting, racist reinforcement of the stereotype of tire black m an OLII to violate W hite W omanhood. Acknowledging th at he believed aJI along that this part of Nat T urner would be misconstrued , as in fact it h as been, Styron pointed out that there is a good deal of h istorical evidence that

some slaves did make advances to white women, who in many cases reciprocated.

Further, in the actual T urn er rebellion, why did Nat kill only Margaret Whitehead? The symbolic relevance of this fact, Styron held, is as undeniable as it is complex.

Styron spoke for perhaps fifteen minutes and then gave the floor to the panelists, all of whom backed Styron in his contentions by supplementing them in different ways. E ugene Genovese was the last to comment. Styron, he claimed , had made Nat T urner into a h um an being, not a " revolutionary abstraction," thereby ful· filling his job as a novelist-so well, Genovese concluded, that Nat Turner is in fact the most profound treatment of the black-white confrontation arising out of the question of slavery that there is in American literatur e.

Genovese's remarks as much as Styron's drew a series-of long-winded, often acrimonious objections from two black students from the University of Massach usetts. One, who that afternoon had ridiculed the distinction between "patr iarchical" and "explo itative" slavery and had thereby shown that even though he was a revolutionary of sorts he had apparently forgotten about Karl Marx, arose and d irected an oration at the platform. Few in the audience could beat because of the aud itorium's bad acoustics.

Then a white student who somebody later said was the editor of The Mother of Voices, an underground paper serving the four-college area, got up and delivered a second u nintelligible monologue against Styron and his novel. F or some reason the aud ience, though clear ly restive, did not appear willing to complain.

F inally, another black student walked up on the stage and delivered a short speech, from the lectern and into the microphone, to the effect that Nat Turntr was a racist book because a black mao didn't write it.

Here the evening program ended, and a rather bewildered crowd left the hall and went to the Smith Alumni H ouse, where coffee was served to those who had no immediate access to anything stronger.

The coffee was terrible, but debate continued . Some were angry that the end of the discussion had been dominated by a trio of repetitive, ideologically myopic questioners. Others felt that the black spokesmen had fitt ingly socked-it-to-thelll Nobody, however , seemed very happy.

T he next day's agenda began with a mor ning talk by Winthrop J ordan of the University of California at Berkeley.

Speak ing on "White Attitudes Towards the Negro in Ante-Bellum America," Jordan d iscussed, at times with more flash than depth, how attitudes towards the negro have to do with changing conceptions of the institution o f slavery. The main problem that concerned him was how the anti-slavery movement in the U .S. flagged after 1808, to be outdistanced subsequently by the idea that slavery was good and that slaves were happy. H e also contended that even~ the likelihood diminished of a ToiJSS8lll1 rouverture appearing in America, there occurred a ch ange in American family· structure, a ch ange which saw the emooder: gence of "motherhood" and "childh as lively concep ts for the first time. The latter J ordan linked to the idea, widespread from the 1830's, that the average_.~ A merican slave was "childlike ... softei!P' and subdued" by the beneficent institutioO that looked after him.

191 The New Journal I March 3, 1968

The symposium's final address was pven by David Brion Davis, who holds, as some people noted with amusement, The Ernest White Professorship of History at Cornell. His talk was concerned principally with abolitionist attitudes towards slavery, and he described in detail what mat'ly Northerners in the first half of the Dineteenth century believed to be a "SSave Power Conspiracy." Davis quoted Theodore Parker's likening the paranoid fear of slavepower to the Jesuitical terror of the anti-Christ, a concept rampant in Europe for three hundred years after the Reformation.

So ended the Smith College Symposium OD slavery. Many afterwards were jubilant about its liveliness, its variety, and its timeliness. Others were as sympathetic to what had been attempted, but less satisfied with what had taken place. They felt that perhaps it had been a case of too many celebrities in too short a time. At moments, )l'ofessional competition seemed to get in the way of the panelists' pursuing the clarification of common problems, and in a couple of instances the bickering of the panelists became uncomfortably personal.

They, along with the militants in the audience, tended to corroborate a point Lionel Trilling made a long time ago, tbat "our culture peculiarly honors the Itt of blaming."

However, forbearance, good word though it is, is not something you can expect to find when a lot of intelligent men and women get together to discuss a diflicult subject, particularly if the subject is as hydra-headed as American Negro Slavery. Certainly a great many people were stimulated, shaken, and enlightened by what they saw and heard at the symposium, and that is no mean accomplishIDtnt.

It may have been true, as an onlooker IIOt un~indly remarked, that "there's less here than meets the eye." But all in all, "less" was more than many had experienced in quite a while.

Jonathan Aaron Graduate student, English

Mr. Mayor Watching John V. Lindsay talk to Thomas

P. F. Hoving on the Mayor's Sunday coriltrsation show, one realized that Hoving was the original Lindsay man: discreet club ties on those shirts that have handle'Nn buttonholes, fifteen inches of unWrinkled sock encasing the Anglo-Saxon calf. And that man had been a commissioner in city government. Sure, he was •lot more than socks and shirts and tieslie gave us kite-flying in the Sheep Meadow lQd bicycles on Sunday and the poised lllreness of touch that puts a man in '1'alk of the Town" one week and inspires •lavishly whimsical cartoon the next.

Sunday the striking thing was not the ideas. but the way he made them dance ~~ across the table. Doubtless he ~ that comment, honed and unadorned, would be bad form amid a studio done up in Public Relation Man's Plastic ~~~ly polished version of Modern

a.

~).

~ up, in the studio confusion of ~g cameras and hissing klieg lights,

lllalllanner was the striking thing: the al!111111 lyric indifference to the staged situa. . be was in. The PR men circulated ~gh the audience giving skittish bouse~ f~om Queens punchy question_s f~r -.n Lmdsay and his guest, and pnmmg,

yet again, one of their number decked out in beard and bells who wanted to know what the Mayor was doing for the sad lost girls from Great Neck searching for flowers in the streets of New York. A regular balanced ticket. All the while Hoving ticked off on his long fingers the plans for the Temple of Dendur and the dialectical advantages of hanging the F-111 opposite the Poussin. It was a clear profile of style : the conquering indifference to indifference.

He had finished the Temple of Dendur and the Mayor caught the falling syllable of conclusion, swung his attention from a card-waving aide and, with hardly a pause, asked about the exhibition on Harlem and the relation of the Museum to the community. The Director replied gracefully and persuasively. With a bright smile and a quick sense of the hour, the Mayor asked about the program in Brooklyn.

A structured reply. The Mayor moved smartly to audience participation. (Apparently not much bad been done for Queens or Staten Island and no one was getting up an exhibit on the Catholic contribution to the city.)

Lindsay's technique was more in the dramatic than the lyric mode and his role the more difficult one. Of course, on your screens at home it was as taut and graceful as the Brooklyn Bridge. But out there where it was at, the temporary ·crowd were all shifting on their folding chairs, straining to piece together the flow of talk as the cameras swung and bobbed and bothered us and made a work of art and artifice. Lindsay was with us in it, snatching a phrase here and there to keep the Hoving doll moving forward and keeping an eye cocked for the elusive aide.

It really wasn't easy. After all, as host and speaker he had to gather .us all into the occasion, playing both audience and participant, the listening citizen as well as the upright Mayor and the warm associate.

It all needed a lot of props-the PR men in the audience searching out the Negro to put a question about Harlem and the aides with their cue cards and funny earphones and the make-up and the water glasses tinted yellow and the cordial preshow greeting to the eager admirers in the studio. We all assisted with timed clapping and nervous smiles as the eye of history swept us into our final perspectives and all our hundred mothers in the Greater Metropolitan Region caught a glimpse of our untidy hair and fluttering hands and flimsy chairs. It was exciting. He was our Mayor and he'd stood up to the garbage men and we were proud-and we were on television. And, Jesus, when you're on television you forget to do your thing and you just hope your voice won't break when you get to ask your question. And, Jesus, why doesn't he stop rattling on about Brooklyn-we all want to get in on this thing-and then about taking the riches of the Museum to every borough and the gleam of the untraveled world . . . .

"Tom, I think we should cut it off here.

I'm sure the audience would like to put a few questions to you. Yes, miss." " Mr. Hoving, why did you leave public service just at the time ..."

Lindsay catches the cue and trades a few jabbing quips about the job at the Met being public service and goes through the bit about civilization in the city. And yes, yes, you're in on it; you're there, and the minute it's over you dash out of the studio to phone all your friends to watch.

There it is on the videotapes of posterity -the urban and the urbane and being

. close to the Mayor and standing up to the garbage men and New York and-geez, it was grand.

Angus Macbeth Yale Law School

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CALISTHENICS 1968 Yale spring program. "Mens sana in corpore sano." First meeting Monday, March 4. Please be at the New Haven Green flagpole by 6:30 A.M. Everyone welcome -gym suits preferred. "Let's go!"

SQUASH Inept squash opponent desired. Send credentials to 92 Yale Station. Discreet.

DAMSELS Love is where it's at, but where is "at"?

We are 5 attractive, well-educated damsels distressed by meaningless mixers and machine made matches, who desire to meet men. "Man" defined: 23-34¥.! years old, similarly attractive intelligent and well educated. If interested, please reply: "Girls" c/ o The New Journal, 3432 Yale Station.

GRASS Grow your own-indoors! For free, generous-sized sample packet of guaranteedto-sprout seeds, send a stamped, selfaddressed envelope and 25¢ to 544 Yale Station.

LOST Gloves. Bought at Co-op Post-Christmas Sale. No identifying marks or blemishes.

Can't even remember the color. c/ o Gloves, 1860 Yale Station.

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