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21 The New Journal! December 8, 1968

Contents

3

The English reformation

by Michael Holahan

5

Malraux: hero, Jansenist and J acobin

by Henri Peyre

8

Once Junie Moon tells you

by Paul Moore

9

Not Morton, baby

by Rodger Kamenetz

13

Reason and revolution

by William McBride

In Comment: a poor unsuspecting Unotypist is forced to create poetry, and life with mother isn't quite the same as life with father; especially when its raining.

Yale poets If you attended the reading by last year's Yale Younger Poet you know such a character exists, even if you don't know how.

Most likely you couldn't care less whether the Yale Press ever finds a new judge for its contest. If you hope to publish your own poetry someday, no doubt you'll be (or you already are) too sophisticated to think you'll have any luck in this highly establishment competition.

At a very literary cocktail party a knowing raconteur might share with you the following inside apocryphal item: Several years ago, the judge of Yale Younger Poets considered the manuscript of a youngish man. "This is the best manuscript I've ever read," said the judge (verbatim to give the illusion of drama). "But the world is not ready for this sort of poetry." The little-magazine world had appreciated the work in question for years, but the Yale Press world could not meet the challenge.

So the judge selected another manuscript for the prize, a collection of poems by a young lady whose lack of verbal control neatly matched her lack of ideas and imagination (as the same judge admitted in correspondence). Young men had won in recent years. The world was ready that year for a female poet. It got her, as they say, with a vengeance.

Your raconteur might go on to point out that of the two poets involved the man has not yet had a book of his poems done (he's now beyond the age-limit of Yale's contest), whereas the young lady bas several books out, each sillier than the last.

On her behalf Yale's recognition has exerted an artifical influence. For him, perhaps the failure mirrored an entrenched mistrust throughout academic and commercial publishing of experimental poetry.

Recently a note in the Yale Daily News announced the Yale Younger Poet for 1968. A good time to ask, What is a Yale Younger Poet anyway? An adventurous young writer who wins an early chance at an audience? Or an imitator in early middle age who wins approval for following instructions? The ru1es require entrans to be poets under 40 who have not yet published books of their own poetry.

Fine, but the results have made only certain styles acceptable for union membership.

Early generations of Yale Younger Poets have left little trace on American poetry. Then W. H. Auden took over. A few of his choices are now, in their maturity, making more than a dent: W. S. Merwin (Y.Y.P. 49) and James Wright (Y.Y.P. 53) for two. Both Wright and Merwin won the award for books much more academic and much tess interesting

than their present work, but a poetwatcher must be grateful for the chance they won to develop into the poets who last year produced The Branch Will Not Break and The Lice. After Auden, Dudley Fitts, famous as a translator and teacher, judged the manuscripts until his death this summer. His choice in 1961 , Alan Dugan, won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize, a sign not only of Fitts' sure instinct for the style of the moment but also of his clear insight. Dugan's angry intelligence in that first book opened up formal and stylistic possibilities for other poets.

From the inside, a choice looks inevitable, since ninety percent of the manuscripts come from the proverbial housewife in Duluth, faithful attendant at summer sessions of Creative Writing Programs at midwestern universities.

From the outside, the choice looks impossible: how can you be sure any younger poet will justify your award when the wisdom of your judgment is itself judged years later? However you choose you go out on an historical limb; yet judges of the Yale Younger Poets rarely go out on artistic limbs. A Yale Younger Poet "experiments' by playing cute tricks, like writing a "Joy Sonnet" by instructing the printer to fill out a certain-size block · with "Ia's." A Yale Younger Poet may have heard about action elsewhere in American poetry; he never makes the running.

The Yale Younger Poets series has come to define an acceptable style of poetic limitation, unambitious and inward. No reason why such a poet should not win a prize once in a while. But once in a while, not every year. Appointing the judge for an indefinite period-or life-installs one opinion in authority far too long, making taste rigid, making a single style a (false) standard.

Benefits of the prize for the poet' are obvious. For the audience's benefit, this competition could yearly focus on the best example of one current poetic mode. If a new judge came in every three years, no one style could prevail too long. No poet would face oblivion because the Yale Younger Poets man detested surrealism or despised projectivism. The award might instead contribute to the growth of diverse styles, and the Yale Press might someday print a concrete poem.

Susan Holahan

Moms The Hill-Dwight MOMS Welfare Rights Organization began last August in discussions among recipients of Aid to Families of Dependent Children. The mothers soon arrived at three common conclusions: "The distinction made between children on welfare and children not on welfare is detrimental to the normal growth and development of our children." The welfare system does not treat them equally, nor are any of them up to the state's own minimum standard. They saw that only as a group could they hope to win their demands.

The mothers appointed a committee to investigate back-to-school clothing standards, and a Christmas committee. These committees went from the caseworkers to Miss Perry the assistant district dirt~c­ tor, to her superior Mrs. Scbean, to her superior Mr. Ely receiving a collection of denials of power, contradictory policy statements and outright "no"s.

The MOMS decided to bring a larger group of mothers to meet with the welfare department and the social workers. On Tuesday, November 5, Election Day, the MOMS entered the large room of the welfare office on Bassett Street. They were invited to the conference room, and accepted on condition that they could return if they failed to get satisfactory enforcement of the legal State minimum standards.

When the MOMS returned to the large room where the social workers interview clients, 28 were arrested. They face sixmonth jail sentences (their children to be placed in foster homes) and/ or $250 fines.

Early Tuesday morning, November 26, the MOMS and other interested parties met at last with State Commissioner of Welfare Shapiro in the small basement auditorium of the Connecticut Mental Health Center. In a mixture of Biblical reference ("I am a spe«ial pleader for the poor") and liberal rhetoric (''The peaceful civil rights revolution of rising expectations of the poor must not become the violent revolution of disappointed aspirations of the disadvantaged"), Shapiro outlined his position in terms of getting his budget through the legislature.

He concluded, "It is in the halls of the House that the budget is passed, and that's where we need your help."

"Mr. Shapiro, I'm Claudie May Kelley.

I'm a grandmother and a great-grandmother. I'm trying to raise seven kids with one pair of pants a year."

"Our rule represents a minimum standard. On that standard the legislature gives us $215 million. We fought for that openended budget (in 40 states they give you the money and that's it) ... " '.' Trouble is I didn't get it. I got eightyone dollars and fifty cents-to raise seven · kids. Their mother's dead; their father's in the gutter somewhere. I got $6 to buy a raincoat and $3 for a pair of boots for one six-year-old boy. I don't know where you found those prices."

Mrs. Marie Harris: "We're not even up to your minimum standards."

Shapiro: "Any person with a request should bring it to a caseworker."

Mrs. Harris: "When the Hill-Dwight MOMS went to the department, our checks were held up. Mothers not in our group got clothing without even asking.

Why not bring us up to your standard?"

Shapiro: "When the legislature speaks, it speaks for the whole community. When the Waterbury mothers asked for five pairs of pants, it got into the papers, and I got letters from one man who said he was a sub-executive in a big company. He worked real hard and he said be only had three pairs of pants for his son."

"Mr. Shapiro, I got nothing. Last summer I asked my social worker for sheets and pillow-cases. She said, 'I'll get around to you when I get around to you and you'll just have to wait.' I think that's very rude of her."

"Every week I visit a different district, like I been in Middletown and Stamford last week. And everywhere I say, 'Serving the poor is a privilege, and one of the most important things is to have heart.' " Mrs. Kelly: "Mr. Shapiro, I'm beggin you."

Audience: "Don't beg." continued on page I 8

Volume, two, number five D ecember 8, 1968 Editors: Jeffrey Pollock Jonathan Lear Business Manager: Jean-Pierre Jordan Executive Editor: Herman Hong Art Director: Bruce Mcintosh Associate Editor: Lawrence Lasker Advertising Manager: K. Elia Georgiades Copy Editor: Paul Bennett Photography Editor : Robert Randolph Circulation Managers: John Adams Steve Thomas Contributing Editors: Jonathan Aaron Susan Holahan Mopsy S. Kennedy Michael Lerner LeoRibuffo Staff: Dennis Evans, Marty Davis, Joseph Fincke, Anna Fleck, Kathy Grossman, Nicolas Heller, John Hull, Rodger Kamenetz, Michael David Rose, Barney Rubin, Scott Simpson, Nancy Vickers, Warner Wada, Michael Waltuch THIRD CLASS PERMIT: Third Class postage PAID in New Haven, Conn. The New Journal is published by The New Journal, 3432 Yale Station, New Haven, Conn. 06520, and is printed at The Carl Purington Rollins Printing-Office of the Yale University Press in New Haven. Published bi-weekly during the academic yea( and distributed by qualified controlled circulation to the Yale Community.

For all others, subscriptions are $7.50 per year ($4.50 for students) and newsstand copies 50¢.

The New Journal © copyright 1968 by The New Journal at Yale, Inc., a non-profit corporation.

Letters welcome. Unsolicited manuscripts should be accompanied by a stamped, selfaddressed envelope. Opinions expressed in articles are not necessarily those of The New Journal.

Credits: Humphrey Evans: cover Herman Hong: page 8 Christopher Little: pages 10, 11 Bruce Mcintosh: pages 3, 4, 5

3 1The New Journal I December R, 1968

Th~e

En ~lish

ReJi )nTiation by Micl1ael Holahan

Last spring the finest English department in the country took some rough handling from the Course Critique. Teacups shook for a while in the Elizabethan Club, then sat firm; it was all a result, the keener saw, of SDS infiltrating the major. Nothing wrong with the program itself. And over the summer office space was expanded in HGS. But the shaking ought to go on for a while longer. The major does need thorough reforms and not merely arearrangement and relabeling of existing procedures.

This fall several faculty and student committees, with many words and some discussion, are attempting to plan changes.

Perhaps a bill of complaints might be helpful.

1) The prerequisite has gone unquestioned for too long, as has the very idea of a prerequisite to literary studies.

2) The Medieval-Rensaissance requirement (four terms from English 30--42) is a fragment from an earlier arrangement of the major.

3) Course offerings are restricted by early twentieth-century notions of important figures, period-divisions and genres.

4) The department treats creative writing as a retarded stepchild.

5) Students have no part in making up courses.

6) The departmental examination, mistakenly called "comprehensive" by faculty and students alike, is not only anti-educational but anti-literary (ask any victim of reading or writing one).

7) Apart from comps, the department has no way of distinguishing work in senior year from work in junior year. If the department commits itself to thorough reforms now, these complaints need never agitate the loveliest minds in the Class of '73.

Certain questions confront any department rethinking its major, but they are particularly thorny in this case because of the size of the English major at Yale.

First, who is the major? Why did he choose this field? What bearing has his major on his future career? Obviously, there is no single answer. English majors go on to many professional schools, not just graduate study in literature. The major may Michael Holahan, assistant professor of English, is currently working on the English department's course of study committee.

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become a high-school teacher, a politician, a publisher, any kind of businessman, someday even a housewife. Motives for studying English literature range from liking books to wanting to teach, from a need to create polished memoranda to a need to create ·the great American novel.

To u ndergraduates English promises freedom from professional limitations and a d iversity of character in the students it attracts. The department must consider carefully whether the present procedures of the major fully respect this freedom and diversity.

A second question continues from the first. What is the place of rules in a college major? How valuable is the uniformity of knowledge and experience that rules impose? The potential lawyer and the poet will not fit the same mold; Milton will be a curiosity to one, a brother and rival to the other. And since uniformity is most o ften a selective pattern, why have rules which require everyone to study Spenser and ignore Sterne, or to study Spenser at a particular time and in a particular way?

If the department begins by thinking about the kinds of students in the major rather than the kind of major for the students, then the apparent importance of rules and uniformity will diminish. Rules will cease to work against the freedom and diversity which should distinguish the Yale English major.

To insure freedom and diversity in the major, the department could1) Eliminate English 25 as the sole prerequisite to the major. A prerequisite implies necessary fundamentals to be mastered before a student can begin his major.

Yet English literature is not a hierarchical discipline. You learn as much going back from Eliot to Donne as you do going forward from Milton to Pope. The long narrative poem is not a prerequisite to drama or the novel. The student should be free to choose from a range of specified courses his own entrance into the English major.

Instead of facing the confusing and invidious distinctions among English 15, 25, 29 and Literature I, he should use the prerequisite as a perspective, satisfying his own intellectual interests instead of an administrative requirement. And an awareness of various perspectives could temper the current view of literary history as a mere record of past dates and encourage students to consider the relations between

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historical ordering and other methods of ordering literature.

2) Eliminate the requirement that students take four term courses between English 30 and English 42. No matter bow important the figures, works or periods, special protection of interest groups ruins liberal education. Julian Beck won't displace Shakespeare; and students would respect Milton as a poet of political action rather than as the last dusty celebrator of the Elizabethan World View. Most damaging of all, this particular requirement strongly suggests that the English department cherishes all literature over 250 years old. The suggestion is false and could easily be removed.

3) Offer courses new in form and substance. To read the course catalogue now is to trudge from one half-century to another, from the age of one big name to the age of the next. There is no reason, for example, why a course could not trace different literary treatments of madness in The Praise of Folly, Hamlet, Swift's Tale of a Tub, the Romantic poets, Celine's Journey to the End of Night. Such a course might easily explore relations between literature and psychology or between the methods of literary criticism and those of psychoanalytic interpretation.

Or courses in literature and film. The English department does not leave Homer to the classics department. Why leave Griffith, Oliver, Kubrick and Warhol to the history of art department?

4) Offer more courses in creative writing and work to eliminate the distinction between creative expression and critical insight. Courses could combine creative and critical projects, to test awareness and control of language. Attempts to imitate prose styles or recreate poetic forms can produce as much insight as strictly critical studies. To staff these courses, the department need not diminish its commitment to scholarship in recognizing that literature has other professors than scholars. To renew its literary life, Yale needs more working poets and novelists.

5) Urge students to experiment with course structures. A student might earn double credit for special work on Pope in a general course on the 18th century. Or, while studying the Romantic poets, receive credit in the major for a history course on the French revolution or a philosophy course on German idealism. Or develop analogies between poetry and music,

TYPING on your BURSAR'S BILL

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poetry and painting, without spending days bound in the red tape that separates departments. Success in a program like this will depend on the students. As faculty and students continue to rethink old courses and suggest new ones, the faculty will find that teaching freshly is not indulging whims, and the students will find that courses are not merely pieces of administrative property.

6) Abolish that albatross known as "comps." This topic usurps all discussions of reform in the major. Eyes flash, throats tighten, fists clench as the spectres of departmental tyranny or vast student illiteracy raise themselves before otherwise fine minds. (Only great epithets, no reforms, come from these heats of passion: " You scholastic, you Jaosenist bastard you!") Yet even those faculty members who breathe excitedly about a Platonic Form of The Comps admit that in practice the departmental exam has not worked at all well. And if it has not worked well and if the committee method of creation holds little promise for future success, why continue it either as a sole requirement for graduation or as one possibility among others? It wastes time to argue about it, to take it, to grade it.

7) Help all majors make the senior year a significant conclusion. With a faculty advisor, each senior could plan a project to give coherence to his major. Together they could determine the credits to be earned and the program to be followed.

Together they might evaluate the success of the effort ... but this last is probably only in that apocalyptic future when generation gaps are bridged by rainbows, Norman Mailer is director of undergraduate studies and courses in the graduate English department are modeled on seminars in Yale College.

As the professor walked off, be shouted back against the wind, "If you do, don't forget to put in something about the purpose of the major." One thought: pur-

poses, not a purpose; majors, not a major.

And thought some more: but should the department construct a coherence to the major? No. It can't. Since the student chooses a limited number of courses, the department's job is to provide courses for his selection and set the number necessary for graduation. The major itself is whatever coherence emerges from a student's choices. Courses belong to the department; the major belongs to the student. If the courses are working, why should the department feel the need to test or assign anything apart from those courses? The questions go on too long. Better terse: Coherence is a matter of individual experi4f!r ence, not administrative fiat.

Malraux: hero, Jansenist and J acobin

by Henri Peyre Andre Malraux, Anti-memoirs. Translated

by Terence Kilmartin. New York; Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1968,420 pp.

The publication of the strange, shapeless, unorthodox Anti-memoirs by the French minister of culture was preceded and followed last year in France with an orchestration of publicity, interviews and book reviews which antagonized the more fastidious readers. The parties of the left and a number of intellectuals who probably vote for De Gaulle but would not for anything in the world confess it and who vituperate against the regime, loudly vented their rancor; they see in Malraux a former revolutiona.r y who has betrayed the cause.

Not a few of them, whose liberal convictions have seldom brought them to act and incur risks (signing petitions for all victims of injustice, tyranny and racism is their favorite pastime around their cafe tables), secretly envy in Malraux the man of action who has been in jail at least twice, fought in several wars, courted death half a dozen times. At sixty-seven (he was born in November 1901), while others delight in questioning and confronting what they call l'icriture , Malraux is still the greatest master of vividly and imaginatively wielded language in France and probably in Europe. The Swedish Academy has been intimidated by him more than it was by Sartre and has not as yet selected him; yet Anti-memoirs towers Henri Peyre is a Sterling Professor of French Literature at Yale.

miles above the minor masterpiece and the confession of discouragement which Les M ots was. Several year s earlier, when Camus received the news of the award, he proclaimed at once that the Nobel Prize laureate should have been Malraux, whose achievement will long outlive his. With all its faults, which are glaring, Anti-memoirs is the most striking book, probably the one work of genius, to have come out of Western Europe in a dozen years.

The volume is long, rambling at times, written with little concern for the pedestrian reader. Malraux is famous for his monologues and might remark like Stendahl at leaving a party: "I have not been bored one minute; I spoke all the time."

Here he has shown some ability to listen.

But in reporting his dialogues with De Gaulle, Nehru, Mao and a few other interlocutors of lesser magnitude, he has lent them his own imperious, elliptical style. The reader is bewildered and no longer knows which of the two giants is saying what. Chronology is haughtily disregarded. Transitions, once the darlings of French rhetoricians and careful reasoners striving for the French goal of suite dans les idees, are skipped. Fitful memories, or rather visions of the past, are interspersed capriciously with reflections made today; experiences of thirty years ago are contrasted with present observations. The only order is that in which memory conjures up the past. Yet no volume could be more anti-Proust ian than this recovery of time past enshrined in the present. Malraux has no patience whatever with his childhood, which he contemptuously ignores; none with the probing into one's inner life, none with the questions which have fascinated other authors of confessions, from Rousseau to Sartre and Simone de Beau-

voir: "How and why have I become the one that I am?" Not one word about his adolescent revolt, if he ever experienced one. Not one about his loves or his sexual life, about Clara Goldschmitt Malraux (his first wife) who has not been so discreet herself when relating her memories of the man who had been her husband for twenty-five years.

Much else is omitted from these disconnected but passionate reminiscences: the author's visits to Russia under Stalin and to the Germany of Hitler (who refused to receive him); his role as organizer of Republican propaganda in the Spanish Civil War; his trip to the United States in 1937, after he had been wounded in that Civil War; his conversations with President Kennedy and his wife in 1962; his contacts with French Communists when, though never a member of the Party, be struggled alongside them in 1933-36; his many conversations with Valery, Gide, Martin du Gard, Le Corbusier ; his mother, who never appears in this book or in his fiction. We are told that three more volumes of Anti-memoirs are to follow, probably posthumously. Several pages in the present work already read as, in the phrase of Chateaubriand: Memories from beyond the grave.

The willful, stubborn disorder in which these reminiscences, vignettes and reflections are thrown here may upset sticklers for structural order. With a little ingenuity, some of them, in learned articles, will someday discover some hidden organization here and a zealously masked logic under the desultoriness of the variegated chapters, as they are naively proud of doing in the fantasies of Montaigne and of Diderot. Malraux cares little and has never courted critics. He is a classic and

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"required reading" in college courses in ten countries. But long before Sartre adopted that as his motto, he always wrote about and for immediacy, "for our own time." Perfection is an ideal antithetic to his tense, feverish nature. The privilege of an older author, that of Shakespeare in his last comedies, of Goethe in the latter part of Faust, of Claude! in The Satin Slipper, is to throw reasonableness, logic, restraint to the winds and to let the irrational and one's caprice erupt into one's compositions. Malraux noted with a smile in Central America how ari Indian woman embroidered with perfect skill several small animals, then left the last one less finished than the others. She replied to his question: "You must always leave one like that, so as not to irritate the gods. Perfection belongs to them."

One does not have to be a god to be annoyed here with Malraux's insolent device of lifting whole pages and episodes of his less well-known novel, The W a/nuts of Altenburg, and insertingthem.in these Anti-memoirs. A whole section is devoted to Baron Clappique, a farcical mythomaniac character in Man's Fate, an embodiment of absurdity in a higher sense, who had fascinated Malraux. The interlude in which he appears in these reminiscences is too long and contrasts glaringly with the tragic tone of the conversation with the great men· of the age on the meaning of art, life and death. "But the author obviously found it necessary to let the comic side of his genius appear in a volume obsessed by death; like Sartre, he is at times a master of comedy. "The most efficacious weapon of man is to have reduced his share of comedy to a minimum," is one of his most earnest aphorisms.

Why then is this volume so important and does it afford such a sense of exaltation to the reader? First, because it is splen- · didly written, in a poetical prose which has always succeeded better in French than in English or German. Terence Kilmartin, the translator, has rendered it felicitously on the whole, with ·a minimum of footnotes to elucidate a few allusions to persons or to events of years already remote from today's youth, those of 1930-1950. He has chosen to dedicate the work to Mrs. John Fitzgerald Kennedy, whom Malraux once lectured in the Washington National Gallery on American painting, without adding that the offering was that of his own translation, not that of Malraux's original. But the sentences are seldom overwritten or overlong or elliptical. In fact, this is one of the easiest, most concrete volumes of Malraux's: vivid, concrete, even colloquial at times in the language, at other moments evocative and opening vistas on dreams and on Shakespearean reflections on life, fate, death. A romantic style, to be sure, but with none of the softness of Chateaubriand with his rocking cadences, rather with the restraint and incisiveness of Stendahl and his epigrammatic gift.

Equally remarkable are the protagonists of this drama with whom Malraux keeps an increasing dialogue, imaginary or real, and reported here from memory as if the replies and the speeches of those wrestlers against fate had been engraven in his memory. American and English potentates play no part in these coUoquies; Churchill appears briefly, but he was already the stricken eagle, or the wounded and enfeebled buU, when Malraux caught a glimpse of him in Paris. The Russian presence, that of Stalin, is also merely momentary, and one may hope that, in the

later volumes, Trotsky may have his place: he was the first statesman to take notice of Malraux as a portrayer of Communist revolutionaries, apropos of the novelist's second work of fiction, The Conquerors, and to write an acute essay on him. No reminiscence on French writers is given here; merely passing remarks of Gide or of Valery are noticed. Nothing is said of Napoleon and of Nietzsche, Malraux's two great obsessions and temptations.

The three giants sketched by Malraux are De Gaulle, Nehru and Mao Tse' Tung.

Strangely', De Gaulle is the most remote of the three, although Malraux has for ten years been his minister of culture (and, as he says amusingly, the only member of De Gaulle's cabinet who knew he did not know what culture was). We learn how De Gaulle called for the author, who bad just ended his career as commander of a brigade on the Alsatian and German front in 1945; he listened to the former revolutionary, who explained how he had, in the Resistance, "espoused France." He was impressed by De Gaulle's serenity, by his foresight, by "a general who liked ideas" and nodded to them when they cropped up in their dialogue, by the clearsightedness of a leader who, as early as 1945, as be was quietly saving France from a Communist take-over, knew that the age of revolution had passed for his country as had the era of colonialism and who, steeped in history and fearless of death, was the architect of the future. Not a glimpse into De Gaulle's personal problems is caught; nothing on Charles, on the man, into whose intimacy not even Malraux penetrated. As in his own memoirs, the French President is an historical and symbolical character, whom the general himself sees and treats in the third person as "De Gaulle," as Caesar always says in De Bello Gallico, "Caesar ordered or did this and that."

The pages on Nehru are inore sentimental and more moving. The flowers, the rivers, the villages of India are their setting. In long, confidential exchanges of remarks on the people, on politics, on religion and mostly on art, they sketch a philosophical confrontation of East and West. Both men had been in prison; both were agnostics, yet were haunted by the values of faith which have to be purified from superstition and from ritual if Asia is to be saved from misery and if Europe is to recover its historical role, neither materialistic nor mystical. Both had dreamed of fraternity, of internationalism; and, like Gandhi, like the present rulers of China, of Russia, of Algeria or Turkey, of all North and South American countries, both had become wedded to nationalism.

"In the century which was to be that of internationalism, how many national vocations!"

Malraux had, in 1947, played a vital role in the revolution in Shanghai and been among the few who then realized that the most momentous phenomenon of our century would spring from the West revealing to Asia ideas which lead to action. De Gaulle asked him to visit Mao in 1965 while, on a cruise which afforded him some leisure and caused him to meditate on the past, the minister of culture was recovering from a disease or from fatigue. The interview was official in character and recorded from the French Foreign Office. But it remained personal and deeply human.

Mao's past ordeals, the epic of the Long March, the most heroic deed of modern times, in which two of Mao's children were lost and his wife butchered by his op-

71 The New Journal I December 8, 1968

ponents, were uppermost in Malraux's mind: he too had had two brothers perish in the Resistance, his two sons accidentally killed. The Chinese leader does not appear in these pages as a dictator and a propagandist. CalmJy, be states the basis of his grievances against America, his hopes in his people, but also the colossal obstacles in front of him. He too is a poet, an intellectual who bas risen from the anonymous peasantry. But he is not exultant and haughty. He is desperately alone.

Twice the phrase comes to Mao's lips: "I am alone, with the masses." Misereor super duces: I take pity upon all leaders, Malraux's fictional heroes had already seemed to say, echoing Christ's sadness.

Three themes recur throughout Antimemoirs, which refuse and spurn banal confessions, self-justification, boastfulness and the claim to sincerity. Man and history: perpetually the past is there, informing the present, giving density, continuity, meaningfulness to life. That past must be transcended, but first it must be absorbed and re-lived. As for Michelet and for Nietzsche, history is a reminder to man that be can leap forward and change life, never a sterile memento mori.

Man and art is the second theme. Malraux perceives, grasps the concrete vividness of landscapes, objects, people with an eagle's eyes. His best sentences are as sharply outlined and definitive as any in Tacitus. But it is in museums, in shops of antique merchants, in sculpture of the past that he reads the secrets of a civiliaztion, that the pulse of a nation beats. Art alone, in his famous formula, is a victory against man's fate, a triumph over all our fatalities, an assertion that all is not sound and fury nor life a tale told by an idiot.

But a third word is the key word of Anti-memoirs, repeated hundreds of times; one theme pervades all the chapters, and that is "death." Malraux's father, his grandfather also, bad committed suicide.

His father, a few days before taking his own life, had confessed to him that death inspired him with an intense curiosity.

The three greatest scenes in this volume, which are no longer conversations, but unsystematic or restrained and disconnected records of lived action, are Malraux's near encounters with death. While perilously flying over Arabia when he attempted to photograph the ruins of the Queen of Sheba's palace, his plane ran short of fuel, struggled against a tornado and miraculously landed safely. In 1940, while serving in the tank corps, Malraux and his crew were engulfed in a deep hollow in which German artillery was to bombard them; again, he escaped with his life, was taken prisoner of war, thrown into the cathedral of Sens with hundreds of other prisoners and finally fted to the unoccupied zone of France. The third time, in 1944, while a colonel in the Resistance, he was arrested by the Germans, wounded, almost shot by a firing squad. His papers had been mistaken by the Gestapo for those of his brother; his torture was delayed a few days. Then the Germans fled from Toulouse, and the liberated prisoners acclaimed Malraux as their leader. As he lay in the infirmary of the prison, be requested one book from the nun who attended to his wounds: the Gospel of St. John.

Yet be refuses faith and Christianity.

Like Camus, he believes that agoomcs today have ravished the tragic sense of life and anguish from orthodox religion; that they can best live up to what one of the characters in The Conquerers, almost

forty years ago, had already declared: "It is not in order to die that I think of death obsessively, but in order to live." Any civilization is, overtly or covertly, haunted by what it thinks of death. Only thus can it create. Man is the only animal which knows that it must die. He imagines, creates and fights against the gods, a tragic hero. "Any faith," writes Malraux, "dissolves life into the eternal, and I was amputated from the eternal."

Malraux once, in a famous interview given while he was fighting on the Alsatian front, declared that he (like Bemanos, Giono and, he might have added later, Sartre and Camus) stands in a tradition which goes back to Corneille and to Pascal, which is heroic, Jansenist and J acobin.

He is indeed one of the classics of European literature, and years ago, while Pompidou was still a lycee teacher, he compiled a small volume of extracts from Malraux in which be suggested topics for student essays. The first one was a fine sentence: "An intellectual is not only he to whom books are a necessity, but any man whose life is ordered by an idea, however simple it may be." Pompidou, Malraux, De Gaulle himself, Adenauer lately, Wilson in Britain, McCarthy and Stevenson before him in America, Mao and Ho Chi Minh and not a few of the other leaders of our time are indeed, or have been, intellectuals courageous enough to act on their ideas and on their faith, imaginative enough to prepare action by meditation and thought. tfr

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8 1The New Journal ! December 8, 1968

Giggling In The Teeth of Death

by Paul Moore

Marjorie Kellogg, Tell Me That You Love Me, Junie M oon. New York; Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1968. 216 pp.

The house was hollow. The banyan tree shed its leaves carelessly, and shingles fell freely from the roof. High above the front yard a scruffy old white owl kept watch.

Sidney Wyner, the slob next door, was clipping his hedge when the freaks drove up. Staring out the mucky windows of the broken-down taxicab were the three former patients, their eyes gleaming happily.

Arthur was the first to jump out of the car, incredibly excited; jerking first left, then right, like a busted butterfly. Arthurthe contorted jumble of arms and legs, always screwing up his face into a thou·sand popping expressions. Bawling endlessly, he was the most gutless of the three, confining his thoughts to a fantasy world of sexual conquest. Arthur, skinny-legged Arthur, pulling his twisted hair out of his head, thinking his world was falling around him, that he was·drowning in a sea of dread.

Next Warren, fat and lazy Warren.

Mouth always spouting orders, beard dotted with dribbling spit, Warren talked to keep himself busy, to rebuild his sanity.

Warren the hunter, spending countless days grubbing for straight and flashy friends to show off to his fellow monsters.

The master flatterer, a con man with paralyzed legs, a homosexual.

Junie Moon was the last of the three and the ugliest in a close race. No acrobatics for her. Junie Moon stepped gingerly out of the taxicab, holding her head high. Junie Moon, the sweet and stupid name for the charmer with the messed-up face and stringy dirt-brown hair. Frail as a ragdoll, her face no regular kind of ugly-a red gash for a nose, two crooked slits for eyes, broad bloody steaks drawn across her face. The rest of her just as sad, her hands naked red stumps, tender and torn. No fingers. Her mouth a thin line across a face ripped with tears of tissue, eyes like tiny bullets of terror.

Junie Moon is stately.

The new home for Arthur, Warren and Junie Moon, next door to Sydney's, was all falling down. The steps were crumbling. The windows had been broken months ago. The yard was a mess of sticks and rocks left by the kids before the house was boarded up. But none of the three noticed . . . Arthur threw Warren into his chair and they wheeled up the cement steps. What a paradise. A beautiful big tree in the middle of the yard- Warren noticed that. So what if the gate was rusty and the front door stubborn? Junie Moon was chattering madly and cracking dirty jokes. Arthur's arms and legs and hands and everything flying in different directions. Warren as Caesar in a wheelchair, ignoring Junie Moon's caustic tongue and yelling orders to everyone, telling them what's for din. ner and what their jobs are.

Arthur, Warren and Junie Moon moved in to live in an "odd juxtaposition of love and horror." Love in ragged and torn faces, gimpy bodies and naked minds. But where is the love in horror? How can a beggar giggle, how can a cripple laugh a real laugh?

Neither Arthur nor Warren nor Junie Moon could go outside without being thrown onstage. Walking down the street Paul Moore, a senior in Yale College, is editorial coordinator of the Yale Daily News.

became an endless trial of loneliness and pain. Children laughed and pointed, and parents tried to curb their emotions. Unwanted, untouched, their friends were either professionals paid to be sympathetic or other lonely people.

Living together in the old and shaky house was their idea. To leave the hard starch and callous hospital was a gamble, to test the monster outside. Away from the home of the past, the house of heartache, weakness and fear, where "phantom pains" sap one's sanity and cloud one's dreams. They left the hospital more on mutual daring than heavenly expectation.

But when they reached their house on the edge of town, it was finer in its torn condition than the hospital with all its plastic. · Although there were major battles over who did the dishes and who slept on the porch, Arthur, Warren and.Junie Moon knew they were needed. In the hospital, everyone had learned to look at each other without wincing. The rub in their relationships was a confusion of truth and fantasy. Warren could hardly stop talking about his rich and important "friends," and Arthur was captivated by his sexual fancies. But alone in the house, they needed honesty. Their idiosyncracies became lovable instead of annoying.

Soon, Arthur and Junie Moon were lovers, of a sort. Since they were on such a constant fever pitch, a lot of romance was generated by a word here and a word there. When Junie Moon first shook off her customary sarcasm, Arthur thought, "If I touch her, we will be blown to kingdom come." And when Arthur slicked back his hair, put on his clean flowered shirt and danced out the door to find a job, Junie Moon could hardly stand it: She heard his sobs and the water running in the bathroom and watched him go out the door again and down the path, his hair cotnbed and his shirt tucked in. She thought: his goddamned heroics are going to make me bawl.

Their shells were so broken by tragedy that their insides showed no matter what.

When Warren picked up a glamorous rich "girlfriend," the house became a palace. When Arthur was refused a job, the skies grew dark. The littlest cut was too much.

But company can work changes. Junie Moon, always a toughie, was destined to be crusty and senile. She was the kind who would love but not talk about it, an obstinate bitch whose charm could intimidate the Devil, whose wit could conquer Rome. So Junie Moon became the leader, with the other two plodding after her like half-witted basset hounds.

Both Arthur and Warren spent hours trying to get Junie Moon to say yes. Arthur, because he was falling all over himself loving her. And Warren was destroyed if Junie Moon ignored his magic schemes.

As the days passed and it became too cold for brownies and lemonade outside, even cool and pale Junie Moon started changing. The warmth of community overcame her cold, hard self. She became less and less like "an old shoe, an old aunt, or an old sister" and more and more like a living, loving woman.

The interdependence was there and the love followed, slowly and surely. And you admit that once Julie Moon tells you that she loves you, the ball flies over the fence. And you're home free.

I!

â&#x20AC;˘

TheYale University Student Calendar Agency announces the publication of its 1969 calendar.

Using original color photographs, this year's calendar is a work of art.

It will be sold on campus by the Christmas gift book salesmen December 2 through December 9.

,...

Also available at the Associated Student Agency office in Hendrie Hall (165 Elm St.) price: $5, students: 4.50* Buy one for yourself and mail a couple to your friends for Christmas.

Charge it to your Bursar's bill *Price includes mailing costs for gift calendars.

Not mah-jong, not chinese checkers; the name of the game is still entertainment

by Rodger Kamenetz and Jeffrey Pollock

In a wide-angle shot Humphrey Evans Ill looks like Joe Dallesandro from Warhol's movie Flesh: eyes half-open, making love to the ever-present camera.

Cross legs, raise eye-brows and laugh knowingly into the lens. But as the camera moves to a close-up, an alert, intelligent and dedicated musician and composer is seen, whose works have been performed by symphonies coast to coast.

"Glamour. That's what it is," Humphrey insists in speaking of his hero Warhol. "He's a serious innovator in his art form, yet what he and his group do is often so antithetical to traditional form or subject matter that he necessarily puts you down. I mean that he's established a kind of integration of New Art and New Lifestyle, and he presents it with a flamboyance and assuredness that says, 'My style is a valid alternative to yours, either accept it for what it is or be left out!' " In Humphrey's own work a similar self-justifying philosophy has evolved. Like Warhol's cinema, his music is a combination of a classical background and a unique philosophy for his own art. The freak-world Superstar and the musical genius, two scenes in a film, two faces for Yale and two personalities for Humphrey Evans Ill. " People should act as they feel," Humphrey insists.

"If they are bored they should say so. The music, as I see it, is trying to reach over the protective barriers and grab the audience, physically or sexually or intellectually. And they should react to that. There's not enough physicality at Yale. People aren't responding to about ninety-five percent of their feelings."

To establish a community of adequate response and sharing, Humphrey and a group of friends formed a musical group called "Morton, baby" (named after New York composer Morton Feldman) to play some of his compositions at a concert in Washington this summer.

Matt Huxley, son of Aldous Huxley and a friend of the Evans family, was familiar with Humphrey's music and recommended him to the director of the concert series at the Smithsonsian Institute. Several tapes of Humphrey's musical compositions were heard, and a concert date was set in August. It was suggested that the core of the ensemble be the group in New Haven, augmented by several professional musicians to be hired in Washington.

Paul Severtson, violinist and concertmaster of the Yale Symphony, had met Humphrey three years ago through the Music School. Humphrey was planning a happening, presumably the first ever at Yale, and he needed someone to come out of a volcano on stage.

Paul was suggested, and his performance was a great success. Other common interests in music made them close friends.

Burr Van Nostrand, cellist for both the Yale and New Haven Symphonies, played chamber music with Paul in California. In his third year at the New England Conservatory in Boston, he received a visit from Paul and Humphrey urging him to play for the Smithsonian concert in August. Burr not only accepted but moved to New Haven to continue his composing.

Stephen " Lucky" Mosko, a percussionist for the Yale Symphony, taught Humphrey to play the tambourine for a concert last March. A former percussionist and assistant conductor at fifteen for the Brico Symphony in Denver, Lucky began composing with Humphrey, and the two worked together on the new musical notation Humphrey was preparing for the concert.

The four musicians were joined by Bruce "Booze" Hamsome, a friend of Humphrey's at Yale who was to play the part of "Superstar" in the final piece, Salesman. They spent a week rehearsing at Humphrey's house, working up to twenty hours a day. " We worked so intensely together on this show, I'd say we did about a hundred hours a piece on it," Humphrey remembers. "For five of us, that's five hundred hours of very intense creative work. We found that we began to establish our own language, that the program became a self-referential closed unit. But we didn't take ourselves too seriously. In a sense it Rodger Kamenetz, a junior in Yale Cal/ege, is majoring in intensive English.

became one big 'in joke,' but it had value in that we were so personally involved."

The basis for the language the group established was a highly stylized method of notation Humphrey had been developing for the past two years. In his music, scores are set up in checkerboard patterns with geometric diagrams, arrows, word images and some musical notation. Each unit of music represented is open to interpretation by the musician. The ideal is not so much improvision as a highly integrated expression of personal moods or "gestures."

Although the idea of different notation is itself not new (composer Cornelius Cardew has published a book of similar scores), Humphrey brings to his composing the idea of " gestural music." The music is supposed to be an expression of personality through gestures suggested by the composer to the performer, as a man's walk or the way he speaks says something about his personality. " Part of the purpose of the notation is to free the musician so that he can concentrate on what he is doing. In the Yale Symphony, for instance, m.ost of the students have only a very little time to rehearse--perhaps just the few hours of rehearsal plus any work they can do on their own. Now, the symphony did a Schoenberg piece along with my Night Sky Music that was fully notated and very complex. The musicians had to spend most of their time learning how to get their fingers around theirlnstruments. With my piece, hopefully, they could begin to get into what the music is all about.

"The music is a way of observing 'natural process' as it functions in one's daily life; like trying to get tv, education and Miami Beach all into one's music."

Humphrey smiles and shrugs his shoulders.

"I suppose that when Beethoven first introduced his music the people thought It was outrageous and inaccessible. To make them sensitive to what he was doing, Beethoven had to convince them he was sincere in what he was presenting." Humphrey leaned forward. " It's not even a matter of liking or disliking the piece you are performing. I remember at Tanglewood the Boston Symphony was doing a piece and there was a musician who absolutely abhorred my work and everything it stood for, yet he did a very fine job of playing it. Then there were some people who thought it was a real gas but didn't take it seriously enough and felt that they could fool around and play sloppily."

Humphrey's music had been performed by the professionals of large symphony orchestras, and also by a group of high-school musicians in Boston Symphony Hall. " That was beautiful. All these kids together in front of thousands of people and TV cameras. I had to give them a strong, bold piece that fitted the importance of the occasion. They did a great job because they were serious about the music yet they were having fun. " In writing I try to take the music seriously without being too self-conscious or overblown about what I am doing." He smiled and continued, "In the program notes to one concert, I wrote that the final statement about the music might be expressed as 'official whimsy.' " I suppose it's like playing a game: chess, mahjong or better yet, some absurd game like chinese checkers. There's a way to play any game, with finesse and skill. If you don't take the rules of the game seriously or if you play it disinterestedly, then the game is pointless and no fun." " Notation is nothing more than an ordered and accepted way of conveying information. So gestural notation influences not only content but also what we mean by information. The interplay between composer and performer is as important as the relationship between performer and audience. The notation also blurs the distinction between the classical forms or art; it is a visual experience in graphics, and it demands of the musician a dramatic as well as musical interpretation. In one of my pieces the violinists talk while they play."

In last summer's concert with "Morton, baby," the gestural notation made different kinds of demands on the performing musicians. "I spent hours looking at the score, studying my part," Lucky explained. "In one of the pieces, Calais graffiti IV, there was the notation

111 The New Journal I December 8, 1968

'Red Scarf!' so I wore a red scarf around my neck.

And one of the tapes that I was to play during the piece was the soundtrack of an Indian movie with a title which turned out to mean Red Scarf."

Meanwhile, Paul had read his part of the score and decided that he had to begin playing his piece in front of the Chinese embassy that morning. So Lucky drove him out, and Paul played his violin for several hours to the minions of Chiang Kai-Shek. " Paul's performance is really important in understanding what is going on in this kind of musical theory." Lucky continued " Three things were going on at once. Humphrey was backstage at this point, listening to a piece he had composed but not knowing that Paul had played at the embassy that morning. And the audience didn't know that they were only hearing the last two hours of Paul's playing. The important thing is that this separation doesn't matter. Humphrey once composed a vibraphone piece for me called 7:15a.m., in which I began playing in the backyard at 7:15 the morning of the concert."

Paul's score for Calais also read " establish radio contact," so several blocks from the Embassy he turned on the car radio. That night, Bruce was in a cab on the way to the concert when he realized he had forgotten his autoharp. He had his cab driver call the cab Paul was in to see if Paul had the autoharp. The call came when Paul was passing the spot near the Embassy where he established "radio contact" earlier. So in the performance, Paul's interpretation was directly related to Bruce and what he was playing.

The entire group spent the afternoon before the concert drawing different figures in the blank spaces provided for Bruce's biography on the programs.

Just as the music explored the problem of words or symbols giving information to the performers, so any program notes questioned the wnole idea of trying to talk about the individual biographies of the performers. .

The group gathered p rops for the concert: a Victorian couch that remained on stage throughout the performance, a coat hanger bent to look like the Spirit of St. Louis (from which Lucky hung his percussion instruments) and twenty miscellaneous unbreakable objects (a syringe, a mannequin head, etc.) that Bruce was to play in Salesman.

About four hundred people came to the smaller auditorium at the Smithsonian that night to hear "The Music of Humphrey Evans Il l." Balding men in suits and their big-breasted w ives confronted the cluttered stage and young members of " Morton, baby." With the opening piece, an aria called "dolce madre" from Pyramus and Thisbe, the audience was won over.

"The piece was modern and dramatic and humorous," Lucky explained, " and the people loved it. Especially Burr's singing. They applauded as he walked off stage, but he got lost behind the screen and wandered on stage again. The audience applauded wildly."

The first half of the program was generally conservative, with only twenty people walking out During intermission, Lucky played a tape from a Bela Lugosi soundtrack at the exact level of the audience noise.

Before the intermission was over, Lucky began to play his part in Calais, and the musical expression in general became freer.

In Salesman, Burr played with the twenty assorted objects on stage and moved through the audience singing " soup ... soap" and throwing dog biscuits to the audience. Lucky came out to serenade an elderly lady on the super-mandolin and then presented her with a bill for ten dollars. " The audience was great," Humphrey concluded. " But the question always comes up about ' understanding.' People think they don't understand us, but then-" Humphrey paused, " they do." A quick nod of assurance. " After all they pay to see us, they come and get angry at us, or they react in some strong way, and then they get away and say they didn't understand us. It's a shame, but it seems that people confronted with something new get very upset.

"It's funny, but the nicest audience I ever had was in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. This was when I was touring with the New Orleans Symphony. It was a very hot Sunday evening, and the place wasn't air condi-

tioned so everyone was sweating, and all thesematronly belles were waving their fans. They really liked the music and after the concert, they came up on stage all flower dressed and powder breasted and practically smothered me to death." Then, in a perfect deep South falsetto, he imitated, "Whah, Mistuh Eh-vans, yo' music was just mah-velous!"

The members of " Morton, baby" were sitting around listening to Bulgarian folk music the first week of school. " We were drunk in Paul's room-intensely drunk and crying-and someone said, w hy don't we play at a mixer-and three days later we had a contract." Two new members, Lucky's brother Marty Mosko and Jeff Fuller, had been added to the group.

Marty is a senior linguistics m ajor, playwright and poet. Jeff is a graduate student in music, a composer and former member of the Hard Corps.

Except for Jeff, none of the people in the room had ever played in a rock band before. But somehow, in the secret depths of their drunkeness they discovered that amongst them was the collective soul of a rock and roll extravagana.

Steve Goldin thought so. As chai rman of the Branford College Social Committee, he helped decide to hire the band. Originally they were to perform at a mixer with another band, but plans were changed and " Not Morton, baby" made its solo debut in the Branford dining hall, at ten o 'clock the Friday evening of Dartmouth weekend.

They began setting up around seven o'clock that night and needed every minute of the three hours, for they were " really overkilling the sound" as Jeff Fuller said, hooking up enough amplification equipment to burst at least a few eardrums. Each instrument was individually amplified: Jeff's electric guitar and Paul's electric violin and Burr's electric cello and Marty's electric piano. Also on stage were Marty's set for " Salesman," the final piece, and a real live bathtub for the first number, " Amphetafish.'' Ed Ferraro, the manager o f the group, his face painted orange and g reen, surveyed the scene with tlis custom ary scepticism, wondering whether o r not the stage would fall in under the weight.

At ten o 'clock they began coming in. " The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor were there," the straights all suited up in triumphant plaids and college ties, ushering t heir dates ahead o f them with arms perhaps a little too self-consciously outstretched; and those other people too, in pajamas and flowing silks and arab burnooses and outlandish kerchiefs and beads, with painted clothes and painted faces all dayglo, hip halloweeners dancing on All Saints' Day. The freaks had been summoned by Humphrey and Lucky to do t he ir bit in Salesman, Humphrey's piece; about thirty of them were holding two page scripts which read like this: First, be an audience for 21 minutes and 10 seconds, dancing ad libitum but not so as to attract attention to yourself ... Situations: boredom in the midst of chaos; chaos in the midst of crashing; getting angrier, embarrassment for grassstains on one's new pants ... getting more intense and starting a La Crepe society, vomiting on one's new hat; shattering the mind, making tea with meattenderizer."

In order to perform these functions, they brought paraphernalia: old socks, a toy pistol, an orange traffic pylon, an ancient crucifix. The straights clumped together and stared in bewilderment at the freaks. Or perhaps what caught their eye was the incredible band itself, surrounded by strands of barbed wire. " You've got an instrument in your hand," Paul had said, " and it's very loud. It's you, but magnified hundreds of times. T hat's power, though it's a very safe kind of power because nobody's going to get killed or be poor because of it ... But in a sense, we acknowledge that we're hostile."

Paul himself looked least hostile, in fact, mostly angelic, dressed all in white with a Donovan blouse.

Thin, intense Burr, in a white skin waistcoat and silk shirt, was aloof as he turned his cello. But Lucky, yes Lucky was truly hostile, if only as an act, with his black leather jacket, black boots and sunglasses. He sat before his drums and he was no longer Lucky, he was Ginger Baker, with a cigar dangling fro m the side of his mouth .

Finally, Lucky arrived and began the first piece of

121 The New Journal I December 8, 1968

the rock concert, Also Sprach Zarathustra by Rick Strauss. The straights in the crowd were very annoyed. "Why don't you play something?" a short guy in a dark suit shouted.

Humphrey did a rendition of "Past, Present and Future," a song made memorable by the Shangri-Las. "But don 't try to touch me," he warned in a convincing falsetto at the climax of the song, "because that will never happen again."

Burr's cello work was the dramatic element of "California Dreamin?" This was the big hit with all the guys who had been yelling for music to dance to.

When he played, he stared forward with intense concentration; alone with his music he seemed almost oblivious to the ruckus going on around him.

Lucky was the star in a strange "free blooz improv" that followed. While Paul's violin conversed with J eff's guitar, he took the rhythm of the song to wild heights, flailing his arms, nodding his head back and forth and losing his glasses, getting in an incredible number of extra beats and then suddenly collapsing the rhythm on purpose by missing the beats, until the piece wound down like an old watch.

Finally, the time arrived for Salesman. Humphrey had been working on the piece since last summer. It is incredibly complex, involving music for the band, scripts for thirty actors and dancing choreographed

by Martin Wilkes. Salesman would run for forty-five minutes, and the plan was for a snow-ball effect; as the music began to build towards a climax, more and more actors in the audience would begin performing until chaos set in.

The sound of Salesman was amazing, anarchic. It rose and fell; each musician was wrapped up in his own secret battle with his score, as if the music produced was a prize wrested from a devil' by a struggling soul.

Fistfights broke out; a drunk was kicked in the teeth while he crawled on the floor. A group in the center bowed to the floor in worship of the moose on the wall. Burning incense added a touch of Oriental sanctity to group gropes conducted between vast puddles of beer.

And the band played on. They were gesturing, and it is as difficult to describe what their music meant as to describe what any gesture means. "When you play the same way you talk," Humphrey said, "well, you don't ask yourself, Do you talk good? do you talk bad?

That doesn't mean much. You feel good about itit feels honest. Sometimes you look at it later and it's ¡ pretty hostile or screwed up or something else, but it's real; and it makes them do real things too."

"Not Morton, baby" played that close to themselves -as they talked-and suddenly they reached a point where they were all coming together in an insane crescendo: Lucky beating the cymbals furiously, Paul bowing very high and very fast, Burr attacking the cello with quick stabs and Humphrey, as if he had found yet another self, chanting in incredible falsetto.

And at this point, the lights came on. Not Morton baby was busted.

The way it happened to Mitchell Marks was that he was playing with a toy gun which he pulled on a man in a trench coat and said, "Bang, bang, you're dead."

The man in trench coat turned out to be a cop and the gun was quickly confiscated in a move no doubt taught in police training school. Mitchell eluded his pursuer by crawling among a group of dancers.

The way it happened to Steve Goldin, chairman of the Branford Social committee was that a single campus policeman happened to come in, and noticing strange-looking people having a good time with candles an<:~ incense, concluded that dangerous and

illegal drugs were present and that it was his duty to call the New Haven police. Steve trying to persuade him that this wasn't necessary was forced to turn on the lights and stop the show.

Ultimately, seven campus policeman arrived. Their presence reaching the stage through a series of messengers, "Salesman" was stopped about twenty-five minutes before due. A quick conference was called.

Lucky's reaction was to keep playing, but Humphrey allowed as how he was tired anyway. But with considerable confusion still reigning, the band went on and played "Somewhere over the Rainbow" and also "Yesterday," with Bruce "booz" Hamsome as featured singer. ¡ And so the evening ended. The lights were on. The police asked those who weren't cleaning up to leave the hall. It was an incredible wreck of splashed beer and confetti and broken ballons and wire mesh and candle wax and paper cups. Humphrey and Burr and Lucky and Marty and Jeff and Paul relaxed with the bathtub behind stage. Humphrey felt that such a dramatic appearance by the police could .not help but make Not Morton, baby a success.

After "Not Morton, baby" the group has been con. tracted to appear in concert at Columbia this winter and in a c lub date at the Gaslight Cafe. Aside from the Warhol-like changes from Superstar to concert musician-composer and back to Superstar, Humphrey is pretty much the same. In the short autobiography for the program notes at the Smithsonian, Humphrey wrote: "Born in new york city, 1948. travelled, orthodontistry, lonely, etc. compositions, finally, nothing else, really. pleased with that. worked nights mostly. ended up at Yale. spent a summer at Tanglewood. recently found some friends, but still writing music, still pleased." t!!r

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13 IThe New Journal I December 8, 1968

Reflections on reflections on revolution

by William Leon McBride

A young, mini-skirted female graduate student challenged Professor Ekkehart Krippendorff during the question period that followed his lecture, raising the is:sue that haunts any student of revolution, reactionary, radical or in between. Why, she asked, was the Herr Professor standing in this musty SSS classroom, calmly commenting on alternative possibilities for revolutionary student movements before mostly like-minded people, instead of being out on some street or campus, confronting? ".T he point," as Marx said in the Theses on Feuerbach, "is to change it." Or if one sincerely believes that change would be deleterious, the point is then to resist it.

What was being said, however earnestly, in a small Yale classroom at four on a Tuesday afternoon seemed unlikely to change very much. And this fact seemed to pose a dilemma that we-Krippendorff and I, the other speakers, the girl graduate student and everyone else involved in the special philosophy department lecture series on revolution-had to try to resolve. If, as an academic, one is busily engaged in contemplating the eternal Forms or in analyzing the structure of the democratic process in Chicago between 1964 and 1967, then there is no problem. But if one chooses to be a student of revolution, then isn't one ultimately impelled to commit oneself to act, either to change or to resist change?

During the question period following my own presentation two weeks earlier, one of my more conservative senior colleagues delivered an impassioned defense of quiet, revolutionary social change wrought without fanfa.r e. He condemned the theological type of reasoning, as he saw it, behind some questions I had raised concerning necessary attributes of genuine revolution, in the Marxist sense. I thought at the time, and stiJI think, that he failed to see how close I had been to agreeing with him about the sterility and meaninglessness of terms in which theoretical arguments about revolution have often been couched by so-called Marxists. My lecture had been composed in such a way, I thought, as to bring this out. But basically, his feeling of antagonism towards my ideas (our personal relations are very amicable) was justified: beneath the frequent sterility and meaninglessness of the locutions, I am convinced that there is something that matters very much.

As a philosopher, though, perhaps I am condemned to trying to battle with locutions. A former student of mine in the audience (who had returned to Yale after a year's absence during which he had become " radicalized") answered my colleague better than I did or, given my position, ever could have. He simply pointed out that, for students in Prague or Chicago, to understand better the realities of their present-day society or the real possibilities for change was a matter of utmost significance. To them, at least, the suggestion that the whole affair might be meaningless could not be a serious or meaningful suggestion.

William McBride, assistant professor of philosophy, is currently on a leave of absence writing a book on neo-Marxism.

Still, I remain bothered by the ambiguity of my personal existential position: a lecturer on revolution, favorable to change but unable to admit that the popular model, "C'est La lutte finale," makes sense. My talk, the second in the series, was entitled " Revolution and the New Marxism," as a complement to my friend Shlomo Avineri's, introductory "Marx and Revolution." My idea was to consider some of the problems posed for independent-minded contemporary Marxists -first by the conceptual absurdity of speaking of "the revolution" as if it had been or could be an instantaneous, delimitable Apocalypse, and sec.ondly by the historical reality of the betrayed Revolution which the Soviet Union today seems to offer.

I began by pointing to Eduard Bernstein as a model of the impasse into which superficial varieties of "revisionism" can lead, went on to survey some of my very disparate heroes (Lukacs, Bloch, Kolakowski, Sartre, Lefebvre, a few Yugoslavians and Herbert Marcuse) on the nco-Marxist scene, and ended by introducing the issue of the "revolutionary subject" which the next speaker, Herr Krippendorff, was to discuss. At one point, I made a few remarks to the effect of our needing something like a conception of " permanent revolution," not exactly in the Trotskyite sense, but in a sense closer to what Mao Tse-Tung and some Yugoslav philosophers (an absurd combination!) have written about. But the largest section of my talk was devoted to pulling some emotive wings off revolutionary butterflies of the eschatological sort.

Maybe this is the quintessential philosophical move-the move towards understanding what is radical and violent, as well as what is established, as part of a totality, a system. If that is so, then in a community of genuine revolutionaries the philosopher would always be a subversive-! mean counter-revolutionary-figure. He would always be tracing historical precedents, comparing his own community to other communities, .systematically considering alternatives-in short, relativizing the community's sense of radical novelty and uniqueness. Perhaps our whole lecture series is a manifestation of this counterrevolutionary subversiveness: a plot, maybe a subconscious one, to analyze away all revolutionary elan under the guise of showing some sympathy for it. At least, it could be so interpreted, and this disturbs me.

If I felt an ambiguity in my own case, it seemed even more pronounced with two of our other speakers, Shlomo Avineri and Hannah Arendt. A vineri, who spent three semesters here at Yale as a very popular lecturer in the political science department, was passing through for a feV( days on his way back home to Jerusalem; he opened the series. Having once taught a joint course with him and having just reviewed his new book on Marx, I was not surprised by most of what be said, but I was again impressed, as always, by the persuasiveness of his scholarship.

141 The New Journal I December 8, 1968

His thesis about Marx and revolution was basically that Marx was not a revolutionary in the voluntarist, Jacobin sense which has become so intimately associated with Marxism because of Lenin.

He pointed to a list of ten proposals made in the Communist Manifesto for immediate implementation; some of them, such as free public school education, seem anything but radical today. Interestingly enough, the immediate nationalization of all industry is deliberately not included among the demands. Then too, he reminded us, there are several passagesin letters, in Capital and elsewhere-where Marx clearly accepts the possibility of capitalism's self-destruction by nonviolent means (in the most advanced industrial nations, especially England).

Also of great importance, to A vineri's way of thinking, was the whole question of Marx's credentials as a prophet. His letters show him continually expecting revolutions in places where they soon fizzled. When he finally did hit upon a possible combination of events which could precipitate the cataclysm in Russia, a remarkably accurate anticipation of what actually did happen in 1917, Marx was speaking of it as a likelihood in his own time, some forty years earlier.

Where did all this leave us? Avineri found Marx's scheme admirable as a conceptual model for fundamental social change. But he had severe doubts, as the last few pages of his book make even clearer, about the relevance of any conceptual scheme to actual political events; the inadequacies of Marx's prophecies helped confirm him in these doubts. As for what was once known as "the country of the revolution," Avineri's position was unambiguous: the USSR is, he said, "in no way a socialist country." Having just returned a week earlier from my first, confusing, touristic week's visit there, I would have been somewhat more inclined to qualify this statement. But A vineri's skepticism about the Soviet Union's claims to revolutionary purity is essentially correct, no question about it. Indeed, if there was a single strong point of agreement among all the first five speakers in the series, it was this point. And the next speaker, Marcuse, is similarly skeptical: his Soviet Marxism is all about the other major one-dimensional society be!>ides our own, and official Moscow ideologists have returned the compliment by labeling him a "bourgeois Marxist."

It seems to me that the rejection of the USSR as one's post-revolutionary societal model has serious consequences for anyone who wants to analyze revolution within anything like a contemporary frame of reference: unless one takes the dubious step of considering either China or Yugoslavia as closer to the ideal, one runs the risk of talking about future possibilities in a vacuum. In a way, that is exactly what some recent student activists (Mark Rudd, Daniel Cohn-Bendit, Rudi Dutschke) have done; it has been a selfconscious stance on their parts.

Formulating a limited number of specific demands, they point out, makes a revolutionary movement easier for the Establishment to contain: specific demands can be met, at least in part, and that will be the end of it. I can understand this as a tactic, but it clashes head-on with the philosophical tendency to make things specific and precise. A movement that refuses to specify its future goals is bound to be dismissed with labels of "utopianism" or "anarchism" or both. Unless, once again, one works out a new theory of permanent revolution. But, if we leave aside the emotive contents of the words and the contrasting identities of the individuals who use them, is the hope for "permanent revolution" conceptually very different from the old Enlightenment dream of "continual progress?"

This, I thought, was the most interestjog and disturbingly pessimistic implication of Miss Arendt's lecture, even though she herself never expressed it quite this way. Following Sorel, she entitled her talk "Reflections on Violence." It was long, despite considerable cutting, and it had all the usual trappings that one has come to expect in connection with this distinguished personage: a huge audience (the Law School Auditorium was filled to overflowing; I should mention that it also happened to be Coed Week), enormous charm emanating from the small, neatlydressed lady with the strong German accent at the dais, a fine, invisible network of paradoxes rapidly engulfing the entire hall.

I thought that her central "reflection," or paradox, just did not stand up to scrutiny in the long run, as a number of the questioners from the audience also seemed to sense: her claim was not only that power and violence do not, as many writers seem to maintain, closely resemble each other, but that in the last analysis they are opposites. The argument for this depends on a conception of political power as having necessarily to do with popular consent. Once one has accepted this assumed definition, then perhaps the opposition between violence and power could be worked out, but this supposedly central point of the lecture struck me, I am afraid, as being rather more like a brilliant jeu d'esprit than a serious contribution.

On the other hand, when one has been through as many disenchanting experiences, both personal and intellectual, concerning the pretensions of humanity as has Miss Arendt, then perhaps one ought to be not criticized for lapsing into occasional jeux d'esprit but applauded for not having become totally cynical.

Hannah Arendt is by no means totally cynical: she stands for the ethical claims of the individual and against a great range of evils that she regards as threatening them. She knows her Marx very well, even while rejecting him, and she also recognizes some fundamental inconsistencies in the liberal political philosophy (notably, in her Yale lecture, the inconsistency of its blind faith in progress).

But what she claims to know best of all is the allegedly eternal nature of man, with all its possibilities for both virtue and viciousness. Who but a very profound student of human nature, after all, could pretend to get inside of an Eichmann?

...

lS IThe New Journal I December 8, 1968

Yale Filn1 Socie-t;y

Hannah Arendt began, very much in the spirit of A vineri, by announcing that those who claim to be Marxists and who advocate violence today are in deep contradiction with the basic thought of Marx himself; Miss Arendt, too, takes a strongly anti-Leninist interpretation of Marx. She ended by announcing that violence may sometimes achieve political successes, provided that it is carefully used only in support of short-term goals. Consequently, violence may at times be a proper weapon for "revisionists," but never for thoroughgoing revolutionaries. Another brilliant paradox!

I should return for a moment, by way of contrast, to Professor Krippendorff's contribution. Despite the formidability of his name and title, he was actually quite young and quite approachable. Moreover, he was the most anxious of all our speakers to insist that he was not a philosopher.

(He teaches political science at the Free University of Berlin.) His insistence, I regretfully noted, was well taken: few philosophers would have begun quite as he did, in his search for a "revolutionary subject," by arbitrarily laying down two criteria for the new revolutionary subject (now that we have gone sour on the

Saturday, December 7 Arthur Penn's THE CHASE (1968) Marlon Brando, Jane Fonda, Robert Redford, Angle Dickinson A powerful exercise In emotional frustration and cathartic ¡violence in a listless Texas town Friday, December 13 F. W. Murnau's TARTUFFE (1925) Starring the camera as an actor, this film Is an extraordinarily graceful and personal adaptation of the Moliere play Also Saturday, December 14 John Ford, THE GRAPES OF WRATH (1940) Tuesday, December 17 Roberto Rossellini, PAISA (1947) Wednesday, December 18 Douglas Sirk, TARNISHED ANGELS (1958)

But we all sometimes tire of paradoxes and try to make genuine, even if only tentative, commitments. I was not convinced that Hannah Arendt would be of much help on such occasions. On the other hand, perhaps "truth" itself consists of a series of paradoxes; this is the lesson that she seemed at times to be implying. And so, like much of the audience, I drew from her lecture personal conclusions that were ce~ainly not parts of its content. Of all our lecturers on revolution thus far (1 here exclude myself), Hannah Arendt stood at once for the most and for the least. Vigorous, opinionated, forthright, enormously well read, widely experienced, with an entire book explicitly on revolution (one of the very few recent works of any value) to her credit, she appeared as perhaps the closest thing to an absolute authority on the subject that the academic world can muster today. And yet, as she pointed out in answer to one of her questioners, the very concept of authority is currently in the process of disappearing. And those delicately abstract paradoxes of hers teetered perilously close to the brink of an intellectual void in which all cats, both revisionist and revolutionary, are gray.

proletariat, or vice versa) and then simply trusting that we would accept those criteria as the basis of the rest of his paper. At least, a philosopher would have been more subtle if he had to be arbitrary.

The more important of the criteria had to do with a group's developing a sufficiently clear awareness of its situation and of that of society in order to be able to act; it was devised in such a way as to exclude the modern proletariat and include today's students, faculty members and other intellectuals. Why the opportunities for awareness were supposed to have been so much greater for the nineteenth century proletarians than for their heirs, so that Marx's analysis could be said to have been accurate in his time but not at present, was never properly a nswered for me.

Despite the graduate coed's chaJlenge, Professor Krippendorff's credentials as an activist are certainly impressive. He was a central figure in a dispute that initiated the Berlin student protest of the last several years. As a member of the German SDS, be has had ample contact with the politics (or non-politics) of confrontation. Nevertheless, his prescription for broadening revolutionary consciousness among students and intellectuals certainly relegated public demonstrations to a subordinate role. His vision was rather revolutionary, but his view of tactics relied heavily on the old-fashioned method of education. His present stance seemed to me, in the end, to be hopelessly intellectual, and though I found him enormously personable, I saw little hope for the ultimate success of the kind of revolution that he envisaged. In the long run, I thought, be would be at his best in a classroom rather than in a street confrontation.

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It was the fifth speaker, Professor Kenneth Mills of our department, who finally brought his listeners face to face with today's truly overwhelming revolutionary potentiality. The tall, soft-spoken native of Trinidad with his Oldord-honed accent lectured commandingly on " Revolution and the Third World"; there, if anywhere, it seemed obvious to me, are the potential "revolutionary subjects" of our century. In sharp contrast with the highly speculative nature of Krippendorff's approach, Mills piled statistic upon statistic to demonstrate the present ineluctable structural dependence of the Third World on the "metropolitan" countries, regardless of anyone's good intentions or occasional altruism. Only by radically breaking through these international structures themselves, he concluded, could the citizens of these countries seriously alter the conditions of their lives and open up the possibility of their developing new and better forms of community than a ny that we now know. But the chance for repetition of the Cuban experience (which Mills deemed encouraging but not yet susceptible to a final judgment) depended in largest measure, he thought, on what revolutionary or counter-revolutionary developments the next few years bring in the United St~tes.

So we do have a potential importance after all, we who are not ourselves of the Third World and who anguish about our existential situations and our commitments and our very motives for "intellectualizing" the raw political and social realities that surround us. It is true that we have no right to this importance, which derives mostly from the simple fact, as brutal as any tale of atrocities committed in the name of revolution, that our country and Russia have by far the greatest military arsenal in history. But denial of the right cannot change the fact; therefore, it is up to us to wield whatever influence we can so that the arsenal will be used less and less against wretched, underprivileged peoples who are trying to burst the structural integuments that oppress them. And, in order to wield such influence wisely, it is well for us to have as clear a conceptual grasp as possible-ranging from the most abstract considerations to all the concrete details with which Ken Mills deliberately inundated us--of the global society in which they and we participate. The possibilities of our success and theirs may not be very great; at least two questioners remarked to Mills that this lecture left them more pessimistic about future change than they had been before. But the lecturer himself did not find the situation hopeless, and he briefly held out the vision, so foreign to a skeptic like Miss Arendt, of the evolution of men and communities with new, more humane values, both in the Third World and, ultimately, in the metropolises as well.

17 1The New Journal ! December 8, 1968

And thus the stage is set for Herbert Marcuse, who, significantly enough, follows another member of our department, Professor Kenley Dove. Dove spoke on " Revolution and Recognition," acknowledging the debt that, my colleague rightly feels, we all owe to Hegel in this whole area of thought. Marcuse is intensely aware of that debt: his best-known early work, Reason and Revolution, is subtitled Hegel and the Rise of Social Theory . On December 9, Professor Marcuse is scheduled to speak here on "Reason and Revolution Today." Recently, more people have been reading Marcuse than ever before; perhaps just as much to the point, even more people have been reading about Marcuse. Enough newspaper and magazine articles about him have appeared recently to make it superftuous for me to add to this literature.

He is, of course, credited with having inspired French, German and Italian students in their 1968 uprisings, though he himself has many doubts about the directions that some of the rebels have been taking.

I remember him from several of his past visits to Yale: he gives the appearance of a gentle, aging German professor. He himself, one thinks in looking at him, would hardly be capable of leading even a mild movement of dissent at a faculty meeting. In his person and in his career, in short, he epitomizes many of the concerns and the dilemmas that I have expressed in these reflections.

There are many facets to H er bert Marcuse's complex, systematic social philosophy. If I had the space, I would like to say something about his debts to Hegel and Marx, about his optimistic revision of Freud in allowing for the possibility of a non-repressive future society, about the knotty problems of democracy and.coercion that he discusses in his essay on "Repressive Toleration," and about his profound though not unanswerable critiques of the methodologies that still dominate m uch of our Academic Establishment.

But I shall mention only a single point that bears most closely, I think, on our series and its possible results. It is well that Marcuse views the institutions and ideologies of advanced western industrial societies as being organized so as to intensify "one-dimensionality"-that is, the ultimate elimination even of all thought about the possibility of a radically different way of life from the present one. I n this connection, Marc use points out how important it is that philosophy too should fall in line if the baneful dominance of "positive thinking" is to be made complete. Historically, according to Marcuse, philosophy's role has been quite the opposite: from Plato on, even when thinkers like Hegel seemed to be defenders of the Establishment, their philosophies have upheld the "power of the negative," of dissent and criticism, by showing that the universe of thought and discourse was not limited to the actual, given world of the immediate present. In short, traditional philosophy has always been, in terms of its inner logic and its raison d'etre, potentially revolutionary.

If this is S(}-and I am inclined to agree with the thesis-then the fears that I expressed earlier about interpreting our series as a subconscious counter-revolutionary plot were groundless. It was not just a love of incongruity or a public-relations ploy that motivated us to invite Eldridge Cleaver (who, in one of the ironies typical of our age, was forced to postpone his appearance on the advice of his lawyer) to appear in the same series with Hannah Arendt. They both belonged there, and we have been trying to understand better exactly why. As philosophers, we are not committed to any particular strain of political activism nor, certainly, to the idea that any old social change is always necessarily better than sheer immobility.

But we are committed to the proposition that reason and revolution belong in conjunction, as Marcuse's title would have it, rather than in opposition; and we have been trying, with the help of our guest speakers, to understand this conjunction in which it may exist in our own, vastly confusing times. ~

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"These are the sort of things we appointed Mr. Samuels for." " Back when you said people got raised, I got lowered. I was getting $ I 64 for four kids and now it's $I 40, and my rent and water costs $75."

"I don't know your answer."

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A~

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" PLAT OU JOUR" a different delectable entree every day.

To the Editors: Congratulations to Bonnie McGregor for her moving and accurate description of the way Yale Graduate School turns people into products. The process of depersonalization she described with reference to women also mutilates men. The Graduate School is a concentration camp of the human spirit. As for Joyce Irwin's conceited outburst, the only appropriate response is: "Up against the wall, fatherrucker!"

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To the Editors: I was fascinated by Mary Wright's article on Mao and the cultural revolution, but there are a few things about the whole area of psychohistory that I just don't understand. First of all, psychohistory does not seem to be historical. All of Robert Lifton's works-and they seem to be defining what psychohistory is-are concerned with contemporary events.

Rather than history, the whole psychohistorical process seems to be aimed at making political science more interesting; denuding it of boring numbers, computers and games to determine the future in order to understand what is really happening in the world. Mary Wright made Lifton's work look like a terribly important new field of study and what is needed now is a place to go study it.

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Comment

To the Editors: A recent comment by Miss Bonnie McGregor bemoans the status of women graduate students at Yale. Apparently our experiences here over a number of years have been different than Miss McGregor's. We came here for various reasons and have stayed and worked because we have found encouragement and incentive to develop as individuals, as scientists, and as women.

We do not think that women at Yale are viewed onJy as "bods." It is a natural reaction for men and women to notice each other and appreciate certain physical qualities. We do not find this to be offensive in general or at Yale.

Maybe Miss McGregor has had some unfortunate experiences in her classes, but we have never felt that our minds were being raped or our psyches prostituted. We have never been "put down" in a class for anything for which a male graduate student would not have been similarly "put down." Whatever discrimination exists at Yale has never been detrimental to us. In fact, one of us has found the attitudes toward an individual at Yale to be less biased by that person's sex than in many other academic or professional environments.

There are, certainJy, problems for serious women graduate students, both practical and personal problems. We feel , however, that these problems arise not specifically from the policies and attitudes of the Yale Graduate School but from more general causes.

Carol Coke Miriam Steele Department of Geology and Geophysics

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For My People

by Margaret Walker

An important reissue When this book of poetry won the Yale Series of Younger Poets award in 1942, Stephen Vincent Ben~t. then Editor of the Series, said In his Foreword : " Straight· forwardness, directness, reality are good things to find In a young poet. It is rarer to find them combined w ith a controlled intensity of emotion and a language that, at times, even when it is most modern, has something of the surge of biblical poetry. And it Is obvious that Miss Walker uses that language because it comes naturally to her and is part of her inheritance... . 'We Have Been Believers,' 'Delta,' 'Southern Song,' 'For My People' - they are full of the rain and the sun that fall upon the faces and shoulders of her people, full of the bitter questioning and the answers not yet found , the pride and the disillusion and the reality. ... She has spoken of her people so that all may listen."

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Because in 1968 another generation, both black and white, is eager to listen, Yale University Press takes pleasure in making this volume available once again.

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YALE PLAYS: A Program of Student-WriHen & Student-Produced Works

David Epstein's

They Told Me That You Came This Way Directed by Michael Posnick Two imprisoned men who wait ¡ in occupied America.

Anthony Scully's

The Great Chinese Revolution Directed by Ali Taygun A protest against orthodoxy and compulsion.

DECEMBER 1968 Thur

Sat Mon

Wed

Fri Tue Thur

Sat

8:30 2:30 & 8:30 8:30 8:30 8:30 8:30 8:30 2:30 & 8:30

DECEMBER 1968 Fri

6

Tue 10 Thur 12

Sat

14

Mon Wed

16 18 20

Fri

8:30 8:30 8:30 2:30 & 8:30 8:30 8:30 8:30