Phoenix - February 1963

Number 2

Volume 4

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

contents editor CURTIS L. HARRIS

assistant editor ANNE DEMPSTER

THE VOYAGE 9 James Bradford MODERNISTIC PRODUCTIONS OF SHAKESPEARE,. 10 F. Offutt TO DIANA 13 James Bradford

art editor MARINE ROBINSON

review and exposition editor

THE DATES 15 Leonard Strauss RIVER SONG 17 C. L. H. -

FRANCES HOLT POEM ____________ __ - 17 Calvin Ahlgren business manager STEPHAN LEIBFRIED

distribution manager

POEM : 18 Calvin Ahlgren 4 p.m. ________________________ 20 F. Offutt

TOM I. EGGLESTON PEACOCK _____________ ____ 20 Maline Robinson

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

cover Mourner and Slain Figure

by Edgar Kelley

THE PHOENIX

february

1963

The Voyage

by Uames Bradtord Each blade of grass is crushed and bright days find their shadows eyes, and all things are turned upon themselves; Even reasons find their graves.

A wide passion— A desert of life prints, and as I follow the last one I pick a blue Flower freckled with anticipation.

In the sands I see sands soft become in sky-gold; Groping at the horizon, amazed with the union of this sphere, I step in the last made hole.

I wade through purple pools where blackbirds bathe, and where they walk in golden sands to wash the redness from their claws.

Sometimes I cease to move, and rest in the shade of my shadow which offers shelter and try to move those golden mortals from my eyes, teeth. Clinging hardgolden freckles on white teeth against a silver drop.

And as they gather gold my eyes do mark the end of silver rays reflected from the wide gold.

Onward by pain of picking flowers which are few along these holes.

Holes—deeper they become and the golden sand begins to lose its glitter, and silver rays find no mark for they never start, and flowers are few.

Each blade of grass is crushed and bright days find their shadows eyes, and all things are turned upon themselves; Even reasons find their graves.

Modernistic Productions of Shakespeare: An Interview with Dr. Norman J. Sanders

by F. Oifutt

Dr. Norman J. Sanders, one of the Univer­ sity of Tennessee’s latest additions to the pro­ fessorial staff, has attended every season at the Stratford Theater (Stratford, England) since 1947. Moreover, after studying at the Shakespeare Institute with Allardyce Nicoll for two years. Dr. Sanders remained for four years there as a Fellow. During his last year at the Institute, he did considerable work at the Memorial Theater Library—“looking at press cuttings,” he calls it—assessing the “growth of Shakespearean interest from 1945 to 1961.”

As a result of his close research and observa­ tion, Dr. Sanders is known as one of the world’s younger authorities on modern Shakespearean productions, although he denies his reputation with an Englishman’s modesty.

stress on symbol and image. Particularly under the influence of L. C. Knight and G. Wilson Knight, Shakespearean criticism has connected itself with T. S. Eliot’s belief in the image as the center of poetry.

Another indication of this new perspective is a growth of interest in the last plays— Cymbeline, Pericles, The Tempest, The Win­ ter’s Tale—plays which were largely ignored by the Victorian actor-managers. Shakespeare’s last works hardly “respond to character anal­ ysis,” said Dr. Sanders, “such as one can apply to Macbeth or Lear . . .” And yet they do respond to examination of “the image, the symbol, the eternal human patterns of crime, retribution, forgiveness, and working out of peace and contentment in old age.” Shelves of books have been coming out lately, “and by ‘lately’ I mean the last twenty years or so, in which these four plays have been seen as the final vision of Shakespeare.”

Upon being asked recently to give an inter­ view to The Pheonix about the new increase of Shakespearean activity. Dr. Sanders let modesty become one of his more dominant character traits. Although he was obviously pleased to give some possible explanations for the recent strange phenomena, he was careful to admit that even his opinions about Shake­ speare’s plays often change, not to mention his opinions about today’s experimental Shake­ spearean theater.

But besides being concerned with dramas important for imagery and recurrent human patterns, modern critics, actors, and producers since Ibsen have been interested in the socalled “problem plays.” Measure for Measure, for example, which was hardly touched in the Victorian period, has become “one of the most popular, most frequently done plays at Strat­ ford.” This interest in dramas concerned with “moral issues, uncertainties . . . (having) no definite values, all values being questioned,” is perhaps a sign that audiences are beginning to see in these works “a reflection of the uncer­ tainties of our particular age.”

First, stated Dr. Sanders, it cannot be denied that the basic approach to Shakespeare during the last forty years has changed. A. C. Bradley, writing at the climactic point of romantic criticism, made assumptions which are no longer considered always necessary. He took Shakespeare’s characters as complete hu­ man beings, subjected them to character anal­ ysis, and imagined that all of their actions have motives. But now, in this century, there has been a movement away from stress on character analysis, a movement towards placing

The term problem play, in fact, has recently been given to plays that were not formerly considered problem plays. Dr. Sanders has noticed. Unexpectedly, a new book about Shake­ speare’s problem plays by Ernest Schanzer,

10

of the lovers, instead of bothering to recreate Shakespeare’s cosmic situations. “So I counted that one as a failure,” Dr. Sanders mused.

Another attempt to naturalize Shakespeare, to make him more “twentieth century,” was Zefferelli’s partial success at the Old Vic with Romeo and Juliet, Instead of the beautiful, poetic young man and the ethereal Julietcharacter of tradition, Zefferelli made use of settings, costumes, and methods of playing which made the love story modern, ordinary, and down-to-earth. At no time was the poetry allowed to carry the story away, and Romeo, not dressed in the stereotyped costume, was just another of the realistic characters.

does not contain a discussion of Measure for Measure, Troilus and Cressida, and All’s Well That Ends Well; instead, the plays with which it deals are the political plays, Julius Caesar, Coriolanus, and Antony and Cleopatra. “The growth of interest in Shakespeare’s political plays, I think, is a reflection of our own obses­ sions,” commented Dr. Sanders.

Because of our new critical perspectives and our new popular obsessions, producers of Shake­ speare have found attempts to bring him up to date profitable. An especially successful ex­ periment, so far as the audiences were con­ cerned, “although it horrified the pundits,” was Peter Brook’s production of Love’s Labour’s Lost at Stratford just after World War II. Brook—very young at the time (he was about twenty years of age, straight up from Oxford) —sought out a means to play down Shake­ speare’s topical allusions, puzzles which can only be explained historically, and those of his themes which were fashionable once but no longer have interest. Brook’s solution, some­ what radical, was to introduce a unifying sym­ bol of the play’s mood, a symbol for which there is no justification in the text. “He brought Shakespeare’s Elizabethan constable up to date,” said Dr. Sanders, with an am­ biguous grin, “not by making him a modern constable, but by making him the Eternal Comic Constable, so that he was Toy-Town, Never-Never-Land, harlequinade — truncheon, blue suit, string of sausages.” Brook’s innova­ tions at once horrified the experts and had a run-away success, and his popular production was played again the following year.

Some of the modern producers have even used production tricks with partial success.

Tyrone Guthrie had separate parts of All’s Well That Ends Well taking place at different periods in history. “The scenes in France he set in a kind of Chekovian medium,” Dr. Sand­ ers recalled, “all greens and browns, the colors of old age . . . and the costumes were midEdwardean.” But when the scene moves to the war in Italy, Guthrie brought his army “right up to date by making the soldiers twen­ tieth century desert rats of the Second World War ... It was a very brilliant piece of work that didn’t quite come off, but it certainly brought out things which have usually been overlooked.”

On the other hand, some of the actors have been even more eclectic than the producers.

As an example of the newer acting methods.

Dr. Sanders mentioned three Hamlets of recent years, those of Peter O’Toole, Allan Badel, and E. M. Bannen, all three of whom had much in common. O’Toole, Badel, and Bannon tried “to put away from Hamlet the nobility, the shat­ tered young man, the glass of fashion, the mold of form. They made him into someone puzzled, someone distraught . . . part existen­ tialist, part Angry Young Man, part Freudian.”

Badel’s Hamlet, for example, was set on a stage covered completely in black velvet with only one property, a piece of white cloth, which was meant to suggest the arras, apparently sus­ pended in mid-air. “When Badel was talking to the Ghost . . . the Ghost stood behind him, while Badel looked into the audience, into In­ finity, and made his replies as if he were com­ muning with his own spirit.” Thus, death came

Not many such attempts have done so well.

When Peter Hall recently tried to bring A Midsumer Night’s Dream down to the ground in a broadly comic fashion, he created con­ fusion. The audience could not distinguish between the human lovers and the mechanicals, because both sets of creatures scurried across the stage, “falling down steps . . . falling on their backsides . . . rolling over — it was coarsened fun.” In trying to get away from the highly formal, euphuistic verse of the lovers.

Hall made the verse appear strange, “perhaps a bit ludicrous,” when contrasted with the actor’s bungling mannerisms. Moreover, he gave the impression that the actors were con­ spiring with the audience against the poetry

11

duced by Zefferelli. Having just come away from his realistic Romeo and Juliet, mentioned earlier, Zefferelli set Othello in the sumptuous Victorian manner, complete with Moorish blackeys moving bales of g^traw. Consequently, Othello became too cumbersome; changes of scene took unendurably long. “The whole eve­ ning must have lasted four hours on the first night,” Dr. Sanders commented. “The people dismissed it. It was not the kind of Shake­ speare they wanted.”

“We want something much quicker, much more tightly constructed from Zefferelli’s production,” he said, bringing the interview to its conclusion. “Othello, of all plays, has a special kind of emotional tension. Zefferelli destroyed that tension.”

to be seen as something good. In one scene which impressed Dr. Sanders particularly, the final scene, “Hamlet says to Horatio, ‘Absent thee from felicity awhile”; and when Badel said this, he jestured towards the solid black back­ ground, which was Death, of course. Also, when Badel died and was carried by four offi­ cers to the battlement, a ramp came down, and in a very dim light the actor was carried up to Felicity. Then the ramp was closed; Death had received its own. Strangely enough, audiences approved of Badel’s Hamlet. They seemed to enjoy having their Shakespeare mod­ ernistic.

An indication that audiences will not accept the “old-fashioned” Shakespeare can be seen in the failure of John Gielgud’s Othello, pro­

12

To Diana

by James BraJtorJ From her mysterious couch she sprang; and the moon found her mouth Hunting mortals and saying, “Taste that ecstasy which is our end, and with your mouth apply, enduringly send, a halo to my flesh.

For borne between my bronze loins and beneath the belly, a pillow soft, and navel round, and far below my swaying breasts suspended firmly in the heavens.

Lies a dipper, secreting honeys rare, and surrounded by a thousand fleecy stars, curled black; Warmed by moist and cushioned flesh, reddened hy a sunset rare . .

I cried, and was carried like a comet, swiftly across the skies.

The black enduring skies.

V,

13

14

She was still on my mind, while I was in my room late that night. I began to recall some of the things she said. She said that she never liked to date one person for any length of time, and that the only real thing she liked was her horse. She said she went home every week-end to ride and train him. She also talked a great deal about sex. The more I thought about our conversation, the more I kept asking myself a big question. Was she a prostitue?

The following evening I had a date with her, and she seemed to be an entirely different per­ son. She was quiet and serious, and for the first time I had the feeling that she was very intelligent. She was dressed up, and because of this, I asked her where she had been earlier.

She said, as if unconcerned, “Visiting a friend at his apartment across town.” I changed the subject and asked her which movie she had decided upon. Soon we were riding up town to the one she wanted. She began talking about practicality and sentiment. She said that each should have its place, but practicality should come first. At this point, she seemed to be very hard and cold, and I asked her when she was acting herself, last night or tonight. As if she had anticipated the question, she said, “Neither. If I were to act myself, I would first start off by being an animal. Animals are actually more human than humans. They re­ turn affection. Humans don’t. The humans seem to be the animals.” I did not understand and I laughed, thinking I was supposed to.

However, she was serious.

Going back to the original topic, I asked her if she thought animals were practical about all the mental and physical acts they per­ formed. With determination, she said, “Yes, animals have the self-saving value of being practical and not sentimental.”

The rest of the evening was quite dull, and she did not have much to say until we were back at the dorm. In front of the dorm, we could see boys kissing their dates good-night, and it seemed to draw a strange reaction out of her. She said, as if in a state of anger, “Necking in public is gross! They’re just too damn cheap to go to a hotel!”

My thoughts about her were a lot different that night than last. I had the feeling she was cold and hateful. I thought she might even be out to hurt people. She hadn’t seemed

The Dates

by Leonard Strauss I turned out the light and lay in bed. I thought how strange it was to meet a pretty girl in a pool room, and how strange that pretty girl was. I recalled that she talked about dissecting animals, and kept saying how interesting and how much fun it was. It was crazy, and I guess I was crazy, because I was hypnotized by her strangeness. She was in­ teresting, and I knew I had to find out more about her. I had to lift the fog and reveal her true identity.

The following night I went to DeLane Hall where she had told me she lived. I walked to the switchboard, found her room number, and pressed the buzzer twice for her to come down.

When she walked off the elevator, she was a picture. She wore a pair of tweed slacks and a tight black sweater. She had a smile full of fun and recklessness. She looked around not knowing what to expect, but she saw me, and we sat down and began to talk. She said she loved to eat, so we got up and went to a small cafe off Grant Street. She was eating, and I was popping questions to her. She said she was in pre-veterinary medicine, which ex­ plained some of her conversation. She puzzled me, though. She talked about stud horses, artificial insemination, and a boy named Mar­ vin, whom she and her roommate could see undress every night in the building across from them.

Her carefree and reckless mood drove me insane. The drive for the satisfaction of my curiosity was almost unbearable. I knew then that I would have to date her until this satis­ faction was fulfilled.

I walked her back to the dorm, and before we got to the front door, we stopped and I asked her for another date. As soon as she accepted, I kissed her. That too, I noticed, was odd. She just stood there with her hands folded and let me kiss her. She seemed to show no emotion, and she gave no reaction. Then she said goodnight and went inside. She had left my presence, but not my mind.

15

I didn’t ask any questions because I knew I wouldn’t get any answers. I just got the paper, and then went to the table and started to play.

When I looked over at her, she seemed to be drawing. It was hard to keep my mind on the game. People asked me all kinds of questions about her. “Why is she here?” “Is she your girl?” “What’s she drawing?” “Does she play pool?”

to have a good time, and I had the feeling that she would stand me up on our next date. In fact I had almost convinced myself of it. When I went to bed that night, she was all I could think about.

When I awoke, she still dominated my thoughts. I thought about her all morning, and I decided to go over to the student center between classes, in hope that she would be there. She was. She was sitting at a table in the grill drinking a coke. I sat down across from her, reached for her coke, and started to take a sip. She grabbed it away from me. I thought she was kidding, but she wasn’t. I reached for it again, and in a.spurt of anger, she said she was going to knock the hell out of me.

After four games, Barbara and I left. On the way out she showed me her drawing. It was of the three men who were playing pool next to me. Two of the men in the picture didn’t have any features drawn in their faces.

The third person’s face, however, was drawn and shadowed perfectly. I asked if she hadn’t had time to draw the other two. She said, “No, that’s the way I saw them. The one I drew with the face, though, I saw to be really human.” Fairly sure of what she meant, I said, “Try to meet him somehow, then.” “No, I don’t want to be disappointed,” she said.

She soon got up from the table, and I real­ ized, when I saw her in a tight sweater, that I had to have an answer to one of my questions, so I asked flatly, “If I were to say to you, Barbara, let’s go to a hotel, what would your answer be?” She said coolly, “I would refuse.”

Then she asked me why I had asked her such a question. I said, with my thoughts reverting to the night before, that I was just being practical. Then I asked her if she vrould go out with me Friday night. Surprisingly, she accepted.

The fog seemed to be getting thicker and darker, as we were walking up Grant to a restaurant. We sat in a booth together, and I decided to try and get some answers. I asked why she wore the clothes she did. A disturbed expression swept through her face and she said, “I don’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks; I wear what’s comfortable.” I put my hand on top of hers and said, “Barbara, you’re too pretty to get wrinkles in your face.”

She jerked her hand away, and suddenly she started yelling at me.

It was Friday night, and I had a date with her. I had looked for her in the student center in the morning, but she had not been there.

It was now seven-thirty, and I was waiting for her to come down. When she walked into the lobby, she had on a tight sweater again.

It was the kind of thing that could drive a man crazy; not because it looked cheap, but because she filled it out so well. She wanted to watch a game of pool, so without any further questions, we left for the nearest pool hall.

She said, “You’re just like all the rest. You don’t care about me, you just want my body.”

Then her yelling turned to crying, and while crying she said, “Why can’t I know a boy just as a friend?” In an instant she jumped up and ran out into the street. I sat numb, unable to collect a central idea in my mind; unable to orient myself. The sound of screeching brakes instantly overruled the music in the room. I ran wildly out of the restaurant thinking she might have been hurt. A crowd was gathering, and all I could see was a car in the middle of the street with someone quickly opening the right door and getting in. It was Barbara.

As we walked outside, I noticed a difference in the air. It was damp, and a strange black fog had rolled in. I guess it was black from the dirt of the city. We soon arrived at the pool hall, and I thought it was all right to take her in, so I led the way. As soon as we sat down, someone asked me if I wanted to shoot some nine ball. I did not know whether to accept or not, but when I looked at Barbara, she said to go ahead, but first get her a piece of paper. It was like an order, and I obeyed.

There was a girl in the crowd jammed up beside me. I turned and looked at her. “Let’s go inside,” I said. “All right,” she replied.

16

River Song

by C. L. ##.

#2 A spring song, In seven choruses, We sang.

And came.

Staggering On brown bare feet.

Hugging ourselves In frantic laughter.

And brought a dozen wine jugs And put them on a waking sand bar (Yawning in the new-made laughter Of the late, white moon).

Poured a libation To the black, bawdy river; And drank And laughed And sang.

Until we roused the drunken sun.

Poem

by Ca#Wn Ahlgren Sleek, misty, drizzle-morning, blousy and folding, like the fog, dressing trees and hanging pockets of tinsel frost and tinsel thoughts.

Counterpoint: ungilded, simple drippings, rain and leaves are drowned together, redolent of sorrow, mental scent of buried autumn, slung, fed fire of god’s emotions, old Greek chorus, seasons’ strophe, paced too painfully slow for us.

Long ago these kisses rankled; long ago the thought of love might have been a pure description, sheer attempt, naive, untangled, might have reached up, fingers graceful.

(Now they curl and writhe in ugly, jerky grabbing, greedy snatching.)

Only see the grey, cupped mist hands, standing huge among the morning.

17

Poem

by Calvin Ahlgran Boats are sailing on sunstung waters and girl—or boy-child smells the cleanness of the wind-washed wood of the docks; the air is strained and fingered with fishes’ scent; old, broken poles, used, ragged lines are trampled by, and murk the shore’s edge.

And where a child’s small feet are smiles of comfortable, dirty canvas shoes the rubber soles and canvas cheeks are happily running on the cleanscrubbed wood.

There someone else’s quietly moving acts of fishing fade from the present under the hot, flat, friendly sun into thought-roots as old as all the fishes and old as all their lunge on line and taste of bait before the pain, before the panic, before the flush and furor breaking the wet, still lake.

The fishermen prey on habits and customs, fishing the greater sea of age.

But a child is sleeping, a young one is waiting to waken in earliness and falter out into the newness; eyes shot in morning, small body knowing the half-earth’s dwindling crepuscular ache, yearning towards light and towards the cycle, in ever’s echo, flowers yearning in a minute gesture, spending its holiness for the rest.

Some small boy-child with sleepcombed hair must run and tell the waters, smiling, must hurry, to tell the gulls and wind, must run, feet pattering, drumming wood, the grass, the cool, wet, dusted gravel, must shout to the trees, (hurrah for the sunlight), must hurry and cry for the unkind words that the trees of winter sometimes use in mourning.

18

Announcin^

AWARDS for CREATIVE WRITING

Through the generosity of the late Dr. and Mrs. Glen Swiggett and of the late Captain and Mrs. Robert Arnold Burke, the University of Tennessee offers three avs^ards for creative ■writing to University students each year. To the students who submit the best poem, short story and/or literary criticism of their own composition will go the following awards: $50.00—Bain-Swiggett Poetry Award for the best poem $40.00—Robert Arnold Burke Fiction Award for the best short story $40.00—Eleanor Richards Burke Literary Award for the best literary criticism General Rules The following principles will govern the competition for all three contests: 1. Contestants must be students of the Uni­ versity of Tennessee; that is, they must have been enrolled for at least one quarter since September, 1962.

2. Each entry must be accompanied by an Official Entry Blank like the one found on this page of THE PHOENIX. 3. Manuscripts must be typed, double-spaced, on one side of the paper only. Each sheet of paper submitted should have the en­ trant’s name, address, and phone number on it in the upper right-hand corner. (This is solely for the purpose of keeping all of a particular entrant’s work together, and all identifying marks will be replaced with numbers before the material is given to the judges.) No manuscripts can be re­ turned.

4. Any student may enter all three contests.

However, he may submit no more than one short story, one piece of literary criticism, and two poems.

5. Manuscripts must be in the English Depart­ ment Office, 128 Ayres Hall, by noon Sat­ urday, March 30, 1963. All entries will be judged by a committee consisting of at least three members, and the decision of the judges is final.

6. The winning entries will be published in the May, 1963, issue of THE PHOENIX. Poetry Rules These additional principles will goven the poetry competition: 1. To be considered, compositions “must con­ form to the standards of traditional English verse.” According to the donors of the award, free verse does not fulfill this con­ dition.

2. English translations of poems in other lan­ guages and modernizations of Old and Middle English poems will be eligible.

3. Poems already published or accepted for publication, except by undergraduate col­ lege periodicals, will not be eligible.

Members of the staff of the Orange and White and of The Phoenix are eligible to enter.

There is no set length for the poem (or poems).

Recommended short story length is from 2000-5000 words, and a maximum of 3000 words for the literary criticism is suggested.

LITERARY CONTEST ENTRY BLANK NameKnox. Phone Knox. Address ClassificationMaj or Minor Home Address

4 p.m.

by P'. Ofiutt

%

f

The sun wings down; waxes along the street;' the smears in the gutters heighten to polished rainbows; the wrappers, the twigs, the two tin cans restore to delicate prisms: while the many-colored breezes, the children, bauble blushing out of a school bus.

Peacock

by Maline Robinson Night wind folds its lapping tail.

Licking Into the hollows of dreams Ending, Tucking their tails under pillows.

Folding Into compact packages Tales for day to tell As fancies of a pheasant Unfolding A mottled brown tail.

20

ALL ABOUT pra/se ancf prizres The University’s literary awards will be announced in the May issue of THE PHOENIX. (Details may be found in this issue.) The March 30 deadline is upon us, so those who plan to compete for the prizes would do well to begin to polish their manuscripts now.

Last year’s awards went to Allen Planz and James A. Sparks, poetry; Pat R. Willis, fic­ tion; and Gustave Becker, literary criticism.

Submit contributions to: CURTIS L. HARRIS, Editor

The Phoenix Box 8669 University Station

The judges of last year’s contest were surprised at the small number of entries, par­ ticularly in the literary criticism division. Most of the papers written for English courses, especially for upper division courses, are ac­ ceptable as literary criticism, but perhaps stu­ dents have not been aware of this.

Knoxville, Tennessee Please type, double-spaced, all ma­ terial contributed and include a personal sketch telling major, hometown, etc.

This year, however, we expect more en­ tries, because there were more contributions for the present issue of THE PHOENIX than we have had in the past, and because these contributions came from students who never before contributed material. These contribu­ tions, we might add, are as encouraging to the members of THE PHOENIX staff as they are to the contest officials. We hope that in the future we shall continue to receive material from our new contributors and from any other students who feel that they have written some­ thing worthy of public attention.

Curtis L. Harris The Editor

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