Exile Vol. IX No. 2 Jonathan Reynolds Denison University
Total Page：16
File Type：pdf, Size：1020Kb
Exile Volume 9 | Number 2 Article 1 1964 Exile Vol. IX No. 2 Jonathan Reynolds Denison University Margaret Polishook Denison University Susan Smith Denison University Caroline Baird Denison University George Estes Denison University See next page for additional authors Follow this and additional works at: http://digitalcommons.denison.edu/exile Part of the Creative Writing Commons Recommended Citation Reynolds, Jonathan; Polishook, Margaret; Smith, Susan; Baird, Caroline; Estes, George; Winzeler, Cynthia; Boyer, Richard; Stein, Kay; Cooper, Christine; Hoyt, Robert; Pyster, Judith; Glaser, Michael; Conway, Sarah; and Thiele, Barbara (1964) "Exile Vol. IX No. 2," Exile: Vol. 9 : No. 2 , Article 1. Available at: http://digitalcommons.denison.edu/exile/vol9/iss2/1 This Article is brought to you for free and open access by Denison Digital Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Exile by an authorized editor of Denison Digital Commons. Exile Vol. IX No. 2 Authors Jonathan Reynolds, Margaret Polishook, Susan Smith, Caroline Baird, George Estes, Cynthia Winzeler, Richard Boyer, Kay Stein, Christine Cooper, Robert Hoyt, Judith Pyster, Michael Glaser, Sarah Conway, and Barbara Thiele This article is available in Exile: http://digitalcommons.denison.edu/exile/vol9/iss2/1 EXILE Tke EXILE SPRING 1964 Vol. 9 No. Denison University Granville, Ohio Take thought: I have weathered the storm I have beaten out my exile. —Ezra Pound Contributors Contents Bart Estes is a junior English major who spent last year in San FICTION Francisco, the scene of his story "Where All the Artists Go." Rick Boyer, Jonathan Reynolds Robert & Muriel ... 7 Michael Glaser, Kay Stein, and Cindy Winzeler are also junior English Margaret Polishook Quentin Marsh 15 majors who are printing in Exile for the first time. Bob Hoyt is a junior Susan Smith Used To Be 17 English major. Caroline Baird It Was a Chatham Day 33 George Estes Where All the Artists Go 41 Senior English majors Sally Conway, Chris Cooper, and Barbara Cynthia Winzeler September 45 Thiele have been regular contributors to Exile. Carolyn Baird and Sue Smith, also senior English majors, are contributing for the first ESSAY time. Next year Sally and Sue go to the University of Chicago for their Master of Arts degree, and Carolyn and Chris will teach in Cleveland. Richard Boyer Carthartes Aura 27 Barbara Thiele plans to go to New York. Jon Reynolds is a senior theatre major and his story is his first contribution to Exile. Sophomore POETRY music major Judy Pyster's poem "Song" makes this her second printing Kay Stein To A Mouse 24 in Exile. Bonnie Polishook's sketch is her first contribution. Christine Cooper Poem 26 The work of senior art majors Patty Bouic, Barbara Purdy, and Robert Hoyt For Sylvia Plath 26 Liz Surbeck is familiar to Exile's readers. This issue, however, marks Christine Cooper On Studying Shakespeare 29 the first time that Sally Henry, also a senior art major, has published Judith Pyster Song 30 in Exile. Sally recently won a Woodrow Wilson Fellowship. Marty Michael Glaser Prestidigitation 37 Merselis, a junior art major, and John Kuhner, a junior theatre major, Sarah Conway Poem 39 are new contributors to Exile. Kathy Knapp and Lynne Wiley are Barbara Thiele Poem 50 sophomore art majors. Robert Hoyt An Old Man's Lament 51 GRAPHICS STAFF Lynne Wiley Pastel 4 Elizabeth Surbeck Pen Drawing 6 EDITORS: Christine Cooper Martha Merselis Pen Sketch 14 Susan Delano ADVISOR: John N. Miller Pen and Ink 16 Robert Hoyt Brush Drawing 24 Susan Smith Pen Sketches 30 Patterson Bouic Pencil Drawing 32 STAFF: John Hunting Jane Cogie Kathryn Knapp Pen and Ink 38 Sara Henry Jenny Longo Linda Lewis Brush Drawing 40 Martha Merselis Pen and Ink 44 ART EDITOR: Patterson Bouic Any student of Denison may submit manuscripts BUSINESS MANAGER: Michael Glaser of poems, stories and essays to the editors or to the EXILE box in Slayter Hall. Cover Design by John Kuhner Editorial About the problem of getting pickles out of the jar, it may be said that the first is always the most difficult. The same could be true—forgive the comparison—of entertaining noted writers on a college campus. But, as it turned out, Denison's first Harriet Ewens Beck Professor of English made our task an easy and pleasant one. Miss Eudora Welty would have to be a very charming person. She would have to have a fine sense of the comic and the tragic in the lives she touches; she would have to be sharp and gentle, subtle and forthright, at the same time. Anyone who had read The Ponder Heart could not be satisfied with less. All of us who had the op- portunity to know her briefly found that she is everything we had expected. Not the same questions over and over, not the feeding- time stampede in Huffman, not the task of eating crumbling cookies under the careful surveillance of a score of English majors could disturb her perfect equilibrium. We have had a sample, now, of what the Harriet Ewens Beck Chair of English promises. If our future guests can be as distinguished in personal qualities as they are in name—as Miss Welty proved to be—they will surely provide an unique stimulus for creative writers and creative readers at Denison. It has been said and said and said that we are deeply grateful for the generosity of the late Gordon Clark Beck, who made the Harriet Ewens Beck Chair possible. But here, for the record, let it be said again. And, again, thank you, Miss Welty, for making our first venture in this new program such an enjoyable and enlightening one. S. S. ROBERT & MURIEL OR, IF YOU THINK OF THE GIRL YOU LOVE TOO MUCH AS SOMEDAY BEING BALD, YOU CAN ALWAYS REMAIN ALOOF by Jon Reynolds Robert pushed the small white button next to the door and then shuffled his feet on the carpet. His shoes were polished and shined a dark, rich black, but a small scuff spot was noticeable on the tip. He leaned down and wiped it away with his hand- kerchief. The shoes glistened from the rain falling on the pavement fourteen stories below. The treacherous and A-OKAY New York taxicabs honked, and Robert, looking out the small window which was next to the elevator, saw lights on the cabs and the other cars as they furiously pursued their destinations. Streetlights re- flected off the wet pavement—a shine from the streets made of asphalt, a dazzle of tiny dots from the concrete sidewalks. He released the curtain covering the window and ran his hand through his wet hair. His rained-upon index finger pushed at the buzzer again, and from inside he heard a scurrying of feet, not at all like rats and with no evidence that there was broken glass on the floor, and what sounded like two female voices in a low whisper fiercely bulletining orders at each other. Visions of sugar plums and a naked Muriel danced in his head. He wiped his forehead with his wet palm, and, then realizing this did no good, he wiped the palm on his overcoat and then applied its dryness to his forehead; the rain had been wet. He was afraid to wipe his hair with his coat, not because such action would place large amounts of Wildroot Cream Oil Charlie on the coat, but because such action would mess up his hair. The voices inside still indicated that there was some sort of argument going on, and the whispering made the argument sound all the more ominous to Robert, who listened but could hear nothing. Presently he forgot the conversation inside, which still continued, and noticed that his head was beginning to itch. The rain had joined with the Wildroot and with the mysteries and unknowns of the outer surface of the scalp, and had begun to itch. For the same REYNOLDS EXILE "Dee-yer," Muriel's mother said in a tone that made it quite reason that he was afraid to apply his raincoat to his hair, Robert was afraid to give his scalp the pleasurable and thorough scratching obvious that she and her daughter had never once, not ever, what, it deserved, and instead he extended his forefinger and meekly began never, no, not even hardly ever, just simply not ever (never) had an argument. She cooed. She coyly called. She cloyly clamored. to wedge it between strands of hair, hoping to reach both the most itchy and the least dense section. His finger descended onto She carelessly carolled. She pleasantly, very pleasantly, without a the scalp, the first joint began to undulate, and before long, his glimpse of anger, without a touch of irritation, but with just a invaluable finger was jumping from itchy patch to itchy patch, little bit of gaiety, jolliness, juantiness, jocundity, mellowly said again, "Dee-yer." She was about to sing. scratching back and forth, in very small scratches, until he felt somewhat relieved. And from the confines of Muriel's room came the reply. "Ye-es?" Suddenly the voices inside stopped, and Robert could hear In that pleasant, supersweet, cute-as-a-bunny, fluid, obviously someone approaching. Trumpets sounded. He knew it would be correctly placed voice that seemed as though Mother of Muriel were Muriel, thoughtfully arriving at the door completely naked. She using her fantastic knack for ventriloquism to project her own voice loved to pamper his every whim, and a nude answering her apart- through the door. But Robert wasn't fooled. He knew it was Muriel ment doorbell was, at the moment, his every whim. An eye looked in there, regardless of how much the voices and intonations were at him through the peep sight in the door.