THE 1930S HAGGLUND HERNTON IGNATOW LECHLITNER ROOD TRACY IKMYEK WILSON Winter 1965 $1 the CARLETON MISCELLANY
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THE CARLETON ALGREN ALLEN AMES APPEL BOTKIN BRADFORD BRAND BRUELL WE DO OUR PART w#*ic v tic CONROY COWLEY • • • • DEJONG DERLETH EVANS FARRELL THE 1930s HAGGLUND HERNTON IGNATOW LECHLITNER ROOD TRACY IKMYEK WILSON Winter 1965 $1 THE CARLETON MISCELLANY Vol. VI, Number 1 Carleton College, Northfield, Minnesota 55057 Published by Carleton College Editor: Erling Larson Associate Editor: Wayne Carver Managing Editor: Carolyn Soule Editor, Department of American: Wayne Booth Far Eastern Shore Editor: Reed Whittemore Vol. VI. No. 1 Winter 1965 Whither Bound, Brother Reuben? a poem by Sax Bradford 2 The 1930's, a Symposium (with poems, a story, and reviews) Dorothy Allen 9 Russell Ames 12 Benjamin Appel 19 James T. Farrell 25 B. A. Botkin 26 Edwin Georgrichard Bruell 32 Jack Conroy 36 Malcolm Cowley 40 David Cornel Dejong 50 August Derleth 53 Paul "Doc" Evans 57 Ben Hagglund 62 David Ignatow 69 Calvin C. Hernton 74 Ruth Lechlitner 77 John Rood 82 Robert Traver 87 Peter Brand 90 Wayne Carver 100 Nelson A Igren 104 Robert Tracy 105 Notes Toward Yet Another Theory, a poem by Robley Wilson, Jr ...... 114 Drawings by Rose Graubart The Carleton Miscellany is published quarterly. Rates are as follows: $1.00 a copy; $3.50 a year; $6.00 for two years. It is distributed to newsstands and bookstores by B. De Boer, 188 High Street, Nutley, New Jersey. All volumes available on microfilm through University Microfilms, 313 N. First St., Ann Arbor, Michigan. Manuscripts should be submitted to The Carleton Miscellany, Carleton College, Northfield, Minnesota, as should subscriptions. Manuscripts are submitted at the authors risk, and will not be returned unless they are accompanied by stamped, self-addressed envelopes. Member of the Association of Literary Magazines of America Copyright, 1964, by Carleton College Second-class postage paid at Northfield, Minnesota 55057 Sax Bradford Whither Bound, Brother Reuben? Taormina, Ibiza, Puerto Vallarta, Kona, Montego Bay, Marrakesh. Listen, how the names come off the tongue like Miletus honey while the slick magazine presses roll their glazed pigments down the reaches of Holiday All£e flashing shell pink beaches and emerald palm fronds along the sea. Out there in the Dakotas an agricultural nouveau riche thumbs through the airline folders with the thumbs he just now had hooked (wasn't it yesterday?) into his galluses as he leaned tiptoe to expectorate the warm juice of Brown's Mule or Star bitten from the plug; while along the plazas of Rockefeller Center a shopper pauses to catch the travel window with its naked fishermen out of Paul Jacoulet by Madison Ave. tossing their simulated net into a simulated Tahitian lagoon. Where bound, Yankee countryman? On what lemming feet do you now lightly run to the watery edge of nowhere, carried blind with the crowded murmurous pack, body to brown body, nose lifted to the unaccustomed sky, the scent of far and homeless death? I know you, who you are. Your axe rang through the clearing on the Brandywine, on the Rappahannock and the Merrimack. On the Tom Bigbee, the Little Peedee. I saw your footprint in the leafmold beside the Susquehanna. Your wagon track pressed on the Cumberland fern. You are the riverman. You came down the Ohio molasses and cornbread and sowbelly and jug and all with the waves slapping under the raft and the smell of flotsam near the bank. I saw you in the pecan grove stalking turkey and I saw you crouched in the sedges of the Chesapeake where the geese winged down the wind. You are the prairie man who cut the wildflower carpet at Tiskilwa and at Osage, turning up the gleaming earth. I saw you standing in the golden wheat's horizon. I saw you furred among the tents of the Arikaree and burrowed deep in the bank of the Snake against the cold. I know you. You are the storekeeper at St. Joe, the Saginaw sawyer, the trapper of the Pend Oreille, the Arkansas travel er. Remember? Let me take your hand with its calloused palm and lead you back to the spring beside the sycamore. Carefully now, fumbling in your memory. Pick up the dipper. Smell the mint and the cress, and the water. Feel the cold tin against your chin and look up at the whistle of the turtle dove like a gray arrow along the creek. Someone lounges in the wicker chair out front of the marble and glass hotel while the Fiats and Vespas pop up the hill. He is sipping a campari through a straw. Is that you, old man? Is that you, Reuben? Where have you wandered? Let's see, now. It was on the old Tazewell place that morning I saw you carrying the milk across the frosted yard while the rising mist from the branch discovered, one by one, the privy and then the peach orchard and then the shoats looking for the season's last acorns among the oaks. Along the Via Veneto now what are you looking for? Local color? Remember, Pancho, where I saw you on the Salsipuedes. Rolling your bed in the tarp and stirring up the fire for morning coffee while Joe brought in the bay, the black and the pinto, and the wild pigeons wheeled overhead and Pete looked up from wrangling the saddles and said it's like the world was born today. I saw you as mountain morning broke in the Wallowas. I saw you through the cookhouse door putting away a stack of buck wheats and karo syrup while the whistle punk outside monkeyed with the donkey engine. Freight train through the Blues. I heard you sing it softly to yourself, soft and easy so Cookie wouldn't hear: Freight train through the Blues Beating up the Grande Ronde River, White steam pluming, black smoke streaming Past the sun-shot ripples, Past the meadow shining like a woman's hair, Past the wild roses and the bloodred poppies and the calling quail Into the tamaracks. Up the Grande Ronde to the narrows where the day comes late, Through the balsam past the dark sliding waters To the Umatilla Pounds the freight train like my heart. Freight train through the Blues. But, wait! That you, Jim-boy, on the palm terrace above Acapulco, in the aloha shirt and the bermuda shorts drinking from a coconut shell? North Platte, Scottsbluff. Tap the wheels and oil the journals. Hook on another Baldwin for the grade to Rock Springs. Hear the long low whistle in the winter air, the drivers moving on the stretch. Out of the smell of the still among the pines and the smell of barnyard manure, the hiss of the hot horseshoe plunged into the tub, the whisper of scythe sharpening on stone; out of the taste of axle grease and the feel of harness leather; out of the square dance called and the fiddling of turkey in the straw and bile them cabbage down and the cry of the drunk in the loft and the whirling whalebone-pinched waists of the girls from town, the lantern light and the scream of the brake shoe on wheel — out of this did you come to the little tea at Rumplemeyer's, to the marzipan in the Sacher sweetshop window off the Opern Ring? You did indeed. That is you with the tight Italian pants and the little boots tripping across the piazza in search of a cappucino and a dish of salted pistachios. Cassis, Cozumel, Patmos. What's In this season? Where are They going now? Hurry. Comb the hayseed from your hair. Get to Cloudland. Get with it. But I know you. I know with you the mockingbird's song and the jasmine and the fireflies by the riverbank; the smoke from the bacon curing; the kerosene lamp and the piano in the parlor where the antimacassars are pinned and the young voices sing Wind of the Western Sea; the aching back and the taste of salt sweat in the corn rows and the sweet noon under the locust, the jug of milk and the watermelon, the wedge of pie wrapped in newspaper. Remember we figured the board feet together, and tended store and taught school and checked the gauges and sawed the ice and stored it in the sawdust? I know you there beyond the buttoned hilton bellboy, you with the zoom lens, automatic finder and flash and the other junk strapped on, slung over the madras jacket. Hello there, Reuben! A PROPOSED SYMPOSIUM Under this heading, about a year ago, we sent to a number of writers and musicians and editors and other workers of the world a letter that set forth a number of questions we hoped this present symposium would answer. Now that we have read the essays we got in response, we think this heading is the one still to use. As always, the answers recede as the questions multiply and press in upon us. A symposium on the 1930's, it is still our con viction, would be a very good thing. We would like to see more answers. We have felt this for a long time. Three years ago here at Carleton under the auspices of the Andersen Foundation in American Studies appeared John Dos Passos, Frances Perkins, Raymond Moley and Gardner Means, all speaking about the Thirties. The Miscellany (Spring 1961) printed a part of what Mr. Dos Passos said during his visit. In that same issue, under the title "Larsen's Second Law," appeared a letter from Arthur Mizener. In this letter Mr. Mizener pointed out an error of fact in an Erling Larsen essay on James Agee (Miscellany, Winter 1961)* and went on to explain how the editors of Life had solicited of him an essay on Fitzgerald but had then with out permission "cut, added to, and rewritten" his "account of Zelda's collapse and Fitzgerald's bad years" with such an insensi- •Larsen's "second law," described on pages 86-97 of that issue, suggested that just as there was a "widespread literary and high-fashion interest" in the Twenties during the Fifties, so there will be a run on the Thirties during the Sixties.