LAJ\(JJFA LL A Zealand Quarterly edited by Charles Brasch and published by The Caxton Press CON'l'EN'I'S 199 Three Poems, Denis Glover 201 The Moth, Joy Cowley 204 Three Poems, Janet Frame 209 Towards the Unknown Region, Pira Kanungsattam 211 Fish and Chips on the Merry-go-round, K. 0. Arvidson 216 Two Poems, Louis Johnson 217 River and Sea, Kathleen Mayson 220 Songs for Young Harry, Brian Wigney 223 Alan Mulgan, Dennis McEldowney 226 James Courage, Phillip Wilson 234 The Zealand of James Courage, R. A. Copland 235 Michael (Renato) Amato, Maurice Shadbolt 250 Twenty Years After, Les Cleveland 253 COMMENTARIES: South African Letter, Jack Cope 258 And Battles Long Ago, W. H. Oliver 263 REVIEWS: Relationship and Solitude, E. A. Olssen 269 Whether the Will is Free, E. A. Horsman 273 The Park, The Mythologists, Peter Dronke 277 Zealand Poetry Yearbook, MacD. P. Jackson 280 Exploring Zealand Writing, Pauline Robinson 285 The Poetic, Owen Leeming 287 Correspondence, R. L. P. Jackson, Chris Wallace-Crabbe 290 Drawing and Paintings, James Boswell Cover Design, John Drawbridge VOLUME EIGHTEEN NUMBER THREE SEPTEMBER 1964 LANDFALL is published with the aid of a grant from the New Zealand Literary Fund. LANDFALL is printed and published by The Caxton Press at 119 Victoria Street, Christchurch. The annual subscription is 20s. net post free, and should be sent to the above address. All contributions used will be paid for. Manuscripts should be sent to the editor at the above address; they cannot be returned unless accompanied by a stamped and addressed envelope. Notes AN ARTisT's purposes can neither be nor be made to fit those of any actual society. His service to society, if he can be said to serve it, is necessarily indirect. His work proposes (let us say) ideal ends, or depicts ideal states of being; or exposes, by implication or directly, the imperfection or corruption of his society, of its organization, leadership, aims, spirit; explores human relationships in their social setting; or, with little reference to that setting, celebrates the natural world, men and women, the lovable ordinariness or the ardours and exaltations of human life. Whatever it does, he is bound to be thought indifferent or hostile to the society he belongs to; in fact he is likely to be more deeply involved in and more passionately con- cerned about its present and future than most of his fellow citizens, but not in an immediately obvious way. As an artist, he stands a little apart, looking at society more closely, fondly, critically-all of these at once, maybe-than other people. What he cannot do is identify himself with it in its present form and in its temporary objectives. The arts spring from complex tensions, in the artist (as in every individual), in society, and between artist and society. If artists were able to identify themselves with society, art would cease; and society would rot. No expense of energy, no life. No tension, no art. No war, no peace: the arts are the glowing fruits of peace which arise as by-products of the harsh war of man and society. The artist who as a man knows himself to be nothing is yet as artist the representative or ideal man and the suspect physician of society. Tacitly or explicitly, all art criticizes the social order. The social function of the arts is always to change that order, whether radically or subtly: never simply to confirm the injustices and banalities of the status quo. Societies which treat the arts as a social lubricant, part of the propaganda machine, and attempt to make the artist a mere social functionary, would, if they succeeded-which in the long run they cannot-both kill art and ruin society. The Russians have done their worst in this line, with incalculable damage and impoverishment to themselves and mankind. Hitherto they have resisted or suppressed works of art which might in any way imply criticism of their social system and of the day-to-day infallibility of their ludicrous party line and their despotic ephemeral politicians. (Think of writers, 199 painters and composers having to obey the ideological puerilities of the New Zealand National Party-or the New Zealand Labour Party, and to idolize and fawn on their self-important bosses!) By a nice contrast, Russia welcomes works of art which are critical of non-communist societies, and looks with special favour on com- munist artists, good or bad, in those societies. Seen in this light, the choice of work for the Russian book of New Zealand stories, which Professor Rhodes discussed in the last number of Landfall, is rather more tolerant than might have been expected. Being a wholly Russian selection of New Zealand work the book is, inevitably, officially sanctioned: all Russian publishing, performing, exhibiting, is official or officially sanctioned. To criticize this particular book in isolation is therefore meaningless. It is the whole radically false conception of the nature of the arts, the func- tion of the artist, and the place of both in society, which needs to be challenged. And it is being challenged, in the one place where chal- lenge counts: in Russia. Slowly and uncertainly a change is coming about there; because the regime is more secure; because, apparently, intelligent younger Russians are sick of pretences and lies and are demanding the truth; and because of the courage of a few gifted individuals. Russian interest in New Zealand fiction is gratifying, indeed flat- tering. Britain apart, what other country has even thought of pub- lishing an anthology of New Zealand stories, and stories that had first to be translated? The book in question does less than justice to New Zealand writers (and to Russian readers), in so far as political ideology overruled literary judgment in the choice of stories. The Russians should be left in no doubt of the mixed feelings of New Zealanders about it. NEw ZEALAND writers have felt for some years the need of a body to represent them professionally and protect their interests. Those of them who belong to the New Zealand Centre of P.E.N. are affiliated through it to an international association of the highest repute which upholds the responsibility and liberty of conscience of writers and their freedom to write; it often speaks out in defence of writers suffering political persecution or of those suffering on their account (as in the case of Mrs Ivinskaya). It acts, that is, as a kind of world forum for writers. But it does not concern itself with the professional side of their work. That is the business in Britain of the long established and well recognized Society of Authors. Last year, Australian writers formed 200 a similar body, the Australian Society of Authors, which already has a very strong membership led by some of the country's fore- most writers. According to its constitution, the first object of the Society is 'To promote and protect the general professional interests of all creators of literary, dramatic or musical material.' From this its other objects follow. Its periodical Broadside provides valuable information on a variety of matters which are of direct concern to New Zealand writers too. The formation of the Society points again to the need for some such body in this country. DENIS GLOVER Coffee Bar THE Owl King sits in misery A coffee cup on either knee Inviting with benighted eyes Some girl to take him by surprise Some girl to stroke his world-worn head Some girl to take him into bed. The colourful young girls each have Each one their young and cheerful slave. The Owl King, sombre, hoots and greets His fellow-poet parrakeets, Each recognizing, coffee-nights, Fraternities of parasites. 201 Foundation Stone FRONTING the pavement the old stone stands Laid by Lord Blah Blah Blah, KCMG, CH, MC. The Chairman of the Board was Blough J. Blow Esq., OBE, BA. (Flags and speeches on that big day, A memorable occasion, with free tea.) In smaller letters-Architects Rood and Stuff, Builders B. Hammerfest and Co. Date, 1875-a long time ago. Worthy nonentities, gone, all gone, Their names fading like photographs, Their effervescent speech distilled In hazed letters on stone. A boy bounces his ball against The commemorative words unmemorable. Wheel It bounces back. Was the name Ozymandias, CMG, Suffering from veins varicose, and vanity? He's mouldered off, stepped down from his last table, And with him Jerry Blow, builder Bill Babe! And architects Ruin and Avast, Their buildings crumbled, their names near lost. The indifferent ball makes a dull thump Against that time-mocked wall. Mayday, 1964 202 Printers I SPEAK now of printers and bookmen, Praise men acknowledged great Whose business has been display of words Fragile as bones of birds, Careful of how hyphens mate, Considering each comma, establishing A style as precedent for the mile- Wide errors of authors laughers At their own inaccuracy. John Johnson said 'A title page with red Is affectation. Printing for reading Or posterity needs only clarity.' I said to him, 'This book is hand-set, look I And there's no mention of the fact!' 'What affectation could we get to- And yet, of course, it's affectation not to.' 'Do you like that?' said Oliver Simon. 'Myself I could wish it one-point leaded.' I who could make no room On the crowded page of my mind Had no imperfection to find. Then Stanley Morison squatted me on the floor To examine big letter designs and pore Over the refinement of serifs With a diffident explanation of why There was a problem in the kern Of italic g plus y.