That's the way it is
"Hi!"
"Hi yourself."
"How have you been?"
"Fine, and you?"
"Oh, I guess I can't complain besides it wouldn t
do any good."
"Yes, I guess that's true."
. . . "I've been thinking about you quite often
lately . . . Can't seem to get you off my mind."
"Oh really?"
"Yes, really! So what do you thing about that?"
"I think you're sweet."
"Oh really?"
Now cut that out you idiot."
"Ha ha . . . I'm sorry." ; i.
. . . "You know, you're sure a lot of fun to be with."
"So are you."
... "I like you and you like me ... we need each
other We should be happy. Why can't we
go for drives, to shows, and other places to
gether and be happy like other people?"
. . . "Because I'm a Negro and you're white."
. . . "Gee, I almost forgot about that. But what dif
ference does that make? You're still a human
being with two arms, two legs and feelings, just
like any other person. Why do I have to pre
tend I'm better than you or that you don't
exist? Why?"
. . . "Because that's the way it is my darling that's
the way it is."
by Calvin Rife
It was cold today.
The proud North Wind sarcastically
weaved itself through the dark blue fabric
of my heavy winter coat,
then continued on it's way
laughing.
by Calvin Rife
To spring
The soil clad fingers felt your coming,
Your breath warm as a kiss.
I met you on knees
And let my hair loose.
But your promise was dead.
Deadv dead, dead my child
Found so late and loved so dearly.
Dead the song, the jubilee.
Now that death had . its day,
The ravening of pain is done,
Grant me a flower, Life.
fry Sunita Jain
flDfl
edited by
Dan Ladoly
Greg Cluzma
Ed Bccnoglo
Poem for a toilet
A porcelain oval pool
gazing upward.
Darkness descends.
Time crawls.
The maelstrom gurgles.
Meet, what's useless to man
by Howard Rosenberg
Lost in the Fimlioiisc a book review by Indira Singh
I started reading Lost In the Funhouse
on my way home a few days ago. Through
the rattling of the bus, and the whirr of
downtown noises I continued to read
needless to say, I did miss my stop.
Lost In the Funhouse is not a collection
of stories. It is certainly not a collection
of short stories. John Barth is a capable
author, yet unlike his contemporaries, he just
cannot bring himself to write short stories.
He is cunning, brilliant and Is aware of it.
Put pieces of ideas, mythology, biography
and, of course, existentialism glue it all
together with words, incidents, experience,
echoes and texture. Result? A 194 page
paperback 190 of those pages being reflec
tive nonsense.
'Night Sea Journey" is the first piece
in the book, and wisely so, as it is the
only worthwhile reading In the whole book.
In these ten pages Barth captures the essence
of existentialism. The age-long question is
presented to the swimmer; stop and think
or continue to swim and sink.
According to Barth, the choices for the
thoughtful swimmer are two: give up
tlirashlng and go under for good, or embrace
the absurdity. The conclusions are reflective,
yet as Justified as existentialism itself. If
there Is no shore, or If it only exists in
the fancies of swimmers, Barth says, then
why continue to swim. The merciful thing
to do Is to refuse to participate. Yet when
one realizes that the Hero, Shore and Swim
mer are merged Identities, and that pretended
glory, rationalization, killing, Inventing rules
and stories and relationships are all but a
part of senseless love and senseless death
then there can be no echoing reflections.
Here Barth deftly handles a bizarre sub
ject. Yet he fails to accomplish anything
worthwhile In the rest of the book. One con
tinues to read, hoping. Hoping that perhaps
the deluge of mythology and comedy will
have something unique to say. That
Clytemenestra and Menelaus will have some
profound or prefound meanings to share. But
they don't, and Barth leaves the reader
dangling concluding that Barth Is too
brilliant and too cunning even for himself.
Ecology
As by a thunderbolt
Fractured to its concrete
Footings, three feet thick
It stands like stone, stoic
As monument, this wall.
Poor planning, most would say.
Built on a modest knoll
Between river and rails,
No structure could last long.
This, anyone can see.
A man who wrote of walls,
People and mystery
Once mused "Something there is
That will not let them stand.
These days, they build them strong.
No more do walls topple.
Wall-building is an art.
They harden like ageing
Concrete. Time renews them.
They withstand hurricanes.
Can only builders rip
A wall? Also, I think,
Can subtle, unthought-of
Things, subversive forces.
These render walls useless:
The regularity
In the tremor of trains.
Rumblings through the loam,
Rail to river, vibrate
The wall into straining.--
It will take years, of course,
And the wall will not fall,
But stand there thunderstruck
In proud, shivered ruin,
A symbol of learning.
PAGE 6
THE DAILY NEBRASKAN
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18, 1970