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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 24
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: WRITER’S JOURNAL settled myself comfortably in my room in preparation for some quiet hours of study, this unnatural condition was still with me. It remained with me while I tried to apply myself to my books. Only when I de- liberately channeled my thoughts was I able to make myself unaware, for...
Show moreWRITER’S JOURNAL settled myself comfortably in my room in preparation for some quiet hours of study, this unnatural condition was still with me. It remained with me while I tried to apply myself to my books. Only when I de- liberately channeled my thoughts was I able to make myself unaware, for short intervals of time, of that subtle, intangible element that was filtering through me. As soon as I relaxed, my head felt as if some- thing inside of it were swirling, very slowly, making me believe that my faculties were on the verge of derangement. About midnight I laid my book aside and allowed my thoughts to run free. I let my head fall back and I gazed at the ceiling. It was then, after a moment of stillness, that the thought of self—hypnotism ﬂashed again into my mind. I had no sooner thought of it when the idea became an obsession. It was strange and unusual. I was unable to think differently. It was as if some outside force had gripped my mentality and commanded it to obey. I was in the clutches of something unknown. Yet, I wanted to be led by it for it seemed to be drawing me into a realm of tempting and delicious mystery. There were no alternatives. I immediately re- solved to make an attempt. I was going to try to hypnotize myself. The conditions could not have been more favorable. A stillness reigned the night, and every distracting element had vanished. I made myself as comfortable as possible, stretching my legs out in front of me and settling myself deep in my upholstered chair, my arms resting on its sides. I let my eyes fall into their easiest focus and my gaze became fixed on the opposite wall. From this point on my recollection becomes vague; my memory is dim and I cannot describe completely the change that came over me. It seems that my ability to recall is from a point of sharpness that gradually fades until my mentality reaches a state of vacuity. I was ex- periencing a mental transition that was from a condition of clearness, through a mist, to the unknown. I remember that my condition of dizziness seemed to be stronger; but this changed, too. My head became lighter and was barely pressing against the back of my chair. At the same time I felt as if all my strength were leaving me. If I had wanted to get up I think I would not have been able to move. During the first few minutes some extrane- ous elements invaded my mentality either in the form of a wave of thought or as an undefineable image, but some form of conscious effort rejected them. I do not know how much time passed. The last thing I remember is a fog, or something more like a film, that spread over my _24_
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 10
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: The Dry Wind “Who hath destroyed us, Orpheus? What madness hath been great enough to destroy us? . . . Farewell: I am taken, surrounded and carried away by monstrous night, and no longer yours, I reach out to you with unavailing hands.” VIRGIL, Orpheus and Euridice 1 News sheet specters flaunt...
Show moreThe Dry Wind “Who hath destroyed us, Orpheus? What madness hath been great enough to destroy us? . . . Farewell: I am taken, surrounded and carried away by monstrous night, and no longer yours, I reach out to you with unavailing hands.” VIRGIL, Orpheus and Euridice 1 News sheet specters flaunt the wind Antic amid this August drift of leaves. Pious Windows are shuttered blind, And in the streets g0, unashamed. the thieves. "Beggars all, we ever posit gods, Raise streaming altars high in sacrifice. The nomad dreaming of our slavery-days Awaits a madman’s reckless cast of dice. Neither asleep nor waking is this land— Where men shall find, as they have found before, That damned and vicious bitten fruit; Shall taste of it, and eat. and lust for more. But this nightmare dream shall have an end, (For things of evil seek to die) ' And in the darkened world shall be no men, ‘ Nor any bird shall Cry. ’ 2 The almond-blossoms of our first day -Whispered a lovely promise, And the goat-footed man—who piped on the hillside— Drugged our hearts with his music. , W'e stepped from the shadows of our sleep Into the bright noon light. _3'__
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 17
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: PHEB-E DALE sneaked into my room and went to bed. I came down early to breakfast in the morning. Mother and Davey were talking together in the kitchen, but the toast smell and sizzling bacon sounds made me so hungry I didn’t even bother to listen to them. I noticed Davey ran out the back door,...
Show morePHEB-E DALE sneaked into my room and went to bed. I came down early to breakfast in the morning. Mother and Davey were talking together in the kitchen, but the toast smell and sizzling bacon sounds made me so hungry I didn’t even bother to listen to them. I noticed Davey ran out the back door, but he was back by the time Nanna came down so I didn’t think too much of it. “Nanna, come over here a minute. I’ve got something to show you.” He opened the palm of his hand. In it was a small gray mouse. Nanna dropped the spoon which she had just dipped into her oatmeal. She pushed her chair back and started to run. I’m sure she meant to open the back door. but she was so excited she opened the basement door instead. Davey ran after her. shouting, “Sissy baby. Nanny. Don’t be afraid! Here, just look at it." I don’t know how many steps Nanna took before she fell. It couldn’t have been more than two or three because I could hear her hitting step after step and then the terrible sound of something hard hitting the cement floor. By the time I got down there, the blood was running out from her dark head and mother was crying and trying to lift her up. But I guess mother knew it wasn’t any use to try and lift her up. I knew it, too, and so did Davey. He was moaning hysterically. “Why did she run?” He stopped to pick up the mouse where it had fallen by Nanna’s arm. “Why did she run. mother? It wasn’t even real. It was only a toy mouse.” —PHEBE DALE “Humanity is a symphony of great collective souls; and he who understands and loves it only by destroying a part of those elements‘ proves himself a barbarian.” ROMAIN ROLLAND _17_'
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 07
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: l JOAN BAXTER to go?" laughed Tony. “I’m sure you haven't heard a word 1 said." "I have too, Tony, and I’m ready." They left the brightneSS of the Inn for the duskiness of the evening. Their footsteps turned home— ward. The warm October sun shone brightly on the green lawn, the grey stone college...
Show morel JOAN BAXTER to go?" laughed Tony. “I’m sure you haven't heard a word 1 said." "I have too, Tony, and I’m ready." They left the brightneSS of the Inn for the duskiness of the evening. Their footsteps turned home— ward. The warm October sun shone brightly on the green lawn, the grey stone college buildings, and the gay students. Bright sweaters, crazy cars, and happy voices combined to make a brilliant picture. Angeline stood on the steps of the main entrance and looked about her. It seemed hard to believe that all her wildest dreams had come true. She was here at college. She remembered the night that she had told Papa and Mama about the waitress job and her reason for working. She could still feel that awful silence when Papa and Mama had looked helpless- ly at each other. Papa had waved his hands in a fashion peculiar to the Italian people. “Angeline, I’m through arguing. If you are so determined to go. you can do as you please." He started on his dessert and Angeline knew that the matter was closed. Now she was here, a part of that bright youthful crowd that hurried from class to class. But deep down inside she felt something was wrong—something that she couldn’t find. Yes—she was here, a part of that crowd. Yet she felt as if she didn’t belong. These thoughts were pushed away as a sleek grey convertible pulled up in front of the steps. She ran down the steps to the car, calling in a joking tone. "Jim Vandenberg. What do you mean by keeping me waiting so long ?” “Honestly. Angie. I'm sorry, but I just couldn’t make it any sooner, because that chemistry exam took so long. Hop in and we’ll try to make up for lost time.” “Vou're forgiven, Jim. You’re really only a few minutes late any— way. and I heard that the chemistry exam was really something." “You can say that again.” Jim glanced at the olive-skinned girl beside him. “You look extra lovely tonight, Angie. That's a pretty dress." “Thank you, Jim. I’m glad you like it. But do you think I look all right to meet your mother ?” She smoothed the yellow silk of the dress. “Angie, you look wonderful. I know mother will be glad to meet you. But say now. we’d better hurry if we plan to get home by six. Hang on. Angie. We can still make it.” _.w_
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 14
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: WRITER’S JOURNAL maybe jealous because mother used to make a fuss over me more than she did over Nanna. But that was because I had sick headaches all the time. One day, mother sent Nanna down to the basement to get a jar of apple sauce for supper. “Are there any mice in the basement ?” Nanna...
Show moreWRITER’S JOURNAL maybe jealous because mother used to make a fuss over me more than she did over Nanna. But that was because I had sick headaches all the time. One day, mother sent Nanna down to the basement to get a jar of apple sauce for supper. “Are there any mice in the basement ?” Nanna asked anxiously. “Don’t be silly,” mother answered. “Even if there were, they wouldn’t hurt you. Now go right down and get that sauce.” N anna came running into the living room where I was lying down on the davenport, reading. “Margy, will you go down the basement for me and get the sauce? You know I don’t dare because I’m scared there’re mice down there." “Oh, you’re crazy,” I said. “If mother asked you to go down after the sauce, she meant you. Besides, I’m lying down because I’ve got a headache and I’m not supposed to be running around doing your errands. Honestly, how many times do we have to tell you that a stupid mouse won’t hurt you." She didn’t say any more. but that funny frightened look came into her eyes, and I almost said I’d go. But then mother called again, “Nanna, haven’t you gone yet ?" I could hear Nanna’s light, reluctant steps on the stairway. Then I heard her stamping her feet on the cement floor like she always did just in case any mice would be in doubt about her being there. Then I didn’t hear any more. She didn’t come up for such a long time that finally mother called down. “What is the matter. Nanna? \Ve want that same for supper tonight, not tomorrow.” No answer. “Nanna. Nanna. Nanna. what is it ?” At last mother and I had to go down. We found her sitting on the stationary laundry tubs. trembling uncontrollably. She couldn't even say anything, at first. “I saw a mouse." she said after many minutes. And then she cried and cried. I wanted to laugh because she looked so funny sitting on the laundry tubs and crying, but I didn’t because she really looked scared, too. I remembered the time the Johnson’s big. black police dog jumped on me. He was only being friendly, Mrs. Johnson said. but I was terri— fied. Maybe that was how Nanna felt now. “This is simply ridiculous, Nanna. We’re going to have to get over this. Now get down off there and go upstairs and get washed ._.14__
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 21
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: LELAND SATEREN _ ence of mere animal spirit, it should be of a religious character." 3. If/when they are sung, they usually are sung very badly—per- functorily, coldly, frequently as dirges. 4. They are sometimes objected to as being “too serious.” To be sure, together with their texts, they are...
Show moreLELAND SATEREN _ ence of mere animal spirit, it should be of a religious character." 3. If/when they are sung, they usually are sung very badly—per- functorily, coldly, frequently as dirges. 4. They are sometimes objected to as being “too serious.” To be sure, together with their texts, they are serious in tone; but this is quite in order, for the matter at hand is serious. 5. Ignorance of what constitutes propriety in church music, of what kind of music will arouse genuine religious emotion and, generally, of why music has been admitted to the sanctuary. 6. The seeming aversion of many church-goers really to worship. That is, worship is a spiritual act: to worship is to act—to think, to con- centrate, to apply oneself physically, mentally, and spiritually. 7. Finally, in an effort to capture and maintain interest, there has beena well—meant but extremely dangerous tendency to conform to the likes and dislikes of the world. In short, we allow the world to deter- mine our hymn-singing conduct ; and to this many of our lighter hymns and choruses (in the name of spiritual warmth, evangelical fervor, etc.) have all but out-tin-panned Tin Pan Alley. While, in music and in text, the chorales are beyond reproach, it should be clear that hymns should not be chosen primarily for the esthe— tic gratification they may afford. On the other hand, we cannot expect- the children in Sunday school, for example, to maintain a healthy a‘tti-‘ tude toward the church (every whit sacrosanct—in theory, at least) if the music they hear in the public schools, over the radio, in the concert hall, or on their record players is superior in quality. In their own ways they will sense that God is deserving of music which is better than that produced by the world, and they will Wonder why their Sunday school teachers (and pastors) are willing to settle for less. Much the same may be said of our adult church-goers, for more and more they are becoming musically of age: they are no longer musi— cal ignoramuses. Most will insist they know nothing, about music( by which they mean they can’t play the piano), but they‘don’t walk around during the week with their ears plugged. They may listen to an ap- palling amount of musical drivel during the week. but they also. either by choice or by circumstance, hear a great deal of good music. The result often is that more parishioners than we suspect are forced to lower their sights as they listen to or participate in the hymn singing of their church. And if pressed for an objective evaluation,-they would be forced to admit the disparity in quality between many of their hymns (and choruses) and secular music—with excellence on the side of the __ZI__
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 08
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: WRITERS JOURNAL The \"andenberg home was built on grand proportions surrounded by grounds that showed the hand of an expert gardener. Angeline felt small and insignificant as Jim led her into the house. Mrs. Van- denberg bore down on them in apricot satin and pearls. Angeline sud- denly wished...
Show moreWRITERS JOURNAL The \"andenberg home was built on grand proportions surrounded by grounds that showed the hand of an expert gardener. Angeline felt small and insignificant as Jim led her into the house. Mrs. Van- denberg bore down on them in apricot satin and pearls. Angeline sud- denly wished she hadn't come. The yellow dress didn't seem quite so pretty and nice. “Mother, I’d like you to meet Angeline Crivello.” “How do you do, Angeline." Mrs. Vandenberg gazed at Angeline with expressionless eyes. Angeline felt as if the greeting were cold, but she tried to push these thoughts away as she told Mrs. Vandenberg how glad she was to know her. Dinner was a very strained affair with Jim anxiously trying to smooth things over. Mrs. Vandenberg's coldness seemed to grow into resentment. After dinner, Jim took Angeline into the library to show her a new book. “How about going for a ride tonight? The moon is out and the ocean will be at its best. I’ll hurry and get my keys." As he left, Angie gazed about the room at the expensive furniture and fine accessories. The splendor overwhelmed her. and she suddenly found hrself longing to be at home in the cheerful living room. waiting for Tony. Suddenly, Angeline stiffened. A door down the hall opened and Mrs. Vandenberg’s cold voice sent a chill through her. "But, Jim. I never thought you would pick up with an Italian ggirl! Just think! An Italian? They are a shiftless good for nothing bunch!” “Shh. mother. Don‘t say things like that. She‘s . . ." The door was closed and the voices disappeared. Angeline sat as if she were frozen to the spot. When Jim came into the room. she tried to act as if she hadn't heard, but when they were in the car. she couldn't keep it back any longer. “Iim. your mother doesn‘t like me because I’m an Italian and I . ." “Angie, I'm sorry you heard her say that. She has some queer ideas Angie, so forget it because it doesn’t make any difference to me." "Jim, I’m beginning to understand a lot of things now. The kids at college feel the same way because I’m an Italian. I thought something was wrong. but I thought that was because I was new. No. Iim. Let me finish. I know now that it isn’t. I just don’t belong here.” “Angie, please don’t talk that way. Thinks will be better. Sure there are always kids who get crazy ideas, but you . . .” __5_
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 18
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: LET’S USE THE CHORALES! The chorale has been called "the crowning glory of Protestant hymnody." It is generally recognized as the congregational song in its most perfect form. Someone once said that the chorales are “as un— erringi as the planets, as fresh as the sea-breeze in the morning, and as...
Show moreLET’S USE THE CHORALES! The chorale has been called "the crowning glory of Protestant hymnody." It is generally recognized as the congregational song in its most perfect form. Someone once said that the chorales are “as un— erringi as the planets, as fresh as the sea-breeze in the morning, and as nourishing and wholesome as roast beef or bread and butter." Musicians, when looking at the Chorale as music, see it as of towering strength and beauty. The peer of composers. johann Se- bastian Bach, paid tribute to more than three hundred of them by using them in his compositions. Their texts show the Word of God, pure and prominent. There is profoundly deep feeling, becoming reverence, noble exultation and lofty aspiration. When the chorale is sung correctly one will sense some of its centuries of unparalleled expressiveness and churchliness. Between music and text there is a unity of spirit rarely found in other branches of hymnody. In contrast to the crude, characterless. and often degrad- ing material frequently used in youth meetings, congregational and “at home” singing, the chorales are springs of wholesome appeal and mu- sical solidity—fit “instruments for the songs of God.” Yet, many have left them and substituted counterfeit (a substitu- tion which occurs with astonishing frequency even at Augsburg). Many young people today have neither heard nor sung a Chorale: and thus, often through no fault of theirs. have been denied the gem of beauty and worship which is the chorale. To say that there are no other hymns (even “lighter” hymns) of value is an impertinence: but to use the Chorale as the yardstick by which to judge the other hymns we use is to exclude the dross and sing the best. And among Christians. at least. it would seem inconceivable that there is any valid argument against singing the best. Let us not suppose that we enhance the attitude of worship or heighten religious fervor (the exclusive function of all church music) by selecting musically and textually inferior hymns, merely because they may allow of greater vigor, vivacity, volume. languidity. or lush har— monies. It is important that Christians show by their church music practice that drawing near to God, adoring. praising. surrendering, and praying “on wings of song” is not done by means similar to jukebox travesties and barn dance noises. Hence, the proposition: Let’s use the chorales! _18_
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 27
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: NO WAY SO LONG The earth lay tepid and listless under a late summer sky, its bosom heavy with ripened grain fields and maturing corn. The leaves of the trees, dust-covered after a long dry season, made pleasant whis— perings as they were stirred by some hot, stray wind from the west. Somewhere in...
Show moreNO WAY SO LONG The earth lay tepid and listless under a late summer sky, its bosom heavy with ripened grain fields and maturing corn. The leaves of the trees, dust-covered after a long dry season, made pleasant whis— perings as they were stirred by some hot, stray wind from the west. Somewhere in the woods to the right a hawk shrieked and presently emerged from the bank of green to curve and toss easily near the tips of the tallest elms. For a while, as the bird dipped gracefully above the trees, Jamie was afraid that its wings might fail and that at any moment all till> grace and beauty might crash into a tree and fall—and die. Suddenly and terrifyingly Jamie was brought back to his Here and Now. Grace and beauty disappeared from his mind: he turned his eyes from the sky. forced to realize again what, for a brief, beautiful in— stant, he had lost. He couldn’t focus his eyes. He didn't need to: the blurs and shadows around him he recognized~—the three Hubbarts. Big Bill Hubbart and his wife and son, Little Bill; Lawson Cailey and his wife Susie, who was carrying a bouquet of golden rod and brown-eyed daisies and flax blossoms which she had picked along the river-bottom. as she and Lawson came down that afternoon: and finally, there was the man in the baggy, black trousers and loose coat, standing at the head of the shallow. oblong hole reading words out of a little black hook—words that wouldn’t do his father any good now—in a deep voice that sounded like the water that sang low over the stones in \N’illow Creek. Hearing Elder Meharry made Jamie think of the time when the Elder was preaching down at Hacketsville: a long. long way from here and a long, long time ago. it seemed to Jamie. And when the Elder started to preach, Jamie remembered asking his dad if that was God and then dad had said . . . The pleasant memory came at a hard time. and an irrepressible sob fled past his tightly-closed lips. All the trying gone for nothing; for the tears welled up again. Jamie clenched Mrs. Hubbart’s hand more tightly and turned his aching body against her. his face buried deep in her gingham and pressed against the solidness of her thigh. Suddenly Elder Meharry’s drone paused and then ended with a Soft and breath-taking “Amen.” Jamie turned to look. The Elder’s thin, white head was bowed and his arms crossed over his black book which be pressed to his chest. Nobody moved and nobody spoke. Mr. Cailey _27_
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 15
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: PHEBE DALE for supper.” Suddenly Nanna felt a little silly. She crept sheepishly up the stairs. I ran into the fruit room and brought the jar of apple sauce upstairs and into the kitchen. “Aren’t you ashamed," mother called to Nana; “Margery is littler than you and she isn’t afraid of mice."...
Show morePHEBE DALE for supper.” Suddenly Nanna felt a little silly. She crept sheepishly up the stairs. I ran into the fruit room and brought the jar of apple sauce upstairs and into the kitchen. “Aren’t you ashamed," mother called to Nana; “Margery is littler than you and she isn’t afraid of mice." Mother told Daddy about it at the supper table that night. “Why, Nanna," he laughed gently. "You don't have to be afraid of mice. They Won‘t hurt you." Nanna was Daddy's pet. He was the one Wl’lu started calling her Nanna, even though her real name was JoAnne. The next day after school, Davey came home with a big cardboard box. He scuffled into the living room and set the box beside Nanna. “Here, Sis, open it." he said. “It’s for you.” Nanny looked sideways at both of us, and slowly untied the string. She lifted the cover, and then the box was on the floor and she was screaming. Two scared little white mice scattered over the rug. Nanna was on top of the piano bench now and her voice was raspy from screaming. It was a good thing mother wasn’t there or Davey would have caught it. Davey scooped up one of the trembling little things and carried it over to Nanna. “See, isn’t it cute? Aw gee, Nann, look at it. It won't hurt you.” I could tell Davey was really trying to be nice. Nanna had stopped screaming. She was holding her breath. and she could hardly talk. “Please, please, Davey. Please take them away. Please.” Now she was crying in long, hard sobs. When mother came home, Davey showed her the mice and told her about how scared Nanna had gotten. I think he was afraid that if he didn't tell her first. Nanna would and then he’d get it. But he didn’t need to worry. Nanna wanted those mice taken away, but she wasn’t a tattle—tale. “Mother, I know Davey wants me to like mice. but I just can’t and do we please have to have them in the house? Can't he take them hack to school. Mother? He can still look at them every day." Davey thought he should be able to keep them because after all M r. Millard had given them to him and wouldn’t it be a fine thingr if he brought them back. That would sure look grateful, all right. The mice stayed, but in the basement. Now it was even harder to get Nanna to go down for sauce or jam. We thought maybe she'd get used to having them around. But she never did. The night the Olsons came over was the worst. Mr. Olson was fat, over-bearing and red—cheeked like a little boy. His wife was a __15._
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 35
Collection: Literary Journals

Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 30
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: WRITER’S JOURNAL it . . . watched it yet as he heard Mr. Hubbart say they'd benei DC getting home . . . saw it swerVe towards the billow of green and soar upwards . . . saw it circle as goodbys were said with the Caileys. . Goodby . . . Goodby. . . . It was growing darker and the mysterious...
Show moreWRITER’S JOURNAL it . . . watched it yet as he heard Mr. Hubbart say they'd benei DC getting home . . . saw it swerVe towards the billow of green and soar upwards . . . saw it circle as goodbys were said with the Caileys. . Goodby . . . Goodby. . . . It was growing darker and the mysterious softness and gentle— ness of dusk was massing the woods into one big shadow. In the West the sky was red and yellow and green and blue. Mr. Hubbart picked up his spade and the four turned homewards. One last look at the Caileys, going down the edge of the field towards the river and then east along the fringe of another wall of green. . . . Unlike the preacher, the Caileys did not look back and wave. Susie jogged along on the horse as Lawson strode past the tall corn which Jamie's father had planted . . . past the stumps which lay across the path from the field . stumps Jamie's father had pulled out with Jud. their horse. Jamie wished that Susie had looked back and smiled and waved. Suddenly he thought of the hawk and turned quickly to the west woods. It was hard to see in the twilight shadows. Jamie stopped a moment to hunt for the bird; the Hubbarts kept on walking. But it was gone . . . it had fled. He couldn’t see it any longer . . . circling and swerving . . . dipping and gliding. . . Jamie turned and ran, a more terrible gust of grief welling up within him and the tears blinding him. Mrs. Hubbart looked back. “Come, Jamie,” she said softly. “We’ve got to hurry. . long way home.” . It’s a —BR\'CE SI—IOEMAKER BOOK REVIEWS THE VVRITER’s BOOK, presented by The Authors Guild; edited by Helen Hull. xiv. 355 pp. Harpers & Brothers Publishers, 1950. “The I’Vriter's Boo}? presents Hull in the Foreword to the an unusual assembly of writers book. And the list of contribu— of our time. men and women whose names are among the most distinguished and the most fa— miliar in the profession of writ— ing, as contemporary as tele— vision and the secrets of the atom. as well established as the Nobel Award." Thus writes .‘inss tors is impressive: Pearl Ruck. Thomas Mann. John Hersey. Rex Stout. W. H. Auden, Paul Gallico, Lionel Trilling—to men- tion only a few. The book ought to be a valuable and usable vol— ume for all sorts of people. especially for would-be writers. _3()_
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 20
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: VVRITER'S JOURNAL all it is claimed to be, why isn't it used. if not exclusively, at least more widely than it is ?" The answer is of many parts. Edward Dickinson suggests that the Chorale of the 16th and 17th centuries began to fade as religious fervor waned. False tastes crept into the church:...
Show moreVVRITER'S JOURNAL all it is claimed to be, why isn't it used. if not exclusively, at least more widely than it is ?" The answer is of many parts. Edward Dickinson suggests that the Chorale of the 16th and 17th centuries began to fade as religious fervor waned. False tastes crept into the church: hymn tunes took on a quality of effeminacy and sentimentality in no way related to genuine religious emotion; harmonies and melodies were fashioned upon the prettiness and languishing graces of Italian opera; they inclined strongly to the light, artificial strains of the then “fash- ionable" world. Not until there is a revival of spirituality, says Dick- inson, the equal of that which shook the world of the Reformation, will the Chorale be sung again or will a worthy successor arise. There are other reasons why the chorales aren't used. Here are seven: 1. Many of them are relatively unknown, and we don't tend to sing what we don’t know. Familiarity is not only the music lover’s, but also the Chorale lover‘s, first commandment. 2. Often those charged with the responsibility of selecting and leading the congregational singing operate on the assumption (usually passed on by oral tradition) that the Chorale is not liked (as if whether it is liked or not is the final test of a good hymn) and. therefore, it is difficult to “put over.” a. This is especially true when the leaders deal with the children in Sunday and parochial school. They will be assuming that the child must be treated as an adult of lowest intelligence, and then proceed to feed him the lollipops which grace the “Children’s Section" of most hymnals. \Ve ought never to forget that the child. whose mind is not bound by the prejudices of adults. will sing and will love to sing the good as well as the inferior: and that, excepting a few, there are no hymns which are too diffi- cult for the technical ability and the appreciation of the child. Often what the children are asked to sing is much more diffi— cult than the good they should have sung. The quality and use— fulness of the music employed in church schools is not neces- sarily determined by the vigor and loudness with which it is performed. The Sunday school is not a pep fest, and its music ought to make the difference clear. \Vorshipful singing should be joyful and fervent. but always reverent. “Religious devo- tional joy," as Joseph Ashton points out, “is not sheer excite— ment. nor iis it the same as secular enjoyment. The singing should have animation and spirit: but rather than the evuber- _30_
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 34
Collection: Literary Journals

Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 28
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: \NR‘ITER’S JOURNAL shifted his feet, Jamie looked from one face to another. Everybody was looking down except Susie Cailey: she had turned and was looking over towards the wall of trees which marked the limit of James Little's fields. Jamie followed her gaze and saw that the hawk had returned and...
Show more\NR‘ITER’S JOURNAL shifted his feet, Jamie looked from one face to another. Everybody was looking down except Susie Cailey: she had turned and was looking over towards the wall of trees which marked the limit of James Little's fields. Jamie followed her gaze and saw that the hawk had returned and was soaring. down towards the trees again. “Well . . It was the Elder‘s voice. “Well? Now? . . . .” Mr. Hubbart looked up at the Elder and then at the spade which lay beside the pile of dirt, yellow on top and black on the bottom. The Elder nodded and Mr. Hubbart went over and picked up the grade. Mr. Williams glanced up with a start and then quickly walked over and put his hand out for the spade. “Let me. . . You dug.” Mr. Hubbart gave up the spade silently and Mr. Williams stuck it into the soft earth. A shovelful of clay came up and went down. The coffin resounded hollowly. Susie Cailey started forward and laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “Lawson . . The next shovelful went down carefully and the dirt only rustled on the wood. So this was Death: :1 great loneliness descended on Jamie. Quiet cries tore at his throat and he hurriedly brushed his rough shirt sleeve over his eyes. “Jamie,” Elder Meharry came the short distance from the grave to the boy. He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and bent over. “Jamie, you’re but a lad . . .” He hesitated. “Try and be a man now. Jamie. A man like your father . . . big and strong and not afraid. Your father was a Q'OOd man: but God saw fit to take him home." Home? . . . Where but here? "Your father'll be watching from heaven to see that his boy grows up to be the way he wants him to . . . like I want you to. But. Jamie . . . you're much too young to go on alone from here. You'll need some- body to help you along for a while yet." Jamie nodded. biting his lip and looking down. He prodded a stone with his foot. . . And you know of no one of your father's kin that’s near?" the Elder asked gently. Jamie shook his head to a question that had already been asked of him that morning. No one. no one. . Elder .Vleharry pursed his lips and smiled reassuringly. “Mr. _28_
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 32
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: WRITER’S JOURNAL men in the field, the book con- tains a highly satisfactory selec- tion of American writings from the colonial period to the present time. All of the major writers are included; but the minor authors are not omitted. It is in the selec— tion of representative works, however. that...
Show moreWRITER’S JOURNAL men in the field, the book con- tains a highly satisfactory selec- tion of American writings from the colonial period to the present time. All of the major writers are included; but the minor authors are not omitted. It is in the selec— tion of representative works, however. that the book is out- standing: no other one—volume anthology is as rich in literary types. Ballads, folklore, the drama, and the novel are included together with the customary poems, short stories. and essays. The editors have divided American literature into six per- iods: The English Colonies (1588-1765), The New Republic (1765-1829). The A m e r i c an Renaissance (1829—1860), The Civil War (1850—1865), The Rise of Modern America (1865— 1914), and USA. (1914 to the present). Each period is intro- duced by a chapter on “Intel- lectual Currents" and “Literary Trends”; these essays are espec— ially helpful in relating the lit- erature to the history of the time. Biographical sketches disclose the more important aspects of the authors’ lives, and brief in- troductions to the various selec— tions give added insight into the works. Sufficient footnotes are included to explain the more dif- ficult allusions and passages. The only criticism one can make is that once in a while the editors tell too much of the article, re- veal too much of the story or poem's interpretation. Attractive in format with type that is easy to read, the book has an added attraction in its abund- ance of authentic illustrations. A study of American litera— ture can be very rewarding to the college student: from the pens of American literary mas— ters the student can obtain added insights into the problems of life; he can acquaint himself with the history of American thought. There are many books he can read, many anthologies he can page through; but in The Lit- erature of the United States he can get one of the clearest and most balanced presentations avail- able. THIs GENERATION, Revised Edition, by George K. Anderson and Eda Lou Walton. xv, 1065 pp. Scott, Foresman, and Company, 1949. No person can hope to read all of the literature that rolls off the presses year after year; at best he can make but a small begin— ning. Yet there are ways of keep— ing in touch with the various literary currents and trends, the outstanding authors. An anthol- ogy can be of great help: if it is well prepared, if its selections are well chosen: it will give the reader an insight into the chief movements of the period. This Generation will prov1de the reader with an insight into the more significant British and American works written during the period from 1914 to 1948. Much could be said for and against the selections the auth- ors have made. Here it is suffi- cient to recommend this anthol— ogy of contemporary literature. _32_
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 06
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: VVRJITER‘S JOURNAL Angeline turned just in time to see the dark skinned, dark-eyed Tony leave the market. Tony had been an ever-attentive admirer. At first Angeline had scored his attentions, but true to feminine nature, she later became interested in him. Papa and Mama Crivello liked Tony and...
Show moreVVRJITER‘S JOURNAL Angeline turned just in time to see the dark skinned, dark-eyed Tony leave the market. Tony had been an ever-attentive admirer. At first Angeline had scored his attentions, but true to feminine nature, she later became interested in him. Papa and Mama Crivello liked Tony and fondly hoped that some day he and Angeline would be married. Tony didn’t want her to go to college. He had told her she would change if she went away to school. Angeline thought of these things as she watched his tall form hurry down the wharf. Life was so mixed up. She sighed as she turned to a customer with a “May I help you please?" That night, Tony arrived promptly at eight. As he and Angie stepped out into the warm grey twilight, he said, “I hope you don't want to go anywhere special tonight, Angeline. I thought we could maybe walk out to the point. O.K. ?" Angie nodded and so they turned seaward. The palms and weather-worn cyprus trees were a black etching against the blue-grey twilight sky. The air was full of the scent of roses and that salty breeze from the sea. Tony led Angeline down a stairway to a secluded beach below. The restless tide heaved itself again and again on the sand near them. “Angeline—Angeline. You can't go away. Yes—I know. I’ve said it before. But just think how you’ll change. When you come home from college will you want to go rowing in the battered boat? Or will you be willing to help me mend a fishy-smelling net? Or will you be glad to see me when I'm wearing dirty fishing boots and old jeans? You won't be the Angeline that I know any more." “Don't talk like that, Tony. You know that wouldn’t happen. I’d never get like that. And you know, Tony. the more you and the folks try to keep me from going, the more I want to go." Tony looked at her with anxious eyes. “Angeline, I . . .” “Let's not talk about it any more. The Inn’s open and we can get something to eat. Come on. I'm starved!" Angeline took Tony by the arm as they ran up the steps and across the road to the Inn. The burst of young voices that greeted them seemed to change their moods. and they smiled gaily at each other. As they sat waiting for their order, Angeline’s eyes fell on a sign propped up on the juke box in the corner. It read. “\Naitress Wanted. See manager.” Thoughts and ideas were whirling in her mind. If she had her own money and paid for college herself. no one could stop her. It would be her own money. If only she muld net that job. “Angeline. how many times do I have to ask you if you are ready _4_
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 26
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: WHITER’S JOURNAL myself up my knee joints cracked. I gripped my chair until my vision cleared. Then the whirling in my head modified; it slowed down and became dull and strong. It was as if there were a mechanism inside my head, a very compact mechanism that was grinding, slowly and silently. I...
Show moreWHITER’S JOURNAL myself up my knee joints cracked. I gripped my chair until my vision cleared. Then the whirling in my head modified; it slowed down and became dull and strong. It was as if there were a mechanism inside my head, a very compact mechanism that was grinding, slowly and silently. I know I am drawing to some kind of a climax in this mysterious subduction. I cannot go on much longer without breaking—without falling into—0r out of this . . . I don’t know what it is. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! . . . The chair . . . the chair . . the upholstered chair . . . In— coherent thoughts. . . Anticipation. . . Electricity playing in an end- less, ominous sky . . . —RAY HOLDEN
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 31
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: GERALD THOR’SON The subjects enumerated in the Table of Contents are even more intriguing than the list of authors: What is a Good Novel, and What Is It Good For? The Novel of Contemporary History, The Novel as Social Criticism, Conflict and Plot, Writing for the Women’s Magazines, Tech- niques...
Show moreGERALD THOR’SON The subjects enumerated in the Table of Contents are even more intriguing than the list of authors: What is a Good Novel, and What Is It Good For? The Novel of Contemporary History, The Novel as Social Criticism, Conflict and Plot, Writing for the Women’s Magazines, Tech- niques of the Modern Short Story, How to Write for Slicks, Writing for the Younger Gen- eration, W ritin g Biography, Writing for Television. But all is not measured by titles. For The Writer's Book fails to measure up to the claims Miss Hull makes for it in her Fore- word. Like so many books of multiple authorship, this one suf- fers from lack of continuity of purpose. It tries to say too much. and the result is that it says little or nothing. Of course, Miss Hull states that “The Writer’s Book does not promise to answer all questions about writing or to settle all problems.” Miss Hull is very truthful: it doesn’t. But she would have been more accur- ate had she omitted the all in her statement. The various articles in this book do nothing more than re— state the well known generalities and pleasantries connected with writing and authorship. The reader should not expect to be illuminated; he probably will not even be inspired. To catalog all of the disap- pointments which this book pro- vides would require too much space. Most of the writings suf- fer from lack of content; some also suffer from poor writing. “Writing for the young people of today has to take into account some of the things we have done to them." What a sentence! And that is the opening statement of Miss Robinson’s article on \Vriting for the Younger Gen— eration. Certainly no such sen— tence would get past the red pen» Ci] of a freshman composition teacher; but perhaps Miss Rob~ inson “writes with such zest" that it is excusable. However. her suggestions are even more hopeless: “The first question then that faces the writer for young people is—Do you know enough?” The article does not get beyond this stage. Leonora Speyer, “gracious and distinguished poet," has an ar- ticle just as inane as Miss Robin- son’s; but Miss Hull thinks that Miss Speyer. like Robert Frost, is “not a teacher, but an awak- ener." Miss Speyer’s article would suggest that she is neither. Maybe writing cannot be taught: The W riter’s Book seems to affirm that conclusion. THE LITERATURE or THE UNITED STATES, Single Volume Edition, by 1313 pp. Scott, Foresman, and Company, 1949. Walter Blair, Theodore Hornberger, and Randall Stewart. xviii, The student who is looking for a comprehensive yet selective anthology of American literature can make no better purchase than The Literature of the United States.‘ Edited by three of the top _31_
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Title: Writer's Journal 1950, Page 09
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: JOAN BAXTER “Listen, Jim. I’m beginning to see the big mistake I‘ve made. I don’t belong here at all. It’s too sophisticated and high tone for me here. I belong back in Monterey in the fish market and helping Mama and Papa and going out with Tony. Jim, I’m going home.” >l= * * The warm sun shone...
Show moreJOAN BAXTER “Listen, Jim. I’m beginning to see the big mistake I‘ve made. I don’t belong here at all. It’s too sophisticated and high tone for me here. I belong back in Monterey in the fish market and helping Mama and Papa and going out with Tony. Jim, I’m going home.” >l= * * The warm sun shone on the grey wharf jutting out into the blue bay. In the doorwa of a fish market stood a dark Italian girl watch- ing the white fishing boats bobbing on the waves. A dark-skinned young man rounded the corner and the girl waved a greeting. “Hi, Tony. Was the fishing good last night P” “It certainly was, Angeline. We pulled in at least two ton. Going to be home tonight?” Angeline nodded. “I’ll be up around eight. Be seeing you.” He hurried down the wharf. Angeline’s dark eyes followed him as he disappeared. Then she turned back itno the shaded warmth of the fishmarket. JOAN BAXTER “. . . Your words become ridiculous, when you‘say, that often a man who knows evil to be evil, practises it nevertheless, when he is not obligated to practise it, from being led and carried out of himself by pleasures; and when, on the other hand, you say, that the man who knows what is good, does not choose to practice it. . .” PLATO, from the Protagoras
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