Editors: John Harvey, Christine Moir

Typographer: Vanya Lowry

We acknowledge the valuable assistance of Christopher Gordon-Craig in the embryo stages of the creation, and of Jim Chappie for proof-reading. We should also like to thank Sir Douglas Robb, Pro-fessor Nalden, Professor Toy and Professor Zagorsky for obtaining illustratory material. Our deep thanks go to the University Council for their generous financial assistance and to the University Bookshop for help in distribution.

Printed by Wakefield Press Ltd.

Published by the Auckland University Students' Assn.

Body Type in 10pt Electra, 8pt and 10th Gothic.

Headings in 18pt and 24pt Vogue Bold Condensed.

60th JUBILEE FOR KIWI 'Kiwi' '65 has not been devoted solely to literary work. For this we do not apologise. This year's issue was intended to celebrate the 60th Jubilee of the inception of 'Kiwi', and as such was to be representative of the bulk of the issues since 1905. The magazine was originally a vehicle for student opinion and creative writing, and a yearbook of the major events and controversies in the academic year. 'Craccum' superceded its news function and the literary content gradually ousted opinion and discussions of import issues.

However, a Jubilee issue gave us an excellent opportunity for reintroducing such items. Consequently this issue contains articles on major issues like a Conservatorium in N.Z., modern trends in Architecture and a discussion of the psycho-analysis of literature. At the same as discursive articles died out, so did art reproduction. This was due partly to finance and partly again to the power of the English Department. Once again a Jubilee issue gave us the excuse to reinsert such work.

A magazine like 'Kiwi' is readily adaptable for a wide range of topics, and we hope that future isues will continue with a similar format even on reduced budgets. 'Kiwi' has never purported to be a Literary Society magazine; it is more correctly the annual survey of creative work and opinion among students and staff members of Auckland University. It is a unique guide to University opinion and expression.

Christine Moir. John Harvey

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CONTENTS

Page

Confessions of Two Editors — T . Curnow and T. Snow 6

The Universitosis Syndrome 8

A Note on Auckland University Student Publications — J . C. Reid 11

A Conservatorium of Music Within the University — Charles Nalden 14

Fifteen Years Hard with Drama Society — Sydney Musgrove 18

Students at "The Ox" — Douglas Robb 20

A Building That Can Grow Upwards — R. H. Toy 24 Empirical Thinking and Literary Analysis -— K. E. Bensley 28 Two Inca Cities — David Swan 32 Editorial 41 Two Fragments — Vanya Lowry 42 Vietnam — Anon 44 Concert — Wendy Catley 47 Rotorua — M. K. Joseph 48 Trapdoor — M. K. Joseph 49 A Letter from Paradise — Albert Wendt 50 Two Poems — R. J. Matthews 52 At Dusk — William Millett 54 What Godot May Bring — John Lapsley 55 Grotesques — Kendrick Smithyman 56 Coffee Blues — Ctwo Huoh 58 Dying Lament — Ctwo Huoh 59 Weekend Seminar — Cam 60 At the End of Summer — J im Chappie 61 Burial — 1. Wedde 68 Never Love A Misfit — G. Bridgeman 70 The Eleventh Commandment — J .R.H. 71 World Situation, 18 October, 1964 — Peter Gibbons 72 The Water Cure — Peter Gibbons 72 The Lawyer — Vladimir Oxborough 73 Progress — 1. Wedde 76 Nocturne — Malcolm Kennedy 77 Love May Not Be Blind — Mike Morrissey 78 Trees — L. S. W. Duncan 79 Thought — L. S. W. Duncan 79 Hawk — L. S. W. Duncan 79 Rangitoto — Nikki Buckland 80 The Doctors' Field Day — Kathleen Leslie 81 Ancient Recipes 84 A Drunk Man Fears His Soul — Con O'Leary 85

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ILLUSTRATIONS

Page

"Thus Sparing Themselves the Expense of Spinners" — Garth Tapper 15

"Harts and Hinds are exceedingly delighted with it" — Garth Tapper 17

"The Ox" — Photo courtesy Douglas Robb 21

Lecture Room at "The Ox" — Photo courtesy Douglas Robb 23

A Building That Can Grow Upwards — Study model by Trevor Ibbotson 25

Architectural design by R. H. Toy 26

Architectural design by R. H. Toy 27

Macchu Pisu I — Photo David Swan 33

II — Photo David Swan 34

III — Photo David Swan 35

IV — Photo David Swan 36

Pisac I — Photo David Swan 38

II — Photo David Swan 39

"Woman" — Vanya Lowry 43

Vietnam 44-45

Concert — Wendy Catley 47

"Below the Earth and Above the Sky" — Murray Grimsdale 53

Watcher — Murray Grimsdale 60

Burial — Vanya Lowry 69

Cartoon (A.U. Executive) — Hamish Levack 85

5

CONFESSIONS OF TWO EDITORS OF KIWI, 1963

K I W I , the literary magazine of the University of Auckland had not appeared in 1962 and the Literary Society of this same University had been defunct for almost two years. This to us was a disgusting state of affairs, and led us to deciding that in 1963, our second year at the University, we would resurrect both Literary Society and the literary magazine of the biggest University in the country.

The summer vacation saw the start of our work. Firstly we delved into the past, what was the first K I W I of 1905 like? what was it like in the 1920s, 30s, and 40s, we were curious. In the New Zealand room of the University library we dug out the bound volumes of K I W I from 1905 up until the last issue of 1961. From a University magazine, not unlike the school magazine of today with: art work, poetry, prose, sports clubs and society reports, team

{>hotos etc., K I W I over the years became a literary guide not only for the University of Auck-and but for the whole literary scene in New Zealand. Its function over the last ten years has

been to represent the best in student writing at the University at the given time of publica-tion. Its duties have been to expose the university's creative writing to the criticism of not only the Auckland University but also to the Universities in the Southern centres. In carrying out these duties various editors have been responsible for the transportation and deliverance of K I W I S 1960, 1961, and 1963 to the other Universities and to the annual Student's Arts Fes-tival. There K I W I would be stroked and pawed over by bums, egotistical literary geniuses and general plucked to the marrow of its bones (if it had any that year).

W e as future editors thought big, but soon realised the short comings of this. W e needed the raw material, COPY, and we had no idea of where it would come from. Leaving ourselves aside, as our policy as editors was not to publish our own work no matter how desperate we were, there was very little material available. From this realisation we decided that if the material was not available we wouldn't publish. As far as K I W I 1963 was concerned, if published it was to be entirely made up of student contribution, and for this reason we did not approach any outsiders or members of the university staff in an effort to bolster bad or inadequate student copy. Appealing for material by word and mouth was the only way. W e called for copy in articles and adverts in the student news-paper, on every newsletter to members of the literary society. At every meeting of Literary we announced at the beginning and end of each session that copy was urgently required, 'see your name in print' and other such slogans were brandished at them. W e thought that we had the students of literature at Auckland University pretty well covered, but in reality we had not.

Deciding of the final copy went through two stages, one easier than the other. Firstly we took the copy as a whole and separated that which would plainly be an embarrassment to publish, this left us with very little to work on. As far as the prose was concerned we had two short stories and two critical articles. As they were they had potential, but needed considerable tightening up and tidying. One critical article on second thoughts we rejected and the second one, a critical article on Lowell was sent back, along with our recommenda-tions, and were promptly returned to us in their re-hashed form. One on second writing was rejected and the other was accepted and published, 'Aanata' by Tim Heath. This then was the prose representation from the University of Auckland for the year nineteen hundred and sixty three.

6

Poetry was far more abundant and it seemed to us that it was far easier to write bad verse than bad prose. The good and bad verse of the copy submitted was very easy to dis-tinguish in the initial stages of selection. W e didn't lay any heavy emphasis on verse which 'had something to say' but rather on the verse which no matter what it had to say, or how insignificant the statement was, said it well. W e were looking for verse that was clear, precise and not cluttered up with vague abstractions, verse which was not just vehicles for the personal frustrations or narratives of ones sexual experiences. Our standards were some-what ideal resulting in a very small issue of K I W I in 1963.

There were a number of basic things which should not be left out in producing a small magazine, a good cover, realistic typography, table of contents, clear layout, notes on contributors, and the essential acknowledgements. Of course an editorial is essential as it lays down the (or it should to some extent) reasons and policy by which the editors made their choice. All this can be done to perfection leaving no room for criticism whereas the contents of any magazine is always left wide open. As far as the basics of a little publication are concerned we had a rough idea of how we envisaged it as a finished article but for the moulding of these ideas into something approaching practicality we enlisted the aid of the best typographer this country has ever had, Robert Lowry. Many long hours were spent de-ciding on the final format for the cover, title page, table of contents, what type would be used for the body of the type, title faces, whether sanserif or serif, upper or lower case for this and that. Mr Lowry was also our liaison between ourselves and the printer, Whit-combe and Tombs for whom he was working at the time. Finally the galley proofs were ready and we had the pleasure of pasting up under the expert guidance of Robert Lowry. Here again we combined our forces and the final result satisfied all three of us. With all corrections made on the galley proofs and the copy pasted up in the planned order of appearance all the material was returned to the printers. The cover and the frontispiece were left entirely to the discretion of the typographer. The only stipulation we made as edi-tors was that the cover would consist of white lettering on a black background.

K I W I 1963, in no time was rolling off the press.

- T . C U R N O W

- T . S N O W

7

THE UNIVERSITOSIS SYNDROME Recently published reports on the University indicate that a serious examination of

this body is necessary to diagnose and if possible treat the insalubrious conditions now un-fortunately pandemic in this institution. The general nature of the University body's afflic-tion may perhaps be determined by reference to its essential members, particularly the head, where the pathological state already indicated by the presence of a registrar and num-erous doctors, is confirmed when it is noted that the nervous centre of the University body in Auckland is located in a former private hospital named Mt. Pleasant: "pleasant" here used in the sense of "hilarious from drink." A set of symptoms known popularly as the Univer-sity's syndrome (this referring doubtless to the various counselling activities of the admini-strative arm) is chronic here, manifesting itself in the mental activities carried on under the nose of the Vice Chancellor, or behind his back.

In order to comment on these activities, we are obliged, in accordance with normal clinical practice, to adopt an overall classification of the prevalent ills (excepting here, for practical reasons, the University Council already referred to) . The local disorders of the body will be examined in the following order: congenital, traumatic and mechanical, infec-tious and circulatory. Our classification, like many, will include, finally, a miscellaneous sec-tion.

The term "congenital disease" refers to defects in the structure and organisation of a body at the time of birth; it is commonly applied, as well, to such conditions as lack of members and imbalance of faculties. Cursory examination reveals numerous structural weak-nesses in the University body, not all merely skin-deep. These weaknesses, which are the re-sult of a "lack of care and affection on the part of the parent" or directing body, are made more critical by the non-presence (abbreviated in scientific terminology to nonsense) of existing local conditions, which, far from offering a healthy climate, are responsible rather for the slow rate of growth of the University body as an integral part of our society, com-posed, as it is, of many local bodies.

This general weakness is reflected too, in the relationship between the various mem-bers of the body: lack of convenient channels of communication tends to nullify the con-tribution of specific members to the overall well-being of the whole. Cases which come to mind( and which may well come to a head shortly, if we correctly interpret a pronounced redness in certain inferior members) are the research-teacher and language-science relation-ships, not to mention student-university and local body relationships.

It is appropriate to note here one specific weakness characteristic of the Univer-sity body, haemophilia, a hereditary tendency to bleeding, often following shock. Local bodies generally are so affected. One local body in particular, whose declared function it is to act as an antibody, bleats profusely following shocking action on the part of student and University bodies: "And there was a bleating and flailing and thrashing of chiefs." Typical pronouncements, frequently heard, refer to "those bleeding students", of which the more popular variant is "those b . . . . students." A further comment in connection with this syndrome; it is faintly odd to have to bleed a member — in this case the student — for the puipose of repairing congenital structural conditions, thereby causing disunion, when an in-fusion from the national body is liable to be more beneficial to members generally, who other-wise may be bled white. Unfortunately it is true that there is often no known cure for con-genially determined weaknesses.

Traumatic conditions are those resulting from external events or actions. Common causes of trauma are operations, generally conducted with the authority of the registrar. Traumatic, or shocking conditions are in evidence at various points; surgery can take the form of attempts to relieve pressure on members of the body by the erection of temporary

8

structures. Too often shock results when insufficient thought is given to completing these structures, or to adapting them for the University's needs, taking into account its overall con-dition and make-up. The impression made by such visual eye-sores is emphasised by the shocking appearance of some individual members, including such inferiors as the bums an d heels currently underfoot.

Another physical cause of trauma is exposure to excessive heat. In the case of the University, this heat results from contact with the hot air of local bodies, including not-able anti-bodies. One remedy suggested to lower the temperature is sudden voluntary im-mersion in a large expanse of aqueous solution.

Other conditions are caused by mechanical factors. A remark may be made, under this head, about the presence of foreign bodies in the University body; these, like tumours, are of two types, benign and malignant. Examples of the former type are found scattered throughout the various faculties, replacing local members suffering from such diseases as elephantiasis (which is characterised by a packing-up of trunks prior to evacuation from the body), or as a result of imperfect local reproduction. This latter condition may well be caused by the impotence of the national body. More difficult to treat, although relatively easy to spot, are malignant foreign bodies, whose observed purpose it is not to ensure the efficient functioning of the University body but rather to obstruct its various members. Such foreign bodies require careful but excisive treatment, particularly as there is often the risk of infection.

More serious conditions are likely to follow another manifestation of mechanical ob-struction: that is, external pressure and interference affecting the normal functioning of the body. To choose one example from many, a tumour or obstruction in the oesophagus may result in considerable restriction on the freedom of speech, little communication being possible between the different local bodies and with the national body (particularly when in labour). This condition is chronic here where local antibody pressure interferes with normal University expression. One possible treatment which is available, and has in fact been applied by various members, is to isolate the body so affected; an ivory tower is popular for this purpose. However doctors should note that the resultant complications are liable to be difficult to treat and may result in the dismemberment of the body concerned.

Turning now to a consideration of infectious diseases, we must note first that these may be of two types: acute and chronic. Infection is commonly caused by the presence in the body of an infecting agent which may be either a virus or a bacteria. One significant bacterial class is known as coccus, the plural of which is cocci (as in cowcocci, defined as one who is fed up with female bull). Two varieties are of chronic status in the,University body: the streptococci or prisoner bacteria (so called because they appear in chains), which affect members of the body whose activities are restricted by bonds of one kind or another, of ten depending on the student's craft, or studentship; and the staphylococci, which occur in groups. Acute inflammation concentrated in particular parts of the body, often near the head, indicates the presence of a staph problem. It is remarkable that this is often con-nected with deficiencv diseases: staph and starve—"suffer from lack of lettuce"—are cognates. Whether the staph situation can be improved by the artificial insemination of the com-modities now in short supply remains to be seen. In this connection, it is appropriate to mention the presence of allergies. The term currently refers to things harmless to normal persons but which provoke abnormal reactions in sensitive persons — an emotional disturb-ance may predispose to the allergic state (of mind). Such infections are found in many local bodies including those antibodies already noted in the haemophiliac situation. By their failure to handle examinations and lectures certain parties in the student/teacher body manifest symptoms of allergia travailia, an allergy to labour in all its forms.

Circulatory disorders and degeneration are chronic in many senile or top-heavy bod-ies, taking the form, as far as the University b ody is concerned, of multiple sclerosis, or mor-bid hardening of the intellectual arteries. This condition is further complicated by the thrombotic nature of the circulatory system, ch aracterised as it is by the presence of clots at all levels in the body. Circulatory problems affect every component of the body, since the health of each depends on the availability of an adequate supply of food and oxygen. The evaluation of the symptoms is entrusted to the professorial staff; however, discussion is diffi-

9

cult in that mental pabulum and oxygen, "clear breath from academe," are often revealed, as a result of examination (generally conducted in November, the "ninth" month, when gestation is presumed to be complete) to be so much undigestible hot air. Treatment of this condition is urgent, but unfortunately those in a position to eliminate this failing are sus-ceptible to allergia criticism a critical condition commonly found in the senescent.

Mention should be made here of one of the most important and commonest diseases in medicine: tension. There is a strong familial tendency in many cases, and excessive strain, especially mental strain, plays a part in the development of hypertension. A common cause, in the University context, is the mass of inter-departmental course regulations (abbreviated to inter-course relations) which results in tension between members. A partial cure is possible, as indicated by the existence of a department of University extension. However, members are advised to take a stern view of tnis condition, which, when it rears its head, is certain to get you in the end. In the words of the sage-femme: if it doesn't cop you soon, it'll cop you late.

W e arrive finally at the end of our tether; under miscellaneous disorders can con-veniently be noted deficiency diseases, particularly water deficiency. It is well known that 70% of body weight takes the form of water, a commodity essential to life and growth. Causes of this deficiency are two in number: no regular intake, and excessive loss. Symptoms include thirst, dry tongue, inelastic skin, sunken eyes, eventually acute renal failure. It is essential that the University body keep abreast of the latest developments; regular contribu-tions from the community chest would certainly keep it in better shape, yet at the mom-ent we are all behind. Ingenio et labore may then be freely rendered "develop or bust," where development depends on lettuce and bust on local support.

There is one very effective remedy for this deficiency, particularly in the context of a University discussion: that is, an increase of water intake (leading to the absence of the symp-toms), usually in the form of a water-based food, such as lettuce. This commodity does not grow on trees, unfortunately, and is lacking in sufficient quantity ever to slake thirst. Fur-ther, the distribution and the availability of lettuce to the various members of the body require urgent consideration. However, even if the primary cause were eliminated, excessive loss (from bleeding) would continue to weaken the University's impact on the national body.

To conclude: in connection with this discussion of the University body, stress has been placed on the physical aspects of disease. Mental failures, resulting in insanity and impaired faculties (eg. loss of freedom of speech) result frequently from problems of adjustment to environmental factors. In a material world, the physical conditions the mental. If "ex-isting conditions are likely" to continue, who will diagnose our mental condition?

10

A NOTE ON AUCKLAND UNIVERSITY STUDENT PUBLICATIONS

J. C. REID

There are two main ways of looking at University student publications of past years. The first fixes on the ephemeral nature of what seemed at the time to be world-shaking is-sues and on the dated character of much of the literary material. The other recognizes in the topical debates a valuable training-ground for men and women, who were later, in fact, to concern themselves with genuinely important issues, in the more general material the persist-ence of characteristic student attitudes and in the "creative writing" the first efforts of sev-eral writers who brought early promise to triumphant fruntion.

In the files of Auckland student publications, among much that is jejune and long since dead, there does survive some writing which has more than historical interest. A de-tailed analysis of the literary trends in these publications is beyond my scope in these notes, although I feel that such an investigation would be worth undertaking. I want merely to give a simple historical account of the origin and development of student papers since their beginning almost seventy years ago. Kiwi is the more interesting of the major publications; Craccum for all the historical value of its early pages, is less significant on the literary side, for, despite periods of "Literary Pages" and "Literary Supplements", it has always been prim-arily the chronicler of small beer.

Yet Kiwi was not originally a mainly literary magazine; in its first form it was in-tended to serve simply as a record of University student activities, something like a second-ary school annual. Neither was it Auckland's first publication. In 1891, eight years after Auck-land University College opened, the Students Association was founded, and in the same year, Mr E. K. Mulgan, father of Alan Mulgan, was appointed editor of a Review. I have been unable to trace a copy of such a paper, so cannot tell whether it ever appeared.

Seven years later, in August 1898, the first number of The Collegian, "the Official Organ of the A.U.C. Students' Association", was published. It was a magazine of some 34 small pages chiefly recording College happenings; there were "College Notes", with often irreverent comments on both staff and students and more solemn pieces on "The Univer-sity and the Community" and "Women of the College". The Collegian editorial committee included Miss Cecil Hull, later a well-known teacher and broadcaster, Alan Mulgan, later to be novelist, essayist, poet and journalist, and P. S. Ardern, later Associate Professor of Eng-lish at Auckland — all now deceased. The Collegian survived for four years only and failed for lack of copy.

After a gap in 1902, a new magazine Martre Nostro, edited by Miss M. H. Metcalf, was issued in 1903. It was the production of the Ladies'Militant of the College, who claimed that the Collegian had failed by being too much controlled by senior students. Martre Nostro itself, however, lasted for just one issue.

A more enduring attempt was made in 190^ when the first Kiwi was hatched by L. T . Pickmere, then president of the Students' Association. Kiwi was also the "Official Organ" of the Association, and, to start with, followed its predcessors in being primarily a chron-

11

icle, which found space for an occasional sonnet or article. The first number had the dis-tinction of printing a hitherto unpublished poem by W . S. Landor, found in a letter to a New Zealand friend. It wasn't much of a poem, but it was a scoop for the new journal.

Kiwis early years were difficult ones. Its main problems were the usual student pub-lications ones of printing hold-ups, lack of finance, and scarcity of good copy. Yet, when we consider the small number of students at the time, the general quality of its material is very creditable. Apart from its function as a record, Kiwi in those days served a valuable propagandist purpose. For several years, a fierce controversy raged in the city over the de-sire of the College Council to obtain more satisfactory accommodation for the growing University, notably by taking over a reserve known as the Metropolitan Ground (the present site of the Arts Block). In this long and often bitter struggle, Kiwi acted as a most useful channel for the College point of view, and later for the case for the erection of suitable student accommodation.

During the First World War, Kiwi devoted considerable space to recording casualties among ex-students. A junior offspring, printed in Capetown, appeared on Troopship No. 83.

The decisive turning-point for Kiwi came in the post-war years, from about 1922-25. Successive editors, including J. N. Wilson and A. K. Turner (now the Hon. Sir Alexander Turner) transformed the journal from a chronicle to a predominantly literary magazine (ex-cept for the long-persisting list of graduands). Since this time there have been poor years and very poor years and totally blank years. On several occasions, especially during World War II Kiwi seemed to have died completely. But the old bird has paradoxically shown more power of revival than its long-dead rival, Phoenix.

Most of the earlier contributions to Kiwi were either anonymous or signed with ini-tials. But, about 1928, familiar names began to appear, among them A. R. D. Fairbum, James Bertram and that gifted writer of light and satirical verse "Maevius" ( D . H . M o n r o ) . The 1931 issue, edited by Eric Blow with help from John Mulgan and Blackwood Paul, printed contributions from R. A. K. Mason, Allen Curnow and J. A. W . Bennett (who has recently succeeded C. S. Lewis as Professor of Medieval and Renaissance Literature at Cam-bridge). In following issues of the 1930's Fairburn's verse appears frequently, and there are contributions from R. A. K. Mason, M. K. Joseph, E. D. Morgan, R. I. F. Paterson, and E. A. Horsman, now Professor of English at Otago.

The Kiwis of the 1940's do not seem to me to be as interesting on the whole as those of the previous decade. After the Second World War, the practice grew of inviting outside editors and contributors, making Kiwi sometimes only nominally a student publication. Non-student work heavily predominates in the handsome 1948 issue, edited by Maurice Duggan and containing contributions from the editor, A. R. D. Fairbum, J. K. Baxter, Kendrick Smithyman, Peter Cape, Denis Glover, G. R. Gilbert, David Ballantvne and Keith Sinclair, The 1952 jumber, to which O. E. Middleton, M. K. Joseph, Keith Sinclair, Kendrick Smithy-man and Karl Stead contributed, was another notable edition, despite an, in retrospect, quite entertaining scandal about some of the contents.

Kiwis of the past few years have been more spasmodic, thinner, and spottier; or it may be that this only seems to be the case because few of the contributors have yet established themselves as writers. The appearance of Crucible in 1964, which was Kiwi in everything but name, seemed to denote the final demise of the old bird. But we were de-ceived.

With the change in 1925 of Kiwis character, a need was felt for a journal to record the more intimate and immediate aspects of University life. In 1926 a competion was held for a name; the winner, Craccum was an anagram of the initial letters of A.U.C. Men's Common Room Committee. The first issue of March 20, 1927 contained eight small pages and cost 3d. Since that date Craccum has been in continuous publication. The character of the paper has changed little over the period. In most years there has been a high pro-portion of gossip, "colleges notes", letters about student apathy and student conditions and pleading for a "more serious tone", as well as manifestations of solemn concern for the state of the world or morals or something. In 1934-5, during the Depression, Craccum fell on bad days. It became a cyclostyled paper, issued spasmodically and edited for a time by M. K. Joseph.

12

Looking through the 1935 issues, I am surprised to find I reviewed several books I cannot remember having ever read.

By 1937, Craccum was on its feet again, printed, with an enlarged range of interest, and edited by E. H. Halstead. 1938's editor was A. O. Woodhouse (now Mr Justice Wood-house). In these two years, Craccum reached its typographical peak, with an elaborate cover, serious articles, book reviews, verse by "Caliban" and the popular mock advice-to-the-lovelorn from "Aunt Alice", (S. G. Gascoigne, now a distinguished Professor of Chemistry in Australia). The white-hot issues of the Spanish War and the rise of Fascism and Nazism are reflected in the many spirited controversies raging in Craccums pages.

The war period caused retrenchments. At one stage, Craccum became again merely a chronicle of college activities. But from 1945 onwards the standard of material began to rise, with feature articles on such topics as the move to Tamaki, and the relative merits of a Harbour Tunnel or Bridge. In 1947, with Miss Nora Bayly as editor, Craccum returned to the covers of 1937-8 and used more and more illustrations. During this period, there was, too, an increasing use of special contributions from the staff. The circulation was about 1,000 and the price 3d. But once more heavy losses led to much humbler issue in fol-lowing years.

Under Gordon Utting's editorship, 1951-2 was one of Craccums most radical eras, with a strong Left-Wing bias and flaming headlines on the waterfront strike and security police activity. During the past 13 years, Craccum has passed through a series of fluctua-tions similar to those of other periods in its history. Some editors, like David Stone, Peter Cape ,and Peter Boag have impressed their personality on the paper. Sometimes there has been a swing away from College to world and national affairs, followed by a swing back; elaborate numbers have been succeeded by economy ones. From issue to issue, the names of contributors differ, but the tone and subjects are much the same as they have ever been . . . Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.

Craccum had the field to itself for 37 years. Its first challenger as a vehicle for student opinion is Outspoke, the organ of the Amalgamated Independent Critic's Society, now in its second year. It remains to be seen whether Outspoke will survive the departure of its founders.

In Auckland's history, there have been several other publications, in true student tradi-tion, produced by groups dissatisfied with the outlets available to "creative writers" or with the restrictions of an "official" publication. The most celebrated of these, of course, was Phoenix, published by the University Literary Club in 1932-3 on its own press at the Uni-versity. The printer and typographer was the late R. W . Lowry. The first two issues, edited by James Bertram, maintained an aesthetic bias and reflected the main trends in current British high-brow writing, the third and fourth numbers, in 1933, under the editorship of R. A. K. Mason, were different in tone — in great part Marxist, iconoclastic and radical in their approach to social and sexual topics. Among the contributors were Allen Curnow, R. A. K. Mason, Charles Brasch, A. R. D. Fairburn and Martin Sullivan, which should indicate that the political coloring was not uniform. Phoenix folded up as a result of a variety of factors, one of which was a fuss over a suppressed article in No. 3. But it left an enduring impression. Dr. E. H. McCormick has called it "a challenge to the attitude of timid pro-vincialism which had characterised New Zealand writing in the earlier years of the cen-tury" and says "It did something to establish Auckland as the chief centre of New Zealand writing."

No other Auckland student publication has been as successful as Phoenix. Other fugitive literary journals, Molecule and Nucleus of the 1960's among them, have lasted merely a few issues. Nucleus, with poems by Vincent O'Sullivan, Andy Gurr and Mark Richards, deserved a longer life. Conspectus, founded in 1949 had a different purpose, that of printing more scholarly work by students than would normally find a place in Kiwi. Spon-sored by the Literary Club, Conspectus ran until 1951 before ceasing, but was revived in a similar form in 1964, and is to appear again this year.

It is perhaps a measure of the attitude of the Auckland public to the University that while Kiwi and other publications create a public response only when a censorship matter

13

rears its head, the Capping Book has become accepted as the typical student publication, largely on account of the expectedly delicate nature of some of the contents. Up to 1937, the University Capping play had been accompanied by a programme with a few jokes appended. In 1936, M. K. Joseph, R. F. Spragg and I revived the defunct University Revue and pro-duced a modest programme for it. In 1937, to accompany a further revue, I edited a Capping Book along the lines of those produced elsewhere; only a couple of pages of this book had reference to the Revue. The book was sold in the streets at Procession time, and this prac-tice has continued to the present day. Some years later, the revue programme was separated from the Capping Book.

There are some differences, however, between the. early and more recent Capping Books. The earlier ones prided themselves on containing original matter only, or at least "original imitations" and did not deal largely in unacknowledged pilfering. And they also aimed at being funny without being either obscene or scurrilous.

In a brief historical article like this, it is not possible to do justice to student pub-lications, or to discuss the value of the matter they printed. One has a tendency, too, to exaggerate the importance of publications with which one was oneself associated, or which were produced by men who have since distinguished themselves. (There were giants in those days). Closer inspections would doubtless show considerable diversity, not only in literary quality, but also in the importance of student papers at any one period. Yet, from the very beginning, they have rarely lacked vitality, controversy, and forthright opinions. And there have been periods of very good writing, indeed. On final thought; — if, during the 1920's and 1930's, a minute student population could support lively Craccums and memorial Kiwis and produce the historic Phoenix surely the greatly enlarged numbers of the 1960's ought to be able to maintain literary and chronicle journals of high literary quality containing mat-ter selected from a wide range of contributions?

A CONSERVATORIUM OF MUSIC WITHIN THE UNIVERSITY

CHARLES NALDEN

'The Greeks, Romans, have graced music, and made it one of the liberal sciences, though it now becomes mercenary. Your Princes, emperors, and persons of any quality maintain it in their courts. All civil Commonwealths allow it.'

(The Anatomy of Melancholy; — Music a Remedy — Robert Burton (1576-1639) In short, dear student reader, they all had it — except New Zealand.

The long delay in acknowledging the need for a conservatorium of music in this coun-try may of course have been the early missionaries' endorsement of Plato's stern philosophy, which forbad wine and music to all young men, 'because they are for the most part amorous "ne ignis addatur igni" lest one fire increase another.' Or of course, it may have been these same early missionaries' no doubt sincere, but fore-doomed attempt to counter the already threatening omnipotence of the oval-shaped god, — for had not Roger North, some two centuries earlier warned 'that the thought of some folks may run upon a dance, ye hurry football play, all which Bizzarie ye master of musick will undertake to represent.'

Whatever the reason for delay, on one point my mind is firmly made up; it is this: that had our sporting fraternity earlier been made aware of the latent powers of music — had our angler friends for example, known that 'The gentle strains of ARION'S lyre made

14

•thus sparing themselves the expense of spinners.'

fishes follow him/ (thus sparing themselves the expense of spinners), or our annual duck-shooters (if we believe CALCAGNINUS) 'that birds are much pleased and attracted by musick' (thus eliminating unnecessary expenditure on decoy ducks), or our deer stalkers (if we believe S C A L I G E R ) that 'harts and hinds are exceedingly delighted with it' (thus open-ing up undreamed of possibilities for mass extermination) — had they known all this, I re-main unshakeably convinced that a full-scale conservatorium of music in this country would long ago have been a living reality.

Prior to the establishment in 1956 of this University's Executant Diploma Course, New Zealand offered virtually nothing in the way of conservatorium training for the prac-tical musician. What practical training facilities there were, existed solely in the hands of the private music teacher. This was good enough up to a point, but the supply of good music teachers varied from centre to centre, and in the early post-war years there were already signs that the younger generation of musicians was not content to embrace a profession that offered highly irregular hours of work, indifferent monetary rewards, but a guaranteed goodly lash of virulent mothers' tongues during Music Competition Week. Moreover, the formation of the National Orchestra in 1947 greatly aggravated an already problematical situation (the dearth of good music teachers), by drawing extensively upon the country's finest instrumentalists, many of whom were not only orchestral players, but teachers as well. Indeed, it would not be going too far to claim, that in gaining a national cultural asset, the manner in which the National Orchestra came into being disrupted the country's balance musically, from which even now, almost twenty years later, it has yet to recover. The vacuum that was created literally overnight still exists, and must continue to exist until practical training (conservatorium type) schemes such as our own are established at strategic centres throughout New Zealand.

It is true, that in 1950 the then Heads of the four University Music Departments made a concerted and honest attempt to introduce a degree course in music that admitted practical performance as a subject. Their heretical proposal struck the Academic Commit-tee of the Old University of New Zealand apparently as a bolt of lightning in the heart of a virgin forest, for it was promptly thrown out on the grounds of its being 'non-academic!'

Not content with declaring it a heresy of the type that three centuries earlier would have ensured the four professors to suffer the same fate as that of GALILEO, this same com-mittee proceeded to rub a pinch of academic salt into the wound, by admitting a new Bache-lor of Music and Honours degree course; so that, whereas the academic musician could now read at any one of the four university colleges for the Diploma in Music, or for the degrees of Bachelor of Music and Honours, Doctor of Philosophy, and Doctor of Music, the aspir-ing violinist or pianist had to content himself at best with what teaching (if any at all) was available locally, and at worst, with enrolling with Mr H. Becker of London, who guaranteed to teach you (by correspondence) to play the Grieg and the Schumann piano concertos in six months progressive lessons. (His friends laughed at him — until he sat down to play — "I will make YOU the envy of your friends" sort of thing.)

At this time New Zealand was thus unique, in that she was the only country in the world boasting a Western cultural tradition, yet having no Conservatorium of music. It fol-lowed, that many of the students who enrolled for academic music courses at this time did so neither from choice nor from conviction, but simply because there were no practical courses offering. By reason of outlook and natural endowment, many of our music students would have been far happier working and studying in the practical rather than in the aca-demic field, and it was by no means uncommon for these 'conservatorium types' either to cross over to an Arts Course, or to abandon the Mus. B. course altogether.

However, in 1954, our own University College (as it was then) approved a 'blue print7

for a practical music course, the brainchild of the late Professor Hollinrake (Professor of Music 1935-55) and in the same year, the Music Advisory Committee of the Department of Internal Affairs recommended that —

'In the event of a three-year Executant Diploma Course for the practice of music being inaugurated at Auckland University College, this meeting is prepared to recommend the allocation of six three year bursaries of £150 per annum . . . for selected students under-taking full time study for the Executant Diploma.'

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'harts and hinds are exceedingly delighted with it.'

Because of Professor Hollinrake's untimely death, it fell to me to inaugurate the new course, which had its first intake of students in 1956.

It thus became the first officially sponsored Conservatorium of Music (though in miniature) in the country's history*. Initially, courses were offered on the Violin, Viola, 'cello, Flute, Oboe, Clarinet, Bassoon, Harp, Organ, and Singing.

The magnificent gesture of the Department of Internal Affairs in allocating us the six bursaries (which it was understood were to be awarded annually for a trial period of five years) was dulled somewhat only by the fact that 'at least one member of the Commit-tee' (of the Internal Affairs Music Advisory Committee) 'is having second thoughts.' And this, mark you, after the course had been running exactly one year. More in anger than in sorrow I replied —

'To me, it seems incredible, that a Course set in operation, the result of a unanimous vote by the Music Advisory Committee should be queried after exactly one year's duration. It becomes even more incredible when it is pointed out that not one of the musicians rep-resented on the Advisory Committee . . . has any firsthand knowledge of what is being done for the Course, here in Auckland'.

My temper was not improved by another member's suggestion that the Course after all, should be transferred to Wellington.

* It is still the only course of its type in New Zealand.

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On the home front, things were made no easier by the resignation of two of our part-time teaching staff just prior to their giving their first lesson, and a third uprooting for an overseas trip in the second of the three years course.

These early set-backs at least had the great advantage of placing our course at the cross-roads; if it was to go on, it became increasingly obvious that it must be given official recognition by the Education Department for bursaries, and continuity must be ensured by staffing it with a core of salaried full-time teachers. W e got both; a fully sympathetic University Council gave us all that we asked for, and so within six years of the Executant Diploma Course's inauguration, we were able to attract a full-time salaried teaching staff whose names (as one private music teacher put it) 'would grace the Calendar of any Conservatorium of Music.' And to safeguard the teachers' own standards, they were employed on a teacher-performer basis, with the condition that they give a limited number of public performances within the University. This has resulted in an unbroken series of highly enjoyable chamber music concerts, graced by the continued co-operation of the English Department, and dis-graced by the almost total absence of staff and students from the concerts themselves.

So much for the Muse of Poetry. What of the erudite side of the Course?

In my most recent Annual Report to Council I was able to write:

'It is gratifying to report that the Executant Diploma Course continues to make a positive contribution to the music profession'.

Since the course's inception, some twelve instrumentalists have swelled the ranks of the New Zealand Broadcasting Corporations Symphony and Concert Orchestras; one violin-ist is playing with the Scottish National Orchestra, and another player was engaged by the Northern Sinfonia of England; a further three players joined various Australian Symphony Orchestras; four Diploma holders were subsequently awarded overseas' scholarships for post-graduate study; a further three are on the staff of the N.Z.B.C. and some seven have entered the music teaching profession.

Meanwhile, further 'Overtures to an Accommodating Council' are being secretly com-posed behind the Music departments' Red corrugated Iron Curtain.

FIFTEEN YEARS HARD WITH DRAMA SOCIETY

SYDNEY MUSGROVE

When I came to Auckland in 1947, Drama Society was under the ban. An earlier production (of Peer Gynt, I think) had been toured in the country. Although such a thing as a Student Image had not yet been heard of, it managed to get itself blackened by im-proper behaviour in a rural hotel, and the university Council had been forced to intervene. When I took the cause upon myself, I was told that if I cared to make myself responsible for the prevention of abominations, I might proceed. So we put on The Shoemakers Holi-day in the Concert Chamber, produced by Ray Parker, and nobody complained about Cic-ely Bumtrinket and her nightly habits. In time, we even induced the Council to lend us £200 to put a set of spots, which was a shrewd stroke. Those were very austere times, and the spots, although designed in the age of steam, were almost the only ones available in Auckland. The society was able for some years to live like a fat and happy rentier on the hire charges. Eventually, they fell slowly to pieces.

The policy of the society was always to put on plays which others were unlikely to do. This tended to mean that we did Elizabethan pieces as main productions, and more ex-

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perimental work for home consumption. So in 1948 we did Dr Faustus and in 1949 The Alchemist (Mark 1) : the first an uneven production, though with some pretty gimmicks, the second much more workmanlike. It is accurate to say, I think, that untii about the middle or late fifties this distinction of function was real. The other societies, generally speaking, were forced by taste and financial need towards box-office shows, and avoided classical theatre. Shakespeare, for example, was rare, except for our own Much Ado, pro-duced by Professor Chapman, and a Shrew in 1949 and a Hamlet in 1955, in which the university had a hand, though they were put on by other societies. The general levelling of taste which has taken place in the last ten years has largely cancelled out this difference, though it is still true that the university is more likely than anybody else to stage authors like Kopit or Genet or Albee. But the present situation, with Albee on stage at His Majes-ty's and Ionesco in a school hall on the North Shore, would have been hardly conceivable ten years ago.

I doubt if the standard of performance has varied much over the years, though here, of course, one is the victim of one's own mythmaking. Certainly there were some bad patches. In one year (1951) the Society fell so low, and males were so rare, that in despair we put on an all-woman piece: Morning Sacrifice, an Australian play by Dymphana Cusack. It was not a bad piece of superior sentiment, but it did not take. At most performances the cast outnumbered the audience by a majority larger then Harold Wilson's. And what was the play during which we were rash enough to offer a matinee? One man turned up. He was given his money back and sent home. But, over the years, we have done well with such pieces as The Axe, Family Reunion, the current series of open air Shakespeare, with John lleid's Noah and Paul Day's Othello, and have taken our fair share in joint productions such as the recent one of The Kitchen. W e have had a reasonable number of good actors and actresses, some of whom have gone professional. But it is still true that the producer is always faced with having to cast too many roles from among those whose enthusiasm counterbalances a staggering lack of talent.

The society has been criticised sometimes for not doing more, and for being weak on the technical side. Critics can usually, be effectively silenced by being offered the oppor-tunity of doing better themselves. One of the jobs the society does is to make students realise how much sheer hard work is involved in getting a show on — and mutatis mutandis, in getting any other kind of a show on, from a General Election to a meeting of the local PTA. I don't mean the fascinating and self-enlarging process of acting, which is money for old rope. I mean the grim job of organising a larrge number of assorted objects and assorted people, all clean and properly lubricated, into the same place at the same time. The native organising power of students is nil; their disorganising power enormous. (In one year I left the society with a complete set of 13 flats; when I came back from leave, every single one had disappeared. The AGM every year produces somebody who says that we should run a series of organised play-readings. He is then sent away with a pencil and a piece of paper to work it out, and is never seen again.

Of course, what we need is our own theatre. Half of the technical insufficiency which has been observed comes from having to build elsewhere — in somebody's garage — and to cart things in and out. The hall, even in its face-lifted form, is absurd as a theatre; and in earlier years we had to keep up a running fight with a very determined Music Department who were emphatic that this was their home ground (and they were quite right — the words 'Music Room' may still be read on the original plan for the building). In the theatre de-signed for the new Union, into which I hope to totter in about five years' time, we have not only tried to construct an orthodox proscenium theatre, with tower, wing space, and all the proper knobs and levers, but have put underground what is called the 'Experimental Theatre.' This is a simple arena theatre, with seats for about 100, into which I would hope to put all minor student productions and everything of a 'workshop' kind. It might also double as a rehearsal room. But it will still remain true that the framework of the academic year itself severely limits the number of shows that can be done. The available time (apart from the long vacation) is in effect five months, from April to August; and the minimum time for putting on a properly mounted show for which people can fairly be asked to pay money is six weeks. The 1963 Hamlet took six months, including the equivalent of three weeks' solid, eight-hour-day rehearsal time. What I would particulraly hope is that the

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experimental theatre would enable young pro dueers to cut their teeth 011 simple shows with-out having to worry too much about cartage and annoying the custodian.

I have said little about the aesthetics of theatre, and perhaps too much about organ-isation. This is because I have usually found students acute and intelligent in their critical judgments, but only if the technical side is good enough to avoid distorting the intentions of the play and the production. After all, you do not expect people to reach a sensible judgment of a musical composition on the basis of a performance consisting largely of wrong notes. I think, too, we ought to do more for local authors. Apart from Allen Cur-now's The Axe, and some one act plays, little has been seen of them — though, in fact, good ones are rarer than people like to pretend. The problem, of course, is one of time and money; a society which can manage to mount only a few productions in a year has little energy to spare for trying out plays which may be bad or in need of stern revision. Again, I hope that the experimental theatre could help to provide simple workshop productions of new plays, sufficient at least to demonstrate whether they have any merit.

The success of the society, in fact must rise and fall with the energy and ability of its committee, which vary enormously. The really active members of the society — including those whose only wish is to perform — never seem to exceed about thirty: not many, in so large a university, but much the same sort of number as I found in some American universi-ties. This number might be increased by giving some academic credit for practical drama — a suggestion which will need the most careful kind of study when the time is ripe. Again, this time can only come when the theatre is built: but, leaving all questions of academic credit aside, the presence of an efficient dramatic 'plant' will have its own effect. It will demand to be used; if it is efficient, it will halve the hard labour of the theatrical technicians and of those who organise them; and it will permit us to do as much for our own drama as the universities of 16th century England did for the dramas of their time. Some future Polonius may yet enact Julius Caesar in Princes Street.

STUDENTS AT "THE OX" DOUGLAS ROBB

They called it "the Ox," or "II bo," because, it is believed, an ancient hostelry had been there before, bearing the sign — 'Hospitium Bovis.' Now a curious lecture theatre has been built, of timber. Around a small central area with a demonstration table a series of six oval tiered galleries rose steeply. They were so narrow that standing only was possible within them, and those in the higher levels had to lean forward and peer over the heads of those below to see what was going on. At ground floor level a few could stand under the first tier and look in through a small window. Some 300 could cram within this wooden O, and there was much jostling and noise as the theatre filled up. Spirits were high, for these stu-dents were culled from all over Europe. Sometimes street musicians were allowed in to quieten the students before the lecturer appeared. Quarrels were frequent between individuals and between the national groups, and generally speaking, tension was in the air. Before the lec-ture began both civic and university dignitaries would enter and take up their positions at one end of the bench. As is still usual, the theatre was darkened before the lecture. Illumina-tion was by candles and candelabras held by the students. Other unaccustomed features were the interest of the laity of the city — cobblers, butchers, shopkeepers and street pedlars were anxious to get into the theatre and often did so.

The Professor (we are talking of 1600 A.D.) was Fabricius of Acquapendente, and his task was an anatomical lecture — demonstration with dissection on the human body. This was no commonplace affair then as it is now. Physicians for millenia had felt it disgust-ing to touch a dead body. Anatomy was traditional and largely mythical, based on animal observations. But a new spirit of inquiry and realism in medical and other affairs had been brewing for some 1\ centuries since human dissection had been begun in Bologna in 1250.

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"Bovisti" or "Ox-men" of Sixteenth Century in Main Courtyard of "The Ox."

In the fifteenth century Pope Sixtus the Fourth granted Padua the right of dissection, and in 1537 Andreas Vesalius had become Professor of Anatomy. He had come from Brussels and Louvain, via Paris. He sought Padua since dissection was not part of the curriculum in Paris. He was made Professor at 23, and by the age of 29 he had produced his immortal 'De humani corporis Fabrica.' This was illustrated by large woodcuts executed by Stephanus, and was printed in Basel. The wood blocks were carried over the Alps on mules. 'De Fab-rica' put an end to Galen's authority on Anatomy and the new art of printing multiplied its influence immensely. Vesalius also pioneered visual aids through having his artists pre-pare large wall diagrams of anatomical subjects.

Falloppius (of the 'tubes') followed Vesalius and our lecturer Fabricius was his suc-cessor. He had the theatre built at his own expense. He was noted for his dissections, his teaching and his research. He had studied embryology in the chick, and amongst other things demonstrated valves in veins, which ensured the direction of the flow of blood towards the heart. He was an irascible teacher, finding it easy to quarrel with the students, particularly the Germans. He carried a dagger 'ready to prove that he could use it for purposes other than dissections.'

He had distinguished colleagues. Galileo lectured on mathematics, having left his native Pisa to teach at Padua. A hewn wooden pulpit, some three steps high, may be seen

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and mounted in a room adjacent to the Anatomy lecture theatre. He was at work along-side Fabricius when William Harvey the young English physician from Cambridge came as a foreign student. No doubt Harvey's heart burned with him as he talked with Galileo as much as it did when he listened to Fabricius, particularly on the valves, and on embryology. He was to make the immortal synthesis and describe the circulation of the blood. His 'De motu cordis' is one of the world's classics. He also made many studies on embryology.

In the 'Sala de Quarant' where Galileo's pulpit is to be seen, are representations of forty distinguished foreign students of Padua. They are painted, almost life-size, on the walls. Amongst them are Thomas Linare, the English Physician, and founder of the Royal College of Physicians, William Harvey, and Oliver Goldsmith. W e remember now his 'trav-eller' — 'by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po.' Other rooms, preserved to this day in all their fascination, are the Faculty room with its horse-shoe table, where students would de-fend their theses, and the ornate general congregation room.

How did Padua come to this brilliance? For with such a constellation as Vesalius, Fabricius, Harvey, and Galileo, it can truly be regarded as the seed-bed of the modern world. Both biology and the physical sciences were being born. Padua began as a breakaway from Bologna in 1222. Bologna taught medicine but was predominantly a school of law, which kept medicine as a sub-faculty. The students, hired and fired the professors, and this practice carried on for a while in the earlier years in Padua. Towns would compete for seats of learning, by offering lower taxes, academic freedom, and facilities for residence. Thus Padua began, though it was later administered by the civic authority in Venice. At first it was dominated by the Faculty of Law, but in the 14th century virtually two universities were con-stituted with equal rights — that of Law, and that of Arts, Medicine and Natural Science. Even as early as 1262 there were three chairs of medicine.

The students were organised into national groups, each having their elected coun-cillors who had better 'stands' in the theatre than the others. The four 'nations' at first were French and Normans, Provencals, and Catalans, Germans, and Italians. By the time of Har-vey there were more — he was Councillor for 'Natio Anglica', and there was a Scots Nation also. This geographical or national organisation can still be seen in the old rooms at Bologna, with the shields of the foreign students. It pertained also in the Medieval Univer-sities of Glasgow, Aberdeen, and Upsala in Sweden. Today's parallel for Auckland would be to have groups or halls, or residential areas for Northland, Bay of Plenty, and South Pacific, and so on. The apparent diversity of course was nullified by the use of Latin at the lingua franca of learning. W e could do with some such unifying force today, though the English language still carries us a surprisingly long way.

The student life of Padua was particularly vigorous at this time. The following is recorded of the installation of a rector in Harvey's time: 'On this occasion the students were allowed to tear the clothing from the back of the newly elected rector who was then called upon to redeem the pieces at an exorbitant rate. So much licence attended the ceremony that a statute was passed to restrain the 'too horrid and petulent mirth of the occasion,' but it did not venture to abolish the time-honoured custom. One reason for this vigour was the freedom of entry to Padua. Alone of the Universities of the day it admitted students of all religions and nationalities, including Protestants and Jews who were excluded from admission to most other European High Schools. In addition the times were electric. Art was emerg-ing from the convents and monasteries into every day life. The human body became a sub-ject for the artist as well as for the anatomist. Realism was the order of the day. Technical processes were being invented. Fabricius used copper plate engravings in place of Vesalius' wood cuts, and achieved more accurate detail. Printing and communications generally set everything moving. And all the time the traveller's tales of fabulous new worlds and strange peoples kept pouring in. Venice was but a few miles away.

Many of these things can be seen today in Northern Italy. The University of Padua is entered through large doors from a narrow street in the centre of the city. The courtyards, the theatre, the Sala, the Faculty room are all kept in good repair. In Bologna a similar entrance gives access to a large series of rooms similarly preserved, bearing innumerable armorial devices. The Medical Society uses some of the rooms. The Anatomy Theatre — senior to Padua's — was damaged during the War, but is being repaired. It was larger, with fewer and lower banks of seats. In the elongated 'square' outside is a monument to Gal-

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vani, of the frog's legs. He it was who first noted the connection between electricity and biology. The legs twitched on receipt of a current. What a territory was opened up thereby! In Pisa the ineffable tower and lamp in the Cathedral are matched by a similar old Univer-sity building an quadrangle style. W h o is going to be the University of Auckland's Galileo, Vesalius or Harvey?

These ancient tales come to life today with the prospect of a medical school in the University of Auckland. Admittedly it comes late in time, and in reverse order. The early tripod of the Mediaeval Universities consisted in Theology, Law and Medicine — all pro-fessional faculties. Science came in on the back of medicine, whereas with us medicine is the newcomer. But their mutual enrichment will continue. It will also reinforce a trend to-wards greater interest in the biological sciences which may well come to dominate the next generation. If the student body of Auckland is not called on to receive a new 'Nation' into their midst, it will certainly have to reckon with fresh types. The medical student has tradi-tionally been both hard-working and hard-playing. Perhaps latter day emphasis has been on the world. He is obliged to develop a certain stark realism, and is unmistakably one of Snow's 'science types'. At the same time he must take into his calculations the human stuff of which we are made. He sees plenty of this in hospital and home practice, and it is his unique task to synthesise the two. 'Human Biology' is thus a good approach to the practical task of rendering assistance to both individual and society in its several groupings.

Anatomical Theatre of Fabricius of Acquapendente, University of Padua, about 1600

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A BUILDING THAT CAN GROW UPWARDS R. H. TOY

The idea of making a building able to grow upwards by stiffening pavilions into a larger whole occurred to me originally in 1959, being sparked off while pondering the architectural problems of University buildings in particular and of change and growth in general. In the urgent building climate of the following few years the idea lay dormant and it was not until the beginning of 1964 that it was revived.

Although this note presents a mere sketch of a growth form able to accommodate some of the change and unpredictability of our times it should prove readily applicable to actual conditions and the first few buildings produced should lead to quick improvement by normal processes of feedback.

Whilst the responsibility for the idea and for the form given to it in the following sketch is my own, I have been helped by much useful comment and criticism from fellow members of the Auckland University School of Architecture. In particular I wish to thank Mr Gordon Smith for his help and suggestions, Mr H. E. Wallace for a preliminary check of the main structural implications and Mr R. McK. Dodd and Mr T . Ibbetson, senior stu-dents, who made the first study models shown in this note.

SPRAWL An important characteristic of our time is the sprawl of our fast growing cities.

Sprawl is the form most able, apparently, to accommodate our restless, accelerating process of social and technological change, but where it is unrelieved it is monotonous, confusing, wasteful of resources and not conducive to many of the rich face to face communications which civilization is able to provide. One counter at least to sprawl would be an attempt to remove some of the more serious limitations on really high density building — functional, technical and economic limitations — which exist at present.

This note sketches the type of building in which such an attempt is made. Func-tionally the building aims at being adaptable to changing needs and a wide variety of uses. It can be added to vertically in a very substantial manner as well as horizontally, instead of vertical additions being limited for reasons of cost to an extra storey or so, as is normally the case at present. What is aimed at is increased functional flexibility of the tall building and the technical means of achieving this.

The study made so far suggests the building proposed may be useful for high density housing of varying types, for parts of university and similar educational needs and for office buildings.

GROWTH AND FLEXIBILITY In the past attempts at change were admittedly much slower than those of the pres-

ent, urban expansion and growth were accommodated, often in an orderly, and sometimes in a very beautiful manner, by the use of additive and cellular building forms. The forms grew horizontally. Such forms have not sufficient elbow room in the city today to cope with the rate of expansion and change now required. They are ousted by much taller buildings. Again, the rooms and other elements of these older buildings, whilst adaptable to a range of domes-tic, office and other purposes sufficient for their time, do not provide the possible variations of size, height and relationships at present required for flexibility.

Although, therefore, older forms of flexibility do not meet present needs, there remains

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a strong case for investigating further the flexibility of tall buildings. By this is meant the possibility of adding substantially to their initial height at later stages in their life and of providing internally for a wide variety of uses and of services equipment. Stated this way the problem poses some immediate difficulties which so far seem to have prevented the idea being pursued. The main difficulty is the extra initial cost assumed to be involved for a building which subsequently is to have anything more than one storey or possibly two added to it. Normally it is too costly to provide in the foundations and structure of the initial building for the increased loadings and forces of a substantially taller building — its extra dead weight and the greater resistance required to seismic and wind resources. For instance, it is too costly also to have to build in the initiate stages, sufficient area to take the extra ser-vices, including lift and stairs, required for a much taller building.

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SUBDIVISION

The basic elements may be divided in various ways according to need. Two extremes are illustrated — the first an open connected arrangement of pav-ilions, the second subdivision into small rooms. A six foot vertical module is used to give further flexibility in volume. Thus while the normal floor to floor height may be twelve feet, an eighteen foot height will permit sloping floors as required for, say lecture rooms. It will also permit mezzanine or gallery ar-rangements or it may be completely separated vertically to give eight feet clear heights for domestic rooms.

The study model shows a consistent floor height of twelve feet but if re-quired this clearly can be varied as described above within the same pav-ilion.

BASIC ELEMENT

The basic element shown here as 42 feet square is

a pavilion with its associated services. Such a pavilion

of, say, eight floors forms a useful building in itself -

(Stage I). It is supported on four hollow columns.

In Stage II another pavilion with its own service j

elements has been added. This may be the same :

height as the first or taller, the two pavilions being

connected by diagonal bracing to act as one building

in resisting wind and seismic forces.

Stages III & IV show further extentions of the growth i=

process with the pavilions being taken to, say, sixteen -

and twenty-four floors, if required, or higher.

The original pavilion may be left at its first height =

or, when it is stiffened into the larger structure, have

a few or many extra floors added. Additional weight j

due to the extra floors is dealt with by connecting

further hollow column sections and foundations outside

the original ones.

STANDARDISATION Flexible buildings of the past were made up of standardised elements. As with them

it would seem reasonable in buildings which are to be flexible vertically to aim at a degree of standardisation. As with the older buildings, that is to say, there should be standardised parts which would leave ample scope for individual interpretations of the building needs in any particular situation; as with the older buildngs the parts should be freely adaptable to varying topographies and orientations; as with the older buildings again, it should be possible to form the standardised elements into a useful variety of the urban spaces required by the times.

STRUCTURE To achieve vertical growth two structural ideas are proposed. The first is to reduce in

single pavilions the bending stresses due to wind and seismic forces by tying the pavilions to-gether into larger, fully-braced buildings. The surplus strength thus available can be used to take the stresses from additional floors.

The second idea, if still further growth is required, is to strengthen the original vertical supports; additional column sections ar connected externally and taken down to the founda-tions which are also extended.

SERVICES The core element of lifts, stairs and lavatories can be built in sections as the building

grows. Lift motors and mechanical services are housed in the basement to facilitate vertical extension. The vertical supports are hollow. They act as ducts for mechanical services and permit considerable variations of these according to what may be needed in different parts of the building, including, if necessary, a very direct and well distributed chimney system of ventilation for basement car-parks. The supports link with hollow floors in the core and pavilions.

EMPIRICAL THINKING AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: Some Considerations From Contemporary Psychology K. E. BENSLEY

" W e must grant the artist his subject, his idea, his donne; our criticism is applied only to what he makes of it." —Henry James

This essay examines some of the concepts and terminology which could be drawn from contemporary Psychology in the critic's search for a better understanding of his role. It also attempts to indicate some provocative ideas on an empirical approach which deserve to be given due attention by both scientist and the literary analyst. A third motive involves a brief examination of literature as the communication of ideas, together with certain under-lying problems involved.

There have been a number of attempts by one school of Psychologists, the psycho-analysts, to delve into the content of literary works and give them interpretations based on psychoanalytic theory. One such attempt was that of Ernest Jones who tried to explain Hamlet's strange procrastination in terms of his confrontation with the Oedipus complex. Jones opposed two former sypotheses. Firstly, that of Goethe, Schlegel, Coleridge, and others, whose view saw the cause of inaction in Hamlet's own temperament; a constitutional prob-lem. Secondly, the theory based on the difficulty of the task of regicide, together with the need for evidence of the king's guilt.

28

Jones's alternative hypothesis is based on some feature of the task which makes it re-pugnant to Hamlet. Using the mechanism of the Oedipus complex, he links Hamlet's fail-ure to kill his uncle with the repression of Hamlet's desire to slay his father. Since his mother married again, this repression is transferred to desires to kill his mother's new hus-band. Needless to say, there is no evidence of any such repression or conflict in the lines of the play. Jones said this was quite correct since the conflict was unconscious. Neither was he daunted when required to justify such a theory based on fictitious characters. He simply transferred it to Shakespeare as an example of an inner conflict of the author manifesting itself through his work.

A second example can be drawn from Schilder's psychoanalysis of "Alice in Wonder-land." Adopting Fenichel's theory that the phallus might be symbolised by little girls, Schilder indicates Alice's ability to change her form, together with her being continu-ally threatened and in danger. The psychoanalyst then proceeds to develop the theory that Lewis Carroll suffered from a castration complex. The various interpretations and analogies which can have their source in literature treated by Freudian ideas are legion. Quite clearly it is impossible to subject such analogies to any rational test of truth or falsehood.

Contrast these analyses with the scholarly investigation of "Moby Dick" by Henry Murray, contained in a paper in a 1951 issue of the New England Quarterly, entitled "In Nomine Diaboli". Murray rejected the attitude that this was simply a vivid narrative of the sea by considering statements by Melville in which the author stated his definite inten-tion of creating an underlying meaning. Murray's paper deals with a number of hypotheses exemplified by his theory that Captain Ahab represents the Devil, and the whale rep-resents both personal morality and the institutional morality of Melville's society. In psy-chological concepts Ahab represents the primitive forces of the Id, whilst the whale becomes the antithesis of evil, the superego. Yet even Murray's careful analysis remains armchair psychologising, to be agreed with or argued against as the temperament wills.

So much for the psychological analysis of content material. A contrasting approach is the search for objective measures of evaluating literary structure and form. Here the guiding principles, at least in theory, are the removal of subjectivity in evaluation, a high degree of consensus of opinion amongst critics, and the possibility of always being able to replicate and evaluate at any later period.

One example of this objective approach is that formulated by G. D. Birkhoff, an American mathematician. In his book "Aesthetic Measure" he has attempted to provide a general formula for comparing works of art (visual art, poetry, music, etc). Regarding aes-thetic measure (m) as comprising complexity (c) and order (o) he lays claim to being able to provide us with the means of assessing the complexity and the order within a poem, and, by use of the formula M = O'/C, to enable us to achieve an objective rating. It is objective since any person trained to use Birkhoff's rules should arrive at the same num-erical value for M as any other analyst. By this formula it can be seen that the value 1.0 has the highest aesthetic rating. Some instances of rating Birffhoff has computed are interest-ing (only the first lines are given):

Tn Xanadu did Kubla Khan ' (Coleridge) M = 0.83 'Come into the garden Maud . . . .' (Tennyson) M = 0.77 'Take, O take those lips away . . . (Shakespeare) M = 0.74 'Little boy blue, come blow your horn . . . (nursery rhyme) M = 0.65 'Onward, Christian soldiers . . . (Baring-Gould) M = 0.51

He also applies his measure to a section from Sir Thomas Browne's "Hydriotaphia" and values it at 0.61, concluding that, although prose, it must be regarded as 'on a level with much poetry in degree of musical quality.' (It may be of interest to mention here the writ-er's own attempts to applv Birkhoff's measures to various poems. The highest figure achieved was slightly in excess of 0.92, a poem in Russian by Pushkin. No English poetry of the sample assessed reached as high as 0.90).

London University Psychologist H. J. Eysenck has made a criticism of Birkhoff's mea-sure. Professor Eysenck points out that this is purely an a priori notion unsupported by any experimental evidence. He proposes that the original formula should be re-ordered to M = O

29

x C, not O/C. And he claims this new formula, that aesthetic measure is the product of the order and complexity elements, to be well borne out by experimentation. Although Ey-senck's work lacks yet a convincing argument for persuading us of the need to make the con-version to a multiplying scale, it at least demonstrates the advantage of empirical thinking in its ability to be tested and verified by experimentation. Further study on this interesting development in the Psychology of Aesthetics should provide a novel approach to methods of critical analysis.

The very real philosophical problem of whether or not the ideas in one man's mind can ever be adequately conveyed to another, is reflected in an experimental project carried out occasionally by senior Psychology students. This project demonstrates to students how different people react to verbal stimuli in both emotional arousal and verbal responses. A typical task is to evaluate a list of words by using a word-association technique and measur-ing arousal by the method of palmar conductance. (Graph deflections of the change in elec-trical resistance of the skin, caused by involuntary sweating, to a weak current applied to the palms clearly indicate emotional responses, or 'unconscious arousal'). Amongst by-products in the data from such a study are found the following:

(a) people differ in the time they take to react to certain words compared with oth-ers;

(b) people differ in the words they use to reply to stimulators during word-associa-tion;

(c) people differ in their over-all level of arousal; (d) people differ in their individual levels of arousal to specific word stimulators.

And so, a general conclusion might be that a list of standard English words selected at random and used in a word-association experiment of this nature will give a good illustra-tion of idiosyncratic patterns of emotional responses and word references from one subject to the next. The reason for the individual differences must be regarded as resting some-where in the individual subject's own constitution, since the experimental procedure is ar-ranged to remain as unchanged as possible.

Now, if we apply the lesson about idiosyncratic patters of responding to verbal stimuli to our understanding of individual differences in genetic endowment and upbringing we see how the previously stated philosophical problem has become very much a psycho-logical one. It seems that his constitution forces every man to react differently in any situa-tion from every other man, however slight this difference may be. And the problem expands: since individual differences in response to stimulation are rife within the simplified stimuli of the above experiment, so much more must idiosyncrasy be widespread within the com-plex stimuli of a work of creative art. Perhaps the only answer to the problem of agreeing on our responses to a work of literature is to resort to some sort of statistical determination and accept the average response of a number of experienced critics.

One psychological viewpoint which could be of assistance in the problem of thematic apperception is to regard a piece of creative literature as part of a process extending from the writer who produced it to the reader who received it. Let us now specify the important operators within this process by the application of terminology appropriate to communica-tion.

Basically, a communication system consists of a message source, a destination, and a channel which establishes a connection between the two. However, these systems are usually more complex. There is often a transmitter, which is a link, if you like, between source and channel; and also a receiver, which is a similar link between channel and destina-tion. The term noise is used to represent our understanding that exact purity in the trans-mission of a communication is a rarity (since it is, after all, an artificial, physical system). What goes into the communication channel at one end (input) is seldom, if ever, perfectly matched by what is extracted at the other end (output).

Let us propose, for our present purposes, to regard any piece of literature as a message in a communication system. Thus: the ideas of the author become the source of the mes-sage, and his mental and physical expressions of them, become the transmitter. He uses words on paper for the channel of communication. Our reader now becomes the receiver, and

30

his mind and ideas aroused therein, the destination. Noise is simply anything in the channel not conducive to the lucidity of the communication. Using this model we can proceed to analyse the system to discover wherein lie the areas of possible distortion. That is, what parts in the system are liable to bring about an alteration in the basic message as it is pro-cessed from input to output. The answer is rather startling. In our model it would seem that distortion can occur at any, or even every, level of function.

A writer has an idea, an inspiration of some kind. This develops in his mind (com-munication source). How he expresses this idea is his method of transmitting the informa-tion. But no matter what he does, transmission must be symbolic. Thought cannot be im-mediately transferred from mind to mind. Therefore, his method of symbolic expression be-comes a factor of enormous consequence. Next, his symbols become words on paper. Dis-tortion in this area of the system may be regarded as textual. Finally, when the message has reached the receiver, a man with different psychological responses to stimulation of this type, there is yet a destination area of distortion.

Now we know that men differ from one another in genetic endowment, in upbring-ing, education, intellectual capacity, capacity for effort, for understanding, for conceptualis-ing, and in many other ways. W e know this and we still expect the communication between one mind and another to come out fairly pure. W e still expect this in a complex literary work. What is worse we expect other minds, quite different from our own, to conceive themes and symbols in literature just as we firmly believe our own do.

Now we have arrived at the phenomenon of mental conflict, and this is surely by now also coupled with a strong scepticism about the human ability to do adequate analysis. In the communication model the areas of distortion indicate the near impossibility of the destination ever obtaining the ideas of the source, at least in the application to symbolic literature. A garbled communication must lead to a conflict between the author's ideas and the reader's reactions. And by reason of the idiosyncratic reactions one reader and his own frames of reference will inevitably differ from another. W h o is right?

It seems as if the author is his own best interpreter. Yet, the astonishing thing we learn from the communication model is that we must consider possible changes in reaction and thought even when an author studies his own work. For example, due to new learning there may result a change of refernce in his symbolic expressions pertinent to himself and his work. Life and learning are continuous processes which are beyond man's control in this respect.

Perhaps we may here blame the literary critics for ignoring this point about the im-mense difficulty of attaining accurate knowledge of what an author really means. Perhaps we can indicate our examination of attempts to quantify objective analyses of creative works as a very small step in a radically different, yet not insignificant, direction. This direction, which we hope will bear fruit under further rigid investigaton and expermentation, although moving away from the dangerous policy of attempting to interpret content material, should provide a firm basis for the analysis of structure and form. It remains, then, only for a positive theoretical statement in support of this new approach to be formulated. Whether such a statement will come from empirical thinkers or from literary analysts remains to be seen. Any new ideas are bound to provoke prolonged argument before they can be accep-ted or rejected. So it has been and so it shall be.

31

TWO INCA DAVID SWAN

MACHU PICCHU Long hidden from the world until it was discovered in 1911 by Hiram Bingham, Machu Picchu

is located high in the Peruvian Andes, about 50 miles north of the city of Cuzco. It is sited on a saddle between two mountains, 2,000 feet above the Urubamba River, and it contains housing, temples, agricultural terraces, a fortress, a complete drainage system, in fact, its importance and interest is that it lies virtually intact as a city suspended like one of those scenes so often reproduced inside a glass paper weight, except that with this scene one can become a part of the illusion, caught be-tween the green velvet saddle of Machu Picchu and the cold pressure of the clouds.

Upon its discovery, Machu Picchu was first thought to have been built by the Inca ruler, Pacha-cuti (1400-1448 A.D.), to serve as an eastern frontier stronghold for the expanding Inca Empire. Hiram Bingham, after many years and much speculation, both his own and that of other archeologists, sug-gested that Machu Picchu might have existed instead as a city, and possibly sanctuary, long before the Incas had assumed control of Peru, that is, before 1100 A.D. In his investigation he proceeded to sug-gest that although Machu Picchu's position was located at a point where it could ideally command the defense of the entire river valley, there would have been little need for it to serve as a defensive outpost, as there were a number of proper outposts nearby to serve just that purpose. Also, the quality of construction of the buildings at Machu Picchu suggested something more than a vehicle for defense against a few Indians armed only with blow guns and bows and arrows.

Following Pizarro's conquest of Peru, many Indians were questioned who were descendents of those who had lived near Cuzco, and they revealed that they had learned from their fathers the tradi-tion that the first Lord Inca, Manco Copac, came from a place called Tampu-tocco (quite possibly Machu Picchu's original name) to take away the land of their ancestors and to establish himself in Cuzco (1100 A.D.) as ruler. These same indians, however, were unable to say where Tampu-tocco was, causing Bingham to speculate whether, once Manco Copac had obtained control of Cuzco and its rich valleys, he may have found no advantage for maintaining Machu Picchu, and have deserted it. In fact, it may have remained deserted up until the time of the Spanish Conquest, remembered only by the priests and those who recorded the passing events, but forgotten by the common man. On the other hand, he continues, perhaps because of its continuing importance as a religious centre, not even the wisest men were allowed to reveal its true location at any time. In either case, it is fairly certain that the last of the Inca Emperors, Tupac Amaru, fled there and lived the rest of his life, undiscovered by the Spanish conquerors.

CITIES

MACHU PICCHU: View of the semi circular Temple of the Sun.

MACHU PICCHU: View of the entire city showing on the right, and clockwise, the Sacred Plaza and Intihuatana Hill, the central court, the first housing complex, the agricultural terraces and the second housing complex.

PISAC

Located 20 miles north of Cuzco, Pisac is also sited on a mountain above the Urubamba River. Its most probable function was as a defensive outpost for the Inca Capitol, Cuzco. It contained hous-ing, temples and a fortress, but unlike Machu Picchu, which seems to grow out of the solid rock, in-separable, and at times indistinguishable from the mountain, Pisac's three parts are very sharply de-fined, different in character from one another, and are placed at three different points on the moun-tain.

The housing complex is sited along the side of the mountain, directly adjoining the terraced hillside, which continues all the way to the river, 2,000 feet below. The house type is identical to that at Machu Picchu except that here the housing clusters are located along one central corridor instead of being massed in groups that resemble part of the mountain, as at Machu Picchu.

The complex of the Temple of the Sun lies on a ridge about 500 feet above the housing complex, and again distinguishes itself quite clearly from the surrounding landscape by being set on a podium composed of several levels.

The fortress complex, which doesn't appear in the photographs, is sited to the left of the temple complex but 200 feet furthe rup the mountain. Interestingly it is the only one of the three parts that melts into the landscape, as Machu Picchu.

This article on the two Inca cities of Machu Picchu and Pisac is, more than anything else, an introduction to the forthcoming exhibition on the ruined cities of Mexico and Peru, which is to be held at the Auckland War Memorial Museum during the month of September, 1965.

MACHU PICCHU: View of the central court looking over the first housing complex towards Huayna Picchu mountain, with Intihuatana Hill on the left.

36

MACHU PICCHU: View from Intihuatana Hill looking over the second housing complex towards the agricultural ter-races and the outer barracks.

PISAC: View of the main housing complex.

PISAC: View of the Temple of the Sun as seen from the centre of the housing complex.

P E D A L

to

PAULS for

B O O K S

We will pedal to the end of the world to obtain the title you require ( 1 0 % student discount of course)

P A U L ' S B O O K A R C A D E 49 HIGH STREET — PHONE 22-203

Paul's Book Arcade join in celebrating the 60th Jubilee of "Kiwi'

EDITORIAL 'Kiwi' has a particular function which distinguishes it from the other publications which N.Z. boasts. It would almost be more precise to say that it is an expressionistic magazine rather than a literary one. Its purpose within the university is to provide a guide to university opinion and modes of expression. It must not be just a collection of esoteric literary parlour games. And yet an indiscriminate collection of topics regardless of their literary worth is equally to be avoided. This poses a difficult problem for the editors. Are they to select on an arbitrary basis — give or take a few rules — the best of student literary work and reject what does not meet their standards, or are they to choose what amounts to an extensive survey of student opinion and neglect the literary worth of this opinion? This is an especially difficult problem as far as prose contributions are concerned. Although 'Kiwi' is deluged with poetry it receives very little prose of any kind — in fact this year only five pieces were submitted. The problem which arises is whether to print all that comes in or to keep to the high standard which is demanded of the poetry. W e adopted an attitude which was par-tially pragmatic and partially idealistic. W e demanded of the prose as of the poetry that it be an honest expression of a personal experience. This left us with the problem of the literary worth of the contributions. However, as copy drifted in the problem resolved itself. W e found that the idea which was most honestly expresed and deeply felt was the idea which gave rise to literary work whose merit could be judged by objective analysis. This working basis was very effective in culling the bulk of the creative writing submitted. Con-centration on sincerity of feeling combined with aptness of expression led us to reject 90 per cent of the poetry sent in. Apprentices in the poetic profession are well known for copying, adapting and plagiarising the work of established poets. This does not necessarily invalidate their poetry if the experience recalled is personally shared by the writer. However, when a tyro is just reiterating an idea which did not originally belong to him, and that in a style which itself is an echo of someone else's, then the poem is flaccid and has nothing to say. W e have tried to avoid this by publishing those poems only which (as far as we can judge) arise from the personal idea of the writer. A plagiarised style we allowed him if it was appropriate to the expression of that idea. Certain general points can be made if the selection 'Kiwi' received is taken as representative. The majority of the poems were written in free verse, a fact which we regretted. Unfortunately present trends in art decree that spontaneous thought cannot be expressed within definite verse forms. With this we do not agree; spontaneous thought loses nothing of its validity if it is con-fined within a distinct structural framework. If the original thought has been sincere the poem will still say something and say it more tautly and directly if the form is polished and altered again and again. A different generalisation could be made from the prose contributions, or rather the lack of them. Auckland students appear not to have the concentration necessary to build up the com-plex patterns and idea which go into a short story, or they are more scared of prose writing than of poetry. This may be because it is a common feeling that the standard for prose must be higher than that for poetry, so it is easier to express a single idea in a stanza of free verse than to develop it in prose. In addition to this Auckland students seem afraid of humour. Snide satire is popular, but student writers apparently take themselves too seriously to indulge in a frolic. The basic point of which we became more and more convinced is that sincerity is the key to good student writing. Personal involvement is imperative, especially in the 20th Century when so much has been said so many times before. It is only a sincere expression of a personal experience which will be communicable and worthwhile. One's own experiences cannot be duplicated, they are the stuff with which to build the kingdoms of poesy. The Editors.

41

2 FRAGMENTS Through the curtain the morning light diffuses on her face as she lies waiting for the next pain,

her huge black eyes. It is here no she cries no no no. Turning her face to the wall where all night the rats clawed and gnawed. My hands fumble and tumble in my lap as I sit beside the bed. I pick at the bedclothes. Her eyes twist in horror, slit as a black cat's. What am I going to do? after it is over her eyes turn wearily to mine. A child is crying next door. I light a cigarette to calm the panic rising in my belly. Light one for me, too, she is saying when I know the pain has come again. Her hands beat at the air like tired birds, clutch at her throat no no please dear jesus take the pain away take it away i can't bear it any more. Me too I cannot bear it. I rush away upstairs to sit on the lavatory. I can't bear the terror in me. What if she should die it would be my fault for not getting a doctor even though she begged me not to in case her parents found out? When I slowly go back in the room, her face is dull from tiredness. It's all over bar the shouting she says. I don't understand. It's over. The baby? There it lies, its grotesque little head black as a toad's tongue, its body twisted up at the beginning of sleep. There is no shouting. Later, I stand at the window watching the boys dig a hole for the brownpaper parcel under the red flowers. It was a boy she says. She is crying. No, I shall not stay here any more, for at nights I would hear it, the silent cry and I cannot stay.

The day becomes fierce with the red blood in the stone.

VANYA LOWRY

There was this poetess with this little bottle of pills which she shared with us at this party. Then the bodies sprawled round the room seemed not to notice but my mind saw things all clear like cold water douses your skin (still drowsy from sleepy hollows of the brain) now burst in this bubble of my eyes to see this clear iris of this poetess's clear eye a button fallen from blackcoated night but what stranger which the rhythm of my music takes my heart snatching to go bong bong for Oliver is kissing the wrong her which rich cascade of hair wispish like do not hate her said god thundering down the alleyways of the sky for he only loves her as much as you love him (I know that god but it's too much) yes said god and what happened I this bottle in my shake fingers hit the pawing drunkard leer but not broke ran I crying out to deep night's grasses which night devours nostril of tears all brave but not forever (cry for my son you did not give me?) but not where is my son (who grabs me?) Oliver grabs me back from the dead what is the matter o o o o tender in the arms of Oliver tender do not be afraid but I will lose it.

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RULES OF THE GAME

VIETNAM—The Game of Escalation:

This is a game for young and old and any number can play. An unusual aspect of this game is that nobody ever wins—everybody loses. Each side starts out with 200 soldiers and everytime you pass GO, you add 200 more soldiers to your side.

In choosing your markers, the North has a choice of three colours: black (signifying the bad guys), red or yellow. If you are the South, your colour is white. To begin the game, the North always attacks first.

SPECIAL RULES: The South never stops on or moves his marker over the square marked "Hanoi". The North, how-

ever, may feel quite at home in the square marked "Saigon". The square marked "Peking, Washington and Moscow" is merely the trademark of the inventors of this game, and reasonable facsimiles can be obtained in Africa, Malaya, Greece, etc. Exclusive rights have never been applied for.

REGULAR RULES: If North lands on a hamlet, indicated by the letter "H", they immediately shoot the elders and add

200 soldiers to their side. If South lands on a hamlet, they pass out candy and bubble gum, and add 200 soldiers to their side. Once a hamlet is won over, the North is allowed to build ammunition dumps while the South is restricted to field hospitals. AMERICAN FLAG:

North—Paint one yellow sign on Fanshawe Street "Yankee Go Home". South—Add 2 American advisors and a battalion of Marines.

HELICOPTERS: North—Shoot them down, of course. Extra points for those painted with a red cross. South—Smash into each other, lose two.

BAMBOO: North—Improvise splinters for rice paddies. South—Improvise officers' pubs.

DE GAULLE: North—Laugh uproariously. South—Cry quietly.

TWO BICYCLES: North—Attach 20 sticks of dynamite and go directly to Saigon. South—Send in 100 jets to destroy.

AMERICAN EMBASSY: North—Bomb it. South—Repair it.

WOMEN: North—Rape them. South—Organise a brothel.

CLERICAL OPINION: North—Move ahead one square, keep on fighting. South—No tear gas for one complete round, steel bullets only.

NEW ZEALAND CONTINGENT: North—Tea-time. South—Tea-time.

NAPALM: North—Lose one turn, one hamlet, and go directly to World Opinion. South—Lose one turn and make ten "Keep Vietnam Green" signs.

WORLD OPINION: North—Go ahead five places. South—Go back two places.

UNITED NATIONS: North—"What's a 'United Nations'?" South—"What's a 'United Nations'?"

46

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47

M. K. JOSEPH

7 * A sick landscape seamed rutted and seared

OBy the corrosion of endemic earthquakes Breeds scurfy teatree; a smell of brimstone

, Hangs in the air. Upon such nightmare pools ™ I In boiling marshes beneath impacted cliffs

O Dante once watched the spivs and profiteers m Like frogs breaking the surface with a head

Or bum, to be fleshhooked and ripped by friends, Let the cloven rock channels pastoral waters

J j " Of emerald and turquoise, lakes are filled ^ ^ With fish and the contented angler casts his fly;

Through green gullies twist the crystal strands Of streams running clear over silver pebbles And rain drifts down on the web of fern. The wind-clowns dance and the wet silica flats Are mildly coloured like a child's paint box, And down the plumbing of a prodigious kitchen Drums the astonished sound of rain power. The fisherman lights his pipe and turns home, The coloured lanterns shine in the Blue Baths, The swimmers are ancient marble; ghosts on lawns Before the gothic bathhouse play croquet.

48

Floats through skies of wedgwood and milk. The hanged man, paratrooper or clown Tumbles through trapdoors, up or down. The hanged man on a rope drawn tight

Drops through his door of endless night. The paratrooper winged with silk Floats through skies of wedgwood and milk. Through his flying trap the clown Springs up to resurrection.

A LETTER FROM PARADISE (FOR JIM AND CON) ALBERT WENDT

I had some sad tough times in that country. But I got used to the routine. At times I dreamt of escape. From what and whom I can't quite pinpoint. Perhaps it was from the fluttering souls of the pioneers the literati kept talking about in their novels and poetry, the quest for what one be-spectacled-longhaired Dylan Thomas called "the New Zealand thing." (Now I give that country a name for lack of any other suitable freudian label.) Or it may have been from the inhabitants—Kiwis I think they called themselves—who were persistently terrifying in their own way. With their M.P.'s to see you didn't beat your grandmother or shoot the jersey cows. (These ugly creatures seemed sacred to the inhabitants. I wondered if they were descendants of the Hindus. Found out Hindus were barred from the paddocks.) The middle-class, which included everyone, to catch you cheating on the race courses, football fields, buses, trains and public toilets. The congregations, which was the whole middle-class, to make sure you didn't expose your "private parts" (that's what they called it I think) in front of the missus, grandmother, brother, sister, or the Prime Minister unless the lights were out. (Which was very rare indeed.) The aristocracy minded their own business because they were few and far between and hounded as security risks. (I met the latter in pubs, coffee bars, in paddocks. Even wearing dog-collars but not believing in the Almighty.) I would have liked the pubs to have opened all the time, and the churches, high schools and universities—brick-red houses of surgery—to have closed early.

Otherwise living in New Zealand was hell of a cosy. Sleepy. Dreamy. Insulated. Subsidised.

I am now found in Apia, Western Samoa, living in the midst of the same middle-class, the same Joneses. In this house which cost a packet, this study a mere few hundred quid with louvre win-dows, a bookcase crammed with wordy dreams, a mahogany desk and chair. Tapa cloth on the walls, and a blood-red floor. Everything priced to the last penny. Even the ink and paper I'm abusing. The Hiroshima print on the wall. A house, a study, a job two thousand miles and a year away from New Zealand. With its vast sheep-flaked paddocks and cities. Famous for Maoris in tourist posters, the lack of revolutions (which resulted I think in old-age pensions for middle-aged young writers, poets and artists), and an abundance in "promising" All Blacks, rustic policemen, failed-cockies turned poli-ticians, and religious silver-haired literary critics.

I am still suspicious. (The world hasn't always treated me nicely.) Still suspicious of the re-spectable, the respected, the reputable and the godly. And here, as I was in New Zealand, I am still self-consciously polite and thrive on the population saying nice things to me and about me and the frail structures I weave out of my imagined loneliness. Here it's not about what I write (or think I write) they're nice to me about. They're nice because they think I returned from the Kiwis be-wigged, degreed, white-collared and still "a true Samoan" carrying the burden of their future. As I was with my friends in New Zealand, my friends here are finding me warm, honest and generous to the point of starving my wife and daughter.

Now for the bit about the "disease" which so many Kiwis and a certain group of Samoans (who've never read my stuff but think I'm a budding pagan-beachcomber because I spend my un-shaven time reading, drinking and learning my daughter's baby-talk instead of organising youth groups for the middle-aged or women's committees or education classes for the mildewed or going to church or looking up to them) find so odd. Odious. In fact downright ungrateful. I write. I am trying to write. I used to think any joe could do this. But they can't. How I've managed for the past few years (which are only a few years nothing to die feeling glad about, there I've done something sort of parting words with the world and the pensioned missus). I won't ever know. But all of them I've spent in New Zealand. Where they've heard of me mainly in the pubs and coffee bars over jugs of beer and eternal cups of coffee during some many hours of smokeful talk about immortality, Jehovah, sex, football and the latest hip madman on the literary market. In parties over crates of beer during so many nights of immortality, Jehovah, sex, football and the latest break up between So-and-So be-cause she was searching for the first orgasm and he was in search of "soul and nirvana" (a clear-cut case of intellectual incompatibility we agreed). In one government department devoted to publish-ing rose-garden scrolls for schools and kindergarten pension addicts, where I met the first Kiwi aristo-crat—a stout soulful fellow who would spend his last milk-money to give an alky a meal because he too had been through the same liquid hell and found the cinders of poetry. On street corners where

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conversation with friends was a distraction from the nyloned-thick-caived legs of kiwi girls searching for godly civil servants and lawyers riding white stallions. In lecture halls where the stench of Helena Rubenstein flicked open the rocket shelter but had no quivering moon to aim at because the lecturer — a draughty screen of words—had promised them a fair-dinkum scientific moon where Shakespeare would be a safe computing machine. In seminar rooms, dingy with bibliographies, where stale-eyed professors peddled visions of revolution and Utopia (both historically inevitable they said), but them-selves drew bread from state bakeries and sat flat-bottomed in faculty arm-chairs, dreaming of tea and sabbatical leave (let no man say we didn't stand by the young and the working class!).

Some of the people, who've had the misfortune to read or hear about my stuff from someone who heard from some other bloke, waited and are still waiting (god bless them!) for the "promise" they thought they saw in my illiterate first-steps "to flower" (as one joker put it so kindly). Before I returned to Samoa some of them warned me of the effects of the sapping tropical climate, the brown-eyed octupus-limbed gauguin goddesses, the stagnating distractions of an imagined South Seas paradise, even of the snake in eden (don't say we didn't warn you: you'll die spiritually and become a poli-tician!) I was scared to hell. However, as in New Zealand, I've found an erupting materialism here. The snake in eden (if there ever was an eden or a snake or a noble savage on this earth) is the missionary-come-bureaucrat-come-politician or the politician-come-bureaucrat-come-missionary. Samoa has no need of writers. It is waiting for tourists.

In the villages here I feel the compelling pull of centuries, of history as deep as human forget-fulness. Of fame as meaningless and as glorious as in any other very old country. Something I didn't find in New Zealand. Not that I wasn't a kiwi. That country drew me out of my innocence to face the steel gods of western society (so high-faluting a term), shaped within my hide that intellectual solitude so peculiar to the disinherited souls of the west. The eyes to see and feel the void behind the steel facades and the papier mache gods. I became a westerner, yet an outsider in the society which had unintentionally given me the eyes to see with. And for this I owe New Zealand so much. For without such a "gift" I would not now be seeing my own country as it really was, as it is now, and as it is inevitably going to be.

Here the desert is starting to drag its limb across the land. At times I see no future (if we ever had one) for my daughter. But I have no pet regrets. Perhaps at certain times it is necessary to turn away from the world in order to see it better. And for this, there is need of deserts, the breed-ing ground of solitude so essential to courage . . . I write on. What for I don't know. What about I think I know. The how I'm learning slowly. Perhaps the learning, the going through the tortured motions is enough, the justification.

In Savai'i, three years back, I found the lava fields. Gigantic from mountain range to sea. Purged to silence. Black moon plains. I stood and knew I had found our beginning and our end, the heart and the void . . . I returned home to a plane and back to New Zealand. I could no longer divorce myself from the Maoris in whom I had tried so hard to find "true tragedy". I had used them irreverently in neurotic arguments, with kiwi liberals, about race relations and something known amongst the literati as "The Fall". I saw the Maoris for the first time. I saw myself.

One Maori friend of mine—the only true Polynesian (as anthropologists and all the other olo-gists define this weird bird to be) I ever had the blessing to meet, and who looked upon university as one big female gladiator school which provided his "weapon" (as he called it) with willing opponents-one night while guzzling beer told me of Maui's death as his grandfather had told it to him. This is how he imitated his grandfather I think!

The death goddess, Hine-nui-te-po, she sleep there as big like the mountain. And Maui he come along with these fantail mates of his, and he say to his mates, 'Boy, you keep quiet while I do the climbing or you wake her up.' . . . Now Maui he challenge every other god and get away with it. He even fish up this goddam island which don't belong to his descendants no more. After he do all this challenging he get so cheeky he want for to challenge Hine-nui where it hurt her most. Down-there where all females keep their pride . . . So his mates, the fantails, keep quiet and Maui do his climbing. He start from her 'pride' and hope to come out her mouth. (Boy, them Maoris in those

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days, they know very little about biology!) Well, Maui he climb alright. But his mates think it hell of a funny cause Maui give no reason why he doing the climbing; it all so absurd. So they laugh and laugh. Boy, their laughter it wake up Hine, and poor Maui he still in there." At this point my friend looked sad. Four quick beers made him forget again. And he ended, 'And Hine-nui, she wake up and find him in there, and she cross the legs, and thus ended Man's quest for immortality." Man, we laughed and laughed. It was dawn I think.

The death of Maui has remained within me ever since. Disturbing. Compelling. Absurd, yet it has more meaning for me than all the formal education I ever had (perhaps unlucky to have had), than all the intellectual myths about New Zealand and Polynesia and the Great Orgasm and even the religious crusades and Jerusalem.

The desert, the lava, and Maui's death. All else is illusion. Avenues to an air-conditioned Siberia and the ice-age. But as the fantails I hope said while watching their mate being ground in Hine's "pride", "ALL IS WELL. ALL IS WELL."

POEMS

1. ta kekalummena ta hupo tes ges te kai huper tou ouranou aei paratheke moi erotesin kai hopot'an keimai hup'ouranou e huper tes ges erchet'es ton noun ti blemma tou anoetou.

Translation of 1 'ta kekalummena'.

"Things hidden below the earth and above the sky have always given me cause for wonder. And whenever I stretch out below the sky and above the earth, there comes into my mind some inkling of the incomprehensible."

2. stavrome sten agape den thelo lefterian ta matia tes san mochli enechyron pareichan. ten thelete eirkte mou poly apolaveno kalytera s'emena afte apolon kosmo.

Translation of 2 'stavrome'.

"I am crucified to my love. I do not desire release. Her eyes give me a pledge, like bars. I much enjoy my self-willed prison. For me, she is more beautiful than the whole world."

TWO

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MURRAY GRIMSDALE

DUSK

I think of those cyclones of women from whose placental rage new life is born.

I think of rainbows arching from secret hands and how in every dead seashell a locked atlantis surfs eternally.

I think of how women's dumb limpidity hones itself to the smallest temperature of love in the way the silent sky empties itself into the strange dark of the night.

I think of sad eyes grieving out from windows of tears as the ocean heals itself with an infinite galaxy of salt.

I think of death that colossal neutraliser

and flowers that open suddenly in anguish at the smell of flames.

I think of the way waves curl round cold rock tongues of earth crazed for water and how birds walk their backward dance

through the slime and slither of the kelp.

I think how futile is the mind that feeds on weeds and bottles and things out of sort while names of terror are softened in the sweat of reason's dark murder as ribbons of blood slice the universe into screaming worlds of pain . . .

WHAT GODOT MAY BRING

My tree grows hard and straight with quickening pulse towards that sky which, pregnant carrys in its womb latent hopes and my undreamt dreams. T 7

I wait for the babe—

now to me unknown— I chaffe with impatient frenzy for I am its father.

My tree understands my hopes and knows the unborn child so he pushes no harder, though I strain and plead and cry for him to hurry upwards.

But suddenly in glorious confusion my tree will strike and the blue unknown will burst shatter and fall in pieces to the earth. It is my tree And my sky And the pieces the million coloured fragments will be especially mine to treasure or reject. Mine to put together in some new and ecstatic pattern.

the new being of a contentment r n

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KENDRICK

1. "What is character but the determination of incident? What is incident but the illustration of character?" — Henry James.

C / »

C O

Not with a whimper. Rather more, a bang: The Bomb, of course, that hallucinogen By whose agency a man, monstrous, may See clearer. It was so the War ended, Remote from me, thus far from many like me. The War was our development: its arrest Arrested us. There has to be some point At which, in essence, we are stayed However unconditional surrenders make Us daily over into our existence, War or no war, if there is time of no war.

So, the big bang. After, subdued, the whimper Protracted into whispers, the sentence Involuntary early morning darkness hears Saying Goodbye (is it?), goodbye to what?

What consequencb, after what shadowy act? And what can one admit, to oneself Even, alone as a child is alone Or the adult, waking, sweating, in early morning?

Consider John, whose surname I cannot surrender, Who waved goodbye to his father and saw Him hit by the bus that he was going (He said) to catch. John came to me, One more case unable to learn to read, Unable to learn, always remote From me, so far from many like me. He whimpered, he may have been hallucinated, A thing of monstrous shadows And one event only, whose one distinction Was the extraordinary endurance Of his mental age, three and a half Approximately: never more, seldom less, As he was when his Daddy caught The very last bus which he could catch, Which is running y e t

SMITHYMAN

2. "It sounds puerile to say that some incidents are intrinsically much more important than others . . . " — Henry James.

C / ) The author of deformity. A man is, He is the author of deformity, himself, What is in him deformed, he is that. He is its fashion. But seest thou not What a deformed thief this fashion is? I know that deformed the second watchman said. We were all watchmen; all watched you go. M M * A' has been a vile thief this seven year. And seven more beside. At the last ^ J U i It seemed simpler to blame it on the liver So much abused, so much diseased, so wrong. P J J J ® Wasn't there the Tudors claimed affection Had its locating? 0 deformed affection, J ^ S You, out of your humour, stolen, gone.

Man makes his illness, until sickness mars All his creation. It is of love we ail Which is deformed, the bastardy of will, To have those others suffer in our power By which we know we are not hurt alone. While we can give pain we know we are. Pain is what we are. I am; I hurt. The fascination of impure design: So much sustained you, so much you sustained When you laid words to words and botched a page. Not that you could not do it otherwise (You could and easily) but that you would, Throwing the city up against your will. You lived in symbols till your symptoms stank. Who were the boys who stoned your windows out? You kept an open house, but when the glass Was done the night came in. That night was long.

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THOUGHTS UPON A DEATH A WELLINGTON COFFEE BAR

COFFEE BLUES A young fool,

holding the arms of a woman. Seen through stale air,

candles guttering in bottles. A child, born into light,

does not die with speed, There is no mercy, here,

in the death of a child. Slashed arms

wrists mouthing blood. Wrists bent back in seeking death,

blood drips on the cafe floor. These were the wrists of a child,

death grown old in the arms of a child. In the wrists of a child,

stretched out on the bleak edge of an age. The woman moans in the dimness.

"Have some coffee, d e a r . . . " Cloth on the wrists turning red.

"The poor thing's died . . . " Coffee for a corpse,

grows a skud in the night. No mourners, flowers, or tears,

unhallowed ground, dust turned bitter. "Why did she do it n o w ? . . .

"Couldn't take it, love, all alone . . . " Forty years waiting,

Watching death grow old. There is no clean killing,

in the watching light, no mercy in the birth of a child.

DYING LAMENT

—li fe is a road or path, the full travelling of which results in the realisation of death as a spiritual gateway. This poem is dedicated to all whose travelling is broken off by violent death. In particular it is dedicated to Annette and John.

Now is our waking, In the chill of an evening We did not know was come.

Behind and not in front, forms the sorrow.

The thoughts of we might have been, the tears of those we leave, and the sodden fall of cold damp clay.

These are not ours Ours is in our being

within our becoming On the path beyond Our eyes Watch in the dark The swaying shadows. Yet we grieve Softly sorrowing as the night closes We are not ready

for the path beyond the shadow Not formed or hardened

in the bright sun, our shadow shapes Come too soon from morning

too soon to the closing.

We have lost the meaning of our dying Within the sound of steel And the sight of blood cooling In the silence of a bitter road.

Let the rain fall in soft whispers spring grass grow upon the scar.

Those we leave May not hold our passing long. Let them find rest,

in spring grass, softly growing.

But we have lost the meaning of our dying, In the silence of a road, grown cold.

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WEEK-END SEMINAR

Outside, against the pale sky, hills block calm their quiet shadows and dark leaves drip black streams. I on a ledge watching the darkened room, only behind me light throwing framed my negative on the floor. Depthless in quiet, frayed at the noisy edges. Sound sudden, impinging senseless, with a depth of chaos, heavy as a heaving mudpool. Outside, the stream's song and the liquid leaves; unflustered shimmer of stars and the solid silver moon. Furtive the cigarettes prick fitful red shiver in hands unsteady as talk oozing with deadness breaks in the darkness. Flat beer and one day love, and dull, dull eyes, and I who had hoped for wit and quickness, watching in tears. MURRAY GRIMSDALE

AT THE END OF SUMMER JIM CHAPPLE

Tai, lean muscled, brown skin scarred by many years of scabies sores, dived cleanly from the grassy bank into the pool, the cool green water swirling gently past the slowly waving cresses. He came up under the dog paddling swimmer, splashing and struggling from the deeper water on the outside of the bend across to the shallows above the sand bank on the far side. Tai reached for the thrashing ankles, grabbed firmly, and pulled them well down.

Tom felt the rough grasp of unexpected hands, closed his mouth and eyes tightly as he went under. His terror of the water, slowly lessening in the few months since he'd learnt to swim, returned in that moment, a reality to be feared, and his mind and body tensed in the instant of reaction.

mouth shut he thought mustn't swallow water who pulled me under? no time to worry about that now I must get to the bottom I can push myself back up from there why don't I sink? usually I don't think about sinking it just happens.

His breathing muscles, forced into stillness by the will, began to scream their necessity. He des-perately needed to know how deep down he was. Tom had learnt the trick of opening his eyes under water to look at shells on the sandy bottom in the shallows at the beach. He decided to open them now, trying to master his fear.

there's the surface it's as far away as the sky like a glassy shiny sheet of light like looking up from the bottom inside a bucket. muscles yelling at the brain again I must take breath not water though thoughts for the end of life flash in the shiny mirror above drown dead my body, limp and pale lying on the green green bank a coffin, bare cheap wood me looking up out of it at dead faces the dead inspecting the dead through the lid they've come surrounding it to tighten the screws down what if they bury me and I'm not proper dead? how will I fight my way out? In the old churchyard after the clearing of brambles and gorse I've seen the deep hole dug in the yellow clay watched the box lowered on stiff clean ropes and covered with heavy dirt for good ghosts rise up through all that earth meet in the night, white-sheeted but that's a Maori churchyard are those ghosts white or brown? if they bury me there I won't belong perhaps they won't notice I'm different

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it's summer and I'm as brown as they are muscles yelling again for air can't do anything now but fill up with water close eyes tight first though I don't want to see me drown.

Strong hands, rough and sudden, grabbed Tom's body, the visions in the mirror's surface shattering. Sweet, sweet air, hitting his lungs with a physical blow, his tortured muscles dragging it into his body with great gulps; the body that had drifted so close to dying in the last few moments.

Tom looked over his shoulder to see who had brought him up out of the darkness. George's happy laughing face. In it was no fear, no anger, nothing but acceptance of the situation as it arose. George lived in a stream of continuing existence, meeting all things as they were presented to him. He was Tom's playground ally, and Tom's friendship with him was largely hero-worship. The two boys, one the schoolteacher's son, the other a son of the local chief, always took the same side in games, shar-ing their out-of-school time doing whatever was in fashion at the moment.

Dragging Tom to the safety of the shallows, George re-crossed the pool, and ran along the bank on the deeper side towards the narrow, wooden-railed one-way bridge where Tai, still dripping from his dive, was standing watching the rescue. George battered fiercely into Tai with his fists, knocking him to the ground with the savageness of his attack. Tai made no attempt to defend himself. Tom couldn't tell whether this was because he feared George's social rank within the tribe, or because he knew it was well deserved.

George was one of the luckier boys of the Maori community. His people were comparatively well off. The rest of the Rangi family were all warmly dressed and regularly fed. Occasionally a boy or girl who showed outstanding scholastic ability would gain entrance by examination to one of the Maori boarding colleges, Te Aute, St. Stephen's or Queen Victoria. George became one of the lucky few. It was a chance to break free of the enclosing environment of the pa, and the marae. After two or three years these young people usually returned to the district and worked on a farm, in a sawmill, or as lab-ourers. The girls married immediately, their outside schooling making them more desirable since they had not been among the line up of available mature girls used by the local youths, and they would have several children before they were twenty. These returnees were looked upon with suspicion by the older Maoris until it was apparent that their pakeha education hadn't been a strong enough influence to enable them to abandon the tribal and family ties. Tom didn't realise until long after, how strongly this family and racial unity could restrain by drawing them back to itself, the young Maoris who might have been able through their awakened awareness, to begin the work of combining the two races into one society.

Tom Carroll didn't mind owing his life to George. This brought them closer together as friends. Tom envied him his physical ability, finding as he grew older that his association with Maori playfel-lows, George especially, had given him something of their spirit, their toughness in the presence of physical suffering, pain or discomfort. The ability to stretch your bodily endurance beyond the feel-ing of pain or exhaustion. It was the power to force the muscles past the point where thev were beg-ging the brain for relief. You used your mind to conquer them, forced them to submit to the will, the desire to excel, and using this, you won, or scored or overtook your opponent, achieving that little superiority over the fellow alongside you. Tom felt an intense pride when he later became aware of this, as if something Maori was in his blood. Even if not a true blood brother, he knew he belonged in a way, however small, with his Maori friends, those he knew better than any other people about him. Years later he understood that he believed himself then to have been neither truly pakeha nor wholly Maori at that stage in his life.

Tom recalled other things that had become part of his slowly constructed mosaic, growing out of his childhood experiences. These were the sharply cornered memories, those with harsh edges, that didn't fit the grey and pastel background at all neatly. They were the ones he didn't fully under-stand, yet they were the ones that mattered to him most, those that gave him a sense of the Maori's position in the community, and how his sympathy always belonged with them.

Two children came into the bright light of Tom's picture, and they never really found a proper place in it. Polly and Parata, the twins, tall, skinny, with big round silent eyes, honey coloured hair of shoulder length, dressed in ill-fitting dresses hanging about their ankles. They went barefooted winter and in summer, and smiled shyly only if encouraged by whoever watched them, needing some sign of sympathy or amusement before allowing their sharing of it to be shown. These two belonged

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in the middle of a group of ten or twelve children, a family living about three miles from the school. No one could be sure how many children lived in the Tohi house, there were always children there who didn't belong, whose parents were in hospital, or visiting some other pa, or who just didn't have any adults willing to house them at that time. Polly and Parata were just big enough to be made responsible for younger ones yet not of a size able to resist the kicks and cuffs of older people, their mother, or drunken old Ru, their father, who could be seen stumbling home every evening from the pub in Tapa-rua. No one knew how Mrs Tohi kept enough from Ru's war pension and the family benefit to feed the children even one meal a day. The Maori neighbours contributed kumeras, potatoes, eels, maize and seafood knowing that any other form of assistance would eventually pass across the local bar.

Their house was on a low hill facing the sodden undrained swamp where Ru's few miserable cows foraged among the flax, raupo, and blackberry, breeding with Jack Riddell's old bull, which found its way as occasion demanded through the slack and rusty wires behind the tall clumps of red manuka on the far side of the gully. The building was one of a kind common in most country areas, the sort a farmer doesn't pull down because it will still keep a few hundred bales of hay dry. Paint long since weathered away, roof rusting, gutters choked with flakes of rust and dead leaves, a tall brick chimney pot and a lean-to verandah roof over a sagging, tired porch. Around it, an orchard, planted hopefully, had become old, unpruned and nibbled away by animals no longer fenced out of it, the remaining clumps of a hedge indicating the boundary of the little plot set out by the original occupant for his family's use.

The empty windows, dead-eyed, glassless, reflecting no light, overlooked the swamp and beyond the railway line, where now and again one of Ru's beasts would be caught wandering by one of the four daily trains, ending its life as a mangled bleeding mess, holding up the train while the crew arg ued with the old man about who was to blame.

Only at night did light come from these windows, that of kerosene lamps flickering behind the sack-curtained openings. Domestic livestock lived between the totara piles under the floor, their para-sites running riot both below and above it.

In the years of the depression, Tom remembered watching the Tohi twins one day from his secret hid-ing tree, a big oak growing on one boundary of the school grounds. He'd seen them lingering about the buildings after the others had put away their tops and marbles and gone home. They emptied out the wire baskets holding the papers, opening each brown bag or lunch paper, picking out of some a crust, a piece of boiled potato, or scrap of doughy homemade pan cooked bread. They devoured these dis-carded scraps and though Tom was too far away to be certain of what each mouthful was, he well knew the kind of food that found its way into the baskets. It was mid-winter and the late light of the sun shone from beneath a bank of heavy clouds for a few minutes before setting. The light was golden with a reddish tinge as if smoke were about.

scavengers picking at the kill the king of the beasts kills at dawn sleeping by day the vultures circle at dusk to pick the carcass clean like two menacing birds they crouch their human hands are claws the sun throws shadows on the walls behind the backs bent over the heads move towards the food in the claws the bird effect is stronger now these creatures may not rise and soar above the golden bloodied earth.

His sense of smell reminded Tom of an equally disturbing part of those earlier days. Now and again Tom or his sister would have a kutu in their hair, or perhaps a nasty little sore that wouldn't heal, but the rest of the children were always picking with their filthy nails at some scabby skin eruption. Whenever Tom smelled sulphur, he could close his eyes and see the huge tins of evil smelling khaki coloured ointment supplied by the Government for use in combating scabies, the common suppurating sores. Tom looked once into a medical book and saw an enlarged drawing of a scabies mite.

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. . . . fat, many legged one hundred and twenty-fifth of an inch long not visible to the naked eye burrows into and under the skin causing itching sores easily transferred by bodily contact with infected persons

How his skin had itched as he imagined many of these things crawling slowly over his body and burrowing, gnawing their way deeper under his skin. In the summers all the children swam at least twice a day and the sores disappeared, only to break out again in early winter. Tom's father per-suaded the Department to provide showers and a bath at the school, and proved his contention that all the children needed was the mechanical equipment for washing themselves.

. . . . Maoris aren't dirty at all he said they just aren't given a chance to be clean what right have pakehas to call them dirty smelly people when our society offers them so little of its wealth that a kerosene tin with the top taken out of it has to serve as bath, cooking pot, tank and latrine can in most of the shacks around the pa?

Tom wasn't to understand the full meaning of economic necessity for many years but he remem-bered hearing that his dad's school was one of the the first Native Schools in the Island that had its children free from the horrible, running, scabies sores.

Tom's dad always went on at length about racial equality. Tom heard a lot about how much could be learned from the Maoris. A big fuss was made at school of Maori art, craft, singing, poi and action dances. Frequent important visitors made it apparent that the school was a show place for these things in that part of the country. Here was a school where the Maori culture was valued, encour-aged and preserved. By proving that he had understood the problems, and finding rewarding work to do among these people, Mr Carroll had earned recognition which never came to him. His ability was far beyond that of those on whom rested his professional future. He opposed them in many things, fol-lowing his conscience, stayed too long in the position, which interested him because of what he had made of it, and ended disillusioned, frustrated, living a middle age of despair and unfulfilled hopes.

Tom absorbed liberal views in politics, learnt support for racial and social struggles in all their forms, feeling in himself the desire to help the Maoris if he could do so. But it was the Maori music that sounded always in Tom's ears. The voice rhythms, the natural harmonies that they used as they sang and the joy that showed in every part of their bodies whenever song and movement were com-bined, the grace in all their movements, these always drew him back strongly to his childhood as-sociations.

Mixed with this was a contaminating sense of shame for other things Tom knew went on. He knew tradespeople in Taparua who kept inferior clothing and footwear under their counters which was brought out only when Maori customers entered the shop. He had seen food infested with weevils or grubs, returned by pakehas, being sent out again in grocery orders destined for Maori homes. Tom knew very few pakehas who had an active practical conscience about the Maoris. He remembered how he had once felt himself as a pakeha to be superior. Now that he knew the town and district where he'd lived had shown him all the worst that was white. Tom felt the position of his friends so personally that he would have become one of them, changed his race had he been able. He could have felt pride as a Maori, but as a pakeha, pride was no longer possible.

Tom met Teresa early one summer, many years after leaving his early surroundings, now living in the city. She was a member of a Teachers' College concert group. The Maori music was the starting point for their friendship. They went together to many dances and Tom found her unaffected, warm-natured and responsive in a way no pakeha girl had ever been with him. He had no thoughts about her colour, accepting his desire for her as a natural one, while for Teresa the only obstacle was the over-coming of fears instilled by earlier religious training. Tom knew how she was struggling with her problems and was content to talk about it only as she wished, making few comments unless he drew him into her thinking aloud. As Christmas came nearer they were spending most evenings together and when the holidays began Tom went home with her to visit her family.

He was accepted in a way that was new to him. He found himself with strange people who took him into their lives expecting nothing from him as a contribution to talk or action until he was

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ready to move from within himself towards it . . .to be left alone while taking the measure of new relationships. No questions were asked about Tom's family, there were no formal introductions, no skirmishing, seeking, prying round for information to fill in the vital picture, so important in pakeha society, of his social status.

There was none of the sensation of being labelled and being popped, neatly and securely pigeon-holed, into one's proper slot. There were no traces of the stresses existing in most pakeha families he had known. Tom and Teresa ate whenever they felt hungry, sometimes before, often after the others eating whatever food there was, sharing it with whoever else was about at the time. Sometimes there were two, sometimes four meals a day, and on one mighty occasion a huge feast that made eating an uncomfortable thought for almost forty eight hours.

In the evenings, after dark, they bathed together in the pool fed by the hot springs. From the clustering decaying houses of the little village, they walked along the dusty pumice path winding among the steaming openings, vapour drifting all about them. They filled ttie shallow board-sided pool with hot water from the spring, running it in down a wooden trough, mixing it with cold water from the stream until its temperature suited the night air. On the hottest days it would barely be tepid. On cooler nights hot enough to make them sweat and they'd finish with a cold plunge in the stream alongside.

Tom felt development taking place within himself. He was aware of changes in his thoughts that couldn't have happened outside this present situation. These were unanticipated things. He saw Teresa stepping out of her clothing in the small shelter beside the pool; his own whiteness sharp, his shivering body clear against her warm, brown, almost invisible skin. In her graceful move-ments and quiet example Tom found new shame at his own false attitudes and mock modesty. He learnt that nakedness was entirely a matter of the reasons for which you shed your clothing, and who the people were when you do so. It was the first time he had ever discarded his own clothing with no feelings of naughty daring or self-conscious embarrassment. Not only his clothes came off. A rather grubby, shabby, social skin came away as well and Tom felt guilty when he realised he had possessed it. In this new state he felt that more than his body was bare. Communications and sensations were reaching him, that hadn't got through the husk he'd left behind.

He had to endure the laughs and giggles of the other Maori people in the little village, who saw from the first few days the pakeha struggling with conventional European scruples in taking a bath in the nude with his girl. When Tom overhead himself being referred to as "Teresa's pakeha" a few days after his arrival he chuckled a little, but realised that the remark represented their acceptance of his place among them.

Before New Year came, they were relaxing one evening after their bath, lying together on the warmed sand at the lakeshore, allowing the desire for nearness that had been rising for many weeks to express its existence. Their clean warmed bodies tingled, responding to the slow summer evening. Naked in the pleasantly cooled air, their touching became an embrace of gentle tenderness. Tom strangely had no fierceness in him during their closeness. There was no thought of taking her be-cause of missing a chance to gratify his desire. He knew this was a far more significant kind of love than a yielding or surrendering in willingness. They each wanted the other, but knowing that the moment had to be waited for, the caresses made unhurriedly, allowing the time for perfect loving to arrive through its natural inevitability. It was an end to which they were being slowly carried. It came to-wards them, like a story within which they belonged, yet they were not consciously moving or even thinking about its end; just awaiting an already accepted fate. Tom felt the easing of his bodily ten-sions. When Teresa had drawn him completely into herself, and his penetration of her was complete, Tom felt an explosion that seemed to send his seed scattering into the farthest corners of her body, coupled with a knowing that his bursting had been surrounded, that not one small part of his gift to her had been lost or wasted.

Finding this was her first love making didn't surprise Tom. He hadn't thought about it. Knowing it now, he had an intenser understanding of the nature of her love. Its freshness contrasted with all the experience of sex that had gone before in his life.Dirty jokes at school, not properly understood. A lack of the most elementary physical knowledge that he was too afraid to experiment with, and his worry about knowing no one he could ask for truth. The deed which all the Sixth Form talked of boldly. He wondered how many of them were like himself. He knew that he wanted sex with a girl, but inter-course as he imagined it was something which frightened and disgusted him. He knew later of the furtive act of lust committed in haste, the fear of its discovery, and after it all, the sense of self-defile-ment. He had before him in his mind the drawings he had found in an anatomy textbook left lying about the house; the only attempt at sex instruction made by his parents.

65

The drawings reduced the human body, male and female, to something more like sides of meat hang-ing from a rail above his head in the butcher's cool room. Another thing he'd hated in later years was coming home to the student hostel. The first question they asked after you'd spent the evening with a girl was, "Did she turn it up?" They always asked it even if it was the first time you'd gone out with her and you'd never even touched her. The question had nearly turned Tom up more than once.

But his loving of Teresa was wonderful. He wanted to tell someone, to shout about it to every-one, and share his joy with others. He found he couldn't, saying nothing because what he had found was something that he could only share with her. They talked much of their reactions to each other, and the responses they felt, discovering how complete was their participation. They had the feeling of physical lightness, the floating out from one's own body, the escape from the flesh into the state of spiritual experience. They wanted it all to last each time as long as possible. It did, only their physical strength failing them in the end, lowering them into a love-togetherness which was still with them on awakening.

Tom's family left the city in the summer for their cottage where the children had spent their holidays for many years. It was expected that on New Year's Eve there would be a family gathering for drinks and an evening of singing. Tom's parents knew better than to ask directly what had kept Tom away so much. His mother asked him to bring his girl to this minor celebration. Teresa herself was doubt-ful and apprehensive, consenting because Tom so much wanted her to come. She entered the room ahead of him, and before Tom had time to make the usual introductions, the atmosphere had reacted to her colour. The reception was one of those where the cordiality is so artificial that it becomes an insult. Teresa appeared not to have noticed anything. In alien surroundings she sat poised and quiet. She tried to put those around her at ease, knowing that their discomfort arose solely from her pres-ence among them. This seemed not to disturb her at all. Tom had prepared himself for any reaction that might have arisen, but as he watched the situation unfolding he could not avoid comparing Teresa in these pakeha surroundings with himself in her home, among the Maori family. How easy they had made his coming among them. How difficult his family and their friends were making her visit. She reached out to them, reacting to their uneasiness: They moved away, failing her and Tom knew they'd failed him too. The evening passed slowly for everyone. No one sang or laughed with any real hap-piness or enjoyment of good times. All were glad when it was over.

Teresa told him she'd expected it; had gone through such ordeals often before. Tom felt only shame, a great deal of anger, and disappointment. The next day he took Teresa north again to the family's city home where his sister was living alone in the house working at a holiday job. Here, with Susan, Tom and Teresa spent a few quiet evenings talking over their problems with the only member of the family whose opinions Tom knew would be sympathetic.

His parents returned unexpectedly one afternoon, and his mother spoke quietly but urgently to him asking if Teresa would be staying the night. Tom knew what was worrying her. Mr Carroll would cer-tainly be upset by the situation, especially when it was obvious that they had been together there in his absence. In his mother's tone Tom heard her begging him to take Teresa away from the house. Teresa asked for no explanations, could see the crisis developing and was disturbed by the thought of the things that would be said in her absence. Tom drove her to the northern side of the city, to her sister's home. She said goodbye to him in tears, afraid of what was happening, feeling that every possible argument against her would be brought forward; that there would be no one on her side. Fear destroyed her confidence even in Tom. He was aware of what they were losing, of the damage being done to their relationship, and his resentment of the attitudes of superiority that had appeared in his parents gave Tom an angry strength to meet the outburst that he knew awaited him.

He turned into the drive, and saw his mother lift the kitchen curtain, checking that he had re-turned, alone. As the motor died in the garage, his father came in through the workshop door.

Tom, he said, Tom Mum and I this start always meant a discussion of serious distasteful matters Mum and I we're verv worried about you and this . . . Maori girl he had worked himself up to a higher note and was unable to look Tom in the eye why don't you have more consideration for our friends and for our feelings look Tom you know as well as I do that those girls

66

any girls out of the pa they'll lie down with anyone for a few bob you don't know who's been through them or what diseases they've got and if you marry one of them you'll have all her relations living with you most of the time they'll drag you down to their level for the rest of your life those Maori women all look like sluts grow fat and ugly by the time they're forty.

Tom looked straight into his father's face No eyes met his. Mr Carroll turned, walking away into the house, clicking off the light as he left the building. This was his way of signifying that he had said all he intended. The door swung slowly behind him . Tom stood alone in the darkness long after his father had left him.

67

BURIAL r— Bring me a spade. ^ Direct me to a quiet place

deserted if possible where weeds ^ and grass share the soil harmoniously g j and let the soil be moist and rich.

Bring me the spade. Direct me. And ask no questions.

For I am now to perform a burial and although none was present at this death but I . . . let it be hoped that the dead is at peace now. Leave me to hack a warm niche and do not watch from a distance as the body is lowered coffinless between the dark walls.

Let none see that it can only lie on its side not straight but with one arm beneath its head and its knees drawn slightly up and the rictus of its mouth turned to the falling earth and me.

Let no one but myself see that its eyes are fixed and pitiless and let no one but myself who wield the spade and bear the weight of the body notice the clenched fist of one hand and the straining fingers of the other which shall

reach up then for nothing but dark soil. Let none see even from afar

how the neck tendons are pulled tight by the wheels of the brain and how the back is arched and turned sideways

at the base of the spine. No priest must see

the toes spread and curved like fingers their sinews standing out to the ankle.

0 God let no mourner but myself bear the weight of the body to be lowered let no relative feel the lock in the limbs of the

body unwieldly like great twisted driftwood. Only I must feel the last downward stroke of the reaching hand.

Let no one but myself thud down the spadesful of rich soil. Let no one sweat but I to cover gradually the face the hand the half-upturned flank.

0 God let no mourners in turn push in earth and grieve for only I must grieve. And let no friends turn away saddened creating a bond of sympathy. 1 must be as lonely as the body.

And 0 God let the rain come hard to lower the mound and relax the muscles of the body, soften the fingers.

And let nothing mark the grave. God that the grass and weeds may not in time grow richer above it. That the wind may pass it by unknowing and whisper

no mnemonic past doors of other people That the sun may give it no special attention. That the rain may fall hard but not with the specific

purpose of softening the body. That no children may creep bravely there, stalking a rumoured spectre.

0 God that this dead may be known and remembered by none but I. That it may lie quietly. 0 God let none see that it cursed me let the reaching hand fall 0 God let the mouth fill with earth.

l e t f t f

The rain in the puddles spent its force, The trolley bus passed on its nightly course, The cold lights shone And the wind beyond blew cold in my face; The happy people—all gone; I stood alone in this lonely place. Those empty shops blinking Neon, as I watched, thinking That in this shattered night Frozen in silver light I wanted to scream And end it all, But never did there fall Even a sigh From the lips that kissed the expectant air goodbye. Those girls that had walked by, Sweet ones in gorgeous faces, With their full lips in defiance pouted, While handsome male graces Swept them down the glittering way. The heavy clouds that had brooded through the day Were in the eve forgotten, as the spray From spinning tyres Fell like the rain In diamond showers, And ail the pain of living Left the lover; Kissed by his girl, striving to discover, Amid the whirl that filled his brain And ploughed across his loins; Now that his love had trapped her, Where, oh where, the pure And proper path to rapture. Like stuffed gluttons hordes of cars Converged on the bustling cinemas; Disgorging sylphide girls With golden perfumed curls; Men watch their tender eyes And feel the rise of sluggish blood, And in the straining hours of night The sap of manhood Melts into a woman's arms; The fight is lost; the captive calms. Cold are the silent alleys Wherein the misfit creeps, Old are the empty houses Wherein the misfit sleeps; Like dying coals his two eyes glow Watching the lovers that kiss below. Watching the rain that tumbles down, Watching the water that rushes down, Watching the gutters it gushes down; In this sea the soul must drown— Oh, earth! love me before I go! The shivering winds blow, And across the street—not far The light of an all night milk-bar Beckons—come. I ran, but a silver car Drummed the life from me As I entered the warm and darkening sea.

70

NEVER LOVE A MISFIT

G. BRIDGEMAN

J.R.H.

OR How a Christian might explain away the churches' silence at the Government's decision to send troops to Vietnam

We of Christly inclination and faith Are no fools you know. We are aware what side Our bread is buttered on. If the Government says it's all right That our troops shall go, Then with toasts of heavenly wine We urge them along.

You see some long time ago now All Christian denominations realised That the vibrant, pulsating, idealistic Democratic state must always be right. We realised our job was not To fight for that once prized, But rather to make sure We kept our churches and coffers packed tight.

A law-abiding, unquestioning society allows Us time for godly worship. Against any decision to vainly demonstrate Would be tantamount to Christian disarmament. Therefore we preach hell and fire and Christ's terrible wrath and skip Over worldly problems, loudly

Proclaiming the eleventh Commandment:

Thou shalt stamp with heavy feet On thy conscience.

Bread and wine in the Churches, Soldiers in their tents.

53 WORLD SITUATION S r All morning clouds and showery y rain beat unceasing down, ^ threatening a boy and his play: n n one leather football lay soaked l - n in long grass by the drive, g g Through rain-flecked glass

the situation remained unclear: the kitchen was steamed-up and warm but

g * it could be burst by thunder. q ? Later

f ^ drizzle dried into a flicking breeze, the fluffy clouds made off and sunlight blotted white concrete pathways. Each time he shook a shrub rain fell from cupped leaves and sprinkled his shirt. Still, the sky looked okay. Then the pale shine waned and clouds came back from behind the lawson trees, dampening the air with chilly light, so the boy went inside, worrying about thunder and his model railway.

PETER GIBBONS

THE WATER CURE At last night's dance a pakeha joker put her into orbit: even in dimlight he saw tarnished lustre solving her eyes and when lead guitar weighted a lower key her stilettos made their steps misfit —that's what comes of keeping on with a pakeha bit. He rides away, wheeling between the raw and open paddocks, scarred and knived, backpedalling in the vacuum, able between the tangle of TV aerials to feel a burden bump his shoulders, and shuddering count regrets to the jolt of the gravel. Here in the lash of dust through the long verge grass, where beside statehouses lie boards of a broken home, here would he weep and fold his arms along the handlebars, where a hopeless mongrel licks a post, a ragged kid cries, and the weary river heaves back on its wake. At te teko bridge some maori boys dove from rail to water, enjoying the currents suck and fling. It was hot and midday, five miles from edgecumbe and all on bike, so he stripped to join his swimming mates, until, tired of diving, they dried by swinging through the supple willowfronds.

THE LAWYER VLADIMIR OXBOROUGH

"Good morning, Passmore, Mainbrace, and MacDonald." "MacDonald here." "Oh, good morning, Mr MacDonald." "Has anybody called this morning, Miss Townsend?" "Mr Leighton called about half an hour ago, but he didn't leave a message. And Mrs Wood-

house is waiting in the reception room." "Tell her I won't be in this morning." "Very well, Mr MacDonald. And your daughter rang a while ago but said that she would ring

back after one." "I'll be in before one." "All right, Mr MacDonald."

Edward MacDonald replaced the telephone receiver, drew on his cigarette, sipped his strong black coffee. His wife walked into the lounge. She sat down on the sofa, waited a moment in silent pause, and then poured herself coffee.

"Hard night?" with a sneer as she added milk. "A little rich," he said, blowing smoke in her direction. "You'll give yourself a coronary." "Don't let it ruin your day."

Edward MacDonald sat at his desk. He opened the morning mail with an ivory letter knife and when he had finished he placed the contents neatly in a wire basket. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, yawned, and, leaning to his left, without looking, depressed the intercom buzzer twice.

"Yes, Mr MacDonald?" "Folder 268A and folder 268B." "Smith-Carson, damages?" "Yes." He pressed the off button before anything else could be said and swivelled round ninety

degrees to face the harbour from his seventh storey window. Rain was falling in sheets. A passenger ferry seemed to be making slow progress on the rough water.

"Come in."

"Good afternoon, Mr MacDonald. Mr Clarke is working on 268A. Would you like me to get it from him?" said Miss Townsend with obvious keenness.

'That will be right," he said, taking the rubber band off folder 268B. "Anything else, Mr MacDonald?"

He looked up absent mindedly from the wad of documents. "Hm. No, that's all. Oh, one thing. Who's the new typist in the accountant's office?"

"Payne. Helen Payne. An intermediate from Office Staff Services. Mr Mainbrace Junior rang them yesterday."

"I would hardly have thought that we need extra staff, Miss Townsend," MacDonald said without stress.

"Andrews is getting married next month and Mr Mainbrace thought it prudent for her to train her replacement herself."

"Good," which was his standard dismissal of both subject and employee.

A Miss Helen Payne, a tall brunette, brought MacDonald's afternoon coffee in on a silver tray with four biscuits. He looked up from his writing.

73

"You should have been told. The silver tray is Mr Mainbrace Senior's personal tray. I never have biscuits with afternoon tea."

"I'm sorry," she said, avoiding his eyes. "It won't matter now." Helen Payne poured the coffee.

"Two sugar," he said, still looking at her. He guessed her age to be twenty. A yirgin, and frightened to pieces by his bearing. A virgin, he thought, a screaming, prof&slonaf/ private s o o o l virgin but excited from head to foot by his harshness and masculine authority.

"Your first job?" he asked. She looked up straight at his e y & M f r U g & M M ^ a y quickly "Yes," and there was a whisper of "Sir" following it. "You'll find that law firms demand accuracy and efficiency. You understand why that is so;

why it is particularly so of this profession?" "Yes," she said. She had completed the operation with the coffee and was not quite sure

whether she should lift it from the tray and place it beside the large lawyer who sat staring-at her. "Sit down for a moment, Miss Payne. P-A-Y-N-E?"

"Yes," she said. "The armchair is more comfortable." She sat in the armchair which gave MacDonald a full view

of her body, as it were. "You live at home?" he asked, playing with the ivory tetter opener. "Yes, on the North Shore." ^.v or aid; "Your father brings you to work does he?" he stirred his coffee. "On most mornings." "And what line of business is he in?" "In the Public Health Department."

He swivelled away from her. "Miss Andrews will show you the ropes. You'll find that we are pretty ruthtess with staff, but you should get along if you're diligent, and loyal. ,Loyalty i s very im-portant. We have our client's confidence. Treat this building like a Medico's surgery." He turned back to look at her.

"How old are you?" "Twenty." "Good."

It was Edward MacDonald's practice to act out the week according to schedule. The normal day began precisely at seven with a Wilkinson Blade shave, a tepid shower, and then one egg (boiled, poached or fried) With toast and ctiffee. 'The Mercedes would slip down Dundas S t r e e t at eight-twenty and Edward MacDonald would be flicking through books and folders by nine ten/ This proce-dure was occasionally interrupted after a hard night's drinking.

, In the world of Commerce and Law Edward MacDonald was held in repute as an astute, clear headed talker. He was good at golf and a member of the most expensive dub. His wife ran a Hill-man Minx and his daughter had been given a necklace studded with three small diamonds for her twenty-first. The MacDonald's home in Mission Bay had been designed by the architect Langland Richardson, of Cardiff, and David Marr had designed their summer house in the Bay of Islands, where the family retired for three Weeks from Christmas Eve, with their Reefer "Commander

- . n 1-1 i aue.vriy n ^ v . ?:- ?n.7. :

v k- ^-piri r.-.:;

-

Edward MacDonald had never been divorced, but he was known for having an eye fa* women. There had been some instances in his life, and there had been: some talk. MacDonald had eyed Helen Payne that day with more than business appraisal.

gno ,0'J i.e. 2 J6ff! 0*1 (TlH 2fn9flViJDOO tjJA: 9(1 Presently | lost interest. Her breasts were good but her laugh was plainly scatty. Standing in

the corridor with the downstairs Insurance Clerks she seemed strangely unattractive. But there were other times when I felt Inclined to pursue the bitch with gay abandon. During the ensuing weeks I made no contact but much progress. I made no attempt to engage her in conversation but in-stead treated her to total ignore, r At the same time I made it my practice to attack other members of the staff in her presence and abuse them roundly. After three weeks I began to give her small bitf special tasks. After these came more important and demanding work. Often these would need explanation from me and I would deliberately leave some point vague or neglected so that she would be forced to question or correct. At such times I would act patiently or thoughtfully as if it was a point well raised. Helen Payne gained confidence. r Six major bends in the road before Russelt he pushed the horn hard for the benefit of three

boys who had darted out from the grass fringe. They poked1 their tongues, and jeered as the Mer-

74

cedes wizzed past covering them in hot, dry dust. The car radio gave the time as 10.15. MacDonald clipped it off as a voice began a dreary introduction to a serial—"The Love Of My Life."

The waterfront at Russell was crowded and noisy with people's voices over the roar of motor boats. MacDonald parked and walked to the Post Office. He collected a small bundle of letters and sent a telegram.

In the Public Bar of the Russell hotel MacDonald edged his way past a group of rowdy juven-iles and purchased a can of cool Lager. The loud conversation was irritating so he took both beer and glass outside and walked out onto the public wharf and joined a group who had gathered to watch a large shark being hauled from a fishing boat. A smiling little man in Bermuda shorts was photographed standing beside the dead, fish which had been, suspended vertical. A chalked blackboard in front of the fish, revealed its impressive statistics, to tfiO camera's eye.

fu u.-.iTt -•.«!':.• f.-;i< ilh .„ t a i l I5fer V S I ? "Hello, Mr MacDonald/' a voice said from behind Mr MacDonald. ' ^ r s s Payne, goo^iritimittg, MissLpayne." Helen Payne, very brown in shorts and a white blouse

that tied abdve ner Wa1stj;^fnilecf at tWRawyer. " A r e J ^ ^ t ^ ' g ^ / j f f l j ^ a c D o n a l d heard himself ask. "For a week,\wjjh; some friends." " I w a s . J ^ l i d m l r m g ^ h e ^ h a r k , " he said. "Oh, fearsome, creatures." "Ye's very^f j ie. said. Tftey seemed to be walking from the wharf. "We have, a hppse here^ I (Jie said. "So I've

"From worJC„',l. mean. l've; heard you had a house from work." " W f i ^ ^ Q n j j e ^ ^ ' ^ Y ^ j ^ f ' s t ' w a s " They had reached the trees in front of the hotel. "I'm waiting tc.giO tp.)?aihia,'' she said. "By b q a t r p ; ; ; "Yes,, we've icaqiped over, there you see." "You're with'yqur .faniiTyy you said." "No, j ,usf'wift , ipme girls. At the motor camp." He felt a wave tfte, qld lust tremble through his frame. "I'll,drive^ycu . b a d p o Paihia if you wait." "Yes, 1 .oka .vyait," sh^ said.

When MacDonalld Stopped " the Mercedes he closed his eyes and ground his teeth briefly. He expected one of two responses—she would scream "Help, help, rape," and run madly from the car, or she would ask why they had stopped. He was slightly disarmed when, in fact, she did neither. She made a clearing sound; m her throat and brushed a flake of hair from her eyes.

>''j ; f'Hi'VnW "I get tired driving," he said feebly. And it was he who was embarrassed. Beside him, half

naked, sat innocence itself, and^he was not, for once in his life, in command of the situation. He felt suddenly his age, and almost added: "You don't mind if I rest a minute." But he could not bring himself to form the: words aloud. At last she broke the silence.

"It must be a strain being an important man." In his relief tie was moved deeply by her remark. So moved that it struck him as one of the

most profound statements he had ever heard. "Yes, it is a strain!" \

"Will they make you a magistrate?" she asked. Banality did not matter now. She had broken a pause that he could newer have broken, and it was unimportant what stupid turn the conversation took. For five, perhaps ten minutes, they talked. She asking. He replying to everything. Then she said: "Would y w j like^to ftiake love to me?"

qt] jijuov' jJJ>l°.'i ; T;i And Edward MacDonald said "Yes" in the same flat tone he had used throughout their conver-

sation. She kissed him and he .caressed her bare legs above the knee. He moved over her, reflex, and her legs stretched dut, flanking him. As she kissed him again her fingers undid his belt and buttons. Helen Payne whispered, .."Don't worry. I have pills. Pills."

Eddie felt humiliation for the first time in his life. He closed his eyes in disgust and allowed himself to be taken.

75

PROGRESS Frequently an old blind man could be seen creeping like a broken crab up the edge of the pavement to a small consumptive tree which beat at the rain with fingers too thin to protect him as he sat on the broken county-council bench to wait for his bus.

And one day men came and cut down the useless little tree, tossed its broken bench onto a truck and grafted a practical shelter with a glass encased timetable over the sidewalk scar. The old man's stick found the sharp corner and tested it like a doctor's bewildered finger on a strange growth and shocked lost it tapped off the edge of the sidewalk whirled in panic flung the old man under a bus.

In a sense the great blunt drills which killed the tree grunted out his life too.

But Prometheus unchained in the name of freedom and progress turning his back on the white sun and stumbling across the wilderness in search of shelter would see a huge shadow flapping the ground before him and would know that after all things change very little.

(an experiment in poetic shape)

yes surely i hear it coming—that sound i know so well is the voice of the mad midnight special — shouting at sleepy suburbia that it is coming through — and suddenly its hurtling sound solidifies in the limpid water-black of my dreams and i flinch to the shaking ground mind pierced by the gimlet scream to the living galloping metal formed in razor wheels which guillotine my heart and crotch trisecting my thricetaut brain as well with pounding tonnages of muffled timpani this is ecstasy indeed an orgasm of thunder swallowing my every thought with its overwhelming presence then just as suddenly it's gone—poleaxed by relativity and merely rumbling now as i turn to probe my parts strange—there's nothing out of p l a c e -but—a moment ago—i did experience did i not the fulfilment of a night desire? there's no sound now. my sleeping bag is cold again.

LOVE MAY NOT BE BLIND

MIKE MORRISSEY

Boarding the bus, some watched — an average pair of girls who smiled their normal lips as if to syllable quick-witted fingers blinked awake as birds unfathom eyeless worms. So what of compromise >rft ; r ' in moving to my careful A bfif. and you positioning at point B? (A kiss assumes a lip to touch.) ^ no music nor deft parallel An untuned sculpture has a jotting scribbler might command. The dabbling fingers join their gesturing minds in clumsy gutturals of thickening talk as accurate as any stab of pain. The vastest subtleties are merely lies. No idioms appear. No faltering vowel may breathe so fine a face-cupped sand achieving what a word achieves unclogged by downward risks of time. The art communicates d word as perfect as a finger-tip. i?

My friend narrates their speech. I touch tny lids conceiving them.

78

L S. W. DUNCAN THOUGHT

Trees —demarcate

solar furnaced glare bitumen bounced impinged searing on the eyes. Their fledgling platelets rust await seduction. Exhausted trumpets induce flight but dissipate suppressed by concrete monoliths upthrust steel armatured against the sky.

A latent image skimming in the mind a dragonfly oscillat^igmitfie haze scintillated sunlight wings vibrant osculations on a surface shimmer. An arc struck wjthin the brain— it's steel blue thorax tawitiog a brazen rhythm* discordant.

likeraorteqjshadows in an I T » )

pervading,an entir*

IJfttiO tons

Trees —stripped

in transluscent mist sodium arc coronas eclipse gaunt branches echo haloed headlights. A mechanical sweeper scouring gutters of flaccid rubbish intones the nightly ritual of the decaying year.

Trees —incipient

life encapsulated micro modules yearly reincarnate the resurgent viscid tide Relaxed— its ebb and flow assuages the bitter contrast of a steel and concrete landscape

Wild bird in a wildet§ky embrojled in tumult gale buffeted pillionea on the storm. Soaring— ^ora^o? across a slag .sperm sky, amid th$;fufnaced MQf,tex exploding ijito t h u n d # e « f c ^ " W W i s h M f l w tsst fl by molten h o s t i l i t y bus a turbulent environment threatening to escalate to destruction. Yet fierce in freedom unfettered you outride the crises. Bird, what is the secret of your diplomacy?

RANGITOTO

NIKKI BUCKLAND

Rocks black corroded

burnt beyond recognition Volcanic rocks

desperate stark reality of the elements

Trees clinging and surviving among the rocks

and an insidious dry moss that somehow has taken root

has found a life here in this barren region

and the sea laps gently against this tortured island

this island that has endured bears scars

and still lives I do not hate Rangitoto now I do not shrink from the

unrelenting barrenness of its peaks from the spindly dessicated trees that

grow there No I find a strange peace

where life goes on despite a tremendous upheaval

where somehow

hope has returned to this fragment of land

There is no cruelty left It has expended itself

and calm remains.

80

THE DOCTORS' FIELD DAY

KATHLEEN LESLIE

"Think of a number, double it, add four, take away the first number you thought of," said Dr. Bit. "The answer could be a winning horse. Don't you think?" He looked at Dr. Sigma and Dr. Gent.

"We are not here to take chances," answered Dr. Sigma. "We are going to put our hypothe-sis to the test on the double race, and consider ways to eliminate all chance factors." Dr. Sigma folded his race card and ran his finger down a list of horses.

Dr. Bit stared at the conclave of people studying the totalizator board. He stood like a ques-tion mark. "It's amazing, Dr. Gent," he said, "how many people turn out by the hundreds to throw their money away." Dr. Gent, her head down, glancing through a sheaf of papers, did not answer or look up.

Dr. Sigma remarked, "That type of behaviour works on the principle of intermittent reinforce-ment. And as we well known, Dr. Bit, it is resistant to extinction." He settled his large body more firmly on his big feet, and looked searchingly at the moving crowds.

"May be it is difficult to give up backing horses," Dr. Bit agreed, "when there is a win every fifth or tenth trial." He turned his young head, which appeared to dangle at the end of his long neck. "They're a ratty looking lot," he mumbled, and glanced at the papers Dr. Gent was earnestly examin-ing.

She flipped a sheet over, looked up and said, "The genetic history of all these animals qualifies them to jump hurdles. For instance, take this horse 'Spring-Hoofs'. His great-grandsire is also his grandsire, a stallion of singular jumping ability. Spring-Hoof's sire was a foal by his grandsire out of his dam. His dam was a foal by his great-grandsire. There is no clear record of his great-granddam."

"May be it was a random mating," suggested Dr. Bit. Dr. Gent impatiently brushed a lock of wavy hair off her face and continued, "Biologically, Spring-Hoofs has inherited a larger dose of jumping genes than any other horse in the test race."

"He certainly must be a unique organism," added Dr. Sigma. "Judging by your study, Dr. Gent, there never has been, or is ever likely to be, another horse exactly like him." Dr. Gent sighed. "It's a pity his twin brother is dead and he is a gelding."

With controlled excitement, Dr. Bit asked, "Would it be unethical, Dr. Sigma, to place a bet on the side? Spring-Hoof's performance was last the other day," Dr. Sigma answered. "There are also many unknown variables to consider." He pressed his heels hard into the soft lawn, and muttered, "Won-der where Dr. Truemode is?" He opened the race card to study the double race.

81.

"You may be right, Dr. Sigma," agreed Dr. Bit. "Spring-Hoofs might have struck a bad patch, and the trainer may be withholding the information." He looked intently at the gathering crowds and shrugged his shoulders.

Dr. Gent leafed the corner of her papers, as she spoke. "Yes, Dr. Bit, however superlative an organism's reflexes are, perhaps there are times when its joints are a little stiff. And it would be dread-ful if Spring-Hoofs refused to jump the hurdles. The jockey might have to pull it over by the reins." She closed the folder of papers.

"Dr. Gent, if such behaviour should take place," Dr. Bit inclined his head, "it might be the un-known quantity inherited from his great-granddam."

A bugle was blowing somewhere and the racing population jostled the doctors as they rushed forward to the rails.

"What's that in aid of?" asked Dr. Bit, as he made a precise movement away from a group of running people.

"That could be a signal for the people to jump to the rails, and the start of a race," Dr. Sigma said, as he pulled his cap down more firmly on his head, and started to move forwards. Dr. Gent wrapped the ends of her coat more snugly round her plump figure and trotted between the two strid-ing men.

"Rather a strange assortment of people share this interest," said Dr. Bit. He skilfully avoided the heterogeneous crowd.

Dr. Gent said, "I have heard it sometimes referred to as being the sport of kings." "The cultural connotation of some of the names these races have." Dr. Bit flicked the pages of

his race card. "The King's Plate", "The Railway Handicap", "The Queen's Cup", "The Seagulls High-weight". "Must have their roots in something."

"We'll stop here on the periphery of the crowd," said Dr. Sigma, looking around with a steady gaze. "Can't think where Dr. Truemode's got to. In this crush, he might have passed us by before."

The race commentator was speaking, the microphone blared. The crowd grew restless as the horses neared the bend where they bunched together, manoeuvring for favourable places on the rail. The mob started to roar. A couple in front of the doctors began to jump up and down, as if they were the pistons of a motor, and pawed the air every now and then.

"Who would they be identifying with, the horse or the jockey?" asked Dr. Bit. "One can't rightly say," replied Dr. Sigma. "In this stimulus situation the number of general

or specific factors could cause a hierarchy of responses." The race ended. The assemblage began to disperse, some of them running. The doctors waited.

They saw Dr. Truemode emerge, walking briskly, swinging his umbrella like a walking stick. His thick rimless spectacles reflected the sunlight. He spoke in a high strained voice. "Ah, I was beginning to give up finding any of you."

Dr. Gent asked: "Did you discover anything of interest, Dr. Truemode?" "Yes. People, and the way-systems they call it—of selecting prospective winning horses. They

fall into a range of approximately six groups," he said. The doctors followed the crowd to the totalizator board. They stopped at the edge of the

throng. Dr. Truemode continued. "Group one use pins. They pierce the race card and these horses' names that have pinholes through them are the ones they back.

Group two have lucky numbers. The birth date and, or birth month. Sometimes used in that order or reversed, or used alternately. Some people make a complicated pattern of them."

Dr. Bit interposed. "These two groups could quite easily be classified as naive." Dr Truemode ignored the interruption and went on. "Now, group three always back thirteen if

there are that many horses in the race." "Dr. Truemode, do you think these people are superstitious, perhaps?" asked Dr. Gent. "May be they are," added Dr. Bit. "But why should they choose a number that is considered

to be unlucky?" Dr. Truemode rolled the tip of his dark beard between his forefinger and thumb, as if it were

a prayer-bead. "Could be an endeavour to extinguish the learned association," he replied, and con-tinued, "or a deliberate use of habituration. To help themselves get over the fear."

Dr. Sigma deliberated. "A process of desensitization. But we have no knowledge of the learn-ing history of these people, so we can't come to any definite conclusion."

"Quite so," said Dr. Truemode. Group four follow the horses, double up the bet on the same horse every time. Some select horses according to environmental conditions: "Wet" or "Dry" ani-mals. Apparently the animal's preference for certain weather conditions affects its performance."

Dr. Truemode unremittingly proceeded. "Now, group five. These people study the totalizator board. Back the favourite horse, the smallest dividend offered, for a win and place. A small number

82

back the outsider for a win and place, that is the horse paying the largest amount of money." Dr. Bit enquired: "How does this group make a selection for the double race?" "Quite simple," answered Dr. Truemode, nodding his head as if he were looking the question up

and down. "Some couple the favourites of both races. Some select the first three favourites and cross-couple them in every conceivable way. Some choose a horse in the first 'leg' and cover it 'with the field' in the second 'leg', and so on."

Dr. Truemode continued. "But group six determine the winners by horsepower. They use ari-thmetic," he explained. "They find the significant difference between weight, distance, and time, on the past performances of each horse. They use the scores of animals so obtained, as a frame of refer-ence to prognosticate positions in the race about to be contested." Dr. Truemode stroked his beard.

Dr. Sigma pondered aloud. "The product weight multiplied by distance is proportional to time. It's feasible, the individual performance of each horse could be predicted," he continued, thought-fully scratching the tip of his nose. "There could be a cluster near the middle range. The result could quite possibly fit the normal curve."

"That might be so," asserted Dr. Bit. "But it is a method of sophisticated ignorance. It may have some reliability but no validity. There are so many unknown variables." Extenuatingly he wen t on. "What about the human element? Suppose a group get together—the owners for instance— and decide which horse should come where."

Dr. Gent concurred. "Yes, Dr. Bit, suppose the jockeys have other views, and the stable hands yet different ones. An insecure shoe-nail could upset the result of any test." She shuffled her folder of papers.

"For this particular method of scoring all you say and more is true," said Dr. Sigma. The Doctors moved yet further back from the forward-pressing swarm of people anxious to get

to the totalizator board. "Now, in our method of scoring, all the variables mentioned make no difference," declared Dr.

Sigma, "no matter how many group judgements disagreed. Or if the organisms are electrically or chemically stimulated. Our method is both reliable and valid. It could be used on any race course in any part of the world that runs double races. And the results will be no different. Dr. Truemode, our method of scoring is based on the principle of simple multiple computation. We get as many tickets on each horse in the first test race as there are the number of horses contesting in the second race. In this manner the horse doesn't count. A horse, or perhaps two or three horses might come in first place. There will still be the required number of tickets, or over and above the number necessary to put on each horse in the second test race. There again any old horse can come in first place," Dr. Sigma concluded. He smiled and adjusted the peak of his cap.

Dr. Bit opened his race card. "We must count the number of horses in the first test race. May be some have been eliminated since our last count," he said.

Dr. Truemode caressed his beard. "Dr. Sigma, there is one important variable you have over-looked," he said.

Dr. Bit looked up from his book, and Dr. Gent listened attentively. "What could the variable be?" asked Dr. Sigma. "Money," replied Dr. Truemode. "Money." "Yes, Dr. Sigma, that's one variable—I think—that cannot be held constant," Dr. Truemode

continued. "The cost of the test could be greatly out of proportion to the dividend." "I suppose you're right," Dr. Sigma said. He pushed back his cap and rubbed his forehead.

"We will have to do a lot more research in that area." "I'll get on to it right away," said Dr. Bit. "I'll collect standardized races and see if the pro-

cedure is relatively the same as the races run at the present time. And collect the data of those divi-dends paid over the past ten years." He paused. "And work out the averages."

"Better make it fifty years," directed Dr. Sigma. "The larger the sample the more accurate the result."

"It's going to be a fascinating study," said Dr. Gent. "The genetic history of all those horses. It might reveal some interesting facts on Spring-Hoof's great-granddam. I'll do it in a concrete way with marbles in a bowl," she said.

The bugle blew again, the people ran once more to the rails. The doctors turned away from the excited punters. Earnestly talking together, they hurriedly made their way to the main gate.

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"SERVE H Y M FORTHE" SOUP CABOCHES [1400] Take caboches and washe them clene in water and boyl well. At the second boyl take him doun off the tyre and presse him well till thewater be clesne oute. Then cutte him in greate pieces. Cast him in the broth of beef and boyle him with marrow bones and colour him with saffron. Thikken it with grated bled, but for a lord hit shall be thikked with yolkes of egges beaten. Then let hit boyle once more and serve it forth. ENTREE CRYSPEY [1430] Take whyte of egges, mylke, and floure and beat it together. Draw it through a straynour so that it be running and not too styff. Caste thereto sugare and salte. Then take a disshe full of fresh greece boyling and put thy hande into the batter. Let the batter runne down thy fyngres into the disshe. When it is done enough take a skymmer, take it up and lette all the greece runne out. Put it in a disshe and cate sugre thereon.

EGGS EN POCHE [1430] Take egge, breke him and boyle him in hot water. Then take him up as whole as thou may. Then take floure and mix with mylke and caste thereto sugre or honey and a little gynger. Colour it with saffron. Lay thine egge in a dishe and pour on ye sauce. Sprinkle with allspice.

MAIN COURSE COCKYNTRICE [1430] Take a cockerel and skald him and draw him clene and smite him in two across the waste. Take a pigge and skald him and draw him inthe same manner. Smite him in two across the waste. Take a nedyl and thryde and sew the fore part of the pigge to the hinder part of the cockerel and the hinder part of the pigge to the fore part of the cockerel, and then stuff him as thou stuff est a pigge. Put him on a spytte and rost him, and when he is enough gild him with yolks of eggs and powder gynger and saffron and jus of parsley. Serve it forth for a royale meat.

CHEFS SUGGESTION PEKOCK ROASTED [1450] Take a pekock; breke his necke and kutte his throat and skin him, the skin and the feathers together. And the hede shall still be to the necke. Roast him and set the bone of the necke above breast as he was wont to sit alyve. And when he is roasted enough take him off and let him coole. Then wynde the skyn with the fethurs and the taile about the body and serve it forthe as if he were alyve.

DESSERT TARTE DE FRUYTE [1430] Take figges and boyle them in wyne and grynde them small. Put them in a vessel and add thereto powder peppir, cannell, cloves, mace, powder gynger, grete raysons, saffron, and salte. Then make a faire tow coffin (a pastry case) and put this stuff therein. Put thereto cutte dates and freshe salmon in faire pieces or ellse fresshe eels, and boil them a little in wyne. Covere the coffin with the same paste and set it in the oven and so bake.

n n m i i g l l g g i g i g l l i l g l p g l g l i l l i i i

84

A DRUNK MAN FEARS HIS SOUL

CON O'LEARY

Standing shoulder at the bar When friends and talk are real He is then an expansive man A whole world could reveal.

But in the hollow of his heart He knows these things do pass When coin is spent and lights are Done. The jawbone of an ass.