October, 1942
Universityof Richmond
THE MESSENGER
UNIVERSITY OF RICHMOND
Editor-in-Chief
ALLISTER MACKENZIE
Richmond Co llege Editor
ERNEST MOONEY, JR.
Westhampton C ollege Co-Editors
ROSE KOL TUKIAN ANNE BYRD TUCKER
Ass o ciate Editors
PAT VELENOVSKY LOUISE WILEY
FRANCES ELLIS
Ficti o n Editors
PAT VELENOVSKY JOHN FIELD BATTE
LOUISE WILEY
Non-Ficti o n Editors
JACK ZUBER JOHN CODD
JEN L EA GUTHRIE
Poetr y Editors
ROBERT PAINE FRANCE S ELLI S
FRANCES KENNARD
Art Staff
ALBERT SALEEBY FRANCES BEAZLEY
VOL. L OCTOBER , 1942 No. 1
The events of today are the most momentous our civilization has ever experienced. With the "borrowed time" upon which we remain in school we are trying to take advantage of every possibility to prepare ourselves to deal with the unparalleled problems that are before us. As never before we appreciate the opportunities of college life; it is far from an attitude of despair that prevails among the students. We are endeavoring, in what time we have here, to live life at its fullest and at its best. It is the object of THE MESSENGERto help make our college life as complete as possible. This war and the accompanying turmoil of humanity will be pointed out by historians for ages to come. THE MESSENGERintends to present as true a picture as possible of our university ' life and to reflect the thinking of the students during these times. The issues of this year's magazine will be a permanent record of the effects of the war on our student body . Let's make this record as correct and as complete as possible.
THE MESSENGERis a literary magazine devoted exclusively to the contributions received from stu-
dents of the University. Consequently, THE MESSENGERseldom sets down a list of aims to be followed religiously during any one year; but this year, since everyone is so conscious of the war and who's who at the local draft board, we feel 1t necessary to suggest that there will be an aftermath to this war, a tremendous tidal wave that will either carry destruction or the ingredients of a lasting peace on its mountainous heights. As our own Dr. Thomas said recently, in effect: The first era of this revolution was in 1929, when most of Richmond College's present students were no more than seven years old. The second era, of course, is this World War II, which will probably end soon and with the Allied Nations on top But the third era may not be over within the lifetime of any of us Dr. Thomas went on to say that the men who a,re now striving for as much of their education as possible will be the ones who will have to contribute , negatively or positively, to the peace that must follow
All of that is true, and on this very campus there may be in the Freshman or Sophomore or any of the classes, the one man who will contribute most to the New World. We do not expect to discover him now, but THE MESSENGERis your outlet for all opinions on the war or suggestions for peace , your ideas on any topic, international, national, or local. Of course, do not expect THE MESSENGERto suggest to Mr. Roosevelt that your ideas be used, but the student body of the University of Richmond is interested .
Remember that all of us will be held responsible for whatever happens after the war, and that now is the time for students everywhere to settle their ideas. And to the Freshman Class in particular, we extend a mass request for contributions along with our best wishes for high grades and a full four years at the University of Richmond.
E W.M
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Ellen Mercer Clark visits THE MESSENGER scene again to produce another fiction ' article that' s tops and as a magnificent parting gesture , well-known and drafted Guy Friddell gives u s some more of his superb writing while Pat Velenovsky, a Sophomore and a prominent mem - ' ber of the staff, goes to sea with Old Tom. With her usual excellent style, Senior Anne Byrd Tucke r (Continued on p ag e 4 )
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JEALOUSY
By ELLEN MERCER CLARK, '44
• Tom Doran proves that you can be in love with two women at the same time.
SETTE did precision turns down the center of the long room-snapping them off, her eyes coming back each time to the center of the window through which the morning sun was beginning to shine weakly. She stopped at the window , leaning her head wearily against the pane .
"B reakfast ready?"
"I am not eating this morning." She straightened to face the blonde, towseled-headed, man who was leaning against the door-jamb.
"W hat about me?" She appeared not to hear him, walked over to the victrola and began to select records. "Look! Just because you ' ve started dancing again to entertain soldiers is no reason for you to forget me entirely. I'm going to be in the army soon myself. Lisette! "
"Ye s?"
"W hat have I done now? I'd rather like to hear my latest crime. After five years I've learned not to dare forget your birthday, and I think we finally settled the matter of your being jealous of every pretty model I used?" He was an extremely hung ry and exasperated young man.
She looked at him quickly, her black eyes sparkling so that he thought for a moment she was go ing to speak: then she shrugged slightly and began to crank the victrola.
"I do think we settled that. I know I fell in love when you posed for that magazine cover, but I never had before, and I most certainly haven't since I don't speak two words to any of them." He stopped, conscious that he had said all this many times before; looked at her uncertainly; and fumbled in his pocket for his pipe. "About last night, I'm sorry I was late getting in, but I met Jack and he had a lot to say about camouflage ."
"Ca mouflage!" She stared at him a moment, thinking-he's so young looking: he might be twenty-three. I don't blame women for falling for him. He likes being admired. I'm awfully jealous,
but I can't help it. Alone all day in that studio. That last writeup said his magazine girls had more appeal than any others-She smiled and said with just the faintest trace of the accent she had never lost, "How interesting. There is coffee in the kitchen and you can make toast. I must practice this morning, but tonight you can tell me all about it, Tom. What would you like for dinner?"
"Why, steak and mashed potatoes, and apple pie, honey, but. . . . "
She laughed lightly, swept across the room on tiptoes to reach up and brush her lips across his cheek. "All right. Until tonight then. Don't get too tired, boy." She smoothed the two little wrinkles over his nose.
"I think I'll be through with this last one for McTwain today. I may be late tonight. Bye, darling."
Lisette stared at the closed door. Years of dance training made her body slide into graceful poses even when most tired and let down. Slowly she clenched the hands that had fallen listlessly, knotted them tighter and tighter into hard fists, her nails digging into the soft flesh. He had walked out with a casual wave of the hand, walked out to a quiet studio where an attractive model posed in just the right light and costume. Five years ago when she had been angry, he had been angry and a bit frightened. He had flared when she flamed. Quarreling had been bitter-sweet because they always made up gloriously with wild and gay abandon. He had flirted a bit to tease her, and the1! been ready to fight if she looked at another man. Now it had been so long since they had raged. Tom didn't seem to care any more. He had been working hard for days, not talking about his work, but coming home exhausted with his nerves on edge She could understand his not talking if he were in love with his latest model. But was he?
Quickly she turned to start the phonograph, determined to dance and dance and dance until she could forget or be so tired that she would not care. But two hours of hard practice, hard, that is, for muscles that had not danced in the profes-
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sional ballet for a long time, did not deaden the pain in her heart. Lisette, one of the best of the American Ballet, le£t at home while a magazine illustrator made love to his model and forgot that she had been the toast of hundreds of audiences! She'd show him. She'd go back to work, be tops in USO and then go into professional dancing agam.
She was changing the record when the phone rang. "Yes?"
"Lisette, Tom speaking. I've finished the picture, at least as much as I'm going to be able to do on it."
"How marvelous, darling." He'd called her! Maybe he didn't care for that girl, whoever she was. Now they could celebrate.
'Tm sorry, but I won't be able to be back for dinner tonight, darling. I'm going to have a physical, and see exactly what else I have to do to enlist. I can be of use in the camouflage department. I've seen enough of it practiced by models."
"Oh, Tom!"
"One thing I'm worried about, Lisette, is the picture. It's due at McTwain's today, and I won't have time to take it. Do you think you could come down and deliver it?" He seemed hesitant , but very urgent.
He thought more of his pictures than of his wife! She'd only been jealous because she loved him so. "Yes, Tom, I' 11 get it." For pride's sake she couldn ' t rage any more, nor could she cryshe said the words over and over to herself as she dressed and drove to the down-town studio.
It was a quiet, empty room. A few pictures, a table, a couch, a platform, and some chairs. The easel with its covered picture stood at the far window. She closed the door and walked slowly over to it. At least she would know who had finally taken Tom away from her. A palette knife lay on the floor near the easel. She bent and picked it up. This pretty model would have her picture on a big magazine, all over the country. Tom would see her everywhere he went. Her hand clenched the knife. Just one or two strokes and she could ruin that painted face. She swept the covering off the picture with a quick hand. It was a splendidly posed scene, the slim dancer holding the knife, and the picture. The picture!
Lisette dropped the knife and sat down on the floor. The picture was in Tom's best manner, lights and shadows, and the face accented and
bathed in the light from the torch she carried . "Liberty" by Tom Doran.
There was a folded slip of paper stuck in the corner of the picture. She reached out slowly and opened it. "Lisette, my darling: I think that she is worth fighting for, but-please, believe me-I shall always love you , Tom."
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(Continu ed from page 2)
gives her views of the war and answers an important question . . . with Jack Zuber, a Junio r debater and singer, offering another phase of th e same issue. Lawson Carter, a new-comer Sophomore from whom we want to hear more, writes a story which reflects a deep understanding of huma n nature and old-timer Hugo Leaming, a Sophomore with a Senior mind, philosophizes in poetry. Jack Codd, a Junior, another new-comer , and a valuable addition to the staff, gives out with the ol' jive in his amazing sonnet.
YourCurrentEventsQuiz
( Answers on page 16)
1. For what words does "Anzac" stand?
2. What are the seven fronts facedbyJapannow ?
3. Who is President Roosevelt's personal chief of staff?
4. What was the Lafayette Escadrille?
5. What is La Prensa?
6. For what present shortage may Cryptostegi a grandiflora be a solution?
7. What American Republican has been glob etrotting with recent stops in Russia and China ?
8. Who was Edith Cavell?
9. What young Russian composer has written a great war symphony?
10. Identify these people of the American dramatic world: ( 1) Maurice Evans ( 2) William Saroyan ( 3) Alicia Markova.
11. Who is Marshal T imoshenko ?
12. What does A.V.G. stand for?
13. Who are the Flying Tigers?
14. Who is Major Alexander P. de Seversky?
15. What is Guadalcanal ? [4]
The UndergraduateSlant
By GUY R. FRIDDELL, '43
ED. Norn: This is a reprint of Guy Fridell's last pre-military accomplishment as it appeared in the October issue of the University of Richmond Alumni Bulletin.
660N
BORROWED TIME" sums up the attitude of University of Richmond students today. Each year the faculty is fond of no ting a "new seriousness" in the student body, but this year the student body itself has discovered it. Some of the fellows have already started their parallel reading.
Across the lake the girls are agitating for an Inner Club Council. Made up of the presidents of the tea-cup clubs in the school, this council would coordinate their activities for war work. Other Westhamptonites of a more direct turn of mind are attending the U.S .O. dances in Richmond , Camp Lee, and Camp Pickett.
But no more Friday night dances at Richmond College for the duration is the word being passed along at Acting Dean Holtzclaw's request. Since 31 of the 40 Friday night socials last year were given by fraternities , the Interfraternity Council met to consider the Dean's proposal. "Too many students ," said Dr. McDanel at the meeting, "have had the idea that Saturday is a day that doesn't count. " On learning that Dr. Mac and other professors would schedule tests for Saturday , the Council members revised any hasty preconceived convictions and returned to their brotherhoods filled with the " new seriousness. "
U naffected by the proposed taboo would be the opening dances of the University which have been set fo r October 16, 17 so as to coincide with Homecoming . Fresh from a summer engagement at Virginia Beach will be Johnny Satterfield with his 15piece band and vocalist.
T he Return to Books was set in motion not only by wholesome respect for Dr. Mac and the army ( which considers as fair game any student making Cs and D's) but also by respect for the number of fr ont pews that remained empty after the first
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Academic Procession of faculty and seniors had marched into the Chapel.
Those students privileged to remain in school feel that they must make the most of their opportunities. They have a reason now to study hard. Classes Guy R. Friddell have taken on a new value since the war. Instead of studying for grades or parents, they are studying for that time when such knowledge will become dynamite in their hands.
Representatives from the Army, Navy, and Marines visited the boys' assembly to tell them about the Reserve Corps plans. "There's a job to be done," they told the students in dramatic voices, "and we've got to do it. " If the young men of the b.st war fought "to make the world safe for democracy" it looks like the young men of to<lay are to fight for heroic understatement.
No matter how many students drop from colleges, enrollment figures seem either to hold their own or climb. But there is a legitimate explanation for the jump in figures at the University of Richmond. The Law School has scheduled most of its classes in the afternoon for the benefit of business men in town, and the Business School has an enrollment of over 500 in its defense classes.
Westhampton enrollment has decreased, due to a decline in the number of girls from the city of Richmond Richmond College enrollment decreased , but town students increased. Both sides lay it to lack of transportation-the girls going out of town because they can ' t travel to and from the city, and the boys staying at home because travel over the state is difficult. Never the twain shall meet.
Seven professors were "absent" at the first roll call of the University, but there were three new faces. F. Byers Miller, now State Price Economist with the OPA , was succeeded in the Department of Economics by John W. Neil from Ohio State. Alvin F. Beale, UR graduate of ' 41, replaced Dr. Abram L. Whitten, chemistry instructor who went ( Co n tinue d on p age 16)
Old Torn
By PAT VELENOVSKY, '45
• Seagoing Old Tom takes care of a rat.
660LD
TOM" walked slowly, haltingly across the deck of the Sagamour. He had changed a great deal from the day of his first appearance on her decks. Then he had been strong and sure of foot; his rippling muscles reminded men of dolphins playing around a ship, and his head had been carried in the proud but jaunty manner of well-won battle honors. But now all was changed; his rheumatic legs stiffened and twinged as he walked, and his scraggly whiskers, which looked like those of a cat that has gone through too many holes, twitched from side to side.
"Scraggly"-that one word was a perfect description of Tom. If his picture were used in a pictorial dictionary no one would ever misuse the word.
From time to time, he looked around for the Second Mate. Old Tom tried to keep out of the Second's way as much as possible as there was not a soft spot in the Mate's heart for him. The man hated him-hated him with a fierce, burning desire to kill him. He had told Tom so, many times as he cuffed him across the deck in his wild, blind rages. Tom knew that he was safe as long as there was someone around for he was well liked by the crew and he was the favorite of the "Old Man," but the Second would wait-as he had already waited -until the opportune time. He had tried before and he would try again until the day that Tom's lifeless body would go over the side.
Now as Tom walked the deck, he remembered the times that he had missed death. There was the time in Barbados when a lifeboat had been swung in suddenly by a lurch of the ship. He had been standing ne.ar the galley entrance when a sudden wave heeled the ship and snapped the bowline on the cutter. With a vicious hiss the boat whirled at him and threatened to crush him against the deckhouse. He had jumped in time, but the boathook hurled like a javelin by the impact, carried through the galley door and killed a perfectly good cook.
The Second arrived in time to direct the men in cleaning up the mess and to tell Tom to "Get the hell away from here you damn sea-going arrugado aguero malo." This last reminded the Mate that he had spent four years on a Panamanian coaster so he gave Tom the benefit of his education, which consisted mainly of references to relatives, past, present and future. There was also reference to the fact that all of Tom's kind were jinxes and he was no exception to that rule.
That night, Wilson, the Bos'n's Mate, had heard the Second arguing with the Old Man.
"I tell you, Sir, he's a jinx! His kind always have been a jinx, a curse, on us men at sea, and they always will be. My grandfather told me how one of them brought the plague aboard his ship. He'll kill us, every mother's son of us, if we don't kill him first. And, by God, I'm going to do it if I get the chance."
"Mr. Johnson," and the Old Man's voice was a s cold as the weatherbridge in a March gale, 'Tm Captain of this ship and you'll take my orders You're to leave Tom alone. Don't touch him. D o you understand? That is all, Mr. Johnson."
"Yes sir, but it's him or me that goes over the side and I'm damn' sure I don't want it to be me. "
So the Second had bided his time and watched and soon he caught Tom napping. A swift foot sent him toward the side and only an act of Godand a stout pole--saved him. The Second belched a foul oath and spat on the deck. "There'll be a next time, you yellow, scurvy fiend-and then tha t filthy skin of yours will wash up with the rest of the flotsam on some god-forsaken shore."
The one-sided feud, for Tom didn't return the blows, became the talk of the docks whereve r the Sagamuur docked. Men made bets as to it s outcome, for they knew Tom's breed and the y knew what happened to men of the sea who fough t them. Although none of them hated Tom, the y could never feel deeply for him for his was a race alien to the sea. His were the kind who wer e blamed for all troubles and sorrows. They predicted that the Mate would lose the fight and tha t
the end would be soon. They were almost right. It happened in the Banda Zee, that little brewpot for the shrieking furies of wind and wave that come tearing across the Southern Pacific. Someone once called it-he saw it on a calm day-"A g lowing pearl set in a green-gold verdure of the East Indies." But the sea is a playful giant. When he is asleep and the soft white foam on his breast rises and falls with his even breathing and his loud snoring like deep and heavy music of the Old Ma sters-then those poetic words are true. But there is a season in which the Banda Zee awakens and with cold, merciless fists pounds to bits anything within reach. The natives call it the season of " The Devil That Walks" because then, rather tha n roll, the sea walks with firm, steady, furious strides ready to destroy all in its path and wildly reveling in all the pain and suffering it leaves behi nd.
The Sagamour had been a day and a half th rough Torres Strait when the barometer began to do acrobatics. It went up; it went down; and it tried to come out of the side, but it wasn ' t still for a minute. The Old Man was no fool-he had been here before and he knew what was coming , an d Ambaina, the nearest port was still two days away. So he started to prepare.
The ship began to swarm with men hurrying to their tasks-tasks whose completion might save their lives. Hatches were closed and made fast. Hug e sheets of canvas looking like dirty mounds of sand were lashed over them in an effort to keep out the green water that was sure to come. The ship hummed with orders
" Mr. Johnson, take some men and lash those tractors forward Lash '.em good or they'll kill us when they get lose ."
" Yes, Sir. "
" Sparks, find out if there are any ships near us. We may need them before this is over."
T hey knew what they were in for when the waves started to come. They weren't fresh, but dull and leaden as if they were too tired to lift themselves. The Sagamour plowed through them the way a knife goes through warm butter. She lif ted sluggishly at the bow from time to time as if protesting the work she was doing.
T hen someone shouted, "Here she comes, " and ther e racing across the sea, came the storm. The clouds were a wide band of solid black with just a tiny bit of white froth on their lips. Just under
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them a million electrical devils waved their shiny arms in wild gyrations. As the clouds advanced, the sea became wilder and wilder and the sea-wind began to shriek like a banshee. One of the deck hands looked at it and crossed himself. "Madre de Dios," he breathed softly, "Madre de Dios." They were the last words he spoke because then he turned to say something to Tom and didn't see the green giant climb over the side. It caught him and clutched him and carried him screaming and helpless over the side in a welter of gear and smashed boats. Tom had jumped just in time.
At four bells, with the men battling for their ship and their lives at the height of the gale, came the terrorized cry, "Tractors loose." With fear in his eyes the Second Mate, gathering a crew as he ran, started toward the bow There were two tractors loose and with every lurch of the ship they traveled back and forth with express train speed, threatening to wreck the others and smash a hole in the side of the ship.
With speed and precision, the Mate and his men gathered in the two flying tractors. They turned to beat their way back to shelter when the Mate stepped on Tom's foot. "Get out of the way, you damn , " but he didn ' t finish the sentence for a third tractor had loosened itself , and spinning across the deck struck the group and scattered them like grape shot. Tom had jumped back just in time
They finally got the Mate and the bodies of three men to the Sick Bay. Two others had gone over the side with the tractor.
In his delirium , the Mate had sworn over and over again that Tom had been the cause of it all, and he threatened to kill Tom at the first opportunity.
Somehow the Sagamour weathered the storm which took three other ships to their graves. She limped into Ambaina in a pitiful state, with all of the boats gone and with the general appearance of a nut that had met a strong cracker.
The Old Man gave the crew a day in which to celebrate and he and his officers, except the Second who was resting, went to make their report to the Port Captain.
So now Tom walked the deck and thought of his escapes from death. Suddenly he saw the Second coming down the deck toward him. Slowly, surely he came toward Tom, a wrench firmly gripped in his hand. Slowly , surely like an avenging death
(Continued on p age 17)
WhatAreWeFightingFor?
By ANNE BYRD TUCKER, '43
WHAT are we fighting for? In every seeking mind that question forges ahead of all else, for this is a day when men are dying, nations starving, and cities burning to the ground. In America, protected as yet from all but the news over the radio and the shortage of luxuries that have become necessities, we cannot know what this war really means. Those whose homes are represented on the world ' s many battle fronts by sons and brothers so recently carefree, have felt the first shock. Those whose circles have been marked by the tragic finger of "killed in action " know a little more; but the bulk of America still hears war news with the attitude of a child listening to a horrifying adventure story. We do not realize that what we hear is true , that it is happening now, and that America can well be anxious for her own life.
"Greece is starving. " We hear it over a news broadcast. " Too bad ," we say, "We are doing all we can now What more do you expect?" and we turn the dial to the more pleasing sound of Glenn Miller's music. "\Ve need recreation in these trying times. " Surely, but the Greeks are forgotten and so is the war.
Somehow I cannot believe that we Americans , particularly we college students, are blind to the fact that we are not fighting guns, tanks, and planes. Were that all with which we had to contend we might well buy war bonds, send over a m~chanized army and feel we had done our part. But we are not fighting a material war! We are fighting a war of ideas, and we cannot kill ideas with bullets alone .
We know well the story behind our nation; how, in the centuries that preceded the founding of America, men in Europe, fired by a divine light that rose above the narrowness of the Middle Ages , drew together the nucleus of the ideals on which their children were to found a way of life. They died for their vision , and their children followed them. They fought for freedom, for understanding, and for tolerance In the New World had been educated to leadership, to individual realization of that early vision It was not carefully
planned nor easily undertaken, but it grew strong in spite of mistakes and misunderstandings. Today we have the product of their lives, a nation built on their principles, though we have allowed the machinery to become slightly rusty.
What we as young Americans are not facing is our responsibility to this government, to these ideals, to the part of the plan that is still undone. We sit back today and try to put war out of our minds, while our German contemporary is willing to give not only his life, but every phase of its living for a fatherland that promises him nothing. We continue to cling to racial and social prejudices while young Russia, fighting for her existence, learns an inter-social philosophy. W e in America are educated We know right from wrong. We have the power in our hands to make this country of ours whatever we shall please This is a day that demands leadership. Are w e willing to be leaders? A leader must know mor e than his followers. He must be versed in what he teaches. He must have a background of wider knowledge so that he may better understand his own problems. If the German peopl e had been educated to leadership, to individua l responsibility, perhaps there might not hav e been a Hitler. Certainly he would not have foun d the road to dictatorship so easy. We are all leaders today in the sense that America is a worl d leader. Today our school is the whole world; ou r teachers, all men. We have an opportunity neve r before known to a young generation. One of th e things we are fighting for is the maintenance of that opportunity. While there is still time, whil e America is still free from bombs, from starvation , from devastation, let us use this opportunity to it s best possible advantage Let us read what is bein g written by the men who do not hesitate to tell th e truth. Let us listen to the radio, the gruesome an d discouraging as well as the pleasant news One is as true as the other. Let us finally think. Let us assimilate what we have learned so that we may hav e an understanding and perspective of the world in which we are living, that when our time comesand it is not far away-we shall be ready
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Idealsof thePostWarPeriod
By JACK ZUBER, '44
S we of the University of Richmond go to Chapel, read the newspapers, and have our usual bull sessions, we realize that it will no t be too long before many of us may be going through commando tactics for more realistic reasons. We will lose the freedom that the average college person enjoys. We will not have to think about what we are going to do so much as we will hav e to carry out orders that are given to us. This is true of officers as well as buck privates.
Today we have a certain unity of action, even tho ugh some people will say there is not enough cooperation because of individual interests. It may tru thfully be said that everybody wants the allies to w in the war. On the other hand we may well wonder if there is to be any unity toward a united peace front after the battle is won. This is and will be the vital issue of our time
W e may learn something from the period following World War I. In the United States we had a leader who may be immortalized for his ideas con cerning world peace and his futile struggle as he tried to sell them to his country and the world lt is rather ironic that he should have been able to convince most of the world and not the country of which he was the president. One might ask why he failed in his country The answer would ring back through the centuries of time, "There is profit in w ar." Did the nation prosper during the war per iod? Does the world owe anything to the first Wo rld War? Did World War I help to form high social standards? The answers to these questions mock the true thinker. The nation and the world found that the war paid for itself by forming the nest and birth of a period that was worse than the
t We are printing these two articles, ;!: t not to present the views of THE ;!: t MESSENGER staff, but as an attempt :I: t to reflect the thinking of the student £ body. +
war itself. Not only that, but it blossomed out with a setting for a more destructive war, in whic h we find ourselves today.
\X'here was the profit in the last war? Shipbuilders found a ready market unequal to any they had ever seen. The more ships sunk, the more there had to be built. With the crippling of the British merchant trade a vast field opened up to our American shippers as merchant vessels were in great demand. This, added to the expensive war ships, made war appear to be a desirable element amongst all phases of the shipbuilding industries. The railroads found an increase in the transportation of goods within our great nation as the materials of war were demanded everywhere. The steel mills were busier than they had ever been before, as the war mongers of the indus t ry looked on with a pleased eye. The coal industry was more profitable too, and even the farmer, who had the fear of war previously, had extra change coming into his pocket that did not hurt his material wealth in the least. As we look back to the "good old days" of World War I we can see that business in general was intoxicated by a false prosperity But it was good enough to persuade the big business man into believing war to be a desired thing. Sure, he was for peace, that is until some definite plan was under way; at which time he mustered all the strength possible to overthrow it. Even some preachers turned against peace for fear someone in the congregation might be a war profiteer against peace movements. The business man, the nation , and the world were fooled by the last war; let us hope they have learned their lesson.
As we view the situation at hand today we find many making money that make the shipbuilders, railroad men, steel men, and merchants of the last war look like pikers. Are they being fooled by the false prosperity in which they find themselves or do they know what they are doing? They were the ones that directed the peace of the last world war.
When we who fight this war come back, let us not sit back as we did in the army and take the ( Contin ue d on pa ge 17)
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VICTUS
By LAWSON CARTER, '45
• Austerity knots her hair and tempers the wail of Emotion.
WARREN CARROLL finished writing with a flourish and, pushing the paper from him, looked across the room to his sister. Perceiving his glance, she rose and crossed to the desk where he had been writing. She was a tall thin woman, apparently not more than forty-five. Her dull brown hair was combed back behind her ears and gathered in a knot on the back of her head. Her narrow face showed her to be a person of severe, uncompromising austerity.
Picking up the paper, she asserted in a flat, hard voice, "You have finished. Good." She frowned thoughtfully as she looked over the paper and, nearing the end , began to read out loud, " 'And it is not only to the welfare of our city that the dens of vice run by this evil woman be wiped out, but it is even necessary that Maria Foscari, herself, be put where she can foster no more corruption. As President of the Civic Betterment League, I consider it my duty to recommend that a prison term of at least two years be given to her and all others of her kind!' " The corners of her mouth, habitually set in stern, almost harsh, lines, lifted in a smile of cold triumph. "Excellent, Warren. It is even better than I had expected. I doubted that you would be strong enough to do your duty so well."
"I have your moral support to thank for that, Agnes." the other replied, with an almost imperceptible undercurrent of bitterness in his tone. Although the lower features of his face were strikingly like those of his sister, even to the stern set of the lips, he lacked entirely her aspect of unyielding rigidity, seeming, on the other hand, to have an air of instability about him. His forehead, broad and sensitive, was furrowed by wrinkles, that of one who continually struggles with himself. His eyes were shadowed and unreadable.
"I have always tried to help and advise you in the best manner," admitted Agnes. "It is what our mother desired. I hope I have been able to
carry out her last wish with some success."
Warren arose, and sighed wearily, "I assure you that you have. Now, I think I'll go upstairs and rest."
She looked at him strangely, a little uneasy "You aren't going up to that room? Why don't you rest down here in the library or in your own room? It would be much quieter."
"Don't let anyone disturb me, Agnes. I am very tired ," he said, ignoring her question, and went out.
Upstairs, he went along the hall until he came to the room. He unlocked the door and entered Relocking it behind hiin, he crossed and turned on a small table lamp to dispel the gloom. The room wasn't large, containing only a bed, a couple of easy chairs, a chest of drawers, and several small tables. The furnishings were inexpensive, but all indicative of a certain quiet taste on the part of the occupant. Copies of well known paintings hun g on the walls. On the table by the bed lay several volumes of the English poets, Keats, Browning , Coleridge, and others.
~, arren threw himself into one of the chair s and stared musingly at the painting of a girl which stood on the chest of drawers. Her hair was black ; her eves, dark; her skin, olive. She was obviousl y a Latin. The painter had caught the gentle, dream y quality of her eyes and fixed it on the canvas. In marked contrast to this was the restlessness denoted by her flared nostrils and the delicate mockery of her sensuous lips, slightly curved in a onesided smile. The whole expression of the face wa s compounded of something at once sensitive, contemplative, and a little wanton. He sighed and rubbed his hand over his forehead. A picture of her wasn't necessary in here. He could still recognize her in everything in the room, almost feel he r presence. He slumped further into the chair and let the memories come drifting back to take possession of his mind.
It had been over ten years since the first nigh t he had seen her. He had come running from that dirty house into a narrow and dirtier street, furiou s [ 10 J
with himself for his weakness and tortured by his inability to overcome it. For even then, he was fleeing from his sister, not only from his sister but fr om his whole life as he knew it, from its barrenn ess, its suppressed passions and ambitions, its cold harsh simplicity. He was a misfit in his family. H e didn't belong to that atmosphere as his sister did and his parents had. Yet he lacked the strength to separate himself from it. His first attempt at escape had just failed. The mechanical advances of the woman had revolted him. Before he had known what had happened he had run out of the pla ce. Even though his sister was abroad now and he hadn't seen her for six months , nor was likely to see her for six more, her influence was still with him
It was while he had been thinking these thoughts and walking along the street that he had first seen her She had been leaning against a wall crying and staring with a mingled expression of hate, fea r , and despair at an evil looking house across the street. For some reason, perhaps because of tha t tortured and hopeless expression, he had felt an immediate desire to help her. She had seemed afra id of him at first , then, convinced of his sympat hy, she had clung to him and pleaded that he take her out of that section of the city. "Take me any place , just so it's away from here, " she had begged. "Don't let her make me go back into her house again ." Realizing what it was that she was trying to escape from he had taken her away and, finally , brought her here to his own home.
So it was that Maria Foscari had come into his life. He hadn ' t meant that she should stay more tha n a night or two, but she didn't leave the second nigh t, nor the second week, nor even the second month He hadn't known at first that he loved her. He couldn't see himself, a Carroll, falling in love with a common girl of the streets. He had only known that he couldn ' t let her go, even when she had made ready to leave. He had soon realized, however, that she wasn't just a common girl of the streets and that he did love her, in spite of everything. It had been Maria, herself , who had finally told him why Warren rose from the chair and began to pace slowly around the room, made restless by the sudden surge of memories. Maria, at nineteen, had possessed more knowledge of men, their thoughts and their emotions, than his mother had at the time of her death. It had been not quite two weeks
when she had confessed her love for him and made him see, at the same time, why he loved her.
"We love each other because both of us are weak," she had told him. "We both long for the same thing: the strength to escape from our old lives. I was born in dirt and sordidness and grew up in it. I've always hated it, but I was never strong enough to get away from it. Now, in you, I can find escape, just as you have found escape from your sister in me." It had all been true; weak and dominated by others, they had sought strength and solace in each other. Yet their love had gone deeper than that, and Maria, for all her wisdom, had not attempted to analyze it further.
He had given her this room for her own and told her to furnish it as she wished. He had been surprised by her instinctive good taste. It had been only the first in a series of surprises, for everyday he had found in her something new and unexpected. Although she had never finished high school, she had a quick and intelligent mind. He had taught her to love the things that he loved, art , and music, and literature. Once initiated to beauty, her thirst for it became unquenchable, perhaps because she had always lived, surrounded by ugliness. She sought it in anything and everything. Nothing was evil that possessed something of beauty. It had been her love for everything beautiful that had inspired him to take up painting again. Together they had wandered everywhere in search of subjects, everywhere, that is, but into the slum and factory sections.
" There is nothing beautiful about poverty," she had said. "It is drab and sordid and ugly. Anyone who has really been close to it wants to stay away from it as long as possible ."
Finally, he had decided to paint a portrait of her. When he finished he knew that it was good. It had not been Maria's praise, which she gave only to what deserved it, so much as a deep inner conviction that had told him that it was good. And yet, it had made him uneasy for a while. He had seemed to see in the picture something about her he couldn't recognize, something strange in the expression of her mouth. But the uneasiness had only passed through his mind for a moment, like a dark cloud, then he had forgotten it.
He stopped his roaming by the window and looked out. She had always liked to sit here and read or listen to music. Sometimes she would try
[ 11 J
to sketch the view from here, but she had had no talent for it and had been the first to admit it. At times it had seemed to sadden her that she who so appreciated beauty could not create it. She had been sitting here when he had brought her the news that his sister was returning within a week.
He could remember almost the exact words of the conversation that had followed. She hadn't made any scene when he had told her. Her face just paled slightly and her voice trembled a little when she spoke.
"I knew it had to come before long. This couldn't go on forever. When is she coming in?"
"She said day after tomorrow," he replied. His face grew determined. "She's not going to separate us, Maria, do you hear? I want you to marry me this afternoon. She won't be able to do anything then."
"You know I can't marry you, Warren. Why don't you just tell me goodby and let me go without causing any trouble. I'll get along all right. I've had enough happiness these last months to last most people a lifetime."
"I tell you she's not going to separate us. Why should we give up life when we have just begun to live? If you he! p me we can win. She's not a goddess. She's human, like you and I."
"It's not her I'm afraid of; it's myself. Have you forgotten what I was? Don't you remember where you found me? How can you ask me to marry you in the face of that?" Her voice was trembling more now.
"What difference does that make?" he argued violently. "I know you love me. We don't have to stay here. We can go some place else."
"Warren, can't you see?" she pleaded. "Don't you understand that a person can't be rolled in filth all his life without having some of it ground into him A woman can't give herself up to animals, even for a few days, without something animal being left in her soul. And your blood is the same as that of your sister. Some of her coldness and intolerance is bound to crop out in you, sooner or later. No matter how far away we go we can't get away from ourselves."
"We can do even that, if we stay together. Don't you remember saying that we could always find escape in each other?"
She smiled bitterly, "Sometimes I think there is no such thing as escape. No one ever escapes from himself."
"Stop talking like that, Maria!" he cried. "If you won't marry me now, at least stay here till she comes. We can talk with her together. Together we can win."
"All right," she sighed wearily, 'TU stay until she comes. Maybe you're right. I hope so. With all my heart, I hope so."
They had tried to spend that last day doing the same things they always did. He had affected casualness and nonchalance, and she, gaiety and good spirits. But it hadn't rung true. It had been only a farce. Whenever he had turned quickly, he had caught her watching him sadly. Whenever they had spoken, tension had strained their voices . Whenever they had laughed, it had sounded brittle and hollow.
Together they could win! Warren thought of those words with bitterness. Well, together they might have won, but they had never gotten together. Agnes had reached Maria first and talked to her alone. To this day, he didn't know how she had done it without his knowledge. But she had , and he hadn't known of her presence in the house till she had entered his room, smiling in that cold , triumphant manner of hers. He had known then , what had happened. They had argued for a long while, or, rather, he had argued. While he had stormed and raved, she had remained calm, interjecting every now and then a decisive comment. He had demanded to know where Maria had gone and threatened to follow her, even started, but somehow he had never gotten past the door. Slowly his passionate outbursts had died down. At the end he had remained quiet and submissive. From the first he had had a cold, helpless feeling , from the time he had known she had already left. He had known that all his threats and tears and prayers would do no good unless she were there t o aid him. For, as well as his sister, he had been fighting himself. The odds had been too great. He gazed sadly around the room. Now even this had to go. For ten years he had been coming here, to her room. It was just as she had le£t it. He had allowed no one else to enter it. He had even cleaned it himself. Here, surrounded by her things , he had been able to dream, and relive those few months. Now even this was to be denied him. He'd never be able to come back after he made that speech. There was already as much pain connected to the memories of her as he could bear.
(Continued on page 17)
[ 12 )
OUR PROFS
• The first of a series of artides picturing our pr ofessors as we see them.
AFEW STUDENTS have already come into the room and taken their seats. Their attention is centered on the front of the room , w here behind a long table the professor is busy preparing apparatus for class experiments. It seems that something will not work as it should.
" Mr. Street , come here and help me with this ," the professor calls to a lab assistant. The two of them finally g et the apparatus in order.
Gra dually the classroom begins to fill , and the lectur e is about to begin. Everyone is most attentive to the professor-well , most ev eryone , because they know his lectures are some of the most amusing in the college. The appearance of the professor is interestin g and amusing in itself Silky white hair w hich stands almost straight up covers his head . His face is considerably wrinkled , but its f eatu res give him the appearance of being younger than he is . Around the waist he has a rather broad outl ook on life. He is the first man I have ever seen who exemplifies the saying, "When he laug h ed , his belly shook like a bowl full of jelly ." His black bow tie , white shirt, and wide suspenders add m ore to his character.
" N ow Solomon knows ; Solomon ' s cousin knows why the pressure pump works. Now I'm going to pour some water in this end here ." So saying , he pours the glass pump full of water, and begins to work the valve up and down watching it. On the left side of the room , there is a g reat deal of commotion ; a lon g stream of water from the pressure pump is wetting a few students who are trying to remove themselves from its range Of course, the profes sor pretends not to notice the commotion . After the laughter has died down , he comes around in fro nt of the long table , and with his eyes closed, expl ains the principle of the demonstration
" D oc, I don ' t understand that, " a freshman says.
" D octor Carter , you is from Fluvanna County , and don't know why that works? Doggone! I don' t expect these city folks to understand that , but you should ." The professor again explains the
Dr. R . E. Loving
principle quickly, at the completion of which he says, "Mr Carter , say Yessuh !"
As the professor pauses to spit some tobacco juice in the sink , the bell rings. He addresses a few last remarks and dismisses the class with, " Good-bye, and God bless you ." As Mr . Carter is leaving the room , he picks up a book and taps him on the head, giving a jovial laugh.
Somewhere between September and Christmas a germ of understanding is born. This man who stands before us , eyes closed and hand raised as if re aching for a particular word, and finally coining his own, is not the old eccentric professor we thought him to be He is a man young in mind who, through his accent , mannerisms, and human approach , has made a difficult course interesting and real. Typical of his interest in the students , which makes him dear to us, are his own words , " Look here Dr. X , Dr. Y , Dr. Anybody, I am not interested in your thoughts but in your thinks. I don't care if you don ' t know Physics. If I can get you to think in a logical and concise fashion so that other men can understand you , I will be satisfied. "
[ 13 ]
+ If I
On Matrimony
ever marry , :!: I'll choose me a wench
:!: Not overly wary
~t Of stale beer ' s stench ,
Not overly fat and Not overly thin, + Not easily flattened + + By overmuch gin; '.i: I'll get me a wench
Who can cuss with the boys ,
Who never will blench
+ From a shotgun ' s noise ,
Who'll follow a rover
From ocean to ocean
And never take over
With Jergen's lotion.
+ And beauty? ah , yes: + Like sun-smeared wine :!: Must glow each tress
Of this wife of mine ;
Like Burgundy red
Her lips must be,
With the subtle spread
Of passion's plea.
This wench must laugh '\• At all my qqips
And provide full half
Of the fish and chips
She must sketch with the best of them
(Water and oils)
And must keep abreast of them
Tennis goils.
But music, I think ,
Will her real forte be ,
For that is the drink
Of the gods to me:
On her harp she'll play ,
On her halo shine ,
As she flits all day-
This wench of mine.
fl etween 1lzeflo-olc-End~
Flight To Arras. By Antoine de Saint Exupery. New York: Reynal and Hitchcock, 1942. $2.75. .
Reviewed by Anne Byrd Tucker
Behind the lines in occupied France early in 1940 a small group of reconnaissance fliers strive to g ain the least bit of information that will aid in stinging an almost invincible enemy. Among these is Captain Saint Exupery, long a pilot, now one of the valued men of his small company. The time comes for him to take his crew on a seemingly impossible mission over the strongly fortified, vigilant, German held Arras , a mission that will possibly bring death to all. It is of this mission that Exupery writes.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery is not merely a writer , he is a philosopher, a man whose every action is related to every other one. The visual details of a picture are but the framework for the story of fear , courage , and loyalty that he writes. His thoughts , his impressions are the words that tell the story , the th oug hts of a man who faces death and knows it. As he flies across France, now under the shadow of the conqueror , his mind turns to the fields below. " I am in a country that moves my heart. Day is dying On the right I see great slabs of light among the shadows. They are like panes in a cathedral window. Almost within reach I can all but ha ndle the good things of the earth. It must be wonderful to tramp over damp fields. "
Ar ra s is sighted , the information gathered , and the fliers head home. It is quiet, unusually so, and Exupery knows it cannot last. The silence breaks as the Germans attack. " Seen straight overhead the sky was visible between them ; they hung curved and scattered forming a coronet in the air." In the moment of action, he thinks of death with a calm philosophy. "Man does not die ," he says, "Man imagines it is in death he fears; but what he fears is the unforeseen, the explosion What man fears is himself , not death There is no death when you meet death. Man is a knot, a web , a mesh into which relationships are tied. Only those relationships matter. The body is an old crock that nobody will miss. I have never known a man to think 1£ himself when dying, never."
Saint-Exupery is not a new writer. His Wind, Sand , And Stars has won for him a name among modern authors. Flight to Arras is written in the same free , living style, descriptive in the truest sense , and beautiful as only great writing can be beautiful. Perhaps the finest aspect of the book is the picture it gives of the French spirit in the war. The idea so prevalent of a weak , submissive people under a dictator's heel is balanced by the cool determination of these French fliers, whose commander must strike in the dark, as "an expert bridge player not in the game tries to play a Queen of Spades. " This book is more than the narration of an airplane trip; it is Exupery' s tribute to France, whom he loves in spite of her weakness.
"Since I am one with the French people I shall never reject my people , what ever they may do.
. . . Thus I shall not divorce myself from a def eat which will often humiliate me. I am part of France , and France is part of me. "
Read Flight to Arras for its description, its depth of emotion, its story of courage in def eat; but more than anything else, read it for the personality you will meet in its author, a man who drinks life to the full and shares it with you.
To S. M.
You , my love have ever faithful been And yet, there have been times when I have feared That you had given your charms to other men Than I- and many's the time that I have said That I was done with you. All I possessed I gave to you but nought you gave to me .My one desire would never let me restTortured me-would never let me be. But here , my lo ve, penitent I stand And give to you my very solemn vowNo more against you shall I raise my hand Or curse you- who have proved your love-and how!
For , last night , though my friends all called me "crackpot,"
I put one nickel in you-and hit the jackpot . JACK Cooo , '44.
[ 15]
NaturaBelli
Is it a war of the East and West?
Is it a war of the Light and the Dark?
Is it the Greek and his Parthian test; Is it the Punic' s fear of the Wolfs bark?
No, for Cathay is aroused for the best; No, for Jipangu to evil doth hark.
Is it a war of the Pagan and Priest?
Is it a war of the Lost and Saved?
Is it Crusader, and Islam, a "beastte" ; Is it Elijah, and Canaan depraved?
No, for "Priest"-"Pagan"-their difference has ceased;
Opposed and together their banners have waved
No, 'tis a war of the Theory and ThoughtNo, 'tis a war of the Logic and Plan; Machiavelli and Nietsche, woe fraught, Fear on one side and the Lie and the Ban.
Someday, we ' ll utter "For these have we fought: Decency, Liberty, Justice, and MAN!"
HUGO LEAMING,
'45.
Current Events Quiz Answers
1. Australia New Zealand Army Corps.
2. Sea fronts of the Pacific and Indian Oceans, land fronts of China, India and Siberia, and mixed water and land fronts of the Aleutian and Australian sectors.
3. Admiral William D. Leahy.
4. French Air Force auxiliary of the last war, whose members blazed the way in American combat aviation.
5. Newspaper in Buenos Aires, Argentina.
6. Rubber.
7 . Wendell Willkie.
8. A British nurse of World War I fame.
9. Shostakovitch.
10. ( 1) Shakespearean actor ( 2) playwright ( 3) ballerina.
11. Russian general.
12 American Volunteer Group.
13. American pilots in China.
14. Author of Victory Through Air Power and proponent of stronger air forces.
15. One of the Solomon Islands.
The Undergraduate Slant (Continued frm p ag e 5) into a war industry. Miss Margaret Rudd come s from Stephens College to take the Spanish classe s formerly taught by Miss Esther Sylvia who ha s gone to Smith College. Miss Ilse Schott, Westhampton senior, will serve as Dean Keller's secretary, Mrs. G. S. Tatum now being employed with the Richmond Board of Health. Also among th e departing faculty are Fred C. Ahrens, Fletcher 0 . Henderson, and Sidney T. Matthews. Professo r Matthews is expecting an early call to the colors .
Dr. Herman P. Thomas, Dr. Rolvix Harlan, an d Dr. Maude Woodfin return from leaves of absence.
Down at the student shop the fellows were no t surprised when they heard that Dr. Thomas E Lavender was serving as a lieutenant in the navy They recalled how last year whenever there wer e spare minutes at the end of the Spanish assignmen t for the day, he would spend the rest of the ho ur shifting the news from the war front or in di agramming the latest battle on the blackboard.
Once two of his Spanish students cornered hi m in the student shop just before class. They spen t that hour safely over cups of coffee, and wer e smirking over their astuteness when Dr. Lavende r pulled out his watch: "Well, we ' ve talked aw ay the class hour, but the next one is my office hour so we can continue this little discussion without inte rruption. Now if the Japanese. "
The death, on September 23 of Ralph Adam s Cram, architect of the University of Richmon d, made the students look at their campus with mo re appreciative eyes. They remembered that M r. Cram also designed buildings at West Point, Ri ce Institute, and the Cathedral of St. John the Divi ne in New York.
"Mr. Cram told me again and again that th is was the most suitable site he had ever seen for a college except for West Point on the Hudson ," recalled Dr. Boatwright.
And Dr. Mitchell, who regularly has had h is classes write term papers on the great archite ct, told them how Mr. Cram in looking over the landscape "took a stand down at the foot of the lake where the falls are now, and waved his ha nd and said: 'The right side shall be for the men, and the left for the women!' "
If it was the architect's intention to keep the two colleges separate, then Max Katz, president of [ 16)
Richmond College Student Government, committed heresy in welcoming the Opening Convocation. "We will continue that policy of last year's government," President Katz trumpeted, "of bringing the two student bodies closer and closer together."
As the government advertised for hunt-and-peck typists to earn $1,400 a year, Dr. F. W. Boatwright announced that teachers at Pan American Business School had found it impossible to furnish either machines or instruction at the University of Richmond. Before the close of the regular session last year, 73 Westhampton girls and 37 Richmond College men had signed ballots in the Collegian indicating that they would take typing if it were made available.
The first two football games of the year found Spider-Spirit steadily mounting in the ranks of the student body. Some of the team's fight is explained perha ps by the remark of one linesman: "The harde r we play now, the easier it'll be later on."
T hat goes for football, physical education classes on bot h sides of the lake, books, and Saturday night dances.
Old Tom
(Continued f,.om page 7) he wa lked. Curses poured from his lips as the terrified Tom backed away from him , his blood clotting in his veins.
Suddenly the Mate leaped and Tom turned and ran as fast as he could toward the companionway, but the Mate was slowly gaining on him. Nearer and nearer came the pounding steps. Closer and closer came the shouts. 'Tll kill you, you yellow devil. You damn yellow spawn of the sea." The Mate' s voice was so shrill that it tore at his throat.
To m dashed down toward the companionway Then he saw that the three top steps were gone, but the Mate dido' t. He crashed down them and thud ded into an awkward heap at the bottom Tom had heard a sharp brittle crack when the Mate hit. Tom had jumped in time.
The y found Tom at the top of the companion-
way. He was stretched out on his stomach, purring contentedly. Why shouldn't he purr? He was a cat.
Ideals of the Post War Period
(Continued from pag e 9) orders given us. We, especially men of college education, should feel it our duty not to let people that are drunk from the profits of war lead us into another cycle of world conflict. When they say that we should have an army second to none, remind them of the Golden Rule that would suggest that every nation would have the right to have one. Then tell them that the only way we can possibly have a situation to satisfy this rule would be to have one strong international army, with an international government in back of it. We may think it too much trouble to carry out the tasks our form of government demands of us. We may follow the road along which the signposts of greed, carelessness, and selfishness have led many foolish generations of the past. So far we have been following the same pattern, the same road, that was taken some twenty-four years ago. We have our unity in the war effort , but we must have a solid front in our peace plans too, or human beings will ·die in vain again. The future rests in our hands, with the grace of God may we make the best of it.
Victus
(Continued from page 12)
He was roused from his reveries by the querulous voice of his sister. "Warren! Warren! What on earth are you doing in there?"
He didn't answer, but walked over and looked steadily at the painting. "You knew," he whispered, " you knew it was hopeless. Yet, together there might have been some chance ."
"Warren! Are you going to stay in there all night or are you coming with me to the League meeting?"
Slowly, he turned the painting down on its face, then replied dully , 'Tm coming with you, Agnes. You know I'm coming with you."
THEY'RE MILDER THEY DON'TTIRE ALL WAYS- MY TASTE_ THERE'S NOTHING LIKE