FR SCOTT PK PAGE BRUCE RUDDidK PATRICK ANDERSON NEUFVILLE SHAW 
JUNE I942 
, I NOTE
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A word on recent comments and criticisms. George Dillon, Editor of POETRY, ·has written to say that he finds the verse "exceptionally good0, and that 
he is printing a note on us in his June issue. James Laughlin of NEW DIRECT
IONS has asked for some of Patrick .Anderson's poems for his publication. We 
have also received encouraging letters or messages from the Editor of 
HORIZON and many others. We are just as anxious to receive criticismt how
ever, and we wish that more of our subscribers would comment on our work, 
S()me misunderstanding seems to have arisen as to the exact nature of PREVIEW. 
We would like to point out that PREVIEW is a private "Literary letter", 
distributed to about a hundred subscribers or potential subscribers, and 
that it is in no sense a "magazine" on sale to the general public. 
THE NEIGHBOUR 
THERE was silence at the kitchen table except for the noise of eating when 
the bare leg came through the ceiling. Jeddy was stirring his tea loudly
when it came down directly over the centre of the table, so covered with 
drops of water that it hung. like a chandelier. A few spli~ters and drops. 
fell onto the table cloth and one or two dripped on the sliced tomatoes. 
Mr~ Colley looked up from his hamburg steak, his long nose casting a 
wedge of shadow on his face as he tilted his head; the light caught his 
glasses giving the illusion of a face without eyes. "MerritJ" he said and 
beat his two fists on the table so the plates jumped. "What •s he think, eh?" 
The leg waved about in the air, throwing water spots on the wall paper.
n1eave off of soiling our walls, leave off." Mrs. Colley stood up and 
s~ruck out at the foot with her fork. Her dress was short at the back, 
When she moved she showed her legs splaying out above the knees and extend
ing into long purplish-blue bloomers. She struck at the bare wet foot and 
the leg lashed about like a snake. 
"JesusJ" said Jedd.yr watching the performance. He sat taut.•· with 
pleasure. "Hit him, Ma,' he said. His black hair was cut like a skull cap.
He looked like a sadistic dwarf monk. 
"Merrit, you leave us be, 11 said Mr. Colley furiously. "Always poking 
in our business. Leave us be," he yelled to the leg, and the leg* as if in 
obedience, slowly shortened, went up through the ceiling and the water came 
down all over the table. It came like a great column, melting at its base 
and spreading out on the floor. 
r-First the walls and now' the tea, u said Mrs, Colley pulling at the 
table and upsetting the pitcher of milk; pushing a rag into her husband.•s 
hands, jerkily sloshing the wet mop over the worn linoleum. 
0What 1s he think, eh?u said Mr. Colley on his knees and Merrit•s voice 
came thick and adenoidish from the hole in the ceiling, "Helpb muh, helpb. 
I'm in a Jeezly bog." You could see his face now when you looked up--the 
black holes of the nose and the lips hanging like dark fungus.
Mona shivered when she heard his voice and touvhed the frizzed.... ends 
of her hair with chipped scarlet finger nails. The thick wet rubber of his 
lips, the hands like bread poultices that waited in the hallway for her 
Waited under the well of the stairs in the darkness and caught her when 
she came in, She hated it and him, but she always stayed. And now she had 
seen his bare leg hanging in the light. Something heavy settled in her. 
Jeddy ran for her tartan umbrella, climbed on a chair, and, distorted 
with pleasure, poked at Merrit•s face with its point. A low wheezing moan 
drained out of the mouth like a shaft of dust. 
n1eave off of that," Mr. Colley pulled at Jeddy•s sleeve. Jeddy doubled 
as if kicked in the stomach, his face stretched with laughter, his feet 
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_hitting tho floor like pistons. "Jesus, Jesus!" His laughter was high as a tin whistle in the room. Mr. Colloystood directly under the hole, hands on his hips and looked up. "What d'ya think ya doin',eh? Ya nosey bastard~ Always comin' where ya ain •t doesirable." . "I was ony havin' a bath--jes' takin• a bath," said.Merrit. "Helpb mu.h, helpb. Tho tub flowed over an·d the floor's a Jeezly bog. The whole coiling'll fall, like enough," he added ominously.Mr. and Mrs. Colley both looked at the ceiling and then at the room, realizing together what it meant. Mrs. Colley started pulling the furniture through the doorway. Mr. Colley took command. "Spread the weight out even, like ·you was on ice," he called up. "Then ease you.rselfgradual out into the hall." Mrs. Colley stopped · . tugging at the table. "He don't spread 0von," she snapped. "All of his weight•s in his stomach." And then she began tugging again. Mona shut her eyes and shook hor head back ·and forth quickly. She felt sick, "YahJ YahJ· Ya can 1t scoar me no more now," Jeddy screamed suddenly. "Ya can't scear me no more. Ya big sissy. If ya chase me agin I won't be sceared." H~ grew large in the room as he ~po)ce, ~ike a pouter f,igeon."I never did scare you none, Jeddy,n Merritts voice wheedled. 'You jcs' come up here, Jeddy, 'n helpb pull me outa this h0re Jeezly bog,eh Jeddy? 11 "I'11 Jeezly bog you," s~d Jeddy hysterically and flung his body viciously about the room till he was dizzy.-"I 111 Jeezly bog you, yabastard," 
The table was out in the hallway now and the chai.rs. Mrs. Colley was looking at the stove. She layed her hands on it as if for the last time. "That Merrit," she said, but sof-tly.-·· "That Merrit." 
"Now work yourself over easy, 0 Mr.-· Colley was sayirig. Groans, bangs and bumps sounded from above. "He I s goin r," said Mr. Colley. "He's outa sight." A few last drops of water fell,· "Now Mona you get and stuff that. hole up wit1: newspa~er while yo,ur Ma brings the table back." 
0 I 1m gain' out, ' said Mona, her back turned. 
"Oh, no, you ain't." Mr. Colley grabbed her shoulder. ttWhat dtya ·.; ~~:,:~:·.>: think y 1are, eh? Goin' outJ You're goin' ta stay right here and do as I say"" · 
Mona lurched herself free, • "I'm goin' out, I tell ya. I'm goin' out." "Yo·u mind what yer Dad tells yer," Mrs.· Colley was bringing the table back again. "D•ya think it 1s safe now?n She looked at the stove. 
Mr. Colley thrust his faco up close to Mona's and spoke throughstill lips. "You•re goin 1 to stay right hero and finish yer tea, see? That's what you're goin' ta do." Ho pushed her onto a chair and she sat with a bump, opened .her mouth wide and began to cry. 
"Leave me be, leave me be. -Ya never let me do anything. I'm gain' out,see. I'm goin' out." But she made no movement, sat quite still in the chair, not even lifting her hands ·to cover her face. 
"YahJ cry-baby, cry-baby. •" Jeddy was alive again, dancing up and down before his sister. "Cry-baby, · Ya can't see your sweetheart. I seen ya in the hallway. I seen ya. ,u 
Mr. Colley was on a chair stuffing newspaper into the hole in -the ceiling. He got dovm from the chair, found a pencil and paper and licking the lead began to write slowly. ftListen to this," he said, reading."Listen to this: Mind your own business from now on, see? When we want to see ya, we'll invite ya dovvn special. Signed, William Colley." He laughed so he had to loosen his belt and then climbed on the chair, pulled out the newspaper, stuck the note through and filled the hole again.
Jeddy was sitting at the wrecked table, hunched over his plate, . shovelling the cold wet hamburger into his mouth. "That'll fix Merrit," said Mr. Colley settling at his place-, .C.lThatJll fix hima" He picked up his fork and wiped it on his sleeve. 
"Times like this I miss a phone somethin' awful," Mrs •.Colley said-. "Would I ever like to ring up that Merrit and tell him what I think for spoiling our good tea,,'' Her face was drawn with the :pleasure denied-her. She took the plate of sliced tomatoes and rinsed them under the tap-. "-I guess I don't feel much like eatin 1 now," she said. "That Merrit's leg kinda turned my stomach." She sat down from habit and watched her husband and son. 
There was silence again at the kitchen table, except for the noise of eating, Merrit lumbering overhead and Mona's chattering sobs. 
P K·PAGE 
MONTREAL 
Under my head domed like a theatre I walked by houses spilling their look and their dark between great trees on the boulevards of summer, and on my stage the frightened boy uttered his tedious soliloguy while my other hero sang of joy like a tenor: then from the bogus facade of my middle class face my talentscout glance was impressario of children playing in alleys I could not follow for puberty sprouted between: of men and women seen in my magic mirror and the glass of class, I belonged to the theatre, I knew, and also this: that love and fear were equally booked at my house. 
Thus I passed lovers in the boom o:f love who drew two curtains across the window of sorrow: one told me much was changed and many were gone and life was raw and rude to pouring boys-another said, LookJ I looked, and saw the city gaurded by planes which in true flight's perversion curse from the praying blue,. their height a dart,. I saw the mothers' sons in a rage of Asia 
_move the jungle salient without the tourist's usual smile to crouch by a palm in a dream of technicolour with the newsreel and the movie at last made one, Then I came to the abstract place: a red brick wall guillotined with shadow a square of added dust-
o the human clasp had shrunk from its finger-nails, the head was drowned below antennae-aerialsJ Suddenly a radio blared like a paper flower in a bowl of brass, Against one wall I saw, almost invisible, the sandy soldier through whose wounded face a stone face was trying to form. 
I climbed tho mountain into that Sunday air to which rising slowly from a·cquarium slum on Sundays only the double people come-I saw the terraces of class run down to our nationhood by river and railway: the broad street of the Jews lay open between the twisted fascist alleys and the holy rolling negroes rolled in unholy smoke beyond the tracks: I saw quarter and counter quarter in block. and check-o French and English, Jew and not Jew, artist and public,child, parent, rich, poor, where the bully of stone whacked in the cringing wood. Yes there I stood where sunlight taught in the tree, hearing the immense cultural silence float up through the birds singing like English Verse, and tasting a bird's voice in its wooden spoon I heard the silence about pain, the ambiguous human silence, while Jerusalem rang in the green-silence so groat one could hear the nightingale and then Keats' cough in answer. 
Then thought I of a different silence, wired for sound, for arti.sts • variations on the workers• steady chorus, whon the heart adjusts the lovers show listening love, and tho trumpets are long cars in the people I s .. armies• 
PATRICK ANDERSON 
ENGLISH FANTASY 
Boy, was I born beaumont to the boneZ naked, and the servile doctor wrapped me in a coat of arms, a stripling and I wore the Garter on my select muscle, married cecils in cathedral Mays below history an.d the sky's bulging blue eye of victoria: then we rode our passionate hunters after the fox of love and were blooded at midnight: o the little lord for Eton and Christchurch by his moaning mother pre-destined-news to cottagers for miles, 

Pride and fear walked linked as harrison-smith above the lawns drawn smoothly over the Antipodeswhere natives sweato I read in the Rolls shakespeare and old moore's almanac and the cricket scores and thought of war. 0 God and sir bindon blood let there be no war, I cried, and the cardboard bells of peace rang out from the ironmonger's tower of Munich, 
stood in the half-dark pub while my clothes and accent tugged at their forelocks and opened up their smiles, squire weston I was and my family austin butted the headwinds of Europe, until teasots exploded and the jazz was bombed-
Now snubbed by America and dressed down by love I.,~ beaumont and bourbon and other desperate names-am concerned to fight nemo and number with Comrade Painto organise the various selves in one definite duke; and see in my mirror a million, 
PATRICK ANDERSON 
AT CITIES THAT KNOW OUR PLANS 
Women in mist and men bound to a purpose, 
· Carving the sloping lands into monuments to themselves, .And the wars no longer abstract. No longer the faint and dusty cries of heroes Built for textbooks, Nor the tasseled sword in its glassy coffin, The scarlet costume coat and thG curious pistols,Now the ellipsoids, the pregnant sounding curve~, The impure geometry of spitting pencils, Tho new fashion of the swearing tank, The careful sunken men under dim miles Of fat and sleepsum seas, And startled citizens all pricked with fleas And cursing their tyrant courage. All these, their purpose unlmown to themselves, Their future unwrit and happy endings The wax red promise of Parliament Hill, 
This peripheral noise, a grinding Crackle of excitement splinteringAbout its mystery,And before this the curtained solace of~faith Unworried and blind to en.use and future, Safe ideals like warm and easy breezes That ferret in the cold and bulky caverns Of a shivering mind-And no gold thread to trace an exit, Shall we set our glaring sails before these winds Ai.'1.d allow the thin and even horizon 
(That empty line that runs about us Like a fortune wheel outspoked Ju1d 1mows our numbered rigid future) Bear tinsel prizes and force acceptance · Of old. yet unexpected modes of living? 
With tightly fashioned machines, 
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~[the adjusted gun,The blood flecked colonel who sits and roars The heavy motion of a million men, The coloured carrier ship swinging to a compass, All these studied things and faith That time out o;f its endless ghost packed bag Shall fill our waiting skulls with new solutions.• 
This careful race of men, shut in armour, To whom death is calculated success .And only that, No more beside their mapped out thought Of outfaced sorties and retreats from peaceful sands. , On these we must in our worried million Turn headlights for a tortured road 
And arrive at cities That lmow our plans~ NEUFVILLE SHAW • 
LOST IDENTITY 
SAID the man in the cutaway_•.•.• "But do they know who I am? I mean is there the slightest doubt as· to my identity? Or would they take me for a glass blower, a muff-in.~man or a broker? Now see with my hat on...... if I tilt it ever so ever so slightly over one eyo and hold my gloves so with the fingers downward, then would they lmow? Or suppose I buttered my hair and tied my coat by the sleeves round my belly-or even killed a manJ I mean ripped _htm all apart and hid the cadaver inside my coat like a walking charnel house_. Everything that is but the head••• Mother of God, its too big for my pocketJ (no point in rousing an unsuspecting tailor's suspicion) maybe a fence paling or a hat box-a hat box full of juicy Yorick•.•, something worthwhile talking aboutJ WAITJ How inconceivably dense and stupidJ How fantastically absurdJ I can throw it into the air and swat it with a cricket batl A, .great whacking swat of a bat until there.' s nothing left but a smear and the smell of it••• THEN by God they'd know meJ •• ,. 

While I, oh· lamb of God, I'd walk me ovor so lightly, and tilt my hat ever so slightly and hold my gloves with a11 ten fingers pointing to tho ground•••• 
KIT SHAW 
PLAQUE 
Under the viaduct, by the hot canal While horse and cop clomped overhead and the barges Were liftod in Lock 6, he was conceived Oh no more wondrously than any bulb o~ grub. Fod while the 8.04 speckled the breast, And commuters• shadows streaked across the o.ilcloth He flourished like corn or crow, Where cats scamper and horse cavorts He learned to stand and spit at the passing cars-Triumph of the cortex over the natural response. Spent four years learning to hate, At ten was adopted by a fine big firm. At fifteen was a pin-boy at Mike's. At twGnty fronted for a bookie's. Was drafted and prepared to make the world safe For Belmont and Narraganset and the boys .at ·Mike 1s, Staggered and hit the curb. Was sent back via Postal Telegraph. The lady who answered couldn I t read And the dark words finally Sputtered under a frying pan. 
Oh lam:.ent your strong and white winged heroes. Herc no bronze nor crepe marks. The passing freight flutters the laundry hung out like clichos. 
BRUCE RUDDICK 
DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE 

I SIT on this bench in Morningside Park and stxetch out my hand and f eel the impact o~ summer against it, but very lightly, and something that is quick -and easy in sumn1er is immedi.ately there between my fingers. The air, the whole scene is something beautiful and clever that is done with hands. The feel of it, you know, is light and warm, a vague intimacy not quite a pressure, like the touch of someone's hand upon your arm. There is n tactile sense. To see the great muscle of the Tri-Baro bridge is to have ·the sensation of modelling it. And then, looking at my hand, I close it slowly and tightly:--till. r .get first the merest contact, thon the padded hotness, finally.the throb--of' my-: pulse-this always reminds me of very young, very alive birds in a nest, bunched stuffy blood-coloured membranes. I've got you, I say to myself, I've got y o-~ •• , 1noaning I sup.p.oso th<.:: s1.:::nso of lifo, th9 libidinous re-current 
bud,.. but ··=::il:f"cady :then, ~·in tho ::1oqunt :Jf cnpturo, ~th0 .thing h-Rs escnped ... int:.i tho air. With the fist clc:q.ched., :tho mental h Rnds-cy0~.~· th:Jughts, ~-: vvhat0vcr ,. n.r o .mak1n-g ·p9sses bet woon-th0 trocs and ovor thG ,city, designs 1'.9.. zy ·:~s ,:$n1.okc but gracious, like a man shaping a woman in the air. 

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/ They como up to mo, maybe itts tho kid vv.ho comos up, .and say once or .~rhap~ sovoral times over-It's nice today. Why, today it's real SW€11. Yessi~, 
it's nice AND WARMJ The way people say yes-I like that. It's acceptance,thntts what it is, and I like people to accept the landscape and the weather and the big Italian paintings and the feel of summer, that's O,K. that•s fine. I like them sinking into re:pitition and platitude-up to a point. What I do not l~ke is, but you guessed it already-anyway, the acceptance of evil, especially prejudice. The kid sometimes will produce the famous A111erican exclamation Oh BoyJ 
Who.. is this boy to whom appeal is made when ordinary language is transcend-,, ed-the bright companion of ecstacy? A substitute for poetry, I suppose-a being who lives at the point where tho articulate shades off into the meaningless cry which might be caused by either pleasure or pain. 
Oh boy, what a dayJ,. says the kid and by choosing this expression instead of the more mechanical Gee or Gosh he sets in motion a sort of fabulous creature of pleasure and a-moral experiment, not exactly in me nor yet wholly outside, who brings with him a host of quotations, a·ssociations and memories• "As flies to wanton boys a~e ·we to the Gods, they kill us for their sport." 
I tell him about how I've always found ono thing left to do in life and that is to h~ve another cigarette. Or if you're in a cafe anqther cup ·of coffeG. Sometimes they will give you an extra cup for noth_ing. There's always· s01ncthing to read~ too. Tho people who read only the best-sellers or the highbrow books are all wet. That's what I tell him. I always read the Menu right through-I peruse it, in fact I cogitate upon it-and I read the advertisements all round tho room and in the newspaper~ I tako hand-bills from people in the street and save them up to study with my cup of coffeo, That ts why I like the "Saturday Evening Post"-itts got so many advertisements. I never begin any of that stu.ff, I tell him, without a little tingling feeling of delight. Maybeits because I love words, love the stunts that words will do. Nearly all the words I read are lies or half-truths and don't they know itl They behave so nicely, so amenably when the slick writer comes along. They purr deceitfully like women. They take up their positions like girls in a burlesque-easilly, liquidly. Scientists have proved that such and such a soup is an infallible cure for cancer. Of course, they of course.,, Can't you just see them putting up their little hands, soft and small as a kitten•s paws, and stroking the writer's lapels? Nut when I read them they 'Wink and give the whole show away as a goddam lie. That 's what they do. 
I go on talking to him about words. To him or them, whoever it mey be, But first I 1nust have a cigarette, I feel in rey right-hand coat pocket and ·there sure enough is a package.· Rather squashed, definitely not that slick hard cube with its pricking corncrs and fine edges which one tears apart with so much consciousness of the thing found new. Tho pack has a spongey feel now. It gives in damply to the fingers. But, as· one feels around, there is a quite definite bulkage there-cigarettes all right, I take one out and here is something to do with another minute. But not, I insist, just something to do-rather an extension, however slight or apparently familiar, of one 1s experien·ce• this busin·ess of taking the cigarette and putting it in one's mouth and lighting it. Like the people in the advertisements, who puff out a cloud of amoke and say: "A-ahJ One of thG "minor pleasures of life."., A few extra inches, and white too-neatly tubular-of personality, that's what I tell the kid~ Points · to define a gesture, impudent lines which we thrust into the colossal indifferent air around us. The park stretches away-actually it runs down-hill prettysharply-and is all rocks and trees through mich the paths wander: here but simultaneously there, dead as dust and yet moving with a certain speed, like a drop of water moving dovvn a pane. LookJ-, I tell him, overcome with a certain irritation-Just fix your eyes on this bit of path here below our feet--and ~l-move the gravel with the toe of my boot. Make your eyes into postage stamps -'-, , and fix them there, What d•you get? A loose crust of dirt, a crumbled pin-peintimmediacy-solidified nothingl That's part of nature's goddam system of con...· trasts. Beaouse really these paths are movements, gestures, Don't you.see it-~ I say, taking hold of his thin arm-they're lovers• arms, passes into cnomy country, Time ItselfJ He looks at tho park and says nothing or, maybe, he seys: Why, Mister, you're all excited? --,..-.~ 
The greatest word of all, I tell him, is the word "like". A word that ---· · comes dovvn from Genesis itself, from the time when God moved around in the -voidin a sevon-day agony of humming midnights and bad-tasting mornings and brown tea-driven afternoons, while he was compssing the worldl. I really let myself go. I am awfully enthusiastic. It it weren't for that, of course, the thing -wouldn.Jt hold water. Why, I tell him, you've just got to look around you to see tnat God went from one thing to another by the use of simile and metaph0~11Man is just a mass of images, he is the poem which draws together all tho--· elements of the universe. Yes sir, from the foliage on his head to the weighte'd clay of his feet. Tako your hand now, I say to the boy; that 1s it-stretch i-t ·out and look at it. Half the timo you dontt even lmow you posses such a creature. It has its own secret life, slow and quiet. Crab-like, that's what it is. It has senses of its own as it moves over the bed of the sea through cavorns 

!nnd across minute obstructions. Its life is all touch and texture-hard coral ad velvet hangings of weed and slimy rock and huge twilight plains. One day it may even run off by itself••• As for your arms and legs, theytre the reflection of hosts of other things. Didn't you ever feel that you wore really a tre~ or some monstrous kind of root and that your arms nnd legs ~anted to 
stiffen into branches or to grow long whitish hairs? 
I point out to him as many images as I can in the view before us-young treos like debutantes, the lake as at once~ master eye and a victira of what it sees, hundreds of things. What does that big stump ovor there remind you of? I ask him. D'you mean it's like a baseball bat? he says uncertainly, his forehead all wrinkled up in worry and his lowor lip hanging dovvn like a bloody, box in a theatre~ 
Sometimes the kid will not turn up for several days. Then I know that he has been looking for work. But he always comes back in the end. Vlhy hello-· I say-nobody want you for a bank president yet? What rs the matter with youbeen slipping up on your social connections? Don't tell me you let up on that date you had with the AstorsJ He gives me a weak filmy smile; Everything about him is filmy, as though he were still in a kind of cellophane balloon like a new-born puppy. You ought to retire like me, I say to him, and turn your back on the crudities of the profit-system•• , He knows a bit about how I was kicked out of my teaching job, and maybe he heard some of the scandal. 
Why, I tell him as he sits down beside me, we have our importance, Geeit's warm today, he says. Herc we are, I go on, right in the centre of thingsright in the centre of New York, New York. -I don't see how we count for much, he sa;ys, feeling in his pockets rather obviously for a cigarette he hasn't got. Why, . YYO 're almost in the future, I tell him, and we have the time to give our utmost attention to this extraordinary position of ours, Most people are too busy to think about it at all• . Most people don't realise that minute by minute tho newest amazingest thing in the world is being born-a moment of the future is becoming a moment of the presentJ Look-I say, putting my old watch on the bench between us whore it glitters brassilly in the sunwhen the second hand reaches the top of the ~ial we shall begin to live a moment that is still in the future. Sit quietly and wait for it. Then when it comes, take a deep breath and drink it in. Think of those it will kill, those who will be born within its duration. 
After this little experiment we look at each other and find that we are just the same • .Thatts a real nice watch, he says, that watch cost a lot of money. He turns it over in his pale grimy hand. There's writing on the back, he says. . 
Just think, I tell him, of all those who would have gj_ven anything to be alive now, who seem, although dead, to possess a tremendous energy and to push us into the frontier of time. Here we are held forward by a million million dead arms so that we can see the show. And we must see it, we must enjoy it-They want us to• They demand it,.--. D'you believe in spooks? he says.Why, no-not exactly, I say-but I sometimes think that••• well, just for fun, that one should imagine enjoying all this for the sake of one of them, for some poor bastard of a corpse, you know••• But they're dead, he says, and they smelll •• 
When I talk along these lines the kid's face looks moro and more puzzled and his mouth hangs open. From time to time he shakes his head quickly as though to clear his eyes of some enveloping mist. Then again, h0 has a habit of leaning over and scratching his ankle, Or he whistles a tune of which he knows few of the words-something to do vvi th his sophisticated baby. 
Well, I sit by this kid and stare through the blurr of his dirty face into his violet eyes-round eyes, you know, and novor quite still-and I look at his gimcrack lean body like a piece of animated flotsam and suddenly I feel that I hate him. Why d'you make me tell you all these things, I sayangril1y-why are you so young and cute and goddam real? I'm not a teacher anymore, you dontt have to listen to me ••• Why do you have to be so hopeless. and suffering and dumb? 
Then I have to listen to him apologising for not being an educated phoney till I shove a cigarette into his mouth and his gratitude pours over me, and think how I could sieze him and extinguish that hurt voiceless point of light in his eyes between finger and thumb. 
PATRICK ANDERSON 

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also be accepted at tho same address. 
RUUIOUR ~t a~pears th~t a new book on Canadian painting is in preparation, and that it will contain the following sections: French-Canadian 'artists: EnglishCanadian artists: Jews: Women• . 

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