LITERARY
"WRITE THAT I MAY KNOW THEE, AND BE THY KIN"
When these pages were, at the beginning of the 1953-54
school year, designated for the Literary Section of The Pilot,
the ed tcrs were overly enthusiastic in the products which were
certain to manifest during the year, the student’s interest in
this medium for literary talents, and in having facility to give
to the many readers, the fruits of his intellect, and his own
persons! convicticns in poetry and prose. With the publication
of the first issue of The Pilot, an appeal was made to each
for contributions for pubhcation. There was no limit to ma-
teiiai, no rule ncr regulation in regard to subject or expres
sion made. Realizing that making a slave of another by re
striction makes the same of yourself, no mention of restraint
for the writings was given. The response to the appeal was
from a very few and contributions during the year have con
tinued from the same persons, or perhaps you choose to call
them “ostentations scribblers.” Certainly silent introspection
has its merits, but without expression, how can there be a
manifestation of such merits. Whether this reticence is the
result of a Poppinjay modesty, or a new vogue discussed at
the latest tea party, an endeavor to keep peace with one who
demands your entire attention, or an effort to avoid banish
ment from your internationally significant society circle, it
IS overly indicative of a deliberate restraint. Perhaps this is
too severe a presumption, perhaps people just don’t have any
thing to say, and if they do, they are sure its the wrong thing.
As one can shed tears from either extreme sorrow, or extreme
joy, the manifestation is the same whether there is nothing
to be said or wearing a new bonnet is more important than
saying it. This deficiency doesn’t really become so flagrant
an annoyance until one approaches with a glaring discoui'se
prepared for the editors to hear on “The Monoply of the Press
at Gardner-Webb.” This reminds one of the college student
who claims supreme mathematical ability by virtue of having
solved his sister’s Waterloo problem in her third grade arithme
tic book, or the history student who despairs after fifteen
minutes of daydreaming with the text in his hands, and states
with the voice of an aspiring politician, “I can’t understand
this pedantic historian.’’ There, of course, is the indestructable
argument that the requirements of our scholastic schedule al
low no time for anything else, the blame being given to va
rious sources of which the most frequent is to the professor,
who can’t see the mountain for looking at the trees.
Mr. Banus, our Editor-in-chief, has made arrangements
for the presentation of two medals at the end of the year. One
is to be awarded for the best work in poetry and the other for
the best prose work, as published in the 1953-54 editions of
The Pilot. Details have already been given in a previous issue
about the awards, which were thought to be a sure impetus to
contributors. Judging from the results, however, this opinion,
too, was ironical. Still, we welcome your composition.
Tomorrow Is Forever
The Past fades behind us, with only dusky streamers of
velvet left of its rich, plush robe. Perhaps it is inerasable, but
memory softens with the years. The Present lies full around us,
the lustrous vernalness of its glory unheeded in the pulsing
activity of life. The Future swells before us, luminary and im
pregnable, beckoning us into its meadowland of opportunity
and enchantment. The Past has ended; the Present is wan-
mg; but, the Future is eternal.
Seneca has said, “In the great inconstancy and crowd of
events nothing is certain except the past.” But, too often,
man has said, “The past is certain,” and if it had been good,
man m his iilapplied optimism, walked on—into an abyss of
u-revocable destruction. On the expansive scroll of the Past,
man has written his story and although, “. . .the moving finger
writes; and having writ, moves on: nor all thy Piety nor
Wit shall lure it back to cancel half a Line.” All man’s ink
was not permanent, nor all his scrolls preservable.
Memories, the guideposts of the Past, are merely marble
monuments to the inhabitants of that vast Necropolis. Mem
ory is a last clinging rose petal, with a tenacity that outlives
the full flower of the Past. It is the lingering link in a broken
chain, It is a lone traveler on a long, deserted road, as Shelley
has said “ . . . .sad because it has been sweet.” But memory
belongs to the Past and the blood of the Past is cold.
Longfellow exhorts us to turn our hearts toward tomor
row, for “. . .nothing that is can pause or stay.” Today is
ultimately transient, fleeing with fairy lightness.
The Present is a great amphitheater where unfolds a
panorama of the souls of mortals. The players parade before
the Omnipotent Viewer, the Silent Critic, in their variegated
discernments and perceptions of life, and the Eternal Ob
server alone permeates the painted surface and unveils the
sheltered soul. The players deliver their lines, some by chance,
some by practice and the performance is ended, as a play
er says, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.”
But the wine is undisturbed, for he died today.
But tomorrow does not end with death. Tomorrow laughs
at deaths eerie, moaning cry and dwells incorrigible on its
everlasting throne. Tomorrow is as far as man can see—and
farther, farther than man and farther than life and farther
than death. Tomorrow is what the sailor sees in the sea; what
the cyote hears in the wind; what the moth sees in a star;
what the harpist feels in his lyre; what the composer hears
in a song; what the blind man sees in a dream.
The Future is a vast, entrancing land of aureate, un
explored paths, winding through clusterous, amethystine vio
lets. It is a glorious land of irridesent, amaranthine blossoms
of unimaginable artistry. The adventurous and courageous heart
grows estatic at the overwhelming glory of the unknown to
morrow. Only the brave can face the ambient challenge of the
Future. Only the dauntless, and altruistic fight today for a bet
ter tomorrow. Only the self-sacrificial and benevolent per
sonify an impeccable and magnanimous love for the Future
of humankind. Only the veracious and idealistic realize that
the body is for today, but tomorrow holds the soul. Because
yesterday was and today is being, there is hope for tomor-
Tomorrow — that indefinable, mysterious prober of the
restless heart; that ineffable, impervious inciter of aspira
tion; than vast, imperturbable region of the unknown. Tomor
row — the eternal forever.
Mary P. Philbeck
Past Six
Upon our arrival at the Ski Lodge, we learned that the
snow had been falling lazily for several hours, seemingly to
decorate the landscape for our benefit. As the day progressed,
the snow gradually quickened its pace. No longer was it floating
gently by the window, but instead had turned into a swirling
mass of white, lashing out in all its fury, accompanied by the
resolute howling of the wind.
The intense cold had sent the others to bed even though it
was just mid-afternoon. I pondered the fact that we had
chosen this desolate spot for a vacation. True, it was a most
excellent resort for skiing; but so far we had not had a chance
to don our ski suits and engage in even one contest.
I was putting another log on the fire in hopes of reviv
ing the struggling flame when I heard a shuffling sound be
hind me. Quickly I turned, but saw no one.
“Who's there?” I cried.
There was no reply.
I prepared to speak again, but at this instant I perceived
in the shadow of the door, a man.
Even in the darkness of the room, as he weakly walked
in, I saw that he was elite in dress and manner. An otherwise
ordinary looking man, he was handsome because of the clothes
he wore. He seated himself without speaking and sank his
head into his hands.
For a long time, he remained in this position. Then he lifted
his head and glanced at me with eyes completely devoid of
emotion or interest. I took this as a cue to begin conversation,
for I was somewhat enchanted by the air of mystery that was
The conversation consisted mostly of his answering my
many questions until I, supposing that he was a cosmopoli
tan and was finding my conversation somewhat insipid de
cided to capture his attention with the mention of some far-off
place to which he might have traveled in his journeys
What caused me to mention Africa, I do not know, but by
some strange quirk of fate, I did so. Immediately a transient
interest flashed into his eyes. For a second, he again gazed
lifelessly at me; then with an outburst of passion cried “I
must tell you! I must tell you!”
Having had some training, being a doctor, in psychiatry
for preparation for just such emergencies, I wasn’t completely
lost as I proceeded to encourage him to tell me of this obses
sion that was troubling him.
In a clear monotone, he unfolded a story that will haunt
me all of my days.
He began: “How I came to be on board the ship destined
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