Page Four
THE SALEMITE
September 24, 1948
Morris Lost
Innocence
Abroad
by Janie Morris
Europe in six weeks! This sliall
be a complete, unbiased and purely
unconsequentiai report of the Europ
ean situation as seen through the
eyes of a roving alumna this sum
mer. May we suggest to all those
who follow us into those lands of
beautiful scenery, wonderful cheese
and numerous rackets that none of
this be used as precedent in their
trip.
For our money we have decided
that all travel henceforth should be
by boat—big boat. True, that lost
feeling encountered during the first
days at Salem, and which seems
rather obscure by now, was nothing
in comparison to trying to remember
on which deck was the dining room
—and which way should we turn to
find our deck chairs—to mention only
a few. The people you meet, the
food you eat and the pool you swim
in more than make up for it though.
Our first stop was England; Lon
don and the Shakespeare country
being comprehensively covered in
five days. We found the people much
less reserved than expected (a bobby
even let us try on his hat), and very
glad to see the American dollar. We
loved the old buildings, Westminister
(history major, ’48), the taxi’s, the
cashmeres and the tall silk hats in
Fleet St. The somber note is that
there is very little to eat and the
tall silk hats and the men in them
are extremely frayed.
Holland and Belgium can be dis
missed in a few words. The Isle of
Marken, the place where all tourists
must go, is the most commercialized
and degenerate place we have ever
been forced to visit. Our one high
spot was a Fourth of July party at
the embassy in The Hague which was
complete with long bearded ambas
sador, caviar and flowing liquids.
Brussels is as eosmopolitian a city
as New York, very much like it as
a matter of fact except for a great
many more cobblestone pavements
and magnificient lace. Our most
vivid recollection is nearly being
killed by great herds of bicycles
bearing down on us at we attempted
to cross a street during rush hour
transfer trucks are nothing in com-
parision.
We were entertained in Luxem
burg by the guide to The Casements,
which are underground tunnels dug
in the rocks on which the city is
situated to serve as fortifications
during the Middle Ages. He wrote
short stories for American magazines,
was quite a photographer and had
had terrific Fascist tendencies. The
city is quaint with narrow streets,
but the surrounding country side of
rolling hills covered with rich forest
—the Ardennes—is much more beau
tiful.
We moved with trepidation into
the stable currency of Switzerland.
Actually the Swiss franc brings a
better rate of exchange than the
dollar. After resisting the tempta
tion of thousands of Swiss watches
we took a wonderful cog railway
trip up to the shoulder of the Jong
Frau. The snow was feet deep, but
too soft to ski on. This southern
gal did get a chance to ice skate
for the first time, though in an
nnderground rink carved inside a
glacier. The Berlin situation was
making itself known about this time
.and we decided that this was the
ideal place to be interned.
After a minor mishap when the
rest of the party went into Italy
leaving us blissfully riding a bicycle
around Lake Leman, we caught up
just in time to make an all night
ride to Venice by bus. Truly, if you
can arrange it, arrive in Venice
about five in the morning. Take a
gondola into your hotel and, if you
can still focus your eyes, its a
beautiful sight to see the mist ris-
infr from the Grand Canal. We’re
kidding of course. Recovering and
singing ‘ ‘ O Soli Mio ’ ’ we traveled
BVx, Qfiacioui ....
Netc Out of State Students Love Salem,
But Miss Cold Weather, Sports of North
-•jjt “We love Salem!’’ was the un-#-
on to Florence. I ms city, incident
ally had everything—grand people,
art on every street corner and
square, marvelous stores, horse-
drawn Victorias with singing Italian
drivers—and a full moon when we
were there. It’s a dream city and
we can certainly see how the Renais
sance boys got their inspiration.
Rome vvas equally fascinating, but
we didn’t get to walk alone through
the Forum at four in the morning.
It is just another tig city more than
anything else, but the number and
duality of its fountains is amazing.
There must be one for every block!
Thev proved to be a great tempta
tion since the weather was swelter
ing. St. Peter is, of course, the
great attraction—a huge thing and
to us of the ugliest structures we’ve
ever seen. If it wasn’t so big it
could never get away with all that
baroque confusion.
We traveled on southward to the
Isle of Capri and Sorrento through
the Monte Casino region which is a
pretty grim picture of complete deso
lation. We swam in the Blue Grotte
thinking fondly of our hero, Rich
ard Halliburton and drank demi-
tasse on the terrace of our hotel in
Sorrento looking at the mirads of
stars reflected in the Bay of Naples
and the outline of Vesuvius while a
violinist played, “Take Me Back to
Old Sorrento’’, We know this
sounds like a travel talk, but that
part of the world is just everything
they' say it is.
Our next stop, after converting
our dirty piles of Italian lira into
almost as many French francs, was
the French Rivera. The casino at
Monte Carlo isn’t exactly what it
was—or the novels we’ve been read
ing are pure frauds. I didn’t see
any champagne and everybody was
dressed as if they were going to the
Saturday night movie. However, the
Mediterrenean is just as blue and the
sun just as warm as was witnessed
by our rather leprouB appearance by
the time we got to Paris.
The taxi situation there is terrible.
Although they are extremely cheap
when yon get one, the poor drivers
have no gas (pardon us, petrol) and
will sell their souls to get the tour
ists ration coupons. We did every
thing the Holiday Magazine told us
to do and a lot more.. We walked
througli the Luxemburg Gardens,
broused along the Left Bank keep
ing an eye out for Picasso, stood
under the Arch of Triumph, climbed
the Eiffle Tower, drank coffee in a
sidewalk cafe in Montmartre—and
we loved it! We hate cliches, but
Paris truly is magic. Once you’ve
,'inimous cry of six new Salemites
pictured above. Pat Thomson from
Longfellow, Mass., thinks Southern
of Grand Rapids, Michigan, ‘ ‘ but
pened to her in years and is work
ing hard on acquiring a Southern
accent. “I like men—especially
Jack. I like my Dalmatian Toby
and skiing and skating and surf-
’'oard riding and horses . . .’’
‘ ‘ Wait, I like horses and surfboard
riding, too,” chimed in Ann Specs
of Grand Rapids, Michigan,” but
it’s toboganning I’ll really miss.”
She, too, has a dog but his name is
ToJo. Salem seniors and juniors will
be glad to know that Ann is here
because Anne Finley recommended
Salem.
Sue Lindsay hails from Bluefield,
West Virginia, Peggy Watkin’s
home-town. (Yes, another freshman
from Bluefield.) She likes to bake
hut that docsn’t mean she is a stay-
at-home because one of her first loves
is travel. “I wish that the pool
■vould open' is her only complaint
but she praises Salem . . . delightful
combination of old and new.
Marianne Holman, the only South
erner in the crowd, says ‘ ‘ Ah
shorely do like Salem.” In Sara
toga, Florida, where she lives, she
has a sail-boat called Bottoms-Up.
She is a Boston Red Sox fan and
also listed among her lines are spear
fishing, Florida, ice-coffee, deMaupas-
sant and most of all—Bill!!
Lisa Munk, from New Canaan,
Connectieut, likes all her friends, is
quite the athlete, for skiing, sailing
and tennis are favorites with her.
As far as reading she prefers Mark
Twain and regrets that she doesn’t
have time to do more.
Joyce Clark lives in Sisters House
and says it has “a lot of charm”
but she misses Ray who is back in
her home-town, Plainfield, New
Jersey.
If these new Salemites are repre-
■sentative of all the new freshmen
we certainly will have gracious liv
ing this year.
ridden down the Champs Elysees at
night after a rain and seen the lights
reflected in the wet pavement, you
know you’ve got to come back. In
cidentally, for those interested ad
dresses of shops, parfumers, restau
rants, bars and night clubs will be
furnished on request and further
details can be found in our more
modern edition of “Our Feet Were
Weary But Untiring” to be pro
duced shortly.
Reviewers
Mind Roams
by Joan Carter Bead
“And have it in by the loth”.
Such was the gist of my letter from
the Editor-in-Chief who presumed
that all I had to do this summer was
to read books for reviews in future
Salemites. ‘ ‘ Huh ’ ’, says I, “ maybe
there are some career girls who after
a hard day at the office want to go
home to read a book but not I”.
Anyway they don’t have a three-
handed bridge complex the way my
family does. Just let me even look
at the book ease and sure enough:
“Baby, how’s about some three-
handed bridge or double sol? O. K.”,
I say reluctantly, as I dash to drag
forth a table and three chairs.
But tonight it was different. All
is peace and quiet and I can at
least glance at the bookshelves and
say I wish I’d read that this sum
mer. Hmm, wonder what’s here.
There’s Toynbee right where I
left him last Christmas. Had good
intentions of passing all my history
courses under Mr. Leach by reading
that in advance. Got to page twenty
—good stuff, but mighty slow.
Raintree County was just returned
by a neighbor who kept i. for two
months. How am I supposed to read
and review books that aren’t even
here? '
Churchill’s Gathering Storm went
to Cape Cod with me but somehow
men on the train and Sunday’s sail
boat races always seemed more in
teresting. Turned out to be just
three more pounds of dead weight
in my suitcase.
Benchley’s My Ten Years In A
Quandry and How They Grew still
reposes by my father’s chair. It is
his theme but doubled, by a few
years.
Mr. Adam by Pat Prank was sup
posed to be some amusing after-af
fects of atomic rays.
The Ides Of March by Thorton
Wilder seems a little untimely but
the reviewers say it is an excellent
narrative. Should be good back
ground material for the Gallic Wars
or Shakespear’s “Julius Caesar”.
Tomorrow Will Be Better. Well
it’s as good as The Tree, it ought
to be worth reading for laughs and
tears. Let’s see . . .
Two hours later; Sorry, but it is
just too enjoyable so far to put down
and if I’m to meet my prescribed
deadline, best I stop right here and
Aiken Reads
Best Books
And Lil Abner
by Peirano Aiken
The natural preparation for a col
umn about summer novels would be
a summer of reading the same. But
after two months of War and Peace
and four wonderful, breathless nights
with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein,
our literary ambition shrunk so that
it might almost have been satisfied
with a once over of ‘ ‘ ’Lil Abner ’ ’
and only the colored Sunday edition,
at that.
However, we did manage three
summer publications: Pilgrim’s Inn,
The Golden Hawk and The Naked
and the Dead; these did not include
some we would have liked, such as
The Plague by Albert Camus, The
Immoralist by Andre Gide and Carl
Sandburg’s new novel. The first is
a happy and warm book about some
rather normal, and lovable English
people who are healed of the bruises
of war by the kindly magic of a
medieval pilgrims’ inn in which they
live. The second is one of those
exotic, pulsating, sweet-and-lowdown
affairs, differing from its big bro
ther, The Foxes of Harrow, only in
the setting, which is Spain and the
Carribbean during the Inuisition.
The third is the most serious and
deserves a paragraph to itself. The
Naked and the Dead is a formidable
volume in appearance: hundreds of
pages, harsh red, black and white
cover, and a photograph on the back
of a brooding young man—as authors
on jackets are nearly always brood
ers. In plan, the book relates the
thoughts ai d actions of a group of
men in the invasion of a Pacific is
land. Every three or four chapters
are broken by the “Time Machine”,
a devise used to reveal the past life
of each character. Mr. Mailer stri
ves to present a cross-section of the
nation’s geographic sections, its eco
nomic levels and the ranks of the
army. The most justifiable criticism
of the work is that there is lacking
that same wide range in human per
sonalities and ideals. The minds of
the characters, except perhaps for
the soldier Goldstein, run in a de-
pressingly similar and obscene gro
ove. Like people on threadmills they
seem powerless to change their paths,
or to bare any responsibility for
their present course. Of course,
novels are about men as they are,
not about gods; and the total im
pression, in being dull and sordid, is
compatible with the jiicture of war
that the author intends, but we
believe that even a story of indict
ment is better for a touch of beauty,
if for no more than to give the con
trasting baseness more force. Yet,
the young Mr. Mailer’s earnestness
and his commendable attack on too-
easy war do him credit; and when
he mellows a bit, we will want to
read him again.
The same post-war weariness that
has attacked the average man as
well as the artist is evidenced in the
non-fiction Best Seller List. Peace
of Mind is holding its o.wn; and a
new-comer by an old hand. Dale
Carnegie’s How to Stop Worrying
and Start Living, has joined the
ranks. We expect Harry Emerson
osdick to put out a new one soon,
just not to be outdone.
Among the summer’s doings, GBS
passed his 92nd birthday on July
26th and continues to press toward
his goal of a century with all the
determination of a club woman on
a membership drive. (This last item
IS thrown in, not because we think
It surprishig that Shaw should be
having his own way, even with
Father Time, but because with news
papers Shaviana is very popular-
down to his last scornful “Bah-h-h ”
And your Salemite keeps in step.)'
Given enough time a prophet may
be recognized in his native land It
IS very heartening to hear that some
of the “important people” of Ashe-
ville, including the mayor, have de
cided to raise a sizeable fund for a
memorial to their long-unloved son,
Thomas Wolfe, who died ten years
ago this month. Look homeward
now, angel.