were kissing now, and a business of their hands gave me to question my original surmise. I barely heard him swear to her that it was not any girl he’d share that
sonnet
with: she mustn’t fear he’d disrespect her for permitting him to recite it on their first evening together.
“I know how you feel,” he assured her, caressing her wrapper. “The way things are nowadays, sex doesn’t mean a thing. It’s just a sport like tennis, you know? The really personal thing between a man and a woman is
communication
.”
She put his hand away and agreed. “It’s all that matters. Because who believes in Passing and Failing these days?”
“Right!”
“And if there’s no Examiner and no Dean o’ Flunks, nothing a student does makes any sense. That’s the way I see it, anyhow.”
“You’ve been reading the Ismists,” her companion said, and sought along her leotard with the rejected hand. “And they’re right, too, as faras they go. The student condition is absurd, and you’ve either got to drop out or come to terms with the absurdity.” He went on to assert (at the same time parrying with his left hand her parry of his right) that this absurdity had both exhilarating and anguishing aspects, chief among the former whereof he counted the decline—he might even say decease—of conventional mid-percentile morality. “The worst thing about that old prudery—flunk that button! What I was saying, it made everybody so
afraid of their desires—
”
“Wait, Harry,” she complained. “I don’t think … Honestly, now—”
“No,” he charged, “you don’t think honestly. None of us does, till we learn to be as natural about our bodies as—as
goats
are. These co-eds that deny their instincts in the name of some dark old lie like Final Examinations—they’re the ones that keep the Psych Clinic busy. Here we go.”
“Please!” The girl tried to sit up now; there was a note of alarm in her protest. But her companion drew her down.
“Chickie, we
communicated
, you know? I thought you had a real feeling for the Pre-Schoolists!”
She tossed her head. “I do, I swear!”
“You’re not another fake, are you, Chickie?” He seemed angry with her now, and even hesitated just a moment before returning to his work, as if uncertain of her worth. Almost fiercely he declared that nothing in the mad University mattered except Beauty: the beauty of art, of language, and above all, of simple existence. That, he took it—and now they grappled in earnest—was the first principle of
Beism
, a philosophy both deeper and farther-reaching than anything within the Ismists’ compass.
“Oh Harry! My goodness!”
“There, Chickie. There.”
Just consider the state of the University, he challenged her: two armed campuses, each cynically lecturing Peace of Mind while it made ready to EAT the other. Great professors of poetry went begging; yet loud-shirted engineers drew fabulous salaries for developing WESCAC’s weaponry, the very testing of which bid fair to poison the minds of undergraduates not yet matriculated. In vain did student leaders like himself exhort West Campus to seize the moral initiative by de-programming unilaterally: their credo,
Better East than beast
, was shouted down by misguided alma-materists and advocates of “preventive riot” with their smugly belligerent slogan
Better EAT than be EATen …
“Look at Spielman,” he advised, and I pricked up my ears, though it was something else I strove to look at. “All he asked was that the flunkingComputer not be programmed to EAT its enemies automatically. So they call him a Student-Unionist, and they
strip
him of his privileges—”
“Oh dear!” the female fretted, whose leotard now went the way of Max’s rank and tenure.
“So it’s all meaningless,” the bearded one went on. “There aren’t any Finals; there’s no Dean o’ Flunks at the South Exit to punish us if we don’t Pass. Every question is multiple-choice; there’s no
sonnet
with: she mustn’t fear he’d disrespect her for permitting him to recite it on their first evening together.
“I know how you feel,” he assured her, caressing her wrapper. “The way things are nowadays, sex doesn’t mean a thing. It’s just a sport like tennis, you know? The really personal thing between a man and a woman is
communication
.”
She put his hand away and agreed. “It’s all that matters. Because who believes in Passing and Failing these days?”
“Right!”
“And if there’s no Examiner and no Dean o’ Flunks, nothing a student does makes any sense. That’s the way I see it, anyhow.”
“You’ve been reading the Ismists,” her companion said, and sought along her leotard with the rejected hand. “And they’re right, too, as faras they go. The student condition is absurd, and you’ve either got to drop out or come to terms with the absurdity.” He went on to assert (at the same time parrying with his left hand her parry of his right) that this absurdity had both exhilarating and anguishing aspects, chief among the former whereof he counted the decline—he might even say decease—of conventional mid-percentile morality. “The worst thing about that old prudery—flunk that button! What I was saying, it made everybody so
afraid of their desires—
”
“Wait, Harry,” she complained. “I don’t think … Honestly, now—”
“No,” he charged, “you don’t think honestly. None of us does, till we learn to be as natural about our bodies as—as
goats
are. These co-eds that deny their instincts in the name of some dark old lie like Final Examinations—they’re the ones that keep the Psych Clinic busy. Here we go.”
“Please!” The girl tried to sit up now; there was a note of alarm in her protest. But her companion drew her down.
“Chickie, we
communicated
, you know? I thought you had a real feeling for the Pre-Schoolists!”
She tossed her head. “I do, I swear!”
“You’re not another fake, are you, Chickie?” He seemed angry with her now, and even hesitated just a moment before returning to his work, as if uncertain of her worth. Almost fiercely he declared that nothing in the mad University mattered except Beauty: the beauty of art, of language, and above all, of simple existence. That, he took it—and now they grappled in earnest—was the first principle of
Beism
, a philosophy both deeper and farther-reaching than anything within the Ismists’ compass.
“Oh Harry! My goodness!”
“There, Chickie. There.”
Just consider the state of the University, he challenged her: two armed campuses, each cynically lecturing Peace of Mind while it made ready to EAT the other. Great professors of poetry went begging; yet loud-shirted engineers drew fabulous salaries for developing WESCAC’s weaponry, the very testing of which bid fair to poison the minds of undergraduates not yet matriculated. In vain did student leaders like himself exhort West Campus to seize the moral initiative by de-programming unilaterally: their credo,
Better East than beast
, was shouted down by misguided alma-materists and advocates of “preventive riot” with their smugly belligerent slogan
Better EAT than be EATen …
“Look at Spielman,” he advised, and I pricked up my ears, though it was something else I strove to look at. “All he asked was that the flunkingComputer not be programmed to EAT its enemies automatically. So they call him a Student-Unionist, and they
strip
him of his privileges—”
“Oh dear!” the female fretted, whose leotard now went the way of Max’s rank and tenure.
“So it’s all meaningless,” the bearded one went on. “There aren’t any Finals; there’s no Dean o’ Flunks at the South Exit to punish us if we don’t Pass. Every question is multiple-choice; there’s no
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