Solitary Man Research Articles

Faux masculinities among college men who experience depression

Depression is a significant problem among college men that can be complicated by masculine ideals of stoicism, reluctance to seek help, and risky self-management strategies. Underpinning these issues are complexities in recognizing what behaviors might be indicative of college men's depressive symptoms. Findings drawn from a qualitative study of 25 Canadian-based college men who self-identified or were diagnosed with depression revealed three predominant masculine identities: the angry man; the solitary man; and the risk-reliant man. Within each of these themes men embodied aspects of idealized masculinity that were difficult to distinguish as symptoms of depression or as representative of the activities with which many college men partake. The angry man identity described men who expressed anger, at least in part, to dissipate depression invoked pain and emotional distress. The solitary man category included men who self-isolated, fearing that others would recognize and judge them as harboring depression. Risk-reliant men employed strategies including alcohol and other drug overuse rather than relinquish control by engaging with professional health care providers and services. Guided by the overall findings we argue this phenomenon as 'faux masculinities' - characterized by men's engagement in practices consistent with idealized masculine identities but that emerge from and/or in response to the experience of depression. Faux masculinities are discussed within the context of the challenges posed for college men and their health care providers in pointing toward targeted depression interventions.

Three Irish Artists

Three Irish Artists John Rees Moore (bio) William Butler Yeats You often spoke for, and often against, The embattled Ireland of your time. At the Playboy riot you took offense. And for their antiliterary crime Stoutly scolded that unruly audience. Truth is embodied in myth, you thought: Cuchulain battling the waves, Leda’s rape, Naoise’s calm heroism, how Deirdre sought By witty stratagem the final escape Into death. Immortality, but humor too: Witty satire in The Cat and the Moon, The bishop, Crazy Jane, and all that crew. With head and feet you tapped out your tunes, And those tunes live on. “Horseman, pass by,” Reads your epitaph. Your words will never die. John Millington Synge That traveling man, who knew his Ireland well, Found beauty in the lives of simple folk. At turf fires he listened, but seldom spoke. From Aran islanders he learned how to tell Stories of those elemental lives in plays Both sad and merry, full of folklore fun, And a teasing irony, that finally won Even stubborn hearts, and earned the praise Of countrymen not used to such sharp wits And suspicious of anything the church [End Page 36] Might disapprove, or womanhood besmirch. Such Irishness drove Yeats to angry fits. The Abbey welcomed this solitary man Who left us plays none would wish to ban. James Joyce: An Anthology In that great story ending Dubliners, “The Dead,” A monument to passions of the past, Quietness settles down at last With snow falling on the living and the dead. In Portrait he had the clever boldness To start things off with infant, “baby tuckoo.” Still growing, the artist to be sees a girl, Wading in water, legs white as a pearl. Ulysses arrives, the artist now in full bloom, Stretching the language this way and that— The whole world in one city, plus even a cat. In the Wake the River Liffey carries us, I presume, With maternal care, softly down to the sea, Singing a farewell lullaby in a watery key. [End Page 37] John Rees Moore John Rees More, for many years the editor of the Hollins Critic and professor of English at Hollins College, has been writing poetry and prose for the SR since 1963. Copyright © 2012 University of the South

Loneliness Updated: An Introduction

The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that loneliness, far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, peculiar to myself and to a few other solitary men, is the central and inevi...

Robert Walser: El más solitario de los escritores. La influencia de su enfermedad en su creación literaria

Robert Walser (1878-1956) is an important but unknown European writer of the twentieth century. He was also a mysterious and solitary man who lived at the margins of society. After the questionable diagnosis of schizophrenia, he nearly stopped writing and spent almost three decades in two Swiss psychiatric hospitals. The originality of his work, undoubtedly conditioned by his mental disorder, renders interesting a review of his life and a discussion of the possible differential diagnosis of his disease.

Robert Walser: the loneliest writer. The influence of his disease on his literary work

Robert Walser (1878-1956) is an important but unknown European writer of the twentieth century. He was also a mysterious and solitary man who lived at the margins of society. After the questionable diagnosis of schizophrenia, he nearly stopped writing and spent almost three decades in two Swiss psychiatric hospitals. The originality of his work, undoubtedly conditioned by his mental disorder, renders interesting a review of his life and a discussion of the possible differential diagnosis of his disease.

Arrow of Godand the World on Paper

A great project of the first two generations of African writers was to establish continuities with the precolonial and ongoing oral tradition. This essay, however, asks what African writers thought of the act of writing itself. A key scene in Chinua Achebe's novel Arrow of God juxtaposes a mother's oral storytelling with a son reading the first page in his Igbo primer, the first book ever to enter the family compound. The novel narrates the coming of literacy to Igboland by focusing on three quite different images: the python in a box as an image for the book (and the Domestication of the Savage Mind); the road through the forest as a symbol of writing and its power; and the solitary man, shut up in a closet, who attends to a disembodied voice but is distracted by noises from outside as a metonym for the experience of reading. While Achebe expresses a deep ambivalence about literacy, he does establish that the nonliterate world has the same potential for meaning and artistic creation and knows the same dangers of solipsism and literal reading as literacy does. I also consider several related themes: the trope of the talking book and the orthography that missionaries invented to write down the Igbo language.

Acting out Crusoe: Pedagogy and Performance in Eighteenth-Century Children's Literature

Acting out Crusoe:Pedagogy and Performance in Eighteenth-Century Children's Literature Andrew O'Malley (bio) Well before Robinson Crusoe and the robinsonade became dominant features of the children's fiction landscape in the Victorian period, eighteenth-century writers for children explored the pedagogical utility of Defoe's most famous novel with a mix of enthusiasm and caution. Victorian robinsonades were, as many critics have remarked, primarily boys' adventure tales, championing empire, colonial expansion, and the masculine ideal of rugged, self-sufficient individualism.1 Eighteenth-century pedagogical writers tended to consider Robinson Crusoe in terms of its value to the promotion of the emerging middle classes' ideals, singling out in the novel the moral qualities they thought most necessary to inculcate in the rising generation: thrift, perseverance, industry, and piety, for instance. Many of these authors, however, expressed reservations about the kinds of impressions the soft wax of the child's mind might take from a story of sea-faring adventure. Eighteenth-century pedagogues regarded Crusoe as admirably independent, yet the children whom they would have become like him had paradoxically to be dissuaded from aspiring to an independence that threatened parental authority and social order. Sarah Trimmer's somewhat mixed feelings about Robinson Crusoe were undoubtedly shared by many of her contemporaries. Reviewing the book for her Guardian of Education, Trimmer praised it for "shewing what ingenuity and industry can effect, under the divine blessing" and for acting as "a stimulus to mental and bodily exertion, and patient perseverance" (298). It was a book, however, that required parental supervision or at least a child reader with a "mind and temper [that] have been properly regulated," in other words, one who had already been successfully interpellated as the type of self-regulating subject that much eighteenth-century pedagogy [End Page 131] was geared toward producing. Trimmer's famous anecdote of the two boys who "in consequence of reading the History of Robinson Crusoe, set off together from their parents' houses, in order to embark on some ship, with the hope of being cast on an uninhabited island" demonstrates the period's anxiety over the child's insufficiently mediated consumption of Defoe's narrative (298). The mother of one of these boys dies from the "anxiety of mind" his departure causes in her. While Defoe's novel rightly demonstrates "the misery that follows the breach of filial duty," this valuable lesson, it seems, is "commonly overlooked, when the curiosity of the mind is strongly excited, and the feelings powerfully engaged, by the circumstances of the story" (298–99). The concerns Trimmer expresses in her review of Robinson Crusoe are revealing on a number of counts, and point to two issues that were central to didactic writing in the late eighteenth century. The first has to do with a kind of experiential, and I would suggest theatrical, exemplarity: a preferred didactic method in the period, but one that presented certain challenges to educators. Behavioral and textual models for children needed to excite a desire for emulation, but emulation could easily go astray if not properly moderated. The second issue concerns the lessons children were expected to learn from stories such as Robinson Crusoe, specifically how to negotiate between the desirable individualism and independence exhibited by a solitary man on an island and the potentially radical rejection of authority and proper subordination this figure could imply. This concern had particular urgency for readers in the necessarily dependent state of childhood, and required that children's adaptations render the story compatible with the dictates of social and familial hierarchy. Such eighteenth-century adaptations of Defoe's novel as Joachim Campe's The New Robinson Crusoe and Madame de Genlis's "The Children's Island" both employ performance in their versions of Crusoe's story, which strengthens its pedagogical effects, while yoking the story's individualism and independence to social and familial well-being. In so doing, they provide insights into why and how their source novel became so successful as to generate the countless adaptations and robinsonades that would claim a central place in the canon of children's literature.2 Trimmer expresses in her review a desire, on the one hand, to see...

Educating the Solitary Man: Levinas, Rousseau, and the Return to Jewish Wisdom

Educating the Solitary Man: Levinas, Rousseau, and the Return to Jewish Wisdom

Tapping Masculinity: Labor Recruitment to the Brazilian Amazon during World War II

Tapping Masculinity: Labor Recruitment to the Brazilian Amazon during World War II

The First Linguistic Turn

The First Linguistic Turn David Waldstreicher (bio) Jane Kamensky. Governing the Tongue: The Politics of Speech in Early New England. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997. xi + 291 pp. Tables and index. $35.00. In one of the most luminous passages in American historical writing, Richard Hofstadter described colonial America from the perspective of a seafaring man with a good sense of smell: It is now hard to imagine, but it is a matter of record that a mid-eighteenth century mariner approaching the American strand could detect the fragrance of the pine trees about 60 leagues, or 180 nautical miles, from land. Before landfall he might thus be reminded, even after more than a century of white settlement, of the essential newness of the New World. On landing he could hardly escape fresh remembrances: he could see the trees themselves, arrayed in such formidable ranks that they were attacked and felled in careless numbers by settlers eager to get at the untilled soil beneath; he could see beaver pelts and deerskins brought to market, tokens of a teeming animal life in the interior; he might hear about the fish, spawning in such numbers that the ease of catching them had become a legend and a joke. 1 Nature, markets, and men who can count: these are the facts of early America, worthy of a poetry of fragrance and vision. It is only after sniffing and seeing for himself that Hoftstadter’s mariner enters a world of discourse, hearing and talking about something below the surface. Sight and appetite rule over insight and language, so that even before setting his feet on the ground the representative American reveals less a sense of spirit, or any ideological commitment, than an eye and a nose for the main chance. With this protocol Hofstadter debunked the myths of origin that began with liberty or religious commitment in Plymouth or Massachusetts Bay. Yet while shifting the scene and the sense—from the New England mind to the Atlantic seaman’s nose and eyes—Hofstadter retained the perceiving, solitary man as the subject of history, and New World nature as the tableau for that man’s less theological than accumulative speculations. Jane Kamensky bespeaks a different myth of origins. Her ship is the Arabella, and the faculties at work are not eyes and noses, they are ears and [End Page 14] mouths. John Winthrop’s famous shipboard oration needs to be seen—or heard—in the context that produced it: the speech of the men and women on deck whose despairing remarks provided the occasion for an inspired talk and a written covenant. New England begins with a chorus of complaint, a welter of whimpers. Not silent smelling, or “fresh” Proustian memories of abundance, but a charged dialogue between leaders and followers—and between women and men. Of course Kamensky is too much a product of her time to insist on one beginning, and too dedicated to precision to insist on the need for typicality, much less a Plymouth Rock-like moment. Her interpretation of Winthrop and his fellow passengers is just one of many delightfully told examples in this innovative reworking of culture and communication in seventeenth-century Massachusetts. In addition to reanimating new and old debates in early New England studies, her outstanding book also testifies to the possibility of taking the linguistic turn without leaving readers awash in a sea of jargon. In this work—and we may hope, in future works of social and cultural history—a sensitivity to language in history complements the author’s sensitivity to language in the writing of history. The result is a powerful example of why the vaunted return to narrative, which among colonialists has emerged most prominently in examinations of individual experience and interiority, is not the only way of being attentive to stories and their power. 2 Stories, here, find their origins less in personal crises, the psychology of memory, domestic traumas, or small group dynamics than in the socially bound practices of everyday, public speech. Language, in public and private, is something we need to see rather than “see through” (p. 10). “You could have heard a pin drop in seventeenth century...

Fairy Tale

This is an extract from “Une défaite,” an unfinished novel which, according to Simone de Beauvoir, Sartre wrote in 1927. Apparently, Sartre was inspired by Charles Andler's biography of Nietzsche and the triangular relationship of Nietzsche, Wagner and Cosima Wagner. The latter, Franz Liszt's daughter, was initially married to Hans von Bülow with whom she had two daughters, and then she married Wagner with whom she had two more daughters. Nietzsche admired her greatly. Sartre became fascinated by this ambiguous, complex and conflictual triangle. Sartre also identified with Nietzsche and “the destiny of the solitary man.” The protagonist, Frédéric, who is one year older than Sartre, is also an ironic self-portrait of Sartre, while Cosima is a prototype for Anny in Nausea; both are modelled on Simone Jollivet. Cosima plays both mother and sister to Frédéric. The triangular relationship is often repeated in Sartre's affective existence. The fairy tale is the best written chapter in the novel.

Aesthetic Culture

Aesthetic Culture* György Lukác (bio) and Tyrus Miller (bio) Translated by Rita Keresztesi-Treat (bio) Editor’s Introduction “Aesthetic Culture” is one of the most important statements of György Lukács’s philosophy of culture in the period prior to his departure from Hungary in 1912 to study in Heidelberg. First published in the journal Renaissance in 1910 and reprinted in 1913 in the essay collection to which it lent its title, “Aesthetic Culture” appeared in immediate proximity to the essays in his first major book, The Soul and Forms, and shares a number of concepts and concerns with that work. In Lukács’s early essays, concepts from the philosophy of life (Lebensphilosophie) fashionable at that time in the German-speaking world mingled with such heterogeneous literary sources as Christian mystical writings, German romantic criticism, the novels of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, Hauptmann’s and Ibsen’s naturalist drama, and the aestheticism of Oscar Wilde and D’Annunzio to lend his meditations a vague but thickly elaborated terminology of “life,” “soul,” “form,” “mood,” “solitude,” “depth,” “culture,” “heroism,” and “tragedy.” At the same time, despite this idealist conceptual framework, these texts reveal surprising continuities between Lukács’s pre-Marxist, ethical criticism of modernist literature and his mature, Marxist opposition of an historically grounded “critical realism” to a subjectivistic and decadent modernism. Directly attacking the aestheticist stance that Lukács thought characteristic of modern art and literature generally, “Aesthetic Culture” is an especially revealing work to compare to his later communist polemics against expressionism and the modernist novel. Lukács’s title embodies a paradox, which he unfolds in the course of the essay. At present, he argues, there is no culture, and especially no “aesthetic culture.” Indeed, it is precisely the emphasis on the “aesthetic” in present-day art and life that is symptomatic of culture’s definitive disappearance and, at the same time, that is inimical to any culture’s forming in modern society. Wherever aesthetic culture has appeared, Lukács asserts, “there is no architecture, no tragedy, no philosophy, no monumental painting, no real epic.” The key to this paradox lies with the problem of form, which the aesthete ironically has no ability to bring into being. Instead of authentic artistic or cultural form, the aesthete emphasizes the “mood,” the fleeting inner sensation that an artwork or even the outer world more generally may occasion. The task of the artist shifts from giving form to life towards a new, peculiarly “modern” imperative, that [End Page 365] of provoking aesthetic sensations in the inner selves of spectators and readers. Artistic forms evaporate in this hothouse atmosphere in which beautiful feelings are forced to effloresce. Genuine, unified form appears only when the artist actively struggles to overcome the powerful resistances of life to being contained within the forms of art. Aesthetic culture, however, allows the artist to piece together surfaces effortlessly, creating pleasant appearances with nothing of the endurance that forms have against the passing of time. “The admirers of ‘form,’” Lukács concludes, “killed form; the priests of l’art pour l’art paralyzed art.” The novelty of the aesthetic sensation and the ephemerality of artwork’s value are two sides of a single process in which objective substantiality of artistic form progressively gives way to the aesthetic effect’s fleeting presence in the isolated soul. Lukács suggests that aesthetic culture—this paradoxical absence of any genuinely formed, objectively substantive art or culture—has appeared only recently, at the end of the 19th century. At this threshold of the new century, he believed, inner experience had rapidly come to supplant form not just in art but in all spheres. Aesthetic culture emerged when the whole of life might be judged not according to any intrinsic value it might have, but rather according to a shifting “aesthetic” standard: its ability to occasion moods, to bring about pleasant or intense sensations in solitary men and women who live passively disengaged from their own lives, like a spectator might enjoy a theatrical performance from a darkened box. The German idealist tradition had looked to tragedy as the dialectical means by which the seeming antinomies of a character’s...

Decoding the language of the heart: developing a physiology of inclusion.

Constructs such as homeostasis and fight/flight have supported a scientific approach to physiology that has yielded a vast database of obvious heuristic value. Yet in spite of its value, these constructs have tended to create a mind-set that unwittingly supports what this article has labeled a "physiology of exclusion." Reinforced by the philosophy of René Descartes, this perspective has led investigators to focus on isolated or separate animal organisms that are reflexively wired for self-preservation. It has created a mind-set in which both research investigators and the public at large tend to view the human body as either in a steady state of vigilance, maximally prepared for fight/flight, or in a state of quiescence. Assumptions of the solitary body, and solitary man wired to react for "self" preservation, has made it difficult to incorporate a growing body of evidence that indicates that social support and loving relationships are conducive to good health. It also has made it difficult for investigators to fully understand why human loneliness is a major cause of premature death. This article delineates these trends and offers a new construct, one that suggests that a "physiology of inclusion" be added to the prevailing view of a "physiology of exclusion." Recent cardiovascular research is cited to help underscore the potential heuristic value of this new physiological construct.

‘SCHLECHTES MENSCH/GUTES OPFER’: THE ROLE OF MARIE IN GEORG BOCHNER'S WOYZECK

Readings of Woyzeck which seek to explain the eponymous character's behaviour as externally caused as well as those who see in him the epitome of solitary Man, alone in the universe, alike ignore the consequences of Woyzecks insanity and social subjugation: namely, the murder of Mane. Yet this murder is by no means the logical result of Woyzeck's abuse by his social superiors nor is it a solution to his existential loneliness.This feminist reading of Woyzeck draws on theories of the scapegoat and sacrifice (Girard) and on feminist cultural critiques (Irigaray and others) to reveal the culturally determined assumptions about sexuality, love, and revenge, which make the murder of a promiscuous woman both a necessary and an acceptable outcome of the play. It also proposes that the relevance of Büchner's play for the modern, and especially the woman, reader or spectator lies in its exploration of the production of such cultural assumptions, and not in their unquestioning reproduction.

Richard M. Weaver, 1910-1963: A Life of the Mind.

Richard M. Weaver was a complex individual who lived chiefly to think and to write. Interest in his work remains high, even though he died in his early fifties and much of his work, including The Southern Tradition at Bay and Visions of Order, appeared posthumously. In his short life, Weaver made significant contributions to the study of rhetoric, the criticism of culture, the teaching of composition, and the understanding of America's South, influencing a generation of other scholars along the way.This intellectual biography of Weaver examines all of his works and the scholars who influenced him. Fred Young has vividly rendered this reclusive individual as he lived the life of the mind, becoming more remote from ordinary activity and moving into the realm wherein something does not come alive until it is written down, revised, and revised once more. Young accomplishes this by using Weaver's own writings on scholarship and by discussing his most representative and significant essays and books--Ideas Have Consequences, Language Is Sermonic, and others. Young also interviews the people who were closest to Weaver: Russell Kirk; Cleanth Brooks; Clifford Amyx, an artist and intellectual; his sister Polly Weaver Beaton; and Professor Wilma R. Ebbitt, a colleague and friend during Weaver's years at the University of Chicago.Although many have associated Weaver with the Vanderbilt Agrarians and have stereotyped him as a conservative, this work makes plain that Weaver cannot be seen simply and wholly in this light. Many of the stands Weaver took, such as opposing the registration of Communists during the McCarthy era, set him apart from the conservative mainstream and made people of many different political persuasions respect his ideas.Although much has been written on Weaver over the years, this is the first full-length book to chronicle this solitary man's intellectual life. Anyone with an interest in intellectual and cultural history, the life and letters of the South, political thought, speech, or classical rhetoric will find this study a fascinating examination of Weaver's mind.

The Vere Gordon Childe Centenary Conference

Imagine a smallish group of specialist scholars ensconced together for days on end, scholars with very different fields of interest and expertise, eating breakfast together in halls talking animatedly over their shared enthusiasm, listening to different papers, discussing again, and more still over lunch, more papers, then wine, and food, and more talking till late. It could be an Italian conference on the work of Antonio Gramsci; it could have been the 1980 Follonica Conference on the political thought and action of Leon Trotsky. This particular occasion was in Brisbane, from the 23rd to the 26th of September 1990. The polymath was not Gramsci, or Trotsky, but Vere Gordon Childe. The Australian Studies Centre of the University of Queensland organised a centenary conference for Childe, which brought together a small, stimulating and extraordinarily convivial bunch of folks working across all kinds of disciplines, but especially interested in two themes: Childe's politics, and his archaeology (and the question of the relationship between them). As Terry Irving and others have shown, Childe's shift into archaeology has too frequently been rendered as a process whereby Childe allegedly turned his back not only on Australia but also on his socialism. This 'marxism as measles' approach to biography is common enough among conservative scholars?if you're not a socialist at twenty you've no heart, if you are afterwards, you've no head, etcetera etcetera. Yet Childe remained consistently committed to socialism throughout his life. His major political-historical work, How Labour Governs (1923), was not a rejection of socialism but a castigation of what came to be known as labourism. And his shift to Britain, and to archaeology, was entirely consistent with his socialism. He was a scholar of the red tie, an impish, yet solitary man, a strong yet finally tragic figure who ended his own life in the Blue Mountains in 1957 rather than grow old in circumstances which he felt unable to control. He was a leading Australian socialist, and the conference appropriately represented a celebration of his life, his contribution to socialism and to scholarship alike. On Sunday, 23 September, I flew to Brisbane and caught a cab to Emmanuel College, where the conference was held. There I met Peter Gathercole. of Darwin College, Cambridge?Childe's impending new biographer, and Michael Roe, of Hobart. Together we set out on a guided tour, 'in the steps of Gordon Childe'. It is, of course, rather difficult to follow those imprints left by Childe in Brisbane after the Great War. The city has changed a great deal. Yet the exercise was both fruitful and pleasant, and its spirit was to anticipate that of the conference itself. An evening, welcome barbecue followed. Archaeologists, sociologists, students of politics and history found themselves conversing animatedly, even though they had nothing in common save for this shared enthusiasm for Gordon Childe. Where had he been, in Brisbane? What work had he done? Who exactly had taught him at Sydney, and who had he kept company with? What was the nature of his relationship with Jack Lindsay? What was it about his milieu which had enabled him to practise as a marxist in the period of the thirties without falling 108

The Old Man and the Bear

T he story is stranger in the telling than it was in the living, for at the time, we had Jamesy, and he made everything seem inevitable and natural. Jamesy was Blackfoot. A solitary man and the old man's best friend. It was the bear brought them together a testament to the fineness of Jamesy's nature that he took in the young white man he found mangled and bleeding to death since rumor had it that as a boy, Jamesy had watched while soldiers massacred his village. He rarely spoke except to Hyram, and even that was little. As Hyram recovered he nursed no ill will toward the bear who had nearly killed him, but listened to the Indian's legends of the grizzly bear. The great bear is ancestor to the Blackfoot people, Jamesy said. He spoke with reverence and called the bear Grandfather.

Zbigniew L. Pankowicz: An appreciation

In the sad passing of Zbigniew (Ziggy) Pankowicz, many will mourn the loss of a real pioneer in the field of machine trans lation. The world of MT today has moved well beyond the early-generation systems he fostered in his capacity as U.S. Government Technical Expert in matters MT. But wherever this world of MT takes itself, it will always, I think, remain in his debt. Ziggy was not a progenitor but he fos tered, encouraged, and funded many of the important activities of this field in the U.S., from the early sixties to the mid-seventies. He collaborated with everyone, from Leh mann in Texas to Vauquois in Grenoble. I've seen letters on his desk from the Bun dessprachenamt, from Tanke of Siemens, from the Leibniz committee regarding forthcoming meetings, and so on. His reach was impressive. And virtually the entire world of MT at one time or another paid Ziggy their respects at his humble back water office in the Rome Air Development Center in Rome, NY (not an easy place to get to!). It was a ritual act especially for anyone hoping for government funding. People came with proposals in hand, and Ziggy, donning his heavy black-rimmed glasses, with characteristic squint, would start thumbing the pages. If it looked inter esting, dinner would follow. If that went well, it would lead to after-dinner drinks and probably to nightcaps in the wee hours, trading war stories, MT gossip, and political jokes in about equal measure. Ziggy was a Polish nobleman, a young cavalry officer who led a charge against a machine gun emplacement and survived to fight in the underground, who wound up in both Auschwitz and Buchenwald and who in later life showed the tattoo on his arm with a strange lack of bitterness. He was in the full Kierkegaardian sense of the word a 'solitary man'. He lived alone and few truly knew him. All, however, respected him and enjoyed him and will surely remember him with the utmost fondness for his precise scholarly manner, his scrupulosity (he al ways paid for the dinner), his tireless supply of jokes, his basic decency. He was a man many will mourn, because without him the SYSTRANs, the METALs, the LOGOS' most probably would not be around today. Especially we at LOGOS. May God rest his soul!

Primitive Methodists On the Railroad Junctions of Igboland, 1910-1931

The Primitive Methodists declared 1931 a Jubilee Year with a book aptly entitled, Akuko Oke Onu (A Story of Great Joy). The indomitable missionary, Fred William Dodds, painted a picture of a missionary enterprise in Igboland which had proved to be a huge success. He illustrated it with the story of Uzuakoli. Apparently, the first contact with Uzuakoli in 1910 was fraught with danger as unfriendly villagers surrounded the white missionary and his young African companion from the Niger Delta area, wielding matchets and spears. A prominent chief, Iheukumere, presided over the episode. This, in fact, was the point which Dodds wished to make: twenty-one years later, the Primitive Methodists held a huge rally attended by converts from all over Igboland, comprising of about ninety-six circuits, at Uzuakoli: Again there was a great crowd standing in a ring around the open space. Again a solitary man sat on the same log on which I had sat. This time, the crowd consisted of hundreds of Christian men and women, from Uzuakoli and from all the Ibo circuits. The solitary man sitting on the log was the same Iheukumere, who twenty one years before, had sought to stir up his people to set about me and make it impossible for me to bring in any more of the white man's ways. It was a complete turning of the tables.2 Dodds always wrote with an intriguing imagination. Actually, Chief Iheukumere kept the covenant with the gods of his fathers and never converted to Christianity. This raises the question whether the tables were so completely turned. Did Dodds exaggerate the success of the enterprise after years of resistance? In the following year, 1932, the Primitive Methodist missionary enterprise ended as they reunited with the Wesleyans. The time span covered by Akuko oke onu provides a convenient time frame for this paper, which intends to analyse the missionary enterprise of the Primitive Methodists in Igboland until they lost their primitive stripe.

The Almighty Wall: The Architecture of Henry Vaughan

The Gothic revival in America owes much to the works of Henry Vaughan, the Anglo-American architect whose highly original contribution consisted of dozens of churches, chapels, and school buildings in New England towns and on campuses. Vaughan also designed three chapels for St. John the Divine in New York and was appointed architect for the National Cathedral in Washington. This book presents Vaughan's life during his thirty-six years in America (1881-1917), and goes on to examine his small half-timber parish churches, the larger masonry churches, and the brick school buildings which so clearly expressed the temperament and aspirations of his high-church clients.Morgan's study reveals Vaughan as a solitary man for whom architecture and religion were inseparable. His sources were always English, whether drawn from the Gothicists Bodley and Garner (the firm where he trained), or from the Georgians, but were borrowed with an unerring sense of taste and restraint. Vaughan's approach to design encompassed all of a building's details which he personally oversaw or carried out. A founding member of the Boston Society of Architects, he worked in a small office where he spent most of his time drawing. Even when engaged in such a major project as his main work the Washington Cathedral, the office included only Vaughan, three draftsmen, and an office boy. Vaughan himself roughed out all of the Cathedral drawings.The book focuses in particular on Vaughan's masterpieces, the chapels at St. Paul's School and at Groton, as pure examples of English Gothic architecture, the formal and academic expression of the almighty wall of Anglican culture. In six chapters it covers Vaughan's life, his parish churches, city churches and cathedrals, collegiate chapels and school buildings, his Georgian work, and buildings he designed under the patronage of Edward Searles.William Morgan is a professor at the University of Louisville's Allen R. Hite Art Institute. His book is included in The Architectural History Foundation's American Monograph Series.