After the operation, they sat by the bedside, sometimes looking at Romero, sometimes at each other. All Argello's confidence and assurance seemed to drain away from him. She had thought, because he was tired. But then she had sensed that it was something deeper and more pitiful, something which he did not want her to witness. . .
"If you like him," whispered Marta, "you should take off some piece of your clothing and put it beneath his head."
Leonora smiled wanly. "Poor child," she said.
"It's true," said Marta. "Hasn't your father told you these things?"
Leonora glanced at the cot, at the face white along the bone ridges, and softened wrinkles that hinted at the failure of both severity and dignity. "No," she said, "I was taught to fold my hands, say my prayers, and obey." She smiled faintly.
"Si senorita," said Marta. "That is required by the church. But for a man, one must make his nose smell you a little and his eyes see you a little. Men are like the little children."
Not wanting her to witness his exhaustion, he had busied himself arranging the medicine cabinet, taking note of various shortages and needs. He went to the metal box, put his pistol in it, then, almost reluctantly, took from it a small rectangle of stiff paper. "You look remarkably like Elena," he said, handing the photograph to her. "We. . . we had this taken in the plaza of Santiago."
"Doesn't look much like her," said Leonora.
Argello frowned. He took the rectangle of paper and held it near the candle. "I guess it doesn't. . ." he said hesitantly. "Only I remember it so clearly, a Sunday afternoon, the band was trying to play Mozart, I was holding two bottles of beer," he said. "She wanted to have the picture taken with our arms about each other, drinking beer, but I. . . " He lifted his eyes and seemed to stare toward some distant time.
So that when their eyes encountered, both Leonora and Argello seemed to suffer from embarrassment. " I didn't mean it that way," she said. "I only meant it seems so futile. . .I don't like to see pictures of people who are dead."
"Nor I," said Argello, wincing. "But sometimes we are not free to. . . to dismiss things." He looked for a moment as if he were about to tear the photograph. Instead, he went to the metal box and replaced it.
For a time they seemed more uncomfortable in each other's presence than they had been. They seemed aware of the briefness of their acquaintance and the peculiar circumstances that had brought them together. "Forgive me," said Leonora, " I didn't mean to pry into your feelings. . ."
"It's all right," said Argello. "I'm the one who reminded you that you look like her." And it was as he stared at her that Leonora thought to herself, "He sees that I am in love with him, and I cannot help it, and he will despise me for it."
She found herself saying, "I guess I never believed you were in love with her. I had the feeling that, well, she was the only young woman around, and Mother was doing her best to make you take notice. . . I thought you were simply being trapped, and that, afterward, well, frankly, that your vanity was hurt. I never really did believe. . . ."
Argello smiled grimly. "From the moment I first saw Elena." he said, "I wanted to tell her everything in my heart and my mind." "Yes," said Leonora. "And no one even told her anything without her making them regret it."
The Goblins of Eros
A Novel by Warren Orndorff Eyster
Random House, New York
Copyright 1957 by Warren Orndorff Eyster
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
The Goblins of Eros A Novel by: Warren Eyster
A Tale of revolution and vengeance in primitive western Mexico!
This is a story of Mexico- of a people overwhelmed by their past, confused by their present and desperately unconcerned about their future. Here are the townsfolk of Las Iguanas, who have lived in the desert for too many generations. They are human beings who have lost their past.
The Goblins of Eros is a story of their revolution, its causes and its violent consequences. Through this novel you will meet some fantastic characters who will become etched in your memory and some pathetic and noble souls who will take hold of your mind and heart.
Eduardo Zamora is young, inexperienced, lonely. During his stay in Las Iguanas he rises to manhood. Dr. Argello is a disillusioned man who still holds to principles of honor and justice and takes life too seriously among a people who believe they are the playthings of the gods. Surrounding Argello and Eduardo are the old aristocrats, Grandmother Zamora and Senor Romero. And over all these fall the shadows of evil- the Governor, the General, and the Revolutionary. There are also the passionate daughters of Romero, the primitive Huitchole Indians and the infinitely diverse natives of Las Iguanas. And like a star in the Mexican sky is Juan Viste, the people's hero, born a hundred years too late, when his white horse with the silver trappings will not avail.
In The Goblin of Eros Warren Eyster has done what has up to now seemed impossible for a North American author. With deep understanding for the passions and problems of Mexicans, he has told in real and human terms the tale of a land and a people who are helplessly trapped between comedy and pathos.
About the Author:
Warren Eyster was born in Steelton, Pennsylvania, in 1925. Except for brief periods, he lived with his grandfather until he was seventeen. He was graduated from high school in Steelton at that age and took a job with the Army Air Corps as a hydraulic repairman. In 1942 he joined the Navy.
After the war he worked at many different jobs, primarily in factories. About this time he decided to go to college, and after some preparatory work at Harrisburg Academy, he entered Gettysburg College. Two years later he was graduated from Gettysburg. Then he attended graduate school at the University of Virginia.
It was during this time that he started writing. His first novel, Far from the Customary Skies, was published in 1953, and his second, No Country for Old Men, in 1955.
He married in 1954, has a daughter, Hope, and is at present living in Millboro, Virginia. He recently returned from Mexico, where he spent two years on a literary fellowship at the Centro Mexicano de Escritores.
The Goblins of Eros
Random House, New York
Copyright 1957, by Warren Eyster
This is a story of Mexico- of a people overwhelmed by their past, confused by their present and desperately unconcerned about their future. Here are the townsfolk of Las Iguanas, who have lived in the desert for too many generations. They are human beings who have lost their past.
The Goblins of Eros is a story of their revolution, its causes and its violent consequences. Through this novel you will meet some fantastic characters who will become etched in your memory and some pathetic and noble souls who will take hold of your mind and heart.
Eduardo Zamora is young, inexperienced, lonely. During his stay in Las Iguanas he rises to manhood. Dr. Argello is a disillusioned man who still holds to principles of honor and justice and takes life too seriously among a people who believe they are the playthings of the gods. Surrounding Argello and Eduardo are the old aristocrats, Grandmother Zamora and Senor Romero. And over all these fall the shadows of evil- the Governor, the General, and the Revolutionary. There are also the passionate daughters of Romero, the primitive Huitchole Indians and the infinitely diverse natives of Las Iguanas. And like a star in the Mexican sky is Juan Viste, the people's hero, born a hundred years too late, when his white horse with the silver trappings will not avail.
In The Goblin of Eros Warren Eyster has done what has up to now seemed impossible for a North American author. With deep understanding for the passions and problems of Mexicans, he has told in real and human terms the tale of a land and a people who are helplessly trapped between comedy and pathos.
About the Author:
Warren Eyster was born in Steelton, Pennsylvania, in 1925. Except for brief periods, he lived with his grandfather until he was seventeen. He was graduated from high school in Steelton at that age and took a job with the Army Air Corps as a hydraulic repairman. In 1942 he joined the Navy.
After the war he worked at many different jobs, primarily in factories. About this time he decided to go to college, and after some preparatory work at Harrisburg Academy, he entered Gettysburg College. Two years later he was graduated from Gettysburg. Then he attended graduate school at the University of Virginia.
It was during this time that he started writing. His first novel, Far from the Customary Skies, was published in 1953, and his second, No Country for Old Men, in 1955.
He married in 1954, has a daughter, Hope, and is at present living in Millboro, Virginia. He recently returned from Mexico, where he spent two years on a literary fellowship at the Centro Mexicano de Escritores.
The Goblins of Eros
Random House, New York
Copyright 1957, by Warren Eyster
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
No Country For Old Men by Warren Eyster
"Is there water nearby?" said Mijack, making as if to point at the dogs.
The woman kept silence, taking what she thought was her advantage; but it was not. The man was at peace, but stated his need and his desire, and cold afford to stand still and, if necessary, long. So she nodded.
As they walked, Mijack looked at the land to see how well it was tended, how much had been planted, and where the boundaries ran. At the same time he studied the woman who was walking a little before him. She was short, sturdy, thick-boned, with broad hips and strong feet. She was young, without childishness. She walked heavily without lifting her legs, yet with forcefulness, and she never touched the dogs. He liked the plainness of her, liked the thickness of her waist, and how she kept her chin high and looked straight ahead. It did not matter that her lips were thin and long or that her hair was sand-colored without curl.
"I'm not often thirsty," said Mijack. "When I am- it's a bad feeling."
The dogs, at the sound of his voice, looked backward at him.
"With hunger it's otherwise. I'm almost always hungry. But I don't have to eat. I can go well enough without food."
The orchard swung his head here and there in another kind of admiration, for though he knew something of trees, he knew nothing about fruit. The apples were small and bright green, some so small they were not shaped yet. The trees appeared to be a little old, past their best seasons, but the woman told him the next five to eight years would be the most productive ones. Mijack looked at the trees again, with more respect for them. He felt a fitness in himself to be walking among them.
As they emerged from the shadows and the faint overhead rustling, he caught sight of the barn, clean and beautiful, with a weather vane pointing in the right direction, and a pattern of latticed windows for airing. Two piles of manure hid part of the side. The windmill had shining blades and a high tower. It did not matter that the house was low, rambling, in need of repair, especially along the porch. He did not have to look further to know he was among his own kind. He did not need to speak to show that he approved.
The woman stepped on the platform, took hold of the handle and began to swing it up and down. The pump sounded of metallic retching, and then as the water began to rise was more quiet.
"Am I welcome to water?" said Mijack. "Otherwise I could not drink."
"You are welcome."
Mijack took down the dipper.
The dogs had run to the end of the trough. He threw the first dipperful in their direction. He liked dogs, without liking them to drink before he had.
The woman watched the pump working.
"I have been drinking from the river, "he said, to explain why he was waiting for the pump to chill.
Her face moved toward him to indicate attention; she was not going to commit herself to any point of view in what was his own affair.
Biting into the long-handled dipper, leaning beside the pump so that the excess of water fed into his mouth would spill into the warped, faintly lichened trough, Mijack drank. Then he paused.
"You have hands," he said. "I been noticing them."
The tone of voice was harsh. The young woman saw that the man's eyes were more steadfast than her own, both commanding and challenging. The surface coldness of his features had a pleasantness about it.
"God's will," she murmured.
Mijack tasted iron tang in the water because the dipper was tin and the white strainer cloth-bulb that hung from the spout was red-brown.
"Yes," he said. "His will and your willingness."
Being plain of appearance, the woman was acquainted with flattery. With outright suspicion she looked him over, her eyes bold in defense, almost sassy. The dog touching her skirt was warmth.
"How old?" asked Mijack.
The woman made no answer.
"Has this been your life always?" he said, waving an arm toward the fields.
"If you've got all the water you want," she said, "you'd soon be moving on."
"That depends," Mijack said. "Maybe I'm going nowhere further than here." He drank the best part of a second dipper, then hung it on the pump. "If you don't dance, card-play, idle over books, or look at men other than you did at me."
The woman tossed her head angrily, threw off suspicion, and seemed to settle into a sullen resentment of her situation and his presence.
Mijack went close to her. "I'm not speaking idly," he said. I'm taken with you. Are you married or in prospect?"
The woman did not answer at once. Then she said, "You'd best come to the house."
"Yes," said Mijack. "Take me. I wish words with your father."
"Walk with me," Mijack said to her.
Now they were in the orchard.
"Abide with me," he said. "Be my companion."
He pulled a leaf until the branch tugged loose and swung upward, jiggling with freedom. He opened one of her hands, and put the leaf on her palm, and studied her fingers in this new relationship.
"Take me as easily as you do this. Judge me now," said Mijack,
"without further proof."
"But I will not," said the young woman, her color rising.
"A man can't stay from his work."
She nodded, acknowledging, yet resenting.
"I've asked all my questions," said Mijack , slowly. "I let for you to decide."
"Stay on here three, four days, " said the young woman, angrily. "I don't know nothing about you yet."
"In your heart you do not need more time to decide," said Mijack. "We aren't children, you and I. Haste? In a man approaching fifty? I have chosen you, Susie. If you can't choose, then I'm not for you."
He made as if to take the leaf from her, but her hand closed upon it.
No Country For Old Men by Warren Eyster
Random House, New York
Copyright 1955 by Warren Eyster
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 54-5965
The woman kept silence, taking what she thought was her advantage; but it was not. The man was at peace, but stated his need and his desire, and cold afford to stand still and, if necessary, long. So she nodded.
As they walked, Mijack looked at the land to see how well it was tended, how much had been planted, and where the boundaries ran. At the same time he studied the woman who was walking a little before him. She was short, sturdy, thick-boned, with broad hips and strong feet. She was young, without childishness. She walked heavily without lifting her legs, yet with forcefulness, and she never touched the dogs. He liked the plainness of her, liked the thickness of her waist, and how she kept her chin high and looked straight ahead. It did not matter that her lips were thin and long or that her hair was sand-colored without curl.
"I'm not often thirsty," said Mijack. "When I am- it's a bad feeling."
The dogs, at the sound of his voice, looked backward at him.
"With hunger it's otherwise. I'm almost always hungry. But I don't have to eat. I can go well enough without food."
The orchard swung his head here and there in another kind of admiration, for though he knew something of trees, he knew nothing about fruit. The apples were small and bright green, some so small they were not shaped yet. The trees appeared to be a little old, past their best seasons, but the woman told him the next five to eight years would be the most productive ones. Mijack looked at the trees again, with more respect for them. He felt a fitness in himself to be walking among them.
As they emerged from the shadows and the faint overhead rustling, he caught sight of the barn, clean and beautiful, with a weather vane pointing in the right direction, and a pattern of latticed windows for airing. Two piles of manure hid part of the side. The windmill had shining blades and a high tower. It did not matter that the house was low, rambling, in need of repair, especially along the porch. He did not have to look further to know he was among his own kind. He did not need to speak to show that he approved.
The woman stepped on the platform, took hold of the handle and began to swing it up and down. The pump sounded of metallic retching, and then as the water began to rise was more quiet.
"Am I welcome to water?" said Mijack. "Otherwise I could not drink."
"You are welcome."
Mijack took down the dipper.
The dogs had run to the end of the trough. He threw the first dipperful in their direction. He liked dogs, without liking them to drink before he had.
The woman watched the pump working.
"I have been drinking from the river, "he said, to explain why he was waiting for the pump to chill.
Her face moved toward him to indicate attention; she was not going to commit herself to any point of view in what was his own affair.
Biting into the long-handled dipper, leaning beside the pump so that the excess of water fed into his mouth would spill into the warped, faintly lichened trough, Mijack drank. Then he paused.
"You have hands," he said. "I been noticing them."
The tone of voice was harsh. The young woman saw that the man's eyes were more steadfast than her own, both commanding and challenging. The surface coldness of his features had a pleasantness about it.
"God's will," she murmured.
Mijack tasted iron tang in the water because the dipper was tin and the white strainer cloth-bulb that hung from the spout was red-brown.
"Yes," he said. "His will and your willingness."
Being plain of appearance, the woman was acquainted with flattery. With outright suspicion she looked him over, her eyes bold in defense, almost sassy. The dog touching her skirt was warmth.
"How old?" asked Mijack.
The woman made no answer.
"Has this been your life always?" he said, waving an arm toward the fields.
"If you've got all the water you want," she said, "you'd soon be moving on."
"That depends," Mijack said. "Maybe I'm going nowhere further than here." He drank the best part of a second dipper, then hung it on the pump. "If you don't dance, card-play, idle over books, or look at men other than you did at me."
The woman tossed her head angrily, threw off suspicion, and seemed to settle into a sullen resentment of her situation and his presence.
Mijack went close to her. "I'm not speaking idly," he said. I'm taken with you. Are you married or in prospect?"
The woman did not answer at once. Then she said, "You'd best come to the house."
"Yes," said Mijack. "Take me. I wish words with your father."
"Walk with me," Mijack said to her.
Now they were in the orchard.
"Abide with me," he said. "Be my companion."
He pulled a leaf until the branch tugged loose and swung upward, jiggling with freedom. He opened one of her hands, and put the leaf on her palm, and studied her fingers in this new relationship.
"Take me as easily as you do this. Judge me now," said Mijack,
"without further proof."
"But I will not," said the young woman, her color rising.
"A man can't stay from his work."
She nodded, acknowledging, yet resenting.
"I've asked all my questions," said Mijack , slowly. "I let for you to decide."
"Stay on here three, four days, " said the young woman, angrily. "I don't know nothing about you yet."
"In your heart you do not need more time to decide," said Mijack. "We aren't children, you and I. Haste? In a man approaching fifty? I have chosen you, Susie. If you can't choose, then I'm not for you."
He made as if to take the leaf from her, but her hand closed upon it.
No Country For Old Men by Warren Eyster
Random House, New York
Copyright 1955 by Warren Eyster
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 54-5965
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
An Excerpt: Far From The Customary Skies A Novel of Men on a U.S. Destroyer
The vanguard of drops that precede a shower struck here and there on the Dreher and slowly the world shrank. Two drops pinned Ham's shirt against his chest, making heavy round spots like P-coat buttons. Ham would have been delighted, but one of the drops had struck too near his heart, and he was forced to pull the shirt away from the flesh to be able to forget.
Rain fell, matting Malone's blond hair against his skull. Dave watched the curls vanish one by one, watched the head take a new shape, hard, chiseled, squarish, watched, holding his arms straight down with the palms flat against his legs so that there was a warm spot on each side of his body, the rain stream down Malone's back and funnel beneath a thick leather belt into the hollow channel of the spine.
Ross looked through the raindrops as impersonally as he had looked through the air earlier. The pupils of his eyes never seemed to change size or intensity. Ham reloaded his pipe, screwing the tobacco in tight with his thumb. He turned the bowl upside down and blew smoke against the raindrops.
The destroyer passed beyond the cloud. Men wrung wate from their arms by making loops of their fingers and drawing the loops downward, then shaking the water from their fingers. They seemed more hairy than before- and less tan. Steam rose as high as their ankles.
The destroyers behind one by one shook free of the cloud and seven ships threaded their way down the channel. Sunlight, breaking down on the Dreher too suddenly, seemed to swirl between the men's legs. Behind them, to the south, the sky was tucked down along the horizon, loosely, baggily, as shirts in trousers are. Off starboard, the Tulagi beach had the abupt narrowness, the carved quality of having been whittled by a jack-knife. As the ships rounded a root of land and bore down on a small cove, a lithe L.C.I. scudded over their wake, forming a temporary cross on the water.
"Here's where we'll pitch anchor," said Malone. "Get on your details. You'll have years to see what the place looks like."
The destroyers were so close to land that the ripples shaken from their slim bows could be heard whispering as they crept up the sand. Clouds leaked rain that freckled and wrinkled the water, giving the illusion of mushrooms with stalks of solid water planted on the bay, and emphasizing with this faint rustle the vast stillness and isolation of the Pacific. The anchor fell and made a very tiny splach. Down inside the forecastle the chain thundered. The still bright signal flags slumped and scrolled themselves, except for one that seemed to have trapped a bit of wind.
This then was the Solomon Islands.
Excerpted From: Far From the Customary Skies A Novel of Men on a U.S. Destroyer by Warren Orndorff Eyster
One of the Finest Novels of Men at Sea In Time of War!
As startling as an alarm at night.......As vivid as a dream of home.......As real as the murderous sea........
Random House New York 1953
Some of the events and much of the background of this novel are taken from the exploits of Destroyer Squadron Twenty-three. No attempt was made to maintain exact historical authenticity, nor even strict naval code and conduct. The men in this book were never my shipmates. The sea and shipboard descriptive material is subject to the limitations of my own eyes and also the limitations of the kind of selection or pruning knife I used upon that material.
Contents
Part One The Training Cruise, 3
Part Two The Machine, 69
Part Three Going Stale, 215
Part Four The Quietus, 327
Rain fell, matting Malone's blond hair against his skull. Dave watched the curls vanish one by one, watched the head take a new shape, hard, chiseled, squarish, watched, holding his arms straight down with the palms flat against his legs so that there was a warm spot on each side of his body, the rain stream down Malone's back and funnel beneath a thick leather belt into the hollow channel of the spine.
Ross looked through the raindrops as impersonally as he had looked through the air earlier. The pupils of his eyes never seemed to change size or intensity. Ham reloaded his pipe, screwing the tobacco in tight with his thumb. He turned the bowl upside down and blew smoke against the raindrops.
The destroyer passed beyond the cloud. Men wrung wate from their arms by making loops of their fingers and drawing the loops downward, then shaking the water from their fingers. They seemed more hairy than before- and less tan. Steam rose as high as their ankles.
The destroyers behind one by one shook free of the cloud and seven ships threaded their way down the channel. Sunlight, breaking down on the Dreher too suddenly, seemed to swirl between the men's legs. Behind them, to the south, the sky was tucked down along the horizon, loosely, baggily, as shirts in trousers are. Off starboard, the Tulagi beach had the abupt narrowness, the carved quality of having been whittled by a jack-knife. As the ships rounded a root of land and bore down on a small cove, a lithe L.C.I. scudded over their wake, forming a temporary cross on the water.
"Here's where we'll pitch anchor," said Malone. "Get on your details. You'll have years to see what the place looks like."
The destroyers were so close to land that the ripples shaken from their slim bows could be heard whispering as they crept up the sand. Clouds leaked rain that freckled and wrinkled the water, giving the illusion of mushrooms with stalks of solid water planted on the bay, and emphasizing with this faint rustle the vast stillness and isolation of the Pacific. The anchor fell and made a very tiny splach. Down inside the forecastle the chain thundered. The still bright signal flags slumped and scrolled themselves, except for one that seemed to have trapped a bit of wind.
This then was the Solomon Islands.
Excerpted From: Far From the Customary Skies A Novel of Men on a U.S. Destroyer by Warren Orndorff Eyster
One of the Finest Novels of Men at Sea In Time of War!
As startling as an alarm at night.......As vivid as a dream of home.......As real as the murderous sea........
Random House New York 1953
Some of the events and much of the background of this novel are taken from the exploits of Destroyer Squadron Twenty-three. No attempt was made to maintain exact historical authenticity, nor even strict naval code and conduct. The men in this book were never my shipmates. The sea and shipboard descriptive material is subject to the limitations of my own eyes and also the limitations of the kind of selection or pruning knife I used upon that material.
Contents
Part One The Training Cruise, 3
Part Two The Machine, 69
Part Three Going Stale, 215
Part Four The Quietus, 327
Monday, July 13, 2009
Autobiographical Note by Warren Eyster
I was born in Steelton, Pennsylvania, on January 2, 1925. Except for brief periods, I lived with my grandfather until I was seventeen. I delivered newspapers, sold subscriptions, and at the age of fourteen was a collector for overdue accounts. I learned to live hard at an early age.
At seventeen I was graduated from high school, and took a job with the Army Air Corps as an hydraulic learner. In August of 1942 I met two friends on their way to the Navy recruiting office. I just walked along with them. I enlisted and they did not.
I loved the sea. I found war exciting. I loved going into port. I lost a finger and got shook up a bit. I spent some time in a naval hospital and then worked in a mental hospital. After this, I became a pest-control sailor on a naval base in swamp land, and spent my time hunting down coyotes, rats, mice, mosquitoes and gophers. I got so bored I would track down coyotes with a club. After that I worked in a lumber yard.
When I was discharged, I went to work for the Army Air Corps again. Boredom led me to take a job with an old man who had a steam saw and a track of lumber. I was paid hardly anything, but got enough logs to build a cabin. A friend and I built it, all but the roof. To live we cut grass, cut down or trimmed trees, and sold ice cream at a summer resort. Winter came, so I took a job with Piper Cub of Lock Haven.
Somewhere in the midst of all that I applied to go to college and wound up at the Harrisburg Academy, where two months later they told me I was good college material. Two years later I was a college graduate. Then I attended the University of Virginia and went sailing along great guns towards a Master's. Except for Chaucer and Milton. I have no gripe against Chaucer and Milton, but I have plenty against the way they are taught.
I began writing Far from the Customary Skies at graduate school. Two of the professors thought it was good. That made me figure I had enough education. In the way of acknowledgement, I owe a great deal to several of my professors.
I have been writing pretty steadily since leaving graduate school, while taking jobs. I spent some time in Mexico working with the Friends. I once set pins in a bowling alley. I worked for the post office- and so on.
At seventeen I was graduated from high school, and took a job with the Army Air Corps as an hydraulic learner. In August of 1942 I met two friends on their way to the Navy recruiting office. I just walked along with them. I enlisted and they did not.
I loved the sea. I found war exciting. I loved going into port. I lost a finger and got shook up a bit. I spent some time in a naval hospital and then worked in a mental hospital. After this, I became a pest-control sailor on a naval base in swamp land, and spent my time hunting down coyotes, rats, mice, mosquitoes and gophers. I got so bored I would track down coyotes with a club. After that I worked in a lumber yard.
When I was discharged, I went to work for the Army Air Corps again. Boredom led me to take a job with an old man who had a steam saw and a track of lumber. I was paid hardly anything, but got enough logs to build a cabin. A friend and I built it, all but the roof. To live we cut grass, cut down or trimmed trees, and sold ice cream at a summer resort. Winter came, so I took a job with Piper Cub of Lock Haven.
Somewhere in the midst of all that I applied to go to college and wound up at the Harrisburg Academy, where two months later they told me I was good college material. Two years later I was a college graduate. Then I attended the University of Virginia and went sailing along great guns towards a Master's. Except for Chaucer and Milton. I have no gripe against Chaucer and Milton, but I have plenty against the way they are taught.
I began writing Far from the Customary Skies at graduate school. Two of the professors thought it was good. That made me figure I had enough education. In the way of acknowledgement, I owe a great deal to several of my professors.
I have been writing pretty steadily since leaving graduate school, while taking jobs. I spent some time in Mexico working with the Friends. I once set pins in a bowling alley. I worked for the post office- and so on.
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