the lion and the archer:

poems

by

robert hayden & myron o'higgins:

number one

in the

counterpoise series

will be published in

april 1948

alvin cooper

wm demby

counterpoise:

we are unalterably opposed to the chauvinistic, the cultish, to special pleading, to all that seeks to limit and restrict creative expression

we believe experimentation to be an absolute necessity in keeping the arts vital and significant in contemporary life; therefore we support and encourage the experimental and the unconventional in writing, music and the graphic arts, though we do not consider our own work avant garde in the accepted sense of the term

as writers who belong to a so-called minority we are violently opposed to having our work viewed, as the custom is, entirely in the light of sociology and politics

robert hayden

to having it overpraised on the one hand by those with an axe to grind or with a conscience to salve

to having it misinterpreted on the other hand by coterie editors, reviewers, anthologists who refuse us encouragement or critical guidance because we deal with realities we find it neither possible nor desirable to ignore

as poets we naturally believe that it is more profitable for our generation to read good poetry than it is to listen to soap opera, since poetry has humanistic and spiritual values not to be ignored with impunity

we believe in the oneness of mankind and the importance of the arts in the struggle for peace and unity

ben johnson

myron o'higgins

the lion and the archer

is a twenty-page monograph
containing work by two poets whose
poems have appeared in
poetry, cross section, portfolio,
atlantic monthly, motive, etc.

the lion and the archer

is limited to three hundred copies
printed on fine paper by the hemphill
press and signed by each poet
and is priced at one dollar the copy

counterpoise: mills bookstore:
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i enclose .................................... for which send me

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THE
BLUEBLOOD
CATS
OF
ROME

by William Demby

From the Collection Of Carl Van Vechten

Cat on a cold stone roof: An aristocratic tabby of Rome, descendant of a long line dating back to ancient Egypt, proud, aloof, prolific, much feared by superstitious Roman citizens.

● According to one Italian expert, Dr. Gattino-Gatta, there are approximately 784,000 cats permanently resident in Rome. Flourishing and long-established cat colonies inhabit the more important monuments and ruins—the Pantheon, the Forum, the Templi Republicani in the Piazza Argentina, the Theater of Marcellus and the Colosseum. The Roman cats are aristocratic, descendants of a blue-blooded line going back more than two thousand years.

Being aristocrats, the cats of Rome lead a noticeably special life, at least those cats that live in the established colonies. No scrounging for food, no hostile creatures to defend themselves from (not even kids: no Roman child would dare torture a Roman cat), no city noises to put up with (since their colonies for the most part occupy secluded, government-protected ruins), no laws to obey except their own. And since their artistic surroundings have plenty of dark cubicles and tunnels and catacomblike passageways for shelter and exploration, it is no wonder that the aristocratic cats of Rome are the most arrogant, self-sufficient and best-fed cats in the world.

The cats of Rome are no ordinary tabbies and they know it. A visitor to Rome should not be surprised if a fat blue-gray cat with haunted agate eyes stares at him in the Forum. Chances are the cat has inside dope on the visitor's future, or his past, or recognizes him from some previous life. If a cat stares

rather strangely at a Roman, he won't pick up a stone and throw it at the cat, but will take a tight grip on his lucky charms.

The classical ruins are ideal places for cats to live out their aristocratic existence. To them, the fallen columns, the chipped façades, the gutted floors, the busts of ambitious statesmen with broken noses and amputated limbs no doubt symbolize the vanity of human civilization. At the same time the ruins provide them with a kind of Disneyland playground where, unmolested by sentimental cat lovers (excepting, naturally, the human slaves who bring them their food), they may indulge in their baritic pleasures.

Not all cats in Rome, however, live in these tradition-drenched colonies. The cats seen lurking in dank courtyards or public marketplaces or in dark alleyways are largely renegade cats, or the descendants of renegade cats, that have been expelled from the established colonies. Once booted out of a colony, the outcasts forfeit their citizenship, and the citizenship of their posterity. Indeed, in the highly caste-conscious Roman cat colony, many never recover from so traumatic an experience: those dead ones flattened out like furry pancakes on roads leading out of Rome are not the victims of careless driving but outcasts that have chosen suicide to the shame and loneliness of exile.

Sometimes the outcast or renegade cats are taken home by well-meaning if misguided Romans who naïvely try to make pets of them. All too

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203

frequently these cats sink into fits of cata-
tonic depression. In their loathing for their
masters, they ruin upholstery, neglect an-
cestral habits of hygiene, grossly overeat
while insisting on being fed only choice
cuts of meat. At night, on terraces or in
dark courtyards, these cats let out blood-
curdling screams which many mistake for
mating calls. They are not. They are the
desperate screams of a manic-depressive
cat on the verge of committing suicide.

An eccentric Greek-Latin chronicler and traveler, Aeutobus of Tyre, once thought the cat howls were howls of passion. In 388 B.C., he wrote in *Rome by Night: Being a Guide to this Up-and-Coming Town and its Nocturnal Delights*: "The screaming of thousands of cats in heat awakens passions of love in even the most time-ravaged physique of visitors to this charming pastoral village." The first recorded mention of an abnormally large cat colony in Rome

appears in Philibus the Elder's *Commemtaries* (c. 463 B.C.) in which the eminent scribe acidly observes that "there are more cats in that filthy village [Rome] than there are harlots or morticians." It is known that a flourishing cat colony existed in Rome at the time of the Gallic invasion, 390 B.C. Thousands of them were slaughtered to feed the starving population during the bitter siege. Later the Gauls, too, having fired the wheatfields and burned down

the grain warehouses, had to subsist on
cat meat.

During the Dark Ages, when Rome
became a dreary ghost town, the cat
population sensed that human society
had gone to the dogs and so decided to
organize themselves into a loosely fed-
erated aggregation of cat colonies,
somewhat like the Greek city-states.
This was a wise move, for in 1484 Pope
Innocent VIII ordered the Inquisition
to burn not only heretics as witches but
their cats as well. The cats of Rome,
having already divorced themselves
from human beings, were thus able to
survive the tortures—burning, boiling,
impaling, hanging, flaying, stoning and
stabbing—which practically annihi-
lated the cat population of Europe.

Looking further back, the aristocratic Roman cats inherited their blue blood from the cats of ancient Egypt, where they first appeared about 3000 years before Christ, the descendants of African wild cats. In Egypt cats were worshiped as gods. Temples were built in their honor. Cats enjoyed special holidays during which they were adorned with gold necklaces and earrings of precious stones. When a cat died, it was embalmed and buried in a cat cemetery. Some of these, dug up by 19th Century archaeologists, contained hundreds of thousands of cat mummies. In ancient Egypt it was a crime to kill a cat. Cats were probably brought to Rome by Phoenician traders and in their new habitat continued their aristocratic ways.

Cat worship as practiced in Rome
today takes two forms: overt and cov-
ert. Conformists that they are, the
vast majority of Romans practice the
second form. They pay homage to the
occult powers of Roman cats by se-
cretively nodding to a cat casually en-
countered on the street, by occasionally
offering milk to a neighborhood cat
that possesses the evil eye, or by bribing
a particularly odious office cat (feared
by all employees, including the boss)
with a tidbit from the dinner table.
These covert cat worshipers vehemently
deny that their attentions are anything
more than a decent show of charity.
Far more interesting are the eccentric
and uninhibited cat lovers who coura-
geously risk the disapproval of pious
people by openly engaging in esoteric
rites of cat worship.

A noteworthy example of the overt
group is the Baronessa della R____, a
wiry, tense woman with haunted eyes
and a complexion made less deathly by
layers of bright red rouge. Every day,
rain or shine, at eleven in the morning
and six-fifteen in the evening, the
Baronessa visits the Theater of Mar-
cellus cat colony. From her worn
leather briefcase she takes out assorted
fish heads and vital organs, several
pounds of spaghetti cooked for eight
minutes in a broth of spoiled tomatoes
and rancid horsemeat, and a bottle of
comparatively fresh milk. All these
edibles are religiously fed to the cats.

Recently I joined her on one of her
cat-feeding expeditions. I asked her
why Romans continue to worship cats.

*Continued on Page 206*

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204

HOLIDAY / APRIL

*Continued from Page 204*

For a long time she didn't reply, but continued to sit on an overturned marble column purring meditatively to herself, her gaze turned inward like an aging vestal virgin in a trance. Then, when I was sure she had fallen asleep, she turned abruptly and began to speak shrilly. "So you would like to know why we Romans have gone back to worshiping cats," she said, making a sweeping gesture

toward the sixty or seventy cats of all colors and sizes contentedly banqueting on the leftovers she had distributed among them. "Well now, young man, I'll tell you. You see, we Romans have a highly developed sense of history such as no other people in the whole wide world has. For thousands of years, right here in our own back yard, so to speak, we have seen civilizations rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall"—and her head bobbed

up and down like a cork riding the waves of history. "To put it vulgarly, you might say that we Romans have developed a nose for history, that out of an inherited talent for survival we can sniff a historical trend decades before it matures. Well, if you will pardon my frankness—I know you Americans dislike frankness when it comes to history—in the three thousand years since the founding of Rome, history never smelled so bad as it does today.

That's why we Romans have gone back to worshiping cats. Does that answer your question?"

To equal the Baronessa's frankness, I'm not so sure it does. Because, again according to Dr. Gattino-Gatta, the birth rate of Roman cats is exceeding their death rate by a ratio of 3.006 to 1, and by 1980 the cat population should outnumber the civilian population by ten to one. If the Baronessa means what I think she means, the cats of Rome by that date won't have to take over the city. It will be all theirs.

THE END

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206

A REPUBLICAN
VIGOR

*Continued from Page 72*

"Which ones?"

The jukebox stopped playing. The happy friends of Bernardine were drifting out of the bar. Something had to be done.

He named some night clubs that I, in common with most Romans, had never been to.

"I've heard," I said, with a knowing look, "of a place at 42 Fontanella Borghese."

A young man put a coin in the box. One or two listeners drifted back.

"Ah-ha!" said my persecutor. "That's the very spot to have a high old time. I've often been there with my friends." He winked.

"I'm interested to hear it," I said. "It happens to be my house. You and your gay friends must drop in some time. But I must warn you I usually go to bed at ten o'clock." I handed him my visiting card.

Since the butchering of Christians was put down, the only cruel sport that is left in Rome is the public and abject humiliating of one Roman by another. It is a sport with a great following, and every Roman from the age of eleven is an *aficionado*. A thrust such as mine—and it was, though I say it myself, quintessentially Roman—is greeted with long, loud, jeering laughter. I was rewarded with repeated salvos of this sort of applause.

To complete my happiness, the young man had chosen *Bernardine*. My friends came back. I do not know what happened to the man who spoke English. Spirits were so high that some young men started jiving and I did not notice him go. I gave a handful of coins to the boy who had worked the knobs for me, bought drinks at the bar (remembering this time to buy my tickets first), and soon there was a party.

The boy at the knobs looked up at me, his dark eyes dancing. He had the round face and flopping curls that marked the Roman boy even in the times of the Renaissance. "Enjoying yourself?" he said.

"Very much. What's your name?"

"Nino."

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

HOLIDAY/APRIL

THE WASHINGTON POST
Sunday, February 12, 1950

A Powerful First Novel

Devastating Twist on Prejudice

By Sterling North

BEETLECREEK. By William Demby. Rinehart.
223 pp. $2.50.

SO SUBTLE and pervasive is the power of prejudice, that only through the most unpredictable plot twists can the literary moralist make the average reader admit and challenge his own bigotry.

In recent years, only three novels have done it successfully: "Kingsblood Royal," by Sinclair Lewis; "Gentleman's Agreement," by Laura Z. Hobson, and now "Beetlecreek," by William Demby.

None of these books is a masterpiece. Each has a tricky twist which militates against the smooth inevitability of great fiction. But the "twisteroo" (as they call it in Hollywood story conferences)

is precisely what the author was forced to devise to catch the reader off guard.

In "Kingsblood Royal," as you will remember, Sinclair Lewis completely establishes the fact that Neil Kingsblood, "red-headed, blue-eyed, stalwart, cheerful, and as free of scholarship as he is of malice," is a typical young Babbitt of Grand Republic, Minn.; a thoroughly standardized Caucasian suburbanite and an asssitant cashier in the local bank. Because he is so obviously an undistinguished member of the great American majority, the reader accepts him completely and perhaps even indentifies himself with the hero.

Then Lewis slips through the reader's guard with a damaging left hook. Kingsblood finds to his amazement that he has Negro blood in his veins. And instead of hiding the evidence, he reveals it. Against his will, the reader is immediately involved in a major moral problem. He cannot help asking himself, "What would I have done in a similar situation?" And, if he is honest, he will have to admit that some part of race prejudice is dangerous poppycock if not actual mass insanity.

Lonely Old Eccentric

LAURA HOBSON was equally crafty in her approach. Phil Green, a magazine writer who is not a Jew, poses as a Jew to gather material for a series of articles on anti-Semitism. Overnight, this typical, clean-cut Nordic male begins to feel the slurs, sneers and restrictions of the "Gentleman's Agreement." The honest reader is once again shocked into an unwilling admission by being made to feel how viciously unjust the whole pattern of race relations must seem to a member of the minority.

William Demby, a young Negro writer, has come up with a plot twist at least as effective as those concocted by Lewis and Hobson.

In "Beetlecreek" he portrays a community

populated entirely by Negroes with the single exception of an eccentric old white man by the name of Bill Trapp. Trapp has had a lonely life. As an adopted orphan, his only friendships have been those with his "sister" and with an old, drunken Italian trapeze artist and dog-trainer (both dead years ago). Trapp has retired to a tiny farm in the Negro community of Beetlecreek. And, feeling unwanted and lost, he has lived to himself for 15 years, becoming a frightening legend to his Negro neighbors.

Hungry for human companionship, Trapp makes friends with Johnny Johnson, a visiting Negro boy from Pittsburgh whom he catches stealing apples. Slowly other children gather the courage to visit his shack.

Then Trapp makes his fatal mistake. He plans a party for his new friends; the Negro children and also a few white youngsters who have ventured over from the other side of the creek.

What then befalls has about it an inevitability which the more professional novels by Lewis and Hobson lack. The irony is more profound. The plot twist more devastating.

DEMYO

'Turn the Tables'

SUSPECTED of being a sex fiend (which he is not), the kindly, simple old white man becomes the object of fantastic slander and blazing race prejudice. The Negro preacher who has accepted his wheelbarrow load of pumpkins for the festival now preaches against him. Tongues wag at the barber shop and the beer tavern. The foul-mouthed young Negro hoodlums begin planning their vicious revenge.

Slim, the small-time adjunct to the numbers racket, puts it succinctly: "Now you turn the tables on this thing. Make like there was a colored man lived all by hisself in a white part of town ... and he starts all this monkey business with white girls, mind ya, what do you think would happen to him? You just pick up any newspaper from the last few years and read what happened to them Scottsboro boys."

There are flaws in this first novel. The character of Trapp is not completely convincing. In his desire to do absolute justice, Mr. Demby has perhaps overidealized his white eccentric. The author has followed the almost universal tendency of young contemporary novelists to flaunt four-letter words. And the dreamlike, episodic structure of the story lacks cohesion, particularly in the early chapters.

But the power is there; the compassion for men of all races; the cry in the night for human understanding and human decency. And when one realizes the depth and breadth of character it takes for a young Negro to admit that prejudice is a universal failing—a poison which works in the brains of the minorities as well as the ruling majority—you have some measure of William Demby. This novel most certainly deserves some honor like the George Washington Carver Award and a place high on the best seller list.

Hermit with Blacks

BEETLECREEK. By William Demby.
New York: Rinehart & Co. 223 pp.
$2.50.

By EDMUND FULLER

BEETLECREEK is the name given
a small Negro community hung
on the flank of a larger white town
in a region not precisely identified
but which might be West Virginia. But
if you think this is the wind-up for
presenting another routine race novel
you are mistaken. A story possessing
a unique and original flavor of its own
is offered us by William Demby, a
new writer of distinct ability and
quality. It succeeds remarkably well
with certain delicate and difficult re-
lationships, barely skirting senti-
mentality—the kind of thing Saroyan
and Steinbeck sometimes have
mangled horribly. But it has strength
and range beyond this single aspect, as
well.

By one of those unexpected but pos-
sible miracles of human change, old
Bill Trapp, the white hermit who has
lived in isolation in the midst of
Beetlecreek for fifteen years, chips his
shell and emerges into human warmth.
His emergence is most heartwarming
and amusing.

But human nature is such that
sometimes a man's change for the
better crystallizes suspicions and ani-
mosities in others that had lain
dormant while the familiar pattern
remained. So while some talk with
admiring surprise of the renascence
of Bill Trapp, there are also those who
are ready to say: "White man don't
live around colored people unless he's
wantin' somethin' from them or got
somethin' up his sleeve." Perhaps,
then, it was only a matter of time, in-
evitably, before the web is spun
around poor old Bill Trapp much the
way the skein of malice was woven
in Lillian Hellman's "The Children's
Hour." And this is the core of the
book.

Bill Trapp is vividly realized, deep-
ly conceived. There is fine work in
the tracing of his lonely life, his
carnival wanderings. There are a few
moments, now and then, when Mr.
Demby gets sloppy with him, but these
are relatively unimportant in so gen-
erally excellent a characterization.

But the richness in the book's people
is scarcely tapped. Among the Negroes
are several unusual studies. The
boy, Johnny Johnson, who shares
the center of the stage with old Trapp,
is created with beauty and understand-
ing. One cannot forget quickly the
recoil of his gentle and ethically sen-
sitive nature from the cruelties and
juvenile obscenities of the Gang. It

-De Antonio

William Demby—"skein of malice."

Daphne Rooke—"velvet-glove puissance."

is terrible to see this nature—yielding
to the fear of not “belonging”—suc-
cumb to their destructive vitality and
the story mounts to its appalling
climax.

David Diggs, Johnny's uncle, is an
other complex portrait, in his frustrat-
ing, tortured link with his wife, Mary
Altogether, there are a host of well-
realized personalities: Tolley, the
barber; Slim, the numbers man; vari-
ous ladies of the church—more than
I can enumerate.

At the end I feel that Mr. Demby
to some extent, has shirked his obliga-
tion to the reader, ducked out on his
denouement at the critical moment
avoided showdowns which, if faced
might have magnified the book's
stature immensely. This, however, is
opinion. There exists a school to de-
fend his choice. As it stands, it is a
book of interesting and original
qualities.

MARCH 4, 1950

ROMA - VIA delle CARROZZE, 44a - Tel. 689.827

## Mostra personale di
UMBERTO MARIA CASOTTI
"DIPINTI ISPIRATI AL JAZZ,"

INAUGURAZIONE: MARTEDÌ 12 APRILE 1955 - ORE 18

# CASOTTI

Ho ascoltato del buon jazz a Hong Kong e ho ascoltato del buon jazz a Tokio. Il buon jazz non offende mai l'antica musica popolare: essi sono frattello e sorella che si sono ritrovati dopo un lungo vagabondaggio attorno al mondo.

Sono entrato in un piccolo locale, una specie di caffè situato sotto la ferrovia aerea di Tokio. Era una opprimente piovigginosa sera di novembre e Tokio si era ritirata dentro una sinistra grigia nebbia. Un fonografo suonava un disco di Louis Armstrong e molti giovani giapponesi lo ascoltavano con quel particolare rapimento — come uccelli che hanno scorto un verme — che associa, di solito, i fedeli di una stessa religione.

Non erano snobs e non fingevano emozioni che non provavano.

In Oriente il jazz non si può considerare una vera e propria mania.

Quando uscii nella pioggia udii una

radio che diffondeva a pieno volume musica « samisen ». E' questa una strana e irresistibile musica che sottolinea e accentua l'azione di una rappresentazione Kabuki: è musica antica come le più antiche leggende giapponesi.

Fu allora, ritornando verso il mio albergo, che compresi come il jazz sia una sincera espressione — come vero ed umano sia il fatto che il mondo abbia trovato ancora una volta una sua espressione nella musica, anche se barbara, ingentilita e squisitamente autocosciente — una musica che parla e non tradisce l'intimo della nostra comune esistenza. Forse nella musica jazz e nel culto di essa che si è diffuso nel mondo, abbiamo trovato una musica popolare universale che allude alla esistenza di un'anima universale.

Non è un negro chi ha dipinto questi quadri di musicisti di jazz: Casotti non è negro.

Tokyo, November 1953

I have heard good jazz in Hong Kong and I have heard good jazz in Tokyo. Never once did the good jazz offend the ancient folk music: they were brother and sister who had found themselves after long wandering around the world. I entered a tiny box-like cafe under the Tokyo overhead railroad. It was a dismal rainy night in November, a night when Tokyo had retreated into a sinister grey mist. A Louis Armstrong record was playing on the phonograph and several Japanese youths were listening with that particular absorption-like birds, sounding for a worm-which one usually associated with religion. They were not snobs, nor were they feigning an emotion which they did not feel. Jazz is no longer a mere fad in the East. When I went out into the rain again I heard samisen music blaring from a radio turned up loud. This is the music, strange and irresistible music, which underlines and accentuates the action in a Kabuki play. It is music as old as the oldest legends in Japan. Then it was, as I headed back to my hotel, that I realized how true an expression is jazz-how true and human that the world should have found expression once again in music at once barbaric, refined and exquisitely self conscious-a music which speaks no lies about the core of our common existence. Perhaps in jazz music and its cult around the world we have found a universal folk music which hints at the existence of a universal soul.

A Negro did not paint these studies of jazz musicians: Casotti is no Negro. Yet had a Negro painted them one can easily imagine the lavish chauvanistic praise they would receive. But the artist deserves this praise anyway, for he has had the courage and sensitive

understanding to burrow deep below the long-hardened crusts of national and racial culture to shed light on a strange world at once primitive, modern and disconcertingly prophetic.

WILLIAM DEMBY

OPERE ESPOSTE: 1. « Perdido street blues ». - 2. « How high's the moon n. 1 ». - 3. Blues. - 4. Afro-cuban. - 5. Ritratto di O. Peterson. - 6. Ritratto di Ella Fitzgerald. - 7. Duo: sax-tenore e tromba. - 8. Chitarrista. - 9. Negra. - 10. « How high's the moon n. 2 ». - 11. Volto di negro. - 12. Sassofonista. - 13. Danzatrice negra. - 14. Cantante di blues. - 15. Duo: chitarra e contrabasso.

Se li avesse dipinti un negro si può facilmente immaginare lo spreco di lodi sciovinistiche che essi avrebbero raccolto.

Ma l'artista merita in ogni caso queste lodi se non altro per il coraggio e la sensibile comprensione dimostrati

nello scavare profondamente nella da tempo indurita crosta delle culture nationali e razziali, nello spandere luce su di uno strano mondo talvolta privitivo, talvolta moderno e sconcertamente profetico.

WILLIAM DEMBY

Negli anni 1950-'51-'52 ha risieduto in Francia: Parigi, Bordeaux, Mulhouse e Lannemezan negli Alti Pirenei.

Ha realizzato nell'Hôpital Psychiatrique di Lannemezan le vetrate e il politico per la Cappella e le decorazioni per il Salone delle feste.

Ha esposto per la prima volta in una personale alla Galleria « Il Cortile » a Roma nel 1946. In seguito ha tenuto altre personali a Trieste nel 1948, a Venezia nel 1949, a Roma e a Napoli nel 1951, a Bordeaux e a Parigi nel 1953 e ancora a Roma nel 1953.

Ha preso parte ad esposizioni d'arte italiana a Lyon, Tarbes, Mulhouse, Praga e Vienna.

Ha ottenuto nel 1954 il Premio « Prima-vera » al Maggio di Bari e il Premio del Ministero della Pubblica Istruzione.

Sue opere figurano nella Galleria d'Arte Moderna di Roma e nelle seguenti collezioni private: Zavattini, Roma; Siciliano, Roma; Ueberschlag, Mulhouse; Graziadei, Roma; Mengotto, Roma; Assirelli, Roma; Nordio, Trieste; Kostoris, Trieste; Borletti, Milano; Tomassini, Roma; Ruspoli, Roma; Gervasi, Roma; Deana, Venezia; Alessandrini, Roma; Sardjian, Roma; Rambelli, Roma.

## NOTA BIOGRAFICA

Umberto Maria Casotti è nato a Taranto nel 1919.

Ha compiuto gli studi classici a Venezia e si è laureato a Roma in giurisprudenza.

La sua attività di pittore ebbe inizio nel 1935.

LA DIREZIONE DELLA GALLERIA PREGA DI VOLER INTERVENIRE
ALLA INAUGURAZIONE DELLA MOSTRA PERSONALE DI
UMBERTO MARIA CASOTTI

“DIPINTI ISPIRATI AL JAZZ,”

LA MOSTRA RIMARRÀ APERTA FINO AL 21 APRILE CON ORARIO: 11-13 e 17-20. Festivi: 11-13

ROMA - VIA DELLE CARROZZE, 44-a

Of the 8,000 books that have
been published *this* season,
how many will you remember?
These 12 are Pantheon's choice.

PUBLISHED THIS MONTH

EQUALITY

By ROBERT L. CARTER, DOROTHY KENYON, PETER MARCUSE, and LOREN MILLER, with a foreword by CHARLES ABRAMS. Four distinguished legal authorities give their strong, often contrasting, views on the explosive issue of quotas and "preferential" treatment for Negroes as a means of achieving racial equality. $4.95

THE CATACOMBS

By WILLIAM DEMBY. A daring autobiographical novel about a Negro writer living in Rome, who decides at last to return home to the America of the 1960's—and seek his true identity as a Negro, a writer, and a man. $4.95

WRITERS AND POLITICS

By CONOR CRUISE O'BRIEN. A brilliant Irish historian and literary critic — famed for his work with the UN in Katanga—examines James Baldwin, the New Yorker culture, Edmund Wilson, Dwight Macdonald, Whitaker Chambers, the United Nations, and other contemporary phenomena of interest to Americans. $4.95

THE POPULAR ARTS

By STUART HALL and PADDY WHANNEL. This acute, highly intriguing critical guide to the mass media surveys television, movies, popular music, popular fiction, the press, and advertising — in an effort to help parents, teachers, and other culture-consumers discern good from bad. Index, bibliography. $7.95

MADNESS AND CIVILIZATION

By MICHEL FOUCAULT. What is madness, and who is qualified to define it? This book — a masterpiece of research, understanding, and imagination — probes for the answer in the fascinating, often appalling history of insanity and society's response to it in the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries. $5.95

REPORT FROM A
CHINESE VILLAGE

By JAN MYRDAL. Here is one of the most exciting and revealing documents of the decade — by a young Swedish anthropologist who was permitted to live for a month in a village in Communist China. Photos, drawings. $6.95

ALREADY PUBLISHED

THE WINNERS

A novel by JULIO CORTÁZAR. "Beautiful, brooding, passionate... irrestantly readable... introduces an outstanding writer of immense scope." — WILLIAM GOYEN, N. Y. Times Book Review. $5.95

OBSTACLES

By REINHARD LETTAU. Brief, brilliant, unforgettable bits of pantomime in print — by a young German writer with the eye of a camera and the comic genius of a Marcel Marceau. $3.95

IN A FEW HANDS

By ESTES KEFAUVER. The full, shocking story of the hidden power of monopolies in today's America—based on seven years of investigation by Senator Kefauver. $4.95

THE NEGRO'S CIVIL WAR

How American Negroes Felt and Acted During the War for the Union. By JAMES M. McPHERSON. "No other work marshals such massive and impressive evidence about the Negro in this crucial period of his history." —C. VANN WOODWARD. Illustrated. $6.95

LIONS THREE,
CHRISTIANS NOTHING

A novel by ANN BOROWIK, author of *How Many Miles to Babylon*. "I didn't know there was any girl in the world who could write as funy as this girl does." — ROBERT PAUL SMITH. $4.95

CATHERINE THE GREAT

By ZOË OLDENBOURG. A biography of the woman who became Empress of all the Russias. "A fascinating story by one of the great historical novelists of our time." — TED HOLMBERG, Providence Journal. $5.95

Now at your bookstore

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