THE MICHIGAN DAILY
" A higher concept of art. Can a.- The question is asked: "f life'
man stand at so great a distance from fourney is endless, where is its goal?
his fellows es to mould them.?'"-F. iThe answer is: "Everywhere." - (R
lietzsche, from "The Will to Power,"
vol. 2. Tagore), from "Thought Relics."
OMEHOW its the same
with everyone -once
a customer, always a
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A 1923 GRADUATE
"Then this brown man conducted Jurgen to an open glen, at the
heart of the forest.
"'Merlin dared not come himself, because,' observed the brown
man, 'Merlin is wise. But you are a poet. So you will presently forget
that which you' are about to seeor at worst you will tell pleasant lies
about it, particularly to yourself'
-1 do not know about that,'says Jurgen,'but I am willing to taste
any drink once. What are you about to show me?'
"'All,' the brown man answered.
"So it was near evening when they came out of the glen. It was
dark now, for a storm had risen. The brown man was smiling, and
Jurgen was in a flutter.
"'It is not true,' Jurgen.protested. 'What you have shown me is
a pack of nonsense. It is the degraded lunacy of a so-called Realist.
It is sorcery and pure childishness and abominable blasphemy. It is,
in a word, something I do not choose to believe. Tou ought to be
ashamed of yourself!'
"'Even so, you do believe me, Jurgen.'
"'Facts! sanity! reason!' Jurgen raged: 'why, but what nonsense
you are talking! .Were there a bit of truth In your silly puppetry this
world of time and space and consciousness would be a bubble, a bubble
which contained the sun and moon and the high stars, and still was
but a bubble of fermenting swill., I must go cleanse my mind of all
this foulness. You would have me believe that men, that all men who
have ever lived or shall ever live herafter, that even I am of no im-
portance! Why; there would be no justice in any such arrangement,
no justice anywhere!'
"'Slay me, then!' says Jurgen, with shut eyes, for he did not at
all like the appearance of things. 'Yes, you can kill me if you choose,
but it is beyond your- power-to make me believe that there is.no justice
anywhere, and that I am unimportant. For I would have you know
I am a monstrous clever fellow. As for you, your are either a delusion
or a degraded Realist. But whatever you are, you have lied to me,
and I know that you have lied, and I will not believe in the insignifi-
cance of Jurgen.'
"Chillingly came the whisper of the brown man: 'Poor fool! O
shuddering, stiff-necked fool! and have you not just seen that which
you may not ever quite forget?'
"'None the less, I think there Is something in me which will en-
dure. I am fettered by cowardice, I am enfeebled by disastrous mem-
ories; and I am maimed by old follies. Still, I seem to detect in my-
self something which is permanent and rather fine. Underneath every-
thing, and in spite of everything, I really do seem to detect that some-
thing. What role that something is to enact after the death of my
body, and upon what stage, I cannot guess. When fortune knocks I
shall open the door. Meanwhile I tell you candidly, you brown man,
there is something in Jurgen far too admirable for any intelligent re
biter ever to fling into the dustheap. I am, if nothing else, a monstrous
clever fellow, and I think I shall endure, somehow. Yes, cap in hand
goes through the land, as the saying is: and I believe I can contrive
some trick to cheat oblivion when the need arises,' says Jurgen, trem-
bling, and gulping, and with his eyes shut tight, but even so, with his
mind quite made up about it.
"'Now but before a fool's opinion of himself,' the brown man cried,
the Gods are powerless. Oh, yes., and. envious, too!' "
During the four years that I spent on the campus, I frequently came
across persons, curious to me at the time, who casually interrupted me in
the midst of recitations of campus descriptions and events by remarking
that they too had gone to Michigan, and thereafter generally changed the
subject, or at any rate let it go with a few polite questions concerning pro-
fessors whom they happened to remember. I could never understand this
lethargic lack of interest in so vital a life-interest as one's alma mater.
I do now.
Several weeks ago I returned to Ann Arbor for a brief visit. I walked
about the campus, which seemed disillusioningly sodden and shabby. I
admit that November is a bad month in this part of the country, and that
I had but recently come from the fall glory of Maryland and a few glimpses
of delightfully homogeneous campuses in the East. Nevertheless that only
accounts in part for the utter depression that overwhelmed me at sight
of this campus.
I went to several classes, and observed two things. One was a stifling
odor composed of two parts cosmetics and one part stale cigarette smoke
The other was an alarming vacuity on the faces of everyone preent, in-
cluding the professors. The latter may be excused for this on the grounds
of partal asphyxiation. Absolutely the only sign of intelligence in any of
these blank faces was a fixed expression of self-interest, and even that was
apathetic. Words cannot convey the depressing effect of thousands of
blank, untouched faces moving importantly about these two square blocks.
There is no other conclusion to be drawn than that the college campus is
a community of adolescent adults.
I recalled the tempest in a teapot that filled in the gap in student in-
terest between the football season and spring activities, last year . . . the
Sunday Magazine affair, The Tempest, The Magpie, and all the rest. Right-
eously indignant conservatives whose delicate sensibilities had been vio-
lated! Righteously indignant student "thinkers" whose styles were being
cramped! Everyone on both sides privately enjoying all the publicity he
was gathering unto himself! All that . . . all blah, as some of us knew
at the time and most of us took a year to find out. And commencement
came along and we all put on our little mortarboards and oozed down to
Ferry Field to listen to the amplifier and wonder what it was all about.
Of course, there were those who were sincere and earnest and very
much concerned with all this controversy. There was something poignant-
ly pathetic about them. There was, for instance, the professor's wife who
was sincere enough to make the Magpie an anonymous sheet so that she
might not be accused of seeking notoriety, and later found that she was
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