Word: confesses
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...have, I must confess, serious doubts about the efficacy--or even the integrity--of the "classic" exam-period editorial, "Beating the System," you reprinted on Monday; I almost suspect this so-called "Donald Carswell '50" of being rather one of Us--The Bad Guys--than one of You. If your readers have been following Mr. Carswell's advice for the last eleven years, then your readers have been going down the tubes. It is time to disillusion...
...women (Viveca Lindfors) is a lesbian who seduced a virtuous young housewife and slowly, out of sheer unnatural viciousness, destroyed her. The other is a rich woman (Rita Gam) who drowned her baby and inspired her nice old husband to blow his brains out. Briskly they confess their sins, warily they begin to discover what manner of hell they are in. The coward longs to be saved, the lesbian prefers to be damned, the rich woman wants to be distracted. Each involves the others in a vicious circle of frustration that by its very nature never ends. That, according...
...concerns itself with the problems he feels arise when a Catholic "encounters" a Jew), the short story has been cast in a specifically Jewish idiom (the involved mock-reminiscence practiced by Issac Bashevis Singer), and at least one of the poems has an announced Jewish theme (though, I confess, I think that without its title its professed Jewishness would undoubtedly have escaped me). But the play and book review--of E. H. Carr's What Is History?--are not Jewish and the second poem, "Eve's Nightmare," is Jewish only to the extent that its subject was inspired...
Beauty in Slop Jars. Such is his rare candor to his elder confidant that he is able to confess the first signs in himself of a troubled spirit, "feeling inexplicably like crying or biting into something or beating it with my fists." Also, while still a schoolboy, he salutes the first intimations of his special vision of life, "feeling the beauty of everything, not excluding slop jars and foetuses-and a feeling of love for everything-and now I've run into Walt Whitman-and it seems as if I've dived into a sort of infinitudeof beautiful...
...confess I am unprosodical...