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Background As part of their graduate studies, university students seeking a master's degree in language and literacy education enroll in a graduate reading practicum held during the university summer session. In an arrangement with a local public elementary school, practicum participants worked on the school's campus in a classroom setting and with struggling readers. Children were so designated by their classroom performance but more so by their failure to reach a passing score on the statewide achievement test in reading. As a way to offer additional help in reading and boost their achievement level, struggling readers were required to attend summer school. Graduate practicum participants provided some of the necessary instructional help that was offered. This arrangement became the means not only to aid struggling readers but also to enable the graduate students to gain further insights into the teaching of reading. Graduate students read the selected course materials--all related to effective literacy theory and practice as well as classroom assessment theory and measures. The readings and the work of the session called attention to "thoughtful literacy" (Allington, 2009, p. 116). Informed by the readings, the graduate students had the opportunity to teach reading approximately 90 minutes a day for an entire five-week summer session. Following the daily teaching, the university professors in charge of the practicum and the graduate students gathered together for debriefing sessions. The conversations centered on the reading instruction that was implemented and the children's responses. These daily sessions were a venue for collective reflections and an opportunity for graduate peers to aid each other in further planning of the on-going reading instruction and increasing their knowledge about the teaching of reading. The graduate students also wrote individual reflective journals based on their work with the children and relative to the assigned readings. The daily journal entries further served as an important springboard for discussions during the debriefing sessions. In sum, knowledge gained from the readings, which served to inform the instruction offered to children in combination with the insights of the collective debriefings and the reflective writing, would enable the graduate practicum students to come to know more about teaching reading. Specifically, they would come to know more about teaching struggling readers. Framework for the Study In light of the context described at the outset of this article, one of the goals of the practicum experience was to think about countering what is often the instructional diet provided to struggling readers. As Allington (2009) describes the situation, teachers create instructional environments, even interventions, whereby struggling readers work on reading skills and not on actual reading. According to Allington (2006), teachers need to think about "thoughtful literacy" (p. 116), whereby students read and discuss with a focus on comprehension that results in higher student achievement. The summer practicum challenged the graduate students to provide the children with reading experiences that would be characterized as "thoughtful literacy." To aid in accomplishing the latter, a reading workshop format, with its focus on ample opportunity for actual reading, undergirded the daily instruction for children (Roller, 1996; Serafini, 2001, 2006; Tompkins, 2010). Books with a range of reading levels were made available to children, children self-selected books to read, and personal responses to the readings--written and oral--were encouraged and often shared with peers and graduate students alike. Teacher/student conferences to discuss children's readings were a daily occurrence. Allington's "thoughtful literacy" thus played out in lesson preparation and in the choice of instructional materials. The complexities of teacher education and published calls for reform in teacher education are well documented (e. …

MEETING THE DEMANDS OF TEACHING in the digital age requires the identification of effective types of educational technology and ways of encouraging its use, and that was the aim of a "Preparing Tomorrow's Teachers to use Technology (PT3)" grant to the University of Michigan-Dearborn, from the United States Department of Education. This grant funded a four-year program involving not only public school teachers in the Detroit area, but also the faculty in the education and social sciences departments of the university. Dubbed "The MITTEN Program," it explored how the planned integration of new forms of technology affects instruction in social studies in elementary, middle, and high schools. What follows is a report on the outcomes of that project. Between September 1,2001 and April 30, 2005, a total of 257 educators in all of the core academic subject areas participated in seven cohort groups. In social studies, twenty-five full-time public school teachers, twenty-five pre-service teachers, five faculty members, and three field supervisors of student teachers were involved. The data presented in this study were gathered from surveys administered before and after people participated in the program, journal entries, reflections articulated in electronic portfolios and at meetings, and technology projects. The first half of the survey asked nine questions designed to measure the partici

JN a journal entry from April 1850, Ralph Waldo Emerson grimly observed, "The badness of the times is making death attractive." At the head of the passage he wrote "D[aniel] Webster."' On 7 March 1850, Webster, the senior senator from Massachusetts, had betrayed not only radical abolitionists but antislavery moderates like Emerson as well when he rose to address his fellow legislators. Urging them to endorse the Compromise of 1850, which included a provision to strengthen existing penalties against fugitive slaves and those who harbored them, he heralded the cause of Union. Outraged by Webster's speech, stunned by the passage of the Fugitive Slave Law in September 1850, and appalled by its swift enforcement in Massachusetts, Emerson responded in two of his most important antislavery speeches: his "Address to the Citizens of Concord," delivered in May 1851; and "The Fugitive Slave Law," delivered on 7 March 1854, the fourth anniversary of Webster's Senate speech.

Attempting to convince his audience that the unity and harmony in the Over-Soul, or "great soul," can be experienced by all people, not only through the message of the poet, but also through other sources in nature, Emerson uses the Aeolian harp as a symbol of a musical conduit that carries the spirit of the Over-Soul through nature's breeze to the soul of an individual. As Emerson ages, the Aeolian harp becomes a symbol of beauty, wisdom, and divine harmony in his poetry and writings. The Aeolian harp poems reveal Emerson's concept of beauty during the last few decades of his life. Emerson's great affection for the Aeolian harp can be observed in his poetry and journal entries as well as in the written recollections of his friends and family.

The 14th Connecticut Volunteer Infantry was formed in August 1862 and less than a month later its men were engaged in the fierce fighting at Bloody Lane during the battle of Antietam. This book presents an articulate, firsthand view of camp life and combat in the 14th, as told by Sgt. Benjamin Hirst of Company D, a unit composed largely of men from the mill town of Rockville. Hirst's wartime narratives consist of letters and journal entries written during his actual service. As such, they have a special freshness and immediacy lacking in most postwar memoirs and creative reconstructions of the war. Filled with details about the common soldier's experiences of army life, Hirst's writings also offer his views on the singular importance of personal courage in combat and of a marriage weathering the difficult separation brought on by war. Interspersed with Hirst's narrative is extensive commentary by Robert L. Bee that seeks to capture Hirst's worldview and the impact of his earlier life experiences upon his wartime portrayals.

Through letters and journal entries rich in detail, this text follows the trials of the 19th-century Palmer family who dominated the southern banks of South Carolina's Santee River. The volume offers insights into plantation life; education; religion; and slave/master relations.

After my uncle died of AIDS in 1994, I tried to write about his life. Jack was my father's twin brother, a man I knew both very well and not at all. I made copious journal entries while he was sick and dying, especially during the last year when I went back and forth from Utah to California, visiting him. After he died, I sorted and organized his possessions and my memories, cut and pasted my writing, wrote and rewrote his life. Even with my house full of his Spode china, Persian rugs, and Waterford glass, Jack evaded me. He was no more present in my writing than he was in the AIDS quilt panel I made for him. I cut up fabric from his own shirts, held together with buttons from those shirts. My writing was as flat as that panel. Defeated, I cut my text into journal entries, fragments of my life and his, going back and forth in time, entered it into a local writing contest under "Adult Personal Essay," and won 2nd prize with a $15 gift certificate from the sponsoring bookstore. I found myself agreeing with Shari Benstock that, "Every exercise in memory ... demonstrates the futility and failure of life writing"(1053). My problem, I realized as I wrestled with Jack's biography, was that so much of his life was hidden from me: as a sales rep. for an electronics company in the '60s and '70s, he had never felt safe enough to come out of the closet. Only in retirement, when he moved from Chicago -"If you can make it in Chicago," he'd say, "You can make it anywhere"-to Palm Springs, did he finally make open gay alliances, particularly with the local AIDS support group, and drop the pretense of heterosexuality. For years, he maintained a neutral appearance of heterosexuality for the family, keeping his gay life quite separate, a life that was so "other," I caught only glimpses of it. As his heterosexual niece, his closeted life excluded me, as did his deliberate decision to leave no written records. Trained in literary criticism, I feel most comfortable unraveling meaning when it's packaged in a textual form. Jack's life was marked by its absence of writing. He kept no personal letters, threw out most of his well organized files in the last few months of his life, wrote no memoir. Even his final written text, his will, was inaccessible to me. He set up a trust fund, administered by recently acquired friends in Palm Springs, which sidestepped

Students practice English in natural contexts by conducting interviews and field-based research on American culture.-- Preparatory vocabulary and case-study readings-- Collaborative analysis to stimulate cooperation and critical thinking-- Interviewing strategies and role-playing activities-- Questionnaires for out-of-class interviews-- Journal entries

Mrs. C. T. said last night that when the small children play around the block, often they say, "Let's play killing the Japs." The older people look at each other sadly, but they don't say anything because they think the children are too young to explain to them. They don't realize 'Jap" and 'Japanese" mean the same thing. -Anonymous journal entry, Poston, 1943, in Beyond Words: Images from America's Concentration Camps

SO BEGINS A TEAM JOURNAL ENTRY OF A STUDENT RESPONDING TO A Native American telling of the California gold rush. As students are confronted with Native American tellings of their histories and traditional and contemporary lifeways, they face a deconstruction of their own worldviews. Now a multiplicity of voices, new authorities, stories, humor, and perspectives challenge Eurocentric explanations and interpretations. A peoples' culture that had been absent in students' previous education is rich and diverse, yet the history is shocking. Student response is varied and deep. We have found that writing becomes a vital process for students to explore new information, experiences, and relationships so they can articulate new interpretations. This articulation parallels a natural process of students' identity reconstruction as they complete a final stage of adolescence. I will discuss three specific strategies we have developed to encourage students' reconstruction of their identities; of their positions in a cultural, political, and social history; and of their perceptions of Native American lifeways and histories.

In response to reports of widespread adult illiteracy in the U. S., two positions on educational reform have emerged: a back to the basics movement that stresses enduring truths, and a social constructivist position that highlights the social context of language teaching and use. Each holds different and competing assumptions about language learning and the teaching of writing. in order to uncover the assumptions operating in classrooms for deaf students, two sets of recollections concerning writing activities were analyzed: the autobiographical essays of 87 U.S. deaf college students and the journal entries of 55 college-aged German deaf students. Students from both countries generally recalled writing for two purposes: to report and to practice grammar and mechanics. It is argued here (a) that these activities represent a narrow conception of literacy and inaccurate assumptions about language learning and (b) that the back to the basics movement perpetuates such assumptions, whereas a social constructivist approach does not. Finally, educational, social, and political implications of using whole language approaches, among others, in the teaching of writing to deaf students are considered.

Recent events in Germany lend urgency to the task of teaching about Hitler, the Third Reich and its echoes today. This article introduces some materials which were successful in an advanced high school German class. Because many teachers may be unfamiliar with these works, the texts are introduced and excerpted here. Suggestions for working with these sometimes difficult texts are given as worksheets at the end. The unit on Hitler described here took approximately seven weeks, or the better part of one quarter; during that time the class read ten pages of excerpts from Mein Kampf, three chapters of Sie h6rte den Zigeuner singen, and between twenty and fifty pages of Schuldig geboren, depending on the student. We spent six days seeing the films Triumph des Willens and Das schreckliche Miidchen. Groups of students presented parts of Mein Kampf. Each student wrote journal entries on the readings, a formal essay on Mein Kampf, and a less formal essay on the total unit which was part of the final exam. The most essential part of the work, however, was the class discussion. Experience with the materials allows me to say that this material could be presented more briefly, or presented in a greatly reduced form, although the class did not find it boring. The students in the class were in their fifth and sixth years of German study, in the eleventh and twelfth grades, and had reading skills similar to students in Advanced Placement classes or fourth-year high school classes. It was not a coincidence that the class tackled the topic of Hitler this year. The previous year's final exam was the trigger; it lasted for two hours and was full of grammar, reading, essays and other tortures; tucked into the middle was this short poem by Bertolt Brecht: Mein Bruder war ein Flieger

Journal entries cover the author's experiences in Washington, and share observations on presidents from Adams to Grant.

In a journal entry dated 2 April 1945 Brecht records the discovery of a taboo in American theatre the mention of money. He quotes Mordecai Gorelik: "'We are not allowed to talk about money' warned Gorelik, 'that is the anathema on Broadway!' In point of fact the mention of money in the commercial theatre is as rare as a cancer patient talking about cancer."' If one recalls the role of money in most of Brecht's dramas, it is easy to understand why this American taboo perplexed him. Money plays a central role and often determines the motivation behind Brecht's plot constructions. The majority of his dramas would become incoherent if one were to excise the representation and consequences of money from them. It is surprising, therefore, that critics have paid so little attention to the function of money in his dramas.2

'' s TwING is beheaded! 0 dreadful Judgement!" John Brock's agitated notation in his memoirs captures the se se of surprise and shock shared by most New Englanders upon hearing of the execution of Charles I by the Rump Parliament.' John Hull's journal entry starts in a more matter of fact tone-"Jan 30 Great Charles the First was beheaded upon Tuesday, about two o'clock"-but concludes with the observation that this was "a very solemn and strange act; and God alone can work good by so great a change."2 Involving as it did questions of the legitimacy of regicide, the fate of England's Puritan Revolution which the colonists had been following closely, and the future of New England's relationship to the mother country, the event not only caught the settlers' attention but generated considerable apprehension. Charles I was executed on January 30, i649. News of the event travelled slowly to the colonies. In Rhode Island Roger Wijliams reported that "the King and many great Lords and Parliament men are beheaded" on May 26, but not until June 3 did Adam Winthrop write from Boston that "heer is now a london shipp come in, that bringeth the newes that the King is beheaded. "3 Not all news from England was to be trusted, as the colonists had frequently discovered since the founding of the Bay. It was probably some time before New Englanders received the letters from English friends and copies of London news sheets that enabled them to

Of plays of recent vintage that have a philosophical bent, as opposed to lighthearted summer-stock fare, one in particular has engendered no scholarly inquiry, no critical commentary. Though well received by theater reviewers and audiences, because it is performed regularly in regional theaters, it seems to be taken at face value: a dramatization of the ill-fated 1910-13 British Antarctic Expedition. Indeed, a production playbill typically cites the play's debt to the journals Captain Robert Falson Scott kept on the expedition and may even include a map contrasting the routes taken by the Englishman and the Norwegian Amundsen in their race to the South Pole in 1911-12. In other words, no inquiry or commentary is needed. The play is Ted Tally's Terra Nova, but although it incorporates passages from Scott's Antarctic journals and actual slides from the expedition, and the title is the name of the ship on which the British Antarctic Expedition sailed from England in June 1910, it is demonstrably more than a docudrama. The rudimentary critical exercise of comparing Terra Nova with the relevant sections of the historical journals yields radically altered details in the play as well as patterns of details not found in the journals.' These alterations and additions transform the reenactment of a physical expedition into the enactment of a spiritual journey-the quintessential twentieth-century journey. The play opens and closes with the character Scott in front of the tent that will become his grave writing in his journals. Because the "Message to the Public" is an authentic journal entry, the seven words he articulates while composing in the prologue-"The causes of the

THE most difficult month in the life of Wallace Stevens was March of I90I. His journal entries of that year reveal a depressed, extremely lonely and easily tired young man. From June I900 when he left Harvard, to the summer of i90i, he worked as a journalist for several daily and weekly newspapers. During this year his journal is dominated by what Samuel French Morse accurately calls "the struggle between the practical and the poetic."' At times Stevens denounced art for its own sake as "worthless"2 and rejected his Harvard education, and particularly the authority of his friend and mentor George Santayana, as having filled him too full of humanity and subjectivity in a world of impersonality and things. In other moods he wrote poems, indulged his nostalgia for Cambridge, and couldn't get lines of Santayana's sonnets out of his head (SP, p. 79). As a journalist, working late nights, sometimes until four A.M., he became "impatient to [write] something that has some flash to it." Yet as early as August I900, he acquiesced, "Hang it-a fellow must live in the world& for it and in it" (SP, p. 85). For nine months after Harvard, Stevens met with a pure ambivalence the conflict created by two authorities in his life, George Santayana and Garrett Barcalow Stevens. Then, in the winter and early spring of i90i, he decided to make a change-to decide. He wanted to travel. He wanted to quit journalism and spend more time writing poetry. He visited Harvard but found no answer there; we have no record of him having seen Santayana. Soon he explained his plan to his father, at least once in person and once by mail. But Garrett Stevens, a lawyer who occasionally wrote poems for amusement and instruction, wanted

Intensive care medicine today is as close to the miraculous as most of us are likely to see in our lifetime. Nowhere is this magic more effectively practiced than in neonatal nurseries. Infants who are born prematurely at twenty-four weeks gestation and who weigh less than a pound can now be treated successfully. No other type of medicine has a more dramatic payoff, for the infants who survive can look forward to seventy or more years of life. But there is a dark underside to the exercise of these skills. A growing number of babies live only to be tethered to life-support systems, unconscious or suffering incessant pain for years and sometimes for the duration of their lives. The ethical issues raised by these children are among the most difficult in our society. Should life be maintained no matter what its quality? Or is there a point at which treatment should be stopped on humane grounds? Who is to make decisions on continuing or ending therapy for damaged children? Is the law a suitable instrument for regulating medical decisions in intensive care nurseries? Should the growing cost of intensive care influence therapy decisions? "Special Care" explores the moral and legal issues in neonatal intensive care. Fred M. Frohock spent four months in a special care nursery, observing the daily actions of doctors and nurses and interviewing staff and parents of patients. This engaging, human drama is told through the author's own journal entries interspersed with generous excerpts from taped interviews that display the practical reasoning of staff and parents as they address the moral problems raised by intensive care medicine. Several case studies of infants highlight the often contradictory directions in which medical staffs are pulled and the painful decisions that doctors and parents together are often called upon to make. The result is a book that reconstructs the ordinary life of a neonatal nursery and presents the moral views of those who are most intimately involved in therapy decisions. This book is an urgently needed entry in the current discussions of treatment for badly damaged babies. Frohock argues that our tradition of "rights "language, which rests on the premise that we know what a human being is, is inappropriate when dealing with the paradoxes of decision making in neonatal nurseries. Calling for a new moral vocabulary better adapted to the world of medicine, he introduces the notion of "harm" in place of rights, a concept drawn from medicine's Hippocratic oath that pledges to "do no harm," as a way to begin framing questions and making decisions. "Special Care" will interest anyone who wants to understand medical decisions at the margins of human life.

Recently, first language composition researchers have shown that by using a traditional composition teaching method which focuses on the form and correctness of a finished product, teachers ask students to produce writing which does not reflect the actual writing process. Findings indicate that most school-sponsored writing does not involve the self-motivation, contemplation, exploration, and commitment which characterize real life writing. These researchers recommend that in addition to being taught expository writing, students should have more opportunity for expressive writing in their writing courses to allow them to become better academic writers. According to some second language composition researchers and teachers, these recommendations are applicable to ESL college students because their composing strategies are similar to those of native English-speaking college students. Ungraded, uncorrected journals can provide a non-threatening way for students to express themselves in written English. However, the student-teacher working journals which we describe in this article are unlike student personal journals in two important ways: first, the topic of working journals is not personal, but is rather an outgrowth of the writing class; and second, the teacher regularly writes journals to the class on the same subject and includes, in those journals, selected student journal entries. The advantages of this approach are that a group awareness develops around issues relevant to ESL composition, that students come to see writing as a way to generate ideas and to share them, and that teachers become participants in the writing process.

I a journal entry for 9 November i85I Henry David Thoreau 1iotes that facts gathered in the Journal itself "should be material to the mythology I am writing."' In the completed I854 version of Walden,2 presumably the "mythology" he was at the time writing, Thoreau notes how his "life" has become for him his "amusement," "a drama of many scenes" from which "a part of me" stands apart as the rest participates in the "fiction.'$3 In this self-confessed "work of the imagination only" (Walden, p. ioi), Thoreau dons the masks of a series of mythical heroes, a significant number of whom are associated with the moon. Thoreau's creative reshaping of mythology gave him a way to deal with personal hurt, as did the humor that so frequently enlivened his writing. For, just as he said of transcendentalism that it "needs the leaven of humor to render it light and digestible," so he believed that human pain in "great wits" (I 5 March I 84 1) and heroes is transcended by means of their "abundant cheerfulness" (27 July I840).'

HOREAU 's hatred of slavery was as unqualified as his prose was forthright. Throughout his writings are allusions, passages, and whole essays insisting upon the absolute moral necessity of ending slavery in the United States. Because Thoreau chose moral truth over political expediency, what concerned him was not how slavery was to be ended but that it be ended immediately. "What is wanted," he demanded, "is men, not of policy, but of probity" who care more for justice than law.1 Although he frequently commented upon the injustices endured by slaves, he went no further to suggest what might become of blacks if and when slavery was abolished. Thoreau was, after all, a man of probity not policy; his greatest strengths as a social critic were his diagnoses. There is, however, an oblique reference in his journal which suggests that, at least for a time, he entertained the idea that black emigration could be a practical solution. Focusing on his views of slavery immediately after John Brown's raid on Harpers Ferry, this essay attempts to explain why Thoreau found emigration appealing in I859, years after radical antislavery proponents had discarded that strategy. By placing Thoreau in the context of his times through the use of newspapers and other relatively untapped contemporary sources, it is possible to develop fresh perspectives. The raid on Harpers Ferry in October of I859 Thoreau thought "the best news that America has ever heard."2 Few of his contemporaries, however, agreed with his unqualified praise for Brown. Many of Thoreau's journal entries soon after Brown's capture refute newspaper attempts to discredit Brown's actions and character.

BY HIS OWN admission Andre Gide began the study of English literature rather late.in life-exactly on his forty-first birthday, if his posterior account of it is to be trusted: "I took lessons, I learnt lists of words, and I plunged into Robinson Crusoe. After Robinson Crusoe came Tom Jones, and then Gulliver's Travels, and then I was launched ... And for years I read nothing but English."1 And many years after he began the serious study of English literature he wrote (1940) that such were its diversity and abundance that "C'est celle dont la disparition appauvrirait le plus l'humanite."2 Of greater significance, however, than Gide's admiration for English literature in general is his particular admiration for its eighteenthcentury productions. He translated Blake arid Conrad, and the artistic dilemma of Oscar Wilde provoked a book from him; but as the Journal shows, it was by way of the prose fiction of the English Augustans that Gide entered into the kingdom of English literature. And more than entered, too. What is perhaps most surprising about the many years in which he read "nothing but English" is how much of what he read was from the so-called Augustan age. The Journal entries record readings in Dryden's plays, Swift's Journal to Stella, Pope's poems (Gide wanted to translate one of the moral essays), Goldsmith, Sterne, Johnson, Gray's Letters, and Boswell's Life of Johnson.3 The early English novelists (Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding) interested him most of all.

This documentation of the genesis of Goethe's works was compiled in the 1950s by Momme and Katharina Mommsen at the Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften [German Academy of Sciences] in East Berlin.and is now continued at the Mommsen Foundation for the Advancement of Goethe Research in California. The work reconstructs and documents the history of the genesis of Goethe's works, based on all of the currently available documents, letters and personal journal entries written by Goethe himself and those close to him. The material includes numerous texts that were previously unknown or largely ignored. The carefully edited documents, which are arranged in chronological order, provide unique insight into the creative processes behind Goethe's works and into both the intellectual and personal cosmos in which Goethe created them. The background of the genesis of his biographical, historical, art-theoretical and natural-scientific writings is also documented. The first three volumes of the work have been published by Walter de Gruyter in 2006. The first two volumes are reproductions of the volumes originally published in 1958, which have been expanded to include new documents. It is planned to publish one additional volume every two years. The complete work comprise approximately 18 volumes

Y EARS ago Henry David Gray summed up the general reception of "Compensation" by writing, "... . many others, after reading the flat absurdities in the over-famous essay on 'Compensation,' have felt that Emerson's optimism could be nothing but a wilful disregarding of the facts of life." Subsequent criticisms of the essay may vary on details, but most agree in pronouncing it unconvincing, shallow, or even downright ridiculous. To date this judgment stands undisturbed. It is a harsh judgment, but not the final word. It does not explain why Emerson felt so strongly on the subject, unless one draws the implied conclusion that he was a fool in this matter. Certainly his journal entries reveal that Compensation was a crucial item in his stock. At the beginning of the essay he says that his desire to write on the subject went back to childhood. And he placed "Compensation" between two much finer essays, "Self-Reliance" and "Spiritual Laws," possibly as part of a larger unit. Why then has a work which touched him so deeply produced in a critical audience only polite disdain and in many Emerson admirers embarrassed silence? This is the question in need of exploration.

Babel's Red Army stories are based primarily on his experiences at the front as a war correspondent. The starting point for many of them seems to have been a news dispatch or journal entry. They retain the terseness of dispatches, and occasionally parody journalistic style. "The Commander of the VI Division reported: NovgoradVolynsk was taken at dawn today." So begins "Crossing into Poland."' But by the second paragraph, the story has undergone a startling change of tone. "Fields flowered around us, crimson with poppies; a noon-tide breeze played in the yellowing rye; on the horizon virginal buck-wheat rose like the wall of a distant monastery." This in turn modulates. "The standards of the sunset flew above our heads. Into the cool of evening dripped the smell of yesterday's blood, of slaughtered horses." And finally we move to an incident of the war: an old Jew has been murdered by soldiers. "His throat had been torn out and his face cleft in two; in his beard blue blood was clotted like a lump of lead." This style, which can shift from the news dispatch to a vision of the countryside, and on the next page calmly present us with a corpse, creates an effect of coldbloodedness. The image of the "face cleft in two" is not exceptional. In story after story equally horrible scenes are described with an air of elegance and detachment. But emotion permeates the stories. Its presence is revealed at once by the way in which the writer uses language. His progress from sentence to sentence requires an extraordinary expenditure of energy. We are constantly aware of the tension under which his mind is operating and the imaginative effort which his work demands of us. Here is the opening of "The Road to Brody"

I think it best to acknowledge at the outset that these "reflections" on Schoenberg are personal, therefore biased; that they are somewhat random in their organization, even containing contradictory elements because I take it as a rule of reality and of the mental realm (a seemingly separate but no less important "reality" than its physical counterpart) that existence is not logical but, in fact, full of paradox and contradiction and not reducible to neatly arranged verbal packages. These reflections, then, comprise a series of related but not necessarily connected thoughts, observations, and notes whose sole, common link is the contemplation of the body of work of a master. This work, despite the many years during which I preoccupied myself with a close study of it and even carried out in my own work ideas and tendencies directly derived from and based on it, still puzzles and disturbs me and gives me no complete satisfaction because I find in it much, though fascinating, that does not convince me. And yet, for all that, the serious lacks or imperfections or, even now, alien elements (as I see them) of his art do not obscure or overbalance or diminish the compelling power and beauty of portions of his work and, occasionally, entire compositions. The stance of my particular approach to the problem of coming to grips with Schoenberg is best conveyed by this journal entry of Delacroix dated November 1, 1852

T HOREAU THE MAN has been of such enduring fascination that most of the writing about him has understandably dealt with his life and ideas. One does not wish for less of this, for the investigation continues to be most productive, but Thoreau also deserves to be examined as an artist more often than has been the case, as F. 0. Matthiessen pointed out some time ago.' There are many ways in which this can be done, but for certain characteristics of Thoreau's art perhaps the most revealing is to study the use made of his Journal entries, the raw material of which he built the great bulk of his finished works. The Journal presented him with special problems, and the solutions he worked out throw not a little light on his literary craftsmanship. The work under consideration here is A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, published in I849. It is an apposite example since one can watch Thoreau working out his difficulties for the first time in a full length book, and the technique is to a large degree typical of his method at any later period. A Week has special characteristics of its own, of course, but it is used here only as the basis for a stylistic study.2 For A Week, as for most of his works, Thoreau began with his Journals, the daily record of his thoughts. One might say "life and thought," except that here the two approach being the same; his long Journal, larger than Emerson's, is remarkably lean in autobiographical detail, and concentrates on the working out of the mind's relationship to the landscape it inhabits. Like all the Transcendentalists, Thoreau wished to be true to himself, and the isolated