"Meeting-places": On Muriel Rukeyser

Cooper, Jane

Imagine Muriel Rukeyser in 1949, as The Life of Poetry is about to be published. Imagine you are her reader, not only today but then. She is thirty-five, and this is her seventh full-length book. Already there have been five significant collections of poems, the pioneering, unauthorized biography of a world-class American scientist, Willard Gibbs, and now this statement of belief. How will you receive it? Can you accept poetry as an "exercise" on which your life may depend? Surely by now she has earned your trust. Through invention and action, she has earned the authority to speak.

Action? The poems in a real sense have been actions. The biography, in its assumption of the unity of all modes of creative imagination, is an action. How much does it matter that she has also, repeatedly, put her body on the line?

At nineteen she was arrested in Alabama at the trial of the "Scottsboro Boys," nine black youths falsely accused of raping two white women. At twenty-two she was at Gauley Bridge, West Virginia, making a unique poem/documentary about tunnel-drillers dying of silicosis-a clear case of industrial greed. In the same year, 1936, she saw the first days of the Spanish Civil War from the anarchist stronghold of Barcelona and was told to return home to bear witness. By 1949, unmarried, she is the working mother of a two-year-old son, whose father has turned his back on them both.

Nineteen forty-nine: a year poised between the affirmations of international responsibility that followed World War II and the wave of fear, suspicion, and repressiveness that found its embodiment in Senator Joe McCarthy. In poetry, it is the heyday of the New (she calls them the "old") Critics.

She is a large, handsome, dark-maned woman, with her head tossed back, gaze very direct from under soaring eyebrows, shoulders squared, but with unexpectedly delicate hands, ankles, and feet. You will not fail to notice her, entering a room. Perhaps you have already been listening for a voice not loud but resonant, rising musically from the very pit of the body. Probably she has always been subtle, and quick to feel hurt. Yet she is witty, both jovial and sly. A begetter of storms. An unpredictable force. Now imagine she is coming to meet you.... A broadly smiling friend.

Disarmingly, at the beginning of Chapter XII of The Life of Poetry, Muriel Rukeyser will herself address you: "My one reader, you reading this book, who are you? what is your face like, your hand holding the pages, the child forsaken in you, who now looks through your eyes at mine?"1

In the same way I, the maker of introductions-back now in our mutual present-would like to address you, the reader of this new edition, asking what, almost fifty years after the book was originally published, you might want to know. It is a book passionate and timely. An essential resource that for too long has been denied us, out of print. Still, there are ways I might help to locate you, matters of fact and relationship I can hope to point out.

And there are other ways in which only you can do your own work.

Let us start with the idea of war, and what it means, what it meant to Muriel Rukeyser, to be an American. And why, in an argument for poetry as "the type of creation in which we may live and which will save us,"2 must we begin with fear and the resistances to poetry? And what did she understand by "form"?

I lived in the first century of world wars. Most mornings I would be more or less insane.... -"Poem"3

In a statement written for Oscar Williams's 1945 anthology The War Poets, Muriel Rukeyser said, "For myself, war has been in my writing since I began. The first public day that I remember was the False Armistice of 1918." Then she went on to explain-as she will explain in The Life of Poetry-that in her view, the task of poets during World War II was fully to confront the meanings of the war against fascism, and by so doing to help bring peoples together, to be part of the movement toward peace and the "living, changing goal."4 Poetry, because it demands full consciousness on the part of the writer, and full response on the part of the witness/reader to the truths of feeling, because there is this genuine exchange, could have been the type of such a movement. But the moment was lost, the meanings were lost in our will to win; poetry gave way to advertising.

The Life of Poetry is based on lectures given at Vassar College in 1940, just after the outbreak of World War II in Europe, and at the California Labor School and Columbia University in 1945, 1946, and 1948, soon after its end. So World War II can be seen as the matrix for its arguments, lending them an almost desperate force. Yet, significantly, the book's opening scene recalls an earlier, doomed struggle against fascism, the Spanish Civil War, which had been Rukeyser's own "moment of proof." It seems she was only in Barcelona for the first five days of the conflict, in the course of which she fell in love with a German athlete, Otto Boch, who had come to take part in the Anti-fascist Olympics and afterwards lost his life in the fight against Franco. But this love, and "the long defeat that brings us what we know, "5 as she would still call it almost forty years later, became part of her inclusive myth, shaping from within her subsequent commitments and her writing.

The opening scene is lyrical, almost hallucinatory in its intimacy. She is on the deck of a small ship at night, a ship carrying away from Spain all the foreigners who could not be of immediate use to the Republic. Darkness, small, trembling lights along the seacoast, hesitant voices of the passengers, a few stars.... At first it seems the quiet of the conversations that is most striking. Or a sort of rhyme, that will be familiar to anyone who has watched the onset of hostilities: "In time of crisis, we summon up our strength," soon changing to "In time of crises of the spirit, we are aware of all our need." A man's voice, a refugee's voice, interrupts: "And poetry-among all this-where is there a place for poetry?" Did he actually exist, that man? Does it matter? She is able to answer: "Then I began to say what I believe."6

It is the condition of war, which now seems a more or less permanent, everyday condition across half the world, like a low-grade infection that can flare into epidemic, that makes us realize how we hunger and thirst after poetry. And how we discount it. This is the ground of the present book.

All her life Muriel Rukeyser would be alert to the terrors of war, impending wars, repressive regimes. One wants to read The Life of Poetry for the light it sheds on work she did after 1949 as well as what was done before. Her last three celebrated books of poems, written when she was under increasing threat from diabetes and a series of strokes, were among other things a record of her resistance to American involvement in Vietnam, including a trip she took to Hanoi during the bombing, and of her journey to South Korea, as President of PEN American Center, to protest in person the solitary confinement of poet Kim Chi Ha. Again, she would put her body and her writing on the line. (The Korean experience is central to "The Gates," the last poem in her Collected Poems.) At the same time, she saw herself less as one who protests than as one who makes: "Wherever/ we protest/ we will go planting//wherever/I walk/ I will make."7 Always the point of any struggle would be to help create peace, to bring peoples together. Or, as she said in a New York Quarterly craft interview in 1972: "It isn't that one brings life together-it's that one will not allow it to be torn apart."8

But even more important than her political presence during the final years was her understanding of the ways war enters deeply into our personal, daily lives, into our consciousness, and then more deeply still, into the subconscious impulses and motions of the spirit. The last three books especially are memorable for their recognition that whatever we despise, we are; that every morning, in order to begin to be non-violent, we must acknowledge our own violence. And then there is her continued recognition that this country was founded in division. The cornerstone of a church on New Haven's green is a monument to regicide. The framers of the Constitution made sure of a system of checks and balances; as she notes in this book, having killed the native peoples and broken the land to the plow, our fathers embraced the ideals of the Enlightenment, hoping for a government of reconciliation. Yet even as I write, our nominally two-party Congress seems to be tearing itself apart or lapsing into paralysis. And what can be said for the financial wizards who, in the face of deficit and unemployment, only strengthen our dependence on the arms race?

In 1949 Rukeyser wrote: "American poetry has been part of a culture in conflict."

And: "We are a people tending toward democracy at the level of hope; on another level, the economy of the nation, the empire of business within the republic, both include in their basic premise the concept of perpetual warfare. It is the history of the idea of war that is beneath our other histories."9

And the child sitting alone planning her hope: I want to write for my race. But what race will you speak, being American? I want to write for the living. -"Fourth Elegy. The Refugees"10

She used to say, "I want to catch for my country." Did she still, somewhere at the heart of the joke, imagine herself as Joan of Arc in the guise of Yogi Berra?

Perhaps there is nothing that so separates us from Muriel Rukeyser, at our sour end of the century, as her capacity for faith. We can accept the ground bass of war and the consciousness of war more easily than her passionate vision of what it could mean to be an American. Ultimately, it would mean reaching out, relationship, the dissolving of boundaries, speaking, touching, one world. But she came of age during the thirties. And not only does she invoke, through her opening scene of leaving Spain, the Popular Front in the war against fascism abroad, but her work asks to be set in context with Hart Crane's "The Bridge," John Dos Passos's trilogy U.S.A., James Agee's Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, with criticism by Van Wyck Brooks and F.O. Matthiessen, photographs and documentaries by the great black-and-white photographers of the Depression years. It was a period of the most intense interest in all things American, and American populist novels, at least (for instance, The Grapes of Wrath), were widely read and praised. Rukeyser's first major long poem, "Theory of Flight" (1935), ends "Say yes, people./ Say yes./ YES,"11 which can make us smile. Her second book (1938) is called U.S.1.

American historians and some critics were engaged in radical reassessments of the American legacy and of the giants of our nineteenth-century literature: Emerson, Hawthorne, Poe, Whitman, Dickinson, Thoreau, Melville. Muriel Rukeyser, in The Life of Poetry and elsewhere, is engaged in recovering her own usable past, so that she, and we, can move forward with fuller consciousness into the future. "If we are free," she saysmeaning, if we are a free citizenry-"we are free to choose a tradition."12

Elsewhere her heroes are Willard Gibbs, the mathematical physicist, Albert Pinkham Ryder, painter of the sea, John Jay Chapman, man of letters, Ann Burlak, labor organizer, Charles Ives, composer on American themes; and John Brown and Wendell Willkie, political visionaries who seemed, at their historical moments, to fail; Houdini and Lord Timothy Dexter, anomalies in any pantheon. How many of their stories are familiar to us, even now? Of all these she made biographies, in verse or prose or mixed media-the series of "Lives" that would occupy her to the end. All were Americans. Of the first five she pointed out, in 1939, that they were also New Englanders, "whose value to our generation is very great and only partly acknowledged."13 She never wanted to write extensively about anyone who had already received his or her due, and it's worth noting how rarely any of her subjects is literary. For years she worked on a book, now lost, on Franz Boas, anthropologist who studied North American indigenous tribes. Only much later would she turn to several nonAmericans, the last being Thomas Hariot, Elizabethan navigator, mathematician, naturalist, astronomer, who published the first Brief and True Report of Raleigh's Virginia, the "Indians" who lived there, and our native plants and animals.

No one has been more concerned to understand the nature of the American imagination. What is our peculiar genius as a people? That, I take it, would always be her question. And why, when a significant figure in any field has existed among us, is that person so often cut off, the work unremarked by creative thinkers in other fields, partially obscured or altogether lost?

Part Two and especially Part Three of The Life of Poetry comprise a brilliant exposition of the artistic experiences available to any attentive citizen in 1949. And here we can see how of her age and yet ahead of her age-and ours, too-she was. She speaks movingly of the importance of Native American chants to our poetry, of jazz and the blues of Leadbelly and Bessie Smith, of a moment when Gene Kelly dances way beyond the confines of the film in which he stars. She loved our popular arts and saw how slick they could become, how American movies in particular (she had worked as a film editor and cutter) have a kind of athletic dazzle that enchants and distracts us but cannot satisfy our needs. How much is out there, she seems to be saying. How far we fall short.

For Muriel Rukyeser, whose file received from the Department of Justice only months before her death revealed she had been under F.B.I. surveillance for over forty years, was a patriot. You cannot understand the grief, the wild anger, nor the consistent, positive joy of this book unless you accept that.

The fear of poetry is the fear. . . -"Reading Time: 1 Minute, 26 Seconds"14

Perhaps it is oddly a little reassuring to us that a book so positive in its essence begins with a litany of obstacles. Why is poetry feared? Because it demands full consciousness; it asks us to feel and it asks us to respond. Through poetry we are brought face to face with our world and we plunge deeply into ourselves, to a place where we sense "the full value of the meanings of emotions and ideas in their relations with each other, and . . . understand, in the glimpse of a moment, the freshness of things and their possibilities."15 Through it, if we really give ourselves to the experience, we must be changed.

We resist change. Of poetry we say it's obscure, it's boring, what sex is he or she anyway, the one who wrote it? how could I share experience with her, with him? Who has the time? the energy? We expected more. We really wanted less. We are lazy, masked.

In the 1972 craft interview, Muriel Rukeyser agreed that matters did seem to have improved since 1949; her eleven-year-old nephew told her that most of the kids in his class were poets. She herself, along with many others, was going into classrooms to "read poems with" children and older people and to encourage them to write. One of her favorite assignments was to ask everyone to complete the sentence "I could not tell.... " For in what we cannot say to anyone, in our most secret conflicts, lie curled, she believed, our inescapable poems.

In fact the situation had, and has, only superficially altered. If poetry is no longer exactly an "outcast" art in the United States, how profoundly is it accepted? How many citizens, at least after their very early twenties, are simply indifferent? They resist change. They close the book. They cannot remember, if they ever knew, when or if poetry was "useful."

But let's look at the dynamic here-that is, the dynamic of Rukeyser's own thought.

She always said that the pattern of her life was "first a no, then a yes." For instance when she sent the manuscript of her first book to Stephen Vincent Benet, judge of the Yale Younger Poets award and author of John Brown's Body, he initially turned it down, then wrote the next year asking to see it again and agreed to publish it. Similarly, she used to speak of the wave motion of an exemplary life. In the lives she chose to chronicle, she looked specifically for "the ways of getting past impossibility by changing phase."16 The language came from Gibbs, the idea of transformation from Gibbs and also from Jung.

She said, "The reason I think that I came to do Gibbs was that I needed a language of transformation. I needed a language of a changing phase for the poem. And I needed a language that was not static, that did not see life as a series of points, but more as a language of water, and the things are in all these lives that I try to see in poems. Moving past one phase of one's own life-transformation, and moving past impossibilities. Things seen as impossibilities at the moment.... That meaning is a religious meaning. And a very common plain one too."17

She also pointed out how in "The Poem as Mask: Orpheus," as soon as she declares "No more masks! No more mythologies!"18 "then the myth begins again. At that moment . . the god lifts his hand."19

Does this suggest not only a way of looking at the great figures of the past whose stories still have meaning for us, and a way for the poem to grow organically from within, but also one reason why this book opens with the resistances to poetry?

What is important to understand is that the impossibilities are not negative. They too are part of the experience. Because of them, we go deeper.

At the beginning of Part Two of The Life of Poetry, Muriel Rukeyser discusses how in our culture "every quality is set against . . . another quality," and how good and evil are always taken as opposites, not as two problems in their "interplay."20 Again, "It is the history of the idea of war that is beneath our other histories.... But around and under and above it is another reality . . . the history of possibility."21 Can we accept both these statements without automatically trying to fit them into a binary system? And what about "Outrage and possibility are in all the poems we know"?22

For her the two great exemplars from nineteenth-century American literature are Melville, the poet of outrage, and Whitman, the poet of possibility. Melville, she says, wrote again and again in his prose of the problem of evil, and he was the first among us to do so, "but in the poems, the oppositions turn to music."23 Nobody saw more clearly and piercingly the effects of sexual mismatch; his is one of the great, disabused voices of the Civil War or any war.

For Whitman, on the other hand, the quest was for integration, first of the self and his sexuality, then of his experiences as a wartime nurse. In accepting himself, he came to accept these United States. Without passivity, he learned to put the war behind him. "Whitman's fight for reconciliation was of profound value as a symbol," concludes Rukeyser. "The fight was the essential process of democracy: to remake and acknowledge the relationships, to find the truth and power in diversity...."24

Do I move toward form, do I use all my fears? -"Double Ode"25

"Double Ode" is one of Muriel Rukeyser's very late poems. It is a complicated poem, addressed to her son and his wife, looking ahead to the birth of their first child and back to her own parents, and finally taking responsibility for the present moment in which the poet finds herself among "all the old gifts and wars."26 In other words (no pun intended), it is a complicated "system of relations." I don't mean to discuss this or any poem in detail, but I would like to point out the series of one-syllable, simple words that anchor the closing line above:

DO MOVE FORM USE FEARS

"Do" and "move" need no gloss. They echo all through Rukeyser's work, from "Theory of Flight" on, small, active verbs summoning us to action. But there is a sequence of oo-sounds here that carries us forward to "use," a word of crucial importance in The Life of Poetry. How is it that we are never taught to use poetry? Poetry can be useful in providing us with a theater of total human response. The remaining three words"form," "use," "fears," the first and third of which are again linked by sound-are all in fact crucial to The Life of Poetry. What would it mean to learn to use our fears? Must we redefine fear for the purposes of this book? Suppose fears are after all the "guardians" (a word that reverberates throughout the poem)? Have we considered how afraid we are of any real communication with another human being, of religious exploration, of risk-taking in politics, pure science, art? As Rilke's archaic torso of Apollo tells him he must change his life, so "the fear of poetry" is an index of its seriousness.

These five words are among the most ordinary. Yet we enter into them deeply, even freshly, because of their relations, and because of the weight and process of the whole poem leading up to them.

"Do I move toward form : . . ?"

Nothing is more revolutionary in this frequently revolutionary book than the first two chapters of Part Four, in which Rukeyser derives her theory of form from science-not the materials of science but its method. From Gibbs she took the idea that the whole is actually simpler than its parts, and also that "our time depends, not on single points of knowledge, but on clusters and combinations. "27 Her imagination fired by analogy, she found in science a "system of relations" that could be expressed symbolically.28 Especially important is Gibbs's "Phase Rule." What are the implications of this for poetry? "I needed a language of a changing phase for the poem . . . a language that was not static, that did not see life as a series of points, but more as a language of water."29

Earlier she has spoken of Whitman's rhythms, which set his breathing and heartbeat "against an ideal of water at the shore, not beginning nor ending, but endlessly drawing in, making forever its forms of massing and falling among the breakers, seething in the white recessions of its surf, never finishing, always making a meeting-place."30

Many people, she remarks, "think of form in poetry as a framework. "31 Or they focus on the poem's images, which are its most dramatic element, or its musical structure, or a few extraordinary words. The New Critics seemed to want to reduce the poem to crystalline moments, ignoring the life of the poet and the world but most of all the poem's own mysterious, contagious, self-renewing energy.

Instead Rukeyser proposes-following D'Arcy Thompson now as well as Gibbs-that the great poems are always organic, as forms in nature are organic. They grow by "clusters and combinations," through time; they find their true direction as they proceed; and they never stand still but "fly through, and over"32 any attempt to pin them down by analysis. They include material from the unconscious and welcome the unknown. More, "the work that a poem does is a transfer of human energy," from the poet through the poem to the fully responsible and responsive witness/reader. And now she takes a gigantic leap, tying the poet forever to the society and historical moment she or he shares with others: "I think human energy may be defined as consciousness, the capacity to make change in existing conditions."33

Characteristically (for the poem is an action), she goes on to describe the making of a specific poem, the first "Orpheus," and the making of one poet, herself. She explores the "confession to oneself made available to all," a type of which is the poem, and its powers to help us toward completeness. Honest and complicated to the end, though full of dreaming, she acknowledges that to make a poem is to release aggression, but since the release is appropriate, "it is creation. "34 As a poem moves in its dance of multiplicity, so she asks for a "society in motion, with many overlapping groups. . . above all, a society in which peace is not lack of war, but a drive toward unity."35

"We are a people tending toward democracy at the level of hope." At the level of hope, then, but characteristically, the last word in The Life of Poetry is "peace."

Reader, rarely will you encounter a mind or imagination of greater scope.

She liked to say that poems are meeting-places, and certainly as one composes a poem there is a sense of seeing farther than usual into the connections of things, and then of bringing intense pressure to bear on those connections, until they rise into full consciousness for oneself and others. The farther out along the frontiers of awareness the original elements of the poem lie, or the more deeply they are hidden, the more strenuous the poet's task and the more essential the poem. Its order and music must be such as to create a new whole.

Something of the same process of searching out and combining has obviously gone into The Life of Poetry. You may not find this an easy book. But it has the rigor and excitement of a fine poem: reach, density, relatedness. It will require your concentration, as it required hers.

Lately we have heard a lot about the importance, psychologically speaking, of boundaries. It seems that our health depends on clear boundaries between the self and others. But Muriel Rukeyser didn't believe in boundaries. She wanted a poetry of becoming, of recognitions, poems like a constellation or the sea. Her arguments soar and fall back; they are never finished but recur and overlap. And at the very heart of this book is an ideal of boundaries dissolved. She felt that the unity of science, the unity of the poem, the promise of air and space travel and ecology in its broadest terms, the threat and promise of nuclear energy, and the hunger of peoples everywhere for international communication, would all help to convince us that we live in one world. Politics might seem to subvert this vision, but in our own time the electronic media confirm it every day.

For she was a visionary. One of the great, necessary poets of our country and century, whose value to the present generation is only beginning to be acknowledged, like Whitman she was a poet of possibility. I have tried to suggest here how she would never separate poetry from history or her active life in the world, would never separate (though this is a longer stretch for most of us) poetry from science. She believed in the identity of all modes of creative imagination, and she saw in the stories of certain men and women, in no way supernatural, the same mythical patterns that inform our indispensable poems.

Furthermore, she was a "she-poet." As she told her interviewer in 1972, "Anything I bring to this is because I am a woman. And this is the thing that was left out of the Elizabethan world, the element that did not exist. Maybe, maybe, maybe that is what one can bring to life."36

I was lucky enough to be a friend of Muriel Rukeyser's for over twentyfive years. And while I didn't yet know her in 1949-I first met her only three or four years later-I have vivid recollections of how she looked and walked and laughed and talked when she was, as they say, in her prime, and also of how she could storm and fall silent and then, slyly, start to joke again, or gaze at one generously and without defenses.

She died in 1980, of accumulated illnesses, at the age of sixty-six-not old, but consider how she had used herself! Since then-and here she becomes like one of her own characters, whose meaning is oddly obscuredthe Collected Poems and virtually all her single volumes have slipped out of print. (An exception is Willard Gibbs, reissued by Ox Bow Press in 1988.) But now a grand process of reclamation is under way. She is better represented in anthologies, two rich selections of her work have recently been made available, and this new edition of The Life of Poetry invites a reassessment of all she wrote and taught.

Reader, she will want to change your life. No, she wants you to change it.

Notes:

After the first mention, The Collected Poems is here referred to as CP and The Life of Poetry as LP.

1. Muriel Rukeyser, The Life of Poetry (Ashfield, MA: Paris Press, 1996), p. 187.

2. LP, p. 211.

3. "Poem," Muriel Rukeyser, The Collected Poems (New York: McGraw-Hill Book Company, 1978), p. 450.

4. "War and Poetry," in The War Poets, editor Oscar Williams, pp. 25-26, quoted in Louise Kertesz, The Poetic Vision of Muriel Rukeyser (Baton Rouge and London: Louisiana State University Press, 1980), p. 175.

5. "Neruda, the Wine," CP, p. 554.

6. LP, p. 3.

7. "Wherever," CP, p. 514.

8. Cornelia Draves and Mary Jane Fortunato, "Craft Interview With Muriel

Rukeyser," The New York Quarterly, (1972), p. 34.

9. LP, p. 59.

10. "Fourth Elegy. The Refugees," CP, p. 154.

11. "Theory of Flight," CP, p. 46.

12. LP, p. xxvii.

13. Muriel Rukeyser, A Turning Wind (New York: Viking, 1939), unpaged.

14. "Reading Time: 1 Minute, 26 Seconds," CP, p. 161.

15. LP, p. xxvii.

16. "Craft Interview," p. 32.

17. Ibid. pp. 32-33.

18. "The Poem as Mask: Orpheus," CP, p. 435.

19. "Craft Interview," p. 30.

20. LP, p. 62.

21. Ibid. p. 59.

22. Ibid. p. 64.

23. Ibid. p. 65.

24. Ibid. p. 76.

25. "Double Ode," CP, p. 543.

26. Ibid. p. 542.

27. Muriel-Rukeyser, Willard Gibbs (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, Doran,

1942), p. 3.

28. LP, p. 163.

29. "Craft Interview," p. 32.

30. LP, p. 76.

31. Ibid. p. 30.

32. Ibid. p. 169.

33. Ibid. p. xxviii.

34. Ibid. p. 211.

35. Ibid. p. 209.

36. "Craft Interview," p. 39.

Works Cited:

Draves, Cornelia, and Fortunato, Mary Jane. "Craft Interview With Muriel Rukeyser." The New York Quarterly (1972), pp.15-39. Later reprinted in William Packard, editor The Craft of Poetry. Garden City, NY: Doubleday,1974.

Rukeyser, Muriel. The Collected Poems. New York: McGraw-Hill Book Company,1978.

____. The Life of Poetry. Ashfield, MA: Paris Press, 1996. Revised Edition. New York: William Morrow & Company, Inc.,1974. Reprinted without textual changes from the original edition. New York: Current Books, 1949.

____. A Turning Wind. New York: Viking, 1939.

____. "War and Poetry." In The War Poets, edited by Oscar Williams, pp. 25-26. New York: John Day, 1945, quoted in Louise Kertesz. The Poetic Vision of Muriel Rukeyser. Baton Rouge and London: Louisiana State University Press, 1980.

____. Willard Gibbs. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, Doran, 1942.

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