BOOKS

I WILL NOT SERVE, by Eveline Mahyére, translated by Antonia White, E.P. Dutton & Co., Inc., New York, 1960.

(Originally published by Editions BuchetChastel, Paris, under the title: Je Jure de M'Eblouir)

If one can survive the first portion of the book which serves only to bring the ennui of one's tormented youth back in nauseating waves, then the reader who is a homosexual should find this delicately and tenderly written little novel well worth the trouble. Others who seek to explore all aspects of the homosexual problem and its meaning should be well rewarded also.

The ill-fated heroine of the story is Sylvie, an intense 17-year-old intellectual, whose misfortune it is to be in love with her teacher, Julienne, a 25-year-old novitiate in a convent. One could hardly conceive of a more unenviable position for a potential Lesbian to find herself in!

Sylvie was not built for surviving the conflict between her ennobling love for her teacher and the Church's damnation of her nature. This book may have many meanings for many people. For me, the heart and core of its message is contained in these lines:

"But, after all, what do you call love? I love you, Julienne, and you mean to destroy that love... At least, the nuns mean to. We're told we've got to love our neighbour as ourselves, and when, for once, we think we've at last managed to do it, we're demanded to renounce this muchvaunted love and put an end to it!

"Our neighbour can't be just one

one

single person.'

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'And suppose only one single person could reveal to you what was up to then only a dead letter?' "'You mix everything up.'"

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But Sylvie did not mix everything up. Unfortunately for her she saw the problem all too clearly and the love which could have been her door to Life becomes her Tomb.

Church people who care should ponder the implications of this book, if they are able. It has never ceased to amaze me that many churches founded supposedly upon Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ, the Prophet of Love, could so far miss the mark as to cause Man's mind to war against itself by damning the body which God created and by implying that Man's Ego, God's crowning achievement, is a work of the Devil.

Sten Russell

NO LANGUAGE BUT A CRY, by Lennox Cook, Hammish Hamilton, London, $3.95, 240 pp. Gay people vary in their literary tastes, like everyone else, and there are probably SOME champions for every book about us that was ever written. However, most will readily admit that some terrible rubbish has appeared in print at times. Because these books are mostly subjective, their authors are more prone to fall victim to certain of the pitfalls that await the unwary writer-sentimentality, character distortion (particularly in protagonists), "message" writing and, of course, the fruity (sorry! S. African slang is different) and passionate.

I admit to revelling in the disturbing detail one sometimes discovers, but as far as I am concerned the palm for literary merit is reserved for books which have credible characters, tell a good story, tell it in at least good and preferably outstanding English and are backed by (in MY

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