You people on the CRIMSON and the Student Council and all those other powerful organizations are probably gloating about having Saturday parietal hours extended for an extra hour. But I wonder whether you editors and such realize exactly what it is that you've done.

Last Saturday night I had a girl in my room. The first few hours were all right. We talked about Daumier; what a grisly month January is; the trouble with Wellesley girls (they're always talking about marriage); why Europe is becoming a bore; what it is with Soc Rel; marriage; the temperature; and John Foster Dulles. At about 10:30 I sensed that she was growing listless. I got up and put on some Stravinsky. But it was no use. She was definitely beginning to lose interest. I looked at my watch; it was 11:15. I got up to turn Stravinsky over, shuffling my feet loudly as I went. When I got back, her eyes were glazed, but she had gamely propped herself up with her elbows. I decided to try to stick it out until the deadline. I mentioned Samuel Beckett. She quoted Samuel Beckett. Finally we went, but still it was awful. Copley Peale '58