ELIOT HOUSE is to Harvard as California is to America-Eliot is everything Harvard represents carried to its illogical extreme.

I have never been to California, but I recently spent five months as an uninvited guest in Eliot House waiting for Mather to open. Eliot House-where the preppies are preppier, the jocks jockier, John Finlier and Alan Heimier than any other place at Harvard.

Eliot House is the portrait of John Finley above the library fireplace with a replica in the House superintendent's office, and the framed announcement of his 25th anniversary as Housemaster above the House secretary.

Eliot House breakfast is Walter Jackson Bate and Ewart Guinier eating alone at opposite ends of the dining hall, and Alan Heimert squirting oatmeal on his tie. Heimert has already read the morning CRIMSON ("always save the ones with my pictures in them"), and is explaining James Q. Wilson to a clutch of cautiously admiring clubbies. The clubbies like to keep abreast of developments as long as it doesn't involve reading. They keep the Master primed (if priming be needed) with frequently inserted "aouh yes's" and "I know's" of about twelve syllables each. The clubbies like to eat toast for breakfast because it's such fun to pronounce.

The thing about the Eliot House subcultures is that they are not cliques. Many students only partially subscribe to the subcultures, many take on several different coatings of style in their three years, like a piece of sand becoming a pearl inside an oyster. Many of the History and Lit types are preppies (although they probably don't belong to clubs-unless it's the Signet); many of the preppies are jocks. The History and Lit types look down on the jocks in theory, but it's more jealousy than anything else.

The Eliot House Grill is the only such establishment at Harvard that sells tuna fish. A "Heimert burger" there costs 99 cents and has three hamburger patties, two pieces of bacon, and cheese on a bulky roll. It doesn't look anything like him.

ELIOT HOUSE lunch is the greets and near greats of the English Department over from Warren House. They shuffle single-file into the small dining room, their plates piled high with chop suey lovingly dished out by Lorraine-the P.T. Barnum of the Harvard Food Services-who, if she can for some reason resist patting Harry Levin on the cheek and calling him sweetheart, will have to bug hockey star Joc Cavanagh instead and call him "honeybunch."

The jocks pour in a spray of nicknames after their respective 12 o'clock guts. The subject of conversation ranges the length and breadth of Commonwealth Avenue, with Newton College of the Sacred Heart thrown in for good measure.

A few early risers among the History and Lit types straggle in around 1:30. Being the literati, they are probably discussing their courses, which they love despite the fact they never go. I don't believe these courses are listed in the catalogue, because they don't seem to have numbers or names (or meetings or requirements). They are referred to, mysteriously, as "Buzz's course," or "Gail's course," or, of course, "Al's course."

"I just love Gail's course," reflects David with his first cigarette of the day.

"What's it about, David?"

"How should I know? I never go," he chuckles. "Anne says you don't need to do the reading." (Anne is a friend of David's. Gail is a friend of Anne's. Indeed, Gail is a friend of David's. They all have the same friends. But they enjoy stabbing each other in the back.)

"What do you think you're going to get?"

"Oh, probably an A."

A jock hanger on is telling a jock superhero where he can get a paper typed for what is reputed to be the biggest gut at Harvard. He will write the paper, have it typed, and get a B.