At age 70, William Phillips is a feisty old man.

He has had need of spit and brimstone in his long and varied career as iconoclast, professor, literary critic, and leftist. Back in 1934 he and Philip Rahv--a young Russian-Jewish emigre--launched Partisan Review. This leftist "little" magazine was to become the clarion voice for dissident American intellectuals and artists during the next two decades.

Such American authors as Elizabeth Bishop, John Dos Passos, Delmore Schwartz, Genevieve Taggard, James Agee and William Carlos Williams were published in the magazine, in addition to a variety of lesser lights. A key function of Partisan Review-- and, indeed, other "little" magazines of its ilk--was that of giving play to the unknown, struggling young writer. The magazine thus brought a panoply of young talent to the fore which might otherwise have gone unrecognized.

The 1930s was the decade which saw the rise of "proletarian literature," the politically-loaded fiction of the Communist Party. This genre of writing was peopled by workers with hairy forearms who became converts to Communism; toughened Party members constantly mediating a strike; and villainous foremen who interceded for the exploitative capitalist. Stereotypes abounded in what professed to be the literature of a class, but was in reality the literature of a party.

Partisan Review editors eagerly--if briefly--embraced this new literary mode from 1934 to 1936, a total of nine issues. With avant-garde literature editors combined an adjoining interest in leftist politics; however, this marriage of art and politics was doomed to be both short-lived and turbulent, for it ultimately imposed unacceptable strictures upon the artist's and writer's creative freedom. As James T. Farrell,' author of the Studs Lonigan trilogy and a contributor to the magazine later said, the intellectuals' alliance with Stalinism amounted to an "artist straitjacket."

Partisan Review's flirtation with Stalinism was admittedly brief, but during that period large issues about the role of the writer in American society were raised. As Granville Hicks has written, the central tension for the American artist has been one of "struggle or flight": whether to stay in this country and make an artistic go of it, or gratefully withdraw to some Parisian garret. Partisan Review editors--and William Phillips was chief among them--chose to stay and struggle during the 1930s. Their magazine represented one attempt by intellectuals to provide a forum in society for the dispossessed artist.

Among little magazines, Partisan Review stands as the most inflential. While its incendiary rivals like Blast, Dynamo and New Masses have gone under--whether for internecine strife, financial problems or dearth of readership--Partisan Review still continues to publish, here in Boston. Phillips attributes the magazine's longevity to its broader appeal: "Partisan Review was more socially, politically and culturally oriented," he adds.

In a recent interview, William Phillips discussed what it was like to live through the controversial years of the 1930s; his feelings about proletarian literature; and his short-lived sympathies with the Communist Party. Sitting in his book-lined office, full of intellectual and literary titles, his face looked slightly faded as he talked. His manner was nervous, a bit defensive: even after all these years, it is not easy to reconstruct that period. Following are excerpts from that interview:

Crimson: What is your background, Mr. Phillips?

Phillips: I came from poor boy's land, from the Bronx and City College, then graduate work at NYU and Columbia. I majored in English.

Crimson: Who were the other editors of the magazine?

Phillips: Besides myself, there was Phillip Rahv, Dwight MacDonald, Fred Dupee and Mary McCarthy. We were all in our early or mid-twenties. We were kids.

Crimson: Were you actually members of the CP?

Phillips: No, I was never a member of the Party as such, but was a "fellow-traveller." Since I was only affiliated with the Party for a short time, I never felt that I was their stooge. I played a relatively independent role. [He thinks about it for a minute]. Well, maybe I was a stooge a few minutes before I woke up.

Crimson: What did it mean to be "left" in the 1930s?