The Author's Acknowledgments

ANY SCHOLAR, HOWEVER innovative, only stands on the shoulders of those who precede him, and this is nowhere more true than in the field of Factory Girl Literature. So I cannot begin these expressions of gratitude without mentioning the late Burton Litvak, who did more than any other single man to make the effusions of Factory Girls an important and exciting field—who transformed the tentative and timid probings of the twenties into the rigorous scholarly debates now raging in every major American university. When dissension between the so-called Paternalists and the “Wolfat-the-Door” men once almost made a laughingstock of the whole thing, his famous “Let’s just enjoy the stuff and not squabble all the time” went further than any promises of study grants to get the field back on its course. Burt was a gentleman, too.

I am grateful, further, to my northern colleagues, Jackie and Petie Seal, for their thoughtful (and hilarious, for there is always a place in Factory Girl Literature for laughter and enjoyment) suggestions. I still owe Jackie a dozen lobsters. For permission to reprint parts of “Factory Girls—Why They Can’t Say No,” I am indebted to a foreigner from Saudi Arabia. Special thanks go to my longtime friend, Mr. Buddy Smith, who, when I was casting about hopelessly for a topic to write a book about, I thought up three and read them to him at a Beer & Brew, and he kept razzing the waitress. “Cut it out,” I told him. But he just kept on doing it. Finally, when he saw I was really hurt, he said, “Oh, do the last one, then.” And, reader, the results are before you.

Thanks also go to my two hardworking typists, whose patience and good humor were unfailing, as they worked night and day, under difficult conditions in my shed. First, old Miss Hilda Horne, and second, the competent (and gorgeous!) Miss Billie Simpson. Miss Simpson, by the way, has just gotten married and we all wish her well. (I know I was cranky sometimes.)

A word or two about students. Where would we be without them, we professors? Well, that’s true, but I do not see any harm in their helping us out, too, once in a while. For example, baby-sitting. Or, one time, I had asked Biff Rogers, a big campus “jock,” to give me a hand with clearing the debris out of the eaves. I waited two solid hours for him to get over here. He never called. Never apologized. I did not share in that outpouring of sympathy two months later. I would just like to know what has happened to the concept of a man’s word these days. It seems to me sometimes that decency has vanished from modern life, and BMOCs like Biff Rogers are a prime example. And, then, if they do do some little thing for you, you are expected to write all kinds of letters for them when they graduate. I’m sorry, but I don’t work that way. William Shakespeare, who had a similar experience, said the same thing.

And now I come to what is traditionally the sweetest part of an author’s acknowledgments, the reference to the author’s wife, and mine was no different. Gosh, Charlene —honey—you were all a scholar could dream of while I worked on this book. You kept the children out from underfoot, always smiling and encouraging. And—you kept that red pencil busy! But I loved it, dear, even when it became annoying and hurt my feelings. It was cute, really, considering your educational background. And even when the inevitable—shall I say, “conjugal” —neglect must have hurt you (readers will not mind my mentioning this, dear), yet you understood that a scholar is a scholar first and a family man second. But I did not appreciate your leaving my Sabre Dance record outside that night it rained, and then the neighbor’s cats came and clawed it. You, and only you, really know what that record meant to me. You, so careful with your own things, but when it comes to somebody else, forget it! One time we were in a museum in Europe and she took an apple out of an arrangement in one of those historical rooms—just to steal something! What she doesn’t realize is that I meant everything I said at the time about how I felt about her leaving my record outside. A couple of weeks have gone by but I could still call up the police anytime and have her picked up or fined, because under the law, man and wife still have separate things. My colleague told me that that is the basis of the law. Also, it doesn’t do any good to buy me another record. Buying me a Tony Martin record when I have lost Sabre Dance, which is a classic, doesn’t make sense, and only a person who doesn’t know music would think so. So as long as my wife knows she’s still possibly in trouble, the better for her.

Factory Girl Literature is an exacting field. It has taken many a vigorous young man and spat him out later, a dry husk. I was never strong and I have had the wisdom to make a difficult decision, one that I am sure will sadden all who read these pages. I have decided to leave the Factory Girl field. Let this book be my monument. O do not weep for me, river maidens, and know, reader, that wherever my wanderings take me in this wide, harsh world, you, my readers, will be ever in my heart.

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.

Also, Irwin Kirby, my department head, did not stand up for me to the administration, nor in the Faculty Senate that time. □