Ben Novak Archives

  • Yule Ales Add to Advent Spirit

    Yule Ales Add to Advent Spirit

    Today, it is not unusual to enter a bar and find a laundry list of exotic beers on tap or to hear news of a local brew pub or microbrewery opening up. Such was not the case in 1984 (only five years after the legalization of homebrewing) when the editor of the Centre Daily Times approached local lawyer Ben Novak about writing a bi-weekly beer column for the paper. The following excerpt appears in The Birth of the Craft Brew Revolution published by Nittany Valley Press, which collects those columns, the very first of their kind in the United States, and makes them available for the first time since their original publication. They harken back to a time when only a small American subculture had discovered the endless, delicious possibilities of good beer.

    ***

    ‘Tis Advent, that holy time of the year when we begin to prepare ourselves for the coming of the Infant. In ancient days this time of year was exciting in a much different way than excitement is generally experienced today.

    Nowadays, it seems, excitement is experienced as something that is thrilling because it is new, unknown, risky, sexy and dangerous. Today’s young people seem to look for excitement at the edge of life.

    But the ancient excitement of Christmas was something quite different. Christmas wasn’t something which happened at the edge of life, but something that happened at the heart of life. It wasn’t a search for something new and dangerous. On the contrary, Christmas was as predictable as clockwork, and as familiar as one’s most favorite feeling. Each year Christmas came on exactly the same day, and everyone tried very hard to do the same things in the same way they had done them in the past.

    To today’s young people that might sound boring. And yet … and yet … in those days it had seemed so very exciting. To me, Christmas had always seemed like a challenge without equal. It was an adventure in time. Every year people tried to see if they could rekindle and pass down the same feeling that had been felt on that first Christmas morn.

    They all knew and believed with childlike simplicity that something wonderful had happened on that hallowed night almost 2,000 years ago. They believed that hearts had been opened and changed in a way that had never happened before. They naively believed through all the years since then that the original joy had been rekindled again and again each and every year at Christmas, just as it had been experienced on that first blessed eve.

    Oh, the excitement of it all! Each year they wondered: Could it happen again? Would it? Could the magic still work? The anticipation grew to the highest levels of expectation and awe: If they did all the same things, heard the same stories, ate the same foods, drank the same drinks, rejoined in the same ways, would they again feel the excitement of their own first Christmas when they were children? Did they still have it in them to unlock all that joy one more time?

    The wonder of it! Could their joy be great enough to renew again for one more year the tremendous joy of that first blessed eve in the year One, when the time of our time began? And so, on the 4th day after the winter solstice, when they were absolutely sure that the sun had begun to rise again in the heavens, they celebrated Christmas.

    In ancient days everyone had worked so hard to make it happen again each year. They bought presents which they believed would bring out each person’s most childlike joy. They baked Christmas cakes and cookies, worked for weeks to prepare festive decorations for every room and window, searched out old recipes for Christmas goose or turkey stuffing, hung mistletoe in their hallways, hauled in the Yule logs, and brushed up on the ancient Christmas stories and carols to tell over again to their children and themselves. Old fights were ended, debts forgiven and friendships renewed in this season.

    One of the smallest and least significant contributions to the annual challenge to rekindle the ancient joy was made by the brewers of Europe and early America. In those days everyone felt the obligation to contribute whatever they could to the annual renewal of the community’s joy. Each year the brewers made their small contribution by brewing special Christmas ales and holiday beers for the season.

    The ancient tradition is undergoing a rebirth in America. Since the early 1970s, when there were only one or two remaining Christmas ales available in America, both small and large brewers are taking up the challenge to deepen the joy of the Christmas season by bringing out special seasonal brews.

    Christmas ales and holiday beers are normally brewed deeper and darker than beers for other seasons. At Christmas time, one was expected to sip slowly to enjoy the deep contentment of the season and the memories of childlike joy.

    As I write this column in advance of the season, most Christmas ales and holiday beers have not yet come on the market. But here are some names you might look for to taste the challenge of Christmas past:

    – Aass Jule 01 (pronounced “Arse Yule Ale”) from Norway. This is a special, rich, malty, dark lager developed specially for the winter holiday season.

    – Noche Buena Cervesa Especial from the Montezuma Brewery in Mexico. This is a Marzen-style brew in the old tradition of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. This is a dark brown, medium-bodied beer with a delicate malt taste.

    – Anchor Christmas Ale. This is a special ale brewed to a different recipe each year. It is always a real ale, brewed especially dark, heavy and hoppy for the season.

    – Newman’s Winter Ale. This is brewed in Ithaca, New York, as a “winter warmer,” and is a real ale, truly dark and different.

    – Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale. This is brewed in Chico, California, by two of the most traditional-minded, dedicated micro-brewers in America.

    – Boulder Christmas Ale, made by the “second largest brewery in the Rockies,” but nonetheless a very small micro-brewer. It is modeled after 17th and 18th century English mulled ales.

    – F.X. Matt’s Traditional Season’s Best from Utica, New York. This is an amber, Vienna-style holiday special made by true craftsmen. It is trucked right through Pennsylvania to Washington, D.C., Virginia and Colorado, but is not marketed here in the Keystone State. Perhaps we must be more sincere this year in extending holiday greetings to our neighbors in the empire state.

    Some other Christmas ales and holiday beers one might encounter in one’s travels are: Hudepohol’s Christmas Beer from Cincinnati; August Schell’s Xmas Beer from New Ulm, Minn.; Fred Koch Holiday Beer from Dunkirk, N.Y. (The Koch Brewery was recently purchased by Genessee); and Grant’s Christmas Ale from Yakima, Wash.

    It is hoped that the Spirit of Christmases past will inspire many more brewers to introduce new Christmas ales and holiday beers in 1985 to reawaken the ancient joy of the season. And it is hoped that we all should imbibe them in the spirit in which they are brewed.

    Ein Prosit der Gemutlichkeit!

  • A Penn State Student Body President’s Memo to a Penn State President

    The Mount Nittany Conservancy’s “Ben Novak Fellowship” provides Penn Staters and Nittany Valley residents an opportunity to encounter the Nittany Valley’s legendary spirit through cultural and environmental experiences meant to enhance appreciation for our distinctive community and encourage friendships for the future. The Mount Nittany Conservancy’s Ben Novak Archives are intended to help new generations encounter the Ben Novak Fellowship’s namesake.

    In August 1964, incoming Penn State Student Body President Ben Novak addressed the following memo on the nature and purpose of student self-governance to Penn State President Eric Walker. In 1981, Ben Novak would go on to establish the Mount Nittany Conservancy as an expression of the community’s love for the Mountain and the intergenerational desire to conserve the Mountain in its natural state.

  • A Penn State Veterans Day Address

    The Mount Nittany Conservancy’s “Ben Novak Fellowship” provides Penn Staters and Nittany Valley residents an opportunity to encounter the Nittany Valley’s legendary spirit through cultural and environmental experiences meant to enhance appreciation for our distinctive community and encourage friendships for the future. The Mount Nittany Conservancy’s Ben Novak Archives are intended to help new generations encounter the Ben Novak Fellowship’s namesake.

    The following speech was delivered by Dr. Ben Novak on the steps of Old Main at The Pennsylvania State University on November 11, 2009 at the invitation of the Penn State Office of Veterans.

    Colonel Switzer has just spoken to you on the meaning and importance of honoring Veterans Day. It is given to me to tell you about another time, when things were different, a time that to you may seem very far in the past, but to me and the others who lived it, remains as vivid, and in some ways as terrifying as the wars, we fought in. It is about how soldiers and veterans were treated during the Viet Nam war.

    I come from a family of immigrants from Central Europe. At that time, all that such immigrants wanted to prove was that they were Americans. So, when I was growing up in the 1950s, Veterans Day—which was still called “Armistice Day”—was a very special day, on which my family trekked to the cemeteries in the morning to decorate the soldier’s graves and hear “Taps” played, and then drove downtown to Main Street to watch the parades and hear the speeches. The entire town was there, and all the veterans put on their old uniforms—even when their uniforms bulged and their buttons popped off due to their later-acquired beer and sausage bellies. But, God, were they proud to be veterans and Americans.

    When I arrived at Penn State in 1961, the first thing I did was report to Army ROTC. We had the universal draft then, requiring every able bodied male in the country to serve in the military forces. At Penn State, every male student had to be in ROTC for at least two years. But I wanted to be an officer, so I signed up for all four years. The highest glory one could achieve in life, I thought, was to be an officer in the United States Army.

    Back then, in the early 60s, we were preparing for a different kind of war. Not one in which we might lose five thousand men over eight years, but one in which we would likely lose twice that number in a single day. If the Russians ever poured through the Fulda Gap, the order to our troops in Germany consisted on only five words, “Two weeks to the Rhine.” Which meant that our entire army of tens of thousands in Germany at that time, was to hold to the death—almost certain death—wherever they were, in order to slow down the Russians to buy enough time for the US to send reinforcements to France and whatever we still held of Belgium. And if either side dared to use a nuclear weapon, or even fire a missile, our strategy was expressed in three words, “Mutual Assured Destruction”—MAD—which meant that there would be no Pittsburgh or Philadelphia or even State College to return to; they would be under mushroom clouds, and it would be raining radiation.

    That war almost came in 1962, when we faced down the Russian fleet bringing missiles to Cuba. You cannot imagine the fear of war that gripped this campus, as every ROTC student followed the news on the radio, expecting mobilization orders any minute. But President Kennedy stared down Khruschev, and Khruschev blinked. That happened many times as I was growing up. Over the Berlin Blockade, the Hungarian Revolution, the building of the Berlin Wall, Czechoslovakia, and many other occasions. Air raid drills were held several times a year in every school I attended growing up.

    But that kind of war was avoided. Wise leaders devised a strategy to fight the enemy, not in the heartland of Europe, but around the fringes of the Communist empire—what Ronald Reagan later called the “Evil Empire.” And that called for a lot of small wars instead.

    So, we got Viet Nam. The Tonkin Gulf Resolution was passed in 64. The first combat troops landed at Danang on March 8, 1965. I graduated a week later, at the end of the Winter Term. Two weeks after that, on April 1st, 1965, the first Antiwar demonstration was held in Washington, and that is when the hate began.

    I received a deferment to go to Georgetown Law School, and was living in Washington during all the major demonstrations in the capital over the next four years. Further, my brother had become a well known opponent of the War; and a priest who taught me in high school was now one of the prominent antiwar organizers in Washington. So, through them, I met many of the antiwar leaders, and had entrée to many of the antiwar planning sessions. This never affected me—I knew I would be in that war as soon as I graduated from law school. Nor was I a spy in the “movement.” There was nothing secret about it, and the major problem discussed was usually how to get more publicity for what they wanted to do.

    But I said that was when the hatred began, and I saw it happen. The movement wanted to split the county into those who supported the military, and those who opposed it. I watched draft cards being burned in DuPont Circle, saw soldiers spit at on the streets of Washington, DC. Heard hundreds of thousands of demonstrators on the Mall shout, “Hey, hey, L-B-J, how many kids have you killed today?”

    After I graduated from Law School, and went to Officers Basic in the fall of ‘68, I was not immediately sent to Viet Nam, but was sent back to Washington, and stationed at Fort McNair not far from the capitol building. I lived in the District, and had to commute to Fort McNair each day in uniform. Believe me, that was not fun. One never knew when one would be insulted, or spat at.

    Finally, after only about sixty days of that, I walked over to headquarters and asked to be sent to Viet Nam. It was simple: I decided I would rather be among the spat upon than the spitters. And, if those who served were “guilty” in the eyes of these people, I wanted to be in the dock with them —I wanted to be just as “guilty.” And I became so. On my way to board the military flight to Viet Nam, demonstrators shouted “Murderer!” at me in the streets of San Francisco, because I wore the uniform of my country.

    It was not a fun time for soldiers. And when I returned from Viet Nam, I found it was not a fun time for veterans either. While in Viet Nam, the Dean of Students, Raymond O. Murphy, wrote me a letter offering me a job as Assistant Dean of Students at Penn State. So, by the end of August 1970, I was back at my Alma Mater, with an office in Old Main—right behind where I am standing now— first floor third window from your left.

    And that is where one really learned the depths of hatred. Because I was a veteran, there were those who would not talk to me, people who refused to shake my hand when introduced. I was told I was not welcome at some social gatherings, and when I was invited, there were always those who slighted me, or made disparaging remarks about having been in that war. Veterans were made to feel pretty low. I was glad I had decided to be “guilty,” because their “innocence” was insufferable.

    Just a little before, in ’68 I believe, the Penn State Veterans Club was formed. Not to celebrate their service to their country, but just to find a place where they were not put down. As an attorney, I helped them buy a house on Nittany Avenue in ‘71, and was often there myself on Friday evenings. It was a lot better to be among them. In the early 70s, there were as many stories of slights and insults received on campus as there were war stories. And, frankly, those stories were harder to tell than those of being in the war itself.

    Well, that was then, and this is now. I am so happy that those days are gone. Now all of us can stand on the Penn State campus, here on the very steps of Old Main, and be among those who honor Veterans and celebrate America again.

    Thank God that so many of you are here today, to do what ought to be done on this day.

    And thank you, each of you, for being here. It means a lot.

  • The Student Contributions to Penn State

    The Mount Nittany Conservancy’s “Ben Novak Fellowship” provides Penn Staters and Nittany Valley residents an opportunity to encounter the Nittany Valley’s legendary spirit through cultural and environmental experiences meant to enhance appreciation for our distinctive community and encourage friendships for the future. The Mount Nittany Conservancy’s Ben Novak Archives are intended to help new generations encounter the Ben Novak Fellowship’s namesake.

    Ben Novak, founder of the Mount Nittany Conservancy, delivered the following speech in his capacity as a Penn State Trustee to the Board of Trustees at its November 1989 meeting:

    Chairman Huck, President Jordan, President Althaus, President Martin, Representative Donaldson, Chairwoman Atwood, Members of the Board:

    The subject I am addressing today is students. Everybody likes stories. So sit back and relax, and let me tell one of the greatest stories of the spirit of Penn State and what it has meant to the greatness of this University. It is a story rarely told, and so for most of you will be new. It is a wonderful story of how much the students of this University have contributed to most of the things we feel are really great about Penn State over the past 130 years. For the student body, acting on its own, independently, usually without administrative or Trustee support, has played a vital role in Penn State’s growth which is without parallel by almost any other portion of the university community.

    Our story begins with a dream, the dream of our Founder and first President, Evan Pugh. When Evan Pugh arrived at the Farmer’s High School to take up his duties as President in 1859, he found little to excite the imagination. He found a building under construction, and a few students who came to learn the practical aspects of agriculture and the mechanic arts. It was a high school, and barely that; little more than a vocational trade school for farmers. But Evan Pugh had a dream that Penn State was to be more, much more than that. In his mind’s eye he saw the great University that was to be. “I would create a noble institution,” he said, “such as Yale or Harvard or Princeton.”

    But how was such a dream to be even begun, let alone realized? Evan Pugh turned to the students. Penn State would have to be more than a vocational trades school. Evan Pugh had told the students that “the only regret of his entire childhood” he later wrote, had been “those two years wasted in learning a trade.” So he inspired them to make the Farmer’s High School more than a trade school and to make themselves more than just tradesmen, but to become men of character. And in the fall of 1859, the students raised $250 and began to make the school a real College. They formed the Washington and the Cresson Literary Societies. Without faculty, budget, position or status, the students began to mold Penn State into the University it was to become. These societies created their own reading room, and built up libraries that Wayland Dunaway recounts, rivaled the College Library. In 1896 funds were made available to create chairs of language, literature, history and philosophy, and the College began to provide the Liberal Arts education our land grant charter had called for. But for 37 years, the students had done it largely on their own, creating the spirit of a real University before we were even a college.

    These student societies created the first printed publications ever published at Penn State. In 1873 and 1874 they brought out the Cresson Annual and the Photosphere. These were completely created and funded by the students themselves. Indeed, in the earliest issue the editors reported that their journal was not only “the latest thing out,” but that the editors were also “out, out of pocket.”

    The journals continued until 1887 when these two Societies formed a Joint Committee to bring out a regular college newspaper called the Free Lance. The Free Lance, as you know, was the forerunner of the Daily Collegian. Just two years ago, the Collegian celebrated its 100th Anniversary, remembering the founding by students, on their own, of what became Penn State’s award winning daily newspaper.

    But creating the forerunners of the College of Liberal Arts, and the Daily Collegian were not the only things that students created on their own.

    The 1890s are recorded in the official history books as the years of great growth for Penn State. In the late 1880s under the dynamic leadership of President George W. Atherton, funds became available for new buildings and an expansion of the campus which would enable the college to increase in size by almost one thousand per cent in the next few decades.

    But that period of growth was also a time of crisis for Penn State. The plans for the college called for growth, but there were no funds for dormitories. The town had not grown enough to provide for an influx of that many students. If the college were to grow, where were the students to be housed?

    The College once more looked to student initiative. In 1887 the ban on Fraternities and secret societies was lifted. Students were allowed to organize themselves independently. The results were spectacular. In the next 20 years, the students built 38 dormitories on the campus and downtown, in the form of Fraternities. The student body grew from 287 in 1887 to about 2,500 in that period, with about three quarters of these new students living in entirely student created housing.

    In effect, once freed of administrative oversight and intervention, students built an average of almost two dormitories a year from 1888 to 1918. They did this without administration support, without a Dean of Students to do it for them, and without government funding. They did it on their own. And they made those Fraternity houses the most beautiful buildings and architecture in the entire Borough.

    Without students providing this housing on their own, our campus could not have grown. There was no General State Authority then. There were only the local banks and local mortgage financing. But Penn State students were able to bond themselves together, in such strong bonds of loyalty, that the Penn State Alumni News reported in the 1920s that banks considered these student fraternities to be the safest investment in the United States.

    Football today we like to think of as one of the most important parts of Penn State life. It, too, was begun entirely by students, without help from faculty, administration or the Board of Trustees. Intercollegiate football games were originally organized entirely by students, beginning in about 1882, with the first “regular season” in 1887. This was set up without any administrative support, without coaches, and little but student initiative. Indeed, it is recorded in the history books that,

    “…prior to 1894 the student body frequently raised and discussed the question; why do not the Faculty and Alumni take more interest in athletics?”

    Indeed, the early athletic programs at Penn State were entirely funded by the students themselves. Dean Erwin Runkle reported:

    “Games are financed by subscription; by contributions from the players themselves; by a series of lectures and entertainments…”

    From the earliest, intercollegiate games, until 1891, there was no paid coach, until in that year the student body petitioned for one, and voted to add one dollar to their student activities fee on their tuition bill to fund a “Chair of Physical Culture,” so that they could have a coach.

    It was student initiative, student self-sacrifice, and student creativity which created both our football team and our College of Physical Education. They raised their own tuition, taxed themselves, and initiated the whole sports program at Penn State, by themselves.

    Student initiative also created our college spirit and traditions. In 1907 a few students anonymously brought out a monthly publication, called The Lemon. In it, the students ribbed the Professors and other students, and argued strenuously for a school flag, school mascot, school colors. They raised school spirit and the student body adopted the Nittany Lion as our mascot, blue and white as our school colors, the official class ring, and the school songs we still sing at Football games.

    The editors of The Lemon also had a magnificent sense of humor. Shortly after starting The Lemon, another anonymous publication appeared, called The Squeeze, which lampooned and ridiculed everything which The Lemon advocated. The campus came alive through the dueling of The Lemon and The Squeeze for almost two years. It was only after the students who brought out The Lemon graduated that the campus learned that both journals had been brought out by the same group of students!

    You can easily guess that these two journals were also the genesis for The Froth, Penn State’s longtime student humor journal.

    In the 1940s came new challenges to students. After World War II Penn State grew like “Topsy” in order to meet the needs of thousands of returning veterans on the GI Bill. The Administration grew, and soon took over almost all of Old Main. The student offices and club rooms and meeting rooms were removed. The students were given a small temporary building, called the TUB, to serve the needs of 5,000 students. That same building we know today as the Robeson Cultural Center.

    This time the students needed help. They petitioned the Board of Trustees for a student bookstore and commissary and a student union building. All were denied. The Board had funds for everything except students. But, rather than demonstrating or protesting, the students once again showed that magnificent Penn State spirit which had served the College so long and so well. It was the Penn State student “can do” spirit which said, “Okay, we’ll do it on our own.”

    And they did. They created their own student bookstore and book exchange, the forerunner of the huge Penn State Bookstore today. That bookstore was entirely run and managed by students from 1949 until the late 1960s. I particularly remember this because from 1962 to 1964 I spent many long hours and late nights serving on its student board of control.

    The students not only created a store, they also built the HUB, their own student union building, by themselves. They devised a two part plan. First, a student insurance program with funds from premiums going into a student union fund. And, second, in a wonderful show of student spirit and self-sacrifice, the student leaders of the All-College Cabinet met in 121 Sparks in May of 1950, and once again voted to raise their own tuition.

    At that time, and since the 1890s, when the $1 was added to the start the football team, the tuition bill had two parts; regular tuition, and a student activities fee set by, and distributed by, students themselves.

    It was this student activities fee portion of the bill that they increased. Now that increase in 1950 was much larger, percentagewise, than the 10 per cent increase in tuition which this Board voted just two years ago. But the students, at that time, gladly voted to increase their tuition because they knew the College needed a student union.

    What was most impressive was a rather startling fact. The students who voted to increase their tuition in 1950 knew that they themselves would never get to use the facility that they were paying for. The HUB did not open until 1955, five years after all the students who voted for it had graduated. But they had a belief in Penn State, and a willingness to sacrifice for Penn State, and they gladly voted to increase their own tuition for the Penn State that was to be.

    It is an interesting footnote that after the HUB was built, the fee was never rescinded. In a deft move, the administration incorporated the enlarged student activities fee into the general budget and announced they would appropriate money for student activities from the general fund. Thus, at a single stroke, the student vehicle to creativity, which had created the football team, the forerunner of the College of Physical Education, and had built the HUB, was removed. And, it seems, the students are still paying for the HUB 39 years later.

    But through it all, Penn State grew in depth and stature, in tradition and in size, largely made possible, when the going got tough, by looking to student initiative to create for Penn State what was needed.

    Many of you enjoy the Central Pennsylvania Festival of the Arts every year. Today the festival attracts about 300,000 visitors to State College each year, and is one of the top summer attractions of both Penn State and the town.

    But the Arts Festival, too, was initiated by students in the early 1960s. It was begun by students of the HUB Committee and run for several years as the “Spring Arts Festival,” a very successful student celebration of the Arts.

    I fondly remember the student arts festivals very well, because in 1964 I was “pinned” to the beautiful chairwoman of the Festival (who, back in those days was still called a “Chairman”) and presented her with a lovely bouquet of red roses at the Festival Finale.

    In 1966 the Spring Arts Festival was taken over by State College and the University and made the Central Pennsylvania Festival of the Arts. It is no win its 23rd successful year and many of us have annually attended it. But its beginning arose from the genius, initiative, creativity and hard work of students.

    There are many more stories about the contributions which students, when they have been given the chance, have been able to make toward the greatness and growth of Penn State. Both in times of crisis and in times of great growth, they have provided the spirit and concrete contributions which have impelled Penn State along its present path of greatness.

    When we look around the campus, from Rec Hall to Old Main, from the Nittany Lion to the Hetzel Union Building, from the College of Physical Education to the College of Liberal Arts, from the campus to the more than 50 beautiful buildings of the Fraternity District. We see the contributions of student creativity, innovation, self-sacrifice and constructiveness.

    What is the moral of the story I have told? It is this;

    Penn State is a living body, and the student body is an important organ of that body. And just like your own body, when one organ is not functioning well—whether it be the heart, lungs or liver or brain—the entire body ceases to function well. I believe that the student body is an organ of Penn State which is as important to the health of the whole, and has as much to contribute, as the faculty, the administration, the Board of Trustees, the staff, and the alumni.

    Students are not customers, nor commodities, nor resources to be managed. The student body is a vital organ of the University which has contributed much to Penn State’s growth and greatness in the past, and has an even greater contribution to make in the future. All they need is your respect and a chance to show what they can do in the future, on their own.

    I have a dream. I see a day when the TK sports part of the student body at Penn State, in independent, constructive endeavors, in adventures of the mind and spirit, in publications and organizations, can engage and enlist the enthusiasm and involvement of our alumni just as much as the football team. And I see the student body, working with townspeople and alumni, making Penn State and the Nittany Valley—and all our Commonwealth campuses—the most intellectually exciting, morally stimulating and mentally alive campuses of all the colleges and Universities in America. I would like this to be our dream.

    The key to unlocking that creativity is what it has always been: independence—the same key that unlocked the greatness of America in 1776. When students are free of red-tape and bureaucracy, whenever they are let go to organize themselves and encouraged to work creatively with townspeople and alumni; they have done nothing but bring glory, pride and honor to Penn State, and contribute to the greatness of our University.

    And so I ask you, remember the students. They are our reason for being. They are our pride. They are the source of our spirit. They are our past and they are our future. They earn the honors. They win the football games. They are what we exist for. Without the students, no matter what else we do, we would not be able to call ourselves a University.

  • The End of Ideology

    The Mount Nittany Conservancy’s “Ben Novak Fellowship” provides Penn Staters and Nittany Valley residents an opportunity to encounter the Nittany Valley’s legendary spirit through cultural and environmental experiences meant to enhance appreciation for our distinctive community and encourage friendships for the future. The Mount Nittany Conservancy’s Ben Novak Archives are intended to help new generations encounter the Ben Novak Fellowship’s namesake.

    In 1962 Daniel Bell published a book called The End of Ideology, whose major premise was that the age of great men, great beliefs, and great worlds was over. Science had solved all the ancient questions and all that was left was the fine tuning of what we already know to make a society of plenty for all mankind. After all, men only cared about food and comfort, and modern science could fulfill those needs. Every man was to take his place as consumer and producer to fill our appetites. That was all there was, and all that there could be. Ben Novak, a Penn State sophomore in 1962, rebelled against this idea. He recorded his odyssey in a poem.


    The End of Ideology

    A semi-autobiographical intellectual odyssey

    I.

    The end of ideology
    It came in ’62 for me,
    A man named Bell had said, you see,
    That everything had come to be.

    He went on to elaborate:
    All that’s new had all been done.
    He set the world before us straight:
    Its victories had all been won.

    His world stole destiny and fate
    By saying no one could be great.
    No heroes, prophets, saints or kings
    His world denied there were such things.

    I could not stand this world of Bell,
    I thought it was a living hell,
    There is no meaning, he had said,
    Produce, consume, and then you’re dead.

    It he were right and I were wrong
    I thought about that hard and long
    I tried his world for all it’s worth
    Confirmed my belief it cancelled birth.

    There had to be ideals out there,
    Ideas to form us into men
    There had to be new dreams to share
    And faiths we could conceive again.

    II.

    So I resolved I had to leave
    This world I could no longer believe
    But where to go? They’d left no place
    Where one could run a decent race.

    I searched the heavens to escape
    Then searched the slime and found a snake.
    “Learn good,” it said, “and evil, too,
    The way out is inside of you.”

    I drank myself and spit me out
    I swam in sewers and waterfalls
    I fought for what life was about
    Then heard the faintly whispering calls:

    The calls said words conveyed no truth
    Nor did acts, except in youth
    Then men grow old and silence speaks
    (Deeds disappear when words are weak).

    But deeds live on when they are told
    In stories to young men by old
    Then old dreams take on flesh again
    And out of boys are made new men.

    When the young have visions and old men dream
    The world’s made new and the heavens gleam
    Then time is defeated once again:
    The future is now, and now was then.

    And this is the message the gods will send
    When you make up your mind to become a man:
    If you want to succeed in the world in the end
    Then you had to be there when it all began.

    So seize the future that’s here today
    The present’s but feelings which pass away
    But the future is only the stories told
    In the dreams of men before they’re old.

    So seek ye out this deeper truth
    And do deeds greater than have been done
    And build a temple to your youth
    And tell the stories to your sons.

    III.

    The old gods then began to seem
    Much wiser than I thought they’d been.
    I walked away from today’s ideas
    And set my course for the ancient seas.

    I liked the gods who came with me
    Some fought my lusts, some made me free
    One turned life into wine to drink
    Another taught me how to think.

    I’ve had to give up quite a lot
    They’ve taken everything I’ve got
    I followed wherever the gods decreed
    They let me have no other need.

    So here I am, I try to say,
    To worlds a world or more away
    I scratch across this time and space
    I will have been — you saw my face.

    IV.

    And what I’ve learned about my task
    I’ll share with you, if you but ask:
    This world goes on, forgets us all,
    Unless we pass along the call.