To the students so fortunate as to possess cars, the parking situation must have assumed the character of one of those puzzles which induce painful frustration and deleterious introspection. They have been informed that the land behind the Business School is not available; they have been be-laboured by the sledgehammer subtleties of the Boston Press; and now the University has put the final touch of clarification to the matter by announcing again that nothing could be done, and by appending to its statement, as a sort of booby prize, the cheering remark that "the present arrangements for daytime parking will be continued."
The undergraduate owners of cars, of course, have a perfect right to expect cooperation from the University in the care of their chariots. Feasible plans for the erection of parking plots have been proposed; the expressed wish to spare garage owners is a sample of expedient altruism which is delectable but not very impressive. Most of the cars now in garages cannot be left in the night mists of Cambridge in any case; the older ones, which will gravitate to the lots, are now floating about alleys like shiny and disembodied ghosts, and bring revenue to no one but the benignant baboons of the local constabulary. The objection that such an innovation would represent a harmful access of unwonted luxury is absurd: the member of Adams House, who finds an exotic and almost tropical luxuriation of unmentionable facilities off the gold room, to the left of his dining hall, has good reason to wonder why the University declines to make more practical and less expensive arrangements for the convenience of its wards.