{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_sha256": "e14ed94e5d233ce4602ff8d645224bc1a656f3f2c2f7f978bc042150b65ed963", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/07_01/bmtnaap_1922-07_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/07_01/bmtnaap_1922-07_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[272]", "page_fin": "[272]", "image_debut": 2, "image_fin": 2, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Table of Contents", "titre_sommaire": "Table of Contents", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[272]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1248, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2113, "texte": "Cover Design — Fernand Leger. p!?e\nSunset — E. E. Cummings. 273\nDrawing — Picasso • 274\nThe Sun Rises in Darkness — Robert M. Coates 275\nIllustrations — George Sachen 276-278-281-284\nFable — Elinor Wyllie 285\nNike — Evelyn Scott 286\nWoodcuts — Galanis 286-292-293\nFourth of July fire crackers — Emmy Veronica Sanders . .287\nThe Word — Paul Eluard 294\nThe Princess takes a Potion — John Mosher 296\nThree portraits —E. E. Cummings . 306\nWoodcuts — Ladislaw Medgyes 295-306-308-345\nA Necessary and Sufficient Literature — Jean Epstein 309\nDrawing — Picasso.. 316\nDrawing — Modigliani 317\nObscurity — Jeanette Marks. 318\nSix Characters in Search of an Author, act II — Luigi Pirandello ....... 321\nDrawing — William Gropper 33#\nRepast and Repose — S. Foster Damon 339\nDedicated to the enemy — Gordon Craig 341\nAfter and Beyond Dada — Matthew Josephson 346\nComment x 351"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "273", "page_fin": "273", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Sunset", "titre_sommaire": "Sunset", "signature_source": "E. E. Cummings", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "273", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 193, "texte": "SUNSET\nE. E. Cummings\nstinging\ngold swarms\nupon the spires\nsilver\nchants the litanies the\ngreat bells are ringing with rose-\nthe lewd fat bells\nand a tall\nwind\nis dragging\nthe\nsea\nwith\ndream\n-s"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "274", "page_fin": "274", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Picasso", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "274", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 56, "texte": "Picasso\nCourtesy Paul Rosenberg Gallery — Paris.\nDrawing"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "275", "page_fin": "284", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 14, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "The Sun Rises in Darkness", "titre_sommaire": "The Sun Rises in Darkness", "signature_source": "Robert M. Coates", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "275", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1759, "texte": "THE SUN RISES IN DARKNESS\n\nMcDowell awoke in the darkness and lay thinking of the light.\nTo be sure the day is a hard time, and tiring to the eyes, for all day\nlong, and pinched in the bitter spray of sunlight, the eyeballs must\nbe continually at work, striving to settle into order the swaying mas-\nses about. Battered shuttlecocklike as ray impinging on mirror-\nsurface darts back to mirror-surface, the eyeballs must still be pushing\n— holding back the jostling houses — trying to prevent a man in\na green overcoat from becoming a bubble of red-shot yellow as he\nreaches a corner —- from merging into a tree that blooms indis-\ntinctly, elbowing its zig-zag into the declining angle of a wall when\na great house of concrete, wood, stone, steel collapses as gently as a\ndeflated balloon. The road that must be trodden heaving, huge\npurple masses poising over it, and he with his eyeballs straining\nand stinging, striving to hold a way open.\nAt night, usually, the darkness abolished this ; and at night\nusually, it was sweet to lie as if in space, unsurrounded, unsupported\n— to stare into the darkness and in that deep presence find the re-\nlease of utter blindness. Yes, at night, usually, one could know the\nquiet comfort of the blind.\nAnd McDowell lay trying to grasp the thought, but to-night\nhe could not. And though he struggled almost physically with it —\nbesought it almost tenderly as an amorous intruder, with sweating\ndisarray of the bed clothes, the darkness disappeared in the night\nand he cowered again, dwarfed before the towering walls of his room,\nthe imminent ceiling above, the crowded, beetling houses without.\nHe felt his heart quickening. With it the rythm of the masses\nclouded about him accelerated ; swaying toward him ; pending ba-"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "276", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1461, "texte": "lanced over him... a breathless snatch of time... they were rushing\nback, back to a pin-point of distance to begin again the onset.\nThe muscles of his eyeballs strained to combat them through\nthe clouding shadows but he could not hold them and in fear he flung\nup his arms to ward off the crushing walls. He beat his hands into\nspace above his head, striving to reach the ceiling that descended to\nan inch above his finger-tips. He could almost feel its weight settling\nagainst his braced arms, but it poised tantalizingly and swept up again\nwith a rush that nearly sucked him after it.\nHe was out of bed and pacing the room, knocking among the un-\nsteady chairs.\n\" I'll get out of here,\" he said. \" I'll get out of here.\"\nMcDowell found the street and it was the same as always. He\ncould hold the houses near at hand — if his eyeballs smarted and\ncracked he could hold them. But what good if a block away the street\ntwisted like wax in flame and blurred itself into flaring curves, swelling\nyeasty whorls turning dizzily on bubbling outlines evaporating smok-\nily window panes that would splinter before your fist hazily made\nout distending like taffy not a block away.\nAnd a man must make his way through. No need to mention\nthe effect on a man's head, but was everything under puffing pressure ?\nSky-high and weighing tons, no architect would admit that masses\nof concrete and stone could stand at such an angle and he defenceless\nmust get under and through."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "277", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1775, "texte": "He had walked a long time. The moonlight was very acute.\nThe darkness delivered a woman before him, standing looking\nat him.\n\" Come with me, dearie ? \" she intoned, and tried to fasten their\neyes together. He refused to be a hole for a buttonhook while he said,\nAre you a prostitute ? \" and then found everything spinning on their\nrod-like glance as he met her eye.\nShe answered candidly.\n\" What were you thinking of in the darkness there, before I came\nalong ? he asked. McDowell was a tall man, and the girl found\nthat his gaze penetrated hers. She felt herself swept into his being,\npulled on the line of his glance, enclosing on herself like a handker-\nchief tied at its center to a string.\n\" Why,\" she hesitated in replying. \" I don't know.\"\n\"Of nothing, certainly,\" McDowell went on, not speaking to\nher, but gazing at her. \"Do prostitutes ever have thoughts ? \"\nThe woman saw no reason for replying and the tall man whose eye\ncentered in hers went on speaking. \" I should like to know. And\nwhy do you stand in the darkness ?\" — \" I fear it,\" said the woman.\n—\" I should certainly like to be a prostitute for a while. And I like\nto look in your eyes, for I can hold them steadily, though I cannot\nmake out when your face is beautiful and when it is plain.\"\nHe spoke further, but the woman had lost herself. She heard\nhim say, \" Why do I speak of myself so much ? It must be that I\nlove you,\" and when he took her hand she recognized the cool, crackling\nsensation she had expected with herself.\n\" Come along with me,\" said McDowell, \" I can't find my way\nvery well alone.\"\n\" Don't you know the city ?\" she asked as they started along,\nand anyone looking out of his window, perhaps to rest in the moonlight\nafter dreaming, would have seen these two figures, black against"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "278", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 773, "texte": "the white light of the moon, progressing up the shining street. He\nmight have heard thinly the voice of McDowell replying :\n\" I never know it well.\"\n\" Where, then ? \"\n\" I have had too much of these white walls and black shadows-\nI want to find a place where it is all light or all darkness. We shall\ngo to see the sun rise.\" This perhaps before the little figures vanished.\nThey were still walking hand in hand, when a man rose from be-\nside a black pile and a red lantern. As far as McDowell was concerned,\nthe man had been created there.\n\" Look out there, you !\" he cried suddenly. \" You'll fall in the\nhole.\"\n\" I see nothing but a patch of darkness,\" McDowell replied.\n\" I've had to walk through many of those. It makes you afraid,\nbut you always get through all right.\""}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "279", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1882, "texte": "\" Iyook out, I say ! \" the man shouted, beginning to climb over\nthe pile. \"Go around. It's ten feet deep/'\nMcDowell could not help laughing at this. \" Who measured it ? \"\nhe demanded. \" You, fool ? Are you a metaphysician, then ?\nYou need more courage, friend/' He started forward and fell in the\nhole.\nThe man rushed with the lantern to where the girl stood at the\nedge of the darkness. \" Are you hurt ? \" he called.\n\" Not yet,\" they heard McDowell reply. \" But take that lantern\naway. It's dark here.\"\n...\"I wouldn't care,\" the man kept saying as they dragged him\nout, protesting testily. \" But it's my job to watch here. I'd get\nfired here.\"\nMcDowell was brushing his clothes, when he said to the girl\nat last, \" Why didn't you come, too ? \"\nShe had been expecting it. \" I tried to, but your hand slipped\nand I was afraid. If you had held me.\"\n\" You were afraid of the darkness ? \" asked McDowell. Before\nshe could answer he spoke again. \" I know what is in your mind.\nYou know the joy I feel in looking in your eyes. And in the darkness\nyou might lose me again.\" She nodded, and McDowell paused.\n\" We 11... \"he said at length. \" I hesitate to combat your theory.\nBut it is undeniable that one projects one's self in the darkness unhin-\ndered by the influence of so-called reality. It follows, then, that the\nbottom of that hole would have been our supreme test. If we had\neach projected ourselves commingled with the other — if I am you\nequally as myself... Do you follow me ? \" he interrupted himself\nto ask.\n\" Yes,\" she said. — \" It's madness,\" he remarked joyously. —\n\" I follow you there,\" she replied, and at the edge of the hole they\nembraced. \"We are at the edge of the darkness,\" he whispered\nto her. \" Come, let us make the test again —- together.\"\nBut the man with the lantern hastily interposed. \" No you don't,\"\nhe said surlily. \" I don't care, but I'd lose my job.\""}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "280", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1790, "texte": "McDowell was dumbfounded. \" This changing thing they call\nreality/' he said to the girl with the accent of a Sunday School super-\nintendent in his tall embracing figure. \" That's the madness of it.\nFor example, here he is again ! \"\n\" Complete light is the same thing as complete darkness,\" the\ngirl reached his ear to say. \" That was settled years ago.\"\n\" I know/' McDowell nodded. \" Extremes are the same point\non a circle... Well, then/' he agreed. \" us find the sunrise. —\nYou come too,\" he added, turning to the man with the lantern.\n\" Evidently you were meant to influence me.\"\nThe man hesitated and was ashamed. \" I'd lose my job,\" he\nsaid, diminuendo.\n\" I forbid that travesty, then,\" McDowell was polite enough\nto say, and with a quick foot smashed the red lantern. \" Admit\nyour fear.\" And taking the girls' hand he started his long legs in va-\ncillatory motion.\n... The man with the lantern was a shadow that had ceased to\nexist when they heard a panting breath behind them. \" Who is that ?\"\nasked McDowell, rolling his eyeballs toward the girl.\n\" It's me,\" the man replied. \" I'm coming with you. You\nsaid I needed courage and I got more than you ever thought of.\"\n\" Besides,\" added McDowell maliciously in a low voice. \" When\nI smashed your lantern.\"\nThe man's voice rose menacingly. \"By God! I'd smash your face.\"\n\" What good in that, friend ? Death would make my under-\nstanding kinetic. I have you. Submit. And, to comfort you, we all\nhave our symbolical red lanterns.\"\nSo the three of them were walking.\nA man in a high hat, opera cape and patent leather shoes was\nleaning over a bridge. He did not notice the three passersby, and\neven when the man (whose name was Cleary) ran up and knocked\nhis hat off, saying \"It glitters/' he continued to lean bareheaded\nover the stream."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "281", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1454, "texte": "McDowell went and leaned by his side, and the man in the opera\ncape heard him, say, Its dark down there/' in an understand-\nably satisfied tone. It was the first comprehensible thing he had\nheard in weeks among the concatenation of sounds he had been sub-\njected to, and only lassitude kept him from replying.\nBut we are going to see the sun rise,\" McDowell went on,\nshowing that he undertood the unspoken reply. \" Come along, too.\"\nMcDowell looked down on the city from a hill. Beyond the floating\ngrayness of the valley it lay, indefinitely remote, a blurring glimmer\nof blooming surfaces, over which the remaining night lights circled\nand drifted lazily. One could not tell whether it had depth or height\nand it changed, so that one could only say that, in the heaving land-\nscape, it was like some tentacled, scale-surfaced fish of unknown\ncharacter, laxly billowing with the waves. It glimmered as it lifted,\nclouding as it dropped and, all floating it made one a trifle dizzy and\nhe turned to the girl's eyes for relief.\n\" you ever wish you were blind ? \" he asked.\nYou know that I have, she answered, and they sat down\nwhile the man in the opera cape conversed quietly with Cleary. \" It's\nnearly dawn,\" said McDowell.\n\" I'm not afraid,\" said the girl.\nYou know how much I love to look in your eyes. It is because\nwhen my eye centers in yours the ray becomes the axis of the world/'\n...There was a pause, in which the sky gradually paling made each"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "282", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2114, "texte": "blade of the young grass separately visible to Cleary and the other\nman as they leaned against the same tree-trunk, talking.\n\" It's all the same color. I wish it would never change/' said\nCleary in a low voice.\nThe other man nodded. \" I thought that as I looked in the stream.\nThis is the same thing as darkness. There's no action in it ; it only\nwaits, and you feel it ready to receive you. But the sunrise will\nimpel. It will reach out around you ; it will enter into you and act\nfor you.\" He twitched his bare head toward McDowell. \"He s\nnever thought of that. He's a fool.\"\n\" He's a great man,\" replied Cleary, with the same intonation.\nMcDowell and the girl, a little way off, had been sitting for\na long time, hand glued to hand, eye and eye run on the same thread-\nray of vision, for each the eye of the other the pin-center on which\nlike a Catherine wheel all the world rotated in spokes of changing\ncolor.\nThen there was a great shout behind them. \" It's the sun ! \"\nyelled Cleary crazily, and the bank shuddered beneath the beat of\nhis wild feet. \" The sun ! The sun ! It's the sun !\nFor a moment, as the great sun leaped over the horizon, McDowell\nsaw it, and his eyeballs strained as he tore them from the girl's and\ncentered them on the flaming sun. For a moment it seemed his gaze\nwould cut through its core and get beyond. For a moment his\nsenses were confounded and he saw the red, throbbing roar of it. But\nthe flame grew more intense ; it widened slowly, with the tremendous\nmajesty of absolute power. Great shafts of light spread up the sky\nand mingled canopy-wise, and a spray of light was falling sparklike\nto burst on the world, light darting and rocketing, color on color\nchanging and mingling in forms that shifted, blent, jagged and swept\nagain on eternal curves and still light was visible through more light\nand still it grew. He felt it like golden wire surrounding him ;he felt\nit like a rich liquid entering him. \"I am all light !\" he cried in a\nloud voice and the girl's grip tightened under the terrible pressure\nof his hand. \"My eyes have never left yours,\" she said, and the sound"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "283", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1737, "texte": "was like a brighter flame across the terrible chaos of light he beheld.\nAnd it widened yet and grew stronger, until the whole world came\nbefore his eyes as he gazed on the sun — the whole world a speck\nthat floated for a moment and vanished.\nHe turned his eyes to where the girl was and it was very quiet\nsave for the sound of Cleary behind them, who had stopped running\nand was making the sound of iron against earth.\n\" Where is the man with the opera cape ? asked McDowell.\n\" Vanished/7 replied Cleary, and his voice was thick as if with effort-\n\" That is better than jumping in the river, is it not? \" asked\nMcDowell. \" And you ? \"\n\" I am digging a grave/' Cleary answered in short\nas if he grudged the breath for speaking. \"It will be a thousand\nfeet long and a thousand feet deep. I must hurry. Soon the dead\npeople will begin coming along the road. I must have it ready to\nput them in.\"\nThe sound of earth and iron, and the flap of earth on earth resumed.\n\" You have a shovel ? \" McDowell inquired.\n\" I brought it with me.\"\n\" I hadn't noticed it,\" said McDowell.\n\" It wasn't necessary to see it before,\" the girl interposed.\n\" You teach me,\" McDowell said tenderly. \" I am blind now,\nyou know.\"\nYes,\" said the girl.\n\" Henceforth,\" McDowell continued in a voice low and level.\n\" I shall live in you. I shall see the world through you. Your\neyes have consumed me, and I shall have being only through you.\nI have gone in one step from utter darkness to utter light.\"\n\"We are one,\" the girl responded. \"I could not tell which part\nof you is me.\"\n\" I begot you out of darkness, and now the light gives me birth\nwithin you.\"\n\" But we must live,\" the girl said delicately. McDowell had\nno answer. \"My profession ? \" she added inquiringly."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "284", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 663, "texte": "\"Oh ! You are right. You always teach me. We shall live\nfrom the blind. The dead shall feed us/'\n\" I'm going to bury the dead in this grave/' Cleary interrupted\nas he paused a moment. \" The towns and cities are awakening and\nsoon the dead will be trooping along the road/'\nMcDowell and the girl had not heard him speak as they started\ndown the hillside, but Cleary shouted after them. \" I'll snatch\nthem off their carts. I'll pick them from their market baskets.\nThey'll be coming soon. I'll bury them here.\"\nHe leaned a moment longer on his shovel, watching the two until\nthey passed beyond a knoll. Then he turned vigorously to his\nwork again.\n\nRobert M. Coates"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "285", "page_fin": "285", "image_debut": 15, "image_fin": 15, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Fable", "titre_sommaire": "Fable", "signature_source": "Elinor Wyllie", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "285", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 786, "texte": "FABLE\nElinor Wyllie\nA knight lay dead in Senlac :\nOne white raven stood\nWhere his breast-bone showed a crack :\nShe dipped her beak in blood.\nThe old man's lean and carven head\nWas severed under the chin :\nThe raven's beak was varnished red\nWhere the veins ran small and thin.\nEmpty sockets sucked the light\nWhere the great gold eyes had shone :\nO, but the raven's eyes were bright\nWith fire she supped upon !\nThe old man's beard was ravelled up\nIn stiff and webby skeins :\nFrom his broad skull's broken cup\nThe raven sipped his brains.\nInsensate with that burning draught\nHer feathers turned to flame :\nIyike a cruel silver shaft\nAcross the sun she came.\nShe flew straight into God's house ;\nvShe drank the virtuous air.\nA knight lay dead : his gutted brows\nGaped hollow under his hair."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "286", "page_fin": "286", "image_debut": 16, "image_fin": 16, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Nike : On Reading H. D.", "titre_sommaire": "Nike : On Reading H. D.", "signature_source": "Evelyn Scott", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "286", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 306, "texte": "NIKE\n(On reading H. D.)\nEvelyn Scott\nYou, on a sea-rock, swift through the dawn\nIn the emptiness of morning :\nHarsher,\nMore beautiful than the light which blinded your stone eyes,\nYour face, upraised.\nWas it joy that killed you,\nOr was the small cold ivory flower,\nYou held against your breast,\nToo white ?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "287", "page_fin": "293", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 23, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Fourth of July Fire Crackers", "titre_sommaire": "Fourth of July Fire Crackers", "signature_source": "Emmy Veronica Sanders", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "287", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2270, "texte": "FOURTH OF JULY FIRE CRACKERS\n\nThe heat wave has been slowly swelling — for many many days.\nIt is a monstrous wicked heat — assaulting the body, stupefying the mind.\nInstead of air a thick foul substance chokes the lungs.\n— It is night. Millions and millions of people keep swarming and crawl-\ning about listlessly — dazed with heat. There are dark rings under the eyes\nof children and adults alike ; and their cheeks are turned sallow. In the steam\nheat of summer (after the steam heat of winter in tiny cooped up rooms and\noffices) all freshness and all color have oozed out of them — all bloom has van-\nished. . .\nNow they inhale the dust, the filth, the smoke, the suffocating fumes of\ngasolene. Everywhere their sweating bodies are being crushed together — their\nelbows touch — their breaths mingle. In the streets; in the cars that shake and\njolt and throw them hither and thither, banging and clanging, dashing and crash-\ning along — underfoot, overhead, on the surface — with their snarling heat-\ncrazed nervous motormen ; in the long long lines where they stand waiting, on\ntired swollen feet, for their turn on the busses; on the benches in the city squares\nwhere they sit close together in straight rows like herrings or beads on a\nstring — forming a human fringe instead of flowers for the mangy yellowing\nplots of grass ; in the soda fountain places where, in the intolerable dead white\nglare, they sit dangling their legs on high stools and swallow iced things in a\nhurry —to make room for others pushing from behind. This strong white\nglare, this screaming light of signs and arc-lamps, of stores and movie halls\nintensifies the heat. . .\nAnd everywhere — everywhere — the bodies packed — the human numbers.\nOn the harbor ferries, on the river steamers, on the outing coaches, on the strips\nof beaches soiled with rubbish, papers, food ; in \" amusement \" parks. Ev-\nerywhere America's creation: the Crowd — the crowd life — the crowd unit.\nEverywhere the crowd sensations and crowd tendencies. Crowds that have\nlearned to model both their toil and their \" amusement \", their toil and relax-\nation, on the brutal extremes of the climate — taking refuge from its strain\nin \" strenuous \" stimulants of insane noise, fierce glares and lights, incessant\nmotion."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "288", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2305, "texte": "Along the river the heat is smothering as in the streets downtown. Without\na pause the busses and the motor cars spin, whirr and rumble past — without\na pause the strong flash of their headlights strikes the eyes that long for peace\nand darkness. Without a pause the millions shove and saunter up and down.\nTo fumes and dust and odors there is added the irritating pungent powder smell\nof fireworks on the other bank.\n— The brain is drugged. But now and then it acts — with little sudden\nspurts, with nervous jerks of thought that seem to make a bit of crackling noise\nof pungent smoke — like rockets.\nAnd all around, from thousands of lips, bastard sounds reach the ear. Hy-\nbrid mixtures of a score of tongues. — And these dishonored crippled tongues,\nthis verbal patchwork, this absence of pure speech, offends the ear. It longs for\na clean language as the soul and body long for a clean breeze.\nMelting-pot sounds and melting-pot crowds, melting-pot conditions and melt-\ning-pot minds. . . The heterogeneous, the fluctuating, the promiscuous.\n— It will not last forever, of course.\nIn they go — under the huge American steam roller — driven by the\nHigh Almighty Twins called Dollar and Democracy. In they go — to be\nflattened into useful gray concrete : the Average. In they go —\nThis being the Fourth of July, allowance must be made for \" loyalty\nBut even on other nights at the open air concert, we rise, obedient, compelled\nto have a national hymn forced down our throats as an appetizer to the Eroica\nor Pathetique. . .\nHow this race has faith in advertising !\nShriek it into their ears — flash it before their eyes — rub it into them —\nmake 'em take it, no matter what — laxatives or \" patriotism. \" Advertise\nit — advertise! Tell 'em over and over again: this is the \" greatest-\n-that-ever-was-undertaking in the national line \" — get your goods here —\nall guaranteed — none better. —\nI scan the program. All music on it that is music comes, of course,\nfrom that benighted European world. Yet \" over there \" — except in times\nof war hysteria — they do not advertise a national \" concern \". They do not\nstart a program of great music by dinning into you some fact that has nothing\nto do with music. They do not see the link, the logical connection, between\na patriotic statement and an art event."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "289", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2347, "texte": "Perhaps it is because they do not fear to be forgotten or ignored or held in\ndisrespect — being present on their programs in the form of musical creation. . .\nPerhaps — when America in her turn brings forth Eroicas, she will be able\nto dispense with forcing \" love and loyalty \" down alien throats. . .\nOf course, it works — this advertising.\nBeing loud and crude it takes effect on what is loud and crude : the Crowd\nand Crowd Mind — unformed and wavering. The Crowd is like a little child\nstretching out its hand toward all that glares and dangles and makes noises.\nChildren and crowds are easily imposed !\n— The sweating, crushed and sweltering millions' — not even on this night\nshall they be let alone. The new \" Science, \" the great \" Art \" of Advert-\nising claim attention — and never mind the temperature !\nIn the Name of the Dollar, the Ever Rolling, Ever Restless ; in the Name\nof Democracy, knowing the value (in cash) of the Man in the Street — advertise !\nAdvertise your foods and fads and follies, your trouser belts and cigarettes and\npills and pins and peaches, your morals, movies and machines — and advertise,\nabove all advertise your substitutes! — Your \" just-as-goods \" —.\nJust-as-goods for wine and sugar, coffee, butter — just-as-goods for eat-\nables and drinkables — for peace and for passion, for beauty and for laughter.\n— Advertise your just-as-goods for Life: the Dollar and Democracy. . .\nThe Crowd will take them. The Crowd takes anything.\n\" Whott aye want ? \"\nThe sales \" lady \" throws it at me from a distance. Then, as I stand silent,\nwaiting, approaches with reluctant steps.\nShe has been tinder the steam roller. Has come from under it — as chock-\nful of the little liberties as an almond bar is of almonds. She, too, is \" just as\ngood \" as anybody.\nNo — she is not. She is better than I am. For she has, or thinks she has,\nmore cash. She has started to \" size me up \" at once.\nAccording to our modern female custom she looks, first, at my feet.\nOnce upon a time the soul was believed to be lodged in the diaphragm; since\nthen it has descended to the pedic extremities — at least as far as women are\nconcerned.\nThen her glance travels slowly up the skirt — then higher ; missing no item\nof my wearing apparel. But it stops at the face. With mouth or eyes (except\nin regard to make-up) it has nothing to do. . .\n2"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "290", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2307, "texte": "The result of her investigation is not satisfactory. I wear no French or\nChinese instruments of torture ; and do not evidence an earning\ncapacity of any interest. So she treats me accordingly.\nFor to her has been given the new American crowd mind — to her have\nbeen accorded the many little liberties. The little liberties — which are mistaken\nfor the one great freedom. The concrete liberties contained in laws, in \"rights\",\nin jobs, in opportunity for practical experiments with a view to bread and butter.\nWhat have such things to do with freedom — which is a state of mind, which\nis an attitude, an atmosphere ?\nWhere the atmosphere is one of narrow orthodox autocracy, of strict con-\nformity to certain rules of conduct, certain modes of thinking, certain ways of\nacting —no laws or rights or jobs will give you \" freedom. \" Freedom, the es-\nsential part of it, is too etherial, too subtly pervading and evading a thing to\nbe caught in written concrete regulations.\nThe pursuit of life, liberty and happiness. . .\nYes. Provided that \" life, that liberty, that happiness, \" are of a certain\npreconceived type ! The type allowing, not for the presence, but for the absence\nof Thought — of Art —.\nAbsence of Art is the proof of Absence of Freedom. For where there is\nFreedom — for the mind, the soul, for self manifestation, for spiritual beside the\npractical experiments, and for creative emotion — there Art must grow.\n— Europe had freedom — but no liberties. America had liberties — no\nfreedom. It is best to have both —\nBut if you must choose —\nThe Crowd Mind chooses liberties, of course. \" Whottayewant ? \"\nMeanwhile the Lady on her little island lifts her torch.\nLiberties — ye Nations of the Earth !\nLiberties — \"as advertised . .\nThe heat is paralyzing. The millions move and move —\n' Sky rockets — thought flashes —\nI, too, dangle legs on a stool, swallow iced things in a hurry, in the fierce\nwhite glare. Every where electric fans are whirring, humming, turning, blowing.\nThey, too, are substitutes. They stir the foul thick air — always the same foul\nair —to create the illusion of a clean fresh breeze full of ozone. Just as perpe-\ntual motion in the same dull spot creates the illusion of change. Just as the adul-\nterated food of sensationalism creates the illusion of psychic nourishment."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "291", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2413, "texte": "But, of course, the fans are a blessing — for those that cannot get the\nreal air —\nIt is all a matter of living \" unanimistically of being a crowd thing, a\nthing of averages — compromises —\nArid that again is a matter of \" central plants\nYou love fire, the living golden flame ? We shall give you radiators.\nWe shall regulate your heat supply in dead gray pipes of iron. Useful, labor-\nsaving and convenient.\nYou love air ? Deep cooling draughts of it into the lungs ? We shall\ngive you wire screens and ventilators, we shall speak of cubic inches and statistics,\nwe secure to every democrat a certain average of comfort — neither less —\nnor more —\nYou love the feel of soil under your feet ? We shall give you asphalt\nin our parks, boardwalks on our sea shores.\nYou want knowledge, food for mind and soul ? See our dinner tables !\nSee the many little plates and dishes — one for bread and one for butter,\none for salad, one for meat, one for rice, one for beets, one for squashes, one for\nevery one of many things (for we live well!). And now you pick a little here,\nyou take a taste of this, a lick of that, a spoonful of each or a sip. An average\nsmall portion of a score of kinds of food — an average little bit of information\non a score of subjects. We teach as we eat : democratically —\nAnd now then — you want \" life and liberty and happiness ? \" We shall\ngive you regulation quantities and regulation qualities from central plants. . .\nWe shall give you averages of \" virtue Useful and convenient ! — And\nyou want direct contacts — with flame and soil and air — with human life ?\nWe shall lead \" life \" to you — in iron pipes. . .\nIt is not the broad lines that count, but the details.\nIt is the small, often imponderable things, the tiny strokes and dots and\ndashes that decide of wrong and right ; that have wrecking or redeeming power.\nIt is the little acts, shades of behavior, aspect, attitude. It is the thousand little\ntraits together, the daily incidents, the \" atmosphere \" that tell one what an\nindividual is — a nation is —\nThe American world — which is the crowd world — has no sense of detail,\nno interest in detail, no love for it. Detail is the artist's affair ; not the crowd's.\nThe American spectacle, to keep its glamor, must be seen from afar. Its\neffect is calculated on distance. An effect of things \"en masse\nBut the American spectacle is no longer bounded geographically. Nor polit-"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "292", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 929, "texte": "ically — as an aspiration of certain \" rights It has become — indeed,\nT. R ! — alas, T. R ! — a state of mind. And as such it is everywhere —in\nEurope — in Japan — and soon among the South Pole penguins.\nCall it America, Democracy, the Crowd Mind, Rule and Worship of the Aver-\nage, the Lower Middle Class Condition — names do not matter. It is the Spirit\nof Numbers as over against the Spirit. It is the spirit that believes in advertis-\ning and in advertising values; in anything that you can din into the ears of\n\" numbers\nBuild your advertising around \" anything. \" Then build your civiliza-\ntion around advertising.\nIn Hoc Signe — avanti!\nThus says the Crowd, the million-headed metropolitan and continental\nmonster — from whom Nature is taken away — to whom Culture is not given. . .\nBut instead of Nature and of Culture the three substitutes :\nLiberties, Conveniences and Information.\nJust as good —\n\nEmmy Veronica Sanders"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "293", "page_fin": "293", "image_debut": 23, "image_fin": 23, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.8.2", "titre_corps": "Woodcut", "titre_sommaire": "Woodcut", "signature_source": "Galanis", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "293", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 15, "texte": "Galanis\nWoodcut"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "294", "page_fin": "294", "image_debut": 24, "image_fin": 24, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "The Word", "titre_sommaire": "The Word", "signature_source": "Paul Eluard ; Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "294", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 443, "texte": "THE WORD\nI have a facile beauty that is sweet\nI skate on the roofs of the winds\nI skate on the roofs of the seas\nI am become sentimental\nI no longer know the conductor\nI stir no more silk clinging to ice\nI am ill flowers and pebbles\nI like the most Chinese of the naked ones\nI like the most naked in the flock of birds\nI am old but here I am beautiful\nAnd the shadows that fall from profound windows\nSpare each night the dark heart of my eyes."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "294", "page_fin": "294", "image_debut": 24, "image_fin": 24, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Suite", "titre_sommaire": "Suite", "signature_source": "Paul Eluard ; Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "294", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 445, "fin_caractere_exclue": 873, "texte": "SUITE\nSleep, the moon in one eye and the sun in the other\nA young love in thy mouth, a bird in thy hair,\nOrnate as the fields, the woods, the roads and the sea\nBeautiful and ornate as the wheel of the world.\nFly across the landscape,\nAmong the branches of smoke and all the fruit of the wind,\nIyegs of stone with stockings of sand\nTaken by the waist, with all the muscles of the river\nAnd the last frown on a visage transformed."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "295", "page_fin": "295", "image_debut": 25, "image_fin": 25, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "NIL", "titre_sommaire": "NIL", "signature_source": "Paul Eluard ; Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "295", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 508, "texte": "NIL\nHe who says to himself : I crossed the street in order to get out\nof the sun. It is too warm, even in the shade. Here is a street, four\nfloors and my window in the sunlight. A cap on his head, cap in\nhand, he just shook hands with me. Please don't yell like that !\nAre you mad ?\nThe invisible blind prepare the linen of sleep. The night, the\nmoon, and their hearts pursue each other.\nIn his turn he cries : \" The trail, the trail, I don't see the trail\nany more. In short I can no longer count on you ! \""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "295", "page_fin": "295", "image_debut": 25, "image_fin": 25, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "NIL", "titre_sommaire": "NIL", "signature_source": "Paul Eluard ; Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "295", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 510, "fin_caractere_exclue": 873, "texte": "NIL\nPaul Eluard\n(Translated by Matthew Josephson)\nHe puts a bird on the table and closes the shutters. He combs\nhimself, the hair to his hands is sweeter than a bird.\nShe tells the future. And I am commissioned to verify it.\nThe murdered heart, the doleful soul, the broken hands, the\nwhite hairs, the prisoners, the whole body of water is to me as a\nnaked wound."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "296", "page_fin": "305", "image_debut": 26, "image_fin": 35, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "The Princess Takes a Potion", "titre_sommaire": "The Princess Takes a Potion", "signature_source": "John Mosher", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "296", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2699, "texte": "THE PRINCESS TAKES A POTION\n\nRest your hand upon the heart of the Princess Zu-pa-cat-lan, for it will not\nbeat long. Rest your hand upon her heart, and I shall tell you why it is so soon\nto cease to beat. Kven in this shadowed room you can see how young she is, young\nand beautiful. Fate would have been kinder to you, you might say, had you been\nallowed to see the eyes of the Princess. Yet perhaps it is better after all, and the\nmore whole-heartedly will you give yourselves to science — never having looked into\nthe eyes of the Princess Zu-pa-cat-lan.\nFor you are young men, and earnest, and worthy of that great profession you\nhave chosen — which I, as an old master, must shortly turn over to your guidance.\nSo I would instruct you not only in the trickeries of physic, and the mysteries\nof potions, which too in this lady's dying and in this emptied cup you can detect,\nbut also in the workings of the human heart, which is stranger in its ways. And,\nmind you, has much to do with our peculiar branch of learning.\nThis little draught our Princess has seen fit to take herself, I concocted for\nanother altogether. That was months ago, and the Princess had grown pale,\nand I asked her why she was perplexed. She looked at me, and through the\nwindowT then, at the garden, and after we had talked a while of the gilly-flowers\naud the new pink cabbages, she added gently, as recollecting some sweet memory,\nthat there was a minister at court so shrewd he made her think too much. Whereat\nI hustled to my laboratories and contrived this neat arrangement of herbs and\noils and unexpected acids. I have its recipe, my students, stored for you. The\nPrincess thanked me, and sent me a delicate salad of pink cabbage leaves for sup-\nper. But it was ordained otherwise, for the minister was stabbed and thrown to\nthe crocodiles by slaves slaves who resented torture — and the Princess and\nmyself and all the court held public mourning. And the Princess did not return\nmy gift, which I marked at the time, as one must mark all things at court. Thus\nwas she ready when life grew not tolerable.\nBut I must hasten, for shortly the Princess will die, and there will be much\nstrife and confusion in the kingdom, and I would have you hold this kernel of\nwisdom hid well in your hearts. For in this world knowledge is difficult to se-\ncure, and in its turbulence, it is not easy to separate crystals of wisdom from the\nwhirl of dust. We who would know, go as with a bowl of thin glass in our arms,\nwhich we need protect from every force leady to dash it splintering on the ground —\nforces of hate and gross ignorance, and forces of love, as malignant too to reason\n— as this dying Princess tells us by her dying."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "297", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2715, "texte": "Ten years ago — and I am hardly any older now than then — the Princess\nZu-pa-cat-lan came to rule this country. It was years before that that I ceased\nto grow older, an advantage in our profession, my students, for one must be age-\nless to love science properly. I saw at once that though she was but a girl, she\nwas determined to be a queen in truth; and I was somewhat interested to see\njust how much of youth she would be willing to sacrifice to the holding of power.\nIt was amazing, my sons, and has made me much wonder if in the future progress\nof the ages, we may not expect of women seme general intervention in the af-\nfairs of state. However, that will be assuredly far in the future —to which I\ndoubt not we can reconcile ourselves today.\nIt was amazing, as I say, to see this girl with her frail face in the council cham-\nber. >She outwitted old ministers. She was as sly as the priests of Isis. She\n\"w as as firm as a general, and no statesman was so cruel. But to me she was kind.\nShe gave me a library and a laboratory, and levied special taxes to make me a\nlarge allowance, taking only a slight part for her feasts. One day she said tome,\n— and she had been queen only a year :\n\" Dear father, good doctor, would any other ruler give as much to you as I ? \"\n\" Never, \" I answered sincerely, and bowed low.\n\"You never can expect as much from others as you can from me? \" she\nasked.\n*\n\" Never, \" I said again.\nShe gave me her hand and laughed as I bent over it :\n\" Then I am sure you will always be my friend, and I can trust you. \"\nAh but she was admirable. I loved her. She too carried a thin glass\nbowl high above the heads of the mob. She often came to the library, and lying\nin the center, far from treacherous walls, we chatted merrily of the things of the\ncourt. We laughed often — laughed aloud at the antics of the court. There\nwas no flattery she did not see through, no sophistry she could not penetrate\n— and all the pitiful bright balloons of courtiers' ambitions she pricked neatly\nwith a phrase. There was the terrible old woman her father's sister, who would\nbeguile her thus:\n\" Sweet Zu-pa-cat-lan, you are young, and you must have pleasure. Iyet\nme answer the ambassadors today for you, while you play in the gardens, \" and\nshe would smoothe down the coveis of the Princess's couch for her gently -— as\nmothers are apt to do who love their children.\nThe Princess would laugh a bit wryly then to me, and conjecture how much\npower would be left her, if she allowed this old woman, or that pressing council-\nlor, to take her place in the council. She would wonder too how eager the old\nwoman would be with her caresses and her words of tenderness, were she not the\nPrincess Zu-pa-cat-lan."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "298", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2778, "texte": "So, too, with all the princes and men of rank who sought her hand in marriage,\nas to be snre quite a number did. The Princess and I would reckon up their\nproperties, and laugh merrier than ever at the droll misproportion of it. Always\nher own kingdom was double, triple, theirs.\n\"So he gets half my throne, \" the Princess would say, \" and all my towns\nand ports — and I receive in turn some little ploughland, some arid stretch of\ndesert, some inconsiderable capital. \"\nVery gracefully then she would dismiss each suitor's emissaries:\n\" Tell him, the Princess does not wish to wed. \"\nOften later, she'd send a petty army and raze his city to the ground, and from\nher windows have opportunity to see the presumptuous 'suitor pass in chains —\na turn we both found humorous enough.\nYears — a number of .yeais passed. I wondered how this prospect of apprais-\nal pleased her. For mind you, I never did forget she was a woman, and not as\nwe, scientists, doctors, removed from appraisal illusions altogether. little by\nlittle, I saw her grow more and more a queen, and less the girl. Less of laughter, and\never more the reckoning, the accurate estimating. Sterner she grew, and her\nbeauty needed more the fabric and the costly jewel. Many people feared her.\nEveryone had fear of her. She was very skilful. Her gifts demanded more than\ntheir value of those who received them — which, she said, was how a queen should\ngive.\nNow and then wars, as her whim decreed, made us richer. My libraries and\nlaboratories grew. However, honoring me, one day, with her presence, she ob-\nserved :\n\" Does all this learning make you happy ? \"\nI was surprised, and had no answer. What answer is there to such a ques-\ntion ? I quoted something of what a certain Jew from Uz had written of happi-\nness, and its meaning. But she shook her shoulders impatiently, and said she'd\nlike to learn a little, and I gave her the papyrus this man of Uz. A very val-\nuable papyrus, and rare, and without copies of it in any place else. By chance\nnext morning, summoned to her chamber, I found her with some insignificant\ncomplaint, with her hair intricately interwound with my papyrus, twisted to pro-\nduce, when removed, a certain spiral that was then the mode.\nAh — well, the Princess was bored. What had Ito do with a Jew sage then ?\nDiscovering that a new group of prisoners had been brought in, I suggested to the\nPrincess that it might be droll to have the artists of the court carve their faces\nand pinch their ears into whimsical shapes. She agreed, but as fate would have\nit, decided to oversee the process in person, having a certain vanity in her own\ntaste and delicacy of fancy. By what logic of learning could I have forseen that\none of the prisoners should do what no prince had ever done. Ishkar was his"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "299", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2670, "texte": "name, and though not beautiful as our designers hold beauty, nor yet those of\nCheops, there was a jauntiness about him, as he stood there with the others in\nthe prison, that made him noticeable.\n\" He's droll enough as he is, \" said the Princess. \"Do you love our city? \"\nshe asked him.\n\" If it loves me, I shall, \" he answered, which, you know, was very pert.\nShe only looked at him however, and smiled :\n\" Do cities love you ? \"\nHe looked at her very seriously.\n\" I was adored in Gomorrah, \" he said, \" and in Sidon was idolized, and ra-\nther cherished in Babylon. But in that city where your soldiers took me I wasn't\nconsidered a desirable citizen,\" and he looked quite pettish about it. \" So, \"\nhe went on audaciously, \" I adore Gomorrah, idolize Sidon, rather cherish Baby-\nlon/' and he looked at her very curiously and spoke all at once, abruptly, \" per-\nhaps I shall love your city. \"\nIt all seemed whimsical at the time, especially consideiing the rumors we\nhad heard of the habits of these towns. So when the Princess laughed, we were\nall able to do likewise, heartily. All, at once, made way for Ishkar, and we quite\nforgot our artistic experimentings with the other prisoners, in the amusement\nof bathing him in the garden fountain, for he smelt foully after his days in\nprison.\nThe Oueen ordained that each should give liim some garment, she herself\nthrowing a gold chain about his neck first, as he came up from the lily pads of the\nfountain, and stood bare and dripping before us. Too small-boned he was, I\nnoticed, for a soldier. But no-one could deny his grace — that strange, powerful\nabstraction, grace — as he stood there in the palace garden by the water and the\nflowers, quite naked, quite unabashed, before the whole court, with the Princess's\nchain about his neck, and the Princess by his side. I remember when it came\nmy turn to give something for his raiment, that the Princess cried at once he could\nnot wear such rough, coarse stuff as I wore. He, a prisoner, a beggar dog !\nWhereat the bold brat reached and seized the priceless scroll of vellum\nI had thrust into my belt, vellum the wisest exile in Goshen had written on, and\n— fool, this boy was — wiped with it the water dripping from his curls into his eyes,\nand flung it into the fountain.\n\" Thanks, old man, \" he cried.\n\" That for your learning, \" added the Princess, and the whole court lunged\nforward, and in their ribaldry flung me after the vellum into the water.\nWhen they hauled me out, all of them sick with laughter, this new boy flung\nhis new cloak about me, and fell on his knees and begged my pardon.\n\" I beg the Princess's pardon for you too, \"he said. And I sank trembling,"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "300", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2818, "texte": "for it it was a blasphemous thing he said. The Princess beg my pardon ! This\nbrat would be the ruin of us all.\n\" Forgive him, myf Princess, \" I murmured, strangely enough, for he had\ncaused all my indignity why should I have concern for him ? But the Princess\nleaned over, and gave me her hand.\n\" He speaks the truth, this boy, \" she said, \" I do beg your pardon, and the\ncourt's, as this boy says. \"\nIt seemed then, next month as though some madness seized the manners of the\ncourt. Always there were feasts, and all night, and even in the mornings, music. One\nheard laughter from the quarters of the slaves, which was not rebuked, and in the\ncouncil chambers only was there silence. Even envy seemed dead in the perpetual\nriotings, except among the artists of the court. One and all they hated Ishkar,\nfor it was he who at last devised such eccentric manipulation of the prisoners of\nwhom he had once been one, that the Princess could not dance for laughter.\nHe was modest enough though, and said it was because he had had time\nin the dungeons to study their particular features, and had often beguiled a long\nhour imagining this one with split nostrils, or that one with the lobes of his ears\nthreaded to a fringe.\nBut in the solitude of my laboratory I saw behind this merriment and these\ninnocent childish pranks, the Princess growing less the queen and more the girl.\nLittle time then had Ito follow the frolic of the court. I withdrew to my librar-\nies and laboratories. Doubly must I labor to be ready for the end of all this the\nend I knew must come. I made copies of my most precious manuscripts and\nsent them by secret envoys for keeping in the great cities by the sea. Portions\nof my rarest unguents and oils and essences I hid away in secret places where no\nenemy might find them. Days and nights I labored in this fashion, while the\nPrincess grew young, and spies reported to their masters that our land was ruled\nby a girl — a girl in love with a fool.\nSo when Pit the Phoenician, he who sold me oil of sesame that was purple\nand not green, whispered to me how there were armies gathering on the north\nborder, and strange parleyings and comings and goings on the east, I alone of all\nthat court, was ready.\nFirst thanking the various gods with a generous discrimination, and warning\nPit the Phoenician to depart, I hastened to the rooms of the Princess — these\nrooms where we are now. Only Kou was here, the half-witted black woman who\nknows better than anyone in the world the pattern of the sinews and the mus-\ncles, their interlacing with the joints and the substance of the arteries, and how\nwith just so much pressure and delicate application, a new resilience can be given\nthem. She lead me then to the passage-way, and on tip-toe as one walks through\nroyal rooms, I stole down to the ilex alleys."}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "301", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2829, "texte": "It was dawn, not too late for there to be yet stars though; and against the\nblack ilex the silly new pink bird lately brought to the Princess from the farther\ncataracts, stood brilliantly, arching its extravagant glistening neck under the\nsoft stroking of the Princess's hand. As brilliant too, as this bird, in his festal\nfinery, this vagabond from Babylon, this off-scouring of Gomorrah, was saying :\n\" So it's love we've found. \"\nThe Princess answered, while I shrank back into the shadows :\n\" Shall I make you king, Ishkar ? Since I love you, that's your penalty. I\nam very sorry, Ishkar, for you won't like being king. It will interfere with\nyour pleasure. But I don't see any way out of it. I don't, at all. \"\nThen they both laughed, until he caught her to him, and they kissed, and the\ngreen lotus blossoms in her hair fell on the tiles, along with those trivial violet\nflowers the priests grow in their leisure — which is abundant.\nObserving then that the pink bird was growing uneasy and alert from lack\nof his caress, I stole back a way in the corridor, and then with some semblance\nof bustling, retraced my steps to the lovers, and arrived upon them, as it were\nfor the first time, finding, however, that this brief interlude had not affected their\nposture.\n\" Princess, \" I said, ignoring the guttersnipe, \" The enemy to the north is\nassembling, and there are strange parleyings, and comings and goings to the\neast. \"\nWhereat the Princess gave a cry, and threw her arms again about this wastrel,\nand kissed him on the mouth, which I made note of in silence. But at last the\nboy — it was the boy who held her from him — said :\n\" War ! And shall I lead your armies, Princess ? \"\nSo I left them, not without finding a certain piquancy in the idea of the gener-\nals' chagrin when they had to take orders from this whippersnapper, this boy\nharlot from Gomorrah. I knew of course that he'd be disposed of in the end.\nBeing at the time occupied in building a secret crypt in the foundations of\nmy laboratory I did not see the departure of the armies for the boundaries. But\nKou told me how this Ishkar had gone, fantastically, astride a leopard. The\nPrincess had wept, and was pale, but would not allow Kou's treatment. Though\ncertainly Kou overvalues the treatment — which is all to her own profit of course.\nMy own foresight and prompt industry so rewarded me that when the first\ntidings of war reached us, I felt assured the loss to science could not be great at\nworst. As I expected the news was all of disaster.\nBut with copies of my manuscripts and a good portion of my medicines well\nsecreted, I could face the evil prospect with a philosopher's equanimity, and re-\nmind the Princess, as we walked in the garden, followed by the pink bird, grown\nsomewhat magenta from confinement, that the ways of the gods were not in"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "302", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2677, "texte": "our hands — and such-like reflections, suitable for a woman. To which she\nanswered :\n\" I should have kept Ishkar here. I should never have allowed him to go. \"\nAlthough I had no doubt myself of the boy's end, I reminded her that he\nwas not inexperienced — had known the dungeons of the various important cities\nof the world, and their byways, as I politely put it.\nI was a little weary of the rascal by the time the astounding information of\nwhat had happened came to us. The question of allies and enemies being always\nproblematical, we had not suspected that the great King Bixnip of the forces of\nthe East, with influence over those of the West, had been all the time our friend.\nIt seems that as our forces turned to fly, this Bixnip had arrived, and in a trice,\nmade a victory of the impending defeat.\n\" Now he marches to our city, to greet the Princess, \" said the runner.\n\" And Ishkar ? \" asked the Princess.\nOf whom the runner knew nothing — nor when all the court returned, and the\nroyal Bixnip, of a land ten times the wealth of ours, greeted her, was there a\nvestige of Ishkar.\nBut I knew there must be no moping now, so I let Kou hear a tale of how\nIshkar had seen a slave girl in the osiers, and had left his leopard. This Kou\ncontrived to tell the Princess — incidentally — as I perceived she had, when the\nPrincess entered the great hall with eyes particularly bright. A hazardous trick\nfor me, I knew, but the situation was critical.\nEven in those distant cities you have just come from, my fellow scholars'\nyou have heard of what happened here. You heard the truth, no doubt, for how\nthe Princess Zu-pa-cat-lan and the King Bixnip arranged their union, was a mat-\nter of public event and wide ceremony. As the feast days progressed, the Prin-\ncess became more a queen than even in the days before Ishkar had made her laugh\nlike a street girl.\nThen King Bixnip took his place by her side at the councils, and I bargained\nagain with Pit the Phoenician, assuring him that the gold at my disposal would\nbe ten times as much as hitherto. As for Kou, she applied herself to the most\nabstruse studies of anatomy in preparation for the coming nuptials. She was a\nconscientious and scrupulous female, this Kou, as reliable as a spice purge.\nI was glad to see my Princess regain her concern for matters of empire.\nBy no means would it do for this Bixnip to control altogether. Little interest\nhad he in libraries and laboratories. He was no man of learning. He had not\nbeen born a king. His forbears were but nomads.\n\" I shall be the greatest queen in the world, \" said the Princess, \" and\nshall be commented on in history, \"\n\" And rightly, rightly, \" I hastened to add."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "303", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2692, "texte": "It was the very day of the great feast of the betrothal, and Kou had admitted\nme to the Princess's rooms as I bore a gift, an unguent I guaranteed would re-\nmove all wrinklings and linings of the face. Slaves stood about holding the new\njewels of ceremony, and in my honor the Princess fitted on the crown. A rare\npiece of work, tier and tier of gold, bronze and lead, set with unusual gems, carved\nwith the images of the gods, the sacred beasts, and the sacred symbols, though\nwithout emblems of our own unrespected craft unless one interpret thus an\narrangement of capsule-shaped pendants.\nShe turned to the steel mirrors, and beheld herself, and therein I saw her\neyes grow suddenly overwide. With all her attendants I swung about to face\nthe curious figure who had entered. For a moment I did not recognize Ishkar,\nso ragged he was, and filthy, and without grace or gallantry.\nBut when he saw the Princess, all of us could see in his eyes as in a dream\npageant, the other days when he stood straight and slim by the fountain, drip-\nping, strung with lily stems, when the Princess laughed like a street girl, and there\nwas music even in the morning. Slowly he crossed the room, and even if the\nPrincess had not been there, must have fallen where he fell then at her feet. At\nlast the Princess spoke :\n\" Ishkar-Ishkar — now I shall laugh again. Shall I not, Ishkar ? Speak\nto me, Ishkar. Say something very droll to make me laugh. I am sure that\nall this time you have been away you have thought of the most whimsical things\nto say to me. Speak to me, Ishkar. \"\nAnd the boy opened his mouth, and it was evident at once that his tongue\nhad been torn out.\n\" Who did that ? \" said the Princess after a long silence.\nWith his finger, that was black and stained, he wrote on the white tiles :\n\" Bixnip. \"\nI might have guessed it. It was a due rebuke to such an upstart, and proved\nBixnip a quick acting, efficient king. But my concern then was with the Prin-\ncess. Slowly she spoke as though her thoughts were on far-off unknown matters :\n\" I shall not laugh again. \"\nIt was indeed a queen's consideration. A low-born woman, with such a sen-\ntiment as the Princess doubtless felt for Ishkar, might have thought rather of the\nboys pain and his maiming. Perhaps Ishkar too thought something of this sort;\nincomprehensible lights shone in those eyes that could hold a pageant. When\nwe spoke of the matter later, Kou and I agreed too that something like a smile\nhad come across his face. Though there seemed very little to smile at, at that\nmoment.\nSome of the artists of the court carried Ishkar out. Though they had been\nhis enemies he beckoned to them now. But I remained by the side of the Prin-"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "304", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2947, "texte": "cess. I remained in the room all that night with the connivance of Kou, lest in\nsome unqueenly moment Zu-pa-cat-lan should allow a momentary resentment\nat Bixnip's act to influence her to her permanent loss.\nIndeed, I took occasion now and again as the night wore on to whisper telling\nitems of the King's wealth, his palace with a hundred gates, and its fabulous\ncontrivance, a secret invention of his own engineers, to loose at will a sudden,\ncleansing flush of water by means merely of a slim gold chain the most delicate\nhand could control.\nDawn's coming, with its attendant turmoil in the courtyards and the trum-\npeted orderings, revealed the resolute Princess. I hastened to my library to don\nmy robes, worn only at this final ceremony, which, lasting as it does three days,\nrequires especial vesture. Not that I should have felt obliged to attend each\nmoment of the feast, what with my age and serious office, had I not felt still wary\nof the Princess's mood.\nBut as the feasting and the rioting progressed, with its customary distressing\naccompaniment of disorder and racket, I saw again in Zu-pa-cat-lan that princess\nI had known of old, so admirable, with the high crown, with the face as though\nof marble, on her throne beside Bixnip. Not that Bixnip always remained on\nhis throne. Now and again he descended amongst the courtiers and drank with\nthem — a manner affected by some monarchs. Not one I favor, though, on the\nother hand, I feared the Princess appeared stern, perhaps ungracious, and I whisp-\nered that a smile to the court might make a nation happy. Royalty enjoys such\nstress upon its personal activities. But she gave no sign of hearing me.\nThe feast at last approached the end of its third day, and it was as well, for\nthe court was weary. Long ago I had resorted to an excellent stimulant suggested\nby Pit, which enabled me to keep my post by the side of the Princess. I had\nindeed offered it to her, but she refused it, no doubt feeling that a princess owes\nit to her people to keep awake — putting it bluntly — at such ceremony. An\nexhibition of royal endurance to be commended ! So much could not be said of\nBixnip who betrayed his nomadic origin off and on, to the consternation of the\ndancing girls who feared the Princess. But she never turned her head, nor\nseemed to see. Only at times I left her for a moment to make a round of the\ntables with my spice purge.\nUnfortunately, the early hours of the feast had so exhausted the court that\nan ill-boding desolation threatened to overtake it now. Then hostile factions\nof the priests, and the spies, might play upon the people with rumors of how a\ngloom had descended upon the Princess on the third day, and how it portended\nill for the future. It was therefore with great relief that I heard a sudden gale\nof laughter, fresh, unforced, rock the farther end of the hall, and spread down\nto us, so that even Bixnip who had been snoring on his throne, opened his eyes."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "305", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2528, "texte": "Truly a droll apparition had come upon us, and even those lying under the\ntables found time to turn and fling the bruised flowers they had at hand not too\ndejectedly at him. It had been a man I gathered almost at once, though there\nwas little enough of the man left in that figure. Where should have been ears\nwere but tufts, and his lips were slashed in the clown's grin and baked with dyes,\nand what had been scars upon his body had been altered, shaped and fashioned\nby cutting, by branding, and by the eatings of acids, into the likeness of those\nsymbols and ribald writings unrestricted boys and girls scrawl on the walls and\npavements of low, secluded by-places. Thus was he but a walking legend of all\nthe foul wit of the world.\nBefore the throne he stood and made a humorous contraction which only\nhis broken joints permitted, and Bixnip shook with laughter.\n\" Laugh, Zu-pa-cat-lan, \" Bixnip shouted, \" laugh Zu-pa-cat-lan. \"\nAgain the fool whimsically distorted himself — very fanciful the gesture was,\nand with an outrageous innuendo. Whereat the whole court rocked again with\nlaughter, and Bixnip also, and, glancing at the Princess, I observed her eyes rest\non the fool, and then she smiled. Seeing the Princess smile the whole court\nstamped and shook again with laughter all the more heartily. But the maimed\nmonster ceased his spinning, and fell before us.\nThis of course provoked greater humor, and Bixnip shouted to her again to\nlaugh, and Zu-pa-cat-lan laughed. Then she looked again at the fool, and I behind\nher, over her shoulder, saw as she did also, at that moment that the eyes before,\nlidless and painted, were yet the eyes that had held pageants in them, were Ish-\nkar's eyes. And the smile passed from the face of the Princess.\nAll this is but an hour since, my sons. Only an hour ! She had this cup\never ready since I earned my salad by it. What she saw in the maimed fool's\neyes I know not, nor whether certain laughter being laughed makes life not worth\nthe living Ido not venture to assert. Man finds so many reasons for not living.\nThat alone is enough for us\nOnly an hour she came here from that great hall. Only an hour ago she drank\nthis neat arrangement of herbs and oils and unexpected acids. Observe how\npotent it is. How valuable toman in his troubles. We can hope to make many\nan odd bit of gold by such a valuable concoction. It is very effective. Do you\ndoubt it ? Rest your hand then on the heart of the Princess Zu-pa-cat-lan.You\nwill observe that it has ceased to beat.\n3\n\nJohn Mosher"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "306", "page_fin": "308", "image_debut": 36, "image_fin": 38, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Three Portraits", "titre_sommaire": "Three Portraits", "signature_source": "E. E. Cummings", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "306", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 124, "texte": "THREE PORTRAITS\n\nI. Pianist\nta\nppin\ng\ntoe\nhip\npopot\namus Back\ngen\nteel-ly\nlugu-\nbrious\neyes\nIvOOPTHBI^OOP\nas\nfathandsbangrag"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "307", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 499, "texte": "II. Caritas\nthe skinny voice\nof the leatherfaced\nwoman with the crimson\nnose and coquettishly-\ncocked bonnet\nhaving ceased the\ncaptain\nannounces that as three\ndimes seven nickels and ten\npennies have been deposited upon\nthe drum there is need\nof just twenty five cents\ndear friends\nto make it an even\ndollar whereupon\nthe Divine Average who was\nattracted by the inspired\nsister's howling moves\noff\nwill anyone tell him why he should\nblow two bits for the coming of Christ Jesus.\n? ?\n? ? ?\n!\nnix, kid"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "308", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1229, "texte": "III. Arthur Wilson\nas usual i did not find him in cafes, the more dissolute atmosphere\nof a street superimposing a numbing imperfectness upon such peri-\ngrinations as twilight spontaneously by inevitable tiredness of flang-\ning shop-girls impersonally affords furnished a soft first clue to\nhis innumerable whereabouts violet logic of annihilation demon-\nstrating from woolworthian pinnacle a capable millenium of faces\nmeshing with my curiously instant appreciation exposed his hiber-\nnative contours,\naimable immensity impeccably extending the courtesy of five o'clock\nbecame the omen of his prescience it was spring by the way in\nthe soiled canary-cage of largest existence.\n(when he would extemporise the innovation of muscularity upon the\nmost crimson assistance of my comforter a click of deciding glory\ninflicted to the negative silence that primeval exposure whose elec-\ntric solidity remembers some accurately profuse scratchings in a\nrecently discovered cave, the carouse of geometrical putrescence\nwhereto my invariably commendable room had been forever subject\nhis Earliest word wheeled out on the sunny dump of oblivion)\na tiny dust finely arising at the integration of my soul i coughed\n, naturally.\n\nE. E. Cummings"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "309", "page_fin": "316", "image_debut": 39, "image_fin": 46, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "A Necessary and Sufficient Literature", "titre_sommaire": "A Necessary and Sufficient Literature", "signature_source": "Jean Epstein ; Gorham Munson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "309", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2559, "texte": "A NECESSARY AND SUFFICIENT LITERATURE\n\nThe new conditions of life have determined a literature, a necessary and\nsufficient literature, a new literature. However, it is not necessary to believe\nthat this modern literature has completely rejected all traditions, that it has\nbroken completely with the past, that it has entirely created itself as a thing\nin no respect comparable with what has been. Even had it wished to do\nthis, it would not have been able. Acquired knowledge lies profoundly rooted\nwithin us, and in the most \" advanced modernism \" there survives an abundant\nheredity. But aesthetic emotion was fatigued with the -Symbolists, as it was\nfatigued with the Parnassians, and previously with the Romantics. So it was\neven much earlier, when Racine succeeded Corneille. So it is again today:\nin our modern literature a new molting season breaks out, and so rapidly that\nmany of my remarks on it will appear out of date. Habit, which deadens, ren-\nders blase, fatigues and extinguishes aesthetic emotion, steadily demands that\nnew details be superadded to the more durable characteristics of works of art\nreplacing less durable characteristics, novel processes, and original ideas —\na change corresponding to a change in the conditions of life. This is necessary\nif one wishes to awaken beauty from its torpor, to astonish, to strike the intel-\nligence and stir the sensibility. The impression of the beautiful is a sort of\n\" conditioned reflex \" and undergoes the physiological law of all reflexes which\neventuates at length in extinction. It becomes needful to introduce hew con-\nditions into the production of the phenomena of beauty in order to revive this\n\" conditioned reflex. \" This is the direction of the characteristics recently\nacquired by French literature. Not that I mean that the poets have thus,\nthrough faith in a scientific theory, voluntarily or even experimentally changed\ntheir manner of understanding poetry, or the prose writers, prose. The change\nhas, of course, taken place unconsciously and spontaneously.\nI shall rapidly glance at these new characteristics of modern French liter-\nature determined by the new conditions of life which I essayed to recapitulate\nin the preceeding article (x).\nI.\nSpeed in space, then, has created cosmopolites and diffused the knowledge\nof foreign languages. Take a man who knows French (naturally), English,\nGerman and Latin ; the last from his classical studies. His travels put him in\na position to utilize his knowledge, to hear and to speak some of these diverse\n(x) Broom, April 1922."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "310", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2988, "texte": "tongues, to read them. Involuntarily he will come to transpose the meta-\nphors of one language into another, to transpose special turns of speech, idioms\nas they are called, from German or English into French. Or, if he is a German,\nhe will transpose Gallicisms into German. Not that these men suddenly\nset themselves to speaking gibberish with innumerable solecisms. The con-\ntribution of new turns, of foreign logics of expression, is made as slowly as a\ngeological stratum. This excites the protests of purists. But usage, of course,\ngets the better of grammatical theories, if they be inert. Language slowly,\nvery slowly, is modified. Ido not mean to say that French ceases to be French\nand becomes the idiom of the porters of Mediterranean hotels : the French\nlanguage of today and, I dare to predict, that of tomorrow, remains French,\nmy tongue which I prefer above all others. But it would be indeed puerile\nto deny that in 1920 it is not quite what it was in 1820 or even in 1900. Its\ngrammar and syntax are sometimes simplified, sometimes made suppler.\nThe French sentence has been simplified in that, with a few exceptions\nlike that of Marcel Proust's writing, it has grown shorter. If it still admits,\nthough less than formerly, development by coordinates, it does not any longer\ngenerally admit development by a flood of subordinates. The law of least re-\nsistance, the diminution of Latin culture explains this particular modification\nquite as well as the use of foreign tongues. There is no doubt that beginners\nin German or in English are advised, in order to acquire correctness more easily,\nto express themselves by short sentences and the habit of speaking and think-\ning in short sentences is attained very quickly.\nOn the other hand, the French sentence has been made supple; it has\nbecome more malleable, more flexible, — familiar with astonishing inversions,\nwith agile leaps. lam not reproaching it. I state something which I believe\nhas been very useful for exactitude of expression. As well as the sentence,\nthinking processes have naturally also been made supple. Furthermore, it\nis not necessary that the writer himself should know foreign languages; he\ncan still mediately experience their influence which is widespread ; the author\nforming part of the intellectual elite of his epoch. Thus Arthur Rimbaud\nknew — having learned them with a stupefying facility — English, Italian,\nSpanish, Arabic, German, etc.; Guillaume Apollinaire, whose erudition was\nso vast, was also conversant with very many tongues ; Blaise Cendrars must\nspeak nearly half the languages of the globe. Jean Cocteau knows at least\nGerman. I deduce it from his syntax, perhaps wrongly since I have no defin-\nite grounds for speaking with certainty on this point, and I am going rather\nfar in my deductions. Jean Giraudaux also must know a good deal of German,\nGreek and Latin : he was a pupil of the Normale Superieure.\nAll these writers have been travellers. They have known the cosmopol-"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "311", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2598, "texte": "itan spirit, that spirit of nostalgic familiarity with the world, of exiles volun-\ntarily torn to pieces between the continents.\nThis influence of foreign languages upon the mother tongue of men thus\neducated needs no exposition. The man who speaks German, is accustomed\nto certain inversions, and will inevitably more than once express the reflex-\nion, weakened no doubt, of these inversions in his French phrases, because\nhis thought, which is equally at the base of his German, his English and his\nFrench, will have acquired this habit. Likewise with all other linguistic pe-\nculiarities.\nBiit if you read attentively modern French authors, you will note a mobil-\nity of syntax, a remarkable laxity of grammar, approaching at moments an\napparent disappearance of grammar and grammatical logic. To a grammarian\nthis is a misdemeanor. For a writer this is a quality in the sense that it per-\nmits him to express his thought more exactly, to trace better with words the\nundulating, illogical and. mobile contour of thought.\nBut the use of foreign languages is not the sole cause of this suppleness of\nthe French sentence. We shall examine other reasons for this modification\nat once.\nThanks to spatial speed and the cosmopolitan spirit, a new consciousness\nhas entered French literature : the consciousness of the world. The earth is\nno longer an abstraction of astronomy. People have made its circuit often\nenough to feel its roundness. And if it is true that the earth has been round,\npeopled, lukewarm, and living for a long time back, from the sentimental point\nof view this lukewarmness and this life date only from yesterday, only from\nthe day when man, thanks to the promiscuity of speed, saw his desires and\nhis fears absorb space, nourish themselves in it, and depend on it.\nAs an example of this we may take certain very beautiful poems from\nthe Fond de Cantine of Pierre Drieu La Rochelle.\nII.\nI believe this conception of the consciousness of the world is also respon-\nsible for a small literary, philosophical and even social school which is born,\nassuredly, from the new conditions created by spatial speed. If this school has\nonly a small number of adepts (that is why I call it small), it possesses a lead-\ner of high merit in the person of Jules Romains who has baptized his system :\n\" Unanimism. \" (There is also a pictorial Unanimism but it is outside my\nscope.) Unanimism can be summarized thus : all for one, one for all. At\nbottom it is an exasperated conception of human solidarity, of the unity of\nthought which can, at certain moments, make brothers, and friends of all the"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "312", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2980, "texte": "individuals of a crowd, an army, a group. Unanimism insists upon the individ-\nuality, compact, collective, unique, which a crowd can acquire from the fact\nthat it is a crowd, an individuality quite different from the characters of each\nof its members considered separately. Dr. Gustave lye Bon has studied this\nphenomenon of collective consciousness under the head of \" the soul of the\ncrowd. \" I believe that this soul of the crowd can be explained in a simple\nenough fashion, almost algebraically. Take a thousand men. In their charac-\nters the thousand men have certain traits which one recognizes to be nearly\nthe same in each of the thousand individuals and certain different traits of char-\nacter peculiar to each, which his neighbour does not possess because he has\nothers. One can then say algebraically that there are a certain numbei of char-\nacter-traits which have the same sign and a certain number of character-traits\nwhich have different or opposed signs. A crowd is a sum of individuals : the\ncrowd's energy is a totalling-up of particular energies. In this addition as in all\nadditions elements of the same sign join and reinforce each other and elements\nof contrary signs destroy each other. So that the crowd-soul will be the sum\nof the common traits of character of all the members of the crowd, those traits,\nmultiplied, subsisting almost alone, while the differing traits of character, those\npeculiar to such and such an individual, will have fought and destroyed each\nother.\nWhat is interesting and active in a man is not what he has in common\nwith all men which can at best be but banal and moral, but what a man pos-\nsesses peculiarly for himself, what one does not find elsewhere, what is rare, spec-\nial, exceptional. Civilization knows this quite well, since it talks only of spec-\nialization, specialists and specialities. The difference is everything. The\nartist should be personal, the writer should be original, the savant should turn\naside from the travelled intellectual route and strike out new roads which com-\nmence always as paths in which one walks alone. And Jules Romains, like\nevery individual, goes counter to the unanimist theory, counter to all theories,\nsince theory is essentially anti-individualistic and since he is eminently personal.\nWhatever unanimism may be, the unanimist, Jules Romains, has written\nsome remarkable works, living, intense, and strong. I shall return to them\nagain. But this exquisite conception of the mutual dependence of men, car-\nried so far as it is today, thanks to cables, routes, rails which link peoples and\nattach individuals to each other, so that the earth resembles those puzzles\nin which one cannot move a pawn which it is neveitheless necessary to move,\nwithout necessitating corresponding complicated and uninterrupted move-\nments, of all the other pawns, this conception, if it be not idolatrous, remains\njust and true.\nWith Jules Romains, love of the crowd becomes love of the rabble, love of"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "313", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2559, "texte": "the group, love of the meeting, where feverish hands clap their applause, where\na thousand faces are strained towards a face which is their face, where a thou-\nsand thoughts revolve around the same word, where elbows rub, torsos crush\nand espouse each other with their reciprocal concavities and convexities, love\nof the street where there is a crowd, love of the words of the crowd, the lisp-\ning of a monstrous child, love of the ideas of the crowd, simple ideas, yet ava-\nlanches which roll and make the overburdened galleries shake, love of the sea-\nsons of the crowd, of the eternity of the crowd. No, it is not love ; it is idol-\natry, or deification. Jules Romains is right. All this exists and he is again\nright in saying that there are diverse crowds : the army, loafers, the cortege,\nthe salon, the church... And each of the crowds of which we happen to form\npart has its own life, which is profoundly capable of poetry.\nFurthermore, all those who feel life a little keenly are more or less un-\nanimist. Blaise Cendrars has felt this contiguity of men; read Profond aujour-\nd'hui. Jean Cocteau has written : \" All of us have the same soul, or rather,\nare of the same soul, of the same element.\nFragmentary God. \"\nIII.\nWhoever reads the works of Rimbaud, Apollinaire, Cendrars, Cocteau,\nDrieu La Rochelle, Aragon and others, even if he is their fellow in race, culture,\nlanguage and their kin in thought, will not understand them at the first glance.\nThe unwarned reader will stumble upon :\nTowards a lady of the antipodes the plumb line becomes my favorite\nlocomotion. \" — Cocteau.\n\" The first one arrived at the bottom of the corridor.\n12345678910 Dead. \" - Aragon.\n\" When the newspaper ferments like an imprisoned lightning flash. \" —\nCendrars.\n\" I was at the foot of the baldachin supporting her adored jewels and\nher physical masterpieces, a great bear with violet gums and hair hoary with\nchagrin, my eyes on the crystal and silver consoles. \" — Rimbaud.\nOf course, the extraction of these phrases from their context augments\nfurther the difficulties of understanding them.\nSome readers have not understood these sentences at the first glance —\nI believe that it is impossible to fully comprehend thoughts thus schematized\nright off without practice, and not for this must we reproach these readers —\nbut — and here they are to blame — they have not wished to reflect that an\nauthor who signs his name does not generally write balderdash for the pleasure of\ntrying out his pen or his ink, that there is, beneath this apparent bizarrerie, a mea-"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "314", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1878, "texte": "ning, perhaps a very interesting meaning, that in fact there is somethingto comp-\nrehend. Indeed, there is something to comprehend, — much to comprehend.\nCocteau, on a day of idleness in the country, in the course of a siesta, in\nthe shade which failed to refresh, a siesta broken by sentences exchanged slowly,\nin a low voice, with an absent-minded friend, an afternoon — on which the\nideas uttered and the thoughts get confused, become disconnected, compose\nthemselves into little poems, lose themselves in projects, in regrets, in memories,\nin anecdotes, suddenly reflected that underneath the grass upon which he was\nreposing.\n\" There is the earth,\nAnd still the earth\nIn a straight line,\nAnd rock and mineral,\nAnd lava,\nAnd incandescences\nAnd the central fire.\nThink while continuing the descent,\nThat there is still fire and more fire,\nThen incandescent lava,\nThen rock and mineral,\nThen earth\nAnd still earth,\nAnd gradually,\nEarth which the air penetrates,\nAnd grass,\nAnd night for a moment,\nAnd a woman who sleeps in New Zealand\nWith the abyss above her,\nAbove her roof ... \"\n(Le Potomak, by Jean Cocteau).\nAnd 262 pages before the explanation, he condenses that idea in the short\nsentence we read above: \" Towards a lady of-the antipodes... etc. \" Here,\nthe author explains, although very much later, his abridgment. In general,\nalmost always, one must find for one's self immediately, in a fraction of a\nsecond, the development, the explanation, the analogy which permits the ex-\nplanation and be ready, immediately, to hear, develop, and understand a fresh\nabridgement. You see with what speed of thought it is necessary to move.\nI avow, without shame, that I have never entirely understood such a book at\nthe first reading, but I have understood sufficiently to like it greatly, and what\nI did not understand, I say it with pride, I did not proclaim stupid, but Ire-"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "315", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3036, "texte": "read, and in re-reading up to four times, I found pleasure in understanding\nfurther, in seeing new things, so that Le Potomak by Cocteau is not one book\nfor me but four books; perhaps it will be five. And the Dix-neuf Poemes Elas-\ntiques of Blaise Cendrars, I affirm to you, is a volume of eight hundred pages\naccompagnied by thirteen hundred full page plates.\nI have not the space to develop the other abridgments cited. They can\nbe explained and understood quite as clearly. * When we are free to work these\nthings out by ourselves, we have still more pleasure in expanding them. Be-\nsides, you see well enough the process which, it is necessary to remark, exacts\nof the reader a very important complementary work, a work almost of parallel\ncreation with that of the author. lam not astonished, either, to note that the\nfew intelligent persons who still disesteem modern letters are intellectually lazy.\nThis process calls for a considerable speed in thinking. The poem of Ar-\nthur Rimbaud, one of his simplest, of which I cited a few lines above, presents\nin fifteen lines, nineteen abridgments. You see what a gallop the thought\nmust take in order to understand this poem during a reading aloud. Aux cinq\ncoins, a poem of Blaise Cendrars, contains sixteen abridgments in ten lines,\nin ten half-lines, without counting the title which is, for all that, a meteor.\nFurther, even when there are no metaphors, a description is composed\nof a few selected details, a few indications which, in truth, do not describe,\nbut permit the reader to describe. That is to say, they suggest a description.\nThere also the thought must pick itself up, bound, and construct quickly the\ndicor to receive the characters and their sentiments. Once more speed of\nthinking is put to the test. The reader must have \" imagination. \" As soon\nas one scene, which four words have suggested, ten have utilized and two have\nswept away without even the trouble of punctuation, has finished, it becomes\nnecessary to prepare another because suggestions follow each other with the\nspeed of dreams, as in those nightmares in which the alarm-clock rings for two\nseconds, but these seconds permit the dream to construct upon this alarum\nan entire complicated story which has seemed to last three days.\nThis, then, is how modern French literature depends upon the mental\nspeed of which I tried to indicate the increase and the variations. This in-\ncrease of mental speed with civilization is, to my mind, one of the most im-\nportant laws of the evolution of the intelligence. Just as the calculator trains\nhimself to calculate quickly by calculating a great deal, so man comes to think\nquickly by thinking a great deal. For it is incontestable that he thinks very\nmuch today without perhaps thinking more rightly in absolute values than\nformerly, but that remains to be seen. This rapidity of thought is reflected\nnot only in literature as we have just seen in French literature and as we can\nperceive under different appearances in all civilized literatures, but again in"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "316", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1151, "texte": "the whole intellectual apparatus of civilization. Viewing the chronology of\nliterary schools which are only emotional systems, we note that the intelligence\ntoday traverses more rapidly than formerly the stages of its variations. If\nthere was a time when a literary school sufficed to nourish abundantly one, or\nperhaps two generations, it is no longer so nowadays. Beauty appears to have\nbecome more unstable and to change her coiffure every ten years. This too\ndepends on the augmentation of the thought speed which makes the tour of\nits stopping-places, sees in a short time everything there is to see from one point\nof view, both merits and defects, and departs. Thus modern French literature,\nspoken of here according to a plan quite other than chronological, will, if stu-\ndied chronologically, reveal two stages : the past one on which we can discourse\nprecisely enough, and the present one which is growing and budding, growling\na thousand contradictions to the theoreticians. Very many of my remarks\napply especially to the stage just passed and to the period of transition between\ntwo crises. T\n\nJean Epstein\n(Translated By B. Gorham Munson)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "317", "page_fin": "317", "image_debut": 47, "image_fin": 47, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Pen and Ink Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Pen and Ink Drawing", "signature_source": "Modigliani", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "317", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 30, "texte": "Modigliani\nPen and Ink Drawing"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "318", "page_fin": "320", "image_debut": 48, "image_fin": 50, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "Obscurity", "titre_sommaire": "Obscurity", "signature_source": "Jeanette Marks", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "318", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 982, "texte": "OBSCURITY\n\nI.\nSome day I shall be a leaf,\nA shining green leaf, fan-folded,\nOne of many opening in a sunlit wind ;\nOr I shall be a bit of bark,\nSay on the Poverty Birch —\nSince I am obscure and poor and short of life\nAnd my work of no account to commerce —\nAnd I shall flutter there in the wind,\nMy bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skin\nAnd cross-hatched with lines of color;\nOr — but I do not know what I shall be\nAnd it does not matter.\nGod has made so much that alters beautiful:\nThe jigging shadows of trees\nThrough which thoughts pass to that which does jaot change;\nThe wind that tramps eternity ;\nThe very lava of this universe He turns to frost;\nIyike frost He throws white fingers up out of loam\nAnd tosses into space the spinning stars.\nII.\nI wonder whether ragged autumn leaves feel ill clad\nRemembering their soft dress in spring ?\nOr whether autumn browns seem dreary to the leaves and grass ?\nAnd growing older makes cedars shabby at the stem ?"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "319", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1303, "texte": "I hear the hard, dry clatter of some dead oak leaves, —\nThey sound so strong for any wind.\nBut sometimes when I am tired my dress makes me ashamed.\nAnd I am awkward and ill at ease.\nClothes have a way of telling stories\nEven as the bark of trees will tell\nWhich way the storm winds blow.\nI remember when I was young\nAnd scarcely knew that money paid for clothes.\nMy garments were fresh and silken like poplar leaves\nAnd there were more than I needed;\nAnd my hair was soft and thick,\nWith gold always in it as in the larch in early spring ;\nAnd my body was lithe and vigorous ;\nWhen I was tired it was the quick dip of the sapling in the storm,\nThe least clearing wind set me free again\nAnd I stood straight with all my quivering aspen leaves\nShaking the sunlight into dance.\nIII.\nNow I lie awake at night, many nights,\nSometimes when I am ill,\nSometimes when I am well,\nAnd think about money and rents in worn clothes\nAnd feel the hunger of old women and backyard cats\nAs if it were my own hunger;\nAnd the wind noses about for crumbs in a bit of newspaper\nAnd flaps tattered dirty shawls over me,\nAnd my thoughts are bent and old\nAnd I shiver in the dark trying to bless God.\nI wonder why God gives Himself to trees\nAnd lets old women starve ?\nAnd backyard cats nose for crumbs in a piece of newspaper ?"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "320", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1038, "texte": "And why certain rich people are as well varnished against cold\nAs fat beech buds against the frost ?\nDo you suppose God is a Merchant\nAnd sells this warm lustre from the stars\nStars hung like bright drops of water in a big night wind —\nAnd plans to make a profit from the rich ? . . .\nI am not an anarchist\nExcept in stars.\nIV.\nWhen the dawn comes it brings the crows.\nCaw ! Caw ! Caw ! The crows !\nThe crow sleeps east but west he blows\nTo pick some carrion that he knows\nCaw ! Caw ! Caw ! It blows !\nV.\nI travel East to meet the sun\nWith a gray heron battling up against the wind,\nAbove the nests that know the ravens in their sleep,\nAbove the trees that toss the light,\nAbove the rocks that blossom into rose,\nOn towards the sun!\nIt does not matter now how I am clothed ;\nFor my mind glitters with a thousand thoughts,\nStar-sown, moon-shaped, sun-colored,\nAmber-shining like polished foliage in a great dawn wind,\nAnd the lustre on the heron's breast\nIs now God and now the Morning Star:\nI travel East to meet the sun !\n\nJeanette Marks"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "321", "page_fin": "337", "image_debut": 51, "image_fin": 67, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "ACT II.", "titre_sommaire": "ACT II.", "signature_source": "Luigi Pirandello ; Edward Storer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "321", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2414, "texte": "SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR\nACT II.\n\nThe stage call-bells ring to warn the, company that the play is about to begin again.\nThe Step-Daughter comes out of the Manager's office along with The\nChii,d and The Boy. As she comes out of the office, she• cries: —\nNonsense!- nonsense! Do it yourselves! I'm not going to mix myself\nup in this mess. (Turning to the Child and coming quickly with her on to the\nstage). Come on, Rosetta, let's run !\n(The Boy follows them slowly, remaining a little behind and seeming perplexed).\nThe Step-Daughter (Stops, bends over the Child and takes her face\nbetween her hands). My little darling! You're frightened,'aren't you? You\ndon't know where we are, do you ? (pretending to reply to a question of the\nChild). What is the stage? It's a place, baby, you know, where people play\nat being serious, a place where they act comedies. We've got to act a comedy\nnow, dead serious, you know and you're in it also, little one. (Embraces\nher, pressing the little head to her breast, and rocking the child for a moment). Oh\ndarling, darling, what a horrid comedy you've got to play. What a wretched\npart they've found for you. A garden ... a fountain .. , look .. . just sup-\npose, kiddie, it's here. Where, say ? Why, right here in the middle. It's\nall pretence you know. That's the trouble, my pet: it's all make-believe\nhere. It's better to imagine it though, because if they fix it up for you, it'll\nonly be painted cardboard, painted cardboard for the rockery, the water, the\nplants .. . Ah, but I think a baby like this one would sooner have a make-be-\nlieve fountain than a real one, so she could play with it. What a joke it'll\nbe for the others, but for you, alas ! not quite such a joke: you who are real,\nbaby dear, and really play by a real fountain that is big and green and beau-\ntiful with ever so many bamboos around it that are reflected in the water, and\na whole lot of little ducks swimming about. . . No, Rosetta, no, your mother\ndoesn't bother about you on account of that wretch of a son there. I'm in the\ndevil of a temper, and as for that lad. (Seizes Boy by the arm to force him\nto take one of his hands out of his pockets). What have you got there?\nWhat are you hiding ? (Pulls his hand out of his pocket, looks into it and catches\nthe glint of a revolver). Ah ! where did you get this ?\n(The Boy, very pale in the face, looks at her, but docs not answer).\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "322", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2626, "texte": "Idiot! If I'd been in yonr place, instead of killing myself, I'd have\nshot one of those two, or both of them : father and son.\n(The Father enters from the office, all excited from his work. The Man-\nager follows him).\nThe Father. Come on, come on dear! Come here for a minnte!\nWe've arranged everything. It's all fixed up.\nThe Manager [also excited). If you please, young lady, there are one\nor two points to settle still. Will you come along ?\nThe Step-Daughter {following him towards the office). OufF! what's the\ngood if you've arranged everything ?\n(The Father, Manager and Step-Daughter go back into the office again {off)\nfor a moment. At the same time, The Son followed by The Mother, comes out).\nThe Son {looking at the three entering office). Oh this is fine, fine! And\nto think I can't even get away !\n(The Mother attempts to look at him, but lowers her eyes immediately when\nhe turns away from her. She then sits down. The Boy and The Chii,d approach\nher. She casts a glance again at the Son, and speaks with humble tones, trying to\ndraw him into conversation).\nThe Mother. And isn't my punishment the worst of all ? {then seeing\nfrom the Son's manner that. he will not bother himself about her). My God ! Why\nare you so cruel ? Isn't it enough for one person to support all this torment ?\nMust you then insist on others seeing it also ?\nThe Son {half to himself, meaning the Mother to hear, however). And they\nwant to put it on the stage ! If there was at least a reason for it ! He thinks\nhe has got at the meaning of it all. Just as if each one of us in every circumstance\nof life couldn't find his own explanation of it! {pauses). He complains he\nwas discovered in a place where he ought not to have been seen, in a moment\nof his life which ought to have remained hidden and kept out of the reach\nof that convention which he has to maintain for other people. And what\nabout my case ? Haven't I had to reveal what no son ought ever to reveal,\nthat is : how father and mother live and are man and wife for themselves quite\napart from that idea of father and mother which we give them. When this\nidea is revealed, our life is then linked at one point only to that man and that\nwoman, and as such it should shame them, shouldn't it ?\nThe Mother hides her face in her hands. From the dressing-rooms and the\nlittle door at the back of the stage the actors and Stage Manager return, followed\nby the Property Man, and the Prompter. At the same moment, The Manager\ncomes out of his office, accompanied by the Father and the Step-Daughter.\nThe Manager. Come on, come on, ladies and gentlemen ! Heh ! you\nthere, machinist!"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "323", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2054, "texte": "Machinist. Yes, Sir.\nTi-ie Manager. Fix up the white parlor with the floral decorations.\nTwo wings and a drop with a door will do. Hurry up !\n(The Machinist runs off at once to prepare the scene, and arranges it while\nThe Manager talks with the Stage Manager, the Property Man and the\nPrompter on matters of detail).\nThe Manager {to Property Man). Just have a look, and see if there\nisn't a sofa or divan in the wardrobe . . .\nProperty Man. There's the green one.\nThe Step-Daughter. No ! no ! green won't do. It was yellow orna-\nmented with flowers — very large and most comfortable.\nProperty Man. There isn't one like that.\nThe Manager. It doesn't matter. Use the one we've got.\nThe Step-Daughter. Doesn't matter. It's most important.\nThe Manager. We're only trying it now. Please don't interfere. (To\nProperty Man). See if we've got a shop window — long and narrowish.\nThe Step-Daughter. And the little table ! The little mahogany table\nfor the pale blue envelope.\nProperty Man (To Manager). There's that little gilt one.\nThe Manager. That'll do fine.\nThe Father. A mirror.\nThe Step-Daughter. And the screen. We must have a screen. Other-\nwise how can I manage ?\nProperty Man. That's all right, Miss. We've got any amount of them.\nThe Manager (to the Step-Daughter). We want some clothe's pegs too\ndon't we ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Yes, several, several.\nThe Manager. See how many we've got and bring them all.\nProperty Man. All right!\n(The Property Man hurries off to obey his orders. While he is putting the\nthings in their place, the Manager talks to the Prompter and then with the Characters\nand the actors).\nThe Manager (to Prompter). Take your seat. I,ook here : this is the\noutline of the scenes, act by act (hands him some sheets of paper). And now I'm\ngoing to ask you to do something out of the way.\nPrompter. Take it down in shorthand ?\nThe Manager (pleasantly surprised). Kxactly. Can do you do shorthand ?\nPrompter. Yes, a little.\nManager. Good. (Turning to a stage hand). Go and get some paper\nfrom my office, plenty, as much as you can find."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "324", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2336, "texte": "(The stage hand goes off, and soon returns with a handful of paper which he\ngives to the Prompter).\nThe Manager (To Prompter). You follow the scenes as we play them,\nand try and get the points down, at any rate the most important ones.\n(Then addressing the actors). Clear the stage, ladies and gentlemen! Come over\nhere (pointing to the Left) and'listen attentively.\nLeading Lady. But, excuse me, we .. .\nThe Manager (guessing her thought). Don't worry! You won't have to\nimprovise.\nLeading Man. What have we to do then ?\nThe Manager. Nothing. For the moment you just watch and listen.\nEverybody will get his part written out afterwards. At present we're going\nto try the thing as best we can. They're going to act now.\nThe Pather (as if fallen from the clouds into the confusion of the stage).\nWe ? What do you mean, if you please, by a rehearsal ?\nThe Manager. A rehearsal for them (points to the actors).\nThe Father. But since we are the characters .. .\nThe Manager. All right: \" characters \" then, if you insist on calling your-\nselves such. But here, my dear Sir, the characters don't act. Here the actors,\ndo the acting. The characters are there, in the book (pointing towards\nPrompter's box) when there is a book.\nThe Father. I won't contradict you, but excuse me, the actors aren't\nthe characters. They want to be, they pretend to be, don't they ? Now if\nthese gentlemen here are fortunate enough to have us alive before them . ..\nThe Manager. Oh this is grand ! You want to come before the public\nyourselves then ?\nThe Father. As we are .. .\nThe Manager. I can assure you it would be a magnificent spectacle!\nLeading Man. What's the use of us here anyway then ?\nThe Manager. You're not going to pretend that you can act. It makes\nme laugh. (The actors laugh). There, you see, they are laughing at the notion.\nBut, by the way, I must cast the parts. That won't be difficult. They cast\nthemselves. (To the Second Lady Lead). You play the Mother. (To the\nFather). We must find her a name.\nThe Father. Amalia, Sir.\nThe Manager. But that is the real name of your wife. We don't\nwant to call her by her real name.\nThe Father. Why ever not, if it is her name ?. . Still, perhaps, if\nthat lady must .. . (makes a slight motion of the hand to indicate the Second\nLady Lead). I see this woman here (means the Mother) as Amalia. But do as"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "325", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2292, "texte": "you like (gets more and more confused). I don't know what to say to you.\nAlready, I begin to hear my own words ring false, as if they had another\nsound . . .\nThe Manager. Don't you worry about it. It'll be our job to find the\nright tones. And as for her name, if you want her Amalia, Amalia it shall\nbe, and if you don't like it, we'll find another. For the moment though,\nwe'll call the characters in this way : (to Juvenile Lead) You are the Son ;\n(to the Leading Lady) You naturally are the Step-Daughter.\nThe Step-Daughter (excitedly). What ? what ? I, that woman there ?\n(bursts out laughing).\nThe Manager (angry). What is there to laugh at ?\nIyEADiNG L/Ady (indignant). Nobody has ever dared to laugh at me. I\ninsist on being treated with respect; otherwise Igo away.\nThe Step-Daughter. No, no, excuse me ... I am not laughing at\nyou . . .\nThe Manager (to Step-Daughter). You ought to feel honoured to be\nplayed by...\nLeading (at once, contemptuously). \" That woman there \"...\nThe Step-Daughter. But I wasn't speaking of you, you know. I was\nspeaking of myself. Whom I can't see at all in you. That is all. I don't\nknow .. . but. .. you .. . aren't in the least like me .. .\nThe Father. True. Here's the point. Iyook here, Sir, our temper-\nament, our soul. . .\nThe Manager. Temperament, soul, be hanged ! Do you suppose the\nspirit of the piece is in you ? Nothing of the kind.\nThe Father. What, haven't we our own temperament, our own soul?\nThe Manager. Not at all. Your soul or whatever you like to call it\ntakes shape here. The actors give body and form to it, voice and gesture.\nAnd my actors — I may tell you — have given expression to much more\nlofty material than this little drama of yours, which may or may not hold up\non the stage. But if it does, the merit of it,\" believe me, will be due to\nmy actors.\nThe Father. I don't dare contradict you, Sir, but believe me it is a ter-\nrible suffering for us who are as we are, with these bodies of ours, these features\nto see . . .\nThe Manager (cutting him short and out of patience). Good heavens!\nThe make-up will remedy all that, man, the make-up . . .\n- The Father. Maybe. But the voice, the gestures .. .\nThe Manager. Now, look here ! On the stage, you as yourself, cannot\nexist. The actor here acts you, and that's an end to it."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "326", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2454, "texte": "The Father. I understand. And now I think I see why our author\nwho conceived us as we are, all alive, didn't want to put us on the stage after\nall. I haven't the least desire to offend your actors. Far from it. But\nwhen I think that I am to be acted by ... I don't know by whom . . .\nLeading Man (on his dignity). By me, if you've no objection.\nThe Father (humbly, mellifluously). Honoured, I assure you, Sir. (Bows).\nStill, I must say that try as this gentlemen may with all his good will and\nwonderful art to absorb me into himself . . .\nLeading Man. Oh chuck it ! \" Wonderful art \" Withdraw that please!\nThe Father. The performance he will give, even doing his best with\nmake-up to look like me . . .\nLeading Man, It will certainly be a bit difficult (The actors laugh).\nThe Father. Exactly. It will be difficult to act me as I really am.\nThe effect will be rather — apart from the make-up — according as to how\nhe supposes I am, as he senses me — if he does sense me — and not as I inside\nof myself feel myself to be. It seems to me then that account should be taken\nof this by everyone whose duty it may become to criticize us . . .\nThe Manager. Heavens ! The man's starting to think about the critics\nnow. Let them say what they like. It's up to us to put on the play if we can\n(looking around). Come on ! come on ! Is the stage set ? (to the actors and Cha-\nracters). Stand back — stand back! Let me see, and don't let's lose anymore\ntime (to the Step-Daughter). Is it all right as it is now ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Well, to tell the truth, I don't recognize the\nscene.\nThe Manager. My dear lady, you can't possibly suppose that we can\nconstruct that shop of Madame Pace piece by piece here (to the Father). You\nsaid a white room with flowered wall paper, didn't you ?\nThe Father. Yes.\nThe Manager. Well then. We've got the furniture right more or\nless. Bring that little table a bit further forward.(The stage hands obey the\norder, to Property Man). You go and find an envelope, if possible a pale\nblue one, and give it to that gentleman (indicates Father).\nProperty Man. An ordinary envelope ?\nManager and Father. Yes, yes, an ordinary envelope.\nProperty Man. At once, sir (exit).\nThe Manager. Ready everyone ! First scene — the Young Lady. (The\nLeading Lady comes forward).' No, no, you must wait. I meant her (indicat-\ning the Step-Daughter). You just watch.\nThe Step-Daxjghter (adding at once). How I shall play it, how I shall\njive it ! . . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "327", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1855, "texte": "Leading Lady (offended). I shall live it also you may be sure as soon\nas I begin !\nThe Manager (with his hands to his head). Ladies and gentlemen if\nyou please, no more useless discussions ! Scene I: the young lady with Ma-\ndame Pace: Oh! (looks around as if lost). And this Madame Pace, where\nis she ?\n«-\nThe Father. She isn't with us, sir.\nThe Manager. Then what the devil's to be done ?\nThe Father. But she is alive too.\nThe Manager. Yes, but where is she ?\nThe Father. One minute. Let me speak! (turning to the actresses).\nIf these ladies would be so good as to give me their hats for a moment. . .\nThe Actresses (half surprised, half laughing in chorus). What ?\nWhy?\nOur hats ?\nWhat does he say ?\nThe Manager. What are you going to do with the ladies' hats ? (The\nactors laugh).\nThe Father. Oh nothing. I just want to put them on these pegs for\na moment. And one of the ladies will be so kind as to take off her mantle ...\nThe Actors. Oh, what d'you think of that ?\nOnly the mantle ?\nHe must be mad.\nSome Actresses. But why ?\nMantles as well.\nThe Father. To hang them up here for a moment. Please be so kind,\nwill you ?\nThe Actresses (taking off their hats, one or two also their cloaks, and going\nto hang them on the racks). After all, why not ?\nThere you are !\nThis is really funny.\nWe've got to put them on show.\nThe Father. Exactly; just like that, on show.\nThe Manager. May we know why ?\nThe Father. I'll tell you. Who knows if by arranging the stage for\nher, she does not come here herself, attracted by the very articles of her trade\n(inviting the actors to look towards the exit at back of stage). Look ! Look !\n(The door at the back of stage opens and Madame Pace enters and takes\na few steps forward. She is a fat, oldish woman with puffy oxygenated hair. She\nis rouged and powdered, dressed with a comical elegance in black silk. Round her"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "328", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2447, "texte": "waist is a long silver chain from which hang a pair of scissors. Ihe Step-Daughter\nruns over to her at once amid the stupor of the actors).\nThe Step-Daughter (turning towards her). There she is ! There she is !\nThe Father {radiant). It's she ! I said so, didn't I ? There she is !\nThe Manager (conquering his surprise, and then becoming indignant).\nWhat sort of a trick is this ?\nLeading Man (almost at the same time). What's going to happen\nnext ?\nJuvenile Lead. Where does she come from ?\nL'lngicnue. They've been holding her in reserve I gness.\nLeading Lady. A vulgar trick !\nThe Father [dominating the protests). Excuse me, all of you ! Why\nare you so anxious to destroy in the name of a vulgar commonplace sense of\ntruth, this reality which comes to birth attracted and formed by the magic\nof the stage itself, which has indeed more right to live here than you, since\nit is much truer than you, if you don't mind my saying so ? Which is the\nactress among you who is to Madame Pace ? Well, here is Madame Pace\nherself. And you will allow, I fancy, that the actress who acts her will be\nless true than this woman here, whp is herself in person. You see my daughter\nrecognized her and went over to her at once. Now you're going to witness\nthe scene !\nBut the scene between the Step-Daughter and Madame Pace has already\nbegun despite the protest of the actors and the reply of The Father. It has begun\nquietly, naturally, in a manner impossible for the stage. So when the actors, called\nto attention by the Father, turn round and see Madame Pace who has placed one\nhand under the Step-Daughter's chin to raise her head, they observe her at first\nwith great attention, but hearing her speak in an unintelligible manner their interest\nbegins to wane.\nThe Manager. Well ? well ?\nLeading Man. What does she say ?\nLeading Lady. One can't hear a word.\nJuvenile Lead. Louder ! louder please !\nThe Step-Daughter (leaving Madame Pace who smiles a Sphinx-like smile\nand advancing towards the actors). Louder ! louder ! What are you talking\nabout ? These aren't matters which can be shouted at the top of one's voice.\nIf I have spoken them out loud, it was to shame him and have my revenge\n(indicates Father). But for Madame it's quite a different matter.\nThe Manager. Indeed ? indeed ? But here, you know, people have\ngot to make themselves heard, my dear. Even we who are on the stage\ncan't hear you. What will it be when the public's in the theatre ? And"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "329", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2326, "texte": "anyway, you can very well speak up now among yourselves, since we shan't\nbe present to listen to you as we are now. You've got to pretend to be alone\nin a room at the back of a shop where no one can hear you.\n(The Step-Daughter coquettishly and with a touch of malice makes a sign\nof disagreement two or three times with her finger).\nThe Manager. What do you mean by no ?\nThe Step-Daughter (sottovoce, mysteriously). There's someone who will\nhear us if she [indicating Madame Pace) speaks out loud.\nThe Manager [in consternation) What ? Have you got someone else to\nspring on us now ? (The actors burst out laughing).\nThe Father. No, no sir. She is alluding to me. I've got to be here.\nThere behind that door in waiting and Madame Pace knows it. In fact,\nif you' will allow me, I'll go there at once, so I can be quite ready. (Moves\naway).\nThe Manager (stopping him). No ! Wait! wait! We must observe the\nconventions of the theatre. Before you are ready .. .\nThe Step-Daughter [interrupting him). No, get on with it at once !\nI'm just d}dng, I tell you, to act this scene. If he's ready, I'm more than\nready.\nThe Manager [shouting). But, my dear young lady, first of all, we must\nhave the scene between you and this lady .. . [indicates Madame Pace). Do you\nunderstand ? . . .\nThe Step-Daughter. Good Heavens ! She's been telling me what you\nknow already : that mamma's work is badly done again, that the material's\nruined, and that if I want her to continue to help us in our misery I must\nbe patient. . .\nMadame Pace [coming forward with an air of great importance). Yes, indeed\nSir, I no wanta take advantage of her, I no wanta be hard . . .\n[Note. Madame Pace is supposed to talk in a jargon half Italian, half\nSpanish).\nThe Manager [alarmed). What? what? She talks like that? [The\nactors burst out laughing again).\nThe Step-Daughter [also laughing). Yes, yes that's the way she talks,\nhalf English, half Italian, most comical it is.\nMadame Pace. Itta seem not verra polite gentlemen laugha atta me eef\nI trva best speaka English.\nThe Manager. Diamine ! Of course ! Of course ! Iyet her talk like that!\nJust what we want. Talk just like that Madam if you please. The effect will\nbe certain. Exactly what was wanted to put a little comic relief into the crudity\nof the situation. Of course she talks like that. Magnificent!"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "330", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2325, "texte": "The Step-Daughter. Magnificent: certainly. When certain suggestions\nare made to one in language of that kind, the effect is certain, since it seems almost\na joke. One feels inclined to laugh when one her talk about an \" old\nsignore \" \" who wanta talka nicely with you. \" Doesn't it, Madame ?\nMadame Pace. Not so old my dear, not so old and even if you no lika\nhim, be won't make any scandal!\nThe Mother (jumping up amid the amazement and consternation of the\nactors who had not been noticing her. They move to restrain her). You old\ndevil! You murderess !\nThe Step-Daughter (running over to calm her Mother). Calm yourself,\nmother, calm yourself ! Please don't. . .\nThe Father (going to her also at the same time). Calm yourself. Don't\nget excited. Sit down now.\nThe Mother. Well theft, take that z£/oman away out of my sight!\nThe Step-Daughter (to Manager). It is impossible for my mother to\nremain here.\nThe Father (to Manager). They can't be here And for this\nreason you see. That woman there was not with us when we came. . . If\nthey are on together, the whole thing is given away inevitably as you see.\nThe Manager. It doesn't matter. This is only a first rough sketch.\nJust to get an idea of the various points of the scene, even confusedly. . (turn-\ning to the Mother and leading her to her chair). Come along, my dear lady, sit\ndown now, and let's get on with the scene. . .\n(Meanwhile, the Step-Daughter, coming forward again, turns to Madame\nPace).\nThe Step-Daughter. Come on, Madame, come on !\nMadame Pace (offended). No, no, grazie. I not do anything witha\nyour mother present.\nThe Step-Daughter. Nonsense. Introduce this \" old signore \" who\nwants to talk nicely to me (adressing the company imperiously). We've got to\ndo this scene one way or another, haven't we ? Come on ! (to Madame Pace).\nYou can go !\nMadame Pace. Ah yes. I go'way. I go'way, certainly. (Exit furious).\nThe Step-Daughter (to the Father). Now you make your entry. No,\nyou needn't go over here. Come here. Let's suppose you've already come\nin. I/ike that, yes. I'm here with bowed head, modest like. Come on ! Out\nwith your voice ! Say \" Good morning, Miss \" in that peculiar tone, that\nspecial tone. . .\nThe Manager. Excuse me, but are you the Manager or am I ? (to\nthe Father who looks undecided and perplexed). Get on with it, man ! Go down"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "331", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2380, "texte": "there to the back of the stage. You needn't go off. Then come right forward\nhere.\n(The Father does as he is told, looking troubled and perplexed at first. But\nas soon as he begins to move, the reality of the action affects him, and he begins to\nsmile and to be more natural. The actors watch intently).\nThe Manager (sottovoce, quickly to the Prompter in his box). Ready ! ready !\nGet ready to write now.\nThe Father [coming forward and speaking in a different tone). Good\nafternoon, Miss.\nThe Step-Daughter {head bowed down slightly, with restrained disgust).\nGood afternoon.\nThe Father. (looks under her hat which partly covers her face. Perceiving\nshe is very young, he makes an exclamation, partly of surprise, partly of fear lest\nhe compromise himself in a risky adventure). Ah .. . but. . . ah, I say this is\nnot the first time that you have come here, is it ?\nThe Step-Daughter (modestly). No sir.\nThe Father. You've been here before, eh ? (Then seeing her nod agree-\nment). More than once ?( Waits for her to answer, looks under her hat, smiles and\nthen says). Well then, there's no need to be so shy is there? May I take\noff your hat ?\nThe Step-Daughter (anticipating him and with veiled digust). No sir .. .\nI'll do it myself. (Takes it off quickly).\n(The Mother , who watches the progress of the scene with The Son and the other\ntwo children who cling to her, is on thorns, and follows with varying expressions of\nsorrow, indignation, anxiety and horror the words and actions of the other two.\nFrom time to time she hides her face in her hands and sobs).\nThe Mother. Oh, my-God, my God!\nThe Father (playing his part with a touch of gallantry). Give it to me !\nI'll put it down (takes hat from her hands). But a dear little head like\nyours ought to have a smarter hat. Come and help me choose one from\nthe stock, won't you ?\nI/Ing&nue (interrupting). I say .. . those are our hats you know.\nThe Manager (furious). Silence ! silence ! Don't try and be funny if you\nplease .. . We're playing the scene now I'd have you notice. (To the Step-\nDaughter). Begin again, please.\nThe Step-Daughter (continuing). No thank you, sir.\nThe Father. Oh, come now. Don't talk like that. You must take\nit. I shall be upset if you don't. There are some lovely little hats here, and\nthen Madame will be pleased. She expects it, anyway, you know.\nThe Step-Daughter. No, no, I couldn't wear it."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "332", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2362, "texte": "The Father. Oh, you're thinking about what they'd say at home if\nthey saw you come in with a new hat. My dear girl, there's always a way\nround these little matters you know.\nThe Step-Daughter (all keyed up). No, it's not that. I couldn't\nwear it because I am ... as you see . . . you might have noticed . . . (showing\nher black dress).\nThe Father. In mourning. Of course. I beg your pardon. I'm fright-\nfully sorry . . .\nThe Step-Daughter (forcing herself to conquer her indignation and nausea).\nStop ! stop ! It's I who must thank you. There's no need for you to feel morti-\nfied or specially sorry. Don't think any more of what I've said. (Tries to smile).\nI must forget that I am dressed so . . .\nThe Manager (interrupting and turning to the Prompter). Stop a minute!\nstop ! Don't write that down. Cut out that last bit (Then to the Father and.\nStep-Daughter). Fine ! it's going fine ! (To the Father only). And now you can\ngo on as we arranged. (To the actors). Pretty good that scene, where he\noffers her the hat, eh ?\nThe Step-Daughter. The best's coming now. Why can't we go on ?\nThe Manager. Have a little patience (to the actors) of course it must\nbe treated rather lightly.\nLeading Man. Still, with a bit of go in it.\nLeading Lady. Of course. It's easy enough (to Leading Man). Shall\nyou and I try it now ?\nLeading Man. Why, yes. I'll prepare my entrance (Exit in order to\nmake his entrance). -\nThe Manager (to Leading Lady). See here! The scene between you\nand Madame Pace is finished. I'll have it written out properly after. You\nremain here ... oh, where are you going ?\nLeading Lady. One minute. I want to put my hat on again (goes\nover to hat-rack and puts her hat on her head).\nThe Manager. Good ! You stay here with your head bowed down a bit.\nThe Step-Daughter. But she isn't dressed in black.\nLeading Lady. But I shall be, and much more effectively than you.\nThe Manager (to Step-Daughter). Be quiet please, and watch. You'll\nbe able to learn something. (Clapping his hands) Come on ! come on ! En-\ntrance please.\n(The door at rear of stage opens, and the Leading Man enters with the lively\nmanner of an \"old gallant\\ The rendering of the scene by the actors from the very\nfirst words is seen to be quite a different thing, though it has not in any way the air\nof a parody. Naturally, the Step-Daughter and the Father, not being able to recog-"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "333", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2340, "texte": "nize themselves in the Leading Lady and the Leading Man, who deliver their words\nin different tones and with a different psychology, express, sometimes with smiles,\nsometimes with gestures, the impression they receive).\nLeading Man. \" Good afternoon, Miss \"...\nThe Father (at once unable, to contain himself). No ! no!\n(The Step-Daugther noticing the way the Leading Man enters, bursts out\nlaughing).\nThe Manager (furious). Silence ! And you please just stop that laughing.\nIf we go on like this, we shall never finish.\nThe Step-Daughter. Forgive me, sir, but it's natural enough. This\nlady (indicating Leading Lady) stands there still, but if she is supposed to be\nme, I can assure you that if I heard anyone say \" Good afternoon \" in that\nmanner and in that tone, I should burst out laughing as I did.\nThe Father. Yes, yes, the manner, the tone...\nThe Manager. Nonsense ! rubbish 1 Stand aside and let me see the action.\nLeading Man. If I've got to represent an old fellow who's coming into\na house of an equivocal character . <. .\nThe Manager. Don't listen to them for Heaven's sake. Do it again.\nIt goes fine. (Waiting for the actors to begin again) Well ?\nLeading Man. Good afternoon, Miss.\nLeading Lady. Good afternoon.\nLeading Man (imitating the gesture of the Father when he looked under the\nhat, and then expressing quite clearly first satisfaction and then fear). Ah; but. .\nI say this is not the first time that you have come here, is it ?\nThe Manager. Good, but not quite so heavily. Like this (acts himself).\n\"This isn't the first time that you have come here\" ... (To Leading Lady)\nAnd you say : \" No, sir. \"\nLeading Lady. No, sir.\nLeading Man. You've been here before more than once.\nThe Manager. No, no, stop ! Let her nod \" yes \" first. \"You've been\nbefore, eh ? \" (The Leading Lady lifts up her head slightly and closes her eyes as\nthough in disgust. Then inclines her head twice).\nThe Step-Daughter (unable to contain herself). Oh my God [ (puts a\nhand to her mouth to prevent herself from laughing).\nThe Manager (turning round). What's the matter ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Nothing, nothing.\nThe Manager (to Leading Man), Go on.\nLeading Man. You've been here before, eh ? Well then, there's no need\nto be so shy, is there ? May I take off your hat ?\n(The Leading Man says this last speech in such a tone and with such gestures"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "334", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2367, "texte": "that the Step-Daughter, though she has her hand to her mouth, cannot keep\nfrom laughing).\nLeading IyADY [indignant), I'm not going to stop here to be made a fool\nof by that woman there.\nLeading Man. Neither am I. I'm through with it.\nThe Manager (.shouting to Step-Daughter). Silence for once and all, I tell you.\nThe Step-Daughter. Forgive me ! forgive me !\nThe Manager. You haven't any manners : that's what it is. You go too far.\nThe Father [endeavouring to intervene). Yes, it's true, but excuse her. . .\nThe Manager. Excuse what ? It's absolutely disgusting.\nThe Father. Yes, sir, but believe me, it has such a strange effect when .. .\nThe Manager. Strange ? Why strange ? Where is it strange ?\nThe Father. No, sir. I admire your actors, this gentleman here\nthis lady, but they are certainly not us.\nThe Manager. I should hope not. Evidently they cannot be you, if\nthey are actors.\nThe Father. Just so ; actors. Both of them act our parts exceedingly\nwell. But, believe me, it produces quite a different effect on us. They want\nto be us, but they aren't, all the same.\nThe Manager. What is it then anyway ?\nThe Father. Something that is .. . that is theirs and no longer ours. . .\nThe Manager. But naturally, inevitably. I've told you so already.\nThe Father. Yes, I understand. . . I understand.\nThe Manager. Well then, let's have no more of it [turning to the ac-\ntors). We'll have the rehearsals by ourselves afterwards in the ordinary way.\nI never could stand rehearsing with the author present. He's never satisfied\n[turning to Father and Step-Daughter). Come on ! Let's get on with it again\nand try and see if you can't keep from laughing.\nThe Step-Daughter. Oh, I shan't laugh any more. There's a nice\nlittle bit coming for me now : you'll see.\nThe Manager. Well then : when she says \" Dont think any more of what\nI've said. I must forget etc \" you [addressing the Father) come in sharp\nwith \" I understand, I understand \" and then you ask her ...\nThe Step-Daugther [interrupting). What?\nThe Manager. Why she is in mourning.\nThe Step-Daughter. Not at all ! See here : when I told him that it\nwas useless for me to be thinking about my wearing mourning, do you know\nhow he answered me ? \"■ Ah well, \" he said \" then let's take off this little frock\nThe Manager. Great ! Just what we want to make a riot in the theatre.\nThe Step-Daughter. But it's the truth."}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "335", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2629, "texte": "The Manager. What does that matter ? Acting is our business here.\nTruth up to a certain point, but nq further.\nThe Step-Daughter. What do you want to do then ?\nThe Manager. You'll see. You'll see. Leave it to me.\nThe Step-Daughter. No sir. What you want to do is to piece together\na little romantic sentimental scene out of my disgust, out of all the reasons,\neach more cruel and viler than the other, why I am what I am. He is to ask\nme why I'm in mourning, and I'm to answer with tears in my eyes, that it is\njust two months since papa died. No, sir, no. He's got to say to me as he\ndid say. \" Well, let's take off this little dress at once. \" And I with my two\nmonths' mourning in my heart went there behind that screen and with these\nfingers tingling with shame . . .\nThe Manager (running his hands through his hair). For Heaven's sake !\nWhat are you saying ?\nThe Step-Daughter (crying out excitedly). The truth ! The truth !\nThe Manager. It may be. I don't deny it, and I can understand all\nyour horror, but you must surely see that you can't have this kind of thing\non the stage. It won't go.\nThe Step-Daughter. Not possible, isn't it ? Very well, I'm much\nobliged to you, but I'm off.\nThe Manager. Now be reasonable. Don't lose your temper.\nThe Step-Daughter. I won't stop here. I won't. I can see you've\nfixed it all up with him in your office. All this talk about what is possible for\nthe stage. I understand. He wants to get at his complicated 44 cerebral\ndrama\" to have his famous remorses and torments acted, but I want to act\nmy part, my part.\nThe Manager (annoyed, shaking his shoulders). Ah ! just your part.\nBut, if you will pardon me, there are other parts than yours. His (indicating\nthe Father) and hers {indicating the Mother). On the stage you can't have a\ncharacter becoming too prominent and overshadowing all the others. The\nthing is to pack them all into a neat little framework and then act what is\nactable. lam aware of the fact that everyone has his own interior life which\nhe wants very much to put forward. But the difficulty lies in this fact :\nto set out just so much as is necessary for the stage, taking the other characters\ninto consideration, and at the same time hint at the unrevealed interior life\nof each. lam willing to admit, my dear young lady, that from your point of\nview it would be a fine idea if each character could tell the public all his trouble\nin a nice monologue or a regular one hour lecture [good humoredly). You must\nrestrain yourself, my dear, and in your own interest too, because this fury of\nyours, this exaggerated disgust you show may make a bad impression you know."}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "336", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2425, "texte": "After you have confessed to me that there were others before him at Madame\nPace's and more than once . . .\nThe Step-Daughter (bowing her head, impressed). It's true. But re-\nmember those others mean him for me all the same.\nThe Manager [not understanding) What ? The others ? What do you\nmean ?\nThe Step-Daughter. For one who has gone wrong, sir, he who was\nresponsible for the first fault is responsible for all that follow. He\nis responsible for my faults, was, even before I was born. I,ook at him ! and\nsee if it isn't true !\nThe Manager. Well, well. And does the weight of so much responsi-\nbility seem nothing to you ? Give him a chance to act it, to get it over.\nThe Step-Daughter. How ? How can he act all his \" noble remorses \"\nall his \" moral torments \" if you want to spare him the horror of being discov-\nered one day — after he had asked her what he did ask her — in the arms\nof her, that already fallen woman, that child, sir, that child he used to watch\ncome out of school ? [She is moved).\n(The Mother at this point is overcome with emotion, and breaks out into a\nfit of crying. All are touched. A long pause).\nThe Step-Daughter (<zs soon as the Mother becomes a little quieter, adds\nresolutely and gravely). At present, we are unknown to the public. Tomorrow,\nyou will act us as you wish, treating us in your own manner. But do you really\nwant to see drama, do you want to see it flash out as it really did ?\nThe Manager. Of course. That's just what Ido want so I can use\nas much of it as is possible.\nThe Step-Daughter. Well then, ask that Mother there to leave us.\nThe Mother (<changing her low plaint into a sharp cry). No ! No !\nDon't permit it Sir, don't permit it !\nThe Manager. But it's only to tiy it.\nThe Mother. I can't bear it. I can't.\nThe Manager. But since it has happened already. I don't understand.\nThe Mother. It's taking place now. It happens all the time. My tor-\nment isn't a pretended one. I live and feel every minute of my torture. Those\ntwo children there — have you heard them speak ? They can't speak any\nmore. They cling to me to keep my torment actual and vivid for me. But\nfor themselves, they do not exist, they aren't any more. And she [indicat-\ning Step-Daughter) has run away, she has left me and is lost. If I now see her\nhere before me, it is only to renew for me the tortures I have suffered for\nher too.\nThe Father. The eternal moment! She [indicating the Step-Daughter)"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "337", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2137, "texte": "is here to catch me, fix me, and hold me eternally in the stocks for that one\nfleeting and shameful moment of my life. She can't give it up and you sir,\ncannot either fairly spare me it.\nThe Manager. I never said I didn't want to act it. It will form, as\na matter of fact, the nucleus of the whole first act right up to her surprise.\n(.Indicates the Mother).\nThe Father. Just so. This is my punishment: the passion in all of\nus that must culminate in her final cry.\nThe Step-Daughter. I can hear it still in my ears. It's driven me\nmad that cry. — You can put me on as you like ; it doesn't matter. Fully\ndressed if you like, provided I have at least the arms bare, because, standing\nlike this (she goes close to the Fcither and leans her head on his breast?) with my head\nso, and my arms round his neck, I saw a vein pulsing in my arm here; and\nthen, as if that live vein had awakened disgust in me, I closed my eyes like this,\nand let my head sink on his breast. (Turning to the Mother). Cry out mother !\ncry out! (Buries head in Fatherys breast, and with her shoulders raised as if to\nprevent her hearing the cry, adds in tones of intense emotion). Cry out as you\ndid then !\nThe Mother (coming forward to separate them). No ! My daughter, my\ndaughter (and after having pulled her away from him). You brute ! you brute !\nShe is my daughter ! Don't you see she's my daughter ?\nThe Manager (walking backwards towards footlights). Fine! fine! Damned\ngood ! And then, of course, curtain.\nThe Father (going towards him excitedly). Yes, of course, because that's\nthe way it really happened.\nThe Manager (convinced and pleased). Oh, yes, no doubt about it. Cur-\ntain here, curtain.\n(At the reiterated cry of The Manager, The Machinist lets the curtain\ndown, leaving the Manager and The Father in front of it before the footlights).\nThe Manager. The darned idiot! I said curtain to show the act should\nend there, and he goes and lets it down in earnest (to the Father, while he pulls\nthe curtain back to go on to the stage again). Yes, yes, it's all right. Effect cer-\ntain. That s the right ending. I'll guarantee the first act at any rate.\n5"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "337", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 2159, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2210, "texte": "Lirandello Pirandello\n(Translated By Edward Storer)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "338", "page_fin": "338", "image_debut": 68, "image_fin": 68, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "The Top Box", "titre_sommaire": "The Top Box", "signature_source": "William Gropper", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "338", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 27, "texte": "William Gropper\nThe Top Box"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "339", "page_fin": "340", "image_debut": 69, "image_fin": 70, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "Repast and Repose", "titre_sommaire": "Repast and Repose", "signature_source": "S. Foster Damon", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "339", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2610, "texte": "REPAST AND REPOSE\n\n\" I'll just fix up a little something quite nasty for your lunch \" my landlady\nsaid with her best sick-room presence, \" and I'll bring it up to you in bed, so as\nto keep you thoroughly uncomfortable. What crumbs get in the sheets you can\nbrush them out (if you can reach them), or else shove them down with your\nfeet.\"\n\" I'm sure your meal will be thoroughly unpalatable,\" I replied with a thank-\nful smile, \" especially to me in my strangely fussy attitude today. How could\nI expect that a person like you, so thoroughly undeveloped sensorially, to have\nany taste at all which I could respect ? But lam helpless ! Bring me up anything\n— provided it isn't hash or canned tomato.\"\nThese — or something very like them — were the words which made my\nlandlady beam as she left me alone in the grip of the wall-paper.\nI generally enjoy a light touch of fever, if the surroundings are pleasant.\nI flatter myself that it must be quite as entertaining as some furtive drug exper-\niment, and it certainly gives one a delicate suggestion of madness. I feel tempor-\narily in communion with the gentle souls of Gerard de Nerval and Villiers de\nl'lsle-Adam. All manner of old fascinations creep upon me. Whenever the doctor\nfinally tells me that I really should be in bed, at once a vivid, never-varied pic-\nture leaps into my inner eye : a window opening upon the end of a dark day of\nSpring. Upon the sill, a pot of all-but-scentless flowers. Smell of rain. Lamplight.\nAnd myself in bed, sometimes reading one of the old Gothic novels, sometimes\ndozing to indulge my imagination. The novel must be Gothic, charnel. In the\nstrange realms of fever, the ordinary exultations of Shakespeare and Shelley, even\nof Blake, are too remote, too sane. I must have cruel, morbid emotions : wan-\nder through half-ruined abbeys, explore secret passages ending in grated doors,\nhear midnight shrieks, or witness some love-scene held by a new-made grave.\nExcept for Poe's, the best of all these novels is easily \" Melmoth the Wan-\nderer, \" once held to be \" among the most sublime creations of the human brain,\"\neasily ranking with \" Manfred \" and \" Faust ! \" Mrs. Radcliffe's \" Mysteries of\nUdolpho \" is very pleasing; and who could not sympathize with her Adeline of\nthe \" Romance of the Forest ? \" What won my heart was Adeline's method of\nentering a ruined abbey with her father :\n\"The partial gleams thrown across the fabric seemed to make its desolation\nmore solemn, while the obscurity of the greater part of the pile heightened its\nsublimity, and led fancy on to scenes of horror. Adeline, who had hitherto re-"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "340", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2523, "texte": "mained in silence, now uttered an exclamation of mingled admiration and fear.\nA kind of pleasing dread thrilled her bosom and filled all her soul. Tears started\ninto her eyes she wished yet feared to go on. \"\nHow the very sentences reverberate with the windy emptiness of the ruin !...\nHere I lay the book down and close my eyes: in the rain-scented dusk my\nimagination raises for itself enormous black naves... Through them pass\nfantastic processions. . .\nYes, within reach I must have a shelf full of such books. \" Jane Eyre \"\nhas some thrills not entirely vulgar. The Elizabethan tragedies, especially those\nof Webster and Tourneur are appallingly hypnotic. Nor should Thomas IyOvell\nBeddoes's \" Death's Jest Book \" be forgotten, though it is as rambling and\npointless in structure as the Gothic architecture of the novels.\nSuch things I like to read. And at the end, when my hand is no longer\nstrong enough to hold the book, when the dusk is blotted out and my flame-\ncolored curtains are lighted only by my mellow lamp, I lay the book aside, take a\nlast spoonful of medicine, and extinguish the light. Then, alone and in darkness,\nI put out from the violet wharves of sleep, thrilled with a pleasing dread. . .\nSuch, as I conceive it, is the ideal fever : amusing, and not unprofitable;\nfor some day I may collect enough dreams to fill a novel or play of my own.\nBut the present reality — ah ! always this present reality! — is far from\nideal.\nThe wall-paper out in the hallway is of grey roses with brown stems and\nleaves. That alone seduced me into taking my room at this house :it seemed\nso impossibly, so fantastically sordid. But the wall-paper of my own room far\nsurpasses it as a neurotic masterpiece. It is a heavy network thrown over me,\nan old network, covering the ceiling, sick with the diseases of all its victims.\nIts ropes are blighted and flaked with particles of design which quickly resolve\ninto small animals, crawling staticly in all directions. When one gas-jet blares\nits fluted blue, such wall-paper hints grimly of murder. Most murders occur\nin rooms just like this.\nA knock; and the help enters, shrilling :\n\" Mrs. Brown wants t'know if y're feelin' better, and would you like some\nwarmed up hash. She's cleanin' the cellar today, and it would save time, if\ny' don't mind. \"\nAh, hands rinsed too briefly from the pail of grey waters !\n\" Yes, I suppose so ! \" and I accept the inevitable nourishment, trying to\nbelieve that nothing would taste good today, no matter what it is.\n\nS. Foster Damon"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "341", "page_fin": "345", "image_debut": 71, "image_fin": 75, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "Dedicated to the Enemy", "titre_sommaire": "Dedicated to the Enemy", "signature_source": "E. Gordon Craig", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "341", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 22, "texte": "DEDICATED TO THE ENEMY"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "341", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1936, "texte": "XI\nFor the onlooker, the sage, to change his mind — to be able to see all\nsides to all questions — to hunt with both hare and hounds — maybe this is\nall good and proper.\nFor the man of purpose — whatever his purpose may be — it is fatal.\nAll Action can be argued to be fatal and a pity — yet it is obvious that\nas wre are often given to action when sick of over-contemplation (a sickness\nwhich to the sages I must admit is rather reprehensible) — when we do turn\nto action — or rather when our meditation and our studies and the like would\nmake to move that which we love — would move it from obscurity into the\nlight and life of day — let us make it move hugely, slowly, and grandly . . .\nwhy else move it ?\nTo do this, then, even the artist meditator, while falling short of being\neven a sage, must not change his mind's eye. That, like the eye of the pilot,\nmust be unchangeably fixed upon the sea, the sky, and the boat.\nOur boat is our fixed purpose ; moving ever on, yet fixed; and we our\nselves have constructed it. Our seas and skies the all but ever restless existence\ncreated by mankind.\nWe have to steer this boat of ours across. the seven seas and through\nto port.\nAnd then gaping mouths and puckered brows ask whiningly why we don't\ntake them into our ship — our plan — : why we took them for a year and\nthen marooned them for treachery or landed them safely in some pretty port\nbecause of laziness.\nWe do not change our mind in such matters.\nBe they pretty ladies or remarkable men — once they have shown by\nsome mean act that they are out on their voyage for their own advantages,\nready to seize these and leave us any day in the lurch — one man or one woman,\none hand, less, then we land these amiable and ever so righteous self-seekers\nto seek for themselves where they like, but no more at our ship's expense.\nHas one of our crew married a wife, and is she bent on personal success"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "342", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2426, "texte": "at the expense of us all, and does she persuade her husband to follow her lead ?\n. . . this lady Macbeth in little and her little man must go on land — no room\nfor that kind of little ambition with us.\nAnd this may seem to some people very hard-hearted of us . . . cruel . . .\nterrible.\nI have heard a good deal about our plan being hard and cruel — inhuman.\nIt is fixed, our purpose, yet moves ever onwards. It is human as possible.\nOnly one thing is not allowed . . . and that is any form of treachery, no matter\nhow fair and friendly the veils be to our eyes.\nFamily and friends are in times of meditation and in times of peace lovely\nand companionable . . . but sometimes something turns family and friends into\nawful little traitors in times of action and bustle.\nIt's just a natural nervousness become hysterical which has gone and lost\nits way — look ye there.\nAs in these other enterprises the Obstructors have to be swept aside,\nand ruthlessly, so must we deal with those of our family or friends if they\noffer obstruction open or Jesuitical to our plans ... to our fixed purpose.\nTo give my particular inimical friends full credit, they seldom offer obstruc-\ntion openly. Their method is to show indignation and gentle regret, .. . that\nstamp of imitation Christianity which threatens to destroy the real Christianity\nitself.\nIndignation that I know what is wanted — regret that I state it deliber-\nately — sorrow that my purpose should be fixed and unalterable — pique that\nI have excluded them from my plans (my plans which are merely a purpose).\nReally, this is a little incredible.\nIf I were wealthy — worked to be rich — and cut off my friends and relations\nwith a stage shilling .. . then I could understand their mood. But when ali\nmy possession is solely in my fixed purpose, and that one really not far off\nfrom an ideal — that they should expect anything of me except my con-\ntempt in exchange for their underhand obstruction is a bright idea, and original\nanyhow.\nXII\nMy last word will be a plea.\nBe a little more careful, I beg you, not to misrepresent me and my friends\nto the People. We have chosen a difficult, not the easiest, way. Have we\nshirked any discomfort and any sacrifices that were to be made for our Theatre ?\nHave we more to sacrifice ?. . . only say so and we can attempt it. But don't\nmisrepresent us. Century after century we are always the same .. . you must\nsay that we are faithful."}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "343", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2557, "texte": "You get cross with us sometimes for nothing.\nIf we say we want applause to cease in Theatres you don't give it a moment's\nthought, and you fail to give the matter careful investigation. If you thought\nand enquired you would find that the very people whom you imagine love ap-\nplause, hate it. If you are a member of society you applaud a celebrated\nJenny and set her tip as your example of how a public favourite feels\nabout such things .. . for you think she adores it. But Princess Pauline Met-\nternich tells us in her Memoirs that Jenny Lind at the end of a song, when the\napplause was frantic, raised her hand saying \" Please don't applaud. I have\nalways disliked applause and fuss and it was to avoid them that I left the stage\nso soon. \"\nIf you are a Socialist you applaud the name of Mazzini just as crowds\nonce applauded the man. \"Absurd applause, \" says Mazzini himself of the\ncustom.\nAnd if you will only think a while longer and enquire into the past you\nwill find most of my proposals in this book are reasonable, and that many of them\ncan be found put into practice, or longed to be practised, by the best of our\nfellow workers in the past : by the great names you justly honour.\nAnd so it would be an easy matter — and a reasonable one — to put\nthem once more into practice.\nWhereas, the proposals which are new — the hints I give to bring us a\nnew Theatre — these need not so much your thought or careful enquiry\nas your courage. Courage to accept them .. . for it is only your fear which\ncauses you to reject them and so to lose something . . . and courage to urge\nthat they be put immediately into practice. Show courage towards me and you\ndo no harm and much good to the People and most of all to yourself.\nFor if you do not show courage in this, my ideas will die with me —\nfor no one but myself can possibly carry them into execution. Of this I am\nquite sure.\nAnd you — are you not beginning to suspect it too ? You thought\nten years ago that any young and intelligent and enthusiastic follower of mine\ncould be persuaded, encouraged, and paid to bring out \" Craig's ideas \" as they\nare called.\nReinhardt comes : you thought you had the ideas then — and cheaply.\nThe Russian Ballet : — you still think they brought you something of the\nkind . . . and hardly a month passes but some new and crazy adventurer appears\nin Rome, Paris, London or New York and you nudge yourself and fancy you\nare going to get my ideas at last — and cheaply — and without obligation\nto me.\nBut are you not beginning to see that you are no nearer the solution —"}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "344", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2439, "texte": "and that the problem you thought so easy is not to be solved until you turn\nto me and empower me to solve it in whatever way seems best to me ?\nAnd I think you know by this time that I will only show my work in\nfuture in a theatre of my own.\nI was five to six times asked by Reinhardt to enter his admirable theatre and\nproduce a play as I wished to see it produced. I did not do so — and I will\ndo no such thing. \" What, you won't produce a play as you wish to see it\nproduced !\". . . I seem to hear the scream. Calmly, please. I never said\nany such bosh. I said I will not enter another man's theatre and do it. I\nwill do it only in my own theatre. Is that clear ? Do you know the old song\nbeginning\nWill you walk into my parlour. ..\nYou are strange people. You blame me for not taking into their theatres\nthe very things which I am keeping for you so that you may have them intact\nin mine. In their theatres the ideas would be pulled limb from limb. Is it not\nso ? — and what are they worth in pieces ? You see what they are worth\nfor you have them in pieces : . . . yet your public raves over them — that's\nthe queerest thing of all. Yes, you are a strange people.\nYou don't go on in that way about paintings, do you ? Perhaps you do —\nbut it seems to me that when you are purchasing paintings for the National\nGallery you are very careful to buy an original, a genuine Bellini,- or an au-\nthentic Van Dyck. I never heard of the National Gallery preferring to purchase\nan imitation of one of the panels of a triptych by Memling to the genuine\nthree panels. Did you ? And yet that's exactly the whole English policy\nin regard to nearly all theatrical works of art. If it can get the imitation it\nseems delighted. \" The original was too expensive \" is the feeble reply which\nis nearly always offered. Which is obviously only the excuse vamped up in\nthe confusion of the moment when the purchasers see what a hash they've\nmade of the whole transaction.\nAnd now, because I have not given you a text book called \" Craig's Ideas,\nand how to put each one of them into practice, \" do not misrepresent the book\nand me by saying that I am unpractical.\nIf I haven't given you the whole of my Ideas the modern theatre holds\nproof that I've given you some, and that these are put into execution.\nI give you some more here. Don't be churlish and ask with some show\nof a grievance why I've not given you all. I think it's your turn to do some-\nthing."}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "345", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1054, "texte": "The attempt to antagonize the artist by throwing ever one more obstacle\nin his path :\n(a) By rejecting what he has to bring ; by doing this beyond the\nregulation time limit:\n(b) by supporting one foreigner the more :\n(c) by not empowering him to work :\n(d) by criticising the work they have not seen :\n(E) by praising turpitudes :\n(112) and by numerous other methods the which roll away from my mind\nlike the famous water does off the infamous duck's back .. .\nthis attempt to antagonize him does succeed — for .a short while. And it\nis necessary to his progress that this be so.\nBut as it does not succeed in doing more than this — and since he merely\nresorts to blockade — and you get no genuine goods into England — is it\nwise to fool away the time turning the artist into Aunt Sally ... and failing\nto hit him every time ?\nWho would not willingly serve as so British a figure to real sportsmen :\nbut I ask myself, is this sort of thing real sport ? is it playing the game ? . . .\nand I leave you to answer what concerns me no longer.\n\nE. Gordon Craig"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "346", "page_fin": "350", "image_debut": 76, "image_fin": 80, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "After and Beyond Dada", "titre_sommaire": "After and Beyond Dada", "signature_source": "Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "346", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2489, "texte": "AFTER AND BEYOND DADA\n\nArt continues to be a losing proposition, financially, in Paris as well as in\nChicago or New York. Let us have done with the old-fashioned slogan that Amer-\nican papas have always chanted : \" A young man has got to be self-supporting' .\nThe significant books of the spring season in France have been published,\nlargely at their authors' expense ; while the Pierre Benoits, the Binet-Valmers,\nthe Leon Daudets, continue to draw fat salaries.\nFrance, possessing splendid youthful material, is undergoing a dangerous\nperiod of bigotry, chauvinism, intolerance. Her younger artists and writers\nare driven to the wall for a moment. But the battle is always more exhilarating\nhere ; there is more surplus youthful truculence to enlist, and the intransigent\nminority gives least quarter . . .\nThe appearance of three or four new books by the younger and less tra-\ndition-bound of the French writers is an indication of a renewed lease of life after\nthe demise of Dada. There is no doubt that the more forceful and spirited young\nmen were intrigued for several years by the Dada affair. After much argument\nover the feeble pulse and the attenuated heart beats of the expiring \" move-\nment \", Messrs. Philippe Soupalt, Louis Aragon, and Paul Eluard, once staunch\nadherents, publish new books which they would have written Dada or no Dada.\n\" Dada has run its course, has served its purpose, \" they say in effect.\n\"It was very exciting while it lasted, but it is about time to have done\nwith it. \"\nThrough bombast, dynamite, blague, vilification, impertinence much\nheadway had been made against the unwholesome tendency of present-day\nFrance to develop within its own past, to produce within the limits set by the\n90s or the 19th century, to grow, in short, like an ingrown toe-nail.\nThe hunt is now on for \" purity \" of form and content, while expressing\nthe distinctive modern attitude developed in post-war Europe. Among the drastic\nyoung writers this attitude is negation (you believe in neither God nor country)\nand thanks to negation, a ridiculous credulousness in ever so many trivial and\ntouching things is vaunted, an inclination toward the idiotic mirth provided by\nthe rushing crowded cacaphony of modern existence. The writer arms himself\nwith new material. There is no logical direction or growth. It is rather that\nmany unexpected zones of experience have been discovered to him within the\nmonstrous expansion of human activity, and he is concerned for the moment"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "347", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2155, "texte": "with reaching for and gathering these impressions, being cognitive rather than\nselective.\nAn instance of this search for fresh booty is the strong leaning for purely\nAmerican elements in the new literature. The contemporary American flora\nand fauna are collected, in an arbitrary fashion, out of the inimitable films, the\nnewspaper accounts, the jazz band, 011 the hunch that the world is on its way\nto being Americanized in the next two decades. Although the quality of the\nnew poetry is so formidably different from its predecessors, as to be distracting,\nthe play of the intellect is dominant — intellect, of course, freed from the\nsyllogism as well as from empiricism, therefore naked plundering intellect, in\nastonishing encounters and adventures.\nWestwego Philippe Soupalt's new book, is a single poem of some four hundred\nlines. The new \" cultural elements as an archaeologist would term them, are\nintroduced with the soft pedal. Their novelty does not divert the attention from\nthe extraordinary freshness and simplicity of his manner. Employing the me-\ndium of free verse as he does, there is no shock of the bizarre as in Paul Morand\nor Cocteau, where the exotic is painfully hunted for. The quick insolent mind of\nSoupault springs into laughter that is neither of sophistication nor of naivete.\nBut best of all he retains with his new media the gift of song :\nsur les bords de la Tamise\nun beau matin de fevrier\ntrois anglais en bras de chemise\ns'egosillaient a chanter\ntrou la la trou la la trou la laire\nThis lyric which occurs in the course of the long poem is reminiscent of the\nmost delicious and most nonsensical of his Chansons, still unpublished. One\nthinks of Blake because Soupault's French verses almost suggest the tonic English\naccent. The spoken word here achieves its utmost vigor and purity with an\nease that is happy and un-laboured.\nMary Daisy Poppy\npetites flammes\ndans ce bar sans regard ...\nmarchons pour etre sots\ncourrons pour etre gais\nrions pour etre forts\nSoupault's images are the products of sophisticated senses, but they pro-\ntrude no jarring reverberations and their cerebral character is scarcely per-\nceptible :"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "348", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2227, "texte": "Je me promenais d Londres un ete\nles pieds brulants et le coeur dans les yeux\npres des murs noirs pres des murs rouges\npres des grands docks\nou les policemen geants\nsont piques commes des points d' interrogations\nWestwego should be read at one sitting in fifteen minutes. It is too simple\nand limpid to be translated, too sustained to be quoted from. Its only apparent\nweakness is its closeness to the Apollinaire of Alcools and Caligrammes, the\n\" voyageur, voyageur ! \" and the ever changing panorama of the globe-trotter.\nAt that Guillaume Apollinaire was far more uneven. With the same impulsive\nequipment he fell more frequently into mediocre writing which the more scru-\npulous Soupault fails to disclose. Philippe Soupault is significant in that he\nformulates tendencies in poetry toward which Apollinaire groped spontaneously.\nPhilippe Soupault may never reach America despite his great urge to\nvisit the United States. However, we may never have quite the same expa-\ntriated American note that tinkles in certain of the younger French poets.\nThe work of Paul Eluard in Repetitions undergoes evolutions toward one\nof its later stages — perfection ; at least for those who are familiar with his\nearlier work. His curiously poems are a strange outgrowth among\nthe common garden flowers. From the exaggerated air of detachment, all\nthe way to the faultless typographical arrangement of each poem on the\nprinted page it is a provoking, an arresting book. Eluard has worked exquisi-\ntely deep into his own corner, into his personal idiom. Here, poety is 110 more\nrepresentative or descriptive than a Lipschitz sculpture. The formal aspects\nof the poems are as thought-provoking as the imagist recordings of Amy\nIyowell are boring. The poet ceases to be Nature's stenographer.\nThe Eluard method is fascinating : to take banal phrases, words that\noccur a thousand times in daily speech and juxtapose them into patterns of\ncontrast, harmony, obliqueness, etc. The manner is deliberate enough, and is\ncarried off with great deftness.\nIyA MORT DANS I,A CONVERSATION\nQui a votre visage\nLa bonne et la mauvaise\nLa belle imaginable\nGymnastique a I'infini\nDepassant en mouvements\nLes couleurs et les baisers\nLes grands gestes la nuit."}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "349", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2537, "texte": "Poetry for poetry's sake, you will say. Poetry becomes a sort of mad\nmathematic with Eluard At intense moments he attains a brilliance and\nvolume that is not of science. But more often the line of thought is mechanical,\ntortured and tragic. A characteristic passage is : \" The sacrificed make a ges-\nture which means nothing amid the lace-work of all the other gestures, imaginary,\nof five or six, toward the place of repose where there is no one. Agreed that they\nhave taken refuge in the naked branches of a desperate politeness, tree-tops,\nclipped by gusts of wind. Take, cords of life. Could you take more liberties ? \"\nOr this :\nTREMBIyANT\nSignal vide et signal a Veventail d'horloge\nAux caresses unies d'une main sur le ciel\nAux oiseaux entrouvrant le livre des aveugles\nEt d'une aile apres Vautre entre cette heure et Vautre\nDessinant Vhorizon faisant tourner les ombres\nQui limitent le monde quand j'ai les yeux baisses\nPaul Eluard attains full growth in this, his fourth volume of poems. The\ndaring method of his earlier work attracted comment, amazement, mock-\nery. Despite the perfection of Repetitions, it, like Soupault's book is received\nsilently in Paris, where Paul Morand's Ouvert la Nuit has just gone through\ntwenty (20) editions in three weeks.\n\" It only remains for Eluard to fire a revolver at his poetic talent, \" said\nTzara. The domain of pure poetry contracts, indeed, with every fresh raid,\ninto narrower and narrower confines.\nIf poetry is approaching its incommensurable limits, prose is merely begin-\nning to oj)en its eagle wings and \"mew its mighty youth\". It is becoming\nclear that a novel need not absolutely have a social message nor a short story\nhave a plot in order to be artistic. It is just as possible to dispense with\nthese elements as to use them admirably.\nOf two new books published by the Nouvelle Revue Frangaise the one,\nPaul Morand's Ouvert la Nuit, proves my thesis negatively, the other, Tele-\nmaque by Aragon, positively. Morand seeking this time to outdo Conrad\nin romantic adventure, in shifting panorama, bizarre cafes in Constantinople\nor Berlin, and throbbing modernity in the dining cars of the Compagnie des\nWagons-Iyits et des Grands Express Europeens, appeals to a large audience,\nhis book being disseminated in thoroughly American fashion with a pink\njacket reproducing the laudatory press comments. The \" modern \" note is\nattempted by means of harsh metallic phrases which reverse habitual thought-\nassociations. The disagreable aspect of Morand is his pretension of style by"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "350", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2828, "texte": "virtue of the impurities of language which he resorts to. The press critics have\nspoken eloquently enough of his \" modernity His is, at any rate, a much\nmore vicious tendency than that of Pierre Benoit. Blah! Give us more\nZane Grey.\nIvouis Aragon in Telemaque, a type of \" roman poetique \", has made a\nconsiderable advance upon his first precocious novel, Anicet. Telemaque has\nswift movement, is rich in incident, and its characters are accomplished person-\nnages who speak in an exalted and floridly-figured diction ; but these elements\nare vehicles for the poet. In the negation of all beliefs the mind voyages\nthrough many troubling moods and planes of complete bereftness of the tangible\nuniverse. The conceptions of time and extension vanish before the impassioned\nquestioning of the poet, and memories of distinct trivial wounding moments\nreturn. There are lovely recitatives of this type discovered in a succession of\nbottles found at sea which interrupt the progression of the \" novel For\nAragon, the language yields too easily, falls too felicitously into broad and lux-\nurious chords. In Joyce's Ulysses there are flights of language and innovations\nin the technique of prose which stimulate reflection upon the ultimate destiny of\nthe prose novel. Ulysses is an eloquent and disorganized masterpiece. Te-\nlemaque a far smaller book is written with an equal fertility of styles, in turn\ninsolent, cerebral, florid and euphuistic. The book observes an intrinsic organ-\nization, from which it breaks at the end upon a note of complete abandon —\nthe agonized escape of the mind.\nThe spectacle of French letters in the City of lyight rolls on. The Prix\nGoncourt and the other Prix Balzac-Bazaharoff, Catulle Mendes, etc. come and\ngo. If we are to have literary subsidies in America, Heaven preserve us from\nsuch scenes as attended the donation of the all important Prix Goncourt where\nthe vote was so evenly divided that three or four novels appeared with jackets\nthat brazenly announced how closely the author had come to clutching the\ncoveted prize. The award was finally tendered a negro. Rene Maran, for his\nBatouala which subsequently swam into the enormous publicity and circulation\nwhich attends the award of this soiled prize. The book is a polemic on the\neternally stupefying race question, with suitable tracts of horror and debauchery.\nMr. Ezra Pound finds occasion to chuckle over the fact that the Prix Goncourt *\nnovel of 1922 will never get through the American mails. It is, nevertheless,\nmuch sadder than that. Americans may well be spared this crowned book\nwhich is as doctrinaire as a Woodrow Wilson note, and of less artistic merit.\nThe significant writing of this generation in France is more likely to be wel-\ncomed in New York than in official Paris in its present frame of mind.\n\nMatthew Josephson"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "351", "page_fin": "352", "image_debut": 81, "image_fin": 82, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.23", "titre_corps": "Comment : The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari", "titre_sommaire": "Comment : The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "351", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1704, "texte": "COMMENT\nThe cabinet of Doctor Caligari\nI don't like this film. Why ?\nBecause it is a film of misapprehension.\nBecause it is a film that casts discredit on all modern Art.\nBecause it is hybrid, hysterical, unwholesome.\nBecause it is not cinema.\nFilm of misapprehension because it is faked and dishonest.\nCasts discredit on modern Art because the discipline of modern painters\n(cubist) is not the hypersensibility of madmen but equilibrium, intensity, and\nmental geometry.\nHybrid, hysterical, unwholesome because it is hybrid, hysterical, unwhole-\nsome (vive the cow boys !)\nIs not cinema because :\n1. The pictorial deformations are only tricks (new modern conventions) ;\n2. real characters in unreal sets ;\n3. the deformations are not optical and do not depend on the angle\nof taking, nor on the objective, nor on the lens, nor 011 the focus;\n4. there is never any unity ;\n5. theatrical;\n6. movement but no rhythm ;\nj. no purification of the technique, all the effects obtained by the aid\nof means belonging to painting, music, literature, etc. One is never aware\nof the Camera.\n8. sentimental and not visual;\n9. good photography, good lighting, superexcellent acting.\n10. Good business.\nBlaise Cendrars\nThe short review of Dr. Caligari's Cabinet given above provides a curious\ncontrast to the reaction of most American modern artists and critics to the same\nfilm. It is not an isolated French opinion, but is typical of the attitude of contem-\nporary modern French artists. We heard half-a-dozen times : A thiid gra.de\nAmerican movie is better than this. \"\nThe explanation is partly due to the sharp demarcation between scientific\nFrench post-impressionism and intuitional German expressionism and partly"}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "352", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2364, "texte": "is owing to the American presbyopia when the art products of his own country\nare in question. Cendrars only differs from many in that his dislike is explicit,\ndue to his having directed films himself.\nNevertheless, the French public thronged the house nightly, even though\nPhilippe Soupault, representing the erst-while Dadaists, alone of critics saw fit\nto praise it.\nThe Book of American Negro Poetry. Edited by James Johnson\n(Harcourt, Brace & Co., New York).\nHarlem Shadows by Claude Mackay (Harcourt, Brace & Co., New York).\nThough Mr. Johnson claims too much for his coloured kinsmen, and in his\npreface comes near to attributing to them the best in American poetry, he has\nnevertheless compiled an anthology which has every right to exist. The poets\nrepresented run from Paul Iyawrence Dunbar to moderns like Fenton Johnson\nand Claude McKay. The principal characteristics of this poetry, much of which\nis written in the negro dialect, are a very simple directness, a Salvation Army kind\nof Christianity which sometimes become maudlin, and a certain childishness.\nMr. Johnson rebuts this charge of childishness levelled against the negro, but it\nexhales from this anthology, and is often indeed one of its charms. The first and\nbest characteristic, that of simple directness, is to be found in only a few of the\npoems. Mr. Johnson in his preface goes so far as to say that the negro has been\n\" the creator of the only things artistic that have sprung from American soil and\nhave been universally acknowledged as distinctive American products. \" Such\noverstatements weaken the effect of his interesting preface. Mr. Claude McKay\nin his volume Harlem Shadows shows to much better advantage than he does in\nthe selections made in the anthology of Negro poetry. There the editor has\nstressed the verses dedicated to race antagonism. McKay's purely lyrical ta-\nlent is seen at its best in such simple touching pictures as the Easter Flowers\nOn Broadway, The City's Love.\nBooks Received.\nHeavens. By IyOUis Untermeyer (Harcourt, Brace & Co., New York).\nCivilization in the United States. By Thirty Americans. (Harcourt,\nBrace & Co., New York).\nOuvert la Nuit. By Paui, Morand (Editions de la Nouvelle Revue Frangaise).\nAnita. By E. Scudder (Blackwell, Oxford, England).\nThe Little Death. By Irene Forbes Mosse. Translated by Mrs. Henry\nHead (Allen, Unwin, London)."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c037", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c037", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[353]", "page_fin": "[353]", "image_debut": 83, "image_fin": 83, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "[353]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.83", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 401, "texte": "Parfum PARIS,,\ne new COTY creation\n■\ni\nMt\nWi\nV 1 ' »as-:\n'.» jst'\n® '\n•V. *E\n•^:3\nfiscinaticm of ffctVlS—the,\nvivid personality of the,\ncity ofc) ay covtvacje—- it breathes\nits indescribable- allvtre irz the,\nexquisite pe--rfu?ne PAR.I S,,\nthe veritable spirit essence, of-~\n, the citi,\nc~u\n\"PARIS,,\nESSENCE\nTOILET WATER\nFACE POWDER\nCOMPACT\nSACHET\nMew Qforf 7 14-fffth ffhuenue\ntyTlontreal 14- Scjuare"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c038", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c038", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[354]", "page_fin": "[354]", "image_debut": 84, "image_fin": 84, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.26", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "[354]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 196, "texte": "r=i\niii i\n112\ni—i—\nI:— —^—'—:— I\nzPearl\nF==^\nDREICER&C\no\n560 u\nI—l —I\nvenue\ni-—l—i\nF=FT\n0 1 1\"\nal\nCenlun/Jei\nCaskeir—'betonqi\n{o the (Duchesse\ncte vendo me—\nr s lii\nPU >\neWe\nv.-\\ [j I'll\nm\nc ru\nmm"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-07-01-c039", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01#c039", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-07_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 85, "image_fin": 85, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.2.27", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.85", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1298, "texte": "The largest selling quality\npencil in the world.\nAS soft as ycu\nwish; as hard as\nyou please, but al-\nways smoother than\nyou had dreamed.\nAny VENUS Pen-\ncil you select glides\nover the paper with\na restful freedom free\nfrom friction.\n17 Black Degrees\n3 Copying\nFor bold heavy lines\n68-58-48-3B\nFor writing, sketching\n2E-B-HB-F-H\nFor clean fine lines\n2H-3H-4H-SH-6H\nFor delicate, thin lines\n7H-BH-9H\nPlain Ends,\nper doz. $ 1.00\nRubber Ends,\nper doz. $ 1.20\nAt Stationers and Stores\nthroughout the World.\nAmerican\nLead Pencil Co\n220 Fifth Avenue\nNew York.\nand London, Eng.\ncarv mere\ncypress kow\nyou. -fecf ?——\nr yau-Ye done Vou.r feesi\n—war it up znd\nS&y tir Wi{(\\ 112\nSHE \\S112 Write or front us,\nwe'll arrange -far irnrngJiatf delivery\nin any ciiy rVi -tfw Un<j ,*ba«fcs i* ou.r\n3<OQO \\potida.4 reprasani^iiYes\nI—II 112 J * * S M * S\n•7*5\n* J^evvyorftw\nISIEIEIEIEIEIiaHEIiaEIiaEIEIHBEIEIEIEIiaEIiaiaBIEIEI\nCD\n(XI\nCD\nQD\nCO\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nDaniel Gallery\nPAINTINGS BY MODERN\nAmerican and French Artists\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\n- 2 WEST 47™ STREET q,\nCD\n§ NEW YORK CITY ====== jgj\nCD- CD\nCD CD\nODCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDGDCDGDCDCDCDCD"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[272]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAn International Magazine of the Arts Published by Harold A. Loeb.\nEditor, Harold A. Loeb. Associate Editor, Edward Storer. American Editor, Lola Ridge.\nJuly, 1922\nAPPEARS MONTHLY\nVOL. 2, NO 4.\nThe Editor of Broom will be pleased to consider mss. submitted to him, but all mss. must\nbe accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. The Editor cannot hold himself respon-\nsible for loss of mss. in transit.\nMss. from Europe , should be,sent to the Rome office; mss. from America to the New\nYork office.\nThe price of Broom is :\nFor America, fifty cents the copy, and five dollars for a year's subscription. For Italy,\n10 lire the copy, and 100 lire for a year's subscription. For France, 6 francs the copy, and\n60 francs for a year's subscription. For Great Britain, 3/6 the copy, and one pound and fifteen\nshillings for a year's subscription.\nThe contents of this issue are protected by copyright, January, 1922. Infringement of\nsame .will be prosecuted.,\nEntered as Second Class matter at the Post Office at New York, N. Y. April 22, 1922\nunder the Act of March 3, 1879.\nHeadquarters, 68, Via Leccosa, Rome (9), Italy.\nNew York Office,,:Three East Ninth Street.\nLondon Office, Cecil Palmer, Oakley House, 15-18 Bloomsbury St., W. C. I,\n\nCover Design — Fernand Leger. p!?e\nSunset — E. E. Cummings. 273\nDrawing — Picasso • 274\nThe Sun Rises in Darkness — Robert M. Coates 275\nIllustrations — George Sachen 276-278-281-284\nFable — Elinor Wyllie 285\nNike — Evelyn Scott 286\nWoodcuts — Galanis 286-292-293\nFourth of July fire crackers — Emmy Veronica Sanders . .287\nThe Word — Paul Eluard 294\nThe Princess takes a Potion — John Mosher 296\nThree portraits —E. E. Cummings . 306\nWoodcuts — Ladislaw Medgyes 295-306-308-345\nA Necessary and Sufficient Literature — Jean Epstein 309\nDrawing — Picasso.. 316\nDrawing — Modigliani 317\nObscurity — Jeanette Marks. 318\nSix Characters in Search of an Author, act II — Luigi Pirandello ....... 321\nDrawing — William Gropper 33#\nRepast and Repose — S. Foster Damon 339\nDedicated to the enemy — Gordon Craig 341\nAfter and Beyond Dada — Matthew Josephson 346\nComment x 351"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "273", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.3", "texte": "SUNSET\nE. E. Cummings\nstinging\ngold swarms\nupon the spires\nsilver\nchants the litanies the\ngreat bells are ringing with rose-\nthe lewd fat bells\nand a tall\nwind\nis dragging\nthe\nsea\nwith\ndream\n-s"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "274", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.4", "texte": "Picasso\nCourtesy Paul Rosenberg Gallery — Paris.\nDrawing"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "275", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.5", "texte": "THE SUN RISES IN DARKNESS\n\nMcDowell awoke in the darkness and lay thinking of the light.\nTo be sure the day is a hard time, and tiring to the eyes, for all day\nlong, and pinched in the bitter spray of sunlight, the eyeballs must\nbe continually at work, striving to settle into order the swaying mas-\nses about. Battered shuttlecocklike as ray impinging on mirror-\nsurface darts back to mirror-surface, the eyeballs must still be pushing\n— holding back the jostling houses — trying to prevent a man in\na green overcoat from becoming a bubble of red-shot yellow as he\nreaches a corner —- from merging into a tree that blooms indis-\ntinctly, elbowing its zig-zag into the declining angle of a wall when\na great house of concrete, wood, stone, steel collapses as gently as a\ndeflated balloon. The road that must be trodden heaving, huge\npurple masses poising over it, and he with his eyeballs straining\nand stinging, striving to hold a way open.\nAt night, usually, the darkness abolished this ; and at night\nusually, it was sweet to lie as if in space, unsurrounded, unsupported\n— to stare into the darkness and in that deep presence find the re-\nlease of utter blindness. Yes, at night, usually, one could know the\nquiet comfort of the blind.\nAnd McDowell lay trying to grasp the thought, but to-night\nhe could not. And though he struggled almost physically with it —\nbesought it almost tenderly as an amorous intruder, with sweating\ndisarray of the bed clothes, the darkness disappeared in the night\nand he cowered again, dwarfed before the towering walls of his room,\nthe imminent ceiling above, the crowded, beetling houses without.\nHe felt his heart quickening. With it the rythm of the masses\nclouded about him accelerated ; swaying toward him ; pending ba-"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "276", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.6", "texte": "lanced over him... a breathless snatch of time... they were rushing\nback, back to a pin-point of distance to begin again the onset.\nThe muscles of his eyeballs strained to combat them through\nthe clouding shadows but he could not hold them and in fear he flung\nup his arms to ward off the crushing walls. He beat his hands into\nspace above his head, striving to reach the ceiling that descended to\nan inch above his finger-tips. He could almost feel its weight settling\nagainst his braced arms, but it poised tantalizingly and swept up again\nwith a rush that nearly sucked him after it.\nHe was out of bed and pacing the room, knocking among the un-\nsteady chairs.\n\" I'll get out of here,\" he said. \" I'll get out of here.\"\nMcDowell found the street and it was the same as always. He\ncould hold the houses near at hand — if his eyeballs smarted and\ncracked he could hold them. But what good if a block away the street\ntwisted like wax in flame and blurred itself into flaring curves, swelling\nyeasty whorls turning dizzily on bubbling outlines evaporating smok-\nily window panes that would splinter before your fist hazily made\nout distending like taffy not a block away.\nAnd a man must make his way through. No need to mention\nthe effect on a man's head, but was everything under puffing pressure ?\nSky-high and weighing tons, no architect would admit that masses\nof concrete and stone could stand at such an angle and he defenceless\nmust get under and through."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "277", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.7", "texte": "He had walked a long time. The moonlight was very acute.\nThe darkness delivered a woman before him, standing looking\nat him.\n\" Come with me, dearie ? \" she intoned, and tried to fasten their\neyes together. He refused to be a hole for a buttonhook while he said,\nAre you a prostitute ? \" and then found everything spinning on their\nrod-like glance as he met her eye.\nShe answered candidly.\n\" What were you thinking of in the darkness there, before I came\nalong ? he asked. McDowell was a tall man, and the girl found\nthat his gaze penetrated hers. She felt herself swept into his being,\npulled on the line of his glance, enclosing on herself like a handker-\nchief tied at its center to a string.\n\" Why,\" she hesitated in replying. \" I don't know.\"\n\"Of nothing, certainly,\" McDowell went on, not speaking to\nher, but gazing at her. \"Do prostitutes ever have thoughts ? \"\nThe woman saw no reason for replying and the tall man whose eye\ncentered in hers went on speaking. \" I should like to know. And\nwhy do you stand in the darkness ?\" — \" I fear it,\" said the woman.\n—\" I should certainly like to be a prostitute for a while. And I like\nto look in your eyes, for I can hold them steadily, though I cannot\nmake out when your face is beautiful and when it is plain.\"\nHe spoke further, but the woman had lost herself. She heard\nhim say, \" Why do I speak of myself so much ? It must be that I\nlove you,\" and when he took her hand she recognized the cool, crackling\nsensation she had expected with herself.\n\" Come along with me,\" said McDowell, \" I can't find my way\nvery well alone.\"\n\" Don't you know the city ?\" she asked as they started along,\nand anyone looking out of his window, perhaps to rest in the moonlight\nafter dreaming, would have seen these two figures, black against"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "278", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.8", "texte": "the white light of the moon, progressing up the shining street. He\nmight have heard thinly the voice of McDowell replying :\n\" I never know it well.\"\n\" Where, then ? \"\n\" I have had too much of these white walls and black shadows-\nI want to find a place where it is all light or all darkness. We shall\ngo to see the sun rise.\" This perhaps before the little figures vanished.\nThey were still walking hand in hand, when a man rose from be-\nside a black pile and a red lantern. As far as McDowell was concerned,\nthe man had been created there.\n\" Look out there, you !\" he cried suddenly. \" You'll fall in the\nhole.\"\n\" I see nothing but a patch of darkness,\" McDowell replied.\n\" I've had to walk through many of those. It makes you afraid,\nbut you always get through all right.\""}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "279", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.9", "texte": "\" Iyook out, I say ! \" the man shouted, beginning to climb over\nthe pile. \"Go around. It's ten feet deep/'\nMcDowell could not help laughing at this. \" Who measured it ? \"\nhe demanded. \" You, fool ? Are you a metaphysician, then ?\nYou need more courage, friend/' He started forward and fell in the\nhole.\nThe man rushed with the lantern to where the girl stood at the\nedge of the darkness. \" Are you hurt ? \" he called.\n\" Not yet,\" they heard McDowell reply. \" But take that lantern\naway. It's dark here.\"\n...\"I wouldn't care,\" the man kept saying as they dragged him\nout, protesting testily. \" But it's my job to watch here. I'd get\nfired here.\"\nMcDowell was brushing his clothes, when he said to the girl\nat last, \" Why didn't you come, too ? \"\nShe had been expecting it. \" I tried to, but your hand slipped\nand I was afraid. If you had held me.\"\n\" You were afraid of the darkness ? \" asked McDowell. Before\nshe could answer he spoke again. \" I know what is in your mind.\nYou know the joy I feel in looking in your eyes. And in the darkness\nyou might lose me again.\" She nodded, and McDowell paused.\n\" We 11... \"he said at length. \" I hesitate to combat your theory.\nBut it is undeniable that one projects one's self in the darkness unhin-\ndered by the influence of so-called reality. It follows, then, that the\nbottom of that hole would have been our supreme test. If we had\neach projected ourselves commingled with the other — if I am you\nequally as myself... Do you follow me ? \" he interrupted himself\nto ask.\n\" Yes,\" she said. — \" It's madness,\" he remarked joyously. —\n\" I follow you there,\" she replied, and at the edge of the hole they\nembraced. \"We are at the edge of the darkness,\" he whispered\nto her. \" Come, let us make the test again —- together.\"\nBut the man with the lantern hastily interposed. \" No you don't,\"\nhe said surlily. \" I don't care, but I'd lose my job.\""}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "280", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.10", "texte": "McDowell was dumbfounded. \" This changing thing they call\nreality/' he said to the girl with the accent of a Sunday School super-\nintendent in his tall embracing figure. \" That's the madness of it.\nFor example, here he is again ! \"\n\" Complete light is the same thing as complete darkness,\" the\ngirl reached his ear to say. \" That was settled years ago.\"\n\" I know/' McDowell nodded. \" Extremes are the same point\non a circle... Well, then/' he agreed. \" us find the sunrise. —\nYou come too,\" he added, turning to the man with the lantern.\n\" Evidently you were meant to influence me.\"\nThe man hesitated and was ashamed. \" I'd lose my job,\" he\nsaid, diminuendo.\n\" I forbid that travesty, then,\" McDowell was polite enough\nto say, and with a quick foot smashed the red lantern. \" Admit\nyour fear.\" And taking the girls' hand he started his long legs in va-\ncillatory motion.\n... The man with the lantern was a shadow that had ceased to\nexist when they heard a panting breath behind them. \" Who is that ?\"\nasked McDowell, rolling his eyeballs toward the girl.\n\" It's me,\" the man replied. \" I'm coming with you. You\nsaid I needed courage and I got more than you ever thought of.\"\n\" Besides,\" added McDowell maliciously in a low voice. \" When\nI smashed your lantern.\"\nThe man's voice rose menacingly. \"By God! I'd smash your face.\"\n\" What good in that, friend ? Death would make my under-\nstanding kinetic. I have you. Submit. And, to comfort you, we all\nhave our symbolical red lanterns.\"\nSo the three of them were walking.\nA man in a high hat, opera cape and patent leather shoes was\nleaning over a bridge. He did not notice the three passersby, and\neven when the man (whose name was Cleary) ran up and knocked\nhis hat off, saying \"It glitters/' he continued to lean bareheaded\nover the stream."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "281", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.11", "texte": "McDowell went and leaned by his side, and the man in the opera\ncape heard him, say, Its dark down there/' in an understand-\nably satisfied tone. It was the first comprehensible thing he had\nheard in weeks among the concatenation of sounds he had been sub-\njected to, and only lassitude kept him from replying.\nBut we are going to see the sun rise,\" McDowell went on,\nshowing that he undertood the unspoken reply. \" Come along, too.\"\nMcDowell looked down on the city from a hill. Beyond the floating\ngrayness of the valley it lay, indefinitely remote, a blurring glimmer\nof blooming surfaces, over which the remaining night lights circled\nand drifted lazily. One could not tell whether it had depth or height\nand it changed, so that one could only say that, in the heaving land-\nscape, it was like some tentacled, scale-surfaced fish of unknown\ncharacter, laxly billowing with the waves. It glimmered as it lifted,\nclouding as it dropped and, all floating it made one a trifle dizzy and\nhe turned to the girl's eyes for relief.\n\" you ever wish you were blind ? \" he asked.\nYou know that I have, she answered, and they sat down\nwhile the man in the opera cape conversed quietly with Cleary. \" It's\nnearly dawn,\" said McDowell.\n\" I'm not afraid,\" said the girl.\nYou know how much I love to look in your eyes. It is because\nwhen my eye centers in yours the ray becomes the axis of the world/'\n...There was a pause, in which the sky gradually paling made each"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "282", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.12", "texte": "blade of the young grass separately visible to Cleary and the other\nman as they leaned against the same tree-trunk, talking.\n\" It's all the same color. I wish it would never change/' said\nCleary in a low voice.\nThe other man nodded. \" I thought that as I looked in the stream.\nThis is the same thing as darkness. There's no action in it ; it only\nwaits, and you feel it ready to receive you. But the sunrise will\nimpel. It will reach out around you ; it will enter into you and act\nfor you.\" He twitched his bare head toward McDowell. \"He s\nnever thought of that. He's a fool.\"\n\" He's a great man,\" replied Cleary, with the same intonation.\nMcDowell and the girl, a little way off, had been sitting for\na long time, hand glued to hand, eye and eye run on the same thread-\nray of vision, for each the eye of the other the pin-center on which\nlike a Catherine wheel all the world rotated in spokes of changing\ncolor.\nThen there was a great shout behind them. \" It's the sun ! \"\nyelled Cleary crazily, and the bank shuddered beneath the beat of\nhis wild feet. \" The sun ! The sun ! It's the sun !\nFor a moment, as the great sun leaped over the horizon, McDowell\nsaw it, and his eyeballs strained as he tore them from the girl's and\ncentered them on the flaming sun. For a moment it seemed his gaze\nwould cut through its core and get beyond. For a moment his\nsenses were confounded and he saw the red, throbbing roar of it. But\nthe flame grew more intense ; it widened slowly, with the tremendous\nmajesty of absolute power. Great shafts of light spread up the sky\nand mingled canopy-wise, and a spray of light was falling sparklike\nto burst on the world, light darting and rocketing, color on color\nchanging and mingling in forms that shifted, blent, jagged and swept\nagain on eternal curves and still light was visible through more light\nand still it grew. He felt it like golden wire surrounding him ;he felt\nit like a rich liquid entering him. \"I am all light !\" he cried in a\nloud voice and the girl's grip tightened under the terrible pressure\nof his hand. \"My eyes have never left yours,\" she said, and the sound"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "283", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.13", "texte": "was like a brighter flame across the terrible chaos of light he beheld.\nAnd it widened yet and grew stronger, until the whole world came\nbefore his eyes as he gazed on the sun — the whole world a speck\nthat floated for a moment and vanished.\nHe turned his eyes to where the girl was and it was very quiet\nsave for the sound of Cleary behind them, who had stopped running\nand was making the sound of iron against earth.\n\" Where is the man with the opera cape ? asked McDowell.\n\" Vanished/7 replied Cleary, and his voice was thick as if with effort-\n\" That is better than jumping in the river, is it not? \" asked\nMcDowell. \" And you ? \"\n\" I am digging a grave/' Cleary answered in short\nas if he grudged the breath for speaking. \"It will be a thousand\nfeet long and a thousand feet deep. I must hurry. Soon the dead\npeople will begin coming along the road. I must have it ready to\nput them in.\"\nThe sound of earth and iron, and the flap of earth on earth resumed.\n\" You have a shovel ? \" McDowell inquired.\n\" I brought it with me.\"\n\" I hadn't noticed it,\" said McDowell.\n\" It wasn't necessary to see it before,\" the girl interposed.\n\" You teach me,\" McDowell said tenderly. \" I am blind now,\nyou know.\"\nYes,\" said the girl.\n\" Henceforth,\" McDowell continued in a voice low and level.\n\" I shall live in you. I shall see the world through you. Your\neyes have consumed me, and I shall have being only through you.\nI have gone in one step from utter darkness to utter light.\"\n\"We are one,\" the girl responded. \"I could not tell which part\nof you is me.\"\n\" I begot you out of darkness, and now the light gives me birth\nwithin you.\"\n\" But we must live,\" the girl said delicately. McDowell had\nno answer. \"My profession ? \" she added inquiringly."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "284", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.14", "texte": "\"Oh ! You are right. You always teach me. We shall live\nfrom the blind. The dead shall feed us/'\n\" I'm going to bury the dead in this grave/' Cleary interrupted\nas he paused a moment. \" The towns and cities are awakening and\nsoon the dead will be trooping along the road/'\nMcDowell and the girl had not heard him speak as they started\ndown the hillside, but Cleary shouted after them. \" I'll snatch\nthem off their carts. I'll pick them from their market baskets.\nThey'll be coming soon. I'll bury them here.\"\nHe leaned a moment longer on his shovel, watching the two until\nthey passed beyond a knoll. Then he turned vigorously to his\nwork again.\n\nRobert M. Coates"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "285", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.15", "texte": "FABLE\nElinor Wyllie\nA knight lay dead in Senlac :\nOne white raven stood\nWhere his breast-bone showed a crack :\nShe dipped her beak in blood.\nThe old man's lean and carven head\nWas severed under the chin :\nThe raven's beak was varnished red\nWhere the veins ran small and thin.\nEmpty sockets sucked the light\nWhere the great gold eyes had shone :\nO, but the raven's eyes were bright\nWith fire she supped upon !\nThe old man's beard was ravelled up\nIn stiff and webby skeins :\nFrom his broad skull's broken cup\nThe raven sipped his brains.\nInsensate with that burning draught\nHer feathers turned to flame :\nIyike a cruel silver shaft\nAcross the sun she came.\nShe flew straight into God's house ;\nvShe drank the virtuous air.\nA knight lay dead : his gutted brows\nGaped hollow under his hair."}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "286", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.16", "texte": "NIKE\n(On reading H. D.)\nEvelyn Scott\nYou, on a sea-rock, swift through the dawn\nIn the emptiness of morning :\nHarsher,\nMore beautiful than the light which blinded your stone eyes,\nYour face, upraised.\nWas it joy that killed you,\nOr was the small cold ivory flower,\nYou held against your breast,\nToo white ?"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "287", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.17", "texte": "FOURTH OF JULY FIRE CRACKERS\n\nThe heat wave has been slowly swelling — for many many days.\nIt is a monstrous wicked heat — assaulting the body, stupefying the mind.\nInstead of air a thick foul substance chokes the lungs.\n— It is night. Millions and millions of people keep swarming and crawl-\ning about listlessly — dazed with heat. There are dark rings under the eyes\nof children and adults alike ; and their cheeks are turned sallow. In the steam\nheat of summer (after the steam heat of winter in tiny cooped up rooms and\noffices) all freshness and all color have oozed out of them — all bloom has van-\nished. . .\nNow they inhale the dust, the filth, the smoke, the suffocating fumes of\ngasolene. Everywhere their sweating bodies are being crushed together — their\nelbows touch — their breaths mingle. In the streets; in the cars that shake and\njolt and throw them hither and thither, banging and clanging, dashing and crash-\ning along — underfoot, overhead, on the surface — with their snarling heat-\ncrazed nervous motormen ; in the long long lines where they stand waiting, on\ntired swollen feet, for their turn on the busses; on the benches in the city squares\nwhere they sit close together in straight rows like herrings or beads on a\nstring — forming a human fringe instead of flowers for the mangy yellowing\nplots of grass ; in the soda fountain places where, in the intolerable dead white\nglare, they sit dangling their legs on high stools and swallow iced things in a\nhurry —to make room for others pushing from behind. This strong white\nglare, this screaming light of signs and arc-lamps, of stores and movie halls\nintensifies the heat. . .\nAnd everywhere — everywhere — the bodies packed — the human numbers.\nOn the harbor ferries, on the river steamers, on the outing coaches, on the strips\nof beaches soiled with rubbish, papers, food ; in \" amusement \" parks. Ev-\nerywhere America's creation: the Crowd — the crowd life — the crowd unit.\nEverywhere the crowd sensations and crowd tendencies. Crowds that have\nlearned to model both their toil and their \" amusement \", their toil and relax-\nation, on the brutal extremes of the climate — taking refuge from its strain\nin \" strenuous \" stimulants of insane noise, fierce glares and lights, incessant\nmotion."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "288", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.18", "texte": "Along the river the heat is smothering as in the streets downtown. Without\na pause the busses and the motor cars spin, whirr and rumble past — without\na pause the strong flash of their headlights strikes the eyes that long for peace\nand darkness. Without a pause the millions shove and saunter up and down.\nTo fumes and dust and odors there is added the irritating pungent powder smell\nof fireworks on the other bank.\n— The brain is drugged. But now and then it acts — with little sudden\nspurts, with nervous jerks of thought that seem to make a bit of crackling noise\nof pungent smoke — like rockets.\nAnd all around, from thousands of lips, bastard sounds reach the ear. Hy-\nbrid mixtures of a score of tongues. — And these dishonored crippled tongues,\nthis verbal patchwork, this absence of pure speech, offends the ear. It longs for\na clean language as the soul and body long for a clean breeze.\nMelting-pot sounds and melting-pot crowds, melting-pot conditions and melt-\ning-pot minds. . . The heterogeneous, the fluctuating, the promiscuous.\n— It will not last forever, of course.\nIn they go — under the huge American steam roller — driven by the\nHigh Almighty Twins called Dollar and Democracy. In they go — to be\nflattened into useful gray concrete : the Average. In they go —\nThis being the Fourth of July, allowance must be made for \" loyalty\nBut even on other nights at the open air concert, we rise, obedient, compelled\nto have a national hymn forced down our throats as an appetizer to the Eroica\nor Pathetique. . .\nHow this race has faith in advertising !\nShriek it into their ears — flash it before their eyes — rub it into them —\nmake 'em take it, no matter what — laxatives or \" patriotism. \" Advertise\nit — advertise! Tell 'em over and over again: this is the \" greatest-\n-that-ever-was-undertaking in the national line \" — get your goods here —\nall guaranteed — none better. —\nI scan the program. All music on it that is music comes, of course,\nfrom that benighted European world. Yet \" over there \" — except in times\nof war hysteria — they do not advertise a national \" concern \". They do not\nstart a program of great music by dinning into you some fact that has nothing\nto do with music. They do not see the link, the logical connection, between\na patriotic statement and an art event."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "289", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.19", "texte": "Perhaps it is because they do not fear to be forgotten or ignored or held in\ndisrespect — being present on their programs in the form of musical creation. . .\nPerhaps — when America in her turn brings forth Eroicas, she will be able\nto dispense with forcing \" love and loyalty \" down alien throats. . .\nOf course, it works — this advertising.\nBeing loud and crude it takes effect on what is loud and crude : the Crowd\nand Crowd Mind — unformed and wavering. The Crowd is like a little child\nstretching out its hand toward all that glares and dangles and makes noises.\nChildren and crowds are easily imposed !\n— The sweating, crushed and sweltering millions' — not even on this night\nshall they be let alone. The new \" Science, \" the great \" Art \" of Advert-\nising claim attention — and never mind the temperature !\nIn the Name of the Dollar, the Ever Rolling, Ever Restless ; in the Name\nof Democracy, knowing the value (in cash) of the Man in the Street — advertise !\nAdvertise your foods and fads and follies, your trouser belts and cigarettes and\npills and pins and peaches, your morals, movies and machines — and advertise,\nabove all advertise your substitutes! — Your \" just-as-goods \" —.\nJust-as-goods for wine and sugar, coffee, butter — just-as-goods for eat-\nables and drinkables — for peace and for passion, for beauty and for laughter.\n— Advertise your just-as-goods for Life: the Dollar and Democracy. . .\nThe Crowd will take them. The Crowd takes anything.\n\" Whott aye want ? \"\nThe sales \" lady \" throws it at me from a distance. Then, as I stand silent,\nwaiting, approaches with reluctant steps.\nShe has been tinder the steam roller. Has come from under it — as chock-\nful of the little liberties as an almond bar is of almonds. She, too, is \" just as\ngood \" as anybody.\nNo — she is not. She is better than I am. For she has, or thinks she has,\nmore cash. She has started to \" size me up \" at once.\nAccording to our modern female custom she looks, first, at my feet.\nOnce upon a time the soul was believed to be lodged in the diaphragm; since\nthen it has descended to the pedic extremities — at least as far as women are\nconcerned.\nThen her glance travels slowly up the skirt — then higher ; missing no item\nof my wearing apparel. But it stops at the face. With mouth or eyes (except\nin regard to make-up) it has nothing to do. . .\n2"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "290", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.20", "texte": "The result of her investigation is not satisfactory. I wear no French or\nChinese instruments of torture ; and do not evidence an earning\ncapacity of any interest. So she treats me accordingly.\nFor to her has been given the new American crowd mind — to her have\nbeen accorded the many little liberties. The little liberties — which are mistaken\nfor the one great freedom. The concrete liberties contained in laws, in \"rights\",\nin jobs, in opportunity for practical experiments with a view to bread and butter.\nWhat have such things to do with freedom — which is a state of mind, which\nis an attitude, an atmosphere ?\nWhere the atmosphere is one of narrow orthodox autocracy, of strict con-\nformity to certain rules of conduct, certain modes of thinking, certain ways of\nacting —no laws or rights or jobs will give you \" freedom. \" Freedom, the es-\nsential part of it, is too etherial, too subtly pervading and evading a thing to\nbe caught in written concrete regulations.\nThe pursuit of life, liberty and happiness. . .\nYes. Provided that \" life, that liberty, that happiness, \" are of a certain\npreconceived type ! The type allowing, not for the presence, but for the absence\nof Thought — of Art —.\nAbsence of Art is the proof of Absence of Freedom. For where there is\nFreedom — for the mind, the soul, for self manifestation, for spiritual beside the\npractical experiments, and for creative emotion — there Art must grow.\n— Europe had freedom — but no liberties. America had liberties — no\nfreedom. It is best to have both —\nBut if you must choose —\nThe Crowd Mind chooses liberties, of course. \" Whottayewant ? \"\nMeanwhile the Lady on her little island lifts her torch.\nLiberties — ye Nations of the Earth !\nLiberties — \"as advertised . .\nThe heat is paralyzing. The millions move and move —\n' Sky rockets — thought flashes —\nI, too, dangle legs on a stool, swallow iced things in a hurry, in the fierce\nwhite glare. Every where electric fans are whirring, humming, turning, blowing.\nThey, too, are substitutes. They stir the foul thick air — always the same foul\nair —to create the illusion of a clean fresh breeze full of ozone. Just as perpe-\ntual motion in the same dull spot creates the illusion of change. Just as the adul-\nterated food of sensationalism creates the illusion of psychic nourishment."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "291", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.21", "texte": "But, of course, the fans are a blessing — for those that cannot get the\nreal air —\nIt is all a matter of living \" unanimistically of being a crowd thing, a\nthing of averages — compromises —\nArid that again is a matter of \" central plants\nYou love fire, the living golden flame ? We shall give you radiators.\nWe shall regulate your heat supply in dead gray pipes of iron. Useful, labor-\nsaving and convenient.\nYou love air ? Deep cooling draughts of it into the lungs ? We shall\ngive you wire screens and ventilators, we shall speak of cubic inches and statistics,\nwe secure to every democrat a certain average of comfort — neither less —\nnor more —\nYou love the feel of soil under your feet ? We shall give you asphalt\nin our parks, boardwalks on our sea shores.\nYou want knowledge, food for mind and soul ? See our dinner tables !\nSee the many little plates and dishes — one for bread and one for butter,\none for salad, one for meat, one for rice, one for beets, one for squashes, one for\nevery one of many things (for we live well!). And now you pick a little here,\nyou take a taste of this, a lick of that, a spoonful of each or a sip. An average\nsmall portion of a score of kinds of food — an average little bit of information\non a score of subjects. We teach as we eat : democratically —\nAnd now then — you want \" life and liberty and happiness ? \" We shall\ngive you regulation quantities and regulation qualities from central plants. . .\nWe shall give you averages of \" virtue Useful and convenient ! — And\nyou want direct contacts — with flame and soil and air — with human life ?\nWe shall lead \" life \" to you — in iron pipes. . .\nIt is not the broad lines that count, but the details.\nIt is the small, often imponderable things, the tiny strokes and dots and\ndashes that decide of wrong and right ; that have wrecking or redeeming power.\nIt is the little acts, shades of behavior, aspect, attitude. It is the thousand little\ntraits together, the daily incidents, the \" atmosphere \" that tell one what an\nindividual is — a nation is —\nThe American world — which is the crowd world — has no sense of detail,\nno interest in detail, no love for it. Detail is the artist's affair ; not the crowd's.\nThe American spectacle, to keep its glamor, must be seen from afar. Its\neffect is calculated on distance. An effect of things \"en masse\nBut the American spectacle is no longer bounded geographically. Nor polit-"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "292", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.22", "texte": "ically — as an aspiration of certain \" rights It has become — indeed,\nT. R ! — alas, T. R ! — a state of mind. And as such it is everywhere —in\nEurope — in Japan — and soon among the South Pole penguins.\nCall it America, Democracy, the Crowd Mind, Rule and Worship of the Aver-\nage, the Lower Middle Class Condition — names do not matter. It is the Spirit\nof Numbers as over against the Spirit. It is the spirit that believes in advertis-\ning and in advertising values; in anything that you can din into the ears of\n\" numbers\nBuild your advertising around \" anything. \" Then build your civiliza-\ntion around advertising.\nIn Hoc Signe — avanti!\nThus says the Crowd, the million-headed metropolitan and continental\nmonster — from whom Nature is taken away — to whom Culture is not given. . .\nBut instead of Nature and of Culture the three substitutes :\nLiberties, Conveniences and Information.\nJust as good —\n\nEmmy Veronica Sanders"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "293", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.23", "texte": "Galanis\nWoodcut"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "294", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.24", "texte": "THE WORD\nI have a facile beauty that is sweet\nI skate on the roofs of the winds\nI skate on the roofs of the seas\nI am become sentimental\nI no longer know the conductor\nI stir no more silk clinging to ice\nI am ill flowers and pebbles\nI like the most Chinese of the naked ones\nI like the most naked in the flock of birds\nI am old but here I am beautiful\nAnd the shadows that fall from profound windows\nSpare each night the dark heart of my eyes.\n\nSUITE\nSleep, the moon in one eye and the sun in the other\nA young love in thy mouth, a bird in thy hair,\nOrnate as the fields, the woods, the roads and the sea\nBeautiful and ornate as the wheel of the world.\nFly across the landscape,\nAmong the branches of smoke and all the fruit of the wind,\nIyegs of stone with stockings of sand\nTaken by the waist, with all the muscles of the river\nAnd the last frown on a visage transformed."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "295", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.25", "texte": "NIL\nHe who says to himself : I crossed the street in order to get out\nof the sun. It is too warm, even in the shade. Here is a street, four\nfloors and my window in the sunlight. A cap on his head, cap in\nhand, he just shook hands with me. Please don't yell like that !\nAre you mad ?\nThe invisible blind prepare the linen of sleep. The night, the\nmoon, and their hearts pursue each other.\nIn his turn he cries : \" The trail, the trail, I don't see the trail\nany more. In short I can no longer count on you ! \"\n\nNIL\nPaul Eluard\n(Translated by Matthew Josephson)\nHe puts a bird on the table and closes the shutters. He combs\nhimself, the hair to his hands is sweeter than a bird.\nShe tells the future. And I am commissioned to verify it.\nThe murdered heart, the doleful soul, the broken hands, the\nwhite hairs, the prisoners, the whole body of water is to me as a\nnaked wound."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "296", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.26", "texte": "THE PRINCESS TAKES A POTION\n\nRest your hand upon the heart of the Princess Zu-pa-cat-lan, for it will not\nbeat long. Rest your hand upon her heart, and I shall tell you why it is so soon\nto cease to beat. Kven in this shadowed room you can see how young she is, young\nand beautiful. Fate would have been kinder to you, you might say, had you been\nallowed to see the eyes of the Princess. Yet perhaps it is better after all, and the\nmore whole-heartedly will you give yourselves to science — never having looked into\nthe eyes of the Princess Zu-pa-cat-lan.\nFor you are young men, and earnest, and worthy of that great profession you\nhave chosen — which I, as an old master, must shortly turn over to your guidance.\nSo I would instruct you not only in the trickeries of physic, and the mysteries\nof potions, which too in this lady's dying and in this emptied cup you can detect,\nbut also in the workings of the human heart, which is stranger in its ways. And,\nmind you, has much to do with our peculiar branch of learning.\nThis little draught our Princess has seen fit to take herself, I concocted for\nanother altogether. That was months ago, and the Princess had grown pale,\nand I asked her why she was perplexed. She looked at me, and through the\nwindowT then, at the garden, and after we had talked a while of the gilly-flowers\naud the new pink cabbages, she added gently, as recollecting some sweet memory,\nthat there was a minister at court so shrewd he made her think too much. Whereat\nI hustled to my laboratories and contrived this neat arrangement of herbs and\noils and unexpected acids. I have its recipe, my students, stored for you. The\nPrincess thanked me, and sent me a delicate salad of pink cabbage leaves for sup-\nper. But it was ordained otherwise, for the minister was stabbed and thrown to\nthe crocodiles by slaves slaves who resented torture — and the Princess and\nmyself and all the court held public mourning. And the Princess did not return\nmy gift, which I marked at the time, as one must mark all things at court. Thus\nwas she ready when life grew not tolerable.\nBut I must hasten, for shortly the Princess will die, and there will be much\nstrife and confusion in the kingdom, and I would have you hold this kernel of\nwisdom hid well in your hearts. For in this world knowledge is difficult to se-\ncure, and in its turbulence, it is not easy to separate crystals of wisdom from the\nwhirl of dust. We who would know, go as with a bowl of thin glass in our arms,\nwhich we need protect from every force leady to dash it splintering on the ground —\nforces of hate and gross ignorance, and forces of love, as malignant too to reason\n— as this dying Princess tells us by her dying."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "297", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.27", "texte": "Ten years ago — and I am hardly any older now than then — the Princess\nZu-pa-cat-lan came to rule this country. It was years before that that I ceased\nto grow older, an advantage in our profession, my students, for one must be age-\nless to love science properly. I saw at once that though she was but a girl, she\nwas determined to be a queen in truth; and I was somewhat interested to see\njust how much of youth she would be willing to sacrifice to the holding of power.\nIt was amazing, my sons, and has made me much wonder if in the future progress\nof the ages, we may not expect of women seme general intervention in the af-\nfairs of state. However, that will be assuredly far in the future —to which I\ndoubt not we can reconcile ourselves today.\nIt was amazing, as I say, to see this girl with her frail face in the council cham-\nber. >She outwitted old ministers. She was as sly as the priests of Isis. She\n\"w as as firm as a general, and no statesman was so cruel. But to me she was kind.\nShe gave me a library and a laboratory, and levied special taxes to make me a\nlarge allowance, taking only a slight part for her feasts. One day she said tome,\n— and she had been queen only a year :\n\" Dear father, good doctor, would any other ruler give as much to you as I ? \"\n\" Never, \" I answered sincerely, and bowed low.\n\"You never can expect as much from others as you can from me? \" she\nasked.\n*\n\" Never, \" I said again.\nShe gave me her hand and laughed as I bent over it :\n\" Then I am sure you will always be my friend, and I can trust you. \"\nAh but she was admirable. I loved her. She too carried a thin glass\nbowl high above the heads of the mob. She often came to the library, and lying\nin the center, far from treacherous walls, we chatted merrily of the things of the\ncourt. We laughed often — laughed aloud at the antics of the court. There\nwas no flattery she did not see through, no sophistry she could not penetrate\n— and all the pitiful bright balloons of courtiers' ambitions she pricked neatly\nwith a phrase. There was the terrible old woman her father's sister, who would\nbeguile her thus:\n\" Sweet Zu-pa-cat-lan, you are young, and you must have pleasure. Iyet\nme answer the ambassadors today for you, while you play in the gardens, \" and\nshe would smoothe down the coveis of the Princess's couch for her gently -— as\nmothers are apt to do who love their children.\nThe Princess would laugh a bit wryly then to me, and conjecture how much\npower would be left her, if she allowed this old woman, or that pressing council-\nlor, to take her place in the council. She would wonder too how eager the old\nwoman would be with her caresses and her words of tenderness, were she not the\nPrincess Zu-pa-cat-lan."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "298", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.28", "texte": "So, too, with all the princes and men of rank who sought her hand in marriage,\nas to be snre quite a number did. The Princess and I would reckon up their\nproperties, and laugh merrier than ever at the droll misproportion of it. Always\nher own kingdom was double, triple, theirs.\n\"So he gets half my throne, \" the Princess would say, \" and all my towns\nand ports — and I receive in turn some little ploughland, some arid stretch of\ndesert, some inconsiderable capital. \"\nVery gracefully then she would dismiss each suitor's emissaries:\n\" Tell him, the Princess does not wish to wed. \"\nOften later, she'd send a petty army and raze his city to the ground, and from\nher windows have opportunity to see the presumptuous 'suitor pass in chains —\na turn we both found humorous enough.\nYears — a number of .yeais passed. I wondered how this prospect of apprais-\nal pleased her. For mind you, I never did forget she was a woman, and not as\nwe, scientists, doctors, removed from appraisal illusions altogether. little by\nlittle, I saw her grow more and more a queen, and less the girl. Less of laughter, and\never more the reckoning, the accurate estimating. Sterner she grew, and her\nbeauty needed more the fabric and the costly jewel. Many people feared her.\nEveryone had fear of her. She was very skilful. Her gifts demanded more than\ntheir value of those who received them — which, she said, was how a queen should\ngive.\nNow and then wars, as her whim decreed, made us richer. My libraries and\nlaboratories grew. However, honoring me, one day, with her presence, she ob-\nserved :\n\" Does all this learning make you happy ? \"\nI was surprised, and had no answer. What answer is there to such a ques-\ntion ? I quoted something of what a certain Jew from Uz had written of happi-\nness, and its meaning. But she shook her shoulders impatiently, and said she'd\nlike to learn a little, and I gave her the papyrus this man of Uz. A very val-\nuable papyrus, and rare, and without copies of it in any place else. By chance\nnext morning, summoned to her chamber, I found her with some insignificant\ncomplaint, with her hair intricately interwound with my papyrus, twisted to pro-\nduce, when removed, a certain spiral that was then the mode.\nAh — well, the Princess was bored. What had Ito do with a Jew sage then ?\nDiscovering that a new group of prisoners had been brought in, I suggested to the\nPrincess that it might be droll to have the artists of the court carve their faces\nand pinch their ears into whimsical shapes. She agreed, but as fate would have\nit, decided to oversee the process in person, having a certain vanity in her own\ntaste and delicacy of fancy. By what logic of learning could I have forseen that\none of the prisoners should do what no prince had ever done. Ishkar was his"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "299", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.29", "texte": "name, and though not beautiful as our designers hold beauty, nor yet those of\nCheops, there was a jauntiness about him, as he stood there with the others in\nthe prison, that made him noticeable.\n\" He's droll enough as he is, \" said the Princess. \"Do you love our city? \"\nshe asked him.\n\" If it loves me, I shall, \" he answered, which, you know, was very pert.\nShe only looked at him however, and smiled :\n\" Do cities love you ? \"\nHe looked at her very seriously.\n\" I was adored in Gomorrah, \" he said, \" and in Sidon was idolized, and ra-\nther cherished in Babylon. But in that city where your soldiers took me I wasn't\nconsidered a desirable citizen,\" and he looked quite pettish about it. \" So, \"\nhe went on audaciously, \" I adore Gomorrah, idolize Sidon, rather cherish Baby-\nlon/' and he looked at her very curiously and spoke all at once, abruptly, \" per-\nhaps I shall love your city. \"\nIt all seemed whimsical at the time, especially consideiing the rumors we\nhad heard of the habits of these towns. So when the Princess laughed, we were\nall able to do likewise, heartily. All, at once, made way for Ishkar, and we quite\nforgot our artistic experimentings with the other prisoners, in the amusement\nof bathing him in the garden fountain, for he smelt foully after his days in\nprison.\nThe Oueen ordained that each should give liim some garment, she herself\nthrowing a gold chain about his neck first, as he came up from the lily pads of the\nfountain, and stood bare and dripping before us. Too small-boned he was, I\nnoticed, for a soldier. But no-one could deny his grace — that strange, powerful\nabstraction, grace — as he stood there in the palace garden by the water and the\nflowers, quite naked, quite unabashed, before the whole court, with the Princess's\nchain about his neck, and the Princess by his side. I remember when it came\nmy turn to give something for his raiment, that the Princess cried at once he could\nnot wear such rough, coarse stuff as I wore. He, a prisoner, a beggar dog !\nWhereat the bold brat reached and seized the priceless scroll of vellum\nI had thrust into my belt, vellum the wisest exile in Goshen had written on, and\n— fool, this boy was — wiped with it the water dripping from his curls into his eyes,\nand flung it into the fountain.\n\" Thanks, old man, \" he cried.\n\" That for your learning, \" added the Princess, and the whole court lunged\nforward, and in their ribaldry flung me after the vellum into the water.\nWhen they hauled me out, all of them sick with laughter, this new boy flung\nhis new cloak about me, and fell on his knees and begged my pardon.\n\" I beg the Princess's pardon for you too, \"he said. And I sank trembling,"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "300", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.30", "texte": "for it it was a blasphemous thing he said. The Princess beg my pardon ! This\nbrat would be the ruin of us all.\n\" Forgive him, myf Princess, \" I murmured, strangely enough, for he had\ncaused all my indignity why should I have concern for him ? But the Princess\nleaned over, and gave me her hand.\n\" He speaks the truth, this boy, \" she said, \" I do beg your pardon, and the\ncourt's, as this boy says. \"\nIt seemed then, next month as though some madness seized the manners of the\ncourt. Always there were feasts, and all night, and even in the mornings, music. One\nheard laughter from the quarters of the slaves, which was not rebuked, and in the\ncouncil chambers only was there silence. Even envy seemed dead in the perpetual\nriotings, except among the artists of the court. One and all they hated Ishkar,\nfor it was he who at last devised such eccentric manipulation of the prisoners of\nwhom he had once been one, that the Princess could not dance for laughter.\nHe was modest enough though, and said it was because he had had time\nin the dungeons to study their particular features, and had often beguiled a long\nhour imagining this one with split nostrils, or that one with the lobes of his ears\nthreaded to a fringe.\nBut in the solitude of my laboratory I saw behind this merriment and these\ninnocent childish pranks, the Princess growing less the queen and more the girl.\nLittle time then had Ito follow the frolic of the court. I withdrew to my librar-\nies and laboratories. Doubly must I labor to be ready for the end of all this the\nend I knew must come. I made copies of my most precious manuscripts and\nsent them by secret envoys for keeping in the great cities by the sea. Portions\nof my rarest unguents and oils and essences I hid away in secret places where no\nenemy might find them. Days and nights I labored in this fashion, while the\nPrincess grew young, and spies reported to their masters that our land was ruled\nby a girl — a girl in love with a fool.\nSo when Pit the Phoenician, he who sold me oil of sesame that was purple\nand not green, whispered to me how there were armies gathering on the north\nborder, and strange parleyings and comings and goings on the east, I alone of all\nthat court, was ready.\nFirst thanking the various gods with a generous discrimination, and warning\nPit the Phoenician to depart, I hastened to the rooms of the Princess — these\nrooms where we are now. Only Kou was here, the half-witted black woman who\nknows better than anyone in the world the pattern of the sinews and the mus-\ncles, their interlacing with the joints and the substance of the arteries, and how\nwith just so much pressure and delicate application, a new resilience can be given\nthem. She lead me then to the passage-way, and on tip-toe as one walks through\nroyal rooms, I stole down to the ilex alleys."}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "301", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.31", "texte": "It was dawn, not too late for there to be yet stars though; and against the\nblack ilex the silly new pink bird lately brought to the Princess from the farther\ncataracts, stood brilliantly, arching its extravagant glistening neck under the\nsoft stroking of the Princess's hand. As brilliant too, as this bird, in his festal\nfinery, this vagabond from Babylon, this off-scouring of Gomorrah, was saying :\n\" So it's love we've found. \"\nThe Princess answered, while I shrank back into the shadows :\n\" Shall I make you king, Ishkar ? Since I love you, that's your penalty. I\nam very sorry, Ishkar, for you won't like being king. It will interfere with\nyour pleasure. But I don't see any way out of it. I don't, at all. \"\nThen they both laughed, until he caught her to him, and they kissed, and the\ngreen lotus blossoms in her hair fell on the tiles, along with those trivial violet\nflowers the priests grow in their leisure — which is abundant.\nObserving then that the pink bird was growing uneasy and alert from lack\nof his caress, I stole back a way in the corridor, and then with some semblance\nof bustling, retraced my steps to the lovers, and arrived upon them, as it were\nfor the first time, finding, however, that this brief interlude had not affected their\nposture.\n\" Princess, \" I said, ignoring the guttersnipe, \" The enemy to the north is\nassembling, and there are strange parleyings, and comings and goings to the\neast. \"\nWhereat the Princess gave a cry, and threw her arms again about this wastrel,\nand kissed him on the mouth, which I made note of in silence. But at last the\nboy — it was the boy who held her from him — said :\n\" War ! And shall I lead your armies, Princess ? \"\nSo I left them, not without finding a certain piquancy in the idea of the gener-\nals' chagrin when they had to take orders from this whippersnapper, this boy\nharlot from Gomorrah. I knew of course that he'd be disposed of in the end.\nBeing at the time occupied in building a secret crypt in the foundations of\nmy laboratory I did not see the departure of the armies for the boundaries. But\nKou told me how this Ishkar had gone, fantastically, astride a leopard. The\nPrincess had wept, and was pale, but would not allow Kou's treatment. Though\ncertainly Kou overvalues the treatment — which is all to her own profit of course.\nMy own foresight and prompt industry so rewarded me that when the first\ntidings of war reached us, I felt assured the loss to science could not be great at\nworst. As I expected the news was all of disaster.\nBut with copies of my manuscripts and a good portion of my medicines well\nsecreted, I could face the evil prospect with a philosopher's equanimity, and re-\nmind the Princess, as we walked in the garden, followed by the pink bird, grown\nsomewhat magenta from confinement, that the ways of the gods were not in"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "302", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.32", "texte": "our hands — and such-like reflections, suitable for a woman. To which she\nanswered :\n\" I should have kept Ishkar here. I should never have allowed him to go. \"\nAlthough I had no doubt myself of the boy's end, I reminded her that he\nwas not inexperienced — had known the dungeons of the various important cities\nof the world, and their byways, as I politely put it.\nI was a little weary of the rascal by the time the astounding information of\nwhat had happened came to us. The question of allies and enemies being always\nproblematical, we had not suspected that the great King Bixnip of the forces of\nthe East, with influence over those of the West, had been all the time our friend.\nIt seems that as our forces turned to fly, this Bixnip had arrived, and in a trice,\nmade a victory of the impending defeat.\n\" Now he marches to our city, to greet the Princess, \" said the runner.\n\" And Ishkar ? \" asked the Princess.\nOf whom the runner knew nothing — nor when all the court returned, and the\nroyal Bixnip, of a land ten times the wealth of ours, greeted her, was there a\nvestige of Ishkar.\nBut I knew there must be no moping now, so I let Kou hear a tale of how\nIshkar had seen a slave girl in the osiers, and had left his leopard. This Kou\ncontrived to tell the Princess — incidentally — as I perceived she had, when the\nPrincess entered the great hall with eyes particularly bright. A hazardous trick\nfor me, I knew, but the situation was critical.\nEven in those distant cities you have just come from, my fellow scholars'\nyou have heard of what happened here. You heard the truth, no doubt, for how\nthe Princess Zu-pa-cat-lan and the King Bixnip arranged their union, was a mat-\nter of public event and wide ceremony. As the feast days progressed, the Prin-\ncess became more a queen than even in the days before Ishkar had made her laugh\nlike a street girl.\nThen King Bixnip took his place by her side at the councils, and I bargained\nagain with Pit the Phoenician, assuring him that the gold at my disposal would\nbe ten times as much as hitherto. As for Kou, she applied herself to the most\nabstruse studies of anatomy in preparation for the coming nuptials. She was a\nconscientious and scrupulous female, this Kou, as reliable as a spice purge.\nI was glad to see my Princess regain her concern for matters of empire.\nBy no means would it do for this Bixnip to control altogether. Little interest\nhad he in libraries and laboratories. He was no man of learning. He had not\nbeen born a king. His forbears were but nomads.\n\" I shall be the greatest queen in the world, \" said the Princess, \" and\nshall be commented on in history, \"\n\" And rightly, rightly, \" I hastened to add."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "303", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.33", "texte": "It was the very day of the great feast of the betrothal, and Kou had admitted\nme to the Princess's rooms as I bore a gift, an unguent I guaranteed would re-\nmove all wrinklings and linings of the face. Slaves stood about holding the new\njewels of ceremony, and in my honor the Princess fitted on the crown. A rare\npiece of work, tier and tier of gold, bronze and lead, set with unusual gems, carved\nwith the images of the gods, the sacred beasts, and the sacred symbols, though\nwithout emblems of our own unrespected craft unless one interpret thus an\narrangement of capsule-shaped pendants.\nShe turned to the steel mirrors, and beheld herself, and therein I saw her\neyes grow suddenly overwide. With all her attendants I swung about to face\nthe curious figure who had entered. For a moment I did not recognize Ishkar,\nso ragged he was, and filthy, and without grace or gallantry.\nBut when he saw the Princess, all of us could see in his eyes as in a dream\npageant, the other days when he stood straight and slim by the fountain, drip-\nping, strung with lily stems, when the Princess laughed like a street girl, and there\nwas music even in the morning. Slowly he crossed the room, and even if the\nPrincess had not been there, must have fallen where he fell then at her feet. At\nlast the Princess spoke :\n\" Ishkar-Ishkar — now I shall laugh again. Shall I not, Ishkar ? Speak\nto me, Ishkar. Say something very droll to make me laugh. I am sure that\nall this time you have been away you have thought of the most whimsical things\nto say to me. Speak to me, Ishkar. \"\nAnd the boy opened his mouth, and it was evident at once that his tongue\nhad been torn out.\n\" Who did that ? \" said the Princess after a long silence.\nWith his finger, that was black and stained, he wrote on the white tiles :\n\" Bixnip. \"\nI might have guessed it. It was a due rebuke to such an upstart, and proved\nBixnip a quick acting, efficient king. But my concern then was with the Prin-\ncess. Slowly she spoke as though her thoughts were on far-off unknown matters :\n\" I shall not laugh again. \"\nIt was indeed a queen's consideration. A low-born woman, with such a sen-\ntiment as the Princess doubtless felt for Ishkar, might have thought rather of the\nboys pain and his maiming. Perhaps Ishkar too thought something of this sort;\nincomprehensible lights shone in those eyes that could hold a pageant. When\nwe spoke of the matter later, Kou and I agreed too that something like a smile\nhad come across his face. Though there seemed very little to smile at, at that\nmoment.\nSome of the artists of the court carried Ishkar out. Though they had been\nhis enemies he beckoned to them now. But I remained by the side of the Prin-"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "304", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.34", "texte": "cess. I remained in the room all that night with the connivance of Kou, lest in\nsome unqueenly moment Zu-pa-cat-lan should allow a momentary resentment\nat Bixnip's act to influence her to her permanent loss.\nIndeed, I took occasion now and again as the night wore on to whisper telling\nitems of the King's wealth, his palace with a hundred gates, and its fabulous\ncontrivance, a secret invention of his own engineers, to loose at will a sudden,\ncleansing flush of water by means merely of a slim gold chain the most delicate\nhand could control.\nDawn's coming, with its attendant turmoil in the courtyards and the trum-\npeted orderings, revealed the resolute Princess. I hastened to my library to don\nmy robes, worn only at this final ceremony, which, lasting as it does three days,\nrequires especial vesture. Not that I should have felt obliged to attend each\nmoment of the feast, what with my age and serious office, had I not felt still wary\nof the Princess's mood.\nBut as the feasting and the rioting progressed, with its customary distressing\naccompaniment of disorder and racket, I saw again in Zu-pa-cat-lan that princess\nI had known of old, so admirable, with the high crown, with the face as though\nof marble, on her throne beside Bixnip. Not that Bixnip always remained on\nhis throne. Now and again he descended amongst the courtiers and drank with\nthem — a manner affected by some monarchs. Not one I favor, though, on the\nother hand, I feared the Princess appeared stern, perhaps ungracious, and I whisp-\nered that a smile to the court might make a nation happy. Royalty enjoys such\nstress upon its personal activities. But she gave no sign of hearing me.\nThe feast at last approached the end of its third day, and it was as well, for\nthe court was weary. Long ago I had resorted to an excellent stimulant suggested\nby Pit, which enabled me to keep my post by the side of the Princess. I had\nindeed offered it to her, but she refused it, no doubt feeling that a princess owes\nit to her people to keep awake — putting it bluntly — at such ceremony. An\nexhibition of royal endurance to be commended ! So much could not be said of\nBixnip who betrayed his nomadic origin off and on, to the consternation of the\ndancing girls who feared the Princess. But she never turned her head, nor\nseemed to see. Only at times I left her for a moment to make a round of the\ntables with my spice purge.\nUnfortunately, the early hours of the feast had so exhausted the court that\nan ill-boding desolation threatened to overtake it now. Then hostile factions\nof the priests, and the spies, might play upon the people with rumors of how a\ngloom had descended upon the Princess on the third day, and how it portended\nill for the future. It was therefore with great relief that I heard a sudden gale\nof laughter, fresh, unforced, rock the farther end of the hall, and spread down\nto us, so that even Bixnip who had been snoring on his throne, opened his eyes."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "305", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.35", "texte": "Truly a droll apparition had come upon us, and even those lying under the\ntables found time to turn and fling the bruised flowers they had at hand not too\ndejectedly at him. It had been a man I gathered almost at once, though there\nwas little enough of the man left in that figure. Where should have been ears\nwere but tufts, and his lips were slashed in the clown's grin and baked with dyes,\nand what had been scars upon his body had been altered, shaped and fashioned\nby cutting, by branding, and by the eatings of acids, into the likeness of those\nsymbols and ribald writings unrestricted boys and girls scrawl on the walls and\npavements of low, secluded by-places. Thus was he but a walking legend of all\nthe foul wit of the world.\nBefore the throne he stood and made a humorous contraction which only\nhis broken joints permitted, and Bixnip shook with laughter.\n\" Laugh, Zu-pa-cat-lan, \" Bixnip shouted, \" laugh Zu-pa-cat-lan. \"\nAgain the fool whimsically distorted himself — very fanciful the gesture was,\nand with an outrageous innuendo. Whereat the whole court rocked again with\nlaughter, and Bixnip also, and, glancing at the Princess, I observed her eyes rest\non the fool, and then she smiled. Seeing the Princess smile the whole court\nstamped and shook again with laughter all the more heartily. But the maimed\nmonster ceased his spinning, and fell before us.\nThis of course provoked greater humor, and Bixnip shouted to her again to\nlaugh, and Zu-pa-cat-lan laughed. Then she looked again at the fool, and I behind\nher, over her shoulder, saw as she did also, at that moment that the eyes before,\nlidless and painted, were yet the eyes that had held pageants in them, were Ish-\nkar's eyes. And the smile passed from the face of the Princess.\nAll this is but an hour since, my sons. Only an hour ! She had this cup\never ready since I earned my salad by it. What she saw in the maimed fool's\neyes I know not, nor whether certain laughter being laughed makes life not worth\nthe living Ido not venture to assert. Man finds so many reasons for not living.\nThat alone is enough for us\nOnly an hour she came here from that great hall. Only an hour ago she drank\nthis neat arrangement of herbs and oils and unexpected acids. Observe how\npotent it is. How valuable toman in his troubles. We can hope to make many\nan odd bit of gold by such a valuable concoction. It is very effective. Do you\ndoubt it ? Rest your hand then on the heart of the Princess Zu-pa-cat-lan.You\nwill observe that it has ceased to beat.\n3\n\nJohn Mosher"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "306", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.36", "texte": "THREE PORTRAITS\n\nI. Pianist\nta\nppin\ng\ntoe\nhip\npopot\namus Back\ngen\nteel-ly\nlugu-\nbrious\neyes\nIvOOPTHBI^OOP\nas\nfathandsbangrag"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "307", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.37", "texte": "II. Caritas\nthe skinny voice\nof the leatherfaced\nwoman with the crimson\nnose and coquettishly-\ncocked bonnet\nhaving ceased the\ncaptain\nannounces that as three\ndimes seven nickels and ten\npennies have been deposited upon\nthe drum there is need\nof just twenty five cents\ndear friends\nto make it an even\ndollar whereupon\nthe Divine Average who was\nattracted by the inspired\nsister's howling moves\noff\nwill anyone tell him why he should\nblow two bits for the coming of Christ Jesus.\n? ?\n? ? ?\n!\nnix, kid"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "308", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.38", "texte": "III. Arthur Wilson\nas usual i did not find him in cafes, the more dissolute atmosphere\nof a street superimposing a numbing imperfectness upon such peri-\ngrinations as twilight spontaneously by inevitable tiredness of flang-\ning shop-girls impersonally affords furnished a soft first clue to\nhis innumerable whereabouts violet logic of annihilation demon-\nstrating from woolworthian pinnacle a capable millenium of faces\nmeshing with my curiously instant appreciation exposed his hiber-\nnative contours,\naimable immensity impeccably extending the courtesy of five o'clock\nbecame the omen of his prescience it was spring by the way in\nthe soiled canary-cage of largest existence.\n(when he would extemporise the innovation of muscularity upon the\nmost crimson assistance of my comforter a click of deciding glory\ninflicted to the negative silence that primeval exposure whose elec-\ntric solidity remembers some accurately profuse scratchings in a\nrecently discovered cave, the carouse of geometrical putrescence\nwhereto my invariably commendable room had been forever subject\nhis Earliest word wheeled out on the sunny dump of oblivion)\na tiny dust finely arising at the integration of my soul i coughed\n, naturally.\n\nE. E. Cummings"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "309", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.39", "texte": "A NECESSARY AND SUFFICIENT LITERATURE\n\nThe new conditions of life have determined a literature, a necessary and\nsufficient literature, a new literature. However, it is not necessary to believe\nthat this modern literature has completely rejected all traditions, that it has\nbroken completely with the past, that it has entirely created itself as a thing\nin no respect comparable with what has been. Even had it wished to do\nthis, it would not have been able. Acquired knowledge lies profoundly rooted\nwithin us, and in the most \" advanced modernism \" there survives an abundant\nheredity. But aesthetic emotion was fatigued with the -Symbolists, as it was\nfatigued with the Parnassians, and previously with the Romantics. So it was\neven much earlier, when Racine succeeded Corneille. So it is again today:\nin our modern literature a new molting season breaks out, and so rapidly that\nmany of my remarks on it will appear out of date. Habit, which deadens, ren-\nders blase, fatigues and extinguishes aesthetic emotion, steadily demands that\nnew details be superadded to the more durable characteristics of works of art\nreplacing less durable characteristics, novel processes, and original ideas —\na change corresponding to a change in the conditions of life. This is necessary\nif one wishes to awaken beauty from its torpor, to astonish, to strike the intel-\nligence and stir the sensibility. The impression of the beautiful is a sort of\n\" conditioned reflex \" and undergoes the physiological law of all reflexes which\neventuates at length in extinction. It becomes needful to introduce hew con-\nditions into the production of the phenomena of beauty in order to revive this\n\" conditioned reflex. \" This is the direction of the characteristics recently\nacquired by French literature. Not that I mean that the poets have thus,\nthrough faith in a scientific theory, voluntarily or even experimentally changed\ntheir manner of understanding poetry, or the prose writers, prose. The change\nhas, of course, taken place unconsciously and spontaneously.\nI shall rapidly glance at these new characteristics of modern French liter-\nature determined by the new conditions of life which I essayed to recapitulate\nin the preceeding article (x).\nI.\nSpeed in space, then, has created cosmopolites and diffused the knowledge\nof foreign languages. Take a man who knows French (naturally), English,\nGerman and Latin ; the last from his classical studies. His travels put him in\na position to utilize his knowledge, to hear and to speak some of these diverse\n(x) Broom, April 1922."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "310", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.40", "texte": "tongues, to read them. Involuntarily he will come to transpose the meta-\nphors of one language into another, to transpose special turns of speech, idioms\nas they are called, from German or English into French. Or, if he is a German,\nhe will transpose Gallicisms into German. Not that these men suddenly\nset themselves to speaking gibberish with innumerable solecisms. The con-\ntribution of new turns, of foreign logics of expression, is made as slowly as a\ngeological stratum. This excites the protests of purists. But usage, of course,\ngets the better of grammatical theories, if they be inert. Language slowly,\nvery slowly, is modified. Ido not mean to say that French ceases to be French\nand becomes the idiom of the porters of Mediterranean hotels : the French\nlanguage of today and, I dare to predict, that of tomorrow, remains French,\nmy tongue which I prefer above all others. But it would be indeed puerile\nto deny that in 1920 it is not quite what it was in 1820 or even in 1900. Its\ngrammar and syntax are sometimes simplified, sometimes made suppler.\nThe French sentence has been simplified in that, with a few exceptions\nlike that of Marcel Proust's writing, it has grown shorter. If it still admits,\nthough less than formerly, development by coordinates, it does not any longer\ngenerally admit development by a flood of subordinates. The law of least re-\nsistance, the diminution of Latin culture explains this particular modification\nquite as well as the use of foreign tongues. There is no doubt that beginners\nin German or in English are advised, in order to acquire correctness more easily,\nto express themselves by short sentences and the habit of speaking and think-\ning in short sentences is attained very quickly.\nOn the other hand, the French sentence has been made supple; it has\nbecome more malleable, more flexible, — familiar with astonishing inversions,\nwith agile leaps. lam not reproaching it. I state something which I believe\nhas been very useful for exactitude of expression. As well as the sentence,\nthinking processes have naturally also been made supple. Furthermore, it\nis not necessary that the writer himself should know foreign languages; he\ncan still mediately experience their influence which is widespread ; the author\nforming part of the intellectual elite of his epoch. Thus Arthur Rimbaud\nknew — having learned them with a stupefying facility — English, Italian,\nSpanish, Arabic, German, etc.; Guillaume Apollinaire, whose erudition was\nso vast, was also conversant with very many tongues ; Blaise Cendrars must\nspeak nearly half the languages of the globe. Jean Cocteau knows at least\nGerman. I deduce it from his syntax, perhaps wrongly since I have no defin-\nite grounds for speaking with certainty on this point, and I am going rather\nfar in my deductions. Jean Giraudaux also must know a good deal of German,\nGreek and Latin : he was a pupil of the Normale Superieure.\nAll these writers have been travellers. They have known the cosmopol-"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "311", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.41", "texte": "itan spirit, that spirit of nostalgic familiarity with the world, of exiles volun-\ntarily torn to pieces between the continents.\nThis influence of foreign languages upon the mother tongue of men thus\neducated needs no exposition. The man who speaks German, is accustomed\nto certain inversions, and will inevitably more than once express the reflex-\nion, weakened no doubt, of these inversions in his French phrases, because\nhis thought, which is equally at the base of his German, his English and his\nFrench, will have acquired this habit. Likewise with all other linguistic pe-\nculiarities.\nBiit if you read attentively modern French authors, you will note a mobil-\nity of syntax, a remarkable laxity of grammar, approaching at moments an\napparent disappearance of grammar and grammatical logic. To a grammarian\nthis is a misdemeanor. For a writer this is a quality in the sense that it per-\nmits him to express his thought more exactly, to trace better with words the\nundulating, illogical and. mobile contour of thought.\nBut the use of foreign languages is not the sole cause of this suppleness of\nthe French sentence. We shall examine other reasons for this modification\nat once.\nThanks to spatial speed and the cosmopolitan spirit, a new consciousness\nhas entered French literature : the consciousness of the world. The earth is\nno longer an abstraction of astronomy. People have made its circuit often\nenough to feel its roundness. And if it is true that the earth has been round,\npeopled, lukewarm, and living for a long time back, from the sentimental point\nof view this lukewarmness and this life date only from yesterday, only from\nthe day when man, thanks to the promiscuity of speed, saw his desires and\nhis fears absorb space, nourish themselves in it, and depend on it.\nAs an example of this we may take certain very beautiful poems from\nthe Fond de Cantine of Pierre Drieu La Rochelle.\nII.\nI believe this conception of the consciousness of the world is also respon-\nsible for a small literary, philosophical and even social school which is born,\nassuredly, from the new conditions created by spatial speed. If this school has\nonly a small number of adepts (that is why I call it small), it possesses a lead-\ner of high merit in the person of Jules Romains who has baptized his system :\n\" Unanimism. \" (There is also a pictorial Unanimism but it is outside my\nscope.) Unanimism can be summarized thus : all for one, one for all. At\nbottom it is an exasperated conception of human solidarity, of the unity of\nthought which can, at certain moments, make brothers, and friends of all the"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "312", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.42", "texte": "individuals of a crowd, an army, a group. Unanimism insists upon the individ-\nuality, compact, collective, unique, which a crowd can acquire from the fact\nthat it is a crowd, an individuality quite different from the characters of each\nof its members considered separately. Dr. Gustave lye Bon has studied this\nphenomenon of collective consciousness under the head of \" the soul of the\ncrowd. \" I believe that this soul of the crowd can be explained in a simple\nenough fashion, almost algebraically. Take a thousand men. In their charac-\nters the thousand men have certain traits which one recognizes to be nearly\nthe same in each of the thousand individuals and certain different traits of char-\nacter peculiar to each, which his neighbour does not possess because he has\nothers. One can then say algebraically that there are a certain numbei of char-\nacter-traits which have the same sign and a certain number of character-traits\nwhich have different or opposed signs. A crowd is a sum of individuals : the\ncrowd's energy is a totalling-up of particular energies. In this addition as in all\nadditions elements of the same sign join and reinforce each other and elements\nof contrary signs destroy each other. So that the crowd-soul will be the sum\nof the common traits of character of all the members of the crowd, those traits,\nmultiplied, subsisting almost alone, while the differing traits of character, those\npeculiar to such and such an individual, will have fought and destroyed each\nother.\nWhat is interesting and active in a man is not what he has in common\nwith all men which can at best be but banal and moral, but what a man pos-\nsesses peculiarly for himself, what one does not find elsewhere, what is rare, spec-\nial, exceptional. Civilization knows this quite well, since it talks only of spec-\nialization, specialists and specialities. The difference is everything. The\nartist should be personal, the writer should be original, the savant should turn\naside from the travelled intellectual route and strike out new roads which com-\nmence always as paths in which one walks alone. And Jules Romains, like\nevery individual, goes counter to the unanimist theory, counter to all theories,\nsince theory is essentially anti-individualistic and since he is eminently personal.\nWhatever unanimism may be, the unanimist, Jules Romains, has written\nsome remarkable works, living, intense, and strong. I shall return to them\nagain. But this exquisite conception of the mutual dependence of men, car-\nried so far as it is today, thanks to cables, routes, rails which link peoples and\nattach individuals to each other, so that the earth resembles those puzzles\nin which one cannot move a pawn which it is neveitheless necessary to move,\nwithout necessitating corresponding complicated and uninterrupted move-\nments, of all the other pawns, this conception, if it be not idolatrous, remains\njust and true.\nWith Jules Romains, love of the crowd becomes love of the rabble, love of"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "313", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.43", "texte": "the group, love of the meeting, where feverish hands clap their applause, where\na thousand faces are strained towards a face which is their face, where a thou-\nsand thoughts revolve around the same word, where elbows rub, torsos crush\nand espouse each other with their reciprocal concavities and convexities, love\nof the street where there is a crowd, love of the words of the crowd, the lisp-\ning of a monstrous child, love of the ideas of the crowd, simple ideas, yet ava-\nlanches which roll and make the overburdened galleries shake, love of the sea-\nsons of the crowd, of the eternity of the crowd. No, it is not love ; it is idol-\natry, or deification. Jules Romains is right. All this exists and he is again\nright in saying that there are diverse crowds : the army, loafers, the cortege,\nthe salon, the church... And each of the crowds of which we happen to form\npart has its own life, which is profoundly capable of poetry.\nFurthermore, all those who feel life a little keenly are more or less un-\nanimist. Blaise Cendrars has felt this contiguity of men; read Profond aujour-\nd'hui. Jean Cocteau has written : \" All of us have the same soul, or rather,\nare of the same soul, of the same element.\nFragmentary God. \"\nIII.\nWhoever reads the works of Rimbaud, Apollinaire, Cendrars, Cocteau,\nDrieu La Rochelle, Aragon and others, even if he is their fellow in race, culture,\nlanguage and their kin in thought, will not understand them at the first glance.\nThe unwarned reader will stumble upon :\nTowards a lady of the antipodes the plumb line becomes my favorite\nlocomotion. \" — Cocteau.\n\" The first one arrived at the bottom of the corridor.\n12345678910 Dead. \" - Aragon.\n\" When the newspaper ferments like an imprisoned lightning flash. \" —\nCendrars.\n\" I was at the foot of the baldachin supporting her adored jewels and\nher physical masterpieces, a great bear with violet gums and hair hoary with\nchagrin, my eyes on the crystal and silver consoles. \" — Rimbaud.\nOf course, the extraction of these phrases from their context augments\nfurther the difficulties of understanding them.\nSome readers have not understood these sentences at the first glance —\nI believe that it is impossible to fully comprehend thoughts thus schematized\nright off without practice, and not for this must we reproach these readers —\nbut — and here they are to blame — they have not wished to reflect that an\nauthor who signs his name does not generally write balderdash for the pleasure of\ntrying out his pen or his ink, that there is, beneath this apparent bizarrerie, a mea-"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "314", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.44", "texte": "ning, perhaps a very interesting meaning, that in fact there is somethingto comp-\nrehend. Indeed, there is something to comprehend, — much to comprehend.\nCocteau, on a day of idleness in the country, in the course of a siesta, in\nthe shade which failed to refresh, a siesta broken by sentences exchanged slowly,\nin a low voice, with an absent-minded friend, an afternoon — on which the\nideas uttered and the thoughts get confused, become disconnected, compose\nthemselves into little poems, lose themselves in projects, in regrets, in memories,\nin anecdotes, suddenly reflected that underneath the grass upon which he was\nreposing.\n\" There is the earth,\nAnd still the earth\nIn a straight line,\nAnd rock and mineral,\nAnd lava,\nAnd incandescences\nAnd the central fire.\nThink while continuing the descent,\nThat there is still fire and more fire,\nThen incandescent lava,\nThen rock and mineral,\nThen earth\nAnd still earth,\nAnd gradually,\nEarth which the air penetrates,\nAnd grass,\nAnd night for a moment,\nAnd a woman who sleeps in New Zealand\nWith the abyss above her,\nAbove her roof ... \"\n(Le Potomak, by Jean Cocteau).\nAnd 262 pages before the explanation, he condenses that idea in the short\nsentence we read above: \" Towards a lady of-the antipodes... etc. \" Here,\nthe author explains, although very much later, his abridgment. In general,\nalmost always, one must find for one's self immediately, in a fraction of a\nsecond, the development, the explanation, the analogy which permits the ex-\nplanation and be ready, immediately, to hear, develop, and understand a fresh\nabridgement. You see with what speed of thought it is necessary to move.\nI avow, without shame, that I have never entirely understood such a book at\nthe first reading, but I have understood sufficiently to like it greatly, and what\nI did not understand, I say it with pride, I did not proclaim stupid, but Ire-"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "315", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.45", "texte": "read, and in re-reading up to four times, I found pleasure in understanding\nfurther, in seeing new things, so that Le Potomak by Cocteau is not one book\nfor me but four books; perhaps it will be five. And the Dix-neuf Poemes Elas-\ntiques of Blaise Cendrars, I affirm to you, is a volume of eight hundred pages\naccompagnied by thirteen hundred full page plates.\nI have not the space to develop the other abridgments cited. They can\nbe explained and understood quite as clearly. * When we are free to work these\nthings out by ourselves, we have still more pleasure in expanding them. Be-\nsides, you see well enough the process which, it is necessary to remark, exacts\nof the reader a very important complementary work, a work almost of parallel\ncreation with that of the author. lam not astonished, either, to note that the\nfew intelligent persons who still disesteem modern letters are intellectually lazy.\nThis process calls for a considerable speed in thinking. The poem of Ar-\nthur Rimbaud, one of his simplest, of which I cited a few lines above, presents\nin fifteen lines, nineteen abridgments. You see what a gallop the thought\nmust take in order to understand this poem during a reading aloud. Aux cinq\ncoins, a poem of Blaise Cendrars, contains sixteen abridgments in ten lines,\nin ten half-lines, without counting the title which is, for all that, a meteor.\nFurther, even when there are no metaphors, a description is composed\nof a few selected details, a few indications which, in truth, do not describe,\nbut permit the reader to describe. That is to say, they suggest a description.\nThere also the thought must pick itself up, bound, and construct quickly the\ndicor to receive the characters and their sentiments. Once more speed of\nthinking is put to the test. The reader must have \" imagination. \" As soon\nas one scene, which four words have suggested, ten have utilized and two have\nswept away without even the trouble of punctuation, has finished, it becomes\nnecessary to prepare another because suggestions follow each other with the\nspeed of dreams, as in those nightmares in which the alarm-clock rings for two\nseconds, but these seconds permit the dream to construct upon this alarum\nan entire complicated story which has seemed to last three days.\nThis, then, is how modern French literature depends upon the mental\nspeed of which I tried to indicate the increase and the variations. This in-\ncrease of mental speed with civilization is, to my mind, one of the most im-\nportant laws of the evolution of the intelligence. Just as the calculator trains\nhimself to calculate quickly by calculating a great deal, so man comes to think\nquickly by thinking a great deal. For it is incontestable that he thinks very\nmuch today without perhaps thinking more rightly in absolute values than\nformerly, but that remains to be seen. This rapidity of thought is reflected\nnot only in literature as we have just seen in French literature and as we can\nperceive under different appearances in all civilized literatures, but again in"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "316", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.46", "texte": "the whole intellectual apparatus of civilization. Viewing the chronology of\nliterary schools which are only emotional systems, we note that the intelligence\ntoday traverses more rapidly than formerly the stages of its variations. If\nthere was a time when a literary school sufficed to nourish abundantly one, or\nperhaps two generations, it is no longer so nowadays. Beauty appears to have\nbecome more unstable and to change her coiffure every ten years. This too\ndepends on the augmentation of the thought speed which makes the tour of\nits stopping-places, sees in a short time everything there is to see from one point\nof view, both merits and defects, and departs. Thus modern French literature,\nspoken of here according to a plan quite other than chronological, will, if stu-\ndied chronologically, reveal two stages : the past one on which we can discourse\nprecisely enough, and the present one which is growing and budding, growling\na thousand contradictions to the theoreticians. Very many of my remarks\napply especially to the stage just passed and to the period of transition between\ntwo crises. T\n\nJean Epstein\n(Translated By B. Gorham Munson)\n\n(To be continued)"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "317", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.47", "texte": "Modigliani\nPen and Ink Drawing"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "318", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.48", "texte": "OBSCURITY\n\nI.\nSome day I shall be a leaf,\nA shining green leaf, fan-folded,\nOne of many opening in a sunlit wind ;\nOr I shall be a bit of bark,\nSay on the Poverty Birch —\nSince I am obscure and poor and short of life\nAnd my work of no account to commerce —\nAnd I shall flutter there in the wind,\nMy bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skin\nAnd cross-hatched with lines of color;\nOr — but I do not know what I shall be\nAnd it does not matter.\nGod has made so much that alters beautiful:\nThe jigging shadows of trees\nThrough which thoughts pass to that which does jaot change;\nThe wind that tramps eternity ;\nThe very lava of this universe He turns to frost;\nIyike frost He throws white fingers up out of loam\nAnd tosses into space the spinning stars.\nII.\nI wonder whether ragged autumn leaves feel ill clad\nRemembering their soft dress in spring ?\nOr whether autumn browns seem dreary to the leaves and grass ?\nAnd growing older makes cedars shabby at the stem ?"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "319", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.49", "texte": "I hear the hard, dry clatter of some dead oak leaves, —\nThey sound so strong for any wind.\nBut sometimes when I am tired my dress makes me ashamed.\nAnd I am awkward and ill at ease.\nClothes have a way of telling stories\nEven as the bark of trees will tell\nWhich way the storm winds blow.\nI remember when I was young\nAnd scarcely knew that money paid for clothes.\nMy garments were fresh and silken like poplar leaves\nAnd there were more than I needed;\nAnd my hair was soft and thick,\nWith gold always in it as in the larch in early spring ;\nAnd my body was lithe and vigorous ;\nWhen I was tired it was the quick dip of the sapling in the storm,\nThe least clearing wind set me free again\nAnd I stood straight with all my quivering aspen leaves\nShaking the sunlight into dance.\nIII.\nNow I lie awake at night, many nights,\nSometimes when I am ill,\nSometimes when I am well,\nAnd think about money and rents in worn clothes\nAnd feel the hunger of old women and backyard cats\nAs if it were my own hunger;\nAnd the wind noses about for crumbs in a bit of newspaper\nAnd flaps tattered dirty shawls over me,\nAnd my thoughts are bent and old\nAnd I shiver in the dark trying to bless God.\nI wonder why God gives Himself to trees\nAnd lets old women starve ?\nAnd backyard cats nose for crumbs in a piece of newspaper ?"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "320", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.50", "texte": "And why certain rich people are as well varnished against cold\nAs fat beech buds against the frost ?\nDo you suppose God is a Merchant\nAnd sells this warm lustre from the stars\nStars hung like bright drops of water in a big night wind —\nAnd plans to make a profit from the rich ? . . .\nI am not an anarchist\nExcept in stars.\nIV.\nWhen the dawn comes it brings the crows.\nCaw ! Caw ! Caw ! The crows !\nThe crow sleeps east but west he blows\nTo pick some carrion that he knows\nCaw ! Caw ! Caw ! It blows !\nV.\nI travel East to meet the sun\nWith a gray heron battling up against the wind,\nAbove the nests that know the ravens in their sleep,\nAbove the trees that toss the light,\nAbove the rocks that blossom into rose,\nOn towards the sun!\nIt does not matter now how I am clothed ;\nFor my mind glitters with a thousand thoughts,\nStar-sown, moon-shaped, sun-colored,\nAmber-shining like polished foliage in a great dawn wind,\nAnd the lustre on the heron's breast\nIs now God and now the Morning Star:\nI travel East to meet the sun !\n\nJeanette Marks"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "321", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.51", "texte": "SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR\nACT II.\n\nThe stage call-bells ring to warn the, company that the play is about to begin again.\nThe Step-Daughter comes out of the Manager's office along with The\nChii,d and The Boy. As she comes out of the office, she• cries: —\nNonsense!- nonsense! Do it yourselves! I'm not going to mix myself\nup in this mess. (Turning to the Child and coming quickly with her on to the\nstage). Come on, Rosetta, let's run !\n(The Boy follows them slowly, remaining a little behind and seeming perplexed).\nThe Step-Daughter (Stops, bends over the Child and takes her face\nbetween her hands). My little darling! You're frightened,'aren't you? You\ndon't know where we are, do you ? (pretending to reply to a question of the\nChild). What is the stage? It's a place, baby, you know, where people play\nat being serious, a place where they act comedies. We've got to act a comedy\nnow, dead serious, you know and you're in it also, little one. (Embraces\nher, pressing the little head to her breast, and rocking the child for a moment). Oh\ndarling, darling, what a horrid comedy you've got to play. What a wretched\npart they've found for you. A garden ... a fountain .. , look .. . just sup-\npose, kiddie, it's here. Where, say ? Why, right here in the middle. It's\nall pretence you know. That's the trouble, my pet: it's all make-believe\nhere. It's better to imagine it though, because if they fix it up for you, it'll\nonly be painted cardboard, painted cardboard for the rockery, the water, the\nplants .. . Ah, but I think a baby like this one would sooner have a make-be-\nlieve fountain than a real one, so she could play with it. What a joke it'll\nbe for the others, but for you, alas ! not quite such a joke: you who are real,\nbaby dear, and really play by a real fountain that is big and green and beau-\ntiful with ever so many bamboos around it that are reflected in the water, and\na whole lot of little ducks swimming about. . . No, Rosetta, no, your mother\ndoesn't bother about you on account of that wretch of a son there. I'm in the\ndevil of a temper, and as for that lad. (Seizes Boy by the arm to force him\nto take one of his hands out of his pockets). What have you got there?\nWhat are you hiding ? (Pulls his hand out of his pocket, looks into it and catches\nthe glint of a revolver). Ah ! where did you get this ?\n(The Boy, very pale in the face, looks at her, but docs not answer).\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "322", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.52", "texte": "Idiot! If I'd been in yonr place, instead of killing myself, I'd have\nshot one of those two, or both of them : father and son.\n(The Father enters from the office, all excited from his work. The Man-\nager follows him).\nThe Father. Come on, come on dear! Come here for a minnte!\nWe've arranged everything. It's all fixed up.\nThe Manager [also excited). If you please, young lady, there are one\nor two points to settle still. Will you come along ?\nThe Step-Daughter {following him towards the office). OufF! what's the\ngood if you've arranged everything ?\n(The Father, Manager and Step-Daughter go back into the office again {off)\nfor a moment. At the same time, The Son followed by The Mother, comes out).\nThe Son {looking at the three entering office). Oh this is fine, fine! And\nto think I can't even get away !\n(The Mother attempts to look at him, but lowers her eyes immediately when\nhe turns away from her. She then sits down. The Boy and The Chii,d approach\nher. She casts a glance again at the Son, and speaks with humble tones, trying to\ndraw him into conversation).\nThe Mother. And isn't my punishment the worst of all ? {then seeing\nfrom the Son's manner that. he will not bother himself about her). My God ! Why\nare you so cruel ? Isn't it enough for one person to support all this torment ?\nMust you then insist on others seeing it also ?\nThe Son {half to himself, meaning the Mother to hear, however). And they\nwant to put it on the stage ! If there was at least a reason for it ! He thinks\nhe has got at the meaning of it all. Just as if each one of us in every circumstance\nof life couldn't find his own explanation of it! {pauses). He complains he\nwas discovered in a place where he ought not to have been seen, in a moment\nof his life which ought to have remained hidden and kept out of the reach\nof that convention which he has to maintain for other people. And what\nabout my case ? Haven't I had to reveal what no son ought ever to reveal,\nthat is : how father and mother live and are man and wife for themselves quite\napart from that idea of father and mother which we give them. When this\nidea is revealed, our life is then linked at one point only to that man and that\nwoman, and as such it should shame them, shouldn't it ?\nThe Mother hides her face in her hands. From the dressing-rooms and the\nlittle door at the back of the stage the actors and Stage Manager return, followed\nby the Property Man, and the Prompter. At the same moment, The Manager\ncomes out of his office, accompanied by the Father and the Step-Daughter.\nThe Manager. Come on, come on, ladies and gentlemen ! Heh ! you\nthere, machinist!"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "323", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.53", "texte": "Machinist. Yes, Sir.\nTi-ie Manager. Fix up the white parlor with the floral decorations.\nTwo wings and a drop with a door will do. Hurry up !\n(The Machinist runs off at once to prepare the scene, and arranges it while\nThe Manager talks with the Stage Manager, the Property Man and the\nPrompter on matters of detail).\nThe Manager {to Property Man). Just have a look, and see if there\nisn't a sofa or divan in the wardrobe . . .\nProperty Man. There's the green one.\nThe Step-Daughter. No ! no ! green won't do. It was yellow orna-\nmented with flowers — very large and most comfortable.\nProperty Man. There isn't one like that.\nThe Manager. It doesn't matter. Use the one we've got.\nThe Step-Daughter. Doesn't matter. It's most important.\nThe Manager. We're only trying it now. Please don't interfere. (To\nProperty Man). See if we've got a shop window — long and narrowish.\nThe Step-Daughter. And the little table ! The little mahogany table\nfor the pale blue envelope.\nProperty Man (To Manager). There's that little gilt one.\nThe Manager. That'll do fine.\nThe Father. A mirror.\nThe Step-Daughter. And the screen. We must have a screen. Other-\nwise how can I manage ?\nProperty Man. That's all right, Miss. We've got any amount of them.\nThe Manager (to the Step-Daughter). We want some clothe's pegs too\ndon't we ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Yes, several, several.\nThe Manager. See how many we've got and bring them all.\nProperty Man. All right!\n(The Property Man hurries off to obey his orders. While he is putting the\nthings in their place, the Manager talks to the Prompter and then with the Characters\nand the actors).\nThe Manager (to Prompter). Take your seat. I,ook here : this is the\noutline of the scenes, act by act (hands him some sheets of paper). And now I'm\ngoing to ask you to do something out of the way.\nPrompter. Take it down in shorthand ?\nThe Manager (pleasantly surprised). Kxactly. Can do you do shorthand ?\nPrompter. Yes, a little.\nManager. Good. (Turning to a stage hand). Go and get some paper\nfrom my office, plenty, as much as you can find."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "324", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.54", "texte": "(The stage hand goes off, and soon returns with a handful of paper which he\ngives to the Prompter).\nThe Manager (To Prompter). You follow the scenes as we play them,\nand try and get the points down, at any rate the most important ones.\n(Then addressing the actors). Clear the stage, ladies and gentlemen! Come over\nhere (pointing to the Left) and'listen attentively.\nLeading Lady. But, excuse me, we .. .\nThe Manager (guessing her thought). Don't worry! You won't have to\nimprovise.\nLeading Man. What have we to do then ?\nThe Manager. Nothing. For the moment you just watch and listen.\nEverybody will get his part written out afterwards. At present we're going\nto try the thing as best we can. They're going to act now.\nThe Pather (as if fallen from the clouds into the confusion of the stage).\nWe ? What do you mean, if you please, by a rehearsal ?\nThe Manager. A rehearsal for them (points to the actors).\nThe Father. But since we are the characters .. .\nThe Manager. All right: \" characters \" then, if you insist on calling your-\nselves such. But here, my dear Sir, the characters don't act. Here the actors,\ndo the acting. The characters are there, in the book (pointing towards\nPrompter's box) when there is a book.\nThe Father. I won't contradict you, but excuse me, the actors aren't\nthe characters. They want to be, they pretend to be, don't they ? Now if\nthese gentlemen here are fortunate enough to have us alive before them . ..\nThe Manager. Oh this is grand ! You want to come before the public\nyourselves then ?\nThe Father. As we are .. .\nThe Manager. I can assure you it would be a magnificent spectacle!\nLeading Man. What's the use of us here anyway then ?\nThe Manager. You're not going to pretend that you can act. It makes\nme laugh. (The actors laugh). There, you see, they are laughing at the notion.\nBut, by the way, I must cast the parts. That won't be difficult. They cast\nthemselves. (To the Second Lady Lead). You play the Mother. (To the\nFather). We must find her a name.\nThe Father. Amalia, Sir.\nThe Manager. But that is the real name of your wife. We don't\nwant to call her by her real name.\nThe Father. Why ever not, if it is her name ?. . Still, perhaps, if\nthat lady must .. . (makes a slight motion of the hand to indicate the Second\nLady Lead). I see this woman here (means the Mother) as Amalia. But do as"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "325", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.55", "texte": "you like (gets more and more confused). I don't know what to say to you.\nAlready, I begin to hear my own words ring false, as if they had another\nsound . . .\nThe Manager. Don't you worry about it. It'll be our job to find the\nright tones. And as for her name, if you want her Amalia, Amalia it shall\nbe, and if you don't like it, we'll find another. For the moment though,\nwe'll call the characters in this way : (to Juvenile Lead) You are the Son ;\n(to the Leading Lady) You naturally are the Step-Daughter.\nThe Step-Daughter (excitedly). What ? what ? I, that woman there ?\n(bursts out laughing).\nThe Manager (angry). What is there to laugh at ?\nIyEADiNG L/Ady (indignant). Nobody has ever dared to laugh at me. I\ninsist on being treated with respect; otherwise Igo away.\nThe Step-Daughter. No, no, excuse me ... I am not laughing at\nyou . . .\nThe Manager (to Step-Daughter). You ought to feel honoured to be\nplayed by...\nLeading (at once, contemptuously). \" That woman there \"...\nThe Step-Daughter. But I wasn't speaking of you, you know. I was\nspeaking of myself. Whom I can't see at all in you. That is all. I don't\nknow .. . but. .. you .. . aren't in the least like me .. .\nThe Father. True. Here's the point. Iyook here, Sir, our temper-\nament, our soul. . .\nThe Manager. Temperament, soul, be hanged ! Do you suppose the\nspirit of the piece is in you ? Nothing of the kind.\nThe Father. What, haven't we our own temperament, our own soul?\nThe Manager. Not at all. Your soul or whatever you like to call it\ntakes shape here. The actors give body and form to it, voice and gesture.\nAnd my actors — I may tell you — have given expression to much more\nlofty material than this little drama of yours, which may or may not hold up\non the stage. But if it does, the merit of it,\" believe me, will be due to\nmy actors.\nThe Father. I don't dare contradict you, Sir, but believe me it is a ter-\nrible suffering for us who are as we are, with these bodies of ours, these features\nto see . . .\nThe Manager (cutting him short and out of patience). Good heavens!\nThe make-up will remedy all that, man, the make-up . . .\n- The Father. Maybe. But the voice, the gestures .. .\nThe Manager. Now, look here ! On the stage, you as yourself, cannot\nexist. The actor here acts you, and that's an end to it."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "326", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.56", "texte": "The Father. I understand. And now I think I see why our author\nwho conceived us as we are, all alive, didn't want to put us on the stage after\nall. I haven't the least desire to offend your actors. Far from it. But\nwhen I think that I am to be acted by ... I don't know by whom . . .\nLeading Man (on his dignity). By me, if you've no objection.\nThe Father (humbly, mellifluously). Honoured, I assure you, Sir. (Bows).\nStill, I must say that try as this gentlemen may with all his good will and\nwonderful art to absorb me into himself . . .\nLeading Man. Oh chuck it ! \" Wonderful art \" Withdraw that please!\nThe Father. The performance he will give, even doing his best with\nmake-up to look like me . . .\nLeading Man, It will certainly be a bit difficult (The actors laugh).\nThe Father. Exactly. It will be difficult to act me as I really am.\nThe effect will be rather — apart from the make-up — according as to how\nhe supposes I am, as he senses me — if he does sense me — and not as I inside\nof myself feel myself to be. It seems to me then that account should be taken\nof this by everyone whose duty it may become to criticize us . . .\nThe Manager. Heavens ! The man's starting to think about the critics\nnow. Let them say what they like. It's up to us to put on the play if we can\n(looking around). Come on ! come on ! Is the stage set ? (to the actors and Cha-\nracters). Stand back — stand back! Let me see, and don't let's lose anymore\ntime (to the Step-Daughter). Is it all right as it is now ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Well, to tell the truth, I don't recognize the\nscene.\nThe Manager. My dear lady, you can't possibly suppose that we can\nconstruct that shop of Madame Pace piece by piece here (to the Father). You\nsaid a white room with flowered wall paper, didn't you ?\nThe Father. Yes.\nThe Manager. Well then. We've got the furniture right more or\nless. Bring that little table a bit further forward.(The stage hands obey the\norder, to Property Man). You go and find an envelope, if possible a pale\nblue one, and give it to that gentleman (indicates Father).\nProperty Man. An ordinary envelope ?\nManager and Father. Yes, yes, an ordinary envelope.\nProperty Man. At once, sir (exit).\nThe Manager. Ready everyone ! First scene — the Young Lady. (The\nLeading Lady comes forward).' No, no, you must wait. I meant her (indicat-\ning the Step-Daughter). You just watch.\nThe Step-Daxjghter (adding at once). How I shall play it, how I shall\njive it ! . . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "327", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.57", "texte": "Leading Lady (offended). I shall live it also you may be sure as soon\nas I begin !\nThe Manager (with his hands to his head). Ladies and gentlemen if\nyou please, no more useless discussions ! Scene I: the young lady with Ma-\ndame Pace: Oh! (looks around as if lost). And this Madame Pace, where\nis she ?\n«-\nThe Father. She isn't with us, sir.\nThe Manager. Then what the devil's to be done ?\nThe Father. But she is alive too.\nThe Manager. Yes, but where is she ?\nThe Father. One minute. Let me speak! (turning to the actresses).\nIf these ladies would be so good as to give me their hats for a moment. . .\nThe Actresses (half surprised, half laughing in chorus). What ?\nWhy?\nOur hats ?\nWhat does he say ?\nThe Manager. What are you going to do with the ladies' hats ? (The\nactors laugh).\nThe Father. Oh nothing. I just want to put them on these pegs for\na moment. And one of the ladies will be so kind as to take off her mantle ...\nThe Actors. Oh, what d'you think of that ?\nOnly the mantle ?\nHe must be mad.\nSome Actresses. But why ?\nMantles as well.\nThe Father. To hang them up here for a moment. Please be so kind,\nwill you ?\nThe Actresses (taking off their hats, one or two also their cloaks, and going\nto hang them on the racks). After all, why not ?\nThere you are !\nThis is really funny.\nWe've got to put them on show.\nThe Father. Exactly; just like that, on show.\nThe Manager. May we know why ?\nThe Father. I'll tell you. Who knows if by arranging the stage for\nher, she does not come here herself, attracted by the very articles of her trade\n(inviting the actors to look towards the exit at back of stage). Look ! Look !\n(The door at the back of stage opens and Madame Pace enters and takes\na few steps forward. She is a fat, oldish woman with puffy oxygenated hair. She\nis rouged and powdered, dressed with a comical elegance in black silk. Round her"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "328", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.58", "texte": "waist is a long silver chain from which hang a pair of scissors. Ihe Step-Daughter\nruns over to her at once amid the stupor of the actors).\nThe Step-Daughter (turning towards her). There she is ! There she is !\nThe Father {radiant). It's she ! I said so, didn't I ? There she is !\nThe Manager (conquering his surprise, and then becoming indignant).\nWhat sort of a trick is this ?\nLeading Man (almost at the same time). What's going to happen\nnext ?\nJuvenile Lead. Where does she come from ?\nL'lngicnue. They've been holding her in reserve I gness.\nLeading Lady. A vulgar trick !\nThe Father [dominating the protests). Excuse me, all of you ! Why\nare you so anxious to destroy in the name of a vulgar commonplace sense of\ntruth, this reality which comes to birth attracted and formed by the magic\nof the stage itself, which has indeed more right to live here than you, since\nit is much truer than you, if you don't mind my saying so ? Which is the\nactress among you who is to Madame Pace ? Well, here is Madame Pace\nherself. And you will allow, I fancy, that the actress who acts her will be\nless true than this woman here, whp is herself in person. You see my daughter\nrecognized her and went over to her at once. Now you're going to witness\nthe scene !\nBut the scene between the Step-Daughter and Madame Pace has already\nbegun despite the protest of the actors and the reply of The Father. It has begun\nquietly, naturally, in a manner impossible for the stage. So when the actors, called\nto attention by the Father, turn round and see Madame Pace who has placed one\nhand under the Step-Daughter's chin to raise her head, they observe her at first\nwith great attention, but hearing her speak in an unintelligible manner their interest\nbegins to wane.\nThe Manager. Well ? well ?\nLeading Man. What does she say ?\nLeading Lady. One can't hear a word.\nJuvenile Lead. Louder ! louder please !\nThe Step-Daughter (leaving Madame Pace who smiles a Sphinx-like smile\nand advancing towards the actors). Louder ! louder ! What are you talking\nabout ? These aren't matters which can be shouted at the top of one's voice.\nIf I have spoken them out loud, it was to shame him and have my revenge\n(indicates Father). But for Madame it's quite a different matter.\nThe Manager. Indeed ? indeed ? But here, you know, people have\ngot to make themselves heard, my dear. Even we who are on the stage\ncan't hear you. What will it be when the public's in the theatre ? And"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "329", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.59", "texte": "anyway, you can very well speak up now among yourselves, since we shan't\nbe present to listen to you as we are now. You've got to pretend to be alone\nin a room at the back of a shop where no one can hear you.\n(The Step-Daughter coquettishly and with a touch of malice makes a sign\nof disagreement two or three times with her finger).\nThe Manager. What do you mean by no ?\nThe Step-Daughter (sottovoce, mysteriously). There's someone who will\nhear us if she [indicating Madame Pace) speaks out loud.\nThe Manager [in consternation) What ? Have you got someone else to\nspring on us now ? (The actors burst out laughing).\nThe Father. No, no sir. She is alluding to me. I've got to be here.\nThere behind that door in waiting and Madame Pace knows it. In fact,\nif you' will allow me, I'll go there at once, so I can be quite ready. (Moves\naway).\nThe Manager (stopping him). No ! Wait! wait! We must observe the\nconventions of the theatre. Before you are ready .. .\nThe Step-Daughter [interrupting him). No, get on with it at once !\nI'm just d}dng, I tell you, to act this scene. If he's ready, I'm more than\nready.\nThe Manager [shouting). But, my dear young lady, first of all, we must\nhave the scene between you and this lady .. . [indicates Madame Pace). Do you\nunderstand ? . . .\nThe Step-Daughter. Good Heavens ! She's been telling me what you\nknow already : that mamma's work is badly done again, that the material's\nruined, and that if I want her to continue to help us in our misery I must\nbe patient. . .\nMadame Pace [coming forward with an air of great importance). Yes, indeed\nSir, I no wanta take advantage of her, I no wanta be hard . . .\n[Note. Madame Pace is supposed to talk in a jargon half Italian, half\nSpanish).\nThe Manager [alarmed). What? what? She talks like that? [The\nactors burst out laughing again).\nThe Step-Daughter [also laughing). Yes, yes that's the way she talks,\nhalf English, half Italian, most comical it is.\nMadame Pace. Itta seem not verra polite gentlemen laugha atta me eef\nI trva best speaka English.\nThe Manager. Diamine ! Of course ! Of course ! Iyet her talk like that!\nJust what we want. Talk just like that Madam if you please. The effect will\nbe certain. Exactly what was wanted to put a little comic relief into the crudity\nof the situation. Of course she talks like that. Magnificent!"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "330", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.60", "texte": "The Step-Daughter. Magnificent: certainly. When certain suggestions\nare made to one in language of that kind, the effect is certain, since it seems almost\na joke. One feels inclined to laugh when one her talk about an \" old\nsignore \" \" who wanta talka nicely with you. \" Doesn't it, Madame ?\nMadame Pace. Not so old my dear, not so old and even if you no lika\nhim, be won't make any scandal!\nThe Mother (jumping up amid the amazement and consternation of the\nactors who had not been noticing her. They move to restrain her). You old\ndevil! You murderess !\nThe Step-Daughter (running over to calm her Mother). Calm yourself,\nmother, calm yourself ! Please don't. . .\nThe Father (going to her also at the same time). Calm yourself. Don't\nget excited. Sit down now.\nThe Mother. Well theft, take that z£/oman away out of my sight!\nThe Step-Daughter (to Manager). It is impossible for my mother to\nremain here.\nThe Father (to Manager). They can't be here And for this\nreason you see. That woman there was not with us when we came. . . If\nthey are on together, the whole thing is given away inevitably as you see.\nThe Manager. It doesn't matter. This is only a first rough sketch.\nJust to get an idea of the various points of the scene, even confusedly. . (turn-\ning to the Mother and leading her to her chair). Come along, my dear lady, sit\ndown now, and let's get on with the scene. . .\n(Meanwhile, the Step-Daughter, coming forward again, turns to Madame\nPace).\nThe Step-Daughter. Come on, Madame, come on !\nMadame Pace (offended). No, no, grazie. I not do anything witha\nyour mother present.\nThe Step-Daughter. Nonsense. Introduce this \" old signore \" who\nwants to talk nicely to me (adressing the company imperiously). We've got to\ndo this scene one way or another, haven't we ? Come on ! (to Madame Pace).\nYou can go !\nMadame Pace. Ah yes. I go'way. I go'way, certainly. (Exit furious).\nThe Step-Daughter (to the Father). Now you make your entry. No,\nyou needn't go over here. Come here. Let's suppose you've already come\nin. I/ike that, yes. I'm here with bowed head, modest like. Come on ! Out\nwith your voice ! Say \" Good morning, Miss \" in that peculiar tone, that\nspecial tone. . .\nThe Manager. Excuse me, but are you the Manager or am I ? (to\nthe Father who looks undecided and perplexed). Get on with it, man ! Go down"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "331", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.61", "texte": "there to the back of the stage. You needn't go off. Then come right forward\nhere.\n(The Father does as he is told, looking troubled and perplexed at first. But\nas soon as he begins to move, the reality of the action affects him, and he begins to\nsmile and to be more natural. The actors watch intently).\nThe Manager (sottovoce, quickly to the Prompter in his box). Ready ! ready !\nGet ready to write now.\nThe Father [coming forward and speaking in a different tone). Good\nafternoon, Miss.\nThe Step-Daughter {head bowed down slightly, with restrained disgust).\nGood afternoon.\nThe Father. (looks under her hat which partly covers her face. Perceiving\nshe is very young, he makes an exclamation, partly of surprise, partly of fear lest\nhe compromise himself in a risky adventure). Ah .. . but. . . ah, I say this is\nnot the first time that you have come here, is it ?\nThe Step-Daughter (modestly). No sir.\nThe Father. You've been here before, eh ? (Then seeing her nod agree-\nment). More than once ?( Waits for her to answer, looks under her hat, smiles and\nthen says). Well then, there's no need to be so shy is there? May I take\noff your hat ?\nThe Step-Daughter (anticipating him and with veiled digust). No sir .. .\nI'll do it myself. (Takes it off quickly).\n(The Mother , who watches the progress of the scene with The Son and the other\ntwo children who cling to her, is on thorns, and follows with varying expressions of\nsorrow, indignation, anxiety and horror the words and actions of the other two.\nFrom time to time she hides her face in her hands and sobs).\nThe Mother. Oh, my-God, my God!\nThe Father (playing his part with a touch of gallantry). Give it to me !\nI'll put it down (takes hat from her hands). But a dear little head like\nyours ought to have a smarter hat. Come and help me choose one from\nthe stock, won't you ?\nI/Ing&nue (interrupting). I say .. . those are our hats you know.\nThe Manager (furious). Silence ! silence ! Don't try and be funny if you\nplease .. . We're playing the scene now I'd have you notice. (To the Step-\nDaughter). Begin again, please.\nThe Step-Daughter (continuing). No thank you, sir.\nThe Father. Oh, come now. Don't talk like that. You must take\nit. I shall be upset if you don't. There are some lovely little hats here, and\nthen Madame will be pleased. She expects it, anyway, you know.\nThe Step-Daughter. No, no, I couldn't wear it."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "332", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.62", "texte": "The Father. Oh, you're thinking about what they'd say at home if\nthey saw you come in with a new hat. My dear girl, there's always a way\nround these little matters you know.\nThe Step-Daughter (all keyed up). No, it's not that. I couldn't\nwear it because I am ... as you see . . . you might have noticed . . . (showing\nher black dress).\nThe Father. In mourning. Of course. I beg your pardon. I'm fright-\nfully sorry . . .\nThe Step-Daughter (forcing herself to conquer her indignation and nausea).\nStop ! stop ! It's I who must thank you. There's no need for you to feel morti-\nfied or specially sorry. Don't think any more of what I've said. (Tries to smile).\nI must forget that I am dressed so . . .\nThe Manager (interrupting and turning to the Prompter). Stop a minute!\nstop ! Don't write that down. Cut out that last bit (Then to the Father and.\nStep-Daughter). Fine ! it's going fine ! (To the Father only). And now you can\ngo on as we arranged. (To the actors). Pretty good that scene, where he\noffers her the hat, eh ?\nThe Step-Daughter. The best's coming now. Why can't we go on ?\nThe Manager. Have a little patience (to the actors) of course it must\nbe treated rather lightly.\nLeading Man. Still, with a bit of go in it.\nLeading Lady. Of course. It's easy enough (to Leading Man). Shall\nyou and I try it now ?\nLeading Man. Why, yes. I'll prepare my entrance (Exit in order to\nmake his entrance). -\nThe Manager (to Leading Lady). See here! The scene between you\nand Madame Pace is finished. I'll have it written out properly after. You\nremain here ... oh, where are you going ?\nLeading Lady. One minute. I want to put my hat on again (goes\nover to hat-rack and puts her hat on her head).\nThe Manager. Good ! You stay here with your head bowed down a bit.\nThe Step-Daughter. But she isn't dressed in black.\nLeading Lady. But I shall be, and much more effectively than you.\nThe Manager (to Step-Daughter). Be quiet please, and watch. You'll\nbe able to learn something. (Clapping his hands) Come on ! come on ! En-\ntrance please.\n(The door at rear of stage opens, and the Leading Man enters with the lively\nmanner of an \"old gallant\\ The rendering of the scene by the actors from the very\nfirst words is seen to be quite a different thing, though it has not in any way the air\nof a parody. Naturally, the Step-Daughter and the Father, not being able to recog-"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "333", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.63", "texte": "nize themselves in the Leading Lady and the Leading Man, who deliver their words\nin different tones and with a different psychology, express, sometimes with smiles,\nsometimes with gestures, the impression they receive).\nLeading Man. \" Good afternoon, Miss \"...\nThe Father (at once unable, to contain himself). No ! no!\n(The Step-Daugther noticing the way the Leading Man enters, bursts out\nlaughing).\nThe Manager (furious). Silence ! And you please just stop that laughing.\nIf we go on like this, we shall never finish.\nThe Step-Daughter. Forgive me, sir, but it's natural enough. This\nlady (indicating Leading Lady) stands there still, but if she is supposed to be\nme, I can assure you that if I heard anyone say \" Good afternoon \" in that\nmanner and in that tone, I should burst out laughing as I did.\nThe Father. Yes, yes, the manner, the tone...\nThe Manager. Nonsense ! rubbish 1 Stand aside and let me see the action.\nLeading Man. If I've got to represent an old fellow who's coming into\na house of an equivocal character . <. .\nThe Manager. Don't listen to them for Heaven's sake. Do it again.\nIt goes fine. (Waiting for the actors to begin again) Well ?\nLeading Man. Good afternoon, Miss.\nLeading Lady. Good afternoon.\nLeading Man (imitating the gesture of the Father when he looked under the\nhat, and then expressing quite clearly first satisfaction and then fear). Ah; but. .\nI say this is not the first time that you have come here, is it ?\nThe Manager. Good, but not quite so heavily. Like this (acts himself).\n\"This isn't the first time that you have come here\" ... (To Leading Lady)\nAnd you say : \" No, sir. \"\nLeading Lady. No, sir.\nLeading Man. You've been here before more than once.\nThe Manager. No, no, stop ! Let her nod \" yes \" first. \"You've been\nbefore, eh ? \" (The Leading Lady lifts up her head slightly and closes her eyes as\nthough in disgust. Then inclines her head twice).\nThe Step-Daughter (unable to contain herself). Oh my God [ (puts a\nhand to her mouth to prevent herself from laughing).\nThe Manager (turning round). What's the matter ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Nothing, nothing.\nThe Manager (to Leading Man), Go on.\nLeading Man. You've been here before, eh ? Well then, there's no need\nto be so shy, is there ? May I take off your hat ?\n(The Leading Man says this last speech in such a tone and with such gestures"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "334", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.64", "texte": "that the Step-Daughter, though she has her hand to her mouth, cannot keep\nfrom laughing).\nLeading IyADY [indignant), I'm not going to stop here to be made a fool\nof by that woman there.\nLeading Man. Neither am I. I'm through with it.\nThe Manager (.shouting to Step-Daughter). Silence for once and all, I tell you.\nThe Step-Daughter. Forgive me ! forgive me !\nThe Manager. You haven't any manners : that's what it is. You go too far.\nThe Father [endeavouring to intervene). Yes, it's true, but excuse her. . .\nThe Manager. Excuse what ? It's absolutely disgusting.\nThe Father. Yes, sir, but believe me, it has such a strange effect when .. .\nThe Manager. Strange ? Why strange ? Where is it strange ?\nThe Father. No, sir. I admire your actors, this gentleman here\nthis lady, but they are certainly not us.\nThe Manager. I should hope not. Evidently they cannot be you, if\nthey are actors.\nThe Father. Just so ; actors. Both of them act our parts exceedingly\nwell. But, believe me, it produces quite a different effect on us. They want\nto be us, but they aren't, all the same.\nThe Manager. What is it then anyway ?\nThe Father. Something that is .. . that is theirs and no longer ours. . .\nThe Manager. But naturally, inevitably. I've told you so already.\nThe Father. Yes, I understand. . . I understand.\nThe Manager. Well then, let's have no more of it [turning to the ac-\ntors). We'll have the rehearsals by ourselves afterwards in the ordinary way.\nI never could stand rehearsing with the author present. He's never satisfied\n[turning to Father and Step-Daughter). Come on ! Let's get on with it again\nand try and see if you can't keep from laughing.\nThe Step-Daughter. Oh, I shan't laugh any more. There's a nice\nlittle bit coming for me now : you'll see.\nThe Manager. Well then : when she says \" Dont think any more of what\nI've said. I must forget etc \" you [addressing the Father) come in sharp\nwith \" I understand, I understand \" and then you ask her ...\nThe Step-Daugther [interrupting). What?\nThe Manager. Why she is in mourning.\nThe Step-Daughter. Not at all ! See here : when I told him that it\nwas useless for me to be thinking about my wearing mourning, do you know\nhow he answered me ? \"■ Ah well, \" he said \" then let's take off this little frock\nThe Manager. Great ! Just what we want to make a riot in the theatre.\nThe Step-Daughter. But it's the truth."}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "335", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.65", "texte": "The Manager. What does that matter ? Acting is our business here.\nTruth up to a certain point, but nq further.\nThe Step-Daughter. What do you want to do then ?\nThe Manager. You'll see. You'll see. Leave it to me.\nThe Step-Daughter. No sir. What you want to do is to piece together\na little romantic sentimental scene out of my disgust, out of all the reasons,\neach more cruel and viler than the other, why I am what I am. He is to ask\nme why I'm in mourning, and I'm to answer with tears in my eyes, that it is\njust two months since papa died. No, sir, no. He's got to say to me as he\ndid say. \" Well, let's take off this little dress at once. \" And I with my two\nmonths' mourning in my heart went there behind that screen and with these\nfingers tingling with shame . . .\nThe Manager (running his hands through his hair). For Heaven's sake !\nWhat are you saying ?\nThe Step-Daughter (crying out excitedly). The truth ! The truth !\nThe Manager. It may be. I don't deny it, and I can understand all\nyour horror, but you must surely see that you can't have this kind of thing\non the stage. It won't go.\nThe Step-Daughter. Not possible, isn't it ? Very well, I'm much\nobliged to you, but I'm off.\nThe Manager. Now be reasonable. Don't lose your temper.\nThe Step-Daughter. I won't stop here. I won't. I can see you've\nfixed it all up with him in your office. All this talk about what is possible for\nthe stage. I understand. He wants to get at his complicated 44 cerebral\ndrama\" to have his famous remorses and torments acted, but I want to act\nmy part, my part.\nThe Manager (annoyed, shaking his shoulders). Ah ! just your part.\nBut, if you will pardon me, there are other parts than yours. His (indicating\nthe Father) and hers {indicating the Mother). On the stage you can't have a\ncharacter becoming too prominent and overshadowing all the others. The\nthing is to pack them all into a neat little framework and then act what is\nactable. lam aware of the fact that everyone has his own interior life which\nhe wants very much to put forward. But the difficulty lies in this fact :\nto set out just so much as is necessary for the stage, taking the other characters\ninto consideration, and at the same time hint at the unrevealed interior life\nof each. lam willing to admit, my dear young lady, that from your point of\nview it would be a fine idea if each character could tell the public all his trouble\nin a nice monologue or a regular one hour lecture [good humoredly). You must\nrestrain yourself, my dear, and in your own interest too, because this fury of\nyours, this exaggerated disgust you show may make a bad impression you know."}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "336", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.66", "texte": "After you have confessed to me that there were others before him at Madame\nPace's and more than once . . .\nThe Step-Daughter (bowing her head, impressed). It's true. But re-\nmember those others mean him for me all the same.\nThe Manager [not understanding) What ? The others ? What do you\nmean ?\nThe Step-Daughter. For one who has gone wrong, sir, he who was\nresponsible for the first fault is responsible for all that follow. He\nis responsible for my faults, was, even before I was born. I,ook at him ! and\nsee if it isn't true !\nThe Manager. Well, well. And does the weight of so much responsi-\nbility seem nothing to you ? Give him a chance to act it, to get it over.\nThe Step-Daughter. How ? How can he act all his \" noble remorses \"\nall his \" moral torments \" if you want to spare him the horror of being discov-\nered one day — after he had asked her what he did ask her — in the arms\nof her, that already fallen woman, that child, sir, that child he used to watch\ncome out of school ? [She is moved).\n(The Mother at this point is overcome with emotion, and breaks out into a\nfit of crying. All are touched. A long pause).\nThe Step-Daughter (<zs soon as the Mother becomes a little quieter, adds\nresolutely and gravely). At present, we are unknown to the public. Tomorrow,\nyou will act us as you wish, treating us in your own manner. But do you really\nwant to see drama, do you want to see it flash out as it really did ?\nThe Manager. Of course. That's just what Ido want so I can use\nas much of it as is possible.\nThe Step-Daughter. Well then, ask that Mother there to leave us.\nThe Mother (<changing her low plaint into a sharp cry). No ! No !\nDon't permit it Sir, don't permit it !\nThe Manager. But it's only to tiy it.\nThe Mother. I can't bear it. I can't.\nThe Manager. But since it has happened already. I don't understand.\nThe Mother. It's taking place now. It happens all the time. My tor-\nment isn't a pretended one. I live and feel every minute of my torture. Those\ntwo children there — have you heard them speak ? They can't speak any\nmore. They cling to me to keep my torment actual and vivid for me. But\nfor themselves, they do not exist, they aren't any more. And she [indicat-\ning Step-Daughter) has run away, she has left me and is lost. If I now see her\nhere before me, it is only to renew for me the tortures I have suffered for\nher too.\nThe Father. The eternal moment! She [indicating the Step-Daughter)"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "337", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.67", "texte": "is here to catch me, fix me, and hold me eternally in the stocks for that one\nfleeting and shameful moment of my life. She can't give it up and you sir,\ncannot either fairly spare me it.\nThe Manager. I never said I didn't want to act it. It will form, as\na matter of fact, the nucleus of the whole first act right up to her surprise.\n(.Indicates the Mother).\nThe Father. Just so. This is my punishment: the passion in all of\nus that must culminate in her final cry.\nThe Step-Daughter. I can hear it still in my ears. It's driven me\nmad that cry. — You can put me on as you like ; it doesn't matter. Fully\ndressed if you like, provided I have at least the arms bare, because, standing\nlike this (she goes close to the Fcither and leans her head on his breast?) with my head\nso, and my arms round his neck, I saw a vein pulsing in my arm here; and\nthen, as if that live vein had awakened disgust in me, I closed my eyes like this,\nand let my head sink on his breast. (Turning to the Mother). Cry out mother !\ncry out! (Buries head in Fatherys breast, and with her shoulders raised as if to\nprevent her hearing the cry, adds in tones of intense emotion). Cry out as you\ndid then !\nThe Mother (coming forward to separate them). No ! My daughter, my\ndaughter (and after having pulled her away from him). You brute ! you brute !\nShe is my daughter ! Don't you see she's my daughter ?\nThe Manager (walking backwards towards footlights). Fine! fine! Damned\ngood ! And then, of course, curtain.\nThe Father (going towards him excitedly). Yes, of course, because that's\nthe way it really happened.\nThe Manager (convinced and pleased). Oh, yes, no doubt about it. Cur-\ntain here, curtain.\n(At the reiterated cry of The Manager, The Machinist lets the curtain\ndown, leaving the Manager and The Father in front of it before the footlights).\nThe Manager. The darned idiot! I said curtain to show the act should\nend there, and he goes and lets it down in earnest (to the Father, while he pulls\nthe curtain back to go on to the stage again). Yes, yes, it's all right. Effect cer-\ntain. That s the right ending. I'll guarantee the first act at any rate.\n5\n\n(To be concluded).\n\nLirandello Pirandello\n(Translated By Edward Storer)"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "338", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.68", "texte": "William Gropper\nThe Top Box"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "339", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.69", "texte": "REPAST AND REPOSE\n\n\" I'll just fix up a little something quite nasty for your lunch \" my landlady\nsaid with her best sick-room presence, \" and I'll bring it up to you in bed, so as\nto keep you thoroughly uncomfortable. What crumbs get in the sheets you can\nbrush them out (if you can reach them), or else shove them down with your\nfeet.\"\n\" I'm sure your meal will be thoroughly unpalatable,\" I replied with a thank-\nful smile, \" especially to me in my strangely fussy attitude today. How could\nI expect that a person like you, so thoroughly undeveloped sensorially, to have\nany taste at all which I could respect ? But lam helpless ! Bring me up anything\n— provided it isn't hash or canned tomato.\"\nThese — or something very like them — were the words which made my\nlandlady beam as she left me alone in the grip of the wall-paper.\nI generally enjoy a light touch of fever, if the surroundings are pleasant.\nI flatter myself that it must be quite as entertaining as some furtive drug exper-\niment, and it certainly gives one a delicate suggestion of madness. I feel tempor-\narily in communion with the gentle souls of Gerard de Nerval and Villiers de\nl'lsle-Adam. All manner of old fascinations creep upon me. Whenever the doctor\nfinally tells me that I really should be in bed, at once a vivid, never-varied pic-\nture leaps into my inner eye : a window opening upon the end of a dark day of\nSpring. Upon the sill, a pot of all-but-scentless flowers. Smell of rain. Lamplight.\nAnd myself in bed, sometimes reading one of the old Gothic novels, sometimes\ndozing to indulge my imagination. The novel must be Gothic, charnel. In the\nstrange realms of fever, the ordinary exultations of Shakespeare and Shelley, even\nof Blake, are too remote, too sane. I must have cruel, morbid emotions : wan-\nder through half-ruined abbeys, explore secret passages ending in grated doors,\nhear midnight shrieks, or witness some love-scene held by a new-made grave.\nExcept for Poe's, the best of all these novels is easily \" Melmoth the Wan-\nderer, \" once held to be \" among the most sublime creations of the human brain,\"\neasily ranking with \" Manfred \" and \" Faust ! \" Mrs. Radcliffe's \" Mysteries of\nUdolpho \" is very pleasing; and who could not sympathize with her Adeline of\nthe \" Romance of the Forest ? \" What won my heart was Adeline's method of\nentering a ruined abbey with her father :\n\"The partial gleams thrown across the fabric seemed to make its desolation\nmore solemn, while the obscurity of the greater part of the pile heightened its\nsublimity, and led fancy on to scenes of horror. Adeline, who had hitherto re-"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "340", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.70", "texte": "mained in silence, now uttered an exclamation of mingled admiration and fear.\nA kind of pleasing dread thrilled her bosom and filled all her soul. Tears started\ninto her eyes she wished yet feared to go on. \"\nHow the very sentences reverberate with the windy emptiness of the ruin !...\nHere I lay the book down and close my eyes: in the rain-scented dusk my\nimagination raises for itself enormous black naves... Through them pass\nfantastic processions. . .\nYes, within reach I must have a shelf full of such books. \" Jane Eyre \"\nhas some thrills not entirely vulgar. The Elizabethan tragedies, especially those\nof Webster and Tourneur are appallingly hypnotic. Nor should Thomas IyOvell\nBeddoes's \" Death's Jest Book \" be forgotten, though it is as rambling and\npointless in structure as the Gothic architecture of the novels.\nSuch things I like to read. And at the end, when my hand is no longer\nstrong enough to hold the book, when the dusk is blotted out and my flame-\ncolored curtains are lighted only by my mellow lamp, I lay the book aside, take a\nlast spoonful of medicine, and extinguish the light. Then, alone and in darkness,\nI put out from the violet wharves of sleep, thrilled with a pleasing dread. . .\nSuch, as I conceive it, is the ideal fever : amusing, and not unprofitable;\nfor some day I may collect enough dreams to fill a novel or play of my own.\nBut the present reality — ah ! always this present reality! — is far from\nideal.\nThe wall-paper out in the hallway is of grey roses with brown stems and\nleaves. That alone seduced me into taking my room at this house :it seemed\nso impossibly, so fantastically sordid. But the wall-paper of my own room far\nsurpasses it as a neurotic masterpiece. It is a heavy network thrown over me,\nan old network, covering the ceiling, sick with the diseases of all its victims.\nIts ropes are blighted and flaked with particles of design which quickly resolve\ninto small animals, crawling staticly in all directions. When one gas-jet blares\nits fluted blue, such wall-paper hints grimly of murder. Most murders occur\nin rooms just like this.\nA knock; and the help enters, shrilling :\n\" Mrs. Brown wants t'know if y're feelin' better, and would you like some\nwarmed up hash. She's cleanin' the cellar today, and it would save time, if\ny' don't mind. \"\nAh, hands rinsed too briefly from the pail of grey waters !\n\" Yes, I suppose so ! \" and I accept the inevitable nourishment, trying to\nbelieve that nothing would taste good today, no matter what it is.\n\nS. Foster Damon"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "341", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.71", "texte": "DEDICATED TO THE ENEMY\n\n(Concluded)\n\nXI\nFor the onlooker, the sage, to change his mind — to be able to see all\nsides to all questions — to hunt with both hare and hounds — maybe this is\nall good and proper.\nFor the man of purpose — whatever his purpose may be — it is fatal.\nAll Action can be argued to be fatal and a pity — yet it is obvious that\nas wre are often given to action when sick of over-contemplation (a sickness\nwhich to the sages I must admit is rather reprehensible) — when we do turn\nto action — or rather when our meditation and our studies and the like would\nmake to move that which we love — would move it from obscurity into the\nlight and life of day — let us make it move hugely, slowly, and grandly . . .\nwhy else move it ?\nTo do this, then, even the artist meditator, while falling short of being\neven a sage, must not change his mind's eye. That, like the eye of the pilot,\nmust be unchangeably fixed upon the sea, the sky, and the boat.\nOur boat is our fixed purpose ; moving ever on, yet fixed; and we our\nselves have constructed it. Our seas and skies the all but ever restless existence\ncreated by mankind.\nWe have to steer this boat of ours across. the seven seas and through\nto port.\nAnd then gaping mouths and puckered brows ask whiningly why we don't\ntake them into our ship — our plan — : why we took them for a year and\nthen marooned them for treachery or landed them safely in some pretty port\nbecause of laziness.\nWe do not change our mind in such matters.\nBe they pretty ladies or remarkable men — once they have shown by\nsome mean act that they are out on their voyage for their own advantages,\nready to seize these and leave us any day in the lurch — one man or one woman,\none hand, less, then we land these amiable and ever so righteous self-seekers\nto seek for themselves where they like, but no more at our ship's expense.\nHas one of our crew married a wife, and is she bent on personal success"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "342", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.72", "texte": "at the expense of us all, and does she persuade her husband to follow her lead ?\n. . . this lady Macbeth in little and her little man must go on land — no room\nfor that kind of little ambition with us.\nAnd this may seem to some people very hard-hearted of us . . . cruel . . .\nterrible.\nI have heard a good deal about our plan being hard and cruel — inhuman.\nIt is fixed, our purpose, yet moves ever onwards. It is human as possible.\nOnly one thing is not allowed . . . and that is any form of treachery, no matter\nhow fair and friendly the veils be to our eyes.\nFamily and friends are in times of meditation and in times of peace lovely\nand companionable . . . but sometimes something turns family and friends into\nawful little traitors in times of action and bustle.\nIt's just a natural nervousness become hysterical which has gone and lost\nits way — look ye there.\nAs in these other enterprises the Obstructors have to be swept aside,\nand ruthlessly, so must we deal with those of our family or friends if they\noffer obstruction open or Jesuitical to our plans ... to our fixed purpose.\nTo give my particular inimical friends full credit, they seldom offer obstruc-\ntion openly. Their method is to show indignation and gentle regret, .. . that\nstamp of imitation Christianity which threatens to destroy the real Christianity\nitself.\nIndignation that I know what is wanted — regret that I state it deliber-\nately — sorrow that my purpose should be fixed and unalterable — pique that\nI have excluded them from my plans (my plans which are merely a purpose).\nReally, this is a little incredible.\nIf I were wealthy — worked to be rich — and cut off my friends and relations\nwith a stage shilling .. . then I could understand their mood. But when ali\nmy possession is solely in my fixed purpose, and that one really not far off\nfrom an ideal — that they should expect anything of me except my con-\ntempt in exchange for their underhand obstruction is a bright idea, and original\nanyhow.\nXII\nMy last word will be a plea.\nBe a little more careful, I beg you, not to misrepresent me and my friends\nto the People. We have chosen a difficult, not the easiest, way. Have we\nshirked any discomfort and any sacrifices that were to be made for our Theatre ?\nHave we more to sacrifice ?. . . only say so and we can attempt it. But don't\nmisrepresent us. Century after century we are always the same .. . you must\nsay that we are faithful."}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "343", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.73", "texte": "You get cross with us sometimes for nothing.\nIf we say we want applause to cease in Theatres you don't give it a moment's\nthought, and you fail to give the matter careful investigation. If you thought\nand enquired you would find that the very people whom you imagine love ap-\nplause, hate it. If you are a member of society you applaud a celebrated\nJenny and set her tip as your example of how a public favourite feels\nabout such things .. . for you think she adores it. But Princess Pauline Met-\nternich tells us in her Memoirs that Jenny Lind at the end of a song, when the\napplause was frantic, raised her hand saying \" Please don't applaud. I have\nalways disliked applause and fuss and it was to avoid them that I left the stage\nso soon. \"\nIf you are a Socialist you applaud the name of Mazzini just as crowds\nonce applauded the man. \"Absurd applause, \" says Mazzini himself of the\ncustom.\nAnd if you will only think a while longer and enquire into the past you\nwill find most of my proposals in this book are reasonable, and that many of them\ncan be found put into practice, or longed to be practised, by the best of our\nfellow workers in the past : by the great names you justly honour.\nAnd so it would be an easy matter — and a reasonable one — to put\nthem once more into practice.\nWhereas, the proposals which are new — the hints I give to bring us a\nnew Theatre — these need not so much your thought or careful enquiry\nas your courage. Courage to accept them .. . for it is only your fear which\ncauses you to reject them and so to lose something . . . and courage to urge\nthat they be put immediately into practice. Show courage towards me and you\ndo no harm and much good to the People and most of all to yourself.\nFor if you do not show courage in this, my ideas will die with me —\nfor no one but myself can possibly carry them into execution. Of this I am\nquite sure.\nAnd you — are you not beginning to suspect it too ? You thought\nten years ago that any young and intelligent and enthusiastic follower of mine\ncould be persuaded, encouraged, and paid to bring out \" Craig's ideas \" as they\nare called.\nReinhardt comes : you thought you had the ideas then — and cheaply.\nThe Russian Ballet : — you still think they brought you something of the\nkind . . . and hardly a month passes but some new and crazy adventurer appears\nin Rome, Paris, London or New York and you nudge yourself and fancy you\nare going to get my ideas at last — and cheaply — and without obligation\nto me.\nBut are you not beginning to see that you are no nearer the solution —"}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "344", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.74", "texte": "and that the problem you thought so easy is not to be solved until you turn\nto me and empower me to solve it in whatever way seems best to me ?\nAnd I think you know by this time that I will only show my work in\nfuture in a theatre of my own.\nI was five to six times asked by Reinhardt to enter his admirable theatre and\nproduce a play as I wished to see it produced. I did not do so — and I will\ndo no such thing. \" What, you won't produce a play as you wish to see it\nproduced !\". . . I seem to hear the scream. Calmly, please. I never said\nany such bosh. I said I will not enter another man's theatre and do it. I\nwill do it only in my own theatre. Is that clear ? Do you know the old song\nbeginning\nWill you walk into my parlour. ..\nYou are strange people. You blame me for not taking into their theatres\nthe very things which I am keeping for you so that you may have them intact\nin mine. In their theatres the ideas would be pulled limb from limb. Is it not\nso ? — and what are they worth in pieces ? You see what they are worth\nfor you have them in pieces : . . . yet your public raves over them — that's\nthe queerest thing of all. Yes, you are a strange people.\nYou don't go on in that way about paintings, do you ? Perhaps you do —\nbut it seems to me that when you are purchasing paintings for the National\nGallery you are very careful to buy an original, a genuine Bellini,- or an au-\nthentic Van Dyck. I never heard of the National Gallery preferring to purchase\nan imitation of one of the panels of a triptych by Memling to the genuine\nthree panels. Did you ? And yet that's exactly the whole English policy\nin regard to nearly all theatrical works of art. If it can get the imitation it\nseems delighted. \" The original was too expensive \" is the feeble reply which\nis nearly always offered. Which is obviously only the excuse vamped up in\nthe confusion of the moment when the purchasers see what a hash they've\nmade of the whole transaction.\nAnd now, because I have not given you a text book called \" Craig's Ideas,\nand how to put each one of them into practice, \" do not misrepresent the book\nand me by saying that I am unpractical.\nIf I haven't given you the whole of my Ideas the modern theatre holds\nproof that I've given you some, and that these are put into execution.\nI give you some more here. Don't be churlish and ask with some show\nof a grievance why I've not given you all. I think it's your turn to do some-\nthing."}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "345", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.75", "texte": "The attempt to antagonize the artist by throwing ever one more obstacle\nin his path :\n(a) By rejecting what he has to bring ; by doing this beyond the\nregulation time limit:\n(b) by supporting one foreigner the more :\n(c) by not empowering him to work :\n(d) by criticising the work they have not seen :\n(E) by praising turpitudes :\n(112) and by numerous other methods the which roll away from my mind\nlike the famous water does off the infamous duck's back .. .\nthis attempt to antagonize him does succeed — for .a short while. And it\nis necessary to his progress that this be so.\nBut as it does not succeed in doing more than this — and since he merely\nresorts to blockade — and you get no genuine goods into England — is it\nwise to fool away the time turning the artist into Aunt Sally ... and failing\nto hit him every time ?\nWho would not willingly serve as so British a figure to real sportsmen :\nbut I ask myself, is this sort of thing real sport ? is it playing the game ? . . .\nand I leave you to answer what concerns me no longer.\n\nE. Gordon Craig"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "346", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.76", "texte": "AFTER AND BEYOND DADA\n\nArt continues to be a losing proposition, financially, in Paris as well as in\nChicago or New York. Let us have done with the old-fashioned slogan that Amer-\nican papas have always chanted : \" A young man has got to be self-supporting' .\nThe significant books of the spring season in France have been published,\nlargely at their authors' expense ; while the Pierre Benoits, the Binet-Valmers,\nthe Leon Daudets, continue to draw fat salaries.\nFrance, possessing splendid youthful material, is undergoing a dangerous\nperiod of bigotry, chauvinism, intolerance. Her younger artists and writers\nare driven to the wall for a moment. But the battle is always more exhilarating\nhere ; there is more surplus youthful truculence to enlist, and the intransigent\nminority gives least quarter . . .\nThe appearance of three or four new books by the younger and less tra-\ndition-bound of the French writers is an indication of a renewed lease of life after\nthe demise of Dada. There is no doubt that the more forceful and spirited young\nmen were intrigued for several years by the Dada affair. After much argument\nover the feeble pulse and the attenuated heart beats of the expiring \" move-\nment \", Messrs. Philippe Soupalt, Louis Aragon, and Paul Eluard, once staunch\nadherents, publish new books which they would have written Dada or no Dada.\n\" Dada has run its course, has served its purpose, \" they say in effect.\n\"It was very exciting while it lasted, but it is about time to have done\nwith it. \"\nThrough bombast, dynamite, blague, vilification, impertinence much\nheadway had been made against the unwholesome tendency of present-day\nFrance to develop within its own past, to produce within the limits set by the\n90s or the 19th century, to grow, in short, like an ingrown toe-nail.\nThe hunt is now on for \" purity \" of form and content, while expressing\nthe distinctive modern attitude developed in post-war Europe. Among the drastic\nyoung writers this attitude is negation (you believe in neither God nor country)\nand thanks to negation, a ridiculous credulousness in ever so many trivial and\ntouching things is vaunted, an inclination toward the idiotic mirth provided by\nthe rushing crowded cacaphony of modern existence. The writer arms himself\nwith new material. There is no logical direction or growth. It is rather that\nmany unexpected zones of experience have been discovered to him within the\nmonstrous expansion of human activity, and he is concerned for the moment"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "347", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.77", "texte": "with reaching for and gathering these impressions, being cognitive rather than\nselective.\nAn instance of this search for fresh booty is the strong leaning for purely\nAmerican elements in the new literature. The contemporary American flora\nand fauna are collected, in an arbitrary fashion, out of the inimitable films, the\nnewspaper accounts, the jazz band, 011 the hunch that the world is on its way\nto being Americanized in the next two decades. Although the quality of the\nnew poetry is so formidably different from its predecessors, as to be distracting,\nthe play of the intellect is dominant — intellect, of course, freed from the\nsyllogism as well as from empiricism, therefore naked plundering intellect, in\nastonishing encounters and adventures.\nWestwego Philippe Soupalt's new book, is a single poem of some four hundred\nlines. The new \" cultural elements as an archaeologist would term them, are\nintroduced with the soft pedal. Their novelty does not divert the attention from\nthe extraordinary freshness and simplicity of his manner. Employing the me-\ndium of free verse as he does, there is no shock of the bizarre as in Paul Morand\nor Cocteau, where the exotic is painfully hunted for. The quick insolent mind of\nSoupault springs into laughter that is neither of sophistication nor of naivete.\nBut best of all he retains with his new media the gift of song :\nsur les bords de la Tamise\nun beau matin de fevrier\ntrois anglais en bras de chemise\ns'egosillaient a chanter\ntrou la la trou la la trou la laire\nThis lyric which occurs in the course of the long poem is reminiscent of the\nmost delicious and most nonsensical of his Chansons, still unpublished. One\nthinks of Blake because Soupault's French verses almost suggest the tonic English\naccent. The spoken word here achieves its utmost vigor and purity with an\nease that is happy and un-laboured.\nMary Daisy Poppy\npetites flammes\ndans ce bar sans regard ...\nmarchons pour etre sots\ncourrons pour etre gais\nrions pour etre forts\nSoupault's images are the products of sophisticated senses, but they pro-\ntrude no jarring reverberations and their cerebral character is scarcely per-\nceptible :"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "348", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.78", "texte": "Je me promenais d Londres un ete\nles pieds brulants et le coeur dans les yeux\npres des murs noirs pres des murs rouges\npres des grands docks\nou les policemen geants\nsont piques commes des points d' interrogations\nWestwego should be read at one sitting in fifteen minutes. It is too simple\nand limpid to be translated, too sustained to be quoted from. Its only apparent\nweakness is its closeness to the Apollinaire of Alcools and Caligrammes, the\n\" voyageur, voyageur ! \" and the ever changing panorama of the globe-trotter.\nAt that Guillaume Apollinaire was far more uneven. With the same impulsive\nequipment he fell more frequently into mediocre writing which the more scru-\npulous Soupault fails to disclose. Philippe Soupault is significant in that he\nformulates tendencies in poetry toward which Apollinaire groped spontaneously.\nPhilippe Soupault may never reach America despite his great urge to\nvisit the United States. However, we may never have quite the same expa-\ntriated American note that tinkles in certain of the younger French poets.\nThe work of Paul Eluard in Repetitions undergoes evolutions toward one\nof its later stages — perfection ; at least for those who are familiar with his\nearlier work. His curiously poems are a strange outgrowth among\nthe common garden flowers. From the exaggerated air of detachment, all\nthe way to the faultless typographical arrangement of each poem on the\nprinted page it is a provoking, an arresting book. Eluard has worked exquisi-\ntely deep into his own corner, into his personal idiom. Here, poety is 110 more\nrepresentative or descriptive than a Lipschitz sculpture. The formal aspects\nof the poems are as thought-provoking as the imagist recordings of Amy\nIyowell are boring. The poet ceases to be Nature's stenographer.\nThe Eluard method is fascinating : to take banal phrases, words that\noccur a thousand times in daily speech and juxtapose them into patterns of\ncontrast, harmony, obliqueness, etc. The manner is deliberate enough, and is\ncarried off with great deftness.\nIyA MORT DANS I,A CONVERSATION\nQui a votre visage\nLa bonne et la mauvaise\nLa belle imaginable\nGymnastique a I'infini\nDepassant en mouvements\nLes couleurs et les baisers\nLes grands gestes la nuit."}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "349", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.79", "texte": "Poetry for poetry's sake, you will say. Poetry becomes a sort of mad\nmathematic with Eluard At intense moments he attains a brilliance and\nvolume that is not of science. But more often the line of thought is mechanical,\ntortured and tragic. A characteristic passage is : \" The sacrificed make a ges-\nture which means nothing amid the lace-work of all the other gestures, imaginary,\nof five or six, toward the place of repose where there is no one. Agreed that they\nhave taken refuge in the naked branches of a desperate politeness, tree-tops,\nclipped by gusts of wind. Take, cords of life. Could you take more liberties ? \"\nOr this :\nTREMBIyANT\nSignal vide et signal a Veventail d'horloge\nAux caresses unies d'une main sur le ciel\nAux oiseaux entrouvrant le livre des aveugles\nEt d'une aile apres Vautre entre cette heure et Vautre\nDessinant Vhorizon faisant tourner les ombres\nQui limitent le monde quand j'ai les yeux baisses\nPaul Eluard attains full growth in this, his fourth volume of poems. The\ndaring method of his earlier work attracted comment, amazement, mock-\nery. Despite the perfection of Repetitions, it, like Soupault's book is received\nsilently in Paris, where Paul Morand's Ouvert la Nuit has just gone through\ntwenty (20) editions in three weeks.\n\" It only remains for Eluard to fire a revolver at his poetic talent, \" said\nTzara. The domain of pure poetry contracts, indeed, with every fresh raid,\ninto narrower and narrower confines.\nIf poetry is approaching its incommensurable limits, prose is merely begin-\nning to oj)en its eagle wings and \"mew its mighty youth\". It is becoming\nclear that a novel need not absolutely have a social message nor a short story\nhave a plot in order to be artistic. It is just as possible to dispense with\nthese elements as to use them admirably.\nOf two new books published by the Nouvelle Revue Frangaise the one,\nPaul Morand's Ouvert la Nuit, proves my thesis negatively, the other, Tele-\nmaque by Aragon, positively. Morand seeking this time to outdo Conrad\nin romantic adventure, in shifting panorama, bizarre cafes in Constantinople\nor Berlin, and throbbing modernity in the dining cars of the Compagnie des\nWagons-Iyits et des Grands Express Europeens, appeals to a large audience,\nhis book being disseminated in thoroughly American fashion with a pink\njacket reproducing the laudatory press comments. The \" modern \" note is\nattempted by means of harsh metallic phrases which reverse habitual thought-\nassociations. The disagreable aspect of Morand is his pretension of style by"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "350", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.80", "texte": "virtue of the impurities of language which he resorts to. The press critics have\nspoken eloquently enough of his \" modernity His is, at any rate, a much\nmore vicious tendency than that of Pierre Benoit. Blah! Give us more\nZane Grey.\nIvouis Aragon in Telemaque, a type of \" roman poetique \", has made a\nconsiderable advance upon his first precocious novel, Anicet. Telemaque has\nswift movement, is rich in incident, and its characters are accomplished person-\nnages who speak in an exalted and floridly-figured diction ; but these elements\nare vehicles for the poet. In the negation of all beliefs the mind voyages\nthrough many troubling moods and planes of complete bereftness of the tangible\nuniverse. The conceptions of time and extension vanish before the impassioned\nquestioning of the poet, and memories of distinct trivial wounding moments\nreturn. There are lovely recitatives of this type discovered in a succession of\nbottles found at sea which interrupt the progression of the \" novel For\nAragon, the language yields too easily, falls too felicitously into broad and lux-\nurious chords. In Joyce's Ulysses there are flights of language and innovations\nin the technique of prose which stimulate reflection upon the ultimate destiny of\nthe prose novel. Ulysses is an eloquent and disorganized masterpiece. Te-\nlemaque a far smaller book is written with an equal fertility of styles, in turn\ninsolent, cerebral, florid and euphuistic. The book observes an intrinsic organ-\nization, from which it breaks at the end upon a note of complete abandon —\nthe agonized escape of the mind.\nThe spectacle of French letters in the City of lyight rolls on. The Prix\nGoncourt and the other Prix Balzac-Bazaharoff, Catulle Mendes, etc. come and\ngo. If we are to have literary subsidies in America, Heaven preserve us from\nsuch scenes as attended the donation of the all important Prix Goncourt where\nthe vote was so evenly divided that three or four novels appeared with jackets\nthat brazenly announced how closely the author had come to clutching the\ncoveted prize. The award was finally tendered a negro. Rene Maran, for his\nBatouala which subsequently swam into the enormous publicity and circulation\nwhich attends the award of this soiled prize. The book is a polemic on the\neternally stupefying race question, with suitable tracts of horror and debauchery.\nMr. Ezra Pound finds occasion to chuckle over the fact that the Prix Goncourt *\nnovel of 1922 will never get through the American mails. It is, nevertheless,\nmuch sadder than that. Americans may well be spared this crowned book\nwhich is as doctrinaire as a Woodrow Wilson note, and of less artistic merit.\nThe significant writing of this generation in France is more likely to be wel-\ncomed in New York than in official Paris in its present frame of mind.\n\nMatthew Josephson"}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "351", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.81", "texte": "COMMENT\nThe cabinet of Doctor Caligari\nI don't like this film. Why ?\nBecause it is a film of misapprehension.\nBecause it is a film that casts discredit on all modern Art.\nBecause it is hybrid, hysterical, unwholesome.\nBecause it is not cinema.\nFilm of misapprehension because it is faked and dishonest.\nCasts discredit on modern Art because the discipline of modern painters\n(cubist) is not the hypersensibility of madmen but equilibrium, intensity, and\nmental geometry.\nHybrid, hysterical, unwholesome because it is hybrid, hysterical, unwhole-\nsome (vive the cow boys !)\nIs not cinema because :\n1. The pictorial deformations are only tricks (new modern conventions) ;\n2. real characters in unreal sets ;\n3. the deformations are not optical and do not depend on the angle\nof taking, nor on the objective, nor on the lens, nor 011 the focus;\n4. there is never any unity ;\n5. theatrical;\n6. movement but no rhythm ;\nj. no purification of the technique, all the effects obtained by the aid\nof means belonging to painting, music, literature, etc. One is never aware\nof the Camera.\n8. sentimental and not visual;\n9. good photography, good lighting, superexcellent acting.\n10. Good business.\nBlaise Cendrars\nThe short review of Dr. Caligari's Cabinet given above provides a curious\ncontrast to the reaction of most American modern artists and critics to the same\nfilm. It is not an isolated French opinion, but is typical of the attitude of contem-\nporary modern French artists. We heard half-a-dozen times : A thiid gra.de\nAmerican movie is better than this. \"\nThe explanation is partly due to the sharp demarcation between scientific\nFrench post-impressionism and intuitional German expressionism and partly"}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "352", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.82", "texte": "is owing to the American presbyopia when the art products of his own country\nare in question. Cendrars only differs from many in that his dislike is explicit,\ndue to his having directed films himself.\nNevertheless, the French public thronged the house nightly, even though\nPhilippe Soupault, representing the erst-while Dadaists, alone of critics saw fit\nto praise it.\nThe Book of American Negro Poetry. Edited by James Johnson\n(Harcourt, Brace & Co., New York).\nHarlem Shadows by Claude Mackay (Harcourt, Brace & Co., New York).\nThough Mr. Johnson claims too much for his coloured kinsmen, and in his\npreface comes near to attributing to them the best in American poetry, he has\nnevertheless compiled an anthology which has every right to exist. The poets\nrepresented run from Paul Iyawrence Dunbar to moderns like Fenton Johnson\nand Claude McKay. The principal characteristics of this poetry, much of which\nis written in the negro dialect, are a very simple directness, a Salvation Army kind\nof Christianity which sometimes become maudlin, and a certain childishness.\nMr. Johnson rebuts this charge of childishness levelled against the negro, but it\nexhales from this anthology, and is often indeed one of its charms. The first and\nbest characteristic, that of simple directness, is to be found in only a few of the\npoems. Mr. Johnson in his preface goes so far as to say that the negro has been\n\" the creator of the only things artistic that have sprung from American soil and\nhave been universally acknowledged as distinctive American products. \" Such\noverstatements weaken the effect of his interesting preface. Mr. Claude McKay\nin his volume Harlem Shadows shows to much better advantage than he does in\nthe selections made in the anthology of Negro poetry. There the editor has\nstressed the verses dedicated to race antagonism. McKay's purely lyrical ta-\nlent is seen at its best in such simple touching pictures as the Easter Flowers\nOn Broadway, The City's Love.\nBooks Received.\nHeavens. By IyOUis Untermeyer (Harcourt, Brace & Co., New York).\nCivilization in the United States. By Thirty Americans. (Harcourt,\nBrace & Co., New York).\nOuvert la Nuit. By Paui, Morand (Editions de la Nouvelle Revue Frangaise).\nAnita. By E. Scudder (Blackwell, Oxford, England).\nThe Little Death. By Irene Forbes Mosse. Translated by Mrs. Henry\nHead (Allen, Unwin, London).\n\nERNESTO FraTOni, Gerente responsabile.\nPrinted in Italy by «I/Universelle * Imprimerie Polyglotte — Roma."}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "[353]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.83", "texte": "Parfum PARIS,,\ne new COTY creation\n■\ni\nMt\nWi\nV 1 ' »as-:\n'.» jst'\n® '\n•V. *E\n•^:3\nfiscinaticm of ffctVlS—the,\nvivid personality of the,\ncity ofc) ay covtvacje—- it breathes\nits indescribable- allvtre irz the,\nexquisite pe--rfu?ne PAR.I S,,\nthe veritable spirit essence, of-~\n, the citi,\nc~u\n\"PARIS,,\nESSENCE\nTOILET WATER\nFACE POWDER\nCOMPACT\nSACHET\nMew Qforf 7 14-fffth ffhuenue\ntyTlontreal 14- Scjuare"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "[354]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.84", "texte": "r=i\niii i\n112\ni—i—\nI:— —^—'—:— I\nzPearl\nF==^\nDREICER&C\no\n560 u\nI—l —I\nvenue\ni-—l—i\nF=FT\n0 1 1\"\nal\nCenlun/Jei\nCaskeir—'betonqi\n{o the (Duchesse\ncte vendo me—\nr s lii\nPU >\neWe\nv.-\\ [j I'll\nm\nc ru\nmm"}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192207-01.1.85", "texte": "The largest selling quality\npencil in the world.\nAS soft as ycu\nwish; as hard as\nyou please, but al-\nways smoother than\nyou had dreamed.\nAny VENUS Pen-\ncil you select glides\nover the paper with\na restful freedom free\nfrom friction.\n17 Black Degrees\n3 Copying\nFor bold heavy lines\n68-58-48-3B\nFor writing, sketching\n2E-B-HB-F-H\nFor clean fine lines\n2H-3H-4H-SH-6H\nFor delicate, thin lines\n7H-BH-9H\nPlain Ends,\nper doz. $ 1.00\nRubber Ends,\nper doz. $ 1.20\nAt Stationers and Stores\nthroughout the World.\nAmerican\nLead Pencil Co\n220 Fifth Avenue\nNew York.\nand London, Eng.\ncarv mere\ncypress kow\nyou. -fecf ?——\nr yau-Ye done Vou.r feesi\n—war it up znd\nS&y tir Wi{(\\ 112\nSHE \\S112 Write or front us,\nwe'll arrange -far irnrngJiatf delivery\nin any ciiy rVi -tfw Un<j ,*ba«fcs i* ou.r\n3<OQO \\potida.4 reprasani^iiYes\nI—II 112 J * * S M * S\n•7*5\n* J^evvyorftw\nISIEIEIEIEIEIiaHEIiaEIiaEIEIHBEIEIEIEIiaEIiaiaBIEIEI\nCD\n(XI\nCD\nQD\nCO\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nDaniel Gallery\nPAINTINGS BY MODERN\nAmerican and French Artists\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\nCD\n- 2 WEST 47™ STREET q,\nCD\n§ NEW YORK CITY ====== jgj\nCD- CD\nCD CD\nODCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDGDCDGDCDCDCDCD"}]}