{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_sha256": "c8e0b63f43a8bd28273f3577222c8d3bf2ae85772ede0572a17c819b2be5d345", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/10_01/bmtnaap_1922-10_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/10_01/bmtnaap_1922-10_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_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": 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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.2", "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": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1249, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1998, "texte": "Cover Design — Enrico Prampolini.\nStravrogin's Confession — Feodor Dostoyevsky 163\nSinbad — John Crawford *72\nDrawings — Henri Matisse 173-194-198-222-230-231\nA Champion in the Wilderness — Robert x\\lden Sanborn 174\nPoems — Edward storer 180\nAt the Antipodes of Unity — Blaise Cendrars 182\nEpitaphs — Philippe Soupault 195\nYoung man with Spectacles — Malcolm Cowley • 199\nThe lay of Maldoror — Comte de Lautr&amont 204\nCORNBREAD AND EYES — DAVID ROSENTHAL 217\nObservations on returning to the remnants of civilization — Gilbert Cannan 218\nThe Painter — Roger Vitrac 223\nTatlin's Monument to the Third International — Louis Lozowick 232\nTatlin's Monument 233\nThe Aesthetic of the machine and Mechanical Introspection in Art — Enrico\nPrampolini. . 235"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "163", "page_fin": "171", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 13, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Stavrogin's Confession", "titre_sommaire": "Stavrogin's Confession", "signature_source": "Feodor Dostoyevsky ; Avrahm Yarmolinsky", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "163", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2668, "texte": "STAVROGIN’S CONFESSION\n\nThree unpublished chapters from the novel DEMONS, THE POSSESSED.\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\nOn November 12, 1921, a tin box with Dostoyevsky's papers was opened in\nthe building of the Central Archives in Moscow. It contained among other mate-\nrial of great interest, a scrap-book with fifteen proof sheets pasted in, which bore\non the first page these lines, written in the hand of the novelist's widow : \"In\nthis note-book are several chapters (in proof) from The Possessed, which were\nnot included by Dostoyevsky in the novel, when it was running in Russki Vestnik. \"\nAs a matter of fact, there are three sub-chapters entitled \" Part 11, chapter I.\nAt Tiknon's, \" which form the complete episode of Stavrogin's confession of\nhis crime.\nNikolai Vsevolodovich Stavrogin is the enigmatic figure around which the\ncomplex action of The Possessed moves. This rich, handsome, young aristocrat\nis a man unable to find any absolute value and in the end undone by the void\nwhich he tries to escape by many roads, including that of sensuality. As a fan-\ntastic experiment to which he is impelled by an obscure spiritual perversity,\nhe nominally marries Lebyadkina, a crippled idiot. Shatov and Kirillov, men-\ntioned in this text, were for a time Stavrogin's fanatic disciples, to whom he\nsimultaneously taught two mutually contradictory faiths, presumably in the\nvain hope of being infected by their ardor. Father Tikhon, whom Stavrogin\nselects as his confessor, was first conceived by Dostoyevsky as one of the main\ncharacters of an unwritten novel which he was planning in 1869-70 and of which\nonly the outline is extant. In The Possessed Tikhon plays but an incidental part.\nThese newly discovered chapters somewhat clarify the plot of the novel\nfrom which they were withheld. They might be considered an expansion of cer-\ntain passages in The Possessed which allude to the crime described in the confes-\nsion. Thus we find Shatov passionately questioning Nikolai Vsyevolodovich :\n\" Is it true that when you were in Petersburg you belonged to a secret society\nfor practising beastly sensuality ? Is it true that you could give lessons to the\nMarquis de Sade ? Is it true that you decoyed and corrupted children ? \"\nWhy were these chapters omitted from the novel ? Madame Dostoyevsky\nis silent on the subject. The Russian commentator on the text confesses\nignorance. The explanation of why they were not included in the work\nas serially published, would seem to be contained in a letter written to Tolstoy\nby N. N. Strakhov in 1883, but published thirty years later. The latter was\nan intimate of Dostoyevsky and forty years ago wrote a biography of his friend"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2848, "texte": "which holds most of what we know concerning the novelist's life. Strakhov writes:\n\" One scene from The Possessed (rape, etc.) Katkov [editor of the magazine in\nwhich the novel was published in 1871-72] refused to print, but Dostoyevsky read\nit here to many. \" The reference is obviously to the chapters which follow below.\nRumor has laid the crime which Stavrogin committed at Dostoyevsky's own door.\nWithout attempting to establish the validity of this accusation, I may\nmention that the rumor is substantiated by no less an authority than Strakhov\nhimself.\nThe translator has deliberately avoided polishing the style of the narrative,\nwhich is sometimes careless and practically always colloquial.\nI.\nThat night Nikolai Vsevolodovich (Stavrogin) did not sleep, and he spent\nthe whole of it sitting on a divan, often staring hard at one point in the corner\nby the chest of drawers. A lamp was burning in his room all night. About\nseven o'clock in the morning, he fell asleep in a sitting posture, and when, according\nto long established custom, Alexey Yegorovich entered the room at nine-thirty\nsharp, with the morning cup of coffee and woke him up by his appearance, he\nopened his eyes, seeming disagreeably surprised by the length of his sleep and\nthe lateness of the hour. He drank his coffee quickly, dressed hastily, and hur-\nriedly left the house. To Alexey Yegor ovich's cautious query as to whether\nthere were any orders, he made no reply. Once in the street, he walked looking\nat the ground in deep thought, only at moments lifting his head and betraying\na vague yet intense agitation. At one corner, while he was still near home, a\ncrowd of peasants, some fifty men or more, crossed his path; they walked with\ndignity, almost silently, in ordered rows. At a small shop where he was forced\nto wait a while, someone said that these were the \"Shpigulin workmen \". He\nhardly paid any attention to them. Finally, at about half-past ten, he reached\nthe gates of our \"Bogorodsk Monastery, at the outskirts of the city, by the river.\nIt was only here that he seemed to recall something alarming and troublesome,\nstopped, thrust his hand into his side-pocket, and grinned. Once past the gates,\nhe inquired of the first servant who came along how to find the arch-priest, Tikhon,\nwho was living in retirement at the monastery. The servant bowed repeatedly\nand led the way. At the foot of the steps, at the end of the long two-story\nmonastery building, a stout, grizzled monk encountered them, and with dictator-\nial speed carried off Stavrogin under the eyes of the servant. He led him through\na long, narrow corridor, bowing perpetually (although, because of his stoutness,\nhe could not make a low bow, but simply jerked his head frequently and abruptly)\n. and continually inviting him to follow, in spite of the fact that Nikolai Vsevolo-\n\nA. Y."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3153, "texte": "dovich followed him anyhow. The monk kept on asking questions and talking\nabout Father Archimandrite, but getting no response, he became more and more\ndeferential. Stavrogin noticed that he was known here, although as far as he\ncould recall he had never visited the place since his childhood. When they reached\nthe door at the very end of the corridor, the monk opened it with an author-\nitative gesture, familiarly inquired of the lay brother who sprang up at their\nappearance, whether they could come in, and without waiting for his answer threw\nthe door wide open and bowing, let in the \" dear \" visitor. Upon receiving Sta-\nvrogin's thanks, he vanished precipitately as though he fled. Nikolai Vsevolodovich\nentered a rather small room, and there appeared almost simultaneously in the\ndoorway of the adjoining room a tall, rather lean man, about fifty-five years old,\nin a plain house dress which is usually worn under the cassock, looking sickly,\nwith a vague smile and a strange, somewhat shy glance. This was Tikhon, of\nwhom Nikolai Vsevolodovich had first heard froom Shatov, and about whom\nhe himself had in the meantime collected some information by the way.\nThe information was varied and contradictory. But one fact stood out,\nthat both the people who loved him and those who did not (and such there were)\nspoke of him with a certain reticence: those who disliked him, perhaps out of\ncontempt, and his adherents — because of a sense of discretion, as though they\nwished to hide a weakness of his, possibly something like a saintly folly. Niko-\nlai Vsevolodovich had learned that Tikhon had been living in the monastery for\nsix years and that he was visited by people both from the lowest and the highest\nclasses of society, that even in distant Petersburg he had the most ardent admirers,\nchiefly women. From one of our respected old men, a man about town who was\nyet devout, he heard that\" this Tikhon is practically insane, and no doubt drinks.\nAnticipating upon the course of events, let me add for my own part that this is\nsheer nonsense, and that if Tikhon suffers from anything it is from a rheumatic\npain in his feet which is of long standing, and at times from obscure nervous con-\nvulsions. Nikolai Vsevolodovich also discovered that, whether because of\nweakness of character or an unpardonable absent-mindedness inappropriate to\nhis rank, the retired archpriest failed to command respect in the monastery. It\nwas said that Father Archimandrite, an austere monk, rigid in the performance\nof his tasks as Father Superior, and furthermore, known for his learning, cher-\nished an animosity against Tikhon, condemning him, not to his face but indirectly,\nfor careless living and all but heresy. The attitude of the monks toward the in-\nvalid prelate was also not exactly one of neglect, but rather one of easy familiarity.\nThe two rooms which formed Tikhon's cell were oddly furnished. Beside\nawkward, old-fashioned furniture upholstered in worn leather, there were two or\nthree fine pieces : a luxurious, restful armchair, a large desk of excellent make,\nan exquisitely carved book-case, little tables, what-nots; all, of course, gifts"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "166", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2735, "texte": "There was a costly Bokhara rug, and mats alongside it. There were etchings\nof lay and mythological subjects, and in the corner a large icon-case\nas well, with icons set in gleaming gold and silver, one of them an ancient\npiece containing relics. The library too, it was said, was of an all too\nvaried and contradictory description : beside the works of the great saints and\nFathers of the Church, there were \" theatrical compositions and novels and maybe\nsomething much worse.\"\nAfter the first greetings, uttered for some reason with obvious mutual\nembarrassment in hasty and indistinct syllables, Tikhon led the visitor to his\nstudy, and with the same apparent haste seated him on a divan before a table,\nwhile he himself took a seat nearby in a willow armchair. Here, surprisingly\nenough, Nikolai Vsevolodovich completely lost himself. It seemed as if he were\nmaking a violent effort to bring himself to do something extraordinary and\nirrefutable, and yet almost impossible of execution. For a few moments he let\nhis eyes wander over the room, obviously not noticing what he saw : he grew\nthoughtful, but perhaps he did not know what he was thinking about. The\nsilence woke him up, and suddenly it seemed to him that Tikhon was dropping\nhis eyes bashfully and with an altogether unnecessary smile. This momentarily\naroused in him disgust and rebellion; he wanted to rise and go ; in his opinion\nTikhon was decidedly drunk, but the latter suddenly lifted his eyes and looked\nat him with a glance so firm and full of thought and, at the same time, expressing\nsomething so unexpected and enigmatic that Stavrogin almost started. And now\nhe had an altogether different suspicion : that Tikhon already knew why he\nhad come, that he had already been informed (although no one in the world\ncould have known the reason) and if he did not speak first, it was because\nhe spared him, fearing his humiliation.\n\"Do you know me ?\" he asked abruptly. \" Did I introduce myself when I\ncame in ? Excuse me, I am so absent-minded. . . \"\n\" You did not introduce yourself, but I had the pleasure of seeing you once,\nsome four years ago, here in the monastery. . . by chance. \" Tikhon spoke in\na slow, soft, even voice, pronouncing the words clearly and distinctly.\n\" I wasn't at the monastery four years ago \", retorted Nikolai Vsevolodovich\nwith unnecessary rudeness. \" I was here only as a child, before you had come\nat all. \"\n\" Perhaps you have forgotten, \" observed Tikhon cautiously and without\ninsistence.\n\"No, I haven't forgotten. It would be ridiculous if I had \" insisted Sta-\nvrogin on his part, with excessive emphasis. \" Maybe you have only heard\nabout me and formed an opinion about me, and then you imagined that you\nhad seen me yourself. \""}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2326, "texte": "Tikhon did not answer. It was only then that Stavrogin noticed that\nTikhon's features were nervously convulsed from time to time, a symptom of\na nervous disorder of long standing.\n\" I only see that you are not well today, and perhaps it would be better\nif I went away. \" He even made a motion as if to rise.\n\" Yes, I have been having severe pains in my legs, and I slept little last night/'\nTikhon stopped. His guest suddenly fell into a state of vague thoughtful-\nness. The silence lasted a long time, some two minutes.\n\" Were you watching me ? \" he asked suddenly, alarmed and suspicious.\n\" I was looking at you, and I remembered the features of your mother. In\nspite of external unlikeness, there is much internal, spiritual similarity. \"\n\"No similarity, particularly spiritual. No similarity whatever \" said Ni-\nkolai Vsevolodovich, needlessly alarmed and with an over emphasis for which he\ncould not account to himself. \" You're saying this just like that. . . out of pity\nfor my situation, \"he suddenly blurted out. \" Bah ! Does my mother come to\nyou ? \"\n\" She does. \"\n\" Didn't know it. Never heard about it from her. Often ?\"\n\" Almost every month, and oftener. \"\n\" Never, never heard about it. Didn't hear about it.\"He seemed to be ter-\nribly alarmed by this fact. \" And of course she told you that lam insane. \"\nHe blurted out again.\n\" No, not just that. Still, I heard that opinion expressed, but by others. \"\n\"You must have a good memory if you remember such trifles. And did you\nhear about the slap ?. \"\n\" I heard something. \"\n\" You mean everything. You have plenty of time to listen. And about\nthe duel ? \"\n\" About the duel, too . \"\n\" You don't need newspapers here. Did Shatov warn you about me?\"\n\" No; however, I know Mr. Shatov, but I haven't seen him for a long time. \"\n\" H'm ! What's that map over there ? Bah ! it's a map of the last war.\nWhat good does that do you ? \"\n\" I used the map for this text. A most interesting description. \"\n\" Show me ; yes, fairly good style. However, isn't this curious stuff for you\nto be reading ? \"\nHe drew the volume toward him and glanced at it. It was an ample and\nskilful exposition of the circumstances of the late war, presented rather from the\npurely literary than from the military angle. He turned it about and then with •\na swift, impatient movement threw it aside."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2652, "texte": "\" I certainly don't know why I have come here, \" he said with disgust,\nlooking straight into Tikhon's eyes as though expecting an answer.\n\" You too seem to be somewhat unwell. \"\n\" Yes, perhaps. \"\nAnd suddenly, yet in such brief and fragmentary words as to be somewhat\nobscure, he began telling about how he was afflicted, especially at night, by cer-\ntain strange hallucinations; that he sometimes saw or felt close beside him an\nevil creature, derisive and rational, \" with different faces and different\ncharacters, and yet always the same, and I am always enraged. \"...\nThese disclosures were fantastic and incoherent, and really seemed to come\nfrom a mentally deranged person. And yet Nikolai Vsevolodovich spoke with such\na strange, unprecedented frankness, with a simplicity of mind so entirely foreign\nto him that, it seemed, his former self had completely and suddenly disappeared.\nHe was not at all ashamed to show the fear with which the apparition inspired him.\nBut this open mood was momentary, and vanished as quickly as it came.\n\" It's all nonsense, \" he caught himself up swiftly and with awkward self-\nscorn. \" I shall go to a physician. \"\n\" No doubt you will, \" Tikhon confirmed him.\n\"You speak so confidently. . . Have you known people who had visions\nlike mine ? \"\n\" Yes, but very rarely. I remember only one case, an army officer, bereft\nof his spouse, his beloved helpmate. Another case I know only by hearsay. Both\nmen went abroad for treatment. . . And how long have you been suffering ? \"\n\" About a year, but all this is nonsense. I shall go to see a doctor. It's\nall nonsense, frightful nonsense. It's my own self in various forms, nothing\nelse. As I added this last sentence just now you certainly thought that I still\ndoubt whether it's myself or whether it's not really the devil. \"\nTikhon looked at him interrogatively.\n\" And .. . and do you really see him ? \" he asked. \" That is, putting aside\nall doubt of it's being no more than a clearly false and morbid hallucination, do\nyou really see a definite form ? \"\n\"It is strange that you persist in asking me when I told you plainly that\nI do. \" Again Stavrogin got more and more irritable with each word, \" Of\ncourse I see him. I see him just as plainly as I see you, and sometimes I see him\nand lam not certain that I see him, although Ido see him. . . And sometimes I\ndo not know who is real, he or I. . . It's all nonsense. And you, can't you imag-\nine that it is really the devil ? \" he added, laughing'and passing abruptly into\na derisive tone. \"It would be more in keeping with your calling, \"\ni&j.\n\" It's more likely to be a disease, although. . , \"\n\" Although what ?"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2364, "texte": "\" Devils no doubt exist, but opinions about them differ widely. \"\n\" Just now you dropped your eyes again, \" said Stavrogin with irritable\nderision. \" Because you were ashamed for me, since, while I believe in the devil,\npretending I don't, I am slyly putting a question to you : does he really exist,\nor not ? \"\nTikhon smiled vaguely.\nWell then, let me tell you plainly that I am not at all ashamed, and to\nmake up for my rudeness I shall say simply and frankly : I believe in the devil, I\nbelieve canonically, in a personal devil, not in an allegory, and I do not have to\npump anybody. That's all. \"\nHe gave a nervous, unnatural laugh. Tikhon looked at him curiously, but\nwith a timid and withal gentle glance.\n\"Do you believe in God ? \" Nikolai Vsevolodovich blurted out.\na I do believe. \"\n\" It is said, isn't it, that if ye have faith and say unto a mountain to remove\nitself hence, it would do so. . . However, pardon this nonsense. Still, lam\ncurious to know : can you remove the mountain or can't you ? \"\n\"If God commands, I shall remove it, \" said Tikhon in a low restrained\nvoice, dropping his eyes again.\n\" Well, but that's the same as if God Himself removed it. \"\nNo, you — you — will you be able to do it, as a reward for your faith in God ?\"\n\" Perhaps I will not. \"\nPerhaps ' ! That's not bad. Are you still a doubter ? \"\n\" I doubt, because my faith is imperfect. \"\n\" What! You too have imperfect faith ? \"\n\"Yes. . . Perhaps my faith is imperfect, \" answered Tikhon.\n\" Well, I wouldn't suppose it, to look at you. \" Suddenly he looked him\nup and down with altogether naive surprise, which did not at all harmonize with\nthe derisive tone of the foregoing question.\n\" Still, you believe that, say with God's help, you can remove it, and that's\nno small matter. At least you wish to believe. And you take the mountain\nliterally. Good principle. I have noticed that the more advanced of our In-\nvites are strongly inclined toward Ivutheranism. This is more than the \" tres\npeu \" of one arch-bishop who was, true enough, at the sword's point. And of\ncourse you are a Christian too. \"\nStavrogin spoke rapidly, his fluent words now serious, now derisive.\n\" Thy cross, oh I,ord, let me not spurn, \" Tikhon muttered in a strange,\npassionate whisper, bowing his head low.\n\" Is it possible to believe in the devil without believing in God ? \" Stavro-\ngin laughed,"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2409, "texte": "\" That's easily possible. It's done right and left. \" Tikhon lifted his\neyes and smiled.\n\" And I am sure that you find such a faith more respectable than complete\nlack of faith. .. \" Stavrogin burst out laughing.\n\" On the contrary, complete atheism is more to be respected than easy in-\ndifference, \" answered Tikhon, with visible gaiety and simplicity of mind.\n\" Aha ! so that's what yon think\n\" The complete atheist stands on the penultimate step to most perfect faith,\nno matter whether he mounts the step or not, but the indifferent person has no\nfaith whatever except a bad fear, and that but rarely, and only if he is sensitive. \"\n\" H'm. . . Have you read the Apocalypse ?\"\n\" Yes. \"\n\" Do you remember : ' And imto the Angel of the Church of the Laodiceans\nwrite\n\" I remember. \"\n\" Where is the book ? \" Stavrogin grew strangely excited and alarmed, his\neyes wandering over the table in search of the Bible, —\"I want to read you. . .<\nDo you have a Russian translation ? \"\n\" I know the passage. I remember it, \" said Tikhon.\n\"Do you know it by heart ? Say it. . . \"\nHe dropped his eyes quickly, leaned his wrists upon his knees, and impatiently\nprepared to listen. Tikhon began reciting, recalling word after word :\n' And unto the Angel of the Church of the write. These things\nsaith the Amen, the faithful and true Witness, the beginning of the creation of\nGod : I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert\ncold or hot. So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I\nwill spew thee out of my mouth. Because thou say est, lam rich and increased\nwith goods and have need of nothing; and knowest not that thou art wretched,\nand miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked. . . ' \"\n\" Enough ! \" interrupted Stavrogin. \" You know, I love you very much.\n\" And I love you, \" replied Tikhon in a low voice.\nStavrogin grew silent, and again fell to musing. This occurred fitfully,\nnow for the third time. He was almost in this state when he said to Tikhon,\nI love you', at least his words surprised himself. More than a minute\npassed.\n\" Do not be angry, \" whispered Tikhon, touching Stavrogin's elbow lightly\nwith his finger and appearing to grow timid himself.\nThe latter started and frowned fiercely. \" How did you know that I was\nangry ? \" he said rapidly. Tikhon wanted to say something but Stavrogin, sud-\ndenly overcome with inexplicable agitation, interrupted him:"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2496, "texte": "\" Why did you suppose that I must be angry? Yes, I was. You're right.\nAnd precisely because I told you I loved you. You're right. But you are a coarse\ncynic, you have a low opinion of human nature. There might have been no anger\nif it had been anyone but me. However, we're not dealing with anyone else, but\nwith me. And still you are an odd fellow and a saintly fool. .. \"\nHe grew more and more irritable and Strangely enough, he did not choose his\nwords : \"Listen, I don't like spies and psychologists, at least such as pry into\nmy soul. I don't invite anybody to see my soul. Ido not need anybody. I\ncan get along alone. You think I'm afraid of you.\" He raised his voice and threw\nhis head back defiantly. \"You are fully convinced that I have come to disclose\na ' terrible ' secret to you. And you are waiting for it with all the monkish\ncuriosity of which you are capable. Well, then, let me tell you that I will disclose\nnothing, no secret whatever, because I can very well get along without you. . . \"\nTikhon looked at him firmly : \"You were struck by the fact that the Lamb\nloves the cold ones better than the lukewarm ones, \" he said. \"You do not want\nto be merely lukewarm. I ligve a foreboding that an extraordinary, perhaps\nfearful intention is taking hold of you. I implore you, do not torment yourself\nand tell everything. \"\n\" And you were certain that I had come with a story .\"\n• \"I. . . guessed it, \" whispered Tikhon, dropping his eyes.\nNikolai Vsevolodovich was somewhat pale. His hands trembled slightly.\nFor several moments he stared, motionless and silent, as if coming to a final\ndecision. At length he produced several printed sheets from the side pocket of\nhis jacket and put them on the table.\n\" Here is the pamphlet designed for circulation, \" he said in a breaking voice.\n\" If one man reads it, then you may be sure that I will not conceal it, and all will\nread it. That's the decision. And I do not need you at all, because I have made\nup my mind. But read. . . Don't say anything while you're reading it. Tell\nme everything when you are through. \"\n\" Shall I read it ? \" asked Tikhon, hesitatingly.\n\" Read ; I am composed. \"\n\" No, I can't make it out without my spectacles, the print is small, foreign. \"\n\" Here are the spectacles. \" Stavrogin took them up from the table, handed\nthem to Tikhon and leaned against the back of the divan. Tikhon did not\nlook at him and lost himself in the reading.\n\nFeodor Dostoyevsky\n(Translated from the Russian by Avrahm Yarmolinsky)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "172", "page_fin": "172", "image_debut": 14, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "Sinbad", "titre_sommaire": "Sinbad", "signature_source": "John Crawford", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 500, "texte": "SINBAD\nJohn Crawford\nHour after hour\nI have walked in the rain . . .\nDark hallway after hallway\nsheltered lovers arm in arm . . .\nKnots of men\nstood in bright saloon-lit doors . . .\nSilhouettes in pantomine\nundressed upon the window-shades . .\nThe city is a patient silence\nwaiting to be born ...\nA grey stage\nfilled with shadows of dancers\ntoo tired to move . ~\nEven my own\nshadow lags at my heels . . .\nI will rest his head on my shoulders\ntrailing his legs over my arm\nand croon him to sleep . . ."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "173", "page_fin": "173", "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Henri Matisse", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 21, "texte": "Henri Matisse\nDrawing"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "174", "page_fin": "179", "image_debut": 16, "image_fin": 21, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "A Champion in the Wilderness", "titre_sommaire": "A Champion in the Wilderness", "signature_source": "Robert Alden Sanborn", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2708, "texte": "A CHAMPION IN THE WILDERNESS\n\nWhen The Soil, a radical magazine of art, first pricked through the cement\ncrust of New York City, in December, 1916, there were perhaps a dozen friends\nwho were enough interested to remain on hand and to see that the brash young\ngreenling was not at once flattened under foot. The official bally-hooing that\nwas being blared forth to suck the American public into the sideshow of war\nhad, even at that time, produced a far greater than normal indifference to the\nsubject of a national art. Consequently, the editors of The Soil whose evangeli-\ncal purpose was to fire the national consciousness with the creed of good taste,\nwere obliged to speak at highest pitch to make themselves heard at all.\nAnd they were heard. Five thousand copies of one issue of this twenty-\nfive cent art magazine were sold or subscribed to, and requests for copies eatne\nfrom all parts of Europe, South America, and the Orient.\nBut one art critic only came down from his platform to extend both hands\nardently to The Soil. This was Henry Mcßride of the N. Y. Sun, an honest friend\nof youth. His words are memorable : \" I regard the advent of The Soil as an\nanswer to prayer. .. . right here in our midst —to be exact, at the juncture\nof Forty-second street and Fifth Avenue — a great light appears. I love the new\npublication from start to finish. I wouldn't have a thing in it altered. I consider\nit the most perfect art journal ever seen. . . .For one thing it is ours. It\nis American. It's in line. It's Whitmanic. It's for the open road, and the\nfree-for-all, the pure air, and the hot scuffle. Something will come out of The\nSoil, mark my words. .. . My only fear is that it begins too well. To keep\nup such a pace, or even to produce a second number equally good, would be a\nmiracle. But to the young, God bless them, miracles come easy. \"\nThe miracle was repeated four times. Then the funds gave out and there\nwas no more miracle.\nThe Soil was the personal creation of one man, Robert J. Coady. He died\non the 6th of January, 1921. He gave all his strength to launch The Soil at the\nhistorical period most adverse to such an event, and he never recovered enough\nstrength to begin again. An almost fatal illness reduced his slender store of\nphysical resource. He tried to regain his feet at the count of nine, but his punch\nwas gone. The book of The Soil was closed and on its cover was engraved\nthat phrase of Bert Williams whose art Bob Coady loved \" Never mo. \"\nBecause Bob Coady is dead there is nothing to be hoped for of just the\nunique spirit that made The Soil so brilliantly provocative of new art forms and\nof controversial opinions about them. The Soil was first cousin to the free-"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2893, "texte": "verse movement in America which crystallized in Alfred Kreyinborg's group of\nOthers. That was a magic moment. No one who was touched by the kindling\nbreath will ever forget the joy of it nor cease to regret that a great fiery wind\ndevoured it. It will be worth while some day to review that frail but vital page\nin American literary history. It is especially important now when we are close\nto the event of Coady's death to examine his message in order that we may take\nup those threads laid down by him that may seem worth weaving into the\nmuddled aesthetic pattern of our national art.\nCoady preached all his later years a simple passionate empiricism as the ba-\nsis of an indigenous culture. The soil out of which an American art must grow\nis not homogeneous, it is a compost of vegetation discarded by various racial\ntypes as they strip for the febrile competitive struggle for a livelihood. In Coady's\nvigorous and inimitable language: \"An Englishman invented the Bessemer\nprocess and we built our sky-scraper. A Dane married a Spanish - African, and\nBert Williams sings, 'Nobody'. We've dug into the soil and developed the\nSteam Shovel. We play and we box .. . Our art is, as yet, outside our art\nworld. It's in the spirit of the Panama Canal. It's in the East River and the\nBattery. It's in Pittsburg and Diiluth. It's coming from the ball-field, the sta-\ndium, and the ring. Already we've made our beginnings, scattered here and\nthere, but beginnings with enormous possibilities. Where they will lead, who\nknows ? Today is the day of moving pictures, it is also the day of moving\nsculpture ...\"\nBy \" moving sculpture\" he meant such mechanical wonders as the\nSellers Ten Ton Swinging Jib Crane, locomotive No. 4000, the Industrial Works'\n120 Ton Crane, the Chambersburg Hammer, and the Erie Hammer. All of\nthese were illustrated in the January, 1917, number of The Soil.\nOut of the competitive struggle directed by a centralized capitalism, which\nis one of the principal contributions made by America to economic history,\nthere have emerged an amazing variety of mechanical forms, all useful, some\nbeautiful in themselves, others suggestive of a by-product of real aesthetic impor-\ntance to the detached mind of so modern a thinker as Coady. To his trained\nperceptions these great machines have the same relation to the national con-\nsciousness as the pantheon of gods had to the mind of the Athenian of the Golden\nAge of Greece ; that is, they have been dreamed, planned, and constructed to\nexpress and to augment the greatness of a people.\nThe Chambersburg double-frame steam hammer represents in its operation\nthe welded power of thousands of workmen, and it follows that the design by which\nthis miracle is achieved should be admirable for something more than its utility.\nIt becomes one of the symbols of a national spirit that flourishes in a soil capable\nof nourishing the world."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2884, "texte": "The inceptive dream announced by the founders of the United States, of\ngiving refuge and opportunity to the oppressed dreamers and irreconcilables\nof the older countries has undergone a metabolic change. The will to conquer and\nutilize the vast natural resources of the land engulfs in its possessive maw\nall that comes its way of human material capable of moving mountains or put-\nting rivers on leash. The dreamers of Europe, the persecuted, the misunder-\nstood and impoverished, find themselves shanghaied as fast as they arrive and\ncarried away to work in factories and mines where the steam hammers and other\ngigantic inventions are produced.\nProduced by this chain of social-economic phenomena, vitalized by the as-\nsimilated hordes of immigrants, these colossal mechanical forms, Coady believed,\nmust, whether obvious or not to the academicians, be looked to as the most\nrepresentative material for our national art.• The giant locomotive, before\nwhich all normal Americans bow in respect, has been perfectly designed not only\nto puff triumphantly up the heaviest grades of the Rockies but to reveal as well\na degree of symetry of mass and grace of line that should fertilize the receptive\nmind of the artist.\n\" Taste, \" said Coady in The Soil, \" would alter the Steam Hammer. It\nwould change a handle here or a bolt there, it would straighten this line or curve\nthat, it would vary textures and show a delight in the meeting of planes—\nand if it equalled the creative construction of the hammer we would have a\nmighty art. \"\nThe artists of America, according to the gospel of Coady, have no reason\nto mourn the desolation of Parnassus nor the ruined fanes of the gods on Olympus\nwhen they, the artists, have the steam hammer, the traveling crane, and the mo-\ngul of the rail. Thus the dilettante and the \" ism \" -atic suffered harsh shocks\nwhen they curiously opened the fresh pages of The Soil and saw reproduced as\nprototypes of the new American art these photographs of the mechanical triumphs\nof American genius.\nThere were other shocks for these favored gentlemen. There was the ar-\nticle by Charlie Chaplin on comedy (outraged cries from the devotees of Meredith !);\nthe interview with Bert Williams in which he traces the genesis of his inimitable\ncharacterizations of the shiftless negro ; the notes on the art of window dressing,\nand prestidigitation ; the Nick Carter serial; and the panegyrics on the beau-\nties to be seen on the ball field and in the prize ring. i\nTo grasp the meaning of these angular intrusions into the sacrosanct book\nof art, we have to question the mind of Bob Coady where it still lives in the me-\nmories of those who understood him. And the answer is, that it was to the play-\nspirit, the humor and sport of the American people, rather than to the attenuated\nand diluted imitations of continental schools of art, that he looked for the sug-"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3049, "texte": "gestive cultural factors that await the developing hand of the artist. Directly\nrelated to the wonders of our industrial life is the obverse and lighter side supplied\nby our recreative Held, the games and amusements created by the skilled athletes\nand humorists who, challenged by the grim, grooved, work-a-day back-ground\nof toil, burst forth in grace of movement and fertility of inimitable invention.\nBob Coady knew intimately the amusement side of his New York ; he\nread the cartoons and sporting pages of the yellow sheets ; he prowled about lower\nThird Avenue, preferring the serials and slapstick comedies of the smelly little\nIvast vSide movie theatres to the pretentious musical and feature programs of the\namusement places of Broadway ; he was a devotee of the old Chinese theatre\non Doyer street, and spoke with bitter regret of its passing; he delighted in the\nlive Seurats and L,autrecs which he found in the smoky galleries of the burlesque\nhouses on 14th street; he rediscovered the Comedie Humaine amongst the em-\nployees and patrons of MacCanns restaurant on Myrtle Avenue, Brooklyn ;\nhe sought the glory that was Greece on the Polo grounds, and in Madison Square\nGarden on fight nights ; and in the playful colorings of his classes of negro children\nhe found the crude beginnings of a more representative art than was ever hung\nin the National Academy. In short, he saw hope of the rudiments of a truly\nAmerican art only in the grim earnestness of industry and the childlike earnest-\nness of sport and humor, and he aggressively refused to compromise the\nprinciples of his taste by liking anything that was not spontaneously true to the\nnative spirit of America.\nHis mind was too well balanced for him to indulge in excessive judgments,\nhe did not credit the work of the cartoonists, sport-writers, and athletes, with\nthe achievement of any permanent value. With a true sense of proportion he\nsaw these men as scooping the raw material of art out of the soil, and his keen\neyes noted in the shapeless handfuls the gleams of pure gold. How cordially\nhe would have praised the partnership of John Alden Carpenter and Adolph\nBohm in creating the Krazy Kat ballet. It is a perfect answer to his message.\nHe was struck by no irrelevancy in asking Charles Chaplin to dignify the\nfirst number of The Soil with an article in which he explained the sources of his\nait. Lor had not Chaplin been developed as world artist in the mechanics of\nthe latest American invention, the moving picture ?\nDoes not window-dressing represent a fineness of taste that is responsive\nto the competitive conditions of American salesmanship ? An example of the\nwork of Mr. Gilbert McGowan, an artist in this line, was shown in one number\nof The Soil and beneath the illustration was appended a statement of the artist's\nprinciples. On the opposite page to this exhibit which, in Mr. McGowan's words\nwas intended \".to attract attention to the fact that a hat can be made to feel\nas light as a feather, \" (surely a problem that relates to art) there was shown in"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3009, "texte": "damning contrast a particularly muddy abstraction by a young modern painter\nwith an even muddier explanation of the artist's intentions beneath.\nThis delightfully effective use of contrast was Coady's favorite weapon for\nfighting the abstract, the derivative, and the spineless in American art. Read-\ners who could not agree with him found humor in his original and pugnacious\nmanner of illustrating his thesis. There was a good laugh as well as an impor-\ntant point in his juxtaposition of cuts of the Maine monument (which fronts Co-\nlumbus Circle in New York) and the massive Chambersburg double-frame steam\nhammer, with below a line running across both pages, \" Which is the monu-\nment ? \" On another page appeared a messy confusion of what looked like\nhen-tracks which was signed, \"New York by So-and-So\" (a well-known, at\nthat time, modern painter). On the reverse side of the page was a newspaper\nphotograph taken from the Woolworth tower in which the hard lines of the build-\nings converged toward the earth in an amazing effect of motion, signed\n\" New York by Brown brothers. \"\nHis commentary on the school of \" cosmic synchromy \" was an illustration\nof an example by the founder of the school to which was attached a vague and\nlabored footnote, while facing it was a photograph of an egg, placed and lighted\nwith consummate taste, with a title reading, \" Invention — Nativity, by A,\nChicken, ' Cluck, Cluck ', A. Chicken \". More words might have been used in just\nderision without even approximating the destructive effect of this deadly parallel.\nAs for the Nick Carter novel which began running in the first number\nof The Soil, Coady granted that conventional literary opinion might pick\nflaws in the style of these hastily written commercial products, but he\nstoutly contended in a foreword to the serial that as an example of straight\nand swift narration the dime novel has not been surpassed. And further, that\nin variety of types taken from the streets, all crisply characterized in the mini-\nmum of words, these stories were an unique contribution to American fiction.\nThere were those to whom Coady was merely an eccentric who pawed in\nand picked from the litter of rubbish discarded by conservative critics and foist-\ned these examples solely to annoy and defy the academic mind and to win the\napplause of the untutored crowd. Coady made mistakes in judgment, and he\nquite often committed an injustice, but always his aim was.to attract attention\nto the power and beauty that distinguished the crude cultural products rooted\nfrom American soil and given in a more or less raw state to the masses who\ndevour the newspapers and throng the burlesque houses and the Polo Grounds.\nSt. Paul took the orthodox Jewish church to task for overlooking the spiritual\nfact that the kingdom of heaven is within the individual bosom. Coady was\nmoved to a like impatience. He met few in his life who thanked him for pointing\nout the patent truth that the beauty sought for by the artist resides in the near"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2846, "texte": "and familiar facts of human life, and that art is a natural function which operates\nwhen the individual is charged to bursting with an enthusiasm for living.\nBy acting on these principles the comic cartoonist becomes the most success-\nful graphic artist of the day. He picks out the prevailing characteristics of\nthe average man, his naive innocence of culture and his good-natured passivity\nto circumstances, and adding a touch and a twist of exaggeration the artist gives\nback to the average man the privilege of laughing at himself while thinking, if\nhe has to make peace with his vanity, that it is his neighbor whom the drawing\nresembles. Thus come forth the troop of figures, the Abe Kabibbles, the Pas and\nMas, the Jiggs, from whom students of manners and men of uture generations\nwill learn vastly more than from the works of our academies.\n\" Who has seen the Battery ? Who ? \" \" Ingres ? Poussin ? Lorraine ?\nOh, no, these are the days of cosmicalities. \"\n\" Why no photos of tugs ? Why ?\" \" Exhibition of one hundred Claude\nLorraines. East River. Every morning. \"\nThese and other snappy footnotes shot out from blank spaces of The Soil,\nso placed and phrased that they hit the mind with the sting of a left jab or a right\nhook. Every New Yorker, transient as well as rooted, knows the blazing win-\ndow displays of the Monroe clothing shops at Broadway and 42nd street. How\nmany of these millions knew until Coady told them in The Soil that. \" Here is\nan exhibition of pictures hung in ' visible order' inj:he midst of a real ' Battle of\nLights'. The. simplicity of the commonplace means and the direct and positive\nresults obtained make one think that Dauinier would have done it in about the\nsame way and that our modern geniuses could learn a lot from this remarkable\nexample of common sense.''\nAs an art critic Bob Coady was a rare example of the successful lighter, the\nboxer-slugger. He loved to give punishment and he was ready to take it if thereby\nhe could land the damaging punch. He fought for the love of fighting, and he\nhit for love of hitting. And he sometimes hit the wrong person, and at other\ntimes he hit too hard. He was a good hater because he was a great lover of the\ntruth. He was what is known by the timid, the incurious, and the smug, as an\nextremist. But what it costs in nerve and brain and blood to take a post out of\nhailing distance of most of one's fellows, to lift there a banner and to wait for the\nwind to fling it out, no one can know who hugs his fireplace and makes but a\nphantom dissent to the opinion of those in collective authority.\nBob Coady was never knocked out. He dropped h\\ the ring, exhausted by\nhis dauntless assaults upon his inert and massive foe. Who daresjput on the\nshoes and gloves of this dead champion and take his fighting place in the wilder-\nness of age ?\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "180", "page_fin": "180", "image_debut": 22, "image_fin": 22, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Silence", "titre_sommaire": "Silence", "signature_source": "Edward Storer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 207, "texte": "SILENCE\nIn the vast magnolia of silence\nthe spirit swoons like a bee,\nweary of urging its wings\nthrough the day :\nuntil the flower\nshatters upon its slender stem,\nleaf following leaf\nunto the rumorous earth."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "180", "page_fin": "180", "image_debut": 22, "image_fin": 22, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "The Carnival", "titre_sommaire": "The Carnival", "signature_source": "Edward Storer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 209, "fin_caractere_exclue": 610, "texte": "THE CARNIVAL\nAnd on the morrow of the carnival,\nwhen the fine coloured silks,\nthe subtle hose\nlie flaccid on the floor,\nand the broken mask is tossed away,\nwith the withered roses :\nmelancholy !\nugh ! melancholy !\nSo too the mask of youth\nwe wore on shining morns\nfalls from our faces\nwhen the music stops\nand the dancing ends.\nWe see ourselves within the glass\nwithout a mask :\nthe carnival is ended."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "181", "page_fin": "181", "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "In Hospital", "titre_sommaire": "In Hospital", "signature_source": "Edward Storer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 183, "texte": "IN HOSPITAL\nSince tonight I must die\nwhy do they keep the window open,\nso that the April air\nflows in from the mountains,\nand why do they place by my bed\nthis vase of spring violets ?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "181", "page_fin": "181", "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Poor Devils", "titre_sommaire": "Poor Devils", "signature_source": "Edward Storer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 185, "fin_caractere_exclue": 427, "texte": "POOR DEVILS\nEdward Storer\nO lovers what is the best you find\nin love,\nwhen your eyes are wide with joy\nand your breath beats\nirregularly like those\nnear to death ?\nWhat is the best life's highest hour can give ?\nOblivion,\na moment's oblivion."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "182", "page_fin": "193", "image_debut": 24, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "At the Antipodes of Unity", "titre_sommaire": "At the Antipodes of Unity", "signature_source": "Blaise Cendrars ; M. J.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2188, "texte": "AT THE ANTIPODES OF UNITY\n\nCHAPTER I.\nOf the Itinerary to the Latitudes of the Sky.\nAfter having weighed anchor, we left Earth to enter that ocean of solar light\nwhich is our respirable atmosphere. Having reached its extreme limits we were\nembroiled in the rapids of the ozone region. We were going so fast that we could\nnot estimate our speed, and we seemed to be standing still. The Earth was not\nvisible in our wake, and ahead of us the stars no longer existed. Finally we made\nthe great dive through empty space, splashed all about with star-foam. We\ntacked before the Great Bear for seven centuries by the clock, passing often under\nblack rainbows ; then, having doubled Cape Orion, we pointed straight for the\nSouth which is the North of the Sky.\nWe fished for strange interstellar beings which made us gasp with aston-\nishment, but their exquisite flesh regaled us and was a welcome addition to the or-\ndinary food of the crew. Everybody was in good spirits and excellent health.\nFollowing the example of our men, I shook off the lethargy which had gripped me\nat the unexpected success of our departure. I gave orders to hoist our. great\ngolden flag with its arms of Human Passion, and looked out of a porthole. Here\nis what I saw when my spirit emerged from the goose-flesh covering it.\nCHAPTER II.\nOf the Eel ; and of the Sponge which is the bottom of the Sky.\nBehind the Milky Way, there is an eel, or a kind of serpent of the Sky.\nHe feeds on the suns which abound in the mud of the depths. His eye is like\nthe four-leaf clover of space, and at the end of his tail, like rattles, worlds in erup-\ntion mark the time. From each of the scales he sheds there falls a comet. And\nthe digestion of this being is Light. He is caught, like an earthworm in a root,\nin the base of a sponge which he gnaws and which almost entirely hides him.\nEach pore of this sponge breathes and moans like a human gestation. This sponge\nis Sponge of Darkness, Tuft of Tongues, Organ of Origins. As a brain in a skull,\nit molds itself in the first form. It is the simplest, the most elementary specimen\nof a family of inverted, unqualifiable and inadmissable creatures dwelling at the\nAntipodes of Unity."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2377, "texte": "CHAPTER III.\nOf Musical Instruments.\nEvery morning a transparent membrane spreads over the bottom of the\nsky. Whenever an eyelid opens, a bud of an anemone's flesh unfolds, a grain\nof sand or a sun opens to life, a fly, a human being, an animal or a plant quivers,\nor any force begins its career — this ultra-sensitive membrane vibrates,\nreceives the sound, repeats it, and amplifies it with a tremendous detonation.\nAt once the Mountain of the Waters which occupies all the East of space collapses\nand flows over the Mountain of Salt which is in the WTest. Circulation is estab-\nlished, a seething roaring cyclonc of sounds which go from deep bass to shrill\nsoprano and descend again through dizzy chromatics to bass. At first, nothing\ncan be distinguished ; then one is dazzled by strange reflections, by flashes, by\nglaring light. Shadows pass before your tired eyes ; darting quickly like fish\nin water, they \" tone to white/' Elementary forms take shape, square, oval,\ncircle. They rise to the surface and burst like bubbles. Now the}' all frisk about\nwith the movements of fins ; the square lengthens, the oval takes the form of a\nspoon, the circle becomes a star, mouths, lips, throats ; all leap into space with\na loud cry ; they hasten together from all directions, form into a group, a heap,\nstretch out in the form of the preposterous tongue of a mastodon. This tongue\nsprings, labors, makes unheard of efforts, stutters. It speaks.\nThen a great wind springs up which dissolves it, ravels it like a cloud, and\none sees fall from it violincellos, harps, trumpets, drums, immutable flowers\nwhich take root in each Sphere and which every conscious being longs to gather in\norder to try to re-create the Norm.\nCHAPTER IV.\nOf the great joy of the Stars.\nIn the axis of the mid-day the entrance to a grotto opens and arrests you like\nthe sight of a blue butter-cup ; within, the meticulous progression of the planets\ncan be seen. Nothing is so simple, grand, calm, serene, and there is nothing that\ninduces so great a feeling of happiness. A phonograph disc that turns without\nany mechanism. Chinese music. Up there, in Thibet, the rude gong of con-\ntemplation, the crystal shows the Ring of Venus as the neck of a black giraffe,\na speckled Jupiter, the jungle of Mars, and the Earth as immutable as platinum.\nIn these prairies# the act of breathing is a Horse at liberty."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2604, "texte": "CHAPTER V.\nOf Honey\nIn the river of Time which flows in Space, lazy trout can be seen under the\nthick grasses. The waters are clear and transparent. At the bottom, in between\nthe ultra-violet and infra-red of the refracted light foam the precious odo-\nmagnetic stones of which aerolites are composed. The metals, the rocks, and\nthe roots, the grasses and all the leaves are luxuriant in the extreme. The vege-\ntation is daring. Today in this little valley, while flying over the headwaters of\nthe stream, I hunted with cannon-shot for the huge hybrid butterfly of the Sum-\nmit-of-the-Hours that has isochronous wings of which one is morning, and the\nother evening.\nOur little harpooned bullets could get no grip on his diaphanous wings, and\nnot fewer than twenty-eight of them were fired before one succeded in reaching\nhis body. The beast, mortally wounded, wheeled downward, rose again, made\na sudden turn, then fled with a great beating of wings — dragging us in its wake,\nfor the harpoon held well.\nThe giant insect rose, descended, reared, turned a somersault, and doubled\non his tracks, dragging us along from place to place and giving us a thorough\nshaking-up. So that at times we were above him, in the refulgence of his bright\nhead, at times under him in the black shadow of his belly.\nAt each move we were in. danger of being capsized, and, fearing in case the\ncable should break, to lose our prey, I ordered the gunner to aim a bullet directly\nat the eye of the butterfly. The explosion made terrible ravages. I saw the\ncreature make a great leap forward and then fall, wings taut. We shot down\nbehind him in a spinning nose-dive.\nOur situation was critical. The bark lurched forward. The machinery\nhad stopped. The men tumbled over each other pell-mell. I alone remained up-\nright clinging to the porthole above me, but with a sharp pain in my head. It\nwas exactly at this moment that I realized the folly of our enterprise. My\nmind was cast down by the errors of our researches and the inanity of our scien-\ntific efforts.\nWe were falling into a whirlpool, we were perishing between the night and\nthe morning. No, there are no laws, there are no measures, there are no centers.\nNor is there any unity or time or space. Our reason is a poor little instrument\nof analysis, a coat of mail, ever contracting, which grips and moulds the helpless\nterms of our dialectic, a filter which deprives words of all their meaning, of all\ntheir suggestions, of all their creative power ; a filter, then, which isolates and\nstrips them bare, washes, purifies and rids them of all relationship and of all the"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2946, "texte": "crystallization they retained at their birth, in order to define identically a single\nobject, thus metaphysically, nothing, since all things are bound together inex-\ntricably and \" one could not define a blade of grass without involving the whole\nuniverse. \"\nAnd how can one take apart the universe or define a blade of grass, or\ntruthfully employ the equivocal faculties of the cortex which function as scientific\nreasoning, when science is ignorant of the most primary processes of the universe\nand knows not even to what may be attributed the size of grass's stamen, whether\nto the composition of the soil, to the climatic conditions, the corruption of the\nseed, or the method of cultivation.\nNo, the object does not-exist, its definition may be that of space —- lacking\nall dimensions — and the only thing it gives rise to is brain:fatigue, convention,\ndead-letters (rho and phi). The instinctive lisping of a child summons the whole\nworld to its cradle side where the babe graciously presents to the world its vision of\nreality. Our senses speak and affirm. Physically everything is caprice, folly, habit,\nvice. All is depth. The whole universe is isomeric, that is to say, it is composed\nas a whole and in part of similar elements, which have nevertheless (as a whole\nand in part) different properties, according to how differently these elements are\npresented to the senses.\nHow could I have entrusted my life and that of my comrades to this fragile\nmachine, constructed, as I now confess, out of a blind and groping impulse. Had\nI not labored amid continual incertitude and doubt? I, the scrupulous and diffi-\ndent scientist, the inventor of this extraordinary engine that had transported us\nfar up into the heavens, and of which I was justly proud, I, the master of the uni-\nversal spiral as my fellow citizens called me as a result of my definitive researches\ninto the life of numbers, — was I not an impostor after all ? I had made tabula\nrasa of geometry, trigonometry, of applied and celestial mechanics, of the most\ndetermined and stable scientific laws and theories in order to embark on a most\nchimerical adventure, like a possessed prophet, like a poet who says or pretends\nto say stupidities.\nHow could I have convinced my companions that they ought to accompany\nme ; yes, why did they still have faith in me, when I no longer believed in myself ?\nIt was my prestige, I suppose, my air of a leader, and some dream of a millenium\nto come induced by my intellectual brows.\nAnd when I thought that all was lost, the need of control and direction began\nworking obscurely in me and as usual forced me to act. * I glanced out through the\nporthole. The monster who had us in train had just run aground. We were\nno more than a scant hundred yards away and were at the point of crashing to\nsmithereens. \" Every man to his post! I cried, in a voice of thunder. I\nhad the cables that tied us to our prey thrown overboard. Powerful electric"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2088, "texte": "discharges >et vibrating the bulkheads of repulsite that sheathed our vessel.\nThe enormous turbine at the bow began to turn. By reversing the wheel I suc-\nceeded in straightening out the apparatus and the machine volplaned to an abrupt\nstop about six yards from the giant carcass. Nothing was lost. My men re-\ngarded me with drawn faces, and a nervous convulsion made me smile. But the\nquartermasters cried : \" To work ! \" Already silently operating derricks emerg-\ned from the sides of the ship and began to take the corpse to pieces. My passion\nfor science swept over me again ; I began to catalogue feverishly the parts we\nwere taking with us.\nThis is what we found in the dead butterfly :\n1. The Foaming Ram, which hammered the mutilated head.\n2. The Tropic9 of Cancer, which lay hidden in the breast.\n3. The Twins, astride the antennae.\n4. The Raging Bull, which spouted from the back of the neck.\n5. The Balance in the axis of the wings (We could not take those mam-\nmoth wings on board ship).\n6. The Virgin sleeping peacefully in the sides.\n7. The Scorpion consuming the stomach (it was he who had been speared\nby the harpoon).\n8. The Archer who defended the mouth.\n9. The Raging Lion, seated in the solar plexus.\n10. The Capricorn, in the middle of the thorax.\n11. and 12. The Inconstant Water carrier, and the Fish that swam in the\neyes.\nThe tense legs strained at space, white as a nenuphar.\nIn examining the proboscis, I spilled a drop of honey.\nIvife is pragmatically, manifestly, and for malty space and time, sublima-\nted, molten and perfumed. Honey.\nCHAPTER VI.\nOf the Resting Place of Old Moons;\nof the Wheat and of the Eye.\nWe had just set off again and attained some height, when my men came\nto inform me that a chain of mountains had been sighted directly in our wake.\nI went immediately to the observation tower at the bow of the ship from which\nI discerned geometrical mountain peaks, faintly visible above the horizon. I\nreversed our bearings, and we proceeded slowly in the direction N. N. W.\nSoon we entered -a zone that was purely luminous. We sailed along in the"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "187", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3059, "texte": "midst of sparks, rays, reflections. The irradiations seemed to gather volume, and\nbecame powdery and sonorous. This caused a slight vibration all about our\nshell. One more powerful ray whipped out at us like a bullet, making the whole\nship resound with its impact, and at times we seemed to be rocking on a huge\nswell. The discharges of light succeeded one another more and more swiftly and\nluridly, all originating from the mountains which barred our course. A spectral\nanalysis determined the presence of osmium, and I concluded therefrom that the\nmountains before us were of platinum in its most active state, and that as we\napproached them, the interior shell of the engine, which was of crystal, had caused\nthe polarization of the light as if it were tourmaline. This also explained our\nretarded and increasingly painful progress.\nWe arrived thus after many difficulties before a solid wall, that was slate-\ncolored and highly polished. Its even balconies and eaves presented no irregu-\nlarities. After having surmounted this wall, we discovered farther off another\ninclined facade, also solid and glistening. We traversed this mountain which\nwas a icosahedron block of platinum. Twenty-nine blocks of equal size placed\nend to end formed this chain of mountains, giving the impression of a giant cater-\npillar. The last block was split in the middle, and it was into the narrow\nsinuous canyon of this that we penetrated.\nThe entrance was ornamented with a white metal, which crumbled to pieces\nand whose fragments on the ground offered the attenuated colors of a rainbow.\nFarther off again, enormous concretions emerged from the walls of the\ncanyon and falling at our feet raised clouds of brown, reddish and saffron-colored\ndust. vStill further, at the bottom of a pit, a spring gushed forth at intervals,\nthick and bloody, carrying a kind of warm turf composed of fragments of veg-\netation,'softened crystals, stars of india rubber, pasty stones, animal juices and\nclotted oil. At the end, the passage opened on an immense arena, where in the\nhalf light of an aquarium swam strange apparitions. The shadows of things\ntraversed one another in the wildest disorder; opaque as they were, they penetrat-\ned each other constantly. Strange turmoil! The last moon was mouldering\nin a porous bowl, and scattered all about lay the old moons, dirty and miserable,\ntheir lustre gone, their bellies in air, among the most bizarre objects, such as are\n.usually found together in a heap behind the scenes of a theatre, or as in a brain\nturned inside out. We made a semi-circle of this space before taking the passage\nthat was to lead us out. I ordered air our searchlights to be lit. The old moons\nflared up, wan and ivory-colored ; I had a sudden vision, oh infinitely tragic, of\nthe elephants described 'by Sinbad the Sailor in the Thousand and\nOne Nights, the great white carcasses, the heaps of bleaching bones.\nNow we were approaching the exit. Seen from the inside of the mountains,\nthe radiations trembled on the glittering ground like the lashes of an Before"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "188", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2540, "texte": "us the whole field of vision palpitated and agitated, a golden harvest, the most\nbeautiful wheat-field of light. In passing, I gathered the heaviest stalks and tied\nthem ill a bunch ; here is what I carry away to make ever fruitful the land of men :\nNorth Star called wheat of Szarawka or of Poland : very characteristic and\npeculiar yellow grain, full grown and heavy, with white straw of medium height.\nDifficult to cut but resists frost very well.\nAlgol, called Red of the Valutte : a red grass, having a reddish straw, of me-\ndium height, which resists cutting but ripens quickly, leaving room for hardly\nany weeds. Grows in almost any soil; can be planted up to the end of February.\nAltair, called Japhet or Wheat of God : fine reddish grain, full-grown,ripens\nwell. White straw of medium height, rather strong. May be grown in any soil,\nand sown either in the autumn or the spring. Very early ;no subsidiary growths.\nBetelgeuse, called Good Farmer: Yellow grain, heavy, well liked by millers,\nresists rust. Straw bright yellow and inflexible. Early, no subsidiary growths\nand may be grown in any soil.\nThe Stalk, called Red Scotch Goldenrod: medium sized grain, generally pol-\nished, half-yellow, half red. Very fine straw, long and strong, often colored\nviolet above the stem ; very sturdy, resists frost well and rust, many subsidiary\ngrowths, and late harvest.\nAldabaran, called The Fields : magnificent bright yellow grain, plump and\nheavy. Beautiful white straw, rather long but very fibrous. Does not rust and\nhas many subsidiary growths, but well everywhere.\nRigel, called Carter : yellowish-grey grain, very plump, a little wrinkled.\nWhite straw, long but thick and hard to cut. A few subsidiary growths. Re-\nquires good soil.\nArchimard, called Yellow Beard: red-brown grain, black at the core;\nyellow straw. Brown thick velvety stalk. The most productive of all the varie-\nties. Very sturdy, resists frost and disease. Has the fault of being late.\nThe Southern Cross, called The Reed : white grain; rather plump. White\nstraw, thick and fibrous, with large leaves. The earliest of the square stemmed\nwheat. Ripens well. Should be sown in good soil.\nI had come to believe that we had really been travelling within an eye and\nthat I had been seeing things. Wheat of the brain.\nCHAPTER VII.\nOf the Parturition of Colors.\nWhere are we, everything becomes diffuse, dissolves. The machine groans.\nEach revolution of the propeller is my most intimate thought.\nThe crystal lining of the motor becomes malleable and swells up. The most"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "189", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3037, "texte": "solidly compounded metals separate from each other, and liquids become volatile.\nIt grows impossible to breathe this air. My men are shaken with frightened\nlaughter. I was forced to tie them one by one, to their levers, to bind them to\ntheir posts. Will their automatic gestures suffice to save us ?\nA few moments later, as I made my turn about the ship, the floor weakened\nbeneath my weight, I sank through the deck as if it were of mud. The hardest\nobjects seemed to perspire with the heat. The most luminous spheres became\ncoated with a film. The highly polished corners became rusty, while other sur-\nfaces lost their shine. The phosphorescent clock-faces were extinguished.\nEverything cracks about me. Everything disintegrates, melts, grows faint\nand immaterial.\nI seek refuge in the central cabin, which I had isolated from the rest. I seize\nthe chest which contains the agent, the principle of my machine : the Molecular\nSpiral. L,et come what will! My eye glued to the periscope attached to the\nchest, I observe the perpetual motion of which lam the inventor. Here is the\nspark. One millionth of a second. The spark oscillates, palpitates, lives and\nrevolves in an absolute void, enclosed in a concave hepatite. All about the\nZN-vibrios, which should unite with, decompose, and multiply the spark of ultra-\nwhite incandescence, seem to recoil, saturated; a short circuit makes connection\nimpossible. Everything has ceased to function. The void in the hepatite invades\nall parts of the machine. Everybody, every object, every instrument on board\nis dilated, then shrinks and falls back upon itself, discharging a thousand worm-\nshaped tendrils. The intra-molecular mesh is clearly defined, and the atoms ro-\ntate visibly. My ship opens like the rose of the wind, and closes again like\na capsule. We are about to explode. I can only see now through my brain. I\nmust try to restore the circulation. With my fingers on the keys of the vacuum,\nI succeed in turning away the currents of the void by drawing it toward those\nparts of the engine which serve as vacuum ballasts. Enormous discharges of\nvoid re-establish the co-efficient of density. At this point I am witness to a\nstrange phenomenon. In the return of the flame, the hepatite sizzles and\neverything is filled with smoke. My field of vision is drowned in a\nwhirlpool. A brownish red slowly attacks the screen and pervades it. Then a\ndark red, with a rough surface, wrinkled like seaweed, and formed of films placed\nside by side, appears. Each membrane has upon it a blister which trembles\nand bursts like cooling lava. All of a sudden, the mass of red fucus breaks apart\nin the middle, the films group themselves to right and to left, the blisters become\nmore virulent, and a blue line appears which spreads rapidly and expands toward\nthe top and toward the bottom. This blue extends its branches in all direc-\ntions. It pushes out into the red of the little trembling films, in the form of a\nwedge, like the leaves of the capillary. The blue and red leaves align themselves"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "190", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2647, "texte": "together, one blue with one red and turn about gently until they dissolve. There\nremains nothing save two bean-sliaped spots, one blue and one red, facing one\nanother. One might suppose they were two embryos, one masculine and the\nother feminine. They approach, join, divide and multiply, by cells or groups of\ncells. Every spore is enclosed in a violet net which soon swells out and becomes\nfleshy like a pistil. Little orange lozenges float about on the suface. 'Soon\nthe orange and the violet begin to devour one another. Twigs, branches, trunks\nall tremble, collapse, rise up again. Suddenly the orange blossoms like the flower\nof the gourd. The calyx deepens, and at the bottom two violet pistils tremble on\na red and blue stamen. Everything whirls dizzily from the center to the peri-\nphery. A ball is set up, a ball' of brilliant yellow, looking very much like a fruit.\nThe yellow explodes, causing confetti and multicolored seed to come out in par-\nticles of all sizes and shapes. Then everything falls, as hard as hail, and uni-\nformly green. In the midst of them appear threads and chains and links of\nevery kind. Trunks and branches, knotted, elongated, distorted. Grass, that\nblackens and then turns ashen, only to disappear finally into a thick mist of\nforms that merge into white. The white becomes fixed and frozen. Then there\nis the ultra-white in the shape of a disc, while in the center the spiral functions.\nIts movement is regular. I let' go of the vacuum, and evetything congeals about,\nme. The liquids can be compressed no further. Hard bodies regain their sharp\nprojections, their clean angles. Domestic shapes develop out of each other,\nfamiliar and useful. The machines are singing. The rudder works again. The\nquality of matter is color in space ; in the void it is the motion of falling, and we\nhave industrialized the process. It is the origin of all things.\nCHAPTER VIII.\nOf the Heteroclite.\nAbove and below, the sky grips us everywhere.\nWe sail along in an atmosphere somehow soft, calm, tender. Vague con-\nstellations pass us by like white clouds in summer. Soapy masses rise and fall,\nplunge, slide, and collapse. Everything moves gently. We leave a snowy\nwake behind.\nOur passage becomes slower and slower. Everything thickens. I place\nus somewhere in the Baltic, the Baltic of the Sky. Pearls shimmer softly.\nThere is flying velvet in the air. Wings that whirl about.\nLight as down, the flakes irradiate light.\nNow we are making hardly three knots an hour, pushing as we are thiougli\na strong resistance, against a yielding barrier, attended by raucous bellowing,\nthe agitation of fins, and the roaring of shells."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "191", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2680, "texte": "I believe that we are in an impasse. I long for the first time for the human\nabode that we have left. My men are pale and bloodless, the blue showing under\ntheir skins ; they look at me with haggard eyes. The clock, the clock, turns\nhysterically backward. One thousand years, ten thousand years, a hundred\nthousand years. We are on our way. What have we found ? A giant penguin\nmocks at us as he beats his wings. My index finger is like the beak of a bird\nscratching under a wing, it picks out my wrinkles. The sky is of gelatinous\noil, streaked with yellow, thickened with agate and with clotted grease in a green\nbottle.\nEverything is agitated, opens and closes like ears. Microscopic mouths.\nRound and bulbous objects disappear, come back, unmask themselves, and vanish\nagain in a flash. Gilded balls rise, descend, trace figures. Meditation ? Play ?\nArabesques and designs can be distinguished. A herd of motley-colored horses\ndash by, their feet hardly touching the ground. The coyotes are baying. A\nchimpanzee balances himself on one arm. The palm tree bends. Bevy of but-\nterflies. Covey of birds. A little badger dog. A caterpillar. A mole struts\nlike a peacock.\nAt the laughter of a clown, the frippery is torn. The emerald-color diligence\ndischarges its load. Everything cracks, everythings breaks. Transparent cra-\nters open up and reveal an assemblage of shining kitchen utensils. An Indian and\na blue negro dance about the hearth and juggle with great Spanish onions. An\nostrich egg rolls down to the foot of a slope.\nSheep in the grip of vertigo, turn about in the depths of a funnel. Snowball.\nThe avalanche quarters itself by becoming immobile. A fountain of water gushes\nrigidly from it. Cracks of the whip. Lightning flashes. Blizzard. Forests\ngrow up and die. Sheets of ice fly off like tiles. A woman shakes out her skirts.\nThe arms of a windmill turning. A prodigious landslide, books fall from libraries\nand open up, their leaves fluttering all the way down like sea swallows behind\nus.\nThen everything becomes glazed, murky, thin, like the negative of a photo-\ngraph. Silver bath. Cannonade of mountains. We are caught in the ice-floes\nof the sky.\nHibernation.\nStupefied, I regard the frozen footprints of the Little Bear on the ice. In\nthe middle, there is the hole where the seal of the night comes, to breathe.\nTo escape from the melancholy that is overwhelming me, I plunge myself\ninto the reading of the principal work of Rob Fludd de Fluctibus Armigero :\nTractatus secundus de Naturae Simla seu Technica macrocosmi historia in partes\nundicem divisa. Treatise anno 1618 of the Nobile Oppenheimio, the most com-\nplete treaty on the music of the spheres."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "192", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1847, "texte": "CHAPTER IX.\nOf the Human Mind\nSpringtime.\nWe wallow about on the borders of light. In the distance, behind a sand\ndune, we discover two young suns rolling over one another like two young lions\nat play, knocking one another down, and destroying creation with their strong\nyoung teeth. The four elements reduced to powder become a mane, which their\nfrothing jaws destroy. Everything goes up in sparks, the forests, the mountains,\nand their young claws are whetted on the navel of the universe.\nCHAPTER X.\nOf Woman\nIt is the summer of Berenice. Hair, rope, vines have seized us and raised\nus*to the centre of what dark s}anbolic forest ! The nearest stars are like flow-\ners, and the farthest off growl and bark like jackals and dogs. A monkey is\nleaning against the port-hole of my cabin and I cannot withdraw my gaze from\nthat congested face. Behind us the pure light that we have just left recedes,\ngrows a while, and finally diminishes.\nCHAPTER XI.\nOf the Calendar\nThis is the naked summit of space, the double apex which falls continually,\nthe double mountain of soil that runs through like an hour-glass and is reversed.\nUp there. Earth is right at your door, seems to be quite near. In the winking\nof an eye, one can see the gnarled peasant who leads it, and hear his hoarse voice\nurging the oxen yoked to the heavy plough. The first furrow is traced from one end\nof the sky to the other. The two hemispheres detach themselves. Everything\nturns. We too roll, entrained in the general ruin. Night falls upon us. The\nsoil covers us. The utmost depths of the ocean are emptied upon us.\nShells, fins, a pinioned animal and quartered nobility fall upon us.\nCHAPTER XII.\nOf the Powder of Projection\nWe enter the zone of attraction, of gravitation, and of conjugations, figures\nof melanchofy and monogram for the heart. One would think that they were"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1551, "texte": "microscopic preparations so clearly is the network of nerves and veins sketched\nupon the unripened rondel of the night.\nParabolas. Red balls.\nEverything becomes fresh. The course breaks. It is old age that breathes\nupon us, unexpected, sudden, terrible, like a comet. Is it seven ? Is it four ? We\ncan no longer count on our fingers. My companions whiten from head to foot\nand fall to dust.\n\" Every man to his post! \"\nThere is not even a grinning death's head to mock at me. We are going\nto be agglomerated, digested, reduced to nothing, and thrown to the little fishes\nbehind the sky. I can no longer struggle against decomposition, but lam still\nthe master of our direction. We must return to our point of departure. Perhaps\nI still have the strength to come back to the haunts of men. I make use of a\nlittle vaporizer. The powder of projection transmutes the engine into pure so-\nlar matter. Now nothing can stop our progress ;we are going back to our source.\nAlmost immediately we begin to rise and fall dizzily. We leave behind\nus all the picturesque scenery of the heavens -— the chiefs, the slaves, the bazaar,\nthe tattooing for exportation — to salute as we pass the more familiar celestial\nphenomena which fly by in pairs.\nConstellations in flocks like birds announce better known regions. Here is\nalready the great cataract. lam faint. I have not the strength to land. We\npass through the earth's atmosphere like a meteor. Golden scarab. Zigzag\nin the form of a question mark. Explosion.\n\nBlaise Cendrars\n(Translated from the French by M.J.)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "194", "page_fin": "194", "image_debut": 36, "image_fin": 36, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Henri Matisse", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "194", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 21, "texte": "Henri Matisse\nDrawing"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "195", "page_fin": "197", "image_debut": 37, "image_fin": 39, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Epitaphs : For the Friends of Philippe Soupault", "titre_sommaire": "Epitaphs : For the Friends of Philippe Soupault", "signature_source": "Philippe Soupault ; Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "195", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1457, "texte": "EPITAPHS\nFor the Friends of Philippe Soupault\nP. S.\nI have been told that there are cities in this world inhabited by men who\ndo not know these names. Old airs, old refrains and jingles are the best re-\nmembrances. Perhaps it would be wisest for us to place the reader on his guard\nagainst any tendency he might have to regard the ensemble of these pages as\nfuneral orations fallen from the pen of a poet.\nMy friends are quite, quite alive. I have simply amused myself (singular\npastime, the reader will exclaim) in believing them dead. I must admit that\nI nourished a secret hope. But my verses were impotent. In reality, all these\npersons bearing such distinguished names are none other than Philippe Soupault.\nI must then thank my friends, in passing, for having suffered themselves to ex-\nist for a brief moment as the reflections of another's personality. They have un-\nderstood even better than I that the fact that I lived near the Morgue was no\nreason for taking me for an undertaker.\n\nARTHUR CRAVAN\nThe vendors of four seasons have all emigrated to Mexico\nOld boxer you are dead out there\nYou don't even know why.\nYou cried out louder than we in the palaces of America\nand in all the cafes of Paris\nYou have never examined yourself in a glass\nYou are hibernating in the hospital\nWhat are you going to do in Heaven old man\nI have nothing more to hide from you\nThe Seine flows before my window\nYour friends are very rich\nI have a mad desire to smoke."}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 852, "texte": "FRANCIS PICABIA\nWhy\ndid you wish to be buried with your four dogs\na newspaper\nand your hat\nYou also requested that there be written upon your tomb\nBON VOYAGE\nYou will be taken for a madman again up there.\n\nTHEODORE FRAENKEL\nIt was a wonderful day when you died\nthe cemetery looked so pretty\nthat hardly anyone could really be sad\nAfter a while it was noticed that you were no longer there\nI do not hear your snickering\nYou are hushed\nor you are shrugging your shoulders\nYou never had the faintest desire to visit Paradise\nand now you don't know where to go\nbut you will only jest about it.\n\nMARIE LAURENCIN\nThe lovely bird in its cage\nis your smile within the tomb\nthe leaves are dancing\nIt is going to rain a long time\nTonight before going out\nI shall put flowers on all the trees for you\nA doe approaches gently\nThe clouds you know are rose and blue."}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 907, "texte": "LOUIS ARAGON\nYour little friends have made a garland for you\nThey have woven you a wreath\nout of all your little lies\nLook I have brought you paper\nand a very good pen\nYou will make poems through all Eternity\nYour guardian angel will console you\nI shall tie the knot of your cravat\nI shall teach you how to smile\nYou have already forgotten me\nGod is much nicer than I.\n\nPAUL ELUARD\nTake your cane and your gloves along with you\nstand straight\nyour eyes closed\nthe clouds of cotton are far away\nand you were gone without bidding me goodbye\nIt rains\nrains\nrains\n\nTRISTAN TZARA\nPhilippe Soupault\n(Translated from the French by Matthew Josephson)\nWho is there\nYou never shook my hand\nThere was much laughter when it was known that you were dead\nWe had so feared that you were eternal\nYour last sigh\nyour last smile\nNeither flowers nor posies\nMerely the little automobiles\nand the butterfly wings ten yards long."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "195", "page_fin": "195", "image_debut": 37, "image_fin": 37, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.13.1", "titre_corps": "Arthur Cravan", "titre_sommaire": "Arthur Cravan", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "195", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 994, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1457, "texte": "ARTHUR CRAVAN\nThe vendors of four seasons have all emigrated to Mexico\nOld boxer you are dead out there\nYou don't even know why.\nYou cried out louder than we in the palaces of America\nand in all the cafes of Paris\nYou have never examined yourself in a glass\nYou are hibernating in the hospital\nWhat are you going to do in Heaven old man\nI have nothing more to hide from you\nThe Seine flows before my window\nYour friends are very rich\nI have a mad desire to smoke."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "196", "page_fin": "196", "image_debut": 38, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.13.2", "titre_corps": "Francis Picabia", "titre_sommaire": "Francis Picabia", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 204, "texte": "FRANCIS PICABIA\nWhy\ndid you wish to be buried with your four dogs\na newspaper\nand your hat\nYou also requested that there be written upon your tomb\nBON VOYAGE\nYou will be taken for a madman again up there."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "196", "page_fin": "196", "image_debut": 38, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.13.3", "titre_corps": "Theodore Fraenkel", "titre_sommaire": "Theodore Fraenkel", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 206, "fin_caractere_exclue": 589, "texte": "THEODORE FRAENKEL\nIt was a wonderful day when you died\nthe cemetery looked so pretty\nthat hardly anyone could really be sad\nAfter a while it was noticed that you were no longer there\nI do not hear your snickering\nYou are hushed\nor you are shrugging your shoulders\nYou never had the faintest desire to visit Paradise\nand now you don't know where to go\nbut you will only jest about it."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "196", "page_fin": "196", "image_debut": 38, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.13.4", "titre_corps": "Marie Laurencin", "titre_sommaire": "Marie Laurencin", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 591, "fin_caractere_exclue": 852, "texte": "MARIE LAURENCIN\nThe lovely bird in its cage\nis your smile within the tomb\nthe leaves are dancing\nIt is going to rain a long time\nTonight before going out\nI shall put flowers on all the trees for you\nA doe approaches gently\nThe clouds you know are rose and blue."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "197", "page_fin": "197", "image_debut": 39, "image_fin": 39, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.13.5", "titre_corps": "Louis Aragon", "titre_sommaire": "Louis Aragon", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 368, "texte": "LOUIS ARAGON\nYour little friends have made a garland for you\nThey have woven you a wreath\nout of all your little lies\nLook I have brought you paper\nand a very good pen\nYou will make poems through all Eternity\nYour guardian angel will console you\nI shall tie the knot of your cravat\nI shall teach you how to smile\nYou have already forgotten me\nGod is much nicer than I."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "197", "page_fin": "197", "image_debut": 39, "image_fin": 39, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.13.6", "titre_corps": "Paul Eluard", "titre_sommaire": "Paul Eluard", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 370, "fin_caractere_exclue": 559, "texte": "PAUL ELUARD\nTake your cane and your gloves along with you\nstand straight\nyour eyes closed\nthe clouds of cotton are far away\nand you were gone without bidding me goodbye\nIt rains\nrains\nrains"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "197", "page_fin": "197", "image_debut": 39, "image_fin": 39, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.13.7", "titre_corps": "Tristan Tzara", "titre_sommaire": "Tristan Tzara", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 561, "fin_caractere_exclue": 907, "texte": "TRISTAN TZARA\nPhilippe Soupault\n(Translated from the French by Matthew Josephson)\nWho is there\nYou never shook my hand\nThere was much laughter when it was known that you were dead\nWe had so feared that you were eternal\nYour last sigh\nyour last smile\nNeither flowers nor posies\nMerely the little automobiles\nand the butterfly wings ten yards long."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "198", "page_fin": "198", "image_debut": 40, "image_fin": 40, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Henri Matisse", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 21, "texte": "Drawing\nHenri Matisse"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "199", "page_fin": "203", "image_debut": 41, "image_fin": 45, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Young Man with Spectacles", "titre_sommaire": "Young Man with Spectacles", "signature_source": "Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2763, "texte": "YOUNG MAN WITH SPECTACLES\n\nI do not wish to describe his minor details : for example that he had blue\nor brown eyes and was somewhat under six feet tall, that he attended Harvard\nUniversity (or Chicago), and that he was the only son of an unimportant lawyer\nin Pennsylvania or Nebraska. This much about him is essential: he was not\nyet twenty-five; he was very serious; he wrote. He claimed that his favourite\nauthors were Shakespeare and T. S. Eliot.\nI met him. . . I think I met him first in Boston at an ephemeral tearoom\nknown as the Common Cupboard. Between those violent sucks at a corncob\npipe which took the place of the'missing punctuation marks, Max Bodenheim\nhad just finished reading a poetic play. There was a. discussion which he —\nWalter, his name was — did not enter. His steel-rimmed glasses had slipped\ndown the bridge of his nose and he stared at us over the top of them ... I met\nhim afterwards at the Albertson farm and at a bookstore in Chicago. Although\nhe lived for a year in New York I saw him rarely, except on occasional Sunday\nmornings when he crossed Washington Square in an old golf suit, his eyes ap-\nparently fixed on other worlds. I never followed his travels. Foster Damon\ncame across him at the Adlon in Berlin ; having found an empty mirror, he was\nusing it dreamily to examine the buttons of his vest. \" A nice boy/' Foster\nadded, \" but colourless, like his eyes.\" Evidently they were the detail by\nwhich people identified him ; they were blue, now that I remember, rather than\nbrown, and watery with too much reading ... I met him in Paris.\nI found him, to be exact, at the Cafe des Deux Magots ; he was just finishing\na beer. \" No, thanks,\" he said, answering an invitation, \" it's all I drink.\nI don't gamble. I steal and lie but Igo to bed early. Sexually I'm as spot-\nless as a boy hero out of Horatio Alger, (i) You might call it the new puri-\ntanism. . . If a poet wants to express American life, he has got to live it first.\nHe should live it, preferably, in Paris, where he can have some perspective on\nhis own actions. He should shave with a Gillette, compose on a Corona, and\nbe clean mentally and bodily ;in all respects the Arrow collar boy. It's worth\ndoing .. . Our age and nation are extraordinary subjects for literature. New\nforms. New movement. An intellectual ferment which puts this period on\na par with that of Marlowe and Drake. .. I want to jump smack into the middle\nof it. I want to be a mechanic and set flywheels rotating at the touch of a but-\nton. I want to write poems that have the vigour of advertising copy.\nHis spectacles had slipped down again and he was staring into his glass vaguely,\nas if in negation of this factitious energy.\n\n(i) Walter exaggerated; lie had never read Horatio Alger."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2574, "texte": "* *\nWhen I was in Normandy lie sent me a letter. \" I want you to join me\nin founding a new literary school. It will exist in the Fourth Dimension, and\nwill describe the time factor in motion and measurement. . . Up till this time\nArt has expressed only the motion of the object. The curious effect that is\nattained when the observer himself is moving ; the sort of impression that we\ngain from so common an experience as looking out the window of a streetcar,\nhas never adequately been expressed. . . Therefore let us found a new litera-\nture to describe these curious effects : double motions and triple motions, as\nwhen several trains pass each other in a subway ; an express crawls past a local\nwhile the posts between them stride back tremendously. Sounds that drop\nthiough several octaves and die when your train moves away from them. Land-\nscapes unrolling like a reel of film. The dramatic relation of cogwheels to one\nanother. . . We shall found a new school on this basis. We shall call it The\nCourve, or better, just Courve — nobody uses names with ' the ' today. .\nHe went on to elaborate the idea. He suggested that the poetry of the school,\ninstead of being published, should be exhibited. Wre should scratch our poems\non the glass of revolving doors, or paint them on slowly rotating belts, or on\nthe stationary banister of a moving stairway ; anything, as he said, to aid in\nexpressing their motion,\nWhen I returned to Paris, I asked him about Courve. \" It's dead and\nburied/' he said. \" I found that some of the Futurists had been doing just\nwhat I wanted to.\" \" But it was an amusing idea ; why didn't you go ahead\nwith it anyhow ? \" He thought the question unnecessary. \"It wouldn't\nhave been original. I want to preserve my own personality \".(i) In my opin-\nion his acquaintance with the work of Marinetti was preventing him from express-\ning his own personality, but I did not tell him so ; it was no use.\n*\n* *\nAfterwards I came to believe that his conversation with Stewart Mit-\nchell must really have affected the development of his ideas. Certainly the\ntwo were each other's opposites. Mitchell has the quality of being a little\ndetached from time; he is a phenomenon which might have occurred in any year\nsince the middle of the seventeenth century. Walter, on the other hand, dates\nbelonging definitely to the generation which fought the last year or two\nof the war, but not the first. Normally he would have little sympathy with\n\n(i) From the way Walter uses the words ' personality ' and-' originality ' he evidently\nbelieves they are synonymous."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2801, "texte": "Mitchell, and their dialogue was due solely to the chance which threw them\ntogether, after the Opera, on the back platform of an autobus.\nThey talked shop. \" Just now the only quality which interests me in\na poem,\" said Walter, \" is its geometrical construction : whether it is plane\nor solid, circular or conical; whether or not its balance is perfect; whether it\nends at a given point or proceeds, like parallel lines, into infinity. Take Eliot\nfor example. To me the charm of his poetry is the fact that it is written in\ntwo planes : one the plane of quotidian life and the other a region of utter\nfable.\" Very softly he began to quote:\nPhlebas, le Phenicien, pendant qitinze jours noye\nOubliait les oris des mouetles et la houle de Cornouaille,\n\" I think sometimes that artistic beauty is nearly related to mathema-\ntics. ..\" At this point he stopped suddenly, Mitchell said, as if he had unin-\ntentionally introduced the subject of sodomy to a Cambridge tea-party. \" I\ntry to keep away from aesthetics. The field would be fascinating for me,\nbut if . . . ever I entered it, I should be dead as a. poet. . . And anyhow there\nare no general principles ; I try to treat each new work as a new problem. Once\nyou begin to philosophize, you cease to be an artist.\" \" Why ? \" asked Mitchell.\nWalter waited some time before replying. One could watch several an-\nswers quiver in turn on his lips, Mitchell told me ; replies which would show\nthe eternal separateness of the critical and the creative instincts ; vague mem-\nories of Whistler's Ten O'Clock, the conversation of his own group, and the\nDada Manifesto. One man knew them just as well as the other, and Mitchell\nwas grateful that he did not repeat them. Instead, Walter seemed to be\nthinking out the problem for himself, and it was a long time before he arrived\nat any solution. Finally, \" Damned if I know,\"he said.\nMitchell, unlike his custom, pressed the argument. \" You seem to think\nthat a wall exists between criticism and creation, and that you must be either\non one side or the other ; as if you were in Belfast and somebody put a revolver\nto your head and asked whether you were Protestant or Catholic. Personally\nI can see no such definite distinction, nor could I ever decide where creation\nended and criticism began ... The same with art and aesthetics; their bor-\nders are indefinite. When Gourmont or Mallarme originated an aesthetic (he\nchose names which Walter would respect) they did not cease from that moment\nto be artists ; in fact their art is dependent on aesthetics. So is all other art;\nsome poets or painters think out a system for themselves, and some are con-\ntent to borrow ... \"It was Mitchell's station and he jumped down. Walter\ndid not even see him go ; his eyes had drifted into the vacancy of their\nusual stare."}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2889, "texte": "* s\n* *\nIt was about two weeks later when I saw him, towards midnight, striding\ndown the Boulevard St. Michel and looking deeply into the face of every one\nwho passed, as if he had something very important to say. A certain young\nwoman whom we all knew by sight, for she was attached to that particular\nblock of sidewalk like a serf to the land ; this certain Magdalene misunderstood\nhis gesture, and made some remark to him, at which, even under the dim\nlight, I could see him flushing. Two seconds later, he caught sight of me and\nhurried up, his lips trembling with unuttered speech. I was cruel enough to\norder a drink before I let him talk ; from the nervous way he gulped at it I\ndo not think he noticed what it was.\nHe spoke much more rapidly than usual. \"If I were a tyrant I'd hang\nevery writer ten years older than myself. Theirs is the generation which\ncarried to extremes this talk about modernism in literature, as if nobody ever\nwrote before Ibsen. They set about deliberately to destroy every literary\ntradition, and being most of them ferocious communists, they talked as if\nliterature was each man's private property. They made originality the highest\nvirtue. Since a child has infinitely more chance of being original than any\neducated man, their finest poetry was written by a little girl of nine. They\nare our schoolmasters in literature, but none of them ever told us that prose\nbegins with a good sentence, and poetry with the ability to write a heroic\ncouplet. I'd hang them all.\" He took a simultaneous gulp of air and cognac.\n\" They are afraid of ideas. They do not find enough originality in an\nidea. It can occur to several people at once, and after it has been expressed\nit belongs to the whole world. A man's sensations, on the other hand, are\nto some extent his private possession. That is why this generation of writers,\nwhich values originality above all other virtues, sacrifices ideas to .sensation, (i)\nBut you cannot build a literature on individual sensation alone.\nHe continued, speaking more and more rapidly and leaving hardly a\nnoticeable pause between his sentences. \" Art is not individual property, it is\na function of the race, it is a perpetually unfinished edifice to which each\nman adds one stone and passes on: a museum to which each artist contributes\none picture: it is the sum of the ideals of a race which is wThy the art of past\nages should be preserved and why, being dangerous, it should be destroyed. . . \"\n\n(i) Note how Walter's attitude lias changed in the last month. He now believes\nthat, like psycho-analysis, originality is only a contemporary catchword. In support\nof his new opinion he might, if he were better read, have called attention to the fact\nthat the word itself occurs rarely in the critical literature of the eighteenth century, and\nalmost never in the seventeenth. At that time originality was considered a vice."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2440, "texte": "He was out of breath and .stopped for a moment, although he still preserved\nthe illusion that I was listening to him. \" I know that these statements are not\noriginal. That is why they please me. I feel that when I make them I am\nsharing in the thought of a whole civilization ; that the nature of my remarks\nhas been absolutely determined by men who were no ancestors of mine and\nwho died a thousand years ago ; you might say that I was dizzy with the idea\nof causation.\" From this time on he spoke in a lower voice, as if to himself,\nso that I could hear only detached words : \" Determinism .. . mathematical\nproportion. . . the arts are not one but many ... purgation ... integral elegance .. .\neach man deposits .. .\" He rose and left me, staggering in his intellectual\necstasy as if he had drunk too much, and probably he had.\n*\n* *\nAs Walter stumbled home his brain was still deliciously crowded with\nideas. His work, his life, his environment seemed infinitely logical, and bound\neach to each by eternal causes. He tried to distinguish and formulate these\ncauses. He felt that his effort was utterly disinterested ; he would never be\nable to sell his ideas or even to make copy out of them, and for that reason\nhe invested them with a special value. But they evaporated little by little\nand left him with only the sensation of having given them birth ; it was still\nan ecstasy, but of a different order. Finally his consciousness reduced itself\nto a few words ; words which he had so fully clothed with a personality that they\nmight have been real people walking down the corridors of his mind. \" Art. . .\npurgation .. . method .. . art \" : they recurred rhythmically and grouped\nthemselves into lines :\nArt is a common method of purgation\na spiritual steaming of the bowels\nand each man comes, deposits, passes on\npasses on\nand then is heard no more. It is a noise\nmade by an idiot, full of sound and fury,\nsignifying nothing nothing\nDecidedly he could get no further with it; he undressed heavily and fell\ninto bed. As he lay there gradually dozing, the words to which he had attached\nso much value continued their parade through his mind : \" Art is the mathe-\nmatics of the flesh. . . a carnal harmony, which being attained .. . leads us\nbehind the curtain of the flesh ... to float across a limitless sea of light .. .\namong impersonal forms ... a moment logical and white .. . and white and\nlogical... a moment. .\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "204", "page_fin": "216", "image_debut": 46, "image_fin": 58, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "The Lay of Maldoror", "titre_sommaire": "The Lay of Maldoror", "signature_source": "Comte de Lautréamont ; John Rodker", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "204", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1888, "texte": "THE LAY OF MALDOROR\n\n.(Further Selections from Second Canto)\nI sought a soul which was like my own and could not find\none. I ransacked the corners of the earth, my persistence was use-\nless. Yet I could not remain alone. I needed someone who approved\nof my nature ; I needed someone who had the same ideas as myself.\nIt was morning ; the sun was rising in all its splendour on the hori-\nzon, and there to my eyes a young man rose also whose presence\nengendered flowers on his path. He approached me and offering\nhis hand: \" I have come to you who seek me. Praised be this happy\nday. \" But I : \"Go away ; I have not called you : I do not need\nyour friendship... \" It was evening ; night began to spread the black-\nness of her veil over nature. A beautiful woman, whom I could hard-\nly see, also spread over me her enchanting influence, and looked\npitifully at me ; still, she dared not speak to me. I said : \" Come\nnear, so that I may clearly see your features for at this distance the\nstarlight is not strong enough to illumine them. \" So with a humble\ngait and lowered eyes, moving towards me, she trod the grassy\nsward. When I saw her : I see that goodness and justice have\nmade their abode in your heart; we cannot live together. Now,\nyou admire my beauty which has agitated more than one person ;\nbut sooner or later, you will repent of having devoted your love to\nme ; for you do not know my soul. Not that lam ever unfaithful.\nShe who gives herself to me with so much abandon, so confidingly,\nto her do I give myself ; but get well into your head so that you may\nnever forget it ; wolves and lambs do not make eyes at each\nother. \" What did I need then, who with so much disgust rejected\nwhat was finest in humanity ! What I needed I could not have said.\nI had not then got used to making myself, by means of methods re-\ncommended by philosophy, an exact account of the phenomena of"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "205", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2287, "texte": "my spirit. I sat down 011 a rock near the sea. A ship had just cram-\nmed full sail on to keep off that shore, an imperceptible spot had ap-\npeared on the horizon and impelled by the storm, approached grad-\nually, rapidly growing in size. The tempest was about to com-\nmence its attack and the sky had already darkened, becoming a black\nnearly as hideous as the heart of man. The vessel, a huge warship,\nhad cast all its anchors, that it might not be swept on to the rocks\nof that coast. From the four cardinal points the wind whistled fur-\niously and tore the sails to shreds. Thunder-claps burst amid light-\nning flashes, but could not surpass the noise of lamentations which\nwere heard on the foundationless house, moving sepulchre. The\nbillowing of these aqueous masses had not succeeded in parting the\nchains of the anchors, but their thuds had opened a water way in\nthe sides of the vessel. Huge breach; for the pumps sufficed not to\nthrow out the quantities of salt water which, like mountains, frothing\nfell upon the bridge. The imperilled vessel fires its distress gun\nagain and again, but sinks slowly... majestically. He who has not\nseen a vessel sink amid the hurricane, the intermittent lightning,\nand the most profound darkness, while those it contains are over-\nwhelmed with that despair already known to you, does not know\nlife's possibilities. In the end a universal cry of immense anguish\nescapes from the flanks of the vessel, and the sea redoubles its fear-\nful attacks. It is the abandon of human forces which give cause\nto the vent of this cry. Each wraps himself in the mantle of resig-\nnation and puts his fate back into the hands of God. They hang\nback like a flock of sheep. The imperilled vessel fires its distress gun\nagain and again, but sinks slowly... majestically. Throughout the\nwhole day the pumps have been working. Useless effort. Night\nis come, implacable and dense, to crown the gratuitous sight. Each\ntells himself that once in the water he will be unable to breathe; for,\nas far back as he can remember, he cannot call to mind any fish as\nancestor ; but he exhorts himself to hold back his breath as long as\npossible, that he may prolong his life some two or three seconds; that\nis the vengeful irony he would direct at death... The imperilled ves-"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "206", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2249, "texte": "sel fires its distress gun again and again... but sinks slowly, majes-\ntically... He does not know that .the ship in sinking causes a mighty\nbillowing of the waves about themselves ; that the slimy ooze is\nmixed with the troubled waters and that a force from below, reac-\ntion of the tempest which works its ravages above, makes the ele-\nment shift suddenly and nervously. Thus, despite the stock of sang-\nfroid he plucks up in advance, the about to be drowned man should\non longer reflection consider himself happy if, in the whirlpool of the\nabysm, he prolongs his life one half of an ordinary breath (to leave\na good margin). Therefore it will be impossible for him to defy\ndeath, his supreme desire. The imperilled vessel fires its distress\nguns again and again... but sinks slowly... majestically. It's an\nerror. It no longer fires its distress guns, it does not sink. The\nnutshell is completely engulfed. O heavens ! how can one live\nafter having experienced such intense pleasure ! It has been given\nme to witness the death pangs of many of my fellows. Minute by\nminute I followed the vicissitudes of their agonies. Now the bel-\nlowing of some old woman, mad with fright, led the market. Now\nthe yelping of a baby at the breast prevented one from hearing the\ncaptain's orders. The ship was too far off for me to perceive dis-\ntinctly the moans which the storm brought me, but I approached\nwith my will and the optical illusion was complete.\nEvery quarter hour, when some stronger blast of wind producing\nits mournful notes above the cry of terrified petrels, dislocated the\nvessel in longitudinal cracks, and increased the plaint of those about\nto be offered as holocaust to death, I dug the sharpened point of a\npiece of iron into my cheek and thought secretly : \" They're suffer-\ning now ! \" Thus at least I had some method of comparison. From\nthe shore, I apostrophised them, casting imprecations and menaces\nupon them. I thought they • must hear me. It seemed that my\nhatred, my speech, leaping the distance, annihilated the physical laws\nof sound and arrived distinct to their ears deafened by the moaning\nof the angry sea. I thought they must think of me and breathe out\ntheir vengeance in impotent rage. From time to time I cast a look"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2214, "texte": "at the cities, asleep on solid earth, and seeing that no one suspected\nthat a vessel was about to sink a few miles off the shore, with a crown\nof birds of prey and a throne of aquatic giants with empty stomachs,\nI regained my courage, and hope returned to me ; I was sure then of\ntheir destruction. They could not escape. In an excess of precau-\ntion, I had been to get my double barrelled gun so that, if some cast-\naway tried to avoid an imminent death by swimming to reach\nthe rocks, a ball in the shoulder would smash his arm and prevent\nhim accomplishing his design. At the most lurid moment of the\nstorm, I saw a powerful head hair on end, swimming upon the waves\nwith despairing efforts. It swallowed pints of water, and sinking into\nthe abysm bobbed like a cork. But soon, its hair dripping, it appeared\nagain, and fixing its eye on the shore, seemed to defy death.\nHis coolness was wonderful. A large bleeding wound, caused\nby the point of some hidden reef, scarred his noble and intrepid\nfeatures. He could not be more than sixteen years, for vaguely\nthrough the flashes which lit up the night, the bloom of a peach\nwas to be seen on his lip. And now, he was not more than 200 yards\nfrom the cliff, and I could see him easily. What courage — what in-\ndomitable spirit. How the fixity of his head seemed to defy fate, *\nwhile he vigorously cut the wave, whose furrows opened laboriously\nbefore him... I had already made my mind up ; I owed it to myself\nto keep my promise ; the last hour had tolled for all, and none must\nescape. That was my resolution... nothing could change it... A sharp\nreport was heard and, at the same time, the head sank to appear no\nmore. I did not take so much pleasure as might be thought in this\nmurder, and it was precisely because I was surfeited with continued\nkilling, that I did it again out of mere habit, which was impossible to\ngive up but which only mildly amused me. The senses were blunted,\nhardened. What pleasure could I feel in the death of this human\nbeing, when there were more than a hundred who, once the vessel\nwent down, were about to offer me the spectacle of their last fight\nwith the waves.\nAs for this death, I had not even the attraction of danger, for"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2258, "texte": "human justice, rocked to sleep by the hurricane of this fearful night,\nslept in its house at some small distance. To-day when the years\nweigh me down, I say sincerely and as a supreme and solemn truth\nthat I was not as cruel as was subsequently said among men; but\nthere were times when their ill-will worked its persistent ravages\nthroughout whole years. Then my fury knew 110 bounds, accesses of\ncruelty took me and I became terrible to him who drew near to my\nhaggard eyes, did he at all belong to my race. Were it a horse or\ndog I allowed it to go: did you hear what I just said ? Unfortunately\non the night of this storm I was in -one of these rages, my reason had\ngone (for usually I was just as cruel, but more careful) and what-\never fell into my hands at that time had to perish; Ido not mean to\nexcuse my faults. The fault is not entirely due to my fellows.. I only\nstate what is, while awaiting the last judgment which makes me\nscratch my nape beforehand... What-does the last judgment matter to\nme ! I never lose my reason, as I said in order to deceive you. And\nwhen I commit a crime, I know what I am doing, it is the only thing\nI want to do. Upright on a rock and while the hurricane whip-\nped my hair and cloak, I gazed in ecstacy at the might of the tempest;\nintent upon a ship under a starless sky. In a triumphal attitude\nI followed the vicissitudes of the drama, from the moment when the\nship cast its anchors to the time when it foundered; fatal garment\nwhich drew into the bowels of the sea those who had been clothed\nas by a cloak. But the moment drew near when I was about to take\nan active part in these scenes of agitated nature. When the place\nwhere the vessel had sustained the combat clearly showed that it\nhad gone to spend the rest of its days 011 the sea's ground floor, those\nwho had been swept away with the waves reappeared partly on the\nsurface. They clasped each other round the body, two by two,\nthree by three ; it was the means by which not to save their lives,\nfor their movements became embarrassed and they sank again like\npots with holes in them... What is that army of marine monsters\nthat swiftly cuts the wave ? There are six, their fins are power-\nful and open up a way through the towering waves. Of all these"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "209", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2261, "texte": "human beings waving their four limbs in this hardly stable conti-\nnent, the sharks soon make only an eggless omelette, and divide it accord-\ning to the law of the stronger. Blood mixes with water, and water\nmixes with blood. Their fierce eyes give light enough to the scene of\ncarnage... But what tumult of water is this now, there on the horizon ?\nOne would think a waterspout was approaching. What action !\nI see what it is. An enormous female shark arrives to take her share\nof the goose-liver paste, and of the cold boiled beef.\nvShe is furious, for she arrives starving. A fight begins between\nher and the sharks, in dispute of the few palpitating limbs floating\nhere and there*in silence on the surface of the ruddy cream. To\nright, to left, her jaws snap and give mortal wounds. But three liv-\ning sharks still surround her and she is compelled to turn in all\ndirections to outwit their manoeuvres. With growing emotion,\nunfelt till then, the spectator on the shore follows this new kind of\nnaval battle. His eyes are glued on the female shark whose teeth\nare so strong. No longer does he hesitate, but shoulders his gun\nand with his usual skill at the moment when one of the sharks shows\nitself above a wave, lodges his second ball in its ear. Remain\ntwo sharks who manifest only a stronger, obstinacy. From the top\nof his rock, the man-with the jaundiced saliva throws himself into\nthe sea and swims towards the agreeably tinted carpet, holding in\nhis hand the knife of steel which never quits him. Now each shark\nhas to deal with an enemy. He moves towards his tired enemy and\nbiding his time, buries the keen blade in its belly. The mobile fort-\nress rids herself easily of the last adversary... The swimmer and the\nfemale shark saved by him find themselves together. They regard each\nother fixedly for some moments, and each is interested to find so\nmuch ferocity in the other's expression. They swim circling round,\nbut keep each other well in sight, telling themselves : \" I was mis-\ntaken up till now ; there is someone who is more evil. \" Then with\na common accord, with a mutual admiration, they slide towards\neach other between two waves, the female shark with her fins part-\ning the waves, Maldoror striking the billows with his arms, holding"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "210", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2191, "texte": "back their breaths in profound veneration, each anxious to contem-\nplate his speaking likeness for the first time. At eight yards from\neach other, like two lovers they fall suddenly together without\nany effort and embrace with dignity and gratitude, in a clasp as\ntender as that of a brother and a sister. Carnal desires closely fol-\nlow this amicable display. Two sinewy thighs like two leeches fasten\nclosely to the monster's viscous skin and twine with love about\nthe body of the loved object, while their throats and breasts soon\nform but a glaucous mass like the exhalations of seaweed ; in the\nmidst of the storm which still rages ; by the flash of lightnings, the\nspumy wave for their hymeneal bed, they are swept along by an un-\ndercurrent as though in a cradle and rolling over each other towards\nthe depths of the abysm, cling together again in a long chaste and\nhideous copulation !... At last I had found someone who was like\nme ! From that moment I was no longer alone in the world ! She\nhad the same ideas as myself... I stood before my first love !\nO austere mathematics, I have not forgotten you since the time\nyour learned lessons, sweeter than honey, percolated into my heart\nlike a refreshing flood. Instinctively, from the cradle, I aspired to\ndrink from your spring, more ancient, than the sun, and still the\nmost devoted of your initiates I continue to tread the sacred precincts\nof your solemn temple. There is a void in my spirit, a something\nthick as smoke, but I know how to pass religiously the steps which\nlead to your altar and you have chased away the obscure veil as the\nwind upsets a draughtboard. In its place you put an excessive\ncoldness, a consummate prudence and an implacable logic. By\nthe aid of your fortifying milk, my intelligence has rapidly devel-\noped, and has taken on enormous proportions, in the centre of this\nravishing light which you present prodigally to those who love you\nwith a sincere love. Arithmetic! algebra! geometry! magnificent\ntrinity, luminous triangle. He who has not known you is a mad man !\nHe deserves the greatest torments, for there is ignorant scorn in\nhis foolish carelessness ; but he who knows and appreciates you de-"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "211", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2185, "texte": "sires no more of earth's good things ; contents himself with your\nmagic joys, and transported upon your sombre wings, desires only\n(describing an ascending spiral) to raise himself in easy flight to the\nspherical dome of heaven.\nEarth but shows him illusions and moral phantasmagoria;\nbut you, O concise mathematics, by the vigorous concatenation of\nyour tenacious propositions and the constancy of your iron laws,\nmake a mighty reflection of this supreme truth shine before dazzled\neyes; the very imprint of which is observed in the order of the universe.\nBut the order surrounding you, represented chiefly by the perfect\nregularity of the square, Pythagoras's friend, is still greater ; for\nthe All Powerful has revealed himself and his attributes completely\nin the memorable work which was to make your treasures of theo-\nrems and magnificent splendours sally from the entrails of chaos.\nIn ancient periods, in modern times, more than one great human im-\nagination saw his genius terrified by the contemplation of your\nsymbolic diagrams uncomprehended by the profane vulgar; traced\nupon the burning paper, like so many mysterious signs alive with\nsome latent breath and which were but the startling revelation of\naxioms and eternal hieroglyphics which existed before the universe\nand which will maintain themselves after it.\nIt asks itself, leaning over the precipice of #n inevitable ques-\ntion mark how does it happen that mathematics contains so much\nimposing grandeur and so much undeniable truth : and comparing\nit with mankind, finds only in the latter false pride and lies.\nThen this superior saddened spirit, whom the noble familiarity\nof your counsels makes feel still more strongly the triviality of man-\nkind and its unequalled folly, drops his whitened head upon an ema-\nciated hand and remains absorbed in supernatural meditations. He\nbends his knees before you, and his veneration renders homage to\nyour divine face as though to the actual likeness of the All Powerful.\nIn my childhood, you appeared to me one night of May by moonlight\nin a verdant meadow, on the edge of a limpid brook; all three equal\nin grace and modesty, all three full of majesty like queens. You"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "212", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2178, "texte": "made some steps towards me with your long robes billowing like a\nmist and drew me to your proud breasts like a blessed son. Then\nIran up quickly, my hands contracting on your white throats. I\nfed myself gratefully with your fruitful manna, and I felt that hu-\nmanity grew in me and grew better. Since then, O rival goddesses,\nI have never deserted you. Since then, what energetic projects,\nwhat sympathies, which I thought had been engraved upon the pages\nof my heart as though in marble, and whose configurating lines have\nthey not slowly effaced from my undeceived reason, as brightening\ndawn effaces the shadows of night.\nSince then, I have seen death : in the intention, obvious even to the\nnaked eye of populating tombs ravage the battlefields fattened by\nhuman blood, and cause morning flowers to appear above the fun-\nereal bones. Since then, I have helped the revolutions of our\nearth ; earthquakes, volcanoes with their burning lava, the desert\nsurvivor, and the tempests wrecks have had my presence as impass-\nive spectator. Since then, I have seen many human generations\nat noon lift their wings and eyes to space with the inexperienced\njoy of the chrysalid who greets his last metamorphosis and dies at\neven, before sundown, his head bent, like faded flowers swaying on the\nplaintive whistling of the wind. But always the same, you remain.\nNo change, no pest laden air brushes the scarped hills and immense\nvalleys of your identity. Your humble pyramids will last longer\nthan Egyptian pyramids, anthills raised by stupidity and slavery.\nThe end of the ages will still see upright upon the ruins of time your\ncabalistic marks, your laconic equations and your sculptural lines\nseated at the vengeful right hand of the Almighty, while the stars\nsink with despair like water spouts into the eternity of an awful\nuniversal night, and grimacing humanity thinks of settling its ac-\ncounts with the last judgment.\nThanks for the innumerable services you have done me. Thanks\nfor the qualities, strange to me, with which you have enriched my\nintelligence. But for you, he would have made me roll in the sand\nand kiss the dust of his feet. But for you, with a treacherous claw"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "213", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2217, "texte": "he would have torn my blood and bones. But I kept myself on my\nguard like an experienced athlete. You communicate to me the chill\nwhich surges from your sublime conceptions, exempt from passion.\nI avail myself of it disdainfully to reject the ephemeral pleasures\nof my short journey and to send from my door the sympathising\nthough deceitful offers of my fellows. You communicate to me the\nstubborn prudence one unwinds at every step in your admirable\nmethods of analysis, of synthesis and of deduction. I avail myself\nof them to rout the pernicious ruses of my mortal enemy, to attack\nskilfully in my turn, and to plunge into man's viscera a keen dagger\nwhich will remain buried forever in his body; it is a wound from which\nhe will never rise. You communicate logic to me which is as the\nsoul itself of your instructions, full of wisdom ; and with its syllogisms\nwhose complicated labyrinth is but the more comprehensible, my\nintelligence feels its audacious forces increased to double. By the\nhelp of this terrible auxiliary, by swimming into the very depths and\nin the face of the reef of hatred. I discover in humanity black and\nhideous malevolence which admiring its navel squats in harmful\nmiasmas. First I discover in the darknesses of his entrails, this\naccursed vice, evil! superior in him to the good. With this poisoned\nweapon which you lend me, I make the Creator himself descend from\nhis pedestal constructed by man's cowardice. He gnashes his teeth\nand endures the ignomy of the insult, for he has for adversary one\nstronger than himself. But I pass him by like a bundle of threads,\nin order to lower my flight.\nDescartes the thinker once made the reflection that nothing\nsolid had been based upon you. It was an ingenious fashion of\nmaking understood that the first comer could not immediately dis-\ncover your inestimable value. Actually, what can be more solid than\nthe three principal qualities, already enumerated, which rise enlaced\nlike a single crown upon the sacred summit of your colossal architec-\nture ? Monument which daily discoveries in your diamond mines\nand scientific exploitation in your superb realms ceaselessly magnify.\nO sainted mathematics, may you by your perpetual intercourse,"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "214", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2225, "texte": "console the remainder of my days for the malice of man and the in-\njustice of the Arch-All.\nlisten to my childish thoughts on awakening, mankind of the red\npenis. I am just awake but my mind is still bemused. Every morning\nI feel a weight on my head. Rarely do I find repose in the night, for\nwhen I manage to fall asleep frightful dreams torment me. In the day,\nmy thought tires itself in curious imaginings, while my eyes wander at\nhazard through space; and at night, I cannot sleep. When then, must\nI sleep ? Yet nature has need to reclaim its rights. Since I disdain\nher, she pales my face and makes my eyes glitter with the sharp flame\nof fever. For the rest I ask nothing better than not to exhaust my spirit\nin continual meditations, but even do I not so wish, my astounded\nfeelings draw me irresistably towards this slope. I have observed that\nother children are like myself ; but they are still more pale, and their\neyebrows are knit like those of men, our elder brothers. O Creator of\nthe Universe, this morn I will not fail to offer up to you the incense of\nmy infantile prayer. Sometimes I forget, and I have noticed that on\nthose days I feel happier than usual; my chest freed from all constraint\nexpands and more at my ease I breathe in the balmy air of the fields ;\nwhile, when, ordered by my parents, I perform the painful duty of\ndaily addressing to you a song of praise, accompanied by the insepar-\nable boredom caused by the difficult invention, for the rest of the\nday I am sad and irritable since it seems neither logical nor natural\nto say what I do not think, and I seek the retreat of immense soli-\ntudes. Do I ask them the explanation of this strange state of my\nsoul, they do not reply. I want to love and adore you, but you are\ntoo powerful, and there is fear in my hymns. If by a single manifes-\ntation of your thought you can destroy or create worlds, my feeble\nprayers are useless to you ; or if when you please you send cholera to\nravage cities, or death to carry off in its claws the four ages of\nman without any distinction. I do not want to bind myself to so\nformidable a friend. Not that hatred guides the thread of my reas-\nons, but on the contrary I am afraid of your hatred which by some"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "215", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2238, "texte": "capricious order, may issue from your haart to become immense\nas the wing-spread of the Andean condor. Your equivocal amuse-\nments are outside my grasp and I would probably be the first vic-\ntim. You are the Almighty; I do not dispute this title since you\nalone have the right to bear it, and since your desires with their\nevil or happy results are bounded only by yourself. That is pre-\ncisely why it would be painful for me to walk beside your cruel sap-\nphire tunic, not as a slave, but at any moment liable to become one.\nIt is true that, when you descend within yourself to question\nyour sovereign behaviour, should the phantom of a past injustice\nagainst miserable humanity which obeyed you always as your most\nfaithful friend erect before you the motionless vertebrae of a venge-\nful backbone your haggard eye lets fall the frightened tear of tardy\nremorse ; and with hair on end you think you will take a sincere\nresolution to forever suspend on the brambles of nothingness the in-\nconceivable amusements of your tigerish imagination ; which were\nit not so dreadful would be merely funny. But I know also that con-\nstancy has not fixed the harpoon of its eternal lodging like a tenacious\nmarrow in your bones, and that often enough you and your thoughts\ncovered with the black leprosy of error fall into the funereal lake of\nsombre curses. I want to think that these are unconscious (though\nthey none the less contain the fatal venom) and that good and evil,\nunited together, in impetuous gushes flow from your gangrenous royal\nchest as by the secret charm of a blind force the torrent from the\nrock; but nothing furnishes me the proof.\nToo often have I seen your foul teeth clash with anger and your\nsacred face covered with the moss of time, redden like a glowing\ncoal because of some microscopic futility done by man to be able\nto stop for long before the sign post of this silly hypothesis. Every\nday, with joined hands, since it is necessary, I will raise the modula-\ntions of my earnest prayers towards you, but I beg that your provi-\ndence will not think of me but leave me on one side, like the\nworm crawling underground. Know that I would rather feed vora-\nciously on the marine plants of unknown and savage isles, washed"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "216", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2191, "texte": "in on the spumy bosoms of the tropical waves of such latitudes,\nthan know that you watch me and that you probe your grinning scal-\npel in my conscience. It reveals completely my thoughts and I\nhope your prudence will easily praise the good sense of which it holds\nthe ineffaceable imprint. Apart from these reservations on the kind\nof relation, more or less intimate, which I must keep with you, my\nmouth is ready, no matter at what hour of the day, to exhale like an\nartificial breath, the flood of lies your vanity severely exacts\nfrom every human, from the moment when the blueish dawn rises,\nseeking the light in the satin folds of the before dawn, as I seek good-\nness, incited by a love of good. My years are not many, and yet I\nfeel already that goodness is but a collection of sonorous syllables ;\nI have not found it anywhere. You allow your character to show\ntoo much ;it must be hidden more skilfully. For the rest, perhaps\nI deceive myself and you do it on purpose, since you know better than\nanother how to behave. Man himself makes it his glory to imitate\nyou; that is why sacred goodness does not recognise its tabernacle\nin their fierce eyes ; like father, like son. What may be thought of\nyour intelligence, I but speak as an impartial critic. I do not ask\nbetter than to have been led into error. I do not desire to show\nyou the hatred I bear you and that I brood lovingly over like a cher-\nished daughter, for it's better to hide it from your eyes, and before\nyou to bear only the appearance of a severe censor, ordered to con-\ntrol your impure actions. Thus you will cease all active commerce\nwith him, will forget him and destroy completely this voracious flea who\ngnaws your liver. I prefer rather that you hear dreamy and mild\nwords... Yes, it is you who have created the earth and all it holds.\nYou are perfect. In no virtue are you lacking. You are very mighty,\neveryone knows it. I,et the whole universe intone your eternal\nchant through every hour of time. The birds praise you and in the\ncountry take their flight. The stars belong to you. So be it!\nAfter such beginnings, are you surprised to find me what I am !\n\nComte de Lautréamont\n(Translated by John Rodker)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "217", "page_fin": "217", "image_debut": 59, "image_fin": 59, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "Cornbread and Eyes", "titre_sommaire": "Cornbread and Eyes", "signature_source": "David Rosenthal", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "217", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 202, "texte": "CORNBREAD AND EYES\nDavid Rosenthal\nI.\nWhen the candle dies,\nDarkness will rush in,\nLike wolves\nUpon a carcass.\n2.\nBefore a tree may learn to stand,\nIt first must walk the fields\nAnd mountains\nIn a seed."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "218", "page_fin": "221", "image_debut": 60, "image_fin": 63, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "Observations on Returning to the Remnants of Civilization", "titre_sommaire": "Observations on Returning to the Remnants of Civilization", "signature_source": "Gilbert Cannan", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "218", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2764, "texte": "OBSERVATIONS ON RETURNING\nTO THE REMNANTS OF CIVILIZATION\n\nPoliticians seem to have such a dislike for the civilization which has created\nthem that for three years they have been insisting that the peace shall be ten times\ndeadlier than the war. They have made life so obnoxious that everybody who\ncould move, moved, among others myself, who ask only to be allowed to sit still\nwith a pen in my hand and a thought or two in my brain. I moved, I think,\nbecause I have no taste for murder and count even politicians human. There\nwas nothing for it but to leave them to do their worst in their insistence that so-\nciety shall not transcend the eighteenth century, Rousseau, Jefferson, Adam\nSmith. The novelist's occupation is gone when social values are thrown on the\nscrap heap, for there is only one thing more dreary and disgusting than the anar-\nchic individual and that is the anarchic mob. Given leave most horribly to\n\" have a good time \", the mob has been reduced to a state of hysterical boredom,\nin which art and culture, the fine flower of civilization, have disappeared. All\nkinds of dismally clever people sit in cafes and discuss the no longer existent art\nand achieve a certain excitement in talking over the defiant gestures of the wild\nmen like D. H. Lawrence and James Joyce, yelling execration in their impotence\nand screaming \" Yah! \" at the sterility of the very persons who most applaud them.\nJoyce writes perfectly until he pulls the plug. Lawrence with his sensuous\ntactile apprehension of things achieves marvels until he has to deal with human\nbeings, when he yells with rage at them because they are interfering with his\npleasure in picking flowers. But art ? But literature ? Well, well, we 11...\nIt is annoying that there is nothing Gothic about a grain elevator, since we\nhave been taught that Gothic architecture is beautiful. It is distressing that\nthe man in the subway in New York is not at all like a Shakesperean or a Rabe-\nlaisian or a Cervantic character. But is there any reason to be so angry that we\nmust refuse to look at the grain elevator or the man in the subway ? The difficulty\nis only one of temper. People built Gothic cathedrals because they wanted to,\ngrain elevators because they had to, and if you can only keep your temper long\nenough to think it out, you will begin to appreciate that there may be something\nin the point that of the two the grain elevator has the greater chance of being\nbeautiful. Being a matter of necessity, it has to take the simplest, most econom-\nical form. The element of caprice is ruled out until such time as, having perceived\nthat it is beautiful, we can begin to play with it and enjoy ourselves with it.\nThat, however, is a long way off, because we have not yet reached the stage of"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "219", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3062, "texte": "seeing that it need not necessarily be ugly because it is not a Gothic cathedral.\nCathedrals also began as a necessity since men had a need of meeting somewhere,\nand took meeting as seriously as we have to take the transportation of grain.\nMonstrosities are produced when the element of necessity is forgotten in order\nto hog it in the element of caprice. This hogging has been the European concep-\ntion of art in the asphyxiated generation 1880-1910 which is the only begetter\nof the war and the Peace. A generation which produced anything so prepo-\nsterous must have forgotten the element of necessity altogether, and certainly in\nthings intellectual and aesthetic it has left us nothing but caprice, a banquet of\nmeringues crushed by having been sat upon by broad-beamed merchants and\nfinanciers, not to speak of generals. Well, well, we 11...\nThere is no point in being angry about it. It is not worth while to waste\nwords in protestation. It is impossible to eat meringues when you are hungry,\nand therefore the question of the quality of the meringue does not arise. We\nhave to take the world as we find it and learn not to quarrel with the Hudson\nferry because Raphael's technique can make no spiritual record of it. Our brains\nand our sensibilities are pitted against steel and what men equipped with steel\nhave made of themselves and the earth they live on and by. Can we or can we\nnot make a spiritual record of it ? That is the problem for the artist, since only\nthe artist is fine enough and tough enough to solve it. Iyoss of temper argues\nlack of fineness, lack of toughness. Joyce quarrels with the job because Par-\nnell is dead : rages against the job because England did not stop short\nat Cromwell: almost everybody is disgusted with the human race because, hav-\ning invented steel, men will go on experimenting with it. The old gentlemen of\nEurope would have it that steel was only good for killing off the younger genera-\ntion and maintained a meaningless war to prove their contention, but their war\nonly aggravated the. production of steel and men's understanding of it and the\nwelcome change it brought about in their mentality. The old gentlemen cannot\nchange, but the young men and the young women have changed willy-nilly :\nwhether for the better or worse makes no matter. The change is there, and the\nart production of the future depends upon the use made of it. That art is not\nlikely to amount to much if we begin by abuse. There is no sense in saying\nthat the old gentlemen owe us something for the young life they have thrown\naway. The old gentlemen don't acknowledge the debt and couldn't pay it\nif they did. The loss is ours ;we can only cut it.\nAs long as the European eye goes on looking for the Gothic cathedral in\nthe grain elevator or for Hamlet in the man in the subway we are not likely to\nget much forward. London, Paris and Berlin make us hope for something\nfrom the American eye, but the American, so far as I can make out, says : \" Ah—it\n(Art)! Hell! Nothing ! \" and leaves it to the camera which, having no miseducated"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "220", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3003, "texte": "brain behind it, records the grain elevator as a grain elevator and the man in the\nsubway as a man in the subway and hey ! both are shown to be wonderful, both\nnew and old, actual and mythical, credible and incredible and therefore lovely.\nWhat more do you want ? Why all these tortures and cursings and groanings\nand abstractions and attempts to intellectualize an autobus into some resemblance\nto a representation of the Ark of the Israelites in a Byzantine mosaic ? What on\nearth have the Byzantines to do with it ? Either you see the grain elevator and\nthe man in the subway and the fat old Jewess going to Cannes or you don't. If\nyou do, then you can deal with the matter in terms of paint, or words, or music,\nor stage-craft or whatever it is you understand. Or perhaps you don't understand\nanything, in which case, you had better find a job and leave the engineer to go\n011 building grain elevators and the man in the subway to produce children who\nwill have natural subway thoughts and no longer be tormented because the train\ndoes not clash and clatter its way along to the metre of Longfellow's Evangeline.\nWhy should it ? The train also does not suffer from a miseducated brain. It\nis driven along by the intelligence and energy of human beings to the destruction\nof a generation so lethargic that it hates both intelligence and energy and would\nrather be gutted and destroyed than admire the potency and potentiality of\neither.\nThe modern artist seems to me to spend his life in grumbling, because he\ncannot make books or pictures or sonatas of the forms that are thrust on him\nfrom every side. Why not ?He grumbles because these forms are not the forms\nto which his predecessors were accustomed. But is he so sure of that ? Has he\nreally taken the trouble to understand his predecessors ? Has he- looked beneath\ntheir conventions (a matter of custom and manners) to their convictions and\ntheir conceptions ? In Blake and Cezanne he will find over and over again the\nforms that the engineers, without any pretence to aesthetics (thank God !) have\ncreated in their machines and dynamos and bridges. Let him then turn to\nthe drawings of old masters and then study the dynamics of any good poem or\nsay a Greek tragedy. Form is form yesterday, today, tomorrow, and really it\nalmost looks as though the true grievance of the artists is that their monopoly\nhas been broken and the confounded engineers and scientists are taking form down\ninto the life of the common people to warm it up and make it human and intel-\nligible. They have warmed iron up into steel. The result is disconcerting enough ,\nbut what is going to happen when they have warmed up the rough ore of the\nhuman mind ? For that is going on in Europe and America: and it seems to me\nmost odd that the people most violently up in arms against the experiment are\nthe artists and of the artists the more advanced. Perhaps they are the first\nto feel the intense heat of the crucible and think mother ought to go first. Place\naux dames!"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "221", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3110, "texte": "Meanwhile, however, artists or no artists, the experiment goes forward.\nWhole populations move and keep on moving, sinking into the rhythm the beat\nof the machines that move them, waiting for the rhythm and the beat to produce\nthe tickling sensation of the birth of a new way of thinking and feeling and the\nartists curse and say they don't know how they are going to make a living. No-\nbody does. It is assumed that the right application of steel will produce more\ngrain and ore from the earth, enough to pay for more steel and so on and so on.\nThat is the great equation of modern life and it is roughly understood by every-\nbody. No one can stop it: no one wants to stop it, and if only the artists would\nlearn to be good tempered about it, it would not be long before we should have\nproduced some sort of order out of our present chaos, which is the result of attempt-\ning to live dynamic lives with static ideas. When it comes to a direct conflict\nbetween the two, the ideas will go to the wall since ideas for which life is too strong\nare worthless. Your unthinking man will argue from that that all ideas are\nworthless, and go on his heedless rascally way. Your thinking man, your sensi-\ntive man, your artist, on the other hand, must have ideas from which to choose\nhis own creative idea and in such a time as this his whole existence is pitted against\nthe destructiveness of life. Iyet him not argue about it, let him not rail, let him\nengage in the production of beauty, and life is powerless. He need not formulate\nhis idea, but he must work with it. Ivet him work then, and he bears a charm\nagainst corruption and disaster. More than this : if he does not work, no one\nelse can. If he does not see, everyone else is blind :if he does not hear, everyone\nelse is deaf ;if he does not speak, everyone else is dumb. The artist is first and\nlast a workman, obedient to necessity and only in the extreme stress of responsi-\nbility delighting in caprice. The decadent amusement called ART was all caprice.\nIt is as dead as the Encyclopedia Britannica. There is nothing to be said about\nit and to declaim against it is waste of breath. It was always more the decoration\nof barbarism than the expression of civilization which is to be defined in the four\nletters work. Work carried to a certain pitch of intensity becomes art, un-\nmistakable, powerful, radio-active. That intensity is beginning to appear in\nthe engineer's use of steel, the common material of every day life, and from that\nI argue, as I pick my way among the rags and ruins of Europe, that it will ap-\npear again in the use of words and paint and other materials of the life of the\nmind: not however, so long as we are cursed with the prevalent looking away from\nor beyond life in the desperate endeavour to become interesting by dint of being\n— amusing. One has to dare to be dull as one fumbles with one's material.\nTime enough for being amusing when that is mastered and brought into relation\nwith such conditions as life has to offer. The people are excited enough, God\nknows : let the artist be quiet, and let him work.\n\nGilbert Cannan"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "222", "page_fin": "222", "image_debut": 64, "image_fin": 64, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Henri Matisse", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "222", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 21, "texte": "Drawing\nHenri Matisse"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "223", "page_fin": "229", "image_debut": 65, "image_fin": 71, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "The Painter", "titre_sommaire": "The Painter", "signature_source": "Roger Vitrac ; M. J.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "223", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1684, "texte": "THE PAINTER\nCHARACTERS\n\nThe Painter — Little Maurice Parchemin — Mrs. Parchemin —\nAugust Fi,aneu,e — Glucose — Two policemen.\nScene :— An anteroom. To the left, a door. Opposite, a window, a large\nmirror hung on the wall, a door.. To the right, <2 door. A book on the table. The\npainter is painting a door red. Enter a little boy immaculately dressed in white.\nHe approaches the painter and watches him paint.\nThe Painter. What is your name.\nThe Boy. Maurice Parchemin. (Silence) And you ?\nThe Painter. That's mine too.\nThe Boy. It isn't true.\nThe Painter. It isn't true? [Silence). You are right.\nHe paints the boy's face red. The little boy goes out crying. The\nPainter goes on painting. Enter Mrst Parchemin (28 years old) and\nlittle Maurice Parchemin, his face washed>\nMrs. Parchemin. Sir, you are a scoundrel. What is your name ?\nThe Painter. Maurice Parchemin.\nMrs. Parchemin. It isn't true.\nThe Painter. It isn't true?\n'He paints both their faces red. Mrs. Parchemin and the boy go\nout crying. The Painter goes on painting. The bell rings. He goes to\nopen the door.\nA Young Man (20 years old). Mr. Parchemin?\nThe Painter. Ah, it is you !\nThe Young Man. I don't know you, sir. I wish to see Mr. Parchemin.\nHe holds out a visiting card.\nThe Painter, taking the card, He is dead.\nThe Young Man. Are you sure of that ?\nThe Painter. I killed him myself.\nThe Young Man. Then, I should like to see the widow Parchemin and\nher little son, Maurice Parchemin.\nThe Painter. Go away, young man.\nThe Young Man. All right, I'll go.\nThe Painter goes on painting. The bell rings. The painter goes\nright on painting. The bell rings. The Painter goes to open the door.\nThe Painter. Who are you ?"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "224", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1804, "texte": "The Young Man. Don't you recognize me ?\nThe Painter. Yes.\nThe Young Man. You are a murderer.\nThe Painter. Yes.\nThe Young Man. A thief, perhaps.\nThe Painter. Yes.\nThe Young Man. Give me back my visiting card.\nThe Painter gives him a visiting card.\nThe Young Man. This card isn't mine. It says : Mr. Glucose, dental\nsurgeon, 31 rue de la Gaiete. My name is August Flanelle.\nHe throws Mr. Glucose s card away.\nThe Painter, pushing him out. Good day, Mr. Glucose.\nFi,ANEi,irE, behind the door. My name is Flanelle.\nThe Painter. Glucose.\nFi,ANEU,E. Flanelle.\nFor a few minutes they keep up the same tune: Glucose, Flanelle,\nGlucose, Flanelle. Then the Painter goes back to his painting. A stone\nhurled from outside breaks one of the window-panes. August Flanelle is\nheard crying : Flanelle. The Painter opens the window and shouts back\nat him : Flanelle. The Painter closes the window- and goes on painting.\nEnter Mrs. Parchemin and little Maurice Parchemin.\nMrs. Parchemin. After what has happened you can remain here no\nlonger : leave at once.\nThe Painter goes on painting.\nThe Boy. My mother told you to leave.\nThe Painter, taken aback. Do you absolutely insist that this door be\ngreen.\nMrs. Parchemin. I want it to be red, red, red,\nMaurice Parchemin, Why, mamma ?\nMrs. Parchemin. You will know later, child.\nThe Painter. This door is a nice green.\nMrs. Parchemin. You are making fun of us. Again I ask you to leave.\nThe Painter. This door is just as you wanted it. It is green.\nMrs. Parchemin. Ah ! Good Heavens, You have killed my husband.\nShe faints. The boy runs away} frightened.\nThe Painter, stretching himself out alongside of her. Isn't it green, green,\ngreen . . . green . . . green.\nMrs. Parchemin, coming out of her faint. You are right. You are right,\nMr. Maurice Parchemin. The door is green."}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "225", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1588, "texte": "The Painter, embracing her. I love you Anatalie- I love you Ana-\ntalie...\nSteps are heard.\nMrs. Parchemin, trying to extricate herself. Did you hear that ?\nThe Painter, holding on to her. Anatalie.\nMrs. Parchemin. me go. I am afraid.\nShe runs away. There is a ring. The Painter goes to open the door.\nThe Painter. Who are you ?\nGlucose. Mr. Glucose.\nThe Painter. He has just left.\nGlucose. Oh, no. I am Mr. Glucose.\nThe Painter. Come in\nEnter Mr. Glucose. He has a black beard.\nThe Painter. Have a seat.\nGlucose. Do you read the papers ?\nThe Painter. Yes I read all the papers.\nGlucose. All the papers ?\nThe Painter. All of them.\nGlucose. That is all I wanted to know.\nHe moves toward the door, blows a little whistle, The door opens*\nTwo policemen enter.\nGlucose, to the policemen. Do your duty.\nThe policemen handcuff the Painter.\nThe Painter. Don't do something you will be sorry for, August Flanelle.\nGlucose. That isn't my name.\nThe Painter. August Flanelle, as surely as this door is green .. .\nGlucose. It is red.\nThe Policemen. Red, red, red.\nThe Painter. And as my name is Maurice Parchemin.\nGlucose. But you are called The Painter.\nThe Painter. Since you know better than I do, I'll go with you.\nGlucose. Pardon me. What did you mean by that ?\nThe Painter, to the policemen. Do your duty.\nThe policemen do not budge.\nGlucose. Did you hear ?\nThe policemen do not budge.\nGlucose. Fine fellows, you are ! Waiting for me to give the order my-\nself, Well, do your duty. Come on.\nIhe Policemen never budge. I hey notice the visiting card that Au-\ngust Flanelle dropped as he went out:"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "226", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1606, "texte": "MR. Glucose\nDental Surgeon\n31, me de la Gaite, Paris.\nthen silently they free the Painter of his bonds.\nGlucose. You rascals ! What are you doing ?\nThe policemen go out backward. Just as they are about to close the\ndoor, they stick their heads in and shout.\nThe Policemen. Dental Surgeon, Dental vSurgeon !\nGlucose. This is too much.\nThe Painter, declaiming. August Flanelle . . .\nGlucose. There you go again. My name is Glucose !\nThe Painter. You are right.\nHe paints his face red. Glucose goes out crying. The Painter\ngoes on painting.\nMrs. Parchemin, entering. Has nothing happened to you ?\nThe Painter. No.\nMrs. Parchemin. liar, Liar, Liar.\nThe Painter. Anatalie, I swear to you that nothing happened to me.\nMrs. Parchemin. I heard everything through the keyhole.\nThe Painter. Ha. Ha.\nMrs. Parchemin. I saw everything through the keyhole.\nThe Painter. Ha. Ha.\nMrs. Parchemin. You are a murderer.\nThe Painter. Let me go on with my work.\nMrs. Parchemin. Monster ! I was beginning to love you. The Painter ! Oh ...\nThe Painter. If I had painted this door red, eh Mrs. Parchemin ?\nMrs. Parchemin runs away, frightened. The Painter goes on paint-\ning. There is a ring.\nThe Painter. Come in Mr. Glucose.\nAugust Flanelle, entering. My name is Flanelle.\nThe Painter goes on painting.\nAugust Flanelle. I would like to see the widow Parchemin and little\nMaurice Parchemin, her son.\nThe Painter. That's me.\nAugust Flanelle. What did you say ?\nThe Painter. I am the widow Parchemin and her little son, Maurice\nParchemin.\nAugust Flanelle. Enough. Enough. Enough . . . Enough !\nThe Painter goes back to his painting."}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "227", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1531, "texte": "August Sir, I came for the apartment.\nThe Painter, surprised. You should have said that in the first place.\nHe opens the door and gives a long whistle. Enter Mrs. Parchemin\ncarrying her dead son in her arms.\nMrs. Parchemin, The Painter, together. Phew —ew— ew\n— ew . . .\nThey all go off separately and sit in the three corners of the room\nlooking at each other silently.\nMrs. Parchemin. My son is dead. (To the Painter) It is you who\nkilled him.\nThe Painter. What did you say ?\nMrs. Parchemin. little Maurice Parchemin is dead. You killed him.\nMurderer. Murderer. Murderer.\n7he Painter plants himself before the mirror, paints his face red and\ngoes out weeping.\nAugust Flaneixe. Alone, at last.\nMrs. Parchemin, to Flanelle. Sir, will you please tell me what you\nmean by that.\nAugust Fi,aneixe. Anatalie .. .\nMrs. Parchemin. How dare you, August Flanelle .. .\nFeaneixe. I love you.\nMrs. Parchemin. Go away, sir.\nFlanelle plants himself in front of the mirror and. makes believe he-\nis going to paint his face red. He does nothing of the sort. Instead,\nhe paints the picture of Mrs. Parchemin on the mirror. Mrs. Parchemin\nrises. Little Maurice Parchemin rolls on the floor, revives and runs aivay\nas fast as he can. She-fails into the arms of August Flanelle.\nMrs. Parchemin. How you love me !\nFi,aneeee. Yes.\nHe kisses her.\nMrs. Parchemin. The palm trees.\nFeaneeee. Yes.\nHe kisses her.\nMrs. Parchemin. The strawberry ice-cream.\nFeaneeee. Yes.\nHe kisses her.\nMrs. Parchemin. Mrs. Tiroir. The ugly gown.\nFeaneeee. Yes.\nHe kisses her."}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "228", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1327, "texte": "Mrs. Parchemin. The cabman.\nFivANEixE. Yes.\nHe kisses her.\nMrs. Parchemin. Number 25 rue des Saints-P£res.\nFi,ANETJ<E. Yes.\nHe kisses her.\nMrs. Parchemin. All naked.\nYes.\nHe kisses her.\nA long whistle is heard. The Painter appears, a terrible sight. His\nbeard disheveled. A wet sponge in his hand. It is evident that he has\njust been shaving his beard.\nThe Painter, seeing the silhouette of Mrs. Parchemin on the glass. Thank\nyou. (He throws the sponge at the drawing. Silence).\nThe Painter, oratorically. Please sign your work, young man.\nAugust Flanelle touches up the portrait where it had been erased'\nby the sponge and signs it in large trembling letters :\nAugust Fi,aneu,e\nThe Painter. Bravo !\nHe tears off his beard and his blouse,\nMrs. Parchemin. Heavens! My husband.\nMr. Parchemin.\nMr. Parchemin. Here is the book of poems you asked me for the other\nnight at Madame L,etapis\\ You may retire, Mr. Glucose.\nFiyANEiyivE. Mr. Flanelle.\nMr. Parchemin. Mr. Flanelle\nAugust Flanelle retires.\nMr. Parchemin to Mrs. Parchemin. And now here we are.\nHe grabs her by the hair,\nMr. Parchemin. Adulteress I (He kicks her) Murderess ! (Screaming)\nYour child, our child ! What have you done with my child ?\nEnter little Maurice Parchemin, carrying a calendar:\nJuly\n14\nTuesday\nSt. Anatalie\nHe sings :\nDear mother\nToday is your birthday"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "229", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1619, "texte": "Papa told me\nYou were far away.\nMrs. Parchemin. The dear child.\nMr. Parchemin, softening. The dear little fellow.\nMr. and Mrs. Parchemin vie with each other in fondling their child.\nTheir lips meet and remain in a kiss for a moment. There is a ring.\nThe Painter, maddened. Come in Mr. Flanelle !\nEnter Glucose, carrying a large box ; he has a blond beard.\nGlucose. Mr. Parchemin ?\nMr. Parchemin. That's me.\nGlucose. I am Mr. Glucose. Here is the object.\nMr. Parchemin. The prison ?\nGiyUCOSE. No, the tooth.\nThe box opens of itself and discloses a gold tooth.\nMr. Parchemin, revealing himself and bowing to Mrs. Parchemin. Happy\nbirthday, Madame. (To Mr. Glucose). Can you tell me why you are blond?\nGlucose, I have always been blond.\nMr. Parchemin. Always ?\nGlucose. Always.\nSilence.\nMr. Parchemin, oratorically. Mr. Glucose, you have been a party to a\nmost disgraceful farce.\nGlucose. I have but followed your instructions to the letter, Mr. Par-\nchemin.\nMr. Parchemin. Enough of that. Will you repair the evil you have\nwrought in this household.\nGlucose. But Mr. Parchemin, was it not you who called me, payed me,\nordered me ?\nMr. Parchemin. Be still. You can never be redeemed in the eyes of\nMrs. Parchemin, of myself and of little Maurice Parchemin, our son, until you\nhave painted that door green. Here is the brush and the paint.\nGi/ucose. Do you absolutely want that door to be red ?\nMr. Parchemin. No, I want it green, green, green .. .\nMrs. Parchemin. Green, green, green.\nLittle Maurice Parchemin. Why, mamma ?\nMrs. Parchemin. You will know later, my child.\n\nRoger Vitrac\n(Translated from the French by M. J.)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "230", "page_fin": "230", "image_debut": 72, "image_fin": 72, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Henri Matisse", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "230", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 22, "texte": "Henri Matisse.\nDrawing"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "231", "page_fin": "231", "image_debut": 73, "image_fin": 73, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Henri Matisse", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "231", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 22, "texte": "Drawing\nHenri Matisse."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "232", "page_fin": "234", "image_debut": 74, "image_fin": 76, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.23", "titre_corps": "Tatlin’s Monument to the Third International", "titre_sommaire": "Tatlin’s Monument to the Third International", "signature_source": "Louis Lozowick", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "232", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2119, "texte": "TATLIN’S MONUMENT TO THE THIRD INTERNATIONAL\n\nThe magic word in modern Russian art: Construction.\nConstruction and not composition, teaches the new Gospel.\nWhy?\nBecause composition is inspired by the past, looks toward the past, and\ntherefore, belongs to the past; because composition means ornamentation,\ndecoration, romanticism, prettiness ; because composition stands apart from\nlife, serves as illusion to exhausted mentality, acts as stimulant to enervated\norganism.\nAnd construction ?\nConstruction is inspired by what is most characteristic of our epoch: in-\ndustry, machinery, science. Construction borrows the methods and makes use\nof the materials common in the technical processes. Hence iron, glass, concrete,\ncircle, triangle, cube, cylinder, synthetically combined with mathematical preci-\nsion and structural logic. Construction scorns prettiness, seeks strength, clar-\nity, simplicity, acts as stimulus to a vigorous life.\nThus exegetics.\nTatlin is the leading Russian artist-constructor and his monument to the\nThird International is one of his best works — certainly one that occasioned the\ngreatest controversy in Russia. A great admirer of Tatlin, N. Punin (to whom\nthis note is indebted for part of its data) considers the creation of the monument\nan event of international importance.\nIn 1919, the Art Section of the People's Commissariat of Education commis-\nsioned Tatlin to prepare projects for a monument to the Third International.\nAfter a year and a half's work, drawings and a model were ready for exhibition\nand examination at the Eight All-Russian Congress of Soviets. Tatlin and his\nassistants were there in person, explaining the work to the various Soviet Repre-\nsentatives assembled from all parts of Russia, thus disseminating the Gospel of\nconstruction over a wide area.\nThe monument purports to embody creative and utilitarian aims and to\nsynthetize sculpture, painting, architecture, and engineering. It is to be con-\nstructed of glass and iron, two building materials characteristic]of today (curiously\nenough no concrete is considered). Modern building materials introduce essen-"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "234", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2226, "texte": "tial changes into the practices and principles of architecture. Iron though\nextremely resistent can be cast and moulded to any required shape. This makes\nthe cohesion and solidity of a building independent of the formerly rigid load-\nand-support relation. The strength of iron allows the distribution or concen-\ntration of the load, the building of slanting or circular walls. Wide utilization\nof glass transforms the problem of lighting.\nThe monument of Tatlin has been planned with full knowledge\nof these changes in architecture. When completed, the monument will measure\nfour hundred meters in height. It will be built in the form of a huge iron spiral\nleaning at an angle of forty-five degress and enclosing three stories all made of\nglass. The first story will be a gigantic rotating cube making one revolution a\nyear. This is intended for legislative sessions of Soviet representatives from the\nwhole earth. The second story, somewhat smaller, will be a pyramid, likewise\nrotating but making one revolution a month. This is to serve for executive ses-\nsions of the Soviets. The third story, the smallest of all, will be a cylinder making\na revolution every day. It is to be used as a center of information.\nWhy these different velocities ? Cosmic symbolism perhaps (romanticism\nslipping in by a back door) ; earth moving around in (year), moon around earth\n(month), earth on its own axis (day). Desired temperature, both summer and-\nwinter, will be maintained by an immense thermos enclosing the three stories.\nCommunication between the stories and the world outside will be carried by\nmeans of a complicated electric apparatus. A wireless station will be install-\ned on the top of the monument.\nIt is not to be forgotten that the monument to the Third International ex-\nists only as a project. With the limited means at the disposal of Soviet Russia,\nthe execution of the project is postponed far into the future — to say the least.\nThe Philistine enemies of constructive art dare calmly to maintain that the\nerection of the monument is a engineering feat altogether beyond possibilities\nof realization. To which the faithful retort with the story of the telegraph,\nthe aeroplane etc. A weary exercise.\n\nLouis Lozowick"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "233", "page_fin": "233", "image_debut": 75, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.23.1", "titre_corps": "Tatlin’s Monument", "titre_sommaire": "Tatlin’s Monument", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "233", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 17, "texte": "Tatlin’s Monument"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "235", "page_fin": "237", "image_debut": 77, "image_fin": 79, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.24", "titre_corps": "The Aesthetic of the Machine and Mechanical Introspection in Art", "titre_sommaire": "The Aesthetic of the Machine and Mechanical Introspection in Art", "signature_source": "Enrico Prampolini ; E. S.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "235", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2451, "texte": "THE AESTHETIC OF THE MACHINE AND MECHANICAL\nINTROSPECTION IN ART.\n\nIn the aesthetic phenomenon of the evolution of the plastic arts the neces-\nsity of considering the Machine and Mechanical elements as new symbols of\naesthetic inspiration has not been sufficiently taken into account.\ni. Precursors.\nWe Futurists were the first to understand the marvellous mystery of inspi-\nration which machines possess with their own mechanical world.\nIn fact, Marinetti in his first Manifesto on the Foundation of Futurism pu-\nblished in the Figaro in 1909 stated : \" We shall chant the vibrant nocturnal fer-\nvour of the arsenals and ship-yards lit with their violent electric moons, the brid-\nges like giant gymnasts striding the rivers, the daring steamers that nose the hori-\nzons, the full-breasted locomotives that prance on the rails like enormous iron\nhorses bridled with tubes, the gliding flight of the aeroplanes whose screw flutters\nin the wind like a flag or seems to applaud like an enthusiastic mob. The rac-\ning automobile with its explosive breath and its great serpent-like tubes crawl-\ning over the bonnet — an automobile that whizzes like a volley from a machine-\ngun is more beautiful than the victory of Samothrace.\"\nFrom the appearance of the first Futurist Manifesto of Marinetti up\nthere has been a ceaseless searching and questioning in the field of art. Boccioni\nin his book, Futurist Sculpture and Painting (1914) stated that the era of the great\nmechanical individualities has begun ; that all the rest is paleontology. Luigi\nRussolo (in 1913) with his invention of the noise-makers constructed new mechan-\nical instruments to give value to the new musical sounds inspired by noise, while\nLuciano Folgore in his poem the Chant of the Motors (1914) exalted the mechan-\nical beauty of workshops and the overpowering lyricism of machines. Later, in\nmy manifesto entitled Absolute Constructions in Motion-Noise (1915), I revealed\nby means of new plastic constructions the unknown constructive virtues\nof the mechanical aesthetic. While the painter Gino Severini confirmed by means\nof an admirable theoretical essay in the Mercure de France (1916) the theory that\n\" the process of the construction of a machine is analogous to the constructive\nprocess of a work of art. \"\nThis Futurist exaltation of ours for the new era of the machines crossed\nthe Italic frontier and awoke echoes among the Dutch, the Russian, the Germans\nand the Spanish."}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "236", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2750, "texte": "Fernand Leger recently declared his paintings to be concerned with the love\nof those forms created by modern industry and the clash of the thousand coloured\nand persuasive reflections of the so called classical subjects.\nGuillermo de Torre, the daring Spanish poet and founder of the Ultraist\nmovement, announced in his manifesto \" Vertical\" in 1918 the forthcoming\nepoch of the new spatial and mechanical world.\nToday we see a new tendency manifest itself at the recent international\nArtists Congress of Diisseldorf. This is the movement of the \" Constructionists \"\nas exemplified in the works of the Russian, Dutch, German, Scandinavian and\nRoumanian painters, among whom we may note Theo Van Doesburg, Richter,\nLissitzky, Kggelin and Janco. The Constructionists, though they take as their\nstarting point an extremely clear theory, announcing the constructive exalta-\ntion of the Machine, become inconsistent in the application of their doctrine,\nconfusing exterior form with spiritual content.\nWe today — without ignoring the attempts that have been made in the\ncourse of the last years by ourselves and certain Futurist friends of ours — in-\ntend to reasume and synthetize all that which has been expressed individually\nand incidentally in order to arrive at completer and more concrete results; in\norder to be able to realize more fully new aesthetic values in the field of the\nplastic arts.\nOur experience has convinced us of the truth of certain of our plastic truths\nand has allowed us to perceive the errors that lie in others.\nOLD AND NEW SYMBOLS\nIn the history of art throughout the ages the symbols and elements of in-\nspiration have been suggested to us by the ancient legends and classic myths\ncreated by modern imagination. Today, therefore, where can we look for more\ncontingent inspiration than among the new symbols which are no longer the\ncreation of the imagination or the fantasy but of human genius ?\n* Is not the machine today the most exuberant symbol of the mystery of\nhuman creation ? Is it not the new mythical deity which weaves the legends and\nhistories of the contemporary human drama ? The Machine in its practical and\nmaterial function comes to have today in human concepts and thoughts the\nsignificance of an ideal and spiritual inspiration.\nThe artist can only pin his faith to the realities contingent on his own life\nor on those elements of expression which spiritualize the atmosphere he breathes.\nThe elements and the plastic symbols of the Machine are inevitably much\nnearer to us (materially and spiritually) than any symbol of the past can be :\nsymbols as such as a god Pan, the taking down from the Cross or the Assumption\nof the Virgin, etc. The logic, therefore, of aesthetic verities becomes self-evident,"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "237", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1611, "texte": "and develops parallelly with the spirit of the times which seeks to contemplate,\nlive and identify itself with reality itself.\nThe aesthetic of the Machine and Mechanical Introspection\nWe today, after having sung and exalted the suggestive inspirational force\nof The Machine - after having by means of the first plastic works of the new school\nfixed our plastic sensations and emotions, see now the outlines of the new aesthe-\ntic of The Machine appearing on the horizon like a fly wheel all fiery from\nEternal Motion.\nWe therefore Proclaim\n1. The Machine to be the tutelary symbol of the universal dynamism,\npotentially embodying in itself the essential elements of human creation : the\ndiscoverer of fresh developments in modern aesthetics.\n2. The aesthetic virtues of the machine and the metaphysical meaning\nof its motions and movements constitute the new fount of inspiration for the evo-\nlution and development of contemporaneous plastic arts.\n3. The plastic exaltation of The Machine and the mechanical elements\nmust not be conceived in their exterior reality, that is in formal representations\nof the elements which make up The Machine itself, but rather in the plastic-\nmechanical analogy that The Machine suggests to us in connection with various\nspiritual realities.\n4. The stylistic modifications of Mechanical Art arise from The Machine-\nas-interferential-element.\n5. The machine marks the rhythm of human psychology and beats the\ntime for our spiritual exaltations. Therefore it is inevitable and consequent\nto the evolution of the plastic arts of our day.\n\nEnrico Prampolini\n(Translated by E. S.)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[161]", "page_fin": "[161]", "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.25", "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": 3, "page_imprimee": "[161]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4288, "texte": "The Most Important Announcement Made By An American Publisher In Years\nTHE CARRA EDITION OF\nTHE WORKS OF GEORGE MOORE\nBOOKLOVBRS and admirers of George Moore have\neagerly awaited the announcement of a collected\nedition of his works. We take great pleasure in\nannouncing that we have completed arrangements for\nthe publication of a definitive subscription edition of his\nwritings, which will be the first unexpurgated and uni-\nform collection of all of his books which he desires to per-\npetuate. The author has not only written an entirely\nnew and characteristic preface, but has made textual\nchanges, in most cases of considerable importance, in\nevery one of the works reissued in this new edition. Two\nof these works, Modem Painting and The Brook Kerith,\nhave been entirely rewritten; and there are two new\nbooks which will appear for the first time in this edition,\nIn Strict Singleness and Peronnik the Fool, Daphnis and\nChloe, etc. The set will include such heretofore private-\nly printed titles as A Story-Teller's Holiday, Avowals\nand Heloise and Abelard, all of which are now very diffi-\ncult to obtain, and only at high premiums. New Moore\nworks are likely to be added in the same uniform for-\nmat from time to time, and the original subscribers to\nthis edition will have the privilege of purchasing them at\nthe first subscription price.\nThe Carra Edition is strictly limited to one thousand numbered sets for sale and twenty-five sets marked A\nto Y (not for sale). The first volume in each set will be signed by the author. The edition will be printed from\nspecial type on pure rag paper and bound uncut with vellum backs and paper board sides. The publishers plan\nto issue the books in groups of three volumes each, and the first group should be ready by October i, 1922 ;\nthe other groups will be published at intervals of two months. The price will be $ 8.50 per volume, and the pub-\nlishers reserve the right to advance the price to $ 10.00 per volume after the first publication day.\nYou are urged to place your subscription at once through your bookseller, or direct to the pub-\nlishers. A special brochure will be mailed on request. In view of the limited number available,\nan early subscription is desirable to avoid disappointment.\nZbc Intimate Series\nThese volumes are octavo size, printed on English laid paper, with uncut edges, and handsomely bound in\nlibrary buckram. The editions are strictly limited to 1,500 numbered copies. Each, $4.00.\nThe Twenty Titles in the\nCARRA EDITION are:\nLewis Seymour and Some Women\nThe Mummer's Wife\nMuslin\nSpring Days\nEsther Waters\nEvelyn Inness\nfiJcfar TarACA\nThe Lake and The Untilled Field\nAvowals and Confessions of a Young Man\nMemoirs of My Dead Life\nAve Salve Vale\nThe Brook Kerith\nA Story-Teller's Holiday\nHeloise and Abelard\nIn Strict Singleness\nPeronnik the Fool, Daphnis and Chloe,\netc.\nImpressions and Opinions\nModern Painting\nTHE GEORGE SAND - GUSTAVE\nFLAUBERT LETTERS\nTranslated by AIMEE McKENZIE\nIntroduction by STUART P. SHERMAN\nThese frank and affectionate letters, extending\nfrom 1866 to 1876, make an extraordinary fascinat-\ning volume. George Sand's family life at Nohant,\nthe old bachelor's solitude at Croisset, meetings in\nParis, adventures with publishers and theatrical man-\nagers, and pungent comment on such friends as Sainte-\nBeuve, Hugo, Gautier, and Turgenev, are here.\nTHE NIETZSCHE — WAGNER\nCORRESPONDENCE\nEdited by ELIZABETH FOERSTER - NIETZSCHE\nTranslated by CAROLINE V. KERR\nIntroduction by H. I#. MENCKEN\nHere are collected and published for the first time\nNietzsche's letters to and from Wagner. The book\ncontains much that is entirely new — in fact, every-\nthing that could contribute to a true estimate of one of\nthe most remarkable and romantic friendships of the\nxixth Century.\nROBERT HENRI\nEdited by WIIyI+IAM YARROW and I,OUIS BOUCH&\nThis first volume in the American Art library is a superb monograph on one of the foremost American ar-\ntists, and combines a charming resumG of his life and work with forty reproductions of his paintings\non the finest paper obtainable, without lettering, suitable for mounting. The edition is limited to nine hun-\ndred and ninety copies. Subscription price, $ 10.00. (Illustrated brochure on application).\nBONI & LIVERIGHT\n103 West 40th St.\nNEW YORK CITY"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c036", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c036", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[162]", "page_fin": "[162]", "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.26", "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": 4, "page_imprimee": "[162]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3365, "texte": "NEW FALL BOOKS\nTHE ADVENTURES OF MAYA THE BEE\nby WALDEMAR BONSELS\n#\nIllustrated with head and tail piece in black and white for each chapter and with four full-\npage colored illustrations by HOMER BOSS.\nThe greatest children's book since \" Alice in Wonderland And adults will enjoy it also.\nHalf a million copies already sold in the original. Translated into seventeen languages\nincluding the Japanese. $2.50.\nTHE NOVEL BY THE NEGRO AUTHOR CROWNED WITH THE PRIX GONCOURT\nThe Whole World is Reading It\nBATOUALA\nby RENE MARAN\nBATOUAIyA is the Iliad of the African Negro. But it is the Iliad of a\npeople who live in our own day.\nNew York Times : \" This story of primitive love and hate is developed amid striking\nscenes of native life in Central Africa. There is a description of a great native dance which\nreveals Rene Maran as having a remarkable fund of original and first-hand knowledge of\nthe Negroes of whom he writes. He draws pictures of the African wilderness, creates an\natmosphere of vast spaces and silence and mystery which recall W. H. Hudson at his\nbest. And always, even when his Africans are dancing and revelling at their maddest, he\nsucceeds in suggesting the unhappiness that besets them, the sword of Damocles which the\nwhite man holds suspended over their heads. \" $1.75.\nSells 8,000 a day in France. A sensational success in every language into which it has been translated.\nJEREMIAH\nA dramatic Poem in nine Scenes\nby STEFAN ZWEIG\nRomctin Rolland, in a long article on this play, says : \" Zweig sought his inspiration\nin the Bible. One figure especially attracted him; that of Jeremiah, the wronged prophet\nof the peace that blossoms on ruins. Jeremiah is the most beautiful example that I\nknow of, of the sublime melancholy that sees beyond the bloody drama of today the eternal\ntragedy of humanity. But there are defeats more fertile than victories and sorrows more\nresplendent than joys. Zweig's poem presents them with grandeur. \" $2.00.\nTwo Important New Books by\nD. H. LAWRENCE\nFANTASIA OP THE UNCONSCIOUS\nThis remarkable book is a statement of Lawrence's philosophy of life. It elabor-\nates further his theory of the Unconscious as set forth in a previous volume, \" Psychoana-\nlysis and the Unconscious \". But it is far more than that. It is a discussion in essay\nform of the human problems of today, the problems dealt with as personal experiences\nin Mr. Lawrence's fiction : \" The Rainbow \" Women in Love \" Aaron's Rod \" and\n\" The Lost Girl \".\nMr. Lawrence has some very original views on the question of education, the bringing\nup of children, marriage, love and other vital issues of human relationship. He sees the\ncrying need for readjustment in all these relations and he has stated the issues and his sol-\nutions of them with the fearlessness of a prophet and with a magical beauty of language.\nIn our opinion it is the most important work that has appeared since the publication of\nNietzsche's \" Zarathustra $2.00.\nSTUDIES I CLASSIC IBEEICM LITEBATUEE\nContains long essays on Walt Whitman and Hawthorne and studies of Herman Mel-\nville, Benjamin Franklin, Richard Henry Dana and other American writers.\nIt is interesting to note that Lawrence rediscovered Herman Melville long before the\nboom in South Sea Travel books made Melville a writer of contemporary popularity. $3,50.\nTHOMAS SELTZER - Publisher - SW. 50th St. - NEW YORK"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c037", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c037", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[238]", "page_fin": "[238]", "image_debut": 80, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.27", "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": 80, "page_imprimee": "[238]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1777, "texte": "r\nIssue a Tiool^\nA REMARKABLY GOOD BOOK\ndoes not publish anything which is not worthy of perpetua-\ntion in book form. It does not bother with ephemera.\nEach month The Dial prints the significant work ot the\ncreative minds of the world in fiction, poetry, and tne essay.\nIn addition it affords a complete critical survey of books,\nmusic, art, and the theatre — in short, a critical compte rendue\nof what the intelligent world is doing and thinking.\nThe Dial publishes only the art and the literature by which\nour generation here and abroad will be remembered. Its\ncontents, therefore, like those of the best book, possess per-\nmanency and distinction. Incidentally, The Dial is as well\nprinted as typographical experts and skilled craftsmen can\nmake it. Good book paper designed especially for per-\nmanency is used throughout.\nEvery issue of The Dial, then, is a book — and there are\ntwelve of them a year. A good book costs from two dollars\nup. We will send you twelve issues of The Dial, and in\naddition, a good book selected from among the best output\nof the past season, in all the equivalent of thirteen superla-\ntive, contemporary books, for\n$5.00\nthe price of a year's subscription to The Dial alone\nYour choice of one of die following books\nfree with a year's subscription ($5.00) :\nAARON'S ROD, by D. H. Lawrence\nAND EVEN NOW, by Max Beerbohm\nMARIA CHAPDELAINE, by Louis Hemon\nSELECTED POEMS, by William Butler Yeats\nTHE ENORMOUS ROOM, by E. E. Cummings\nMR WADDINGTON OF WYCK, by May Sinclair\nCIVILIZATION IN THE UNITED STATES, by\nthirty well-known American writers\nPlease send The Dial for one year\nand a copy of the following book to:\nName\nAddress\nBOOK\nI enclose $5.00. Q I will remit $5.00\non receipt of your bill.\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street, New York City\nB-9-22"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c038", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c038", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[239]", "page_fin": "[239]", "image_debut": 81, "image_fin": 81, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.28", "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": 81, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1166, "texte": "\" It is the best literary magazine ever set up in America\nH. L. Mencken.\nThe Literary Review\nOF THE\nNew York Evening Post\nEdited by Henry Seidel Canby\nIHERE are twenty thousand books published in English every\nyear. We shall not attempt to estimate how many in the va-\nrious European languages. Who sorts them for you? Whose judg-\nment can you trust? Can you be sure that you know what books\nyou want?\nThe Literary Review, a weekly magazine for booklovers is answering\nthese questions for many discriminating readers. It is also solving\nthe three great problems of reviewing: complete independence of\ncriticism; the right and expert reviewer for every book; interest\nand comprehensiveness.\nIf you read or study, teach or write; if you think about books or\ntalk about them, you can afford to share in th is attempt to estab-\nlish a standard of criticism.\nA subscription is $2.50 a year, or we shall be glad to send The Lit-\nerary Review on five months' trial for $ 1.00.\nThe Literary Review, 20 Vesey Street, New York.\nni j rpj j , n - c S one year for $2.50 I I enclose the required\nPlease send me The Literary Review for j fiye Jonths fof $,0Q j amount\nName\nAddress"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c039", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c039", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_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": 82, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.29", "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": 82, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 105, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1099, "texte": "BROOM MOVES TO BERLIN\nThe next number of \"Broom\" will be printed in Berlin. Its address in\nfuture will be: BROOM, Schickler Strasse 5, Berlin, Germany.\nWe have been able to make arrangements with one of the best printing\nhouses and reproducers in Europe, and we can promise our readers that on the\ntechnical side, and especially in the matter of reproductions, the high standard of\nthe existent BROOM will not only be maintained, but surpassed.\nBecause of the superior technical facilities of our new plant, the magnifi-\ncent photographs of machinery executed by Paul Strand and announced for the\nOctober BROOM, have been postponed until the November number, although they\nhad been planned to accompany the article on Robert Coady by Sanborn and the\nMachinery cover designed by Enrico Prampolini.\nThe line drawings of Henri Matisse, originally destined for November, have\nbeen substituted in their stead.\nIt is hoped that there will be no delay or other confusion consequent on\nBROOM'S removal."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c040", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c040", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_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": 82, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.30", "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": 82, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 1101, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1335, "texte": "AN OASIS\nOf spirits choice the rookery\nSuch is the cozy Bookery.\n'Twill rest your soul, this soothing place\nWhere range the brains of the human race.\nTHE BOOKERY\n14 West 47th Street, New York City\nBooks on sexology and psychoanalysis."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c041", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c041", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_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": 82, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.31", "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": 82, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 1337, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1395, "texte": "FRANK SHAY'S\nINTERNATIONAL\nBOOK SHOP\nNEW YORK\nLONDON PARIS"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c042", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c042", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_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": 82, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.32", "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": 82, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 1397, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1570, "texte": "Among the Contributors to No-\nvember \" BROOM \" are :\nLouis Aragon\nJames Daly\nFeodor Dostoievsky\nMatthew Josephson\nGomte de Lautr6amont\nPaul Strand\nArthur Symons\nIvor Winters"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c043", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c043", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_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": 82, "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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.33", "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": 82, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 1572, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1906, "texte": "MELOMIME PUBLICATIONS\nAnnounce among their fall books the\npublication of \"Chinese White\", a book\nof drawings by William Gropper with\npoems by Gladys Oaks. Woodcuts by\nWilliam and Marguerite Zorach. Prints\nand reproductions of other well known\nAmerican artists.\nMELOMIME) PUBLICATIONS\nArt — Poetry — Music\n21 West Bth Street, New York."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c044", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c044", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_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": 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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.34", "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": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.83", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2640, "texte": "The Practical Home Study Course in\nInterior Decoration\nComplete in 24 Bi-Monthly Lessons Ready about August Ist, 1922\nA Sensible and Fascinating Aid to the Making of More Attractive Homes\nConducted by HAROLD DONALDSON EBERLEIN and NANCY V. McCLELLAND\nTHERE has always existed in this coun-\ntry a genuine and widespread need for\nsome kind of institution which should\nprovide a simple and thorough method of in-\nstruction in the art of creating a beautiful\nhome environment. Many thousands of per-\nsons of natural good taste lack the know-\nledge which is an essential background to the\ncorrect selection and placing of the home's\nfurnishing. To meet this need and supply this\nknowledge is the object of the Practical Home-\nStudy Course of Inferior Decoration — an orga-\nnization of the highest aims built upon a foun-\ndation of solid experience and expert service.\nTo those subscribing for the Course, whether\ntheir desire is for general information upon\na vital and engaging subject or the artistic\nimprovement of their homes, a complete and\nilluminating series of lessons presenting de-\ntailed information concerning every phase of\ninterior decoration, is presented. The course\nis complete and authoritative. In text and\nillustration it is clear and explicit. It explains\nthe fundamentals and how to proceed, step\nby step. It also gives directions for improv-\ning conditions as they exist. Its scope ranges\nfrom the furnishing of entire houses or apart-\nments, large or small, to single rooms.\nThe course makes it possible for anyone\nto secure beautiful and satisfying results ;\nit shows precisely how to attain the best pos-\nsible arrangements with stock appointments\npurchased from responsible shops.\nThe course is a necessity to everyone who\ndesires a sound and correct understanding\nof what constitutes good taste and an indis-\nputable artistic achievement in every combi-\nnation of effect in home decoration.\nADVISORY FACULTY:\nW Emerson, Director of the Architectu-\nral School, Massachusetts Institute of Tech-\nnology, Boston.\nHuGER EUJOTT, Principal of the School, Penn-\nsylvania Museum and School of Industrial\nArt, Phila.\nWhitney Warren, Warren & Wetmore, Archi-\ntects, New York.\nPhyms Ackerman, Ph. D., Art Expert.\nIvEON V. Art Director, American En-\ncaustic Tile Company.\nRichard F. Bach, Curator Industrial Art,\nMetropolitan Museum of Art, New York.\nJohn P. Adams, President, Kensington Mfg.\nCo., New York.\nErSKINE, President Erskine-Danforth\nCo., New York.\nSubstantial pre-publication discount allowed to those now enrolling.\nWrite for full particulars and enrollment blanks.\nARTS & DECORATION - 50 WEST 47th ST. - NEW YORK CITY"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-10-01-c045", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-10_01#c045", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-10_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": 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=bmtnaap192210-01.2.35", "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": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1906, "texte": "THE above photograph shows a bus the Fifth Avenue Coach Company is testing, with the idea of making\ntheir entire equipment covered buses. The Coach Company figure that they can carry 72,000,000 passengers\nwith 309 buses that have the roof covered, as against 54,000,000 carried in 309 uncovered buses in the\nlast twelve months.\nThe reason for this is quite obvious. Excessive heat, cold, rain, snow or high wind makes it necessary for a\nlarge percentage of the passengers to ride inside during the year. 37,000,000 passengers were carried inside the\nbuses in the last 12 months ; 17,000,000 were carried upstairs.\nThe buses to-day cannot carry nearly all the people who want to ride. Thousands of them are left every\nnight on the street corners, so that if these covered buses prove practical, they will be a great, boon to the high\nclass discriminating constituency who are now using the buses as a method of transportation.\nThe fare charged on the buses is ten cents, twice the fare charged on the subways, surface cars and elevated.\nIt is admitted that it takes more time to travel on the buses than on any other transportation line. It must be\nthat these millions of people use the buses because they appreciate a clean, comfortable ride. When you consider\nthat, bus passengers can be reached through an advertisement inside the buses at the low rate of twenty cents\nper thousand, $20 a day for a card in 300 buses, or at the low rate of $600 per month, it is easy to understand\nwhy so many high-class concerns are using advertising space. .\nThe advertising rate is $600 a month for a full run (300 buses), $300 a month for a half run (150 buses),\n$150 a month for a quarter run (75 buses), on the basis of a contract for six months or longer. If less than a 6-]\nmonths contract is used, there is a 10 % increased charge.\nJohn H. Livingston, Jr., 425 Fifth Avenue, New York. - Telephone 274 Vanderbilt."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.2", "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.\nOCTOBER, 1922\nAPPEARS MONTHLY\nvol. 3, NO 3.\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, Schickler Strasse 5, Berlin, Germany.\nNew York Office, Three East Ninth Street,\nLondon Office, Cecil Palmer, Oakley House, 15-18 Bloomsbury St., W. C. I.\n\nCover Design — Enrico Prampolini.\nStravrogin's Confession — Feodor Dostoyevsky 163\nSinbad — John Crawford *72\nDrawings — Henri Matisse 173-194-198-222-230-231\nA Champion in the Wilderness — Robert x\\lden Sanborn 174\nPoems — Edward storer 180\nAt the Antipodes of Unity — Blaise Cendrars 182\nEpitaphs — Philippe Soupault 195\nYoung man with Spectacles — Malcolm Cowley • 199\nThe lay of Maldoror — Comte de Lautr&amont 204\nCORNBREAD AND EYES — DAVID ROSENTHAL 217\nObservations on returning to the remnants of civilization — Gilbert Cannan 218\nThe Painter — Roger Vitrac 223\nTatlin's Monument to the Third International — Louis Lozowick 232\nTatlin's Monument 233\nThe Aesthetic of the machine and Mechanical Introspection in Art — Enrico\nPrampolini. . 235"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[161]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.3", "texte": "The Most Important Announcement Made By An American Publisher In Years\nTHE CARRA EDITION OF\nTHE WORKS OF GEORGE MOORE\nBOOKLOVBRS and admirers of George Moore have\neagerly awaited the announcement of a collected\nedition of his works. We take great pleasure in\nannouncing that we have completed arrangements for\nthe publication of a definitive subscription edition of his\nwritings, which will be the first unexpurgated and uni-\nform collection of all of his books which he desires to per-\npetuate. The author has not only written an entirely\nnew and characteristic preface, but has made textual\nchanges, in most cases of considerable importance, in\nevery one of the works reissued in this new edition. Two\nof these works, Modem Painting and The Brook Kerith,\nhave been entirely rewritten; and there are two new\nbooks which will appear for the first time in this edition,\nIn Strict Singleness and Peronnik the Fool, Daphnis and\nChloe, etc. The set will include such heretofore private-\nly printed titles as A Story-Teller's Holiday, Avowals\nand Heloise and Abelard, all of which are now very diffi-\ncult to obtain, and only at high premiums. New Moore\nworks are likely to be added in the same uniform for-\nmat from time to time, and the original subscribers to\nthis edition will have the privilege of purchasing them at\nthe first subscription price.\nThe Carra Edition is strictly limited to one thousand numbered sets for sale and twenty-five sets marked A\nto Y (not for sale). The first volume in each set will be signed by the author. The edition will be printed from\nspecial type on pure rag paper and bound uncut with vellum backs and paper board sides. The publishers plan\nto issue the books in groups of three volumes each, and the first group should be ready by October i, 1922 ;\nthe other groups will be published at intervals of two months. The price will be $ 8.50 per volume, and the pub-\nlishers reserve the right to advance the price to $ 10.00 per volume after the first publication day.\nYou are urged to place your subscription at once through your bookseller, or direct to the pub-\nlishers. A special brochure will be mailed on request. In view of the limited number available,\nan early subscription is desirable to avoid disappointment.\nZbc Intimate Series\nThese volumes are octavo size, printed on English laid paper, with uncut edges, and handsomely bound in\nlibrary buckram. The editions are strictly limited to 1,500 numbered copies. Each, $4.00.\nThe Twenty Titles in the\nCARRA EDITION are:\nLewis Seymour and Some Women\nThe Mummer's Wife\nMuslin\nSpring Days\nEsther Waters\nEvelyn Inness\nfiJcfar TarACA\nThe Lake and The Untilled Field\nAvowals and Confessions of a Young Man\nMemoirs of My Dead Life\nAve Salve Vale\nThe Brook Kerith\nA Story-Teller's Holiday\nHeloise and Abelard\nIn Strict Singleness\nPeronnik the Fool, Daphnis and Chloe,\netc.\nImpressions and Opinions\nModern Painting\nTHE GEORGE SAND - GUSTAVE\nFLAUBERT LETTERS\nTranslated by AIMEE McKENZIE\nIntroduction by STUART P. SHERMAN\nThese frank and affectionate letters, extending\nfrom 1866 to 1876, make an extraordinary fascinat-\ning volume. George Sand's family life at Nohant,\nthe old bachelor's solitude at Croisset, meetings in\nParis, adventures with publishers and theatrical man-\nagers, and pungent comment on such friends as Sainte-\nBeuve, Hugo, Gautier, and Turgenev, are here.\nTHE NIETZSCHE — WAGNER\nCORRESPONDENCE\nEdited by ELIZABETH FOERSTER - NIETZSCHE\nTranslated by CAROLINE V. KERR\nIntroduction by H. I#. MENCKEN\nHere are collected and published for the first time\nNietzsche's letters to and from Wagner. The book\ncontains much that is entirely new — in fact, every-\nthing that could contribute to a true estimate of one of\nthe most remarkable and romantic friendships of the\nxixth Century.\nROBERT HENRI\nEdited by WIIyI+IAM YARROW and I,OUIS BOUCH&\nThis first volume in the American Art library is a superb monograph on one of the foremost American ar-\ntists, and combines a charming resumG of his life and work with forty reproductions of his paintings\non the finest paper obtainable, without lettering, suitable for mounting. The edition is limited to nine hun-\ndred and ninety copies. Subscription price, $ 10.00. (Illustrated brochure on application).\nBONI & LIVERIGHT\n103 West 40th St.\nNEW YORK CITY"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[162]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.4", "texte": "NEW FALL BOOKS\nTHE ADVENTURES OF MAYA THE BEE\nby WALDEMAR BONSELS\n#\nIllustrated with head and tail piece in black and white for each chapter and with four full-\npage colored illustrations by HOMER BOSS.\nThe greatest children's book since \" Alice in Wonderland And adults will enjoy it also.\nHalf a million copies already sold in the original. Translated into seventeen languages\nincluding the Japanese. $2.50.\nTHE NOVEL BY THE NEGRO AUTHOR CROWNED WITH THE PRIX GONCOURT\nThe Whole World is Reading It\nBATOUALA\nby RENE MARAN\nBATOUAIyA is the Iliad of the African Negro. But it is the Iliad of a\npeople who live in our own day.\nNew York Times : \" This story of primitive love and hate is developed amid striking\nscenes of native life in Central Africa. There is a description of a great native dance which\nreveals Rene Maran as having a remarkable fund of original and first-hand knowledge of\nthe Negroes of whom he writes. He draws pictures of the African wilderness, creates an\natmosphere of vast spaces and silence and mystery which recall W. H. Hudson at his\nbest. And always, even when his Africans are dancing and revelling at their maddest, he\nsucceeds in suggesting the unhappiness that besets them, the sword of Damocles which the\nwhite man holds suspended over their heads. \" $1.75.\nSells 8,000 a day in France. A sensational success in every language into which it has been translated.\nJEREMIAH\nA dramatic Poem in nine Scenes\nby STEFAN ZWEIG\nRomctin Rolland, in a long article on this play, says : \" Zweig sought his inspiration\nin the Bible. One figure especially attracted him; that of Jeremiah, the wronged prophet\nof the peace that blossoms on ruins. Jeremiah is the most beautiful example that I\nknow of, of the sublime melancholy that sees beyond the bloody drama of today the eternal\ntragedy of humanity. But there are defeats more fertile than victories and sorrows more\nresplendent than joys. Zweig's poem presents them with grandeur. \" $2.00.\nTwo Important New Books by\nD. H. LAWRENCE\nFANTASIA OP THE UNCONSCIOUS\nThis remarkable book is a statement of Lawrence's philosophy of life. It elabor-\nates further his theory of the Unconscious as set forth in a previous volume, \" Psychoana-\nlysis and the Unconscious \". But it is far more than that. It is a discussion in essay\nform of the human problems of today, the problems dealt with as personal experiences\nin Mr. Lawrence's fiction : \" The Rainbow \" Women in Love \" Aaron's Rod \" and\n\" The Lost Girl \".\nMr. Lawrence has some very original views on the question of education, the bringing\nup of children, marriage, love and other vital issues of human relationship. He sees the\ncrying need for readjustment in all these relations and he has stated the issues and his sol-\nutions of them with the fearlessness of a prophet and with a magical beauty of language.\nIn our opinion it is the most important work that has appeared since the publication of\nNietzsche's \" Zarathustra $2.00.\nSTUDIES I CLASSIC IBEEICM LITEBATUEE\nContains long essays on Walt Whitman and Hawthorne and studies of Herman Mel-\nville, Benjamin Franklin, Richard Henry Dana and other American writers.\nIt is interesting to note that Lawrence rediscovered Herman Melville long before the\nboom in South Sea Travel books made Melville a writer of contemporary popularity. $3,50.\nTHOMAS SELTZER - Publisher - SW. 50th St. - NEW YORK"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "163", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.5", "texte": "STAVROGIN’S CONFESSION\n\nThree unpublished chapters from the novel DEMONS, THE POSSESSED.\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\nOn November 12, 1921, a tin box with Dostoyevsky's papers was opened in\nthe building of the Central Archives in Moscow. It contained among other mate-\nrial of great interest, a scrap-book with fifteen proof sheets pasted in, which bore\non the first page these lines, written in the hand of the novelist's widow : \"In\nthis note-book are several chapters (in proof) from The Possessed, which were\nnot included by Dostoyevsky in the novel, when it was running in Russki Vestnik. \"\nAs a matter of fact, there are three sub-chapters entitled \" Part 11, chapter I.\nAt Tiknon's, \" which form the complete episode of Stavrogin's confession of\nhis crime.\nNikolai Vsevolodovich Stavrogin is the enigmatic figure around which the\ncomplex action of The Possessed moves. This rich, handsome, young aristocrat\nis a man unable to find any absolute value and in the end undone by the void\nwhich he tries to escape by many roads, including that of sensuality. As a fan-\ntastic experiment to which he is impelled by an obscure spiritual perversity,\nhe nominally marries Lebyadkina, a crippled idiot. Shatov and Kirillov, men-\ntioned in this text, were for a time Stavrogin's fanatic disciples, to whom he\nsimultaneously taught two mutually contradictory faiths, presumably in the\nvain hope of being infected by their ardor. Father Tikhon, whom Stavrogin\nselects as his confessor, was first conceived by Dostoyevsky as one of the main\ncharacters of an unwritten novel which he was planning in 1869-70 and of which\nonly the outline is extant. In The Possessed Tikhon plays but an incidental part.\nThese newly discovered chapters somewhat clarify the plot of the novel\nfrom which they were withheld. They might be considered an expansion of cer-\ntain passages in The Possessed which allude to the crime described in the confes-\nsion. Thus we find Shatov passionately questioning Nikolai Vsyevolodovich :\n\" Is it true that when you were in Petersburg you belonged to a secret society\nfor practising beastly sensuality ? Is it true that you could give lessons to the\nMarquis de Sade ? Is it true that you decoyed and corrupted children ? \"\nWhy were these chapters omitted from the novel ? Madame Dostoyevsky\nis silent on the subject. The Russian commentator on the text confesses\nignorance. The explanation of why they were not included in the work\nas serially published, would seem to be contained in a letter written to Tolstoy\nby N. N. Strakhov in 1883, but published thirty years later. The latter was\nan intimate of Dostoyevsky and forty years ago wrote a biography of his friend"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.6", "texte": "which holds most of what we know concerning the novelist's life. Strakhov writes:\n\" One scene from The Possessed (rape, etc.) Katkov [editor of the magazine in\nwhich the novel was published in 1871-72] refused to print, but Dostoyevsky read\nit here to many. \" The reference is obviously to the chapters which follow below.\nRumor has laid the crime which Stavrogin committed at Dostoyevsky's own door.\nWithout attempting to establish the validity of this accusation, I may\nmention that the rumor is substantiated by no less an authority than Strakhov\nhimself.\nThe translator has deliberately avoided polishing the style of the narrative,\nwhich is sometimes careless and practically always colloquial.\nI.\nThat night Nikolai Vsevolodovich (Stavrogin) did not sleep, and he spent\nthe whole of it sitting on a divan, often staring hard at one point in the corner\nby the chest of drawers. A lamp was burning in his room all night. About\nseven o'clock in the morning, he fell asleep in a sitting posture, and when, according\nto long established custom, Alexey Yegorovich entered the room at nine-thirty\nsharp, with the morning cup of coffee and woke him up by his appearance, he\nopened his eyes, seeming disagreeably surprised by the length of his sleep and\nthe lateness of the hour. He drank his coffee quickly, dressed hastily, and hur-\nriedly left the house. To Alexey Yegor ovich's cautious query as to whether\nthere were any orders, he made no reply. Once in the street, he walked looking\nat the ground in deep thought, only at moments lifting his head and betraying\na vague yet intense agitation. At one corner, while he was still near home, a\ncrowd of peasants, some fifty men or more, crossed his path; they walked with\ndignity, almost silently, in ordered rows. At a small shop where he was forced\nto wait a while, someone said that these were the \"Shpigulin workmen \". He\nhardly paid any attention to them. Finally, at about half-past ten, he reached\nthe gates of our \"Bogorodsk Monastery, at the outskirts of the city, by the river.\nIt was only here that he seemed to recall something alarming and troublesome,\nstopped, thrust his hand into his side-pocket, and grinned. Once past the gates,\nhe inquired of the first servant who came along how to find the arch-priest, Tikhon,\nwho was living in retirement at the monastery. The servant bowed repeatedly\nand led the way. At the foot of the steps, at the end of the long two-story\nmonastery building, a stout, grizzled monk encountered them, and with dictator-\nial speed carried off Stavrogin under the eyes of the servant. He led him through\na long, narrow corridor, bowing perpetually (although, because of his stoutness,\nhe could not make a low bow, but simply jerked his head frequently and abruptly)\n. and continually inviting him to follow, in spite of the fact that Nikolai Vsevolo-\n\nA. Y."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.7", "texte": "dovich followed him anyhow. The monk kept on asking questions and talking\nabout Father Archimandrite, but getting no response, he became more and more\ndeferential. Stavrogin noticed that he was known here, although as far as he\ncould recall he had never visited the place since his childhood. When they reached\nthe door at the very end of the corridor, the monk opened it with an author-\nitative gesture, familiarly inquired of the lay brother who sprang up at their\nappearance, whether they could come in, and without waiting for his answer threw\nthe door wide open and bowing, let in the \" dear \" visitor. Upon receiving Sta-\nvrogin's thanks, he vanished precipitately as though he fled. Nikolai Vsevolodovich\nentered a rather small room, and there appeared almost simultaneously in the\ndoorway of the adjoining room a tall, rather lean man, about fifty-five years old,\nin a plain house dress which is usually worn under the cassock, looking sickly,\nwith a vague smile and a strange, somewhat shy glance. This was Tikhon, of\nwhom Nikolai Vsevolodovich had first heard froom Shatov, and about whom\nhe himself had in the meantime collected some information by the way.\nThe information was varied and contradictory. But one fact stood out,\nthat both the people who loved him and those who did not (and such there were)\nspoke of him with a certain reticence: those who disliked him, perhaps out of\ncontempt, and his adherents — because of a sense of discretion, as though they\nwished to hide a weakness of his, possibly something like a saintly folly. Niko-\nlai Vsevolodovich had learned that Tikhon had been living in the monastery for\nsix years and that he was visited by people both from the lowest and the highest\nclasses of society, that even in distant Petersburg he had the most ardent admirers,\nchiefly women. From one of our respected old men, a man about town who was\nyet devout, he heard that\" this Tikhon is practically insane, and no doubt drinks.\nAnticipating upon the course of events, let me add for my own part that this is\nsheer nonsense, and that if Tikhon suffers from anything it is from a rheumatic\npain in his feet which is of long standing, and at times from obscure nervous con-\nvulsions. Nikolai Vsevolodovich also discovered that, whether because of\nweakness of character or an unpardonable absent-mindedness inappropriate to\nhis rank, the retired archpriest failed to command respect in the monastery. It\nwas said that Father Archimandrite, an austere monk, rigid in the performance\nof his tasks as Father Superior, and furthermore, known for his learning, cher-\nished an animosity against Tikhon, condemning him, not to his face but indirectly,\nfor careless living and all but heresy. The attitude of the monks toward the in-\nvalid prelate was also not exactly one of neglect, but rather one of easy familiarity.\nThe two rooms which formed Tikhon's cell were oddly furnished. Beside\nawkward, old-fashioned furniture upholstered in worn leather, there were two or\nthree fine pieces : a luxurious, restful armchair, a large desk of excellent make,\nan exquisitely carved book-case, little tables, what-nots; all, of course, gifts"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "166", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.8", "texte": "There was a costly Bokhara rug, and mats alongside it. There were etchings\nof lay and mythological subjects, and in the corner a large icon-case\nas well, with icons set in gleaming gold and silver, one of them an ancient\npiece containing relics. The library too, it was said, was of an all too\nvaried and contradictory description : beside the works of the great saints and\nFathers of the Church, there were \" theatrical compositions and novels and maybe\nsomething much worse.\"\nAfter the first greetings, uttered for some reason with obvious mutual\nembarrassment in hasty and indistinct syllables, Tikhon led the visitor to his\nstudy, and with the same apparent haste seated him on a divan before a table,\nwhile he himself took a seat nearby in a willow armchair. Here, surprisingly\nenough, Nikolai Vsevolodovich completely lost himself. It seemed as if he were\nmaking a violent effort to bring himself to do something extraordinary and\nirrefutable, and yet almost impossible of execution. For a few moments he let\nhis eyes wander over the room, obviously not noticing what he saw : he grew\nthoughtful, but perhaps he did not know what he was thinking about. The\nsilence woke him up, and suddenly it seemed to him that Tikhon was dropping\nhis eyes bashfully and with an altogether unnecessary smile. This momentarily\naroused in him disgust and rebellion; he wanted to rise and go ; in his opinion\nTikhon was decidedly drunk, but the latter suddenly lifted his eyes and looked\nat him with a glance so firm and full of thought and, at the same time, expressing\nsomething so unexpected and enigmatic that Stavrogin almost started. And now\nhe had an altogether different suspicion : that Tikhon already knew why he\nhad come, that he had already been informed (although no one in the world\ncould have known the reason) and if he did not speak first, it was because\nhe spared him, fearing his humiliation.\n\"Do you know me ?\" he asked abruptly. \" Did I introduce myself when I\ncame in ? Excuse me, I am so absent-minded. . . \"\n\" You did not introduce yourself, but I had the pleasure of seeing you once,\nsome four years ago, here in the monastery. . . by chance. \" Tikhon spoke in\na slow, soft, even voice, pronouncing the words clearly and distinctly.\n\" I wasn't at the monastery four years ago \", retorted Nikolai Vsevolodovich\nwith unnecessary rudeness. \" I was here only as a child, before you had come\nat all. \"\n\" Perhaps you have forgotten, \" observed Tikhon cautiously and without\ninsistence.\n\"No, I haven't forgotten. It would be ridiculous if I had \" insisted Sta-\nvrogin on his part, with excessive emphasis. \" Maybe you have only heard\nabout me and formed an opinion about me, and then you imagined that you\nhad seen me yourself. \""}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.9", "texte": "Tikhon did not answer. It was only then that Stavrogin noticed that\nTikhon's features were nervously convulsed from time to time, a symptom of\na nervous disorder of long standing.\n\" I only see that you are not well today, and perhaps it would be better\nif I went away. \" He even made a motion as if to rise.\n\" Yes, I have been having severe pains in my legs, and I slept little last night/'\nTikhon stopped. His guest suddenly fell into a state of vague thoughtful-\nness. The silence lasted a long time, some two minutes.\n\" Were you watching me ? \" he asked suddenly, alarmed and suspicious.\n\" I was looking at you, and I remembered the features of your mother. In\nspite of external unlikeness, there is much internal, spiritual similarity. \"\n\"No similarity, particularly spiritual. No similarity whatever \" said Ni-\nkolai Vsevolodovich, needlessly alarmed and with an over emphasis for which he\ncould not account to himself. \" You're saying this just like that. . . out of pity\nfor my situation, \"he suddenly blurted out. \" Bah ! Does my mother come to\nyou ? \"\n\" She does. \"\n\" Didn't know it. Never heard about it from her. Often ?\"\n\" Almost every month, and oftener. \"\n\" Never, never heard about it. Didn't hear about it.\"He seemed to be ter-\nribly alarmed by this fact. \" And of course she told you that lam insane. \"\nHe blurted out again.\n\" No, not just that. Still, I heard that opinion expressed, but by others. \"\n\"You must have a good memory if you remember such trifles. And did you\nhear about the slap ?. \"\n\" I heard something. \"\n\" You mean everything. You have plenty of time to listen. And about\nthe duel ? \"\n\" About the duel, too . \"\n\" You don't need newspapers here. Did Shatov warn you about me?\"\n\" No; however, I know Mr. Shatov, but I haven't seen him for a long time. \"\n\" H'm ! What's that map over there ? Bah ! it's a map of the last war.\nWhat good does that do you ? \"\n\" I used the map for this text. A most interesting description. \"\n\" Show me ; yes, fairly good style. However, isn't this curious stuff for you\nto be reading ? \"\nHe drew the volume toward him and glanced at it. It was an ample and\nskilful exposition of the circumstances of the late war, presented rather from the\npurely literary than from the military angle. He turned it about and then with •\na swift, impatient movement threw it aside."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.10", "texte": "\" I certainly don't know why I have come here, \" he said with disgust,\nlooking straight into Tikhon's eyes as though expecting an answer.\n\" You too seem to be somewhat unwell. \"\n\" Yes, perhaps. \"\nAnd suddenly, yet in such brief and fragmentary words as to be somewhat\nobscure, he began telling about how he was afflicted, especially at night, by cer-\ntain strange hallucinations; that he sometimes saw or felt close beside him an\nevil creature, derisive and rational, \" with different faces and different\ncharacters, and yet always the same, and I am always enraged. \"...\nThese disclosures were fantastic and incoherent, and really seemed to come\nfrom a mentally deranged person. And yet Nikolai Vsevolodovich spoke with such\na strange, unprecedented frankness, with a simplicity of mind so entirely foreign\nto him that, it seemed, his former self had completely and suddenly disappeared.\nHe was not at all ashamed to show the fear with which the apparition inspired him.\nBut this open mood was momentary, and vanished as quickly as it came.\n\" It's all nonsense, \" he caught himself up swiftly and with awkward self-\nscorn. \" I shall go to a physician. \"\n\" No doubt you will, \" Tikhon confirmed him.\n\"You speak so confidently. . . Have you known people who had visions\nlike mine ? \"\n\" Yes, but very rarely. I remember only one case, an army officer, bereft\nof his spouse, his beloved helpmate. Another case I know only by hearsay. Both\nmen went abroad for treatment. . . And how long have you been suffering ? \"\n\" About a year, but all this is nonsense. I shall go to see a doctor. It's\nall nonsense, frightful nonsense. It's my own self in various forms, nothing\nelse. As I added this last sentence just now you certainly thought that I still\ndoubt whether it's myself or whether it's not really the devil. \"\nTikhon looked at him interrogatively.\n\" And .. . and do you really see him ? \" he asked. \" That is, putting aside\nall doubt of it's being no more than a clearly false and morbid hallucination, do\nyou really see a definite form ? \"\n\"It is strange that you persist in asking me when I told you plainly that\nI do. \" Again Stavrogin got more and more irritable with each word, \" Of\ncourse I see him. I see him just as plainly as I see you, and sometimes I see him\nand lam not certain that I see him, although Ido see him. . . And sometimes I\ndo not know who is real, he or I. . . It's all nonsense. And you, can't you imag-\nine that it is really the devil ? \" he added, laughing'and passing abruptly into\na derisive tone. \"It would be more in keeping with your calling, \"\ni&j.\n\" It's more likely to be a disease, although. . , \"\n\" Although what ?"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.11", "texte": "\" Devils no doubt exist, but opinions about them differ widely. \"\n\" Just now you dropped your eyes again, \" said Stavrogin with irritable\nderision. \" Because you were ashamed for me, since, while I believe in the devil,\npretending I don't, I am slyly putting a question to you : does he really exist,\nor not ? \"\nTikhon smiled vaguely.\nWell then, let me tell you plainly that I am not at all ashamed, and to\nmake up for my rudeness I shall say simply and frankly : I believe in the devil, I\nbelieve canonically, in a personal devil, not in an allegory, and I do not have to\npump anybody. That's all. \"\nHe gave a nervous, unnatural laugh. Tikhon looked at him curiously, but\nwith a timid and withal gentle glance.\n\"Do you believe in God ? \" Nikolai Vsevolodovich blurted out.\na I do believe. \"\n\" It is said, isn't it, that if ye have faith and say unto a mountain to remove\nitself hence, it would do so. . . However, pardon this nonsense. Still, lam\ncurious to know : can you remove the mountain or can't you ? \"\n\"If God commands, I shall remove it, \" said Tikhon in a low restrained\nvoice, dropping his eyes again.\n\" Well, but that's the same as if God Himself removed it. \"\nNo, you — you — will you be able to do it, as a reward for your faith in God ?\"\n\" Perhaps I will not. \"\nPerhaps ' ! That's not bad. Are you still a doubter ? \"\n\" I doubt, because my faith is imperfect. \"\n\" What! You too have imperfect faith ? \"\n\"Yes. . . Perhaps my faith is imperfect, \" answered Tikhon.\n\" Well, I wouldn't suppose it, to look at you. \" Suddenly he looked him\nup and down with altogether naive surprise, which did not at all harmonize with\nthe derisive tone of the foregoing question.\n\" Still, you believe that, say with God's help, you can remove it, and that's\nno small matter. At least you wish to believe. And you take the mountain\nliterally. Good principle. I have noticed that the more advanced of our In-\nvites are strongly inclined toward Ivutheranism. This is more than the \" tres\npeu \" of one arch-bishop who was, true enough, at the sword's point. And of\ncourse you are a Christian too. \"\nStavrogin spoke rapidly, his fluent words now serious, now derisive.\n\" Thy cross, oh I,ord, let me not spurn, \" Tikhon muttered in a strange,\npassionate whisper, bowing his head low.\n\" Is it possible to believe in the devil without believing in God ? \" Stavro-\ngin laughed,"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.12", "texte": "\" That's easily possible. It's done right and left. \" Tikhon lifted his\neyes and smiled.\n\" And I am sure that you find such a faith more respectable than complete\nlack of faith. .. \" Stavrogin burst out laughing.\n\" On the contrary, complete atheism is more to be respected than easy in-\ndifference, \" answered Tikhon, with visible gaiety and simplicity of mind.\n\" Aha ! so that's what yon think\n\" The complete atheist stands on the penultimate step to most perfect faith,\nno matter whether he mounts the step or not, but the indifferent person has no\nfaith whatever except a bad fear, and that but rarely, and only if he is sensitive. \"\n\" H'm. . . Have you read the Apocalypse ?\"\n\" Yes. \"\n\" Do you remember : ' And imto the Angel of the Church of the Laodiceans\nwrite\n\" I remember. \"\n\" Where is the book ? \" Stavrogin grew strangely excited and alarmed, his\neyes wandering over the table in search of the Bible, —\"I want to read you. . .<\nDo you have a Russian translation ? \"\n\" I know the passage. I remember it, \" said Tikhon.\n\"Do you know it by heart ? Say it. . . \"\nHe dropped his eyes quickly, leaned his wrists upon his knees, and impatiently\nprepared to listen. Tikhon began reciting, recalling word after word :\n' And unto the Angel of the Church of the write. These things\nsaith the Amen, the faithful and true Witness, the beginning of the creation of\nGod : I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert\ncold or hot. So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I\nwill spew thee out of my mouth. Because thou say est, lam rich and increased\nwith goods and have need of nothing; and knowest not that thou art wretched,\nand miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked. . . ' \"\n\" Enough ! \" interrupted Stavrogin. \" You know, I love you very much.\n\" And I love you, \" replied Tikhon in a low voice.\nStavrogin grew silent, and again fell to musing. This occurred fitfully,\nnow for the third time. He was almost in this state when he said to Tikhon,\nI love you', at least his words surprised himself. More than a minute\npassed.\n\" Do not be angry, \" whispered Tikhon, touching Stavrogin's elbow lightly\nwith his finger and appearing to grow timid himself.\nThe latter started and frowned fiercely. \" How did you know that I was\nangry ? \" he said rapidly. Tikhon wanted to say something but Stavrogin, sud-\ndenly overcome with inexplicable agitation, interrupted him:"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.13", "texte": "\" Why did you suppose that I must be angry? Yes, I was. You're right.\nAnd precisely because I told you I loved you. You're right. But you are a coarse\ncynic, you have a low opinion of human nature. There might have been no anger\nif it had been anyone but me. However, we're not dealing with anyone else, but\nwith me. And still you are an odd fellow and a saintly fool. .. \"\nHe grew more and more irritable and Strangely enough, he did not choose his\nwords : \"Listen, I don't like spies and psychologists, at least such as pry into\nmy soul. I don't invite anybody to see my soul. Ido not need anybody. I\ncan get along alone. You think I'm afraid of you.\" He raised his voice and threw\nhis head back defiantly. \"You are fully convinced that I have come to disclose\na ' terrible ' secret to you. And you are waiting for it with all the monkish\ncuriosity of which you are capable. Well, then, let me tell you that I will disclose\nnothing, no secret whatever, because I can very well get along without you. . . \"\nTikhon looked at him firmly : \"You were struck by the fact that the Lamb\nloves the cold ones better than the lukewarm ones, \" he said. \"You do not want\nto be merely lukewarm. I ligve a foreboding that an extraordinary, perhaps\nfearful intention is taking hold of you. I implore you, do not torment yourself\nand tell everything. \"\n\" And you were certain that I had come with a story .\"\n• \"I. . . guessed it, \" whispered Tikhon, dropping his eyes.\nNikolai Vsevolodovich was somewhat pale. His hands trembled slightly.\nFor several moments he stared, motionless and silent, as if coming to a final\ndecision. At length he produced several printed sheets from the side pocket of\nhis jacket and put them on the table.\n\" Here is the pamphlet designed for circulation, \" he said in a breaking voice.\n\" If one man reads it, then you may be sure that I will not conceal it, and all will\nread it. That's the decision. And I do not need you at all, because I have made\nup my mind. But read. . . Don't say anything while you're reading it. Tell\nme everything when you are through. \"\n\" Shall I read it ? \" asked Tikhon, hesitatingly.\n\" Read ; I am composed. \"\n\" No, I can't make it out without my spectacles, the print is small, foreign. \"\n\" Here are the spectacles. \" Stavrogin took them up from the table, handed\nthem to Tikhon and leaned against the back of the divan. Tikhon did not\nlook at him and lost himself in the reading.\n\nFeodor Dostoyevsky\n(Translated from the Russian by Avrahm Yarmolinsky)\n\n(To be continued.)"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.14", "texte": "SINBAD\nJohn Crawford\nHour after hour\nI have walked in the rain . . .\nDark hallway after hallway\nsheltered lovers arm in arm . . .\nKnots of men\nstood in bright saloon-lit doors . . .\nSilhouettes in pantomine\nundressed upon the window-shades . .\nThe city is a patient silence\nwaiting to be born ...\nA grey stage\nfilled with shadows of dancers\ntoo tired to move . ~\nEven my own\nshadow lags at my heels . . .\nI will rest his head on my shoulders\ntrailing his legs over my arm\nand croon him to sleep . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.15", "texte": "Henri Matisse\nDrawing"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.16", "texte": "A CHAMPION IN THE WILDERNESS\n\nWhen The Soil, a radical magazine of art, first pricked through the cement\ncrust of New York City, in December, 1916, there were perhaps a dozen friends\nwho were enough interested to remain on hand and to see that the brash young\ngreenling was not at once flattened under foot. The official bally-hooing that\nwas being blared forth to suck the American public into the sideshow of war\nhad, even at that time, produced a far greater than normal indifference to the\nsubject of a national art. Consequently, the editors of The Soil whose evangeli-\ncal purpose was to fire the national consciousness with the creed of good taste,\nwere obliged to speak at highest pitch to make themselves heard at all.\nAnd they were heard. Five thousand copies of one issue of this twenty-\nfive cent art magazine were sold or subscribed to, and requests for copies eatne\nfrom all parts of Europe, South America, and the Orient.\nBut one art critic only came down from his platform to extend both hands\nardently to The Soil. This was Henry Mcßride of the N. Y. Sun, an honest friend\nof youth. His words are memorable : \" I regard the advent of The Soil as an\nanswer to prayer. .. . right here in our midst —to be exact, at the juncture\nof Forty-second street and Fifth Avenue — a great light appears. I love the new\npublication from start to finish. I wouldn't have a thing in it altered. I consider\nit the most perfect art journal ever seen. . . .For one thing it is ours. It\nis American. It's in line. It's Whitmanic. It's for the open road, and the\nfree-for-all, the pure air, and the hot scuffle. Something will come out of The\nSoil, mark my words. .. . My only fear is that it begins too well. To keep\nup such a pace, or even to produce a second number equally good, would be a\nmiracle. But to the young, God bless them, miracles come easy. \"\nThe miracle was repeated four times. Then the funds gave out and there\nwas no more miracle.\nThe Soil was the personal creation of one man, Robert J. Coady. He died\non the 6th of January, 1921. He gave all his strength to launch The Soil at the\nhistorical period most adverse to such an event, and he never recovered enough\nstrength to begin again. An almost fatal illness reduced his slender store of\nphysical resource. He tried to regain his feet at the count of nine, but his punch\nwas gone. The book of The Soil was closed and on its cover was engraved\nthat phrase of Bert Williams whose art Bob Coady loved \" Never mo. \"\nBecause Bob Coady is dead there is nothing to be hoped for of just the\nunique spirit that made The Soil so brilliantly provocative of new art forms and\nof controversial opinions about them. The Soil was first cousin to the free-"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.17", "texte": "verse movement in America which crystallized in Alfred Kreyinborg's group of\nOthers. That was a magic moment. No one who was touched by the kindling\nbreath will ever forget the joy of it nor cease to regret that a great fiery wind\ndevoured it. It will be worth while some day to review that frail but vital page\nin American literary history. It is especially important now when we are close\nto the event of Coady's death to examine his message in order that we may take\nup those threads laid down by him that may seem worth weaving into the\nmuddled aesthetic pattern of our national art.\nCoady preached all his later years a simple passionate empiricism as the ba-\nsis of an indigenous culture. The soil out of which an American art must grow\nis not homogeneous, it is a compost of vegetation discarded by various racial\ntypes as they strip for the febrile competitive struggle for a livelihood. In Coady's\nvigorous and inimitable language: \"An Englishman invented the Bessemer\nprocess and we built our sky-scraper. A Dane married a Spanish - African, and\nBert Williams sings, 'Nobody'. We've dug into the soil and developed the\nSteam Shovel. We play and we box .. . Our art is, as yet, outside our art\nworld. It's in the spirit of the Panama Canal. It's in the East River and the\nBattery. It's in Pittsburg and Diiluth. It's coming from the ball-field, the sta-\ndium, and the ring. Already we've made our beginnings, scattered here and\nthere, but beginnings with enormous possibilities. Where they will lead, who\nknows ? Today is the day of moving pictures, it is also the day of moving\nsculpture ...\"\nBy \" moving sculpture\" he meant such mechanical wonders as the\nSellers Ten Ton Swinging Jib Crane, locomotive No. 4000, the Industrial Works'\n120 Ton Crane, the Chambersburg Hammer, and the Erie Hammer. All of\nthese were illustrated in the January, 1917, number of The Soil.\nOut of the competitive struggle directed by a centralized capitalism, which\nis one of the principal contributions made by America to economic history,\nthere have emerged an amazing variety of mechanical forms, all useful, some\nbeautiful in themselves, others suggestive of a by-product of real aesthetic impor-\ntance to the detached mind of so modern a thinker as Coady. To his trained\nperceptions these great machines have the same relation to the national con-\nsciousness as the pantheon of gods had to the mind of the Athenian of the Golden\nAge of Greece ; that is, they have been dreamed, planned, and constructed to\nexpress and to augment the greatness of a people.\nThe Chambersburg double-frame steam hammer represents in its operation\nthe welded power of thousands of workmen, and it follows that the design by which\nthis miracle is achieved should be admirable for something more than its utility.\nIt becomes one of the symbols of a national spirit that flourishes in a soil capable\nof nourishing the world."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.18", "texte": "The inceptive dream announced by the founders of the United States, of\ngiving refuge and opportunity to the oppressed dreamers and irreconcilables\nof the older countries has undergone a metabolic change. The will to conquer and\nutilize the vast natural resources of the land engulfs in its possessive maw\nall that comes its way of human material capable of moving mountains or put-\nting rivers on leash. The dreamers of Europe, the persecuted, the misunder-\nstood and impoverished, find themselves shanghaied as fast as they arrive and\ncarried away to work in factories and mines where the steam hammers and other\ngigantic inventions are produced.\nProduced by this chain of social-economic phenomena, vitalized by the as-\nsimilated hordes of immigrants, these colossal mechanical forms, Coady believed,\nmust, whether obvious or not to the academicians, be looked to as the most\nrepresentative material for our national art.• The giant locomotive, before\nwhich all normal Americans bow in respect, has been perfectly designed not only\nto puff triumphantly up the heaviest grades of the Rockies but to reveal as well\na degree of symetry of mass and grace of line that should fertilize the receptive\nmind of the artist.\n\" Taste, \" said Coady in The Soil, \" would alter the Steam Hammer. It\nwould change a handle here or a bolt there, it would straighten this line or curve\nthat, it would vary textures and show a delight in the meeting of planes—\nand if it equalled the creative construction of the hammer we would have a\nmighty art. \"\nThe artists of America, according to the gospel of Coady, have no reason\nto mourn the desolation of Parnassus nor the ruined fanes of the gods on Olympus\nwhen they, the artists, have the steam hammer, the traveling crane, and the mo-\ngul of the rail. Thus the dilettante and the \" ism \" -atic suffered harsh shocks\nwhen they curiously opened the fresh pages of The Soil and saw reproduced as\nprototypes of the new American art these photographs of the mechanical triumphs\nof American genius.\nThere were other shocks for these favored gentlemen. There was the ar-\nticle by Charlie Chaplin on comedy (outraged cries from the devotees of Meredith !);\nthe interview with Bert Williams in which he traces the genesis of his inimitable\ncharacterizations of the shiftless negro ; the notes on the art of window dressing,\nand prestidigitation ; the Nick Carter serial; and the panegyrics on the beau-\nties to be seen on the ball field and in the prize ring. i\nTo grasp the meaning of these angular intrusions into the sacrosanct book\nof art, we have to question the mind of Bob Coady where it still lives in the me-\nmories of those who understood him. And the answer is, that it was to the play-\nspirit, the humor and sport of the American people, rather than to the attenuated\nand diluted imitations of continental schools of art, that he looked for the sug-"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.19", "texte": "gestive cultural factors that await the developing hand of the artist. Directly\nrelated to the wonders of our industrial life is the obverse and lighter side supplied\nby our recreative Held, the games and amusements created by the skilled athletes\nand humorists who, challenged by the grim, grooved, work-a-day back-ground\nof toil, burst forth in grace of movement and fertility of inimitable invention.\nBob Coady knew intimately the amusement side of his New York ; he\nread the cartoons and sporting pages of the yellow sheets ; he prowled about lower\nThird Avenue, preferring the serials and slapstick comedies of the smelly little\nIvast vSide movie theatres to the pretentious musical and feature programs of the\namusement places of Broadway ; he was a devotee of the old Chinese theatre\non Doyer street, and spoke with bitter regret of its passing; he delighted in the\nlive Seurats and L,autrecs which he found in the smoky galleries of the burlesque\nhouses on 14th street; he rediscovered the Comedie Humaine amongst the em-\nployees and patrons of MacCanns restaurant on Myrtle Avenue, Brooklyn ;\nhe sought the glory that was Greece on the Polo grounds, and in Madison Square\nGarden on fight nights ; and in the playful colorings of his classes of negro children\nhe found the crude beginnings of a more representative art than was ever hung\nin the National Academy. In short, he saw hope of the rudiments of a truly\nAmerican art only in the grim earnestness of industry and the childlike earnest-\nness of sport and humor, and he aggressively refused to compromise the\nprinciples of his taste by liking anything that was not spontaneously true to the\nnative spirit of America.\nHis mind was too well balanced for him to indulge in excessive judgments,\nhe did not credit the work of the cartoonists, sport-writers, and athletes, with\nthe achievement of any permanent value. With a true sense of proportion he\nsaw these men as scooping the raw material of art out of the soil, and his keen\neyes noted in the shapeless handfuls the gleams of pure gold. How cordially\nhe would have praised the partnership of John Alden Carpenter and Adolph\nBohm in creating the Krazy Kat ballet. It is a perfect answer to his message.\nHe was struck by no irrelevancy in asking Charles Chaplin to dignify the\nfirst number of The Soil with an article in which he explained the sources of his\nait. Lor had not Chaplin been developed as world artist in the mechanics of\nthe latest American invention, the moving picture ?\nDoes not window-dressing represent a fineness of taste that is responsive\nto the competitive conditions of American salesmanship ? An example of the\nwork of Mr. Gilbert McGowan, an artist in this line, was shown in one number\nof The Soil and beneath the illustration was appended a statement of the artist's\nprinciples. On the opposite page to this exhibit which, in Mr. McGowan's words\nwas intended \".to attract attention to the fact that a hat can be made to feel\nas light as a feather, \" (surely a problem that relates to art) there was shown in"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.20", "texte": "damning contrast a particularly muddy abstraction by a young modern painter\nwith an even muddier explanation of the artist's intentions beneath.\nThis delightfully effective use of contrast was Coady's favorite weapon for\nfighting the abstract, the derivative, and the spineless in American art. Read-\ners who could not agree with him found humor in his original and pugnacious\nmanner of illustrating his thesis. There was a good laugh as well as an impor-\ntant point in his juxtaposition of cuts of the Maine monument (which fronts Co-\nlumbus Circle in New York) and the massive Chambersburg double-frame steam\nhammer, with below a line running across both pages, \" Which is the monu-\nment ? \" On another page appeared a messy confusion of what looked like\nhen-tracks which was signed, \"New York by So-and-So\" (a well-known, at\nthat time, modern painter). On the reverse side of the page was a newspaper\nphotograph taken from the Woolworth tower in which the hard lines of the build-\nings converged toward the earth in an amazing effect of motion, signed\n\" New York by Brown brothers. \"\nHis commentary on the school of \" cosmic synchromy \" was an illustration\nof an example by the founder of the school to which was attached a vague and\nlabored footnote, while facing it was a photograph of an egg, placed and lighted\nwith consummate taste, with a title reading, \" Invention — Nativity, by A,\nChicken, ' Cluck, Cluck ', A. Chicken \". More words might have been used in just\nderision without even approximating the destructive effect of this deadly parallel.\nAs for the Nick Carter novel which began running in the first number\nof The Soil, Coady granted that conventional literary opinion might pick\nflaws in the style of these hastily written commercial products, but he\nstoutly contended in a foreword to the serial that as an example of straight\nand swift narration the dime novel has not been surpassed. And further, that\nin variety of types taken from the streets, all crisply characterized in the mini-\nmum of words, these stories were an unique contribution to American fiction.\nThere were those to whom Coady was merely an eccentric who pawed in\nand picked from the litter of rubbish discarded by conservative critics and foist-\ned these examples solely to annoy and defy the academic mind and to win the\napplause of the untutored crowd. Coady made mistakes in judgment, and he\nquite often committed an injustice, but always his aim was.to attract attention\nto the power and beauty that distinguished the crude cultural products rooted\nfrom American soil and given in a more or less raw state to the masses who\ndevour the newspapers and throng the burlesque houses and the Polo Grounds.\nSt. Paul took the orthodox Jewish church to task for overlooking the spiritual\nfact that the kingdom of heaven is within the individual bosom. Coady was\nmoved to a like impatience. He met few in his life who thanked him for pointing\nout the patent truth that the beauty sought for by the artist resides in the near"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.21", "texte": "and familiar facts of human life, and that art is a natural function which operates\nwhen the individual is charged to bursting with an enthusiasm for living.\nBy acting on these principles the comic cartoonist becomes the most success-\nful graphic artist of the day. He picks out the prevailing characteristics of\nthe average man, his naive innocence of culture and his good-natured passivity\nto circumstances, and adding a touch and a twist of exaggeration the artist gives\nback to the average man the privilege of laughing at himself while thinking, if\nhe has to make peace with his vanity, that it is his neighbor whom the drawing\nresembles. Thus come forth the troop of figures, the Abe Kabibbles, the Pas and\nMas, the Jiggs, from whom students of manners and men of uture generations\nwill learn vastly more than from the works of our academies.\n\" Who has seen the Battery ? Who ? \" \" Ingres ? Poussin ? Lorraine ?\nOh, no, these are the days of cosmicalities. \"\n\" Why no photos of tugs ? Why ?\" \" Exhibition of one hundred Claude\nLorraines. East River. Every morning. \"\nThese and other snappy footnotes shot out from blank spaces of The Soil,\nso placed and phrased that they hit the mind with the sting of a left jab or a right\nhook. Every New Yorker, transient as well as rooted, knows the blazing win-\ndow displays of the Monroe clothing shops at Broadway and 42nd street. How\nmany of these millions knew until Coady told them in The Soil that. \" Here is\nan exhibition of pictures hung in ' visible order' inj:he midst of a real ' Battle of\nLights'. The. simplicity of the commonplace means and the direct and positive\nresults obtained make one think that Dauinier would have done it in about the\nsame way and that our modern geniuses could learn a lot from this remarkable\nexample of common sense.''\nAs an art critic Bob Coady was a rare example of the successful lighter, the\nboxer-slugger. He loved to give punishment and he was ready to take it if thereby\nhe could land the damaging punch. He fought for the love of fighting, and he\nhit for love of hitting. And he sometimes hit the wrong person, and at other\ntimes he hit too hard. He was a good hater because he was a great lover of the\ntruth. He was what is known by the timid, the incurious, and the smug, as an\nextremist. But what it costs in nerve and brain and blood to take a post out of\nhailing distance of most of one's fellows, to lift there a banner and to wait for the\nwind to fling it out, no one can know who hugs his fireplace and makes but a\nphantom dissent to the opinion of those in collective authority.\nBob Coady was never knocked out. He dropped h\\ the ring, exhausted by\nhis dauntless assaults upon his inert and massive foe. Who daresjput on the\nshoes and gloves of this dead champion and take his fighting place in the wilder-\nness of age ?\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.22", "texte": "SILENCE\nIn the vast magnolia of silence\nthe spirit swoons like a bee,\nweary of urging its wings\nthrough the day :\nuntil the flower\nshatters upon its slender stem,\nleaf following leaf\nunto the rumorous earth.\n\nTHE CARNIVAL\nAnd on the morrow of the carnival,\nwhen the fine coloured silks,\nthe subtle hose\nlie flaccid on the floor,\nand the broken mask is tossed away,\nwith the withered roses :\nmelancholy !\nugh ! melancholy !\nSo too the mask of youth\nwe wore on shining morns\nfalls from our faces\nwhen the music stops\nand the dancing ends.\nWe see ourselves within the glass\nwithout a mask :\nthe carnival is ended."}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.23", "texte": "IN HOSPITAL\nSince tonight I must die\nwhy do they keep the window open,\nso that the April air\nflows in from the mountains,\nand why do they place by my bed\nthis vase of spring violets ?\n\nPOOR DEVILS\nEdward Storer\nO lovers what is the best you find\nin love,\nwhen your eyes are wide with joy\nand your breath beats\nirregularly like those\nnear to death ?\nWhat is the best life's highest hour can give ?\nOblivion,\na moment's oblivion."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.24", "texte": "AT THE ANTIPODES OF UNITY\n\nCHAPTER I.\nOf the Itinerary to the Latitudes of the Sky.\nAfter having weighed anchor, we left Earth to enter that ocean of solar light\nwhich is our respirable atmosphere. Having reached its extreme limits we were\nembroiled in the rapids of the ozone region. We were going so fast that we could\nnot estimate our speed, and we seemed to be standing still. The Earth was not\nvisible in our wake, and ahead of us the stars no longer existed. Finally we made\nthe great dive through empty space, splashed all about with star-foam. We\ntacked before the Great Bear for seven centuries by the clock, passing often under\nblack rainbows ; then, having doubled Cape Orion, we pointed straight for the\nSouth which is the North of the Sky.\nWe fished for strange interstellar beings which made us gasp with aston-\nishment, but their exquisite flesh regaled us and was a welcome addition to the or-\ndinary food of the crew. Everybody was in good spirits and excellent health.\nFollowing the example of our men, I shook off the lethargy which had gripped me\nat the unexpected success of our departure. I gave orders to hoist our. great\ngolden flag with its arms of Human Passion, and looked out of a porthole. Here\nis what I saw when my spirit emerged from the goose-flesh covering it.\nCHAPTER II.\nOf the Eel ; and of the Sponge which is the bottom of the Sky.\nBehind the Milky Way, there is an eel, or a kind of serpent of the Sky.\nHe feeds on the suns which abound in the mud of the depths. His eye is like\nthe four-leaf clover of space, and at the end of his tail, like rattles, worlds in erup-\ntion mark the time. From each of the scales he sheds there falls a comet. And\nthe digestion of this being is Light. He is caught, like an earthworm in a root,\nin the base of a sponge which he gnaws and which almost entirely hides him.\nEach pore of this sponge breathes and moans like a human gestation. This sponge\nis Sponge of Darkness, Tuft of Tongues, Organ of Origins. As a brain in a skull,\nit molds itself in the first form. It is the simplest, the most elementary specimen\nof a family of inverted, unqualifiable and inadmissable creatures dwelling at the\nAntipodes of Unity."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.25", "texte": "CHAPTER III.\nOf Musical Instruments.\nEvery morning a transparent membrane spreads over the bottom of the\nsky. Whenever an eyelid opens, a bud of an anemone's flesh unfolds, a grain\nof sand or a sun opens to life, a fly, a human being, an animal or a plant quivers,\nor any force begins its career — this ultra-sensitive membrane vibrates,\nreceives the sound, repeats it, and amplifies it with a tremendous detonation.\nAt once the Mountain of the Waters which occupies all the East of space collapses\nand flows over the Mountain of Salt which is in the WTest. Circulation is estab-\nlished, a seething roaring cyclonc of sounds which go from deep bass to shrill\nsoprano and descend again through dizzy chromatics to bass. At first, nothing\ncan be distinguished ; then one is dazzled by strange reflections, by flashes, by\nglaring light. Shadows pass before your tired eyes ; darting quickly like fish\nin water, they \" tone to white/' Elementary forms take shape, square, oval,\ncircle. They rise to the surface and burst like bubbles. Now the}' all frisk about\nwith the movements of fins ; the square lengthens, the oval takes the form of a\nspoon, the circle becomes a star, mouths, lips, throats ; all leap into space with\na loud cry ; they hasten together from all directions, form into a group, a heap,\nstretch out in the form of the preposterous tongue of a mastodon. This tongue\nsprings, labors, makes unheard of efforts, stutters. It speaks.\nThen a great wind springs up which dissolves it, ravels it like a cloud, and\none sees fall from it violincellos, harps, trumpets, drums, immutable flowers\nwhich take root in each Sphere and which every conscious being longs to gather in\norder to try to re-create the Norm.\nCHAPTER IV.\nOf the great joy of the Stars.\nIn the axis of the mid-day the entrance to a grotto opens and arrests you like\nthe sight of a blue butter-cup ; within, the meticulous progression of the planets\ncan be seen. Nothing is so simple, grand, calm, serene, and there is nothing that\ninduces so great a feeling of happiness. A phonograph disc that turns without\nany mechanism. Chinese music. Up there, in Thibet, the rude gong of con-\ntemplation, the crystal shows the Ring of Venus as the neck of a black giraffe,\na speckled Jupiter, the jungle of Mars, and the Earth as immutable as platinum.\nIn these prairies# the act of breathing is a Horse at liberty."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.26", "texte": "CHAPTER V.\nOf Honey\nIn the river of Time which flows in Space, lazy trout can be seen under the\nthick grasses. The waters are clear and transparent. At the bottom, in between\nthe ultra-violet and infra-red of the refracted light foam the precious odo-\nmagnetic stones of which aerolites are composed. The metals, the rocks, and\nthe roots, the grasses and all the leaves are luxuriant in the extreme. The vege-\ntation is daring. Today in this little valley, while flying over the headwaters of\nthe stream, I hunted with cannon-shot for the huge hybrid butterfly of the Sum-\nmit-of-the-Hours that has isochronous wings of which one is morning, and the\nother evening.\nOur little harpooned bullets could get no grip on his diaphanous wings, and\nnot fewer than twenty-eight of them were fired before one succeded in reaching\nhis body. The beast, mortally wounded, wheeled downward, rose again, made\na sudden turn, then fled with a great beating of wings — dragging us in its wake,\nfor the harpoon held well.\nThe giant insect rose, descended, reared, turned a somersault, and doubled\non his tracks, dragging us along from place to place and giving us a thorough\nshaking-up. So that at times we were above him, in the refulgence of his bright\nhead, at times under him in the black shadow of his belly.\nAt each move we were in. danger of being capsized, and, fearing in case the\ncable should break, to lose our prey, I ordered the gunner to aim a bullet directly\nat the eye of the butterfly. The explosion made terrible ravages. I saw the\ncreature make a great leap forward and then fall, wings taut. We shot down\nbehind him in a spinning nose-dive.\nOur situation was critical. The bark lurched forward. The machinery\nhad stopped. The men tumbled over each other pell-mell. I alone remained up-\nright clinging to the porthole above me, but with a sharp pain in my head. It\nwas exactly at this moment that I realized the folly of our enterprise. My\nmind was cast down by the errors of our researches and the inanity of our scien-\ntific efforts.\nWe were falling into a whirlpool, we were perishing between the night and\nthe morning. No, there are no laws, there are no measures, there are no centers.\nNor is there any unity or time or space. Our reason is a poor little instrument\nof analysis, a coat of mail, ever contracting, which grips and moulds the helpless\nterms of our dialectic, a filter which deprives words of all their meaning, of all\ntheir suggestions, of all their creative power ; a filter, then, which isolates and\nstrips them bare, washes, purifies and rids them of all relationship and of all the"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.27", "texte": "crystallization they retained at their birth, in order to define identically a single\nobject, thus metaphysically, nothing, since all things are bound together inex-\ntricably and \" one could not define a blade of grass without involving the whole\nuniverse. \"\nAnd how can one take apart the universe or define a blade of grass, or\ntruthfully employ the equivocal faculties of the cortex which function as scientific\nreasoning, when science is ignorant of the most primary processes of the universe\nand knows not even to what may be attributed the size of grass's stamen, whether\nto the composition of the soil, to the climatic conditions, the corruption of the\nseed, or the method of cultivation.\nNo, the object does not-exist, its definition may be that of space —- lacking\nall dimensions — and the only thing it gives rise to is brain:fatigue, convention,\ndead-letters (rho and phi). The instinctive lisping of a child summons the whole\nworld to its cradle side where the babe graciously presents to the world its vision of\nreality. Our senses speak and affirm. Physically everything is caprice, folly, habit,\nvice. All is depth. The whole universe is isomeric, that is to say, it is composed\nas a whole and in part of similar elements, which have nevertheless (as a whole\nand in part) different properties, according to how differently these elements are\npresented to the senses.\nHow could I have entrusted my life and that of my comrades to this fragile\nmachine, constructed, as I now confess, out of a blind and groping impulse. Had\nI not labored amid continual incertitude and doubt? I, the scrupulous and diffi-\ndent scientist, the inventor of this extraordinary engine that had transported us\nfar up into the heavens, and of which I was justly proud, I, the master of the uni-\nversal spiral as my fellow citizens called me as a result of my definitive researches\ninto the life of numbers, — was I not an impostor after all ? I had made tabula\nrasa of geometry, trigonometry, of applied and celestial mechanics, of the most\ndetermined and stable scientific laws and theories in order to embark on a most\nchimerical adventure, like a possessed prophet, like a poet who says or pretends\nto say stupidities.\nHow could I have convinced my companions that they ought to accompany\nme ; yes, why did they still have faith in me, when I no longer believed in myself ?\nIt was my prestige, I suppose, my air of a leader, and some dream of a millenium\nto come induced by my intellectual brows.\nAnd when I thought that all was lost, the need of control and direction began\nworking obscurely in me and as usual forced me to act. * I glanced out through the\nporthole. The monster who had us in train had just run aground. We were\nno more than a scant hundred yards away and were at the point of crashing to\nsmithereens. \" Every man to his post! I cried, in a voice of thunder. I\nhad the cables that tied us to our prey thrown overboard. Powerful electric"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.28", "texte": "discharges >et vibrating the bulkheads of repulsite that sheathed our vessel.\nThe enormous turbine at the bow began to turn. By reversing the wheel I suc-\nceeded in straightening out the apparatus and the machine volplaned to an abrupt\nstop about six yards from the giant carcass. Nothing was lost. My men re-\ngarded me with drawn faces, and a nervous convulsion made me smile. But the\nquartermasters cried : \" To work ! \" Already silently operating derricks emerg-\ned from the sides of the ship and began to take the corpse to pieces. My passion\nfor science swept over me again ; I began to catalogue feverishly the parts we\nwere taking with us.\nThis is what we found in the dead butterfly :\n1. The Foaming Ram, which hammered the mutilated head.\n2. The Tropic9 of Cancer, which lay hidden in the breast.\n3. The Twins, astride the antennae.\n4. The Raging Bull, which spouted from the back of the neck.\n5. The Balance in the axis of the wings (We could not take those mam-\nmoth wings on board ship).\n6. The Virgin sleeping peacefully in the sides.\n7. The Scorpion consuming the stomach (it was he who had been speared\nby the harpoon).\n8. The Archer who defended the mouth.\n9. The Raging Lion, seated in the solar plexus.\n10. The Capricorn, in the middle of the thorax.\n11. and 12. The Inconstant Water carrier, and the Fish that swam in the\neyes.\nThe tense legs strained at space, white as a nenuphar.\nIn examining the proboscis, I spilled a drop of honey.\nIvife is pragmatically, manifestly, and for malty space and time, sublima-\nted, molten and perfumed. Honey.\nCHAPTER VI.\nOf the Resting Place of Old Moons;\nof the Wheat and of the Eye.\nWe had just set off again and attained some height, when my men came\nto inform me that a chain of mountains had been sighted directly in our wake.\nI went immediately to the observation tower at the bow of the ship from which\nI discerned geometrical mountain peaks, faintly visible above the horizon. I\nreversed our bearings, and we proceeded slowly in the direction N. N. W.\nSoon we entered -a zone that was purely luminous. We sailed along in the"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "187", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.29", "texte": "midst of sparks, rays, reflections. The irradiations seemed to gather volume, and\nbecame powdery and sonorous. This caused a slight vibration all about our\nshell. One more powerful ray whipped out at us like a bullet, making the whole\nship resound with its impact, and at times we seemed to be rocking on a huge\nswell. The discharges of light succeeded one another more and more swiftly and\nluridly, all originating from the mountains which barred our course. A spectral\nanalysis determined the presence of osmium, and I concluded therefrom that the\nmountains before us were of platinum in its most active state, and that as we\napproached them, the interior shell of the engine, which was of crystal, had caused\nthe polarization of the light as if it were tourmaline. This also explained our\nretarded and increasingly painful progress.\nWe arrived thus after many difficulties before a solid wall, that was slate-\ncolored and highly polished. Its even balconies and eaves presented no irregu-\nlarities. After having surmounted this wall, we discovered farther off another\ninclined facade, also solid and glistening. We traversed this mountain which\nwas a icosahedron block of platinum. Twenty-nine blocks of equal size placed\nend to end formed this chain of mountains, giving the impression of a giant cater-\npillar. The last block was split in the middle, and it was into the narrow\nsinuous canyon of this that we penetrated.\nThe entrance was ornamented with a white metal, which crumbled to pieces\nand whose fragments on the ground offered the attenuated colors of a rainbow.\nFarther off again, enormous concretions emerged from the walls of the\ncanyon and falling at our feet raised clouds of brown, reddish and saffron-colored\ndust. vStill further, at the bottom of a pit, a spring gushed forth at intervals,\nthick and bloody, carrying a kind of warm turf composed of fragments of veg-\netation,'softened crystals, stars of india rubber, pasty stones, animal juices and\nclotted oil. At the end, the passage opened on an immense arena, where in the\nhalf light of an aquarium swam strange apparitions. The shadows of things\ntraversed one another in the wildest disorder; opaque as they were, they penetrat-\ned each other constantly. Strange turmoil! The last moon was mouldering\nin a porous bowl, and scattered all about lay the old moons, dirty and miserable,\ntheir lustre gone, their bellies in air, among the most bizarre objects, such as are\n.usually found together in a heap behind the scenes of a theatre, or as in a brain\nturned inside out. We made a semi-circle of this space before taking the passage\nthat was to lead us out. I ordered air our searchlights to be lit. The old moons\nflared up, wan and ivory-colored ; I had a sudden vision, oh infinitely tragic, of\nthe elephants described 'by Sinbad the Sailor in the Thousand and\nOne Nights, the great white carcasses, the heaps of bleaching bones.\nNow we were approaching the exit. Seen from the inside of the mountains,\nthe radiations trembled on the glittering ground like the lashes of an Before"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "188", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.30", "texte": "us the whole field of vision palpitated and agitated, a golden harvest, the most\nbeautiful wheat-field of light. In passing, I gathered the heaviest stalks and tied\nthem ill a bunch ; here is what I carry away to make ever fruitful the land of men :\nNorth Star called wheat of Szarawka or of Poland : very characteristic and\npeculiar yellow grain, full grown and heavy, with white straw of medium height.\nDifficult to cut but resists frost very well.\nAlgol, called Red of the Valutte : a red grass, having a reddish straw, of me-\ndium height, which resists cutting but ripens quickly, leaving room for hardly\nany weeds. Grows in almost any soil; can be planted up to the end of February.\nAltair, called Japhet or Wheat of God : fine reddish grain, full-grown,ripens\nwell. White straw of medium height, rather strong. May be grown in any soil,\nand sown either in the autumn or the spring. Very early ;no subsidiary growths.\nBetelgeuse, called Good Farmer: Yellow grain, heavy, well liked by millers,\nresists rust. Straw bright yellow and inflexible. Early, no subsidiary growths\nand may be grown in any soil.\nThe Stalk, called Red Scotch Goldenrod: medium sized grain, generally pol-\nished, half-yellow, half red. Very fine straw, long and strong, often colored\nviolet above the stem ; very sturdy, resists frost well and rust, many subsidiary\ngrowths, and late harvest.\nAldabaran, called The Fields : magnificent bright yellow grain, plump and\nheavy. Beautiful white straw, rather long but very fibrous. Does not rust and\nhas many subsidiary growths, but well everywhere.\nRigel, called Carter : yellowish-grey grain, very plump, a little wrinkled.\nWhite straw, long but thick and hard to cut. A few subsidiary growths. Re-\nquires good soil.\nArchimard, called Yellow Beard: red-brown grain, black at the core;\nyellow straw. Brown thick velvety stalk. The most productive of all the varie-\nties. Very sturdy, resists frost and disease. Has the fault of being late.\nThe Southern Cross, called The Reed : white grain; rather plump. White\nstraw, thick and fibrous, with large leaves. The earliest of the square stemmed\nwheat. Ripens well. Should be sown in good soil.\nI had come to believe that we had really been travelling within an eye and\nthat I had been seeing things. Wheat of the brain.\nCHAPTER VII.\nOf the Parturition of Colors.\nWhere are we, everything becomes diffuse, dissolves. The machine groans.\nEach revolution of the propeller is my most intimate thought.\nThe crystal lining of the motor becomes malleable and swells up. The most"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "189", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.31", "texte": "solidly compounded metals separate from each other, and liquids become volatile.\nIt grows impossible to breathe this air. My men are shaken with frightened\nlaughter. I was forced to tie them one by one, to their levers, to bind them to\ntheir posts. Will their automatic gestures suffice to save us ?\nA few moments later, as I made my turn about the ship, the floor weakened\nbeneath my weight, I sank through the deck as if it were of mud. The hardest\nobjects seemed to perspire with the heat. The most luminous spheres became\ncoated with a film. The highly polished corners became rusty, while other sur-\nfaces lost their shine. The phosphorescent clock-faces were extinguished.\nEverything cracks about me. Everything disintegrates, melts, grows faint\nand immaterial.\nI seek refuge in the central cabin, which I had isolated from the rest. I seize\nthe chest which contains the agent, the principle of my machine : the Molecular\nSpiral. L,et come what will! My eye glued to the periscope attached to the\nchest, I observe the perpetual motion of which lam the inventor. Here is the\nspark. One millionth of a second. The spark oscillates, palpitates, lives and\nrevolves in an absolute void, enclosed in a concave hepatite. All about the\nZN-vibrios, which should unite with, decompose, and multiply the spark of ultra-\nwhite incandescence, seem to recoil, saturated; a short circuit makes connection\nimpossible. Everything has ceased to function. The void in the hepatite invades\nall parts of the machine. Everybody, every object, every instrument on board\nis dilated, then shrinks and falls back upon itself, discharging a thousand worm-\nshaped tendrils. The intra-molecular mesh is clearly defined, and the atoms ro-\ntate visibly. My ship opens like the rose of the wind, and closes again like\na capsule. We are about to explode. I can only see now through my brain. I\nmust try to restore the circulation. With my fingers on the keys of the vacuum,\nI succeed in turning away the currents of the void by drawing it toward those\nparts of the engine which serve as vacuum ballasts. Enormous discharges of\nvoid re-establish the co-efficient of density. At this point I am witness to a\nstrange phenomenon. In the return of the flame, the hepatite sizzles and\neverything is filled with smoke. My field of vision is drowned in a\nwhirlpool. A brownish red slowly attacks the screen and pervades it. Then a\ndark red, with a rough surface, wrinkled like seaweed, and formed of films placed\nside by side, appears. Each membrane has upon it a blister which trembles\nand bursts like cooling lava. All of a sudden, the mass of red fucus breaks apart\nin the middle, the films group themselves to right and to left, the blisters become\nmore virulent, and a blue line appears which spreads rapidly and expands toward\nthe top and toward the bottom. This blue extends its branches in all direc-\ntions. It pushes out into the red of the little trembling films, in the form of a\nwedge, like the leaves of the capillary. The blue and red leaves align themselves"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "190", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.32", "texte": "together, one blue with one red and turn about gently until they dissolve. There\nremains nothing save two bean-sliaped spots, one blue and one red, facing one\nanother. One might suppose they were two embryos, one masculine and the\nother feminine. They approach, join, divide and multiply, by cells or groups of\ncells. Every spore is enclosed in a violet net which soon swells out and becomes\nfleshy like a pistil. Little orange lozenges float about on the suface. 'Soon\nthe orange and the violet begin to devour one another. Twigs, branches, trunks\nall tremble, collapse, rise up again. Suddenly the orange blossoms like the flower\nof the gourd. The calyx deepens, and at the bottom two violet pistils tremble on\na red and blue stamen. Everything whirls dizzily from the center to the peri-\nphery. A ball is set up, a ball' of brilliant yellow, looking very much like a fruit.\nThe yellow explodes, causing confetti and multicolored seed to come out in par-\nticles of all sizes and shapes. Then everything falls, as hard as hail, and uni-\nformly green. In the midst of them appear threads and chains and links of\nevery kind. Trunks and branches, knotted, elongated, distorted. Grass, that\nblackens and then turns ashen, only to disappear finally into a thick mist of\nforms that merge into white. The white becomes fixed and frozen. Then there\nis the ultra-white in the shape of a disc, while in the center the spiral functions.\nIts movement is regular. I let' go of the vacuum, and evetything congeals about,\nme. The liquids can be compressed no further. Hard bodies regain their sharp\nprojections, their clean angles. Domestic shapes develop out of each other,\nfamiliar and useful. The machines are singing. The rudder works again. The\nquality of matter is color in space ; in the void it is the motion of falling, and we\nhave industrialized the process. It is the origin of all things.\nCHAPTER VIII.\nOf the Heteroclite.\nAbove and below, the sky grips us everywhere.\nWe sail along in an atmosphere somehow soft, calm, tender. Vague con-\nstellations pass us by like white clouds in summer. Soapy masses rise and fall,\nplunge, slide, and collapse. Everything moves gently. We leave a snowy\nwake behind.\nOur passage becomes slower and slower. Everything thickens. I place\nus somewhere in the Baltic, the Baltic of the Sky. Pearls shimmer softly.\nThere is flying velvet in the air. Wings that whirl about.\nLight as down, the flakes irradiate light.\nNow we are making hardly three knots an hour, pushing as we are thiougli\na strong resistance, against a yielding barrier, attended by raucous bellowing,\nthe agitation of fins, and the roaring of shells."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "191", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.33", "texte": "I believe that we are in an impasse. I long for the first time for the human\nabode that we have left. My men are pale and bloodless, the blue showing under\ntheir skins ; they look at me with haggard eyes. The clock, the clock, turns\nhysterically backward. One thousand years, ten thousand years, a hundred\nthousand years. We are on our way. What have we found ? A giant penguin\nmocks at us as he beats his wings. My index finger is like the beak of a bird\nscratching under a wing, it picks out my wrinkles. The sky is of gelatinous\noil, streaked with yellow, thickened with agate and with clotted grease in a green\nbottle.\nEverything is agitated, opens and closes like ears. Microscopic mouths.\nRound and bulbous objects disappear, come back, unmask themselves, and vanish\nagain in a flash. Gilded balls rise, descend, trace figures. Meditation ? Play ?\nArabesques and designs can be distinguished. A herd of motley-colored horses\ndash by, their feet hardly touching the ground. The coyotes are baying. A\nchimpanzee balances himself on one arm. The palm tree bends. Bevy of but-\nterflies. Covey of birds. A little badger dog. A caterpillar. A mole struts\nlike a peacock.\nAt the laughter of a clown, the frippery is torn. The emerald-color diligence\ndischarges its load. Everything cracks, everythings breaks. Transparent cra-\nters open up and reveal an assemblage of shining kitchen utensils. An Indian and\na blue negro dance about the hearth and juggle with great Spanish onions. An\nostrich egg rolls down to the foot of a slope.\nSheep in the grip of vertigo, turn about in the depths of a funnel. Snowball.\nThe avalanche quarters itself by becoming immobile. A fountain of water gushes\nrigidly from it. Cracks of the whip. Lightning flashes. Blizzard. Forests\ngrow up and die. Sheets of ice fly off like tiles. A woman shakes out her skirts.\nThe arms of a windmill turning. A prodigious landslide, books fall from libraries\nand open up, their leaves fluttering all the way down like sea swallows behind\nus.\nThen everything becomes glazed, murky, thin, like the negative of a photo-\ngraph. Silver bath. Cannonade of mountains. We are caught in the ice-floes\nof the sky.\nHibernation.\nStupefied, I regard the frozen footprints of the Little Bear on the ice. In\nthe middle, there is the hole where the seal of the night comes, to breathe.\nTo escape from the melancholy that is overwhelming me, I plunge myself\ninto the reading of the principal work of Rob Fludd de Fluctibus Armigero :\nTractatus secundus de Naturae Simla seu Technica macrocosmi historia in partes\nundicem divisa. Treatise anno 1618 of the Nobile Oppenheimio, the most com-\nplete treaty on the music of the spheres."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "192", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.34", "texte": "CHAPTER IX.\nOf the Human Mind\nSpringtime.\nWe wallow about on the borders of light. In the distance, behind a sand\ndune, we discover two young suns rolling over one another like two young lions\nat play, knocking one another down, and destroying creation with their strong\nyoung teeth. The four elements reduced to powder become a mane, which their\nfrothing jaws destroy. Everything goes up in sparks, the forests, the mountains,\nand their young claws are whetted on the navel of the universe.\nCHAPTER X.\nOf Woman\nIt is the summer of Berenice. Hair, rope, vines have seized us and raised\nus*to the centre of what dark s}anbolic forest ! The nearest stars are like flow-\ners, and the farthest off growl and bark like jackals and dogs. A monkey is\nleaning against the port-hole of my cabin and I cannot withdraw my gaze from\nthat congested face. Behind us the pure light that we have just left recedes,\ngrows a while, and finally diminishes.\nCHAPTER XI.\nOf the Calendar\nThis is the naked summit of space, the double apex which falls continually,\nthe double mountain of soil that runs through like an hour-glass and is reversed.\nUp there. Earth is right at your door, seems to be quite near. In the winking\nof an eye, one can see the gnarled peasant who leads it, and hear his hoarse voice\nurging the oxen yoked to the heavy plough. The first furrow is traced from one end\nof the sky to the other. The two hemispheres detach themselves. Everything\nturns. We too roll, entrained in the general ruin. Night falls upon us. The\nsoil covers us. The utmost depths of the ocean are emptied upon us.\nShells, fins, a pinioned animal and quartered nobility fall upon us.\nCHAPTER XII.\nOf the Powder of Projection\nWe enter the zone of attraction, of gravitation, and of conjugations, figures\nof melanchofy and monogram for the heart. One would think that they were"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.35", "texte": "microscopic preparations so clearly is the network of nerves and veins sketched\nupon the unripened rondel of the night.\nParabolas. Red balls.\nEverything becomes fresh. The course breaks. It is old age that breathes\nupon us, unexpected, sudden, terrible, like a comet. Is it seven ? Is it four ? We\ncan no longer count on our fingers. My companions whiten from head to foot\nand fall to dust.\n\" Every man to his post! \"\nThere is not even a grinning death's head to mock at me. We are going\nto be agglomerated, digested, reduced to nothing, and thrown to the little fishes\nbehind the sky. I can no longer struggle against decomposition, but lam still\nthe master of our direction. We must return to our point of departure. Perhaps\nI still have the strength to come back to the haunts of men. I make use of a\nlittle vaporizer. The powder of projection transmutes the engine into pure so-\nlar matter. Now nothing can stop our progress ;we are going back to our source.\nAlmost immediately we begin to rise and fall dizzily. We leave behind\nus all the picturesque scenery of the heavens -— the chiefs, the slaves, the bazaar,\nthe tattooing for exportation — to salute as we pass the more familiar celestial\nphenomena which fly by in pairs.\nConstellations in flocks like birds announce better known regions. Here is\nalready the great cataract. lam faint. I have not the strength to land. We\npass through the earth's atmosphere like a meteor. Golden scarab. Zigzag\nin the form of a question mark. Explosion.\n\nBlaise Cendrars\n(Translated from the French by M.J.)"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "194", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.36", "texte": "Henri Matisse\nDrawing"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "195", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.37", "texte": "EPITAPHS\nFor the Friends of Philippe Soupault\nP. S.\nI have been told that there are cities in this world inhabited by men who\ndo not know these names. Old airs, old refrains and jingles are the best re-\nmembrances. Perhaps it would be wisest for us to place the reader on his guard\nagainst any tendency he might have to regard the ensemble of these pages as\nfuneral orations fallen from the pen of a poet.\nMy friends are quite, quite alive. I have simply amused myself (singular\npastime, the reader will exclaim) in believing them dead. I must admit that\nI nourished a secret hope. But my verses were impotent. In reality, all these\npersons bearing such distinguished names are none other than Philippe Soupault.\nI must then thank my friends, in passing, for having suffered themselves to ex-\nist for a brief moment as the reflections of another's personality. They have un-\nderstood even better than I that the fact that I lived near the Morgue was no\nreason for taking me for an undertaker.\n\nARTHUR CRAVAN\nThe vendors of four seasons have all emigrated to Mexico\nOld boxer you are dead out there\nYou don't even know why.\nYou cried out louder than we in the palaces of America\nand in all the cafes of Paris\nYou have never examined yourself in a glass\nYou are hibernating in the hospital\nWhat are you going to do in Heaven old man\nI have nothing more to hide from you\nThe Seine flows before my window\nYour friends are very rich\nI have a mad desire to smoke."}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.38", "texte": "FRANCIS PICABIA\nWhy\ndid you wish to be buried with your four dogs\na newspaper\nand your hat\nYou also requested that there be written upon your tomb\nBON VOYAGE\nYou will be taken for a madman again up there.\n\nTHEODORE FRAENKEL\nIt was a wonderful day when you died\nthe cemetery looked so pretty\nthat hardly anyone could really be sad\nAfter a while it was noticed that you were no longer there\nI do not hear your snickering\nYou are hushed\nor you are shrugging your shoulders\nYou never had the faintest desire to visit Paradise\nand now you don't know where to go\nbut you will only jest about it.\n\nMARIE LAURENCIN\nThe lovely bird in its cage\nis your smile within the tomb\nthe leaves are dancing\nIt is going to rain a long time\nTonight before going out\nI shall put flowers on all the trees for you\nA doe approaches gently\nThe clouds you know are rose and blue."}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.39", "texte": "LOUIS ARAGON\nYour little friends have made a garland for you\nThey have woven you a wreath\nout of all your little lies\nLook I have brought you paper\nand a very good pen\nYou will make poems through all Eternity\nYour guardian angel will console you\nI shall tie the knot of your cravat\nI shall teach you how to smile\nYou have already forgotten me\nGod is much nicer than I.\n\nPAUL ELUARD\nTake your cane and your gloves along with you\nstand straight\nyour eyes closed\nthe clouds of cotton are far away\nand you were gone without bidding me goodbye\nIt rains\nrains\nrains\n\nTRISTAN TZARA\nPhilippe Soupault\n(Translated from the French by Matthew Josephson)\nWho is there\nYou never shook my hand\nThere was much laughter when it was known that you were dead\nWe had so feared that you were eternal\nYour last sigh\nyour last smile\nNeither flowers nor posies\nMerely the little automobiles\nand the butterfly wings ten yards long."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.40", "texte": "Drawing\nHenri Matisse"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.41", "texte": "YOUNG MAN WITH SPECTACLES\n\nI do not wish to describe his minor details : for example that he had blue\nor brown eyes and was somewhat under six feet tall, that he attended Harvard\nUniversity (or Chicago), and that he was the only son of an unimportant lawyer\nin Pennsylvania or Nebraska. This much about him is essential: he was not\nyet twenty-five; he was very serious; he wrote. He claimed that his favourite\nauthors were Shakespeare and T. S. Eliot.\nI met him. . . I think I met him first in Boston at an ephemeral tearoom\nknown as the Common Cupboard. Between those violent sucks at a corncob\npipe which took the place of the'missing punctuation marks, Max Bodenheim\nhad just finished reading a poetic play. There was a. discussion which he —\nWalter, his name was — did not enter. His steel-rimmed glasses had slipped\ndown the bridge of his nose and he stared at us over the top of them ... I met\nhim afterwards at the Albertson farm and at a bookstore in Chicago. Although\nhe lived for a year in New York I saw him rarely, except on occasional Sunday\nmornings when he crossed Washington Square in an old golf suit, his eyes ap-\nparently fixed on other worlds. I never followed his travels. Foster Damon\ncame across him at the Adlon in Berlin ; having found an empty mirror, he was\nusing it dreamily to examine the buttons of his vest. \" A nice boy/' Foster\nadded, \" but colourless, like his eyes.\" Evidently they were the detail by\nwhich people identified him ; they were blue, now that I remember, rather than\nbrown, and watery with too much reading ... I met him in Paris.\nI found him, to be exact, at the Cafe des Deux Magots ; he was just finishing\na beer. \" No, thanks,\" he said, answering an invitation, \" it's all I drink.\nI don't gamble. I steal and lie but Igo to bed early. Sexually I'm as spot-\nless as a boy hero out of Horatio Alger, (i) You might call it the new puri-\ntanism. . . If a poet wants to express American life, he has got to live it first.\nHe should live it, preferably, in Paris, where he can have some perspective on\nhis own actions. He should shave with a Gillette, compose on a Corona, and\nbe clean mentally and bodily ;in all respects the Arrow collar boy. It's worth\ndoing .. . Our age and nation are extraordinary subjects for literature. New\nforms. New movement. An intellectual ferment which puts this period on\na par with that of Marlowe and Drake. .. I want to jump smack into the middle\nof it. I want to be a mechanic and set flywheels rotating at the touch of a but-\nton. I want to write poems that have the vigour of advertising copy.\nHis spectacles had slipped down again and he was staring into his glass vaguely,\nas if in negation of this factitious energy.\n\n(i) Walter exaggerated; lie had never read Horatio Alger."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.42", "texte": "* *\nWhen I was in Normandy lie sent me a letter. \" I want you to join me\nin founding a new literary school. It will exist in the Fourth Dimension, and\nwill describe the time factor in motion and measurement. . . Up till this time\nArt has expressed only the motion of the object. The curious effect that is\nattained when the observer himself is moving ; the sort of impression that we\ngain from so common an experience as looking out the window of a streetcar,\nhas never adequately been expressed. . . Therefore let us found a new litera-\nture to describe these curious effects : double motions and triple motions, as\nwhen several trains pass each other in a subway ; an express crawls past a local\nwhile the posts between them stride back tremendously. Sounds that drop\nthiough several octaves and die when your train moves away from them. Land-\nscapes unrolling like a reel of film. The dramatic relation of cogwheels to one\nanother. . . We shall found a new school on this basis. We shall call it The\nCourve, or better, just Courve — nobody uses names with ' the ' today. .\nHe went on to elaborate the idea. He suggested that the poetry of the school,\ninstead of being published, should be exhibited. Wre should scratch our poems\non the glass of revolving doors, or paint them on slowly rotating belts, or on\nthe stationary banister of a moving stairway ; anything, as he said, to aid in\nexpressing their motion,\nWhen I returned to Paris, I asked him about Courve. \" It's dead and\nburied/' he said. \" I found that some of the Futurists had been doing just\nwhat I wanted to.\" \" But it was an amusing idea ; why didn't you go ahead\nwith it anyhow ? \" He thought the question unnecessary. \"It wouldn't\nhave been original. I want to preserve my own personality \".(i) In my opin-\nion his acquaintance with the work of Marinetti was preventing him from express-\ning his own personality, but I did not tell him so ; it was no use.\n*\n* *\nAfterwards I came to believe that his conversation with Stewart Mit-\nchell must really have affected the development of his ideas. Certainly the\ntwo were each other's opposites. Mitchell has the quality of being a little\ndetached from time; he is a phenomenon which might have occurred in any year\nsince the middle of the seventeenth century. Walter, on the other hand, dates\nbelonging definitely to the generation which fought the last year or two\nof the war, but not the first. Normally he would have little sympathy with\n\n(i) From the way Walter uses the words ' personality ' and-' originality ' he evidently\nbelieves they are synonymous."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.43", "texte": "Mitchell, and their dialogue was due solely to the chance which threw them\ntogether, after the Opera, on the back platform of an autobus.\nThey talked shop. \" Just now the only quality which interests me in\na poem,\" said Walter, \" is its geometrical construction : whether it is plane\nor solid, circular or conical; whether or not its balance is perfect; whether it\nends at a given point or proceeds, like parallel lines, into infinity. Take Eliot\nfor example. To me the charm of his poetry is the fact that it is written in\ntwo planes : one the plane of quotidian life and the other a region of utter\nfable.\" Very softly he began to quote:\nPhlebas, le Phenicien, pendant qitinze jours noye\nOubliait les oris des mouetles et la houle de Cornouaille,\n\" I think sometimes that artistic beauty is nearly related to mathema-\ntics. ..\" At this point he stopped suddenly, Mitchell said, as if he had unin-\ntentionally introduced the subject of sodomy to a Cambridge tea-party. \" I\ntry to keep away from aesthetics. The field would be fascinating for me,\nbut if . . . ever I entered it, I should be dead as a. poet. . . And anyhow there\nare no general principles ; I try to treat each new work as a new problem. Once\nyou begin to philosophize, you cease to be an artist.\" \" Why ? \" asked Mitchell.\nWalter waited some time before replying. One could watch several an-\nswers quiver in turn on his lips, Mitchell told me ; replies which would show\nthe eternal separateness of the critical and the creative instincts ; vague mem-\nories of Whistler's Ten O'Clock, the conversation of his own group, and the\nDada Manifesto. One man knew them just as well as the other, and Mitchell\nwas grateful that he did not repeat them. Instead, Walter seemed to be\nthinking out the problem for himself, and it was a long time before he arrived\nat any solution. Finally, \" Damned if I know,\"he said.\nMitchell, unlike his custom, pressed the argument. \" You seem to think\nthat a wall exists between criticism and creation, and that you must be either\non one side or the other ; as if you were in Belfast and somebody put a revolver\nto your head and asked whether you were Protestant or Catholic. Personally\nI can see no such definite distinction, nor could I ever decide where creation\nended and criticism began ... The same with art and aesthetics; their bor-\nders are indefinite. When Gourmont or Mallarme originated an aesthetic (he\nchose names which Walter would respect) they did not cease from that moment\nto be artists ; in fact their art is dependent on aesthetics. So is all other art;\nsome poets or painters think out a system for themselves, and some are con-\ntent to borrow ... \"It was Mitchell's station and he jumped down. Walter\ndid not even see him go ; his eyes had drifted into the vacancy of their\nusual stare."}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.44", "texte": "* s\n* *\nIt was about two weeks later when I saw him, towards midnight, striding\ndown the Boulevard St. Michel and looking deeply into the face of every one\nwho passed, as if he had something very important to say. A certain young\nwoman whom we all knew by sight, for she was attached to that particular\nblock of sidewalk like a serf to the land ; this certain Magdalene misunderstood\nhis gesture, and made some remark to him, at which, even under the dim\nlight, I could see him flushing. Two seconds later, he caught sight of me and\nhurried up, his lips trembling with unuttered speech. I was cruel enough to\norder a drink before I let him talk ; from the nervous way he gulped at it I\ndo not think he noticed what it was.\nHe spoke much more rapidly than usual. \"If I were a tyrant I'd hang\nevery writer ten years older than myself. Theirs is the generation which\ncarried to extremes this talk about modernism in literature, as if nobody ever\nwrote before Ibsen. They set about deliberately to destroy every literary\ntradition, and being most of them ferocious communists, they talked as if\nliterature was each man's private property. They made originality the highest\nvirtue. Since a child has infinitely more chance of being original than any\neducated man, their finest poetry was written by a little girl of nine. They\nare our schoolmasters in literature, but none of them ever told us that prose\nbegins with a good sentence, and poetry with the ability to write a heroic\ncouplet. I'd hang them all.\" He took a simultaneous gulp of air and cognac.\n\" They are afraid of ideas. They do not find enough originality in an\nidea. It can occur to several people at once, and after it has been expressed\nit belongs to the whole world. A man's sensations, on the other hand, are\nto some extent his private possession. That is why this generation of writers,\nwhich values originality above all other virtues, sacrifices ideas to .sensation, (i)\nBut you cannot build a literature on individual sensation alone.\nHe continued, speaking more and more rapidly and leaving hardly a\nnoticeable pause between his sentences. \" Art is not individual property, it is\na function of the race, it is a perpetually unfinished edifice to which each\nman adds one stone and passes on: a museum to which each artist contributes\none picture: it is the sum of the ideals of a race which is wThy the art of past\nages should be preserved and why, being dangerous, it should be destroyed. . . \"\n\n(i) Note how Walter's attitude lias changed in the last month. He now believes\nthat, like psycho-analysis, originality is only a contemporary catchword. In support\nof his new opinion he might, if he were better read, have called attention to the fact\nthat the word itself occurs rarely in the critical literature of the eighteenth century, and\nalmost never in the seventeenth. At that time originality was considered a vice."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.45", "texte": "He was out of breath and .stopped for a moment, although he still preserved\nthe illusion that I was listening to him. \" I know that these statements are not\noriginal. That is why they please me. I feel that when I make them I am\nsharing in the thought of a whole civilization ; that the nature of my remarks\nhas been absolutely determined by men who were no ancestors of mine and\nwho died a thousand years ago ; you might say that I was dizzy with the idea\nof causation.\" From this time on he spoke in a lower voice, as if to himself,\nso that I could hear only detached words : \" Determinism .. . mathematical\nproportion. . . the arts are not one but many ... purgation ... integral elegance .. .\neach man deposits .. .\" He rose and left me, staggering in his intellectual\necstasy as if he had drunk too much, and probably he had.\n*\n* *\nAs Walter stumbled home his brain was still deliciously crowded with\nideas. His work, his life, his environment seemed infinitely logical, and bound\neach to each by eternal causes. He tried to distinguish and formulate these\ncauses. He felt that his effort was utterly disinterested ; he would never be\nable to sell his ideas or even to make copy out of them, and for that reason\nhe invested them with a special value. But they evaporated little by little\nand left him with only the sensation of having given them birth ; it was still\nan ecstasy, but of a different order. Finally his consciousness reduced itself\nto a few words ; words which he had so fully clothed with a personality that they\nmight have been real people walking down the corridors of his mind. \" Art. . .\npurgation .. . method .. . art \" : they recurred rhythmically and grouped\nthemselves into lines :\nArt is a common method of purgation\na spiritual steaming of the bowels\nand each man comes, deposits, passes on\npasses on\nand then is heard no more. It is a noise\nmade by an idiot, full of sound and fury,\nsignifying nothing nothing\nDecidedly he could get no further with it; he undressed heavily and fell\ninto bed. As he lay there gradually dozing, the words to which he had attached\nso much value continued their parade through his mind : \" Art is the mathe-\nmatics of the flesh. . . a carnal harmony, which being attained .. . leads us\nbehind the curtain of the flesh ... to float across a limitless sea of light .. .\namong impersonal forms ... a moment logical and white .. . and white and\nlogical... a moment. .\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "204", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.46", "texte": "THE LAY OF MALDOROR\n\n.(Further Selections from Second Canto)\nI sought a soul which was like my own and could not find\none. I ransacked the corners of the earth, my persistence was use-\nless. Yet I could not remain alone. I needed someone who approved\nof my nature ; I needed someone who had the same ideas as myself.\nIt was morning ; the sun was rising in all its splendour on the hori-\nzon, and there to my eyes a young man rose also whose presence\nengendered flowers on his path. He approached me and offering\nhis hand: \" I have come to you who seek me. Praised be this happy\nday. \" But I : \"Go away ; I have not called you : I do not need\nyour friendship... \" It was evening ; night began to spread the black-\nness of her veil over nature. A beautiful woman, whom I could hard-\nly see, also spread over me her enchanting influence, and looked\npitifully at me ; still, she dared not speak to me. I said : \" Come\nnear, so that I may clearly see your features for at this distance the\nstarlight is not strong enough to illumine them. \" So with a humble\ngait and lowered eyes, moving towards me, she trod the grassy\nsward. When I saw her : I see that goodness and justice have\nmade their abode in your heart; we cannot live together. Now,\nyou admire my beauty which has agitated more than one person ;\nbut sooner or later, you will repent of having devoted your love to\nme ; for you do not know my soul. Not that lam ever unfaithful.\nShe who gives herself to me with so much abandon, so confidingly,\nto her do I give myself ; but get well into your head so that you may\nnever forget it ; wolves and lambs do not make eyes at each\nother. \" What did I need then, who with so much disgust rejected\nwhat was finest in humanity ! What I needed I could not have said.\nI had not then got used to making myself, by means of methods re-\ncommended by philosophy, an exact account of the phenomena of"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "205", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.47", "texte": "my spirit. I sat down 011 a rock near the sea. A ship had just cram-\nmed full sail on to keep off that shore, an imperceptible spot had ap-\npeared on the horizon and impelled by the storm, approached grad-\nually, rapidly growing in size. The tempest was about to com-\nmence its attack and the sky had already darkened, becoming a black\nnearly as hideous as the heart of man. The vessel, a huge warship,\nhad cast all its anchors, that it might not be swept on to the rocks\nof that coast. From the four cardinal points the wind whistled fur-\niously and tore the sails to shreds. Thunder-claps burst amid light-\nning flashes, but could not surpass the noise of lamentations which\nwere heard on the foundationless house, moving sepulchre. The\nbillowing of these aqueous masses had not succeeded in parting the\nchains of the anchors, but their thuds had opened a water way in\nthe sides of the vessel. Huge breach; for the pumps sufficed not to\nthrow out the quantities of salt water which, like mountains, frothing\nfell upon the bridge. The imperilled vessel fires its distress gun\nagain and again, but sinks slowly... majestically. He who has not\nseen a vessel sink amid the hurricane, the intermittent lightning,\nand the most profound darkness, while those it contains are over-\nwhelmed with that despair already known to you, does not know\nlife's possibilities. In the end a universal cry of immense anguish\nescapes from the flanks of the vessel, and the sea redoubles its fear-\nful attacks. It is the abandon of human forces which give cause\nto the vent of this cry. Each wraps himself in the mantle of resig-\nnation and puts his fate back into the hands of God. They hang\nback like a flock of sheep. The imperilled vessel fires its distress gun\nagain and again, but sinks slowly... majestically. Throughout the\nwhole day the pumps have been working. Useless effort. Night\nis come, implacable and dense, to crown the gratuitous sight. Each\ntells himself that once in the water he will be unable to breathe; for,\nas far back as he can remember, he cannot call to mind any fish as\nancestor ; but he exhorts himself to hold back his breath as long as\npossible, that he may prolong his life some two or three seconds; that\nis the vengeful irony he would direct at death... The imperilled ves-"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "206", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.48", "texte": "sel fires its distress gun again and again... but sinks slowly, majes-\ntically... He does not know that .the ship in sinking causes a mighty\nbillowing of the waves about themselves ; that the slimy ooze is\nmixed with the troubled waters and that a force from below, reac-\ntion of the tempest which works its ravages above, makes the ele-\nment shift suddenly and nervously. Thus, despite the stock of sang-\nfroid he plucks up in advance, the about to be drowned man should\non longer reflection consider himself happy if, in the whirlpool of the\nabysm, he prolongs his life one half of an ordinary breath (to leave\na good margin). Therefore it will be impossible for him to defy\ndeath, his supreme desire. The imperilled vessel fires its distress\nguns again and again... but sinks slowly... majestically. It's an\nerror. It no longer fires its distress guns, it does not sink. The\nnutshell is completely engulfed. O heavens ! how can one live\nafter having experienced such intense pleasure ! It has been given\nme to witness the death pangs of many of my fellows. Minute by\nminute I followed the vicissitudes of their agonies. Now the bel-\nlowing of some old woman, mad with fright, led the market. Now\nthe yelping of a baby at the breast prevented one from hearing the\ncaptain's orders. The ship was too far off for me to perceive dis-\ntinctly the moans which the storm brought me, but I approached\nwith my will and the optical illusion was complete.\nEvery quarter hour, when some stronger blast of wind producing\nits mournful notes above the cry of terrified petrels, dislocated the\nvessel in longitudinal cracks, and increased the plaint of those about\nto be offered as holocaust to death, I dug the sharpened point of a\npiece of iron into my cheek and thought secretly : \" They're suffer-\ning now ! \" Thus at least I had some method of comparison. From\nthe shore, I apostrophised them, casting imprecations and menaces\nupon them. I thought they • must hear me. It seemed that my\nhatred, my speech, leaping the distance, annihilated the physical laws\nof sound and arrived distinct to their ears deafened by the moaning\nof the angry sea. I thought they must think of me and breathe out\ntheir vengeance in impotent rage. From time to time I cast a look"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.49", "texte": "at the cities, asleep on solid earth, and seeing that no one suspected\nthat a vessel was about to sink a few miles off the shore, with a crown\nof birds of prey and a throne of aquatic giants with empty stomachs,\nI regained my courage, and hope returned to me ; I was sure then of\ntheir destruction. They could not escape. In an excess of precau-\ntion, I had been to get my double barrelled gun so that, if some cast-\naway tried to avoid an imminent death by swimming to reach\nthe rocks, a ball in the shoulder would smash his arm and prevent\nhim accomplishing his design. At the most lurid moment of the\nstorm, I saw a powerful head hair on end, swimming upon the waves\nwith despairing efforts. It swallowed pints of water, and sinking into\nthe abysm bobbed like a cork. But soon, its hair dripping, it appeared\nagain, and fixing its eye on the shore, seemed to defy death.\nHis coolness was wonderful. A large bleeding wound, caused\nby the point of some hidden reef, scarred his noble and intrepid\nfeatures. He could not be more than sixteen years, for vaguely\nthrough the flashes which lit up the night, the bloom of a peach\nwas to be seen on his lip. And now, he was not more than 200 yards\nfrom the cliff, and I could see him easily. What courage — what in-\ndomitable spirit. How the fixity of his head seemed to defy fate, *\nwhile he vigorously cut the wave, whose furrows opened laboriously\nbefore him... I had already made my mind up ; I owed it to myself\nto keep my promise ; the last hour had tolled for all, and none must\nescape. That was my resolution... nothing could change it... A sharp\nreport was heard and, at the same time, the head sank to appear no\nmore. I did not take so much pleasure as might be thought in this\nmurder, and it was precisely because I was surfeited with continued\nkilling, that I did it again out of mere habit, which was impossible to\ngive up but which only mildly amused me. The senses were blunted,\nhardened. What pleasure could I feel in the death of this human\nbeing, when there were more than a hundred who, once the vessel\nwent down, were about to offer me the spectacle of their last fight\nwith the waves.\nAs for this death, I had not even the attraction of danger, for"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.50", "texte": "human justice, rocked to sleep by the hurricane of this fearful night,\nslept in its house at some small distance. To-day when the years\nweigh me down, I say sincerely and as a supreme and solemn truth\nthat I was not as cruel as was subsequently said among men; but\nthere were times when their ill-will worked its persistent ravages\nthroughout whole years. Then my fury knew 110 bounds, accesses of\ncruelty took me and I became terrible to him who drew near to my\nhaggard eyes, did he at all belong to my race. Were it a horse or\ndog I allowed it to go: did you hear what I just said ? Unfortunately\non the night of this storm I was in -one of these rages, my reason had\ngone (for usually I was just as cruel, but more careful) and what-\never fell into my hands at that time had to perish; Ido not mean to\nexcuse my faults. The fault is not entirely due to my fellows.. I only\nstate what is, while awaiting the last judgment which makes me\nscratch my nape beforehand... What-does the last judgment matter to\nme ! I never lose my reason, as I said in order to deceive you. And\nwhen I commit a crime, I know what I am doing, it is the only thing\nI want to do. Upright on a rock and while the hurricane whip-\nped my hair and cloak, I gazed in ecstacy at the might of the tempest;\nintent upon a ship under a starless sky. In a triumphal attitude\nI followed the vicissitudes of the drama, from the moment when the\nship cast its anchors to the time when it foundered; fatal garment\nwhich drew into the bowels of the sea those who had been clothed\nas by a cloak. But the moment drew near when I was about to take\nan active part in these scenes of agitated nature. When the place\nwhere the vessel had sustained the combat clearly showed that it\nhad gone to spend the rest of its days 011 the sea's ground floor, those\nwho had been swept away with the waves reappeared partly on the\nsurface. They clasped each other round the body, two by two,\nthree by three ; it was the means by which not to save their lives,\nfor their movements became embarrassed and they sank again like\npots with holes in them... What is that army of marine monsters\nthat swiftly cuts the wave ? There are six, their fins are power-\nful and open up a way through the towering waves. Of all these"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "209", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.51", "texte": "human beings waving their four limbs in this hardly stable conti-\nnent, the sharks soon make only an eggless omelette, and divide it accord-\ning to the law of the stronger. Blood mixes with water, and water\nmixes with blood. Their fierce eyes give light enough to the scene of\ncarnage... But what tumult of water is this now, there on the horizon ?\nOne would think a waterspout was approaching. What action !\nI see what it is. An enormous female shark arrives to take her share\nof the goose-liver paste, and of the cold boiled beef.\nvShe is furious, for she arrives starving. A fight begins between\nher and the sharks, in dispute of the few palpitating limbs floating\nhere and there*in silence on the surface of the ruddy cream. To\nright, to left, her jaws snap and give mortal wounds. But three liv-\ning sharks still surround her and she is compelled to turn in all\ndirections to outwit their manoeuvres. With growing emotion,\nunfelt till then, the spectator on the shore follows this new kind of\nnaval battle. His eyes are glued on the female shark whose teeth\nare so strong. No longer does he hesitate, but shoulders his gun\nand with his usual skill at the moment when one of the sharks shows\nitself above a wave, lodges his second ball in its ear. Remain\ntwo sharks who manifest only a stronger, obstinacy. From the top\nof his rock, the man-with the jaundiced saliva throws himself into\nthe sea and swims towards the agreeably tinted carpet, holding in\nhis hand the knife of steel which never quits him. Now each shark\nhas to deal with an enemy. He moves towards his tired enemy and\nbiding his time, buries the keen blade in its belly. The mobile fort-\nress rids herself easily of the last adversary... The swimmer and the\nfemale shark saved by him find themselves together. They regard each\nother fixedly for some moments, and each is interested to find so\nmuch ferocity in the other's expression. They swim circling round,\nbut keep each other well in sight, telling themselves : \" I was mis-\ntaken up till now ; there is someone who is more evil. \" Then with\na common accord, with a mutual admiration, they slide towards\neach other between two waves, the female shark with her fins part-\ning the waves, Maldoror striking the billows with his arms, holding"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "210", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.52", "texte": "back their breaths in profound veneration, each anxious to contem-\nplate his speaking likeness for the first time. At eight yards from\neach other, like two lovers they fall suddenly together without\nany effort and embrace with dignity and gratitude, in a clasp as\ntender as that of a brother and a sister. Carnal desires closely fol-\nlow this amicable display. Two sinewy thighs like two leeches fasten\nclosely to the monster's viscous skin and twine with love about\nthe body of the loved object, while their throats and breasts soon\nform but a glaucous mass like the exhalations of seaweed ; in the\nmidst of the storm which still rages ; by the flash of lightnings, the\nspumy wave for their hymeneal bed, they are swept along by an un-\ndercurrent as though in a cradle and rolling over each other towards\nthe depths of the abysm, cling together again in a long chaste and\nhideous copulation !... At last I had found someone who was like\nme ! From that moment I was no longer alone in the world ! She\nhad the same ideas as myself... I stood before my first love !\nO austere mathematics, I have not forgotten you since the time\nyour learned lessons, sweeter than honey, percolated into my heart\nlike a refreshing flood. Instinctively, from the cradle, I aspired to\ndrink from your spring, more ancient, than the sun, and still the\nmost devoted of your initiates I continue to tread the sacred precincts\nof your solemn temple. There is a void in my spirit, a something\nthick as smoke, but I know how to pass religiously the steps which\nlead to your altar and you have chased away the obscure veil as the\nwind upsets a draughtboard. In its place you put an excessive\ncoldness, a consummate prudence and an implacable logic. By\nthe aid of your fortifying milk, my intelligence has rapidly devel-\noped, and has taken on enormous proportions, in the centre of this\nravishing light which you present prodigally to those who love you\nwith a sincere love. Arithmetic! algebra! geometry! magnificent\ntrinity, luminous triangle. He who has not known you is a mad man !\nHe deserves the greatest torments, for there is ignorant scorn in\nhis foolish carelessness ; but he who knows and appreciates you de-"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "211", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.53", "texte": "sires no more of earth's good things ; contents himself with your\nmagic joys, and transported upon your sombre wings, desires only\n(describing an ascending spiral) to raise himself in easy flight to the\nspherical dome of heaven.\nEarth but shows him illusions and moral phantasmagoria;\nbut you, O concise mathematics, by the vigorous concatenation of\nyour tenacious propositions and the constancy of your iron laws,\nmake a mighty reflection of this supreme truth shine before dazzled\neyes; the very imprint of which is observed in the order of the universe.\nBut the order surrounding you, represented chiefly by the perfect\nregularity of the square, Pythagoras's friend, is still greater ; for\nthe All Powerful has revealed himself and his attributes completely\nin the memorable work which was to make your treasures of theo-\nrems and magnificent splendours sally from the entrails of chaos.\nIn ancient periods, in modern times, more than one great human im-\nagination saw his genius terrified by the contemplation of your\nsymbolic diagrams uncomprehended by the profane vulgar; traced\nupon the burning paper, like so many mysterious signs alive with\nsome latent breath and which were but the startling revelation of\naxioms and eternal hieroglyphics which existed before the universe\nand which will maintain themselves after it.\nIt asks itself, leaning over the precipice of #n inevitable ques-\ntion mark how does it happen that mathematics contains so much\nimposing grandeur and so much undeniable truth : and comparing\nit with mankind, finds only in the latter false pride and lies.\nThen this superior saddened spirit, whom the noble familiarity\nof your counsels makes feel still more strongly the triviality of man-\nkind and its unequalled folly, drops his whitened head upon an ema-\nciated hand and remains absorbed in supernatural meditations. He\nbends his knees before you, and his veneration renders homage to\nyour divine face as though to the actual likeness of the All Powerful.\nIn my childhood, you appeared to me one night of May by moonlight\nin a verdant meadow, on the edge of a limpid brook; all three equal\nin grace and modesty, all three full of majesty like queens. You"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "212", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.54", "texte": "made some steps towards me with your long robes billowing like a\nmist and drew me to your proud breasts like a blessed son. Then\nIran up quickly, my hands contracting on your white throats. I\nfed myself gratefully with your fruitful manna, and I felt that hu-\nmanity grew in me and grew better. Since then, O rival goddesses,\nI have never deserted you. Since then, what energetic projects,\nwhat sympathies, which I thought had been engraved upon the pages\nof my heart as though in marble, and whose configurating lines have\nthey not slowly effaced from my undeceived reason, as brightening\ndawn effaces the shadows of night.\nSince then, I have seen death : in the intention, obvious even to the\nnaked eye of populating tombs ravage the battlefields fattened by\nhuman blood, and cause morning flowers to appear above the fun-\nereal bones. Since then, I have helped the revolutions of our\nearth ; earthquakes, volcanoes with their burning lava, the desert\nsurvivor, and the tempests wrecks have had my presence as impass-\nive spectator. Since then, I have seen many human generations\nat noon lift their wings and eyes to space with the inexperienced\njoy of the chrysalid who greets his last metamorphosis and dies at\neven, before sundown, his head bent, like faded flowers swaying on the\nplaintive whistling of the wind. But always the same, you remain.\nNo change, no pest laden air brushes the scarped hills and immense\nvalleys of your identity. Your humble pyramids will last longer\nthan Egyptian pyramids, anthills raised by stupidity and slavery.\nThe end of the ages will still see upright upon the ruins of time your\ncabalistic marks, your laconic equations and your sculptural lines\nseated at the vengeful right hand of the Almighty, while the stars\nsink with despair like water spouts into the eternity of an awful\nuniversal night, and grimacing humanity thinks of settling its ac-\ncounts with the last judgment.\nThanks for the innumerable services you have done me. Thanks\nfor the qualities, strange to me, with which you have enriched my\nintelligence. But for you, he would have made me roll in the sand\nand kiss the dust of his feet. But for you, with a treacherous claw"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "213", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.55", "texte": "he would have torn my blood and bones. But I kept myself on my\nguard like an experienced athlete. You communicate to me the chill\nwhich surges from your sublime conceptions, exempt from passion.\nI avail myself of it disdainfully to reject the ephemeral pleasures\nof my short journey and to send from my door the sympathising\nthough deceitful offers of my fellows. You communicate to me the\nstubborn prudence one unwinds at every step in your admirable\nmethods of analysis, of synthesis and of deduction. I avail myself\nof them to rout the pernicious ruses of my mortal enemy, to attack\nskilfully in my turn, and to plunge into man's viscera a keen dagger\nwhich will remain buried forever in his body; it is a wound from which\nhe will never rise. You communicate logic to me which is as the\nsoul itself of your instructions, full of wisdom ; and with its syllogisms\nwhose complicated labyrinth is but the more comprehensible, my\nintelligence feels its audacious forces increased to double. By the\nhelp of this terrible auxiliary, by swimming into the very depths and\nin the face of the reef of hatred. I discover in humanity black and\nhideous malevolence which admiring its navel squats in harmful\nmiasmas. First I discover in the darknesses of his entrails, this\naccursed vice, evil! superior in him to the good. With this poisoned\nweapon which you lend me, I make the Creator himself descend from\nhis pedestal constructed by man's cowardice. He gnashes his teeth\nand endures the ignomy of the insult, for he has for adversary one\nstronger than himself. But I pass him by like a bundle of threads,\nin order to lower my flight.\nDescartes the thinker once made the reflection that nothing\nsolid had been based upon you. It was an ingenious fashion of\nmaking understood that the first comer could not immediately dis-\ncover your inestimable value. Actually, what can be more solid than\nthe three principal qualities, already enumerated, which rise enlaced\nlike a single crown upon the sacred summit of your colossal architec-\nture ? Monument which daily discoveries in your diamond mines\nand scientific exploitation in your superb realms ceaselessly magnify.\nO sainted mathematics, may you by your perpetual intercourse,"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "214", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.56", "texte": "console the remainder of my days for the malice of man and the in-\njustice of the Arch-All.\nlisten to my childish thoughts on awakening, mankind of the red\npenis. I am just awake but my mind is still bemused. Every morning\nI feel a weight on my head. Rarely do I find repose in the night, for\nwhen I manage to fall asleep frightful dreams torment me. In the day,\nmy thought tires itself in curious imaginings, while my eyes wander at\nhazard through space; and at night, I cannot sleep. When then, must\nI sleep ? Yet nature has need to reclaim its rights. Since I disdain\nher, she pales my face and makes my eyes glitter with the sharp flame\nof fever. For the rest I ask nothing better than not to exhaust my spirit\nin continual meditations, but even do I not so wish, my astounded\nfeelings draw me irresistably towards this slope. I have observed that\nother children are like myself ; but they are still more pale, and their\neyebrows are knit like those of men, our elder brothers. O Creator of\nthe Universe, this morn I will not fail to offer up to you the incense of\nmy infantile prayer. Sometimes I forget, and I have noticed that on\nthose days I feel happier than usual; my chest freed from all constraint\nexpands and more at my ease I breathe in the balmy air of the fields ;\nwhile, when, ordered by my parents, I perform the painful duty of\ndaily addressing to you a song of praise, accompanied by the insepar-\nable boredom caused by the difficult invention, for the rest of the\nday I am sad and irritable since it seems neither logical nor natural\nto say what I do not think, and I seek the retreat of immense soli-\ntudes. Do I ask them the explanation of this strange state of my\nsoul, they do not reply. I want to love and adore you, but you are\ntoo powerful, and there is fear in my hymns. If by a single manifes-\ntation of your thought you can destroy or create worlds, my feeble\nprayers are useless to you ; or if when you please you send cholera to\nravage cities, or death to carry off in its claws the four ages of\nman without any distinction. I do not want to bind myself to so\nformidable a friend. Not that hatred guides the thread of my reas-\nons, but on the contrary I am afraid of your hatred which by some"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "215", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.57", "texte": "capricious order, may issue from your haart to become immense\nas the wing-spread of the Andean condor. Your equivocal amuse-\nments are outside my grasp and I would probably be the first vic-\ntim. You are the Almighty; I do not dispute this title since you\nalone have the right to bear it, and since your desires with their\nevil or happy results are bounded only by yourself. That is pre-\ncisely why it would be painful for me to walk beside your cruel sap-\nphire tunic, not as a slave, but at any moment liable to become one.\nIt is true that, when you descend within yourself to question\nyour sovereign behaviour, should the phantom of a past injustice\nagainst miserable humanity which obeyed you always as your most\nfaithful friend erect before you the motionless vertebrae of a venge-\nful backbone your haggard eye lets fall the frightened tear of tardy\nremorse ; and with hair on end you think you will take a sincere\nresolution to forever suspend on the brambles of nothingness the in-\nconceivable amusements of your tigerish imagination ; which were\nit not so dreadful would be merely funny. But I know also that con-\nstancy has not fixed the harpoon of its eternal lodging like a tenacious\nmarrow in your bones, and that often enough you and your thoughts\ncovered with the black leprosy of error fall into the funereal lake of\nsombre curses. I want to think that these are unconscious (though\nthey none the less contain the fatal venom) and that good and evil,\nunited together, in impetuous gushes flow from your gangrenous royal\nchest as by the secret charm of a blind force the torrent from the\nrock; but nothing furnishes me the proof.\nToo often have I seen your foul teeth clash with anger and your\nsacred face covered with the moss of time, redden like a glowing\ncoal because of some microscopic futility done by man to be able\nto stop for long before the sign post of this silly hypothesis. Every\nday, with joined hands, since it is necessary, I will raise the modula-\ntions of my earnest prayers towards you, but I beg that your provi-\ndence will not think of me but leave me on one side, like the\nworm crawling underground. Know that I would rather feed vora-\nciously on the marine plants of unknown and savage isles, washed"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "216", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.58", "texte": "in on the spumy bosoms of the tropical waves of such latitudes,\nthan know that you watch me and that you probe your grinning scal-\npel in my conscience. It reveals completely my thoughts and I\nhope your prudence will easily praise the good sense of which it holds\nthe ineffaceable imprint. Apart from these reservations on the kind\nof relation, more or less intimate, which I must keep with you, my\nmouth is ready, no matter at what hour of the day, to exhale like an\nartificial breath, the flood of lies your vanity severely exacts\nfrom every human, from the moment when the blueish dawn rises,\nseeking the light in the satin folds of the before dawn, as I seek good-\nness, incited by a love of good. My years are not many, and yet I\nfeel already that goodness is but a collection of sonorous syllables ;\nI have not found it anywhere. You allow your character to show\ntoo much ;it must be hidden more skilfully. For the rest, perhaps\nI deceive myself and you do it on purpose, since you know better than\nanother how to behave. Man himself makes it his glory to imitate\nyou; that is why sacred goodness does not recognise its tabernacle\nin their fierce eyes ; like father, like son. What may be thought of\nyour intelligence, I but speak as an impartial critic. I do not ask\nbetter than to have been led into error. I do not desire to show\nyou the hatred I bear you and that I brood lovingly over like a cher-\nished daughter, for it's better to hide it from your eyes, and before\nyou to bear only the appearance of a severe censor, ordered to con-\ntrol your impure actions. Thus you will cease all active commerce\nwith him, will forget him and destroy completely this voracious flea who\ngnaws your liver. I prefer rather that you hear dreamy and mild\nwords... Yes, it is you who have created the earth and all it holds.\nYou are perfect. In no virtue are you lacking. You are very mighty,\neveryone knows it. I,et the whole universe intone your eternal\nchant through every hour of time. The birds praise you and in the\ncountry take their flight. The stars belong to you. So be it!\nAfter such beginnings, are you surprised to find me what I am !\n\nComte de Lautréamont\n(Translated by John Rodker)\n\n[To be continued)"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "217", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.59", "texte": "CORNBREAD AND EYES\nDavid Rosenthal\nI.\nWhen the candle dies,\nDarkness will rush in,\nLike wolves\nUpon a carcass.\n2.\nBefore a tree may learn to stand,\nIt first must walk the fields\nAnd mountains\nIn a seed."}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "218", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.60", "texte": "OBSERVATIONS ON RETURNING\nTO THE REMNANTS OF CIVILIZATION\n\nPoliticians seem to have such a dislike for the civilization which has created\nthem that for three years they have been insisting that the peace shall be ten times\ndeadlier than the war. They have made life so obnoxious that everybody who\ncould move, moved, among others myself, who ask only to be allowed to sit still\nwith a pen in my hand and a thought or two in my brain. I moved, I think,\nbecause I have no taste for murder and count even politicians human. There\nwas nothing for it but to leave them to do their worst in their insistence that so-\nciety shall not transcend the eighteenth century, Rousseau, Jefferson, Adam\nSmith. The novelist's occupation is gone when social values are thrown on the\nscrap heap, for there is only one thing more dreary and disgusting than the anar-\nchic individual and that is the anarchic mob. Given leave most horribly to\n\" have a good time \", the mob has been reduced to a state of hysterical boredom,\nin which art and culture, the fine flower of civilization, have disappeared. All\nkinds of dismally clever people sit in cafes and discuss the no longer existent art\nand achieve a certain excitement in talking over the defiant gestures of the wild\nmen like D. H. Lawrence and James Joyce, yelling execration in their impotence\nand screaming \" Yah! \" at the sterility of the very persons who most applaud them.\nJoyce writes perfectly until he pulls the plug. Lawrence with his sensuous\ntactile apprehension of things achieves marvels until he has to deal with human\nbeings, when he yells with rage at them because they are interfering with his\npleasure in picking flowers. But art ? But literature ? Well, well, we 11...\nIt is annoying that there is nothing Gothic about a grain elevator, since we\nhave been taught that Gothic architecture is beautiful. It is distressing that\nthe man in the subway in New York is not at all like a Shakesperean or a Rabe-\nlaisian or a Cervantic character. But is there any reason to be so angry that we\nmust refuse to look at the grain elevator or the man in the subway ? The difficulty\nis only one of temper. People built Gothic cathedrals because they wanted to,\ngrain elevators because they had to, and if you can only keep your temper long\nenough to think it out, you will begin to appreciate that there may be something\nin the point that of the two the grain elevator has the greater chance of being\nbeautiful. Being a matter of necessity, it has to take the simplest, most econom-\nical form. The element of caprice is ruled out until such time as, having perceived\nthat it is beautiful, we can begin to play with it and enjoy ourselves with it.\nThat, however, is a long way off, because we have not yet reached the stage of"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "219", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.61", "texte": "seeing that it need not necessarily be ugly because it is not a Gothic cathedral.\nCathedrals also began as a necessity since men had a need of meeting somewhere,\nand took meeting as seriously as we have to take the transportation of grain.\nMonstrosities are produced when the element of necessity is forgotten in order\nto hog it in the element of caprice. This hogging has been the European concep-\ntion of art in the asphyxiated generation 1880-1910 which is the only begetter\nof the war and the Peace. A generation which produced anything so prepo-\nsterous must have forgotten the element of necessity altogether, and certainly in\nthings intellectual and aesthetic it has left us nothing but caprice, a banquet of\nmeringues crushed by having been sat upon by broad-beamed merchants and\nfinanciers, not to speak of generals. Well, well, we 11...\nThere is no point in being angry about it. It is not worth while to waste\nwords in protestation. It is impossible to eat meringues when you are hungry,\nand therefore the question of the quality of the meringue does not arise. We\nhave to take the world as we find it and learn not to quarrel with the Hudson\nferry because Raphael's technique can make no spiritual record of it. Our brains\nand our sensibilities are pitted against steel and what men equipped with steel\nhave made of themselves and the earth they live on and by. Can we or can we\nnot make a spiritual record of it ? That is the problem for the artist, since only\nthe artist is fine enough and tough enough to solve it. Iyoss of temper argues\nlack of fineness, lack of toughness. Joyce quarrels with the job because Par-\nnell is dead : rages against the job because England did not stop short\nat Cromwell: almost everybody is disgusted with the human race because, hav-\ning invented steel, men will go on experimenting with it. The old gentlemen of\nEurope would have it that steel was only good for killing off the younger genera-\ntion and maintained a meaningless war to prove their contention, but their war\nonly aggravated the. production of steel and men's understanding of it and the\nwelcome change it brought about in their mentality. The old gentlemen cannot\nchange, but the young men and the young women have changed willy-nilly :\nwhether for the better or worse makes no matter. The change is there, and the\nart production of the future depends upon the use made of it. That art is not\nlikely to amount to much if we begin by abuse. There is no sense in saying\nthat the old gentlemen owe us something for the young life they have thrown\naway. The old gentlemen don't acknowledge the debt and couldn't pay it\nif they did. The loss is ours ;we can only cut it.\nAs long as the European eye goes on looking for the Gothic cathedral in\nthe grain elevator or for Hamlet in the man in the subway we are not likely to\nget much forward. London, Paris and Berlin make us hope for something\nfrom the American eye, but the American, so far as I can make out, says : \" Ah—it\n(Art)! Hell! Nothing ! \" and leaves it to the camera which, having no miseducated"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "220", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.62", "texte": "brain behind it, records the grain elevator as a grain elevator and the man in the\nsubway as a man in the subway and hey ! both are shown to be wonderful, both\nnew and old, actual and mythical, credible and incredible and therefore lovely.\nWhat more do you want ? Why all these tortures and cursings and groanings\nand abstractions and attempts to intellectualize an autobus into some resemblance\nto a representation of the Ark of the Israelites in a Byzantine mosaic ? What on\nearth have the Byzantines to do with it ? Either you see the grain elevator and\nthe man in the subway and the fat old Jewess going to Cannes or you don't. If\nyou do, then you can deal with the matter in terms of paint, or words, or music,\nor stage-craft or whatever it is you understand. Or perhaps you don't understand\nanything, in which case, you had better find a job and leave the engineer to go\n011 building grain elevators and the man in the subway to produce children who\nwill have natural subway thoughts and no longer be tormented because the train\ndoes not clash and clatter its way along to the metre of Longfellow's Evangeline.\nWhy should it ? The train also does not suffer from a miseducated brain. It\nis driven along by the intelligence and energy of human beings to the destruction\nof a generation so lethargic that it hates both intelligence and energy and would\nrather be gutted and destroyed than admire the potency and potentiality of\neither.\nThe modern artist seems to me to spend his life in grumbling, because he\ncannot make books or pictures or sonatas of the forms that are thrust on him\nfrom every side. Why not ?He grumbles because these forms are not the forms\nto which his predecessors were accustomed. But is he so sure of that ? Has he\nreally taken the trouble to understand his predecessors ? Has he- looked beneath\ntheir conventions (a matter of custom and manners) to their convictions and\ntheir conceptions ? In Blake and Cezanne he will find over and over again the\nforms that the engineers, without any pretence to aesthetics (thank God !) have\ncreated in their machines and dynamos and bridges. Let him then turn to\nthe drawings of old masters and then study the dynamics of any good poem or\nsay a Greek tragedy. Form is form yesterday, today, tomorrow, and really it\nalmost looks as though the true grievance of the artists is that their monopoly\nhas been broken and the confounded engineers and scientists are taking form down\ninto the life of the common people to warm it up and make it human and intel-\nligible. They have warmed iron up into steel. The result is disconcerting enough ,\nbut what is going to happen when they have warmed up the rough ore of the\nhuman mind ? For that is going on in Europe and America: and it seems to me\nmost odd that the people most violently up in arms against the experiment are\nthe artists and of the artists the more advanced. Perhaps they are the first\nto feel the intense heat of the crucible and think mother ought to go first. Place\naux dames!"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "221", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.63", "texte": "Meanwhile, however, artists or no artists, the experiment goes forward.\nWhole populations move and keep on moving, sinking into the rhythm the beat\nof the machines that move them, waiting for the rhythm and the beat to produce\nthe tickling sensation of the birth of a new way of thinking and feeling and the\nartists curse and say they don't know how they are going to make a living. No-\nbody does. It is assumed that the right application of steel will produce more\ngrain and ore from the earth, enough to pay for more steel and so on and so on.\nThat is the great equation of modern life and it is roughly understood by every-\nbody. No one can stop it: no one wants to stop it, and if only the artists would\nlearn to be good tempered about it, it would not be long before we should have\nproduced some sort of order out of our present chaos, which is the result of attempt-\ning to live dynamic lives with static ideas. When it comes to a direct conflict\nbetween the two, the ideas will go to the wall since ideas for which life is too strong\nare worthless. Your unthinking man will argue from that that all ideas are\nworthless, and go on his heedless rascally way. Your thinking man, your sensi-\ntive man, your artist, on the other hand, must have ideas from which to choose\nhis own creative idea and in such a time as this his whole existence is pitted against\nthe destructiveness of life. Iyet him not argue about it, let him not rail, let him\nengage in the production of beauty, and life is powerless. He need not formulate\nhis idea, but he must work with it. Ivet him work then, and he bears a charm\nagainst corruption and disaster. More than this : if he does not work, no one\nelse can. If he does not see, everyone else is blind :if he does not hear, everyone\nelse is deaf ;if he does not speak, everyone else is dumb. The artist is first and\nlast a workman, obedient to necessity and only in the extreme stress of responsi-\nbility delighting in caprice. The decadent amusement called ART was all caprice.\nIt is as dead as the Encyclopedia Britannica. There is nothing to be said about\nit and to declaim against it is waste of breath. It was always more the decoration\nof barbarism than the expression of civilization which is to be defined in the four\nletters work. Work carried to a certain pitch of intensity becomes art, un-\nmistakable, powerful, radio-active. That intensity is beginning to appear in\nthe engineer's use of steel, the common material of every day life, and from that\nI argue, as I pick my way among the rags and ruins of Europe, that it will ap-\npear again in the use of words and paint and other materials of the life of the\nmind: not however, so long as we are cursed with the prevalent looking away from\nor beyond life in the desperate endeavour to become interesting by dint of being\n— amusing. One has to dare to be dull as one fumbles with one's material.\nTime enough for being amusing when that is mastered and brought into relation\nwith such conditions as life has to offer. The people are excited enough, God\nknows : let the artist be quiet, and let him work.\n\nGilbert Cannan"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "222", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.64", "texte": "Drawing\nHenri Matisse"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "223", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.65", "texte": "THE PAINTER\nCHARACTERS\n\nThe Painter — Little Maurice Parchemin — Mrs. Parchemin —\nAugust Fi,aneu,e — Glucose — Two policemen.\nScene :— An anteroom. To the left, a door. Opposite, a window, a large\nmirror hung on the wall, a door.. To the right, <2 door. A book on the table. The\npainter is painting a door red. Enter a little boy immaculately dressed in white.\nHe approaches the painter and watches him paint.\nThe Painter. What is your name.\nThe Boy. Maurice Parchemin. (Silence) And you ?\nThe Painter. That's mine too.\nThe Boy. It isn't true.\nThe Painter. It isn't true? [Silence). You are right.\nHe paints the boy's face red. The little boy goes out crying. The\nPainter goes on painting. Enter Mrst Parchemin (28 years old) and\nlittle Maurice Parchemin, his face washed>\nMrs. Parchemin. Sir, you are a scoundrel. What is your name ?\nThe Painter. Maurice Parchemin.\nMrs. Parchemin. It isn't true.\nThe Painter. It isn't true?\n'He paints both their faces red. Mrs. Parchemin and the boy go\nout crying. The Painter goes on painting. The bell rings. He goes to\nopen the door.\nA Young Man (20 years old). Mr. Parchemin?\nThe Painter. Ah, it is you !\nThe Young Man. I don't know you, sir. I wish to see Mr. Parchemin.\nHe holds out a visiting card.\nThe Painter, taking the card, He is dead.\nThe Young Man. Are you sure of that ?\nThe Painter. I killed him myself.\nThe Young Man. Then, I should like to see the widow Parchemin and\nher little son, Maurice Parchemin.\nThe Painter. Go away, young man.\nThe Young Man. All right, I'll go.\nThe Painter goes on painting. The bell rings. The painter goes\nright on painting. The bell rings. The Painter goes to open the door.\nThe Painter. Who are you ?"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "224", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.66", "texte": "The Young Man. Don't you recognize me ?\nThe Painter. Yes.\nThe Young Man. You are a murderer.\nThe Painter. Yes.\nThe Young Man. A thief, perhaps.\nThe Painter. Yes.\nThe Young Man. Give me back my visiting card.\nThe Painter gives him a visiting card.\nThe Young Man. This card isn't mine. It says : Mr. Glucose, dental\nsurgeon, 31 rue de la Gaiete. My name is August Flanelle.\nHe throws Mr. Glucose s card away.\nThe Painter, pushing him out. Good day, Mr. Glucose.\nFi,ANEi,irE, behind the door. My name is Flanelle.\nThe Painter. Glucose.\nFi,ANEU,E. Flanelle.\nFor a few minutes they keep up the same tune: Glucose, Flanelle,\nGlucose, Flanelle. Then the Painter goes back to his painting. A stone\nhurled from outside breaks one of the window-panes. August Flanelle is\nheard crying : Flanelle. The Painter opens the window and shouts back\nat him : Flanelle. The Painter closes the window- and goes on painting.\nEnter Mrs. Parchemin and little Maurice Parchemin.\nMrs. Parchemin. After what has happened you can remain here no\nlonger : leave at once.\nThe Painter goes on painting.\nThe Boy. My mother told you to leave.\nThe Painter, taken aback. Do you absolutely insist that this door be\ngreen.\nMrs. Parchemin. I want it to be red, red, red,\nMaurice Parchemin, Why, mamma ?\nMrs. Parchemin. You will know later, child.\nThe Painter. This door is a nice green.\nMrs. Parchemin. You are making fun of us. Again I ask you to leave.\nThe Painter. This door is just as you wanted it. It is green.\nMrs. Parchemin. Ah ! Good Heavens, You have killed my husband.\nShe faints. The boy runs away} frightened.\nThe Painter, stretching himself out alongside of her. Isn't it green, green,\ngreen . . . green . . . green.\nMrs. Parchemin, coming out of her faint. You are right. You are right,\nMr. Maurice Parchemin. The door is green."}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "225", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.67", "texte": "The Painter, embracing her. I love you Anatalie- I love you Ana-\ntalie...\nSteps are heard.\nMrs. Parchemin, trying to extricate herself. Did you hear that ?\nThe Painter, holding on to her. Anatalie.\nMrs. Parchemin. me go. I am afraid.\nShe runs away. There is a ring. The Painter goes to open the door.\nThe Painter. Who are you ?\nGlucose. Mr. Glucose.\nThe Painter. He has just left.\nGlucose. Oh, no. I am Mr. Glucose.\nThe Painter. Come in\nEnter Mr. Glucose. He has a black beard.\nThe Painter. Have a seat.\nGlucose. Do you read the papers ?\nThe Painter. Yes I read all the papers.\nGlucose. All the papers ?\nThe Painter. All of them.\nGlucose. That is all I wanted to know.\nHe moves toward the door, blows a little whistle, The door opens*\nTwo policemen enter.\nGlucose, to the policemen. Do your duty.\nThe policemen handcuff the Painter.\nThe Painter. Don't do something you will be sorry for, August Flanelle.\nGlucose. That isn't my name.\nThe Painter. August Flanelle, as surely as this door is green .. .\nGlucose. It is red.\nThe Policemen. Red, red, red.\nThe Painter. And as my name is Maurice Parchemin.\nGlucose. But you are called The Painter.\nThe Painter. Since you know better than I do, I'll go with you.\nGlucose. Pardon me. What did you mean by that ?\nThe Painter, to the policemen. Do your duty.\nThe policemen do not budge.\nGlucose. Did you hear ?\nThe policemen do not budge.\nGlucose. Fine fellows, you are ! Waiting for me to give the order my-\nself, Well, do your duty. Come on.\nIhe Policemen never budge. I hey notice the visiting card that Au-\ngust Flanelle dropped as he went out:"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "226", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.68", "texte": "MR. Glucose\nDental Surgeon\n31, me de la Gaite, Paris.\nthen silently they free the Painter of his bonds.\nGlucose. You rascals ! What are you doing ?\nThe policemen go out backward. Just as they are about to close the\ndoor, they stick their heads in and shout.\nThe Policemen. Dental Surgeon, Dental vSurgeon !\nGlucose. This is too much.\nThe Painter, declaiming. August Flanelle . . .\nGlucose. There you go again. My name is Glucose !\nThe Painter. You are right.\nHe paints his face red. Glucose goes out crying. The Painter\ngoes on painting.\nMrs. Parchemin, entering. Has nothing happened to you ?\nThe Painter. No.\nMrs. Parchemin. liar, Liar, Liar.\nThe Painter. Anatalie, I swear to you that nothing happened to me.\nMrs. Parchemin. I heard everything through the keyhole.\nThe Painter. Ha. Ha.\nMrs. Parchemin. I saw everything through the keyhole.\nThe Painter. Ha. Ha.\nMrs. Parchemin. You are a murderer.\nThe Painter. Let me go on with my work.\nMrs. Parchemin. Monster ! I was beginning to love you. The Painter ! Oh ...\nThe Painter. If I had painted this door red, eh Mrs. Parchemin ?\nMrs. Parchemin runs away, frightened. The Painter goes on paint-\ning. There is a ring.\nThe Painter. Come in Mr. Glucose.\nAugust Flanelle, entering. My name is Flanelle.\nThe Painter goes on painting.\nAugust Flanelle. I would like to see the widow Parchemin and little\nMaurice Parchemin, her son.\nThe Painter. That's me.\nAugust Flanelle. What did you say ?\nThe Painter. I am the widow Parchemin and her little son, Maurice\nParchemin.\nAugust Flanelle. Enough. Enough. Enough . . . Enough !\nThe Painter goes back to his painting."}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "227", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.69", "texte": "August Sir, I came for the apartment.\nThe Painter, surprised. You should have said that in the first place.\nHe opens the door and gives a long whistle. Enter Mrs. Parchemin\ncarrying her dead son in her arms.\nMrs. Parchemin, The Painter, together. Phew —ew— ew\n— ew . . .\nThey all go off separately and sit in the three corners of the room\nlooking at each other silently.\nMrs. Parchemin. My son is dead. (To the Painter) It is you who\nkilled him.\nThe Painter. What did you say ?\nMrs. Parchemin. little Maurice Parchemin is dead. You killed him.\nMurderer. Murderer. Murderer.\n7he Painter plants himself before the mirror, paints his face red and\ngoes out weeping.\nAugust Flaneixe. Alone, at last.\nMrs. Parchemin, to Flanelle. Sir, will you please tell me what you\nmean by that.\nAugust Fi,aneixe. Anatalie .. .\nMrs. Parchemin. How dare you, August Flanelle .. .\nFeaneixe. I love you.\nMrs. Parchemin. Go away, sir.\nFlanelle plants himself in front of the mirror and. makes believe he-\nis going to paint his face red. He does nothing of the sort. Instead,\nhe paints the picture of Mrs. Parchemin on the mirror. Mrs. Parchemin\nrises. Little Maurice Parchemin rolls on the floor, revives and runs aivay\nas fast as he can. She-fails into the arms of August Flanelle.\nMrs. Parchemin. How you love me !\nFi,aneeee. Yes.\nHe kisses her.\nMrs. Parchemin. The palm trees.\nFeaneeee. Yes.\nHe kisses her.\nMrs. Parchemin. The strawberry ice-cream.\nFeaneeee. Yes.\nHe kisses her.\nMrs. Parchemin. Mrs. Tiroir. The ugly gown.\nFeaneeee. Yes.\nHe kisses her."}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "228", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.70", "texte": "Mrs. Parchemin. The cabman.\nFivANEixE. Yes.\nHe kisses her.\nMrs. Parchemin. Number 25 rue des Saints-P£res.\nFi,ANETJ<E. Yes.\nHe kisses her.\nMrs. Parchemin. All naked.\nYes.\nHe kisses her.\nA long whistle is heard. The Painter appears, a terrible sight. His\nbeard disheveled. A wet sponge in his hand. It is evident that he has\njust been shaving his beard.\nThe Painter, seeing the silhouette of Mrs. Parchemin on the glass. Thank\nyou. (He throws the sponge at the drawing. Silence).\nThe Painter, oratorically. Please sign your work, young man.\nAugust Flanelle touches up the portrait where it had been erased'\nby the sponge and signs it in large trembling letters :\nAugust Fi,aneu,e\nThe Painter. Bravo !\nHe tears off his beard and his blouse,\nMrs. Parchemin. Heavens! My husband.\nMr. Parchemin.\nMr. Parchemin. Here is the book of poems you asked me for the other\nnight at Madame L,etapis\\ You may retire, Mr. Glucose.\nFiyANEiyivE. Mr. Flanelle.\nMr. Parchemin. Mr. Flanelle\nAugust Flanelle retires.\nMr. Parchemin to Mrs. Parchemin. And now here we are.\nHe grabs her by the hair,\nMr. Parchemin. Adulteress I (He kicks her) Murderess ! (Screaming)\nYour child, our child ! What have you done with my child ?\nEnter little Maurice Parchemin, carrying a calendar:\nJuly\n14\nTuesday\nSt. Anatalie\nHe sings :\nDear mother\nToday is your birthday"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "229", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.71", "texte": "Papa told me\nYou were far away.\nMrs. Parchemin. The dear child.\nMr. Parchemin, softening. The dear little fellow.\nMr. and Mrs. Parchemin vie with each other in fondling their child.\nTheir lips meet and remain in a kiss for a moment. There is a ring.\nThe Painter, maddened. Come in Mr. Flanelle !\nEnter Glucose, carrying a large box ; he has a blond beard.\nGlucose. Mr. Parchemin ?\nMr. Parchemin. That's me.\nGlucose. I am Mr. Glucose. Here is the object.\nMr. Parchemin. The prison ?\nGiyUCOSE. No, the tooth.\nThe box opens of itself and discloses a gold tooth.\nMr. Parchemin, revealing himself and bowing to Mrs. Parchemin. Happy\nbirthday, Madame. (To Mr. Glucose). Can you tell me why you are blond?\nGlucose, I have always been blond.\nMr. Parchemin. Always ?\nGlucose. Always.\nSilence.\nMr. Parchemin, oratorically. Mr. Glucose, you have been a party to a\nmost disgraceful farce.\nGlucose. I have but followed your instructions to the letter, Mr. Par-\nchemin.\nMr. Parchemin. Enough of that. Will you repair the evil you have\nwrought in this household.\nGlucose. But Mr. Parchemin, was it not you who called me, payed me,\nordered me ?\nMr. Parchemin. Be still. You can never be redeemed in the eyes of\nMrs. Parchemin, of myself and of little Maurice Parchemin, our son, until you\nhave painted that door green. Here is the brush and the paint.\nGi/ucose. Do you absolutely want that door to be red ?\nMr. Parchemin. No, I want it green, green, green .. .\nMrs. Parchemin. Green, green, green.\nLittle Maurice Parchemin. Why, mamma ?\nMrs. Parchemin. You will know later, my child.\n\nRoger Vitrac\n(Translated from the French by M. J.)"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "230", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.72", "texte": "Henri Matisse.\nDrawing"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "231", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.73", "texte": "Drawing\nHenri Matisse."}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "232", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.74", "texte": "TATLIN’S MONUMENT TO THE THIRD INTERNATIONAL\n\nThe magic word in modern Russian art: Construction.\nConstruction and not composition, teaches the new Gospel.\nWhy?\nBecause composition is inspired by the past, looks toward the past, and\ntherefore, belongs to the past; because composition means ornamentation,\ndecoration, romanticism, prettiness ; because composition stands apart from\nlife, serves as illusion to exhausted mentality, acts as stimulant to enervated\norganism.\nAnd construction ?\nConstruction is inspired by what is most characteristic of our epoch: in-\ndustry, machinery, science. Construction borrows the methods and makes use\nof the materials common in the technical processes. Hence iron, glass, concrete,\ncircle, triangle, cube, cylinder, synthetically combined with mathematical preci-\nsion and structural logic. Construction scorns prettiness, seeks strength, clar-\nity, simplicity, acts as stimulus to a vigorous life.\nThus exegetics.\nTatlin is the leading Russian artist-constructor and his monument to the\nThird International is one of his best works — certainly one that occasioned the\ngreatest controversy in Russia. A great admirer of Tatlin, N. Punin (to whom\nthis note is indebted for part of its data) considers the creation of the monument\nan event of international importance.\nIn 1919, the Art Section of the People's Commissariat of Education commis-\nsioned Tatlin to prepare projects for a monument to the Third International.\nAfter a year and a half's work, drawings and a model were ready for exhibition\nand examination at the Eight All-Russian Congress of Soviets. Tatlin and his\nassistants were there in person, explaining the work to the various Soviet Repre-\nsentatives assembled from all parts of Russia, thus disseminating the Gospel of\nconstruction over a wide area.\nThe monument purports to embody creative and utilitarian aims and to\nsynthetize sculpture, painting, architecture, and engineering. It is to be con-\nstructed of glass and iron, two building materials characteristic]of today (curiously\nenough no concrete is considered). Modern building materials introduce essen-"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "233", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.75", "texte": "Tatlin’s Monument"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "234", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.76", "texte": "tial changes into the practices and principles of architecture. Iron though\nextremely resistent can be cast and moulded to any required shape. This makes\nthe cohesion and solidity of a building independent of the formerly rigid load-\nand-support relation. The strength of iron allows the distribution or concen-\ntration of the load, the building of slanting or circular walls. Wide utilization\nof glass transforms the problem of lighting.\nThe monument of Tatlin has been planned with full knowledge\nof these changes in architecture. When completed, the monument will measure\nfour hundred meters in height. It will be built in the form of a huge iron spiral\nleaning at an angle of forty-five degress and enclosing three stories all made of\nglass. The first story will be a gigantic rotating cube making one revolution a\nyear. This is intended for legislative sessions of Soviet representatives from the\nwhole earth. The second story, somewhat smaller, will be a pyramid, likewise\nrotating but making one revolution a month. This is to serve for executive ses-\nsions of the Soviets. The third story, the smallest of all, will be a cylinder making\na revolution every day. It is to be used as a center of information.\nWhy these different velocities ? Cosmic symbolism perhaps (romanticism\nslipping in by a back door) ; earth moving around in (year), moon around earth\n(month), earth on its own axis (day). Desired temperature, both summer and-\nwinter, will be maintained by an immense thermos enclosing the three stories.\nCommunication between the stories and the world outside will be carried by\nmeans of a complicated electric apparatus. A wireless station will be install-\ned on the top of the monument.\nIt is not to be forgotten that the monument to the Third International ex-\nists only as a project. With the limited means at the disposal of Soviet Russia,\nthe execution of the project is postponed far into the future — to say the least.\nThe Philistine enemies of constructive art dare calmly to maintain that the\nerection of the monument is a engineering feat altogether beyond possibilities\nof realization. To which the faithful retort with the story of the telegraph,\nthe aeroplane etc. A weary exercise.\n\nLouis Lozowick"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "235", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.77", "texte": "THE AESTHETIC OF THE MACHINE AND MECHANICAL\nINTROSPECTION IN ART.\n\nIn the aesthetic phenomenon of the evolution of the plastic arts the neces-\nsity of considering the Machine and Mechanical elements as new symbols of\naesthetic inspiration has not been sufficiently taken into account.\ni. Precursors.\nWe Futurists were the first to understand the marvellous mystery of inspi-\nration which machines possess with their own mechanical world.\nIn fact, Marinetti in his first Manifesto on the Foundation of Futurism pu-\nblished in the Figaro in 1909 stated : \" We shall chant the vibrant nocturnal fer-\nvour of the arsenals and ship-yards lit with their violent electric moons, the brid-\nges like giant gymnasts striding the rivers, the daring steamers that nose the hori-\nzons, the full-breasted locomotives that prance on the rails like enormous iron\nhorses bridled with tubes, the gliding flight of the aeroplanes whose screw flutters\nin the wind like a flag or seems to applaud like an enthusiastic mob. The rac-\ning automobile with its explosive breath and its great serpent-like tubes crawl-\ning over the bonnet — an automobile that whizzes like a volley from a machine-\ngun is more beautiful than the victory of Samothrace.\"\nFrom the appearance of the first Futurist Manifesto of Marinetti up\nthere has been a ceaseless searching and questioning in the field of art. Boccioni\nin his book, Futurist Sculpture and Painting (1914) stated that the era of the great\nmechanical individualities has begun ; that all the rest is paleontology. Luigi\nRussolo (in 1913) with his invention of the noise-makers constructed new mechan-\nical instruments to give value to the new musical sounds inspired by noise, while\nLuciano Folgore in his poem the Chant of the Motors (1914) exalted the mechan-\nical beauty of workshops and the overpowering lyricism of machines. Later, in\nmy manifesto entitled Absolute Constructions in Motion-Noise (1915), I revealed\nby means of new plastic constructions the unknown constructive virtues\nof the mechanical aesthetic. While the painter Gino Severini confirmed by means\nof an admirable theoretical essay in the Mercure de France (1916) the theory that\n\" the process of the construction of a machine is analogous to the constructive\nprocess of a work of art. \"\nThis Futurist exaltation of ours for the new era of the machines crossed\nthe Italic frontier and awoke echoes among the Dutch, the Russian, the Germans\nand the Spanish."}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "236", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.78", "texte": "Fernand Leger recently declared his paintings to be concerned with the love\nof those forms created by modern industry and the clash of the thousand coloured\nand persuasive reflections of the so called classical subjects.\nGuillermo de Torre, the daring Spanish poet and founder of the Ultraist\nmovement, announced in his manifesto \" Vertical\" in 1918 the forthcoming\nepoch of the new spatial and mechanical world.\nToday we see a new tendency manifest itself at the recent international\nArtists Congress of Diisseldorf. This is the movement of the \" Constructionists \"\nas exemplified in the works of the Russian, Dutch, German, Scandinavian and\nRoumanian painters, among whom we may note Theo Van Doesburg, Richter,\nLissitzky, Kggelin and Janco. The Constructionists, though they take as their\nstarting point an extremely clear theory, announcing the constructive exalta-\ntion of the Machine, become inconsistent in the application of their doctrine,\nconfusing exterior form with spiritual content.\nWe today — without ignoring the attempts that have been made in the\ncourse of the last years by ourselves and certain Futurist friends of ours — in-\ntend to reasume and synthetize all that which has been expressed individually\nand incidentally in order to arrive at completer and more concrete results; in\norder to be able to realize more fully new aesthetic values in the field of the\nplastic arts.\nOur experience has convinced us of the truth of certain of our plastic truths\nand has allowed us to perceive the errors that lie in others.\nOLD AND NEW SYMBOLS\nIn the history of art throughout the ages the symbols and elements of in-\nspiration have been suggested to us by the ancient legends and classic myths\ncreated by modern imagination. Today, therefore, where can we look for more\ncontingent inspiration than among the new symbols which are no longer the\ncreation of the imagination or the fantasy but of human genius ?\n* Is not the machine today the most exuberant symbol of the mystery of\nhuman creation ? Is it not the new mythical deity which weaves the legends and\nhistories of the contemporary human drama ? The Machine in its practical and\nmaterial function comes to have today in human concepts and thoughts the\nsignificance of an ideal and spiritual inspiration.\nThe artist can only pin his faith to the realities contingent on his own life\nor on those elements of expression which spiritualize the atmosphere he breathes.\nThe elements and the plastic symbols of the Machine are inevitably much\nnearer to us (materially and spiritually) than any symbol of the past can be :\nsymbols as such as a god Pan, the taking down from the Cross or the Assumption\nof the Virgin, etc. The logic, therefore, of aesthetic verities becomes self-evident,"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "237", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.79", "texte": "and develops parallelly with the spirit of the times which seeks to contemplate,\nlive and identify itself with reality itself.\nThe aesthetic of the Machine and Mechanical Introspection\nWe today, after having sung and exalted the suggestive inspirational force\nof The Machine - after having by means of the first plastic works of the new school\nfixed our plastic sensations and emotions, see now the outlines of the new aesthe-\ntic of The Machine appearing on the horizon like a fly wheel all fiery from\nEternal Motion.\nWe therefore Proclaim\n1. The Machine to be the tutelary symbol of the universal dynamism,\npotentially embodying in itself the essential elements of human creation : the\ndiscoverer of fresh developments in modern aesthetics.\n2. The aesthetic virtues of the machine and the metaphysical meaning\nof its motions and movements constitute the new fount of inspiration for the evo-\nlution and development of contemporaneous plastic arts.\n3. The plastic exaltation of The Machine and the mechanical elements\nmust not be conceived in their exterior reality, that is in formal representations\nof the elements which make up The Machine itself, but rather in the plastic-\nmechanical analogy that The Machine suggests to us in connection with various\nspiritual realities.\n4. The stylistic modifications of Mechanical Art arise from The Machine-\nas-interferential-element.\n5. The machine marks the rhythm of human psychology and beats the\ntime for our spiritual exaltations. Therefore it is inevitable and consequent\nto the evolution of the plastic arts of our day.\n\nEnrico Prampolini\n(Translated by E. S.)"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "[238]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.80", "texte": "r\nIssue a Tiool^\nA REMARKABLY GOOD BOOK\ndoes not publish anything which is not worthy of perpetua-\ntion in book form. It does not bother with ephemera.\nEach month The Dial prints the significant work ot the\ncreative minds of the world in fiction, poetry, and tne essay.\nIn addition it affords a complete critical survey of books,\nmusic, art, and the theatre — in short, a critical compte rendue\nof what the intelligent world is doing and thinking.\nThe Dial publishes only the art and the literature by which\nour generation here and abroad will be remembered. Its\ncontents, therefore, like those of the best book, possess per-\nmanency and distinction. Incidentally, The Dial is as well\nprinted as typographical experts and skilled craftsmen can\nmake it. Good book paper designed especially for per-\nmanency is used throughout.\nEvery issue of The Dial, then, is a book — and there are\ntwelve of them a year. A good book costs from two dollars\nup. We will send you twelve issues of The Dial, and in\naddition, a good book selected from among the best output\nof the past season, in all the equivalent of thirteen superla-\ntive, contemporary books, for\n$5.00\nthe price of a year's subscription to The Dial alone\nYour choice of one of die following books\nfree with a year's subscription ($5.00) :\nAARON'S ROD, by D. H. Lawrence\nAND EVEN NOW, by Max Beerbohm\nMARIA CHAPDELAINE, by Louis Hemon\nSELECTED POEMS, by William Butler Yeats\nTHE ENORMOUS ROOM, by E. E. Cummings\nMR WADDINGTON OF WYCK, by May Sinclair\nCIVILIZATION IN THE UNITED STATES, by\nthirty well-known American writers\nPlease send The Dial for one year\nand a copy of the following book to:\nName\nAddress\nBOOK\nI enclose $5.00. Q I will remit $5.00\non receipt of your bill.\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street, New York City\nB-9-22"}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.81", "texte": "\" It is the best literary magazine ever set up in America\nH. L. Mencken.\nThe Literary Review\nOF THE\nNew York Evening Post\nEdited by Henry Seidel Canby\nIHERE are twenty thousand books published in English every\nyear. We shall not attempt to estimate how many in the va-\nrious European languages. Who sorts them for you? Whose judg-\nment can you trust? Can you be sure that you know what books\nyou want?\nThe Literary Review, a weekly magazine for booklovers is answering\nthese questions for many discriminating readers. It is also solving\nthe three great problems of reviewing: complete independence of\ncriticism; the right and expert reviewer for every book; interest\nand comprehensiveness.\nIf you read or study, teach or write; if you think about books or\ntalk about them, you can afford to share in th is attempt to estab-\nlish a standard of criticism.\nA subscription is $2.50 a year, or we shall be glad to send The Lit-\nerary Review on five months' trial for $ 1.00.\nThe Literary Review, 20 Vesey Street, New York.\nni j rpj j , n - c S one year for $2.50 I I enclose the required\nPlease send me The Literary Review for j fiye Jonths fof $,0Q j amount\nName\nAddress"}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.82", "texte": "Ernesto FraTONI, Gerente responsabile.\nPrinted in Italy by «I/Universelle» Imprimerie Polyglotte — Roma\n\nBROOM MOVES TO BERLIN\nThe next number of \"Broom\" will be printed in Berlin. Its address in\nfuture will be: BROOM, Schickler Strasse 5, Berlin, Germany.\nWe have been able to make arrangements with one of the best printing\nhouses and reproducers in Europe, and we can promise our readers that on the\ntechnical side, and especially in the matter of reproductions, the high standard of\nthe existent BROOM will not only be maintained, but surpassed.\nBecause of the superior technical facilities of our new plant, the magnifi-\ncent photographs of machinery executed by Paul Strand and announced for the\nOctober BROOM, have been postponed until the November number, although they\nhad been planned to accompany the article on Robert Coady by Sanborn and the\nMachinery cover designed by Enrico Prampolini.\nThe line drawings of Henri Matisse, originally destined for November, have\nbeen substituted in their stead.\nIt is hoped that there will be no delay or other confusion consequent on\nBROOM'S removal.\n\nAN OASIS\nOf spirits choice the rookery\nSuch is the cozy Bookery.\n'Twill rest your soul, this soothing place\nWhere range the brains of the human race.\nTHE BOOKERY\n14 West 47th Street, New York City\nBooks on sexology and psychoanalysis.\n\nFRANK SHAY'S\nINTERNATIONAL\nBOOK SHOP\nNEW YORK\nLONDON PARIS\n\nAmong the Contributors to No-\nvember \" BROOM \" are :\nLouis Aragon\nJames Daly\nFeodor Dostoievsky\nMatthew Josephson\nGomte de Lautr6amont\nPaul Strand\nArthur Symons\nIvor Winters\n\nMELOMIME PUBLICATIONS\nAnnounce among their fall books the\npublication of \"Chinese White\", a book\nof drawings by William Gropper with\npoems by Gladys Oaks. Woodcuts by\nWilliam and Marguerite Zorach. Prints\nand reproductions of other well known\nAmerican artists.\nMELOMIME) PUBLICATIONS\nArt — Poetry — Music\n21 West Bth Street, New York."}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.83", "texte": "The Practical Home Study Course in\nInterior Decoration\nComplete in 24 Bi-Monthly Lessons Ready about August Ist, 1922\nA Sensible and Fascinating Aid to the Making of More Attractive Homes\nConducted by HAROLD DONALDSON EBERLEIN and NANCY V. McCLELLAND\nTHERE has always existed in this coun-\ntry a genuine and widespread need for\nsome kind of institution which should\nprovide a simple and thorough method of in-\nstruction in the art of creating a beautiful\nhome environment. Many thousands of per-\nsons of natural good taste lack the know-\nledge which is an essential background to the\ncorrect selection and placing of the home's\nfurnishing. To meet this need and supply this\nknowledge is the object of the Practical Home-\nStudy Course of Inferior Decoration — an orga-\nnization of the highest aims built upon a foun-\ndation of solid experience and expert service.\nTo those subscribing for the Course, whether\ntheir desire is for general information upon\na vital and engaging subject or the artistic\nimprovement of their homes, a complete and\nilluminating series of lessons presenting de-\ntailed information concerning every phase of\ninterior decoration, is presented. The course\nis complete and authoritative. In text and\nillustration it is clear and explicit. It explains\nthe fundamentals and how to proceed, step\nby step. It also gives directions for improv-\ning conditions as they exist. Its scope ranges\nfrom the furnishing of entire houses or apart-\nments, large or small, to single rooms.\nThe course makes it possible for anyone\nto secure beautiful and satisfying results ;\nit shows precisely how to attain the best pos-\nsible arrangements with stock appointments\npurchased from responsible shops.\nThe course is a necessity to everyone who\ndesires a sound and correct understanding\nof what constitutes good taste and an indis-\nputable artistic achievement in every combi-\nnation of effect in home decoration.\nADVISORY FACULTY:\nW Emerson, Director of the Architectu-\nral School, Massachusetts Institute of Tech-\nnology, Boston.\nHuGER EUJOTT, Principal of the School, Penn-\nsylvania Museum and School of Industrial\nArt, Phila.\nWhitney Warren, Warren & Wetmore, Archi-\ntects, New York.\nPhyms Ackerman, Ph. D., Art Expert.\nIvEON V. Art Director, American En-\ncaustic Tile Company.\nRichard F. Bach, Curator Industrial Art,\nMetropolitan Museum of Art, New York.\nJohn P. Adams, President, Kensington Mfg.\nCo., New York.\nErSKINE, President Erskine-Danforth\nCo., New York.\nSubstantial pre-publication discount allowed to those now enrolling.\nWrite for full particulars and enrollment blanks.\nARTS & DECORATION - 50 WEST 47th ST. - NEW YORK CITY"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192210-01.1.84", "texte": "THE above photograph shows a bus the Fifth Avenue Coach Company is testing, with the idea of making\ntheir entire equipment covered buses. The Coach Company figure that they can carry 72,000,000 passengers\nwith 309 buses that have the roof covered, as against 54,000,000 carried in 309 uncovered buses in the\nlast twelve months.\nThe reason for this is quite obvious. Excessive heat, cold, rain, snow or high wind makes it necessary for a\nlarge percentage of the passengers to ride inside during the year. 37,000,000 passengers were carried inside the\nbuses in the last 12 months ; 17,000,000 were carried upstairs.\nThe buses to-day cannot carry nearly all the people who want to ride. Thousands of them are left every\nnight on the street corners, so that if these covered buses prove practical, they will be a great, boon to the high\nclass discriminating constituency who are now using the buses as a method of transportation.\nThe fare charged on the buses is ten cents, twice the fare charged on the subways, surface cars and elevated.\nIt is admitted that it takes more time to travel on the buses than on any other transportation line. It must be\nthat these millions of people use the buses because they appreciate a clean, comfortable ride. When you consider\nthat, bus passengers can be reached through an advertisement inside the buses at the low rate of twenty cents\nper thousand, $20 a day for a card in 300 buses, or at the low rate of $600 per month, it is easy to understand\nwhy so many high-class concerns are using advertising space. .\nThe advertising rate is $600 a month for a full run (300 buses), $300 a month for a half run (150 buses),\n$150 a month for a quarter run (75 buses), on the basis of a contract for six months or longer. If less than a 6-]\nmonths contract is used, there is a 10 % increased charge.\nJohn H. Livingston, Jr., 425 Fifth Avenue, New York. - Telephone 274 Vanderbilt."}]}