{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_sha256": "49188ec946569fc705a8e39841c2c79fb8204c719eb54534ecc0c7323b32cbec", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/11_01/bmtnaap_1922-11_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/11_01/bmtnaap_1922-11_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.2", "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=bmtnaap192211-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1258, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1828, "texte": "Page\nCover Design — (Woodcut) — Ladislas Medgyes —\n1\nPhotographs — Paul Strand (frontispiece and facing) 256, 272\nWhen all is Ended — Louis Aragon 24 i\nValuta — Malcolm Cowley 250\nWoodcut — Gontcharova 249,251\nPhotography and the new God — Paul Strand 252\nApocalyptic Harvest — Yvor Winters 259\nStavrogin's Connfession — Feodor Dostoyevski 260\nOn English and French Fiction — Arthur Symons 273\nMacabre — Crematorium — James Daly 284,285\nThe Lay of Maldoror — Comte de Lautr£amont 286\nThe Flower-Sphynx — Hans Arp 303\nThe Great American Billposter — Matthew Josephson 305"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "241", "page_fin": "249", "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "When All Is Ended : A Story with a Moral", "titre_sommaire": "When All Is Ended : A Story with a Moral", "signature_source": "Louis Aragon ; Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "241", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2174, "texte": "]\n\nWHEN ALL IS ENDED\nA STORY WITH A MORAL\n\nMy name is Grindor, Clement Grindor, and it seems that I was once\nthe son of a man who stood in the public eye. Paris with its carriages,\nits ladies and its thousand lights per second lay sweetly upon my brows\nlike a garland of flowers. I had a mistress, a rather will-o-the-wispish\none, set free by special grace of the moon's influence; the objects we found\nwere transformed at the touch of her wand. A bouquet became a kodak\nand served to photograph the fugitive words which escaped at the pace\nof a mowing-machine encountered at the place de la Bourse (I forget\njust what it looked like) and I could cite many other instances of her\nwizardry. Eleonore F. had several lovers with whom I got along very\nwell, and at times we all made excursions together to the outskirts of Paris\nwhere we lunched in the woods or on the banks of a river. One of these\nmen was the famous B. . . whose history you are doubtless quite familiar\nwith.\n\"What! B. . .?\"\nYes, none other than B. . . He was unforgettable when he sang\nnaughty ballads and would entertain us until far into the night when we\npassed on to philosophical discussions, in which Eleonore shone with\nextraordinary brilliance. Maurice, whom we nick-named Man-la-Sagesse\ntook pleasure in provoking us into personal confessions out of which he\ndrew the most fascinating conclusions.\nThe oldest of us was twenty years of age, and we all still retained the\ncharacter assumed at school: one the enthusiast, another the skeptic, Mau,\nwho treated us as his pawns, aroused mental conflicts which brewed trouble:\nnights, you know, when we lost all faith in the integrity of our system, and\neven the informed insolence of our youth and sound health failed us. These\nwere crises from which we emerged most often only to be re-united by a\ntragic sense of our differences and of the dark instincts which a light\nwhistle could summon up from the abyss. Each time our friendship hung\nin the balance, seemed lost forever; but our hunger for it was so great that\nwe always came back to our first principles. This faith in each other, so\nprecarious the while, came to be as vital to us as breathing."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "242", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2787, "texte": "We became so inured at this time to the atmosphere of drama that we\ncame to love it and cultivate it for its own sake. There was not a move made,\nnot a gesture, which did not serve to arouse our common mistrust and which\nwe did not pass up without demanding the motive and justification thereof.\nLittle by little that which we agreed upon in debate became dogma. We\nbegan to imitate each other's way of thinking, a mental direction which mul-\ntiplied the snares and fallacies about us. Thus, there was introduced into\nour existence an accelerated motion whose effect was not long to be awaited.\nThere is nothing easier if there are eight of you, than to become\nconvinced of the superiority of one form of life over another. We began\nto despise the long happy lives that we used to envy, and one night we\nheld a trial of all human motives. The kind of terrorist sincerity that\ngripped us led us, naturally, to reject with horror all utilitarian motives,\nand since we denied all truth, we were dominated by a sense of absolute\nmoral reality for which some of us were to pay some day with our lives.\nThe only real things that seemed to persist were such personal\naccidents as the mind ignores: a birth mark on B. . .'s shoulder, Maurice's\nway of swallowing the ends of his sentences when he spoke, and my\nhabitual gesture before I sat down. We spent days observing what men\ncalled happiness and paid pedagogical visits to society, the Folies-Bergeres,\nthe Louvre, what-not. But finally we gave up these random investigations\nquite fatigued, and certain that we had seen it all before. This lassitude\nof ours, so easy for others to judge from outside, was not that which was\ncalled blase twenty years ago. There was nothing sparkling about us at\nthis time, but neither could we put out of mind the cruel intellectual plan\nby which all seemed futile and vain. Our judgments were constantly made\nupon a scale of the infinite, and this infiniteness crushed us.\nHow could we have accepted the common happy lot of the people\nof our time who found in Auguste Gomte the peace that came of rejecting all\nmetaphysical problems? Born to prefer desperate adventures to the stolid\npatience which was soon to end in the election of a Raymond Poincare\nas President of the Republic, we would have instantly thrown the fate of\na thousand lives into the balance against the career of this citizen. It was\nthus that we launched ourselves into the affair of the automobile. We\nconceived it all rather vaguely at first and we pressed each other to make\nclear the exact nature of the plan. For several days we stood ready with\nall the weapons in our hands, but shuddered to hasten a doubtful catas-\ntrophe. ... It was B. . . who took it upon himself to un-bolt the machinery.\nI tried to restrain him to the last."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "243", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2706, "texte": "r\n\n\"I am in the hands of destiny,\" he said. \"I am the princess sworn\nto find the needle in the haystack and peril incites me to tempt peril.,,\nA great argument arose among us over the allotment of the various\nparts. Once more everything seemed about to fall apart.\n\"Go\", cried B. . ~ \"your hearts are soap bubbles. I can see easily\nenough the cause of all the trouble: you do not fear half so much the\noutcome of this enterprise as }rou do the idea of a criminal act against\neverything you have been taught to revere since childhood. I have noticed\nbefore this, how, rather than follow your natural inclinations toward what\nyou consider good, you make dogma of all I believe in; perhaps\nin the hope of some greatness to come. But how can you help recognizing\nin your hesitations, your remorse, the shameful return of traditional virtue?\"\nIt was Mau-la-Sagesse who replied to him: \"If I did not love you as\nmuch as I do, how odious you would be to me! This eternal worry about\nanalysis. The same old testing and questioning carried out, with all your\nwell-known subtlety of perception. What about this tacit acceptance of\nall your acts which you condemn at the same moment that you demand\nit? You don't want us to discuss this dangerous project at all, then. . .\"\n\"I do not mean\" retorted B. . . fiercely, \"to engage anybody to follow\nme: but how could we have the right to commit such an act if not by this\nsense of greatness of which I just spoke, which brings us every day nearer\nto this unfathomable, unseen end which is our only objective. Yes, and\nyou know you all agree with me: cruelty, felony, audacity will change\ntheir meanings in the eyes of men; their opposites are weakness, weakness\nand weakness. Nothing but excess merits our enthusiasm and if it bring us\nnothing but hatred now, it will doubtless reward us sooner or later with\na more durable love. Must our conduct alway be determined by the reactions\nof others? I must feel sure that all of my words, that all of my deeds are\nlost to the world. With me the deluge!\" This fury with which he rose\nagainst himself, which made him scorn his own interests for the sake of\nsome absurd exploit, could scarcely leave us cold to his project. What an\nirresistible ascendance he held over us, even over Mau-la-Sagesse—that is\nwhat I wanted to show in giving to such length the words of B. . . on the eve\nof the decisive day. How could we abandon him? His smile was what ruined\nus. None of us could escape him when he made that inimitable gesture of\nthe hand with which he shook off ideas and the ashes of his cigar.\nLike a new sun over the world, the yellow automobile rushed out\nsuddenly along the rue Ordener: we mounted it with a drunken stoicism"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "244", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2717, "texte": "which swept aside all other considerations. With the murder of the\nreceiving teller we entered into a strange light in which our life was inten-\nsified. You have read our history in the newspapers of the period, even\nthough you were still a student then. But what they never told you about\nwas the pause between two enterprises when we ate our repast, brimming\nwith gaiety as we read the Petit Parisien, and what not? W'e shall not speak\nof the dreary moments. Sleep. Ever since the pillage of the Chantilly post-\noffice B. . . became for us the hero that he was for historians of the time.\nYou can scarcely imagine his sweetness and the tranquillity which followed\nhis exaltations. We had no idea of how he was to die. He was an angel\nof destiny: he traversed the world like a flaming torch—of righteousness\nitself, one might have said. However, thanks to numerous aides we pursued\nour course as we willed and evaded the pursuit organized against us. A\nmiracle of speed: we were drunk with our impunity. We left a trail of bloody\nencounters along our route. Out of the human seas, we drained, as we\nwent, immense wealth, terror and an increasing tumult, a growing vertigo.\nOn this mad course which did not last longer than to light up the world as\nwith a ruddy flame, we lived a complete existence, never ceasing to be as-\ntonished at it, like people who are always conscious of having survived\na dizzy equilibrium, miraculously re-established.\nFrance, Europe, and soon the two continents turned their eyes with\nanguish toward the corner of the earth where a meteor had exploded.\nStupefaction succeeded the horror aroused at first by our early \"crimes,\"\nand then admiration itself. They began to feel vaguely what game we were\nup to: a handful of men on the globe had unleashed one of the greatest\nintellectual earth-quakes of history. The vast clamor of an outraged society\ncould not drown the voice of Mau-la-Sagesse, whose doctrines were com-\nmented on even in the provincial cafes. The fatality of some mis-step, I could\nnot help telling this to B. . ~ would bring us the vague glory of heroes, the\nimbecilic lot bestowed upon us already by the \"thinkers:\" for at this time\nthe dramatists preferred the glory of Catiline to the brilliance of the prix\nMontyon races.\n\"Sooner or later you will become the hero of text-books, an example\nlike all the others; posterity will remember you for your courage. Ultimately\nthere will adhere to your aureole the moral elements which you sought to\ndestroy. Beyond all regard for human life, generous sympathies will be\ncreated for you: you will be given shelter by free spirits. What a pretentious\ngrandeur! We shall have been your fanatics. One more Christ in the\npicture. ."}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "245", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2801, "texte": "B. replied with unheard of violence, that he was quite sure that\n1 was wrong, that the imminent catastrophe would be definitive, and that\nwe had already sunk incredibly in the minds of men, and their opinion of\nus would never, never be revised. But I saw clearly that I had touched\nthe sore-spot and that a new anxiety gripped my comrades. They suddenly\ndoubted their profound motives. That night at the house of a girl who\nhid us I remarked the sombre air of our chief. B. . . suddenly threw\nhimself upon our hostess, took her by the head, and opening her eyelids with\nhis fingers, cried: \"Tell me why you are not going to deliver us to the police?\"\nYou should have seen the savage expression on his face as he plunged his\ngaze into the suspect eyes. You should have seen this, to understand the .\ndumb and secret joy that pulsed suddenly in my veins. Something was born\nin me which was soon to take shape.\nI had, all told, sacrificed my life. Nothing was dearer to me in this\nworld than my companions in danger and our common ideals, not even\nmy own life. It is, perhaps, well to keep this in mind. For a singular con-\ntradiction arose in me: I found it infinitely voluptuous to contemplate the\ndestruction of all that I loved. Such a disaster (and as we became legendary\nfigures of prey and our lives took the semblance of apostles) such a\ndisaster would have rendered me the mental freedom I had abjured. The\ndesire grew in me to commit the act which would be truly indefensible\nfrom all points of view, and in shaking B. . .'s faith I had already tasted the\nperfidious alcohol, the exquisiteness of losing all that we cherish. These days\nB. never stopped talking of possible betrayals. It almost seemed that he\ndid this intentionally. We scrutinized the people at whose mercy we occasion-\nally found ourselves as with the hope of discovering the ultimate Judas.\nThis spirit of hunted beasts that we bore became completely unbearable.\nOur raids became more frequent, more febrile, more ferocious. We became\nlike muffled machines. But I, little by little, I, who felt growing in me the\nconsciousness of offering myself in a supreme challenge of heroism, segre-\ngated myself from the collective body foraging in forbidden terrain, took\nnote of the antipathy between my individuality and that of the others, in\nshort, re-discovered my identity. One pleasant evening, I realized that a\ndemon was nourished in me; the desire to betray. Faith, the basis of our\nadventure, seemed to me an ignoble idealism, a weakness after the manner\nof pity. This misunderstanding could not exist much longer.\nThe stupidity with which the police permitted us to escape from the\ntrap set at the house of someone's mistress is well remembered. There\nwere four days more during which every one of the words I dropped was a"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "246", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2829, "texte": "marvel of dissimulation. I lived in a restrained exaltation. At last, the\nmoment arrived. Through my aid, two of our numbers had already lost\ntheir lives, and the police came to lay siege to the estate of the millionaire\nanarchist who had given us refuge. When the assailants bursting from the\nshelter of their hay-wagon thought to have triumphed, fire robbed them of\nthe body of the last survivor of the adventure, B. . . the Titan, who died like\nJoan of Arc, my dear sir, like Joan of Arc, as his enemies recoiled in horror.\nThe Prefecture had promised to spare me, and helped me disappear. And\nso the trial of my confederates was carried out without my being even cited\nas a witness. I bore away with me my secret, the secret of the act without\nwhich, you can see, our whole enterprise would have amounted to nothing,\nnothing but a miserable comedy of revolt such as men are prone to under-\ntake from time to time. As for myself, I bore in me the worm of all\ngreatness.\nWhat should I do? Implore the world that I had assailed to restore me\nto a position that fitted me? I was given to understand that this was possible\nonly under certain conditions. But I revolted at being confronted with such\nhypocrisy, which did not deceive me at all. In fact, all of my sympathies\nwere with those whom I had betrayed, and I found my situation extra-\nordinary enough: disdaining those who wished to aid me, unable to return\nto the few people whom I really respected, with no confidence in anybody I\nfell into a solitude more hopeless than ever man lost in a trackless desert\nhad known. I maintained contact with the police, using them, and they me.\nThey gave me powers which I enjoyed, and as for them they considered me\na decoy. Thus began a strange career which embraced the lives of the most\ndiverse men and women, and so mysteriously conducted that no one could\nfollow my trail. I arrived here, and this passer-by whom I had never known\nsaw his whole destiny altered by my hands. There developed in me a fearful\ntaste for human experience. But what was it I sought? The same state of\nmind, the same tense moment, the same mechanism. Only one thing attrac-\nted me, fascinated me, and I would have given everything to evoke it contin-\nually. I desired to behold again and again the weakness I had experienced\nin myself, this supreme treason which was born, I was convinced, at the very\nmoment when man's instincts surpassed the limits of his affection for\nanother. I left no stone unturned to observe men at this stage of sincerity.\nFor years I penetrated into peaceful existences and sowed passions and\nfevers. Yes, I was a real decoy: the result mattered little to me, so long as I\nencountered along my route some child with a pure heart, an ardent heart;\nyou can be sure that I was there to taste of it on the day when on his virtuous"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "247", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2840, "texte": "face the stigma of that great weakness, treason, appeared. There was a\nyoung man who in the excess of his energy saw so deeply into things that he\ntranscended the limits of good and evil: he refused to heed me, but how vast\nhis projects were! Finally all his efforts were about to be crowned;\nwealth, a desperately lovely fiancee, fabulous honors. Success I saw, but\nhid from him, was destined to demolish all even the memory of\nhis past irregularities. Then, then I insinuated a tiny doubt into his veins,\nand it twisted his whole destiny. What a sight: I attended the death-rattle\nof a human will. The young man renounced all that he had so avidly sought,\nfor which he had not quailed at committing crimes. And all at once he\naccepted exile as a beggar to the possibilities of a disaster which in no case\nwould have given him as much misery as he faced. Now that the serpent\ngnawed him, what was it he gave sneering to a wench of the provinces? It\nwas the photograph of his fiancee which he had hid in his breast when he\ndid not keep it to his trembling lips. Such men, my dear sir, I have known\na hundred such as he.\nAnd the women, why, if my demands had been within reason very few\nof them would have resisted me. But it must needs be that the woman forsake\nall to follow me, that she be my own shadow, even the shadow of my\nshadow. What intrigues I resorted to only to see rise from the depths of her\ntrusting pupils the spectre of doubt and treachery. If she knew me to be\nstruggling with some terrible force, the police for example, I tasted at least\nthe incomparable pleasure of her complicity. What a strange delight there is\nin love exasperated by danger and crime. Forgive me if I cannot pronounce\nthat word without laughing. Certain of catastrophe, I read the passionate\ndisbelief in those possessed eyes, the mental restriction of the instincts. Unto\ndeath, she said; but for herself, nothing but the prison. For ten years I\ncould not grow tired of her; on her face there was the very same expression\nas that of my mistresses at the moment when the implacable fate knocked\nat the door. A gaze more charming than the fresh air of mountains: at this\nmoment you become a strange and living personality to me. Three or four\nwere so beautiful that I could not bear that they should survive this moment.\nWhat could they have given me after such a look ? They could not extinguish\nthemselves. And I still see them, strangled, with disheveled hair. Three, or\nfour?\nTo ask every one for a moment of his life — it was the cost of this prac-\ntice that made me neither Lovelace nor Satan but Grindor. Clement Grindor,\nwho, if he detaches his history from that of the generations to follow, will\nknow himself an arch type. You have perhaps forgotten the Eleonore who\nintroduced me to B. and to Mau-la-Sagesse? She had incurred nothing worse"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "248", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2948, "texte": "than banishment and it was quite by chance on the banks of the Rhine that I\nfound myself in her presence one day. I was then at work on a case of inter-\nnational politics in which were involved the intrigues of a naval ensign and\na Viennese singer. The plot worked admirably: the affair threw light on\nthree subjects of the first rank, and I could think of nothing but to bring it\nto a head at dinner that night in the hotel by the river by having my pretty\npuppet set fire to the bouquet of flowers on the table. A boat on the river\nattracted our attention. She rocked heavily to and fro, when suddenly a\nwhite form surged out of the shadows, dove into the water and swam rapidly\nto our side of the river. Out of pure curiosity, I was among the first who\nseized her and helped her to regain terra firma. I was almost stupefied to\nrecognize Eleonore in her, beautiful and almost naked. I took her in my\narms, and carried her into a salon, where she recovered sufficiently to de-\nmand that we be left alone. I saw, then, the blood stains on her neck and\nlearned that she had escaped from the boat as someone tried to strangle\nher. But what a surprise to find me again; she had believed that I died like\na dog somewhere along the route. The miracle of my immunity recalled to\nher the old taste she had had for my person; at her throat there was the\nscent of the blood of all her lovers, my victims, and it was two hours before\nI remembered to send a note to my little companion who was waiting for me\non the terrace. Her fingers struck old and ravishing chords in my body, as\nshe sang one of B. . .'s familiar doggerels. This sweet trembling slave wTho\nheld sway over the whole length of me, whom I had regretted for so long,\nhad been found in such a miraculous fashion. And I began very deliberately\nlo relate to her the real account of my adventures. She did not budge; the\ndetails of the betrayal did not bring a quiver to her rigid face; but when I\ncame to the death of B . . ~ when he had cried out the words that I alone had\nheard and thrown himself into the flames, it was indeed too much and she\nlost all consciousness and fell to the floor.\nWhen she came to, her alternate horror and febrile passion made our\nexistence a prolonged ecstasy during three weeks. In the Hartz we fought\nout our intellectual drama. I gave her a revolver and she tried to shoot me\ndown a hundred times. She followed me into the mountains to places where\na detonation would have been lost among the thousand echoes of cascades\nand falling rocks. A hundred times an inflexion of my voice, an inflexion of\nmy body arrested her finger at the trigger; at the end of three weeks, tamed,\nshe found herself alone at the hotel with the bill to pay.\nI shall not speak of my role during the European war. A skilled crafts-\nman in all that was carried on during those last years it would seem like\npure boasting if I should recount to you a tenth of the actual fact. I organi-"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "249", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 822, "texte": "zed two revolutions, several defeats; I created out of wholecloth five criminal\naffairs which demolished the reputation of the most honored statesmen; I\nruined countries; I led to the post a woman who was more beautiful than the\nsetting sun, a misdeed for which I would have killed any number of young\npeople; I sought to dishonor as many men as I could find who believed in the\nhoncr of which they prated, and the virtue they preached, and against which,\nsir, my life up to this moment has been nothing but an eternal protest, futile\ncertainly, but amazing enough for me to laugh, from time to time, when by\nchance I catch a glimpse of my image in a mirror, this frank and pleasant\nexpression which seems to fairly personify devotion, magnanimity, heroism.\n\nLOUIS ARAGON.\n(Translated from the French by Matthew Josephson)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "250", "page_fin": "251", "image_debut": 14, "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Valuta", "titre_sommaire": "Valuta", "signature_source": "Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "250", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1169, "texte": "VALUTA\n\nFollowing the dollar O following the dollar I have learned three\nfashions of eating with the knife and ordered beer in four lan-\nguages from a Hungarian waiter while following the dollar\naround the 48th degree of north latitude where it buys most there\nis the Fatherland\nfollowing the dollar by grey Channel seas by blue seas in Italy\nby lakes in the Alps as blue as aniline blue by lakes as green as\na bottle of green ink and ink-smeared mountains rising on either\nhand\nI dipped my finger in the lake and wrote. I shall never\nreturn never to my strange land\nmy land where plains are daily stretched where plains are\nstretched and tacked like brussels carpet where forests burn in\nbusiness hours daily where yellow nameless rivers run and where\ncities stand daily on their heads and wave proud legs in the air\nmy land of cowboys of businessmen of peddlers peddling machi-\nnery to boil eggs three minutes exactly three minutes for there's\none born every minute in my land\n*\nincomprehensible and sweet and far where Douglas Fairbanks\nweds our winsome Mary and taking the Bronx Express they sail\naway far far away into a photographed bliss I never may under-\nstand"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "251", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 535, "texte": "four angels bathed in glory guard my land\nat the north gate Theodore Roosevelt at the west gate Charlie\nChaplin at the south gate Jack Johnson blackly naked and\nat the middle gate a back-country fiddler from Clarion County\nfiddling with a turkey in the straw and a haw haw haw and a\nturkey in the hay and I shall never hear it fiddled O farther than\nAtlantis is that land\nwhere I could return tomorrow if I chose\nbut I shall return to it never\nshall never wed my pale Alaska virgin\nnever lie in thine arms O Texas Rose.\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "252", "page_fin": "258", "image_debut": 16, "image_fin": 24, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Photography and the New God", "titre_sommaire": "Photography and the New God", "signature_source": "Paul Strand", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "252", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2415, "texte": "PHOTOGRAPHY AND THE NEW GOD\n\nMan having created the concept of God The Creator, found himself\nunsatisfied. For despite the proven pragmatic value of this image, through\nwhich the fine arts of music and literature, of architecture, painting, and\nsculpture, together with the less fine arts of murder, thievery and general\nhuman exploitation, had been carried to great heights, there was still\nsomething unfulfilled: the impulse of curiosity in man was still hungry.\nIn all ages therefor, we find the empirical thinker, the alchemist and\nastrologer, mathematician and philosophic experimenter, at work, frequently,\nas in the early Christian world, at considerable risk of his life, liberty and\npursuit of happiness. Then, it was the artist alone who was able to\nindulge in the luxury of empirical thought under the camouflage of subject\nmatter. In every other field of research, the scientific method was seen to\nbe and no doubt was, inimical to all forms of Churchianity; the scientist was\nthen, as his fellow-worker the artist is to-day, persona non grata.\nBut through the disintegration of the power of the Christian Church\nfollowing the Reformation, scientific empirical thought found its oppor-\ntunity of expression. Men's imaginations, weary of sectarian intrigue and\nof Holy Wars, kindled at the thought of the unknown in the form of unex-\nplored trade routes and new sources of material wealth; and through them\ndreamed of a power over their fellows as potent as any which could be\nderived from a vested interest in God. With this change in the direction of\nthought, the scientist became indispensable, he began to function in society.\nFor when it became apparent that craftsmanship as a means to trade growth\nwas insufficient, that quantity and not quality of production was the essential\nproblem in the acquisition of wealth, it was the scientist and his interpreter\nthe inventor who jumped into the breach.\nOut of wood and metals he made hands that could do the work of\na thousand men; he made backs that could carry the burden of a thousand\nbeasts and chained the power which was in the earth and waters to make\nthem work. Through him men consummated a new creative act, a new\nTrinity: God the Machine, Materialistic Empiricism the Son, and Science the\nHoly Ghost.\n*\nAnd in the development and organization of this modern Church,\nthe veritable artist, composer or poet, architect, painter or sculptor, has"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "253", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2948, "texte": "played no great part. His form of creativity based upon what Groce calls\nintuitive rather than intellectual knowledge, was clearly of no value in a\nfairly unscrupulous struggle for the possession of natural resources, for the\nexploitation of all materials, human and otherwise. As a consequence the\nartist has fallen considerably from his place of high seriousness as an\nintegral and respected element in society, to that of a tolerated mountebank\nentertainer merely. With neither Popes, Princes nor any equivalent of the\nRockerfeller Foundation to support his experimental work, he is to-day in\na position similar to that which the scientist occupied in the middle ages;\nthat of heretic to existing values. That kind of life which has its being in\nthe extension and projection of knowledge through the syntheses of intuitive\nspiritual activity, and its concomitant the vita contemplativa, is seen to be\nand no doubt is, a menace to a society built upon what has become the\nreligious concept of possessiveness. It is natural therefor that the artist finds\nhimself looked upon with a new sort of hostility which expresses itself, due\npossibly to the benign influence of civilization, in the form of indifference or\ncontempt, and extends to him the privilege of starving to death. At the\njudgment seat of the new Trinity he has been found wanting as a waster\nand a non-producer.\nWith this increasing isolation of the seeker after intuitive knowledge, the\nscientist, working not so much in the field of philosophy as in those more\n\"practical\" expressions of conceptual knowledge, the natural sciences, has\nbecome more and more a part of this industrial society, nay, is largely\nresponsible for it. Having created the new God, he has permitted himself to\nbe used at every step and for every purpose by its interested devotees.\nPrinting presses or poison gas, he has been equally blind or indifferent to the\nimplications in the use or misuse of either, with the result that the social\nstructure which he has so irresponsibly helped to rear, is to-day fast being\ndestroyed by the perversion of the very knowledge contributed by him.\nVirtually yanked out of comparative obscurity by the forces of evolutionary\ncircumstance, and considerably over-inflated by his Holy Ghostship, he has\nmade possible the present critical condition of Western Civilization, faced as\nit is with the alternatives of being quickly ground to pieces under the heel\nof the new God or with the tremendous task of controlling the heel.\nSigns of this imperative revaluation of the idea of the machine are\nbeginning to manifest themselves. And significantly, one might almost say\nironically enough, not among the least important, is the emerging demon-\nstration on the part of the artist, of the immense possibilities in the creative\ncontrol of one form of the machine, the camera. For he it is who, despite\nhis social maladjustment, has taken to himself with love a dead thing unwit-"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "254", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2922, "texte": "tingly contributed by the scientist, and through its conscious use, is revealing\na new and living act of vision.\nIn order to make this clear it is necessary to record briefly the develop-\nment of the use of the camera by the seeker after intuitive knowledge. The\nfirst of these to become interested in the mechanism and materials of photo-\ngraphy was David Octavius Hill, a painter, and member of the Royal Scottish\nAcademy. Hill came upon photography about 1842 in the following way;\n— he had received a commission to paint a large canvas on which were to\nappear the recognizable portraits of a hundred or more of the well-knowu\npeople of the time. Faced with this difficult task and having heard of the\nthen recently invented process of photography, he turned to it as a help to\nhis painting. Three years of experimentation followed and it is interesting\nto learn that he became so fascinated by the new medium that he seriously\nneglected his painting. So much so in fact, that his wife and friends found\nit necessary to remind him that he was an \"artist.\" They chided him upon\nwasting his time and finally succeeded in giving him such a bad conscience\nthat he never photographed again. Yet the results of Hill's experimenting\nhave given us a series of amazing portraits which have not until recently been\nsurpassed. They are built with the utmost simplicity upon large masses of\nlight and dark, but unquestionably the element which makes these portraits\nlive is the naivete and freedom from all theory with which Hill approached\nhis new medium. He was not concerned or hampered in his photographing\nby the academic standards of the time as he must have been in his painting,\nfor as a painter he is of slight importance. Despite the primitive machine\nand materials with which he was compelled to work, the exposures of five\nto fifteen minutes in bright sunlight, this series of photographs has\nvictoriously stood the test of comparison with nearly everything done in\nphotography since 1845. They remain the most extraordinary assertion of\nthe possibility of the utterly personal control of a machine, the camera.\nA gap then of nearly forty years intervened during which these photo-\ngraphs made by Hill passed into obscurity and practically no similar experi-\nmentation was done. However, some time before their re-discovery photo-\ngraphy had, about the year 1880, started upon a renascent and widespread\ndevelopment all over the world. With the invention of the dry plate, the\nimprovements in lenses and printing papers, the process had been brought\nwithin the realm of greater certainty and ease of manipulation. And with\nthis period begins that curious misconception of the inherent qualities of\na new medium, on the part of almost everyone who has attempted to express\nhimself through it. Without the slightest realization that in this machine,\nthe camera, a new and unique instrument had been placed in their hands,"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "255", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2952, "texte": "photographers have in almost every instance, been trying to use it as a short\ncut to an accepted medium, painting. This misconception still persists today\nthroughout Europe and to a large degree even here in America.\nAs a consequence the development of photography so beautifully and\ncompletely recorded in the numbers of \"Camera Work,\" is interesting not so\nmuch in the aesthetically expressive as in an historical sense. We find all\nthrough the work done in Germany, France and Italy, in England and much\nin America, the supreme altar of the new God, a singular lack of perception\nand respect for the basic nature of the photographic machine. At every turn\nthe attempt is made to turn the camera into a brush, to make a photograph\nlook like a painting, an etching, a charcoal drawing or whatnot, like anything\nbut a photograph; and always in imitation of the work of inferior painters.\nMoreover, with the production of this very considerable number of bastard\nphotographs, interesting though they were temporarily, went an equally vast\nand foolish discussion as to whether photography was or was not an Art.\nNeedless to say this discussion was usually as thoughtless and as uncritical\nof its terminology and of its standards as were the photographers of theirs.\nBut partly through this evolution we are now fortunately becoming aware\nof the fact that nobody knows exactly what Art is; the word does not slip\nquite so glibly off the tongues of the serious-minded. And fortunately as\nwell, a few photographers are demonstrating in their work that the camera\nis a machine and a very wonderful one. They are proving that in its pure\nand intelligent use it may become an instrument of a new kind of vision,\nof untouched possibilities, related to but not in any way encroaching upon\npainting or the other plastic arts. It has taken nearly eighty years for this\nclarification of the actual meaning of photography to reach from the\nremarkably true but instinctive approach of David Octavius Hill, to the\nconscious control embodied in the recent work of Alfred Stieglitz.\nFor it is in the later work of Stieglitz, an American in America, that\nwe find a highly-evolved crystalization of the photographic principle, the\nunqualified subjugation of a machine to the single purpose of expression.\nIt is significant and interesting to note that this man is not a painter and has\nnever felt any impulse to be one. From the very inception of his photo-\ngraphic work which covers a period of thirty-five years, he like Hill, was\nfascinated by the machine as a thing apart. In fact, Stieglitz knew nothing\nabout painting until, as the guiding spirit in that little experimental labo-\nratory known as \"291\" he gave Americans their first opportunity of seeing\nthe development of modern painting together with that of photography.\nYet with all this he has maintained in his own photographic work a unity of\nfeeling uncontaminated by alien influences; in his own words, \"no"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "256", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2884, "texte": "mechanicalization but always photography.\" In his later work, consisting\nalmost exclusively of a series of portraits made during the past four years,\nthe achievements possible to the camera pass out of the realm of theory and\nbecome objective realities in which certain affirmations emerge. For the\nfirst time we are given an opportunity of examining and of drawing some\nconclusions concerning the means of photographic expressiveness, an\nexpressiveness the actual nature of which, together with that of other media,\nmay be safely left to the aestheticians to fight about among themselves.\nWe find first of all in this man's work a space-filling and formal sense\nwhich, in many instances, achieves as pure a synthesis of objectivity as can\nbe found in any medium. We perceive upon the loveliness of paper\na registration in monochrome of tonal and tactile values far more subtle than\nany which the human hand can record. We discover as well, the actuality\nof a new sensitivity of line as finely expressive as any the human hand can\ndraw. And we note that all these elements take form through the machine,\nthe camera, without resort to the imbecilic use of soft focus or uncorrected\nlenses, or to processes in which manual manipulation may be introduced.\nNay more, we see that the use of such lenses or processes weakens or destroys\nentirely the very elements which distinguish photography and may make it\nan expression. In the work of Stieglitz there is always a full acceptance of\nthe thing in front of him, the objectivity which the photographer must control\nand can never evade.\nBut above all, we become aware in these photographs of his, of a new\nfactor which the machine has added to plastic expression, the element of\ndifferentiated time. The camera can hold in a unique way, a moment. If\nthe moment be a living one for the photographer, that is, if it be significantly\nrelated to other moments in his experience, and he knows how to put that\nrelativity into form, he may do with a machine what the human brain and\nhand, through the act of memory cannot do. So perceived, the whole con-\ncept of a portrait takes on a new meaning, that of a record of innumerable\nelusive and constantly changing states of being, manifested physically. This\nis as true of all objects as of the human object. With the eye of the machine,\nStieglitz has recorded just that, has shown that the portrait of an individual\nis really the sum of a hundred or more photographs. He has looked with\nthree eyes and has been able to hold, by purely photographic means, space\nfilling, tonality and tactility, line and form, that moment when the forces\nat work in a human being become most intensely physical and objective. In\nthus revealing the spirit of the individual he has documented the world of\nihat individual, which is today. In this sense portrait painting, already\nnearly a corpse, becomes an absurdity."}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "257", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2868, "texte": "2\n\nNow in all of this it should be well understood, that the machine is a\npassive and an innocent party. The control of its mechanism and materials,\nthe fineness and sensitivity of its accomplishment are those of man. The\nnew God shorn of its God-hood, becomes an instrument of intuitive\nknowledge. Whether the results of its use will continue to live in the mind\nand spirit of the future, only time will tell. Whether or no these results\ncome under the category of Art, is irrelevant. The important fact to be\nnoted is that to-day, painters, writers and musicians, even the scientists and\nsensitive people in every occupation, are reacting as profoundly before\nphotographs, these untouched products of an intelligence and spirit\nchannelling through a machine, as before any of the accepted forms of\nexpression. So that when Groce in his \"Aesthetic\" writes: \"And if photo-\ngraphy be not quite an Art, that is precisely because the element of nature\nin it remains more or less unconquered and ineradicable.\" When he asks:\n\"Do we ever feel complete satisfaction before even the best of photographs?\nWould not an artist vary and touch up much or little, remove or add\nsomething to the best of photographs?\" the conclusion and answer are\nobvious. Signor Groce is speaking of the shortcomings of photo-\ngraphers and not of photography. He has not seen, for the simple reason\nthat it did not exist when he wrote his book, fully achieved photographic\nexpression. In the meantime the twaddle about the limitations of photo-\ngraphy has been answered by Stieglitz and a few others of us here in\nAmerica, by work done. Granting the limitations which all media have in\ncommon, it is only when the limitations of photographers are under exami-\nnation, that the discussion becomes realistic.\nThus the deeper significance of a machine, the camera, has emerged\nhere in America, the supreme altar of the new God. If this be ironical it may\nalso be meaningful. For despite our seeming wellbeing we are, perhaps more\nthan any other people, being ground under the heel of the new God, destroyed\nby it. We are not, as Natalie Curtis recently pointed out in The Freeman,\nparticularly sympathetic to the somewhat hysterical attitude of the Futurists\ntoward the machine. We in America are not fighting, as it may be natural\nto do in Italy, away from the tentacles of a medieval tradition towards a\nneurasthenic embrace of the new God. We have it with us and upon us with\na vengeance, and we will have to do something about it eventually. Not only\nthe new God but the whole Trinity must be humanized lest it in turn\ndehumanize us. We are beginning perhaps to perceive that.\nAnd so it is again the vision of the artist, of the intuitive seeker after\nknowledge, which, in this modern world, has seized upon the mechanism\nand materials of a machine, and is pointing the way. He it is who is again"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "258", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1581, "texte": "insisting, through the science of optics and the chemistry of light and metals\nand paper, upon the eternal value of the concept of craftsmanship, because\nthat is the only way in which he can satisfy himself and because he knows\nthat quality in work is prerequisite to quality in living. He has evolved\nthrough the conscious creative control of this particular phase of the machine,\na new method of perceiving the life of objectivity and of recording it. And he\nhas done so in spite of the usual opposition and contempt with which the\nAccepted always greets the New, in spite of the actual deterioration of\nmaterials and in the face of a total absence of those monetary returns which\nwork in other media occasionally brings.\nIn thus disinterestedly experimenting, the photographer has joined the\nranks of all true seekers after knowledge, be it intuitive and aesthetic or\nconceptual and scientific. He has moreover, in establishing his own spiritual\ncontrol over a machine, the camera, revealed the destructive and wholly\nfactitious wall of antagonism which these two groups have built up between\nthemselves. Rejecting all Trinities and all Gods he puts to his fellow-workers\nthis question squarely: What is the relation between science and expression?\nAre they not both vital manifestations of energy, whose reciprocal hostility\nturns the one into the destructive tool of materialism, the other into anemic\nphantasy, whose coming together might integrate a new religious impulse?\nMust not these two forms of energy converge before a living future can be\nborn of both?\n\nPaul Strand."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "259", "page_fin": "259", "image_debut": 25, "image_fin": 25, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "Apocalyptic Harvest", "titre_sommaire": "Apocalyptic Harvest", "signature_source": "Yvor Winters", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "259", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 450, "texte": "APOCALYPTIC HARVEST\nYvor Winters\nThe thinning light\nOf afternoon\nIs over ripened wheatfields\nShining to a thin skyline —\nA cloud,\nFluted and impervious,\nRides up a paler sky to meet the sunset\nWhen it comes.\nThis light\nSpreads from the Old Testament,\nThese fields\nAre printed leaves —\nAnd far away\nGo out across the fields\nAnd kill a man,\nBe hanged at dawn.\nAnd far and far away\nYoung horses stand immobile,\nTheir long manes rippled\nIn many winds.\n2*"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "260", "page_fin": "272", "image_debut": 26, "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Stravrogin's Confession", "titre_sommaire": "Stravrogin's Confession", "signature_source": "Feodor Dostoyevski ; Avram Yarmolinsky", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "260", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2385, "texte": "STRAVROGIN'S CONFESSION.\n\nCHAPTER II.\nIt was indeed foreign type, — three printed sheets of ordinary note-\npaper, sewn together. It must have been printed secretly by some Russian\nprinting-press abroad, and at first blush the pamphlet looked very much like\na revolutionary leaflet. The heading read \"From Stavrogin.\"\nI insert this document literally into my chronicle. I allowed myself to\ncorrect the mistakes in spelling, which are rather numerous and which some-\nwhat surprised me, for the author was, after all, an educated and even well-\nread man (of course, judged relatively). As for the style, I made no changes\nin it, in spite of the errors. At any rate, it is obvious that the author is by\nno means a man of letters.\nFrom stavrogin\nIn 186- I, Nikolai Stavrogin, a retired officer, was living in Peters-\nburg, indulging in dissipation in which I found no pleasure. In those days I\nwas keeping, for quite some time, three apartments. I myself was living in\none, in a lodging-house where I got board and service and where Maria\nLebyadkina, now my lawful life, was also staying. The other two apartments\nI rented by the month for Intrigues: in one I received a certain lady who\nloved me, and in the other, her maid, and for quite a time I was planning how\nI could bring the two together, so that mistress and maid could meet in my\nrooms. Knowing the characters of both, I expected to get a good deal of\nentertainment out of this joke.\nIn the gradual preparation for that meeting I had to go more often to\none of the two apartments, which was in a large house on Gorokhovaya\nStreet, because it was there that I received the maid. Here I had only one\nroom on the fourth floor, which I rented from a Russian family of the lower\nclass. They occupied the adjacent room, which was smaller, and the door\nbetween the two was always open, which fell in with my desires. The hus-\nband was employed in an office and away from morning till night.\nThe wife, a woman of forty, was generally busy cutting and sewing up old\nclothes for new and she too often went out to dispose of these. I remained\nall alone with their daughter, who was only a child. Her name was Ma-\ntriosha. Her mother loved her, but often beat her, and had a way of screaming\nat her frightfully, as is the manner of women of her class. This little girl\ntook care of my room, and cleaned things up behind the screen. I declare"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "261", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2818, "texte": "that I forget the number of the house. When I inquired I found out that the\nold house was torn down and there is now one large new house on the site\nof two or three of the former buildings. I also forget the name of my landlord\n(perhaps I didn't even know it then). I recall that the woman's name was,\nif I am not mistaken, Stepanida Mikhailovna. Him I don't remember. I\nbelieve that it might be possible to trace them through the Petersburg police.\nIt was a corner flat, opening on to the courtyard. Everything happened in\nJune. The house was painted pale blue.\nOnce a pen-knife which I didn't need and which was just lying around\ndisappeared from my table. I told the woman, without thinking that she\nwould whip her daughter. The mother had just been screaming at the child\non account of the loss of a rag, suspecting that she had taken it, and went\nas far as pulling her hair for her. When the rag was found under the table-\ncloth the little girl did not say a word of reproach but just looked at her\nmother silently. I noticed it, and it was now for the first time that I remarked\nthe girl's face which had always been a blank to me before. She was fair-skin-\nned and freckled, with an ordinary face, but it was a child's face and gentle,\nexceedingly gentle. The mother didn't like the little girl's failure to reproach\nher for the unmerited beating, and she raised her fist against the child, but\ndidn't hit her, and it was then that the matter of the pen-knife came up.\nIndeed, there was nobody there but the three of us, and it was only the girl\nwho went into my room. The woman flew into a passion, especially because\nshe had just beaten the child unjustly. She ran over to the besom, plucked\nsome twigs from it, and whipped the girl before my very eyes so that she\nraised welts on her, although the child was already in her twelfth year.\nMatriosha did not cry under the strokes, probably because I was there, but\nshe gulped strangely at each blow. And afterward she continued to gasp for\na whole hour.\nBut here is what happened first. At the very moment when the woman\nwent to pluck the twigs from the besom I found the penknife on my bed,\nwhere it must have fallen from the table. It occurred to me immediately not\nto say anything so as not to interfere with the whipping. It was an instan-\ntaneous decision; at such moments I stop breathing. But I intend to tell\neverything in more unmistakeable words, so that nothing may remain con-\ncealed.\nEvery situation in my life which was exceedingly disgraceful or im-\nmeasurably humiliating, or base, or, above all, ridiculous, always aroused in\nme together with immense anger an incredibly intense pleasure. Also in\nmoments of crime and in moments of danger. If I were stealing anything I\nwould feel enraptured by the consciousness of the depth of my baseness. It"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "262", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2920, "texte": "wasn't that I loved baseness (here my reason was entirely intact), but I liked\nthe intoxication of the tormenting consciousness of vileness. Likewise, each\ntime I stood at the barrier, waiting for my opponent's shot, I experienced the\nsame shameful and violent feeling, and once it was extraordinarily strong. I\nconfess I often sought it myself, because for me it is the most intense of all\nsimilar sensations. When I was slapped, and I was slapped twice in my life,\nthe feeling was there too, in spite of a furious anger. But if you can control\nyour anger, the gratification will surpass anything that can be imagined.\nI never told this to anyone, even by a hint, concealing it as a shame and\ndisgrace. But once in Petersburg when I was badly beaten up and had my\nhair pulled in a tavern I didn't have that feeling, but only fearful anger, and\ngot into a row, for it was just a drunken brawl although I was sober. But 1\nthought at the time that if the French Vicomte, who had slapped my face\nand whose lower jaw I had shot off for that, had pulled me by the hair, I\nwould have felt the familiar pleasure, and perhaps would not have been\nangry at all.\nI say all this so that everyone should understand that this feeling never\nwholly overcame me, and I was always completely conscious (it was pre-\ncisely on consciousness that everything was based). And although it took\nsuch a hold on me as to render me unreasonable or, so to speak, stubborn, it\nnever made me forget myself. Although it reached a point of frenzy in me,\nI could always subdue it, even stop it at its height, only I never wished to\nstop it. I am convinced that I could live my whole life like a monk in spite\nof the brutal lust which is in me and which I always provoke1. lam always\nmy master when I wish to be. And so let it be known that I do not wish to\nclaim irresponsibility for my crimes, either through effect of surroundings\nor disease.\nThe punishment ceased, I put the pen-knife into my vest-pocket and\nwithout saying a word left the house, and, going so far that no one could\ndiscover, I threw the pen-knife away. Then I waited two days. The little\ngirl, having cried her fill, became even more taciturn, yet I am convinced\nthat she had no ill feeling toward me. However, she surely felt some shame\nbecause she had been punished in such a way in my presence. But being\na child, she surely must have blamed herself even for her shame.\nIt was in the course of those two days that I once put myself a ques-\ntion, as to whether I could give up my intention, and I\nimmediately felt that I could, at any time, even that very minute.\n\n1 The proofs contained the following sentence inserted here, which Dostoyevski\nomitted in the final version: \"Up to the age of sixteen I indulged with extraordinary\nimmoderation in the vice to which Jean-Jacques Rousseau confessed, but 1 put a stop\nto it when I so desired, namely, when I began my seventeenth year.\""}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "263", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2546, "texte": "At that time I wanted to kill myself because of a sick indifference, however,\nI don't really known whether that was the reason. In the course of those few\ndays (for it was necessary to wait so that the little girl might forget every-\nthing), perhaps in order to distract myself from my constant fancy or merely\nfor a joke, I committed a theft from the furnished rooms where I lived. It\nwas the only theft I ever committed.\nMany people were crowded into those lodgings. Among others, a gov-\nernment clerk lived there with his family in two furnished rooms, — a man\nof about forty, not altogether stupid, a decent enough appearing fellow, but\npoor. I did not have much to do with him and he was afraid of the com-\npany which I entertained there. He had just received his salary, thirty-five\nroubles. What chiefly brought me to this step was that at the moment I was\nin want of cash (although four days later the money came through the\nmails for me), so that I was stealing because of need, so to speak, and not\nmerely for the fun of the thing. It was done impudently and simply. I just\nwalked into his room while he and his family were eating dinner in the\nother hole. His uniform, folded, lay on a chair at the very door. The thought\nhad flashed through my mind when I was still in the hall. I slipped my hand\ninto the pocket and drew out the purse. But the clerk heard a noise and\nlooked in from the next room. It seems that he saw something, at least, but\nsince he didn't see the whole procedure, naturally, he didn't believe his eyes.\nI said, that as I was passing through the hall I had looked into see what\ntime it was by his clock. \"It's stopped, sir,\" he answered, and I went out.\nI was then drinking heavily, and a whole crew, including Lebyadkin,\nwas camping in my rooms. The purse with the small change I threw away,\nbut I kept the bills. There were thirty- two roubles, three red and two yellow\nbills. I immediately got change for a red bill and sent for champagne. The\nsecond red bill, and the third too went the same way. Some four hours later\nin the evening the clerk accosted me in the hall.\n\"When you looked in this afternoon, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, didn't\nyou inadvertently brush my uniform from the chair ... it lay by the door?\"\n\"No, I don t remember. Was your uniform there?\"\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\"On the floor?\"\n\"First on the chair, sir, and then on the floor/'\n\"Did you pick it up?\"\n\"Yes, I did, sir.\"\n\"Well, so, what do you want?\"\n\"Nothing, sir, if that's the case.\"\nHe did not dare to say anything further, and he told nobody in the"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "264", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2823, "texte": "whole house — so timid are these people. Besides, everyone in the lodging-\nhouse was terribly afraid of me and showed a great deal of deference toward\nme. Afterward, I loved to meet his eyes as I passed through the hall. But\nthat soon began to bore me.\nThree days later I went to my room on Gorokhovaya Street. The\nmother was getting ready to leave with a bundle. The man, as usual, was\nnot at home, so I remained alone with Matriosha. The windows were open.\nThe house was occupied mostly by people with small workshops and all\nday long the place was filled with songs and the sound of hammers. An hour\npassed. Matriosha was sitting in the next room on a little stool, with a bit\nof sewing, her back turned to me. At length she began to hum, softly, very\nsoftly. She did that sometimes. I took out my watch and looked at the time;\nit was two o'clock. My heart began to beat fast. I got up and began to steal\ntowards her. On the window-sill there were many geranium pots and the\nsun was fearfully bright. I sat down beside her on the floor quietly. She\nstarted, and at first got incredibly frightened and jumped to her feet. I took\nher hand and kissed it gently, drew her down on the stool again, and began\nlooking into her eyes. The fact that I had kissed her hand suddenly struck\nher as funny, as though she were a baby. But her amusement lasted only a\nsecond for she quickly jumped up again and this time in such fear that her\nface was convulsed. She looked at me, her eyes motionless with terror, and\nher lips began to twitch as though she were going to cry, but she did not.\nI kissed her hand again and seated her on my knees. Then she suddenly\npulled away from me with a jerk of her whole body and smiled as though\nwith shame, but it was a strangely crooked smile. Her whole face reddened\nwith shame. I was muttering something to her like a drunken man. Suddenly\nan odd and astonishing thing happened which I will never forget: the little\ngirl threw her arms around my neck and suddenly began to kiss me violently\nof her own accord. Her face expressed perfect rapture. I nearly got up and\nwent away — this was so disagreeable to me in the small creature, and\nbesides I felt a sudden pity.\nWhen it was all over, she was embarrassed. I did not try to soothe her\nand no longer caressed her. She looked at me with a timid smile. Her face\nsuddenly seemed stupid to me. Her embarrassment grew with every mo-\nment. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands and stood in the corner\nwith her face to the wall, motionlessly. I feared that she would get frightened\nagain, as before, and silently left the house.\nI suppose that all that happened presented itself to her with deadly\nhorror as a measureless abomination. In spite of the foul language which\nshe must have heard from the days of her swaddling-clothes, and in spite"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "265", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2801, "texte": "of the talk that she heard all around her, I have every reason to believe that\nshe did not yet understand anything. In the end it must have seemed to\nher that she had committed an unspeakable crime, that there was deadly\nguilt upon her, that she had \"killed God.\"\nThat night I was in the drunken brawl that I mentioned before. In\nthe morning I woke up in my lodgings, where Lebyadkin had taken me. My\nfirst thought on awakening was: did she tell, or not? It was a moment of\nactual fear, although not very strong. I was very gay that morning, and\nawfully kind toward everyone, and the whole crew was very well pleased\nwith me. But I left them all and went to Gorokhovaya Street. I met her\ndownstairs in the hall. She was coming from the grocery where she had\nbeen sent for some chicory. Seeing me, she shot up the stairs in a terrible\nfright. When I came in, her mother had already given her a slap because\nshe had entered the room at \"breakneck speed,\" and this covered the true\ncause of her fear. And so everything was all right. She had retired to some\ncorner and did not come in all the time I was there. I stayed for an hour\nand then left.\nToward evening I was afraid again, but this time the fear was incom-\nparably stronger. Of course, I could deny the whole thing, but I could be\nfound out. I thought of forced labor. I had never felt fear before and this\nwas the only time in my life that I was to feel it. And I certainly wasn't\nafraid of Siberia, although I might have been deported more than once. But\nthis time I was frightened and actually felt fear, I don't know why, for the\nfirst time in my life — a very painful sensation. Besides, in the evening\nwhen I was at my lodgings, I began to hate her so that I decided to kill her.\nThe chief cause of my hatred was the memory of her smile. Contempt mixed\nwith measureless disgust was arising in me at the thought of the way she\nran into the corner and hid her face in her hands after everything was over.\nAn inexplicable fury took hold of me. Then followed chill and when toward\nmorning I had fever, I was again overcome by fear, but this time it was so\npowerful that I have never experienced any worse torture. But I no longer\nhated the little girl — at least it didn't reach the paroxysm that it had the\nprevious evening. I notice that strong fear completely banishes hatred and\nany feeling of revenge.\nI woke up around noon feeling perfectly well and I was astonished at\nthe violence of the sensations of the day before. But I was in a bad humor\nand was again forced to go to Gorokhovaya Street, in spite of my aversion.\nI remember I had an awful desire at that moment to have a serious quarrel\nwith somebody on my way there. On reaching my room I found Nina Savel-\nyevna there, the maid, who had been waiting for me for an hour. I didn't"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "266", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2785, "texte": "really love that girl, so that she came with some fear that I might be angry\nbecause of her uninvited presence. But I suddenly found myself glad to\nsee her. She was rather pretty, modest, and had the manners which the\nlower classes like, so that my landlady praised her highly to me. I found\nthe two of them at coffee and my landlady was hugely enjoying the pleasant\ngossip. I noticed Matriosha in the corner of the room. She stood there\nmotionlessly, staring at her mother and the visitor. When I entered she did\nnot hide as before, nor did she run away. Only it seemed to me that she\nhad grown very thin and that she had fever. I gave Nina a few hugs and\nlocked the door between the two rooms, which I hadn't done in a long time,\nso that Nina left in an altogether happy mood. I went out with her and for\ntwo days did not return to Gorokhovaya Street. The whole thing had already\nbegun to bore me. I decided to put an end to everything, to give up the room\nand leave Petersburg.\nBut when I came there in order to settle my account I found the wo-\nman alarmed and grieved. Matriosha had been ill for two days. Each night\nshe had fever and was delirious. Of course I asked what she said in her\ndelirium (we talked in whispers in my room), and the woman whispered that\nher ravings were terrible: \"killed God.\" I offered to send for the doctor at\nmy expense, but she didn't want me to. \"With God's mercy it will pass off.\nShe isn't in bed all the time. In the daytime she goes out. She has just run\nto the grocers on an errand.\" I decided to find Matriosha alone, and, since\nthe woman mentioned that she had to leave the house at five, I made up my\nmind to come back in the evening.\nI had dinner at a restaurant. At a quarter past five sharp I returned. I\nalways let myself in with my own key. There was nobody there but Ma-\ntriosha. She was lying in her mother's bed behind the screen, and I no-\nticed that she peeked out, but I pretended that I didn't see her. All the\nwindows were open. The air was warm, it was even hot. I paced up and\ndown a bit and then sat down on a divan. I remember everything to the\nlast minute. It positively gave me pleasure to say no word to Matriosha\nand to keep her in suspense — I do not know why. I waited a whole\nhour and suddenly she herself jumped out from behind the screen. I heard\nher feet strike the floor, the noise as she got out of bed, then her rapid steps,\nand there she was standing on the threshold of my room. She stood and\nlooked at me silently. I was so base that my heart leapt with joy at the\nthought that I had shown my mettle and forced her to be the\nfirst to come out. Through these days in which I hadn't seen her at close\nrange she had really grown terribly thin. Her face had dried up and her\nhead must have been hot with fever."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "267", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2795, "texte": "Her eyes grew large and looked at me fixedly with stupid curiosity,\nas it seemed to me at first. I sat, looking, and did not budge. And now\nsuddenly I was moved to hatred again. But very soon I noticed that she\nwas not afraid of me at all, but that she was perhaps in a delirium. Yet\nshe was not delirious.. Suddenly she began to shake her head at me as\nnaive and illmannered people do in reproach. And suddenly she raised her\nlittle fist at me and began to threaten from where she stood. For the first\nmoment this gesture seemed funny to me, but almost at once I could not\nbear it. There was such despair in her face as is impossible to see on the\nface of a child. She kept on shaking her little fist at me threateningly and\nwagging her head in reproach. I got up and moved toward her fearfully,\nI began to talk to her kindly in a low, cautious voice, but saw that she\nwouldn t understand me. Then suddenly she threw her hands over her\nface, as she had done then, moved away and stood at the window with her\nback turned toward me. I returned to my room and also seated myself by the\nwindow. I cannot possibly understand why I did not leave then, but re-\nmained as though waiting for something to happen. Soon I heard her rapid\nsteps again. She passed through the door on to a wooden gallery which led\ndown to the stairs, and I immediately ran to my door, and opened it just\nin time to notice that Matriosha had stepped into a tiny cubicle, something\nlike a hen-coop, adjacent to another cubicle. A very curious thought flashed\nthrough my mind. Even now I cannot understand why it suddenly occur-\nred to me, things must have led to it. I closed the door and again sat down\nat the window. Of course, it was still impossible to believe the thought\nthat had come to me — \"nevertheless. . (I remember everything, and\nmy heart beat violently).\nA minute later I looked at my watch to see exactly what time it was.\nWhy I needed that precision I do not know, but I was capable of such\ncarefulness, and generally, at that moment, I wanted to notice everything.\nSo that what I noticed then, I remember now distinctly and see it as if it\nwere happening before my very eyes. Evening was coming on. A fly was\nbuzzing overhead and kept alighting on my face. I caught it, kept it awhile in\nmy fingers, and let it fly out of the window. A cart rumbled noisily into\nthe courtyard. In the corner of the courtyard a tailor at his window was\nsinging a song very loudly. He was sitting at his work and I could see him\nplainly. It occurred to me that since nobody met me when I was entering the\ngates and while I was going upstairs, it would be much better if nobody saw\nme as I went downstairs, and I cautiously moved my chair away from the\nwindow so that the tenants could not see me. I took a book but soon cast it"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "268", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2734, "texte": "aside and began to look at a tiny red spider on a geranium leaf and I\ndozed off. I remember everything to the last moment.\nSuddenly I whipped my watch out of my pocket. Twenty minutes\nhad passed since she went out. My conjecture assumed the shape of a\nprobability. But I decided to wait another quarter of an hour exactly. It\nalso occurred to me that she might have returned without my hearing her,\nbut this was impossible: there was a dead silence, and I could hear the\nbuzzing of every fly. Suddenly my heart began to beat violently again. I took\nout my watch: three minutes left. I sat through them, although my heart\nbeat so violently that it hurt me. Then I rose, put on my hat, buttoned my\ncoat, and looked about the room to see if there were any traces of my having\nbeen there. I moved the chair nearer to the window, where it stood before.\nFinally I opened the door quietly, locked it with my key, and went to the\ncubicle. It was closed but not locked; I knew that it had no bolt, but I didn't\nwant to open it, so I stood on tiptoe and looked through a crack. At the\nvery moment when I was raising myself on tiptoe I recalled that when I\nwas sitting by the window, looking at the little red spider, and was about\nto doze off, I had thought of how I would raise myself on my toes so that\nmy eye would be on a level with the crack. By noting this detail I want\nto prove without fail that I was fully in possession of all my faculties, and\nthat I am responsible for everything. I stood looking through the crack for\na long time, because it was dark there, yet not altogether, so that at length\nI saw what I wanted to see. . . .\nAt last I decided to leave. I did not meet anybody on the stairs. Three\nhours later all of us, in our shirt-sleeves, drank tea and played cards,\nLebyadkin recited verses. Many stories were told, and it so happened that\nthey were recounted well and amusingly, and not stupidly as usual. Kyrilov\nwas there too. Nobody drank, except Lebyadkin, although there was a bottle\nof rum on the table.\nProkhor Malov observed that \"when Nikolai Vsevolodovich is con-\ntented and doesn't sulk, all of us are in good spirits and talk cleverly.\"\nThe phrase stuck in my memory, and so it seems that I was gay, contented,\nand did not sulk. But that was only my appearance. I knew, I remember,\nthat I was a base and vile coward rejoicing in my delivery, and that I would\nnever be decent again.\nAbout eleven o'clock the janitor's little girl from Gorokhovaya Street\nbrought me the news that Matriosha had hanged herself. I went with the\nchild and discovered that the woman herself did not know why she had\nsent for me. She screamed and writhed. The place was full of people,\npolicemen. I stood there a while and then left."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "269", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2664, "texte": "All this time the authorities did not disturb me at all, except to\nask a few questions. But I told them nothing but that the girl had been\nill and delirious, and that I offered, on my part, to call a doctor at my\nown expense. The pen-knife too was mentioned. I said that my landlady\nwhipped the child but that this was nothing. No one knew anything about\nmy visit in the evening.\nFor about a week I did not go there. I went long after the girl was\nburied in order to arrange to leave the room. My landlady still cried, al-\nthough she was already busy again with her rags and sewing. \"It was\nbecause of your penknife that I insulted her,\" she said, but without much\nbitterness. I gave up the room on the pretext that naturally this was now\nno place to receive Nina Savelyevna. When I took leave she again praised\nNina Savelyevna. I gave her five roubles in addition to what I owed her\nfor the room.\nThe chief thing was that life bored me to madness. I would have\nwholly forgotten the Gorokhovaya Street affair as well as all that happened\nin that period, if it hadn't been that, for some time, I kept remembering\nangrily, how at one moment I had lost my nerve.\nI let out my anger upon whomever I could. At that time for no ap-\nparent reason at all, I thought of somehow crippling my life, in the most\nrepulsive manner possible. The year before I had already had the idea of\nshooting myself; something better presented itself.\nOnce looking at the lame Maria Timofeevna Lebyadkina, who was\nmore or less of a servant in my lodgings, I suddenly decided to marry\nher — at that time she was not insane, but simply a flighty idiot, and\nsecretly madly in love with me. (The gang found that out.) The thought of\nStavrogin's marriage to a creature like that, the lowest of the low, tickled me.\nIt would be hard to imagine anything uglier. At any rate, I married her,\nnot solely \"to win a wager after a drinking bout.\" The ceremony was\nwitnessed by Kirilov and Piotr Verkhovenski, who at that time happened\nto be in Petersburg; also Lebyadkin himself and Prokhor Malov (he is dead\nnow). Nobody else ever discovered it, and they promised to keep quiet about\nit. This secrecy has always seemed abominable to me, but it hasn't been\nviolated even yet, although I had the intention of publishing the fact abroad;\nnow that I'm at it 1 may as well confess this too.\nAfter the wedding I went to the provinces to see my mother. I went\nthere to amuse myself. In our town I made for myself the reputation of\nbeing insane — a reputation which has endured to this very day and which\nno doubt is harmful to me, as I shall explain below. Then I went abroad\nand remained there for four years."}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "270", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2842, "texte": "I was in the Orient, on Mt. Athos, where I stood through all night\nservices which lasted for eight hours, I was in Egypt, lived in Switzerland,\ngot as far as Iceland, I spent two semesters at the university of Gottingen.\nThe last year I became intimate with a Russian family of high rank that was\nliving in Paris, and got on good terms with two Russian girls in Switzerland.\nSome two years ago at Frankfort, passing by a stationery store, I noticed\namong the photographs on sale a small picture of a little girl neatly dressed,\nbut resembling Matriosha very closely. I immediately bought the photograph\nand coming to the hotel, placed it on the mantel-piece. There it lay for a\nweek, untouched, and I didn't look at it even once, and when I left Frankfort\nI forgot to take it along.\nI note this precisely in order to show to what extent I was able to\nmaster my memories and to what extent I became callous to them. I would\nreject the whole lot of them, and the whole mass would vanish obediently\nevery time I so desired it. Recollection of the past has always bored me,\nand I could never talk about the past as almost everyone else does, all the\nmore so since, like everything else that was part of me, I hated it. As for\nMatriosha, I even forgot her photograph on the mantel-piece. About a\nyear ago, in the Spring, travelling in Germany, I absentmindedly passed my\nstation and got upon another line. I got off at the next station; it was be-\ntween two and three in the afternoon, the day was clear. It was a tiny\nGerman town. A hotel was pointed out to me. It was necessary to wait.\nThe next train was due at eleven at night. I was rather pleased with this\nadventure, for I wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere. The hotel proved to\nbe a small, cheap place, but with shrubs and flower-beds all about it. I was\ngiven a small room. I made a good meal and as I had spent all of the\nprevious night on the road, I fell asleep around four o'clock.\nI had a totally unexpected dream, because I had never dreamed\nanything like it before. In the Dresden gallery there is a painting by\nClaude Lorraine, called in the catalogue Acis and Galateabut\nwhich I always called The Golden Age, I don't know why. I had seen\nit previously and just three days before I saw it again in passing. I went to\nthe gallery simply in order to look at it and it was perhaps for that reason\nthat I stopped at Dresden. It was this picture that appeared to me in a dream,\nyet not as a picture but as though it were real.\nWhat I saw was a corner of the Greek archipelago: gentle, azure waves,\nrocks and islands, a shore in blossom, afar a magic panorama, a beckoning\nsunset — words fail one. European mankind remembers this place as its\ncradle here, the first scenes of mythology, mankind's earthly paradise. . .\nhere lived beautiful men and women. They rose, they slept, happy and"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "271", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2835, "texte": "innocent; the groves were filled with their merry songs, the great overflow\nof unspent energies poured itself into love and simple-hearted joys. The\nsun loosed its rays upon these isles and this sea, rejoicing in its beautiful\nchildren. Marvellous dream, lofty illusion! The most improbable of all\nvisions, to which mankind throughout its existence has given its best\nenergies, for which mankind sacrificed everything, for which its prophets\nwere crucified and killed, without which nations will not desire to live, and\nwithout which they cannot even die! All these sensations were mine in this\ndream; I do not know exactly what I saw, but the cliffs, and the sea, and\nthe slanting rays of the setting sun, all that I still seemed to see when I woke\nup and opened my eyes, for the first time in my life literally wet with tears.\nA feeling of happiness, hitherto unknown to me, pierced my heart till it\nached. It was already evening; a stream of bright slanting sunrays pierced\nthe green of the window-boxes of my little room and flooded me with light.\nI quickly closed my eyes again, as if eager to call back the vanished dream,\nbut suddenly I noticed a tiny dot in the centre of bright, bright light.\nSuddenly this dot began to assume a shape, and all of a sudden I saw\nclearly a tiny red spider. I remembered it at once as it had looked on the\ngeranium leaf, when the rays of the setting sun were pouring in in the same\nway. It was as if something had stung me, I sat up in bed. . .\n(That is the way it all happened!)\nI saw before me (O, not that I really saw her! If it only had been\na genuine hallucination!) I saw Matriosha, grown thin and with feverish\neyes, precisely as she had looked at the moment when she stood at the\nthreshold of my room, and shaking her head, lifted her tiny fist against me.\nI have never felt anything more painful! The piteous despair of a helpless\ncreature with an immature mind, who threatened me (with what? what\ncould she do to me, O God!) but who, of course, blamed herself alone! Never\nhas anything like that happened to me. I sat far into the night, motionless,\nforgetful of time. Whether this is what is called remorse or repentance, I\ndo not know and could not tell even now. But what is intolerable for me\nis only this image, namely, the little girl on the threshold with her lifted\nlittle fist threatening me, only the way she looked then, only that moment,\nonly that shaking of her head. That is what I cannot bear, because I see\nher that way almost every day. No, the image does not appear to me\nof itself, but I evoke it, and I cannot help evoking it, although I cannot\nendure it. Oh, if I could only see her sometimes in the flesh, even in a\nhallucination!\nWhy then does no other memory of mine rouse any such feelings in\nme? And yet I have memories of deeds which people would think much"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "272", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2623, "texte": "worse. Such memories arouse only hatred in me, a feeling caused by my\npresent condition; formerly I used to forget them cold-bloodedly and shove\nthem into the background.\nAfter that I traveled about nearly all this year and tried to occupy\nmyself. I know that, even now I can get rid of Matriosha if I so desire. I am\nin complete possession of my will, as before. But the fact of the matter is\nthat I never wanted to do it, that I do not want to do it now and that I never\nshall. It will go on like this until I become insane.\nIn Switzerland two months later I was almost mastered by the old\nimpulse with the same fierce passion that I experienced only in early years.\nI felt terribly tempted to commit a new crime, namely, bigamy (because\nI am already married), but I fled at the advice of another girl, to whom\nI confessed practically everything, even the fact that I did not love the one\nI wanted so much, and that I could never love anyone. Besides, this new\ncrime would not by any means have saved me from Matriosha.\nThus I have decided to have these sheets printed and import three\nhundred copies of them to Russia; when the time comes, I shall send them\nto the police and to the local authorities; at the same time I shall send them\nto the editorial offices of all the newspapers with a request to publish them,\nand also to my many acquaintances in Petersburg and in Russia. It will also\nappear in translation abroad. I know that legally I shall probably not be\ndisturbed, at least not to any serious extent. I alone denounce myself, and\nhave no accuser; besides, there is little or no evidence. Finally, there is the\ngenerally credited notion of my mental derangement of which my relatives\nwill surely take advantage and thus stop any legal prosecution that may\nseriously threaten me. One of my purposes in declaring this is to prove,\nthat I am now in full possession of my mental faculties and I understand\nmy situation. But there will be some who will know everything and look\nat me, and I will look at them. I wish everyone would look at me. I do\nnot know whether or not this will relieve me. I resort to it, as to the last\nmeasure.\nI repeat: if a thorough search is made in Petersburg, the traces may\nbe found. My landlady and her husband may still be there. Of course, they\nwill remember the house. It was pale blue. As for me, I shall not leave my\npresent place of residence but for some time (a year or two) I shall stay at\nSkvoreshniki, my mother's estate. If I am summoned, I shall present myself\nwherever it may be.\n\nNikolai Stavrogin\nFeodor Dostoyevski.\n(translated from the Russian by Avram Yarmolinsky)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "273", "page_fin": "284", "image_debut": 41, "image_fin": 52, "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "On English and French Fiction", "titre_sommaire": "On English and French Fiction", "signature_source": "Arthur Symons", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "273", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2496, "texte": "3\n\nON ENGLISH AND FRENCH FICTION\n\nI\nCertainly the modern English novel begins with that elaborate master-\npiece, Tom Jones of Henry Fielding. And it seems to me that his genius\nis contained, on the whole, in that one book; in which he creates living\npeople; the very soil is living. His hero is the typical sullen, selfish base-\nborn, stupid, sensual, easily seduced and adventurous youth, with whom\nhis creator is mightily amused. The very Prefaces are full of humourous wis-\ndom: copied, I suppose, from Montaigne. The typically wicked woman is\npainted almost as Hogarth might have painted her. It is quite possible that\nshe may have a few touches, here and there, of Lady Wishfort who, wrote\nMeredith, \"is untouched for the vigour and pointedness of the tongue. It spins\nalong with a final ring, like the voice of Nature in a fury, and is, indeed, racy\neloquence of the elevated fishwife.\"\nFielding has a strong sense of the vigilant comic, which is the genius\nof thoughtful laughter; nor can contempt be entertained by comic intelli-\ngence. Blifil is essentially the grossly and basely animal creature, who is\nalso a villain, and who has his part in the plot; indeed one scandalous scene\nin which he is discovered is laughable in the purely comic sense.\nAfter Fielding comes Thackeray, and his Vanity Fair is the second\nmasterpiece in modern fiction. It is the work of a man of the wTorld, keenly\nobservant of all the follies and virtues and vices and crimes and splendours,\nof crises and of failures, of his neither moral nor immoral Fair. He takes\nhis title from John Bunyan; but in originality he is almost equal with\nFielding. \"As the Manager of the Performance sits before the curtain on\nthe boards, and looks into the Fair, a feeling of profound melancholy comes\nover him in his survey of the bustling place.\" Such is the moral, if you\nlike; at any rate the whole Show \"is accompanied by appropriate scenery\nand brilliantly illuminated with the author's own candles.\" x\\t the end\nthe Finis: \"Ah! Vanitas Vanitatum! Which of us is happy in this world?\nWhich of us has his desire? or, having it, is satisfied? — Gome, children,\nlet us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.\"\nThere is no question that Becky Sharp is not derived from Balzac's\n■\nLisbeth in La Cousine Bette, but at what a distance, when once you think of\nthe greatest of all novelists, who has the fortune to be French, and of\nThackeray, who has the fortune (at times the misfortune) of being English."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "274", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2836, "texte": "When we think of Becky she startles us by her cynical entrance: she in-\nherits from her parents bad qualities. Her first epigram sums her up.\n\"Revenge may be wicked, but it's natural. I'm no angel.\" She fascinates\nLord Pitt, Rawdon Crawley and Lord Steyne in a way Lisbeth never does.\nLisbeth's fascination is that of the evil-doer; she is envious, spiteful, mali-\ncious, a lying hypocrite; always deliberately bent on having her own way,\nalways for evil purposes: so that she, in her sinister effrontery, causes the\nruin of many of the lives she thrives on, feigns to help, deludes; only,\nshe never deludes as Valerie Marnette does. We have only to say: \"Valerie!\"\nand the woman is before us. As for Valerie: \"Elle etait belle comme sont\nbelles les femmes assez belles, pour etre belles en dormant:\" a sentence\ncertainly lyrical. Lisbeth's character has \"une dose du mordant parisien.\"\nUnmarried, she is monstrous, her snares are inevitable, her dissimulation\nimpenetrable. But she is never given a scene so consummately achieved\nin its sordid and voluptuous tragedy as the scene in Vanity Fair when\nRawdon enters his house at midnight, and finds Becky dressed in a brilliant\ntoilette, her arms and her fingers sparkling with bracelets and rings: and\nthe brilliants in her breast which Steyne had given her. \"He had her hand\nin his, and was bowing to kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint\nscream as she caught sight of Rawdon's white face.\" And, as the writer\nadds, with an entire sense of the tragic and comic drama that is over: \"All\nher lies and her schemes, all her selfishness and her wiles, all her wit and\nall her genius had come to this bankruptcy.\"\nI have never had any actual admiration for the novels of George Eliot;\nshe had her passing fame, her popularity, her success; people compared her\nprose — wrongly — with the poetry of Mrs. Browning; and, as for her\nattempts at verse, the less said of them the better. In favour of my opinion\nI quote this scathing sentence of Swinburne: \"Having no taste for the\ndissection of dolls, I shall leave Daniel Deronda in his natural place above\nthe ragshop door; and having no ear for the melodies of a Jew's harp, I shall\nleave the Spanish Gypsy to perform on that instrument to such audience\nas she may collect.\" Certainly Charlotte Bronte excelled George Eliot in\nalmost every quality; the latter having, perhaps, more knowledge and\nculture, but not for a moment comparable with Charlotte's purity of passion,\ndepth and fervour of feeling, inspiration, imagination and a most masterly\nstyle.\nAs for Romola I find it almost an elaborate failure in the endeavour\nto create the atmosphere of the period of Savonarola — that amazing age\nwhen the greatest spirits of the world were alive and producing works of\nunsurpassable genius — and in her too anatomical demonstration of the"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "275", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2679, "texte": "3*\n\nvarying vices and virtues of Tito: for she has none of that strange subtlety\nthat a writer of novels must possess to delineate how this human soul may\npass in the course of decomposition into some irremediable ruin. She is\ntoo much of the moralist to be able to present this character as a necessary\nand natural figure. She presents him — rather after the fashion of George\nSand — as a fearful and warning example.\nTake, for instance, the character of Rochester in Charlotte Bronte's\nJane Eyre. It is incomparable of its kind; an absolutely conceived living\nbeing, who has enough nerves and enough passion to more or less extinguish\nthe various male characters in George Eliot's novels. That Maggie Tulliver,\nin The Mill on the Floss, the finest of her novels, can be moved to any sense\nbut that of bitter disgust and sickening disdain by a thing — I will not write\na man — of Stephen Guest's character, is a lamentable and an ugly case\nof shameful failure; for as Swinburne says,\"The last word of realism has\nsurely been spoken, the last abyss of cynicism has surely been sounded and\nlaid bare.\" And I am glad to note here that he dismisses her with this\nreference to three great French writers; using, of course, his invariable\nironical paradoxes. \"For a higher view and a more cheery aspect of the\nsex, we must turn back to those gentler teachers, those more flattering\npainters of our own — Laclos, Stendhal and Merrime; we must take up\nLa Double Meprise: — or Le Rouge et le Noir — or Les Liaisons\nDangereuses.\"\nII\nProse is the language of what we call real life, and it is only in prose\nthat an illusion of external reality can be given. Compare the whole process\nand existence of character in a play of Shakespeare and in a novel of Balzac.\nI choose Balzac among novelists because his mind is nearer to what is\ncreative in the poet's mind than that of any novelist, and his method nearer\nto the method of the poet. Take King Lear and take Pere Goriot. Goriot\nis a Lear at heart, and he suffers the same tortures and humiliations. But\nprecisely where Lear grows up before the mind's eye into a vast cloud\nand shadowy mountain of trouble, Goriot grows downward into the earth\nand takes root there, wrapping the dust about all his fibres. Lear may\nexchange his crown for the fool's bauble, knowing nothing of it; but Goriot\nknows well enough the value of every banknote that his daughters rob him\nof. In that definiteness, that new power of \"stationary\" emotion in a firm\nand material way, lies one of the great opportunities of prose.\nThe genius of Prose is essentially different from the \"genius of\nPoetry;\" and that is the reason why writers like De Quincey and Ruskin"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "276", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2536, "texte": "trespassed, as thieves do, on forbidden ground. Both tried to write prose as\nif they were writing verse, and both failed; Ruskin ruined by his fatal\nfacility and De Quincey by his cultivating eloquence in rhetoric. Certain\nprose writers have written lyrical prose, because their genius at times drove\nthem to do so, and with an absolute success. One finds such passages in\nShakespeare and Blake and Pater and Lamb; in certain pages of Balzac\nand of Flaubert and of Meredith and of Conrad. Yet, in what I must call\nlyrical prose, there is a certain rhythm, but not that of rhymed verse; that\nis to say, if the inspiration were the same, the mediums are different: the\nrhythm of prose that has no metre and the rhythm of verse that has metre.\nTake, for instance, Peacock, who was neither a great prose writer nor\na great poet, but whose novels are unique in English, and are among the\nmost scholarly, original and entertaining prose writings of the century.\n\"A strain too learned for a shallow age,\nToo wide for selfish bigots, let his page\nWhich charms the chosen spirits of the time\nFold itself up for the serener clime\nOf years to come, and find its recompense\nIn that just expectation.\"\nSo Shelley praises him, who was certainly aware of Peacock's clever\nscraps of rhymning that are like no other verse; the masterpiece being the\ncomically heroic \"War-song of Dinas Vawr.\" His learned wit, his satire upon\nthe vulgarity of progress (on which he is one with Baudelaire and one with\nMeredith) are more continuously present in his prose than in his verse;\nyet his characters are caricatures, they speak a language that is not ours;\nbut they are given sensational adventures, often comical in the extreme; and\nin these pages plenty of nonsense and of laughter and of satire and of\nserious prose with an undercurrent of bitter cynicism. He treats all his\ncreatures cruelly, and I cannot help seeing the reason why Richard Garnett\nadmired his prose so much: that there is something curiously alike and\nunlike in their humour.\nGarnett himself told me, as I always thought, that The Twilight of the\nGods was far and away the best book he had written. In France, Marcel\nSchwob and Andre Gide have done certain things comparable in their way\nwith these learned inventions, these ironic \"criticisms of life,\" these irre-\nverent classical burlesques in which religion, morality, learning and all\ncivilisation's conventions, are turned topsy-turvy, and presented in the ridi-\nculousness of their unaccustomed attitude. But no modern man in England"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "277", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2737, "texte": "has done anything remotely comparable with them, and neither Schwob\nnor Andre Gide has heaped mockery so high as in \"Abdullah the Adite,\" and\nremained as sure a master of all the reticences of art and manners. This\nlearned mockery has an undefinable quality, macabre, diabolical, a witchcraft\nof its own, which I can find in no other writer.\nIII\nIs not a criticism of primary ideas, the only kind of criticism when one\nconsiders it, that is really worth writing? A critic may tell us that So-and-So\nhas written a charming hook, that it is the best of his charming books, that\nit is better or worse than another book by another writer with whom we\nsee no necessity to compare him, that it is, in short, an \"addition to literature;\"\nwell and good, here is someone's opinion, perhaps right, perhaps wrong; not\nvery important if right, not easy to disprove if wrong. But let him tell us,\nin noting the precise quality of A Rebours; and its precise divergence from\nthe tradition of naturalism: \"II ne s'aggissait plus tant de faire entrer dans\nl'art, par la representation, l'exteriorite brute, que de tirer de cette exteriorite\nmeme des motifs de reve et de la revelation interieure;\" let him tell us in\ndiscussing the question of literary sincerity that a certain writer \"est sincere,\nnon parce qu il avoue toute sa pensee, mais parce qu'il pense tout son aveu:\"\nhas he not added to the very substance of our thought, or touched that sub-\nstance with new light?\nThe curious thing in regard to Benjamin Constant is that there was not\na single interest, out of the many that occupied his life, which he did not\ndestroy by some inconsequence of action, for no reason in the world, appa-\nrently, except some irrational necessity of doing exactly the opposite of\nwhat he ought to have done, of what he wanted to do. So he creates Adolphe,\nso much of himself in it, and makes him say in a memorable sentence, \"Je\nme reposais, pour ainsi dire, dans l'indifference des autres, de la fatigue de\nson amour.\" He was never tired of listening to himself, and the acute\ninterest of his Journal consists in the absolute sincerity of its confessions,\nand at the same time the scrutinising self-consciousness of every word that\nis written down. \"II y a en moi deux personnes, dont l'un observe rautre.*'\nSo cold hearted is he that when perhaps his best friend, Mile. Talma, is dying,\nhe spends day and night by her bedside, overwhelmed with grief; and he\nwrites in his Journal: \"J'y etudie la mort.\" So out of this distressing kind\nof reality which afflicts the artist, he creates his art, Adolphe, a masterpiece\nof psychological narrative, from which the modern novel of analysis may\nhave been said to have arisen, which is simply a human document in which"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "278", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2933, "texte": "he has told us the story of his liaison with the writer of Gorinne. She made\nhim suffer for he writes: \"Tousles volcans sont moins flamboyants quelle.\"\nHe suffers, as his hero does because he can neither be intensely absorbed,\nnor, for one moment, indifferent; that very spirit of analysis which would\nseem to throw some doubt on the sincerity of his passion, does but intensify\nthe acuteness with which he feels it. It is the turning of the sword in a\nwound. He sums up and typifies the artistic temperament at its acutest point\nof weakness; the temperament which can neither resist, nor dominate, nor\neven wholly succumb to, emotion; which is forever seeking its own hurt,\nwith the persistence almost of mania; which, if it ruins other lives in the\npursuit, as is supposed, of artistic purposes, gains at all events no personal\nsatisfaction out of the bargain; except, indeed, when one has written Adolphe,\nthe satisfaction of having lived unhappily for more than sixty years, and\nleft behind one a hundred pages that are still read with admiration, sixty\nyears afterwards.\nFlaubert, possessed of an absolute belief that there exists but one way\nof expressing one thing, one word to call it by, one adjective to qualify, one\nverb to animate it, gave himself to superhuman labour for the discovery,\nin every phrase of that word, that verb, that adjective. And the desperate\ncertitude in his spirit always was: \"Among all the expressions in the world,\nall forms and turns of expression, there is but one — one form, one mode —\nto express all I want to say.\" He desired, above all things, impersonality;\nand yet, in spite of the fact that he is the most impersonal of novelists, the\nartist is always felt, for as Pater said; \"his subjectivity must and will\ncolour the incidents, as his very bodily eye selects the aspects of things.\"\nYet again, in spite of the fact that Flaubert did keep Madame Bovary at a\ngreat distance from himself, we find in these pages the analyst and the\nlyric poet in equilibrium. It is the history of a woman, as carefully observed\nas any story that has ever been written, and observed in surroundings of\nthe most extraordinary kind. He creates Emma cruelly, morbidly, mar-\nvellously; he creates in her, as Baudelaire says, the adulterous woman with a\ndepraved imagination. \"Elle se donne,\" he writes, \"magnifiquement, gene-\nreusement, d'une maniere toute masculine, a des droles qui ne sont pas ses\negaux, exactement comme les poetes se livrent a des drolesses.\"\nAs Flaubert invented the rhythm of every sentence I choose this one\nfrom the novel I have referred to, this magnificently tragic sentence. \"Et\nEmma se mit a rire, d'un rire atroce, frenetique, desespere, croyant voir la\nface hideuse du miserable qui se dressait dans les tenebres eternelles comme\nun epouvantement.\" Aeschylus might have put such words as these on the\nlying and crying lips of Glytemnestra in her atrocious speech after she has"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "279", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2917, "texte": "slain Agamemnon. With this compare a sentence I translate from Petrus\nRorel. \"I have often heard that certain insects were made for the amusement\nof children: perhaps man also was created for the same pleasure of superior\nbeings, who delight in torturing him, and disport themselves in his groans.\"\nThis is a sentence which might almost have been written by Hardy, so clearly\ndoes it state, in an image like one of his own, the very centre of his philo-\nsophy. Take, for example, these sentences in The Return of the Native. \"Yet,\nupon the whole, neither the man nor the woman lost dignity by sudden\ndeath. Misfortune had struck them gracefully, cutting off their erratic\nhistories with a catastrophic dash.\"\nSwinburne, who invariably over-praises Victor Hugo, over-praises his\natrocious novel L'Homme qui rit. But I forgive him everything when he\nwrites such Baudelairean sentences as these: \"Bakilphedro, who plays the\npart of devil, is a bastard begotten by lago upon his sister, Madame de\nMerteuil; having something of both, but diminished and degraded; wanting,\nfor instance, the deep daemonic calm of their lifelong patience. He has too\nmuch heat of discontent, too much fever and fire, to know their perfect\npeace of spirit, the equable element of their souls, the quiet of mind in which\nthey live and work out their work at leisure. He does not sin at rest, there\nis something of fume and fret in his wickedness. There is the peace of the\ndevil, which passeth all understanding.\"\nCertainly, for an absolutely diabolical dissection of three equally\ninfamous characters, this is unsurpassable. lago is not entirely malignant,\nnor is he abjectly vile, nor is he utterly dishonest: he is supreme in evil,\nand almost as far above vice as he is beyond virtue. He has not even a\nfleshly desire for Desdemona; yet he is the impassioned villain who \"spins the\nplot.\" Can one conceive, as Swinburne conjectures, \"something of lago's\nattitude in hell — of his unalterable and indomitable posture for all eternity?\"\nAs for Madame Merteuil she is, in Les Liaisons dangereuses, not only a\ncounterfoil for Valmont, but a spirit af almost inconceivable malignity; yet\nshe is not as abnormal as lago. She has a sublime lack of virtue, with\nan immense sense of her seductiveness. There is no grandeur in her evil, as\nthere is in Valmont's. In the longest letter she writes, that Baudelaire praises,\nshe confesses herself with so curious a shamelessness as to intrigue one. In\ncomparing this for her Laclos shows the most sinister side of his genius.\nHe shows her sterility, her depraved imagination, her deceit and her dissim-\nulations: rarely the humiliations she has endured. As she is resolved on\nthe ruin of Valmont she writes in this fashion: \"Seduite par votre reputation,\nil me sembloit que vous manquiez a ma gloire; je brulois de vous combattre\ncorps a corps.\" She is not even a criminal, not even the symbol of one of"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "280", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2645, "texte": "the poisonous women of the Renaissance, who smiled complacently after an\nassassination. Her nature is perverted by the lack of the intoxication of crime.\nThe imagination which stands to her in the place of virtue has brought its\nrevenge, and for her too there is only the release of death.\nIV\nGeorge Borrow has always had a curious fascination for me: for this\nman, half Cornish and half French, with his peculiar kind of genius — such\nas one generally finds in mixed blood — is both creative and inventive, normal\nand abnormal, perverse and unpassionate, obscure and grimly humourous.\nI was very young when I read his masterpiece Lauengro (1851) in its original\nthree volumes, from which I got my first taste for a sort of gypsy element\nin literature. The reading of that book did many things for me. It absorbed\nme from the first page with a curiously personal appeal, as of someone akin\nto me: the appeal, I suppose, to what was wild in my blood.\nWhat Borrow really creates is a by no means undiscovered world:\nI mean the world of the gypsies; yet he is the first to discover their peculiar\ncharacteristics, their savagery and uncivilization; he gives them life, in their\ntents, on the road, along the hedges; he makes them speak, in their pure and\ncorrupted dialects, much as they always speak, but nearly always with some-\nthing of Borrow in them. They are imaginative: he gives them part of his\nimagination. They are not subtle, nor is he; they are not complex, he at\ntimes is complex; he paints their morality and immorality almost as Hogarth\nmight have done.\nIn regard to the sense of fear, you find it in Shakespeare, in Balzac,\neverywhere; but never, I think, more intensely than in the chapters in\nLavengro describing Borrow s paroxysm of fear in the dingle. There is nothing\nof the kind, in any language, equal to those pages of Borrow: they go deep\ndown into some \"obscure night of the soul;\" they are abnormal. It is \"the\nscreaming horror\" that takes possession of him. \"The evil one was upon me;\nthe inscrutable horror which I had felt from boyhood had once more taken\npossession of me. I uttered wild cries. I sat down with my back against\na thorn-bush; the thorns entered my flesh, and when I felt them, I pressed\nharder against the bush; I thought the pain of the flesh might in some degree\ncounteract the mental agony; presently I felt them no longer — the power\nof the mental horror was so great that it was impossible, with that upon me,\nto feel my pain from the thorns.\"\nBorrow writes as if civilization did not exist, and he obtains, in his\nindirect way, an extraordinary directness. Really the most artificial of writers,"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "281", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2892, "texte": "he is always true to that \"peculiar mind and system of nerves\" of which he\nwas so well aware, and which drove him into all sorts of cunning ways of\ntelling the truth, and making it at once bewildering and convincing.\nI have often wondered why Robert Louis Stevenson was almost inva-\nriably looked on as a man of genius. He had touches of it, certainly; and\ntherein lies part of the secret of his captivating the heart; why, quite by\nhimself, he ranks with writers like Thoreau and with Dumas (one for a\ncertain seductiveness of manner, the other for his extravagant passion for\nmiraculous adventures); and why he appeals to us, not only from his curious\ncharm as a literary vagrant — to some of us an irresistible charm — and from\nthe exhilaration of the blood which he causes in us, and from the actual\nfever of his prose, and for his inhuman sense of life's whimsical distresses,\nof its cruelties and maladies and confusions, but from a certain gipsy and\nwayward grace, so like a woman's, that can thrill to the blood often more\ninstantly than in the presence of the august perfection of classic beauty.\nHis style, as he admits, is never wholly original; a \"sedulous ape,\" as\nhe once humourously named himself, that aped the styles of Baudelaire and\nHawthorne and Lamb and Hazlitt; and that never, except rarely and by\ncertain happy accidents in his rejection of words and using some of them\nas if no one had ever used them before, attains the inevitable perfection of\nBaudelaire's prose style, nor the quintessential and exultant and tragic style of\nLamb, which has, beyond any writer pre-eminent for charm, salt and sting;\nnor Montaigne's malign trickery of style, his roving imagination, his preoc-\ncupation with himself, who said so splendidly: \"I have no other end in writing\nbut to discover myself, who also shall peradventure be another thing to-\nmorrow.\"\nAs in a tragic drama so in a tragic novel we must not forbid an artist\nin fiction to set before us strange instances of inconsistency and eccentricity\nin conduct as well as in action; but we require of him that he should make us\nfeel such aberrations to be as clearly inevitable as they are certainly excep-\ntional. Balzac has done that and Flaubert and Goncourt and Maupassant and\nConrad. All these, at their greatest, are inevitable; only no novelist is ever\nconsistently great. Reade's Griffith Gaunt is not, as he ought to have been,\ninevitable; for what is tragic and pathetic and eccentric in his character\nis flawed by the writer's failure in showing what ought to have been the\nintolerable and irresistible force of the temptation; his act is an act of envy,\ntherefore a base act, and has none of the grandeur of Othello's jealousy, which\nmakes one love him the more for that, more even because he is unconscious\nof lago's poisoned tongue. Leontes excites our repulsion: he is a coward,\nselfish and deluded and ignoble."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "282", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2907, "texte": "At his finest I find in Charles Reade certain adventures almost worthy\nof Dumas: only he never had that over-flowing negro-like genius of the\nFrench novelist; who can be tedious at times, and can write very badly when\nhe likes, for he never had much of a style. Yet, with all his suspense and the\nsuddenness of his vivid action and of the living conversations of his furiously\nliving creatures, he does really carry us along in an amazing way; equally\nin the tragic figure Edmund Dantes as in those of d'Artagnan and Aramis and\nPorthos.\nThe Picture of Dorian Gray (1891) is partly made out of Wilde himself,\npartly out of two other men, both of whom are alive. Not being creative\nhe was cruel enough to mix his somewhat poisonous colours after the fashion\nof an Impressionist painter, and so to give a treble reflection of three diffe-\nrent temperaments instead of giving one. In any case, as Pater wrote: \"Do-\nrian himself, though a quite unsuccessful experiment in Epicureanism, in life\nas a fine art, is (till his inward spoiling takes visible effect suddenly, and in a\nmoment, at the end of his story), a beautiful creature.\"\nHis peculiar kind of beauty might be imaged by a strangely coloured\nEastern vessel, and hidden within it, a few delicate young serpents. For he\nhas something of the coiled up life of the serpents, in his poisonous sins;\nsins he communicates to others, ruining their youthful lives with no deli-\nberate malice, but simply because he cannot help it. He has no sense of\nshame, even in his most ignoble nights. Sin is a thing that writes itself\nacross a man's face; but secret vices cannot be concealed; one sees them\nin the mere ironical curl of sinister lips, or in the enigmatical lifting of an\neyelid. He has made the devil's bargain, but not in the sense in which\nFaustus sells his soul to Satan; yet he is always entangled in the painted sins,\nthe more and more hideous aspects, of his intolerably accusing portrait, taken,\ncertainly, in Wilde's usual manner, from La Peau de Chagrin of Balzac;\nonly, and therein lies the immense difference, the man's life never shrinks, but\nthe very lines and colours of his painted image shrivel, until the thing itself\nthe thing he has come to hate as one hates hell — has its revenge.\nSwinburne's Love's Cross Currents appeared originally under what is\nnow its sub-title A Year's Letters, in a weekly periodical, long since extinct,\ncalled The Tatler, from 25 th August to 29 th December, 1877. It was\nwritten under the pseudonym of Mrs. Horace Manners, and was prece-\nded by a letter \"To the Author,\" supposed to come from some unnamed\npublisher or literary adviser, who returns her manuscript to the lady with\nmuch fault finding on the ground of morality. The letter ends: \"I recom-\nmend you, therefore, to suppress, or even to destroy, this book, for two\nreasons: It is a false picture of domestic life in England, because it suggests"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "283", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2941, "texte": "as possible the chance that a married lady may prefer some chance stranger\nto her husband, which is palpably and demonstrably absurd. It is also, as\nfar as I can see, deficient in purpose and significance. Morality, I need not\nadd, is the soul of art; a picture, poem, or story must be judged by the lesson\nit conveys. If it strengthens our hold upon fact, if it heightens our love\nof truth, if it rekindles our ardour for the right, it is admissible as good;\nif not, what shall we say of it?\"\nThe two final sentences of the first chapter, now omitted, are amusing\nenough to seem characteristic: \"For the worldling's sneer may silence religion,\nbut philanthropy is a tough fox and dies hard. The pietist may subside on\nattack into actual sermonising, and thence into a dumb agony of appeal\nagainst what he hears — the impotence of sincere disgust; but infinite coarse\nchaff will not shut up the natural lecturer; he snuffs sharply at all implied\nobjection, and comes up to time again, gasping, verbose and resolute.\" But\nis there not a certain needless loss in the omission of two or three of the\npiquant passages in French? One is on the woman of sixty who \"seule sait\nmettre du fardi moral sans jurer avec.\" There is another passage in French\nwhich comes out of p. 220; it is not clear why, for it is sprightly enough, as\nthis is also, which drops out of p. 175. \" *Ce sang repandu, voyez-vous, mon\nenfant, c'etait la monnaie de sa vertu.' I said I should have preferred it\nwithout the small change. 'Mais, avec de la grosse monnaie on n'achete\njamais rien qui vaille, 'she said placidly.\" Then follows, as we now have it,\nG etait decidement une femme forte.\" Such, so slight, and at times so un-\ncalled for, are the changes in this \"disinterment\" of \"so early an attempt in\nthe great art of fiction or creation.\"\nIn defending the form of his story in letters, Swinburne invokes the\nnames of Richardson and Laclos and\"the giant genius of Balzac.\" But the\nMemoire des deux jeunes Maries is full of firm reality, Pamela is full of\npatient analysis, and Les Liaisons dangereuses is full of reality, analysis, and\na hard, brilliant genius for psychology. Swinburne may have found in Laclos\na little of his cynicism, though for that he need have gone no further than\nStendhal, who is referred to in these pages, significantly. Someone says of\nsomeone: \"I'd as soon read the Chartreuse de Parme as listen to her talk\nlong, it is Stendhal diluted and transmuted. But neither in Laclos nor in\nStendhal did he find that great novelist's gift which both have: that passion\nfor life, and for the unravelling of the threads of life. His people and their\ndoings are spectral, lunar; ail the more so because their names are \"Redgie/'\nFrank, and only rarely Amicia; and because they talk schoolboy slang as\nschoolboys and French drawing-room slang as elderly people. They are\npresented by brilliant, descriptive or satiric touches; they say the cleverest"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "284", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1013, "texte": "things of one another; they have a ghostly likeness to real people which one\nwould be surprised that Swinburne should ever have tried to get, had he not\nrepeated the same hopeless experiment in his modern play The Sisters, which\nsacrifices every possible charm of poetry or deep feeling to such a semblance;\nto so mere a mimicry of every day speech and manners. There is more\nreality in any mere Felise or Fragoletta than in the plausible polite letter-\nwriters. It is impossible to care what they are doing or have done, not eas}\nindeed, without close reading, to find out; and, while there is hardly a sentence\nwhich we cannot read with pleasure for its literary savour, its prim ironic\nelegance, there is not a page which we turn with the faintest thrill of curio-\nsity. A novel which lacks interest may have every formal merit of writing,\nbut it cannot have merit as a novel. The novel professes to show us men and\nwomen, alive and in action: the one thing vitally interesting to men and\nwomen.\n\nARTHUR SYMONS"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "284", "page_fin": "284", "image_debut": 52, "image_fin": 52, "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Macabre", "titre_sommaire": "Macabre", "signature_source": "James Daly", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "284", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 1015, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1162, "texte": "MACABRE\nAssembled in a graveyard,\nBurying the pearly moths of Warawak,\nAll the gnats of Borneo\nBrush their tails in rude derision\nAgainst the moon."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "285", "page_fin": "285", "image_debut": 53, "image_fin": 53, "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Crematorium", "titre_sommaire": "Crematorium", "signature_source": "James Daly", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "285", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 655, "texte": "CREMATORIUM\nJAMES DALY\nPile five leaves under each\nfinger of your left hand —\nlet each be a leaf you love.\nThen write on each a love-word —\nsomething tender;\nand burn them one by one.\n. . . Gather the ashes into\nthe palm of your right hand,\nscatter them in a dark wind.\nDo this, do it all.\nThen: never think about it,\nnever dream about it,\nnever sing about it!\nBurn like the leaves, let your heart be\nashes of a fierce fire;\nbreak, break, in Life's\ngreat hand, —\nthat so I may cry of you to beauty ;\n\"Place her charred dreams under\nyour fingers —\nlet each be a leaf you love.\nThen write on each a love-word —\nsomething tender;\nand burn them one by one . ."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "286", "page_fin": "301", "image_debut": 54, "image_fin": 69, "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "The Lay of Maldoror : Selections From Third and Fourth Canto", "titre_sommaire": "The Lay of Maldoror : Selections From Third and Fourth Canto", "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": 54, "page_imprimee": "286", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1817, "texte": "THE LAY OF MALDOROR.\nSelections From Third and fourth Canto\n\nLet us recall the names of those imaginary beings with angelic\nnatures, which during the second canto my pen has drawn from\na brain shining with a light emanated from them. They die, after\ntheir birth, like sparks on burnt paper the swift extinction of\nwhich the eye with difficulty follows. Leman .. . Lohengrin .. .\nLombano . . . Holzer . . . One moment, you appeared to my\nenchanted view clad in the insignia of youth; but I allowed you to\ndrop into chaos like a diving bell. You will never emerge. It is\nenough for me that I have your memory; you must give place to\nother substances, maybe less beautiful, which the stormy overflow\nof a love, resolved not to quench its thirst in the human race, will\ngive birth to. Starved love, which would devour itself, did it not\nseek its food in celestial make believes; finally creates a pyramid\nof seraphim, more numerous than the insects which swarm in a\ndrop of water and will weave them in an ellipse which will\nwhirl about him. Meanwhile the traveler, arrested by the appea-\nrance of a cataract, would see in the distance, did he lift his face,\na human being, led towards the cave of hell by a garland of living\ncamellias! But . . . silence! the floating image of the fifth ideal\nslowly defines itself, like the vague folds of an aurora borealis,\nupon the vapoury perspective of my intellect, and more and more\ntakes on a decided consistency . . . Mario and I skirt the shore.\nOur horses with stretched necks cleave the membranes of space,\nand strike sparks from the pebbles on the beach. The blast, which\nstruck us full in the face, was swallowed up in our cloaks and made\nthe hair of our twin heads fly backward. The gull by its cries and\nthe movement of its wings in vain tried to warn us of the possible"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "287", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2195, "texte": "proximity of the storm and cried out: \"Where can they be going at\nso reckless a gallop?\"\nPlunged in thought we said nothing, but let ourselves be car-\nried on the wings of our furious passage; the fisher, seeing us pass,\nswift as albatrosses, and imagining he sees, flying before him the\ntwo mysterious brothers, as they were called, because they\nwere always together, quickly makes the sign of the cross and\nhides himself and his paralysed dog behind some deep rock. The\nnatives of this place have heard strange things told of these two\npeople, who cloud enwrapped appear on earth, at periods of great\ncalamity; wThen some frightful war threatens to plant its harpoon in\nthe chest of two rival countries, or when cholera with its sling, pre-\npares to hurl putrefaction and death upon whole cities. The most\nancient wreckers knit their brows, with a serious air, affirming that\nthe two phantoms of whom each during hurricanes had remarked\nthe vast spread of the black wings above the sand shoals and reefs,\nwere the genius of earth and the genius of the sea, airing their\nmajesty in the sky during the great revolutions of nature, united by\nan eternal amity, whose rarity and renown had brought forth the\nastonishment of endless links of generations.\nIt was said that, flying side by side like two Andean Condors\nthey loved to hover in concentric circles among the strata of air in\nthe neighbourhood of the sun; that in those parts they feed on the\npurest essence of light, but that they only decide with difficulty\nto lower the angle of their vertical flight towards the terrified\norbit where turns the raging human globe, populated by cruel souls\nwho massacre each other in fields where battles roar (when they do\nnot kill each other secretly, in the hearts of towns, with daggers of\nhate or ambition) and who feed on beings full of life like themselves\nand placed a few degrees lower in the scale of existence. Or rather,\nwhen they make a firm resolution, in order to induce man to repent\nby the strophes of their prophecies, to swim, with huge strokes to-\nwards the sidereal regions where a planet moves in dense exhala-\ntions of avarice, pride, curses and swaggering, which rise like pesti-"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "288", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2189, "texte": "lential vapours from its hideous surface, and appears as tiny as a\nball, being almost invisible because of the distance; they do not fail\nto find occasion when they bitterly repent of their benevolence,\nmisunderstood and spat upon, and go and hide themselves deep\nin volcanoes, to converse with the lively fire which boils in the vats\nof the main tunnels; or on the sea bed, to pleasantly set their disil-\nlusioned sight on the most ferocious monsters of the abyss, who\nseem to them models of kindness in comparison with the bastards\nof humanity. Night having come with its propitious darkness, they\nleap from the craters with their porphyry heads, from the under-\ncurrents, and leave well behind them the rugged chamberpot where\nthe constipated anus of the human cockatoo struggles, till they can\nno longer discern the swung silhouette of the foul planet. Then,\ndisappointed by their fruitless attempt, and by the stars which\ncompassionate their sadness, under the eye of God, the angel of\nearth and the angel of the sky, embrace weeping. Mario and he\nwho galloped with him were not unaware of the vague and super-\nstitious rumours which the fishermen of that part repeated when\nthey sat up, whispering round the hearth; door and windows fast;\nwhile the night wind who yearned to warm himself made his\nwhistling heard round the straw cabin, and with his strength shook\nthese frail walls, their bases decorated with bits of shells left bv\n%/\nthe dying folds of waves.\nWe did not speak . . . What can two hearts say that love each\nother? Nothing. But our eyes told everything. I cautioned him to\nwrap his cloak more tightly round himself and he pointed out that\nmy horse was outdistancing his own; each takes as much interest in\nthe other's life as in his own; we do not laugh. He tries to smile at\nme, but I see that his face bears the marks of the terrible impres-\nsions which reflection has engraved there, continually bent over\nthe Sphinxes, which with an oblique eye put to flight the great\npangs of the intelligence of mortals. Seeing his manoeuvres futile,\nhe turns his eyes away, champs his terrestrial bit with the foam of\nrage and looks at the horizon which flees at our approach."}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "289", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2054, "texte": "4\n\nI, in my turn, strive to recall his gilded youth to him, which\nlike a queen, asks only to enter the palaces of pleasure; but he sees\nthat the words issue with difficulty from my emaciated mouth, and\nthat the years of my own spring are flown, sad and glacial, like an\nimplacable dream which wanders over the banquetting tables and\nupon the satin beds, where the pale priestess of love sleeps, paid\nwith the glint of gold, the bitter joys of disenchantment, the pesti-\nlential wrinkles of old age, the terrors of solitude and the torches\nof sorrow. In view of my futile manoeuvres, I am not\nastonished at not being able to make him happy; the Almighty ap-\npears to me equipped with instruments of torture; I turn my eyes\naway and gaze at the horizon which flees before us . . . Our horses\ngallop along the shore as though they fled the human eye ... Mario\nis younger than myself; the damp weather and salt foam which\nspatter us bring the touch of cold to his lips, I say to him:\n'Take care . . . take care! Shut your lips, each against the other,\ndo you not see the sharp claws of chaps, which furrow your skin\nwith burning wounds?\" He stares at my forehead and by a move-\nment of his tongue replies:\n44Yes I see the green claws; but I will not alter the natural\narrangement of my mouth to make them fly. See if I lie. Since it\nappears to be the will of Providence I will conform. His will might\nhave been better.\"\nAnd I cried out: \"I admire this noble vengeance.\"\nI wanted to tear out my hair; but he forbade it with a severe\nlook and I obeyed him respectfully. It grew late, and the eagle\nwent back to his nest, hollowed in the infractuosities of the rock.\nHe said to me: \"I will lend you my cloak, to keep you from the\ncold; I have no need of it.\" I replied: \"Woe betide you, if you do\nas you say. I will not have another suffer in my stead and, above\nall, you.\" He said nothing, for I was right, but I began to comfort\nhim because of the too impetuous intonation of my words . . . Our\nhorses galloped along the shore, as though they fled human eyes."}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "290", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2234, "texte": "I raised my head like a vessel's prow lifted on a huge wave, and\nsaid to him: \"Are you crying? I ask you, king of snow and fog. I\ndo not see tears upon your face, handsome as the cactus flower; and\nyour lids are dry as the beds of torrents; but deep in your eyes I\ndiscern a vat full of blood, which laps up innocence, bitten in the\nneck by one of the large scorpions. A strong wind sweeps down\non the fire which warms the vat and scatters the dark flames even\noutside your sacred orbits. I have put my hair to your rosy brows\nand I have smelt an odour of burning because they are burn-\ning. Shut your eyes, or else your face calcined like volcanic lava,\nwill fall in cinders into the palm of my hand.\" And he turning to-\nwards me, careless of the reins in his hand, looked at me tenderly\nwhile slowly he lowered and raised his lily-like lids, like the ebb\nand flow of the sea. He really wanted to reply to my daring ques-\ntion and this is how he did it: \"Pay no attention to me. Even as\nthe mists of rivers crawl along the slopes of hills and, once at the\nsummit, leap into the air forming clouds, so your inquietudes on\nmy account have insensibly accumulated with no reasonable excuse\nand form above your head the deceitful body of a disconsolate\nmirage. I assure you there is no fire in my eyes, though I have there\na feeling as if my skull were plunged into a helmet of glowing\ncoals. Why do you wish for the flesh of my innocence to boil in a\nvat, since I hear only very faint and confused cries which for me\nare but the moanings of the wind which passes over our heads? It\nis not possible that some scorpion has fixed his home and his sharp\nclaws deep in my hacked orbit; I think rather that strong pincers\ncrush my optic nerves. Nevertheless I am with you in the opinion\nthat the blood which fills the copper was drawn from my\nveins by an invisible executioner, while I slept last night. I have\nawaited you a long time, beloved son of the ocean; and my languid\narms engaged in vain combat wTith him who introduced himself into\nthe vestibule of my house ... Yes I feel that my spirit is shut tight-\nly within the locked doors of my body and may not escape to fly\nfar from those shores beaten by the human sea, nor longer witness"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "291", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2003, "texte": "4*\n\nthe spectacle of the livid pack of evils, without relax pursuing,\nthrough bays and gulfs of immense despondency, the human\nchamois: but I do not complain. I have accepted life like a wound,\nand I have forbidden suicide to heal the scar. I want the Creator to\ncontemplate the gaping crevice every moment of eternity. That is\nthe punishment I inflict on him.\"\nOur steeds slowed down the speed of their steel hoofs; their\nbodies quivered like the hunter surprised by a troop of peccaries.\nIt would not do for them to begin to listen to what we said. By\nforce of listening, their intellects would grow and they might per-\nhaps be able to understand us. Woe to them; for they will suffer\nmore! Actually I am only thinking of the young boar of humanity:\nfor does not the degree of intelligence which separates them from\nthe other beings of creation seem to be accorded them but at the\nprice of incalculable suffering? Follow my example, and let your\nsilver spur dig into the sides of your steed . . . Our horses\ngalloped along the shore as though they fled human eyes.\nIt was a spring day. Birds shed their songs in twitterings\nand mankind given up to his various duties, bathed in\nthe holiness of fatigue. All things worked to their appointed\nends, the trees, the planets, the squalls. All, save the Creator.\nHe lay full length in the road; with his clothes torn.\nHis lower lip hung like a sonniferous cable; his teeth were\nfoul and dust mingled with the fair waves of his hair. Stupefied\nby a deep drowsiness and crushed against stones, his body\nmade futile efforts to rise. His strength had given way and he lay\nthere, weak as the earthworm, impassive as bark. Floods of wine\nfilled the tracks hollowed by the nervous twitching of his shoulders.\nPig-groined brutishness covered him with its protecting wings and\nlooked at him amorously. With relaxed muscles his legs swept\nthe ground like two blind masts. Blood flowed from his nostrils;\nhis face had in falling, struck a post... He was drunk. Horribly"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "292", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2102, "texte": "drunk! Drunk as a bug who throughout the night has mumbled\nthree tuns of blood! He filled the echo with incoherent words\nwhich I take good care not to repeat here; if the arch drunkard\ndoes not respect himself, I must at least respect mankind. Did\nyou know that the Creator. . . got drunk! Compassion for this\nlip, fouled in the cups of orgy! . . . The passing hedgehog dug its\nspine into his back and said: \"That's for you. The sun has run\nhalf its course; work, malingerer! I do not eat the bread of\nothers. Wait a bit, I'll show you something, when I call the\ncockatoo with the hooked beak.\" The passing woodpecker and\nthe screech owl buried the whole of their beaks in his belly and\nsaid: \"So much for you. What are you doing on this earth? Is\nit in order to offer the animals this lugubrious comedy? But I\nswear neither the mole nor the casoar nor the flamingo will\nimitate you.\" The passing donkey kicked him on the temple,\nand said: \"So much for you. What have I done that you gave\nme such long ears? Everything including even the grasshopper\ndespises me.\" The passing toad, spat on his forehead and said:\n\"So much for you. Had you not made my eye so large and had\nI seen you in the condition in which I now see you, I would have\nhidden modestly the beauty of your limbs under a shower of\nbuttercups, myosotis and camellias, that no one might see you.\"\nThe passing lion, bowed his royal face, and said: \"As for me, I\nrespect him, although for the moment his splendour seems\neclipsed. You others, who put on pride and are but cowards,\nsince you have attacked him sleeping, would you be pleased, if,\nin his place, you put up with the curses from the passerby which\nyou have not spared him?\" Man, passing, stopped before the\nunknown Creator; and applauded by the crablouse and viper shat\nfor three days upon his solemn visage! Woe toman, because\nof this insult; for he respected not his enemy, lying in a mess\nof mud, blood, and wine, defenceless and almost inanimate.\nThen, the Creator wakened finally by these miserable insults,\nrose as best he could, and swaying, sat upon a stone, his arms\n\n292"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "293", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2056, "texte": "hanging like the two testicles of a consumptive; and threw a glassy\nlook, without fire upon the whole of nature, which belonged to him.\nO humanity, you are precocious children; but 1 beg you, spare this\ngreat existence which has not yet finished brewing the foul liquor\nand having kept hardly enough strength to hold himself upright\nhas fallen heavily upon this rock, where like a traveler it is seated.\nNote the passing beggar; he has seen that the dervish stretched\nforth a famished arm, and unwitting to whom he gives alms,\nthrows a morsel of bread into the hand which implores pity.\nThe Creator has expressed his gratitude by a nod of the head.\nOh! you will never know how difficult it becomes to hold forever\nthe reins of the universe! Sometimes the blood rushes into one's\nhead, when one sets oneself to bring up out of the void one more\ncomet and a new race of souls. The intellect, too much shaken\nfrom top to bottom draws back like one vanquished, and once in\na lifetime, may fall into the errors of which you have been the\nwitness.\nI fell asleep upon the cliff. He who, unable to come up with\nit, has for a whole a day chased the ostrich across the desert,\nhas had no time to take nourishment or to close his eyes. If it\nis he who reads me, he is capable of comprehending, if need be,\nwhat slumber weighed upon me. But, when the tempest has verti-\ncally, with the palm of its hand, pushed a vessel to the bottom of\nthe sea, if, on the raft, one man remains of the whole crew,\nand he broken by fatigue and privations of every sort; and if the\nwave toss him like a wreck throughout hours, each, longer than\na man's life, and if a frigate which later furrows with a split\nkeel these lattitudes of desolation, perceives the wretch who\npromenades his wretched carcase on the ocean, conveying to him\na succour all but too late, I imagine that this castaway will better\nunderstand to what a degree the coma of my senses was brought.\nMagnetism and chloroform, when they take the trouble, occa-\nsionally know how similarly to engender such lethargic cata-"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "294", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2096, "texte": "lepsies. They bear no resemblance to death; it would be a great\nfalsehood to say so. But let us get at once to the dream, so that\nthe impatient, starved of this kind of reading matter, do not begin\nto roar like a school of macrocephalic cacholots who fight among\nthemselves for a pregnant female. I dreamt that I had entered\nthe body of a hog, and that I wallowed my bristles in the most\nmiry marshes. Was it as a reward? Object of my prayers I no\nlonger belonged to humanity. For myself, I understood the inter-\npretation thus and felt a more than profound joy. Still, actively,\nI sought to find what virtuous act I had performed to merit this\nsignal favour on the part of Providence. Now that I have resolved\nin my memory the diverse phases of this flattening out against\nthe granite belly, during which, unperceived by me, the tide passed\ntwice over this irreducible mass of dead matter and living flesh,\nit is perhaps not without utility to proclaim that the degradation\nwas probably but a punishment, worked upon me by divine\njustice. But who knows its intimate necessities or the cause of its\npestilential joys? The metamorphoses did not appear even to me\nother than the high and magnanimous echo of a perfect happiness,\nwhich I had long expected. Finally came the day, I was a hog,\nI tried my teeth on the bark of trees. I contemplated my\nsnout with delight. Not the least scrap of my divinity remained;\nI could lift my spirit even to the excessive heights of this ineffable\npleasure.\nListen to me then and do not blush, inexhaustible caricatures\nof beauty who take seriously the mocking bray of your entirely\ncontemptible soul, and who do not understand why the Almighty\nin a stray moment of excellent buffoonery, which certainly does\nnot surpass the great general laws of the grotesque, one day took\nthe splendid pleasure of peopling a planet with singular and mi-\ncroscopic beings called humanity, and whose composition re-\nsembles that of the vermilion coral.\nYes, bones and fat, you have cause to blush, but listen. Ido\nnot appeal to your intelligence, you would make it spit blood by"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "295", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2102, "texte": "the horror in which it holds you; forget it and be consistent with\nyourselves .... There, enough restraint. When I want to kill,\nI kill, that has often happened to me, and no one held\nme back. Human law still pursues me with its vengeance, though\nI would not attack the race I had so easily quitted; but my cons-\ncience did not at all reproach me. In the daytime I fought with\nmy new fellows, and the ground was sprinkled with many layers\nof clotted blood. I was strongest and bore off every victory;\nburning wounds covered my body; I pretended not to be aware.\nThe earth's animals went from me and I remained alone in my\nresplendent grandeur. What was my astonishment when after\nhaving swam across a river, that I might go far from those\nlands which my fury had depopulated, and gain other countries\nin which to plant my habits of murder and carnage, I tried to walk\nupon this flower strewn bank! My feet were paralysed; no move-\nment came to betray the verity of this forced immobility and my\nsupernatural efforts to continue my way. It was then I awoke and\nthen I felt I became a man again. Providence thus made me under-\nstand, in a not inexplicable manner, that it did not wish my sublime\nobjects accomplished even in dreams. To return to my original\nshape was such terrible anguish that at night I still weep. My\nsheets are continually soaked as though they had been passed\nthrough water, and every day I have them changed. If you do\nnot believe me, visit me; you will check by your own reference, not\nonly the verisimilitude but in addition the actual truth of my asser-\ntion. How often, since that night spent out on the cliff, have I\nnot mixed with herds of swine, to regain as a right, my destroyed\nmetamorphosis! It is time to leave these glorious memories which\nbut leave behind them the pallid milky way of eternal regret.\nIt is not impossible to be the witness of an abnormal deviation,\nin the latent or visible functioning of nature's laws. Actually, if\neveryone takes the ingenious trouble to question the divers phases\nof his existence (without forgetting a single one, since it may be"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "296", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2190, "texte": "that one which was destined to furnish the proof of what I ad-\nvance), he will remember not without a certain astonishment,\nwhich would be comical in other circumstances, that, on a certain\nday, speaking first of objective things, he was witness of some\nphenomenon which seemed to surpass and actually did surpass the\nknown ideas furnished by observation and experience, as for\nexample the rain of toads, which magic spectacle must at first not\nhave been understood by the learned; and that some other day,\nto mention secondly and lastly subjective things, his soul presented\nto the scrutinising glance of psychology, I do not go as far as to say\nan aberration of mind, (which nevertheless would be no less\ncurious; on the contrary, would be more) but at least, not to create\ndifficulties with certain cold people, who would never forgive\nthe flagrant lucubrations of my exaggerations, an unaccustomed\ncondition, quite often very grave, which marks the limit accorded\nby good sense to imagination, and which is sometimes, despite the\nephemeral pact concluded between these two powers, unfortu-\nnately surpassed by the energetic pressure of will, but most often\nby the absence of its effective collaboration. Let us give some\nexamples in its support, whose relevance it is not difficult to ap-\npreciate: if we always take an attentive moderation to spouse. I\noffer two: the carrying away by anger and the sicknesses of pride.\nI warn him who reads me to beware lest he create a vague idea,\nand with more reason false, of the beauties of literature which\nI pull to pieces in the excessively rapid development of my phrases.\nAlas; I would develop my thoughts and my comparisons slowly\nand very magnificently (but who can arrange his own time?) that\neach might more understand, if not my terror, at least, my stupe-\nfaction, when on a summer's evening, as the sun seemed to sink\nbeneath the horizon, I saw swimming upon the sea, with large\nduck's feet in the place of extremities of legs and arms, carrying a\ndorsal fin, proportionately as long and as fined down as those of\ndolphins, a human being with vigorous muscles which the\nnumerous shoals of fish (I saw in its train among other dwellers"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "297", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2182, "texte": "in the sea, the torpedo fish, the Greenland Anarnak and the\nhorrible Scorpeno, followed with very ostensible marks of the\ngreatest admiration. Sometimes he plunged, and his viscous\nbody appeared almost immediately two hundred yards away. The\nporpoises, who in my opinion have not stolen the reputation\nof good swimmers, could hardly follow even at a distance this\namphibian of a new species. I do not think the reader would\nhave occasion to be sorry, if he lent to my narrative less the\nharmful obstacles of a stupid credulity than the supreme service\nof a profound confidence which legitimately discusses with secret\nsympathy the poetic mysteries, so few in his opinion, which I under-\ntake to reveal each time the occasion presents itself, as it has un-\nexpectedly presented itself to-day intimately penetrated by the\ntonic smell of aquatic plants, which the refreshing breeze trans-\nports into this chapter, containing a monster who has appropriated\nthe distinctive marks of the palmiped family. Who speaks of\nappropriation here? Let it be definitely known that man, by his\nmultiple and complex nature, is not ignorant of the means of\nfurther enlarging his frontiers; he lives in water like the hippopot-\namus, among the upper layers of air like the osprey; and under-\nground like the mole, the woodlouse and the sublimity of the\nearthworm. Such is in his shape, more or less concisely (but more\nthan less) the exact criterion of the extremely fortifying consola-\ntion which I strive to engender in my spirit, when I think that the\nhuman being whom I perceived at an immense distance, swimming\nwith his four limbs upon the surface of the waves, and outdoing\nthe most superb cormorant, had not perhaps acquired the new\nchange in extremities of arms and legs, but as the expiatory punish-\nment of some unknown crime. There is no necessity for me to worry\nmy head to fabricate beforehand the melancholy pills of pity, for,\nI did not know that this man, whose arms alternately struck the\nbitter waves, while his feet, with a force as great as that possessed\nby the spiral horn of the narwhal, occasioned the ebb of aquatic\nstrata, had no more voluntarily taken on these extraordinary"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "298", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2171, "texte": "shapes, than had them imposed as a punishment. According to\nwhat I learned later, here is the simple truth; the prolongation of\nexistence in the fluid element had led insensibly in the human\nbeing who had exiled himself from rugged continents, to the im-\nportant, but not essential changes, which I had remarked in that\nobject which a passably vague glance had made me mistake, from\nthe primordial moment of its apparition (by an inexcusable care-\nlessness whose vagaries cause the extremely painful feeling which\npsychologists and lovers of prudence will so easily understand) for\na fish of a curious shape, not yet described in the classification of\nnaturalists; but which may occur in their posthumous works,\nthough I would not have the pardonable pretention of inclining to\nthis last supposition, imagined under too theoretical circumstances.\nActually this amphibian (since amphibia there are, one being\nunable to affirm the contrary) was only visible to myself; ab-\nstraction created out of fish and cetacean, for I saw how several\npeasants who had stopped to regard my face, troubled by this\nsupernatural phenomenon; sought vainly to discover why my\neyes were continually fixed with what appeared an invincible\nperseverance, but which in reality was not, on a place in the\nsea where they themselves discovered only a miserable and limited\nquantity of shoals of fish of every kind, and distended the\nopening of their imposing mouths perhaps as wide as a whale's.\nIt made them smile but not blanch as it did me; they said in\ntheir picturesque dialect, and they were not so stupid as not to\nmentally remark that I did not regard the pastoral evolutions\nof the fish, since my sight was directed much more ahead.\nIn such fashion that as far as it concerns me, mechanically\nturning my eyes in the direction of the remarkable stretch of these\npowerful mouths, I said to myself that unless in the whole universe\nsome pelican could be found huge as a mountain or at least a prom-\nontory (admire, I beg of you, the nicety of the restriction which\ndoes not yield one inch of ground), no beak of bird of prey, or\njaw of wild animal would ever be able to surpass, or even equal,"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "299", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2176, "texte": "each of these gaping, but too lugubrious craters. And yet, though\nI attach a good deal to the sympathetic use of metaphor (this\nrhetorical figure renders many services to human aspirations\ntowards the infinite, which ordinarily those who are imbued with\nprejudice or false ideas, which are the same thing, do not attempt\nto encourage,) it is no less true that the grinning mouths of these\npeasants were actually large enough to swallow three whales. Let\nus contract our thoughts still more, be serious, and content our-\nselves with three tiny elephants newly born. In one stroke the\namphibian left half a mile of frothing wake behind him. During\nthe hardly perceptible moment when the arm stretched before it\nwas suspended in air, and before it again lowered itself, its spread\nfingers joined by a fold of skin like a membrane, seemed to leap\nto the heights of space and catch at the stars. Upright on a rock,\n1 made use of my hands as a megaphone and while the crabs and\ncraw fish fled into the obscurity of the most secret crevices, cried\nout: \"O you whose swimming gains upon the flight of the frigate's\ntall wings, if you still comprehend the significance of those great\nbursts of voice which humanity hurls powerfully forth as the faith-\nful interpreter of its secret thought, deign to stop a moment in your\nrapid progress and tell me roughly the stages of your real history.\nBut I warn you that there is no need to speak to me if your auda-\ncious design is to bring to birth in me friendliness and the vene-\nration I felt for you, the moment I first saw you accomplishing\nyour unconquerable and rectilineal pilgrimage, with the shark's\nstrength and grace.\"\nA sigh which chilled my bones and at which the rock reeled,\nupon which the soles of my feet rested, (unless it was myself who\nreeled owing to the brusque penetration of the sonorous waves,\nconveying to my ear such a despairing cry) was heard unto the bow-\nels of earth; the fish plunged beneath the waves with the noise of\nan avalanche. The very amphibian dared not too closely approach\nthe shore; but when he was assured that his voice reached my\ntympanum distinctly enough, he reduced the activity of his webbed"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "300", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2180, "texte": "limbs, but maintaining his wrack covered bust above the bellowing\nwaves, I saw him bend his forehead as though by a solemn com-\nmand to invoke the wandering pack of memories. I dared not\ninterrupt him in this sacredly archeological occupation; plunged in\nthe past, he seemed a reef. Finally he spoke thus: \"The centipede\ndoes not lack enemies, the fantastic beauty of his innumerable\nlegs instead of drawing to him the sympathy of the animals, maybe\nis but to them the powerful stimulant of a jealous irritation. And\nit would not surprise me to hear that that insect is exposed to the\nmost furious hatreds. I will hide from you the place of my birth,\nsince it does not concern my story, but the shame which was re-\nflected upon my family concerns it. My father and my mother\n(God forgive them!) after a year of expectation, saw heaven bless\ntheir prayers; two twins, my brother and myself, saw the light.\nAn additional cause to love each other. But it was not as I say.\nBecause I was the more beautiful of the two, and the more in-\ntelligent, my brother hated me and did not trouble to hide his\nfeelings; that is why my father and my mother made most of their\nlove fall upon me, while by my own sincere and constant love, I\ntried to calm a soul which had no right to rebel against him who\nhad been drawn from the same flesh. Then my brother knew no\nbounds to his fury, and with the most impossible calumnies\ndestroyed me in my parents' heart. For fifteen years I have lived\nin a cell with grubs and decayed water for nourishment. I will not\nrelate in detail the unheard of torments to which I was subjected\nin the unending and unjust sequestration. Sometimes, at a given\nmoment of the day, one of the three tyrants suddenly entered in\nhis turn loaded with pincers, tongs and various implements of\ntorture. The cries which these tortures dragged from me left them\nimmoveable, the abundant loss of my blood made them smile. O\nbrother, original cause of all my ills, I have forgiven you! Is it\npossible that a blind rage cannot in the end open its eyes! I have\nreflected much in my eternal prison. You will divine what my\ngeneral hatred against humanity became. The progressive etio-"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "301", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1856, "texte": "lation, the solitude of body and soul had not yet made me lose\nall my reason to the point of nurturing resentment against those\nwhom I had not ceased to love: triple pillory to which I was en-\nslaved. I succeeded in regaining my liberty by a ruse. Disgusted\nwith the inhabitants of the continent, who though they called\nthemselves my fellows, and do not up till now seem in any way to\nresemble me (if they think lam like them, wrhy do they hurt me?)\nI made my way to the beach's pebbles, firmly resolved to kill\nmyself, if the sea must offer me the anterior reminiscence of a\nfatally lived existence. Will you believe your eyes? From the\nmoment I fled the paternal house, I have not been as sorry as you\nthink to dwell in the sea and its crystal caves. Providence, as you\nsee, has partly given me a swan's construction. I live in peace with\nthe fish, and they procure me the food I need, as if I were their\nking. I will whistle in a certain way, provided you have no ob-\njection, and you will see how they will reappear.\"\nIt happened as he had said. He resumed his regal swimming\nsurrounded by his train of subjects, and although at the end of\nsome seconds he had completely disappeared from my sight; with\na telescope I was still able to distinguish him on the remotest rim\nof the horizon. With one hand he swam, with the other he wiped\nhis eyes, which the terrible constraint of having approached firm\nland, had injected with blood. He had behaved thus to please me.\nI cast the revealing instrument against the beetling precipice; it\nleapt from rock to rock and the waves received its scattered frag-\nments; such were the last demonstration and supreme good-bye\nin which I bowed as in a dream, before a noble and unfortunate\nintelligence! And yet, everything which happened that summer\nevening was real.\n\nCOMTE DE LAUTREAMONT\n(Translated, by John Rodker)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "302", "page_fin": "303", "image_debut": 70, "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "The Flower-Sphynx", "titre_sommaire": "The Flower-Sphynx", "signature_source": "Hans Arp", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "302", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1046, "texte": "THE FLOWER-SPHYNX.\n\n1\nFrom their spiderwebs the beggars let themselves down.\nIn their black train are held the downy moon the hushed lambs\nthe flowers without keels and the retrieving bats.\nBefore the pinnacles of flowers and the curtains of summer\nsprouts that tremble under the breath of a two horsepower\ndemimondaine the seven barbarous brother stars pass in parade.\nIn out of the way places little palm sundays are still being observed.\nFor want of asses the saviours ride in on bicycles.\nThe King of this city is a rainbow-eater.\n2\nDown from the calendar come the crucified flowers the addresses\nof the exposed and the foundation stones of the residences.\nIn that marble throat lie the rolled up song-strings.\nThe busts of dead lionhearted animals adorn the public squares.\nThe ill-born the fleshly family trees choked with ingrown erotic\nblocks the shaven horses the pouches of fire are all carried out\nin the wicker basket.\nThe thousand towers are built of missals.\nUpon them fall from the heavenly star-thatch vermin and the\npeopled moon."}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "303", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1180, "texte": "3\nThe chambermaids come gliding in on tortoise-shell rails.\nIn their aprons they bear the lurid fragments of the broken sun.\nIn the great arch the caryatidsurinate time like slavejuice.\nFrom the flagstaff of the city gleams the huge ether jellyfish.\nSailors had built a pirate ship in the cavern of its belly.\nThe plant-guillotine goes puffing through the streets.\nThe sabine hills sir have not been properly adjusted. Hang too\nhigh in fact above the stage. Were the ropes too short? The\nlynchgong and the jaws of the sixtine prayer mill come crowding\nthrough the gap.\nThe gigantic good-luck balls of black earth go skipping over\nthe sea.\n4\nAt the sound of a bell a crumpled star whirls about.\nThe carpets which were laid over the mountains for the dream\nand cloud animals are brushed cleaned and folded up.\nThe carcass mountains bedecked with false teeth curls and\nwedding rings which i took for ruin-stained eagles are simply\npendulum weights wound up in the insides of the monuments.\nThe professional lips of the Laps which i took to be cooing car-\nrierpigeons are merely the carcass mountains decked with false\nteeth curls and wedding rings.\nThe forest is a bellows.\n\nHANS ARP"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "304", "page_fin": "[312]", "image_debut": 72, "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "The Great American Billposter", "titre_sommaire": "The Great American Billposter", "signature_source": "Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "304", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2415, "texte": "THE GREAT AMERICAN BILLPOSTER\n\nThe art of a people is a two-edged sword: it spring from the moods and\nvirtues of that people; and it works secretly and mightily to mould the\nvirtues of that people. But we have learned recently to extend the meaning\nof \"art\", inasmuch as modern man expresses himself in a far greater variety\nof manners than did prehistoric or classical man. An ethnological study of\na group such as the Americans (of the United States of America) could no\nlonger retrict itself to its politics, sculpture, and mythology; for, thanks to\nthe aggressive application of the arts to new inventions, we find that the\nautomobile is oil the road to becoming a thing of beauty and that the adver-\ntisements contain the fables of this people. We would, thus, be obliged to\nobserve the motion picture, the sports, the machinery, and many other\naspects of the group's behaviour in order to really know its culture.\nThe prospect of human activities in America is such a rich twisted\nbottomless thing that it is all we can do to segregate a few aspects of these\nactivities, which, studied in an intensive, localized manner, may yield con-\nclusions applying to our problems.\nIt has been complained that America lacks an indigenous art, that\nAmericans are not autocthonous enough, that they are a babel of different\nraces. But in reality, America is a milieu, as Professor Santayanna has\ncolled it, a distinct \"situation,\" and \"Americanism the expression of a present\nmaterial environment,\" so that \"the immigrants at once feel themselves and\nactually become typical Americans, more instinct with an aggressive Ameri-\ncanism than the natives of Gape Cod or the poor whites of the South.\"1\nThe difficulty can be found precisely among those Thirty Americans (in-\ntellectuals) who contributed to \"Civilization in the United States.\" It has\nnot been perceived by them that there is an informed \"material environment5\nmoulding and launching the American type. \"Outdoor advertising,\" they\ncry, \"should be removed from sight with all possible haste.\"2 That\nthey would abolish the billposter is ample proof of their failure to under-\nstand the unaffected beauty and wisdom of the American milieu.\n\n1 Marginal Notes on Civilization in the United States, by G. Santayanna, Dial\nJune, 1922.\n2 Civilization in the United States, An Inquiry by Thirty Americans, edited by\nHarold Stearns (Harcourt, Brace and Company, New York.)"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "305", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2590, "texte": "5\n\nAmerica will never enjoy an indigenous art, if, led by its Intellectuals,\nit adopts approved European methods of living or painting or writing.\nPoetry in America which imitates British romanticism is as sterile as that\nwhich imitates French symbolism is bastard. The prose in America which\nseeks to emulate the correct cold objectivity of a Flaubert or the ironic\nnaturalism of a Turgenieff takes an equally false direction. An indigenous\nart is a permanent contribution to the world's knowledge, and an artist\nwhose works are charged with the virtues peculiar to his milieu i's an\nevent of the first importance.\nIt is time to examine our home products sympathetically, to judge if\nthey are not sprouting with an authentic beauty that justifies their out-\nlandish departures from the past or from previous European traditions.\n(I say \"previous\" advisedly, because the Old World is become fearfully\namericanized, what of the \"telephone, the trolley-car, the department store\nand the advertising press,\" and an American who loves these things is\nconscious in Europe of a painful nostalgia, whereby the material environ-\nment of his country becomes highly tangible and provocative through its\nvery distance from him.)\nThe problem is, thus, to silence for the moment, the anguished voices\nof the Thirty Americans and to plunge hardily into that effervescent revol-\nving cacaphonous milieu (which not so remotely resembles the Purgatory\nof Dante), where the Billposters enunciate their wisdom, the Cinema\ntransports us, the newspapers intone their gaudy jargon; where athletes\nplay upon the frenetic passions of baseball crowds, and sky-scrapers rise\nlyrically to the exotic rhythms of jazz bands which upon waking up we\nfind to be nothing but the drilling of pneumatic hammers on steel girders.\nWe must have poets who have dared the lightning, who come to us out\nof the heart of this chimera; novelists who express for us its mad humor.\nA stranger, nearing the port of New York for the first time and\npeering anxiously toward this fabulous city, would perceive, as the first\nindications of its culture and personality, gigantic incandescent messages\nshooting fitfully over the dark waters: GOLGATES . . . HECKER'S FLOUR ..\nAMERICAN SUGAR REFINERY. These solemn auguries of America,\npassing in brilliant illuminations across the sea, would serve as a majestic\nprelude to the strange music of this people. Thereafter, in every walk, in\nevery ride in the subway, in every talk with a friend, some meaningful\nlegend, some Open Sesame (as 57!) would be thundering softly in the back\nof his brain."}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "306", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1270, "texte": "Words, expressions, names, become nationally known and enter into\nthe daily speech. These experiences are received with varying degrees of\ndirectness: sometimes the fact that \"United States Tires are good tires\" is\nmerely refracted into the brain by a series of repercussions, and lodges\nthere with the other legends in a distinct layer of the consciousness. By\nthis one addition, among many, has the American become profoundly\ndifferent from the Chinaman or Afghanistan (races which I suspect of not\nbeing subject, at the present hour, to the searching publicity which we\nenjoy in America.)\nThe needs of an industry in America based upon the principle of\nquantity production, have brought into being the institution of Advertising.\n(Thus, \"It Pays to Advertise.\") Like all social or industrial institutions\nborn of the American environment it reflects faithfully the character thereof.\nThe Tired Business Man and the suburban wife are painted as never in\nany epic by Mary Roberts Rinehart. The dominant male, the Captain of\nIndustry are pictured in concise vivid wireless messages such as:\nTO those who\nprefer to leave\nbehind them \"mon-\numents in rows of\nflaming smoke-\nstacks\" rather than\nmonuments of\nmarble, possession\nof an H. C. S. fol-\nlows as a matter of\ncourse."}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "307", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 992, "texte": "5*\n\nAnd note the virility of\nDriven\nand loved\nby men who\nbrook no short-\ncomings in man,\nbeast or motor.\nThey subject it\nto hard tasks, and\nit always meets\ntheir moods.\nThe American athlete, lover of unwarlike violence and motion is\nsupreme in a collection of automobile announcements. His bronzed,\nhandsome, genial visage gleams unblemished in such as statement as\nTHE NEW BUICK SPORT ROADSTER FOR 1923\nBuilt expressly for active out-of-doors men and women who\nregard a car as a companion and driving a pleasure. Every thing\nof strength power and speed suggested by its low hung graceful\nbody is quickly realized on the open road.\nAnd to appease the known love for detail, fact, veritable progress, as\nwell as the hobby for puttering with machinery the poet added:\nA distinctively new spring suspension smooths out the roughest going\nat any speed. Wherever it appears the Buick sport roadster with its smart\nmaroon body, khaki top, red wheels and black running gear wins immediate\nattention."}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "308", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1353, "texte": "With a finely characteristic arrogance, which has never offended the\npublic, the concluding motto asserts:\nWHEN BETTER AUTOMOBILES ARE BUILT\nBUICK WILL BUILD THEM.\nOur American is healthy, sound, liberty-loving but at the same time\nhe is fastidious, loves elegance, an elegance of his own after his fashion.\nThe Arrow collar publicity brings these elements into play. But it is in his\nshoes that he is most in his element, — most fastidious about his shoes and\ntheir peculiar modes.\nEACH or mountains - hotel\n11 MpfS cottaj, camp\nId Ell 1 y°u go this summer, this\nWMMmMI. breezy white buck, ox--\nford wil be a fit companion*—\nTan skeleton saddl, tan back stay\nshort wingr tip. flbr s ole s —■—\nThe American is emotional and generous, but at the same time he is\nthrifty:\nUsury.\nSIX PER CENT is considered a fair rate of interest; too\nhigh a rate of interest is condemned as usury.\nYet there are several thousand American homes in which an\nIDEAL TYPE A HEAT MACHINE is paying back 33% per\ncent on its cost — so great is the proportion of fuel saved,\nand so little does it depreciate in comparison with cheaper\nheating plants.\nSuperstition, is another striking quality; he is far more amenable to\nsuggestion, to hypnosis rather than to logic:\nASK DAD HE KNOWS\nASK THE MAN WHO OWNS ONE\nor better this:\nDAY BY DAY IN EVERY WAY\nI AM GETTING BETTER AND BETTER."}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "309", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1994, "texte": "There is an uproarious self-assertion, fantastic, audacious, rabelaisian,\nif you will, in the following bald statement:\nZIEGFELD FOLLIES\nGLORIFIES THE AMERICAN GIRL.\nA strong social sense is also to be noted; the suburban wife again, and\nher love of a rather standard refinement, a rather uniform loveliness:\nSAMPLER INVITES YOU.\n— to an altogether unusual experience in sweets\n— to a candy package which reflects the quaint odd beauty of\nthe cross-stitch work of long ago.\nThe advertisements in newspapers and magazines having over a\nhundred thousand circulation reflect the national temperament with great\nclairvoyance. The selection of the above specimens was designed to be\nsuggestive rather exhaustive, reflecting only a few facets of the composite\nAmerican type. They came about as the fulfillment of a practical need in\nbusiness; they were \"successful\" advertisements by virtue of their immediacy\nto the public pulse, and thus compose a faithful record of the national tastes,\nthe changing philosophy, the hopes and fears of a people; they compose,\nin fact, the \"folklore\" of modern times,\nII.\nThe most striking conclusion drawn from a study of specimen adver-\ntisements is that the American business man, in the short daily time at his\ndisposal, reads the most daring and ingenuous literature of the age. The\nparticular restrictions of this medium make for extraordinary ingenuity in\nthe \"copy writer;\" the call for vigor of style, conviction, and interest, are\nprobably more stimulating by far toward creating beautiful conceptions than\nan intensive course in Victorian poetry at Harvard University. The terse\nvivid slang of the people has been swiftly transmitted to this class of writers,\nalong with a willingness to depart from syntax, to venture sentence forms\nand word constructions which are at times breath-taking, if anything, and\nin all cases far more arresting and provocative than 99 per cent of the stuff\nthat passes for poetry in our specialized magazines. They are a most"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "310", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1989, "texte": "amiable band of poets, without the piffle of the teacup type, their hair closely\ntrimmed, their shoes thought-inspiring. All design on immortality, on seats\nin the Academy, all schemes for hoodwinking posterity, have been renounced\nby them in favor of ample salaries and smoothly running motorcars.\nThe need for dealing with definite facts, for writing a little poem\nabout an automobile tire or a pair of stockings, lends their work an exotic\nflavor — exotic, I say, only when viewed externally and objectively, since\nit is a perfectly indigenous product. Outside of these accidents, their motives,\ni.e., to sell a story or a belief, to the public, with burning sincerity and vigor\nof style, closely parallel those of the old minnesingers, or of Shakespeare and\nMoliere, immensely successful \"copy-writers\" in their day.\nLet us consider for a moment Keats' adroit line:\nThe beaded bubbles winking at the brim\nand also consider the anonymous genius who wrote:\nMEATY MARROWY OXTAIL JOINTS\nThe motives of these two young men — I take it that the con-\ntemporary poet is also young and bears a sensitive and wistful spirit\nbeneath the mask of his closely trimmed hair and his Hart Schaffner Marx\nsuit — the motives are superficially different, since the latter was written\nfor the glorification of Campbell's soup and the former for that of Psyche,\nbut they both arrive at the same end, a line of pure poetry, by the same\nmental processes. Save that the advertising writer being immune from\nthe blighting attacks of some contemporary Edinburgh Review (surely the\nAtlantic Monthly would never pay him such unseemly and cruel attentions)\ncan proceed with the utmost freedom in his choice of form or diction to\nsuch modern flights as:\n\"The velvety clutch responds to the merest pressure . . . the pliant\nbut positive gears engage silently at a touch of the convenient control ... the\ncompensating spring suspension cushions the car gently over ridge and rut\nas it clings to its course unwaveringly"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "311", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1210, "texte": "The rhythm of prose is one of the most intricate problems in all the\narts. Here a man has sounded most intriguing and mysterious tempos\nwith a lightness and felicity that is only rarely attained by recognized\nmasters of prose fiction. Simply lovely work. \"The pliant but positive\ngears engage silently . . is a profound utterance, reverberant with meanings\nand shadows.\nAt times some anonymous master of prosody bursts into perfect\nmetrical verses, which send the glory of his product ringing and echoing\nthrough forty-eight states.\nAN HOUR A DAY IN A TWIN SIX\nIS LITERALLY A DIFFERENT KIND OF AN HOUR OR A DAY\nor an alexandrine like this:\nTHEIRS IS A TYPE AND KIND OF ENJOYMENT SET APART.\nOr they may be at times roguishly paradoxical and nonsensical:\nFrigidaire Adds the Fine Touch\nto Hospitality\nreferring fancifully to a refrigerator which keeps food fresh and dry at the\nsame time. Nor do these pioneers hesitate to tamper with the traditional\northography in their quest for new and astonishing effects:\nOLFE RS shoud think\nof comfort Cvservis\n'The Bretton \"Woods givs\nboth and joins with them\na jaunty yet conservativ 31yle\ntuch — Soft smokt horse-hide\nvamps, calfskin, saddls\nflexiol rubber disk soles »"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "[312]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1726, "texte": "The craftmanship of this example is excellent, beginning with the\nstatement of a general principle and ending in a perfect triumph of\nprecisions. The same process can be noted in the following:\nVfENICE at her best was\nFrench, so Paris only\nborrows from her own for\nthe new Venetian silhou*\nette. Like a little glimpse\nof Venice at her carnival\ntime come frocks of soft\ncrepe silks or chiffon velvet\nfitted slimly to the waist*\nline and flaring in every\ndirection below; taffeta\ndinner or evening frocks\nwith frilled basques; also\nfrocks of Ch emit wool\ntwill with circular skirts.\nThe language of modern poetry becomes thus enriched by the use\nof technical expressions and names which have attained significance in\nAmerica. One must work more cnunningly in devising a poem, arranging\nits typography and its stance, than did our predecessors. And when it is\nremembered that these men must produce new aspects of the same subject\nconstantly and freshly, the formidable intellects at work can be sensed.\nIt is a thrilling business, a fascinating genre, and it is easy to see why our\nliterature is so impoverished and where the creative genius has all gone.\nContemporary American writing is at a very uncertain point in its\ncareer, bewildered for ways to follow. If our younger writers tend to\nbecome more sensitive to the particular qualities in their material environ-\nment, one might well imagine their giving and taking fresh stimulus and\nnovelty of the literature of the billposter. What new devices and surprises\nmight come of merely appreciating, for instance, the possibilities of the\nsalesmanship principle for the technique of writing. The advertising\ncolumns in America are as \"armies with banners.\"\n\nMATTHEW JOSEPHSON."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[239]", "page_fin": "[239]", "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.20", "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": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3017, "texte": "MIRRORS OF MOSCOW\nBY LOUISE BRYANT\nWord pictures of Lenin, Peters, Dzerzhinsky, Tchicherin and the Foreign Office, Lunacharsky,\nKalinin, Mme. Kallontai, Trotsky, Envcr Pasha, Tikon and others.\nWith illustrations by Cesare $ 2.50\nTHE NOVEL By THE NEGRO AUTHOR CROWNED WITH THE PRIX GONCOURT\nThe Whole World is Reading It\nBATOUALA\nBY RENfi MARAN\nLiving Age: \"A tale so strange, so powerful, so unusual, that there is small difficulty in seeing\nwhy the ten members of the Academic Goncourt awarded it their prize.\"\nSt. Louis Argus: \"There arises occasionally an epochal literary work, and Rene Maran, full\nblooded African Negro, has given the world a piece of literature which will be read 500 years from now.\"\n$ 1.75\nESCAPE\nBY JEFFERY E. JEFFERY\nAuthor of \"Side Issues\"\nThe story of a woman who tries persistently to free herself from the narrowness of a middle class\nexistence. To escape from her family she marries, but finds that she has only lengthened her tether.\nWidowed when she is still under thirty, she sets herself to the acquisition of money as the first means to\nliberty of spirit. But neither the affluence which comes to her nor the passionate love affair which\naccompanies it, satisfy her. Disillusioned, she refashions her ideals under a nature wiser but not less eager\nthan her own, and finds — Escape.\ntjp Z.UU\nTHE FRUIT OF THE TREE\nBY HAMILTON FYFE\nAuthor of \"The Widow's Cruse\"\nIn this novel Mr. Fyfe contrasts, with an ever-present humor and without taking sides, two types\nof women: the woman who seeks to avoid the burden of motherhood, and the woman who finds her\ndiief happiness in children. He is an attentive sccial observer and sees that the gi owing distaste of the\nmore intellectual kind of women for motherhood is bound to have disturbing consequences. He sets forth\nproblems of personality which have a vivid application in the every-day lives of us all. o no\n<jp z.UU\nJEREMIAH\nBY STEFAN ZWEIG\nRomenn Rolland says: \"JEREMIAH is the most beautiful example that I know of, of the\nsublime melancholy that sees beyond the bloody drama of today the eternal tragedy of humanity. But\nthere are defeats more fertile than victories and sorrows more resplendent than joys. Zweig's poem presents\nthem with grandeur.\" $ 2 00\nTHREE NEW BOOKS By\nD. H. LAWRENCE\nENGLAND, MY ENGLAND\nA volume of short stories. $ 2.00\nFANTASIA OF THE UNCONSCIOUS\nThis remarkable book is a statement of Lawrence's philosophy of life. It elaborates further his\ntheory of the Unconscious as set forth in \"Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious.\" But it is far more than that.\nIt is a discussion in essay form of the human problems of today, the problems dealt with as personal\nexperiences in Mr. Lawrence's fiction: \"The Rainbow\", \"Women in Love\", \"Aaron's Rod\", and\"The\nList Girl\". $ 2.00\nSTUDIES IN CLASSIC AMERICAN LITERATURE\nContains long essays on Walt Whitman and Hawthorne and studies of Herman Melville, Benjamin\nFranklin, Richard Henry Dana and other American writers. (g»\nTHOMAS SELTZER-Publisher 5 W. 50 St. New York"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[313]", "page_fin": "[313]", "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.21", "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": "[313]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1023, "texte": "Subscribe for\nPOETRY: a of Verse,\ntfoe leading organ of ifoe art\nFor a versowriter to be printed in POETRy is about the most honorable of recognitions.\nFord Madox Hueffer in the New York Evening Post Literary Review\nThe varied interest and beauty presented are typical of POETRY'S quality. Thanks to a rare coincidence\nof poise and generous imagination, of sense and sensitiveness, it ranks easily as the best vehicle of poetry in\nthe English language. From an editorial in the New York Sunday Tribune.\nPOETRy has become a significant force in the intellectual life of America. That astute\nobserver, the late William Marion Reedy, wrote: \"Probably Miss Monroe has done\nmore for the high art of song than any other person in the United States\" — a state-\nment which has been generously supported by other commentators of similar prestige.\nPOETRy: A Magazine of Verse, 232 East Erie St., Chicago, U. S. A.\nEnclosed find $ 3.00 (Canada, $ 3.15/ foreign, $ 3.25) for one year's subscription to POETRy\nBeginning:\nName:\nAdress:\n\\"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[313]", "page_fin": "[313]", "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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.22", "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": "[313]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 1025, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2246, "texte": "IT IS WITH GREAT REGRET THAT WE ANNOUNCE THE RESIGNATION OF MR. EDWARD STORER\nAS ASSOCIATE EDITOR OF BROOM. ALTHOUGH UNABLE TO LEAVE ITALY AT PRESENT HE WILL\nCONTINUE TO COLLABORATE WITH US FROM ROME WHERE HIS FAMILIARITY WITH LITERARY ITALY\nRENDERS HIS SERVICES OF GREAT VALUE.\nMR. MATTHEW JOSEPHSON ALREADY KNOWN TO READERS OF BROOM WILL ACT AS ASSOCIATE\nEDITOR IN MR. STORER'S PLACE.\nONE YEAR OF BROOM.\nTHE PRESENT ISSUE OF BROOM COMPLETES THE CYCLE OF ITS FIRST YEAR.\nIN THIS YEAR BROOM HAS ATTAINED A FULL GROWN INDIVIDUALITY SO FAR APART FROM\nOTHER MAGAZINES THAT NONE CAN GUESS WHAT NEW ARTISTIC SURPRISES ARE IN STORE.\nTHE WORK OF MODERN ARTISTS AND WRITERS WHICH WILL APPEAR IN BROOM'S PAGES DURING\nTHE COMING YEAR WILL BE EVEN MORE SURPRISING AND SIGNIFICANT.\nSUBSCRIBERS WHO BEGAN WITH THE ISSUE OF NOVEMBER 1921 ARE URGED TO RENEW THEIR\nSUBSCRIPTIONS AT ONCE. THIS WILL BE OF GREAT HELP TO US OWING TO SLOW MAILS BETWEEN\nEUROPE AND AMERICA.\nSubscribers in America should send their renewal ($ 5) to the\nNEW YORK OFFICE, 3 EAST NINTH STREET.\nSubscribers on the Continent should communicate with\nSCHICKLERSTRASSE 5, BERLIN, GERMANy.\nSubscription for France, 60 francs, for England, one pound, fifteen shillings."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.23", "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=bmtnaap192211-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1979, "texte": "on jPike 11 room\nYou //77/\n—a journal whose sole purpose is to bring the work of the artists\nwho count to the people who care.\nThe significance of The Dial in contemporary literature is due\nto its established policy of including the best procurable work of\nAmericans and Europeans, both famous and unknown, without\nregard to the novelty or conventionality of the form in which\ntheir work is presented.\nThe Dial is, therefore, able to offer its readers a review in\nwhich new and traditional modes of expression are published\nside by side, so that the reader may have the unusual pleasure of\nexercising his own judgment, with the assurance that he has in\nhand the best of both schools.\nIn addition, The Dial offers a critical cornpte rendu of art and\nletters throughout the world.\nThe Dial was the first old established magazine in America to\nadjust its policy and point of view to include the newer tendencies\nin art and letters. Since The Dial's change of policy, less than\nthree years ago, two other well-known, old established magazines,\nhave modified their traditional point of view in the direction first\ntaken by The Dial. A number of new magazines representative\nof modern tendencies in art and letters, of which Broom is one,\nhave sprung up in both Europe and America within recent months.\nIf you like Broom, you will like The Dial. Each supplements\nthe other, and yet each has its own distinctive flavor. It is im-\npossible for any one magazine to offer all of the best work of the\nworld's finest artists. Broom and The Dial together, however,\nvery nearly cover the field. If you like one, you will surely like\nthe other.\nSpecial Offer j\nBROOM i\nand\nTHE DIAL :\neach alone for one year $5.00 j\nBOTH TOGETHER [\n$7.50 i\nYou may enter my name for a year's\nsubscription to Broom and The Dial\nat the special combination rate of $7.50\nName.\nAddress.\nI I I enclose $7.50. CZ\n$7.50 on receipt of your\nI will remit\nDill.\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street, New York City\nB-11-22\nB-11-22"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.24", "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=bmtnaap192211-01.1.83", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1564, "texte": "BEAUTY IN YOUR HOME\nIS NOT SO MUCH A MATTER OP MONEY\nHi\nHHHralr''\n■\n« L\nIfß\nI\nS 3 1\n■\nm\n;\nm\n.\nwmam\nMM 1\nii.„\nS V\nIT\n■'fe.\nMM\nn\nran\n• i -..j\nSK\ni\nMMB\nIS«ips\nHH\n-:-v\nH\nH\nIt is a product of knowing what to do, when and how to do it.\n'Cfie Ctr/s & Decorations Tract leaf Qome Study Course in Interior\nDecoration in 24 bi~montfoCy Cessons giues you tfois exact infor-\nmation, Jt enabCes you to judge Luitfo authority, and afso to\ncreate and execute yourseCf,\nHow and where would you begin to do over\na living room. How can you change the fixed\nbackground?\nWhat will you do with your walls and your\nfloors?\nDo you know how to handle colors and designs.\nDo you know how to combine furniture of\ndifferent periods? Can you distinguish between\nSheraton and Hepplewhite?\nThis course is an essential to a cultural education\nand can be the means of saving its cost to you\nmany times one.\nDirectors:\nfiarofcL Donafdson Cbertein and Dlancy V. DJtc Cfetfand\nADVISORY FACULTY:\nWilliam Emerson, Director of the Architectural School,\nMassachusetts Institute of Technology, Boston.\nHuger Elliott, Principal of the School, Pennsylvania\nMuseum and School of Industrial Art, Phila.\nWhitney Warren, Warren *cD Wetmore, Architects,\nNew York.\nPhyllis Ackerman, Ph. D. Author-Lecturer.\nLeon V, Solon, Art Director, American Encaustic\nTile Company.\nRichard F, Bach, Curator Industrial Art, Metropolitan\nMuseum of Art, New York,\nJohn P. Adams, President Kensington Mfg. Co., New\nYork.\nRalph Erskine, President Erskine-Danforth Co.,Ne\\vYork.\nArts '3D Dccoration,\n50 West 47 th St. New York City"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_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=bmtnaap192211-01.2.25", "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": 84, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1928, "texte": "wmm\nmmmm\n—\n.> \\ \\ - , « ' - ■MB '\n112 mSM\n'WM •■■••■ l:;l!:P'|f:;:: .\n3##|\nIP\nt* : .\nmsm\n*%\nfif&:||ll®#\n\" :■ r':'\" . ■:\n:>M:i\nm\nx --- ;:x-xv: •■\n5#\nIB\nr*\n5\\W v - - \"O,!\n31§i# cwJ\nijPs&MSI -#■ tiM\n'mr¥.\nu\n\\y\nsr\n-* \"•**\nI\n£\n*\ni\"\n4,..\n€\n, I\n\\\nmm\n&■\"\nm\n«fe»\n«§» W,- .\n■' • , 'iPf' WX'\njssw <s™»* . 'HmSSnln\nMl\n11\n■\n;\nH\nI\n:\n1\na\nlis\nig§\n, Jt\n1m\n■\n7/is/de or Rlpstairs?\nThe impression is very general that during the summer months more passengers ride\non top of the Fifth Avenue buses than ride inside. The checking of the Fifth Avenue\nCoach Company shows that this impression is incorrect. In only one month of the year —\nJune —are more passengers carried on top than are carried inside. This is undoubtedly\nbecause the extreme heat of summer days causes passengers to seek the shaded inside seats.\nIn the month of May, 1921, the buses carried 5,216,250 passengers — approximately\n51 % on top, 49 % inside.\nIn June 61 % rode on top, 39% inside.\nIn July and August 40% of the passengers rode on top, 60% inside.\nIn September and October, usually very pleasant months, 46% of the passengers\nrode on top, 54% inside.\nThe Coach Company's checking shows an average of 68% of the passengers ride\ninside during the year. This is because of rain, snow, cold, wind, etc., and with a great\nmany people the objection to climbing the stairs. 37,000,000 passengers rode inside the\nbuses in the past 12 months, 17,000,000 upstairs.\nThe cost of an advertising card inside the buses to reach these 37,000,000 people\nis 19 cents per thousand.\nThe passengers in the Fifth Avenue buses are a selected constituency, of above\nthe average purchasing power —people who pay double the regular carfare to assure\nthemselves of a clean and comfortable ride.\nLet me send you a circular showing the results local advertisers have obtained from\ntheir advertisements in the Fifth Avenue buses.\nJohn H. Livingston, Jr.\n425 Fifth Avenue, New York\nTel. 0274 Vanderbilt"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-11-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 85, "image_fin": 85, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.2.26", "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": 85, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.85", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 364, "texte": "A magazine that you cannot afford to be without is\nART REVIEW\nPublished monthly 25 Cents\nThe following is but a very small percentage of our contributers:\nARTISTS WRITERS\nA magazine that you will not care to throw away after reading.\nSubscribe by the year: domestic two dollars and fifty cents, foreign,\nthree dollars.\nART REVIEW 350 Madison Avenue, New York City."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAn International Magazine of the Arts Published by Harold A. Loeb\nEditor, Harold A. Loeb. Associate Editor, Matthew Josephson. American Editor, Lola Ridge.\nNOVEMBER, 1922\n• *\nAPPEARS MONTHLY\nVOL. 3, NO 4.\nThe Editor of Broom will be pleased to consider mss. submitted to him, but all mss. must\nbe accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. Ihe 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 lor a year's subscription. For Italy,\nio lire the copy, and 100 lire for a year's subscription. For France, 6 francs the copy, and\n6o 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 same\nwill 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, Schicklerstrasse 5, Berlin, Germany.\nNew York Office, Three East Ninth Street.\nLondon Office, Cecil Palmer, Oakley House, 15-18 Bloomsbury St., W. C. I.\n\nPage\nCover Design — (Woodcut) — Ladislas Medgyes —\n1\nPhotographs — Paul Strand (frontispiece and facing) 256, 272\nWhen all is Ended — Louis Aragon 24 i\nValuta — Malcolm Cowley 250\nWoodcut — Gontcharova 249,251\nPhotography and the new God — Paul Strand 252\nApocalyptic Harvest — Yvor Winters 259\nStavrogin's Connfession — Feodor Dostoyevski 260\nOn English and French Fiction — Arthur Symons 273\nMacabre — Crematorium — James Daly 284,285\nThe Lay of Maldoror — Comte de Lautr£amont 286\nThe Flower-Sphynx — Hans Arp 303\nThe Great American Billposter — Matthew Josephson 305"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.3", "texte": "MIRRORS OF MOSCOW\nBY LOUISE BRYANT\nWord pictures of Lenin, Peters, Dzerzhinsky, Tchicherin and the Foreign Office, Lunacharsky,\nKalinin, Mme. Kallontai, Trotsky, Envcr Pasha, Tikon and others.\nWith illustrations by Cesare $ 2.50\nTHE NOVEL By THE NEGRO AUTHOR CROWNED WITH THE PRIX GONCOURT\nThe Whole World is Reading It\nBATOUALA\nBY RENfi MARAN\nLiving Age: \"A tale so strange, so powerful, so unusual, that there is small difficulty in seeing\nwhy the ten members of the Academic Goncourt awarded it their prize.\"\nSt. Louis Argus: \"There arises occasionally an epochal literary work, and Rene Maran, full\nblooded African Negro, has given the world a piece of literature which will be read 500 years from now.\"\n$ 1.75\nESCAPE\nBY JEFFERY E. JEFFERY\nAuthor of \"Side Issues\"\nThe story of a woman who tries persistently to free herself from the narrowness of a middle class\nexistence. To escape from her family she marries, but finds that she has only lengthened her tether.\nWidowed when she is still under thirty, she sets herself to the acquisition of money as the first means to\nliberty of spirit. But neither the affluence which comes to her nor the passionate love affair which\naccompanies it, satisfy her. Disillusioned, she refashions her ideals under a nature wiser but not less eager\nthan her own, and finds — Escape.\ntjp Z.UU\nTHE FRUIT OF THE TREE\nBY HAMILTON FYFE\nAuthor of \"The Widow's Cruse\"\nIn this novel Mr. Fyfe contrasts, with an ever-present humor and without taking sides, two types\nof women: the woman who seeks to avoid the burden of motherhood, and the woman who finds her\ndiief happiness in children. He is an attentive sccial observer and sees that the gi owing distaste of the\nmore intellectual kind of women for motherhood is bound to have disturbing consequences. He sets forth\nproblems of personality which have a vivid application in the every-day lives of us all. o no\n<jp z.UU\nJEREMIAH\nBY STEFAN ZWEIG\nRomenn Rolland says: \"JEREMIAH is the most beautiful example that I know of, of the\nsublime melancholy that sees beyond the bloody drama of today the eternal tragedy of humanity. But\nthere are defeats more fertile than victories and sorrows more resplendent than joys. Zweig's poem presents\nthem with grandeur.\" $ 2 00\nTHREE NEW BOOKS By\nD. H. LAWRENCE\nENGLAND, MY ENGLAND\nA volume of short stories. $ 2.00\nFANTASIA OF THE UNCONSCIOUS\nThis remarkable book is a statement of Lawrence's philosophy of life. It elaborates further his\ntheory of the Unconscious as set forth in \"Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious.\" But it is far more than that.\nIt is a discussion in essay form of the human problems of today, the problems dealt with as personal\nexperiences in Mr. Lawrence's fiction: \"The Rainbow\", \"Women in Love\", \"Aaron's Rod\", and\"The\nList Girl\". $ 2.00\nSTUDIES IN CLASSIC AMERICAN LITERATURE\nContains long essays on Walt Whitman and Hawthorne and studies of Herman Melville, Benjamin\nFranklin, Richard Henry Dana and other American writers. (g»\nTHOMAS SELTZER-Publisher 5 W. 50 St. New York"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "241", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.5", "texte": "]\n\nWHEN ALL IS ENDED\nA STORY WITH A MORAL\n\nMy name is Grindor, Clement Grindor, and it seems that I was once\nthe son of a man who stood in the public eye. Paris with its carriages,\nits ladies and its thousand lights per second lay sweetly upon my brows\nlike a garland of flowers. I had a mistress, a rather will-o-the-wispish\none, set free by special grace of the moon's influence; the objects we found\nwere transformed at the touch of her wand. A bouquet became a kodak\nand served to photograph the fugitive words which escaped at the pace\nof a mowing-machine encountered at the place de la Bourse (I forget\njust what it looked like) and I could cite many other instances of her\nwizardry. Eleonore F. had several lovers with whom I got along very\nwell, and at times we all made excursions together to the outskirts of Paris\nwhere we lunched in the woods or on the banks of a river. One of these\nmen was the famous B. . . whose history you are doubtless quite familiar\nwith.\n\"What! B. . .?\"\nYes, none other than B. . . He was unforgettable when he sang\nnaughty ballads and would entertain us until far into the night when we\npassed on to philosophical discussions, in which Eleonore shone with\nextraordinary brilliance. Maurice, whom we nick-named Man-la-Sagesse\ntook pleasure in provoking us into personal confessions out of which he\ndrew the most fascinating conclusions.\nThe oldest of us was twenty years of age, and we all still retained the\ncharacter assumed at school: one the enthusiast, another the skeptic, Mau,\nwho treated us as his pawns, aroused mental conflicts which brewed trouble:\nnights, you know, when we lost all faith in the integrity of our system, and\neven the informed insolence of our youth and sound health failed us. These\nwere crises from which we emerged most often only to be re-united by a\ntragic sense of our differences and of the dark instincts which a light\nwhistle could summon up from the abyss. Each time our friendship hung\nin the balance, seemed lost forever; but our hunger for it was so great that\nwe always came back to our first principles. This faith in each other, so\nprecarious the while, came to be as vital to us as breathing."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "242", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.6", "texte": "We became so inured at this time to the atmosphere of drama that we\ncame to love it and cultivate it for its own sake. There was not a move made,\nnot a gesture, which did not serve to arouse our common mistrust and which\nwe did not pass up without demanding the motive and justification thereof.\nLittle by little that which we agreed upon in debate became dogma. We\nbegan to imitate each other's way of thinking, a mental direction which mul-\ntiplied the snares and fallacies about us. Thus, there was introduced into\nour existence an accelerated motion whose effect was not long to be awaited.\nThere is nothing easier if there are eight of you, than to become\nconvinced of the superiority of one form of life over another. We began\nto despise the long happy lives that we used to envy, and one night we\nheld a trial of all human motives. The kind of terrorist sincerity that\ngripped us led us, naturally, to reject with horror all utilitarian motives,\nand since we denied all truth, we were dominated by a sense of absolute\nmoral reality for which some of us were to pay some day with our lives.\nThe only real things that seemed to persist were such personal\naccidents as the mind ignores: a birth mark on B. . .'s shoulder, Maurice's\nway of swallowing the ends of his sentences when he spoke, and my\nhabitual gesture before I sat down. We spent days observing what men\ncalled happiness and paid pedagogical visits to society, the Folies-Bergeres,\nthe Louvre, what-not. But finally we gave up these random investigations\nquite fatigued, and certain that we had seen it all before. This lassitude\nof ours, so easy for others to judge from outside, was not that which was\ncalled blase twenty years ago. There was nothing sparkling about us at\nthis time, but neither could we put out of mind the cruel intellectual plan\nby which all seemed futile and vain. Our judgments were constantly made\nupon a scale of the infinite, and this infiniteness crushed us.\nHow could we have accepted the common happy lot of the people\nof our time who found in Auguste Gomte the peace that came of rejecting all\nmetaphysical problems? Born to prefer desperate adventures to the stolid\npatience which was soon to end in the election of a Raymond Poincare\nas President of the Republic, we would have instantly thrown the fate of\na thousand lives into the balance against the career of this citizen. It was\nthus that we launched ourselves into the affair of the automobile. We\nconceived it all rather vaguely at first and we pressed each other to make\nclear the exact nature of the plan. For several days we stood ready with\nall the weapons in our hands, but shuddered to hasten a doubtful catas-\ntrophe. ... It was B. . . who took it upon himself to un-bolt the machinery.\nI tried to restrain him to the last."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "243", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.7", "texte": "r\n\n\"I am in the hands of destiny,\" he said. \"I am the princess sworn\nto find the needle in the haystack and peril incites me to tempt peril.,,\nA great argument arose among us over the allotment of the various\nparts. Once more everything seemed about to fall apart.\n\"Go\", cried B. . ~ \"your hearts are soap bubbles. I can see easily\nenough the cause of all the trouble: you do not fear half so much the\noutcome of this enterprise as }rou do the idea of a criminal act against\neverything you have been taught to revere since childhood. I have noticed\nbefore this, how, rather than follow your natural inclinations toward what\nyou consider good, you make dogma of all I believe in; perhaps\nin the hope of some greatness to come. But how can you help recognizing\nin your hesitations, your remorse, the shameful return of traditional virtue?\"\nIt was Mau-la-Sagesse who replied to him: \"If I did not love you as\nmuch as I do, how odious you would be to me! This eternal worry about\nanalysis. The same old testing and questioning carried out, with all your\nwell-known subtlety of perception. What about this tacit acceptance of\nall your acts which you condemn at the same moment that you demand\nit? You don't want us to discuss this dangerous project at all, then. . .\"\n\"I do not mean\" retorted B. . . fiercely, \"to engage anybody to follow\nme: but how could we have the right to commit such an act if not by this\nsense of greatness of which I just spoke, which brings us every day nearer\nto this unfathomable, unseen end which is our only objective. Yes, and\nyou know you all agree with me: cruelty, felony, audacity will change\ntheir meanings in the eyes of men; their opposites are weakness, weakness\nand weakness. Nothing but excess merits our enthusiasm and if it bring us\nnothing but hatred now, it will doubtless reward us sooner or later with\na more durable love. Must our conduct alway be determined by the reactions\nof others? I must feel sure that all of my words, that all of my deeds are\nlost to the world. With me the deluge!\" This fury with which he rose\nagainst himself, which made him scorn his own interests for the sake of\nsome absurd exploit, could scarcely leave us cold to his project. What an\nirresistible ascendance he held over us, even over Mau-la-Sagesse—that is\nwhat I wanted to show in giving to such length the words of B. . . on the eve\nof the decisive day. How could we abandon him? His smile was what ruined\nus. None of us could escape him when he made that inimitable gesture of\nthe hand with which he shook off ideas and the ashes of his cigar.\nLike a new sun over the world, the yellow automobile rushed out\nsuddenly along the rue Ordener: we mounted it with a drunken stoicism"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "244", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.8", "texte": "which swept aside all other considerations. With the murder of the\nreceiving teller we entered into a strange light in which our life was inten-\nsified. You have read our history in the newspapers of the period, even\nthough you were still a student then. But what they never told you about\nwas the pause between two enterprises when we ate our repast, brimming\nwith gaiety as we read the Petit Parisien, and what not? W'e shall not speak\nof the dreary moments. Sleep. Ever since the pillage of the Chantilly post-\noffice B. . . became for us the hero that he was for historians of the time.\nYou can scarcely imagine his sweetness and the tranquillity which followed\nhis exaltations. We had no idea of how he was to die. He was an angel\nof destiny: he traversed the world like a flaming torch—of righteousness\nitself, one might have said. However, thanks to numerous aides we pursued\nour course as we willed and evaded the pursuit organized against us. A\nmiracle of speed: we were drunk with our impunity. We left a trail of bloody\nencounters along our route. Out of the human seas, we drained, as we\nwent, immense wealth, terror and an increasing tumult, a growing vertigo.\nOn this mad course which did not last longer than to light up the world as\nwith a ruddy flame, we lived a complete existence, never ceasing to be as-\ntonished at it, like people who are always conscious of having survived\na dizzy equilibrium, miraculously re-established.\nFrance, Europe, and soon the two continents turned their eyes with\nanguish toward the corner of the earth where a meteor had exploded.\nStupefaction succeeded the horror aroused at first by our early \"crimes,\"\nand then admiration itself. They began to feel vaguely what game we were\nup to: a handful of men on the globe had unleashed one of the greatest\nintellectual earth-quakes of history. The vast clamor of an outraged society\ncould not drown the voice of Mau-la-Sagesse, whose doctrines were com-\nmented on even in the provincial cafes. The fatality of some mis-step, I could\nnot help telling this to B. . ~ would bring us the vague glory of heroes, the\nimbecilic lot bestowed upon us already by the \"thinkers:\" for at this time\nthe dramatists preferred the glory of Catiline to the brilliance of the prix\nMontyon races.\n\"Sooner or later you will become the hero of text-books, an example\nlike all the others; posterity will remember you for your courage. Ultimately\nthere will adhere to your aureole the moral elements which you sought to\ndestroy. Beyond all regard for human life, generous sympathies will be\ncreated for you: you will be given shelter by free spirits. What a pretentious\ngrandeur! We shall have been your fanatics. One more Christ in the\npicture. ."}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "245", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.9", "texte": "B. replied with unheard of violence, that he was quite sure that\n1 was wrong, that the imminent catastrophe would be definitive, and that\nwe had already sunk incredibly in the minds of men, and their opinion of\nus would never, never be revised. But I saw clearly that I had touched\nthe sore-spot and that a new anxiety gripped my comrades. They suddenly\ndoubted their profound motives. That night at the house of a girl who\nhid us I remarked the sombre air of our chief. B. . . suddenly threw\nhimself upon our hostess, took her by the head, and opening her eyelids with\nhis fingers, cried: \"Tell me why you are not going to deliver us to the police?\"\nYou should have seen the savage expression on his face as he plunged his\ngaze into the suspect eyes. You should have seen this, to understand the .\ndumb and secret joy that pulsed suddenly in my veins. Something was born\nin me which was soon to take shape.\nI had, all told, sacrificed my life. Nothing was dearer to me in this\nworld than my companions in danger and our common ideals, not even\nmy own life. It is, perhaps, well to keep this in mind. For a singular con-\ntradiction arose in me: I found it infinitely voluptuous to contemplate the\ndestruction of all that I loved. Such a disaster (and as we became legendary\nfigures of prey and our lives took the semblance of apostles) such a\ndisaster would have rendered me the mental freedom I had abjured. The\ndesire grew in me to commit the act which would be truly indefensible\nfrom all points of view, and in shaking B. . .'s faith I had already tasted the\nperfidious alcohol, the exquisiteness of losing all that we cherish. These days\nB. never stopped talking of possible betrayals. It almost seemed that he\ndid this intentionally. We scrutinized the people at whose mercy we occasion-\nally found ourselves as with the hope of discovering the ultimate Judas.\nThis spirit of hunted beasts that we bore became completely unbearable.\nOur raids became more frequent, more febrile, more ferocious. We became\nlike muffled machines. But I, little by little, I, who felt growing in me the\nconsciousness of offering myself in a supreme challenge of heroism, segre-\ngated myself from the collective body foraging in forbidden terrain, took\nnote of the antipathy between my individuality and that of the others, in\nshort, re-discovered my identity. One pleasant evening, I realized that a\ndemon was nourished in me; the desire to betray. Faith, the basis of our\nadventure, seemed to me an ignoble idealism, a weakness after the manner\nof pity. This misunderstanding could not exist much longer.\nThe stupidity with which the police permitted us to escape from the\ntrap set at the house of someone's mistress is well remembered. There\nwere four days more during which every one of the words I dropped was a"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "246", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.10", "texte": "marvel of dissimulation. I lived in a restrained exaltation. At last, the\nmoment arrived. Through my aid, two of our numbers had already lost\ntheir lives, and the police came to lay siege to the estate of the millionaire\nanarchist who had given us refuge. When the assailants bursting from the\nshelter of their hay-wagon thought to have triumphed, fire robbed them of\nthe body of the last survivor of the adventure, B. . . the Titan, who died like\nJoan of Arc, my dear sir, like Joan of Arc, as his enemies recoiled in horror.\nThe Prefecture had promised to spare me, and helped me disappear. And\nso the trial of my confederates was carried out without my being even cited\nas a witness. I bore away with me my secret, the secret of the act without\nwhich, you can see, our whole enterprise would have amounted to nothing,\nnothing but a miserable comedy of revolt such as men are prone to under-\ntake from time to time. As for myself, I bore in me the worm of all\ngreatness.\nWhat should I do? Implore the world that I had assailed to restore me\nto a position that fitted me? I was given to understand that this was possible\nonly under certain conditions. But I revolted at being confronted with such\nhypocrisy, which did not deceive me at all. In fact, all of my sympathies\nwere with those whom I had betrayed, and I found my situation extra-\nordinary enough: disdaining those who wished to aid me, unable to return\nto the few people whom I really respected, with no confidence in anybody I\nfell into a solitude more hopeless than ever man lost in a trackless desert\nhad known. I maintained contact with the police, using them, and they me.\nThey gave me powers which I enjoyed, and as for them they considered me\na decoy. Thus began a strange career which embraced the lives of the most\ndiverse men and women, and so mysteriously conducted that no one could\nfollow my trail. I arrived here, and this passer-by whom I had never known\nsaw his whole destiny altered by my hands. There developed in me a fearful\ntaste for human experience. But what was it I sought? The same state of\nmind, the same tense moment, the same mechanism. Only one thing attrac-\nted me, fascinated me, and I would have given everything to evoke it contin-\nually. I desired to behold again and again the weakness I had experienced\nin myself, this supreme treason which was born, I was convinced, at the very\nmoment when man's instincts surpassed the limits of his affection for\nanother. I left no stone unturned to observe men at this stage of sincerity.\nFor years I penetrated into peaceful existences and sowed passions and\nfevers. Yes, I was a real decoy: the result mattered little to me, so long as I\nencountered along my route some child with a pure heart, an ardent heart;\nyou can be sure that I was there to taste of it on the day when on his virtuous"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "247", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.11", "texte": "face the stigma of that great weakness, treason, appeared. There was a\nyoung man who in the excess of his energy saw so deeply into things that he\ntranscended the limits of good and evil: he refused to heed me, but how vast\nhis projects were! Finally all his efforts were about to be crowned;\nwealth, a desperately lovely fiancee, fabulous honors. Success I saw, but\nhid from him, was destined to demolish all even the memory of\nhis past irregularities. Then, then I insinuated a tiny doubt into his veins,\nand it twisted his whole destiny. What a sight: I attended the death-rattle\nof a human will. The young man renounced all that he had so avidly sought,\nfor which he had not quailed at committing crimes. And all at once he\naccepted exile as a beggar to the possibilities of a disaster which in no case\nwould have given him as much misery as he faced. Now that the serpent\ngnawed him, what was it he gave sneering to a wench of the provinces? It\nwas the photograph of his fiancee which he had hid in his breast when he\ndid not keep it to his trembling lips. Such men, my dear sir, I have known\na hundred such as he.\nAnd the women, why, if my demands had been within reason very few\nof them would have resisted me. But it must needs be that the woman forsake\nall to follow me, that she be my own shadow, even the shadow of my\nshadow. What intrigues I resorted to only to see rise from the depths of her\ntrusting pupils the spectre of doubt and treachery. If she knew me to be\nstruggling with some terrible force, the police for example, I tasted at least\nthe incomparable pleasure of her complicity. What a strange delight there is\nin love exasperated by danger and crime. Forgive me if I cannot pronounce\nthat word without laughing. Certain of catastrophe, I read the passionate\ndisbelief in those possessed eyes, the mental restriction of the instincts. Unto\ndeath, she said; but for herself, nothing but the prison. For ten years I\ncould not grow tired of her; on her face there was the very same expression\nas that of my mistresses at the moment when the implacable fate knocked\nat the door. A gaze more charming than the fresh air of mountains: at this\nmoment you become a strange and living personality to me. Three or four\nwere so beautiful that I could not bear that they should survive this moment.\nWhat could they have given me after such a look ? They could not extinguish\nthemselves. And I still see them, strangled, with disheveled hair. Three, or\nfour?\nTo ask every one for a moment of his life — it was the cost of this prac-\ntice that made me neither Lovelace nor Satan but Grindor. Clement Grindor,\nwho, if he detaches his history from that of the generations to follow, will\nknow himself an arch type. You have perhaps forgotten the Eleonore who\nintroduced me to B. and to Mau-la-Sagesse? She had incurred nothing worse"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "248", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.12", "texte": "than banishment and it was quite by chance on the banks of the Rhine that I\nfound myself in her presence one day. I was then at work on a case of inter-\nnational politics in which were involved the intrigues of a naval ensign and\na Viennese singer. The plot worked admirably: the affair threw light on\nthree subjects of the first rank, and I could think of nothing but to bring it\nto a head at dinner that night in the hotel by the river by having my pretty\npuppet set fire to the bouquet of flowers on the table. A boat on the river\nattracted our attention. She rocked heavily to and fro, when suddenly a\nwhite form surged out of the shadows, dove into the water and swam rapidly\nto our side of the river. Out of pure curiosity, I was among the first who\nseized her and helped her to regain terra firma. I was almost stupefied to\nrecognize Eleonore in her, beautiful and almost naked. I took her in my\narms, and carried her into a salon, where she recovered sufficiently to de-\nmand that we be left alone. I saw, then, the blood stains on her neck and\nlearned that she had escaped from the boat as someone tried to strangle\nher. But what a surprise to find me again; she had believed that I died like\na dog somewhere along the route. The miracle of my immunity recalled to\nher the old taste she had had for my person; at her throat there was the\nscent of the blood of all her lovers, my victims, and it was two hours before\nI remembered to send a note to my little companion who was waiting for me\non the terrace. Her fingers struck old and ravishing chords in my body, as\nshe sang one of B. . .'s familiar doggerels. This sweet trembling slave wTho\nheld sway over the whole length of me, whom I had regretted for so long,\nhad been found in such a miraculous fashion. And I began very deliberately\nlo relate to her the real account of my adventures. She did not budge; the\ndetails of the betrayal did not bring a quiver to her rigid face; but when I\ncame to the death of B . . ~ when he had cried out the words that I alone had\nheard and thrown himself into the flames, it was indeed too much and she\nlost all consciousness and fell to the floor.\nWhen she came to, her alternate horror and febrile passion made our\nexistence a prolonged ecstasy during three weeks. In the Hartz we fought\nout our intellectual drama. I gave her a revolver and she tried to shoot me\ndown a hundred times. She followed me into the mountains to places where\na detonation would have been lost among the thousand echoes of cascades\nand falling rocks. A hundred times an inflexion of my voice, an inflexion of\nmy body arrested her finger at the trigger; at the end of three weeks, tamed,\nshe found herself alone at the hotel with the bill to pay.\nI shall not speak of my role during the European war. A skilled crafts-\nman in all that was carried on during those last years it would seem like\npure boasting if I should recount to you a tenth of the actual fact. I organi-"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "249", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.13", "texte": "zed two revolutions, several defeats; I created out of wholecloth five criminal\naffairs which demolished the reputation of the most honored statesmen; I\nruined countries; I led to the post a woman who was more beautiful than the\nsetting sun, a misdeed for which I would have killed any number of young\npeople; I sought to dishonor as many men as I could find who believed in the\nhoncr of which they prated, and the virtue they preached, and against which,\nsir, my life up to this moment has been nothing but an eternal protest, futile\ncertainly, but amazing enough for me to laugh, from time to time, when by\nchance I catch a glimpse of my image in a mirror, this frank and pleasant\nexpression which seems to fairly personify devotion, magnanimity, heroism.\n\nLOUIS ARAGON.\n(Translated from the French by Matthew Josephson)"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "250", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.14", "texte": "VALUTA\n\nFollowing the dollar O following the dollar I have learned three\nfashions of eating with the knife and ordered beer in four lan-\nguages from a Hungarian waiter while following the dollar\naround the 48th degree of north latitude where it buys most there\nis the Fatherland\nfollowing the dollar by grey Channel seas by blue seas in Italy\nby lakes in the Alps as blue as aniline blue by lakes as green as\na bottle of green ink and ink-smeared mountains rising on either\nhand\nI dipped my finger in the lake and wrote. I shall never\nreturn never to my strange land\nmy land where plains are daily stretched where plains are\nstretched and tacked like brussels carpet where forests burn in\nbusiness hours daily where yellow nameless rivers run and where\ncities stand daily on their heads and wave proud legs in the air\nmy land of cowboys of businessmen of peddlers peddling machi-\nnery to boil eggs three minutes exactly three minutes for there's\none born every minute in my land\n*\nincomprehensible and sweet and far where Douglas Fairbanks\nweds our winsome Mary and taking the Bronx Express they sail\naway far far away into a photographed bliss I never may under-\nstand"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "251", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.15", "texte": "four angels bathed in glory guard my land\nat the north gate Theodore Roosevelt at the west gate Charlie\nChaplin at the south gate Jack Johnson blackly naked and\nat the middle gate a back-country fiddler from Clarion County\nfiddling with a turkey in the straw and a haw haw haw and a\nturkey in the hay and I shall never hear it fiddled O farther than\nAtlantis is that land\nwhere I could return tomorrow if I chose\nbut I shall return to it never\nshall never wed my pale Alaska virgin\nnever lie in thine arms O Texas Rose.\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "252", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.16", "texte": "PHOTOGRAPHY AND THE NEW GOD\n\nMan having created the concept of God The Creator, found himself\nunsatisfied. For despite the proven pragmatic value of this image, through\nwhich the fine arts of music and literature, of architecture, painting, and\nsculpture, together with the less fine arts of murder, thievery and general\nhuman exploitation, had been carried to great heights, there was still\nsomething unfulfilled: the impulse of curiosity in man was still hungry.\nIn all ages therefor, we find the empirical thinker, the alchemist and\nastrologer, mathematician and philosophic experimenter, at work, frequently,\nas in the early Christian world, at considerable risk of his life, liberty and\npursuit of happiness. Then, it was the artist alone who was able to\nindulge in the luxury of empirical thought under the camouflage of subject\nmatter. In every other field of research, the scientific method was seen to\nbe and no doubt was, inimical to all forms of Churchianity; the scientist was\nthen, as his fellow-worker the artist is to-day, persona non grata.\nBut through the disintegration of the power of the Christian Church\nfollowing the Reformation, scientific empirical thought found its oppor-\ntunity of expression. Men's imaginations, weary of sectarian intrigue and\nof Holy Wars, kindled at the thought of the unknown in the form of unex-\nplored trade routes and new sources of material wealth; and through them\ndreamed of a power over their fellows as potent as any which could be\nderived from a vested interest in God. With this change in the direction of\nthought, the scientist became indispensable, he began to function in society.\nFor when it became apparent that craftsmanship as a means to trade growth\nwas insufficient, that quantity and not quality of production was the essential\nproblem in the acquisition of wealth, it was the scientist and his interpreter\nthe inventor who jumped into the breach.\nOut of wood and metals he made hands that could do the work of\na thousand men; he made backs that could carry the burden of a thousand\nbeasts and chained the power which was in the earth and waters to make\nthem work. Through him men consummated a new creative act, a new\nTrinity: God the Machine, Materialistic Empiricism the Son, and Science the\nHoly Ghost.\n*\nAnd in the development and organization of this modern Church,\nthe veritable artist, composer or poet, architect, painter or sculptor, has"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "253", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.17", "texte": "played no great part. His form of creativity based upon what Groce calls\nintuitive rather than intellectual knowledge, was clearly of no value in a\nfairly unscrupulous struggle for the possession of natural resources, for the\nexploitation of all materials, human and otherwise. As a consequence the\nartist has fallen considerably from his place of high seriousness as an\nintegral and respected element in society, to that of a tolerated mountebank\nentertainer merely. With neither Popes, Princes nor any equivalent of the\nRockerfeller Foundation to support his experimental work, he is to-day in\na position similar to that which the scientist occupied in the middle ages;\nthat of heretic to existing values. That kind of life which has its being in\nthe extension and projection of knowledge through the syntheses of intuitive\nspiritual activity, and its concomitant the vita contemplativa, is seen to be\nand no doubt is, a menace to a society built upon what has become the\nreligious concept of possessiveness. It is natural therefor that the artist finds\nhimself looked upon with a new sort of hostility which expresses itself, due\npossibly to the benign influence of civilization, in the form of indifference or\ncontempt, and extends to him the privilege of starving to death. At the\njudgment seat of the new Trinity he has been found wanting as a waster\nand a non-producer.\nWith this increasing isolation of the seeker after intuitive knowledge, the\nscientist, working not so much in the field of philosophy as in those more\n\"practical\" expressions of conceptual knowledge, the natural sciences, has\nbecome more and more a part of this industrial society, nay, is largely\nresponsible for it. Having created the new God, he has permitted himself to\nbe used at every step and for every purpose by its interested devotees.\nPrinting presses or poison gas, he has been equally blind or indifferent to the\nimplications in the use or misuse of either, with the result that the social\nstructure which he has so irresponsibly helped to rear, is to-day fast being\ndestroyed by the perversion of the very knowledge contributed by him.\nVirtually yanked out of comparative obscurity by the forces of evolutionary\ncircumstance, and considerably over-inflated by his Holy Ghostship, he has\nmade possible the present critical condition of Western Civilization, faced as\nit is with the alternatives of being quickly ground to pieces under the heel\nof the new God or with the tremendous task of controlling the heel.\nSigns of this imperative revaluation of the idea of the machine are\nbeginning to manifest themselves. And significantly, one might almost say\nironically enough, not among the least important, is the emerging demon-\nstration on the part of the artist, of the immense possibilities in the creative\ncontrol of one form of the machine, the camera. For he it is who, despite\nhis social maladjustment, has taken to himself with love a dead thing unwit-"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "254", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.18", "texte": "tingly contributed by the scientist, and through its conscious use, is revealing\na new and living act of vision.\nIn order to make this clear it is necessary to record briefly the develop-\nment of the use of the camera by the seeker after intuitive knowledge. The\nfirst of these to become interested in the mechanism and materials of photo-\ngraphy was David Octavius Hill, a painter, and member of the Royal Scottish\nAcademy. Hill came upon photography about 1842 in the following way;\n— he had received a commission to paint a large canvas on which were to\nappear the recognizable portraits of a hundred or more of the well-knowu\npeople of the time. Faced with this difficult task and having heard of the\nthen recently invented process of photography, he turned to it as a help to\nhis painting. Three years of experimentation followed and it is interesting\nto learn that he became so fascinated by the new medium that he seriously\nneglected his painting. So much so in fact, that his wife and friends found\nit necessary to remind him that he was an \"artist.\" They chided him upon\nwasting his time and finally succeeded in giving him such a bad conscience\nthat he never photographed again. Yet the results of Hill's experimenting\nhave given us a series of amazing portraits which have not until recently been\nsurpassed. They are built with the utmost simplicity upon large masses of\nlight and dark, but unquestionably the element which makes these portraits\nlive is the naivete and freedom from all theory with which Hill approached\nhis new medium. He was not concerned or hampered in his photographing\nby the academic standards of the time as he must have been in his painting,\nfor as a painter he is of slight importance. Despite the primitive machine\nand materials with which he was compelled to work, the exposures of five\nto fifteen minutes in bright sunlight, this series of photographs has\nvictoriously stood the test of comparison with nearly everything done in\nphotography since 1845. They remain the most extraordinary assertion of\nthe possibility of the utterly personal control of a machine, the camera.\nA gap then of nearly forty years intervened during which these photo-\ngraphs made by Hill passed into obscurity and practically no similar experi-\nmentation was done. However, some time before their re-discovery photo-\ngraphy had, about the year 1880, started upon a renascent and widespread\ndevelopment all over the world. With the invention of the dry plate, the\nimprovements in lenses and printing papers, the process had been brought\nwithin the realm of greater certainty and ease of manipulation. And with\nthis period begins that curious misconception of the inherent qualities of\na new medium, on the part of almost everyone who has attempted to express\nhimself through it. Without the slightest realization that in this machine,\nthe camera, a new and unique instrument had been placed in their hands,"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "255", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.19", "texte": "photographers have in almost every instance, been trying to use it as a short\ncut to an accepted medium, painting. This misconception still persists today\nthroughout Europe and to a large degree even here in America.\nAs a consequence the development of photography so beautifully and\ncompletely recorded in the numbers of \"Camera Work,\" is interesting not so\nmuch in the aesthetically expressive as in an historical sense. We find all\nthrough the work done in Germany, France and Italy, in England and much\nin America, the supreme altar of the new God, a singular lack of perception\nand respect for the basic nature of the photographic machine. At every turn\nthe attempt is made to turn the camera into a brush, to make a photograph\nlook like a painting, an etching, a charcoal drawing or whatnot, like anything\nbut a photograph; and always in imitation of the work of inferior painters.\nMoreover, with the production of this very considerable number of bastard\nphotographs, interesting though they were temporarily, went an equally vast\nand foolish discussion as to whether photography was or was not an Art.\nNeedless to say this discussion was usually as thoughtless and as uncritical\nof its terminology and of its standards as were the photographers of theirs.\nBut partly through this evolution we are now fortunately becoming aware\nof the fact that nobody knows exactly what Art is; the word does not slip\nquite so glibly off the tongues of the serious-minded. And fortunately as\nwell, a few photographers are demonstrating in their work that the camera\nis a machine and a very wonderful one. They are proving that in its pure\nand intelligent use it may become an instrument of a new kind of vision,\nof untouched possibilities, related to but not in any way encroaching upon\npainting or the other plastic arts. It has taken nearly eighty years for this\nclarification of the actual meaning of photography to reach from the\nremarkably true but instinctive approach of David Octavius Hill, to the\nconscious control embodied in the recent work of Alfred Stieglitz.\nFor it is in the later work of Stieglitz, an American in America, that\nwe find a highly-evolved crystalization of the photographic principle, the\nunqualified subjugation of a machine to the single purpose of expression.\nIt is significant and interesting to note that this man is not a painter and has\nnever felt any impulse to be one. From the very inception of his photo-\ngraphic work which covers a period of thirty-five years, he like Hill, was\nfascinated by the machine as a thing apart. In fact, Stieglitz knew nothing\nabout painting until, as the guiding spirit in that little experimental labo-\nratory known as \"291\" he gave Americans their first opportunity of seeing\nthe development of modern painting together with that of photography.\nYet with all this he has maintained in his own photographic work a unity of\nfeeling uncontaminated by alien influences; in his own words, \"no"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "256", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.20", "texte": "mechanicalization but always photography.\" In his later work, consisting\nalmost exclusively of a series of portraits made during the past four years,\nthe achievements possible to the camera pass out of the realm of theory and\nbecome objective realities in which certain affirmations emerge. For the\nfirst time we are given an opportunity of examining and of drawing some\nconclusions concerning the means of photographic expressiveness, an\nexpressiveness the actual nature of which, together with that of other media,\nmay be safely left to the aestheticians to fight about among themselves.\nWe find first of all in this man's work a space-filling and formal sense\nwhich, in many instances, achieves as pure a synthesis of objectivity as can\nbe found in any medium. We perceive upon the loveliness of paper\na registration in monochrome of tonal and tactile values far more subtle than\nany which the human hand can record. We discover as well, the actuality\nof a new sensitivity of line as finely expressive as any the human hand can\ndraw. And we note that all these elements take form through the machine,\nthe camera, without resort to the imbecilic use of soft focus or uncorrected\nlenses, or to processes in which manual manipulation may be introduced.\nNay more, we see that the use of such lenses or processes weakens or destroys\nentirely the very elements which distinguish photography and may make it\nan expression. In the work of Stieglitz there is always a full acceptance of\nthe thing in front of him, the objectivity which the photographer must control\nand can never evade.\nBut above all, we become aware in these photographs of his, of a new\nfactor which the machine has added to plastic expression, the element of\ndifferentiated time. The camera can hold in a unique way, a moment. If\nthe moment be a living one for the photographer, that is, if it be significantly\nrelated to other moments in his experience, and he knows how to put that\nrelativity into form, he may do with a machine what the human brain and\nhand, through the act of memory cannot do. So perceived, the whole con-\ncept of a portrait takes on a new meaning, that of a record of innumerable\nelusive and constantly changing states of being, manifested physically. This\nis as true of all objects as of the human object. With the eye of the machine,\nStieglitz has recorded just that, has shown that the portrait of an individual\nis really the sum of a hundred or more photographs. He has looked with\nthree eyes and has been able to hold, by purely photographic means, space\nfilling, tonality and tactility, line and form, that moment when the forces\nat work in a human being become most intensely physical and objective. In\nthus revealing the spirit of the individual he has documented the world of\nihat individual, which is today. In this sense portrait painting, already\nnearly a corpse, becomes an absurdity."}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "257", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.23", "texte": "2\n\nNow in all of this it should be well understood, that the machine is a\npassive and an innocent party. The control of its mechanism and materials,\nthe fineness and sensitivity of its accomplishment are those of man. The\nnew God shorn of its God-hood, becomes an instrument of intuitive\nknowledge. Whether the results of its use will continue to live in the mind\nand spirit of the future, only time will tell. Whether or no these results\ncome under the category of Art, is irrelevant. The important fact to be\nnoted is that to-day, painters, writers and musicians, even the scientists and\nsensitive people in every occupation, are reacting as profoundly before\nphotographs, these untouched products of an intelligence and spirit\nchannelling through a machine, as before any of the accepted forms of\nexpression. So that when Groce in his \"Aesthetic\" writes: \"And if photo-\ngraphy be not quite an Art, that is precisely because the element of nature\nin it remains more or less unconquered and ineradicable.\" When he asks:\n\"Do we ever feel complete satisfaction before even the best of photographs?\nWould not an artist vary and touch up much or little, remove or add\nsomething to the best of photographs?\" the conclusion and answer are\nobvious. Signor Groce is speaking of the shortcomings of photo-\ngraphers and not of photography. He has not seen, for the simple reason\nthat it did not exist when he wrote his book, fully achieved photographic\nexpression. In the meantime the twaddle about the limitations of photo-\ngraphy has been answered by Stieglitz and a few others of us here in\nAmerica, by work done. Granting the limitations which all media have in\ncommon, it is only when the limitations of photographers are under exami-\nnation, that the discussion becomes realistic.\nThus the deeper significance of a machine, the camera, has emerged\nhere in America, the supreme altar of the new God. If this be ironical it may\nalso be meaningful. For despite our seeming wellbeing we are, perhaps more\nthan any other people, being ground under the heel of the new God, destroyed\nby it. We are not, as Natalie Curtis recently pointed out in The Freeman,\nparticularly sympathetic to the somewhat hysterical attitude of the Futurists\ntoward the machine. We in America are not fighting, as it may be natural\nto do in Italy, away from the tentacles of a medieval tradition towards a\nneurasthenic embrace of the new God. We have it with us and upon us with\na vengeance, and we will have to do something about it eventually. Not only\nthe new God but the whole Trinity must be humanized lest it in turn\ndehumanize us. We are beginning perhaps to perceive that.\nAnd so it is again the vision of the artist, of the intuitive seeker after\nknowledge, which, in this modern world, has seized upon the mechanism\nand materials of a machine, and is pointing the way. He it is who is again"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "258", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.24", "texte": "insisting, through the science of optics and the chemistry of light and metals\nand paper, upon the eternal value of the concept of craftsmanship, because\nthat is the only way in which he can satisfy himself and because he knows\nthat quality in work is prerequisite to quality in living. He has evolved\nthrough the conscious creative control of this particular phase of the machine,\na new method of perceiving the life of objectivity and of recording it. And he\nhas done so in spite of the usual opposition and contempt with which the\nAccepted always greets the New, in spite of the actual deterioration of\nmaterials and in the face of a total absence of those monetary returns which\nwork in other media occasionally brings.\nIn thus disinterestedly experimenting, the photographer has joined the\nranks of all true seekers after knowledge, be it intuitive and aesthetic or\nconceptual and scientific. He has moreover, in establishing his own spiritual\ncontrol over a machine, the camera, revealed the destructive and wholly\nfactitious wall of antagonism which these two groups have built up between\nthemselves. Rejecting all Trinities and all Gods he puts to his fellow-workers\nthis question squarely: What is the relation between science and expression?\nAre they not both vital manifestations of energy, whose reciprocal hostility\nturns the one into the destructive tool of materialism, the other into anemic\nphantasy, whose coming together might integrate a new religious impulse?\nMust not these two forms of energy converge before a living future can be\nborn of both?\n\nPaul Strand."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "259", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.25", "texte": "APOCALYPTIC HARVEST\nYvor Winters\nThe thinning light\nOf afternoon\nIs over ripened wheatfields\nShining to a thin skyline —\nA cloud,\nFluted and impervious,\nRides up a paler sky to meet the sunset\nWhen it comes.\nThis light\nSpreads from the Old Testament,\nThese fields\nAre printed leaves —\nAnd far away\nGo out across the fields\nAnd kill a man,\nBe hanged at dawn.\nAnd far and far away\nYoung horses stand immobile,\nTheir long manes rippled\nIn many winds.\n2*"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "260", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.26", "texte": "STRAVROGIN'S CONFESSION.\n\nCHAPTER II.\nIt was indeed foreign type, — three printed sheets of ordinary note-\npaper, sewn together. It must have been printed secretly by some Russian\nprinting-press abroad, and at first blush the pamphlet looked very much like\na revolutionary leaflet. The heading read \"From Stavrogin.\"\nI insert this document literally into my chronicle. I allowed myself to\ncorrect the mistakes in spelling, which are rather numerous and which some-\nwhat surprised me, for the author was, after all, an educated and even well-\nread man (of course, judged relatively). As for the style, I made no changes\nin it, in spite of the errors. At any rate, it is obvious that the author is by\nno means a man of letters.\nFrom stavrogin\nIn 186- I, Nikolai Stavrogin, a retired officer, was living in Peters-\nburg, indulging in dissipation in which I found no pleasure. In those days I\nwas keeping, for quite some time, three apartments. I myself was living in\none, in a lodging-house where I got board and service and where Maria\nLebyadkina, now my lawful life, was also staying. The other two apartments\nI rented by the month for Intrigues: in one I received a certain lady who\nloved me, and in the other, her maid, and for quite a time I was planning how\nI could bring the two together, so that mistress and maid could meet in my\nrooms. Knowing the characters of both, I expected to get a good deal of\nentertainment out of this joke.\nIn the gradual preparation for that meeting I had to go more often to\none of the two apartments, which was in a large house on Gorokhovaya\nStreet, because it was there that I received the maid. Here I had only one\nroom on the fourth floor, which I rented from a Russian family of the lower\nclass. They occupied the adjacent room, which was smaller, and the door\nbetween the two was always open, which fell in with my desires. The hus-\nband was employed in an office and away from morning till night.\nThe wife, a woman of forty, was generally busy cutting and sewing up old\nclothes for new and she too often went out to dispose of these. I remained\nall alone with their daughter, who was only a child. Her name was Ma-\ntriosha. Her mother loved her, but often beat her, and had a way of screaming\nat her frightfully, as is the manner of women of her class. This little girl\ntook care of my room, and cleaned things up behind the screen. I declare"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "261", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.27", "texte": "that I forget the number of the house. When I inquired I found out that the\nold house was torn down and there is now one large new house on the site\nof two or three of the former buildings. I also forget the name of my landlord\n(perhaps I didn't even know it then). I recall that the woman's name was,\nif I am not mistaken, Stepanida Mikhailovna. Him I don't remember. I\nbelieve that it might be possible to trace them through the Petersburg police.\nIt was a corner flat, opening on to the courtyard. Everything happened in\nJune. The house was painted pale blue.\nOnce a pen-knife which I didn't need and which was just lying around\ndisappeared from my table. I told the woman, without thinking that she\nwould whip her daughter. The mother had just been screaming at the child\non account of the loss of a rag, suspecting that she had taken it, and went\nas far as pulling her hair for her. When the rag was found under the table-\ncloth the little girl did not say a word of reproach but just looked at her\nmother silently. I noticed it, and it was now for the first time that I remarked\nthe girl's face which had always been a blank to me before. She was fair-skin-\nned and freckled, with an ordinary face, but it was a child's face and gentle,\nexceedingly gentle. The mother didn't like the little girl's failure to reproach\nher for the unmerited beating, and she raised her fist against the child, but\ndidn't hit her, and it was then that the matter of the pen-knife came up.\nIndeed, there was nobody there but the three of us, and it was only the girl\nwho went into my room. The woman flew into a passion, especially because\nshe had just beaten the child unjustly. She ran over to the besom, plucked\nsome twigs from it, and whipped the girl before my very eyes so that she\nraised welts on her, although the child was already in her twelfth year.\nMatriosha did not cry under the strokes, probably because I was there, but\nshe gulped strangely at each blow. And afterward she continued to gasp for\na whole hour.\nBut here is what happened first. At the very moment when the woman\nwent to pluck the twigs from the besom I found the penknife on my bed,\nwhere it must have fallen from the table. It occurred to me immediately not\nto say anything so as not to interfere with the whipping. It was an instan-\ntaneous decision; at such moments I stop breathing. But I intend to tell\neverything in more unmistakeable words, so that nothing may remain con-\ncealed.\nEvery situation in my life which was exceedingly disgraceful or im-\nmeasurably humiliating, or base, or, above all, ridiculous, always aroused in\nme together with immense anger an incredibly intense pleasure. Also in\nmoments of crime and in moments of danger. If I were stealing anything I\nwould feel enraptured by the consciousness of the depth of my baseness. It"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "262", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.28", "texte": "wasn't that I loved baseness (here my reason was entirely intact), but I liked\nthe intoxication of the tormenting consciousness of vileness. Likewise, each\ntime I stood at the barrier, waiting for my opponent's shot, I experienced the\nsame shameful and violent feeling, and once it was extraordinarily strong. I\nconfess I often sought it myself, because for me it is the most intense of all\nsimilar sensations. When I was slapped, and I was slapped twice in my life,\nthe feeling was there too, in spite of a furious anger. But if you can control\nyour anger, the gratification will surpass anything that can be imagined.\nI never told this to anyone, even by a hint, concealing it as a shame and\ndisgrace. But once in Petersburg when I was badly beaten up and had my\nhair pulled in a tavern I didn't have that feeling, but only fearful anger, and\ngot into a row, for it was just a drunken brawl although I was sober. But 1\nthought at the time that if the French Vicomte, who had slapped my face\nand whose lower jaw I had shot off for that, had pulled me by the hair, I\nwould have felt the familiar pleasure, and perhaps would not have been\nangry at all.\nI say all this so that everyone should understand that this feeling never\nwholly overcame me, and I was always completely conscious (it was pre-\ncisely on consciousness that everything was based). And although it took\nsuch a hold on me as to render me unreasonable or, so to speak, stubborn, it\nnever made me forget myself. Although it reached a point of frenzy in me,\nI could always subdue it, even stop it at its height, only I never wished to\nstop it. I am convinced that I could live my whole life like a monk in spite\nof the brutal lust which is in me and which I always provoke1. lam always\nmy master when I wish to be. And so let it be known that I do not wish to\nclaim irresponsibility for my crimes, either through effect of surroundings\nor disease.\nThe punishment ceased, I put the pen-knife into my vest-pocket and\nwithout saying a word left the house, and, going so far that no one could\ndiscover, I threw the pen-knife away. Then I waited two days. The little\ngirl, having cried her fill, became even more taciturn, yet I am convinced\nthat she had no ill feeling toward me. However, she surely felt some shame\nbecause she had been punished in such a way in my presence. But being\na child, she surely must have blamed herself even for her shame.\nIt was in the course of those two days that I once put myself a ques-\ntion, as to whether I could give up my intention, and I\nimmediately felt that I could, at any time, even that very minute.\n\n1 The proofs contained the following sentence inserted here, which Dostoyevski\nomitted in the final version: \"Up to the age of sixteen I indulged with extraordinary\nimmoderation in the vice to which Jean-Jacques Rousseau confessed, but 1 put a stop\nto it when I so desired, namely, when I began my seventeenth year.\""}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "263", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.29", "texte": "At that time I wanted to kill myself because of a sick indifference, however,\nI don't really known whether that was the reason. In the course of those few\ndays (for it was necessary to wait so that the little girl might forget every-\nthing), perhaps in order to distract myself from my constant fancy or merely\nfor a joke, I committed a theft from the furnished rooms where I lived. It\nwas the only theft I ever committed.\nMany people were crowded into those lodgings. Among others, a gov-\nernment clerk lived there with his family in two furnished rooms, — a man\nof about forty, not altogether stupid, a decent enough appearing fellow, but\npoor. I did not have much to do with him and he was afraid of the com-\npany which I entertained there. He had just received his salary, thirty-five\nroubles. What chiefly brought me to this step was that at the moment I was\nin want of cash (although four days later the money came through the\nmails for me), so that I was stealing because of need, so to speak, and not\nmerely for the fun of the thing. It was done impudently and simply. I just\nwalked into his room while he and his family were eating dinner in the\nother hole. His uniform, folded, lay on a chair at the very door. The thought\nhad flashed through my mind when I was still in the hall. I slipped my hand\ninto the pocket and drew out the purse. But the clerk heard a noise and\nlooked in from the next room. It seems that he saw something, at least, but\nsince he didn't see the whole procedure, naturally, he didn't believe his eyes.\nI said, that as I was passing through the hall I had looked into see what\ntime it was by his clock. \"It's stopped, sir,\" he answered, and I went out.\nI was then drinking heavily, and a whole crew, including Lebyadkin,\nwas camping in my rooms. The purse with the small change I threw away,\nbut I kept the bills. There were thirty- two roubles, three red and two yellow\nbills. I immediately got change for a red bill and sent for champagne. The\nsecond red bill, and the third too went the same way. Some four hours later\nin the evening the clerk accosted me in the hall.\n\"When you looked in this afternoon, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, didn't\nyou inadvertently brush my uniform from the chair ... it lay by the door?\"\n\"No, I don t remember. Was your uniform there?\"\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\"On the floor?\"\n\"First on the chair, sir, and then on the floor/'\n\"Did you pick it up?\"\n\"Yes, I did, sir.\"\n\"Well, so, what do you want?\"\n\"Nothing, sir, if that's the case.\"\nHe did not dare to say anything further, and he told nobody in the"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "264", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.30", "texte": "whole house — so timid are these people. Besides, everyone in the lodging-\nhouse was terribly afraid of me and showed a great deal of deference toward\nme. Afterward, I loved to meet his eyes as I passed through the hall. But\nthat soon began to bore me.\nThree days later I went to my room on Gorokhovaya Street. The\nmother was getting ready to leave with a bundle. The man, as usual, was\nnot at home, so I remained alone with Matriosha. The windows were open.\nThe house was occupied mostly by people with small workshops and all\nday long the place was filled with songs and the sound of hammers. An hour\npassed. Matriosha was sitting in the next room on a little stool, with a bit\nof sewing, her back turned to me. At length she began to hum, softly, very\nsoftly. She did that sometimes. I took out my watch and looked at the time;\nit was two o'clock. My heart began to beat fast. I got up and began to steal\ntowards her. On the window-sill there were many geranium pots and the\nsun was fearfully bright. I sat down beside her on the floor quietly. She\nstarted, and at first got incredibly frightened and jumped to her feet. I took\nher hand and kissed it gently, drew her down on the stool again, and began\nlooking into her eyes. The fact that I had kissed her hand suddenly struck\nher as funny, as though she were a baby. But her amusement lasted only a\nsecond for she quickly jumped up again and this time in such fear that her\nface was convulsed. She looked at me, her eyes motionless with terror, and\nher lips began to twitch as though she were going to cry, but she did not.\nI kissed her hand again and seated her on my knees. Then she suddenly\npulled away from me with a jerk of her whole body and smiled as though\nwith shame, but it was a strangely crooked smile. Her whole face reddened\nwith shame. I was muttering something to her like a drunken man. Suddenly\nan odd and astonishing thing happened which I will never forget: the little\ngirl threw her arms around my neck and suddenly began to kiss me violently\nof her own accord. Her face expressed perfect rapture. I nearly got up and\nwent away — this was so disagreeable to me in the small creature, and\nbesides I felt a sudden pity.\nWhen it was all over, she was embarrassed. I did not try to soothe her\nand no longer caressed her. She looked at me with a timid smile. Her face\nsuddenly seemed stupid to me. Her embarrassment grew with every mo-\nment. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands and stood in the corner\nwith her face to the wall, motionlessly. I feared that she would get frightened\nagain, as before, and silently left the house.\nI suppose that all that happened presented itself to her with deadly\nhorror as a measureless abomination. In spite of the foul language which\nshe must have heard from the days of her swaddling-clothes, and in spite"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "265", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.31", "texte": "of the talk that she heard all around her, I have every reason to believe that\nshe did not yet understand anything. In the end it must have seemed to\nher that she had committed an unspeakable crime, that there was deadly\nguilt upon her, that she had \"killed God.\"\nThat night I was in the drunken brawl that I mentioned before. In\nthe morning I woke up in my lodgings, where Lebyadkin had taken me. My\nfirst thought on awakening was: did she tell, or not? It was a moment of\nactual fear, although not very strong. I was very gay that morning, and\nawfully kind toward everyone, and the whole crew was very well pleased\nwith me. But I left them all and went to Gorokhovaya Street. I met her\ndownstairs in the hall. She was coming from the grocery where she had\nbeen sent for some chicory. Seeing me, she shot up the stairs in a terrible\nfright. When I came in, her mother had already given her a slap because\nshe had entered the room at \"breakneck speed,\" and this covered the true\ncause of her fear. And so everything was all right. She had retired to some\ncorner and did not come in all the time I was there. I stayed for an hour\nand then left.\nToward evening I was afraid again, but this time the fear was incom-\nparably stronger. Of course, I could deny the whole thing, but I could be\nfound out. I thought of forced labor. I had never felt fear before and this\nwas the only time in my life that I was to feel it. And I certainly wasn't\nafraid of Siberia, although I might have been deported more than once. But\nthis time I was frightened and actually felt fear, I don't know why, for the\nfirst time in my life — a very painful sensation. Besides, in the evening\nwhen I was at my lodgings, I began to hate her so that I decided to kill her.\nThe chief cause of my hatred was the memory of her smile. Contempt mixed\nwith measureless disgust was arising in me at the thought of the way she\nran into the corner and hid her face in her hands after everything was over.\nAn inexplicable fury took hold of me. Then followed chill and when toward\nmorning I had fever, I was again overcome by fear, but this time it was so\npowerful that I have never experienced any worse torture. But I no longer\nhated the little girl — at least it didn't reach the paroxysm that it had the\nprevious evening. I notice that strong fear completely banishes hatred and\nany feeling of revenge.\nI woke up around noon feeling perfectly well and I was astonished at\nthe violence of the sensations of the day before. But I was in a bad humor\nand was again forced to go to Gorokhovaya Street, in spite of my aversion.\nI remember I had an awful desire at that moment to have a serious quarrel\nwith somebody on my way there. On reaching my room I found Nina Savel-\nyevna there, the maid, who had been waiting for me for an hour. I didn't"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "266", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.32", "texte": "really love that girl, so that she came with some fear that I might be angry\nbecause of her uninvited presence. But I suddenly found myself glad to\nsee her. She was rather pretty, modest, and had the manners which the\nlower classes like, so that my landlady praised her highly to me. I found\nthe two of them at coffee and my landlady was hugely enjoying the pleasant\ngossip. I noticed Matriosha in the corner of the room. She stood there\nmotionlessly, staring at her mother and the visitor. When I entered she did\nnot hide as before, nor did she run away. Only it seemed to me that she\nhad grown very thin and that she had fever. I gave Nina a few hugs and\nlocked the door between the two rooms, which I hadn't done in a long time,\nso that Nina left in an altogether happy mood. I went out with her and for\ntwo days did not return to Gorokhovaya Street. The whole thing had already\nbegun to bore me. I decided to put an end to everything, to give up the room\nand leave Petersburg.\nBut when I came there in order to settle my account I found the wo-\nman alarmed and grieved. Matriosha had been ill for two days. Each night\nshe had fever and was delirious. Of course I asked what she said in her\ndelirium (we talked in whispers in my room), and the woman whispered that\nher ravings were terrible: \"killed God.\" I offered to send for the doctor at\nmy expense, but she didn't want me to. \"With God's mercy it will pass off.\nShe isn't in bed all the time. In the daytime she goes out. She has just run\nto the grocers on an errand.\" I decided to find Matriosha alone, and, since\nthe woman mentioned that she had to leave the house at five, I made up my\nmind to come back in the evening.\nI had dinner at a restaurant. At a quarter past five sharp I returned. I\nalways let myself in with my own key. There was nobody there but Ma-\ntriosha. She was lying in her mother's bed behind the screen, and I no-\nticed that she peeked out, but I pretended that I didn't see her. All the\nwindows were open. The air was warm, it was even hot. I paced up and\ndown a bit and then sat down on a divan. I remember everything to the\nlast minute. It positively gave me pleasure to say no word to Matriosha\nand to keep her in suspense — I do not know why. I waited a whole\nhour and suddenly she herself jumped out from behind the screen. I heard\nher feet strike the floor, the noise as she got out of bed, then her rapid steps,\nand there she was standing on the threshold of my room. She stood and\nlooked at me silently. I was so base that my heart leapt with joy at the\nthought that I had shown my mettle and forced her to be the\nfirst to come out. Through these days in which I hadn't seen her at close\nrange she had really grown terribly thin. Her face had dried up and her\nhead must have been hot with fever."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "267", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.33", "texte": "Her eyes grew large and looked at me fixedly with stupid curiosity,\nas it seemed to me at first. I sat, looking, and did not budge. And now\nsuddenly I was moved to hatred again. But very soon I noticed that she\nwas not afraid of me at all, but that she was perhaps in a delirium. Yet\nshe was not delirious.. Suddenly she began to shake her head at me as\nnaive and illmannered people do in reproach. And suddenly she raised her\nlittle fist at me and began to threaten from where she stood. For the first\nmoment this gesture seemed funny to me, but almost at once I could not\nbear it. There was such despair in her face as is impossible to see on the\nface of a child. She kept on shaking her little fist at me threateningly and\nwagging her head in reproach. I got up and moved toward her fearfully,\nI began to talk to her kindly in a low, cautious voice, but saw that she\nwouldn t understand me. Then suddenly she threw her hands over her\nface, as she had done then, moved away and stood at the window with her\nback turned toward me. I returned to my room and also seated myself by the\nwindow. I cannot possibly understand why I did not leave then, but re-\nmained as though waiting for something to happen. Soon I heard her rapid\nsteps again. She passed through the door on to a wooden gallery which led\ndown to the stairs, and I immediately ran to my door, and opened it just\nin time to notice that Matriosha had stepped into a tiny cubicle, something\nlike a hen-coop, adjacent to another cubicle. A very curious thought flashed\nthrough my mind. Even now I cannot understand why it suddenly occur-\nred to me, things must have led to it. I closed the door and again sat down\nat the window. Of course, it was still impossible to believe the thought\nthat had come to me — \"nevertheless. . (I remember everything, and\nmy heart beat violently).\nA minute later I looked at my watch to see exactly what time it was.\nWhy I needed that precision I do not know, but I was capable of such\ncarefulness, and generally, at that moment, I wanted to notice everything.\nSo that what I noticed then, I remember now distinctly and see it as if it\nwere happening before my very eyes. Evening was coming on. A fly was\nbuzzing overhead and kept alighting on my face. I caught it, kept it awhile in\nmy fingers, and let it fly out of the window. A cart rumbled noisily into\nthe courtyard. In the corner of the courtyard a tailor at his window was\nsinging a song very loudly. He was sitting at his work and I could see him\nplainly. It occurred to me that since nobody met me when I was entering the\ngates and while I was going upstairs, it would be much better if nobody saw\nme as I went downstairs, and I cautiously moved my chair away from the\nwindow so that the tenants could not see me. I took a book but soon cast it"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "268", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.34", "texte": "aside and began to look at a tiny red spider on a geranium leaf and I\ndozed off. I remember everything to the last moment.\nSuddenly I whipped my watch out of my pocket. Twenty minutes\nhad passed since she went out. My conjecture assumed the shape of a\nprobability. But I decided to wait another quarter of an hour exactly. It\nalso occurred to me that she might have returned without my hearing her,\nbut this was impossible: there was a dead silence, and I could hear the\nbuzzing of every fly. Suddenly my heart began to beat violently again. I took\nout my watch: three minutes left. I sat through them, although my heart\nbeat so violently that it hurt me. Then I rose, put on my hat, buttoned my\ncoat, and looked about the room to see if there were any traces of my having\nbeen there. I moved the chair nearer to the window, where it stood before.\nFinally I opened the door quietly, locked it with my key, and went to the\ncubicle. It was closed but not locked; I knew that it had no bolt, but I didn't\nwant to open it, so I stood on tiptoe and looked through a crack. At the\nvery moment when I was raising myself on tiptoe I recalled that when I\nwas sitting by the window, looking at the little red spider, and was about\nto doze off, I had thought of how I would raise myself on my toes so that\nmy eye would be on a level with the crack. By noting this detail I want\nto prove without fail that I was fully in possession of all my faculties, and\nthat I am responsible for everything. I stood looking through the crack for\na long time, because it was dark there, yet not altogether, so that at length\nI saw what I wanted to see. . . .\nAt last I decided to leave. I did not meet anybody on the stairs. Three\nhours later all of us, in our shirt-sleeves, drank tea and played cards,\nLebyadkin recited verses. Many stories were told, and it so happened that\nthey were recounted well and amusingly, and not stupidly as usual. Kyrilov\nwas there too. Nobody drank, except Lebyadkin, although there was a bottle\nof rum on the table.\nProkhor Malov observed that \"when Nikolai Vsevolodovich is con-\ntented and doesn't sulk, all of us are in good spirits and talk cleverly.\"\nThe phrase stuck in my memory, and so it seems that I was gay, contented,\nand did not sulk. But that was only my appearance. I knew, I remember,\nthat I was a base and vile coward rejoicing in my delivery, and that I would\nnever be decent again.\nAbout eleven o'clock the janitor's little girl from Gorokhovaya Street\nbrought me the news that Matriosha had hanged herself. I went with the\nchild and discovered that the woman herself did not know why she had\nsent for me. She screamed and writhed. The place was full of people,\npolicemen. I stood there a while and then left."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "269", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.35", "texte": "All this time the authorities did not disturb me at all, except to\nask a few questions. But I told them nothing but that the girl had been\nill and delirious, and that I offered, on my part, to call a doctor at my\nown expense. The pen-knife too was mentioned. I said that my landlady\nwhipped the child but that this was nothing. No one knew anything about\nmy visit in the evening.\nFor about a week I did not go there. I went long after the girl was\nburied in order to arrange to leave the room. My landlady still cried, al-\nthough she was already busy again with her rags and sewing. \"It was\nbecause of your penknife that I insulted her,\" she said, but without much\nbitterness. I gave up the room on the pretext that naturally this was now\nno place to receive Nina Savelyevna. When I took leave she again praised\nNina Savelyevna. I gave her five roubles in addition to what I owed her\nfor the room.\nThe chief thing was that life bored me to madness. I would have\nwholly forgotten the Gorokhovaya Street affair as well as all that happened\nin that period, if it hadn't been that, for some time, I kept remembering\nangrily, how at one moment I had lost my nerve.\nI let out my anger upon whomever I could. At that time for no ap-\nparent reason at all, I thought of somehow crippling my life, in the most\nrepulsive manner possible. The year before I had already had the idea of\nshooting myself; something better presented itself.\nOnce looking at the lame Maria Timofeevna Lebyadkina, who was\nmore or less of a servant in my lodgings, I suddenly decided to marry\nher — at that time she was not insane, but simply a flighty idiot, and\nsecretly madly in love with me. (The gang found that out.) The thought of\nStavrogin's marriage to a creature like that, the lowest of the low, tickled me.\nIt would be hard to imagine anything uglier. At any rate, I married her,\nnot solely \"to win a wager after a drinking bout.\" The ceremony was\nwitnessed by Kirilov and Piotr Verkhovenski, who at that time happened\nto be in Petersburg; also Lebyadkin himself and Prokhor Malov (he is dead\nnow). Nobody else ever discovered it, and they promised to keep quiet about\nit. This secrecy has always seemed abominable to me, but it hasn't been\nviolated even yet, although I had the intention of publishing the fact abroad;\nnow that I'm at it 1 may as well confess this too.\nAfter the wedding I went to the provinces to see my mother. I went\nthere to amuse myself. In our town I made for myself the reputation of\nbeing insane — a reputation which has endured to this very day and which\nno doubt is harmful to me, as I shall explain below. Then I went abroad\nand remained there for four years."}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "270", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.36", "texte": "I was in the Orient, on Mt. Athos, where I stood through all night\nservices which lasted for eight hours, I was in Egypt, lived in Switzerland,\ngot as far as Iceland, I spent two semesters at the university of Gottingen.\nThe last year I became intimate with a Russian family of high rank that was\nliving in Paris, and got on good terms with two Russian girls in Switzerland.\nSome two years ago at Frankfort, passing by a stationery store, I noticed\namong the photographs on sale a small picture of a little girl neatly dressed,\nbut resembling Matriosha very closely. I immediately bought the photograph\nand coming to the hotel, placed it on the mantel-piece. There it lay for a\nweek, untouched, and I didn't look at it even once, and when I left Frankfort\nI forgot to take it along.\nI note this precisely in order to show to what extent I was able to\nmaster my memories and to what extent I became callous to them. I would\nreject the whole lot of them, and the whole mass would vanish obediently\nevery time I so desired it. Recollection of the past has always bored me,\nand I could never talk about the past as almost everyone else does, all the\nmore so since, like everything else that was part of me, I hated it. As for\nMatriosha, I even forgot her photograph on the mantel-piece. About a\nyear ago, in the Spring, travelling in Germany, I absentmindedly passed my\nstation and got upon another line. I got off at the next station; it was be-\ntween two and three in the afternoon, the day was clear. It was a tiny\nGerman town. A hotel was pointed out to me. It was necessary to wait.\nThe next train was due at eleven at night. I was rather pleased with this\nadventure, for I wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere. The hotel proved to\nbe a small, cheap place, but with shrubs and flower-beds all about it. I was\ngiven a small room. I made a good meal and as I had spent all of the\nprevious night on the road, I fell asleep around four o'clock.\nI had a totally unexpected dream, because I had never dreamed\nanything like it before. In the Dresden gallery there is a painting by\nClaude Lorraine, called in the catalogue Acis and Galateabut\nwhich I always called The Golden Age, I don't know why. I had seen\nit previously and just three days before I saw it again in passing. I went to\nthe gallery simply in order to look at it and it was perhaps for that reason\nthat I stopped at Dresden. It was this picture that appeared to me in a dream,\nyet not as a picture but as though it were real.\nWhat I saw was a corner of the Greek archipelago: gentle, azure waves,\nrocks and islands, a shore in blossom, afar a magic panorama, a beckoning\nsunset — words fail one. European mankind remembers this place as its\ncradle here, the first scenes of mythology, mankind's earthly paradise. . .\nhere lived beautiful men and women. They rose, they slept, happy and"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "271", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.37", "texte": "innocent; the groves were filled with their merry songs, the great overflow\nof unspent energies poured itself into love and simple-hearted joys. The\nsun loosed its rays upon these isles and this sea, rejoicing in its beautiful\nchildren. Marvellous dream, lofty illusion! The most improbable of all\nvisions, to which mankind throughout its existence has given its best\nenergies, for which mankind sacrificed everything, for which its prophets\nwere crucified and killed, without which nations will not desire to live, and\nwithout which they cannot even die! All these sensations were mine in this\ndream; I do not know exactly what I saw, but the cliffs, and the sea, and\nthe slanting rays of the setting sun, all that I still seemed to see when I woke\nup and opened my eyes, for the first time in my life literally wet with tears.\nA feeling of happiness, hitherto unknown to me, pierced my heart till it\nached. It was already evening; a stream of bright slanting sunrays pierced\nthe green of the window-boxes of my little room and flooded me with light.\nI quickly closed my eyes again, as if eager to call back the vanished dream,\nbut suddenly I noticed a tiny dot in the centre of bright, bright light.\nSuddenly this dot began to assume a shape, and all of a sudden I saw\nclearly a tiny red spider. I remembered it at once as it had looked on the\ngeranium leaf, when the rays of the setting sun were pouring in in the same\nway. It was as if something had stung me, I sat up in bed. . .\n(That is the way it all happened!)\nI saw before me (O, not that I really saw her! If it only had been\na genuine hallucination!) I saw Matriosha, grown thin and with feverish\neyes, precisely as she had looked at the moment when she stood at the\nthreshold of my room, and shaking her head, lifted her tiny fist against me.\nI have never felt anything more painful! The piteous despair of a helpless\ncreature with an immature mind, who threatened me (with what? what\ncould she do to me, O God!) but who, of course, blamed herself alone! Never\nhas anything like that happened to me. I sat far into the night, motionless,\nforgetful of time. Whether this is what is called remorse or repentance, I\ndo not know and could not tell even now. But what is intolerable for me\nis only this image, namely, the little girl on the threshold with her lifted\nlittle fist threatening me, only the way she looked then, only that moment,\nonly that shaking of her head. That is what I cannot bear, because I see\nher that way almost every day. No, the image does not appear to me\nof itself, but I evoke it, and I cannot help evoking it, although I cannot\nendure it. Oh, if I could only see her sometimes in the flesh, even in a\nhallucination!\nWhy then does no other memory of mine rouse any such feelings in\nme? And yet I have memories of deeds which people would think much"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "272", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.38", "texte": "worse. Such memories arouse only hatred in me, a feeling caused by my\npresent condition; formerly I used to forget them cold-bloodedly and shove\nthem into the background.\nAfter that I traveled about nearly all this year and tried to occupy\nmyself. I know that, even now I can get rid of Matriosha if I so desire. I am\nin complete possession of my will, as before. But the fact of the matter is\nthat I never wanted to do it, that I do not want to do it now and that I never\nshall. It will go on like this until I become insane.\nIn Switzerland two months later I was almost mastered by the old\nimpulse with the same fierce passion that I experienced only in early years.\nI felt terribly tempted to commit a new crime, namely, bigamy (because\nI am already married), but I fled at the advice of another girl, to whom\nI confessed practically everything, even the fact that I did not love the one\nI wanted so much, and that I could never love anyone. Besides, this new\ncrime would not by any means have saved me from Matriosha.\nThus I have decided to have these sheets printed and import three\nhundred copies of them to Russia; when the time comes, I shall send them\nto the police and to the local authorities; at the same time I shall send them\nto the editorial offices of all the newspapers with a request to publish them,\nand also to my many acquaintances in Petersburg and in Russia. It will also\nappear in translation abroad. I know that legally I shall probably not be\ndisturbed, at least not to any serious extent. I alone denounce myself, and\nhave no accuser; besides, there is little or no evidence. Finally, there is the\ngenerally credited notion of my mental derangement of which my relatives\nwill surely take advantage and thus stop any legal prosecution that may\nseriously threaten me. One of my purposes in declaring this is to prove,\nthat I am now in full possession of my mental faculties and I understand\nmy situation. But there will be some who will know everything and look\nat me, and I will look at them. I wish everyone would look at me. I do\nnot know whether or not this will relieve me. I resort to it, as to the last\nmeasure.\nI repeat: if a thorough search is made in Petersburg, the traces may\nbe found. My landlady and her husband may still be there. Of course, they\nwill remember the house. It was pale blue. As for me, I shall not leave my\npresent place of residence but for some time (a year or two) I shall stay at\nSkvoreshniki, my mother's estate. If I am summoned, I shall present myself\nwherever it may be.\n\nNikolai Stavrogin\nFeodor Dostoyevski.\n(translated from the Russian by Avram Yarmolinsky)\n\n(To be continued.)"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "273", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.41", "texte": "3\n\nON ENGLISH AND FRENCH FICTION\n\nI\nCertainly the modern English novel begins with that elaborate master-\npiece, Tom Jones of Henry Fielding. And it seems to me that his genius\nis contained, on the whole, in that one book; in which he creates living\npeople; the very soil is living. His hero is the typical sullen, selfish base-\nborn, stupid, sensual, easily seduced and adventurous youth, with whom\nhis creator is mightily amused. The very Prefaces are full of humourous wis-\ndom: copied, I suppose, from Montaigne. The typically wicked woman is\npainted almost as Hogarth might have painted her. It is quite possible that\nshe may have a few touches, here and there, of Lady Wishfort who, wrote\nMeredith, \"is untouched for the vigour and pointedness of the tongue. It spins\nalong with a final ring, like the voice of Nature in a fury, and is, indeed, racy\neloquence of the elevated fishwife.\"\nFielding has a strong sense of the vigilant comic, which is the genius\nof thoughtful laughter; nor can contempt be entertained by comic intelli-\ngence. Blifil is essentially the grossly and basely animal creature, who is\nalso a villain, and who has his part in the plot; indeed one scandalous scene\nin which he is discovered is laughable in the purely comic sense.\nAfter Fielding comes Thackeray, and his Vanity Fair is the second\nmasterpiece in modern fiction. It is the work of a man of the wTorld, keenly\nobservant of all the follies and virtues and vices and crimes and splendours,\nof crises and of failures, of his neither moral nor immoral Fair. He takes\nhis title from John Bunyan; but in originality he is almost equal with\nFielding. \"As the Manager of the Performance sits before the curtain on\nthe boards, and looks into the Fair, a feeling of profound melancholy comes\nover him in his survey of the bustling place.\" Such is the moral, if you\nlike; at any rate the whole Show \"is accompanied by appropriate scenery\nand brilliantly illuminated with the author's own candles.\" x\\t the end\nthe Finis: \"Ah! Vanitas Vanitatum! Which of us is happy in this world?\nWhich of us has his desire? or, having it, is satisfied? — Gome, children,\nlet us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.\"\nThere is no question that Becky Sharp is not derived from Balzac's\n■\nLisbeth in La Cousine Bette, but at what a distance, when once you think of\nthe greatest of all novelists, who has the fortune to be French, and of\nThackeray, who has the fortune (at times the misfortune) of being English."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "274", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.42", "texte": "When we think of Becky she startles us by her cynical entrance: she in-\nherits from her parents bad qualities. Her first epigram sums her up.\n\"Revenge may be wicked, but it's natural. I'm no angel.\" She fascinates\nLord Pitt, Rawdon Crawley and Lord Steyne in a way Lisbeth never does.\nLisbeth's fascination is that of the evil-doer; she is envious, spiteful, mali-\ncious, a lying hypocrite; always deliberately bent on having her own way,\nalways for evil purposes: so that she, in her sinister effrontery, causes the\nruin of many of the lives she thrives on, feigns to help, deludes; only,\nshe never deludes as Valerie Marnette does. We have only to say: \"Valerie!\"\nand the woman is before us. As for Valerie: \"Elle etait belle comme sont\nbelles les femmes assez belles, pour etre belles en dormant:\" a sentence\ncertainly lyrical. Lisbeth's character has \"une dose du mordant parisien.\"\nUnmarried, she is monstrous, her snares are inevitable, her dissimulation\nimpenetrable. But she is never given a scene so consummately achieved\nin its sordid and voluptuous tragedy as the scene in Vanity Fair when\nRawdon enters his house at midnight, and finds Becky dressed in a brilliant\ntoilette, her arms and her fingers sparkling with bracelets and rings: and\nthe brilliants in her breast which Steyne had given her. \"He had her hand\nin his, and was bowing to kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint\nscream as she caught sight of Rawdon's white face.\" And, as the writer\nadds, with an entire sense of the tragic and comic drama that is over: \"All\nher lies and her schemes, all her selfishness and her wiles, all her wit and\nall her genius had come to this bankruptcy.\"\nI have never had any actual admiration for the novels of George Eliot;\nshe had her passing fame, her popularity, her success; people compared her\nprose — wrongly — with the poetry of Mrs. Browning; and, as for her\nattempts at verse, the less said of them the better. In favour of my opinion\nI quote this scathing sentence of Swinburne: \"Having no taste for the\ndissection of dolls, I shall leave Daniel Deronda in his natural place above\nthe ragshop door; and having no ear for the melodies of a Jew's harp, I shall\nleave the Spanish Gypsy to perform on that instrument to such audience\nas she may collect.\" Certainly Charlotte Bronte excelled George Eliot in\nalmost every quality; the latter having, perhaps, more knowledge and\nculture, but not for a moment comparable with Charlotte's purity of passion,\ndepth and fervour of feeling, inspiration, imagination and a most masterly\nstyle.\nAs for Romola I find it almost an elaborate failure in the endeavour\nto create the atmosphere of the period of Savonarola — that amazing age\nwhen the greatest spirits of the world were alive and producing works of\nunsurpassable genius — and in her too anatomical demonstration of the"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "275", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.43", "texte": "3*\n\nvarying vices and virtues of Tito: for she has none of that strange subtlety\nthat a writer of novels must possess to delineate how this human soul may\npass in the course of decomposition into some irremediable ruin. She is\ntoo much of the moralist to be able to present this character as a necessary\nand natural figure. She presents him — rather after the fashion of George\nSand — as a fearful and warning example.\nTake, for instance, the character of Rochester in Charlotte Bronte's\nJane Eyre. It is incomparable of its kind; an absolutely conceived living\nbeing, who has enough nerves and enough passion to more or less extinguish\nthe various male characters in George Eliot's novels. That Maggie Tulliver,\nin The Mill on the Floss, the finest of her novels, can be moved to any sense\nbut that of bitter disgust and sickening disdain by a thing — I will not write\na man — of Stephen Guest's character, is a lamentable and an ugly case\nof shameful failure; for as Swinburne says,\"The last word of realism has\nsurely been spoken, the last abyss of cynicism has surely been sounded and\nlaid bare.\" And I am glad to note here that he dismisses her with this\nreference to three great French writers; using, of course, his invariable\nironical paradoxes. \"For a higher view and a more cheery aspect of the\nsex, we must turn back to those gentler teachers, those more flattering\npainters of our own — Laclos, Stendhal and Merrime; we must take up\nLa Double Meprise: — or Le Rouge et le Noir — or Les Liaisons\nDangereuses.\"\nII\nProse is the language of what we call real life, and it is only in prose\nthat an illusion of external reality can be given. Compare the whole process\nand existence of character in a play of Shakespeare and in a novel of Balzac.\nI choose Balzac among novelists because his mind is nearer to what is\ncreative in the poet's mind than that of any novelist, and his method nearer\nto the method of the poet. Take King Lear and take Pere Goriot. Goriot\nis a Lear at heart, and he suffers the same tortures and humiliations. But\nprecisely where Lear grows up before the mind's eye into a vast cloud\nand shadowy mountain of trouble, Goriot grows downward into the earth\nand takes root there, wrapping the dust about all his fibres. Lear may\nexchange his crown for the fool's bauble, knowing nothing of it; but Goriot\nknows well enough the value of every banknote that his daughters rob him\nof. In that definiteness, that new power of \"stationary\" emotion in a firm\nand material way, lies one of the great opportunities of prose.\nThe genius of Prose is essentially different from the \"genius of\nPoetry;\" and that is the reason why writers like De Quincey and Ruskin"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "276", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.44", "texte": "trespassed, as thieves do, on forbidden ground. Both tried to write prose as\nif they were writing verse, and both failed; Ruskin ruined by his fatal\nfacility and De Quincey by his cultivating eloquence in rhetoric. Certain\nprose writers have written lyrical prose, because their genius at times drove\nthem to do so, and with an absolute success. One finds such passages in\nShakespeare and Blake and Pater and Lamb; in certain pages of Balzac\nand of Flaubert and of Meredith and of Conrad. Yet, in what I must call\nlyrical prose, there is a certain rhythm, but not that of rhymed verse; that\nis to say, if the inspiration were the same, the mediums are different: the\nrhythm of prose that has no metre and the rhythm of verse that has metre.\nTake, for instance, Peacock, who was neither a great prose writer nor\na great poet, but whose novels are unique in English, and are among the\nmost scholarly, original and entertaining prose writings of the century.\n\"A strain too learned for a shallow age,\nToo wide for selfish bigots, let his page\nWhich charms the chosen spirits of the time\nFold itself up for the serener clime\nOf years to come, and find its recompense\nIn that just expectation.\"\nSo Shelley praises him, who was certainly aware of Peacock's clever\nscraps of rhymning that are like no other verse; the masterpiece being the\ncomically heroic \"War-song of Dinas Vawr.\" His learned wit, his satire upon\nthe vulgarity of progress (on which he is one with Baudelaire and one with\nMeredith) are more continuously present in his prose than in his verse;\nyet his characters are caricatures, they speak a language that is not ours;\nbut they are given sensational adventures, often comical in the extreme; and\nin these pages plenty of nonsense and of laughter and of satire and of\nserious prose with an undercurrent of bitter cynicism. He treats all his\ncreatures cruelly, and I cannot help seeing the reason why Richard Garnett\nadmired his prose so much: that there is something curiously alike and\nunlike in their humour.\nGarnett himself told me, as I always thought, that The Twilight of the\nGods was far and away the best book he had written. In France, Marcel\nSchwob and Andre Gide have done certain things comparable in their way\nwith these learned inventions, these ironic \"criticisms of life,\" these irre-\nverent classical burlesques in which religion, morality, learning and all\ncivilisation's conventions, are turned topsy-turvy, and presented in the ridi-\nculousness of their unaccustomed attitude. But no modern man in England"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "277", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.45", "texte": "has done anything remotely comparable with them, and neither Schwob\nnor Andre Gide has heaped mockery so high as in \"Abdullah the Adite,\" and\nremained as sure a master of all the reticences of art and manners. This\nlearned mockery has an undefinable quality, macabre, diabolical, a witchcraft\nof its own, which I can find in no other writer.\nIII\nIs not a criticism of primary ideas, the only kind of criticism when one\nconsiders it, that is really worth writing? A critic may tell us that So-and-So\nhas written a charming hook, that it is the best of his charming books, that\nit is better or worse than another book by another writer with whom we\nsee no necessity to compare him, that it is, in short, an \"addition to literature;\"\nwell and good, here is someone's opinion, perhaps right, perhaps wrong; not\nvery important if right, not easy to disprove if wrong. But let him tell us,\nin noting the precise quality of A Rebours; and its precise divergence from\nthe tradition of naturalism: \"II ne s'aggissait plus tant de faire entrer dans\nl'art, par la representation, l'exteriorite brute, que de tirer de cette exteriorite\nmeme des motifs de reve et de la revelation interieure;\" let him tell us in\ndiscussing the question of literary sincerity that a certain writer \"est sincere,\nnon parce qu il avoue toute sa pensee, mais parce qu'il pense tout son aveu:\"\nhas he not added to the very substance of our thought, or touched that sub-\nstance with new light?\nThe curious thing in regard to Benjamin Constant is that there was not\na single interest, out of the many that occupied his life, which he did not\ndestroy by some inconsequence of action, for no reason in the world, appa-\nrently, except some irrational necessity of doing exactly the opposite of\nwhat he ought to have done, of what he wanted to do. So he creates Adolphe,\nso much of himself in it, and makes him say in a memorable sentence, \"Je\nme reposais, pour ainsi dire, dans l'indifference des autres, de la fatigue de\nson amour.\" He was never tired of listening to himself, and the acute\ninterest of his Journal consists in the absolute sincerity of its confessions,\nand at the same time the scrutinising self-consciousness of every word that\nis written down. \"II y a en moi deux personnes, dont l'un observe rautre.*'\nSo cold hearted is he that when perhaps his best friend, Mile. Talma, is dying,\nhe spends day and night by her bedside, overwhelmed with grief; and he\nwrites in his Journal: \"J'y etudie la mort.\" So out of this distressing kind\nof reality which afflicts the artist, he creates his art, Adolphe, a masterpiece\nof psychological narrative, from which the modern novel of analysis may\nhave been said to have arisen, which is simply a human document in which"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "278", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.46", "texte": "he has told us the story of his liaison with the writer of Gorinne. She made\nhim suffer for he writes: \"Tousles volcans sont moins flamboyants quelle.\"\nHe suffers, as his hero does because he can neither be intensely absorbed,\nnor, for one moment, indifferent; that very spirit of analysis which would\nseem to throw some doubt on the sincerity of his passion, does but intensify\nthe acuteness with which he feels it. It is the turning of the sword in a\nwound. He sums up and typifies the artistic temperament at its acutest point\nof weakness; the temperament which can neither resist, nor dominate, nor\neven wholly succumb to, emotion; which is forever seeking its own hurt,\nwith the persistence almost of mania; which, if it ruins other lives in the\npursuit, as is supposed, of artistic purposes, gains at all events no personal\nsatisfaction out of the bargain; except, indeed, when one has written Adolphe,\nthe satisfaction of having lived unhappily for more than sixty years, and\nleft behind one a hundred pages that are still read with admiration, sixty\nyears afterwards.\nFlaubert, possessed of an absolute belief that there exists but one way\nof expressing one thing, one word to call it by, one adjective to qualify, one\nverb to animate it, gave himself to superhuman labour for the discovery,\nin every phrase of that word, that verb, that adjective. And the desperate\ncertitude in his spirit always was: \"Among all the expressions in the world,\nall forms and turns of expression, there is but one — one form, one mode —\nto express all I want to say.\" He desired, above all things, impersonality;\nand yet, in spite of the fact that he is the most impersonal of novelists, the\nartist is always felt, for as Pater said; \"his subjectivity must and will\ncolour the incidents, as his very bodily eye selects the aspects of things.\"\nYet again, in spite of the fact that Flaubert did keep Madame Bovary at a\ngreat distance from himself, we find in these pages the analyst and the\nlyric poet in equilibrium. It is the history of a woman, as carefully observed\nas any story that has ever been written, and observed in surroundings of\nthe most extraordinary kind. He creates Emma cruelly, morbidly, mar-\nvellously; he creates in her, as Baudelaire says, the adulterous woman with a\ndepraved imagination. \"Elle se donne,\" he writes, \"magnifiquement, gene-\nreusement, d'une maniere toute masculine, a des droles qui ne sont pas ses\negaux, exactement comme les poetes se livrent a des drolesses.\"\nAs Flaubert invented the rhythm of every sentence I choose this one\nfrom the novel I have referred to, this magnificently tragic sentence. \"Et\nEmma se mit a rire, d'un rire atroce, frenetique, desespere, croyant voir la\nface hideuse du miserable qui se dressait dans les tenebres eternelles comme\nun epouvantement.\" Aeschylus might have put such words as these on the\nlying and crying lips of Glytemnestra in her atrocious speech after she has"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "279", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.47", "texte": "slain Agamemnon. With this compare a sentence I translate from Petrus\nRorel. \"I have often heard that certain insects were made for the amusement\nof children: perhaps man also was created for the same pleasure of superior\nbeings, who delight in torturing him, and disport themselves in his groans.\"\nThis is a sentence which might almost have been written by Hardy, so clearly\ndoes it state, in an image like one of his own, the very centre of his philo-\nsophy. Take, for example, these sentences in The Return of the Native. \"Yet,\nupon the whole, neither the man nor the woman lost dignity by sudden\ndeath. Misfortune had struck them gracefully, cutting off their erratic\nhistories with a catastrophic dash.\"\nSwinburne, who invariably over-praises Victor Hugo, over-praises his\natrocious novel L'Homme qui rit. But I forgive him everything when he\nwrites such Baudelairean sentences as these: \"Bakilphedro, who plays the\npart of devil, is a bastard begotten by lago upon his sister, Madame de\nMerteuil; having something of both, but diminished and degraded; wanting,\nfor instance, the deep daemonic calm of their lifelong patience. He has too\nmuch heat of discontent, too much fever and fire, to know their perfect\npeace of spirit, the equable element of their souls, the quiet of mind in which\nthey live and work out their work at leisure. He does not sin at rest, there\nis something of fume and fret in his wickedness. There is the peace of the\ndevil, which passeth all understanding.\"\nCertainly, for an absolutely diabolical dissection of three equally\ninfamous characters, this is unsurpassable. lago is not entirely malignant,\nnor is he abjectly vile, nor is he utterly dishonest: he is supreme in evil,\nand almost as far above vice as he is beyond virtue. He has not even a\nfleshly desire for Desdemona; yet he is the impassioned villain who \"spins the\nplot.\" Can one conceive, as Swinburne conjectures, \"something of lago's\nattitude in hell — of his unalterable and indomitable posture for all eternity?\"\nAs for Madame Merteuil she is, in Les Liaisons dangereuses, not only a\ncounterfoil for Valmont, but a spirit af almost inconceivable malignity; yet\nshe is not as abnormal as lago. She has a sublime lack of virtue, with\nan immense sense of her seductiveness. There is no grandeur in her evil, as\nthere is in Valmont's. In the longest letter she writes, that Baudelaire praises,\nshe confesses herself with so curious a shamelessness as to intrigue one. In\ncomparing this for her Laclos shows the most sinister side of his genius.\nHe shows her sterility, her depraved imagination, her deceit and her dissim-\nulations: rarely the humiliations she has endured. As she is resolved on\nthe ruin of Valmont she writes in this fashion: \"Seduite par votre reputation,\nil me sembloit que vous manquiez a ma gloire; je brulois de vous combattre\ncorps a corps.\" She is not even a criminal, not even the symbol of one of"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "280", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.48", "texte": "the poisonous women of the Renaissance, who smiled complacently after an\nassassination. Her nature is perverted by the lack of the intoxication of crime.\nThe imagination which stands to her in the place of virtue has brought its\nrevenge, and for her too there is only the release of death.\nIV\nGeorge Borrow has always had a curious fascination for me: for this\nman, half Cornish and half French, with his peculiar kind of genius — such\nas one generally finds in mixed blood — is both creative and inventive, normal\nand abnormal, perverse and unpassionate, obscure and grimly humourous.\nI was very young when I read his masterpiece Lauengro (1851) in its original\nthree volumes, from which I got my first taste for a sort of gypsy element\nin literature. The reading of that book did many things for me. It absorbed\nme from the first page with a curiously personal appeal, as of someone akin\nto me: the appeal, I suppose, to what was wild in my blood.\nWhat Borrow really creates is a by no means undiscovered world:\nI mean the world of the gypsies; yet he is the first to discover their peculiar\ncharacteristics, their savagery and uncivilization; he gives them life, in their\ntents, on the road, along the hedges; he makes them speak, in their pure and\ncorrupted dialects, much as they always speak, but nearly always with some-\nthing of Borrow in them. They are imaginative: he gives them part of his\nimagination. They are not subtle, nor is he; they are not complex, he at\ntimes is complex; he paints their morality and immorality almost as Hogarth\nmight have done.\nIn regard to the sense of fear, you find it in Shakespeare, in Balzac,\neverywhere; but never, I think, more intensely than in the chapters in\nLavengro describing Borrow s paroxysm of fear in the dingle. There is nothing\nof the kind, in any language, equal to those pages of Borrow: they go deep\ndown into some \"obscure night of the soul;\" they are abnormal. It is \"the\nscreaming horror\" that takes possession of him. \"The evil one was upon me;\nthe inscrutable horror which I had felt from boyhood had once more taken\npossession of me. I uttered wild cries. I sat down with my back against\na thorn-bush; the thorns entered my flesh, and when I felt them, I pressed\nharder against the bush; I thought the pain of the flesh might in some degree\ncounteract the mental agony; presently I felt them no longer — the power\nof the mental horror was so great that it was impossible, with that upon me,\nto feel my pain from the thorns.\"\nBorrow writes as if civilization did not exist, and he obtains, in his\nindirect way, an extraordinary directness. Really the most artificial of writers,"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "281", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.49", "texte": "he is always true to that \"peculiar mind and system of nerves\" of which he\nwas so well aware, and which drove him into all sorts of cunning ways of\ntelling the truth, and making it at once bewildering and convincing.\nI have often wondered why Robert Louis Stevenson was almost inva-\nriably looked on as a man of genius. He had touches of it, certainly; and\ntherein lies part of the secret of his captivating the heart; why, quite by\nhimself, he ranks with writers like Thoreau and with Dumas (one for a\ncertain seductiveness of manner, the other for his extravagant passion for\nmiraculous adventures); and why he appeals to us, not only from his curious\ncharm as a literary vagrant — to some of us an irresistible charm — and from\nthe exhilaration of the blood which he causes in us, and from the actual\nfever of his prose, and for his inhuman sense of life's whimsical distresses,\nof its cruelties and maladies and confusions, but from a certain gipsy and\nwayward grace, so like a woman's, that can thrill to the blood often more\ninstantly than in the presence of the august perfection of classic beauty.\nHis style, as he admits, is never wholly original; a \"sedulous ape,\" as\nhe once humourously named himself, that aped the styles of Baudelaire and\nHawthorne and Lamb and Hazlitt; and that never, except rarely and by\ncertain happy accidents in his rejection of words and using some of them\nas if no one had ever used them before, attains the inevitable perfection of\nBaudelaire's prose style, nor the quintessential and exultant and tragic style of\nLamb, which has, beyond any writer pre-eminent for charm, salt and sting;\nnor Montaigne's malign trickery of style, his roving imagination, his preoc-\ncupation with himself, who said so splendidly: \"I have no other end in writing\nbut to discover myself, who also shall peradventure be another thing to-\nmorrow.\"\nAs in a tragic drama so in a tragic novel we must not forbid an artist\nin fiction to set before us strange instances of inconsistency and eccentricity\nin conduct as well as in action; but we require of him that he should make us\nfeel such aberrations to be as clearly inevitable as they are certainly excep-\ntional. Balzac has done that and Flaubert and Goncourt and Maupassant and\nConrad. All these, at their greatest, are inevitable; only no novelist is ever\nconsistently great. Reade's Griffith Gaunt is not, as he ought to have been,\ninevitable; for what is tragic and pathetic and eccentric in his character\nis flawed by the writer's failure in showing what ought to have been the\nintolerable and irresistible force of the temptation; his act is an act of envy,\ntherefore a base act, and has none of the grandeur of Othello's jealousy, which\nmakes one love him the more for that, more even because he is unconscious\nof lago's poisoned tongue. Leontes excites our repulsion: he is a coward,\nselfish and deluded and ignoble."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "282", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.50", "texte": "At his finest I find in Charles Reade certain adventures almost worthy\nof Dumas: only he never had that over-flowing negro-like genius of the\nFrench novelist; who can be tedious at times, and can write very badly when\nhe likes, for he never had much of a style. Yet, with all his suspense and the\nsuddenness of his vivid action and of the living conversations of his furiously\nliving creatures, he does really carry us along in an amazing way; equally\nin the tragic figure Edmund Dantes as in those of d'Artagnan and Aramis and\nPorthos.\nThe Picture of Dorian Gray (1891) is partly made out of Wilde himself,\npartly out of two other men, both of whom are alive. Not being creative\nhe was cruel enough to mix his somewhat poisonous colours after the fashion\nof an Impressionist painter, and so to give a treble reflection of three diffe-\nrent temperaments instead of giving one. In any case, as Pater wrote: \"Do-\nrian himself, though a quite unsuccessful experiment in Epicureanism, in life\nas a fine art, is (till his inward spoiling takes visible effect suddenly, and in a\nmoment, at the end of his story), a beautiful creature.\"\nHis peculiar kind of beauty might be imaged by a strangely coloured\nEastern vessel, and hidden within it, a few delicate young serpents. For he\nhas something of the coiled up life of the serpents, in his poisonous sins;\nsins he communicates to others, ruining their youthful lives with no deli-\nberate malice, but simply because he cannot help it. He has no sense of\nshame, even in his most ignoble nights. Sin is a thing that writes itself\nacross a man's face; but secret vices cannot be concealed; one sees them\nin the mere ironical curl of sinister lips, or in the enigmatical lifting of an\neyelid. He has made the devil's bargain, but not in the sense in which\nFaustus sells his soul to Satan; yet he is always entangled in the painted sins,\nthe more and more hideous aspects, of his intolerably accusing portrait, taken,\ncertainly, in Wilde's usual manner, from La Peau de Chagrin of Balzac;\nonly, and therein lies the immense difference, the man's life never shrinks, but\nthe very lines and colours of his painted image shrivel, until the thing itself\nthe thing he has come to hate as one hates hell — has its revenge.\nSwinburne's Love's Cross Currents appeared originally under what is\nnow its sub-title A Year's Letters, in a weekly periodical, long since extinct,\ncalled The Tatler, from 25 th August to 29 th December, 1877. It was\nwritten under the pseudonym of Mrs. Horace Manners, and was prece-\nded by a letter \"To the Author,\" supposed to come from some unnamed\npublisher or literary adviser, who returns her manuscript to the lady with\nmuch fault finding on the ground of morality. The letter ends: \"I recom-\nmend you, therefore, to suppress, or even to destroy, this book, for two\nreasons: It is a false picture of domestic life in England, because it suggests"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "283", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.51", "texte": "as possible the chance that a married lady may prefer some chance stranger\nto her husband, which is palpably and demonstrably absurd. It is also, as\nfar as I can see, deficient in purpose and significance. Morality, I need not\nadd, is the soul of art; a picture, poem, or story must be judged by the lesson\nit conveys. If it strengthens our hold upon fact, if it heightens our love\nof truth, if it rekindles our ardour for the right, it is admissible as good;\nif not, what shall we say of it?\"\nThe two final sentences of the first chapter, now omitted, are amusing\nenough to seem characteristic: \"For the worldling's sneer may silence religion,\nbut philanthropy is a tough fox and dies hard. The pietist may subside on\nattack into actual sermonising, and thence into a dumb agony of appeal\nagainst what he hears — the impotence of sincere disgust; but infinite coarse\nchaff will not shut up the natural lecturer; he snuffs sharply at all implied\nobjection, and comes up to time again, gasping, verbose and resolute.\" But\nis there not a certain needless loss in the omission of two or three of the\npiquant passages in French? One is on the woman of sixty who \"seule sait\nmettre du fardi moral sans jurer avec.\" There is another passage in French\nwhich comes out of p. 220; it is not clear why, for it is sprightly enough, as\nthis is also, which drops out of p. 175. \" *Ce sang repandu, voyez-vous, mon\nenfant, c'etait la monnaie de sa vertu.' I said I should have preferred it\nwithout the small change. 'Mais, avec de la grosse monnaie on n'achete\njamais rien qui vaille, 'she said placidly.\" Then follows, as we now have it,\nG etait decidement une femme forte.\" Such, so slight, and at times so un-\ncalled for, are the changes in this \"disinterment\" of \"so early an attempt in\nthe great art of fiction or creation.\"\nIn defending the form of his story in letters, Swinburne invokes the\nnames of Richardson and Laclos and\"the giant genius of Balzac.\" But the\nMemoire des deux jeunes Maries is full of firm reality, Pamela is full of\npatient analysis, and Les Liaisons dangereuses is full of reality, analysis, and\na hard, brilliant genius for psychology. Swinburne may have found in Laclos\na little of his cynicism, though for that he need have gone no further than\nStendhal, who is referred to in these pages, significantly. Someone says of\nsomeone: \"I'd as soon read the Chartreuse de Parme as listen to her talk\nlong, it is Stendhal diluted and transmuted. But neither in Laclos nor in\nStendhal did he find that great novelist's gift which both have: that passion\nfor life, and for the unravelling of the threads of life. His people and their\ndoings are spectral, lunar; ail the more so because their names are \"Redgie/'\nFrank, and only rarely Amicia; and because they talk schoolboy slang as\nschoolboys and French drawing-room slang as elderly people. They are\npresented by brilliant, descriptive or satiric touches; they say the cleverest"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "284", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.52", "texte": "things of one another; they have a ghostly likeness to real people which one\nwould be surprised that Swinburne should ever have tried to get, had he not\nrepeated the same hopeless experiment in his modern play The Sisters, which\nsacrifices every possible charm of poetry or deep feeling to such a semblance;\nto so mere a mimicry of every day speech and manners. There is more\nreality in any mere Felise or Fragoletta than in the plausible polite letter-\nwriters. It is impossible to care what they are doing or have done, not eas}\nindeed, without close reading, to find out; and, while there is hardly a sentence\nwhich we cannot read with pleasure for its literary savour, its prim ironic\nelegance, there is not a page which we turn with the faintest thrill of curio-\nsity. A novel which lacks interest may have every formal merit of writing,\nbut it cannot have merit as a novel. The novel professes to show us men and\nwomen, alive and in action: the one thing vitally interesting to men and\nwomen.\n\nARTHUR SYMONS\n\nMACABRE\nAssembled in a graveyard,\nBurying the pearly moths of Warawak,\nAll the gnats of Borneo\nBrush their tails in rude derision\nAgainst the moon."}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "285", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.53", "texte": "CREMATORIUM\nJAMES DALY\nPile five leaves under each\nfinger of your left hand —\nlet each be a leaf you love.\nThen write on each a love-word —\nsomething tender;\nand burn them one by one.\n. . . Gather the ashes into\nthe palm of your right hand,\nscatter them in a dark wind.\nDo this, do it all.\nThen: never think about it,\nnever dream about it,\nnever sing about it!\nBurn like the leaves, let your heart be\nashes of a fierce fire;\nbreak, break, in Life's\ngreat hand, —\nthat so I may cry of you to beauty ;\n\"Place her charred dreams under\nyour fingers —\nlet each be a leaf you love.\nThen write on each a love-word —\nsomething tender;\nand burn them one by one . ."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "286", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.54", "texte": "THE LAY OF MALDOROR.\nSelections From Third and fourth Canto\n\nLet us recall the names of those imaginary beings with angelic\nnatures, which during the second canto my pen has drawn from\na brain shining with a light emanated from them. They die, after\ntheir birth, like sparks on burnt paper the swift extinction of\nwhich the eye with difficulty follows. Leman .. . Lohengrin .. .\nLombano . . . Holzer . . . One moment, you appeared to my\nenchanted view clad in the insignia of youth; but I allowed you to\ndrop into chaos like a diving bell. You will never emerge. It is\nenough for me that I have your memory; you must give place to\nother substances, maybe less beautiful, which the stormy overflow\nof a love, resolved not to quench its thirst in the human race, will\ngive birth to. Starved love, which would devour itself, did it not\nseek its food in celestial make believes; finally creates a pyramid\nof seraphim, more numerous than the insects which swarm in a\ndrop of water and will weave them in an ellipse which will\nwhirl about him. Meanwhile the traveler, arrested by the appea-\nrance of a cataract, would see in the distance, did he lift his face,\na human being, led towards the cave of hell by a garland of living\ncamellias! But . . . silence! the floating image of the fifth ideal\nslowly defines itself, like the vague folds of an aurora borealis,\nupon the vapoury perspective of my intellect, and more and more\ntakes on a decided consistency . . . Mario and I skirt the shore.\nOur horses with stretched necks cleave the membranes of space,\nand strike sparks from the pebbles on the beach. The blast, which\nstruck us full in the face, was swallowed up in our cloaks and made\nthe hair of our twin heads fly backward. The gull by its cries and\nthe movement of its wings in vain tried to warn us of the possible"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "287", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.55", "texte": "proximity of the storm and cried out: \"Where can they be going at\nso reckless a gallop?\"\nPlunged in thought we said nothing, but let ourselves be car-\nried on the wings of our furious passage; the fisher, seeing us pass,\nswift as albatrosses, and imagining he sees, flying before him the\ntwo mysterious brothers, as they were called, because they\nwere always together, quickly makes the sign of the cross and\nhides himself and his paralysed dog behind some deep rock. The\nnatives of this place have heard strange things told of these two\npeople, who cloud enwrapped appear on earth, at periods of great\ncalamity; wThen some frightful war threatens to plant its harpoon in\nthe chest of two rival countries, or when cholera with its sling, pre-\npares to hurl putrefaction and death upon whole cities. The most\nancient wreckers knit their brows, with a serious air, affirming that\nthe two phantoms of whom each during hurricanes had remarked\nthe vast spread of the black wings above the sand shoals and reefs,\nwere the genius of earth and the genius of the sea, airing their\nmajesty in the sky during the great revolutions of nature, united by\nan eternal amity, whose rarity and renown had brought forth the\nastonishment of endless links of generations.\nIt was said that, flying side by side like two Andean Condors\nthey loved to hover in concentric circles among the strata of air in\nthe neighbourhood of the sun; that in those parts they feed on the\npurest essence of light, but that they only decide with difficulty\nto lower the angle of their vertical flight towards the terrified\norbit where turns the raging human globe, populated by cruel souls\nwho massacre each other in fields where battles roar (when they do\nnot kill each other secretly, in the hearts of towns, with daggers of\nhate or ambition) and who feed on beings full of life like themselves\nand placed a few degrees lower in the scale of existence. Or rather,\nwhen they make a firm resolution, in order to induce man to repent\nby the strophes of their prophecies, to swim, with huge strokes to-\nwards the sidereal regions where a planet moves in dense exhala-\ntions of avarice, pride, curses and swaggering, which rise like pesti-"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "288", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.56", "texte": "lential vapours from its hideous surface, and appears as tiny as a\nball, being almost invisible because of the distance; they do not fail\nto find occasion when they bitterly repent of their benevolence,\nmisunderstood and spat upon, and go and hide themselves deep\nin volcanoes, to converse with the lively fire which boils in the vats\nof the main tunnels; or on the sea bed, to pleasantly set their disil-\nlusioned sight on the most ferocious monsters of the abyss, who\nseem to them models of kindness in comparison with the bastards\nof humanity. Night having come with its propitious darkness, they\nleap from the craters with their porphyry heads, from the under-\ncurrents, and leave well behind them the rugged chamberpot where\nthe constipated anus of the human cockatoo struggles, till they can\nno longer discern the swung silhouette of the foul planet. Then,\ndisappointed by their fruitless attempt, and by the stars which\ncompassionate their sadness, under the eye of God, the angel of\nearth and the angel of the sky, embrace weeping. Mario and he\nwho galloped with him were not unaware of the vague and super-\nstitious rumours which the fishermen of that part repeated when\nthey sat up, whispering round the hearth; door and windows fast;\nwhile the night wind who yearned to warm himself made his\nwhistling heard round the straw cabin, and with his strength shook\nthese frail walls, their bases decorated with bits of shells left bv\n%/\nthe dying folds of waves.\nWe did not speak . . . What can two hearts say that love each\nother? Nothing. But our eyes told everything. I cautioned him to\nwrap his cloak more tightly round himself and he pointed out that\nmy horse was outdistancing his own; each takes as much interest in\nthe other's life as in his own; we do not laugh. He tries to smile at\nme, but I see that his face bears the marks of the terrible impres-\nsions which reflection has engraved there, continually bent over\nthe Sphinxes, which with an oblique eye put to flight the great\npangs of the intelligence of mortals. Seeing his manoeuvres futile,\nhe turns his eyes away, champs his terrestrial bit with the foam of\nrage and looks at the horizon which flees at our approach."}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "289", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.57", "texte": "4\n\nI, in my turn, strive to recall his gilded youth to him, which\nlike a queen, asks only to enter the palaces of pleasure; but he sees\nthat the words issue with difficulty from my emaciated mouth, and\nthat the years of my own spring are flown, sad and glacial, like an\nimplacable dream which wanders over the banquetting tables and\nupon the satin beds, where the pale priestess of love sleeps, paid\nwith the glint of gold, the bitter joys of disenchantment, the pesti-\nlential wrinkles of old age, the terrors of solitude and the torches\nof sorrow. In view of my futile manoeuvres, I am not\nastonished at not being able to make him happy; the Almighty ap-\npears to me equipped with instruments of torture; I turn my eyes\naway and gaze at the horizon which flees before us . . . Our horses\ngallop along the shore as though they fled the human eye ... Mario\nis younger than myself; the damp weather and salt foam which\nspatter us bring the touch of cold to his lips, I say to him:\n'Take care . . . take care! Shut your lips, each against the other,\ndo you not see the sharp claws of chaps, which furrow your skin\nwith burning wounds?\" He stares at my forehead and by a move-\nment of his tongue replies:\n44Yes I see the green claws; but I will not alter the natural\narrangement of my mouth to make them fly. See if I lie. Since it\nappears to be the will of Providence I will conform. His will might\nhave been better.\"\nAnd I cried out: \"I admire this noble vengeance.\"\nI wanted to tear out my hair; but he forbade it with a severe\nlook and I obeyed him respectfully. It grew late, and the eagle\nwent back to his nest, hollowed in the infractuosities of the rock.\nHe said to me: \"I will lend you my cloak, to keep you from the\ncold; I have no need of it.\" I replied: \"Woe betide you, if you do\nas you say. I will not have another suffer in my stead and, above\nall, you.\" He said nothing, for I was right, but I began to comfort\nhim because of the too impetuous intonation of my words . . . Our\nhorses galloped along the shore, as though they fled human eyes."}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "290", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.58", "texte": "I raised my head like a vessel's prow lifted on a huge wave, and\nsaid to him: \"Are you crying? I ask you, king of snow and fog. I\ndo not see tears upon your face, handsome as the cactus flower; and\nyour lids are dry as the beds of torrents; but deep in your eyes I\ndiscern a vat full of blood, which laps up innocence, bitten in the\nneck by one of the large scorpions. A strong wind sweeps down\non the fire which warms the vat and scatters the dark flames even\noutside your sacred orbits. I have put my hair to your rosy brows\nand I have smelt an odour of burning because they are burn-\ning. Shut your eyes, or else your face calcined like volcanic lava,\nwill fall in cinders into the palm of my hand.\" And he turning to-\nwards me, careless of the reins in his hand, looked at me tenderly\nwhile slowly he lowered and raised his lily-like lids, like the ebb\nand flow of the sea. He really wanted to reply to my daring ques-\ntion and this is how he did it: \"Pay no attention to me. Even as\nthe mists of rivers crawl along the slopes of hills and, once at the\nsummit, leap into the air forming clouds, so your inquietudes on\nmy account have insensibly accumulated with no reasonable excuse\nand form above your head the deceitful body of a disconsolate\nmirage. I assure you there is no fire in my eyes, though I have there\na feeling as if my skull were plunged into a helmet of glowing\ncoals. Why do you wish for the flesh of my innocence to boil in a\nvat, since I hear only very faint and confused cries which for me\nare but the moanings of the wind which passes over our heads? It\nis not possible that some scorpion has fixed his home and his sharp\nclaws deep in my hacked orbit; I think rather that strong pincers\ncrush my optic nerves. Nevertheless I am with you in the opinion\nthat the blood which fills the copper was drawn from my\nveins by an invisible executioner, while I slept last night. I have\nawaited you a long time, beloved son of the ocean; and my languid\narms engaged in vain combat wTith him who introduced himself into\nthe vestibule of my house ... Yes I feel that my spirit is shut tight-\nly within the locked doors of my body and may not escape to fly\nfar from those shores beaten by the human sea, nor longer witness"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "291", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.59", "texte": "4*\n\nthe spectacle of the livid pack of evils, without relax pursuing,\nthrough bays and gulfs of immense despondency, the human\nchamois: but I do not complain. I have accepted life like a wound,\nand I have forbidden suicide to heal the scar. I want the Creator to\ncontemplate the gaping crevice every moment of eternity. That is\nthe punishment I inflict on him.\"\nOur steeds slowed down the speed of their steel hoofs; their\nbodies quivered like the hunter surprised by a troop of peccaries.\nIt would not do for them to begin to listen to what we said. By\nforce of listening, their intellects would grow and they might per-\nhaps be able to understand us. Woe to them; for they will suffer\nmore! Actually I am only thinking of the young boar of humanity:\nfor does not the degree of intelligence which separates them from\nthe other beings of creation seem to be accorded them but at the\nprice of incalculable suffering? Follow my example, and let your\nsilver spur dig into the sides of your steed . . . Our horses\ngalloped along the shore as though they fled human eyes.\nIt was a spring day. Birds shed their songs in twitterings\nand mankind given up to his various duties, bathed in\nthe holiness of fatigue. All things worked to their appointed\nends, the trees, the planets, the squalls. All, save the Creator.\nHe lay full length in the road; with his clothes torn.\nHis lower lip hung like a sonniferous cable; his teeth were\nfoul and dust mingled with the fair waves of his hair. Stupefied\nby a deep drowsiness and crushed against stones, his body\nmade futile efforts to rise. His strength had given way and he lay\nthere, weak as the earthworm, impassive as bark. Floods of wine\nfilled the tracks hollowed by the nervous twitching of his shoulders.\nPig-groined brutishness covered him with its protecting wings and\nlooked at him amorously. With relaxed muscles his legs swept\nthe ground like two blind masts. Blood flowed from his nostrils;\nhis face had in falling, struck a post... He was drunk. Horribly"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "292", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.60", "texte": "drunk! Drunk as a bug who throughout the night has mumbled\nthree tuns of blood! He filled the echo with incoherent words\nwhich I take good care not to repeat here; if the arch drunkard\ndoes not respect himself, I must at least respect mankind. Did\nyou know that the Creator. . . got drunk! Compassion for this\nlip, fouled in the cups of orgy! . . . The passing hedgehog dug its\nspine into his back and said: \"That's for you. The sun has run\nhalf its course; work, malingerer! I do not eat the bread of\nothers. Wait a bit, I'll show you something, when I call the\ncockatoo with the hooked beak.\" The passing woodpecker and\nthe screech owl buried the whole of their beaks in his belly and\nsaid: \"So much for you. What are you doing on this earth? Is\nit in order to offer the animals this lugubrious comedy? But I\nswear neither the mole nor the casoar nor the flamingo will\nimitate you.\" The passing donkey kicked him on the temple,\nand said: \"So much for you. What have I done that you gave\nme such long ears? Everything including even the grasshopper\ndespises me.\" The passing toad, spat on his forehead and said:\n\"So much for you. Had you not made my eye so large and had\nI seen you in the condition in which I now see you, I would have\nhidden modestly the beauty of your limbs under a shower of\nbuttercups, myosotis and camellias, that no one might see you.\"\nThe passing lion, bowed his royal face, and said: \"As for me, I\nrespect him, although for the moment his splendour seems\neclipsed. You others, who put on pride and are but cowards,\nsince you have attacked him sleeping, would you be pleased, if,\nin his place, you put up with the curses from the passerby which\nyou have not spared him?\" Man, passing, stopped before the\nunknown Creator; and applauded by the crablouse and viper shat\nfor three days upon his solemn visage! Woe toman, because\nof this insult; for he respected not his enemy, lying in a mess\nof mud, blood, and wine, defenceless and almost inanimate.\nThen, the Creator wakened finally by these miserable insults,\nrose as best he could, and swaying, sat upon a stone, his arms\n\n292"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "293", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.61", "texte": "hanging like the two testicles of a consumptive; and threw a glassy\nlook, without fire upon the whole of nature, which belonged to him.\nO humanity, you are precocious children; but 1 beg you, spare this\ngreat existence which has not yet finished brewing the foul liquor\nand having kept hardly enough strength to hold himself upright\nhas fallen heavily upon this rock, where like a traveler it is seated.\nNote the passing beggar; he has seen that the dervish stretched\nforth a famished arm, and unwitting to whom he gives alms,\nthrows a morsel of bread into the hand which implores pity.\nThe Creator has expressed his gratitude by a nod of the head.\nOh! you will never know how difficult it becomes to hold forever\nthe reins of the universe! Sometimes the blood rushes into one's\nhead, when one sets oneself to bring up out of the void one more\ncomet and a new race of souls. The intellect, too much shaken\nfrom top to bottom draws back like one vanquished, and once in\na lifetime, may fall into the errors of which you have been the\nwitness.\nI fell asleep upon the cliff. He who, unable to come up with\nit, has for a whole a day chased the ostrich across the desert,\nhas had no time to take nourishment or to close his eyes. If it\nis he who reads me, he is capable of comprehending, if need be,\nwhat slumber weighed upon me. But, when the tempest has verti-\ncally, with the palm of its hand, pushed a vessel to the bottom of\nthe sea, if, on the raft, one man remains of the whole crew,\nand he broken by fatigue and privations of every sort; and if the\nwave toss him like a wreck throughout hours, each, longer than\na man's life, and if a frigate which later furrows with a split\nkeel these lattitudes of desolation, perceives the wretch who\npromenades his wretched carcase on the ocean, conveying to him\na succour all but too late, I imagine that this castaway will better\nunderstand to what a degree the coma of my senses was brought.\nMagnetism and chloroform, when they take the trouble, occa-\nsionally know how similarly to engender such lethargic cata-"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "294", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.62", "texte": "lepsies. They bear no resemblance to death; it would be a great\nfalsehood to say so. But let us get at once to the dream, so that\nthe impatient, starved of this kind of reading matter, do not begin\nto roar like a school of macrocephalic cacholots who fight among\nthemselves for a pregnant female. I dreamt that I had entered\nthe body of a hog, and that I wallowed my bristles in the most\nmiry marshes. Was it as a reward? Object of my prayers I no\nlonger belonged to humanity. For myself, I understood the inter-\npretation thus and felt a more than profound joy. Still, actively,\nI sought to find what virtuous act I had performed to merit this\nsignal favour on the part of Providence. Now that I have resolved\nin my memory the diverse phases of this flattening out against\nthe granite belly, during which, unperceived by me, the tide passed\ntwice over this irreducible mass of dead matter and living flesh,\nit is perhaps not without utility to proclaim that the degradation\nwas probably but a punishment, worked upon me by divine\njustice. But who knows its intimate necessities or the cause of its\npestilential joys? The metamorphoses did not appear even to me\nother than the high and magnanimous echo of a perfect happiness,\nwhich I had long expected. Finally came the day, I was a hog,\nI tried my teeth on the bark of trees. I contemplated my\nsnout with delight. Not the least scrap of my divinity remained;\nI could lift my spirit even to the excessive heights of this ineffable\npleasure.\nListen to me then and do not blush, inexhaustible caricatures\nof beauty who take seriously the mocking bray of your entirely\ncontemptible soul, and who do not understand why the Almighty\nin a stray moment of excellent buffoonery, which certainly does\nnot surpass the great general laws of the grotesque, one day took\nthe splendid pleasure of peopling a planet with singular and mi-\ncroscopic beings called humanity, and whose composition re-\nsembles that of the vermilion coral.\nYes, bones and fat, you have cause to blush, but listen. Ido\nnot appeal to your intelligence, you would make it spit blood by"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "295", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.63", "texte": "the horror in which it holds you; forget it and be consistent with\nyourselves .... There, enough restraint. When I want to kill,\nI kill, that has often happened to me, and no one held\nme back. Human law still pursues me with its vengeance, though\nI would not attack the race I had so easily quitted; but my cons-\ncience did not at all reproach me. In the daytime I fought with\nmy new fellows, and the ground was sprinkled with many layers\nof clotted blood. I was strongest and bore off every victory;\nburning wounds covered my body; I pretended not to be aware.\nThe earth's animals went from me and I remained alone in my\nresplendent grandeur. What was my astonishment when after\nhaving swam across a river, that I might go far from those\nlands which my fury had depopulated, and gain other countries\nin which to plant my habits of murder and carnage, I tried to walk\nupon this flower strewn bank! My feet were paralysed; no move-\nment came to betray the verity of this forced immobility and my\nsupernatural efforts to continue my way. It was then I awoke and\nthen I felt I became a man again. Providence thus made me under-\nstand, in a not inexplicable manner, that it did not wish my sublime\nobjects accomplished even in dreams. To return to my original\nshape was such terrible anguish that at night I still weep. My\nsheets are continually soaked as though they had been passed\nthrough water, and every day I have them changed. If you do\nnot believe me, visit me; you will check by your own reference, not\nonly the verisimilitude but in addition the actual truth of my asser-\ntion. How often, since that night spent out on the cliff, have I\nnot mixed with herds of swine, to regain as a right, my destroyed\nmetamorphosis! It is time to leave these glorious memories which\nbut leave behind them the pallid milky way of eternal regret.\nIt is not impossible to be the witness of an abnormal deviation,\nin the latent or visible functioning of nature's laws. Actually, if\neveryone takes the ingenious trouble to question the divers phases\nof his existence (without forgetting a single one, since it may be"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "296", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.64", "texte": "that one which was destined to furnish the proof of what I ad-\nvance), he will remember not without a certain astonishment,\nwhich would be comical in other circumstances, that, on a certain\nday, speaking first of objective things, he was witness of some\nphenomenon which seemed to surpass and actually did surpass the\nknown ideas furnished by observation and experience, as for\nexample the rain of toads, which magic spectacle must at first not\nhave been understood by the learned; and that some other day,\nto mention secondly and lastly subjective things, his soul presented\nto the scrutinising glance of psychology, I do not go as far as to say\nan aberration of mind, (which nevertheless would be no less\ncurious; on the contrary, would be more) but at least, not to create\ndifficulties with certain cold people, who would never forgive\nthe flagrant lucubrations of my exaggerations, an unaccustomed\ncondition, quite often very grave, which marks the limit accorded\nby good sense to imagination, and which is sometimes, despite the\nephemeral pact concluded between these two powers, unfortu-\nnately surpassed by the energetic pressure of will, but most often\nby the absence of its effective collaboration. Let us give some\nexamples in its support, whose relevance it is not difficult to ap-\npreciate: if we always take an attentive moderation to spouse. I\noffer two: the carrying away by anger and the sicknesses of pride.\nI warn him who reads me to beware lest he create a vague idea,\nand with more reason false, of the beauties of literature which\nI pull to pieces in the excessively rapid development of my phrases.\nAlas; I would develop my thoughts and my comparisons slowly\nand very magnificently (but who can arrange his own time?) that\neach might more understand, if not my terror, at least, my stupe-\nfaction, when on a summer's evening, as the sun seemed to sink\nbeneath the horizon, I saw swimming upon the sea, with large\nduck's feet in the place of extremities of legs and arms, carrying a\ndorsal fin, proportionately as long and as fined down as those of\ndolphins, a human being with vigorous muscles which the\nnumerous shoals of fish (I saw in its train among other dwellers"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "297", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.65", "texte": "in the sea, the torpedo fish, the Greenland Anarnak and the\nhorrible Scorpeno, followed with very ostensible marks of the\ngreatest admiration. Sometimes he plunged, and his viscous\nbody appeared almost immediately two hundred yards away. The\nporpoises, who in my opinion have not stolen the reputation\nof good swimmers, could hardly follow even at a distance this\namphibian of a new species. I do not think the reader would\nhave occasion to be sorry, if he lent to my narrative less the\nharmful obstacles of a stupid credulity than the supreme service\nof a profound confidence which legitimately discusses with secret\nsympathy the poetic mysteries, so few in his opinion, which I under-\ntake to reveal each time the occasion presents itself, as it has un-\nexpectedly presented itself to-day intimately penetrated by the\ntonic smell of aquatic plants, which the refreshing breeze trans-\nports into this chapter, containing a monster who has appropriated\nthe distinctive marks of the palmiped family. Who speaks of\nappropriation here? Let it be definitely known that man, by his\nmultiple and complex nature, is not ignorant of the means of\nfurther enlarging his frontiers; he lives in water like the hippopot-\namus, among the upper layers of air like the osprey; and under-\nground like the mole, the woodlouse and the sublimity of the\nearthworm. Such is in his shape, more or less concisely (but more\nthan less) the exact criterion of the extremely fortifying consola-\ntion which I strive to engender in my spirit, when I think that the\nhuman being whom I perceived at an immense distance, swimming\nwith his four limbs upon the surface of the waves, and outdoing\nthe most superb cormorant, had not perhaps acquired the new\nchange in extremities of arms and legs, but as the expiatory punish-\nment of some unknown crime. There is no necessity for me to worry\nmy head to fabricate beforehand the melancholy pills of pity, for,\nI did not know that this man, whose arms alternately struck the\nbitter waves, while his feet, with a force as great as that possessed\nby the spiral horn of the narwhal, occasioned the ebb of aquatic\nstrata, had no more voluntarily taken on these extraordinary"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "298", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.66", "texte": "shapes, than had them imposed as a punishment. According to\nwhat I learned later, here is the simple truth; the prolongation of\nexistence in the fluid element had led insensibly in the human\nbeing who had exiled himself from rugged continents, to the im-\nportant, but not essential changes, which I had remarked in that\nobject which a passably vague glance had made me mistake, from\nthe primordial moment of its apparition (by an inexcusable care-\nlessness whose vagaries cause the extremely painful feeling which\npsychologists and lovers of prudence will so easily understand) for\na fish of a curious shape, not yet described in the classification of\nnaturalists; but which may occur in their posthumous works,\nthough I would not have the pardonable pretention of inclining to\nthis last supposition, imagined under too theoretical circumstances.\nActually this amphibian (since amphibia there are, one being\nunable to affirm the contrary) was only visible to myself; ab-\nstraction created out of fish and cetacean, for I saw how several\npeasants who had stopped to regard my face, troubled by this\nsupernatural phenomenon; sought vainly to discover why my\neyes were continually fixed with what appeared an invincible\nperseverance, but which in reality was not, on a place in the\nsea where they themselves discovered only a miserable and limited\nquantity of shoals of fish of every kind, and distended the\nopening of their imposing mouths perhaps as wide as a whale's.\nIt made them smile but not blanch as it did me; they said in\ntheir picturesque dialect, and they were not so stupid as not to\nmentally remark that I did not regard the pastoral evolutions\nof the fish, since my sight was directed much more ahead.\nIn such fashion that as far as it concerns me, mechanically\nturning my eyes in the direction of the remarkable stretch of these\npowerful mouths, I said to myself that unless in the whole universe\nsome pelican could be found huge as a mountain or at least a prom-\nontory (admire, I beg of you, the nicety of the restriction which\ndoes not yield one inch of ground), no beak of bird of prey, or\njaw of wild animal would ever be able to surpass, or even equal,"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "299", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.67", "texte": "each of these gaping, but too lugubrious craters. And yet, though\nI attach a good deal to the sympathetic use of metaphor (this\nrhetorical figure renders many services to human aspirations\ntowards the infinite, which ordinarily those who are imbued with\nprejudice or false ideas, which are the same thing, do not attempt\nto encourage,) it is no less true that the grinning mouths of these\npeasants were actually large enough to swallow three whales. Let\nus contract our thoughts still more, be serious, and content our-\nselves with three tiny elephants newly born. In one stroke the\namphibian left half a mile of frothing wake behind him. During\nthe hardly perceptible moment when the arm stretched before it\nwas suspended in air, and before it again lowered itself, its spread\nfingers joined by a fold of skin like a membrane, seemed to leap\nto the heights of space and catch at the stars. Upright on a rock,\n1 made use of my hands as a megaphone and while the crabs and\ncraw fish fled into the obscurity of the most secret crevices, cried\nout: \"O you whose swimming gains upon the flight of the frigate's\ntall wings, if you still comprehend the significance of those great\nbursts of voice which humanity hurls powerfully forth as the faith-\nful interpreter of its secret thought, deign to stop a moment in your\nrapid progress and tell me roughly the stages of your real history.\nBut I warn you that there is no need to speak to me if your auda-\ncious design is to bring to birth in me friendliness and the vene-\nration I felt for you, the moment I first saw you accomplishing\nyour unconquerable and rectilineal pilgrimage, with the shark's\nstrength and grace.\"\nA sigh which chilled my bones and at which the rock reeled,\nupon which the soles of my feet rested, (unless it was myself who\nreeled owing to the brusque penetration of the sonorous waves,\nconveying to my ear such a despairing cry) was heard unto the bow-\nels of earth; the fish plunged beneath the waves with the noise of\nan avalanche. The very amphibian dared not too closely approach\nthe shore; but when he was assured that his voice reached my\ntympanum distinctly enough, he reduced the activity of his webbed"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "300", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.68", "texte": "limbs, but maintaining his wrack covered bust above the bellowing\nwaves, I saw him bend his forehead as though by a solemn com-\nmand to invoke the wandering pack of memories. I dared not\ninterrupt him in this sacredly archeological occupation; plunged in\nthe past, he seemed a reef. Finally he spoke thus: \"The centipede\ndoes not lack enemies, the fantastic beauty of his innumerable\nlegs instead of drawing to him the sympathy of the animals, maybe\nis but to them the powerful stimulant of a jealous irritation. And\nit would not surprise me to hear that that insect is exposed to the\nmost furious hatreds. I will hide from you the place of my birth,\nsince it does not concern my story, but the shame which was re-\nflected upon my family concerns it. My father and my mother\n(God forgive them!) after a year of expectation, saw heaven bless\ntheir prayers; two twins, my brother and myself, saw the light.\nAn additional cause to love each other. But it was not as I say.\nBecause I was the more beautiful of the two, and the more in-\ntelligent, my brother hated me and did not trouble to hide his\nfeelings; that is why my father and my mother made most of their\nlove fall upon me, while by my own sincere and constant love, I\ntried to calm a soul which had no right to rebel against him who\nhad been drawn from the same flesh. Then my brother knew no\nbounds to his fury, and with the most impossible calumnies\ndestroyed me in my parents' heart. For fifteen years I have lived\nin a cell with grubs and decayed water for nourishment. I will not\nrelate in detail the unheard of torments to which I was subjected\nin the unending and unjust sequestration. Sometimes, at a given\nmoment of the day, one of the three tyrants suddenly entered in\nhis turn loaded with pincers, tongs and various implements of\ntorture. The cries which these tortures dragged from me left them\nimmoveable, the abundant loss of my blood made them smile. O\nbrother, original cause of all my ills, I have forgiven you! Is it\npossible that a blind rage cannot in the end open its eyes! I have\nreflected much in my eternal prison. You will divine what my\ngeneral hatred against humanity became. The progressive etio-"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "301", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.69", "texte": "lation, the solitude of body and soul had not yet made me lose\nall my reason to the point of nurturing resentment against those\nwhom I had not ceased to love: triple pillory to which I was en-\nslaved. I succeeded in regaining my liberty by a ruse. Disgusted\nwith the inhabitants of the continent, who though they called\nthemselves my fellows, and do not up till now seem in any way to\nresemble me (if they think lam like them, wrhy do they hurt me?)\nI made my way to the beach's pebbles, firmly resolved to kill\nmyself, if the sea must offer me the anterior reminiscence of a\nfatally lived existence. Will you believe your eyes? From the\nmoment I fled the paternal house, I have not been as sorry as you\nthink to dwell in the sea and its crystal caves. Providence, as you\nsee, has partly given me a swan's construction. I live in peace with\nthe fish, and they procure me the food I need, as if I were their\nking. I will whistle in a certain way, provided you have no ob-\njection, and you will see how they will reappear.\"\nIt happened as he had said. He resumed his regal swimming\nsurrounded by his train of subjects, and although at the end of\nsome seconds he had completely disappeared from my sight; with\na telescope I was still able to distinguish him on the remotest rim\nof the horizon. With one hand he swam, with the other he wiped\nhis eyes, which the terrible constraint of having approached firm\nland, had injected with blood. He had behaved thus to please me.\nI cast the revealing instrument against the beetling precipice; it\nleapt from rock to rock and the waves received its scattered frag-\nments; such were the last demonstration and supreme good-bye\nin which I bowed as in a dream, before a noble and unfortunate\nintelligence! And yet, everything which happened that summer\nevening was real.\n\nCOMTE DE LAUTREAMONT\n(Translated, by John Rodker)\n\n(To be continued)"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "302", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.70", "texte": "THE FLOWER-SPHYNX.\n\n1\nFrom their spiderwebs the beggars let themselves down.\nIn their black train are held the downy moon the hushed lambs\nthe flowers without keels and the retrieving bats.\nBefore the pinnacles of flowers and the curtains of summer\nsprouts that tremble under the breath of a two horsepower\ndemimondaine the seven barbarous brother stars pass in parade.\nIn out of the way places little palm sundays are still being observed.\nFor want of asses the saviours ride in on bicycles.\nThe King of this city is a rainbow-eater.\n2\nDown from the calendar come the crucified flowers the addresses\nof the exposed and the foundation stones of the residences.\nIn that marble throat lie the rolled up song-strings.\nThe busts of dead lionhearted animals adorn the public squares.\nThe ill-born the fleshly family trees choked with ingrown erotic\nblocks the shaven horses the pouches of fire are all carried out\nin the wicker basket.\nThe thousand towers are built of missals.\nUpon them fall from the heavenly star-thatch vermin and the\npeopled moon."}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "303", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.71", "texte": "3\nThe chambermaids come gliding in on tortoise-shell rails.\nIn their aprons they bear the lurid fragments of the broken sun.\nIn the great arch the caryatidsurinate time like slavejuice.\nFrom the flagstaff of the city gleams the huge ether jellyfish.\nSailors had built a pirate ship in the cavern of its belly.\nThe plant-guillotine goes puffing through the streets.\nThe sabine hills sir have not been properly adjusted. Hang too\nhigh in fact above the stage. Were the ropes too short? The\nlynchgong and the jaws of the sixtine prayer mill come crowding\nthrough the gap.\nThe gigantic good-luck balls of black earth go skipping over\nthe sea.\n4\nAt the sound of a bell a crumpled star whirls about.\nThe carpets which were laid over the mountains for the dream\nand cloud animals are brushed cleaned and folded up.\nThe carcass mountains bedecked with false teeth curls and\nwedding rings which i took for ruin-stained eagles are simply\npendulum weights wound up in the insides of the monuments.\nThe professional lips of the Laps which i took to be cooing car-\nrierpigeons are merely the carcass mountains decked with false\nteeth curls and wedding rings.\nThe forest is a bellows.\n\nHANS ARP\n\n(Translated from the German by M. J.)"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "304", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.72", "texte": "THE GREAT AMERICAN BILLPOSTER\n\nThe art of a people is a two-edged sword: it spring from the moods and\nvirtues of that people; and it works secretly and mightily to mould the\nvirtues of that people. But we have learned recently to extend the meaning\nof \"art\", inasmuch as modern man expresses himself in a far greater variety\nof manners than did prehistoric or classical man. An ethnological study of\na group such as the Americans (of the United States of America) could no\nlonger retrict itself to its politics, sculpture, and mythology; for, thanks to\nthe aggressive application of the arts to new inventions, we find that the\nautomobile is oil the road to becoming a thing of beauty and that the adver-\ntisements contain the fables of this people. We would, thus, be obliged to\nobserve the motion picture, the sports, the machinery, and many other\naspects of the group's behaviour in order to really know its culture.\nThe prospect of human activities in America is such a rich twisted\nbottomless thing that it is all we can do to segregate a few aspects of these\nactivities, which, studied in an intensive, localized manner, may yield con-\nclusions applying to our problems.\nIt has been complained that America lacks an indigenous art, that\nAmericans are not autocthonous enough, that they are a babel of different\nraces. But in reality, America is a milieu, as Professor Santayanna has\ncolled it, a distinct \"situation,\" and \"Americanism the expression of a present\nmaterial environment,\" so that \"the immigrants at once feel themselves and\nactually become typical Americans, more instinct with an aggressive Ameri-\ncanism than the natives of Gape Cod or the poor whites of the South.\"1\nThe difficulty can be found precisely among those Thirty Americans (in-\ntellectuals) who contributed to \"Civilization in the United States.\" It has\nnot been perceived by them that there is an informed \"material environment5\nmoulding and launching the American type. \"Outdoor advertising,\" they\ncry, \"should be removed from sight with all possible haste.\"2 That\nthey would abolish the billposter is ample proof of their failure to under-\nstand the unaffected beauty and wisdom of the American milieu.\n\n1 Marginal Notes on Civilization in the United States, by G. Santayanna, Dial\nJune, 1922.\n2 Civilization in the United States, An Inquiry by Thirty Americans, edited by\nHarold Stearns (Harcourt, Brace and Company, New York.)"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "305", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.73", "texte": "5\n\nAmerica will never enjoy an indigenous art, if, led by its Intellectuals,\nit adopts approved European methods of living or painting or writing.\nPoetry in America which imitates British romanticism is as sterile as that\nwhich imitates French symbolism is bastard. The prose in America which\nseeks to emulate the correct cold objectivity of a Flaubert or the ironic\nnaturalism of a Turgenieff takes an equally false direction. An indigenous\nart is a permanent contribution to the world's knowledge, and an artist\nwhose works are charged with the virtues peculiar to his milieu i's an\nevent of the first importance.\nIt is time to examine our home products sympathetically, to judge if\nthey are not sprouting with an authentic beauty that justifies their out-\nlandish departures from the past or from previous European traditions.\n(I say \"previous\" advisedly, because the Old World is become fearfully\namericanized, what of the \"telephone, the trolley-car, the department store\nand the advertising press,\" and an American who loves these things is\nconscious in Europe of a painful nostalgia, whereby the material environ-\nment of his country becomes highly tangible and provocative through its\nvery distance from him.)\nThe problem is, thus, to silence for the moment, the anguished voices\nof the Thirty Americans and to plunge hardily into that effervescent revol-\nving cacaphonous milieu (which not so remotely resembles the Purgatory\nof Dante), where the Billposters enunciate their wisdom, the Cinema\ntransports us, the newspapers intone their gaudy jargon; where athletes\nplay upon the frenetic passions of baseball crowds, and sky-scrapers rise\nlyrically to the exotic rhythms of jazz bands which upon waking up we\nfind to be nothing but the drilling of pneumatic hammers on steel girders.\nWe must have poets who have dared the lightning, who come to us out\nof the heart of this chimera; novelists who express for us its mad humor.\nA stranger, nearing the port of New York for the first time and\npeering anxiously toward this fabulous city, would perceive, as the first\nindications of its culture and personality, gigantic incandescent messages\nshooting fitfully over the dark waters: GOLGATES . . . HECKER'S FLOUR ..\nAMERICAN SUGAR REFINERY. These solemn auguries of America,\npassing in brilliant illuminations across the sea, would serve as a majestic\nprelude to the strange music of this people. Thereafter, in every walk, in\nevery ride in the subway, in every talk with a friend, some meaningful\nlegend, some Open Sesame (as 57!) would be thundering softly in the back\nof his brain."}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "306", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.74", "texte": "Words, expressions, names, become nationally known and enter into\nthe daily speech. These experiences are received with varying degrees of\ndirectness: sometimes the fact that \"United States Tires are good tires\" is\nmerely refracted into the brain by a series of repercussions, and lodges\nthere with the other legends in a distinct layer of the consciousness. By\nthis one addition, among many, has the American become profoundly\ndifferent from the Chinaman or Afghanistan (races which I suspect of not\nbeing subject, at the present hour, to the searching publicity which we\nenjoy in America.)\nThe needs of an industry in America based upon the principle of\nquantity production, have brought into being the institution of Advertising.\n(Thus, \"It Pays to Advertise.\") Like all social or industrial institutions\nborn of the American environment it reflects faithfully the character thereof.\nThe Tired Business Man and the suburban wife are painted as never in\nany epic by Mary Roberts Rinehart. The dominant male, the Captain of\nIndustry are pictured in concise vivid wireless messages such as:\nTO those who\nprefer to leave\nbehind them \"mon-\numents in rows of\nflaming smoke-\nstacks\" rather than\nmonuments of\nmarble, possession\nof an H. C. S. fol-\nlows as a matter of\ncourse."}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "307", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.75", "texte": "5*\n\nAnd note the virility of\nDriven\nand loved\nby men who\nbrook no short-\ncomings in man,\nbeast or motor.\nThey subject it\nto hard tasks, and\nit always meets\ntheir moods.\nThe American athlete, lover of unwarlike violence and motion is\nsupreme in a collection of automobile announcements. His bronzed,\nhandsome, genial visage gleams unblemished in such as statement as\nTHE NEW BUICK SPORT ROADSTER FOR 1923\nBuilt expressly for active out-of-doors men and women who\nregard a car as a companion and driving a pleasure. Every thing\nof strength power and speed suggested by its low hung graceful\nbody is quickly realized on the open road.\nAnd to appease the known love for detail, fact, veritable progress, as\nwell as the hobby for puttering with machinery the poet added:\nA distinctively new spring suspension smooths out the roughest going\nat any speed. Wherever it appears the Buick sport roadster with its smart\nmaroon body, khaki top, red wheels and black running gear wins immediate\nattention."}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "308", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.76", "texte": "With a finely characteristic arrogance, which has never offended the\npublic, the concluding motto asserts:\nWHEN BETTER AUTOMOBILES ARE BUILT\nBUICK WILL BUILD THEM.\nOur American is healthy, sound, liberty-loving but at the same time\nhe is fastidious, loves elegance, an elegance of his own after his fashion.\nThe Arrow collar publicity brings these elements into play. But it is in his\nshoes that he is most in his element, — most fastidious about his shoes and\ntheir peculiar modes.\nEACH or mountains - hotel\n11 MpfS cottaj, camp\nId Ell 1 y°u go this summer, this\nWMMmMI. breezy white buck, ox--\nford wil be a fit companion*—\nTan skeleton saddl, tan back stay\nshort wingr tip. flbr s ole s —■—\nThe American is emotional and generous, but at the same time he is\nthrifty:\nUsury.\nSIX PER CENT is considered a fair rate of interest; too\nhigh a rate of interest is condemned as usury.\nYet there are several thousand American homes in which an\nIDEAL TYPE A HEAT MACHINE is paying back 33% per\ncent on its cost — so great is the proportion of fuel saved,\nand so little does it depreciate in comparison with cheaper\nheating plants.\nSuperstition, is another striking quality; he is far more amenable to\nsuggestion, to hypnosis rather than to logic:\nASK DAD HE KNOWS\nASK THE MAN WHO OWNS ONE\nor better this:\nDAY BY DAY IN EVERY WAY\nI AM GETTING BETTER AND BETTER."}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "309", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.77", "texte": "There is an uproarious self-assertion, fantastic, audacious, rabelaisian,\nif you will, in the following bald statement:\nZIEGFELD FOLLIES\nGLORIFIES THE AMERICAN GIRL.\nA strong social sense is also to be noted; the suburban wife again, and\nher love of a rather standard refinement, a rather uniform loveliness:\nSAMPLER INVITES YOU.\n— to an altogether unusual experience in sweets\n— to a candy package which reflects the quaint odd beauty of\nthe cross-stitch work of long ago.\nThe advertisements in newspapers and magazines having over a\nhundred thousand circulation reflect the national temperament with great\nclairvoyance. The selection of the above specimens was designed to be\nsuggestive rather exhaustive, reflecting only a few facets of the composite\nAmerican type. They came about as the fulfillment of a practical need in\nbusiness; they were \"successful\" advertisements by virtue of their immediacy\nto the public pulse, and thus compose a faithful record of the national tastes,\nthe changing philosophy, the hopes and fears of a people; they compose,\nin fact, the \"folklore\" of modern times,\nII.\nThe most striking conclusion drawn from a study of specimen adver-\ntisements is that the American business man, in the short daily time at his\ndisposal, reads the most daring and ingenuous literature of the age. The\nparticular restrictions of this medium make for extraordinary ingenuity in\nthe \"copy writer;\" the call for vigor of style, conviction, and interest, are\nprobably more stimulating by far toward creating beautiful conceptions than\nan intensive course in Victorian poetry at Harvard University. The terse\nvivid slang of the people has been swiftly transmitted to this class of writers,\nalong with a willingness to depart from syntax, to venture sentence forms\nand word constructions which are at times breath-taking, if anything, and\nin all cases far more arresting and provocative than 99 per cent of the stuff\nthat passes for poetry in our specialized magazines. They are a most"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "310", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.78", "texte": "amiable band of poets, without the piffle of the teacup type, their hair closely\ntrimmed, their shoes thought-inspiring. All design on immortality, on seats\nin the Academy, all schemes for hoodwinking posterity, have been renounced\nby them in favor of ample salaries and smoothly running motorcars.\nThe need for dealing with definite facts, for writing a little poem\nabout an automobile tire or a pair of stockings, lends their work an exotic\nflavor — exotic, I say, only when viewed externally and objectively, since\nit is a perfectly indigenous product. Outside of these accidents, their motives,\ni.e., to sell a story or a belief, to the public, with burning sincerity and vigor\nof style, closely parallel those of the old minnesingers, or of Shakespeare and\nMoliere, immensely successful \"copy-writers\" in their day.\nLet us consider for a moment Keats' adroit line:\nThe beaded bubbles winking at the brim\nand also consider the anonymous genius who wrote:\nMEATY MARROWY OXTAIL JOINTS\nThe motives of these two young men — I take it that the con-\ntemporary poet is also young and bears a sensitive and wistful spirit\nbeneath the mask of his closely trimmed hair and his Hart Schaffner Marx\nsuit — the motives are superficially different, since the latter was written\nfor the glorification of Campbell's soup and the former for that of Psyche,\nbut they both arrive at the same end, a line of pure poetry, by the same\nmental processes. Save that the advertising writer being immune from\nthe blighting attacks of some contemporary Edinburgh Review (surely the\nAtlantic Monthly would never pay him such unseemly and cruel attentions)\ncan proceed with the utmost freedom in his choice of form or diction to\nsuch modern flights as:\n\"The velvety clutch responds to the merest pressure . . . the pliant\nbut positive gears engage silently at a touch of the convenient control ... the\ncompensating spring suspension cushions the car gently over ridge and rut\nas it clings to its course unwaveringly"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "311", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.79", "texte": "The rhythm of prose is one of the most intricate problems in all the\narts. Here a man has sounded most intriguing and mysterious tempos\nwith a lightness and felicity that is only rarely attained by recognized\nmasters of prose fiction. Simply lovely work. \"The pliant but positive\ngears engage silently . . is a profound utterance, reverberant with meanings\nand shadows.\nAt times some anonymous master of prosody bursts into perfect\nmetrical verses, which send the glory of his product ringing and echoing\nthrough forty-eight states.\nAN HOUR A DAY IN A TWIN SIX\nIS LITERALLY A DIFFERENT KIND OF AN HOUR OR A DAY\nor an alexandrine like this:\nTHEIRS IS A TYPE AND KIND OF ENJOYMENT SET APART.\nOr they may be at times roguishly paradoxical and nonsensical:\nFrigidaire Adds the Fine Touch\nto Hospitality\nreferring fancifully to a refrigerator which keeps food fresh and dry at the\nsame time. Nor do these pioneers hesitate to tamper with the traditional\northography in their quest for new and astonishing effects:\nOLFE RS shoud think\nof comfort Cvservis\n'The Bretton \"Woods givs\nboth and joins with them\na jaunty yet conservativ 31yle\ntuch — Soft smokt horse-hide\nvamps, calfskin, saddls\nflexiol rubber disk soles »"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "[312]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.80", "texte": "The craftmanship of this example is excellent, beginning with the\nstatement of a general principle and ending in a perfect triumph of\nprecisions. The same process can be noted in the following:\nVfENICE at her best was\nFrench, so Paris only\nborrows from her own for\nthe new Venetian silhou*\nette. Like a little glimpse\nof Venice at her carnival\ntime come frocks of soft\ncrepe silks or chiffon velvet\nfitted slimly to the waist*\nline and flaring in every\ndirection below; taffeta\ndinner or evening frocks\nwith frilled basques; also\nfrocks of Ch emit wool\ntwill with circular skirts.\nThe language of modern poetry becomes thus enriched by the use\nof technical expressions and names which have attained significance in\nAmerica. One must work more cnunningly in devising a poem, arranging\nits typography and its stance, than did our predecessors. And when it is\nremembered that these men must produce new aspects of the same subject\nconstantly and freshly, the formidable intellects at work can be sensed.\nIt is a thrilling business, a fascinating genre, and it is easy to see why our\nliterature is so impoverished and where the creative genius has all gone.\nContemporary American writing is at a very uncertain point in its\ncareer, bewildered for ways to follow. If our younger writers tend to\nbecome more sensitive to the particular qualities in their material environ-\nment, one might well imagine their giving and taking fresh stimulus and\nnovelty of the literature of the billposter. What new devices and surprises\nmight come of merely appreciating, for instance, the possibilities of the\nsalesmanship principle for the technique of writing. The advertising\ncolumns in America are as \"armies with banners.\"\n\nMATTHEW JOSEPHSON.\n\nPrinted byßich.Labisch&> Co., Graphische Kunstanstalt G.m.b. H., Berlin (Germany)"}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "[313]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.81", "texte": "Subscribe for\nPOETRY: a of Verse,\ntfoe leading organ of ifoe art\nFor a versowriter to be printed in POETRy is about the most honorable of recognitions.\nFord Madox Hueffer in the New York Evening Post Literary Review\nThe varied interest and beauty presented are typical of POETRY'S quality. Thanks to a rare coincidence\nof poise and generous imagination, of sense and sensitiveness, it ranks easily as the best vehicle of poetry in\nthe English language. From an editorial in the New York Sunday Tribune.\nPOETRy has become a significant force in the intellectual life of America. That astute\nobserver, the late William Marion Reedy, wrote: \"Probably Miss Monroe has done\nmore for the high art of song than any other person in the United States\" — a state-\nment which has been generously supported by other commentators of similar prestige.\nPOETRy: A Magazine of Verse, 232 East Erie St., Chicago, U. S. A.\nEnclosed find $ 3.00 (Canada, $ 3.15/ foreign, $ 3.25) for one year's subscription to POETRy\nBeginning:\nName:\nAdress:\n\\\n\nIT IS WITH GREAT REGRET THAT WE ANNOUNCE THE RESIGNATION OF MR. EDWARD STORER\nAS ASSOCIATE EDITOR OF BROOM. ALTHOUGH UNABLE TO LEAVE ITALY AT PRESENT HE WILL\nCONTINUE TO COLLABORATE WITH US FROM ROME WHERE HIS FAMILIARITY WITH LITERARY ITALY\nRENDERS HIS SERVICES OF GREAT VALUE.\nMR. MATTHEW JOSEPHSON ALREADY KNOWN TO READERS OF BROOM WILL ACT AS ASSOCIATE\nEDITOR IN MR. STORER'S PLACE.\nONE YEAR OF BROOM.\nTHE PRESENT ISSUE OF BROOM COMPLETES THE CYCLE OF ITS FIRST YEAR.\nIN THIS YEAR BROOM HAS ATTAINED A FULL GROWN INDIVIDUALITY SO FAR APART FROM\nOTHER MAGAZINES THAT NONE CAN GUESS WHAT NEW ARTISTIC SURPRISES ARE IN STORE.\nTHE WORK OF MODERN ARTISTS AND WRITERS WHICH WILL APPEAR IN BROOM'S PAGES DURING\nTHE COMING YEAR WILL BE EVEN MORE SURPRISING AND SIGNIFICANT.\nSUBSCRIBERS WHO BEGAN WITH THE ISSUE OF NOVEMBER 1921 ARE URGED TO RENEW THEIR\nSUBSCRIPTIONS AT ONCE. THIS WILL BE OF GREAT HELP TO US OWING TO SLOW MAILS BETWEEN\nEUROPE AND AMERICA.\nSubscribers in America should send their renewal ($ 5) to the\nNEW YORK OFFICE, 3 EAST NINTH STREET.\nSubscribers on the Continent should communicate with\nSCHICKLERSTRASSE 5, BERLIN, GERMANy.\nSubscription for France, 60 francs, for England, one pound, fifteen shillings."}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.82", "texte": "on jPike 11 room\nYou //77/\n—a journal whose sole purpose is to bring the work of the artists\nwho count to the people who care.\nThe significance of The Dial in contemporary literature is due\nto its established policy of including the best procurable work of\nAmericans and Europeans, both famous and unknown, without\nregard to the novelty or conventionality of the form in which\ntheir work is presented.\nThe Dial is, therefore, able to offer its readers a review in\nwhich new and traditional modes of expression are published\nside by side, so that the reader may have the unusual pleasure of\nexercising his own judgment, with the assurance that he has in\nhand the best of both schools.\nIn addition, The Dial offers a critical cornpte rendu of art and\nletters throughout the world.\nThe Dial was the first old established magazine in America to\nadjust its policy and point of view to include the newer tendencies\nin art and letters. Since The Dial's change of policy, less than\nthree years ago, two other well-known, old established magazines,\nhave modified their traditional point of view in the direction first\ntaken by The Dial. A number of new magazines representative\nof modern tendencies in art and letters, of which Broom is one,\nhave sprung up in both Europe and America within recent months.\nIf you like Broom, you will like The Dial. Each supplements\nthe other, and yet each has its own distinctive flavor. It is im-\npossible for any one magazine to offer all of the best work of the\nworld's finest artists. Broom and The Dial together, however,\nvery nearly cover the field. If you like one, you will surely like\nthe other.\nSpecial Offer j\nBROOM i\nand\nTHE DIAL :\neach alone for one year $5.00 j\nBOTH TOGETHER [\n$7.50 i\nYou may enter my name for a year's\nsubscription to Broom and The Dial\nat the special combination rate of $7.50\nName.\nAddress.\nI I I enclose $7.50. CZ\n$7.50 on receipt of your\nI will remit\nDill.\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street, New York City\nB-11-22\nB-11-22"}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.83", "texte": "BEAUTY IN YOUR HOME\nIS NOT SO MUCH A MATTER OP MONEY\nHi\nHHHralr''\n■\n« L\nIfß\nI\nS 3 1\n■\nm\n;\nm\n.\nwmam\nMM 1\nii.„\nS V\nIT\n■'fe.\nMM\nn\nran\n• i -..j\nSK\ni\nMMB\nIS«ips\nHH\n-:-v\nH\nH\nIt is a product of knowing what to do, when and how to do it.\n'Cfie Ctr/s & Decorations Tract leaf Qome Study Course in Interior\nDecoration in 24 bi~montfoCy Cessons giues you tfois exact infor-\nmation, Jt enabCes you to judge Luitfo authority, and afso to\ncreate and execute yourseCf,\nHow and where would you begin to do over\na living room. How can you change the fixed\nbackground?\nWhat will you do with your walls and your\nfloors?\nDo you know how to handle colors and designs.\nDo you know how to combine furniture of\ndifferent periods? Can you distinguish between\nSheraton and Hepplewhite?\nThis course is an essential to a cultural education\nand can be the means of saving its cost to you\nmany times one.\nDirectors:\nfiarofcL Donafdson Cbertein and Dlancy V. DJtc Cfetfand\nADVISORY FACULTY:\nWilliam Emerson, Director of the Architectural School,\nMassachusetts Institute of Technology, Boston.\nHuger Elliott, Principal of the School, Pennsylvania\nMuseum and School of Industrial Art, Phila.\nWhitney Warren, Warren *cD Wetmore, Architects,\nNew York.\nPhyllis Ackerman, Ph. D. Author-Lecturer.\nLeon V, Solon, Art Director, American Encaustic\nTile Company.\nRichard F, Bach, Curator Industrial Art, Metropolitan\nMuseum of Art, New York,\nJohn P. Adams, President Kensington Mfg. Co., New\nYork.\nRalph Erskine, President Erskine-Danforth Co.,Ne\\vYork.\nArts '3D Dccoration,\n50 West 47 th St. New York City"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.84", "texte": "wmm\nmmmm\n—\n.> \\ \\ - , « ' - ■MB '\n112 mSM\n'WM •■■••■ l:;l!:P'|f:;:: .\n3##|\nIP\nt* : .\nmsm\n*%\nfif&:||ll®#\n\" :■ r':'\" . ■:\n:>M:i\nm\nx --- ;:x-xv: •■\n5#\nIB\nr*\n5\\W v - - \"O,!\n31§i# cwJ\nijPs&MSI -#■ tiM\n'mr¥.\nu\n\\y\nsr\n-* \"•**\nI\n£\n*\ni\"\n4,..\n€\n, I\n\\\nmm\n&■\"\nm\n«fe»\n«§» W,- .\n■' • , 'iPf' WX'\njssw <s™»* . 'HmSSnln\nMl\n11\n■\n;\nH\nI\n:\n1\na\nlis\nig§\n, Jt\n1m\n■\n7/is/de or Rlpstairs?\nThe impression is very general that during the summer months more passengers ride\non top of the Fifth Avenue buses than ride inside. The checking of the Fifth Avenue\nCoach Company shows that this impression is incorrect. In only one month of the year —\nJune —are more passengers carried on top than are carried inside. This is undoubtedly\nbecause the extreme heat of summer days causes passengers to seek the shaded inside seats.\nIn the month of May, 1921, the buses carried 5,216,250 passengers — approximately\n51 % on top, 49 % inside.\nIn June 61 % rode on top, 39% inside.\nIn July and August 40% of the passengers rode on top, 60% inside.\nIn September and October, usually very pleasant months, 46% of the passengers\nrode on top, 54% inside.\nThe Coach Company's checking shows an average of 68% of the passengers ride\ninside during the year. This is because of rain, snow, cold, wind, etc., and with a great\nmany people the objection to climbing the stairs. 37,000,000 passengers rode inside the\nbuses in the past 12 months, 17,000,000 upstairs.\nThe cost of an advertising card inside the buses to reach these 37,000,000 people\nis 19 cents per thousand.\nThe passengers in the Fifth Avenue buses are a selected constituency, of above\nthe average purchasing power —people who pay double the regular carfare to assure\nthemselves of a clean and comfortable ride.\nLet me send you a circular showing the results local advertisers have obtained from\ntheir advertisements in the Fifth Avenue buses.\nJohn H. Livingston, Jr.\n425 Fifth Avenue, New York\nTel. 0274 Vanderbilt"}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192211-01.1.85", "texte": "A magazine that you cannot afford to be without is\nART REVIEW\nPublished monthly 25 Cents\nThe following is but a very small percentage of our contributers:\nARTISTS WRITERS\nA magazine that you will not care to throw away after reading.\nSubscribe by the year: domestic two dollars and fifty cents, foreign,\nthree dollars.\nART REVIEW 350 Madison Avenue, New York City."}]}