{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_sha256": "59766da7202a9a9d6968a31982acbb7fe71ee405d220765c40661109da0dcf43", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/02_01/bmtnaap_1923-02_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/02_01/bmtnaap_1923-02_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.2", "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=bmtnaap192302-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1219, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2044, "texte": "Page\nCover Design (Woodcut) — Lissitzky\nTransformations — Richard Huelsenbeck 147\nPost Mortem — Infallibility — Paul Eldridge 160\nPeriphery (Drawing) — George Grosz 162\nGeorge Grosz — Westheim 163\nPop and Mom, Bourgeois Charity (Drawings) — George Grosz 165,167\nMortuary — Malcolm Cowley 170\nSuicide on the Bridge (Drawing) — Paul Klee 171\nThe Song of the Whip — Carleton Beals 172\nMurder, Acrobats (Drawings) — Paul Klee 179,181\nLandscape — William Gamaliel Shephard 180\nIndian Drawings (Woodcuts by L. Medgyes) 180,198\nThe Discoverers — William Carlos Williams 182\nThe Pimps of Death (Drawing) — George Grosz 187\nThe Kid — *Vsevolod Ivanov 188\nSaturday Night (Drawing) — George Grosz 199\nA Note on Modern Russian Art — Louis Lozowick 200\nMadman Drawings 204, 205\nBerlin and the Bubbling Rhine — M. J 206\nComment — L. M« 212"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "147", "page_fin": "159", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 17, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Transformations", "titre_sommaire": "Transformations", "signature_source": "Richard Huelsenbeck ; M. J.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "147", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2297, "texte": "TRANSFORMATIONS\n\nKakadu and Jamaika live quietly in a remote corner of the great city.\nThey are far off from its big noises and color symphony, and so pro-\nperly scared that the thought hardly ever comes to them to go out of\nthemselves. It is hard to describe such a marriage, to explain a contract\nfor a bed and a table as they appear in the novels of Balzac in striking glimpses\nagainst the background of a metropolis. Kakadu is the son of a doctor\nwho was highly regarded by many comfortable burghers and made weekly\ntrips to the country in a buggy. His mother who had died a few years\nbefore of cancer, wrote her name, Driesel, in her maidenhood, and none\ndared whisper that her father had owned a tavern which bore the for-\nbidding name of \"Tivoli,\" a dreadful resort. Maidservants and waiters\nwith knives would fall into great brawls with the police. All that was, as\npeople said, \"the skeleton in the family closet of the Kakadus.\"\nKakadu himself had inherited from his grandfather a passion for\ndrink and several canine instincts. He remained short in stature. Over\nhis very cradle, his parents had planned his career for the Civil Service;\ntheir plans miscarried charmingly. Kakadu always contradicted; you always\ngot the opposite of what you expected from him. He came breathing forth\nopposition. Without any real grounds, people came to regard him as a\nsinister man. If only they knew how stupid he was. At times he showed a\nsense of elegance. He knew to impress his first wife with forty varieties\nof neckties, checkered, solid colored, striped, silken and of plain cloth.\nBy chance Kakadu became a journalist. When he was thirty years old —\nand the most diverse callings might have gloried in his participation — he\nmet with an accident. He wanted to board a street car. The people almost\nsat on the roof. They brimmed up out of the doorways and could be\nheard complaining: \"Horrible! Terrible!\" Kakadu, who in a more rational\nmoment would have seen that it was impossible to get on, clambered1 up\non the steps of the forward part. The motorman held up the car and\nthrew him off. When he tried to get on at the rear end, someone spat\n*\nwith violence into his face. Kakadu raged, he raged for the first time\nin his life, so that the bristles stood bolt upright on his fat skin. True to"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "148", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2905, "texte": "the old custom of seizing the pen when one is at a loss for what to do, he\nplaced himself in the posture to write. He sent a very nice article to the\nKurier. They wrote him that they agreed perfectly with his contentions,\nand asked him to call on the editors, since there were matters of principle\nat stake. Despite its patriotic name, the Kurier permitted itself to play\nthe \"opposition,\" a soft butterish opposition, to be sure, so that no one paid\nany attention to their attacks unless they were headed \"In Protest\" — but\non the whole a sort of opposition. In fact, the editors trembled at their\nown daring. Kakadu was graciously received; they scented a kindred soul.\nKakadu promised to contribute articles to the Kurier when something arose\nwhich was inconsistent with \"open covenants.\" Thus did the celebrated\n\"muse\" awaken in him; his writing table became littered with manuscripts,\nand the files and indexes crowded each other on his shelves. Before\nKakadu had assumed the monstrously important role of championing \"open\ncovenants\" when he was still poor and wretched in every way, he made the\nacquaintance of Jamaika. He knew as yet nothing of \"art\" and did not\neven know that it belonged to the culture of a people; he knew even less\nwhat \"culture\" meant. However he went his own way, a typical German\nman-in-the-street, without bothering anyone. Jamaika came to the capital\nto be an actress. Before a business men's club she played the role of Romeo\nin hose. Someone cried out, \"Bernhardt, the divine Sarah!\" She re-\nceived a bouquet. Since that triumphant evening, when in the feeble glow\nof a few lights, she had delighted the sex of some travelling salesmen, she\ndetermined to devote herself to a great ideal. And so she said categorically:\n\"My whole life shall be offered up to art!\" Indeed, she sacrificed herself;\nupon falling into the hands of Kakadu, she showed extraordinary emotion.\nHe declaimed from Shakespeare; she found it bewitching. He said, that\nthree books of his were to be printed. She trembled with delight. Shyly\nshe said: \"Great man, poet! Quicken me with your spirit!\" He did quicken\nher, since he seduced her without ceremony. It was revealed that she\nstill possessed her innocence . . . Once married — Kakadu became almost\na fixture on the Kurier — Jamaika soon lost her rapturous gestures, she\nshowed herself very talented, very calculating and of the quick slyness\nwhich all men of middle class succumb to. She reigned over Kakadu\nwithout his knowing it, for the chains did not weigh. His desire for comfort\nwas appeased. He yawned. He felt himself extraordinarily secure. No\none noticed that the balance of power had shifted. In fact, one can only\ndescribe it as an evolution in favor of the woman. The instincts of both\ndemanded only peace, absolute peace. The atmosphere is tepid and foggy,\nthe gestures are not the manifestations of a will, the boxing of ears is"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "149", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2787, "texte": "nothing but reflex movement . . . The legs walk slowly through the rooms;\nfor only one thing could they be aroused, at the possibility of poverty, at\nthe possibility of being forced to work harder in order not to starve. The\ndays followed each other, sleep mingled with awakening, life was a drugged\nstumbling. The afternoons on which Kakadu was not obliged to spend at the\neditorial office were always passed in the following manner: the windows\nwere open, at an angle, and a heavy sun fingered the place. Jamaika went\nthrough the room, hardly knowing why, listening to the rustle of her\nunderclothes against her flesh. Kakadu however settled himself in an\narmchair -— he must ponder — a history of the world's literature lay in\nhis lap. It was hard for him to grasp the visions of the past which he needed\nfor his newspaper articles.\nThe cries of children rose above the narrow street, as Jamaika left\nthe house to promenade on the meadow adjoining their house. There\nwas a circus now on the meadow, they were already fastening the roof\nof the tent on the poles. The head of an elephant could be seen sticking\nout of his stall. Grooms led horses by. Jamaika noticed a small under-\nsized man in good clothes who was giving orders to an attendant. When\nhe disappeared into the circus, Jamaika waited; she only wanted to see\nif the man would come out again, and when he did, she went on, but so slowly,\nthat she could easily observe everything that took place in front of the\nentrance to the circus. The man had seen Jamaika, he followed her, and\nwhen she turned about suddenly in order to go home, he said to her: \"Par-\ndon me, madam.\" She knew how to raise her eyebrows; and she observed\nthe effect of this bit of artistry while the man was fumbling for words.\nHe said: \"May I show you the circus? Are you interested in it?\" He spoke\nvery quickly in order to keep her from making any objections. \"Here you\nhave the elephant stall. For the present only the Indian elephant, Billy,\nis to be seen. The female, Milly, is probably still on the railroad. They\nare old animals, madam, but very valuable possessions, indeed.\" Jamaika\nonly laughed. She no longer found it \"shocking\" to converse with a gentle-\nman whom she had not been formally introduced to. Kakadu was sitting\nat home reading the history of the world's literature. The name of the\nlittle man was Butterweg and it appeared that he was a frog-swallower, the\ngreatest attraction of the circus and a celebrity among artists. Butterweg\nknew the manners of high society, he talked with a slight foreign accent,\nand spoke with enthusiasm of travels in Italy. Florence was a lovely city\nand full of works of art. He said \"works of art\" with the intonation of a\nconnoisseur, so that it became speedily apparent to his hearer what great"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "150", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2920, "texte": "knowledge he had. Jamaika felt herself transported. She kept thinking:\n\"Charming! Charming! What an extraordinary person!\" It did not take\nlong for her to respond naively, the obstacles were slight. One felt oneself,\nafter all, with an artist, with a kindred spirit. For Jamaika still\nnourished her idea of a career on the stage, her rapture for the eternal\nand the beautiful, for Goethe and Schiller. It was very difficult for them\nto part. In the sandy arena they tried to run after each other, but Jamaika\ntripped and fell, her nose striking the hard ground and bleeding profusely.\nButterweg made a fuss about her ordered a glass of water and then sat down\nnext to Jamaika by the rail and played the doctor. \"Did you hurt your-\nself?\" he kept asking, \"You must stick the cotton way up into your nose,\ndear madam.\" He gripped Jamaika's neck and with one hand helped to\ndirect her unhappy efforts. When Jamaika made off, he said softly, \"Adieu,\nmy dear lady.\" She turned very pale — \"When will I have the pleasure of\nseeing you again?\" Jamaika shrugged her shoulders, she thought of Kakadu\nin his armchair, it was very late and she was chiefly interested in avoiding\nany scenes. And so Butterweg remained standing, hat in hand, not a little\nperplexed. On the following day, Jamaika promenaded again in the\nneighborhood of the circus, this time wearing a very seductive costume,\nwhere liveried grooms went by leading horses, and the male elephant, Billy,\nstuck his head out of his stall. The friendship became warm, and even if\nat first Jamaika was not favorably disposed, Kakadu had a rival who cer-\ntainly surpassed him in all manly qualities. But Jamaika was only playing.\nShe was playing with the idea of infidelity and with Butterweg who felt\nhimself reduced to a polite intimacy which only aroused his desires im-\nmeasurably. He fell so madly in love that he neglected his calling and on the\nGala opening night of the circus fell down miserably. At the office of the\nKurier Kakadu heard of the fiasco of the frog-swallower. He said to\nJamaika: \"I have tickets to the circus. If you feel like going, let us go\nthere.\" Jamaika affected a complete indifference: \"I have no interest what-\nsoever in such silliness. My household is more important to me, and\" —\nhere she went to Kakadu, gave him a meaning glance and kissed him\nfull on the mouth — \"and so is the comfort of my dear Kakadu. Nothing\nhas thus far disturbed our tranquillity. The accursed clamor of the circus\npenetrates into our very bedroom!\" \"Right you are, little mouse,\" said\nKakadu lightly (smacking his lips), \"Let us stay at home.\" He had his\nboots taken off and buried himself in a history of the world's literature. From\ntime to time he would try to recite, with a curiously timid face, the poets of\nanother epoch. Jamaika was already abroad on the meadow, she threw all\ncaution to the winds, and inquired immediately at the box-office for Butter-"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "151", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2579, "texte": "weg. Butterweg appeared, very downcast, the adverse reviews in the news-\npapers troubled him deeply. \"You may believe it or not, Jamaika, but a man\nwho has the blood of an artist in his veins depends upon the critics. What\na disgrace! What will the public think!\" Jamaika declared that she had\nsuffered the same experience when she had played great roles on the stage.\nThey spoke of the \"fluidity of art.\" Butterweg cited innumerable philosophers\nand Jamaika was stirred by consciousness of her ignorance. Then she\nsuggested, without any sense of the consequences of her words, \"How would\nit be, Mr. Butterweg, if you spoke to my husband personally about this\nmatter. You know, I suppose, that he is a journalist and if you can make\nclear to him what is at stake, he may he able to help you a great deal.\"\nButterweg, who scarcely believed that Jamaika meant what she was saying,\nstuttered, \"Why—certainly, that would be fine, it is always best to be frank\nand open.\" Jamaika thought that her relations with Butterweg could be\nstrengthened by this experiment. . . Butterweg, compelled by this plan to\nhazard all, drew Jamaika into a corner, and like a Saladin, like a shepherd,\ndeclared his love to be all powerful, as he fell to his knees and kissed\nhis lady's hand. She felt the ends of his moustache tickle her hand and\nbegan to laugh very hard. He took this as a sign of assent and assuming\nthat he was favored, wound himself tightly about her body and covered her\nwith stormy kisses. Jamaika sank down exhausted against the walls of the\ntent. But she felt a very pleasant kind of exhaustion and the agitated blood\nflooded her breasts and choked her breathing. As she approached him again\nwith distorted visage she lowered her head a bit and said: \"I love you.\"\nButterweg sighed. He suspected that this time the newspaper comments\nwould be much more favorable.\nII.\n\"Kakadu,\" said Jamaika, \"listen. I just went by the Circus when a\nman accosted me and presented himself. His name was Butterweg, he was\nthe Frog-swallower of whom you spoke the other day. I said to him: how\ncould he dare to accost me in the street. And did he not know that he\nwas compromising a respectable woman by such behaviour? He apologized\nprofusely and said that he must speak to you about a very important matter\nand that he was afraid to approach you directly, because he had been told\nthat you were very peculiar in your views, and so he bade me putin a word\nfor him.\" Kakadu seemed flattered: \"Yes, yes. But what does he want of\nme. He is the same man who was so widely advertised and then fell down"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "152", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2865, "texte": "so badly on the opening night.\" \"That's it exactly, my dear Kakadu. He\nwants to talk over the criticisms with you. He wants to explain to you\nhis art, for he fears that he has been misunderstood.\" Kakadu nodded\nhis head, shrugged his shoulders and rubbed his hands, not knowing what\nto say. \"Yes, he can come. Nevertheless, I find it rather strange that he\ndoesn't approach me directly if he has something to say to me. And then\nif he thinks he can put anything over on me, he had better know that he\nis mistaken. Critics cannot be bribed; and he has already shown that his\nperformances are not praiseworthy.\" Jamaika went to Butterweg and told\nhim that Kakadu had invited him to have coffee with them. But on the\nfollowing day, right after lunch, when Butterweg was supposed to come,\nKakadu said, \"My dear Jamaika, I have been re-considering the whole\nmatter. I should rather not have this man come to my house. It may\nopen the door to troubles which I should rather avoid. I therefore beg you\nto prevent him from visiting us. And (here his voice betrayed his real\nemotion) when do you expect to see him again?\" Jamaika's face took on\nan innocent expression. \"I have already told you that he approached me\nand begged me to putin a word for him. Since that time I have not seen\nhim, and have no further occasion to. What do you take me for? I am\na respectable woman. I don't know when he will come.\" Kakadu grumbled:\n\"But that is very unpleasant. I never wanted to see this comedian in my\nhouse. They ruin your character, they turn your head, and they are all\nasses, asses. . .\" At this moment Butterweg, unconscious of what was going\non, rang the bell. Jamaika went to Kakadu quickly and kissed him, saying:\n\"There he is. Be nice to him, I beg of you. The poor man is in such\na bad way. There is no need of your making his life more bitter.\" Kakadu\nsat in his armchair with the mien of a magistrate, as Butterweg entered.\nThe history of the world's literature lay in his lap and he looked up as if\nhe were being interrupted in his studies. \"Am I intruding?\" asked Butterweg\nanxiously. Kakadu tried to give his voice a manly depth: \"I have been\ntold by my wife that you wanted to see me on business. Can Ibe of service\nto you in any way?\" Butterweg stammered something about art and criti-\ncism, and Jamaika, fearing that he might miss his mark, interrupted in loud\nand cheerful tones; \"Oh please do not speak so learnedly! All this learning\njust turns a poor woman's head. You can hardly believe, my dear Mr. But-\nterweg, how much my husband studies. Day and night he pores over\na history of the world's literature — think of it, world's literature! Dear\nKakadu, dear little Kakadu! But now we shall have some coffee. Where\nis the maid? Everything must be ready by now.\" Before the might of her\npersuasiveness the men bowed. When Kakadu saw the steaming coffee and"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "153", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2955, "texte": "the cakes he thought no longer of learned poses. Later on — Jamaika sat\nresting one elbow on her raised knee and smoking — the conversation re-\nverted to artistic things. \"But, Mr. Butterweg,\" said Kakadu seriously, \"I\ndo not quite understand how the people can be raised up to a higher level\nthrough your art.\" He put this question as if he were addressing a candidate.\nHe spoke as if he had stayed up many nights over this problem. Butterweg\n¥\nreplied: \"My view is that art is art. We must accept that as our hypothesis,\nonce for all, isn't that so? (Kakadu shook his head.) Nevertheless, I don't\nthink we should give too much weight to that fact. I, for instance, act quite\notherwise, when I perform in my art.\" Kakadu felt conscious of his\nsuperiority. \"Naturally,\" he remarked, \"Each man thinks differently, some\nmore deeply and others more superficially.\" A controversy arose over the\nquestion of artistic inclinations. Butterweg ardently championed the idea\nthat artists are born and not made, while Kakadu was of the opinion that\npractice makes perfect, that a man could become the greatest of artists by\nclose application. Butterweg said: \"As you see me now, so have I been,\na frog-swallower from earliest childhood.\" \"That is not the question,\" said\nKakadu, \"The question is whether the motives which impelled you to swallow\nfrogs were hereditary or acquired.\" \"I have never given that any thought.\nAll I know is that from my earliest youth it pleased me, to — putting it\npolitely — make my repast of frogs, and I was very easily led to make of\nthis aptitude my life's profession. The boys who played with me cried out\nwhen they saw me swallow the animals at one gulp, but I had already\ntasted the true, the great sensation which was later to be mine.\" Kakadu,\nhowever, was worried lest Butterweg persist in error. He said: \"How then\ncould you distinguish yourself from artists like Goethe, Schiller, Geibel,\nUhland? They too must have experienced this rare feeling, and yet your\npropensities can scarcely be compared to the performances of these geniuses.\nThink of Faust, think of the Bride of Messina/\" \"You can think what you\nplease,\" said Butterweg, \"but it is just as I say. I feel it in my heart and\nthat is what counts above all. I don't know the tricks of those gentlemen,\nbut if they have performed anything worth-while then they experienced\nthe same feeling.\" Kakadu felt that he was representing culture and all that\nwas holy to culture. \"Oh!\" he cried pathetically, \"My dear sir (taking the\nhistory of the world's literature and lifting it reverently into the air). Oh!\nMy dear sir! Do not speak so loud, that learned people may not laugh at\nyou.\" Butterweg gave no heed to this warning. All that was sacred to him\nwas at stake: \"That doesn't matter to me at all!\" Kakadu was silent, he\nlooked at Jamaika and frowned heavily. Then Butterweg began again:\n\"I am thinking of going very far in my calling. I shall establish relationships"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "154", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2534, "texte": "between my art and politics. You don't understand me? Why, there must\nbe more reality in my art, more relation with actual life.\" \"I understand\nperfectly,\" said Jamaika, who was straining all the time to look very\nreflective. \"The opinions of artists are always very interesting. Politics is\nthe symbol for reality to you, isn't it?\" \"Perfect, madam. Extremely well\nput, I am flattered at how well I am understood by you.\" Kakadu's com-\nprehension became more and more restricted. \"Permit me, Jamaika, lam\nafraid you haven't understood Mr. Butterweg in the least. I would consider\nit more carefully before saying anything of the sort. Mr. Butterweg counts\nvery much on such judgments. It is well known how much artists depend\non other's opinions.\" Jamaika's innocence seemed to be quite perfect.\n\"But if Mr. Butterweg himself says that I understand him? He must know\nbest.\" \"Mr. Butterweg is wrong. He is deceiving himself in harbouring\nsuch views.\" \"Oho!\" cried Butterweg, \"not as much as that, I only deceive\nmyself in your mind. You can never destroy that which is holy to me with\nall your learning. Your wife has understood me as I have been seldom\nunderstood before. Artists know a woman's soul, they know perfectly\nwhether they are understood by a woman. I believe that the artist is the\nhighest type of man, and when he places woman above himself in under-\nstanding, what must she then be?\" Kakadu made an ironic bow: \"Your\narguments, my dear sir, are so convincing, that I am compelled to concede\nto you. You will permit me to leave you in the company of my wife, who\nunderstands you so wonderfully.\" He bowed again, and left the room*\n\"That's a nice scrape,\" said Butterweg. \"Well, I suppose we have spoiled\neverything now.\" Jamaika laughed, but she did not feel very well about it.\n\"Oh that doesn't matter, my dear, I shall soon bring him around. Do you\nthink he can do whatever he wants here?\" Butterweg came nearer to\nJamaika and before she could prevent him, took her hand and kissed it slowly.\n\"When shall we see each other, my love?\" \"I shall come with Kakadu to\nthe evening performance.\" \"Do you think that you can persuade him to\ncome?\" \"There are means!\" said Jamaika—she laughed a little—\"there\nare means which are infallible!\"\nIII.\nJamaika had overestimated the difficulty of persuading Kakadu to\ncome to the circus. He showed himself very willing, but he said: \"I can\nscarcely understand why you said the circus robs us of our peace, Jamaika.\nDidn't you say that the clamor of the comedians penetrates to our very"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "155", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2871, "texte": "bed-chamber?\" \"I don't remember,\" replied Jamaika, \"and if I did, I wasn't\nserious. I love the horses there, and there is also an elephant named Billy.\"\n\"Certainly. Certainly. You shall see your elephant.\" And he wanted to\nadd, that she ought not see too much of Butterweg, but he feared a scene\nthat might rob him of his peace. They went through the huge gate and\nJamaika walked by very quickly, because the girl at the box-office greeted\nher. Kakadu doffed his hat, although he didn't know what it was about.\nButterweg suddenly appeared from behind a partition, he greeted Jamaika,\nand kissed her hand. Then he said to Kakadu: \"You must forgive me for\nmy heated words. lam really of a peaceable nature.\" Kakadu sniffed at\nthis. He laughed, so to speak, through his nose. \"Oh, oh, my dear fellow.\nI don't mind that at all. Don't I know how excitable artists are?\" An usher\nin strawberry-colored livery showed them to their seats, and as Butterweg\nleft, Jamaika motioned to him again behind Kakadu's back. The show\nbegan with a Hungarian march. Twelve \"Isabel-colored\" steeds danced\nand reared themselves on their hind legs at command, so that the children\ncried out with joy and the old ladies sank deeper into their seats with faint\ngasps. Butterweg waited behind the entrance-curtain. Upon a wooden\nplatform where the clowns carried on their merry antics, a number appeared,\nthe number of Butterweg's act. Kakadu leaned one arm on the plush of\nthe upholstery and said: \"I am surprised that you do not see through the\nsilliness of such performances. When I was young, I might have enjoyed\nthis, but, Heavens! one grows more mature, one experiences, labors with\nthe mind.\" Butterweg did not merely jump into the ring, as did the others.\nHe sought to win the public favor through a stunt. He came in limping,\nhe wailed dolorously, as if he were sorely wounded, and then, just when\nthe public began to be bored, he suddenly straightened out and made a\nsomersault almost to the roof of the tent. The people clapped furiously.\nJamaika was very proud of her admirer, but Kakadu only shook his head\nand said: \"Look at that monkey there. Consider for a moment and you\nwill agree with me that one can't go about with such people.\" But Jamaika\nwas delighted: \"I believe that I am beholding a new type of man. He\nmakes himself laughable for our entertainment. Isn't that honorable?\"\nNow the deep tone of the bassoons was heard. The musicians danced in\na mad rout about the bandstand, and everyone felt that the climax of the\nshow was coming. Then Butterweg threw a dozen frogs into the air,\nspread his legs, and stooped. With open mouth he received the frogs one\nafter another in the order in which he threw them into the air. Then when\neveryone feared that he would be prostrated with cramps, he ran twice\naround the ring, laughing and smacking his lips as if he had eaten a good"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "156", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2909, "texte": "dinner. The applause brought the house down. Suddenly there was a mur-\nmur. Kakadu had to recoil in his chair; he was very white, and at the point\nof vomiting. A porter wanted to help him but Jamaika said: \"Don't you\nsee that he belongs to me? I shall take care of him myself.\" On Jamaika's\narm, Kakadu got out into the fresh air, where he immediately revived.\nBut his great sickness dated from this visit to the circus, his stomach re-\nbelled, and his complexion became yellow and pasty. Since that evening,\nhis legs trembled when he walked, and strangely enough, he began to grow\nsmaller, so that any child was a full head bigger than he. He held a hand-\nkerchief to his mouth and staggered about, while Jamaika called for a taxi.\nOnce at home she said to him: \"My dear, it is no longer pleasant to go out\nwith you anywhere. You remind me of little children, who always lose\ncontrol of themselves, when they see something that upsets them.\" Kakadu\ncould not think of anything to say, he lay down in bed, and felt so well\nin the warm covers that he gave vent to comfortable grunts. Jamaika could\nthink only of the triumph of Butterweg, and she tried in vain to pass the\ntime reading. She said to herself: \"What a fool I am married to! Can\nanybody call him a man? Does he think of anything but his body and\nhis food?\" She tossed about impatiently. Her thoughts were in the circus\nand the sounds of the music filled her ears. She found herself before an\narmoire. She looked for a dress with pleasing colors, something quite\ndistinctive. She had a robe of bright green silk, and tried it on to see if\nit still fitted her. She stood before a mirror, and marvelled at her beauty.\nHow comes it that I am married to this man, who never tells me that I am\nlovely and adorable?\" She thought of the words of Butterweg, as he lay at\nher feet, a shepherd declaring his love. The house was very still, except\nfor Kakadu's snoring. She put on a large hat, like that of the horsewoman,\ntook her little reed walkingstick, opened the door, and was out in the free.\nShe walked very fast, but when she reached the meadow, she saw that the\nlights of the circus were out. A little boy was crawling about the wagons,\nand Jamaika asked him if he had seen Butterweg. He told her that all of\nthe performers were in the \"Meilhac\" restaurant, and offered to lead her\nthere. When Butterweg saw Jamaika, he asked the proprietor to show them\nto a private room. \"I observed,\" he said, \"how I sent your husband off.\nIs it very serious?\" Jamaika blushed. \"Oh, nothing very bad, Mr. Butter-\nweg.\" After a moment, she added: \"Aren't you surprised at my coming\nhere to see you?\" Butterweg laughed and raised Jamaika's hand to his lips:\n\"Dear Madam, how could it be otherwise? I know that my love has not\nleft you cold. I adore you.\" Before she could prevent him, he pulled her\nto him and pressed his moustache to her mouth. \"You dearl You dear!"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "157", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2880, "texte": "I love you, do you hear? I love you!\" Jamaika wept, but she wept with\njoy. She whispered, \"My love, my most beloved, you are good to me.\"\nIn the neighboring room there was loud singing. Women shrieked, and\nthe proprietor's calm voice was drowned in the uproar. Butterweg said:\n\"You will permit me to escort you home, will you not?\" \"Beloved, it is too\nbad, too bad, that we can never stay together long enough.\" Jamaika\npressed closer to the man.\"I am going to Paris soon. My art demands that\nI go to Paris. Here everyone is like (he laughed drily) Mr. Kakadu, and\nthat doesn't help my art. I must have people about me who understand.\"\nJamaika sobbed against his arm. \"If I did not have my family here,\" said\nshe, \"I should follow you through the whole wide world, to the end of the\nrailroad tracks.\" In the vestibule they kissed again, until Jamaika tore\nherself free, and ran quickly up the stairs. The next evening she was\nwaiting for Butterweg. Kakadu was lying in bed, the doctor had ordered\na few days of rest for him. \"I have been thinking it over,\" she said to\nButterweg, \"if I knew of a way of going, I would go with you.\" \"Very\nsimple, you just get on the train.\" \"But Kakadu can't be left alone here!\"\n\"Can't he? Well, I don't know what we can do about it in that case.\"\nButterweg regarded Jamaika, but said nothing, and waited for her decision.\nThen she spoke: \"I cannot leave him alone here, he made me what I am\ntoday. It is not right of me even to sit here with you, while he is sleeping\nat home.\" Butterweg indicated that in this case he would be compelled\nto make the trip alone. He turned his head as if to call the waiter. Jamaika,\npressed, said: \"I don't know how it can be done. If he should come along\nit would be the same thing in Paris. I could never see you without always\nfearing that he might break in on us.\" Jamaika remained lost in thought\nfor a long time. Then she said out loud, as if she had found an infallible\nmeans. \"Can't we force him? I don't love him, I love you, but if I left\nhim behind, I would always be remorseful about him. Yes, we will force\nhim to do everything we want.\" Butterweg said, \"I love you, and I am\nready for anything.\" They appointed an evening on which they would\noverpower Kakadu, pack him into a cab, and ride to the station. They\nwalked through streets where the skinny little pimps smoked on the corners.\nShe pressed her body close to him. He walked along leaning on her, his\nmouth wide open. Often he would rummage through his pockets as one\nwho is accustomed to hunt in broad pantaloons for strange clownish things.\nJamaika said: \"You need not fear him. He is a small man, and his strength\nis the strength of a child. He is small in understanding, and has no pride.\"\nButterweg replied: \"Splendid, my dear. I see that you are assuring me of\na grand career which shall be wholly devoted to art. I plan to link my art"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "158", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2737, "texte": "with politics; clownery has become merely baroque in Germany. That must\nall be changed. It has become only a sweet and virtuous affair. Dear God!\nWhere is the rhythm of the great warehouses? Where, the whirling stair-\nways that whistle up through storey after storey? What statesman of\ntoday understands my art?\" Out of waiters' homes came the cries of\ncarousing vagabonds, wailing and uncanny. Butterweg laughed. He put\nhis hands again into his vast trousers' pockets and dangled his legs like\na yokel. The silhouettes of policemen swept up the street until they suddenly\nhalted, drenched in the glow of a street lamp. \"Furthermore, we must\ncompel him to show some energy. All his life he has been unwilling to\nmake the shortest journey. He is petty and fussy, always repeating other\npeople's ideas as if they were his own, but he knows how to give them\nanother appearance.\" \"So, so!\" exclaimed Butterweg, \"we will get him,\nall right.\"\nWhen the day came on which Butterweg had arranged to fetch Kakadu\nand Jamaika and take them to Paris, the noted journalist was spread out\nupon a couch. He was playing with his dog, who frisked about and barked,\ndove under the closets and struck about him with his little paws like a lion.\nJamaika had already packed the trunk secretly; her travelling coat was\nready, and now she was trying to prepare the man for the great event.\nHe had never seemed to feel so much at home in his home. When it began\nto rain he said, how pleasant it was to have a tidy home. He compared\nthe lives of artists to his own and laughed stoutly. \"How can I ever get\nhim started?\" thought Jamaika to herself. \"Look here, Kakadu,\" she said\naloud, \"you are doing those people an injustice when you say that they are bad\nbecause they don't live in the same security that you have. It might happen\nto you also, by some chance, that you should be forced to give up your\nhome, and wander about the world like a vagabond.\" Kakadu's voice\nsuddenly became very high-pitched, when he spoke he accompanied his\nwords with nervous gestures; when he stood upright, he looked pitifully\nsmall. Jamaika could look over his head. \"That will never happen, Ja-\nmaika,\" he said, \"I should have to go mad, or some brigand would have to\ncarry me away by force, as a gypsy kidnaps a child.\" Jamaika still tried\nto direct his attention to the possibility of such an event: \"You can never\ntell what may come about,\" she said. \"It is better to be prepared for\neverything, and as for me—l shouldn't be in the least displeased to get\naway from here for once and see the world, the end of the railroad tracks.\nFor instance I have never seen Paris, and Butterweg has told me a great\ndeal about that city—\" \"What does that mean—you have spoken to Butter -"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "159", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2724, "texte": "weg, and never told me anything about it?\" he cried. \"What is going on?\nWho is master of this house?\" Jamaika scarcely knew what to say, but\nsuddenly she burst out, \"Look here, Kakadu, perhaps I am the master of\nthis house. Everything is possible, and sometimes things happen which\ncould never be foretold.\" Kakadu lay down on the sofa, but then sprang\nup and regarded Jamaika: \"What do you mean? Are you well? Repeat\nwhat you said before!\" \"I shall repeat it when we have time. Now there\nis no time,\" \"You are not well, you must go to a doctor, and have your\nhead examined. It is all the bad influence of that comedian, I warned you.\nNow I shall have the trouble of bringing you to your senses.\" At eight\no'clock Jamaika met Butterweg on the steps. \"I fear very much that he\nwill give us trouble,\" she said. \"Shan't we try to move him by kindness?\"\nButterweg had thrown a great cloak about him. \"No! It is too far gone,\nnow,\" he exclaimed. \"If he will not, he will be forced. En avant! The\ntrain leaves in half an hour, the cab waits below.\" As Butterweg entered,\nKakadu was promenading about his room. He spat on the carpet, and he\nsnapped his fingers with nervous pops. \"Gooddayl\" said Butterweg rudely,\n\"Have you heard that you are going to travel?\" \"I travel? Are you mad?\nI shall never leave this room.\" \"In spite of all, you will travel this very\nevening, with Jamaika and me to Paris.\" \"Ah, Jamaika has betrayed me!\"\ncried Kakadu, who suspected their connivance. \"She shall regret this.\"\nButterweg grabbed the man with little ceremony, gripped his throat, and was\ngoing to bind him, when Jamaika intervened. \"Don't hurt him!\" she said\nanxiously. Butterweg reflected for a moment, then took a little phial out\nof his vest-pocket, and sprayed a few drops of brown liquid into Kakadu's\nnose. Kakadu became will-less and apathetic, he let himself be carried\ninto the cab without a sound. To the porter who carried the trunk, Butter-\nweg said, \"Don't make so much noise, don't you see there is a sick man\nhere!\" At the station a Red-Gross man wanted to get a litter for Kakadu,\nbut Butterweg, who wished to save money, said that it was unnecessary.\nWith Jamaika's help he carried Kakadu into the sleeper, a few more drops\nof dope were sprinkled into his nose, and he fell fast asleep and snored\nhappily. Butterweg stuck out his chest: \"Well, so much for that!\" Jamaika\nbegan to weep, out of indefinable motives. \"Poor man,\" she sobbed, \"who\nwould have thought that he would come to Paris in this way.\" She saw\nthe station disappear in the mist, the last red lights shot by, and a nameless\nsadness filled her heart, so that for a long time she could find no peace.\n\nRichard Huelsenbeck\n(Translated from the German by M.J.)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "160", "page_fin": "161", "image_debut": 18, "image_fin": 19, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "Post Mortem", "titre_sommaire": "Post Mortem", "signature_source": "Paul Eldridge", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "160", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 435, "texte": "POST MORTEM\nI DIE\nI stretch forth\nUpon the lustrous satin,\nIn royal stiffness,\nIn papal dignity,\nToes outward.\nI CROSS THE STYX\nMy finger-tips\nDrawn across the surface\nOf the Hateful River,\nI sail, somnolent,\nIn an old-fashioned boat.\nI FACE JUSTICE\nDripping with sin,\nMaking large pools\nLike an umbrella,\nClosed after a rain-storm,\nI wait.\nVERDICT\nHeaven!\nOn the lap of Jesus!\nLike a youthful bride!\nO ironic Artist!\nIncomparable God!"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "161", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 138, "texte": "SIC TRANSIT GLORIA CHRISTI\nOver the tall wooden cross\nSwollen with rains\nAnd devoured by ants,\nThe cool, rigid shadow\nOf a nose and thumb."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "161", "page_fin": "161", "image_debut": 19, "image_fin": 19, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Infallibility", "titre_sommaire": "Infallibility", "signature_source": "Paul Eldridge", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "161", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 140, "fin_caractere_exclue": 545, "texte": "INFALLIBILITY\nPaul Eldridge\nI am the Clown\n— Plastered face,\nScarlet lips —\nBut how should I\nJuggle the Earth,\nThe Great Ass's bladder\nUpon the tip of my false nose,\nSince I have to balance myself\nUpon it,\nAs a drunken man?\nI shall become the Pope\n— Inverted eyes,\nPasted palms —\nI shall juggle with perfect gravity,\nAnd infinite sanctity\nUpon the rims of my false mouth,\nHeaven,\nThe diamond-studded hoop!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "162", "page_fin": "162", "image_debut": 20, "image_fin": 20, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Periphery", "titre_sommaire": "Periphery", "signature_source": "George Grosz", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "162", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 22, "texte": "George Grosz\nPeriphery"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "163", "page_fin": "169", "image_debut": 21, "image_fin": 27, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "George Grosz", "titre_sommaire": "George Grosz", "signature_source": "Westheim", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "163", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2214, "texte": "2*\n\nGEORGE GROSZ\n\nMediaeval times were the period most propitious for the production\nof art, for then belief and existence were one. We might even say that\nthere is something mediaeval in every genuine artist. Belief is still the\nfoundation of the artist's existence—be it only the belief in his own election.\nA last vestige of sanctity is retained in the psyche of the artist.\nIt has been said that God exists inasmuch as he is believed in. Art\ntoo is fiction when it is not believed. The human masses have no longer\nany belief or merely (as it was stated in these pages four months ago)\na belief in the \"Mysticism of Money\"; as our society has no longer a God\nneither can it have an art.\nThe artist, glorified by the history of art, is perhaps only a rudiment\nin this godless society. I imagine that our brutal forceful business men\nconsider the artist, living in dreams and visions, much as they consider the\nflapper. Let him have his ideals and waste his heart in pale blue rapture,\nbut where realities of life are concerned: trusts, world market, crises. —\nThe artist, who can impress such people seriously must be carved out\nof hard wood, must have their sturdiness and self control, must scrap his\nwhole bundle of illusions.\nGeorge Grosz may be the precursor of this type.\nThe name of George Grosz evokes a new style of drawing. — Grosz\npaints too, very good pictures, of which his largest: \"Germany, a Winter's\nTale\" is undoubtedly a remarkable production; but his artistic profile is most\ndistinct in his drawings. —He has a style which does not derive from\nCezanne or Picasso, from Munich or Hodler, or from any other of the\nartistic deities of to-day. His razor sharp, glass-pen hard, even line, which\nseems cut with an apache knife, exists independent of other art. It exists\nas the style of George Grosz.\nThe last case of this kind was Daumier. He was flaming passion,\na flame dancing above a log. Sparks make revelry around his lines. Do\nyou know how the flame gnaws the log which it will reduce to ashes?\nDaumier's blazing black and whites gnawed thus at the dry wood of his time—\nthe Pear King, the \"ventre legislatif\", the judge, the lawyer and Robert\nMasaire, that Johnny-jump-up of public fraud."}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2870, "texte": "There is no flame, no blaze in the line of George Grosz — rather\ncontrolled passion which does not take the liberty of running away, fire\nwater on ice. His line is definite and exact; a work of precision like that\nof modern machine tools; it has the uneasy quietness of the gunman whose\nfinger is on the trigger. It makes one think of the rigour, of the correctness\nof Prussian barracks, whose greatest joy is the straightest-dressed line.\nEach hair in a lieutenant's moustache, drawn by Grosz is pulled as straight\nas though Haby himself had combed it. Here is a style of flat footed\nimpertinence, like the drawings with only one meaning, which small boys\nscratch on walls and outhouses. This scampish impertinence which prefers\na thing, three times underlined to once suggested, this stone cutter's style\nof unequivocal irreverence was just what Grosz needed to oppose to the\ncynicism of so called civilization, the superior cynicism of an \"enfant\nterrible,\" who says freely what he is and what he means. These \"privy\nscratchings\" were a discovery to Grosz just as were the cave paintings of\nprehistoric man and the art of the Bushman to his colleagues of the Higher\nArt Faculty and he made the most of his discovery. A child of the city,\nwhose only grief seems to be that he did not grow up in the greatest of\nall cities—New York, he must have been charmed to show these dear people,\nwho carry their heads with such insolent pride, what a joke they were in\ndaring to call themselves \"man and fellowman.\"\nMany people have talked about his infantilism. A terrible infantilism!\nThey must have a peculiar conception of childishness. His art is quite out\nof its diapers and conscious, as consciously organized as modern engineering.\nI do not wish to hurt George Grosz — to whom militarism is as wine to the\nMohammedan, or swinesflesh to the Jew — when I say that his art is con-\nceived in every line like a strategic attack. It constitutes a complete economy\nof means and forces, almost a Taylor system of drawing, everything calcula-\nted to produce the maximum of effectiveness.\nThere is a young art group called \"Constructivists\" who (almost\nromantic) rave about the beauty of engineer-made forms, of buzzing wheels,\nof motors, elevators, steamboats, steel hammers and propellors. Business\nis their god; their idol, the engineer who inevitably creates forms of mar-\nvellous vitality. But these romantic souls overlook the fact that this form\ncreation is only a side product of the engineer's work, in most cases an\ninvoluntary accidental result, for the engineer wants to realize, most of all,\nthe maximum effectiveness with the minimum amount of force and\nmaterial. Even in this regard we find an intimate relation between the\ncalligraphy of George Grosz and engineer created form. Grosz's art does\nnot exist for itself alone — a draughtsman, a class fighter made of it"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "166", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2347, "texte": "a weapon to crush the base and infamous. Grosz would like to make\npeople active, to unite them socially and politically; drawing is to him what\nspeech is to the agitator, or the editorial to the journalist. Painting to\ncharm the aesthetic sense — still-lives or nudes, —is not his business. He\nconsiders it a sort of \"Biedermeier\" occupation. He loves the newspaper\ncartoonist, as he loves Nick Garter and Sherlock Holmes and the boxers\nand wrestlers who thrill the crowds to-day. This type of artist will live\nlong after the easel painter has become extinct. The cartoonist is politically\nactive. In America he represents a power of which we in Europe can\nhave no conception and since the German press is still far from becoming\nAmericanized in this respect Grosz must always create an organ for himself:\n' Bankruptcy,\" \"Everybody his own Football,\" \"Bloody Earnest\", \"The\nOpponent\" — organs of fight, intellectual machine guns trained against\ncapitalism and militarism.\nGeorge Grosz made his debut with a serious of impressions of cities.*\nThese have nothing of the picturesque, of Brangwyn, or of the airy im-\npressionism of Pisarro. The boulevard with its ordered luxury and pro-\nmenading idlers, represents only the surface of this witch's caldron into\nwhich the barbarism of our civilization has crushed millions of people,\ncondemning them, in a way, to a state of primitive bestiality. Unsuccess-\nful country school masters use this condition of affairs as the subject of\ntheir moral lectures. Hard boiled youths paddle around in the whirlpool,\nuntil one day they are seized with the desire to reveal to an astonished\nworld the exotic continent across which thousands hurry day by day to\noblivion; some of them moralize, others, made more for fact than reflection,\nare amused by making those jokes which seem to be as necessary to\ncivilized man as the W. G. or the tooth brush. Grosz is one of the latter\nsort, and as the sensational write-up is an essential of journalism, he\nnaturally does not try to spare people the odour emanating from this\npestilential underground world.\n\"Elevators and lorries,\nundergnawed asphalt — how singular!!\nAdventurers pass, silk hat\nblack on slippery hair, backwards.\nThe many coloured profile of a syphilitic\ngleams through the dark\none can live even without a nose!!!\"\n\n* Grosz-First and little Parbolics."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2673, "texte": "He thrusts his searchlight into the machinery moved by debauchery\nand lust for gain. Round skulls promenade along the streets with no other\naim seemingly but to carry a brilliantined parting and derby hat. The stale\nair of obscure bars and smeary cafe's dulls the senses. The imitation\ngentleman plays the Maharaja, the pimp counts the night's income. Tired\nharlots prepare their nets to fish for the \"client.\" Devout night porters and\nmadams set the stage for casual loves. Electric signs cast sunshine on their\nway. Avarice and lust fight a film-battle in the soul of Mr. Mudiske out for\na spree. Only the make-up is different, somewhat more suggestive, where\nthe bill is higher. With the eyes with which a whore can x-ray the\ncontents of a pocket book, Grosz looks through the trousers of the bour-\ngeois and peeps under the relentlessly fixed corsets of the veterans of love\n(who are used to this anyway) to where faded breasts hang and other things\nappear .. . \"But below that point it is terrible and man shall not tempt the\nGods,\" says Schiller.\nNevertheless even his ice-cold insolence cannot suppress a certain love\nfor this more than exotic world. Whether he sketches the bald stiff fire wall\nof an apartment house, or reproduces the chimneys and gasometers which\nare the background of these scenes, or portrays a harlot's leg with high\nshoe and tightly supported stocking, every line of Grosz is pervaded by an\nindefinable sentiment, which in spite of himself he cannot banish.\nThe beginning of the war. The war \"the steel bath\" (as it was pro-\nclaimed by servile pens trying to persuade the people drunk with phrases of\nits \"moral renovations.\") The war, an orgy of the immoral, of miserable\negotism, and then that which produced the German revolution; the hyper-\ntrophy of militarism and capitalism gave Grosz a mission. There was no\ntime now for strolling about the city. The talent for penetrating human\nnature which he had developed had now to be used practically; bourgeois\nsociety licking the boots of its idol, militarism, had to be putin stocks;\nswarms of shameless and unrestricted capitalists fastened upon the country\nto eat up its last grain of life — like the locusts sent by the Lord to punish the\nEgyptians — he had to tear the clothes from the bodies of this bunch of pro-\nfiteers, usurers, and gamblers, as he had done with the street girls, to show\nentire their decrepitude, their lascivious perversion. Grosz stood on the\nside of the poor; he wanted to make his pen, machine gun and tank. He\nwas a Spartakist and became one of the grimmest enemies of corrupt bour-\ngeois society and one of its most violent accusers. He depicted its rashness,"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2322, "texte": "voracity and dissipation — dragging fat stomachs to orgies organized by\nshrewd promotors, trying to arouse jaded senses by the spectacle of nude\ndances and other lubricities. But first of all his fight was against militarism\n— against that German militarism which brought misery upon a whole\nmisled nation and which, in spite of everything, wished to tyrannize over\nthe people and refused to leave the full manger. When cowardly murderers\nin uniform killed Liebknecht, Luxembourg, Eisner, he threw off all restaint.\nHis drawing became pamphleteering. He occasionally overreaches himself.\nHe is never afraid of being tasteless. His drawings annihilate, because they\nare not caricatures, they are portraits. The \"Face of the Reigning Glass,\" is\nthe title of a series of drawings published as a pamphlet, whose circulation\nreached many thousands. The cover is adorned with the portrait of \"The\nAssessor,\" reserve officer straight pressed, whose frozen stupidity was\nalready known to Heine. The drawings which follow make a single heroic\nsong, the epic of a certain kind of heroism as it appeared in Heine's\nlament: \"Germany, a Winter's Tale\" wishing \"the good folk\" Heaven\n\"guard thee from war and fame\nfrom heroes and heroic deeds.\"\nThis is a battle which we must fight out between ourselves here in\nGermany. It is a battle between brothers, humanitarian Germany against\nclass imposition of soldier-drones who, when their class priviliges are endan-\ngered, defend them with brute force and villainy. It is a fight to free mankind\ntoo, which is fought here with wit and talent, and from the days, of Aristo-\nphanes it has been the tradition for artists to stand on the people's side.\nGrosz is a phenomenon of his time. Is he nothing more? Will he be\nforgotten, in the marvellous days towards which we were so lovingly pro-\nmised to be led, when one must search learned historical works for in-\nformation about the subjects of his pamphlets as we now do for facts about\nthe Spanish Inquisition and witch trials? Those who believe it is their\nprivilege to judge the great and small artistic immortals may decide. I\ntrust that Grosz, damned to the hell of \"doctrinaire artists,\" will gather about\nhim the poor sinner-souls of Callot and Breughels, of Goya and Daumier,\nof Swift and Heine, and start a game of football.\n\nWestheim"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "165", "page_fin": "165", "image_debut": 23, "image_fin": 23, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.7.1", "titre_corps": "Pop and Mom", "titre_sommaire": "Pop and Mom", "signature_source": "George Grosz", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 24, "texte": "George Grosz\nPop and Mom"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "167", "page_fin": "167", "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.7.2", "titre_corps": "Bourgeois Charity", "titre_sommaire": "Bourgeois Charity", "signature_source": "George Grosz", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 30, "texte": "George Grosz\nBourgeois Charity"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "170", "page_fin": "170", "image_debut": 28, "image_fin": 28, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Mortuary", "titre_sommaire": "Mortuary", "signature_source": "Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 788, "texte": "MORTUARY\nMalcolm Cowley\nDeath is an accumulation of infirmities: hairs\nfall a tooth decays and death; a spot of eczema\nreturns each year with spring; death hides itself\nin a pimple or a sty\nin a parenthesis around the lips that deepens\nno longer; death is rigid being the achievement\nof a pattern; death is a finished pattern of\nwrinkles round the eye.\nHaving completed some grand work, to die . . .\n(Ideally considered death is a simple process\nof exteriorization: thought builds a mausoleum\nfor itself; the brain is inscribed in granite\nor a lie.)\nCoffee at nine each morning with two lumps please\nand heavy cream at nine: death is the accumulation\nof such habits and we die\nat the top first; toes are the last members to\nturn toward the daisies\nand eyes the last to stare into the sky."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "171", "page_fin": "171", "image_debut": 29, "image_fin": 29, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "Suicide on the Bridge", "titre_sommaire": "Suicide on the Bridge", "signature_source": "Paul Klee", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 31, "texte": "Paul Klee\nSuicide on the Bridge"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "172", "page_fin": "179", "image_debut": 30, "image_fin": 37, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "The Song of the Whip", "titre_sommaire": "The Song of the Whip", "signature_source": "Carleton Beals", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2414, "texte": "THE SONG OF THE WHIP\n\nGita lounged on a warm stone at the entrance to the cactus runway.\nShe stretched out her graceful bare feet luxuriously, and her eyes followed\nthe jagged earthquake crack in the nude brown wall of the soaring Torre\nde Gomares of the Alhambra. Absently her glance traced out the course\nof the noisy Xenil River, skirting the foot of the bold tower, down to a wide\ngate in the hills. There a rich sunset pulsed through the fleecy clouds that\nhung motionless over the parched yellow Vega.\nGita was the daughter of every race: tall and sinuous as a Goth, her\nshadowy violet eyes hinting at the Celtic, the oval of her firm handsome\nface bespeaking the Iberic, ebony hair Spanish in its untamed profusion.\nHer dusky silken skin obviously belonged behind a Moorish jalousie.\nExotic, too, the high blue girdle lifting her breasts, pressing them slightly\ntogether beneath the metallic sheen of her brown dress. But Gita's heart\nwas gipsy. Her symmetry and poise, her very relaxation cloaked passionate\nintensity, hinted at lawless inner fires.\nTrue, she lived like a healthy animal: sleeping when night fell, rising\nat dawn, eating — when there was something to eat — there in the cactus -\npaled cave-house across from the Alhambra. When her man Rufo beat her\nsufficiently, she would twist an emeraldgreen kerchief about her head,\npolish the chains of tiny Uruguay gold coins hanging from her ears, and\nsaunter over to the Puerta de las Granadas. Beside the grim battered\nTuscan columns of that gate she would read the palms of smirking tourists.\nGita's one ritual was sitting on the warm stone at twilight when her\ngipsy heart would be filled with wildest melody. Songs she had for the\ncharcoal fire over which she cooked; songs for combing her hair which\nrippled and crackled to her feet; but the melodies of eventide were primitive,\nthrilling, color-drenched. She never sang any of them aloud; their rhythms\nwere too vast and unsubdued. But each communicated a sensuous symbol\nto her mind: a colored petal, a glittering star, a scarlet leaf, shimmering silk;\nothers were in full orchestration, like a full-blown rose or a living sunset\nacross the open Vega. Gita bathed her soul in this color and melody as\nnaturally as a bird splashing in a woodland pool.\nUntil the evening the stranger came! Strolling along the yellow road\nwith his strong hands clasped behind his broad back, head and shoulders"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2669, "texte": "slightly thrust forward, he marvelled at the changing outline of the Alhambra.\nNot twenty paces from Gita, he leaned upon the wayside wall that hung\nover the noisy Xenil.\nMaliciously she gazed at the back of his head, he musing there with\nhis chin cupped in hand . . . Suddenly he wheeled about . . . chest\nheaving . . . hands clenched — stared straight at her ... a solemn, close\nscrutiny. In her face, never a quiver ... to her slim brown hands never\na tremble — but blue-cowled lightning darted from her eyes. The stranger\ngulped his breath, nostrils dilated. Locked his hands behind his back.\nStrode off . . . Gita for the first time in her life became acutely conscious\nof inner song. The rhythms were now different, wilder, more reckless.\nThe following evening when the stranger passed, an invisible quiver\nflowed over her whole body, curled around her breasts tingling. Passion\ncrackled and snapped about her. Their glances met, . . . gripped . . . flowed\ntogether: cool clasping currents suddenly fuming as when electrons\nmingle . . . She was swept into a whirlpool of emotion. He seemed to catch\nher up . . . They were wrenched apart . . . He passed on ... no longer\na stranger.\nThe following evening. Gita with sullen eyes stood facing Rufo, her\nman, near the edge of a cactus corral. Rufo — a lithe, handsome devil,\ncoal-black hair sweeping his swart forehead — held in his powerful hairy\nhand a whip coiled like a serpent.\nHe flung it down, heeled his hands against his green sash from which\nprotruded knife and gun, spat on his palms. His thin lips curled. He\nsnatched up the whip again. It unrolled, a living thing: leapt through the\nair in a trial snap. The next stroke fell upon Gita's back. The spiteful lash\ncurled around her ribs, and she flung up her hands to protect her breasts.\nAgain and again it whistled and sang and fell, slicing at her shoulders . . .\nshredding her thin dress . . . Till the rawhide tip was scarlet . . . But\nGita never winced. Her eyes held to a purple, yellow-spined cactus-fig.\nA foot scraping at the corral-opening. The lash writhed back in\nmid-air, doubled tamely into Rufo's hand. Gita whirled — cried out.\nHe of the two twilights . . . stocky . . . calm . . . grim-jawed. — What\ndoes this mean? — His voice was taut.\nRufo, lips stripped back from teeth: What you do here?\n— Enough of that or I'll have the gendarmes down.\nRufo's mouth twisted into his tight cheeks. He snapped the lash at\nGita again. The outsider rushed forward. A spurt of dust ... a scuffle . . .\na reeling shadow. Rufo has knocked him down with one blow of his heavy\nfist; stepping back, drives his lash at the fallen figure. Once . . . twice . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2738, "texte": "three times: a poisonous bite in the man's leg . . . coiled pain around his\narm ... a livid gash in his neck. Acrid dust . . . blood . . . Gita crying\nout: My God, you'll kill him.\nThe next blow stings her upraised arsm. Laughter. Laughter like\nthe jangle of a heavy chain. Rufo striding from the corral.\nGita has fled with him — the man of the two twilights — Mario.\nHe has taken her to Burgos in northern Spain . . . his home. He has paid\nthe priest . . .in the little church of the Sacred Heart of our Saviour . . .\nthirteen gold pieces. The priest has bound the necks of Mario and Gita\ntogether with his silken brocade sash of gold. They are married.\nShe becomes a transformed being, living in a great house with mosaic\nfloors and high frescoed ceilings where dancing girls spill opals and flowers\nover green meadows. And all her life is changed .. . strangely, unbelievably,\nmagically changed ... as in the wild glimmering legends of her people . . .\nPicturesque was her gipsy costume; but in her new high combs and long\nlacy mantillas, in her silk stockings and sparkling French-heeled slippers,\nshe is beautiful, stately . . . tall as a Goth. She learns to comport herself\nproperly, to restrain whimsies, to observe formalities. Tolerant is Mario\nof her mistakes, ever unruffled, explaining the need of dignity with the\nservants, helping her manage household affairs.\nMario, being a devout Catholic, delighted in initiating her into the\nintricacies of the faith, teaching her pater nosters, she mumbling over her\nbeads with puckered nose. And the dim cool interior of the soaring Gothic\ncathedral with the long vanishing vistas of the nave and aisles, with its\ngorgeous transept, its mighty arched octagon, its lofty columned Coro, was\nto her more weirdly beautiful than anything ever seen, filling her with\nrapture, taming the songs of her heart to suave melancholy. Dreamy\ncontentment with life flowed over her warmly. Mario gave her everything\nshe fancied and things she hadn't the imagination to fancy.\nEven so, at times she was restless ... at other times lonely, though\nalways she upbraided herself when these moods had passed and would try\nto show her affection to Mario in new and tender ways . . . And the days\nwould again be perfect . . . crammed with contentment . . . with gorgeous\nfancies. Life was like an ever-expanding peacock's tail.\nThe weeks slipped into months . . . Uneasiness returned. Nostalgia\nenveloped her like a grey mist. Its coils closed about her. Now . - .\noccasionally . . . Mario's kindness, his patent goodness, grated. She came\nto dislike his customary pose of standing hands clasped behind his back;\nshe linked it with his unwavering attempt to be just — just and tolerant\non all occasions . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2570, "texte": "Warm, scented dusk. She, sitting in the patio before the fountain,\nhugging her knees . . . overwhelmingly aware of emptiness in her heart —\nsullen malaise . . . Just an instinct ... a mood. But she recalled how,\nseated on the stone overlooking the Xenil, sparkling melodies had haunted\nher — unsung melodies with vivid exotic colors. Now .. . try as she\nwould . . . these songs would not reawake; her heart was a stone against\nwhich the red tide of her blood beat all in vain . . . the untamed gipsy blood\nof her race . ..\nShe grew pale . . . distraught. Mario, noticing, bought her a jeweled\nsandalwood fan from Cairo, each rib perforated with delicate tracery . . .\na carved ivory mirror from Morocco with tiny cupids gamboling about the\nframe. He took her to every opera and zarzuela by the travelling companies\nfrom Madrid and Seville. Nothing availed. Insidious lassitude ruled her.\nPetulancy invaded her speech.\n— Why, why are you always this way? . . . That absurdly solemn\nvoice of his; that puzzled shake of the head. — Why not visit your neigh-\nbors? They are good women; they will divert your thoughts.\nGita followed his wishes. The women of her station in Burgos were\nolder than she, but equally cloistered behind the rejas that barred their\nwindows; portly women who found idleness compatible but exacting. Their\nconversation touched upon servants and clothes, also with sedentary sala-\nciousness upon the minute details of illicit love-affairs. Gita soon wearied\nof their company. She preferred the chatter of the servants . . . She scrubbed\ncopper kettles with zest . . . Mario protested ... A petulant toss of the\nhead ... For a whole week she went barefoot around the house — a\ntemporary thrill . . .\nThen she dressed up in all her silks, played la gran sehora, was\nhaughty with the servants, pampered herself with every luxury. She became\ndevout. She went to early mass, a black veil framing the curve of her\ncheeks, drawn tight over her full breasts.\nA cavalry officer kneels at the same prayer-bench. They are whis-\npering their pater nosters. Their hands tremble . . . touch. She drops\nher fan. He restores it gallantly. They smile. They are happy . . . Fbfc\ntwo months: advances . . . retreats . . . sorties . . . manoeuvres . . .\nThey sit alone in a deserted patio. The sky is a smooth shimmering\nbubble. Their pulses throb. The sky is a vast velvet petal. Their eyes\nshine. Their lips are tingling. The sky is a still, breathless pool.\nStars . . . stars: gold-fish swimming in a still, breathless pool.\nPlash of the fountain.\nPollen-scented wind."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2535, "texte": "Perfume from the palm-frondes.\nHe puts his arm about her ... At his touch nausea grips her . . .\nmakes her shuddefr . . . writhe . . . She buries her sharp glistening teeth\nin his wrist . . .\nThe weeks winged past. Again she grew effusively affectionate toward\nMario. She would slip into his study and passionately fling her arms about\nhim, or, silently, lay a blade of grass on the book he was reading . . . and\nvanish. As always he was generous and kind.\nBut she wanted something. She wanted the cloud-strewn sky. She\nwanted the restless night stars . . . wanted them burning in her two hands.\nShe wanted the sharp summer perfumes . . . forever and ever . She began\nexperimenting with Mario's good nature. She tried, at last, by prank, by\ncontrariety, to break down the wall of his placidity . . . tried even to wake\nhim to anger. But he would merely regard her with hurt, pleading eyes . . .\nwould stroke her luxurious black hair . . . would turn away in silence.\nA Sunday morning . . . achingly beautiful. Mario wished to go to\nmass. She refused, watching him through half-closed eyes, long lashes\nveiling their fire. In silence he went alone. She smiled with pity . . . with\nscorn. She never set foot in the cathedral again . . .\nNight. Dazzling stars overhead . . . like sparks from her mind.\nGlinting refulgence seeping through her pores. Pollen-cloyed air warm in\nher throat. All night, she sitting alone under those stars ... in the patio . . .\nbeside the fountain. Not till morning did she drag herself to her room,\nnumb with cold and despair, her black hair tangled. The servant, at Mario's\nbidding hurried to her with mandarine brandy and coffee. Later he ad-\nmonished her firmly but kindly. They returned together to the patio. With\nher sharp white teeth she gnawed pungent spices and queer roots, watching\nhim . . . silently . . . steadily. He grew uncontrollably nervous . . . per-\nplexed. He caressed her hair. She snatched herself away, laughing\nhysterically . . . long peals down the patio arcades . . .\nIn August a band of gipsies wandered into Burgos. Gita dressed in a\ngold silk gown, flung a flaming scarf over her shoulders and sauntered\nbrazenly down to their encampment. All day she sat in the dust, playing\nbrisca with Spanish cards, rubbing dirt on her beautiful clothes, on her\nstockings, scarping her shoes, eating chick-peas out of a smoked tin can . . .\nThe incident was bruited from the tatterdemalion outskirts of the\nBarrio de Vega on the other side of the river to the grim Castillo on the\nhill . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2351, "texte": "3\n\nMario is furious ... at last. Gita laughs derisively. He lifts his hand\nto strike her.\nHer body arches . . . quivers. Palm to palm she lays her hands against\nher cheeks. Her tense biceps press sensuously against her dilating breasts.\nHer eyes fill with flame . . . then are shadowed by the long lashes. She\nsways there . . .\nThe musical song of a flower-vender drifting over the patio-walls:\nRed roses of Castile,\nSweet as lips . . . dipped in cochineal,\nRed roses of Castile,\nPlash of fountain.\nRustle of the leaves . . . mimosa leaves.\nClash of the leaves . . . huge plantain leaves . . . and elephant-ears.\nPollen . . . pungent . . . satisfying.\nMario's hand is uplifted. She sways, waiting the blow. A servant\nclatters across the stones. Mario's arm goes lax. He turns abruptly . . .\nstiffly . . . like a switch-signal. He locks himself in his room . . .\nNight again. A wild storm sweeps down from the Cantabrian Sea,\nan autumn tempest ravishing the whole littoral. The wind leaps shrieking\nover the tiled roofs of Burgos. The rain rattles on wall and window; drives\ndiagonally into the open patios.\nGita, excited: her visit to the gipsy camp . . . her scene with Mario . . .\nthe storm. A melange of fury . . . color . . . flashing cards . . . pennies in\nthe dust ... a raised hand . . . shapes . . . mad flying shapes. She steals\nout under the arcades. She loosens her hair. It falls about her body in\na full flood, crackling sparkling from the electricity surging in the charged\nair. The proud masculinity of the storm wraps her round. The rhythmic\nbeat of the falling rain sweeps through her veins. The lightning cleaves\nher heart. The thunder tramples on her flesh.\nShe leaps into the patio and dances . . . dances to the strange pulsing\nmelodies of her unleashed heart . . . dances in utter abandon to the rhythm\nof wind and rain — flash and swirl and dip . . . dip and swirl and flash\nagain!\nJoy and madness roar within her. She runs to the front entrance,\nunbolts the huge doors, darts into the street . . . out through the driving\nstorm . . . out to the open roads and the fields . . . Flames of color flood\nover her in a dazzling sea of fire . . . Old songs eddy round her, cleave\nto her, encircling her loins, her ribs, her breasts, kindling heart and brain . . .\nNew and wilder songs sway and shake her . . . down to the roots of her"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2548, "texte": "life ... as a lover might do . . . lift her as with winged feet on through the\nblackness.\nShe has reached Granada, overtaking the summer. Wearily she\nwanders along the hot simmering banks of the Xenil. The tz. z. z. k, tz. z.\nz. k, tz. z. z. k of hundreds of cicadas bewilders her ears. White dust, stirred\nup by her feet, irritates her nostrils. Around a sharp turn: the soaring\nbrown Torre de Comares. The long jagged earthquake crack running from\nbattlement to foundation has widened. The tower is breaking apart.\nThere is the warm stone .. . There is the cactus runway! . . . Tawny,\ndishevelled, she passes through to the cave-house. The unbolted door with\nits huge square nails gives to her touch. She enters. Dank chill envelopes\nher. Emptiness. Silence. The silence wells .. . spreads out over the moist\nwalls and ceiling . . . thickens . . . smothers her . . .\nShe sinks upon a log . . . peers . . . peers . . . Familiar objects: a\nblackened pot, fresh ashes, kicked-off blankets. She leaps to the cupboard\nbuilt in a seam of rock. She flings open the wood-latched doors . . . She\ntakes down the black-snake whip, lets it uncoil from her hand ... again...\nagain ... in fascinating rhythm sinuously, like a living serpent. She winds\nit close about her smooth neck. The loose ends strike against her hips.\nOne of the ends she lifts . . . rolls it along her bare arm, joying in the contact\nof cool leather with hot skin. She coils the whip about her hand . . . goes\nout to the cactus corral in the white pitiless sunlight. Behind her sounds\na footstep. Rufo!\nTheir glances snap at each other, settle balefully to burning flame —\nthe hot violet flame of molten metal. Gita laughs . . . boldly . . . derisi-\nvely . . . making of herself something beautiful to be tamed, conquered.\nThe sound shakes through the heat, through the cactus-paling . . . Still-\nness . . . Breathless hush . . . Pungent heat.\n— Here! — she holds out the whip.\nMechanically he takes it, watching her through the slits of his hard\neyes. Calmly she walks to the opposite side of the corral, he watching the\ntempting sway of her hips ... the proud slant of her shoulders . . . the\nscornful tilt of her head; watching the long fluid line rippling from neck\nto shapely ankle ... the essence of the grace of the women of every race.\nHe lets the lash uncurl . . . mechanically. He whips it overhead. It\nsnaps like a pistol. Still watching her, slowly . . . hesitatingly ... he lifts\nit again . . .\nIt falls from his shaking fingers.\n— Gita! .. . Gita! -— He is running forward."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1057, "texte": "She wheels on him. The jerk of her body shakes her black hair down\nover her blazing eyes. — Don't touch me. Not till you use that. — Stretched\nto her full height, she points at the whip in the dust.\nHe hesitates. Sweat streams into his burning eyes.\nShe no longer heeds him. She is staring through an opening in the\ncacti at the parched Vega crinkled with heat like fretted steel, like the armor\nof a vast fallen giant. Her heart contracts . . . crinkles up as though it too\nwere cased in steel ... bursts free again tumultuously.\nRufo's thin lips curl. He heels about . . . snatches up the whip . . .\nHis great hairy hands knot . . . the veins bunch into tight cords . . .\nThe lash whizzes through the air. It slices through her dress, curls\nspitefully about her ribs . . . certain . . . relentless . . . with a rhythm of its\nown ... as though Rufo were a mere automaton.\nAnd Gita, arms crossed over her breast, makes a very beautiful savage\nsong of the whip, a song that curls close around her heart . . . that glimmers\nlike cloth of gold.\n\nCarleton Beals"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "179", "page_fin": "179", "image_debut": 37, "image_fin": 37, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "Murder", "titre_sommaire": "Murder", "signature_source": "Paul Klee", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 1059, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1075, "texte": "Paul Klee\nMurder"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "180", "page_fin": "180", "image_debut": 38, "image_fin": 38, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Landscape", "titre_sommaire": "Landscape", "signature_source": "William Gamaliel Shephard", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 467, "texte": "LANDSCAPE\nWilliam Gamaliel Shephard\nOnce, yes once I crossed this way.\nThe naked moon lay in the mud-hole\nwith her lover feasting on mud worms,\na dozen stars shamelessly bred\nin a sharp horse track,\na screech owl bumped his nose in the dark\nand wept and cursed,\nTwo dishrag clouds tried to adorn\nthe hideous soiled sky.\nThis is the way to your house,\ngirl once mine.\nI crossed this way once.\nHere in the coppice I found you\nin a pink gown I gave you,\nWaiting\nAnother."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "181", "page_fin": "181", "image_debut": 39, "image_fin": 39, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Acrobats", "titre_sommaire": "Acrobats", "signature_source": "Paul Klee", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 18, "texte": "Paul Klee\nAcrobats"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "182", "page_fin": "186", "image_debut": 40, "image_fin": 44, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "The I. Red Eric", "titre_sommaire": "The I. Red Eric", "signature_source": "William Carlos Williams", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1735, "texte": "THE DISCOVERERS\nI.\nRed Eric\n\nRather the ice than their way: to take what is mine by single strength,\ntheirs by the crookedness of their law. But they have marked me — even to\nmyself. Because I am not like them I am evil. I cannot get my hands\non it: I, murderer, outlaw, outcast even from Iceland. Because their way\nis the just way and my way — the way of the kings and my father —\ncrosses them: weaklings holding together to appear strong. But I am\nalone though in Greenland.\nThe worst is that weak, still, somehow, they are strong: they in effect\nhave the power, by hook or by crook. And because I am not like them —\nnot that I am evil but more in accord with our own blood than they, eager\nto lead — this very part of me, by their trickery must not appear unless\nin their jacket. Eric was Greenland: I call it Greenland that men will\ngo there to colonize it.\nI then must open a way for them into the ice that they follow me\neven here — their servant in spite of myself. Yet they must follow.\nIt was so from the beginning. They drove me from Jaederen, my father\nand me. Who was this Christ that he should come to bother me in mv\nown country? His bishops that lie and falsify the records, make me out\nto be what I am not — for their own ends — because we killed a man.\nWas he the first man that was ever killed that they must sour over it?\nThat he was important to their schemes, that he meant much to them —\ngranted: one of their own color, we who altered him must be driven from\nNorway. Their courts and soft ways. Not that we killed him. One or\nthe other of us had to die under the natural circumstance. He or we. But\nthat if we had been killed, would he then have been driven from his country?\nThey would have made him Archbishop."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2301, "texte": "To Iceland then. Forget Norway. What there? My father dead.\nLand to the north cleared. A poor homestead. Manslaughter had driven\nme there. Then I married Thorhild, removed from the north and cleared\nland at Haukadal. Must Ibe meek because of that? If my slaves cause\na landslide on ValthiofTs farm and ValthiofTs kinsman slays them shall\nI not kill him? Is it proper for me to stand and to be made small before\nmy slaves? I am not a man to shake and sweat like a thief when the\ntime comes.\nRather say I killed two men instead of the one. They tried me among\nthemselves and drove me out once more. To the north then. Iceland\nwilderness.\nThere Thorgest comes to me and asks if I will lend him my outer\ndais-boards: ready to take me at a loss. Why else? For Eric the Red is\na marked man, beyond the law, or nearly, and he who is outside the law\nhas no law, so it would seem: from that man one steals at will — being\nmany in the act against his one. Thorgest keeps the decorated woodpieces.\nI go to his house and remove my property. He gives chase and two of\nhis sons are killed in the encounter.\nThis time they have done the thing. They search for us among the\nislands — me and my people.\nThis is the way of it, Thorhall, this has always been the way with\nme from the first. Eric loves his friends, loves bed, loves food, loves the\nhunt, loves his sons. He is a man that can throw a spear, take a girl,\nsteer a ship, till the soil, plant, care for the cattle, skin a fox, sing, dance,\nrun, wrestle, climb, swim like a seal. A man to plan an expedition and\npay for it, kill an enemy, take his way through a fog, a snowstorm, read\na reckoning by the stars, live in a stench, drink foul water, withstand the\nfierce cold, the black of winter and come to a new country with a hundred\nmen and found them there. But they have branded me. They have\nseparated murder into two parts and fastened the worse on me. It rides in\nthe air around me. What is it to be killed? They have had their fling\nat me. Is it worse, so much worse than to be hunted about the islands,\nchased from Norway to Iceland, from south to north, from Iceland to\nGreenland, because — I am I, and remain so.\nOutlaws have no friends. Murderers are run down like rabbits among\nthe stones. Yet my ship was built, fitted, manned, given safe conduct"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2467, "texte": "beyond the reefs. To Thorbiorn I owe much. And so to Greenland -— after\nbitter days fighting the ice and rough seas. Pestilence struck us. The cattle\nsickened. Weeks passed. The summer nearly ended before we struck land.\nThis is my portion. Ido not call it not to my liking. Hardship lives in me.\nWhat I suffer is myself that outraces the water or the wind. But that it\nonly should be mine, cuts deep. It is the half only. And it takes it out\nof my taste that the choice is theirs. I have the rough of it not because\nI will it but because it is all that is left, a remnant from their coatcloth.\nThis is the gall on the meat. Let the hail beat me. It is a kind of joy\nI feel in such things.\nGreenland then. So be it. Start over again. It turns out always the\none way. A wife, her two sons and a daughter. So my life was split up.\nThe logic of it also. This is my proof. We lived at our homestead well\nrid of the world. Traders visited us. Then Lief, Eric's son, sails to Norway,\na thousand miles, in one carry. But on his return, Lief the Lucky, he is\ndriven westward upon a new country, news of which he brings to Brattahlid.\nAt the same stroke he brings me back pride and joy-in-his-deed, my deed,\nEric moving up, and poison: an edict from Olaf — from my son's mouth —\nsolid as an axe to cut me, half healed, into pieces again.\nNot that it was new. Only that here in Greenland I had begun to\nfeel that I had left the curse behind. Here through the winters, far to the\nwest, I had begun to look toward summer when I should be whole again.\nMy people at work, my wife beside me, the boys free from my smear growing\nin strength and knowledge of the sea. Here was an answer to them all:\nThorstein and Lief Erickson, sons of Red Eric, murderer I Myself in the\nteeth of the world.\nSo they chopped me up. The Pope wins Olaf. Lief at court — after\na thousand miles in one carry — Olaf commissions him to carry the thing\nback to Greenland. It grows like fire. Why not? Promise the weak\nstrength and have the strength of a thousand weak at your bidding. Thor-\nhild bars me, godless, from her bed. Both sons she wins to it. Lief and\nThorstein both Christians. And this is what they say: Eric, son of evil,\ncome and be forgiven. — Let her build a church and sleep in it.\nWith the years there began to be much talk at Brattahlid of Vinland\nthe Good that Lief had first seen, that it should be explored. And so\nKarlsefni and Snorri fitted out a ship. Eric, too old to go with them,"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2346, "texte": "watches the ship depart. But Eric is in the ship, with the men, Eric the\nbedless, the sonless. Fate has pulled him out at the holes of his eyes and\nflung him again to sea as the ship steers southward. Now the glass darkens\nas the sea takes them to the New World.\nThey found wild rice, they built booths and palisades. First they\ntraded with the Skrellings, whose cheekbones were high, whose eyes wide,\nthen fought them. Whereas Karlsefni and his men had shown white shields\nbefore, now they took red shields and displayed them. The Skrellings\nsprang from their canoes and they fought together. Karlsefni and Snorri\nwere beaten. They fell back. Then it was that Freydis, Eric's natural\ndaughter, came out from her cabin. Seeing that the men were fleeing\nshe cried: Why do you flee from these wretches, when ye should slaughter\nthem like cattle? Had I a weapon I would fight better than any of you.\nLagging behind the rest as they ran because of her belly, she being\nwith child, she found a dead man in front of her. It was Snorri's son with\nhis head cleft by a stone, his naked sword beside him. This she took up\nand prepared to defend herself. The Skrellings then approached her,\nwhereupon she stripped down her shirt and slapped her breast with her\nbare sword. At this the Skrellings were terrified and ran down to their\nboats.\nSo, thinning out, more and more dark, it ran: Eric in Freydis' bones:\nFreydis now, mistress of her own ship, persuades two brothers, Helgi and\nFinnbogi, to sail with her again to Vinland: all to share equally the good\nthings that might there be obtained. Lief to lend her his house there. Two\nships, each to have thirty ablebodied men besides the women, but at the\nstart Freydis violated the compact by concealing five men more. Karlsefni\nfeared her.\nNow they put out to sea, the brothers in one ship and Freydis and\nKarlsefni in the other, having agreed that they would sail in company. But\nalthough they were not far apart from each other the brothers arrived\nsomewhat in advance and carried their belongings up to Liefs house.\nFreydis comes and does the same. The brothers withdraw and build a\nnew house nearby. Within a month the two houses are at odds and winter\ncomes on.\nSpring. Freydis one night after long thinking, arose early from her\nbed and dressed herself but did not put on shoes and stockings. A heavy"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1710, "texte": "dew had fallen. She took up her husband's cloak, wrapped it about her\nand walked in the dark to the brothers' house and up to the door, which\nhad been only partly closed by one of the men who had gone out only\na short time before. She pushed open the door and stood silently in the\ndoorway for a time. Finnbogi was awake and said: What dost thou wish\nhere Freydis? She answered: I wish thee to arise and go with me for\nI would speak with thee. — They walked to a tree which lay close by the\nwall of the house and seated themselves upon it. How art thou pleased\nhere, she said. He answered that he was well pleased with the place except\nfor the quarrel which had come up between them. They talked.\nIt was the brothers' boat — it seemed — she wanted, larger than\nher own. Finnbogi slow, thickheaded, or asleep consents to let her have\nit. Freydis split with anger or bad blood returns home and Finnbogi to\nhis bed.\nThe woman climbed into bed and awakened her husband with her\ncold feet. Why so cold and wet? I have been to the brothers to buy\ntheir ship, but they refused and beat me!\nThorvard roused his men. They went to the brothers' house, took\nthem and all their people, and slaughtered them one by one as they were\nbrought from within. Only the women were left. These no one would\nkill. What? said Freydis. Hand me an axe! This done she fell upon the\nfive women and left them dead.\nIn Greenland, Lief now head of the family has no heart to punish\nhis sister as she deserves: But this I predict of them, that there is little\nprosperity in store for their offspring. — Hence it came to pass that no\none from that time forward thought them worthy of aught but evil. Eric\nin his grave.\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "187", "page_fin": "187", "image_debut": 45, "image_fin": 45, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "The Pimps of Death", "titre_sommaire": "The Pimps of Death", "signature_source": "George Grosz", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "187", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 31, "texte": "George Grosz\nThe Pimps of Death"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "188", "page_fin": "198", "image_debut": 46, "image_fin": 56, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "The Kid", "titre_sommaire": "The Kid", "signature_source": "Vsevolod Ivanov ; Louis Lozowick", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "188", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1915, "texte": "THE KID\n\nMongolia — wild and joyless beast. Every rock — a beast, every\nlake — a beast, every butterfly seeking to sting.\nMongolians — inscrutable creatures: dressed, people say, in animal\nhides, looking like Chinamen, and living far from the Russians, in the desert\nNor-Koy. Rumor said that they would retreat still farther, beyond China\nand India into blue unknown lands.\nA small Kirghiz tribe (*), that had come from the Irtysh river fleeing\nfrom the Russian battle front, was now roaming in Mongolia, at some distance\nfrom a group of Russians, also fugitives. Brittle worthless characters, as\neverybody knows, the Kirghiz moved forward without haste. They brought\ntheir cattle along, their children, and even their sick.\nThe Russian fugitives, strong and healthy peasants, were being driven\nwithout mercy. They left all weaker ones behind them. Some of those\ndied; others were killed. Their families, their property and cattle remained\nin the hands of the Whites. The peasants were as mad as wolves in spring.\nThey lay in their tents hidden in a ravine, thinking of their steppes, thinking\nof their Irtysh river.\nThere were about fifty of them, with Sergey Selivanov as president.\nThey called themselves in fact Comrade Selivanov's Partisan Detachment\nof the Red Guards.\nThey were lonesome.\nWhen the Whites had been driving them across the mountains, the big\nblack crags frightened them. Now that they had reached the Steppe, they\nwere bored.\nThe Steppe here was like the steppe around the Irtysh river; sand,\ntough grass, hard metallic sky. Everything foreign, strange, uncultivated,\nwild.\nThe hardest thing was to get along without women.\nAll night, they told smutty soldiers' yarns, and when the torture became\nunbearable, they saddled their horses and went hunting after Kirghiz women.\nAnd the Kirghiz women noticing the Russians would fall submissivly\non their backs.\n\n* A Turkish tribe inhabiting Siberia."}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "189", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1868, "texte": "It was disgusting to take them thus, lying motionless and with tightly\nclosed eyes. It was like sinning with a beast.\nThe men were afraid of the Russians and moved out of their way\nfar into the steppe. Whenever they saw a Russian they would brandish\ntheir rifles and bows threateningly, they would yell, but never shoot.\nPerhaps they did not know how.\nII.\nThe treasurer of the Detachment, Afanasy Petrovitch Trubatchov, was\ntearful like a child and had the face of a child, small, red, beardless. Only\nhis legs were long and wiry like a camel's.\nWhen he mounted a horse, he grew stern at once. His face was\ndrawn in and he sat there gray headed, angry, terrible.\nOn Whitsuntide three men, Selivanov, Afanasy Petrovitch, Drevesinin,\nwere sent into the steppe to find good pasturage.\nA wind was blowing. A heat wave was rising from the earth to the\nquivering sky. The bodies of man and beast were tough and heavy like stone.\nSelivanov said hoarsely:\n\"What kind of pasturage can you expect here?\"\nEvery one knew he was thinking of the Irtysh river.\nThe sparse bearded faces were silent; the hair on them looked like\ngrass scorched by the sun; the eyes were bloodshot like a wound from\na fishhook.\nOnly Afanasy Petrovitch said piteously:\nffWonder if there is a drought there too?\"\nHe spoke in a tearful voice but there were no tears in his eyes.\nA tear was fretting the big dry eyes of the horse under him.\nAnd so one after another the partisans went along wild-goat paths\ninto the steppe.\nThe sand was glowing hot; the sand-saturated wind was clinging\nfast to the shoulders and head; the sweat was smarting in the body but\ncould not make its way through the dry skin to the surface.\nTowards evening, as they were passing from a hollow, Selivanov\npointed south and said:\nffSomebody is coming.\"\nTrue. At the horizon a pink dust was rising above the sand.\n\"Must be Kirghiz.\""}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "190", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2116, "texte": "They began to argue. Drevesinin said that the Kirghiz always kept\nat a distance and never approached Selivanov's ravine. Afanasy insisted it\ncould be no one else. Only Kirghiz ever raised such thick dense dust.\nAnd when the dust came rolling nearer and nearer, they all decided:\n\"Strangers.\"\nThe horses understood from the voices of their masters that strangers\nwere coming. They laid their ears back and fell on the ground even before\nany order was given.\nIn the ravine the gray and yellow horses' bodies looked helpless and\nridiculous with their thin rod-like legs. They closed their big frightened\neyes as if ashamed and were panting heavily.\nSelivanov and the treasurer Afanasy Petrovitch were lying at the edge of\nthe ravine. The treasurer was snivelling and whimpering. To allay his\nfear, Selivanov always kept him at his side; he seemed to enjoy and to find\nmalicious satisfaction in that childish whimper.\nDust was sweeping nearer along the path. One could already hear\nthe wheels knocking alternately; one could see the long black manes rolling\nlike dust clouds in the harness.\nSelivanov said, with assurance:\n\"Russians.\"\nAnd he called Drevesinin from the ravine.\nTwo persons sat in a new wicker cart. One could see red bands on\ntheir hats but their faces were hidden by the dust. The red seemed to\nswim in yellow clouds. The muzzle of a gun emerged from the dust,\na hand with a whip appeared now and then.\nDrevesinin thought a while and said:\n\"Officers ... on business I suppose ... An Expedition . . .\"\nThere was an evil twinkle in his eye.\n\"We'll show them what an Expedition is.\"\nThe cart carried the people fast ahead, pushed the horses forward.\nThe dust, like a fox's tail, swept the tracks behind it.\nAfanasy Petrovitch pleaded piteously:\n\"No, buddies, better let us take them prisoners.\"\n\"Have you no pity for your own head?\"\nSelivanov got angry, opened the cock of his gun, noiselessly like\na button and threw back:\n\"Stop your bellyaching.\"\nWhat made them particularly angry was, that the officers had come\nwithout convoy as if they were in countless numbers carrying certain death\nto the peasants."}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "191", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1803, "texte": "One of the officers rose to his full stature, surveyed the steppe, but could\nnot see well in the dust, and the wind, and the red evening, descending\non the scorched grass and on the two rocks resembling horse's bodies near\nthe ravine.\nThe cart and its wheels, the people and their thoughts, were submerged\nin the red dust.\nA shot rang out.\nAt once the hats, knocking against each other, fell into the cart.\nThe reins slipped as if snapped by an unseen hand.\nThe horses darted forward and tried to run away. Suddenly their\nmanes became coated with a milky foam; their powerful muscles trembled;\nthey hung their heads and stopped.\nAfanasy Petrovitch said:\n\"Dead.\"\nThe peasants went to look.\nDead they were. Shoulder to shoulder, they sat heads thrown back-\nward like hoods. One of them was a woman. Hair scattered, half covered\nwith dust — yellow and black; a soldier's blouse bulged high with a full\nwoman's bosom.\n\"Queer thing,\" said Drevesinin, \"but it is her own fault. Shouldn't\nhave worn a man's hat. Who wants to kill women? We need them.\"\nAfanasy Petrovitch spat.\n\"You skunk, boor joy . . . you haven't . . .\"\n\"Hold on,\" broke in Selivanov. \"We are no robbers. We have to\nmake an inventory of the people's property. Hand me a slip of paper.\"\nIn a Chinese wicker basket, hidden under the front seat, they found\nwith the rest of the \"people's property\" a bright haired and bright eyed\nbaby. Its little hand was clutching at the corner of a brown quilt. Still\na suckling, small sized, squeaking.\nAfanasy Petrovitch said with emotion:\n\"Well listen to it, jabbering in its own lingo.\"\nAgain there was a general expression of regret for the woman. They\ndid not remove her clothes. The man was buried naked in the sand.\nIII.\nAfanasy Petrovitch returned in the cart. Rocking the babe in his\narms, he sang:"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "192", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1713, "texte": "\"Nightingale, birdie,\nCanary —\nSadly singing. . .\"\nHe recalled his village Lebiajy, his home, his cattle, his family, his\nchildren, and began to cry in a thin voice.\nThe baby cried too.\nThe fine crisp glowing sand extended far into the distance and cried\nalso in a thin voice. The partisans with tempered faces and souls rode on\ntheir small strong Mongol horses.\nParched wormwood small and invisible, spread like sand along the\npath.\nSand and wormwood small and bitter.\nGoat paths. Bitter sands. Mongolia — wild and joyless beast.\nThey examined the officer's property. Books, a box of tobacco, bright\nsteel instruments. One of these was a four-cornered brass box with parti-\ntions set on a tripod.\nThe partisans examined it, weighed it in their hands.\nThey smelled of mutton fat. From great lonesomeness they ate too\nmuch and soiled their clothes. They had prominent cheek bones, soft thin\nlips, long black hair, dark complexions—real Don village types. And they\nall had bow-like legs and the guttural voice of the steppe.\nAfanasy Petrovitch lifted the tripod with the brass top and said:\n\"Telescope,\" then half closed his eyes.\n\"Good telescope this. Cost heaps of millions. They saw the moon\nwith it, fellows, and found gold deposits there. Pure like flour. Don't have\nto wash it even, all you need is just to pour it into sacks.\"\nA young city-bred chap laughed aloud.\n\"What is he fibbing about? Put the stopper on him.\"\nAfanasy Petrovitch got angry.\n\"I am fibbing, you stinking carrion? Just wait ...\"\nThey divided up the tobacco and gave the instrument to Afanasy\nPetrovitch. As treasurer he might swop it for something with the Kirghiz.\nHe put the instrument before the baby and said:\n\"Have some fun, kiddie.\""}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2033, "texte": "But the child went on squeaking. He tried one thing, another. He\nbroke into sweat—nothing would do, the baby went on as before.\nThe cooks brought dinner. There was a heavy odour of oil, porridge,\nshtchee. They pulled out of their boots wide Semipalatinsk wooden spoons.\nThe grass under them was well worn. The ravine was deep and shady.\nA mounted guard standing on duty, shouted from above:\n\"Hey there, I want to quit .... I am hungry .... Send up some-\nbody. .\nThey finished eating and remembered—kid had to eat too. It never\nstopped squeaking.\nAfanasy Petrovitch chewed up some bread, stuck the moist putty into\nthe child's open mouth, and smacked his lips.\n\"PP . . pp . . here little shaver . . . have some grub, colty.\"\nBut the kid would not eat; closed its mouth and turned its head away.\nRunning at the nose.\nThe peasants crowded around it. Looked at the kid over one another's\nshoulders. Were silent.\nIt was hot. Their lips and cheek bones shone with mutton fat; their\nshirts were unbuttoned; their feet were bare and yellow like the soil of\n*\nMongolia.\nOne said:\n\"Maybe he would eat some shtchee?\"\nSome shtchee was cooled off. Afanasy Petrovitch dipped his finger\ninto it and then into the baby's mouth. The good fat shtchee trickled\ndown from the child's lips on the rose shirt and the woolen quilt.\nThe baby would not eat.\n\"Why a puppy has more sense; it would lick your finger.\"\n\"Well, that's a brute, and this is a human being.\"\n\"That's right.\"\nThere was no cow's milk in the camp. They thought at first of feed-\ning the child with mare's milk—there were mares in the camp. But the\nkumiss was too intoxicating, the child might fall sick.\nThey scattered in groups among the wagons; they spoke worriedly.\nAfanasy Petrovitch was running back and forth with a tattered coat on\nhis back, with little tattered eyes in his face. He was lamenting in a thin,\nagitated, childish voice, as if he himself had been the child.\n\"Well, what shall we do about it? ... We ought to. . . .\"\nWide shouldered and powerful, they stood helpless."}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "194", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1685, "texte": "\"That's a woman's business.\"\n\"Of course.\"\n\"Maybe a woman would make him eat up a whole mutton?\"\n\"Maybe.\"\nSelivanov called an assembly meeting and said:\n\"We cannot let a Christian baby die like a brute. Supposing his\nfather was a boorjoy, the kid is not to blame for it.\"\nThe peasants agreed:\n\"The kid has nothing to do with it.\"\nDrevesinin burst out laughing.\n\"The kid will grow up all right ... fly on the moon . . . mine gold . . .\"\nNobody laughed. Afanasy Petrovitch raised his fists and shouted:\n\"If you aren't the craziest bitch.\"\nHe stamped his feet, threw up his hands, and suddenly uttered\na piercing cry.\n\"A cow ... we must get a cow for him.\"\nAll answered in a chorus:\n\"He'll die if we don't get a cow.\"\n\"A cow is what he needs.\"\n\"He'll burn up if there is no cow.\"\nAfanasy Petrovitch said resolutely:\n\"I am going to look for a cow.\"\nDrevesinin broke in impertinently:\n\"Go to the Irtysh, into Lebiajy. . .\"\n\"I don't have to go to Irtysh, you assorted nut. I am going to the\nKirghiz.\"\n\"Swop the telescope.\"\nAfanasy Petrovitch flew at him.\nSeeing, however, that they began to swear at each other inordinately,\nSelivanov, the chairman of the meeting said:\n\"That'll do.\"\nAnd it was decided by vote that Drevesinin, Afanasy Petrovitch, and\nthree others go to the Kirghiz camp to get a cow. If possible two or five—the\ncook's supply of meat was running rather low.\nThey attached rifles to their saddles, put on Kirghiz fox hats to re-\nsemble Kirghiz from the distance, and started.\n\"Good bye.\"\nThey wrapped the baby in the quilt and put it under a wagon.\nA young fellow sat watching it. To amuse himself as well as the baby he\nkept shooting from his Nogan revolver into the bushes."}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "195", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1909, "texte": "IV.\nDreary Mongolian sands.\nRussians riding over the sand. Night.\nSands exhaling heat and wormwood.\nIn the Kirghiz aul, dogs barking at wolves, at darkness.\nWolves howling in darkness at the city, at death.\nKirghiz fleeing death.\n\"Could we save our cattle from death?\"\nGreen sultry darkness quivering over the sands, hardly able to retain\nit. Ready to fly off southward in a moment.\nThe aul exhaled the odor of dung, butter milk. Small hungry Kirghiz\nchildren sat around yellow camp fires. Dogs with bare ribs and pointed\njaws pressed close to them. The tents looked like haystacks. There were\na lake and reeds behind the camp.\nSomebody fired a shot from the reeds into the camp fire.\n\"o—o—a—at. .\nThe Kirghiz left their tents at once. They screamed in fright, first\nsingly, then all together.\n\"(Joy-boy . . . ooy-boy, ak-kyzil ooroos . . . Ooy-boy. . .\"\nThey jumped on their horses which were kept in harness day and\nnight. The tents, the steppe, resounded with the tramping of feet . . . The\nreeds echoed the cry of a wild duck.\n\"Ak- . . . ak . . .\"\nOnly one Kirghiz, a grey bearded old man, fell from his horse head\nforemost into a kettle. He upset it, was scalded and began to wail in\na deep voice. And near him a shaggy dog, its tail between its legs, was\nsticking timidly its hungry snout into the hot milk.\nThe mares were neighing softly. The sheep were running back and\nforth in the stable as if frightened by a wolf. . . The cows were panting\nheavily.\nThe Kirghiz women noticed the Russians and lay down submissively\non the pillows.\nDrevesinin laughed indecently.\n\"Are we stallions or what? ... We can't always be . . .\"\nHe quickly filled a flat bottle with milk, and, cracking his whip,\ndrove up the cows and calves to the tents. Freed from the string, the calves\nfell hungrily to the udders butting them eagerly with their heads.\n\"Look at that hungry gang.\"\nDrevesinin drove the cows from the camp."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1915, "texte": "Afanasy Petrovitch made another tour of the aul and was ready to\nleave when he recalled something.\n\"Why we need a nipple. Hey you nuts, you forgot the nipple.\"\nAnd he ran into the tents to look for one. The fires in the tents were\nextinguished. Afanasy Petrovitch picked up a smouldering log. Choking\nwith the smoke and scattering sparks all around him, he began to look\nfor a nipple.\nOne hand held the crackling log, the other hand held a revolver.\nBut no nipple could be found. Covered by their clothes, the sub-\nmissive Kirghiz women were lying prostrate. The children were squealing.\nAfanasy Petrovitch got angry and shouted to one of the women:\n\"Hey, there you low down nemakana, give us a nipple.\"\nThe woman burst into sobs and began to unbutton first her jacket\nthen her shirt.\n\"Ni kirek . . . Al ... Al . . .\"\nAt her side, a baby wrapped in rags was crying.\nThe Kirghiz woman bent her legs.\n\"Al . . . Al . . .\"\nSuddenly Afanasy Petrovitch caught her breast, squeezed it, and\nwhistled with joy:\n\"Whew . . . there's a fine nipple . . .\"\n\"Ni kirek . . . ni . .\n\"All right, don't be quacking. Come on.\"\nAnd he dragged her after him.\nHe dropped the log. The tent sank into darkness.\nHe helped the woman into the saddle, and, feeling her breast from\ntime to time, rushed off to Selivanov's ravine.\n\"I got it, pals.\" He said, and there were tears in his eyes.\n\"I got it.\"\nV.\nAnd then they found that in the dark unnoticed by Afanasy Petrovitch,\nthe woman had fetched her baby along.\n\"Let it stay,\" said the peasants, \"She has enough milk for the two of\nthem. We have cows now and she is a pretty husky wench.\"\nThe Kirghiz woman was silent and grave, and fed the two babies when\nnobody was looking. They both lay on a rough pillow in the tent, one\nwhite, the other yellow, and both squealing in unison.\nAbout a week or so later Afanasy Petrovitch brought the following\nfact to the attention of the general assembly."}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1984, "texte": "ffA cheater, comrades,—the wench feeds her own kid on a full breast\nand gives ours what's left on the bottom. I saw it myself.\"\nThe peasants came up to her tent. The babies were there, no different\nfrom any other babies. One was white, the other yellow like a ripe musk\nmelon. But it did seem that the Russian was thinner than the Kirghiz.\nAfanasy Petrovitch was in despair.\n\"Why, I even gave him a name, Vaska .... And now . . .\nDrevesinin said:\n\"You certainly look punk, Vaska.\"\nThey found a stick, balanced it on a shaft so that one side should\nnot weigh more than the other, and hung the babies one on each side to\nsee which was the heavier.\nWrapped in rags and suspended from lassos, the babies were wailing.\nThey had the specific odor of infants. The woman stood nearby not com-\nprehending anything and weeping.\nThe peasants were all gone to their work.\n\"Let go.\" said Selivanov.\nAfanasy Petrovitch removed his hand from the stick and the Russian\nshot up straight into the air.\n\"Look at the yellow brat,\" said Afanasy Petrovitch enraged, \"he's\nall blown up.\"\nHe picked up a mutton skull lying on the ground and put it on\nthe Russian child. The two sides were now in equilibrium.\n\"Overfed her kid by a full head, eh . . .\"\n\"We can't be spying on her all the time.\"\n\"She's a brute.\"\n\"We have more to do than look after the kid,\"\nAll agreed:\n\"We can't be always looking after them.\"\n\"Well, if you look at it in a different way-—she is a mother after all.\"\nAfanasy Petrovitch stamped his feet and even screamed with rage.\n\"You mean to tell me that our own Russian kid is to croak for some\nnemakan? .. . Our own Vaska is to croak . . .\"\nThey all looked at Vaska. He was lying there pale and thin.\nThe peasants were saddened.\nSelivanov turned to Afanasy Petrovitch.\n\"You know . . . take that kid . . . and let him . . . God rest his\nsoul ... let the Kirghiz kid . . . die . . . we've done in plenty of them . . .\none more won't . . .\nThe peasant looked again at Vaska and disappeared."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 993, "texte": "Afanasy Petrovitch wrapped the Kirghiz baby in an old sack.\nThe mother whined. Afanasy Petrovitch slapped her lightly on the\ncheek and went into the steppe. . .\nVI.\nTwo days later the peasants were standing on tip-toe before a tent and\nwere peeping over one another's shoulders inside, where the woman was\nlying on the floor feeding the white child.\nThe woman was dressed in a jacket and leather shoes. Her face with\neyes narrow like oat grains bore a submissive expression.\nThe kid was burrowing its face into her breast, padding its little hands\nover her jacket and kicking its feet in a funny and awkward fashion as if\ntrying to leap.\nThe peasants looked on, laughing uproariously.\nAfanasy Petrovitch watched them tenderly, blew his nose, and said\nin a drawl:\n\"Just watch him go to it.\"\nAnd behind the canvas tent, the ravine, the steppe, strange Mongolia\nstretching into unknown distances.\nMongolia, wild and joyless beast.\n\nVsevolod Ivanov\n(Translated from the Russian by Louis Lozowick.)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "199", "page_fin": "199", "image_debut": 57, "image_fin": 57, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "Saturday Night", "titre_sommaire": "Saturday Night", "signature_source": "George Grosz", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 27, "texte": "Saturday Night\nGeorge Grosz"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "200", "page_fin": "204", "image_debut": 58, "image_fin": 62, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "A Note on Modern Russian Art", "titre_sommaire": "A Note on Modern Russian Art", "signature_source": "Louis Lozowick", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2528, "texte": "A NOTE ON MODERN RUSSIAN ART\n\nIt is well the devil can quote Scripture: we know thereby the character\nof Satan, even if we are in the dark as to Holy Writ. St. Paul of Aix,\nSt. Apollinarius of Paris, Revelation, Apocrypha and other books in the\nBible of modern art have been quoted so copiously and interpreted so\nliberally by the modern Russian artists, in their fight against orthodoxy,\nthat their own identity is never left in doubt.\nThe advent of the Soviets resulted in a heightened productivity among\nmodern Russian artists. Whatever state patronage of the arts may be worth\nin general, it is undeniable that in Russia the Soviets gave a great impetus\nto artistic effort by inaugurating a program of reform on a scale hardly\nparallelled in any other modern State. They abolished the old Imperial\nAcademy, organized a Free College of Artists in its place, opened new\nfree art schools, established Museums of modern art (Museums of Artistic\nCulture) organized popular lectures and travelling exhibitions, supported\nthe artists, bought their works, employed them in staging popular revolu-\ntionary festivals, issued new art publications — in a word did everything\nto encourage the growth of art and to bring it nearer to the masses.\nArtistic activity rose to tremendous proportions, and yet the threads\nconnecting modern Russian art and the Revolution are a little difficult to\ntrace because the period is so brief and the schools are so various. There\nis, in the first place, an extreme preoccupation with social theory, an attempt\nto stress the obvious parallel between the political and artistic revolutions,\nto break with the past in order to create new art forms just as the Soviets\nhad broken with the past to create a new State; a desire to bring art nearer\nto life, to make art an integral part of it, to concentrate the constructive\nessence of the revolution in pictorial form that would have universal import\nand become eventually universal property.\nThis brings up the second great preoccupation of modern Russian\nartists: art theory. Formally modern Russian art is up in revolt against\nthe older Russian art and in particular against the didacticism of the\n\"Wanderers\" (Peredvijniki) and the aestheticism of the \"World of Art\"\n(Mir Iskusstva). The \"Wanderers\" — Perov, Kramskoy, Gue, Vereshtchagin,\nRepin — painted illustrated sermons intending to make evil men good, and\ngood men better. It was art with a mission and a message. The members\nof the \"World of Art\" — Benois, Golovin, Korovin, Somov, Roerich, Bakst"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2854, "texte": "— admitted one message: Art for Art's sake, and one mission: Beauty.\nThe modern Russian artists summarily reject the methods of both. Art\nhas a social function, certainly, but this can best be exercised if the formal\nlaws of art are observed. The ethical significance of art is in direct pro-\nportion to its aesthetic quality. But it is, precisely, in this respect that the\nolder schools are found wanting. One makes disagreeable facts a little less\nattractive, the other makes agreeable facts a little more attractive. Both\ndilute life into anecdote and the method of procedure is in both cases very\nmuch the same, must of necessity be so, for the practice of both is based\non imitation. The modern Russian artists base their practice on creation.\nThey, too, hold life paramount but their attitude to it and their conception\nof it can be fully materialized only if the barrier between them and life\nis removed-—if imitation as a method is abandoned. The modern Russian\nartists demand before all else mastery of technique, skill of workmanship,\nand devote themselves to a thorough going study of the elements peculiar\nto each art: the structure and stability of a picture; color: its hue, shade,\nvalue, weight; materials: their texture and solidity; space, volume, depth;\nform: balance and relation of masses and planes.\nThe reaction began with the ffJack of Diamonds\" (Bubnovy Valet),\na school of Gezannists — Mashkov, Kontchalovsky, Rojdestvensky, Lentulov\nFalk — which tried to solve anew Cezanne's problems. The artists did\nnot seek, like the Impressionists, to record a fleeting, transient impression,\nbut rather to fix the stable and permanent. They employed natural form,\nbut ordered the planes and balanced the masses of their pictures with\na view to structural significance.\nThe Cubists — Morgunov, Exter, Udaltzova, Popova, Pevsner — selec-\nted what appeared to them most essential in the art of Cezanne and went\nas far in the same direction as seemed logically inevitable. They used\ncolor and form not as elements necessary to represent concrete visual\nobjects but as autonomous elements, as bricks used in the construction of\na picture. They attempted to introduce a perspective of depth instead of\ndistance and to set planes in a given direction to express spatial relations.\nThe Suprematists — Malevitch, Exter, Rodtchenko, Dievin, Lissitzky,\nRosanova — tried to carry the analytic process of Cubism to its logical\nconclusion. They sought to get rid of what appeared chaotic in cubism\nby employing a greater economy of means. They combined pure elementary\ncolors and simple elementary forms in a manner to suggest movement and\ncreate rhythm. Malevitch, the leader of the movement, carried simplifica-\ntion so far as to paint a black disk on a white square. Then he made the\nnext step and painted \"White on White\". To be sure, the two whites"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2856, "texte": "differ in hue and texture. Rodtchenko one of his ablest pupils, painted\n\"Black on Black\" (mat and glossy). Then he made the last step by painting\nthree square canvasses in the three elementary colors, red, blue, and yellow\nrespectively. Does that mean that art has at last reached a blind alley?\nRodtchenko who passed from Suprematism to Contructivism would answer\nin the negative. There is a passage into the open. It is the passage leading\nfrom art to production. Art should merge with life. Autonomous art has\nno longer any important function to perform. But the artist has. He\nshould devote his organizing, creative faculties to the productive industrial\nprocesses and thus relinquish his parasitic existence. Rodtchenko was true\nto his doctrine: he gave up the practice of art.\nNot all constructivists — Medunetzky, Sternberg, loganson, Kliutzis,\nLissitzky, Tatlin — hold the same views. Another tendency grants the\nlegitimacy of artistic activity, although it would transform that in harmony\nwith the demands of the new age. Art should root in the weightiest reali-\nties of our day. These are science and industry. The Constructivists, there-\nfore, go for instruction to science and borrow an example from industry.\nLike science they aim at precision, order, organization; like industry they\ndeal with concrete materials: paper, wood, coal, iron, glass. Out of these,\nnew objects — not pictures — are created not imitative of reality but built\nwith a structural logic to be utilized eventually, just as steam was utilized\nlong after its discovery; — new objects that can affect society just as\nthey are rooted in it. Hence the Constructivists consider their work strictly\nutilitarian. Technical processes organize dead materials; constructivist art\nwould mold the new social personality.\nThere are still other versions of the Constructivist doctrine, all of them\nhaving at their core what one might call irreverently a romantic adoration\nof the machine. The law of contrast, perhaps. It was in the classical\nland of Political Economy, the Industrial Revolution, and urban centraliza-\ntion — it was in England that landscape painting had its rise.\nTatlin, one of the most prominent representatives of this tendency,\nattempted in his Monument to the Third International, to unite art and\nscience and to create a utilitarian work. This monument comprising three\nstories (cube, pyramid, cylinder) rotating at different velocities (year, month,\nday) brings the time factor into his work. In different connection and on\na smaller scale, the sculptor Gabo also introduces dynamism into his work.\nHe seeks to establish in his sculpture an interrelation of forces rather than\nof masses. Gabo operates, like Archipenko, with the concave instead of the\nconvex surface common in sculpture, and attempts to solve his novel\nproblems in plastic glass constructions."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2737, "texte": "Archipenko holds high rank among modern Russian artists for his\nstructural sculpture, his sculpto-painting, his work in porcelain and metal,\nand his excellent drawings.\nThe social and formal aspect are both strongly emphasized by Altman.\nThis artist passed all stages in the evolution from \"Mir Iskusstva\" to the latest\ntendencies. He holds that the old art of the \"Wanderers\" and the \"World\nof Art\" as well as the new art of the Cubists and the Futurists is reactionary\nand out of date. The new age requires a new departure. Two ways are\nopen to modern artists. The first is to abandon art and pass into pro-\nduction as Rodtchenko did; the second is to create a new art based not\non merely visual forms, planes, lines, colors, but an art whose component\nelements are actual materials; coal, iron, steel, wood, paper. His work\n\"Russia\" embodies his theory. It is a rectangular board varnished and\npolished in some parts and inlaid with coal, paper, black wood in others.\nThe materials are wrought and combined with a view of making an object\nwhich while not a picture shall yet have aesthetic value. Aesthetic value\nintermingled with ethical value, for the work purports to affect human\nconsciousness by revealing to it in abstract form the powerful reality of re-\nvolution with its glorification of labor.\nSternberg, though, in general, not indifferent to social theory, confines\nhimself in his work to pure aesthetic expression which he seeks to achieve\nby a simplification and conventionalization of natural form and by color\nand texture contrasts.\nThe painters Kandinsky, Filonov, and Chagal have each a well defined\npersonality and stand somewhat aside from the general trend. They may\nbe all termed Expressionists, for their intricate design, their intuitive method\nof work, and their rich often inchoate fantasy indicates kinship with the\nGerman art movement of the same name.\nCritical literature is as ever abundant. At times the modern critics\nhave a tendency to treat as axioms propositions that are doubtful even as\ntheorems; at times they like to play the part of Apollinaire and explain the\nartists to themselves. On the whole however there is a healthy tendency\nto examine fearlessly and searchingly all standards.\nPunin would have art train the apperceptive and cognitive faculties,\nto make man perceive the world as synthesis and thereby become master\nof it. Arvatov would have art be first ancillary to life, organize the human\nemotions and intellect, make them receptive to progressive revolutionary\nprocesses, and be finally distilled in life and absorbed by it. Brick would\nraise the artist to the rank of artisan and thus make him a useful member\nof society. (\"He who does not work, neither shall he eat.\") Gan would"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "204", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1272, "texte": "banish art from society altogether* (\"We declare irreconcilable war on art.\")\nand decree material intellectual production, the creation of socially necessary\nobjects of use.\nTo one acquainted with Russian critical literature much of this sounds\nfamiliar. Pissarev, over half a century ago, drew a parallel between Push-\nkin and a shoemaker, much to the disadvantage of the former. Stassov\nadvocated an art of social utility. Tolstoy's doctrine of artistic f'infection\"\nis universally familiar. Even the case of Rodtchenko finds its analogy in\nthat of Gue who after a successful artistic career abandoned art under\nthe influence of Tolstoy's evangelical doctrines.\nIn general, however, the modern Russian critics are much bolder owing\nto their more radical social philosophy and their leaning on the State. The\nSoviet Government acted on the assumption that a new art can be the\nwork of a new man, himself the product of a new social system. Their\npolicy was based on this assumption and they attempted to solve the art\nproblem in a practical way — perhaps in the only practical way possible —\nin the way implicit in the assumption.\nThe assumption might be challenged; the policy might be criticized;\nthat the effort is worth making is hardly open to doubt.\n\nLouis Lozowick"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "204", "page_fin": "204", "image_debut": 62, "image_fin": 62, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Madman Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Madman Drawing", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "204", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 1274, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1288, "texte": "Madman Drawing"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "203", "page_fin": "203", "image_debut": 63, "image_fin": 63, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "Madman Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Madman Drawing", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 14, "texte": "Madman Drawing"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "206", "page_fin": "211", "image_debut": 64, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "Berlin and the Bubbling Rhine", "titre_sommaire": "Berlin and the Bubbling Rhine", "signature_source": "M. J.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "206", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2326, "texte": "BERLIN AND THE BUBBLING RHINE\n\n\"Grosser als das Beefsteak ist der Tod!\"\nRichard Huelsenbeck.\nEnter Berlin by the Passage Panoptikum. Under the dusty arcade\nwhere neither sun nor rain can pass, elbow your way by the bawds, the\ntourists and the panders of a new age. Regard the incandescent signs which\nherald the \"Greatest Abnormalities of a Century\" or \"Jazz Band\" or Ameri-\ncan Drinks, the saloons with granite fagades which dispense a synthetic\nnectar. The gutters are filled with rubbish. These are the distorted faces\nof the new Shylocks, the vendors of the four winds, the faces wThich Grosz\ndraws without pity.\nWe have indeed wandered far from the genial (corpulent) Teuton who,\nlager-laden, sprawled by the mellow Rhine. Nor is it easy to dismiss the\nmirage of modern Germany with a wave of the hand. The world of\nFriedrichstrasse is here to be wrestled with. It is the nomansland of the\nmodern artist: he must either survive or die on this front.\nThe previous artistic milieu was Berlin-Westens. A decade ago, in the\ncomfortable imperial days, the doors swung open on ballbearings and gave\non salons which were no less elegant and mundane than those of the Etoile;\nits residents lived ano less precarious and complex existence. And for the\nmillion odd middle-class inhabitants of Berlin's most fashionable quarter\nan art and a poesy were conceived, so faithful to their letter, that the \"Berlin-\nWestens novel\" and the \"Berlin-Westens poem\" became literary by-words.\nWhat was this milieu which stamped the art of a whole generation?\nNothing but a populous middle class, rich, pleasure loving, urbane, gour-\nmand, and somewhat coarser than the Paris of the same era. Their complete\nvanity is mirrored in both the content and manner of the Sudermann novel,\n\"Sodom's Ende,\" in the demoded plays of Otto Hartleben and the satirical-\ndecadent poetry of Otto Julius Bierbaum, all of which Berlin-Westens in its\nvery vanity and futility took to its utmost heart.\nBerlin had but recently begun to play the part of a capitol in the\nintellectual life of Germany. After the Jungdeutschland renaissance however,\none \"movement\" followed another without reverence; the Stormers and\nStressers, Naturalists, Decadents, Symbolists, Expressionists, Dadaists . . .\nThe Stormers and Stressers, Conrad, Bleibtreu and the Hart brothers came"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2756, "texte": "crying: \"Schonheit ohne Reinheit ist unvollstandig;\" but they soon made\nway for the Naturalists, Arno Holz, Hirschfeld and the younger Hauptmann;\nthen were flung poppies, poppies, with the Decadents, Bierbaum and Hart-\nleben; as for the Symbolists, they were as easily absorbed, although Stefan\nGeorge was never as honestly admired as were the more comprehensible\nRichard Dehmel and Gustav Falke. Nor was the advent of Expressionism\ndifficult: the external forms of art had been left untouched by the Symbolists\nin their rapt contemplation of the interior palpitations of the soul of man\nand nature; the proper rebound was, obviously, to ignore the interior of\nphenomena and concentrate on the purely external palpitations of the flesh\nand the soil, while overhauling idiom, form, language, in short everything\nrelated to the expression of the experience. A shallow rebellion. Expression-\nism merely served to hide a multitude of digressions. What more fitting\nthan the Dadas come with their bushman cry: \"BIRRI-BUMM! BIRRI-\nBUMM! BIRRI-BUMM!\" Thus, we arrive at a species of guerilla warfare in\nart, whereby everything is ploughed up, plundered, and re-hashed. We\narrive at the gate of the Passage Panoptikum fronting Friedrichstrasse.\nA cross-section of modern Germany's literary history can at least be\nof negative value; to prove that three or four fascinating personalities, who\nemerge from the marmalade, can neither be \"placed\" nor dismissed. I\nspeak of Alfred Mombert, Jakob Van Hoddis and Paul Scheerbart — since\nno two commentators agree, I have the right to signal them — who are ill\nremembered amid the mass of names which litters the period between 1885\nand 1914. Mombert, Scheerbart, Van Hoddis compose no \"school,\" knew\neven little of each other. Mombert is said to be living still, although few\nseem to know either of him or of Van Hoddis, whereas Scheerbart was a\npopular journalist whose work was scarcely conceded any literary impor-\ntance.\nSince the war Jakob Van Hoddis has been accepted as one of the\n\"fathers\" of Expressionism (how the curious little man would have rued\nthis!) and the demands of a specialized class of readers have brought forth\nnew editions of all the ten volumes of Mombert and several volumes of\nScheerbart.\nAlfred Mombert may be regarded in turn as a mystic, a pantheist, a\ndisciple of Nietzsche, but in the end it is by his rhetoric that he compells.\nHe is mystical somewhat after the fashion of the English poets of the early\nSeventeenth Century, Donne, Herbert, and Vaughan, whom Dr. Johnson\ncalled \"metaphysical.\" The somewhat preposterous religious conceptions\nhe fumbled with permit him a similar extravagance of image and thought-\ndissociation. In his dramatic trilogy, Aeon, a vast \"Aeon Mythos\" is pom-"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1802, "texte": "pously sung; but the true feinschmecker of poetry will forgive him his\ntedious epic of a mythical superman, for the fresh and surprising qualities\nof his lyrics. To comprehend Mombert's departures from the literature of\nhis compatriots it must be remembered that nearly all the novelists of his\ntime were enslaved, either to Flaubert or to Zola, and all the poets to either\nVerlaine or Mallarme.\nIn rfDer Gliihende,\" (1897) we are far afield from Berlin-Westens. His\ndiction has no Gallicisms; it has rather the crude direct accent of old German\nfairy tales, which were certainly remarkable for their elaborate humor,\nnaivete, brutality and worldly wisdom. The language is extremely simple\nin construction, but so idiomatic that Mombert can seldom be translated\nadequately:\nUnd vor den Leichenstein\nbaut man ein Bdnklein\nfiir die scluvarze Familie.\nFriihmorgens um sieben\naufziehen, die hinterblieben,\ndie scluvarze Familie\nDer Jung' versucht zu schwatzen,\nda kriegt erin die Fraize\nvon der schwarzen Familie.\nDie Tochter hebt die Rdcke auf,\nda kriegt sie einen Blick darauf\nvon der schwarzen Familie.\nDer Sohn steht auf, geht nebenbei . . .\ndoch ist er gleich wieder dabei,\nbei der schwarzen Familie.\nSchleppt Wurscht herbei! schleppt Bier herbei!\nEben schlug es zehne\nfiir die schwarze Familie.\nThe sequence of the theme in this ballad is always very curious, one\nhunts in vain for causal relationship, and yet the rhythm prepares one for the\njust violence of the end: \"Schleppt Wurscht herbei! schleppt Bier herbei!\"\nAnother poem in the same vein tells of the poet being seized by four\nhunters and placed against a wall of rock. They search him: \"Hast eine\nKartoffel gestohlen, wirst erschossen!\" They tear his clothes off.\n\"Und sie rissen mir den Rock vom Leib.\nUnd sie rissen mir das Hemd vom Leib"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "209", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1575, "texte": "They find nothing, until they come upon his heart, which \"so softly,\nsoftly, beats\" and cry:\n\"Hier sitzt die Kartoffel,\ndie gestohlene Kartoffeir\n\"Da wuchs ich riesengrop empor die Felswand\nund war ein ganzes blutgequaltes Volk.\"\nAt times he rises to a mad aggression, he \"becomes a giant towering\nabove the wall of rock, a whole blood-choked people!\" This note is rarely\ntouched in modern poetry, the menace of:\nHelft mir auf die Rednerbuhne!\nStutzt! hebt!\nhelft! eilt!\nMein Herz glanzt überm MeerU\nThe following poem which chances to lend itself to translation is really\ncharacteristic of the uralt savour of Mombert at his best:\nTinkling! — Tambourines!\nI arise from nights of dark-draped rooms —\nAt the window I lift the curtain.\nGlittering, shimmering, the sun . . .\nBelow a bear dances.\nTwo stout and healthy boys: green coats, red caps.\nGlittering, shimmering the sun . . .\nThe curtain falls. I press the bell.\nNaked whores rush in.\n\"The boys die.\nThe bear goes hungry.\nThe sun gets slapped.\"\nPoetry in the hands of Paul Scheerbart, as well, breaks from the\nmould into which it has been pressed by the nineteenth century and ap-\nproaches the primitive motives of art. Groping as these men do, living in and\nyet detached from their period, they at least follow the method of no\n\"school,\" they are neither symbolist nor decadent. Their moments of bathos\nand bad taste are redeemed by the fresh and unexpected turns they take.\nScheerbart is another \"unconscious\" type. Although remembered\nchiefly for his fantastic prose tales, his poetry, insolent, vulgar and grotesque,"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "210", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2122, "texte": "seems more arresting. Within your urbane civilized German there is a\nvein of cruel fantasy which Scheerbart exploits. Lack of restraint hurls him\nto an extreme departure from representative literature; his loud chanting\non the wind instruments approaches the vivid slogans of American adver-\ntisements. Here is \"Indian Song:\"\nMurx den Europder!\nMurx ihn;\nMurx ihn! Murx ihn!\nMurx ihn ab!\nOther poems are less cryptic, although equally electrifying. \"Der\nLachende Engel\" is about \"great white disks\" which go soaring in heaven,\nwith \"blood-red nuts whirling upon them,\" and angels who go spraying\nvitriol and crying \"Very well! Very well!\"\nWie war's doch nur?\nIm Himmel schwebten\nGrofie blanke Diskusscheiben —\nAuf denen drehten sich blutrote Niisse.\nDoch alles schlug ein boser Geist entzwei.\nEin Engel lacht dazu\nUnd spritzt Vitriol.\nJawohl! Jawohl!\nIn certain of Scheerbart's poems one finds precisely the style of archaic\nsculpture. The subject sits with his arm in a very awkward gesture, which\nis at once contrary to the laws of perspective, and mysteriously satisfying.\nModern painting may have carried the gospel too far against \"perspective\"\nbut we can still weep with joy at a perfect piece of distortion.\nOf Jakob Van Hoddis only one small book of verse is known, Welt-\nende, containing some sixteen short poems. Van Hoddis was known before\nthe war by certain of the writers who later formed the Expressionist group.\nHe is supposed to have died in a madman's cell. But the case against in-\nsane artists has failed ingloriously, and great art is no more regarded as an\nevidence of insanity (witness Baudelaire and Poe) than insanity as an\na priori postulation of great art.\nVan Hoddis writes with a boundless and monstrous imagination. He\nis a heroic and isolated figure. He writes from great conviction and great\nloneliness. From the traditional point of view, every line of his few knowTn\npoems is hard and ringing. The play of ideas is more frequent in him,\nthan in Scheerbart, he is more cerebral and more luxurious. The thought\nis projected sharply beyond the immediate word or situation. At the\nworld's end:"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "211", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2020, "texte": "Dem Burger fliegt vom spitzen Kopf der Hut,\nIn alien Luften hallt es wie Geschrei.\nDachdecker stiirzen ab und geKn entzwei\nUnd an den Kiisten -— liest man ■— steigt die Flut .. .\nDer Sturm ist da, die wilden Meere hupfen\nAn Land, um dicke Damme zu zerdriicken.\nDie meisten Menschen haben einen Schnupfen.\nDie Eisenbahnen fallen von den Briicken.\nffThe burgher's hat flies from the tip of his head, cries resound in all\nthe air, roofs plunge down and go asunder . . . most people have colds;\nrailroads fall from the bridges.\" And as the world rolls to its end, \"Through\nseven heavens the steam of tobacco and of poor sinners' fat rises in thick\nswaths.\"\nDie Wolken winden sich wie Leinentuch,\nlm Himmel spur' ich grafiliche Exzesse.\nDie Engel fiirchten sich vor Gottes Fluch,\nUnd haben Zigaretten in der Fresse.\nDenn Luzifer ist heute eingeladen\nUnd geht mit einem sicherlich zu Bett.\nDurch sieben Himmel zieht in dicken Schwaden\nDampf von Tabak und Armesunder-Fett.\nVan Hoddis in his less sombre moments is master of a lighter vein,\none of superb clownery:\nDer Mond ist meine Tante\nEr schmoddert durch die Nacht.\nDie Sonne meine Grofimama,\nHat nie an mich gedacht.\nThe influence of Van Hoddis has been far-reaching. First through\nthe talented and ill-fated poet, Alfred Lichtenstein, (killed, Marne 1914) one\nof the early Expressionists. Lichtenstein was a happy satirist who adopted\nthe grotesque manners of his predecessors, with less success. August Stramm,\nanother Expressionist, bears resemblance to Van Hoddis: his fantasy, and\nhis plays with words occasionally lift him out of the mob of Expressionists.\nHuelsenbeck who raised the banner of Dada for a brief day in Germany\nhas disappeared; a brilliant and provocative young man, who preferred, after\ndisplaying much indubitable talent, to emulate the vanishing act of Rimbaud.\nArp sings his solitary varnished song in Switzerland, a poet without\na country, no longer Alsatian or French or German. Who will now lead\nthe dance through the Passage Panoptikum?\n\nM. J."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "212", "page_fin": "113", "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "Comment", "titre_sommaire": "Comment", "signature_source": "L. M.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "212", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1990, "texte": "COMMENT\n\nAstonishing similarities will be noticed between our reproductions of\nwidely different origin—Indian designs and the work of George Grosz,\nmadmen's productions and the delicate drawings of Paul Klee. The pri-\nmitive man and the refined propagandist, the imbecile and one of the finest\nsensibilities of our age — what can these personalities have in common?\nI asked an old Arabian carpet weaver in Gapa to draw some patterns\nfor me. He replied that although he had learned the figures from his\nfather, he had long since forgotten them. However after some hesitation\nhis hand unconsciously traced the outlines of a bird, a fish and a camel.\nOur Indian drawing of a man sitting in his hammock is rather\nnaturalistic but the \"artist\" did not forget to draw a hole for the empty\nstomach inside the body. Thus does the pen of Grosz penetrate beneath\nthe skirts and blouses of cocottes and into the hearts of profiteers and\nsoldiers. The method of these two artists—whether learned from their\nancestors, in school or in life—is the same: empiric and conceptional. Their\naim the imparting of knowledge and information to others.\nThe excellent book of Dr. Prinzhorn, \"Plastic Production of the\nInsane,\" enabled us to reproduce some drawings by madmen of the\nschizophreme group, whose minds are cut off from the outside world and\nare often split into several different personalities. Their drawings are\nskeletons which they clothe in the flesh of their imaginations, thus con-\ncentrating them into what can he called a sort of order. Uncontrolled by\nand uninterested in the world's realities, the insane mind is guided only\nby the logic of paper and pencil or brush and colour. The two fundamental\nmysteries — religion and love — form, for the most part, the inspiration\nof their drawings: and in them memories reappear as in the drawing of\nthe Koroa-man.\nThe mysticism of Paul Klee is evident in one of his latest works\nwhich Dr. Zahn calls \"The Cosmic Picture Book.\" The egocentrism of the"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "113", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1098, "texte": "philosopher separates him from the world as definitely as the illusions of\nthe insane, and the many sides and directions of his (literarily expressed)\ninterests may form a parallel to the divided personality of the madman.\nBut the intentions of Klee are aesthetic while the madman creates from\na pathological necessity. Both are unconscious of the antagonism which\nexists in the other examples. For the Indian's intention is informative like\nthat of the Arab, who wants to draw a bird, but who knows that this figure\nmust decorate a carpet. This struggle between the plastic and the infor-\nmative exists to some extent in all art productions, unconsciously in the\ncase of children, of primitive people or of the insane; consciously in the\ncase of intelligent artists like George Grosz, whose work is analyzed in\ndetail, in another part of this issue.\nIn the work of the mystic the diversity of empiric reality has no\nplace, and abstract elements build up peculiarly concrete beings, while the\npositivist creates a new abstract unity out of all the elements of his know-\nledge and experience.\n\nL. M."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[145]", "page_fin": "[145]", "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.24", "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": 3, "page_imprimee": "[145]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3273, "texte": "JANUARY PUBLICATIONS\nBLACK OXEN\nBy GERTRUDE ATHERTOW-has its set-\nting in fashionable and literary New York\nof today, with amazing flash-backs to th&\nManhattan of thirty odd years ago. In her \"sophisticates\" the individual members of\nsome of the most interesting groups in our contemporary life are easily recognizable,\nand some of their favorite rendezvous are amusingly described.\nIt is the story of a woman born into one of the older New York families, who has lived\nthe greater part of her life in the diplomatic circles of Europe, and the brilliant Lee\nClavering, columnist and dramatist. The conflict in the souls of these two intensely\ninteresting characters is an amazing psychological study. With Freudian insight and\npenetrating truth Mrs. Atherton reveals us to ourselves. ($2.00)\nS4IOME OF THE TENEMENTS\nBy &N2EA YEZIERSKA-—author of Hungry Hearts, is the story of an Eastside girl\ndriven by a deathless passion for beauty to burn through the barriers of race, class, and\ncreed. Sonya Vrunsky, the Salome of the New York Tenements, flashes into the lives of\ntwo men, Manning, a millionaire philanthropist, and Hellins, Betfu Brum me 11 of Fifth\nAvenue. In the marriage of Sonya to Manning one sees the Oriental and the Anglo-\nSaxon trying to find a common language, (and this is the theme of the novel) the over-\nemotional ghetto struggling for its breath in the thin air of Puritan restraint. ($2.00)\nJPt m wmma a By WARNER FABIAN -Warner\nIf 1 fvl m fftli*! If iMJ§ ff Fabian, which is the nom de plume\nm wt mm m 9 Mm m of one of the most important and\nserious-minded novelists in America, sees in youth of today a number of new problems,\nfrom which he draws some amazing conclusions, entirely different from those that have\nbeeri furnished by our younger generation writing about the younger generation. He\nwonders if youth is not merely a product of its environment, if youth alone, is to blame\nfor all the elemental stimulus it finds in jazz and parties in and out of season.\nYou will find that youth takes pretty good care of itself in Pat, the most sophisticated,\nand yet at the same time, the most deliciously lovely and innocent of all heroines. One\nwonders after reading this swift moving and daring novel, what sin is, and what it\nmeant by 44the wages of sin.\" ($2.00)\nTHE ETERNU MASPUERADE\nBy H. DENNIS BRADLEY—is a pungent, individualistic criticism of human life, and\nhuman problems; a history of clothes, yes, but also an intimate history of those who\nwear them. ($2.00)\nThe London Times says,\"Every woman should read this gay review of modes, mate*\nrials, and morals.\"\nThb London Daily News says, \"A good many people will be shooked at itf It is\nimpudent, but it is very clever.\"\nHAVE YOU AN EDUGVIH) HEART?\nBy GELETT BURGESS Gelett Burgess has a way o( being continually quoted. He\nis a coiner of words that remain in use, such as \"goop,\" \"bromide,\" and \"blurb,\" but\nonly because behind each ol them is a real idea.\nVOU AN EDUCATED HEART defines and illustrates kindness. It is a\nwhimsical treatise not upon morals, but upon\ncourtesy, which is super-kindness-a decorative DON! fipLIVERIGUT iSlm\nvirtue. Are you a pretender to friendship, or EbUbihtfa&gT t NEW YOBK >\n'have you an educated heart?\" ($1.00) pushers * NEW YORK*\n108 West 40th Street"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[146]", "page_fin": "[146]", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.25", "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": 4, "page_imprimee": "[146]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 38, "texte": "7b o o fit s of International Interest"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[146]", "page_fin": "[146]", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.26", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[146]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 40, "fin_caractere_exclue": 796, "texte": "' Babbitt\nBy Sinclair Lewis\nAut6or of \"Main Street\"\n\"Babbitt is one of the greatest novels\nI have read for a long time.\" — //. G.Wetfs.\n\"He has made his Babbitt own brother\nto our Mr. Polly, Uncle Ponderovo, Denry\nof the FiveTowns,and the Forsythe family.\"\nHugh Wafpofe.\nsth. large printing, $ 2.00\nThe Reign Of\nThe Evil One\nBy C. F. Ramuz\nTrans fated By James WfiitalT.\nWith an Introduction By Ernest\nBoyd.\nA story of a little mountain village, of the\npeasants at their work, and the conflict\nbetween good and evil fought out in their\nsouls. $ 2.00\nGuilty Souls\nBy Robert Nichols\nAuthor of\n\"Ardours and Endurances\"\nA play by a young English poet that has\naroused the admiration of the British public\nand critics. With a Shavian preface of\n70 pages. $ 1.75"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[146]", "page_fin": "[146]", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.27", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[146]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 798, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2041, "texte": "zqc goose Max\nThy Jacob IDassermann\nAutßor of \"TBe Worfd's Iffusion \"\n\"The Goose Man\" is the second of Jacob Wassermann's\nnovels to be presented to the English reading public. Many\nContinental critics consider it his greatest work.\nInto the solid texture of this immense novel he has woven\nscores of human lives and dramatic situations—the material\nfor a dozen ordinary novels.\n\"The stage which Wassermann sets before us has all the\nquality of a Rembrandt painting/ its golden shadows/ its\nincisive draughtsmanship, its superbly marshalled mass of\nindividuals/ each faithfully rendered, each built up from\nwithin through relentless psychological insight. The novel\nstands four-square, firmly integrated in experiences picture\nand an interpretation of life. For sheer artistic power, as\nwell as for philosophic significance. 'The Goose Man' is\namong the most vital and important contemporary novels.\"\nInternationaf 8006 Review.\n\"It recalls the personal records of Beethoven, Berlioz\nand Wagner. It represents the Austrian Master's reaction\nto a world brayed in the mortar of the great war.\"\nNew Repußfic.\n\"A world of intolerable beauty.\"—N. Y. Trißune.\n900SC 07CCL7C—U77 Pages—# 2.50\nOffered, luitk a year's subscription\nto TbfeOOTtl for $ 5.50"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[146]", "page_fin": "[146]", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.28", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[146]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 2043, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2972, "texte": "Since Cezanne\nBy Cfive Bell\nA series of brilliant essays on modern\nvisual art.\n\"Mr. Bell shines in the highest aesthetic\nline of current criticism and commands a\nrarely cultured knowledge of exotic con*\ntemporary painters.\" — At [antic Mont My.\n3rd. American Edition, $ 2.50\nAmerican\nPoetry—1922\nA Miscellany\nThe hitherto unpublished poems of Robert\nFrost, Carl Sandburg, Amy Lowell, Vachel\nLindsay, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Conrad\nAiken, Sara Teasdale, Louis Untermeyer\nand others.\n\"Contains some of the finest poetry ever\nwritten by Americans.\" — N. zT. Trißune.\n$ 1.75\nRootabaga\nSTORIES\nBy Carl Sandburg\nCarl Sandburg invents an American folk\nlore to the delight of everyone who is or\nwho has remained young.\n\"Sublime nonsense, which can carry\nwit and sarcasm with it and which can\nclimb to the heights of splendid poetry.\nAmerica keeping abreast of Swift and Gul-\nliver.\" N. Y. Times.\n1 (fastrated By tße Petersßams. $ 2.00 >"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[146]", "page_fin": "[146]", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.29", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[146]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 2974, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3030, "texte": "HARCOURT, BRACE and Company • 1 West 47th. St., NEW YORK"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[146]", "page_fin": "[146]", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.30", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[146]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 3032, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5105, "texte": "LAY WRITING\nA professional Course in Playwriting is offered under the personal\nsupervision of Theodore Ballou Hinckley, editor of \"The Drama/'\nassisted by famous playwrights, critics, actors and producers\nIndividual Instruction and Criticism\nTHE DRAMA'S course in play writing teaches in\ndetail the technique of the professional play, you will\nbe taken step by step through study courses, books,\nand practice plays, from the simplest rudiments to the\nactual completion of plays, your work will receive\nthe individual attention of Mr. Hinckley. His criticisms\nwill be directed toward your specific needs. He will\ndissect your plot, your characters, and your dialogue,\nand give you definite, constructive criticism and help.\nProducers Will Read Your Plays\nThroughout the entire course, the aim is toward the\ncompletion of plays for professional production and\nnot toward mere amateurish effort, your plays will\nbe analyzed by Mr. Hinckley with the idea of pro-\nduction in mind, and plays of real merit will be brought\nto the attention of producers. If your manuscript has\nthe endorsement of THE DRAMA it will receive a\nreading by managers.\nGood Plays Earn Big Royalties\nMany successful plays have made their authors rich.\nLigbtninThe Bat, The Lion and the Mouse, and\nmany others have earned thousands of dollars. The\nincome from The Bat is said to have been more than\n$ 6,000 a week. If you have ideas and imagination,you will\nfind the practical dramatic technique and honest and com-\npetent criticism of this course of inestimable value to you.\nyou will be taught how the public taste in plays\nchanges, as to subject matter and its development.\nBecause of his long and close connection with pro-\nfessional drama, Mr. Hinckley knows the changing\ndemands of the managers and the public.\nLimited Enrollment\nSince the work is so carefully personalized, the\nenrollment is limited to people of real promise. An\nenrollment examination will be sent upon request,- upon\nthis will be based our decision as to your eligibility.\nFill out the coupon and mail it for complete information."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[146]", "page_fin": "[146]", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.31", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[146]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 5107, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5291, "texte": "Department of Instruction, THE DRAMA CORPORATION, 528 Athenaeum Bldg., Chicago.\nPlease send information regarding your personalized course in play-writing.\nName City\nStreet . , State ~"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c036", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c036", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[114]", "page_fin": "[114]", "image_debut": 72, "image_fin": 72, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.32", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "[114]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2423, "texte": "World's Famous Books\nClassics of Fiction, Drama, History, Biography, Philosophy, Science, Poetry and\nHumor Now Produced in Pocket Size—Improve Your Mind by Reading in Odd\nMoments—Easy to Carry—Order by mail—Size of Books 372x5 inches—Books\nPrinted Uniformly—Bound Neatly in Card-Cover Stock—Take Your Pick of 300\nGreat Titles at 10c—Quick Service Guaranteed.\nONLY\n10c\nEACH\nThe Chicago\nDaily News of\nSept. 13, says\nthat Girard,\nKans., has be-\ncome the liter-\nary ' '\nthe U,\n7\nital\nof\nA\n1\nY/t\nE. Haldeman-Julius, Editor Pocket Series\nThe amazing thing about our new process in printing is\nihe fact that it makes possible the production of 300 master-\npieces of literature—not extracts, but complete—at the sur-\nprisingly low price of 10 c each.\nBy using compact, yet readable type, and good thin\npaper it has been possible to print the complete and original\ntext in every case in a thin volume which easily slips into\nthe pocket. Many readers have become so enthused that they\nmake a practice of slipping four or five of these books\ninto a pocket before starting the day's work. They do not\nbulge the pocket and are not noticeable, yet are always\navailable.\nThis new process In publishing now makes it\npossible for men and women who are lovers of the\nbest literature to become well read in time formerly\nwasted. Many people carry some of these books\nwith them constantly.\nOver 20,000,000 of these unique books have\nbeen sold during the past three years, indicating\nthe popularity of the idea. The library was started\nwith the thought of putting the best literature within\nreach of the masses.\nWe have spared ourselves no pains in the effort\nto produce books that meet every requirement.\nExcellent printing and binding make them very\nattractive in appearance.\n\"LITERATURE'S\nIMPRESARIO\"\nAn editorial in The St. Louis\nPost-Dispatch, of September 6, 1922,\nhas the following to say about E.\nHaldeman-Julius, editor of the Pocket\nSeries;\nHaldeman-Julius is an Invalu-\nable citizen. He is doing a\ncultural work of the first mag-\nnitude. He is a great business\nman and one of the country's\ngreatest educators. He is litera-\nture's impresario. He is the\nAmerican Northcliffe, with the\nimmeasurable distinction that\nwhile the Englishman was\nprimarily a peddler of\nlities, Haldeman-Julius Is a\nsalesman of the verities. Of\nthe Girard publishing house\nthe Bard of Avon himself\nwould say: \"There's nothing\nill can dwell in such a temple.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c037", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c037", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[114]", "page_fin": "[114]", "image_debut": 72, "image_fin": 72, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.33", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "[114]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 2425, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7335, "texte": "ORDER BY\nNUMBER\nDrama\n295 The Master Builder.\nIbsen.\n90 The Mikado. W. S.\nGilbert.\n316 Prometheus Bound.\nAeschylus.\n308 She Stoops to Conquer.\nOliver Goldsmith.\n134 The Misanthrope.\nMoliere.\n16 Ghosts. Henrik Ibsen.\n80 Pillars of Society. Ibsen.\n46 Salome. O. Wilde.\n54 Importance of Being\nEarnest. O. Wilde.\n8 Lady Windermere's Fan.\nOscar Wilde.\n131 Redemption. Tolstoi.\n99 Tartuffe. Moliere.\n31 Pelleas and Melisande.\nMaeterlinck.\n226 Prof. Bernhardt.\nSchnitzler.\nShakespeare's Plays\n240 The Tempest.\n241 Merry Wives of Windsor.\n242 As You Like It.\n243 Twelfth Night.\n244 Much Ado About Nothing.\n245 Measure for Measure.\n246 Hamlet.\n247 Macbeth.\n248 King Henry V.\n249 Julius Caesar.\n250 Romeo and Juliet.\n251 Midsummer Night's\nDream.\n252 Othello, The Moor of\nVenice.\n253 King Henry VIII.\n254 Taming of the Shrew.\n255 King Lear.\n256 Venus and Adonis\n257 King Henry IV. Part. I.\n258 King Henry IV. Part. 11.\n259 King Henry VI. Part. I.\nTake Your Pick at Only 10c a Book\n260 King Henry VI. Part. 11.\n261 King Henry VI. Part. 111.\n262 Comedy of Errors.\n263 King John.\n264 King Richard 111.\n265 King Richard 11.\n267 Pericles.\n268 Merchant of Venice.\nFiction\n280 The Happy Prince and\nOther Tales. Wilde.\n143 In the Time of the\nTerror. Balzac.\n182 Daisy Miller. Henry James.\n162 The Murders in The Rue\nMorgue. Edgar Allan Poe.\n345 Clarimonde. Gautier.\n292 Mademoiselle Flfl.\nDe Maupassant.\n199 The Tallow Ball.\nDe Maupassant.\n6 De Maupassant's Stories.\n15 Balzac's Stories.\n344 Don Juan and Other\nStories. Balzac.\n318 Christ in Flanders and\nOther Stories. Balzac.\n230 The Fleece of Gold.\nTheophile Gautier.\n178 One of Cleopatra's\nNights. Gautier.\n314 Short Stories. Daudet.\n58 Boccaccio's Stories.\n45 Tolstoi's Short Stories.\n12 Poe's Tales of Mystery.\n290 The Gold Bug.\nEdgar Allan Poe.\n145 Great Ghost Stories.\n21 Carmen. Merimee.\n23 Great Stories of the Sea.\n319 Comtesse de Saint-\nGerane. Dumas.\n38 Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.\nStevenson.\n279 Will o' the Mill; Mark-\nhelm. Stevenson.\n311 A Lodging for the\nNight. Stevenson.\n27 Last Days of a Con-\ndemned Man. Hugo.\n151 Man Who Would Be\nKing. Kipling.\n148 Strength of the Strong.\nLondon.\n41 Christmas Carol.\nDickens.\n57 Rip Van Winkle.\n100 Red Laugh. Andreyev.\n105 Seven That Were\nHanged. Andreyev.\n102 Sherlock Holmes Tales.\n161 Country of the Blind.\nH. G. Wells.\n85 Attack on the Mill. Zola.\n156 Andersen's Fairy Tale.\n158 Alice in Wonderland.\n37 Dream of John Ball.\nWilliam Morris.\n40 House and the Brain.\nBulwer Lytton.\n72 Color of Life. E. Halde-\nman-Julius.\n198 Majesty of Justice.\nAnatole France.\n215 The Miraculous Revenge\nBernard Shaw.\n24 The Kiss and Other\nStories. Chekhov.\n285 Euphorlan in Texas.\nGeorge Moore.\n219 The Human Tragedy.\nAnatole France.\n1% The Marquise. George\nSand.\n239 Twenty-Six Men and a\nGirl. Gorki.\n29 Dreams. Olive\ni Schrelner.\n232 The Three Strangers\nThomas Hardy.\n277 The Man Without a\nCountry. F. E. Hale.\nHistory, Biography\n312 Life and Works of\nLaurence Sterne. Gunn.\n328 Addison and His\nTimes. Finger.\n324 Life of Lincoln. Bowers.\n323 The Life of Joan of Arc.\n339 Thoreau—the Man Who\nEscaped From the\nHerd. Finger.\n126 History of Rome.\nA, F. Giles.\n128 Julius Caesar: Who He Was.\n185 History of Printing.\n149 Historic Crimes and\nCriminals. Finger.\n175 Science of History.\nFroude.\n104 Battle of Waterloo.\nVictor Hugo.\n25 Voltaire. Victor Hugo.\n125 War Speeches of Wood-\nrow Wilson.\n22 Tolstoi: His Life and\nWorks.\n142 Bismarck and the Ger-\nman Empire.\n286 When the Puritans.\nWere in Power.\n343 Life of Columbus.\n66 Crimes of the Borgias.\nDumas.\n287 Whistler: The Man and\nHis Work.\n51 Bruno: His Life and\nMartyrdom.\n147 Cromwell and His Time.\n236 State and Heart Affairs\nof Henry VIII.\n50 Palne's Common Sense.\n88 Vindication of Paine.\n33 Brann: Smasher of\nShams.\n163 Sex Life in Greece and\nRome.\n214 Speeches of Lincoln.\n276 Speeches and Letters of\nGeo. Washington.\n223 Essay on Swinburne.\n144 Was Poe Immoral?\nWhitman.\n227 Keats. The Man and His\nWork.\n150 Lost Civilizations.\nFinger.\nORDER BY\nNUMBER\n170 Constantine and the\nBeginnings of Christianity,\n201 Satan and the Saints.\n67 Church History. H. M.\nTichenor.\n169 Voices From the Past.\n266 Life of Shakespeare and\nAnalysis of His Plays.\n123 Life of Madame Du\nBarry.\n139 Life of Dante.\n69 Life of Mary, Queen of\nScots. Dumas.\n5 Life of Samuel Johnson.\nMacaulay.\n174 Trial of Wm. Penn.\nHumor\n291 Jumping Frog and Other\nHumorous Tales.\nMark Twain.\n193 Wit and Wisdom of\nCharles Lamb.\n18 Idle Thoughts of an Idle\nFellow. Jerome.\n166 English as She Is Spoke\nMark Twain.\n231 Eight Humorous\nSketches. Mark Twain.\n205 Artemus Ward. His\nBook.\n187 Whistler's Humor.\n216 Wit of Heinridi Heine.\nGeo. Eliot.\n20 Let's Laugh. Nasby.\nLiterature\n278 Friendship and Other\nEssays. Thoreau.\n195 Thoughts on Nature.\nThoreau.\n194 Lord Chesterfield's\nLetters.\n48 Bacon's Essays.\n63 A Defense of Poetry.\nShelley.\n97 Love Letters of King\nHenry VIII.\nHaldeman-Julius Company, Dept. S-20, Girard, Kans."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c038", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c038", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[115]", "page_fin": "[115]", "image_debut": 73, "image_fin": 73, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.34", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "[115]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7196, "texte": "ORDER BY\nNUMBER\nTake Your\nat Only 10c a Book\n(Continued from last page.)\nPhilosophy, Religion\n89 Love Letters of Men and\nWomen of Genius.\n186 How I Wrote \"The\nRaven.\" Poe.\n87 Love, an Essay.\nMontaigne.\n60 Emerson's Essays.\n84 Love Letters of a\nPortuguese Nun.\n26 On Going to Church.\nG. B Shaw.\n135 Socialism for Million-\naires. G. 5. Shaw.\n61 Tolstoi's Essays.\n176 Four Essays. Havelock\nEllis.\n160 Lecture on Shakespeare.\nIngersoll.\n75 Choice of Books\nCarlyle.\n288 Essays on Chesterfield\nand Rabelais.\nSainte-Beuve.\n76 The Prince of Peace.\nW. J. Bryan.\n86 On Reading. Brandes.\n95 Confessions of An\nOpium Eater.\n213 Lecture on Lincoln\nIngersoll.\n177 Subjection of Women.\nJohn Stuart Mill.\n17 On Walking. Thoreau.\n70 Charles Lamb's Essays.\n235 Essays. Gilbert K.\nChesterton.\n7 A Liberal Education.\nThomas Huxley.\n233 Thoughts on Literature\nand Art. Goethe.\n225 Condescension In For-\neigners. Lowell.\n221 Women, and Other\nEssays. Maeterlinck.\n10 Shelley. Francis\nThompson.\n289 Pepys' Diary.\n299 Prose Nature Notes.\nWalt Whitman.\n315 Pen, Pencil and Poison.\nOscar Wilde.\n313 The Decay of Lying.\nOscar Wilde.\n36 Soul of Man Under\nSocialism. O. Wilde.\n293 Francois Villon: Student.\nPoet and Housebreaker.\nStevenson.\nMaxims, Epigrams\n77 What Great Men Have\nHave said About Women.\n304 What Great Women\nHave 3ald About Men.\n179 Gems from Emerson.\n310 The Wisdom of\nThadteray.\n56 Wisdom of Ingersoll.\n106 Aphorisms. Geo. Sand.\n168 Epigrams. O. Wilde.\n59 Epigrams of Wit and\nWisdom.\n35 Maxims. Rochefoucauld.\n154 Epigrams of Ibsen.\n197 Witticisms and Reflections.\nDe Sevigne.\n180 Epigrams of George\nBernard Shaw.\n155 Maxims. Napoleon.\n181 Epigrams. Thoreau.\n228 Aphorisms. Huxley.\n113 Proverbs of England.\n114 Proverbs of France.\n115 Proverbs of Japan.\n116 Proverbs of China.\n117 Proverbs of Italy.\n118 Proverbs of Russia.\n119 Proverbs of Ireland.\n120 Proverbs of Spain.\n121 Proverbs of Arabia.\n159 A Guide to Plato.\nDurant.\n347 A Guide to Stoicism. St.\nGeorge Stock.\n322 The Buddhist Philosophy\nof Life.\n124 Theory of Reincarnation\nExplained.\n157 Plato's Republic.\n62 Schopenhauer's Essays.\n94 Trial and Death of\nSocrates.\n65 Meditations of Marcus\nAurelius.\n64 Rudolf Eucken: His Life\nand Philosophy.\n101 Thoughts of Pascal.\n4 Age of Reason.\nThomas Paine.\n55 Herbert Spencer: His\nLife and Works.\n44 Aesop's Fables.\n165 Discovery of the Future\nH. G. Wells.\n% Dialogues of Plato.\n325 Essence of Buddhism.\n103 Pocket Theology.\nVoltaire.\n132 Foundations of Religion.\n138 Studies in Pessimism.\nSchopenhauer.\n211 Idea of God In Nature.\nJohn Stuart Mill.\n212 Life and Character.\nGoethe.\n200 Ignorant Philosopher.\nVoltaire.\n210 The Stoic Philosophy.\nProf. G. Murray.\n224 God: Known and Un-\nknown. Butler.\n19 Nietzsche: Who He Was\nand What He stood For.\n204 Sun Worship and Later\nBeliefs.\n>L»\nand\nLft\n• V*\nThis handsome book cover\nmade of genuine grain seal\nleather is Intended to slip over\nany of the books In the Pocket\nSeries, preventing soiling and\ntearing of the covers. We sell\nthese specially made covers at\ncost-50 cents each. The lea-\nther covers are unlettered,\nwhich, together with the quality\nof the material, gives it a\nquaint dignity. Simply add 50\ncents to your remittance and\nsay you want a leather cover.\nOtte cover will be sufficient\nfor all the books you order.\n207 Olympian Gods. H. M.\nTldienor.\n184 Primitive Beliefs.\n153 Chinese Philosophy of\nLife.\n30 What Life Means to Me.\nJack London.\nPoetry\n317 L'Allegro and Other\nPoems. Milton.\n282 Rime of the Ancient\nMariner. Coleridge.\n152 The Kasidah. Sir\nRichard F. Burton.\n329 Dante's Inferno. Vol. 1.\n330 Dante's Inferno. Vol. 2.\n297 Poems. Robt. Southey,\n3% A Shropshire Lad.\nHousman.\n284 Poems of Robt. Burns.\n1 Rubayiat of Omar\nKhayyam.\n73 Walt Whitman's Poems.\n2 Wilde's Ballad of Read-\ning Jail.\n32 Poe's Poems.\n164 Michael Angelo's\nSonnets.\n71 Poems of Evolution.\n146 Snow-Bound. Pied\nPiper.\n9 Great English Poems.\n79 Enoch Arden.\n68 Shakespeare's Sonnets.\n281 Lays of Ancient Rome\nMacaulay.\n173 Vision of Sir Launfal.\n222 The Vampire and Other\nPoems.\nScience\n327 The Ice Age. Charles\nJ. Finger.\n321 A History of Evolution.\nFenton.\n217 The Puzzle of Personal-\nity; a Study in Psycho-\nAnalysis. Fielding.\n190 Psycho-Analysis—The\nKey to Human Be-\nhavior. Fielding.\n140 Biology and Spiritual\nPhilosophy.\nSPECIAL BARGAIN\nWe have an amazing proposition for those who\norder full sets of 300 volumes. At 10 c per copy this\nset is worth $30—our special price only $16.90, which\nis less than 6c per volume. To have this entire set is\nto have a University in Print. Entire Library—every\nbook listed in this advertisement—-300 volumes—worth\n$30, at bargain price of only $16.90. Act today. Full\nsets are carefully gathered and packed in substantial\ncases. If you want less than a full set take your pick\nof the titles at 10 c per volume, ordering by number.\nFULL SET—3OO VOLUMES—WORTH $ 30—ONLY\n$ 16.90.\nNOTE: The Haldeman-Julius Company, !n addition to publishing the\nTen Cent Pocket Series also issues a monthly magazine, which is called Life\nand Letters. Life and Letters will do in the magazine world what the Ten\nCent Pocket Series has done in the book world. It will open the door to cul-\nture. This large, well printed literary magazine costs only 50 cents per year—\n12 big issues for only 50 cents—a rare bargain. If you are tired of paying\nexcessive prices for your magazines then be sure to subscribe for Life and Let-\nters. Merely add 50 cents to your remittance for books and say you want Life\nand Letters. In Canada and other foreign countries the subscription price is $1.00\nORDER BY\nNUMBER\n275 The Building of the\nEarth. C L. Fenton.\n49 Three Lectures on\nEvolution. Haeckel.\n42 From Monkey to Man.\n238 Reflections on Modern\nScience. Huxley.\n202 Survival of the Fittest.\nH. M. Tichenor.\n191 Evolution vs. Religion.\nBalmforth.\n133 Electricity Explained.\n92 Hypnotism Made Plain.\n53 Insects and Men:\nInstinct and Reason.\n189 Eugenics. Havelock Ellis.\nSeries of Debates.\n130 Controversy on Chris-\ntianity. ingersoll and\nGladstone.\n43 Marriage and Divorce.\nHorace Greeley and\nRobert Owen.\n208 Debate on Blrih Control.\nMrs. Sanger and Winter\nRussell.\nII Debate on Religion.\n39 Did Jesus Ever Live?\n129 Rome or Reason. Inger-\nsoll and Manning.\n122 Spiritualism. Conan\nDoyle and McCabe.\n171 Has Life Any Meaning?\nFrank Harris and\nPercy Ward.\n206 Capitalism vs. Socialism.\nSellgman and Nearing.\n13 Is Free Will a Fact or\na Fallacy?\n234 McNeal-Slnclalr Debate\non Socialism.\n141 Would Practice of\nChrist's Teachings\nMake for Social\nProgress ?\nNearing and Ward.\nMiscellaneous\n326 Hints on Writing Short\nStories. Finger.\n192 Book of Synonyms.\n25 Rhyming Dictionary.\n78 How to Be an Orator.\n82 Common Faults in Writ-\ning English.\n127 What Expectant Moth-\ners Should Know.\n81 Care of the Baby.\n136 Child Training.\n137 Home Nursing.\n14 What Every Girl Sould\nKnow. Mrs. Sanger.\n34 Case for Birlh Control.\n91 Manhood: Facts of Life\nPresented to Men.\n83 Marriage: Past, Present\nand Future. Besant.\n74 On Threshold of Sex.\n98 How to Love.\n172 Evolution of Love.\nEllen Key\n203 Rights of Women.\nHavelock Ellis.\n209 Aspects of Birth Con-\ntrol. Medical, Moral.\nSociological.\n93 How to Live 100 Years.\n167 Plutarch's Rules of\nHealth.\n320 The Prince.\nMachiavelli."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c039", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c039", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[115]", "page_fin": "[115]", "image_debut": 73, "image_fin": 73, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.35", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "[115]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 7198, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7548, "texte": "HOW TO ORDER-—Each book is preceded by a number,\nand readers will please order by number instead of titles. For\ninstance, if you want \"Carmen\" simply set down \"21List the\nnumbers of the books you want and write your name and ad-\ndress plainly at the bottom of the sheet. The books will be\nmailed immediately by parcel post. Send your order and check,"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c040", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c040", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[115]", "page_fin": "[115]", "image_debut": 73, "image_fin": 73, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.36", "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": 73, "page_imprimee": "[115]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 7550, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7879, "texte": "draft, money order or registered letter today. If you order 20\nbooks send $2—if 50 send $5, and so on. Postage prepaid on\ncash orders. Add 10 cto personal check for exchange. Orders\nwill be sent C. O. D. if requested, but carriage charges are col-\nlect on C. O. D. orders. No C. O. D. orders to Canada or\nother foreign countries."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c041", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c041", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[115]", "page_fin": "[115]", "image_debut": 73, "image_fin": 73, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.37", "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": 73, "page_imprimee": "[115]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 7881, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7930, "texte": "Maldeman-Juhus Company, Dept. S-20, Girard, Kans."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c042", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c042", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_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": 74, "image_fin": 74, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.38", "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": 74, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1695, "texte": "THERE IS GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE\nBeyond question the most arresting personality among European men of letters of our time.\nWriters have declared him to be France's greatest war poet, in fact, the only great\npoet who emerged during the War. But the man's sway spread through the whole\ncontinent as poet, novelist, art-critic, and leader of divers revolutions and bucca-\nneering expeditions in painting and literature. For the younger writers of Europe\nApollinaire's Afcoofs, and CaCigrammes are solitary achievements in poetry,- his prose\nworks, Le Poete Assassins', Heresiarque et Cie., astonish and contradict and terrify.\nFour years have passed since the death of Apollinaire from wounds received in the Great War\nand none of his writings have yet been presented to the American public.\nTHE POET ASSASSINATED\nby Guillaume Apollinaire,\ntranslated by Matthew Josephson, begins in the issue of March 1923 and marks the introduction\nof Apollinaire to the English reading public. The Editors of BROOM believe that\nthis brilliant and exhilarating novel will command as wide attention as did Pirandello's\nSix Characters in Search of an Author, and Lautreamont's Mafdoror, published in\nBROOM last year.\nAnd of Photography — is it to be the \"plastic art\" of the future? In the March Number there\nwill be reproduced a group of photographs by the American, Man Ray, and a group\nof \"light studies\" by the Hungarian, Moholy Nagy. An ever widening class of people\nis coming to forsake painting for photography. Whether they be right or no, the ex-\nperiments of these two cratfsmen whose work is displayed in the March BROOM\nare milestones in the progress of this new art.\nIN THE MARCH BROOM\nIN THE MARCH BROOM"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c043", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c043", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_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": 74, "image_fin": 74, "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=bmtnaap192302-01.2.39", "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": 74, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 1697, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3022, "texte": "POETRY: CL DKagazinc of Verse\nCditcd. by @a.r r ie t DIC onr o e\nCuen Lf you don't Cike poetry, get a copy of Poetryi CL of Verse and see why. Poetry\npresents from month to month the best poetry being written in English. Our contributors write from all over\nthe globe.\nCuen if you don't tike uers Cibre, the best of it is published in Poetry. Poetry is the indicator of the\nintellectual ardors of our day.\nCuen If tfoe oCd estabCLsfyed forms bore youthey still bear forth beauty. Poetry cares only for the\nexpression of beauty: the form is incidental to the grasping of the eternal second and its significance in the\nmood of the poet.\nThe January number is the fourth issue of Poetry's eleventh year. No other magazine of poetry has en«\ndured so long, introduced so many now famous poets to their audiences, nor kept so consistently to the aim of\n\"poetry, not names/' The proof is in the reading. The publishers of BROOM and POETRy make you the\nfollowing special offer: BROOM and POETRy for one year for $ 6.50. Take advantage of this exceptional\nopportunity while it is possible to do so.\nPOETRy\": CL Magazine of Verse, 232 East Erie Street, Chicago, U.S.A.\nEnclosed find $ 3.00 <Canada, $ 3.15/ foreign, $ 3.25) for one year's subscription to POETRy.\nBeginning:\nName:\nAddress:\nWE ARE BACKING THE POETS » ARE yOU BACKING US?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-02-01-c044", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-02_01#c044", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-02_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": 75, "image_fin": 75, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.2.40", "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": 75, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1988, "texte": "AMERICA AND \"ABROAD\"\nTHE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW for one hundred and eight years has\nyielded precedence to no other periodical in constant devotion to the interests of this\nRepublic; preferring America before the World and serving as an exponent of America\nto the World. Yet never once has it shared or approved the cynical demand of a one-\ntime Senator of the United States, \"What do we care for 'Abroad'?\" On the contrary,\nit has ever cared much for \"Abroad,\" both for the sake of America, that we may pro-\nfitably share in the wealth of thought and the contributions to human progress which\nother nations have to offer, and for the sake of mankind, that this country may play its\npart as a nation nations.\nThe manr\nworld-wide intei\nin international ;\nture, art and etl\nin the near futu\nThe Probl\nChateaubri\nThe Hear\nGovernmei\nThe Case\nProgress T\nTwo Wall\nThe Case\nFrom Free\nUnity in I\nThe Resui\nMarie Anl\nSunday M\nPaying for\nThe Varie\nIn order t\nquainted with T\nEX LIBRIS\nft.\n$\nI\n3\n%\n%\nSHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY\nPARIS\nVIEW is thus serving\nvital and timely topics\nid economics, in litera-\ntes scheduled to appear\nn Miles, U. S. A.\n. W. P. Cresson\n. Augustus Ralli\nErnest R. Groves\nrentiss B. Gilbert\n/lary W. Williams\n. . . Stark Young\nrs. Travers Smith\nHodman Rumball\nrof. E. P. Warner\nPhilip S. Moxom\n. . . E. S. Roscoe\nBrooks Atkinson\n. . Gorton James\nFrank A. Waugh\nbecome intimately ac-\nthis\nSPECIAL SUBSCRIPTION OFFER\nAny reader of Broom who sends $2.00 ($2.18 in Canada, or $2.48 if in a\nforeign country) will receive seven issues of The North American Review for the price\nof six. When ordering please use coupon below.\nmmimimmniiiiimiimiimimmmumiiimiiiiiimnmimmmmiiiiimimimiiiiiiiiiimmimimmiiiiim mum iiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiimiiiiiu\no\nu\no\nN\nThe North American Review\n9 East 37 th St., New York City.\nGentlemen: For the enclosed $ 2.00 ($ 2.18 Canadian,\ncan Review for seven months to th% following address:\n2.48 foreign) please send The North Ameri-\nName\nAddress"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.2", "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.\nAssociate Art Editor, Ladislas Medgyes.\nFEBRUARY, 1923\nPUBLISHED MONTHLY\nVOL. 4, NO. 3\nThe Editor of Broom will be pleased to consider mss. submitted to him, but all mss. must\nbe accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. The Editor cannot hold himself respon-\nsible for loss of mss. in transit.\nMss. from Europe should be sent to the Berlin office,- mss. from America to the New\nYork office.\nThe price of Broom is;\nFor America, fifty cents the copy, and five dollars for a year's subscription. For Italy,\n10 lire the copy, and 100 lire for a year's subscription. For France, 6 francs the copy, and\n60 francs for a year's subscription. For Great Britain, 2/6 d the copy, and one pound five shillings\nfor 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.\n\nPage\nCover Design (Woodcut) — Lissitzky\nTransformations — Richard Huelsenbeck 147\nPost Mortem — Infallibility — Paul Eldridge 160\nPeriphery (Drawing) — George Grosz 162\nGeorge Grosz — Westheim 163\nPop and Mom, Bourgeois Charity (Drawings) — George Grosz 165,167\nMortuary — Malcolm Cowley 170\nSuicide on the Bridge (Drawing) — Paul Klee 171\nThe Song of the Whip — Carleton Beals 172\nMurder, Acrobats (Drawings) — Paul Klee 179,181\nLandscape — William Gamaliel Shephard 180\nIndian Drawings (Woodcuts by L. Medgyes) 180,198\nThe Discoverers — William Carlos Williams 182\nThe Pimps of Death (Drawing) — George Grosz 187\nThe Kid — *Vsevolod Ivanov 188\nSaturday Night (Drawing) — George Grosz 199\nA Note on Modern Russian Art — Louis Lozowick 200\nMadman Drawings 204, 205\nBerlin and the Bubbling Rhine — M. J 206\nComment — L. M« 212"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[145]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.3", "texte": "JANUARY PUBLICATIONS\nBLACK OXEN\nBy GERTRUDE ATHERTOW-has its set-\nting in fashionable and literary New York\nof today, with amazing flash-backs to th&\nManhattan of thirty odd years ago. In her \"sophisticates\" the individual members of\nsome of the most interesting groups in our contemporary life are easily recognizable,\nand some of their favorite rendezvous are amusingly described.\nIt is the story of a woman born into one of the older New York families, who has lived\nthe greater part of her life in the diplomatic circles of Europe, and the brilliant Lee\nClavering, columnist and dramatist. The conflict in the souls of these two intensely\ninteresting characters is an amazing psychological study. With Freudian insight and\npenetrating truth Mrs. Atherton reveals us to ourselves. ($2.00)\nS4IOME OF THE TENEMENTS\nBy &N2EA YEZIERSKA-—author of Hungry Hearts, is the story of an Eastside girl\ndriven by a deathless passion for beauty to burn through the barriers of race, class, and\ncreed. Sonya Vrunsky, the Salome of the New York Tenements, flashes into the lives of\ntwo men, Manning, a millionaire philanthropist, and Hellins, Betfu Brum me 11 of Fifth\nAvenue. In the marriage of Sonya to Manning one sees the Oriental and the Anglo-\nSaxon trying to find a common language, (and this is the theme of the novel) the over-\nemotional ghetto struggling for its breath in the thin air of Puritan restraint. ($2.00)\nJPt m wmma a By WARNER FABIAN -Warner\nIf 1 fvl m fftli*! If iMJ§ ff Fabian, which is the nom de plume\nm wt mm m 9 Mm m of one of the most important and\nserious-minded novelists in America, sees in youth of today a number of new problems,\nfrom which he draws some amazing conclusions, entirely different from those that have\nbeeri furnished by our younger generation writing about the younger generation. He\nwonders if youth is not merely a product of its environment, if youth alone, is to blame\nfor all the elemental stimulus it finds in jazz and parties in and out of season.\nYou will find that youth takes pretty good care of itself in Pat, the most sophisticated,\nand yet at the same time, the most deliciously lovely and innocent of all heroines. One\nwonders after reading this swift moving and daring novel, what sin is, and what it\nmeant by 44the wages of sin.\" ($2.00)\nTHE ETERNU MASPUERADE\nBy H. DENNIS BRADLEY—is a pungent, individualistic criticism of human life, and\nhuman problems; a history of clothes, yes, but also an intimate history of those who\nwear them. ($2.00)\nThe London Times says,\"Every woman should read this gay review of modes, mate*\nrials, and morals.\"\nThb London Daily News says, \"A good many people will be shooked at itf It is\nimpudent, but it is very clever.\"\nHAVE YOU AN EDUGVIH) HEART?\nBy GELETT BURGESS Gelett Burgess has a way o( being continually quoted. He\nis a coiner of words that remain in use, such as \"goop,\" \"bromide,\" and \"blurb,\" but\nonly because behind each ol them is a real idea.\nVOU AN EDUCATED HEART defines and illustrates kindness. It is a\nwhimsical treatise not upon morals, but upon\ncourtesy, which is super-kindness-a decorative DON! fipLIVERIGUT iSlm\nvirtue. Are you a pretender to friendship, or EbUbihtfa&gT t NEW YOBK >\n'have you an educated heart?\" ($1.00) pushers * NEW YORK*\n108 West 40th Street"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[146]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.4", "texte": "7b o o fit s of International Interest\n\n' Babbitt\nBy Sinclair Lewis\nAut6or of \"Main Street\"\n\"Babbitt is one of the greatest novels\nI have read for a long time.\" — //. G.Wetfs.\n\"He has made his Babbitt own brother\nto our Mr. Polly, Uncle Ponderovo, Denry\nof the FiveTowns,and the Forsythe family.\"\nHugh Wafpofe.\nsth. large printing, $ 2.00\nThe Reign Of\nThe Evil One\nBy C. F. Ramuz\nTrans fated By James WfiitalT.\nWith an Introduction By Ernest\nBoyd.\nA story of a little mountain village, of the\npeasants at their work, and the conflict\nbetween good and evil fought out in their\nsouls. $ 2.00\nGuilty Souls\nBy Robert Nichols\nAuthor of\n\"Ardours and Endurances\"\nA play by a young English poet that has\naroused the admiration of the British public\nand critics. With a Shavian preface of\n70 pages. $ 1.75\n\nzqc goose Max\nThy Jacob IDassermann\nAutßor of \"TBe Worfd's Iffusion \"\n\"The Goose Man\" is the second of Jacob Wassermann's\nnovels to be presented to the English reading public. Many\nContinental critics consider it his greatest work.\nInto the solid texture of this immense novel he has woven\nscores of human lives and dramatic situations—the material\nfor a dozen ordinary novels.\n\"The stage which Wassermann sets before us has all the\nquality of a Rembrandt painting/ its golden shadows/ its\nincisive draughtsmanship, its superbly marshalled mass of\nindividuals/ each faithfully rendered, each built up from\nwithin through relentless psychological insight. The novel\nstands four-square, firmly integrated in experiences picture\nand an interpretation of life. For sheer artistic power, as\nwell as for philosophic significance. 'The Goose Man' is\namong the most vital and important contemporary novels.\"\nInternationaf 8006 Review.\n\"It recalls the personal records of Beethoven, Berlioz\nand Wagner. It represents the Austrian Master's reaction\nto a world brayed in the mortar of the great war.\"\nNew Repußfic.\n\"A world of intolerable beauty.\"—N. Y. Trißune.\n900SC 07CCL7C—U77 Pages—# 2.50\nOffered, luitk a year's subscription\nto TbfeOOTtl for $ 5.50\n\nSince Cezanne\nBy Cfive Bell\nA series of brilliant essays on modern\nvisual art.\n\"Mr. Bell shines in the highest aesthetic\nline of current criticism and commands a\nrarely cultured knowledge of exotic con*\ntemporary painters.\" — At [antic Mont My.\n3rd. American Edition, $ 2.50\nAmerican\nPoetry—1922\nA Miscellany\nThe hitherto unpublished poems of Robert\nFrost, Carl Sandburg, Amy Lowell, Vachel\nLindsay, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Conrad\nAiken, Sara Teasdale, Louis Untermeyer\nand others.\n\"Contains some of the finest poetry ever\nwritten by Americans.\" — N. zT. Trißune.\n$ 1.75\nRootabaga\nSTORIES\nBy Carl Sandburg\nCarl Sandburg invents an American folk\nlore to the delight of everyone who is or\nwho has remained young.\n\"Sublime nonsense, which can carry\nwit and sarcasm with it and which can\nclimb to the heights of splendid poetry.\nAmerica keeping abreast of Swift and Gul-\nliver.\" N. Y. Times.\n1 (fastrated By tße Petersßams. $ 2.00 >\n\nHARCOURT, BRACE and Company • 1 West 47th. St., NEW YORK\n\nLAY WRITING\nA professional Course in Playwriting is offered under the personal\nsupervision of Theodore Ballou Hinckley, editor of \"The Drama/'\nassisted by famous playwrights, critics, actors and producers\nIndividual Instruction and Criticism\nTHE DRAMA'S course in play writing teaches in\ndetail the technique of the professional play, you will\nbe taken step by step through study courses, books,\nand practice plays, from the simplest rudiments to the\nactual completion of plays, your work will receive\nthe individual attention of Mr. Hinckley. His criticisms\nwill be directed toward your specific needs. He will\ndissect your plot, your characters, and your dialogue,\nand give you definite, constructive criticism and help.\nProducers Will Read Your Plays\nThroughout the entire course, the aim is toward the\ncompletion of plays for professional production and\nnot toward mere amateurish effort, your plays will\nbe analyzed by Mr. Hinckley with the idea of pro-\nduction in mind, and plays of real merit will be brought\nto the attention of producers. If your manuscript has\nthe endorsement of THE DRAMA it will receive a\nreading by managers.\nGood Plays Earn Big Royalties\nMany successful plays have made their authors rich.\nLigbtninThe Bat, The Lion and the Mouse, and\nmany others have earned thousands of dollars. The\nincome from The Bat is said to have been more than\n$ 6,000 a week. If you have ideas and imagination,you will\nfind the practical dramatic technique and honest and com-\npetent criticism of this course of inestimable value to you.\nyou will be taught how the public taste in plays\nchanges, as to subject matter and its development.\nBecause of his long and close connection with pro-\nfessional drama, Mr. Hinckley knows the changing\ndemands of the managers and the public.\nLimited Enrollment\nSince the work is so carefully personalized, the\nenrollment is limited to people of real promise. An\nenrollment examination will be sent upon request,- upon\nthis will be based our decision as to your eligibility.\nFill out the coupon and mail it for complete information.\n\nDepartment of Instruction, THE DRAMA CORPORATION, 528 Athenaeum Bldg., Chicago.\nPlease send information regarding your personalized course in play-writing.\nName City\nStreet . , State ~"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "147", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.5", "texte": "TRANSFORMATIONS\n\nKakadu and Jamaika live quietly in a remote corner of the great city.\nThey are far off from its big noises and color symphony, and so pro-\nperly scared that the thought hardly ever comes to them to go out of\nthemselves. It is hard to describe such a marriage, to explain a contract\nfor a bed and a table as they appear in the novels of Balzac in striking glimpses\nagainst the background of a metropolis. Kakadu is the son of a doctor\nwho was highly regarded by many comfortable burghers and made weekly\ntrips to the country in a buggy. His mother who had died a few years\nbefore of cancer, wrote her name, Driesel, in her maidenhood, and none\ndared whisper that her father had owned a tavern which bore the for-\nbidding name of \"Tivoli,\" a dreadful resort. Maidservants and waiters\nwith knives would fall into great brawls with the police. All that was, as\npeople said, \"the skeleton in the family closet of the Kakadus.\"\nKakadu himself had inherited from his grandfather a passion for\ndrink and several canine instincts. He remained short in stature. Over\nhis very cradle, his parents had planned his career for the Civil Service;\ntheir plans miscarried charmingly. Kakadu always contradicted; you always\ngot the opposite of what you expected from him. He came breathing forth\nopposition. Without any real grounds, people came to regard him as a\nsinister man. If only they knew how stupid he was. At times he showed a\nsense of elegance. He knew to impress his first wife with forty varieties\nof neckties, checkered, solid colored, striped, silken and of plain cloth.\nBy chance Kakadu became a journalist. When he was thirty years old —\nand the most diverse callings might have gloried in his participation — he\nmet with an accident. He wanted to board a street car. The people almost\nsat on the roof. They brimmed up out of the doorways and could be\nheard complaining: \"Horrible! Terrible!\" Kakadu, who in a more rational\nmoment would have seen that it was impossible to get on, clambered1 up\non the steps of the forward part. The motorman held up the car and\nthrew him off. When he tried to get on at the rear end, someone spat\n*\nwith violence into his face. Kakadu raged, he raged for the first time\nin his life, so that the bristles stood bolt upright on his fat skin. True to"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "148", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.6", "texte": "the old custom of seizing the pen when one is at a loss for what to do, he\nplaced himself in the posture to write. He sent a very nice article to the\nKurier. They wrote him that they agreed perfectly with his contentions,\nand asked him to call on the editors, since there were matters of principle\nat stake. Despite its patriotic name, the Kurier permitted itself to play\nthe \"opposition,\" a soft butterish opposition, to be sure, so that no one paid\nany attention to their attacks unless they were headed \"In Protest\" — but\non the whole a sort of opposition. In fact, the editors trembled at their\nown daring. Kakadu was graciously received; they scented a kindred soul.\nKakadu promised to contribute articles to the Kurier when something arose\nwhich was inconsistent with \"open covenants.\" Thus did the celebrated\n\"muse\" awaken in him; his writing table became littered with manuscripts,\nand the files and indexes crowded each other on his shelves. Before\nKakadu had assumed the monstrously important role of championing \"open\ncovenants\" when he was still poor and wretched in every way, he made the\nacquaintance of Jamaika. He knew as yet nothing of \"art\" and did not\neven know that it belonged to the culture of a people; he knew even less\nwhat \"culture\" meant. However he went his own way, a typical German\nman-in-the-street, without bothering anyone. Jamaika came to the capital\nto be an actress. Before a business men's club she played the role of Romeo\nin hose. Someone cried out, \"Bernhardt, the divine Sarah!\" She re-\nceived a bouquet. Since that triumphant evening, when in the feeble glow\nof a few lights, she had delighted the sex of some travelling salesmen, she\ndetermined to devote herself to a great ideal. And so she said categorically:\n\"My whole life shall be offered up to art!\" Indeed, she sacrificed herself;\nupon falling into the hands of Kakadu, she showed extraordinary emotion.\nHe declaimed from Shakespeare; she found it bewitching. He said, that\nthree books of his were to be printed. She trembled with delight. Shyly\nshe said: \"Great man, poet! Quicken me with your spirit!\" He did quicken\nher, since he seduced her without ceremony. It was revealed that she\nstill possessed her innocence . . . Once married — Kakadu became almost\na fixture on the Kurier — Jamaika soon lost her rapturous gestures, she\nshowed herself very talented, very calculating and of the quick slyness\nwhich all men of middle class succumb to. She reigned over Kakadu\nwithout his knowing it, for the chains did not weigh. His desire for comfort\nwas appeased. He yawned. He felt himself extraordinarily secure. No\none noticed that the balance of power had shifted. In fact, one can only\ndescribe it as an evolution in favor of the woman. The instincts of both\ndemanded only peace, absolute peace. The atmosphere is tepid and foggy,\nthe gestures are not the manifestations of a will, the boxing of ears is"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "149", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.7", "texte": "nothing but reflex movement . . . The legs walk slowly through the rooms;\nfor only one thing could they be aroused, at the possibility of poverty, at\nthe possibility of being forced to work harder in order not to starve. The\ndays followed each other, sleep mingled with awakening, life was a drugged\nstumbling. The afternoons on which Kakadu was not obliged to spend at the\neditorial office were always passed in the following manner: the windows\nwere open, at an angle, and a heavy sun fingered the place. Jamaika went\nthrough the room, hardly knowing why, listening to the rustle of her\nunderclothes against her flesh. Kakadu however settled himself in an\narmchair -— he must ponder — a history of the world's literature lay in\nhis lap. It was hard for him to grasp the visions of the past which he needed\nfor his newspaper articles.\nThe cries of children rose above the narrow street, as Jamaika left\nthe house to promenade on the meadow adjoining their house. There\nwas a circus now on the meadow, they were already fastening the roof\nof the tent on the poles. The head of an elephant could be seen sticking\nout of his stall. Grooms led horses by. Jamaika noticed a small under-\nsized man in good clothes who was giving orders to an attendant. When\nhe disappeared into the circus, Jamaika waited; she only wanted to see\nif the man would come out again, and when he did, she went on, but so slowly,\nthat she could easily observe everything that took place in front of the\nentrance to the circus. The man had seen Jamaika, he followed her, and\nwhen she turned about suddenly in order to go home, he said to her: \"Par-\ndon me, madam.\" She knew how to raise her eyebrows; and she observed\nthe effect of this bit of artistry while the man was fumbling for words.\nHe said: \"May I show you the circus? Are you interested in it?\" He spoke\nvery quickly in order to keep her from making any objections. \"Here you\nhave the elephant stall. For the present only the Indian elephant, Billy,\nis to be seen. The female, Milly, is probably still on the railroad. They\nare old animals, madam, but very valuable possessions, indeed.\" Jamaika\nonly laughed. She no longer found it \"shocking\" to converse with a gentle-\nman whom she had not been formally introduced to. Kakadu was sitting\nat home reading the history of the world's literature. The name of the\nlittle man was Butterweg and it appeared that he was a frog-swallower, the\ngreatest attraction of the circus and a celebrity among artists. Butterweg\nknew the manners of high society, he talked with a slight foreign accent,\nand spoke with enthusiasm of travels in Italy. Florence was a lovely city\nand full of works of art. He said \"works of art\" with the intonation of a\nconnoisseur, so that it became speedily apparent to his hearer what great"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "150", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.8", "texte": "knowledge he had. Jamaika felt herself transported. She kept thinking:\n\"Charming! Charming! What an extraordinary person!\" It did not take\nlong for her to respond naively, the obstacles were slight. One felt oneself,\nafter all, with an artist, with a kindred spirit. For Jamaika still\nnourished her idea of a career on the stage, her rapture for the eternal\nand the beautiful, for Goethe and Schiller. It was very difficult for them\nto part. In the sandy arena they tried to run after each other, but Jamaika\ntripped and fell, her nose striking the hard ground and bleeding profusely.\nButterweg made a fuss about her ordered a glass of water and then sat down\nnext to Jamaika by the rail and played the doctor. \"Did you hurt your-\nself?\" he kept asking, \"You must stick the cotton way up into your nose,\ndear madam.\" He gripped Jamaika's neck and with one hand helped to\ndirect her unhappy efforts. When Jamaika made off, he said softly, \"Adieu,\nmy dear lady.\" She turned very pale — \"When will I have the pleasure of\nseeing you again?\" Jamaika shrugged her shoulders, she thought of Kakadu\nin his armchair, it was very late and she was chiefly interested in avoiding\nany scenes. And so Butterweg remained standing, hat in hand, not a little\nperplexed. On the following day, Jamaika promenaded again in the\nneighborhood of the circus, this time wearing a very seductive costume,\nwhere liveried grooms went by leading horses, and the male elephant, Billy,\nstuck his head out of his stall. The friendship became warm, and even if\nat first Jamaika was not favorably disposed, Kakadu had a rival who cer-\ntainly surpassed him in all manly qualities. But Jamaika was only playing.\nShe was playing with the idea of infidelity and with Butterweg who felt\nhimself reduced to a polite intimacy which only aroused his desires im-\nmeasurably. He fell so madly in love that he neglected his calling and on the\nGala opening night of the circus fell down miserably. At the office of the\nKurier Kakadu heard of the fiasco of the frog-swallower. He said to\nJamaika: \"I have tickets to the circus. If you feel like going, let us go\nthere.\" Jamaika affected a complete indifference: \"I have no interest what-\nsoever in such silliness. My household is more important to me, and\" —\nhere she went to Kakadu, gave him a meaning glance and kissed him\nfull on the mouth — \"and so is the comfort of my dear Kakadu. Nothing\nhas thus far disturbed our tranquillity. The accursed clamor of the circus\npenetrates into our very bedroom!\" \"Right you are, little mouse,\" said\nKakadu lightly (smacking his lips), \"Let us stay at home.\" He had his\nboots taken off and buried himself in a history of the world's literature. From\ntime to time he would try to recite, with a curiously timid face, the poets of\nanother epoch. Jamaika was already abroad on the meadow, she threw all\ncaution to the winds, and inquired immediately at the box-office for Butter-"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "151", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.9", "texte": "weg. Butterweg appeared, very downcast, the adverse reviews in the news-\npapers troubled him deeply. \"You may believe it or not, Jamaika, but a man\nwho has the blood of an artist in his veins depends upon the critics. What\na disgrace! What will the public think!\" Jamaika declared that she had\nsuffered the same experience when she had played great roles on the stage.\nThey spoke of the \"fluidity of art.\" Butterweg cited innumerable philosophers\nand Jamaika was stirred by consciousness of her ignorance. Then she\nsuggested, without any sense of the consequences of her words, \"How would\nit be, Mr. Butterweg, if you spoke to my husband personally about this\nmatter. You know, I suppose, that he is a journalist and if you can make\nclear to him what is at stake, he may he able to help you a great deal.\"\nButterweg, who scarcely believed that Jamaika meant what she was saying,\nstuttered, \"Why—certainly, that would be fine, it is always best to be frank\nand open.\" Jamaika thought that her relations with Butterweg could be\nstrengthened by this experiment. . . Butterweg, compelled by this plan to\nhazard all, drew Jamaika into a corner, and like a Saladin, like a shepherd,\ndeclared his love to be all powerful, as he fell to his knees and kissed\nhis lady's hand. She felt the ends of his moustache tickle her hand and\nbegan to laugh very hard. He took this as a sign of assent and assuming\nthat he was favored, wound himself tightly about her body and covered her\nwith stormy kisses. Jamaika sank down exhausted against the walls of the\ntent. But she felt a very pleasant kind of exhaustion and the agitated blood\nflooded her breasts and choked her breathing. As she approached him again\nwith distorted visage she lowered her head a bit and said: \"I love you.\"\nButterweg sighed. He suspected that this time the newspaper comments\nwould be much more favorable.\nII.\n\"Kakadu,\" said Jamaika, \"listen. I just went by the Circus when a\nman accosted me and presented himself. His name was Butterweg, he was\nthe Frog-swallower of whom you spoke the other day. I said to him: how\ncould he dare to accost me in the street. And did he not know that he\nwas compromising a respectable woman by such behaviour? He apologized\nprofusely and said that he must speak to you about a very important matter\nand that he was afraid to approach you directly, because he had been told\nthat you were very peculiar in your views, and so he bade me putin a word\nfor him.\" Kakadu seemed flattered: \"Yes, yes. But what does he want of\nme. He is the same man who was so widely advertised and then fell down"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "152", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.10", "texte": "so badly on the opening night.\" \"That's it exactly, my dear Kakadu. He\nwants to talk over the criticisms with you. He wants to explain to you\nhis art, for he fears that he has been misunderstood.\" Kakadu nodded\nhis head, shrugged his shoulders and rubbed his hands, not knowing what\nto say. \"Yes, he can come. Nevertheless, I find it rather strange that he\ndoesn't approach me directly if he has something to say to me. And then\nif he thinks he can put anything over on me, he had better know that he\nis mistaken. Critics cannot be bribed; and he has already shown that his\nperformances are not praiseworthy.\" Jamaika went to Butterweg and told\nhim that Kakadu had invited him to have coffee with them. But on the\nfollowing day, right after lunch, when Butterweg was supposed to come,\nKakadu said, \"My dear Jamaika, I have been re-considering the whole\nmatter. I should rather not have this man come to my house. It may\nopen the door to troubles which I should rather avoid. I therefore beg you\nto prevent him from visiting us. And (here his voice betrayed his real\nemotion) when do you expect to see him again?\" Jamaika's face took on\nan innocent expression. \"I have already told you that he approached me\nand begged me to putin a word for him. Since that time I have not seen\nhim, and have no further occasion to. What do you take me for? I am\na respectable woman. I don't know when he will come.\" Kakadu grumbled:\n\"But that is very unpleasant. I never wanted to see this comedian in my\nhouse. They ruin your character, they turn your head, and they are all\nasses, asses. . .\" At this moment Butterweg, unconscious of what was going\non, rang the bell. Jamaika went to Kakadu quickly and kissed him, saying:\n\"There he is. Be nice to him, I beg of you. The poor man is in such\na bad way. There is no need of your making his life more bitter.\" Kakadu\nsat in his armchair with the mien of a magistrate, as Butterweg entered.\nThe history of the world's literature lay in his lap and he looked up as if\nhe were being interrupted in his studies. \"Am I intruding?\" asked Butterweg\nanxiously. Kakadu tried to give his voice a manly depth: \"I have been\ntold by my wife that you wanted to see me on business. Can Ibe of service\nto you in any way?\" Butterweg stammered something about art and criti-\ncism, and Jamaika, fearing that he might miss his mark, interrupted in loud\nand cheerful tones; \"Oh please do not speak so learnedly! All this learning\njust turns a poor woman's head. You can hardly believe, my dear Mr. But-\nterweg, how much my husband studies. Day and night he pores over\na history of the world's literature — think of it, world's literature! Dear\nKakadu, dear little Kakadu! But now we shall have some coffee. Where\nis the maid? Everything must be ready by now.\" Before the might of her\npersuasiveness the men bowed. When Kakadu saw the steaming coffee and"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "153", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.11", "texte": "the cakes he thought no longer of learned poses. Later on — Jamaika sat\nresting one elbow on her raised knee and smoking — the conversation re-\nverted to artistic things. \"But, Mr. Butterweg,\" said Kakadu seriously, \"I\ndo not quite understand how the people can be raised up to a higher level\nthrough your art.\" He put this question as if he were addressing a candidate.\nHe spoke as if he had stayed up many nights over this problem. Butterweg\n¥\nreplied: \"My view is that art is art. We must accept that as our hypothesis,\nonce for all, isn't that so? (Kakadu shook his head.) Nevertheless, I don't\nthink we should give too much weight to that fact. I, for instance, act quite\notherwise, when I perform in my art.\" Kakadu felt conscious of his\nsuperiority. \"Naturally,\" he remarked, \"Each man thinks differently, some\nmore deeply and others more superficially.\" A controversy arose over the\nquestion of artistic inclinations. Butterweg ardently championed the idea\nthat artists are born and not made, while Kakadu was of the opinion that\npractice makes perfect, that a man could become the greatest of artists by\nclose application. Butterweg said: \"As you see me now, so have I been,\na frog-swallower from earliest childhood.\" \"That is not the question,\" said\nKakadu, \"The question is whether the motives which impelled you to swallow\nfrogs were hereditary or acquired.\" \"I have never given that any thought.\nAll I know is that from my earliest youth it pleased me, to — putting it\npolitely — make my repast of frogs, and I was very easily led to make of\nthis aptitude my life's profession. The boys who played with me cried out\nwhen they saw me swallow the animals at one gulp, but I had already\ntasted the true, the great sensation which was later to be mine.\" Kakadu,\nhowever, was worried lest Butterweg persist in error. He said: \"How then\ncould you distinguish yourself from artists like Goethe, Schiller, Geibel,\nUhland? They too must have experienced this rare feeling, and yet your\npropensities can scarcely be compared to the performances of these geniuses.\nThink of Faust, think of the Bride of Messina/\" \"You can think what you\nplease,\" said Butterweg, \"but it is just as I say. I feel it in my heart and\nthat is what counts above all. I don't know the tricks of those gentlemen,\nbut if they have performed anything worth-while then they experienced\nthe same feeling.\" Kakadu felt that he was representing culture and all that\nwas holy to culture. \"Oh!\" he cried pathetically, \"My dear sir (taking the\nhistory of the world's literature and lifting it reverently into the air). Oh!\nMy dear sir! Do not speak so loud, that learned people may not laugh at\nyou.\" Butterweg gave no heed to this warning. All that was sacred to him\nwas at stake: \"That doesn't matter to me at all!\" Kakadu was silent, he\nlooked at Jamaika and frowned heavily. Then Butterweg began again:\n\"I am thinking of going very far in my calling. I shall establish relationships"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "154", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.12", "texte": "between my art and politics. You don't understand me? Why, there must\nbe more reality in my art, more relation with actual life.\" \"I understand\nperfectly,\" said Jamaika, who was straining all the time to look very\nreflective. \"The opinions of artists are always very interesting. Politics is\nthe symbol for reality to you, isn't it?\" \"Perfect, madam. Extremely well\nput, I am flattered at how well I am understood by you.\" Kakadu's com-\nprehension became more and more restricted. \"Permit me, Jamaika, lam\nafraid you haven't understood Mr. Butterweg in the least. I would consider\nit more carefully before saying anything of the sort. Mr. Butterweg counts\nvery much on such judgments. It is well known how much artists depend\non other's opinions.\" Jamaika's innocence seemed to be quite perfect.\n\"But if Mr. Butterweg himself says that I understand him? He must know\nbest.\" \"Mr. Butterweg is wrong. He is deceiving himself in harbouring\nsuch views.\" \"Oho!\" cried Butterweg, \"not as much as that, I only deceive\nmyself in your mind. You can never destroy that which is holy to me with\nall your learning. Your wife has understood me as I have been seldom\nunderstood before. Artists know a woman's soul, they know perfectly\nwhether they are understood by a woman. I believe that the artist is the\nhighest type of man, and when he places woman above himself in under-\nstanding, what must she then be?\" Kakadu made an ironic bow: \"Your\narguments, my dear sir, are so convincing, that I am compelled to concede\nto you. You will permit me to leave you in the company of my wife, who\nunderstands you so wonderfully.\" He bowed again, and left the room*\n\"That's a nice scrape,\" said Butterweg. \"Well, I suppose we have spoiled\neverything now.\" Jamaika laughed, but she did not feel very well about it.\n\"Oh that doesn't matter, my dear, I shall soon bring him around. Do you\nthink he can do whatever he wants here?\" Butterweg came nearer to\nJamaika and before she could prevent him, took her hand and kissed it slowly.\n\"When shall we see each other, my love?\" \"I shall come with Kakadu to\nthe evening performance.\" \"Do you think that you can persuade him to\ncome?\" \"There are means!\" said Jamaika—she laughed a little—\"there\nare means which are infallible!\"\nIII.\nJamaika had overestimated the difficulty of persuading Kakadu to\ncome to the circus. He showed himself very willing, but he said: \"I can\nscarcely understand why you said the circus robs us of our peace, Jamaika.\nDidn't you say that the clamor of the comedians penetrates to our very"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "155", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.13", "texte": "bed-chamber?\" \"I don't remember,\" replied Jamaika, \"and if I did, I wasn't\nserious. I love the horses there, and there is also an elephant named Billy.\"\n\"Certainly. Certainly. You shall see your elephant.\" And he wanted to\nadd, that she ought not see too much of Butterweg, but he feared a scene\nthat might rob him of his peace. They went through the huge gate and\nJamaika walked by very quickly, because the girl at the box-office greeted\nher. Kakadu doffed his hat, although he didn't know what it was about.\nButterweg suddenly appeared from behind a partition, he greeted Jamaika,\nand kissed her hand. Then he said to Kakadu: \"You must forgive me for\nmy heated words. lam really of a peaceable nature.\" Kakadu sniffed at\nthis. He laughed, so to speak, through his nose. \"Oh, oh, my dear fellow.\nI don't mind that at all. Don't I know how excitable artists are?\" An usher\nin strawberry-colored livery showed them to their seats, and as Butterweg\nleft, Jamaika motioned to him again behind Kakadu's back. The show\nbegan with a Hungarian march. Twelve \"Isabel-colored\" steeds danced\nand reared themselves on their hind legs at command, so that the children\ncried out with joy and the old ladies sank deeper into their seats with faint\ngasps. Butterweg waited behind the entrance-curtain. Upon a wooden\nplatform where the clowns carried on their merry antics, a number appeared,\nthe number of Butterweg's act. Kakadu leaned one arm on the plush of\nthe upholstery and said: \"I am surprised that you do not see through the\nsilliness of such performances. When I was young, I might have enjoyed\nthis, but, Heavens! one grows more mature, one experiences, labors with\nthe mind.\" Butterweg did not merely jump into the ring, as did the others.\nHe sought to win the public favor through a stunt. He came in limping,\nhe wailed dolorously, as if he were sorely wounded, and then, just when\nthe public began to be bored, he suddenly straightened out and made a\nsomersault almost to the roof of the tent. The people clapped furiously.\nJamaika was very proud of her admirer, but Kakadu only shook his head\nand said: \"Look at that monkey there. Consider for a moment and you\nwill agree with me that one can't go about with such people.\" But Jamaika\nwas delighted: \"I believe that I am beholding a new type of man. He\nmakes himself laughable for our entertainment. Isn't that honorable?\"\nNow the deep tone of the bassoons was heard. The musicians danced in\na mad rout about the bandstand, and everyone felt that the climax of the\nshow was coming. Then Butterweg threw a dozen frogs into the air,\nspread his legs, and stooped. With open mouth he received the frogs one\nafter another in the order in which he threw them into the air. Then when\neveryone feared that he would be prostrated with cramps, he ran twice\naround the ring, laughing and smacking his lips as if he had eaten a good"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "156", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.14", "texte": "dinner. The applause brought the house down. Suddenly there was a mur-\nmur. Kakadu had to recoil in his chair; he was very white, and at the point\nof vomiting. A porter wanted to help him but Jamaika said: \"Don't you\nsee that he belongs to me? I shall take care of him myself.\" On Jamaika's\narm, Kakadu got out into the fresh air, where he immediately revived.\nBut his great sickness dated from this visit to the circus, his stomach re-\nbelled, and his complexion became yellow and pasty. Since that evening,\nhis legs trembled when he walked, and strangely enough, he began to grow\nsmaller, so that any child was a full head bigger than he. He held a hand-\nkerchief to his mouth and staggered about, while Jamaika called for a taxi.\nOnce at home she said to him: \"My dear, it is no longer pleasant to go out\nwith you anywhere. You remind me of little children, who always lose\ncontrol of themselves, when they see something that upsets them.\" Kakadu\ncould not think of anything to say, he lay down in bed, and felt so well\nin the warm covers that he gave vent to comfortable grunts. Jamaika could\nthink only of the triumph of Butterweg, and she tried in vain to pass the\ntime reading. She said to herself: \"What a fool I am married to! Can\nanybody call him a man? Does he think of anything but his body and\nhis food?\" She tossed about impatiently. Her thoughts were in the circus\nand the sounds of the music filled her ears. She found herself before an\narmoire. She looked for a dress with pleasing colors, something quite\ndistinctive. She had a robe of bright green silk, and tried it on to see if\nit still fitted her. She stood before a mirror, and marvelled at her beauty.\nHow comes it that I am married to this man, who never tells me that I am\nlovely and adorable?\" She thought of the words of Butterweg, as he lay at\nher feet, a shepherd declaring his love. The house was very still, except\nfor Kakadu's snoring. She put on a large hat, like that of the horsewoman,\ntook her little reed walkingstick, opened the door, and was out in the free.\nShe walked very fast, but when she reached the meadow, she saw that the\nlights of the circus were out. A little boy was crawling about the wagons,\nand Jamaika asked him if he had seen Butterweg. He told her that all of\nthe performers were in the \"Meilhac\" restaurant, and offered to lead her\nthere. When Butterweg saw Jamaika, he asked the proprietor to show them\nto a private room. \"I observed,\" he said, \"how I sent your husband off.\nIs it very serious?\" Jamaika blushed. \"Oh, nothing very bad, Mr. Butter-\nweg.\" After a moment, she added: \"Aren't you surprised at my coming\nhere to see you?\" Butterweg laughed and raised Jamaika's hand to his lips:\n\"Dear Madam, how could it be otherwise? I know that my love has not\nleft you cold. I adore you.\" Before she could prevent him, he pulled her\nto him and pressed his moustache to her mouth. \"You dearl You dear!"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "157", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.15", "texte": "I love you, do you hear? I love you!\" Jamaika wept, but she wept with\njoy. She whispered, \"My love, my most beloved, you are good to me.\"\nIn the neighboring room there was loud singing. Women shrieked, and\nthe proprietor's calm voice was drowned in the uproar. Butterweg said:\n\"You will permit me to escort you home, will you not?\" \"Beloved, it is too\nbad, too bad, that we can never stay together long enough.\" Jamaika\npressed closer to the man.\"I am going to Paris soon. My art demands that\nI go to Paris. Here everyone is like (he laughed drily) Mr. Kakadu, and\nthat doesn't help my art. I must have people about me who understand.\"\nJamaika sobbed against his arm. \"If I did not have my family here,\" said\nshe, \"I should follow you through the whole wide world, to the end of the\nrailroad tracks.\" In the vestibule they kissed again, until Jamaika tore\nherself free, and ran quickly up the stairs. The next evening she was\nwaiting for Butterweg. Kakadu was lying in bed, the doctor had ordered\na few days of rest for him. \"I have been thinking it over,\" she said to\nButterweg, \"if I knew of a way of going, I would go with you.\" \"Very\nsimple, you just get on the train.\" \"But Kakadu can't be left alone here!\"\n\"Can't he? Well, I don't know what we can do about it in that case.\"\nButterweg regarded Jamaika, but said nothing, and waited for her decision.\nThen she spoke: \"I cannot leave him alone here, he made me what I am\ntoday. It is not right of me even to sit here with you, while he is sleeping\nat home.\" Butterweg indicated that in this case he would be compelled\nto make the trip alone. He turned his head as if to call the waiter. Jamaika,\npressed, said: \"I don't know how it can be done. If he should come along\nit would be the same thing in Paris. I could never see you without always\nfearing that he might break in on us.\" Jamaika remained lost in thought\nfor a long time. Then she said out loud, as if she had found an infallible\nmeans. \"Can't we force him? I don't love him, I love you, but if I left\nhim behind, I would always be remorseful about him. Yes, we will force\nhim to do everything we want.\" Butterweg said, \"I love you, and I am\nready for anything.\" They appointed an evening on which they would\noverpower Kakadu, pack him into a cab, and ride to the station. They\nwalked through streets where the skinny little pimps smoked on the corners.\nShe pressed her body close to him. He walked along leaning on her, his\nmouth wide open. Often he would rummage through his pockets as one\nwho is accustomed to hunt in broad pantaloons for strange clownish things.\nJamaika said: \"You need not fear him. He is a small man, and his strength\nis the strength of a child. He is small in understanding, and has no pride.\"\nButterweg replied: \"Splendid, my dear. I see that you are assuring me of\na grand career which shall be wholly devoted to art. I plan to link my art"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "158", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.16", "texte": "with politics; clownery has become merely baroque in Germany. That must\nall be changed. It has become only a sweet and virtuous affair. Dear God!\nWhere is the rhythm of the great warehouses? Where, the whirling stair-\nways that whistle up through storey after storey? What statesman of\ntoday understands my art?\" Out of waiters' homes came the cries of\ncarousing vagabonds, wailing and uncanny. Butterweg laughed. He put\nhis hands again into his vast trousers' pockets and dangled his legs like\na yokel. The silhouettes of policemen swept up the street until they suddenly\nhalted, drenched in the glow of a street lamp. \"Furthermore, we must\ncompel him to show some energy. All his life he has been unwilling to\nmake the shortest journey. He is petty and fussy, always repeating other\npeople's ideas as if they were his own, but he knows how to give them\nanother appearance.\" \"So, so!\" exclaimed Butterweg, \"we will get him,\nall right.\"\nWhen the day came on which Butterweg had arranged to fetch Kakadu\nand Jamaika and take them to Paris, the noted journalist was spread out\nupon a couch. He was playing with his dog, who frisked about and barked,\ndove under the closets and struck about him with his little paws like a lion.\nJamaika had already packed the trunk secretly; her travelling coat was\nready, and now she was trying to prepare the man for the great event.\nHe had never seemed to feel so much at home in his home. When it began\nto rain he said, how pleasant it was to have a tidy home. He compared\nthe lives of artists to his own and laughed stoutly. \"How can I ever get\nhim started?\" thought Jamaika to herself. \"Look here, Kakadu,\" she said\naloud, \"you are doing those people an injustice when you say that they are bad\nbecause they don't live in the same security that you have. It might happen\nto you also, by some chance, that you should be forced to give up your\nhome, and wander about the world like a vagabond.\" Kakadu's voice\nsuddenly became very high-pitched, when he spoke he accompanied his\nwords with nervous gestures; when he stood upright, he looked pitifully\nsmall. Jamaika could look over his head. \"That will never happen, Ja-\nmaika,\" he said, \"I should have to go mad, or some brigand would have to\ncarry me away by force, as a gypsy kidnaps a child.\" Jamaika still tried\nto direct his attention to the possibility of such an event: \"You can never\ntell what may come about,\" she said. \"It is better to be prepared for\neverything, and as for me—l shouldn't be in the least displeased to get\naway from here for once and see the world, the end of the railroad tracks.\nFor instance I have never seen Paris, and Butterweg has told me a great\ndeal about that city—\" \"What does that mean—you have spoken to Butter -"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "159", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.17", "texte": "weg, and never told me anything about it?\" he cried. \"What is going on?\nWho is master of this house?\" Jamaika scarcely knew what to say, but\nsuddenly she burst out, \"Look here, Kakadu, perhaps I am the master of\nthis house. Everything is possible, and sometimes things happen which\ncould never be foretold.\" Kakadu lay down on the sofa, but then sprang\nup and regarded Jamaika: \"What do you mean? Are you well? Repeat\nwhat you said before!\" \"I shall repeat it when we have time. Now there\nis no time,\" \"You are not well, you must go to a doctor, and have your\nhead examined. It is all the bad influence of that comedian, I warned you.\nNow I shall have the trouble of bringing you to your senses.\" At eight\no'clock Jamaika met Butterweg on the steps. \"I fear very much that he\nwill give us trouble,\" she said. \"Shan't we try to move him by kindness?\"\nButterweg had thrown a great cloak about him. \"No! It is too far gone,\nnow,\" he exclaimed. \"If he will not, he will be forced. En avant! The\ntrain leaves in half an hour, the cab waits below.\" As Butterweg entered,\nKakadu was promenading about his room. He spat on the carpet, and he\nsnapped his fingers with nervous pops. \"Gooddayl\" said Butterweg rudely,\n\"Have you heard that you are going to travel?\" \"I travel? Are you mad?\nI shall never leave this room.\" \"In spite of all, you will travel this very\nevening, with Jamaika and me to Paris.\" \"Ah, Jamaika has betrayed me!\"\ncried Kakadu, who suspected their connivance. \"She shall regret this.\"\nButterweg grabbed the man with little ceremony, gripped his throat, and was\ngoing to bind him, when Jamaika intervened. \"Don't hurt him!\" she said\nanxiously. Butterweg reflected for a moment, then took a little phial out\nof his vest-pocket, and sprayed a few drops of brown liquid into Kakadu's\nnose. Kakadu became will-less and apathetic, he let himself be carried\ninto the cab without a sound. To the porter who carried the trunk, Butter-\nweg said, \"Don't make so much noise, don't you see there is a sick man\nhere!\" At the station a Red-Gross man wanted to get a litter for Kakadu,\nbut Butterweg, who wished to save money, said that it was unnecessary.\nWith Jamaika's help he carried Kakadu into the sleeper, a few more drops\nof dope were sprinkled into his nose, and he fell fast asleep and snored\nhappily. Butterweg stuck out his chest: \"Well, so much for that!\" Jamaika\nbegan to weep, out of indefinable motives. \"Poor man,\" she sobbed, \"who\nwould have thought that he would come to Paris in this way.\" She saw\nthe station disappear in the mist, the last red lights shot by, and a nameless\nsadness filled her heart, so that for a long time she could find no peace.\n\nRichard Huelsenbeck\n(Translated from the German by M.J.)\n\n(To be concluded)"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "160", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.18", "texte": "POST MORTEM\nI DIE\nI stretch forth\nUpon the lustrous satin,\nIn royal stiffness,\nIn papal dignity,\nToes outward.\nI CROSS THE STYX\nMy finger-tips\nDrawn across the surface\nOf the Hateful River,\nI sail, somnolent,\nIn an old-fashioned boat.\nI FACE JUSTICE\nDripping with sin,\nMaking large pools\nLike an umbrella,\nClosed after a rain-storm,\nI wait.\nVERDICT\nHeaven!\nOn the lap of Jesus!\nLike a youthful bride!\nO ironic Artist!\nIncomparable God!"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "161", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.19", "texte": "SIC TRANSIT GLORIA CHRISTI\nOver the tall wooden cross\nSwollen with rains\nAnd devoured by ants,\nThe cool, rigid shadow\nOf a nose and thumb.\n\nINFALLIBILITY\nPaul Eldridge\nI am the Clown\n— Plastered face,\nScarlet lips —\nBut how should I\nJuggle the Earth,\nThe Great Ass's bladder\nUpon the tip of my false nose,\nSince I have to balance myself\nUpon it,\nAs a drunken man?\nI shall become the Pope\n— Inverted eyes,\nPasted palms —\nI shall juggle with perfect gravity,\nAnd infinite sanctity\nUpon the rims of my false mouth,\nHeaven,\nThe diamond-studded hoop!"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "162", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.20", "texte": "George Grosz\nPeriphery"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "163", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.21", "texte": "2*\n\nGEORGE GROSZ\n\nMediaeval times were the period most propitious for the production\nof art, for then belief and existence were one. We might even say that\nthere is something mediaeval in every genuine artist. Belief is still the\nfoundation of the artist's existence—be it only the belief in his own election.\nA last vestige of sanctity is retained in the psyche of the artist.\nIt has been said that God exists inasmuch as he is believed in. Art\ntoo is fiction when it is not believed. The human masses have no longer\nany belief or merely (as it was stated in these pages four months ago)\na belief in the \"Mysticism of Money\"; as our society has no longer a God\nneither can it have an art.\nThe artist, glorified by the history of art, is perhaps only a rudiment\nin this godless society. I imagine that our brutal forceful business men\nconsider the artist, living in dreams and visions, much as they consider the\nflapper. Let him have his ideals and waste his heart in pale blue rapture,\nbut where realities of life are concerned: trusts, world market, crises. —\nThe artist, who can impress such people seriously must be carved out\nof hard wood, must have their sturdiness and self control, must scrap his\nwhole bundle of illusions.\nGeorge Grosz may be the precursor of this type.\nThe name of George Grosz evokes a new style of drawing. — Grosz\npaints too, very good pictures, of which his largest: \"Germany, a Winter's\nTale\" is undoubtedly a remarkable production; but his artistic profile is most\ndistinct in his drawings. —He has a style which does not derive from\nCezanne or Picasso, from Munich or Hodler, or from any other of the\nartistic deities of to-day. His razor sharp, glass-pen hard, even line, which\nseems cut with an apache knife, exists independent of other art. It exists\nas the style of George Grosz.\nThe last case of this kind was Daumier. He was flaming passion,\na flame dancing above a log. Sparks make revelry around his lines. Do\nyou know how the flame gnaws the log which it will reduce to ashes?\nDaumier's blazing black and whites gnawed thus at the dry wood of his time—\nthe Pear King, the \"ventre legislatif\", the judge, the lawyer and Robert\nMasaire, that Johnny-jump-up of public fraud."}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.22", "texte": "There is no flame, no blaze in the line of George Grosz — rather\ncontrolled passion which does not take the liberty of running away, fire\nwater on ice. His line is definite and exact; a work of precision like that\nof modern machine tools; it has the uneasy quietness of the gunman whose\nfinger is on the trigger. It makes one think of the rigour, of the correctness\nof Prussian barracks, whose greatest joy is the straightest-dressed line.\nEach hair in a lieutenant's moustache, drawn by Grosz is pulled as straight\nas though Haby himself had combed it. Here is a style of flat footed\nimpertinence, like the drawings with only one meaning, which small boys\nscratch on walls and outhouses. This scampish impertinence which prefers\na thing, three times underlined to once suggested, this stone cutter's style\nof unequivocal irreverence was just what Grosz needed to oppose to the\ncynicism of so called civilization, the superior cynicism of an \"enfant\nterrible,\" who says freely what he is and what he means. These \"privy\nscratchings\" were a discovery to Grosz just as were the cave paintings of\nprehistoric man and the art of the Bushman to his colleagues of the Higher\nArt Faculty and he made the most of his discovery. A child of the city,\nwhose only grief seems to be that he did not grow up in the greatest of\nall cities—New York, he must have been charmed to show these dear people,\nwho carry their heads with such insolent pride, what a joke they were in\ndaring to call themselves \"man and fellowman.\"\nMany people have talked about his infantilism. A terrible infantilism!\nThey must have a peculiar conception of childishness. His art is quite out\nof its diapers and conscious, as consciously organized as modern engineering.\nI do not wish to hurt George Grosz — to whom militarism is as wine to the\nMohammedan, or swinesflesh to the Jew — when I say that his art is con-\nceived in every line like a strategic attack. It constitutes a complete economy\nof means and forces, almost a Taylor system of drawing, everything calcula-\nted to produce the maximum of effectiveness.\nThere is a young art group called \"Constructivists\" who (almost\nromantic) rave about the beauty of engineer-made forms, of buzzing wheels,\nof motors, elevators, steamboats, steel hammers and propellors. Business\nis their god; their idol, the engineer who inevitably creates forms of mar-\nvellous vitality. But these romantic souls overlook the fact that this form\ncreation is only a side product of the engineer's work, in most cases an\ninvoluntary accidental result, for the engineer wants to realize, most of all,\nthe maximum effectiveness with the minimum amount of force and\nmaterial. Even in this regard we find an intimate relation between the\ncalligraphy of George Grosz and engineer created form. Grosz's art does\nnot exist for itself alone — a draughtsman, a class fighter made of it"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.23", "texte": "George Grosz\nPop and Mom"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "166", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.24", "texte": "a weapon to crush the base and infamous. Grosz would like to make\npeople active, to unite them socially and politically; drawing is to him what\nspeech is to the agitator, or the editorial to the journalist. Painting to\ncharm the aesthetic sense — still-lives or nudes, —is not his business. He\nconsiders it a sort of \"Biedermeier\" occupation. He loves the newspaper\ncartoonist, as he loves Nick Garter and Sherlock Holmes and the boxers\nand wrestlers who thrill the crowds to-day. This type of artist will live\nlong after the easel painter has become extinct. The cartoonist is politically\nactive. In America he represents a power of which we in Europe can\nhave no conception and since the German press is still far from becoming\nAmericanized in this respect Grosz must always create an organ for himself:\n' Bankruptcy,\" \"Everybody his own Football,\" \"Bloody Earnest\", \"The\nOpponent\" — organs of fight, intellectual machine guns trained against\ncapitalism and militarism.\nGeorge Grosz made his debut with a serious of impressions of cities.*\nThese have nothing of the picturesque, of Brangwyn, or of the airy im-\npressionism of Pisarro. The boulevard with its ordered luxury and pro-\nmenading idlers, represents only the surface of this witch's caldron into\nwhich the barbarism of our civilization has crushed millions of people,\ncondemning them, in a way, to a state of primitive bestiality. Unsuccess-\nful country school masters use this condition of affairs as the subject of\ntheir moral lectures. Hard boiled youths paddle around in the whirlpool,\nuntil one day they are seized with the desire to reveal to an astonished\nworld the exotic continent across which thousands hurry day by day to\noblivion; some of them moralize, others, made more for fact than reflection,\nare amused by making those jokes which seem to be as necessary to\ncivilized man as the W. G. or the tooth brush. Grosz is one of the latter\nsort, and as the sensational write-up is an essential of journalism, he\nnaturally does not try to spare people the odour emanating from this\npestilential underground world.\n\"Elevators and lorries,\nundergnawed asphalt — how singular!!\nAdventurers pass, silk hat\nblack on slippery hair, backwards.\nThe many coloured profile of a syphilitic\ngleams through the dark\none can live even without a nose!!!\"\n\n* Grosz-First and little Parbolics."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.25", "texte": "George Grosz\nBourgeois Charity"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.26", "texte": "He thrusts his searchlight into the machinery moved by debauchery\nand lust for gain. Round skulls promenade along the streets with no other\naim seemingly but to carry a brilliantined parting and derby hat. The stale\nair of obscure bars and smeary cafe's dulls the senses. The imitation\ngentleman plays the Maharaja, the pimp counts the night's income. Tired\nharlots prepare their nets to fish for the \"client.\" Devout night porters and\nmadams set the stage for casual loves. Electric signs cast sunshine on their\nway. Avarice and lust fight a film-battle in the soul of Mr. Mudiske out for\na spree. Only the make-up is different, somewhat more suggestive, where\nthe bill is higher. With the eyes with which a whore can x-ray the\ncontents of a pocket book, Grosz looks through the trousers of the bour-\ngeois and peeps under the relentlessly fixed corsets of the veterans of love\n(who are used to this anyway) to where faded breasts hang and other things\nappear .. . \"But below that point it is terrible and man shall not tempt the\nGods,\" says Schiller.\nNevertheless even his ice-cold insolence cannot suppress a certain love\nfor this more than exotic world. Whether he sketches the bald stiff fire wall\nof an apartment house, or reproduces the chimneys and gasometers which\nare the background of these scenes, or portrays a harlot's leg with high\nshoe and tightly supported stocking, every line of Grosz is pervaded by an\nindefinable sentiment, which in spite of himself he cannot banish.\nThe beginning of the war. The war \"the steel bath\" (as it was pro-\nclaimed by servile pens trying to persuade the people drunk with phrases of\nits \"moral renovations.\") The war, an orgy of the immoral, of miserable\negotism, and then that which produced the German revolution; the hyper-\ntrophy of militarism and capitalism gave Grosz a mission. There was no\ntime now for strolling about the city. The talent for penetrating human\nnature which he had developed had now to be used practically; bourgeois\nsociety licking the boots of its idol, militarism, had to be putin stocks;\nswarms of shameless and unrestricted capitalists fastened upon the country\nto eat up its last grain of life — like the locusts sent by the Lord to punish the\nEgyptians — he had to tear the clothes from the bodies of this bunch of pro-\nfiteers, usurers, and gamblers, as he had done with the street girls, to show\nentire their decrepitude, their lascivious perversion. Grosz stood on the\nside of the poor; he wanted to make his pen, machine gun and tank. He\nwas a Spartakist and became one of the grimmest enemies of corrupt bour-\ngeois society and one of its most violent accusers. He depicted its rashness,"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.27", "texte": "voracity and dissipation — dragging fat stomachs to orgies organized by\nshrewd promotors, trying to arouse jaded senses by the spectacle of nude\ndances and other lubricities. But first of all his fight was against militarism\n— against that German militarism which brought misery upon a whole\nmisled nation and which, in spite of everything, wished to tyrannize over\nthe people and refused to leave the full manger. When cowardly murderers\nin uniform killed Liebknecht, Luxembourg, Eisner, he threw off all restaint.\nHis drawing became pamphleteering. He occasionally overreaches himself.\nHe is never afraid of being tasteless. His drawings annihilate, because they\nare not caricatures, they are portraits. The \"Face of the Reigning Glass,\" is\nthe title of a series of drawings published as a pamphlet, whose circulation\nreached many thousands. The cover is adorned with the portrait of \"The\nAssessor,\" reserve officer straight pressed, whose frozen stupidity was\nalready known to Heine. The drawings which follow make a single heroic\nsong, the epic of a certain kind of heroism as it appeared in Heine's\nlament: \"Germany, a Winter's Tale\" wishing \"the good folk\" Heaven\n\"guard thee from war and fame\nfrom heroes and heroic deeds.\"\nThis is a battle which we must fight out between ourselves here in\nGermany. It is a battle between brothers, humanitarian Germany against\nclass imposition of soldier-drones who, when their class priviliges are endan-\ngered, defend them with brute force and villainy. It is a fight to free mankind\ntoo, which is fought here with wit and talent, and from the days, of Aristo-\nphanes it has been the tradition for artists to stand on the people's side.\nGrosz is a phenomenon of his time. Is he nothing more? Will he be\nforgotten, in the marvellous days towards which we were so lovingly pro-\nmised to be led, when one must search learned historical works for in-\nformation about the subjects of his pamphlets as we now do for facts about\nthe Spanish Inquisition and witch trials? Those who believe it is their\nprivilege to judge the great and small artistic immortals may decide. I\ntrust that Grosz, damned to the hell of \"doctrinaire artists,\" will gather about\nhim the poor sinner-souls of Callot and Breughels, of Goya and Daumier,\nof Swift and Heine, and start a game of football.\n\nWestheim"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.28", "texte": "MORTUARY\nMalcolm Cowley\nDeath is an accumulation of infirmities: hairs\nfall a tooth decays and death; a spot of eczema\nreturns each year with spring; death hides itself\nin a pimple or a sty\nin a parenthesis around the lips that deepens\nno longer; death is rigid being the achievement\nof a pattern; death is a finished pattern of\nwrinkles round the eye.\nHaving completed some grand work, to die . . .\n(Ideally considered death is a simple process\nof exteriorization: thought builds a mausoleum\nfor itself; the brain is inscribed in granite\nor a lie.)\nCoffee at nine each morning with two lumps please\nand heavy cream at nine: death is the accumulation\nof such habits and we die\nat the top first; toes are the last members to\nturn toward the daisies\nand eyes the last to stare into the sky."}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.29", "texte": "Paul Klee\nSuicide on the Bridge"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.30", "texte": "THE SONG OF THE WHIP\n\nGita lounged on a warm stone at the entrance to the cactus runway.\nShe stretched out her graceful bare feet luxuriously, and her eyes followed\nthe jagged earthquake crack in the nude brown wall of the soaring Torre\nde Gomares of the Alhambra. Absently her glance traced out the course\nof the noisy Xenil River, skirting the foot of the bold tower, down to a wide\ngate in the hills. There a rich sunset pulsed through the fleecy clouds that\nhung motionless over the parched yellow Vega.\nGita was the daughter of every race: tall and sinuous as a Goth, her\nshadowy violet eyes hinting at the Celtic, the oval of her firm handsome\nface bespeaking the Iberic, ebony hair Spanish in its untamed profusion.\nHer dusky silken skin obviously belonged behind a Moorish jalousie.\nExotic, too, the high blue girdle lifting her breasts, pressing them slightly\ntogether beneath the metallic sheen of her brown dress. But Gita's heart\nwas gipsy. Her symmetry and poise, her very relaxation cloaked passionate\nintensity, hinted at lawless inner fires.\nTrue, she lived like a healthy animal: sleeping when night fell, rising\nat dawn, eating — when there was something to eat — there in the cactus -\npaled cave-house across from the Alhambra. When her man Rufo beat her\nsufficiently, she would twist an emeraldgreen kerchief about her head,\npolish the chains of tiny Uruguay gold coins hanging from her ears, and\nsaunter over to the Puerta de las Granadas. Beside the grim battered\nTuscan columns of that gate she would read the palms of smirking tourists.\nGita's one ritual was sitting on the warm stone at twilight when her\ngipsy heart would be filled with wildest melody. Songs she had for the\ncharcoal fire over which she cooked; songs for combing her hair which\nrippled and crackled to her feet; but the melodies of eventide were primitive,\nthrilling, color-drenched. She never sang any of them aloud; their rhythms\nwere too vast and unsubdued. But each communicated a sensuous symbol\nto her mind: a colored petal, a glittering star, a scarlet leaf, shimmering silk;\nothers were in full orchestration, like a full-blown rose or a living sunset\nacross the open Vega. Gita bathed her soul in this color and melody as\nnaturally as a bird splashing in a woodland pool.\nUntil the evening the stranger came! Strolling along the yellow road\nwith his strong hands clasped behind his broad back, head and shoulders"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.31", "texte": "slightly thrust forward, he marvelled at the changing outline of the Alhambra.\nNot twenty paces from Gita, he leaned upon the wayside wall that hung\nover the noisy Xenil.\nMaliciously she gazed at the back of his head, he musing there with\nhis chin cupped in hand . . . Suddenly he wheeled about . . . chest\nheaving . . . hands clenched — stared straight at her ... a solemn, close\nscrutiny. In her face, never a quiver ... to her slim brown hands never\na tremble — but blue-cowled lightning darted from her eyes. The stranger\ngulped his breath, nostrils dilated. Locked his hands behind his back.\nStrode off . . . Gita for the first time in her life became acutely conscious\nof inner song. The rhythms were now different, wilder, more reckless.\nThe following evening when the stranger passed, an invisible quiver\nflowed over her whole body, curled around her breasts tingling. Passion\ncrackled and snapped about her. Their glances met, . . . gripped . . . flowed\ntogether: cool clasping currents suddenly fuming as when electrons\nmingle . . . She was swept into a whirlpool of emotion. He seemed to catch\nher up . . . They were wrenched apart . . . He passed on ... no longer\na stranger.\nThe following evening. Gita with sullen eyes stood facing Rufo, her\nman, near the edge of a cactus corral. Rufo — a lithe, handsome devil,\ncoal-black hair sweeping his swart forehead — held in his powerful hairy\nhand a whip coiled like a serpent.\nHe flung it down, heeled his hands against his green sash from which\nprotruded knife and gun, spat on his palms. His thin lips curled. He\nsnatched up the whip again. It unrolled, a living thing: leapt through the\nair in a trial snap. The next stroke fell upon Gita's back. The spiteful lash\ncurled around her ribs, and she flung up her hands to protect her breasts.\nAgain and again it whistled and sang and fell, slicing at her shoulders . . .\nshredding her thin dress . . . Till the rawhide tip was scarlet . . . But\nGita never winced. Her eyes held to a purple, yellow-spined cactus-fig.\nA foot scraping at the corral-opening. The lash writhed back in\nmid-air, doubled tamely into Rufo's hand. Gita whirled — cried out.\nHe of the two twilights . . . stocky . . . calm . . . grim-jawed. — What\ndoes this mean? — His voice was taut.\nRufo, lips stripped back from teeth: What you do here?\n— Enough of that or I'll have the gendarmes down.\nRufo's mouth twisted into his tight cheeks. He snapped the lash at\nGita again. The outsider rushed forward. A spurt of dust ... a scuffle . . .\na reeling shadow. Rufo has knocked him down with one blow of his heavy\nfist; stepping back, drives his lash at the fallen figure. Once . . . twice . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.32", "texte": "three times: a poisonous bite in the man's leg . . . coiled pain around his\narm ... a livid gash in his neck. Acrid dust . . . blood . . . Gita crying\nout: My God, you'll kill him.\nThe next blow stings her upraised arsm. Laughter. Laughter like\nthe jangle of a heavy chain. Rufo striding from the corral.\nGita has fled with him — the man of the two twilights — Mario.\nHe has taken her to Burgos in northern Spain . . . his home. He has paid\nthe priest . . .in the little church of the Sacred Heart of our Saviour . . .\nthirteen gold pieces. The priest has bound the necks of Mario and Gita\ntogether with his silken brocade sash of gold. They are married.\nShe becomes a transformed being, living in a great house with mosaic\nfloors and high frescoed ceilings where dancing girls spill opals and flowers\nover green meadows. And all her life is changed .. . strangely, unbelievably,\nmagically changed ... as in the wild glimmering legends of her people . . .\nPicturesque was her gipsy costume; but in her new high combs and long\nlacy mantillas, in her silk stockings and sparkling French-heeled slippers,\nshe is beautiful, stately . . . tall as a Goth. She learns to comport herself\nproperly, to restrain whimsies, to observe formalities. Tolerant is Mario\nof her mistakes, ever unruffled, explaining the need of dignity with the\nservants, helping her manage household affairs.\nMario, being a devout Catholic, delighted in initiating her into the\nintricacies of the faith, teaching her pater nosters, she mumbling over her\nbeads with puckered nose. And the dim cool interior of the soaring Gothic\ncathedral with the long vanishing vistas of the nave and aisles, with its\ngorgeous transept, its mighty arched octagon, its lofty columned Coro, was\nto her more weirdly beautiful than anything ever seen, filling her with\nrapture, taming the songs of her heart to suave melancholy. Dreamy\ncontentment with life flowed over her warmly. Mario gave her everything\nshe fancied and things she hadn't the imagination to fancy.\nEven so, at times she was restless ... at other times lonely, though\nalways she upbraided herself when these moods had passed and would try\nto show her affection to Mario in new and tender ways . . . And the days\nwould again be perfect . . . crammed with contentment . . . with gorgeous\nfancies. Life was like an ever-expanding peacock's tail.\nThe weeks slipped into months . . . Uneasiness returned. Nostalgia\nenveloped her like a grey mist. Its coils closed about her. Now . - .\noccasionally . . . Mario's kindness, his patent goodness, grated. She came\nto dislike his customary pose of standing hands clasped behind his back;\nshe linked it with his unwavering attempt to be just — just and tolerant\non all occasions . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.33", "texte": "Warm, scented dusk. She, sitting in the patio before the fountain,\nhugging her knees . . . overwhelmingly aware of emptiness in her heart —\nsullen malaise . . . Just an instinct ... a mood. But she recalled how,\nseated on the stone overlooking the Xenil, sparkling melodies had haunted\nher — unsung melodies with vivid exotic colors. Now .. . try as she\nwould . . . these songs would not reawake; her heart was a stone against\nwhich the red tide of her blood beat all in vain . . . the untamed gipsy blood\nof her race . ..\nShe grew pale . . . distraught. Mario, noticing, bought her a jeweled\nsandalwood fan from Cairo, each rib perforated with delicate tracery . . .\na carved ivory mirror from Morocco with tiny cupids gamboling about the\nframe. He took her to every opera and zarzuela by the travelling companies\nfrom Madrid and Seville. Nothing availed. Insidious lassitude ruled her.\nPetulancy invaded her speech.\n— Why, why are you always this way? . . . That absurdly solemn\nvoice of his; that puzzled shake of the head. — Why not visit your neigh-\nbors? They are good women; they will divert your thoughts.\nGita followed his wishes. The women of her station in Burgos were\nolder than she, but equally cloistered behind the rejas that barred their\nwindows; portly women who found idleness compatible but exacting. Their\nconversation touched upon servants and clothes, also with sedentary sala-\nciousness upon the minute details of illicit love-affairs. Gita soon wearied\nof their company. She preferred the chatter of the servants . . . She scrubbed\ncopper kettles with zest . . . Mario protested ... A petulant toss of the\nhead ... For a whole week she went barefoot around the house — a\ntemporary thrill . . .\nThen she dressed up in all her silks, played la gran sehora, was\nhaughty with the servants, pampered herself with every luxury. She became\ndevout. She went to early mass, a black veil framing the curve of her\ncheeks, drawn tight over her full breasts.\nA cavalry officer kneels at the same prayer-bench. They are whis-\npering their pater nosters. Their hands tremble . . . touch. She drops\nher fan. He restores it gallantly. They smile. They are happy . . . Fbfc\ntwo months: advances . . . retreats . . . sorties . . . manoeuvres . . .\nThey sit alone in a deserted patio. The sky is a smooth shimmering\nbubble. Their pulses throb. The sky is a vast velvet petal. Their eyes\nshine. Their lips are tingling. The sky is a still, breathless pool.\nStars . . . stars: gold-fish swimming in a still, breathless pool.\nPlash of the fountain.\nPollen-scented wind."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.34", "texte": "Perfume from the palm-frondes.\nHe puts his arm about her ... At his touch nausea grips her . . .\nmakes her shuddefr . . . writhe . . . She buries her sharp glistening teeth\nin his wrist . . .\nThe weeks winged past. Again she grew effusively affectionate toward\nMario. She would slip into his study and passionately fling her arms about\nhim, or, silently, lay a blade of grass on the book he was reading . . . and\nvanish. As always he was generous and kind.\nBut she wanted something. She wanted the cloud-strewn sky. She\nwanted the restless night stars . . . wanted them burning in her two hands.\nShe wanted the sharp summer perfumes . . . forever and ever . She began\nexperimenting with Mario's good nature. She tried, at last, by prank, by\ncontrariety, to break down the wall of his placidity . . . tried even to wake\nhim to anger. But he would merely regard her with hurt, pleading eyes . . .\nwould stroke her luxurious black hair . . . would turn away in silence.\nA Sunday morning . . . achingly beautiful. Mario wished to go to\nmass. She refused, watching him through half-closed eyes, long lashes\nveiling their fire. In silence he went alone. She smiled with pity . . . with\nscorn. She never set foot in the cathedral again . . .\nNight. Dazzling stars overhead . . . like sparks from her mind.\nGlinting refulgence seeping through her pores. Pollen-cloyed air warm in\nher throat. All night, she sitting alone under those stars ... in the patio . . .\nbeside the fountain. Not till morning did she drag herself to her room,\nnumb with cold and despair, her black hair tangled. The servant, at Mario's\nbidding hurried to her with mandarine brandy and coffee. Later he ad-\nmonished her firmly but kindly. They returned together to the patio. With\nher sharp white teeth she gnawed pungent spices and queer roots, watching\nhim . . . silently . . . steadily. He grew uncontrollably nervous . . . per-\nplexed. He caressed her hair. She snatched herself away, laughing\nhysterically . . . long peals down the patio arcades . . .\nIn August a band of gipsies wandered into Burgos. Gita dressed in a\ngold silk gown, flung a flaming scarf over her shoulders and sauntered\nbrazenly down to their encampment. All day she sat in the dust, playing\nbrisca with Spanish cards, rubbing dirt on her beautiful clothes, on her\nstockings, scarping her shoes, eating chick-peas out of a smoked tin can . . .\nThe incident was bruited from the tatterdemalion outskirts of the\nBarrio de Vega on the other side of the river to the grim Castillo on the\nhill . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.35", "texte": "3\n\nMario is furious ... at last. Gita laughs derisively. He lifts his hand\nto strike her.\nHer body arches . . . quivers. Palm to palm she lays her hands against\nher cheeks. Her tense biceps press sensuously against her dilating breasts.\nHer eyes fill with flame . . . then are shadowed by the long lashes. She\nsways there . . .\nThe musical song of a flower-vender drifting over the patio-walls:\nRed roses of Castile,\nSweet as lips . . . dipped in cochineal,\nRed roses of Castile,\nPlash of fountain.\nRustle of the leaves . . . mimosa leaves.\nClash of the leaves . . . huge plantain leaves . . . and elephant-ears.\nPollen . . . pungent . . . satisfying.\nMario's hand is uplifted. She sways, waiting the blow. A servant\nclatters across the stones. Mario's arm goes lax. He turns abruptly . . .\nstiffly . . . like a switch-signal. He locks himself in his room . . .\nNight again. A wild storm sweeps down from the Cantabrian Sea,\nan autumn tempest ravishing the whole littoral. The wind leaps shrieking\nover the tiled roofs of Burgos. The rain rattles on wall and window; drives\ndiagonally into the open patios.\nGita, excited: her visit to the gipsy camp . . . her scene with Mario . . .\nthe storm. A melange of fury . . . color . . . flashing cards . . . pennies in\nthe dust ... a raised hand . . . shapes . . . mad flying shapes. She steals\nout under the arcades. She loosens her hair. It falls about her body in\na full flood, crackling sparkling from the electricity surging in the charged\nair. The proud masculinity of the storm wraps her round. The rhythmic\nbeat of the falling rain sweeps through her veins. The lightning cleaves\nher heart. The thunder tramples on her flesh.\nShe leaps into the patio and dances . . . dances to the strange pulsing\nmelodies of her unleashed heart . . . dances in utter abandon to the rhythm\nof wind and rain — flash and swirl and dip . . . dip and swirl and flash\nagain!\nJoy and madness roar within her. She runs to the front entrance,\nunbolts the huge doors, darts into the street . . . out through the driving\nstorm . . . out to the open roads and the fields . . . Flames of color flood\nover her in a dazzling sea of fire . . . Old songs eddy round her, cleave\nto her, encircling her loins, her ribs, her breasts, kindling heart and brain . . .\nNew and wilder songs sway and shake her . . . down to the roots of her"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.36", "texte": "life ... as a lover might do . . . lift her as with winged feet on through the\nblackness.\nShe has reached Granada, overtaking the summer. Wearily she\nwanders along the hot simmering banks of the Xenil. The tz. z. z. k, tz. z.\nz. k, tz. z. z. k of hundreds of cicadas bewilders her ears. White dust, stirred\nup by her feet, irritates her nostrils. Around a sharp turn: the soaring\nbrown Torre de Comares. The long jagged earthquake crack running from\nbattlement to foundation has widened. The tower is breaking apart.\nThere is the warm stone .. . There is the cactus runway! . . . Tawny,\ndishevelled, she passes through to the cave-house. The unbolted door with\nits huge square nails gives to her touch. She enters. Dank chill envelopes\nher. Emptiness. Silence. The silence wells .. . spreads out over the moist\nwalls and ceiling . . . thickens . . . smothers her . . .\nShe sinks upon a log . . . peers . . . peers . . . Familiar objects: a\nblackened pot, fresh ashes, kicked-off blankets. She leaps to the cupboard\nbuilt in a seam of rock. She flings open the wood-latched doors . . . She\ntakes down the black-snake whip, lets it uncoil from her hand ... again...\nagain ... in fascinating rhythm sinuously, like a living serpent. She winds\nit close about her smooth neck. The loose ends strike against her hips.\nOne of the ends she lifts . . . rolls it along her bare arm, joying in the contact\nof cool leather with hot skin. She coils the whip about her hand . . . goes\nout to the cactus corral in the white pitiless sunlight. Behind her sounds\na footstep. Rufo!\nTheir glances snap at each other, settle balefully to burning flame —\nthe hot violet flame of molten metal. Gita laughs . . . boldly . . . derisi-\nvely . . . making of herself something beautiful to be tamed, conquered.\nThe sound shakes through the heat, through the cactus-paling . . . Still-\nness . . . Breathless hush . . . Pungent heat.\n— Here! — she holds out the whip.\nMechanically he takes it, watching her through the slits of his hard\neyes. Calmly she walks to the opposite side of the corral, he watching the\ntempting sway of her hips ... the proud slant of her shoulders . . . the\nscornful tilt of her head; watching the long fluid line rippling from neck\nto shapely ankle ... the essence of the grace of the women of every race.\nHe lets the lash uncurl . . . mechanically. He whips it overhead. It\nsnaps like a pistol. Still watching her, slowly . . . hesitatingly ... he lifts\nit again . . .\nIt falls from his shaking fingers.\n— Gita! .. . Gita! -— He is running forward."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.37", "texte": "She wheels on him. The jerk of her body shakes her black hair down\nover her blazing eyes. — Don't touch me. Not till you use that. — Stretched\nto her full height, she points at the whip in the dust.\nHe hesitates. Sweat streams into his burning eyes.\nShe no longer heeds him. She is staring through an opening in the\ncacti at the parched Vega crinkled with heat like fretted steel, like the armor\nof a vast fallen giant. Her heart contracts . . . crinkles up as though it too\nwere cased in steel ... bursts free again tumultuously.\nRufo's thin lips curl. He heels about . . . snatches up the whip . . .\nHis great hairy hands knot . . . the veins bunch into tight cords . . .\nThe lash whizzes through the air. It slices through her dress, curls\nspitefully about her ribs . . . certain . . . relentless . . . with a rhythm of its\nown ... as though Rufo were a mere automaton.\nAnd Gita, arms crossed over her breast, makes a very beautiful savage\nsong of the whip, a song that curls close around her heart . . . that glimmers\nlike cloth of gold.\n\nCarleton Beals\n\nPaul Klee\nMurder"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.38", "texte": "LANDSCAPE\nWilliam Gamaliel Shephard\nOnce, yes once I crossed this way.\nThe naked moon lay in the mud-hole\nwith her lover feasting on mud worms,\na dozen stars shamelessly bred\nin a sharp horse track,\na screech owl bumped his nose in the dark\nand wept and cursed,\nTwo dishrag clouds tried to adorn\nthe hideous soiled sky.\nThis is the way to your house,\ngirl once mine.\nI crossed this way once.\nHere in the coppice I found you\nin a pink gown I gave you,\nWaiting\nAnother."}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.39", "texte": "Paul Klee\nAcrobats"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.40", "texte": "THE DISCOVERERS\nI.\nRed Eric\n\nRather the ice than their way: to take what is mine by single strength,\ntheirs by the crookedness of their law. But they have marked me — even to\nmyself. Because I am not like them I am evil. I cannot get my hands\non it: I, murderer, outlaw, outcast even from Iceland. Because their way\nis the just way and my way — the way of the kings and my father —\ncrosses them: weaklings holding together to appear strong. But I am\nalone though in Greenland.\nThe worst is that weak, still, somehow, they are strong: they in effect\nhave the power, by hook or by crook. And because I am not like them —\nnot that I am evil but more in accord with our own blood than they, eager\nto lead — this very part of me, by their trickery must not appear unless\nin their jacket. Eric was Greenland: I call it Greenland that men will\ngo there to colonize it.\nI then must open a way for them into the ice that they follow me\neven here — their servant in spite of myself. Yet they must follow.\nIt was so from the beginning. They drove me from Jaederen, my father\nand me. Who was this Christ that he should come to bother me in mv\nown country? His bishops that lie and falsify the records, make me out\nto be what I am not — for their own ends — because we killed a man.\nWas he the first man that was ever killed that they must sour over it?\nThat he was important to their schemes, that he meant much to them —\ngranted: one of their own color, we who altered him must be driven from\nNorway. Their courts and soft ways. Not that we killed him. One or\nthe other of us had to die under the natural circumstance. He or we. But\nthat if we had been killed, would he then have been driven from his country?\nThey would have made him Archbishop."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.41", "texte": "To Iceland then. Forget Norway. What there? My father dead.\nLand to the north cleared. A poor homestead. Manslaughter had driven\nme there. Then I married Thorhild, removed from the north and cleared\nland at Haukadal. Must Ibe meek because of that? If my slaves cause\na landslide on ValthiofTs farm and ValthiofTs kinsman slays them shall\nI not kill him? Is it proper for me to stand and to be made small before\nmy slaves? I am not a man to shake and sweat like a thief when the\ntime comes.\nRather say I killed two men instead of the one. They tried me among\nthemselves and drove me out once more. To the north then. Iceland\nwilderness.\nThere Thorgest comes to me and asks if I will lend him my outer\ndais-boards: ready to take me at a loss. Why else? For Eric the Red is\na marked man, beyond the law, or nearly, and he who is outside the law\nhas no law, so it would seem: from that man one steals at will — being\nmany in the act against his one. Thorgest keeps the decorated woodpieces.\nI go to his house and remove my property. He gives chase and two of\nhis sons are killed in the encounter.\nThis time they have done the thing. They search for us among the\nislands — me and my people.\nThis is the way of it, Thorhall, this has always been the way with\nme from the first. Eric loves his friends, loves bed, loves food, loves the\nhunt, loves his sons. He is a man that can throw a spear, take a girl,\nsteer a ship, till the soil, plant, care for the cattle, skin a fox, sing, dance,\nrun, wrestle, climb, swim like a seal. A man to plan an expedition and\npay for it, kill an enemy, take his way through a fog, a snowstorm, read\na reckoning by the stars, live in a stench, drink foul water, withstand the\nfierce cold, the black of winter and come to a new country with a hundred\nmen and found them there. But they have branded me. They have\nseparated murder into two parts and fastened the worse on me. It rides in\nthe air around me. What is it to be killed? They have had their fling\nat me. Is it worse, so much worse than to be hunted about the islands,\nchased from Norway to Iceland, from south to north, from Iceland to\nGreenland, because — I am I, and remain so.\nOutlaws have no friends. Murderers are run down like rabbits among\nthe stones. Yet my ship was built, fitted, manned, given safe conduct"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.42", "texte": "beyond the reefs. To Thorbiorn I owe much. And so to Greenland -— after\nbitter days fighting the ice and rough seas. Pestilence struck us. The cattle\nsickened. Weeks passed. The summer nearly ended before we struck land.\nThis is my portion. Ido not call it not to my liking. Hardship lives in me.\nWhat I suffer is myself that outraces the water or the wind. But that it\nonly should be mine, cuts deep. It is the half only. And it takes it out\nof my taste that the choice is theirs. I have the rough of it not because\nI will it but because it is all that is left, a remnant from their coatcloth.\nThis is the gall on the meat. Let the hail beat me. It is a kind of joy\nI feel in such things.\nGreenland then. So be it. Start over again. It turns out always the\none way. A wife, her two sons and a daughter. So my life was split up.\nThe logic of it also. This is my proof. We lived at our homestead well\nrid of the world. Traders visited us. Then Lief, Eric's son, sails to Norway,\na thousand miles, in one carry. But on his return, Lief the Lucky, he is\ndriven westward upon a new country, news of which he brings to Brattahlid.\nAt the same stroke he brings me back pride and joy-in-his-deed, my deed,\nEric moving up, and poison: an edict from Olaf — from my son's mouth —\nsolid as an axe to cut me, half healed, into pieces again.\nNot that it was new. Only that here in Greenland I had begun to\nfeel that I had left the curse behind. Here through the winters, far to the\nwest, I had begun to look toward summer when I should be whole again.\nMy people at work, my wife beside me, the boys free from my smear growing\nin strength and knowledge of the sea. Here was an answer to them all:\nThorstein and Lief Erickson, sons of Red Eric, murderer I Myself in the\nteeth of the world.\nSo they chopped me up. The Pope wins Olaf. Lief at court — after\na thousand miles in one carry — Olaf commissions him to carry the thing\nback to Greenland. It grows like fire. Why not? Promise the weak\nstrength and have the strength of a thousand weak at your bidding. Thor-\nhild bars me, godless, from her bed. Both sons she wins to it. Lief and\nThorstein both Christians. And this is what they say: Eric, son of evil,\ncome and be forgiven. — Let her build a church and sleep in it.\nWith the years there began to be much talk at Brattahlid of Vinland\nthe Good that Lief had first seen, that it should be explored. And so\nKarlsefni and Snorri fitted out a ship. Eric, too old to go with them,"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.43", "texte": "watches the ship depart. But Eric is in the ship, with the men, Eric the\nbedless, the sonless. Fate has pulled him out at the holes of his eyes and\nflung him again to sea as the ship steers southward. Now the glass darkens\nas the sea takes them to the New World.\nThey found wild rice, they built booths and palisades. First they\ntraded with the Skrellings, whose cheekbones were high, whose eyes wide,\nthen fought them. Whereas Karlsefni and his men had shown white shields\nbefore, now they took red shields and displayed them. The Skrellings\nsprang from their canoes and they fought together. Karlsefni and Snorri\nwere beaten. They fell back. Then it was that Freydis, Eric's natural\ndaughter, came out from her cabin. Seeing that the men were fleeing\nshe cried: Why do you flee from these wretches, when ye should slaughter\nthem like cattle? Had I a weapon I would fight better than any of you.\nLagging behind the rest as they ran because of her belly, she being\nwith child, she found a dead man in front of her. It was Snorri's son with\nhis head cleft by a stone, his naked sword beside him. This she took up\nand prepared to defend herself. The Skrellings then approached her,\nwhereupon she stripped down her shirt and slapped her breast with her\nbare sword. At this the Skrellings were terrified and ran down to their\nboats.\nSo, thinning out, more and more dark, it ran: Eric in Freydis' bones:\nFreydis now, mistress of her own ship, persuades two brothers, Helgi and\nFinnbogi, to sail with her again to Vinland: all to share equally the good\nthings that might there be obtained. Lief to lend her his house there. Two\nships, each to have thirty ablebodied men besides the women, but at the\nstart Freydis violated the compact by concealing five men more. Karlsefni\nfeared her.\nNow they put out to sea, the brothers in one ship and Freydis and\nKarlsefni in the other, having agreed that they would sail in company. But\nalthough they were not far apart from each other the brothers arrived\nsomewhat in advance and carried their belongings up to Liefs house.\nFreydis comes and does the same. The brothers withdraw and build a\nnew house nearby. Within a month the two houses are at odds and winter\ncomes on.\nSpring. Freydis one night after long thinking, arose early from her\nbed and dressed herself but did not put on shoes and stockings. A heavy"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.44", "texte": "dew had fallen. She took up her husband's cloak, wrapped it about her\nand walked in the dark to the brothers' house and up to the door, which\nhad been only partly closed by one of the men who had gone out only\na short time before. She pushed open the door and stood silently in the\ndoorway for a time. Finnbogi was awake and said: What dost thou wish\nhere Freydis? She answered: I wish thee to arise and go with me for\nI would speak with thee. — They walked to a tree which lay close by the\nwall of the house and seated themselves upon it. How art thou pleased\nhere, she said. He answered that he was well pleased with the place except\nfor the quarrel which had come up between them. They talked.\nIt was the brothers' boat — it seemed — she wanted, larger than\nher own. Finnbogi slow, thickheaded, or asleep consents to let her have\nit. Freydis split with anger or bad blood returns home and Finnbogi to\nhis bed.\nThe woman climbed into bed and awakened her husband with her\ncold feet. Why so cold and wet? I have been to the brothers to buy\ntheir ship, but they refused and beat me!\nThorvard roused his men. They went to the brothers' house, took\nthem and all their people, and slaughtered them one by one as they were\nbrought from within. Only the women were left. These no one would\nkill. What? said Freydis. Hand me an axe! This done she fell upon the\nfive women and left them dead.\nIn Greenland, Lief now head of the family has no heart to punish\nhis sister as she deserves: But this I predict of them, that there is little\nprosperity in store for their offspring. — Hence it came to pass that no\none from that time forward thought them worthy of aught but evil. Eric\nin his grave.\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "187", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.45", "texte": "George Grosz\nThe Pimps of Death"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "188", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.46", "texte": "THE KID\n\nMongolia — wild and joyless beast. Every rock — a beast, every\nlake — a beast, every butterfly seeking to sting.\nMongolians — inscrutable creatures: dressed, people say, in animal\nhides, looking like Chinamen, and living far from the Russians, in the desert\nNor-Koy. Rumor said that they would retreat still farther, beyond China\nand India into blue unknown lands.\nA small Kirghiz tribe (*), that had come from the Irtysh river fleeing\nfrom the Russian battle front, was now roaming in Mongolia, at some distance\nfrom a group of Russians, also fugitives. Brittle worthless characters, as\neverybody knows, the Kirghiz moved forward without haste. They brought\ntheir cattle along, their children, and even their sick.\nThe Russian fugitives, strong and healthy peasants, were being driven\nwithout mercy. They left all weaker ones behind them. Some of those\ndied; others were killed. Their families, their property and cattle remained\nin the hands of the Whites. The peasants were as mad as wolves in spring.\nThey lay in their tents hidden in a ravine, thinking of their steppes, thinking\nof their Irtysh river.\nThere were about fifty of them, with Sergey Selivanov as president.\nThey called themselves in fact Comrade Selivanov's Partisan Detachment\nof the Red Guards.\nThey were lonesome.\nWhen the Whites had been driving them across the mountains, the big\nblack crags frightened them. Now that they had reached the Steppe, they\nwere bored.\nThe Steppe here was like the steppe around the Irtysh river; sand,\ntough grass, hard metallic sky. Everything foreign, strange, uncultivated,\nwild.\nThe hardest thing was to get along without women.\nAll night, they told smutty soldiers' yarns, and when the torture became\nunbearable, they saddled their horses and went hunting after Kirghiz women.\nAnd the Kirghiz women noticing the Russians would fall submissivly\non their backs.\n\n* A Turkish tribe inhabiting Siberia."}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "189", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.47", "texte": "It was disgusting to take them thus, lying motionless and with tightly\nclosed eyes. It was like sinning with a beast.\nThe men were afraid of the Russians and moved out of their way\nfar into the steppe. Whenever they saw a Russian they would brandish\ntheir rifles and bows threateningly, they would yell, but never shoot.\nPerhaps they did not know how.\nII.\nThe treasurer of the Detachment, Afanasy Petrovitch Trubatchov, was\ntearful like a child and had the face of a child, small, red, beardless. Only\nhis legs were long and wiry like a camel's.\nWhen he mounted a horse, he grew stern at once. His face was\ndrawn in and he sat there gray headed, angry, terrible.\nOn Whitsuntide three men, Selivanov, Afanasy Petrovitch, Drevesinin,\nwere sent into the steppe to find good pasturage.\nA wind was blowing. A heat wave was rising from the earth to the\nquivering sky. The bodies of man and beast were tough and heavy like stone.\nSelivanov said hoarsely:\n\"What kind of pasturage can you expect here?\"\nEvery one knew he was thinking of the Irtysh river.\nThe sparse bearded faces were silent; the hair on them looked like\ngrass scorched by the sun; the eyes were bloodshot like a wound from\na fishhook.\nOnly Afanasy Petrovitch said piteously:\nffWonder if there is a drought there too?\"\nHe spoke in a tearful voice but there were no tears in his eyes.\nA tear was fretting the big dry eyes of the horse under him.\nAnd so one after another the partisans went along wild-goat paths\ninto the steppe.\nThe sand was glowing hot; the sand-saturated wind was clinging\nfast to the shoulders and head; the sweat was smarting in the body but\ncould not make its way through the dry skin to the surface.\nTowards evening, as they were passing from a hollow, Selivanov\npointed south and said:\nffSomebody is coming.\"\nTrue. At the horizon a pink dust was rising above the sand.\n\"Must be Kirghiz.\""}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "190", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.48", "texte": "They began to argue. Drevesinin said that the Kirghiz always kept\nat a distance and never approached Selivanov's ravine. Afanasy insisted it\ncould be no one else. Only Kirghiz ever raised such thick dense dust.\nAnd when the dust came rolling nearer and nearer, they all decided:\n\"Strangers.\"\nThe horses understood from the voices of their masters that strangers\nwere coming. They laid their ears back and fell on the ground even before\nany order was given.\nIn the ravine the gray and yellow horses' bodies looked helpless and\nridiculous with their thin rod-like legs. They closed their big frightened\neyes as if ashamed and were panting heavily.\nSelivanov and the treasurer Afanasy Petrovitch were lying at the edge of\nthe ravine. The treasurer was snivelling and whimpering. To allay his\nfear, Selivanov always kept him at his side; he seemed to enjoy and to find\nmalicious satisfaction in that childish whimper.\nDust was sweeping nearer along the path. One could already hear\nthe wheels knocking alternately; one could see the long black manes rolling\nlike dust clouds in the harness.\nSelivanov said, with assurance:\n\"Russians.\"\nAnd he called Drevesinin from the ravine.\nTwo persons sat in a new wicker cart. One could see red bands on\ntheir hats but their faces were hidden by the dust. The red seemed to\nswim in yellow clouds. The muzzle of a gun emerged from the dust,\na hand with a whip appeared now and then.\nDrevesinin thought a while and said:\n\"Officers ... on business I suppose ... An Expedition . . .\"\nThere was an evil twinkle in his eye.\n\"We'll show them what an Expedition is.\"\nThe cart carried the people fast ahead, pushed the horses forward.\nThe dust, like a fox's tail, swept the tracks behind it.\nAfanasy Petrovitch pleaded piteously:\n\"No, buddies, better let us take them prisoners.\"\n\"Have you no pity for your own head?\"\nSelivanov got angry, opened the cock of his gun, noiselessly like\na button and threw back:\n\"Stop your bellyaching.\"\nWhat made them particularly angry was, that the officers had come\nwithout convoy as if they were in countless numbers carrying certain death\nto the peasants."}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "191", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.49", "texte": "One of the officers rose to his full stature, surveyed the steppe, but could\nnot see well in the dust, and the wind, and the red evening, descending\non the scorched grass and on the two rocks resembling horse's bodies near\nthe ravine.\nThe cart and its wheels, the people and their thoughts, were submerged\nin the red dust.\nA shot rang out.\nAt once the hats, knocking against each other, fell into the cart.\nThe reins slipped as if snapped by an unseen hand.\nThe horses darted forward and tried to run away. Suddenly their\nmanes became coated with a milky foam; their powerful muscles trembled;\nthey hung their heads and stopped.\nAfanasy Petrovitch said:\n\"Dead.\"\nThe peasants went to look.\nDead they were. Shoulder to shoulder, they sat heads thrown back-\nward like hoods. One of them was a woman. Hair scattered, half covered\nwith dust — yellow and black; a soldier's blouse bulged high with a full\nwoman's bosom.\n\"Queer thing,\" said Drevesinin, \"but it is her own fault. Shouldn't\nhave worn a man's hat. Who wants to kill women? We need them.\"\nAfanasy Petrovitch spat.\n\"You skunk, boor joy . . . you haven't . . .\"\n\"Hold on,\" broke in Selivanov. \"We are no robbers. We have to\nmake an inventory of the people's property. Hand me a slip of paper.\"\nIn a Chinese wicker basket, hidden under the front seat, they found\nwith the rest of the \"people's property\" a bright haired and bright eyed\nbaby. Its little hand was clutching at the corner of a brown quilt. Still\na suckling, small sized, squeaking.\nAfanasy Petrovitch said with emotion:\n\"Well listen to it, jabbering in its own lingo.\"\nAgain there was a general expression of regret for the woman. They\ndid not remove her clothes. The man was buried naked in the sand.\nIII.\nAfanasy Petrovitch returned in the cart. Rocking the babe in his\narms, he sang:"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "192", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.50", "texte": "\"Nightingale, birdie,\nCanary —\nSadly singing. . .\"\nHe recalled his village Lebiajy, his home, his cattle, his family, his\nchildren, and began to cry in a thin voice.\nThe baby cried too.\nThe fine crisp glowing sand extended far into the distance and cried\nalso in a thin voice. The partisans with tempered faces and souls rode on\ntheir small strong Mongol horses.\nParched wormwood small and invisible, spread like sand along the\npath.\nSand and wormwood small and bitter.\nGoat paths. Bitter sands. Mongolia — wild and joyless beast.\nThey examined the officer's property. Books, a box of tobacco, bright\nsteel instruments. One of these was a four-cornered brass box with parti-\ntions set on a tripod.\nThe partisans examined it, weighed it in their hands.\nThey smelled of mutton fat. From great lonesomeness they ate too\nmuch and soiled their clothes. They had prominent cheek bones, soft thin\nlips, long black hair, dark complexions—real Don village types. And they\nall had bow-like legs and the guttural voice of the steppe.\nAfanasy Petrovitch lifted the tripod with the brass top and said:\n\"Telescope,\" then half closed his eyes.\n\"Good telescope this. Cost heaps of millions. They saw the moon\nwith it, fellows, and found gold deposits there. Pure like flour. Don't have\nto wash it even, all you need is just to pour it into sacks.\"\nA young city-bred chap laughed aloud.\n\"What is he fibbing about? Put the stopper on him.\"\nAfanasy Petrovitch got angry.\n\"I am fibbing, you stinking carrion? Just wait ...\"\nThey divided up the tobacco and gave the instrument to Afanasy\nPetrovitch. As treasurer he might swop it for something with the Kirghiz.\nHe put the instrument before the baby and said:\n\"Have some fun, kiddie.\""}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.51", "texte": "But the child went on squeaking. He tried one thing, another. He\nbroke into sweat—nothing would do, the baby went on as before.\nThe cooks brought dinner. There was a heavy odour of oil, porridge,\nshtchee. They pulled out of their boots wide Semipalatinsk wooden spoons.\nThe grass under them was well worn. The ravine was deep and shady.\nA mounted guard standing on duty, shouted from above:\n\"Hey there, I want to quit .... I am hungry .... Send up some-\nbody. .\nThey finished eating and remembered—kid had to eat too. It never\nstopped squeaking.\nAfanasy Petrovitch chewed up some bread, stuck the moist putty into\nthe child's open mouth, and smacked his lips.\n\"PP . . pp . . here little shaver . . . have some grub, colty.\"\nBut the kid would not eat; closed its mouth and turned its head away.\nRunning at the nose.\nThe peasants crowded around it. Looked at the kid over one another's\nshoulders. Were silent.\nIt was hot. Their lips and cheek bones shone with mutton fat; their\nshirts were unbuttoned; their feet were bare and yellow like the soil of\n*\nMongolia.\nOne said:\n\"Maybe he would eat some shtchee?\"\nSome shtchee was cooled off. Afanasy Petrovitch dipped his finger\ninto it and then into the baby's mouth. The good fat shtchee trickled\ndown from the child's lips on the rose shirt and the woolen quilt.\nThe baby would not eat.\n\"Why a puppy has more sense; it would lick your finger.\"\n\"Well, that's a brute, and this is a human being.\"\n\"That's right.\"\nThere was no cow's milk in the camp. They thought at first of feed-\ning the child with mare's milk—there were mares in the camp. But the\nkumiss was too intoxicating, the child might fall sick.\nThey scattered in groups among the wagons; they spoke worriedly.\nAfanasy Petrovitch was running back and forth with a tattered coat on\nhis back, with little tattered eyes in his face. He was lamenting in a thin,\nagitated, childish voice, as if he himself had been the child.\n\"Well, what shall we do about it? ... We ought to. . . .\"\nWide shouldered and powerful, they stood helpless."}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "194", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.52", "texte": "\"That's a woman's business.\"\n\"Of course.\"\n\"Maybe a woman would make him eat up a whole mutton?\"\n\"Maybe.\"\nSelivanov called an assembly meeting and said:\n\"We cannot let a Christian baby die like a brute. Supposing his\nfather was a boorjoy, the kid is not to blame for it.\"\nThe peasants agreed:\n\"The kid has nothing to do with it.\"\nDrevesinin burst out laughing.\n\"The kid will grow up all right ... fly on the moon . . . mine gold . . .\"\nNobody laughed. Afanasy Petrovitch raised his fists and shouted:\n\"If you aren't the craziest bitch.\"\nHe stamped his feet, threw up his hands, and suddenly uttered\na piercing cry.\n\"A cow ... we must get a cow for him.\"\nAll answered in a chorus:\n\"He'll die if we don't get a cow.\"\n\"A cow is what he needs.\"\n\"He'll burn up if there is no cow.\"\nAfanasy Petrovitch said resolutely:\n\"I am going to look for a cow.\"\nDrevesinin broke in impertinently:\n\"Go to the Irtysh, into Lebiajy. . .\"\n\"I don't have to go to Irtysh, you assorted nut. I am going to the\nKirghiz.\"\n\"Swop the telescope.\"\nAfanasy Petrovitch flew at him.\nSeeing, however, that they began to swear at each other inordinately,\nSelivanov, the chairman of the meeting said:\n\"That'll do.\"\nAnd it was decided by vote that Drevesinin, Afanasy Petrovitch, and\nthree others go to the Kirghiz camp to get a cow. If possible two or five—the\ncook's supply of meat was running rather low.\nThey attached rifles to their saddles, put on Kirghiz fox hats to re-\nsemble Kirghiz from the distance, and started.\n\"Good bye.\"\nThey wrapped the baby in the quilt and put it under a wagon.\nA young fellow sat watching it. To amuse himself as well as the baby he\nkept shooting from his Nogan revolver into the bushes."}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "195", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.53", "texte": "IV.\nDreary Mongolian sands.\nRussians riding over the sand. Night.\nSands exhaling heat and wormwood.\nIn the Kirghiz aul, dogs barking at wolves, at darkness.\nWolves howling in darkness at the city, at death.\nKirghiz fleeing death.\n\"Could we save our cattle from death?\"\nGreen sultry darkness quivering over the sands, hardly able to retain\nit. Ready to fly off southward in a moment.\nThe aul exhaled the odor of dung, butter milk. Small hungry Kirghiz\nchildren sat around yellow camp fires. Dogs with bare ribs and pointed\njaws pressed close to them. The tents looked like haystacks. There were\na lake and reeds behind the camp.\nSomebody fired a shot from the reeds into the camp fire.\n\"o—o—a—at. .\nThe Kirghiz left their tents at once. They screamed in fright, first\nsingly, then all together.\n\"(Joy-boy . . . ooy-boy, ak-kyzil ooroos . . . Ooy-boy. . .\"\nThey jumped on their horses which were kept in harness day and\nnight. The tents, the steppe, resounded with the tramping of feet . . . The\nreeds echoed the cry of a wild duck.\n\"Ak- . . . ak . . .\"\nOnly one Kirghiz, a grey bearded old man, fell from his horse head\nforemost into a kettle. He upset it, was scalded and began to wail in\na deep voice. And near him a shaggy dog, its tail between its legs, was\nsticking timidly its hungry snout into the hot milk.\nThe mares were neighing softly. The sheep were running back and\nforth in the stable as if frightened by a wolf. . . The cows were panting\nheavily.\nThe Kirghiz women noticed the Russians and lay down submissively\non the pillows.\nDrevesinin laughed indecently.\n\"Are we stallions or what? ... We can't always be . . .\"\nHe quickly filled a flat bottle with milk, and, cracking his whip,\ndrove up the cows and calves to the tents. Freed from the string, the calves\nfell hungrily to the udders butting them eagerly with their heads.\n\"Look at that hungry gang.\"\nDrevesinin drove the cows from the camp."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.54", "texte": "Afanasy Petrovitch made another tour of the aul and was ready to\nleave when he recalled something.\n\"Why we need a nipple. Hey you nuts, you forgot the nipple.\"\nAnd he ran into the tents to look for one. The fires in the tents were\nextinguished. Afanasy Petrovitch picked up a smouldering log. Choking\nwith the smoke and scattering sparks all around him, he began to look\nfor a nipple.\nOne hand held the crackling log, the other hand held a revolver.\nBut no nipple could be found. Covered by their clothes, the sub-\nmissive Kirghiz women were lying prostrate. The children were squealing.\nAfanasy Petrovitch got angry and shouted to one of the women:\n\"Hey, there you low down nemakana, give us a nipple.\"\nThe woman burst into sobs and began to unbutton first her jacket\nthen her shirt.\n\"Ni kirek . . . Al ... Al . . .\"\nAt her side, a baby wrapped in rags was crying.\nThe Kirghiz woman bent her legs.\n\"Al . . . Al . . .\"\nSuddenly Afanasy Petrovitch caught her breast, squeezed it, and\nwhistled with joy:\n\"Whew . . . there's a fine nipple . . .\"\n\"Ni kirek . . . ni . .\n\"All right, don't be quacking. Come on.\"\nAnd he dragged her after him.\nHe dropped the log. The tent sank into darkness.\nHe helped the woman into the saddle, and, feeling her breast from\ntime to time, rushed off to Selivanov's ravine.\n\"I got it, pals.\" He said, and there were tears in his eyes.\n\"I got it.\"\nV.\nAnd then they found that in the dark unnoticed by Afanasy Petrovitch,\nthe woman had fetched her baby along.\n\"Let it stay,\" said the peasants, \"She has enough milk for the two of\nthem. We have cows now and she is a pretty husky wench.\"\nThe Kirghiz woman was silent and grave, and fed the two babies when\nnobody was looking. They both lay on a rough pillow in the tent, one\nwhite, the other yellow, and both squealing in unison.\nAbout a week or so later Afanasy Petrovitch brought the following\nfact to the attention of the general assembly."}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.55", "texte": "ffA cheater, comrades,—the wench feeds her own kid on a full breast\nand gives ours what's left on the bottom. I saw it myself.\"\nThe peasants came up to her tent. The babies were there, no different\nfrom any other babies. One was white, the other yellow like a ripe musk\nmelon. But it did seem that the Russian was thinner than the Kirghiz.\nAfanasy Petrovitch was in despair.\n\"Why, I even gave him a name, Vaska .... And now . . .\nDrevesinin said:\n\"You certainly look punk, Vaska.\"\nThey found a stick, balanced it on a shaft so that one side should\nnot weigh more than the other, and hung the babies one on each side to\nsee which was the heavier.\nWrapped in rags and suspended from lassos, the babies were wailing.\nThey had the specific odor of infants. The woman stood nearby not com-\nprehending anything and weeping.\nThe peasants were all gone to their work.\n\"Let go.\" said Selivanov.\nAfanasy Petrovitch removed his hand from the stick and the Russian\nshot up straight into the air.\n\"Look at the yellow brat,\" said Afanasy Petrovitch enraged, \"he's\nall blown up.\"\nHe picked up a mutton skull lying on the ground and put it on\nthe Russian child. The two sides were now in equilibrium.\n\"Overfed her kid by a full head, eh . . .\"\n\"We can't be spying on her all the time.\"\n\"She's a brute.\"\n\"We have more to do than look after the kid,\"\nAll agreed:\n\"We can't be always looking after them.\"\n\"Well, if you look at it in a different way-—she is a mother after all.\"\nAfanasy Petrovitch stamped his feet and even screamed with rage.\n\"You mean to tell me that our own Russian kid is to croak for some\nnemakan? .. . Our own Vaska is to croak . . .\"\nThey all looked at Vaska. He was lying there pale and thin.\nThe peasants were saddened.\nSelivanov turned to Afanasy Petrovitch.\n\"You know . . . take that kid . . . and let him . . . God rest his\nsoul ... let the Kirghiz kid . . . die . . . we've done in plenty of them . . .\none more won't . . .\nThe peasant looked again at Vaska and disappeared."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.56", "texte": "Afanasy Petrovitch wrapped the Kirghiz baby in an old sack.\nThe mother whined. Afanasy Petrovitch slapped her lightly on the\ncheek and went into the steppe. . .\nVI.\nTwo days later the peasants were standing on tip-toe before a tent and\nwere peeping over one another's shoulders inside, where the woman was\nlying on the floor feeding the white child.\nThe woman was dressed in a jacket and leather shoes. Her face with\neyes narrow like oat grains bore a submissive expression.\nThe kid was burrowing its face into her breast, padding its little hands\nover her jacket and kicking its feet in a funny and awkward fashion as if\ntrying to leap.\nThe peasants looked on, laughing uproariously.\nAfanasy Petrovitch watched them tenderly, blew his nose, and said\nin a drawl:\n\"Just watch him go to it.\"\nAnd behind the canvas tent, the ravine, the steppe, strange Mongolia\nstretching into unknown distances.\nMongolia, wild and joyless beast.\n\nVsevolod Ivanov\n(Translated from the Russian by Louis Lozowick.)"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.57", "texte": "Saturday Night\nGeorge Grosz"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.58", "texte": "A NOTE ON MODERN RUSSIAN ART\n\nIt is well the devil can quote Scripture: we know thereby the character\nof Satan, even if we are in the dark as to Holy Writ. St. Paul of Aix,\nSt. Apollinarius of Paris, Revelation, Apocrypha and other books in the\nBible of modern art have been quoted so copiously and interpreted so\nliberally by the modern Russian artists, in their fight against orthodoxy,\nthat their own identity is never left in doubt.\nThe advent of the Soviets resulted in a heightened productivity among\nmodern Russian artists. Whatever state patronage of the arts may be worth\nin general, it is undeniable that in Russia the Soviets gave a great impetus\nto artistic effort by inaugurating a program of reform on a scale hardly\nparallelled in any other modern State. They abolished the old Imperial\nAcademy, organized a Free College of Artists in its place, opened new\nfree art schools, established Museums of modern art (Museums of Artistic\nCulture) organized popular lectures and travelling exhibitions, supported\nthe artists, bought their works, employed them in staging popular revolu-\ntionary festivals, issued new art publications — in a word did everything\nto encourage the growth of art and to bring it nearer to the masses.\nArtistic activity rose to tremendous proportions, and yet the threads\nconnecting modern Russian art and the Revolution are a little difficult to\ntrace because the period is so brief and the schools are so various. There\nis, in the first place, an extreme preoccupation with social theory, an attempt\nto stress the obvious parallel between the political and artistic revolutions,\nto break with the past in order to create new art forms just as the Soviets\nhad broken with the past to create a new State; a desire to bring art nearer\nto life, to make art an integral part of it, to concentrate the constructive\nessence of the revolution in pictorial form that would have universal import\nand become eventually universal property.\nThis brings up the second great preoccupation of modern Russian\nartists: art theory. Formally modern Russian art is up in revolt against\nthe older Russian art and in particular against the didacticism of the\n\"Wanderers\" (Peredvijniki) and the aestheticism of the \"World of Art\"\n(Mir Iskusstva). The \"Wanderers\" — Perov, Kramskoy, Gue, Vereshtchagin,\nRepin — painted illustrated sermons intending to make evil men good, and\ngood men better. It was art with a mission and a message. The members\nof the \"World of Art\" — Benois, Golovin, Korovin, Somov, Roerich, Bakst"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.59", "texte": "— admitted one message: Art for Art's sake, and one mission: Beauty.\nThe modern Russian artists summarily reject the methods of both. Art\nhas a social function, certainly, but this can best be exercised if the formal\nlaws of art are observed. The ethical significance of art is in direct pro-\nportion to its aesthetic quality. But it is, precisely, in this respect that the\nolder schools are found wanting. One makes disagreeable facts a little less\nattractive, the other makes agreeable facts a little more attractive. Both\ndilute life into anecdote and the method of procedure is in both cases very\nmuch the same, must of necessity be so, for the practice of both is based\non imitation. The modern Russian artists base their practice on creation.\nThey, too, hold life paramount but their attitude to it and their conception\nof it can be fully materialized only if the barrier between them and life\nis removed-—if imitation as a method is abandoned. The modern Russian\nartists demand before all else mastery of technique, skill of workmanship,\nand devote themselves to a thorough going study of the elements peculiar\nto each art: the structure and stability of a picture; color: its hue, shade,\nvalue, weight; materials: their texture and solidity; space, volume, depth;\nform: balance and relation of masses and planes.\nThe reaction began with the ffJack of Diamonds\" (Bubnovy Valet),\na school of Gezannists — Mashkov, Kontchalovsky, Rojdestvensky, Lentulov\nFalk — which tried to solve anew Cezanne's problems. The artists did\nnot seek, like the Impressionists, to record a fleeting, transient impression,\nbut rather to fix the stable and permanent. They employed natural form,\nbut ordered the planes and balanced the masses of their pictures with\na view to structural significance.\nThe Cubists — Morgunov, Exter, Udaltzova, Popova, Pevsner — selec-\nted what appeared to them most essential in the art of Cezanne and went\nas far in the same direction as seemed logically inevitable. They used\ncolor and form not as elements necessary to represent concrete visual\nobjects but as autonomous elements, as bricks used in the construction of\na picture. They attempted to introduce a perspective of depth instead of\ndistance and to set planes in a given direction to express spatial relations.\nThe Suprematists — Malevitch, Exter, Rodtchenko, Dievin, Lissitzky,\nRosanova — tried to carry the analytic process of Cubism to its logical\nconclusion. They sought to get rid of what appeared chaotic in cubism\nby employing a greater economy of means. They combined pure elementary\ncolors and simple elementary forms in a manner to suggest movement and\ncreate rhythm. Malevitch, the leader of the movement, carried simplifica-\ntion so far as to paint a black disk on a white square. Then he made the\nnext step and painted \"White on White\". To be sure, the two whites"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.60", "texte": "differ in hue and texture. Rodtchenko one of his ablest pupils, painted\n\"Black on Black\" (mat and glossy). Then he made the last step by painting\nthree square canvasses in the three elementary colors, red, blue, and yellow\nrespectively. Does that mean that art has at last reached a blind alley?\nRodtchenko who passed from Suprematism to Contructivism would answer\nin the negative. There is a passage into the open. It is the passage leading\nfrom art to production. Art should merge with life. Autonomous art has\nno longer any important function to perform. But the artist has. He\nshould devote his organizing, creative faculties to the productive industrial\nprocesses and thus relinquish his parasitic existence. Rodtchenko was true\nto his doctrine: he gave up the practice of art.\nNot all constructivists — Medunetzky, Sternberg, loganson, Kliutzis,\nLissitzky, Tatlin — hold the same views. Another tendency grants the\nlegitimacy of artistic activity, although it would transform that in harmony\nwith the demands of the new age. Art should root in the weightiest reali-\nties of our day. These are science and industry. The Constructivists, there-\nfore, go for instruction to science and borrow an example from industry.\nLike science they aim at precision, order, organization; like industry they\ndeal with concrete materials: paper, wood, coal, iron, glass. Out of these,\nnew objects — not pictures — are created not imitative of reality but built\nwith a structural logic to be utilized eventually, just as steam was utilized\nlong after its discovery; — new objects that can affect society just as\nthey are rooted in it. Hence the Constructivists consider their work strictly\nutilitarian. Technical processes organize dead materials; constructivist art\nwould mold the new social personality.\nThere are still other versions of the Constructivist doctrine, all of them\nhaving at their core what one might call irreverently a romantic adoration\nof the machine. The law of contrast, perhaps. It was in the classical\nland of Political Economy, the Industrial Revolution, and urban centraliza-\ntion — it was in England that landscape painting had its rise.\nTatlin, one of the most prominent representatives of this tendency,\nattempted in his Monument to the Third International, to unite art and\nscience and to create a utilitarian work. This monument comprising three\nstories (cube, pyramid, cylinder) rotating at different velocities (year, month,\nday) brings the time factor into his work. In different connection and on\na smaller scale, the sculptor Gabo also introduces dynamism into his work.\nHe seeks to establish in his sculpture an interrelation of forces rather than\nof masses. Gabo operates, like Archipenko, with the concave instead of the\nconvex surface common in sculpture, and attempts to solve his novel\nproblems in plastic glass constructions."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.61", "texte": "Archipenko holds high rank among modern Russian artists for his\nstructural sculpture, his sculpto-painting, his work in porcelain and metal,\nand his excellent drawings.\nThe social and formal aspect are both strongly emphasized by Altman.\nThis artist passed all stages in the evolution from \"Mir Iskusstva\" to the latest\ntendencies. He holds that the old art of the \"Wanderers\" and the \"World\nof Art\" as well as the new art of the Cubists and the Futurists is reactionary\nand out of date. The new age requires a new departure. Two ways are\nopen to modern artists. The first is to abandon art and pass into pro-\nduction as Rodtchenko did; the second is to create a new art based not\non merely visual forms, planes, lines, colors, but an art whose component\nelements are actual materials; coal, iron, steel, wood, paper. His work\n\"Russia\" embodies his theory. It is a rectangular board varnished and\npolished in some parts and inlaid with coal, paper, black wood in others.\nThe materials are wrought and combined with a view of making an object\nwhich while not a picture shall yet have aesthetic value. Aesthetic value\nintermingled with ethical value, for the work purports to affect human\nconsciousness by revealing to it in abstract form the powerful reality of re-\nvolution with its glorification of labor.\nSternberg, though, in general, not indifferent to social theory, confines\nhimself in his work to pure aesthetic expression which he seeks to achieve\nby a simplification and conventionalization of natural form and by color\nand texture contrasts.\nThe painters Kandinsky, Filonov, and Chagal have each a well defined\npersonality and stand somewhat aside from the general trend. They may\nbe all termed Expressionists, for their intricate design, their intuitive method\nof work, and their rich often inchoate fantasy indicates kinship with the\nGerman art movement of the same name.\nCritical literature is as ever abundant. At times the modern critics\nhave a tendency to treat as axioms propositions that are doubtful even as\ntheorems; at times they like to play the part of Apollinaire and explain the\nartists to themselves. On the whole however there is a healthy tendency\nto examine fearlessly and searchingly all standards.\nPunin would have art train the apperceptive and cognitive faculties,\nto make man perceive the world as synthesis and thereby become master\nof it. Arvatov would have art be first ancillary to life, organize the human\nemotions and intellect, make them receptive to progressive revolutionary\nprocesses, and be finally distilled in life and absorbed by it. Brick would\nraise the artist to the rank of artisan and thus make him a useful member\nof society. (\"He who does not work, neither shall he eat.\") Gan would"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "204", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.62", "texte": "banish art from society altogether* (\"We declare irreconcilable war on art.\")\nand decree material intellectual production, the creation of socially necessary\nobjects of use.\nTo one acquainted with Russian critical literature much of this sounds\nfamiliar. Pissarev, over half a century ago, drew a parallel between Push-\nkin and a shoemaker, much to the disadvantage of the former. Stassov\nadvocated an art of social utility. Tolstoy's doctrine of artistic f'infection\"\nis universally familiar. Even the case of Rodtchenko finds its analogy in\nthat of Gue who after a successful artistic career abandoned art under\nthe influence of Tolstoy's evangelical doctrines.\nIn general, however, the modern Russian critics are much bolder owing\nto their more radical social philosophy and their leaning on the State. The\nSoviet Government acted on the assumption that a new art can be the\nwork of a new man, himself the product of a new social system. Their\npolicy was based on this assumption and they attempted to solve the art\nproblem in a practical way — perhaps in the only practical way possible —\nin the way implicit in the assumption.\nThe assumption might be challenged; the policy might be criticized;\nthat the effort is worth making is hardly open to doubt.\n\nLouis Lozowick\n\nMadman Drawing"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.63", "texte": "Madman Drawing"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "206", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.64", "texte": "BERLIN AND THE BUBBLING RHINE\n\n\"Grosser als das Beefsteak ist der Tod!\"\nRichard Huelsenbeck.\nEnter Berlin by the Passage Panoptikum. Under the dusty arcade\nwhere neither sun nor rain can pass, elbow your way by the bawds, the\ntourists and the panders of a new age. Regard the incandescent signs which\nherald the \"Greatest Abnormalities of a Century\" or \"Jazz Band\" or Ameri-\ncan Drinks, the saloons with granite fagades which dispense a synthetic\nnectar. The gutters are filled with rubbish. These are the distorted faces\nof the new Shylocks, the vendors of the four winds, the faces wThich Grosz\ndraws without pity.\nWe have indeed wandered far from the genial (corpulent) Teuton who,\nlager-laden, sprawled by the mellow Rhine. Nor is it easy to dismiss the\nmirage of modern Germany with a wave of the hand. The world of\nFriedrichstrasse is here to be wrestled with. It is the nomansland of the\nmodern artist: he must either survive or die on this front.\nThe previous artistic milieu was Berlin-Westens. A decade ago, in the\ncomfortable imperial days, the doors swung open on ballbearings and gave\non salons which were no less elegant and mundane than those of the Etoile;\nits residents lived ano less precarious and complex existence. And for the\nmillion odd middle-class inhabitants of Berlin's most fashionable quarter\nan art and a poesy were conceived, so faithful to their letter, that the \"Berlin-\nWestens novel\" and the \"Berlin-Westens poem\" became literary by-words.\nWhat was this milieu which stamped the art of a whole generation?\nNothing but a populous middle class, rich, pleasure loving, urbane, gour-\nmand, and somewhat coarser than the Paris of the same era. Their complete\nvanity is mirrored in both the content and manner of the Sudermann novel,\n\"Sodom's Ende,\" in the demoded plays of Otto Hartleben and the satirical-\ndecadent poetry of Otto Julius Bierbaum, all of which Berlin-Westens in its\nvery vanity and futility took to its utmost heart.\nBerlin had but recently begun to play the part of a capitol in the\nintellectual life of Germany. After the Jungdeutschland renaissance however,\none \"movement\" followed another without reverence; the Stormers and\nStressers, Naturalists, Decadents, Symbolists, Expressionists, Dadaists . . .\nThe Stormers and Stressers, Conrad, Bleibtreu and the Hart brothers came"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.65", "texte": "crying: \"Schonheit ohne Reinheit ist unvollstandig;\" but they soon made\nway for the Naturalists, Arno Holz, Hirschfeld and the younger Hauptmann;\nthen were flung poppies, poppies, with the Decadents, Bierbaum and Hart-\nleben; as for the Symbolists, they were as easily absorbed, although Stefan\nGeorge was never as honestly admired as were the more comprehensible\nRichard Dehmel and Gustav Falke. Nor was the advent of Expressionism\ndifficult: the external forms of art had been left untouched by the Symbolists\nin their rapt contemplation of the interior palpitations of the soul of man\nand nature; the proper rebound was, obviously, to ignore the interior of\nphenomena and concentrate on the purely external palpitations of the flesh\nand the soil, while overhauling idiom, form, language, in short everything\nrelated to the expression of the experience. A shallow rebellion. Expression-\nism merely served to hide a multitude of digressions. What more fitting\nthan the Dadas come with their bushman cry: \"BIRRI-BUMM! BIRRI-\nBUMM! BIRRI-BUMM!\" Thus, we arrive at a species of guerilla warfare in\nart, whereby everything is ploughed up, plundered, and re-hashed. We\narrive at the gate of the Passage Panoptikum fronting Friedrichstrasse.\nA cross-section of modern Germany's literary history can at least be\nof negative value; to prove that three or four fascinating personalities, who\nemerge from the marmalade, can neither be \"placed\" nor dismissed. I\nspeak of Alfred Mombert, Jakob Van Hoddis and Paul Scheerbart — since\nno two commentators agree, I have the right to signal them — who are ill\nremembered amid the mass of names which litters the period between 1885\nand 1914. Mombert, Scheerbart, Van Hoddis compose no \"school,\" knew\neven little of each other. Mombert is said to be living still, although few\nseem to know either of him or of Van Hoddis, whereas Scheerbart was a\npopular journalist whose work was scarcely conceded any literary impor-\ntance.\nSince the war Jakob Van Hoddis has been accepted as one of the\n\"fathers\" of Expressionism (how the curious little man would have rued\nthis!) and the demands of a specialized class of readers have brought forth\nnew editions of all the ten volumes of Mombert and several volumes of\nScheerbart.\nAlfred Mombert may be regarded in turn as a mystic, a pantheist, a\ndisciple of Nietzsche, but in the end it is by his rhetoric that he compells.\nHe is mystical somewhat after the fashion of the English poets of the early\nSeventeenth Century, Donne, Herbert, and Vaughan, whom Dr. Johnson\ncalled \"metaphysical.\" The somewhat preposterous religious conceptions\nhe fumbled with permit him a similar extravagance of image and thought-\ndissociation. In his dramatic trilogy, Aeon, a vast \"Aeon Mythos\" is pom-"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.66", "texte": "pously sung; but the true feinschmecker of poetry will forgive him his\ntedious epic of a mythical superman, for the fresh and surprising qualities\nof his lyrics. To comprehend Mombert's departures from the literature of\nhis compatriots it must be remembered that nearly all the novelists of his\ntime were enslaved, either to Flaubert or to Zola, and all the poets to either\nVerlaine or Mallarme.\nIn rfDer Gliihende,\" (1897) we are far afield from Berlin-Westens. His\ndiction has no Gallicisms; it has rather the crude direct accent of old German\nfairy tales, which were certainly remarkable for their elaborate humor,\nnaivete, brutality and worldly wisdom. The language is extremely simple\nin construction, but so idiomatic that Mombert can seldom be translated\nadequately:\nUnd vor den Leichenstein\nbaut man ein Bdnklein\nfiir die scluvarze Familie.\nFriihmorgens um sieben\naufziehen, die hinterblieben,\ndie scluvarze Familie\nDer Jung' versucht zu schwatzen,\nda kriegt erin die Fraize\nvon der schwarzen Familie.\nDie Tochter hebt die Rdcke auf,\nda kriegt sie einen Blick darauf\nvon der schwarzen Familie.\nDer Sohn steht auf, geht nebenbei . . .\ndoch ist er gleich wieder dabei,\nbei der schwarzen Familie.\nSchleppt Wurscht herbei! schleppt Bier herbei!\nEben schlug es zehne\nfiir die schwarze Familie.\nThe sequence of the theme in this ballad is always very curious, one\nhunts in vain for causal relationship, and yet the rhythm prepares one for the\njust violence of the end: \"Schleppt Wurscht herbei! schleppt Bier herbei!\"\nAnother poem in the same vein tells of the poet being seized by four\nhunters and placed against a wall of rock. They search him: \"Hast eine\nKartoffel gestohlen, wirst erschossen!\" They tear his clothes off.\n\"Und sie rissen mir den Rock vom Leib.\nUnd sie rissen mir das Hemd vom Leib"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "209", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.67", "texte": "They find nothing, until they come upon his heart, which \"so softly,\nsoftly, beats\" and cry:\n\"Hier sitzt die Kartoffel,\ndie gestohlene Kartoffeir\n\"Da wuchs ich riesengrop empor die Felswand\nund war ein ganzes blutgequaltes Volk.\"\nAt times he rises to a mad aggression, he \"becomes a giant towering\nabove the wall of rock, a whole blood-choked people!\" This note is rarely\ntouched in modern poetry, the menace of:\nHelft mir auf die Rednerbuhne!\nStutzt! hebt!\nhelft! eilt!\nMein Herz glanzt überm MeerU\nThe following poem which chances to lend itself to translation is really\ncharacteristic of the uralt savour of Mombert at his best:\nTinkling! — Tambourines!\nI arise from nights of dark-draped rooms —\nAt the window I lift the curtain.\nGlittering, shimmering, the sun . . .\nBelow a bear dances.\nTwo stout and healthy boys: green coats, red caps.\nGlittering, shimmering the sun . . .\nThe curtain falls. I press the bell.\nNaked whores rush in.\n\"The boys die.\nThe bear goes hungry.\nThe sun gets slapped.\"\nPoetry in the hands of Paul Scheerbart, as well, breaks from the\nmould into which it has been pressed by the nineteenth century and ap-\nproaches the primitive motives of art. Groping as these men do, living in and\nyet detached from their period, they at least follow the method of no\n\"school,\" they are neither symbolist nor decadent. Their moments of bathos\nand bad taste are redeemed by the fresh and unexpected turns they take.\nScheerbart is another \"unconscious\" type. Although remembered\nchiefly for his fantastic prose tales, his poetry, insolent, vulgar and grotesque,"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "210", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.68", "texte": "seems more arresting. Within your urbane civilized German there is a\nvein of cruel fantasy which Scheerbart exploits. Lack of restraint hurls him\nto an extreme departure from representative literature; his loud chanting\non the wind instruments approaches the vivid slogans of American adver-\ntisements. Here is \"Indian Song:\"\nMurx den Europder!\nMurx ihn;\nMurx ihn! Murx ihn!\nMurx ihn ab!\nOther poems are less cryptic, although equally electrifying. \"Der\nLachende Engel\" is about \"great white disks\" which go soaring in heaven,\nwith \"blood-red nuts whirling upon them,\" and angels who go spraying\nvitriol and crying \"Very well! Very well!\"\nWie war's doch nur?\nIm Himmel schwebten\nGrofie blanke Diskusscheiben —\nAuf denen drehten sich blutrote Niisse.\nDoch alles schlug ein boser Geist entzwei.\nEin Engel lacht dazu\nUnd spritzt Vitriol.\nJawohl! Jawohl!\nIn certain of Scheerbart's poems one finds precisely the style of archaic\nsculpture. The subject sits with his arm in a very awkward gesture, which\nis at once contrary to the laws of perspective, and mysteriously satisfying.\nModern painting may have carried the gospel too far against \"perspective\"\nbut we can still weep with joy at a perfect piece of distortion.\nOf Jakob Van Hoddis only one small book of verse is known, Welt-\nende, containing some sixteen short poems. Van Hoddis was known before\nthe war by certain of the writers who later formed the Expressionist group.\nHe is supposed to have died in a madman's cell. But the case against in-\nsane artists has failed ingloriously, and great art is no more regarded as an\nevidence of insanity (witness Baudelaire and Poe) than insanity as an\na priori postulation of great art.\nVan Hoddis writes with a boundless and monstrous imagination. He\nis a heroic and isolated figure. He writes from great conviction and great\nloneliness. From the traditional point of view, every line of his few knowTn\npoems is hard and ringing. The play of ideas is more frequent in him,\nthan in Scheerbart, he is more cerebral and more luxurious. The thought\nis projected sharply beyond the immediate word or situation. At the\nworld's end:"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "211", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.69", "texte": "Dem Burger fliegt vom spitzen Kopf der Hut,\nIn alien Luften hallt es wie Geschrei.\nDachdecker stiirzen ab und geKn entzwei\nUnd an den Kiisten -— liest man ■— steigt die Flut .. .\nDer Sturm ist da, die wilden Meere hupfen\nAn Land, um dicke Damme zu zerdriicken.\nDie meisten Menschen haben einen Schnupfen.\nDie Eisenbahnen fallen von den Briicken.\nffThe burgher's hat flies from the tip of his head, cries resound in all\nthe air, roofs plunge down and go asunder . . . most people have colds;\nrailroads fall from the bridges.\" And as the world rolls to its end, \"Through\nseven heavens the steam of tobacco and of poor sinners' fat rises in thick\nswaths.\"\nDie Wolken winden sich wie Leinentuch,\nlm Himmel spur' ich grafiliche Exzesse.\nDie Engel fiirchten sich vor Gottes Fluch,\nUnd haben Zigaretten in der Fresse.\nDenn Luzifer ist heute eingeladen\nUnd geht mit einem sicherlich zu Bett.\nDurch sieben Himmel zieht in dicken Schwaden\nDampf von Tabak und Armesunder-Fett.\nVan Hoddis in his less sombre moments is master of a lighter vein,\none of superb clownery:\nDer Mond ist meine Tante\nEr schmoddert durch die Nacht.\nDie Sonne meine Grofimama,\nHat nie an mich gedacht.\nThe influence of Van Hoddis has been far-reaching. First through\nthe talented and ill-fated poet, Alfred Lichtenstein, (killed, Marne 1914) one\nof the early Expressionists. Lichtenstein was a happy satirist who adopted\nthe grotesque manners of his predecessors, with less success. August Stramm,\nanother Expressionist, bears resemblance to Van Hoddis: his fantasy, and\nhis plays with words occasionally lift him out of the mob of Expressionists.\nHuelsenbeck who raised the banner of Dada for a brief day in Germany\nhas disappeared; a brilliant and provocative young man, who preferred, after\ndisplaying much indubitable talent, to emulate the vanishing act of Rimbaud.\nArp sings his solitary varnished song in Switzerland, a poet without\na country, no longer Alsatian or French or German. Who will now lead\nthe dance through the Passage Panoptikum?\n\nM. J."}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "212", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.70", "texte": "COMMENT\n\nAstonishing similarities will be noticed between our reproductions of\nwidely different origin—Indian designs and the work of George Grosz,\nmadmen's productions and the delicate drawings of Paul Klee. The pri-\nmitive man and the refined propagandist, the imbecile and one of the finest\nsensibilities of our age — what can these personalities have in common?\nI asked an old Arabian carpet weaver in Gapa to draw some patterns\nfor me. He replied that although he had learned the figures from his\nfather, he had long since forgotten them. However after some hesitation\nhis hand unconsciously traced the outlines of a bird, a fish and a camel.\nOur Indian drawing of a man sitting in his hammock is rather\nnaturalistic but the \"artist\" did not forget to draw a hole for the empty\nstomach inside the body. Thus does the pen of Grosz penetrate beneath\nthe skirts and blouses of cocottes and into the hearts of profiteers and\nsoldiers. The method of these two artists—whether learned from their\nancestors, in school or in life—is the same: empiric and conceptional. Their\naim the imparting of knowledge and information to others.\nThe excellent book of Dr. Prinzhorn, \"Plastic Production of the\nInsane,\" enabled us to reproduce some drawings by madmen of the\nschizophreme group, whose minds are cut off from the outside world and\nare often split into several different personalities. Their drawings are\nskeletons which they clothe in the flesh of their imaginations, thus con-\ncentrating them into what can he called a sort of order. Uncontrolled by\nand uninterested in the world's realities, the insane mind is guided only\nby the logic of paper and pencil or brush and colour. The two fundamental\nmysteries — religion and love — form, for the most part, the inspiration\nof their drawings: and in them memories reappear as in the drawing of\nthe Koroa-man.\nThe mysticism of Paul Klee is evident in one of his latest works\nwhich Dr. Zahn calls \"The Cosmic Picture Book.\" The egocentrism of the"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "113", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.71", "texte": "philosopher separates him from the world as definitely as the illusions of\nthe insane, and the many sides and directions of his (literarily expressed)\ninterests may form a parallel to the divided personality of the madman.\nBut the intentions of Klee are aesthetic while the madman creates from\na pathological necessity. Both are unconscious of the antagonism which\nexists in the other examples. For the Indian's intention is informative like\nthat of the Arab, who wants to draw a bird, but who knows that this figure\nmust decorate a carpet. This struggle between the plastic and the infor-\nmative exists to some extent in all art productions, unconsciously in the\ncase of children, of primitive people or of the insane; consciously in the\ncase of intelligent artists like George Grosz, whose work is analyzed in\ndetail, in another part of this issue.\nIn the work of the mystic the diversity of empiric reality has no\nplace, and abstract elements build up peculiarly concrete beings, while the\npositivist creates a new abstract unity out of all the elements of his know-\nledge and experience.\n\nL. M.\n\nThe drawings of Paul Klee were reproduced from the Sturm\nBilderbucher by courtesy of the Sturm Verlag, Berlin, and those of\nGeorge Grosz by courtesy of the Malik Verlag, Berlin. —\nPrinted by Rich. Lahisch & Co., Graphische KunstansiaU,G.m. b.H., Berlin (Germany)"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "[114]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.72", "texte": "World's Famous Books\nClassics of Fiction, Drama, History, Biography, Philosophy, Science, Poetry and\nHumor Now Produced in Pocket Size—Improve Your Mind by Reading in Odd\nMoments—Easy to Carry—Order by mail—Size of Books 372x5 inches—Books\nPrinted Uniformly—Bound Neatly in Card-Cover Stock—Take Your Pick of 300\nGreat Titles at 10c—Quick Service Guaranteed.\nONLY\n10c\nEACH\nThe Chicago\nDaily News of\nSept. 13, says\nthat Girard,\nKans., has be-\ncome the liter-\nary ' '\nthe U,\n7\nital\nof\nA\n1\nY/t\nE. Haldeman-Julius, Editor Pocket Series\nThe amazing thing about our new process in printing is\nihe fact that it makes possible the production of 300 master-\npieces of literature—not extracts, but complete—at the sur-\nprisingly low price of 10 c each.\nBy using compact, yet readable type, and good thin\npaper it has been possible to print the complete and original\ntext in every case in a thin volume which easily slips into\nthe pocket. Many readers have become so enthused that they\nmake a practice of slipping four or five of these books\ninto a pocket before starting the day's work. They do not\nbulge the pocket and are not noticeable, yet are always\navailable.\nThis new process In publishing now makes it\npossible for men and women who are lovers of the\nbest literature to become well read in time formerly\nwasted. Many people carry some of these books\nwith them constantly.\nOver 20,000,000 of these unique books have\nbeen sold during the past three years, indicating\nthe popularity of the idea. The library was started\nwith the thought of putting the best literature within\nreach of the masses.\nWe have spared ourselves no pains in the effort\nto produce books that meet every requirement.\nExcellent printing and binding make them very\nattractive in appearance.\n\"LITERATURE'S\nIMPRESARIO\"\nAn editorial in The St. Louis\nPost-Dispatch, of September 6, 1922,\nhas the following to say about E.\nHaldeman-Julius, editor of the Pocket\nSeries;\nHaldeman-Julius is an Invalu-\nable citizen. He is doing a\ncultural work of the first mag-\nnitude. He is a great business\nman and one of the country's\ngreatest educators. He is litera-\nture's impresario. He is the\nAmerican Northcliffe, with the\nimmeasurable distinction that\nwhile the Englishman was\nprimarily a peddler of\nlities, Haldeman-Julius Is a\nsalesman of the verities. Of\nthe Girard publishing house\nthe Bard of Avon himself\nwould say: \"There's nothing\nill can dwell in such a temple.\"\n\nORDER BY\nNUMBER\nDrama\n295 The Master Builder.\nIbsen.\n90 The Mikado. W. S.\nGilbert.\n316 Prometheus Bound.\nAeschylus.\n308 She Stoops to Conquer.\nOliver Goldsmith.\n134 The Misanthrope.\nMoliere.\n16 Ghosts. Henrik Ibsen.\n80 Pillars of Society. Ibsen.\n46 Salome. O. Wilde.\n54 Importance of Being\nEarnest. O. Wilde.\n8 Lady Windermere's Fan.\nOscar Wilde.\n131 Redemption. Tolstoi.\n99 Tartuffe. Moliere.\n31 Pelleas and Melisande.\nMaeterlinck.\n226 Prof. Bernhardt.\nSchnitzler.\nShakespeare's Plays\n240 The Tempest.\n241 Merry Wives of Windsor.\n242 As You Like It.\n243 Twelfth Night.\n244 Much Ado About Nothing.\n245 Measure for Measure.\n246 Hamlet.\n247 Macbeth.\n248 King Henry V.\n249 Julius Caesar.\n250 Romeo and Juliet.\n251 Midsummer Night's\nDream.\n252 Othello, The Moor of\nVenice.\n253 King Henry VIII.\n254 Taming of the Shrew.\n255 King Lear.\n256 Venus and Adonis\n257 King Henry IV. Part. I.\n258 King Henry IV. Part. 11.\n259 King Henry VI. Part. I.\nTake Your Pick at Only 10c a Book\n260 King Henry VI. Part. 11.\n261 King Henry VI. Part. 111.\n262 Comedy of Errors.\n263 King John.\n264 King Richard 111.\n265 King Richard 11.\n267 Pericles.\n268 Merchant of Venice.\nFiction\n280 The Happy Prince and\nOther Tales. Wilde.\n143 In the Time of the\nTerror. Balzac.\n182 Daisy Miller. Henry James.\n162 The Murders in The Rue\nMorgue. Edgar Allan Poe.\n345 Clarimonde. Gautier.\n292 Mademoiselle Flfl.\nDe Maupassant.\n199 The Tallow Ball.\nDe Maupassant.\n6 De Maupassant's Stories.\n15 Balzac's Stories.\n344 Don Juan and Other\nStories. Balzac.\n318 Christ in Flanders and\nOther Stories. Balzac.\n230 The Fleece of Gold.\nTheophile Gautier.\n178 One of Cleopatra's\nNights. Gautier.\n314 Short Stories. Daudet.\n58 Boccaccio's Stories.\n45 Tolstoi's Short Stories.\n12 Poe's Tales of Mystery.\n290 The Gold Bug.\nEdgar Allan Poe.\n145 Great Ghost Stories.\n21 Carmen. Merimee.\n23 Great Stories of the Sea.\n319 Comtesse de Saint-\nGerane. Dumas.\n38 Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.\nStevenson.\n279 Will o' the Mill; Mark-\nhelm. Stevenson.\n311 A Lodging for the\nNight. Stevenson.\n27 Last Days of a Con-\ndemned Man. Hugo.\n151 Man Who Would Be\nKing. Kipling.\n148 Strength of the Strong.\nLondon.\n41 Christmas Carol.\nDickens.\n57 Rip Van Winkle.\n100 Red Laugh. Andreyev.\n105 Seven That Were\nHanged. Andreyev.\n102 Sherlock Holmes Tales.\n161 Country of the Blind.\nH. G. Wells.\n85 Attack on the Mill. Zola.\n156 Andersen's Fairy Tale.\n158 Alice in Wonderland.\n37 Dream of John Ball.\nWilliam Morris.\n40 House and the Brain.\nBulwer Lytton.\n72 Color of Life. E. Halde-\nman-Julius.\n198 Majesty of Justice.\nAnatole France.\n215 The Miraculous Revenge\nBernard Shaw.\n24 The Kiss and Other\nStories. Chekhov.\n285 Euphorlan in Texas.\nGeorge Moore.\n219 The Human Tragedy.\nAnatole France.\n1% The Marquise. George\nSand.\n239 Twenty-Six Men and a\nGirl. Gorki.\n29 Dreams. Olive\ni Schrelner.\n232 The Three Strangers\nThomas Hardy.\n277 The Man Without a\nCountry. F. E. Hale.\nHistory, Biography\n312 Life and Works of\nLaurence Sterne. Gunn.\n328 Addison and His\nTimes. Finger.\n324 Life of Lincoln. Bowers.\n323 The Life of Joan of Arc.\n339 Thoreau—the Man Who\nEscaped From the\nHerd. Finger.\n126 History of Rome.\nA, F. Giles.\n128 Julius Caesar: Who He Was.\n185 History of Printing.\n149 Historic Crimes and\nCriminals. Finger.\n175 Science of History.\nFroude.\n104 Battle of Waterloo.\nVictor Hugo.\n25 Voltaire. Victor Hugo.\n125 War Speeches of Wood-\nrow Wilson.\n22 Tolstoi: His Life and\nWorks.\n142 Bismarck and the Ger-\nman Empire.\n286 When the Puritans.\nWere in Power.\n343 Life of Columbus.\n66 Crimes of the Borgias.\nDumas.\n287 Whistler: The Man and\nHis Work.\n51 Bruno: His Life and\nMartyrdom.\n147 Cromwell and His Time.\n236 State and Heart Affairs\nof Henry VIII.\n50 Palne's Common Sense.\n88 Vindication of Paine.\n33 Brann: Smasher of\nShams.\n163 Sex Life in Greece and\nRome.\n214 Speeches of Lincoln.\n276 Speeches and Letters of\nGeo. Washington.\n223 Essay on Swinburne.\n144 Was Poe Immoral?\nWhitman.\n227 Keats. The Man and His\nWork.\n150 Lost Civilizations.\nFinger.\nORDER BY\nNUMBER\n170 Constantine and the\nBeginnings of Christianity,\n201 Satan and the Saints.\n67 Church History. H. M.\nTichenor.\n169 Voices From the Past.\n266 Life of Shakespeare and\nAnalysis of His Plays.\n123 Life of Madame Du\nBarry.\n139 Life of Dante.\n69 Life of Mary, Queen of\nScots. Dumas.\n5 Life of Samuel Johnson.\nMacaulay.\n174 Trial of Wm. Penn.\nHumor\n291 Jumping Frog and Other\nHumorous Tales.\nMark Twain.\n193 Wit and Wisdom of\nCharles Lamb.\n18 Idle Thoughts of an Idle\nFellow. Jerome.\n166 English as She Is Spoke\nMark Twain.\n231 Eight Humorous\nSketches. Mark Twain.\n205 Artemus Ward. His\nBook.\n187 Whistler's Humor.\n216 Wit of Heinridi Heine.\nGeo. Eliot.\n20 Let's Laugh. Nasby.\nLiterature\n278 Friendship and Other\nEssays. Thoreau.\n195 Thoughts on Nature.\nThoreau.\n194 Lord Chesterfield's\nLetters.\n48 Bacon's Essays.\n63 A Defense of Poetry.\nShelley.\n97 Love Letters of King\nHenry VIII.\nHaldeman-Julius Company, Dept. S-20, Girard, Kans."}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "[115]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.73", "texte": "ORDER BY\nNUMBER\nTake Your\nat Only 10c a Book\n(Continued from last page.)\nPhilosophy, Religion\n89 Love Letters of Men and\nWomen of Genius.\n186 How I Wrote \"The\nRaven.\" Poe.\n87 Love, an Essay.\nMontaigne.\n60 Emerson's Essays.\n84 Love Letters of a\nPortuguese Nun.\n26 On Going to Church.\nG. B Shaw.\n135 Socialism for Million-\naires. G. 5. Shaw.\n61 Tolstoi's Essays.\n176 Four Essays. Havelock\nEllis.\n160 Lecture on Shakespeare.\nIngersoll.\n75 Choice of Books\nCarlyle.\n288 Essays on Chesterfield\nand Rabelais.\nSainte-Beuve.\n76 The Prince of Peace.\nW. J. Bryan.\n86 On Reading. Brandes.\n95 Confessions of An\nOpium Eater.\n213 Lecture on Lincoln\nIngersoll.\n177 Subjection of Women.\nJohn Stuart Mill.\n17 On Walking. Thoreau.\n70 Charles Lamb's Essays.\n235 Essays. Gilbert K.\nChesterton.\n7 A Liberal Education.\nThomas Huxley.\n233 Thoughts on Literature\nand Art. Goethe.\n225 Condescension In For-\neigners. Lowell.\n221 Women, and Other\nEssays. Maeterlinck.\n10 Shelley. Francis\nThompson.\n289 Pepys' Diary.\n299 Prose Nature Notes.\nWalt Whitman.\n315 Pen, Pencil and Poison.\nOscar Wilde.\n313 The Decay of Lying.\nOscar Wilde.\n36 Soul of Man Under\nSocialism. O. Wilde.\n293 Francois Villon: Student.\nPoet and Housebreaker.\nStevenson.\nMaxims, Epigrams\n77 What Great Men Have\nHave said About Women.\n304 What Great Women\nHave 3ald About Men.\n179 Gems from Emerson.\n310 The Wisdom of\nThadteray.\n56 Wisdom of Ingersoll.\n106 Aphorisms. Geo. Sand.\n168 Epigrams. O. Wilde.\n59 Epigrams of Wit and\nWisdom.\n35 Maxims. Rochefoucauld.\n154 Epigrams of Ibsen.\n197 Witticisms and Reflections.\nDe Sevigne.\n180 Epigrams of George\nBernard Shaw.\n155 Maxims. Napoleon.\n181 Epigrams. Thoreau.\n228 Aphorisms. Huxley.\n113 Proverbs of England.\n114 Proverbs of France.\n115 Proverbs of Japan.\n116 Proverbs of China.\n117 Proverbs of Italy.\n118 Proverbs of Russia.\n119 Proverbs of Ireland.\n120 Proverbs of Spain.\n121 Proverbs of Arabia.\n159 A Guide to Plato.\nDurant.\n347 A Guide to Stoicism. St.\nGeorge Stock.\n322 The Buddhist Philosophy\nof Life.\n124 Theory of Reincarnation\nExplained.\n157 Plato's Republic.\n62 Schopenhauer's Essays.\n94 Trial and Death of\nSocrates.\n65 Meditations of Marcus\nAurelius.\n64 Rudolf Eucken: His Life\nand Philosophy.\n101 Thoughts of Pascal.\n4 Age of Reason.\nThomas Paine.\n55 Herbert Spencer: His\nLife and Works.\n44 Aesop's Fables.\n165 Discovery of the Future\nH. G. Wells.\n% Dialogues of Plato.\n325 Essence of Buddhism.\n103 Pocket Theology.\nVoltaire.\n132 Foundations of Religion.\n138 Studies in Pessimism.\nSchopenhauer.\n211 Idea of God In Nature.\nJohn Stuart Mill.\n212 Life and Character.\nGoethe.\n200 Ignorant Philosopher.\nVoltaire.\n210 The Stoic Philosophy.\nProf. G. Murray.\n224 God: Known and Un-\nknown. Butler.\n19 Nietzsche: Who He Was\nand What He stood For.\n204 Sun Worship and Later\nBeliefs.\n>L»\nand\nLft\n• V*\nThis handsome book cover\nmade of genuine grain seal\nleather is Intended to slip over\nany of the books In the Pocket\nSeries, preventing soiling and\ntearing of the covers. We sell\nthese specially made covers at\ncost-50 cents each. The lea-\nther covers are unlettered,\nwhich, together with the quality\nof the material, gives it a\nquaint dignity. Simply add 50\ncents to your remittance and\nsay you want a leather cover.\nOtte cover will be sufficient\nfor all the books you order.\n207 Olympian Gods. H. M.\nTldienor.\n184 Primitive Beliefs.\n153 Chinese Philosophy of\nLife.\n30 What Life Means to Me.\nJack London.\nPoetry\n317 L'Allegro and Other\nPoems. Milton.\n282 Rime of the Ancient\nMariner. Coleridge.\n152 The Kasidah. Sir\nRichard F. Burton.\n329 Dante's Inferno. Vol. 1.\n330 Dante's Inferno. Vol. 2.\n297 Poems. Robt. Southey,\n3% A Shropshire Lad.\nHousman.\n284 Poems of Robt. Burns.\n1 Rubayiat of Omar\nKhayyam.\n73 Walt Whitman's Poems.\n2 Wilde's Ballad of Read-\ning Jail.\n32 Poe's Poems.\n164 Michael Angelo's\nSonnets.\n71 Poems of Evolution.\n146 Snow-Bound. Pied\nPiper.\n9 Great English Poems.\n79 Enoch Arden.\n68 Shakespeare's Sonnets.\n281 Lays of Ancient Rome\nMacaulay.\n173 Vision of Sir Launfal.\n222 The Vampire and Other\nPoems.\nScience\n327 The Ice Age. Charles\nJ. Finger.\n321 A History of Evolution.\nFenton.\n217 The Puzzle of Personal-\nity; a Study in Psycho-\nAnalysis. Fielding.\n190 Psycho-Analysis—The\nKey to Human Be-\nhavior. Fielding.\n140 Biology and Spiritual\nPhilosophy.\nSPECIAL BARGAIN\nWe have an amazing proposition for those who\norder full sets of 300 volumes. At 10 c per copy this\nset is worth $30—our special price only $16.90, which\nis less than 6c per volume. To have this entire set is\nto have a University in Print. Entire Library—every\nbook listed in this advertisement—-300 volumes—worth\n$30, at bargain price of only $16.90. Act today. Full\nsets are carefully gathered and packed in substantial\ncases. If you want less than a full set take your pick\nof the titles at 10 c per volume, ordering by number.\nFULL SET—3OO VOLUMES—WORTH $ 30—ONLY\n$ 16.90.\nNOTE: The Haldeman-Julius Company, !n addition to publishing the\nTen Cent Pocket Series also issues a monthly magazine, which is called Life\nand Letters. Life and Letters will do in the magazine world what the Ten\nCent Pocket Series has done in the book world. It will open the door to cul-\nture. This large, well printed literary magazine costs only 50 cents per year—\n12 big issues for only 50 cents—a rare bargain. If you are tired of paying\nexcessive prices for your magazines then be sure to subscribe for Life and Let-\nters. Merely add 50 cents to your remittance for books and say you want Life\nand Letters. In Canada and other foreign countries the subscription price is $1.00\nORDER BY\nNUMBER\n275 The Building of the\nEarth. C L. Fenton.\n49 Three Lectures on\nEvolution. Haeckel.\n42 From Monkey to Man.\n238 Reflections on Modern\nScience. Huxley.\n202 Survival of the Fittest.\nH. M. Tichenor.\n191 Evolution vs. Religion.\nBalmforth.\n133 Electricity Explained.\n92 Hypnotism Made Plain.\n53 Insects and Men:\nInstinct and Reason.\n189 Eugenics. Havelock Ellis.\nSeries of Debates.\n130 Controversy on Chris-\ntianity. ingersoll and\nGladstone.\n43 Marriage and Divorce.\nHorace Greeley and\nRobert Owen.\n208 Debate on Blrih Control.\nMrs. Sanger and Winter\nRussell.\nII Debate on Religion.\n39 Did Jesus Ever Live?\n129 Rome or Reason. Inger-\nsoll and Manning.\n122 Spiritualism. Conan\nDoyle and McCabe.\n171 Has Life Any Meaning?\nFrank Harris and\nPercy Ward.\n206 Capitalism vs. Socialism.\nSellgman and Nearing.\n13 Is Free Will a Fact or\na Fallacy?\n234 McNeal-Slnclalr Debate\non Socialism.\n141 Would Practice of\nChrist's Teachings\nMake for Social\nProgress ?\nNearing and Ward.\nMiscellaneous\n326 Hints on Writing Short\nStories. Finger.\n192 Book of Synonyms.\n25 Rhyming Dictionary.\n78 How to Be an Orator.\n82 Common Faults in Writ-\ning English.\n127 What Expectant Moth-\ners Should Know.\n81 Care of the Baby.\n136 Child Training.\n137 Home Nursing.\n14 What Every Girl Sould\nKnow. Mrs. Sanger.\n34 Case for Birlh Control.\n91 Manhood: Facts of Life\nPresented to Men.\n83 Marriage: Past, Present\nand Future. Besant.\n74 On Threshold of Sex.\n98 How to Love.\n172 Evolution of Love.\nEllen Key\n203 Rights of Women.\nHavelock Ellis.\n209 Aspects of Birth Con-\ntrol. Medical, Moral.\nSociological.\n93 How to Live 100 Years.\n167 Plutarch's Rules of\nHealth.\n320 The Prince.\nMachiavelli.\n\nHOW TO ORDER-—Each book is preceded by a number,\nand readers will please order by number instead of titles. For\ninstance, if you want \"Carmen\" simply set down \"21List the\nnumbers of the books you want and write your name and ad-\ndress plainly at the bottom of the sheet. The books will be\nmailed immediately by parcel post. Send your order and check,\n\ndraft, money order or registered letter today. If you order 20\nbooks send $2—if 50 send $5, and so on. Postage prepaid on\ncash orders. Add 10 cto personal check for exchange. Orders\nwill be sent C. O. D. if requested, but carriage charges are col-\nlect on C. O. D. orders. No C. O. D. orders to Canada or\nother foreign countries.\n\nMaldeman-Juhus Company, Dept. S-20, Girard, Kans."}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.74", "texte": "THERE IS GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE\nBeyond question the most arresting personality among European men of letters of our time.\nWriters have declared him to be France's greatest war poet, in fact, the only great\npoet who emerged during the War. But the man's sway spread through the whole\ncontinent as poet, novelist, art-critic, and leader of divers revolutions and bucca-\nneering expeditions in painting and literature. For the younger writers of Europe\nApollinaire's Afcoofs, and CaCigrammes are solitary achievements in poetry,- his prose\nworks, Le Poete Assassins', Heresiarque et Cie., astonish and contradict and terrify.\nFour years have passed since the death of Apollinaire from wounds received in the Great War\nand none of his writings have yet been presented to the American public.\nTHE POET ASSASSINATED\nby Guillaume Apollinaire,\ntranslated by Matthew Josephson, begins in the issue of March 1923 and marks the introduction\nof Apollinaire to the English reading public. The Editors of BROOM believe that\nthis brilliant and exhilarating novel will command as wide attention as did Pirandello's\nSix Characters in Search of an Author, and Lautreamont's Mafdoror, published in\nBROOM last year.\nAnd of Photography — is it to be the \"plastic art\" of the future? In the March Number there\nwill be reproduced a group of photographs by the American, Man Ray, and a group\nof \"light studies\" by the Hungarian, Moholy Nagy. An ever widening class of people\nis coming to forsake painting for photography. Whether they be right or no, the ex-\nperiments of these two cratfsmen whose work is displayed in the March BROOM\nare milestones in the progress of this new art.\nIN THE MARCH BROOM\nIN THE MARCH BROOM\n\nPOETRY: CL DKagazinc of Verse\nCditcd. by @a.r r ie t DIC onr o e\nCuen Lf you don't Cike poetry, get a copy of Poetryi CL of Verse and see why. Poetry\npresents from month to month the best poetry being written in English. Our contributors write from all over\nthe globe.\nCuen if you don't tike uers Cibre, the best of it is published in Poetry. Poetry is the indicator of the\nintellectual ardors of our day.\nCuen If tfoe oCd estabCLsfyed forms bore youthey still bear forth beauty. Poetry cares only for the\nexpression of beauty: the form is incidental to the grasping of the eternal second and its significance in the\nmood of the poet.\nThe January number is the fourth issue of Poetry's eleventh year. No other magazine of poetry has en«\ndured so long, introduced so many now famous poets to their audiences, nor kept so consistently to the aim of\n\"poetry, not names/' The proof is in the reading. The publishers of BROOM and POETRy make you the\nfollowing special offer: BROOM and POETRy for one year for $ 6.50. Take advantage of this exceptional\nopportunity while it is possible to do so.\nPOETRy\": CL Magazine of Verse, 232 East Erie Street, Chicago, U.S.A.\nEnclosed find $ 3.00 <Canada, $ 3.15/ foreign, $ 3.25) for one year's subscription to POETRy.\nBeginning:\nName:\nAddress:\nWE ARE BACKING THE POETS » ARE yOU BACKING US?"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192302-01.1.75", "texte": "AMERICA AND \"ABROAD\"\nTHE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW for one hundred and eight years has\nyielded precedence to no other periodical in constant devotion to the interests of this\nRepublic; preferring America before the World and serving as an exponent of America\nto the World. Yet never once has it shared or approved the cynical demand of a one-\ntime Senator of the United States, \"What do we care for 'Abroad'?\" On the contrary,\nit has ever cared much for \"Abroad,\" both for the sake of America, that we may pro-\nfitably share in the wealth of thought and the contributions to human progress which\nother nations have to offer, and for the sake of mankind, that this country may play its\npart as a nation nations.\nThe manr\nworld-wide intei\nin international ;\nture, art and etl\nin the near futu\nThe Probl\nChateaubri\nThe Hear\nGovernmei\nThe Case\nProgress T\nTwo Wall\nThe Case\nFrom Free\nUnity in I\nThe Resui\nMarie Anl\nSunday M\nPaying for\nThe Varie\nIn order t\nquainted with T\nEX LIBRIS\nft.\n$\nI\n3\n%\n%\nSHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY\nPARIS\nVIEW is thus serving\nvital and timely topics\nid economics, in litera-\ntes scheduled to appear\nn Miles, U. S. A.\n. W. P. Cresson\n. Augustus Ralli\nErnest R. Groves\nrentiss B. Gilbert\n/lary W. Williams\n. . . Stark Young\nrs. Travers Smith\nHodman Rumball\nrof. E. P. Warner\nPhilip S. Moxom\n. . . E. S. Roscoe\nBrooks Atkinson\n. . Gorton James\nFrank A. Waugh\nbecome intimately ac-\nthis\nSPECIAL SUBSCRIPTION OFFER\nAny reader of Broom who sends $2.00 ($2.18 in Canada, or $2.48 if in a\nforeign country) will receive seven issues of The North American Review for the price\nof six. When ordering please use coupon below.\nmmimimmniiiiimiimiimimmmumiiimiiiiiimnmimmmmiiiiimimimiiiiiiiiiimmimimmiiiiim mum iiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiimiiiiiu\no\nu\no\nN\nThe North American Review\n9 East 37 th St., New York City.\nGentlemen: For the enclosed $ 2.00 ($ 2.18 Canadian,\ncan Review for seven months to th% following address:\n2.48 foreign) please send The North Ameri-\nName\nAddress"}]}