{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_sha256": "63855944df6ba2b6e62bebeb846fdd2c1c71cf0b29a9780918cb58306872915b", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/03_01/bmtnaap_1923-03_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/03_01/bmtnaap_1923-03_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[216]", "page_fin": "[216]", "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.2", "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": "[216]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1276, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2222, "texte": "Page\nCover Design — Man Ray\nThe Poet Assassinated — Guillaume Apollinaire 218\nPhotographs — L. Moholy-Nagy (facing) 224,225\nLa Rumba Cubana — Charles Galwey 235\nA Bottle of Lilac Perfume — Dorothy Hamilton 237\nPortrait by Lyendecker — Malcolm Cowley 240\nPhotographs — L. Moholy-Nagy (facing) 240,241\nDrawing — L. Lozowick . . . 247\nA Lady —■ Emanuel Carnevali . r . v.,... 248\nPortrait — Maxwell Bodenheim . . . 249\nThe College Glee Club — Robert Alden Sanborn 250\nAffinities — John Crawford 251\nThe Discovery of the Indies — William Carlos Williams 252\nPhotographs — Man Ray . (facing) 256,257\nDarkness Glitters — Robert Coates „ 261\nThe Apollo of Vei, Stigmatae — Carleton Beals . 265\nTransformations — Richard Huelsenbeck 267\nPhotographs — Man Ray (facing) 272,273\nCOMMENT: APOLLINAIRE — M. J. . 280\nApollinaire (Woodcut) — Marcoussis 280\nLocus Solus — Malcolm Cowley • ... V 281\nLight: A Medium of Plastic Expression — L. Moholy-Nagy 283\n'K*'"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "218", "page_fin": "234", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 22, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "The Poet Assassinated", "titre_sommaire": "The Poet Assassinated", "signature_source": "Guillaume Apollinaire ; Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "218", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1978, "texte": "THE POET ASSASSINATED\n\nI\nRENOWN\nThe glory of Croniamantal is today universal. One hundred and\ntwenty-three towns in seven countries on four continents dispute the honor\nof this notable hero's birth. I shall attempt, further on, to elucidate this\nimportant question.\nAll of these peoples have more or less modified the sonorous name\nof Croniamantal. The Arabs, the Turks and other races who read from\nright to left have never failed to pronounce it Latnamainorc, but the Turks\ncall him, bizarrely enough, Pata, which signifies goose or genital organ.\nThe Russians surname him Viperdoc, that is, born of a pet\\ the reason\nfor this soubriquet will be seen later on. The Scandinavians, or at least,\nthe Dalecarlians, call him at will, quoniam, in latin, which means, because,\nbut often serves to indicate the noble passages in popular accounts of the\nmiddle ages. It is to be noted that the Saxons and the Turks manifest\nwith regard to Croniamantal, a similar sentiment, since they refer to him\nby an identical surname, whose origin, however, is still scarcely explained.\nIt is believed that this is an euphemistic allusion to the fact stressed in the\nmedical report of the Marseilles doctor Ratiboul on the death of Croniaman-\ntal. According to this official document, all the organs of Croniamantal\nwere sound, and the lawyer-physician added in Latin, as did Napoleons\naide Major Henry: partes viriles exiguitatis insignis, sicut pueri.\nFor the rest, there are countries where the notion of the Croniaman-\ntalian virility has entirely disappeared. Thus, the negroes in Moriana call\nhim Tsatsa or Dzadza or Rsoussour, all feminine names, for they have\nfeminized Croniamantal as the Byzantines feminized Holy Friday in making\nit Saint Parascevia.\nII.\nGENESIS\nTwo leagues from Spa, on the road bordered by gnarled trees and\nbushes, Vierselin Tigoboth, an ambulant musician who was coming on foot\nfrom Li&ge, struck his flint to light his pipe. A woman's voice cried:\nffHol Monsieur!\""}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "219", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1942, "texte": "He lifted his head and a wild laugh burst out: \"Hahaha! Hohoho!\nHihihil thine eyelids are of the color of Egyptian lentils! My name is\nMacaree. I want a tom-cat.\"\nVierselin Tigohoth perceived by the roadside a young woman,\nbrunette and formed of nice curves. How charming she seemed in her short\nbicyclist's skirt! And holding her bicycle with one hand, while gathering\nprunelles with the other, she fixed ardently her great golden eyes on the\nFlemish musician.\n\"Vs'estez one belle bacelle,\" said Vierselin Tigoboth, smacking his tongue.\n\"But, my God, if you eat all those prunelles, you will have the colic,\ntonight, I'm sure.\"\n\"I want a tom-cat,\" repeated Macaree and unclasping her bodice she\nshowed Vierselin Tigoboth her breasts, sweet as the buttocks of the angels,\nand whose aureole was the tender color of the rose clouds of sunset.\n\"Oh! oh!\" cried Vierselin Tigoboth, \"As pretty as the pearls of\nAmblevia, give them to me. I shall gather a big bouquet of ferns for you\nand of irises, color of the moon.\"\nVierselin Tigoboth approached to seize this miraculous flesh which\nwas being offered to him for nothing, like the holy bread at Mass; but\nthen he restrained himself.\nMACAREE\nThey are the color of the moon\nAnd round as the wheel of Fortune.\nVIERSELIN TIGOBOTH\nIf you fear not to catch the louse\nThen I should love to be your spouse.\nAnd Vierselin Tigoboth approached, his lips full of kisses: \"I love\nyou! It is pooh! O beloved!\"\nSoon there were nothing but sighs, the songs of birds and of russet\nand horned little hares, passing like elves, fleet as the seven-league\nboots, by Vierselin Tigoboth and Macaree, under the power of love behind\nthe plumtrees.\nThen, Macaree was off on the old contraption.\nAnd sad unto death, Vierselin Tigoboth cursed the instrument of velo-\ncity which rolled away and vanished behind the terraced rotunda, at the\nsame moment that the musician began to make water while humming\na passacaglia. . t\n1*"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "220", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2215, "texte": "III.\nEXEGESIS\nMacaree soon became aware that she had conceived by Vierselin\nTigoboth.\n\"How annoying!\" she thought at first, 'But medicine has made much\nprogress lately. I shall get rid of it when I want. Ah! that Walloon!\nHe will have toiled in vain. Can Macaree bring up the son of a vagabond?\nNo, no, I condemn this embryo to death. I should never even preserve\nthis foetus in alcohol. And thou, my belly, if thou knewest how much\nI love thee since knowing thy goodness. What, wouldst stoop to carry\nsuch baggage as thou findest along the road? O too innocent belly, thou\nart unworthy of my selfish soul.\n\"What shall I say, o belly? thou'rt cruel, thou partest children from\ntheir parents. No! I love thee no longer. Thou'rt naught but a full bag,\nat this moment, o my belly, smiling at the nombril, o elastic belly, downy,\npolished, convex, sorrowful, round, silky, which enobles me. For thou\nmakest noble, o my belly, more beautiful than the sunlight. Thou shalt\nennoble also the child of the Flemish vagabond and thou art worthy of the\nloins of Jupiter. What a misfortune! a moment ago I was about to\ndestroy a child of noble race, my child who already lives in my beloved\nbelly.\"\nShe opened the door suddenly and cried:\n\"Madame Dehan! Mademoiselle Baba!\"\nThere was a rattling of doors and bolts and then the proprietors of\nMacaree's lodging came running out.\n\"I am pregnant,\" cried Macaree, \"I am pregnant!\"\nShe was sitting up in bed, her legs spread apart, her skin looked very\ndelicate. Macaree was narrow at the waist and broad-hipped.\n\"Poor little one,\" said Madame Dehan, who had but one eye, no\nwaistline, a moustache, and limped. \"After confinement women are just\nlike crushed snailshells. After confinement women are simply prey to\ndisease, (look at me!) an egg-shell full of all sorts of rubbish, incantations\nand other witch-spells. Ah! Ah! You have done very well.\"\n\"All foolishness,\" said Macaree. \"The duty of women is to have\nchildren, and I am sure that their health is generally improved thereby\nboth physically and morally.\"\n\"Where are you sick?\" asked Mademoiselle Baba.\n\"Shut up! I say,\" exclaimed Madame Dehan. \"Better go and look for\nmy flask of Spa elixir and bring some little glasses.\""}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "221", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2459, "texte": "Mademoiselle Baba brought the elixir. They drank of it.\n\"I feel better now,\" said Madame Dehan; \"After so much emotion,\nI need to refresh myself.\"\nShe poured out another little glass of the elixir for herself, drank it\nand licked the last few drops up with her tongue.\n\"Think of it,\" she said finally, \"think of it, Madame Macaree . . .\nI swear by all that I hold sacred, Mademoiselle Baba can be my witness,\nthis is the first time that such a thing has happened to one of my tenants.\nAnd how many I have had! My Lord! Louise Bernier, whom they nick-\nnamed Wrinkle, because she was so skinny; Marcelle la Garabiniere (the\nfreshest thing you ever saw!); Josuette, who died of a sunstroke in\nChristiana, the sun wishing thus to have his revenge of Joshua; Lili de\nMercoeur, a grand name, mind you, (not hers of course) and then vile\nenough for a chic woman, as Mercoeur put it: You must pronounce it\nMercure,' screwing up her mouth like a chicken's hole. Well she got hers,\nall right, they filled her as full of mercury as a thermometer. She would\nask me in the morning: What sort of weather do you think we'll have\ntoday? But I would always answer: fYou ought to know better than I . . .'\nNever, never in the world would any of those have become enceinte at my\nplace.\"\n\"Oh well, it isn't as bad as that,\" said Macaree, \"I also never had it\nhappen to me before. Give me some advice, but make it short.\"\nAt this moment she arose.\n\"Oh!\" cried Madame Dehan, \"what a wellshaped behind you have!\nhow sweet! how white! what embonpoint! Baba, Madame Macaree is going\nto put on her dressing-gown. Serve coffee and bring the cherry cake.\"\nMacaree put on a chemise and then a dressing gown whose belt was\nmade of a Scotch shawl.\nMademoiselle Baba came back; she brought a big platter with cups,\na coffee pot, milk-pitcher, jar of honey, butter cakes and the cherry tart.\n\"If you want some good advice,\" said Madame Dehan wiping awa}r\nwith the back of her hand the coffee that dribbled down her chin, \"You\nhad better go and baptize your child.\"\n\"I shall make sure and do that,\" said Macaree.\n\"And I even think,\" said Mademoiselle Baba, \"that it would be best\nto do it on the day he is born.\"\n\"In fact,\" she mumbled, her mouth full of food, \"you can never tell\nwhat may happen. Then you will nurse him yourself, and if I were you,\nif I had money like you, I should try to go to Rome before the confinement\nand get the Pope to bless me. Your child will never know either the"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "222", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1881, "texte": "fatherly caress or blow, he will never utter the sweet name of papa. May\nthe blessing of the Holy Father at least follow him all his life.\"\nAnd Madame Dehan began to sob like a kettle on the fire boiling\nover, while Macaree burst into tears as abundant as a spouting whale.\nBut what of Mademoiselle Baba? Her lips blue with berries, she wept so\nhard that from her throat the sobs flooded down to her hymen and nearly\nchoked her.\nIV.\nNOBILITY\nAfter having won a great deal of money at baccarat, and already rich,\nthanks to Love, Macaree, whose corpulency nothing could conceal, came\nto Paris, where above all, she ran after the most fashionable modistes.\nHow chic she was, how chic she was!\nOne night when she went to the Theatre Frangais a play with a moral\nwas presented. In the first act, a young woman whom surgery had rendered\nsterile lamented the fatness of her husband who was dropsical and very\njealous. The doctor went out saying:\n\"Only a great miracle and great devotion can save your husband.\"\nIn the second act, the young woman said to the young doctor:\nffl offer myself up for my husband. I want to become dropsical in\nhis stead.\"\n\"Let us love each other, Madam. And if you are not unfaithful to\nthe principle of maternity your wish will be granted. And what sweet\nglory I shall have thereof!\"\n\"Alasl\" murmured the lady, \"I no longer have any ovaries.\"\n\"Love,\" cried the doctor at this, \"Love, madam, is capable of work-\ning great miracles.\"\nIn the third act, the husband thin as an I and the lady eight months\ngone felicitated each other on the exchange they had made. The doctor\ncommunicated to the Academy of Medecine the results of his experiments\nin the fecundation of women become sterile as a result of surgical\noperations.\nToward the end of the third act, someone shouted: \"Fire!\" in the hall.\nThe frightened spectators rushed from the hall howling. In fleeing,"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "223", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2310, "texte": "Macaree possessed herself of the arm of the first man she encountered.\nHe was well dressed and fair of feature, and as Macaree was charming,\nhe seemed flattered that she had chosen him as her protector. They made\neach other's acquaintance at a cafe and from there went to sup in the\nMontmartre. But it appeared that Frangois des Ygrees had negligently\nforgotten to take his purse with him. Macaree gladly paid the bill. And\nFrangois des Ygrees pushed gallantry so far as not to allow Macaree to\nsleep alone, the incident at the theatre having rendered her nervous.\nFrangois, Baron des Ygrees (a doubtful baronetcy belonging to\nwhoever claimed it) called himself the last offshoot of a noble house of\nProvence and pursued a career of heraldry on the sixth floor of an apart-\nment in the rue Charles-V.\n\"But,\" he said, \"the revolutions and the demagogues have rendered\nit so that arms are no longer studied except by ill-born archeologists, and\nthe nobility is no longer tutored in this art.\"\nThe baron of Ygrees, whose coat of arms was of azur a trois pairles\n(Vargerit poses en pal, was able to inspire enough sympathy in Macaree for\nher to want to take lessons in heraldry out of gratitude for that night at\nthe Theatre Frangais.\nMacaree showed herself, it is true, little given to retaining the termi-\nnology of heraldry, and one might even say that she did not interest herself\nseriously in anything but the arms of the Pignatelli who had furnished\npopes for the Church and whose coat-of-arms was adorned with kettles.\nHowever, these lessons were wasted time to neither Macaree nor\nFrangois des Ygrees, for they ended by marrying. Macaree brought as her\ndot, her money, her beauty and her fatness. Frangois des Ygrees offered\nto Macaree a great name and his noble bearing.\nNeither complained of the bargain and they found themselves very\nhappy.\n\"Macaree, my dear wife,\" said Frangois des Ygrees a few days after\ntheir marriage, \"Why have you ordered so many robes? It seems to me that\nhardly a day passes without some modiste brings new costumes. They do,\ntrue enough, honor to your taste and to their skill.\"\nMacaree hesitated for a moment and then replied:\n\"Is it to our honeymoon that you refer, Frangois!\"\n\"Our honeymoon, yes, I have thought of it. But where do you want\nto go?\"\n\"To Rome,\" said Macaree."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "224", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2082, "texte": "\"To Rome, like the bells of Easter?\"\n,fI want to see the Pope,\" said Macaree.\n\"Very fine, but what for?\"\n\"That he may bless the child who lies under my heart,\" said Macaree.\n\"Phew-ew-ew!\"\n\"It will be your son,\" said Macaree.\n\"You are quite right, Macaree. We shall go to Rome like the bells of\nEaster. You will order a new robe of black velvet; and the dressmaker\nmust not neglect to embroider our arms at the bottom of the skirt: of\nazur a trois pairles (Targent poses en pal.\"\nV.\nPAPACY\n\"Per carita, baroness, (I had almost called you mademoiselle!) Ah!\nAh! Ah! But the baron, your husband, he would protest. Ah! ah! quite\ntrue, you have a little belly which commences to become arrogant. They\ndo their work well, I see, in France. Ah! if that fine country would only\nbecome religious again, the population decimated by anti-clericalism would\nat once, (yes, baroness) her population would increase considerably. Ah!\ndear Christ! how well she listens, the arrogantine, when one talks seriously,\nyes, baroness, you have the air of an arrogantine. Ah! ah! ah! so, you\nwant to see the Pope. Ah! ah! ah! the benediction of a mere cardinal like\nme will not do. Ah! ah! tut-tut, I understand quite well. Ah! ah! I shall\ntry to obtain an audience for you. Oh! no need to thank me, you can\nlet my hand go. How well she kisses, the arrogantine, oh! Gome here,\nagain, I want you to carry away with you a little souvenir of me.\n\"There! a chain, with the medal of the holy house of Lorette. Let\nme put it about your neck. . . Now that you have the medal you must\npromise me never to part with it. There, there, there! Gome here so that\nI can kiss you on the forehead. Come, come, can she be afraid of me, the\nlittle arrogantine? Done! Now tell me why you laugh? . . Nothing!\nWell! Now, one bit of advice! When you go to the Vatican, I warn you\nnot to use so much odor, I mean so much perfume. Goodbye, arrogantine.\nCome and see me again. My compliments to the baron.\"\nIt was thus, that, thanks to Cardinal Ricottino, who had been to Paris\nas nuncio, Macaree obtained an audience with the Pope."}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "225", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2055, "texte": "She went to the Vatican dressed in her beautiful armorial dress. The\nbaron des Ygrees, in full dress accompanied her. He admired much the\nbearing of the royal guards, and the Swiss mercenaries, inclined to drunken-\nness and brawling, seemed fine devils to him. He found occasion to\nwhisper into his wife's ear of one of his ancestors who was a cardinal\nunder Louis XIII. . .\nThe couple returned to the hotel deeply moved and almost prostrated\nby the benediction of the pope. They undressed chastely, and in bed, they\nspoke for a long time about the pontiff, the whitened head of the old church,\na pressed lily, the snow which Catholics think eternal.\n\"My dear wife,\" said Frangois des Ygrees finally,\"I esteem you to\nadoration, and I love the child whom the Pope has blessed with all my\nheart. May he come, the blessed infant, but I want him to be born in France.\"\n\"Frangois,\" said Macaree, \"I have never yet been to Monte-Carlo.\nLet us go there! I needn't lose our whole pile. We are not millionaires,\nbut I am sure that we shall be lucky in Monte-Carlo.\"\n\"Damn! damn! damn!\" swore Francois, \"Macaree, you make me\nsee red.\"\nffHo, there,\" cried Macaree, \"you gave me a kick, you \"\n\"I note with pleasure, Macaree,\" said Francois des Ygrees waggishly,\nrecovering his good humor, \"that you do not forget that I am your husband.\"\n\"Come, then, li'l nobs, let's go to Monaco.\"\n\"Yes, but you must have your confinement in France, for Monaco is\nan independent state.\"\n\"Agreed,\" said Macaree.\nOn the morrow the baron des Ygrees and the baroness, all swollen\nby mosquito bites, took tickets at the station for Monaco. In the coach\nthey made charming plans.\nVI.\nGAMBRINUS\nThe baron and the baroness des Ygrees in taking tickets for Monaco\nhad thought to arrive at the station which is the fifth on the way from\nItaly to France and the second in the little principality of Monaco.\nThe name of Monaco is properly the Italian name of this principality,\nalthough it is widely used nowadays in French, the French terms Mourghes\nand Monegue having fallen into desuetude.\n2"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "226", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2242, "texte": "However the Italians call Monaco, not only the principality which\nbears that name but also the capital of Bavaria which the French call\nMunich. The messenger accordingly gave the baron tickets for Monaco-\nMunich instead of Monaco-principality. Before the baron and the baroness\nhad noticed their error they were already at the Swiss frontier, and after\nhaving recovered from their astonishment, they decided to finish the voyage\nto Munich in order to see at close hand all that the anti-artistic spirit of\nmodern Germany could conceive of ugliness in architecture, sculpture,\npainting and decorative art. . .\nThe cold winds of March made the couple shiver in this stone-box\nAthens.\n\"Beer,\"the baron des Ygrees had said, ffis excellent for women who\nare enceinte.\"\nAnd so he led his wife to the royal brewery of Pschorr, to the\nAugustinerbrau, to the Miinchnerkindl and other great breweries. They\npenetrated to the Nockerberg where there is a great garden. They drank\nthere, as long as it held out, the famous March beer, Salvator, and it didn't\nlast very long, for the Munich people are great drunkards.\nWhen the baron and his wife entered the garden they found it thronged\nwith a mob of drinkers, who were already under-the-weather and sang\nhead to head and danced dizzily, breaking all the empty steins.\nPeddlars sold roast fowl, grilled herrings, pretzels, rolls, sausages,\nsweets, souvenirs, post-cards. And there was also Hans Irlbeck, the King\nof Drinkers. Since Perkeo, the midget drunkard of the great cask of\nHeidelberg, no such boozer had ever been seen. At the time of the March\nbeer, and in May, Bock-time, Hans Irlbeck drank his forty quarts of beer.\nOrdinarily he did not have occasion to drink more than twenty-five.\nJust as the gracious Ygrees pair passed by, Hans placed his colossal\nbuttocks on a bench which bearing already the weight of some twenty huge\nmen and women, cracked disconsolately. The drinkers fell, their legs in\nthe air. Some bare thighs could be seen because Munich ladies never wear\ntheir stockings above their knees. Bursts of laughter everywhere. Hans\nIrlbeck who had also been floored, but had not let go of his stein, spilled\nits contents over the belly of a girl who had rolled near him, and the beer"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "227", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2284, "texte": "bubbling under her resembled that which she did when she got to her feet\nafter swallowing a quart at one gulp in order to recover her composure.\nBut the proprietor of the garden cried:\n,fDonnerkeil! damned swine ... a bench broken.\"\nAnd he started off with his towel under his arm, calling loudly for\nthe waiters:\n\"Franz! Jacob! Ludwig! Martin!\" while the patrons called for the\nproprietor:\n\"Oberl Oberr\nHowever the Oberkellner and the waiters did not come back. The\ndrinkers crowded about the counters and took their steins themselves, but\nthe kegs were no longer emptied, and no more were heard the sonorous\nblows of another cask being put under the hammer. The singing ceased,\nthe drinkers, angered, proffered oaths at the brewers and at the March beer\nitself. Some profited by the lull to vomit with violent efforts, their eyes\nalmost popping out of their heads; their neighbors encouraged them with\nimperturbable seriousness. Hans Irlbeck who had picked himself up, not\nwithout difficulty, grumbled with a great snort:\n\"There is no more beer in Munich!\"\nAnd he repeated, with the accent of his native city:\n\"Minchen! Minchen! Minchen!\"\nAfter raising his eyes toward heaven, he fell upon a vendor of fowls,\nand having ordered him to roast a goose for him, began to formulate his\ndesires:\n\"No more beer in Munich .., if there were only some white radishes!\"\nAnd he repeated many times the Munich expression:\n\"Raadi, raadi, raadi . . .\"\nSuddenly he stopped. The crowd of drinkers, beside themselves, gave\na cry of exultation. The four waiters had just appeared at the door of\nthe brewery. With dignity they were carrying a sort of canopy under which\nthe Oberkellner marched proud and erect, like a negro king dethroned.\nBehind him came fresh kegs of beer which were put under the hammer\nat the sound of the bell, while shouts of laughter rang out, and cries and\nsongs rose above this teeming butte, hard and agitated as the Adam's apple\nof Gambrinus himself, when, burlesqued in the costume of a monk, a white\nradish in one hand, he tossed off with the other the jug which rejoiced\nhis gullet.\nAnd the unborn child found himself right shaken by the laughter of\nMacar£e who, greatly amused by the spectacle of this colossal gluttonny,\ndrank and drank in company with her spouse.\n9*\nW"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "228", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1574, "texte": "But then, the vivacity of the mother exerted a happy influence on the\ncharacter of the offspring who acquired therefrom much common sense,\nbefore his birth, and some of the real common sense, of course, which\ngreat poets are made of.\nVII.\nCONFINEMENT\nBaron Frangois des Ygrees left Munich when the baroness knew that\nthe hour of delivery was approaching. Monsieur des Ygrees did not want to\nhave a child born in Bavaria; he was sure that that country was overrun\nwith syphilis.\nThey arrived in the spring time, in the little port of Napoule, which\nin an excellently turned line the baron baptised for eternity;\nNapoule of the golden skies.\nIt was there that the delivery of Macaree's child took place.\nffAh! Ah! Aie! Aie! Aie! Ouh! Ouh! Whee-ee-ee!\"\nThe three local midwives took to improvising pleasantly:\nFIRST MIDWIFE\nI dream of war.\nO my friends, the stars, the bright stars, have you ever counted them?\nO my friends, do you even remember the titles of all the books you\nhave read and the names of their authors?\nO my friends, have you ever thought of the poor men who tread the\nbroad highways?\nThe herdsmen of the golden age led their herds to pasture without\nfear that the cattle would flee, they feared only the jungle beasts.\nO my friends, wiiat do you think of all these cannons?\nSECOND MIDWIFE\nWhat I think of these cannons? They are vigorous phalli.\nO my beautiful nights! I am happy because of a sinister horn\nwhich enchanted me last night, 'tis a good augury. My hair is perfumed\nwith abelmosch.\nO! the beautiful and rigid phalli which are cannons. If women had"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "229", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1405, "texte": "to do military service they would all go into the artillery. The sight of\nthe cannons in battle would be strange for them.\nLights are born on the sea far off.\nReply, o Zelotide, reply with thy sweet voice.\nTHIRD MIDWIFE\nI love his eyes at night, he knows my hair well and its odour. In\nthe streets of Marseilles an officer pursued me for a long time. He was\nwell dressed and of fair colour, there was gold on his costume and his\nmouth tempted me, but I fled his kisses and took refuge in my (*) \"bedroom\"\nof the \"family-house\" where I was stopping.\nFIRST MIDWIFE\nO Zelotide, spare the sad men as thou sparest this beau. Zelotide\nwhat thinkest thou of the cannons.\nSECOND MIDWIFE\nAlas! Alas! I want to be loved.\nTHIRD MIDWIFE\nThey are the tools of the ignoble love of the people. O Sodom!\nSodom. O sterile love!\nFIRST MIDWIFE\nBut we are women, why dost thou speak of Sodom?\nTHIRD MIDWIFE\nThe fire of heaven devoured her.\nTHE CONFINED\nWhen you have finished your monkey-tricks, if it please you, will\nyou not forget to give a little attention to the baroness des Ygr£es.\nThe baron slept in a corner of the room on several travelling blankets.\nHe made a 112 . . t which caused his better half to laugh until the tears\n(*) Here Apollinaire's frivolous playing with language can scarcely be rendered; the\ntext runs: \"en me refugiant dans mon ou ma bed-room du ou de la family-house ou\nj'etais descendue.\" — Tr."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "230", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2415, "texte": "came. Macaree wept, cried, laughed and a few moments later brought into\nthe world a sturdy child of the male sex. Then, exhausted by these efforts,\nshe rendered up her soul, with a scream that was like the ululation of the\neternal first wife of Adam, when she crossed the Red Sea.\nIn reporting the preceding, I believe that I have elucidated the im-\nportant question of the birthplace of Croniamantal. Let the 123 towns\nin 7 countries dispute the honor of his birth. (*)\nWe know now, and the state records bear testimony that he was born\nof the paternal fart at Napoule of the golden skies, on the 25th. of August,\n1889, but not announced at the mayoralty until the following morning.\nIt was the year of the Universal Exposition, and the Eiffel Tower,\nwhich was just born, saluted the heroic birth of Croniamantal with a\nbeautiful erection.\nThe baron des Ygr£es made another 112 . . t which woke him by the\nmacabre bed where the corpse of Macaree reclined. The child cried, the\nmid wives croaked, the father sobbed, and cried:\n\"Ah, Napoule with the golden skies, I have killed my hen with the\ngolden eyes!\"\nThen he bathed the new-born calling him by a name which he in-\nvented forthwith and which did not belong to any saint in Paradise:\nCRONIAMANTAL. He left on the following day, having arranged for the\nfuneral of his spouse, written the necessary letters assuring his inheritance,\nand announced the child under the names of Gaetan—Francis—Etienne—\nJack—Amelie—Alonso des Ygrees. And with this nursling whose shy father\nhe was, he took the train for the Principality of Monaco.\nVIII.\nMAMMON\nA widower, Frangois des Ygr£es established himself near the principal-\nity; on the grounds of Roquebrune; he took pension with a family, which\nincluded a pretty brunette called Mia. There he reared the bearer of his\nown name with the baby-bottle.\nOften he would go out at dawn for a walk at the sea shore. The\nroad was fringed with amaryllis which he would always compare\ninvoluntarily with packages of dried cod. Sometimes, because of the contrary\nwinds, he would turn to light an Egyptian cigarette whose smoke rose in\nspirals like the blueish mountains emerging far off in Italy.\n* * *\n(*) Among these towns we may cite, Naples, Adrianople, Constantinople, Neauphle-\nle-Chateau, Grenoble, Pultawa, Pouilly-en-Auxxois, Pouilly-les-Fours, Nauplie, Seoul, Mel-\nbourne, Oran, Nazareth, Ermenonville, Nogent-sur-Marne, etc."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "231", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2366, "texte": "The family in whose midst he had installed himself was composed of\nthe father, the mother and Mia. M. Gecchi, a Gorsican, was a croupier at\nthe casino. He had previously been croupier at Baden-Baden and had\nmarried a German woman there. Of this union Mia was born; her carnation\ntint and black hair bespoke her Corsican blood. She was always dressed in\nbuoyant colors. Her walk was balanced, her figure arched; she was smaller\nat the breast than at the croup, and a touch of strabism lent her dark eyes\na somewhat distraught look, which only rendered her more tempting.\nHer speech was lazy, soft, guttural, but pleasant nervertheless. It\nwas the accent of the Monegascans whose syntax Mia followed. After\nhaving seen the young girl gather roses, Frangois des Ygrees began to take\nnotice of her and was much amused by her syntax for whose rules he\nenjoyed making research. . .\nOne time before sunrise, Frangois des Ygrees went down to the garden.\nHe abandoned himself to sweet reveries, during which he caught cold.\nAll of a sudden be began to sneeze about twenty times in succession.\nSneezing aroused him. He saw that the sky had whitened and the\nhorizon cleared with the first light of dawn. Then the first shafts of\nsunlight enflamed the sky along the Italian coast. Before him spread the\nstill sorrowful sea, and on the horizon, like little clouds above the film\nof sea, could be seen the curving peaks of Corsica, which always disappeared\nafter the rising of the sun. The baron des Ygrees shivered, then he yawned\nand stretched himself. He kept on regarding the sea to the east where one\nmight have said there glittered a royal navy in sight of a seaport with\nwhite houses, Bodighere, which furnished palms for the festivities of the\nVatican. He turned toward the immobile guardian of the garden, a great cy-\npress, begirt with a full-blown rose bush which clambered up almost to its top.\nFrancois des Ygr6es breathed of the sumptuous roses of nonpareil fragrance\nwhose petals, as yet closed, were of flesh.\nAnd just then Mia called him to have his breakfast.\nWith her braid hanging down her back, she had just come to pick some\nfigs and she was letting a few creamy drops flow into a pitcher of milk.\nShe smiled at Croniamantal, saying:\n\"Have you slept well?\"\n\"No, there are too many mosquitoes.\"\n\"Don't you know that when you are stung you should rub the place"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "232", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2092, "texte": "with lemon and in order not be stung by them you should put vaseline on\nyour face before going to sleep. They never bite me.\"\n\"That would be too bad. For you are very pretty, and ought to be\ntold so oftener.\"\n\"There are those who tell me so and others who think so without\ntelling. Those who tell it to me make me neither hot nor cold, as for the\nothers, so much the worse for them. . .\"\nAnd Frangois des Ygrees conceived at once a little fable for the timid:\nFABLE OF THE OYSTER AND THE HERRING.\nAn oyster dwelt, beautiful and wise, on a rock. She never dreamed\nof love but during fine weather simply bayed beatifically at the sun.\nA herring saw her and it was as a spark of powder. He tumbled hopelessly\nin love with her without daring to avow it.\nOne summer day, happy and coy, the oyster yawned. Smuggled\nbehind a rook the herring looked on, but all at once the desire to imprint\na kiss upon his beloved became so overpowering that he could no longer\nrestrain himself.\nAnd so he threw himself between the open shells of the oyster who\nin her surprise shut them with a snap, decapitating the wretched herring,\nwhose headless body floats aimlessly upon the ocean.\n\"'Twas so much the worse for the herring,\" said Mia laughing, \"He\nwas much too foolish. I too want people to tell me that I am pretty, not\nfor fun, but so as we can marry. . .\nAnd Frangois des Ygrees noted for future consideration her curious\npeculiarities of syntax: so as we can marry... And he thought further: \"She\ndoesn't love me. Macaree dead. Mia indifferent. Alas I am unhappy\nin love.\"\nOne day he found himself in the valley of Gaumates on a little knoll\ncovered with skinny little pines. The shore trimmed by the white-blue of\nthe waves stretched far out before him. The Casino emerged from the bank\nof splendid trees in its gardens. This palace looked like a man squatting\nand lifting his arms toward heaven. Near it, Frangois des Ygrees hearkened\nto an invisible Mammon:\n\"Regard this palace, Frangois, it is made in the image of man. It is\nsociable like him. It loves those who come to it and especially, those who"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "233", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2180, "texte": "are unhappy in love. Go there and thou wilt win, for thou canst not lose\nin play, since thou hast lost all in love.\"\nSince it was six o'clock, the angelus tinkled from the different churches\nin the neighborhood. The voice of the bells prevailed against the voice\nof the invisible Mammon, who became silent, while Francois des Ygrees\nsearched for him.\nOn the next day, Frangois took the road to the temple of Mammon.\nIt was Palm Sunday, The streets were littered with children, young girls\nand women carrying palms and olive-branches. The palms were either\nvery simple or woven in a peculiar fashion. At each corner of the street,\nthe weavers of palms were sitting against the wall, working. Under their\ndeft hands the palm fibers bent, circled bizarrely and charmingly. The\nchildren were playing about already with hard eggs. On a square a troop\nof urchins were pummelling a red-headed kid whom they had found trying\nto consume a marble egg. Very small girls were going to mass, well dressed\nand carrying like candles the woven palms in which their mothers had\nhung sweetmeats.\nFrancois des Ygrees thought:\n\"The sight of these palms brings good luck and today, which is gay\nEaster, I shall break the bank.\"\nIn the game hall, he regarded at first the diverse throng which pressed\nabout the tables . . .\nFrancois des Ygrees approached a table and played. He lost. The\ninvisible Mammon had come back and spoke sharply each time they erased\na deal:\n'Thou hast lost!\"\nAnd Francois saw the crowd no more, his head was turning, he placed\nlouis, packages of bills, on one square, diagonally, transversally. He played\na long time losing as much as he wanted to.\nHe turned away at last and saw the whole brilliant hall where the\nplayers still pressed about the tables as before. Noticing a young man\nwhose chagrined face revealed that he had had no luck, Francois smiled\nat him and asked whether he had lost.\nThe young man replied angrily:\n\"You too? A Russian just won more than two hundred thousand\nfrancs by my side. Ah! if I only had a hundred francs more, I would\nmake up what I have lost twenty or thirty times over. But Oh, I have\nbeastly luck, I am hoodooed, done for. Imagine . . .\""}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "234", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2234, "texte": "And taking Francois by the arm, he led him toward a divan on\nwhich they sat down.\n''Imagine,\" he continued, ffl have lost everything. I am almost a\nthief. The money I have lost did not belong to me. I am not rich, I had\na position of trust. My employer sent me to recover claims in Marseilles.\nI got them. I took the train to come here and try my luck. I lost. What\nis there left? They will arrest me. They will say that I am a dishonest\nman, even though I haven't ever profited of the money I took. I have\nlost all. If I had won, no one would have reproached me. What luck\nI have! There is nothing for me to do but to kill myself.\"\nAnd suddenly rising the young man put a revolver to his mouth and\nfired. The corpse was carried away. Several players turned their heads\na moment, but none of them bothered at all, and most of them took no\nnotice of the incident which, however, made a profound impression on the\nmind of the baron des Ygr6es. He had lost all that Macaree had left him\nand the child. As he went out Frangois felt the whole universe contract\nabout him like a tiny cell, and then like a coffin. He got back to the\nvilla where he lived. At the door he passed Mia who was chatting with\na stranger who carried a valise.\nffl am a Hollander,\" said the man, ffbut I live in Provence and I would\nlike to hire a room for several days; I have come here to make some\nmathematical observations.\"\nAt this moment the baron des Ygrees sent a kiss with his left hand\nto Mia, while with a revolver in his right he blew his brains out and rolled\nto the dust.\n\"We have only only one room to rent,\" said Mia, \"but it has just be-\ncome free.\"\nAnd she quickly closed the eyelids of the baron des Ygrees, gave\ncries of grief, and aroused the neighborhood. They went and called the\npolice who took away the body and no one ever heard of it again.\nAs to the young child, whom his father had in such a characteristic\nburst of lyricism named for aye Groniamantal, he was gathered up by the\nDutch traveller who soon carried him off to bring him up as his own son.\nOn the day they left, Mia sold her virginity to a millionaire trap-\nshooting-champion, and it was the thirty-fifth time that she had lent herself\nto this little commercial transaction."}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "234", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 2255, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2326, "texte": "Guillaume Apollinaire\n(Translated from the French by Matthew Josephson)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_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": 11, "image_fin": 11, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "[Illustration sans titre]", "titre_sommaire": "[Illustration sans titre]", "signature_source": "L. Moholy-Nagy", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 14, "texte": "L. Moholy-Nagy"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_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": 12, "image_fin": 12, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "[Illustration sans titre]", "titre_sommaire": "[Illustration sans titre]", "signature_source": "L. Moholy-Nagy", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 14, "texte": "L. Moholy-Nagy"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "235", "page_fin": "236", "image_debut": 23, "image_fin": 24, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "La Rumba Cubana", "titre_sommaire": "La Rumba Cubana", "signature_source": "Charles Galwey", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "235", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1035, "texte": "LA RUMBA CUBANA.\n\nThey have painted me rose pink lilac\nNaked yellowness and ebony of shoulders\nThick red lips\nMy dress hangs loose and thin impudence of light fabric\nSuch a dress as African women wore to the missionary door\nAnd squatted out of into nakedness\nOf huge and shimmering leaves\nThe jungle\nWhence sweaty slaves huddled into galleons.\nI am colossal elephant buttocks\nThat have learned to sway stupidly\nAnd writhe the old Bowery plantation negroes Voodoo\nBum — bum — bum — bum —\nMadness\nA lean faced black unregardedly evokes\nUndecipherable vertigo of beats rhythm as accurate\nAs the delirium of a madman's dream\nBent cheap trombones trumpets\nDecrepitude of crackling piano\nIvory grins regarding upward\nThe sallow ragged encircling balcony leans tipsily forward\nCrazed shouting Spanish black mestizo.\nBut I am Africa\nI am the cruel elephant pits\nKafirs Soudanese Zulu Berber\nSeville and Cordoba have painted me\nBut I am black\nBlack\nI am savagery that has lived\nThrough devil worship\nI have liberated the lowest in manv races\nm/"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "236", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 862, "texte": "But I once was the clean animal of the deserts\nThe dwarfs the miasma of jungles\nDizziness of Sahara heat sand sensual but honest\nAs animals that breed.\nThey have clothed me in rose pink lilac\nSpain has tinted me to viciousness\nThatched bohios have sheltered me from animal reality\nI am hideousness vile word and song\nImpudicity.\nBut still I am Africa\nThe mad palpitant throbbing of drumskin is my heart\nI shall not die for many years\nOut of desert and jungle I become infection\nSlippery sinister green of tropic heat that lures\nTo vileness\nI who once was fecundity\nA child\nTribes swaying to the rhythm of Africa\nI am the Cuban rumba\nPestilence loud trumpeted accurate and frantic\nMy heart still throbs\nEven the coldest north knows that in me is that\nWhich shall die\nFrantically\nSlowly\n(But perhaps I am as eternal as birth\nI am the rumba Cubana.)\n\nCharles Galwey"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "237", "page_fin": "239", "image_debut": 25, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "A Bottle of Lilac Perfume", "titre_sommaire": "A Bottle of Lilac Perfume", "signature_source": "Dorothy Hamilton", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "237", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2205, "texte": "A BOTTLE OF LILAC PERFUME\n\nShe was Loyola for a few minutes, as she took her evening seat at\nthe top of the area steps, first brushing the space with her palm. She was\nLoyola because a fragrant wind blew toward her, fluttering the loose hairs\nat the back of her neck, rustling her sleeves. It came with a puzzling,\ndisturbing directness. It contained what might be called a soft memory,\na Loyola memory.\nLoyola was an old, old name, since superceded by Mrs. Grute — The\nJanitress — Lozie. This three in one had no inner sensations. They signified\na long bone and cartilage structure with strong hands and able feet, weak\nblue worm's eyes and a back comb. Mrs. Grute had to use her eyes in\nsharp, detailed matters, such as peering across the alley and through the\ndoors of soft drink cafes. The Janitress was a laboring machine. And Lozie\nhad dedicated her body, thoroughly, to the convenience of untender\nMr. Grute.\n(Queer echo of body.)\nLozie belonged to very long, grimy skirts, and other women's old\nshoes. She was perfectly familiar with her fretwork of wrinkles and with\nthe wart that had lately come on one side of her nose. She thought nothing\nof eating noodles three times a day, — noodles and nothing else except\na watery sauce she had learned to throw together out of the hot grease left\nin the pan. This saved butter. She had had three children in a row.\nMr. Grute had treated them like puppies, letting them follow at the heel\non Saturday nights while he made the rounds after work, cuffing and\nkicking them on Sunday morning when he saw them dressed for Sunday-\nschool. \"What! You damned little apes! Give you a penny for the collec-\ntion? Hell, no! Ask your sainted mother over there. She'll give you\npennies. She knows where to get money. She don't come bellyachin' for\nit. She sticks her fist in my pocket. She'd rob the devil, that woman.\"\nThey were puny little children. Two of them died. One grew up to be\na burglar. He came home every few years to try to borrow money from\nhis mother.\n(Ah! this breeze! The sweet, oblivious restfulness of being\nLoyola!)\nBut Lozie always shifted her position to one of crouched brooding\nwhen a Loyola memory came. These memories were the untrodden bits"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "238", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2832, "texte": "of her, the dangerous, fallow green. They were what made her afraid that\nshe might not reach heaven. The question was, would nearly thirty years\nof bending the back weigh favorably with the Lord God as against the\nsinful — but, oh! how brief — minutes of Loyola? And there was the\nchurch-going on her side, too. But to tell the truth her mind was never\non it. Even in the middle of the prayers she was far from the subject of\nthe Lord God. She was more likely worrying about the hole that had been\nbanged into the ashcan, or thinking that she would have a pretty scene\nto face when she reached home, with Mr. Grute in the condition he was\nwhen she left him, — half on, half off, the bed. Church-going was pleasant\nenough, and it was very acceptable in the sight of the Lord, — but if you\nstayed at home you would know what was going on.\nKnowing what went on was Mrs. Grute's business in life. Life was\none great sharp corner around which unspeakable atrocities were forever\nbeing committed. Just let her apply her eye or her ear to the edge of\nit, — she need not fear of being disappointed. There would be something:\nthe roomer in the second floor parlor had put a whiskey bottle in the trash;\nMrs. Philoway, that lady with too big a bust, was cooking in her room\nagain, and had slung the sardine-can into the back yard, thinking Mrs. Grute\nwouldn't know, and the can hit Mrs. Grute on the back; third floor front\nhad a girl in his room. It had been the duty of Mrs. Grute to knock\nsharply on the door and to say, in an impersonal tone, \"If you've got\nanybody in there, sir, you'd do best to get them out at your earliest con-\nveyance\" — (this was a good phrase that she had learned from the grocer)\n— \"for the building inspector is looked for at any minute, now, and I don't\nwant that nobody should be shamed, I don't care who.\"\nLozie raised her face to the fragrant breeze. She leaned her head\nagainst the area door and huddled her feet under her. Her body relaxed.\nSo she had sat, that old, dead evening, in the doorway of her father's\nwoodshed, waiting. Just at dusk. Just after the chickens, with their hard\nblack eyes and their feet like old women's hands, had got out of the way.\nShe wore shiny patent leather slippers. Her arms were plump and white.\nShe wore a short-sleeved white dress, a blue sash. She had on her Sundav\n%j\nclothes, in fact. She got them grass-stained, that evening, too, and she had\nbeen obliged to invent a lie on the spur of the moment, so she had said\nshe fell at the turn-stile. In her hair she had bound a wreath of lilac.\nThere was the smell of lilac, the touch of lilac flowers against her\ncheek. She could feel little new grass under her feet. She sat, her body\nexpectant, waiting to hear twigs snap. And there, against the dusk, he\nloomed beside her. She put a sprig of lilac in his button-hole."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "239", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2561, "texte": "Hot hands pressed upon her. A hot face came blindingly close, and\nher own face answered it. Around them was silence, the feel of the wind,\nthe scent of lilac; there was love\nLozie tore herself from the moment. Loyola had called it love. Here\nwas a thought, — if Loyola had survived to be the one to marry Mr. Grute,\ninstead of dying consciously of her own wickedness — if Loyola had sur-\nvived would she have called the union with Mr. Grute love, too? Loyola\nwas not one to see all sides of a thing. There was where Lozie was needed.\nLozie had come into the world at nineteen, afraid of everything, taking what\nshe could get. She had taken marriage because she could not get much\nwithout it. . . Perhaps she had not done so badly. There were days every\nlittle while when Mr. Grute was quite sober. He would sit around, pleasant\nenough, in his undershirt, and talk out of the window to neighbors, — giving\nLozie the safe feeling of being one of two, — or he would sit at table with\nLozie and quarrel because there was no meat, and pound on the table if\nshe gave him only one fried egg. What if he was a good deal like an animal\nat the zoo? He was no trouble when he was drunk, and he was a typical\nhusband when he was sober. He had lately noticed the wart on her nose,\nand had invented a new pet name for her, — Scarf ace Charlie. Well, well —\nThis breeze that was coming against her cheek! It was certainly not\nthe usual breeze. The very rustlings it caused, the way it sped up her\nsleeves and cooled her arms, entered under the front of her waist! The\nlanguor of her muscles!\nMrs. Grute, The Janitress, Lozie, each in her way made an expression\nof recognition. This breeze was indeed Loyola's. Lozie reached her hand\ninto the ashcan beside her, and found a bottle of lilac perfume, empty except\nfor a discarded scum at the bottom. No doubt a relic of Mrs. Philoway.\nLozie smelled it, at close hand. Ah, Lord God! The cool fragrant\nevening! His arms. The feel of flesh against flesh. The madness of lips\nagainst lips! There was love\nLozie went indoors, carrying the perfume bottle. Mr. Grute, just\nrecovering from a long unsober interval, lay dozing on the bed. Lozie went\nand sprinkled the scum from the lilac bottle over her side of the bed. Then\nshe stretched herself out, with expectant, deliberate movements. She took\ncare to waken the great snoring body at her side. As it showed signs of\nwakening Lozie's conscience pulled at her, just a little. This was really\nLoyola's moment. Yes, but it was Lozie who must make of it what she could!\n\nDorothy Hamilton"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "240", "page_fin": "247", "image_debut": 28, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Portrait by Leyendecker", "titre_sommaire": "Portrait by Leyendecker", "signature_source": "Sinclair Leivis ; 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": "240", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2116, "texte": "PORTRAIT BY LEYENDECKER\nTo Sinclair Leivis\n\nAt 7 : 30 exactly he is awakened by a battery of alarm clocks. A Big\nBen 7 in. tall with 4%-in. dial. A Baby Ben 3% in. overall. A Jack\no'Lantern, so named for its luminous dial. Half a dozen other clocks\nof assorted shapes, with black or radium-painted numerals; steady or\nintermittent, top, back or interior alarms.\nWatch his Eyes Open!\nHe leans forward, arms rigid against the pillow to support him,\nNational Chain Shirt Shop pajamas, hair tousled becomingly, and for a\nmoment he poses, for a brief moment only, till the artist wTho accompanies\nhim always has made a lightning sketch. \"That will do,\" says the artist,\nand Charles Wesley Brown — Charley Brown — C. Wesley Brown —\nWes Brown — Brownie — leaps from his bed to silence one clock after\nanother in immutable succession, beginning with the largest and least\nintermittent. It is 7 : 32.\nA Daily Dozen before the open window, after which he dresses with\nthe energetic but unhurried efficiency which characterizes the smallest acts\nof his daily life. He owns a razor which shaves the right side of his face\nin 33 seconds and the left in 45, making a total of 78 seconds. The time\nhe spends on dressing (his Dressing Appropriation, he calls it, since Time\nis Money) shows a reduction of 33% % since he has been wearing a\nGoodbye Old Flannel Lining the Tie that Goes on in a Jiffy. He dons\nhis Press-together Cuff Links and appears before the breakfast table\nat 7 : 39.\nOnly Seven Minutes to Exercise and Dress!\nYou can equal or better this record if you tear off and fill in the\ncoupon at the lower right-hand corner.\nUndoubtedly C. Wesley Brown eats luncheons and dinners and even\nbanquets, but I can say of his breakfast and his breakfast only that every\ndetail of it is photographed on the brain. There is an aluminum pot, filled\nwith Good to the Last Drop coffee, or maybe Postum. A patent electric\nwaffle iron functions beside it. An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away.\nFlorida Oranges Rich in Vitamines. Bran Muffins Here's Health. This\nHam is Delicious! Two fried eggs (sunny side up), grapelade, cereal with"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "241", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2143, "texte": "milk From Contented Cows. They Satisfy! He draws on his cigarette\ndeeply and registers contentment at his wife across the table.\nA Muffin a Day is the Natural Way The room is larger than the\nBrown kitchen or breakfast room, almost as large as the parlour. There\nare a score of nickel faucets. A chintz curtain hides the window. Other-\nwise the room is a sanitary, blinding white, the white of porcelain and\ntile. To sit and stare at it fixedly induces a sort of agreeable trance. He\nmeditates, half consciously. The streets of Heaven are paved not with\ngold but with white porcelain. The houses of Heaven are white and nickel\nand chintz. The furniture of Heaven is large and sanitary and restful,\nlike bathtubs. He has the simple faith of a medieval saint and creates\nHeaven out of the most familiar objects.\nStill smiling in a paradisial dream, he climbs into one of his smaller\nautomobiles, poses for a moment at the wheel and drives to his office,\nwhere he arrives at 8 : 55. The dream is over and it is time for sterner\nreality. Is it? He has never been known to wonder.\nHe sits at a square mahogany desk, with a glass top which is always\nempty except for one scrap of paper containing a memorandum of the\ndifficult problem which he will solve this morning — Now. He clenches\nhis hand. He brings it down so forcibly as almost to shatter the glass,\nwhile he speaks to the twelve Directors who have gathered silently round.\n\"The way to sell God is the way to sell gasoline tractors. Advertise/'\nThey crowd forward to pat him on his Kuppenheimer back, immediately\norganizing the International Divine Sales Corporation. The common stock\nhas recently been quoted at 312% .... He bends over the walnut counter\nof the Fleischauer Drygoods House. \"Madam, our product is as good\nas materials and workmanship can make it.\" Climbing on a chair\nhe addresses the convention of Sales Executives. \"The gospel of Mowbray\nMotors is the gospel of fair dealing. We have nine salient points of\nsuperiority, namely:\n1. Silent operation\n2. No gaskets\n3. Woven with the grain\n4. Underslung\n5. Durability\n6. It quenches the thirst\n7. Biggest\n8. Cleanest\n9. Best\n3"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "242", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2533, "texte": "He bows to a storm of applause .... He drives three clients to Maple\nOaks (Prairie Development Corporation) and explains the beauty of neo-\nantique cottages while leaning gracefully against the mudguard. Single-\nhanded he enters the den of the purchasing agent for the Consolidated\nElectric. On Saturday half-holidays, before a crowd of eighty thousand,\nhe undrapes a Virgin Wool blanket from his shoulders, peels off a blue\nVirgin Wool sweater, and trots into the scrimmage to score a winning\ntouchdown for Yale. He changes his collar eight times daily (each\ntime a different style) and may be seen buying a new wardrobe\nevery week. However, there is no false pride about him. Sometimes he\ndons overalls and oils the piston rod of the Twentieth Century Limited,\nwhile anxiously he consults the dial of The Railroad Man's Watch. He\ndons a white apron and conducts a monster sale of Quality Lamb. He\nis always donning something. His smile leaves him never, but sometimes\nit has a wistful quality as if he were staring through the window of reality\ninto a dream. At such moments there is a look about his eyes and his cleft\nchin that reminds one queerly of a portrait by some Italian primitive —\nperhaps the St. Sebastian of Cosimo Tura.\nThe dream of his boyhood, the Dream which he never attained, is\nto be a button-pusher. To sit at a broader, squarer, cleaner mahogany\ndesk, of which the side, instead of drawers, is covered with ranks of\nmother-of-pearl buttons. He presses one of them, lightly, and the wheels\nof a thousand factories are set in motion. He presses a button. A charge\nof lyddite explodes, a mountain collapses, the two ends of the Trans-\ncontinental Tunnel are united. He presses a button which admits water\nto the New Everlasting Dam. He presses a button. Sirens blow, every-\nwhere the churchbells ring, crowds drunken with joy parade the streets,\nsignal rockets ascend and two nations which have lain in embattled\ntrenches for ten years suddenly hear the order to cease firing. A battalion\nof newspaper and motion picture photographers survey him as he works.\nHe presses a button and a clerk appears to usher them out, leaving him\nalone to press the button which will put him in telephonic connection with\nhis wife, the little girl whom all his triumphs could never make him\nforget. He presses a button.\nThe Kind of Girl You Stop to Look at. Bessie Brown works eight\nhours a day in a shop window. She opens her mouth and smiles, revealing\na double row of stained and tartar-covered teeth. She points to a placard:"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "243", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1160, "texte": "Discolored Teeth\nMar Beauty\nTurning it over she reveals another: the picture of a girl with dirty\nteeth applying for a position and being refused, while the President\nremarks to the Secretary-treasurer, \"I Didn't Like her Smile.\" Third\nplacard. Discolored Teeth\nPrevent Success\nImmediately Bess puts a finger to her forehead, reaches into a\ndrawer, produces a tube of paste and a brush, scrubs her mouth in the\nsight of two hundred people, gargles with a glass of cold water, smiles,\nsmiles again, and points to a fourth placard:\nLike\nTwo and Thirty\nPearls\nFifth placard: smiling stenographer is led to her new desk while\nthe Secretary-treasurer remarks to the President, \"Thirty-five a week and\nworth every cent of it. What teeth! What a SMILE!\"\nSixth placard:\nSmiles Toothpaste\nPaves the Road\nto Success\nBess smiles again and disappears. The crowd moves on. Enter Bess\nwith stained and tartar-covered teeth. She smiles and points to six pla-\ncards. At 5 : 53 she returns in her sedan to their little house in the\nsuburbs, half an hour before her husband. Dinner is redicooked in the\nelectric stove; she has only to turn a couple of switches and spread the\n3*"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "244", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2680, "texte": "table. He arrives, fresh as a gust of wind from his business triumphs.\nThey kiss. Wes and Bess enter the dining room, together and alone.\nAfterwards, in the living room, Bess kneels on the leather lounge in\nfront of the unlighted gas logs of the fire. Wes leans against the back of\nthe lounge and lights his Stick to Cinco It's Safe. Then, since nobody ever\ntaught him what to say to his wife, there is a long silence, till finally he\nrepeats his one phrase of domestic conversation. \"Beats me, Bess. I don't\nsee how you ever found such a good-looking rug for only $ 16.20.\" Another\nsilence. He recommences timidly, \"Beats me, Bess. I don't see how you\never found such a good-looking rug for only $ 16.20 ... Beats me, Bess ...\nd'looking rug .... $ 16.20 .... Beats me, Bess ....\"\nBess disappears. Wes unpacks his portable typewriter and works by\nthe lamp on the library table. Bess regards him fondly through the half-\nopen portieres. A tableau of personified Diligence guarded by a perso-\nnified Devotion. The artist who dogs their footsteps has drawn it often.\nHowever, the routine of their evenings is not invariable. They visit\nthe motion pictures weekly, when there is a program of clean Educational\nfilms. Sometimes they dance. I have seen the legs, only the legs of Bess\nin Onyx stockings move slowly across the floor to the tune of Ain't We\nGot Fun. G. Wesley Brown is wearing a dinner jacket.\nThe floor on which they dance is of 5/«-in. matched oak boards,\ntongued and grooved, manufactured by the National Oak Flooring Asso-\nciation. Most of them happened to be cut in Jones County, Tennessee,\nfrom a single tree which scaled 1500 board feet. The preliminary sawing\nwas done by Jake Adams in Josiah Webster's mill. Jake was a good\nsawyer. He also was a distiller, owning a half share in a moonshine outfit\nup Laurel Run, and the evening before he had sampled a new batch of\nhis own corn licker. He was still a little shaky. His right hand slipped and\nthe circular saw ripped off the thumb, neatly, a sacrifice to world capitalism\nand a paternalistic government. Blood dripped, dripped on the very board\nwhich the Walkover heel of C. Wesley Brown now covers. There is no\nneed to sentimentalize Jake Adams. He stanched the wound with cotton\nwaste, bound a red bandana over it and drove to the county seat to find\na clever lawyer, a lawyer who proved so clever that Jake received a cool\nfour thousand as damages. Josiah Webster went into bankruptcy and Jake\nbought the mill, thereafter being known as Fingy Jake. He is political\nboss of Jones County.\nFELLOW MEMBERS OF THE CHAMBER OF COMMERCE: Our\nbusiness is a dream, if any enterprise which counts over a billion dollars"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "245", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2627, "texte": "as its annual turnover can properly be called a dream. Duplicator, Inc.\nis the dream of a nation. But to realize this dream of a hundred million\nhearts, to give their wish, once unfulfilled and even unexpressed, the huge\nand practical proportions of Duplicator, Inc.: — this, Gentlemen, could be\nthe privilege only of a creator's brain. You will require no further in-\ntroduction to G. Wesley Brown — myself.\nNor do you require a lengthy explanation of the results of the\nDuplicator process. I flatter myself that you are familiar with these results\nalready. We take a smile — a winning smile — the sort of smile that wins\nsuccess, and by our patented method we duplicate it on ten million lips.\nBy the same process we duplicate words — habits of thought — the cut of\na cravat — a chin-dimple — a method of sales approach. It is thanks to\nDuplicator, Inc. that America has become a nation of standardized business\nexecutives. This is our proudest boast.\nIt was my smile they chose to duplicate, my broad-set eyes, my cleft\nand protruding chin, my method of selling collars, my respect for clean\nwomanhood. I say this without personal pride, for it is thanks only to\nDuplicator, Inc. that America has become an image of me. And not\nAmerica alone.\nLast year I made a tour of the world to advance the Duplicator\ninterests. Near world-famous Athens, at the Piraeus, a young man\napproached me with an offer to insure my baggage, to find me hotel rooms,\nto buy me tickets, to take me, for a consideration, under the protection\nof the Americo-Hellenic Tourist Service. I accepted his offer, Gentlemen,\nfor that young man was the image of me. ... In Tokyo I attended the\nmotion pictures after an active day, The audience of prosperous business\nmen, except for the colour of their skin, might easily have been myself,\nand what was my pride to see my own reflection parade across the screen\nin guise of the hero I .... Duplicator, Inc. has done its work, and even\nin the darkest corners of the ancient continents our gospel is penetrating.\nBe sure you're right then go ahead. Small profits — quick turnover.\nStandard of the world. Ask the man who owns one. If not in sale in your\nvicinity write for complete catalog.\nOnce in dreamy old-world Cadiz I was watching a goatherd milk his\nflock at his customer's very door. Suddenly a Ford drew up to the curb.\nA young man leaped out who resembled me more closely than a brother.\n' Haven't I seen you in Coffeyville, Kansas?\" he said. And sure enough,\nhe had. He was the son of a Spanish grandee and he also wrote poetry.\nGentlemen, as I look at your rosy and uniform faces, each one the image"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "246", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 968, "texte": "of his and my own, I am moved to recite you a poem which he wrote in\nmy honour:\nfresh from the factory\nwatch their eyes open\nare you covered9\nAre you the ten-pin or the ball? How fast do you think?\nIS YOUR BODY TEN YEARS OLDER THAN YOU ARE?\nDo you like fine things?\nare you covered?\nyou and your family need it now\nYou and Your Family Need it Now\nYOU AND YOUR FAMILY NEED IT NOW\nare you covered?\nGood to the Last Drop — Makes the Easiest Way the Best\nWay — The Sunshine of the Night — From the Sheep's\nBack to Yours — The Sort of Girl You Stop to Look at —\nKeeps You Warm as Toast — No Metal Can Touch You\nare you covered?\ngive her the gift you'd like to\nget if not in sale in your vicinity\nwrite for complete catalog and\nyou will avoid imitations and\nsubstitutes if you are covered.\nRelax tense nerves my body\nis ten years ten years older\na handy place to throw trash\na handy place to throw trash\ngoodbye old flannel lining\ngoodbye, goodbye\nold flannel lining goodbye"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "247", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 629, "texte": "Each time I repeat these lines I find new beauties in them. There\nis punch and go, the love of clean womanhood, but there is also a hint of\nthe world's eternal sadness. A handy place to throw trash. I have the\nvision of a hundred million vulcanite wastebaskets, those havens of refuge\nwhere our triumphs and our failures pile up, pile up together. It is as if\ninvisible hands had clutched me by the throat. lam choking, dry. I want\na drink. . . . Have any of you gentlemen a pocket flask? I want a drink\nof water, whiskey .... ginger ale the Anytime .... drink .... choking\n. . . . for God's sake give me a drink.\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "241", "page_fin": "241", "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "[Illustration sans titre]", "titre_sommaire": "[Illustration sans titre]", "signature_source": "L. Moholy-Nagy", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "241", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 14, "texte": "L. Moholy-Nagy"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "242", "page_fin": "242", "image_debut": 30, "image_fin": 30, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "[Illustration sans titre]", "titre_sommaire": "[Illustration sans titre]", "signature_source": "L. Moholy-Nagy", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "242", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 14, "texte": "L. Moholy-Nagy"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "248", "page_fin": "248", "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "A Lady", "titre_sommaire": "A Lady", "signature_source": "Emanuel Carnevali", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "248", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 540, "texte": "A LADY\nEmanuel Carnevali\nHer lips are roses\nrotting in water.\nHer eyelids two shrivelled\nviolets.\nHer eyes are puddles.\nHer voice is of a bird being strangled.\nHer youth in passing\nlingers in her hands.\nThey flutter, hovering\nlike two butterflies\nover the corpse of her flesh.\nThere is a grim whim in her,\nlike that of a dead mouth\nthat smiles.\nHer well-rounded legs\ntell an impudent lie.\nHer soul lies\nin the disorder of an orgy\nover the ashes and scattered remains of which\nhangs, like threads of blue smoke,\nan elegance of tiny gestures."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "249", "page_fin": "249", "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Portrait", "titre_sommaire": "Portrait", "signature_source": "Maxwell Bodenheim", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "249", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 726, "texte": "PORTRAIT\nMaxwell Bodenheim\nWithdraw your hair from the simulated\nInterest of the moon;\nTake every tenuous shadow\nFrom the aimless tongues of these trees\nAnd darken your speech until it attains\nA fickle and fantastic\nAcquaintance with the eccentric night\nDisarrange your dress and make it\nA subtle invitation to nakedness.\nRemove your stockings and shoes\nSo that your feet may enjoy\nAn embarrassed soliloquy with the grass\nPlace the palm of your hand\nLightly against your nose,\nFollowing the slope of some grotesque feeling.\nDevise these careful affronts\nTo the heavier intentions\nOf thought and emotion, and gratefully\nAccept your title of minor poet.\nOnly trees with long roots caught by hills\nWill recognize your importance."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "250", "page_fin": "251", "image_debut": 40, "image_fin": 41, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "The College Glee Club", "titre_sommaire": "The College Glee Club", "signature_source": "Robert Alden Sanborn", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "250", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1867, "texte": "THE COLLEGE GLEE CLUB.\n\nTwo doors were not sufficient. They came through upon the\nstage like paste squeezed out of a tube. They spread, divided into\nclots, shifted, blocked each other, and suddenly appeared in the\ndignified array of two lines of youth in evening dress, lines slightly\nelliptical, with one focus, the leader, at the right end, toward which\nevery face was turned. One or two, belated, hurried into places\nfussily.\nHow absurdly boys bear the importance of conventional\ndress. Their breasts strain and bulge the crackling linen boards,\ntheir muscles swell and wrinkle the broad-cloth. Others are loose,\nsmall, and inadequate, inside the immaculate rigidity. They are\ngrowing before your eyes like the germinating seeds in the cinema\npicture, and one imprisons the laugh before it breaks. For if they\nguessed that their appearance caused your laughter they would\nfeel confused and hurt. But, and this is a protective contradiction\npeculiar to youth, if they did not guess they would think that you\nwere laughing with them, and laugh themselves. They know that\nthey are funny because they feel funny. They do not know that\nthey look funny. They are colossal. And the thin ice of con-\nventionality is skimming their youth.\nTheir singing was art in its primitive beginning, that is, it\nbegan in fun amongst themselves. It was art as pictured by a child,\nlaughed at by its creator before displayed to the appraising eyes\nof experience, dabbed with meaningless blots and scratches of\nself-conscious vanity. Some of the voices were sweet but there\nwere as many more that laughed at the good ones by coming in\na trifle too late or too soon or by shading the key. So youth kept\nits balance, ever sincere to itself first. And that is right.\nThere is something that youth respects and thus keeps in the\nprocession. It respects leadership. Every face in the line was"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "251", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 725, "texte": "profiled obediently toward the leader who, from the right end,\nnodded the tempo. So the lasting impression was of a frieze of\nstiff pink profiles and flat white shirt-fronts, all as devotionally\nfixed as the heads in a Delia Robbia. Youth afraid to do the wrong\nthing is youth in flux, youth in action. The sheath of the chrysalis\ncracks from the struggle within.\nOne amongst them, the third mandolin player, was almost\nout. Else why did he, without ceasing, wear that secret smile?\nI watched the smile tremble up from within and over the lips while\nthe brow, bent seriously over the instrument, lifted and the eyes\nlooked out on life. So might a chicken smile foolishly over the\nfragments of its shell.\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "251", "page_fin": "251", "image_debut": 41, "image_fin": 41, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Affinities", "titre_sommaire": "Affinities", "signature_source": "John Crawford", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "251", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 727, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1096, "texte": "AFFINITIES\nAi-yeel\nJohn Crawford\nThe cold wind knows me:\nI fling myself against the wind\nAnd each of us grows great and gay\nThe people give us right of way:\nI feel them dwindle in the flames\nAnd split and burn and fall apart.\nAnd what if I went naked too\nLike the wind,\nWhistling scorn between my teeth?\nThis blank and rigid avenue\nWould split like mist and roll apart."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "252", "page_fin": "260", "image_debut": 42, "image_fin": 52, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "The Discovery of the Indies", "titre_sommaire": "The Discovery of the Indies", "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": 42, "page_imprimee": "252", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2044, "texte": "THE DISCOVERY OF THE INDIES.\n\nSALVE REGINA MISERICORDIA, VITA DULGEDO ET SPES NOSTRA\nSALVE. AD TE GLAMAMUS, EXSULES FILII HEVAE, AD TE SUSPIRA-\nMUS GEMENTES ET FLENTES IN HAG LACRYMUM VALLE . . .\nA dense waterboundary over beyond the Azores needed a ship through\nit. Having failed to secure a footing for the adventure in every capital,\nridiculed, driven about from place to place, in rags finally, his mind burning,\nthe martyr's fervor eating now back of his breastbone, his son at his side\n— the Italian joins the mob about their Catholic Spanish Majesties encamped\nbefore Granada. There he watches his opportunity, for the last time to\nmake his proposal.\nHe hears the talk: Christ in the ascendant 1 but Spain ruined, sees\nthe Moor come out and kiss the royal hands, fanfare of trumpets! Spaniards\nshouting! passage of the priests in robes — but no money. India . . rich,\nbut far. So then it comes to him:\nCHRISTOPHORO! him that carried Christ across the river.\nBeing a practical shipsmaster, besides the flame, he makes his plea:\nTo the west. To India. In the name of Christ: gold, jewels, spices —\nThus, your Highnesses, Catholic Christians, Princes who love the Holy\nChristian faith and the propagation of it, and enemies to the sect of Mahoma,\nresolved to send me, Cristobal Colon, to India; and ordered that I should\nnot go by land to the eastward as had been customary, but that I should\ngo by way of the west, whither up to this day we do not know for certain\nthat any man has gone.\nAnd for this they made great concessions to me, ennobled me, so that\nhenceforth I should be called Don, and should be chief Admiral of the\nOcean Sea, perpetual Viceroy and Governor of all the Islands and Con-\ntinents that I should discover and that my eldest son should succeed, and\nso from generation to generation forever.\n.... at the third hour of Saturday night it began to blow from the\nN. E. and I shaped my course to the west. We took in much water over\nthe bows, which retarded our progress and nine leagues were made during\nthe day and night."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "253", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2494, "texte": "Sunday we made 19 leagues, and I decided to reckon less than the\nnumber run, for should the voyage prove of long duration, the people\nwould not be so terrified and disheartened. This day we lost sight of land,\nand many fearful of not seeing it again sighed and shed tears. The sailors\nsteered badly letting the ships fall off to N. E. and even more, of which\nI was forced to complain several times.\nMonday . . Tuesday we sailed on our course which was west and\nmade twenty leagues or more. We saw a large piece of the mast of a ship\nof one hundred and twenty tons but were unable to get it.\nItem: that of all and every kind of merchandise, whether pearls,\nprecious stones, gold, silver, spices, etc. of whatever kind, name and sort\nwhich may be bought, bartered, discovered or obtained in the said Admiralty,\nYour Highnesses grant from henceforth to the said Don Cristobal etc. the\ntenth part of the whole . . granted, in the town of Santa Fe de la Granada\non the 17th. day of April in the year of our Lord Jesus Christ 1492. I the\nKing. I the Queen.\nWednesday . . Thursday . . Friday, on the westerly course, day and\nnight, 20 leagues, counting a little less. Here those on the caravel Nina\nreported that they had seen a tern, a bird which is never far from land.\nSaturday we made 27 leagues on the west course; and in the early\npart of the night there fell into the sea a marvellous flame of fire, at\na distance of about 4 or 5 leagues from the ship.\nSunday, the sixteenth, day and night, I steered the course west, making\n39 leagues but counted only 36. There were some clouds and small rain.\nFrom this day and ever afterward very temperate breezes, so that there\nwas great pleasure in enjoying the mornings, nothing being wanted but the\nsong of nightingales. It was like April in Andalucia. Here we began to\nsee many tufts of grass that were very green and appeared to have been\nquite recently torn from the land. All this I called to the attention of the\nmen and from this I judged that we were near land, but not the mainland\nwhich I make to be more distant.\nMonday, at dawn, we observed much more weed appearing, like herbs\nfrom a river, in which one of the men discovered a live crab. This I kept\nthat all might see it and believe on the land. The sea water was found\nto be less salt than it had been since leaving the Canaries. The breezes\nwere always soft. Everyone was pleased and the best sailors went ahead\nto sight the first land. Many tunny fish passed on all sides of us and the"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "254", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2280, "texte": "crew of the Nina killed one. All these signs came from the west in which\ndirection I trust in the High God in whose hands are all victories that\nvery soon we shall see land. That morning there appeared a white bird,\ncalled a boatswainbird, which is not in the habit of sleeping on the sea.\nTuesday, we made 45 leagues, counting only 38. The sea was like\nthe river of Seville. Martin Alonzo, with the Pinta, which was a fast\nsailer, did not wait, but said to me from his caravel, that he hoped to\nsee land that night. A great cloud appeared to the north, a sign of the\nnearness of land.\nSeven years passed in discussion and nine in execution, the Indies\ndiscovered, wealth and renown for Spain and great increase to God and\nto His Church. And I have arrived at and am in such condition that there\nis no one so vile but thinks he may insult me.\nThree voyages undertaken and brought to success against all who\nwould gainsay me; islands and a mainland to the south discovered; pearls,\ngold and in spite of all, after a thousand struggles with the world, and\nhaving withstood them all, neither arms nor counsels availed me, it cruelly\nkept me under water. What have I not endured . . . ?\nThe lands in this part of the world, which are now under your\nHighnesses sway, are richer and more extensive than those of any other\nChristian power, and yet, after that I had, by the Divine Will, placed them\nunder your sovereignty, and was on the point of bringing your Majesties\ninto receipt of a very great revenue, . . I was arrested and thrown with\nmy two brothers, loaded with irons, into a ship, stripped, and very illtreated\nwithout being allowed any appeal to justice.\nI was twenty-eight years old when I came into your Highnesses1 service,\nand now I have not a hair upon me that is not grey; my body is infirm,\nand all that was left me, as well as to my brothers has been taken away\nand sold, even to the frock I wore. . . .\nWednesday, 25 leagues, but it was calm, and counted only 22. This\nday, at ten o'clock, a booby came to the ship and in the afternoon another,\nthese birds not generally going more than twenty leagues from the land.\nThere was also some drizzling rain without wind, which is a sure sign of\nland. I felt it to be certain that there were islands both to the north and"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "255", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2480, "texte": "south of our position and that we were passing through them. This\nI explained to all saying that my desire was to press on to the Indies, the\nweather being fine, as such it was, and that on the return we should see\nall. Here the pilots found their position. He of the Nina made the Canaries\nfour hundred and forty leagues distant, the Pinta four hundred and twenty.\nBut he of my own ship made the distance exactly four hundred leagues,\nwhich I gave out to be the true.\nThursday, twentieth of September, the course was W. by N. and as\nher head was all round the compass, owing to the calm that prevailed, the\nship made only 7 or 8 leagues. Two boobies came to the ship, and after-\nwards another, a sign of the proximity of land. One of the men caught\na bird with the hand, which was like a tern. But it was a riverbird, not\na seabird, the feet being like those of a gull. At dawn two or three land\nbirds came singing to the ship and they disappeared before sunset.\nFriday, most of the day was calm, later a little wind. At dawn so\nmuch weed that the sea seemed to be covered with it. And it came from\nthe west. Toward mid-day a whale was sighted, which is a sign of land,\nbecause they always keep near the shore.\nSaturday . . Sunday, the twenty-third of September I shaped a course\nN. W. and made about 22 leagues. A dove was seen and also another booby.\nGreat quantities of weed and crabs in it. The sea being calm and smooth,\nthe crews began to murmur, saying that there was no great sea and the\nwind would never blow so that they could return to Spain. Afterward\nthe sea arose very much and adverse winds appeared. Yet even then some\nobjected, saying that the wind would not last.\nMonday, on the west course all day and night making 14 leagues.\nI counted only twelve.\nTuesday, calm and afterward wind. On the west course till night.\nAt sunset Martin Alonzo went up on the poop of his ship and with joy\ncalled out that he had sighted land. I fell on my knees and gave thanks\nto the Lord, so heavy had been my burdens these latter days at the despair\namong the men and the murmurs going among them, that I should have\nto turn back. And Martin Alonzo said the Gloria in Excelsis with his people.\nMy own crew did the same. Those of the Nina all went up on the mast\nand into the rigging, and declared that it was land. It seemed distant\n25 leagues. So it appeared until night. 1 ordered the course to be altered\nfrom W. to S. W. in which direction the land had appeared. Four leagues"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "256", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2340, "texte": "that day on a west course and 17 S. W. during the night, in all 21, but\nI told the men that 13 was the distance made good. The sea was smooth\nso that many sailors bathed alongside. We saw many giltheads and\nother fish.\nWednesday, what had been said to be land was only clouds and\nI continued on the west course till afternoon, then altered to S. W. Day\nand night 31 leagues counting 24 for the people. The sea was like a river,\nthe air pleasant and mild. The despair of the crew redoubled at this\ndisappointment but I comforted them as best I could begging them to endure\na while longer for all that would be theirs in the end.\nThursday . . Friday . . Saturday, the course was west, 24 leagues,\ncounting only 21. Calms, not much distance made good during day and\nnight. Today we saw a man-o-war bird, which makes the boobies vomit\nwhat they have swallowed, and eats it, maintaining itself on nothing else.\nIt is a seabird but does not sleep on the sea, and does not go more than\n20 leagues from land. The sea smooth as a river. Much weed.\nSunday, the last day of September, west fourteen leagues, eleven\nbeing counted. Four boatswain birds came to the ship which I considered\na great sign of land.\nMonday, first of October, west twenty five leagues, counted twenty.\nA heavy shower of rain. At dawn the pilot of our ship made the distance\nfrom Hierro 584 leagues to the west. The reduced reckoning which I showed\nto the crew made it 578 leagues, but the truth which I kept secret was 707.\nThus the wisdom of the double reckoning was confirmed.\nTuesday, west, day and night thirty nine leagues, counted for the\ncrew thirty. The weed, many thanks to God, coming from east to west,\ncontrary to the usual course. Many fish seen and one killed. A white\nbird like a gull.\nWednesday, still the west course, and made good forty seven leagues,\ncounted forty. Sandpipers appeared, and much weed, some old and some\nquite fresh and having fruit. No birds. So I gave it out that we had left\nthe islands behind that were depicted on the chart. Here many called\nupon me to turn about and search for the land but I did not wish to keep\nthe ships beating about, although I had certain information of islands in\nthis region. It would not have been good sense to do this since the weather\nwas favorable and the chief intention was to go in search of the Indies"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "257", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2472, "texte": "by way of the west. This was what I had promised to the King and Queen\nand they had sent me for this purpose.\nThursday, west sixty three leagues, counted forty six. More than\nforty sandpipers came to the ship in a flock and two boobies. A shipsboy\nhit one with a stone. There also came a man-o-war bird and a white\nbird like a gull. The crew here became ever louder in their complaints but\nI gave as little heed as I was able though many were now openly mutinous\nand would have done me harm if they dared.\nPETER GUTIERREZ: So that, virtually, you have staked your life\nand the lives of your companions, upon the foundation of a mere speculative\nopinion.\nCOLUMBUS: So it is: I cannot deny it. But consider a little. If at\npresent you and I, and all our companions, were not in this vessel, in the\nmidst of this sea, in this unknown solitude, in a state as uncertain and\nperilous as you please; in what other condition of life should we find\nourselves? in what should we be occupied? in what mode should we pass\nthese days? Perhaps more cheerfully? or should we not rather be in some\ngreater trouble or solicitude, or else full of tedium? I care not to mention\nthe glory and utility we shall carry back, if the enterprise succeeds according\nto our hope. Should no other fruit come from this navigation, to me it\nappears most profitable inasmuch as for a time it preserves us free from\ntedium, makes life dear to us, makes valuable to us many things that\notherwise we should not have in consideration.\nFriday, fifth of October, fifty seven leagues, but counted forty five.\nThe sea smooth and quiet. To God be given many thanks, the air being\npleasant and temperate, with no weed, many sandpipers, and flying fish\ncoming on the deck in numbers.\nSaturday, continued the west course, forty leagues, thirty three being\ncounted. Martin Alonzo said that it would be best to steer west by south,\nthat night, for the island of Gipango which the map showed but I thought it\nbest to go at once to the continent and afterwards to the island.\nSunday, seventh October, west twenty three leagues, counting eighteen.\nThis day the Nina hoisted a flag at the masthead, and fired a gun, which\nwas the signal I had ordered that land had been sighted. At this time\nalso, I ordered that at sunrise and sunset, all the ships should join me,\nbecause at these times things are most proper for seeing the greatest distance,\nthe haze clearing away. No land was seen during the afternoon as reported\n\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "258", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2495, "texte": "by the Nina. But we passed great numbers of birds flying from N. to S. W.\nThis I believed to be due either to the birds going to sleep on land or that\nthey were flying from the winter which might be supposed to be near in the\nland from which they were coming. And this in some measure consoled the\nmen from their disappointment over the false news from the Nina since it\nis known that most of the islands held by the Portugese were discovered\nby the flight of birds. For this reason I resolved to give up the west\ncourse and to shape a course W.S.W. for two days. We began the new\ncourse an hour before sunset expecting to see land soon and this served\nto encourage the crew with renewed hope.\nMonday, the course W.S.W. and twelve leagues were made during the\nday and night. Thanks be to God the air is very soft like April at Seville;\nand it is a pleasure to be here so balmy are the breezes. The weed this\nday is very fresh, there are many land birds and one was taken that was\nflying S.W., terns, ducks and a booby.\nTuesday, ninth October, the course S.W. The wind then changed\nand I steered W. by N. four leagues. Throughout the night birds were\nheard passing.\nWednesday, fifty nine leagues, W.S.W., but counted no more than\nforty four. Here the people could endure no longer. All now complained\nof the length of the voyage. But I cheered them as best I could giving them\ngood hopes of the advantages they might gain by it. Roused to madness\nby their fear, the captains declared they were going back but I told them\nthen, that however much they might complain, I had to go to the Indies\nand they along with me, and that I would go on until I found them,\nwith the help of our Lord. And so for a time it passed but now all was\nin great danger from the men.\nThursday, eleventh of October. The course was W.S.W. More sea\nthan there had been during the whole of the voyage. Sandpipers and a green\nreed near the ship. And for this I gave thanks to God as it was a sure\nsign of land. Those of the Pinta saw a cane and a pole, and they took\nup another small pole which appeared to be worked with iron; also another\nbit of cane, a land plant and a small board. The crew of the caravel Nina\nalso saw signs of land, and a small plant covered with berries.\nAfter sunset I returned to the west course. Up to two hours past\nmidnight we had gone ninety miles, when the Pinta which was the fastest\nsailer and had gone ahead, found the land and gave the signals. The land\nwas first seen by Rodrigo de Triana."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "259", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2674, "texte": "4*\n\nThough on the night before, at ten o'clock, I saw a light and called\nPeter Guitierrez and said that there seemed to be a light, and that he\nshould look at it. He did so and saw it. The same to Rodrigo Sanchez\nwho at first could see nothing but afterward saw the light once or twice\nlike a wax candle rising and falling. When they said the Salve which all\nthe sailors are accustomed to sing in their way, I admonished the men to\nkeep a good lookout on the forecastle and to watch well for land and to\nhim who should first cry out that he had seen land I would give a silk\ndoublet besides the other rewards promised by the Sovereigns which were\nten thousand maravedis to him who should first see it. Two hours past\nmidnight, the moon having risen at eleven o'clock and then shining brightly\nin the sky, being in its third quarter and a little behind Rodrigo de Triana,\nthe land was sighted at a distance of about two leagues. At once I ordered\nthem to shorten sail and we lay under the mainsail without the bonnets,\nhove to waiting for daylight.\nOn Friday, the twelfth of October, we anchored before the land and\nmade ready to go on shore. Presently we saw naked people on the beach.\nI went ashore in the armed boat and took the royal standard, and Martin\nAlonzo and Vicente Yanez, his brother, who was captain of the Nina. And\nwe saw the trees very green, and much water and fruits of divers kinds.\nPresently many of the inhabitants assembled. I gave to some red caps\nand glass beads to put round their necks, and many other things of little\nvalue. They came to the ships boats afterward, where we were, swimming\nand bringing us parrots, cotton threads in skeins, darts — what they had,\nwith good will. As naked as their mothers bore them, and so the women,\nthough I did not see more than one young girl. All I saw were youths,\nwell made with very handsome bodies and very good countenances. Their\nhair short and coarse, almost like the hairs of a horse's tail. They paint\nthemselves some black, some white, others red and others of what color\nthey can find. Some paint the faces and others the whole body, some only\nround the eyes and others only on the nose. They are themselves neither\nblack nor white.\nOn Saturday, as dawn broke, many of these people came to the beach,\nall youths. Their legs are very straight, all in one line and no belly. They\ncame to the ship in canoes, made out of the trunk of a tree, all in one\npiece, and wonderfully worked, propelled with a paddle like a baker's\nshovel and go at a marvellous speed.\nBright green trees, the whole land so green that it is a pleasure to\nlook on it. Gardens of the most beautiful trees I ever saw. Later I came"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "260", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1630, "texte": "upon a man alone in a canoe going from one island to another. He had\na little of their bread, about the size of a fist, a calabash of water, a piece\nof brown earth, powdered then kneaded, and some dried leaves which must\nbe a thing highly valued by them for they bartered with it at San Salvador.\nHe also had with him a native basket. The women wore in front of their\nbodies a small piece of cotton cloth. I saw many trees very unlike those\nof our country. Branches growing in different ways and all from one trunk;\none twig is one form and another is a different shape and so unlike that it\nis the greatest wonder in the world to see the diversity; thus one branch\nhas leaves like those of a cane, and others like those of a mastic tree; and\non a single tree there are five different kinds. The fish so unlike ours that\nit is wonderful. Some are the shape of dories and of the finest colors in the\nworld, blue, yellow, red and other tints, all painted in various ways, and the\ncolors so bright that there is not a man who would not be astounded, and\nwould not take great delight in seeing them. There are also whales. I saw\nno beasts on land save parrots and lizards.\nOn shore I sent the people for water, some with arms, and others\nwith casks; and as it was some little distance, I waited two hours for them.\nDuring that time I walked among the trees which was the most\nbeautiful thing which I had ever seen . . .\n. . . EIA ERGO, ADVOCATA NOSTRA, ILLOS TUOS MISERICORDES\nOGULOS AD NOS CONVERTE. ET JESUM, BENEDICTUM FRUGTUM\nVENTRIS TUI, NOBIS POST HOG EXSILIUM OSTENDE. O GLEMENS,\nO PIA, O DULGES MARIA.\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_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": 47, "image_fin": 47, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "[Illustration sans titre]", "titre_sommaire": "[Illustration sans titre]", "signature_source": "Man Ray", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7, "texte": "Man Ray"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_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": 48, "image_fin": 48, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "[Illustration sans titre]", "titre_sommaire": "[Illustration sans titre]", "signature_source": "Man Ray", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7, "texte": "Man Ray"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "261", "page_fin": "264", "image_debut": 53, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Darkness Glitters", "titre_sommaire": "Darkness Glitters", "signature_source": "Robert Coates", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "261", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1851, "texte": "DARKNESS GLITTERS\n\nSIX STANZAS\n1\nHe sits on the bridge inspecting his hands. Opposite me is another\nme it is not hard to find red boats and soon he will come threading his\nway through the traffic, blow, horns! blow, horns! and the silence dies\nin the enchanted melody of a flageolet but blow! blow! crack your cheeks\nand blow! horns! here is birth when I was a child in my cradle a por-\ntrait hung over my head and the hard corners ladled its substance into\nmy brain one winked color then and darkness glittered, but blow! and\nblow again! he is naked, we all see that and leering over him her finger\nstumbles in his flesh and my senses chatter as we run with him, the horns\ntriumphantly blowing and one with hair streaming running laughing at\nthe head\nrunning we laugh and he kicks his legs laughing through hills\nand over valleys someday all day he will sprawl with Summer on the\nspangled plain but now his shutterless eyes stare helplessly into the stab-\nbing bugle he is meaningless but we have made a symbol of him we have\nhonored him with horns and routed through the town with him, so now\nthe echo spins us backward and our vaunting laughter perishes in greater\ntumult as the earth takes speed from our standing feet a hill tree the road\nchimney horizontal flops into a rock turning past into a fence no cattle\nand darkness glitters.\n2\nA tablespoonful of ink has fallen through the night and we see the\nglimmer condense a moment and perish, remembering afterward the four\nlocked walls within which eight feet on the so far as we know substantial\nfloor support four people two women and two men one has his watch\nin his hand and we strain to hear as his forefinger urges them what does\nhe say? for the second man leans over the bed a moment\nas in the\nstatic gaslight prints yellow unexpectedly rotundities out of flats\nthe woman\nmoves to his side"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "262", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1784, "texte": "she loops her arms about him, stiller these scenes in\nthe yellow light and movement slow before the outer wall opens tipping\nthe bed there was no one\nand the second woman and I know her the\nscene takes on intimacy for it was she who ran with streaming hair out\nof the room and down great avenues and up great branching trees she\nran screaming through the skies over my head and her flying hair\nensnaring constrained me to follow as the ink dries at last in curious\nsplotches on a clean sheet of paper.\n3\nHe escaped once and f'dedans son petit jardinet\" thought him of\nVillon on the pavement there he saw women garbed in yellow swaying\nlike a field of wheat from thistle-flower blue eyes peering to dress the\ngreen of corn clasping the rich sweetness of rounded dimpling flesh so\nteeth bite white the kissing flavor and those in red sprouted like poppies\nungarnered in the unmown field\noh! orange throbbing autumnal spring\nand yellow green moving and bending above brown unobservedly mingling\namong the throng but he has walked in the meadows and seen the fields\nlie breathless side by side like women\nwaiting\nstirred by tremulous pas-\nsions among the feathery tufted carrots glimpse toes gripping along streets\nthe young barley shoots tender green from the rolled, brown field and\nhe saw the sappy, crawling locomotive plant with hesitant eye staring\nthrough hazed green of cabbage\none blurs rows and rows undulating\nwith the roll of wheels but even among traffic the men are clear harrowing\nand plowing brusquely among them Pete lifts in his browned arms a sheaf\nof wheat\nbut I have seen a soldier on the Boul Mich with his arm\nabout a girl.\n4\nThere was thunder that afternoon from a dull, evenly-colored sky and\nwe walked in the town. His eyes always asked you to look into them and"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "263", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2220, "texte": "that irritated me and she was like singing last year's ragtime I forget what\nhappened to the King and Queen in red robes preceded by heralds down\nlong gilded halls and the cushion but he suddenly interrupted he touched\nme by the hand and with that air of his even while speaking of listening\nfor what you are going to say, \"Edna is going to have a baby.\" I turned\nto her, affecting nonchalance and said, \"Why bother?\" It punctured a\nfatuous moment but then they started laughing and I was frenzied at heart.\nI shouted at the thunder while they cowered beneath a trembling\nawning he plucking me by the hand the great rocketing tumult rolled\nabout the sky at which we dared not look for the puckering rain\nthe man\npoured a glass of wine across the bar to a drenched patron and in the\nwind I saw her rounded figure and then the wind lifted a drift of her\nhair and in a great white flash that abolished all but the two of us the\nearth spun backward once more and dashed us unwillingly, laughingly,\nrecklessly onward down long halls and vaulted corridors whose crystal\nwalls reflected reflecting floors through a rain of roaring colors the rush\nof our laughter engulfed that slow procession and swept them in red\nriot behind us and leading all the Queen with hair streaming ran laughing\nbearing him kicking and laughing on the golden cushion into glittering\ndarkness where a hand probing took mine and said, \"It's over.\"\n5\nI saw marble, he saw bubbles the sun's kissing resolved colors into\nthe dazzling air\nI tested the strength of a barbed wire fence, the shining strand of\na spider's web was a sword to bar him from the town\nI swam vainly searching the sources of the oceans of the world he\ndrowned in a tear\nhe was a fool for I shot at a bird and he was that\nbird, he was a fool and I killed him for otherwise I should have been that\nportrait staring drily from the wall at the various uninteresting happenings\nof the room so I climbed a tall tree to its top and gazed on cities, my\nglance petrified them and he died there as I had planned or so I suppose\nfor I never afterward came to the cities I had seen\nhe was a fool and\nI killed him, I fished for him in rivers and he drowned gasping as fish\ndo in the air I breathe"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "264", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1848, "texte": "he went up to the skies to search for stars and\ncame down blind so I killed him for I must find my way groping along\nthe streets and I killed him I killed him but his blood beckons me from\nthe red wheels of a cart rolling across a bridge but I have made marble\ninto bubbles\nor is it bubbles into marble for am I a portrait?\n6\nI lay one sunny day in the summer meadows, but I saw him\nglistening beside me and in the golden sky I saw those great legs striding\nand the streaming hair lapped the horizon I heard the screams that\nlaughing women force from their mouths I saw their hollow cheeks and\ngreat eyes burning as they rioted around me\nhe all the while stirring\nbeneath me, he must have sunk into ground he must have interpenetrated\nwith the roots and growing things laced together below for I felt him stir\nand their fingers were drawn in netting tracery across my stung flesh as\nthe valley swayed out like a banner green yellow golden while they danced\nabout me\nthrough glittering darkness we are running they have snatched\nhim from me or me from him and run laughing though he sits on a bridge\ninspecting my hands a man helps a woman into a red taxi-cab\na moment\nof two silences the driver leans out sidewise to catch the address and we\nswing our folds about them Lion Noir behind a straw hat red glass\nthis\nintervenes when I lie with my wife in bed there is a sly bent-shouldered\nelfish grin that intervenes between our bellies and I see with inexpressible\nhorror her gray eyes staring up at me in haunted fear through the arrested\nmoment it slips like ripples in a pool is a\nplow and I search\nfor it\nagain but a straw hamper is a sign of a pipe in the mouth and ray, stick,\nI could stab with a flash like that, killing is brown, birth is red, bed is\na banner I could plant vegetables in a bed sometimes. He inspects his\nhands.\n\nRobert Coates"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "265", "page_fin": "265", "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "The Apollo of Veii", "titre_sommaire": "The Apollo of Veii", "signature_source": "Carleton Beals", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "265", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1156, "texte": "THE APOLLO OF VEII\nCrunch of foot forward, foot forward;\nFlair of leg-muscles, set to steel,\nSliding, gliding, bunching to steel;\nQuiver and poise: foot, shin-bone, and knee —\nCrunch of foot forward, foot forward.\nHips holding that tawny torso:\nRoll of hip-joints forward.\nBending, leopard-lithe torso,\nClean flesh-ripple over ribs,\nThe curving prongs of ribs,\nClutching the vitals to the spine.\nHips holding that tawny torso:\nRoll of hip-joints forward.\nShoulders set in a neck-shudder;\nDrive of high shoulders forward,\nShivering strain of the spine-chords,\nShove and slide of the neck-curve,\nTwinge of the copper throat-pulse,\nDrive of the high shoulders forward.-\nPlunge of the head forward, head forward;\nLift and lunge of the battering skull:\nPointed power of that chiseled beak,\nLewd malignancy of cheek-drawn lips\nFlesh stripped back from the food-tusks;\nPlunge of the head forward, head forward.\nLoop and knot of battered biceps,\nAngle of arms forward, arms forward:\nSlide of the velvet flesh-cover;\nStiff fingers forked, fingers hooked;\nHands hollowed to clutch,\nTo crush into blood-mesh,\nGrind into bone-smoke\nAngle of arms forward, arms forward."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "266", "page_fin": "266", "image_debut": 58, "image_fin": 58, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "Stigmatae", "titre_sommaire": "Stigmatae", "signature_source": "Carleton Beals", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "266", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1209, "texte": "STIGMATAE\nCahleton Beals\nYour grave gapes,\nOpen to the dust-spiraled winds;\nYour skull gleams,\nGummed in the jaws of a great green python;\nYour sagging bones,\nThey lie deep in the seam of grief,\nClutched in the subterranean arms of an orange-tree,\nBy the side of a sanguine forgotten shore\nWhere red souls of sin wail past on black wings of despair.\nAll day I have hunched, mandible in fists,\nWatching;\nWatching ivory cliffs rise from the purple-matrixed dawn\nAnd fruit of gold gleam sun-shaped in the early flame;\nWatching new petals shower snow-swift into that seam,\nWatching all day, through green vitreous branches,\nThe breasted sea with its female undulations,\nThe purple swelling sea;\nWatching it rise,\nWatching it break on the bleaching shore in white smoke.\n1 have crunched my teeth on your terrible fruit,\nSo cadent with prescient dreams of death,\nWith the ruddy gold of decaying day,\nAnd still I wratch, mandible in fists, eyes on the sea,\nTill a spiral of tawny ossiverous sand\nWhirls through the burning air with a glint of\npetals and leaves,\nSucked to the sinking sun,\nShrouding the skeleton of dusk;\nTill tears, scorching surge to my irritated eyes,\nAnd I too run wailing down that shore of sin."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "267", "page_fin": "279", "image_debut": 59, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.22", "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": 59, "page_imprimee": "267", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2389, "texte": "TRANSFORMATIONS\n\nIV.\nButterweg and Jamaika found no peace during the journey. Jamaika\nshowed anxiety for Kakadu. Butter weg said: ffl can't find a moment's\nsleep over that man. I must say, it is a doubtful pleasure.\" Jamaika\nwhispered: ffl love you so. Have I not transformed my whole life for\nyour sake? Who knows what may become of me now?\" Butterweg stood\nin a corner of the corridor and smoked; \"You should have considered all\nthat before. Are you sorry already? Of course this isn't as comfortable,\nfor you bourgeois.\" Butterweg's generosity no longer seemed so great,\nhe cursed every time something annoyed him, and Jamaika trembled at his\nwords. For a moment, when she was so worried that her whole body\nached and her temples pounded, she hoped that the police would\nintervene and arrest them. She was reflecting on this, as Butterweg\nstood by smoking cigarette after cigarette to drive away sleep and\nboredom. He looked at her and gauged her thoughts; \"Listen,\" he said,\ndo you know that we have committed a crime against the peace. If\nKakadu should give us away, we are done for. I advise you then to take\ncare that he doesn't do anything foolish.\" Jamaika was frightened. The\ntrain neared a station, the bright lights shot by more frequently and the\nwhistles of the trainmen could be heard. Gigantic shadows flew by and\ndisappeared in the darkness. When the train stopped, Butterweg went off\nto drink something. . A man with a silk hat and a monocle fixed Jamaika\nwith his eye. She thought: ffl could go with this man now. If I told\nhim how things were, we would be off before Butterweg came back.\nI would be rid of him.\" The man noticed how Jamaika regarded him.\nHe came by very close to her. The thought of Kakadu gripped Jamaika,\nand she could not move a foot. Then Butterweg came, he had bought\ncognac and bade Jamaika drink.\nThey approached Paris toward noon. The passengers ran through\nthe corridors and packed their trunks. A stout man who wanted to take\noff his slippers, stumbled and fell. Jamaika regarded, full of confused\nastonishment, the houses and the colored bill posters on the houses.\nButterweg said: \"Now we are in the great city of Paris, be careful.\" They\nwaited until everyone had left the train and then led out Kakadu,\nwho followed them helplessly. If he should cry out only once, the\npolice would come and all was lost. But the man let himself be dragged"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "268", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2773, "texte": "along, without a word. His head hung down. His hands had been stuck\ninto his pockets. Automatically he put one foot before the other. Before\nthe Gare du Nord the crowd pressed, and the noise of the vehicles rattled\nthrough the city. Butterweg was awaited by a friend of his, who worked\nas a waiter in a great establishment on the Boulevard Poissoniere. They\ngot into a cab to go to the home of this friend, high up on the Montmartre.\nThe friend believed that Jamaika was the mistress of Butterweg, but he\ndid not know what to make of Kakadu. He thought: \"Never in my life,\nalthough I have lived much, have I seen people drag a man about the\nworld for the pure fun of it.\"\"I don't know why I did it, myself,\" cried\nButterweg. Jamaika wept. Butterweg stroked her hands; \"There, be still,\nit isn't so bad. Everything will be all right.\" When they came to their\nroom and their friend left, Butterweg said: \"There, my love, we must get\nup a rigout for Kakadu, so that he doesn't give us away.\" Jamaika dried\nthe tears on her face. \"I shall talk to him. Let me be alone with him for\na moment.\" \"Good! Good! Have a little consultation with him. Je\nm^eclipse\"\nKakadu didn't move when Jamaika called to him, he lay in bed and\nstretched his feet out as far as they would go. His face was an extra-\nordinary mixture of pure childishness and senile anger. For a long time\nhe lay without breathing, and when Jamaika cried out louder and shook\nhim, he said: \"Oh, I am so sick. I ought to be undressed, and have\nsome camomile tea and cold compresses, for I am very sick.\" He got up\nand walked dizzily about the room making motions with his arms in order\nto keep his balance. His toes were turned inward, his head was sunken\nbetween his collar bones, his large and bony shoulders resembled those of\nan ape. His hands at times would grab at the air as if to clutch something,\nand a faint hissing came from his distorted mouth, his eyes opening widely\nand unnaturally. Jamaika said: \"Kakadu, calm yourself a bit. There is\nnothing more to be done about it, and when you come to think of it\nnothing much has happened. Butterweg is good to you and me.\" Kakadu\ngurgled, he looked at Jamaika, who took his head between her hands\nand stroked his hair. When she noticed that his nose was dirty she took\nhis handkerchief out of the trunk and wiped it clean. Kakadu did not\nunderstand anything that was going on about him, he felt only a roaring\nin his ears, sometimes possessed a moment of consciousness that his whole\nlife had been transformed, and waved his hands in the air like an unruly\nchild — but then he would become weary, his eyelids so tired and\nhis hair aching so on his head, that he fell into bed, his mouth open, and\njust bleated. \"Kakadu,\" cried Jamaika loudly. The man did not move."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "269", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2736, "texte": "\"Well,\" she said in Butterweg's tone, \"You will have to be forced.\" She\ntook a small pair of scissors and cut his hair off to the root so that he\nlooked like a criminal. It was very wonderful to behold the low forehead,\nthe heavy beetling brows, the monstrous collar-bones. Then Jamaika tied\nhis collar around him and knotted a red necktie for him. She regarded\nhim and decided that he did not look well that way. Something was lacking.\nHe must be made to look more childlike and pleasant. Then the idea came\nto her to cut his trousers off below the knees. Now he looked like a boy\nwhose thick head contrasted strangely with his short legs; he looked like\nsuch an urchin as falls through the chimney and quacks. Jamaika took\nhim by the ear; \"Now, old man, you are a pretty boy. Everybody will\nbe very nice to you, nicer then they have ever been before.\"\nButterweg found a job in a cabaret in the Montmartre where the\nstreet laborers looked at the nice currycombed legs of the ladies over their\nglass of cider. Jamaika was given a colored costume of red taffeta, accor-\ndion pleated, which fell out like a bell. She wore a bodice and her arms\nwere naked, while an artificial yellow rose shielded her bosom. It was\nhard for her to get used to the make-up but Butterweg forced her to do\nas he pleased. He stood behind her mirror and threatened her with his\nfist. Said Jamaika: \"If you aren't good to me, I won't go with you. I shall\ngo back home.\" He would forget himself in his rage, take her by the\nhair and drag her across the room. \"I'll show you, my sweet,\" he roared,\n\"what you may do here and what you can't.\" They were always speedily\nreconciled, but sometimes Jamaika would remember these incidents, and\nwhen he would come in the evening to make love to her, she would laugh in\nhis face. After eight o'clock the show would begin, Butterweg threw the\nfrogs into the air and caught them with his wide open mouth. The public\nclapped wildly. \"Ah c'est beau. Cest gentilsaid the little girls. Jamaika\nsold photographs to the people. Butterweg in an elegant cutaway with\na cane and patent leather shoes. Butterweg: \"The greatest artist in the\nworld.\" People would buy these photos laughing and blinking at Jamaika's\nhips. This engagement lasted only two weeks, and after this they were\nin great need with only bread and water for nourishment. Kakadu might\nhave died of hunger, if Jamaika hadn't given him something to eat in\nButterweg's absence. Butterweg found odd jobs, and Jamaika found a place\nas waitress for 2 fr. 50 per day.\nFinally Butterweg said: \"This won't do. We must see to it that we\nget out of Paris. You have seen how I have tried my best. Artists must\nsimply starve here, while ignoramuses and tramps earn money. I have"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "270", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2730, "texte": "been deceived in Paris. There is something for us in the great cities of\nAmerica. I have thought it over and resolved that our only salvation is\nto go to America.\" Jamaika was overjoyed that they were going to\nleave Paris. Work had coarsened her hands, she suffered from headaches\nand often in the street had to lean against houses so as not to fall.\nButterweg seized her and kissed her on the neck. She trembled at this\nunwonted caress, she twined her arms about him and sobbed: \"Oh Butter-\nweg, how sweet it was when I went walking with you near the circus and\nthe elephant, Billy, stuck his head out of his stall. How everything has\nchanged.\" \"You must not think of that. We must worry about how we\ncan get the money for the ocean trip.\" Butterweg sat down on the bedstead,\nand kissed Jamaika and stroked her cheeks while he spoke very earnestly\nto her. \"Jamaika, if you love me, then there is a way, a sure way of getting\nthe money.\" For a long time Jamaika had been denied all love by this\nman, and his gentle words and soft voice moved her very much. \"I shall\ndo all that you ask of me, and I am ready to sacrifice myself to be of\nservice to your art.\"\nToward ten when the good citizens of Paris were eating their supper,\nButterweg led Jamaika to the Gare du Nord. She laughed and joyed in the\ncolorfulness of the streets. There came six men who carried a long Manoli\ncigarette on their shoulders. The children plucked at their backs, and\na policeman stood ready on a street-island to handle the crowd. Out of\na niche of the station a man stepped forth, who reminded Jamaika strongly\nof the gentlemen on the train with whom she had almost eloped. Like the\nother man he wore a high hat, a monocle and lady's shoes with cloth\nuppers. Butterweg said to Jamaika, \"Go with this gentleman. He is\na friend of mine and he will give you enough money to make the ocean trip.\"\nButterweg rubbed his hands, as they disappeared around the corner. \"She\nis still good for something, the old cow,\" he muttered. On the following\nday Jamaika was to meet him at the station at a given hour. She spent\nthe whole night with the gentleman with the high hat. He was so polite\nand his manners were so recherche that Jamaika had a great desire to stay\nwith him. He said; \"Stay with me. You shall have all that you want.\"\nJamaika knew something now about life and she asked: \"Will you marry\nme? Can you guarantee that you will never leave me?\" The gentleman\ntook off his high hat to air his thatch, and Jamaika noticed that it was\na thin bristly wig which covered his head with difficulty. Then he shook\nhimself and dangled his legs a bit in order to give his trousers a chance to\nfall properly to his shoes. \"Oh you can have guarantees. Lots of them."}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "271", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2578, "texte": "If you stay with me, we shall go to Egypt and there you will be maintained\nat a pension. I have some travelling to do, just now, but when I come back,\nI shall surely marry you.\" \"That would be wonderful,\" said Jamaika, and\nshe clapped her hands like a child. But then she remembered Kakadu,\nshe could not leave him. She thought of him as of a son, a poor sick son,\nso that the tears stood in her eyes. \"I cannot go with you,\" she said.\nButterweg was waiting impatiently when she came. She gave him\nthe money and he was very friendly to her, and praised her in all sorts\nof endearing terms, which he hadn't used in a long time. On the following\nday they got on the train, to go to Cherbourg for the steamer to New York.\nKakadu in short trousers, with a sailor hat and a red tie, struggled to carry\nthe heavy trunks. The ship lay at the wharf, and the people crowded each\nother to find place in the steamer, which gave a signal with three blasts of\nher siren.\nV.\nThe steerage passengers were examined by doctors for chronic sick-\nnesses, and their clothes too were examined. They were all pushed into\none narrow room thirty at a time. When Kakadu was examined the doctor\nsaid: \"A moron! How old is he?\" Jamaika answered quickly: \"He is\nnearly eighteen.\" The man shook his head. Jamaika marvelled at the\nhuge ship, which spread out with its cabins like a city. The smoke crawled\nout of the smoke-stacks and the red striped horns of the ventilators stood\nlike a forest. Twice a day the steerage passengers were allowed to go up\non the stern deck for air and if they craned their necks they could see the\ncabin passengers lying on steamer chairs and yawning in the sun. Well-\ndressed children were playing ball, and ladies in heavy silk robes moved\nto the dining room on the arms of their cavaliers. Jamaika always sat\nbefore a round hole through which the sea and the horizon could be seen,\nThe seamen upon whose faces the Sou'westers had been branded, held their\nhands to their mouths and yelled about the great ship. Jamaika observed\nhow slowly the waves rose, how they towered up like small mountains\nand suddenly crumpled up into foam. She became very peaceful, her eyes\nsaw clearly and sharply, and often she thought, if I can only travel far\nenough, I can see a great deal of the world. But when she approached\nher berth, she would hear the sound of musical instruments, and the songs\nof the men would move her so much that she Kakadu seldom\nleft his hammock, and when he saw the ocean he would gape and blubber\nwith joy. Jamaika pressed Kakadu to her and kissed him. When the"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "272", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2680, "texte": "noise became too violent and the men sang too loud, a deck officer would\nappear and cry; \"Will you be quiet down there! Vermin!\" A woman took\nthe trouble to give birth to a child. She drummed upon her belly with\nher hands but her neighbors made believe they didn't hear.\nNo cries disturbed the calm peaceful cigarette smoking of the cowboys\nwho were returning from Europe with their lassoes. Butterweg helped\nwith the child-birth, and when he came later to lie down near Jamaika on\nthe sack he said: \"She claims to be a relative of the famous Otero. She\nis a tightrope walker.\" Butterweg could often be seen sitting with Otero,\nwhose baby lay twisted up in a few knots of cloth beside her. Jamaika\nnoticed him pinch the calf of Otero's leg one time and smack his lips as\nthe woman climbed before him up the steep stairway to the deck. In the\nevening the fire hose was played about on the steerage passengers, so that\nthey caroused and led wild dances. Kakadu got the stream full in the face.\nHe fell down striking his head against a hook and receiving a bloody\nwound. Butterweg cried: \"Good for him. Now he'll keep his mouth shut\nfor a while.\" \"I won't have it,\" cried Jamaika enraged, \"I won't have\nyou abuse him. I didn't bring him along for that.\" Butterweg became\nvery calm: \"And pray why did you take him along? I want to say to\nyou right now that it was very unfair of you to do that. He is always\nin my way, always blocks my plans.\" Butterweg never left the side of\nOtero any more. She told of how she wanted to span Niagara Falls with\na rope in order to give an exhibition before a great public and become\ninternationally famous. When the ship reached America Otero could dance\nagain, but the child was dead. It lay in its rags and was as blue as a plum.\nWhen the bell rang which announced that all passengers must leave the\nship, Otero shoved the baby into a straw sack and bothering no more about\nit, went with Butterweg over the gangway.\nThey marvelled at the great city and the unknown sounds which the\nears opened upon. Immense suspension bridges flung their arms across\nthe river, frightful machine rods clanged, and the smoke of the chimneys\nrose above the houses.\n\"That's fine,\" said Kakadu and he laughed with joy. Otero who knew\nthe city led them to the subway. They rolled along until they found them-\nselves in a quarter where the houses stood very close to each other and\ntroops of Chinamen stood in front o saloons. Butterweg hired a little\nrear room which received light only through one window. Then he bought\nthree mattresses, two large, for him and Jamaika, and one little one for\nKakadu. When they paid the rent there were very few dollars left. Butter-"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "273", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2763, "texte": "weg went out to look for work. Gone for three days, on the fourth day\nJamaika saw him sitting with a Chinaman before a coffeehouse. His face\nwas swollen and he pounded on the table with his fist when he spoke.\nJamaika approached him and begged him to come home. But at the same\ntime Otero, in a high apron, came out and began to swear at her. Jamaika\nwept and disappeared. After a while she smelled alcohol. It was Butterweg.\nHe chased her about the room until she found shelter behind Kakadu.\n\"Get fresh to me, will you, you \" Then he stopped and looked for a\nlong time into Kakadu's face.\nHe roared with laughter, sat down on a mattress and shook his head.\n' Tell me now, why you took the idiot along.\" \"I couldn't leave him alone.\nHe was so ill. His jaw hung down and his tongue was as yellow as a lemon.\"\nButterweg approached her heavily, put his arms about her and kissed her\nhair. He went about the room with bent knees. Kakadu suddenly arose.\nHis head was wide and his eyes were firm. \"He seems to have grown\nup a bit under your nursing,\" said Butterweg astonished. Kakadu however\nhad for the first time in a long time understood what was said, so that* he\ncould reply: \"I have not grown, only I am feeling better. How strange it is.\"\ni\nHe underwent a striking metamorphosis. His body grew stronger, his\nunderstanding became clearer again. He asked Jamaika: \"Where are we?\nIsn't this my house, and the room in which I used to work?\" \"We are in\nAmerica, Kakadu. In America.\" Outside, the Chinamen went buzzing\nabout and the hawkers for the shops hammered on their gongs. Kakadu\nlaughed, his mouth falling wide open like a sack. His body took on weight\nsteadily, so that after a few weeks the swelling of his biceps was noticeable.\nAbout three months later Bujtterweg came hurrying in: \"At last. The day\nis not far off. I have been working without a let-up to carry out my plan.\"\n\"What have you been working at,\" asked Jamaika slowly. 'The day that\nwas not far off' was a plan of Otero's. She had announced that she now\nhad found a way of carrying out the exhibition over the great Falls. Like\nthe whores who never cease to talk of the time when they will go to Buenos\nAires to found an elegant maison de rendez-vous, so do tight-rope walkers\nspeak of Niagara, over which Blondel went without a pole. Jamaika followed\nOtero through crooked streets. She tossed her hips like a young horse.\nHer hips made voluptuous dances. A fat hide-dealer awaited Otero behind\na glass of brandy, but before she could near the stout Manchester breeches,\nButterweg clapped his hands behind a tree. Jamaika shivered, for the evening\nlay deep, and sinister looking men shadowed the sidewalks. But nothing\nhappened. Before Jamaika could look around, Otero had gone into a house\n5"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "274", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2778, "texte": "with the stranger and Butterweg had disappeared. She found him at home.\n\"Where were you, Butterweg? I haven't seen you the whole day. Oh I was\nbusy working over my plan to cross Niagara as Blondel did. Am I accoun-\ntable to you for everything I do? Am I your child?\"\nJamaika could not say a word without shivering. Her dress, once\nsnug-fitting about her thigh and arm, fell away tiredly. Fear fell from\nher forehead to her chin. Butterweg drew his brandy flask more often from\nhis pocket. He spat in the room, and the accuracy of his account of the\nNiagara project became more and more questionable. He sought the com-\npany of Otero, who, in a green robe and her hair down, shadowed the\nbarracks. He tried to kiss her, but she slapped him. \"You pig,\" she said,\n\"to let a woman lead you off, who lives off you with her husband. It doesn't\nmatter to you if she deceives you with the idiot.\" He promised to mend\nhis ways. She laughed. She whistled to the street dogs, threw apples to\nthe Chinamen who stood babbling and buzzing in front of the saloons.\nOn a Monday, while Butterweg was gone, Kakadu came to Jamaika. He\nwore a swallowtail and had got the habit of carrying a briefcase under his\narm. He spoke now without stuttering and the gestures of his hands were\nlike the gestures of an ordinary man. Often he would go out to look for\na position on a newspaper. He had begun to learn English and soon he\nknew how to say; \"I will not.\" Jamaika coughed with joy when she saw\nhow Kakadu resembled a normal man. With her cough came blood, and it\nwas a long time before she had calmed down. She strained her hands\nconvulsively, in a St. Vitus dance, and when she cried, it was long wailing\nover her sufferings and Butterweg. \"My dear wife,\" said Kakadu, touched.\nHe tasted her shoulder, then took her arm and led her to the door. The\nroar of the factory whistles filled the streets and the smell of the masses\nrose to the roofs. Kakadu led Jamaika without a word of explanation to\na saloon where the petrol lamps were already lit. Kakadu, moralist and pe-\ndant, shook his head sadly. They let him pass without joking with him. But\na hunch-backed Chinaman jabbed at Jamaika under her skirts. She acted\nas if nothing had happened. They passed into a dark hall fearing that\nsomething fearful might happen in this house. Their hands felt walls to\nthe right and to the left which were as moist as a corpse. Both felt that\na great change was to take place now. Kakadu had become erect, his head\nthrown back. The tips of his swallow-tail waved softly. Jamaika just hung\nfrightened and pale at Kakadu's arm. Her arms dangled like rubber clogs\nat her hips, her eyes fell out like threads. When she spoke she stuttered\nand said, for instance, \"shemical\" instead of \"chemical.\" She wore a dress"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "275", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2341, "texte": "of flannel, which was composed of red and yellow stripes, like a clown's\ncostume with cap and bells. The going was so hard for her that at every\nstep she stumbled like a tired nag.\nKakadu let Jamaika into a room which was bare of furniture. In one\ncorner there was a hole, as large as a nut, through which one could look\ninto an adjoining room. Behind the window panes the high-powered\ntelegraph wires hung like nets and the wide flashes hissed away over them.\nSomething unexpected happened. Kakadu asked Jamaika to look through\nthe hole. She did so reluctantly. In the next room she saw Otero and\nButterweg according each other the pleasures of a questionable love.\nCrouching, Otero went round the man. He turned about slowly following\nher movements, and knew not what to do. At times he would reach his\narm out toward her. Then he would stand like a doorpost gaping with\nopen mouth and astonished eyes. She was almost naked. Her body\nglittered like metal. But he did not know how to help himself. He gave\nup his resistance and threw himself to the floor. Otero gave a cry of joy\nand put her foot on Butterweg's back. Suddenly they heard Otero's bright,\nhard voice. She was expressing her contempt of Butterweg accompanied by\nmotions of her hand. The man began to wail and crawl around the floor on\nall fours. \"See what has become of him,\" said Kakadu who also looked\ndiscreetly through the hole from time to time. \"And this man whom\nnature gave nothing but a faculty for swallowing frogs wanted to straddle\nthe world.\"\n\"You pig,\" cried Otero in the other room in an angrier voice, \"did\nyou think I believed you for a moment? Who dragged you to this land of\nliberty if not Jamaika the woman with the short legs and the goggle-eyes\nand the bad teeth?\" \"Let us go,\" said Jamaika. \"What she says is untrue;\nmy teeth are in perfect order and I have never had goggle-eyes.\" As they\nstood at the entrance through which they had come, Kakadu took Jamaika\nby the ear: \"Good, good, a new life will begin now. But I hope that you\nwill behave respectably, my love.\"\nVI.\nBy chance, Kakadu was appointed Justice of the Peace. He provided\na wig for himself and ensconced himself behind a great table. Many\ndisputes were adjusted by him. The people said: \"He is an energetic man\nand very fore-handed.\" He spoke paternally to the drunkards and told them\n5*"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "276", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2856, "texte": "that their behavior was injurious to the state. Often they fell to the floor\nin Kakadu's court and the pieces of brandy-flasks would fly all about. Their\nwomen came and wailed that they had nothing to eat. Kakadu liked\nto be present at the hearings of these domestic cases, and when the\nwomen fell raging upon their husbands he would would say in a deep\nwell-meaning voice: \"Give it to them, give it to them good and hard.\nThey will come to their senses that way.\" The drunkards would stagger to\ntheir feet and ask, \"What do they want of us?\" Kakadu would bray at\nthem: \"Aren't you ashamed that your wives have to thrash you until you're\nsober?\" Then he would administer several extra days of confinement. The\nwomen stood astonished. The men were led away, cursing, by the policemen.\nThe women howled and wept. Kakadu was a scoundrel who just toyed\nwith the people and made fun of their misery. After the sitting Jamaika\nwould come and bring his lunch. Kakadu would only laugh till his belly\nhurt. She would stand behind his chair while he ate. This would take\na long time for Kakadu had become very stout, and he needed a pile of food.\nAfter his dessert he would unloose his belt several notches and say:\n\"All's well, everything fine,\" or some other banality of the sort. After\ndinner Kakadu would stretch out on a divan. Jamaika would bring him\ncigarettes and an ash-tray as he read the paper. He declared:. \"I must not\nbe bothered. I have important matters to think over.\" She functioned\nnoiselessly. Under the power of the sun the belly of Kakadu swelled in-\nordinately and his cheeks became red as tomatoes. Soon he would\nbe snoring so hard that the curtains would tremble. One free afternoon he\nvisited the prison with Jamaika. An inspector appeared and offered to\nescort them about the prison. Jamaika stared at everything without saying\na word. She took in every sentence Kakadu uttered, with reverence, like\nthe words of a priest. Kakadu pressed her hands at times, and told her\nthat she need have no fear since she was under his protection here. They\nheard a bell strike three times behind a tiled roof. Soon after a little bell\nbegan to sing in a cracked tone like that of an old woman. The courtyard lay\nin shadow. A storm threatened. The inspector said: \"The bell is a signal\nto the prisoners for a half-hour's recreation in the open air.\" The prisoners\ncame out blinking and rubbing their eyes and clapping their hands. The\noaths of the warders filled the place. Long swarms of men came out,\nswung into rows and began to march slowly. Jamaika wanted to see the\nwomen, and the inspector led her through a little gate into another court\nwhere the women marched in a circle around a warder. They were not\npermitted to utter a word. But their whisperings and their signs to each\nother could be observed. Kakadu stayed behind. When Jamaika and the"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "277", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2622, "texte": "inspector reappeared, he said: \"I have discovered Butterweg. I knew that\nhe was here.\" Kakadu had Butterweg summoned. Jamaika cowered behind\nKakadu's back. Butterweg stood there, his head sunken on his chest, his\narms pressed to his side. Kakadu stuck out his chest: \"See, old friend,\nhow things have changed.\" \"Why is he in prison?\" asked Jamaika. The\ninspector did not know what to say. But Kakadu thundered that he could\ngive all the information desired. His cheeks now hung in great rolls over\nhis jaw, his nose shot out bold and stern. In his trousers puffed the\nSeptember winds. He resembled an alligator who, spitting and fuming,\ndances about an arena on his hindlegs. Before Kakadu began to speak,\nhe always cleared his throat and looked around to see if the public were\nlistening attentively. The inspector bowed deeply. Jamaika hid her face\nbehind a handkerchief. ffl saw his end coming, I saw it coming, gentlemen.\nI was fond of him and I pampered him like a little child. I know that\nI was sick for a long time, and that I was used as a block of wood, as\na lump of clay that they could twist any way they wanted.\" The eyes of\nJamaika and Butterweg met for a moment. When Kakadu felt that his\nwords were coming well, he swelled up, and got into a strange ecstasy like\nthat of an old uncle who holds impromptu speeches over his coffee.\n\"I might say, Vetat c'est moi, since the knowledge of the sound organization\nof man's life has taken shape in me. In the wrinkles of my face there hung\nthe pictures of whole cities like reflections. I dwelt with this woman,\nunmoved by the problems of a spiritual existence, in a biblical vestibule,\nin an antechamber of reality, a somewhat myopic composure, but proud of\nmy certitude, that all that had been already belonged to the past, and\nwhether it was here or elsewhere, composed the religion of my kind. Amen.\"\nHe looked at Butterweg, then suddenly grabbed Jamaika by the arm and\ndisappeared between the two saluting sentinels.\nVII.\nTheir means improved so considerably that Kakadu was able to buy\na mansion near the banks of the River. In each corner there was a plaster\nstatuette, whose pedestal contained the legend in Latin, a Diana with bony\nlegs, a Ganymede offering wine, and a Hera. Through the glass wall\na garden could be seen and there was a long rectangular room, which was\nentirely reserved for Kakadu. Kakadu had an observatory built here,\nfrom which one could observe the house, and a fountain in which carps\nswam about. Amid the beauty of all this, Kakadu was accustomed to rise\nbefore the dawn, as the sirens of the steamers howled through the mist, and"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "278", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2859, "texte": "walk in the garden memorizing his speeches. He would hold a long pipe in\nhis hands and turn to watch his dogs at times. Toward ten Jamaika rose\nin her white bedchamber. She bore a child in the seventh month, and\nKakadu did all he could to please her. He led her through the garden\nand showed her the great sunflowers, which were bound to poles, and\ncalled them phlox, azaleas and geraniums. He pointed to the roses and the\ntiger lilies by the edge of the fountain. Jamaika laughed and pressed her\narm close to him. Her face was very drawn, and her bones projected like\nhooks, but her belly of immeasurable dimensions hung like a great tumor\nwhich bespoke the living organism within her. \"How are you feeling?\"\nhe asked anxiously. \"I think it won't last much longer, you had better call\na doctor.\" It was hard to get a doctor to come. But finally Kakadu lit\non a quack who lived by the river, and who was noted for his miraculous\ncures of negroes, an engineer of repute called Kurpfuscher. It happened\nthat a young doctor was stopping with him, a man with long limbs, dark\nspectacles and a soft lady-like voice. Kakadu walked restlessly about in the\nroom. The doctor carefully lifted the bed-covering to examine Jamaika's\nbody. Kakadu was frightened at seeing her so, and went quickly into the\nadjoining room where a decanter of cognac awaited him. \"You needn't\nworry about it at all,\" said the physician, \"In about a week, you may\nexpect the child.\" Jamaika had eyes like a horse, long and plant-like her\nhands lay on the covers. In five days, her suffering became so severe,\nthat Kakadu sat by the bedside day and night. When she cried, her cries\nmade the window-panes shake, and Kakadu had to put cotton in his ears.\nThe doctor was very puzzled at the duration of the pain. He said that it\nmust be her thinness which made the childbirth so painful. \"I knew\nthat,\" said Kakadu, \"why didn't you tell me that in the first place?\" The\ndoctor was confused at Kakadu's harsh manner. He took his spectacles\noff and polished them with part of his coat. On the next day, just when\nJamaika feared for the worst, he came with an armful of books. \"Pardon\nme,\" said he,\"it is a very unusual case, and I have brought several books\nwith me.\" He spread an anatomical atlas out on the table and thumbed\nthe pages slowly, while he felt Jamaika's pulse with one free hand. Kakadu\nwho regarded the colored picture of pathological types with astonishment,\nbecame an enraged animal. He tore the books from the table and cried:\n\"I can do that too, sir. We can all buy books. But the life of my wife\nis at stake!\" The doctor hardly moved, he always pushed back a lock of\nhair that fell on his face from his pomaded wig. \"Pardon me,\" he said,\nstuttering like a novice. \"We shall soon see.\" Now the child came and\nJamaika began to scream so hard, that Kakadu burst into laughter. The"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "279", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2770, "texte": "doctor beamed, although he hadn't moved a hand, Jamaika still groaned,\nand Kakadu danced about the room. \"A boy, a boy. A real young Kakadu!\"\nHe shook hands with the doctor who packed up his books and left the room.\nIn the evening he had to come back because Jamaika was delirious- She\nwas silent for hours, and then would speak in a faint voice. Jamaika told\nfantastic stories, banged fragments of sentences against the ceiling and let\nheavy interjections fall suddenly to the floor. When she awoke, she called\nKakadu, and she stared and cried: \"Don't you see the snakes, Kakadu?\nThe snakes?\" Kakadu took the trouble to look under the bed for snakes,\nfor he did not realize that she was out of her mind. The doctor made\na troubled face and the pomade on his hair rolled down in thick drops on\nhis nose. Throughout the house the windows were covered with heavy\ncurtains. \"The child!\" cried Jamaika. \"Shall I bring it to you?\" asked\nKakadu. A nurse came with the child, who let his red bristly head hang\ndown from his cushions and cried. When the fever reached its climax the\nnumber of pulse beats dropped, and the doctor noted that her limbs grew\ncold. Jamaika was plainly heard saying: \"Butterweg.\" She said: \"Butter-\nweg,\" and tried to lift her arms from the covers. \"What about Butterweg?\"\nasked Kakadu astonished, \"Who is Butterweg, Jamaika? Don't you know\nthat he is in prison?\" On a Friday night — the rain hit the windows like\ndrumsticks and the howling of foghorns and sirens came from the river—\nher agony began. Kakadu prayed. He had ordered a praying stool, and\nkneeled before a large praying book. \"The end is near,\" said the doctor.\nHer breath came faster and faster, her eyelids trembled. Jamaika stretched\nher arms out while she moaned; grievous and terrible screams came from\nher throat. Then she opened her eyes wide, looked once at Kakadu, with\nround pupils, when a stroke gripped her body, her lips opened and her\njaw hung down. Kakadu crossed himself. He brought candles, placed them\nin the form of a pentagon on the table and lit them. As the smoke rose\nfrom them — thick round clouds hung over the corpse — he began to sing\nin a monotonous sing-song, and then prayed again, till he fell down ex-\nhausted and fell asleep at the foot of Jamaika's bed. On the next morning\nhe walked through his garden, smoking a cigar, murmuring pathetically to\nhimself: \"Freedom, I mean . . that quickens the heart . . and so forth . . .\nand so forth . . .\" He had the nurse come, and asked her: \"Tell me\ntruthfully, whom does the child look like?\" The woman cackled: \"Mr.\nKakadu, his father, upon my word.\" \"Fine. Fine,\" said Kakadu and gave\nher a silver coin, holding it high in the sunlight and laughing.\n\nRichard Huelsenbeck\n(Translated from the German by M. J.)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_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": 65, "image_fin": 65, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.23", "titre_corps": "[Illustration sans titre]", "titre_sommaire": "[Illustration sans titre]", "signature_source": "Man Ray", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7, "texte": "Man Ray"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_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": 66, "image_fin": 66, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.24", "titre_corps": "[Illustration sans titre]", "titre_sommaire": "[Illustration sans titre]", "signature_source": "Man Ray", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7, "texte": "Man Ray"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "280", "page_fin": "[284]", "image_debut": 74, "image_fin": 78, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "Comment", "titre_sommaire": "Comment", "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": "280", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1860, "texte": "COMMENT\n\nAPOLLINAIRE\n\nA man lives a crowded life, hurries\nnoisily about town, tosses off a round num-\nber of books, writes verses blackmail\npolemics, then dies suddenly and un-\nceremoniously. Before the unpretentious\ndebris of Apollinaire's \"career,\" one can\nonly pick up the threads and calculate\nwhere such and such a project would have\nveered off. Or approach the still warm\nremains at an angle, noting only whatever\nseems immediately suggestive, while wary\nyet of rash appraisals: for instance, that he\nseemed to write under a devouring haste,\nas if to ward off creditors or to get this\nthing done in order to go back at that other\nbook, or even to hurry up and worm into\nthat French Academy. True, he wrote\nwith an unusual ease and with the per-\nsuasion of a wilful education and a wilful orientation into the language.\nLe Poete Assassine was written during the dull moments of 1916,\nduring one of the dullest wars (to those inside) of history. Next to his\nMille etUn Verges it is his most Aristophanie book. By no means mere satire\nin the 18th, Century sense. Apollinaire grows positively hilarious and\nintoxicated over his characters so that he is at times beside himself with\nsheer fun. Results: humor of extraordinary eloquence and sonority, and\na form that is completely unrepresentative, with perpetual digressions and\nloud asides.\nA translation can scarcely hope to render the wiriness of his language.\nThere have been so many tired men in France who wrote like flagellants.\nFlaubert made his waking hours a nightmare; Gautier was much too cor-\nseted; to Stendhal writing was a torturesome but resistless destiny; Villiers\nwas a devout artisan; Mallarme goaded himself into obscuracy and\nspeechlessness.\nApollinaire, a weird mixture of what Russian and Polish strains, could\nnever resist the foreigner's first impulse toward jeux des mots; and none"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "281", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2340, "texte": "are quicker than the French themselves to accept and enjoy the new puns\nand calembours. For the French have gone farther, their language has\nbeen more pawed over and revivified with foreign usages, if more restricted\nthan ours. Apollinaire's exoticisms are not bizarre; they are conver-\nsational. For the rest there is an astonishing variety of tones, ranging\nfrom mirthful narration to pretentious introspection, vulgar journalese,\nnervous garrulousness, insolent lyricism.\nWe must go back to Stendhal to find such extreme opposition to\nnaturalism. It is enemy of all that was Ibsen and Ibsene. Distortion or\nunder-emphasis are employed to fantastic ends; when a puppet is un-\ninteresting or wrung dry he is dismissed or killed. Here is the destructive\nside of it: Apollinaire runs all the risks, obeys no rules, and writes for fun.\nThe poet, Groniamantal, is one of the few frankly epic figures of\nmodern literature. Apollinaire who was essentially a poet himself, had\nnever really outlived the poet's age of twenty-five. He had turned to prose\nafter many skirmishes and experiments. His poems had been written with\nless haste, many of those in Alcools and certain longer ones in Calligrammes\nas if formulated in the memory during sleepless nights, word by word, and\nline by line, until their shape was hard and irrefutable. An honest exami-\nnation of his poems will show some day, just how much soil he turned up\nfor the modern poets.\nWhen you have rebelled against the principles of harmony and the\nThree Unities, you must perfect your metaphysic of disorganization. And\nso flight, dissociation are most characteristic of Apollinaire's poetry and\nprose. They lend the element of surprise, of super-realism.\nThe whole tone scale is evolved upon the instrument itself. Admirers\nof a certain redoubtable Irish prosateur will find much to wonder at from\nthe point of view of virtuosity in Apollinaire.\nFor instance; he loved the gloss. He become in time a master of the\nfootnote. There is a prodigious secret in his footnotes.\n\nM. J.\n\nLOCUS SOLUS\n(*)\n\nIf I remember the play correctly it was like this: Four men in multi-\ncoloured bearskins carry a coffin over the stage. They set it down and\ndrink lemonade out of a jug. Deciding that the corpse himself must be\n(*) Locus Solus: Raymond Roussel, published by Alphonse Lemerre, Paris, 1914."}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "282", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2686, "texte": "thirsty they insert a square funnel into his coffin and pour a generous drink\nof water while the audience laughs nervously. Exit the pallbearers and\nthe coffin arid the corpse and never to be seen again. The professor enters.\nHe has discovered a method of oxygenating water so that people can lead\na submarine existence; also how to resuscitate the dead. A judge enters\nin red.\nA judge enters in black. The professor kills them. He is not mad;\nhe is a genius. The curtain falls and after a long delay rises on the second\nact. The judges have been revived. Everybody drinks wine out of wooden\ngoblets and the professor talks. After a time the judges are bored and\ngo away. The professor, being left alone, is seized with a sudden, in-\nexplicable melancholy and declares, \"They will never understand me, never.\"\nHe sits in a highchair, makes a cosmic invocation and is born away to\nSaturn at the end of a visible rope. The play was by Raymond Roussel\nwith costumes by Poiret; there was also incidental music which had the\ntaste to remain incidental.\n\"What I lose in clarity I gain in mystery,\" says the Professor. His\nremark and the play which exemplifies it are equally and utterly foreign\nto the standards of what we call French culture. And Anatole France\ncontinues to write and be revered. And the Prix Goncourt was awarded\nto Henri Beraud, his second-hand disciple. And Locus Solus was played\nfor a brief week before a howling, whistling, hooting audience.\nWhen he learned that Roussel had spent 600,000 francs to produce\nhis play, somebody from the Sorbonne angrily inquired why the money\nhad not been devoted to a fund for indigent students.\nHowever, Locus Solus had its friends. Andre Breton attended the dress\nrehearsal and was enthusiastic. On the opening night he returned with the\nstaff of Literature, the collaborators to the staff of Literature, the wives\nand mistresses of the collaborators to the staff of Litterature. The audience,\nat the end of each act, whistled its disapproval of the play, while the staff,\nthe collaborators, the wives and mistresses of Literature joined in a frantic\nand tumultuous applause. Each night for a week this scene was repeated.\nThe audience, for their part, seemed to disapprove of the people who\napplauded Locus Solus even more than they disapproved of the play. Led\nby the commissary of police and the manager of the theater, they would\ndraw round Breton in a semicircle while he delivered a magnificently hostile\noration, citing every author from Boileau to himself in his defence of the\nliberty of the spectator. There were little groups in the lobby long after\nthe final curtain, who discussed, who imprecated, who waved fists in the"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "283", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2139, "texte": "air. Afterwards we emerged to the glare of the logical arclights of the\nBoulevard de Strasbourg. . .\nI almost forgot. Locus Solus had a finale which swept me off my\nfeet. Under the sea, the sea being represented by a gauze curtain dropped\nacross the stage. Everything was quite unrelated: fishes moved back\nand forth, two sea monsters drew a chariot which was symbolic of nothing,\na mermaid sang on a sort of throne, a young man in a bathing suit performed\nan obscene dance and, somewhere in a corner, a little girl in conventional\nbeach costume was playing, oblivious of the mermaid, the fishes, the sea\nmonsters, the obscene dance. There was something magnificent in the\npointlessness of the scene; something daily, familiar, unobserved: it was\na little world, our world perhaps, existing over the footlights, under the sea.\nThe curtain fell.\n\nMalcolm Cowley\n\nLIGHT: A MEDIUM OF PLASTIC EXPRESSION.\n\nSince the discovery of photography virtually nothing new has been\nfound as far as the principles and technique of the process are concerned.\nAll innovations are based on the aesthetic representative conceptions existing\nin Daguerre's time (about 1830), although these conceptions, i.e. the copying\nof nature by means of the photographic camera and the mechanical re-\nproduction of perspective, have been rendered obsolete by the work of\nmodern artists.\nDespite the obvious fact that the sensitivity to light of a chemically\nprepared surface (of glass, metal, paper, etc.) was the most important element\nin the photographic process, i.e., containing its own laws, the sensitized\nsurface was always subjected to the demands of a camera obscura adjusted\nto the traditional laws of perspective while the full possibilities of this com-\nbination were never sufficiently tested.\nThe proper utilization of the plate itself would have brought to light\nphenomena imperceptible to the human eye and made visible only by means\nof the photographic apparatus thus perfecting the eye by means of photo-\ngraphy. True, this principle has already been applied in certain scientific\nexperiments, as in the study of motion (walking, leaping, galloping) and"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "[284]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2424, "texte": "zoological and mineral forms, but these have always been isolated efforts\nwhose results could not be compared or related.\nIt must be noted here that our intellectual experience complements\nspatially and formally the optical phenomena perceived by the eye and\nrenders them into a comprehensible whole, whereas the photographic\napparatus reproduces the purely optical picture (distortion, bad drawing,\nforeshortening).\nOne way of exploring this field is to investigate and apply various\nchemical mixtures which produce light effects, imperceptible to the eye,\n(such as electro-magnetic rays, x-rays).\nAnother way is by the construction of new apparatus, first by the use\nof the camera obscura, second, by the elimination of perspective. In the\nfirst case using apparatus with lenses and mirror-arrangements which can\ncover their environment from all sides; in the second case, using an apparatus\nwhich is based on new optical laws. This last leads to the possibility of\n\"light-composition,\" whereby light would be controlled as a new plastic\nmedium, just as color in painting and tone in music.\nThis signifies a perfectly new medium of expression whose novelty\noffers an undreamed of scope. The possibilities of this medium of composition\nbecome greater as we proceed from static representation to the motion-\npictures of the cinematograph.\nI have made a few primitive attempts in this direction, whose initial\nresults, however, point to the most positive discoveries (and as soon as these\nattempts can be tested experimentally in a laboratory especially devised for\nthe purpose, the results are certain to be far more impressive).\nInstead of having a plate which is sensitive to light react mechanically\nto its environment through the reflection or absorption of light, I have\nattempted to control its action by means of lenses and mirrors, by light\npassed through fluids like water, oil, acids, and crystal, metal, glass, tissue,\netc. This means that the filtered, reflected or refracted light is directed upon\na screen and then photographed. Or again, the light-effect can be thrown\ndirectly on the sensitive plate itself, instead of upon a screen. (Photography\nwithout apparatus.) Since these light effects almost always show themselves\nin motion, it is clear that the process reaches its highest development in\nthe film.\nPrinted by Rich. Labisch <£ Co., Graphische Kunstanstalt G.m. b.H., Berlin (Germany)\n\nL. Moholy-Nagy"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c025a", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c025a", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "280", "page_fin": "281", "image_debut": 74, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.25.1", "titre_corps": "Apollinaire", "titre_sommaire": "Apollinaire", "signature_source": "M. J.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "280", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 9, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1860, "texte": "APOLLINAIRE\n\nA man lives a crowded life, hurries\nnoisily about town, tosses off a round num-\nber of books, writes verses blackmail\npolemics, then dies suddenly and un-\nceremoniously. Before the unpretentious\ndebris of Apollinaire's \"career,\" one can\nonly pick up the threads and calculate\nwhere such and such a project would have\nveered off. Or approach the still warm\nremains at an angle, noting only whatever\nseems immediately suggestive, while wary\nyet of rash appraisals: for instance, that he\nseemed to write under a devouring haste,\nas if to ward off creditors or to get this\nthing done in order to go back at that other\nbook, or even to hurry up and worm into\nthat French Academy. True, he wrote\nwith an unusual ease and with the per-\nsuasion of a wilful education and a wilful orientation into the language.\nLe Poete Assassine was written during the dull moments of 1916,\nduring one of the dullest wars (to those inside) of history. Next to his\nMille etUn Verges it is his most Aristophanie book. By no means mere satire\nin the 18th, Century sense. Apollinaire grows positively hilarious and\nintoxicated over his characters so that he is at times beside himself with\nsheer fun. Results: humor of extraordinary eloquence and sonority, and\na form that is completely unrepresentative, with perpetual digressions and\nloud asides.\nA translation can scarcely hope to render the wiriness of his language.\nThere have been so many tired men in France who wrote like flagellants.\nFlaubert made his waking hours a nightmare; Gautier was much too cor-\nseted; to Stendhal writing was a torturesome but resistless destiny; Villiers\nwas a devout artisan; Mallarme goaded himself into obscuracy and\nspeechlessness.\nApollinaire, a weird mixture of what Russian and Polish strains, could\nnever resist the foreigner's first impulse toward jeux des mots; and none"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "281", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2033, "texte": "are quicker than the French themselves to accept and enjoy the new puns\nand calembours. For the French have gone farther, their language has\nbeen more pawed over and revivified with foreign usages, if more restricted\nthan ours. Apollinaire's exoticisms are not bizarre; they are conver-\nsational. For the rest there is an astonishing variety of tones, ranging\nfrom mirthful narration to pretentious introspection, vulgar journalese,\nnervous garrulousness, insolent lyricism.\nWe must go back to Stendhal to find such extreme opposition to\nnaturalism. It is enemy of all that was Ibsen and Ibsene. Distortion or\nunder-emphasis are employed to fantastic ends; when a puppet is un-\ninteresting or wrung dry he is dismissed or killed. Here is the destructive\nside of it: Apollinaire runs all the risks, obeys no rules, and writes for fun.\nThe poet, Groniamantal, is one of the few frankly epic figures of\nmodern literature. Apollinaire who was essentially a poet himself, had\nnever really outlived the poet's age of twenty-five. He had turned to prose\nafter many skirmishes and experiments. His poems had been written with\nless haste, many of those in Alcools and certain longer ones in Calligrammes\nas if formulated in the memory during sleepless nights, word by word, and\nline by line, until their shape was hard and irrefutable. An honest exami-\nnation of his poems will show some day, just how much soil he turned up\nfor the modern poets.\nWhen you have rebelled against the principles of harmony and the\nThree Unities, you must perfect your metaphysic of disorganization. And\nso flight, dissociation are most characteristic of Apollinaire's poetry and\nprose. They lend the element of surprise, of super-realism.\nThe whole tone scale is evolved upon the instrument itself. Admirers\nof a certain redoubtable Irish prosateur will find much to wonder at from\nthe point of view of virtuosity in Apollinaire.\nFor instance; he loved the gloss. He become in time a master of the\nfootnote. There is a prodigious secret in his footnotes.\n\nM. J."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c025b", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c025b", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "281", "page_fin": "283", "image_debut": 75, "image_fin": 77, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.25.2", "titre_corps": "Locus Solus", "titre_sommaire": "Locus Solus", "signature_source": "Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "281", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 2035, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2340, "texte": "LOCUS SOLUS\n(*)\n\nIf I remember the play correctly it was like this: Four men in multi-\ncoloured bearskins carry a coffin over the stage. They set it down and\ndrink lemonade out of a jug. Deciding that the corpse himself must be\n(*) Locus Solus: Raymond Roussel, published by Alphonse Lemerre, Paris, 1914."}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "282", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2686, "texte": "thirsty they insert a square funnel into his coffin and pour a generous drink\nof water while the audience laughs nervously. Exit the pallbearers and\nthe coffin arid the corpse and never to be seen again. The professor enters.\nHe has discovered a method of oxygenating water so that people can lead\na submarine existence; also how to resuscitate the dead. A judge enters\nin red.\nA judge enters in black. The professor kills them. He is not mad;\nhe is a genius. The curtain falls and after a long delay rises on the second\nact. The judges have been revived. Everybody drinks wine out of wooden\ngoblets and the professor talks. After a time the judges are bored and\ngo away. The professor, being left alone, is seized with a sudden, in-\nexplicable melancholy and declares, \"They will never understand me, never.\"\nHe sits in a highchair, makes a cosmic invocation and is born away to\nSaturn at the end of a visible rope. The play was by Raymond Roussel\nwith costumes by Poiret; there was also incidental music which had the\ntaste to remain incidental.\n\"What I lose in clarity I gain in mystery,\" says the Professor. His\nremark and the play which exemplifies it are equally and utterly foreign\nto the standards of what we call French culture. And Anatole France\ncontinues to write and be revered. And the Prix Goncourt was awarded\nto Henri Beraud, his second-hand disciple. And Locus Solus was played\nfor a brief week before a howling, whistling, hooting audience.\nWhen he learned that Roussel had spent 600,000 francs to produce\nhis play, somebody from the Sorbonne angrily inquired why the money\nhad not been devoted to a fund for indigent students.\nHowever, Locus Solus had its friends. Andre Breton attended the dress\nrehearsal and was enthusiastic. On the opening night he returned with the\nstaff of Literature, the collaborators to the staff of Literature, the wives\nand mistresses of the collaborators to the staff of Litterature. The audience,\nat the end of each act, whistled its disapproval of the play, while the staff,\nthe collaborators, the wives and mistresses of Literature joined in a frantic\nand tumultuous applause. Each night for a week this scene was repeated.\nThe audience, for their part, seemed to disapprove of the people who\napplauded Locus Solus even more than they disapproved of the play. Led\nby the commissary of police and the manager of the theater, they would\ndraw round Breton in a semicircle while he delivered a magnificently hostile\noration, citing every author from Boileau to himself in his defence of the\nliberty of the spectator. There were little groups in the lobby long after\nthe final curtain, who discussed, who imprecated, who waved fists in the"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "283", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 860, "texte": "air. Afterwards we emerged to the glare of the logical arclights of the\nBoulevard de Strasbourg. . .\nI almost forgot. Locus Solus had a finale which swept me off my\nfeet. Under the sea, the sea being represented by a gauze curtain dropped\nacross the stage. Everything was quite unrelated: fishes moved back\nand forth, two sea monsters drew a chariot which was symbolic of nothing,\na mermaid sang on a sort of throne, a young man in a bathing suit performed\nan obscene dance and, somewhere in a corner, a little girl in conventional\nbeach costume was playing, oblivious of the mermaid, the fishes, the sea\nmonsters, the obscene dance. There was something magnificent in the\npointlessness of the scene; something daily, familiar, unobserved: it was\na little world, our world perhaps, existing over the footlights, under the sea.\nThe curtain fell.\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c025c", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c025c", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "283", "page_fin": "[284]", "image_debut": 77, "image_fin": 78, "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.25.3", "titre_corps": "Light: A Medium of Plastic Expression", "titre_sommaire": "Light: A Medium of Plastic Expression", "signature_source": "L. Moholy-Nagy", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "283", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 862, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2139, "texte": "LIGHT: A MEDIUM OF PLASTIC EXPRESSION.\n\nSince the discovery of photography virtually nothing new has been\nfound as far as the principles and technique of the process are concerned.\nAll innovations are based on the aesthetic representative conceptions existing\nin Daguerre's time (about 1830), although these conceptions, i.e. the copying\nof nature by means of the photographic camera and the mechanical re-\nproduction of perspective, have been rendered obsolete by the work of\nmodern artists.\nDespite the obvious fact that the sensitivity to light of a chemically\nprepared surface (of glass, metal, paper, etc.) was the most important element\nin the photographic process, i.e., containing its own laws, the sensitized\nsurface was always subjected to the demands of a camera obscura adjusted\nto the traditional laws of perspective while the full possibilities of this com-\nbination were never sufficiently tested.\nThe proper utilization of the plate itself would have brought to light\nphenomena imperceptible to the human eye and made visible only by means\nof the photographic apparatus thus perfecting the eye by means of photo-\ngraphy. True, this principle has already been applied in certain scientific\nexperiments, as in the study of motion (walking, leaping, galloping) and"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "[284]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2424, "texte": "zoological and mineral forms, but these have always been isolated efforts\nwhose results could not be compared or related.\nIt must be noted here that our intellectual experience complements\nspatially and formally the optical phenomena perceived by the eye and\nrenders them into a comprehensible whole, whereas the photographic\napparatus reproduces the purely optical picture (distortion, bad drawing,\nforeshortening).\nOne way of exploring this field is to investigate and apply various\nchemical mixtures which produce light effects, imperceptible to the eye,\n(such as electro-magnetic rays, x-rays).\nAnother way is by the construction of new apparatus, first by the use\nof the camera obscura, second, by the elimination of perspective. In the\nfirst case using apparatus with lenses and mirror-arrangements which can\ncover their environment from all sides; in the second case, using an apparatus\nwhich is based on new optical laws. This last leads to the possibility of\n\"light-composition,\" whereby light would be controlled as a new plastic\nmedium, just as color in painting and tone in music.\nThis signifies a perfectly new medium of expression whose novelty\noffers an undreamed of scope. The possibilities of this medium of composition\nbecome greater as we proceed from static representation to the motion-\npictures of the cinematograph.\nI have made a few primitive attempts in this direction, whose initial\nresults, however, point to the most positive discoveries (and as soon as these\nattempts can be tested experimentally in a laboratory especially devised for\nthe purpose, the results are certain to be far more impressive).\nInstead of having a plate which is sensitive to light react mechanically\nto its environment through the reflection or absorption of light, I have\nattempted to control its action by means of lenses and mirrors, by light\npassed through fluids like water, oil, acids, and crystal, metal, glass, tissue,\netc. This means that the filtered, reflected or refracted light is directed upon\na screen and then photographed. Or again, the light-effect can be thrown\ndirectly on the sensitive plate itself, instead of upon a screen. (Photography\nwithout apparatus.) Since these light effects almost always show themselves\nin motion, it is clear that the process reaches its highest development in\nthe film.\nPrinted by Rich. Labisch <£ Co., Graphische Kunstanstalt G.m. b.H., Berlin (Germany)\n\nL. Moholy-Nagy"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[217]", "page_fin": "[217]", "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.27", "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": 3, "page_imprimee": "[217]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 337, "texte": "WILL RANSOM\nMAKER OF BOOKS\nA PRIVATE PRESS ISSUING\nHAND-MADE BOOKS IN LIMI-\nTED EDITIONS AND PRESENT-\nING FIRST APPEARANCES OF\n/ CONTEMPORARY AUTHORS /\nWRITE FOR INFORMATION AND\nSPECIMEN PAGES\n&\n14 WEST WASHINGTON STREET,\nCHICAGO, U. S. A.\nammiiiimutimiiimmimiimmiiHiiiiimimiiiiiiiimimiiuiiimimmmiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiuiiiiiimiir;"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[217]", "page_fin": "[217]", "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.28", "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": 3, "page_imprimee": "[217]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 339, "fin_caractere_exclue": 636, "texte": "SPECIAL OFFER\nmiiimtiiiiiimiiiiimiiiiimiimiiiiiiiimiittimiiHJiiiiiiiiniiiiimiiimiimmiiiiHmiiiiiiiiiimi)\nBROOM ($5)\nAND\nTHE NEW REPUBLIC ($5)\nFOR ONE YEAR\nFOR $8.50\niiiiii)iinniminiiiiiiiiiimiinniiiiniiiiiniininnniimiiiniminnimiiiimmniHHtrmnmtmni\n/ / ADDRESS BROOM / /\n3 EAST NINTH STREET, NEW YORK"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[217]", "page_fin": "[217]", "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=bmtnaap192303-01.2.29", "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": 3, "page_imprimee": "[217]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 638, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1652, "texte": "vV vV V vv-—•••\n> <\n! THE DRAMA !\n> <\n> A monthfy magazine of the aflied arts of the theatre <\n> <\n' THE DRAMA will keep you informed of the most significant developments in drama and its pro- (\n\\ duction, both professional and amateur. \\\nJ Each issue contains two or more one-act plays / reviews of Chicago, New ybrk and London *\n) productions,* special articles by leading actors or other artists of the theatre, such as Otis Skinner, /\nMargaret Anglin, Arthur Hopkins, E. H. Sothern and Mr. Fiske/ illustrations of the latest stagecraft <\nand costuming,- accounts of the work of Little and Community Theatres, notes on new books related .\nto the drama,- advice to amateur groups, study courses and lists of plays. {\nThe editors of The Drama are Theodore B. Hinckley, Granville Barker, Barrett H. Clark, Walter /\nPrichard Eaton, J. Vandervoort Sloan and Jack Crawford. <\n<\nTHE DRAMA • 555 ATHENAEUM BUILDING • CHICAGO\nI wish you to send me THE DRAMA { £or fiv£ monthfs *** 1\n7 \\ for one year ror $3\nName:\nAdress:"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[285]", "page_fin": "[285]", "image_debut": 79, "image_fin": 79, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.2.30", "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": 79, "page_imprimee": "[285]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 518, "texte": "MODERN REVIEW\npublished quarterly at Winchester Mass, is:\n1) an organ of constructive criticism on continental and American\nauthors and recent tendencies in poetry and prose\n2) an organ of the short story, printing at least two stories each issue.\nIts aim in this direction is to differentiate the short story from the\ncurrent modernistic sketch\n3) an organ of poetry, representing all enduring phases in the renascent\ndevelopments of this art\n25 cents a copy $1.00 a year by subscription\nAT ALL FIRST CLASS BOOKSTANDS"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[285]", "page_fin": "[285]", "image_debut": 79, "image_fin": 79, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.2.31", "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": 79, "page_imprimee": "[285]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 520, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1420, "texte": "aiiiiiinmiiiiiHiiiimm\nlllllillll!!\nmini!\nRUSSIA'S HISTORIC ROLE\nA NEW EPOCH IS SHAPING ITSELF INSOVIET RUSSIA\nWATCH DEVELOPMENTS IN RUSSIAN INDUSTRY, SCIENCE.\nART, LETTERS, THROUGH THE NEW\nGRAPHIC\nMONTHLY REVIEW\nOF RUSSIAN\nAFFAIRS\nSOVIET RUSSIA PICTORIAL\n201 W. 13th St. N Y C\nEnclosed please find kindly send me the PICTORIAL for\nOne dollar 6 months\nTwo dollars one year\nfor which you will\nName\nAddress\nCity and State\nStart my subscription with the January number.\nIt is the kind of magazine you will\nwant for permanent reference.\nStart with the initial issue, dated Ja-\nnuary, by filling out the blank below.\nThe first issue contained 40 pictures,\n10 articles, editorials, book reviews, etc.\nThe February number will be even better.\nIt is printed on glossy paper, about\nthe size of \"BROOM\", and sells for\n20 cents a copy. You save by subscrib-\ning; one dollar for six months—two dollars\nfor a year."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_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": 80, "image_fin": 80, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.2.32", "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": 80, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1775, "texte": "THE WASTE LAND\nT. S Eliot\ncreated an extraordinary interest among American writers and\ncritics, when it originally appeared in THE DIAL last Novem-\nber. This interest has grown steadily, and the appearance of\nthe poem in book form, with full annotations by the author, is\nas much an event in the world of books as the original publica-\ntion was in the magazine world. In view of this, THE DIAL\nhas procured a number of copies of the limited first edition of\nThe Waste Land and offers them' to new subscribers.\nThis is the only form in which The Waste Land can now be\nprocured, as the November Dial, and the issue of The Criterion\n(London) which contained the poem, are both exhausted. The\nBoni and Liveright publication is the first edition consisting of\none thousand numbered copies, and is certain to become a col-\nlector's rarity in a short time.\nThe Notes which Mr. Eliot has written give definite clues to\nthe framework and symbolism of the poem and include identi-\nfication of certain quoted passages which have puzzled his\nreaders. It was in accordance with the author's wishes that the\npoem was originally published without the Notes; but readers\nwill be glad to have the unique pleasure of reading a poet's\nannotations on himself.\nThe number of copies The Dial has been able to procure from\nthe publishers is limited. Until the supply is exhausted, copies\nof The Waste Land may be obtained with a year's subscription\nto THE DIAL. The annual rate of THE DIAL is $5.00. THE\nDIAL and THE WASTE LAND together may be had for $5.50.\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street New York City\nGentlemen: You may enter my name for a year's subscription\nto THE DIAL. Please also send me a copy of THE WASTE\nLAND.\nName\nAddress\nO 1 enclose $5.50. Q I will remit $5.50 on receipt of your bill."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_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": 81, "image_fin": 81, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.2.33", "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": 81, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1589, "texte": "THE NEW PEARSON'S\nin the current issue heralds the most noteworthy event\nin the world of letters for the new year\nwith the forthcoming\n$1500\nLITERARY PRIZE\nCONTEST\nin three branches of literature\nTHE PURPOSE of the contest is\nmainly to stabilize along salutary\nlines the uncertain fumbling of pioneers\nin search of new forms, which, thus far,\nhas resulted in a recrudescence of liter-\nary production, with the concomitant\ndissatisfaction on the part of the more\nconservative, literary element. In order\nto encourage the production of the high-\nest in literature, THE NEW PEAR-\nSON'S is offering NINE PRIZES\ntotaling $1500 for the best poems,\nshort-stories and essays.\nThe contest is open to all resi-\ndents of the American Continent,\nand the choice will be made by some\nof the foremost literary figures of\nAmerica:\nT* or the Short-Story Contest: Floyd Dell,- Edmund Wilson,- F. Scott Fitzgerald\nTor the Poetry Contest.■ £,dwi? Markham, E GidI°w'\nc Blanche ohoemaker Wagstafr\nTor the Essay Contest: Carl Van Doren,- John Macy/ George Jean Nathan\nIn order that all those interested in the contest may have the opportunity of\nfollowing all its exciting phases, THE NEW PEARSON'S offers a special\nseven months' subscription for $1.00.\nRegufar rates: For domestic subscriptions $2.00 per year,- Canada $2.25/\nForeign $2.50/ Single copies 25 cents.\nAT ALL NEWS-STANDS\nTHE NEW PEARSON'S\nEdited by Afexancfer Mar by, 779 Broadway, New York City\nEuropean Representatives:\nThe International News Company, Ltd.\nBream's Building, London E. C. 4, England\nParis Office, 24 Rue Tholoze,\nMontmartre, Paris"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 82, "image_fin": 82, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.2.34", "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": 82, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1498, "texte": "THE BOOKMAN\nEDITED BY JOHN FARRAR\nr\"PHE BOOKMAN is a monthly magazine offering to people who READ an in-\n■*» timate acquaintanceship with the most interesting and famous people who WRITE.\nIn its pages they come to you not only through their work but as friends ready to\ndiscuss some striking event of the day, some work of a contemporary; glad to take you\nbehind the scenes of the literary and dramatic world. They contribute articles — reviews\n— reminiscences — gossip — poetry — short stories — essays — discussions; a story-\ntelling assembly whose wit is sparkling, whose judgments are frank and to the point.\nol . . —... - 1o\nSOME CONTRIBUTORS FOR 1923\nH. L. Mencken James Branch Cabell\nHugh Walpole Alexander Woolcott\nHeywood Broun Joseph Hergesheimer\nGertrude Atherton William Rose Benet\nSinclair Lewis Floyd Dell\nMary Austin Stephen Vincent Benet\nCarl Sandburg Robert Cortes Holliday\nJessie B. Rittenhouse Mary Roberts Rinehart\nStuart P. Sherman Irvin S. Cobb\nTHE BOOKMAN'S Bureau of Practical Advice to Writers; Broadway, Our Literary\nSignpost, by Kenneth Andrews; The Practical Side of Writing, by Robert Cortes Holliday;\nLiterary Club Service; Poems of the Month; The Bookman's Guide to Fiction; The Londoner;\nThe Bookshelf; Foreign Note and Comment; The Gossip Shop; The Editor Recommends, etc.\nAll the latest news of the literary world each month in THE BOOKMAN\n\"A SPLENDID, LIVE AND INTERESTING PUBLICATION\"\n40 cents monthly $4.00 a year\nGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY * Publishers * New York"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-03-01-c036", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01#c036", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-03_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 84, "image_fin": 84, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.2.35", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1720, "texte": "■ ■ ■ •' ■ i1111•111111111II111II1111111111II1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111 III 1111111111111111111111111111111111II111111111111\n=\nA magazine of Art and Culture published by the Orient Society\nEditor, HARI G. GOVIL\nNever was there so great a need as today for\nthe world to widen its horizon of understanding.\nThe world, for the first time, is questioning the\nvery foundations of its knowledge, doubting\nthe very direction of its aims. If a new renais-\nsance is to come a wider understanding must\nprevail. A more profound information, flowing\nthru a wider channel, such is the substance of\n\"Orient\", a magazine of Art, Science and Culture.\nThe rising consciousness of the West of today\ncannot remain satisfied within its own narrow\nlimits of knowledge and understanding. ORIENT\nendeavors to bring the Oriental treasures in Art,\nLiterature, Science and Philosophy to the thought-\nful people of the world. If you are interested in\nthe world renaissance, you will find that ORIENT\nsupplements your ideas and cultural tastes.\nThe subjects treated are of universal importance.\nAnnual subscription $ 2.00 in U. S. A. / Canada and Foreign $ 2.50\nPublished once every two months\nBusiness Office, 132 Nassau Si.\nNew York City, U. S. A.\nAll manuscripts submitted for publication in ORIENT must be accompanied by\na self-addressed stamped envelope. Articles should not exceed two thousand words.\nHllllllllll!lllllllll!lllllllllllllll!lllllllllllllll!llll!lllll!!!l!llllllll!lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll!llllllllllllllllll!!l!lllllllllllli!lll!llllllllllllllllllllllllllllll!!llll|||||lllllllllllllll!llll!lllllllllll!!|||||||MIII||||j||||||ll|||rr\nminimi immimiim minimim imiiimmi mi"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[216]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM ;\nr..\n•> -V -\n' I'., \" '•\nH r® W \"'•* • ..... , y\nAn International Magazine oe the Arts Published by Harold A. Loeb.\nEditor, Harold a. Loeb. Associate Editor, Matthew Josephson. American Editor, Lola Ridge.\nAssociate Art Editor, Ladislas Medgyes.\nMARCH, 1923\nPUBLISHED MONTHLY\nVOL. 4, NO. 4 i\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.\n/ Mss. from Europe should be sent to the Berlin office,- mss. from America to the New\nYork office. >•' \" \"' . .\nThe price of Broom is: r\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\n6o francs for a year's subscription. For Great Britain, 2 shillings the copy, and one pound for a\nyear'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 — Man Ray\nThe Poet Assassinated — Guillaume Apollinaire 218\nPhotographs — L. Moholy-Nagy (facing) 224,225\nLa Rumba Cubana — Charles Galwey 235\nA Bottle of Lilac Perfume — Dorothy Hamilton 237\nPortrait by Lyendecker — Malcolm Cowley 240\nPhotographs — L. Moholy-Nagy (facing) 240,241\nDrawing — L. Lozowick . . . 247\nA Lady —■ Emanuel Carnevali . r . v.,... 248\nPortrait — Maxwell Bodenheim . . . 249\nThe College Glee Club — Robert Alden Sanborn 250\nAffinities — John Crawford 251\nThe Discovery of the Indies — William Carlos Williams 252\nPhotographs — Man Ray . (facing) 256,257\nDarkness Glitters — Robert Coates „ 261\nThe Apollo of Vei, Stigmatae — Carleton Beals . 265\nTransformations — Richard Huelsenbeck 267\nPhotographs — Man Ray (facing) 272,273\nCOMMENT: APOLLINAIRE — M. J. . 280\nApollinaire (Woodcut) — Marcoussis 280\nLocus Solus — Malcolm Cowley • ... V 281\nLight: A Medium of Plastic Expression — L. Moholy-Nagy 283\n'K*'"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[217]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.3", "texte": "WILL RANSOM\nMAKER OF BOOKS\nA PRIVATE PRESS ISSUING\nHAND-MADE BOOKS IN LIMI-\nTED EDITIONS AND PRESENT-\nING FIRST APPEARANCES OF\n/ CONTEMPORARY AUTHORS /\nWRITE FOR INFORMATION AND\nSPECIMEN PAGES\n&\n14 WEST WASHINGTON STREET,\nCHICAGO, U. S. A.\nammiiiimutimiiimmimiimmiiHiiiiimimiiiiiiiimimiiuiiimimmmiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiuiiiiiimiir;\n\nSPECIAL OFFER\nmiiimtiiiiiimiiiiimiiiiimiimiiiiiiiimiittimiiHJiiiiiiiiniiiiimiiimiimmiiiiHmiiiiiiiiiimi)\nBROOM ($5)\nAND\nTHE NEW REPUBLIC ($5)\nFOR ONE YEAR\nFOR $8.50\niiiiii)iinniminiiiiiiiiiimiinniiiiniiiiiniininnniimiiiniminnimiiiimmniHHtrmnmtmni\n/ / ADDRESS BROOM / /\n3 EAST NINTH STREET, NEW YORK\n\nvV vV V vv-—•••\n> <\n! THE DRAMA !\n> <\n> A monthfy magazine of the aflied arts of the theatre <\n> <\n' THE DRAMA will keep you informed of the most significant developments in drama and its pro- (\n\\ duction, both professional and amateur. \\\nJ Each issue contains two or more one-act plays / reviews of Chicago, New ybrk and London *\n) productions,* special articles by leading actors or other artists of the theatre, such as Otis Skinner, /\nMargaret Anglin, Arthur Hopkins, E. H. Sothern and Mr. Fiske/ illustrations of the latest stagecraft <\nand costuming,- accounts of the work of Little and Community Theatres, notes on new books related .\nto the drama,- advice to amateur groups, study courses and lists of plays. {\nThe editors of The Drama are Theodore B. Hinckley, Granville Barker, Barrett H. Clark, Walter /\nPrichard Eaton, J. Vandervoort Sloan and Jack Crawford. <\n<\nTHE DRAMA • 555 ATHENAEUM BUILDING • CHICAGO\nI wish you to send me THE DRAMA { £or fiv£ monthfs *** 1\n7 \\ for one year ror $3\nName:\nAdress:"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "218", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.4", "texte": "THE POET ASSASSINATED\n\nI\nRENOWN\nThe glory of Croniamantal is today universal. One hundred and\ntwenty-three towns in seven countries on four continents dispute the honor\nof this notable hero's birth. I shall attempt, further on, to elucidate this\nimportant question.\nAll of these peoples have more or less modified the sonorous name\nof Croniamantal. The Arabs, the Turks and other races who read from\nright to left have never failed to pronounce it Latnamainorc, but the Turks\ncall him, bizarrely enough, Pata, which signifies goose or genital organ.\nThe Russians surname him Viperdoc, that is, born of a pet\\ the reason\nfor this soubriquet will be seen later on. The Scandinavians, or at least,\nthe Dalecarlians, call him at will, quoniam, in latin, which means, because,\nbut often serves to indicate the noble passages in popular accounts of the\nmiddle ages. It is to be noted that the Saxons and the Turks manifest\nwith regard to Croniamantal, a similar sentiment, since they refer to him\nby an identical surname, whose origin, however, is still scarcely explained.\nIt is believed that this is an euphemistic allusion to the fact stressed in the\nmedical report of the Marseilles doctor Ratiboul on the death of Croniaman-\ntal. According to this official document, all the organs of Croniamantal\nwere sound, and the lawyer-physician added in Latin, as did Napoleons\naide Major Henry: partes viriles exiguitatis insignis, sicut pueri.\nFor the rest, there are countries where the notion of the Croniaman-\ntalian virility has entirely disappeared. Thus, the negroes in Moriana call\nhim Tsatsa or Dzadza or Rsoussour, all feminine names, for they have\nfeminized Croniamantal as the Byzantines feminized Holy Friday in making\nit Saint Parascevia.\nII.\nGENESIS\nTwo leagues from Spa, on the road bordered by gnarled trees and\nbushes, Vierselin Tigoboth, an ambulant musician who was coming on foot\nfrom Li&ge, struck his flint to light his pipe. A woman's voice cried:\nffHol Monsieur!\""}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "219", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.5", "texte": "He lifted his head and a wild laugh burst out: \"Hahaha! Hohoho!\nHihihil thine eyelids are of the color of Egyptian lentils! My name is\nMacaree. I want a tom-cat.\"\nVierselin Tigohoth perceived by the roadside a young woman,\nbrunette and formed of nice curves. How charming she seemed in her short\nbicyclist's skirt! And holding her bicycle with one hand, while gathering\nprunelles with the other, she fixed ardently her great golden eyes on the\nFlemish musician.\n\"Vs'estez one belle bacelle,\" said Vierselin Tigoboth, smacking his tongue.\n\"But, my God, if you eat all those prunelles, you will have the colic,\ntonight, I'm sure.\"\n\"I want a tom-cat,\" repeated Macaree and unclasping her bodice she\nshowed Vierselin Tigoboth her breasts, sweet as the buttocks of the angels,\nand whose aureole was the tender color of the rose clouds of sunset.\n\"Oh! oh!\" cried Vierselin Tigoboth, \"As pretty as the pearls of\nAmblevia, give them to me. I shall gather a big bouquet of ferns for you\nand of irises, color of the moon.\"\nVierselin Tigoboth approached to seize this miraculous flesh which\nwas being offered to him for nothing, like the holy bread at Mass; but\nthen he restrained himself.\nMACAREE\nThey are the color of the moon\nAnd round as the wheel of Fortune.\nVIERSELIN TIGOBOTH\nIf you fear not to catch the louse\nThen I should love to be your spouse.\nAnd Vierselin Tigoboth approached, his lips full of kisses: \"I love\nyou! It is pooh! O beloved!\"\nSoon there were nothing but sighs, the songs of birds and of russet\nand horned little hares, passing like elves, fleet as the seven-league\nboots, by Vierselin Tigoboth and Macaree, under the power of love behind\nthe plumtrees.\nThen, Macaree was off on the old contraption.\nAnd sad unto death, Vierselin Tigoboth cursed the instrument of velo-\ncity which rolled away and vanished behind the terraced rotunda, at the\nsame moment that the musician began to make water while humming\na passacaglia. . t\n1*"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "220", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.6", "texte": "III.\nEXEGESIS\nMacaree soon became aware that she had conceived by Vierselin\nTigoboth.\n\"How annoying!\" she thought at first, 'But medicine has made much\nprogress lately. I shall get rid of it when I want. Ah! that Walloon!\nHe will have toiled in vain. Can Macaree bring up the son of a vagabond?\nNo, no, I condemn this embryo to death. I should never even preserve\nthis foetus in alcohol. And thou, my belly, if thou knewest how much\nI love thee since knowing thy goodness. What, wouldst stoop to carry\nsuch baggage as thou findest along the road? O too innocent belly, thou\nart unworthy of my selfish soul.\n\"What shall I say, o belly? thou'rt cruel, thou partest children from\ntheir parents. No! I love thee no longer. Thou'rt naught but a full bag,\nat this moment, o my belly, smiling at the nombril, o elastic belly, downy,\npolished, convex, sorrowful, round, silky, which enobles me. For thou\nmakest noble, o my belly, more beautiful than the sunlight. Thou shalt\nennoble also the child of the Flemish vagabond and thou art worthy of the\nloins of Jupiter. What a misfortune! a moment ago I was about to\ndestroy a child of noble race, my child who already lives in my beloved\nbelly.\"\nShe opened the door suddenly and cried:\n\"Madame Dehan! Mademoiselle Baba!\"\nThere was a rattling of doors and bolts and then the proprietors of\nMacaree's lodging came running out.\n\"I am pregnant,\" cried Macaree, \"I am pregnant!\"\nShe was sitting up in bed, her legs spread apart, her skin looked very\ndelicate. Macaree was narrow at the waist and broad-hipped.\n\"Poor little one,\" said Madame Dehan, who had but one eye, no\nwaistline, a moustache, and limped. \"After confinement women are just\nlike crushed snailshells. After confinement women are simply prey to\ndisease, (look at me!) an egg-shell full of all sorts of rubbish, incantations\nand other witch-spells. Ah! Ah! You have done very well.\"\n\"All foolishness,\" said Macaree. \"The duty of women is to have\nchildren, and I am sure that their health is generally improved thereby\nboth physically and morally.\"\n\"Where are you sick?\" asked Mademoiselle Baba.\n\"Shut up! I say,\" exclaimed Madame Dehan. \"Better go and look for\nmy flask of Spa elixir and bring some little glasses.\""}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "221", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.7", "texte": "Mademoiselle Baba brought the elixir. They drank of it.\n\"I feel better now,\" said Madame Dehan; \"After so much emotion,\nI need to refresh myself.\"\nShe poured out another little glass of the elixir for herself, drank it\nand licked the last few drops up with her tongue.\n\"Think of it,\" she said finally, \"think of it, Madame Macaree . . .\nI swear by all that I hold sacred, Mademoiselle Baba can be my witness,\nthis is the first time that such a thing has happened to one of my tenants.\nAnd how many I have had! My Lord! Louise Bernier, whom they nick-\nnamed Wrinkle, because she was so skinny; Marcelle la Garabiniere (the\nfreshest thing you ever saw!); Josuette, who died of a sunstroke in\nChristiana, the sun wishing thus to have his revenge of Joshua; Lili de\nMercoeur, a grand name, mind you, (not hers of course) and then vile\nenough for a chic woman, as Mercoeur put it: You must pronounce it\nMercure,' screwing up her mouth like a chicken's hole. Well she got hers,\nall right, they filled her as full of mercury as a thermometer. She would\nask me in the morning: What sort of weather do you think we'll have\ntoday? But I would always answer: fYou ought to know better than I . . .'\nNever, never in the world would any of those have become enceinte at my\nplace.\"\n\"Oh well, it isn't as bad as that,\" said Macaree, \"I also never had it\nhappen to me before. Give me some advice, but make it short.\"\nAt this moment she arose.\n\"Oh!\" cried Madame Dehan, \"what a wellshaped behind you have!\nhow sweet! how white! what embonpoint! Baba, Madame Macaree is going\nto put on her dressing-gown. Serve coffee and bring the cherry cake.\"\nMacaree put on a chemise and then a dressing gown whose belt was\nmade of a Scotch shawl.\nMademoiselle Baba came back; she brought a big platter with cups,\na coffee pot, milk-pitcher, jar of honey, butter cakes and the cherry tart.\n\"If you want some good advice,\" said Madame Dehan wiping awa}r\nwith the back of her hand the coffee that dribbled down her chin, \"You\nhad better go and baptize your child.\"\n\"I shall make sure and do that,\" said Macaree.\n\"And I even think,\" said Mademoiselle Baba, \"that it would be best\nto do it on the day he is born.\"\n\"In fact,\" she mumbled, her mouth full of food, \"you can never tell\nwhat may happen. Then you will nurse him yourself, and if I were you,\nif I had money like you, I should try to go to Rome before the confinement\nand get the Pope to bless me. Your child will never know either the"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "222", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.8", "texte": "fatherly caress or blow, he will never utter the sweet name of papa. May\nthe blessing of the Holy Father at least follow him all his life.\"\nAnd Madame Dehan began to sob like a kettle on the fire boiling\nover, while Macaree burst into tears as abundant as a spouting whale.\nBut what of Mademoiselle Baba? Her lips blue with berries, she wept so\nhard that from her throat the sobs flooded down to her hymen and nearly\nchoked her.\nIV.\nNOBILITY\nAfter having won a great deal of money at baccarat, and already rich,\nthanks to Love, Macaree, whose corpulency nothing could conceal, came\nto Paris, where above all, she ran after the most fashionable modistes.\nHow chic she was, how chic she was!\nOne night when she went to the Theatre Frangais a play with a moral\nwas presented. In the first act, a young woman whom surgery had rendered\nsterile lamented the fatness of her husband who was dropsical and very\njealous. The doctor went out saying:\n\"Only a great miracle and great devotion can save your husband.\"\nIn the second act, the young woman said to the young doctor:\nffl offer myself up for my husband. I want to become dropsical in\nhis stead.\"\n\"Let us love each other, Madam. And if you are not unfaithful to\nthe principle of maternity your wish will be granted. And what sweet\nglory I shall have thereof!\"\n\"Alasl\" murmured the lady, \"I no longer have any ovaries.\"\n\"Love,\" cried the doctor at this, \"Love, madam, is capable of work-\ning great miracles.\"\nIn the third act, the husband thin as an I and the lady eight months\ngone felicitated each other on the exchange they had made. The doctor\ncommunicated to the Academy of Medecine the results of his experiments\nin the fecundation of women become sterile as a result of surgical\noperations.\nToward the end of the third act, someone shouted: \"Fire!\" in the hall.\nThe frightened spectators rushed from the hall howling. In fleeing,"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "223", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.9", "texte": "Macaree possessed herself of the arm of the first man she encountered.\nHe was well dressed and fair of feature, and as Macaree was charming,\nhe seemed flattered that she had chosen him as her protector. They made\neach other's acquaintance at a cafe and from there went to sup in the\nMontmartre. But it appeared that Frangois des Ygrees had negligently\nforgotten to take his purse with him. Macaree gladly paid the bill. And\nFrangois des Ygrees pushed gallantry so far as not to allow Macaree to\nsleep alone, the incident at the theatre having rendered her nervous.\nFrangois, Baron des Ygrees (a doubtful baronetcy belonging to\nwhoever claimed it) called himself the last offshoot of a noble house of\nProvence and pursued a career of heraldry on the sixth floor of an apart-\nment in the rue Charles-V.\n\"But,\" he said, \"the revolutions and the demagogues have rendered\nit so that arms are no longer studied except by ill-born archeologists, and\nthe nobility is no longer tutored in this art.\"\nThe baron of Ygrees, whose coat of arms was of azur a trois pairles\n(Vargerit poses en pal, was able to inspire enough sympathy in Macaree for\nher to want to take lessons in heraldry out of gratitude for that night at\nthe Theatre Frangais.\nMacaree showed herself, it is true, little given to retaining the termi-\nnology of heraldry, and one might even say that she did not interest herself\nseriously in anything but the arms of the Pignatelli who had furnished\npopes for the Church and whose coat-of-arms was adorned with kettles.\nHowever, these lessons were wasted time to neither Macaree nor\nFrangois des Ygrees, for they ended by marrying. Macaree brought as her\ndot, her money, her beauty and her fatness. Frangois des Ygrees offered\nto Macaree a great name and his noble bearing.\nNeither complained of the bargain and they found themselves very\nhappy.\n\"Macaree, my dear wife,\" said Frangois des Ygrees a few days after\ntheir marriage, \"Why have you ordered so many robes? It seems to me that\nhardly a day passes without some modiste brings new costumes. They do,\ntrue enough, honor to your taste and to their skill.\"\nMacaree hesitated for a moment and then replied:\n\"Is it to our honeymoon that you refer, Frangois!\"\n\"Our honeymoon, yes, I have thought of it. But where do you want\nto go?\"\n\"To Rome,\" said Macaree."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "224", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.10", "texte": "\"To Rome, like the bells of Easter?\"\n,fI want to see the Pope,\" said Macaree.\n\"Very fine, but what for?\"\n\"That he may bless the child who lies under my heart,\" said Macaree.\n\"Phew-ew-ew!\"\n\"It will be your son,\" said Macaree.\n\"You are quite right, Macaree. We shall go to Rome like the bells of\nEaster. You will order a new robe of black velvet; and the dressmaker\nmust not neglect to embroider our arms at the bottom of the skirt: of\nazur a trois pairles (Targent poses en pal.\"\nV.\nPAPACY\n\"Per carita, baroness, (I had almost called you mademoiselle!) Ah!\nAh! Ah! But the baron, your husband, he would protest. Ah! ah! quite\ntrue, you have a little belly which commences to become arrogant. They\ndo their work well, I see, in France. Ah! if that fine country would only\nbecome religious again, the population decimated by anti-clericalism would\nat once, (yes, baroness) her population would increase considerably. Ah!\ndear Christ! how well she listens, the arrogantine, when one talks seriously,\nyes, baroness, you have the air of an arrogantine. Ah! ah! ah! so, you\nwant to see the Pope. Ah! ah! ah! the benediction of a mere cardinal like\nme will not do. Ah! ah! tut-tut, I understand quite well. Ah! ah! I shall\ntry to obtain an audience for you. Oh! no need to thank me, you can\nlet my hand go. How well she kisses, the arrogantine, oh! Gome here,\nagain, I want you to carry away with you a little souvenir of me.\n\"There! a chain, with the medal of the holy house of Lorette. Let\nme put it about your neck. . . Now that you have the medal you must\npromise me never to part with it. There, there, there! Gome here so that\nI can kiss you on the forehead. Come, come, can she be afraid of me, the\nlittle arrogantine? Done! Now tell me why you laugh? . . Nothing!\nWell! Now, one bit of advice! When you go to the Vatican, I warn you\nnot to use so much odor, I mean so much perfume. Goodbye, arrogantine.\nCome and see me again. My compliments to the baron.\"\nIt was thus, that, thanks to Cardinal Ricottino, who had been to Paris\nas nuncio, Macaree obtained an audience with the Pope."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.11", "texte": "L. Moholy-Nagy"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.12", "texte": "L. Moholy-Nagy"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "225", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.13", "texte": "She went to the Vatican dressed in her beautiful armorial dress. The\nbaron des Ygrees, in full dress accompanied her. He admired much the\nbearing of the royal guards, and the Swiss mercenaries, inclined to drunken-\nness and brawling, seemed fine devils to him. He found occasion to\nwhisper into his wife's ear of one of his ancestors who was a cardinal\nunder Louis XIII. . .\nThe couple returned to the hotel deeply moved and almost prostrated\nby the benediction of the pope. They undressed chastely, and in bed, they\nspoke for a long time about the pontiff, the whitened head of the old church,\na pressed lily, the snow which Catholics think eternal.\n\"My dear wife,\" said Frangois des Ygrees finally,\"I esteem you to\nadoration, and I love the child whom the Pope has blessed with all my\nheart. May he come, the blessed infant, but I want him to be born in France.\"\n\"Frangois,\" said Macaree, \"I have never yet been to Monte-Carlo.\nLet us go there! I needn't lose our whole pile. We are not millionaires,\nbut I am sure that we shall be lucky in Monte-Carlo.\"\n\"Damn! damn! damn!\" swore Francois, \"Macaree, you make me\nsee red.\"\nffHo, there,\" cried Macaree, \"you gave me a kick, you \"\n\"I note with pleasure, Macaree,\" said Francois des Ygrees waggishly,\nrecovering his good humor, \"that you do not forget that I am your husband.\"\n\"Come, then, li'l nobs, let's go to Monaco.\"\n\"Yes, but you must have your confinement in France, for Monaco is\nan independent state.\"\n\"Agreed,\" said Macaree.\nOn the morrow the baron des Ygrees and the baroness, all swollen\nby mosquito bites, took tickets at the station for Monaco. In the coach\nthey made charming plans.\nVI.\nGAMBRINUS\nThe baron and the baroness des Ygrees in taking tickets for Monaco\nhad thought to arrive at the station which is the fifth on the way from\nItaly to France and the second in the little principality of Monaco.\nThe name of Monaco is properly the Italian name of this principality,\nalthough it is widely used nowadays in French, the French terms Mourghes\nand Monegue having fallen into desuetude.\n2"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "226", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.14", "texte": "However the Italians call Monaco, not only the principality which\nbears that name but also the capital of Bavaria which the French call\nMunich. The messenger accordingly gave the baron tickets for Monaco-\nMunich instead of Monaco-principality. Before the baron and the baroness\nhad noticed their error they were already at the Swiss frontier, and after\nhaving recovered from their astonishment, they decided to finish the voyage\nto Munich in order to see at close hand all that the anti-artistic spirit of\nmodern Germany could conceive of ugliness in architecture, sculpture,\npainting and decorative art. . .\nThe cold winds of March made the couple shiver in this stone-box\nAthens.\n\"Beer,\"the baron des Ygrees had said, ffis excellent for women who\nare enceinte.\"\nAnd so he led his wife to the royal brewery of Pschorr, to the\nAugustinerbrau, to the Miinchnerkindl and other great breweries. They\npenetrated to the Nockerberg where there is a great garden. They drank\nthere, as long as it held out, the famous March beer, Salvator, and it didn't\nlast very long, for the Munich people are great drunkards.\nWhen the baron and his wife entered the garden they found it thronged\nwith a mob of drinkers, who were already under-the-weather and sang\nhead to head and danced dizzily, breaking all the empty steins.\nPeddlars sold roast fowl, grilled herrings, pretzels, rolls, sausages,\nsweets, souvenirs, post-cards. And there was also Hans Irlbeck, the King\nof Drinkers. Since Perkeo, the midget drunkard of the great cask of\nHeidelberg, no such boozer had ever been seen. At the time of the March\nbeer, and in May, Bock-time, Hans Irlbeck drank his forty quarts of beer.\nOrdinarily he did not have occasion to drink more than twenty-five.\nJust as the gracious Ygrees pair passed by, Hans placed his colossal\nbuttocks on a bench which bearing already the weight of some twenty huge\nmen and women, cracked disconsolately. The drinkers fell, their legs in\nthe air. Some bare thighs could be seen because Munich ladies never wear\ntheir stockings above their knees. Bursts of laughter everywhere. Hans\nIrlbeck who had also been floored, but had not let go of his stein, spilled\nits contents over the belly of a girl who had rolled near him, and the beer"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "227", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.15", "texte": "bubbling under her resembled that which she did when she got to her feet\nafter swallowing a quart at one gulp in order to recover her composure.\nBut the proprietor of the garden cried:\n,fDonnerkeil! damned swine ... a bench broken.\"\nAnd he started off with his towel under his arm, calling loudly for\nthe waiters:\n\"Franz! Jacob! Ludwig! Martin!\" while the patrons called for the\nproprietor:\n\"Oberl Oberr\nHowever the Oberkellner and the waiters did not come back. The\ndrinkers crowded about the counters and took their steins themselves, but\nthe kegs were no longer emptied, and no more were heard the sonorous\nblows of another cask being put under the hammer. The singing ceased,\nthe drinkers, angered, proffered oaths at the brewers and at the March beer\nitself. Some profited by the lull to vomit with violent efforts, their eyes\nalmost popping out of their heads; their neighbors encouraged them with\nimperturbable seriousness. Hans Irlbeck who had picked himself up, not\nwithout difficulty, grumbled with a great snort:\n\"There is no more beer in Munich!\"\nAnd he repeated, with the accent of his native city:\n\"Minchen! Minchen! Minchen!\"\nAfter raising his eyes toward heaven, he fell upon a vendor of fowls,\nand having ordered him to roast a goose for him, began to formulate his\ndesires:\n\"No more beer in Munich .., if there were only some white radishes!\"\nAnd he repeated many times the Munich expression:\n\"Raadi, raadi, raadi . . .\"\nSuddenly he stopped. The crowd of drinkers, beside themselves, gave\na cry of exultation. The four waiters had just appeared at the door of\nthe brewery. With dignity they were carrying a sort of canopy under which\nthe Oberkellner marched proud and erect, like a negro king dethroned.\nBehind him came fresh kegs of beer which were put under the hammer\nat the sound of the bell, while shouts of laughter rang out, and cries and\nsongs rose above this teeming butte, hard and agitated as the Adam's apple\nof Gambrinus himself, when, burlesqued in the costume of a monk, a white\nradish in one hand, he tossed off with the other the jug which rejoiced\nhis gullet.\nAnd the unborn child found himself right shaken by the laughter of\nMacar£e who, greatly amused by the spectacle of this colossal gluttonny,\ndrank and drank in company with her spouse.\n9*\nW"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "228", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.16", "texte": "But then, the vivacity of the mother exerted a happy influence on the\ncharacter of the offspring who acquired therefrom much common sense,\nbefore his birth, and some of the real common sense, of course, which\ngreat poets are made of.\nVII.\nCONFINEMENT\nBaron Frangois des Ygrees left Munich when the baroness knew that\nthe hour of delivery was approaching. Monsieur des Ygrees did not want to\nhave a child born in Bavaria; he was sure that that country was overrun\nwith syphilis.\nThey arrived in the spring time, in the little port of Napoule, which\nin an excellently turned line the baron baptised for eternity;\nNapoule of the golden skies.\nIt was there that the delivery of Macaree's child took place.\nffAh! Ah! Aie! Aie! Aie! Ouh! Ouh! Whee-ee-ee!\"\nThe three local midwives took to improvising pleasantly:\nFIRST MIDWIFE\nI dream of war.\nO my friends, the stars, the bright stars, have you ever counted them?\nO my friends, do you even remember the titles of all the books you\nhave read and the names of their authors?\nO my friends, have you ever thought of the poor men who tread the\nbroad highways?\nThe herdsmen of the golden age led their herds to pasture without\nfear that the cattle would flee, they feared only the jungle beasts.\nO my friends, wiiat do you think of all these cannons?\nSECOND MIDWIFE\nWhat I think of these cannons? They are vigorous phalli.\nO my beautiful nights! I am happy because of a sinister horn\nwhich enchanted me last night, 'tis a good augury. My hair is perfumed\nwith abelmosch.\nO! the beautiful and rigid phalli which are cannons. If women had"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "229", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.17", "texte": "to do military service they would all go into the artillery. The sight of\nthe cannons in battle would be strange for them.\nLights are born on the sea far off.\nReply, o Zelotide, reply with thy sweet voice.\nTHIRD MIDWIFE\nI love his eyes at night, he knows my hair well and its odour. In\nthe streets of Marseilles an officer pursued me for a long time. He was\nwell dressed and of fair colour, there was gold on his costume and his\nmouth tempted me, but I fled his kisses and took refuge in my (*) \"bedroom\"\nof the \"family-house\" where I was stopping.\nFIRST MIDWIFE\nO Zelotide, spare the sad men as thou sparest this beau. Zelotide\nwhat thinkest thou of the cannons.\nSECOND MIDWIFE\nAlas! Alas! I want to be loved.\nTHIRD MIDWIFE\nThey are the tools of the ignoble love of the people. O Sodom!\nSodom. O sterile love!\nFIRST MIDWIFE\nBut we are women, why dost thou speak of Sodom?\nTHIRD MIDWIFE\nThe fire of heaven devoured her.\nTHE CONFINED\nWhen you have finished your monkey-tricks, if it please you, will\nyou not forget to give a little attention to the baroness des Ygr£es.\nThe baron slept in a corner of the room on several travelling blankets.\nHe made a 112 . . t which caused his better half to laugh until the tears\n(*) Here Apollinaire's frivolous playing with language can scarcely be rendered; the\ntext runs: \"en me refugiant dans mon ou ma bed-room du ou de la family-house ou\nj'etais descendue.\" — Tr."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "230", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.18", "texte": "came. Macaree wept, cried, laughed and a few moments later brought into\nthe world a sturdy child of the male sex. Then, exhausted by these efforts,\nshe rendered up her soul, with a scream that was like the ululation of the\neternal first wife of Adam, when she crossed the Red Sea.\nIn reporting the preceding, I believe that I have elucidated the im-\nportant question of the birthplace of Croniamantal. Let the 123 towns\nin 7 countries dispute the honor of his birth. (*)\nWe know now, and the state records bear testimony that he was born\nof the paternal fart at Napoule of the golden skies, on the 25th. of August,\n1889, but not announced at the mayoralty until the following morning.\nIt was the year of the Universal Exposition, and the Eiffel Tower,\nwhich was just born, saluted the heroic birth of Croniamantal with a\nbeautiful erection.\nThe baron des Ygr£es made another 112 . . t which woke him by the\nmacabre bed where the corpse of Macaree reclined. The child cried, the\nmid wives croaked, the father sobbed, and cried:\n\"Ah, Napoule with the golden skies, I have killed my hen with the\ngolden eyes!\"\nThen he bathed the new-born calling him by a name which he in-\nvented forthwith and which did not belong to any saint in Paradise:\nCRONIAMANTAL. He left on the following day, having arranged for the\nfuneral of his spouse, written the necessary letters assuring his inheritance,\nand announced the child under the names of Gaetan—Francis—Etienne—\nJack—Amelie—Alonso des Ygrees. And with this nursling whose shy father\nhe was, he took the train for the Principality of Monaco.\nVIII.\nMAMMON\nA widower, Frangois des Ygr£es established himself near the principal-\nity; on the grounds of Roquebrune; he took pension with a family, which\nincluded a pretty brunette called Mia. There he reared the bearer of his\nown name with the baby-bottle.\nOften he would go out at dawn for a walk at the sea shore. The\nroad was fringed with amaryllis which he would always compare\ninvoluntarily with packages of dried cod. Sometimes, because of the contrary\nwinds, he would turn to light an Egyptian cigarette whose smoke rose in\nspirals like the blueish mountains emerging far off in Italy.\n* * *\n(*) Among these towns we may cite, Naples, Adrianople, Constantinople, Neauphle-\nle-Chateau, Grenoble, Pultawa, Pouilly-en-Auxxois, Pouilly-les-Fours, Nauplie, Seoul, Mel-\nbourne, Oran, Nazareth, Ermenonville, Nogent-sur-Marne, etc."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "231", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.19", "texte": "The family in whose midst he had installed himself was composed of\nthe father, the mother and Mia. M. Gecchi, a Gorsican, was a croupier at\nthe casino. He had previously been croupier at Baden-Baden and had\nmarried a German woman there. Of this union Mia was born; her carnation\ntint and black hair bespoke her Corsican blood. She was always dressed in\nbuoyant colors. Her walk was balanced, her figure arched; she was smaller\nat the breast than at the croup, and a touch of strabism lent her dark eyes\na somewhat distraught look, which only rendered her more tempting.\nHer speech was lazy, soft, guttural, but pleasant nervertheless. It\nwas the accent of the Monegascans whose syntax Mia followed. After\nhaving seen the young girl gather roses, Frangois des Ygrees began to take\nnotice of her and was much amused by her syntax for whose rules he\nenjoyed making research. . .\nOne time before sunrise, Frangois des Ygrees went down to the garden.\nHe abandoned himself to sweet reveries, during which he caught cold.\nAll of a sudden be began to sneeze about twenty times in succession.\nSneezing aroused him. He saw that the sky had whitened and the\nhorizon cleared with the first light of dawn. Then the first shafts of\nsunlight enflamed the sky along the Italian coast. Before him spread the\nstill sorrowful sea, and on the horizon, like little clouds above the film\nof sea, could be seen the curving peaks of Corsica, which always disappeared\nafter the rising of the sun. The baron des Ygrees shivered, then he yawned\nand stretched himself. He kept on regarding the sea to the east where one\nmight have said there glittered a royal navy in sight of a seaport with\nwhite houses, Bodighere, which furnished palms for the festivities of the\nVatican. He turned toward the immobile guardian of the garden, a great cy-\npress, begirt with a full-blown rose bush which clambered up almost to its top.\nFrancois des Ygr6es breathed of the sumptuous roses of nonpareil fragrance\nwhose petals, as yet closed, were of flesh.\nAnd just then Mia called him to have his breakfast.\nWith her braid hanging down her back, she had just come to pick some\nfigs and she was letting a few creamy drops flow into a pitcher of milk.\nShe smiled at Croniamantal, saying:\n\"Have you slept well?\"\n\"No, there are too many mosquitoes.\"\n\"Don't you know that when you are stung you should rub the place"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "232", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.20", "texte": "with lemon and in order not be stung by them you should put vaseline on\nyour face before going to sleep. They never bite me.\"\n\"That would be too bad. For you are very pretty, and ought to be\ntold so oftener.\"\n\"There are those who tell me so and others who think so without\ntelling. Those who tell it to me make me neither hot nor cold, as for the\nothers, so much the worse for them. . .\"\nAnd Frangois des Ygrees conceived at once a little fable for the timid:\nFABLE OF THE OYSTER AND THE HERRING.\nAn oyster dwelt, beautiful and wise, on a rock. She never dreamed\nof love but during fine weather simply bayed beatifically at the sun.\nA herring saw her and it was as a spark of powder. He tumbled hopelessly\nin love with her without daring to avow it.\nOne summer day, happy and coy, the oyster yawned. Smuggled\nbehind a rook the herring looked on, but all at once the desire to imprint\na kiss upon his beloved became so overpowering that he could no longer\nrestrain himself.\nAnd so he threw himself between the open shells of the oyster who\nin her surprise shut them with a snap, decapitating the wretched herring,\nwhose headless body floats aimlessly upon the ocean.\n\"'Twas so much the worse for the herring,\" said Mia laughing, \"He\nwas much too foolish. I too want people to tell me that I am pretty, not\nfor fun, but so as we can marry. . .\nAnd Frangois des Ygrees noted for future consideration her curious\npeculiarities of syntax: so as we can marry... And he thought further: \"She\ndoesn't love me. Macaree dead. Mia indifferent. Alas I am unhappy\nin love.\"\nOne day he found himself in the valley of Gaumates on a little knoll\ncovered with skinny little pines. The shore trimmed by the white-blue of\nthe waves stretched far out before him. The Casino emerged from the bank\nof splendid trees in its gardens. This palace looked like a man squatting\nand lifting his arms toward heaven. Near it, Frangois des Ygrees hearkened\nto an invisible Mammon:\n\"Regard this palace, Frangois, it is made in the image of man. It is\nsociable like him. It loves those who come to it and especially, those who"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "233", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.21", "texte": "are unhappy in love. Go there and thou wilt win, for thou canst not lose\nin play, since thou hast lost all in love.\"\nSince it was six o'clock, the angelus tinkled from the different churches\nin the neighborhood. The voice of the bells prevailed against the voice\nof the invisible Mammon, who became silent, while Francois des Ygrees\nsearched for him.\nOn the next day, Frangois took the road to the temple of Mammon.\nIt was Palm Sunday, The streets were littered with children, young girls\nand women carrying palms and olive-branches. The palms were either\nvery simple or woven in a peculiar fashion. At each corner of the street,\nthe weavers of palms were sitting against the wall, working. Under their\ndeft hands the palm fibers bent, circled bizarrely and charmingly. The\nchildren were playing about already with hard eggs. On a square a troop\nof urchins were pummelling a red-headed kid whom they had found trying\nto consume a marble egg. Very small girls were going to mass, well dressed\nand carrying like candles the woven palms in which their mothers had\nhung sweetmeats.\nFrancois des Ygrees thought:\n\"The sight of these palms brings good luck and today, which is gay\nEaster, I shall break the bank.\"\nIn the game hall, he regarded at first the diverse throng which pressed\nabout the tables . . .\nFrancois des Ygrees approached a table and played. He lost. The\ninvisible Mammon had come back and spoke sharply each time they erased\na deal:\n'Thou hast lost!\"\nAnd Francois saw the crowd no more, his head was turning, he placed\nlouis, packages of bills, on one square, diagonally, transversally. He played\na long time losing as much as he wanted to.\nHe turned away at last and saw the whole brilliant hall where the\nplayers still pressed about the tables as before. Noticing a young man\nwhose chagrined face revealed that he had had no luck, Francois smiled\nat him and asked whether he had lost.\nThe young man replied angrily:\n\"You too? A Russian just won more than two hundred thousand\nfrancs by my side. Ah! if I only had a hundred francs more, I would\nmake up what I have lost twenty or thirty times over. But Oh, I have\nbeastly luck, I am hoodooed, done for. Imagine . . .\""}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "234", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.22", "texte": "And taking Francois by the arm, he led him toward a divan on\nwhich they sat down.\n''Imagine,\" he continued, ffl have lost everything. I am almost a\nthief. The money I have lost did not belong to me. I am not rich, I had\na position of trust. My employer sent me to recover claims in Marseilles.\nI got them. I took the train to come here and try my luck. I lost. What\nis there left? They will arrest me. They will say that I am a dishonest\nman, even though I haven't ever profited of the money I took. I have\nlost all. If I had won, no one would have reproached me. What luck\nI have! There is nothing for me to do but to kill myself.\"\nAnd suddenly rising the young man put a revolver to his mouth and\nfired. The corpse was carried away. Several players turned their heads\na moment, but none of them bothered at all, and most of them took no\nnotice of the incident which, however, made a profound impression on the\nmind of the baron des Ygr6es. He had lost all that Macaree had left him\nand the child. As he went out Frangois felt the whole universe contract\nabout him like a tiny cell, and then like a coffin. He got back to the\nvilla where he lived. At the door he passed Mia who was chatting with\na stranger who carried a valise.\nffl am a Hollander,\" said the man, ffbut I live in Provence and I would\nlike to hire a room for several days; I have come here to make some\nmathematical observations.\"\nAt this moment the baron des Ygrees sent a kiss with his left hand\nto Mia, while with a revolver in his right he blew his brains out and rolled\nto the dust.\n\"We have only only one room to rent,\" said Mia, \"but it has just be-\ncome free.\"\nAnd she quickly closed the eyelids of the baron des Ygrees, gave\ncries of grief, and aroused the neighborhood. They went and called the\npolice who took away the body and no one ever heard of it again.\nAs to the young child, whom his father had in such a characteristic\nburst of lyricism named for aye Groniamantal, he was gathered up by the\nDutch traveller who soon carried him off to bring him up as his own son.\nOn the day they left, Mia sold her virginity to a millionaire trap-\nshooting-champion, and it was the thirty-fifth time that she had lent herself\nto this little commercial transaction.\n\n(To be continued)\n\nGuillaume Apollinaire\n(Translated from the French by Matthew Josephson)"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "235", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.23", "texte": "LA RUMBA CUBANA.\n\nThey have painted me rose pink lilac\nNaked yellowness and ebony of shoulders\nThick red lips\nMy dress hangs loose and thin impudence of light fabric\nSuch a dress as African women wore to the missionary door\nAnd squatted out of into nakedness\nOf huge and shimmering leaves\nThe jungle\nWhence sweaty slaves huddled into galleons.\nI am colossal elephant buttocks\nThat have learned to sway stupidly\nAnd writhe the old Bowery plantation negroes Voodoo\nBum — bum — bum — bum —\nMadness\nA lean faced black unregardedly evokes\nUndecipherable vertigo of beats rhythm as accurate\nAs the delirium of a madman's dream\nBent cheap trombones trumpets\nDecrepitude of crackling piano\nIvory grins regarding upward\nThe sallow ragged encircling balcony leans tipsily forward\nCrazed shouting Spanish black mestizo.\nBut I am Africa\nI am the cruel elephant pits\nKafirs Soudanese Zulu Berber\nSeville and Cordoba have painted me\nBut I am black\nBlack\nI am savagery that has lived\nThrough devil worship\nI have liberated the lowest in manv races\nm/"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "236", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.24", "texte": "But I once was the clean animal of the deserts\nThe dwarfs the miasma of jungles\nDizziness of Sahara heat sand sensual but honest\nAs animals that breed.\nThey have clothed me in rose pink lilac\nSpain has tinted me to viciousness\nThatched bohios have sheltered me from animal reality\nI am hideousness vile word and song\nImpudicity.\nBut still I am Africa\nThe mad palpitant throbbing of drumskin is my heart\nI shall not die for many years\nOut of desert and jungle I become infection\nSlippery sinister green of tropic heat that lures\nTo vileness\nI who once was fecundity\nA child\nTribes swaying to the rhythm of Africa\nI am the Cuban rumba\nPestilence loud trumpeted accurate and frantic\nMy heart still throbs\nEven the coldest north knows that in me is that\nWhich shall die\nFrantically\nSlowly\n(But perhaps I am as eternal as birth\nI am the rumba Cubana.)\n\nCharles Galwey"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "237", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.25", "texte": "A BOTTLE OF LILAC PERFUME\n\nShe was Loyola for a few minutes, as she took her evening seat at\nthe top of the area steps, first brushing the space with her palm. She was\nLoyola because a fragrant wind blew toward her, fluttering the loose hairs\nat the back of her neck, rustling her sleeves. It came with a puzzling,\ndisturbing directness. It contained what might be called a soft memory,\na Loyola memory.\nLoyola was an old, old name, since superceded by Mrs. Grute — The\nJanitress — Lozie. This three in one had no inner sensations. They signified\na long bone and cartilage structure with strong hands and able feet, weak\nblue worm's eyes and a back comb. Mrs. Grute had to use her eyes in\nsharp, detailed matters, such as peering across the alley and through the\ndoors of soft drink cafes. The Janitress was a laboring machine. And Lozie\nhad dedicated her body, thoroughly, to the convenience of untender\nMr. Grute.\n(Queer echo of body.)\nLozie belonged to very long, grimy skirts, and other women's old\nshoes. She was perfectly familiar with her fretwork of wrinkles and with\nthe wart that had lately come on one side of her nose. She thought nothing\nof eating noodles three times a day, — noodles and nothing else except\na watery sauce she had learned to throw together out of the hot grease left\nin the pan. This saved butter. She had had three children in a row.\nMr. Grute had treated them like puppies, letting them follow at the heel\non Saturday nights while he made the rounds after work, cuffing and\nkicking them on Sunday morning when he saw them dressed for Sunday-\nschool. \"What! You damned little apes! Give you a penny for the collec-\ntion? Hell, no! Ask your sainted mother over there. She'll give you\npennies. She knows where to get money. She don't come bellyachin' for\nit. She sticks her fist in my pocket. She'd rob the devil, that woman.\"\nThey were puny little children. Two of them died. One grew up to be\na burglar. He came home every few years to try to borrow money from\nhis mother.\n(Ah! this breeze! The sweet, oblivious restfulness of being\nLoyola!)\nBut Lozie always shifted her position to one of crouched brooding\nwhen a Loyola memory came. These memories were the untrodden bits"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "238", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.26", "texte": "of her, the dangerous, fallow green. They were what made her afraid that\nshe might not reach heaven. The question was, would nearly thirty years\nof bending the back weigh favorably with the Lord God as against the\nsinful — but, oh! how brief — minutes of Loyola? And there was the\nchurch-going on her side, too. But to tell the truth her mind was never\non it. Even in the middle of the prayers she was far from the subject of\nthe Lord God. She was more likely worrying about the hole that had been\nbanged into the ashcan, or thinking that she would have a pretty scene\nto face when she reached home, with Mr. Grute in the condition he was\nwhen she left him, — half on, half off, the bed. Church-going was pleasant\nenough, and it was very acceptable in the sight of the Lord, — but if you\nstayed at home you would know what was going on.\nKnowing what went on was Mrs. Grute's business in life. Life was\none great sharp corner around which unspeakable atrocities were forever\nbeing committed. Just let her apply her eye or her ear to the edge of\nit, — she need not fear of being disappointed. There would be something:\nthe roomer in the second floor parlor had put a whiskey bottle in the trash;\nMrs. Philoway, that lady with too big a bust, was cooking in her room\nagain, and had slung the sardine-can into the back yard, thinking Mrs. Grute\nwouldn't know, and the can hit Mrs. Grute on the back; third floor front\nhad a girl in his room. It had been the duty of Mrs. Grute to knock\nsharply on the door and to say, in an impersonal tone, \"If you've got\nanybody in there, sir, you'd do best to get them out at your earliest con-\nveyance\" — (this was a good phrase that she had learned from the grocer)\n— \"for the building inspector is looked for at any minute, now, and I don't\nwant that nobody should be shamed, I don't care who.\"\nLozie raised her face to the fragrant breeze. She leaned her head\nagainst the area door and huddled her feet under her. Her body relaxed.\nSo she had sat, that old, dead evening, in the doorway of her father's\nwoodshed, waiting. Just at dusk. Just after the chickens, with their hard\nblack eyes and their feet like old women's hands, had got out of the way.\nShe wore shiny patent leather slippers. Her arms were plump and white.\nShe wore a short-sleeved white dress, a blue sash. She had on her Sundav\n%j\nclothes, in fact. She got them grass-stained, that evening, too, and she had\nbeen obliged to invent a lie on the spur of the moment, so she had said\nshe fell at the turn-stile. In her hair she had bound a wreath of lilac.\nThere was the smell of lilac, the touch of lilac flowers against her\ncheek. She could feel little new grass under her feet. She sat, her body\nexpectant, waiting to hear twigs snap. And there, against the dusk, he\nloomed beside her. She put a sprig of lilac in his button-hole."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "239", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.27", "texte": "Hot hands pressed upon her. A hot face came blindingly close, and\nher own face answered it. Around them was silence, the feel of the wind,\nthe scent of lilac; there was love\nLozie tore herself from the moment. Loyola had called it love. Here\nwas a thought, — if Loyola had survived to be the one to marry Mr. Grute,\ninstead of dying consciously of her own wickedness — if Loyola had sur-\nvived would she have called the union with Mr. Grute love, too? Loyola\nwas not one to see all sides of a thing. There was where Lozie was needed.\nLozie had come into the world at nineteen, afraid of everything, taking what\nshe could get. She had taken marriage because she could not get much\nwithout it. . . Perhaps she had not done so badly. There were days every\nlittle while when Mr. Grute was quite sober. He would sit around, pleasant\nenough, in his undershirt, and talk out of the window to neighbors, — giving\nLozie the safe feeling of being one of two, — or he would sit at table with\nLozie and quarrel because there was no meat, and pound on the table if\nshe gave him only one fried egg. What if he was a good deal like an animal\nat the zoo? He was no trouble when he was drunk, and he was a typical\nhusband when he was sober. He had lately noticed the wart on her nose,\nand had invented a new pet name for her, — Scarf ace Charlie. Well, well —\nThis breeze that was coming against her cheek! It was certainly not\nthe usual breeze. The very rustlings it caused, the way it sped up her\nsleeves and cooled her arms, entered under the front of her waist! The\nlanguor of her muscles!\nMrs. Grute, The Janitress, Lozie, each in her way made an expression\nof recognition. This breeze was indeed Loyola's. Lozie reached her hand\ninto the ashcan beside her, and found a bottle of lilac perfume, empty except\nfor a discarded scum at the bottom. No doubt a relic of Mrs. Philoway.\nLozie smelled it, at close hand. Ah, Lord God! The cool fragrant\nevening! His arms. The feel of flesh against flesh. The madness of lips\nagainst lips! There was love\nLozie went indoors, carrying the perfume bottle. Mr. Grute, just\nrecovering from a long unsober interval, lay dozing on the bed. Lozie went\nand sprinkled the scum from the lilac bottle over her side of the bed. Then\nshe stretched herself out, with expectant, deliberate movements. She took\ncare to waken the great snoring body at her side. As it showed signs of\nwakening Lozie's conscience pulled at her, just a little. This was really\nLoyola's moment. Yes, but it was Lozie who must make of it what she could!\n\nDorothy Hamilton"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "240", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.28", "texte": "PORTRAIT BY LEYENDECKER\nTo Sinclair Leivis\n\nAt 7 : 30 exactly he is awakened by a battery of alarm clocks. A Big\nBen 7 in. tall with 4%-in. dial. A Baby Ben 3% in. overall. A Jack\no'Lantern, so named for its luminous dial. Half a dozen other clocks\nof assorted shapes, with black or radium-painted numerals; steady or\nintermittent, top, back or interior alarms.\nWatch his Eyes Open!\nHe leans forward, arms rigid against the pillow to support him,\nNational Chain Shirt Shop pajamas, hair tousled becomingly, and for a\nmoment he poses, for a brief moment only, till the artist wTho accompanies\nhim always has made a lightning sketch. \"That will do,\" says the artist,\nand Charles Wesley Brown — Charley Brown — C. Wesley Brown —\nWes Brown — Brownie — leaps from his bed to silence one clock after\nanother in immutable succession, beginning with the largest and least\nintermittent. It is 7 : 32.\nA Daily Dozen before the open window, after which he dresses with\nthe energetic but unhurried efficiency which characterizes the smallest acts\nof his daily life. He owns a razor which shaves the right side of his face\nin 33 seconds and the left in 45, making a total of 78 seconds. The time\nhe spends on dressing (his Dressing Appropriation, he calls it, since Time\nis Money) shows a reduction of 33% % since he has been wearing a\nGoodbye Old Flannel Lining the Tie that Goes on in a Jiffy. He dons\nhis Press-together Cuff Links and appears before the breakfast table\nat 7 : 39.\nOnly Seven Minutes to Exercise and Dress!\nYou can equal or better this record if you tear off and fill in the\ncoupon at the lower right-hand corner.\nUndoubtedly C. Wesley Brown eats luncheons and dinners and even\nbanquets, but I can say of his breakfast and his breakfast only that every\ndetail of it is photographed on the brain. There is an aluminum pot, filled\nwith Good to the Last Drop coffee, or maybe Postum. A patent electric\nwaffle iron functions beside it. An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away.\nFlorida Oranges Rich in Vitamines. Bran Muffins Here's Health. This\nHam is Delicious! Two fried eggs (sunny side up), grapelade, cereal with"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "241", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.29", "texte": "L. Moholy-Nagy"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "242", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.30", "texte": "L. Moholy-Nagy"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "241", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.31", "texte": "milk From Contented Cows. They Satisfy! He draws on his cigarette\ndeeply and registers contentment at his wife across the table.\nA Muffin a Day is the Natural Way The room is larger than the\nBrown kitchen or breakfast room, almost as large as the parlour. There\nare a score of nickel faucets. A chintz curtain hides the window. Other-\nwise the room is a sanitary, blinding white, the white of porcelain and\ntile. To sit and stare at it fixedly induces a sort of agreeable trance. He\nmeditates, half consciously. The streets of Heaven are paved not with\ngold but with white porcelain. The houses of Heaven are white and nickel\nand chintz. The furniture of Heaven is large and sanitary and restful,\nlike bathtubs. He has the simple faith of a medieval saint and creates\nHeaven out of the most familiar objects.\nStill smiling in a paradisial dream, he climbs into one of his smaller\nautomobiles, poses for a moment at the wheel and drives to his office,\nwhere he arrives at 8 : 55. The dream is over and it is time for sterner\nreality. Is it? He has never been known to wonder.\nHe sits at a square mahogany desk, with a glass top which is always\nempty except for one scrap of paper containing a memorandum of the\ndifficult problem which he will solve this morning — Now. He clenches\nhis hand. He brings it down so forcibly as almost to shatter the glass,\nwhile he speaks to the twelve Directors who have gathered silently round.\n\"The way to sell God is the way to sell gasoline tractors. Advertise/'\nThey crowd forward to pat him on his Kuppenheimer back, immediately\norganizing the International Divine Sales Corporation. The common stock\nhas recently been quoted at 312% .... He bends over the walnut counter\nof the Fleischauer Drygoods House. \"Madam, our product is as good\nas materials and workmanship can make it.\" Climbing on a chair\nhe addresses the convention of Sales Executives. \"The gospel of Mowbray\nMotors is the gospel of fair dealing. We have nine salient points of\nsuperiority, namely:\n1. Silent operation\n2. No gaskets\n3. Woven with the grain\n4. Underslung\n5. Durability\n6. It quenches the thirst\n7. Biggest\n8. Cleanest\n9. Best\n3"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "242", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.32", "texte": "He bows to a storm of applause .... He drives three clients to Maple\nOaks (Prairie Development Corporation) and explains the beauty of neo-\nantique cottages while leaning gracefully against the mudguard. Single-\nhanded he enters the den of the purchasing agent for the Consolidated\nElectric. On Saturday half-holidays, before a crowd of eighty thousand,\nhe undrapes a Virgin Wool blanket from his shoulders, peels off a blue\nVirgin Wool sweater, and trots into the scrimmage to score a winning\ntouchdown for Yale. He changes his collar eight times daily (each\ntime a different style) and may be seen buying a new wardrobe\nevery week. However, there is no false pride about him. Sometimes he\ndons overalls and oils the piston rod of the Twentieth Century Limited,\nwhile anxiously he consults the dial of The Railroad Man's Watch. He\ndons a white apron and conducts a monster sale of Quality Lamb. He\nis always donning something. His smile leaves him never, but sometimes\nit has a wistful quality as if he were staring through the window of reality\ninto a dream. At such moments there is a look about his eyes and his cleft\nchin that reminds one queerly of a portrait by some Italian primitive —\nperhaps the St. Sebastian of Cosimo Tura.\nThe dream of his boyhood, the Dream which he never attained, is\nto be a button-pusher. To sit at a broader, squarer, cleaner mahogany\ndesk, of which the side, instead of drawers, is covered with ranks of\nmother-of-pearl buttons. He presses one of them, lightly, and the wheels\nof a thousand factories are set in motion. He presses a button. A charge\nof lyddite explodes, a mountain collapses, the two ends of the Trans-\ncontinental Tunnel are united. He presses a button which admits water\nto the New Everlasting Dam. He presses a button. Sirens blow, every-\nwhere the churchbells ring, crowds drunken with joy parade the streets,\nsignal rockets ascend and two nations which have lain in embattled\ntrenches for ten years suddenly hear the order to cease firing. A battalion\nof newspaper and motion picture photographers survey him as he works.\nHe presses a button and a clerk appears to usher them out, leaving him\nalone to press the button which will put him in telephonic connection with\nhis wife, the little girl whom all his triumphs could never make him\nforget. He presses a button.\nThe Kind of Girl You Stop to Look at. Bessie Brown works eight\nhours a day in a shop window. She opens her mouth and smiles, revealing\na double row of stained and tartar-covered teeth. She points to a placard:"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "243", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.33", "texte": "Discolored Teeth\nMar Beauty\nTurning it over she reveals another: the picture of a girl with dirty\nteeth applying for a position and being refused, while the President\nremarks to the Secretary-treasurer, \"I Didn't Like her Smile.\" Third\nplacard. Discolored Teeth\nPrevent Success\nImmediately Bess puts a finger to her forehead, reaches into a\ndrawer, produces a tube of paste and a brush, scrubs her mouth in the\nsight of two hundred people, gargles with a glass of cold water, smiles,\nsmiles again, and points to a fourth placard:\nLike\nTwo and Thirty\nPearls\nFifth placard: smiling stenographer is led to her new desk while\nthe Secretary-treasurer remarks to the President, \"Thirty-five a week and\nworth every cent of it. What teeth! What a SMILE!\"\nSixth placard:\nSmiles Toothpaste\nPaves the Road\nto Success\nBess smiles again and disappears. The crowd moves on. Enter Bess\nwith stained and tartar-covered teeth. She smiles and points to six pla-\ncards. At 5 : 53 she returns in her sedan to their little house in the\nsuburbs, half an hour before her husband. Dinner is redicooked in the\nelectric stove; she has only to turn a couple of switches and spread the\n3*"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "244", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.34", "texte": "table. He arrives, fresh as a gust of wind from his business triumphs.\nThey kiss. Wes and Bess enter the dining room, together and alone.\nAfterwards, in the living room, Bess kneels on the leather lounge in\nfront of the unlighted gas logs of the fire. Wes leans against the back of\nthe lounge and lights his Stick to Cinco It's Safe. Then, since nobody ever\ntaught him what to say to his wife, there is a long silence, till finally he\nrepeats his one phrase of domestic conversation. \"Beats me, Bess. I don't\nsee how you ever found such a good-looking rug for only $ 16.20.\" Another\nsilence. He recommences timidly, \"Beats me, Bess. I don't see how you\never found such a good-looking rug for only $ 16.20 ... Beats me, Bess ...\nd'looking rug .... $ 16.20 .... Beats me, Bess ....\"\nBess disappears. Wes unpacks his portable typewriter and works by\nthe lamp on the library table. Bess regards him fondly through the half-\nopen portieres. A tableau of personified Diligence guarded by a perso-\nnified Devotion. The artist who dogs their footsteps has drawn it often.\nHowever, the routine of their evenings is not invariable. They visit\nthe motion pictures weekly, when there is a program of clean Educational\nfilms. Sometimes they dance. I have seen the legs, only the legs of Bess\nin Onyx stockings move slowly across the floor to the tune of Ain't We\nGot Fun. G. Wesley Brown is wearing a dinner jacket.\nThe floor on which they dance is of 5/«-in. matched oak boards,\ntongued and grooved, manufactured by the National Oak Flooring Asso-\nciation. Most of them happened to be cut in Jones County, Tennessee,\nfrom a single tree which scaled 1500 board feet. The preliminary sawing\nwas done by Jake Adams in Josiah Webster's mill. Jake was a good\nsawyer. He also was a distiller, owning a half share in a moonshine outfit\nup Laurel Run, and the evening before he had sampled a new batch of\nhis own corn licker. He was still a little shaky. His right hand slipped and\nthe circular saw ripped off the thumb, neatly, a sacrifice to world capitalism\nand a paternalistic government. Blood dripped, dripped on the very board\nwhich the Walkover heel of C. Wesley Brown now covers. There is no\nneed to sentimentalize Jake Adams. He stanched the wound with cotton\nwaste, bound a red bandana over it and drove to the county seat to find\na clever lawyer, a lawyer who proved so clever that Jake received a cool\nfour thousand as damages. Josiah Webster went into bankruptcy and Jake\nbought the mill, thereafter being known as Fingy Jake. He is political\nboss of Jones County.\nFELLOW MEMBERS OF THE CHAMBER OF COMMERCE: Our\nbusiness is a dream, if any enterprise which counts over a billion dollars"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "245", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.35", "texte": "as its annual turnover can properly be called a dream. Duplicator, Inc.\nis the dream of a nation. But to realize this dream of a hundred million\nhearts, to give their wish, once unfulfilled and even unexpressed, the huge\nand practical proportions of Duplicator, Inc.: — this, Gentlemen, could be\nthe privilege only of a creator's brain. You will require no further in-\ntroduction to G. Wesley Brown — myself.\nNor do you require a lengthy explanation of the results of the\nDuplicator process. I flatter myself that you are familiar with these results\nalready. We take a smile — a winning smile — the sort of smile that wins\nsuccess, and by our patented method we duplicate it on ten million lips.\nBy the same process we duplicate words — habits of thought — the cut of\na cravat — a chin-dimple — a method of sales approach. It is thanks to\nDuplicator, Inc. that America has become a nation of standardized business\nexecutives. This is our proudest boast.\nIt was my smile they chose to duplicate, my broad-set eyes, my cleft\nand protruding chin, my method of selling collars, my respect for clean\nwomanhood. I say this without personal pride, for it is thanks only to\nDuplicator, Inc. that America has become an image of me. And not\nAmerica alone.\nLast year I made a tour of the world to advance the Duplicator\ninterests. Near world-famous Athens, at the Piraeus, a young man\napproached me with an offer to insure my baggage, to find me hotel rooms,\nto buy me tickets, to take me, for a consideration, under the protection\nof the Americo-Hellenic Tourist Service. I accepted his offer, Gentlemen,\nfor that young man was the image of me. ... In Tokyo I attended the\nmotion pictures after an active day, The audience of prosperous business\nmen, except for the colour of their skin, might easily have been myself,\nand what was my pride to see my own reflection parade across the screen\nin guise of the hero I .... Duplicator, Inc. has done its work, and even\nin the darkest corners of the ancient continents our gospel is penetrating.\nBe sure you're right then go ahead. Small profits — quick turnover.\nStandard of the world. Ask the man who owns one. If not in sale in your\nvicinity write for complete catalog.\nOnce in dreamy old-world Cadiz I was watching a goatherd milk his\nflock at his customer's very door. Suddenly a Ford drew up to the curb.\nA young man leaped out who resembled me more closely than a brother.\n' Haven't I seen you in Coffeyville, Kansas?\" he said. And sure enough,\nhe had. He was the son of a Spanish grandee and he also wrote poetry.\nGentlemen, as I look at your rosy and uniform faces, each one the image"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "246", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.36", "texte": "of his and my own, I am moved to recite you a poem which he wrote in\nmy honour:\nfresh from the factory\nwatch their eyes open\nare you covered9\nAre you the ten-pin or the ball? How fast do you think?\nIS YOUR BODY TEN YEARS OLDER THAN YOU ARE?\nDo you like fine things?\nare you covered?\nyou and your family need it now\nYou and Your Family Need it Now\nYOU AND YOUR FAMILY NEED IT NOW\nare you covered?\nGood to the Last Drop — Makes the Easiest Way the Best\nWay — The Sunshine of the Night — From the Sheep's\nBack to Yours — The Sort of Girl You Stop to Look at —\nKeeps You Warm as Toast — No Metal Can Touch You\nare you covered?\ngive her the gift you'd like to\nget if not in sale in your vicinity\nwrite for complete catalog and\nyou will avoid imitations and\nsubstitutes if you are covered.\nRelax tense nerves my body\nis ten years ten years older\na handy place to throw trash\na handy place to throw trash\ngoodbye old flannel lining\ngoodbye, goodbye\nold flannel lining goodbye"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "247", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.37", "texte": "Each time I repeat these lines I find new beauties in them. There\nis punch and go, the love of clean womanhood, but there is also a hint of\nthe world's eternal sadness. A handy place to throw trash. I have the\nvision of a hundred million vulcanite wastebaskets, those havens of refuge\nwhere our triumphs and our failures pile up, pile up together. It is as if\ninvisible hands had clutched me by the throat. lam choking, dry. I want\na drink. . . . Have any of you gentlemen a pocket flask? I want a drink\nof water, whiskey .... ginger ale the Anytime .... drink .... choking\n. . . . for God's sake give me a drink.\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "248", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.38", "texte": "A LADY\nEmanuel Carnevali\nHer lips are roses\nrotting in water.\nHer eyelids two shrivelled\nviolets.\nHer eyes are puddles.\nHer voice is of a bird being strangled.\nHer youth in passing\nlingers in her hands.\nThey flutter, hovering\nlike two butterflies\nover the corpse of her flesh.\nThere is a grim whim in her,\nlike that of a dead mouth\nthat smiles.\nHer well-rounded legs\ntell an impudent lie.\nHer soul lies\nin the disorder of an orgy\nover the ashes and scattered remains of which\nhangs, like threads of blue smoke,\nan elegance of tiny gestures."}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "249", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.39", "texte": "PORTRAIT\nMaxwell Bodenheim\nWithdraw your hair from the simulated\nInterest of the moon;\nTake every tenuous shadow\nFrom the aimless tongues of these trees\nAnd darken your speech until it attains\nA fickle and fantastic\nAcquaintance with the eccentric night\nDisarrange your dress and make it\nA subtle invitation to nakedness.\nRemove your stockings and shoes\nSo that your feet may enjoy\nAn embarrassed soliloquy with the grass\nPlace the palm of your hand\nLightly against your nose,\nFollowing the slope of some grotesque feeling.\nDevise these careful affronts\nTo the heavier intentions\nOf thought and emotion, and gratefully\nAccept your title of minor poet.\nOnly trees with long roots caught by hills\nWill recognize your importance."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "250", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.40", "texte": "THE COLLEGE GLEE CLUB.\n\nTwo doors were not sufficient. They came through upon the\nstage like paste squeezed out of a tube. They spread, divided into\nclots, shifted, blocked each other, and suddenly appeared in the\ndignified array of two lines of youth in evening dress, lines slightly\nelliptical, with one focus, the leader, at the right end, toward which\nevery face was turned. One or two, belated, hurried into places\nfussily.\nHow absurdly boys bear the importance of conventional\ndress. Their breasts strain and bulge the crackling linen boards,\ntheir muscles swell and wrinkle the broad-cloth. Others are loose,\nsmall, and inadequate, inside the immaculate rigidity. They are\ngrowing before your eyes like the germinating seeds in the cinema\npicture, and one imprisons the laugh before it breaks. For if they\nguessed that their appearance caused your laughter they would\nfeel confused and hurt. But, and this is a protective contradiction\npeculiar to youth, if they did not guess they would think that you\nwere laughing with them, and laugh themselves. They know that\nthey are funny because they feel funny. They do not know that\nthey look funny. They are colossal. And the thin ice of con-\nventionality is skimming their youth.\nTheir singing was art in its primitive beginning, that is, it\nbegan in fun amongst themselves. It was art as pictured by a child,\nlaughed at by its creator before displayed to the appraising eyes\nof experience, dabbed with meaningless blots and scratches of\nself-conscious vanity. Some of the voices were sweet but there\nwere as many more that laughed at the good ones by coming in\na trifle too late or too soon or by shading the key. So youth kept\nits balance, ever sincere to itself first. And that is right.\nThere is something that youth respects and thus keeps in the\nprocession. It respects leadership. Every face in the line was"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "251", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.41", "texte": "profiled obediently toward the leader who, from the right end,\nnodded the tempo. So the lasting impression was of a frieze of\nstiff pink profiles and flat white shirt-fronts, all as devotionally\nfixed as the heads in a Delia Robbia. Youth afraid to do the wrong\nthing is youth in flux, youth in action. The sheath of the chrysalis\ncracks from the struggle within.\nOne amongst them, the third mandolin player, was almost\nout. Else why did he, without ceasing, wear that secret smile?\nI watched the smile tremble up from within and over the lips while\nthe brow, bent seriously over the instrument, lifted and the eyes\nlooked out on life. So might a chicken smile foolishly over the\nfragments of its shell.\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn\n\nAFFINITIES\nAi-yeel\nJohn Crawford\nThe cold wind knows me:\nI fling myself against the wind\nAnd each of us grows great and gay\nThe people give us right of way:\nI feel them dwindle in the flames\nAnd split and burn and fall apart.\nAnd what if I went naked too\nLike the wind,\nWhistling scorn between my teeth?\nThis blank and rigid avenue\nWould split like mist and roll apart."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "252", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.42", "texte": "THE DISCOVERY OF THE INDIES.\n\nSALVE REGINA MISERICORDIA, VITA DULGEDO ET SPES NOSTRA\nSALVE. AD TE GLAMAMUS, EXSULES FILII HEVAE, AD TE SUSPIRA-\nMUS GEMENTES ET FLENTES IN HAG LACRYMUM VALLE . . .\nA dense waterboundary over beyond the Azores needed a ship through\nit. Having failed to secure a footing for the adventure in every capital,\nridiculed, driven about from place to place, in rags finally, his mind burning,\nthe martyr's fervor eating now back of his breastbone, his son at his side\n— the Italian joins the mob about their Catholic Spanish Majesties encamped\nbefore Granada. There he watches his opportunity, for the last time to\nmake his proposal.\nHe hears the talk: Christ in the ascendant 1 but Spain ruined, sees\nthe Moor come out and kiss the royal hands, fanfare of trumpets! Spaniards\nshouting! passage of the priests in robes — but no money. India . . rich,\nbut far. So then it comes to him:\nCHRISTOPHORO! him that carried Christ across the river.\nBeing a practical shipsmaster, besides the flame, he makes his plea:\nTo the west. To India. In the name of Christ: gold, jewels, spices —\nThus, your Highnesses, Catholic Christians, Princes who love the Holy\nChristian faith and the propagation of it, and enemies to the sect of Mahoma,\nresolved to send me, Cristobal Colon, to India; and ordered that I should\nnot go by land to the eastward as had been customary, but that I should\ngo by way of the west, whither up to this day we do not know for certain\nthat any man has gone.\nAnd for this they made great concessions to me, ennobled me, so that\nhenceforth I should be called Don, and should be chief Admiral of the\nOcean Sea, perpetual Viceroy and Governor of all the Islands and Con-\ntinents that I should discover and that my eldest son should succeed, and\nso from generation to generation forever.\n.... at the third hour of Saturday night it began to blow from the\nN. E. and I shaped my course to the west. We took in much water over\nthe bows, which retarded our progress and nine leagues were made during\nthe day and night."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "253", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.43", "texte": "Sunday we made 19 leagues, and I decided to reckon less than the\nnumber run, for should the voyage prove of long duration, the people\nwould not be so terrified and disheartened. This day we lost sight of land,\nand many fearful of not seeing it again sighed and shed tears. The sailors\nsteered badly letting the ships fall off to N. E. and even more, of which\nI was forced to complain several times.\nMonday . . Tuesday we sailed on our course which was west and\nmade twenty leagues or more. We saw a large piece of the mast of a ship\nof one hundred and twenty tons but were unable to get it.\nItem: that of all and every kind of merchandise, whether pearls,\nprecious stones, gold, silver, spices, etc. of whatever kind, name and sort\nwhich may be bought, bartered, discovered or obtained in the said Admiralty,\nYour Highnesses grant from henceforth to the said Don Cristobal etc. the\ntenth part of the whole . . granted, in the town of Santa Fe de la Granada\non the 17th. day of April in the year of our Lord Jesus Christ 1492. I the\nKing. I the Queen.\nWednesday . . Thursday . . Friday, on the westerly course, day and\nnight, 20 leagues, counting a little less. Here those on the caravel Nina\nreported that they had seen a tern, a bird which is never far from land.\nSaturday we made 27 leagues on the west course; and in the early\npart of the night there fell into the sea a marvellous flame of fire, at\na distance of about 4 or 5 leagues from the ship.\nSunday, the sixteenth, day and night, I steered the course west, making\n39 leagues but counted only 36. There were some clouds and small rain.\nFrom this day and ever afterward very temperate breezes, so that there\nwas great pleasure in enjoying the mornings, nothing being wanted but the\nsong of nightingales. It was like April in Andalucia. Here we began to\nsee many tufts of grass that were very green and appeared to have been\nquite recently torn from the land. All this I called to the attention of the\nmen and from this I judged that we were near land, but not the mainland\nwhich I make to be more distant.\nMonday, at dawn, we observed much more weed appearing, like herbs\nfrom a river, in which one of the men discovered a live crab. This I kept\nthat all might see it and believe on the land. The sea water was found\nto be less salt than it had been since leaving the Canaries. The breezes\nwere always soft. Everyone was pleased and the best sailors went ahead\nto sight the first land. Many tunny fish passed on all sides of us and the"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "254", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.44", "texte": "crew of the Nina killed one. All these signs came from the west in which\ndirection I trust in the High God in whose hands are all victories that\nvery soon we shall see land. That morning there appeared a white bird,\ncalled a boatswainbird, which is not in the habit of sleeping on the sea.\nTuesday, we made 45 leagues, counting only 38. The sea was like\nthe river of Seville. Martin Alonzo, with the Pinta, which was a fast\nsailer, did not wait, but said to me from his caravel, that he hoped to\nsee land that night. A great cloud appeared to the north, a sign of the\nnearness of land.\nSeven years passed in discussion and nine in execution, the Indies\ndiscovered, wealth and renown for Spain and great increase to God and\nto His Church. And I have arrived at and am in such condition that there\nis no one so vile but thinks he may insult me.\nThree voyages undertaken and brought to success against all who\nwould gainsay me; islands and a mainland to the south discovered; pearls,\ngold and in spite of all, after a thousand struggles with the world, and\nhaving withstood them all, neither arms nor counsels availed me, it cruelly\nkept me under water. What have I not endured . . . ?\nThe lands in this part of the world, which are now under your\nHighnesses sway, are richer and more extensive than those of any other\nChristian power, and yet, after that I had, by the Divine Will, placed them\nunder your sovereignty, and was on the point of bringing your Majesties\ninto receipt of a very great revenue, . . I was arrested and thrown with\nmy two brothers, loaded with irons, into a ship, stripped, and very illtreated\nwithout being allowed any appeal to justice.\nI was twenty-eight years old when I came into your Highnesses1 service,\nand now I have not a hair upon me that is not grey; my body is infirm,\nand all that was left me, as well as to my brothers has been taken away\nand sold, even to the frock I wore. . . .\nWednesday, 25 leagues, but it was calm, and counted only 22. This\nday, at ten o'clock, a booby came to the ship and in the afternoon another,\nthese birds not generally going more than twenty leagues from the land.\nThere was also some drizzling rain without wind, which is a sure sign of\nland. I felt it to be certain that there were islands both to the north and"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "255", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.45", "texte": "south of our position and that we were passing through them. This\nI explained to all saying that my desire was to press on to the Indies, the\nweather being fine, as such it was, and that on the return we should see\nall. Here the pilots found their position. He of the Nina made the Canaries\nfour hundred and forty leagues distant, the Pinta four hundred and twenty.\nBut he of my own ship made the distance exactly four hundred leagues,\nwhich I gave out to be the true.\nThursday, twentieth of September, the course was W. by N. and as\nher head was all round the compass, owing to the calm that prevailed, the\nship made only 7 or 8 leagues. Two boobies came to the ship, and after-\nwards another, a sign of the proximity of land. One of the men caught\na bird with the hand, which was like a tern. But it was a riverbird, not\na seabird, the feet being like those of a gull. At dawn two or three land\nbirds came singing to the ship and they disappeared before sunset.\nFriday, most of the day was calm, later a little wind. At dawn so\nmuch weed that the sea seemed to be covered with it. And it came from\nthe west. Toward mid-day a whale was sighted, which is a sign of land,\nbecause they always keep near the shore.\nSaturday . . Sunday, the twenty-third of September I shaped a course\nN. W. and made about 22 leagues. A dove was seen and also another booby.\nGreat quantities of weed and crabs in it. The sea being calm and smooth,\nthe crews began to murmur, saying that there was no great sea and the\nwind would never blow so that they could return to Spain. Afterward\nthe sea arose very much and adverse winds appeared. Yet even then some\nobjected, saying that the wind would not last.\nMonday, on the west course all day and night making 14 leagues.\nI counted only twelve.\nTuesday, calm and afterward wind. On the west course till night.\nAt sunset Martin Alonzo went up on the poop of his ship and with joy\ncalled out that he had sighted land. I fell on my knees and gave thanks\nto the Lord, so heavy had been my burdens these latter days at the despair\namong the men and the murmurs going among them, that I should have\nto turn back. And Martin Alonzo said the Gloria in Excelsis with his people.\nMy own crew did the same. Those of the Nina all went up on the mast\nand into the rigging, and declared that it was land. It seemed distant\n25 leagues. So it appeared until night. 1 ordered the course to be altered\nfrom W. to S. W. in which direction the land had appeared. Four leagues"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "256", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.46", "texte": "that day on a west course and 17 S. W. during the night, in all 21, but\nI told the men that 13 was the distance made good. The sea was smooth\nso that many sailors bathed alongside. We saw many giltheads and\nother fish.\nWednesday, what had been said to be land was only clouds and\nI continued on the west course till afternoon, then altered to S. W. Day\nand night 31 leagues counting 24 for the people. The sea was like a river,\nthe air pleasant and mild. The despair of the crew redoubled at this\ndisappointment but I comforted them as best I could begging them to endure\na while longer for all that would be theirs in the end.\nThursday . . Friday . . Saturday, the course was west, 24 leagues,\ncounting only 21. Calms, not much distance made good during day and\nnight. Today we saw a man-o-war bird, which makes the boobies vomit\nwhat they have swallowed, and eats it, maintaining itself on nothing else.\nIt is a seabird but does not sleep on the sea, and does not go more than\n20 leagues from land. The sea smooth as a river. Much weed.\nSunday, the last day of September, west fourteen leagues, eleven\nbeing counted. Four boatswain birds came to the ship which I considered\na great sign of land.\nMonday, first of October, west twenty five leagues, counted twenty.\nA heavy shower of rain. At dawn the pilot of our ship made the distance\nfrom Hierro 584 leagues to the west. The reduced reckoning which I showed\nto the crew made it 578 leagues, but the truth which I kept secret was 707.\nThus the wisdom of the double reckoning was confirmed.\nTuesday, west, day and night thirty nine leagues, counted for the\ncrew thirty. The weed, many thanks to God, coming from east to west,\ncontrary to the usual course. Many fish seen and one killed. A white\nbird like a gull.\nWednesday, still the west course, and made good forty seven leagues,\ncounted forty. Sandpipers appeared, and much weed, some old and some\nquite fresh and having fruit. No birds. So I gave it out that we had left\nthe islands behind that were depicted on the chart. Here many called\nupon me to turn about and search for the land but I did not wish to keep\nthe ships beating about, although I had certain information of islands in\nthis region. It would not have been good sense to do this since the weather\nwas favorable and the chief intention was to go in search of the Indies"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.47", "texte": "Man Ray"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.48", "texte": "Man Ray"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "257", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.49", "texte": "by way of the west. This was what I had promised to the King and Queen\nand they had sent me for this purpose.\nThursday, west sixty three leagues, counted forty six. More than\nforty sandpipers came to the ship in a flock and two boobies. A shipsboy\nhit one with a stone. There also came a man-o-war bird and a white\nbird like a gull. The crew here became ever louder in their complaints but\nI gave as little heed as I was able though many were now openly mutinous\nand would have done me harm if they dared.\nPETER GUTIERREZ: So that, virtually, you have staked your life\nand the lives of your companions, upon the foundation of a mere speculative\nopinion.\nCOLUMBUS: So it is: I cannot deny it. But consider a little. If at\npresent you and I, and all our companions, were not in this vessel, in the\nmidst of this sea, in this unknown solitude, in a state as uncertain and\nperilous as you please; in what other condition of life should we find\nourselves? in what should we be occupied? in what mode should we pass\nthese days? Perhaps more cheerfully? or should we not rather be in some\ngreater trouble or solicitude, or else full of tedium? I care not to mention\nthe glory and utility we shall carry back, if the enterprise succeeds according\nto our hope. Should no other fruit come from this navigation, to me it\nappears most profitable inasmuch as for a time it preserves us free from\ntedium, makes life dear to us, makes valuable to us many things that\notherwise we should not have in consideration.\nFriday, fifth of October, fifty seven leagues, but counted forty five.\nThe sea smooth and quiet. To God be given many thanks, the air being\npleasant and temperate, with no weed, many sandpipers, and flying fish\ncoming on the deck in numbers.\nSaturday, continued the west course, forty leagues, thirty three being\ncounted. Martin Alonzo said that it would be best to steer west by south,\nthat night, for the island of Gipango which the map showed but I thought it\nbest to go at once to the continent and afterwards to the island.\nSunday, seventh October, west twenty three leagues, counting eighteen.\nThis day the Nina hoisted a flag at the masthead, and fired a gun, which\nwas the signal I had ordered that land had been sighted. At this time\nalso, I ordered that at sunrise and sunset, all the ships should join me,\nbecause at these times things are most proper for seeing the greatest distance,\nthe haze clearing away. No land was seen during the afternoon as reported\n\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "258", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.50", "texte": "by the Nina. But we passed great numbers of birds flying from N. to S. W.\nThis I believed to be due either to the birds going to sleep on land or that\nthey were flying from the winter which might be supposed to be near in the\nland from which they were coming. And this in some measure consoled the\nmen from their disappointment over the false news from the Nina since it\nis known that most of the islands held by the Portugese were discovered\nby the flight of birds. For this reason I resolved to give up the west\ncourse and to shape a course W.S.W. for two days. We began the new\ncourse an hour before sunset expecting to see land soon and this served\nto encourage the crew with renewed hope.\nMonday, the course W.S.W. and twelve leagues were made during the\nday and night. Thanks be to God the air is very soft like April at Seville;\nand it is a pleasure to be here so balmy are the breezes. The weed this\nday is very fresh, there are many land birds and one was taken that was\nflying S.W., terns, ducks and a booby.\nTuesday, ninth October, the course S.W. The wind then changed\nand I steered W. by N. four leagues. Throughout the night birds were\nheard passing.\nWednesday, fifty nine leagues, W.S.W., but counted no more than\nforty four. Here the people could endure no longer. All now complained\nof the length of the voyage. But I cheered them as best I could giving them\ngood hopes of the advantages they might gain by it. Roused to madness\nby their fear, the captains declared they were going back but I told them\nthen, that however much they might complain, I had to go to the Indies\nand they along with me, and that I would go on until I found them,\nwith the help of our Lord. And so for a time it passed but now all was\nin great danger from the men.\nThursday, eleventh of October. The course was W.S.W. More sea\nthan there had been during the whole of the voyage. Sandpipers and a green\nreed near the ship. And for this I gave thanks to God as it was a sure\nsign of land. Those of the Pinta saw a cane and a pole, and they took\nup another small pole which appeared to be worked with iron; also another\nbit of cane, a land plant and a small board. The crew of the caravel Nina\nalso saw signs of land, and a small plant covered with berries.\nAfter sunset I returned to the west course. Up to two hours past\nmidnight we had gone ninety miles, when the Pinta which was the fastest\nsailer and had gone ahead, found the land and gave the signals. The land\nwas first seen by Rodrigo de Triana."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "259", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.51", "texte": "4*\n\nThough on the night before, at ten o'clock, I saw a light and called\nPeter Guitierrez and said that there seemed to be a light, and that he\nshould look at it. He did so and saw it. The same to Rodrigo Sanchez\nwho at first could see nothing but afterward saw the light once or twice\nlike a wax candle rising and falling. When they said the Salve which all\nthe sailors are accustomed to sing in their way, I admonished the men to\nkeep a good lookout on the forecastle and to watch well for land and to\nhim who should first cry out that he had seen land I would give a silk\ndoublet besides the other rewards promised by the Sovereigns which were\nten thousand maravedis to him who should first see it. Two hours past\nmidnight, the moon having risen at eleven o'clock and then shining brightly\nin the sky, being in its third quarter and a little behind Rodrigo de Triana,\nthe land was sighted at a distance of about two leagues. At once I ordered\nthem to shorten sail and we lay under the mainsail without the bonnets,\nhove to waiting for daylight.\nOn Friday, the twelfth of October, we anchored before the land and\nmade ready to go on shore. Presently we saw naked people on the beach.\nI went ashore in the armed boat and took the royal standard, and Martin\nAlonzo and Vicente Yanez, his brother, who was captain of the Nina. And\nwe saw the trees very green, and much water and fruits of divers kinds.\nPresently many of the inhabitants assembled. I gave to some red caps\nand glass beads to put round their necks, and many other things of little\nvalue. They came to the ships boats afterward, where we were, swimming\nand bringing us parrots, cotton threads in skeins, darts — what they had,\nwith good will. As naked as their mothers bore them, and so the women,\nthough I did not see more than one young girl. All I saw were youths,\nwell made with very handsome bodies and very good countenances. Their\nhair short and coarse, almost like the hairs of a horse's tail. They paint\nthemselves some black, some white, others red and others of what color\nthey can find. Some paint the faces and others the whole body, some only\nround the eyes and others only on the nose. They are themselves neither\nblack nor white.\nOn Saturday, as dawn broke, many of these people came to the beach,\nall youths. Their legs are very straight, all in one line and no belly. They\ncame to the ship in canoes, made out of the trunk of a tree, all in one\npiece, and wonderfully worked, propelled with a paddle like a baker's\nshovel and go at a marvellous speed.\nBright green trees, the whole land so green that it is a pleasure to\nlook on it. Gardens of the most beautiful trees I ever saw. Later I came"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "260", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.52", "texte": "upon a man alone in a canoe going from one island to another. He had\na little of their bread, about the size of a fist, a calabash of water, a piece\nof brown earth, powdered then kneaded, and some dried leaves which must\nbe a thing highly valued by them for they bartered with it at San Salvador.\nHe also had with him a native basket. The women wore in front of their\nbodies a small piece of cotton cloth. I saw many trees very unlike those\nof our country. Branches growing in different ways and all from one trunk;\none twig is one form and another is a different shape and so unlike that it\nis the greatest wonder in the world to see the diversity; thus one branch\nhas leaves like those of a cane, and others like those of a mastic tree; and\non a single tree there are five different kinds. The fish so unlike ours that\nit is wonderful. Some are the shape of dories and of the finest colors in the\nworld, blue, yellow, red and other tints, all painted in various ways, and the\ncolors so bright that there is not a man who would not be astounded, and\nwould not take great delight in seeing them. There are also whales. I saw\nno beasts on land save parrots and lizards.\nOn shore I sent the people for water, some with arms, and others\nwith casks; and as it was some little distance, I waited two hours for them.\nDuring that time I walked among the trees which was the most\nbeautiful thing which I had ever seen . . .\n. . . EIA ERGO, ADVOCATA NOSTRA, ILLOS TUOS MISERICORDES\nOGULOS AD NOS CONVERTE. ET JESUM, BENEDICTUM FRUGTUM\nVENTRIS TUI, NOBIS POST HOG EXSILIUM OSTENDE. O GLEMENS,\nO PIA, O DULGES MARIA.\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "261", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.53", "texte": "DARKNESS GLITTERS\n\nSIX STANZAS\n1\nHe sits on the bridge inspecting his hands. Opposite me is another\nme it is not hard to find red boats and soon he will come threading his\nway through the traffic, blow, horns! blow, horns! and the silence dies\nin the enchanted melody of a flageolet but blow! blow! crack your cheeks\nand blow! horns! here is birth when I was a child in my cradle a por-\ntrait hung over my head and the hard corners ladled its substance into\nmy brain one winked color then and darkness glittered, but blow! and\nblow again! he is naked, we all see that and leering over him her finger\nstumbles in his flesh and my senses chatter as we run with him, the horns\ntriumphantly blowing and one with hair streaming running laughing at\nthe head\nrunning we laugh and he kicks his legs laughing through hills\nand over valleys someday all day he will sprawl with Summer on the\nspangled plain but now his shutterless eyes stare helplessly into the stab-\nbing bugle he is meaningless but we have made a symbol of him we have\nhonored him with horns and routed through the town with him, so now\nthe echo spins us backward and our vaunting laughter perishes in greater\ntumult as the earth takes speed from our standing feet a hill tree the road\nchimney horizontal flops into a rock turning past into a fence no cattle\nand darkness glitters.\n2\nA tablespoonful of ink has fallen through the night and we see the\nglimmer condense a moment and perish, remembering afterward the four\nlocked walls within which eight feet on the so far as we know substantial\nfloor support four people two women and two men one has his watch\nin his hand and we strain to hear as his forefinger urges them what does\nhe say? for the second man leans over the bed a moment\nas in the\nstatic gaslight prints yellow unexpectedly rotundities out of flats\nthe woman\nmoves to his side"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "262", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.54", "texte": "she loops her arms about him, stiller these scenes in\nthe yellow light and movement slow before the outer wall opens tipping\nthe bed there was no one\nand the second woman and I know her the\nscene takes on intimacy for it was she who ran with streaming hair out\nof the room and down great avenues and up great branching trees she\nran screaming through the skies over my head and her flying hair\nensnaring constrained me to follow as the ink dries at last in curious\nsplotches on a clean sheet of paper.\n3\nHe escaped once and f'dedans son petit jardinet\" thought him of\nVillon on the pavement there he saw women garbed in yellow swaying\nlike a field of wheat from thistle-flower blue eyes peering to dress the\ngreen of corn clasping the rich sweetness of rounded dimpling flesh so\nteeth bite white the kissing flavor and those in red sprouted like poppies\nungarnered in the unmown field\noh! orange throbbing autumnal spring\nand yellow green moving and bending above brown unobservedly mingling\namong the throng but he has walked in the meadows and seen the fields\nlie breathless side by side like women\nwaiting\nstirred by tremulous pas-\nsions among the feathery tufted carrots glimpse toes gripping along streets\nthe young barley shoots tender green from the rolled, brown field and\nhe saw the sappy, crawling locomotive plant with hesitant eye staring\nthrough hazed green of cabbage\none blurs rows and rows undulating\nwith the roll of wheels but even among traffic the men are clear harrowing\nand plowing brusquely among them Pete lifts in his browned arms a sheaf\nof wheat\nbut I have seen a soldier on the Boul Mich with his arm\nabout a girl.\n4\nThere was thunder that afternoon from a dull, evenly-colored sky and\nwe walked in the town. His eyes always asked you to look into them and"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "263", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.55", "texte": "that irritated me and she was like singing last year's ragtime I forget what\nhappened to the King and Queen in red robes preceded by heralds down\nlong gilded halls and the cushion but he suddenly interrupted he touched\nme by the hand and with that air of his even while speaking of listening\nfor what you are going to say, \"Edna is going to have a baby.\" I turned\nto her, affecting nonchalance and said, \"Why bother?\" It punctured a\nfatuous moment but then they started laughing and I was frenzied at heart.\nI shouted at the thunder while they cowered beneath a trembling\nawning he plucking me by the hand the great rocketing tumult rolled\nabout the sky at which we dared not look for the puckering rain\nthe man\npoured a glass of wine across the bar to a drenched patron and in the\nwind I saw her rounded figure and then the wind lifted a drift of her\nhair and in a great white flash that abolished all but the two of us the\nearth spun backward once more and dashed us unwillingly, laughingly,\nrecklessly onward down long halls and vaulted corridors whose crystal\nwalls reflected reflecting floors through a rain of roaring colors the rush\nof our laughter engulfed that slow procession and swept them in red\nriot behind us and leading all the Queen with hair streaming ran laughing\nbearing him kicking and laughing on the golden cushion into glittering\ndarkness where a hand probing took mine and said, \"It's over.\"\n5\nI saw marble, he saw bubbles the sun's kissing resolved colors into\nthe dazzling air\nI tested the strength of a barbed wire fence, the shining strand of\na spider's web was a sword to bar him from the town\nI swam vainly searching the sources of the oceans of the world he\ndrowned in a tear\nhe was a fool for I shot at a bird and he was that\nbird, he was a fool and I killed him for otherwise I should have been that\nportrait staring drily from the wall at the various uninteresting happenings\nof the room so I climbed a tall tree to its top and gazed on cities, my\nglance petrified them and he died there as I had planned or so I suppose\nfor I never afterward came to the cities I had seen\nhe was a fool and\nI killed him, I fished for him in rivers and he drowned gasping as fish\ndo in the air I breathe"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "264", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.56", "texte": "he went up to the skies to search for stars and\ncame down blind so I killed him for I must find my way groping along\nthe streets and I killed him I killed him but his blood beckons me from\nthe red wheels of a cart rolling across a bridge but I have made marble\ninto bubbles\nor is it bubbles into marble for am I a portrait?\n6\nI lay one sunny day in the summer meadows, but I saw him\nglistening beside me and in the golden sky I saw those great legs striding\nand the streaming hair lapped the horizon I heard the screams that\nlaughing women force from their mouths I saw their hollow cheeks and\ngreat eyes burning as they rioted around me\nhe all the while stirring\nbeneath me, he must have sunk into ground he must have interpenetrated\nwith the roots and growing things laced together below for I felt him stir\nand their fingers were drawn in netting tracery across my stung flesh as\nthe valley swayed out like a banner green yellow golden while they danced\nabout me\nthrough glittering darkness we are running they have snatched\nhim from me or me from him and run laughing though he sits on a bridge\ninspecting my hands a man helps a woman into a red taxi-cab\na moment\nof two silences the driver leans out sidewise to catch the address and we\nswing our folds about them Lion Noir behind a straw hat red glass\nthis\nintervenes when I lie with my wife in bed there is a sly bent-shouldered\nelfish grin that intervenes between our bellies and I see with inexpressible\nhorror her gray eyes staring up at me in haunted fear through the arrested\nmoment it slips like ripples in a pool is a\nplow and I search\nfor it\nagain but a straw hamper is a sign of a pipe in the mouth and ray, stick,\nI could stab with a flash like that, killing is brown, birth is red, bed is\na banner I could plant vegetables in a bed sometimes. He inspects his\nhands.\n\nRobert Coates"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "265", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.57", "texte": "THE APOLLO OF VEII\nCrunch of foot forward, foot forward;\nFlair of leg-muscles, set to steel,\nSliding, gliding, bunching to steel;\nQuiver and poise: foot, shin-bone, and knee —\nCrunch of foot forward, foot forward.\nHips holding that tawny torso:\nRoll of hip-joints forward.\nBending, leopard-lithe torso,\nClean flesh-ripple over ribs,\nThe curving prongs of ribs,\nClutching the vitals to the spine.\nHips holding that tawny torso:\nRoll of hip-joints forward.\nShoulders set in a neck-shudder;\nDrive of high shoulders forward,\nShivering strain of the spine-chords,\nShove and slide of the neck-curve,\nTwinge of the copper throat-pulse,\nDrive of the high shoulders forward.-\nPlunge of the head forward, head forward;\nLift and lunge of the battering skull:\nPointed power of that chiseled beak,\nLewd malignancy of cheek-drawn lips\nFlesh stripped back from the food-tusks;\nPlunge of the head forward, head forward.\nLoop and knot of battered biceps,\nAngle of arms forward, arms forward:\nSlide of the velvet flesh-cover;\nStiff fingers forked, fingers hooked;\nHands hollowed to clutch,\nTo crush into blood-mesh,\nGrind into bone-smoke\nAngle of arms forward, arms forward."}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "266", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.58", "texte": "STIGMATAE\nCahleton Beals\nYour grave gapes,\nOpen to the dust-spiraled winds;\nYour skull gleams,\nGummed in the jaws of a great green python;\nYour sagging bones,\nThey lie deep in the seam of grief,\nClutched in the subterranean arms of an orange-tree,\nBy the side of a sanguine forgotten shore\nWhere red souls of sin wail past on black wings of despair.\nAll day I have hunched, mandible in fists,\nWatching;\nWatching ivory cliffs rise from the purple-matrixed dawn\nAnd fruit of gold gleam sun-shaped in the early flame;\nWatching new petals shower snow-swift into that seam,\nWatching all day, through green vitreous branches,\nThe breasted sea with its female undulations,\nThe purple swelling sea;\nWatching it rise,\nWatching it break on the bleaching shore in white smoke.\n1 have crunched my teeth on your terrible fruit,\nSo cadent with prescient dreams of death,\nWith the ruddy gold of decaying day,\nAnd still I wratch, mandible in fists, eyes on the sea,\nTill a spiral of tawny ossiverous sand\nWhirls through the burning air with a glint of\npetals and leaves,\nSucked to the sinking sun,\nShrouding the skeleton of dusk;\nTill tears, scorching surge to my irritated eyes,\nAnd I too run wailing down that shore of sin."}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "267", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.59", "texte": "TRANSFORMATIONS\n\nIV.\nButterweg and Jamaika found no peace during the journey. Jamaika\nshowed anxiety for Kakadu. Butter weg said: ffl can't find a moment's\nsleep over that man. I must say, it is a doubtful pleasure.\" Jamaika\nwhispered: ffl love you so. Have I not transformed my whole life for\nyour sake? Who knows what may become of me now?\" Butterweg stood\nin a corner of the corridor and smoked; \"You should have considered all\nthat before. Are you sorry already? Of course this isn't as comfortable,\nfor you bourgeois.\" Butterweg's generosity no longer seemed so great,\nhe cursed every time something annoyed him, and Jamaika trembled at his\nwords. For a moment, when she was so worried that her whole body\nached and her temples pounded, she hoped that the police would\nintervene and arrest them. She was reflecting on this, as Butterweg\nstood by smoking cigarette after cigarette to drive away sleep and\nboredom. He looked at her and gauged her thoughts; \"Listen,\" he said,\ndo you know that we have committed a crime against the peace. If\nKakadu should give us away, we are done for. I advise you then to take\ncare that he doesn't do anything foolish.\" Jamaika was frightened. The\ntrain neared a station, the bright lights shot by more frequently and the\nwhistles of the trainmen could be heard. Gigantic shadows flew by and\ndisappeared in the darkness. When the train stopped, Butterweg went off\nto drink something. . A man with a silk hat and a monocle fixed Jamaika\nwith his eye. She thought: ffl could go with this man now. If I told\nhim how things were, we would be off before Butterweg came back.\nI would be rid of him.\" The man noticed how Jamaika regarded him.\nHe came by very close to her. The thought of Kakadu gripped Jamaika,\nand she could not move a foot. Then Butterweg came, he had bought\ncognac and bade Jamaika drink.\nThey approached Paris toward noon. The passengers ran through\nthe corridors and packed their trunks. A stout man who wanted to take\noff his slippers, stumbled and fell. Jamaika regarded, full of confused\nastonishment, the houses and the colored bill posters on the houses.\nButterweg said: \"Now we are in the great city of Paris, be careful.\" They\nwaited until everyone had left the train and then led out Kakadu,\nwho followed them helplessly. If he should cry out only once, the\npolice would come and all was lost. But the man let himself be dragged"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "268", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.60", "texte": "along, without a word. His head hung down. His hands had been stuck\ninto his pockets. Automatically he put one foot before the other. Before\nthe Gare du Nord the crowd pressed, and the noise of the vehicles rattled\nthrough the city. Butterweg was awaited by a friend of his, who worked\nas a waiter in a great establishment on the Boulevard Poissoniere. They\ngot into a cab to go to the home of this friend, high up on the Montmartre.\nThe friend believed that Jamaika was the mistress of Butterweg, but he\ndid not know what to make of Kakadu. He thought: \"Never in my life,\nalthough I have lived much, have I seen people drag a man about the\nworld for the pure fun of it.\"\"I don't know why I did it, myself,\" cried\nButterweg. Jamaika wept. Butterweg stroked her hands; \"There, be still,\nit isn't so bad. Everything will be all right.\" When they came to their\nroom and their friend left, Butterweg said: \"There, my love, we must get\nup a rigout for Kakadu, so that he doesn't give us away.\" Jamaika dried\nthe tears on her face. \"I shall talk to him. Let me be alone with him for\na moment.\" \"Good! Good! Have a little consultation with him. Je\nm^eclipse\"\nKakadu didn't move when Jamaika called to him, he lay in bed and\nstretched his feet out as far as they would go. His face was an extra-\nordinary mixture of pure childishness and senile anger. For a long time\nhe lay without breathing, and when Jamaika cried out louder and shook\nhim, he said: \"Oh, I am so sick. I ought to be undressed, and have\nsome camomile tea and cold compresses, for I am very sick.\" He got up\nand walked dizzily about the room making motions with his arms in order\nto keep his balance. His toes were turned inward, his head was sunken\nbetween his collar bones, his large and bony shoulders resembled those of\nan ape. His hands at times would grab at the air as if to clutch something,\nand a faint hissing came from his distorted mouth, his eyes opening widely\nand unnaturally. Jamaika said: \"Kakadu, calm yourself a bit. There is\nnothing more to be done about it, and when you come to think of it\nnothing much has happened. Butterweg is good to you and me.\" Kakadu\ngurgled, he looked at Jamaika, who took his head between her hands\nand stroked his hair. When she noticed that his nose was dirty she took\nhis handkerchief out of the trunk and wiped it clean. Kakadu did not\nunderstand anything that was going on about him, he felt only a roaring\nin his ears, sometimes possessed a moment of consciousness that his whole\nlife had been transformed, and waved his hands in the air like an unruly\nchild — but then he would become weary, his eyelids so tired and\nhis hair aching so on his head, that he fell into bed, his mouth open, and\njust bleated. \"Kakadu,\" cried Jamaika loudly. The man did not move."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "269", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.61", "texte": "\"Well,\" she said in Butterweg's tone, \"You will have to be forced.\" She\ntook a small pair of scissors and cut his hair off to the root so that he\nlooked like a criminal. It was very wonderful to behold the low forehead,\nthe heavy beetling brows, the monstrous collar-bones. Then Jamaika tied\nhis collar around him and knotted a red necktie for him. She regarded\nhim and decided that he did not look well that way. Something was lacking.\nHe must be made to look more childlike and pleasant. Then the idea came\nto her to cut his trousers off below the knees. Now he looked like a boy\nwhose thick head contrasted strangely with his short legs; he looked like\nsuch an urchin as falls through the chimney and quacks. Jamaika took\nhim by the ear; \"Now, old man, you are a pretty boy. Everybody will\nbe very nice to you, nicer then they have ever been before.\"\nButterweg found a job in a cabaret in the Montmartre where the\nstreet laborers looked at the nice currycombed legs of the ladies over their\nglass of cider. Jamaika was given a colored costume of red taffeta, accor-\ndion pleated, which fell out like a bell. She wore a bodice and her arms\nwere naked, while an artificial yellow rose shielded her bosom. It was\nhard for her to get used to the make-up but Butterweg forced her to do\nas he pleased. He stood behind her mirror and threatened her with his\nfist. Said Jamaika: \"If you aren't good to me, I won't go with you. I shall\ngo back home.\" He would forget himself in his rage, take her by the\nhair and drag her across the room. \"I'll show you, my sweet,\" he roared,\n\"what you may do here and what you can't.\" They were always speedily\nreconciled, but sometimes Jamaika would remember these incidents, and\nwhen he would come in the evening to make love to her, she would laugh in\nhis face. After eight o'clock the show would begin, Butterweg threw the\nfrogs into the air and caught them with his wide open mouth. The public\nclapped wildly. \"Ah c'est beau. Cest gentilsaid the little girls. Jamaika\nsold photographs to the people. Butterweg in an elegant cutaway with\na cane and patent leather shoes. Butterweg: \"The greatest artist in the\nworld.\" People would buy these photos laughing and blinking at Jamaika's\nhips. This engagement lasted only two weeks, and after this they were\nin great need with only bread and water for nourishment. Kakadu might\nhave died of hunger, if Jamaika hadn't given him something to eat in\nButterweg's absence. Butterweg found odd jobs, and Jamaika found a place\nas waitress for 2 fr. 50 per day.\nFinally Butterweg said: \"This won't do. We must see to it that we\nget out of Paris. You have seen how I have tried my best. Artists must\nsimply starve here, while ignoramuses and tramps earn money. I have"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "270", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.62", "texte": "been deceived in Paris. There is something for us in the great cities of\nAmerica. I have thought it over and resolved that our only salvation is\nto go to America.\" Jamaika was overjoyed that they were going to\nleave Paris. Work had coarsened her hands, she suffered from headaches\nand often in the street had to lean against houses so as not to fall.\nButterweg seized her and kissed her on the neck. She trembled at this\nunwonted caress, she twined her arms about him and sobbed: \"Oh Butter-\nweg, how sweet it was when I went walking with you near the circus and\nthe elephant, Billy, stuck his head out of his stall. How everything has\nchanged.\" \"You must not think of that. We must worry about how we\ncan get the money for the ocean trip.\" Butterweg sat down on the bedstead,\nand kissed Jamaika and stroked her cheeks while he spoke very earnestly\nto her. \"Jamaika, if you love me, then there is a way, a sure way of getting\nthe money.\" For a long time Jamaika had been denied all love by this\nman, and his gentle words and soft voice moved her very much. \"I shall\ndo all that you ask of me, and I am ready to sacrifice myself to be of\nservice to your art.\"\nToward ten when the good citizens of Paris were eating their supper,\nButterweg led Jamaika to the Gare du Nord. She laughed and joyed in the\ncolorfulness of the streets. There came six men who carried a long Manoli\ncigarette on their shoulders. The children plucked at their backs, and\na policeman stood ready on a street-island to handle the crowd. Out of\na niche of the station a man stepped forth, who reminded Jamaika strongly\nof the gentlemen on the train with whom she had almost eloped. Like the\nother man he wore a high hat, a monocle and lady's shoes with cloth\nuppers. Butterweg said to Jamaika, \"Go with this gentleman. He is\na friend of mine and he will give you enough money to make the ocean trip.\"\nButterweg rubbed his hands, as they disappeared around the corner. \"She\nis still good for something, the old cow,\" he muttered. On the following\nday Jamaika was to meet him at the station at a given hour. She spent\nthe whole night with the gentleman with the high hat. He was so polite\nand his manners were so recherche that Jamaika had a great desire to stay\nwith him. He said; \"Stay with me. You shall have all that you want.\"\nJamaika knew something now about life and she asked: \"Will you marry\nme? Can you guarantee that you will never leave me?\" The gentleman\ntook off his high hat to air his thatch, and Jamaika noticed that it was\na thin bristly wig which covered his head with difficulty. Then he shook\nhimself and dangled his legs a bit in order to give his trousers a chance to\nfall properly to his shoes. \"Oh you can have guarantees. Lots of them."}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "271", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.63", "texte": "If you stay with me, we shall go to Egypt and there you will be maintained\nat a pension. I have some travelling to do, just now, but when I come back,\nI shall surely marry you.\" \"That would be wonderful,\" said Jamaika, and\nshe clapped her hands like a child. But then she remembered Kakadu,\nshe could not leave him. She thought of him as of a son, a poor sick son,\nso that the tears stood in her eyes. \"I cannot go with you,\" she said.\nButterweg was waiting impatiently when she came. She gave him\nthe money and he was very friendly to her, and praised her in all sorts\nof endearing terms, which he hadn't used in a long time. On the following\nday they got on the train, to go to Cherbourg for the steamer to New York.\nKakadu in short trousers, with a sailor hat and a red tie, struggled to carry\nthe heavy trunks. The ship lay at the wharf, and the people crowded each\nother to find place in the steamer, which gave a signal with three blasts of\nher siren.\nV.\nThe steerage passengers were examined by doctors for chronic sick-\nnesses, and their clothes too were examined. They were all pushed into\none narrow room thirty at a time. When Kakadu was examined the doctor\nsaid: \"A moron! How old is he?\" Jamaika answered quickly: \"He is\nnearly eighteen.\" The man shook his head. Jamaika marvelled at the\nhuge ship, which spread out with its cabins like a city. The smoke crawled\nout of the smoke-stacks and the red striped horns of the ventilators stood\nlike a forest. Twice a day the steerage passengers were allowed to go up\non the stern deck for air and if they craned their necks they could see the\ncabin passengers lying on steamer chairs and yawning in the sun. Well-\ndressed children were playing ball, and ladies in heavy silk robes moved\nto the dining room on the arms of their cavaliers. Jamaika always sat\nbefore a round hole through which the sea and the horizon could be seen,\nThe seamen upon whose faces the Sou'westers had been branded, held their\nhands to their mouths and yelled about the great ship. Jamaika observed\nhow slowly the waves rose, how they towered up like small mountains\nand suddenly crumpled up into foam. She became very peaceful, her eyes\nsaw clearly and sharply, and often she thought, if I can only travel far\nenough, I can see a great deal of the world. But when she approached\nher berth, she would hear the sound of musical instruments, and the songs\nof the men would move her so much that she Kakadu seldom\nleft his hammock, and when he saw the ocean he would gape and blubber\nwith joy. Jamaika pressed Kakadu to her and kissed him. When the"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "272", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.64", "texte": "noise became too violent and the men sang too loud, a deck officer would\nappear and cry; \"Will you be quiet down there! Vermin!\" A woman took\nthe trouble to give birth to a child. She drummed upon her belly with\nher hands but her neighbors made believe they didn't hear.\nNo cries disturbed the calm peaceful cigarette smoking of the cowboys\nwho were returning from Europe with their lassoes. Butterweg helped\nwith the child-birth, and when he came later to lie down near Jamaika on\nthe sack he said: \"She claims to be a relative of the famous Otero. She\nis a tightrope walker.\" Butterweg could often be seen sitting with Otero,\nwhose baby lay twisted up in a few knots of cloth beside her. Jamaika\nnoticed him pinch the calf of Otero's leg one time and smack his lips as\nthe woman climbed before him up the steep stairway to the deck. In the\nevening the fire hose was played about on the steerage passengers, so that\nthey caroused and led wild dances. Kakadu got the stream full in the face.\nHe fell down striking his head against a hook and receiving a bloody\nwound. Butterweg cried: \"Good for him. Now he'll keep his mouth shut\nfor a while.\" \"I won't have it,\" cried Jamaika enraged, \"I won't have\nyou abuse him. I didn't bring him along for that.\" Butterweg became\nvery calm: \"And pray why did you take him along? I want to say to\nyou right now that it was very unfair of you to do that. He is always\nin my way, always blocks my plans.\" Butterweg never left the side of\nOtero any more. She told of how she wanted to span Niagara Falls with\na rope in order to give an exhibition before a great public and become\ninternationally famous. When the ship reached America Otero could dance\nagain, but the child was dead. It lay in its rags and was as blue as a plum.\nWhen the bell rang which announced that all passengers must leave the\nship, Otero shoved the baby into a straw sack and bothering no more about\nit, went with Butterweg over the gangway.\nThey marvelled at the great city and the unknown sounds which the\nears opened upon. Immense suspension bridges flung their arms across\nthe river, frightful machine rods clanged, and the smoke of the chimneys\nrose above the houses.\n\"That's fine,\" said Kakadu and he laughed with joy. Otero who knew\nthe city led them to the subway. They rolled along until they found them-\nselves in a quarter where the houses stood very close to each other and\ntroops of Chinamen stood in front o saloons. Butterweg hired a little\nrear room which received light only through one window. Then he bought\nthree mattresses, two large, for him and Jamaika, and one little one for\nKakadu. When they paid the rent there were very few dollars left. Butter-"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.65", "texte": "Man Ray"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.66", "texte": "Man Ray"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "273", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.67", "texte": "weg went out to look for work. Gone for three days, on the fourth day\nJamaika saw him sitting with a Chinaman before a coffeehouse. His face\nwas swollen and he pounded on the table with his fist when he spoke.\nJamaika approached him and begged him to come home. But at the same\ntime Otero, in a high apron, came out and began to swear at her. Jamaika\nwept and disappeared. After a while she smelled alcohol. It was Butterweg.\nHe chased her about the room until she found shelter behind Kakadu.\n\"Get fresh to me, will you, you \" Then he stopped and looked for a\nlong time into Kakadu's face.\nHe roared with laughter, sat down on a mattress and shook his head.\n' Tell me now, why you took the idiot along.\" \"I couldn't leave him alone.\nHe was so ill. His jaw hung down and his tongue was as yellow as a lemon.\"\nButterweg approached her heavily, put his arms about her and kissed her\nhair. He went about the room with bent knees. Kakadu suddenly arose.\nHis head was wide and his eyes were firm. \"He seems to have grown\nup a bit under your nursing,\" said Butterweg astonished. Kakadu however\nhad for the first time in a long time understood what was said, so that* he\ncould reply: \"I have not grown, only I am feeling better. How strange it is.\"\ni\nHe underwent a striking metamorphosis. His body grew stronger, his\nunderstanding became clearer again. He asked Jamaika: \"Where are we?\nIsn't this my house, and the room in which I used to work?\" \"We are in\nAmerica, Kakadu. In America.\" Outside, the Chinamen went buzzing\nabout and the hawkers for the shops hammered on their gongs. Kakadu\nlaughed, his mouth falling wide open like a sack. His body took on weight\nsteadily, so that after a few weeks the swelling of his biceps was noticeable.\nAbout three months later Bujtterweg came hurrying in: \"At last. The day\nis not far off. I have been working without a let-up to carry out my plan.\"\n\"What have you been working at,\" asked Jamaika slowly. 'The day that\nwas not far off' was a plan of Otero's. She had announced that she now\nhad found a way of carrying out the exhibition over the great Falls. Like\nthe whores who never cease to talk of the time when they will go to Buenos\nAires to found an elegant maison de rendez-vous, so do tight-rope walkers\nspeak of Niagara, over which Blondel went without a pole. Jamaika followed\nOtero through crooked streets. She tossed her hips like a young horse.\nHer hips made voluptuous dances. A fat hide-dealer awaited Otero behind\na glass of brandy, but before she could near the stout Manchester breeches,\nButterweg clapped his hands behind a tree. Jamaika shivered, for the evening\nlay deep, and sinister looking men shadowed the sidewalks. But nothing\nhappened. Before Jamaika could look around, Otero had gone into a house\n5"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "274", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.68", "texte": "with the stranger and Butterweg had disappeared. She found him at home.\n\"Where were you, Butterweg? I haven't seen you the whole day. Oh I was\nbusy working over my plan to cross Niagara as Blondel did. Am I accoun-\ntable to you for everything I do? Am I your child?\"\nJamaika could not say a word without shivering. Her dress, once\nsnug-fitting about her thigh and arm, fell away tiredly. Fear fell from\nher forehead to her chin. Butterweg drew his brandy flask more often from\nhis pocket. He spat in the room, and the accuracy of his account of the\nNiagara project became more and more questionable. He sought the com-\npany of Otero, who, in a green robe and her hair down, shadowed the\nbarracks. He tried to kiss her, but she slapped him. \"You pig,\" she said,\n\"to let a woman lead you off, who lives off you with her husband. It doesn't\nmatter to you if she deceives you with the idiot.\" He promised to mend\nhis ways. She laughed. She whistled to the street dogs, threw apples to\nthe Chinamen who stood babbling and buzzing in front of the saloons.\nOn a Monday, while Butterweg was gone, Kakadu came to Jamaika. He\nwore a swallowtail and had got the habit of carrying a briefcase under his\narm. He spoke now without stuttering and the gestures of his hands were\nlike the gestures of an ordinary man. Often he would go out to look for\na position on a newspaper. He had begun to learn English and soon he\nknew how to say; \"I will not.\" Jamaika coughed with joy when she saw\nhow Kakadu resembled a normal man. With her cough came blood, and it\nwas a long time before she had calmed down. She strained her hands\nconvulsively, in a St. Vitus dance, and when she cried, it was long wailing\nover her sufferings and Butterweg. \"My dear wife,\" said Kakadu, touched.\nHe tasted her shoulder, then took her arm and led her to the door. The\nroar of the factory whistles filled the streets and the smell of the masses\nrose to the roofs. Kakadu led Jamaika without a word of explanation to\na saloon where the petrol lamps were already lit. Kakadu, moralist and pe-\ndant, shook his head sadly. They let him pass without joking with him. But\na hunch-backed Chinaman jabbed at Jamaika under her skirts. She acted\nas if nothing had happened. They passed into a dark hall fearing that\nsomething fearful might happen in this house. Their hands felt walls to\nthe right and to the left which were as moist as a corpse. Both felt that\na great change was to take place now. Kakadu had become erect, his head\nthrown back. The tips of his swallow-tail waved softly. Jamaika just hung\nfrightened and pale at Kakadu's arm. Her arms dangled like rubber clogs\nat her hips, her eyes fell out like threads. When she spoke she stuttered\nand said, for instance, \"shemical\" instead of \"chemical.\" She wore a dress"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "275", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.69", "texte": "of flannel, which was composed of red and yellow stripes, like a clown's\ncostume with cap and bells. The going was so hard for her that at every\nstep she stumbled like a tired nag.\nKakadu let Jamaika into a room which was bare of furniture. In one\ncorner there was a hole, as large as a nut, through which one could look\ninto an adjoining room. Behind the window panes the high-powered\ntelegraph wires hung like nets and the wide flashes hissed away over them.\nSomething unexpected happened. Kakadu asked Jamaika to look through\nthe hole. She did so reluctantly. In the next room she saw Otero and\nButterweg according each other the pleasures of a questionable love.\nCrouching, Otero went round the man. He turned about slowly following\nher movements, and knew not what to do. At times he would reach his\narm out toward her. Then he would stand like a doorpost gaping with\nopen mouth and astonished eyes. She was almost naked. Her body\nglittered like metal. But he did not know how to help himself. He gave\nup his resistance and threw himself to the floor. Otero gave a cry of joy\nand put her foot on Butterweg's back. Suddenly they heard Otero's bright,\nhard voice. She was expressing her contempt of Butterweg accompanied by\nmotions of her hand. The man began to wail and crawl around the floor on\nall fours. \"See what has become of him,\" said Kakadu who also looked\ndiscreetly through the hole from time to time. \"And this man whom\nnature gave nothing but a faculty for swallowing frogs wanted to straddle\nthe world.\"\n\"You pig,\" cried Otero in the other room in an angrier voice, \"did\nyou think I believed you for a moment? Who dragged you to this land of\nliberty if not Jamaika the woman with the short legs and the goggle-eyes\nand the bad teeth?\" \"Let us go,\" said Jamaika. \"What she says is untrue;\nmy teeth are in perfect order and I have never had goggle-eyes.\" As they\nstood at the entrance through which they had come, Kakadu took Jamaika\nby the ear: \"Good, good, a new life will begin now. But I hope that you\nwill behave respectably, my love.\"\nVI.\nBy chance, Kakadu was appointed Justice of the Peace. He provided\na wig for himself and ensconced himself behind a great table. Many\ndisputes were adjusted by him. The people said: \"He is an energetic man\nand very fore-handed.\" He spoke paternally to the drunkards and told them\n5*"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "276", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.70", "texte": "that their behavior was injurious to the state. Often they fell to the floor\nin Kakadu's court and the pieces of brandy-flasks would fly all about. Their\nwomen came and wailed that they had nothing to eat. Kakadu liked\nto be present at the hearings of these domestic cases, and when the\nwomen fell raging upon their husbands he would would say in a deep\nwell-meaning voice: \"Give it to them, give it to them good and hard.\nThey will come to their senses that way.\" The drunkards would stagger to\ntheir feet and ask, \"What do they want of us?\" Kakadu would bray at\nthem: \"Aren't you ashamed that your wives have to thrash you until you're\nsober?\" Then he would administer several extra days of confinement. The\nwomen stood astonished. The men were led away, cursing, by the policemen.\nThe women howled and wept. Kakadu was a scoundrel who just toyed\nwith the people and made fun of their misery. After the sitting Jamaika\nwould come and bring his lunch. Kakadu would only laugh till his belly\nhurt. She would stand behind his chair while he ate. This would take\na long time for Kakadu had become very stout, and he needed a pile of food.\nAfter his dessert he would unloose his belt several notches and say:\n\"All's well, everything fine,\" or some other banality of the sort. After\ndinner Kakadu would stretch out on a divan. Jamaika would bring him\ncigarettes and an ash-tray as he read the paper. He declared:. \"I must not\nbe bothered. I have important matters to think over.\" She functioned\nnoiselessly. Under the power of the sun the belly of Kakadu swelled in-\nordinately and his cheeks became red as tomatoes. Soon he would\nbe snoring so hard that the curtains would tremble. One free afternoon he\nvisited the prison with Jamaika. An inspector appeared and offered to\nescort them about the prison. Jamaika stared at everything without saying\na word. She took in every sentence Kakadu uttered, with reverence, like\nthe words of a priest. Kakadu pressed her hands at times, and told her\nthat she need have no fear since she was under his protection here. They\nheard a bell strike three times behind a tiled roof. Soon after a little bell\nbegan to sing in a cracked tone like that of an old woman. The courtyard lay\nin shadow. A storm threatened. The inspector said: \"The bell is a signal\nto the prisoners for a half-hour's recreation in the open air.\" The prisoners\ncame out blinking and rubbing their eyes and clapping their hands. The\noaths of the warders filled the place. Long swarms of men came out,\nswung into rows and began to march slowly. Jamaika wanted to see the\nwomen, and the inspector led her through a little gate into another court\nwhere the women marched in a circle around a warder. They were not\npermitted to utter a word. But their whisperings and their signs to each\nother could be observed. Kakadu stayed behind. When Jamaika and the"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "277", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.71", "texte": "inspector reappeared, he said: \"I have discovered Butterweg. I knew that\nhe was here.\" Kakadu had Butterweg summoned. Jamaika cowered behind\nKakadu's back. Butterweg stood there, his head sunken on his chest, his\narms pressed to his side. Kakadu stuck out his chest: \"See, old friend,\nhow things have changed.\" \"Why is he in prison?\" asked Jamaika. The\ninspector did not know what to say. But Kakadu thundered that he could\ngive all the information desired. His cheeks now hung in great rolls over\nhis jaw, his nose shot out bold and stern. In his trousers puffed the\nSeptember winds. He resembled an alligator who, spitting and fuming,\ndances about an arena on his hindlegs. Before Kakadu began to speak,\nhe always cleared his throat and looked around to see if the public were\nlistening attentively. The inspector bowed deeply. Jamaika hid her face\nbehind a handkerchief. ffl saw his end coming, I saw it coming, gentlemen.\nI was fond of him and I pampered him like a little child. I know that\nI was sick for a long time, and that I was used as a block of wood, as\na lump of clay that they could twist any way they wanted.\" The eyes of\nJamaika and Butterweg met for a moment. When Kakadu felt that his\nwords were coming well, he swelled up, and got into a strange ecstasy like\nthat of an old uncle who holds impromptu speeches over his coffee.\n\"I might say, Vetat c'est moi, since the knowledge of the sound organization\nof man's life has taken shape in me. In the wrinkles of my face there hung\nthe pictures of whole cities like reflections. I dwelt with this woman,\nunmoved by the problems of a spiritual existence, in a biblical vestibule,\nin an antechamber of reality, a somewhat myopic composure, but proud of\nmy certitude, that all that had been already belonged to the past, and\nwhether it was here or elsewhere, composed the religion of my kind. Amen.\"\nHe looked at Butterweg, then suddenly grabbed Jamaika by the arm and\ndisappeared between the two saluting sentinels.\nVII.\nTheir means improved so considerably that Kakadu was able to buy\na mansion near the banks of the River. In each corner there was a plaster\nstatuette, whose pedestal contained the legend in Latin, a Diana with bony\nlegs, a Ganymede offering wine, and a Hera. Through the glass wall\na garden could be seen and there was a long rectangular room, which was\nentirely reserved for Kakadu. Kakadu had an observatory built here,\nfrom which one could observe the house, and a fountain in which carps\nswam about. Amid the beauty of all this, Kakadu was accustomed to rise\nbefore the dawn, as the sirens of the steamers howled through the mist, and"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "278", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.72", "texte": "walk in the garden memorizing his speeches. He would hold a long pipe in\nhis hands and turn to watch his dogs at times. Toward ten Jamaika rose\nin her white bedchamber. She bore a child in the seventh month, and\nKakadu did all he could to please her. He led her through the garden\nand showed her the great sunflowers, which were bound to poles, and\ncalled them phlox, azaleas and geraniums. He pointed to the roses and the\ntiger lilies by the edge of the fountain. Jamaika laughed and pressed her\narm close to him. Her face was very drawn, and her bones projected like\nhooks, but her belly of immeasurable dimensions hung like a great tumor\nwhich bespoke the living organism within her. \"How are you feeling?\"\nhe asked anxiously. \"I think it won't last much longer, you had better call\na doctor.\" It was hard to get a doctor to come. But finally Kakadu lit\non a quack who lived by the river, and who was noted for his miraculous\ncures of negroes, an engineer of repute called Kurpfuscher. It happened\nthat a young doctor was stopping with him, a man with long limbs, dark\nspectacles and a soft lady-like voice. Kakadu walked restlessly about in the\nroom. The doctor carefully lifted the bed-covering to examine Jamaika's\nbody. Kakadu was frightened at seeing her so, and went quickly into the\nadjoining room where a decanter of cognac awaited him. \"You needn't\nworry about it at all,\" said the physician, \"In about a week, you may\nexpect the child.\" Jamaika had eyes like a horse, long and plant-like her\nhands lay on the covers. In five days, her suffering became so severe,\nthat Kakadu sat by the bedside day and night. When she cried, her cries\nmade the window-panes shake, and Kakadu had to put cotton in his ears.\nThe doctor was very puzzled at the duration of the pain. He said that it\nmust be her thinness which made the childbirth so painful. \"I knew\nthat,\" said Kakadu, \"why didn't you tell me that in the first place?\" The\ndoctor was confused at Kakadu's harsh manner. He took his spectacles\noff and polished them with part of his coat. On the next day, just when\nJamaika feared for the worst, he came with an armful of books. \"Pardon\nme,\" said he,\"it is a very unusual case, and I have brought several books\nwith me.\" He spread an anatomical atlas out on the table and thumbed\nthe pages slowly, while he felt Jamaika's pulse with one free hand. Kakadu\nwho regarded the colored picture of pathological types with astonishment,\nbecame an enraged animal. He tore the books from the table and cried:\n\"I can do that too, sir. We can all buy books. But the life of my wife\nis at stake!\" The doctor hardly moved, he always pushed back a lock of\nhair that fell on his face from his pomaded wig. \"Pardon me,\" he said,\nstuttering like a novice. \"We shall soon see.\" Now the child came and\nJamaika began to scream so hard, that Kakadu burst into laughter. The"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "279", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.73", "texte": "doctor beamed, although he hadn't moved a hand, Jamaika still groaned,\nand Kakadu danced about the room. \"A boy, a boy. A real young Kakadu!\"\nHe shook hands with the doctor who packed up his books and left the room.\nIn the evening he had to come back because Jamaika was delirious- She\nwas silent for hours, and then would speak in a faint voice. Jamaika told\nfantastic stories, banged fragments of sentences against the ceiling and let\nheavy interjections fall suddenly to the floor. When she awoke, she called\nKakadu, and she stared and cried: \"Don't you see the snakes, Kakadu?\nThe snakes?\" Kakadu took the trouble to look under the bed for snakes,\nfor he did not realize that she was out of her mind. The doctor made\na troubled face and the pomade on his hair rolled down in thick drops on\nhis nose. Throughout the house the windows were covered with heavy\ncurtains. \"The child!\" cried Jamaika. \"Shall I bring it to you?\" asked\nKakadu. A nurse came with the child, who let his red bristly head hang\ndown from his cushions and cried. When the fever reached its climax the\nnumber of pulse beats dropped, and the doctor noted that her limbs grew\ncold. Jamaika was plainly heard saying: \"Butterweg.\" She said: \"Butter-\nweg,\" and tried to lift her arms from the covers. \"What about Butterweg?\"\nasked Kakadu astonished, \"Who is Butterweg, Jamaika? Don't you know\nthat he is in prison?\" On a Friday night — the rain hit the windows like\ndrumsticks and the howling of foghorns and sirens came from the river—\nher agony began. Kakadu prayed. He had ordered a praying stool, and\nkneeled before a large praying book. \"The end is near,\" said the doctor.\nHer breath came faster and faster, her eyelids trembled. Jamaika stretched\nher arms out while she moaned; grievous and terrible screams came from\nher throat. Then she opened her eyes wide, looked once at Kakadu, with\nround pupils, when a stroke gripped her body, her lips opened and her\njaw hung down. Kakadu crossed himself. He brought candles, placed them\nin the form of a pentagon on the table and lit them. As the smoke rose\nfrom them — thick round clouds hung over the corpse — he began to sing\nin a monotonous sing-song, and then prayed again, till he fell down ex-\nhausted and fell asleep at the foot of Jamaika's bed. On the next morning\nhe walked through his garden, smoking a cigar, murmuring pathetically to\nhimself: \"Freedom, I mean . . that quickens the heart . . and so forth . . .\nand so forth . . .\" He had the nurse come, and asked her: \"Tell me\ntruthfully, whom does the child look like?\" The woman cackled: \"Mr.\nKakadu, his father, upon my word.\" \"Fine. Fine,\" said Kakadu and gave\nher a silver coin, holding it high in the sunlight and laughing.\n\nRichard Huelsenbeck\n(Translated from the German by M. J.)"}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "280", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.74", "texte": "COMMENT\n\nAPOLLINAIRE\n\nA man lives a crowded life, hurries\nnoisily about town, tosses off a round num-\nber of books, writes verses blackmail\npolemics, then dies suddenly and un-\nceremoniously. Before the unpretentious\ndebris of Apollinaire's \"career,\" one can\nonly pick up the threads and calculate\nwhere such and such a project would have\nveered off. Or approach the still warm\nremains at an angle, noting only whatever\nseems immediately suggestive, while wary\nyet of rash appraisals: for instance, that he\nseemed to write under a devouring haste,\nas if to ward off creditors or to get this\nthing done in order to go back at that other\nbook, or even to hurry up and worm into\nthat French Academy. True, he wrote\nwith an unusual ease and with the per-\nsuasion of a wilful education and a wilful orientation into the language.\nLe Poete Assassine was written during the dull moments of 1916,\nduring one of the dullest wars (to those inside) of history. Next to his\nMille etUn Verges it is his most Aristophanie book. By no means mere satire\nin the 18th, Century sense. Apollinaire grows positively hilarious and\nintoxicated over his characters so that he is at times beside himself with\nsheer fun. Results: humor of extraordinary eloquence and sonority, and\na form that is completely unrepresentative, with perpetual digressions and\nloud asides.\nA translation can scarcely hope to render the wiriness of his language.\nThere have been so many tired men in France who wrote like flagellants.\nFlaubert made his waking hours a nightmare; Gautier was much too cor-\nseted; to Stendhal writing was a torturesome but resistless destiny; Villiers\nwas a devout artisan; Mallarme goaded himself into obscuracy and\nspeechlessness.\nApollinaire, a weird mixture of what Russian and Polish strains, could\nnever resist the foreigner's first impulse toward jeux des mots; and none"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "281", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.75", "texte": "are quicker than the French themselves to accept and enjoy the new puns\nand calembours. For the French have gone farther, their language has\nbeen more pawed over and revivified with foreign usages, if more restricted\nthan ours. Apollinaire's exoticisms are not bizarre; they are conver-\nsational. For the rest there is an astonishing variety of tones, ranging\nfrom mirthful narration to pretentious introspection, vulgar journalese,\nnervous garrulousness, insolent lyricism.\nWe must go back to Stendhal to find such extreme opposition to\nnaturalism. It is enemy of all that was Ibsen and Ibsene. Distortion or\nunder-emphasis are employed to fantastic ends; when a puppet is un-\ninteresting or wrung dry he is dismissed or killed. Here is the destructive\nside of it: Apollinaire runs all the risks, obeys no rules, and writes for fun.\nThe poet, Groniamantal, is one of the few frankly epic figures of\nmodern literature. Apollinaire who was essentially a poet himself, had\nnever really outlived the poet's age of twenty-five. He had turned to prose\nafter many skirmishes and experiments. His poems had been written with\nless haste, many of those in Alcools and certain longer ones in Calligrammes\nas if formulated in the memory during sleepless nights, word by word, and\nline by line, until their shape was hard and irrefutable. An honest exami-\nnation of his poems will show some day, just how much soil he turned up\nfor the modern poets.\nWhen you have rebelled against the principles of harmony and the\nThree Unities, you must perfect your metaphysic of disorganization. And\nso flight, dissociation are most characteristic of Apollinaire's poetry and\nprose. They lend the element of surprise, of super-realism.\nThe whole tone scale is evolved upon the instrument itself. Admirers\nof a certain redoubtable Irish prosateur will find much to wonder at from\nthe point of view of virtuosity in Apollinaire.\nFor instance; he loved the gloss. He become in time a master of the\nfootnote. There is a prodigious secret in his footnotes.\n\nM. J.\n\nLOCUS SOLUS\n(*)\n\nIf I remember the play correctly it was like this: Four men in multi-\ncoloured bearskins carry a coffin over the stage. They set it down and\ndrink lemonade out of a jug. Deciding that the corpse himself must be\n(*) Locus Solus: Raymond Roussel, published by Alphonse Lemerre, Paris, 1914."}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "282", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.76", "texte": "thirsty they insert a square funnel into his coffin and pour a generous drink\nof water while the audience laughs nervously. Exit the pallbearers and\nthe coffin arid the corpse and never to be seen again. The professor enters.\nHe has discovered a method of oxygenating water so that people can lead\na submarine existence; also how to resuscitate the dead. A judge enters\nin red.\nA judge enters in black. The professor kills them. He is not mad;\nhe is a genius. The curtain falls and after a long delay rises on the second\nact. The judges have been revived. Everybody drinks wine out of wooden\ngoblets and the professor talks. After a time the judges are bored and\ngo away. The professor, being left alone, is seized with a sudden, in-\nexplicable melancholy and declares, \"They will never understand me, never.\"\nHe sits in a highchair, makes a cosmic invocation and is born away to\nSaturn at the end of a visible rope. The play was by Raymond Roussel\nwith costumes by Poiret; there was also incidental music which had the\ntaste to remain incidental.\n\"What I lose in clarity I gain in mystery,\" says the Professor. His\nremark and the play which exemplifies it are equally and utterly foreign\nto the standards of what we call French culture. And Anatole France\ncontinues to write and be revered. And the Prix Goncourt was awarded\nto Henri Beraud, his second-hand disciple. And Locus Solus was played\nfor a brief week before a howling, whistling, hooting audience.\nWhen he learned that Roussel had spent 600,000 francs to produce\nhis play, somebody from the Sorbonne angrily inquired why the money\nhad not been devoted to a fund for indigent students.\nHowever, Locus Solus had its friends. Andre Breton attended the dress\nrehearsal and was enthusiastic. On the opening night he returned with the\nstaff of Literature, the collaborators to the staff of Literature, the wives\nand mistresses of the collaborators to the staff of Litterature. The audience,\nat the end of each act, whistled its disapproval of the play, while the staff,\nthe collaborators, the wives and mistresses of Literature joined in a frantic\nand tumultuous applause. Each night for a week this scene was repeated.\nThe audience, for their part, seemed to disapprove of the people who\napplauded Locus Solus even more than they disapproved of the play. Led\nby the commissary of police and the manager of the theater, they would\ndraw round Breton in a semicircle while he delivered a magnificently hostile\noration, citing every author from Boileau to himself in his defence of the\nliberty of the spectator. There were little groups in the lobby long after\nthe final curtain, who discussed, who imprecated, who waved fists in the"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "283", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.77", "texte": "air. Afterwards we emerged to the glare of the logical arclights of the\nBoulevard de Strasbourg. . .\nI almost forgot. Locus Solus had a finale which swept me off my\nfeet. Under the sea, the sea being represented by a gauze curtain dropped\nacross the stage. Everything was quite unrelated: fishes moved back\nand forth, two sea monsters drew a chariot which was symbolic of nothing,\na mermaid sang on a sort of throne, a young man in a bathing suit performed\nan obscene dance and, somewhere in a corner, a little girl in conventional\nbeach costume was playing, oblivious of the mermaid, the fishes, the sea\nmonsters, the obscene dance. There was something magnificent in the\npointlessness of the scene; something daily, familiar, unobserved: it was\na little world, our world perhaps, existing over the footlights, under the sea.\nThe curtain fell.\n\nMalcolm Cowley\n\nLIGHT: A MEDIUM OF PLASTIC EXPRESSION.\n\nSince the discovery of photography virtually nothing new has been\nfound as far as the principles and technique of the process are concerned.\nAll innovations are based on the aesthetic representative conceptions existing\nin Daguerre's time (about 1830), although these conceptions, i.e. the copying\nof nature by means of the photographic camera and the mechanical re-\nproduction of perspective, have been rendered obsolete by the work of\nmodern artists.\nDespite the obvious fact that the sensitivity to light of a chemically\nprepared surface (of glass, metal, paper, etc.) was the most important element\nin the photographic process, i.e., containing its own laws, the sensitized\nsurface was always subjected to the demands of a camera obscura adjusted\nto the traditional laws of perspective while the full possibilities of this com-\nbination were never sufficiently tested.\nThe proper utilization of the plate itself would have brought to light\nphenomena imperceptible to the human eye and made visible only by means\nof the photographic apparatus thus perfecting the eye by means of photo-\ngraphy. True, this principle has already been applied in certain scientific\nexperiments, as in the study of motion (walking, leaping, galloping) and"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "[284]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.78", "texte": "zoological and mineral forms, but these have always been isolated efforts\nwhose results could not be compared or related.\nIt must be noted here that our intellectual experience complements\nspatially and formally the optical phenomena perceived by the eye and\nrenders them into a comprehensible whole, whereas the photographic\napparatus reproduces the purely optical picture (distortion, bad drawing,\nforeshortening).\nOne way of exploring this field is to investigate and apply various\nchemical mixtures which produce light effects, imperceptible to the eye,\n(such as electro-magnetic rays, x-rays).\nAnother way is by the construction of new apparatus, first by the use\nof the camera obscura, second, by the elimination of perspective. In the\nfirst case using apparatus with lenses and mirror-arrangements which can\ncover their environment from all sides; in the second case, using an apparatus\nwhich is based on new optical laws. This last leads to the possibility of\n\"light-composition,\" whereby light would be controlled as a new plastic\nmedium, just as color in painting and tone in music.\nThis signifies a perfectly new medium of expression whose novelty\noffers an undreamed of scope. The possibilities of this medium of composition\nbecome greater as we proceed from static representation to the motion-\npictures of the cinematograph.\nI have made a few primitive attempts in this direction, whose initial\nresults, however, point to the most positive discoveries (and as soon as these\nattempts can be tested experimentally in a laboratory especially devised for\nthe purpose, the results are certain to be far more impressive).\nInstead of having a plate which is sensitive to light react mechanically\nto its environment through the reflection or absorption of light, I have\nattempted to control its action by means of lenses and mirrors, by light\npassed through fluids like water, oil, acids, and crystal, metal, glass, tissue,\netc. This means that the filtered, reflected or refracted light is directed upon\na screen and then photographed. Or again, the light-effect can be thrown\ndirectly on the sensitive plate itself, instead of upon a screen. (Photography\nwithout apparatus.) Since these light effects almost always show themselves\nin motion, it is clear that the process reaches its highest development in\nthe film.\nPrinted by Rich. Labisch <£ Co., Graphische Kunstanstalt G.m. b.H., Berlin (Germany)\n\nL. Moholy-Nagy"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "[285]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.79", "texte": "MODERN REVIEW\npublished quarterly at Winchester Mass, is:\n1) an organ of constructive criticism on continental and American\nauthors and recent tendencies in poetry and prose\n2) an organ of the short story, printing at least two stories each issue.\nIts aim in this direction is to differentiate the short story from the\ncurrent modernistic sketch\n3) an organ of poetry, representing all enduring phases in the renascent\ndevelopments of this art\n25 cents a copy $1.00 a year by subscription\nAT ALL FIRST CLASS BOOKSTANDS\n\naiiiiiinmiiiiiHiiiimm\nlllllillll!!\nmini!\nRUSSIA'S HISTORIC ROLE\nA NEW EPOCH IS SHAPING ITSELF INSOVIET RUSSIA\nWATCH DEVELOPMENTS IN RUSSIAN INDUSTRY, SCIENCE.\nART, LETTERS, THROUGH THE NEW\nGRAPHIC\nMONTHLY REVIEW\nOF RUSSIAN\nAFFAIRS\nSOVIET RUSSIA PICTORIAL\n201 W. 13th St. N Y C\nEnclosed please find kindly send me the PICTORIAL for\nOne dollar 6 months\nTwo dollars one year\nfor which you will\nName\nAddress\nCity and State\nStart my subscription with the January number.\nIt is the kind of magazine you will\nwant for permanent reference.\nStart with the initial issue, dated Ja-\nnuary, by filling out the blank below.\nThe first issue contained 40 pictures,\n10 articles, editorials, book reviews, etc.\nThe February number will be even better.\nIt is printed on glossy paper, about\nthe size of \"BROOM\", and sells for\n20 cents a copy. You save by subscrib-\ning; one dollar for six months—two dollars\nfor a year."}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.80", "texte": "THE WASTE LAND\nT. S Eliot\ncreated an extraordinary interest among American writers and\ncritics, when it originally appeared in THE DIAL last Novem-\nber. This interest has grown steadily, and the appearance of\nthe poem in book form, with full annotations by the author, is\nas much an event in the world of books as the original publica-\ntion was in the magazine world. In view of this, THE DIAL\nhas procured a number of copies of the limited first edition of\nThe Waste Land and offers them' to new subscribers.\nThis is the only form in which The Waste Land can now be\nprocured, as the November Dial, and the issue of The Criterion\n(London) which contained the poem, are both exhausted. The\nBoni and Liveright publication is the first edition consisting of\none thousand numbered copies, and is certain to become a col-\nlector's rarity in a short time.\nThe Notes which Mr. Eliot has written give definite clues to\nthe framework and symbolism of the poem and include identi-\nfication of certain quoted passages which have puzzled his\nreaders. It was in accordance with the author's wishes that the\npoem was originally published without the Notes; but readers\nwill be glad to have the unique pleasure of reading a poet's\nannotations on himself.\nThe number of copies The Dial has been able to procure from\nthe publishers is limited. Until the supply is exhausted, copies\nof The Waste Land may be obtained with a year's subscription\nto THE DIAL. The annual rate of THE DIAL is $5.00. THE\nDIAL and THE WASTE LAND together may be had for $5.50.\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street New York City\nGentlemen: You may enter my name for a year's subscription\nto THE DIAL. Please also send me a copy of THE WASTE\nLAND.\nName\nAddress\nO 1 enclose $5.50. Q I will remit $5.50 on receipt of your bill."}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.81", "texte": "THE NEW PEARSON'S\nin the current issue heralds the most noteworthy event\nin the world of letters for the new year\nwith the forthcoming\n$1500\nLITERARY PRIZE\nCONTEST\nin three branches of literature\nTHE PURPOSE of the contest is\nmainly to stabilize along salutary\nlines the uncertain fumbling of pioneers\nin search of new forms, which, thus far,\nhas resulted in a recrudescence of liter-\nary production, with the concomitant\ndissatisfaction on the part of the more\nconservative, literary element. In order\nto encourage the production of the high-\nest in literature, THE NEW PEAR-\nSON'S is offering NINE PRIZES\ntotaling $1500 for the best poems,\nshort-stories and essays.\nThe contest is open to all resi-\ndents of the American Continent,\nand the choice will be made by some\nof the foremost literary figures of\nAmerica:\nT* or the Short-Story Contest: Floyd Dell,- Edmund Wilson,- F. Scott Fitzgerald\nTor the Poetry Contest.■ £,dwi? Markham, E GidI°w'\nc Blanche ohoemaker Wagstafr\nTor the Essay Contest: Carl Van Doren,- John Macy/ George Jean Nathan\nIn order that all those interested in the contest may have the opportunity of\nfollowing all its exciting phases, THE NEW PEARSON'S offers a special\nseven months' subscription for $1.00.\nRegufar rates: For domestic subscriptions $2.00 per year,- Canada $2.25/\nForeign $2.50/ Single copies 25 cents.\nAT ALL NEWS-STANDS\nTHE NEW PEARSON'S\nEdited by Afexancfer Mar by, 779 Broadway, New York City\nEuropean Representatives:\nThe International News Company, Ltd.\nBream's Building, London E. C. 4, England\nParis Office, 24 Rue Tholoze,\nMontmartre, Paris"}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.82", "texte": "THE BOOKMAN\nEDITED BY JOHN FARRAR\nr\"PHE BOOKMAN is a monthly magazine offering to people who READ an in-\n■*» timate acquaintanceship with the most interesting and famous people who WRITE.\nIn its pages they come to you not only through their work but as friends ready to\ndiscuss some striking event of the day, some work of a contemporary; glad to take you\nbehind the scenes of the literary and dramatic world. They contribute articles — reviews\n— reminiscences — gossip — poetry — short stories — essays — discussions; a story-\ntelling assembly whose wit is sparkling, whose judgments are frank and to the point.\nol . . —... - 1o\nSOME CONTRIBUTORS FOR 1923\nH. L. Mencken James Branch Cabell\nHugh Walpole Alexander Woolcott\nHeywood Broun Joseph Hergesheimer\nGertrude Atherton William Rose Benet\nSinclair Lewis Floyd Dell\nMary Austin Stephen Vincent Benet\nCarl Sandburg Robert Cortes Holliday\nJessie B. Rittenhouse Mary Roberts Rinehart\nStuart P. Sherman Irvin S. Cobb\nTHE BOOKMAN'S Bureau of Practical Advice to Writers; Broadway, Our Literary\nSignpost, by Kenneth Andrews; The Practical Side of Writing, by Robert Cortes Holliday;\nLiterary Club Service; Poems of the Month; The Bookman's Guide to Fiction; The Londoner;\nThe Bookshelf; Foreign Note and Comment; The Gossip Shop; The Editor Recommends, etc.\nAll the latest news of the literary world each month in THE BOOKMAN\n\"A SPLENDID, LIVE AND INTERESTING PUBLICATION\"\n40 cents monthly $4.00 a year\nGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY * Publishers * New York"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192303-01.1.84", "texte": "■ ■ ■ •' ■ i1111•111111111II111II1111111111II1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111 III 1111111111111111111111111111111111II111111111111\n=\nA magazine of Art and Culture published by the Orient Society\nEditor, HARI G. GOVIL\nNever was there so great a need as today for\nthe world to widen its horizon of understanding.\nThe world, for the first time, is questioning the\nvery foundations of its knowledge, doubting\nthe very direction of its aims. If a new renais-\nsance is to come a wider understanding must\nprevail. A more profound information, flowing\nthru a wider channel, such is the substance of\n\"Orient\", a magazine of Art, Science and Culture.\nThe rising consciousness of the West of today\ncannot remain satisfied within its own narrow\nlimits of knowledge and understanding. ORIENT\nendeavors to bring the Oriental treasures in Art,\nLiterature, Science and Philosophy to the thought-\nful people of the world. If you are interested in\nthe world renaissance, you will find that ORIENT\nsupplements your ideas and cultural tastes.\nThe subjects treated are of universal importance.\nAnnual subscription $ 2.00 in U. S. A. / Canada and Foreign $ 2.50\nPublished once every two months\nBusiness Office, 132 Nassau Si.\nNew York City, U. S. A.\nAll manuscripts submitted for publication in ORIENT must be accompanied by\na self-addressed stamped envelope. Articles should not exceed two thousand words.\nHllllllllll!lllllllll!lllllllllllllll!lllllllllllllll!llll!lllll!!!l!llllllll!lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll!llllllllllllllllll!!l!lllllllllllli!lll!llllllllllllllllllllllllllllll!!llll|||||lllllllllllllll!llll!lllllllllll!!|||||||MIII||||j||||||ll|||rr\nminimi immimiim minimim imiiimmi mi"}]}