{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_sha256": "d7b9874c6c64af81020363aff1355504ed7905cc65f5b8861240cb7335d02bd9", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/08_01/bmtnaap_1923-08_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/08_01/bmtnaap_1923-08_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 2, "image_fin": 2, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Table of Contents", "titre_sommaire": "Table of Contents", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 722, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1428, "texte": "Cover Design—Lurcat Page\nI Shall Name Him Egbert—William Gamaliel Shepard .... 1\nDrawings—Juan Gris 2, 11\nSnapshot of a Young Lady—Malcolm Cowley 3\nKabnis—Jean Toomer 12\nIndians in Spring—Janet Lewis 16\nOn Board the Morning Star—Pierre MacOrlan 17\nWoodcuts—Daragnes 17,28\nThree Poems—Wilfrid H. Bendall 29\nNote on Gris and Cubism—H. A. L. 32\nDrawings—Juan Gris 33,35,45\nThe Poet Assassinated—Guillaume Apollinaire 36\nSammy Plays the Pawn—Robert Alden Sanborn 46\nBook Reviews:\nNotations on the Captain's Doll—Jean Toomer 47\nPoets of the Catacombs—M. J 49\nThe Orissers 51\nCastle Conquer 53\nA History of Art 53\nComment :\nBroom: 1921-1923—Harold A. Loeb 55\nToward a Professional Prose—Matthew Josephson .... 59"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1", "page_fin": "1", "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "I Shall Name Him Egbert", "titre_sommaire": "I Shall Name Him Egbert", "signature_source": "William Gamaliel Shepard", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 653, "texte": "I SHALL NAME HIM EGBERT\nWilliam Gamaliel Shepard\nwhy Egbert? there was a king\nnamed Egbert, my grandmother\ntold me about him.\nNo word now,\nOh not one word\nto cut the links of knowing.\nI hover, I fall,\nI shatter and rise\nand am one and two.\nI circle the spheres,\nthe comets shy\nas I passing burn.\nThe bones I own\nare those of Eve\nand of a wooly ape\nand of a handful of dust\nrutting in the sun.\nI have trod the course\nfrom God's postern.\nNow beloved\nthe pushing words\nthat filled and died?\n\"Oh mystery of life,\nthere are no mysteries in life,\nlet the philosopher come,\nin one lesson he will read\nthe moonbeam\nand hear the message\nin a straw's round horn.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "2", "page_fin": "2", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Juan Gris", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 17, "texte": "Drawing\nJuan Gris"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "3", "page_fin": "10", "image_debut": 5, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Snapshot of a Young Lady", "titre_sommaire": "Snapshot of a Young Lady", "signature_source": "Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1945, "texte": "SNAPSHOT OF A YOUNG LADY\n\nBiggest of its kind in the world. The blue rubberneck bus with\na cargo of 25 brides and 25 grooms from Jersey City and points west\n(plus an unmarried New Yorker) turned hugely from Fifth Avenue\ninto one of the East Sixties, and stopped.\n\"Ladies and Gentlemen, on your left is the residence of Miss\nVirginia Johnson the heiress to millions who is rapidly becoming famous\nfor her untiring pursuit of Hawkbill the master criminal and her courage\nin face of his threats although but a slip of a girl she follows him from\nthe gilded clubs of Westchester County to the haunts of Lower West\nSide gangsters and has been called 'by a jury of twelve qualified\nexperts the perfect type of American girl for whom billions are earned\non Wall Street and spent in Paris and in fact the heroine of every\nnovel of every moving picture. .\nA window opened in the Johnson mansion and a printed streamer\nunrolled. It bore the legend:\nTHE VICISSITUDES OF VIRGINIA\nA Film from the Life\nReleased in all good playhouses May 27\nPale, lovely and courageous a face appeared at the window, with\nhazel eyes and a kissable pouting mouth under a mound of golden hair.\nVirginia Johnson. I became conscious of a desire, not entirely unself-\nish, to aid her at any cost in the pursuit of Hawkbill.\n\". . . It was her miniature which pioneers hid next to their hearts\nwhen crossing the Alleghanies when crossing the Great Valley her\nportrait and none other which was born tenderly by New Bedford\nwhaling captains round the Cape and round the world and home.\"\nI followed an impulse to leap from the car, rush to her door. I\nrang obstinately. I pounded on the glass between the iron grills with\nall my forces. Nobody came, and with a gradual miasma of literature\nthe slow night fell. A blue patrolman watched me. The rubberneck\nbus had disappeared: at 125th Street it overturned suddenly and all\nmy companions, fifty, without distinction of sex, were killed."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2324, "texte": "2.\n\"Come!\" she said, and tapped me on the shoulder with her white\nhand. I rose to follow.\nI was Smith Masterman: why should I follow her? A scientist\nof repute, a star reporter on Manhattan's biggest daily, a criminal\ninvestigator to whom the mystery of the Kennedy diamonds had\nrecently been entrusted. It was not my only case. I was endeavouring\nat the same time to unravel the Saltoun murder, which seemed to be\nlinked uncannily with the disappearance of 109 matched diamonds the\nsize of robin's eggs, that sole and immense fortune of the beautiful Mrs.\nRobinson Kennedy—Ada, as I had learned to call her. And there\nwas Hawkbill, the master criminal whose nose in the shape of a\nvulture's beak had earned him this sobriquet. He baffled my every\nstep. Should I follow this girl—more beautiful than Ada Kennedy\nhad ever been—she would lead me almost certainly into his power.\nListen. Is somebody knocking at the door?\n\"Come!\" she said again. \"I am afraid, Father ...\"\nHer cheeks went white and red as if the hands of Hawkbill were\nat her throat already. A tear gathered, there, at a corner of her\nenormous hazel eyes, under the mound of golden hair. I hesitated no\nlonger. I followed her and should have followed if Hawkbill had\nbeen Satan.\nMy room contained a few worn chairs, a jumble of scientific ap-\nparatus, a typewriter: companions and tools of my hasty career. I\nstole a look at them—perhaps the last—and hurried down the stairs\ninto her limousine. It turned northward.\nShe huddles there beside me. A bond of sympathy unites us in-\nvisibly as if during all my life I had written about no one else and for\nno other audience. She whispers, \"We shall be too late.\" I try to\ncomfort her, but a sense of catastrophe weighs on me so heavily that\nwords refuse to come. Memories jumbled in an old cigar box.\nWe halted before her mansion in the sixties. Walters, the butler,\nseemed to be waiting and swung the door open before we crossed the\nsidewalk. I remarked his sideburns, his disingenuous eyes, a spot on\nhis waistcoat which might have been blood. We rushed upstairs. On\nthe way I stopped to examine a sheet of yellow paper, without water-\nmark, torn from the sort of pad which is used in high schools, pinned\nnegligently to a Gobelins tapestry. It contained the rude image of a\nfalcon's beak.\nWere we indeed too late?"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2123, "texte": "On the second floor is the Johnson library, or rather the room\nwhich people have agreed to call the library on account of its contain-\ning the only books in the house: namely, the eleventh edition of the\nEncyclopedia Britannica, bound volumes of the Atlantic Monthly\nfrom 1890 to 1903 and half a dozen novels which Virginia had\nborrowed from her room-mate at boarding school and forgotten to\nreturn. It is from one of these that I quote a vivid if none too accurate\naccount of the Johnson murder:\n\"At one end of the desk was a telephone. Taylor Johnson was\nlying on the floor at the end of the desk—perfectly rigid—his face\ndistorted—a ghastly figure. A pet dog ran over, sniffed frantically\nat his master's legs and suddenly began to howl dismally.\n\"Johnson was dead!\n\" 'Help!' shouted Walters.\n\"Others of the servants came rushing in. There was for the mo-\nment the greatest excitement and confusion.\n\"Suddenly a wild figure in flying garments flitted down the stairs\nand into the library, dropping beside the dead man without seeming to\nnotice us at all.\n\" 'Father!' shrieked a woman's voice, heart-broken. 'Father!\nOh—my God—he—he is dead.' And she fainted.\n\"Over her body and over the cold body of the man who for twenty\nyears had controlled the political destinies of New York City, I swore\nto pursue his murderer, to track him down, to bring him before the bar\nof justice of the Eternal.\n\"Newsboys were crying on the dusky streets and their shouts\nreached me even there. 'Extry. Extry. GERMANS INVADE\nBELGIUM. Extry.'\"\n3.\nI never thought her real. They say her mother bore her not as a\nwoman gives birth to a child or a tree to its fruits but rather as a tree\nmight sacrifice the richness of its sap, or even its life, to produce a single\nperfect and frangible flower.\nHer birth was aseptic and mechanical. They say her mother\nnever bore her at all.\nThey say her mother before she died fell into a delirium, during\nwhose course she prophesied of her daughter: \"Virginia will have\nevery gift, being rich, beautiful and ignorant of evil. Her arms are\nwhite as bread. Her hair gleams beyond envy of peroxide. She rides,"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2294, "texte": "shoots, swims with precise gestures and lives before the camera as\nunder God's eye.\n\"She has many suitors and she accepts none. The world rides\nhorseback to disaster.\n\"If ever she loves she will find love and death and the knowledge\nof evil, and in the same moment. She dies virgin under the symbol of\nher name. She is like Indian pipe or maybe dogwood. The world\nrides horseback to disaster and the old dog has learned to beg for\ncookies.\"\n4.\nShe is a spot in the desert lying so still that the buzzards circle over,\nnone of them quite daring to descend. There will be time before sun-\nset, before the coyotes. Who has frightened the buzzards away? He\nstands above her watching without pity. The knife is poised in his\nhand. She wakens.\nFull of the purest horror Virginia looked at him for a moment\nwhich stretched backward and forward into time. Her life revolved\nbefore her eyes. She could remember a row of Fifth Avenue shops\nand commencement day at Miss Stoughton's School on Hudson.\nFear dried her mouth, suggesting the taste of Romance Caramels and\nafterwards the memory of all the candy boxes she had emptied. At\nthe same time she felt the significance of the moment and kept trying\nto repeat: I have kept the faith, have kept the faith. The knife de-\nscended. Is it a dream? A shot rang out.\nI dragged his body aside. Half-breed Pete had been known for\nhis sullen good-looks, and there were dozens of women in the lonely\nranchos who had suffered his fascination. He was considered capable\nof any infamy, but until he fell under the influence of Hawkbill he\nhad never dared an open crime. The buzzards will return.\nVirginia had fainted again, but I found it no difficulty to restore\nher and to force a little nourishment between her blue lips. I led her\nto the saddled horses, to follow the trail of Hawkbill. Another\nhundred yards and it was confused hopelessly by the hoofprints of his\npursuers. There was one hope left: to climb the mountain.\nUp a precipitous gully: the horses can hold their footing no longer:\nabandon them and climb, climb the face of vertiginous cliffs where a\nstumble would plunge us a thousand feet, where the breaking of this\nlittle root would open the doors of space. Virginia never whimpers.\nDamn these spurs. The sheer rock has imperceptible fissures by the"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2252, "texte": "aid of which we mount higher, faster, till the world opens out, higher,\ntill the sun sets, till we reach the summit and look, over blue foothills\nand a plain, westward to the Pacific.\nSmall as a fly, a yacht was climbing over its vertical waters. I\nlooked through my telescope and gave it to Virginia without comment.\nOn a pennant which floated from the masthead was painted the design\nof a falcon's beak.\n\"Once more, Hawkbill, you escape us, but not for long.\n\"We shall follow you until your death or ours.\n\"By this drop of blood you drew from the white wrist of Virginia,\nby the spilt blood of the bravest and purest of women, by her murdered\nfather I swear it:\n\"WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.\"\n5.\nThe storm subsided, the waves rolled back and left me sprawled\nhalf-conscious on the beach of Vicissitude Island.\nIt is a volcanic rock surrounded by coral reefs and lying in the\nSouth Pacific at a latitude which, on account of the circumstances of\nmy arrival and departure, I was never able to determine. Indeed I\ndoubt whether Vicissitude Island has any fixed location. It moves\nabout in search of shipwrecked sailors. When they have spent a day\nand a night in the water, swimming more from habit than a definite\nhope, it looms suddenly before their eyes and they fall on its beach\nexhausted. It has been known by a multitude of names. Its nature\nis substantially the same as when Robinson Crusoe discovered it.\nFor vegetation and animal life I must refer you to my monograph\non The Fauna and Flora of Vicissitude Island (Schenectady: Inter-\nocean Press. $1.65).\nIts conspicuous features are a large dry cave overlooking the sea,\npalm trees which supply food, drink and clothing, finally the eggs of\nturtles which are discovered in the hot sands and afterwards baked in\nthe embers of a fire kindled with the matches I always carry in a water-\nproof case.\nMy life on its shores was bestial, idyllic and flavoured with the\nmemories of my great predecessors. I kept a journal. Sometimes\nafter a late dinner I grew pleasantly tipsy with cocoanut wine, and at\nsuch moments dared to extract a snapshot of Virginia Johnson from its\nhiding place against my breast. It had been taken during a picnic on\nher estate at Tarrytown, at a period when we believed, by a guilty"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2377, "texte": "optimism, that Hawkbill had been drowned in the sinking of the Lusi-\ntania. Virginia wore a riding habit and was pretending to puff at a\ncigarette which would never touch her lips. She smiled into the camera.\nShe was beautiful and she might have been mine.\nI replaced the snapshot against my heart and fell asleep to dream\nthat I was Hawkbill. His every ruse was clear to me, and justified\nbeing my own. I had tracked Virginia Johnson across two continents\ntill at last she was in my power, in my arms. If I tracked her down it\nwas to kill, so that the stupid and innocent might suffer and the world\nbe purified by pain. There is no virtue but to be intelligent. The will\nto die is my only justification for crime. Her eyes are looking up at\nme with a look which is not surely hate. And the walls fold in,\nsuddenly, confounding us in mutual disaster. A new sun rose.\nI brooded for weeks over this dream, but finally I became prey\nto other worries. One morning on the beach I found a long spear of\nsome heavy wood, with its point hardened in the fire. It showed no\nsign of having been in the water. Another day I saw a paper snake of\nsmoke far out to sea. I lit a fire on the highest promontory and tried\nto signal, but the steamer, if it was a steamer, disappeared. I did not\nlose the hope it kindled. Months passed.\nI was running to the beach one early morning for my swim, when\nI noticed a black spot lying where the tide had washed it the night\nbefore. I rushed towards it. The spot was a woman . . . with\ngolden hair . . . my breath hurts me . . . Virginia.\nI leaned over, took her wrist gently. The pulse was beating. My\nlips met hers in the sacrament of a first kiss.\n. Her eyes half opened.\nAnd in the same moment we heard the drum of an aeroplane\nmotor overhead. We looked up. The machine was hardly a hundred\nyards away and on its under wing was the design of a falcon's beak.\nFor a moment whose possibilities unfolded like paper flowers, we\nthree: Virginia and I and the evil man above, looked one another\ndirectly in the face.\nThe savages are approaching in their war canoes. Out of the\nforest bursts another tribe. Are their arrows poisoned? A machine\ngun hammers. When I had exhausted the chambers of Virginia's\npearl-handed revolver—all the chambers but two—I whirled the heavy\nspear above my head. War cries out of a mist. The blood of an\nenemy is a red alcohol."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2172, "texte": "6.\n\"Come!\" she said, and tapped me on the shoulder with her white\nhand. I rose to follow.\nI was Smith Masterman: why should I follow her? A scientist\nof repute, a star reporter on Manhattan's biggest daily, a criminal\ninvestigator to whom the mystery of the Kennedy diamonds had re-\ncently been intrusted. It was not my only case. I was endeavouring\nat the same time to unravel the Saltoun murder, but Hawkbill baffled\nme at every step. Should I follow this girl—more beautiful than Ada\nKennedy had ever been—she would lead me almost certainly into\nhis power.\n\"Come!\" she said again. \"I am afraid . . .\"\nHer cheeks went red and white as if the hands of Hawkbill were\nat her throat already. A tear gathered, there, at a corner of her enor-\nmous hazel eyes, under the mound of golden hair. I hesitated no\nlonger. I followed her and should have followed if Hawkbill had\nbeen Satan.\nAs we drove northward she explained the situation to me briefly.\nHawkbill had forced his way into her house and at the moment wa3\nboring through the steel of her safe with an acetylene torch of his own\ninvention. If we hurried we might capture him. Our search was end-\ning in triumph. My arm slipped round her shoulder and she pressed\ncloser. Yet she seemed heavy with a presentiment of evil, as if fear\nand love had entered her heart at the same time.\nI tried vainly to comfort her.\nWalters had swung open the iron grill before we were out of the\ncar. We rushed upstairs, forced the library door.\nI shall forget no detail, however obscure, of the scene which met\nour eyes. The door of the safe yawns open. In front of it lies heaped\na wealth of gems: pearls, diamonds, rubies such as no man's brain\nbut one could ever imagine. And that one man is sprawled among\nthem in a cutaway with black-striped trousers of which I remember\nthe not extraordinary pattern. Blood drips from a barely perceptible\nmark in his forehead.\nHis nose is like a vulture's beak and death has made it the colour\nof horn.\nAnd strangely his death brings me no joy, only fatigue and a fore-\nboding. When I turn to make a commonplace remark which the\ncircumstance would render ghastly, I see Virginia Johnson herself lying"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1567, "texte": "motionless on the carpet, while a little blood trickles from a mark\nwhich is counterpart to the mark in the forehead of Hawkbill.\nHold a mirror gently to her nostrils. The surface of it is troubled\nwith no cloud. She died young, young. Cover her face.\nHer hair is dead as gold. Her eyes in the sun had violet lights,\nwhich danced beyond them to glow in other eyes. Her fingers taper\nprecisely, make no gesture. Cross them in sign of prayer.\nShe died young and she was innocent. They say her mother bore\nher not as a woman gives birth to a child or a tree to its fruits, but\nrather as a tree might sacrifice the richness of its sap, or even its life,\nto produce a flower less perfect and as frangible.\nDesdemona stifled under a silken pillow, Lucrece dead, the rape\nof virgin Ophelia by the water. Cats crawl in the elder bushes to die.\nI have seen the bodies of sparrows rotting in the streets. Hers was the\ndeath of a flower I might have plucked.\nI read of pioneers who crossed the Alleghanies and hid her minia-\nture against their hearts. I read of whaling captains from New Bed-\nford who bore her portrait with them round the world. They married\nher never. She might have been mine.\nHer mouth was possibly smaller than the classic. She had pouting\nlips and a freckle or two and lived. And Ono stolid Roman matron\n(Lucrece offended in her constancy,) no Alexandrian martyr and virgin\nis worthy to be mentioned by her side.\nShe was the sainted innocence of a world grown arbitrary. She\ndied of sanctity.\nWrite on her tomb: She Teas innocent and died.\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "11", "page_fin": "11", "image_debut": 13, "image_fin": 13, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Juan Gris", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 17, "texte": "Drawing\nJuan Gris"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "12", "page_fin": "16", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 18, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Kabnis", "titre_sommaire": "Kabnis", "signature_source": "Jean Toomer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2095, "texte": "KABNIS\n\nRalph Kabnis, propped in his bed, tries to read. To read him-\nself to sleep. An oil lamp on a chair near his elbow burns unsteadily.\nThe cabin room is spaced fantastically about it. Whitewashed hearth\nand chimney, black with sooty saw-teeth. Ceiling, patterned by the\nfringed globe of the lamp. The walls, unpainted, are seasoned a rosin\nyellow. And cracks between the boards are black. These cracks are\nthe lips the night winds use for whispering. Night winds in Georgia\nare vagrant poets, whispering. Kabnis, agaist his will, lets his book\nslip down, and listens to them. The warm whiteness of his bed, the\nlamp-light, do not protect him from the weird chill of their song:\nWhite -man's land.\nNiggers, sing.\nBurn, bear black children\nTill poor rivers bring\nRest, and sweet glory\nIn Camp Ground.\nKabnis' thin hair is streaked on the pillow. His hand strokes the\nslim silk of his mustache. Hs thumb, pressed under his chin, seems\nto be trying to give squareness and projection to it. Brown eyes stare\nfrom a lemon face. Moisture gathers beneath his arm-pits. He slides\ndown beneath the cover, seeking release.\nKabnis: Near me. Now. Whoever you are, my warm glowing\nsweetheart, do not think that the face that rests beside you is the real\nKabnis. Ralph Kabnis is a dream. And dreams are faces with large\neyes and weak chins and broad brows that get smashed by the fists\nof square faces. The body of the world is bull-necked. A dream is\na soft face that fits uncertainly upon it. . . God, if I could develop\nthat in words. Give what I know a bull-neck and a heaving body,\nall would go well with me, wouldnt it, sweetheart? If I could feel\nthat I came to the South to face it. If I, the dream (not what is\nweak and afraid in me) could become the face of the South. How\nmy lips would sing for it, my songs being the lips of its soul. Soul.\nSoul hell. There aint no such thing. What in hell was that?\nA rat had run across the thin boards of the ceiling. Kabnis\nthrusts his head out from the covers. Through the cracks, a powdery\nfaded red dust sprays down on him. Dust of slave-fields, dried,"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2054, "texte": "scattered. . . No use to read. Christ, if he only could drink him-\nself to sleep. Something as sure as fate was going to happen. He\ncouldnt stand this thing much longer. A hen, perched on a shelf in\nthe adjoining room begins to tread. Her nails scrape the soft wood.\nHer feathers ruffle.\n\"Get out of that, you egg-laying bitch.\"\nKabnis hurls a slipper against the wall. The hen flies from her\nperch and cackles as if a skunk were after her.\n\"Now cut out that racket or I'll wring your neck for you.\"\nAnswering cackles arise in the chicken yard.\n\"Why in Christ's hell cant you leave me alone? Damn it, I\nwish your cackle would choke you. Choke every mother's son of\nthem in this God-forsaken hole. Go away. By God I'll wring your\nneck for you if you dont. Hell of a mess I've got in: even the poultry\nis hostile. Go way. Go way. By God, I'll ...\"\nKabnis jumps from his bed. His eyes are wild. He makes for\nthe door. Bursts through it. The hen, driving blindly at the window-\npane, screams. Then flies and flops around trying to elude him.\nKabnis catches her.\n\"Got you now, you she-bitch.\"\nWith his fingers about her neck, he thrusts open the outside door\nand steps out into the serene loveliness of Georgian autumn moon-\nlight. Some distance off, down in the valley, a band of pine-smoke,\nsilvered gauze, drifts steadily. The half-moon is a white child that\nsleeps upon the tree-tops of the forest. White winds croon its sleep-\nsong:\nrock a-by baby . .\nBlack mother sways, holding a white child on her bosom.\nwhen the bough bends . .\nHer breath hums through pine-cones,\ncradle will fall . .\nTeat moon-children at your breasts,\ndown will come baby . .\nBlack mother.\nKabnis whirls the chicken by its neck, and throws the head away.\nPicks up the hopping body, warm, sticky, and hides it in a clump of\nbushes. He wipes blood from his hands onto the coarse scant grass.\nKabnis: Thats done. Old Chromo in the big house there will\nwonder whats become of her pet hen. Well, it'll teach her a lesson:\nnot to make a hen-coop of my quarters. Quarters. Hell of a fine"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2636, "texte": "quarters, I've got. Five years ago; look at me now. Earth's child.\nThe earth my mother. God is a profligate red-nosed man about town.\nBastardy; me. A bastard son has got a right to curse his maker.\nGod. . .\nKabnis is about to shake his fists heavenward. He looks up, and\nthe night's beauty strikes him dumb. He falls to his knees. Sharp\nstones cut through his thin pajamas. The shock sends a shiver over\nhim. He quivers. Tears mist his eyes. He writhes.\n\"God Almighty, dear God, dear Jesus, do not torture me with\nbeauty. Take it away. Give me an ugly world. Ha, ugly. Stink-\ning like unwashed niggers. Dear Jesus, do not chain me to myself\nand set these hills and valleys, heaving with folk-songs, so close to me\nthat I cannot reach them. There is a radiant beauty in the night that\ntouches and . . . tortures me. Ugh. Hell. Get up, you damn\nfool. Look around. What's beautiful there? Hog pens and chicken\nyards. Dirty red mud. Stinking outhouse. Whats beauty anyway\nbut ugliness if it hurts you? God, he doesnt exist, but nevertheless he\nis ugly. Hence, what comes from Him is ugly. Lynchers and business\nmen, and that cockroach Hanby, especially. How come that he gets\nto be principal of a school? Of the school I'm driven to teach in?\nGod's handiwork, doubtless. God and Hanby, they belong together.\nTwo godam moral-spouters. Oh, no, I wont let that emotion come\nup in me. Stay down. Stay down, I tell you. O Jesus, Thou art\nbeautiful. . . Come, Ralph, pull yourself together. Curses and\nadoration dont come from what is sane. This loneliness, dumbness,\nawful, intangible oppression is enough to drive a man insane. Miles\nfrom nowhere. A speck on a Georgia hillside. Jesus, can you imagine\nit—an atom of dust in agony on a hillside ? Thats a spectacle for you.\nCome, Ralph, old man, pull yourself together.\"\nKabnis has stiffened. He is conscious now of the night wind, and\nof how it chills him. He rises. He totters as a man would who for\nthe first time uses artificial limbs. As a completely artificial man would.\nThe large frame house, squatting on brick pillars, where the principal\nof the school, his wife, and the boarding girls sleep, seems a curious\nshadow of his mind. He tries, but cannot convince himself of its\nreality. His gaze drifts down into the vale, across the swamp, up over\nthe solid dusk bank of pines, and rests, bewildered-like, on the court-\nhouse tower. It is dull silver in the moonlight. White child that\nsleeps upon the top of pines. Kabnis' mind clears. He sees himself\nyanked beneath that tower. He sees white minds, with indolent as-\nsumption, juggle justice and a nigger. . . Somewhere, far off in the"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2515, "texte": "straight line of his sight, is Augusta. Christ, how cut off from every-\nthing he is. And hours, hours north, why not say a lifetime north?\nWashington sleeps. Its still, peaceful streets, how desirable they are.\nIts people whom he had always halfway despised. New York?\nImpossible. It was a fiction. He had dreamed it. An impotent\nnostalgia grips him. It becomes intolerable. He forces himself to\nnarrow to a cabin silhouetted on a knoll about a mile away. Peace.\nNegroes within it are content. They farm. They sing. They love.\nThey sleep. Kabnis wonders if perhaps they can feel him. If perhaps\nhe gives them bad dreams. Things are so immediate in Georgia.\nThinking that now he can go to sleep, he re-enters his room. He\nbuilds a fire in the open hearth. The room dances to the tongues of\nflames, and sings to the crackling and spurting of the logs. Wind\ncomes up between the floor boards, through the black cracks of the\nwalls.\nKabnis: Cant sleep. Light a cigarette. If that old bastard\ncomes over here and smells smoke, I'm done for. Hell of a note,\ncant even smoke. The stillness of it: where they burn and hang men,\nyou cant smoke. Cant take a swig of licker. What do they think\nthis is, anyway, some sort of temperance school ? How did I ever\nland in such a hole? Ugh. One might just as well be in his grave.\nStill as a grave. Jesus, how still everything is. Does the world know\nhow still it is? People make noise. They are afraid of silence. Of\nwhat lives, and God, of what dies in silence. There must be many\ndead things moving in silence. They come here to touch me. I swear\nI feel their fingers. . . Come, Ralph, pull yourself together. What\nin hell was that? Only the rustle of leaves, I guess. You know,\nRalph, old man, it wouldnt surprise me at all to see a ghost. People\ndont think there are such things. They rationalize their fear, and call\ntheir cowardice science. Fine bunch, they are. Damit, that was a\nnoise. And not the wind either. A chicken maybe. Hell, chickens\ndont wander around this time of night. What in hell is it?\nA scraping sound, like a piece of wood dragging over the ground,\nis coming near.\n\"Ha, ha. The ghosts down this way havent got any chains to\nrattle, so they drag trees along with them. Thats a good one. But\nno joke, something is outside this house, as sure as hell. Whatever it\nis, it can get a good look at me and I cant see it. Jesus Christ!\"\nKabnis pours water on the flames and blows his lamp out. He\npicks up a poker and stealthily approaches the outside door. Swings"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1266, "texte": "it open, and lurches into the night. A calf, carrying a yoke of wood,\nbolts away from him and scampers down the road.\n\"Well, r m damned. This godam place is sure getting the best\nof me. Come, Ralph, old man, pull yourself together. Nights cant\nlast forever. Thank God for that. Its Sunday already. First time\nin my life I've ever wanted Sunday to come. Hell of a day. And\ndown here there's no such thing as ducking church. Well, I'll see\nHalsey and Layman, and get a good square meal. Thats something.\nAnd Halsey's a damn good feller. Cant talk to him, though. Who\nin Christ's world can I talk to? A hen. God. Myself. . . I'm\ngoing bats, no doubt of that. Come now, Ralph, go in and make\nyourself go to sleep. Come now ... in the door . . . thats right.\nPut the poker down. There. All right. Slip under the sheets. Close\nyour eyes. Think nothing ... a long time . . . nothing, nothing.\nDont even think nothing. Blank. Not even blank. Count. No,\nmustnt count. Nothing . . . blank . . . nothing . . . blank . . .\nspace without stars in it. No, nothing . . . nothing . . .\nKabnis sleeps. The winds, like soft-voiced vagrant poets, sing:\nWhite-man's land.\nNiggers, sing.\nBurn, bear black children\nTill poor rivers bring\nRest, and sweet glory\nIn Camp Ground.\n\nJean Toomer"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "16", "page_fin": "16", "image_debut": 18, "image_fin": 18, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Indians in Spring", "titre_sommaire": "Indians in Spring", "signature_source": "Janet Lewis", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 1268, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1498, "texte": "INDIANS IN SPRING\nJanet Lewis\nThe nights were cold,\nAnd they came slowly upstream,\nPulling past channel stakes\nGnawed white with ice.\nPoplar flowers,\nBlossoming and falling\nThrough air remaining cold\nAs water, the flesh of spring."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "17", "page_fin": "28", "image_debut": 19, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "On Board the Morning Star", "titre_sommaire": "On Board the Morning Star", "signature_source": "Pierre MacOrlan ; Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 10, "fin_caractere_exclue": 720, "texte": "ON BOARD THE MORNING STAR\n\n*\nI\nThe tenth of October, 1 720, as we were coasting the southern\nshore of Jamaica we saw a sloop anchored in Dry Harbour Bay.\nAccording to the usages of gentlemen of fortune, George Merry\ngave order to hoist the black flag. By informing the stranger of our\ntrue quality we risked nothing, and the mere apparition of this funereal\ncrepe gave the results which we were privileged to expect: two men who\nwere on board the sloop leaped into a boat moored to the stern and\npulled hastily for the shore, where we soon lost sight of them.\n\n* On Board the MORNING Star consists of the fifth, twelfth, eighth and\nsixteenth episodes of A Bord l'Etoile Matutine (Paris: G. Cres et Cie.,\n1921)."}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2467, "texte": "George Merry had himself rowed to the sloop. He was accom-\npanied by his boatswain—we called him Peter Black Sheep—and by\na sailor from Dieppe whom we had enrolled in North Carolina while we\nwere lurking at the mouth of the Roanoke.\nAt the fall of night Peter Black Sheep and the sailor rowed back\nto the Morning Star. We aided them to embark the merchandise\nwhich they had been able to find on the sloop. It was a modest booty,\nbut when we considered the few pains it had cost us we greeted it with\nsatisfaction. Our last cruise had been vain, fortune having abandoned\nthe folds of our flag.\nBefore our eyes the pillaged sloop rocked in the breeze. No sound\ntroubled the quiet of the harbour. We stretched out on the deck, heads\npillowed on our crossed arms, and rested. Many slept like beasts,\nwith little nervous starts. We were so tired that our dignity as men\nseemed to be abolished.\nIn the evening we heard the whistle of George Merry. A ship's\nlantern was lighted on the sloop. Peter Black Sheep and the Dieppe\nsailor untied the boat to bring back our captain. When they came on\nboard the Morning Star every one was asleep. . . .\nEarly in the morning George Merry gave order to ship anchor.\nWe stretched full sail to the south wind and the Morning Star whipped\nnorthward, where lay the hazards of our profession.\nThe man from Nantes took his flute and translated into frail notes\nthe ecstasy in which our hearts were melting. Captain Merry himself\napproached our circle, and for the first time we saw that he was accom-\npanied by a tall young man with robust limbs, whose beardless face\nexpressed audacity and the pride of adventure. He introduced this\nnew gentleman of fortune, who desired to submit himself to our laws\nand to the sterile fantasy of our wandering life.\nHis elegance silenced the magic flute. We none of us uttered the\nimpression which this proper sailor, with his decided air, had created in\nthe hell of our hearts.\nHis hair, tied back with a ribbon, revealed a neck which was as\ndelicate and tender as that of a young boy. It was evident that the\ncaptain favoured this new comrade with his friendship.\nThe stranger—on account of his irritating grace he would always\nbe a stranger to us—showed himself an able sailor. He was supple\nand seductive as he climbed the ropes, and his knife, which he held\nclenched between his little teeth, made him resemble a young cat carry-\ning a fish. He knew his trade and therefore we respected him a little."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2346, "texte": "And besides, his beauty impressed us enough to gain the right of re-\nmaining obedient, taciturn and distant.\nThereupon we gave chase to two Dutch traders bound for Martin-\nique, one in ballast and the other laden with sugar and cocoa. The\nfight was savage but the booty exceeded our hopes. All night we\nburned rum in great copper kettles. Pew and the man from Nantes\nfought with knives, and dawn found us lying supine on a quarterdeck\nstill blackened with powder, spotted with blood and pitch.\nOur handsome shipmate had born himself like a true knight of\nfortune. And when the orgy recommenced by day, he drank with us\nfrom a silver loving cup, of which he wiped the brim. He made a\ngesture to raise it to our success, when a little hook at the collar of his\nembroidered shirt gave way, and in stupour we beheld the revelation\nof the double cupola of two breasts as pure, as amiably rounded as\nthe pink domes of the cathedral of St. Hermit, at Palermo.\nSurprise left us voiceless before this woman whom chance had\nrevealed to us brutally.\nThen, we stretched out our fists in her direction, we howled at her\nface the oaths we had learned in every language of the earth, we spit\nat her feet like the damned, and our anger rose, rose in measure to the\nobscene words from our throats.\nFor we reproached her with standing motionless before our eyes\nin her calm beauty, and above all because she had watched us, the\nfuture clients of the gibbet, in the horror of our coarseness, our unshaven\nfaces, our dirty linen, our smells, our misery.\nAnd we reproached her, without being able to specify motives of\nthis anger, with having surprised us as we searched with dirty finger-\nnails for the lice which gnawed us.\nAnd we reproached her because she had not revealed herself in\ntime to allow us to attempt her conquest by embellishing our faces and\nour hands, according to the methods familiar to all men, before we cut\nour throats for bitter joys.\nII.\nAfter cruising three days in the Gulf of Honduras—where we met\nCharles Vane, who had just captured the Pearl, Captain Bowling—\nwe dropped anchor in a creek of the little island of Barnacko, whither\nGeorge Merry had decided to retire to caulk the seams of the Morning\nStar.\nLeaving the smaller part of the crew on board, we disembarked\non the soil of this fertile island, which the ocean had set down like"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2531, "texte": "a basket too full of fruits and flowers. The scattered houses which\ncomposed the village offered but few resources for the satisfaction of\nour appetites: fruit in earthenware bowls, dried fish, a little milk and\nsome mussels which we broke with our knife handles.\nWhile the larger part of the band scattered through the little vil-\nlage to seek its fortune, the man from Nantes, Pitti, MacGraw, Jack\nSeven and four or five of the beaux of the forecastle resolved to skirt\nthe southern coast, which disappeared at this point under the rarest\nsamples of the vegetation of the tropics.\nI followed this little troop, for I had the confidence of MacGraw\nwho liked, on certain days, to lift the veil covering a past of bookish\nlabour. He instructed me to the point of being able to read, correctly\nenough, a Latin Bible and the Hudibras of Samuel Butler in English.\nI m thirsty, said the man from Nantes. \"Have you any rum,\nold Mac? I'll pay it back on the day of our elevation, when we\nbless the girls of Savannah with our feet.\"\nMacGraw passed him a gourd. He clenched his teeth, lifted it\nto the end of his arm, and poured out a thread of rum which he swal-\nlowed slowly.\nWe continued our ramble. A fugitive odour of jasmine mounted\nto our nostrils, and among the green tufts of banana trees and the fresh\nleaves of live-oaks we saw a little white cottage, of a blinding whiteness,\nwhere all the shadows were printed in blue. A bird hidden in the\nvelvet shade of the palms whistled to render the silence more solemn,\nfor, outside of its enchanting voice, no sound revealed the presence of\nany life whatever. We made a circuit of the house, by habit, and the\nman from Nantes, thrusting his head through a little window, made\nus a violent sign with his hand to be still.\n\"You can come,\" he said as he straightened up. We penetrated\ninto the cool house, one behind another.\nIn the centre of its one room, on a piece of worn matting unrolled\nfrom the wall, a young negress was sleeping. She was almost naked\nand her hair was knotted in a yellow silk kerchief with violet spots\nthe size of peas. The sole furniture was a chest which supported a\npitcher of clear water where a giant spider was agonizing. In one\ncorner a pile of dirty linen covered a few kitchen utensils.\n\"Milady!\" roared MacGraw, trumpeting his hands round his\nmouth.\nThe ebony lady startled up, raising the whites of frightened eyes.\nDuring a few seconds her face expressed the most legitimate terror.\nThen her mouth broadened to a grin, she rose, took a step toward the"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2336, "texte": "man from Nantes and placed her two hands on his shoulders, on\nboth sides of his head. Her lips rounded, seeking a kiss.\nI knew it,\"he declared. \"This lady of quality has been waiting\nfor me. I have sailed twenty years only to land on this island and\nwed her legally. Gentlemen, I invite you all to be present at the\nceremony.\" . . .\nThe ceremony was curiously impressive. George Merry had of-\nfered a cask of rum, which we carried to the house of the bride on a\nlitter formed of branches. We drank all day. We parodied the\nreligious ceremony. The negress, dressed in a satin gown which we\nhad saved from the pillage of a French vessel, leaned on the arm of\nher cavalier and received as her just homage the powerful acclamations\nof the crew of the Morning Star.\nWe separated late at night, leaving the platters clean and goblets\nempty. Everybody returned to the ship or to the huts of the village.\nThe bride and groom remained with MacGraw and me, since we two\nwere to pass the night in a narrow attic above the nuptial chamber.\nBefore wishing them a good night, we emptied the remainder of\nthe cask of rum into a flask which must have contained six or seven\nquarts, and so climbed heavy-headed into our retreat, leaving the flask\nto the fantasy of the groom but advising him under no circumstances\nto let it run dry.\nWe fell immediately into a dead sleep, and when we woke it\nwas broad day.\nMacGraw, his hair dishevelled and his voice hoarse, shouted,\n\"Hello, Nantes! Bring up the rum! Bring the rum, old shipmate!\"\nNobody answered. We climbed down the ladder which took\nthe place of stairs. As we entered their chamber we saw our old\nshipmate stretched out on the matting, his throat cut open from ear\nto ear, bled white like a slaughtered pig.\n\"She stole the rum! The rum is gone!\" howled MacGraw. . . .\nWe found the wife of the defunct a few yards from the white\ncottage. She was extremely drunk. She lay at the foot of a tree\nwith the flask of rum between her knees, and there was blood on her\nhands, between the fingers.\nWhen we raised her up to hang her, she hardly opened her eyes,\nattempted the politeness of a smile, wished to kiss Pitti and to say some-\nthing. Her head fell back on her breast. It took three men to pass\nthe cord around her neck, she was so heavy and limp. In her last\nslumber she stuttered:\n\"Love... Love...\""}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2223, "texte": "Pitti drew the rope tight. When she felt her feet leave the ground,\nshe opened frightful eyes, suddenly. But she died almost immediately\nand swung back and forwards a long time before remaining still, extra-\nordinary still, in the noisy forest.\nIII\nWhen we arrived before Vera Cruz with the Dutch flag at our\nmasthead, hoping to trade with the Spaniards without fear of being\ndenounced, we saw that every ship in the harbour was flying a yellow\nflag to indicate that a sly Death blew over the city like a great and\nfetid and mysterious wind.\nGeorge Merry, Anselmo Pitti and Pierre Black Sheep thought\nwe should fly before the wind to escape the voracious plague, but it\nhappened that several others, MacGraw among them, desired on the\ncontrary to make a landing, arguing that business would be easy in\nthe midst of the general desolation, and they undertook, knowing\nan apothecary who was willing to receive goods and ask no questions,\nto avoid the quarantine and the thin and haughty alguazils.\nMacGraw demanded a week to attend to our business and his\nown. George Merry hesitated, allowed himself to be convinced,\nand the Morning Star found anchorage on the coast not far from the\nyellow bunting of the harbour, toward San Juan d'Ulhua.\nThat night we untied a rowboat and embarked: MacGraw, Pew\nand myself.\nWith the light of day we found our road and soon MacGraw\nlifted the brass knocker of a house built in the Spanish fashion, care-\nfully closed, cool and porous as an earthenware jug which contains\nfresh water.\nThere was a slot fashioned in the door; it opened at our call and\na voice, hardly an amiable voice, greeted us in these terms: \"What\ndo you want? Is this an inn? Do all the dogs of creation come here\nto beg shelter?\"\nPerfect, said MacGraw. \"Say no more. ... I recognize\nyou, Goldfish. Old hangbird, you haven't changed. . . . Open\nthe portal of your hospitable dwelling. It's MacGraw, with friends,\nand may God damn me black if I esteem the plague which will pre-\nsent me to the devil as highly as I esteem your Lordship.\"\nWe approved the terms of his discourse. Meanwhile the door\nopened slowly and the face of Goldfish appeared, lighted by a lantern,\nto affirm how worthy of the name was its proprietor."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2320, "texte": "Two red eyes were his ornament. The nose was small and\nbalanced itself over the gulf of a lipless mouth. A receding chin\nwas confused with the line of the throat, a feature which gave him—\nwhen combined with his bald and pointed skull—the appearance of\na carp's head. His colour was a golden bronze, as far as we could\njudge by the light of the lantern and by the first streaks of a livid\ndawn.\n\"Come in and close the door,\" said Goldfish.\nWe followed him. He led us across a courtyard surrounded with\nbuildings on four sides, and with a circular gallery of carved mahogany.\nWe climbed a stone stairway and Goldfish blew out his lantern,\npressing his body against the wall to let us pass. With MacGraw\nin the lead we penetrated into a vast room decorated in a manner\nstrangely reminiscent of hell.\n\"This,\" whispered MacGraw, \"seems a chapel constructed for\nthe devotions of Black Teach.\" He sat on a three-legged stool and\nwe followed his example, seeking a place to rest our feet in the midst\nof paintpots and brushes soaking in broken vases.\n\"So you are no longer an apothecary?\" asked MacGraw.\n\"No,\" Goldfish answered gruffly, \"today lam a painter. Why\ndid you come, the three of you?\"\nHe approached so near that he was breathing in my face; his dry\nhand took my wrist and a finger pressed on the artery.\n\"Take care,\" he said.\nThen turning toward MacGraw he said, angrily, \"Are you sure\nyou haven't got it? Stick out your tongue. . . . And your\neyes . . . how red they are!\"\n\"You should give us a drink,\" said MacGraw.\nGoldfish descended the stair, grumbling confused words. We\nheard him jingling a bunch of keys in the courtyard.\nWithout exchanging a word we looked round us. The floor of\nthe room was strewn with clippings of canvas, paint-pots and worn-\nout brushes; in one corner was a strange row of cardboard sugarloaves,\ncertain of which, half decorated, presented an aspect both grotesque\nand repulsive; crosses covered with Latin inscriptions were hanging\non the walls as also were immense scapularies barred with St. Andrew's\ncrosses or painted with winged devils brandishing pitch-forks, breath-\ning out flames.\nWe regarded these decorations, to say the least incomprehensible,\nand which, on account of the poverty of the materials which they\nadorned, could only evoke some vulgar masquerade, when Goldfish"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2687, "texte": "returned with two bottles which he placed on a table beside a stub of\ncandle, some crusts of bread, and the dried skins of oranges.\n\"Drink,\" he said. \"Perhaps you have a fever?\"\nWe filled our glasses and that of Goldfish, and we drank to his\nhealth. We set them down. In the street we heard a deep murmur,\na sort of groan, with the trampling of horses and the machinal hum\nof a crowd at prayer. We rushed toward the shuttered windows to\nsee a religious masquerade whose aspect astounded us. Between two\nfiles of soldiers in ill-fitting uniforms and carrying their muskets care-\nlessly, marched a group of men and women dressed in scapularies\nwhich were painted in the manner of those which we had seen on the\nwalls of the room. They wore a sort of grotesque bonnet, which\nexplained equally the use of those sugarloaves which had appeared\nso repulsive to us. Behind these carnavalesque penitents marched\nmulatto slaves carrying on their shoulders wooden boxes in the shape\nof little coffins. Priests chanted in the confusion, and the girls who\nwore scapularies and painted cardboard bonnets questioned with their\nenormous eyes the crowd of bearded men. Their jaws trembled.\nSometimes they stumbled, fell on their knees, while a confessor holding\na crucifix lifted them to their feet with a sort of indiscreet benevolence.\n\"It is the Inquisition,\" said MacGraw. \"They are leading a few\nJews to the stake. The Dutch flag protects us.\"\n\"They brought the plague,\" Goldfish replied. \"I painted the\nangel of the plague on their bonnets—which are known as carrochas\n—and on their samarras, for I am the official painter of the Holy\nInquisition. These witches have been the opportunity for the sensitive\ncolouring of my best work.\"\nHe added in a judicial voice as the procession wavered and re-\nsumed its march: \"I paint the crosses and carrochas, and the samarras\nwith a grey background. Regard how the portrait of the heretic or\nsorcerer is natural and vivacious. I paint from nature, in the very gaol\nwhere these wretches fatigue the heavens with their cries. Let me\nrecommend you this virgin or prostitute, it doesn't matter, the third\nafter the file of men. You see the one I mean ? I painted her portrait\non the front and back of the samarra. She wears this artistic garment\nbecause she denied the true faith before the Holy Tribunal, in spite\nof the fact that she was convicted of having introduced to our city\nthe odious and melancholy plague, whose victims lose, it is said, the\nsentiment of God.\n\"At night,\" continued the mortuary painter, \"it seems that my\ntaut skin converges towards an enormous bubo which bursts with a\nnoise of thunder. The Yellow Death will dominate the world, and"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2406, "texte": "volcanoes are only buboes, perhaps the messengers of a fleshless liberty\nif I credit my dreams.\"\n\"What about business?\" asked MacGraw.\n\"May the devil here painted carry you off!\" barked Goldfish.\n\"This gallows carrion comes to talk of business when the whole city\ntrembles like a little girl who stretches out her hand to a fortune\nteller. Business . . .\n\"Instead regard my portraits and the decorative principles of the\ntortures which vary according to the soul of the patient, his tastes,\nwhat he has been, what he will become, and above all the things which\nhe regrets, for all the subtlety of my art consists in materializing the\nregret of life by means of images of which only a part are symbolic.\"\nThe artist took his head between his hands and sobbed, \"My\nmasterpieces, my poor masterpieces will again be victims of the auto-\nda-fe! Even those imbeciles who paint red crosses on vulgar san-\nbemtos are less to be pitied than I . . . I . . .1 am most cun-\nningly tortured of all the victims of the Holy Inquisition.\"\n\"When this damned masquerade has crossed the square,\" mur-\nmured MacGraw, \"we shall leave the painter to his art. Then, God\nbeing willing, we shall rejoin George Merry and flee this soil where\nfever, like a pagan divinity, bathes in every fountain.\"\n\"The city has the air of an enormous copper coin, red hot,\" added\nPew. He clicked his tongue, for the air about us smelt of hot copper\nwith, at intervals when a little breeze sprang up, the odour of wood\nsmoke and grilled flesh.\n\"You digress,\" said Goldfish interrupting the course of his dreams.\n\"You wander, and I believe you are trembling. . . . Whence do\nyou come . . . with this swollen tongue, these eyes rimmed with\nscarlet and this exaltation of the lesser sentiments before the spectacles\nof nature?\"\n\"Easy, easy, Goldfish. Remember the old days at London when\nyou drank urine punch with the 'German widows' of Mother Knox,\nat Covent Garden, and forget these mummeries . .\n\"Mummeries! Gentlemen, your Lordships! He opens his mouth\nto blaspheme. He . . . \"\nGoldfish in suffocation carried his hands to his neck, swollen like\na puff-adder. Then he grew calm, rubbed his palms against each\nother and, timidly, approached the door.\n\"Gentlemen,\" said the renegade, \"I place my treasures under your\nprotection. (He pointed to the carrochas and the sanbenitos.) I\nam leaving you immediately to seek the elements of a banquet worthy"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2316, "texte": "of your Lordships and of an old comrade, although I must confess\nthat I hardly understand his remarks on our former life. I shall\nreturn.\"\nHe took a step toward the door . . . one step . . . but, I\nswear it, each of us saw from the expression of MacGraw that we had\nto act without longer delay. Anyhow, MacGraw was the first to\nbound on Goldfish, who could not withstand the shock and fell on\nhis two knees. He grunted.\nAnd MacGraw strangled him with his two powerful hands, while\nwe held the prone limbs of the painter of sanbenitos. His eyes turned\nslowly, his tongue pointed from his mouth, his violet-spotted face\nbecame a mask like his paintings. MacGraw, to revive his forces,\nuntwisted his fingers and a little life seemed to reanimate the hideous\npatient. Our comrade knitted his embrace three times, and we felt\nthat the man had just died between our hands.\n\"He wished to denounce us for what I said about the monks,\"\npanted MacGraw.\nWe left the twisted corpse on the floor, and behind the shutters\nwe inspected the public square, now empty, airless, hot. A madman\nran in the shelter of the walls, hunting for a little shade. He raised his\narms to heaven. Out of breath he seated himself beside a dry fountain\nand rolled on the ground, scratching it like a wounded beast.\n\"Perhaps the time has come for us to go,\" I said. MacGraw and\nPitti nodded their heads, but this precipitate departure had too much\nthe air of a flight, and we hunted for some sort of compensation.\nWe took Goldfish, and such as he was, with his tortured face, we\ndressed him in a grey scapulary where unfinished demons howled before\nflames in the shape of tongues; we set a cardboard bonnet on his head,\nand it was the final brush-stroke which completed the monstrous person-\nage which we had just created, we, other artists. When he was\ndressed we carried him into the courtyard and hanged him before the\ndoor with his feet resting on the stone slabs of the vestibule.\n\"We can't go out yet,\" said Pew, \"not by day. We'll have to\nwait till nightfall . . . Have I a fever? . . . Feel if I have a\nfever, MacGraw.\"\nMacGraw, in the twilight of the courtyard, laid a finger on the\nvein of Pew's wrist.\n\"It is nothing,\" he said.\nWe remained seated on the stairway, all three, without saying a\nword, facing the dead man in his pointed bonnet."}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2183, "texte": "\"It hurts me still ... my heart. . .\" said Pew again. He\nleaned a little over the step to vomit.\n\"Go farther, pig,\" said MacGraw.\nWe waited for night like a thief broken on the wheel who waits\nfor death. The minutes passed slowly and the sun, seen above the\ncourtyard as from the depths of a well, refused to bend its homicidal\nrays.\n\"I . . . . it . . .\" said Pew.\nHe did not dare to complain. I surprised MacGraw in the\nshadow, feeling his own artery at the wrist, slyly, uneasily.\nPew could not walk; his legs were limp. We supported him by\nthe wrists, feeling the blood that beat along his veins, against our\nclenched palms.\nThe odour of burned flesh persisted over the city. A great flock\nof crows and vultures passed over us. They uttered various cries; a\nfew sobbed like children.\nPew collapsed at last in spite of our efforts. We let him fall to\nearth. He raised his eyes toward MacGraw; they had grown super-\nnaturally intelligent.\n\"Here, Mac,\" he said, pointing to his heart. \"And quick.\" Mac-\nGraw leaned over him as if to look at his tongue, resting all the weight\nof his body on a knife which he had applied discreetly against the\nheart of his comrade.\nWe abandoned the defunct and rejoined George Merry and the\nband. And we never spoke of Goldfish or the plague, in fear of being\nabandoned, by precaution, in a ship's boat with biscuits, water, a rifle\nand a little powder. The death of Pew was explained naturally as\nthe result of a quarrel adroitly described according to our traditions.\nBut during fourteen days and fourteen nights MacGraw and I\nfelt, in secret, the big vein of our left wrist, and we examined the\nmirrors which reflected our tongue . . . We had no desire to\nquestion our memories of Vera Cruz.\nIV\nOn the gibbet of Savannah, on the quai which faces the mother\nocean, a young man is hanging.\nHis clothes are those which he wore on the Morning Star, a hand-\nsome red coat, an embroidered waistcoat, black velvet breeches and\nwhite stockings. Everywhere an abundance of gold galloons.\nOn his already fleshless head his cocked hat perches coquettishly.\nIt is reddened by the sun. His hands, bound high on his back, give\nhim the appearance of a hunchback."}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 10, "fin_caractere_exclue": 883, "texte": "It is George Merry, the captain of the Morning Star. He will\nnever smoke his long and melancholy pipe, and the plump Spanish\ngirls have nothing more beneath their skirts to excite his curiosity.\nStiff and sumptuous at the end of the rope he hardly excites the\nglances of the passers-by and the example of his death fills the hearts\nof cowards only with fear.\nYonder on the mother ocean, the Morning Star perpetuates its\ntradition under a new master. The black flag floats from its mizzen\nmasthead and for the gentlemen of fortune who sprawl on the deck\nspeaking of the past, George Merry is only a detail confounded with\nthe whores of Maracaibo, the man from Nantes and his negress and\nthis little, little girl who plucks up her pink skirt with an uneasy gesture\nto water the mandrake growing at the foot of the gallows tree.\n\nPierre MacOrlan\n(Translated by Malcolm Cowley)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "17", "page_fin": "17", "image_debut": 19, "image_fin": 19, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.9.1", "titre_corps": "Woodcut", "titre_sommaire": "Woodcut", "signature_source": "Daragnès", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 8, "texte": "Daragnès"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "28", "page_fin": "28", "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.9.2", "titre_corps": "Woodcut", "titre_sommaire": "Woodcut", "signature_source": "Daragnès", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 8, "texte": "Daragnès"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "29", "page_fin": "31", "image_debut": 31, "image_fin": 33, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Three Poems", "titre_sommaire": "Three Poems", "signature_source": "Wilfrid H. Bendall", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1356, "texte": "THREE POEMS\n\nI.\nTHE CHASMS\nHere and there abysses appear before me in the gloom.\nI have only one concern .... to escape them.\nI am an armoured affair, upright and quiet, gothic.\nWith appalling slowness I recognise each chasm\nAnd with appalling slowness I take steps to escape,\nI approach slowly, with a holy, chaste step,\nThe air is quiet, there is no music, all the birds are dead,\n(I wonder who prepared this decoration)\nI glance at the chasm as one glances at a Latin inscription,\nWith icy reserve, I lift one foot, it hangs against the sky like\na carved club.\nOver the edge of the chasm I play a little, I dally upon the\nedge,\nThe rocks sweat with desire and I with a charming fear,\nMy body sways measuredly, deliberately,\nThe depths of the cavern gleam intensely, blue and quivering;\nThe rocks, absolutely still, hold their furrows rigid with\nexpectation,\nVery, very slowly I begin to fall forward,\nI begin to die,\nSoundlessly my body lowers its epileptic game forward,\nIn the vice of this prepared fear I go on falling\nMonstrously slow .... I progress to an angle of forty-five\ndegrees ....\nThere I hang, an arabesque on the sky\nA horror against its virgin opalescence. . . .\nA door opens in the cliff and my friends appear ranged in\nline to view me,\nSilently, with premeditated surprise they speculate on my\ndoom,\n(Blood begins to flow into my head)"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1294, "texte": "They seem to be dissatisfied with my progress,\nWithout more ado they return through the same door. . . .\nI draw in a tremendous breath . . . filled with bits of rock\nSuddenly I leap .... two yards to the opposite side of\nthe chasm;\nThrough the strange quality of the effort I am embedded in\nthe rock.\nWith prayerful ease I extricate myself and become again\nAn armoured affair, upright and quiet and gothic in design,\nStepping onward with extraordinary slowness,\nWith admirable reserve, not a little frightened.\n\nII.\nREST\nThe soft, pink, content. . .\nThe degrees of dream. . .\nThe basking elements are all here!\nFor every atom of hate towards me there is one of love;\nI glide about among the sussurations of a windy symphony\nBearing harmony as lightly as a cloud bears the damasks of\nsunset.\n112 Rom incalculable heights my voice travels,\nPeacefully describing over magnanimous depths\nThe incredibly simple harmony of everything;\nDiligently attuning itself to your waking ears.\nCome with your patronymic majesty into these reiterated rests.\nThe basking elements are all here.\n\nIII.\nThe sibilant fate, dank locked and drunk,\nDepends to my streaming face new woes.\nIt offers wretched and terrible osculations.\nMy tears are not enough . . . not loud enough\nTo drown in sound and flood these things,"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1277, "texte": "Phantasmal fears, phantasmal growths;\nThe dregs of dismay were never deeper to be drunk;\nIn purple ooze, I dabble my still white body\nWith purple spots of sin.\nCreeping, pale evil-eyed orchids,\nGracefully bodied, slim and swaying, and cool. . .\nCreeping over the warm flesh. . .\nI entwine with you, I enwreathe you,\nSix times I lave myself with your occult dismay.\nSince I was a little boy your appeal was so,\nI have always bored and danced around you\nMuch as a moth to a flame . . . now I am aware,\nNow, I am fulgent with a new liking,\nWith a great fresh sickness. . .\nThis is a celebrated advent . . . why,\nThe blankets of midnight need me for half an hour only;\nI am up to greet the sun, I touch the clouds,\nI tear up leaves of grass.\nMy body is covered with sores that the sun easily burns,\nIt enters the sores and boils their colourful putrefaction,\nPink steam escapes from me into the blue of heaven.\nTo be awakened thus early is said to be terrible.\nI certainly feel a little sad, do not laugh. . .\nRecollect . . . having discovered this entertaining truth\nI shall probably never slumber again.\nA few suggestions are never amiss in new games,\nSee if you can, with closed eyes, rise and follow me\nWithout stumbling over the closing lid of this coffin.\n\nWilfrid H. Bendall"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "29", "page_fin": "30", "image_debut": 31, "image_fin": 32, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.10.1", "titre_corps": "The Chasms", "titre_sommaire": "The Chasms", "signature_source": "Wilfrid H. Bendall", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1356, "texte": "I.\nTHE CHASMS\nHere and there abysses appear before me in the gloom.\nI have only one concern .... to escape them.\nI am an armoured affair, upright and quiet, gothic.\nWith appalling slowness I recognise each chasm\nAnd with appalling slowness I take steps to escape,\nI approach slowly, with a holy, chaste step,\nThe air is quiet, there is no music, all the birds are dead,\n(I wonder who prepared this decoration)\nI glance at the chasm as one glances at a Latin inscription,\nWith icy reserve, I lift one foot, it hangs against the sky like\na carved club.\nOver the edge of the chasm I play a little, I dally upon the\nedge,\nThe rocks sweat with desire and I with a charming fear,\nMy body sways measuredly, deliberately,\nThe depths of the cavern gleam intensely, blue and quivering;\nThe rocks, absolutely still, hold their furrows rigid with\nexpectation,\nVery, very slowly I begin to fall forward,\nI begin to die,\nSoundlessly my body lowers its epileptic game forward,\nIn the vice of this prepared fear I go on falling\nMonstrously slow .... I progress to an angle of forty-five\ndegrees ....\nThere I hang, an arabesque on the sky\nA horror against its virgin opalescence. . . .\nA door opens in the cliff and my friends appear ranged in\nline to view me,\nSilently, with premeditated surprise they speculate on my\ndoom,\n(Blood begins to flow into my head)"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 510, "texte": "They seem to be dissatisfied with my progress,\nWithout more ado they return through the same door. . . .\nI draw in a tremendous breath . . . filled with bits of rock\nSuddenly I leap .... two yards to the opposite side of\nthe chasm;\nThrough the strange quality of the effort I am embedded in\nthe rock.\nWith prayerful ease I extricate myself and become again\nAn armoured affair, upright and quiet and gothic in design,\nStepping onward with extraordinary slowness,\nWith admirable reserve, not a little frightened."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "30", "page_fin": "30", "image_debut": 32, "image_fin": 32, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.10.2", "titre_corps": "Rest", "titre_sommaire": "Rest", "signature_source": "Wilfrid H. Bendall", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 512, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1074, "texte": "II.\nREST\nThe soft, pink, content. . .\nThe degrees of dream. . .\nThe basking elements are all here!\nFor every atom of hate towards me there is one of love;\nI glide about among the sussurations of a windy symphony\nBearing harmony as lightly as a cloud bears the damasks of\nsunset.\n112 Rom incalculable heights my voice travels,\nPeacefully describing over magnanimous depths\nThe incredibly simple harmony of everything;\nDiligently attuning itself to your waking ears.\nCome with your patronymic majesty into these reiterated rests.\nThe basking elements are all here."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "30", "page_fin": "31", "image_debut": 32, "image_fin": 33, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.10.3", "titre_corps": "[Sans titre]", "titre_sommaire": "[Sans titre]", "signature_source": "Wilfrid H. Bendall", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 1076, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1294, "texte": "III.\nThe sibilant fate, dank locked and drunk,\nDepends to my streaming face new woes.\nIt offers wretched and terrible osculations.\nMy tears are not enough . . . not loud enough\nTo drown in sound and flood these things,"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1257, "texte": "Phantasmal fears, phantasmal growths;\nThe dregs of dismay were never deeper to be drunk;\nIn purple ooze, I dabble my still white body\nWith purple spots of sin.\nCreeping, pale evil-eyed orchids,\nGracefully bodied, slim and swaying, and cool. . .\nCreeping over the warm flesh. . .\nI entwine with you, I enwreathe you,\nSix times I lave myself with your occult dismay.\nSince I was a little boy your appeal was so,\nI have always bored and danced around you\nMuch as a moth to a flame . . . now I am aware,\nNow, I am fulgent with a new liking,\nWith a great fresh sickness. . .\nThis is a celebrated advent . . . why,\nThe blankets of midnight need me for half an hour only;\nI am up to greet the sun, I touch the clouds,\nI tear up leaves of grass.\nMy body is covered with sores that the sun easily burns,\nIt enters the sores and boils their colourful putrefaction,\nPink steam escapes from me into the blue of heaven.\nTo be awakened thus early is said to be terrible.\nI certainly feel a little sad, do not laugh. . .\nRecollect . . . having discovered this entertaining truth\nI shall probably never slumber again.\nA few suggestions are never amiss in new games,\nSee if you can, with closed eyes, rise and follow me\nWithout stumbling over the closing lid of this coffin."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "32", "page_fin": "34", "image_debut": 34, "image_fin": 36, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "A Note on Juan Gris and Cubism", "titre_sommaire": "A Note on Juan Gris and Cubism", "signature_source": "H. A. L.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2515, "texte": "A NOTE ON JUAN GRIS AND CUBISM\n\nA Guitarist, a Big and Little Pierrot, a Nun and two Still-lifes:\nthese are the latest drawings of Juan Gris: \"one of the most orthodox\ngrammarians of the cubist school.\" \"Cubism is dead,\" says the care-\nless dilettante, more eager to hail new tendencies and bury the old than\nto understand how the successive phases of painting are aligned, by\ncasual sequence, in a tradition whose beginning is unknown and whose\nend cannot be imagined. Cubism is hardly dead. The Nun, with\nher veil falling in geometric lines; with her hands, her chain, her cross,\nher halo: all essential constituents of a pattern whose value depends\nentirely on its plastic arrangement and not on any similitude of life or\nreality, owes as much to the researches of the cubists as does the ab-\nstract Still-life, in which unnamable two-dimensional shapes intersect.\nBoth drawings are cubist fundamentally.\nIt is true that Picasso, Braque, Gris and other former cubists are\nturning more and more to compositions of figures, and are painting\nfewer of the abstractions which suggested the name of their movement.\nBut this fact merely indicates that the experiments in pure form have\nreached a satisfactory conclusion. The artists have learned exactly\nwhat they can do with this medium from wThich all the supplementary\nappeals have been subtracted, and therefore, as is proper for those who\ndeserve the name of artists, they are going on to something new, to the\napplication of their acquired knowledge in more complicated fields.\nThe evolution can be followed more easily in the work of Juan\nGris than with Picasso, for the latter, possessing a genius of phenomenal\ninventiveness, has swung from one mood to another with bewildering\nrapidity. Gris, on the other hand, works with a single-minded intention\nwhich resembles the progress of a scientist more nearly than that of the\ntraditional artist. His starting point is the relation of two or more\nforms. Having discovered the arrangement which best satisfies the\naesthetic problem, he goes on to incarnate the forms in line or paint,\nregardless of visual reality. Thus, when desirable, solids mutually\ninterpenetrate, colour is dissociated from its mass, and other liberties\nare taken with reality as perceived by the optic nerve. This is of course\nnothing new. Egyptians added the invisible eye to the profile; negroes\npierced the opacity of the stomach or distorted the shape of the breast;\nMayas so conventionalized the images of their gods that on first glance"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2300, "texte": "they are not portraits at all. The distortions of cubists and other\npost-impressionistic painters must, however, be distinguished from the\nexaggerations of futurists and expressionists who, unlike the primitives,\nusually ignore visual reality for literary rather than plastic reasons.\nThe consummation sought by Gris and other painters of the group\nis an arrangement of form and colour, whether abstract or composed\nof clearly recognizable figures, which will possess an import specifically\nplastic, owing nothing to the pleasure derived from recognition or senti-\nment. Ihe emotion evoked is an intellectual emotion, relating more\nclosely to the pleasure felt on first comprehending the Pythagorean\nsolution than to the gentler thrill of a landscape in late spring. This\nexplains the tendency to neglect the warm and romantic colours for\nthose dull greens and dirty browns with which the cubists are often\nreproached.\nConsidering these facts it was surprising to find that Mr. Wright,\nin The Freeman, defined modern painting as a new art of colour which\nmarked an absolute break with European tradition because, for the\nfirst time, form was made absolutely subordinate. He even states that\nfor this reason modern paintings lose most of their value when repro-\nduced in half-tone. Since it is notorious that the work of several\ncontemporary artists looks at least as well when reproduced, one is\nforced to wonder what modern paintings Mr. Wright has in mind.\nHis aesthetic theory was effectively demolished soon afterwards in the\nsame periodical, but if there be any reader of The Freeman who\nobtains his information solely from its pages, he will naturally believe\nthat all modern art is buried in the same debris as the theories of Mr.\nWright.\nThe group of modern artists who live in Paris, and who by general\nconsent are considered the pioneers of occidental pictorial art, are at\nleast as much concerned with the problem of arranging form signifi-\ncantly as were the masters of the early Renaissance, and perhaps their\nchief difference with tradition is the economy with which they seek\nthe attainment of this end. The drawings of Gris, reproduced in this\nnumber, are valuable not only for their beauty, but for the clear way\nin which they illustrate the method and aims of the cubists.\n\nH. A. L."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "33", "page_fin": "33", "image_debut": 35, "image_fin": 35, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.11.1", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Juan Gris", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "33", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 17, "texte": "Drawing\nJuan Gris"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "35", "page_fin": "35", "image_debut": 37, "image_fin": 37, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Juan Gris", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 17, "texte": "Drawing\nJuan Gris"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "36", "page_fin": "44", "image_debut": 38, "image_fin": 46, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.13", "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": 38, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2020, "texte": "THE POET ASSASSINATED\n\nIX\nPEDAGOGY\nThe Dutchman, named Janssen, led Croniamantal to the region of\nAix, where there was a house which the people of the neighborhood\ncalled le Chateau. Le Chateau had nothing lordly about it other than\nits name and was nothing but a vast domicile containing a dairy and a\nstable.\nMr. Janssen possessed a modest income and lived alone in this\ndwelling which he had bought in order to live in solitude, a suddenly\nbroken off betrothal having rendered him rather hypochondriac. He\ndevoted it now to the education of the son of Macaree and Vierselin\nTigoboth: Croniamantal, inheritor of the old name of des Ygrees.\nThe Dutchman, Janssen, had travelled much. He spoke all the\nlanguages of Europe, Arabian, and Turkish, not to mention Hebrew\nand other dead languages. His speech was as clear as his blue eyes.\nHe soon made the friendship of several scholars of Aix whom he would\nvisit from time to time and he corresponded with many foreign scientists.\nWhen Croniamantal was six years of age, Mr. Janssen would\noften take him to the country. Croniamantal came to love these lessons\nalong the paths of wooded hills. Mr. Janssen would often stop and\nshow Croniamantal the birds hopping about or butterflies pursuing each\nother and fluttering together among the wild rose-bushes. He would\nsay that love reigned over all of Nature. They would also go out on\nmoonlit nights and the master would explain to his student the hidden\ndestinies of the heavenly bodies, their regular course, and their effects\nupon the life of man.\nCroniamantal never forgot how one moonlit night his master led\nhim to a field at the edge of a forest; the grass bubbled with milky\nlight. Fireflies fluttered around them; their phosphorescent and jagged\nlights gave the site a strange aspect. The master called the attention\nof his disciple to the sweetness of this Mav night.\n\"Learn,\" he said, \"learn to know all of Nature and to love her.\nLet her be your veritable nurse, whose salutary mammals are the moon\nand the hills.\""}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2636, "texte": "Croniamantal was thirteen years of age at this time and his mind\nwas quite ripe. He listened attentively to Mr. Janssen's words.\n\"I have always lived in her, but I must say, lived badly, for one\nshould not live without human love as companion. Do not forget that\nall is a sign of love in Nature. I, alas! am damned for not having\nobserved this law whose demands nothing can withstand.\"\n\"What,\" said Croniamantal, \"you, my teacher, who know so\nmany sciences did not recognize this law which every country lout\nand even the animals, the vegetables, and inert matter observe?\"\n\"Happy child who at your age can put such questions!\" said Mr.\nJanssen. \"I have always known that law, from which no human being\nshould rebel. But there are some luckless men destined never to know\nthe joys of love. I have mortified my flesh and suffered severe punish-\nment. I should like your life to be happy.\"\nCroniamantal's master made him devote most of his time to the\nsciences, keeping him au courant with all recent inventions. He also\ninstructed the boy in Latin and Greek. They often read the Eclogues\nof Virgil or translated Theocritus in a clump of olive trees. Cronia-\nmantal had learned a very pure French, but his master taught him in\nLatin. He also taught him Italian, and at an early age Croniamantal\nreceived the poems of Petrarch, who became one of his favorite poets.\nM. Janssen also taught Croniamantal English, and made him familiar\nwith Shakespeare. Above all he gave the boy a taste for old French\nauthors. Among the French poets he admired chiefly Villon, Ron-\nsard and his Pleiade, Racine and La Fontaine. He also made him\nread translations of Cervantes and of Goethe. On his advice, Cronia-\nmantal read the romances of chivalry which might have made part of\nthe library of Don Quixote. They developed in Croniamantal an\ninvincible predilection for experiment and perilous love adventures; he\ndevoted hmself to fencing and to horseback riding; at the age of fifteen\nhe declared to anyone who came to visit them that he had decided to\nbecome a celebrated and peerless cavalier, and already he dreamed\nof a mistress.\nCroniamantal was, at this time, a handsome adolescent, thin and\nstraight. The girls at the village fetes, when he touched them lightly,\nwould stifle little bursts of laughter and redden, lowering their eyes\nunder his regard. Habituated to poetic forms, his mind thought of\nlove as a conquest. Thoughts of Boccacio, his natural daring, his\neducation, everything disposed him to take the final step.\nOne May day, he went out for a long ride. It was morning,\neverything was still fresh. The dew hung from the flowers of the"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2735, "texte": "hedges, and on either side of the road stretched the fields of olive\ntrees whose gray leaves trembled gently in the sea breeze and com-\npared agreeably with the blue sky. He arrived at a place where\nthe road was being mended. The road menders, handsome boys in\nbright colored caps, worked lazily, singing the while, and stopping\noccasionally to drink from their flasks. Croniamantal thought that\nthese handsome fellows had sweethearts. It is thus that they call a\nlover in that country. The boys say \"my sweetheart,\" the girls, \"my\nsweetheart,\" and in fact they are both sweet in that lovely country.\nCroniamantal's heart leaped and his whole being, exalted by the spring-\ntime and the riding, cried for love.\nAt a turn in the road, an apparition increased his pain. He arrived\nclose to a little bridge thrown across a river which cut the road. The\nplace was isolated, and across the hedges and the trunks of poplars, he\nsaw two beautiful girls bathing, quite naked. One was in the water\nand held herself up by a branch. He admired her brown arms and\nabundant beauties, hardly concealed by the water. The other, standing\non the bank, dried herself after her bath and exposed ravishing lines\nand graces which enflamed the heart of Croniamantal; he decided to\njoin them and mingle in their pleasures. Unluckily, he perceived in\nthe branches of a neighboring tree two youths spying on this prey.\nHolding their breath and watching the least movements of the bathers,\nthey did not see the equestrian, who, laughing uproariously, threw his\nhorse into a gallop and cried aloud as he crossed the little bridge.\nThe sun had risen almost to its zenith and was now darting its\ndreadful rays. An ardent thirst added itself to the amorous inquietudes\nof Croniamantal. The sight of a farm along the road brought him\nunspeakable joy. He arrived at a little orchard whose blossoming\ntrees made a lovely sight. It was a little wood, rose and white with\nthe cherry and peach blossoms. On the fence linen was drying and\nhe had the pleasure of seeing a charming peasant girl of about sixteen,\nat work washing clothes in a vat in the shadow of a fig-tree that had\njust begun to bloom. Not having noticed his arrival, she continued\nto accomplish her domestic function which he found noble; for, his\nimagination full of memories of antiquity, he compared her to Nausica.\nDescending from his horse he approached and contemplated the young\ngirl with ravishment. He looked at her back. Her folded up skirt\ndiscovered a well made leg in a very white stocking. Her body moved\nin a manner that was pleasantly excitating because of the efforts occa-\nsioned by the soaping. Her sleeves were rolled up and he observed\nher pretty brown plump arms, which enchanted him."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2576, "texte": "I have always loved beautiful arms especially. There are people\nwho attach great importance to the perfection of the foot. I admit\nthat they touch me too, but the arm is to my mind that which should\nbe most perfect in woman. It is always in motion, one always has one's\neye upon it. One might say that it is the veritable organ of the graces,\nand that by its deft movements, it is the veritable arm of Love, since\nwhen curved, this delicate arm resembles a bow, and when extended,\nthe arrow thereof.\nThis was also Croniamantal's point of view. He was thinking\nof this, when suddenly, his horse, who suddenly remembered that it\nwas the habitual hour for being fed began to whinny. At once the\nyoung girl turned and showed surprise at seeing a stranger regarding\nher from above the fence. She blushed and only seemed the more\ncharming. Her dusky skin attested to the Moorish blood that flowed\nin her veins. Croniamantal asked her for food and drink. With\nmuch good grace this sweet girl did have him enter the house and served\nhim a rude repast. some milk, eggs and black bread, his thirst\nand his hunger were soon sated. In the meantime, he questioned\nhis young hostess, in the hope of finding an opportunity for paying her\ngallant compliments. He learned that her name was Mariette, and\nthat her parents had gone to the neighboring town to sell vegetables;\nher brother was working on the road. This family lived happily on\nthe products of the orchard and the barnyard.\nAt this moment, her parents, fine looking peasants, returned, and\nthere was Croniamantal already in love with Mariette, quite dis-\nappointed. He paid the mother for the meal, and went off, after having\ngiven Mariette a long look which she did not return, but he had the\nsatisfaction of seeing her blush as she turned away.\nHe mounted his horse and took the road to his house. Being for\nthe first time in his life, sad for love, he found extreme melancholy in\nthis same countryside which he had previously traversed. The sun\nhad dropped low over the horizon. The grey leaves of the olive trees\nseemed as sad as himself. The shadows stretched out like waves. The\nriver where he had seen the bathers was abandoned. The lapping of\nthe water became unbearable for him, like a mockery. He threw his\nhorse into a gallop. Then there was the dusk, lights appearing in the\ndistance. Then night came; he slowed up his horse and abandoned\nhimself to a disordered revery. The sloping road was bordered with\ncypresses, and it was thus, somnolent with the night and with love, that\nCroniamantal pursued his melancholy way."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2242, "texte": "His master soon noticed in the days that followed that he gave no\nmore attention to the studies to which he had been wont to apply\nhimself with such diligence. He divined that this disgust came of love.\nHis respect was mingled with a little scorn because Mariette was\nnothing but a simple peasant girl.\nThe end of September had been reached, and one day Mr. Janssen\nled Croniamantal out under the laden olive trees in the orchard and\ncensured his disciple for his passion, the latter hearkening to his re-\nproaches with ruddy embarrassment. The first winds of autumn com-\nplained in the fields and Croniamantal, very sad and much ashamed,\nlost forever his desire to see again the pretty Mariette and kept nothing\nbut the memory of her.\nAnd so Croniamantal attained his majority.\nA disease of the heart which was discovered in him was cured by\nthe military authorities. Soon after, his guardian died suddenly, leav-\ning him by will the little which he possessed. And after having sold\nthe house called le Chateau, Croniamantal went to Paris to give him-\nself freely to his taste for literature; he had been for some time\npast composing poems secretly and accumulating them in an old\ncigar-box.\nX\nPOETRY\nIn the early days of the year 1911, a young man who was very\nbadly dressed went running up the rue Houdon. His extremely mo-\nbile countenance seemed to be filled with joy and anxiety by turns.\nHis eyes devoured all that they saw and when his eyelids snapped shut\nquickly like jaws, they gulped in the universe, which renewed itself\nincessantly by the mere operation of him who ran. He imagined to the\ntiniest details the enormous worlds pastured in himself. The clamour\nand the thunder of Paris burst from afar and about the young man, who\nstopped, and panted like some criminal who has been too long pursued\nand ready to surrender himself. This clamour, this noise indicated\nclearly that his enemies were about to track him like a thief. His mouth\nand his gaze expressed the ruse he was employing, and walking slowly\nnow, he took refuge in his memory, and went forward, while all the\nforces of his destiny and of his consciousness retarded the time when\nthe truth should appear of that which is, that which was, and of that\nwhich is to be."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2412, "texte": "The young man entered a one story house. On the open door was\na placard:\nEntrance to the Studios\nHe followed a corridor where it was so dark and so cold that he\nhad the feeling of having died, and with all his will, clenching his fists\nand gritting his teeth he began to take eternity to bits. Then suddenly\nhe was conscious again of the motion of time whose seconds, hammered\nby a clock, fell like pieces of broken glass, while life flowed in him\nagain with the renewed passage of time. But as he stopped to rap at a\ndoor, his heart beat more strongly again, for fear of finding no one home.\nHe rapped at the door and cried:\n\"It is I, Croniamantal!\"\nAnd behind the door the heavy steps of a man who seemed tired,\nor carried too weighty a burden, came slowly, and as the door opened\nthere took place in the sudden light the creation of two beings and their\ninstant marriage.\nIn the studio, which looked like a barn, an innumerable herd flowed\nin dispersion; they were the sleeping pictures, and the herdsman who\ntended them smiled at his friend. Upon a carpenter s table piles of\nyellow books could be likened to mounds of butter. And pushing\nback the ill-joined door, the wind brought in unknown beings who\ncomplained with little cries in the name of all the sorrows. All the\nwolves of distress howled behind the door ready to devour the flock,\nthe herdsman and his friend, in order to prepare in their place the\nfoundations for the NEW CITY. But in the studio there were joys\nof all colours. A great window opened the whole north side and nothing\ncould be seen but the whole blue sky, the song of a woman. Cronia-\nmantal took off his coat which fell to the floor like the corpse of a\ndrowned man, and sitting on the divan he gazed for a long time at the\nnew canvas placed on the support. Dressed in a blue wrap, barefooted,\nthe painter also regarded the picture in which two women remembered\nthemselves in a glacial mist.\nThe studio contained another fatal object, a large piece of broken\nmirror hooked to the wall. It was a dead and soundless sea, standing\non end, and at the bottom of which a false life animated what did not\nexist. Thus, confronting Art, there is the appearance of Art, against\nwhich men are not sufficiently on their guard, and which pulls them to\nearth when Art has raised them to the heights. Croniamantal bent over\nin a sitting posture, leaned his fore-arms on his knees, and turned his"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1601, "texte": "eyes from the painting to an advertisement thrown on the floor on which\nwas painted the following announcement:\nI AM AT THE BAR— The Bird of Benin\nHe read and re-read this sentence while the Bird of Benin con-\ntemplated his picture, approaching it and withdrawing from it, his head\nat all angles. Finally he turned towards Croniamantal and said,\n\"I saw the woman for you last night.\"\n\"Who is she?\" asked Croniamantal.\n\"I do not know, I saw her but Ido not know her. She is a really\nyoung girl, as you like them. She has the sombre and child-like face\nof those who are destined to cause suffering. And despite all the grace\nof her hands that straighten in order to repell, she lacks that nobility\nwhich poets could not love because it would prevent their being mis-\nerable. I have seen the woman for you, I tell you. She is both beauty\nand ugliness; she is like everything that we love nowadays. And she\nmust have the taste of the laurel leaf.\"\nBut Croniamantal, who was not listening to him, interrupted at this\npoint to say:\n\"Yesterday I wrote my last poem in regular verses:\nT e-rum\nT e-tum!\nand my last poem in irregular verses (take care that in the second\nstanza the word wench is taken in its less reputable meaning) :\nPROSPECTUS FOR A NEW MEDICINE\nWhy did Hjalmar return\nThe tankard of beaten silver lay void,\nThe stars of the evening\nBecame the stars of the morning\nReciprocally\nThe sorceress of the forest of Hruloe\nPrepared her repast\nShe Tvas an eater of horse-flesh\nBut he was not\nMai Mai ramaho nia nia.\nThen the stars of the morning\nBecame again the stars of the evening\nAnd reciprocally"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1052, "texte": "The}) cried—ln the name of Maroe\nWench of Arnamoer\nAnd of his favorite zoophyte\nPrepare the drink of the gods\n—Certainly noble warrior\nMai Mai ramaho nia nia.\nShe took the sun\nAnd plunged him into the sea\nAs housewives\nDip a ham in the gravy\nBut alas! the salmons voracious\nHave devoured the drowned sun\nAnd have made themselves wigs\nWith his beams\nMai Mai ramaho nia nia.\nShe took the moon and did her all with bands\nAs they do with the illustrious dead\nAnd with little children\nAnd then in the light of the only stars\nThe eternal ones\nShe made concoction of sea-brine\nThe euphorbiaceans of Norwegian resin\nAnd the mucous of Alfes\nTo make a drink f°r the gods\nMai Mai ramaho nia nia.\"\nHe died like the sun\nAnd the sorceress perched at the top of a fir pine\nHeard until evening\nThe rumours of the great winds engulfed in the phial\nAnd the lying scaldas swear to this\nMai Mai ramaho nia nia.\nCroniamantal was silent for an instant and then added:\n\"I shall from now on write only poetry free from all restrictions\neven that of language.\n\"Listen, old man!"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1748, "texte": "MAHEVIDANOMI RENANOCALIPNODITOC\nEXTARTINAP if v.s.\nA. Z.\nTelephone: 33-122 Pan:Pan\nOeaoiiiioKTin\n•••••••••••\n11111111111\nYour last line, my poor Croniamantal,\" said the bird of Benin,\n\"is a simple plagiarism from Fr.nc.s J.mm.s.\"\nThat is not true,\" said Croniamantal. \"But I shall compose no\nmore pure poetry. That is what I have come to, through your fault.\nI want to write plays.\"\nYou had better go to see the young woman of whom I\nspoke to you. She knows you and seems to be crazy about you.\nYou will find her in the Meudon woods next Thursday at a place that\nI shall designate. You will recognize her by the skipping rope that she\nwill hold in her hand. Her name is Tristouse Ballerinette.\"\nVery well,\" said Croniamantal, \"I shall go to see Ballerinette\nand shall sleep with her, but above all I want to go to the theatres\nto offer my play, Ieximal Jelimite, which I wrote in your studio last\nyear while eating lemons.\"\nDo what you want, my friend,\" said the Bird of Benin, \"but do\nnot forget Tristouse Ballerinette, the woman of your future.\"\n\"Well said,\" said Croniamantal. \"But I want to roar to you once\nmore the plot of Ieximal Jelimite. Listen:\nA man buys a newspaper on the seashore. From the garden of\na house at one side emerges a soldier whose hands are electric bulbs.\nA giant 10 feet tall descends from a tree. He shakes the newspaper\nvendor, who is of plaster and who in falling breaks to bits. At this\nmoment a judge arrives. With strokes of a razor he kills everybody,\nwhile a leg which passes hopping crushes the judge with a kick in the\nnose, and sings a pretty little song.\"\n\"How wonderful!\" said the Bird of Benin. ''I shall paint the\ndecoration, you have promised me that.\"\n\"That goes without saying,\" answered Croniamantal."}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 1769, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1824, "texte": "Guillaume Apollinaire\n(Translated by Matthew Josephson)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "45", "page_fin": "45", "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Juan Gris", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 17, "texte": "Drawing\nJuan Gris"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "46", "page_fin": "46", "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Sammy Plays the Pawn", "titre_sommaire": "Sammy Plays the Pawn", "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": 48, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 677, "texte": "SAMMY PLAYS THE PAWN\nRobert Alden Sanborn\n(Being three impressions of a child chess-player)\nI. The curtain\nrises\nIn the Royal Gorge\nTables are set till midnight\nBut no bed\nFor a lost child\nWho aware of checks\nWanders among grim castles\nPerpetuated\nIn a Noah's ark.\n11. Dramatis\npersona\nWith the smile of a humming bird\ndescribing the letter O\nOn a broken blackboard\nNapoleon on spindle shanks\nTurns Waterloo to Austerlitz\nCrying in treble\n\"All right, shoot!\"\n111. Curtain\nArmed with St. Martin's tree\nThe little pawn Gargantua\nLaughs down the castle\nAt the ford of Vede.\nA fterthought\n\"You are late this morning, schoolmaster.\nAnd you have lost your note ?\nHold out your hand.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "47", "page_fin": "54", "image_debut": 49, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Book Reviews", "titre_sommaire": "Book Reviews", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1995, "texte": "BOOK REVIEWS\n\nNOTATIONS ON THE CAPTAIN'S DOLL\n\nThe Captain's Doll, by D. H. Lawrence. New Yorfy. Thomas\nSeltzer. $2.00.\nThe purpose of the three stones: The Captain's Doll, The Fox,\nand The Ladybird, grouped in this volume, is to convey a serious\nsense of the unusual. For this enterprise, Mr. D. H. Lawrence em-\nploys the following equipment:\n(1 ) A narrative technic which makes use of symbols: a doll, a\nfox, a ladybird, to gear and regulate the tales. Necessarily, the re-\nsults are rather slight and somewhat artificial, for such devices can be\nnothing more than anemic substitutes for the natural depth and drive\nof generative ideas and essentialized design.\nIn the first story, a portrait doll of Captain Hepburn, made by his\nmistress, is dangled about until it is finally forced to serve as starting\npoint for the following observation:\n\"And you can say what you like, but arty woman, today, no matter\nhow much she loves her man—she could start any minute and make\na doll of him. And the doll would be her hero: and her hero would\nbe no more than her doll.\"\nWhich is the climax of this episode. The fox is more effectively an\ninstrument of the second narrative. For the effect it has upon the girl\nEllen, and the compelling fascination which Henry Grenfel exercises\nover her are similar and interchangeable. But the importance and\nfunction of the ladybird, aside from certain irrelevant comments made\nconcerning it and the fact that it is a descendant of the Egyptian\nscarabeus, are questionable, trivial.\n(2) A descriptive faculty that tends to overshadow or ignore the\nessential progression of the characters. Excessive and repeated de-\nscription of a glacier, for example, all but obliterates the central figures\nwho technically should be working towards a rapid climax while\nascending it. This over-description often comes in large undigested\nchunks directly to the reader. Hence the characters are not served\nby it. Rather, one feels that they exist for the purposes of the descrip-"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2668, "texte": "tion. This faculty is perhaps at its best when concerned with physical\nattractiveness:\n\"The women, old and young, paraded in the peasant-costume,\nin flowery cotton dresses with gaudy, expensive silk aprons:\nthe men wore the Tyrolese costume, bare knees and little short jackets.\nAnd for the men the correct thing was to have the leathern hose and\nthe blue linen jacket as old as possible. If you had a hole in your\nleathern seat, so much the better.\"\n(3) An ability to conceive, but not to inevitably unfold and\nrealize character. Doubtless the five or six major figures of this volume\nwere possessed with unusual qualities and important problems of devel-\nopment, as Mr. Lawrence saw them. And it must be granted that as\ncreations Captain Hepburn, Ellen March, Grenfel, and Psanek have\na certain objective validity. The soft, amusing indifference and in-\ndecision of the first, Ellen's rapid shifts from surface efficiency to deep,\nsubconscious dreams and brooding, Grenfel's foxiness and determina-\ntion, Psanek's solitary hate and his intense sub-surface power—these\nqualities exist in the pages of this book. But because Mr. Lawrence\nfails to finally grip and develop them, they tend to a static rather than\nto a dynamic and cumulative reality. Hence one sees them; one does\nnot always feel and know them to be there. And with his minor\nfigures Mr. Lawrence is even less successful. Why Hepburn's mis-\ntress, for example, should invariably be amazed at him, is anything\nbut clear. To state that she is, by the repeated use of this convention:\n\"in the midst of her indignant amazement\" or \"she turned on him with\nwide-open eyes of amazement\" simply begs the labor of convincing\ncreation. And so, the relations between Hepburn and his lover ap-\nproach the absurd. In fact the element of absurdity is often so near\nthe surface of these tales, that one with difficulty restrains the convic-\ntion that Mr. Lawrence is laughing all the while.\n(4) A prose style, not far removed from the accents and texture\nof conversation, most at ease in dialog, most competent in narrative\npassages and in description. A stvle rarely or never luminous and\ndense, muscular and racy. Nor has it those finished periods that\ndistinguish traditional English prose. Cliche, ineffective images and\nfigures of speech, however, generously stud it:\n\"It was all like a mystery to her, as if one of the men from Mars\nwere loving her;\" \"it was exactly like day in some other planet;\" \"he\nwas just committed to her, as he might have been committed to gaol, or\ncommitted to paradise;\" \"so he had seemed to her: like a mute Caesar.\nLike Germanicus;\" \"the strange look, like destiny, in his wide-open,"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2223, "texte": "almost staring eyes;\" \"she could feel the arrows of desire rankling;\"\n\"but also, the queer figure that sat alone on the roof watching the\nstars! The wonderful red flower of the cactus;\" \"like a flown bird;\"\nand you giving off beams of bright effulgence like a Gloria!\" \"it\n(the glacier) seemed to her like a grand beast;\" \"so, after a while of\nthis valley of the shadow of death.\"\nAnd so on. Now one or two more acceptable images by way\nof balance:\n\"The sky from above was like a sharp wedge forcing its way into\nthe earth's cleavage, and that eternal ferocious water was like the steel\nedge of the wedge, the terrible tip biting into the rock's intensity;\"\n\"she could faintly see the flesh through his beard, as water through\nreeds.\" \" 'Yes, Ido know what you are talking about. Yes, I do,'\nhe persisted softly, as if he were producing his voice in her blood.\"\n(5) A solemnity of background and underlying temperament, an\nevidently earnest purpose that destroys the fun one might have from\nthose incidents that are frankly absurd, or approach the absurd. Take\nthe passage where Hepburn is frightened at seeing himself in a still-life\npainting along with two sun-flowers in a glass and a poached egg on\ntoast. Quite amusing, really. But immediately following this we are\nassured that the Captain is not a person to be spoofed with, for\n\"fatigued and furious he arrived in Salzburg, seeing no beauty in\nanything.\" And the whole thing is spoiled.\nThis seriousness will not permit of the volume being taken as a bit\nof incidental writing. Unfortunately, on no other basis can one claim\nfor it a literary value.\n\nJean Toomer\n\nPOETS OF THE CATACOMBS\n\nBlack Armour, by Elinor Wylie. New York. George H. Dor an\nCompany. $1.75.\nSea-Change, by Muna Lee. Next) York• The Macmillan Company.\n$1.50.\nThe Hundred and One Harlequins, by Sacheverell Sitivell. New\nYork. Boni and Liveright. $1.75.\nThe large, imaginative, daring, formidable people in America are\nmostly to be found on the vaudeville stage, in the movies, the adver-\ntising business, prize-fighting, railroads, Wall Street. One is led to\nthis conclusion by observing to what an alarming extent those who\nproduce poetry lack such virtues. Art is purveyed for small persecuted"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2644, "texte": "colonies, dispersed throughout this continent, and hidden away among\nits stone walls and steel foundations. They simply do not join in the\ngreat funny time that is being had by all—I mean, the Zeitgeist spouts\nand blows great storms against which they are thoroughly cellared.\n1 hus, while the age itself is given to upheaval, our poets, insensibly\nenough, strike perfectly traditional poses and have nothing to say which\nwould place them in this time rather than in Heine's or Landor's time.\nMiss Wylie, for instance, is still \"the inscrutable woman:\"\n\"But none has merited my fear,\nAnd none has quite escaped my smile.\"\nFor our feminine lyricists, it is still fashionable to be wistfully ironical,\nto hope tenderly but to know that all will go badly after all, to idealize\nlove with knights and kings, to fling a rose wash over love. But it is\nall very astonishing in this time, which demands hardier poets,\nsuch as can straddle the language of our people, or know the genius\nof this people as well as a vaudeville comedian or an advertising copy-\nwriter, positive, voluble, sententious, and yet by their form and attitude\ndefining the very nature of their age. Unfortunately, neither Elinor\nWylie nor Muna Lee are of this mould. Miss Wylie, who has been\nsomewhat indiscriminately complimented for her virtuosity, is generally\nmore dexterous than most of her lyrical colleagues in her use of the\nolder verse forms; nevertheless she is precipitated by these very forms\ninto familiar subterfuges which arouse impatience and resentment, viz.:\n\"delicate and slim,\" (Hamlet!) \"exquisite and thin,\" \"ingenuous\nshepherd boy,\" \"Passion in the night,\" \"could not pity nor forget,\"\n\"submit my spirit to the storm.\" At her best, she is quainter and more\ncharming than the others, as witness \"Lilliputian,\" but the conventional\nlyric is by now a single fine violin note of pathos which has become\nnearly insufferable.\nMiss Lee's register is plainly that of Sara Teasdale, Grace Conk-\nling, Wytter Bynner, and a vast chorus of soprano singers. Her\ntheme in \"Sea-Change\" is Love—the love of popular magazines: a\nlove that desires all of the beloved, that \"gives but does not give all,\"\nthat sings when \"the dawn grows red,\" that wanes upon a large hill at\nsunset. In short Miss Lee does not express in her love songs an unfor-\ngettable personal equation as did Sir Philip Sidney, or D. G. Rossetti,\nwhose opinions are invaluable documents for any history of the repro-\nductive instinct in mankind. Her verses are facile; at their best they\nare modelled after Blake's irregular metrics:\nThe East unrolled a sheet of gold,\nGold for river and flower and limb;"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2311, "texte": "but her images do not have the same air of being accurate statements.\nNor is she as frequently happy in playing with her iambs, as witness:\nThe blackbirds fly before the cold,\nThe painted grosbeaks go;\nNot any tanager is so bold\nAs to brave the snow.\nThe last line scans very badly. By the functioning of the preceding\nthree, one is led to beat a solid accent in the wrong place: \"As TO\nbrave the snow.\" Judged by her own intentions, Miss Lee has not\nmastered the trade secrets of her medium. The American warblers\nare a little less painstaking than the English Georgians. A sequence\nof sonnets concludes Miss Lee's book, but they can scarcely be con-\nsidered an advance upon the Masefield sonnet: her versification is\nextremely uneven in a form where departure from orthodox rhythms\nmust be brilliantly executed if at all.\nSacheverell Sitwell, (the youngest of the three Sitwells) has much\nreal wit and virtuosity. A prolific and gifted youth, cynical beyond\nhis years, he has adopted the manner of the Seventeenth-Century and\nMetaphysical poets to lampoon us with. The \"manner\" comprises\nfantasy, explosive rhymes, elaborate and unruly metaphors, and a\npersistently extravagant vocabulary. At his own game, Mr. Sitwell\ncan be most entertaining—always for the particular colony in the\ncatacombs whom this pose pleases best. (For a time, after the arrival\nof Mr. Eliot, we all thought that we had better rush off and read our\nDonne, Chapman, Vaughan, Marvell and steal their fantasy and wit\nas the best retort to the pressure of modern conditions.) And so, Mr.\nSitwell can be pert and buffoonish with the language:\nWho taught the centaur first to drink\nLadling his huge hands from the brink—\nWhen other monsters lie and lap\nThe waters like a fruitful pap.\nIn the \"Hochzeit of Hercules\" he is purely the satirist; the fun con-\nsists of mixing modern figures with ancient ones: Hercules \"has taken\nfrom fat kings, their motorcars and diamond rings.\" It is all frankly\ndisappointing. Satire produces essentially negative qualities: a com-\npromised withdrawal from this übiquitous and consternating existence.\n\nM. J.\n\nThe Orissers, bp L. H. Meyers. Charles Scribner's Sons. $2.00.\nThe 553 pages of this work are an easy evidence of a quantitative\nenergy seeking expression in the novel form. Upon a plot of intrigue"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2871, "texte": "and domestic complications it erects a structure that is intended to\nmeasure the psychological processes and the cultural-social tendency\nof people fashioned by modern industrial civilization. Which is to\nsay: it attempts the larger possibilities of the novel.\nAs background, The Orissers gives an industrial city and an\nadjacent country home. Springing from these, the characters, suffi-\nciently concrete and personalized, are nevertheless frankly broadened\nand interpreted as types. John Mayne and Walter Standish, finan-\nciers, fit with an unusual efficiency into the dominant accepted order,\nwhile Lilian and Nicholas Orisser find the ease and solitude their\nsensitized, inbred natures need, at Eamor. Maladjustment and friction\ncomes when one life tries to penetrate the domain of the other. The\nspiritual obtuseness of Mayne is pricked by his love for, and marriage\nto Lilian. Distemper and disease set in, and he finally dies at the\nhome of the Orissers. Standish, forced to endure this place because\nof the sickness of his friend, escapes to his own sphere immediately\nafter the death of this latter. Lilian's spiritual decay is hastened by\nthe invasion. And Nicholas salvages nothing but bitterness from his\ncontact with the material world. Two other major characters figure\nin this work: Cosmo Orisser and Allen. Cosmo, in addition to the\nspiritual values of the Orissers, is possessed by a vehement temperament\nthat drives him into experience. Lacking direction, his fervor for a\nmore perfect world degenerates to a hate that includes the place that\ncradled him and the social form that could find no function for his\nvision. His end is in near-insanity and complete frustration. Allen,\nby virtue of an interest in archeology and a less rigid and passionate\nnature, manages to straddle the two mutually exclusive worlds.\nThe analysis is thorough and convincing, though it is not complete.\nSummarized, it might be stated thus: since power resides with\nthe complacent, conformist materialists, those who possess dissenting\nspiritual values will abort (suffering in proporton to the passion with\nwhich they press their convictions) or be snowed under. And since\nan acceptable mixture is impossible, the commercial-financial class will\nover-ride and supplant the old landowners. As a limited cross-section\nof western experience—that is, in this novel, one accepts these conclu-\nsions. Here, surely, whatever the content of the coming years, it is\nnot for Lilian or Nicholas; it is for Walter Standish. But as a\ngeneral concept and interpretation, this view likewise is not complete.\nFor it ignores the possible proletarian influence upon both of these\nclasses. And it excludes the fact and force of creative values coupled\nwith direction. It excludes the creator, strong enough to accept rather\nthan reject. Here in America at least, it is still to be demonstrated"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2509, "texte": "that the artist is unequal to the task of transforming the crude energy\nof his material world. But perhaps after all one should not look for\ntoo inclusive a vision in this work. Perhaps it should be accepted\nsimply as a novel of more than usual scope.\nThe Orissers is not a great novel, in the sense that the lesser novels\nof Dostoyevski are great. But within the limits of its psychological\ntype content and design it is a volume to be welcomed as a needed\ndeparture from provincial episodes and narratives of sex.\nCastle Conquer, by Padraic Colum. New York• The Macmillan\nCompany. $2.00.\nThe material is rich and interesting: a feudal Ireland for a back-\nground; a plot of political conspiracy and peasant revolt; a love tale;\nIrish tenant farmers, peddlers, soldiers, landowners; Irish songs, frolics,\ndancing, fairs. The prose is fresh and easy-flowing. And a music\ncomes into it by way of lovely Irish names and the peculiar Irish-\nEnglish dialog. Nor, given the peasant rhythm, can one seriously\nobject to the book's slow movement, or to the somewhat episodic way\nin which it unfolds. What, then, is wrong? This: for some reason,\nperhaps because Mr. Colum has placed too much reliance upon his\ncontent, upon its inherent soil-ness and lyricism, upon the general\ninterest in Ireland's struggle for political autonomy, because he has\ngiven himself too sparingly unto his work, the poetry of the material\nand the poetry of the prose fail to achieve a mutually transforming\ncontact. There is no sustained interchange between them. There is\nno complete intersaturation. (One's standards tend to be exacting of\nthe literature that produced John M. Synge.) Hence Castle Conquer,\nfor all its fresh loveliness and health, misses that living beauty which\none somehow expects from it.\nA History of Art (Volume /), by H. B. Cotterill. New Yor}p.\nStokes Company. $10.\nMr. Cotterill's pretentious and beautifully illustrated History pur-\nports to be a \"popular\" and readable Outline of Art, after the modern\nfashion of purveying a vast subject in condensed form. It would have\nbeen far more interesting if Mr. Cotterill had brought to his subject\nthe point of view of modern artists, as Mr. Wells did that of modern\nhistorians and scientists.\nOn the contrary, Mr. Cotterill is consistently academic, breathing\nthe nineteenth-century scholar's rapture for Hellenic and Renaissance\nart. From the angle of today, a treatment of Egyptian, Assyrian and\nArchaic sculpture offers an enviable scope. The distortion, the form-"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2032, "texte": "alism, the absence of perspective in Assyrian and Egyptian reliefs and\nstatues suggest new principles which are being brilliantly applied in\ncontemporary painting. Discussing Egyptian sculpture of the New\nor Second Empire, Mr. Cotterill: \"... a freer style is observable,\nbut the old frontal profile distortion is often found, and there is no\nattempt at perspective.\"\nFurther, he protests against the \"materiality\" of Egyptian archi-\ntecture and sculpture, in a land of \"those monstrous temples and pyra-\nmids and colossi,\" \"of desperate craving for an eternity of material\nexistence, against which even the \"politically and religiously half-\nawakened Hebrew\" revolted. Is it not rather true that this mad\nabsorption in the material led to the Egyptian's extraordinary under-\nstanding of the laws of an art, based on the use of such material. In\ntheir sculpture in stone or wood, the Egyptians displayed a genius for\npure plastic composition which we are struggling to perfect today, and\nin their \"monstrous\" architecture a faculty for adjusting harmoniously\nhuge blocks of stone, which is the basis for the new architecture of\nAmerica.\nThere is the same lack of sympathy for archaic Greek and primi-\ntive Italian art, as against the \"Idealism\" of Fourth Century Greek.\nAs a compendium, however—and this is an age of compendiums\n—this two-volume History with its hundreds of excellent reproductions\npromises to be extremely useful.\n\nNEW BOOKS RECEIVED\nMen Like Gods, by H. G. Wells. New York. The Macmillan\nCompany. $2.00.\nTeodoro the Sage, by Luigi Lucatelli. New York. Boni and\nLiveright. $2.00.\nThrough the Wheat, by Thomas Boyd. New York. Charles\nScribner's Sons. $ 1.75.\nThe Craftsmanship of the One-Act Play, by Percival Wilde.\nBoston. Little Brown and Company. $3.00.\nStories, Dreams and Allegories, by Olive Schreiner. New\nYork. Frederick Stokes Company. $1.75.\nFiery Particles, by C. E. Montague. New York. Doubleday,\nPage and Company. $1.75.\nMan's Prehistoric Past, by H. H. Wilder. New York. The\nMacmillan Company. $5.00."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "47", "page_fin": "49", "image_debut": 49, "image_fin": 51, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.16.1", "titre_corps": "NOTATIONS ON THE CAPTAIN'S DOLL", "titre_sommaire": "NOTATIONS ON THE CAPTAIN'S DOLL", "signature_source": "Jean Toomer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 14, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1995, "texte": "NOTATIONS ON THE CAPTAIN'S DOLL\n\nThe Captain's Doll, by D. H. Lawrence. New Yorfy. Thomas\nSeltzer. $2.00.\nThe purpose of the three stones: The Captain's Doll, The Fox,\nand The Ladybird, grouped in this volume, is to convey a serious\nsense of the unusual. For this enterprise, Mr. D. H. Lawrence em-\nploys the following equipment:\n(1 ) A narrative technic which makes use of symbols: a doll, a\nfox, a ladybird, to gear and regulate the tales. Necessarily, the re-\nsults are rather slight and somewhat artificial, for such devices can be\nnothing more than anemic substitutes for the natural depth and drive\nof generative ideas and essentialized design.\nIn the first story, a portrait doll of Captain Hepburn, made by his\nmistress, is dangled about until it is finally forced to serve as starting\npoint for the following observation:\n\"And you can say what you like, but arty woman, today, no matter\nhow much she loves her man—she could start any minute and make\na doll of him. And the doll would be her hero: and her hero would\nbe no more than her doll.\"\nWhich is the climax of this episode. The fox is more effectively an\ninstrument of the second narrative. For the effect it has upon the girl\nEllen, and the compelling fascination which Henry Grenfel exercises\nover her are similar and interchangeable. But the importance and\nfunction of the ladybird, aside from certain irrelevant comments made\nconcerning it and the fact that it is a descendant of the Egyptian\nscarabeus, are questionable, trivial.\n(2) A descriptive faculty that tends to overshadow or ignore the\nessential progression of the characters. Excessive and repeated de-\nscription of a glacier, for example, all but obliterates the central figures\nwho technically should be working towards a rapid climax while\nascending it. This over-description often comes in large undigested\nchunks directly to the reader. Hence the characters are not served\nby it. Rather, one feels that they exist for the purposes of the descrip-"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2668, "texte": "tion. This faculty is perhaps at its best when concerned with physical\nattractiveness:\n\"The women, old and young, paraded in the peasant-costume,\nin flowery cotton dresses with gaudy, expensive silk aprons:\nthe men wore the Tyrolese costume, bare knees and little short jackets.\nAnd for the men the correct thing was to have the leathern hose and\nthe blue linen jacket as old as possible. If you had a hole in your\nleathern seat, so much the better.\"\n(3) An ability to conceive, but not to inevitably unfold and\nrealize character. Doubtless the five or six major figures of this volume\nwere possessed with unusual qualities and important problems of devel-\nopment, as Mr. Lawrence saw them. And it must be granted that as\ncreations Captain Hepburn, Ellen March, Grenfel, and Psanek have\na certain objective validity. The soft, amusing indifference and in-\ndecision of the first, Ellen's rapid shifts from surface efficiency to deep,\nsubconscious dreams and brooding, Grenfel's foxiness and determina-\ntion, Psanek's solitary hate and his intense sub-surface power—these\nqualities exist in the pages of this book. But because Mr. Lawrence\nfails to finally grip and develop them, they tend to a static rather than\nto a dynamic and cumulative reality. Hence one sees them; one does\nnot always feel and know them to be there. And with his minor\nfigures Mr. Lawrence is even less successful. Why Hepburn's mis-\ntress, for example, should invariably be amazed at him, is anything\nbut clear. To state that she is, by the repeated use of this convention:\n\"in the midst of her indignant amazement\" or \"she turned on him with\nwide-open eyes of amazement\" simply begs the labor of convincing\ncreation. And so, the relations between Hepburn and his lover ap-\nproach the absurd. In fact the element of absurdity is often so near\nthe surface of these tales, that one with difficulty restrains the convic-\ntion that Mr. Lawrence is laughing all the while.\n(4) A prose style, not far removed from the accents and texture\nof conversation, most at ease in dialog, most competent in narrative\npassages and in description. A stvle rarely or never luminous and\ndense, muscular and racy. Nor has it those finished periods that\ndistinguish traditional English prose. Cliche, ineffective images and\nfigures of speech, however, generously stud it:\n\"It was all like a mystery to her, as if one of the men from Mars\nwere loving her;\" \"it was exactly like day in some other planet;\" \"he\nwas just committed to her, as he might have been committed to gaol, or\ncommitted to paradise;\" \"so he had seemed to her: like a mute Caesar.\nLike Germanicus;\" \"the strange look, like destiny, in his wide-open,"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1620, "texte": "almost staring eyes;\" \"she could feel the arrows of desire rankling;\"\n\"but also, the queer figure that sat alone on the roof watching the\nstars! The wonderful red flower of the cactus;\" \"like a flown bird;\"\nand you giving off beams of bright effulgence like a Gloria!\" \"it\n(the glacier) seemed to her like a grand beast;\" \"so, after a while of\nthis valley of the shadow of death.\"\nAnd so on. Now one or two more acceptable images by way\nof balance:\n\"The sky from above was like a sharp wedge forcing its way into\nthe earth's cleavage, and that eternal ferocious water was like the steel\nedge of the wedge, the terrible tip biting into the rock's intensity;\"\n\"she could faintly see the flesh through his beard, as water through\nreeds.\" \" 'Yes, Ido know what you are talking about. Yes, I do,'\nhe persisted softly, as if he were producing his voice in her blood.\"\n(5) A solemnity of background and underlying temperament, an\nevidently earnest purpose that destroys the fun one might have from\nthose incidents that are frankly absurd, or approach the absurd. Take\nthe passage where Hepburn is frightened at seeing himself in a still-life\npainting along with two sun-flowers in a glass and a poached egg on\ntoast. Quite amusing, really. But immediately following this we are\nassured that the Captain is not a person to be spoofed with, for\n\"fatigued and furious he arrived in Salzburg, seeing no beauty in\nanything.\" And the whole thing is spoiled.\nThis seriousness will not permit of the volume being taken as a bit\nof incidental writing. Unfortunately, on no other basis can one claim\nfor it a literary value.\n\nJean Toomer"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "49", "page_fin": "51", "image_debut": 51, "image_fin": 53, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.16.2", "titre_corps": "Poets of the Catacombs", "titre_sommaire": "Poets of the Catacombs", "signature_source": "M. J.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 1622, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2223, "texte": "POETS OF THE CATACOMBS\n\nBlack Armour, by Elinor Wylie. New York. George H. Dor an\nCompany. $1.75.\nSea-Change, by Muna Lee. Next) York• The Macmillan Company.\n$1.50.\nThe Hundred and One Harlequins, by Sacheverell Sitivell. New\nYork. Boni and Liveright. $1.75.\nThe large, imaginative, daring, formidable people in America are\nmostly to be found on the vaudeville stage, in the movies, the adver-\ntising business, prize-fighting, railroads, Wall Street. One is led to\nthis conclusion by observing to what an alarming extent those who\nproduce poetry lack such virtues. Art is purveyed for small persecuted"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2644, "texte": "colonies, dispersed throughout this continent, and hidden away among\nits stone walls and steel foundations. They simply do not join in the\ngreat funny time that is being had by all—I mean, the Zeitgeist spouts\nand blows great storms against which they are thoroughly cellared.\n1 hus, while the age itself is given to upheaval, our poets, insensibly\nenough, strike perfectly traditional poses and have nothing to say which\nwould place them in this time rather than in Heine's or Landor's time.\nMiss Wylie, for instance, is still \"the inscrutable woman:\"\n\"But none has merited my fear,\nAnd none has quite escaped my smile.\"\nFor our feminine lyricists, it is still fashionable to be wistfully ironical,\nto hope tenderly but to know that all will go badly after all, to idealize\nlove with knights and kings, to fling a rose wash over love. But it is\nall very astonishing in this time, which demands hardier poets,\nsuch as can straddle the language of our people, or know the genius\nof this people as well as a vaudeville comedian or an advertising copy-\nwriter, positive, voluble, sententious, and yet by their form and attitude\ndefining the very nature of their age. Unfortunately, neither Elinor\nWylie nor Muna Lee are of this mould. Miss Wylie, who has been\nsomewhat indiscriminately complimented for her virtuosity, is generally\nmore dexterous than most of her lyrical colleagues in her use of the\nolder verse forms; nevertheless she is precipitated by these very forms\ninto familiar subterfuges which arouse impatience and resentment, viz.:\n\"delicate and slim,\" (Hamlet!) \"exquisite and thin,\" \"ingenuous\nshepherd boy,\" \"Passion in the night,\" \"could not pity nor forget,\"\n\"submit my spirit to the storm.\" At her best, she is quainter and more\ncharming than the others, as witness \"Lilliputian,\" but the conventional\nlyric is by now a single fine violin note of pathos which has become\nnearly insufferable.\nMiss Lee's register is plainly that of Sara Teasdale, Grace Conk-\nling, Wytter Bynner, and a vast chorus of soprano singers. Her\ntheme in \"Sea-Change\" is Love—the love of popular magazines: a\nlove that desires all of the beloved, that \"gives but does not give all,\"\nthat sings when \"the dawn grows red,\" that wanes upon a large hill at\nsunset. In short Miss Lee does not express in her love songs an unfor-\ngettable personal equation as did Sir Philip Sidney, or D. G. Rossetti,\nwhose opinions are invaluable documents for any history of the repro-\nductive instinct in mankind. Her verses are facile; at their best they\nare modelled after Blake's irregular metrics:\nThe East unrolled a sheet of gold,\nGold for river and flower and limb;"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2112, "texte": "but her images do not have the same air of being accurate statements.\nNor is she as frequently happy in playing with her iambs, as witness:\nThe blackbirds fly before the cold,\nThe painted grosbeaks go;\nNot any tanager is so bold\nAs to brave the snow.\nThe last line scans very badly. By the functioning of the preceding\nthree, one is led to beat a solid accent in the wrong place: \"As TO\nbrave the snow.\" Judged by her own intentions, Miss Lee has not\nmastered the trade secrets of her medium. The American warblers\nare a little less painstaking than the English Georgians. A sequence\nof sonnets concludes Miss Lee's book, but they can scarcely be con-\nsidered an advance upon the Masefield sonnet: her versification is\nextremely uneven in a form where departure from orthodox rhythms\nmust be brilliantly executed if at all.\nSacheverell Sitwell, (the youngest of the three Sitwells) has much\nreal wit and virtuosity. A prolific and gifted youth, cynical beyond\nhis years, he has adopted the manner of the Seventeenth-Century and\nMetaphysical poets to lampoon us with. The \"manner\" comprises\nfantasy, explosive rhymes, elaborate and unruly metaphors, and a\npersistently extravagant vocabulary. At his own game, Mr. Sitwell\ncan be most entertaining—always for the particular colony in the\ncatacombs whom this pose pleases best. (For a time, after the arrival\nof Mr. Eliot, we all thought that we had better rush off and read our\nDonne, Chapman, Vaughan, Marvell and steal their fantasy and wit\nas the best retort to the pressure of modern conditions.) And so, Mr.\nSitwell can be pert and buffoonish with the language:\nWho taught the centaur first to drink\nLadling his huge hands from the brink—\nWhen other monsters lie and lap\nThe waters like a fruitful pap.\nIn the \"Hochzeit of Hercules\" he is purely the satirist; the fun con-\nsists of mixing modern figures with ancient ones: Hercules \"has taken\nfrom fat kings, their motorcars and diamond rings.\" It is all frankly\ndisappointing. Satire produces essentially negative qualities: a com-\npromised withdrawal from this übiquitous and consternating existence.\n\nM. J."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "51", "page_fin": "54", "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.16.3", "titre_corps": "The Orissers, by L. H. Meyers.", "titre_sommaire": "The Orissers, by L. H. Meyers.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 2114, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2311, "texte": "The Orissers, bp L. H. Meyers. Charles Scribner's Sons. $2.00.\nThe 553 pages of this work are an easy evidence of a quantitative\nenergy seeking expression in the novel form. Upon a plot of intrigue"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2871, "texte": "and domestic complications it erects a structure that is intended to\nmeasure the psychological processes and the cultural-social tendency\nof people fashioned by modern industrial civilization. Which is to\nsay: it attempts the larger possibilities of the novel.\nAs background, The Orissers gives an industrial city and an\nadjacent country home. Springing from these, the characters, suffi-\nciently concrete and personalized, are nevertheless frankly broadened\nand interpreted as types. John Mayne and Walter Standish, finan-\nciers, fit with an unusual efficiency into the dominant accepted order,\nwhile Lilian and Nicholas Orisser find the ease and solitude their\nsensitized, inbred natures need, at Eamor. Maladjustment and friction\ncomes when one life tries to penetrate the domain of the other. The\nspiritual obtuseness of Mayne is pricked by his love for, and marriage\nto Lilian. Distemper and disease set in, and he finally dies at the\nhome of the Orissers. Standish, forced to endure this place because\nof the sickness of his friend, escapes to his own sphere immediately\nafter the death of this latter. Lilian's spiritual decay is hastened by\nthe invasion. And Nicholas salvages nothing but bitterness from his\ncontact with the material world. Two other major characters figure\nin this work: Cosmo Orisser and Allen. Cosmo, in addition to the\nspiritual values of the Orissers, is possessed by a vehement temperament\nthat drives him into experience. Lacking direction, his fervor for a\nmore perfect world degenerates to a hate that includes the place that\ncradled him and the social form that could find no function for his\nvision. His end is in near-insanity and complete frustration. Allen,\nby virtue of an interest in archeology and a less rigid and passionate\nnature, manages to straddle the two mutually exclusive worlds.\nThe analysis is thorough and convincing, though it is not complete.\nSummarized, it might be stated thus: since power resides with\nthe complacent, conformist materialists, those who possess dissenting\nspiritual values will abort (suffering in proporton to the passion with\nwhich they press their convictions) or be snowed under. And since\nan acceptable mixture is impossible, the commercial-financial class will\nover-ride and supplant the old landowners. As a limited cross-section\nof western experience—that is, in this novel, one accepts these conclu-\nsions. Here, surely, whatever the content of the coming years, it is\nnot for Lilian or Nicholas; it is for Walter Standish. But as a\ngeneral concept and interpretation, this view likewise is not complete.\nFor it ignores the possible proletarian influence upon both of these\nclasses. And it excludes the fact and force of creative values coupled\nwith direction. It excludes the creator, strong enough to accept rather\nthan reject. Here in America at least, it is still to be demonstrated"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2509, "texte": "that the artist is unequal to the task of transforming the crude energy\nof his material world. But perhaps after all one should not look for\ntoo inclusive a vision in this work. Perhaps it should be accepted\nsimply as a novel of more than usual scope.\nThe Orissers is not a great novel, in the sense that the lesser novels\nof Dostoyevski are great. But within the limits of its psychological\ntype content and design it is a volume to be welcomed as a needed\ndeparture from provincial episodes and narratives of sex.\nCastle Conquer, by Padraic Colum. New York• The Macmillan\nCompany. $2.00.\nThe material is rich and interesting: a feudal Ireland for a back-\nground; a plot of political conspiracy and peasant revolt; a love tale;\nIrish tenant farmers, peddlers, soldiers, landowners; Irish songs, frolics,\ndancing, fairs. The prose is fresh and easy-flowing. And a music\ncomes into it by way of lovely Irish names and the peculiar Irish-\nEnglish dialog. Nor, given the peasant rhythm, can one seriously\nobject to the book's slow movement, or to the somewhat episodic way\nin which it unfolds. What, then, is wrong? This: for some reason,\nperhaps because Mr. Colum has placed too much reliance upon his\ncontent, upon its inherent soil-ness and lyricism, upon the general\ninterest in Ireland's struggle for political autonomy, because he has\ngiven himself too sparingly unto his work, the poetry of the material\nand the poetry of the prose fail to achieve a mutually transforming\ncontact. There is no sustained interchange between them. There is\nno complete intersaturation. (One's standards tend to be exacting of\nthe literature that produced John M. Synge.) Hence Castle Conquer,\nfor all its fresh loveliness and health, misses that living beauty which\none somehow expects from it.\nA History of Art (Volume /), by H. B. Cotterill. New Yor}p.\nStokes Company. $10.\nMr. Cotterill's pretentious and beautifully illustrated History pur-\nports to be a \"popular\" and readable Outline of Art, after the modern\nfashion of purveying a vast subject in condensed form. It would have\nbeen far more interesting if Mr. Cotterill had brought to his subject\nthe point of view of modern artists, as Mr. Wells did that of modern\nhistorians and scientists.\nOn the contrary, Mr. Cotterill is consistently academic, breathing\nthe nineteenth-century scholar's rapture for Hellenic and Renaissance\nart. From the angle of today, a treatment of Egyptian, Assyrian and\nArchaic sculpture offers an enviable scope. The distortion, the form-"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1431, "texte": "alism, the absence of perspective in Assyrian and Egyptian reliefs and\nstatues suggest new principles which are being brilliantly applied in\ncontemporary painting. Discussing Egyptian sculpture of the New\nor Second Empire, Mr. Cotterill: \"... a freer style is observable,\nbut the old frontal profile distortion is often found, and there is no\nattempt at perspective.\"\nFurther, he protests against the \"materiality\" of Egyptian archi-\ntecture and sculpture, in a land of \"those monstrous temples and pyra-\nmids and colossi,\" \"of desperate craving for an eternity of material\nexistence, against which even the \"politically and religiously half-\nawakened Hebrew\" revolted. Is it not rather true that this mad\nabsorption in the material led to the Egyptian's extraordinary under-\nstanding of the laws of an art, based on the use of such material. In\ntheir sculpture in stone or wood, the Egyptians displayed a genius for\npure plastic composition which we are struggling to perfect today, and\nin their \"monstrous\" architecture a faculty for adjusting harmoniously\nhuge blocks of stone, which is the basis for the new architecture of\nAmerica.\nThere is the same lack of sympathy for archaic Greek and primi-\ntive Italian art, as against the \"Idealism\" of Fourth Century Greek.\nAs a compendium, however—and this is an age of compendiums\n—this two-volume History with its hundreds of excellent reproductions\npromises to be extremely useful."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "54", "page_fin": "54", "image_debut": 56, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.16.6", "titre_corps": "New Books Received", "titre_sommaire": "New Books Received", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 1433, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2032, "texte": "NEW BOOKS RECEIVED\nMen Like Gods, by H. G. Wells. New York. The Macmillan\nCompany. $2.00.\nTeodoro the Sage, by Luigi Lucatelli. New York. Boni and\nLiveright. $2.00.\nThrough the Wheat, by Thomas Boyd. New York. Charles\nScribner's Sons. $ 1.75.\nThe Craftsmanship of the One-Act Play, by Percival Wilde.\nBoston. Little Brown and Company. $3.00.\nStories, Dreams and Allegories, by Olive Schreiner. New\nYork. Frederick Stokes Company. $1.75.\nFiery Particles, by C. E. Montague. New York. Doubleday,\nPage and Company. $1.75.\nMan's Prehistoric Past, by H. H. Wilder. New York. The\nMacmillan Company. $5.00."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "55", "page_fin": "58", "image_debut": 57, "image_fin": 60, "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "BROOM: 1921—1923", "titre_sommaire": "BROOM: 1921—1923", "signature_source": "Harold A. Loeb", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2231, "texte": "COMMENT\nBROOM: 1921—1923\n\nIn October 1921, from the charming converted villa of its Roman\nprinter just outside the Porto del Popolo, the first number of Broom\nissued forth. In October 1922 the eleventh issue set off on its voyage\nfrom Berlin. Now a new series, beginning with the seventeenth num-\nber, picks up the thread of continuity in a third great city, the city of\nits birth. The chronicle of Broom's vicissitudes among the nations\nwould be of interest, but it is not so important as an account of the\ninternal evolution of its editorial policy.\nWhenever a producer in America is censured for the cheapness,\ntriviality or vulgarity of the creation he sponsors, he shrugs the respon-\nsibility from his shoulders with the platitude, \"It is what the public\nwants.\" Such an abstraction as \"the public\" is of course fallacious,\nthere being many publics and more potential ones. The inception of\nBROOM was based on the faith that there is a public which wants to\nread sincere contemporary work, regardless of whether or not it has\nbeen prepared by advance publicity, regardless of the difficulty in\nunderstanding writing which follows experimental and novel modes.\nThe first problem of BROOM was to find this public. Since it lacked\nthe means to attempt the usual publicity, it had to invent other methods.\nPrinting in Europe was the first stratagem. Owing to valuta, it was\npossible to provide an exotic luxury in make-up, which attracted many\nreaders who otherwise would have failed to single it out from the scores\nof literary periodicals that spring up and pass away with the seasons.\nAlso, the unusualness of an American magazine which proclaimed the\nEternal City as its home aroused a curiosity among readers which was\nincreased by the nature of the material it published. A small and\nreliable public was soon accumulated.\nThe second problem of Broom proved more difficult of solution.\nTo find little-known writers worth printing and unrecognized artists\nworth reproducing has taken many months of hard work. The sifting\nof material in foreign languages has rivalled in difficulty the cajoling\nof Americans to risk their manuscripts on a journey which at best\nwould last two months. But as the issues succeeded each other and"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2581, "texte": "Broom began to be known from Japan to Russia, a rough grouping\ntook shape, and by now a definite number of individuals, widely\nscattered territorially, are bound together by a thread of common aims\nexpressed in Broom.\nTheir centre is a nucleus of American writers of the youngest\ngeneration. To define their common properties is not easy, for it is a\nsign of health that as yet their opinions and methods are not cast in\ndefinite moulds. One trait is so obvious that it has often been over-\nemphasized: a whole-hearted disapproval of the generation that pre-\nceded them.\nFrom the days of Irving and Prescott till the early years of the\ntwentieth century, our literature believed, like our chambers of com-\nmerce, that Anglo-American civilization was the highest form of culture\nattained by mankind. Our writers gloried in the virtues of America\nand expounded its distinctive qualities. Even such individualists as\nWhitman were proud to be American. The iconoclasts were the excep-\ntion, and usually objected to certain specific maladjustments.\nThen came the muck-rakers.\nThe general disillusionment of which they were the expression soon\nmade itself felt among artists. Certain novelists became prominent\nwhose chief tenet was the evil underlying the showy phenomena of our\nlife. It is not necessary to follow the trend from Upton Sinclair and\nDreiser to Anderson and Lewis; their point of attack shifts but the\nessence of their work is similar. With vision fixed on some Utopia they\nassail with all their force things as they are, at times supplying a good\nstory or interesting documentation as well. The poetry revival first\nattracted public attention with the vitriolic denunciations of Masters, but\nbroadened as it developed, and includes among its representatives\nseveral writers, such as Marianne Moore, Williams, Stevens and\nKreymborg, who, by their concentration on aesthetics, may be con-\nsidered precursors of the latest movement. However, the majority of\npoets, even though they veil their bias by a screen of objectivity, share\nthe prevailing disillusion, and four of the more influential have put\ntheir belief into practice by exiling themselves voluntarily. The end\nof this phase is not yet in sight, and a considerable audience has be-\ncome accustomed to weighing the merits of a work according to the\nvigour with which it assails their favorite antipathies.\nBROOM had not gone very far before it discovered that a new\ngeneration was pushing upwards, distinct in more than years from the\npreceding.\nThe men of this group are not shocked by the disclosure that stock-"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2724, "texte": "yards are congenial hang-outs for neither man nor beast. They can-\nnot confess even to surprise when told that newspapers occasionally\nmisrepresent the facts. Although interested in the social customs of\nMain Street, they are dubious whether a reformed Main Street, with a\nLittle Theatre, Community Pageants, Modern Book Shop and Birth\nControl Club would be more attractive and happier. In fact they even\nquestion the \"open door\" woman, having known several in Green-\nwich Village who lost their virginity concomitantly with their first\nchange of diet, and find little to choose between them and the Saturday\nEvening Post maiden lady, who was kissed for the first time by a\nSpanish gallant at the age of 43. They may like bill posters no more\nthan does Van Wyck Brooks, but they do not contend that such things\nare done better in Europe. Rather they hold that there is a great deal\nto be said for the American system of going the limit if you are going to\ngo it at all. They keep an open mind toward the phenomena of contem-\nporary industrialism, and devote themselves to the more immediate\ntask of men of letters: writing well.\nI do not mean that they are unmoved by the problems of the day,\nor unconscious of the gross stupidities that falsify social, national and\npersonal relations, but merely that they distrust \"current panaceas\"\nand find a little ridiculous the doctrines of poets on economics and of\nnovelists on psychoanalysis. Knowledge has become so specialized\nthat it is impossible to rival Jeremiah or even Jean-Jacques Rousseau.\nOn the other hand these writers have realized that the literary ambition\nof evoking those aesthetic emotions they desire, by means of controlling\ntheir medium, is attainable, and this results in their unusual concentra-\ntion on problems of form and style.\nFor example Kenneth Burke, perhaps stimulated by research in\nplastic mediums for what Clive Bell calls \"significant form,\" has been\nstudying its elusive equivalent in writing. His stories, which discard\nthe old binding of plot or narrative, obtain unity by what he calls a\nsuper-plot: \"the structural framework which appeals to us over and\nabove the message of the line,\" or paragraph.\nThe experiments of Malcolm Cowley are even more diversified.\nHe believes that every literary conception has an ideal form. In the\nsearch for it he has evolved nearly as many forms as he has written\npoems. He is not afraid to write about contemporary phenomena, and\ndoes not share the fashionable gesture of horror toward them. Matthew\nJosephson is another who is able to discover food for poetry in the\n\"crackle of typewriters, comptographs, dictaphones and phonographs\"\nor \"dropping dishes in the effervescent crater\" of that part of the"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2157, "texte": "restaurant one doesn't think about. His talent is not quite so intellec-\ntualized as Burke's or Cowley's, not so dependent on theories based on\nreason, but more instinctive, drawing directly on the subconscious.\nThus, his critical writing does not illuminate by studied analysis and\nsynthesis so much as by the unexpected phrase or word that opens\nvistas of indefinite extension. Like his poetry, his prose is more sug-\ngestive and less conclusive.\nAll of these have a love of rhetoric, of mouth-filling explosive\nphrases, unlike the emotional breast-juggling of recent years and more\nakin to the eloquence of the Elizabethans. Hart Crane must also be\nmentioned in this connection. E. E. Cummings, the most inventive of\nall these experimenters, is somewhat older and already well known.\nThe list can be continued farther. Slater Brown, Robert Coates, John\nCrawford, Charles Galwey, Jean Toomer, Glenway Wescott, Yvor\nWinters and several others are working along lines of equal interest,\nbut it is premature to appraise or even define them, since the only\nquality they unquestionably share is that their best work is still to be\ndone. Their history is the history of the future.\nMost magazines are filled with the more or less diluted repetitions\nof authors whose positions are established and whose writing impetus\nhas become tired. Such work is seldom the best work, although it has\ngreater commercial value. Material of this kind seldom finds its way\ninto BROOM, which rather errs in the other direction, and is more apt\nto accept work not quite mature. Thus the readers of Broom are in a\nsense gamblers, like prospectors for oil. The reward is of a different\nkind, but so is the cost.\nBROOM is able at last to give up its vagabond career and to settle\nin the country to which it belongs. Its collaborators have slowly drawn\ntogether into an effective and unified working force. It has connections\nand friends in such distant places as Moscow and Prague. Broom\nlooks to the future in the expectation of exceeding all that has already\nbeen accomplished, and of progressing even faster than the writers\nwhose words form designs on its pages.\n\nHarold A. Loeb"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "59", "page_fin": "61", "image_debut": 61, "image_fin": 63, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "Toward a Professional Prose", "titre_sommaire": "Toward a Professional Prose", "signature_source": "Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2370, "texte": "TOWARD A PROFESSIONAL PROSE\n\nAmerican literature within recent years has been sufficiently experi-\nmental and enterprising to justify terming the present period one of\ntransition toward resolved forms. Poetry, especially, has been profit-\nably exploited; an astonishing variety of genres has been essayed and\nthe medium has been enriched. And, notably enough, spirited con-\ntroversies have been maintained over questions which the new writings\nposed. The atmosphere of controversy and doubt with regard to\nknown methods of working must have done much to stimulate writers\nas unlike as Carl Sandburg or T. S. Eliot. It is essential to maintain\ninterest at a high temperature in such problems, since it is still an open\nquestion whether great artists arouse discussion or are roused by it.\nUndoubtedly the alertness of the better part of their audience, the\nother writers, causes them to work under higher pressure.\nIn prose, American writers have shown less impulse to explore and\nplunder. Contemporary prose causes speculation largely by virtue of\nthe uncertainty with which it faces its audience. At any rate, a certain\ninterest in the mechanics of prose is beginning to be manifested, much\nlike that in poetry a decade ago.\nThe problem of immediate expression has absorbed the attention\nof most of the venturesome writers since James Joyce's Ulysses and Dor-\nothy Richardson's epics appeared. In a measure, writers such as these\nhave been instrumental in making the modern language more fluid; but\nthe temper of the age, which is one of prodigious social transformation,\nmust be contributing far more in the way of new names, technical and\ncolloquial, new compounds, neologisms, word-structures. Another\nperiod of language expansion, such as occurred in the sixteenth cen-\ntury, has set in.(The reader is here referred to H. L. Mencken's\nThe American Language.)\nRevolt against traditional style takes many shapes; one\nwriter employs violent thought-dissociations; another ripe colloquial-\nisms, and the terminology of our popular magazines, newspapers, ad-\nvertisements; others, again, employ the most shocking opposition in\nword-relationships, distort syntax, and punctuation and typography.\nEven at this, modern writers of English scarcely exceed the violent\nfigures of speech and the vigorous profanity which were seemly to the\ncourtliest ears of earlier centuries."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "60", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2766, "texte": "Granted, a more muscular speech, we still face the problem of\nform. Consider \"form\" in prose literature as disposition of subject-\nmatter in a progression of some kind which is aesthetically satisfying.\nThe more aggressive expression of today will scarcely alter this broad\nand quite traditional definition of \"form,\" but it will oppose the com-\npromises which prose fiction has made in the past.\nA conventional chain of narrative, corresponding to the pictorial\nelement in the plastic arts or in music has always comprised the homely\nmachinery of nineteenth century prose. The inclusion of social or\npolitical propaganda has also hastened the adulteration of prose fiction.\nNo objection is made here to utilizing the English language for business\ncorrespondence or publicity or useful journalism. It is simply patent\nthat in approaching the common medium of prose as an artist, the\nnew writer must be guided by something equivalent to plastic laws,\nrather than popular prejudices. Necessarily, his adventuring with\nexpression will lead him to cast about boldly for subject-matter which\nleaves his manner of working unrestricted. Certainly, he will become\nmore despotic with relation to subject, both in his selection and his\ncontrol thereof. The parallel with modern painting is very helpful\nhere. Instead of attempting to paint flesh so \"real\" that one is prone\nto step forward and squeeze the figure in the canvas (an obsession\nwith older schools of painters) the modern painter disposes his subject\nwith the most heedless cruelty: the form of the domestic object is\ntreated in accordance with a relentless intellectual design; the tint of the\nflesh, or whatever texture is used, he decides with the view of support-\ning his design. These analagous tendencies are not accidental; art is\nbecoming, at once, more specialized and more primitive. That is to\nsay, the building of a satisfying skyscraper may be a highly complicated\nfeat of engineering, but its architecture may involve only a certain\nsensitiveness for the proper arrangement of simple masses. The Afri-\ncan native with his playing-building-carving instinct, we have discov-\nered, produces a sculpture whose form obeys the inherent plastic laws\nof that medium. Form may remain as perfectly simple in our hands,\ndespite the extreme complexity of our instruments, whether in building\na tower or a novel.\nGuillaume Apollinaire, whose \"Poet Assassinated\" continues in\nthis number of Broom, summarizes for us the specialized interest in\nexpression. Speech, or better, the Word, has been given toman to\ndo with as he wills. Apollinaire's picaresque narrative is eternally\nthe pursuit of the Word. One episode may succeed another without\nreason or sequence, in utter contradiction; there is always the play of"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1565, "texte": ". Word. (There is unquestionably a religious element in modern\nwriting: \"The Word has been given. . . . ,\" etc.) Or that Malcolm\nCowley should use the detective story as a medium is another instance\nof the bold casting about for subject-matter. The distinction between\nromanticism and naturalism disappears—both tendencies, per se, were\nconcomitants of social upheaval at the opening and close of the past\ncentury. E. E. Cummings, in The Enormous Room, wrote down the\nmost sordid experiences with the utmost fantasy: a few rather common-\nplace adventures induce extraordinary ones in prose rhythm. In\nFrance, Pierre MacOrlan writes romances; but his sophisticated and\narbitrary diction contrives an air of supreme unreality. A novel recently\npublished in Paris, Sur le Fleuve Amour, by Joseph Delteil, goes\nperhaps farther than any of the others in the quest of an organic prose.\nA perfectly incredible plot develops briskly amid the rather gorgeous\nrhythms of a style that outdoes the sententious grandeur of a Barres.\nIt is really the arc of sentences, building up into a greater solar system\nof arcs that composes Delteil's \"form.\"\nOnce in such hands, prose is on the way to becoming as organically\nan art as sculpture or music. The tendency, here, on the part of\nwriters like Sherwood Anderson or D. H. Lawrence, to proceed from\na closer and closer scrutiny of human nature to the creation of prose\nfiction, may prevail for some time. But others are beginning to work\nfrom the opposite end, i.e., a profound scrutiny of the artist's own will.\n\nMatthew Josephson"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "61", "page_fin": "61", "image_debut": 63, "image_fin": 63, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "It is with deep regret that we announce the resignation of Miss", "titre_sommaire": "It is with deep regret that we announce the resignation of Miss", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 1567, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1804, "texte": "It is with deep regret that we announce the resignation of Miss\nLola Ridge. Much of the progress which Broom has made toward\nestablishing itself in America can be ascribed to Miss Ridge's whole-\nhearted and unselfish labors.—The Editors."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[62]", "page_fin": "[62]", "image_debut": 64, "image_fin": 64, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "[62]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1541, "texte": "THE CLASSICS OF\nTODAY AND TOMORROW\nAnatole France—and James Joyce\nGeorge Moore—and D. H. Lawrence\nWilliam B. Yeats—and T. S. Eliot\nArthur Schnitzler—and Paul Morand\nJoHAN BojER — and SHERWOOD ANDERSON\nBertrand Russell—and Van Wyck Brooks\nThomas Hardy—and William Carlos Williams\nEdwin Arlington Robinson—and E. E. Cummings\nThese distinguished names from the list of Dial contributors are only a handful of\nthose whose works, classics already recognized or in the making, share in the\nachievement of each significant and eventful issue of The Dial.\nThey include all the forms, traditional or in the new manner, in which the classics\nof today and tomorrow are being cast. No outstanding achievement in the famil-\niar forms, nor bold and important experiment by the younger men, has ever failed\nof access to The Dial's enthusiastic and growing audience.\nThe Dial has closed its doors to none except the trivial, the volubly inarticulate,\nthe tour de force, the passably good, and the inane.\nSPECIAL OFFER\nThe Dial for one year and one of the fol-\nlowing notable books—$5.00.\n(Annual subscription rate—$5.00)\nA SURVEY, by Max Beerbohm\nThe Judge, by Rebecca West\nThe Waste Land, fcp T. S. Eliot\nPHANTOM, by Gerhardt Hauptmann\nMANY Marriages, by Sherwood Anderson\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street New York City\nGentlemen: You may enter my name for a year's\nsubscription to The Dial beginning with the\nissue. In addition, you will send me a copy of the\nbook mentioned below.\nName\nAddress\n□ I enclose $5.00 □ I will remit $5.00\non receipt of your bill."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[63]", "page_fin": "[63]", "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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "[63]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2529, "texte": "IN the paper which began to poke fun\nat the mummery of Ku Klux about\na year before the daily press took up\nthe subject, the paper which prophesied\nfour years ago certain results of the\ntreaty of Versailles that are now being\nfurther confirmed every day, the paper\nwhich a great metropolitan editor de-\nclares \"prints a great deal of news in-\nevitably overlooked by daily papers\"—\nin such a journal, if anywhere, you will\nfind a modern view of current affairs\ncorresponding to the spirit you seek in\nmodern literature.\nM//V6\n/rs A 7\n€\n/V\n/TS\nN\nV*\nJ\n*7\ne*\nP\nii*\nv*\nV1\ne\ni-\nN\n6\nS\nV\nE\nP\nR\ni\nH\nc\nS\nThe Nation\nAssociate Editors\nLEWIS S. GANNETT\nARTHUR WARNER\nERNEST H. GRUENING\nLUDWIG LEWISOHN\nFREDA KIRCHWEY, Managing Editor\nJOHN MACY, Literary Editor\nOSWALD GARRISON VILLARD, Editor\nIn addition to its regular fea-\ntures The Nation is publishing\nthrough the summer a series of\nshort stories and sketches by\nSholom Asch, Zona Gale, Elisa-\nbeth Sanxay Holding, Sinclair\nLewis, Haniel Long, and Carl\nSandburg.\nContributing Editors\nJOHN A. HOBSON\nFRIEDRICH WILHELM FOERSTER\nCARL VAN DOREN\nANATOLE FRANCE\nH. L. MENCKEN\nROBERT HERRICK\nNORMAN THOMAS\nIn acknowledgment of new subscriptions The Nation is glad to offer a\nchoice from the following titles, and others to be had on application:\nFree with The Nation for a Year\nThe Goose-Step, by Upton Sinclair*\nThe Economic Basis of Politics, by Charles A. Beard*\nTriumphant Plutocracy, by Ex-Senator R. F. Petti-\ngrew\nLord Jim, by Joseph Conrad\nFor $5.25 with The Nation for a Year\nThe Decay of Capitalist Civilization, by Sidney and\nBeatrice Webb\nThe Boy Grew Older, by Heywood Broun\nHomely Lilla, by Robert Herrick*\nFor $5.50 with The Nation for a Year\nThe Bloom of Life, by Anatole France^\nThe Roving Critic, by Carl Van Doren'\nFaint Perfume, by Zona Gale*\nHenry Ford, by Samuel S. Marquis\nThe Captain's Doll, by D. H. Lawrence\nFor $5.75 with The Nation for a Year\nThe Goose Man, by Jacob Wasserman\nThe Critical Game, by John Macy*\nReminiscences of Anatole France, by Paul Gsell'\nShall It Be Again? by John Kenneth Turner*\n,*\ni*\nFor $6.00 with The Nation for a Year\nUp Stream, by Ludwig Lewisohn*\nAgainst the Grain, by J. K. Huysmans\nThese United States, reprinted from The Nation\nFor $8.00 with The Nation for a Year\nThe American Language, by H. L. Mencken-\n,*\n* Material by the same author has appeared in The\nNation.\nr\nTHE NATION\n20 Vesey Street\nNew York\nFor the enclosed\nplease send The Nation for a year and\nName ..\nAddress\n15 cents a copy\nAnnual subscription $5.00\nBroom—August, 1928."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.23", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 730, "texte": "Modern\nLimited\nEditions\nTHE Ilex Bookshop announces\nthe publication in a uniform bind-\ning of a series of several rather re-\nmarkable Books, the first of which, in\na de luxe signed edition of 975 copies,\nwill soon be ready for subscribers.\nIn virility of phrase and incident, the\nBooks of this forthcoming series are\nreminiscent of such older writers as\nDaudet, Huysmans, Wilde, Sterne,\nGautier, etc.; but in their mood and\ntreatment the picturesqueness of modern\nromantic-realism has not been ignored.\nReaders and collectors who are initiates\nin privately-printed desiderata should\naddress us to receive regularly our at-\ntractive announcements of these and\nother fine Books.\nTHE ILEX BOOKSHOP\n39-86 S. Saint Andrew's\nLos Angeles"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.24", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 732, "fin_caractere_exclue": 839, "texte": "The Ilex Bookshop,\n39-86 S. Saint Andrew's\nLos Angeles.\nGentlemen:\nPlease put my name on your mailing list."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 841, "fin_caractere_exclue": 950, "texte": "The following is one of many\nletters responding to our an-\nnouncement of the resumption\nof BROOM in A merica:"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c036", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c036", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.26", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 952, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1687, "texte": "June 22, 1923.\nDear \"Broom:\"\nRecord my personal opinion that Broom is\nthe most remarkable journal of today—and that\nnothing can substitute for it, so peculiar is its\nfunction. I don't intend to lose sight of it so\nlong as it is as alive as it has been during the\nfirst year of its existence. Hence, I'm doubly\nsorry that I can't see my way (financially) to\nre-subscribe at present and must rely on the\nfew newsstands in the city to keep my files of\nit complete. Should you care to send it to me,\nremittance to be paid as soon as I procure work,\nyou may do so. But whether or not you do so,\nbe assured of my support and propaganda among\nfriends for your welfare.\nSincerely,\n(Signed) L. LIBERTHSON\n1893 Southern Boulevard,\nNew York City."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c037", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c037", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.27", "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": 66, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 1689, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2079, "texte": "Nothing has encouraged us more than the\nassurance from many unexpected sources that\nthere is a public for BROOM in America.\nThere must be hundreds and hundreds of\npeople who buy Broom when they happen\nto find it on newsstands. We should like to\nlink this public together. For this purpose a\nspecial offer is made, of a six-months' sub-\nscription to BROOM (including August,\n1923) for $2.00."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c038", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c038", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_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=bmtnaap192308-01.2.28", "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": 66, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 2081, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2208, "texte": "BROOM\n47 W. 34th St., N. Y.\nFor the enclosed $2.00 please send Broom (beginning\nwith August, 1923) for six months.\nName\nAddress"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-08-01-c039", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-08_01#c039", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-08_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": 67, "image_fin": 67, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.2.29", "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": 67, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1412, "texte": "The Age\nof the Machine\nTHE Age of the Machine in America is an age of\nspiritual change and growth as well as one of eco-\nnomic ascendancy.\nA new art and new literature spring sturdily from the\nmachine civilization.\nWhat will be their means and directions?\nBroom, now published in America, will be an aggressive\nleader for the Art of today. A fearless and non-com-\nmercial review presenting with authority the work of sig-\nnificant moderns (not a disordered collection of all names\nand all schools). Always in intimate touch with Europe,\nit will bring the unknown plays of her Pirandellos, and\nthe buried manuscripts of her Dostoyevskis to America.\nAlso, one of the most beautiful magazines, with two-color\ncovers by noted painters, numerous reproductions, and\nlarge, handsome format.\nAs an inducement to new subscribers the Publishers of Broom offer one of the\nfollowing with one year's subscription at $5.00:\nJacob's Room, by Virginia Woolf\nBabbitt, by Sinclair Lewis\nThe Hairy Ape, by Eugene O'Neill\nThe Enormous Room, by E. E. Cum-\nmings\nor\nInstigations, by Ezra Pound; with\nBroom, for $6.00\nContinental Stagecraft, by Ken-\nneth McGowan and Robert Edmund\nJones; with Broom for $6.75\nThe Life of Barnum, by M. R.\nWerner; with Broom for $6.25\n| BROOM -47 W. 34th St., N. Y.\nFor the enclosed $ please\nsend Broom for one year and the fol-\nlowing boofy:\nName .\nAddress\n$5.00 Annual Subscription.\n50 Cents the Copy."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAN INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS\nEditor, Harold A. Loeb\nAssociate Editors, Siater Brown, Malcolm Cowley, Matthew Josephson\nAugust, 1923\nPublished Monthly\nVol. 5, No. 1\nThe Editors of Broom will be pleased to consider mss. submitted to them, but\nall mss. must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope. The Editors\ncannot be held responsible for mss. lost in transit.\nBroom is published monthly at 47 West 34th Street, New York, by The\nBroom Publishing Company, Inc. Second class mail privileges applied for. Copy-\nright, 1923, by The Broom Publishing Company, Inc.\nBusiness and Advertising Office\n47 West 34th Street\nNew York\n$5 a Year\nEditorial Office\n49 West 12th Street\nNew York\n50 Cents the Copy\n\nCover Design—Lurcat Page\nI Shall Name Him Egbert—William Gamaliel Shepard .... 1\nDrawings—Juan Gris 2, 11\nSnapshot of a Young Lady—Malcolm Cowley 3\nKabnis—Jean Toomer 12\nIndians in Spring—Janet Lewis 16\nOn Board the Morning Star—Pierre MacOrlan 17\nWoodcuts—Daragnes 17,28\nThree Poems—Wilfrid H. Bendall 29\nNote on Gris and Cubism—H. A. L. 32\nDrawings—Juan Gris 33,35,45\nThe Poet Assassinated—Guillaume Apollinaire 36\nSammy Plays the Pawn—Robert Alden Sanborn 46\nBook Reviews:\nNotations on the Captain's Doll—Jean Toomer 47\nPoets of the Catacombs—M. J 49\nThe Orissers 51\nCastle Conquer 53\nA History of Art 53\nComment :\nBroom: 1921-1923—Harold A. Loeb 55\nToward a Professional Prose—Matthew Josephson .... 59"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.3", "texte": "I SHALL NAME HIM EGBERT\nWilliam Gamaliel Shepard\nwhy Egbert? there was a king\nnamed Egbert, my grandmother\ntold me about him.\nNo word now,\nOh not one word\nto cut the links of knowing.\nI hover, I fall,\nI shatter and rise\nand am one and two.\nI circle the spheres,\nthe comets shy\nas I passing burn.\nThe bones I own\nare those of Eve\nand of a wooly ape\nand of a handful of dust\nrutting in the sun.\nI have trod the course\nfrom God's postern.\nNow beloved\nthe pushing words\nthat filled and died?\n\"Oh mystery of life,\nthere are no mysteries in life,\nlet the philosopher come,\nin one lesson he will read\nthe moonbeam\nand hear the message\nin a straw's round horn.\""}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.4", "texte": "Drawing\nJuan Gris"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.5", "texte": "SNAPSHOT OF A YOUNG LADY\n\nBiggest of its kind in the world. The blue rubberneck bus with\na cargo of 25 brides and 25 grooms from Jersey City and points west\n(plus an unmarried New Yorker) turned hugely from Fifth Avenue\ninto one of the East Sixties, and stopped.\n\"Ladies and Gentlemen, on your left is the residence of Miss\nVirginia Johnson the heiress to millions who is rapidly becoming famous\nfor her untiring pursuit of Hawkbill the master criminal and her courage\nin face of his threats although but a slip of a girl she follows him from\nthe gilded clubs of Westchester County to the haunts of Lower West\nSide gangsters and has been called 'by a jury of twelve qualified\nexperts the perfect type of American girl for whom billions are earned\non Wall Street and spent in Paris and in fact the heroine of every\nnovel of every moving picture. .\nA window opened in the Johnson mansion and a printed streamer\nunrolled. It bore the legend:\nTHE VICISSITUDES OF VIRGINIA\nA Film from the Life\nReleased in all good playhouses May 27\nPale, lovely and courageous a face appeared at the window, with\nhazel eyes and a kissable pouting mouth under a mound of golden hair.\nVirginia Johnson. I became conscious of a desire, not entirely unself-\nish, to aid her at any cost in the pursuit of Hawkbill.\n\". . . It was her miniature which pioneers hid next to their hearts\nwhen crossing the Alleghanies when crossing the Great Valley her\nportrait and none other which was born tenderly by New Bedford\nwhaling captains round the Cape and round the world and home.\"\nI followed an impulse to leap from the car, rush to her door. I\nrang obstinately. I pounded on the glass between the iron grills with\nall my forces. Nobody came, and with a gradual miasma of literature\nthe slow night fell. A blue patrolman watched me. The rubberneck\nbus had disappeared: at 125th Street it overturned suddenly and all\nmy companions, fifty, without distinction of sex, were killed."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.6", "texte": "2.\n\"Come!\" she said, and tapped me on the shoulder with her white\nhand. I rose to follow.\nI was Smith Masterman: why should I follow her? A scientist\nof repute, a star reporter on Manhattan's biggest daily, a criminal\ninvestigator to whom the mystery of the Kennedy diamonds had\nrecently been entrusted. It was not my only case. I was endeavouring\nat the same time to unravel the Saltoun murder, which seemed to be\nlinked uncannily with the disappearance of 109 matched diamonds the\nsize of robin's eggs, that sole and immense fortune of the beautiful Mrs.\nRobinson Kennedy—Ada, as I had learned to call her. And there\nwas Hawkbill, the master criminal whose nose in the shape of a\nvulture's beak had earned him this sobriquet. He baffled my every\nstep. Should I follow this girl—more beautiful than Ada Kennedy\nhad ever been—she would lead me almost certainly into his power.\nListen. Is somebody knocking at the door?\n\"Come!\" she said again. \"I am afraid, Father ...\"\nHer cheeks went white and red as if the hands of Hawkbill were\nat her throat already. A tear gathered, there, at a corner of her\nenormous hazel eyes, under the mound of golden hair. I hesitated no\nlonger. I followed her and should have followed if Hawkbill had\nbeen Satan.\nMy room contained a few worn chairs, a jumble of scientific ap-\nparatus, a typewriter: companions and tools of my hasty career. I\nstole a look at them—perhaps the last—and hurried down the stairs\ninto her limousine. It turned northward.\nShe huddles there beside me. A bond of sympathy unites us in-\nvisibly as if during all my life I had written about no one else and for\nno other audience. She whispers, \"We shall be too late.\" I try to\ncomfort her, but a sense of catastrophe weighs on me so heavily that\nwords refuse to come. Memories jumbled in an old cigar box.\nWe halted before her mansion in the sixties. Walters, the butler,\nseemed to be waiting and swung the door open before we crossed the\nsidewalk. I remarked his sideburns, his disingenuous eyes, a spot on\nhis waistcoat which might have been blood. We rushed upstairs. On\nthe way I stopped to examine a sheet of yellow paper, without water-\nmark, torn from the sort of pad which is used in high schools, pinned\nnegligently to a Gobelins tapestry. It contained the rude image of a\nfalcon's beak.\nWere we indeed too late?"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.7", "texte": "On the second floor is the Johnson library, or rather the room\nwhich people have agreed to call the library on account of its contain-\ning the only books in the house: namely, the eleventh edition of the\nEncyclopedia Britannica, bound volumes of the Atlantic Monthly\nfrom 1890 to 1903 and half a dozen novels which Virginia had\nborrowed from her room-mate at boarding school and forgotten to\nreturn. It is from one of these that I quote a vivid if none too accurate\naccount of the Johnson murder:\n\"At one end of the desk was a telephone. Taylor Johnson was\nlying on the floor at the end of the desk—perfectly rigid—his face\ndistorted—a ghastly figure. A pet dog ran over, sniffed frantically\nat his master's legs and suddenly began to howl dismally.\n\"Johnson was dead!\n\" 'Help!' shouted Walters.\n\"Others of the servants came rushing in. There was for the mo-\nment the greatest excitement and confusion.\n\"Suddenly a wild figure in flying garments flitted down the stairs\nand into the library, dropping beside the dead man without seeming to\nnotice us at all.\n\" 'Father!' shrieked a woman's voice, heart-broken. 'Father!\nOh—my God—he—he is dead.' And she fainted.\n\"Over her body and over the cold body of the man who for twenty\nyears had controlled the political destinies of New York City, I swore\nto pursue his murderer, to track him down, to bring him before the bar\nof justice of the Eternal.\n\"Newsboys were crying on the dusky streets and their shouts\nreached me even there. 'Extry. Extry. GERMANS INVADE\nBELGIUM. Extry.'\"\n3.\nI never thought her real. They say her mother bore her not as a\nwoman gives birth to a child or a tree to its fruits but rather as a tree\nmight sacrifice the richness of its sap, or even its life, to produce a single\nperfect and frangible flower.\nHer birth was aseptic and mechanical. They say her mother\nnever bore her at all.\nThey say her mother before she died fell into a delirium, during\nwhose course she prophesied of her daughter: \"Virginia will have\nevery gift, being rich, beautiful and ignorant of evil. Her arms are\nwhite as bread. Her hair gleams beyond envy of peroxide. She rides,"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.8", "texte": "shoots, swims with precise gestures and lives before the camera as\nunder God's eye.\n\"She has many suitors and she accepts none. The world rides\nhorseback to disaster.\n\"If ever she loves she will find love and death and the knowledge\nof evil, and in the same moment. She dies virgin under the symbol of\nher name. She is like Indian pipe or maybe dogwood. The world\nrides horseback to disaster and the old dog has learned to beg for\ncookies.\"\n4.\nShe is a spot in the desert lying so still that the buzzards circle over,\nnone of them quite daring to descend. There will be time before sun-\nset, before the coyotes. Who has frightened the buzzards away? He\nstands above her watching without pity. The knife is poised in his\nhand. She wakens.\nFull of the purest horror Virginia looked at him for a moment\nwhich stretched backward and forward into time. Her life revolved\nbefore her eyes. She could remember a row of Fifth Avenue shops\nand commencement day at Miss Stoughton's School on Hudson.\nFear dried her mouth, suggesting the taste of Romance Caramels and\nafterwards the memory of all the candy boxes she had emptied. At\nthe same time she felt the significance of the moment and kept trying\nto repeat: I have kept the faith, have kept the faith. The knife de-\nscended. Is it a dream? A shot rang out.\nI dragged his body aside. Half-breed Pete had been known for\nhis sullen good-looks, and there were dozens of women in the lonely\nranchos who had suffered his fascination. He was considered capable\nof any infamy, but until he fell under the influence of Hawkbill he\nhad never dared an open crime. The buzzards will return.\nVirginia had fainted again, but I found it no difficulty to restore\nher and to force a little nourishment between her blue lips. I led her\nto the saddled horses, to follow the trail of Hawkbill. Another\nhundred yards and it was confused hopelessly by the hoofprints of his\npursuers. There was one hope left: to climb the mountain.\nUp a precipitous gully: the horses can hold their footing no longer:\nabandon them and climb, climb the face of vertiginous cliffs where a\nstumble would plunge us a thousand feet, where the breaking of this\nlittle root would open the doors of space. Virginia never whimpers.\nDamn these spurs. The sheer rock has imperceptible fissures by the"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.9", "texte": "aid of which we mount higher, faster, till the world opens out, higher,\ntill the sun sets, till we reach the summit and look, over blue foothills\nand a plain, westward to the Pacific.\nSmall as a fly, a yacht was climbing over its vertical waters. I\nlooked through my telescope and gave it to Virginia without comment.\nOn a pennant which floated from the masthead was painted the design\nof a falcon's beak.\n\"Once more, Hawkbill, you escape us, but not for long.\n\"We shall follow you until your death or ours.\n\"By this drop of blood you drew from the white wrist of Virginia,\nby the spilt blood of the bravest and purest of women, by her murdered\nfather I swear it:\n\"WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.\"\n5.\nThe storm subsided, the waves rolled back and left me sprawled\nhalf-conscious on the beach of Vicissitude Island.\nIt is a volcanic rock surrounded by coral reefs and lying in the\nSouth Pacific at a latitude which, on account of the circumstances of\nmy arrival and departure, I was never able to determine. Indeed I\ndoubt whether Vicissitude Island has any fixed location. It moves\nabout in search of shipwrecked sailors. When they have spent a day\nand a night in the water, swimming more from habit than a definite\nhope, it looms suddenly before their eyes and they fall on its beach\nexhausted. It has been known by a multitude of names. Its nature\nis substantially the same as when Robinson Crusoe discovered it.\nFor vegetation and animal life I must refer you to my monograph\non The Fauna and Flora of Vicissitude Island (Schenectady: Inter-\nocean Press. $1.65).\nIts conspicuous features are a large dry cave overlooking the sea,\npalm trees which supply food, drink and clothing, finally the eggs of\nturtles which are discovered in the hot sands and afterwards baked in\nthe embers of a fire kindled with the matches I always carry in a water-\nproof case.\nMy life on its shores was bestial, idyllic and flavoured with the\nmemories of my great predecessors. I kept a journal. Sometimes\nafter a late dinner I grew pleasantly tipsy with cocoanut wine, and at\nsuch moments dared to extract a snapshot of Virginia Johnson from its\nhiding place against my breast. It had been taken during a picnic on\nher estate at Tarrytown, at a period when we believed, by a guilty"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.10", "texte": "optimism, that Hawkbill had been drowned in the sinking of the Lusi-\ntania. Virginia wore a riding habit and was pretending to puff at a\ncigarette which would never touch her lips. She smiled into the camera.\nShe was beautiful and she might have been mine.\nI replaced the snapshot against my heart and fell asleep to dream\nthat I was Hawkbill. His every ruse was clear to me, and justified\nbeing my own. I had tracked Virginia Johnson across two continents\ntill at last she was in my power, in my arms. If I tracked her down it\nwas to kill, so that the stupid and innocent might suffer and the world\nbe purified by pain. There is no virtue but to be intelligent. The will\nto die is my only justification for crime. Her eyes are looking up at\nme with a look which is not surely hate. And the walls fold in,\nsuddenly, confounding us in mutual disaster. A new sun rose.\nI brooded for weeks over this dream, but finally I became prey\nto other worries. One morning on the beach I found a long spear of\nsome heavy wood, with its point hardened in the fire. It showed no\nsign of having been in the water. Another day I saw a paper snake of\nsmoke far out to sea. I lit a fire on the highest promontory and tried\nto signal, but the steamer, if it was a steamer, disappeared. I did not\nlose the hope it kindled. Months passed.\nI was running to the beach one early morning for my swim, when\nI noticed a black spot lying where the tide had washed it the night\nbefore. I rushed towards it. The spot was a woman . . . with\ngolden hair . . . my breath hurts me . . . Virginia.\nI leaned over, took her wrist gently. The pulse was beating. My\nlips met hers in the sacrament of a first kiss.\n. Her eyes half opened.\nAnd in the same moment we heard the drum of an aeroplane\nmotor overhead. We looked up. The machine was hardly a hundred\nyards away and on its under wing was the design of a falcon's beak.\nFor a moment whose possibilities unfolded like paper flowers, we\nthree: Virginia and I and the evil man above, looked one another\ndirectly in the face.\nThe savages are approaching in their war canoes. Out of the\nforest bursts another tribe. Are their arrows poisoned? A machine\ngun hammers. When I had exhausted the chambers of Virginia's\npearl-handed revolver—all the chambers but two—I whirled the heavy\nspear above my head. War cries out of a mist. The blood of an\nenemy is a red alcohol."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.11", "texte": "6.\n\"Come!\" she said, and tapped me on the shoulder with her white\nhand. I rose to follow.\nI was Smith Masterman: why should I follow her? A scientist\nof repute, a star reporter on Manhattan's biggest daily, a criminal\ninvestigator to whom the mystery of the Kennedy diamonds had re-\ncently been intrusted. It was not my only case. I was endeavouring\nat the same time to unravel the Saltoun murder, but Hawkbill baffled\nme at every step. Should I follow this girl—more beautiful than Ada\nKennedy had ever been—she would lead me almost certainly into\nhis power.\n\"Come!\" she said again. \"I am afraid . . .\"\nHer cheeks went red and white as if the hands of Hawkbill were\nat her throat already. A tear gathered, there, at a corner of her enor-\nmous hazel eyes, under the mound of golden hair. I hesitated no\nlonger. I followed her and should have followed if Hawkbill had\nbeen Satan.\nAs we drove northward she explained the situation to me briefly.\nHawkbill had forced his way into her house and at the moment wa3\nboring through the steel of her safe with an acetylene torch of his own\ninvention. If we hurried we might capture him. Our search was end-\ning in triumph. My arm slipped round her shoulder and she pressed\ncloser. Yet she seemed heavy with a presentiment of evil, as if fear\nand love had entered her heart at the same time.\nI tried vainly to comfort her.\nWalters had swung open the iron grill before we were out of the\ncar. We rushed upstairs, forced the library door.\nI shall forget no detail, however obscure, of the scene which met\nour eyes. The door of the safe yawns open. In front of it lies heaped\na wealth of gems: pearls, diamonds, rubies such as no man's brain\nbut one could ever imagine. And that one man is sprawled among\nthem in a cutaway with black-striped trousers of which I remember\nthe not extraordinary pattern. Blood drips from a barely perceptible\nmark in his forehead.\nHis nose is like a vulture's beak and death has made it the colour\nof horn.\nAnd strangely his death brings me no joy, only fatigue and a fore-\nboding. When I turn to make a commonplace remark which the\ncircumstance would render ghastly, I see Virginia Johnson herself lying"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.12", "texte": "motionless on the carpet, while a little blood trickles from a mark\nwhich is counterpart to the mark in the forehead of Hawkbill.\nHold a mirror gently to her nostrils. The surface of it is troubled\nwith no cloud. She died young, young. Cover her face.\nHer hair is dead as gold. Her eyes in the sun had violet lights,\nwhich danced beyond them to glow in other eyes. Her fingers taper\nprecisely, make no gesture. Cross them in sign of prayer.\nShe died young and she was innocent. They say her mother bore\nher not as a woman gives birth to a child or a tree to its fruits, but\nrather as a tree might sacrifice the richness of its sap, or even its life,\nto produce a flower less perfect and as frangible.\nDesdemona stifled under a silken pillow, Lucrece dead, the rape\nof virgin Ophelia by the water. Cats crawl in the elder bushes to die.\nI have seen the bodies of sparrows rotting in the streets. Hers was the\ndeath of a flower I might have plucked.\nI read of pioneers who crossed the Alleghanies and hid her minia-\nture against their hearts. I read of whaling captains from New Bed-\nford who bore her portrait with them round the world. They married\nher never. She might have been mine.\nHer mouth was possibly smaller than the classic. She had pouting\nlips and a freckle or two and lived. And Ono stolid Roman matron\n(Lucrece offended in her constancy,) no Alexandrian martyr and virgin\nis worthy to be mentioned by her side.\nShe was the sainted innocence of a world grown arbitrary. She\ndied of sanctity.\nWrite on her tomb: She Teas innocent and died.\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.13", "texte": "Drawing\nJuan Gris"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.14", "texte": "KABNIS\n\nRalph Kabnis, propped in his bed, tries to read. To read him-\nself to sleep. An oil lamp on a chair near his elbow burns unsteadily.\nThe cabin room is spaced fantastically about it. Whitewashed hearth\nand chimney, black with sooty saw-teeth. Ceiling, patterned by the\nfringed globe of the lamp. The walls, unpainted, are seasoned a rosin\nyellow. And cracks between the boards are black. These cracks are\nthe lips the night winds use for whispering. Night winds in Georgia\nare vagrant poets, whispering. Kabnis, agaist his will, lets his book\nslip down, and listens to them. The warm whiteness of his bed, the\nlamp-light, do not protect him from the weird chill of their song:\nWhite -man's land.\nNiggers, sing.\nBurn, bear black children\nTill poor rivers bring\nRest, and sweet glory\nIn Camp Ground.\nKabnis' thin hair is streaked on the pillow. His hand strokes the\nslim silk of his mustache. Hs thumb, pressed under his chin, seems\nto be trying to give squareness and projection to it. Brown eyes stare\nfrom a lemon face. Moisture gathers beneath his arm-pits. He slides\ndown beneath the cover, seeking release.\nKabnis: Near me. Now. Whoever you are, my warm glowing\nsweetheart, do not think that the face that rests beside you is the real\nKabnis. Ralph Kabnis is a dream. And dreams are faces with large\neyes and weak chins and broad brows that get smashed by the fists\nof square faces. The body of the world is bull-necked. A dream is\na soft face that fits uncertainly upon it. . . God, if I could develop\nthat in words. Give what I know a bull-neck and a heaving body,\nall would go well with me, wouldnt it, sweetheart? If I could feel\nthat I came to the South to face it. If I, the dream (not what is\nweak and afraid in me) could become the face of the South. How\nmy lips would sing for it, my songs being the lips of its soul. Soul.\nSoul hell. There aint no such thing. What in hell was that?\nA rat had run across the thin boards of the ceiling. Kabnis\nthrusts his head out from the covers. Through the cracks, a powdery\nfaded red dust sprays down on him. Dust of slave-fields, dried,"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.15", "texte": "scattered. . . No use to read. Christ, if he only could drink him-\nself to sleep. Something as sure as fate was going to happen. He\ncouldnt stand this thing much longer. A hen, perched on a shelf in\nthe adjoining room begins to tread. Her nails scrape the soft wood.\nHer feathers ruffle.\n\"Get out of that, you egg-laying bitch.\"\nKabnis hurls a slipper against the wall. The hen flies from her\nperch and cackles as if a skunk were after her.\n\"Now cut out that racket or I'll wring your neck for you.\"\nAnswering cackles arise in the chicken yard.\n\"Why in Christ's hell cant you leave me alone? Damn it, I\nwish your cackle would choke you. Choke every mother's son of\nthem in this God-forsaken hole. Go away. By God I'll wring your\nneck for you if you dont. Hell of a mess I've got in: even the poultry\nis hostile. Go way. Go way. By God, I'll ...\"\nKabnis jumps from his bed. His eyes are wild. He makes for\nthe door. Bursts through it. The hen, driving blindly at the window-\npane, screams. Then flies and flops around trying to elude him.\nKabnis catches her.\n\"Got you now, you she-bitch.\"\nWith his fingers about her neck, he thrusts open the outside door\nand steps out into the serene loveliness of Georgian autumn moon-\nlight. Some distance off, down in the valley, a band of pine-smoke,\nsilvered gauze, drifts steadily. The half-moon is a white child that\nsleeps upon the tree-tops of the forest. White winds croon its sleep-\nsong:\nrock a-by baby . .\nBlack mother sways, holding a white child on her bosom.\nwhen the bough bends . .\nHer breath hums through pine-cones,\ncradle will fall . .\nTeat moon-children at your breasts,\ndown will come baby . .\nBlack mother.\nKabnis whirls the chicken by its neck, and throws the head away.\nPicks up the hopping body, warm, sticky, and hides it in a clump of\nbushes. He wipes blood from his hands onto the coarse scant grass.\nKabnis: Thats done. Old Chromo in the big house there will\nwonder whats become of her pet hen. Well, it'll teach her a lesson:\nnot to make a hen-coop of my quarters. Quarters. Hell of a fine"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.16", "texte": "quarters, I've got. Five years ago; look at me now. Earth's child.\nThe earth my mother. God is a profligate red-nosed man about town.\nBastardy; me. A bastard son has got a right to curse his maker.\nGod. . .\nKabnis is about to shake his fists heavenward. He looks up, and\nthe night's beauty strikes him dumb. He falls to his knees. Sharp\nstones cut through his thin pajamas. The shock sends a shiver over\nhim. He quivers. Tears mist his eyes. He writhes.\n\"God Almighty, dear God, dear Jesus, do not torture me with\nbeauty. Take it away. Give me an ugly world. Ha, ugly. Stink-\ning like unwashed niggers. Dear Jesus, do not chain me to myself\nand set these hills and valleys, heaving with folk-songs, so close to me\nthat I cannot reach them. There is a radiant beauty in the night that\ntouches and . . . tortures me. Ugh. Hell. Get up, you damn\nfool. Look around. What's beautiful there? Hog pens and chicken\nyards. Dirty red mud. Stinking outhouse. Whats beauty anyway\nbut ugliness if it hurts you? God, he doesnt exist, but nevertheless he\nis ugly. Hence, what comes from Him is ugly. Lynchers and business\nmen, and that cockroach Hanby, especially. How come that he gets\nto be principal of a school? Of the school I'm driven to teach in?\nGod's handiwork, doubtless. God and Hanby, they belong together.\nTwo godam moral-spouters. Oh, no, I wont let that emotion come\nup in me. Stay down. Stay down, I tell you. O Jesus, Thou art\nbeautiful. . . Come, Ralph, pull yourself together. Curses and\nadoration dont come from what is sane. This loneliness, dumbness,\nawful, intangible oppression is enough to drive a man insane. Miles\nfrom nowhere. A speck on a Georgia hillside. Jesus, can you imagine\nit—an atom of dust in agony on a hillside ? Thats a spectacle for you.\nCome, Ralph, old man, pull yourself together.\"\nKabnis has stiffened. He is conscious now of the night wind, and\nof how it chills him. He rises. He totters as a man would who for\nthe first time uses artificial limbs. As a completely artificial man would.\nThe large frame house, squatting on brick pillars, where the principal\nof the school, his wife, and the boarding girls sleep, seems a curious\nshadow of his mind. He tries, but cannot convince himself of its\nreality. His gaze drifts down into the vale, across the swamp, up over\nthe solid dusk bank of pines, and rests, bewildered-like, on the court-\nhouse tower. It is dull silver in the moonlight. White child that\nsleeps upon the top of pines. Kabnis' mind clears. He sees himself\nyanked beneath that tower. He sees white minds, with indolent as-\nsumption, juggle justice and a nigger. . . Somewhere, far off in the"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.17", "texte": "straight line of his sight, is Augusta. Christ, how cut off from every-\nthing he is. And hours, hours north, why not say a lifetime north?\nWashington sleeps. Its still, peaceful streets, how desirable they are.\nIts people whom he had always halfway despised. New York?\nImpossible. It was a fiction. He had dreamed it. An impotent\nnostalgia grips him. It becomes intolerable. He forces himself to\nnarrow to a cabin silhouetted on a knoll about a mile away. Peace.\nNegroes within it are content. They farm. They sing. They love.\nThey sleep. Kabnis wonders if perhaps they can feel him. If perhaps\nhe gives them bad dreams. Things are so immediate in Georgia.\nThinking that now he can go to sleep, he re-enters his room. He\nbuilds a fire in the open hearth. The room dances to the tongues of\nflames, and sings to the crackling and spurting of the logs. Wind\ncomes up between the floor boards, through the black cracks of the\nwalls.\nKabnis: Cant sleep. Light a cigarette. If that old bastard\ncomes over here and smells smoke, I'm done for. Hell of a note,\ncant even smoke. The stillness of it: where they burn and hang men,\nyou cant smoke. Cant take a swig of licker. What do they think\nthis is, anyway, some sort of temperance school ? How did I ever\nland in such a hole? Ugh. One might just as well be in his grave.\nStill as a grave. Jesus, how still everything is. Does the world know\nhow still it is? People make noise. They are afraid of silence. Of\nwhat lives, and God, of what dies in silence. There must be many\ndead things moving in silence. They come here to touch me. I swear\nI feel their fingers. . . Come, Ralph, pull yourself together. What\nin hell was that? Only the rustle of leaves, I guess. You know,\nRalph, old man, it wouldnt surprise me at all to see a ghost. People\ndont think there are such things. They rationalize their fear, and call\ntheir cowardice science. Fine bunch, they are. Damit, that was a\nnoise. And not the wind either. A chicken maybe. Hell, chickens\ndont wander around this time of night. What in hell is it?\nA scraping sound, like a piece of wood dragging over the ground,\nis coming near.\n\"Ha, ha. The ghosts down this way havent got any chains to\nrattle, so they drag trees along with them. Thats a good one. But\nno joke, something is outside this house, as sure as hell. Whatever it\nis, it can get a good look at me and I cant see it. Jesus Christ!\"\nKabnis pours water on the flames and blows his lamp out. He\npicks up a poker and stealthily approaches the outside door. Swings"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.18", "texte": "it open, and lurches into the night. A calf, carrying a yoke of wood,\nbolts away from him and scampers down the road.\n\"Well, r m damned. This godam place is sure getting the best\nof me. Come, Ralph, old man, pull yourself together. Nights cant\nlast forever. Thank God for that. Its Sunday already. First time\nin my life I've ever wanted Sunday to come. Hell of a day. And\ndown here there's no such thing as ducking church. Well, I'll see\nHalsey and Layman, and get a good square meal. Thats something.\nAnd Halsey's a damn good feller. Cant talk to him, though. Who\nin Christ's world can I talk to? A hen. God. Myself. . . I'm\ngoing bats, no doubt of that. Come now, Ralph, go in and make\nyourself go to sleep. Come now ... in the door . . . thats right.\nPut the poker down. There. All right. Slip under the sheets. Close\nyour eyes. Think nothing ... a long time . . . nothing, nothing.\nDont even think nothing. Blank. Not even blank. Count. No,\nmustnt count. Nothing . . . blank . . . nothing . . . blank . . .\nspace without stars in it. No, nothing . . . nothing . . .\nKabnis sleeps. The winds, like soft-voiced vagrant poets, sing:\nWhite-man's land.\nNiggers, sing.\nBurn, bear black children\nTill poor rivers bring\nRest, and sweet glory\nIn Camp Ground.\n\nJean Toomer\n\nINDIANS IN SPRING\nJanet Lewis\nThe nights were cold,\nAnd they came slowly upstream,\nPulling past channel stakes\nGnawed white with ice.\nPoplar flowers,\nBlossoming and falling\nThrough air remaining cold\nAs water, the flesh of spring."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.19", "texte": "Daragnès\n\nON BOARD THE MORNING STAR\n\n*\nI\nThe tenth of October, 1 720, as we were coasting the southern\nshore of Jamaica we saw a sloop anchored in Dry Harbour Bay.\nAccording to the usages of gentlemen of fortune, George Merry\ngave order to hoist the black flag. By informing the stranger of our\ntrue quality we risked nothing, and the mere apparition of this funereal\ncrepe gave the results which we were privileged to expect: two men who\nwere on board the sloop leaped into a boat moored to the stern and\npulled hastily for the shore, where we soon lost sight of them.\n\n* On Board the MORNING Star consists of the fifth, twelfth, eighth and\nsixteenth episodes of A Bord l'Etoile Matutine (Paris: G. Cres et Cie.,\n1921)."}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.20", "texte": "George Merry had himself rowed to the sloop. He was accom-\npanied by his boatswain—we called him Peter Black Sheep—and by\na sailor from Dieppe whom we had enrolled in North Carolina while we\nwere lurking at the mouth of the Roanoke.\nAt the fall of night Peter Black Sheep and the sailor rowed back\nto the Morning Star. We aided them to embark the merchandise\nwhich they had been able to find on the sloop. It was a modest booty,\nbut when we considered the few pains it had cost us we greeted it with\nsatisfaction. Our last cruise had been vain, fortune having abandoned\nthe folds of our flag.\nBefore our eyes the pillaged sloop rocked in the breeze. No sound\ntroubled the quiet of the harbour. We stretched out on the deck, heads\npillowed on our crossed arms, and rested. Many slept like beasts,\nwith little nervous starts. We were so tired that our dignity as men\nseemed to be abolished.\nIn the evening we heard the whistle of George Merry. A ship's\nlantern was lighted on the sloop. Peter Black Sheep and the Dieppe\nsailor untied the boat to bring back our captain. When they came on\nboard the Morning Star every one was asleep. . . .\nEarly in the morning George Merry gave order to ship anchor.\nWe stretched full sail to the south wind and the Morning Star whipped\nnorthward, where lay the hazards of our profession.\nThe man from Nantes took his flute and translated into frail notes\nthe ecstasy in which our hearts were melting. Captain Merry himself\napproached our circle, and for the first time we saw that he was accom-\npanied by a tall young man with robust limbs, whose beardless face\nexpressed audacity and the pride of adventure. He introduced this\nnew gentleman of fortune, who desired to submit himself to our laws\nand to the sterile fantasy of our wandering life.\nHis elegance silenced the magic flute. We none of us uttered the\nimpression which this proper sailor, with his decided air, had created in\nthe hell of our hearts.\nHis hair, tied back with a ribbon, revealed a neck which was as\ndelicate and tender as that of a young boy. It was evident that the\ncaptain favoured this new comrade with his friendship.\nThe stranger—on account of his irritating grace he would always\nbe a stranger to us—showed himself an able sailor. He was supple\nand seductive as he climbed the ropes, and his knife, which he held\nclenched between his little teeth, made him resemble a young cat carry-\ning a fish. He knew his trade and therefore we respected him a little."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.21", "texte": "And besides, his beauty impressed us enough to gain the right of re-\nmaining obedient, taciturn and distant.\nThereupon we gave chase to two Dutch traders bound for Martin-\nique, one in ballast and the other laden with sugar and cocoa. The\nfight was savage but the booty exceeded our hopes. All night we\nburned rum in great copper kettles. Pew and the man from Nantes\nfought with knives, and dawn found us lying supine on a quarterdeck\nstill blackened with powder, spotted with blood and pitch.\nOur handsome shipmate had born himself like a true knight of\nfortune. And when the orgy recommenced by day, he drank with us\nfrom a silver loving cup, of which he wiped the brim. He made a\ngesture to raise it to our success, when a little hook at the collar of his\nembroidered shirt gave way, and in stupour we beheld the revelation\nof the double cupola of two breasts as pure, as amiably rounded as\nthe pink domes of the cathedral of St. Hermit, at Palermo.\nSurprise left us voiceless before this woman whom chance had\nrevealed to us brutally.\nThen, we stretched out our fists in her direction, we howled at her\nface the oaths we had learned in every language of the earth, we spit\nat her feet like the damned, and our anger rose, rose in measure to the\nobscene words from our throats.\nFor we reproached her with standing motionless before our eyes\nin her calm beauty, and above all because she had watched us, the\nfuture clients of the gibbet, in the horror of our coarseness, our unshaven\nfaces, our dirty linen, our smells, our misery.\nAnd we reproached her, without being able to specify motives of\nthis anger, with having surprised us as we searched with dirty finger-\nnails for the lice which gnawed us.\nAnd we reproached her because she had not revealed herself in\ntime to allow us to attempt her conquest by embellishing our faces and\nour hands, according to the methods familiar to all men, before we cut\nour throats for bitter joys.\nII.\nAfter cruising three days in the Gulf of Honduras—where we met\nCharles Vane, who had just captured the Pearl, Captain Bowling—\nwe dropped anchor in a creek of the little island of Barnacko, whither\nGeorge Merry had decided to retire to caulk the seams of the Morning\nStar.\nLeaving the smaller part of the crew on board, we disembarked\non the soil of this fertile island, which the ocean had set down like"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.22", "texte": "a basket too full of fruits and flowers. The scattered houses which\ncomposed the village offered but few resources for the satisfaction of\nour appetites: fruit in earthenware bowls, dried fish, a little milk and\nsome mussels which we broke with our knife handles.\nWhile the larger part of the band scattered through the little vil-\nlage to seek its fortune, the man from Nantes, Pitti, MacGraw, Jack\nSeven and four or five of the beaux of the forecastle resolved to skirt\nthe southern coast, which disappeared at this point under the rarest\nsamples of the vegetation of the tropics.\nI followed this little troop, for I had the confidence of MacGraw\nwho liked, on certain days, to lift the veil covering a past of bookish\nlabour. He instructed me to the point of being able to read, correctly\nenough, a Latin Bible and the Hudibras of Samuel Butler in English.\nI m thirsty, said the man from Nantes. \"Have you any rum,\nold Mac? I'll pay it back on the day of our elevation, when we\nbless the girls of Savannah with our feet.\"\nMacGraw passed him a gourd. He clenched his teeth, lifted it\nto the end of his arm, and poured out a thread of rum which he swal-\nlowed slowly.\nWe continued our ramble. A fugitive odour of jasmine mounted\nto our nostrils, and among the green tufts of banana trees and the fresh\nleaves of live-oaks we saw a little white cottage, of a blinding whiteness,\nwhere all the shadows were printed in blue. A bird hidden in the\nvelvet shade of the palms whistled to render the silence more solemn,\nfor, outside of its enchanting voice, no sound revealed the presence of\nany life whatever. We made a circuit of the house, by habit, and the\nman from Nantes, thrusting his head through a little window, made\nus a violent sign with his hand to be still.\n\"You can come,\" he said as he straightened up. We penetrated\ninto the cool house, one behind another.\nIn the centre of its one room, on a piece of worn matting unrolled\nfrom the wall, a young negress was sleeping. She was almost naked\nand her hair was knotted in a yellow silk kerchief with violet spots\nthe size of peas. The sole furniture was a chest which supported a\npitcher of clear water where a giant spider was agonizing. In one\ncorner a pile of dirty linen covered a few kitchen utensils.\n\"Milady!\" roared MacGraw, trumpeting his hands round his\nmouth.\nThe ebony lady startled up, raising the whites of frightened eyes.\nDuring a few seconds her face expressed the most legitimate terror.\nThen her mouth broadened to a grin, she rose, took a step toward the"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.23", "texte": "man from Nantes and placed her two hands on his shoulders, on\nboth sides of his head. Her lips rounded, seeking a kiss.\nI knew it,\"he declared. \"This lady of quality has been waiting\nfor me. I have sailed twenty years only to land on this island and\nwed her legally. Gentlemen, I invite you all to be present at the\nceremony.\" . . .\nThe ceremony was curiously impressive. George Merry had of-\nfered a cask of rum, which we carried to the house of the bride on a\nlitter formed of branches. We drank all day. We parodied the\nreligious ceremony. The negress, dressed in a satin gown which we\nhad saved from the pillage of a French vessel, leaned on the arm of\nher cavalier and received as her just homage the powerful acclamations\nof the crew of the Morning Star.\nWe separated late at night, leaving the platters clean and goblets\nempty. Everybody returned to the ship or to the huts of the village.\nThe bride and groom remained with MacGraw and me, since we two\nwere to pass the night in a narrow attic above the nuptial chamber.\nBefore wishing them a good night, we emptied the remainder of\nthe cask of rum into a flask which must have contained six or seven\nquarts, and so climbed heavy-headed into our retreat, leaving the flask\nto the fantasy of the groom but advising him under no circumstances\nto let it run dry.\nWe fell immediately into a dead sleep, and when we woke it\nwas broad day.\nMacGraw, his hair dishevelled and his voice hoarse, shouted,\n\"Hello, Nantes! Bring up the rum! Bring the rum, old shipmate!\"\nNobody answered. We climbed down the ladder which took\nthe place of stairs. As we entered their chamber we saw our old\nshipmate stretched out on the matting, his throat cut open from ear\nto ear, bled white like a slaughtered pig.\n\"She stole the rum! The rum is gone!\" howled MacGraw. . . .\nWe found the wife of the defunct a few yards from the white\ncottage. She was extremely drunk. She lay at the foot of a tree\nwith the flask of rum between her knees, and there was blood on her\nhands, between the fingers.\nWhen we raised her up to hang her, she hardly opened her eyes,\nattempted the politeness of a smile, wished to kiss Pitti and to say some-\nthing. Her head fell back on her breast. It took three men to pass\nthe cord around her neck, she was so heavy and limp. In her last\nslumber she stuttered:\n\"Love... Love...\""}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.24", "texte": "Pitti drew the rope tight. When she felt her feet leave the ground,\nshe opened frightful eyes, suddenly. But she died almost immediately\nand swung back and forwards a long time before remaining still, extra-\nordinary still, in the noisy forest.\nIII\nWhen we arrived before Vera Cruz with the Dutch flag at our\nmasthead, hoping to trade with the Spaniards without fear of being\ndenounced, we saw that every ship in the harbour was flying a yellow\nflag to indicate that a sly Death blew over the city like a great and\nfetid and mysterious wind.\nGeorge Merry, Anselmo Pitti and Pierre Black Sheep thought\nwe should fly before the wind to escape the voracious plague, but it\nhappened that several others, MacGraw among them, desired on the\ncontrary to make a landing, arguing that business would be easy in\nthe midst of the general desolation, and they undertook, knowing\nan apothecary who was willing to receive goods and ask no questions,\nto avoid the quarantine and the thin and haughty alguazils.\nMacGraw demanded a week to attend to our business and his\nown. George Merry hesitated, allowed himself to be convinced,\nand the Morning Star found anchorage on the coast not far from the\nyellow bunting of the harbour, toward San Juan d'Ulhua.\nThat night we untied a rowboat and embarked: MacGraw, Pew\nand myself.\nWith the light of day we found our road and soon MacGraw\nlifted the brass knocker of a house built in the Spanish fashion, care-\nfully closed, cool and porous as an earthenware jug which contains\nfresh water.\nThere was a slot fashioned in the door; it opened at our call and\na voice, hardly an amiable voice, greeted us in these terms: \"What\ndo you want? Is this an inn? Do all the dogs of creation come here\nto beg shelter?\"\nPerfect, said MacGraw. \"Say no more. ... I recognize\nyou, Goldfish. Old hangbird, you haven't changed. . . . Open\nthe portal of your hospitable dwelling. It's MacGraw, with friends,\nand may God damn me black if I esteem the plague which will pre-\nsent me to the devil as highly as I esteem your Lordship.\"\nWe approved the terms of his discourse. Meanwhile the door\nopened slowly and the face of Goldfish appeared, lighted by a lantern,\nto affirm how worthy of the name was its proprietor."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.25", "texte": "Two red eyes were his ornament. The nose was small and\nbalanced itself over the gulf of a lipless mouth. A receding chin\nwas confused with the line of the throat, a feature which gave him—\nwhen combined with his bald and pointed skull—the appearance of\na carp's head. His colour was a golden bronze, as far as we could\njudge by the light of the lantern and by the first streaks of a livid\ndawn.\n\"Come in and close the door,\" said Goldfish.\nWe followed him. He led us across a courtyard surrounded with\nbuildings on four sides, and with a circular gallery of carved mahogany.\nWe climbed a stone stairway and Goldfish blew out his lantern,\npressing his body against the wall to let us pass. With MacGraw\nin the lead we penetrated into a vast room decorated in a manner\nstrangely reminiscent of hell.\n\"This,\" whispered MacGraw, \"seems a chapel constructed for\nthe devotions of Black Teach.\" He sat on a three-legged stool and\nwe followed his example, seeking a place to rest our feet in the midst\nof paintpots and brushes soaking in broken vases.\n\"So you are no longer an apothecary?\" asked MacGraw.\n\"No,\" Goldfish answered gruffly, \"today lam a painter. Why\ndid you come, the three of you?\"\nHe approached so near that he was breathing in my face; his dry\nhand took my wrist and a finger pressed on the artery.\n\"Take care,\" he said.\nThen turning toward MacGraw he said, angrily, \"Are you sure\nyou haven't got it? Stick out your tongue. . . . And your\neyes . . . how red they are!\"\n\"You should give us a drink,\" said MacGraw.\nGoldfish descended the stair, grumbling confused words. We\nheard him jingling a bunch of keys in the courtyard.\nWithout exchanging a word we looked round us. The floor of\nthe room was strewn with clippings of canvas, paint-pots and worn-\nout brushes; in one corner was a strange row of cardboard sugarloaves,\ncertain of which, half decorated, presented an aspect both grotesque\nand repulsive; crosses covered with Latin inscriptions were hanging\non the walls as also were immense scapularies barred with St. Andrew's\ncrosses or painted with winged devils brandishing pitch-forks, breath-\ning out flames.\nWe regarded these decorations, to say the least incomprehensible,\nand which, on account of the poverty of the materials which they\nadorned, could only evoke some vulgar masquerade, when Goldfish"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.26", "texte": "returned with two bottles which he placed on a table beside a stub of\ncandle, some crusts of bread, and the dried skins of oranges.\n\"Drink,\" he said. \"Perhaps you have a fever?\"\nWe filled our glasses and that of Goldfish, and we drank to his\nhealth. We set them down. In the street we heard a deep murmur,\na sort of groan, with the trampling of horses and the machinal hum\nof a crowd at prayer. We rushed toward the shuttered windows to\nsee a religious masquerade whose aspect astounded us. Between two\nfiles of soldiers in ill-fitting uniforms and carrying their muskets care-\nlessly, marched a group of men and women dressed in scapularies\nwhich were painted in the manner of those which we had seen on the\nwalls of the room. They wore a sort of grotesque bonnet, which\nexplained equally the use of those sugarloaves which had appeared\nso repulsive to us. Behind these carnavalesque penitents marched\nmulatto slaves carrying on their shoulders wooden boxes in the shape\nof little coffins. Priests chanted in the confusion, and the girls who\nwore scapularies and painted cardboard bonnets questioned with their\nenormous eyes the crowd of bearded men. Their jaws trembled.\nSometimes they stumbled, fell on their knees, while a confessor holding\na crucifix lifted them to their feet with a sort of indiscreet benevolence.\n\"It is the Inquisition,\" said MacGraw. \"They are leading a few\nJews to the stake. The Dutch flag protects us.\"\n\"They brought the plague,\" Goldfish replied. \"I painted the\nangel of the plague on their bonnets—which are known as carrochas\n—and on their samarras, for I am the official painter of the Holy\nInquisition. These witches have been the opportunity for the sensitive\ncolouring of my best work.\"\nHe added in a judicial voice as the procession wavered and re-\nsumed its march: \"I paint the crosses and carrochas, and the samarras\nwith a grey background. Regard how the portrait of the heretic or\nsorcerer is natural and vivacious. I paint from nature, in the very gaol\nwhere these wretches fatigue the heavens with their cries. Let me\nrecommend you this virgin or prostitute, it doesn't matter, the third\nafter the file of men. You see the one I mean ? I painted her portrait\non the front and back of the samarra. She wears this artistic garment\nbecause she denied the true faith before the Holy Tribunal, in spite\nof the fact that she was convicted of having introduced to our city\nthe odious and melancholy plague, whose victims lose, it is said, the\nsentiment of God.\n\"At night,\" continued the mortuary painter, \"it seems that my\ntaut skin converges towards an enormous bubo which bursts with a\nnoise of thunder. The Yellow Death will dominate the world, and"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.27", "texte": "volcanoes are only buboes, perhaps the messengers of a fleshless liberty\nif I credit my dreams.\"\n\"What about business?\" asked MacGraw.\n\"May the devil here painted carry you off!\" barked Goldfish.\n\"This gallows carrion comes to talk of business when the whole city\ntrembles like a little girl who stretches out her hand to a fortune\nteller. Business . . .\n\"Instead regard my portraits and the decorative principles of the\ntortures which vary according to the soul of the patient, his tastes,\nwhat he has been, what he will become, and above all the things which\nhe regrets, for all the subtlety of my art consists in materializing the\nregret of life by means of images of which only a part are symbolic.\"\nThe artist took his head between his hands and sobbed, \"My\nmasterpieces, my poor masterpieces will again be victims of the auto-\nda-fe! Even those imbeciles who paint red crosses on vulgar san-\nbemtos are less to be pitied than I . . . I . . .1 am most cun-\nningly tortured of all the victims of the Holy Inquisition.\"\n\"When this damned masquerade has crossed the square,\" mur-\nmured MacGraw, \"we shall leave the painter to his art. Then, God\nbeing willing, we shall rejoin George Merry and flee this soil where\nfever, like a pagan divinity, bathes in every fountain.\"\n\"The city has the air of an enormous copper coin, red hot,\" added\nPew. He clicked his tongue, for the air about us smelt of hot copper\nwith, at intervals when a little breeze sprang up, the odour of wood\nsmoke and grilled flesh.\n\"You digress,\" said Goldfish interrupting the course of his dreams.\n\"You wander, and I believe you are trembling. . . . Whence do\nyou come . . . with this swollen tongue, these eyes rimmed with\nscarlet and this exaltation of the lesser sentiments before the spectacles\nof nature?\"\n\"Easy, easy, Goldfish. Remember the old days at London when\nyou drank urine punch with the 'German widows' of Mother Knox,\nat Covent Garden, and forget these mummeries . .\n\"Mummeries! Gentlemen, your Lordships! He opens his mouth\nto blaspheme. He . . . \"\nGoldfish in suffocation carried his hands to his neck, swollen like\na puff-adder. Then he grew calm, rubbed his palms against each\nother and, timidly, approached the door.\n\"Gentlemen,\" said the renegade, \"I place my treasures under your\nprotection. (He pointed to the carrochas and the sanbenitos.) I\nam leaving you immediately to seek the elements of a banquet worthy"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.28", "texte": "of your Lordships and of an old comrade, although I must confess\nthat I hardly understand his remarks on our former life. I shall\nreturn.\"\nHe took a step toward the door . . . one step . . . but, I\nswear it, each of us saw from the expression of MacGraw that we had\nto act without longer delay. Anyhow, MacGraw was the first to\nbound on Goldfish, who could not withstand the shock and fell on\nhis two knees. He grunted.\nAnd MacGraw strangled him with his two powerful hands, while\nwe held the prone limbs of the painter of sanbenitos. His eyes turned\nslowly, his tongue pointed from his mouth, his violet-spotted face\nbecame a mask like his paintings. MacGraw, to revive his forces,\nuntwisted his fingers and a little life seemed to reanimate the hideous\npatient. Our comrade knitted his embrace three times, and we felt\nthat the man had just died between our hands.\n\"He wished to denounce us for what I said about the monks,\"\npanted MacGraw.\nWe left the twisted corpse on the floor, and behind the shutters\nwe inspected the public square, now empty, airless, hot. A madman\nran in the shelter of the walls, hunting for a little shade. He raised his\narms to heaven. Out of breath he seated himself beside a dry fountain\nand rolled on the ground, scratching it like a wounded beast.\n\"Perhaps the time has come for us to go,\" I said. MacGraw and\nPitti nodded their heads, but this precipitate departure had too much\nthe air of a flight, and we hunted for some sort of compensation.\nWe took Goldfish, and such as he was, with his tortured face, we\ndressed him in a grey scapulary where unfinished demons howled before\nflames in the shape of tongues; we set a cardboard bonnet on his head,\nand it was the final brush-stroke which completed the monstrous person-\nage which we had just created, we, other artists. When he was\ndressed we carried him into the courtyard and hanged him before the\ndoor with his feet resting on the stone slabs of the vestibule.\n\"We can't go out yet,\" said Pew, \"not by day. We'll have to\nwait till nightfall . . . Have I a fever? . . . Feel if I have a\nfever, MacGraw.\"\nMacGraw, in the twilight of the courtyard, laid a finger on the\nvein of Pew's wrist.\n\"It is nothing,\" he said.\nWe remained seated on the stairway, all three, without saying a\nword, facing the dead man in his pointed bonnet."}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.29", "texte": "\"It hurts me still ... my heart. . .\" said Pew again. He\nleaned a little over the step to vomit.\n\"Go farther, pig,\" said MacGraw.\nWe waited for night like a thief broken on the wheel who waits\nfor death. The minutes passed slowly and the sun, seen above the\ncourtyard as from the depths of a well, refused to bend its homicidal\nrays.\n\"I . . . . it . . .\" said Pew.\nHe did not dare to complain. I surprised MacGraw in the\nshadow, feeling his own artery at the wrist, slyly, uneasily.\nPew could not walk; his legs were limp. We supported him by\nthe wrists, feeling the blood that beat along his veins, against our\nclenched palms.\nThe odour of burned flesh persisted over the city. A great flock\nof crows and vultures passed over us. They uttered various cries; a\nfew sobbed like children.\nPew collapsed at last in spite of our efforts. We let him fall to\nearth. He raised his eyes toward MacGraw; they had grown super-\nnaturally intelligent.\n\"Here, Mac,\" he said, pointing to his heart. \"And quick.\" Mac-\nGraw leaned over him as if to look at his tongue, resting all the weight\nof his body on a knife which he had applied discreetly against the\nheart of his comrade.\nWe abandoned the defunct and rejoined George Merry and the\nband. And we never spoke of Goldfish or the plague, in fear of being\nabandoned, by precaution, in a ship's boat with biscuits, water, a rifle\nand a little powder. The death of Pew was explained naturally as\nthe result of a quarrel adroitly described according to our traditions.\nBut during fourteen days and fourteen nights MacGraw and I\nfelt, in secret, the big vein of our left wrist, and we examined the\nmirrors which reflected our tongue . . . We had no desire to\nquestion our memories of Vera Cruz.\nIV\nOn the gibbet of Savannah, on the quai which faces the mother\nocean, a young man is hanging.\nHis clothes are those which he wore on the Morning Star, a hand-\nsome red coat, an embroidered waistcoat, black velvet breeches and\nwhite stockings. Everywhere an abundance of gold galloons.\nOn his already fleshless head his cocked hat perches coquettishly.\nIt is reddened by the sun. His hands, bound high on his back, give\nhim the appearance of a hunchback."}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.30", "texte": "Daragnès\n\nIt is George Merry, the captain of the Morning Star. He will\nnever smoke his long and melancholy pipe, and the plump Spanish\ngirls have nothing more beneath their skirts to excite his curiosity.\nStiff and sumptuous at the end of the rope he hardly excites the\nglances of the passers-by and the example of his death fills the hearts\nof cowards only with fear.\nYonder on the mother ocean, the Morning Star perpetuates its\ntradition under a new master. The black flag floats from its mizzen\nmasthead and for the gentlemen of fortune who sprawl on the deck\nspeaking of the past, George Merry is only a detail confounded with\nthe whores of Maracaibo, the man from Nantes and his negress and\nthis little, little girl who plucks up her pink skirt with an uneasy gesture\nto water the mandrake growing at the foot of the gallows tree.\n\nPierre MacOrlan\n(Translated by Malcolm Cowley)"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.31", "texte": "THREE POEMS\n\nI.\nTHE CHASMS\nHere and there abysses appear before me in the gloom.\nI have only one concern .... to escape them.\nI am an armoured affair, upright and quiet, gothic.\nWith appalling slowness I recognise each chasm\nAnd with appalling slowness I take steps to escape,\nI approach slowly, with a holy, chaste step,\nThe air is quiet, there is no music, all the birds are dead,\n(I wonder who prepared this decoration)\nI glance at the chasm as one glances at a Latin inscription,\nWith icy reserve, I lift one foot, it hangs against the sky like\na carved club.\nOver the edge of the chasm I play a little, I dally upon the\nedge,\nThe rocks sweat with desire and I with a charming fear,\nMy body sways measuredly, deliberately,\nThe depths of the cavern gleam intensely, blue and quivering;\nThe rocks, absolutely still, hold their furrows rigid with\nexpectation,\nVery, very slowly I begin to fall forward,\nI begin to die,\nSoundlessly my body lowers its epileptic game forward,\nIn the vice of this prepared fear I go on falling\nMonstrously slow .... I progress to an angle of forty-five\ndegrees ....\nThere I hang, an arabesque on the sky\nA horror against its virgin opalescence. . . .\nA door opens in the cliff and my friends appear ranged in\nline to view me,\nSilently, with premeditated surprise they speculate on my\ndoom,\n(Blood begins to flow into my head)"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.32", "texte": "They seem to be dissatisfied with my progress,\nWithout more ado they return through the same door. . . .\nI draw in a tremendous breath . . . filled with bits of rock\nSuddenly I leap .... two yards to the opposite side of\nthe chasm;\nThrough the strange quality of the effort I am embedded in\nthe rock.\nWith prayerful ease I extricate myself and become again\nAn armoured affair, upright and quiet and gothic in design,\nStepping onward with extraordinary slowness,\nWith admirable reserve, not a little frightened.\n\nII.\nREST\nThe soft, pink, content. . .\nThe degrees of dream. . .\nThe basking elements are all here!\nFor every atom of hate towards me there is one of love;\nI glide about among the sussurations of a windy symphony\nBearing harmony as lightly as a cloud bears the damasks of\nsunset.\n112 Rom incalculable heights my voice travels,\nPeacefully describing over magnanimous depths\nThe incredibly simple harmony of everything;\nDiligently attuning itself to your waking ears.\nCome with your patronymic majesty into these reiterated rests.\nThe basking elements are all here.\n\nIII.\nThe sibilant fate, dank locked and drunk,\nDepends to my streaming face new woes.\nIt offers wretched and terrible osculations.\nMy tears are not enough . . . not loud enough\nTo drown in sound and flood these things,"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.33", "texte": "Phantasmal fears, phantasmal growths;\nThe dregs of dismay were never deeper to be drunk;\nIn purple ooze, I dabble my still white body\nWith purple spots of sin.\nCreeping, pale evil-eyed orchids,\nGracefully bodied, slim and swaying, and cool. . .\nCreeping over the warm flesh. . .\nI entwine with you, I enwreathe you,\nSix times I lave myself with your occult dismay.\nSince I was a little boy your appeal was so,\nI have always bored and danced around you\nMuch as a moth to a flame . . . now I am aware,\nNow, I am fulgent with a new liking,\nWith a great fresh sickness. . .\nThis is a celebrated advent . . . why,\nThe blankets of midnight need me for half an hour only;\nI am up to greet the sun, I touch the clouds,\nI tear up leaves of grass.\nMy body is covered with sores that the sun easily burns,\nIt enters the sores and boils their colourful putrefaction,\nPink steam escapes from me into the blue of heaven.\nTo be awakened thus early is said to be terrible.\nI certainly feel a little sad, do not laugh. . .\nRecollect . . . having discovered this entertaining truth\nI shall probably never slumber again.\nA few suggestions are never amiss in new games,\nSee if you can, with closed eyes, rise and follow me\nWithout stumbling over the closing lid of this coffin.\n\nWilfrid H. Bendall"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.34", "texte": "A NOTE ON JUAN GRIS AND CUBISM\n\nA Guitarist, a Big and Little Pierrot, a Nun and two Still-lifes:\nthese are the latest drawings of Juan Gris: \"one of the most orthodox\ngrammarians of the cubist school.\" \"Cubism is dead,\" says the care-\nless dilettante, more eager to hail new tendencies and bury the old than\nto understand how the successive phases of painting are aligned, by\ncasual sequence, in a tradition whose beginning is unknown and whose\nend cannot be imagined. Cubism is hardly dead. The Nun, with\nher veil falling in geometric lines; with her hands, her chain, her cross,\nher halo: all essential constituents of a pattern whose value depends\nentirely on its plastic arrangement and not on any similitude of life or\nreality, owes as much to the researches of the cubists as does the ab-\nstract Still-life, in which unnamable two-dimensional shapes intersect.\nBoth drawings are cubist fundamentally.\nIt is true that Picasso, Braque, Gris and other former cubists are\nturning more and more to compositions of figures, and are painting\nfewer of the abstractions which suggested the name of their movement.\nBut this fact merely indicates that the experiments in pure form have\nreached a satisfactory conclusion. The artists have learned exactly\nwhat they can do with this medium from wThich all the supplementary\nappeals have been subtracted, and therefore, as is proper for those who\ndeserve the name of artists, they are going on to something new, to the\napplication of their acquired knowledge in more complicated fields.\nThe evolution can be followed more easily in the work of Juan\nGris than with Picasso, for the latter, possessing a genius of phenomenal\ninventiveness, has swung from one mood to another with bewildering\nrapidity. Gris, on the other hand, works with a single-minded intention\nwhich resembles the progress of a scientist more nearly than that of the\ntraditional artist. His starting point is the relation of two or more\nforms. Having discovered the arrangement which best satisfies the\naesthetic problem, he goes on to incarnate the forms in line or paint,\nregardless of visual reality. Thus, when desirable, solids mutually\ninterpenetrate, colour is dissociated from its mass, and other liberties\nare taken with reality as perceived by the optic nerve. This is of course\nnothing new. Egyptians added the invisible eye to the profile; negroes\npierced the opacity of the stomach or distorted the shape of the breast;\nMayas so conventionalized the images of their gods that on first glance"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "33", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.35", "texte": "Drawing\nJuan Gris"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.36", "texte": "they are not portraits at all. The distortions of cubists and other\npost-impressionistic painters must, however, be distinguished from the\nexaggerations of futurists and expressionists who, unlike the primitives,\nusually ignore visual reality for literary rather than plastic reasons.\nThe consummation sought by Gris and other painters of the group\nis an arrangement of form and colour, whether abstract or composed\nof clearly recognizable figures, which will possess an import specifically\nplastic, owing nothing to the pleasure derived from recognition or senti-\nment. Ihe emotion evoked is an intellectual emotion, relating more\nclosely to the pleasure felt on first comprehending the Pythagorean\nsolution than to the gentler thrill of a landscape in late spring. This\nexplains the tendency to neglect the warm and romantic colours for\nthose dull greens and dirty browns with which the cubists are often\nreproached.\nConsidering these facts it was surprising to find that Mr. Wright,\nin The Freeman, defined modern painting as a new art of colour which\nmarked an absolute break with European tradition because, for the\nfirst time, form was made absolutely subordinate. He even states that\nfor this reason modern paintings lose most of their value when repro-\nduced in half-tone. Since it is notorious that the work of several\ncontemporary artists looks at least as well when reproduced, one is\nforced to wonder what modern paintings Mr. Wright has in mind.\nHis aesthetic theory was effectively demolished soon afterwards in the\nsame periodical, but if there be any reader of The Freeman who\nobtains his information solely from its pages, he will naturally believe\nthat all modern art is buried in the same debris as the theories of Mr.\nWright.\nThe group of modern artists who live in Paris, and who by general\nconsent are considered the pioneers of occidental pictorial art, are at\nleast as much concerned with the problem of arranging form signifi-\ncantly as were the masters of the early Renaissance, and perhaps their\nchief difference with tradition is the economy with which they seek\nthe attainment of this end. The drawings of Gris, reproduced in this\nnumber, are valuable not only for their beauty, but for the clear way\nin which they illustrate the method and aims of the cubists.\n\nH. A. L."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.37", "texte": "Drawing\nJuan Gris"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.38", "texte": "THE POET ASSASSINATED\n\nIX\nPEDAGOGY\nThe Dutchman, named Janssen, led Croniamantal to the region of\nAix, where there was a house which the people of the neighborhood\ncalled le Chateau. Le Chateau had nothing lordly about it other than\nits name and was nothing but a vast domicile containing a dairy and a\nstable.\nMr. Janssen possessed a modest income and lived alone in this\ndwelling which he had bought in order to live in solitude, a suddenly\nbroken off betrothal having rendered him rather hypochondriac. He\ndevoted it now to the education of the son of Macaree and Vierselin\nTigoboth: Croniamantal, inheritor of the old name of des Ygrees.\nThe Dutchman, Janssen, had travelled much. He spoke all the\nlanguages of Europe, Arabian, and Turkish, not to mention Hebrew\nand other dead languages. His speech was as clear as his blue eyes.\nHe soon made the friendship of several scholars of Aix whom he would\nvisit from time to time and he corresponded with many foreign scientists.\nWhen Croniamantal was six years of age, Mr. Janssen would\noften take him to the country. Croniamantal came to love these lessons\nalong the paths of wooded hills. Mr. Janssen would often stop and\nshow Croniamantal the birds hopping about or butterflies pursuing each\nother and fluttering together among the wild rose-bushes. He would\nsay that love reigned over all of Nature. They would also go out on\nmoonlit nights and the master would explain to his student the hidden\ndestinies of the heavenly bodies, their regular course, and their effects\nupon the life of man.\nCroniamantal never forgot how one moonlit night his master led\nhim to a field at the edge of a forest; the grass bubbled with milky\nlight. Fireflies fluttered around them; their phosphorescent and jagged\nlights gave the site a strange aspect. The master called the attention\nof his disciple to the sweetness of this Mav night.\n\"Learn,\" he said, \"learn to know all of Nature and to love her.\nLet her be your veritable nurse, whose salutary mammals are the moon\nand the hills.\""}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.39", "texte": "Croniamantal was thirteen years of age at this time and his mind\nwas quite ripe. He listened attentively to Mr. Janssen's words.\n\"I have always lived in her, but I must say, lived badly, for one\nshould not live without human love as companion. Do not forget that\nall is a sign of love in Nature. I, alas! am damned for not having\nobserved this law whose demands nothing can withstand.\"\n\"What,\" said Croniamantal, \"you, my teacher, who know so\nmany sciences did not recognize this law which every country lout\nand even the animals, the vegetables, and inert matter observe?\"\n\"Happy child who at your age can put such questions!\" said Mr.\nJanssen. \"I have always known that law, from which no human being\nshould rebel. But there are some luckless men destined never to know\nthe joys of love. I have mortified my flesh and suffered severe punish-\nment. I should like your life to be happy.\"\nCroniamantal's master made him devote most of his time to the\nsciences, keeping him au courant with all recent inventions. He also\ninstructed the boy in Latin and Greek. They often read the Eclogues\nof Virgil or translated Theocritus in a clump of olive trees. Cronia-\nmantal had learned a very pure French, but his master taught him in\nLatin. He also taught him Italian, and at an early age Croniamantal\nreceived the poems of Petrarch, who became one of his favorite poets.\nM. Janssen also taught Croniamantal English, and made him familiar\nwith Shakespeare. Above all he gave the boy a taste for old French\nauthors. Among the French poets he admired chiefly Villon, Ron-\nsard and his Pleiade, Racine and La Fontaine. He also made him\nread translations of Cervantes and of Goethe. On his advice, Cronia-\nmantal read the romances of chivalry which might have made part of\nthe library of Don Quixote. They developed in Croniamantal an\ninvincible predilection for experiment and perilous love adventures; he\ndevoted hmself to fencing and to horseback riding; at the age of fifteen\nhe declared to anyone who came to visit them that he had decided to\nbecome a celebrated and peerless cavalier, and already he dreamed\nof a mistress.\nCroniamantal was, at this time, a handsome adolescent, thin and\nstraight. The girls at the village fetes, when he touched them lightly,\nwould stifle little bursts of laughter and redden, lowering their eyes\nunder his regard. Habituated to poetic forms, his mind thought of\nlove as a conquest. Thoughts of Boccacio, his natural daring, his\neducation, everything disposed him to take the final step.\nOne May day, he went out for a long ride. It was morning,\neverything was still fresh. The dew hung from the flowers of the"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.40", "texte": "hedges, and on either side of the road stretched the fields of olive\ntrees whose gray leaves trembled gently in the sea breeze and com-\npared agreeably with the blue sky. He arrived at a place where\nthe road was being mended. The road menders, handsome boys in\nbright colored caps, worked lazily, singing the while, and stopping\noccasionally to drink from their flasks. Croniamantal thought that\nthese handsome fellows had sweethearts. It is thus that they call a\nlover in that country. The boys say \"my sweetheart,\" the girls, \"my\nsweetheart,\" and in fact they are both sweet in that lovely country.\nCroniamantal's heart leaped and his whole being, exalted by the spring-\ntime and the riding, cried for love.\nAt a turn in the road, an apparition increased his pain. He arrived\nclose to a little bridge thrown across a river which cut the road. The\nplace was isolated, and across the hedges and the trunks of poplars, he\nsaw two beautiful girls bathing, quite naked. One was in the water\nand held herself up by a branch. He admired her brown arms and\nabundant beauties, hardly concealed by the water. The other, standing\non the bank, dried herself after her bath and exposed ravishing lines\nand graces which enflamed the heart of Croniamantal; he decided to\njoin them and mingle in their pleasures. Unluckily, he perceived in\nthe branches of a neighboring tree two youths spying on this prey.\nHolding their breath and watching the least movements of the bathers,\nthey did not see the equestrian, who, laughing uproariously, threw his\nhorse into a gallop and cried aloud as he crossed the little bridge.\nThe sun had risen almost to its zenith and was now darting its\ndreadful rays. An ardent thirst added itself to the amorous inquietudes\nof Croniamantal. The sight of a farm along the road brought him\nunspeakable joy. He arrived at a little orchard whose blossoming\ntrees made a lovely sight. It was a little wood, rose and white with\nthe cherry and peach blossoms. On the fence linen was drying and\nhe had the pleasure of seeing a charming peasant girl of about sixteen,\nat work washing clothes in a vat in the shadow of a fig-tree that had\njust begun to bloom. Not having noticed his arrival, she continued\nto accomplish her domestic function which he found noble; for, his\nimagination full of memories of antiquity, he compared her to Nausica.\nDescending from his horse he approached and contemplated the young\ngirl with ravishment. He looked at her back. Her folded up skirt\ndiscovered a well made leg in a very white stocking. Her body moved\nin a manner that was pleasantly excitating because of the efforts occa-\nsioned by the soaping. Her sleeves were rolled up and he observed\nher pretty brown plump arms, which enchanted him."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.41", "texte": "I have always loved beautiful arms especially. There are people\nwho attach great importance to the perfection of the foot. I admit\nthat they touch me too, but the arm is to my mind that which should\nbe most perfect in woman. It is always in motion, one always has one's\neye upon it. One might say that it is the veritable organ of the graces,\nand that by its deft movements, it is the veritable arm of Love, since\nwhen curved, this delicate arm resembles a bow, and when extended,\nthe arrow thereof.\nThis was also Croniamantal's point of view. He was thinking\nof this, when suddenly, his horse, who suddenly remembered that it\nwas the habitual hour for being fed began to whinny. At once the\nyoung girl turned and showed surprise at seeing a stranger regarding\nher from above the fence. She blushed and only seemed the more\ncharming. Her dusky skin attested to the Moorish blood that flowed\nin her veins. Croniamantal asked her for food and drink. With\nmuch good grace this sweet girl did have him enter the house and served\nhim a rude repast. some milk, eggs and black bread, his thirst\nand his hunger were soon sated. In the meantime, he questioned\nhis young hostess, in the hope of finding an opportunity for paying her\ngallant compliments. He learned that her name was Mariette, and\nthat her parents had gone to the neighboring town to sell vegetables;\nher brother was working on the road. This family lived happily on\nthe products of the orchard and the barnyard.\nAt this moment, her parents, fine looking peasants, returned, and\nthere was Croniamantal already in love with Mariette, quite dis-\nappointed. He paid the mother for the meal, and went off, after having\ngiven Mariette a long look which she did not return, but he had the\nsatisfaction of seeing her blush as she turned away.\nHe mounted his horse and took the road to his house. Being for\nthe first time in his life, sad for love, he found extreme melancholy in\nthis same countryside which he had previously traversed. The sun\nhad dropped low over the horizon. The grey leaves of the olive trees\nseemed as sad as himself. The shadows stretched out like waves. The\nriver where he had seen the bathers was abandoned. The lapping of\nthe water became unbearable for him, like a mockery. He threw his\nhorse into a gallop. Then there was the dusk, lights appearing in the\ndistance. Then night came; he slowed up his horse and abandoned\nhimself to a disordered revery. The sloping road was bordered with\ncypresses, and it was thus, somnolent with the night and with love, that\nCroniamantal pursued his melancholy way."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.42", "texte": "His master soon noticed in the days that followed that he gave no\nmore attention to the studies to which he had been wont to apply\nhimself with such diligence. He divined that this disgust came of love.\nHis respect was mingled with a little scorn because Mariette was\nnothing but a simple peasant girl.\nThe end of September had been reached, and one day Mr. Janssen\nled Croniamantal out under the laden olive trees in the orchard and\ncensured his disciple for his passion, the latter hearkening to his re-\nproaches with ruddy embarrassment. The first winds of autumn com-\nplained in the fields and Croniamantal, very sad and much ashamed,\nlost forever his desire to see again the pretty Mariette and kept nothing\nbut the memory of her.\nAnd so Croniamantal attained his majority.\nA disease of the heart which was discovered in him was cured by\nthe military authorities. Soon after, his guardian died suddenly, leav-\ning him by will the little which he possessed. And after having sold\nthe house called le Chateau, Croniamantal went to Paris to give him-\nself freely to his taste for literature; he had been for some time\npast composing poems secretly and accumulating them in an old\ncigar-box.\nX\nPOETRY\nIn the early days of the year 1911, a young man who was very\nbadly dressed went running up the rue Houdon. His extremely mo-\nbile countenance seemed to be filled with joy and anxiety by turns.\nHis eyes devoured all that they saw and when his eyelids snapped shut\nquickly like jaws, they gulped in the universe, which renewed itself\nincessantly by the mere operation of him who ran. He imagined to the\ntiniest details the enormous worlds pastured in himself. The clamour\nand the thunder of Paris burst from afar and about the young man, who\nstopped, and panted like some criminal who has been too long pursued\nand ready to surrender himself. This clamour, this noise indicated\nclearly that his enemies were about to track him like a thief. His mouth\nand his gaze expressed the ruse he was employing, and walking slowly\nnow, he took refuge in his memory, and went forward, while all the\nforces of his destiny and of his consciousness retarded the time when\nthe truth should appear of that which is, that which was, and of that\nwhich is to be."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.43", "texte": "The young man entered a one story house. On the open door was\na placard:\nEntrance to the Studios\nHe followed a corridor where it was so dark and so cold that he\nhad the feeling of having died, and with all his will, clenching his fists\nand gritting his teeth he began to take eternity to bits. Then suddenly\nhe was conscious again of the motion of time whose seconds, hammered\nby a clock, fell like pieces of broken glass, while life flowed in him\nagain with the renewed passage of time. But as he stopped to rap at a\ndoor, his heart beat more strongly again, for fear of finding no one home.\nHe rapped at the door and cried:\n\"It is I, Croniamantal!\"\nAnd behind the door the heavy steps of a man who seemed tired,\nor carried too weighty a burden, came slowly, and as the door opened\nthere took place in the sudden light the creation of two beings and their\ninstant marriage.\nIn the studio, which looked like a barn, an innumerable herd flowed\nin dispersion; they were the sleeping pictures, and the herdsman who\ntended them smiled at his friend. Upon a carpenter s table piles of\nyellow books could be likened to mounds of butter. And pushing\nback the ill-joined door, the wind brought in unknown beings who\ncomplained with little cries in the name of all the sorrows. All the\nwolves of distress howled behind the door ready to devour the flock,\nthe herdsman and his friend, in order to prepare in their place the\nfoundations for the NEW CITY. But in the studio there were joys\nof all colours. A great window opened the whole north side and nothing\ncould be seen but the whole blue sky, the song of a woman. Cronia-\nmantal took off his coat which fell to the floor like the corpse of a\ndrowned man, and sitting on the divan he gazed for a long time at the\nnew canvas placed on the support. Dressed in a blue wrap, barefooted,\nthe painter also regarded the picture in which two women remembered\nthemselves in a glacial mist.\nThe studio contained another fatal object, a large piece of broken\nmirror hooked to the wall. It was a dead and soundless sea, standing\non end, and at the bottom of which a false life animated what did not\nexist. Thus, confronting Art, there is the appearance of Art, against\nwhich men are not sufficiently on their guard, and which pulls them to\nearth when Art has raised them to the heights. Croniamantal bent over\nin a sitting posture, leaned his fore-arms on his knees, and turned his"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.44", "texte": "eyes from the painting to an advertisement thrown on the floor on which\nwas painted the following announcement:\nI AM AT THE BAR— The Bird of Benin\nHe read and re-read this sentence while the Bird of Benin con-\ntemplated his picture, approaching it and withdrawing from it, his head\nat all angles. Finally he turned towards Croniamantal and said,\n\"I saw the woman for you last night.\"\n\"Who is she?\" asked Croniamantal.\n\"I do not know, I saw her but Ido not know her. She is a really\nyoung girl, as you like them. She has the sombre and child-like face\nof those who are destined to cause suffering. And despite all the grace\nof her hands that straighten in order to repell, she lacks that nobility\nwhich poets could not love because it would prevent their being mis-\nerable. I have seen the woman for you, I tell you. She is both beauty\nand ugliness; she is like everything that we love nowadays. And she\nmust have the taste of the laurel leaf.\"\nBut Croniamantal, who was not listening to him, interrupted at this\npoint to say:\n\"Yesterday I wrote my last poem in regular verses:\nT e-rum\nT e-tum!\nand my last poem in irregular verses (take care that in the second\nstanza the word wench is taken in its less reputable meaning) :\nPROSPECTUS FOR A NEW MEDICINE\nWhy did Hjalmar return\nThe tankard of beaten silver lay void,\nThe stars of the evening\nBecame the stars of the morning\nReciprocally\nThe sorceress of the forest of Hruloe\nPrepared her repast\nShe Tvas an eater of horse-flesh\nBut he was not\nMai Mai ramaho nia nia.\nThen the stars of the morning\nBecame again the stars of the evening\nAnd reciprocally"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.45", "texte": "The}) cried—ln the name of Maroe\nWench of Arnamoer\nAnd of his favorite zoophyte\nPrepare the drink of the gods\n—Certainly noble warrior\nMai Mai ramaho nia nia.\nShe took the sun\nAnd plunged him into the sea\nAs housewives\nDip a ham in the gravy\nBut alas! the salmons voracious\nHave devoured the drowned sun\nAnd have made themselves wigs\nWith his beams\nMai Mai ramaho nia nia.\nShe took the moon and did her all with bands\nAs they do with the illustrious dead\nAnd with little children\nAnd then in the light of the only stars\nThe eternal ones\nShe made concoction of sea-brine\nThe euphorbiaceans of Norwegian resin\nAnd the mucous of Alfes\nTo make a drink f°r the gods\nMai Mai ramaho nia nia.\"\nHe died like the sun\nAnd the sorceress perched at the top of a fir pine\nHeard until evening\nThe rumours of the great winds engulfed in the phial\nAnd the lying scaldas swear to this\nMai Mai ramaho nia nia.\nCroniamantal was silent for an instant and then added:\n\"I shall from now on write only poetry free from all restrictions\neven that of language.\n\"Listen, old man!"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.46", "texte": "MAHEVIDANOMI RENANOCALIPNODITOC\nEXTARTINAP if v.s.\nA. Z.\nTelephone: 33-122 Pan:Pan\nOeaoiiiioKTin\n•••••••••••\n11111111111\nYour last line, my poor Croniamantal,\" said the bird of Benin,\n\"is a simple plagiarism from Fr.nc.s J.mm.s.\"\nThat is not true,\" said Croniamantal. \"But I shall compose no\nmore pure poetry. That is what I have come to, through your fault.\nI want to write plays.\"\nYou had better go to see the young woman of whom I\nspoke to you. She knows you and seems to be crazy about you.\nYou will find her in the Meudon woods next Thursday at a place that\nI shall designate. You will recognize her by the skipping rope that she\nwill hold in her hand. Her name is Tristouse Ballerinette.\"\nVery well,\" said Croniamantal, \"I shall go to see Ballerinette\nand shall sleep with her, but above all I want to go to the theatres\nto offer my play, Ieximal Jelimite, which I wrote in your studio last\nyear while eating lemons.\"\nDo what you want, my friend,\" said the Bird of Benin, \"but do\nnot forget Tristouse Ballerinette, the woman of your future.\"\n\"Well said,\" said Croniamantal. \"But I want to roar to you once\nmore the plot of Ieximal Jelimite. Listen:\nA man buys a newspaper on the seashore. From the garden of\na house at one side emerges a soldier whose hands are electric bulbs.\nA giant 10 feet tall descends from a tree. He shakes the newspaper\nvendor, who is of plaster and who in falling breaks to bits. At this\nmoment a judge arrives. With strokes of a razor he kills everybody,\nwhile a leg which passes hopping crushes the judge with a kick in the\nnose, and sings a pretty little song.\"\n\"How wonderful!\" said the Bird of Benin. ''I shall paint the\ndecoration, you have promised me that.\"\n\"That goes without saying,\" answered Croniamantal.\n\n(To be continued)\n\nGuillaume Apollinaire\n(Translated by Matthew Josephson)"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.47", "texte": "Drawing\nJuan Gris"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.48", "texte": "SAMMY PLAYS THE PAWN\nRobert Alden Sanborn\n(Being three impressions of a child chess-player)\nI. The curtain\nrises\nIn the Royal Gorge\nTables are set till midnight\nBut no bed\nFor a lost child\nWho aware of checks\nWanders among grim castles\nPerpetuated\nIn a Noah's ark.\n11. Dramatis\npersona\nWith the smile of a humming bird\ndescribing the letter O\nOn a broken blackboard\nNapoleon on spindle shanks\nTurns Waterloo to Austerlitz\nCrying in treble\n\"All right, shoot!\"\n111. Curtain\nArmed with St. Martin's tree\nThe little pawn Gargantua\nLaughs down the castle\nAt the ford of Vede.\nA fterthought\n\"You are late this morning, schoolmaster.\nAnd you have lost your note ?\nHold out your hand.\""}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.49", "texte": "BOOK REVIEWS\n\nNOTATIONS ON THE CAPTAIN'S DOLL\n\nThe Captain's Doll, by D. H. Lawrence. New Yorfy. Thomas\nSeltzer. $2.00.\nThe purpose of the three stones: The Captain's Doll, The Fox,\nand The Ladybird, grouped in this volume, is to convey a serious\nsense of the unusual. For this enterprise, Mr. D. H. Lawrence em-\nploys the following equipment:\n(1 ) A narrative technic which makes use of symbols: a doll, a\nfox, a ladybird, to gear and regulate the tales. Necessarily, the re-\nsults are rather slight and somewhat artificial, for such devices can be\nnothing more than anemic substitutes for the natural depth and drive\nof generative ideas and essentialized design.\nIn the first story, a portrait doll of Captain Hepburn, made by his\nmistress, is dangled about until it is finally forced to serve as starting\npoint for the following observation:\n\"And you can say what you like, but arty woman, today, no matter\nhow much she loves her man—she could start any minute and make\na doll of him. And the doll would be her hero: and her hero would\nbe no more than her doll.\"\nWhich is the climax of this episode. The fox is more effectively an\ninstrument of the second narrative. For the effect it has upon the girl\nEllen, and the compelling fascination which Henry Grenfel exercises\nover her are similar and interchangeable. But the importance and\nfunction of the ladybird, aside from certain irrelevant comments made\nconcerning it and the fact that it is a descendant of the Egyptian\nscarabeus, are questionable, trivial.\n(2) A descriptive faculty that tends to overshadow or ignore the\nessential progression of the characters. Excessive and repeated de-\nscription of a glacier, for example, all but obliterates the central figures\nwho technically should be working towards a rapid climax while\nascending it. This over-description often comes in large undigested\nchunks directly to the reader. Hence the characters are not served\nby it. Rather, one feels that they exist for the purposes of the descrip-"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.50", "texte": "tion. This faculty is perhaps at its best when concerned with physical\nattractiveness:\n\"The women, old and young, paraded in the peasant-costume,\nin flowery cotton dresses with gaudy, expensive silk aprons:\nthe men wore the Tyrolese costume, bare knees and little short jackets.\nAnd for the men the correct thing was to have the leathern hose and\nthe blue linen jacket as old as possible. If you had a hole in your\nleathern seat, so much the better.\"\n(3) An ability to conceive, but not to inevitably unfold and\nrealize character. Doubtless the five or six major figures of this volume\nwere possessed with unusual qualities and important problems of devel-\nopment, as Mr. Lawrence saw them. And it must be granted that as\ncreations Captain Hepburn, Ellen March, Grenfel, and Psanek have\na certain objective validity. The soft, amusing indifference and in-\ndecision of the first, Ellen's rapid shifts from surface efficiency to deep,\nsubconscious dreams and brooding, Grenfel's foxiness and determina-\ntion, Psanek's solitary hate and his intense sub-surface power—these\nqualities exist in the pages of this book. But because Mr. Lawrence\nfails to finally grip and develop them, they tend to a static rather than\nto a dynamic and cumulative reality. Hence one sees them; one does\nnot always feel and know them to be there. And with his minor\nfigures Mr. Lawrence is even less successful. Why Hepburn's mis-\ntress, for example, should invariably be amazed at him, is anything\nbut clear. To state that she is, by the repeated use of this convention:\n\"in the midst of her indignant amazement\" or \"she turned on him with\nwide-open eyes of amazement\" simply begs the labor of convincing\ncreation. And so, the relations between Hepburn and his lover ap-\nproach the absurd. In fact the element of absurdity is often so near\nthe surface of these tales, that one with difficulty restrains the convic-\ntion that Mr. Lawrence is laughing all the while.\n(4) A prose style, not far removed from the accents and texture\nof conversation, most at ease in dialog, most competent in narrative\npassages and in description. A stvle rarely or never luminous and\ndense, muscular and racy. Nor has it those finished periods that\ndistinguish traditional English prose. Cliche, ineffective images and\nfigures of speech, however, generously stud it:\n\"It was all like a mystery to her, as if one of the men from Mars\nwere loving her;\" \"it was exactly like day in some other planet;\" \"he\nwas just committed to her, as he might have been committed to gaol, or\ncommitted to paradise;\" \"so he had seemed to her: like a mute Caesar.\nLike Germanicus;\" \"the strange look, like destiny, in his wide-open,"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.51", "texte": "almost staring eyes;\" \"she could feel the arrows of desire rankling;\"\n\"but also, the queer figure that sat alone on the roof watching the\nstars! The wonderful red flower of the cactus;\" \"like a flown bird;\"\nand you giving off beams of bright effulgence like a Gloria!\" \"it\n(the glacier) seemed to her like a grand beast;\" \"so, after a while of\nthis valley of the shadow of death.\"\nAnd so on. Now one or two more acceptable images by way\nof balance:\n\"The sky from above was like a sharp wedge forcing its way into\nthe earth's cleavage, and that eternal ferocious water was like the steel\nedge of the wedge, the terrible tip biting into the rock's intensity;\"\n\"she could faintly see the flesh through his beard, as water through\nreeds.\" \" 'Yes, Ido know what you are talking about. Yes, I do,'\nhe persisted softly, as if he were producing his voice in her blood.\"\n(5) A solemnity of background and underlying temperament, an\nevidently earnest purpose that destroys the fun one might have from\nthose incidents that are frankly absurd, or approach the absurd. Take\nthe passage where Hepburn is frightened at seeing himself in a still-life\npainting along with two sun-flowers in a glass and a poached egg on\ntoast. Quite amusing, really. But immediately following this we are\nassured that the Captain is not a person to be spoofed with, for\n\"fatigued and furious he arrived in Salzburg, seeing no beauty in\nanything.\" And the whole thing is spoiled.\nThis seriousness will not permit of the volume being taken as a bit\nof incidental writing. Unfortunately, on no other basis can one claim\nfor it a literary value.\n\nJean Toomer\n\nPOETS OF THE CATACOMBS\n\nBlack Armour, by Elinor Wylie. New York. George H. Dor an\nCompany. $1.75.\nSea-Change, by Muna Lee. Next) York• The Macmillan Company.\n$1.50.\nThe Hundred and One Harlequins, by Sacheverell Sitivell. New\nYork. Boni and Liveright. $1.75.\nThe large, imaginative, daring, formidable people in America are\nmostly to be found on the vaudeville stage, in the movies, the adver-\ntising business, prize-fighting, railroads, Wall Street. One is led to\nthis conclusion by observing to what an alarming extent those who\nproduce poetry lack such virtues. Art is purveyed for small persecuted"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.52", "texte": "colonies, dispersed throughout this continent, and hidden away among\nits stone walls and steel foundations. They simply do not join in the\ngreat funny time that is being had by all—I mean, the Zeitgeist spouts\nand blows great storms against which they are thoroughly cellared.\n1 hus, while the age itself is given to upheaval, our poets, insensibly\nenough, strike perfectly traditional poses and have nothing to say which\nwould place them in this time rather than in Heine's or Landor's time.\nMiss Wylie, for instance, is still \"the inscrutable woman:\"\n\"But none has merited my fear,\nAnd none has quite escaped my smile.\"\nFor our feminine lyricists, it is still fashionable to be wistfully ironical,\nto hope tenderly but to know that all will go badly after all, to idealize\nlove with knights and kings, to fling a rose wash over love. But it is\nall very astonishing in this time, which demands hardier poets,\nsuch as can straddle the language of our people, or know the genius\nof this people as well as a vaudeville comedian or an advertising copy-\nwriter, positive, voluble, sententious, and yet by their form and attitude\ndefining the very nature of their age. Unfortunately, neither Elinor\nWylie nor Muna Lee are of this mould. Miss Wylie, who has been\nsomewhat indiscriminately complimented for her virtuosity, is generally\nmore dexterous than most of her lyrical colleagues in her use of the\nolder verse forms; nevertheless she is precipitated by these very forms\ninto familiar subterfuges which arouse impatience and resentment, viz.:\n\"delicate and slim,\" (Hamlet!) \"exquisite and thin,\" \"ingenuous\nshepherd boy,\" \"Passion in the night,\" \"could not pity nor forget,\"\n\"submit my spirit to the storm.\" At her best, she is quainter and more\ncharming than the others, as witness \"Lilliputian,\" but the conventional\nlyric is by now a single fine violin note of pathos which has become\nnearly insufferable.\nMiss Lee's register is plainly that of Sara Teasdale, Grace Conk-\nling, Wytter Bynner, and a vast chorus of soprano singers. Her\ntheme in \"Sea-Change\" is Love—the love of popular magazines: a\nlove that desires all of the beloved, that \"gives but does not give all,\"\nthat sings when \"the dawn grows red,\" that wanes upon a large hill at\nsunset. In short Miss Lee does not express in her love songs an unfor-\ngettable personal equation as did Sir Philip Sidney, or D. G. Rossetti,\nwhose opinions are invaluable documents for any history of the repro-\nductive instinct in mankind. Her verses are facile; at their best they\nare modelled after Blake's irregular metrics:\nThe East unrolled a sheet of gold,\nGold for river and flower and limb;"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.53", "texte": "but her images do not have the same air of being accurate statements.\nNor is she as frequently happy in playing with her iambs, as witness:\nThe blackbirds fly before the cold,\nThe painted grosbeaks go;\nNot any tanager is so bold\nAs to brave the snow.\nThe last line scans very badly. By the functioning of the preceding\nthree, one is led to beat a solid accent in the wrong place: \"As TO\nbrave the snow.\" Judged by her own intentions, Miss Lee has not\nmastered the trade secrets of her medium. The American warblers\nare a little less painstaking than the English Georgians. A sequence\nof sonnets concludes Miss Lee's book, but they can scarcely be con-\nsidered an advance upon the Masefield sonnet: her versification is\nextremely uneven in a form where departure from orthodox rhythms\nmust be brilliantly executed if at all.\nSacheverell Sitwell, (the youngest of the three Sitwells) has much\nreal wit and virtuosity. A prolific and gifted youth, cynical beyond\nhis years, he has adopted the manner of the Seventeenth-Century and\nMetaphysical poets to lampoon us with. The \"manner\" comprises\nfantasy, explosive rhymes, elaborate and unruly metaphors, and a\npersistently extravagant vocabulary. At his own game, Mr. Sitwell\ncan be most entertaining—always for the particular colony in the\ncatacombs whom this pose pleases best. (For a time, after the arrival\nof Mr. Eliot, we all thought that we had better rush off and read our\nDonne, Chapman, Vaughan, Marvell and steal their fantasy and wit\nas the best retort to the pressure of modern conditions.) And so, Mr.\nSitwell can be pert and buffoonish with the language:\nWho taught the centaur first to drink\nLadling his huge hands from the brink—\nWhen other monsters lie and lap\nThe waters like a fruitful pap.\nIn the \"Hochzeit of Hercules\" he is purely the satirist; the fun con-\nsists of mixing modern figures with ancient ones: Hercules \"has taken\nfrom fat kings, their motorcars and diamond rings.\" It is all frankly\ndisappointing. Satire produces essentially negative qualities: a com-\npromised withdrawal from this übiquitous and consternating existence.\n\nM. J.\n\nThe Orissers, bp L. H. Meyers. Charles Scribner's Sons. $2.00.\nThe 553 pages of this work are an easy evidence of a quantitative\nenergy seeking expression in the novel form. Upon a plot of intrigue"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.54", "texte": "and domestic complications it erects a structure that is intended to\nmeasure the psychological processes and the cultural-social tendency\nof people fashioned by modern industrial civilization. Which is to\nsay: it attempts the larger possibilities of the novel.\nAs background, The Orissers gives an industrial city and an\nadjacent country home. Springing from these, the characters, suffi-\nciently concrete and personalized, are nevertheless frankly broadened\nand interpreted as types. John Mayne and Walter Standish, finan-\nciers, fit with an unusual efficiency into the dominant accepted order,\nwhile Lilian and Nicholas Orisser find the ease and solitude their\nsensitized, inbred natures need, at Eamor. Maladjustment and friction\ncomes when one life tries to penetrate the domain of the other. The\nspiritual obtuseness of Mayne is pricked by his love for, and marriage\nto Lilian. Distemper and disease set in, and he finally dies at the\nhome of the Orissers. Standish, forced to endure this place because\nof the sickness of his friend, escapes to his own sphere immediately\nafter the death of this latter. Lilian's spiritual decay is hastened by\nthe invasion. And Nicholas salvages nothing but bitterness from his\ncontact with the material world. Two other major characters figure\nin this work: Cosmo Orisser and Allen. Cosmo, in addition to the\nspiritual values of the Orissers, is possessed by a vehement temperament\nthat drives him into experience. Lacking direction, his fervor for a\nmore perfect world degenerates to a hate that includes the place that\ncradled him and the social form that could find no function for his\nvision. His end is in near-insanity and complete frustration. Allen,\nby virtue of an interest in archeology and a less rigid and passionate\nnature, manages to straddle the two mutually exclusive worlds.\nThe analysis is thorough and convincing, though it is not complete.\nSummarized, it might be stated thus: since power resides with\nthe complacent, conformist materialists, those who possess dissenting\nspiritual values will abort (suffering in proporton to the passion with\nwhich they press their convictions) or be snowed under. And since\nan acceptable mixture is impossible, the commercial-financial class will\nover-ride and supplant the old landowners. As a limited cross-section\nof western experience—that is, in this novel, one accepts these conclu-\nsions. Here, surely, whatever the content of the coming years, it is\nnot for Lilian or Nicholas; it is for Walter Standish. But as a\ngeneral concept and interpretation, this view likewise is not complete.\nFor it ignores the possible proletarian influence upon both of these\nclasses. And it excludes the fact and force of creative values coupled\nwith direction. It excludes the creator, strong enough to accept rather\nthan reject. Here in America at least, it is still to be demonstrated"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.55", "texte": "that the artist is unequal to the task of transforming the crude energy\nof his material world. But perhaps after all one should not look for\ntoo inclusive a vision in this work. Perhaps it should be accepted\nsimply as a novel of more than usual scope.\nThe Orissers is not a great novel, in the sense that the lesser novels\nof Dostoyevski are great. But within the limits of its psychological\ntype content and design it is a volume to be welcomed as a needed\ndeparture from provincial episodes and narratives of sex.\nCastle Conquer, by Padraic Colum. New York• The Macmillan\nCompany. $2.00.\nThe material is rich and interesting: a feudal Ireland for a back-\nground; a plot of political conspiracy and peasant revolt; a love tale;\nIrish tenant farmers, peddlers, soldiers, landowners; Irish songs, frolics,\ndancing, fairs. The prose is fresh and easy-flowing. And a music\ncomes into it by way of lovely Irish names and the peculiar Irish-\nEnglish dialog. Nor, given the peasant rhythm, can one seriously\nobject to the book's slow movement, or to the somewhat episodic way\nin which it unfolds. What, then, is wrong? This: for some reason,\nperhaps because Mr. Colum has placed too much reliance upon his\ncontent, upon its inherent soil-ness and lyricism, upon the general\ninterest in Ireland's struggle for political autonomy, because he has\ngiven himself too sparingly unto his work, the poetry of the material\nand the poetry of the prose fail to achieve a mutually transforming\ncontact. There is no sustained interchange between them. There is\nno complete intersaturation. (One's standards tend to be exacting of\nthe literature that produced John M. Synge.) Hence Castle Conquer,\nfor all its fresh loveliness and health, misses that living beauty which\none somehow expects from it.\nA History of Art (Volume /), by H. B. Cotterill. New Yor}p.\nStokes Company. $10.\nMr. Cotterill's pretentious and beautifully illustrated History pur-\nports to be a \"popular\" and readable Outline of Art, after the modern\nfashion of purveying a vast subject in condensed form. It would have\nbeen far more interesting if Mr. Cotterill had brought to his subject\nthe point of view of modern artists, as Mr. Wells did that of modern\nhistorians and scientists.\nOn the contrary, Mr. Cotterill is consistently academic, breathing\nthe nineteenth-century scholar's rapture for Hellenic and Renaissance\nart. From the angle of today, a treatment of Egyptian, Assyrian and\nArchaic sculpture offers an enviable scope. The distortion, the form-"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.56", "texte": "alism, the absence of perspective in Assyrian and Egyptian reliefs and\nstatues suggest new principles which are being brilliantly applied in\ncontemporary painting. Discussing Egyptian sculpture of the New\nor Second Empire, Mr. Cotterill: \"... a freer style is observable,\nbut the old frontal profile distortion is often found, and there is no\nattempt at perspective.\"\nFurther, he protests against the \"materiality\" of Egyptian archi-\ntecture and sculpture, in a land of \"those monstrous temples and pyra-\nmids and colossi,\" \"of desperate craving for an eternity of material\nexistence, against which even the \"politically and religiously half-\nawakened Hebrew\" revolted. Is it not rather true that this mad\nabsorption in the material led to the Egyptian's extraordinary under-\nstanding of the laws of an art, based on the use of such material. In\ntheir sculpture in stone or wood, the Egyptians displayed a genius for\npure plastic composition which we are struggling to perfect today, and\nin their \"monstrous\" architecture a faculty for adjusting harmoniously\nhuge blocks of stone, which is the basis for the new architecture of\nAmerica.\nThere is the same lack of sympathy for archaic Greek and primi-\ntive Italian art, as against the \"Idealism\" of Fourth Century Greek.\nAs a compendium, however—and this is an age of compendiums\n—this two-volume History with its hundreds of excellent reproductions\npromises to be extremely useful.\n\nNEW BOOKS RECEIVED\nMen Like Gods, by H. G. Wells. New York. The Macmillan\nCompany. $2.00.\nTeodoro the Sage, by Luigi Lucatelli. New York. Boni and\nLiveright. $2.00.\nThrough the Wheat, by Thomas Boyd. New York. Charles\nScribner's Sons. $ 1.75.\nThe Craftsmanship of the One-Act Play, by Percival Wilde.\nBoston. Little Brown and Company. $3.00.\nStories, Dreams and Allegories, by Olive Schreiner. New\nYork. Frederick Stokes Company. $1.75.\nFiery Particles, by C. E. Montague. New York. Doubleday,\nPage and Company. $1.75.\nMan's Prehistoric Past, by H. H. Wilder. New York. The\nMacmillan Company. $5.00."}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.57", "texte": "COMMENT\nBROOM: 1921—1923\n\nIn October 1921, from the charming converted villa of its Roman\nprinter just outside the Porto del Popolo, the first number of Broom\nissued forth. In October 1922 the eleventh issue set off on its voyage\nfrom Berlin. Now a new series, beginning with the seventeenth num-\nber, picks up the thread of continuity in a third great city, the city of\nits birth. The chronicle of Broom's vicissitudes among the nations\nwould be of interest, but it is not so important as an account of the\ninternal evolution of its editorial policy.\nWhenever a producer in America is censured for the cheapness,\ntriviality or vulgarity of the creation he sponsors, he shrugs the respon-\nsibility from his shoulders with the platitude, \"It is what the public\nwants.\" Such an abstraction as \"the public\" is of course fallacious,\nthere being many publics and more potential ones. The inception of\nBROOM was based on the faith that there is a public which wants to\nread sincere contemporary work, regardless of whether or not it has\nbeen prepared by advance publicity, regardless of the difficulty in\nunderstanding writing which follows experimental and novel modes.\nThe first problem of BROOM was to find this public. Since it lacked\nthe means to attempt the usual publicity, it had to invent other methods.\nPrinting in Europe was the first stratagem. Owing to valuta, it was\npossible to provide an exotic luxury in make-up, which attracted many\nreaders who otherwise would have failed to single it out from the scores\nof literary periodicals that spring up and pass away with the seasons.\nAlso, the unusualness of an American magazine which proclaimed the\nEternal City as its home aroused a curiosity among readers which was\nincreased by the nature of the material it published. A small and\nreliable public was soon accumulated.\nThe second problem of Broom proved more difficult of solution.\nTo find little-known writers worth printing and unrecognized artists\nworth reproducing has taken many months of hard work. The sifting\nof material in foreign languages has rivalled in difficulty the cajoling\nof Americans to risk their manuscripts on a journey which at best\nwould last two months. But as the issues succeeded each other and"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.58", "texte": "Broom began to be known from Japan to Russia, a rough grouping\ntook shape, and by now a definite number of individuals, widely\nscattered territorially, are bound together by a thread of common aims\nexpressed in Broom.\nTheir centre is a nucleus of American writers of the youngest\ngeneration. To define their common properties is not easy, for it is a\nsign of health that as yet their opinions and methods are not cast in\ndefinite moulds. One trait is so obvious that it has often been over-\nemphasized: a whole-hearted disapproval of the generation that pre-\nceded them.\nFrom the days of Irving and Prescott till the early years of the\ntwentieth century, our literature believed, like our chambers of com-\nmerce, that Anglo-American civilization was the highest form of culture\nattained by mankind. Our writers gloried in the virtues of America\nand expounded its distinctive qualities. Even such individualists as\nWhitman were proud to be American. The iconoclasts were the excep-\ntion, and usually objected to certain specific maladjustments.\nThen came the muck-rakers.\nThe general disillusionment of which they were the expression soon\nmade itself felt among artists. Certain novelists became prominent\nwhose chief tenet was the evil underlying the showy phenomena of our\nlife. It is not necessary to follow the trend from Upton Sinclair and\nDreiser to Anderson and Lewis; their point of attack shifts but the\nessence of their work is similar. With vision fixed on some Utopia they\nassail with all their force things as they are, at times supplying a good\nstory or interesting documentation as well. The poetry revival first\nattracted public attention with the vitriolic denunciations of Masters, but\nbroadened as it developed, and includes among its representatives\nseveral writers, such as Marianne Moore, Williams, Stevens and\nKreymborg, who, by their concentration on aesthetics, may be con-\nsidered precursors of the latest movement. However, the majority of\npoets, even though they veil their bias by a screen of objectivity, share\nthe prevailing disillusion, and four of the more influential have put\ntheir belief into practice by exiling themselves voluntarily. The end\nof this phase is not yet in sight, and a considerable audience has be-\ncome accustomed to weighing the merits of a work according to the\nvigour with which it assails their favorite antipathies.\nBROOM had not gone very far before it discovered that a new\ngeneration was pushing upwards, distinct in more than years from the\npreceding.\nThe men of this group are not shocked by the disclosure that stock-"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.59", "texte": "yards are congenial hang-outs for neither man nor beast. They can-\nnot confess even to surprise when told that newspapers occasionally\nmisrepresent the facts. Although interested in the social customs of\nMain Street, they are dubious whether a reformed Main Street, with a\nLittle Theatre, Community Pageants, Modern Book Shop and Birth\nControl Club would be more attractive and happier. In fact they even\nquestion the \"open door\" woman, having known several in Green-\nwich Village who lost their virginity concomitantly with their first\nchange of diet, and find little to choose between them and the Saturday\nEvening Post maiden lady, who was kissed for the first time by a\nSpanish gallant at the age of 43. They may like bill posters no more\nthan does Van Wyck Brooks, but they do not contend that such things\nare done better in Europe. Rather they hold that there is a great deal\nto be said for the American system of going the limit if you are going to\ngo it at all. They keep an open mind toward the phenomena of contem-\nporary industrialism, and devote themselves to the more immediate\ntask of men of letters: writing well.\nI do not mean that they are unmoved by the problems of the day,\nor unconscious of the gross stupidities that falsify social, national and\npersonal relations, but merely that they distrust \"current panaceas\"\nand find a little ridiculous the doctrines of poets on economics and of\nnovelists on psychoanalysis. Knowledge has become so specialized\nthat it is impossible to rival Jeremiah or even Jean-Jacques Rousseau.\nOn the other hand these writers have realized that the literary ambition\nof evoking those aesthetic emotions they desire, by means of controlling\ntheir medium, is attainable, and this results in their unusual concentra-\ntion on problems of form and style.\nFor example Kenneth Burke, perhaps stimulated by research in\nplastic mediums for what Clive Bell calls \"significant form,\" has been\nstudying its elusive equivalent in writing. His stories, which discard\nthe old binding of plot or narrative, obtain unity by what he calls a\nsuper-plot: \"the structural framework which appeals to us over and\nabove the message of the line,\" or paragraph.\nThe experiments of Malcolm Cowley are even more diversified.\nHe believes that every literary conception has an ideal form. In the\nsearch for it he has evolved nearly as many forms as he has written\npoems. He is not afraid to write about contemporary phenomena, and\ndoes not share the fashionable gesture of horror toward them. Matthew\nJosephson is another who is able to discover food for poetry in the\n\"crackle of typewriters, comptographs, dictaphones and phonographs\"\nor \"dropping dishes in the effervescent crater\" of that part of the"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.60", "texte": "restaurant one doesn't think about. His talent is not quite so intellec-\ntualized as Burke's or Cowley's, not so dependent on theories based on\nreason, but more instinctive, drawing directly on the subconscious.\nThus, his critical writing does not illuminate by studied analysis and\nsynthesis so much as by the unexpected phrase or word that opens\nvistas of indefinite extension. Like his poetry, his prose is more sug-\ngestive and less conclusive.\nAll of these have a love of rhetoric, of mouth-filling explosive\nphrases, unlike the emotional breast-juggling of recent years and more\nakin to the eloquence of the Elizabethans. Hart Crane must also be\nmentioned in this connection. E. E. Cummings, the most inventive of\nall these experimenters, is somewhat older and already well known.\nThe list can be continued farther. Slater Brown, Robert Coates, John\nCrawford, Charles Galwey, Jean Toomer, Glenway Wescott, Yvor\nWinters and several others are working along lines of equal interest,\nbut it is premature to appraise or even define them, since the only\nquality they unquestionably share is that their best work is still to be\ndone. Their history is the history of the future.\nMost magazines are filled with the more or less diluted repetitions\nof authors whose positions are established and whose writing impetus\nhas become tired. Such work is seldom the best work, although it has\ngreater commercial value. Material of this kind seldom finds its way\ninto BROOM, which rather errs in the other direction, and is more apt\nto accept work not quite mature. Thus the readers of Broom are in a\nsense gamblers, like prospectors for oil. The reward is of a different\nkind, but so is the cost.\nBROOM is able at last to give up its vagabond career and to settle\nin the country to which it belongs. Its collaborators have slowly drawn\ntogether into an effective and unified working force. It has connections\nand friends in such distant places as Moscow and Prague. Broom\nlooks to the future in the expectation of exceeding all that has already\nbeen accomplished, and of progressing even faster than the writers\nwhose words form designs on its pages.\n\nHarold A. Loeb"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.61", "texte": "TOWARD A PROFESSIONAL PROSE\n\nAmerican literature within recent years has been sufficiently experi-\nmental and enterprising to justify terming the present period one of\ntransition toward resolved forms. Poetry, especially, has been profit-\nably exploited; an astonishing variety of genres has been essayed and\nthe medium has been enriched. And, notably enough, spirited con-\ntroversies have been maintained over questions which the new writings\nposed. The atmosphere of controversy and doubt with regard to\nknown methods of working must have done much to stimulate writers\nas unlike as Carl Sandburg or T. S. Eliot. It is essential to maintain\ninterest at a high temperature in such problems, since it is still an open\nquestion whether great artists arouse discussion or are roused by it.\nUndoubtedly the alertness of the better part of their audience, the\nother writers, causes them to work under higher pressure.\nIn prose, American writers have shown less impulse to explore and\nplunder. Contemporary prose causes speculation largely by virtue of\nthe uncertainty with which it faces its audience. At any rate, a certain\ninterest in the mechanics of prose is beginning to be manifested, much\nlike that in poetry a decade ago.\nThe problem of immediate expression has absorbed the attention\nof most of the venturesome writers since James Joyce's Ulysses and Dor-\nothy Richardson's epics appeared. In a measure, writers such as these\nhave been instrumental in making the modern language more fluid; but\nthe temper of the age, which is one of prodigious social transformation,\nmust be contributing far more in the way of new names, technical and\ncolloquial, new compounds, neologisms, word-structures. Another\nperiod of language expansion, such as occurred in the sixteenth cen-\ntury, has set in.(The reader is here referred to H. L. Mencken's\nThe American Language.)\nRevolt against traditional style takes many shapes; one\nwriter employs violent thought-dissociations; another ripe colloquial-\nisms, and the terminology of our popular magazines, newspapers, ad-\nvertisements; others, again, employ the most shocking opposition in\nword-relationships, distort syntax, and punctuation and typography.\nEven at this, modern writers of English scarcely exceed the violent\nfigures of speech and the vigorous profanity which were seemly to the\ncourtliest ears of earlier centuries."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "60", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.62", "texte": "Granted, a more muscular speech, we still face the problem of\nform. Consider \"form\" in prose literature as disposition of subject-\nmatter in a progression of some kind which is aesthetically satisfying.\nThe more aggressive expression of today will scarcely alter this broad\nand quite traditional definition of \"form,\" but it will oppose the com-\npromises which prose fiction has made in the past.\nA conventional chain of narrative, corresponding to the pictorial\nelement in the plastic arts or in music has always comprised the homely\nmachinery of nineteenth century prose. The inclusion of social or\npolitical propaganda has also hastened the adulteration of prose fiction.\nNo objection is made here to utilizing the English language for business\ncorrespondence or publicity or useful journalism. It is simply patent\nthat in approaching the common medium of prose as an artist, the\nnew writer must be guided by something equivalent to plastic laws,\nrather than popular prejudices. Necessarily, his adventuring with\nexpression will lead him to cast about boldly for subject-matter which\nleaves his manner of working unrestricted. Certainly, he will become\nmore despotic with relation to subject, both in his selection and his\ncontrol thereof. The parallel with modern painting is very helpful\nhere. Instead of attempting to paint flesh so \"real\" that one is prone\nto step forward and squeeze the figure in the canvas (an obsession\nwith older schools of painters) the modern painter disposes his subject\nwith the most heedless cruelty: the form of the domestic object is\ntreated in accordance with a relentless intellectual design; the tint of the\nflesh, or whatever texture is used, he decides with the view of support-\ning his design. These analagous tendencies are not accidental; art is\nbecoming, at once, more specialized and more primitive. That is to\nsay, the building of a satisfying skyscraper may be a highly complicated\nfeat of engineering, but its architecture may involve only a certain\nsensitiveness for the proper arrangement of simple masses. The Afri-\ncan native with his playing-building-carving instinct, we have discov-\nered, produces a sculpture whose form obeys the inherent plastic laws\nof that medium. Form may remain as perfectly simple in our hands,\ndespite the extreme complexity of our instruments, whether in building\na tower or a novel.\nGuillaume Apollinaire, whose \"Poet Assassinated\" continues in\nthis number of Broom, summarizes for us the specialized interest in\nexpression. Speech, or better, the Word, has been given toman to\ndo with as he wills. Apollinaire's picaresque narrative is eternally\nthe pursuit of the Word. One episode may succeed another without\nreason or sequence, in utter contradiction; there is always the play of"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.63", "texte": ". Word. (There is unquestionably a religious element in modern\nwriting: \"The Word has been given. . . . ,\" etc.) Or that Malcolm\nCowley should use the detective story as a medium is another instance\nof the bold casting about for subject-matter. The distinction between\nromanticism and naturalism disappears—both tendencies, per se, were\nconcomitants of social upheaval at the opening and close of the past\ncentury. E. E. Cummings, in The Enormous Room, wrote down the\nmost sordid experiences with the utmost fantasy: a few rather common-\nplace adventures induce extraordinary ones in prose rhythm. In\nFrance, Pierre MacOrlan writes romances; but his sophisticated and\narbitrary diction contrives an air of supreme unreality. A novel recently\npublished in Paris, Sur le Fleuve Amour, by Joseph Delteil, goes\nperhaps farther than any of the others in the quest of an organic prose.\nA perfectly incredible plot develops briskly amid the rather gorgeous\nrhythms of a style that outdoes the sententious grandeur of a Barres.\nIt is really the arc of sentences, building up into a greater solar system\nof arcs that composes Delteil's \"form.\"\nOnce in such hands, prose is on the way to becoming as organically\nan art as sculpture or music. The tendency, here, on the part of\nwriters like Sherwood Anderson or D. H. Lawrence, to proceed from\na closer and closer scrutiny of human nature to the creation of prose\nfiction, may prevail for some time. But others are beginning to work\nfrom the opposite end, i.e., a profound scrutiny of the artist's own will.\n\nMatthew Josephson\n\nIt is with deep regret that we announce the resignation of Miss\nLola Ridge. Much of the progress which Broom has made toward\nestablishing itself in America can be ascribed to Miss Ridge's whole-\nhearted and unselfish labors.—The Editors."}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "[62]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.64", "texte": "THE CLASSICS OF\nTODAY AND TOMORROW\nAnatole France—and James Joyce\nGeorge Moore—and D. H. Lawrence\nWilliam B. Yeats—and T. S. Eliot\nArthur Schnitzler—and Paul Morand\nJoHAN BojER — and SHERWOOD ANDERSON\nBertrand Russell—and Van Wyck Brooks\nThomas Hardy—and William Carlos Williams\nEdwin Arlington Robinson—and E. E. Cummings\nThese distinguished names from the list of Dial contributors are only a handful of\nthose whose works, classics already recognized or in the making, share in the\nachievement of each significant and eventful issue of The Dial.\nThey include all the forms, traditional or in the new manner, in which the classics\nof today and tomorrow are being cast. No outstanding achievement in the famil-\niar forms, nor bold and important experiment by the younger men, has ever failed\nof access to The Dial's enthusiastic and growing audience.\nThe Dial has closed its doors to none except the trivial, the volubly inarticulate,\nthe tour de force, the passably good, and the inane.\nSPECIAL OFFER\nThe Dial for one year and one of the fol-\nlowing notable books—$5.00.\n(Annual subscription rate—$5.00)\nA SURVEY, by Max Beerbohm\nThe Judge, by Rebecca West\nThe Waste Land, fcp T. S. Eliot\nPHANTOM, by Gerhardt Hauptmann\nMANY Marriages, by Sherwood Anderson\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street New York City\nGentlemen: You may enter my name for a year's\nsubscription to The Dial beginning with the\nissue. In addition, you will send me a copy of the\nbook mentioned below.\nName\nAddress\n□ I enclose $5.00 □ I will remit $5.00\non receipt of your bill."}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "[63]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.65", "texte": "IN the paper which began to poke fun\nat the mummery of Ku Klux about\na year before the daily press took up\nthe subject, the paper which prophesied\nfour years ago certain results of the\ntreaty of Versailles that are now being\nfurther confirmed every day, the paper\nwhich a great metropolitan editor de-\nclares \"prints a great deal of news in-\nevitably overlooked by daily papers\"—\nin such a journal, if anywhere, you will\nfind a modern view of current affairs\ncorresponding to the spirit you seek in\nmodern literature.\nM//V6\n/rs A 7\n€\n/V\n/TS\nN\nV*\nJ\n*7\ne*\nP\nii*\nv*\nV1\ne\ni-\nN\n6\nS\nV\nE\nP\nR\ni\nH\nc\nS\nThe Nation\nAssociate Editors\nLEWIS S. GANNETT\nARTHUR WARNER\nERNEST H. GRUENING\nLUDWIG LEWISOHN\nFREDA KIRCHWEY, Managing Editor\nJOHN MACY, Literary Editor\nOSWALD GARRISON VILLARD, Editor\nIn addition to its regular fea-\ntures The Nation is publishing\nthrough the summer a series of\nshort stories and sketches by\nSholom Asch, Zona Gale, Elisa-\nbeth Sanxay Holding, Sinclair\nLewis, Haniel Long, and Carl\nSandburg.\nContributing Editors\nJOHN A. HOBSON\nFRIEDRICH WILHELM FOERSTER\nCARL VAN DOREN\nANATOLE FRANCE\nH. L. MENCKEN\nROBERT HERRICK\nNORMAN THOMAS\nIn acknowledgment of new subscriptions The Nation is glad to offer a\nchoice from the following titles, and others to be had on application:\nFree with The Nation for a Year\nThe Goose-Step, by Upton Sinclair*\nThe Economic Basis of Politics, by Charles A. Beard*\nTriumphant Plutocracy, by Ex-Senator R. F. Petti-\ngrew\nLord Jim, by Joseph Conrad\nFor $5.25 with The Nation for a Year\nThe Decay of Capitalist Civilization, by Sidney and\nBeatrice Webb\nThe Boy Grew Older, by Heywood Broun\nHomely Lilla, by Robert Herrick*\nFor $5.50 with The Nation for a Year\nThe Bloom of Life, by Anatole France^\nThe Roving Critic, by Carl Van Doren'\nFaint Perfume, by Zona Gale*\nHenry Ford, by Samuel S. Marquis\nThe Captain's Doll, by D. H. Lawrence\nFor $5.75 with The Nation for a Year\nThe Goose Man, by Jacob Wasserman\nThe Critical Game, by John Macy*\nReminiscences of Anatole France, by Paul Gsell'\nShall It Be Again? by John Kenneth Turner*\n,*\ni*\nFor $6.00 with The Nation for a Year\nUp Stream, by Ludwig Lewisohn*\nAgainst the Grain, by J. K. Huysmans\nThese United States, reprinted from The Nation\nFor $8.00 with The Nation for a Year\nThe American Language, by H. L. Mencken-\n,*\n* Material by the same author has appeared in The\nNation.\nr\nTHE NATION\n20 Vesey Street\nNew York\nFor the enclosed\nplease send The Nation for a year and\nName ..\nAddress\n15 cents a copy\nAnnual subscription $5.00\nBroom—August, 1928."}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.66", "texte": "Modern\nLimited\nEditions\nTHE Ilex Bookshop announces\nthe publication in a uniform bind-\ning of a series of several rather re-\nmarkable Books, the first of which, in\na de luxe signed edition of 975 copies,\nwill soon be ready for subscribers.\nIn virility of phrase and incident, the\nBooks of this forthcoming series are\nreminiscent of such older writers as\nDaudet, Huysmans, Wilde, Sterne,\nGautier, etc.; but in their mood and\ntreatment the picturesqueness of modern\nromantic-realism has not been ignored.\nReaders and collectors who are initiates\nin privately-printed desiderata should\naddress us to receive regularly our at-\ntractive announcements of these and\nother fine Books.\nTHE ILEX BOOKSHOP\n39-86 S. Saint Andrew's\nLos Angeles\n\nThe Ilex Bookshop,\n39-86 S. Saint Andrew's\nLos Angeles.\nGentlemen:\nPlease put my name on your mailing list.\n\nThe following is one of many\nletters responding to our an-\nnouncement of the resumption\nof BROOM in A merica:\n\nJune 22, 1923.\nDear \"Broom:\"\nRecord my personal opinion that Broom is\nthe most remarkable journal of today—and that\nnothing can substitute for it, so peculiar is its\nfunction. I don't intend to lose sight of it so\nlong as it is as alive as it has been during the\nfirst year of its existence. Hence, I'm doubly\nsorry that I can't see my way (financially) to\nre-subscribe at present and must rely on the\nfew newsstands in the city to keep my files of\nit complete. Should you care to send it to me,\nremittance to be paid as soon as I procure work,\nyou may do so. But whether or not you do so,\nbe assured of my support and propaganda among\nfriends for your welfare.\nSincerely,\n(Signed) L. LIBERTHSON\n1893 Southern Boulevard,\nNew York City.\n\nNothing has encouraged us more than the\nassurance from many unexpected sources that\nthere is a public for BROOM in America.\nThere must be hundreds and hundreds of\npeople who buy Broom when they happen\nto find it on newsstands. We should like to\nlink this public together. For this purpose a\nspecial offer is made, of a six-months' sub-\nscription to BROOM (including August,\n1923) for $2.00.\n\nBROOM\n47 W. 34th St., N. Y.\nFor the enclosed $2.00 please send Broom (beginning\nwith August, 1923) for six months.\nName\nAddress"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.67", "texte": "The Age\nof the Machine\nTHE Age of the Machine in America is an age of\nspiritual change and growth as well as one of eco-\nnomic ascendancy.\nA new art and new literature spring sturdily from the\nmachine civilization.\nWhat will be their means and directions?\nBroom, now published in America, will be an aggressive\nleader for the Art of today. A fearless and non-com-\nmercial review presenting with authority the work of sig-\nnificant moderns (not a disordered collection of all names\nand all schools). Always in intimate touch with Europe,\nit will bring the unknown plays of her Pirandellos, and\nthe buried manuscripts of her Dostoyevskis to America.\nAlso, one of the most beautiful magazines, with two-color\ncovers by noted painters, numerous reproductions, and\nlarge, handsome format.\nAs an inducement to new subscribers the Publishers of Broom offer one of the\nfollowing with one year's subscription at $5.00:\nJacob's Room, by Virginia Woolf\nBabbitt, by Sinclair Lewis\nThe Hairy Ape, by Eugene O'Neill\nThe Enormous Room, by E. E. Cum-\nmings\nor\nInstigations, by Ezra Pound; with\nBroom, for $6.00\nContinental Stagecraft, by Ken-\nneth McGowan and Robert Edmund\nJones; with Broom for $6.75\nThe Life of Barnum, by M. R.\nWerner; with Broom for $6.25\n| BROOM -47 W. 34th St., N. Y.\nFor the enclosed $ please\nsend Broom for one year and the fol-\nlowing boofy:\nName .\nAddress\n$5.00 Annual Subscription.\n50 Cents the Copy."}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192308-01.1.68", "texte": "Select Printing Company, Inc., New York"}]}