{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_sha256": "f1d72957b41670e6534196b1f5b1b848671cdf9a91f8391f075526f640af1387", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/09_01/bmtnaap_1923-09_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/09_01/bmtnaap_1923-09_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[64]", "page_fin": "[64]", "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Cover Design", "titre_sommaire": "Cover Design", "signature_source": "Halicka", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[64]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 801, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1496, "texte": "Cover Design—Halicka Pa§e\nThe \"U. S. A.\" Cinema—Philippe Soupault 65\nIn the Orchard—Virginia Woolf 70\nThe Bare Bodies—Glenway Wescott 72\nThe Fountain of Eternal Youth—William Carlos Williams . . 73\nMotion Picture Dynamics—Robert Alden Sanborn .... 78\nMotion Picture \"Stills\" (facing) 80, 81, 96, 97\nKabnis—Jean Toomer 83\nThe Brain at the Wheel—Matthew Josephson 95\nMemphis Johnny—Malcolm Cowley 97\nThe Poet Assassinated—Guillaume Apollinaire 99\nOverture—lsidore Schneider 11l\nBook Reviews:\nThe Problem of Space—Edward Nagle 115\nJacob's Room 118\nThe Vegetable 119\nThe Genius of America 119\nCraftsmanship of the One Act Play 120\nComment—Will Bray 122\nA Note on Sculptural Kinetics—Slater Brown 124"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "65", "page_fin": "69", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 7, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "The \"U. S. A.\" Cinema", "titre_sommaire": "The \"U. S. A.\" Cinema", "signature_source": "Philippe Soupault", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "65", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2091, "texte": "THE \"U. S. A.\" CINEMA\n\nJust when the eyes of Frenchmen were tiring of the eternal same-\nness of the realistic drama—\"slices of life\"—when only the music\nhalls could touch for a moment our poor hearts dried up by poetry,\nthe cinema was born.\nBut soon the disillusionment was stronger than one could have\nimagined.\nThe films were lamentable, insignificant, and boring. They were\nnot even stupid enough to cry over; the scenario writers wished at all\ncosts to reach the people, that public which is thrilled by melodramas\nand sentimental comedies. Consequently the intelligent directors in\norder to cause tears to gush forth, planted little blue flowers in the\ngelatine of the film.\nThe result was to be expected. All the spectators began to cry,\nbut of laughter. One saw a little girl stolen by wicked gypsies and\nrecovered accidentally by her family, a poor mother and her dozen\nchildren, beaten by a brutal and intoxicated husband, and revenged\nat last by the demon rum and delirium tremens. As the old sad song\nhas it: It was lovely but it was sad, the fireman wept into his helmet.\"\nAll possibilities were exhausted.\nThe ennui of evenings which trail like the smoke of cigarettes and\nwhich stretch the arms to sleep took flower in the ardent life led by\nthe younger people, my friends.\nWe walked in the cold and deserted streets looking for an acci-\ndent, a chance meeting, life. To distract ourselves we had to harness\nour imaginations to sensational dreams. The newspapers, which are\neven more brightly colored than maps, diverted us for a moment. For\na few cents one travelled the whole world over and was present at\nmarvellous and bloody dramas which illuminated for an instant cer-\ntain points of the globe. We thirsted, thirsted terribly, for this strange\nstrong life, this life that we drank like milk.\nOne Jacques Vache, the strongest among us, cried: \"I should also\nbe a trapper or a thief or a searcher or a hunter or a miner or a sheep-\nshearer!\"\nOne day we saw great long bill-posters stretched along the sign-\nboards like serpents. At each corner of the street a man, his face"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "66", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1886, "texte": "covered with a red handkerchief, threatened the peaceful passers-by\nwith a revolver. We heard galloping horses, chugging motors, screams\nand death-rattles. We dashed into the movie houses and realized\nthat all was changed. The smile of Pearl White appeared on the\nscreen, that almost ferocious smile announcing the upheaval of the\nnew world.\nWe began to understand finally that the cinema was not a per-\nfected mechanical toy, but the terrible and magnificent flag of life.\nThe little dark halls where we sat became the arena of our laughter,\nour rage and our great expressions of pride.\nWe did not understand what was happening. We lived swiftly,\npassionately. It was a beautiful period. doubt, many other\nelements contributed to its beauty, but the American movie was one\nof its fairest graces.\nI have kept my memories of these films, which even today I find\ndelightful to recall. For my pleasure I call to mind the following:\nThe Man with Clear Eyes—(William Hart)\nThis man who runs and fights, halts at times in the clear-\nings or on the high hills. At the edge of forests he throws a\nglance of scorn upon the plains. To cradle anyone in his\narms or wring the neck of his enemy. Hatred is perhaps the\nonly reason for existence for all men with clear eyes.\nBut this man is too frank. He does not know the joys of\nleading a double life.\nIt is much more delightful to shake hands with one's\nenemy than to strangle him.\nThe fights and clinches will always amuse us.\nSomeone is going to die.\nWhose turn is it?\nWithin the Law\nThe eyes of madwomen and their drunkenness are as\nbutterflies.\nThis woman who drinks knows only the light smoke of\nher desires. I love this gritting of teeth, these pale rages and\nthis sudden anger.\nA correct gentleman brings you roses. Tear them apart\nWith your two white hands, my mad darling, and throw\nthem into the basket. You are going to kill somebody and"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "67", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2197, "texte": "you hesitate. Open your huge eyes since your hand does not\ntremble.\nThis film is ridiculous and sentimental.\nWhy is this madwoman so beautiful? We shall go\nagain to see \"Within the Law,\" eh, Andre Breton.\nBut we did not yet know Charlie Chaplin.\nAt that time we were not astonished at the restricted place ac-\ncorded to Chariot, as he is called in France, but all of a sudden we\nbegan to comprehend the significance of his role. Charlie Chaplin has\nreally freed the moving pictures from the morons. This was easy for\nhim because he is a poet. Poetry is a more violent acid than any other\nknown acid. Its presence ruins the richest, the most powerful combina-\ntions, demands totally new beginnings.\nThe films of Charlie Chaplin do not escape this rule, and we have\nthe impression that since \"A Dog's Life\" the most celebrated or intel-\nligent directors have only been able to mark time or stay in the same\nplace. No one has ever fairly judged the superb trick of Chaplin that\nwe poets call poetry.\nIn his first films, Chariot was nothing more than a marvellous actor.\nAs time went on, he became the author of dramas which were entitled,\n\"A Night in a Music Hall,\" \"The Immigrant,\" \"The Floorwalker,\"\n\"Shoulder Arms,\" and \"A Dog's Life.\"\nWhy not admit that these films are and will remain the only dramas\nof this dramatic period? Without fear of stating a paradox, how not\nwrite that his laughter is more tragic, more poignant than the spectacle\nof death itself? I imagine that I have suffered more from laughter than\nfrom sorrow, which is self-indulgent, and, after all, consoling.\nA few films of Charlie Chaplin have remained fast in my memory,\nand in thinking of them I have been led to write the following lines:\n\"A Dog's Life\"—(Charlie Chaplin)\nAt five o'clock in the morning or the evening, the smoke\nthat fills the saloons takes you by the throat, you sleep in the\nlight of the stars.\nBut time passes. There is no longer a second to lose.\nTobacco. At the street corners me cross the shadows; the\npushcart peddlers are at the curb. We had better run: hands\nin pockets we stare at the sign. Cafe, Bar. At the door we\nhear the tin mechanical piano. The odour of alcohol sets\nthe couples dancing."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "68", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2321, "texte": "They are here.\nAt the edge of the tables, at the edge of lips, cigarettes\nare consumed: a new star sings an old sad song.\nYou may turn your head.\nThe sun is laid upon a tree and his reflections in the win-\ndow panes are bursts of laughter. A story as gay as a\nFrench paint shop.\n\"The Immigrant\"—(Charlie Chaplin)\nThe tossing of the ship and boredom rock the days to\nsleep. Enough of these promenades on deck: ever since our\ndeparture, the sea is colorless. Neither dice nor cards can\nmake us forget the city we are approaching: life is at stake.\nThe rain receives us in these deserted streets. Birds and\nhopes are far off. In every city the inside of restaurants is\nwarm. You think no more; you look at the faces of the\ndiners, or out through the doorway, at the light. Do you\nrealize that you will have to go out and pay the bill? Does\nnot the present moment suffice? There is nothing left to do\nbut laugh at all this anxiety.\nAnd We laugh sadly like hunchbacks.\nWith a stroke of his cane, such a smiling magician was he, Charlie\nChaplin was able to give an extraordinary vigor, an incredible super-\niority, to the American movies. All the films which came out of the\nLos Angeles studios were successful. There were long rides on horse-\nback without a word being spoken, without a useless gesture, sensational\nabductions. There were films of Douglas Fairbanks, of Rio Jim and\nof Tom Mix. There were complicated stories of banks, words, of\ngold mines. An immense silent office, and the head of a man armed\nwith a cigar. He thinks and his thought becomes the whole United\nStates, all America, the whole world. Near this head a telephone ring-\ning quietly unites man with the universe. Does not this mute bell-ringing\nin the cinema present all the tragic desuetude of a horn playing in the\nquiet forests of our romantic Alfred de Vigny? Doors open and are\nclosed, and red men, strong men, women desperately fine or frivolous\nenter and leave with misfortune or happiness in their hands.\nThe \"U. S. A.\" cinema has thrown light on all the beauty of our\ntime, all the mystery of modern mechanics. But the light it has pro-\njected was so simple, so natural, so little affected that it was hardly\nnoticed. It was however one of the greatest and most important artistic\ndiscoveries. Everything was revivified with a single stroke."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "69", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2466, "texte": "This novel beauty, discovered so easily, so naturally, was accom-\npanied by a technical perfection hitherto unknown. The directors in\nAmerica understand all the drama that is hidden in a keyhole, in a\nhand, in a drop of water.\nThe influence of this new power made itself felt immediately. I\nthoroughly believe that all French poetry underwent a profound trans-\nformation therefrom. The theatre, little by little, more slowly, it is\ntrue, is being transformed by contact with the movies. It will be no-\nticed, in looking backward, that since the appearance of the first films\nmade in the United States, an evolution has begun: I am certain that\npainting, which is always a little behind poetry, will yet learn to know\nthe conditions imposed by the cinema.\nIt must be stated, however, that at the present time, the \"U. S. A.\"\ncinema, although it has preserved all its charm, has made no further\nprogress. It remains itself, but at the same stage. We can no longer be\nastonished and it is difficult to distinguish the revival of the 1920 pro-\nductions from those of 1923. This is no cause for disillusionment. But\nneither must we deceive ourselves. Americans quick of comprehension\nhave accorded great success to the German film, \"The CABINET OF\nDOCTOR CaLIGARI.\" Without doubt this film is very different from\npreceding productions, but though it bewildered for a moment, it marks\na decisive move backwards. The Los Angeles directors above all need\ntake lessons from no one. Whatever may be said, they are greater than\nthe author of \"The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari,\" who really\nemployed all the processes of the theatre.\nThe worst film of Charles Ray or of Jack Pickford is much superior\nto\"The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari.\"\nThe most important thing is not to go back on one's tracks and\nlook at things the wrong way. The theatre which will revive some day\nis as far from the cinema as poetry from music. Everything in its\nplace, everything in its time, says the motto. The movies must not go\naground on the rocks of \"art\" and of an antiquated novelty. After\nsuch an effort it is natural and right that for several months or even\nyears, the \"U. S. A.\" cinema take cognizance of the ground it has\ncovered.\nIn reality I believe that at the present time we can only ask Los\nAngeles to continue to be the city of singular dreams and of torment-\ning realities.\nThe \"U. S. A.\" cinema remains and will remain the \"biggest in\nthe world,\" as we say in French.\n\nPhilippe Soupault"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "70", "page_fin": "72", "image_debut": 8, "image_fin": 10, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "In the Orchard", "titre_sommaire": "In the Orchard", "signature_source": "Virginia Woolf", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "70", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2278, "texte": "IN THE ORCHARD\n\nMiranda slept in the orchard, lying in a long chair beneath the\napple-tree. Her book had fallen into the grass, and her finger still\nseemed to point at the sentence \"Ce pays est vraiment un des coins du\nmonde ou le rire des filles eclate le mieux . . .\" as if she had fallen\nasleep just there. The opals on her finger flushed green, flushed rosy,\nand again flushed orange as the sun, oozing through the apple-trees,\nfilled them. Then, when the breeze blew, her purple dress rippled like\na flower attached to a stalk; the grasses nodded; and the white butterfly\ncame blowing this way and that just above her face.\nFour feet in the air over her head the apples hung. Suddenly there\nwas a shrill clamour as if they were gongs of cracked brass beaten\nviolently, irregularly, and brutally. It was only the school-children\nsaying the multiplication table in unison, stopped by the teacher,\nscolded, and beginning to say the multiplication table over again. But\nthis clamour passed four feet above Miranda's head, went through the\napple boughs, and, striking against the cowman's little boy who was\npicking blackberries in the hedge when he should have been at school,\nmade him tear his thumb on the thorns.\nNext there was a solitary cry—sad, human, brutal. Old Parsley\nwas, indeed, blind drunk.\nThen the very topmost leaves of the apple-tree, flat like little fish\nagainst the blue, thirty feet above the earth, chimed with a pensive\nand lugubrious note. It was the organ in the church playing one of\nHymns Ancient and Modern. The sound floated out and was cut\ninto atoms by a flock of field-fares flying at an enormous speed—some-\nwhere or other. Miranda lay asleep thirty feet beneath.\nThen above the apple-tree and the pear-tree two hundred feet\nabove Miranda lying asleep in the orchard bells thudded, intermittent,\nsullen, didactic, for six poor women of the parish were being churched\nand the Rector was returning thanks to heaven.\nAnd above that with a sharp squeak the golden feather of the\nchurch tower turned from south to east. The wind had changed.\nAbove everything else it droned, above the woods, the meadows, the\nhills, miles above Miranda lying in the orchard asleep. It swept on,\neyeless, brainless, meeting nothing that could stand against it, until,"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "71", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2598, "texte": "wheeling the other way, it turned south again. Miles below, in a space\nas big as the eye of a needle, Miranda stood upright and cried aloud:\n\"Oh, I shall be late for tea!\"\nMiranda slept in the orchard—or perhaps she was not asleep, for\nher lips moved very slightly as if they were saying, \"Ce pays est\nvraiment un des coins du monde . . . ou le rire des lilies . . . eclate\n. . . eclate . . . eclate . . .\" and then she smiled and let her body\nsink all its weight on to the enormous earth which rises, she thought,\nto carry me on its back as if I were a leaf, or a queen (here the chil-\ndren said the multiplication table), or, Miranda went on, I might be\nlying on the top of a cliff with the gulls screaming above me. The\nhigher they fly, she continued, as the teacher scolded the children and\nrapped Jimmy over the knuckles till they bled, the deeper they look\ninto thesea—into the sea, she repeated, and her fingers relaxed and\nher lips closed gently as if she were floating on the sea, and then, when\nthe shout of the drunken man sounded overhead, she drew breath with\nan extraordinary ecstasy, for she thought that she heard life itself cry-\ning out from a rough tongue in a scarlet mouth, from the wind, from\nthe bells, from the curved green leaves of the cabbages.\nNaturally she was being married when the organ played the tune\nfrom Hymns Ancient and Modern, and, when the bells rang after the\nsix poor women had been churched, the sullen intermittent thud made\nher think that the very earth shook with the hoofs of the horse that was\ngalloping towards her (\"Ah, I have only to wait!\" she sighed), and\nit seemed to her that everything had already begun moving, crying,\nriding, flying round her, across her, towards her in a pattern.\nMary is chopping the wood, she thought; Pearman is herding the\ncows; the carts are coming up from the meadows; the rider—and she\ntraced out the lines that the men, the carts, the birds, and the rider\nmade over the countryside until they all seemed driven out, round, and\nacross by the beat of her own heart.\nMiles up in the air the wind changed; the golden feather of the\nchurch tower squeaked; and Miranda jumped up and cried: \"Oh, I\nshall be late for tea!\"\nMiranda slept in the orchard, or was she asleep or was she not\nasleep ? Her purple dress stretched between the two apple-trees. There\nwere twenty-four apple-trees in the orchard, some slanting slightly,\nothers growing straight with a rush up the trunk which spread wide\ninto branches and formed into round red or yellow drops. Each\napple-tree had sufficient space. The sky exactly fitted the leaves."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "72", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 769, "texte": "When the breeze blew, the line of the boughs against the wall slanted\nslightly and then returned. A wagtail flew diagonally from one corner\nto another. Cautiously hopping, a thrush advanced towards a fallen\napple; from the other wall a sparrow fluttered just above the grass.\nThe uprush of the trees was tied down by these movements; the whole\nwas compacted by the orchard walls. For miles beneath the earth was\nclamped together; rippled on the surface with wavering air; and across\nthe corner of the orchard the blue-green was slit by a purple streak.\nThe wind changing, one bunch of apples was tossed so high that it\nblotted out two cows in the meadow (\"Oh, I shall be late for tea!\"\ncried Miranda), and the apples hung straight across the wall again.\n\nVirginia Woolf"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "72", "page_fin": "72", "image_debut": 10, "image_fin": 10, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "The Bare Bodies", "titre_sommaire": "The Bare Bodies", "signature_source": "Glenway Wescott", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "72", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 771, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1181, "texte": "THE BARE BODIES\nGlenway Wescott\nSimple as a snake\nto the eye, but curious\nin motions. . . .\nIn this a savage peace\nof foothills piled\nas green melons,\nof rivers walked\nby snipe\nthey start up\nfrom the blue-topped\ngrass, the girl\na straightened crescent,\nthe man a wedge, marked\nwith curled hair\nlike corn-silk—\nalone timorous,\nby a cry startled,\nwhere the mares' manes\nblow out like lace,\nwhere the bird sleeps."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "73", "page_fin": "77", "image_debut": 11, "image_fin": 15, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "The Fountain of Eternal Youth", "titre_sommaire": "The Fountain of Eternal Youth", "signature_source": "William Carlos Williams", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "73", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2204, "texte": "THE FOUNTAIN OF ETERNAL YOUTH\n\nHistory, history! We fools, what do we know or care? History\nbegins for us with murder and enslavement, not with discovery. No,\nwe are not Indians but we are men of their world. The blood means\nnothing; the spirit, the ghost of the land moves in the blood, moves the\nblood. It is we who ran to the shore naked, we who cried, \"Heavenly\nMan!\" These are the inhabitants of our souls, our murdered souls that\nlie .. . agh. Listen! I tell you it was lucky for Spain the first ship\nput its men ashore where it did. If the Italian had landed in Florida,\none twist of the helm north, or among the islands a hair more to the\nsouth; among the Yemasses with their sharpened bones and fishspines,\nor among the Caribs with their poisoned darts—it might have begun\ndifferently.\nWhen in the later year Ponce found his plantations going under\nfor lack of slaves—no more to be trapped in Puerto Rico, rico! all\nruined—he sought and obtained a royal patent to find more in the\nsurrounding islands. He was granted the right to hunt out and to take\nthe Caribs; the Caribs whom The Great Maker had dropped through\na hole in the sky among their islands; they whose souls lived in their\nbodies, many souls in one body; they who fought their enemies, ate\nthem; whose gods lived, Mabouya, in the forest, Oumekon, by the\nsea—there were other gods—\nHis ship came into Guadeloup—the great sulphur cone back of\nthe water. He had arrived straight from Spain, hot foot after niggers.\nHaving much soiled linen aboard from the long trio he ordered his\nlaundresses ashore, with a body of troops to guard them, where a\nstream could be observed coming down to the sea.\nIt was a paradise. A stream of splashing water, the luxuriant\nfoliage. A gorge, a veritable tunnel led upstream between cliffwalls\ncovered by thick vines in flower attended by ensanguined hummingbirds\nwhich darted about from cup to cup in the green light. But the soul\nof the Carib was on the alert among the leaves. It was too late.\nFierce and implacable we kill them but their souls dominate us. Our\nmen, our blood but their spirit is master. It enters us, it defeats us, it\nimposes itself. We are moderns—madmen at Paris—all lacking in a"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "74", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2580, "texte": "ground sense of cleanliness. It is the Caribs leaping out, facing the\narquebusques, thinking it thunder, looking up at the sky: No rain! No\nclouds! Then the second volley. Their comrades bleeding, dead.\nKill! Not a Spaniard but they stretched out in the streambed. Hagh,\nI can hear the laundresses squeal on the shore—run hither and thither.\nThe devils had them safe. Let old Ponce sit up in his hammock on\nthe poop of his ship. Let him send other boats ashore. The Indians\nhave grabbed up the women. Three naked savages shot through the\nchest from behind before they could gain the forest rolled over and\ngripped the females they had been carrying by the throat with their\nteeth. Worth being a laundress to be carried off that way, eh? Nice\npsychologic study, those women. And the damned bloodhound, Ber-\nrescien. Ponce had got his belly full. They outflanked him in canoes,\nridiculed his strategy, took his chainshot in the chest and came back for\nmore. They drove him off, so much so that they made him forget his\ndog, the precious Berrescien, of whom he thought more, that and his\nhidalgan pride, than—a population. The hound had been left behind\nin their scared flight. They saw him, they in the retreating boats, leap\nfrom the woods in pursuit of a flying Carib. Listen to this. The\nIndian swam out, the Spaniards in the boats turned back for the beast.\nThe dosr was steadily gaining on his victim. But, O Soul of the New\nWorld, the man had his bow and arrow with him as he swam. Tel!\nthat to Wilson. He stopped, turned, raised his body half out of the\nwater, treading it, and put a bolt into the damned hound's throat—\nwhom sharks swallowed. Then to shore, not forgetting—leaping to\nsafety—to turn and spit back the swallowed chainshot, a derisive\nyell at the Christians.\nThey had the women and the dog. They left what they had\ndefeated to—us.\nIf men inherit souls this is the color of mine. We are, too, the\nothers. Think of them: The main islands were thickly populated\nwith a peaceful folk when Christ-over found them. But the orgy of\nblood which followed, no man has written. We are the slaughterers.\nIt is the tortured soul of our world. Indians have no souls: that was it.\nThat was what they said. But they knew they lied—the blood-smell\nproof. Ponce had been with the discoverer on his second trip. He\nbecame a planter. Sugar cane was imported from the Canaries, maize\nwas adopted from the Indian souls. But revenues dwindled where\nnone would work save in the traffic in girls: nine years old, reads the\nItalian journal. Slaves. The Indians having no souls knew what"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "75", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2613, "texte": "freedom means. The Spaniards killed their kings, betrayed, raped,\nmurdered their women and children; hounded them into the mountains.\nPonce with wife and children in the Casa Blanca was one of the blood\nthirstiest. They took them in droves, forced them to labor. It was\nimpossible to them—not having been born to baptism. How madden-\ning it is to the spirit to hear—: Bands of them went into the forests,\ntheir forests, and hanged themselves to the trees. What else? Islands\n—paradise. Surrounded by seas. On all sides \"heavenly man\" bent\non murder. Self privilege. Two women and one man on a raft had\ngotten one hundred and fifty miles out to sea—such seamen were they\n—then luck again went against the Indian. Captured and back to\nslavery. Caravels crept along the shore by night. Next morning when\nwomen and children came down to the shore to fish—fine figures,\nstraight black hair, high cheek-bones, a language—they caught them,\nmade them walk in bands, cut them down if they fainted, slashed off\nbreasts, arms—women, children. Gut souls—\nThus the whole free population was brought into slavery or killed\noff. Aboujoubo, greatest chief in the island of San lon, retreated in\nanguish to a rocky height. Ponce, now Governor, since he dare not\neconomically murder everyone, sallies out and is received by a native\nqueen, girls dancing, gives one a gold crucifix, legend says. Two years\nlater finds her under a bush, both hands hacked off. Belly hurt he digs\na shallow grave with his sword for her and shoves the gold symbol into\nhis wallet. He exchanges names with a chief, sacred symbol of Indian\nfaith and friendship. Hounds him out later: lam Juan Ponce de\nLeon! says the savage, standing before his followers—hanged never-\ntheless. The hound, Berrescien, gone ahead into a rocky place comes\nspinning back, tumbling down, knocking against rocks, a gash in his\nforehead. Ponce defeated, embittered has the dog stretched upon a\nlitter of leaves and branches and carried to the ship.\nDo these things die? Men who do not know what lives are\nthemselves dead. In the heart there are living Indians once slaughtered\nand defrauded—lndians that live also in subtler ways: Ponce at\nfifty-two was rich, the murderous campaigns of his youth had subju-\ngated the island—allayed his lust of common murder. The island\nwas, in any case, mostly conquered.\nAn old Indian woman among his slaves, began to tell him of an\nisland, Bimini, a paradise of fragrant groves, of all fruits. And in the\ncenter of it a fountain of clearest water of virtue to make old men\nyoung. Think of that! Picture to yourself the significance of that—"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "76", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2205, "texte": "as revenge, as irony, as the trail of departing loveliness, fata morgana.\nYet the real, the thing destroyed turning back with a smile. Think of\nthe Spaniard listening. Gold. Gold. Riches—And figure to your-\nself the exquisite justice of it: an old woman, loose tongued—loose\nsword—the book, her soul already half out of her with sorrow: aban-\ndoned by a Carib who had fled back to his home having found Bore-\nquien greatly overrated. Her children enslaved—\nThe man, fifty-two, listened. Something has escaped him. At\nthat moment rich, idle, he was relieved of his governorship. Vessels,\nthree. He fitted them up at his own cost. Men enough, eager to\nserve the old master, rushed to his banner. Let the new governor\ncomplain that he was taking away too many able soldiers. Ponce\nsmiled. Men whose terms of service had expired do as they please.\nFor donde va la mar\nVay an las arenas—\nThey sailed north. It was March. In the wind, what? Beauty the\neternal. White sands and fragrant woods, fruits, riches, truth! The\nsea, the home of permanence, drew them on into its endless distances.\nAgain the new! Do you feel it? The murderer the enslaver, the\nterror striker, the destroyer of beauty, drawn on by beauty across the\nglancing tropical seas—before Drake, before the galleons. The\nrhythm of the waves, birds, fish, seaweed as on the first voyage. They\neven putin at Guanahani for water—Columbus' first land-fall; then\npopulous, inviting; now desolate, defeated, murdered—unpeopled.\nMarch! Spring! to the north. The argosy of the New World!\nIn search of eternal youth. In search of the island of Bimini—an old\nwoman's tale. The destroyer. Admonished that he had done enough\nstill there floated a third world to discover: no end—away from the\nbeginning—tail chaser\nA came de lobo\nDiente de perro\nhe could not halt—no end. Curious that Amino—the boy of Palos\nwho watched Columbus prepare his vessels for the first voyage and\nwent on the second—should be his pilot. Sea scud. The same piloted\nCortez to Mexico.\nLet them go. They found nothing but a row of white islands called\nThe Martyrs, a catch of turtles, Las Tortugas, a sandy coastline, a\ndevil of a current that shoved them about and devilish Indians who"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "77", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 882, "texte": "drove them back from the watering places—flamingoes, pelicans, egrets,\nherons—Rousseau has it. Thickets with striped leaves, ferns emerging\nfrom the dark, palms, the heat, the moon, the stars the sun in a pool\nof swampwater. Fish fly. In the water seals—back to Cuba.\nOld now, heavy at heart over the death of his bloody pet, Ponce\nretired to his Casa Blanca and sulked for three years. Then came\nthe news of Cortez triumph and the wealth of Montezuma.\nPonce—\nde Leon\nen nombre y podesta\n—the victor, now\ndefeated, must stir again. Back to Florida thinking to find on the\ncontinent, he only then found that he had discovered, another Tehuan-\ntepec.\nBut this time the Yamasses put an arrow into his thigh at the first\nlanding—and let out his fountain. They flocked to the beach, jeered\nhim as he was lifted to the shoulders of his men and carried away.\nDead.\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "78", "page_fin": "82", "image_debut": 16, "image_fin": 22, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Motion Picture Dynamics", "titre_sommaire": "Motion Picture Dynamics", "signature_source": "Robert Alden Sanborn", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "78", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2372, "texte": "MOTION PICTURE DYNAMICS\n\nI have heard directors express hearty satisfaction in a fine lighting,\nthe natural beauty of a location, the smoothness of a sequence leading\nup to a climax, a moving bit of emotional acting, the faultless realism\nof a costly set, and I have watched them labor endlessly to achieve\nthese high spots. The qualities they consider so admirable all pertain\nto other arts, as, the lighting effect to still photography, the eye for\nnatural beauty to landscape painting, the smoothness of the sequence\nto literature, and the verisimilitude of the set to stage carpentry. But\nI do not remember that I have heard one of them call attention to\nthose rare and significant effects that belong organically to the art of\nthe motion picture, and to no other art. Nor have I known these men,\nwith a few exceptions, to strive for such effects.\nThe most consistent exceptions are to be found in the class of\ndirectors who improvise pictures of pure action, such as comedies and\nserials. They have, most of them crudely, sensed the peculiar pos-\nsibilities and limitations of the new medium. Perhaps for that reason\nalone their products command the greatest popularity, and also the\napproval of the most discriminating.\nFirst, Charles Chaplin. In actual practice Chaplin does not load\nhimself with a staff of scenario writers. In their place he keeps on\nhand a small retinue of comedy \"gag\" men, writers and producers of\nvaudeville acts, vaudeville sketch artists, men who know all the \"busi-\nness\" that ever got a laugh, in other words, not writers so much as\nexperts in getting impromptu comedy effects. He generally has one\nman to act as recording scenarist whose duty is to follow the sequence\nof the action and make a brief of it, a work that any competent steno-\ngrapher, familiar with motion picture technique, is able to perform.\nOnce in a while this man may make a suggestion for new business\nbut it is not listened to with a tenth of the attention given to the pat\nand slangy criticisms that fall from the lips of one of the several pro-\nfessional comedians who are always about.\nSome day I hope that Chaplin will sit down in his easiest chair with\nthe mouth of a dictaphone before him to do his part in blazing a clear\ntrail over the tangled uneven ground of motion picture technique. I\ndoubt if anyone, certainly none of our leading directors, is so well"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "79", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2633, "texte": "equipped with a practical and rationalized background of experience\nin applying the integral principles of the art, as Chaplin.\nI should like to make a few extracts from a recent article of Chap-\nlin's in one of the popular family magazines: (The italics are mine.)\n\"The reason why so many people like the news weeklies and\neducational films better than the feature plays is because they present\npeople who are busy doing things. I am not interested in the opening\nof a park by the mayor in some town where I hope never to be, but\nthe whole circumstance carries with it that conviction of life which so\nmany photoplays lack entirely.\"\nLikewise many people think that the film comedies are better than\nthe dramas. If they are right it is unquestionably due to the fact that\nthe comedies have paid less attention to plot and trite moralizing than\nthe dramas. The comedy has had more invention and it has had\nmore theatrical 'business.' It has also known from the beginning thai\nspeed and quick movement of objects is essential to the motion pic-\nture. The film demands speed, not necessarily in the terms of quick\nmovement but in a combination of circumstances, one happening di-\nrectly after another.\"\nBy business Charlie means, as he explains in another para-\ngraph, that certain something the performer does in a scene that is\nentertaining apart from its connection in the building up of the story.\"\nThe director of a feature play is not so free to invent new business\nbecause he is held just as accountable by his superiors to the specifi-\ncations of the scenario as a building contractor is bound by the archi-\ntect to the blue print of the plans. The speed and quick movement\"\nare lost in the careful preparation of the \"shooting\" script. Yon\ncannot think in terms of speed unless you have had considerable train-\ning in producing it in action. And most scenario writers have not.\nIn the last sentence of this pregnant paragraph Chaplin is ap-\nproaching a discussion of motion picture dynamics. The sentence is\nso full of meat that I should like to add a footnote on its significance.\nThe \"speed and quick movement\" which can be found in no other\nart than the motion picture is a subtle and complex thing. It can be\nproduced not by a single moving object, by some effect, for instance,\nso elementary as a race between an automobile and a train, or by a\nsequence of unrelated movements, but only by so dividing and joining\nthe movements in the scenes that they play into or against one another.\nThis is a problem that mechanical engineers are perfectly familiar\nwith, in the construction of a bridge combining enduring safety with"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "80", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2484, "texte": "airy grace, or an office building like the Woolworth in New York\nCity which is also a monument of abiding beauty.\n'We of the films,\" writes Chaplin, \"have not gone ahead as\nour public has. . . . The public is not tired of old faces. It is\ntired of the old face in the old material. It would have an even\ngreater apathy for new faces in the old material.\"\n'Most of the people who make pictures, it seems to me, make the\nmistake of wanting too much plot. The scenario writer and director\nbuild and rebuild, criss-cross and dove-tail and lay so many pipes in\npreparation for the plot or a situation that when the time for it arrives\nthere is an anticlimax.\"\n/ feel sure that it is better to begin with a casual or general idea.\nIn my own work I have found that an elaborate plot is not neces-\nsary,—just a slim structure or a sequence of scenes that will enable\nme to create a great deal of action and business that will entertain\nthe audience apart from the story that is to be developed. A plot is\nof no importance to me unless it does suggest these opportunities.\"\n\"In my original plan for 'The Kid' I had some indication of the\nnice feeling for comradeship which resulted in the picture but there\nwas no idea of parenthood or of any of the things which made the\nappeal when the picture was finished. These things developed as we\nbegan to Work and naturally grew out of what we were doing. They\nwere not merely accidents because they were inherent in the material\nwith which We began. (Why does no one try the experiment of\nmaking a tragedy as Chaplin makes a comedy?)\nThere are spontaneous and distinctive elements of the motion\npicture, that appeared when that art was boisterously young. A\nfriend and I once journeyed by surface line and elevated far out\ninto the drab environs of Brooklyn in search of a chapter of one of\nJ. P. McGowan s motion picture serials. McGowan's first popular\nsuccess, The Girl and the Game,\" released in 1915, was one of the\nmost exciting serials ever made, and one of the best motion pictures\never produced from the standpoint of a critic of the art. It established\nMcGowan as a master of the railroad scene, and for several years\nthereafter his serials were localized in and about the railroad, mainly\ncentering on the yards and tracks where tough sweaty men shifted\ntrains and loaded and unloaded grain and timber.\nHis method in all of his best work was that of an improvisor, and\nin that respect he was like Chaplin. His scenario generally found its"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "81", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2493, "texte": "way into the waste basket after he had framed a rough working\ndraft, based on a few suggestions in the script, some character, situa-\ntion, or scene along the iron rails, in a locomotive cab, behind a water\ntank, something that promised an abundance of rapid and exciting\naction.\ni\nThis method is well described by Chaplin in his recent article:\n\"We would start out with a company made up as a policeman, a\nsailor, a big man, a girl, a nursemaid, or any other perfectly familiar\nand labelled characters. We had no particular idea of what we\nwere going to do, and we would go to the park and just sort of let\na picture happen.\"\nThe serial chapter which my friend and I travelled miles of dull\nstreets to see was full of compensating excitements. The characters\ndashed out of places and in again, men grappled, tumbled off freight\ncars, and rolled down embankments. And there was one bit we\nlong remembered as our full reward.\nThe dramatic value of it consisted in this: that in making a scene\nwherein a swift motor launch was to race into a dock, barely slacken\nto allow some men to leap into the pit, and then, describing a beauti-\nful arc, speed out to sea, McGowan timed the action to take place\njust the right moment previous to the expected entrance into the\ndistance of a huge coastwise steamship. The result was pronounced\nand unforgettable. The swift arc cut by the launch was contrasted\nwith the slowly-drawn direct line of motion of the larger boat. The\narc completed, the smaller craft sped away, passing under the threaten-\ning bow of the great liner. Force was applied to force, two move-\nments of contrasting beauty struck edges. Here was motion picture\ndynamics.\nAgain where Chaplin shows us in\"The Immigrant\" the steerage\ncrowd all on deck straining their eyes through the morning mist to\nglimpse the Statue of Liberty which to them means liberty and frater-\nnity and wealth, and then in the next scene after a long shot of the\nstatue, shows us the swift action of the immigration officials in roping\noff the immigrants and herding them into a corner to their utter misery,\nwe have another fine example of a dynamic technique. Drama is\nhere made by a studied ironic joining of scenes which are cut at exactly\nthe right places to accentuate the struggle involved between an im-\npossible dream and the harsh reality of life in an industrial democracy.\nIn another sequence of the same picture he contrives by a most\nadroit parallelism of movement to give his audience a sharp sense"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "82", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1617, "texte": "of the dramatic value of contrast. He shows a scene in the steerage\nwhere a tin plate of stew is carried by the motion of the ship across\nthe table to himself and back to another hungry immigrant, a solemn,\nblack-bearded moujik. Each man has barely time to dip out a spoon-\nful of the food. He cuts to a scene on deck showing Edna Purviance\nas an immigrant girl caring for her dying mother. The mother is\nstruggling, for her daughter's sake, to keep up an appearance of im-\nprovement.\nHe returns to the hilariously amusing scene in the steerage and\nthen, after a few of the metronomic movements of the plate, just as\nit slides down the width of the table to himself, he cuts back to the\ntragic scene on deck. The eye follows the motion of the plate,\nthe direction of which is picked up by the sinking form of the old\nwoman as she is gently lowered backward upon the hatchway by her\ndaughter. Thus the humor of the one scene is organically related by\nvisual motion to the tragedy of the other and a dramatic emphasis pro-\nduced by the abrupt transition of sympathy.\nThe fact to be emphasized is that for the most part these true\nprinciples are to be found in the comedies, serials, and westerns of the\nearly days. And it is sheer nonsense to maintain that such effects as I\nhave instanced to prove my thesis belong exclusively to the field of\ncomedy and rapid physical action. They exist there simply because\nthe men who are busy in those fields are more wide awake to the pos-\nsibilities of their medium and because they have not loaded themselves\ndown with a dead weight of borrowed traditions.\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_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": 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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.7.1", "titre_corps": "Corinne Griffith and Frank Mayo in \"Six Days\"", "titre_sommaire": "Corinne Griffith and Frank Mayo in \"Six Days\"", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 45, "texte": "Corinne Griffith and Frank Mayo in \"Six Days\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_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": 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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.7.2", "titre_corps": "Ray Griffith in \"Red Lights\"", "titre_sommaire": "Ray Griffith in \"Red Lights\"", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 47, "fin_caractere_exclue": 75, "texte": "Ray Griffith in \"Red Lights\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_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": 20, "image_fin": 20, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.2.7.3", "titre_corps": "From \"Greed\" (Goldwyn), set by von Stroheim", "titre_sommaire": "From \"Greed\" (Goldwyn), set by von Stroheim", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 44, "texte": "From \"Greed\" (Goldwyn ), set by von Stroheim"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "83", "page_fin": "94", "image_debut": 23, "image_fin": 34, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.8", "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": 23, "page_imprimee": "83", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2042, "texte": "KABNIS\n\n*\nNight, soft belly of a pregnant Negress, throbs evenly against the\ntorso of the South. Night throbs a womb-song to the South. Cane-\nand cotton-fields, pine forests, cypress swamps, saw-mills, and factories\nare fecund at her touch. Night's womb-song sets them singing. Night\nwinds are the breathing of the unborn child whose calm throbbing in\nthe belly of a Negress sets them somnolently singing. Hear their song.\nWhite -man's land.\nNiggers, sing.\nBurn, bear black children\nTill poor rivers bring\nRest, and sweet glory\nIn Camp Ground.\nSempter's streets are vacant and still. White paint on the wealthier\nhouses has the chill blue glitter of distant stars. Negro cabins are a\npurple blur. Broad Street is deserted. Winds stir beneath the corru-\ngated iron canopies and dangle odd bits of rope tied to horse- and\nmule-gnawed hitching posts. One store window has a light in it.\nChesterfield cigarette and Chero-Cola cardboard advertisements are\nstacked in it. From a side door two men come out. Pause, for a last\nword and then they say good night. Soon they melt in shadows thicker\nthan they. Way off down the street four figures sway beneath iron\nawnings which form a sort of corridor that imperfectly echoes and\njumbles what they say. A fifth form joins them. They turn into the\nroad that leads to Halsey's workshop. The old building is phosphor-\nescent above deep shade. The figures pass through the double door.\nNight winds whisper in the eaves. Sing weirdly in the ceiling cracks.\nStir curls of shavings on the floor. Halsey lights a candle. A good-\nsized lumber wagon, wheels off, rests upon the blocks. Kabnis makes\na face at it. An unearthly hush is upon the place. No one seems to\nwant to talk. To move, lest the scraping of their feet . . .\nHalsey: Come on down this way, folks.\nHe leads the way. Stella follows. And close after her, Cora,\nLewis, and Kabnis. They descend into the Hole. It seems huge,\n\n* One of a collection of stories and poems to be published this fall b\\)\nBoni & Liveright (New York) under title of \"Cane.\""}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "84", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2315, "texte": "limitless in the candle light. The walls are of stone, wonderfully fitted.\nThey have no openings save a small iron-barred window toward the\ntop of each. They are dry and warm. The ground slopes away to\nthe rear of the building and thus leaves the south wall exposed to the\nsun. The blacksmith's shop is plumb against the right wall. The floor\nis clay. Shavings have at odd times been matted into it. In the right-\nhand corner, under the stairs, two good-sized pine mattresses, resting\non cardboard, are on either side of a wooden table. On this are several\nhalf-burned candles and an oil lamp. Behind the table, an irregular\npiece of mirror hangs on the wall. A loose something that looks to be\na gaudy ball costume dangles from a near-by hook. To the front, a\nsecond table holds a lamp and several whiskey glasses. Six rickety\nchairs are near this table. Two old wagon wheels rest on the floor.\nTo the left, sitting in a high-backed chair which stands upon a low\nplatform, the old man. He is like a bust in black walnut. Gray-\nbearded. Gray-haired. Prophetic. Immobile. Lewis' eyes are sunk\nin him. The others, unconcerned, are about to pass on to the front table\nwhen Lewis grips Halsey and so turns him that the candle flame shines\nobliquely on the old man's features.\nLewis: And he rules over—\nKabnis: Th smoke an fire of th forge.\nLewis: Black Vulcan? I wouldnt say so. That forehead.\nGreat woolly beard. Those eyes. A mute John the Baptist of a new\nreligion—or a tongue-tied shadow of an old.\nKabnis: His tongue is tied all right, an I can vouch 112 that.\nLewis: Has he never talked to you?\nHalsey: Kabnis wont give him a chance.\nHe laughs. The girls laugh. Kabnis winces.\nLewis: What do you call him?\nHalsey: Father.\nLewis: Good. Father what?\nKabnis: Father of hell.\nHalsey: Father's th only name we have fer him. Come on. Lets\nsit down an get t th pleasure of the evenin.\nLewis: Father John it is from now on. . . .\nSlave boy whom some Christian mistress taught to read the Bible.\nBlack man who saw Jesus in the ricefields, and began preaching to\nhis people. Moses- and Christ-words used for songs. Dead blind\nfather of a muted folk who feel their way upward to a life that crushes\nor absorbs them. (Speak, Father!) Suppose your eyes could see,\nold man.(The years hold hands. O Sing!) Suppose your lips. . ."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "85", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2212, "texte": "Halsey, does he never talk?\nHalsey: Na. But sometimes. Only seldom. Mumbles. Sis says\nhe talks—\nKabnis: I've heard him talk.\nHalsey: First I've ever heard of it. You dont give him a chance.\nSis says she's made out several words, mostly one—an like as not\ncause it was \"sin.\"\nKabnis: All those old fogies stutter about sin.\nCora laughs in a loose sort of way. She is a tall, thin, mulatto\nwoman. Her eyes are deep-set behind a pointed nose. Her hair is\ncoarse and bushy. Seeing that Stella also is restless, she takes her arm\nand the two women move towards the table. They slip into chairs.\nHalsey follows and lights the lamp. He lays out a pack of cards.\nHalsey: Come on, Lewis. Come on, you fellers. Heres lookin\nat y.\nThen, as if suddenly recalling something, he jerks away from the\ntable and starts towards the steps.\nKabnis: Where y goin, Halsey?\nHalsey: Where? Where y think? That oak beam in th\nwagon—\nKabnis: Come ere. Come ere. Sit down. What in hell's wrong\nwith you fellers? You with your wagon. Lewis with his Father John.\nThis aint th time fer foolin with wagons. Daytime's bad enough 112\nthat. Ere, sit down. Ere, Lewis, you too sit down. Have a drink.\nThats right. Drink corn licker, love th girls, an listen t th old man\nmumblin sin.\nStella: Usall is brought up t hate sin worse than death—\nHalsey: Th nigger hates th sight of a black woman worse than\ndeath. Sorry t mix yup this way, Lewis. But y see how tis.\nLewis' skin is tight and glowing over the fine bones of his face. His\nlips tremble. His nostrils quiver. The others notice this and smile know-\ningly at each other. Drinks and smokes are passed around. They pay\nno neverminds to him. A real party is being worked up. Then Lewis\nopens his eyes and looks at them. Their smiles disperse in hot-cold\ntremors. Kabnis chokes his laugh. It sputters, gurgles. His eyes flicker\nand turn away. He tries to pass the thing off by taking a long drink\nwhich he makes considerable fuss over. He is drawn back to Lewis.\nSeeing Lewis' gaze still upon him, he scowls.\nKabnis: Whatsha lookin at me for? Y want t know who I am?\nWell, I'm Ralph Kabnis—lot of good its goin t do y. Well? Whatsha\nkeep lookin for? I'm Ralph Kabnis. Aint that enough fy? Want th"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "86", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2411, "texte": "whole family history ? Its none of your godam business, anyway. Keep\noff me. Do y hear? Keep off me. Look at Cora. Aint she pretty\nenough t look at? Look at Halsey, or Stella. Clover ought t be here\nan you could look at her. An love her. Xhats what you need. I know\nLewis: Ralph Kabnis gets satisfied that way ?\nKabnis: Satisfied? Say, quit your kiddin. Here, look at that old\nman there. See him? He's satisfied. Do I look like him? I m\ndead I dont expect tbe satisfied. Is that enough 112 y, with your godam\nnosin, or do you want more? Well, y wont get it, understand?\nLewis: The old man as symbol, flesh, and spirit of the past, what\ndo you think he would say if he could see you? You look at him,\nKabnis.\nKabnis: Just like any done-up preacher is what he looks t me.\nJam some false teeth in his mouth and crank him, an youd have God\nAlmighty spit in torrents all around th floor. Oh, hell, an he reminds me\nof that black cockroach over yonder. An besides, he amt my past. My\nancestors were Southern blue-bloods—\nLewis: ' And black.\nKabnis: Aint much difference between blue an black.\nLewis: Enough to draw a denial from you. Cant hold them, can\nyou? Master; slave. Soil; and the overarching heavens. Dusk; dawn.\nThey fight and bastardize you. The sun tint of your cheeks, flame of\nthe great season's multi-colored leaves, tarnished, burned. Split, shred-\nded: easily burned. No use . . .\nHis gaze shifts to Stella. Stella's face draws back, her breasts come\ntowards him.\nStella: I aint got nothin fy, mister. Taint no use t look at me.\nHalsey: Youre a queer feller, Lewis, I swear y are. Told y so,\ndidnt I, girls? Just take him easy though, an he'll be ridin just th same\nas any Georgia mule, eh, Lewis? (Laughs.)\nStella: I'm goin t tell y somethin, mister. It aint t you, tth Mister\nLewis what noses about. Its t somethin different, I dunno what. That\nold man there—maybe its him—is like m father used t look. He used\nt sing. An when he could sing no mo, they'd alius come 112 him an carry\nhim t church an there he'd sit, befo th pulpit, aswayin an aleadin every\nsong. A white man took m mother an it broke th old man's heart. He\ndied; an then I didnt care what become of me, an I dont now. I dont\ncare now. Dont get it in y head I'm some sentimental Susie askin for\nyo sop. Nassur. But theres somethin t yo th others aint got. Boars an\nkids an fools—thats all I've known. Boars when their fever's up. When"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "87", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2504, "texte": "their fever s up they come t me. Halsey asks me over when he's off\nth job. Kabnis—it ud be a sin t play with him. He takes it out in talk.\nHalsey knows that he has trifled with her. At odd things he has been\ninwardly penitent before her tasking him. But now he wants to hurt\nher. He turns to Lewis.\nHalsey: Lewis, I got a little licker in me, an thats true. True's\nwhat I said. True. But th stuff just seems t wake me up and make my\nmind a man of me. Listen. You know a lot, queer as hell as y are, an\nI want task y some questions. Theyre too high fer them, Stella an\nCora and Kabnis, so we'll just excuse em. A chat between ourselves.\n(Turns to the others.) You-all cant listen in on this. Twont interest\ny. So just leave th table t this gen'lemun an myself. Go long now.\nKabnis gets up, pompous in his robe, grotesquely so, and makes as\nif to go through a grand march with Stella. She shoves him off, roughly,\nand in a mood swings her body to the steps. Kabnis grabs Cora and\nparades around, passing the old man, to whom he bows in mock-curtsy.\nHe sweeps by the table, snatches the licker bottle, and then he and\nCora sprawl on the mattresses. She meets his weak approaches after the\nmanner she thinks Stella would use.\nHalsey contemptuously watches them until he is sure that they are\nsettled.\nHalsey: This aint th sort o thing 112 me, Lewis, when I got work\nupstairs. Nassur. You an me has got things t do. Wastin time on\ncommon low-down women—say, Lewis, look at her now—Stella—aint\nshe a picture? Common wench—na she aint, Lewis. You know she\naint. I'm only tryin t fool y. I used t love that girl. Yassur. An some-\ntimes when th moon is thick an I hear dogs up th valley barkin an some\nold woman fetches out her song, an th winds seem like th Lord made\nthem fer t fetch an carry th smell o pine an cane, an there aint no big\njob on foot, I sometimes get t thinkin that I still do. But I want t talk\nt y, Lewis, queer as y are. Theres lots I want task y, Lewis. Been\naskin y t come around. Couldnt get y. Cant get in much tnight. (He\nglances at the others. His mind fastens on Kabnis.) Say, tell me this,\nwhats on your mind t say on that feller there? Kabnis' name. One\nqueer bird ought t know another, seems like t me.\nKabnis: Talkin bout me. I know. I'm the topic of conversation\neverywhere theres talk about this town. Girls an fellers. White folks\nas well. An if its me youre talkin bout, guess I got a right t listen in.\nWhats sayin? Whats sayin bout his royal guts, the Duke? Whats\nsayin, eh?"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "88", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2549, "texte": "Halsey (to Lewis) : We'll take it up another time.\nKabnis: No nother time bout it. Now. I'm here now an talkin's\njust begun. I was born an bred in a family of orators, thats what I was.\nHalsey: Preachers.\nKabnis: Na. Preachers hell. I didnt say wind-busters. Y misap-\nprehended me. Y understand what that means, dont y? All right\nthen, y misapprehended me. I didnt say preachers. I said orators.\nORATORS. Born one an I'll die one. You understand me,\nLewis. (He turns to Halsey and begins shaking his finger in his face.)\nAn as 112 you, youre all right 112 choppin things from blocks of wood. I\nwas good at that th day I ducked th cradle. An since then, I've been\nshapin words after a design that branded here. Know whats here? M\nsoul. Ever heard o that? Th hell y have. Been shapin words t fit m soul.\nNever told y that before, did I? Thought I couldnt talk. I'll tell y.\nI've been shapin words; ah, but sometimes theyre beautiful an golden\nan have a taste that makes them fine t roll over with y tongue. Your\ntongue aint fit 112 nothin but t roll an lick hog-meat.\nStella and Cora come up to the table.\nHalsey: Give him a shove there, will y Stel ?\nStella jams Kabnis in a chair. Kabnis springs up.\nKabnis: Cant keep a good man down. Those words I was tellin\ny about, they wont fit int th mold thats branded on m soul. Rhyme, y\nsee? Poet, too. Bad rhyme. Bad poet. Somethin else youve learned\ntnight. Lewis dont know it all, an I'm atellin y. Ugh. Th form thats\nburned int my soul is some twisted awful thing that crept in from a\ndream, a godam nightmare, an wont stay still unless I feed it. An it lives\non words. Not beautiful words. God Almighty no. Misshapen, split-gut.\ntortured, twisted words. Layman was feedin it back there that day you\nthought Iran out fearin things. White folks feed it cause their looks\nare words. Niggers, black niggers feed it cause theyre evil and their\nlooks are words. Yaller niggers feed it. This whole damn bloated\npurple country feeds it cause its goin down t hell in a holy avalanche of\nwords. I want t feed th soul—I know what that is; th preachers dont\n—but I've got t feed it. I wish t God some lynchin white man ud stick\nhis knife through it an pin it to a tree. An pin it to a tree. You hear\nme? Thats a wish 112 y, you little snot-nosed pups who've been makin\nfun of me, an fakin that I'm weak. Me, Ralph Kabnis weak. Ha.\nHalsey: Thats right, old man. There, there. Here, so much\nexertion merits a fittin reward. Help him t be seated, Cora.\nHalsey gives him a swig of shine. Cora glides up, seats him, and"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "89", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2221, "texte": "then plumps herself down on his lap, squeezing his head into her breasts.\nKabnis mutters. Tries to break loose. Curses. Cora almost stifles him.\nHe goes limp and gives up. Cora toys with him. Ruffles his hair.\nBraids it. Parts it in the middle. Stella smiles contemptuously. And\nthen a sudden anger sweeps her. She would like to lash Cora from\nthe place. She'd like to take Kabnis to some distant pine grove and\nnurse and mother him. Her eyes flash. A quick tensioning throws her\nbreasts and neck into a poised strain. She starts towards them. Halsey\ngrabs her arm and pulls her to him. She struggles. Halsey pins her\narms and kisses her. She settles, spurting like a pine-knot afire.\nLewis finds himself completely cut out. The glowing within him\nsubsides. It is followed by a dead chill. Kabnis, Carrie, Stella, Hal-\nsey, Cora, the old man, the cellar, and the work-shop, the southern\ntown descend upon him. Their pain is too intense. He cannot stand it.\nHe bolts from the table. Leaps up the stairs. Plunges through the\nwork-shop and out into the night.\nThe cellar swims in a pale phosphorescence. The table, the\nchairs, the figure of the old man are amceba-like shadows which move\nabout and float in it. In the corner under the steps, close to the floor,\na solid blackness. A sound comes from it. A forcible yawn. Part of\nthe blackness detaches itself so that it may be seen against the grayness\nof the wall. It moves forward and then seems to be clothing itself in\nodd dangling bits of shadow. The voice of Halsey, vibrant and deep-\nened, calls.\nHalsey: Kabnis. Cora. Stella.\nHe gets no response. He wants to get them up, to get on the job.\nHe is intolerant of their sleepiness.\nHalsey: Kabnis! Stella! Cora!\nGutturals, jerky and impeded, tell that he is shaking them.\nHalsey: Come now, up with you.\nKabnis (sleepily and still more or less intoxicated) : Whats th big\nidea? What in hell—\nHalsey: Work. But never you mind about that. Up with you.\nCora: Oooooo! Look here, mister, I aint used t bein thrown int\nth street befo day.\nStella: Any bunk whats worked is worth in wages moren this.\nBut come on. Taint no use t arger.\nKabnis: I'll arger. Its preposterous—\nThe girls interrupt him with none too pleasant laughs."}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "90", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2193, "texte": "Kabnis: Thats what I said. Know what it means, dont y? All\nright, then. I said its preposterous t root an artist out o bed at this un-\ngodly hour, when there aint no use tit. You can start your damned\nold work. Nobody's stoppin y. But what we got t get up for? Fraid\nsomebody'll see th girls leavin? Some sport, you are. I hand it ty.\nHalsey: Up you get, all th same.\nKabnis: Oh, th hell you say.\nHalsey: Well, son, seeing that I'm th kind-hearted father, I'll\ngive y chance t open your eyes. But up y get when I come down.\nOutside, darkness has given way to the impalpable grayness of\ndawn. This early morning light, seeping through the four barred cellar\nwindows is the color of the stony walls. It seems to be an emanation\nfrom them. Halsey's coals throw out a rich warm glow. He sets them\non the floor, a safe distance from the beds.\nHalsey: No foolin now. Come. Up with you.\nOther than a soft rustling, there is no sound as the girls slip into\ntheir clothes. Kabnis still lies in bed.\nStella (to Halsey) : Reckon y could spare us a light?\nHalsey strikes a match, lights a cigarette, and then bends over and\ntouches flame to the two candles on the table between the beds. Kabnis\nasks for a cigarette. Halsey hands him his and takes a fresh one for\nhimself. The girls, before the mirror, are doing up their hair. It is\nbushy hair that has gone through some straightening process. Character,\nhowever, has not all been ironed out. As they kneel there, heavy-eyed\nand dusky, and throwing grotesque moving shadows on the wall, they\nare two princesses in Africa going through the early morning ablutions\nof their pagan prayers. Finished, they come forward to stretch their\nhands and warm them over the glowing coals. Red dusk of a Georgia\nsunset, their heavy, coal-lit faces. . . Kabnis suddenly recalls some-\nthing.\nKabnis: Th old man talked last night.\nStella: An so did you.\nHalsey: In your dreams.\nKabnis: I tell y, he did. I know what I'm talkin about. I'll tell\ny what he said. Wait now, lemme see.\nHalsey: Look out, brother, th old man'll be getting int you by\nway o dreams. Come, Stel, ready? Cora? Coffee an eggs 112 both\nof you.\nHalsey goes upstairs.\nStella: Getting generous, aint he?"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "91", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2770, "texte": "She blows the candles out. Says nothing to Kabnis. Then she and\nCora follow after Halsey. Kabnis, left to himself, tries to rise. He\nhas slept in his robe. His robe trips him. Finally, he manages to stand\nup. He starts across the floor. Half-way to the old man, he falls and\nlies quite still. Perhaps an hour passes. Light of a new sun is about to\nfilter through the windows. Kabnis slowly rises to support upon his\nelbows. He looks hard, and internally gathers himself together. The\nside face of Father John is in the direct line of his eyes. He scowls at\nhim. No one is around. Words gush from Kabnis.\nKabnis: You sit there like a black hound spiked to an ivory\npedestal. An all night long I heard you murmurin that devilish word.\nThey thought I didnt hear y, but I did. Mumblin, feedin that ornery\nthing thats livin on my insides. Father John. Father of Satan, more\nlikely. What does it mean t you? Youre dead already. Death. What\ndoes it mean t you? To you who died way back there in th 'sixties.\nWhat are y throwin it in my throat for ? Whatsit goin t get y ? A good\nsmashin in th mouth, thats what. My fist'll sink int y black mush face\nclear t y guts—if y got any. Dont believe y have. Never seen signs\nof none. Death. Death. Sin an Death. All night long y mumbled\ndeath. (He forgets the old man as his mind begins to play with the\nword and its associations.) Death . . . these clammy floors . . .\njust like th place they used t stow away th worn-out, no-count niggers\nin th days of slavery . . . that was long ago; not so long ago . . .\nno windows (he rises higher on his elbows to verify this assertion. He\nlooks around, and, seeing no one but the old man, calls.) Halsey!\nHalsey! Gone an left me. Just like a nigger. I thought he was a\nnigger all th time. Now I know it. Ditch y when it comes right down tit.\nDamn him anyway. Godam him. (He looks and re-sees the old man.)\nEh, you? T hell with you too. What do I care whether you can see\nor hear? You know what hell is cause youve been there. Its a feelin\nan its ragin in my soul in a way that'll pop out of me an run you\nthrough, an scorch y, an burn an rip your soul. Your soul. Ha. Nigger\nsoul. A gin soul that gets drunk on a preacher's words. An screams.\nAn shouts. God Almighty, how I hate that shoutin. Where's th beauty\nin that? Give a buzzard a windpipe an I'll bet a dollar t a dime th\nbuzzard ud beat y to it. Aint surprisin th white folks hate y so. WTien\nyou had eyes, did you ever see th beauty of th world? Tell me that.\nTh hell y did. Now dont tell me. I know y didnt. You couldnt have.\nOh, I'm drunk an just as good as dead, but no eyes that have seen\nbeauty ever lose their sight. You aint got no sight. If you had, drunk\nas I am, I hope Christ will kill me if I couldnt see it. Your eyes are"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "92", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2245, "texte": "dull and watery, like fish eyes. Fish eyes are dead eyes. Youre an old\nman, a dead fish man, an black at that. Theyve put y here t die, damn\nfool y are not t know it. Do y know how many feet youre under\nground? I'll tell y. Twenty. An do y think you'll ever see th light\nof day again, even if you wasnt blind? Do y think youre out of\nslavery? Huh? Youre where they used t throw th worked-out, no-\ncount slaves. On a damp clammy floor of a dark scum-hole. An they\ncalled that an infirmary. Th sons-a-bitches. Why I can already see\nyou toppled off that stool an stretched out on th floor beside me—not\nbeside me, damn you, by yourself, with th flies buzzin an lickin God\nknows what they'd find on a dirty, black, foul-breathed mouth like\nyours . . .\nSome one is coming down the stairs. Carrie, bringing food for the\nold man. She is lovely in her fresh energy of the morning, in the calm\nuntested confidence and nascent maternity which rise from the purpose\nof her present mission. She walks to within a few paces of Kabnis.\nCarrie K.: Brother says come up now, brother Ralph.\nKabnis: Brother doesnt know what he's talkin bout.\nCarrie K.: Yes he does, Ralph. He needs you on th wagon.\nKabnis: He wants me on th wagon, eh? Does he think some\nwooden thing can lift me up ? Ask him that.\nCarrie K.: He told me t help y.\nKabnis: And how would you help me, child, dear sweet little\nsister?\nShe moves forward as if to aid him.\nCarrie K.: I'm not a child, as I've more than once told you,\nbrother Ralph, an as I'll show you now.\nKabnis: Wait, Carrie. No, thats right. Youre not a child. But\ntwont do t lift me bodily. You dont understand. But its th soul of me\nthat needs th risin.\nCarrie K.: Youre a bad brother an just wont listen tme when I'm\ntellin y t go t church.\nKabnis doesnt hear her. He breaks down and talks to himself.\nKabnis: Great God Almighty, a soul like mine cant pin itself\nonto a wagon wheel an satisfy itself in spinnin round. Iron prongs an\nhickory sticks, an God knows what all . . . all right for Halsey . . .\nuse him. Me? I get my life down in this scum-hole. Th old man an\nme—\nCarrie K.: Has he been talkin ?\nKabnis: Huh? Who? Him? No. Dont need to. I talk. An\nwhen I really talk, it pays th best of them t listen. Th old man is a"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "93", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2106, "texte": "good listener. He's deaf; but he's a good listener. An I can talk t him.\nTell him anything.\nCarrie K.: He's deaf and blind, but I reckon he hears, an sees\ntoo, from th things I've heard.\nKabnis: No. Cant. Cant I tell you. How's he do it?\nCarrie K.: Dunno, except I've heard that th souls of old folks\nhave a way of seein things.\nKabnis: An I've heard them call that superstition.\nThe old man begins to shake his head slowly. Carrie and Kabnis\nwatch him anxiously. He mumbles. With a grave motion his head\nnods up and down. And then, on one of the down-swings—\nFather John (remarkably clear and with great conviction) : Sin.\nHe repeats this word several times, always on the downward nod-\nding. Surprised, indignant, Kabnis forgets that Carrie is with him.\nKabnis: Sin! Shut up. What do you know about sin, you old\nblack bastard. Shut up, an stop that swayin an noddin your head.\nFather John: Sin.\nKabnis tries to get up.\nKabnis: Didnt I tell y t shut up?\nCarrie steps forward to help him. Kabnis is violently shocked at\nher touch. He springs back.\nKabnis: Carrie! What . . how . . Baby, you shouldnt be down\nhere. Ralph says things. Doesnt mean to. But Carrie, he doesnt know\nwhat he's talkin about. Couldnt know. It was only a preacher s sin\nthey knew in those old days, an that wasnt sin at all. Mind me, th\nonly sin is whats done against th soul. Th whole world is a conspiracy\nt sin, especially in America, an against me. I'm th victim of their sin.\nI'm what sin is. Does he look like me? Have you ever heard him say\nth things youve heard me say ? He couldnt if he had th Holy Ghost t\nhelp him. Dont look shocked, little sweetheart, you hurt me.\nFather John: Sin.\nKabnis: Aw, shut up, old man.\nCarrie K.: Leave him be. He wants t say somethin. (She turns\nto the old man.) What is it, Father?\nKabnis: Whatsha talkin t that old deaf man for? Come away\nfrom him.\nCarrie K: What is it, Father?\nThe old man's lips begin to work. Words are formed incoherently.\nFinally he manages to articulate—\nFather John: Th sin whats fixed . . . (hesitates.)\nCarrie K. (restraining a comment from Kabnis) : Go on, Father."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "94", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2334, "texte": "Father John: . . . upon th white folks—\nKabnis: Suppose youre talkin about that bastard race thats roam-\nin round th country. It looks like sin, if thats what y mean. Give us\nsomethin new an up t date.\nFather John:—112 tellin Jesus—lies. Oth sin th white folks 'mitted\nwhen they made th Bible lie.\nBoom. Boom. BOOM! Thuds on the floor above. The old man\nsinks back into his stony silence. Carrie is wet-eyed. Kabnis, con-\ntemptuous.\nKabnis: So thats your sin. All these years t tell us that th white\nfolks made th Bible lie. Well, I'll be damned. Lewis ought t have\nbeen here. You old black fakir—\nCarrie K.: Brother Ralph, is that your best Amen ?\nShe turns him to her and takes his hot cheeks in her firm cool hands.\nHer palms draw the fever out. With its passing, Kabnis crumples.\nHe sinks to his knees before her, ashamed, exhausted. His eyes squeeze\ntight. Carrie presses his face tenderly against her. The suffocation of\nher fresh starched dress feels good to him. Carrie is about to lift her\nhands in prayer, when Halsey, at the head of the stairs, calls down.\nHalsey: Well, well. Whats up? Aint you ever comin? Come\non. Whats up down there? Take you all mornin t sleep off a pint?\nYoure weakenin, man, youre weakenin. Th axle an th beam's all ready\nwaitin 112 y. Come on.\nKabnis rises and is going doggedly towards the steps. Carrie notices\nhis robe. She catches up to him, points to it, and helps him take it off.\nHe hangs it, with an exaggerated ceremony, on its nail in the corner.\nHe looks down on the tousled beds. His lips curl bitterly. Turning,\nhe stumbles over the bucket of dead coals. He savagely jerks it from\nthe floor. And then, seeing Carrie's eyes upon him, he swings the pail\ncarelessly and with eyes downcast and swollen, trudges upstairs to the\nwork-shop. Carrie's gaze follows him till he is gone. Then she goes to\nthe old man and slips to her knees before him. Her lips murmur, \"Jesus,\ncome.\"\nLight streaks through the iron-barred cellar window. Within its\nsoft circle, the figures of Carrie and Father John.\nOutside, the sun arises from its cradle in the tree-tops of the forest.\nShadows of pines are dreams the sun shakes from its eyes. The sun\narises. Gold-glowing child, it steps into the sky and sends a birth-song\nslanting down gray dust streets and sleepy windows of the southern\ntown.\n\nJean Toomer"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "95", "page_fin": "96", "image_debut": 35, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "The Brain at the Wheel", "titre_sommaire": "The Brain at the Wheel", "signature_source": "Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "95", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 519, "texte": "THE BRAIN AT THE WHEEL\n\nTo the man who knows\nTo the man who cares\nTo the man of taste\nTo the man of refinement\nTo the man with vision\nTo the man of the finer type and temperament of attire.\nDO YOU FEAR THE DARK\nAs your Aboriginal Ancestors did? From their leafy dwell-\nings in the primordial trees they peered ever anxiously\ninto a profound darkness teeming with imaginary terrors.\nBut take the Lamp with the Clamp, clamp it on the mirror,\nclamp it on the table, clamp it on the bed, clamp it on\nthe chair, or anywhere."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "96", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 678, "texte": "We bring\nTHE GIFT BEAUTIFUL\nThe Gift Supreme\nWhat? What is to be?\nRoses or worms? Or roses and worms?\nOr is it seafood, snails, eels, mussels, clams and scallops?\nWith the brain at the wheel\nthe eye on the road\nand the hand to the left\npleasant be your progress\nexplorer, producer, stoic, after your fashion.\nChange\nCHANGE\nto what speed? to what underwear?\nHere is a town, here a mill:\nnothing surprises you old horse-face.\nGuzzle-guzzle goes the siren;\nand the world will learn to admire and applaud your concern\nabout the parts, your firmness with employes, and your\njustice to your friends.\nYour pride will not be overridden\nYour faith will go unmortified.\n\nMatthew Josephson"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_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": 36, "image_fin": 36, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "From \"Souls for Sale,\" Goldwyn Studios", "titre_sommaire": "From \"Souls for Sale,\" Goldwyn Studios", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 37, "texte": "From \"Souls for Sale,\" Golwyn Studios"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_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": 38, "image_fin": 38, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Frank Mayo and Barbara Castleton in \"Souls for Sale\"", "titre_sommaire": "Frank Mayo and Barbara Castleton in \"Souls for Sale\"", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 52, "texte": "Frank Mayo and Barbara Castleton in \"Souls for Sale\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "97", "page_fin": "98", "image_debut": 39, "image_fin": 40, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Memphis Johnny", "titre_sommaire": "Memphis Johnny", "signature_source": "Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "97", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1003, "texte": "MEMPHIS JOHNNY\n\n1 hey carry him off in a one-horse hack\nand he won't be thinking of coming back.\nThey CARry him off in a ONE-horse hack\nand he WON'T be thinking of COMing back.\nMay GOD have mercy uPON his soul\nthey DUMP his bones in a SIX-foot hole.\nThey SHOVeI dirt on his SULlen eyes\nand DIRT clump-clumping aGAINST his thighs.\nThe DIRT clumps down, the pebbles drum on his belly\n(o morsel of sod that covers that hides the left nipple\nof his breast and crumbs of gravel seeping, seeping\nbetween the stiff interstices of his limbs)\nAnd WORMS crawl out and WORMS crawl in\nand WORMS crawl out and WORMS crawl in\nand WORMS crawl in and naturally I am becoming a little\nhysterical since he is wearing such linen as he never\nwore and his new black suit from Wanamakers and\nglass, oak, metal between him and the sod. The worms.\nI must have been hysterical when I imagined myself\nbeneath the glass and oak and lead with him to clutch\nhis shoulders tightly or continue a pointless conversation\nround and about"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "98", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 355, "texte": "while DIRT clump-clumps aGAINST my thighs\naGAINST my belly and FROZen eyes\nand SHOVelsfull of eTEßnities\nbetween my fingers and my knees\nand worms crawl in and worms crawl out\nand round and round and upon and about\nour pointless conversation grows\nand there she goes\nand there she goes and\nalldressedupinher SUNdaycloes\nand there she goes.\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "99", "page_fin": "110", "image_debut": 41, "image_fin": 52, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "The Poet Assassinated", "titre_sommaire": "The Poet Assassinated", "signature_source": "Guillaume Apollinaire ; M. J.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "99", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1309, "texte": "THE POET ASSASSINATED\n\nXII\nLOVE\nOn a spring morning, Croniamantal, following the instructions of\nthe Bird of Benin, reached the Meudon woods and stretched himself\nout in the shade of a tree whose branches hung very low.\nThe damsel had not yet arrived. Croniamantal longed for a foun-\ntain and his imagination, or perhaps some sorcerer's talent in himself\nwhich he had never suspected, caused a limpid water suddenly to\nflow among the grass.\nCroniamantal flung himself down and drank avidly, when he heard\nthe voice of a woman singing far off:\nDondidondaine\n'77s the shepherdess beloved of the\nWho has gone to the fountain\nDondidondaine\nIn the den)y fields, all blossoming\nTo the fountain\nHe will come he will not come\nBut here comes Croquemitaine\nTo the fountain\nAnd Hicfyorydock/ advance no further.\nCRONIAMANTAL: Dost thou think already of her who sings?\nThou laughest dully in this clearing. Dost thou believe that she has\nbeen rounded like a round table for the equality of men and weeks?\nThou knowest well, the days do not resemble each other.\nCroniamantal stands on the tip of his toes to see if he can perceive\nthrough the branches the so-beloved who comes.\nThe Voice\nDondidondaine\nAt the fountain it is ven; cold\nBut when will come mp Croquemitaine\nDondidondaine\nAfter the winter I shall be less cold."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "100", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2408, "texte": "In the clearing there appeared a young girl, svelte and brunette.\nHer countenance was sombre and starred with roving eyes like birds\nof bright plumage. Her sparse but short hair left her neck bare; her\nhair was tousled and dark, and by the skipping rope which she car-\nried, Croniamantal recognized her to be Tristouse Ballerinette.\nCRONIAMANTAL: No further, child with bare arms! I shall\ncome to you myself. Someone has just hushed under the pines and\nwill be able to overhear us . . . Stay with me. My lips are filled with\nkisses. Here, here. I lay them on thy brow, on thy hair. I caress thy\nhair with its ancient perfume. I caress thy hairs which intertwine like\nthe worms on the bodies of the dead. O death, o death, hairy with\nworms. I have kisses on my lips. Here, here they are, on thy hands,\non thy neck, on thine eyes, thine eyes. I have lips full of kisses, here,\nhere, burning like a fever, sustained to enchant thee, kisses, mad kisses,\non the ear, the temple, the cheek. Feel my embraces, bend under the\neffort of my arm, be languid, be languid, be languid. I have kisses\nupon my lips, here, here, mad ones, upon thine eyes, upon thy neck,\nupon thy brow, upon thy mouth, I longed so to love thee, this spring\nday when there are no more blossoms on the branches which prepare\nthemselves to bear fruit.\nTristouse: Leave me, go away. Those who move each other\nare happy, but I do not love you. You frighten me. However, do not\ndespair, o poet. Listen, this is my best advice: Go away!\nCRONIAMANTAL: Alas! Alas! To leave again, to wander\nunto the oceanic limits, through the brush, the evergreen, in the\nscum, in the mud, the dust, across the forests, the prairies, the planta-\ntions, and the very happy gardens.\nTRISTOUSE: Go away. Go away, far from the antique perfume\nof my hair, o thou who belongest to me.\nAnd Croniamantal went off without turning his head once; he\ncould be seen for a long time through the branches, and then his voice\ncould be heard growing fainter and fainter as he disappeared from\nview.\nCRONIAMANTAL: Traveller without a stick, pilgrim without\nstaff and poet without a writing pad, I am more powerless than all\nother men, I own nothing more and I know nothing . . .\nAnd his voice no longer reached Tristouse Ballerinette who was\nadmiring her image in the pool.\nIn the lovely woods, Tristouse promenaded meditating.\nTristousE: My heart is sad without thee, Croniamantal. I"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "101", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2348, "texte": "loved thee without knowing it. All is green. All is green above my\nhead and beneath my feet. I have lost him whom I loved. I must\nsearch this way and that way, here and yonder. And among them\nall I shall surely find someone who will please me.\nCRONIAMANTAL: Goddess! who art thou? Where is thine\neternal form?\nTristousE: Oh, there he is again, handsomer than ever . . .\nListen, o poet. I belong to thee, henceforth.\nWithout looking at Tristouse, Croniamantal bent over the pool.\nCRONIAMANTAL: I love fountains, they are beautiful symbols\nof immortality when they never run dry. This one has never run dry.\nAnd I seek a divinity, but I desire her to appear eternal to me. And\nmy fountain has never run dry.\nHe kneeled and prayed to the fountain, while Tristouse, all in\ntears, lamented.\nTRISTOUSE: O poet, adorest thou the fountain? O Lord, re-\nturn my lover to me! Come to me! I know such lovely songs.\nCRONIAMANTAL: The fountain hath its murmur.\nTristouse: Very well, then! Sleep with thy cold lover, let\nher drown thee! But if thou livest, thou belongest to me and thou\nshalt obey me.\nShe was gone, and throughout the forest of twittering birds, the\nfountain flowed and murmured, while there arose the voice of Cronia-\nmantal who wept and whose tears mingled with the worshipped flood.\nCRONIAMANTAL: O fountain! Thou who springest like a\nstaunchless blood. Thou who art cold as marble, but living, trans-\nparent and fluid. Thou, ever renewed and ever the same. Thou who\nmakest living thy verdant banks, I love thee. Thou art my unrivalled\ngoddess. Thou quenchest my thirst. Thou purifiest me. Thou mur-\nmurest to me thine eternal song which rocks me to sleep in the evenings.\nThe FOUNTAIN: At the bottom of my little bed full of an\nOrient of gems, I hear thee with contentment, o poet whom I have\nenchanted. I recall Avallon where we might have lived, thou as the\nKing Fisher and I awaiting thee under the appletrees. O islands of\nappletrees. But I am happy in my precious little bed. These amethysts\nare sweet to my gaze. This lapis-lazuli is more blue than a fair sky.\nThis malachite represents to me a prairie. Sardonyx, onyx, agate,\nrock-crystal, you shall scintillate tonight, for I will give a feast in\nhonor of my lover. I shall come alone as befits a virgin. The power of\nmy lover has already been manifested and his gifts are sweet to my"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "102", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2062, "texte": "soul. He has given me his eyes all in tears, two adorable fountains,\nsweet tributaries of my stream.\nCRONIAMANTAL: O fecund fountain, thy waters resemble thy\nhair. Thy flowers are born about thee and we shall love each other\nalways.\nNothing could be heard but the song of birds and the rustling of\nleaves, and at times the plashing of a bird playing in the water.\nA man appeared in the little wood: It was Paponat the Al-\ngerian. He approached the fountain dancing.\nCRONIAMANTAL: I know you. You are Paponat who studied\nin the Orient.\nPAPONAT: Himself. O poet of the Occident, I come to visit\nyou. I have learned of your enchantment, but I hear that it is\nnot yet too late to converse with you. How humid it is here! It is not\nat all surprising that your voice is harsh, and you will certainly need\na medicament to clear it. I approached you dancing. Is there no way\nof saving you from the situation in which you have placed yourself.\nCRONIAMANTAL: Bah! But tell me who taught you to dance.\nPAPONAT: The angels themselves were my dancing masters.\nCRONIAMANTAL: The good or the bad angels? But no matter.\nI have had enough of all the dances, save one which the Greeks call\nkordax.\nPAPONAT: You are gay, Croniamantal, we shall be able to\namuse ourselves. I am glad I came here. I love gaiety. I am happy!\nAnd Paponat, his bright eyes profoundly whirling, rubbed his\nhands gleefully.\nCRONIAMANTAL: You look like me!\nPAPONAT: Not much. lam happy to live, while you die beside\nthe fountain.\nCRONIAMANTAL: But the happiness which you proclaim, do\nyou not forget it? and forget mine? You resemble me! The happy\nman rubs his hands. Smell them. What do they smell like?\nPaponat : The odour of death.\nCRONIAMANTAL: Ha! ha! ha! The happy man has the same\nodour as death! Rub your hands. What difference between the happy\nman and the corpse! I am also happy, although I don't want to rub\nmy hands. Be happy, rub your hands. Be happy! again! Now do\nyou know it, the odour of happiness?\nPAPONAT: Farewell. If you make no case for the living, there\nis no way of talking to you."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "103", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2130, "texte": "And as Paponat disappeared into the night where glittered the\ninnumerable eyes of the celestial animals of impalpable flesh, Cronia-\nmantal rose suddenly thinking to himself: \"Well—enough of Nature\nand of the memories she evokes. I know enough about that for a long\ntime; we had better return to Paris and try to find that exquisite little\nTristouse who loves me madly.\"\nXIII\nENCOUNTERS\nSix months passed. For the last five Tristouse Ballerinette had\nbeen the mistress of Croniamantal, whom she loved passionately for\neight days. In exchange for this love, the lyrical youth had rendered\nher glorious and immortal forever by celebrating her in marvellous\npoems.\n\"I was thought ugly because of my thinness, my large mouth, my\nbad teeth, my irregular features, my crooked nose. Now I am beauti-\nful and all men tell me so.\n\"What miracles are bom of the love of a poet! But how heavily\na poet's love weighs! What sorrows accompany it, what silences to\nendure! Now that the miracle has been accomplished, I am beautiful\nand renowned. Croniamantal is ugly, he has wasted his property in\na short time, he is poor, lacking in elegance, no longer gay, the slightest\nof his gestures make him a hundred enemies.\n\"I love him no longer. I need him no longer, my admirers are\nenough for me. I shall rid me of him gradually. But that is going to\nbe very annoying. Either 1 must go away, or he must disappear, so\nthat he doesn't bother me, so that he isn't able to reproach me.\"\nAnd after eight days, Tristouse became the mistress of Paponat,\nalthough still seeing Croniamantal, whom she treated more and more\ncoldly. The less she came to see him, the more desperately he cared\nfor her. When she did not come at all, he spent hours in front of the\nhouse she lived in in the hope of seeing her come out, and if by chance\nshe did, he would escape like a thief, fearing that she might accuse him\nof spying on her.\nIt was by running around after Tristouse Ballerinette that Cronia-\nmanta! continued his literary education.\nOne day as he was wandering about Paris, he suddenly found\nhimself at the Seine. He crossed a bridge and walked for some time,"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "104", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2077, "texte": "when suddenly perceiving before him M. Francois Coppee, Cronia-\nmantal regretted that this passerby was dead. But there is nothing\nagainst talking with the dead, and the encounter passed off very\npleasantly.\n\"Come,\" thought Croniamantal, \"to a passerby he would appear\nto be nothing but a passerby, and the very author of the Passerby.\nHe is a clever and spiritual rhymester, with some feeling for reality.\nLet us speak to him about rhyme.\"\nThe poet of the Passerby was smoking a dark cigarette. He was\ndressed in black, his visage black; he stood bizarrely on a high stone,\nand Croniamantal saw quite easily by his pensive air that he was com-\nposing verses. He came alongside of him and after having greeted\nhim, said brusquely:\n\"Dear master, how sombre you seem.\"\nHe replied courteously:\n\"It is because my statue is of bronze. That exposes me constantly\nto scorn. Thus the other day,\nPassing by one day the negro Sam MacVea\nSeeing 1 Was the blacker, sat down and muttered: \"Yea.\"\n\"See how adroit those lines are. Did you notice how well the\ncouplet I just recited for you rhymes for the eye.\"\n\"Indeed,\" said Croniamantal, \"for it is pronounced Sarn Mac Vee,\nlike Shakespeer.\"\n\"Well here is something that comes off better,\" continued the\nstatue :\nPassing by one day the negro Sam MacV ea\nChristened this tablet with a flask °112 eau-de-vie.\n\"There is a bit of refinement that ought to appeal to you. It is\nthe rime riche, the perfect rhyme to delight the ear.\"\n\"You certainly enlighten me on the rhyme,\" said Croniamantal.\n\"I am very happy, dear master, to have met you in passing by.\"\n\"It is my first success,\" replied the metallic poet. \"But I have just\ncomposed a little poem bearing the same title: it is about a gentleman\nwho passes by, The Passerby, across the corridor of a railroad coach;\nhe perceives a charming lady with whom, instead of going only to\nBrussels, he stops at the Dutch frontier:\nThe]) passed at least eight days at Rosertdael\nHe tasted the ideal, she the real\nIn all things, it chanced, their ways differed,\nft was from veritable Love they suffered."}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "105", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1952, "texte": "\"I call your attention to the last two lines, which through rhyming\nsomewhat imperfectly contain a subtle dissonance, which is further\nemphasized by the fact of their being morbidly feminine rhymes.\n\"Dear master,\" exclaimed Croniamantal, \"speak to me of vers\nlibre.\"\n\"Long live liberty!\" cried the statue of bronze.\nAnd having saluted him, Croniamantal went his way looking for\nT ristouse.\nSome time later, the rich Paponat, proud of being the lover of the\nrenowned Tristouse, and desirous of not losing her for she did him\nhonor, decided to take his mistress for a trip through Central Europe.\n\"Fine,\" said Tristouse, \"but we must not travel as lovers. We shall\ntravel as two friends, and I shall dress up as a young man; my hair is\nrather short, and I have often been told that I have the air of a hand-\nsome young man.\n\"Very well,\" said Paponat, \"and since we both are in need of\nrepose we shall make our retreat in Moravia in a convent of Briinn\nwhere my uncle, the prior of Crepontois, retired after the expulsion of\nthe monks. It is one of the richest and finest convents in the\nworld. I shall present you as one of my friends, and have no fear, we\nshall be taken for lovers just the same.\"\n\"That suits me,\" said Tristouse, \"for I love to pass for that which\nI am not. We leave tomorrow.\"\nXV\nVOYAGE\nCroniamantal went perfectly mad upon hearing of the departure\nof Tristouse. But at this time he began to become famous, and as his\npoetical repute waxed so did his vogue as a dramatist.\nThe theatres played his plays and the crowd applauded his name,\nbut at the same moment the enemies of poets and poetry were increas-\ning in number and growing in audacious hatred.\nWhen he learned of the departure of Tristouse he did not protest,\nbut simply asked the concierge if she knew the destination of the\nvoyage.\n\"All that I know,\" said the woman, \"is that she has gone to\nCentral Europe.\"\n\"Very well,\" said Croniamantal, and returning to his quarters he"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "106", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2531, "texte": "gathered up the several thousand francs he still possessed and took\nthe train for Germany at the Gare du Nord.\nOn the following day, Christmas eve, the train was engulfed in\nthe enormous terminal of Cologne. Croniamantal, carrying a little\nvalise, descended last from his third-class coach.\nOutside he saluted the Dome, solitary in the midst of the irregular\nsquare which it filled with its bulk. The station heaped its modern\nmass close to the huge cathedral. Hotels spread their signs in hybrid\nlanguages and appeared to hold their respectful distance from the\ngothic colossus. Croniamantal sniffed the odour of the town for a\nlong time. He seemed to be disappointed.\n\"She is not here,\" he said to himself, \"my nose would smell her,\nmy nerves would vibrate, my eyes would see her.\"\nHe crossed the town, passed the fortifications on foot as if driven\nby an unknown force along the main road, downstream, on the right\nbank of the Rhine. And in truth, Tristouse and Paponat had arrived\nthe night before in Cologne, taken an automobile and continued their\njourney; they had taken the right bank of the Rhine in the direction\nof Coblenz, and Croniamantal was following their trail.\nChristmas eve came. An old prophet of a rabbi from Dollendorf,\njust as he was venturing upon the bridge which links Bonn with Buel,\nwas repulsed by a violent gust of wind. The snow fell in a great rage.\nThe sound of the gale drowned all the Christmas songs, but the\nthousand lights of the trees glittered in each house.\nThe old Jew swore:\n\"Kreuzdonner wetter ... I shall never get to Haenchen . . .\nWinter, my old friend, thou canst avail nothing against my old and\njoyous carcass, let me cross without hindrance this old Rhine which\nis as drunken as thirty-six drunkards. As to myself, I bend my steps\ntoward the noble tavern frequented by the Borussians only to tipple\nin company with those white bonnets and at their cost, like a good\nChristian, although I am a Jew.\"\nThe sound of the gale doubled in fury, strange voices made them-\nselves heard. The old rabbi shivered and raised his head crying:\nDonnerkeil! Ui jeh, ch, ch, ch. Eh! Say, up there, you ought\nto go about your business instead of making life miserable for poor\nhappy devils whose fate sends them abroads on such nights . . . Eh!\nmothers, are you no longer under the domination of Solomon?\nOhey! Ohey! Tseilom Kop! Meicabl! Farwaschen Ponim! Be-\nheime! You want to prevent me from drinking the excellent Moselle\nwines with the students of Borussia who are only too happy to toast with"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "107", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2339, "texte": "me because of my science and my inimitable lyricism, not to mention\nall my talents for sorcery and prophecy.\n\"Accursed spirits! know ye that I might have drunk also Rhine\nwines, not to mention the wines of France. Nor should I have neg-\nlected to polish off some champagne in your honor, my old friends!\n. . . At midnight, the hour when the Christkindchen is made, I should\nhave rolled under the table and have slept at least during the brawl-\ning . . . But you unchain the winds, you make an infernal uproar\nduring this saintly night which should have been peaceful ... as\nto being calm, you seem to be twisting his pigtail up there, sweet ladies\n. . . To amuse Solomon, no doubt . . . Lilith! Naama! Aguereth!\nMahala! Ah! Solomon, for thy pleasure they are going to kill all\nthe poets on this earth.\n\"Ah Solomon! Solomon! jovial king whose entertainers are the\nfour nocturnal spectres moving from the Orient to the North, thou\ndesuest my death, for I am also a poet like all the Jewish prophets\nand a prophet like all the poets.\n\"Farewell drunkenness for tonight . . . Old Rhine, I must turn\nmy back to thee. I am going back to prepare me for death and dictate\nmy last and most lyrical prophecies ...\"\nA horrible crash, like a stroke of thunder, burst just then. The old\nprophet pressed his lips together, lowering his head and looking down;\nthen he bent down and held his ear quite close to the ground. When\nhe straightened up he murmured:\n\"The earth herself can no longer suffer the unbearable contact\nwith poets.\"\nTTien he took his way across the streets of Buel, turning his back\non the Rhine. When the rabbi had traversed the railroad track he\nfound himself before a crossing and as he hesitated not knowing which\nto take, he lifted his head again by chance. He saw before him a\nyoung man with a valise coming from Bonn; the old rabbi did not\nrecognize the person and cried to him:\n\"Are you mad to go out in such weather, sir?\"\n\"I am hurrying to rejoin someone whom I have lost and whose\ntrack I am following,\" replied the stranger.\n\"What is your profession,\" cried the Jew.\n\"I am a poet.\"\nThe prophet stamped with his foot and as the young man disap-\npeared he cursed him horribly because of the pity he felt, then lowering\nhis head he went to look at the signposts along the road. Wheezing, he\ntook the road straight ahead of him."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "108", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2393, "texte": "\"Happily the wind is fallen . . at least one can walk ... I had\nthought at first that he was coming to kill me. But, no, he will prob-\nably die even before me, this poet who is not even a Jew. Well, let\nus go quick and merrily to prepare us a glorious death.\"\nThe old rabbi walked faster; with his long cloak he gave the\neffect of a returned spirit, and some children who were returning from\nPutzchen after the Christmas Tree party passed him crying with terror,\nand for a long time they threw stones in the direction in which he had\ndisappeared. * * #\nCroniamantal covered in this way part of Germany and the Aus-\ntrian Empire; the force that propelled him drew him across Thuringia,\nSaxony, Bohemia, Moravia, up to Briinn, where he decided to stop.\nOn the very night of his arrival, he scoured the town. Along the\nstreets surrounding the old palace enormous Swiss guards in breeches\nand cocked hats, were standing before the doors. They leaned on\nlong canes with crystal heads. Their gold buttons gleamed like the\neyes of cats. Croniamantal lost his way; he wandered about for some\ntime in poor streets where shadows passed vividly across drawn blinds.\nWhile he was contemplating the sombre mass of the Spielberg, he\nheard steps close by, and saw three monks pass gesticulating and talk-\ning loudly. Croniamantal ran after them and asked them directions.\n\"You are French,\" they said; \"come with us.\"\nCroniamantal examined them and noticed that they wore above\ntheir frocks little beige cloaks that were very elegant. Each one wore\na light cane and wore a melon-shaped hat. On the way one of the\nmonks said to Croniamantal:\n\"You have wandered far from your hotel, we will show you the\nway if you wish. But if you care to, you may certainly come to the\nconvent with us: you will be well received because you are a foreigner\nand you can pass the night there.\"\nCroniamantal accepted joyfully, saying:\n\"I shall be very glad to come, for aren't you brothers to me, who\nam a poet.\"\nThey began to laugh. The oldest, who wore a gold-framed lorgnon\nand whose belly puffed out of his fashionable waistcoat, raised his\narms and cried:\n\"A poet! Is it possible!\"\nAnd the two others, who were thinner, choked with laughter, bend-\ning down and holding their bellies as if they had the colic.\n\"Let us be serious,\" said the monk with the lorgnon, \"we are going\nto pass through a street inhabited by the Jews.\""}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "109", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1912, "texte": "In the streets, at every step, old women standing like pines in a\nforest, called them, making signals.\n\"Let us flee from this stench,\" said the fat monk, who was a Czech\nand who was called Father Karel by his companions.\nCroniamantal and the monks stopped at last before a great convent\ndoor. At the sound of the bell the porter came to let them in.\n\"My child,\" said Father Karel, \"you are in a unique convent.\nThe monks who inhabit it are all very proper people. We have old\narchdukes, and even former architects, soldiers, scientists, poets, in-\nventors, a few monks expelled from France, and some lay guests of\ngood breeding. All of them are saints. I, myself, such as you see me,\nwith my lorgnon and my pot-belly, am a saint. I shall show you your\nroom, where you may stay until nine o'clock; then you will hear the\nbell ring and I shall come to look for you.\"\nThe room was round, the bed and the chairs were round; on the\nchimney piece a skull looked like an old cheese.\nCroniamantal stood by the window, under which spread the teem-\ning darkness of a large monastery garden, from which there seemed\nto rise laughter, sighs, cries of joy, as if a thousand couples were em-\nbracing each other. Then a woman's voice in the garden sang a song\nwhich Croniamantal had heard before:\nCroquemitaine\nWears the rose and the lilac\nThe King is a-coming\n—Hello Germaine\n—C roquemi taine\nWilt thou come back again?\nAnd Croniamantal began to sing the rest:\n—Hello Germaine\nI come to love among thine arms.\nThen he heard the voice of Tristouse continuing the couplet.\nAnd voices of men here and there, sang airs that were strange or\ngrave, while the cracked voice of an old man stuttered:\nVexilla regis prodeunt . . .\nAt this moment Father Karel entered the room, as a bell rang\nfull force.\n\"Well, my boy! Listening to the sounds of our fine garden? It is\nfull of memories, this earthly paradise. Tychobrahe made love there"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "110", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2285, "texte": "with a pretty Jewess who said to him all the time: Chazer,—which\nmeans pig in the jargon. I myself, have seen such and such an arch-\nduke. . . . Come to dinner.\"\nThey arrived in a vast refectory still empty, and the poet examined\nat his leisure the frescoes which covered the wall.\nOne was of Noah, dead-drunk on a couch. His son Cham was\nuncovering his nakedness, that is to say the root of a vine naively\nand prettily painted whose branches served as a genealogical tree, or\nsomething of the sort, for they had painted the names of all the abbes\nin red letters on all the leaves.\nThe long table that covered the middle of the hall was spread\nwith a rare sumptuousness. The glasses and decanters were of Bohem-\nian cut-glass, and of the finest red crystal. The superb silver pieces\nglittered on the whiteness of the cloth strewn with violets.\nThe monks arrived one by one, their hoods on their heads, arms\nfolded on their breasts. On entering they greeted Croniamantal and\ntook their accustomed places. The table was soon filled and Cronia-\nmantal counted fifty-six of them. The Abbe, an Italian with narrow\neyes, said grace and the repast began, but Croniamantal anxiously\nawaited the arrival of Tristouse.\nA bouillon was served in which little brains of birds and sweet\npeas swam . . .\n* * *\n\"Our two French guests have just left,\" said a French monk who\nhad been the prior of Crepentois. \"I could not hold them here: the\ncompanion of my nephew was just singing in the garden in his pretty\nsoprano voice. He almost fainted at hearing some one in the convent\nsing the close of the song. They left just now and took the train, for\ntheir automobile was not ready. We shall send it on to them by rail.\nThey did not impart to me the destination of their journey, but I\nthink that the pious children are bound for Marseilles. At least, I\nthink I heard them talk of that town.\"\nCroniamantal, pale as a sheet, rose, then:\n\"Excuse me, good fathers,\" he said, \"but it was wrong of me to\naccept your hospitality. I must go away, do not ask me the reason.\nBut I shall keep a fond memory of the simplicity, the gaiety, the\nliberty that reign here. All that is dear to me to the highest degree,\nwhy, why, alas, can I not profit of it?\"\n\nGuillaume Apollinaire\n(Translated from the French by M, J.)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "111", "page_fin": "114", "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Overture", "titre_sommaire": "Overture", "signature_source": "Isidore Schneider", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "111", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 892, "texte": "OVERTURE\n\nChange,—\nnot more nor less.\nNot more; surfeit\nlike a cormorant's ring is about our throats;\nwhose fishing are we at with our gaping senses?\nEven a glutton's stomach turns on a delicacy,\nand Satyrs, as we know, are misogynists.\nEnlarge our appetites and we will swallow larger morsels,\nonly to feed as wrily as before;\nmake our pain less, and we will suffer\nimpalement in the pin prick,\na flaying in a scratch.\nWe alter the gauges of our nerves only.\nOh we want change.\nLet us know as part of life\nthe change of death.\nThe woman who had been a man\nbeing infected with change,\nbecame another man\nand sought other changes.\nTo Transit,\nto the leper-green house—\nThe taste of woman is subtle,\nit is the Circe that makes swinish,\nit is the madonna that makes drunken\nbut most, and most subtly,\nit is the Penelope that tames,\nthat makes circulate, child and man,\nabout the bodies of women."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "112", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1923, "texte": "Transit tasted.\nVertically in bed, her huge hip jerked away like heave of\na restless sleeper, Circe lounged against a doorway, enduring\nher lovers. She was naked and in her loosened black hair\nshe was like a lily on a dark leaf. But her womb, cherished\nat the hearth of her folded thighs, curled like a dismissed lap\ndog; like sated animals her eyes played without ferocity;\nbetween them her nose darted, with nostrils tremulous as\nfins; while the porpoises of her cheeks danced. The coil\nof her throat was sinister. Like doves her breasts strutted;\nand the ribs circled slowly like outermost ripples. Her body\nhair, heavy and intricately fertile like a banyan tree inured\nthe gaze of her lovers. She was a pageant of wilderness and\nman came to her fawning or frenzied.\nWhen Transit saw Circe, he became an elephant and raised\nhimself formally like the materialization of a rectangle; like\na canopy that elegantly arches a sedate amour.\nDrawing water, at the well, with her head down, her neck\nbent grandly; and the strain made the skin whiter than\namazement; it seemed ready for the fingers of a strangler\nor the knife of some havenly sacrifice. As she lifted out her\npitcher her nurse-like arms waved as at altar tending. Then\nthe madonna dim face appeared, small and casual like a re-\ntreating footprint; and they ran after her, gods and men, in-\nebriating themselves with momentum and fixedness; and\nbrewing themselves with a ferment of devotion so that they\nmight dash their lives over her in a wine to dissolve her\nswoon; they skipped to her like scapegoats that miraculously\nknew their fate and were elated with their destiny.\nThe madonna leaned over Transit until her breasts licked\nhim; then her hair shook back and she took out her arms and\nif her thighs lingered it was in respect to his own irresolu-\ntion. But he let her go because he had no hope in posterity\neven if it were born a god out of his drunkenness."}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "113", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1573, "texte": "The Fates and Penelope are spinners; the Fates span webs,\nand then giving each soul an end they watched the unravel-\nling with measured amusement; Penelope spins her web but\nshe alone unravels it.\nHer face is a diagram of avouched perfection; her breasts\nare seals of symmetry; and her web deceives, appearing to be\nan arbitrament involved by the necessities of the composition.\nImpassive as a mountain that determines the shape and moods\nof the lowlands she silently displays her incalculable house-\nhold pasturing her lovers on her maids, and alotting orbits to\nher sons and her husbands.\nHeavier than infatuation, more implicating than pity, is her\noppressive strength, which is the arranging and inescapable\nhand of Order that makes a man, a function or a monument.\nThe gods waived Ulysses for ten years; death itself sug-\ngested parodies for an incantation. Goddesses, offered like\nspoils, with a patrimony in Elysium, a virgin, the still shut\nfists of whose young breasts held the copious buds of happi-\nness, all merely interrupted Ulysses in his ordained oscilla-\ntions toward Penelope.\nTransit looked steadily away, dissenting from her perfec-\ntion; avoiding the penetrating monotone of her beauty he\nraised against her invulnerable order the invincible rebels of\ncreation, but before the battle could be joined, he was caught\nupon her gaze. He was ignominiously expended on her\nhandmaidens.\nDeath helps us to see the soul\nfor it as suddenly renders life a background.\nHow would you die?\nKindle a woman under me;\nit will be no phoenix pyre,\nI will burn delectably."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "114", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 956, "texte": "So Transit died.\nThe change infected man sorrows for Transit, for his unfruit-\nful death.\nTaking the blue body he carries it before the people; like an\nunjustifiable wound he holds it before him, and reviles them;\nbut his anger like the clutch of lightning in a cloud only\nsqueezes out of the throng a rain of disciples.\nBefore his final change, he makes a last exploration of ex-\nistence, exposing himself to chance naked even of his will.\nHoping to attain an ultimate knowledge, hoping by this\nstrategy to be taken in the drift of life and know by his own\nflood its destination, he found himself curled in a sidelong\neddy, involved in an idyll!\nThen having nothing left, he undertakes the final transforma-\ntion relentlessly urging his will till like clubs it pounds upon\nhis brain. For a time his will keeps his death fresh restrain-\ning the anarchy of the cells; it ends in a darkness that swiftly\npasses a corruption over the flesh.\n\nIsidore Schneider"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "115", "page_fin": "121", "image_debut": 57, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "Book Reviews", "titre_sommaire": "Book Reviews", "signature_source": "Edward Nagle ; M. J.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "115", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2125, "texte": "BOOK REVIEWS\n\nTHE PROBLEM OF SPACE\nPainter and Space, by Howard Russell Butler. New York■ Charles\nScribner's Sons. $4.00.\nBooks on painting by painters are published too rarely in these\nUnited States to be neglected by those few who discover paintings to\nbe more engrossing than either baseball or bridge.\nMr. Butler sets himself the task of an historical inquiry concerning\nthe technical ways of painters, with paramount emphasis given to the\nmethods used for the reproduction of depth in a painting, the old\nillusion of the third dimension.\nThis appears the severest of problems to those who like Mr. Butler\nhave no time, as he informs us in his first chapter, to deal with esthetic\ntheory, disregard the metaphysics of space, attack the problem purely\nfrom automatic vision and mathematical certitude, thereby denying in\ngreatest measure the creative accomplishment of the past fifty years\nand more. His systematic approach does not withhold him from fre-\nquent lapses into expressions of taste somewhat disadvantageous to those\nhe omits to study or those to whom he grants a few ambiguous words,\nRenoir, Cezanne, Picasso and Picabia, comfortably found together,\nand gathered from a reading of Mr. Wright's \"Modern Painting,\" as\na footnote informs us.\nA doctor who closes his eyes to the personality of the human being\nbefore him is no physician, but a mere statistician in momentous danger\nof making a false diagnosis. Mr. Butler's refusal of esthetic con-\nsideration is a simple subterfuge to which he resorts in order to attack\nthose paintings troublesome to his conception of art, and defend those\npaintings which meet with his requisites of a painting.\nThe book begins with an account of the admirable drawings of\nthe Cro-Magnons; then a leap is made to the Greeks. The work of\nthe Egyptians and alien peoples whose artists had the knowledge of\nno immature scientists to stabilize them are forgotten presumably be-\ncause they were content to create form on a given two dimensional\nsurface in two dimensions, leaving the third dimension for the three\ndimensional art, sculpture. We are hurried to a limited view of the"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "116", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2773, "texte": "historically great painters of the Renaissance who made use of the\nthird dimension with its imposed limitations, rather completely to the\nawe and confusion of academicians ever afterwards. We are told\ntheir direct heirs, painters of the 16th century, are preferable to the\nprimitives because the problem of space had been solved for them by\nthe geometricians; the recipe had been concocted and a freedom of\nexecution to which we are but now feeling our way was removed for\ncenturies. Cubism, we are told, came from Spain, possibly because\nPicasso is Spanish, or Gleizes and others lived for a time in Barcelona.\nBut to say that cubism came from the oppression of those who carried\nthe adulation of the Renaissance painters and their admirably limited\ntechnique to the point of suffocation would be nearer the truth.\nTwo chapters as well as a few chosen reproductions are devoted\nto an orientation of the rules which should be pursued to obtain bin-\nocular perspective which is contrasted with monocular perspective, the\npsychological problem of the double image. Here a real contribution\nto technique might have been made if the eyesight of individual painters\nhad been studied. It is proverbial that painters have ill eyes. Naturally\nimpossible to learn what sicknesses assailed the eyes of the geniuses of\nthe past, it still might be enlightening to register the optical vision of\nall living painters at some bureau of research and endeavor a classifi-\ncation of their works accordingly. Who knows how much the sane\npainter, a distinction Mr. Butler makes, might benefit therefrom—but\nthen, consider the critics' eyes. This distinction of perspective which is\nso keenly seen by those who desire a slice of nature reproduced on\ncanvas, is unknown to the modern painter whose objective is the cre-\nation of a work of art by sifting nature through his mind's eye to place\nupon a surface the residue, with the ablest tools he has at his disposal,\nand for his purpose always bending them to the will of his conception,\nalways inventing them where they are lacking. He is not limited to the\nheritage of the Masters of the European Renaissance, but is heir to\nthe artists of all time—which accounts for the present stimulation\nreceived from negro sculpture.\nThe procedure for the making of a painting, according to this\ninstructor, is as follows: Make as able a drawing from nature as pos-\nsible. Apply the rigid laws of perspective, as set down by the ablest\nthree dimensional painters of the Renaissance; then color. A bad\ndrawing is often redeemed by color, he adds.\nAlthough several revolutions are related in this \"historical scientific\ncomplete compendium\"—description taken from its paper cover—the\nrevolution created by the camera still in active eruption, as the photo-"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "117", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2443, "texte": "graphs of Alfred Stieglitz, Paul Strand, Man Ray and others testify,\nis yet unfelt. If colored photography is ever perfected (may it soon\nbe), the endeavor to present reality on canvas with atmospheric finish\nwill be denied those painters who hold no esthetic convictions beyond\nthe pursuit of mathematical certainties. Mention of the third dimen-\nsional quantity inseparable from color is made, but since Cezanne's\npioneering in the domain of color is little more than meaningless to Mr.\nButler who is constantly under the delusion that the creators of what\nhe calls \"modernistics\" were unaware of the axioms he undertakes to\ndemonstrate, a reading of Cezanne's Letters, among other books, would\nhave been enlightening. Naturally the presentation of color made by\nthe abstract painters is dismissed by him with references to \"oil cloth\"\nand \"wallpaper.\"\nAcademicians are not alone in.America to deny abstract painting,\nwhich sprang into existence when the axioms of cubism were found\ntoo severe a restraint. Mr. Craven in the June Dial assures us that\nabstract painting is non-existent because IVlr. Roger FYy is certain that\nno form can be created that does not recall some reality. There is\nunquestionably more fear and lack of comprehension of the abstract\npainters' use of their superbly limited technique—limited to the power\ncolor has to mould a two dimensional surface into living identity—than\nof all other painters' initial efforts. This is due to the dull semi-intelli-\ngence of the public, who in a democratic era exert their blind demands\nwith a violence previously unknown. It does not prevent the hailing of\nPicasso as master by those who endeavor to secure a pleasing recipe\nfrom him to add to their historical cook book, while panting to keep\nup with him, and a curious neglect of Gleizes and Kandinsky, both\nshown in New York last winter, who have made color parent to their\nconception.\nIn his preface Mr. Butler takes note that there have been painters\nsince earliest times who did not learn formulae before painting, but who\nnevertheless created recognized works of art. They lie outside the\nsystems and a priori rules of procedure found in books on the shelves\nof instructors in the fine arts. A book accounting for these artists and\nwhat made it possible for them to impose their art on generations would\nbe a large contribution to the present technical chaos in which the\ncriticism of painting is immersed.\n\nEdward Nagle"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "118", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2657, "texte": "Jacob's Room, by Virginia Woolf. New York. Harcourt Brace\nand Company. $2.00.\nThe extraordinary beauty of Mrs. Woolf's prose serves to divert\nthe reader, at first glance, from the perfection of the book as a whole.\nJacob's Room apparently marks a turning point in English prose. In\nthe interest of placing the book with relation to its contemporaries one\nmight outline the foregoing situation as follows: In recent times the\nproblem of human behaviour has been peculiarly fascinating to scien-\ntists, and our understanding thereof, thanks to the psychologists, has\nmade great advances. Writers of modern prose, inasmuch as they\nrecord human experiences, have attempted to approach experience\nmore closely, to divest it of its layers of familiar illusion through more\nand more penetrating analysis. This led, in the history of recent Eng-\nlish prose, to the autobiographical novel in which vast documents of\npersonal experience were accumulated. It was then discovered how\nstimulating and impressive detached experiences treated with great\nboldness and resourcefulness could become. The next step was the\nnovel of dissociated experiences, in which a writer like Dorothy Rich-\nardson maintained interest (if she did) purely by the more or less\nshocking degree of relationship between ideas: i.e., it was absorbing\nenough to be titillated by the angle at which thoughts are opposed or\nassociated, and thus to follow all the related or unrelated data which\nthe author amassed for her subject, in a perfectly hopeless and be-\nwildered way. Gertrude Stein pursues this tendency to its extreme\nlimits; James Joyce rewards one most, and his Ulysses remains an in-\nvaluable compendium of such detail.\nMrs. Virginia Woolf, equipped no less brilliantly than her most\nformidable contemporaries for observing what is occult and disturbing\nin familiar experience, arrives, however, with a ripe sense of formal\norganization. Mrs. Woolf's method is to adjust isolated experiences\nin a subtle relationship, so that within a chapter or a part of her book\nthe character of Jacob Flanders is completely encircled or segregated\nfrom all else in the universe. By the indirect method of defining\nJacob's environment the succeeding chapters serve to mark the prog-\nress of his personality through an objective and hostile world. At the\nend of the book the personality has been completely caught and\nmoulded. Detail after detail of experience is hurled against him until\nhis figure has been clearly sculpt or blocked out in a strong light.\nIncidents radiate logically about this single figure. The isolated\nphenomena which touch his life link themselves into an harmonious\nensemble."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "119", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2372, "texte": "Mrs. Woolf has also a remarkable trick of conveying the sense\nof passage through years or periods of life by means of a few deftly\nrelated glimpses presented with admirable restraint. A whole child-\nhood is covered swiftly in a succession of outbreaks, pranks, bad\ndreams and maternal scoldings.\nHer prose, musical and precise, moves with excellent change of\npace and direction. So able a master of the sentence is she that it is\nquite delectable to witness the functioning of her rhetoric. At times,\nit is true, passages fall definitely into Miltonic blank verse, a practice\nwhich one may question importunately among the mighty.\nThe Vegetable, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Nero Yor\\(. Charles Scrib-\nner's Sons. $1.50.\nOf the various pestilences known to attack vegetable life, the\nliterary, operating through the agency of Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald, is\nat once the most distressing and the most negative. The distress is\ncaused by the spectacle of what was once a genuine talent, now re-\nduced to the state where it can find satisfaction in such trifling. It is\na commonplace that Mr. Fitgzerald's promise has failed to achieve\nan acceptable fulfillment. Therefore let the bare statement of this\nfact suffice. The negative feature is included in the criticism, that in\nthis play the pest sets in before the vegetable is fairly sprouted. Jerry\nFrost does not come to life. The thin sophisticated disillusion of Mr.\nFitzgerald begins, as it were, to eat away at his character before he\nis created. Hence one finds here nothing more than an attitude edited\nby means of a dialogue which, at least, is quite appropriate to it. This\nattitude doubtless springs from a recognition of the poverty of\nAmerican middle-class life, of its absurd ambitions and its cheap pre-\ntense. It is so general, however,—unless informed by some unique\nthought or emotional power—as to be commonplace. The Vegetable\nis wholly lacking in qualifying features. And since there are no flashes\nof prose brilliance or beauty to lift it in any way, one finds it, at best,\ntedious and trivial; and at its worst, vulgar.\nThe Genius of America, by Stuart P. Sherman. New York• Charles\nScribner's Sons. $2.00.\nThe Younger Generation to Professor Sherman is represented by\nTheodore Dreiser, Professor Ludwig Lewisohn, Dr. Joel Spingarn.\nHis case against them is their evident belief that \"Beauty is not con-\n\nM. J."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "120", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2313, "texte": "cerned with truth, or morals or democracy.'' They are for self-expres-\nsion at all costs, denial, scepticism, libertinism. Therefore, Professor\nSherman fears, the captains of industry will forsake the fine arts as\nsuperfluous things.\" The real case against such novelists as Dreiser is\nthat they are less concerned with literary perfection than they are in\nattacking the capitalistic democracy they live in. Professor Sherman's\nruffled Captains of Industry are perfectly sensible in being annoyed\nat them. Whereas Professor Sherman himself errs with them, in\nseeking rather to defend his environment than to censure them on the\ngrounds of dullness. He finds them \"un-American.\" What is Amer-\nican? What is the \"genius\" of America? The genius of America, he\nconcludes, after a reverent recollection of Washington, Franklin,\nLongfellow and Lincoln is \"a profound moral idealism.\" Now, in-\nasmuch as the Founders were people who travelled off in order to find\nbetter economic conditions, made war on their motherland in order\nto go into manufacturing on their own, and continued to make war\non their weaker neighbors for the sake of territorial gain, it is rather\nhard to find the sources of all this moral idealism. The Genius of\nAmerica is rather for economic organization, and expresses itself in\nquantity production and national sales, ft creates an inspiring enough\nspectacle in modern times for poets and novelists to ruminate over. It\nis certainly their business to define, somehow or other, their present\nenvironment and to express it, inasmuch as their own lives are en-\nmeshed in it all. But that they should go about crying, \"Oh Beautiful,\nmy country!\" as Professor Sherman (verbatim) wants them to, is an\nappalling proposal which offers horrible consequences.\nThe Craftsmanship of the One-Act Play, by Percival Wilde. Boston.\nLittle, Brown and Company, $3.00.\nLet us get down to the business of one-act-playwriting. For the\nKeith Circuit. For the Little Theatre down the street. There has\nbeen entirely too much sentiment about it. The best plays are written\nby pupils of Professor Baker at Harvard. On the mechanics of the\none-act play, Percival Wilde speaks with an informed ardour. As\nin the detective story, ala Lewis Carroll, Begin at the End and go\nback till you come to the Beginning. Then Start.\""}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "121", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1125, "texte": "A one-act play must have:\n1. Introduction\n2. Attack\n3. Development\n4. Crisis\n5. Resolution and Ending.\nMr. Wilde gives specimens which are precise and inescapable.\nThe diagrams especially have a high degree of efficiency. This is all\nperfectly consistent in its adulation of technique, until the veteran one-\nact-playwright has qualms of conscience about dogmatizing. Indeed,\nhe says, there are broad principles; but playwriting is an \"art\"—and\nthe artist should not be—will not be—fetished by \"laws.\" He there-\nfore concludes with the sage warning:\n\"First, last, always, be interesting!\"\nNEW BOOKS RECEIVED\nFaint Perfume, by Zona Gale. New York. D. Applet on and\nCompany. $1.75.\nIHE ADDING iMACHINE, by Elmer L. Rice. New York. Double-\nday, Page and Company. $1.50.\nThe Real Story of a Bootlegger, Anonymous. New York.\nBoni and Liveright. $2.00.\nThe Poems of Alice Meynell. Complete Edition. New York.\nThe Macmillan Company. $1.75.\nEvaporation, a Symposium, by Mark Turbyfill and Samuel Putnam.\nWinchester, Mass. Modern Review. $1.75.\nApril Twilights and Other Poems, by AVilla Cather. New\nYork. Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. $1.50."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "122", "page_fin": "123", "image_debut": 64, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "Comment", "titre_sommaire": "Comment", "signature_source": "Will Bray", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "122", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1921, "texte": "COMMENT\n\nThe spectacle of a modern art which has no longer a \"social of-\nfice\" that \"might achieve . . . the regeneration of society\" deeply\ntroubles our contemporary The Freeman (July 25, 1923). \"The\nwar . . . not only defeated art but disabled it and cast it helpless\ninto the ditch, while industrialism continues on its triumphant self-\ndevouring way.\" Art has retreated from reality and, the critic of The\nFreeman maintains, it must remain within the sphere of reality, \"it\nmust appeal to the real, and through the real if it is to have any force\nagainst the real.\"\nTo reason with The Freeman as to the nature of reality would\npromptly involve us in the epistemological jungles. By making a\npragmatic shift we might better and more generously assume The\nFreeman's view to be that an art or literature which deals with social\nrealities or social problems is nobler than an art or literature to which\nsuch matters are incidental. It is an old campaign, begun first, perhaps,\nby Plato who would banish all the poets since they worked no good\nfor the Republic. By The Freeman's measure, then, the following\nworks would be aligned among the noblest contributions to human\nculture:\nUncle's Tom's Cabin, by Harriet Beecher Stowe\nLooking Backward, by Bellamy\nA Modern Utopia, by H. G. Wells\nLabor, by Emile Zola, etc.\nA Doll's House, by Henrik Ibsen\nLocksley Hall, by Lord Tennyson, etc.\nAs to the rest, Paradise Lost, The Divine Comedy, The Song of\nSongs, The Faerie Queene, Dr. Faustus, Gargantua, Tom Jones, one\nmight by a subtle dialectic expose the modicum of social prophecy\ncontained in them and evade dropping them entirely from the list of\nnotables.\nIntellectuals adapt themselves but ill to the rather remarkable\ncircumstances of American life. I find their resistance and sense of\noppression curiously misguided. It leads in the case of Van Wyck\nBrooks to such a vexing aberration as a study of Henry James written"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "123", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2344, "texte": "entirely from the point of view of social psychology and therapeutics—\nan elaborate consideration of everything relating to Henry James save\nhis writings!\nNor is it true that the artist in modern times has been cast into the\nditch by industrialism. Abhorring Spengler, I find it more plausible to\nliken this age of mechanism to the Renaissance, by virtue of its vast\nphysical triumphs over nature. We discover and exploit with equal\ndaring and cruelty. Our Drakes and Marco Polos are in the labora-\ntory or at the salesmanager's desk. The Renaissance in England saw\nthe birth of the most agitated and romantic dramatic poetry the world\nhas ever seen. So the painters and poets of the world are now stirred\nextravagantly by the spectacle of industrial mechanism. Whatever\nwe may think of the social injustice wrought by the machine, it has\ncertainly turned up an amazing store of fresh artistic material; person-\nalities such as Ford and Stinnes, new commodities, new methods of\nlocomotion and divertisement, phenomena which are so illogical, un-\nexpected, uprooting, that it is scarcely reasonable to demand yet a\nclassical poise of modern artists. If they manage not to get bashed by\nit all, we may acquire for the present a large romanticism which can\noutleap the nervous Zeitgeist, and having a daring and freedom in the\nquality of its speculation which surpasses that of our scientists and\nfinanciers.\nPoetry for August prints The Established Poets alongside of the\n\"youth of today.'' The experiment offers little save an opportunity\nfor the \"established\" Mrs. Tietjens to air her rather remarkable ob-\nservations: (The following should be read aloud in a high falsetto)\n\"The early work of the arrived poets, on the other hand, suffers\nfrom being in certain respects out of style—and it must be admitted\nthat style cannot be ignored, even in poetry. As Sara Teasdale justly\nsaid in her letter: 'Nothing is so much out of style as something\nfifteen or twenty years old!' \"\nIn that bubbling literary teashop of Mr. Farrar's, The Bookman,\nthe correspondance course in \"Contemporary American Poetry\" con-\ntinues brightly. Any questions confronting any literary club will be\nanswered promptly by the editor of The Booffmart. For the sake\nof the curious, there is an account of his life, and his picture is published\nin the same issue.\n\nWill Bray"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "124", "page_fin": "125", "image_debut": 66, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "A Note on Sculptural Kinetics", "titre_sommaire": "A Note on Sculptural Kinetics", "signature_source": "Slater Brown", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "124", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2428, "texte": "A NOTE ON SCULPTURAL KINETICS\n\nIt is obvious to anyone of intelligence that the movies at present\nare in a state bordering on almost complete paralysis. And this un-\nfortunate condition seems due, not so much to the astringent attitude\nof a public which is notoriously fond of taking its esthetic pleasures\nthrough a straw, nor to the timidity of the producers who dare display\nno imagination beyond certain maternal efforts to direct their sweet pap\ninto the mouth of the public, as it is due to the absurd emphasis every\none places on the movies as a medium for drama. For this emphasis\nhas so crippled the motion picture in any natural development toward\nthose forms which are distinctly its own, that its few remaining gestures\nare largely leflex. In fact, so far as function is concerned, the movie\nhas more than one foot in the grave.\nIt is indeed a terrifying example of the loss of manhood through\ndisuse. For at its inception the cinema was endowed with that peculiar\nand unique power of deforming motion which gave it promise of de-\nveloping a new and formidable art. Yet from the very beginning, this\ndistinctive power to accelerate, retard, or reverse the normal motion\nof objects has been ignored because only on rare occasions could it be\nutilized by drama. On the other hand those mechanical accomplish-\nments of the cinema which satisfy the present dramatic idiosyncrasies\nfor realism, grandeur, staccato tensions and rapid scenic change have\nbeen developed to an almost inconceivable extent.\nAs rhythm is, broadly speaking, the progressive deformation of an\noriginal theme, so the esthetic function of the movies is not only to\nreproduce motion but to deform it as well. For just as musical com-\nposition develops its themes by repeating them in various keys, tem-\npos, or upon different instruments, wielding the whole into an organic\nunity, so the movies by repeating the motion of various objects, retard-\ning or accelerating their velocity, playing them against the retarded\nor accelerated velocity of other objects, reversing the order of their\nnormal motion, would create a sort of symphony of sculptural kinetics\nwhose esthetic value could be as significant as a work by Beethoven or\nMichel Angelo.\nIt is not difficult to understand how this symphony could be pro-\nduced. The world with its rich welter of moving forms provides an\ninfinite content. The canter of horses, the flight of birds, the whirling"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "125", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1242, "texte": "fall of a leaf, only await the movies to give their motions an esthetic\nvalue. Even that black jungle of machines in which civilization seems\nto have lost its way, the linotypes, worm gears, the belch of furnaces,\nall with their intrinsic motions could through the time deforming\ngenius of the movie attain coordination in the firm rhythms of art.\nBut first of all the movies must be freed from the dramatic tradition.\nFor its esthetic function of deforming motion cannot create drama, it\ncan only intensify certain dramatic situations. So, should it remain\nwhere it is today, it would become, not a self-sufficient art like music\nor painting, but an art subservient to one which has loner since eone\nstale.\nThat it can be freed is another question. It has perhaps fallen\namong too many evil companions. Producers to whom movie-drama\nyields fat dividends are not the bodies to forsake it for the danger of\na new art. Nor would the public to whom art must come soft, sweet,\nand slightly charged with gas. So the whole cost and labor of a long\nprocess of experimentation must be borne by individuals. And this,\nif I may believe the budget of the Famous Players Corp., would be\nfar too expensive a sport for you or me, dear reader.\n\nSlater Brown"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[126]", "page_fin": "[126]", "image_debut": 68, "image_fin": 68, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.21", "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": 68, "page_imprimee": "[126]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2508, "texte": "The most precious cargo\nof the Mayflower was invisible—the English \"soul\" and its heritage of English\nculture. Every ship that has landed settlers ever since—from the S. Caterina\nthat brought the first handful of Jews and the Goede Vrouw with its Dutchmen\nto the last Cunarder racing; through the Narrows its quota of Jugo-Slavs—\nhas brought a similarly precious cargo.\nBut do we enjoy to the full the age-ripe heritages of all our constituent nation-\nalities which, tempered by the new American experience, are the real sources\nof a great American culture of the future? They are the motifs that can\nmake the pattern of American culture rich, manifold, alive, and beautiful.\nThe Menorah Journal\nembodies the experience and expression of a group of writers and artists who\nas Jews see American life through the lens of their own historical and cultural\npast; they are giving color, vividness, and critical consciousness to American\nlife that all Americans must value—they are putting their racial car*® to\nwork, for the general benefit. In addition to this distinctly American group,\nm t^eir own fashion the inherent inter-nationalism of culture, THE\nNORAH JOURNAL is introducing to America the most significant and\ncharacteristic Jewish writers and artists abroad. Not least, the Journal\nfeatures the thought of Gentiles alive to the significance of the Jew in American\nlife and culture.\nThe current issue, which is typical, contains\nThe Judaic Strain in Modern Letters,\nTT , ____ Burton Rascoe\nHerzl's Utopia Lewis Mumford\nSaturday : The Story of a Crime, Max Robin\nWith drawings by I. Tchaikov\nThe Village ...Issachar Ber Rybbak\nAn Insert of Seven Drawings\nThe Jew in the European Scene,\ntt Marvin Lowenthal\nII. With Kunze and Hitler\ninrvE Years of the Jewish Art Theatre,\n-p. Samuel S. Grossman\n-Do you Know What the Mountains\n•^RE* •• Jacob Cahan\nLouis Untermeyer—(\"At Least Four\nPortraits ?) James N\". Rosenberg\nLeopold Zunz—Humanist s. Baruch\n(Concluded)\nLetters From Abroad\nWarsaw: Looking at the Nalewki,\nWith illustration: Three Jewish Art Posters111\nVienna: Morale in Austria... Eugen Hceflich\nJerusalem: The \"Soap-Bubble City\",\nJessie E. Sampter\nSalvaging Our Folk-Art. .Marek Schwarz\nThe Adversary's Note-Book.\nH. Ben-Shahar\nLlTT coupon, of course—but tear it off quickly and, as an acknowl-\nany two books of the Modern Library series and\nSt nP ;rUSf SS\"e coming the seventeen woodcuts of Jacob Steinhardt.\n; * US ft? Cents and we'n despatch you the current issue\nand the previous issue, gratis."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[126]", "page_fin": "[126]", "image_debut": 68, "image_fin": 68, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.22", "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": 68, "page_imprimee": "[126]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 2510, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2559, "texte": "When writing to advertisers please mention BROOM."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[127]", "page_fin": "[127]", "image_debut": 69, "image_fin": 69, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.2.23", "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": 69, "page_imprimee": "[127]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1747, "texte": "Against tke Faux Bon\nTHE DIAL is a magazine of the creative and the critical\narts which neither publishes nor praises that very bad\nsubstitute for fine work, the faux bon.\nThe faux bon always looks a little bit better than good enough,\nbut only a little bit. It has all the pretensions of creative\nintegrity and none of its power. It is the well-groomed, literary\nimpostor instead of the spontaneous creator of lasting, artistic\nvalues. It is the triumph of technique over genius.\nThe faux bon compromises with the semi-popular highbrow\nstandards of good form and good taste. THE DIAL makes\nno such compromise. Its only prejudice is in favour of clear\nthinking in criticism, and the fine expression of fine things in\ncreative work. It has never rejected a manuscript because the\nauthor's name was unknown or taken one because the author\nis famous.\nTHE DIAL is each month an authoritative record of what\nthe creative intelligence of the world is doing. It is liberal in\nletters. It offers the writers and artists of America complete\nindependence from the limitations otherwise imposed upon pub-\nlication of their work.\nSpecial Offer\nTHE DIAL for one year and one\nof the following important books—\nboth for $5.00.\n(Regular annual subscription\nrate—$5.00)\nThe Judge, by Rebecca West\nA Survey, by Max Beerbohm\nPHANTOM, by Gerhart Hauptmann\nMany Marriages, by Sherwood\nAnderson\nCivilization in the United States,\nby thirty well-known American\nwriters.\n| THE DIAL\n| 152 West 13th Street, New York City\nGentlemen: You may enter my name for a year's\nsubscription to THE DIAL beginning with the Sep-\ntember issue. In addition, you will send me a copy of\nthe book listed below.\nName\nAddress\nOI enclose $5.00. □ I will remit $5.00 upoti receipt\nof your bill."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[127]", "page_fin": "[127]", "image_debut": 69, "image_fin": 69, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.2.24", "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": 69, "page_imprimee": "[127]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 1749, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1799, "texte": "When Turiting to advertisers please mention BROOM."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_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": 70, "image_fin": 70, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.25", "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": 70, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1729, "texte": "— Informed Criticism —\n— Entertaining Gossip —\n— Excellent Short Stories —\n— Illuminating Editorials —\n— Contemporary Poetry —\n— Provocative Discussions\nTHE\nThe Literary Magazine With a Personality\nEdited by John Farrar\nAn American Critic Says:\n\"I often wonder at the friends who say they do not see THE BOOKMAN. In\nall the magazine list I know nothing more generally agreeable than this publication of\nthe George H. Doran Company. It is not alone for its book notes, reviews of the\nlatest publications, gossip of books and authors that we value it, but for a certain\nspontaneous charm in almost every contribution. It is as if those men who had become\nfamous assumed a more natural attitude, feeling themselves at home in a congenial\natmosphere.\"\n/\n/\n/\n/\nAn English Critic Says:\nI am glad to find that THE BOOKMAN of New York is issued here as\nTHE AMERICAN BOOKMAN, for it is, in my judgment, far and\nav\\ ay the most interesting literary magazine issued in the English-speak- /\nmg world. It is edited by Mr. John Farrar. T here is good criticism /\nin it and good literature, and with these we have just that element /\nol news which has a special charm for people of my disposi-\ntion.\"—Clement Shorter in \"The Sphere\" (London) / THE\nv / BOOKMAN\nIt not only gives you the news of the world of litera- / 244 Madison Avenue\nture, but it fills the gaps with charming essays, / New York.\ngossip and fun-making. It has more than doubled / n ,\nits circulation in the past three years. The , entlemen: I should like\nreaders of BROOM are the type of new / « three issues of\nsubscribers it is looking for! Will you / BOOKMAN and am en-\nnot give it a try? closing fifty cents for that purpose.\nCents Monthly $4.00 Yearly S Ad^ress\ny T. 26.7"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_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": 70, "image_fin": 70, "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=bmtnaap192309-01.2.26", "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": 70, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 1731, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1780, "texte": "When writing to advertisers please mention BROOM."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_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": 71, "image_fin": 71, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.2.27", "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": 71, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1152, "texte": "BROOM IN AMERICA\nBROOM has brought back something of Europe. By virtue of\nits extraordinary career in the art capitals of Europe\nand its contact with the best creative minds of the day\nBROOM has acquired a particular bent for rejecting\nthat which is dull and worthless or discerning values\nwhere others see only a perfect blank—and doing this\nwith dash and enthusiasm.\nBROOM has not grown whiskers in its two years of existence.\nWithout false dignity, its adventures in letters and art\nprovide stimulating experience for an intelligent public\n—much more than \"one-half of one per cent.\"\nBROOM believes that the next years will see greater artistic\ndevelopments than most of us are prepared for. And\nBROOM is now functioning in America, in closer\ncontact with its public. An aggressive leader for the\nart of today, calling attention to the phenomena of a\nnew age. Veritably, a fearless review which presents\nthe work of significant moderns as well as formidable\n, \"unknowns\" with authority, humor, passion and\nindignation.\nBROOM\nAN INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS\nA six months' trial subscription offers high interest\nat the lorv investment of $2.50."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-09-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-09_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-09_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": 71, "image_fin": 71, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.2.28", "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": 71, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 1154, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1291, "texte": "BROOM,\n47 West 34th Street,\nNew York.\nFor the enclosed $\nplease send BROOM for S,\nName\nAddress\nCity\n$5.00 Annual Subscription\n50c. A COPY"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[64]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAN INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS\nEditor, Harold A. Loeb\nAssociate Editors, Slater Brown, Malcolm Cowley, Matthew Josephson\nSeptember, 1923\nPublished Monthly\nVol. 5, No. 2\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. Entered as Second Class Matter, June 30, 1923,\nat the Post Office of New York, N. Y., under the act of March 3, 1879. 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—Halicka Pa§e\nThe \"U. S. A.\" Cinema—Philippe Soupault 65\nIn the Orchard—Virginia Woolf 70\nThe Bare Bodies—Glenway Wescott 72\nThe Fountain of Eternal Youth—William Carlos Williams . . 73\nMotion Picture Dynamics—Robert Alden Sanborn .... 78\nMotion Picture \"Stills\" (facing) 80, 81, 96, 97\nKabnis—Jean Toomer 83\nThe Brain at the Wheel—Matthew Josephson 95\nMemphis Johnny—Malcolm Cowley 97\nThe Poet Assassinated—Guillaume Apollinaire 99\nOverture—lsidore Schneider 11l\nBook Reviews:\nThe Problem of Space—Edward Nagle 115\nJacob's Room 118\nThe Vegetable 119\nThe Genius of America 119\nCraftsmanship of the One Act Play 120\nComment—Will Bray 122\nA Note on Sculptural Kinetics—Slater Brown 124"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "65", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.3", "texte": "THE \"U. S. A.\" CINEMA\n\nJust when the eyes of Frenchmen were tiring of the eternal same-\nness of the realistic drama—\"slices of life\"—when only the music\nhalls could touch for a moment our poor hearts dried up by poetry,\nthe cinema was born.\nBut soon the disillusionment was stronger than one could have\nimagined.\nThe films were lamentable, insignificant, and boring. They were\nnot even stupid enough to cry over; the scenario writers wished at all\ncosts to reach the people, that public which is thrilled by melodramas\nand sentimental comedies. Consequently the intelligent directors in\norder to cause tears to gush forth, planted little blue flowers in the\ngelatine of the film.\nThe result was to be expected. All the spectators began to cry,\nbut of laughter. One saw a little girl stolen by wicked gypsies and\nrecovered accidentally by her family, a poor mother and her dozen\nchildren, beaten by a brutal and intoxicated husband, and revenged\nat last by the demon rum and delirium tremens. As the old sad song\nhas it: It was lovely but it was sad, the fireman wept into his helmet.\"\nAll possibilities were exhausted.\nThe ennui of evenings which trail like the smoke of cigarettes and\nwhich stretch the arms to sleep took flower in the ardent life led by\nthe younger people, my friends.\nWe walked in the cold and deserted streets looking for an acci-\ndent, a chance meeting, life. To distract ourselves we had to harness\nour imaginations to sensational dreams. The newspapers, which are\neven more brightly colored than maps, diverted us for a moment. For\na few cents one travelled the whole world over and was present at\nmarvellous and bloody dramas which illuminated for an instant cer-\ntain points of the globe. We thirsted, thirsted terribly, for this strange\nstrong life, this life that we drank like milk.\nOne Jacques Vache, the strongest among us, cried: \"I should also\nbe a trapper or a thief or a searcher or a hunter or a miner or a sheep-\nshearer!\"\nOne day we saw great long bill-posters stretched along the sign-\nboards like serpents. At each corner of the street a man, his face"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "66", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.4", "texte": "covered with a red handkerchief, threatened the peaceful passers-by\nwith a revolver. We heard galloping horses, chugging motors, screams\nand death-rattles. We dashed into the movie houses and realized\nthat all was changed. The smile of Pearl White appeared on the\nscreen, that almost ferocious smile announcing the upheaval of the\nnew world.\nWe began to understand finally that the cinema was not a per-\nfected mechanical toy, but the terrible and magnificent flag of life.\nThe little dark halls where we sat became the arena of our laughter,\nour rage and our great expressions of pride.\nWe did not understand what was happening. We lived swiftly,\npassionately. It was a beautiful period. doubt, many other\nelements contributed to its beauty, but the American movie was one\nof its fairest graces.\nI have kept my memories of these films, which even today I find\ndelightful to recall. For my pleasure I call to mind the following:\nThe Man with Clear Eyes—(William Hart)\nThis man who runs and fights, halts at times in the clear-\nings or on the high hills. At the edge of forests he throws a\nglance of scorn upon the plains. To cradle anyone in his\narms or wring the neck of his enemy. Hatred is perhaps the\nonly reason for existence for all men with clear eyes.\nBut this man is too frank. He does not know the joys of\nleading a double life.\nIt is much more delightful to shake hands with one's\nenemy than to strangle him.\nThe fights and clinches will always amuse us.\nSomeone is going to die.\nWhose turn is it?\nWithin the Law\nThe eyes of madwomen and their drunkenness are as\nbutterflies.\nThis woman who drinks knows only the light smoke of\nher desires. I love this gritting of teeth, these pale rages and\nthis sudden anger.\nA correct gentleman brings you roses. Tear them apart\nWith your two white hands, my mad darling, and throw\nthem into the basket. You are going to kill somebody and"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "67", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.5", "texte": "you hesitate. Open your huge eyes since your hand does not\ntremble.\nThis film is ridiculous and sentimental.\nWhy is this madwoman so beautiful? We shall go\nagain to see \"Within the Law,\" eh, Andre Breton.\nBut we did not yet know Charlie Chaplin.\nAt that time we were not astonished at the restricted place ac-\ncorded to Chariot, as he is called in France, but all of a sudden we\nbegan to comprehend the significance of his role. Charlie Chaplin has\nreally freed the moving pictures from the morons. This was easy for\nhim because he is a poet. Poetry is a more violent acid than any other\nknown acid. Its presence ruins the richest, the most powerful combina-\ntions, demands totally new beginnings.\nThe films of Charlie Chaplin do not escape this rule, and we have\nthe impression that since \"A Dog's Life\" the most celebrated or intel-\nligent directors have only been able to mark time or stay in the same\nplace. No one has ever fairly judged the superb trick of Chaplin that\nwe poets call poetry.\nIn his first films, Chariot was nothing more than a marvellous actor.\nAs time went on, he became the author of dramas which were entitled,\n\"A Night in a Music Hall,\" \"The Immigrant,\" \"The Floorwalker,\"\n\"Shoulder Arms,\" and \"A Dog's Life.\"\nWhy not admit that these films are and will remain the only dramas\nof this dramatic period? Without fear of stating a paradox, how not\nwrite that his laughter is more tragic, more poignant than the spectacle\nof death itself? I imagine that I have suffered more from laughter than\nfrom sorrow, which is self-indulgent, and, after all, consoling.\nA few films of Charlie Chaplin have remained fast in my memory,\nand in thinking of them I have been led to write the following lines:\n\"A Dog's Life\"—(Charlie Chaplin)\nAt five o'clock in the morning or the evening, the smoke\nthat fills the saloons takes you by the throat, you sleep in the\nlight of the stars.\nBut time passes. There is no longer a second to lose.\nTobacco. At the street corners me cross the shadows; the\npushcart peddlers are at the curb. We had better run: hands\nin pockets we stare at the sign. Cafe, Bar. At the door we\nhear the tin mechanical piano. The odour of alcohol sets\nthe couples dancing."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "68", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.6", "texte": "They are here.\nAt the edge of the tables, at the edge of lips, cigarettes\nare consumed: a new star sings an old sad song.\nYou may turn your head.\nThe sun is laid upon a tree and his reflections in the win-\ndow panes are bursts of laughter. A story as gay as a\nFrench paint shop.\n\"The Immigrant\"—(Charlie Chaplin)\nThe tossing of the ship and boredom rock the days to\nsleep. Enough of these promenades on deck: ever since our\ndeparture, the sea is colorless. Neither dice nor cards can\nmake us forget the city we are approaching: life is at stake.\nThe rain receives us in these deserted streets. Birds and\nhopes are far off. In every city the inside of restaurants is\nwarm. You think no more; you look at the faces of the\ndiners, or out through the doorway, at the light. Do you\nrealize that you will have to go out and pay the bill? Does\nnot the present moment suffice? There is nothing left to do\nbut laugh at all this anxiety.\nAnd We laugh sadly like hunchbacks.\nWith a stroke of his cane, such a smiling magician was he, Charlie\nChaplin was able to give an extraordinary vigor, an incredible super-\niority, to the American movies. All the films which came out of the\nLos Angeles studios were successful. There were long rides on horse-\nback without a word being spoken, without a useless gesture, sensational\nabductions. There were films of Douglas Fairbanks, of Rio Jim and\nof Tom Mix. There were complicated stories of banks, words, of\ngold mines. An immense silent office, and the head of a man armed\nwith a cigar. He thinks and his thought becomes the whole United\nStates, all America, the whole world. Near this head a telephone ring-\ning quietly unites man with the universe. Does not this mute bell-ringing\nin the cinema present all the tragic desuetude of a horn playing in the\nquiet forests of our romantic Alfred de Vigny? Doors open and are\nclosed, and red men, strong men, women desperately fine or frivolous\nenter and leave with misfortune or happiness in their hands.\nThe \"U. S. A.\" cinema has thrown light on all the beauty of our\ntime, all the mystery of modern mechanics. But the light it has pro-\njected was so simple, so natural, so little affected that it was hardly\nnoticed. It was however one of the greatest and most important artistic\ndiscoveries. Everything was revivified with a single stroke."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "69", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.7", "texte": "This novel beauty, discovered so easily, so naturally, was accom-\npanied by a technical perfection hitherto unknown. The directors in\nAmerica understand all the drama that is hidden in a keyhole, in a\nhand, in a drop of water.\nThe influence of this new power made itself felt immediately. I\nthoroughly believe that all French poetry underwent a profound trans-\nformation therefrom. The theatre, little by little, more slowly, it is\ntrue, is being transformed by contact with the movies. It will be no-\nticed, in looking backward, that since the appearance of the first films\nmade in the United States, an evolution has begun: I am certain that\npainting, which is always a little behind poetry, will yet learn to know\nthe conditions imposed by the cinema.\nIt must be stated, however, that at the present time, the \"U. S. A.\"\ncinema, although it has preserved all its charm, has made no further\nprogress. It remains itself, but at the same stage. We can no longer be\nastonished and it is difficult to distinguish the revival of the 1920 pro-\nductions from those of 1923. This is no cause for disillusionment. But\nneither must we deceive ourselves. Americans quick of comprehension\nhave accorded great success to the German film, \"The CABINET OF\nDOCTOR CaLIGARI.\" Without doubt this film is very different from\npreceding productions, but though it bewildered for a moment, it marks\na decisive move backwards. The Los Angeles directors above all need\ntake lessons from no one. Whatever may be said, they are greater than\nthe author of \"The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari,\" who really\nemployed all the processes of the theatre.\nThe worst film of Charles Ray or of Jack Pickford is much superior\nto\"The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari.\"\nThe most important thing is not to go back on one's tracks and\nlook at things the wrong way. The theatre which will revive some day\nis as far from the cinema as poetry from music. Everything in its\nplace, everything in its time, says the motto. The movies must not go\naground on the rocks of \"art\" and of an antiquated novelty. After\nsuch an effort it is natural and right that for several months or even\nyears, the \"U. S. A.\" cinema take cognizance of the ground it has\ncovered.\nIn reality I believe that at the present time we can only ask Los\nAngeles to continue to be the city of singular dreams and of torment-\ning realities.\nThe \"U. S. A.\" cinema remains and will remain the \"biggest in\nthe world,\" as we say in French.\n\nPhilippe Soupault"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "70", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.8", "texte": "IN THE ORCHARD\n\nMiranda slept in the orchard, lying in a long chair beneath the\napple-tree. Her book had fallen into the grass, and her finger still\nseemed to point at the sentence \"Ce pays est vraiment un des coins du\nmonde ou le rire des filles eclate le mieux . . .\" as if she had fallen\nasleep just there. The opals on her finger flushed green, flushed rosy,\nand again flushed orange as the sun, oozing through the apple-trees,\nfilled them. Then, when the breeze blew, her purple dress rippled like\na flower attached to a stalk; the grasses nodded; and the white butterfly\ncame blowing this way and that just above her face.\nFour feet in the air over her head the apples hung. Suddenly there\nwas a shrill clamour as if they were gongs of cracked brass beaten\nviolently, irregularly, and brutally. It was only the school-children\nsaying the multiplication table in unison, stopped by the teacher,\nscolded, and beginning to say the multiplication table over again. But\nthis clamour passed four feet above Miranda's head, went through the\napple boughs, and, striking against the cowman's little boy who was\npicking blackberries in the hedge when he should have been at school,\nmade him tear his thumb on the thorns.\nNext there was a solitary cry—sad, human, brutal. Old Parsley\nwas, indeed, blind drunk.\nThen the very topmost leaves of the apple-tree, flat like little fish\nagainst the blue, thirty feet above the earth, chimed with a pensive\nand lugubrious note. It was the organ in the church playing one of\nHymns Ancient and Modern. The sound floated out and was cut\ninto atoms by a flock of field-fares flying at an enormous speed—some-\nwhere or other. Miranda lay asleep thirty feet beneath.\nThen above the apple-tree and the pear-tree two hundred feet\nabove Miranda lying asleep in the orchard bells thudded, intermittent,\nsullen, didactic, for six poor women of the parish were being churched\nand the Rector was returning thanks to heaven.\nAnd above that with a sharp squeak the golden feather of the\nchurch tower turned from south to east. The wind had changed.\nAbove everything else it droned, above the woods, the meadows, the\nhills, miles above Miranda lying in the orchard asleep. It swept on,\neyeless, brainless, meeting nothing that could stand against it, until,"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "71", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.9", "texte": "wheeling the other way, it turned south again. Miles below, in a space\nas big as the eye of a needle, Miranda stood upright and cried aloud:\n\"Oh, I shall be late for tea!\"\nMiranda slept in the orchard—or perhaps she was not asleep, for\nher lips moved very slightly as if they were saying, \"Ce pays est\nvraiment un des coins du monde . . . ou le rire des lilies . . . eclate\n. . . eclate . . . eclate . . .\" and then she smiled and let her body\nsink all its weight on to the enormous earth which rises, she thought,\nto carry me on its back as if I were a leaf, or a queen (here the chil-\ndren said the multiplication table), or, Miranda went on, I might be\nlying on the top of a cliff with the gulls screaming above me. The\nhigher they fly, she continued, as the teacher scolded the children and\nrapped Jimmy over the knuckles till they bled, the deeper they look\ninto thesea—into the sea, she repeated, and her fingers relaxed and\nher lips closed gently as if she were floating on the sea, and then, when\nthe shout of the drunken man sounded overhead, she drew breath with\nan extraordinary ecstasy, for she thought that she heard life itself cry-\ning out from a rough tongue in a scarlet mouth, from the wind, from\nthe bells, from the curved green leaves of the cabbages.\nNaturally she was being married when the organ played the tune\nfrom Hymns Ancient and Modern, and, when the bells rang after the\nsix poor women had been churched, the sullen intermittent thud made\nher think that the very earth shook with the hoofs of the horse that was\ngalloping towards her (\"Ah, I have only to wait!\" she sighed), and\nit seemed to her that everything had already begun moving, crying,\nriding, flying round her, across her, towards her in a pattern.\nMary is chopping the wood, she thought; Pearman is herding the\ncows; the carts are coming up from the meadows; the rider—and she\ntraced out the lines that the men, the carts, the birds, and the rider\nmade over the countryside until they all seemed driven out, round, and\nacross by the beat of her own heart.\nMiles up in the air the wind changed; the golden feather of the\nchurch tower squeaked; and Miranda jumped up and cried: \"Oh, I\nshall be late for tea!\"\nMiranda slept in the orchard, or was she asleep or was she not\nasleep ? Her purple dress stretched between the two apple-trees. There\nwere twenty-four apple-trees in the orchard, some slanting slightly,\nothers growing straight with a rush up the trunk which spread wide\ninto branches and formed into round red or yellow drops. Each\napple-tree had sufficient space. The sky exactly fitted the leaves."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "72", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.10", "texte": "When the breeze blew, the line of the boughs against the wall slanted\nslightly and then returned. A wagtail flew diagonally from one corner\nto another. Cautiously hopping, a thrush advanced towards a fallen\napple; from the other wall a sparrow fluttered just above the grass.\nThe uprush of the trees was tied down by these movements; the whole\nwas compacted by the orchard walls. For miles beneath the earth was\nclamped together; rippled on the surface with wavering air; and across\nthe corner of the orchard the blue-green was slit by a purple streak.\nThe wind changing, one bunch of apples was tossed so high that it\nblotted out two cows in the meadow (\"Oh, I shall be late for tea!\"\ncried Miranda), and the apples hung straight across the wall again.\n\nVirginia Woolf\n\nTHE BARE BODIES\nGlenway Wescott\nSimple as a snake\nto the eye, but curious\nin motions. . . .\nIn this a savage peace\nof foothills piled\nas green melons,\nof rivers walked\nby snipe\nthey start up\nfrom the blue-topped\ngrass, the girl\na straightened crescent,\nthe man a wedge, marked\nwith curled hair\nlike corn-silk—\nalone timorous,\nby a cry startled,\nwhere the mares' manes\nblow out like lace,\nwhere the bird sleeps."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "73", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.11", "texte": "THE FOUNTAIN OF ETERNAL YOUTH\n\nHistory, history! We fools, what do we know or care? History\nbegins for us with murder and enslavement, not with discovery. No,\nwe are not Indians but we are men of their world. The blood means\nnothing; the spirit, the ghost of the land moves in the blood, moves the\nblood. It is we who ran to the shore naked, we who cried, \"Heavenly\nMan!\" These are the inhabitants of our souls, our murdered souls that\nlie .. . agh. Listen! I tell you it was lucky for Spain the first ship\nput its men ashore where it did. If the Italian had landed in Florida,\none twist of the helm north, or among the islands a hair more to the\nsouth; among the Yemasses with their sharpened bones and fishspines,\nor among the Caribs with their poisoned darts—it might have begun\ndifferently.\nWhen in the later year Ponce found his plantations going under\nfor lack of slaves—no more to be trapped in Puerto Rico, rico! all\nruined—he sought and obtained a royal patent to find more in the\nsurrounding islands. He was granted the right to hunt out and to take\nthe Caribs; the Caribs whom The Great Maker had dropped through\na hole in the sky among their islands; they whose souls lived in their\nbodies, many souls in one body; they who fought their enemies, ate\nthem; whose gods lived, Mabouya, in the forest, Oumekon, by the\nsea—there were other gods—\nHis ship came into Guadeloup—the great sulphur cone back of\nthe water. He had arrived straight from Spain, hot foot after niggers.\nHaving much soiled linen aboard from the long trio he ordered his\nlaundresses ashore, with a body of troops to guard them, where a\nstream could be observed coming down to the sea.\nIt was a paradise. A stream of splashing water, the luxuriant\nfoliage. A gorge, a veritable tunnel led upstream between cliffwalls\ncovered by thick vines in flower attended by ensanguined hummingbirds\nwhich darted about from cup to cup in the green light. But the soul\nof the Carib was on the alert among the leaves. It was too late.\nFierce and implacable we kill them but their souls dominate us. Our\nmen, our blood but their spirit is master. It enters us, it defeats us, it\nimposes itself. We are moderns—madmen at Paris—all lacking in a"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "74", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.12", "texte": "ground sense of cleanliness. It is the Caribs leaping out, facing the\narquebusques, thinking it thunder, looking up at the sky: No rain! No\nclouds! Then the second volley. Their comrades bleeding, dead.\nKill! Not a Spaniard but they stretched out in the streambed. Hagh,\nI can hear the laundresses squeal on the shore—run hither and thither.\nThe devils had them safe. Let old Ponce sit up in his hammock on\nthe poop of his ship. Let him send other boats ashore. The Indians\nhave grabbed up the women. Three naked savages shot through the\nchest from behind before they could gain the forest rolled over and\ngripped the females they had been carrying by the throat with their\nteeth. Worth being a laundress to be carried off that way, eh? Nice\npsychologic study, those women. And the damned bloodhound, Ber-\nrescien. Ponce had got his belly full. They outflanked him in canoes,\nridiculed his strategy, took his chainshot in the chest and came back for\nmore. They drove him off, so much so that they made him forget his\ndog, the precious Berrescien, of whom he thought more, that and his\nhidalgan pride, than—a population. The hound had been left behind\nin their scared flight. They saw him, they in the retreating boats, leap\nfrom the woods in pursuit of a flying Carib. Listen to this. The\nIndian swam out, the Spaniards in the boats turned back for the beast.\nThe dosr was steadily gaining on his victim. But, O Soul of the New\nWorld, the man had his bow and arrow with him as he swam. Tel!\nthat to Wilson. He stopped, turned, raised his body half out of the\nwater, treading it, and put a bolt into the damned hound's throat—\nwhom sharks swallowed. Then to shore, not forgetting—leaping to\nsafety—to turn and spit back the swallowed chainshot, a derisive\nyell at the Christians.\nThey had the women and the dog. They left what they had\ndefeated to—us.\nIf men inherit souls this is the color of mine. We are, too, the\nothers. Think of them: The main islands were thickly populated\nwith a peaceful folk when Christ-over found them. But the orgy of\nblood which followed, no man has written. We are the slaughterers.\nIt is the tortured soul of our world. Indians have no souls: that was it.\nThat was what they said. But they knew they lied—the blood-smell\nproof. Ponce had been with the discoverer on his second trip. He\nbecame a planter. Sugar cane was imported from the Canaries, maize\nwas adopted from the Indian souls. But revenues dwindled where\nnone would work save in the traffic in girls: nine years old, reads the\nItalian journal. Slaves. The Indians having no souls knew what"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "75", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.13", "texte": "freedom means. The Spaniards killed their kings, betrayed, raped,\nmurdered their women and children; hounded them into the mountains.\nPonce with wife and children in the Casa Blanca was one of the blood\nthirstiest. They took them in droves, forced them to labor. It was\nimpossible to them—not having been born to baptism. How madden-\ning it is to the spirit to hear—: Bands of them went into the forests,\ntheir forests, and hanged themselves to the trees. What else? Islands\n—paradise. Surrounded by seas. On all sides \"heavenly man\" bent\non murder. Self privilege. Two women and one man on a raft had\ngotten one hundred and fifty miles out to sea—such seamen were they\n—then luck again went against the Indian. Captured and back to\nslavery. Caravels crept along the shore by night. Next morning when\nwomen and children came down to the shore to fish—fine figures,\nstraight black hair, high cheek-bones, a language—they caught them,\nmade them walk in bands, cut them down if they fainted, slashed off\nbreasts, arms—women, children. Gut souls—\nThus the whole free population was brought into slavery or killed\noff. Aboujoubo, greatest chief in the island of San lon, retreated in\nanguish to a rocky height. Ponce, now Governor, since he dare not\neconomically murder everyone, sallies out and is received by a native\nqueen, girls dancing, gives one a gold crucifix, legend says. Two years\nlater finds her under a bush, both hands hacked off. Belly hurt he digs\na shallow grave with his sword for her and shoves the gold symbol into\nhis wallet. He exchanges names with a chief, sacred symbol of Indian\nfaith and friendship. Hounds him out later: lam Juan Ponce de\nLeon! says the savage, standing before his followers—hanged never-\ntheless. The hound, Berrescien, gone ahead into a rocky place comes\nspinning back, tumbling down, knocking against rocks, a gash in his\nforehead. Ponce defeated, embittered has the dog stretched upon a\nlitter of leaves and branches and carried to the ship.\nDo these things die? Men who do not know what lives are\nthemselves dead. In the heart there are living Indians once slaughtered\nand defrauded—lndians that live also in subtler ways: Ponce at\nfifty-two was rich, the murderous campaigns of his youth had subju-\ngated the island—allayed his lust of common murder. The island\nwas, in any case, mostly conquered.\nAn old Indian woman among his slaves, began to tell him of an\nisland, Bimini, a paradise of fragrant groves, of all fruits. And in the\ncenter of it a fountain of clearest water of virtue to make old men\nyoung. Think of that! Picture to yourself the significance of that—"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "76", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.14", "texte": "as revenge, as irony, as the trail of departing loveliness, fata morgana.\nYet the real, the thing destroyed turning back with a smile. Think of\nthe Spaniard listening. Gold. Gold. Riches—And figure to your-\nself the exquisite justice of it: an old woman, loose tongued—loose\nsword—the book, her soul already half out of her with sorrow: aban-\ndoned by a Carib who had fled back to his home having found Bore-\nquien greatly overrated. Her children enslaved—\nThe man, fifty-two, listened. Something has escaped him. At\nthat moment rich, idle, he was relieved of his governorship. Vessels,\nthree. He fitted them up at his own cost. Men enough, eager to\nserve the old master, rushed to his banner. Let the new governor\ncomplain that he was taking away too many able soldiers. Ponce\nsmiled. Men whose terms of service had expired do as they please.\nFor donde va la mar\nVay an las arenas—\nThey sailed north. It was March. In the wind, what? Beauty the\neternal. White sands and fragrant woods, fruits, riches, truth! The\nsea, the home of permanence, drew them on into its endless distances.\nAgain the new! Do you feel it? The murderer the enslaver, the\nterror striker, the destroyer of beauty, drawn on by beauty across the\nglancing tropical seas—before Drake, before the galleons. The\nrhythm of the waves, birds, fish, seaweed as on the first voyage. They\neven putin at Guanahani for water—Columbus' first land-fall; then\npopulous, inviting; now desolate, defeated, murdered—unpeopled.\nMarch! Spring! to the north. The argosy of the New World!\nIn search of eternal youth. In search of the island of Bimini—an old\nwoman's tale. The destroyer. Admonished that he had done enough\nstill there floated a third world to discover: no end—away from the\nbeginning—tail chaser\nA came de lobo\nDiente de perro\nhe could not halt—no end. Curious that Amino—the boy of Palos\nwho watched Columbus prepare his vessels for the first voyage and\nwent on the second—should be his pilot. Sea scud. The same piloted\nCortez to Mexico.\nLet them go. They found nothing but a row of white islands called\nThe Martyrs, a catch of turtles, Las Tortugas, a sandy coastline, a\ndevil of a current that shoved them about and devilish Indians who"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "77", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.15", "texte": "drove them back from the watering places—flamingoes, pelicans, egrets,\nherons—Rousseau has it. Thickets with striped leaves, ferns emerging\nfrom the dark, palms, the heat, the moon, the stars the sun in a pool\nof swampwater. Fish fly. In the water seals—back to Cuba.\nOld now, heavy at heart over the death of his bloody pet, Ponce\nretired to his Casa Blanca and sulked for three years. Then came\nthe news of Cortez triumph and the wealth of Montezuma.\nPonce—\nde Leon\nen nombre y podesta\n—the victor, now\ndefeated, must stir again. Back to Florida thinking to find on the\ncontinent, he only then found that he had discovered, another Tehuan-\ntepec.\nBut this time the Yamasses put an arrow into his thigh at the first\nlanding—and let out his fountain. They flocked to the beach, jeered\nhim as he was lifted to the shoulders of his men and carried away.\nDead.\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "78", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.16", "texte": "MOTION PICTURE DYNAMICS\n\nI have heard directors express hearty satisfaction in a fine lighting,\nthe natural beauty of a location, the smoothness of a sequence leading\nup to a climax, a moving bit of emotional acting, the faultless realism\nof a costly set, and I have watched them labor endlessly to achieve\nthese high spots. The qualities they consider so admirable all pertain\nto other arts, as, the lighting effect to still photography, the eye for\nnatural beauty to landscape painting, the smoothness of the sequence\nto literature, and the verisimilitude of the set to stage carpentry. But\nI do not remember that I have heard one of them call attention to\nthose rare and significant effects that belong organically to the art of\nthe motion picture, and to no other art. Nor have I known these men,\nwith a few exceptions, to strive for such effects.\nThe most consistent exceptions are to be found in the class of\ndirectors who improvise pictures of pure action, such as comedies and\nserials. They have, most of them crudely, sensed the peculiar pos-\nsibilities and limitations of the new medium. Perhaps for that reason\nalone their products command the greatest popularity, and also the\napproval of the most discriminating.\nFirst, Charles Chaplin. In actual practice Chaplin does not load\nhimself with a staff of scenario writers. In their place he keeps on\nhand a small retinue of comedy \"gag\" men, writers and producers of\nvaudeville acts, vaudeville sketch artists, men who know all the \"busi-\nness\" that ever got a laugh, in other words, not writers so much as\nexperts in getting impromptu comedy effects. He generally has one\nman to act as recording scenarist whose duty is to follow the sequence\nof the action and make a brief of it, a work that any competent steno-\ngrapher, familiar with motion picture technique, is able to perform.\nOnce in a while this man may make a suggestion for new business\nbut it is not listened to with a tenth of the attention given to the pat\nand slangy criticisms that fall from the lips of one of the several pro-\nfessional comedians who are always about.\nSome day I hope that Chaplin will sit down in his easiest chair with\nthe mouth of a dictaphone before him to do his part in blazing a clear\ntrail over the tangled uneven ground of motion picture technique. I\ndoubt if anyone, certainly none of our leading directors, is so well"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "79", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.17", "texte": "equipped with a practical and rationalized background of experience\nin applying the integral principles of the art, as Chaplin.\nI should like to make a few extracts from a recent article of Chap-\nlin's in one of the popular family magazines: (The italics are mine.)\n\"The reason why so many people like the news weeklies and\neducational films better than the feature plays is because they present\npeople who are busy doing things. I am not interested in the opening\nof a park by the mayor in some town where I hope never to be, but\nthe whole circumstance carries with it that conviction of life which so\nmany photoplays lack entirely.\"\nLikewise many people think that the film comedies are better than\nthe dramas. If they are right it is unquestionably due to the fact that\nthe comedies have paid less attention to plot and trite moralizing than\nthe dramas. The comedy has had more invention and it has had\nmore theatrical 'business.' It has also known from the beginning thai\nspeed and quick movement of objects is essential to the motion pic-\nture. The film demands speed, not necessarily in the terms of quick\nmovement but in a combination of circumstances, one happening di-\nrectly after another.\"\nBy business Charlie means, as he explains in another para-\ngraph, that certain something the performer does in a scene that is\nentertaining apart from its connection in the building up of the story.\"\nThe director of a feature play is not so free to invent new business\nbecause he is held just as accountable by his superiors to the specifi-\ncations of the scenario as a building contractor is bound by the archi-\ntect to the blue print of the plans. The speed and quick movement\"\nare lost in the careful preparation of the \"shooting\" script. Yon\ncannot think in terms of speed unless you have had considerable train-\ning in producing it in action. And most scenario writers have not.\nIn the last sentence of this pregnant paragraph Chaplin is ap-\nproaching a discussion of motion picture dynamics. The sentence is\nso full of meat that I should like to add a footnote on its significance.\nThe \"speed and quick movement\" which can be found in no other\nart than the motion picture is a subtle and complex thing. It can be\nproduced not by a single moving object, by some effect, for instance,\nso elementary as a race between an automobile and a train, or by a\nsequence of unrelated movements, but only by so dividing and joining\nthe movements in the scenes that they play into or against one another.\nThis is a problem that mechanical engineers are perfectly familiar\nwith, in the construction of a bridge combining enduring safety with"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "80", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.18", "texte": "airy grace, or an office building like the Woolworth in New York\nCity which is also a monument of abiding beauty.\n'We of the films,\" writes Chaplin, \"have not gone ahead as\nour public has. . . . The public is not tired of old faces. It is\ntired of the old face in the old material. It would have an even\ngreater apathy for new faces in the old material.\"\n'Most of the people who make pictures, it seems to me, make the\nmistake of wanting too much plot. The scenario writer and director\nbuild and rebuild, criss-cross and dove-tail and lay so many pipes in\npreparation for the plot or a situation that when the time for it arrives\nthere is an anticlimax.\"\n/ feel sure that it is better to begin with a casual or general idea.\nIn my own work I have found that an elaborate plot is not neces-\nsary,—just a slim structure or a sequence of scenes that will enable\nme to create a great deal of action and business that will entertain\nthe audience apart from the story that is to be developed. A plot is\nof no importance to me unless it does suggest these opportunities.\"\n\"In my original plan for 'The Kid' I had some indication of the\nnice feeling for comradeship which resulted in the picture but there\nwas no idea of parenthood or of any of the things which made the\nappeal when the picture was finished. These things developed as we\nbegan to Work and naturally grew out of what we were doing. They\nwere not merely accidents because they were inherent in the material\nwith which We began. (Why does no one try the experiment of\nmaking a tragedy as Chaplin makes a comedy?)\nThere are spontaneous and distinctive elements of the motion\npicture, that appeared when that art was boisterously young. A\nfriend and I once journeyed by surface line and elevated far out\ninto the drab environs of Brooklyn in search of a chapter of one of\nJ. P. McGowan s motion picture serials. McGowan's first popular\nsuccess, The Girl and the Game,\" released in 1915, was one of the\nmost exciting serials ever made, and one of the best motion pictures\never produced from the standpoint of a critic of the art. It established\nMcGowan as a master of the railroad scene, and for several years\nthereafter his serials were localized in and about the railroad, mainly\ncentering on the yards and tracks where tough sweaty men shifted\ntrains and loaded and unloaded grain and timber.\nHis method in all of his best work was that of an improvisor, and\nin that respect he was like Chaplin. His scenario generally found its"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.19", "texte": "Corinne Griffith and Frank Mayo in \"Six Days\"\n\nRay Griffith in \"Red Lights\""}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.20", "texte": "From \"Greed\" (Goldwyn ), set by von Stroheim"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "81", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.21", "texte": "way into the waste basket after he had framed a rough working\ndraft, based on a few suggestions in the script, some character, situa-\ntion, or scene along the iron rails, in a locomotive cab, behind a water\ntank, something that promised an abundance of rapid and exciting\naction.\ni\nThis method is well described by Chaplin in his recent article:\n\"We would start out with a company made up as a policeman, a\nsailor, a big man, a girl, a nursemaid, or any other perfectly familiar\nand labelled characters. We had no particular idea of what we\nwere going to do, and we would go to the park and just sort of let\na picture happen.\"\nThe serial chapter which my friend and I travelled miles of dull\nstreets to see was full of compensating excitements. The characters\ndashed out of places and in again, men grappled, tumbled off freight\ncars, and rolled down embankments. And there was one bit we\nlong remembered as our full reward.\nThe dramatic value of it consisted in this: that in making a scene\nwherein a swift motor launch was to race into a dock, barely slacken\nto allow some men to leap into the pit, and then, describing a beauti-\nful arc, speed out to sea, McGowan timed the action to take place\njust the right moment previous to the expected entrance into the\ndistance of a huge coastwise steamship. The result was pronounced\nand unforgettable. The swift arc cut by the launch was contrasted\nwith the slowly-drawn direct line of motion of the larger boat. The\narc completed, the smaller craft sped away, passing under the threaten-\ning bow of the great liner. Force was applied to force, two move-\nments of contrasting beauty struck edges. Here was motion picture\ndynamics.\nAgain where Chaplin shows us in\"The Immigrant\" the steerage\ncrowd all on deck straining their eyes through the morning mist to\nglimpse the Statue of Liberty which to them means liberty and frater-\nnity and wealth, and then in the next scene after a long shot of the\nstatue, shows us the swift action of the immigration officials in roping\noff the immigrants and herding them into a corner to their utter misery,\nwe have another fine example of a dynamic technique. Drama is\nhere made by a studied ironic joining of scenes which are cut at exactly\nthe right places to accentuate the struggle involved between an im-\npossible dream and the harsh reality of life in an industrial democracy.\nIn another sequence of the same picture he contrives by a most\nadroit parallelism of movement to give his audience a sharp sense"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "82", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.22", "texte": "of the dramatic value of contrast. He shows a scene in the steerage\nwhere a tin plate of stew is carried by the motion of the ship across\nthe table to himself and back to another hungry immigrant, a solemn,\nblack-bearded moujik. Each man has barely time to dip out a spoon-\nful of the food. He cuts to a scene on deck showing Edna Purviance\nas an immigrant girl caring for her dying mother. The mother is\nstruggling, for her daughter's sake, to keep up an appearance of im-\nprovement.\nHe returns to the hilariously amusing scene in the steerage and\nthen, after a few of the metronomic movements of the plate, just as\nit slides down the width of the table to himself, he cuts back to the\ntragic scene on deck. The eye follows the motion of the plate,\nthe direction of which is picked up by the sinking form of the old\nwoman as she is gently lowered backward upon the hatchway by her\ndaughter. Thus the humor of the one scene is organically related by\nvisual motion to the tragedy of the other and a dramatic emphasis pro-\nduced by the abrupt transition of sympathy.\nThe fact to be emphasized is that for the most part these true\nprinciples are to be found in the comedies, serials, and westerns of the\nearly days. And it is sheer nonsense to maintain that such effects as I\nhave instanced to prove my thesis belong exclusively to the field of\ncomedy and rapid physical action. They exist there simply because\nthe men who are busy in those fields are more wide awake to the pos-\nsibilities of their medium and because they have not loaded themselves\ndown with a dead weight of borrowed traditions.\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "83", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.23", "texte": "KABNIS\n\n*\nNight, soft belly of a pregnant Negress, throbs evenly against the\ntorso of the South. Night throbs a womb-song to the South. Cane-\nand cotton-fields, pine forests, cypress swamps, saw-mills, and factories\nare fecund at her touch. Night's womb-song sets them singing. Night\nwinds are the breathing of the unborn child whose calm throbbing in\nthe belly of a Negress sets them somnolently singing. Hear their song.\nWhite -man's land.\nNiggers, sing.\nBurn, bear black children\nTill poor rivers bring\nRest, and sweet glory\nIn Camp Ground.\nSempter's streets are vacant and still. White paint on the wealthier\nhouses has the chill blue glitter of distant stars. Negro cabins are a\npurple blur. Broad Street is deserted. Winds stir beneath the corru-\ngated iron canopies and dangle odd bits of rope tied to horse- and\nmule-gnawed hitching posts. One store window has a light in it.\nChesterfield cigarette and Chero-Cola cardboard advertisements are\nstacked in it. From a side door two men come out. Pause, for a last\nword and then they say good night. Soon they melt in shadows thicker\nthan they. Way off down the street four figures sway beneath iron\nawnings which form a sort of corridor that imperfectly echoes and\njumbles what they say. A fifth form joins them. They turn into the\nroad that leads to Halsey's workshop. The old building is phosphor-\nescent above deep shade. The figures pass through the double door.\nNight winds whisper in the eaves. Sing weirdly in the ceiling cracks.\nStir curls of shavings on the floor. Halsey lights a candle. A good-\nsized lumber wagon, wheels off, rests upon the blocks. Kabnis makes\na face at it. An unearthly hush is upon the place. No one seems to\nwant to talk. To move, lest the scraping of their feet . . .\nHalsey: Come on down this way, folks.\nHe leads the way. Stella follows. And close after her, Cora,\nLewis, and Kabnis. They descend into the Hole. It seems huge,\n\n* One of a collection of stories and poems to be published this fall b\\)\nBoni & Liveright (New York) under title of \"Cane.\""}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "84", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.24", "texte": "limitless in the candle light. The walls are of stone, wonderfully fitted.\nThey have no openings save a small iron-barred window toward the\ntop of each. They are dry and warm. The ground slopes away to\nthe rear of the building and thus leaves the south wall exposed to the\nsun. The blacksmith's shop is plumb against the right wall. The floor\nis clay. Shavings have at odd times been matted into it. In the right-\nhand corner, under the stairs, two good-sized pine mattresses, resting\non cardboard, are on either side of a wooden table. On this are several\nhalf-burned candles and an oil lamp. Behind the table, an irregular\npiece of mirror hangs on the wall. A loose something that looks to be\na gaudy ball costume dangles from a near-by hook. To the front, a\nsecond table holds a lamp and several whiskey glasses. Six rickety\nchairs are near this table. Two old wagon wheels rest on the floor.\nTo the left, sitting in a high-backed chair which stands upon a low\nplatform, the old man. He is like a bust in black walnut. Gray-\nbearded. Gray-haired. Prophetic. Immobile. Lewis' eyes are sunk\nin him. The others, unconcerned, are about to pass on to the front table\nwhen Lewis grips Halsey and so turns him that the candle flame shines\nobliquely on the old man's features.\nLewis: And he rules over—\nKabnis: Th smoke an fire of th forge.\nLewis: Black Vulcan? I wouldnt say so. That forehead.\nGreat woolly beard. Those eyes. A mute John the Baptist of a new\nreligion—or a tongue-tied shadow of an old.\nKabnis: His tongue is tied all right, an I can vouch 112 that.\nLewis: Has he never talked to you?\nHalsey: Kabnis wont give him a chance.\nHe laughs. The girls laugh. Kabnis winces.\nLewis: What do you call him?\nHalsey: Father.\nLewis: Good. Father what?\nKabnis: Father of hell.\nHalsey: Father's th only name we have fer him. Come on. Lets\nsit down an get t th pleasure of the evenin.\nLewis: Father John it is from now on. . . .\nSlave boy whom some Christian mistress taught to read the Bible.\nBlack man who saw Jesus in the ricefields, and began preaching to\nhis people. Moses- and Christ-words used for songs. Dead blind\nfather of a muted folk who feel their way upward to a life that crushes\nor absorbs them. (Speak, Father!) Suppose your eyes could see,\nold man.(The years hold hands. O Sing!) Suppose your lips. . ."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "85", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.25", "texte": "Halsey, does he never talk?\nHalsey: Na. But sometimes. Only seldom. Mumbles. Sis says\nhe talks—\nKabnis: I've heard him talk.\nHalsey: First I've ever heard of it. You dont give him a chance.\nSis says she's made out several words, mostly one—an like as not\ncause it was \"sin.\"\nKabnis: All those old fogies stutter about sin.\nCora laughs in a loose sort of way. She is a tall, thin, mulatto\nwoman. Her eyes are deep-set behind a pointed nose. Her hair is\ncoarse and bushy. Seeing that Stella also is restless, she takes her arm\nand the two women move towards the table. They slip into chairs.\nHalsey follows and lights the lamp. He lays out a pack of cards.\nHalsey: Come on, Lewis. Come on, you fellers. Heres lookin\nat y.\nThen, as if suddenly recalling something, he jerks away from the\ntable and starts towards the steps.\nKabnis: Where y goin, Halsey?\nHalsey: Where? Where y think? That oak beam in th\nwagon—\nKabnis: Come ere. Come ere. Sit down. What in hell's wrong\nwith you fellers? You with your wagon. Lewis with his Father John.\nThis aint th time fer foolin with wagons. Daytime's bad enough 112\nthat. Ere, sit down. Ere, Lewis, you too sit down. Have a drink.\nThats right. Drink corn licker, love th girls, an listen t th old man\nmumblin sin.\nStella: Usall is brought up t hate sin worse than death—\nHalsey: Th nigger hates th sight of a black woman worse than\ndeath. Sorry t mix yup this way, Lewis. But y see how tis.\nLewis' skin is tight and glowing over the fine bones of his face. His\nlips tremble. His nostrils quiver. The others notice this and smile know-\ningly at each other. Drinks and smokes are passed around. They pay\nno neverminds to him. A real party is being worked up. Then Lewis\nopens his eyes and looks at them. Their smiles disperse in hot-cold\ntremors. Kabnis chokes his laugh. It sputters, gurgles. His eyes flicker\nand turn away. He tries to pass the thing off by taking a long drink\nwhich he makes considerable fuss over. He is drawn back to Lewis.\nSeeing Lewis' gaze still upon him, he scowls.\nKabnis: Whatsha lookin at me for? Y want t know who I am?\nWell, I'm Ralph Kabnis—lot of good its goin t do y. Well? Whatsha\nkeep lookin for? I'm Ralph Kabnis. Aint that enough fy? Want th"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "86", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.26", "texte": "whole family history ? Its none of your godam business, anyway. Keep\noff me. Do y hear? Keep off me. Look at Cora. Aint she pretty\nenough t look at? Look at Halsey, or Stella. Clover ought t be here\nan you could look at her. An love her. Xhats what you need. I know\nLewis: Ralph Kabnis gets satisfied that way ?\nKabnis: Satisfied? Say, quit your kiddin. Here, look at that old\nman there. See him? He's satisfied. Do I look like him? I m\ndead I dont expect tbe satisfied. Is that enough 112 y, with your godam\nnosin, or do you want more? Well, y wont get it, understand?\nLewis: The old man as symbol, flesh, and spirit of the past, what\ndo you think he would say if he could see you? You look at him,\nKabnis.\nKabnis: Just like any done-up preacher is what he looks t me.\nJam some false teeth in his mouth and crank him, an youd have God\nAlmighty spit in torrents all around th floor. Oh, hell, an he reminds me\nof that black cockroach over yonder. An besides, he amt my past. My\nancestors were Southern blue-bloods—\nLewis: ' And black.\nKabnis: Aint much difference between blue an black.\nLewis: Enough to draw a denial from you. Cant hold them, can\nyou? Master; slave. Soil; and the overarching heavens. Dusk; dawn.\nThey fight and bastardize you. The sun tint of your cheeks, flame of\nthe great season's multi-colored leaves, tarnished, burned. Split, shred-\nded: easily burned. No use . . .\nHis gaze shifts to Stella. Stella's face draws back, her breasts come\ntowards him.\nStella: I aint got nothin fy, mister. Taint no use t look at me.\nHalsey: Youre a queer feller, Lewis, I swear y are. Told y so,\ndidnt I, girls? Just take him easy though, an he'll be ridin just th same\nas any Georgia mule, eh, Lewis? (Laughs.)\nStella: I'm goin t tell y somethin, mister. It aint t you, tth Mister\nLewis what noses about. Its t somethin different, I dunno what. That\nold man there—maybe its him—is like m father used t look. He used\nt sing. An when he could sing no mo, they'd alius come 112 him an carry\nhim t church an there he'd sit, befo th pulpit, aswayin an aleadin every\nsong. A white man took m mother an it broke th old man's heart. He\ndied; an then I didnt care what become of me, an I dont now. I dont\ncare now. Dont get it in y head I'm some sentimental Susie askin for\nyo sop. Nassur. But theres somethin t yo th others aint got. Boars an\nkids an fools—thats all I've known. Boars when their fever's up. When"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "87", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.27", "texte": "their fever s up they come t me. Halsey asks me over when he's off\nth job. Kabnis—it ud be a sin t play with him. He takes it out in talk.\nHalsey knows that he has trifled with her. At odd things he has been\ninwardly penitent before her tasking him. But now he wants to hurt\nher. He turns to Lewis.\nHalsey: Lewis, I got a little licker in me, an thats true. True's\nwhat I said. True. But th stuff just seems t wake me up and make my\nmind a man of me. Listen. You know a lot, queer as hell as y are, an\nI want task y some questions. Theyre too high fer them, Stella an\nCora and Kabnis, so we'll just excuse em. A chat between ourselves.\n(Turns to the others.) You-all cant listen in on this. Twont interest\ny. So just leave th table t this gen'lemun an myself. Go long now.\nKabnis gets up, pompous in his robe, grotesquely so, and makes as\nif to go through a grand march with Stella. She shoves him off, roughly,\nand in a mood swings her body to the steps. Kabnis grabs Cora and\nparades around, passing the old man, to whom he bows in mock-curtsy.\nHe sweeps by the table, snatches the licker bottle, and then he and\nCora sprawl on the mattresses. She meets his weak approaches after the\nmanner she thinks Stella would use.\nHalsey contemptuously watches them until he is sure that they are\nsettled.\nHalsey: This aint th sort o thing 112 me, Lewis, when I got work\nupstairs. Nassur. You an me has got things t do. Wastin time on\ncommon low-down women—say, Lewis, look at her now—Stella—aint\nshe a picture? Common wench—na she aint, Lewis. You know she\naint. I'm only tryin t fool y. I used t love that girl. Yassur. An some-\ntimes when th moon is thick an I hear dogs up th valley barkin an some\nold woman fetches out her song, an th winds seem like th Lord made\nthem fer t fetch an carry th smell o pine an cane, an there aint no big\njob on foot, I sometimes get t thinkin that I still do. But I want t talk\nt y, Lewis, queer as y are. Theres lots I want task y, Lewis. Been\naskin y t come around. Couldnt get y. Cant get in much tnight. (He\nglances at the others. His mind fastens on Kabnis.) Say, tell me this,\nwhats on your mind t say on that feller there? Kabnis' name. One\nqueer bird ought t know another, seems like t me.\nKabnis: Talkin bout me. I know. I'm the topic of conversation\neverywhere theres talk about this town. Girls an fellers. White folks\nas well. An if its me youre talkin bout, guess I got a right t listen in.\nWhats sayin? Whats sayin bout his royal guts, the Duke? Whats\nsayin, eh?"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "88", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.28", "texte": "Halsey (to Lewis) : We'll take it up another time.\nKabnis: No nother time bout it. Now. I'm here now an talkin's\njust begun. I was born an bred in a family of orators, thats what I was.\nHalsey: Preachers.\nKabnis: Na. Preachers hell. I didnt say wind-busters. Y misap-\nprehended me. Y understand what that means, dont y? All right\nthen, y misapprehended me. I didnt say preachers. I said orators.\nORATORS. Born one an I'll die one. You understand me,\nLewis. (He turns to Halsey and begins shaking his finger in his face.)\nAn as 112 you, youre all right 112 choppin things from blocks of wood. I\nwas good at that th day I ducked th cradle. An since then, I've been\nshapin words after a design that branded here. Know whats here? M\nsoul. Ever heard o that? Th hell y have. Been shapin words t fit m soul.\nNever told y that before, did I? Thought I couldnt talk. I'll tell y.\nI've been shapin words; ah, but sometimes theyre beautiful an golden\nan have a taste that makes them fine t roll over with y tongue. Your\ntongue aint fit 112 nothin but t roll an lick hog-meat.\nStella and Cora come up to the table.\nHalsey: Give him a shove there, will y Stel ?\nStella jams Kabnis in a chair. Kabnis springs up.\nKabnis: Cant keep a good man down. Those words I was tellin\ny about, they wont fit int th mold thats branded on m soul. Rhyme, y\nsee? Poet, too. Bad rhyme. Bad poet. Somethin else youve learned\ntnight. Lewis dont know it all, an I'm atellin y. Ugh. Th form thats\nburned int my soul is some twisted awful thing that crept in from a\ndream, a godam nightmare, an wont stay still unless I feed it. An it lives\non words. Not beautiful words. God Almighty no. Misshapen, split-gut.\ntortured, twisted words. Layman was feedin it back there that day you\nthought Iran out fearin things. White folks feed it cause their looks\nare words. Niggers, black niggers feed it cause theyre evil and their\nlooks are words. Yaller niggers feed it. This whole damn bloated\npurple country feeds it cause its goin down t hell in a holy avalanche of\nwords. I want t feed th soul—I know what that is; th preachers dont\n—but I've got t feed it. I wish t God some lynchin white man ud stick\nhis knife through it an pin it to a tree. An pin it to a tree. You hear\nme? Thats a wish 112 y, you little snot-nosed pups who've been makin\nfun of me, an fakin that I'm weak. Me, Ralph Kabnis weak. Ha.\nHalsey: Thats right, old man. There, there. Here, so much\nexertion merits a fittin reward. Help him t be seated, Cora.\nHalsey gives him a swig of shine. Cora glides up, seats him, and"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "89", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.29", "texte": "then plumps herself down on his lap, squeezing his head into her breasts.\nKabnis mutters. Tries to break loose. Curses. Cora almost stifles him.\nHe goes limp and gives up. Cora toys with him. Ruffles his hair.\nBraids it. Parts it in the middle. Stella smiles contemptuously. And\nthen a sudden anger sweeps her. She would like to lash Cora from\nthe place. She'd like to take Kabnis to some distant pine grove and\nnurse and mother him. Her eyes flash. A quick tensioning throws her\nbreasts and neck into a poised strain. She starts towards them. Halsey\ngrabs her arm and pulls her to him. She struggles. Halsey pins her\narms and kisses her. She settles, spurting like a pine-knot afire.\nLewis finds himself completely cut out. The glowing within him\nsubsides. It is followed by a dead chill. Kabnis, Carrie, Stella, Hal-\nsey, Cora, the old man, the cellar, and the work-shop, the southern\ntown descend upon him. Their pain is too intense. He cannot stand it.\nHe bolts from the table. Leaps up the stairs. Plunges through the\nwork-shop and out into the night.\nThe cellar swims in a pale phosphorescence. The table, the\nchairs, the figure of the old man are amceba-like shadows which move\nabout and float in it. In the corner under the steps, close to the floor,\na solid blackness. A sound comes from it. A forcible yawn. Part of\nthe blackness detaches itself so that it may be seen against the grayness\nof the wall. It moves forward and then seems to be clothing itself in\nodd dangling bits of shadow. The voice of Halsey, vibrant and deep-\nened, calls.\nHalsey: Kabnis. Cora. Stella.\nHe gets no response. He wants to get them up, to get on the job.\nHe is intolerant of their sleepiness.\nHalsey: Kabnis! Stella! Cora!\nGutturals, jerky and impeded, tell that he is shaking them.\nHalsey: Come now, up with you.\nKabnis (sleepily and still more or less intoxicated) : Whats th big\nidea? What in hell—\nHalsey: Work. But never you mind about that. Up with you.\nCora: Oooooo! Look here, mister, I aint used t bein thrown int\nth street befo day.\nStella: Any bunk whats worked is worth in wages moren this.\nBut come on. Taint no use t arger.\nKabnis: I'll arger. Its preposterous—\nThe girls interrupt him with none too pleasant laughs."}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "90", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.30", "texte": "Kabnis: Thats what I said. Know what it means, dont y? All\nright, then. I said its preposterous t root an artist out o bed at this un-\ngodly hour, when there aint no use tit. You can start your damned\nold work. Nobody's stoppin y. But what we got t get up for? Fraid\nsomebody'll see th girls leavin? Some sport, you are. I hand it ty.\nHalsey: Up you get, all th same.\nKabnis: Oh, th hell you say.\nHalsey: Well, son, seeing that I'm th kind-hearted father, I'll\ngive y chance t open your eyes. But up y get when I come down.\nOutside, darkness has given way to the impalpable grayness of\ndawn. This early morning light, seeping through the four barred cellar\nwindows is the color of the stony walls. It seems to be an emanation\nfrom them. Halsey's coals throw out a rich warm glow. He sets them\non the floor, a safe distance from the beds.\nHalsey: No foolin now. Come. Up with you.\nOther than a soft rustling, there is no sound as the girls slip into\ntheir clothes. Kabnis still lies in bed.\nStella (to Halsey) : Reckon y could spare us a light?\nHalsey strikes a match, lights a cigarette, and then bends over and\ntouches flame to the two candles on the table between the beds. Kabnis\nasks for a cigarette. Halsey hands him his and takes a fresh one for\nhimself. The girls, before the mirror, are doing up their hair. It is\nbushy hair that has gone through some straightening process. Character,\nhowever, has not all been ironed out. As they kneel there, heavy-eyed\nand dusky, and throwing grotesque moving shadows on the wall, they\nare two princesses in Africa going through the early morning ablutions\nof their pagan prayers. Finished, they come forward to stretch their\nhands and warm them over the glowing coals. Red dusk of a Georgia\nsunset, their heavy, coal-lit faces. . . Kabnis suddenly recalls some-\nthing.\nKabnis: Th old man talked last night.\nStella: An so did you.\nHalsey: In your dreams.\nKabnis: I tell y, he did. I know what I'm talkin about. I'll tell\ny what he said. Wait now, lemme see.\nHalsey: Look out, brother, th old man'll be getting int you by\nway o dreams. Come, Stel, ready? Cora? Coffee an eggs 112 both\nof you.\nHalsey goes upstairs.\nStella: Getting generous, aint he?"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "91", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.31", "texte": "She blows the candles out. Says nothing to Kabnis. Then she and\nCora follow after Halsey. Kabnis, left to himself, tries to rise. He\nhas slept in his robe. His robe trips him. Finally, he manages to stand\nup. He starts across the floor. Half-way to the old man, he falls and\nlies quite still. Perhaps an hour passes. Light of a new sun is about to\nfilter through the windows. Kabnis slowly rises to support upon his\nelbows. He looks hard, and internally gathers himself together. The\nside face of Father John is in the direct line of his eyes. He scowls at\nhim. No one is around. Words gush from Kabnis.\nKabnis: You sit there like a black hound spiked to an ivory\npedestal. An all night long I heard you murmurin that devilish word.\nThey thought I didnt hear y, but I did. Mumblin, feedin that ornery\nthing thats livin on my insides. Father John. Father of Satan, more\nlikely. What does it mean t you? Youre dead already. Death. What\ndoes it mean t you? To you who died way back there in th 'sixties.\nWhat are y throwin it in my throat for ? Whatsit goin t get y ? A good\nsmashin in th mouth, thats what. My fist'll sink int y black mush face\nclear t y guts—if y got any. Dont believe y have. Never seen signs\nof none. Death. Death. Sin an Death. All night long y mumbled\ndeath. (He forgets the old man as his mind begins to play with the\nword and its associations.) Death . . . these clammy floors . . .\njust like th place they used t stow away th worn-out, no-count niggers\nin th days of slavery . . . that was long ago; not so long ago . . .\nno windows (he rises higher on his elbows to verify this assertion. He\nlooks around, and, seeing no one but the old man, calls.) Halsey!\nHalsey! Gone an left me. Just like a nigger. I thought he was a\nnigger all th time. Now I know it. Ditch y when it comes right down tit.\nDamn him anyway. Godam him. (He looks and re-sees the old man.)\nEh, you? T hell with you too. What do I care whether you can see\nor hear? You know what hell is cause youve been there. Its a feelin\nan its ragin in my soul in a way that'll pop out of me an run you\nthrough, an scorch y, an burn an rip your soul. Your soul. Ha. Nigger\nsoul. A gin soul that gets drunk on a preacher's words. An screams.\nAn shouts. God Almighty, how I hate that shoutin. Where's th beauty\nin that? Give a buzzard a windpipe an I'll bet a dollar t a dime th\nbuzzard ud beat y to it. Aint surprisin th white folks hate y so. WTien\nyou had eyes, did you ever see th beauty of th world? Tell me that.\nTh hell y did. Now dont tell me. I know y didnt. You couldnt have.\nOh, I'm drunk an just as good as dead, but no eyes that have seen\nbeauty ever lose their sight. You aint got no sight. If you had, drunk\nas I am, I hope Christ will kill me if I couldnt see it. Your eyes are"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "92", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.32", "texte": "dull and watery, like fish eyes. Fish eyes are dead eyes. Youre an old\nman, a dead fish man, an black at that. Theyve put y here t die, damn\nfool y are not t know it. Do y know how many feet youre under\nground? I'll tell y. Twenty. An do y think you'll ever see th light\nof day again, even if you wasnt blind? Do y think youre out of\nslavery? Huh? Youre where they used t throw th worked-out, no-\ncount slaves. On a damp clammy floor of a dark scum-hole. An they\ncalled that an infirmary. Th sons-a-bitches. Why I can already see\nyou toppled off that stool an stretched out on th floor beside me—not\nbeside me, damn you, by yourself, with th flies buzzin an lickin God\nknows what they'd find on a dirty, black, foul-breathed mouth like\nyours . . .\nSome one is coming down the stairs. Carrie, bringing food for the\nold man. She is lovely in her fresh energy of the morning, in the calm\nuntested confidence and nascent maternity which rise from the purpose\nof her present mission. She walks to within a few paces of Kabnis.\nCarrie K.: Brother says come up now, brother Ralph.\nKabnis: Brother doesnt know what he's talkin bout.\nCarrie K.: Yes he does, Ralph. He needs you on th wagon.\nKabnis: He wants me on th wagon, eh? Does he think some\nwooden thing can lift me up ? Ask him that.\nCarrie K.: He told me t help y.\nKabnis: And how would you help me, child, dear sweet little\nsister?\nShe moves forward as if to aid him.\nCarrie K.: I'm not a child, as I've more than once told you,\nbrother Ralph, an as I'll show you now.\nKabnis: Wait, Carrie. No, thats right. Youre not a child. But\ntwont do t lift me bodily. You dont understand. But its th soul of me\nthat needs th risin.\nCarrie K.: Youre a bad brother an just wont listen tme when I'm\ntellin y t go t church.\nKabnis doesnt hear her. He breaks down and talks to himself.\nKabnis: Great God Almighty, a soul like mine cant pin itself\nonto a wagon wheel an satisfy itself in spinnin round. Iron prongs an\nhickory sticks, an God knows what all . . . all right for Halsey . . .\nuse him. Me? I get my life down in this scum-hole. Th old man an\nme—\nCarrie K.: Has he been talkin ?\nKabnis: Huh? Who? Him? No. Dont need to. I talk. An\nwhen I really talk, it pays th best of them t listen. Th old man is a"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "93", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.33", "texte": "good listener. He's deaf; but he's a good listener. An I can talk t him.\nTell him anything.\nCarrie K.: He's deaf and blind, but I reckon he hears, an sees\ntoo, from th things I've heard.\nKabnis: No. Cant. Cant I tell you. How's he do it?\nCarrie K.: Dunno, except I've heard that th souls of old folks\nhave a way of seein things.\nKabnis: An I've heard them call that superstition.\nThe old man begins to shake his head slowly. Carrie and Kabnis\nwatch him anxiously. He mumbles. With a grave motion his head\nnods up and down. And then, on one of the down-swings—\nFather John (remarkably clear and with great conviction) : Sin.\nHe repeats this word several times, always on the downward nod-\nding. Surprised, indignant, Kabnis forgets that Carrie is with him.\nKabnis: Sin! Shut up. What do you know about sin, you old\nblack bastard. Shut up, an stop that swayin an noddin your head.\nFather John: Sin.\nKabnis tries to get up.\nKabnis: Didnt I tell y t shut up?\nCarrie steps forward to help him. Kabnis is violently shocked at\nher touch. He springs back.\nKabnis: Carrie! What . . how . . Baby, you shouldnt be down\nhere. Ralph says things. Doesnt mean to. But Carrie, he doesnt know\nwhat he's talkin about. Couldnt know. It was only a preacher s sin\nthey knew in those old days, an that wasnt sin at all. Mind me, th\nonly sin is whats done against th soul. Th whole world is a conspiracy\nt sin, especially in America, an against me. I'm th victim of their sin.\nI'm what sin is. Does he look like me? Have you ever heard him say\nth things youve heard me say ? He couldnt if he had th Holy Ghost t\nhelp him. Dont look shocked, little sweetheart, you hurt me.\nFather John: Sin.\nKabnis: Aw, shut up, old man.\nCarrie K.: Leave him be. He wants t say somethin. (She turns\nto the old man.) What is it, Father?\nKabnis: Whatsha talkin t that old deaf man for? Come away\nfrom him.\nCarrie K: What is it, Father?\nThe old man's lips begin to work. Words are formed incoherently.\nFinally he manages to articulate—\nFather John: Th sin whats fixed . . . (hesitates.)\nCarrie K. (restraining a comment from Kabnis) : Go on, Father."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "94", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.34", "texte": "Father John: . . . upon th white folks—\nKabnis: Suppose youre talkin about that bastard race thats roam-\nin round th country. It looks like sin, if thats what y mean. Give us\nsomethin new an up t date.\nFather John:—112 tellin Jesus—lies. Oth sin th white folks 'mitted\nwhen they made th Bible lie.\nBoom. Boom. BOOM! Thuds on the floor above. The old man\nsinks back into his stony silence. Carrie is wet-eyed. Kabnis, con-\ntemptuous.\nKabnis: So thats your sin. All these years t tell us that th white\nfolks made th Bible lie. Well, I'll be damned. Lewis ought t have\nbeen here. You old black fakir—\nCarrie K.: Brother Ralph, is that your best Amen ?\nShe turns him to her and takes his hot cheeks in her firm cool hands.\nHer palms draw the fever out. With its passing, Kabnis crumples.\nHe sinks to his knees before her, ashamed, exhausted. His eyes squeeze\ntight. Carrie presses his face tenderly against her. The suffocation of\nher fresh starched dress feels good to him. Carrie is about to lift her\nhands in prayer, when Halsey, at the head of the stairs, calls down.\nHalsey: Well, well. Whats up? Aint you ever comin? Come\non. Whats up down there? Take you all mornin t sleep off a pint?\nYoure weakenin, man, youre weakenin. Th axle an th beam's all ready\nwaitin 112 y. Come on.\nKabnis rises and is going doggedly towards the steps. Carrie notices\nhis robe. She catches up to him, points to it, and helps him take it off.\nHe hangs it, with an exaggerated ceremony, on its nail in the corner.\nHe looks down on the tousled beds. His lips curl bitterly. Turning,\nhe stumbles over the bucket of dead coals. He savagely jerks it from\nthe floor. And then, seeing Carrie's eyes upon him, he swings the pail\ncarelessly and with eyes downcast and swollen, trudges upstairs to the\nwork-shop. Carrie's gaze follows him till he is gone. Then she goes to\nthe old man and slips to her knees before him. Her lips murmur, \"Jesus,\ncome.\"\nLight streaks through the iron-barred cellar window. Within its\nsoft circle, the figures of Carrie and Father John.\nOutside, the sun arises from its cradle in the tree-tops of the forest.\nShadows of pines are dreams the sun shakes from its eyes. The sun\narises. Gold-glowing child, it steps into the sky and sends a birth-song\nslanting down gray dust streets and sleepy windows of the southern\ntown.\n\nJean Toomer"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "95", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.35", "texte": "THE BRAIN AT THE WHEEL\n\nTo the man who knows\nTo the man who cares\nTo the man of taste\nTo the man of refinement\nTo the man with vision\nTo the man of the finer type and temperament of attire.\nDO YOU FEAR THE DARK\nAs your Aboriginal Ancestors did? From their leafy dwell-\nings in the primordial trees they peered ever anxiously\ninto a profound darkness teeming with imaginary terrors.\nBut take the Lamp with the Clamp, clamp it on the mirror,\nclamp it on the table, clamp it on the bed, clamp it on\nthe chair, or anywhere."}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.36", "texte": "From \"Souls for Sale,\" Golwyn Studios"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "96", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.37", "texte": "We bring\nTHE GIFT BEAUTIFUL\nThe Gift Supreme\nWhat? What is to be?\nRoses or worms? Or roses and worms?\nOr is it seafood, snails, eels, mussels, clams and scallops?\nWith the brain at the wheel\nthe eye on the road\nand the hand to the left\npleasant be your progress\nexplorer, producer, stoic, after your fashion.\nChange\nCHANGE\nto what speed? to what underwear?\nHere is a town, here a mill:\nnothing surprises you old horse-face.\nGuzzle-guzzle goes the siren;\nand the world will learn to admire and applaud your concern\nabout the parts, your firmness with employes, and your\njustice to your friends.\nYour pride will not be overridden\nYour faith will go unmortified.\n\nMatthew Josephson"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.38", "texte": "Frank Mayo and Barbara Castleton in \"Souls for Sale\""}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "97", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.39", "texte": "MEMPHIS JOHNNY\n\n1 hey carry him off in a one-horse hack\nand he won't be thinking of coming back.\nThey CARry him off in a ONE-horse hack\nand he WON'T be thinking of COMing back.\nMay GOD have mercy uPON his soul\nthey DUMP his bones in a SIX-foot hole.\nThey SHOVeI dirt on his SULlen eyes\nand DIRT clump-clumping aGAINST his thighs.\nThe DIRT clumps down, the pebbles drum on his belly\n(o morsel of sod that covers that hides the left nipple\nof his breast and crumbs of gravel seeping, seeping\nbetween the stiff interstices of his limbs)\nAnd WORMS crawl out and WORMS crawl in\nand WORMS crawl out and WORMS crawl in\nand WORMS crawl in and naturally I am becoming a little\nhysterical since he is wearing such linen as he never\nwore and his new black suit from Wanamakers and\nglass, oak, metal between him and the sod. The worms.\nI must have been hysterical when I imagined myself\nbeneath the glass and oak and lead with him to clutch\nhis shoulders tightly or continue a pointless conversation\nround and about"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "98", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.40", "texte": "while DIRT clump-clumps aGAINST my thighs\naGAINST my belly and FROZen eyes\nand SHOVelsfull of eTEßnities\nbetween my fingers and my knees\nand worms crawl in and worms crawl out\nand round and round and upon and about\nour pointless conversation grows\nand there she goes\nand there she goes and\nalldressedupinher SUNdaycloes\nand there she goes.\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "99", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.41", "texte": "THE POET ASSASSINATED\n\nXII\nLOVE\nOn a spring morning, Croniamantal, following the instructions of\nthe Bird of Benin, reached the Meudon woods and stretched himself\nout in the shade of a tree whose branches hung very low.\nThe damsel had not yet arrived. Croniamantal longed for a foun-\ntain and his imagination, or perhaps some sorcerer's talent in himself\nwhich he had never suspected, caused a limpid water suddenly to\nflow among the grass.\nCroniamantal flung himself down and drank avidly, when he heard\nthe voice of a woman singing far off:\nDondidondaine\n'77s the shepherdess beloved of the\nWho has gone to the fountain\nDondidondaine\nIn the den)y fields, all blossoming\nTo the fountain\nHe will come he will not come\nBut here comes Croquemitaine\nTo the fountain\nAnd Hicfyorydock/ advance no further.\nCRONIAMANTAL: Dost thou think already of her who sings?\nThou laughest dully in this clearing. Dost thou believe that she has\nbeen rounded like a round table for the equality of men and weeks?\nThou knowest well, the days do not resemble each other.\nCroniamantal stands on the tip of his toes to see if he can perceive\nthrough the branches the so-beloved who comes.\nThe Voice\nDondidondaine\nAt the fountain it is ven; cold\nBut when will come mp Croquemitaine\nDondidondaine\nAfter the winter I shall be less cold."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "100", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.42", "texte": "In the clearing there appeared a young girl, svelte and brunette.\nHer countenance was sombre and starred with roving eyes like birds\nof bright plumage. Her sparse but short hair left her neck bare; her\nhair was tousled and dark, and by the skipping rope which she car-\nried, Croniamantal recognized her to be Tristouse Ballerinette.\nCRONIAMANTAL: No further, child with bare arms! I shall\ncome to you myself. Someone has just hushed under the pines and\nwill be able to overhear us . . . Stay with me. My lips are filled with\nkisses. Here, here. I lay them on thy brow, on thy hair. I caress thy\nhair with its ancient perfume. I caress thy hairs which intertwine like\nthe worms on the bodies of the dead. O death, o death, hairy with\nworms. I have kisses on my lips. Here, here they are, on thy hands,\non thy neck, on thine eyes, thine eyes. I have lips full of kisses, here,\nhere, burning like a fever, sustained to enchant thee, kisses, mad kisses,\non the ear, the temple, the cheek. Feel my embraces, bend under the\neffort of my arm, be languid, be languid, be languid. I have kisses\nupon my lips, here, here, mad ones, upon thine eyes, upon thy neck,\nupon thy brow, upon thy mouth, I longed so to love thee, this spring\nday when there are no more blossoms on the branches which prepare\nthemselves to bear fruit.\nTristouse: Leave me, go away. Those who move each other\nare happy, but I do not love you. You frighten me. However, do not\ndespair, o poet. Listen, this is my best advice: Go away!\nCRONIAMANTAL: Alas! Alas! To leave again, to wander\nunto the oceanic limits, through the brush, the evergreen, in the\nscum, in the mud, the dust, across the forests, the prairies, the planta-\ntions, and the very happy gardens.\nTRISTOUSE: Go away. Go away, far from the antique perfume\nof my hair, o thou who belongest to me.\nAnd Croniamantal went off without turning his head once; he\ncould be seen for a long time through the branches, and then his voice\ncould be heard growing fainter and fainter as he disappeared from\nview.\nCRONIAMANTAL: Traveller without a stick, pilgrim without\nstaff and poet without a writing pad, I am more powerless than all\nother men, I own nothing more and I know nothing . . .\nAnd his voice no longer reached Tristouse Ballerinette who was\nadmiring her image in the pool.\nIn the lovely woods, Tristouse promenaded meditating.\nTristousE: My heart is sad without thee, Croniamantal. I"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "101", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.43", "texte": "loved thee without knowing it. All is green. All is green above my\nhead and beneath my feet. I have lost him whom I loved. I must\nsearch this way and that way, here and yonder. And among them\nall I shall surely find someone who will please me.\nCRONIAMANTAL: Goddess! who art thou? Where is thine\neternal form?\nTristousE: Oh, there he is again, handsomer than ever . . .\nListen, o poet. I belong to thee, henceforth.\nWithout looking at Tristouse, Croniamantal bent over the pool.\nCRONIAMANTAL: I love fountains, they are beautiful symbols\nof immortality when they never run dry. This one has never run dry.\nAnd I seek a divinity, but I desire her to appear eternal to me. And\nmy fountain has never run dry.\nHe kneeled and prayed to the fountain, while Tristouse, all in\ntears, lamented.\nTRISTOUSE: O poet, adorest thou the fountain? O Lord, re-\nturn my lover to me! Come to me! I know such lovely songs.\nCRONIAMANTAL: The fountain hath its murmur.\nTristouse: Very well, then! Sleep with thy cold lover, let\nher drown thee! But if thou livest, thou belongest to me and thou\nshalt obey me.\nShe was gone, and throughout the forest of twittering birds, the\nfountain flowed and murmured, while there arose the voice of Cronia-\nmantal who wept and whose tears mingled with the worshipped flood.\nCRONIAMANTAL: O fountain! Thou who springest like a\nstaunchless blood. Thou who art cold as marble, but living, trans-\nparent and fluid. Thou, ever renewed and ever the same. Thou who\nmakest living thy verdant banks, I love thee. Thou art my unrivalled\ngoddess. Thou quenchest my thirst. Thou purifiest me. Thou mur-\nmurest to me thine eternal song which rocks me to sleep in the evenings.\nThe FOUNTAIN: At the bottom of my little bed full of an\nOrient of gems, I hear thee with contentment, o poet whom I have\nenchanted. I recall Avallon where we might have lived, thou as the\nKing Fisher and I awaiting thee under the appletrees. O islands of\nappletrees. But I am happy in my precious little bed. These amethysts\nare sweet to my gaze. This lapis-lazuli is more blue than a fair sky.\nThis malachite represents to me a prairie. Sardonyx, onyx, agate,\nrock-crystal, you shall scintillate tonight, for I will give a feast in\nhonor of my lover. I shall come alone as befits a virgin. The power of\nmy lover has already been manifested and his gifts are sweet to my"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "102", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.44", "texte": "soul. He has given me his eyes all in tears, two adorable fountains,\nsweet tributaries of my stream.\nCRONIAMANTAL: O fecund fountain, thy waters resemble thy\nhair. Thy flowers are born about thee and we shall love each other\nalways.\nNothing could be heard but the song of birds and the rustling of\nleaves, and at times the plashing of a bird playing in the water.\nA man appeared in the little wood: It was Paponat the Al-\ngerian. He approached the fountain dancing.\nCRONIAMANTAL: I know you. You are Paponat who studied\nin the Orient.\nPAPONAT: Himself. O poet of the Occident, I come to visit\nyou. I have learned of your enchantment, but I hear that it is\nnot yet too late to converse with you. How humid it is here! It is not\nat all surprising that your voice is harsh, and you will certainly need\na medicament to clear it. I approached you dancing. Is there no way\nof saving you from the situation in which you have placed yourself.\nCRONIAMANTAL: Bah! But tell me who taught you to dance.\nPAPONAT: The angels themselves were my dancing masters.\nCRONIAMANTAL: The good or the bad angels? But no matter.\nI have had enough of all the dances, save one which the Greeks call\nkordax.\nPAPONAT: You are gay, Croniamantal, we shall be able to\namuse ourselves. I am glad I came here. I love gaiety. I am happy!\nAnd Paponat, his bright eyes profoundly whirling, rubbed his\nhands gleefully.\nCRONIAMANTAL: You look like me!\nPAPONAT: Not much. lam happy to live, while you die beside\nthe fountain.\nCRONIAMANTAL: But the happiness which you proclaim, do\nyou not forget it? and forget mine? You resemble me! The happy\nman rubs his hands. Smell them. What do they smell like?\nPaponat : The odour of death.\nCRONIAMANTAL: Ha! ha! ha! The happy man has the same\nodour as death! Rub your hands. What difference between the happy\nman and the corpse! I am also happy, although I don't want to rub\nmy hands. Be happy, rub your hands. Be happy! again! Now do\nyou know it, the odour of happiness?\nPAPONAT: Farewell. If you make no case for the living, there\nis no way of talking to you."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "103", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.45", "texte": "And as Paponat disappeared into the night where glittered the\ninnumerable eyes of the celestial animals of impalpable flesh, Cronia-\nmantal rose suddenly thinking to himself: \"Well—enough of Nature\nand of the memories she evokes. I know enough about that for a long\ntime; we had better return to Paris and try to find that exquisite little\nTristouse who loves me madly.\"\nXIII\nENCOUNTERS\nSix months passed. For the last five Tristouse Ballerinette had\nbeen the mistress of Croniamantal, whom she loved passionately for\neight days. In exchange for this love, the lyrical youth had rendered\nher glorious and immortal forever by celebrating her in marvellous\npoems.\n\"I was thought ugly because of my thinness, my large mouth, my\nbad teeth, my irregular features, my crooked nose. Now I am beauti-\nful and all men tell me so.\n\"What miracles are bom of the love of a poet! But how heavily\na poet's love weighs! What sorrows accompany it, what silences to\nendure! Now that the miracle has been accomplished, I am beautiful\nand renowned. Croniamantal is ugly, he has wasted his property in\na short time, he is poor, lacking in elegance, no longer gay, the slightest\nof his gestures make him a hundred enemies.\n\"I love him no longer. I need him no longer, my admirers are\nenough for me. I shall rid me of him gradually. But that is going to\nbe very annoying. Either 1 must go away, or he must disappear, so\nthat he doesn't bother me, so that he isn't able to reproach me.\"\nAnd after eight days, Tristouse became the mistress of Paponat,\nalthough still seeing Croniamantal, whom she treated more and more\ncoldly. The less she came to see him, the more desperately he cared\nfor her. When she did not come at all, he spent hours in front of the\nhouse she lived in in the hope of seeing her come out, and if by chance\nshe did, he would escape like a thief, fearing that she might accuse him\nof spying on her.\nIt was by running around after Tristouse Ballerinette that Cronia-\nmanta! continued his literary education.\nOne day as he was wandering about Paris, he suddenly found\nhimself at the Seine. He crossed a bridge and walked for some time,"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "104", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.46", "texte": "when suddenly perceiving before him M. Francois Coppee, Cronia-\nmantal regretted that this passerby was dead. But there is nothing\nagainst talking with the dead, and the encounter passed off very\npleasantly.\n\"Come,\" thought Croniamantal, \"to a passerby he would appear\nto be nothing but a passerby, and the very author of the Passerby.\nHe is a clever and spiritual rhymester, with some feeling for reality.\nLet us speak to him about rhyme.\"\nThe poet of the Passerby was smoking a dark cigarette. He was\ndressed in black, his visage black; he stood bizarrely on a high stone,\nand Croniamantal saw quite easily by his pensive air that he was com-\nposing verses. He came alongside of him and after having greeted\nhim, said brusquely:\n\"Dear master, how sombre you seem.\"\nHe replied courteously:\n\"It is because my statue is of bronze. That exposes me constantly\nto scorn. Thus the other day,\nPassing by one day the negro Sam MacVea\nSeeing 1 Was the blacker, sat down and muttered: \"Yea.\"\n\"See how adroit those lines are. Did you notice how well the\ncouplet I just recited for you rhymes for the eye.\"\n\"Indeed,\" said Croniamantal, \"for it is pronounced Sarn Mac Vee,\nlike Shakespeer.\"\n\"Well here is something that comes off better,\" continued the\nstatue :\nPassing by one day the negro Sam MacV ea\nChristened this tablet with a flask °112 eau-de-vie.\n\"There is a bit of refinement that ought to appeal to you. It is\nthe rime riche, the perfect rhyme to delight the ear.\"\n\"You certainly enlighten me on the rhyme,\" said Croniamantal.\n\"I am very happy, dear master, to have met you in passing by.\"\n\"It is my first success,\" replied the metallic poet. \"But I have just\ncomposed a little poem bearing the same title: it is about a gentleman\nwho passes by, The Passerby, across the corridor of a railroad coach;\nhe perceives a charming lady with whom, instead of going only to\nBrussels, he stops at the Dutch frontier:\nThe]) passed at least eight days at Rosertdael\nHe tasted the ideal, she the real\nIn all things, it chanced, their ways differed,\nft was from veritable Love they suffered."}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "105", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.47", "texte": "\"I call your attention to the last two lines, which through rhyming\nsomewhat imperfectly contain a subtle dissonance, which is further\nemphasized by the fact of their being morbidly feminine rhymes.\n\"Dear master,\" exclaimed Croniamantal, \"speak to me of vers\nlibre.\"\n\"Long live liberty!\" cried the statue of bronze.\nAnd having saluted him, Croniamantal went his way looking for\nT ristouse.\nSome time later, the rich Paponat, proud of being the lover of the\nrenowned Tristouse, and desirous of not losing her for she did him\nhonor, decided to take his mistress for a trip through Central Europe.\n\"Fine,\" said Tristouse, \"but we must not travel as lovers. We shall\ntravel as two friends, and I shall dress up as a young man; my hair is\nrather short, and I have often been told that I have the air of a hand-\nsome young man.\n\"Very well,\" said Paponat, \"and since we both are in need of\nrepose we shall make our retreat in Moravia in a convent of Briinn\nwhere my uncle, the prior of Crepontois, retired after the expulsion of\nthe monks. It is one of the richest and finest convents in the\nworld. I shall present you as one of my friends, and have no fear, we\nshall be taken for lovers just the same.\"\n\"That suits me,\" said Tristouse, \"for I love to pass for that which\nI am not. We leave tomorrow.\"\nXV\nVOYAGE\nCroniamantal went perfectly mad upon hearing of the departure\nof Tristouse. But at this time he began to become famous, and as his\npoetical repute waxed so did his vogue as a dramatist.\nThe theatres played his plays and the crowd applauded his name,\nbut at the same moment the enemies of poets and poetry were increas-\ning in number and growing in audacious hatred.\nWhen he learned of the departure of Tristouse he did not protest,\nbut simply asked the concierge if she knew the destination of the\nvoyage.\n\"All that I know,\" said the woman, \"is that she has gone to\nCentral Europe.\"\n\"Very well,\" said Croniamantal, and returning to his quarters he"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "106", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.48", "texte": "gathered up the several thousand francs he still possessed and took\nthe train for Germany at the Gare du Nord.\nOn the following day, Christmas eve, the train was engulfed in\nthe enormous terminal of Cologne. Croniamantal, carrying a little\nvalise, descended last from his third-class coach.\nOutside he saluted the Dome, solitary in the midst of the irregular\nsquare which it filled with its bulk. The station heaped its modern\nmass close to the huge cathedral. Hotels spread their signs in hybrid\nlanguages and appeared to hold their respectful distance from the\ngothic colossus. Croniamantal sniffed the odour of the town for a\nlong time. He seemed to be disappointed.\n\"She is not here,\" he said to himself, \"my nose would smell her,\nmy nerves would vibrate, my eyes would see her.\"\nHe crossed the town, passed the fortifications on foot as if driven\nby an unknown force along the main road, downstream, on the right\nbank of the Rhine. And in truth, Tristouse and Paponat had arrived\nthe night before in Cologne, taken an automobile and continued their\njourney; they had taken the right bank of the Rhine in the direction\nof Coblenz, and Croniamantal was following their trail.\nChristmas eve came. An old prophet of a rabbi from Dollendorf,\njust as he was venturing upon the bridge which links Bonn with Buel,\nwas repulsed by a violent gust of wind. The snow fell in a great rage.\nThe sound of the gale drowned all the Christmas songs, but the\nthousand lights of the trees glittered in each house.\nThe old Jew swore:\n\"Kreuzdonner wetter ... I shall never get to Haenchen . . .\nWinter, my old friend, thou canst avail nothing against my old and\njoyous carcass, let me cross without hindrance this old Rhine which\nis as drunken as thirty-six drunkards. As to myself, I bend my steps\ntoward the noble tavern frequented by the Borussians only to tipple\nin company with those white bonnets and at their cost, like a good\nChristian, although I am a Jew.\"\nThe sound of the gale doubled in fury, strange voices made them-\nselves heard. The old rabbi shivered and raised his head crying:\nDonnerkeil! Ui jeh, ch, ch, ch. Eh! Say, up there, you ought\nto go about your business instead of making life miserable for poor\nhappy devils whose fate sends them abroads on such nights . . . Eh!\nmothers, are you no longer under the domination of Solomon?\nOhey! Ohey! Tseilom Kop! Meicabl! Farwaschen Ponim! Be-\nheime! You want to prevent me from drinking the excellent Moselle\nwines with the students of Borussia who are only too happy to toast with"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "107", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.49", "texte": "me because of my science and my inimitable lyricism, not to mention\nall my talents for sorcery and prophecy.\n\"Accursed spirits! know ye that I might have drunk also Rhine\nwines, not to mention the wines of France. Nor should I have neg-\nlected to polish off some champagne in your honor, my old friends!\n. . . At midnight, the hour when the Christkindchen is made, I should\nhave rolled under the table and have slept at least during the brawl-\ning . . . But you unchain the winds, you make an infernal uproar\nduring this saintly night which should have been peaceful ... as\nto being calm, you seem to be twisting his pigtail up there, sweet ladies\n. . . To amuse Solomon, no doubt . . . Lilith! Naama! Aguereth!\nMahala! Ah! Solomon, for thy pleasure they are going to kill all\nthe poets on this earth.\n\"Ah Solomon! Solomon! jovial king whose entertainers are the\nfour nocturnal spectres moving from the Orient to the North, thou\ndesuest my death, for I am also a poet like all the Jewish prophets\nand a prophet like all the poets.\n\"Farewell drunkenness for tonight . . . Old Rhine, I must turn\nmy back to thee. I am going back to prepare me for death and dictate\nmy last and most lyrical prophecies ...\"\nA horrible crash, like a stroke of thunder, burst just then. The old\nprophet pressed his lips together, lowering his head and looking down;\nthen he bent down and held his ear quite close to the ground. When\nhe straightened up he murmured:\n\"The earth herself can no longer suffer the unbearable contact\nwith poets.\"\nTTien he took his way across the streets of Buel, turning his back\non the Rhine. When the rabbi had traversed the railroad track he\nfound himself before a crossing and as he hesitated not knowing which\nto take, he lifted his head again by chance. He saw before him a\nyoung man with a valise coming from Bonn; the old rabbi did not\nrecognize the person and cried to him:\n\"Are you mad to go out in such weather, sir?\"\n\"I am hurrying to rejoin someone whom I have lost and whose\ntrack I am following,\" replied the stranger.\n\"What is your profession,\" cried the Jew.\n\"I am a poet.\"\nThe prophet stamped with his foot and as the young man disap-\npeared he cursed him horribly because of the pity he felt, then lowering\nhis head he went to look at the signposts along the road. Wheezing, he\ntook the road straight ahead of him."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "108", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.50", "texte": "\"Happily the wind is fallen . . at least one can walk ... I had\nthought at first that he was coming to kill me. But, no, he will prob-\nably die even before me, this poet who is not even a Jew. Well, let\nus go quick and merrily to prepare us a glorious death.\"\nThe old rabbi walked faster; with his long cloak he gave the\neffect of a returned spirit, and some children who were returning from\nPutzchen after the Christmas Tree party passed him crying with terror,\nand for a long time they threw stones in the direction in which he had\ndisappeared. * * #\nCroniamantal covered in this way part of Germany and the Aus-\ntrian Empire; the force that propelled him drew him across Thuringia,\nSaxony, Bohemia, Moravia, up to Briinn, where he decided to stop.\nOn the very night of his arrival, he scoured the town. Along the\nstreets surrounding the old palace enormous Swiss guards in breeches\nand cocked hats, were standing before the doors. They leaned on\nlong canes with crystal heads. Their gold buttons gleamed like the\neyes of cats. Croniamantal lost his way; he wandered about for some\ntime in poor streets where shadows passed vividly across drawn blinds.\nWhile he was contemplating the sombre mass of the Spielberg, he\nheard steps close by, and saw three monks pass gesticulating and talk-\ning loudly. Croniamantal ran after them and asked them directions.\n\"You are French,\" they said; \"come with us.\"\nCroniamantal examined them and noticed that they wore above\ntheir frocks little beige cloaks that were very elegant. Each one wore\na light cane and wore a melon-shaped hat. On the way one of the\nmonks said to Croniamantal:\n\"You have wandered far from your hotel, we will show you the\nway if you wish. But if you care to, you may certainly come to the\nconvent with us: you will be well received because you are a foreigner\nand you can pass the night there.\"\nCroniamantal accepted joyfully, saying:\n\"I shall be very glad to come, for aren't you brothers to me, who\nam a poet.\"\nThey began to laugh. The oldest, who wore a gold-framed lorgnon\nand whose belly puffed out of his fashionable waistcoat, raised his\narms and cried:\n\"A poet! Is it possible!\"\nAnd the two others, who were thinner, choked with laughter, bend-\ning down and holding their bellies as if they had the colic.\n\"Let us be serious,\" said the monk with the lorgnon, \"we are going\nto pass through a street inhabited by the Jews.\""}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "109", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.51", "texte": "In the streets, at every step, old women standing like pines in a\nforest, called them, making signals.\n\"Let us flee from this stench,\" said the fat monk, who was a Czech\nand who was called Father Karel by his companions.\nCroniamantal and the monks stopped at last before a great convent\ndoor. At the sound of the bell the porter came to let them in.\n\"My child,\" said Father Karel, \"you are in a unique convent.\nThe monks who inhabit it are all very proper people. We have old\narchdukes, and even former architects, soldiers, scientists, poets, in-\nventors, a few monks expelled from France, and some lay guests of\ngood breeding. All of them are saints. I, myself, such as you see me,\nwith my lorgnon and my pot-belly, am a saint. I shall show you your\nroom, where you may stay until nine o'clock; then you will hear the\nbell ring and I shall come to look for you.\"\nThe room was round, the bed and the chairs were round; on the\nchimney piece a skull looked like an old cheese.\nCroniamantal stood by the window, under which spread the teem-\ning darkness of a large monastery garden, from which there seemed\nto rise laughter, sighs, cries of joy, as if a thousand couples were em-\nbracing each other. Then a woman's voice in the garden sang a song\nwhich Croniamantal had heard before:\nCroquemitaine\nWears the rose and the lilac\nThe King is a-coming\n—Hello Germaine\n—C roquemi taine\nWilt thou come back again?\nAnd Croniamantal began to sing the rest:\n—Hello Germaine\nI come to love among thine arms.\nThen he heard the voice of Tristouse continuing the couplet.\nAnd voices of men here and there, sang airs that were strange or\ngrave, while the cracked voice of an old man stuttered:\nVexilla regis prodeunt . . .\nAt this moment Father Karel entered the room, as a bell rang\nfull force.\n\"Well, my boy! Listening to the sounds of our fine garden? It is\nfull of memories, this earthly paradise. Tychobrahe made love there"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "110", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.52", "texte": "with a pretty Jewess who said to him all the time: Chazer,—which\nmeans pig in the jargon. I myself, have seen such and such an arch-\nduke. . . . Come to dinner.\"\nThey arrived in a vast refectory still empty, and the poet examined\nat his leisure the frescoes which covered the wall.\nOne was of Noah, dead-drunk on a couch. His son Cham was\nuncovering his nakedness, that is to say the root of a vine naively\nand prettily painted whose branches served as a genealogical tree, or\nsomething of the sort, for they had painted the names of all the abbes\nin red letters on all the leaves.\nThe long table that covered the middle of the hall was spread\nwith a rare sumptuousness. The glasses and decanters were of Bohem-\nian cut-glass, and of the finest red crystal. The superb silver pieces\nglittered on the whiteness of the cloth strewn with violets.\nThe monks arrived one by one, their hoods on their heads, arms\nfolded on their breasts. On entering they greeted Croniamantal and\ntook their accustomed places. The table was soon filled and Cronia-\nmantal counted fifty-six of them. The Abbe, an Italian with narrow\neyes, said grace and the repast began, but Croniamantal anxiously\nawaited the arrival of Tristouse.\nA bouillon was served in which little brains of birds and sweet\npeas swam . . .\n* * *\n\"Our two French guests have just left,\" said a French monk who\nhad been the prior of Crepentois. \"I could not hold them here: the\ncompanion of my nephew was just singing in the garden in his pretty\nsoprano voice. He almost fainted at hearing some one in the convent\nsing the close of the song. They left just now and took the train, for\ntheir automobile was not ready. We shall send it on to them by rail.\nThey did not impart to me the destination of their journey, but I\nthink that the pious children are bound for Marseilles. At least, I\nthink I heard them talk of that town.\"\nCroniamantal, pale as a sheet, rose, then:\n\"Excuse me, good fathers,\" he said, \"but it was wrong of me to\naccept your hospitality. I must go away, do not ask me the reason.\nBut I shall keep a fond memory of the simplicity, the gaiety, the\nliberty that reign here. All that is dear to me to the highest degree,\nwhy, why, alas, can I not profit of it?\"\n\nGuillaume Apollinaire\n(Translated from the French by M, J.)"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "111", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.53", "texte": "OVERTURE\n\nChange,—\nnot more nor less.\nNot more; surfeit\nlike a cormorant's ring is about our throats;\nwhose fishing are we at with our gaping senses?\nEven a glutton's stomach turns on a delicacy,\nand Satyrs, as we know, are misogynists.\nEnlarge our appetites and we will swallow larger morsels,\nonly to feed as wrily as before;\nmake our pain less, and we will suffer\nimpalement in the pin prick,\na flaying in a scratch.\nWe alter the gauges of our nerves only.\nOh we want change.\nLet us know as part of life\nthe change of death.\nThe woman who had been a man\nbeing infected with change,\nbecame another man\nand sought other changes.\nTo Transit,\nto the leper-green house—\nThe taste of woman is subtle,\nit is the Circe that makes swinish,\nit is the madonna that makes drunken\nbut most, and most subtly,\nit is the Penelope that tames,\nthat makes circulate, child and man,\nabout the bodies of women."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "112", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.54", "texte": "Transit tasted.\nVertically in bed, her huge hip jerked away like heave of\na restless sleeper, Circe lounged against a doorway, enduring\nher lovers. She was naked and in her loosened black hair\nshe was like a lily on a dark leaf. But her womb, cherished\nat the hearth of her folded thighs, curled like a dismissed lap\ndog; like sated animals her eyes played without ferocity;\nbetween them her nose darted, with nostrils tremulous as\nfins; while the porpoises of her cheeks danced. The coil\nof her throat was sinister. Like doves her breasts strutted;\nand the ribs circled slowly like outermost ripples. Her body\nhair, heavy and intricately fertile like a banyan tree inured\nthe gaze of her lovers. She was a pageant of wilderness and\nman came to her fawning or frenzied.\nWhen Transit saw Circe, he became an elephant and raised\nhimself formally like the materialization of a rectangle; like\na canopy that elegantly arches a sedate amour.\nDrawing water, at the well, with her head down, her neck\nbent grandly; and the strain made the skin whiter than\namazement; it seemed ready for the fingers of a strangler\nor the knife of some havenly sacrifice. As she lifted out her\npitcher her nurse-like arms waved as at altar tending. Then\nthe madonna dim face appeared, small and casual like a re-\ntreating footprint; and they ran after her, gods and men, in-\nebriating themselves with momentum and fixedness; and\nbrewing themselves with a ferment of devotion so that they\nmight dash their lives over her in a wine to dissolve her\nswoon; they skipped to her like scapegoats that miraculously\nknew their fate and were elated with their destiny.\nThe madonna leaned over Transit until her breasts licked\nhim; then her hair shook back and she took out her arms and\nif her thighs lingered it was in respect to his own irresolu-\ntion. But he let her go because he had no hope in posterity\neven if it were born a god out of his drunkenness."}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "113", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.55", "texte": "The Fates and Penelope are spinners; the Fates span webs,\nand then giving each soul an end they watched the unravel-\nling with measured amusement; Penelope spins her web but\nshe alone unravels it.\nHer face is a diagram of avouched perfection; her breasts\nare seals of symmetry; and her web deceives, appearing to be\nan arbitrament involved by the necessities of the composition.\nImpassive as a mountain that determines the shape and moods\nof the lowlands she silently displays her incalculable house-\nhold pasturing her lovers on her maids, and alotting orbits to\nher sons and her husbands.\nHeavier than infatuation, more implicating than pity, is her\noppressive strength, which is the arranging and inescapable\nhand of Order that makes a man, a function or a monument.\nThe gods waived Ulysses for ten years; death itself sug-\ngested parodies for an incantation. Goddesses, offered like\nspoils, with a patrimony in Elysium, a virgin, the still shut\nfists of whose young breasts held the copious buds of happi-\nness, all merely interrupted Ulysses in his ordained oscilla-\ntions toward Penelope.\nTransit looked steadily away, dissenting from her perfec-\ntion; avoiding the penetrating monotone of her beauty he\nraised against her invulnerable order the invincible rebels of\ncreation, but before the battle could be joined, he was caught\nupon her gaze. He was ignominiously expended on her\nhandmaidens.\nDeath helps us to see the soul\nfor it as suddenly renders life a background.\nHow would you die?\nKindle a woman under me;\nit will be no phoenix pyre,\nI will burn delectably."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "114", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.56", "texte": "So Transit died.\nThe change infected man sorrows for Transit, for his unfruit-\nful death.\nTaking the blue body he carries it before the people; like an\nunjustifiable wound he holds it before him, and reviles them;\nbut his anger like the clutch of lightning in a cloud only\nsqueezes out of the throng a rain of disciples.\nBefore his final change, he makes a last exploration of ex-\nistence, exposing himself to chance naked even of his will.\nHoping to attain an ultimate knowledge, hoping by this\nstrategy to be taken in the drift of life and know by his own\nflood its destination, he found himself curled in a sidelong\neddy, involved in an idyll!\nThen having nothing left, he undertakes the final transforma-\ntion relentlessly urging his will till like clubs it pounds upon\nhis brain. For a time his will keeps his death fresh restrain-\ning the anarchy of the cells; it ends in a darkness that swiftly\npasses a corruption over the flesh.\n\nIsidore Schneider"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "115", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.57", "texte": "BOOK REVIEWS\n\nTHE PROBLEM OF SPACE\nPainter and Space, by Howard Russell Butler. New York■ Charles\nScribner's Sons. $4.00.\nBooks on painting by painters are published too rarely in these\nUnited States to be neglected by those few who discover paintings to\nbe more engrossing than either baseball or bridge.\nMr. Butler sets himself the task of an historical inquiry concerning\nthe technical ways of painters, with paramount emphasis given to the\nmethods used for the reproduction of depth in a painting, the old\nillusion of the third dimension.\nThis appears the severest of problems to those who like Mr. Butler\nhave no time, as he informs us in his first chapter, to deal with esthetic\ntheory, disregard the metaphysics of space, attack the problem purely\nfrom automatic vision and mathematical certitude, thereby denying in\ngreatest measure the creative accomplishment of the past fifty years\nand more. His systematic approach does not withhold him from fre-\nquent lapses into expressions of taste somewhat disadvantageous to those\nhe omits to study or those to whom he grants a few ambiguous words,\nRenoir, Cezanne, Picasso and Picabia, comfortably found together,\nand gathered from a reading of Mr. Wright's \"Modern Painting,\" as\na footnote informs us.\nA doctor who closes his eyes to the personality of the human being\nbefore him is no physician, but a mere statistician in momentous danger\nof making a false diagnosis. Mr. Butler's refusal of esthetic con-\nsideration is a simple subterfuge to which he resorts in order to attack\nthose paintings troublesome to his conception of art, and defend those\npaintings which meet with his requisites of a painting.\nThe book begins with an account of the admirable drawings of\nthe Cro-Magnons; then a leap is made to the Greeks. The work of\nthe Egyptians and alien peoples whose artists had the knowledge of\nno immature scientists to stabilize them are forgotten presumably be-\ncause they were content to create form on a given two dimensional\nsurface in two dimensions, leaving the third dimension for the three\ndimensional art, sculpture. We are hurried to a limited view of the"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "116", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.58", "texte": "historically great painters of the Renaissance who made use of the\nthird dimension with its imposed limitations, rather completely to the\nawe and confusion of academicians ever afterwards. We are told\ntheir direct heirs, painters of the 16th century, are preferable to the\nprimitives because the problem of space had been solved for them by\nthe geometricians; the recipe had been concocted and a freedom of\nexecution to which we are but now feeling our way was removed for\ncenturies. Cubism, we are told, came from Spain, possibly because\nPicasso is Spanish, or Gleizes and others lived for a time in Barcelona.\nBut to say that cubism came from the oppression of those who carried\nthe adulation of the Renaissance painters and their admirably limited\ntechnique to the point of suffocation would be nearer the truth.\nTwo chapters as well as a few chosen reproductions are devoted\nto an orientation of the rules which should be pursued to obtain bin-\nocular perspective which is contrasted with monocular perspective, the\npsychological problem of the double image. Here a real contribution\nto technique might have been made if the eyesight of individual painters\nhad been studied. It is proverbial that painters have ill eyes. Naturally\nimpossible to learn what sicknesses assailed the eyes of the geniuses of\nthe past, it still might be enlightening to register the optical vision of\nall living painters at some bureau of research and endeavor a classifi-\ncation of their works accordingly. Who knows how much the sane\npainter, a distinction Mr. Butler makes, might benefit therefrom—but\nthen, consider the critics' eyes. This distinction of perspective which is\nso keenly seen by those who desire a slice of nature reproduced on\ncanvas, is unknown to the modern painter whose objective is the cre-\nation of a work of art by sifting nature through his mind's eye to place\nupon a surface the residue, with the ablest tools he has at his disposal,\nand for his purpose always bending them to the will of his conception,\nalways inventing them where they are lacking. He is not limited to the\nheritage of the Masters of the European Renaissance, but is heir to\nthe artists of all time—which accounts for the present stimulation\nreceived from negro sculpture.\nThe procedure for the making of a painting, according to this\ninstructor, is as follows: Make as able a drawing from nature as pos-\nsible. Apply the rigid laws of perspective, as set down by the ablest\nthree dimensional painters of the Renaissance; then color. A bad\ndrawing is often redeemed by color, he adds.\nAlthough several revolutions are related in this \"historical scientific\ncomplete compendium\"—description taken from its paper cover—the\nrevolution created by the camera still in active eruption, as the photo-"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "117", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.59", "texte": "graphs of Alfred Stieglitz, Paul Strand, Man Ray and others testify,\nis yet unfelt. If colored photography is ever perfected (may it soon\nbe), the endeavor to present reality on canvas with atmospheric finish\nwill be denied those painters who hold no esthetic convictions beyond\nthe pursuit of mathematical certainties. Mention of the third dimen-\nsional quantity inseparable from color is made, but since Cezanne's\npioneering in the domain of color is little more than meaningless to Mr.\nButler who is constantly under the delusion that the creators of what\nhe calls \"modernistics\" were unaware of the axioms he undertakes to\ndemonstrate, a reading of Cezanne's Letters, among other books, would\nhave been enlightening. Naturally the presentation of color made by\nthe abstract painters is dismissed by him with references to \"oil cloth\"\nand \"wallpaper.\"\nAcademicians are not alone in.America to deny abstract painting,\nwhich sprang into existence when the axioms of cubism were found\ntoo severe a restraint. Mr. Craven in the June Dial assures us that\nabstract painting is non-existent because IVlr. Roger FYy is certain that\nno form can be created that does not recall some reality. There is\nunquestionably more fear and lack of comprehension of the abstract\npainters' use of their superbly limited technique—limited to the power\ncolor has to mould a two dimensional surface into living identity—than\nof all other painters' initial efforts. This is due to the dull semi-intelli-\ngence of the public, who in a democratic era exert their blind demands\nwith a violence previously unknown. It does not prevent the hailing of\nPicasso as master by those who endeavor to secure a pleasing recipe\nfrom him to add to their historical cook book, while panting to keep\nup with him, and a curious neglect of Gleizes and Kandinsky, both\nshown in New York last winter, who have made color parent to their\nconception.\nIn his preface Mr. Butler takes note that there have been painters\nsince earliest times who did not learn formulae before painting, but who\nnevertheless created recognized works of art. They lie outside the\nsystems and a priori rules of procedure found in books on the shelves\nof instructors in the fine arts. A book accounting for these artists and\nwhat made it possible for them to impose their art on generations would\nbe a large contribution to the present technical chaos in which the\ncriticism of painting is immersed.\n\nEdward Nagle"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "118", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.60", "texte": "Jacob's Room, by Virginia Woolf. New York. Harcourt Brace\nand Company. $2.00.\nThe extraordinary beauty of Mrs. Woolf's prose serves to divert\nthe reader, at first glance, from the perfection of the book as a whole.\nJacob's Room apparently marks a turning point in English prose. In\nthe interest of placing the book with relation to its contemporaries one\nmight outline the foregoing situation as follows: In recent times the\nproblem of human behaviour has been peculiarly fascinating to scien-\ntists, and our understanding thereof, thanks to the psychologists, has\nmade great advances. Writers of modern prose, inasmuch as they\nrecord human experiences, have attempted to approach experience\nmore closely, to divest it of its layers of familiar illusion through more\nand more penetrating analysis. This led, in the history of recent Eng-\nlish prose, to the autobiographical novel in which vast documents of\npersonal experience were accumulated. It was then discovered how\nstimulating and impressive detached experiences treated with great\nboldness and resourcefulness could become. The next step was the\nnovel of dissociated experiences, in which a writer like Dorothy Rich-\nardson maintained interest (if she did) purely by the more or less\nshocking degree of relationship between ideas: i.e., it was absorbing\nenough to be titillated by the angle at which thoughts are opposed or\nassociated, and thus to follow all the related or unrelated data which\nthe author amassed for her subject, in a perfectly hopeless and be-\nwildered way. Gertrude Stein pursues this tendency to its extreme\nlimits; James Joyce rewards one most, and his Ulysses remains an in-\nvaluable compendium of such detail.\nMrs. Virginia Woolf, equipped no less brilliantly than her most\nformidable contemporaries for observing what is occult and disturbing\nin familiar experience, arrives, however, with a ripe sense of formal\norganization. Mrs. Woolf's method is to adjust isolated experiences\nin a subtle relationship, so that within a chapter or a part of her book\nthe character of Jacob Flanders is completely encircled or segregated\nfrom all else in the universe. By the indirect method of defining\nJacob's environment the succeeding chapters serve to mark the prog-\nress of his personality through an objective and hostile world. At the\nend of the book the personality has been completely caught and\nmoulded. Detail after detail of experience is hurled against him until\nhis figure has been clearly sculpt or blocked out in a strong light.\nIncidents radiate logically about this single figure. The isolated\nphenomena which touch his life link themselves into an harmonious\nensemble."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "119", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.61", "texte": "Mrs. Woolf has also a remarkable trick of conveying the sense\nof passage through years or periods of life by means of a few deftly\nrelated glimpses presented with admirable restraint. A whole child-\nhood is covered swiftly in a succession of outbreaks, pranks, bad\ndreams and maternal scoldings.\nHer prose, musical and precise, moves with excellent change of\npace and direction. So able a master of the sentence is she that it is\nquite delectable to witness the functioning of her rhetoric. At times,\nit is true, passages fall definitely into Miltonic blank verse, a practice\nwhich one may question importunately among the mighty.\nThe Vegetable, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Nero Yor\\(. Charles Scrib-\nner's Sons. $1.50.\nOf the various pestilences known to attack vegetable life, the\nliterary, operating through the agency of Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald, is\nat once the most distressing and the most negative. The distress is\ncaused by the spectacle of what was once a genuine talent, now re-\nduced to the state where it can find satisfaction in such trifling. It is\na commonplace that Mr. Fitgzerald's promise has failed to achieve\nan acceptable fulfillment. Therefore let the bare statement of this\nfact suffice. The negative feature is included in the criticism, that in\nthis play the pest sets in before the vegetable is fairly sprouted. Jerry\nFrost does not come to life. The thin sophisticated disillusion of Mr.\nFitzgerald begins, as it were, to eat away at his character before he\nis created. Hence one finds here nothing more than an attitude edited\nby means of a dialogue which, at least, is quite appropriate to it. This\nattitude doubtless springs from a recognition of the poverty of\nAmerican middle-class life, of its absurd ambitions and its cheap pre-\ntense. It is so general, however,—unless informed by some unique\nthought or emotional power—as to be commonplace. The Vegetable\nis wholly lacking in qualifying features. And since there are no flashes\nof prose brilliance or beauty to lift it in any way, one finds it, at best,\ntedious and trivial; and at its worst, vulgar.\nThe Genius of America, by Stuart P. Sherman. New York• Charles\nScribner's Sons. $2.00.\nThe Younger Generation to Professor Sherman is represented by\nTheodore Dreiser, Professor Ludwig Lewisohn, Dr. Joel Spingarn.\nHis case against them is their evident belief that \"Beauty is not con-\n\nM. J."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "120", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.62", "texte": "cerned with truth, or morals or democracy.'' They are for self-expres-\nsion at all costs, denial, scepticism, libertinism. Therefore, Professor\nSherman fears, the captains of industry will forsake the fine arts as\nsuperfluous things.\" The real case against such novelists as Dreiser is\nthat they are less concerned with literary perfection than they are in\nattacking the capitalistic democracy they live in. Professor Sherman's\nruffled Captains of Industry are perfectly sensible in being annoyed\nat them. Whereas Professor Sherman himself errs with them, in\nseeking rather to defend his environment than to censure them on the\ngrounds of dullness. He finds them \"un-American.\" What is Amer-\nican? What is the \"genius\" of America? The genius of America, he\nconcludes, after a reverent recollection of Washington, Franklin,\nLongfellow and Lincoln is \"a profound moral idealism.\" Now, in-\nasmuch as the Founders were people who travelled off in order to find\nbetter economic conditions, made war on their motherland in order\nto go into manufacturing on their own, and continued to make war\non their weaker neighbors for the sake of territorial gain, it is rather\nhard to find the sources of all this moral idealism. The Genius of\nAmerica is rather for economic organization, and expresses itself in\nquantity production and national sales, ft creates an inspiring enough\nspectacle in modern times for poets and novelists to ruminate over. It\nis certainly their business to define, somehow or other, their present\nenvironment and to express it, inasmuch as their own lives are en-\nmeshed in it all. But that they should go about crying, \"Oh Beautiful,\nmy country!\" as Professor Sherman (verbatim) wants them to, is an\nappalling proposal which offers horrible consequences.\nThe Craftsmanship of the One-Act Play, by Percival Wilde. Boston.\nLittle, Brown and Company, $3.00.\nLet us get down to the business of one-act-playwriting. For the\nKeith Circuit. For the Little Theatre down the street. There has\nbeen entirely too much sentiment about it. The best plays are written\nby pupils of Professor Baker at Harvard. On the mechanics of the\none-act play, Percival Wilde speaks with an informed ardour. As\nin the detective story, ala Lewis Carroll, Begin at the End and go\nback till you come to the Beginning. Then Start.\""}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "121", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.63", "texte": "A one-act play must have:\n1. Introduction\n2. Attack\n3. Development\n4. Crisis\n5. Resolution and Ending.\nMr. Wilde gives specimens which are precise and inescapable.\nThe diagrams especially have a high degree of efficiency. This is all\nperfectly consistent in its adulation of technique, until the veteran one-\nact-playwright has qualms of conscience about dogmatizing. Indeed,\nhe says, there are broad principles; but playwriting is an \"art\"—and\nthe artist should not be—will not be—fetished by \"laws.\" He there-\nfore concludes with the sage warning:\n\"First, last, always, be interesting!\"\nNEW BOOKS RECEIVED\nFaint Perfume, by Zona Gale. New York. D. Applet on and\nCompany. $1.75.\nIHE ADDING iMACHINE, by Elmer L. Rice. New York. Double-\nday, Page and Company. $1.50.\nThe Real Story of a Bootlegger, Anonymous. New York.\nBoni and Liveright. $2.00.\nThe Poems of Alice Meynell. Complete Edition. New York.\nThe Macmillan Company. $1.75.\nEvaporation, a Symposium, by Mark Turbyfill and Samuel Putnam.\nWinchester, Mass. Modern Review. $1.75.\nApril Twilights and Other Poems, by AVilla Cather. New\nYork. Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. $1.50."}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "122", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.64", "texte": "COMMENT\n\nThe spectacle of a modern art which has no longer a \"social of-\nfice\" that \"might achieve . . . the regeneration of society\" deeply\ntroubles our contemporary The Freeman (July 25, 1923). \"The\nwar . . . not only defeated art but disabled it and cast it helpless\ninto the ditch, while industrialism continues on its triumphant self-\ndevouring way.\" Art has retreated from reality and, the critic of The\nFreeman maintains, it must remain within the sphere of reality, \"it\nmust appeal to the real, and through the real if it is to have any force\nagainst the real.\"\nTo reason with The Freeman as to the nature of reality would\npromptly involve us in the epistemological jungles. By making a\npragmatic shift we might better and more generously assume The\nFreeman's view to be that an art or literature which deals with social\nrealities or social problems is nobler than an art or literature to which\nsuch matters are incidental. It is an old campaign, begun first, perhaps,\nby Plato who would banish all the poets since they worked no good\nfor the Republic. By The Freeman's measure, then, the following\nworks would be aligned among the noblest contributions to human\nculture:\nUncle's Tom's Cabin, by Harriet Beecher Stowe\nLooking Backward, by Bellamy\nA Modern Utopia, by H. G. Wells\nLabor, by Emile Zola, etc.\nA Doll's House, by Henrik Ibsen\nLocksley Hall, by Lord Tennyson, etc.\nAs to the rest, Paradise Lost, The Divine Comedy, The Song of\nSongs, The Faerie Queene, Dr. Faustus, Gargantua, Tom Jones, one\nmight by a subtle dialectic expose the modicum of social prophecy\ncontained in them and evade dropping them entirely from the list of\nnotables.\nIntellectuals adapt themselves but ill to the rather remarkable\ncircumstances of American life. I find their resistance and sense of\noppression curiously misguided. It leads in the case of Van Wyck\nBrooks to such a vexing aberration as a study of Henry James written"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "123", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.65", "texte": "entirely from the point of view of social psychology and therapeutics—\nan elaborate consideration of everything relating to Henry James save\nhis writings!\nNor is it true that the artist in modern times has been cast into the\nditch by industrialism. Abhorring Spengler, I find it more plausible to\nliken this age of mechanism to the Renaissance, by virtue of its vast\nphysical triumphs over nature. We discover and exploit with equal\ndaring and cruelty. Our Drakes and Marco Polos are in the labora-\ntory or at the salesmanager's desk. The Renaissance in England saw\nthe birth of the most agitated and romantic dramatic poetry the world\nhas ever seen. So the painters and poets of the world are now stirred\nextravagantly by the spectacle of industrial mechanism. Whatever\nwe may think of the social injustice wrought by the machine, it has\ncertainly turned up an amazing store of fresh artistic material; person-\nalities such as Ford and Stinnes, new commodities, new methods of\nlocomotion and divertisement, phenomena which are so illogical, un-\nexpected, uprooting, that it is scarcely reasonable to demand yet a\nclassical poise of modern artists. If they manage not to get bashed by\nit all, we may acquire for the present a large romanticism which can\noutleap the nervous Zeitgeist, and having a daring and freedom in the\nquality of its speculation which surpasses that of our scientists and\nfinanciers.\nPoetry for August prints The Established Poets alongside of the\n\"youth of today.'' The experiment offers little save an opportunity\nfor the \"established\" Mrs. Tietjens to air her rather remarkable ob-\nservations: (The following should be read aloud in a high falsetto)\n\"The early work of the arrived poets, on the other hand, suffers\nfrom being in certain respects out of style—and it must be admitted\nthat style cannot be ignored, even in poetry. As Sara Teasdale justly\nsaid in her letter: 'Nothing is so much out of style as something\nfifteen or twenty years old!' \"\nIn that bubbling literary teashop of Mr. Farrar's, The Bookman,\nthe correspondance course in \"Contemporary American Poetry\" con-\ntinues brightly. Any questions confronting any literary club will be\nanswered promptly by the editor of The Booffmart. For the sake\nof the curious, there is an account of his life, and his picture is published\nin the same issue.\n\nWill Bray"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "124", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.66", "texte": "A NOTE ON SCULPTURAL KINETICS\n\nIt is obvious to anyone of intelligence that the movies at present\nare in a state bordering on almost complete paralysis. And this un-\nfortunate condition seems due, not so much to the astringent attitude\nof a public which is notoriously fond of taking its esthetic pleasures\nthrough a straw, nor to the timidity of the producers who dare display\nno imagination beyond certain maternal efforts to direct their sweet pap\ninto the mouth of the public, as it is due to the absurd emphasis every\none places on the movies as a medium for drama. For this emphasis\nhas so crippled the motion picture in any natural development toward\nthose forms which are distinctly its own, that its few remaining gestures\nare largely leflex. In fact, so far as function is concerned, the movie\nhas more than one foot in the grave.\nIt is indeed a terrifying example of the loss of manhood through\ndisuse. For at its inception the cinema was endowed with that peculiar\nand unique power of deforming motion which gave it promise of de-\nveloping a new and formidable art. Yet from the very beginning, this\ndistinctive power to accelerate, retard, or reverse the normal motion\nof objects has been ignored because only on rare occasions could it be\nutilized by drama. On the other hand those mechanical accomplish-\nments of the cinema which satisfy the present dramatic idiosyncrasies\nfor realism, grandeur, staccato tensions and rapid scenic change have\nbeen developed to an almost inconceivable extent.\nAs rhythm is, broadly speaking, the progressive deformation of an\noriginal theme, so the esthetic function of the movies is not only to\nreproduce motion but to deform it as well. For just as musical com-\nposition develops its themes by repeating them in various keys, tem-\npos, or upon different instruments, wielding the whole into an organic\nunity, so the movies by repeating the motion of various objects, retard-\ning or accelerating their velocity, playing them against the retarded\nor accelerated velocity of other objects, reversing the order of their\nnormal motion, would create a sort of symphony of sculptural kinetics\nwhose esthetic value could be as significant as a work by Beethoven or\nMichel Angelo.\nIt is not difficult to understand how this symphony could be pro-\nduced. The world with its rich welter of moving forms provides an\ninfinite content. The canter of horses, the flight of birds, the whirling"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "125", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.67", "texte": "fall of a leaf, only await the movies to give their motions an esthetic\nvalue. Even that black jungle of machines in which civilization seems\nto have lost its way, the linotypes, worm gears, the belch of furnaces,\nall with their intrinsic motions could through the time deforming\ngenius of the movie attain coordination in the firm rhythms of art.\nBut first of all the movies must be freed from the dramatic tradition.\nFor its esthetic function of deforming motion cannot create drama, it\ncan only intensify certain dramatic situations. So, should it remain\nwhere it is today, it would become, not a self-sufficient art like music\nor painting, but an art subservient to one which has loner since eone\nstale.\nThat it can be freed is another question. It has perhaps fallen\namong too many evil companions. Producers to whom movie-drama\nyields fat dividends are not the bodies to forsake it for the danger of\na new art. Nor would the public to whom art must come soft, sweet,\nand slightly charged with gas. So the whole cost and labor of a long\nprocess of experimentation must be borne by individuals. And this,\nif I may believe the budget of the Famous Players Corp., would be\nfar too expensive a sport for you or me, dear reader.\n\nSlater Brown"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "[126]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.68", "texte": "The most precious cargo\nof the Mayflower was invisible—the English \"soul\" and its heritage of English\nculture. Every ship that has landed settlers ever since—from the S. Caterina\nthat brought the first handful of Jews and the Goede Vrouw with its Dutchmen\nto the last Cunarder racing; through the Narrows its quota of Jugo-Slavs—\nhas brought a similarly precious cargo.\nBut do we enjoy to the full the age-ripe heritages of all our constituent nation-\nalities which, tempered by the new American experience, are the real sources\nof a great American culture of the future? They are the motifs that can\nmake the pattern of American culture rich, manifold, alive, and beautiful.\nThe Menorah Journal\nembodies the experience and expression of a group of writers and artists who\nas Jews see American life through the lens of their own historical and cultural\npast; they are giving color, vividness, and critical consciousness to American\nlife that all Americans must value—they are putting their racial car*® to\nwork, for the general benefit. In addition to this distinctly American group,\nm t^eir own fashion the inherent inter-nationalism of culture, THE\nNORAH JOURNAL is introducing to America the most significant and\ncharacteristic Jewish writers and artists abroad. Not least, the Journal\nfeatures the thought of Gentiles alive to the significance of the Jew in American\nlife and culture.\nThe current issue, which is typical, contains\nThe Judaic Strain in Modern Letters,\nTT , ____ Burton Rascoe\nHerzl's Utopia Lewis Mumford\nSaturday : The Story of a Crime, Max Robin\nWith drawings by I. Tchaikov\nThe Village ...Issachar Ber Rybbak\nAn Insert of Seven Drawings\nThe Jew in the European Scene,\ntt Marvin Lowenthal\nII. With Kunze and Hitler\ninrvE Years of the Jewish Art Theatre,\n-p. Samuel S. Grossman\n-Do you Know What the Mountains\n•^RE* •• Jacob Cahan\nLouis Untermeyer—(\"At Least Four\nPortraits ?) James N\". Rosenberg\nLeopold Zunz—Humanist s. Baruch\n(Concluded)\nLetters From Abroad\nWarsaw: Looking at the Nalewki,\nWith illustration: Three Jewish Art Posters111\nVienna: Morale in Austria... Eugen Hceflich\nJerusalem: The \"Soap-Bubble City\",\nJessie E. Sampter\nSalvaging Our Folk-Art. .Marek Schwarz\nThe Adversary's Note-Book.\nH. Ben-Shahar\nLlTT coupon, of course—but tear it off quickly and, as an acknowl-\nany two books of the Modern Library series and\nSt nP ;rUSf SS\"e coming the seventeen woodcuts of Jacob Steinhardt.\n; * US ft? Cents and we'n despatch you the current issue\nand the previous issue, gratis.\n\nWhen writing to advertisers please mention BROOM."}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "[127]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.69", "texte": "Against tke Faux Bon\nTHE DIAL is a magazine of the creative and the critical\narts which neither publishes nor praises that very bad\nsubstitute for fine work, the faux bon.\nThe faux bon always looks a little bit better than good enough,\nbut only a little bit. It has all the pretensions of creative\nintegrity and none of its power. It is the well-groomed, literary\nimpostor instead of the spontaneous creator of lasting, artistic\nvalues. It is the triumph of technique over genius.\nThe faux bon compromises with the semi-popular highbrow\nstandards of good form and good taste. THE DIAL makes\nno such compromise. Its only prejudice is in favour of clear\nthinking in criticism, and the fine expression of fine things in\ncreative work. It has never rejected a manuscript because the\nauthor's name was unknown or taken one because the author\nis famous.\nTHE DIAL is each month an authoritative record of what\nthe creative intelligence of the world is doing. It is liberal in\nletters. It offers the writers and artists of America complete\nindependence from the limitations otherwise imposed upon pub-\nlication of their work.\nSpecial Offer\nTHE DIAL for one year and one\nof the following important books—\nboth for $5.00.\n(Regular annual subscription\nrate—$5.00)\nThe Judge, by Rebecca West\nA Survey, by Max Beerbohm\nPHANTOM, by Gerhart Hauptmann\nMany Marriages, by Sherwood\nAnderson\nCivilization in the United States,\nby thirty well-known American\nwriters.\n| THE DIAL\n| 152 West 13th Street, New York City\nGentlemen: You may enter my name for a year's\nsubscription to THE DIAL beginning with the Sep-\ntember issue. In addition, you will send me a copy of\nthe book listed below.\nName\nAddress\nOI enclose $5.00. □ I will remit $5.00 upoti receipt\nof your bill.\n\nWhen Turiting to advertisers please mention BROOM."}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.70", "texte": "— Informed Criticism —\n— Entertaining Gossip —\n— Excellent Short Stories —\n— Illuminating Editorials —\n— Contemporary Poetry —\n— Provocative Discussions\nTHE\nThe Literary Magazine With a Personality\nEdited by John Farrar\nAn American Critic Says:\n\"I often wonder at the friends who say they do not see THE BOOKMAN. In\nall the magazine list I know nothing more generally agreeable than this publication of\nthe George H. Doran Company. It is not alone for its book notes, reviews of the\nlatest publications, gossip of books and authors that we value it, but for a certain\nspontaneous charm in almost every contribution. It is as if those men who had become\nfamous assumed a more natural attitude, feeling themselves at home in a congenial\natmosphere.\"\n/\n/\n/\n/\nAn English Critic Says:\nI am glad to find that THE BOOKMAN of New York is issued here as\nTHE AMERICAN BOOKMAN, for it is, in my judgment, far and\nav\\ ay the most interesting literary magazine issued in the English-speak- /\nmg world. It is edited by Mr. John Farrar. T here is good criticism /\nin it and good literature, and with these we have just that element /\nol news which has a special charm for people of my disposi-\ntion.\"—Clement Shorter in \"The Sphere\" (London) / THE\nv / BOOKMAN\nIt not only gives you the news of the world of litera- / 244 Madison Avenue\nture, but it fills the gaps with charming essays, / New York.\ngossip and fun-making. It has more than doubled / n ,\nits circulation in the past three years. The , entlemen: I should like\nreaders of BROOM are the type of new / « three issues of\nsubscribers it is looking for! Will you / BOOKMAN and am en-\nnot give it a try? closing fifty cents for that purpose.\nCents Monthly $4.00 Yearly S Ad^ress\ny T. 26.7\n\nWhen writing to advertisers please mention BROOM."}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192309-01.1.71", "texte": "BROOM IN AMERICA\nBROOM has brought back something of Europe. By virtue of\nits extraordinary career in the art capitals of Europe\nand its contact with the best creative minds of the day\nBROOM has acquired a particular bent for rejecting\nthat which is dull and worthless or discerning values\nwhere others see only a perfect blank—and doing this\nwith dash and enthusiasm.\nBROOM has not grown whiskers in its two years of existence.\nWithout false dignity, its adventures in letters and art\nprovide stimulating experience for an intelligent public\n—much more than \"one-half of one per cent.\"\nBROOM believes that the next years will see greater artistic\ndevelopments than most of us are prepared for. And\nBROOM is now functioning in America, in closer\ncontact with its public. An aggressive leader for the\nart of today, calling attention to the phenomena of a\nnew age. Veritably, a fearless review which presents\nthe work of significant moderns as well as formidable\n, \"unknowns\" with authority, humor, passion and\nindignation.\nBROOM\nAN INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS\nA six months' trial subscription offers high interest\nat the lorv investment of $2.50.\n\nBROOM,\n47 West 34th Street,\nNew York.\nFor the enclosed $\nplease send BROOM for S,\nName\nAddress\nCity\n$5.00 Annual Subscription\n50c. A COPY"}]}