{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_sha256": "296fa7d1efecc5b39d0f6cd13eb1c8e9643704abfb21185172bb8f1de538e0fc", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/11_01/bmtnaap_1923-11_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/11_01/bmtnaap_1923-11_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[192]", "page_fin": "[192]", "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Table of Contents", "titre_sommaire": "Table of Contents", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[192]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 688, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1350, "texte": "Cover Design—Lissitsky • p»ge\nHesperides, or the Plunger Plunges—Slater Brown . . . 193\nDiscourse in a Cantina at Havana—Wallace Stevens . . . 201\nFour Poems—E. E. Cummings . . . 204\nPlans for One and Two Story House—Finsterlin .... 207, 210\nFour Poems—William Carlos Williams 208\nThe Extra—Louis Aragon 211\nTowards a More Passionate Apprehension of Life—\nMalcom Cowley 217\nAn Awful Storming Fire—Charles L. Durboraw 218\nPoison (A Drama Without Words)—Roger Vitrac 226\nBook Reviews:\nLiterary Criticism of Music—B. H. Haggin 229\nImpure Splendor—Glenway Wescott 233\nThe Real Story of a Bootlegger—Robert Alden Sanborn . . 235\nHarmonium, by Wallace Stevens—M. J 236"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "193", "page_fin": "200", "image_debut": 3, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Hesperides : or the Plunger Plunges", "titre_sommaire": "Hesperides : or the Plunger Plunges", "signature_source": "Slater Brown", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2111, "texte": "HESPERIDES\nOR\nTHE PLUNGER PLUNGES\n\nSnow was falling. Not the white snow that falls in winter, but the tin\nsnow that falls in New and Wall streets. It is a sparse and agitated snow,\ncontinually whipped into flurries by the wings of pigeons, tossed and tortured\nas it drifts downward until the lower winds of the street seize upon it and\nfling it back to the roofs. But sometimes as it flickers across the windows of\nthe office buildings, a flake twisting to the proper angle catches the light\nof the sun.\nIt was at precisely 11 :28 a.m. on the 1 7th of September, 1923 that one\nof these flakes turning as it fell, sent a tiny shaft of light into the left eye of\nMr. Joseph J. Trackle. He, however, did not notice it. Leaning forward\nfrom the edge of his chair so that the torso of his body ran parallel to the\nfloor, with his derby resting on the back of his head, with his left cheek glued\nto the glass breast of the sawed-off ticker, Mr. Trackle was far too immersed in\nquotations to receive the little message the flake of tin snow had so gently\nsent him from the sun.\n—The market is soggy, he whispered.\nWhereat the quotational pap which had faithfully fed him for more than\nthirty years, suddenly curdled. And thereafter the ticker maintained so\nabsolute and dogged a silence that Mr. Trackle could hear his clerks mumble\nin the next room, or his watch tick in its little pocket over his appendix. After\nwaiting for 67 seconds, and being no longer able to bear the silence, he\nbegan petulantly to yank and twitch at the tape. Whereupon the tape broke,\nas tapes do when they are yanked, and Mr. Trackle snarling to himself,\nslunk back into his chair, thrust his feet up on the ticker stand, shoved his\nderby forward over his eyes, and after performing a number of impatient\nflourishes in the upper left hand corner of a pad of paper, he wrote the\nfollowing extemporaneous lyric:—\nA Rotten market.\nI have a head I have a head I have a headacke\nLV Love is all truth\nCall Schuyler 649% RBC is a good buy\nNo more raw oysters for me.\nSchuyler 49% RBC 50% Rebecca Steel 52\ngood by Miss Pearly\n4914 Rebec Mr. Mallet"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "194", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2574, "texte": "—Mr. Mallet, cried Mr. Trackle, come in here (undertone) you sucker.\nCoughing rapidly to himself, Mr. Mallet scurried in.\nBut before proceeding any further, let us consider the solipsistic poem\nwhich Mr. Trackle in his two minutes and thirteen seconds of leisure has\ncomposed on the sheet of yellow paper. For in splicing its lines, hauling up\nthe incidents, memories and associations which produced them, by dredging,\nsounding and similarly employing ourselves, we may not only gain an insight\nupon the whirling fermentation of Mr. Trackle's pysche, but we may also\ngive the poem an organization which it now seems superficially to lack.\nLet us therefore jump into the ring and start milling at once.\nItem I. A Rotten market\nThe analyses of this phrase must begin with die following query:—Why\nshould Mr. Trackle, having just previously used the adjective \"soggy\" to\ndescribe the unfortunate condition of the market, now use the word Rotten\nto describe it?\nAs there are four answers to this question, I will tabulate them as\nfollows:—\nA. The Subject (Mr. Trackle) did not use the word \"soggy\" to\ndescribe the unfortunate condition of the market for the precise reason that he\nhad already used it. Like Shakespeare, he was loathe to repeat.\nB. The Subject did not use the word \"soggy\" for the reason that he\ndid not know whether it should be spelled with or without an E. This lack\nof surety would have retarded the free velocity of his pencil and would have\ndoubtless produced that conflict which led him into so much difficulty later on.\nC. The Subject chose the word Rotten because it began with an R,\nthe majuscule of which he took a secret pleasure in writing.\nD. Rotten described the condition of the market as well, if not better,\nthan the word \"soggy.\"\nItem 11. I have a head I have a head I have a headache\nFrom the phrase A Rotten market to the sentence I have a head seems a\nwide and inexplicable leap on the part of Mr. Trackle's brain. But though\nit may be wide, it is certainly not inexplicable, as we will all see in a moment\nor two.\nIt has already been noted that the word Rotten for dejastated reasons\nis the weightiest word in Item I. Such being the case it is natural that it\nshould arouse from Our Subject's unconscious, certain images, ideas, and\nmemories of a recent date. This was in fact true. For no sooner had Mr.\nTrackle's pencil produced the word Rotten, and even before it had completed\nthe word market, there flashed into his mind a certain conversation he had\nheld with his wife that morning before breakfast. The conversation was as\nfollows:—"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "195", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2468, "texte": "—Good morning, my dear husband, said Mrs. Trackle as she stepped\ninto her husband's bed-room clothed in nothing more than a Japanese kimono,\na pair of mules, and a boudoir cap.\n—Are you in here again? replied Mr. Trackle who was lying in bed\nwith the morning paper propped against his knees, while the valet arranged\nhis breakfast beside him on a card table.\n—Why Joseykins my dear, exclaimed Mrs. Trackle, this is the first time\nthis morning I've been in your room.\n—Did you ever see, asked Mr. Trackle of the valet, such a woman for\nbobbing in and out of a poyson's privacy ? Look at her, with her hair all down\nover her eyes. She hasn't even washed yet. I can see streaks of dirt all up\nand down her filthy face. Get out of here you lazy-good-for-nothings.\nPhew, you stink!\n—Controllez-voo, controllez, cried Mrs. Trackle, I've just been using a\ndepillatory. But I came into see if my little Joseykins would like his wife to\neat breakfast with him. -\n—Well, he wouldn't. Not on your life he wouldn't, with such a\ndishevelled fatwoman as that. Get outta here.\nMrs. Trackle flickered out. But she had hardly closed the door behind\nher when\n—Isabel! shouted Mr. Trackle. Come back here. Pat, lead that\nwoman back into my presence.\nMrs. Trackle's nervous pastry face appeared again.\n—Isabel, whimpered Mr. Trackle, I didn't sleep a wink last night. I\nhad such a TERRIBLE headache. I was tossing and turning in my bed\nall night long.\n—Well, said Mrs. Trackle oozing in through the door, if you will sit\nUP to three and four in the morning drinking cocktails\n—Is that all the sympathy I get after me tossing and turning in bed all\nnight long? cried her husband. Is that what a loving wife should say to her\nhusband when he hasn't slept a wink? Is that the sort of heartless fatty\nbumbums you are? A wife should be gentle, soft, and affable1) and not go\naround hello making disorder everywhere. She shouldn't breed disharmony,\nhello She should say to her husband, I'm so sorry Josey and is there anything\nI can do to alleviate you? But no. She wouldn't say that. SHE'S nothing\nbut a nervous fatwoman. Pretty good, eh Pat?\n—Very good Sir, replied the valet.\n—But I AM sorry, Joseykins.\n—Will you stop screaming in that raucous manner? I'm not at the other\nend of a bowling alley.\n—O Josey, DO control yourself. Pat, I'll tell you. You have a little\nsign painted you know with 'Control Yourself on it, only that 'Control\n*) Note: Vide The Taming of the Shrew. Act 11, Sc. 1."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2580, "texte": "Yourself so you can show it to Mr. Trackle when you know, just a little\nsign that you can wear on the inside of your coat.\nMrs. Trackle indicated the inside of her kimono.\nMr. Trackle turned from page 10 of the Financial News to page 5 of\nthe Sporting Section of the New York Tribune, September 17, 1923.\n—I will, Mrs. Trackle, said the valet.\n—Isabel, said Mr. Trackle, I don't think I'll go down to the floor to-day.\nI think I'll just lie up here in bed with this obnoxious headache.\n—Now that's the best thing you ever said, Josey dear. Especially after\nsuch a night.\n—That's it, always criticizing. Did you ever see such a woman? My\nGod, will I ever get rid of this impediment? That's what you are, you're\nan impediment.\n—Well Josey, replied the impediment, if jou keep this up I won't be.\nAnd you better remember what Dr. Rock said about alcohol and your\nblood pressure.\n—Dr. Rock's a sucker, replied Mr. Impediment Trackle. A cocktail or\ntwo can't disturb me. It's those damn oysters I ate. They rot in the\nintestines.\nThough the preceding conversation has been long, longer perhaps than\nI implied it would be some few pages back, it has nevertheless given us a\nclue, particularly in the words I have indicated by italics, to the correct\nassociation between Item I and Item 11. For just as the word Rotten pro-\nduced a flareback to the word rot in the conversation recorded above, thus\nprecipitating upon the plane of Our Subject's conscious a vision of oysters\nputrefying in his intestines, so also did this vision in turn drag up the opinion\n(however specious) that his headache was alone due to the poisonous effect\nof these oysters upon his blood. He therefore wrote, I have a head; which\nthough it was both literally and figuratively true, was not what he intended to\nwrite. For upon completing the first four letters of the fourth word; i.e. head,\nhe was unable to remember whether to spell ache with aK or with an H. He\ntherefore repeated the phrase in writing, but again found himself baffled.\nAgain he tried, but suddenly recalling the word 'back-ache' and believing that\nthere was some profound orthographical consanguinity between the two\nsyllables of that word, he finally completed the sentence, misspelled as it now\nstands: I have a headache. Q.E.D.\nItem 111. LV\nImmediately after Our Subject had completed the second line of his\npoem, the ticker buzzed. As he was short of three or four thousand shares\nof LV (Lehigh Valley) and rather nervous about them, Item 111 merely\nexpresses his conscious or unconscious wish to read their latest quotation on\nthe tape."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2700, "texte": "Item IV. Love is all truth\nThe fundamental association of this item and the preceding one is based,\nI am pained to admit, on no more lofty or profound a substance than that of\na pun. It is indeed a distressing thought that Our Subject whose mind has\nhitherto proven itself to be one of the great spiritual and creative products of\nOur Modern Era, should at this moment stoop to so vulgar a trick. But I\nam certain that if every one of us should peek over the edge into his sub-\nconscious and observe what a blustering host of assonances, double entendres,\nand puns are jostling and swaggering through our thoughts down there, we\nwould all immediately retire to the mountains and spend a year in mental\ndiscipline.\nBe that, however, as it may.\nNow Our Subject having written the abbreviation of a stock (LV),\nnaturally felt it should be followed by something. But being unable to\nfollow it up with an accurate market quotation, since he had broken the tape,\nhis mind at once started to reconnoiter in search of one chez that great fountain-\nhead of quotations; William Shakespeare. But to aid him in his search Our\nSubject deftly inserted an O between the Land V of his stock with an E\nadded to make it all the more clear. He thus formulated the word 'love*\nwhich, perching on his psychic wrist like a falcon, immediately flew up and\ncaught him the following lines:—\nLove surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;\nLove is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.*\nWhich quotation was, as he had many times remarked to his wife and friends,\none of the most beautiful gems in all English literature.\nItem V. Call Schuyler 649]/4\nHaving written the above quotation, thoughts of Love began to frisk in\nOur Subject's head. At first he envisioned Love as an austere Goddess of\nHerculean proportions clutching a flaming torch. But no sooner was this\nstatuesque fancy projected on the silversheet of his conscious, than it was\nimmediately blotted out by the more distinct image of Miss Pearly. For be\nit known that Mr. T's concept of Love was far more limited by\nCorporeal Desire than, let us say, is that of Plotinus. For though Our\nSubject would be the first to admit that Abstract Love completely estranged\nfrom fleshly connotations did certainly exist and in all splendor, he never-\ntheless surrendered its fortune and contemplation to the hierarchy of poets and\nphilosophers. As for him, he would contemplate Love in the more palpable\nguise of Miss Pearly, the little Brooklyn diving girl whose personal charm and\nphysical perfection had so enraptured him at a party the evening before.\nThus softly dreaming on her charms he began scribbling her telephone number\non the pad.\n*Note (Venus and Adonis. 1. 803-4.)"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2811, "texte": "But hold! Why but her telephone number? Why not her name, her\nstreet address, her employment?\nWhy her telephone number? Because, my dear fellow, when Mr.\nTrackle began dealing in terms of the Abstract, the Ideal, or the Prophetic,\nhis mind immediately attached itself, or became the mouth-piece of some\nspectral telephone, at the receiving end of which God and His entire solar\nsystem respectfully listened. We have already witnessed a manifestation of\nthis curious phenomenon in the conversation recorded under Item 11, wherein\nMr. Trackle while expanding upon the subject of the Ideal Wife, interspersed\nhis discourse with loud telephonic cries of 'hello!' Why this peculiar rela-\ntion between the telephone and Mr. Trackle should exist, is a problem I will\nleave for students of Anthropology, Ethnology, Theology, Pathology, and\nMysticism to unravel. Nevertheless, such a relation existed, and the abstract\nidea of Love sifting through Miss Pearly's lovely body, was finally voli-\ntionally expressed by Our Subject in the concrete and telephonic form of\nSchuyler 649'/^.\nBut here again another problem awaits us. Why the substitution of\nfor the last figure of Miss Pearly's number which we know should be merely 4?\nThis is more simple than appears on the surface. For Our Subject\nhaving written Call Schuyler, and having just started to make the lower quirk\nof the 6, certain inevitable fears began to assail him from all sides. These\nfears sprang fully armed from the grim realization of his age, for Mr. Trackle\nit must be understood, though I have not hitherto brought the student's atten-\ntion to the fact, was not a young man. He was, on the contrary, a few years\nmore than 50, and for that reason not so tireless and sturdy a warrior in the\nlists of Venus as, let us say, a dashing young blade of 25. This realization,\nhaving moreover a definite empirical basis, at once assumed so painfully\ndominating an aspect of Our Subject's relation to the little diving girl, that\nhis mind in self-defense retreating from the Arena of Love to those fields of\ncombat wherein age in no way hobbled his prowess, immediately galloped\ninto the Stock Exchange. Whereupon he at once realized that the 49 in\nMiss Pearly's telephone number was significant only because, with the\naddition of a quarter, it represented the price he had paid for 500 shares of\nRepublic Iron and Steel ten minutes previously.\nItem VI. RBC is a good buy\nUpon distorting the telephone number into a quotation for Republic Iron\nand Steel, Our Subject was minded of the hot tip Mr. Breen had sent up\nfrom the floor. This tip was scribbled on a small piece of paper, thus:—\nRoy says RBC\nis a good buy.\nJim\nAs the ticker abbreviation for Republic Iron etc. is RBC (intimately\nknown as Rebecca Steel), Mr. Trackle in this item has merely copied that"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2844, "texte": "section of Mr. Breen's note which caused him to purchase, as I have already\nstated, 500 shares of RBC at the low price of 49'/4.\nItem VII. No more rate oysters for me.\nBetween Item VI and the Item now under consideration, Our Subject\nbelched. And this belch carrying a small quantity of chyle upward from\nthe stomach, through the throat and esophagus, until it finally reached his\npalate, Mr. Trackle imagined or did actually receive the gustatory sensation\nof putrefying oysters, slightly flavored with sour coffee. Which horrible taste\nso prejudiced his mind and stomach against all present, past, and future raw\noysters that he immediately struck down on paper that resolution which this\nItem so forcibly expresses.\nItem VIII. Schuyler 49J/4 RBC 50/i Rebecca Steel 52\nAh Mr. Trackle! Mr. Trackle!\nSchuyler again!\nHow doth thine old mind root back to its young prey. How doth it lean\nagain toward the lithe body of the diver. Ah well-a-day those black, slow-\nslugging eyes have beaten thee into a sorry pickle. And there is no help in\nthee. Thou art too froward in passion, Mr. Trackle; too gone i' the flanks.\nFor didst thou not yestereen, fearing the frost of thy years had nipped the\nstriving petals of thine own fruition, fill thine old body with wine and thy\nguts with the aphrodisiacs of shell-fish? And didst not also, when thou hadst\nbought the harvest with thy purse, and e'en when thou beheldst it lie all gleam-\ning before thee like a field of wheat, didst not thy scythe in that bright-bitter\nmoment fail thee? And now, for we drop bridges across the symbols of thy\nconfession, dost thou not finger thy defeat in pain? And dost thou not,\ntwisting her yielded but ungathered body into a bartered stock, lay thine own\nbody beside as her quotation? And dost thou not make that quotation rise\nprogressively from 49t0 52, whilst in a mutual tempo burgeoning, Schuyler\nto RBC flowers into Rebecca Steel?\nItem IX. good by Miss Pearly\nThis item is so welded into complex meanings and associations, so fused\nwith fancies and ideas, that it would be bootless toil to chip it off into its\nvarious elements. But as these various elements spring from facts already\nmentioned in this absorbing treatise, any student who has carefully read,\ninwardly digested, and objectively deliberated upon everything I have\nhitherto written, will assuredly be able to grasp its manifold meanings, how-\never intangible they may seem to be. If the student is a Bergsonian he should\ndo it by a flash of Intuition, and thus save himself and me a great deal of\ntrouble.\nBut if the reader is not a Bergsonian; nor a student of occult psychology;\nnor in truth, has any intention of becoming either, and if moreover he has\ndashed through this treatise at break-neck speed, I will merely state ex\ncathedra for his benefit, two facts he can gulp down as he gallops on."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2540, "texte": "In the first place the good by refers this time not only to the prospective\nvirtue of Rebecca Steel (vide Item VII), but also to the prospective virtue of\nMiss Pearly. Both would be good buys, yielding, should one go long of\nthem, rich dividends and juicy profits. In the second place good by must also be\nunderstood in its connotation of farewell. For Mr. Trackle in the previous\nItem, having at last fused Miss Pearly with the Republic Iron and Steel\nCorporation, may for the nonce forget the little Brooklyn diving girl and\ntrade his head off.\nItem X. 49Y4 Rebec\n491/4, the price. Rebec, Rebecca Steel, the stock. It's selling cheap.\nIt's a buy. Nab it. Don't pass it up. Buy it. Buy RBC. It's going up.\nIt's going up uP UP. Ah-h-h-h! MILLIONS OF DOLLARS\nItem XI. Mr. Mallet\nHaving skipped over Item X in a light and rather impressionistic manner,\nlet us now conclude the analyses proper with a brief consideration of this\nfinal item.\nIt is evident something is going to happen. Mr. Trackle's mind seems\nto be pressing on rapidly to some sort of resolution. His impatient pencil\nhastens to complete the last line of his poem. It leaves the T uncrossed and\nswoops down to the corner of the pad. His hand rises toward the derby and\nshoves it back from his forehead. His feet climb off the table. His body\norganizes itself erect in his chair. He is about to ejaculate. His mouth\nopens.\n—Mr. Mallet, cries Mr. Trackle, come in here (undertone), you sucker.\n$(t* dh (J> (tj (h\nY\nWe have travelled far, my fellow student, but the end of our long\npilgrimage is at hand. Let us not hasten, for in the far mist lies New York\nlike a jade toy. Already (but let us linger, my friend) already can\nwe see the spire of the Woolworth Building stride into the sky, and incense\nsteaming from the roofs of office buildings. And now we can hear the roar,\nthe clash and shock of traffic, and now the iron teeth of a rivetter chattering in\nthe red angles of its girders. Now we see the clotted streets, Broadway and\nWall, the slimed facade of the Exchange. We hear the shouts of traders,\nthe hoarse stutter of tickers, a gong clanging, a telephone.\nAnd now AVE! do we behold Mr. Trackle rising before Mr. Mallet.\nHurry! Hurry! Please Hurry!\nRising before Mr. Mallet, he clenches his fist as if to slam Mr. Mallet or\nsome invisible opponent standing between them. He pauses. Mallet\nsquares off.\nThe gong.\nKid Trackle's fist sizzles through space.\n—BUY FIFTEEN THOUSAND REBECCA STEEL AT THE\nMARKET! (End of First Part.) Q D\nv J ' Vt a nrtro UDnw/M\n\nSlater Brown"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "201", "page_fin": "203", "image_debut": 11, "image_fin": 13, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "Discourse in a Cantina at Havana", "titre_sommaire": "Discourse in a Cantina at Havana", "signature_source": "Wallace Stevens", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1005, "texte": "DISCOURSE IN A CANTINA AT HAVANA\n\nI.\nCanaries in the morning, orchestras\nIn the afternoon, balloons at night. That is\nA difference, at least, from nightingales,\nJehovah and the great sea-worm. The air\nIs not so elemental nor the earth\nSo near.\nBut the sustenance of the wilderness\nDoes not sustain us in the metropoles.\nII.\nLife is an old casino in a park.\nThe bills of the swans are flat upon the ground:\nA most desolate wind has chilled Rouge-Fatima\nAnd a grand decadence settles down like cold.\nIII.\nThe swans. . . . Before the bills of the swans fell flat\nUpon the ground, and before the chronicle\nOf affected homage foxed so many books,\nThey warded the blank waters of the lakes\nAnd island canopies which were entailed\nTo that casino. Long before the rain\nSwept through its boarded windows and the leaves\nFilled its encrusted fountains, they arrayed\nThe twilights of the mythy goober khan.\nThe centuries of excellence to be\nRose out of promise and became the sooth\nOf trombones floating in the trees."}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1315, "texte": "The toil\nOf thought evolved a peace eccentric to\nThe eye and tinkling to the ear. Gruff drums\nCould beat, yet not alarm the populace.\nThe indolent progressions of the swans\nMade earth come right; a peanut parody\nFor peanut people.\nAnd serener myth\nConceiving from its perfect plenitude,\nLusty as June, more fruitful than the weeks\nOf ripest summer, always lingering\nTo touch again the hottest bloom, to strike\nOnce more the longest resonance, to cap\nThe clearest woman with apt weed, to mount\nThe thickest man on thickest stallion-back,\nThis urgent, competent, serener myth\nPassed like a circus.\nPolitic man ordained\nImagination as the fateful sin.\nGrandmother and her basketful of pears\nMust be the crux for our compendia.\nThat's world enough, and more, if one includes\nHer daughters to the peached and ivory wench\nFor whom the towers are built. The burgher's breast,\nAnd not a delicate ether star-impaled,\nMust be the place for prodigy, unless\nProdigious things are tricks. The world is not\nThe bauble of the sleepless nor a word\nThat should import a universal pith\nTo Cuba. Tot these milky matters down.\nThey nourish Jupiters. Their casual pap\nWill drop like sweetness in the empty nights\nWhen too great rhapsody is left annulled\nAnd liquorish prayer provokes new sweats: so, so:\nLife is an old casino in a wood."}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1130, "texte": "IV.\nIs the function of the poet here mere sound,\nSubtler than the ornatest prophecy,\nTo stuff the ear? It causes him to make\nHis infinite repetitions and alloys\nOf pick of ebon, pick of halcyon.\nIt weights him with nice logic for the prim.\nAs part of nature he is part of us.\nHis rarities are ours: may they be fit\nAnd reconcile us to our selves in those\nTrue reconcilings, dark, pacific words,\nAnd the adroiter harmonies of their fall.\nClose the cantina. Hood the chandelier.\nThe moonlight is not yellow but a white\nThat silences the ever-faithful town.\nHow pale and how possessed a night it is,\nHow full of exhalations of the sea. . . .\nAll this is older than its oldest hymn,\nHas no more meaning than tomorrow's bread.\nBut let the poet on his balcony\nSpeak and the sleepers in their sleep shall move,\nWaken, and watch the moonlight on their floors.\nThis may be benediction, sepulcher,\nAnd epitaph. It may, however, be\nAn incantation that the moon defines\nBy mere example opulently clear.\nAnd the old casino likewise may define\nAn infinite incantation of our selves\nIn the grand decadence of the perished swans.\n\nWallace Stevens"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "204", "page_fin": "207", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Four Poems", "titre_sommaire": "Four Poems", "signature_source": "E. E. Cummings", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "204", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 860, "texte": "FOUR POEMS\n\nI.\nwhen the spent day begins to frail\n(whose grave already three or two\nyoung stars with spades of silver dig)\nby beauty i declare to you\nif what i am at one o'clock\nto little lips (which have not sinned\nin whose displeasure lives a kiss)\nkneeling, your frequent mercy begs,\nsharply believe me, wholly, well\n—did (wisely suddenly into\na dangerous womb of cringing air)\nthe largest hour push deep his din\nof wallowing male (shock beyond shock\nblurted) strokes, vibrant with the purr\nof echo pouring in a mesh\nof following tone: did this and this\nspire strike midnight (and did occur\nbell beyond fiercely spurting bell\na jetted music splashing fresh\nupon silence)—i without fail\nentered became and was these twin\nimminent lisping bags of flesh;\nbecame eyes moist lithe shuddering big,\nthe luminous laughter, and the legs\nwhereas, at twenty minutes to"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "205", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 681, "texte": "one, i am this blueeyed Finn\nemerging from a lovehouse who\nbuttons his coat against the wind\n\nII.\nmy smallheaded pearshaped\nlady in gluey twilight\nmoving, suddenly\nis three animals. The\nminute waist continually\nwith an African gesture\nutters a frivolous intense half of\nGirl which (like some\nfloating snake upon itself always and\nslowly which upward certainly is pouring) emits\na pose\n:to twitter wickedly\nwhereas the big and firm legs moving solemnly\nlike careful and furious and beautiful elephants\n(mingled in whispering thickly smooth thighs\nthinkingly)\nremind me of Woman and\nhow between\nher hips India is\n\nIII.\nnow that fierce few\nflowers (stealthily)\nin the alive west\nbegin"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "206", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 685, "texte": "requiescat this six\nfeet of Breton big good\nbody, which terminated\nin fists hair wood\nerect cursing hatless who\n(bent by wind) slammed hard—\nover the tiller; clattered\nforward skidding in outrageous\nsabots\nlanguage trickling\npried his black\nmouth with fat jibing\nlips,\nonce upon a\n(that is\nover: and the sea heaving\nindolent colourless forgets) time\nRequiescat.\ncarry\ncarefully the blessed large silent him\ninto nibbling final worms\n\nIV.\n\nthe wind is a Lady with\nbright slender eyes (who\nmoves) at sunset\nand who—touches—the\nhills without any reason\n(i have spoken with this\nindubitable and green person \"Are\nYou the wind ?\" \" Yes\" \"why do you touch flowers\nas if they were unalive, as"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 405, "texte": "if They were ideas?\" \"because, sir\nthings which in my mind blossom will\nstumble beneath a clumsiest disguise, appear\ncapable of fragility and indecision\n—do not suppose these\nwithout any reason and otherwise\nroses and mountains\ndifferent from the i am who wanders\nimminently across the renewed world\"\nto me said the) wind being A lady in a green\ndress, who; touches: the fields\n(at sunset)\n\nE. E. Cummings"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "204", "page_fin": "205", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 15, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.5.1", "titre_corps": "I.", "titre_sommaire": "I.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "204", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 12, "fin_caractere_exclue": 860, "texte": "I.\nwhen the spent day begins to frail\n(whose grave already three or two\nyoung stars with spades of silver dig)\nby beauty i declare to you\nif what i am at one o'clock\nto little lips (which have not sinned\nin whose displeasure lives a kiss)\nkneeling, your frequent mercy begs,\nsharply believe me, wholly, well\n—did (wisely suddenly into\na dangerous womb of cringing air)\nthe largest hour push deep his din\nof wallowing male (shock beyond shock\nblurted) strokes, vibrant with the purr\nof echo pouring in a mesh\nof following tone: did this and this\nspire strike midnight (and did occur\nbell beyond fiercely spurting bell\na jetted music splashing fresh\nupon silence)—i without fail\nentered became and was these twin\nimminent lisping bags of flesh;\nbecame eyes moist lithe shuddering big,\nthe luminous laughter, and the legs\nwhereas, at twenty minutes to"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "205", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 92, "texte": "one, i am this blueeyed Finn\nemerging from a lovehouse who\nbuttons his coat against the wind"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "205", "page_fin": "205", "image_debut": 15, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.5.2", "titre_corps": "II.", "titre_sommaire": "II.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "205", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 94, "fin_caractere_exclue": 610, "texte": "II.\nmy smallheaded pearshaped\nlady in gluey twilight\nmoving, suddenly\nis three animals. The\nminute waist continually\nwith an African gesture\nutters a frivolous intense half of\nGirl which (like some\nfloating snake upon itself always and\nslowly which upward certainly is pouring) emits\na pose\n:to twitter wickedly\nwhereas the big and firm legs moving solemnly\nlike careful and furious and beautiful elephants\n(mingled in whispering thickly smooth thighs\nthinkingly)\nremind me of Woman and\nhow between\nher hips India is"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "205", "page_fin": "206", "image_debut": 15, "image_fin": 16, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.5.3", "titre_corps": "III.", "titre_sommaire": "III.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "205", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 612, "fin_caractere_exclue": 681, "texte": "III.\nnow that fierce few\nflowers (stealthily)\nin the alive west\nbegin"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "206", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 432, "texte": "requiescat this six\nfeet of Breton big good\nbody, which terminated\nin fists hair wood\nerect cursing hatless who\n(bent by wind) slammed hard—\nover the tiller; clattered\nforward skidding in outrageous\nsabots\nlanguage trickling\npried his black\nmouth with fat jibing\nlips,\nonce upon a\n(that is\nover: and the sea heaving\nindolent colourless forgets) time\nRequiescat.\ncarry\ncarefully the blessed large silent him\ninto nibbling final worms"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "206", "page_fin": "207", "image_debut": 16, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.5.4", "titre_corps": "IV.", "titre_sommaire": "IV.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "206", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 434, "fin_caractere_exclue": 685, "texte": "IV.\n\nthe wind is a Lady with\nbright slender eyes (who\nmoves) at sunset\nand who—touches—the\nhills without any reason\n(i have spoken with this\nindubitable and green person \"Are\nYou the wind ?\" \" Yes\" \"why do you touch flowers\nas if they were unalive, as"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 389, "texte": "if They were ideas?\" \"because, sir\nthings which in my mind blossom will\nstumble beneath a clumsiest disguise, appear\ncapable of fragility and indecision\n—do not suppose these\nwithout any reason and otherwise\nroses and mountains\ndifferent from the i am who wanders\nimminently across the renewed world\"\nto me said the) wind being A lady in a green\ndress, who; touches: the fields\n(at sunset)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "207", "page_fin": "207", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Plan for a One-Story House", "titre_sommaire": "Plan for a One-Story House", "signature_source": "Finsterlin", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 407, "fin_caractere_exclue": 444, "texte": "Plan for a One-Story House\nFinsterlin"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "208", "page_fin": "210", "image_debut": 18, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Four Poems", "titre_sommaire": "Four Poems", "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": 18, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 844, "texte": "FOUR POEMS\n\n1\nThe new cathedral overlooking the park\nlooked down from its tower\nwith great eyes today and saw\nby the decorative lake a group of people\nstaring curiously at the corpse\nof a suicide—Peaceful dead young man\nthe money they have put into the stones\nhas been spent to teach men of\nlife's austerity. You died\nand teach us the same lesson.\nYou seem a cathedral, celebrant of\nthe naked spring that shivers for me\namong the long black trees\n\n2\nThe stars, that are small lights,\nare my nightly companions, my friends\nnow that I know them foreign.\nThe security I feel in them\ncannot be broken. Separate, inscrutable\nuninterfering, like nothing\nin my life—l walk with their sparkle\nrelieved and comforted or when\nthe moon moves slowly up among them\nwith flat shine then the night\nhas a novel light in it—curved\ncuriously in a thin halfcircle"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "209", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 826, "texte": "3\nBy the road to the contagious hospital\nunder the surge of the blue\nmottled clouds driving from the\nnorthwest—a cold wind. Beyond the\nwaste of broad muddy fields\nbrown with dried weeds, standing and fallen\npatches of standing water\nthe scattering of tall trees\nall along the road the reddish\npurplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy\nstuff of bushes and small trees\nwith brown leaves under them\nleafless vines—\nlifeless in appearance, sluggish\ndazed Spring approaches—\nThey enter the new world naked\ncold—uncertain of all\nsave that they enter—all about them\nthe cold, familiar wind—\nNow the grass, tomorrow\nthe curl of wildcarrot leaf\nOne by one objects are defined—\nIt quickens: clarity, outline of leaf\nBut now the stark dignity of\nentrance—Still, the profound change\nhas overtaken them—rooted they\ngrip down and begin to awaken"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "210", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 158, "texte": "4\n\nHow has the way been found ?\nAmong wires\nrunning through smoke\nwalking through and over\noily, stained waters—?\nOn the highest airs\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "208", "page_fin": "208", "image_debut": 18, "image_fin": 18, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.7.1", "titre_corps": "1", "titre_sommaire": "1", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 12, "fin_caractere_exclue": 446, "texte": "1\nThe new cathedral overlooking the park\nlooked down from its tower\nwith great eyes today and saw\nby the decorative lake a group of people\nstaring curiously at the corpse\nof a suicide—Peaceful dead young man\nthe money they have put into the stones\nhas been spent to teach men of\nlife's austerity. You died\nand teach us the same lesson.\nYou seem a cathedral, celebrant of\nthe naked spring that shivers for me\namong the long black trees"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "208", "page_fin": "208", "image_debut": 18, "image_fin": 18, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.7.2", "titre_corps": "2", "titre_sommaire": "2", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 448, "fin_caractere_exclue": 844, "texte": "2\nThe stars, that are small lights,\nare my nightly companions, my friends\nnow that I know them foreign.\nThe security I feel in them\ncannot be broken. Separate, inscrutable\nuninterfering, like nothing\nin my life—l walk with their sparkle\nrelieved and comforted or when\nthe moon moves slowly up among them\nwith flat shine then the night\nhas a novel light in it—curved\ncuriously in a thin halfcircle"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "209", "page_fin": "209", "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.7.3", "titre_corps": "3", "titre_sommaire": "3", "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": "209", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 826, "texte": "3\nBy the road to the contagious hospital\nunder the surge of the blue\nmottled clouds driving from the\nnorthwest—a cold wind. Beyond the\nwaste of broad muddy fields\nbrown with dried weeds, standing and fallen\npatches of standing water\nthe scattering of tall trees\nall along the road the reddish\npurplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy\nstuff of bushes and small trees\nwith brown leaves under them\nleafless vines—\nlifeless in appearance, sluggish\ndazed Spring approaches—\nThey enter the new world naked\ncold—uncertain of all\nsave that they enter—all about them\nthe cold, familiar wind—\nNow the grass, tomorrow\nthe curl of wildcarrot leaf\nOne by one objects are defined—\nIt quickens: clarity, outline of leaf\nBut now the stark dignity of\nentrance—Still, the profound change\nhas overtaken them—rooted they\ngrip down and begin to awaken"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "210", "page_fin": "210", "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.7.4", "titre_corps": "4", "titre_sommaire": "4", "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": "210", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 133, "texte": "4\n\nHow has the way been found ?\nAmong wires\nrunning through smoke\nwalking through and over\noily, stained waters—?\nOn the highest airs"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "210", "page_fin": "210", "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Plan for a Two-Story House", "titre_sommaire": "Plan for a Two-Story House", "signature_source": "Finsterlin", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "210", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 160, "fin_caractere_exclue": 197, "texte": "Plan for a Two-Story House\nFinsterlin"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "211", "page_fin": "216", "image_debut": 21, "image_fin": 26, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "The Extra", "titre_sommaire": "The Extra", "signature_source": "Louis Aragon ; Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "211", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2913, "texte": "THE EXTRA\n\nIf the wind which descends in a spirai through the trees of Marmor Island,\nhaving swept away the down abandoned by the eaglet in the eyrie which hangs\nfrom the balancing rock, the rock which once he climbed (his bones, what\nhave they done with his white bones?), which once was climbed by the good,\nthe valiant Eugene Demolder, comes hypocritically caressing, with forehead\nwrinkled and with eye oblique, the greensward which descends from the\nfountain of Three Bums at the house of Dolores (what name have you just\npronounced?) :—ask the wind about the widow of the deckhand, and you\nshall hear what the wind replies. The greensward, at least, remembers.\nIt is rather to the greensward that you should address your anxiety, which is\nnot only of the throat but of the breast; of the breast, did I say, no, of the soul.\nAnd may I be excused for borrowing from the language of philosophy (a\nvulgar hoax) this vague word which designates with precision a reality so\nelementary that the first damned truckdriver of my acquaintance having wiped\nhis dripping and alcoholic nose with the back of his sleeve would not think\nto question it. You understand.\nOnce in the rue Lepic I saw three men whom I did not mistake for princes\nin disguise. They had lost their noses during the war of 19!4-1918. They\nwere not ashamed. The youngest held a stalk of rhubarb in his left hand.\nWell, I regret to confess that the greensward of Marmor Island was ashamed.\nIt blushed like a simple carrot, and the traveller, who had dropped his wallet\nfor a moment to calm the eruptions on his shoulder with a fresh and benevolent\nhand, where was I at? believed himself in autumn. Do not stop here, you,\npasser-by with a three-day growth of beard, in spite of the sweat of your shirt\nand the blisters on your feet; surely you will regret it. It is to this spot that\nDolores had enticed Eugene Demolder, that fatal evening when, at the Deco-\nrated-Swan Tavern chance proved so unfavorable to limping Victor, contrary\nto what might have happened if the wisdom of nations had been anything\nelse than a dish washer in love with an officer of Engineers. The perversity\nof this woman, Dolores, will be easy to measure. She had foreseen the weak-\nness of the solitary man, the triumph of black eyes, the electricity which is not\ncaused alone, as absurd professors of physics believe, who are poorly versed\nin the science which they teach already, by rubbing cat's fur against a stick\nof ebonite. She had chosen this place on account of the brook which crosses\nit, carrying little chips of wood, a few Mayflies, the cottony seeds of poplars,\nmoss and other materials which respire innocence. During this time, in the\nhold of the Death to Tyrants, what monstrous love unites the horrible husband\nof fickle Dolores and this unfortunate adolescent whose name has never\nreached my ears, so much do the unchained elements pity his reputation. He"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "212", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2936, "texte": "had enlisted on board the Aristocrats to the Lamp-posts because he believed\nthe sweet whispers of the world on Mercator's projection and the monotonous\nchant of sails. And now ... if, as people say, such scenes are enacted\ndaily, the Minister of the Navy should take measures. What do you think\nof God, o impassible portholes which include man and the fishes in the\nsame glance?\nEugene Demolder regains his hut, coat slung across his arm, heart occupied\nwith Dolores. Alas! he has lost the blue sage-flower of chastity, and he gives\nno thought to his loss. He is happy, poor idiot. And the cripple . . .\nwhat is his role? He wipes his nose. He is seated in the house of Dolores be-\ntween the pot of catnip and the grocery-store calendar. His mistress is late to\nreturn. Here is the creature now. She utters a cry when she recognizes Victor.\nShe thought he had been away and gambling. He looks into her eyes. The\nimage of Eugene Demolder was not yet effaced from them. The cripple did not\nrecognize his rival. It was at this moment that Vice, Vice with a tongue of\nsaltpetre, appeared between the beams of the ceiling and descended to take\nhis familiar seat on the shoulders of the accursed pair, who were delivering\nthemselves near the dead fire to games which would make the devil lower his\neyes if the devil were of this world. I only wish my nurse could see that. A\nlittle child moans in the next room; Dolores never knew its father's name.\nWhile Eugene Demolder climbs the mountain to gather edelweiss (a\ndiabolic flower if there is any such) to pin at the breast of his well-beloved,\nMr. and Mrs. Demolder, his parents, are dying of poverty and sorrow. He\nwas not able to attend the double funeral, Eugene; his laughing mistress wished\nto dance that day. It might have been a comic opera. But the adulterous\nwoman is showing Victor a letter from the deckhand. Victor, although he\ncannot read, pretends to follow across her shoulder, on which he rests his\nbadly shaven chin. His arms have slipped round the waist of Dolores and he\nhas abandoned his joined hands to the demoralizing practice of twiddling\nthumbs. I feel that misfortune impends:\n\"My Dear Doloresse,\n\"The weather isn't always fair. The ground swell is the worst\nof all. I roll everywhere, in the shadows of every hold, a million\nthoughts for you: like cigarettes. Ten for your legs, ten, you\nunderstand, ten for your eyes, and I can always find the matter for\nten more. Every time I make love I say to myself, if only Doloresse\nwere there. This time it is a cabin boy who didn't want to the first\ntime; things have changed. There are days when he makes me\nnervous: he moves his hair, silk you would say, over my face, my\nhands, my chest. Then his face seems invaded by the night. All\nat once; it's queer. Soon we shall land in a country where you\ncan buy women for a postage stamp. That's where you can have\nyour pick. Our cargo, they say we carry oranges. You can see"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "213", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3192, "texte": "the joke. ihe cabin boy's body is white, white, white. It seems\nthey are going to elect a president of the republic in France. The\nnewspapers will be interesting. I can't think of anything else to\nsay. I embrace you as in the land of snows, a long time since,\nyou know. Your devoted husband, Felix COVENOL.\"\nWhen the female of the owl, after visiting minutely the grass-stalks of the\nclearing and the treacherous soil of swamps, comes beating its wings softly,\ncomes like the baker's boy to find her young whose voices for hours past have\nsounded no longer in her ears, and for a good reason, the nest being destroyed,\nthe owlets and the owl their father carried away:—when the female of the\nowl after vainly searching for her nest is obliged to realize the extent of her\nmisfortune, and at first she is not willing, she rises moaning between the trees\nand higher than the custom of owls permits. She follows the glances of the\nmoon and descends in a spiral as far as the door of a farmhouse and she\nrecognizes her husband, on whom the Christians of the countryside have\nthought to revenge the death of the son of their God: well, what do you think\nshe does? Will she sing a ballad and put a red rose in her hair? Will she\nput lotions on her hands and make her claws into jewels for the skin of men?\nWill she grow drunken on beds of lace, while young profligates drag them-\nselves into the shadow of her caresses, will she grow drunken with the blood\nof the grapes of this province of the Gauls where there are still a few\nchurches to destroy for the next time, will she grow drunken to the point of\ntaking off her gown, to the point of throwing it on the floor without regard for\nits price, of forgetting to fold it carefully as she has done every evening, of\ndancing, dancing, dancing in the midst of desires, tobacco and broken glasses.\nNo, not at all.\nThe law of universal gravitation, so they say, has been riddled with holes.\nWhat a pity that there was no photographer on the scene, provided with anti-\nhalo films! Open your eyes wide, I can show you a spectacle no less grand\nthan this metaphysical buffoonery. A wise prudence had always kept the\nmother of the cripple from sending her little Victor to school. Old peasant\nwoman, she had not foreseen the science of Dolores and the vices of the\ndeckhand! Observe how written words drive a path silently through the veins\nof limping Victor with his complexion the color of prunes. He parades his\nfolly through the blossoming cherry orchards and his bleeding lips repeat:\nWhite, white, white. The clouds are young men's bodies swayed by the\nrolling of a ship. Victor grates the palm of his hand against the bark of trees.\nIt is fifteen years since he had tried to sing: now he makes a hoarse and pro-\nlonged sound like that which bulls emit when they have been closed in a\nstable all winter and when the first meadow opens before them and they\ndiscover deep in clover the broad spoor of the herd. He runs. He stops a\nminute to spit. Meanwhile, on the village green, they are auctioning off the\nfurniture of Eugene. The chest of drawers, the wardrobe and the rest\ntransform themselves before the church, don't ring so loud, into a pair of"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "214", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3204, "texte": "paste earrings and a coloured scarf. Then the peddler goes off with his knotted\nbandanna over his shoulder.\nWhat stranger has set his foot on Marmor Island? He wears soft shirts and\nhis hair is as blue as ink. He passes in the midst of children at play; he\nsmiles to little Eric, then to himself. He is seen crossing the public squares.\nIn the countryside he is found motionless in the open places; he does not seem\nto be hunting points of view. Dolores is waiting for the cripple at the fountain.\nHe tells her his secret. She shivers with joy. A project is expanding in his\nbreast, has reached his lips. Across fences the couple is watching, haggardly,\nthe colts which pursue each other and nibble at brown flanks. At the point\nof infinity parallel lines will meet at last. For purposes of convenience, infinity\nis represented in a corner of the drawing pads which are used by school\nchildren to copy from plaster copies Michael Angelo's slave, that living\nscandal. But follow the twin thoughts of the lovers of Marmor Island; their\ncommon point is not, as you might believe, this English daisy with edges\nlightly purpled. Nor is the English daisy their point of departure. Strangers,\nthey have come together once more only because of their desire, only because\nof the object of their desire. And that object . . . how he is tranquil\nin the crow's nest where he rests, his sleeves rolled back, one arm round his\nforehead, the other hand clinging to a rope which mounts to bathe in the sky,\nwhile the sea air and the sun are happy to caress so tempting a flesh without\nfalling into mortal sin! And you, my good Eugene Demolder, why do you\ntoss your naive shoes against the ceiling of your hut? Here is what happened:\nas he was carrying the jewels, bought from the sale of his furniture, to his\nmistress, Eugene looked through the window and surprised the guilty intimacy\nof the cripple and Madame Covenol. In a bar near the docks the stranger\nwatches Eugene, who drinks, drinks. Then he gives a little money for the\nprivilege of retiring with a tall pale painted girl who wants to weep.\nFelix the deckhand dreams in the flanks of the ship. At last he knows\nwhat happens during a kiss on the mouth, this extraordinary voyage to the\ncountry of corals and luminous fishes. He will be emperor of the Indies. He\nis emperor of the Indies and king of Aurora. Aurora is a city with a soft\nskin, with easy morals, a city which glides into a background of palms. A\nbark among the reeds. What does the Queen say? It is the great fan which\nbreathes, which caresses. Wakening. And you beside me. In a week we\nshall be on Marmor Island. You shall come with me. My wife will be glad.\nShe is talking to Victor somewhere on the island, while Eugene spies on them\nfrom the shelter of a tree. The stranger is seen to pass, herborizing. He\nseeks huge ugly flowers, examines them under the microscope and places them,\nwith a satisfied air, in the black tin box which hangs by a strap from his\nshoulder. Adolphe the cabin boy has begun to love his master and thinks of\nhim when he washes his teeth. The man who makes the stars revolve when\nonly his hand touches me. But there is no daisy on board ship to pluck petal\nby petal."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "215", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3256, "texte": "The sun which has just risen, if one can believe appearances, will view the\nlanding of the deckhand and the events which follow. Near the docks there is\none house which wakens before the others. A housewife begins to wash the\ntiles of the kitchen vigorously. They are in the shape of four-leafed clovers.\nTo whom will they bring luck? Somewhere else the chambermaid of an inn\nis picking from her hair the bits of straw which escaped from her bolster.\nBut it is a knife which Eugene is weighing. Excellent, honest Eugene.\nI have no time to reprove your morals. Dolores sleeps like a baby. On the\ndeck Felix polishes his buttons and watches Adolphe, who yawns. The\ncripple inspects minutely the barrel of his rifle. A face has passed behind\nthe window. Victor opens the door. Nobody: that's odd. The little girl\nwho, seated for hours and hours at the foot of the huge sunflowers in her\nfamilial garden, has been stringing beads on a black cotton thread, taking\ncare to alternate regularly the colours blue, yellow, white, green, lavender,\norange, blue, yellow, white, suddenly remarks two white beads side by side\nin the middle of her long string. She breaks the thread for spite, the beads\nscatter, she cries. The goat comes to play with the little girl, crushes the beads,\nand the last word is said.\nAbout four o'clock in the afternoon, what magnificent weather, Dolores,\nstanding on the threshold of her home, enjoys diabolically the drama which\nalready is revolving round her smile. How she sniffs the air, how gaily she\nhums! She has crossed her hands behind her neck. On one road, the fury\nof the deckhand. On another, the terror of the cabin boy. The highways of\nthe island will not be bored this night. Once more the lightning of a rifle in\nthe underbrush. The stranger steps out of the Decorated-Swan. You have\nchosen a strange moment, Eugene, to come to reproach the woman who mocks\nyou. She offers you wine. Don't stare at her throat in this fashion, unfortunate\nman. A caress wins every argument. Against whom has this hand been armed,\nthis hand which only thought of twisting a woman's wrist? Transparent\nfingers of Dolores, pointing out the road to the mountain. Where is the deck-\nhand? I heard cries, I thought I recognized the voice of Adolphe. Girls pass\nsinging, arms round each other's waists, those at the two ends playing with\ntheir aprons. What is there red on this leaf? What is there moaning near\nthe fountain? I warned you, traveller. A few flies circle. The report of a\nrifle and this flame. . . I have seen gunshots in old lithographs. The stranger\nis seated on a heap of stones; with the tip of his cane he designs the sex of\nman and the sex of woman in the dust. He rises and speaks to the road mender,\nwho shifts his cap on his head to answer. Broom will flower as long as there\nare lovers in the world. In the flowering broom of the mountainside, Felix is\nsuspended by death. Horrible wounds. The head is almost detached from\nthe trunk, the body is hacked in more than thirty places. A little yellow flower\nhas fallen lugubriously into the wound of his neck. I have seen this knife in\nthe hands of Eugene. Eugene! Only the echo answers, Gene! The ball\nentered his back at the point indicated by a cross and he tumbled into the"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "216", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2629, "texte": "quarry. Poor, poor Eugene Demolder, now your body is only a little bouquet\nof gilly-flowers in the middle of the silex. It wasn't worth the trouble. And yet\nyou were not a disagreeable spot in the landscape, with your little waxed\nmoustache. We shall speak of you no more.\nAround a billiard table already weary (it is a long time since an awkward\nplayer paid sixty francs for the first tear, the tear that left the first angular\nscar in the cloth), the cashier, the proprietor of the cafe, two or three clients,\none of whom holds his seidel to keep it from flying away, the smiling partner,\nthe impatient adversaries, a soldier who no longer carries his pipe to his lips—\nit will go out—, all of them animated by different sentiments, watch the\nfortunate player who is making a run. Where is the cripple? It is his turn.\n\"How did you tear your clothes, Adolphe?\" asks Dolores, but the pale cabin\nboy shakes his head, full of the horrible death agony of the cripple, and does\nnot reply. He looks at his clawed hands, and hides them from his eyes. I\nbegin to understand the joy of the animals which crawl over the infirm earth.\nAnother billiard; in the adjoining room the child of Dolores lies stifled in its\ncradle. It never recognized the knee which weighted down its breast.\nUnfortunate mother, how can one fail to pity her? The punishment is too\ngreat. Yes? But rather observe Dolores: she doesn't give a rip. She draws\nAdolphe into her arms, her fingers penetrate the tears in his garments, and\nnow the machinery is once more in operation.\nDid you hear the branches crackle? Like broom, primroses are yellow.\nWhen I studied the catechism, I was given the dance of mosquitoes over the\nmarshes as proof of the existence of God: against all probability, these little\nbeasts do not tangle their feet. The mysterious stranger enters the cabin of\nDolores and surprises the embraces of the woman and the child. \"I know\neverything,\" he says, and once more the lovers tremble. This time, this time,\nbehold, the vengeance of the skies! Not at all. There are, thank God, peoole\n_ A >\nbeyond the reach of your God. Have you seen Dolores, how she is lovely\nwith her hair undone? The stranger reassures the couple, he begins to\nundress, he speaks his name: Ludovic. Adolphe and Dolores exchange a\nlong regard. Ludovic folds open the sheets and glides his body, so cold, so\nthin, between the two warm bodies, which he caresses, and which in the\nfalling night (all the plants of the island have grown rigid and all the insects\nhave turned over on their backs) suddenly begin to howl with pleasure.\n\nLouis Aragon\n(Translated by Malcolm Cowley)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "217", "page_fin": "217", "image_debut": 27, "image_fin": 27, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Towards a More Passionate Apprehension of Life", "titre_sommaire": "Towards a More Passionate Apprehension of Life", "signature_source": "Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "217", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1506, "texte": "TOWARDS A MORE PASSIONATE\nAPPREHENSION OF LIFE AND\nDEDICATED TO GORHAM\nB. MUNSON\nMALCOLM COWLEY.\nIT was an arduous task. *1 The man must be a\ngenius. He is astute in character. We went\nto tke museum, Theory is better than practice.\n«I Do you believe in being ceremonious ceremonious?\nWords are the man. The man is a window or\na door. A battledore or double door. *1 Out of a\ndoor the picador. H The door adores the picador the\npicador the matador, *1 The matador adores dor-\nmice. *1 He will stay for lunch.\nHE debated a long time on the decision hut\nfinally discharged the man because he was dis-\narmed as we discerned later. He surmoun-\nted his intangible difficulties with precision. n His\nnomination took place after the assassination and the\nmassacre was greater than ever before. His tuition\ncost a great deal. *1 He ventured into the ram but\neventually the adventure was a failure.\nHE worked with alert accuracy. Eventually the\npresident's attention was demanded. *1 Even-\ntually the president's attention was incensed.\n«I It was habitual to have perpetual horror of the\ncreature. *1 The distinguished man had a distinct\ndisagreement and his disappointment disturbed his\nperfect composure.\nIT is probable that he will be punctual punctual punc-\ntual and papa why is the man punctual punctual\npunctual because he is punctual punctual punctual,\n112 The ram descends, Gently the ram descends\nthe infinitely gentle rain o rain gently descending\nand lam bored. Manifestations are geometrical\nnot ethical."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "218", "page_fin": "225", "image_debut": 28, "image_fin": 35, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "An Awful Storming Fire : Or \"Her and I on a Journey to the Secret of the Sun\"By the Author Who Solved the Mysterious Riddle", "titre_sommaire": "An Awful Storming Fire : Or \"Her and I on a Journey to the Secret of the Sun\"By the Author Who Solved the Mysterious Riddle", "signature_source": "Charles L. Durboraw", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "218", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2595, "texte": "\"AN AWFUL STORMING FIRE\"\nOR\n\"HER AND I ON A JOURNEY TO THE SECRET\nOF THE SUN\"\nBy the Author Who Solved the Mysterious Riddle\n\nI was standing on a busy corner waiting for a street car and smoking a\ncigarette in one of the world's largest cities, and while standing there a woman\nwalked up to me and said, \"Excuse me, and could you please tell me the time\nif you know what it is?\" I told her the time of day it was. She said, \"Thank\nyou. And then she said, \"I have been strolling around this corner for quite\nsome little time and it is late. I must go, and would you please mind letting\nme have ten cents for car fare as I came away without any money. Had that\nparty showed up it would have been allright and I would not be asking\nyou for it.\"\nI sized it up. This was a trap of her's, an excuse to get to talking in\nasking me the time of day it was. I liked her looks and did not have ten cents\nin change and so I gave her a quarter. She smiled sweetly and even blushed\nand said, \"I thank you.\" Just then a car came along and she got on and as\nthe next car that came along was my car, I got on and all the way home I\nhad this accident on my mind and it set me to thinking of some of the many\nvaried past and strange experiences I have had with women asking me ques-\ntions on the street. Also with flirts and street walkers and quite a few I have\ncome in contact with. Somehow another in this case it seemed odd, unusual.\nThere was a strange feeling about it, why I don't know.\nI had forgotten about the accident, and about three weeks after this I was\ndown town and this woman came into my mind. As I was walking along\nthe street and came to the corner, this woman also turned the corner. She\ncame up to me and said, \"You are the gentleman I asked the time of day and\nalso asked you for ten cents car fare and you gave me a quarter about three\nweeks ago.\" I said, \"Yes, you are right, lam the party.\" The nerve of her\ndid not surprise me for this is what she then said, \"Well,\" she said, \"that was\nonly a bluff of mine to get to talking with you and I cut short in my talk when\nI saw you were not that kind of a man who would fall for my game. And so\nI thought I would try and make it look to you I was decent and respectable.\"\n\"Well,\" she says,\"I am that way and the other way too. I like to have a\ngood time on the side.\" And she said, \"I bet you do too.\" I said, \"Well, it\nall depends and I think you are right about it in this case.\" Then she said,\n\"Where are you going this evening?\" I said, \"No place in particular.\" I\nnever told her I was married and that my wife was away on a visit to her"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "219", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3146, "texte": "sister's. \"Well,\" she saicl, \"let's take a walk.\" I said, \"Yes, sure I am\nwith you.\" So we strolled along until we came to a park, went in and sat\ndown on a bench. It got late, around eleven o'clock and I suggested that we\ngo over to the corner saloon that had a side entrance for women. She said,\n\"You beat me to it, I was just going to say the same to you.\"\nWe went over and in. We had a glass of beer and several more beers\nfollowed. Then she said, \"I must go, and could you meet me here tomorrow\nnight?\" I said, \"Yes, I would do so.\" We went out and I wanted to get\non the same car with her. She said, \"Do me a favor and let me go by myself.\"\nI did so, having sized it up she did not want me to follow her maybe to see\nwhere she lived. I got on the next car and thought maybe she might be\nbluffing me about meeting her there the next evening. I sort of made up my\nmind not to be there, but I was kind of stuck on her. She had beautiful\ndreamy blue eyes and it was the shade or glow of purple in them that seemed\nto charm me or hold me in working for more of her company. And this in\nspite of me trying to wish I had never saw her or else wishing I had met her\nlong before I did. There was something about her I cant explain. Her dark\nlovely titian hair also got a hold on my nerves. I'll say she was my kind and\nshe was my style. There seemed to be something funny, odd or queer about\nthe whole thing of this affair.\nWell, I met her the next evening early and we sat in there all evening\nuntil twelve o'clock. She said to me that evening, \"I used to be kind of\nsporty, but cut it out. lam a married woman. My husband knows nothing\nof my past. He is a traveling salesman and is away most of the time. My\nhusband is a good man. He is good to me, but the devil is in me yet. I had\nto get back into some of my old ways again.\" We left each other that night\nas we did the night before. She would not let me on the same car. We got\non different cars. I was to meet her the next evening at 9 o'clock on a street\ncorner in another part of the city quite some ways out. Again I had my\ndoubts, thinking she might be bluffing me. I made up my mind to see this\nthing through and it was something about her wonderful blue and purple eyes\nthat seemed to hold me into this game and I have doubts if there is another\nwoman in the world that has eyes like her's were.\nNext evening I was on the corner at 9 o'clock where I was to meet her.\nShe was not there. I waited for about five minutes and said to myself, \"Bet\nit's a bluff this time.\" I looked up the street and saw a woman turn the corner\nwalking rather fast towards me. I said, \"That's her.\" It was, she came up\nto me and said, \"I know you'll forgive me. lam awful sorry I kept you\nwaiting.\" I said, \"Oh, that's allright, I would be willing to wait here for\nyou, well, until you just come.\" She laughed and said, \"Yes, I believe you.\nI bet you would.\" She said, \"Well, we will walk and stroll around this\nevening.\" We walked along talking about various things, turning in and out\nseveral streets. I was so interested in her I never paid any attention to where\nwe were walking or what street we were on."}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "220", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3247, "texte": "While walking along she caught hold of my arm and said, \"Let's walk a\nlittle slower as I wish to say something to you. lam going to tell you some-\nthing.\" She said, \"The reason I did not let you come or bring me home was\nI did not want you to see where I lived. I wanted to make sure you were\ndifferent from all other men I have ever met. I saw and find you to be such.\"\nShe said, \"You are so wonderful, different and there is only two men in the\nworld that I am willing to trust and that is my husband and you, but neither\nof you can trust me because there is a serpent in me. You know it but my\nhusband dont.\" Then she said, \"I live up the street here and I would like\nyou to come home with me to my apartments.\" She said, \"It will be allright.\"\nI said, \"Is this straight?\" She said, \"Yes, I assure you it will be allright.\nIt is safe and you have no reason to be afraid or have the least fear. My\nhusband is in a western city and will not be home for ten days.\" I said,\n\"Allright, I'll take your word for it that everything is O. K.\"\nWe walked along and came to a house. She said, \"I live here.\" As we\nwalked up the steps I hesitated, but some kind of an impulse seemed to be\ndrawing me on. She opened her hand bag and took out a latch key. We\nstepped into the place and she turned on the lights and then she bolted the\ndoor on the inside. We walked into the parlor. I took off my hat and laid\nit on the table. She removed her hat and coat and put them on a chair. Then\nshe sat down on the sofa.\nI sat on a chair in front of her and said, \"What did you mean when you\nsaid there is only two men you could trust but neither can trust you because as\nyou said there is a serpent in you?\" She said, \"I mean this. You, I know\nhave had a lot of experience in life and I know men I can read them like a\nbook, and most all men are alike and, of course, you know there are exceptions\nto all things, but in the case of men, they are all alike except a few and the\nfew are so different, like day and night. Now, I told you quite a little about\nmyself and when I said that neither you nor my husband can trust me. You\nknow you cant from what you see and know about me, you know it from\nexperience in life and as to my husband, if he knew a little of what you know\nhe also would know that he could not trust me. So, that is what I meant when\nI said there was a serpent in me, and there is too. But in a case like mine\nif any harm comes to any one it will be to me, not to others.\" I said, \"Yes,\nI understand you.\" But I lied to her, I did not understand her for I could not\nquite get next to her explanation, and besides I sized it up she was a poor\njudge of reading men like a book as she said. I had some ideas of my own\nand kept certain things to myself because I was anxious to see this matter\nthrough, the outcome of it, and I was careful not to make any bad cracks for\nfear she would dismiss me too soon. We got to talking about various things\nand she told me her name and age. Her given name was like one that is\nfamous in history and her age was around that period where a woman enjoys\nat her best life the passions of love wanting to love and be loved, thrills, excite-\nment and flattery that she doesn't know is flattery, and she was the picture of"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "221", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3254, "texte": "perfect health and had it in her that she could show the strength or fury of a\nbig tigress cat of the forest or jungle, and she also had it in her the weakness\nof a kitten which she showed most plainly.\nShe got up and got some pictures and was showing them to me. I looked\nwith interest at one of her's and said, \"How good looking you were when you\nhad this picture taken.\" This was a bluff of mine, for she looked better to\nme then than she did in the picture. I did not wish to let her know it too soon\nthat I was stuck on her. She said, \"Look at me now. Cant you tell the\ndifference?\" I said, \"Very little change from the picture and the way you\nlook now, and of course you were dressed different and that accounts a\nwhole lot in making the looks of you now and when you had this picture\ntaken.\" She was playing her game and I was playing my game. She said,\n\"Well, others have told me different and I thought different myself.\" I said\nto her, \"Well, you told me I knew a lot and have had experiences in life and\nyou got it right about me there, and might I say I am a pretty good judge of\nhuman nature and looks, and you look as good to me now as you did when you\nhad that picture taken.\" She said, \"Well, I believe you and what others have\nsaid about me they were sore or jealous at me and about me and I truly think\nfrom your talk I look as good myself now as I did when I had that picture taken,\nand it was imagination on my part in thinking the way I did and listening to\nwhat others said.\" She said, \"You make me feel so good, come here, I'll tell\nyou something, I wish to whisper it in your ear.\" I leaned over and she kissed\nme. Of course, I kissed her back.\nWe were sitting close together. I got up and sat down in her lap and\nkissed her again and again several times, and then threw my arms around her\nand was loving and hugging her close and tight to me. Both of us were kissing\neach other. I was looking into her dreamy purple blue eyes and I said, \"You\nhave quite a few freckles on your face.\" She said, \"Yes, I have. I wish I\ncould get rid of them. I have tried so many different things. They kind of\ndisappear, but come back.\" I said, \"Well, let them alone they look fine to\nme. This is just what I love, freckles, blue eyes and red hair.\" She said,\n\"I kind of think you love me a little.\" I said, \"A little, well its more than a\nlittle. I love you a whole lot.\" So we kissed and hugged each other again.\nThen I said, \"Bet I am heavy sitting on your lap, let's change, you sit on\nmine.\" So we changed positions. Then she threw her arms around me and\nstarted to squeeze me so hard I told her about it. She threw her leg up over the\narm of the chair showing her bare knee. I said, \"O, gee whiz, what an awful\npretty leg you have.\" She said, \"Yes, I have been told that I have pretty\nlegs and arms, and what do you think of it, I have been told I would make\na fine artist's model.\" I agreed with her and said, \"Yes, I bet you would and\ndo you know it that the finest artist's models in the world are in factories and\noffices. Rats on the society and rich stuff.\" She laughed and said, \"You\nsure are a philosopher and you said something.\" Then I said, \"I'll bet I can\nguess what size stocking you wear.\" She said, \"All, right, what size do I"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "222", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3152, "texte": "wear?\" I said, \"No. 8,\" feeling the edge of her stocking. She said, \"You\nguessed it.\" Then I said, \"Are you any good in telling riddles? lam fine\nat it.\" She said, \"No, lam not much on it, but you go ahead and tell one.\"\nI said, \"All right, here is one: Why is a woman's leg like a rainy day?\" She\nsaid, \"I don't know, I'll give it up.\" I said, \"Because one would like to see\nit clear up. I know I would.\" She laughed and said \"thats right, thats a\ngood one.\" She then squeezed me again and started kissing me. I done the\nsame to her.\nThen she said, \"O, yes, let me show you my rooms. We have four\nrooms.\" We went from the parlor into the dining room and then in the\nkitchen. We came back into the dining room and then she went into another\nroom from the dining room. She turned on the light, it was a bedroom. I\nstepped into the room. She turned to me and said, \"Do you truly mean it\nwhen you said you love me a whole lot?\" I said, \"Yes, I truly do mean it.\"\nShe threw her arms around me and said, \"I believe you.\"\nWe were standing there in embrace when suddenly the lights went out\nall over the apartment. Instantly it seemed as if we were in another world or\nstrange place. It was pitch dark, but we could still see each other. She gave\na little scream and said, \"O where are we?\" She reached out her hand and\ntook mine and said, \"Come, with me we must get out of this place.\" So I\nfollowed holding her hand. She came to something that had a black shining\nform. It was a queer place we were in. We could see the thing but could\nnot see anything away from it. It was like being able to see ourselves but not\nanything away from ourselves. It was something moving in motion or alive.\nThis form we saw was moving and kept in her way. She let go of my hand,\nstood still and looked around at me with a wild scared look in her eyes. She\nchanged all over, seemed to age quick. She shook and trembled and said,\n\"Let's walk around it.\" I followed her and we got around it and walked\non. I was now walking by her side when we came to another black shining\nthing. It was moving and different from what we saw before. We stopped\nand looked at it. It seemed to be something like an elephant that had two\nheads on each side or end of it and it had funny looking legs. It walked\nawful funny. Fear in me kept me from laughing. Part would walk forward\nand then backwards, then it would stop and this movement would be reversed.\nSeemed as if the thing was trying to pull itself apart or separate itself for it\nwas two things in one. She said, \"O, I am so scared, what can those things\nbe we saw?\" I was commencing to feel kind of creepy or sort of scared\nmyself and I said, \"I dont know.\" And she said, \"I wonder where we are.\"\nAnd I said, \"I dont know that either. You got me in here and I dont know\nwhere I am.\" Then she said, \"Well, I have got to get out of here and let you\nout too. You will have to follow me as you followed me into the room.\"\nI said, \"All right, I'll follow you.\" She said, \"Well, come on then.\" So\nwe started walking on again. Again we came to a black shining form. This\nthing looked something like an alligator and it had an awful ugly looking"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "223", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3095, "texte": "mouth. We started to walk around it but it would walk in our way. She\nsaid, \"It is strange these things dont seem to harm us.\" I said, \"Well, no\ndoubt it is because we are not harming them.\" We started another way to\nwalk around it but it would still walk in our way opening and snapping its\nbig long jaws.\nShe turned around to me and said, \"I wonder what has happened. O,\nGod, what has happened and where are we.\" She gave me an awful look.\nAll her beauty was gone. Her face was wrinkled, her eyes had changed to\ngreen and red. I got to feeling awful funny but was not afraid. It seemed in\nthis strange place or another world or whatever it was that there was some-\nthing about it that was holding me together and sort of keeping me my natural\nself. She said, \"What can that thing be? We must get past it, so let's try\nagain.\" I said, \"All right, let's go.\" So we started again. The beast went\nback and forth and we could not get past it. She turned around and with a\nheavy gasp said, \"O I thought you were gone and was not here with me.\"\nShe said, \"You wont leave me will you?\" I said, \"No, never will I leave\nyou until }'ou get me out of here, and then it will be best for us to part as we\nare both to blame, you more so than myself. You see, lam only telling you\nthe truth. You got me in here and lam depending on you to get me out of\nhere.\" She said, \"Well, stay with me, I'll get you out.\" I said, \"All right.\"\nSo we tried again to walk past the beast, but the thing kept in our way. I said,\n\"Let's go back the other way.\" She said, \"All right.\"\nWe walked on and suddenly came to an incline that went down like a\nhill. It got steeper and steeper and suddenly we both commenced to skate or\nslide. It was smooth but rough. We took hold of each other's hands. It got\nsteeper and steeper and all at a sudden we found ourselves it seemed as if\nfloating in air or space. We went off the edge of the incline or else the incline\ndisappeared from under our feet. She said, \"Hold on tight to my hand.\" I\nsaid, \"Sure I will.\" She looked at me and said, \"I kind of feel a little better,\nthis floating in space feels more free.\" She looked at me again and said,\n\"O, what can this be. You dont look a bit scared and lam awful afraid in\nspite of feeling a little better.\" Oh, but she had changed and for the first time\nI told her how she looked and said, \"I dont know what it can be unless it is\nbecause of you being scared has changed you.\" She said, \"I cant help it and\nyou wont leave me will you.\" I said, \"Never, and please dont ask me again.\"\nShe said, \"All right, I wont ask you again, but we must get out of here.\"\nIt seemed as if we floated here and there in all directions, not knowing if we\nwere going any place at all, and all at a sudden we started going in one\ndirection and it seemed an awful long time this way and that it would never\nstop or end, this floating or traveling in space pitch dark, but we could see\neach other just like in a lighted room or broad day light. It was a queer\nfunny thing about it. Being dark and seeing we could see each other, but\nnothing away from each other."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "224", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3159, "texte": "Floating on, we got into what seemed to be like a draft or suction that\ntook us in its whirl or drew us along or else it seemed as if we were going\nfaster and we went like this it seemed for a long time and we saw in front of\nus a light with kind of a red dull glow, and it seemed as if we were going\nfaster and faster towards it, and it seemed as if it was years and years. I\nlooked at her and she was so changed I could hardly tell it was a woman or\nmummy-like form as she looked like last. I felt kind of queer and funny at\ntimes and thought I was changing into some kind of a form. I was going to\nask her several times how I looked and if I was changing. Whenever I was\non the point of asking her it seemed as if there was something that kept me\nfrom asking her as I could not form or speak the words to ask her. I even\nwondered why was this so and it seemed as if something was trying to tell\nme not to tell her anything more about how she was changing and had\nchanged. Somehow another I dont know what it was that made me keep\nlooking at her as she seemed to be changing or aging so fast and appearing\nto be getting into a strange form something like on the order of the forms\nwe saw. As I looked at her again, I then thought of how beautiful she was\nwhen I first met her.\nThe draft or suction we were in also seemed to be sort of changing or\nelse we were going faster, and she said, \"This does seem strange this draft\nthat seems to be taking us towards that red light.\" And she said, \"Maybe\nwe will get out this way.\" The light seemed to get bigger and as we went\ntowards it we started to feel it getting warm or was it heat. Then again we\nstarted to get around ugly looking forms of different things going in the same\ndirection we were. Some were going faster than we were, passing us, others\ngetting near to us then seemed to slack up or get behind us. The heat was\ngetting stronger and she said, \"We must go back.\" I said, \"We cant.\" We\ntried to twist ourselves thinking we could get out of this suction. We were\nnow by ourselves, all the forms were gone, and pretty soon we came into\nforms or things again going the same way, all different, no two alike. They\nacted like before, some got ahead of us and others slacked up behind. It\nseemed as if we were now going faster and faster and the heat was getting hot\nand hotter, and we could see it was a great fire ahead of us, boiling mountain,\nwaves lashing and leaping, rolling, chasing around in all directions and to\ndescribe it better, it was a storm of fire in a fire, an awful sight. We could\nhear a different sound or roar besides the suction of what seemed like wind or\na draft.\nI said to her, \"Seems as if we are going into that fire.\" She said, \"It\nsurely does.\" I then looked at her and for the first time I felt real fear. She\nhad changed so. Then I said to her, \"I wish to make a cigarette as I have\nnot had a smoke since you got me into this place and what ever it is I dont\nknow, and so I'll have to let go of your hand to make a cigarette.\" She said,\n\"Please dont let go of my hand and make a cigarette.\" She said,\n\"Remember your promise to stay by me.\" Again I told her I was going to"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "225", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2518, "texte": "make a cigarette and was going to let go of her hand. She said, \"All right\nthen, let go.\" I said, \"Good-bye,\" and let go of her hand. She went from\nme quick and I saw her form go into that roaring furnace of storming fire and\nthen suddenly I found myself walking in darkness feeling my steps and\ngroping around, and I heard someone say, \"You coward, you brute, you know\nwhy you wanted her.\" And from hearing this I thought to myself had she\nonly knew the worst that was in me was that I only wanted her for pastime\nand an idle plaything as most men do a woman, and then again I heard\nsomeone say, \"Beware, repent, or your turn- will come only worse as you\nknow of this place.\" And the next thing I know, a change was coming over\nme. I seemed to be coming or getting back into my natural self, or surround-\nings, and then suddenly I found and felt myself walking on a floor and then\na door opened before me and I heard someone say, \"Take warning and\nbeware of this awful place and go out and tell of your terrible experience.\"\nI went out the door and down the steps. I seemed dazed as I walked\nalong the street for some time as if lost. I then turned and walked up another\nstreet and my clear senses seemed to be returning to me as I came to myself\nand looked at what street I was on, and as I walked to the corner it was just\ngetting daylight, the dawn of a new day. It was a familiar corner I was on\nand while standing there I was smoking a cigarette and waiting for a street car.\nA car came along, I got on and came home and it was a few minutes after\nfive in the morning that I arrived home, and to tell the truth I did feel kind of\nfunny or weak or something on that order, and still I knew if I left this matter\nworry me or thought of it much that it would bring me down into a sick spell,\nand so I sat down in a rocking chair and started to read the paper having\npicked it up from the porch when I came in. I read the paper clear through,\nnearly everything it contained, news and advertisements.\nIs the sun inhabited? Yes, I believe it is, and that its inhabitants if not in\nthe interior of it, then in its law of gravitation surrounding its atmosphere, and\nwho are its inhabitants? I dont know, but from my experience I'll say some\nof us are its inhabitants, and I do know that man's laws punish us for our sins\nand that man gets these laws of his from the principle of nature's laws, and\nso it stands to reason that nature punishes us in different ways for our sins\nthe same as man's laws.\n\nCharles L. Durboraw"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "226", "page_fin": "228", "image_debut": 36, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Poison : A Drama Without Words", "titre_sommaire": "Poison : A Drama Without Words", "signature_source": "Roger Vitrac ; M. C.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "226", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2387, "texte": "POISON\n(A Drama Without Words)\n\n1st Tableau\nThe background of the stage is a huge mirror. Ten characters dressed\nuniformly in black smocks are regarding their own images. Suddenly they\nface toward the public. They place the right hand above their eyes, scout\nfashion; they feel their pulse, consult their watches, kneel, rise, and seat them-\nselves respectively on the ten chairs which have been arranged in the\nforeground. A detonation shatters the mirror to pieces, thus revealing on a\nwhite wall the shadow of a naked woman, which reaches the entire height of\nthe theatre and which diminishes gradually until it attains a normal height.\nEvidently the woman has chosen this very moment to appear. She issues from\nthe wall in the shape of a plaster-of-paris statue. She approaches the first of\nthe ten characters; he gives her a pair of red gloves which she pulls on imme-\ndiately, She leaves the first for the second, who gives her a stick of rouge\nwith which she paints her lips. The third gives her a pair of smoked glasses.\nThe fourth a fur. The fifth a blue wig. The sixth white silk stockings. The\nseventh a widow's veil, from which she makes a train. The eighth a revolver.\nThe ninth a child. The tenth undresses himself and pursues her with a\nhammer.\n2nd Tableau\nThe scene is a bedroom whose floor is covered with fragments of broken\nplaster. A black and liquid fountain gushes from the pitcher on the wash-\nstand. Beneath the bedclothes some huge form is hidden. An alarm clock\nrings. The door opens and a horse's head appears. For a moment it rocks\nback and forth, till the bed is mysteriously uncovered, from which a smoke\nissues so abundantly as to obscure the room. After the smoke dissolves you\ncan see long hair which falls from the ceiling on a diamond of supernatural\ndimensions, suddenly visible on the bed. A man crosses the stage, rubbing his\nhands; he walks toward the wardrobe, before which he halts. He opens his\nmouth, raises his arms to the sky, then sits down at a table. He rings a bell;\nimmediately a woman dressed in a robe of pearls brings him his breakfast on\na platter. He waits till she goes out before he paints his own silhouette on the\nmirror of the wardrobe. Hardly has he completed his work when the ward-\nrobe opens and the woman in the robe of pearls leaps into his arms. He\npushes her into a chair and kisses her mouth, slowly. However, from the"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "227", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1781, "texte": "still open wardrobe, there leap twelve soldiers and an officer, who take aim\nat both of them.\n3rd Tableau\nThe stage represents a written poem:\nBetween love and orthography\nThere is a pen to think\nThere is a cry\nAnd blood flows round and round the square\nMan is erect with summer\nLiberty, liberty of the soil\nIs lost alas! the b son of a gun\nWith velvet shoes\nTip of the scalp and of the queen\nLess a turtle with love\n(Signed) HECTOR DE JESUS\nA projector illuminates the poem, on which are superimposed Chinese\nshadows made with the hand: namely, a cat, an old woman, a jockey, a cup-\nand-ball, a racket, a mask, a palm tree, a shoe, a heart.\n4th Tableau\nThe scene is a piece of crumpled silk. When the curtain rises you can\nhear the noise of glasses breaking. Vapors of many colors float in the air.\nA young man and a girl, the first in a sailor suit and the second in a dress of\nwhite wool, carry an armchair to the centre of the stage; a violinist sits down\nin it. He begins to play a popular song. At the end of the first few measures\nthe silk begins to quicken with confused movements and is finally torn to the\nsound of fire-whistles, revealing feet, hands, heads and other parts of the body.\nA man and a woman, followed by a little dog and sheltered under umbrellas,\nmove across the stage. The frightened violinist is now standing on his chair.\nApplause. He bows to the right, to the left, and falls backwards into the\narms of the young man and the girl, who carry him away.\n5th Tableau\nThe stage is empty. A character who has the air of being a painter\ncomes to make spots of colour on the walls. While he is working two lovers\nbring a garden bench, where they install themselves. The man wears only\nhis nightshirt, the girl is wrapped in a sheet. Suddenly the lover draws a"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "228", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1437, "texte": "circle in the air and the painter, who watches him, bursts a hole in the back\nwall. He plunges his arm forward and draws out a cable, which he unrolls.\nThere appears to be some light object at the end of it, but the whole wall now\ncollapses and an ocean liner advances slowly over the stage. An electric\nlamp at the bow makes signals of distress.\n6th Tableau\nThe scene is a kitchen. A woman is standing over the stove. Enter a\nman in a business suit, his face covered with blood. The woman offers him\na bowl of soup. He drinks it at a gulp, then opens the window. He points\nhis finger at something in the street. Sobs and moans are heard. Children\nrush in and throw themselves at his feet. He gives an amical tap to each of\nthem and leads them all to the door. Somebody, doubtless their mother,\nappears in a dressing gown. She seems to be speaking naturally. The man\nwatches her and invites her to look at the street. The door of the sideboard\nopens and several hundred oranges roll over the floor. The three characters\nlose their balance and fall.\n7th—, 8th—, 9th-, 10th—, 11th— Tableau\nThe scene is a railway station, an office, a fireplace, a book, a picture, in\nfront of which stands a man, then a woman, then a man, then a woman, then\na man, bearing placards on which are inscribed respectively the numbers 7—\nB—, 9—, 10—, 11—.\n12th Tableau\nThe scene is a mouth which makes the motions of speech.\n\nRoger Vitrac\n(Translated by M. C.)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "229", "page_fin": "232", "image_debut": 39, "image_fin": 42, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Book Reviews", "titre_sommaire": "Book Reviews", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "229", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2591, "texte": "BOOK REVIEWS\nLITERARY CRITICISM OF MUSIC\n\nMusical Chronicle, by Paul Rosenfeld. New York. Harcourt, Brace and\nCompany. $2.00.\nIt is the object of intuition and emotional sensitiveness to translate music\ninto non-musical terms, usually ideas and emotions. The few simple\ndescriptive terms which are applied to music, dealing chiefly with time, space\nand intensity—a theme, we say, rises or falls slowly or quickly, is played\nloudly or softly—intuition translates into others by association or substitution\n(it is not always easy to say which). Thus accentuated movement at a\nmoderate speed may be associated with the term martial, or for the descriptive\nterms may be substituted the verb march; then the music is martial or marches.\nFurther association may introduce a phrase like the pomp of power, while\nanother substitution for the original descriptive terms may be hewn out of roclf.\nThe way is thus opened for a wide variety of colorful descriptive phrases,\nintellectual meanings and even actions implying conscious volition. In fact,\nonce the moorings are cut one may drift a considerable distance, so far even\nthat there may be no apparent connection between the idea and the primary\nterms which describe the music; as when, for example, the form of a compo-\nsition is said to be as deep as it is wide. This, however, does not overthrow\nthe idea. For the only test we have is our own intuition, which traces the\nidea back to the primary descriptive terms. But from the fact that it dis-\ncovers no connection we may not infer there is none. We are powerless\nagainst the intuition which does perceive the connection, since by its very nature\neach intuition is a law unto itself.\nThis is more obvious in the case of the emotions which music inspires, and\nwhich are often responsible for the apparently queer meanings ascribed to it.\nIf a listener's soul insists upon soaring in ecstasy nobody can stop it; if another\nlistener becomes drowsy that is his privilege. Our intuition may find no con-\nnection between these reactions and the music, nevertheless we may not\nconclude that none exists. There is in fact room in this literary type of\nmusical criticism not only for the emotional upheavals of a Huneker, but for\nthe blunders of a Finck or a Sanborn; the bad temper and personal animosities\nof a Krehbiel or a Peyser; the charlatanry of those who, without being able\nto appreciate music or even to hear it, apply to it the extravagant prose, the\nliterary figures and the terms borrowed from other arts into which some critics\ntranslate it; and the will-to-interpret of Paul Rosenfeld."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "230", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3224, "texte": "Nobody can contradict Mr. Rosenfeld when he claims to interpret modern\nmusic. For that matter nobody can contradict him when he claims to interpret\nthe older music. Nevertheless in each case he offers translations which I at\nleast cannot trace to the music he is discussing. Ido not hear in Ornstein's\nsonata for two pianos the themes \"speak violent sensuality drowned in black,\nviolent passion submerged and become fear\"; it is not apparent to me that \"the\nthematic material has been forcefully wrenched, submitted to a superior and\nsingle conception. It is a little as though motives which had never before\nworked together had suddenly timidly conjoined their palms, and begun an\nharmonious and flowing movement. They are related to one another. They\nnecessitate each other's presence. They produce each other with grace. They\nstill dance with angular tic-like jerks; whimper and wail in Jewish egoistic\nover-indulgence in grief. . . . But it is as if an alchemist with his\nvirtuous stone had touched many disparate, separate black objects and trans-\nfused them to a single dark lustrous metal. Relativity has made them clear\nand winged and light. A dense stream of rich sound pours from the two\nvibrating instruments; a flood yellow-gray as the warm, voluptuous winter sky\nover New York. Climax upon climax is churned.\"\nTrue, lam not sensitive to Ornstein's music, among others'. But then\nI don't find in the music of Bach \"in one of its most powerful expressions the\nprinciple completely complementary to the principle of our civilization\",\nnamely \"the giving virtue\", i.e. \"the state in which men give to each other,\nand, in taking from one another, give each other the power to donate them-\nselves ever more copiously.\" Nor am I aware, in the case of Cesar Franck,\nof \"a kind of pompousness, of vulgarity even; a habit of thinking things with-\nout really experiencing them\" (are these synonymous?) which \"spoils a\ngood deal of his earlier music.\" For me at least Strauss's melodic line is not\n\"a little wanting in edge and incisiveness\", nor do I get from his music \"the\nbaffled sense of having heard a number of not clearly connected fragments,\nnot the great inner satisfaction that comes through having been moved through\nthick matter in an unbroken course.\"\nNow Mr. Rosenfeld's perceptions are, in my estimation, very acute, his\nsensitiveness to music is very genuine, and his intuitive judgments are extraor-\ndinarily accurate. True, his estimates of older composers conform to the\naccepted, prevalent notions—of Liszt as a charlatan, of Strauss as one whose\ngenius was alloyed with baser metal, of Rimsky-Korsakoff as a painter of\ngay pictures for children's story-books, of D'lndy as a musical aristocrat; and\neven his acute observations on audiences, programs, patronesses and the like—\nhis social criticism of music—are the ordinary currency of the musical gossip-\nshops. But no accepted, prevalent notion aided him in the following descrip-\ntion of Schoenberg's music, which to me is uncanny in its accuracy.\n\"The music of Schoenberg is concentrated as something squeezed with\nrelentless might in a fist. . . . The water has been forced out.\nAll steps have been abreviated. . . . Schoenberg overlaps processes"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "231", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2836, "texte": "of relationship which to minds of slower tempi seem irreducible and funda-\nmental. In what appears succession of dissonances, he hears a common pitch.\nElements which seem to have no common basis he approaches to one another\nas though they were blood-brothers. . . . Great bales of substance, far-\nlying, have been condensed.\n\"As the mind hears closeness between far-lying things, so, too, it hears\nwidths between close-lying chords. This music is compressed and almost\npainfully distended too.\n\"Schcenberg's music moves with such spiritual rapidity; jumps so many\nintermediary processes as it goes, that at first encounter it seems almost\ngrotesque. These rapid progressions, rapid changes of mood, abrupt sudden\nflights of sound . . . seem the starts and twitches and twinges of an\nover-nervous man. But the transitions are present. They may be indicated\nwith epigrammatic terseness. The form is preserved. . . .\n\"The concentration is in the economical instrumentation. Schcenberg's\nsere, ghostly scores . . . are full of simple marvels of expressivity\nwrought with single instrumental voices. ...\"\nTo what, then, shall we ascribe the twaddle on Bach, Franck, Strauss\nand even Schcenberg?\nIn part to emotional upheavals, as the following passage seems to indicate.\n\"On the wings of the great-arched, ecstatic fugal choruses (of Bach's\nMass) we are carried out beyond pain and pleasure and set naked breast to\nbreast with the laboring divinity. The proud brass and grandiose drums, the\ngreat sky-floating* edifices of sound that are like great golden-mosaicked\nSan Marcos rising high in the air, seem shaped out of stuff dragged from the\nvery depths of the human heart, and offered in great lordly clusters to\nthe light.\"\nTo these we may also ascribe \"the titanic, virulent and incommensurable\nforces\" in Bloch's violin sonata \"upon whose breast man lies tiny and impo-\ntent\", and the lurid struggle between them which only Benjamin de Casseres\nhas equalled.\nAnd in part to the fact that he practises musical criticism as a literary art.\nWe often read what appears to be not a translation but a bit of fiction, a\nthrilling little story. Mr. Rosenfeld seems in the first place to regard music\nas a convenient peg on which to hang a rich, indigestible prose, no more con-\nsumable in quantities than pate-de-foie-gras, a prose which seems to furnish its\nown excuse for being. Sentences, whole paragraphs, convey no intelligible\nmeaning, and some seem to represent nothing more than a delight in the sound\nof words, singly and in rhythmic combinations, words often reminiscent of\nsome imitator of Waldo Frank. We read of music \"which in its fine\nasceticism, spare passion and ruddy tang, stands apart\"; of \"the warm, moist\nquick of sensation\"; of an \"unbreaking gray plinth of sound\"; of \"plangent\n\n*Cf. James Joyce's \"looked sky-brightly\"."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "232", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1998, "texte": "trumpets\"; of something that is \"flauntful\"; of something else that is\n\"quenchless\"; of the \"fleshing\" of a concept; of an \"ecstatic suffusion of the\nneck-cords\" of a singer. A word that he likes he works to death, using it\nwhether it makes sense in its context or not. In \"Musical Portraits\" it is\nmagisier or magistral; in \"Musical Chronicle\" it is high. And so we read,\nwithout being convinced, of \"the high grace of quality\"; \"the high serious-\nness\"; \"biting and high instants of music\"; \"high, simple woe\"; a \"high,\ntremulous sense of beauty.\"\nAnd in the second place, as he uses words without too much regard for\ntheir meaning, so he uses literary figures without too much regard for their\naptness; e.g. the machinery figure applied to Stravinsky, which is carried to\ncompletion at a sacrifice of accuracy; or the material prosperity fanfare with\nwhich the chapter on Wagner opens \"Musical Portraits\", and which seems\nto be used from the sheer necessity of using something. Likewise, non-existent\ndistinctions are drawn to furnish plots for thrilling stories. The composer was\nstrong or weak in this or that imaginary respect, but now he is weak or strong.\nThis appears to be the explanation of the far-fetched inside-outside-oneself\ndistinction which he applies, in slightly varied forms, to Strauss, Ornstein and\nJohn Alden Carpenter. And once started on an idea he spins it out until it\nvanishes. For, being not a consecutive thinker but a manipulator of words,\nhe crosses and recrosses his tracks, adds qualifying statement after qualifying\nstatement, until the reader's brain spins.\nThis fatal penchant for literary style, this apparent unwillingness merely\nto set down what he actually hears, it is, in my opinion, that spoils Mr.\nRosenfeld's criticism. It is a veritable will-to-interpret that carries him astray.\nBut in the discussion of modern music the enthusiasm which discovers what\ndoesn't exist is preferable to the hostility which overlooks even what does exist.\n\nB. H. Haggin"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "233", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2820, "texte": "IMPURE SPLENDOR\n\nEscapade, by Evelyn Scott. New York- Thomas Seltzer. $3.00.\n\"The afternoon leaves an attenuated smile of anaemic delicacy.\" Yellow\ntorsos of flaccid women, a violent man with eyes likes \"grapes in hoar frost\",\ncut tree-leaves of purplish wax, another tree the roost of vultures. \"Crowded\nbacks of sheep going up the light touches the massed white wool\nstillness of rocks.\" Apes, owls, reptiles, parakeets, sick and\nchained. Bluish babies choking; the tough old umber giantess beckons\nobscenely to soldiers, over the pocked wall, over muscular vines and the\nglittering dust. The scent of sweat and vermin in sunshine having \"the late\ncolor of bruised apricots\", the scent of sweat among gaudy broad scentless\nflowers. \"The angels of gold have begun to sing.\" Pots of urine red-gold\nin the bold syrupy sun. Partial starvation, rotting teeth, filthy doctors,\nbutcherous surgery, the agony of a torn abdomen, for years. \"The bloated lily\ninflates itself.\"\nA poignant spectacle; but there is dissonance in Mrs. Scott's composition.\nThe organization of narrative is an elusive problem. A new concept as an\naesthetic problem, criticism of it is rudimentary, and its terminology feeble and\nillogical. The major law is plain: to detach a portion of experience (the\n\"subject\"), to invent a scheme which can embody it, to perfect this embodi-\nment until it fuses with its origin (the \"inspiration\") ; and the test of achieve-\nment is the degree to which a finished book exhausts and becomes its material.\nThree types of order already exist: The bare cycle of events in time, or\nbiography, akin to history (Defoe's Moll Flanders) ; this arrangement is not\ninvented, but being a condition of existence has become traditional as thought,\nand being traditional, emotions have adhered to it which are, or are like,\naesthetic emotions; the mind is enabled to evaluate, ethically and socially.\nThe book to display a situation, akin to drama, in which a relation or mode\nof relations is introduced as a rumor or a \"case\"; then the narrator moves from\nstation to station about this fixed object, analyzing, associating and dissociating,\nuntil it stands out, solid, in a clear light (The Wings of the Dove, or Mr.\nHueffer's The Good Soldier) ; the mind is here directed to understanding and\nthe emotional climax is that of the seance or laboratory, revelation, and release\nfrom confusion. The three types are at progressive removes from actuality;\nthe third is the pattern novel, formal as music is, and may hardly appear to be\nnarrative, being most like poetry (Landor's The Dream of Boccacio, and\nUlysses) ; its devices are wholly artificial—that is, arbitrary as experience; the\nmind is stimulated to apprehend, in the mystic sense, pure pattern, hidden\nmystery rather than hidden meaning, things as \"ends in themselves.\""}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "234", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3297, "texte": "Mrs. Scott has confused these possibilities of treatment; primarily, she has\nfailed to envisage her subject as a unit. An organism is most likely to be har-\nmonious and vital in all its parts when its core is detached like a crystal seed.\nA pattern may be imagined within a mass of irrelevance; but perfection is an\nexact coincidence of the pattern with its frame—the design being the book,\nto the last comma. But there is in Escapade no wholly executed intention,\nbut a miserable converse of discipline. Fatally hesitant among the masks of\nher memory, the various utterances seeming to hesitate on remembered crusted\nmouths and immanent in the retching bodies, the burning insects and scarred\nbirds, she wrote in the first fever of recognition of her subject; so that the\nroots of the bock were already cut and tangled.\nSince Escapade is an autobiography, it is possible to put one's finger on\nthis nucleus from which it sprang. The things which happened contain three\nqualities: the poignant, the spectacular and the symbolic, each hostile to the\neffect of the others. The pity is chilled by the sensual sumptuousness; and\nin a spectacle, images of pathos displease as a striving for effect. Symbols are\nalways likely to lapse into deceit; Mrs. Scott's religio-psychological symbols\nare stale and reminiscent of other books, and exasperate by their incessant\ninterposition. As a document of anguish, to appal and wake pity and indig-\nnation, it is too ornate, even voluptuous. The great records of endurance or\nanatomies of suffering have been bald and stony, with rhythms matched\nexactly to the motion of events, not to an echo of poetry, keyed exactly to a\ndying husky piping, not to some stale and remembered music; as Defoe's\nJournal of the Plague Year, an example of perfect control for one purpose:\n\" a garret window opened, and somebody from a window on the\nother side of the alley called and asked, what is the matter? Upon which,\nfrom the first window it was answered, O Lord, my old master has hanged\nhimself! The other asked again, is he quite dead? and the first answered,\nay, ay, quite dead; quite dead and cold! This person was a merchant\nIn the contemporary absence of retributive gods, in the decadence of hope,\n\"the disease of hope\", high tragedy (as the poems of Mr. Eliot) has become\na two-part polyphony of loathsome degradation, a fact, and imaginary love-\nliness, not a fact; the old note of Christ, a poet in a similar epoch, \"pathos pro-\nduced by the juxtaposition of the fact with the ideal, and of the creature with\nthe creator\" (Sturge Moore). One wonders if this is not the formal signifi-\ncance of Mrs. Scott's experience, the attitude which would make it yield\nmost. The critic is forced to suggest a solution, since she has brought it to\nno ripe harmony. One wonders, but cannot escape the jangle, like instruments\nout of tune, of the various designs inherent in her book.\nI may refer to certain critics to the extent of noting the irrelevance, indeed\nimpertinence, of their insistence on Mrs. Scott's morbidity. Complacence and\nthe astigmatism of comfort and justified irritation at falsities of style lead them\nto take strange liberties. I come to think of the book as a mass of raw\nmaterial; and without overlooking its inferiority to its own potentialities, to"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "235", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2869, "texte": "salute one who has endured an Inferno, deprivation and pain and fear and\nfilth. The inadequacy of her intellect to penetrate the beastly sumptuous\nfacade, the immature theories which were all the comfort there was, and now\nher inability to convert it quite into beauty, make it more rather than less\nmoving as a human instance. The book ends in uncertainty, and should have\nended in meditated uncertainty, where there were \"toy houses of stucco, blue\nand purple\" and a \"night-blooming Cereus\", its \"dew-bruised blossoms\nfringed, with honey-colored hearts\", and \"candelabra cactus rise\ngauntly on every hand, their flat branches like crucified arms.\" The last\nchapter is a fantasy in the manner of Joyce's brothel scene, ineffectual and but\ndimly relevant. A book full of striking infirmities, a writer curiously gifted.\nThe waste is perhaps to be blamed on false gods and a body of criticisms\nfussily concerned with something known as \"life\" instead of with \"order and\ndiscipline\", with \"the application in literature of principles having their conse-\nquences in private conduct\" (Mr. Eliot). Mrs. Scott is worthy of most pro-\nfound and appreciative dispraise. \"When she rises to tell me good-by she\nunties an old cloth and pours into the lap of my dress a dozen ash-pink roses\nplucked off at the blossom, quite stemless.\nThe Real Story of a Bootlegger. Anonymous. Nen> York. Boni &\nLiveright. $2.00.\nI never knew for what essential purpose a lawyer existed until I read\nthis book. I knew that the lawyer was attached to business and property\ninterests as an inevitable adjunct. I knew that he was a secondary force\noutside the law. But it took this frank explicit story of the evolution of an\nindustry that has grown to greatness out of the ruins of one brand new law,\nand several other laws as old as the Ten Commandments, to enlighten me as\nto the primary function of the lawyer in a society that tends to become\nfast and hard.\nThe lawyer exists to supply elasticity, stretching power, to the laws, to\ncounteract the tendency to petrification in conservative rules of conduct. He\nis a Puckish spirit of modification hovering between the two opposites, good\nand evil, a creator of a middle ground extending from one pole to the other,\nan eraser of that frontier line dividing the two dynamic ethical impulses, and\nall to the end that good and evil may play and interplay in the spirit of fun.\nHis purpose nowhere attains so wide a scope, so spectacular a supremacy,\nas in a political democracy where moral aspects are reduced to service as masks\nof primitive energies. For under such arbitrary communal forms as the empire,\nthe kingdom, the feudal aristocracy, he is but a dry convention. The boot-\nlegger, as this book reveals, is the unveiling agent by which the full functional\nvalue of the lawyer is released to the view of the critic of our age.\n\nGlenway Wescott"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "236", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2851, "texte": "There is more imagination at large in America than in any other country.\nAnything succeeds in America that is infused with a bold and controlled\nimagination. The American business world is glorified by the absorption of an\nimaginative energy, for so long denied expansion in other countries by\nan intellectual autocracy. Ergo, we are the richest country in the world,\nand our sportive main streams, sexual and convivial, rise to the highest water\nmark of eminence.\nIt is the American lawyer who conserves and administers the imaginative\nconcepts whose magical manipulations have liberated the primitive appetites\nand energies of oppressed peoples. This book shows this, and furthermore\nthat America is on its way to becoming self-conscious about the popular\namusements and indulgences but that it has not quite outgrown the conscious-\nness of a distinction between good and evil. Bootlegging is perhaps a final\ncorrective. America will yet teach the world what freedom is.\nThere are minor faults of style in this book. A thin but distracting veil lies\nover the radical facts. The book is dubiously journalistic. The bad English\nis theoretically contrived, crudely faked. In some of the anecdotes an\nauthenticity breaks through and reaches heights of simplicity. But the great\neconomic significance of the book is unmistakable.\nHarmonium, by Wallace Stevens. New York. Alfred A. Knopf. $2.00.\nA singular breed of Sensitive Plants begins to flourish in the severe climate\nof America. Some, revolted by its moral and economic bars, may have fled\nto voice their bitter protest. Wallace Stevens remains. Oblivious to all\nelements, save the natural beauty which puzzles and humors and holds him,\nand for which he returns the music of his words.\nOne side of him is exotic: colors are richer, sounds are sharper in him than\nin other minds or in the real existence which the mass mind accepts. So that\nwe have the poetry of sensuousness, a poetry which depends chiefly upon its\nexotic spirit to hold us, as in Banal Sojourn:\nThe sky is a blue gum streaked with rose. The trees are black.\nThe grackles crack their throats of bone in the smooth air.\nMoisture and heat have swollen the garden into a slum of bloom.\nPardie! Summer is like a fat beast, sleepy in mildew, . . .\nYet, the fallacy of this manner, even in its most admirable and sympathetic\nexponent, is that it must go on being more and more strange. The cultured\nsensuousness of Mr. Stevens in his next book would have to be more and more\nintimate and scandalous, ad absurdum. I stress this side of his production\nbecause it has influenced many of his younger contemporaries, and in them,\nat least, leads to pretense, and murkiness.\nOn the other hand there is a mathematical, a metaphysical quality in\ncertain of these poems which is entertaining in the highest sense. Poems such\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "237", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2222, "texte": "as Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, or The Cuban Doctor, or\nAnecdote of the Jar, The Worms at Heaven's Gate, will be spell-binding\nfor hundreds of years. The Jar is as finished and simple as any of the perfect\nLandor fragments:\nI placed a jar in Tennessee,\nAnd round it was upon a hill.\nIt made the slovenly wilderness\nSurround that hill.\nThe wilderness rose up to it,\nAnd sprawled around no longer wild.\nThe jar was round upon the ground\nAnd tall and of a port in air.\nIt took dominion everywhere.\nThe jar was gray and bare.\nIt did not give of bird or bush,\nLike nothing else in Tennessee.\nThe method of this is more impoverished, there is more under-emphasis\nthan over-ripeness, and yet it has the geometrical interest of a piece of modern\nabstract painting. In the vein of The Jar Mr. Stevens strikes absolutely fresh\nqualities in poetry, and with the authority of a superb virtuoso. Stevens,\nWilliams (Wm. Carlos), Marianne Moore, Cummings, and one or two\nothers alone have such cultured hands. One more perfect thing must be\nquoted (The Worms at Heaven's Gate) :\nOut of the tomb, we bring Badroulbadour,\nWithin our bellies, we her chariot.\nHere is an eye. And here are, one by one,\nThe lashes of that eye and its white lid.\nHere is the cheek on which that lid declined,\nAnd, finger after finger, here, the hand,\nThe genius of that cheek. Here are the lips,\nThe bundle of the body and the feet.\nOut of the tomb we bring Badroulbadour.\nIt is, of course, Miltonic blank verse. The marching rhythms are made\nwith the severity and precision of Baudelaire and Rimbaud. Otherwise, there\nare two sensational feats: the nonsense-name, \"Badroulbadour\"; the use of\nthe word \"declined\".\nThis first book of Mr. Stevens contains the groups of poems which aroused\nsuch interest when published in magazines. They are in many manners, and\nas a book serve to isolate an extraordinary personality, a man who is in turn\nshy, child-like, sensuous, sophisticated, discursive, who blushes for his senti-\nments, who is possessed of boundless curiosity. It is to be hoped that this\ncuriosity will cause him yet to break loose in those directions (mathematical,\nmetaohvsical) for which his personality is most singularly fitted.\n\nM. J."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "233", "page_fin": "237", "image_debut": 43, "image_fin": 47, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Impure Splendor : Escapade by Evelyn Scott", "titre_sommaire": "Impure Splendor : Escapade by Evelyn Scott", "signature_source": "Glenway Wescott", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "233", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2820, "texte": "IMPURE SPLENDOR\n\nEscapade, by Evelyn Scott. New York- Thomas Seltzer. $3.00.\n\"The afternoon leaves an attenuated smile of anaemic delicacy.\" Yellow\ntorsos of flaccid women, a violent man with eyes likes \"grapes in hoar frost\",\ncut tree-leaves of purplish wax, another tree the roost of vultures. \"Crowded\nbacks of sheep going up the light touches the massed white wool\nstillness of rocks.\" Apes, owls, reptiles, parakeets, sick and\nchained. Bluish babies choking; the tough old umber giantess beckons\nobscenely to soldiers, over the pocked wall, over muscular vines and the\nglittering dust. The scent of sweat and vermin in sunshine having \"the late\ncolor of bruised apricots\", the scent of sweat among gaudy broad scentless\nflowers. \"The angels of gold have begun to sing.\" Pots of urine red-gold\nin the bold syrupy sun. Partial starvation, rotting teeth, filthy doctors,\nbutcherous surgery, the agony of a torn abdomen, for years. \"The bloated lily\ninflates itself.\"\nA poignant spectacle; but there is dissonance in Mrs. Scott's composition.\nThe organization of narrative is an elusive problem. A new concept as an\naesthetic problem, criticism of it is rudimentary, and its terminology feeble and\nillogical. The major law is plain: to detach a portion of experience (the\n\"subject\"), to invent a scheme which can embody it, to perfect this embodi-\nment until it fuses with its origin (the \"inspiration\") ; and the test of achieve-\nment is the degree to which a finished book exhausts and becomes its material.\nThree types of order already exist: The bare cycle of events in time, or\nbiography, akin to history (Defoe's Moll Flanders) ; this arrangement is not\ninvented, but being a condition of existence has become traditional as thought,\nand being traditional, emotions have adhered to it which are, or are like,\naesthetic emotions; the mind is enabled to evaluate, ethically and socially.\nThe book to display a situation, akin to drama, in which a relation or mode\nof relations is introduced as a rumor or a \"case\"; then the narrator moves from\nstation to station about this fixed object, analyzing, associating and dissociating,\nuntil it stands out, solid, in a clear light (The Wings of the Dove, or Mr.\nHueffer's The Good Soldier) ; the mind is here directed to understanding and\nthe emotional climax is that of the seance or laboratory, revelation, and release\nfrom confusion. The three types are at progressive removes from actuality;\nthe third is the pattern novel, formal as music is, and may hardly appear to be\nnarrative, being most like poetry (Landor's The Dream of Boccacio, and\nUlysses) ; its devices are wholly artificial—that is, arbitrary as experience; the\nmind is stimulated to apprehend, in the mystic sense, pure pattern, hidden\nmystery rather than hidden meaning, things as \"ends in themselves.\""}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "234", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3297, "texte": "Mrs. Scott has confused these possibilities of treatment; primarily, she has\nfailed to envisage her subject as a unit. An organism is most likely to be har-\nmonious and vital in all its parts when its core is detached like a crystal seed.\nA pattern may be imagined within a mass of irrelevance; but perfection is an\nexact coincidence of the pattern with its frame—the design being the book,\nto the last comma. But there is in Escapade no wholly executed intention,\nbut a miserable converse of discipline. Fatally hesitant among the masks of\nher memory, the various utterances seeming to hesitate on remembered crusted\nmouths and immanent in the retching bodies, the burning insects and scarred\nbirds, she wrote in the first fever of recognition of her subject; so that the\nroots of the bock were already cut and tangled.\nSince Escapade is an autobiography, it is possible to put one's finger on\nthis nucleus from which it sprang. The things which happened contain three\nqualities: the poignant, the spectacular and the symbolic, each hostile to the\neffect of the others. The pity is chilled by the sensual sumptuousness; and\nin a spectacle, images of pathos displease as a striving for effect. Symbols are\nalways likely to lapse into deceit; Mrs. Scott's religio-psychological symbols\nare stale and reminiscent of other books, and exasperate by their incessant\ninterposition. As a document of anguish, to appal and wake pity and indig-\nnation, it is too ornate, even voluptuous. The great records of endurance or\nanatomies of suffering have been bald and stony, with rhythms matched\nexactly to the motion of events, not to an echo of poetry, keyed exactly to a\ndying husky piping, not to some stale and remembered music; as Defoe's\nJournal of the Plague Year, an example of perfect control for one purpose:\n\" a garret window opened, and somebody from a window on the\nother side of the alley called and asked, what is the matter? Upon which,\nfrom the first window it was answered, O Lord, my old master has hanged\nhimself! The other asked again, is he quite dead? and the first answered,\nay, ay, quite dead; quite dead and cold! This person was a merchant\nIn the contemporary absence of retributive gods, in the decadence of hope,\n\"the disease of hope\", high tragedy (as the poems of Mr. Eliot) has become\na two-part polyphony of loathsome degradation, a fact, and imaginary love-\nliness, not a fact; the old note of Christ, a poet in a similar epoch, \"pathos pro-\nduced by the juxtaposition of the fact with the ideal, and of the creature with\nthe creator\" (Sturge Moore). One wonders if this is not the formal signifi-\ncance of Mrs. Scott's experience, the attitude which would make it yield\nmost. The critic is forced to suggest a solution, since she has brought it to\nno ripe harmony. One wonders, but cannot escape the jangle, like instruments\nout of tune, of the various designs inherent in her book.\nI may refer to certain critics to the extent of noting the irrelevance, indeed\nimpertinence, of their insistence on Mrs. Scott's morbidity. Complacence and\nthe astigmatism of comfort and justified irritation at falsities of style lead them\nto take strange liberties. I come to think of the book as a mass of raw\nmaterial; and without overlooking its inferiority to its own potentialities, to"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "235", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2869, "texte": "salute one who has endured an Inferno, deprivation and pain and fear and\nfilth. The inadequacy of her intellect to penetrate the beastly sumptuous\nfacade, the immature theories which were all the comfort there was, and now\nher inability to convert it quite into beauty, make it more rather than less\nmoving as a human instance. The book ends in uncertainty, and should have\nended in meditated uncertainty, where there were \"toy houses of stucco, blue\nand purple\" and a \"night-blooming Cereus\", its \"dew-bruised blossoms\nfringed, with honey-colored hearts\", and \"candelabra cactus rise\ngauntly on every hand, their flat branches like crucified arms.\" The last\nchapter is a fantasy in the manner of Joyce's brothel scene, ineffectual and but\ndimly relevant. A book full of striking infirmities, a writer curiously gifted.\nThe waste is perhaps to be blamed on false gods and a body of criticisms\nfussily concerned with something known as \"life\" instead of with \"order and\ndiscipline\", with \"the application in literature of principles having their conse-\nquences in private conduct\" (Mr. Eliot). Mrs. Scott is worthy of most pro-\nfound and appreciative dispraise. \"When she rises to tell me good-by she\nunties an old cloth and pours into the lap of my dress a dozen ash-pink roses\nplucked off at the blossom, quite stemless.\nThe Real Story of a Bootlegger. Anonymous. Nen> York. Boni &\nLiveright. $2.00.\nI never knew for what essential purpose a lawyer existed until I read\nthis book. I knew that the lawyer was attached to business and property\ninterests as an inevitable adjunct. I knew that he was a secondary force\noutside the law. But it took this frank explicit story of the evolution of an\nindustry that has grown to greatness out of the ruins of one brand new law,\nand several other laws as old as the Ten Commandments, to enlighten me as\nto the primary function of the lawyer in a society that tends to become\nfast and hard.\nThe lawyer exists to supply elasticity, stretching power, to the laws, to\ncounteract the tendency to petrification in conservative rules of conduct. He\nis a Puckish spirit of modification hovering between the two opposites, good\nand evil, a creator of a middle ground extending from one pole to the other,\nan eraser of that frontier line dividing the two dynamic ethical impulses, and\nall to the end that good and evil may play and interplay in the spirit of fun.\nHis purpose nowhere attains so wide a scope, so spectacular a supremacy,\nas in a political democracy where moral aspects are reduced to service as masks\nof primitive energies. For under such arbitrary communal forms as the empire,\nthe kingdom, the feudal aristocracy, he is but a dry convention. The boot-\nlegger, as this book reveals, is the unveiling agent by which the full functional\nvalue of the lawyer is released to the view of the critic of our age.\n\nGlenway Wescott"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "236", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2851, "texte": "There is more imagination at large in America than in any other country.\nAnything succeeds in America that is infused with a bold and controlled\nimagination. The American business world is glorified by the absorption of an\nimaginative energy, for so long denied expansion in other countries by\nan intellectual autocracy. Ergo, we are the richest country in the world,\nand our sportive main streams, sexual and convivial, rise to the highest water\nmark of eminence.\nIt is the American lawyer who conserves and administers the imaginative\nconcepts whose magical manipulations have liberated the primitive appetites\nand energies of oppressed peoples. This book shows this, and furthermore\nthat America is on its way to becoming self-conscious about the popular\namusements and indulgences but that it has not quite outgrown the conscious-\nness of a distinction between good and evil. Bootlegging is perhaps a final\ncorrective. America will yet teach the world what freedom is.\nThere are minor faults of style in this book. A thin but distracting veil lies\nover the radical facts. The book is dubiously journalistic. The bad English\nis theoretically contrived, crudely faked. In some of the anecdotes an\nauthenticity breaks through and reaches heights of simplicity. But the great\neconomic significance of the book is unmistakable.\nHarmonium, by Wallace Stevens. New York. Alfred A. Knopf. $2.00.\nA singular breed of Sensitive Plants begins to flourish in the severe climate\nof America. Some, revolted by its moral and economic bars, may have fled\nto voice their bitter protest. Wallace Stevens remains. Oblivious to all\nelements, save the natural beauty which puzzles and humors and holds him,\nand for which he returns the music of his words.\nOne side of him is exotic: colors are richer, sounds are sharper in him than\nin other minds or in the real existence which the mass mind accepts. So that\nwe have the poetry of sensuousness, a poetry which depends chiefly upon its\nexotic spirit to hold us, as in Banal Sojourn:\nThe sky is a blue gum streaked with rose. The trees are black.\nThe grackles crack their throats of bone in the smooth air.\nMoisture and heat have swollen the garden into a slum of bloom.\nPardie! Summer is like a fat beast, sleepy in mildew, . . .\nYet, the fallacy of this manner, even in its most admirable and sympathetic\nexponent, is that it must go on being more and more strange. The cultured\nsensuousness of Mr. Stevens in his next book would have to be more and more\nintimate and scandalous, ad absurdum. I stress this side of his production\nbecause it has influenced many of his younger contemporaries, and in them,\nat least, leads to pretense, and murkiness.\nOn the other hand there is a mathematical, a metaphysical quality in\ncertain of these poems which is entertaining in the highest sense. Poems such\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "237", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2222, "texte": "as Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, or The Cuban Doctor, or\nAnecdote of the Jar, The Worms at Heaven's Gate, will be spell-binding\nfor hundreds of years. The Jar is as finished and simple as any of the perfect\nLandor fragments:\nI placed a jar in Tennessee,\nAnd round it was upon a hill.\nIt made the slovenly wilderness\nSurround that hill.\nThe wilderness rose up to it,\nAnd sprawled around no longer wild.\nThe jar was round upon the ground\nAnd tall and of a port in air.\nIt took dominion everywhere.\nThe jar was gray and bare.\nIt did not give of bird or bush,\nLike nothing else in Tennessee.\nThe method of this is more impoverished, there is more under-emphasis\nthan over-ripeness, and yet it has the geometrical interest of a piece of modern\nabstract painting. In the vein of The Jar Mr. Stevens strikes absolutely fresh\nqualities in poetry, and with the authority of a superb virtuoso. Stevens,\nWilliams (Wm. Carlos), Marianne Moore, Cummings, and one or two\nothers alone have such cultured hands. One more perfect thing must be\nquoted (The Worms at Heaven's Gate) :\nOut of the tomb, we bring Badroulbadour,\nWithin our bellies, we her chariot.\nHere is an eye. And here are, one by one,\nThe lashes of that eye and its white lid.\nHere is the cheek on which that lid declined,\nAnd, finger after finger, here, the hand,\nThe genius of that cheek. Here are the lips,\nThe bundle of the body and the feet.\nOut of the tomb we bring Badroulbadour.\nIt is, of course, Miltonic blank verse. The marching rhythms are made\nwith the severity and precision of Baudelaire and Rimbaud. Otherwise, there\nare two sensational feats: the nonsense-name, \"Badroulbadour\"; the use of\nthe word \"declined\".\nThis first book of Mr. Stevens contains the groups of poems which aroused\nsuch interest when published in magazines. They are in many manners, and\nas a book serve to isolate an extraordinary personality, a man who is in turn\nshy, child-like, sensuous, sophisticated, discursive, who blushes for his senti-\nments, who is possessed of boundless curiosity. It is to be hoped that this\ncuriosity will cause him yet to break loose in those directions (mathematical,\nmetaohvsical) for which his personality is most singularly fitted.\n\nM. J."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[238]", "page_fin": "[238]", "image_debut": 48, "image_fin": 48, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.48", "titre_corps": "[Advertisement for 'The Poet Assassinated']", "titre_sommaire": "[Advertisement for 'The Poet Assassinated']", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "[238]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 790, "texte": "FOR THE BIBLIOPHILE\nGUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE, one of the most arresting personalities among Eu-\nropean writers of our time, was easily the modern prototype of Rabelais, Swift, and\nSterne. Possessed with an Aristophanic demon of satire Apollinaire wrote the\nmost astonishing prose and poetry of his day. f]j During the four years since his death\nfrom wounds received in the Great War writers have declared him to be France's greatest\nwar poet, in fact the only great poet who emerged from the war.\nBUT the man was versatile. fjj His sway spread through the whole continent as poet,\nnovelist, art critic and leader of divers revolutions and buccaneering expeditions in\npainting and literature. fj[ His rebellious spirit was at the bottom of all the artistic up-\nheavals of the Twentieth Century."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[238]", "page_fin": "[238]", "image_debut": 48, "image_fin": 48, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.18", "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": 48, "page_imprimee": "[238]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 2098, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2120, "texte": "The Price\nis\n$5.00 net"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[239]", "page_fin": "[239]", "image_debut": 49, "image_fin": 49, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.19", "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": 49, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 38, "texte": "The North American Review\nfor November"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[239]", "page_fin": "[239]", "image_debut": 49, "image_fin": 49, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 40, "fin_caractere_exclue": 669, "texte": "Congress and the Supreme Court Alexander Sidney Lanier\nBritish Sea Power Maj.-Gen. Sir George Aston\nCharacteristics op Bolshevik Diplomacy Alfred L. P. Dennis\nIncrease op Contemporary Peoples W. Russell Tylor\nHow Long Can the Farmer Hold Out? R. L. Holman\nFires op Conquest Major Sherman Miles, U.S.A.\nThe Leaves: An Eclogue Stark Young\nOn the Anniversary of the Folio Elmer Edgar Stall\nMalvtda von Meysenbug Sigmund Mum\nFootloose Americans Helen McAfee\nIvan Mestrovic Walter Agard\nThe Case for Psychical Research Hester Dowden\nThe Book of the Month Lawrence Gilman\nAffairs of the World Willis Fletcher Johnson\nNew Books Reviewed"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[239]", "page_fin": "[239]", "image_debut": 49, "image_fin": 49, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.21", "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": 49, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 671, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1000, "texte": "fj| Every month the Review prints articles, controversial and otherwise, on all\ntopics of timely interest from the pens of the most noted writers of the day.\nf| No thinking man or woman should ignore the assistance that such a magazine\naffords in the formation of his or her opinion, for your opinion counts when\nbacked by facts."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[239]", "page_fin": "[239]", "image_debut": 49, "image_fin": 49, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.22", "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": 49, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 1002, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1169, "texte": "fj[ To give those who are but occasional readers of The North American\nReview the opportunity of following its splendid articles regularly, we make\nthis special offer:"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[239]", "page_fin": "[239]", "image_debut": 49, "image_fin": 49, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.23", "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": 49, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 1171, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1202, "texte": "Acquaintance Subscription Offer"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[239]", "page_fin": "[239]", "image_debut": 49, "image_fin": 49, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.24", "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": 49, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 1204, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1390, "texte": "On receipt of your remittance of $1.00 we will send The North American Review\nfor four months, beginning with the November issue\nThis is a material saving and an added convenience to you"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[239]", "page_fin": "[239]", "image_debut": 49, "image_fin": 49, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.25", "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": 49, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 1392, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1409, "texte": "Please use\ncoupon"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[239]", "page_fin": "[239]", "image_debut": 49, "image_fin": 49, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.26", "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": 49, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 1411, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1688, "texte": "The North American Review, B-11-23\n9 East 37th Street, New York, N. Y.\nGentlemen: For the enclosed $1.00 (Canadian $1.12, foreign $1.24) kindly\nenter the following name to receive The North American Review for four\nmonths, beginning with the November, 1923, issue.\nName\nAddress"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c036", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c036", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 50, "image_fin": 50, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.27", "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": 50, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 20, "texte": "\"Lend Me\nYour Broom!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c037", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c037", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 50, "image_fin": 50, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.28", "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": 50, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 22, "fin_caractere_exclue": 979, "texte": "COPIES of BROOM are more eagerly sought after,\nsnatched up, devoured, worn, dog-eared, borrowed,\nthan any other magazine in the United States. Copies are\neven known to have been stolen by desperate individuals.\nLET us get together and be frank about this problem.\nBROOM must increase its public in order to live and\naccomplish its work—not by Thirty Thousand, but by\nat least a thousand new subscribers.\nIF you are one of the persistent persons who borrows a\nfriend's copy, why not subscribe to BROOM. That\nis the best way to help us.\nIF you are a subscriber, make your friends who persistent-\nly borrow BROOM become subscribers too. We are\nbeing perfectly logical.\nTRIAL six months' subscription to BROOM costs\n$2.50. A year's subscription, with a two-dollar\nbook costs $5.00. We are close enough in touch with the\npublishing fraternity to secure for you or a new reader one\nof a wide range of books. A number of important recent\nbooks are suggested below:"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c038", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c038", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 50, "image_fin": 50, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.29", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 981, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1292, "texte": "Jacob's Room, by Virginia Woolf\nThe Captain's Doll, by D. H.\nLawrence\nHoliday, by Waldo Frank\nHarmonium, by Wallace Stevens\nDove's Nest, by Katherine Mansfield\nTulips and Chimneys, by E. E.\nCummings\nSons and Lovers, by D. H. Lawrence\n(with BROOM, $5.50)\nAgainst the Grain, by J. K.\nHuysmanns (with BROOM, $5.50)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c039", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c039", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 50, "image_fin": 50, "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=bmtnaap192311-01.2.30", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 1294, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1459, "texte": "BROOM - 45 King St., New York\nFor the enclosed $ please\nsend Broom for one year and the fol-\nlowing boofy:\nName\nAddress\n$5.00 Annual Subscription.\n50 Cents the Copy."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c040", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c040", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 51, "image_fin": 51, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.31", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 467, "texte": "Thirty\nThousand\n'ers\nics were\naal arid-\nng issue\nDial has\n. readers\nst order.\nhe adult\noman in\ne wealth\nis access-\nmillion,\nally and\nerica no\n, and no\nrose and\nd sculp-\nEvery new subscriber is a participant in the suc-\ncess of The Dial—a success which is making artistic\nhistory. Join this group of alert and intellectually\nresponsible pioneers, and identify yourself with the\nlife of this country's art and letters.\nEX LIBRIS\n2\nK\nI\n%\n*>\nSHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY\nPARIS"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c041", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c041", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 51, "image_fin": 51, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.32", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 469, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1150, "texte": "THE\nDIAL\nFOR DECEMBER\nwill contain among other\nthings:\nAn essay on\nVirginia Woolf\nby\nClive Bell.\nthe English, critic\nand\nThe Baron Yon\nLeisenbohg\nby\nArthur Schnitzler\nThe Baron von Leiseribolig\nis Dr. Schnitzler's acknowl-\nedged short-story master-\npiece. Those who have read\nin The Dial previous stories\nby the great Viennese writer\nwill appreciate the full im-\nportance of this announce-\nment.\nEarly issues in 1924 will\ncontain:\nReminiscences of\nLeonid Andreyev\nby\nMaxim Gorky\nThe Injured One\nA short story by\nKarel Capek\nA Resume of the De-\nvelopments of Philos-\nophy Since 1900\nby\nBertrand Russell\nBad Han\nAn extraordinary short novel\nby a young American writer\nGlenway Wescott"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-11-01-c042", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01#c042", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 51, "image_fin": 51, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.2.33", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 1152, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1406, "texte": "SPECIAL OFFER\nThe Dial for one year, beginning with the January issue, $5.00. In addition, we will send you\nthe October, November, and December issues for this year—in all 15 issues for the price of 12.\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street Address\nNew York City"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[192]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAN INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS\nEditor, Harold A, Loeb\nAssociate Editors, Slater Brown, Malcolm Cowley, Matthew Josephson\nNovember, 1923\nPublished Monthly\nVol. 5, No. 4\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 45 King 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.\n$5 a Year\n50 Cents the Copy\n\nCover Design—Lissitsky • p»ge\nHesperides, or the Plunger Plunges—Slater Brown . . . 193\nDiscourse in a Cantina at Havana—Wallace Stevens . . . 201\nFour Poems—E. E. Cummings . . . 204\nPlans for One and Two Story House—Finsterlin .... 207, 210\nFour Poems—William Carlos Williams 208\nThe Extra—Louis Aragon 211\nTowards a More Passionate Apprehension of Life—\nMalcom Cowley 217\nAn Awful Storming Fire—Charles L. Durboraw 218\nPoison (A Drama Without Words)—Roger Vitrac 226\nBook Reviews:\nLiterary Criticism of Music—B. H. Haggin 229\nImpure Splendor—Glenway Wescott 233\nThe Real Story of a Bootlegger—Robert Alden Sanborn . . 235\nHarmonium, by Wallace Stevens—M. J 236"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.3", "texte": "HESPERIDES\nOR\nTHE PLUNGER PLUNGES\n\nSnow was falling. Not the white snow that falls in winter, but the tin\nsnow that falls in New and Wall streets. It is a sparse and agitated snow,\ncontinually whipped into flurries by the wings of pigeons, tossed and tortured\nas it drifts downward until the lower winds of the street seize upon it and\nfling it back to the roofs. But sometimes as it flickers across the windows of\nthe office buildings, a flake twisting to the proper angle catches the light\nof the sun.\nIt was at precisely 11 :28 a.m. on the 1 7th of September, 1923 that one\nof these flakes turning as it fell, sent a tiny shaft of light into the left eye of\nMr. Joseph J. Trackle. He, however, did not notice it. Leaning forward\nfrom the edge of his chair so that the torso of his body ran parallel to the\nfloor, with his derby resting on the back of his head, with his left cheek glued\nto the glass breast of the sawed-off ticker, Mr. Trackle was far too immersed in\nquotations to receive the little message the flake of tin snow had so gently\nsent him from the sun.\n—The market is soggy, he whispered.\nWhereat the quotational pap which had faithfully fed him for more than\nthirty years, suddenly curdled. And thereafter the ticker maintained so\nabsolute and dogged a silence that Mr. Trackle could hear his clerks mumble\nin the next room, or his watch tick in its little pocket over his appendix. After\nwaiting for 67 seconds, and being no longer able to bear the silence, he\nbegan petulantly to yank and twitch at the tape. Whereupon the tape broke,\nas tapes do when they are yanked, and Mr. Trackle snarling to himself,\nslunk back into his chair, thrust his feet up on the ticker stand, shoved his\nderby forward over his eyes, and after performing a number of impatient\nflourishes in the upper left hand corner of a pad of paper, he wrote the\nfollowing extemporaneous lyric:—\nA Rotten market.\nI have a head I have a head I have a headacke\nLV Love is all truth\nCall Schuyler 649% RBC is a good buy\nNo more raw oysters for me.\nSchuyler 49% RBC 50% Rebecca Steel 52\ngood by Miss Pearly\n4914 Rebec Mr. Mallet"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "194", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.4", "texte": "—Mr. Mallet, cried Mr. Trackle, come in here (undertone) you sucker.\nCoughing rapidly to himself, Mr. Mallet scurried in.\nBut before proceeding any further, let us consider the solipsistic poem\nwhich Mr. Trackle in his two minutes and thirteen seconds of leisure has\ncomposed on the sheet of yellow paper. For in splicing its lines, hauling up\nthe incidents, memories and associations which produced them, by dredging,\nsounding and similarly employing ourselves, we may not only gain an insight\nupon the whirling fermentation of Mr. Trackle's pysche, but we may also\ngive the poem an organization which it now seems superficially to lack.\nLet us therefore jump into the ring and start milling at once.\nItem I. A Rotten market\nThe analyses of this phrase must begin with die following query:—Why\nshould Mr. Trackle, having just previously used the adjective \"soggy\" to\ndescribe the unfortunate condition of the market, now use the word Rotten\nto describe it?\nAs there are four answers to this question, I will tabulate them as\nfollows:—\nA. The Subject (Mr. Trackle) did not use the word \"soggy\" to\ndescribe the unfortunate condition of the market for the precise reason that he\nhad already used it. Like Shakespeare, he was loathe to repeat.\nB. The Subject did not use the word \"soggy\" for the reason that he\ndid not know whether it should be spelled with or without an E. This lack\nof surety would have retarded the free velocity of his pencil and would have\ndoubtless produced that conflict which led him into so much difficulty later on.\nC. The Subject chose the word Rotten because it began with an R,\nthe majuscule of which he took a secret pleasure in writing.\nD. Rotten described the condition of the market as well, if not better,\nthan the word \"soggy.\"\nItem 11. I have a head I have a head I have a headache\nFrom the phrase A Rotten market to the sentence I have a head seems a\nwide and inexplicable leap on the part of Mr. Trackle's brain. But though\nit may be wide, it is certainly not inexplicable, as we will all see in a moment\nor two.\nIt has already been noted that the word Rotten for dejastated reasons\nis the weightiest word in Item I. Such being the case it is natural that it\nshould arouse from Our Subject's unconscious, certain images, ideas, and\nmemories of a recent date. This was in fact true. For no sooner had Mr.\nTrackle's pencil produced the word Rotten, and even before it had completed\nthe word market, there flashed into his mind a certain conversation he had\nheld with his wife that morning before breakfast. The conversation was as\nfollows:—"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "195", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.5", "texte": "—Good morning, my dear husband, said Mrs. Trackle as she stepped\ninto her husband's bed-room clothed in nothing more than a Japanese kimono,\na pair of mules, and a boudoir cap.\n—Are you in here again? replied Mr. Trackle who was lying in bed\nwith the morning paper propped against his knees, while the valet arranged\nhis breakfast beside him on a card table.\n—Why Joseykins my dear, exclaimed Mrs. Trackle, this is the first time\nthis morning I've been in your room.\n—Did you ever see, asked Mr. Trackle of the valet, such a woman for\nbobbing in and out of a poyson's privacy ? Look at her, with her hair all down\nover her eyes. She hasn't even washed yet. I can see streaks of dirt all up\nand down her filthy face. Get out of here you lazy-good-for-nothings.\nPhew, you stink!\n—Controllez-voo, controllez, cried Mrs. Trackle, I've just been using a\ndepillatory. But I came into see if my little Joseykins would like his wife to\neat breakfast with him. -\n—Well, he wouldn't. Not on your life he wouldn't, with such a\ndishevelled fatwoman as that. Get outta here.\nMrs. Trackle flickered out. But she had hardly closed the door behind\nher when\n—Isabel! shouted Mr. Trackle. Come back here. Pat, lead that\nwoman back into my presence.\nMrs. Trackle's nervous pastry face appeared again.\n—Isabel, whimpered Mr. Trackle, I didn't sleep a wink last night. I\nhad such a TERRIBLE headache. I was tossing and turning in my bed\nall night long.\n—Well, said Mrs. Trackle oozing in through the door, if you will sit\nUP to three and four in the morning drinking cocktails\n—Is that all the sympathy I get after me tossing and turning in bed all\nnight long? cried her husband. Is that what a loving wife should say to her\nhusband when he hasn't slept a wink? Is that the sort of heartless fatty\nbumbums you are? A wife should be gentle, soft, and affable1) and not go\naround hello making disorder everywhere. She shouldn't breed disharmony,\nhello She should say to her husband, I'm so sorry Josey and is there anything\nI can do to alleviate you? But no. She wouldn't say that. SHE'S nothing\nbut a nervous fatwoman. Pretty good, eh Pat?\n—Very good Sir, replied the valet.\n—But I AM sorry, Joseykins.\n—Will you stop screaming in that raucous manner? I'm not at the other\nend of a bowling alley.\n—O Josey, DO control yourself. Pat, I'll tell you. You have a little\nsign painted you know with 'Control Yourself on it, only that 'Control\n*) Note: Vide The Taming of the Shrew. Act 11, Sc. 1."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.6", "texte": "Yourself so you can show it to Mr. Trackle when you know, just a little\nsign that you can wear on the inside of your coat.\nMrs. Trackle indicated the inside of her kimono.\nMr. Trackle turned from page 10 of the Financial News to page 5 of\nthe Sporting Section of the New York Tribune, September 17, 1923.\n—I will, Mrs. Trackle, said the valet.\n—Isabel, said Mr. Trackle, I don't think I'll go down to the floor to-day.\nI think I'll just lie up here in bed with this obnoxious headache.\n—Now that's the best thing you ever said, Josey dear. Especially after\nsuch a night.\n—That's it, always criticizing. Did you ever see such a woman? My\nGod, will I ever get rid of this impediment? That's what you are, you're\nan impediment.\n—Well Josey, replied the impediment, if jou keep this up I won't be.\nAnd you better remember what Dr. Rock said about alcohol and your\nblood pressure.\n—Dr. Rock's a sucker, replied Mr. Impediment Trackle. A cocktail or\ntwo can't disturb me. It's those damn oysters I ate. They rot in the\nintestines.\nThough the preceding conversation has been long, longer perhaps than\nI implied it would be some few pages back, it has nevertheless given us a\nclue, particularly in the words I have indicated by italics, to the correct\nassociation between Item I and Item 11. For just as the word Rotten pro-\nduced a flareback to the word rot in the conversation recorded above, thus\nprecipitating upon the plane of Our Subject's conscious a vision of oysters\nputrefying in his intestines, so also did this vision in turn drag up the opinion\n(however specious) that his headache was alone due to the poisonous effect\nof these oysters upon his blood. He therefore wrote, I have a head; which\nthough it was both literally and figuratively true, was not what he intended to\nwrite. For upon completing the first four letters of the fourth word; i.e. head,\nhe was unable to remember whether to spell ache with aK or with an H. He\ntherefore repeated the phrase in writing, but again found himself baffled.\nAgain he tried, but suddenly recalling the word 'back-ache' and believing that\nthere was some profound orthographical consanguinity between the two\nsyllables of that word, he finally completed the sentence, misspelled as it now\nstands: I have a headache. Q.E.D.\nItem 111. LV\nImmediately after Our Subject had completed the second line of his\npoem, the ticker buzzed. As he was short of three or four thousand shares\nof LV (Lehigh Valley) and rather nervous about them, Item 111 merely\nexpresses his conscious or unconscious wish to read their latest quotation on\nthe tape."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.7", "texte": "Item IV. Love is all truth\nThe fundamental association of this item and the preceding one is based,\nI am pained to admit, on no more lofty or profound a substance than that of\na pun. It is indeed a distressing thought that Our Subject whose mind has\nhitherto proven itself to be one of the great spiritual and creative products of\nOur Modern Era, should at this moment stoop to so vulgar a trick. But I\nam certain that if every one of us should peek over the edge into his sub-\nconscious and observe what a blustering host of assonances, double entendres,\nand puns are jostling and swaggering through our thoughts down there, we\nwould all immediately retire to the mountains and spend a year in mental\ndiscipline.\nBe that, however, as it may.\nNow Our Subject having written the abbreviation of a stock (LV),\nnaturally felt it should be followed by something. But being unable to\nfollow it up with an accurate market quotation, since he had broken the tape,\nhis mind at once started to reconnoiter in search of one chez that great fountain-\nhead of quotations; William Shakespeare. But to aid him in his search Our\nSubject deftly inserted an O between the Land V of his stock with an E\nadded to make it all the more clear. He thus formulated the word 'love*\nwhich, perching on his psychic wrist like a falcon, immediately flew up and\ncaught him the following lines:—\nLove surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;\nLove is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.*\nWhich quotation was, as he had many times remarked to his wife and friends,\none of the most beautiful gems in all English literature.\nItem V. Call Schuyler 649]/4\nHaving written the above quotation, thoughts of Love began to frisk in\nOur Subject's head. At first he envisioned Love as an austere Goddess of\nHerculean proportions clutching a flaming torch. But no sooner was this\nstatuesque fancy projected on the silversheet of his conscious, than it was\nimmediately blotted out by the more distinct image of Miss Pearly. For be\nit known that Mr. T's concept of Love was far more limited by\nCorporeal Desire than, let us say, is that of Plotinus. For though Our\nSubject would be the first to admit that Abstract Love completely estranged\nfrom fleshly connotations did certainly exist and in all splendor, he never-\ntheless surrendered its fortune and contemplation to the hierarchy of poets and\nphilosophers. As for him, he would contemplate Love in the more palpable\nguise of Miss Pearly, the little Brooklyn diving girl whose personal charm and\nphysical perfection had so enraptured him at a party the evening before.\nThus softly dreaming on her charms he began scribbling her telephone number\non the pad.\n*Note (Venus and Adonis. 1. 803-4.)"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.8", "texte": "But hold! Why but her telephone number? Why not her name, her\nstreet address, her employment?\nWhy her telephone number? Because, my dear fellow, when Mr.\nTrackle began dealing in terms of the Abstract, the Ideal, or the Prophetic,\nhis mind immediately attached itself, or became the mouth-piece of some\nspectral telephone, at the receiving end of which God and His entire solar\nsystem respectfully listened. We have already witnessed a manifestation of\nthis curious phenomenon in the conversation recorded under Item 11, wherein\nMr. Trackle while expanding upon the subject of the Ideal Wife, interspersed\nhis discourse with loud telephonic cries of 'hello!' Why this peculiar rela-\ntion between the telephone and Mr. Trackle should exist, is a problem I will\nleave for students of Anthropology, Ethnology, Theology, Pathology, and\nMysticism to unravel. Nevertheless, such a relation existed, and the abstract\nidea of Love sifting through Miss Pearly's lovely body, was finally voli-\ntionally expressed by Our Subject in the concrete and telephonic form of\nSchuyler 649'/^.\nBut here again another problem awaits us. Why the substitution of\nfor the last figure of Miss Pearly's number which we know should be merely 4?\nThis is more simple than appears on the surface. For Our Subject\nhaving written Call Schuyler, and having just started to make the lower quirk\nof the 6, certain inevitable fears began to assail him from all sides. These\nfears sprang fully armed from the grim realization of his age, for Mr. Trackle\nit must be understood, though I have not hitherto brought the student's atten-\ntion to the fact, was not a young man. He was, on the contrary, a few years\nmore than 50, and for that reason not so tireless and sturdy a warrior in the\nlists of Venus as, let us say, a dashing young blade of 25. This realization,\nhaving moreover a definite empirical basis, at once assumed so painfully\ndominating an aspect of Our Subject's relation to the little diving girl, that\nhis mind in self-defense retreating from the Arena of Love to those fields of\ncombat wherein age in no way hobbled his prowess, immediately galloped\ninto the Stock Exchange. Whereupon he at once realized that the 49 in\nMiss Pearly's telephone number was significant only because, with the\naddition of a quarter, it represented the price he had paid for 500 shares of\nRepublic Iron and Steel ten minutes previously.\nItem VI. RBC is a good buy\nUpon distorting the telephone number into a quotation for Republic Iron\nand Steel, Our Subject was minded of the hot tip Mr. Breen had sent up\nfrom the floor. This tip was scribbled on a small piece of paper, thus:—\nRoy says RBC\nis a good buy.\nJim\nAs the ticker abbreviation for Republic Iron etc. is RBC (intimately\nknown as Rebecca Steel), Mr. Trackle in this item has merely copied that"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.9", "texte": "section of Mr. Breen's note which caused him to purchase, as I have already\nstated, 500 shares of RBC at the low price of 49'/4.\nItem VII. No more rate oysters for me.\nBetween Item VI and the Item now under consideration, Our Subject\nbelched. And this belch carrying a small quantity of chyle upward from\nthe stomach, through the throat and esophagus, until it finally reached his\npalate, Mr. Trackle imagined or did actually receive the gustatory sensation\nof putrefying oysters, slightly flavored with sour coffee. Which horrible taste\nso prejudiced his mind and stomach against all present, past, and future raw\noysters that he immediately struck down on paper that resolution which this\nItem so forcibly expresses.\nItem VIII. Schuyler 49J/4 RBC 50/i Rebecca Steel 52\nAh Mr. Trackle! Mr. Trackle!\nSchuyler again!\nHow doth thine old mind root back to its young prey. How doth it lean\nagain toward the lithe body of the diver. Ah well-a-day those black, slow-\nslugging eyes have beaten thee into a sorry pickle. And there is no help in\nthee. Thou art too froward in passion, Mr. Trackle; too gone i' the flanks.\nFor didst thou not yestereen, fearing the frost of thy years had nipped the\nstriving petals of thine own fruition, fill thine old body with wine and thy\nguts with the aphrodisiacs of shell-fish? And didst not also, when thou hadst\nbought the harvest with thy purse, and e'en when thou beheldst it lie all gleam-\ning before thee like a field of wheat, didst not thy scythe in that bright-bitter\nmoment fail thee? And now, for we drop bridges across the symbols of thy\nconfession, dost thou not finger thy defeat in pain? And dost thou not,\ntwisting her yielded but ungathered body into a bartered stock, lay thine own\nbody beside as her quotation? And dost thou not make that quotation rise\nprogressively from 49t0 52, whilst in a mutual tempo burgeoning, Schuyler\nto RBC flowers into Rebecca Steel?\nItem IX. good by Miss Pearly\nThis item is so welded into complex meanings and associations, so fused\nwith fancies and ideas, that it would be bootless toil to chip it off into its\nvarious elements. But as these various elements spring from facts already\nmentioned in this absorbing treatise, any student who has carefully read,\ninwardly digested, and objectively deliberated upon everything I have\nhitherto written, will assuredly be able to grasp its manifold meanings, how-\never intangible they may seem to be. If the student is a Bergsonian he should\ndo it by a flash of Intuition, and thus save himself and me a great deal of\ntrouble.\nBut if the reader is not a Bergsonian; nor a student of occult psychology;\nnor in truth, has any intention of becoming either, and if moreover he has\ndashed through this treatise at break-neck speed, I will merely state ex\ncathedra for his benefit, two facts he can gulp down as he gallops on."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.10", "texte": "In the first place the good by refers this time not only to the prospective\nvirtue of Rebecca Steel (vide Item VII), but also to the prospective virtue of\nMiss Pearly. Both would be good buys, yielding, should one go long of\nthem, rich dividends and juicy profits. In the second place good by must also be\nunderstood in its connotation of farewell. For Mr. Trackle in the previous\nItem, having at last fused Miss Pearly with the Republic Iron and Steel\nCorporation, may for the nonce forget the little Brooklyn diving girl and\ntrade his head off.\nItem X. 49Y4 Rebec\n491/4, the price. Rebec, Rebecca Steel, the stock. It's selling cheap.\nIt's a buy. Nab it. Don't pass it up. Buy it. Buy RBC. It's going up.\nIt's going up uP UP. Ah-h-h-h! MILLIONS OF DOLLARS\nItem XI. Mr. Mallet\nHaving skipped over Item X in a light and rather impressionistic manner,\nlet us now conclude the analyses proper with a brief consideration of this\nfinal item.\nIt is evident something is going to happen. Mr. Trackle's mind seems\nto be pressing on rapidly to some sort of resolution. His impatient pencil\nhastens to complete the last line of his poem. It leaves the T uncrossed and\nswoops down to the corner of the pad. His hand rises toward the derby and\nshoves it back from his forehead. His feet climb off the table. His body\norganizes itself erect in his chair. He is about to ejaculate. His mouth\nopens.\n—Mr. Mallet, cries Mr. Trackle, come in here (undertone), you sucker.\n$(t* dh (J> (tj (h\nY\nWe have travelled far, my fellow student, but the end of our long\npilgrimage is at hand. Let us not hasten, for in the far mist lies New York\nlike a jade toy. Already (but let us linger, my friend) already can\nwe see the spire of the Woolworth Building stride into the sky, and incense\nsteaming from the roofs of office buildings. And now we can hear the roar,\nthe clash and shock of traffic, and now the iron teeth of a rivetter chattering in\nthe red angles of its girders. Now we see the clotted streets, Broadway and\nWall, the slimed facade of the Exchange. We hear the shouts of traders,\nthe hoarse stutter of tickers, a gong clanging, a telephone.\nAnd now AVE! do we behold Mr. Trackle rising before Mr. Mallet.\nHurry! Hurry! Please Hurry!\nRising before Mr. Mallet, he clenches his fist as if to slam Mr. Mallet or\nsome invisible opponent standing between them. He pauses. Mallet\nsquares off.\nThe gong.\nKid Trackle's fist sizzles through space.\n—BUY FIFTEEN THOUSAND REBECCA STEEL AT THE\nMARKET! (End of First Part.) Q D\nv J ' Vt a nrtro UDnw/M\n\nSlater Brown"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.11", "texte": "DISCOURSE IN A CANTINA AT HAVANA\n\nI.\nCanaries in the morning, orchestras\nIn the afternoon, balloons at night. That is\nA difference, at least, from nightingales,\nJehovah and the great sea-worm. The air\nIs not so elemental nor the earth\nSo near.\nBut the sustenance of the wilderness\nDoes not sustain us in the metropoles.\nII.\nLife is an old casino in a park.\nThe bills of the swans are flat upon the ground:\nA most desolate wind has chilled Rouge-Fatima\nAnd a grand decadence settles down like cold.\nIII.\nThe swans. . . . Before the bills of the swans fell flat\nUpon the ground, and before the chronicle\nOf affected homage foxed so many books,\nThey warded the blank waters of the lakes\nAnd island canopies which were entailed\nTo that casino. Long before the rain\nSwept through its boarded windows and the leaves\nFilled its encrusted fountains, they arrayed\nThe twilights of the mythy goober khan.\nThe centuries of excellence to be\nRose out of promise and became the sooth\nOf trombones floating in the trees."}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.12", "texte": "The toil\nOf thought evolved a peace eccentric to\nThe eye and tinkling to the ear. Gruff drums\nCould beat, yet not alarm the populace.\nThe indolent progressions of the swans\nMade earth come right; a peanut parody\nFor peanut people.\nAnd serener myth\nConceiving from its perfect plenitude,\nLusty as June, more fruitful than the weeks\nOf ripest summer, always lingering\nTo touch again the hottest bloom, to strike\nOnce more the longest resonance, to cap\nThe clearest woman with apt weed, to mount\nThe thickest man on thickest stallion-back,\nThis urgent, competent, serener myth\nPassed like a circus.\nPolitic man ordained\nImagination as the fateful sin.\nGrandmother and her basketful of pears\nMust be the crux for our compendia.\nThat's world enough, and more, if one includes\nHer daughters to the peached and ivory wench\nFor whom the towers are built. The burgher's breast,\nAnd not a delicate ether star-impaled,\nMust be the place for prodigy, unless\nProdigious things are tricks. The world is not\nThe bauble of the sleepless nor a word\nThat should import a universal pith\nTo Cuba. Tot these milky matters down.\nThey nourish Jupiters. Their casual pap\nWill drop like sweetness in the empty nights\nWhen too great rhapsody is left annulled\nAnd liquorish prayer provokes new sweats: so, so:\nLife is an old casino in a wood."}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.13", "texte": "IV.\nIs the function of the poet here mere sound,\nSubtler than the ornatest prophecy,\nTo stuff the ear? It causes him to make\nHis infinite repetitions and alloys\nOf pick of ebon, pick of halcyon.\nIt weights him with nice logic for the prim.\nAs part of nature he is part of us.\nHis rarities are ours: may they be fit\nAnd reconcile us to our selves in those\nTrue reconcilings, dark, pacific words,\nAnd the adroiter harmonies of their fall.\nClose the cantina. Hood the chandelier.\nThe moonlight is not yellow but a white\nThat silences the ever-faithful town.\nHow pale and how possessed a night it is,\nHow full of exhalations of the sea. . . .\nAll this is older than its oldest hymn,\nHas no more meaning than tomorrow's bread.\nBut let the poet on his balcony\nSpeak and the sleepers in their sleep shall move,\nWaken, and watch the moonlight on their floors.\nThis may be benediction, sepulcher,\nAnd epitaph. It may, however, be\nAn incantation that the moon defines\nBy mere example opulently clear.\nAnd the old casino likewise may define\nAn infinite incantation of our selves\nIn the grand decadence of the perished swans.\n\nWallace Stevens"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "204", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.14", "texte": "FOUR POEMS\n\nI.\nwhen the spent day begins to frail\n(whose grave already three or two\nyoung stars with spades of silver dig)\nby beauty i declare to you\nif what i am at one o'clock\nto little lips (which have not sinned\nin whose displeasure lives a kiss)\nkneeling, your frequent mercy begs,\nsharply believe me, wholly, well\n—did (wisely suddenly into\na dangerous womb of cringing air)\nthe largest hour push deep his din\nof wallowing male (shock beyond shock\nblurted) strokes, vibrant with the purr\nof echo pouring in a mesh\nof following tone: did this and this\nspire strike midnight (and did occur\nbell beyond fiercely spurting bell\na jetted music splashing fresh\nupon silence)—i without fail\nentered became and was these twin\nimminent lisping bags of flesh;\nbecame eyes moist lithe shuddering big,\nthe luminous laughter, and the legs\nwhereas, at twenty minutes to"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "205", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.15", "texte": "one, i am this blueeyed Finn\nemerging from a lovehouse who\nbuttons his coat against the wind\n\nII.\nmy smallheaded pearshaped\nlady in gluey twilight\nmoving, suddenly\nis three animals. The\nminute waist continually\nwith an African gesture\nutters a frivolous intense half of\nGirl which (like some\nfloating snake upon itself always and\nslowly which upward certainly is pouring) emits\na pose\n:to twitter wickedly\nwhereas the big and firm legs moving solemnly\nlike careful and furious and beautiful elephants\n(mingled in whispering thickly smooth thighs\nthinkingly)\nremind me of Woman and\nhow between\nher hips India is\n\nIII.\nnow that fierce few\nflowers (stealthily)\nin the alive west\nbegin"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "206", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.16", "texte": "requiescat this six\nfeet of Breton big good\nbody, which terminated\nin fists hair wood\nerect cursing hatless who\n(bent by wind) slammed hard—\nover the tiller; clattered\nforward skidding in outrageous\nsabots\nlanguage trickling\npried his black\nmouth with fat jibing\nlips,\nonce upon a\n(that is\nover: and the sea heaving\nindolent colourless forgets) time\nRequiescat.\ncarry\ncarefully the blessed large silent him\ninto nibbling final worms\n\nIV.\n\nthe wind is a Lady with\nbright slender eyes (who\nmoves) at sunset\nand who—touches—the\nhills without any reason\n(i have spoken with this\nindubitable and green person \"Are\nYou the wind ?\" \" Yes\" \"why do you touch flowers\nas if they were unalive, as"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.17", "texte": "if They were ideas?\" \"because, sir\nthings which in my mind blossom will\nstumble beneath a clumsiest disguise, appear\ncapable of fragility and indecision\n—do not suppose these\nwithout any reason and otherwise\nroses and mountains\ndifferent from the i am who wanders\nimminently across the renewed world\"\nto me said the) wind being A lady in a green\ndress, who; touches: the fields\n(at sunset)\n\nE. E. Cummings\n\nPlan for a One-Story House\nFinsterlin"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.18", "texte": "FOUR POEMS\n\n1\nThe new cathedral overlooking the park\nlooked down from its tower\nwith great eyes today and saw\nby the decorative lake a group of people\nstaring curiously at the corpse\nof a suicide—Peaceful dead young man\nthe money they have put into the stones\nhas been spent to teach men of\nlife's austerity. You died\nand teach us the same lesson.\nYou seem a cathedral, celebrant of\nthe naked spring that shivers for me\namong the long black trees\n\n2\nThe stars, that are small lights,\nare my nightly companions, my friends\nnow that I know them foreign.\nThe security I feel in them\ncannot be broken. Separate, inscrutable\nuninterfering, like nothing\nin my life—l walk with their sparkle\nrelieved and comforted or when\nthe moon moves slowly up among them\nwith flat shine then the night\nhas a novel light in it—curved\ncuriously in a thin halfcircle"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "209", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.19", "texte": "3\nBy the road to the contagious hospital\nunder the surge of the blue\nmottled clouds driving from the\nnorthwest—a cold wind. Beyond the\nwaste of broad muddy fields\nbrown with dried weeds, standing and fallen\npatches of standing water\nthe scattering of tall trees\nall along the road the reddish\npurplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy\nstuff of bushes and small trees\nwith brown leaves under them\nleafless vines—\nlifeless in appearance, sluggish\ndazed Spring approaches—\nThey enter the new world naked\ncold—uncertain of all\nsave that they enter—all about them\nthe cold, familiar wind—\nNow the grass, tomorrow\nthe curl of wildcarrot leaf\nOne by one objects are defined—\nIt quickens: clarity, outline of leaf\nBut now the stark dignity of\nentrance—Still, the profound change\nhas overtaken them—rooted they\ngrip down and begin to awaken"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "210", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.20", "texte": "4\n\nHow has the way been found ?\nAmong wires\nrunning through smoke\nwalking through and over\noily, stained waters—?\nOn the highest airs\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams\n\nPlan for a Two-Story House\nFinsterlin"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "211", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.21", "texte": "THE EXTRA\n\nIf the wind which descends in a spirai through the trees of Marmor Island,\nhaving swept away the down abandoned by the eaglet in the eyrie which hangs\nfrom the balancing rock, the rock which once he climbed (his bones, what\nhave they done with his white bones?), which once was climbed by the good,\nthe valiant Eugene Demolder, comes hypocritically caressing, with forehead\nwrinkled and with eye oblique, the greensward which descends from the\nfountain of Three Bums at the house of Dolores (what name have you just\npronounced?) :—ask the wind about the widow of the deckhand, and you\nshall hear what the wind replies. The greensward, at least, remembers.\nIt is rather to the greensward that you should address your anxiety, which is\nnot only of the throat but of the breast; of the breast, did I say, no, of the soul.\nAnd may I be excused for borrowing from the language of philosophy (a\nvulgar hoax) this vague word which designates with precision a reality so\nelementary that the first damned truckdriver of my acquaintance having wiped\nhis dripping and alcoholic nose with the back of his sleeve would not think\nto question it. You understand.\nOnce in the rue Lepic I saw three men whom I did not mistake for princes\nin disguise. They had lost their noses during the war of 19!4-1918. They\nwere not ashamed. The youngest held a stalk of rhubarb in his left hand.\nWell, I regret to confess that the greensward of Marmor Island was ashamed.\nIt blushed like a simple carrot, and the traveller, who had dropped his wallet\nfor a moment to calm the eruptions on his shoulder with a fresh and benevolent\nhand, where was I at? believed himself in autumn. Do not stop here, you,\npasser-by with a three-day growth of beard, in spite of the sweat of your shirt\nand the blisters on your feet; surely you will regret it. It is to this spot that\nDolores had enticed Eugene Demolder, that fatal evening when, at the Deco-\nrated-Swan Tavern chance proved so unfavorable to limping Victor, contrary\nto what might have happened if the wisdom of nations had been anything\nelse than a dish washer in love with an officer of Engineers. The perversity\nof this woman, Dolores, will be easy to measure. She had foreseen the weak-\nness of the solitary man, the triumph of black eyes, the electricity which is not\ncaused alone, as absurd professors of physics believe, who are poorly versed\nin the science which they teach already, by rubbing cat's fur against a stick\nof ebonite. She had chosen this place on account of the brook which crosses\nit, carrying little chips of wood, a few Mayflies, the cottony seeds of poplars,\nmoss and other materials which respire innocence. During this time, in the\nhold of the Death to Tyrants, what monstrous love unites the horrible husband\nof fickle Dolores and this unfortunate adolescent whose name has never\nreached my ears, so much do the unchained elements pity his reputation. He"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "212", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.22", "texte": "had enlisted on board the Aristocrats to the Lamp-posts because he believed\nthe sweet whispers of the world on Mercator's projection and the monotonous\nchant of sails. And now ... if, as people say, such scenes are enacted\ndaily, the Minister of the Navy should take measures. What do you think\nof God, o impassible portholes which include man and the fishes in the\nsame glance?\nEugene Demolder regains his hut, coat slung across his arm, heart occupied\nwith Dolores. Alas! he has lost the blue sage-flower of chastity, and he gives\nno thought to his loss. He is happy, poor idiot. And the cripple . . .\nwhat is his role? He wipes his nose. He is seated in the house of Dolores be-\ntween the pot of catnip and the grocery-store calendar. His mistress is late to\nreturn. Here is the creature now. She utters a cry when she recognizes Victor.\nShe thought he had been away and gambling. He looks into her eyes. The\nimage of Eugene Demolder was not yet effaced from them. The cripple did not\nrecognize his rival. It was at this moment that Vice, Vice with a tongue of\nsaltpetre, appeared between the beams of the ceiling and descended to take\nhis familiar seat on the shoulders of the accursed pair, who were delivering\nthemselves near the dead fire to games which would make the devil lower his\neyes if the devil were of this world. I only wish my nurse could see that. A\nlittle child moans in the next room; Dolores never knew its father's name.\nWhile Eugene Demolder climbs the mountain to gather edelweiss (a\ndiabolic flower if there is any such) to pin at the breast of his well-beloved,\nMr. and Mrs. Demolder, his parents, are dying of poverty and sorrow. He\nwas not able to attend the double funeral, Eugene; his laughing mistress wished\nto dance that day. It might have been a comic opera. But the adulterous\nwoman is showing Victor a letter from the deckhand. Victor, although he\ncannot read, pretends to follow across her shoulder, on which he rests his\nbadly shaven chin. His arms have slipped round the waist of Dolores and he\nhas abandoned his joined hands to the demoralizing practice of twiddling\nthumbs. I feel that misfortune impends:\n\"My Dear Doloresse,\n\"The weather isn't always fair. The ground swell is the worst\nof all. I roll everywhere, in the shadows of every hold, a million\nthoughts for you: like cigarettes. Ten for your legs, ten, you\nunderstand, ten for your eyes, and I can always find the matter for\nten more. Every time I make love I say to myself, if only Doloresse\nwere there. This time it is a cabin boy who didn't want to the first\ntime; things have changed. There are days when he makes me\nnervous: he moves his hair, silk you would say, over my face, my\nhands, my chest. Then his face seems invaded by the night. All\nat once; it's queer. Soon we shall land in a country where you\ncan buy women for a postage stamp. That's where you can have\nyour pick. Our cargo, they say we carry oranges. You can see"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "213", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.23", "texte": "the joke. ihe cabin boy's body is white, white, white. It seems\nthey are going to elect a president of the republic in France. The\nnewspapers will be interesting. I can't think of anything else to\nsay. I embrace you as in the land of snows, a long time since,\nyou know. Your devoted husband, Felix COVENOL.\"\nWhen the female of the owl, after visiting minutely the grass-stalks of the\nclearing and the treacherous soil of swamps, comes beating its wings softly,\ncomes like the baker's boy to find her young whose voices for hours past have\nsounded no longer in her ears, and for a good reason, the nest being destroyed,\nthe owlets and the owl their father carried away:—when the female of the\nowl after vainly searching for her nest is obliged to realize the extent of her\nmisfortune, and at first she is not willing, she rises moaning between the trees\nand higher than the custom of owls permits. She follows the glances of the\nmoon and descends in a spiral as far as the door of a farmhouse and she\nrecognizes her husband, on whom the Christians of the countryside have\nthought to revenge the death of the son of their God: well, what do you think\nshe does? Will she sing a ballad and put a red rose in her hair? Will she\nput lotions on her hands and make her claws into jewels for the skin of men?\nWill she grow drunken on beds of lace, while young profligates drag them-\nselves into the shadow of her caresses, will she grow drunken with the blood\nof the grapes of this province of the Gauls where there are still a few\nchurches to destroy for the next time, will she grow drunken to the point of\ntaking off her gown, to the point of throwing it on the floor without regard for\nits price, of forgetting to fold it carefully as she has done every evening, of\ndancing, dancing, dancing in the midst of desires, tobacco and broken glasses.\nNo, not at all.\nThe law of universal gravitation, so they say, has been riddled with holes.\nWhat a pity that there was no photographer on the scene, provided with anti-\nhalo films! Open your eyes wide, I can show you a spectacle no less grand\nthan this metaphysical buffoonery. A wise prudence had always kept the\nmother of the cripple from sending her little Victor to school. Old peasant\nwoman, she had not foreseen the science of Dolores and the vices of the\ndeckhand! Observe how written words drive a path silently through the veins\nof limping Victor with his complexion the color of prunes. He parades his\nfolly through the blossoming cherry orchards and his bleeding lips repeat:\nWhite, white, white. The clouds are young men's bodies swayed by the\nrolling of a ship. Victor grates the palm of his hand against the bark of trees.\nIt is fifteen years since he had tried to sing: now he makes a hoarse and pro-\nlonged sound like that which bulls emit when they have been closed in a\nstable all winter and when the first meadow opens before them and they\ndiscover deep in clover the broad spoor of the herd. He runs. He stops a\nminute to spit. Meanwhile, on the village green, they are auctioning off the\nfurniture of Eugene. The chest of drawers, the wardrobe and the rest\ntransform themselves before the church, don't ring so loud, into a pair of"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "214", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.24", "texte": "paste earrings and a coloured scarf. Then the peddler goes off with his knotted\nbandanna over his shoulder.\nWhat stranger has set his foot on Marmor Island? He wears soft shirts and\nhis hair is as blue as ink. He passes in the midst of children at play; he\nsmiles to little Eric, then to himself. He is seen crossing the public squares.\nIn the countryside he is found motionless in the open places; he does not seem\nto be hunting points of view. Dolores is waiting for the cripple at the fountain.\nHe tells her his secret. She shivers with joy. A project is expanding in his\nbreast, has reached his lips. Across fences the couple is watching, haggardly,\nthe colts which pursue each other and nibble at brown flanks. At the point\nof infinity parallel lines will meet at last. For purposes of convenience, infinity\nis represented in a corner of the drawing pads which are used by school\nchildren to copy from plaster copies Michael Angelo's slave, that living\nscandal. But follow the twin thoughts of the lovers of Marmor Island; their\ncommon point is not, as you might believe, this English daisy with edges\nlightly purpled. Nor is the English daisy their point of departure. Strangers,\nthey have come together once more only because of their desire, only because\nof the object of their desire. And that object . . . how he is tranquil\nin the crow's nest where he rests, his sleeves rolled back, one arm round his\nforehead, the other hand clinging to a rope which mounts to bathe in the sky,\nwhile the sea air and the sun are happy to caress so tempting a flesh without\nfalling into mortal sin! And you, my good Eugene Demolder, why do you\ntoss your naive shoes against the ceiling of your hut? Here is what happened:\nas he was carrying the jewels, bought from the sale of his furniture, to his\nmistress, Eugene looked through the window and surprised the guilty intimacy\nof the cripple and Madame Covenol. In a bar near the docks the stranger\nwatches Eugene, who drinks, drinks. Then he gives a little money for the\nprivilege of retiring with a tall pale painted girl who wants to weep.\nFelix the deckhand dreams in the flanks of the ship. At last he knows\nwhat happens during a kiss on the mouth, this extraordinary voyage to the\ncountry of corals and luminous fishes. He will be emperor of the Indies. He\nis emperor of the Indies and king of Aurora. Aurora is a city with a soft\nskin, with easy morals, a city which glides into a background of palms. A\nbark among the reeds. What does the Queen say? It is the great fan which\nbreathes, which caresses. Wakening. And you beside me. In a week we\nshall be on Marmor Island. You shall come with me. My wife will be glad.\nShe is talking to Victor somewhere on the island, while Eugene spies on them\nfrom the shelter of a tree. The stranger is seen to pass, herborizing. He\nseeks huge ugly flowers, examines them under the microscope and places them,\nwith a satisfied air, in the black tin box which hangs by a strap from his\nshoulder. Adolphe the cabin boy has begun to love his master and thinks of\nhim when he washes his teeth. The man who makes the stars revolve when\nonly his hand touches me. But there is no daisy on board ship to pluck petal\nby petal."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "215", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.25", "texte": "The sun which has just risen, if one can believe appearances, will view the\nlanding of the deckhand and the events which follow. Near the docks there is\none house which wakens before the others. A housewife begins to wash the\ntiles of the kitchen vigorously. They are in the shape of four-leafed clovers.\nTo whom will they bring luck? Somewhere else the chambermaid of an inn\nis picking from her hair the bits of straw which escaped from her bolster.\nBut it is a knife which Eugene is weighing. Excellent, honest Eugene.\nI have no time to reprove your morals. Dolores sleeps like a baby. On the\ndeck Felix polishes his buttons and watches Adolphe, who yawns. The\ncripple inspects minutely the barrel of his rifle. A face has passed behind\nthe window. Victor opens the door. Nobody: that's odd. The little girl\nwho, seated for hours and hours at the foot of the huge sunflowers in her\nfamilial garden, has been stringing beads on a black cotton thread, taking\ncare to alternate regularly the colours blue, yellow, white, green, lavender,\norange, blue, yellow, white, suddenly remarks two white beads side by side\nin the middle of her long string. She breaks the thread for spite, the beads\nscatter, she cries. The goat comes to play with the little girl, crushes the beads,\nand the last word is said.\nAbout four o'clock in the afternoon, what magnificent weather, Dolores,\nstanding on the threshold of her home, enjoys diabolically the drama which\nalready is revolving round her smile. How she sniffs the air, how gaily she\nhums! She has crossed her hands behind her neck. On one road, the fury\nof the deckhand. On another, the terror of the cabin boy. The highways of\nthe island will not be bored this night. Once more the lightning of a rifle in\nthe underbrush. The stranger steps out of the Decorated-Swan. You have\nchosen a strange moment, Eugene, to come to reproach the woman who mocks\nyou. She offers you wine. Don't stare at her throat in this fashion, unfortunate\nman. A caress wins every argument. Against whom has this hand been armed,\nthis hand which only thought of twisting a woman's wrist? Transparent\nfingers of Dolores, pointing out the road to the mountain. Where is the deck-\nhand? I heard cries, I thought I recognized the voice of Adolphe. Girls pass\nsinging, arms round each other's waists, those at the two ends playing with\ntheir aprons. What is there red on this leaf? What is there moaning near\nthe fountain? I warned you, traveller. A few flies circle. The report of a\nrifle and this flame. . . I have seen gunshots in old lithographs. The stranger\nis seated on a heap of stones; with the tip of his cane he designs the sex of\nman and the sex of woman in the dust. He rises and speaks to the road mender,\nwho shifts his cap on his head to answer. Broom will flower as long as there\nare lovers in the world. In the flowering broom of the mountainside, Felix is\nsuspended by death. Horrible wounds. The head is almost detached from\nthe trunk, the body is hacked in more than thirty places. A little yellow flower\nhas fallen lugubriously into the wound of his neck. I have seen this knife in\nthe hands of Eugene. Eugene! Only the echo answers, Gene! The ball\nentered his back at the point indicated by a cross and he tumbled into the"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "216", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.26", "texte": "quarry. Poor, poor Eugene Demolder, now your body is only a little bouquet\nof gilly-flowers in the middle of the silex. It wasn't worth the trouble. And yet\nyou were not a disagreeable spot in the landscape, with your little waxed\nmoustache. We shall speak of you no more.\nAround a billiard table already weary (it is a long time since an awkward\nplayer paid sixty francs for the first tear, the tear that left the first angular\nscar in the cloth), the cashier, the proprietor of the cafe, two or three clients,\none of whom holds his seidel to keep it from flying away, the smiling partner,\nthe impatient adversaries, a soldier who no longer carries his pipe to his lips—\nit will go out—, all of them animated by different sentiments, watch the\nfortunate player who is making a run. Where is the cripple? It is his turn.\n\"How did you tear your clothes, Adolphe?\" asks Dolores, but the pale cabin\nboy shakes his head, full of the horrible death agony of the cripple, and does\nnot reply. He looks at his clawed hands, and hides them from his eyes. I\nbegin to understand the joy of the animals which crawl over the infirm earth.\nAnother billiard; in the adjoining room the child of Dolores lies stifled in its\ncradle. It never recognized the knee which weighted down its breast.\nUnfortunate mother, how can one fail to pity her? The punishment is too\ngreat. Yes? But rather observe Dolores: she doesn't give a rip. She draws\nAdolphe into her arms, her fingers penetrate the tears in his garments, and\nnow the machinery is once more in operation.\nDid you hear the branches crackle? Like broom, primroses are yellow.\nWhen I studied the catechism, I was given the dance of mosquitoes over the\nmarshes as proof of the existence of God: against all probability, these little\nbeasts do not tangle their feet. The mysterious stranger enters the cabin of\nDolores and surprises the embraces of the woman and the child. \"I know\neverything,\" he says, and once more the lovers tremble. This time, this time,\nbehold, the vengeance of the skies! Not at all. There are, thank God, peoole\n_ A >\nbeyond the reach of your God. Have you seen Dolores, how she is lovely\nwith her hair undone? The stranger reassures the couple, he begins to\nundress, he speaks his name: Ludovic. Adolphe and Dolores exchange a\nlong regard. Ludovic folds open the sheets and glides his body, so cold, so\nthin, between the two warm bodies, which he caresses, and which in the\nfalling night (all the plants of the island have grown rigid and all the insects\nhave turned over on their backs) suddenly begin to howl with pleasure.\n\nLouis Aragon\n(Translated by Malcolm Cowley)"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "217", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.27", "texte": "TOWARDS A MORE PASSIONATE\nAPPREHENSION OF LIFE AND\nDEDICATED TO GORHAM\nB. MUNSON\nMALCOLM COWLEY.\nIT was an arduous task. *1 The man must be a\ngenius. He is astute in character. We went\nto tke museum, Theory is better than practice.\n«I Do you believe in being ceremonious ceremonious?\nWords are the man. The man is a window or\na door. A battledore or double door. *1 Out of a\ndoor the picador. H The door adores the picador the\npicador the matador, *1 The matador adores dor-\nmice. *1 He will stay for lunch.\nHE debated a long time on the decision hut\nfinally discharged the man because he was dis-\narmed as we discerned later. He surmoun-\nted his intangible difficulties with precision. n His\nnomination took place after the assassination and the\nmassacre was greater than ever before. His tuition\ncost a great deal. *1 He ventured into the ram but\neventually the adventure was a failure.\nHE worked with alert accuracy. Eventually the\npresident's attention was demanded. *1 Even-\ntually the president's attention was incensed.\n«I It was habitual to have perpetual horror of the\ncreature. *1 The distinguished man had a distinct\ndisagreement and his disappointment disturbed his\nperfect composure.\nIT is probable that he will be punctual punctual punc-\ntual and papa why is the man punctual punctual\npunctual because he is punctual punctual punctual,\n112 The ram descends, Gently the ram descends\nthe infinitely gentle rain o rain gently descending\nand lam bored. Manifestations are geometrical\nnot ethical."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "218", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.28", "texte": "\"AN AWFUL STORMING FIRE\"\nOR\n\"HER AND I ON A JOURNEY TO THE SECRET\nOF THE SUN\"\nBy the Author Who Solved the Mysterious Riddle\n\nI was standing on a busy corner waiting for a street car and smoking a\ncigarette in one of the world's largest cities, and while standing there a woman\nwalked up to me and said, \"Excuse me, and could you please tell me the time\nif you know what it is?\" I told her the time of day it was. She said, \"Thank\nyou. And then she said, \"I have been strolling around this corner for quite\nsome little time and it is late. I must go, and would you please mind letting\nme have ten cents for car fare as I came away without any money. Had that\nparty showed up it would have been allright and I would not be asking\nyou for it.\"\nI sized it up. This was a trap of her's, an excuse to get to talking in\nasking me the time of day it was. I liked her looks and did not have ten cents\nin change and so I gave her a quarter. She smiled sweetly and even blushed\nand said, \"I thank you.\" Just then a car came along and she got on and as\nthe next car that came along was my car, I got on and all the way home I\nhad this accident on my mind and it set me to thinking of some of the many\nvaried past and strange experiences I have had with women asking me ques-\ntions on the street. Also with flirts and street walkers and quite a few I have\ncome in contact with. Somehow another in this case it seemed odd, unusual.\nThere was a strange feeling about it, why I don't know.\nI had forgotten about the accident, and about three weeks after this I was\ndown town and this woman came into my mind. As I was walking along\nthe street and came to the corner, this woman also turned the corner. She\ncame up to me and said, \"You are the gentleman I asked the time of day and\nalso asked you for ten cents car fare and you gave me a quarter about three\nweeks ago.\" I said, \"Yes, you are right, lam the party.\" The nerve of her\ndid not surprise me for this is what she then said, \"Well,\" she said, \"that was\nonly a bluff of mine to get to talking with you and I cut short in my talk when\nI saw you were not that kind of a man who would fall for my game. And so\nI thought I would try and make it look to you I was decent and respectable.\"\n\"Well,\" she says,\"I am that way and the other way too. I like to have a\ngood time on the side.\" And she said, \"I bet you do too.\" I said, \"Well, it\nall depends and I think you are right about it in this case.\" Then she said,\n\"Where are you going this evening?\" I said, \"No place in particular.\" I\nnever told her I was married and that my wife was away on a visit to her"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "219", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.29", "texte": "sister's. \"Well,\" she saicl, \"let's take a walk.\" I said, \"Yes, sure I am\nwith you.\" So we strolled along until we came to a park, went in and sat\ndown on a bench. It got late, around eleven o'clock and I suggested that we\ngo over to the corner saloon that had a side entrance for women. She said,\n\"You beat me to it, I was just going to say the same to you.\"\nWe went over and in. We had a glass of beer and several more beers\nfollowed. Then she said, \"I must go, and could you meet me here tomorrow\nnight?\" I said, \"Yes, I would do so.\" We went out and I wanted to get\non the same car with her. She said, \"Do me a favor and let me go by myself.\"\nI did so, having sized it up she did not want me to follow her maybe to see\nwhere she lived. I got on the next car and thought maybe she might be\nbluffing me about meeting her there the next evening. I sort of made up my\nmind not to be there, but I was kind of stuck on her. She had beautiful\ndreamy blue eyes and it was the shade or glow of purple in them that seemed\nto charm me or hold me in working for more of her company. And this in\nspite of me trying to wish I had never saw her or else wishing I had met her\nlong before I did. There was something about her I cant explain. Her dark\nlovely titian hair also got a hold on my nerves. I'll say she was my kind and\nshe was my style. There seemed to be something funny, odd or queer about\nthe whole thing of this affair.\nWell, I met her the next evening early and we sat in there all evening\nuntil twelve o'clock. She said to me that evening, \"I used to be kind of\nsporty, but cut it out. lam a married woman. My husband knows nothing\nof my past. He is a traveling salesman and is away most of the time. My\nhusband is a good man. He is good to me, but the devil is in me yet. I had\nto get back into some of my old ways again.\" We left each other that night\nas we did the night before. She would not let me on the same car. We got\non different cars. I was to meet her the next evening at 9 o'clock on a street\ncorner in another part of the city quite some ways out. Again I had my\ndoubts, thinking she might be bluffing me. I made up my mind to see this\nthing through and it was something about her wonderful blue and purple eyes\nthat seemed to hold me into this game and I have doubts if there is another\nwoman in the world that has eyes like her's were.\nNext evening I was on the corner at 9 o'clock where I was to meet her.\nShe was not there. I waited for about five minutes and said to myself, \"Bet\nit's a bluff this time.\" I looked up the street and saw a woman turn the corner\nwalking rather fast towards me. I said, \"That's her.\" It was, she came up\nto me and said, \"I know you'll forgive me. lam awful sorry I kept you\nwaiting.\" I said, \"Oh, that's allright, I would be willing to wait here for\nyou, well, until you just come.\" She laughed and said, \"Yes, I believe you.\nI bet you would.\" She said, \"Well, we will walk and stroll around this\nevening.\" We walked along talking about various things, turning in and out\nseveral streets. I was so interested in her I never paid any attention to where\nwe were walking or what street we were on."}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "220", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.30", "texte": "While walking along she caught hold of my arm and said, \"Let's walk a\nlittle slower as I wish to say something to you. lam going to tell you some-\nthing.\" She said, \"The reason I did not let you come or bring me home was\nI did not want you to see where I lived. I wanted to make sure you were\ndifferent from all other men I have ever met. I saw and find you to be such.\"\nShe said, \"You are so wonderful, different and there is only two men in the\nworld that I am willing to trust and that is my husband and you, but neither\nof you can trust me because there is a serpent in me. You know it but my\nhusband dont.\" Then she said, \"I live up the street here and I would like\nyou to come home with me to my apartments.\" She said, \"It will be allright.\"\nI said, \"Is this straight?\" She said, \"Yes, I assure you it will be allright.\nIt is safe and you have no reason to be afraid or have the least fear. My\nhusband is in a western city and will not be home for ten days.\" I said,\n\"Allright, I'll take your word for it that everything is O. K.\"\nWe walked along and came to a house. She said, \"I live here.\" As we\nwalked up the steps I hesitated, but some kind of an impulse seemed to be\ndrawing me on. She opened her hand bag and took out a latch key. We\nstepped into the place and she turned on the lights and then she bolted the\ndoor on the inside. We walked into the parlor. I took off my hat and laid\nit on the table. She removed her hat and coat and put them on a chair. Then\nshe sat down on the sofa.\nI sat on a chair in front of her and said, \"What did you mean when you\nsaid there is only two men you could trust but neither can trust you because as\nyou said there is a serpent in you?\" She said, \"I mean this. You, I know\nhave had a lot of experience in life and I know men I can read them like a\nbook, and most all men are alike and, of course, you know there are exceptions\nto all things, but in the case of men, they are all alike except a few and the\nfew are so different, like day and night. Now, I told you quite a little about\nmyself and when I said that neither you nor my husband can trust me. You\nknow you cant from what you see and know about me, you know it from\nexperience in life and as to my husband, if he knew a little of what you know\nhe also would know that he could not trust me. So, that is what I meant when\nI said there was a serpent in me, and there is too. But in a case like mine\nif any harm comes to any one it will be to me, not to others.\" I said, \"Yes,\nI understand you.\" But I lied to her, I did not understand her for I could not\nquite get next to her explanation, and besides I sized it up she was a poor\njudge of reading men like a book as she said. I had some ideas of my own\nand kept certain things to myself because I was anxious to see this matter\nthrough, the outcome of it, and I was careful not to make any bad cracks for\nfear she would dismiss me too soon. We got to talking about various things\nand she told me her name and age. Her given name was like one that is\nfamous in history and her age was around that period where a woman enjoys\nat her best life the passions of love wanting to love and be loved, thrills, excite-\nment and flattery that she doesn't know is flattery, and she was the picture of"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "221", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.31", "texte": "perfect health and had it in her that she could show the strength or fury of a\nbig tigress cat of the forest or jungle, and she also had it in her the weakness\nof a kitten which she showed most plainly.\nShe got up and got some pictures and was showing them to me. I looked\nwith interest at one of her's and said, \"How good looking you were when you\nhad this picture taken.\" This was a bluff of mine, for she looked better to\nme then than she did in the picture. I did not wish to let her know it too soon\nthat I was stuck on her. She said, \"Look at me now. Cant you tell the\ndifference?\" I said, \"Very little change from the picture and the way you\nlook now, and of course you were dressed different and that accounts a\nwhole lot in making the looks of you now and when you had this picture\ntaken.\" She was playing her game and I was playing my game. She said,\n\"Well, others have told me different and I thought different myself.\" I said\nto her, \"Well, you told me I knew a lot and have had experiences in life and\nyou got it right about me there, and might I say I am a pretty good judge of\nhuman nature and looks, and you look as good to me now as you did when you\nhad that picture taken.\" She said, \"Well, I believe you and what others have\nsaid about me they were sore or jealous at me and about me and I truly think\nfrom your talk I look as good myself now as I did when I had that picture taken,\nand it was imagination on my part in thinking the way I did and listening to\nwhat others said.\" She said, \"You make me feel so good, come here, I'll tell\nyou something, I wish to whisper it in your ear.\" I leaned over and she kissed\nme. Of course, I kissed her back.\nWe were sitting close together. I got up and sat down in her lap and\nkissed her again and again several times, and then threw my arms around her\nand was loving and hugging her close and tight to me. Both of us were kissing\neach other. I was looking into her dreamy purple blue eyes and I said, \"You\nhave quite a few freckles on your face.\" She said, \"Yes, I have. I wish I\ncould get rid of them. I have tried so many different things. They kind of\ndisappear, but come back.\" I said, \"Well, let them alone they look fine to\nme. This is just what I love, freckles, blue eyes and red hair.\" She said,\n\"I kind of think you love me a little.\" I said, \"A little, well its more than a\nlittle. I love you a whole lot.\" So we kissed and hugged each other again.\nThen I said, \"Bet I am heavy sitting on your lap, let's change, you sit on\nmine.\" So we changed positions. Then she threw her arms around me and\nstarted to squeeze me so hard I told her about it. She threw her leg up over the\narm of the chair showing her bare knee. I said, \"O, gee whiz, what an awful\npretty leg you have.\" She said, \"Yes, I have been told that I have pretty\nlegs and arms, and what do you think of it, I have been told I would make\na fine artist's model.\" I agreed with her and said, \"Yes, I bet you would and\ndo you know it that the finest artist's models in the world are in factories and\noffices. Rats on the society and rich stuff.\" She laughed and said, \"You\nsure are a philosopher and you said something.\" Then I said, \"I'll bet I can\nguess what size stocking you wear.\" She said, \"All, right, what size do I"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "222", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.32", "texte": "wear?\" I said, \"No. 8,\" feeling the edge of her stocking. She said, \"You\nguessed it.\" Then I said, \"Are you any good in telling riddles? lam fine\nat it.\" She said, \"No, lam not much on it, but you go ahead and tell one.\"\nI said, \"All right, here is one: Why is a woman's leg like a rainy day?\" She\nsaid, \"I don't know, I'll give it up.\" I said, \"Because one would like to see\nit clear up. I know I would.\" She laughed and said \"thats right, thats a\ngood one.\" She then squeezed me again and started kissing me. I done the\nsame to her.\nThen she said, \"O, yes, let me show you my rooms. We have four\nrooms.\" We went from the parlor into the dining room and then in the\nkitchen. We came back into the dining room and then she went into another\nroom from the dining room. She turned on the light, it was a bedroom. I\nstepped into the room. She turned to me and said, \"Do you truly mean it\nwhen you said you love me a whole lot?\" I said, \"Yes, I truly do mean it.\"\nShe threw her arms around me and said, \"I believe you.\"\nWe were standing there in embrace when suddenly the lights went out\nall over the apartment. Instantly it seemed as if we were in another world or\nstrange place. It was pitch dark, but we could still see each other. She gave\na little scream and said, \"O where are we?\" She reached out her hand and\ntook mine and said, \"Come, with me we must get out of this place.\" So I\nfollowed holding her hand. She came to something that had a black shining\nform. It was a queer place we were in. We could see the thing but could\nnot see anything away from it. It was like being able to see ourselves but not\nanything away from ourselves. It was something moving in motion or alive.\nThis form we saw was moving and kept in her way. She let go of my hand,\nstood still and looked around at me with a wild scared look in her eyes. She\nchanged all over, seemed to age quick. She shook and trembled and said,\n\"Let's walk around it.\" I followed her and we got around it and walked\non. I was now walking by her side when we came to another black shining\nthing. It was moving and different from what we saw before. We stopped\nand looked at it. It seemed to be something like an elephant that had two\nheads on each side or end of it and it had funny looking legs. It walked\nawful funny. Fear in me kept me from laughing. Part would walk forward\nand then backwards, then it would stop and this movement would be reversed.\nSeemed as if the thing was trying to pull itself apart or separate itself for it\nwas two things in one. She said, \"O, I am so scared, what can those things\nbe we saw?\" I was commencing to feel kind of creepy or sort of scared\nmyself and I said, \"I dont know.\" And she said, \"I wonder where we are.\"\nAnd I said, \"I dont know that either. You got me in here and I dont know\nwhere I am.\" Then she said, \"Well, I have got to get out of here and let you\nout too. You will have to follow me as you followed me into the room.\"\nI said, \"All right, I'll follow you.\" She said, \"Well, come on then.\" So\nwe started walking on again. Again we came to a black shining form. This\nthing looked something like an alligator and it had an awful ugly looking"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "223", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.33", "texte": "mouth. We started to walk around it but it would walk in our way. She\nsaid, \"It is strange these things dont seem to harm us.\" I said, \"Well, no\ndoubt it is because we are not harming them.\" We started another way to\nwalk around it but it would still walk in our way opening and snapping its\nbig long jaws.\nShe turned around to me and said, \"I wonder what has happened. O,\nGod, what has happened and where are we.\" She gave me an awful look.\nAll her beauty was gone. Her face was wrinkled, her eyes had changed to\ngreen and red. I got to feeling awful funny but was not afraid. It seemed in\nthis strange place or another world or whatever it was that there was some-\nthing about it that was holding me together and sort of keeping me my natural\nself. She said, \"What can that thing be? We must get past it, so let's try\nagain.\" I said, \"All right, let's go.\" So we started again. The beast went\nback and forth and we could not get past it. She turned around and with a\nheavy gasp said, \"O I thought you were gone and was not here with me.\"\nShe said, \"You wont leave me will you?\" I said, \"No, never will I leave\nyou until }'ou get me out of here, and then it will be best for us to part as we\nare both to blame, you more so than myself. You see, lam only telling you\nthe truth. You got me in here and lam depending on you to get me out of\nhere.\" She said, \"Well, stay with me, I'll get you out.\" I said, \"All right.\"\nSo we tried again to walk past the beast, but the thing kept in our way. I said,\n\"Let's go back the other way.\" She said, \"All right.\"\nWe walked on and suddenly came to an incline that went down like a\nhill. It got steeper and steeper and suddenly we both commenced to skate or\nslide. It was smooth but rough. We took hold of each other's hands. It got\nsteeper and steeper and all at a sudden we found ourselves it seemed as if\nfloating in air or space. We went off the edge of the incline or else the incline\ndisappeared from under our feet. She said, \"Hold on tight to my hand.\" I\nsaid, \"Sure I will.\" She looked at me and said, \"I kind of feel a little better,\nthis floating in space feels more free.\" She looked at me again and said,\n\"O, what can this be. You dont look a bit scared and lam awful afraid in\nspite of feeling a little better.\" Oh, but she had changed and for the first time\nI told her how she looked and said, \"I dont know what it can be unless it is\nbecause of you being scared has changed you.\" She said, \"I cant help it and\nyou wont leave me will you.\" I said, \"Never, and please dont ask me again.\"\nShe said, \"All right, I wont ask you again, but we must get out of here.\"\nIt seemed as if we floated here and there in all directions, not knowing if we\nwere going any place at all, and all at a sudden we started going in one\ndirection and it seemed an awful long time this way and that it would never\nstop or end, this floating or traveling in space pitch dark, but we could see\neach other just like in a lighted room or broad day light. It was a queer\nfunny thing about it. Being dark and seeing we could see each other, but\nnothing away from each other."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "224", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.34", "texte": "Floating on, we got into what seemed to be like a draft or suction that\ntook us in its whirl or drew us along or else it seemed as if we were going\nfaster and we went like this it seemed for a long time and we saw in front of\nus a light with kind of a red dull glow, and it seemed as if we were going\nfaster and faster towards it, and it seemed as if it was years and years. I\nlooked at her and she was so changed I could hardly tell it was a woman or\nmummy-like form as she looked like last. I felt kind of queer and funny at\ntimes and thought I was changing into some kind of a form. I was going to\nask her several times how I looked and if I was changing. Whenever I was\non the point of asking her it seemed as if there was something that kept me\nfrom asking her as I could not form or speak the words to ask her. I even\nwondered why was this so and it seemed as if something was trying to tell\nme not to tell her anything more about how she was changing and had\nchanged. Somehow another I dont know what it was that made me keep\nlooking at her as she seemed to be changing or aging so fast and appearing\nto be getting into a strange form something like on the order of the forms\nwe saw. As I looked at her again, I then thought of how beautiful she was\nwhen I first met her.\nThe draft or suction we were in also seemed to be sort of changing or\nelse we were going faster, and she said, \"This does seem strange this draft\nthat seems to be taking us towards that red light.\" And she said, \"Maybe\nwe will get out this way.\" The light seemed to get bigger and as we went\ntowards it we started to feel it getting warm or was it heat. Then again we\nstarted to get around ugly looking forms of different things going in the same\ndirection we were. Some were going faster than we were, passing us, others\ngetting near to us then seemed to slack up or get behind us. The heat was\ngetting stronger and she said, \"We must go back.\" I said, \"We cant.\" We\ntried to twist ourselves thinking we could get out of this suction. We were\nnow by ourselves, all the forms were gone, and pretty soon we came into\nforms or things again going the same way, all different, no two alike. They\nacted like before, some got ahead of us and others slacked up behind. It\nseemed as if we were now going faster and faster and the heat was getting hot\nand hotter, and we could see it was a great fire ahead of us, boiling mountain,\nwaves lashing and leaping, rolling, chasing around in all directions and to\ndescribe it better, it was a storm of fire in a fire, an awful sight. We could\nhear a different sound or roar besides the suction of what seemed like wind or\na draft.\nI said to her, \"Seems as if we are going into that fire.\" She said, \"It\nsurely does.\" I then looked at her and for the first time I felt real fear. She\nhad changed so. Then I said to her, \"I wish to make a cigarette as I have\nnot had a smoke since you got me into this place and what ever it is I dont\nknow, and so I'll have to let go of your hand to make a cigarette.\" She said,\n\"Please dont let go of my hand and make a cigarette.\" She said,\n\"Remember your promise to stay by me.\" Again I told her I was going to"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "225", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.35", "texte": "make a cigarette and was going to let go of her hand. She said, \"All right\nthen, let go.\" I said, \"Good-bye,\" and let go of her hand. She went from\nme quick and I saw her form go into that roaring furnace of storming fire and\nthen suddenly I found myself walking in darkness feeling my steps and\ngroping around, and I heard someone say, \"You coward, you brute, you know\nwhy you wanted her.\" And from hearing this I thought to myself had she\nonly knew the worst that was in me was that I only wanted her for pastime\nand an idle plaything as most men do a woman, and then again I heard\nsomeone say, \"Beware, repent, or your turn- will come only worse as you\nknow of this place.\" And the next thing I know, a change was coming over\nme. I seemed to be coming or getting back into my natural self, or surround-\nings, and then suddenly I found and felt myself walking on a floor and then\na door opened before me and I heard someone say, \"Take warning and\nbeware of this awful place and go out and tell of your terrible experience.\"\nI went out the door and down the steps. I seemed dazed as I walked\nalong the street for some time as if lost. I then turned and walked up another\nstreet and my clear senses seemed to be returning to me as I came to myself\nand looked at what street I was on, and as I walked to the corner it was just\ngetting daylight, the dawn of a new day. It was a familiar corner I was on\nand while standing there I was smoking a cigarette and waiting for a street car.\nA car came along, I got on and came home and it was a few minutes after\nfive in the morning that I arrived home, and to tell the truth I did feel kind of\nfunny or weak or something on that order, and still I knew if I left this matter\nworry me or thought of it much that it would bring me down into a sick spell,\nand so I sat down in a rocking chair and started to read the paper having\npicked it up from the porch when I came in. I read the paper clear through,\nnearly everything it contained, news and advertisements.\nIs the sun inhabited? Yes, I believe it is, and that its inhabitants if not in\nthe interior of it, then in its law of gravitation surrounding its atmosphere, and\nwho are its inhabitants? I dont know, but from my experience I'll say some\nof us are its inhabitants, and I do know that man's laws punish us for our sins\nand that man gets these laws of his from the principle of nature's laws, and\nso it stands to reason that nature punishes us in different ways for our sins\nthe same as man's laws.\n\nCharles L. Durboraw"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "226", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.36", "texte": "POISON\n(A Drama Without Words)\n\n1st Tableau\nThe background of the stage is a huge mirror. Ten characters dressed\nuniformly in black smocks are regarding their own images. Suddenly they\nface toward the public. They place the right hand above their eyes, scout\nfashion; they feel their pulse, consult their watches, kneel, rise, and seat them-\nselves respectively on the ten chairs which have been arranged in the\nforeground. A detonation shatters the mirror to pieces, thus revealing on a\nwhite wall the shadow of a naked woman, which reaches the entire height of\nthe theatre and which diminishes gradually until it attains a normal height.\nEvidently the woman has chosen this very moment to appear. She issues from\nthe wall in the shape of a plaster-of-paris statue. She approaches the first of\nthe ten characters; he gives her a pair of red gloves which she pulls on imme-\ndiately, She leaves the first for the second, who gives her a stick of rouge\nwith which she paints her lips. The third gives her a pair of smoked glasses.\nThe fourth a fur. The fifth a blue wig. The sixth white silk stockings. The\nseventh a widow's veil, from which she makes a train. The eighth a revolver.\nThe ninth a child. The tenth undresses himself and pursues her with a\nhammer.\n2nd Tableau\nThe scene is a bedroom whose floor is covered with fragments of broken\nplaster. A black and liquid fountain gushes from the pitcher on the wash-\nstand. Beneath the bedclothes some huge form is hidden. An alarm clock\nrings. The door opens and a horse's head appears. For a moment it rocks\nback and forth, till the bed is mysteriously uncovered, from which a smoke\nissues so abundantly as to obscure the room. After the smoke dissolves you\ncan see long hair which falls from the ceiling on a diamond of supernatural\ndimensions, suddenly visible on the bed. A man crosses the stage, rubbing his\nhands; he walks toward the wardrobe, before which he halts. He opens his\nmouth, raises his arms to the sky, then sits down at a table. He rings a bell;\nimmediately a woman dressed in a robe of pearls brings him his breakfast on\na platter. He waits till she goes out before he paints his own silhouette on the\nmirror of the wardrobe. Hardly has he completed his work when the ward-\nrobe opens and the woman in the robe of pearls leaps into his arms. He\npushes her into a chair and kisses her mouth, slowly. However, from the"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "227", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.37", "texte": "still open wardrobe, there leap twelve soldiers and an officer, who take aim\nat both of them.\n3rd Tableau\nThe stage represents a written poem:\nBetween love and orthography\nThere is a pen to think\nThere is a cry\nAnd blood flows round and round the square\nMan is erect with summer\nLiberty, liberty of the soil\nIs lost alas! the b son of a gun\nWith velvet shoes\nTip of the scalp and of the queen\nLess a turtle with love\n(Signed) HECTOR DE JESUS\nA projector illuminates the poem, on which are superimposed Chinese\nshadows made with the hand: namely, a cat, an old woman, a jockey, a cup-\nand-ball, a racket, a mask, a palm tree, a shoe, a heart.\n4th Tableau\nThe scene is a piece of crumpled silk. When the curtain rises you can\nhear the noise of glasses breaking. Vapors of many colors float in the air.\nA young man and a girl, the first in a sailor suit and the second in a dress of\nwhite wool, carry an armchair to the centre of the stage; a violinist sits down\nin it. He begins to play a popular song. At the end of the first few measures\nthe silk begins to quicken with confused movements and is finally torn to the\nsound of fire-whistles, revealing feet, hands, heads and other parts of the body.\nA man and a woman, followed by a little dog and sheltered under umbrellas,\nmove across the stage. The frightened violinist is now standing on his chair.\nApplause. He bows to the right, to the left, and falls backwards into the\narms of the young man and the girl, who carry him away.\n5th Tableau\nThe stage is empty. A character who has the air of being a painter\ncomes to make spots of colour on the walls. While he is working two lovers\nbring a garden bench, where they install themselves. The man wears only\nhis nightshirt, the girl is wrapped in a sheet. Suddenly the lover draws a"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "228", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.38", "texte": "circle in the air and the painter, who watches him, bursts a hole in the back\nwall. He plunges his arm forward and draws out a cable, which he unrolls.\nThere appears to be some light object at the end of it, but the whole wall now\ncollapses and an ocean liner advances slowly over the stage. An electric\nlamp at the bow makes signals of distress.\n6th Tableau\nThe scene is a kitchen. A woman is standing over the stove. Enter a\nman in a business suit, his face covered with blood. The woman offers him\na bowl of soup. He drinks it at a gulp, then opens the window. He points\nhis finger at something in the street. Sobs and moans are heard. Children\nrush in and throw themselves at his feet. He gives an amical tap to each of\nthem and leads them all to the door. Somebody, doubtless their mother,\nappears in a dressing gown. She seems to be speaking naturally. The man\nwatches her and invites her to look at the street. The door of the sideboard\nopens and several hundred oranges roll over the floor. The three characters\nlose their balance and fall.\n7th—, 8th—, 9th-, 10th—, 11th— Tableau\nThe scene is a railway station, an office, a fireplace, a book, a picture, in\nfront of which stands a man, then a woman, then a man, then a woman, then\na man, bearing placards on which are inscribed respectively the numbers 7—\nB—, 9—, 10—, 11—.\n12th Tableau\nThe scene is a mouth which makes the motions of speech.\n\nRoger Vitrac\n(Translated by M. C.)"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "229", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.39", "texte": "BOOK REVIEWS\nLITERARY CRITICISM OF MUSIC\n\nMusical Chronicle, by Paul Rosenfeld. New York. Harcourt, Brace and\nCompany. $2.00.\nIt is the object of intuition and emotional sensitiveness to translate music\ninto non-musical terms, usually ideas and emotions. The few simple\ndescriptive terms which are applied to music, dealing chiefly with time, space\nand intensity—a theme, we say, rises or falls slowly or quickly, is played\nloudly or softly—intuition translates into others by association or substitution\n(it is not always easy to say which). Thus accentuated movement at a\nmoderate speed may be associated with the term martial, or for the descriptive\nterms may be substituted the verb march; then the music is martial or marches.\nFurther association may introduce a phrase like the pomp of power, while\nanother substitution for the original descriptive terms may be hewn out of roclf.\nThe way is thus opened for a wide variety of colorful descriptive phrases,\nintellectual meanings and even actions implying conscious volition. In fact,\nonce the moorings are cut one may drift a considerable distance, so far even\nthat there may be no apparent connection between the idea and the primary\nterms which describe the music; as when, for example, the form of a compo-\nsition is said to be as deep as it is wide. This, however, does not overthrow\nthe idea. For the only test we have is our own intuition, which traces the\nidea back to the primary descriptive terms. But from the fact that it dis-\ncovers no connection we may not infer there is none. We are powerless\nagainst the intuition which does perceive the connection, since by its very nature\neach intuition is a law unto itself.\nThis is more obvious in the case of the emotions which music inspires, and\nwhich are often responsible for the apparently queer meanings ascribed to it.\nIf a listener's soul insists upon soaring in ecstasy nobody can stop it; if another\nlistener becomes drowsy that is his privilege. Our intuition may find no con-\nnection between these reactions and the music, nevertheless we may not\nconclude that none exists. There is in fact room in this literary type of\nmusical criticism not only for the emotional upheavals of a Huneker, but for\nthe blunders of a Finck or a Sanborn; the bad temper and personal animosities\nof a Krehbiel or a Peyser; the charlatanry of those who, without being able\nto appreciate music or even to hear it, apply to it the extravagant prose, the\nliterary figures and the terms borrowed from other arts into which some critics\ntranslate it; and the will-to-interpret of Paul Rosenfeld."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "230", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.40", "texte": "Nobody can contradict Mr. Rosenfeld when he claims to interpret modern\nmusic. For that matter nobody can contradict him when he claims to interpret\nthe older music. Nevertheless in each case he offers translations which I at\nleast cannot trace to the music he is discussing. Ido not hear in Ornstein's\nsonata for two pianos the themes \"speak violent sensuality drowned in black,\nviolent passion submerged and become fear\"; it is not apparent to me that \"the\nthematic material has been forcefully wrenched, submitted to a superior and\nsingle conception. It is a little as though motives which had never before\nworked together had suddenly timidly conjoined their palms, and begun an\nharmonious and flowing movement. They are related to one another. They\nnecessitate each other's presence. They produce each other with grace. They\nstill dance with angular tic-like jerks; whimper and wail in Jewish egoistic\nover-indulgence in grief. . . . But it is as if an alchemist with his\nvirtuous stone had touched many disparate, separate black objects and trans-\nfused them to a single dark lustrous metal. Relativity has made them clear\nand winged and light. A dense stream of rich sound pours from the two\nvibrating instruments; a flood yellow-gray as the warm, voluptuous winter sky\nover New York. Climax upon climax is churned.\"\nTrue, lam not sensitive to Ornstein's music, among others'. But then\nI don't find in the music of Bach \"in one of its most powerful expressions the\nprinciple completely complementary to the principle of our civilization\",\nnamely \"the giving virtue\", i.e. \"the state in which men give to each other,\nand, in taking from one another, give each other the power to donate them-\nselves ever more copiously.\" Nor am I aware, in the case of Cesar Franck,\nof \"a kind of pompousness, of vulgarity even; a habit of thinking things with-\nout really experiencing them\" (are these synonymous?) which \"spoils a\ngood deal of his earlier music.\" For me at least Strauss's melodic line is not\n\"a little wanting in edge and incisiveness\", nor do I get from his music \"the\nbaffled sense of having heard a number of not clearly connected fragments,\nnot the great inner satisfaction that comes through having been moved through\nthick matter in an unbroken course.\"\nNow Mr. Rosenfeld's perceptions are, in my estimation, very acute, his\nsensitiveness to music is very genuine, and his intuitive judgments are extraor-\ndinarily accurate. True, his estimates of older composers conform to the\naccepted, prevalent notions—of Liszt as a charlatan, of Strauss as one whose\ngenius was alloyed with baser metal, of Rimsky-Korsakoff as a painter of\ngay pictures for children's story-books, of D'lndy as a musical aristocrat; and\neven his acute observations on audiences, programs, patronesses and the like—\nhis social criticism of music—are the ordinary currency of the musical gossip-\nshops. But no accepted, prevalent notion aided him in the following descrip-\ntion of Schoenberg's music, which to me is uncanny in its accuracy.\n\"The music of Schoenberg is concentrated as something squeezed with\nrelentless might in a fist. . . . The water has been forced out.\nAll steps have been abreviated. . . . Schoenberg overlaps processes"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "231", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.41", "texte": "of relationship which to minds of slower tempi seem irreducible and funda-\nmental. In what appears succession of dissonances, he hears a common pitch.\nElements which seem to have no common basis he approaches to one another\nas though they were blood-brothers. . . . Great bales of substance, far-\nlying, have been condensed.\n\"As the mind hears closeness between far-lying things, so, too, it hears\nwidths between close-lying chords. This music is compressed and almost\npainfully distended too.\n\"Schcenberg's music moves with such spiritual rapidity; jumps so many\nintermediary processes as it goes, that at first encounter it seems almost\ngrotesque. These rapid progressions, rapid changes of mood, abrupt sudden\nflights of sound . . . seem the starts and twitches and twinges of an\nover-nervous man. But the transitions are present. They may be indicated\nwith epigrammatic terseness. The form is preserved. . . .\n\"The concentration is in the economical instrumentation. Schcenberg's\nsere, ghostly scores . . . are full of simple marvels of expressivity\nwrought with single instrumental voices. ...\"\nTo what, then, shall we ascribe the twaddle on Bach, Franck, Strauss\nand even Schcenberg?\nIn part to emotional upheavals, as the following passage seems to indicate.\n\"On the wings of the great-arched, ecstatic fugal choruses (of Bach's\nMass) we are carried out beyond pain and pleasure and set naked breast to\nbreast with the laboring divinity. The proud brass and grandiose drums, the\ngreat sky-floating* edifices of sound that are like great golden-mosaicked\nSan Marcos rising high in the air, seem shaped out of stuff dragged from the\nvery depths of the human heart, and offered in great lordly clusters to\nthe light.\"\nTo these we may also ascribe \"the titanic, virulent and incommensurable\nforces\" in Bloch's violin sonata \"upon whose breast man lies tiny and impo-\ntent\", and the lurid struggle between them which only Benjamin de Casseres\nhas equalled.\nAnd in part to the fact that he practises musical criticism as a literary art.\nWe often read what appears to be not a translation but a bit of fiction, a\nthrilling little story. Mr. Rosenfeld seems in the first place to regard music\nas a convenient peg on which to hang a rich, indigestible prose, no more con-\nsumable in quantities than pate-de-foie-gras, a prose which seems to furnish its\nown excuse for being. Sentences, whole paragraphs, convey no intelligible\nmeaning, and some seem to represent nothing more than a delight in the sound\nof words, singly and in rhythmic combinations, words often reminiscent of\nsome imitator of Waldo Frank. We read of music \"which in its fine\nasceticism, spare passion and ruddy tang, stands apart\"; of \"the warm, moist\nquick of sensation\"; of an \"unbreaking gray plinth of sound\"; of \"plangent\n\n*Cf. James Joyce's \"looked sky-brightly\"."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "232", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.42", "texte": "trumpets\"; of something that is \"flauntful\"; of something else that is\n\"quenchless\"; of the \"fleshing\" of a concept; of an \"ecstatic suffusion of the\nneck-cords\" of a singer. A word that he likes he works to death, using it\nwhether it makes sense in its context or not. In \"Musical Portraits\" it is\nmagisier or magistral; in \"Musical Chronicle\" it is high. And so we read,\nwithout being convinced, of \"the high grace of quality\"; \"the high serious-\nness\"; \"biting and high instants of music\"; \"high, simple woe\"; a \"high,\ntremulous sense of beauty.\"\nAnd in the second place, as he uses words without too much regard for\ntheir meaning, so he uses literary figures without too much regard for their\naptness; e.g. the machinery figure applied to Stravinsky, which is carried to\ncompletion at a sacrifice of accuracy; or the material prosperity fanfare with\nwhich the chapter on Wagner opens \"Musical Portraits\", and which seems\nto be used from the sheer necessity of using something. Likewise, non-existent\ndistinctions are drawn to furnish plots for thrilling stories. The composer was\nstrong or weak in this or that imaginary respect, but now he is weak or strong.\nThis appears to be the explanation of the far-fetched inside-outside-oneself\ndistinction which he applies, in slightly varied forms, to Strauss, Ornstein and\nJohn Alden Carpenter. And once started on an idea he spins it out until it\nvanishes. For, being not a consecutive thinker but a manipulator of words,\nhe crosses and recrosses his tracks, adds qualifying statement after qualifying\nstatement, until the reader's brain spins.\nThis fatal penchant for literary style, this apparent unwillingness merely\nto set down what he actually hears, it is, in my opinion, that spoils Mr.\nRosenfeld's criticism. It is a veritable will-to-interpret that carries him astray.\nBut in the discussion of modern music the enthusiasm which discovers what\ndoesn't exist is preferable to the hostility which overlooks even what does exist.\n\nB. H. Haggin"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "233", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.43", "texte": "IMPURE SPLENDOR\n\nEscapade, by Evelyn Scott. New York- Thomas Seltzer. $3.00.\n\"The afternoon leaves an attenuated smile of anaemic delicacy.\" Yellow\ntorsos of flaccid women, a violent man with eyes likes \"grapes in hoar frost\",\ncut tree-leaves of purplish wax, another tree the roost of vultures. \"Crowded\nbacks of sheep going up the light touches the massed white wool\nstillness of rocks.\" Apes, owls, reptiles, parakeets, sick and\nchained. Bluish babies choking; the tough old umber giantess beckons\nobscenely to soldiers, over the pocked wall, over muscular vines and the\nglittering dust. The scent of sweat and vermin in sunshine having \"the late\ncolor of bruised apricots\", the scent of sweat among gaudy broad scentless\nflowers. \"The angels of gold have begun to sing.\" Pots of urine red-gold\nin the bold syrupy sun. Partial starvation, rotting teeth, filthy doctors,\nbutcherous surgery, the agony of a torn abdomen, for years. \"The bloated lily\ninflates itself.\"\nA poignant spectacle; but there is dissonance in Mrs. Scott's composition.\nThe organization of narrative is an elusive problem. A new concept as an\naesthetic problem, criticism of it is rudimentary, and its terminology feeble and\nillogical. The major law is plain: to detach a portion of experience (the\n\"subject\"), to invent a scheme which can embody it, to perfect this embodi-\nment until it fuses with its origin (the \"inspiration\") ; and the test of achieve-\nment is the degree to which a finished book exhausts and becomes its material.\nThree types of order already exist: The bare cycle of events in time, or\nbiography, akin to history (Defoe's Moll Flanders) ; this arrangement is not\ninvented, but being a condition of existence has become traditional as thought,\nand being traditional, emotions have adhered to it which are, or are like,\naesthetic emotions; the mind is enabled to evaluate, ethically and socially.\nThe book to display a situation, akin to drama, in which a relation or mode\nof relations is introduced as a rumor or a \"case\"; then the narrator moves from\nstation to station about this fixed object, analyzing, associating and dissociating,\nuntil it stands out, solid, in a clear light (The Wings of the Dove, or Mr.\nHueffer's The Good Soldier) ; the mind is here directed to understanding and\nthe emotional climax is that of the seance or laboratory, revelation, and release\nfrom confusion. The three types are at progressive removes from actuality;\nthe third is the pattern novel, formal as music is, and may hardly appear to be\nnarrative, being most like poetry (Landor's The Dream of Boccacio, and\nUlysses) ; its devices are wholly artificial—that is, arbitrary as experience; the\nmind is stimulated to apprehend, in the mystic sense, pure pattern, hidden\nmystery rather than hidden meaning, things as \"ends in themselves.\""}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "234", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.44", "texte": "Mrs. Scott has confused these possibilities of treatment; primarily, she has\nfailed to envisage her subject as a unit. An organism is most likely to be har-\nmonious and vital in all its parts when its core is detached like a crystal seed.\nA pattern may be imagined within a mass of irrelevance; but perfection is an\nexact coincidence of the pattern with its frame—the design being the book,\nto the last comma. But there is in Escapade no wholly executed intention,\nbut a miserable converse of discipline. Fatally hesitant among the masks of\nher memory, the various utterances seeming to hesitate on remembered crusted\nmouths and immanent in the retching bodies, the burning insects and scarred\nbirds, she wrote in the first fever of recognition of her subject; so that the\nroots of the bock were already cut and tangled.\nSince Escapade is an autobiography, it is possible to put one's finger on\nthis nucleus from which it sprang. The things which happened contain three\nqualities: the poignant, the spectacular and the symbolic, each hostile to the\neffect of the others. The pity is chilled by the sensual sumptuousness; and\nin a spectacle, images of pathos displease as a striving for effect. Symbols are\nalways likely to lapse into deceit; Mrs. Scott's religio-psychological symbols\nare stale and reminiscent of other books, and exasperate by their incessant\ninterposition. As a document of anguish, to appal and wake pity and indig-\nnation, it is too ornate, even voluptuous. The great records of endurance or\nanatomies of suffering have been bald and stony, with rhythms matched\nexactly to the motion of events, not to an echo of poetry, keyed exactly to a\ndying husky piping, not to some stale and remembered music; as Defoe's\nJournal of the Plague Year, an example of perfect control for one purpose:\n\" a garret window opened, and somebody from a window on the\nother side of the alley called and asked, what is the matter? Upon which,\nfrom the first window it was answered, O Lord, my old master has hanged\nhimself! The other asked again, is he quite dead? and the first answered,\nay, ay, quite dead; quite dead and cold! This person was a merchant\nIn the contemporary absence of retributive gods, in the decadence of hope,\n\"the disease of hope\", high tragedy (as the poems of Mr. Eliot) has become\na two-part polyphony of loathsome degradation, a fact, and imaginary love-\nliness, not a fact; the old note of Christ, a poet in a similar epoch, \"pathos pro-\nduced by the juxtaposition of the fact with the ideal, and of the creature with\nthe creator\" (Sturge Moore). One wonders if this is not the formal signifi-\ncance of Mrs. Scott's experience, the attitude which would make it yield\nmost. The critic is forced to suggest a solution, since she has brought it to\nno ripe harmony. One wonders, but cannot escape the jangle, like instruments\nout of tune, of the various designs inherent in her book.\nI may refer to certain critics to the extent of noting the irrelevance, indeed\nimpertinence, of their insistence on Mrs. Scott's morbidity. Complacence and\nthe astigmatism of comfort and justified irritation at falsities of style lead them\nto take strange liberties. I come to think of the book as a mass of raw\nmaterial; and without overlooking its inferiority to its own potentialities, to"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "235", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.45", "texte": "salute one who has endured an Inferno, deprivation and pain and fear and\nfilth. The inadequacy of her intellect to penetrate the beastly sumptuous\nfacade, the immature theories which were all the comfort there was, and now\nher inability to convert it quite into beauty, make it more rather than less\nmoving as a human instance. The book ends in uncertainty, and should have\nended in meditated uncertainty, where there were \"toy houses of stucco, blue\nand purple\" and a \"night-blooming Cereus\", its \"dew-bruised blossoms\nfringed, with honey-colored hearts\", and \"candelabra cactus rise\ngauntly on every hand, their flat branches like crucified arms.\" The last\nchapter is a fantasy in the manner of Joyce's brothel scene, ineffectual and but\ndimly relevant. A book full of striking infirmities, a writer curiously gifted.\nThe waste is perhaps to be blamed on false gods and a body of criticisms\nfussily concerned with something known as \"life\" instead of with \"order and\ndiscipline\", with \"the application in literature of principles having their conse-\nquences in private conduct\" (Mr. Eliot). Mrs. Scott is worthy of most pro-\nfound and appreciative dispraise. \"When she rises to tell me good-by she\nunties an old cloth and pours into the lap of my dress a dozen ash-pink roses\nplucked off at the blossom, quite stemless.\nThe Real Story of a Bootlegger. Anonymous. Nen> York. Boni &\nLiveright. $2.00.\nI never knew for what essential purpose a lawyer existed until I read\nthis book. I knew that the lawyer was attached to business and property\ninterests as an inevitable adjunct. I knew that he was a secondary force\noutside the law. But it took this frank explicit story of the evolution of an\nindustry that has grown to greatness out of the ruins of one brand new law,\nand several other laws as old as the Ten Commandments, to enlighten me as\nto the primary function of the lawyer in a society that tends to become\nfast and hard.\nThe lawyer exists to supply elasticity, stretching power, to the laws, to\ncounteract the tendency to petrification in conservative rules of conduct. He\nis a Puckish spirit of modification hovering between the two opposites, good\nand evil, a creator of a middle ground extending from one pole to the other,\nan eraser of that frontier line dividing the two dynamic ethical impulses, and\nall to the end that good and evil may play and interplay in the spirit of fun.\nHis purpose nowhere attains so wide a scope, so spectacular a supremacy,\nas in a political democracy where moral aspects are reduced to service as masks\nof primitive energies. For under such arbitrary communal forms as the empire,\nthe kingdom, the feudal aristocracy, he is but a dry convention. The boot-\nlegger, as this book reveals, is the unveiling agent by which the full functional\nvalue of the lawyer is released to the view of the critic of our age.\n\nGlenway Wescott"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "236", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.46", "texte": "There is more imagination at large in America than in any other country.\nAnything succeeds in America that is infused with a bold and controlled\nimagination. The American business world is glorified by the absorption of an\nimaginative energy, for so long denied expansion in other countries by\nan intellectual autocracy. Ergo, we are the richest country in the world,\nand our sportive main streams, sexual and convivial, rise to the highest water\nmark of eminence.\nIt is the American lawyer who conserves and administers the imaginative\nconcepts whose magical manipulations have liberated the primitive appetites\nand energies of oppressed peoples. This book shows this, and furthermore\nthat America is on its way to becoming self-conscious about the popular\namusements and indulgences but that it has not quite outgrown the conscious-\nness of a distinction between good and evil. Bootlegging is perhaps a final\ncorrective. America will yet teach the world what freedom is.\nThere are minor faults of style in this book. A thin but distracting veil lies\nover the radical facts. The book is dubiously journalistic. The bad English\nis theoretically contrived, crudely faked. In some of the anecdotes an\nauthenticity breaks through and reaches heights of simplicity. But the great\neconomic significance of the book is unmistakable.\nHarmonium, by Wallace Stevens. New York. Alfred A. Knopf. $2.00.\nA singular breed of Sensitive Plants begins to flourish in the severe climate\nof America. Some, revolted by its moral and economic bars, may have fled\nto voice their bitter protest. Wallace Stevens remains. Oblivious to all\nelements, save the natural beauty which puzzles and humors and holds him,\nand for which he returns the music of his words.\nOne side of him is exotic: colors are richer, sounds are sharper in him than\nin other minds or in the real existence which the mass mind accepts. So that\nwe have the poetry of sensuousness, a poetry which depends chiefly upon its\nexotic spirit to hold us, as in Banal Sojourn:\nThe sky is a blue gum streaked with rose. The trees are black.\nThe grackles crack their throats of bone in the smooth air.\nMoisture and heat have swollen the garden into a slum of bloom.\nPardie! Summer is like a fat beast, sleepy in mildew, . . .\nYet, the fallacy of this manner, even in its most admirable and sympathetic\nexponent, is that it must go on being more and more strange. The cultured\nsensuousness of Mr. Stevens in his next book would have to be more and more\nintimate and scandalous, ad absurdum. I stress this side of his production\nbecause it has influenced many of his younger contemporaries, and in them,\nat least, leads to pretense, and murkiness.\nOn the other hand there is a mathematical, a metaphysical quality in\ncertain of these poems which is entertaining in the highest sense. Poems such\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "237", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.47", "texte": "as Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, or The Cuban Doctor, or\nAnecdote of the Jar, The Worms at Heaven's Gate, will be spell-binding\nfor hundreds of years. The Jar is as finished and simple as any of the perfect\nLandor fragments:\nI placed a jar in Tennessee,\nAnd round it was upon a hill.\nIt made the slovenly wilderness\nSurround that hill.\nThe wilderness rose up to it,\nAnd sprawled around no longer wild.\nThe jar was round upon the ground\nAnd tall and of a port in air.\nIt took dominion everywhere.\nThe jar was gray and bare.\nIt did not give of bird or bush,\nLike nothing else in Tennessee.\nThe method of this is more impoverished, there is more under-emphasis\nthan over-ripeness, and yet it has the geometrical interest of a piece of modern\nabstract painting. In the vein of The Jar Mr. Stevens strikes absolutely fresh\nqualities in poetry, and with the authority of a superb virtuoso. Stevens,\nWilliams (Wm. Carlos), Marianne Moore, Cummings, and one or two\nothers alone have such cultured hands. One more perfect thing must be\nquoted (The Worms at Heaven's Gate) :\nOut of the tomb, we bring Badroulbadour,\nWithin our bellies, we her chariot.\nHere is an eye. And here are, one by one,\nThe lashes of that eye and its white lid.\nHere is the cheek on which that lid declined,\nAnd, finger after finger, here, the hand,\nThe genius of that cheek. Here are the lips,\nThe bundle of the body and the feet.\nOut of the tomb we bring Badroulbadour.\nIt is, of course, Miltonic blank verse. The marching rhythms are made\nwith the severity and precision of Baudelaire and Rimbaud. Otherwise, there\nare two sensational feats: the nonsense-name, \"Badroulbadour\"; the use of\nthe word \"declined\".\nThis first book of Mr. Stevens contains the groups of poems which aroused\nsuch interest when published in magazines. They are in many manners, and\nas a book serve to isolate an extraordinary personality, a man who is in turn\nshy, child-like, sensuous, sophisticated, discursive, who blushes for his senti-\nments, who is possessed of boundless curiosity. It is to be hoped that this\ncuriosity will cause him yet to break loose in those directions (mathematical,\nmetaohvsical) for which his personality is most singularly fitted.\n\nM. J."}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "[238]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.48", "texte": "FOR THE BIBLIOPHILE\nGUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE, one of the most arresting personalities among Eu-\nropean writers of our time, was easily the modern prototype of Rabelais, Swift, and\nSterne. Possessed with an Aristophanic demon of satire Apollinaire wrote the\nmost astonishing prose and poetry of his day. f]j During the four years since his death\nfrom wounds received in the Great War writers have declared him to be France's greatest\nwar poet, in fact the only great poet who emerged from the war.\nBUT the man was versatile. fjj His sway spread through the whole continent as poet,\nnovelist, art critic and leader of divers revolutions and buccaneering expeditions in\npainting and literature. fj[ His rebellious spirit was at the bottom of all the artistic up-\nheavals of the Twentieth Century.\n\nTHE POET ASSASSINATED\nA Novel\nBy Guillaume Apollinaire\nTranslated from the French by Matthew Josephson\nWill be published about November 15, 1923, under the imprint of BROOM.\nA picaresque and epic novel of the fantastic career of one CRONIAMANTAL, The Poet,\nfrom his Gargantuan birth to his violent death at the hands of the \"enemies of poetry.\"\nThe story is interwoven amusingly with many artistic and social episodes of the present\nday, and its allusions are discussed in an appendix which links Apollinaire's activities with\nall the movements of Cubism, Futurism, Dadaism, etc.\nIT varies in tone from the exotic and the pompous to the grotesque and insolent. flit\nis daring, and being such, is published in a limited edition of one thousand, for sub-\nscribers only, numbered, printed on Japan vellum paper, and beautifully bound in grey\nboards with buckram back. fj[ THE POET ASSASSINATED is not designed for popular\nconsumption. €!I It is offered instead as the first of a series of beautiful books by European\nand American authors of today whose work merits presentation in some permanent form\nfor book-lovers and connoisseurs. fj| Six large woodcuts by ANDRE DERAIN, the noted\nFrench painter who has illustrated the rare French editions of Apollinaire, contribute further\nto the beauty of this book.\n\nThe Price\nis\n$5.00 net"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "[239]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.49", "texte": "The North American Review\nfor November\n\nCongress and the Supreme Court Alexander Sidney Lanier\nBritish Sea Power Maj.-Gen. Sir George Aston\nCharacteristics op Bolshevik Diplomacy Alfred L. P. Dennis\nIncrease op Contemporary Peoples W. Russell Tylor\nHow Long Can the Farmer Hold Out? R. L. Holman\nFires op Conquest Major Sherman Miles, U.S.A.\nThe Leaves: An Eclogue Stark Young\nOn the Anniversary of the Folio Elmer Edgar Stall\nMalvtda von Meysenbug Sigmund Mum\nFootloose Americans Helen McAfee\nIvan Mestrovic Walter Agard\nThe Case for Psychical Research Hester Dowden\nThe Book of the Month Lawrence Gilman\nAffairs of the World Willis Fletcher Johnson\nNew Books Reviewed\n\nfj| Every month the Review prints articles, controversial and otherwise, on all\ntopics of timely interest from the pens of the most noted writers of the day.\nf| No thinking man or woman should ignore the assistance that such a magazine\naffords in the formation of his or her opinion, for your opinion counts when\nbacked by facts.\n\nfj[ To give those who are but occasional readers of The North American\nReview the opportunity of following its splendid articles regularly, we make\nthis special offer:\n\nAcquaintance Subscription Offer\n\nOn receipt of your remittance of $1.00 we will send The North American Review\nfor four months, beginning with the November issue\nThis is a material saving and an added convenience to you\n\nPlease use\ncoupon\n\nThe North American Review, B-11-23\n9 East 37th Street, New York, N. Y.\nGentlemen: For the enclosed $1.00 (Canadian $1.12, foreign $1.24) kindly\nenter the following name to receive The North American Review for four\nmonths, beginning with the November, 1923, issue.\nName\nAddress"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.50", "texte": "\"Lend Me\nYour Broom!\n\nCOPIES of BROOM are more eagerly sought after,\nsnatched up, devoured, worn, dog-eared, borrowed,\nthan any other magazine in the United States. Copies are\neven known to have been stolen by desperate individuals.\nLET us get together and be frank about this problem.\nBROOM must increase its public in order to live and\naccomplish its work—not by Thirty Thousand, but by\nat least a thousand new subscribers.\nIF you are one of the persistent persons who borrows a\nfriend's copy, why not subscribe to BROOM. That\nis the best way to help us.\nIF you are a subscriber, make your friends who persistent-\nly borrow BROOM become subscribers too. We are\nbeing perfectly logical.\nTRIAL six months' subscription to BROOM costs\n$2.50. A year's subscription, with a two-dollar\nbook costs $5.00. We are close enough in touch with the\npublishing fraternity to secure for you or a new reader one\nof a wide range of books. A number of important recent\nbooks are suggested below:\n\nJacob's Room, by Virginia Woolf\nThe Captain's Doll, by D. H.\nLawrence\nHoliday, by Waldo Frank\nHarmonium, by Wallace Stevens\nDove's Nest, by Katherine Mansfield\nTulips and Chimneys, by E. E.\nCummings\nSons and Lovers, by D. H. Lawrence\n(with BROOM, $5.50)\nAgainst the Grain, by J. K.\nHuysmanns (with BROOM, $5.50)\n\nBROOM - 45 King St., New York\nFor the enclosed $ please\nsend Broom for one year and the fol-\nlowing boofy:\nName\nAddress\n$5.00 Annual Subscription.\n50 Cents the Copy."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192311-01.1.51", "texte": "Thirty\nThousand\n'ers\nics were\naal arid-\nng issue\nDial has\n. readers\nst order.\nhe adult\noman in\ne wealth\nis access-\nmillion,\nally and\nerica no\n, and no\nrose and\nd sculp-\nEvery new subscriber is a participant in the suc-\ncess of The Dial—a success which is making artistic\nhistory. Join this group of alert and intellectually\nresponsible pioneers, and identify yourself with the\nlife of this country's art and letters.\nEX LIBRIS\n2\nK\nI\n%\n*>\nSHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY\nPARIS\n\nTHE\nDIAL\nFOR DECEMBER\nwill contain among other\nthings:\nAn essay on\nVirginia Woolf\nby\nClive Bell.\nthe English, critic\nand\nThe Baron Yon\nLeisenbohg\nby\nArthur Schnitzler\nThe Baron von Leiseribolig\nis Dr. Schnitzler's acknowl-\nedged short-story master-\npiece. Those who have read\nin The Dial previous stories\nby the great Viennese writer\nwill appreciate the full im-\nportance of this announce-\nment.\nEarly issues in 1924 will\ncontain:\nReminiscences of\nLeonid Andreyev\nby\nMaxim Gorky\nThe Injured One\nA short story by\nKarel Capek\nA Resume of the De-\nvelopments of Philos-\nophy Since 1900\nby\nBertrand Russell\nBad Han\nAn extraordinary short novel\nby a young American writer\nGlenway Wescott\n\nSPECIAL OFFER\nThe Dial for one year, beginning with the January issue, $5.00. In addition, we will send you\nthe October, November, and December issues for this year—in all 15 issues for the price of 12.\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street Address\nNew York City"}]}