{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_sha256": "d17de5182300998b89c231af7d47277bd403e2f54e114c46328db30cc381f75e", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1924/01_01/bmtnaap_1924-01_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1924/01_01/bmtnaap_1924-01_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 2, "image_fin": 2, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Table of Contents", "titre_sommaire": "Table of Contents", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1218, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1629, "texte": "PAGE\nCover Design—Lissitsky\nFour Poems—E. E. Cummings 1\nMy Dear Jean—Philippe Soupault • 6\nMatters of Importance—Ramon Guthrie 10\nPrince Llan—Kenneth Burke 12\nSir Walter Raleigh—William Carlos Williams 23\n*\nBook Reviews:\nTulips and Chimneys—Slater Brown 26\nThe Thomas Jefferson Bible—Robert A. Sanborn .... 28\nThe Story of the Bible—Georgia Mary Sanborn 29\nComment: Open Letter To the Dial 30\nThe Broom Award 31"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1", "page_fin": "5", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 7, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.3", "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": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 511, "texte": "FOUR POEMS\n\n1\nohld song\nyou Know\na fly and his reflection\nwalking upon a mirror this is\nfriday 1\nwhat\n3 a fly and\nher his Its image\nstrutting (very\njerkily) not toucH-\ning because separated by an impregnable\nBecause (amount of inter\n-vening) anyway You\nknow Separated what\ni Mean\n(old song by\n; neither you nor i and\nby the way)\n, which is not fly\n\n2\nI'd think \"wonder\nif\" if\ni were a\nchild ' 'we can see a bat in this\ntwilight'')\nthere one is\nlook\nhow it goes like a dream\n(and between houses, really a kind of"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 695, "texte": "mouse) but he has little wings\nand here's my\nhotel this is the\ndoor (opening it i\nthink things\nwhich\nwere supposed to\nbe out of my\nreach\n, they are like\njam on the shelf everybody guessed\nwas too high)\nlook\n(it's back again there therehere\nAnd)i say \"won't you\"(remembering)\nknowing that you\nare afraid \"go first\" of dreams and little\nbats & mice (and\nyou,\nyou say \"let's\" going in\n\"take\nhands\" smiling \"going up\nthese dark stairs.\n\n3\nif (you are i why certainly\nthe hour softly is\nin all; places which move\nseriously\nTogether.\nlet) us fold wholly ourselves smil-\ning because we love,\nas doomed few alert (flowers and\nexcellently upon whom Night\nwanders and wanders and) wanders\nOr since, in air"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1195, "texte": "like bubbles Faces\noccur (shyly\nto\none by bright\nbrief\none be)punc\n-tured: the, green\nnameless caterpillar of evening nib,ble,s\nSolemnly a whitish leaf of sky.\n\n4\n\nWill i ever forget that precarious moment?\nAs i was standing on the third rail waiting for the\nnext train to grind me into lifeless atoms various\nabsurd thoughts slyly crept into my highly sexed\nmind,\nIt seemed to me that i had first of all really made\nquite a mistake in being at all born, seeing that i was\nwifeless and only half awake, cursed with pimples,\ncorrectly dressed, cleanshaven above the nombril,\nand much to my astonishment much impressed by\nhaving once noticed (as an infantile phenomenon)\nGeorge Washington almost incompletely sur-\nrounded by welldrawn icecakes beheld being too\nstrong, in brief ran American, if you understand\nthat i mean what i say i believe my most intimate\nfriends would never have gathered.\nA collarbutton which had always not nothurt me\nnot much and in the same place.\nWhy according to tomorrow's paper the proleta-\nriat will not rise yesterday.\nInexpressible itchings to be photographed with\nLord Rothermere playing with Lord Rothermere\nbilliards very well by moonlight with Lord\nRothermere."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1500, "texte": "A crockodile eats a native, who in revenge beats\nit insensible with a banana, establishing meanwhile\na religious cult based on consubstantial intangi-\nbility.\nPersonne ne m'aime et j'ai les mains froides.\nHis Royal Highness said \"peek-a-boo\" and\nthirty tame fleas left the prettily embroidered how-\ndah immediately.\nThumbprints of an angel named Frederick found\non a lightning-rod, Boston, Mass.\nsuch were the not unhurried reflections to which\nmy organ of imperception gave birth to which i\nshould ordinarily have objected to which, consider-\ning the background, it is hardly surprising if any-\none hardly should call exactly extraordinary. We\nrefer, of course, to my position. A bachelor inca-\npable of occupation, he had long suppressed the de-\nsire to suppress the suppressed desire of shall we\nsay idleness,, while meanits opposite? Nothing\ncould be clearer to all concerned than that i am not\na policeman.\nMeanwhile the tea regressed.\nKipling again H. G. Wells, and Anatole France\nshook hands again and yet again shook again hands\nagain, the former coachman with a pipewrench of\nthe again latter then opening a box of newly with-\nout exaggeration shot with some difficulty sardines.\nMr. Wiggin took Wrs. Miggin's harm in is, extin-\nguishing the spitoon by a candle furnished by cour-\ntesy of the management on Thursdays, opposite\nwhich a church stood perfectly upright but not\npiano item:a watermelon^causes indigestion to Will-\niam Cullen Longfellow's small negro son, Henry\nWads worth Bryant."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 587, "texte": "By this time, however, the flight of crows had\nceased. I withdrew my hands from the tennisracket.\nAll was over. One brief convulsive octopus, and\nthen our hero folded his umbrella.\nIt seemed too beautiful.\nLet us perhaps excuse me if i repeat himself:\nthese, or nearly these, were the not unpainful\nt oughts which occupied the subject of our atten-\ntion; to speak even less objectively,i was horribly\nscared i would actually fall off the rail before the\nreally train after all arrived. If i should have made\nthis perfectly clear, it entirely would have been\nnot my fault.\n\nE. E. Cummings"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1", "page_fin": "1", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.3.1", "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": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 12, "fin_caractere_exclue": 347, "texte": "1\nohld song\nyou Know\na fly and his reflection\nwalking upon a mirror this is\nfriday 1\nwhat\n3 a fly and\nher his Its image\nstrutting (very\njerkily) not toucH-\ning because separated by an impregnable\nBecause (amount of inter\n-vening) anyway You\nknow Separated what\ni Mean\n(old song by\n; neither you nor i and\nby the way)\n, which is not fly"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1", "page_fin": "2", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.3.2", "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": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 349, "fin_caractere_exclue": 511, "texte": "2\nI'd think \"wonder\nif\" if\ni were a\nchild ' 'we can see a bat in this\ntwilight'')\nthere one is\nlook\nhow it goes like a dream\n(and between houses, really a kind of"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 431, "texte": "mouse) but he has little wings\nand here's my\nhotel this is the\ndoor (opening it i\nthink things\nwhich\nwere supposed to\nbe out of my\nreach\n, they are like\njam on the shelf everybody guessed\nwas too high)\nlook\n(it's back again there therehere\nAnd)i say \"won't you\"(remembering)\nknowing that you\nare afraid \"go first\" of dreams and little\nbats & mice (and\nyou,\nyou say \"let's\" going in\n\"take\nhands\" smiling \"going up\nthese dark stairs."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "2", "page_fin": "3", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 5, "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=bmtnaap192401-01.2.3.3", "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": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 433, "fin_caractere_exclue": 695, "texte": "3\nif (you are i why certainly\nthe hour softly is\nin all; places which move\nseriously\nTogether.\nlet) us fold wholly ourselves smil-\ning because we love,\nas doomed few alert (flowers and\nexcellently upon whom Night\nwanders and wanders and) wanders\nOr since, in air"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 159, "texte": "like bubbles Faces\noccur (shyly\nto\none by bright\nbrief\none be)punc\n-tured: the, green\nnameless caterpillar of evening nib,ble,s\nSolemnly a whitish leaf of sky."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "3", "page_fin": "5", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 7, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.3.4", "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": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 161, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1195, "texte": "4\n\nWill i ever forget that precarious moment?\nAs i was standing on the third rail waiting for the\nnext train to grind me into lifeless atoms various\nabsurd thoughts slyly crept into my highly sexed\nmind,\nIt seemed to me that i had first of all really made\nquite a mistake in being at all born, seeing that i was\nwifeless and only half awake, cursed with pimples,\ncorrectly dressed, cleanshaven above the nombril,\nand much to my astonishment much impressed by\nhaving once noticed (as an infantile phenomenon)\nGeorge Washington almost incompletely sur-\nrounded by welldrawn icecakes beheld being too\nstrong, in brief ran American, if you understand\nthat i mean what i say i believe my most intimate\nfriends would never have gathered.\nA collarbutton which had always not nothurt me\nnot much and in the same place.\nWhy according to tomorrow's paper the proleta-\nriat will not rise yesterday.\nInexpressible itchings to be photographed with\nLord Rothermere playing with Lord Rothermere\nbilliards very well by moonlight with Lord\nRothermere."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1500, "texte": "A crockodile eats a native, who in revenge beats\nit insensible with a banana, establishing meanwhile\na religious cult based on consubstantial intangi-\nbility.\nPersonne ne m'aime et j'ai les mains froides.\nHis Royal Highness said \"peek-a-boo\" and\nthirty tame fleas left the prettily embroidered how-\ndah immediately.\nThumbprints of an angel named Frederick found\non a lightning-rod, Boston, Mass.\nsuch were the not unhurried reflections to which\nmy organ of imperception gave birth to which i\nshould ordinarily have objected to which, consider-\ning the background, it is hardly surprising if any-\none hardly should call exactly extraordinary. We\nrefer, of course, to my position. A bachelor inca-\npable of occupation, he had long suppressed the de-\nsire to suppress the suppressed desire of shall we\nsay idleness,, while meanits opposite? Nothing\ncould be clearer to all concerned than that i am not\na policeman.\nMeanwhile the tea regressed.\nKipling again H. G. Wells, and Anatole France\nshook hands again and yet again shook again hands\nagain, the former coachman with a pipewrench of\nthe again latter then opening a box of newly with-\nout exaggeration shot with some difficulty sardines.\nMr. Wiggin took Wrs. Miggin's harm in is, extin-\nguishing the spitoon by a candle furnished by cour-\ntesy of the management on Thursdays, opposite\nwhich a church stood perfectly upright but not\npiano item:a watermelon^causes indigestion to Will-\niam Cullen Longfellow's small negro son, Henry\nWads worth Bryant."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 587, "texte": "By this time, however, the flight of crows had\nceased. I withdrew my hands from the tennisracket.\nAll was over. One brief convulsive octopus, and\nthen our hero folded his umbrella.\nIt seemed too beautiful.\nLet us perhaps excuse me if i repeat himself:\nthese, or nearly these, were the not unpainful\nt oughts which occupied the subject of our atten-\ntion; to speak even less objectively,i was horribly\nscared i would actually fall off the rail before the\nreally train after all arrived. If i should have made\nthis perfectly clear, it entirely would have been\nnot my fault.\n\nE. E. Cummings"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "6", "page_fin": "9", "image_debut": 8, "image_fin": 11, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "My Dear Jean:", "titre_sommaire": "My Dear Jean:", "signature_source": "Philippe Soupault ; Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2588, "texte": "MY DEAR JEAN:\n\nThis card, this picture that you addressed, I hardly know who\nsent them. Was it really you and did you wish me to seek your\nveritable face? Jean, I want to see you again. I hunt for you every-\nwhere. I remember, and search furiously through the years as if\nto find a flower, a friend, a key.\nYou watched everything which surrounded you as if in a mirror.\nIt rained and you were gay. It rained, you had tears in your eyes,\nit rained, you smiled or raged. Trees, monuments, passers-by be-\nlonged to you as sincerely as did the clocks. I can see you once more\nin the streets, absent-minded, happy at the least incident, marching\nstraight in front to find you didn't know what. You recognized the\nhouse you lived in because you had seen it on a postcard. All day\nyou thought of the stars; you spoke to the stars, and at night you for-\ngot to see them. Sometimes you followed women with the insistence\nof certain johnnies; not because they were pretty, but because you\nhad seen a spot on their coat. Your best moments, you affirmed,\nwere the lost moments, and you went about repeating continually that\nyou had errands to run, important engagements, a \"pile\" of letters to\ndictate, an incalculable number of telegrams to send. You smiled\nwithout knowing why, you smiled as one takes a walk, merely to\nstretch. You spoke without wishing, and to announce events of a\nvery relative importance. \"I saw,\" you would say, \"an astonish-\ning automobile: it was green and blue. The chauffeur had a huge\ncap and was smoking a gold-tipped cigarette. Isn't it upsetting? I\nmet Edward. He's gone completely mad. He bought a grey hat.\"\nYou believed that everything which astonished you was of the\nhighest interest.\nYou would say constantly, \"I saw, I heard, I read . . .\" and when\nyour interlocutor replied in turn, \"I saw, I heard, I read,\" you were\nlistening no longer. Your politeness was so ingenious as to be insult-\ning, and suddenly for unknown reasons it was replaced by the most\ndisagreeable vulgarity. One of your dear friends, one of those who\nthought they knew you, was discussing you a little before your depar-\nture. \"Jean,\" he said, \"is a disturbing personage. He cannot, with-\nout fear, affirm or deny. He likes without enjoying. He lives in the\nsame fashion that he smokes. Hardly has he lighted his cigarette\nwhen he hurries to finish it so he can light another. One day I even\nnoticed him forget that he had a cigarette between his lips already\nand carry a second there. He comes and goes with a disarming can-\ndour. He makes promises and never keeps them. He keeps the prom-"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2632, "texte": "ises which he never made. Jean pretends not to understand the things\none says to him. He doesn't listen and yet his memory astonishes and\nrevolts me. Most of the time he remembers only the minor details, with\nwhich he confounds you. Ido not think that he is careless. To evoke a\nmemory, any memory in front of him is to offend him surely. Mem-\nories wound him. Speaking only of the future he lives in the present,\nwhich in his case is the past of women who were once pretty. In spite\nof everything the moment disturbs and amuses him like the tempera-\nture. As soon as he meets some one he speaks of cold, rain, heat,\nbut if you ask him bluntly what the weather is, he can make no an-\nswer.\" I have had sufficient leisure to observe you, and am not aston-\nished when your friends make such remarks. The least things were\nimportant in your eyes. You could throw away nothing, you pre-\nferred to put things to one side, but definitely, for it never entered your\nhead to look for anything whatsoever. You did not file away, you hid.\nDust accumulated without disturbing you, without even attracting your\nattention. We thought to give you pleasure and only irritated. You\nhad the manias of a collector and the disgusts of a dilettante. Cer-\ntain things pleased you: newspapers, cigarettes, inkstands, racehorses,\nboats.\nMy dear Jean, I lived two years beside you, and saw you almost\ndaily. Where are you? I can see nothing. The light is divided.\nIt is day and night. You are there. The weather is grey, is sombre,\nis gay. These years are unbreakable toys, or colours without danger.\nOften we walked in the streets which are dear to you, these\nstreets of Paris where the sun lighted every shop, every tree on our path.\nCertain cafes, your favourites, were obligatory stops. The waiters,\nwhom you called Albert on principle, did not like you. They knew\nthat brusquely the desire to leave would make you clap your hands\nand cry out to make them rush to be paid. The uneasy proprietor\ngrouped his general staff to satisfy you. In winter you left your\ncafes\" definitely at the moment when the employees of the gas com-\npany were hanging night in the streets.\nWe hurried through certain quarters with which you were delib-\nerately unfamiliar, and which gave you the opportunity of being aston-\nished at every step. In certain stationeries you demanded books that\nwere rare or out of print, and when the stationer declared that he did\nnot know this book, you protested energetically, accusing him of neg-\nlecting his interests. Sometimes at a hardware store you tried to buy\ncherries or live birds. You always chose laundries to offer oranges to"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2587, "texte": "the laundresses, and you grew justly angry when the proprietor\nshowed you the door.\nThese walks always ended along the banks of the Seine, and it\nwas there only, as you watched the river, that you began to speak.\n\"I can think of nobody more stupid than bargemen. They run after\nthe smoke of tugboats and their shadow in the water. These people\nare hardly more sympathetic than crows. Often I watch them hang-\ning out their wash and cleaning the barge. As soon as they arrive\nat a destination they are homesick, but for what home? They don't\nknow how to laugh. . . . Did you see that old bird? I meet him\nten, twenty times a day. He catalogues his dreams. He is a col-\nlector. . . . Every time I pass near these ambulant painters, as nu-\nmerous as dead leaves in this corner, I laugh very loud to make them\nnervous. They become afraid that they are not copying the apse of\nNotre Dame with sufficient exactness. It changes colour every quar-\nter of an hour, and the poor men can't paint fast enough. Look at\nthat woman, look at those people . . .\"\nWithout ever wondering if I were bored, you continued to talk\nabout everything which surrounded you.\nAbout six o'clock we would go to your rooms. You threw your\nhat on a chair, your gloves on a table, your body on the lunge and\nyour coat somewhere else. You repeated, \"Old man, I'm dead tired.\nWhy did you make me walk so far?\" The tea was served.\nI have always heard you say that it was the most agreeable hour of\nthe day for you, and you hastened to absorb several boiling cupfuls\nso as not to interrupt too long the succession of your cigarettes, the\npain of your days, the only habit you possessed.\nIn spite of your fatigue you leaped from your lounge to your book-\ncase, from your bookcase to your desk, to throw yourself back on the\nlounge with the brilliant ball of gas above your head. You chose a\nbook at hazard, accompanying your comings and goings with \"What\ntrash! What an idiot!\" Or again, \"Astonishing! Astonishing! Read\nthis! Read this!\" Once more you poured tea into the cups, forgetting\nto drink as you skimmed through a magazine, a newspaper which lay\nthere by chance. It was at this hour that you would speak of the\nfuture. I have said your conversation, so selfish and disjointed, was\nboring, and however, when you were thinking of tomorrows, your\nwords as distant as stars took fire, twinkled. At the end of a day,\nabandoning the newspapers, you watched your hands: \"The months\nof the past are as tragic as so many lost lives. We shall still walk\nproudly, a smile on the lips. I know that smiles are the true reflections"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2418, "texte": "of the sun. Cold weather would suit us perfectly. There will\nbe great shadows, great clouds, which will follow us step by step.\nAnd we shall watch the eyes of people to possess this dizziness at\nlast. We shall find long cigarettes to gild our mouths, near trembling\ntrees which you love, which I love, which we love. The weather\nwill be dry, I tell you, and our steps on the sidewalk will tick off the\nseconds. Automobiles pass rapidly surrounded with a silence. Some\none will follow us.\"\nWhy do I evoke these memories? Wliy do I speak of Paris\nwhich you are forgetting already? Only to recognize you, Jean, and\nto forget those who know you. lam surrounded by the people who\ndid not wish to support your charming infirmities and who wonder at\nyour absence so as not to complain of it. You must be smiling again.\nJean, you are more earnest than all of us, more gay than all of us,\nand you are afraid.\nI am thinking of the clear days, of luncheons in the sunshine, of\nyour headaches, old refrains which hang in your memory. Between\nus there is this forgetting, this deep well whose chain creaks like swal-\nlows. You do not know where you are going, red as a rooster, your\neyes closed, a pipe between your teeth. Against the green and blue\nfields of spring, I see Jean, his hands in his pockets, stop to look at a\npebble, a tree, his shoe. What is he thinking about? It is five o'clock,\neight o'clock or noon ? An escaped church bell makes the women has-\nten. The sun falls at your feet, Jean, and you descend from the hill\nwith your hands in your pockets, pipe in your teeth, red as a rooster,\nyour eyes closed.\nYou are this fat man; you rise at dawn and walk without thinking.\nThe animals are no longer afraid of you, the trees know you. You\npass these men indifferently who think themselves your brothers. You\nremember us no longer. Can I believe truly that so much friendship,\nso much (understanding, lead to this silence which you now must call\nthe future ? You continue to walk in these rays of the morning, along\nthis nameless road.\n\"One day,\" jyou wrote me on the back of your portrait, \"an am-\nbulant photographer knocked at my door. I opened. He resembled\nyou and I send my best regards.\"\nI thank you for writing these few words and now excuse myself\nfor having replied at so great length. My memories are nets ifrom\nwhich I cannot escape.\nAffectionately yours,\n\nPhilippe Soupault\n(Translated by Malcolm Cowley)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "10", "page_fin": "11", "image_debut": 12, "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=bmtnaap192401-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Matters of Importance", "titre_sommaire": "Matters of Importance", "signature_source": "Ramon Guthrie", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1082, "texte": "MATTERS OF IMPORTANCE\n\nAin't it awful? Ain't it?\nAin't it?\nYet who really gives a damn?\nNot I:\nI shall be here only some few decades more.\nRobert fell mooning on the lusty legs\nOf Fulbert Tanner's daughter. (This was\nimportant).\nA hundred Dantes quench a thousand fresh\nInfernos\nAnd take stenographers to wife.\nA little-leather-Chaucer-done-in-prose\nIs thumbed in vain—too late\nLisetta finds that it is expurgate.\nWesley stirred Hell, smeared some on a stick\nAnd slapped it on God's face:\nGod laughed and wears the smirch:\nWesley lived and died ripe in honor—\n\"Dieu c'est moi,\" he said with simple\ncharm.\n' I see no hurt in it.\"\nY esterday\nA nursing mother flogged in Arkansas\nLeaves an uncomprehending cub\nTo hate his enemies. These win\nAnd he, being in minority, is hanged\nWith much decorum,\nEnglish Jehovah's human sacrifice.\nWesley pruning God in English fields,\nRobert sinning in the channel cliffs,\nBlack blight and fertility.\nHerleva caught the seed\nOf twenty centuries of future wars;\nIn her womb\nThe Great Blond Fightingman crushes\nHis puny foe the Great Blond Fightingman,"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1088, "texte": "And Anglo-Saxon comes to mean\nBastard Scandinavian and French—\nHardi nordic kings\nRuling with hand of iron—\nOur Dick, his statue's by Westminster\nnow,\nMaking his songs in French and Provencal\nAnd marveling at the senseless grunting\nsounds\nThe natives of his distant island make\nIn lieu of speech. He holds\nThat Britain is no place for men—\nRight for a lady-gaited ass like Jean,\nWho mopes among their fogs and even\nknows\nA half-a-dozen phrases in their tongue—\nHe disaffects the island, whining cur.\nDame! let him—simple pleasures of the\npoor.\nI ve hands enough full here in France.\nLondon I'd sell if I could find a taker.\nEngland!\nEngland expects every man—\nEngland, the sun never sets—\nEngland of Drake,\nEngland of Addison and Sterne,\nEngland of Mr. Gladstone,\nEngland of Wolfe, of Washington,\nEngland of the States — our mighty destiny — the\nStar of Empire,\nStar of a Falaise tanner s discomfiture,\nFruit of Herleva's attenuated shame.\nWilliam the Bastard proudly bears\nHis title and his arms to England.\nThe latest Kansas congressman proclaims,\n\"I am a self-made man.\"\n\nRamon Guthrie"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "12", "page_fin": "22", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 24, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Prince Llan : An Ethical Masque in Seven Parts, including a Prologue and a Coda", "titre_sommaire": "Prince Llan : An Ethical Masque in Seven Parts, including a Prologue and a Coda", "signature_source": "Kenneth Burke", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1960, "texte": "PRINCE LLAN\nAn Ethical Masque in\nSeven Parts, including\na Prologue and a Coda\n\nI\nPROLOGUE\nLogos Verbum the Word—universal brew bubbling and collaps-\ning—then this wad of runny iron and rock settles into a steady elliptic\njog—cools, crusts, that objects wriggle in the slime, and box-like\nthings bump against the trees—heroic march of that one tender seed\nthrough groanings and agues of the earth, through steaming fevers,\nthrough chills slid down from the poles, hunger, fire, pestilence, war,\ndespair, anguish of the conscience, lo! this clean-blooded man, this\nunscrofulous unsyphilitic neat-skinned gentleman, this ingenious iso-\nlated item, Prince Llan.\nBut where was Gudruff?\nGudruff was gone.\nWhy should we care where Gudruff was?\nGudruff was Prince Llan's intimate and adviser.\nWhere were they last seen together?\nAt table, drinking grog, and talking of the future.\nPrince Llan himself—his mind had moved elsewhere—and when\nthe auctioneer had shouted Who buys these women? Llan answered\nI buy these w—and flung down the money inasmuch as they were\ndear girls they were lovely girls nor were they afraid by God of him.\nTheir breasts were tight up beneath their shoulders. Their breasts,\nthey stood out firm like pegs. When they walked, one could note\ntheir sitters, how they undulated. And taking each girl by an arm,\nso that his thumbs were pressed carefully into their armpits, Prince\nLlan started with them out into life.\nII\nLost in a forest of Siberia, cold, destitute, and rained on, the\nPrince found three leaves blown under a rock, and dry. With these,\nby rubbing sticks, he builded them a fire, and they became so warm\nthat in time the two girls sang. Caught in an avalanche on some far-\noff peak, they rode laughing into the valley on a ledge of ice. He\ntugged them through shaking sands by the arm. He dragged them\nfrom flopping seas by the hair. Together they cooked with disease.\nTogether they bowed down to Siamese gods. They ate yellow dogs"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2495, "texte": "together. When beset by Arabs, he suddenly leapt with these girls\nto one side, leaving the Arabs crushed by a falling star.\n\"Let us have a garden,\" he said to them, so they grew a garden\nof flowers, mostly depraved. When it was trumpeting with colours\nand pleasant stinks, the three of them withdrew. For days he mar-\ntyrized himself, draining his poor body of its very marrow. Long\nafter his groins were appeased, the itch, the erotic erethism, continued\nin the mind. If he had lain on his back, and made an idle half-turn,\nburying his nose perhaps in the rancid grease of their hair, at the\nodour, the odour of rotting apples, he would become alert again. If\nhe but saw a fountain innocently playing, or a steaming kettle, it\nderailed him. His garden, rained on by bees, was calmly impreg-\nnated. The blossoms withered, to bear fruit; the Prince crashed a\nrock through their little house, and the three moved on across the face\nof the earth, across its nose, mouth, cheeks, and hair.\nShortly after this the Prince went alone up into a mountain with\na burning bush on it—and standing, his arms Napoleon-fashion, he\ntook stock:\n\"If I incline to a certain dish, it is that I like it, even before I\nhave first tasted it, the vacuum of this as yet untasted dish pre-existing\nin the mind. There are vacuums of millions of combinations of or-\nganic substances pre-existing in my mind, and I shall die without quiet-\ning their pressure.\n\"Love, the love of one object to the exclusion of all others, enables\nus to thrive despite this famine. Love is a process of individualization:\nthere is the general vacuum Love, and it is filled when one finds a\nspecific object to adequately symbolize this general. The poet loves\nhis material when he must have that material and none other. There\nare poets who may choose this or that, being interested primarily in the\narrangement, and to this extent they are not filled. Similarly, these\ngirls for me may particularize, but they do not symbolize, the general.\nWhich is to say that I do not love them, because I ask only that they\nbe delicate and smell right. They cannot end the famine, and I am\nthe most forsaken of men, loveless, tossed without anchor.\n\"Thou shalt not commit adulteration.\"\nIII\nOn a screen the projection of a beating heart, the size of an ele-\nphant, convulsing irregularly. Its owner suffering some spiritual\nor physical torment. As they watched, a large drop of blood col-\nlected on a valve, sidled across the slope of the meat—like a tear"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2583, "texte": "rolling down a cheek. The drop detached itself, and they shouted,\nwith hell an eternity of having the finger-nails pulled out, the walls\ncrooked. The chairs tire one's elbow, or the muscles of our necks.\nThe lights will go out, come on again, flicker. Lewd pictures were\nhung, the lewdest portions obscured by splotches of ink. The floor\nslants, occasionally a door would open, so that a chill passed through,\nwith the lyric cook stumbling across the room, skinny and starved. The\nPontificers fought their way among the ruins of chairs and people;\ncarried banners: Let each man build a bridge, if every man builds\na bridge the world will have no time for vice, build bridges, signed,\nThe Pontificers, the lyric cook gnawing at his knuckles. He was\nmumbling recipes, describing the setting of tables, rehearsing an ideal\ncourse of dishes, and in the midst of a peculiarly dull catalogue of\ningredients, he will burst out with songs in praise of food.\nMine enemy was strong. He possessed the good things of this\nworld. I was a coward, timid and lugubrious. I slunk. I slunk on\nmy belly. I slunk with terror into her bed, taking the wife of mine\nenemy. When he returns, she will spew upon me, and he will beat\nme with a horsewhip.. Ampersand placing the germs into the blood\nthrough the sucking of lice not affable skulls whom the madam lay\nwith the man so aloof from us as he stood on stilts that passing\ndogs stopped to befoul them.\nEuonymism holds our salvation to lie in the use of the left side.\nIt points out that past civilizations decayed, and that they held the\nleft side unlucky. Yes, the founder of Euonymism was here: a tailor,\ndescended from twenty-seven generations of tailors, and they all had\nlifted the pressing iron with their right hands, until his race was\npuny on the left side of its body. He had plugged up his right nos-\ntril, and cast out his right eye, and was standing on his left leg, shout-\ning his doctrines at the parade of Pontificers, out of the left cor-\nner of his mouth, wiggling his left ear. That is why it is called\nEUONYMISM.\n(Sitting down, the chair collapsed. Stepping across to pull a\nlever, he was soused with water. Falling, he arose. Rising, he fell.\nSighing, he threw off his clothes, finding them distressing.)\nNow:\nThe Thirty-Three Systems strive after a synthesis. As they\nwatch, the synthesis is attained, and the Thirty-Fourth System joins\nthe ranks. Regardless, Euonymists and Pontificers rushed at each\nother, trampled down a convention of three thousand specialists on\nthe mating habits of the female Polar dung beetle. Prince Llan"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2167, "texte": "leaped up, and ran with his two girls for the shore. The ship was\nwaiting. The mob threatened. No time could be spared. He threw\nthem across the gang-plank as the ship commenced a yaw toward the\nSouth. SLIP THE CABLE, SET THE FORE-STAY-SAIL\nand the FORE-TOP-MAST STAY-SAIL. These filled with a\ngroan, as the first of the pursuers began stringing over the hill. CUT\nTHE SPRING; SET THE SPANKER VANGS, the MIZ-\nZEN-TRY-SAILS, the MAIN-TOPGALLANT STUDDING\nSAlLS—the ship now moving confidently out into the water. They\ncast off the club-haul; next, gammoning, they gybed the boom taut\nwith a grummet, gave a sharp bowse to the bolt-ropes, and luffed the\nhalyards to the fag-ends of the davits. The ship scudded into a\nvicious head-sea, simultaneously with the clewing up of the spun-\nyards, while several men under the second mate went madly to work\nkeckling the parbuckle, and marling the lazy-guy with gudgeons. The\ncaptain's voice rang out thwart ships above the gale, giving orders to\nloosen the crupper till it squared the jibboom—and Prince LI an\nknew that he was advancing into another world.\nIV\n(Scene: A dense grove in the midst of a rolling barren plain,\nrather like the pubes on a white body. The Prince's two girls sit ob-\nserving the horizon. The Prince sleeps. Tableau. Music. Finally\none of the girls begins talking softly.)\nOne of the girls: He calls us Alpha Nomega. So you, dear, be\nAlpha; I'll be Nomega. Or if you prefer, I shall be Alpha.\nAlpha: Back on the farm; home and mother; thoughtless; happy;\nbrute made me woman; thirteenth year; knew no better; driven\naway; city; loved; at times didn't love; I hate men, Nomega.\nNomega: Drunken father; invalid mother; nice man; took to room;\ngave candy; tickled; happened; fourteenth year; had to pay; but\nit died; now I am a big empty place, Nomega.\nAlpha: Bring carpet slippers; sits reading by fire.\nNomega: Lean over back of chair and kiss; smile; pat cheek; both\ntiptoe across room; pull back curtains; smile to each other at\nwhat see there asleep.\nAlpha: Tiptoe back to fire; lay on his knees.\nNomega: Look up into eyes.\n(They fall silent, observing the horizon. The Prince sleeps.\nTableau. Music.)"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2255, "texte": "Alpha: But the Prince is good to us, Nomega.\nNomega: Too good. How can we be assured of a future with\nsuch a strange man. Look what he wrote, just before falling\nasleep. I watched the words forming. (She slips a paper\ngently from under the Prince's right arm.) \"Taken in the abso-\nlute sense, taking old age, that is, divorced from the example of\nsome specific old man, the loveliest life and the loveliest\nthoughts should be produced after the sperm is silenced. I\nimagine a life as broad and deep and quiet as a mountain lake,\nand it seems to be solely the property of old age. lam speak-\ning, however, absolutely, without concern for examples.\"\nAlpha (taking up the notebook) : Metaphysics is the yearning to\nsee one's own eye, when there are no reflections, and when one\neye cannot be taken from the head to be examined by its fellows.\"\nAnd he, Nomega, is the man who has crawled with us into secret\nplaces.\nNomega (receiving bacfy the notebook) : \"True love is specific; but\nmine is more generalized, like that of the housefly, or the phil-\nosopher.\"\nAlpha: Thank God he can still talk of love.\nNomega: We should have run off and hidden among the Horrors.\nHave sneaked behind the big screen with the heart going on it.\nWe could have hired servants had we stayed there, and had\nothers to tie our shoes for us.\nAlpha: The hungry man would have cooked for us.\nNomega: But now we must make the best of things. We must use\ntechnique with the Prince.\nAlpha: Yes, but he is becoming too forgetful. He is interested in\nother things. Yet such an earnest man should still be grateful\nfor any display of science.\n(Silence. They observe, not the horizon, but the Prince. He\nmoves in his sleep, and mutters, Gall in the blood. The passions\nare like gall in the blood.\" He smiles, becomes quiet, and a flute\nbleats tenderly as they turn their eyes again to the horizon.)\nAlpha (sadly) : But let us put this worry aside, Nomega. Let us\nrecite.\nNomega: Yes, what should it be? Why, let us recite the First Litany\nof our Profession.\nAlpha: Yes, let us recite the Office of the Enormous, the Mis-shapen,\nand the 111-formed.\nNomega : No, dear, let us recite of that rarer movement, the Natural\nand the Divine.\nAlpha: I shall try, although I don't remember it very well."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2149, "texte": "(They recite. And their unhappiness seems to vanish as the#\nbecome engrossed in their connoisseurship.)\nAlpha Nomega:\nLove in the male should be subordinated to mastery, in order\nthat the fine edge be not taken too soon from the attack.\nThe male strives to remain calculatory until he has reached a\npoint whereat decision is irrevocable. Then, and only then, he\nmust shift the direction of his emotions, and speed in arithmetical\nratios of progression, like an object drawn by gravitation, towards\ncatharsis.\nLet the female remember simply that she is a flower hold-\ning up its chalice, a vase to be filled.\nWhile that act is most efficient in which, the two phenomena\nhaving transpired simultaneously, the parts are left ticking ir-\nregularly from the repercussion.\n(This seems to have cleared the air like a discharge from the\nclouds. Their interests have changed. They glance appraisingly at the\nPrince, to gauge his slumber.)\nAlpha: Nomega, the cat is asleep.\nNomega: The cat is asleep,, little mouse.\n(They crarel into each others arms. But the Prince stirs and\narva^es.)\nPrince Llan: Pathetic little girls. I have doubtless inserted many\nbarbs into your tender minds. These barbs will rankle, until\nsome day, when you are older, you will understand. At that\ntime it might aid you to remember that man possesses a species of\nseed which, if properly laid within the soul of woman, can\nfrequently result in her drinking poison, or falling from a bridge.\n.... Now, go, little sealed things, little unplumbed possibilities,\nlittle fields unplowed. Ride off in a carriage tight shut, where no\nray of sunlight can enter.\n(They go, after each has received a kiss and a gift of money\nfrom the Prince.)\nPrince Llan (to himself) : There, how gently he sent them off. And\nhe might just as readily have driven them with clubs. He bowed\nthem away as virgins, instead of beating them as bitches. That\nis better, since more proper to a parting.\n( They went, and the Prince watched them mould together into a\nspot on the horizon.)\nV.\nThe universal brew bubbled and collapsed; boxlike things had\nbumped against the trees; there had been, you will remember, war,"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2721, "texte": "pestilence, and anguish of the conscience; the Prince had bought those\ngirls; he had ridden avalanches with them; he had rushed them away\nduring scramble of Euonymists and Pontificers; gammoning, the\nspanker vartgs were gybed taut with a grummet; and he had become a\nnew man; sent them away as virgins, though he might have beaten\nthem as bitches; and he now walked with a slow tread, after all these\nyears, thoughtfully, to himself, saying:\n\"A reality encompassed by intelligence falls outside the realm of\na complete experience, outside the realm of an organic understanding.\nThere is described to me, in every detail, every elbow of height and\nbreadth, every vibration of smell, every grade of color, some place—\nbut this place does not live for me as an immediate possession until I,\ntoo, have been there, and experienced it through the orchestration of\nthe senses. Yet a reality so encompassed by the intelligence cannot\nbe mistaken for any other—and when I do come upon this place I\ncan apply my tests, and make sure whether or not it is the place in-\ntended. Or even going beyond this, I could say that the glory of\nphilosophy lies in just such an act of intellection; in the stating by\nintelligence of what can never be immediately, organically, experi-\nenced.\"\nWas this the man who had martyrized himself? It was. Speak,\nthat the younger may be edified. Let him hear what they already\nknew in their minds, but shall not know in their bodies until they,\ntoo, are tottering.\n\"A man, suffering from untold miseries, can go out and plunge his\nknife into a wild beast, or his axe into a tree, and by so much resolve\nhis discomfiture. An act is unmistakable: this man has acted. But\nhe cannot plunge his knife into an odor on the wind, or a sudden\nmemory of childhood, or a vague forewarning of death. Vicariously,\nhe has tried to slay the wild beast instead of the sudden memory of\nchildhood. He stoops over his kill, spies a single leaf detached, on\nthe ground, contrived ingeniously, and his misfortunes are suddenly\nsituated elsewhere. ... To obviate this, let him divorce himself from\norganic experience, and translate these vaguenesses into the certainties\nof the intellect. Life, established by the poets as a fever, remains a\nproblem of distress which cannot be solved in terms of positive happi-\nness, but may in terms of pains absent.\"\nThe Prince transcribed carefully.\n\"The intellect is the most advisable narcotic, since it enables us to\nlive a waking deep-sleep, to get the completeness of the facts, but\nwithout the poignancy. By the word I create, I act—which means, I\nslay. Man by nature a slayer. Having become too subtle to dispose\nof his maladjustments by the slaying of wild beasts, he turns to the"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2632, "texte": "slaying of his emotions. The intellect unites living with death, per-\nception with immunity. Let us admit only as much emotion as will\nserve to add zest to our perceptions. Let emotion be like gall in the\nblood.\n\"To find that method whereby life, pressed into firm little bricks, is\nhandled at leisure. For life to tear at our chimneys and howl faintly\noutside the windows. Or even better, life as a tinkling of far-off cow-\nbells, coming up irregularly over the low hills. This we mean by the\nconsolation of our philosophies. We must search, not for experience,\nbut for the symbols of experience; reason and art each aiming at a\nformula in accord with its particular properties, its own potentialities.\nIdea cuts through a tangle of emotion; emotion cuts through a tangle\nof ideas—and each, expressed by the formulas of art and thought,\nare remedies against the complexities of existing. I bare my teeth at\nthe yapping of the senses; I devote myself, rather, to seeing how, if a\ngiven thing is so, other things follow. Yet how strange that at this\npoint, rising as I have above my own uneasinesses, having found this\nrock on which to enforce myself, I should receive word from Gudruff.\nFrom Gudruff, and I once sat at table and drank grog with him.\nHas he, too, found fierce temperance? He writes, Gudruff writes:\n'Sweetly tired body' . . . 'muscles of my throat' . . . 'hay, cow's\nbreath, urine, manure, and old sun-dried timber' . . . 'temptationi\ninguinum' . . . 'beyond the reach of duties . . . blessings from Gud-\nruff.' \"\nVI\nTo his good Prince Llan, greetings from Gudruff, or perhaps\ngreetings from Gudruff's skull, or more accurately, greetings from that\nmuch of Gudruff as may still lie in the Prince's own heart, for the\nrest of him may have been thrown to the winds by the time Llan\nreceives this letter. This sweetly tired body may have been laid aside,\nstopped even by its own hand.\nAfter they parted, Prince, he walked for days, eventually pass-\ning through a parched country and finding no water. His spittle was\na dry pulp, a cotton wad in the mouth- He came to a stream, pushed\nhis face against it horse-like, and suddenly the muscles of his throat\nbegan sucking in the water with a passion which astonished him. It\nwas not Gudruff, it was his throat that was drinking, while he leaned\nback and watched. He threw off his clothes, he lolled in the stream.\nHe let the sun dry him, and moved into the shade to sleep. But a\nchange had come over him. He had learned, Prince, that one can\nobserve with deliberation what is usually taken without thinking, that\none might go through life holding a minute ear to the body."}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2693, "texte": "He found that he was close to a village. It is somewhere ad-\njoining, but beyond, the territory of the dear Prince's father. There\nis wealth, but not the kind to tempt a restless and grasping people.\nHe entered, and forthwith five women and nine boys were brought\nto him in recognition of his station. He felt it advisable to send\nsome of the women away, but perhaps this was due to the fatigue of\nhis long journey. Since then, Prince, he has remained in this village,\nwhere, in his own way, he has become wealthy.\nTo witness: The heavy siropy smell of over-ripe strawberries;\ncool mint; the wormmess of rich loam soaked with water; the bitter-\nsweet of a barn, its mixture of hay, cow's breath, urine, manure, and\nold sun-dried timber. This ensemble of growth and decomposition,\nfreshened with morning. ... He lay there in peace. And suddenly,\nsuddenly, plena recognitio facultatum corporis latuit subito ei; se relax-\nabat, est molliter lapsus contra terram, deinde se dabat suorum temp-\ntationi inguinum. The remainder of the morning he spent in reading.\nPatiently and earnestly, his dear Prince, he has gone about it\nsince then to enlarge his knowledge. Kach day, perhaps, some new\npore has been opened, some new nerve stroked. As he grows old he\nfeels creeping over him the haze of veneration. He is now a veteran,\ndear Prince, and he feels that he has used his intelligence nobly to\nheighten every channel of sensation. He is at least fortified with the\nfeel of moral victory, of having done what he could to extend beauty\nfurther into the realm of ugliness. This body has not strained and fed\nand given off unheeded.\nBut now an illness is on him, and perhaps the roots are numbing.\nPerhaps when the Prince receives this he shall have passed beyond\nthe reach of duties and obligations.\nGood Prince, blessings from\nGudruff.\nPrmce Llan cried, lam coming, Gudruff, lam coming.\" He\nstumbled forward, throwing himself heavily against the door in front\nof him. It was an oblong door, encrusted with minute carvings.\nThere were houses, mountains, three peasants sitting at a table, women\nwashing clothes, lovers kissing by a well—tiny dramas were carved\nupon this door, and Prince Llan shoved it open. His eyes were part-\nly closed, glued with a heavy sleep. An ear sat between a filtering\nkidney and an intestine with its lugubrious burden. Parts of himself,\nreduplicate, lay about him. He climbed over a twitching leg. He\npushed aside a piece of throbbing brain tissue to keep from crushing\nit under his heel. Other parts sauntered through the air like fishes.\nPeering, he saw a door; it wavered beyond a film of mucus, an oval\ndoor with a heavy brass knocker. \"I am coming, Gudruff,\" he mur-"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2526, "texte": "mured, as his body, dragged by unseen weights, spread over the ground\nlike molasses. He shifted his bulk, forcing it to slope against this\ndoor, and the door budged reluctantly, allowing him, down a corridor\nbeyond, the glimpse of a door.\nVII\nCODA\nJoseph, singing with the birds in the morning, busying his carcass\nin physical toil before the heat of noon, next eats, and snoozes dog-like\nwhile the sun is most intense. When the splendour is dismissed he ap-\npears again, and returns to the fields. In time the shadows lengthen;\nJoseph takes food and drink which, the body having been depleted\nwith activity, is drawn in like water poured on a desert. At dusk the\nmuscles have been appeased; the brain speculates contentedly. Joseph\nlies in wait for a better understanding. We are nearing the comple-\ntion of the cycle; what has gone before has sweetened the twilight.\nThe eye flows calmly over the silhouette of the black hills. The\nmoment has come to shut himself away. Going indoors, the hero\nturns to his books, confining himself within the sharply restricted\nfunnel of his lamp's light. Ultimately, laying aside the books, he goes\nto his woman, and the cycle closes.\nSi hortum in bibliotheca habes, nihil deerit. If, says Cicero, you\nhave a garden and a library, you have all. If you have life (hortus,\ngarden) and the contemplation of this life (bibliotheca, library,\nbooks). Above the molten flow of emotion, a rigid and well-knit\ncrust of ideas, said that great platitudinarian, Cicero, that unfortunate,\nknowing the laws of good fortune. But you will pardon the author,\ndear reader, if at this point he interrupts himself. For your author\nis dying. I, Morducaya Ivn, the respected chronicler of these medi-\ntations and events, rose from my desk but a few moments past, laid\nback my head, and cast a mortal potion into the belly. Already,\nthere is a drowsiness mounting my legs. Between me and death there\nare less than my fingers full of people.\nThere is an old Chinese woman, exhaused of a dropsy. A baby\nin London, deformed by its mother s corsets. Three of five drunken\nsailors in a brawl at Singapore. Then me.\nWhen I am dead the boats will still sail down the river. . . . people\nwill eat supper with their windows open . . . and doubtless take walks\nacross the country during week-ends. I will be dead. Dead in a\ncoffin carried through the street, and my beard growing silently.\nThey say the baby won't cry when it's slapped. . . . Down, you\nbastard! and one of the sailors is gone. . . . Now that Chinese woman"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2253, "texte": "is staring: pingee, pongee, pungee, pung, yes, grandmother died of a\ndropsy.\nlam demanded back to be remoulded. This borrowed ego returns\nto the great Warehouse. My collection will be scattered: this much of\nbeef, swine, mutton, herbs, rum which, taken into the blood, became me.\nI could situate my elements thus, roughly, in pre-history: Twelve por-\ntions of this nose once floated in a tepid sea, the liver of a dinosaur.\nThis mouth, or rather this eye-tooth of this mouth, was belched up in\npart during the ejaculation of the Himalayas; it is a relique of the\nearth's earlier enthusiasm. And ah! this little strip of thumb-nail, im-\nmediately within the border of the moon, who would believe that it was\nonce included in a germ which gnawed at the brain of Jesus.\nAnd so lam reclaimed metaphysically. Strictly to observe rela-\ntionships, in the light of Jupiter, Ido not matter. As I was slung\ntogether, so shall I fall apart, an aggregate of casual units, subject to the\nchemistry of the Law. And when the earth, the black cold earth\ndrives on through space, drives on through force of habit I suppose, and\nthere is left nothing but a dead worm sticking to the collected works of\nShakespeare, what will it signify that Ivn perished of the nature of\nthings, and of poison cast into the belly ?\nIvn, you are dying! Not an aggregate of units, not a relative trifle\nin the light of Jupiter, but you, I—I—\nOut of the big black hole\ninto my own awareness of nothing\nthus from the grinding womb of the Mother Nebula\nI\nmy heart, mp fingertips,\nI, the affirmation, the solely significant. . . .\nFacts, tiny facts, the patient ministering to our daily needs, the\nbalancing of hungers with appeasements. But what—that tingling in\nthe ears; it is music, or death. I fail. I struggle once more to my feet,\nchoking. Of a sudden lam elated with futurity. I bellow:\nI have suffered the prologue. I have heard the orchestra strike up,\nthe curtain rises, and God! lam called to go elsewhere. I saw\ntheir fat happy faces, caught a glimpse of them dining, and the\ndoor slammed shut in my face. To live among those beeves of\nart. And here and there little cries come up out of the earth, like\nflowers. When the world rises and sings—but lam dead.\n(Dies.)\n\nKenneth Burke."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "23", "page_fin": "25", "image_debut": 25, "image_fin": 27, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Sir Walter Raleigh", "titre_sommaire": "Sir Walter Raleigh", "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": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2537, "texte": "SIR WALTER RALEIGH\n\nOf the pursuit of beauty and the husk that remains, perversions\nand mistakes, while the true form escapes in the wind, sing O Muse;\nof Raleigh, beloved by majesty, plunging his lust into the body of a\nnew world—and the deaths, misfortunes, counter coups, which swelled\nback to certify that ardor with defeat. Sing! and let the rumor of\nthese things make the timid more timid and the brave desperate, care-\nless of monuments which celebrate the subtle conversions of sense and\nlet truth go unrecognised. Sing! and this once let the song be an\narrow through the brain. Sing and make known Raleigh, who\nwould found colonies; his England become a mouthful of smoke\nsucked from the embers of a burnt weed. And if the nations, well\nfounded on a million hindrances, taxes, laws and laws to annul\nlaws must have a monument, let it be here implied: this undersong,\nthis worm armed to gnaw away lies and to release—Raleigh: if it so\nplease the immortal gods.\nSing of his wisdom, O Muse: The truth is that all nations, how\nremote soever, being all reasonable creatures, and enjoying one and\nthe same imagination and fantasy, have devised, according to their\nmeans and materials, the same things.\nThey all have lighted on the invention of bows and arrows; all\nhave targets and wooden swords, all have instruments to encourage\nthem to fight, all that have corn beat it in mortars and make cakes,\nbaking them upon slate stones; all devised laws without any grounds\nhad from the scriptures or from Aristotle's Politick, whereby they\nare governed; all that dwell near their enemies impale their villages,\nto save themselves from surprise. Yea, besides the same inventions,\nall have the same natural impulsions; they follow nature in the choice\nof many wives; and there are among them which, out of a kind of\nwolfish ferocity, eat man's flesh; yea, most of them believe in a second\nlife, and they are all of them idolators in one kind or another.\nThese things, still chewing, he chewed out. And as an atheist,\nwith Marlow, they would have burned him. It was his style! To\nthe sea, then! mixed with soundest sense—on selling cannon to one s\nenemies.\nBut through all else, O Muse, say that he penetrated to the\nQueen!\nSing! O Muse and say, he was too mad in love, too clear, too\ndesperate for her to trust upon great councils. He was not England, as\nshe was. She held him, but she was too shrewd a woman not to\nknow she held him as a woman, she, the Queen; which left an ele-\nment. Say that he was made and cracked by majesty, knew that"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2473, "texte": "devotion, tasted that wisdom and became too wise—and she all eyes\nand wit looking through until her man, her Raleigh became thin, light,\na spirit. He was the whetter, the life giver through the Queen—but\nwounded cruelly. In this desperate condition, willess, inspired, the tool\nof a woman, flaming, falling, being lifted up, robbed of himself to\nfeed her, caught, dispatched, starting, held again, giving yet seeking\nround the circle for an outlet: this was, herself; but what, O Muse,\nof Raleigh, that proud man?\nSay, first, he was the breath of the Queen—for a few years; say,\ntoo, that he had travelled much before he knew her, that he had\nseen the tropics and explored the Orinoco River for a hundred miles.\nThen say, O Muse, that now he saw himself afar, that he became—\nAmerica! that he conceived a voyage from perfection to find—an\nEngland new again; to found a colony; the outward thrust, to seek\n—But it turned out to be a voyage on the body of his Queen: Eng-\nland, Elizabeth—Virginia!\nHe sent out colonists, she would not let him go himself; nothing\nsucceeded. It was a venture in the crook of a ladie's finger, pointing,\nthen curving in Virginia? It was the nail upon that finger. O Raleigh!\nnowhere, everywhere—and nothing. Declare, O Muse, impartially,\nhow he had gone with the English fleet to strike at Spain and how\nshe called him back—Sire, do you not know, you! ? These women are\nmy person. What have you dared to do? How have you dared,\nwithout my order, to possess yourself of what is mine? Marry this\nwoman!\nSing, O Muse, with an easy voice, how she, Elizabeth, she Eng-\nland, she the Queen—deserted him; Raleigh for Leicester, Essex now\nfor Raleigh; she Spencer whom he friended, she \"The Faery Queen,\"\nshe Guiana, she Virginia, she atheist, she \"my dear friend Marlow,\"\nshe rents, rewards, honors, influence, reputation, she \"the fundamental\nlaws of human knowledge,\" she prison, she tobacco, the introduction\nof potatoes to the Irish soil: It is the body of the Queen stirred by\nthat plough—now all withdrawn.\nO Muse, in that still pasture where you dwell amid the hardly\nnoticed sounds of water falling and the little cries of crickets and small\nbirds, sing of Virginia floating off: the broken chips of Raleigh: the\nQueen is dead.\nO Virginia! who will gather you again as Raleigh had you\ngathered? science, wisdom, love, despair. O America, the death-\nplace of his son! It is Raleigh, anti-tropical. It is the cold north,\nflaring up in ice again."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1892, "texte": "What might he have known, what seen O Muse? Shoal water\nwhere we smelt so sweet and so strong a smell, as if we had been in\nthe midst of some delicate garden; and keeping good watch and\nkeeping but slack sail—we arrived upon the coast; a land so full of\ngrapes as the very beating and surge of the sea overflow them, such\nplenty, as well there as in all places else, on the sand and on the\ngreen soil on the hills, as well as every little shrub, as also climbing\ntowards the tops of high cedars, that in all the world I think a like\nabundance is not to be found. And from below the hill such a flock\nof cranes, mostly white, arose with such a cry as if an army of men\nhad shouted all together. He might have seen the brother of the\nking, Granganimo, with copper cap, whose wife, comely and bashful,\nmight have come aboard the ship her brows bound with white coral;\nor running out to meet them very cheerfully, at Roanoak, plucked off\nhis socks and washed his feet in warm water. A people gentle, lov-\ning, faithful, void of all guile and treason. Earthen pots, large, white\nand sweet and wooden platters of sweet timber.\nSing, O Muse and say, there is a spirit that is seeking through\nAmerica for Raleigh: in the earth, the air, the waters, up and down,\nfor Raleigh, that lost man: seer who failed, planter who never planted,\npoet whose works are questioned, leader without command, favorite\ndeposed—but one who yet gave title for his Queen, his England to a\ncoast he never saw but grazed alone with genius.\nQuestion him m hell, O Muse, where he has gone, and when there\nis an answer, sing and make clear the reasons that he gave for that\nlast blow. Why did he send his son into that tropic jungle and not\ngo himself, upon so dangerous an errand? And when the boy had\ndied why not die too? Why England again and force the new King\nto keep his promise and behead him ?\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "26", "page_fin": "29", "image_debut": 28, "image_fin": 31, "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=bmtnaap192401-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Book Reviews", "titre_sommaire": "Book Reviews", "signature_source": "Slater Brown ; Robert Alden Sanborn ; Georgia Mary Sanborn", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2128, "texte": "BOOK REVIEWS\n\nTulips and Chimneys, by E. E. Cummings. New York. Thomas\nSeltzer. $2.00.\nModern art gets much less explanation than it deserves. The\nartist is too busy pioneering, the intransigent critic too busy fighting\nhis own battles. Nor does any explanation come from the critics of\nthe older school. They have a fear of tasting anything which they\ncannot recognize at a glance, they refuse to understand anything\nwhich is disturbingly new. But since they are house-broken only in\ntheir own traditions and would inevitably make a mess of them-\nselves if they wandered afield, it is perhaps fortunate for the world\nthat they make no attempt to understand the underlying aesthetic\nupon which these crisp and brilliant poems of E. E. Cummings are\nbuilt.\nFor Cummings is not only a poet but a painter. His knowledge\nof word value is as profound as his knowledge of color, and it is\nlargely for this reason, because he has carried over the eye and\nmethod of art into the field of poetry, that the fresh, living, glamor-\nous forms he has created seem so intangible. To many of those\nwho do not understand this fact, this translation of one art into the\ntechnic of another, the poems of E. E. Cummings seem nothing more\nthan verbal and typographical mannerism.\nBut it is not too unapparent in his work that Cummings' approach\nto poetry has been quite definitely through painting. The spatial\norganization of color has become the durational organization of\nwords, the technical problem that of tempo. Words, like planes in\nabstract painting, function not as units in a logical structure, but as\nunits functioning in a vital and organic structure of time. Logic and\nall its attributes of grammar, spelling and punctuation, become sub-\nservient to the imperial demands of form. The words must come\nat the moment juste, the spark perfectly timed must ignite them at\ntheir fullest incipient power.\nwhile in the battered\nbodies the odd unlovely\nsouls struggle slowly and writhe\nlike caught.brave: flies;\nIn this quotation the verbal units fall, almost as if by fate, into\na sharp relentless tempo that drives each into the highest incan-"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2657, "texte": "descence of its meaning. There is no waste, the skilful orchestration\nof tempo forces each word to the final limit of its stress.\nBut Cummings not only derives his technical organization from\npainting. The sudden and glaring accuracies of description with\nwhich his poetry abounds, are those of an amazingly adept draughts-\nman who has for the moment exchanged his own medium for that\nof words. In some cases this pictorial accuracy is that of a photo-\ngraph taken with a lens of ice, brutally clear. But in many of his\nmore recent poems, of which there are all too few examples in\nthe present volume, this accuracy, deepened and sharpened by satire,\ncuts both ways. These poems, particularly the ones published in the\nfourth number of Secession, have all the quality of Daumier plus\nthat formal significance which Daumier never attained. It is a satire\nboth in form and import far beyond the timid and retiring ironies of\nT. S. Eliot; a satire which reveals Cummings as completely innocu-\nlated against that galloping stagnation which seems to carry off so\nmany of our younger American poets.\nOf the grace of Cummings' poetry much has been written. But\ngrace is an emanation, the residue or by-product of a means which\nhas utterly realized its aesthetic or extra-aesthetic purpose. It is an\nease which springs from the perfect economy of method. But since\nit cannot be its own purpose, since it can only be attained by way of\na technic whose purpose is not grace itself, it necessarily extends be-\nyond the reaches of analysis. Nevertheless it may be touched by a\nconsideration of that purpose from which it emanates, and though I\nmay be leading myself by the nose into a very doubtful territory of\nassumptions, I should say that the formal grace (one might as well\nsay beauty and be done with it) of Cummings' work is largely due\nto the fact that the lines of his poems are built for speed. Their\nbeauty is that of all swift things seen at rest.\nIn his best work this speed is evident; there exists in them an\norganized direction toward which each verbal unit functions at its\nhighest velocity. Cummings seldom attempts to achieve momentum\nthrough the utilization of mass, the violent and often painful impact\nof his poems is the active manifestation of speed; their formal beauty\nhas that quality common to racing cars, aeroplanes, and to those\nbirds surviving because of their swift wings.\nBut it is this speed, this sudden impact of his poems which turns\nso many people against them. Men do not like to be knocked down,\nparticularly by some quality they admire. But if art is to have\nany of the contemporary virtues it must have speed, and though it is"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2377, "texte": "perhaps more pleasant to be softly overturned by the witching waves\nof Amy Lowell, or knocked slowly numb by the water droppings\nof Georgian poetasters, it is certainly more exhilirating to experience\nthe sharp, the living, the swift, the brilliant tempos of E. E. Cum-\nmings. And though the selection of poems in this volume is neither\na sensitive nor a comprehensive one, though it contains certain poems\nof questionable value, it nevertheless stands as the most important\nwork of poetry yet published in America.\nThe Thomas Jefferson Bible. Edited by Henry E. Jackson. New\nYork- Boni and Liveright. $2.50.\nThe hard-shelled mind of the eighteenth century, that only a\nheavy hammer and a stone could open, speaks in this book to the\npaper-shelled twentieth that can be split by the pressure of a child's\ntwo thumbs.\nTo read the Thomas Jefferson Bible is an excursion in a closed\ncarriage, sedately driven, to the house of a Roman tetrarch in the cen-\nter of ancient Jerusalem. Outside the faiths swarm and clash and spit\nvenom, embrace and propagate, gnaw at the ankles of the carpenter's\nson. Inside the muting walls the cool steel threads of logic spin from\nthe legal hps. We listen to the last word, bow our respect, decline\nin moderation the closed carriage, and walk home through the clam-\norous streets, disarmed to fragrant partialities. For, with all respect\ndue to the competent Jefferson, we prefer our Christ with to without,\nthat is, decorated with miracle, like Dionysus garlanded with vine-\nleaves, to the bones cleaned by acid and carbolic soap.\nMiracle does not decay except in closed minds. The mystic lover\nopens his veins and lets the sap fill the depleted channels, and green\nleaves shoot forth. There is a better wisdom in the perfumed chat\nbetween Jesus and the woman of Samaria, omitted in the Jefferson\nanthology, than in all his odorless selections lumped together.\nJefferson eliminates, and misses, the essential element of Chris-\ntianity, that it is the story of a failure, or, as a disappointing con-\ntemporary has phrased it, peace without victory. ' Christianity is\nand has always been unpopular because the world prefers success to\nfailure, riches to poverty, pleasure to pain. It has but acquired a cer-\ntain sanction from the defeated majority. When the world is turned\ntopsy-turvy Christianity will come into its universal rule.\n\nSlater Brown"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1294, "texte": "Nevertheless the personality of the Christ is the yeast that defies\nthe Volstead Act and every other form of benzoate, a chemical that\nwould, if universally administered, render the world eternally con-\nscious of the distinction between success and failure. For the per-\nsonality of the Christ is the purest embodiment of the rule of sym-\npathy which enables the enthusiasm of the defeated to depart from\nitself and to partake of the joy of the victorious.\nAnd another point missed by Jefferson is the feminity of that rul-\ning principle. That is why the woman of Samaria got, in a casual\nconversation, all of importance that Jesus had to say. The Jeffer-\nson Bible is a Bible with the living yeast baked dry and ineffective.\nThe gracious and curving feminine is left out.\nThe editor, Mr. Henry E. Jackson, takes up half the book with\nan introduction valuable, I should think, to the servant of society.\nHe reads well for the same reason that makes it a pleasure to see\nDempsey fight. And he exhibits excellent judgment in rendering the\nJeffersonian selections in the fibrous prose of the Weymouth\ntranslation.\nThe Story of the Bible. Written and Drawn by Hendrik Wilhelm\nVan Loon. Nerv York• Boni & Liveright. $5.\n\"You read me the Jesus book, Daddy.\"\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn\nGeorgia Mary Sanborn"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "30", "page_fin": "31", "image_debut": 32, "image_fin": 33, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "TO THE EDITORS OF THE DIAL", "titre_sommaire": "TO THE EDITORS OF THE DIAL", "signature_source": "Slater Brown ; Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2447, "texte": "COMMENT\nTO THE EDITORS OF THE DIAL\n\nGentlemen :\nThe first year to a novelist, the second to a poet, the third to a\ncritic . . . the fourth year to a novelist? To criticize this pattern is\npresumptuous. You will excuse us, however, for asking on what\nstandard the Dial makes its annual award.\nSherwood Anderson, the first to receive it, writes by personal in-\nspiration: good, bad and passable stories in a prose always abomi-\nnable. Eliot believes in tradition, form, the intellect, everything dead:\nhe writes well. Van Wyck Brooks is a critic who judges books by\ntheir relation to society. A prize means something or nothing. Any\nsignificance which the Dial award may possess is dependent on the\nqualities which these three writers share in common. But they have\nnothing in common: no opinions, no purposes, no common level of\nability. We are forced to conclude that the Dial award is meaningless.\nIt might be justified on the ground of creating a public for auth-\nors whose work has been neglected. Brooks publishes everything he\nwrites. He is a critic of integrity, and his readers are respectful and\nmany. The service your award will render him is financial, nothing\nmore. Two thousand dollars: the price of an automobile or a lot in\nthe suburbs; the Dial award promised to have more significance.\nWe understand that your anonymous committee considered sev-\neral names, among them Estlin Cummings. His public is small. He\nis violently attacked. To select him would have shown more cour-\nage and considerably broadened his reputation. Moreover, such a\nchoice, following that of Eliot, would indicate a positive standard,\nfor these two writers, although they have reached points widely diver-\ngent, started from common ground. A positive standard is what the\nDial lacks.\nIt veers from right to left continually, and if two beliefs are con-\ntradictory, accepts them both. It prints Anderson and Eliot in the\nsame issue; Coatsworth and Cummings; Picasso and the obscene\nfriezes of Arnold Roennebeck. One page cancels another and the\nresult, too often is nothing.\nWe have no quarrel with magazines which deliberately cater to\nthe public. They exist; they grow; their importance is measured not\nby what they publish but by the number of their readers. Our respect\nfor the Dial leads us to judge it by more difficult standards.\nAnd for this reason we feel at liberty to protest when it becomes\nan international dictionary of names: George Moore! Hugo"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 856, "texte": "von Hofmannsthal! Karel Capek! Ivan Bunin! Great names, re-\npeated, are intolerably dull. The Dial has grown impersonal, inor-\nganic, like a museum of universal archaeology. One goes wandering\nthrough the bric-a-brac of the nineties, the German naturalist school,\ntranslations from the Czech, all the materials for the snobs of culture.\nAgainst such background, Cummings is an anachronism. You say,\n\"No new talents have developed since the founding of the Dial.\"\nWas all your money wasted?\nWe believe that Cummings' talent is startling and new. We\nbelieve that a new literature is developing for which there is no place\nin the Dial. However, we have no quarrel with you for being con-\nservative or radical; realist, naturalist, impressionist or fin-de-siecle.\nWe protest only because you do not know your mind.\nSincerely yours,\n\nSlater Brown\nMalcolm Cowley"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "31", "page_fin": "31", "image_debut": 33, "image_fin": 33, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "BROOM AWARD", "titre_sommaire": "BROOM AWARD", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 858, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2020, "texte": "BROOM AWARD\nTo aid the creative writer in his struggle against modern condi-\ntions: to give him leisure for work (though we realize that the sum at\nour disposal will make the leisure brief), the editors of Broom have\ndecided to make an annual award, hoping that our readers will dis-\ntinguish it carefully from the \"prizes\" or \"crowns\" with which many\norganizations attempt to decide the leading books of the year. The\nBroom award is given, without pretension, to a young American\nwriter who, in our opinion, has done a significant service for Ameri-\ncan letters.\nWe announce with considerable pleasure that our $2.00 award\nfor 1923 has been given to\nSINCLAIR LEWIS\nThe Editors\nfor his work in advancing the American novel.\nIn choosing Mr. Lewis we were guided by the facts that his repu-\ntation is established, that his books are regularly published, and that he\nhe could derive much less benefit from this award than could some\nyounger writer.\nOur choice will undoubtedly call forth comparison with the first\naward of the Dial. We face this without hesitation, for not only does\nMr. Lewis need the money less than Sherwood Anderson, but he\nwrites better prose."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[32]", "page_fin": "[32]", "image_debut": 34, "image_fin": 34, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "Statement of the Ownership of BROOM", "titre_sommaire": "Statement of the Ownership of BROOM", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "[32]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2770, "texte": "STATEMENT OF THE OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT, CIRCULATION, ETC., REQUIRED BY THE\nACT OF CONGRESS OF AUGUST 24, 1912.\nOf Broom, published monthly at New York, N. Y., for November 1, 1923.\nState of New York, County of New York, ss.\nBefore me, a notary public in and for the State and county aforesaid, personally appeared\nMatthew Josephson, who, having been duly sworn according to law, deposes and says that he is the\nManaging Editor of the Broom, and that the following is, to the best of his knowledge and belief, a\ntrue statement of the ownership, management (and if a daily paper, the circulation), etc., of the\naforesaid publication for the date shown in the above caption, required by the Act of August 24, 1912,\nembodied in section 443, Postal Laws and Regulations, printed on the reverse of this form, to wit:\n1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, The Broom Publishing Co., Inc., 45 King St.,\neditor, managing editor, and business managers are : Publisher, Harold A. Loeb, 45 King St., New York\nCity; Managing Editor, Matthew Josephson, 45 King St., New York City; Business Manager, Matthew\nJosephson, 45 King St., New York City.\nv , J?.' That the °wners are : The Broom Publishing Company; Harold A. Loeb, 45 King St., New\nYork City; Hannah Geffen Josephson, 45 King St., New York City; Matthew Josephson, 45 King St.,\nNew York City.\n3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees and other security holders owning or holding 1 per\ncent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages or other securities are : None\nThat the two paragraphs next above, giving the names of the owners, stockholders and\nsecurity holders, if any, contain not only the list of stockholders and security holders as they appear\nupon the books of the company, but also, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears\nupon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of the person\nor corporation for whom such trustee is acting, is given; also that the said two paragraphs contain\nstatements embracing affiant's full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and conditions under\nwhich stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon the books of the company as trustees,\nhold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of a bona fide owner ; and this affiant has no\nGafi?n be^eve that any other person, association, or corporation has any interest direct or indirect\nm the said stock, bonds, or other securities than as so stated by him.\nMATTHEW JOSEPHSON, Managing Editor.\nSworn to and subscribed before me this Ist day of October, 1923.\n(Signed) A. G. REYNOLDS, Notary Public, New York County.\n(Seal.) Certificate filed in New York County, No. 83.\nNew York Register's No. 5014.\n(My commission expires March 30th, 1925.)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[32]", "page_fin": "[32]", "image_debut": 34, "image_fin": 34, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.12", "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": 34, "page_imprimee": "[32]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 2772, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3280, "texte": "\" APOLLINAIRE\"\nTHIS brilliant, sensitive and profane personality who dominated art in\nEurope for a decade is now introduced to that part of the American\npublic which loves modern literature.\nTHE first translation of Apollinaire's greatest novel, by Matthew Joseph-\nson, in a limited edition of 1,000 numbered copies, is now ready. It\nis beautifully printed on Japan vellum, bound m blue boards with vellum\nback, and is illustrated with woodcuts by Derain, and a portrait of the author.\nThe Price is $5.00 Net"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[32]", "page_fin": "[32]", "image_debut": 34, "image_fin": 34, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.13", "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": 34, "page_imprimee": "[32]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 3282, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3449, "texte": "THE BROOM PUBLISHING CO.\n45 KING STREET\nNEW YORK\nEnclosed find $5.00, for which you may send me a copy of\nTHE POET ASSASSINATED, by Guillaume Apollinaire.\nName\nAddress"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[33]", "page_fin": "[33]", "image_debut": 35, "image_fin": 35, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.14", "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": 35, "page_imprimee": "[33]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1784, "texte": "Every Issue a Book\n—and there are twelve of them a year\nTHE DIAL does not publish anything which is not worthy of\nperpetuation in book form. It does not bother with ephemera.\nEach issue is a record of the finest creative work by contem-\nporary artists. It publishes only work possessing a permanent value.\nIncidentally, THE DIAL is quite as well printed as the best books.\nEvery issue of THE DIAL is a book—a remarkably good book\n—and there are twelve of them a year. A year of THE DIAL is\nthe equivalent of a dozen books—a dozen superlative, contemporary\nbooks.\nFor $5.00 (few good books now cost less than $2.00) we will\nsend you a copy of THE DIAL every month for a year—twelve\nbooks for less than the cost of three. In addition, we will send you\nfrom THE DIAL'S library one of the following important books of\nthe past season. THE DIAL has a small surplus of books carried\nover from last year, which it is offering to new subscribers at a\nremarkably low combination price. Present subscribers may secure\n.one or more of these books by writing us for a special rate.\nA SURVEY, by Max Beerbohm\nAARON'S ROD, by D. H. Lawrence\nPOEMS, 1918-1921, by Ezra Pound\nAFOOT IN ENGLAND, by W. H. Hudson\nSEA AND SARDINIA, by D. H. Lawrence\nMR. WADDINGTON OF WYCK, by May Sinclair\nTHE STORY OF MANKIND, by Hendrik W. Van Loon\nTHE STORY OF UTOPIAS, by Lewis Mumford\nAGAINST THE GRAIN, by /. K. Huysmans\nMAYA THE BEE, by Waldemar Bonsels\nMARIA CHAPDELAINE, by Louis Hemon\nTHE WASTE LAND, by T. S. Eliot\nTHE JUDGE, by Rebecca West\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street New York City\nGentlemen: Please enter my name for a year's subscription to THE DIAL, beginning\nwith the October issue. Also, send me the book listed below.\nName\nAddress\nBook\n□ I enclose $5.00. □ I will remit $5.00 on receipt of your bill."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1924-01-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1924-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 36, "image_fin": 36, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.2.15", "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": 36, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1207, "texte": "Broom Now $3.00\nTHE price of the yearly subscription to\nBROOM, beginning with January 1, 1924,\nhas been reduced to $3.00.\nnpO secure a larger audience the publishers\nhave decided simultaneously to lower the\nprice and raise the standard of contents. No\npremiums, no free books, and no presents will\nbe given. Readers who subscribed at $5.00\nprevious to this announcement will be ac-\ncorded an extension of their subscription.\n-OROOM is different from all other maga-\n'zines in that it makes no artistic conces-\nsions to secure a large circulation. It will\nnot publish great \"names\" because of their\nglamour. BROOM and the Atlantic Monthly\nare the only magazines in America with a\ndefinite artistic policy.\nSome contributors to current issues will be:\n1 ' * > ' - * . t •\nLouis Aragon Edward Nagle.\nSlater Brown Charles Sheeler\nKenneth Burke Philippe Soupault\nE. E. Cummings Gertrude Stein\nMalcolm Cowley Joseph Stella\nRamon Guthrie Wallace Stevens\nMatthew Josephson Tristan Tzara\nHarold Loeb Glenway Wescott\nWilliam Carlos Williams\nBROOM, 45 KING STREET, NEW YORK CITY\nEnclosed please find $3.00. You may enter my name for\none year's subscription to the BROOM.\nNAME\nADDRESS\n$3.00 the year. 35 cents the copy."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAN INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS\nEditors\nSlater Brown Malcolm Cowley\nMatthew Josephson Harold A. Loeb\nJanuary, 1924\nTwenty-first Issue\nVol. 6, No. 1\nBeginning with January, 1924, the price of Broom is reduced to 35 cents the\ncopy and $3.00 for the yearly subscription. Subscriptions at the previous rate of $5.00\nthe year will be extended in ratio to the difference in price.\nAttention of readers is called to the fact that at times the publishers of BROOM are\ncompelled, by the hazards of publishing a non-commercial review in America, to sfyip\na month. In such cases subscriptions will be extended, and the publishers guarantee\nthat they will be filled by number of issues instead of by months.\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 Broom\nPublishing Company, Inc. Entered as Second Class Matter, June 30, 1923, at the\nPost Office of New York, N. Y., under the Act of March 3, 1879. Copyright, 1923,\nby the Broom Publishing Company, Inc.\n$3.00 the Year\n35 Cents the Copy\n\nPAGE\nCover Design—Lissitsky\nFour Poems—E. E. Cummings 1\nMy Dear Jean—Philippe Soupault • 6\nMatters of Importance—Ramon Guthrie 10\nPrince Llan—Kenneth Burke 12\nSir Walter Raleigh—William Carlos Williams 23\n*\nBook Reviews:\nTulips and Chimneys—Slater Brown 26\nThe Thomas Jefferson Bible—Robert A. Sanborn .... 28\nThe Story of the Bible—Georgia Mary Sanborn 29\nComment: Open Letter To the Dial 30\nThe Broom Award 31"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.3", "texte": "FOUR POEMS\n\n1\nohld song\nyou Know\na fly and his reflection\nwalking upon a mirror this is\nfriday 1\nwhat\n3 a fly and\nher his Its image\nstrutting (very\njerkily) not toucH-\ning because separated by an impregnable\nBecause (amount of inter\n-vening) anyway You\nknow Separated what\ni Mean\n(old song by\n; neither you nor i and\nby the way)\n, which is not fly\n\n2\nI'd think \"wonder\nif\" if\ni were a\nchild ' 'we can see a bat in this\ntwilight'')\nthere one is\nlook\nhow it goes like a dream\n(and between houses, really a kind of"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.4", "texte": "mouse) but he has little wings\nand here's my\nhotel this is the\ndoor (opening it i\nthink things\nwhich\nwere supposed to\nbe out of my\nreach\n, they are like\njam on the shelf everybody guessed\nwas too high)\nlook\n(it's back again there therehere\nAnd)i say \"won't you\"(remembering)\nknowing that you\nare afraid \"go first\" of dreams and little\nbats & mice (and\nyou,\nyou say \"let's\" going in\n\"take\nhands\" smiling \"going up\nthese dark stairs.\n\n3\nif (you are i why certainly\nthe hour softly is\nin all; places which move\nseriously\nTogether.\nlet) us fold wholly ourselves smil-\ning because we love,\nas doomed few alert (flowers and\nexcellently upon whom Night\nwanders and wanders and) wanders\nOr since, in air"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.5", "texte": "like bubbles Faces\noccur (shyly\nto\none by bright\nbrief\none be)punc\n-tured: the, green\nnameless caterpillar of evening nib,ble,s\nSolemnly a whitish leaf of sky.\n\n4\n\nWill i ever forget that precarious moment?\nAs i was standing on the third rail waiting for the\nnext train to grind me into lifeless atoms various\nabsurd thoughts slyly crept into my highly sexed\nmind,\nIt seemed to me that i had first of all really made\nquite a mistake in being at all born, seeing that i was\nwifeless and only half awake, cursed with pimples,\ncorrectly dressed, cleanshaven above the nombril,\nand much to my astonishment much impressed by\nhaving once noticed (as an infantile phenomenon)\nGeorge Washington almost incompletely sur-\nrounded by welldrawn icecakes beheld being too\nstrong, in brief ran American, if you understand\nthat i mean what i say i believe my most intimate\nfriends would never have gathered.\nA collarbutton which had always not nothurt me\nnot much and in the same place.\nWhy according to tomorrow's paper the proleta-\nriat will not rise yesterday.\nInexpressible itchings to be photographed with\nLord Rothermere playing with Lord Rothermere\nbilliards very well by moonlight with Lord\nRothermere."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.6", "texte": "A crockodile eats a native, who in revenge beats\nit insensible with a banana, establishing meanwhile\na religious cult based on consubstantial intangi-\nbility.\nPersonne ne m'aime et j'ai les mains froides.\nHis Royal Highness said \"peek-a-boo\" and\nthirty tame fleas left the prettily embroidered how-\ndah immediately.\nThumbprints of an angel named Frederick found\non a lightning-rod, Boston, Mass.\nsuch were the not unhurried reflections to which\nmy organ of imperception gave birth to which i\nshould ordinarily have objected to which, consider-\ning the background, it is hardly surprising if any-\none hardly should call exactly extraordinary. We\nrefer, of course, to my position. A bachelor inca-\npable of occupation, he had long suppressed the de-\nsire to suppress the suppressed desire of shall we\nsay idleness,, while meanits opposite? Nothing\ncould be clearer to all concerned than that i am not\na policeman.\nMeanwhile the tea regressed.\nKipling again H. G. Wells, and Anatole France\nshook hands again and yet again shook again hands\nagain, the former coachman with a pipewrench of\nthe again latter then opening a box of newly with-\nout exaggeration shot with some difficulty sardines.\nMr. Wiggin took Wrs. Miggin's harm in is, extin-\nguishing the spitoon by a candle furnished by cour-\ntesy of the management on Thursdays, opposite\nwhich a church stood perfectly upright but not\npiano item:a watermelon^causes indigestion to Will-\niam Cullen Longfellow's small negro son, Henry\nWads worth Bryant."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.7", "texte": "By this time, however, the flight of crows had\nceased. I withdrew my hands from the tennisracket.\nAll was over. One brief convulsive octopus, and\nthen our hero folded his umbrella.\nIt seemed too beautiful.\nLet us perhaps excuse me if i repeat himself:\nthese, or nearly these, were the not unpainful\nt oughts which occupied the subject of our atten-\ntion; to speak even less objectively,i was horribly\nscared i would actually fall off the rail before the\nreally train after all arrived. If i should have made\nthis perfectly clear, it entirely would have been\nnot my fault.\n\nE. E. Cummings"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.8", "texte": "MY DEAR JEAN:\n\nThis card, this picture that you addressed, I hardly know who\nsent them. Was it really you and did you wish me to seek your\nveritable face? Jean, I want to see you again. I hunt for you every-\nwhere. I remember, and search furiously through the years as if\nto find a flower, a friend, a key.\nYou watched everything which surrounded you as if in a mirror.\nIt rained and you were gay. It rained, you had tears in your eyes,\nit rained, you smiled or raged. Trees, monuments, passers-by be-\nlonged to you as sincerely as did the clocks. I can see you once more\nin the streets, absent-minded, happy at the least incident, marching\nstraight in front to find you didn't know what. You recognized the\nhouse you lived in because you had seen it on a postcard. All day\nyou thought of the stars; you spoke to the stars, and at night you for-\ngot to see them. Sometimes you followed women with the insistence\nof certain johnnies; not because they were pretty, but because you\nhad seen a spot on their coat. Your best moments, you affirmed,\nwere the lost moments, and you went about repeating continually that\nyou had errands to run, important engagements, a \"pile\" of letters to\ndictate, an incalculable number of telegrams to send. You smiled\nwithout knowing why, you smiled as one takes a walk, merely to\nstretch. You spoke without wishing, and to announce events of a\nvery relative importance. \"I saw,\" you would say, \"an astonish-\ning automobile: it was green and blue. The chauffeur had a huge\ncap and was smoking a gold-tipped cigarette. Isn't it upsetting? I\nmet Edward. He's gone completely mad. He bought a grey hat.\"\nYou believed that everything which astonished you was of the\nhighest interest.\nYou would say constantly, \"I saw, I heard, I read . . .\" and when\nyour interlocutor replied in turn, \"I saw, I heard, I read,\" you were\nlistening no longer. Your politeness was so ingenious as to be insult-\ning, and suddenly for unknown reasons it was replaced by the most\ndisagreeable vulgarity. One of your dear friends, one of those who\nthought they knew you, was discussing you a little before your depar-\nture. \"Jean,\" he said, \"is a disturbing personage. He cannot, with-\nout fear, affirm or deny. He likes without enjoying. He lives in the\nsame fashion that he smokes. Hardly has he lighted his cigarette\nwhen he hurries to finish it so he can light another. One day I even\nnoticed him forget that he had a cigarette between his lips already\nand carry a second there. He comes and goes with a disarming can-\ndour. He makes promises and never keeps them. He keeps the prom-"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.9", "texte": "ises which he never made. Jean pretends not to understand the things\none says to him. He doesn't listen and yet his memory astonishes and\nrevolts me. Most of the time he remembers only the minor details, with\nwhich he confounds you. Ido not think that he is careless. To evoke a\nmemory, any memory in front of him is to offend him surely. Mem-\nories wound him. Speaking only of the future he lives in the present,\nwhich in his case is the past of women who were once pretty. In spite\nof everything the moment disturbs and amuses him like the tempera-\nture. As soon as he meets some one he speaks of cold, rain, heat,\nbut if you ask him bluntly what the weather is, he can make no an-\nswer.\" I have had sufficient leisure to observe you, and am not aston-\nished when your friends make such remarks. The least things were\nimportant in your eyes. You could throw away nothing, you pre-\nferred to put things to one side, but definitely, for it never entered your\nhead to look for anything whatsoever. You did not file away, you hid.\nDust accumulated without disturbing you, without even attracting your\nattention. We thought to give you pleasure and only irritated. You\nhad the manias of a collector and the disgusts of a dilettante. Cer-\ntain things pleased you: newspapers, cigarettes, inkstands, racehorses,\nboats.\nMy dear Jean, I lived two years beside you, and saw you almost\ndaily. Where are you? I can see nothing. The light is divided.\nIt is day and night. You are there. The weather is grey, is sombre,\nis gay. These years are unbreakable toys, or colours without danger.\nOften we walked in the streets which are dear to you, these\nstreets of Paris where the sun lighted every shop, every tree on our path.\nCertain cafes, your favourites, were obligatory stops. The waiters,\nwhom you called Albert on principle, did not like you. They knew\nthat brusquely the desire to leave would make you clap your hands\nand cry out to make them rush to be paid. The uneasy proprietor\ngrouped his general staff to satisfy you. In winter you left your\ncafes\" definitely at the moment when the employees of the gas com-\npany were hanging night in the streets.\nWe hurried through certain quarters with which you were delib-\nerately unfamiliar, and which gave you the opportunity of being aston-\nished at every step. In certain stationeries you demanded books that\nwere rare or out of print, and when the stationer declared that he did\nnot know this book, you protested energetically, accusing him of neg-\nlecting his interests. Sometimes at a hardware store you tried to buy\ncherries or live birds. You always chose laundries to offer oranges to"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.10", "texte": "the laundresses, and you grew justly angry when the proprietor\nshowed you the door.\nThese walks always ended along the banks of the Seine, and it\nwas there only, as you watched the river, that you began to speak.\n\"I can think of nobody more stupid than bargemen. They run after\nthe smoke of tugboats and their shadow in the water. These people\nare hardly more sympathetic than crows. Often I watch them hang-\ning out their wash and cleaning the barge. As soon as they arrive\nat a destination they are homesick, but for what home? They don't\nknow how to laugh. . . . Did you see that old bird? I meet him\nten, twenty times a day. He catalogues his dreams. He is a col-\nlector. . . . Every time I pass near these ambulant painters, as nu-\nmerous as dead leaves in this corner, I laugh very loud to make them\nnervous. They become afraid that they are not copying the apse of\nNotre Dame with sufficient exactness. It changes colour every quar-\nter of an hour, and the poor men can't paint fast enough. Look at\nthat woman, look at those people . . .\"\nWithout ever wondering if I were bored, you continued to talk\nabout everything which surrounded you.\nAbout six o'clock we would go to your rooms. You threw your\nhat on a chair, your gloves on a table, your body on the lunge and\nyour coat somewhere else. You repeated, \"Old man, I'm dead tired.\nWhy did you make me walk so far?\" The tea was served.\nI have always heard you say that it was the most agreeable hour of\nthe day for you, and you hastened to absorb several boiling cupfuls\nso as not to interrupt too long the succession of your cigarettes, the\npain of your days, the only habit you possessed.\nIn spite of your fatigue you leaped from your lounge to your book-\ncase, from your bookcase to your desk, to throw yourself back on the\nlounge with the brilliant ball of gas above your head. You chose a\nbook at hazard, accompanying your comings and goings with \"What\ntrash! What an idiot!\" Or again, \"Astonishing! Astonishing! Read\nthis! Read this!\" Once more you poured tea into the cups, forgetting\nto drink as you skimmed through a magazine, a newspaper which lay\nthere by chance. It was at this hour that you would speak of the\nfuture. I have said your conversation, so selfish and disjointed, was\nboring, and however, when you were thinking of tomorrows, your\nwords as distant as stars took fire, twinkled. At the end of a day,\nabandoning the newspapers, you watched your hands: \"The months\nof the past are as tragic as so many lost lives. We shall still walk\nproudly, a smile on the lips. I know that smiles are the true reflections"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.11", "texte": "of the sun. Cold weather would suit us perfectly. There will\nbe great shadows, great clouds, which will follow us step by step.\nAnd we shall watch the eyes of people to possess this dizziness at\nlast. We shall find long cigarettes to gild our mouths, near trembling\ntrees which you love, which I love, which we love. The weather\nwill be dry, I tell you, and our steps on the sidewalk will tick off the\nseconds. Automobiles pass rapidly surrounded with a silence. Some\none will follow us.\"\nWhy do I evoke these memories? Wliy do I speak of Paris\nwhich you are forgetting already? Only to recognize you, Jean, and\nto forget those who know you. lam surrounded by the people who\ndid not wish to support your charming infirmities and who wonder at\nyour absence so as not to complain of it. You must be smiling again.\nJean, you are more earnest than all of us, more gay than all of us,\nand you are afraid.\nI am thinking of the clear days, of luncheons in the sunshine, of\nyour headaches, old refrains which hang in your memory. Between\nus there is this forgetting, this deep well whose chain creaks like swal-\nlows. You do not know where you are going, red as a rooster, your\neyes closed, a pipe between your teeth. Against the green and blue\nfields of spring, I see Jean, his hands in his pockets, stop to look at a\npebble, a tree, his shoe. What is he thinking about? It is five o'clock,\neight o'clock or noon ? An escaped church bell makes the women has-\nten. The sun falls at your feet, Jean, and you descend from the hill\nwith your hands in your pockets, pipe in your teeth, red as a rooster,\nyour eyes closed.\nYou are this fat man; you rise at dawn and walk without thinking.\nThe animals are no longer afraid of you, the trees know you. You\npass these men indifferently who think themselves your brothers. You\nremember us no longer. Can I believe truly that so much friendship,\nso much (understanding, lead to this silence which you now must call\nthe future ? You continue to walk in these rays of the morning, along\nthis nameless road.\n\"One day,\" jyou wrote me on the back of your portrait, \"an am-\nbulant photographer knocked at my door. I opened. He resembled\nyou and I send my best regards.\"\nI thank you for writing these few words and now excuse myself\nfor having replied at so great length. My memories are nets ifrom\nwhich I cannot escape.\nAffectionately yours,\n\nPhilippe Soupault\n(Translated by Malcolm Cowley)"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.12", "texte": "MATTERS OF IMPORTANCE\n\nAin't it awful? Ain't it?\nAin't it?\nYet who really gives a damn?\nNot I:\nI shall be here only some few decades more.\nRobert fell mooning on the lusty legs\nOf Fulbert Tanner's daughter. (This was\nimportant).\nA hundred Dantes quench a thousand fresh\nInfernos\nAnd take stenographers to wife.\nA little-leather-Chaucer-done-in-prose\nIs thumbed in vain—too late\nLisetta finds that it is expurgate.\nWesley stirred Hell, smeared some on a stick\nAnd slapped it on God's face:\nGod laughed and wears the smirch:\nWesley lived and died ripe in honor—\n\"Dieu c'est moi,\" he said with simple\ncharm.\n' I see no hurt in it.\"\nY esterday\nA nursing mother flogged in Arkansas\nLeaves an uncomprehending cub\nTo hate his enemies. These win\nAnd he, being in minority, is hanged\nWith much decorum,\nEnglish Jehovah's human sacrifice.\nWesley pruning God in English fields,\nRobert sinning in the channel cliffs,\nBlack blight and fertility.\nHerleva caught the seed\nOf twenty centuries of future wars;\nIn her womb\nThe Great Blond Fightingman crushes\nHis puny foe the Great Blond Fightingman,"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.13", "texte": "And Anglo-Saxon comes to mean\nBastard Scandinavian and French—\nHardi nordic kings\nRuling with hand of iron—\nOur Dick, his statue's by Westminster\nnow,\nMaking his songs in French and Provencal\nAnd marveling at the senseless grunting\nsounds\nThe natives of his distant island make\nIn lieu of speech. He holds\nThat Britain is no place for men—\nRight for a lady-gaited ass like Jean,\nWho mopes among their fogs and even\nknows\nA half-a-dozen phrases in their tongue—\nHe disaffects the island, whining cur.\nDame! let him—simple pleasures of the\npoor.\nI ve hands enough full here in France.\nLondon I'd sell if I could find a taker.\nEngland!\nEngland expects every man—\nEngland, the sun never sets—\nEngland of Drake,\nEngland of Addison and Sterne,\nEngland of Mr. Gladstone,\nEngland of Wolfe, of Washington,\nEngland of the States — our mighty destiny — the\nStar of Empire,\nStar of a Falaise tanner s discomfiture,\nFruit of Herleva's attenuated shame.\nWilliam the Bastard proudly bears\nHis title and his arms to England.\nThe latest Kansas congressman proclaims,\n\"I am a self-made man.\"\n\nRamon Guthrie"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.14", "texte": "PRINCE LLAN\nAn Ethical Masque in\nSeven Parts, including\na Prologue and a Coda\n\nI\nPROLOGUE\nLogos Verbum the Word—universal brew bubbling and collaps-\ning—then this wad of runny iron and rock settles into a steady elliptic\njog—cools, crusts, that objects wriggle in the slime, and box-like\nthings bump against the trees—heroic march of that one tender seed\nthrough groanings and agues of the earth, through steaming fevers,\nthrough chills slid down from the poles, hunger, fire, pestilence, war,\ndespair, anguish of the conscience, lo! this clean-blooded man, this\nunscrofulous unsyphilitic neat-skinned gentleman, this ingenious iso-\nlated item, Prince Llan.\nBut where was Gudruff?\nGudruff was gone.\nWhy should we care where Gudruff was?\nGudruff was Prince Llan's intimate and adviser.\nWhere were they last seen together?\nAt table, drinking grog, and talking of the future.\nPrince Llan himself—his mind had moved elsewhere—and when\nthe auctioneer had shouted Who buys these women? Llan answered\nI buy these w—and flung down the money inasmuch as they were\ndear girls they were lovely girls nor were they afraid by God of him.\nTheir breasts were tight up beneath their shoulders. Their breasts,\nthey stood out firm like pegs. When they walked, one could note\ntheir sitters, how they undulated. And taking each girl by an arm,\nso that his thumbs were pressed carefully into their armpits, Prince\nLlan started with them out into life.\nII\nLost in a forest of Siberia, cold, destitute, and rained on, the\nPrince found three leaves blown under a rock, and dry. With these,\nby rubbing sticks, he builded them a fire, and they became so warm\nthat in time the two girls sang. Caught in an avalanche on some far-\noff peak, they rode laughing into the valley on a ledge of ice. He\ntugged them through shaking sands by the arm. He dragged them\nfrom flopping seas by the hair. Together they cooked with disease.\nTogether they bowed down to Siamese gods. They ate yellow dogs"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.15", "texte": "together. When beset by Arabs, he suddenly leapt with these girls\nto one side, leaving the Arabs crushed by a falling star.\n\"Let us have a garden,\" he said to them, so they grew a garden\nof flowers, mostly depraved. When it was trumpeting with colours\nand pleasant stinks, the three of them withdrew. For days he mar-\ntyrized himself, draining his poor body of its very marrow. Long\nafter his groins were appeased, the itch, the erotic erethism, continued\nin the mind. If he had lain on his back, and made an idle half-turn,\nburying his nose perhaps in the rancid grease of their hair, at the\nodour, the odour of rotting apples, he would become alert again. If\nhe but saw a fountain innocently playing, or a steaming kettle, it\nderailed him. His garden, rained on by bees, was calmly impreg-\nnated. The blossoms withered, to bear fruit; the Prince crashed a\nrock through their little house, and the three moved on across the face\nof the earth, across its nose, mouth, cheeks, and hair.\nShortly after this the Prince went alone up into a mountain with\na burning bush on it—and standing, his arms Napoleon-fashion, he\ntook stock:\n\"If I incline to a certain dish, it is that I like it, even before I\nhave first tasted it, the vacuum of this as yet untasted dish pre-existing\nin the mind. There are vacuums of millions of combinations of or-\nganic substances pre-existing in my mind, and I shall die without quiet-\ning their pressure.\n\"Love, the love of one object to the exclusion of all others, enables\nus to thrive despite this famine. Love is a process of individualization:\nthere is the general vacuum Love, and it is filled when one finds a\nspecific object to adequately symbolize this general. The poet loves\nhis material when he must have that material and none other. There\nare poets who may choose this or that, being interested primarily in the\narrangement, and to this extent they are not filled. Similarly, these\ngirls for me may particularize, but they do not symbolize, the general.\nWhich is to say that I do not love them, because I ask only that they\nbe delicate and smell right. They cannot end the famine, and I am\nthe most forsaken of men, loveless, tossed without anchor.\n\"Thou shalt not commit adulteration.\"\nIII\nOn a screen the projection of a beating heart, the size of an ele-\nphant, convulsing irregularly. Its owner suffering some spiritual\nor physical torment. As they watched, a large drop of blood col-\nlected on a valve, sidled across the slope of the meat—like a tear"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.16", "texte": "rolling down a cheek. The drop detached itself, and they shouted,\nwith hell an eternity of having the finger-nails pulled out, the walls\ncrooked. The chairs tire one's elbow, or the muscles of our necks.\nThe lights will go out, come on again, flicker. Lewd pictures were\nhung, the lewdest portions obscured by splotches of ink. The floor\nslants, occasionally a door would open, so that a chill passed through,\nwith the lyric cook stumbling across the room, skinny and starved. The\nPontificers fought their way among the ruins of chairs and people;\ncarried banners: Let each man build a bridge, if every man builds\na bridge the world will have no time for vice, build bridges, signed,\nThe Pontificers, the lyric cook gnawing at his knuckles. He was\nmumbling recipes, describing the setting of tables, rehearsing an ideal\ncourse of dishes, and in the midst of a peculiarly dull catalogue of\ningredients, he will burst out with songs in praise of food.\nMine enemy was strong. He possessed the good things of this\nworld. I was a coward, timid and lugubrious. I slunk. I slunk on\nmy belly. I slunk with terror into her bed, taking the wife of mine\nenemy. When he returns, she will spew upon me, and he will beat\nme with a horsewhip.. Ampersand placing the germs into the blood\nthrough the sucking of lice not affable skulls whom the madam lay\nwith the man so aloof from us as he stood on stilts that passing\ndogs stopped to befoul them.\nEuonymism holds our salvation to lie in the use of the left side.\nIt points out that past civilizations decayed, and that they held the\nleft side unlucky. Yes, the founder of Euonymism was here: a tailor,\ndescended from twenty-seven generations of tailors, and they all had\nlifted the pressing iron with their right hands, until his race was\npuny on the left side of its body. He had plugged up his right nos-\ntril, and cast out his right eye, and was standing on his left leg, shout-\ning his doctrines at the parade of Pontificers, out of the left cor-\nner of his mouth, wiggling his left ear. That is why it is called\nEUONYMISM.\n(Sitting down, the chair collapsed. Stepping across to pull a\nlever, he was soused with water. Falling, he arose. Rising, he fell.\nSighing, he threw off his clothes, finding them distressing.)\nNow:\nThe Thirty-Three Systems strive after a synthesis. As they\nwatch, the synthesis is attained, and the Thirty-Fourth System joins\nthe ranks. Regardless, Euonymists and Pontificers rushed at each\nother, trampled down a convention of three thousand specialists on\nthe mating habits of the female Polar dung beetle. Prince Llan"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.17", "texte": "leaped up, and ran with his two girls for the shore. The ship was\nwaiting. The mob threatened. No time could be spared. He threw\nthem across the gang-plank as the ship commenced a yaw toward the\nSouth. SLIP THE CABLE, SET THE FORE-STAY-SAIL\nand the FORE-TOP-MAST STAY-SAIL. These filled with a\ngroan, as the first of the pursuers began stringing over the hill. CUT\nTHE SPRING; SET THE SPANKER VANGS, the MIZ-\nZEN-TRY-SAILS, the MAIN-TOPGALLANT STUDDING\nSAlLS—the ship now moving confidently out into the water. They\ncast off the club-haul; next, gammoning, they gybed the boom taut\nwith a grummet, gave a sharp bowse to the bolt-ropes, and luffed the\nhalyards to the fag-ends of the davits. The ship scudded into a\nvicious head-sea, simultaneously with the clewing up of the spun-\nyards, while several men under the second mate went madly to work\nkeckling the parbuckle, and marling the lazy-guy with gudgeons. The\ncaptain's voice rang out thwart ships above the gale, giving orders to\nloosen the crupper till it squared the jibboom—and Prince LI an\nknew that he was advancing into another world.\nIV\n(Scene: A dense grove in the midst of a rolling barren plain,\nrather like the pubes on a white body. The Prince's two girls sit ob-\nserving the horizon. The Prince sleeps. Tableau. Music. Finally\none of the girls begins talking softly.)\nOne of the girls: He calls us Alpha Nomega. So you, dear, be\nAlpha; I'll be Nomega. Or if you prefer, I shall be Alpha.\nAlpha: Back on the farm; home and mother; thoughtless; happy;\nbrute made me woman; thirteenth year; knew no better; driven\naway; city; loved; at times didn't love; I hate men, Nomega.\nNomega: Drunken father; invalid mother; nice man; took to room;\ngave candy; tickled; happened; fourteenth year; had to pay; but\nit died; now I am a big empty place, Nomega.\nAlpha: Bring carpet slippers; sits reading by fire.\nNomega: Lean over back of chair and kiss; smile; pat cheek; both\ntiptoe across room; pull back curtains; smile to each other at\nwhat see there asleep.\nAlpha: Tiptoe back to fire; lay on his knees.\nNomega: Look up into eyes.\n(They fall silent, observing the horizon. The Prince sleeps.\nTableau. Music.)"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.18", "texte": "Alpha: But the Prince is good to us, Nomega.\nNomega: Too good. How can we be assured of a future with\nsuch a strange man. Look what he wrote, just before falling\nasleep. I watched the words forming. (She slips a paper\ngently from under the Prince's right arm.) \"Taken in the abso-\nlute sense, taking old age, that is, divorced from the example of\nsome specific old man, the loveliest life and the loveliest\nthoughts should be produced after the sperm is silenced. I\nimagine a life as broad and deep and quiet as a mountain lake,\nand it seems to be solely the property of old age. lam speak-\ning, however, absolutely, without concern for examples.\"\nAlpha (taking up the notebook) : Metaphysics is the yearning to\nsee one's own eye, when there are no reflections, and when one\neye cannot be taken from the head to be examined by its fellows.\"\nAnd he, Nomega, is the man who has crawled with us into secret\nplaces.\nNomega (receiving bacfy the notebook) : \"True love is specific; but\nmine is more generalized, like that of the housefly, or the phil-\nosopher.\"\nAlpha: Thank God he can still talk of love.\nNomega: We should have run off and hidden among the Horrors.\nHave sneaked behind the big screen with the heart going on it.\nWe could have hired servants had we stayed there, and had\nothers to tie our shoes for us.\nAlpha: The hungry man would have cooked for us.\nNomega: But now we must make the best of things. We must use\ntechnique with the Prince.\nAlpha: Yes, but he is becoming too forgetful. He is interested in\nother things. Yet such an earnest man should still be grateful\nfor any display of science.\n(Silence. They observe, not the horizon, but the Prince. He\nmoves in his sleep, and mutters, Gall in the blood. The passions\nare like gall in the blood.\" He smiles, becomes quiet, and a flute\nbleats tenderly as they turn their eyes again to the horizon.)\nAlpha (sadly) : But let us put this worry aside, Nomega. Let us\nrecite.\nNomega: Yes, what should it be? Why, let us recite the First Litany\nof our Profession.\nAlpha: Yes, let us recite the Office of the Enormous, the Mis-shapen,\nand the 111-formed.\nNomega : No, dear, let us recite of that rarer movement, the Natural\nand the Divine.\nAlpha: I shall try, although I don't remember it very well."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.19", "texte": "(They recite. And their unhappiness seems to vanish as the#\nbecome engrossed in their connoisseurship.)\nAlpha Nomega:\nLove in the male should be subordinated to mastery, in order\nthat the fine edge be not taken too soon from the attack.\nThe male strives to remain calculatory until he has reached a\npoint whereat decision is irrevocable. Then, and only then, he\nmust shift the direction of his emotions, and speed in arithmetical\nratios of progression, like an object drawn by gravitation, towards\ncatharsis.\nLet the female remember simply that she is a flower hold-\ning up its chalice, a vase to be filled.\nWhile that act is most efficient in which, the two phenomena\nhaving transpired simultaneously, the parts are left ticking ir-\nregularly from the repercussion.\n(This seems to have cleared the air like a discharge from the\nclouds. Their interests have changed. They glance appraisingly at the\nPrince, to gauge his slumber.)\nAlpha: Nomega, the cat is asleep.\nNomega: The cat is asleep,, little mouse.\n(They crarel into each others arms. But the Prince stirs and\narva^es.)\nPrince Llan: Pathetic little girls. I have doubtless inserted many\nbarbs into your tender minds. These barbs will rankle, until\nsome day, when you are older, you will understand. At that\ntime it might aid you to remember that man possesses a species of\nseed which, if properly laid within the soul of woman, can\nfrequently result in her drinking poison, or falling from a bridge.\n.... Now, go, little sealed things, little unplumbed possibilities,\nlittle fields unplowed. Ride off in a carriage tight shut, where no\nray of sunlight can enter.\n(They go, after each has received a kiss and a gift of money\nfrom the Prince.)\nPrince Llan (to himself) : There, how gently he sent them off. And\nhe might just as readily have driven them with clubs. He bowed\nthem away as virgins, instead of beating them as bitches. That\nis better, since more proper to a parting.\n( They went, and the Prince watched them mould together into a\nspot on the horizon.)\nV.\nThe universal brew bubbled and collapsed; boxlike things had\nbumped against the trees; there had been, you will remember, war,"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.20", "texte": "pestilence, and anguish of the conscience; the Prince had bought those\ngirls; he had ridden avalanches with them; he had rushed them away\nduring scramble of Euonymists and Pontificers; gammoning, the\nspanker vartgs were gybed taut with a grummet; and he had become a\nnew man; sent them away as virgins, though he might have beaten\nthem as bitches; and he now walked with a slow tread, after all these\nyears, thoughtfully, to himself, saying:\n\"A reality encompassed by intelligence falls outside the realm of\na complete experience, outside the realm of an organic understanding.\nThere is described to me, in every detail, every elbow of height and\nbreadth, every vibration of smell, every grade of color, some place—\nbut this place does not live for me as an immediate possession until I,\ntoo, have been there, and experienced it through the orchestration of\nthe senses. Yet a reality so encompassed by the intelligence cannot\nbe mistaken for any other—and when I do come upon this place I\ncan apply my tests, and make sure whether or not it is the place in-\ntended. Or even going beyond this, I could say that the glory of\nphilosophy lies in just such an act of intellection; in the stating by\nintelligence of what can never be immediately, organically, experi-\nenced.\"\nWas this the man who had martyrized himself? It was. Speak,\nthat the younger may be edified. Let him hear what they already\nknew in their minds, but shall not know in their bodies until they,\ntoo, are tottering.\n\"A man, suffering from untold miseries, can go out and plunge his\nknife into a wild beast, or his axe into a tree, and by so much resolve\nhis discomfiture. An act is unmistakable: this man has acted. But\nhe cannot plunge his knife into an odor on the wind, or a sudden\nmemory of childhood, or a vague forewarning of death. Vicariously,\nhe has tried to slay the wild beast instead of the sudden memory of\nchildhood. He stoops over his kill, spies a single leaf detached, on\nthe ground, contrived ingeniously, and his misfortunes are suddenly\nsituated elsewhere. ... To obviate this, let him divorce himself from\norganic experience, and translate these vaguenesses into the certainties\nof the intellect. Life, established by the poets as a fever, remains a\nproblem of distress which cannot be solved in terms of positive happi-\nness, but may in terms of pains absent.\"\nThe Prince transcribed carefully.\n\"The intellect is the most advisable narcotic, since it enables us to\nlive a waking deep-sleep, to get the completeness of the facts, but\nwithout the poignancy. By the word I create, I act—which means, I\nslay. Man by nature a slayer. Having become too subtle to dispose\nof his maladjustments by the slaying of wild beasts, he turns to the"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.21", "texte": "slaying of his emotions. The intellect unites living with death, per-\nception with immunity. Let us admit only as much emotion as will\nserve to add zest to our perceptions. Let emotion be like gall in the\nblood.\n\"To find that method whereby life, pressed into firm little bricks, is\nhandled at leisure. For life to tear at our chimneys and howl faintly\noutside the windows. Or even better, life as a tinkling of far-off cow-\nbells, coming up irregularly over the low hills. This we mean by the\nconsolation of our philosophies. We must search, not for experience,\nbut for the symbols of experience; reason and art each aiming at a\nformula in accord with its particular properties, its own potentialities.\nIdea cuts through a tangle of emotion; emotion cuts through a tangle\nof ideas—and each, expressed by the formulas of art and thought,\nare remedies against the complexities of existing. I bare my teeth at\nthe yapping of the senses; I devote myself, rather, to seeing how, if a\ngiven thing is so, other things follow. Yet how strange that at this\npoint, rising as I have above my own uneasinesses, having found this\nrock on which to enforce myself, I should receive word from Gudruff.\nFrom Gudruff, and I once sat at table and drank grog with him.\nHas he, too, found fierce temperance? He writes, Gudruff writes:\n'Sweetly tired body' . . . 'muscles of my throat' . . . 'hay, cow's\nbreath, urine, manure, and old sun-dried timber' . . . 'temptationi\ninguinum' . . . 'beyond the reach of duties . . . blessings from Gud-\nruff.' \"\nVI\nTo his good Prince Llan, greetings from Gudruff, or perhaps\ngreetings from Gudruff's skull, or more accurately, greetings from that\nmuch of Gudruff as may still lie in the Prince's own heart, for the\nrest of him may have been thrown to the winds by the time Llan\nreceives this letter. This sweetly tired body may have been laid aside,\nstopped even by its own hand.\nAfter they parted, Prince, he walked for days, eventually pass-\ning through a parched country and finding no water. His spittle was\na dry pulp, a cotton wad in the mouth- He came to a stream, pushed\nhis face against it horse-like, and suddenly the muscles of his throat\nbegan sucking in the water with a passion which astonished him. It\nwas not Gudruff, it was his throat that was drinking, while he leaned\nback and watched. He threw off his clothes, he lolled in the stream.\nHe let the sun dry him, and moved into the shade to sleep. But a\nchange had come over him. He had learned, Prince, that one can\nobserve with deliberation what is usually taken without thinking, that\none might go through life holding a minute ear to the body."}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.22", "texte": "He found that he was close to a village. It is somewhere ad-\njoining, but beyond, the territory of the dear Prince's father. There\nis wealth, but not the kind to tempt a restless and grasping people.\nHe entered, and forthwith five women and nine boys were brought\nto him in recognition of his station. He felt it advisable to send\nsome of the women away, but perhaps this was due to the fatigue of\nhis long journey. Since then, Prince, he has remained in this village,\nwhere, in his own way, he has become wealthy.\nTo witness: The heavy siropy smell of over-ripe strawberries;\ncool mint; the wormmess of rich loam soaked with water; the bitter-\nsweet of a barn, its mixture of hay, cow's breath, urine, manure, and\nold sun-dried timber. This ensemble of growth and decomposition,\nfreshened with morning. ... He lay there in peace. And suddenly,\nsuddenly, plena recognitio facultatum corporis latuit subito ei; se relax-\nabat, est molliter lapsus contra terram, deinde se dabat suorum temp-\ntationi inguinum. The remainder of the morning he spent in reading.\nPatiently and earnestly, his dear Prince, he has gone about it\nsince then to enlarge his knowledge. Kach day, perhaps, some new\npore has been opened, some new nerve stroked. As he grows old he\nfeels creeping over him the haze of veneration. He is now a veteran,\ndear Prince, and he feels that he has used his intelligence nobly to\nheighten every channel of sensation. He is at least fortified with the\nfeel of moral victory, of having done what he could to extend beauty\nfurther into the realm of ugliness. This body has not strained and fed\nand given off unheeded.\nBut now an illness is on him, and perhaps the roots are numbing.\nPerhaps when the Prince receives this he shall have passed beyond\nthe reach of duties and obligations.\nGood Prince, blessings from\nGudruff.\nPrmce Llan cried, lam coming, Gudruff, lam coming.\" He\nstumbled forward, throwing himself heavily against the door in front\nof him. It was an oblong door, encrusted with minute carvings.\nThere were houses, mountains, three peasants sitting at a table, women\nwashing clothes, lovers kissing by a well—tiny dramas were carved\nupon this door, and Prince Llan shoved it open. His eyes were part-\nly closed, glued with a heavy sleep. An ear sat between a filtering\nkidney and an intestine with its lugubrious burden. Parts of himself,\nreduplicate, lay about him. He climbed over a twitching leg. He\npushed aside a piece of throbbing brain tissue to keep from crushing\nit under his heel. Other parts sauntered through the air like fishes.\nPeering, he saw a door; it wavered beyond a film of mucus, an oval\ndoor with a heavy brass knocker. \"I am coming, Gudruff,\" he mur-"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.23", "texte": "mured, as his body, dragged by unseen weights, spread over the ground\nlike molasses. He shifted his bulk, forcing it to slope against this\ndoor, and the door budged reluctantly, allowing him, down a corridor\nbeyond, the glimpse of a door.\nVII\nCODA\nJoseph, singing with the birds in the morning, busying his carcass\nin physical toil before the heat of noon, next eats, and snoozes dog-like\nwhile the sun is most intense. When the splendour is dismissed he ap-\npears again, and returns to the fields. In time the shadows lengthen;\nJoseph takes food and drink which, the body having been depleted\nwith activity, is drawn in like water poured on a desert. At dusk the\nmuscles have been appeased; the brain speculates contentedly. Joseph\nlies in wait for a better understanding. We are nearing the comple-\ntion of the cycle; what has gone before has sweetened the twilight.\nThe eye flows calmly over the silhouette of the black hills. The\nmoment has come to shut himself away. Going indoors, the hero\nturns to his books, confining himself within the sharply restricted\nfunnel of his lamp's light. Ultimately, laying aside the books, he goes\nto his woman, and the cycle closes.\nSi hortum in bibliotheca habes, nihil deerit. If, says Cicero, you\nhave a garden and a library, you have all. If you have life (hortus,\ngarden) and the contemplation of this life (bibliotheca, library,\nbooks). Above the molten flow of emotion, a rigid and well-knit\ncrust of ideas, said that great platitudinarian, Cicero, that unfortunate,\nknowing the laws of good fortune. But you will pardon the author,\ndear reader, if at this point he interrupts himself. For your author\nis dying. I, Morducaya Ivn, the respected chronicler of these medi-\ntations and events, rose from my desk but a few moments past, laid\nback my head, and cast a mortal potion into the belly. Already,\nthere is a drowsiness mounting my legs. Between me and death there\nare less than my fingers full of people.\nThere is an old Chinese woman, exhaused of a dropsy. A baby\nin London, deformed by its mother s corsets. Three of five drunken\nsailors in a brawl at Singapore. Then me.\nWhen I am dead the boats will still sail down the river. . . . people\nwill eat supper with their windows open . . . and doubtless take walks\nacross the country during week-ends. I will be dead. Dead in a\ncoffin carried through the street, and my beard growing silently.\nThey say the baby won't cry when it's slapped. . . . Down, you\nbastard! and one of the sailors is gone. . . . Now that Chinese woman"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.24", "texte": "is staring: pingee, pongee, pungee, pung, yes, grandmother died of a\ndropsy.\nlam demanded back to be remoulded. This borrowed ego returns\nto the great Warehouse. My collection will be scattered: this much of\nbeef, swine, mutton, herbs, rum which, taken into the blood, became me.\nI could situate my elements thus, roughly, in pre-history: Twelve por-\ntions of this nose once floated in a tepid sea, the liver of a dinosaur.\nThis mouth, or rather this eye-tooth of this mouth, was belched up in\npart during the ejaculation of the Himalayas; it is a relique of the\nearth's earlier enthusiasm. And ah! this little strip of thumb-nail, im-\nmediately within the border of the moon, who would believe that it was\nonce included in a germ which gnawed at the brain of Jesus.\nAnd so lam reclaimed metaphysically. Strictly to observe rela-\ntionships, in the light of Jupiter, Ido not matter. As I was slung\ntogether, so shall I fall apart, an aggregate of casual units, subject to the\nchemistry of the Law. And when the earth, the black cold earth\ndrives on through space, drives on through force of habit I suppose, and\nthere is left nothing but a dead worm sticking to the collected works of\nShakespeare, what will it signify that Ivn perished of the nature of\nthings, and of poison cast into the belly ?\nIvn, you are dying! Not an aggregate of units, not a relative trifle\nin the light of Jupiter, but you, I—I—\nOut of the big black hole\ninto my own awareness of nothing\nthus from the grinding womb of the Mother Nebula\nI\nmy heart, mp fingertips,\nI, the affirmation, the solely significant. . . .\nFacts, tiny facts, the patient ministering to our daily needs, the\nbalancing of hungers with appeasements. But what—that tingling in\nthe ears; it is music, or death. I fail. I struggle once more to my feet,\nchoking. Of a sudden lam elated with futurity. I bellow:\nI have suffered the prologue. I have heard the orchestra strike up,\nthe curtain rises, and God! lam called to go elsewhere. I saw\ntheir fat happy faces, caught a glimpse of them dining, and the\ndoor slammed shut in my face. To live among those beeves of\nart. And here and there little cries come up out of the earth, like\nflowers. When the world rises and sings—but lam dead.\n(Dies.)\n\nKenneth Burke."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.25", "texte": "SIR WALTER RALEIGH\n\nOf the pursuit of beauty and the husk that remains, perversions\nand mistakes, while the true form escapes in the wind, sing O Muse;\nof Raleigh, beloved by majesty, plunging his lust into the body of a\nnew world—and the deaths, misfortunes, counter coups, which swelled\nback to certify that ardor with defeat. Sing! and let the rumor of\nthese things make the timid more timid and the brave desperate, care-\nless of monuments which celebrate the subtle conversions of sense and\nlet truth go unrecognised. Sing! and this once let the song be an\narrow through the brain. Sing and make known Raleigh, who\nwould found colonies; his England become a mouthful of smoke\nsucked from the embers of a burnt weed. And if the nations, well\nfounded on a million hindrances, taxes, laws and laws to annul\nlaws must have a monument, let it be here implied: this undersong,\nthis worm armed to gnaw away lies and to release—Raleigh: if it so\nplease the immortal gods.\nSing of his wisdom, O Muse: The truth is that all nations, how\nremote soever, being all reasonable creatures, and enjoying one and\nthe same imagination and fantasy, have devised, according to their\nmeans and materials, the same things.\nThey all have lighted on the invention of bows and arrows; all\nhave targets and wooden swords, all have instruments to encourage\nthem to fight, all that have corn beat it in mortars and make cakes,\nbaking them upon slate stones; all devised laws without any grounds\nhad from the scriptures or from Aristotle's Politick, whereby they\nare governed; all that dwell near their enemies impale their villages,\nto save themselves from surprise. Yea, besides the same inventions,\nall have the same natural impulsions; they follow nature in the choice\nof many wives; and there are among them which, out of a kind of\nwolfish ferocity, eat man's flesh; yea, most of them believe in a second\nlife, and they are all of them idolators in one kind or another.\nThese things, still chewing, he chewed out. And as an atheist,\nwith Marlow, they would have burned him. It was his style! To\nthe sea, then! mixed with soundest sense—on selling cannon to one s\nenemies.\nBut through all else, O Muse, say that he penetrated to the\nQueen!\nSing! O Muse and say, he was too mad in love, too clear, too\ndesperate for her to trust upon great councils. He was not England, as\nshe was. She held him, but she was too shrewd a woman not to\nknow she held him as a woman, she, the Queen; which left an ele-\nment. Say that he was made and cracked by majesty, knew that"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.26", "texte": "devotion, tasted that wisdom and became too wise—and she all eyes\nand wit looking through until her man, her Raleigh became thin, light,\na spirit. He was the whetter, the life giver through the Queen—but\nwounded cruelly. In this desperate condition, willess, inspired, the tool\nof a woman, flaming, falling, being lifted up, robbed of himself to\nfeed her, caught, dispatched, starting, held again, giving yet seeking\nround the circle for an outlet: this was, herself; but what, O Muse,\nof Raleigh, that proud man?\nSay, first, he was the breath of the Queen—for a few years; say,\ntoo, that he had travelled much before he knew her, that he had\nseen the tropics and explored the Orinoco River for a hundred miles.\nThen say, O Muse, that now he saw himself afar, that he became—\nAmerica! that he conceived a voyage from perfection to find—an\nEngland new again; to found a colony; the outward thrust, to seek\n—But it turned out to be a voyage on the body of his Queen: Eng-\nland, Elizabeth—Virginia!\nHe sent out colonists, she would not let him go himself; nothing\nsucceeded. It was a venture in the crook of a ladie's finger, pointing,\nthen curving in Virginia? It was the nail upon that finger. O Raleigh!\nnowhere, everywhere—and nothing. Declare, O Muse, impartially,\nhow he had gone with the English fleet to strike at Spain and how\nshe called him back—Sire, do you not know, you! ? These women are\nmy person. What have you dared to do? How have you dared,\nwithout my order, to possess yourself of what is mine? Marry this\nwoman!\nSing, O Muse, with an easy voice, how she, Elizabeth, she Eng-\nland, she the Queen—deserted him; Raleigh for Leicester, Essex now\nfor Raleigh; she Spencer whom he friended, she \"The Faery Queen,\"\nshe Guiana, she Virginia, she atheist, she \"my dear friend Marlow,\"\nshe rents, rewards, honors, influence, reputation, she \"the fundamental\nlaws of human knowledge,\" she prison, she tobacco, the introduction\nof potatoes to the Irish soil: It is the body of the Queen stirred by\nthat plough—now all withdrawn.\nO Muse, in that still pasture where you dwell amid the hardly\nnoticed sounds of water falling and the little cries of crickets and small\nbirds, sing of Virginia floating off: the broken chips of Raleigh: the\nQueen is dead.\nO Virginia! who will gather you again as Raleigh had you\ngathered? science, wisdom, love, despair. O America, the death-\nplace of his son! It is Raleigh, anti-tropical. It is the cold north,\nflaring up in ice again."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.27", "texte": "What might he have known, what seen O Muse? Shoal water\nwhere we smelt so sweet and so strong a smell, as if we had been in\nthe midst of some delicate garden; and keeping good watch and\nkeeping but slack sail—we arrived upon the coast; a land so full of\ngrapes as the very beating and surge of the sea overflow them, such\nplenty, as well there as in all places else, on the sand and on the\ngreen soil on the hills, as well as every little shrub, as also climbing\ntowards the tops of high cedars, that in all the world I think a like\nabundance is not to be found. And from below the hill such a flock\nof cranes, mostly white, arose with such a cry as if an army of men\nhad shouted all together. He might have seen the brother of the\nking, Granganimo, with copper cap, whose wife, comely and bashful,\nmight have come aboard the ship her brows bound with white coral;\nor running out to meet them very cheerfully, at Roanoak, plucked off\nhis socks and washed his feet in warm water. A people gentle, lov-\ning, faithful, void of all guile and treason. Earthen pots, large, white\nand sweet and wooden platters of sweet timber.\nSing, O Muse and say, there is a spirit that is seeking through\nAmerica for Raleigh: in the earth, the air, the waters, up and down,\nfor Raleigh, that lost man: seer who failed, planter who never planted,\npoet whose works are questioned, leader without command, favorite\ndeposed—but one who yet gave title for his Queen, his England to a\ncoast he never saw but grazed alone with genius.\nQuestion him m hell, O Muse, where he has gone, and when there\nis an answer, sing and make clear the reasons that he gave for that\nlast blow. Why did he send his son into that tropic jungle and not\ngo himself, upon so dangerous an errand? And when the boy had\ndied why not die too? Why England again and force the new King\nto keep his promise and behead him ?\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.28", "texte": "BOOK REVIEWS\n\nTulips and Chimneys, by E. E. Cummings. New York. Thomas\nSeltzer. $2.00.\nModern art gets much less explanation than it deserves. The\nartist is too busy pioneering, the intransigent critic too busy fighting\nhis own battles. Nor does any explanation come from the critics of\nthe older school. They have a fear of tasting anything which they\ncannot recognize at a glance, they refuse to understand anything\nwhich is disturbingly new. But since they are house-broken only in\ntheir own traditions and would inevitably make a mess of them-\nselves if they wandered afield, it is perhaps fortunate for the world\nthat they make no attempt to understand the underlying aesthetic\nupon which these crisp and brilliant poems of E. E. Cummings are\nbuilt.\nFor Cummings is not only a poet but a painter. His knowledge\nof word value is as profound as his knowledge of color, and it is\nlargely for this reason, because he has carried over the eye and\nmethod of art into the field of poetry, that the fresh, living, glamor-\nous forms he has created seem so intangible. To many of those\nwho do not understand this fact, this translation of one art into the\ntechnic of another, the poems of E. E. Cummings seem nothing more\nthan verbal and typographical mannerism.\nBut it is not too unapparent in his work that Cummings' approach\nto poetry has been quite definitely through painting. The spatial\norganization of color has become the durational organization of\nwords, the technical problem that of tempo. Words, like planes in\nabstract painting, function not as units in a logical structure, but as\nunits functioning in a vital and organic structure of time. Logic and\nall its attributes of grammar, spelling and punctuation, become sub-\nservient to the imperial demands of form. The words must come\nat the moment juste, the spark perfectly timed must ignite them at\ntheir fullest incipient power.\nwhile in the battered\nbodies the odd unlovely\nsouls struggle slowly and writhe\nlike caught.brave: flies;\nIn this quotation the verbal units fall, almost as if by fate, into\na sharp relentless tempo that drives each into the highest incan-"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.29", "texte": "descence of its meaning. There is no waste, the skilful orchestration\nof tempo forces each word to the final limit of its stress.\nBut Cummings not only derives his technical organization from\npainting. The sudden and glaring accuracies of description with\nwhich his poetry abounds, are those of an amazingly adept draughts-\nman who has for the moment exchanged his own medium for that\nof words. In some cases this pictorial accuracy is that of a photo-\ngraph taken with a lens of ice, brutally clear. But in many of his\nmore recent poems, of which there are all too few examples in\nthe present volume, this accuracy, deepened and sharpened by satire,\ncuts both ways. These poems, particularly the ones published in the\nfourth number of Secession, have all the quality of Daumier plus\nthat formal significance which Daumier never attained. It is a satire\nboth in form and import far beyond the timid and retiring ironies of\nT. S. Eliot; a satire which reveals Cummings as completely innocu-\nlated against that galloping stagnation which seems to carry off so\nmany of our younger American poets.\nOf the grace of Cummings' poetry much has been written. But\ngrace is an emanation, the residue or by-product of a means which\nhas utterly realized its aesthetic or extra-aesthetic purpose. It is an\nease which springs from the perfect economy of method. But since\nit cannot be its own purpose, since it can only be attained by way of\na technic whose purpose is not grace itself, it necessarily extends be-\nyond the reaches of analysis. Nevertheless it may be touched by a\nconsideration of that purpose from which it emanates, and though I\nmay be leading myself by the nose into a very doubtful territory of\nassumptions, I should say that the formal grace (one might as well\nsay beauty and be done with it) of Cummings' work is largely due\nto the fact that the lines of his poems are built for speed. Their\nbeauty is that of all swift things seen at rest.\nIn his best work this speed is evident; there exists in them an\norganized direction toward which each verbal unit functions at its\nhighest velocity. Cummings seldom attempts to achieve momentum\nthrough the utilization of mass, the violent and often painful impact\nof his poems is the active manifestation of speed; their formal beauty\nhas that quality common to racing cars, aeroplanes, and to those\nbirds surviving because of their swift wings.\nBut it is this speed, this sudden impact of his poems which turns\nso many people against them. Men do not like to be knocked down,\nparticularly by some quality they admire. But if art is to have\nany of the contemporary virtues it must have speed, and though it is"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.30", "texte": "perhaps more pleasant to be softly overturned by the witching waves\nof Amy Lowell, or knocked slowly numb by the water droppings\nof Georgian poetasters, it is certainly more exhilirating to experience\nthe sharp, the living, the swift, the brilliant tempos of E. E. Cum-\nmings. And though the selection of poems in this volume is neither\na sensitive nor a comprehensive one, though it contains certain poems\nof questionable value, it nevertheless stands as the most important\nwork of poetry yet published in America.\nThe Thomas Jefferson Bible. Edited by Henry E. Jackson. New\nYork- Boni and Liveright. $2.50.\nThe hard-shelled mind of the eighteenth century, that only a\nheavy hammer and a stone could open, speaks in this book to the\npaper-shelled twentieth that can be split by the pressure of a child's\ntwo thumbs.\nTo read the Thomas Jefferson Bible is an excursion in a closed\ncarriage, sedately driven, to the house of a Roman tetrarch in the cen-\nter of ancient Jerusalem. Outside the faiths swarm and clash and spit\nvenom, embrace and propagate, gnaw at the ankles of the carpenter's\nson. Inside the muting walls the cool steel threads of logic spin from\nthe legal hps. We listen to the last word, bow our respect, decline\nin moderation the closed carriage, and walk home through the clam-\norous streets, disarmed to fragrant partialities. For, with all respect\ndue to the competent Jefferson, we prefer our Christ with to without,\nthat is, decorated with miracle, like Dionysus garlanded with vine-\nleaves, to the bones cleaned by acid and carbolic soap.\nMiracle does not decay except in closed minds. The mystic lover\nopens his veins and lets the sap fill the depleted channels, and green\nleaves shoot forth. There is a better wisdom in the perfumed chat\nbetween Jesus and the woman of Samaria, omitted in the Jefferson\nanthology, than in all his odorless selections lumped together.\nJefferson eliminates, and misses, the essential element of Chris-\ntianity, that it is the story of a failure, or, as a disappointing con-\ntemporary has phrased it, peace without victory. ' Christianity is\nand has always been unpopular because the world prefers success to\nfailure, riches to poverty, pleasure to pain. It has but acquired a cer-\ntain sanction from the defeated majority. When the world is turned\ntopsy-turvy Christianity will come into its universal rule.\n\nSlater Brown"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.31", "texte": "Nevertheless the personality of the Christ is the yeast that defies\nthe Volstead Act and every other form of benzoate, a chemical that\nwould, if universally administered, render the world eternally con-\nscious of the distinction between success and failure. For the per-\nsonality of the Christ is the purest embodiment of the rule of sym-\npathy which enables the enthusiasm of the defeated to depart from\nitself and to partake of the joy of the victorious.\nAnd another point missed by Jefferson is the feminity of that rul-\ning principle. That is why the woman of Samaria got, in a casual\nconversation, all of importance that Jesus had to say. The Jeffer-\nson Bible is a Bible with the living yeast baked dry and ineffective.\nThe gracious and curving feminine is left out.\nThe editor, Mr. Henry E. Jackson, takes up half the book with\nan introduction valuable, I should think, to the servant of society.\nHe reads well for the same reason that makes it a pleasure to see\nDempsey fight. And he exhibits excellent judgment in rendering the\nJeffersonian selections in the fibrous prose of the Weymouth\ntranslation.\nThe Story of the Bible. Written and Drawn by Hendrik Wilhelm\nVan Loon. Nerv York• Boni & Liveright. $5.\n\"You read me the Jesus book, Daddy.\"\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn\nGeorgia Mary Sanborn"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.32", "texte": "COMMENT\nTO THE EDITORS OF THE DIAL\n\nGentlemen :\nThe first year to a novelist, the second to a poet, the third to a\ncritic . . . the fourth year to a novelist? To criticize this pattern is\npresumptuous. You will excuse us, however, for asking on what\nstandard the Dial makes its annual award.\nSherwood Anderson, the first to receive it, writes by personal in-\nspiration: good, bad and passable stories in a prose always abomi-\nnable. Eliot believes in tradition, form, the intellect, everything dead:\nhe writes well. Van Wyck Brooks is a critic who judges books by\ntheir relation to society. A prize means something or nothing. Any\nsignificance which the Dial award may possess is dependent on the\nqualities which these three writers share in common. But they have\nnothing in common: no opinions, no purposes, no common level of\nability. We are forced to conclude that the Dial award is meaningless.\nIt might be justified on the ground of creating a public for auth-\nors whose work has been neglected. Brooks publishes everything he\nwrites. He is a critic of integrity, and his readers are respectful and\nmany. The service your award will render him is financial, nothing\nmore. Two thousand dollars: the price of an automobile or a lot in\nthe suburbs; the Dial award promised to have more significance.\nWe understand that your anonymous committee considered sev-\neral names, among them Estlin Cummings. His public is small. He\nis violently attacked. To select him would have shown more cour-\nage and considerably broadened his reputation. Moreover, such a\nchoice, following that of Eliot, would indicate a positive standard,\nfor these two writers, although they have reached points widely diver-\ngent, started from common ground. A positive standard is what the\nDial lacks.\nIt veers from right to left continually, and if two beliefs are con-\ntradictory, accepts them both. It prints Anderson and Eliot in the\nsame issue; Coatsworth and Cummings; Picasso and the obscene\nfriezes of Arnold Roennebeck. One page cancels another and the\nresult, too often is nothing.\nWe have no quarrel with magazines which deliberately cater to\nthe public. They exist; they grow; their importance is measured not\nby what they publish but by the number of their readers. Our respect\nfor the Dial leads us to judge it by more difficult standards.\nAnd for this reason we feel at liberty to protest when it becomes\nan international dictionary of names: George Moore! Hugo"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.33", "texte": "von Hofmannsthal! Karel Capek! Ivan Bunin! Great names, re-\npeated, are intolerably dull. The Dial has grown impersonal, inor-\nganic, like a museum of universal archaeology. One goes wandering\nthrough the bric-a-brac of the nineties, the German naturalist school,\ntranslations from the Czech, all the materials for the snobs of culture.\nAgainst such background, Cummings is an anachronism. You say,\n\"No new talents have developed since the founding of the Dial.\"\nWas all your money wasted?\nWe believe that Cummings' talent is startling and new. We\nbelieve that a new literature is developing for which there is no place\nin the Dial. However, we have no quarrel with you for being con-\nservative or radical; realist, naturalist, impressionist or fin-de-siecle.\nWe protest only because you do not know your mind.\nSincerely yours,\n\nSlater Brown\nMalcolm Cowley\n\nBROOM AWARD\nTo aid the creative writer in his struggle against modern condi-\ntions: to give him leisure for work (though we realize that the sum at\nour disposal will make the leisure brief), the editors of Broom have\ndecided to make an annual award, hoping that our readers will dis-\ntinguish it carefully from the \"prizes\" or \"crowns\" with which many\norganizations attempt to decide the leading books of the year. The\nBroom award is given, without pretension, to a young American\nwriter who, in our opinion, has done a significant service for Ameri-\ncan letters.\nWe announce with considerable pleasure that our $2.00 award\nfor 1923 has been given to\nSINCLAIR LEWIS\nThe Editors\nfor his work in advancing the American novel.\nIn choosing Mr. Lewis we were guided by the facts that his repu-\ntation is established, that his books are regularly published, and that he\nhe could derive much less benefit from this award than could some\nyounger writer.\nOur choice will undoubtedly call forth comparison with the first\naward of the Dial. We face this without hesitation, for not only does\nMr. Lewis need the money less than Sherwood Anderson, but he\nwrites better prose."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "[32]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.34", "texte": "STATEMENT OF THE OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT, CIRCULATION, ETC., REQUIRED BY THE\nACT OF CONGRESS OF AUGUST 24, 1912.\nOf Broom, published monthly at New York, N. Y., for November 1, 1923.\nState of New York, County of New York, ss.\nBefore me, a notary public in and for the State and county aforesaid, personally appeared\nMatthew Josephson, who, having been duly sworn according to law, deposes and says that he is the\nManaging Editor of the Broom, and that the following is, to the best of his knowledge and belief, a\ntrue statement of the ownership, management (and if a daily paper, the circulation), etc., of the\naforesaid publication for the date shown in the above caption, required by the Act of August 24, 1912,\nembodied in section 443, Postal Laws and Regulations, printed on the reverse of this form, to wit:\n1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, The Broom Publishing Co., Inc., 45 King St.,\neditor, managing editor, and business managers are : Publisher, Harold A. Loeb, 45 King St., New York\nCity; Managing Editor, Matthew Josephson, 45 King St., New York City; Business Manager, Matthew\nJosephson, 45 King St., New York City.\nv , J?.' That the °wners are : The Broom Publishing Company; Harold A. Loeb, 45 King St., New\nYork City; Hannah Geffen Josephson, 45 King St., New York City; Matthew Josephson, 45 King St.,\nNew York City.\n3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees and other security holders owning or holding 1 per\ncent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages or other securities are : None\nThat the two paragraphs next above, giving the names of the owners, stockholders and\nsecurity holders, if any, contain not only the list of stockholders and security holders as they appear\nupon the books of the company, but also, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears\nupon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of the person\nor corporation for whom such trustee is acting, is given; also that the said two paragraphs contain\nstatements embracing affiant's full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and conditions under\nwhich stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon the books of the company as trustees,\nhold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of a bona fide owner ; and this affiant has no\nGafi?n be^eve that any other person, association, or corporation has any interest direct or indirect\nm the said stock, bonds, or other securities than as so stated by him.\nMATTHEW JOSEPHSON, Managing Editor.\nSworn to and subscribed before me this Ist day of October, 1923.\n(Signed) A. G. REYNOLDS, Notary Public, New York County.\n(Seal.) Certificate filed in New York County, No. 83.\nNew York Register's No. 5014.\n(My commission expires March 30th, 1925.)\n\n\" APOLLINAIRE\"\nTHIS brilliant, sensitive and profane personality who dominated art in\nEurope for a decade is now introduced to that part of the American\npublic which loves modern literature.\nTHE first translation of Apollinaire's greatest novel, by Matthew Joseph-\nson, in a limited edition of 1,000 numbered copies, is now ready. It\nis beautifully printed on Japan vellum, bound m blue boards with vellum\nback, and is illustrated with woodcuts by Derain, and a portrait of the author.\nThe Price is $5.00 Net\n\nTHE BROOM PUBLISHING CO.\n45 KING STREET\nNEW YORK\nEnclosed find $5.00, for which you may send me a copy of\nTHE POET ASSASSINATED, by Guillaume Apollinaire.\nName\nAddress"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "[33]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.35", "texte": "Every Issue a Book\n—and there are twelve of them a year\nTHE DIAL does not publish anything which is not worthy of\nperpetuation in book form. It does not bother with ephemera.\nEach issue is a record of the finest creative work by contem-\nporary artists. It publishes only work possessing a permanent value.\nIncidentally, THE DIAL is quite as well printed as the best books.\nEvery issue of THE DIAL is a book—a remarkably good book\n—and there are twelve of them a year. A year of THE DIAL is\nthe equivalent of a dozen books—a dozen superlative, contemporary\nbooks.\nFor $5.00 (few good books now cost less than $2.00) we will\nsend you a copy of THE DIAL every month for a year—twelve\nbooks for less than the cost of three. In addition, we will send you\nfrom THE DIAL'S library one of the following important books of\nthe past season. THE DIAL has a small surplus of books carried\nover from last year, which it is offering to new subscribers at a\nremarkably low combination price. Present subscribers may secure\n.one or more of these books by writing us for a special rate.\nA SURVEY, by Max Beerbohm\nAARON'S ROD, by D. H. Lawrence\nPOEMS, 1918-1921, by Ezra Pound\nAFOOT IN ENGLAND, by W. H. Hudson\nSEA AND SARDINIA, by D. H. Lawrence\nMR. WADDINGTON OF WYCK, by May Sinclair\nTHE STORY OF MANKIND, by Hendrik W. Van Loon\nTHE STORY OF UTOPIAS, by Lewis Mumford\nAGAINST THE GRAIN, by /. K. Huysmans\nMAYA THE BEE, by Waldemar Bonsels\nMARIA CHAPDELAINE, by Louis Hemon\nTHE WASTE LAND, by T. S. Eliot\nTHE JUDGE, by Rebecca West\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street New York City\nGentlemen: Please enter my name for a year's subscription to THE DIAL, beginning\nwith the October issue. Also, send me the book listed below.\nName\nAddress\nBook\n□ I enclose $5.00. □ I will remit $5.00 on receipt of your bill."}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192401-01.1.36", "texte": "Broom Now $3.00\nTHE price of the yearly subscription to\nBROOM, beginning with January 1, 1924,\nhas been reduced to $3.00.\nnpO secure a larger audience the publishers\nhave decided simultaneously to lower the\nprice and raise the standard of contents. No\npremiums, no free books, and no presents will\nbe given. Readers who subscribed at $5.00\nprevious to this announcement will be ac-\ncorded an extension of their subscription.\n-OROOM is different from all other maga-\n'zines in that it makes no artistic conces-\nsions to secure a large circulation. It will\nnot publish great \"names\" because of their\nglamour. BROOM and the Atlantic Monthly\nare the only magazines in America with a\ndefinite artistic policy.\nSome contributors to current issues will be:\n1 ' * > ' - * . t •\nLouis Aragon Edward Nagle.\nSlater Brown Charles Sheeler\nKenneth Burke Philippe Soupault\nE. E. Cummings Gertrude Stein\nMalcolm Cowley Joseph Stella\nRamon Guthrie Wallace Stevens\nMatthew Josephson Tristan Tzara\nHarold Loeb Glenway Wescott\nWilliam Carlos Williams\nBROOM, 45 KING STREET, NEW YORK CITY\nEnclosed please find $3.00. You may enter my name for\none year's subscription to the BROOM.\nNAME\nADDRESS\n$3.00 the year. 35 cents the copy."}]}