{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_sha256": "6d62368dbf3c3ca1e2fc899fe42666d660c562ec14141cc9645ae54518962848", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaay/issues/1922/08_01/bmtnaay_1922-08_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaay/issues/1922/08_01/bmtnaay_1922-08_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 2, "image_fin": 2, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Hope Waldo Frank", "titre_sommaire": "Hope Waldo Frank", "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=bmtnaay192208-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 510, "fin_caractere_exclue": 770, "texte": "Hope Waldo Frank\nThe Attempt William Carlos Williams\nPeep-peep Parrish Matthew Josephson\nArticles de sport Philippe Soupault\nPoem Malcolm Cowley\nCities II Will Bray\nArp the Trap-drummer Hans Arp\nFirst Pastoral Kenneth Burke\nMr. Blunder Buss\nCover design by Arp"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1", "page_fin": "4", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 6, "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=bmtnaay192208-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "HOPE", "titre_sommaire": "HOPE", "signature_source": "WALDO FRANK", "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=bmtnaay192208-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1867, "texte": "HOPE\n\nHe was walking a long time. It seemed to him he\nwas walking always . . walking toward no thing . .\nwalking away. He had the sense of himself very white,\nvery dim yet sharp: white thin throat weary with\nbreathing, white brow weary with pressing through\nblack air, white legs weary with walking away. He\nhad the sense of himself a white thing walking forever\nfrom the dark, through dark. . . .\nHe had no thoughts. His past was the wake behind\nhis feet. He sensed it arching up behind him to a\nblack horizon, arching beyond horizon, the wake of\nhis past . . a thing that was not he and was not the\ndarkness: was the stain of his white passing along\nupon the dark that passed never....\nHis past was beingless and thoughtless. He was\nmoving whiteness, his past was where he had moved.\nYet certain knowings went with him. They were without\ndimension. They were impalpable like odors. He moved,\na white moving, and with him emanations . . things\nhe knew about himself and the world . . frail pitiful\nthings, impalpable like odors.\nOne knowing: he was lonely. One knowing: his\nloneliness was not a birth of his leaving his beloved,\nbut his leaving her was birth of his being lonely. They\nloved each other. There, between them, growing like\na tree, his loneliness. Like a tree clefting a rock, his\nloneliness: as they clove together, as his arms were\nabout her body, as his mouth was upon her mouth . .\nhis loneliness clefting them asunder. It spread. It\nblossomed. It spread up until its branches were sky,\nuntil its roots were earth . . until its trunk was life\nbetween earth and sky. His loneliness blotted out his\nbeloved. His loneliness blotted out himself. He was\nmoving whiteness, moved by loneliness to walk forever\naway.\nHe stood at the corner of a street and tried to\nchange himself into a thing that thought.\nHe tried hard: his legs hurt: he tried to think of"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2121, "texte": "that. There was an empty whiteness in his stomach.\nHe tried to think of that and of the simple way . .\nthere was money . . whereby he could recolor his\nstomach red. Against his brow black fumes of people\nmoved . . slow, tragically, men and women in black\nshoes pushing white faces away, moving against each\nother forever away through black.\nLong lost strokes . . white soot in blackness\nstreaking from before his eyes into the pregnant past\n. . men, women. Little balls of tremulous commotion . .\nblack all about their whiteness, moulding their white-\nness . . children. Above his hat, the Elevated Road . .\na balance in sonorous black where all that was over\nit and under was contained. The structure so immediate\nabove him, so infinite beyond him, was a Word. Its\nrecurrent meaningless boom had meaning for him. He\nstood, white upright wisp, and listened to the word\nof the murmuring, pounding, failing trains, to the.\nrefrain before and after of long black beams parting\nthe dwellings of men, swung between mists.\nHe took this, satisfied, in place of thought.\nThe odors of self were free to touch him. He knew\nnow for long he was wandering the City. Long, he\nhad no thought of his beloved, no care. He knew\nthat soon he would stop. His whiteness . . because\nhe needed so, so hoped . . was going to stop.\nThe street corner where he stood was sharp. Black-\nness still. But each particle in his eyes stood up: each\nparticle like iron dust was suddenly within the sway\nof a hid Magnet so that each particle stood up, yet\notherwise did not move.\nA saloon with garish yellow light and yellow wood.\nGray pavement. Desolate forms of men like lamp-soot\non the yellow wood, on the yellow light. Grey\npavement.\nThen in the foreground of his eye a sudden force -\nupon him, a slow thin form. — She is a negress! He\nsaw her big awkward hat, her shoes stuck out from\nthe wooden stiffness of her coat. He saw her wrists\nstuck out from the stiff wool arms: two hands, luminous\nsinuous, flexed . . hands moving in air. The air that\nher hands moved wreathed in volumnear curves like\nthe curves of a slender stem of a flower, to her head."}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2032, "texte": "This he saw also. He saw within the black of her\nstupid hat a smile toward him. He felt her throat.\nHe left the yellow light. The grey pavement here\nwas gaseous, clouded beyond. In the dim, he knew\nthe woman beside him.\nShe walked. Her parting the blackness left a wake\nthat sucked him subtly, slowly. Not horizontal but in\ntrue measure with her was their way: the spirallic\nleap and dip of an uneven hoop. There was a heavy\ndoor and a room . . he quiet beside her.\nHe was aware of quiet. The gas jet spat light with\na rasping breath. It and his breathing and her breathing-\nwere encased in quiet. The room v/as thick and muf-\nfled. Foul walls that were thick, the heavy scarlet\ncover on the bed, the painted door . . made the quiet.\nThese were a fabulous womb of her breathing and\nhis and the gas-light.\nShe took off her hat. She took off her brown-\nwooden coat. She turned her eyes upon him . . the\nwhite of her eyes. Then her hands uprose, they swam upon\nher like fish deep in dark waters. She took off her\ntawdry one-piece dress. She took off her heavy shoes\nand her coarse stockings. She ripped soiled flannel,\nsparking from her skin. She lifted the scarlet cover\nand her black body slid within the bed.\nHe flung away the cover. Her black body lay\non the white sheet. He looked at her body. She\nlooked at her body. It was a black still thing, flowing\nforever within itself; moveless beyond its boundaries\nwhich were white. And within its blackness a glowing\ncloud of white, making it blue, making it yellow and\nblue, making it blackness alive.\nHe said to himself: ~Now I had better think.\"\nHe took off his clothes. He let the room close in\nhim, touch him everywhere . . at his throat, under his\narmpits, at his thighs . . the foulpadded room. He\nlay beside her. Her bloated lips touched like the\nroom on his.\nHe lay still, stiffly. Her lips worked on him, her\narms shuttled at his flanks. He lay still, stiffly. She\nseemed to hear him, now. She relaxed beside him. She\nlay flexed. Barely her skin in the narrow bed touched his."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1320, "texte": "So they lay: gaze threading upward like untroub-\nled smoke; he stiff, she undulous easeful, blade like\na buried sea: both still.\nThe wave of her was measurelessly long as if\nsome tiding force . . no wind . , with infinite stroke\ncaused it. He felt himself white. He felt this blackness\nbeside her. He was not stiff. He was not moving\naway. He knew in her blackness, the white mist run-\nning through: saturate white, invisible from the black-\nness of her body, making it alive.\nA great need filled him. He . . separate white,\npushing through black . . felt the need and felt the\npower to be merged in her, to join the white mist\nmaking her black alive.\nPassion, pure beyond object and beyond self,\nlifted him so. He took her body: it was body: black\ndead body she was. So he took her. So he made her\nalive. He was impress of life upon her substance: song.\nBefore his eyes was dark Void. Falling through it\nthreads of white, globules of white: in his eyes this\nwoman's body, falling through it himself.\nHe lay smiling with shut eyes on his back.\nShe left the bed and knelt on the floor beside him.\nShe kissed his feet. She kissed his knees. She\ntook his fingers, pressed each finger one by one, on\nher eyes. His fingers were cold.\nShe beat her brow,-dashed her brow and her breast\nagainst the iron bed. . . .\n\nWALDO FRANK."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "5", "page_fin": "5", "image_debut": 7, "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=bmtnaay192208-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "THE ATTEMPT", "titre_sommaire": "THE ATTEMPT", "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": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 296, "texte": "THE ATTEMPT\nWILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS\nO tongue\nlicking\nthe sore on\nher netherlip\nO toppled belly\n0 passionate cotton\nstuck with\nmatted hair\nelysian slobber\nfrom her mouth\nupon\nthe folded handkerchief\n1 can't die\n— moaned the old\njaundiced woman\nrolling- her\nsaffron eyeballs\nI can't die\nI can't die"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "6", "page_fin": "11", "image_debut": 8, "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=bmtnaay192208-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "PEEP-PEEP-PARRISH", "titre_sommaire": "PEEP-PEEP-PARRISH", "signature_source": "MATTHEW JOSEPHSON", "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=bmtnaay192208-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1848, "texte": "PEEP-PEEP-PARRISH\n\n1\nTerribly hot in New York. Torrid! Ouf. Fat men\nwheeze and remove their hats for the seventy-\nninth time in the deadly sun. At night alas there is\nno wind. No air. Thousands expire daily. In the East\nSide people carry their featherbeds and infants out-\ndoors and sleep along the sidewalk lining the streets\nfor miles up and down with tangled limbs and soiled\nlinen in public.\nAnd of Mr. Parrish? Admirable man. He lay on the\nfloor of his room and knew not what to do. He was\nstripped naked to the waist giving the pores of his\nbody excellent occasion to perspire and respire freely.\nBefore him labored an electric fan in the full gallop.\nMr. Parish is gradually becoming cooler and cooler.\nLying on the floor his bad heart moved well enough\nfor him to smoke. He smoked always in the direction\nof the ceiling.\nCooler. But what to do in this room. He stood up\nand moved around it cautiously. Stood by the window\nfor utmost comfort. The air smelled grilled. And yet\nthere was the most beautiful backyard prospect in\nBrooklyn before him. A grove of yolanthus trees\nreared itself in the interior space. Lights broke through\ntheir imitation palm leaves. Outcries came. Snatches\nof decollete families sleeping indiscriminately perilously\non fire-escapes.\nThere was a fire-escape too for Mr. Parrish. He\nstepped out and climbed the iron ladder gingerly to\nthe roof. His roof! Immense to stand on the roof with\nonly the sleepy stars right above. The most modest\nkind of a breeze purred about and tickled his back\nand his ribs. Fatuous Mr. Parrish waved his long flabby\narms at the sky and warded off the stars.\nMr. Parrish promenaded his roof. A limited affair at\nlength speedily explored.\n„I wonder what this next roof would be like?\"\nTo reach the next required stepping adroitly on a\nsky-light and swinging up some five feet. Certainly"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2049, "texte": "a different perspective from this little roof. And so\none roof led rapidly to another. Their terraces ran\nupward generally save for certain downward fluctua-\ntions. The ascent in some cases offered difficulty but\nnever too precarious.\nFrom a rather high building he found that he could\npeer over the cornice and glimpse the street a hun-\ndred feet below. There was a cinema its blazing lamp\nand a little knot of people before it reading doubt-\nless its florid bill posters. A formidable desire to see\nwhat they were reading dragged Mr. Parrish to the\nvery edge of the building to its tin shaky cornice. He\nwas almost overcome with vertigo as he craned\ndownward. He accordingly reeled back from the edge\nof the building and thought better of it all.\nThe street continued to be regarded from a safe\ndistance from his precipice. He stood wrapt up in\nthe whole long bright street this utterly new street\nfor a long time.\nAn added sense came suddenly into play thanks to\nthe semi-arboreal existence which had begun for Mr.\nParrish and he turned his head sharply to the left.\nIn a dark window of an . adjoining house there was\ncertainly the face of a woman. She was looking at\nhim very fixedly and her eyes were large with terror.\nHe gazed at her for a minute and a half wondering\nwhat objection she could possibly have to him. Then\nhe remembered that he was almost naked. He made\nan obscene gesture at the face and fled precipitately.\nHe heard a stifled scream: „Burglars ! Help!\" Burg-\nlars dear Madame do not wear my costume. He doub-\nled his pace and bounded down from one roof to\nanother. At one time Mr. Parrish's foot crashed into\na skylight and he caught another chorus of outcries\nmaledictions. He grew nervous and raced around a\nlarge water-tank thereby losing his way. How to tell\none roof from another! And his own! He must have\nmade the complete circumference of the block before\nhe gained at last his own happy and charming do-\nmicile.\nHis little roof again. He dove into his room from the\nladder and collapsed on the floor. He turned on the"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1711, "texte": "electric fan and remained beautifully relaxed. The\nuproar of his heart dominated the room.\nMr. Parrish was both ashamed andx amazed at his es-\ncapade. He likened himself to a certain comedian of\nthe moving pictures whom he had seen eluding pur-\nsuers along tight-ropes between high buildings and\nshifting the chase up and down sky-lights.\n2\nA young man of thirty-five with confirmed habits Mr.\nParrish occupied a responsible position with an in-\nvestment bank downtown. He spent his days in a well\nventilated but subterannean office near the Stock Ex-\nchange. As for the crags roofs sky-lights fire escapes\nhe had had little enough of them.\nAlways there had been secret ulcers (shall we say?)\nin his nature. A quiet unobtrusive man when he was\nsixteen he suffered from the inclination to write\nimmoral legends on the walls of lavatories. There was\nthe ugly habit of lingering too long away from the\ndesk. He had become more and more ingenuous. At\nany rate he was discovered red-handed one day and\nsummarily discharged by the bank which employed\nhim. Parental lectures the struggle for existence a\nrealization of the seriousness of life had persuaded\nhim sternly to turn to better ways. The diverting and\nregrettable practice was relinquished.\nAh Mr. Parrish! His past. This was twenty years ago.\nAnd yet the explorations of the night we speak of\nled his endeavors again into a somewhat questionable\ndirection. They have doubtless been called to your\nattention by indignant articles in the daily press:\nPEEPING TOM HUNTED IN BROOKLYN\nNeighborhood Aroused by Night Prowler\nClimbs through Windows to Annoy Women\nMrs. Jane Bohme, wife of John Bohme, baker, living\nat 598 South Sixty-eighth Street, complained to the"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1852, "texte": "police of the eighteenth district last night of having\nbeen annoyed in her home by a strange prowler whom\nshe awoke to find staring at her in an obnoxious\nmanner, late Tuesday night. Her screams aroused the\nneighbors and the man escaped through a window.\nA spirited search has been instituted and the neigh-\nborhood is highly aroused\n3\nMr. Parrish mopped his brow at the noon hour. He\ntook the elevator as was his new habit far up to the\nthirty-ninth floor of his building. There he took pos-\nsession of a beautiful little white chamber where he\nmade water washed combed and made sundry other\npreparations for his midday repast. All accompanied\nby just such an astonishing view of the great metro-\npolis as Mr. Parrish now doted upon.\nAs he washed he glanced briskly toward a neighboring\nskyscraper which stood a little higher than his own\nwhose summit ended in a specially monstrous pyramid-\nlike affair from which smoke spiralled up always.\nUpon a floor directly parallel with his (but who knows\nwhether it bore the same number) he noticed at\ntimes a beautiful stenographer only a hundred feet or\nso away always typing during the noon hour and who\nsometimes rewarded his attentions with a gracious\nglance of her beauteous eyes.\nHe was touched to the soul was Mr. Parrish. He\nmade quick nervous gestures at her. In fact he waved\nhis hands and the whole upper part of his body at\nher. He was so encouraged by her silent but only too\nmanifest responses that he megaphoned his mouth and\nroared „I LOVE YOU.\" She placed her shell-like\nhand to her ear as a signal that he had passed un-\nheard. But it was impossible to reach her above the\nnoon hour cacaphony of Broad Street. In the mean-\ntime she replied to his vivid gestures in a manner that\nwas so unmistakably suggestive that he was convinced\nof the speedy and favorable acceptance of his pro-\nposals."}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2113, "texte": "He descended thirty-nine floors in the whizzing1 little\nbox himself in an upward transport. He gave the ele-\nvator boy a cigar. Kissed him on both ebony cheeks.\nOn the following day he made animated signals of\npassion to his inamorata of the Bankers' Insurance\nBuilding. Thus with the right hand commencing from\nthe heart outward to the right as far from the shoul-\nder as it would go. Kisses were wafted toward him\nand he was urged only too plainly to volplane across\nthe brief chasm of seven hundred feet which divided\nthem and perch thereafter at the lady's window.\nOn the following day he conceived the idea of clim-\nbing out on the broad ledge of the window at the\nthirty-ninth floor and hurling paper messages carefully\nfolded so as to dart accurately through the air to her\nwindow. She followed his movements fondly. But all\nof them missed her precisely. One came so near that\nshe made a low dive for it leaning out so perilously\nthat she with great difficulty prevented herself from\ntoppling below to a horrid destruction and was comple-\ntely unsuccessful in saving her profuse golden hair\nfrom tumbling down all about her even to the floor\nbelow.\nIn his mortification Mr. Parrish howled „I LOVE YOU.\"\nStill she did not hear. But some scapegrace on the\nfloor right above him did and sent a shower of tele-\ngraph-ribbons down about his ears. They went dancing\nand pirouetting in the bright sunlight between the\ntwo towering buildings for many minutes. Mr. Parrish\nwithdrew chastened and thwarted.\nHe spent thereafter whole afternoons in a fruitless\nquest which he had undertaken after measuring care-\nfully the possible location of the lady's floor. He had\nentered every office which faced his window from the\nthirty-seventh to the forty-first floor of the Bankers'\nInsurance Building. He had assured himself with an\nabsent air that she was not in the room while begging\npardon for his error. He had not found her. He was\nnot to find her. Yet from the building opposite hers\nhe could see her so plainly.\nOn one brown misty day he leaned out in the arch\nof the window at the thirty-ninth floor and looked at"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 667, "texte": "her with wistful chagrin. After considering all the\nbarriers the hazards which parted them he had agreed\nto yield her regretfully but gallantly.\nShe saw him and smiled in the curious obscene manner\nwhich always took such violent effect upon him. His\nheart went unnaturally at this. She leaned out and\nthrew a weighted paper missile at him. It landed\ndirectly at his feet. Even as his breath left him he\ngrabbed it up and unfolded it.\n„MY NAME IS KATY\"\nShe was smiling at him coyly now as his eyes stared\nat her with a completely blank expression. He was\nfound later quite cold crumpled up against the cool\nmarble wall of the little white chamber.\n#\n\nMATTHEW JOSEPHSON"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "12", "page_fin": "12", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 14, "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=bmtnaay192208-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "ARTICLES DE SPORT", "titre_sommaire": "ARTICLES DE SPORT", "signature_source": "PHILIPPE SOUPAULT", "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=bmtnaay192208-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 521, "texte": "ARTICLES DE SPORT\nPHILIPPE SOUPAULT\nCourageux comme un timbre poste\nil alllait son chemin\nen tapant doucement dans ses mains\npour compter ses pas\nson coeur rouge comme un sanglier\n»\nfrappait frappait\ncomme un papillon rose et vert\nDe temps en temps\nil plantait un petit drapeau de satin\nQuand il eut beaucoup marche\nil s'assit pour se reposer\net s'endormit\nMais depuis ce jour il y a beaucoup de nuages dans\n[le ciel\nbeaucoup d'oiseaux dans les arbres\net beaucoup de sel dans la mer\nII y a encore beaucoup d'autres choses"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "13", "page_fin": "13", "image_debut": 15, "image_fin": 15, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "POEM", "titre_sommaire": "POEM", "signature_source": "MALCOLM COWLEY", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 852, "texte": "POEM\nMALCOLM COWLEY\nMeanwhile I observed him from a gable\nto run along- the street violently for they were thir-\nteen and shout like maybe a siren 1 must tell Mr Bruce\nI must tell Mr Robert Bruce I must tell Mr Robert Bruce\nby five o'clock for they were thirteen at table\nthus shouting as the clocks tolled five one clock ap-\ning another and he solely human amid the geometry of\nhouses wailed Too late too late for Babylon is falling\nfalling in flat brick walls folding against the street\nlike painted sets which after the orchestral triumph\nof the fourth act come sprawling\nI have watched crumbs of brick descend like fragments\nof untidy\nmanna on the tablecloth at which the butler entered\nwith basketfired japan in an earthenware pot concealed\nby a cosy and fishcakes blossoming around it by which\ntoken also I knew that it was Friday alas was Friday"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "14", "page_fin": "14", "image_debut": 16, "image_fin": 16, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "CITIES II", "titre_sommaire": "CITIES II", "signature_source": "WILL BRAY", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1953, "texte": "CITIES II\nWILL BRAY\nThough the walls were all of concrete I could by\na simple pressure of my foot upon the lever\nannihilate the tender mechanism which sustained them\n— though the passersby wore powdered smiles one\nword from my tongue and they would kill me — though\nthe signs read This Way the crowds ran That Way —\nas I followed a crowd I perceived two men with\nRubber Heels were following me — as I had foretold\n— as I stepped off a car — as hellhounds after me\n— but an arched door with the legend 57 opened for\nme yet nearly snipped off their noses for them\nThus was I welcomed — thus were my feet bathed\nmy body laved in vinegar and ointed with frankincense\nmusk myrrh and other perfumes of Arabia — nude I\nwas carried into the high immense illuminated hall of\nperfect acoustics and placed alone upon the pros-\ncenium — from his towering pulpit the conductor\nsignalled the myriadfold orchestra of bearded men to\nresume the rehearsal — from the galleries and from\nscaffolds descended the python instruments menacing\n— I understood — I was to be judge and defendant\nvivisected and surgeon at once — the ambrosial\nsymphony assailed me gently passing as a slow fever\nfrom my five senses through sympathetic wires to a\nphonetic recorder\nO culmination of the meridian o fountainhead of\ntonalities sepulchral cadences dulcet incantations —\nat the second movement three bassoons exploded and\nthree oboists expired the foam frothing at their beards\n— at the third the casualties it grieves us to relate\nincluded one cymbal a flutist four violins and a piccolo\n— it was at a difficult adagio in Lydian measures\nthat the conductor collapsed over the rail of his stand\n— among the first to reach him were the cellists who\ntearing open his white shirtfront revealed the breasts\nof a woman — at this point the two men entered\nstealthily by a firedoor of th 6th gallery — I observed\nthem however and with admirable presence of mind\nstepped full force on the lever"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "15", "page_fin": "17", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 19, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "ARP THE TRAPDRUMMER", "titre_sommaire": "ARP THE TRAPDRUMMER", "signature_source": "HANS ARP", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1647, "texte": "ARP THE TRAPDRUMMER\n\n1\nThe black syllables and the half-split nonpareil type\nfall asunder out of the ill assembled staves of the\nsidereal cask, the kindling in the flagpole is extinguished,\nat the call cordon s. v. p. the fourcornered catastrophe\ncame sprawling out of the nostrils of the flowers, at\nonce the men about town heated up their centaurs\nand went riding on ballbearings about the Venus\nchamber.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nRighteously did the maggot covered servant who\ncomplained ah so grievously of his dwarf sickness\nduring the tidying up of the catacomb ask where the\nclear tumult the saintly repose and that fugitive wind\nhad gone to rest, small moon shaped boats brimming\nwith masks rolled along on pronged wheels, from\npurple mouths hung the empty honeycombs of the\nangels.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nFrom the 10th year of a life to the 11th hour of\nthe morning is a long time yet not long enough for\na hungry family to scrape some money together, the\nfirst father dances howling about the world, he. has\nfleet squirrels bound to his soles, from his eyes hangs\nthe wreath of welcome, manu propria he chases the\nbuck from the environs of his spouse, and to while\naway the dark hours kicks the teaballs of his masculine\nfellow travelers.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\n1 must fare on everlastingly.\nAnd finally faithful and seemly portrait busts of Arp\nwere struck and distributed among the people.\n2\nAt our will the armada is defeated for the hundredth\ntime, the drowned men with glowing buoys in their"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1859, "texte": "mouths and lampshades on their heads entrain with\nthe nebula of their rapture the the bowelship and the\nscuttlefish. the soles of the wandering- water heroes\ngo plopping about, the bedevilled hag on the after\nbranch is part and parcel of the mechanism of\nthe sea.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nAn artloving puissant and highhanded king donates\nthe first vase, it has six rubber breasts aligned one\nabove the other like buttons, her adam's apple brings\nthe coloratura to well merited fame, the vase is a\ngigantic boneless snow tent and like all nice people\nhas a handle on both sides.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nThe woman's club called motley sets the wind moving\nby calisthenics, the cement tongues lick the walking\nstick the minnesingers the jewish paperweights the\nbuonarotti thorns the prompter's box full of interior\ncities the soft perjuries the shoes out of which\nstinking flesh grows and the summer bills.\n3\nWatches are set at midnight, out of the heavens full\nof angry tongues fall the prize waterfalls, the little\nskeletons in black livery hover over the manicured\ncrucifixion and swing the retorts with aqua fortis. in\nthe viper conservatory rails are laid upon which blubbery\ncourtesans and celestial curbstones are carted in.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nThe cuckoo flies off with the clock on its back, the\nlocomotives stroke their military moustaches, the flowers\nlie steaming on the wharves.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nThe first cuttlefish bone sees the light of the day.\nthe people embrace each other and shout zivio longs\nfor internal peace and leggings with salad, the first\nprophet steps forth and spans a hundred years of light."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1309, "texte": "since through a rare piece of foresight he is two\ndimensional he can by a slight twist withdraw his\nfacade with perfect control thus revealing himself as a\nperfidious son of daaa. he tells the immutable laws\non the buttons of his coat, it is perfectly in accordance\nwith official procedure to become any people, his pro-\nvisions against iron necessity are old smaritan fossils,\nwith the aid of a sextant he cuts a savoury slice of\nvenison from the behind of the friendly lady nearby,\nalso at the appearance of the prophet the people\nembrace each other weep and put out street lamps.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nThe black liveries sink into the structure of the world\nand completely conceal the furniture wagons loaded\nwith Nurnberger timekeepers the retinas of the coins\nthe surtaxes in the zither boxes the auctioned snowmen\nwith the frightfully rolling unripe green eyes in their\nforeheads the Teluric foolscaps the unbridled roes the\nplants in the Burgundian shirts manufactured in the\ntropics out of rubber the freshly washed namby pamby\nsky the eager mob wearing turbans of tuffstone and\nthey hide these said i with veils from the hullaballoo\nof the world, groaning the door of the dadahouse\nfalls shut.\n(Translated from the German by M. J.)\n\nHANS ARP"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "18", "page_fin": "27", "image_debut": 20, "image_fin": 29, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "FIRST PASTORAL", "titre_sommaire": "FIRST PASTORAL", "signature_source": "KENNETH BURKE", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1883, "texte": "FIRST PASTORAL\n\nI\nIs the Divine present to a degree, so that one\ncould speak of It as either more or less present? Or\nmust this Divine be either present or absent? To the\neye of an athlete the sun is gloriously brilliant, while\nan old man with failing sight may see it as a dull,\nsullen glow behind a mist. Is it that way with the\nDivine ? Or is the Divine like some figure of a flower\nor animal in the clouds, which one man sees and an-\nother does not see, while there are no possible gra-\ndations between the seeing and the non-seeing? The\nquestion is not at all impious; for to ask whether the\nDivine must be either present or absent does not im-\nply a limitation of the Infinite Being, even though the\nword „must\" has been used in the statement of the\nquestion. For this „must\" refers not to the Divine, but\ntoman, with his limited orifices of penetration. Ob-\nviously, God is universally present, and we can speak\nof His absence only from the standpoint of man's fai-\nlure to distinguish Him.\nGrant, first, that the Divine must be either pre-\nsent or absent, with no intermediate gradations. Which\nmeans that a man either lives with God, or does not.\nIf he lives in the understanding of God, of what use\nto him are the mere functions of Churchly worship?\nFurther, if the Divine must be either present or ab-\nsent, then it follows inexorably that It can only be\nabsent, for otherwise we should have an Infinite Being\nunderstood by a finite being, which is absurd.\nGranting the antithetical proposition: The Divine\ncan be either more or less present. In this way the\nworld would become hieraticized after the manner of\na pyramid, with the countless hordes of ignorant but\nfaithful followers of the Church forming the broader,\nheavily weighted base, while as we went upwards with\na decreasing proportion of mass the Christians cor-\nresponding to these higher positions would have a"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2081, "texte": "clearer understanding; and at the very top would\ncluster the body of martyrs, crowned by Jesus. The\nentire construction would be the glorious edifice of\nthat combined movig and yvcooig which marks all those\nwho have remained untorn by schism; while the dry\nsands, swirling in the wind, tossed about without\nmeaning and without incorporation into this stable\nstructure . . . these sands, obviously, would be the\npagans, the heretics, and the like.\nA stirring tope. But the difficulty enters when we\nexamine further just what this „greater or lesser pre-\nsence\" involves in the way of conduct. Would we\nnot, for instance, be drawn dangerously near to some\nof the neo-Platonist errors? For if the Divine is pre-\nsent to a greater or lesser degree, the worshipper\nmust serve in accordance with the abundance or mea-\ngerness of his light. This leads us towards a general\nsynthesis of religions, for if God is present in degree,\nthen He is present in the religion of the most im-\npious pagan, but present so faintly that the entire\nsystem of worship is distorted from the true worship\nof the Church beyond recognition. It is far removed,\nbut exists nevertheless, just as the echoes of the\nWords of God when He commanded „Let there be\nLight\" are still trembling in the air, becoming fainter\nand fainter, even more faint as our thoughts are upon\nthem, but bounding on eternally. That peculiar „rustle\nof silence\" which we hear in a perfect calm is the\naccumulation of just such infinitely faint noises, piled\nup from the first crack of creation. But the point to\nbe emphasized was that if we grant the greater or\nlesser presence of the Divine, we must recognize the\npagan as worshipping the True God, but in his own\nignorant manner.\nHow, then, should we go about it to bring such\npeople into the Realm of Jesus ? By letting them\nworship in their own manner, once their provinces are\nunder the temporal jurisdiction of the Pope. They\nwould thus be looked upon not as pagans, but as the\nweakest members of the True Church, and much nea-\nrer to the lowest Christian than this lowest Christian"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1975, "texte": "is to a saint. But obviously, such a line of reasoning\nwould bring us close to the subversive teachings of\nPlotinus and Porphyry. Yet as we have seen, the\nopposing doctrine leads to just as unholy an attitude\ntowards the Church. What then is the conclusion to\nbe drawn? It is: Let man always distrust any ratio-\ncination which does not follow hand in hand with the\nWord of God at every step. That true understanding\nis not in yvcboig but in moTig. Or rather, that stiotig\nis yvcboig.\nThe greater the cogency with which the brain could\nmake the Church seem wrong, the greater was the\nproof thereby that the soul had become infected. And\nBrother Angelik's deep learning in theological subtle-\nties made him perfectly aware of what turpitudes lo-\ngic without love might involve. Still, he had indu-\nbitably been enthralled for a time by the heavy bonds\nof his antitheses. And as he lifted his head now to\ndeliver a short prayer of thankfulness to his Maker —\nWho had guided him so securely out of this intricacy\nof the Devil — he observed that in his anguish he\nhad wandered far beyond the walls of the monastery!\nHere was Hell's mockery. Angelik had thought\nthat this bejewelling of heresy marked out the nature\nof his struggle against Evil, while all this jingling of\nwords had in reality been a mere subterfuge, a lure\nto reproduce the breaking of his vows, since he had\nstepped out into the world, beyond the pale of his\nseclusion, beyond the point stipulated in his solemn\noath.\nWhile, further, Brother Angelik had come upon the\nshepherd John and the shepherdess Jocasta. This John\nhaving slipped his hands against Jocasta's flesh, the\ntwo of them were now lying earnestly interlocked upon\nthe sod.\nIf prayers possessed the properties of mass and\nweight, and their density under ordinary temperatures\nwere that of a thick, sluggish fluid, prayers then would\nhave nosed quietly down the corridors of the monastery,\noozed through the cracks of the massive, ill-fitting doors,"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2060, "texte": "and perhaps even set the statue of the Virgin to\ncirculating- on its side by the altar. Again, a blackness,\nobviously symbolic, of heavy clouds had gathered\nover the sky; and having gathered, these clouds lay\nthere like a threat. In the late afternoon the clouds .\nwere split to expose a sun which was already part\neaten by the shadow of the moon, and which dropped\nbelow the horizon in full shadow. Thus, without twilight,\nmidnight followed on the heels of day, while the storm\nbroke, slashing and stumbling in the dark, and rocking\nthe monastery like a ship.\nThe forces of sin silently multiplied, filling his brain\nwith their progeny after the manner of vipers. When\nthe she is in heat, her gaping, filthy maw is turned\nto the male. He inserts his three-tongued head into\nthe jaws of his woman, buries it avidly even to the\neyes, and projects into her, by the junction of their\nmouths, his procreative venom. Maddened by her\npleasures, the wife then slays her lover by ripping\nopen his throat with her teeth; while as he perishes,\nshe drinks in his spittle. Thus, the father is consumed\nduring the excesses, but the sperm of his spittle still\nremains to destroy the mother. For later, when the\nseed has aged, small objects begin wriggling in her\nwarm insides, slashing and beating against the womb.\nShe realizes now what her sex entails and bemoans\nher wretched husband's offspring, which are destined\nto murder in turn, and are already tearing at the\nbarriers which enclose them. Until, since there is no\nchannel whereby the young can be born, they split\nthe agonized bowels with their struggles, and the\nbelly is rent to provide an exit. The little snakes\nlick the body which bore them, a generation of orphans\neven at birth, since they had hardly seen the day\nbefore their miserable mother was dead.*\nNocte surgentes, vigilemus omnes; let us all leap\nup in the night, and wait! But not for a fleshly love.\nFor some austere sign, rather, which will be found\nlying across the sky like a comet. Charmed thesis and\n\n* Prudentius, Hamartigenia, lines 585—607."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1642, "texte": "antithesis of love, of that higher love. And in despair\nhe prayed, loudly and disagreeably, complaining,\ndefying, hemming and hawing with his temptations,\nhis moans echoing down the corridors, and buzzing\nwith the storm in the ears of his Brothers, who listened\nin the darkness and understood that Angelik was\nstruggling for his Faith.\nLet me hold in my arms Salvation.\nLet me lie between the breasts of the True Church.\nLet me speak and in turn be spoken unto.\nLet the belly tremble at the touch of my hand on\n[the door.\nDilectus meus mihi, et ego illi!\nOne unto the other, and that other unto the first.\nMoving among the lilies, while the day dawns, and\n[the shadows lean.\nThy dugs are richer than wine.\nHe crawled to the statue of the Virgin, and\ntouched the stiff marble folds of her garments. Another\nvoice near him piped up in prayer. Then his fingers\nfell away, and he was ashamed. „0 gloriosa virginum,\nbenedicat te Deus et sanctum ventrem tuum.\" . . . He\nsneaked back to his cell.\n„Lord, my God, help me, for I am weak. A sign,\noh Lord! Show me that I am not alone.\" Then Brother\nAngelik became peaceful. He was contracting business\nwith his Lord. „Tonight it is storming. Let it storm\ntomorrow, and I shall remain with my Brothers. But\nif there is sun, I shall know that Thou hast forsaken\nme.\" Now, as it had been written before the world\nwas assembled out of Chaos, the sun shone unusually\nbright the following morning, and looking across the\nhills, Brother Angelik saw that everything was as calm\nand pure as a mirror.\n\nII.\nIt was dawn, although the sun had not yet risen . . .\nfull day, without the sun, as though the world were"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1435, "texte": "lit by a calm but thorough Logic. The hills lay about\nwith a dogmatic distinctness. Every pebble possessed\nits contour, every grass-blade its line of demarcation.\nOr, when some group was too far off to necessitate\na definition of its individual components, it in turn\nformed a unit of itself; in just this way, for instance,\na small patch of timber extended like a pronounced\nellipse on the bias against one of the farther hills.\nSky, cloud, earth, and the things on the earth . . .\nall this was differentiated categorically.\nBrother Angelik wandered over the hills as the\nshepherd of John's sheep, John having been persuaded\nto visit a sister in Padua. And when Angelik had led\nhis sheep to where Jocasta's were already grazing, he\ncalled out to her, „Hast thou an apple, shepherdess?\"\n„Ha, we maidens have many things, shepherd, but-\nnot an apple.\"\n„That is an ill omen.\"\n„And why, Shepherd, is it ill that 1 should not\nhave an apple?\"\n„Because then thou shalt have to give me a kiss.\"\n„And why, shepherd, must I give thee anything?\"\n~Because I am going to wager with thee that I\ncan tell thee thy name, and I must win something for\nmy wager.\"\n„But my name is Jocasta; I need lose neither\napples nor kisses to be told that.\"\n„And I, Jocasta, am the apple-less, unkissed Theo-\ndoce. So now we know each other, and our sheep\nhave already made friends without this banter, and if\nthou wilt sit here beside me I shall tell thee a story.\""}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1237, "texte": "~Tell me, then, the story of how Theodoce comes\nof be tending John's sheep.\"\n„Ho, that is a homely story. I should rather tell\nto how Zeus gained entrance to Leda as a swan. Or\nperhaps thou hast already been told that story by\nsome shepherd?\"\n„Where dost thou come from, Theodoce?\"\n„From Padua.\"\n„Then I must believe that the shepherdesses of\nPadua love stories more than virtue.\"\n„In truth! The girls of Padua do not put them-\nselves above the gods. And if Zeus could invent such\nescapades, the shepherdesses of Padua are not too\nvirtuous to hear of them.\"\n„Well said, Theodoce. And I, as a reward, shall\nhear thy story. But first, thou must tell me why that\nstory of all stories, has been chosen.\"\n~Because I had hoped that perhaps I, by changing\nmyself into a slave, just as Zeus changed himself into\na swan, might gain admission to the bosom of some\nlovely shepherdess.\"\n„Beware, Theodoce, lest thy incantations fall amiss,\nand thou turnest thyself into an ass.\"\n„I have no fear, Jocasta. Indeed, I am quite willing\nto become an ass, if that is the road to charming a\nwoman.\"\n„Ah, thou hast a barbed tongue, and I shall leave\nthee.\"\n„No, thou wilt pick them up and carry them away\nfrom me like precious baubles? Lips, breasts, shoul-"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1230, "texte": "ders, thighs, in short all those lovely parts of woman ?\nStay, Jocasta, and let me at least ravish thee with\nmine eyes.'4\n„That is an undressing- which all maidens must\nsuffer; thine eyes attempt not my virtue but thine\nown; so I shall stay, and be looked upon.\"\n~And be spoken unto.\"\n„Such things are so much polish, that virtue may\nshine the better.\"\n~Virtue! I think my hearing is better this morning,\nJocasta, than it has been.\"\n„And why is that, Theodoce?\"\n„Because yesterday, when I was by here, I heard\nthee say no such word to John. Tra-la, leave those\ncolors to the sunrise! And we will dismiss that, Jo-\ncasta, if thou answerest me these questions. First,\ndost thou grant that we should strive after happiness?\"\n„Yes, Theodoce.\"\n„And that, therefore, any moment which could be\nmade happier, and is not, is a waste of that moment?\"\n„Yes, Theodoce.\"\n„And dost thou further grant that there is more\nhappiness in the marriage of a shepherd and shep-\nherdess than when they remain unjoined?\" (Brother\nAngelik was aware that here he was confusing the\ntwo ideas of happiness und pleasure, but that this\nignorant girl would not perceive the sophism.).\n„Yes, Theodoce. Since thine eyes yesterday were\nsharper than thy ears, yes.\""}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1865, "texte": "„Then Jocasta, I have conquered thee, for here is\na moment which could be made happier, and is not!\"\n„Thou art very learned, Theodoce.\"\n„Ah, but thou hast armed thy virtue with words,\nand even if I lay low the words, the virtue still re-\nmains to be stormed. But see, Jocasta, while we have\nwrangling here, how easily our flocks have interming-\nled! Finding convenient pasturage in the same place,\nthey have all gone there without question. Or note\nthe slight jerk of the sheep's head, effected while the\ngrass is firmly held between the theeth, and serving\nto rip the blade and its stock a sunder. If I should\ndraw a sheep, I should draw its legs to establish the\nlaws whereby, if one leg rests at a given point and\nforms a given angle with a line drawn horizontally\nto that point, the other three legs, by the reason of\na sheep's balance, would be at three other pre-deter-\nmined points, the whole presenting a rigid relation-\nship. But all this is foreign to the sheep, which, fin-\nding the grass of interest, grazes upon it. Ah, would\nthat 1 could wander thus over Jocasta's knolls and\nhillocks!\"\n„Thou art a poet, Theodoce, and poets can sing\njust as well unto themselves.\"\nJocasta ran suddenly into the thicket, and would\nnot appear even though Angelik threatened to kill\nhimself. Finding a dagger on the ground, he plunged\nit into his breast, and fell with his heart against the\nsod. The blood from the heart soaked into the grass,\ntrickling still warm through the cool pebbles beneath.\nWhat was it seeking, that it worked so swiftly among\nthem? For it went with unmistakable haste. As it\nfiltered, the impure red passed into the lonely pebb-\nles ; until as clear water it trickled between slabs of\nbedrock, and mingled with little pools that lay down\nhere in the darkness. Then in elation, this pure water\nof Angelik leapt steadily towards the sunlight, and"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 671, "texte": "Jocasta, who had come there to drink, drank of him\nand murmured, „How thirsty I had been!\"\nAs an interesting parallel it might be well to add\nthat the day of Brother Angelik's death was the same\nas that on which Paulus Thessalonicus, then residing\nat Alexandria, wrote what was considered among his\nfriends to be his most successful epigram. Translated,\nit runs:\n%\nLamp, when there is a faint shuffling of sandals out-\nside my door,\nAnd the odour of unguents and perfumes\nCalls me like a blare of trumpets, so that I\nArise hastily from my table ... go out, lamp.\nFor tonight 1 shall be laying aside my text\nTo become the grammarian of sweet Amyctis' body.\n\nKENNETH BURKE."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "28", "page_fin": "31", "image_debut": 30, "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=bmtnaay192208-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "MR. BLUNDERBUSS", "titre_sommaire": "MR. BLUNDERBUSS", "signature_source": "M. J ; THE EDITORS ; M. J", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2107, "texte": "MR. BLUNDERBUSS\n\nThe sinister forces in American letters rear them-\nselves again in the triple-columned pages of Vanity\nFair, that bustling, enterprising, oh too worldy-wise\nmagazine of the modes. How far afield she goes in\nthe effort to keep abreast of the hurried times, to\npurvey the last shudder to my Aunt Ruth as lays she\nthe June issue on the table of the immaculate living-\nroom of her subsuburban home.\nLittle as she knows of Villon, she will learn through\nthe oracular medium of Mr. Paul Rosenfeld that Guil-\nlaume Apollinaire was the Villon of our age; that he\nate „ravioli\", frequented cafes, „walked down a street\nin Auteuil,\" and yet was the self-same man, „who sat\nbefore a writing table moulding words into poems and\nspinning fanciful and witty tales.\" But, not only is\nApollinaire a poet of „delicate wit,\" he is the arch-\nbohemian of the 20th century; his verses are likened\nto those of Heine, let alone Verlaine. Who is there to\ngainsay such mis-representations? With Rosenfeld and\nVanity Fair bent on „selling\" the leading poet of a\ngeneration in France, Apollinaire becomes chic, dashing,\nbuccaneering.\nHere is, then, American criticism such as we have\nhad it now for many a day in our leading journals.\nMr. Rosenfeld — let us out with our supicions — is the\nmost flagrant and barbarous type, since Huneker. Given\nthe temperament of a violinist facing an emotional\naudience, everything becomes rosy, disheveled, senti-\nmental. His voice is choked with tears and sobs as he\nrises to the fortissimoes of his fine frenzies. The sense of\nhumour is as lacking as the sense for detail, precision,\nanalysis. This rapturous stuff has passed for criticism, sir!\nIt has gone too far. It is too outrageous. I have always\nbeen slightly hysterical on this subject; but I cannot\nhave Apollinaire spoiled for me by such heavy-handed\nscoundrels, or the vices for which we have perforce\nforgiven him dragged out and magnified as his virtues.\nThe evil is so grievous, the impetus for such heedless\nrhapsody has so long been pampered in America that\nit will need a determined hostility to silence and dis-"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1484, "texte": "credit such malefactors. A cold ear will not merely\nsuffice; there must be plenty of cold water!\nBeginning- with the fourth number Kenneth Burke\nbecomes a co-editor of SECESSION. Responsibility\nfor the contents of SECESSION can thereafter be\nascribed to a majority decision on the part of the\neditorial staff, which will consist of Kenneth Burke,\nMatthew Josephson and Gorham B. Munson.\nMiss Jane Heap, redoubtable polemicist, takes\nSECESSION to task in the Spring issue of the Little\nReview, despite the fact that the LR. was referred to\nin the second number as „the real leader, the most\nprovocative of our art reviews.\" This in spite of the\napparent unwillingness of the editore of the Little\nReview to arm themselves with precise information\non the subjects they discuss. Choose for instance any\nof the art criticisms of Margaret Anderson. Or in this\npretty piece of abuse by the Jane Heep (Heap?), the\nimplication that SECESSION is dominated by a Harvard\ngroup. In fact, of the three male editors of Secession,\nnone was graduated from Harvard University, none\nwas a member of a college fraternity, and one failed\nto be graduated from Columbia College. How infantile\nthiswat college did you go to? On sen fout. Such\nmis-statements are typical of the LR. The Little Review\nis not a review; it is a state of mind.\nAnd if one examines closely the magazines of pro-\nnounced „modern\" tastes, one finds much to conjure\nwith. Vanity Fair in the July number contains an\n\nM.J.\nTHE EDITORS."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1902, "texte": "article by Tristan Tzara called „Some Memoirs of\nDadaism\" which begins with a curious opening- para-\ngraph wherein Dadaism is called „a set of wild prac-\ntical jokes v/hich burlesqued in their violence\nand absurdity, the absurdity and violence of the life\naround them a carnival of nonsense . .\nThese generalities, which furnished an efficient news-\npaper lead\" for an otherwise precise and informative\nhistorical essay were so amazingly at variance with\nany of the professions of Tzara and the Dadaists that\nit was not at all surprising to learn from Tazara him-\nself that he had not written the opening paragraph of\nthe article, did not know who or why had written it,\nand found it completely unjust and misleading. Parts\nof his article were omitted entirely, also in accordance\nwith journalistic exigencies. Heavens what ruffians! To\nhave culture disseminated in America by such butche-\nrish wholesalish hands! And there was an article on\nmusic by the modern French composer Georges Auric\nwhich I was afraid to read because I suspec-\nted that the manuscript may have been tampered with\nor distorted in the translation. Beside, 1 am fond of\nAuric's music, and 1 defy you to find a musician who\ncan write intelligently about music or anything else\nfor that matter. O the bitter necessities !\n„Hope\", the story by Waldo Frank published in\nthis issue, is part of an episode from CITY BLOCK\nwhich is to be published privately. By the author him-\nself. The subscription edition may prove to be a\nmeans of evading the phobia for censoring art that\nis spreading in America. Pornography per se has\nbecome antiquated and preposterous since Gautier's\nMaupin. But the S. P. V. is undeniably the greater\nevil and is becoming a more and more formidable\ninstitution. Waldo Frank writes that during three\nweeks of last July a bookseller was fined $1000 for\nselling copies of Bocaccio and Rabelais; a publisher\n\nM.J."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1079, "texte": "was arrested, and all copies were confiscated of\nSchnitzler's „Casanova's Homecoming,\" Lawrence's\n„Women in Love,\" and „A Young Girl's Diary\" (an\nauthentic document which is of high import psycholo-\ngically). It is clear that a determined and organized\neffort must be made against the institution of the\ncensorship. Mere indignation will not suffice. A\npractical plan must be elaborated to invoke the\nsympathy of the supposedly freedom-loving American\npeople, through publicity propaganda, through\nadvertisements, through the cinema. The censorship is\ntwo-edged: it prohibits people from enjoying artistic\nliterary masterpieces such as the Decameron; and on\nthe other hand makes martyrs of less gifted and less\nimportant writers such as Cabell, D. H. Lawrence,\nTheodore Dreiser, Arthur Schnitzler and James Joyce.\nThe latter is the most uncomfortable discomfiting\naspect of the censorship.\nThe Editors of Secession invite readers to communi-\ncate to them suggestions or expressions of willingness\nto cooperate at some time in the near future in a\ncampaign against the censorship."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_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=bmtnaay192208-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "PASSIONATE SINGER", "titre_sommaire": "PASSIONATE SINGER", "signature_source": "SAINT EDNA MILLAY", "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=bmtnaay192208-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 1081, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1182, "texte": "PASSIONATE SINGER\nSAINT EDNA MILLAY\nThe day is drab, the day is dark;\nI hear a sparrow singing. Hark!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[34]", "page_fin": "[34]", "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=bmtnaay192208-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "„Je revais croisades, voyages de decouvertes dont", "titre_sommaire": "„Je revais croisades, voyages de decouvertes dont", "signature_source": "ARTHUR RIMBAUD", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "[34]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 246, "texte": "ARTHUR RIMBAUD\n„Je revais croisades, voyages de decouvertes dont\non n'a pas de relations, republique sans histoires,\nguerres de religion etouffees, revolutions de moeurs,\ndeplacements de races et de continent: je croyais\na tousles enchantements.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_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=bmtnaay192208-01.2.14", "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": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1247, "texte": "SECESSION\nAN INDEPENDENT MAGAZINE OF MODERN\nLETTERS\nPUBLISHED MONTHLY\nPresents literature which would ordinarily experience\ngreat difficulty in finding a hearing among the esta-\nblished periodicals of America and Europe\nCONTRIBUTORS\nLouis Aragon, Hans Arp, Slater Brown, Will Bray,\nKenneth Burke, Malcolm Cowley, Hart Crane,\nE. E. Cummings, Paul Eluard, Waldo Frank, Matthew\nJosephson, Gorham B. Munson, Philippe Soupault,\nTristan Tzara, William Carlos Williams.\nSUBSCRIPTION\nTERMS ARE VERY FAVORABLE AT ONE\nDOLLAR FOR SIX ISSUES, OWING TO THE\nLOW COSTS OF PRINTING IN EUROPE.\nEDITIONS WILL BE OF LIMITED SIZE.\nADDRESS PETER K. HURWITZ, SECRETARY\n1361—46 TH. STREET, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.\nNUMBER ONE\nJUNE\nDaycoach\nBottle Found at Sea\nPeripatetics\nApollinaire\nInstant Note Brother\nA Bow to the Adventurous\nMr. AA the Antiphilosopher\nIn a Cafe\n1922\nMalcolm Cowley\nLouis Aragon\nMatthew Josephson\nWill Bray\nTristan Tzara\nGorham B. Munson\nTristan Tzara\nWill Bray\nNUMBER TWO\nJULY\nFour Poems\nTwo Swans and Play it for me again\nThe Book of Yul\nMr. AA the Antiphilosopher\nPlots for Penpushers\nThe Oblate\nInterstice between Scylla and Charybdis\n1922\nE. E. Cummings\nMalcolm Cowley\nKenneth Burke\nTristan Tzara\nSlater Brown\nMatthew Josephson\nGorham B. Munson\nCSO"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaay-1922-08-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaay_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[33]", "page_fin": "[33]", "image_debut": 35, "image_fin": 35, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.2.15", "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": 35, "page_imprimee": "[33]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 819, "texte": "REBELS AND REACTIONARIES\nrub shoulders amiably and in perfect harmony in\nm\nTHE DOUBLE DEALER\nPublished at New Orleans\nwhich prints good writing by youngsters or greybeards\nregardless of school, influence, or tradition. It shares\nnone of the prejudices of the right wing or the left\nwing in contemporary literature, but „deceives them\nboth by speaking the truth.\" It prints exhilarating\ncreative and critical material by such writers as Hart\nCrane, Djuna Barnes, Louis Gilmore, Carl Van Vechten,\nEdmund Wilson, Jr., Arthur Symons, Lord Dunsany,\nLafcadio Hearn, Maxwell Bodenheim, Paul Eldridge,\nand half a hundred others.\nYOU HAVE HEARD OF THE DOUBLE DEALER\nWhy not see what it is?\nSingle copy, 25 cents. Year's subscription, $ 2.50\nTRIAL OFFER: FIVE MONTHS, $ 1.00\nAddress: 204Baronne street, New Orleans, La., U. S. A."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "couv. 1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.1", "texte": "jsllßl fflpß Jttk ,J.| #Blk Milk 88\n1 ■■■'Kk\n- >/rf^^B"}, {"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.2", "texte": "SECESSION\nEDITORS: GORHAM B. MUNSON, MATTHEW JOSEPHSON\nTemporary editorial office : „Reutte (Tirol) Austria\"\nBusiness office: Peter K. Hurwitz, Treasurer, 1361 46th Street,\nBrooklyn, New York\nAddress all correspondence to New York office\nSUBSCRIPTION\nFor six numbers, one dollar in America, 5 shillings in\nEngland, 12 francs in France, 400 marks in Germany.\nThe price of a single number is 20 cents in America,\none shilling in England, 2.50 francs in France, and\n50 marks in Germany.\nNUMBER THREE AUGUST 1922\n\nHope Waldo Frank\nThe Attempt William Carlos Williams\nPeep-peep Parrish Matthew Josephson\nArticles de sport Philippe Soupault\nPoem Malcolm Cowley\nCities II Will Bray\nArp the Trap-drummer Hans Arp\nFirst Pastoral Kenneth Burke\nMr. Blunder Buss\nCover design by Arp"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.3", "texte": "HOPE\n\nHe was walking a long time. It seemed to him he\nwas walking always . . walking toward no thing . .\nwalking away. He had the sense of himself very white,\nvery dim yet sharp: white thin throat weary with\nbreathing, white brow weary with pressing through\nblack air, white legs weary with walking away. He\nhad the sense of himself a white thing walking forever\nfrom the dark, through dark. . . .\nHe had no thoughts. His past was the wake behind\nhis feet. He sensed it arching up behind him to a\nblack horizon, arching beyond horizon, the wake of\nhis past . . a thing that was not he and was not the\ndarkness: was the stain of his white passing along\nupon the dark that passed never....\nHis past was beingless and thoughtless. He was\nmoving whiteness, his past was where he had moved.\nYet certain knowings went with him. They were without\ndimension. They were impalpable like odors. He moved,\na white moving, and with him emanations . . things\nhe knew about himself and the world . . frail pitiful\nthings, impalpable like odors.\nOne knowing: he was lonely. One knowing: his\nloneliness was not a birth of his leaving his beloved,\nbut his leaving her was birth of his being lonely. They\nloved each other. There, between them, growing like\na tree, his loneliness. Like a tree clefting a rock, his\nloneliness: as they clove together, as his arms were\nabout her body, as his mouth was upon her mouth . .\nhis loneliness clefting them asunder. It spread. It\nblossomed. It spread up until its branches were sky,\nuntil its roots were earth . . until its trunk was life\nbetween earth and sky. His loneliness blotted out his\nbeloved. His loneliness blotted out himself. He was\nmoving whiteness, moved by loneliness to walk forever\naway.\nHe stood at the corner of a street and tried to\nchange himself into a thing that thought.\nHe tried hard: his legs hurt: he tried to think of"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.4", "texte": "that. There was an empty whiteness in his stomach.\nHe tried to think of that and of the simple way . .\nthere was money . . whereby he could recolor his\nstomach red. Against his brow black fumes of people\nmoved . . slow, tragically, men and women in black\nshoes pushing white faces away, moving against each\nother forever away through black.\nLong lost strokes . . white soot in blackness\nstreaking from before his eyes into the pregnant past\n. . men, women. Little balls of tremulous commotion . .\nblack all about their whiteness, moulding their white-\nness . . children. Above his hat, the Elevated Road . .\na balance in sonorous black where all that was over\nit and under was contained. The structure so immediate\nabove him, so infinite beyond him, was a Word. Its\nrecurrent meaningless boom had meaning for him. He\nstood, white upright wisp, and listened to the word\nof the murmuring, pounding, failing trains, to the.\nrefrain before and after of long black beams parting\nthe dwellings of men, swung between mists.\nHe took this, satisfied, in place of thought.\nThe odors of self were free to touch him. He knew\nnow for long he was wandering the City. Long, he\nhad no thought of his beloved, no care. He knew\nthat soon he would stop. His whiteness . . because\nhe needed so, so hoped . . was going to stop.\nThe street corner where he stood was sharp. Black-\nness still. But each particle in his eyes stood up: each\nparticle like iron dust was suddenly within the sway\nof a hid Magnet so that each particle stood up, yet\notherwise did not move.\nA saloon with garish yellow light and yellow wood.\nGray pavement. Desolate forms of men like lamp-soot\non the yellow wood, on the yellow light. Grey\npavement.\nThen in the foreground of his eye a sudden force -\nupon him, a slow thin form. — She is a negress! He\nsaw her big awkward hat, her shoes stuck out from\nthe wooden stiffness of her coat. He saw her wrists\nstuck out from the stiff wool arms: two hands, luminous\nsinuous, flexed . . hands moving in air. The air that\nher hands moved wreathed in volumnear curves like\nthe curves of a slender stem of a flower, to her head."}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.5", "texte": "This he saw also. He saw within the black of her\nstupid hat a smile toward him. He felt her throat.\nHe left the yellow light. The grey pavement here\nwas gaseous, clouded beyond. In the dim, he knew\nthe woman beside him.\nShe walked. Her parting the blackness left a wake\nthat sucked him subtly, slowly. Not horizontal but in\ntrue measure with her was their way: the spirallic\nleap and dip of an uneven hoop. There was a heavy\ndoor and a room . . he quiet beside her.\nHe was aware of quiet. The gas jet spat light with\na rasping breath. It and his breathing and her breathing-\nwere encased in quiet. The room v/as thick and muf-\nfled. Foul walls that were thick, the heavy scarlet\ncover on the bed, the painted door . . made the quiet.\nThese were a fabulous womb of her breathing and\nhis and the gas-light.\nShe took off her hat. She took off her brown-\nwooden coat. She turned her eyes upon him . . the\nwhite of her eyes. Then her hands uprose, they swam upon\nher like fish deep in dark waters. She took off her\ntawdry one-piece dress. She took off her heavy shoes\nand her coarse stockings. She ripped soiled flannel,\nsparking from her skin. She lifted the scarlet cover\nand her black body slid within the bed.\nHe flung away the cover. Her black body lay\non the white sheet. He looked at her body. She\nlooked at her body. It was a black still thing, flowing\nforever within itself; moveless beyond its boundaries\nwhich were white. And within its blackness a glowing\ncloud of white, making it blue, making it yellow and\nblue, making it blackness alive.\nHe said to himself: ~Now I had better think.\"\nHe took off his clothes. He let the room close in\nhim, touch him everywhere . . at his throat, under his\narmpits, at his thighs . . the foulpadded room. He\nlay beside her. Her bloated lips touched like the\nroom on his.\nHe lay still, stiffly. Her lips worked on him, her\narms shuttled at his flanks. He lay still, stiffly. She\nseemed to hear him, now. She relaxed beside him. She\nlay flexed. Barely her skin in the narrow bed touched his."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.6", "texte": "So they lay: gaze threading upward like untroub-\nled smoke; he stiff, she undulous easeful, blade like\na buried sea: both still.\nThe wave of her was measurelessly long as if\nsome tiding force . . no wind . , with infinite stroke\ncaused it. He felt himself white. He felt this blackness\nbeside her. He was not stiff. He was not moving\naway. He knew in her blackness, the white mist run-\nning through: saturate white, invisible from the black-\nness of her body, making it alive.\nA great need filled him. He . . separate white,\npushing through black . . felt the need and felt the\npower to be merged in her, to join the white mist\nmaking her black alive.\nPassion, pure beyond object and beyond self,\nlifted him so. He took her body: it was body: black\ndead body she was. So he took her. So he made her\nalive. He was impress of life upon her substance: song.\nBefore his eyes was dark Void. Falling through it\nthreads of white, globules of white: in his eyes this\nwoman's body, falling through it himself.\nHe lay smiling with shut eyes on his back.\nShe left the bed and knelt on the floor beside him.\nShe kissed his feet. She kissed his knees. She\ntook his fingers, pressed each finger one by one, on\nher eyes. His fingers were cold.\nShe beat her brow,-dashed her brow and her breast\nagainst the iron bed. . . .\n\nWALDO FRANK."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.7", "texte": "THE ATTEMPT\nWILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS\nO tongue\nlicking\nthe sore on\nher netherlip\nO toppled belly\n0 passionate cotton\nstuck with\nmatted hair\nelysian slobber\nfrom her mouth\nupon\nthe folded handkerchief\n1 can't die\n— moaned the old\njaundiced woman\nrolling- her\nsaffron eyeballs\nI can't die\nI can't die"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.8", "texte": "PEEP-PEEP-PARRISH\n\n1\nTerribly hot in New York. Torrid! Ouf. Fat men\nwheeze and remove their hats for the seventy-\nninth time in the deadly sun. At night alas there is\nno wind. No air. Thousands expire daily. In the East\nSide people carry their featherbeds and infants out-\ndoors and sleep along the sidewalk lining the streets\nfor miles up and down with tangled limbs and soiled\nlinen in public.\nAnd of Mr. Parrish? Admirable man. He lay on the\nfloor of his room and knew not what to do. He was\nstripped naked to the waist giving the pores of his\nbody excellent occasion to perspire and respire freely.\nBefore him labored an electric fan in the full gallop.\nMr. Parish is gradually becoming cooler and cooler.\nLying on the floor his bad heart moved well enough\nfor him to smoke. He smoked always in the direction\nof the ceiling.\nCooler. But what to do in this room. He stood up\nand moved around it cautiously. Stood by the window\nfor utmost comfort. The air smelled grilled. And yet\nthere was the most beautiful backyard prospect in\nBrooklyn before him. A grove of yolanthus trees\nreared itself in the interior space. Lights broke through\ntheir imitation palm leaves. Outcries came. Snatches\nof decollete families sleeping indiscriminately perilously\non fire-escapes.\nThere was a fire-escape too for Mr. Parrish. He\nstepped out and climbed the iron ladder gingerly to\nthe roof. His roof! Immense to stand on the roof with\nonly the sleepy stars right above. The most modest\nkind of a breeze purred about and tickled his back\nand his ribs. Fatuous Mr. Parrish waved his long flabby\narms at the sky and warded off the stars.\nMr. Parrish promenaded his roof. A limited affair at\nlength speedily explored.\n„I wonder what this next roof would be like?\"\nTo reach the next required stepping adroitly on a\nsky-light and swinging up some five feet. Certainly"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.9", "texte": "a different perspective from this little roof. And so\none roof led rapidly to another. Their terraces ran\nupward generally save for certain downward fluctua-\ntions. The ascent in some cases offered difficulty but\nnever too precarious.\nFrom a rather high building he found that he could\npeer over the cornice and glimpse the street a hun-\ndred feet below. There was a cinema its blazing lamp\nand a little knot of people before it reading doubt-\nless its florid bill posters. A formidable desire to see\nwhat they were reading dragged Mr. Parrish to the\nvery edge of the building to its tin shaky cornice. He\nwas almost overcome with vertigo as he craned\ndownward. He accordingly reeled back from the edge\nof the building and thought better of it all.\nThe street continued to be regarded from a safe\ndistance from his precipice. He stood wrapt up in\nthe whole long bright street this utterly new street\nfor a long time.\nAn added sense came suddenly into play thanks to\nthe semi-arboreal existence which had begun for Mr.\nParrish and he turned his head sharply to the left.\nIn a dark window of an . adjoining house there was\ncertainly the face of a woman. She was looking at\nhim very fixedly and her eyes were large with terror.\nHe gazed at her for a minute and a half wondering\nwhat objection she could possibly have to him. Then\nhe remembered that he was almost naked. He made\nan obscene gesture at the face and fled precipitately.\nHe heard a stifled scream: „Burglars ! Help!\" Burg-\nlars dear Madame do not wear my costume. He doub-\nled his pace and bounded down from one roof to\nanother. At one time Mr. Parrish's foot crashed into\na skylight and he caught another chorus of outcries\nmaledictions. He grew nervous and raced around a\nlarge water-tank thereby losing his way. How to tell\none roof from another! And his own! He must have\nmade the complete circumference of the block before\nhe gained at last his own happy and charming do-\nmicile.\nHis little roof again. He dove into his room from the\nladder and collapsed on the floor. He turned on the"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.10", "texte": "electric fan and remained beautifully relaxed. The\nuproar of his heart dominated the room.\nMr. Parrish was both ashamed andx amazed at his es-\ncapade. He likened himself to a certain comedian of\nthe moving pictures whom he had seen eluding pur-\nsuers along tight-ropes between high buildings and\nshifting the chase up and down sky-lights.\n2\nA young man of thirty-five with confirmed habits Mr.\nParrish occupied a responsible position with an in-\nvestment bank downtown. He spent his days in a well\nventilated but subterannean office near the Stock Ex-\nchange. As for the crags roofs sky-lights fire escapes\nhe had had little enough of them.\nAlways there had been secret ulcers (shall we say?)\nin his nature. A quiet unobtrusive man when he was\nsixteen he suffered from the inclination to write\nimmoral legends on the walls of lavatories. There was\nthe ugly habit of lingering too long away from the\ndesk. He had become more and more ingenuous. At\nany rate he was discovered red-handed one day and\nsummarily discharged by the bank which employed\nhim. Parental lectures the struggle for existence a\nrealization of the seriousness of life had persuaded\nhim sternly to turn to better ways. The diverting and\nregrettable practice was relinquished.\nAh Mr. Parrish! His past. This was twenty years ago.\nAnd yet the explorations of the night we speak of\nled his endeavors again into a somewhat questionable\ndirection. They have doubtless been called to your\nattention by indignant articles in the daily press:\nPEEPING TOM HUNTED IN BROOKLYN\nNeighborhood Aroused by Night Prowler\nClimbs through Windows to Annoy Women\nMrs. Jane Bohme, wife of John Bohme, baker, living\nat 598 South Sixty-eighth Street, complained to the"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.11", "texte": "police of the eighteenth district last night of having\nbeen annoyed in her home by a strange prowler whom\nshe awoke to find staring at her in an obnoxious\nmanner, late Tuesday night. Her screams aroused the\nneighbors and the man escaped through a window.\nA spirited search has been instituted and the neigh-\nborhood is highly aroused\n3\nMr. Parrish mopped his brow at the noon hour. He\ntook the elevator as was his new habit far up to the\nthirty-ninth floor of his building. There he took pos-\nsession of a beautiful little white chamber where he\nmade water washed combed and made sundry other\npreparations for his midday repast. All accompanied\nby just such an astonishing view of the great metro-\npolis as Mr. Parrish now doted upon.\nAs he washed he glanced briskly toward a neighboring\nskyscraper which stood a little higher than his own\nwhose summit ended in a specially monstrous pyramid-\nlike affair from which smoke spiralled up always.\nUpon a floor directly parallel with his (but who knows\nwhether it bore the same number) he noticed at\ntimes a beautiful stenographer only a hundred feet or\nso away always typing during the noon hour and who\nsometimes rewarded his attentions with a gracious\nglance of her beauteous eyes.\nHe was touched to the soul was Mr. Parrish. He\nmade quick nervous gestures at her. In fact he waved\nhis hands and the whole upper part of his body at\nher. He was so encouraged by her silent but only too\nmanifest responses that he megaphoned his mouth and\nroared „I LOVE YOU.\" She placed her shell-like\nhand to her ear as a signal that he had passed un-\nheard. But it was impossible to reach her above the\nnoon hour cacaphony of Broad Street. In the mean-\ntime she replied to his vivid gestures in a manner that\nwas so unmistakably suggestive that he was convinced\nof the speedy and favorable acceptance of his pro-\nposals."}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.12", "texte": "He descended thirty-nine floors in the whizzing1 little\nbox himself in an upward transport. He gave the ele-\nvator boy a cigar. Kissed him on both ebony cheeks.\nOn the following day he made animated signals of\npassion to his inamorata of the Bankers' Insurance\nBuilding. Thus with the right hand commencing from\nthe heart outward to the right as far from the shoul-\nder as it would go. Kisses were wafted toward him\nand he was urged only too plainly to volplane across\nthe brief chasm of seven hundred feet which divided\nthem and perch thereafter at the lady's window.\nOn the following day he conceived the idea of clim-\nbing out on the broad ledge of the window at the\nthirty-ninth floor and hurling paper messages carefully\nfolded so as to dart accurately through the air to her\nwindow. She followed his movements fondly. But all\nof them missed her precisely. One came so near that\nshe made a low dive for it leaning out so perilously\nthat she with great difficulty prevented herself from\ntoppling below to a horrid destruction and was comple-\ntely unsuccessful in saving her profuse golden hair\nfrom tumbling down all about her even to the floor\nbelow.\nIn his mortification Mr. Parrish howled „I LOVE YOU.\"\nStill she did not hear. But some scapegrace on the\nfloor right above him did and sent a shower of tele-\ngraph-ribbons down about his ears. They went dancing\nand pirouetting in the bright sunlight between the\ntwo towering buildings for many minutes. Mr. Parrish\nwithdrew chastened and thwarted.\nHe spent thereafter whole afternoons in a fruitless\nquest which he had undertaken after measuring care-\nfully the possible location of the lady's floor. He had\nentered every office which faced his window from the\nthirty-seventh to the forty-first floor of the Bankers'\nInsurance Building. He had assured himself with an\nabsent air that she was not in the room while begging\npardon for his error. He had not found her. He was\nnot to find her. Yet from the building opposite hers\nhe could see her so plainly.\nOn one brown misty day he leaned out in the arch\nof the window at the thirty-ninth floor and looked at"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.13", "texte": "her with wistful chagrin. After considering all the\nbarriers the hazards which parted them he had agreed\nto yield her regretfully but gallantly.\nShe saw him and smiled in the curious obscene manner\nwhich always took such violent effect upon him. His\nheart went unnaturally at this. She leaned out and\nthrew a weighted paper missile at him. It landed\ndirectly at his feet. Even as his breath left him he\ngrabbed it up and unfolded it.\n„MY NAME IS KATY\"\nShe was smiling at him coyly now as his eyes stared\nat her with a completely blank expression. He was\nfound later quite cold crumpled up against the cool\nmarble wall of the little white chamber.\n#\n\nMATTHEW JOSEPHSON"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.14", "texte": "ARTICLES DE SPORT\nPHILIPPE SOUPAULT\nCourageux comme un timbre poste\nil alllait son chemin\nen tapant doucement dans ses mains\npour compter ses pas\nson coeur rouge comme un sanglier\n»\nfrappait frappait\ncomme un papillon rose et vert\nDe temps en temps\nil plantait un petit drapeau de satin\nQuand il eut beaucoup marche\nil s'assit pour se reposer\net s'endormit\nMais depuis ce jour il y a beaucoup de nuages dans\n[le ciel\nbeaucoup d'oiseaux dans les arbres\net beaucoup de sel dans la mer\nII y a encore beaucoup d'autres choses"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.15", "texte": "POEM\nMALCOLM COWLEY\nMeanwhile I observed him from a gable\nto run along- the street violently for they were thir-\nteen and shout like maybe a siren 1 must tell Mr Bruce\nI must tell Mr Robert Bruce I must tell Mr Robert Bruce\nby five o'clock for they were thirteen at table\nthus shouting as the clocks tolled five one clock ap-\ning another and he solely human amid the geometry of\nhouses wailed Too late too late for Babylon is falling\nfalling in flat brick walls folding against the street\nlike painted sets which after the orchestral triumph\nof the fourth act come sprawling\nI have watched crumbs of brick descend like fragments\nof untidy\nmanna on the tablecloth at which the butler entered\nwith basketfired japan in an earthenware pot concealed\nby a cosy and fishcakes blossoming around it by which\ntoken also I knew that it was Friday alas was Friday"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.16", "texte": "CITIES II\nWILL BRAY\nThough the walls were all of concrete I could by\na simple pressure of my foot upon the lever\nannihilate the tender mechanism which sustained them\n— though the passersby wore powdered smiles one\nword from my tongue and they would kill me — though\nthe signs read This Way the crowds ran That Way —\nas I followed a crowd I perceived two men with\nRubber Heels were following me — as I had foretold\n— as I stepped off a car — as hellhounds after me\n— but an arched door with the legend 57 opened for\nme yet nearly snipped off their noses for them\nThus was I welcomed — thus were my feet bathed\nmy body laved in vinegar and ointed with frankincense\nmusk myrrh and other perfumes of Arabia — nude I\nwas carried into the high immense illuminated hall of\nperfect acoustics and placed alone upon the pros-\ncenium — from his towering pulpit the conductor\nsignalled the myriadfold orchestra of bearded men to\nresume the rehearsal — from the galleries and from\nscaffolds descended the python instruments menacing\n— I understood — I was to be judge and defendant\nvivisected and surgeon at once — the ambrosial\nsymphony assailed me gently passing as a slow fever\nfrom my five senses through sympathetic wires to a\nphonetic recorder\nO culmination of the meridian o fountainhead of\ntonalities sepulchral cadences dulcet incantations —\nat the second movement three bassoons exploded and\nthree oboists expired the foam frothing at their beards\n— at the third the casualties it grieves us to relate\nincluded one cymbal a flutist four violins and a piccolo\n— it was at a difficult adagio in Lydian measures\nthat the conductor collapsed over the rail of his stand\n— among the first to reach him were the cellists who\ntearing open his white shirtfront revealed the breasts\nof a woman — at this point the two men entered\nstealthily by a firedoor of th 6th gallery — I observed\nthem however and with admirable presence of mind\nstepped full force on the lever"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.17", "texte": "ARP THE TRAPDRUMMER\n\n1\nThe black syllables and the half-split nonpareil type\nfall asunder out of the ill assembled staves of the\nsidereal cask, the kindling in the flagpole is extinguished,\nat the call cordon s. v. p. the fourcornered catastrophe\ncame sprawling out of the nostrils of the flowers, at\nonce the men about town heated up their centaurs\nand went riding on ballbearings about the Venus\nchamber.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nRighteously did the maggot covered servant who\ncomplained ah so grievously of his dwarf sickness\nduring the tidying up of the catacomb ask where the\nclear tumult the saintly repose and that fugitive wind\nhad gone to rest, small moon shaped boats brimming\nwith masks rolled along on pronged wheels, from\npurple mouths hung the empty honeycombs of the\nangels.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nFrom the 10th year of a life to the 11th hour of\nthe morning is a long time yet not long enough for\na hungry family to scrape some money together, the\nfirst father dances howling about the world, he. has\nfleet squirrels bound to his soles, from his eyes hangs\nthe wreath of welcome, manu propria he chases the\nbuck from the environs of his spouse, and to while\naway the dark hours kicks the teaballs of his masculine\nfellow travelers.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\n1 must fare on everlastingly.\nAnd finally faithful and seemly portrait busts of Arp\nwere struck and distributed among the people.\n2\nAt our will the armada is defeated for the hundredth\ntime, the drowned men with glowing buoys in their"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.18", "texte": "mouths and lampshades on their heads entrain with\nthe nebula of their rapture the the bowelship and the\nscuttlefish. the soles of the wandering- water heroes\ngo plopping about, the bedevilled hag on the after\nbranch is part and parcel of the mechanism of\nthe sea.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nAn artloving puissant and highhanded king donates\nthe first vase, it has six rubber breasts aligned one\nabove the other like buttons, her adam's apple brings\nthe coloratura to well merited fame, the vase is a\ngigantic boneless snow tent and like all nice people\nhas a handle on both sides.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nThe woman's club called motley sets the wind moving\nby calisthenics, the cement tongues lick the walking\nstick the minnesingers the jewish paperweights the\nbuonarotti thorns the prompter's box full of interior\ncities the soft perjuries the shoes out of which\nstinking flesh grows and the summer bills.\n3\nWatches are set at midnight, out of the heavens full\nof angry tongues fall the prize waterfalls, the little\nskeletons in black livery hover over the manicured\ncrucifixion and swing the retorts with aqua fortis. in\nthe viper conservatory rails are laid upon which blubbery\ncourtesans and celestial curbstones are carted in.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nThe cuckoo flies off with the clock on its back, the\nlocomotives stroke their military moustaches, the flowers\nlie steaming on the wharves.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nThe first cuttlefish bone sees the light of the day.\nthe people embrace each other and shout zivio longs\nfor internal peace and leggings with salad, the first\nprophet steps forth and spans a hundred years of light."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.19", "texte": "since through a rare piece of foresight he is two\ndimensional he can by a slight twist withdraw his\nfacade with perfect control thus revealing himself as a\nperfidious son of daaa. he tells the immutable laws\non the buttons of his coat, it is perfectly in accordance\nwith official procedure to become any people, his pro-\nvisions against iron necessity are old smaritan fossils,\nwith the aid of a sextant he cuts a savoury slice of\nvenison from the behind of the friendly lady nearby,\nalso at the appearance of the prophet the people\nembrace each other weep and put out street lamps.\nSo much for today since it is already tomorrow and\nI must fare on everlastingly.\nThe black liveries sink into the structure of the world\nand completely conceal the furniture wagons loaded\nwith Nurnberger timekeepers the retinas of the coins\nthe surtaxes in the zither boxes the auctioned snowmen\nwith the frightfully rolling unripe green eyes in their\nforeheads the Teluric foolscaps the unbridled roes the\nplants in the Burgundian shirts manufactured in the\ntropics out of rubber the freshly washed namby pamby\nsky the eager mob wearing turbans of tuffstone and\nthey hide these said i with veils from the hullaballoo\nof the world, groaning the door of the dadahouse\nfalls shut.\n(Translated from the German by M. J.)\n\nHANS ARP"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.20", "texte": "FIRST PASTORAL\n\nI\nIs the Divine present to a degree, so that one\ncould speak of It as either more or less present? Or\nmust this Divine be either present or absent? To the\neye of an athlete the sun is gloriously brilliant, while\nan old man with failing sight may see it as a dull,\nsullen glow behind a mist. Is it that way with the\nDivine ? Or is the Divine like some figure of a flower\nor animal in the clouds, which one man sees and an-\nother does not see, while there are no possible gra-\ndations between the seeing and the non-seeing? The\nquestion is not at all impious; for to ask whether the\nDivine must be either present or absent does not im-\nply a limitation of the Infinite Being, even though the\nword „must\" has been used in the statement of the\nquestion. For this „must\" refers not to the Divine, but\ntoman, with his limited orifices of penetration. Ob-\nviously, God is universally present, and we can speak\nof His absence only from the standpoint of man's fai-\nlure to distinguish Him.\nGrant, first, that the Divine must be either pre-\nsent or absent, with no intermediate gradations. Which\nmeans that a man either lives with God, or does not.\nIf he lives in the understanding of God, of what use\nto him are the mere functions of Churchly worship?\nFurther, if the Divine must be either present or ab-\nsent, then it follows inexorably that It can only be\nabsent, for otherwise we should have an Infinite Being\nunderstood by a finite being, which is absurd.\nGranting the antithetical proposition: The Divine\ncan be either more or less present. In this way the\nworld would become hieraticized after the manner of\na pyramid, with the countless hordes of ignorant but\nfaithful followers of the Church forming the broader,\nheavily weighted base, while as we went upwards with\na decreasing proportion of mass the Christians cor-\nresponding to these higher positions would have a"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.21", "texte": "clearer understanding; and at the very top would\ncluster the body of martyrs, crowned by Jesus. The\nentire construction would be the glorious edifice of\nthat combined movig and yvcooig which marks all those\nwho have remained untorn by schism; while the dry\nsands, swirling in the wind, tossed about without\nmeaning and without incorporation into this stable\nstructure . . . these sands, obviously, would be the\npagans, the heretics, and the like.\nA stirring tope. But the difficulty enters when we\nexamine further just what this „greater or lesser pre-\nsence\" involves in the way of conduct. Would we\nnot, for instance, be drawn dangerously near to some\nof the neo-Platonist errors? For if the Divine is pre-\nsent to a greater or lesser degree, the worshipper\nmust serve in accordance with the abundance or mea-\ngerness of his light. This leads us towards a general\nsynthesis of religions, for if God is present in degree,\nthen He is present in the religion of the most im-\npious pagan, but present so faintly that the entire\nsystem of worship is distorted from the true worship\nof the Church beyond recognition. It is far removed,\nbut exists nevertheless, just as the echoes of the\nWords of God when He commanded „Let there be\nLight\" are still trembling in the air, becoming fainter\nand fainter, even more faint as our thoughts are upon\nthem, but bounding on eternally. That peculiar „rustle\nof silence\" which we hear in a perfect calm is the\naccumulation of just such infinitely faint noises, piled\nup from the first crack of creation. But the point to\nbe emphasized was that if we grant the greater or\nlesser presence of the Divine, we must recognize the\npagan as worshipping the True God, but in his own\nignorant manner.\nHow, then, should we go about it to bring such\npeople into the Realm of Jesus ? By letting them\nworship in their own manner, once their provinces are\nunder the temporal jurisdiction of the Pope. They\nwould thus be looked upon not as pagans, but as the\nweakest members of the True Church, and much nea-\nrer to the lowest Christian than this lowest Christian"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.22", "texte": "is to a saint. But obviously, such a line of reasoning\nwould bring us close to the subversive teachings of\nPlotinus and Porphyry. Yet as we have seen, the\nopposing doctrine leads to just as unholy an attitude\ntowards the Church. What then is the conclusion to\nbe drawn? It is: Let man always distrust any ratio-\ncination which does not follow hand in hand with the\nWord of God at every step. That true understanding\nis not in yvcboig but in moTig. Or rather, that stiotig\nis yvcboig.\nThe greater the cogency with which the brain could\nmake the Church seem wrong, the greater was the\nproof thereby that the soul had become infected. And\nBrother Angelik's deep learning in theological subtle-\nties made him perfectly aware of what turpitudes lo-\ngic without love might involve. Still, he had indu-\nbitably been enthralled for a time by the heavy bonds\nof his antitheses. And as he lifted his head now to\ndeliver a short prayer of thankfulness to his Maker —\nWho had guided him so securely out of this intricacy\nof the Devil — he observed that in his anguish he\nhad wandered far beyond the walls of the monastery!\nHere was Hell's mockery. Angelik had thought\nthat this bejewelling of heresy marked out the nature\nof his struggle against Evil, while all this jingling of\nwords had in reality been a mere subterfuge, a lure\nto reproduce the breaking of his vows, since he had\nstepped out into the world, beyond the pale of his\nseclusion, beyond the point stipulated in his solemn\noath.\nWhile, further, Brother Angelik had come upon the\nshepherd John and the shepherdess Jocasta. This John\nhaving slipped his hands against Jocasta's flesh, the\ntwo of them were now lying earnestly interlocked upon\nthe sod.\nIf prayers possessed the properties of mass and\nweight, and their density under ordinary temperatures\nwere that of a thick, sluggish fluid, prayers then would\nhave nosed quietly down the corridors of the monastery,\noozed through the cracks of the massive, ill-fitting doors,"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.23", "texte": "and perhaps even set the statue of the Virgin to\ncirculating- on its side by the altar. Again, a blackness,\nobviously symbolic, of heavy clouds had gathered\nover the sky; and having gathered, these clouds lay\nthere like a threat. In the late afternoon the clouds .\nwere split to expose a sun which was already part\neaten by the shadow of the moon, and which dropped\nbelow the horizon in full shadow. Thus, without twilight,\nmidnight followed on the heels of day, while the storm\nbroke, slashing and stumbling in the dark, and rocking\nthe monastery like a ship.\nThe forces of sin silently multiplied, filling his brain\nwith their progeny after the manner of vipers. When\nthe she is in heat, her gaping, filthy maw is turned\nto the male. He inserts his three-tongued head into\nthe jaws of his woman, buries it avidly even to the\neyes, and projects into her, by the junction of their\nmouths, his procreative venom. Maddened by her\npleasures, the wife then slays her lover by ripping\nopen his throat with her teeth; while as he perishes,\nshe drinks in his spittle. Thus, the father is consumed\nduring the excesses, but the sperm of his spittle still\nremains to destroy the mother. For later, when the\nseed has aged, small objects begin wriggling in her\nwarm insides, slashing and beating against the womb.\nShe realizes now what her sex entails and bemoans\nher wretched husband's offspring, which are destined\nto murder in turn, and are already tearing at the\nbarriers which enclose them. Until, since there is no\nchannel whereby the young can be born, they split\nthe agonized bowels with their struggles, and the\nbelly is rent to provide an exit. The little snakes\nlick the body which bore them, a generation of orphans\neven at birth, since they had hardly seen the day\nbefore their miserable mother was dead.*\nNocte surgentes, vigilemus omnes; let us all leap\nup in the night, and wait! But not for a fleshly love.\nFor some austere sign, rather, which will be found\nlying across the sky like a comet. Charmed thesis and\n\n* Prudentius, Hamartigenia, lines 585—607."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.24", "texte": "antithesis of love, of that higher love. And in despair\nhe prayed, loudly and disagreeably, complaining,\ndefying, hemming and hawing with his temptations,\nhis moans echoing down the corridors, and buzzing\nwith the storm in the ears of his Brothers, who listened\nin the darkness and understood that Angelik was\nstruggling for his Faith.\nLet me hold in my arms Salvation.\nLet me lie between the breasts of the True Church.\nLet me speak and in turn be spoken unto.\nLet the belly tremble at the touch of my hand on\n[the door.\nDilectus meus mihi, et ego illi!\nOne unto the other, and that other unto the first.\nMoving among the lilies, while the day dawns, and\n[the shadows lean.\nThy dugs are richer than wine.\nHe crawled to the statue of the Virgin, and\ntouched the stiff marble folds of her garments. Another\nvoice near him piped up in prayer. Then his fingers\nfell away, and he was ashamed. „0 gloriosa virginum,\nbenedicat te Deus et sanctum ventrem tuum.\" . . . He\nsneaked back to his cell.\n„Lord, my God, help me, for I am weak. A sign,\noh Lord! Show me that I am not alone.\" Then Brother\nAngelik became peaceful. He was contracting business\nwith his Lord. „Tonight it is storming. Let it storm\ntomorrow, and I shall remain with my Brothers. But\nif there is sun, I shall know that Thou hast forsaken\nme.\" Now, as it had been written before the world\nwas assembled out of Chaos, the sun shone unusually\nbright the following morning, and looking across the\nhills, Brother Angelik saw that everything was as calm\nand pure as a mirror.\n\nII.\nIt was dawn, although the sun had not yet risen . . .\nfull day, without the sun, as though the world were"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.25", "texte": "lit by a calm but thorough Logic. The hills lay about\nwith a dogmatic distinctness. Every pebble possessed\nits contour, every grass-blade its line of demarcation.\nOr, when some group was too far off to necessitate\na definition of its individual components, it in turn\nformed a unit of itself; in just this way, for instance,\na small patch of timber extended like a pronounced\nellipse on the bias against one of the farther hills.\nSky, cloud, earth, and the things on the earth . . .\nall this was differentiated categorically.\nBrother Angelik wandered over the hills as the\nshepherd of John's sheep, John having been persuaded\nto visit a sister in Padua. And when Angelik had led\nhis sheep to where Jocasta's were already grazing, he\ncalled out to her, „Hast thou an apple, shepherdess?\"\n„Ha, we maidens have many things, shepherd, but-\nnot an apple.\"\n„That is an ill omen.\"\n„And why, Shepherd, is it ill that 1 should not\nhave an apple?\"\n„Because then thou shalt have to give me a kiss.\"\n„And why, shepherd, must I give thee anything?\"\n~Because I am going to wager with thee that I\ncan tell thee thy name, and I must win something for\nmy wager.\"\n„But my name is Jocasta; I need lose neither\napples nor kisses to be told that.\"\n„And I, Jocasta, am the apple-less, unkissed Theo-\ndoce. So now we know each other, and our sheep\nhave already made friends without this banter, and if\nthou wilt sit here beside me I shall tell thee a story.\""}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.26", "texte": "~Tell me, then, the story of how Theodoce comes\nof be tending John's sheep.\"\n„Ho, that is a homely story. I should rather tell\nto how Zeus gained entrance to Leda as a swan. Or\nperhaps thou hast already been told that story by\nsome shepherd?\"\n„Where dost thou come from, Theodoce?\"\n„From Padua.\"\n„Then I must believe that the shepherdesses of\nPadua love stories more than virtue.\"\n„In truth! The girls of Padua do not put them-\nselves above the gods. And if Zeus could invent such\nescapades, the shepherdesses of Padua are not too\nvirtuous to hear of them.\"\n„Well said, Theodoce. And I, as a reward, shall\nhear thy story. But first, thou must tell me why that\nstory of all stories, has been chosen.\"\n~Because I had hoped that perhaps I, by changing\nmyself into a slave, just as Zeus changed himself into\na swan, might gain admission to the bosom of some\nlovely shepherdess.\"\n„Beware, Theodoce, lest thy incantations fall amiss,\nand thou turnest thyself into an ass.\"\n„I have no fear, Jocasta. Indeed, I am quite willing\nto become an ass, if that is the road to charming a\nwoman.\"\n„Ah, thou hast a barbed tongue, and I shall leave\nthee.\"\n„No, thou wilt pick them up and carry them away\nfrom me like precious baubles? Lips, breasts, shoul-"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.27", "texte": "ders, thighs, in short all those lovely parts of woman ?\nStay, Jocasta, and let me at least ravish thee with\nmine eyes.'4\n„That is an undressing- which all maidens must\nsuffer; thine eyes attempt not my virtue but thine\nown; so I shall stay, and be looked upon.\"\n~And be spoken unto.\"\n„Such things are so much polish, that virtue may\nshine the better.\"\n~Virtue! I think my hearing is better this morning,\nJocasta, than it has been.\"\n„And why is that, Theodoce?\"\n„Because yesterday, when I was by here, I heard\nthee say no such word to John. Tra-la, leave those\ncolors to the sunrise! And we will dismiss that, Jo-\ncasta, if thou answerest me these questions. First,\ndost thou grant that we should strive after happiness?\"\n„Yes, Theodoce.\"\n„And that, therefore, any moment which could be\nmade happier, and is not, is a waste of that moment?\"\n„Yes, Theodoce.\"\n„And dost thou further grant that there is more\nhappiness in the marriage of a shepherd and shep-\nherdess than when they remain unjoined?\" (Brother\nAngelik was aware that here he was confusing the\ntwo ideas of happiness und pleasure, but that this\nignorant girl would not perceive the sophism.).\n„Yes, Theodoce. Since thine eyes yesterday were\nsharper than thy ears, yes.\""}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.28", "texte": "„Then Jocasta, I have conquered thee, for here is\na moment which could be made happier, and is not!\"\n„Thou art very learned, Theodoce.\"\n„Ah, but thou hast armed thy virtue with words,\nand even if I lay low the words, the virtue still re-\nmains to be stormed. But see, Jocasta, while we have\nwrangling here, how easily our flocks have interming-\nled! Finding convenient pasturage in the same place,\nthey have all gone there without question. Or note\nthe slight jerk of the sheep's head, effected while the\ngrass is firmly held between the theeth, and serving\nto rip the blade and its stock a sunder. If I should\ndraw a sheep, I should draw its legs to establish the\nlaws whereby, if one leg rests at a given point and\nforms a given angle with a line drawn horizontally\nto that point, the other three legs, by the reason of\na sheep's balance, would be at three other pre-deter-\nmined points, the whole presenting a rigid relation-\nship. But all this is foreign to the sheep, which, fin-\nding the grass of interest, grazes upon it. Ah, would\nthat 1 could wander thus over Jocasta's knolls and\nhillocks!\"\n„Thou art a poet, Theodoce, and poets can sing\njust as well unto themselves.\"\nJocasta ran suddenly into the thicket, and would\nnot appear even though Angelik threatened to kill\nhimself. Finding a dagger on the ground, he plunged\nit into his breast, and fell with his heart against the\nsod. The blood from the heart soaked into the grass,\ntrickling still warm through the cool pebbles beneath.\nWhat was it seeking, that it worked so swiftly among\nthem? For it went with unmistakable haste. As it\nfiltered, the impure red passed into the lonely pebb-\nles ; until as clear water it trickled between slabs of\nbedrock, and mingled with little pools that lay down\nhere in the darkness. Then in elation, this pure water\nof Angelik leapt steadily towards the sunlight, and"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.29", "texte": "Jocasta, who had come there to drink, drank of him\nand murmured, „How thirsty I had been!\"\nAs an interesting parallel it might be well to add\nthat the day of Brother Angelik's death was the same\nas that on which Paulus Thessalonicus, then residing\nat Alexandria, wrote what was considered among his\nfriends to be his most successful epigram. Translated,\nit runs:\n%\nLamp, when there is a faint shuffling of sandals out-\nside my door,\nAnd the odour of unguents and perfumes\nCalls me like a blare of trumpets, so that I\nArise hastily from my table ... go out, lamp.\nFor tonight 1 shall be laying aside my text\nTo become the grammarian of sweet Amyctis' body.\n\nKENNETH BURKE."}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.30", "texte": "MR. BLUNDERBUSS\n\nThe sinister forces in American letters rear them-\nselves again in the triple-columned pages of Vanity\nFair, that bustling, enterprising, oh too worldy-wise\nmagazine of the modes. How far afield she goes in\nthe effort to keep abreast of the hurried times, to\npurvey the last shudder to my Aunt Ruth as lays she\nthe June issue on the table of the immaculate living-\nroom of her subsuburban home.\nLittle as she knows of Villon, she will learn through\nthe oracular medium of Mr. Paul Rosenfeld that Guil-\nlaume Apollinaire was the Villon of our age; that he\nate „ravioli\", frequented cafes, „walked down a street\nin Auteuil,\" and yet was the self-same man, „who sat\nbefore a writing table moulding words into poems and\nspinning fanciful and witty tales.\" But, not only is\nApollinaire a poet of „delicate wit,\" he is the arch-\nbohemian of the 20th century; his verses are likened\nto those of Heine, let alone Verlaine. Who is there to\ngainsay such mis-representations? With Rosenfeld and\nVanity Fair bent on „selling\" the leading poet of a\ngeneration in France, Apollinaire becomes chic, dashing,\nbuccaneering.\nHere is, then, American criticism such as we have\nhad it now for many a day in our leading journals.\nMr. Rosenfeld — let us out with our supicions — is the\nmost flagrant and barbarous type, since Huneker. Given\nthe temperament of a violinist facing an emotional\naudience, everything becomes rosy, disheveled, senti-\nmental. His voice is choked with tears and sobs as he\nrises to the fortissimoes of his fine frenzies. The sense of\nhumour is as lacking as the sense for detail, precision,\nanalysis. This rapturous stuff has passed for criticism, sir!\nIt has gone too far. It is too outrageous. I have always\nbeen slightly hysterical on this subject; but I cannot\nhave Apollinaire spoiled for me by such heavy-handed\nscoundrels, or the vices for which we have perforce\nforgiven him dragged out and magnified as his virtues.\nThe evil is so grievous, the impetus for such heedless\nrhapsody has so long been pampered in America that\nit will need a determined hostility to silence and dis-"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.31", "texte": "credit such malefactors. A cold ear will not merely\nsuffice; there must be plenty of cold water!\nBeginning- with the fourth number Kenneth Burke\nbecomes a co-editor of SECESSION. Responsibility\nfor the contents of SECESSION can thereafter be\nascribed to a majority decision on the part of the\neditorial staff, which will consist of Kenneth Burke,\nMatthew Josephson and Gorham B. Munson.\nMiss Jane Heap, redoubtable polemicist, takes\nSECESSION to task in the Spring issue of the Little\nReview, despite the fact that the LR. was referred to\nin the second number as „the real leader, the most\nprovocative of our art reviews.\" This in spite of the\napparent unwillingness of the editore of the Little\nReview to arm themselves with precise information\non the subjects they discuss. Choose for instance any\nof the art criticisms of Margaret Anderson. Or in this\npretty piece of abuse by the Jane Heep (Heap?), the\nimplication that SECESSION is dominated by a Harvard\ngroup. In fact, of the three male editors of Secession,\nnone was graduated from Harvard University, none\nwas a member of a college fraternity, and one failed\nto be graduated from Columbia College. How infantile\nthiswat college did you go to? On sen fout. Such\nmis-statements are typical of the LR. The Little Review\nis not a review; it is a state of mind.\nAnd if one examines closely the magazines of pro-\nnounced „modern\" tastes, one finds much to conjure\nwith. Vanity Fair in the July number contains an\n\nM.J.\nTHE EDITORS."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.32", "texte": "article by Tristan Tzara called „Some Memoirs of\nDadaism\" which begins with a curious opening- para-\ngraph wherein Dadaism is called „a set of wild prac-\ntical jokes v/hich burlesqued in their violence\nand absurdity, the absurdity and violence of the life\naround them a carnival of nonsense . .\nThese generalities, which furnished an efficient news-\npaper lead\" for an otherwise precise and informative\nhistorical essay were so amazingly at variance with\nany of the professions of Tzara and the Dadaists that\nit was not at all surprising to learn from Tazara him-\nself that he had not written the opening paragraph of\nthe article, did not know who or why had written it,\nand found it completely unjust and misleading. Parts\nof his article were omitted entirely, also in accordance\nwith journalistic exigencies. Heavens what ruffians! To\nhave culture disseminated in America by such butche-\nrish wholesalish hands! And there was an article on\nmusic by the modern French composer Georges Auric\nwhich I was afraid to read because I suspec-\nted that the manuscript may have been tampered with\nor distorted in the translation. Beside, 1 am fond of\nAuric's music, and 1 defy you to find a musician who\ncan write intelligently about music or anything else\nfor that matter. O the bitter necessities !\n„Hope\", the story by Waldo Frank published in\nthis issue, is part of an episode from CITY BLOCK\nwhich is to be published privately. By the author him-\nself. The subscription edition may prove to be a\nmeans of evading the phobia for censoring art that\nis spreading in America. Pornography per se has\nbecome antiquated and preposterous since Gautier's\nMaupin. But the S. P. V. is undeniably the greater\nevil and is becoming a more and more formidable\ninstitution. Waldo Frank writes that during three\nweeks of last July a bookseller was fined $1000 for\nselling copies of Bocaccio and Rabelais; a publisher\n\nM.J."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.33", "texte": "was arrested, and all copies were confiscated of\nSchnitzler's „Casanova's Homecoming,\" Lawrence's\n„Women in Love,\" and „A Young Girl's Diary\" (an\nauthentic document which is of high import psycholo-\ngically). It is clear that a determined and organized\neffort must be made against the institution of the\ncensorship. Mere indignation will not suffice. A\npractical plan must be elaborated to invoke the\nsympathy of the supposedly freedom-loving American\npeople, through publicity propaganda, through\nadvertisements, through the cinema. The censorship is\ntwo-edged: it prohibits people from enjoying artistic\nliterary masterpieces such as the Decameron; and on\nthe other hand makes martyrs of less gifted and less\nimportant writers such as Cabell, D. H. Lawrence,\nTheodore Dreiser, Arthur Schnitzler and James Joyce.\nThe latter is the most uncomfortable discomfiting\naspect of the censorship.\nThe Editors of Secession invite readers to communi-\ncate to them suggestions or expressions of willingness\nto cooperate at some time in the near future in a\ncampaign against the censorship.\n\nPASSIONATE SINGER\nSAINT EDNA MILLAY\nThe day is drab, the day is dark;\nI hear a sparrow singing. Hark!"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.34", "texte": "SECESSION\nAN INDEPENDENT MAGAZINE OF MODERN\nLETTERS\nPUBLISHED MONTHLY\nPresents literature which would ordinarily experience\ngreat difficulty in finding a hearing among the esta-\nblished periodicals of America and Europe\nCONTRIBUTORS\nLouis Aragon, Hans Arp, Slater Brown, Will Bray,\nKenneth Burke, Malcolm Cowley, Hart Crane,\nE. E. Cummings, Paul Eluard, Waldo Frank, Matthew\nJosephson, Gorham B. Munson, Philippe Soupault,\nTristan Tzara, William Carlos Williams.\nSUBSCRIPTION\nTERMS ARE VERY FAVORABLE AT ONE\nDOLLAR FOR SIX ISSUES, OWING TO THE\nLOW COSTS OF PRINTING IN EUROPE.\nEDITIONS WILL BE OF LIMITED SIZE.\nADDRESS PETER K. HURWITZ, SECRETARY\n1361—46 TH. STREET, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.\nNUMBER ONE\nJUNE\nDaycoach\nBottle Found at Sea\nPeripatetics\nApollinaire\nInstant Note Brother\nA Bow to the Adventurous\nMr. AA the Antiphilosopher\nIn a Cafe\n1922\nMalcolm Cowley\nLouis Aragon\nMatthew Josephson\nWill Bray\nTristan Tzara\nGorham B. Munson\nTristan Tzara\nWill Bray\nNUMBER TWO\nJULY\nFour Poems\nTwo Swans and Play it for me again\nThe Book of Yul\nMr. AA the Antiphilosopher\nPlots for Penpushers\nThe Oblate\nInterstice between Scylla and Charybdis\n1922\nE. E. Cummings\nMalcolm Cowley\nKenneth Burke\nTristan Tzara\nSlater Brown\nMatthew Josephson\nGorham B. Munson\nCSO"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "[33]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.35", "texte": "REBELS AND REACTIONARIES\nrub shoulders amiably and in perfect harmony in\nm\nTHE DOUBLE DEALER\nPublished at New Orleans\nwhich prints good writing by youngsters or greybeards\nregardless of school, influence, or tradition. It shares\nnone of the prejudices of the right wing or the left\nwing in contemporary literature, but „deceives them\nboth by speaking the truth.\" It prints exhilarating\ncreative and critical material by such writers as Hart\nCrane, Djuna Barnes, Louis Gilmore, Carl Van Vechten,\nEdmund Wilson, Jr., Arthur Symons, Lord Dunsany,\nLafcadio Hearn, Maxwell Bodenheim, Paul Eldridge,\nand half a hundred others.\nYOU HAVE HEARD OF THE DOUBLE DEALER\nWhy not see what it is?\nSingle copy, 25 cents. Year's subscription, $ 2.50\nTRIAL OFFER: FIVE MONTHS, $ 1.00\nAddress: 204Baronne street, New Orleans, La., U. S. A."}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "[34]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaay192208-01.1.36", "texte": "ARTHUR RIMBAUD\n„Je revais croisades, voyages de decouvertes dont\non n'a pas de relations, republique sans histoires,\nguerres de religion etouffees, revolutions de moeurs,\ndeplacements de races et de continent: je croyais\na tousles enchantements.\"\n\nPrinted by Julius Lichtner, Vienna VIII."}]}