November 1922

Sommaire

• When all is ended..

  My name is Grindor, Clement Grindor, and it seems that I was once
  the son of a man who stood in the public eye. Paris with its carriages,
  its ladies and its thousand lights per second lay sweetly upon my brows
  like a garland of flowers.

  par Louis Aragon
• Valuta

  Following the dollar O following the dollar I have learned three
  fashions of eating with the knife and ordered beer in four languages
  from a Hungarian waiter while following the dollar
  around the 48th degree of north latitude where it buys most there
  is the Fatherland

  par Malcolm Cowley
• Photography and the new god

  Man having created the concept of God The Creator, found himself
  unsatisfied. For despite the proven pragmatic value of this image, through
  which the fine arts of music and literature, of architecture, painting, and
  sculpture, together with the less fine arts of murder, thievery and general
  human exploitation, had been carried to great heights, there was still
  something unfulfilled: the impulse of curiosity in man was still hungry.

  par Paul Strand
• Apocalyptic harvest

  The thinning light
  Of afternoon
  Is over ripened wheatfields
  Shining to a thin skyline

  par Yvor Winters
• Stravrogin’s confession

  It was indeed foreign type, — three printed sheets of ordinary notepaper,
  sewn together. It must have been printed secretly by some Russian
  printing-press abroad, and at first blush the pamphlet looked very much like
  a revolutionary leaflet. The heading read "From Stavrogin."

  par Feodor Dostoyevski
• On english and french fiction

  Certainly the modern English novel begins with that elaborate masterpiece,
  Tom Jones of Henry Fielding. And it seems to me that his genius
  is contained, on the whole, in that one book; in which he creates living
  people; the very soil is living. His hero is the typical sullen, selfish baseborn,
  stupid, sensual, easily seduced and adventurous youth, with whom
  his creator is mightily amused. The very Prefaces are full of humourous wisdom:
  copied, I suppose, from Montaigne.

  par Arthur Symons
• Crematorium

  Pile five leaves under each
  finger of your left hand —
  let each be a leaf you love.
  Then write on each a love-word —
  something tender;

  par James Daly