Back in the sitting room, he resumed his walking; unconsciously he was walking with his father, the judge, dead thirty years ago; he was parading his dead father up and down the room.
The cuff-button dropped to the floor; he stooped to pick it up and then said “Helen!” urgently into the mouth-piece to cover the fact that he had momentarily been away.
The water went into his nose and started a raw stinging; it blinded him; it lingered afterward in his ears, rattling back and forth like pebbles for hours.
The silence was coming from some deep place in Mrs. Ives’ heart.
The almost regular pat-smack, smack-pat-pat of the balls, the thud of a jump, and the overtone of the umpire’s “Fault’; “Out”; “Game and set, 6—2, Mr. Oberwalter.”
Our fathers died. Suddenly in the night they died and in the morning we knew.
They laughed, ending with yawning gurgles that were not laughed out but sucked in.
She yet spoke somewhat sharply, as people will with a bitter refusal to convey.
To ride off into the sunset in such a chariot, into the very husn and mystery of night, beside him the mystery of that baby-faced girl.
Couple treading water dancing.
Wiping his chin with a long rag which he took from some obscure section of his upholstery.
When he left the house, their engagement was over, but her love for him was not over and her hope was not gone, and her actions had only begun.
If Teddy had played the current sentimental song from Erminie, and had played it with feeling, she would have understood and been moved, but he was plunging her suddenly into a world of mature emotions, whither her nature neither could nor wished to follow.
A chorus of pleasant envy followed in the wake of their effortless glamour.
He threw his hands up so high it seemed as if they left his wrists and were caught again on their descent.
Hesitation before name doesn’t displease.
Behind them a long haired Nebraska pederast told the plot in mournful numbers.
He went back into the bathroom and swallowed a draught of rubbing alcohol guaranteed to produce violent gastric disturbances.
He put his mind in order with a short résumé of the history of music, beginning with some chords from The Messiah and ending with Debussy’s La Plus que Lente, which had an evocative quality for him, because he had first heard it the day his cat died.
Clubbing him with his taller fist, his head side-swiped a fence, with blood tasting on his mouth and going cold on his ear lobes.
Trying to dismiss him as a sort of inspired fairy.
Opens magazine several times at the fact that poetry is at crossroads.
A beam, soft and pleasant, fell across his spirit. Those two beings, tender and cloud-like, unreal, with the little sins of little people. They were no more than sick-room flowers where he lay.
But at the look of childish craftiness in her eyes he took it back quickly.
She leaned back comfortably against the water pipe, as one enjoying the moment at leisure. He lit her cigarette impatiently and waited.
She walked toward the dressing table as though her own reflection was the only decent company with which to foregather.
De Sano tearing the chair.
The funeral carriages—a man smoking in the last.
Two brown port bottles appeared ahead, developed white labels, turned into starched nuns, who seared us with holy eyes as we went by.
We left him there dancing with a fluttering waiter.
Dog arrives. I call him. Doesn’t like me. Expressionless, he passes on.
Her voice trying to blow life into the dead number 2-0-1-1.
Mother majestically dipping her sleeves in the coffee.
His ecstasy made him use the cane. He pointed it at little patches of snow that still remained on the ground and then raised it overhead, dragging it through the lower limbs of the trees.
There was a flick of the lip somewhere, a bending of the smile toward some indirection, a momentary lifting and dropping of the curtain over a hidden passage.
He sat back robbed and glowering.
Hats coming off, thought it was his head.
Went into the bathroom and sat on the seat, crying because it was more private than anywhere she knew.
When he urinated, it sounded like night prayer.
The feeling that she was (his) began between his shoulders and spread over him like a coat going on.
A thing called the Grand Canyon Suite, which seemed to me to lean heavily on Horses Horses Horses.
Breaking into an Off to Buffalo against a sudden breath of wet wind.
Shocked at five razor blades instead of twelve.
Shuddering with pleasure at the difficult idiom.
The young people got back into the boat—they all felt fine and quietly passionate.
When she heard his footsteps again, she turned frankly and held his eyes for a moment until his turned away, as a woman can when she has the protection of other men’s company.
An idea ran back and forth in his head like a blind man, knocking over the solid furniture.
He had written a complimentary letter to Mr. X, the humorist, for an autograph and had received Mr. X’s form letter, which was a joke. “About bunions, Dear Sir,” the letter said, “My advice to you is to—”
Her mother handed the passenger list across the table— her fingers so meticulously indicating the name that Rose-mary had to pry it up to read.
Person driving away after seeing friend off—“I’m glad you’ve gone John,” and does a takem, glancing back.
“Bring me a box of Elizabeth Arden,” you’d wired me, and how our love shone through any old trite phrase in a telegram.
After a while a skittish lady with an air of being pursued slipped in and not without a few wary glances around achieved sanctuary in the front row.
The moment of closeness between savagery and civilization never closer than in the self-consciousness of truces and surrenders of men in love with the same girl, or in common life when we handle money. Scene to show this—paying Flora, setting down money on bureau—“No, you keep it,” etc.
I have known and analyzed too much charm to be impressed by ladies who recompose their features after an interdict.
N
NONSENSE AND STRAY PHRASES
King’s Own Leopards.
“I’ve arranged that if anything should happen to you, the remains will be kept in cold storage until I return.”
They were startled—that was inevitable; one couldn’t crash right in on people without tearing a little bit of diaphanous material.
The car waited tenderly for a minute.
All around her he could feel the vast Mortmain fortune melting down, seeping back into the matrix whence it had come.
Scott Fitzgerald climax runner for the Cal. “Courtesans” today passed his zenith. It was rushed after him to Peoria, Indiana, but by that time the soap on the nursery floor had become a shambles.
He had long forgotten whether Darrow called Scopes a monkey or Bryan called Darrow a scope or why Leopold-Loeb was ever tried in the first place.
Burlesque on Molly Pitcher in Dos Passos Manner: Continentals starving for want of coal finally get some, but can’t digest it because it’s hard coal. After the war—hollow victory—they lost Montreal and it’s wet. Profiteers in daguerreotypes. Everybody tired of Yankee Doodle. Men seasick crossing the Delaware. Rammed her petticoat down cannon, she was restrained. British walked away with hands over their eyes.
Ernest Hemingway, while careful to avoid clichés in his work, fairly revels in them in his private life, his favorite being “Parbleu!” (“So what?”—French), and “Yes, We Have No Bananas.” Contrary to popular opinion, he is not as tall as Thomas Wolfe, standing only six feet five in his health belt. He is naturally clumsy with his body, but shooting from a blind or from adequate cover, makes a fine figure of a man. We are happy to announce that his work will appear in future e
xclusively on United States postage stamps.
Thomas Wolfe or “Loup” (Anthony Adverse, Time and the River, N. Y. Telephone Directory, 1935) is a newcomer to American Skulduggery. Born during a premium contest.
Name: Luna Gineva.
Backwoods Names: Olsie, Hassie, Coba, Bleba, Onza (Ozma—my own), Retha, Otella, Tatrina, Delphia, Wedda, Zannis, Avaline, Burtryce, Chalme, Glenola, Turla, Verlie, Legitta, Navilla, Oha, Verla, Blooma, Inabeth, Versia, Gomeria, Valaria, Berdine, Olabeth, Adelloyd.
Niggers: Glee, Earvial, Aerial, Roayna, Margerilla, Parolee, Ferdiliga, Abolena, Iodine, Tooa, Negolna.
Name: Tycoonskins.
The Barnyard Boys or Fun on the Soil:
George Barnyard
Thomas Barnyard
Glenway Barnyard
Lladislas Barnyard, their uncle
Knut Barnyard, their father
Burton Smalltown, the hired man
Chambers, a city dude
Ruth Kitchen
Martha Kitchen
Willa Kitchen, their mother
Little Edna, an orphan
Margaret Kitchen
“How Hamsun you are looking!” cried the fan.
Chambers dressed 1903.
It was winter, summer, spring, anything you like, and the Barnyard Boys were merrily at work getting together epics of the American soil in time for the next publishing season. All day long they dug around in the great Hardy fields, taking what would come in handy in the next winter (or spring, summer—the seasons follow one another, tearing up growths of [ — ] by the roots.)
To dine at a “serious” restaurant.
Proximity of her tan legs.
Economy Statements:
They’re much less expensive to run.
It’s all right to run around in.
It’ll do to wear around the house.
It’ll keep us from being extravagant and inviting too many people to dinner.
It’ll do till we have another.
We’re saving that up so we’ll have something to look forward to.
That’s good for the moths.
It (a carpet) just gets worn out in this house.
We want to wait until we get a really nice one.
A weak heart, a sick heart, a broken heart or a chicken heart?
Shot through bald forehead—like where a picture and its nail had been removed from wall.
The Thyroid Islands.
He would be part of that great army divided by the dark storm.
Listen, little Elia: draw your chair up close to the edge of the precipice and I’ll tell you a story.
Drifting towards some ignoble destiny they could not evade.
Then I was drunk for many years, and then I died.
It would have been a bigger picture if he could have had everyone gilded.
Since his wife ran off one windy night and gave him back the custody of his leisure hours.
He had hit her before and she him.
Far gone, far called, far crowned.
We gave the corpse twenty-four hours to leave town.
Esprit frondeur.
As twice as a double bumble bee.
The aristocratic nose and the vulgar heart.
Superfluous as a Gideon Bible in the Ritz.
Given at his birth a spoonful of noxema just brought from Palestine.
One can do little more than deny the persistent rumors that hover about him; for instance that he was born in a mole cave near Schenectady, in a state of life-long coma—conversely, that his father was a certain well-known international munitions manufacturer of pop-guns, a notorious blatherskite who earned a precarious living in the dives of Zion City or, as others say, a line coach at a famous correspondence school.
Simile about paper they paste on glass during building.
I have never wished there was a God to call on—I have often wished there was a God to thank.
“Sure—you did a sequence for Collins with a watch face and some little cardboard silhouettes. It was very interesting.”
Better Hollywood’s bizarre variations on the normal, with * * * * ** * * on the phone ordering twelve girls for dinner, none over eighteen.
We’ll find you a pooch that’ll say “Arp.”
Dive back, Aphrodite, dive back and try for the fish undersea.
The blue-green unalterable dream.
A day full of imaginary telegrams.
Wit born in darkness of college movie houses.
The “Wyn” in Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Explain its presence.
I think I’d better go out and stay too long—don’t you?
At two-thirty this afternoon the Countess of Fréjus will be fired out of this cannon.
Antibes before the merchants came.
I may as well spend this money now. Hell, I may never get it.
TURKEY REMAINS AND HOW TO INTER THEM WITH NUMEROUS SCARCE RECIPES
At this post holiday season, the refrigerators of the nation are overstuffed with large masses of turkey, the sight of which is calculated to give an adult an attack of dizziness. It seems, therefore, an appropriate time to give the owners the benefit of my experience as an old gourmet, in using this surplus material. Some of the recipes have been in the family for generations. (This usually occurs when rigor mortis sets in.) They were collected over years, from old cook books, yellowed diaries of the Pilgrim Fathers, mail order catalogues, golf-bats and trash cans. Not one but has been tried and proven—there are headstones all over America to testify to the fact. Very well then: here goes:
1. Turkey Cocktail: To one large turkey add one gallon of vermouth and a demijohn of angostura bitters. Shake.
2. Turkey à la Française: Take a large ripe turkey, prepare as for basting and stuff with old watches and chains and monkey meat. Proceed as with cottage pudding.
3. Turkey and Water: Take one turkey and one pan of water. Heat the latter to the boiling point and then put in the refrigerator. When it has jelled, drown the turkey in it. Eat. In preparing this recipe it is best to have a few ham sandwiches around in case things go wrong.
4. Turkey Mongole: Take three butts of salami and a large turkey skeleton, from which the feathers and natural stuffing have been removed. Lay them out on the table and call up some Mongole in the neighborhood to tell you how to proceed from there.
5. Turkey Mousse: Seed a large prone turkey, being careful to remove the bones, flesh, fins, gravy, etc. Blow up with a bicycle pump. Mount in becoming style and hang in the front hall.
6. Stolen Turkey: Walk quickly from the market, and, if accosted, remark with a laugh that it had just flown into your arms and you hadn’t noticed it. Then drop the turkey with the white of one egg—well, anyhow, beat it.
7. Turkey à la Crême: Prepare the crême a day in advance. Deluge the turkey with it and cook for six days over a blast furnace. Wrap in fly paper and serve.
8. Turkey Hash: This is the delight of all connoisseurs of the holiday beast, but few understand how really to prepare it. Like a lobster, it must be plunged alive into boiling water, until it becomes bright red or purple or something, and then before the color fades, placed quickly in a washing machine and allowed to stew in its own gore as it is whirled around. Only then is it ready for hash. To hash, take a large sharp tool like a nail-file or, if none is handy, a bayonet will serve the purpose—and then get at it! Hash it well! Bind the remains with dental floss and serve.
9. Feathered Turkey: To prepare this, a turkey is necessary and a one pounder cannon to compel anyone to eat it. Broil the feathers and stuff with sage-brush, old clothes, almost anything you can dig up. Then sit down and simmer. The feathers are to be eaten like artichokes (and this is not to be confused with the old Roman custom of tickling the throat.)
10. Turkey à la Maryland: Take a plump turkey to a barber’s and have him shaved, or if a female bird, given a facial and a water wave. Then, before killing him, stuff with old newspapers and put him to roost. He can then be served hot or raw, usually with a
thick gravy of mineral oil and rubbing alcohol. (Note: This recipe was given me by an old black mammy.)
11. Turkey Remnant: This is one of the most useful recipes for, though not “chic,” it tells us what to do with turkey after the holiday, and how to extract the most value from it. Take the remnants, or, if they have been consumed, take the various plates on which the turkey or its parts have rested and stew them for two hours in milk of magnesia. Stuff with moth-balls.
12. Turkey with Whiskey Sauce: This recipe is for a party of four. Obtain a gallon of whiskey, and allow it to age for several hours. Then serve, allowing one quart for each guest. The next day the turkey should be added, little by little, constantly stirring and basting.
13. For Weddings or Funerals: Obtain a gross of small white boxes such as are used for bride’s cake. Cut the turkey into small squares, roast, stuff, kill, boil, bake and allow to skewer. Now we are ready to begin. Fill each box with a quantity of soup stock and pile in a handy place. As the liquid elapses, the prepared turkey is added until the guests arrive. The boxes delicately tied with white ribbons are then placed in the handbags of the ladies, or in the men’s side pockets.
There I guess that’s enough turkey talk. I hope I’ll never see or hear of another until—well, until next year.
O
OBSERVATIONS
* * * * trying to carry with him the good of every age— one must discard, no matter from how unworthy a motive. Trying to see good in everyone, he saw only his own good.
Drunk at 20, wrecked at 30, dead at 40.
Drunk at 21, human at 31, mellow at 41, dead at 51.
Like all men who are fundamentally of the group, of the herd, he was incapable of taking a strong stand with the inevitable loneliness that it implied.
Voices: American doubtful—“Well, I don’t know”; English saying, “Extraordinary,” refusing to think; French saying, “Well, there you are.”
Apropos of Cocteau—perverts’ love of perverted children m[asculine] or f[eminine], is compensation for missing women, who are, in their social aspect, children with guile and sometimes wisdom, but still children.
Like all self-controlled people, the French talk to themselves.
The Crack-Up Page 17