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Category Archive for 'Literature'

Frisco Gal I Don’t Know Why

Frisco Gal by Clarkson Crane is, if not the worst book, ever written, published, sorta semi-skimmed looking for even one half-worthwhile passage, it’s certainly in the running. If I was Naomi Martin, as Frisco Gal once was, I’d have changed my name too. I wish I could at least say Clarkson Crane was borrachón filling the page for money […]

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Joe was reeling himself. He stuck his head in a bucket of water and cleaned up the cabin and threw the bottles overboard and started working on the claxon regularly. To hell with ‘em, he kept saying to himself, he wouldn’t be a plaster saint for anybody. He was feeling fine, he had something more […]

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Friday, April 25- 1913 My peaches sweet: Wednesday night I went to dine Laura Jean Libbey. She didn’t know me from Adam’s off ox and all the while (I went with a newspaper friend) called me Mr. Caeser, which I refused to correct or allow to be corrected. Short, stout, red headed (brick red), genial, […]

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My appointment was for the evening. Dreiser, who is finishing a book, “An American Tragedy,” in a specially rented New York office, lives in Brooklyn, which is also the base of my visits to Gotham. Accordingly, I show up at this place, ready for the regular chat about books and people. Drawing up alongside the […]

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The least wrinkle crept into his brow as he remembered that this was February 2d, the time the man always called. He fished in his pocket for his purse, getting the first taste of paying out when nothing is coming in. He looked at the fat, green roll as a sick man looks at the […]

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He [Sherwood Anderson] was very unsure of himself; that is why he was never in a hurry with anybody, for it takes a long time to understand– or to misunderstand– people. He never had the American “busy” malady. Nor had Dreiser; if you wanted to see him, he always asked you to come over right […]

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There are five trash towns in greater New York, five garbage heaps of Tofeth. A foul, thick wafter of iron and cement covers primeval America, beneath which cry the ghosts of the crane, the mallard, the gray and white brants, the elk and the fallow deer. A broken obelisk at Crocodopolis has stood in one […]

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Yes, many’s the night I attended a recital in one of these hallowed musical morgues and each time I walked out I thought not of the music I had heard but of one of my foundlings, one of the bleeding cosmococcic crew I had hired or fired that day and the memory of whom neither […]

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Follow? Red, the Negro shoeshine boy, waits by his dusty leather seat. The Negroes all over wasted Roxbury wait. Follow? “Cherokee” comes wailing up from the dance floor below, over the hi-hat, the string bass, the thousand sets of feet where the moving rose lights suggest not pale Harvard boys and their dates, but a […]

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Bette Davis and Margaret Dumont are in the curly-Cuvilliés drawing-room of somebody’s palatial home. From outside the window, at some point, comes the sound of a kazoo, playing a tune of astounding tastelessness, probably “Who Dat Man?” from A Day At The Races (in more ways than one). It is one of Groucho Marx’s vulgar […]

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