Random neuron firing, lame philosophy, literary pontificating, movies, sex, clothes & other femme stuff

Friday, September 19, 2003

Dreary Life. Dreary Tampons.

Dreary hangover. Dreary rain. Dreary, originally meant gory, bloody. Weird how it jumped meaning somewhere and metonymically allied itself to the emotional aftermath of gory situations. Related to traurig.

Think about the metonymic jumping bean, toilet.

Laurable links to a cool page devoted to The Dial. It makes me wooze over to the shelf and pull down the one original copy I have, from March 1925. It has in it what I take to be the first publication of "The Hollow Men." No Conrad "Mistah Kurtz" epigraph. Only three stanzas, what in the final version are I, II, & IV. No "Between . . . and . . . falls the Shadow." No "not with a bang but a whimper." No "For thine is . . . ." None of the disjecta membra characteristic of Eliot during that period. Weird. I'm, like, are we missing some pages here?

Other interesting pieces: a book review by Marianne Moore, some scolding of Moore's unicorn-credulity by the "editor" (Thayer, I guess), "Strange Moonlight" by Aiken, a print by Charles Sheeler, a dialogue on government by Santayana, a great interview w/ a prickly Strawinsky (sic). The ads are fabulous. Amy Lowell's Keats bio is "Now Ready!" Dial Press is coming out with XLI Poems by E. E. Cummings (sic): "A leader among the younger American poets, whose Tulips and Chimneys showed its author to be possessed of a rare sense of the beautiful and a fine power of sensuous expression. In this new volume, particularly in the sonnets, these same characteristics are again greatly manifest." Also coming out with The Art of the Theatre by Sarah [1st I wrote "Sandra"] Bernhardt--"priceless hints to all interested in the stage."

Having a dreary hangover, I imagine pulling this issue new from the mailbox and just feel sad and envious of a lot of very dead people. Dreary.
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