Gracie is deaf and dumb and biger than
me but not very smart on account of being deaf and dumb. She plays on the roof
of our house and dont go to school except to deaf and
dumb school twice a week on tuesdays and thursdays . Mother makes her play on the roof
because we dont want her to get run over as she aint very smart. Last week a man came on the roof and did
something dirty to her. She told me about it and I dont know what to do as I am afraid to tell mother on account of her being liable to
beat Grade up. I am afraid that Gracie is going to have a baby and I listened
to her stomack last night for a long time to see if I
could hear the baby but I couldn't. If I tell mother she will beat Gracie up awfull because I am the only one who loves her and last
time when she tore her dress they Joked her in the closet for 2 days and if the
boys on the blok hear about it they will say dirty
things like they did on Peewee Conors sister the time
she got caught in the lots. So please what would you do if the same hapened in your family.
Yours
truly,
Harold
S.
He stopped reading. Christ was the
answer, but, if he did not want to get sick, he had to stay away from the
Christ business. Besides, Christ was Shrike's particular joke. "Soul of
Miss L, glorify me. Body of Miss L, save me. Blood
of..." He turned to his typewriter.
Although his cheap clothes had too
much style, he still looked like the son of a Baptist minister. A beard would
become him, would accent his Old-Testament look. But even without a beard no
one could fail to recognize the New England puritan. His forehead was high and
narrow. His nose was long and fleshless. His bony chin was shaped and cleft
like a hoof. On seeing him for the first time, Shrike had smiled and said,
"The Susan Chesters , the Beatrice Fairfaxes and the Miss Lonelyhearts are the priests of twentieth-century America."
A copy boy came up to tell him that
Shrike wanted to know if the stuff was ready. He bent over the typewriter and
began pounding its keys.
But before he had written a dozen
words, Shrike leaned over his shoulder. "The same old stuff," Shrike
said. "Why don't you give them something new and hopeful? Tell them about
art. Here, I'll dictate:
" Art Is a Way Out.
"Do not let life overwhelm you.
When the old paths are choked with the debris of failure, look for newer and
fresher paths. Art is just such a path. Art is distilled from suffering. As Mr. Polnikoff exclaimed through his fine Russian beard,
when, at the age of eighty-six, he gave up his business to learn Chinese, ' We are, as yet, only at the beginning...
" Art Is One of Life's Richest Offerings.
"For those who have not the
talent to create, there is appreciation. For those...
"Go on from there."
MISS LONELYHEARTS AND THE DEAD PAN
When Miss Lonelyhearts quit work, he found
that the weather had turned warm and that the air smelt as though it had been
artificially heated. He decided to walk to Delehanty's speakeasy for a drink. In order to get there, it was necessary to cross a
little park.
He entered the park at the North
Gate and swallowed mouthfuls of the heavy shade that curtained its arch. He
walked into the shadow of a lamp-post that lay on the path like a spear. It
pierced him like a spear.
As far as he could discover, there
were no signs of spring. The decay that covered the surface of the mottled
ground was not the kind in which life generates. Last year, he remembered, May
had failed to quicken these soiled fields. It had taken all the brutality of
July to torture a few green spikes through the exhausted dirt.
What the little park needed, even
more than he did, was a drink. Neither alcohol nor rain would do. To-morrow, in
his column, he would ask Broken-hearted, Sick-of-it-all, Desperate,
Disillusioned-with-tubercular-husband and the rest of his correspondents to
come here and water the soil with their tears. Flowers would then spring up,
flowers that smelled of feet.
"Ah, humanity..." But he
was heavy
me but not very smart on account of being deaf and dumb. She plays on the roof
of our house and dont go to school except to deaf and
dumb school twice a week on tuesdays and thursdays . Mother makes her play on the roof
because we dont want her to get run over as she aint very smart. Last week a man came on the roof and did
something dirty to her. She told me about it and I dont know what to do as I am afraid to tell mother on account of her being liable to
beat Grade up. I am afraid that Gracie is going to have a baby and I listened
to her stomack last night for a long time to see if I
could hear the baby but I couldn't. If I tell mother she will beat Gracie up awfull because I am the only one who loves her and last
time when she tore her dress they Joked her in the closet for 2 days and if the
boys on the blok hear about it they will say dirty
things like they did on Peewee Conors sister the time
she got caught in the lots. So please what would you do if the same hapened in your family.
Yours
truly,
Harold
S.
He stopped reading. Christ was the
answer, but, if he did not want to get sick, he had to stay away from the
Christ business. Besides, Christ was Shrike's particular joke. "Soul of
Miss L, glorify me. Body of Miss L, save me. Blood
of..." He turned to his typewriter.
Although his cheap clothes had too
much style, he still looked like the son of a Baptist minister. A beard would
become him, would accent his Old-Testament look. But even without a beard no
one could fail to recognize the New England puritan. His forehead was high and
narrow. His nose was long and fleshless. His bony chin was shaped and cleft
like a hoof. On seeing him for the first time, Shrike had smiled and said,
"The Susan Chesters , the Beatrice Fairfaxes and the Miss Lonelyhearts are the priests of twentieth-century America."
A copy boy came up to tell him that
Shrike wanted to know if the stuff was ready. He bent over the typewriter and
began pounding its keys.
But before he had written a dozen
words, Shrike leaned over his shoulder. "The same old stuff," Shrike
said. "Why don't you give them something new and hopeful? Tell them about
art. Here, I'll dictate:
" Art Is a Way Out.
"Do not let life overwhelm you.
When the old paths are choked with the debris of failure, look for newer and
fresher paths. Art is just such a path. Art is distilled from suffering. As Mr. Polnikoff exclaimed through his fine Russian beard,
when, at the age of eighty-six, he gave up his business to learn Chinese, ' We are, as yet, only at the beginning...
" Art Is One of Life's Richest Offerings.
"For those who have not the
talent to create, there is appreciation. For those...
"Go on from there."
MISS LONELYHEARTS AND THE DEAD PAN
When Miss Lonelyhearts quit work, he found
that the weather had turned warm and that the air smelt as though it had been
artificially heated. He decided to walk to Delehanty's speakeasy for a drink. In order to get there, it was necessary to cross a
little park.
He entered the park at the North
Gate and swallowed mouthfuls of the heavy shade that curtained its arch. He
walked into the shadow of a lamp-post that lay on the path like a spear. It
pierced him like a spear.
As far as he could discover, there
were no signs of spring. The decay that covered the surface of the mottled
ground was not the kind in which life generates. Last year, he remembered, May
had failed to quicken these soiled fields. It had taken all the brutality of
July to torture a few green spikes through the exhausted dirt.
What the little park needed, even
more than he did, was a drink. Neither alcohol nor rain would do. To-morrow, in
his column, he would ask Broken-hearted, Sick-of-it-all, Desperate,
Disillusioned-with-tubercular-husband and the rest of his correspondents to
come here and water the soil with their tears. Flowers would then spring up,
flowers that smelled of feet.
"Ah, humanity..." But he
was heavy
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