A Miscellany (Revised)

by e. e. cummings

  THE ELECTRO-DYNAMIC POLYDIMENSIONAL ARCHITECTURE OF LUMINOUS PLASTIC ELEMENTS MOVING IN THE CENTRE OF THE THEATRICAL HOLLOW

  This novel theatrical construction, owing to its position, allows the enlargement of the visual angle of perspective beyond the horizon, displacing it on top and vice versa in a simultaneous interpenetration, towards a centrifugal irradiation of infinite visual and emotional angles of scenic action.

  THE POLYDIMENSIONAL SCENIC SPACE, THE NEW FUTURISTIC CREATION for the theatre to come, opens new worlds for the magic and technique of the theatre.

  Amen.

  And now, a few parting words as to the actual Coney Island, in which it is to be hoped that all readers of this essay will freely indulge at the very earliest opportunity.

  Essentially it remains, as we have said, indescribable. At best, we may only suggest its invincible entirety indirectly, or through a haphazard enumeration of the more obvious elements—than which process, what would be more futile? How, by depicting a succession of spokes, may we hope to convey the speed or essence of a wheel which is revolving so rapidly as to be spokeless? No indeed; the IS or Verb of Coney Island escapes any portraiture. A trillion smells; the tinkle and snap of shooting galleries; the magically sonorous exhortations of barkers and ballyhoomen; the thousands upon thousands of faces paralysed by enchantment to mere eyeful disks, which strugglingly surge through dizzy gates of illusion; the metamorphosis of atmosphere into a stupendous pattern of electric colours, punctuated by a continuous whisking of leaning and cleaving ship-like shapes; the yearn and skid of toy cars crammed with screeching reality, wildly spiraling earthward or gliding out of ferocious depth into sumptuous height or whirling eccentrically in a brilliant flatness; occultly bulging, vividly painted banners inviting us to side shows, where strut and lurk those placid specimens of impossibility which comprise the extraordinary aristocracy of freakdom; the intricate clowning of enormous deceptions, of palaces which revolve, walls which collapse, surfaces which arch and drop and open to emit spurts of lividly bellowing steam—all these elements disappear in a homogeneously happening universe, surrounded by the rhythmic mutations of the ocean and circumscribed by the mightily oblivion-coloured rush of the roller coaster.

  From Vanity Fair, June 1926.

  CONFLICTING ASPECTS OF PARIS

  Being an eyewitness’s report on the two cities in the French Metropolis

  The much misunderstood metropolis of Paris (France) is at present two cities. One of these cities—the one which exhibits itself for the benefit of tourists—has been and still is widely advertised as “Paree.” The second Paris (which no mere tourist has ever so much as glimpsed, but which was, is and will forever remain) calls itself “Paname.”

  “Paname” is argot. Argot is slang. Slang is the most alive aspect of a language. The aspect of Paris which “Paname” signifies is the most alive aspect, the inner part; the secret of secrets, unpurchasable either by His Britannic Majesty’s pounds or by His Yankee Excellency’s dollars. Frequently, however, l’étranger is led to believe that, minus “Gay Paree,” Paris would not be Paris—and here lurks a particularly poisonous mistake, which it is the present writer’s intention to assassinate.

  That foreigner, more particularly that American, who inhabits Paris for more or less cultural reasons, will hereupon raise her or his voice in protest, crying: “Verily your distinction is absurdly obvious. Anyone of even mediocre intelligence is perfectly aware of the contrast between that brand of Paris which is served to tourists and the genuine article. As for me, I speak the language, I despise cabarets, I enjoy the Louvre”—etcetera.

  To which outburst we beg to respond: “Dear sir, or madam—that foreigner who (for any reason whatsoever) inhabits Paris, is a strictly negligible phenomenon. It is the foreigner whom Paris inhabits, who matters. Only to such a foreigner is the distinction between ‘Paree’ and ‘Paname’ vitally and irrevocably clear; only in such a foreigner does the confusion of these two aspects, ‘Paname’ and ‘Paree,’ cause the gorge unmitigatedly to rise. Believe it or not, gentle madam, or sir—your highly respectable Paris is far from being our ‘Paname.’ ”

  To prove this assertion is not difficult. Suppose, for instance, that Paris be considered as a whole or as one compound unit—a kind of microscope, for the examination of the world. Let us apply this microscope called Paris to our unenlightened eye. What do we discover with the aid of its lenses? We discover, ladies and gentlemen, that the world is not (as some are wont to suppose) at peace. Quite the contrary: war is everywhere. Our civilization is rent, to put it mildly, by strife. But by precisely what sort of strife? Strife between nationalities? Nothing as superficial as that. Between capital and labour? Wrong again. Looking very closely and holding our breath, we discover that the truly stupendous strife under observation partakes of a deeply religious nature, since it involves two furiously contending cults. What we perceive is nothing less than a holy war of unprecedented proportions, a fight to the death between two groups of unparalleled fanatics—comprising, on the one hand, the Worshippers of Life and, on the other, the Worshippers of Bathtubs. These distinctions I shall proceed forthwith to define.

  The Worshippers of Life (hereafter to be known as the W.O.L. party) and the Worshippers of Bathtubs (hereafter to be indicated by the letters W.O.B.) are enemies of long standing. Indeed, an accurate and painstaking survey of the W.O.L.-W.O.B. conflict would include the history of modern civilization. Our readers need have no fear—we shall not attempt such a survey. Instead, the subject of this essay being “Paree” vs. “Paname,” we shall concern ourselves merely with contemporary and local aspects of the epoch-making struggle. For it is this struggle and nothing else which at present divides the metropolis of Paris into “Paname” and “Paree.”

  Let us make the foregoing statement perfectly clear. The distinction between naughty or pleasure-loving or “gay” Paris, and noble or museum-haunting or intellectual Paris is a bit of arbitrary nonsense, fabricated out of the whole cloth by Herr Karl Baedeker and carefully perpetuated by Messrs. Thos. Cook & Son. To a Parisian (and to anyone else who has his wits about him) such a distinction is utterly ridiculous. Judged from the standpoint of psychology, occupying oneself with any aspect of existence to the exclusion of the opposite aspect—being serious without also being silly—is unhealthy; whereas your Parisian is a remarkably healthy psychological specimen. Your Parisian, we repeat, perfectly realizes that without folly there would be no wisdom; and his Paris (constructed in accordance with this realization) embraces as many and as diverse kinds of existence as possible. Throughout this Parisian Paris, properly entitled “Paname,” opposites of all varieties meet. Madame la Comtesse rubs elbows with Mlle la Gonzesse, dance halls mingle with museums, and life is an essentially healthy—since homogeneous—affair.

  In only one respect are the Cooks and Baedekers right: there exist two kinds of Paris. The metropolis is divided—but divided fundamentally, we reiterate, not arbitrarily; and as the direct result of actually conflicting values, not as a mere means of accommodating certain unneccessary Anglo-Saxon prejudices. What actually makes of the city of Paris two distinct cities, two contrasting entities, is the before-mentioned Holy War between two cults: the W.O.L. and the W.O.B. To put the thing a little differently—whether a visitor goes to naughty Montmartre or to nice Napoleon’s Tomb is (Baedeker and the Cooks to the contrary) unimportant; but whether a human being merely inhabits the bathtub city of “Paree” or actually is inhabited by the living city of “Paname,” wholly and fundamentally matters. TO BE, OR TO BE BATHED—that is the question which threatens the world in general and Paris in particular.

  Remembering ye good olde proverbe, “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” the gentle reader will demand, in righteous fury: “How dare you assert that bathtubs are iniquitous?” Or should the sacrosanct tradition of “progress” (viz. that form of prosperity which is intimately connected with bathing) arise in her or his mind, she or he will exclaim: “The bathtub is c
ivilized! Long live the noble institution of tubbing! Vive the aristocracy of the daily bath!”

  Throughout “Paree” one hears the very same slogan, for throughout Paris the cult of the tub is triumphant. Everywhere one’s eye is greeted by Hôtel du Progrès, Dernier Confort, Confort Moderne (“confort,” apparently, is hermaphroditic) and “Englisch” spoken. The étranger is invited at each step to inhabit American Bars until it shall be time for five “oclok” tea. On the upper rue de Rivoli, enunciation of French is no longer considered merely uncultured; it is considered positively blasphemous. As for a certain famous hill named Montmartre (where, not so very long ago, persons of all varieties amused themselves in a spontaneous and original manner) ’tis nowadays nothing more nor less than a peculiarly uninteresting machine for separating Anglo-Saxons from their bankrolls. Cleanliness is indeed next to godliness! Formerly a vein, Boulevard Montparnasse has become an artery through which pulses most of the none-too-red blood which comes straight from the none-too-sound heart of Greenwich Village, U.S.A. God’s in His Heaven, prices soar, National Cash Registers adorn all the progressive cafés, Wrigley advertises where it will do most good, the franc touches 22, and that invaluable home of hilarity, Le Concert Mayol, translated “Oh Quel Nu,” the title of its revue, as “Ladies Shirt Off (!).”

  So much for “Paree” and the triumph of the Worshippers of Bathtubs. And now, a few words concerning the second Paris, the unconquerable and authentic city: “Paname.”

  Pounds, progress, dollars and morals have assailed and still assail her, but in vain. At any bistro, a bordeaux blanc is still a bordeaux blanc and un demi is still un demi and fine is fine, for all the attacks of “whiskey,” gin, “pal-al,” and grog américain—not to mention the Ligue Nationale Contre l’Alcoölisme (O, mores!). Albeit employed nightly as an advertisement for Citroën automobiles, that ultra-Freudian symbol which is known as le tour Eiffel smites the sunlit heavens as aforetime. A foire goes full blast at Porte Vincennes, with its “toboggan” and its “steam swings” and its games and shooting galleries and wrestlers and stomach-dancers and bodiless ladies and lion tamers. The Tout Est Bon café of Porte Saint Denis still observes the Tout Va Mieux café, just across the street, with a scornful smile. At Auteuil and Longchamps there are still hooves and colours. Defying uncounted films américains, the ancient and honourable Théâtre du Châtelet promulgates its honourable and ancient brand of three-dimensional melodrama—the Fratellinis have moved to the Cirque d’Hiver, but a cirque is still a cirque and they are still the Fratellinis. “Miss” appears in a super-Follies concoction, but still does the sacred Mistinguette stuff—the Moulins are all turning. Always, the Jardin du Luxembourg has its wooden horses to ride and its tiny ships to sail; and in the Elysian Fields guignols twinkle like fireflies. Barges and bateaux mouches glide (and will forever glide) through the exquisite river; from which old gentlemen, armed with prodigious poles and preternatural patience, will forever extract microscopic fish. Beneath “Paree,” beneath the glittering victory of “civilization,” a careful eye perceives the deep, extraordinary, luminous triumph of Life Itself and of a city founded upon Life—a city called “Paname,” a heart which throbs always, a spirit always which cannot die. The winged monsters of the garden of Cluny do not appear to have heard of “progress.” The cathedral of Notre Dame does not budge an inch for all the idiocies of this world.

  Meanwhile, spring and summer everywhere openingly arrive.

  Lovers capture the Bois.

  In crooked streets young voices cry flowers.

  From Vanity Fair, August 1926.

  VIVE LA FOLIE!

  An analysis of the “revue” in general and the Parisian revue in particular

  In the old days—not the very old days either, but the long-lost days of a few years ago—your correspondent was no more addicted to the so-called “Serious drama” than he is at present. Although at that time, even as now, inhabiting Paris (which metropolis takes the serious drama super-seriously) he never willingly met an honest-to-God footlight face to face. But this does not mean that he neglected the theatre. Far from it! There were and are, in Paris, plenty of dishonest-to-God footlights, plenty of plotless dramas, plenty of “light” spectacles—and our article is devoted to a few of their many seductions and intricacies.

  Be it added, that, to employ the adjective “light” with reference to the art of the Concert Mayol, the Casino de Paris, the Moulin Rouge and (last but far from least) the Folies Bergère, is to be guilty of a somewhat atrocious inaccuracy. For the type of spectacle which flourishes within said temples of mirth and amusement and which is universally designated by the word “revue” is extremely fundamental—no more light, forsooth, than the stupid trickeries and clumsy alexandrines of a Théâtre Français are dramatic. Nor do we speak as the scribes; having for some years, more or less, devoted ourselves to the glorious art of the plotless drama in general and the Parisian revue in particular.

  During these highly agreeable years, we have frequently asked ourselves “what is the revue?” And justly so; since the revue, like everything else worth while, is constantly changing. In the aforesaid old days, for example, a typical Parisian revue was a jumble of extraordinarily ill-staged “sketches,” of sumptuously indecent ditties, of highly confused convolutions on the part of a tastelessly costumed chorus and—finally—of incredibly immobile nudes, the least ponderous of whom looked as if she could very easily quell an eruptive volcano merely by sitting on it. What women! Not even the Old Howard, of Boston, Mass., could furnish their rivals in ugliness, nor were Billy Watson’s Beef Trust Beauties to be compared with them on the score of avoirdupois. One was reminded slightly of Rubens, more of the Eden Theatre in Madrid and most (ah, most) of the Oedipus Complex.

  As a matter of fact, these old time nudes differed absolutely from the stupendous ladies in the canvases of Rubens; the essence of Rubens’ females being their hurled weight, their velocity and momentum, whereas the essence of the Parisian nudes was their immobility. The naiads of Rubens’ Debarkation of Marie de Médicis, for instance, copiously squirm as we watch them. The dryads of the old Parisian revue—and the woods were full of them—only stood around.

  That was in the old days.

  Et ça change. Gone are the snows of yesteryear. The hippopotami have melted: each has become a dozen fashionably formed and alluringly moving gazelles. Vivid, occasionally precise scenery has everywhere replaced the uncertain planes and flyspecked tones of the ancient music-hall scenery. That typically French, or rather Latin, rhythm, the 3/4 throb or waltz, is submerged in the 2/4 patter or riveter rhythm of “le Jazz.” Maurice Chevalier (supported by “les Dolly Sisters,” who for some unknown reason think they can Charleston) sings many a song at the Casino de Paris, but the song which he sings best is unquestionably “Pour être heureux” (Then I’ll Be Happy). The girls at the Mayol, who were always well above the average as to pulchritude, have improved 150% all over. Again, the marvellous Mistinguette and her Yankee dancing partner, awkward Earl Leslie, have promulgated a brand new eye tickler at the Moulin Rouge which, for splendour, size and nudity, knocks our American revues into a cocked hat.

  But the latest and most astounding development of the Parisian revue is announced, by a Parisian journal, called Eve, in these terms:

  “The Negro is more than ever in favour since the invasion of Jazz and American dances. In the new revue at the Folies Bergère called La Folie du Jour, there is a Negress, Josephine Baker, who is the great vedette. In truth, when one looks, one sees a mulatto with the sleek figure of the Anglo-Saxon, yet the face, the gestures, the dances, even the voice, retain all the rhythm and all the strangeness of her original race.” And, as the immortal Bert Savoy would have said, “You don’t know the half of it, dearie.”

  Josephine Baker will immediately suggest, to all addicts of the plotless drama, one peculiarly genuine spectacle entitled The Chocolate Dandies. For it was this revue which gave Miss Baker a microscopic, but notable, opportunity
to “strut her stuff.” As a member of the Dandies chorus, she resembled some tall, vital, incomparably fluid nightmare which crossed its eyes and warped its limbs in a purely unearthly manner—some vision which opened new avenues of fear, which suggested nothing but itself and which, consequently, was strictly aesthetic. It may seem preposterous that this terrifying nightmare should have become the most beautiful (and beautiful is what we mean) star of the Parisian stage. Yet such is the case. The black star, “aux formes elancées d’Anglo-Saxonne,” has accomplished precisely this transformation, and at the tender age of twenty.

  Miss Baker, it seems, came to the Folies Bergère after participating in a Negro show which was taking Paris by storm. But when les girls of this show appeared “as is” and then “shook that thing” the good Parisians (than whom no people on earth can be more respectable) objected, and objected so strenously that les girls were compelled to don a respectable semi-nudity. At least so the story goes. Anyhow, Miss Baker escaped to the Folies Bergère. And at the Folies Bergère, as your humble servant can testify, there is nothing in the least respectable, seminude, or otherwise unsatisfactory about Miss Baker’s getup—which consists of a few bananas and not too much jewelry. In brief, the Folies Bergère permits Josephine Baker to appear—for the first time on any stage—as herself.