The story of Miss Li—so well told.
Qu'avez-vous vu? Or they that write much and see little. Not much use to us.
Speak of old Sun Bow pacing his mesa instead of Felipe Segundo in the barren halls of El Escorial—or asleep in his hard bed at one corner of the griddle.
My mother would have a little nigger boy come with a brush and sit at her feet and brush her legs by the hour.
Expressionism is to express skilfully the seething reactions of the contemporary European consciousness. Cornucopia. In at the small end and—blui! Kandinsky.
But it's a fine thing. It is THE thing for the moment—in Europe. The same sort of thing, reversed, in America has a water attachment to be released with a button. That IS art. Everyone agrees that IS art. Just as one uses a handkerchief.
It is the apotheosis of relief. Dadaism in one of its prettiest modes: rien, rien, rien.—But wait a bit. Maybe Dadaism is not so weak as one might imagine.—One takes it for granted almost without a thought that expressionism is the release of SOMETHING. Now then Aemilius, what is European consciousness composed of?—Tell me in one word.—Rien, rien, rien! It is at least very complicated. Oh very.
You damned jackass. What do you know about Europe? Yes, what in Christ's name do you know? Your mouth is a sewer, a cloaca.
Complicated consciousness quite aside from a possible revaluation. It has no value for ME. It is all very interesting and God knows we have enough to learn. The swarming European consciousness. But there it is much simpler—No good to us.
Swarming European consciousness: Kreisler and Ysaye were the only ones with any value. They had a few pennies over and above expenses. They swarm here now for something to eat. But the funniest are the ones from Russia; each excoriates the playing of the other and calls the other a Sheeny. Wow!