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Horizons, v. 6, issue 3, whole no. 22, March 1945
Page 10
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10 22 Horizons Anecdota Deglerania painting." (Honest!) Them they just sat. Urp. For the sake of science, somebody really ought to feed Clod an overdose of chloroform, cut him open, and investigate the contents of his stomach. Apparently he had incredible difficulty consuming any solid food other than hot dogs (even when somebody else was paying). Of course, there's nothing wrong with soup (10 cent soup, only, we'll have you know; none of this over-rich 15 cent stuff), though the extremes to which Clod carried it must have become rather monotonous. Then there was the prune juice. One day when we were especially affluent (one of us had two bits) we bought some bread and prune jelly to eat in the room. We ate perhaps a third of it, then could go no further. The stuff was one of the most horrible concoctions ever brewed. It wasn't even fit for the pigs to eat. So for several days it stayed on the shelf. And then one day Clod found it again. There was still some bread, but that was too ordinary for Superfan. He filled the jar to the top with water, swished it around, and drank it. Plenty of jelly remained in the jar, so he repeated the process. Still more jelly. More water went in on top, and the weird liquid gurgled down Clod's throat. Three glasses by no means satisfied him; he started to do it again. And then we went out for some air. A man can stand only so much... '_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_ Quoteworthy Quotes From "Tonio Kruger", by Thomas Mann: "We work poorly in the spring, of course; and why? Because we feel, and because anyone is a duffer to think that the creator dare feel. Every genuine and conscientious artist smiles at the naivete of this quack notion -- with melancholy perhaps, but he smiles. For what people say must never be the main thing, but only the material, unimportant of itself, out of which the structure is put together in times of a calm, playful superiority. If you are too close to what you have to say, if your heart beats too warmly over it, then you can be sure of a complete fiasco. You become pathetic, you become sentimental; something stodgy, heavy, ungoverned, unironical, unseasoned, boring, banal originates under your hands, and the result is nothing but indifference on the part of others and disillusion and distress on the part of yourself...emotion, warm, cold ecstasies of our corrupt, our expert nervous system, are artistic. One must be something extrahuman and inhuman, before he will stand in a peculiarly distant and impartial relationship to a human, to play with it, to present it effectively and tastefully. The gift for style, form, and expression already presupposes this cool and critical relationship with the human, even a certain human poverty and desolation. For the strong and healthy emotion -- there is no getting around it -- is without taste. It is all over with the artist as soon as he becomes a man and begins to feel... "Literature is not a calling at all, but a curse, and that ends it. When does it begin to show itself, this curse? Early, frightfully early. At a time when one by rights should still be living in peace and accord with God and the world. You begin by feeling yourself set apart, in some mysterious antagonism to others, to the usual, the ordinary. The abyss of irony, disbelief, opposition, knowledge, feeling which separates you from people yawns deeper and deeper. You are alone, and henceforth there is no intercommunication. What a fate! Provided that your heart is sufficiently alive, sufficiently loving, to feel it as frightful! ..." Please take notice, Larry Farsaci.
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10 22 Horizons Anecdota Deglerania painting." (Honest!) Them they just sat. Urp. For the sake of science, somebody really ought to feed Clod an overdose of chloroform, cut him open, and investigate the contents of his stomach. Apparently he had incredible difficulty consuming any solid food other than hot dogs (even when somebody else was paying). Of course, there's nothing wrong with soup (10 cent soup, only, we'll have you know; none of this over-rich 15 cent stuff), though the extremes to which Clod carried it must have become rather monotonous. Then there was the prune juice. One day when we were especially affluent (one of us had two bits) we bought some bread and prune jelly to eat in the room. We ate perhaps a third of it, then could go no further. The stuff was one of the most horrible concoctions ever brewed. It wasn't even fit for the pigs to eat. So for several days it stayed on the shelf. And then one day Clod found it again. There was still some bread, but that was too ordinary for Superfan. He filled the jar to the top with water, swished it around, and drank it. Plenty of jelly remained in the jar, so he repeated the process. Still more jelly. More water went in on top, and the weird liquid gurgled down Clod's throat. Three glasses by no means satisfied him; he started to do it again. And then we went out for some air. A man can stand only so much... '_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_'_ Quoteworthy Quotes From "Tonio Kruger", by Thomas Mann: "We work poorly in the spring, of course; and why? Because we feel, and because anyone is a duffer to think that the creator dare feel. Every genuine and conscientious artist smiles at the naivete of this quack notion -- with melancholy perhaps, but he smiles. For what people say must never be the main thing, but only the material, unimportant of itself, out of which the structure is put together in times of a calm, playful superiority. If you are too close to what you have to say, if your heart beats too warmly over it, then you can be sure of a complete fiasco. You become pathetic, you become sentimental; something stodgy, heavy, ungoverned, unironical, unseasoned, boring, banal originates under your hands, and the result is nothing but indifference on the part of others and disillusion and distress on the part of yourself...emotion, warm, cold ecstasies of our corrupt, our expert nervous system, are artistic. One must be something extrahuman and inhuman, before he will stand in a peculiarly distant and impartial relationship to a human, to play with it, to present it effectively and tastefully. The gift for style, form, and expression already presupposes this cool and critical relationship with the human, even a certain human poverty and desolation. For the strong and healthy emotion -- there is no getting around it -- is without taste. It is all over with the artist as soon as he becomes a man and begins to feel... "Literature is not a calling at all, but a curse, and that ends it. When does it begin to show itself, this curse? Early, frightfully early. At a time when one by rights should still be living in peace and accord with God and the world. You begin by feeling yourself set apart, in some mysterious antagonism to others, to the usual, the ordinary. The abyss of irony, disbelief, opposition, knowledge, feeling which separates you from people yawns deeper and deeper. You are alone, and henceforth there is no intercommunication. What a fate! Provided that your heart is sufficiently alive, sufficiently loving, to feel it as frightful! ..." Please take notice, Larry Farsaci.
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