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Polaris, v. 1, issue 4, September 1940
Page 17
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POLARIS 17 the palace cat with a petunia-stalk. He said "I have wasted your gold and my days and have only this which I did last night when a dream woke me up." From the second statue a second cloth was taken, and the god was as a god should be. The company wept and the king lay for an hour on his face thinking of something he had done when only a boy and not really to be blamed. The sculptor of the black robe went up to the god with a tape-measure. Then as a reward the king gave his cat to the man, for the man had asked it of him, and appointed a priest to the statue. And the bad statue was melted into a base for the other, though friends of the man who made it brought humbly a petition to the king. For seven hundred years the figure endured at that court until its feet were worn away with kisses, and even now in eastern countries men exchange the coins into which on the capture of the city, it was cast. THE END - - - - THE SINGLE STRAIN by Jack Chapman Miske George Milton had long been a poet, but great music was comparatively new to him. He liked themes, recurring melodies, and said he couldn't really listen to classical music, because it wandered. When he was about nineteen, though, he began to discover occasional classical pieces which opened whole new vistas of dream to him. Much as with his appreciation of poetry, he refused to be guided by critics, or awed by great names. He laughed at some compositions I had always taken for granted were great, while he listened enraptured to "minor" pieces. He never attended concerts, but very often he and I would listen alone to records until the dark, silent hours of the night. It was one of those times that it happened. We had heard a number of his favorites, and I thought to play something new to him. Consequently I put on Tschaikowsky's Fifth. As perhaps you are aware, while the Fifth is a well-known symphony, the so-called authorities are accustomed to say it is sentimental and grossly overrated -- as, indeed, they say of Tschaikowsky's work. I like it, however, and felt Milton would also. He listened closely to the first movement, and upon its conclusion turned to me a bit wistfully and spoke. "There is an undercurrent, a hinting, at something greater running through it," he said. "But the composer failed to catch the real melody, if I can call it that. He is like me, i fear." He smiled thinly. "He grasps always for something that his mind knows, feels, perfectly, but whose capture is impossible, whose entirety eludes him always. You see, Jack, in one's mind it exists
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POLARIS 17 the palace cat with a petunia-stalk. He said "I have wasted your gold and my days and have only this which I did last night when a dream woke me up." From the second statue a second cloth was taken, and the god was as a god should be. The company wept and the king lay for an hour on his face thinking of something he had done when only a boy and not really to be blamed. The sculptor of the black robe went up to the god with a tape-measure. Then as a reward the king gave his cat to the man, for the man had asked it of him, and appointed a priest to the statue. And the bad statue was melted into a base for the other, though friends of the man who made it brought humbly a petition to the king. For seven hundred years the figure endured at that court until its feet were worn away with kisses, and even now in eastern countries men exchange the coins into which on the capture of the city, it was cast. THE END - - - - THE SINGLE STRAIN by Jack Chapman Miske George Milton had long been a poet, but great music was comparatively new to him. He liked themes, recurring melodies, and said he couldn't really listen to classical music, because it wandered. When he was about nineteen, though, he began to discover occasional classical pieces which opened whole new vistas of dream to him. Much as with his appreciation of poetry, he refused to be guided by critics, or awed by great names. He laughed at some compositions I had always taken for granted were great, while he listened enraptured to "minor" pieces. He never attended concerts, but very often he and I would listen alone to records until the dark, silent hours of the night. It was one of those times that it happened. We had heard a number of his favorites, and I thought to play something new to him. Consequently I put on Tschaikowsky's Fifth. As perhaps you are aware, while the Fifth is a well-known symphony, the so-called authorities are accustomed to say it is sentimental and grossly overrated -- as, indeed, they say of Tschaikowsky's work. I like it, however, and felt Milton would also. He listened closely to the first movement, and upon its conclusion turned to me a bit wistfully and spoke. "There is an undercurrent, a hinting, at something greater running through it," he said. "But the composer failed to catch the real melody, if I can call it that. He is like me, i fear." He smiled thinly. "He grasps always for something that his mind knows, feels, perfectly, but whose capture is impossible, whose entirety eludes him always. You see, Jack, in one's mind it exists
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