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“Oh, what do I care? The important thing is having fun.” Joe noticed that the angle of Max’s head, a certain wryness in his expression, and his chiseled nose were very similar, indeed identical, to those of Franchot Tone in the publicity photo.
It was a resemblance that no one had ever noticed or remarked on before. Tone was not an actor whose work or face were especially familiar to Joe, but now, as he studied the slender, melancholy long face in the glossy photograph—it was signed To Carl with all the best wishes of Franchot Tone—he
Now it occurred to Joe to wonder if all they had been doing, all along, was indulging their own worst impulses and assuring the creation of another generation of men who revered only strength and domination.
He opened the folder, tugged the memorandum free of its clip, and flipped it over. On the back of the last page, using his mechanical pencil, he drew a quick sketch of the Escapist in the standard pose he had developed for pinups: the Master of Escape smiling, arms outstretched, the sundered halves of a pair of handcuffs braceleting his wrists. To my pal Carl Ebling, he wrote
“In fact,” he said. “No. I’ll tell you what. Have one of your boys walk them all over to Keen’s, all right, and tell Johnny, or whoever it is, to give everyone a drink and put it on Al Smith’s tab.”
Gerhardt Frege,
But there was an eagerness in the man’s eyes that both worried Smith and touched him.
Now Anapol and company were prospering—enough to
let a quarter of a floor in the Empire State Building, enough to exert an impressive mass-cultural influence over the vast American marketplace of children and know-nothings. And while, to judge from their attire, Messrs. Kavalier & Clay were sharing to some degree in the general prosperity,
Love had seen plenty of boy geniuses left deserted amid the bleached bones and cacti of their dreams.
“Please reassure me that my suspicions of your involvement in this afternoon’s charade are unfounded.”
Torquemada stare.
verbitterte
“Now, boys, it’s your turn in the barrel.”
“It’s my experience that honorable people live by the contracts they sign,” Deasey said at last. “And not a tittle more.”
“That man wants to make a show on the radio about the Escapist,” Joe said, slowly, feeling slow, thick-witted, and obscurely abused by inscrutable men. “He seemed at least to be interested in having his flacks explore the possibility,” Deasey said. “And if they do, you are saying that they will not have to pay us for it.” “I’m saying that.” “But of course they must.” “Not a dime.”
“I thought you said you wanted to warn us.” Sammy looked annoyed. “It seems to me the time for a warning would have been about a year ago, when we put our names to that piece-of-shit-excuse-my-language contract.”
“I know,” Sammy said. “I have to finish Strange Frigate.”
“No, Mr. Clay,” Deasey said, awkwardly settling an arm over the shoulders of each of them and dragging them toward the door. “Tonight you are going to sail on it.”
the Saboteur.
The party thrown for Salvador Dalí that last Friday of the New York World’s Fair got considerably more play.
Les Organes du Facteur,
“Those Olmec heads,”
writing a largely unpunctuated novel, already more than a thousand pages long, which described, in cellular detail, the process of his own birth.
The entire concept of taxicabs seemed to strike Sammy as recherché and decadent, on a par with the eating of songbirds. Joe took a dollar from his wallet and passed it to the driver.
by way of a narrow ruelle that slipped unnoticed between two buildings and penetrated, through a tunnel
Long Man of Harkoo
Neither of the cousins was much for parties. Though Sammy was mad for swing, he could not, of course, dance on his pipe-cleaner legs; his nerves killed his appetite, and at any rate,
His brash and heedless gift of conversation, by means of which he had whipped up Amazing Midget Radio Comics and with it the whole idea of Empire, deserted him.
Parties were work.
presume you are virgins?” They scraped up the
“Just don’t let him hug you,” he said.
Yuggogheny
Most took it to be either an allusion to the tenebrous
Yesterthoughts and Stranger,
Loren MacIver,
with a New York kind of beauty—sharp, tense, stylish—she was chatting with a tall, striking Aryan beauty who was holding a tiny baby to her breast. “Miss Uta Hagen,”
“She’s married to José Ferrer,
“A man in a mask, who likes to be tied up with ropes?”
“It’s quite surreal,” Harkoo
They made their way past several more curricula vitae holding cocktails, as well as a number of actual Surrealists, like raisins studded in a pudding.
Peter Blume, Edwin Dickinson,
shy, courtly fellow named
Joseph Corn...
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“Rosa Luxemburg Saks.”
the cool talcum smell of Shalimar she gave off was like a guardrail he could lean against.
chewed stub of a Ticonderoga
Pencil
Edvard Munch’s Madonna,
Picasso “blue” paintings, and of Klee’s Cosmic Flora; Ignatius Donnelly’s map of Atlantis, traced; a
The story was told entirely through collage, with pictures clipped from magazines and books.
