Monday
Oct. 14, 2002
she being brand new
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Poem: "she being Brand," by e.e. cummings from 100 Selected Poems (Grove Weidenfield).
she being Brand
she being Brand
-new;and you
  know consequently a
  little stiff I was
  careful of her and (having
thoroughly oiled the universal
  joint tested my gas felt of
  her radiator made sure her springs were O.
K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her
up,slipped the
  clutch (and then somehow got into reverse she
  kicked what
  the hell) next
  minute i was back in neutral tried and
again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my
lev-er Right-
  oh and her gears being in
  A 1 shape passed
  from low through
  second-in-to-high like
  greasedlightning) just as we turned the corner of Divinity
avenue i touched the accelerator and give
her the juice,good
                               (it
  was the first ride and believe I we was
  happy to see how nice and acted right up to 
  the last minute coming back down by the Public
  Gardens I slammed on
  the
internalexpanding
  &
  externalcontracting
  breaks Bothatonce and
brought allofher tremB
  -ling
  to a:dead.
stand-
  ;Still)
  
  
It's the birthday of Hannah Arendt, born in Hannover, Germany (1906). She wrote The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951). When the war criminal Adolf Eichmann was brought to Jersusalem in 1961, Arendt covered the trial for The New Yorker. She expected to find Eichmann the embodiment of pure evil; she discovered, to her surprise, that he was a rather stupid, ordinary man who had done his duty as he saw it. "Evil was not deep, and could not be rooted out," she said, "It was more like a fungus that spread over things." She wrote, "It is far easier to act under conditions of tyranny than to think."
It's the birthday of E(dward) E(stlin) Cummings, born in Cambridge, Massachusetts (1894). The Enormous Room (1922), an account of three months he spent in military detention in France during World War One where he was an ambulance driver. He wrote poetry for years, subsidized by his parents. It wasn't until the fifties that he won any real popularity; he had been writing for thirty years. He once said, "I'm living so far beyond my income that we may almost be said to be living apart," and "If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little-somebody who is obsessed by Making." Once, on his way home from a party with his wife, he discovered that he didn't have enough money for the subway. The party had been in a fancy apartment building, and they were riding in an elevator with a well-dressed gentleman of generous proportions. Cummings held his hat out in front of the man and said in a winning voice, "Sir, would you be interested in stepping on my hat?" The man looked confused, and Cummings added, "It will cost you five dollars." The man, as in a dream, stepped obediently on the hat and paid the fee, and Cummings and his wife went home in a taxi.
It's the birthday of Katherine 
  Mansfield (Beauchamp), born in Wellington, New Zealand (1888). She turned 
  her back on her stodgy middle-class New Zealand upbringing and moved to London, 
  where she published short stories, the most famous of which was The Garden 
  Party, edited a literary journal, and got to know D.H. Lawrence and Virginia 
  Woolf, who said Mansfield's stories contained "the only writing I have 
  ever been jealous of."
  
  
 
			
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