The daily worker., 1926-01-23

HAY tN plnched grLmance OF the little Dlond
IYop polishing his nails, the despotic impatience
of the fat rake who fumbles in the bosom of
the pretty chambermaid, while his bloated
wife. with closed eyes and slippery smile, sleeps
in the other twin-bed, all say: 81, am more
important here than anyone else. | can do
anything l please Everything is allowed to
Me to Me, to Me. -
Their secret is visible in the signs Of their
death: voracious egoism. 1t is natural. Yes,
it is natural it is hateful.
| The climax of this masterpiece.
| see now only the sovereign obscenity, the
universal coarseness, of this wallow of wealth.
In time common things float up; | remember
bits of scandal that were coupled with certain
names gossip that ran instheir lifetimes, whis-
pered intrigues and the stories of parasites,
iders and adventurers, are confirmed or made
wore on every side.
I Ihaye only pried into one single row OF
Itoonfs the first happened upon in fashion
lhble hotel. / know that everywhere the same
sight awaits my eyes and my Last Judgement
in this whole country, in this whole world.
To spell out, door by door, the disorder of an
epoch, whole lifetime would not be long
enough for that!
have had enough of this vision enough of
dirty linen and entrails! The sights l have
seen weigh me down, entangle me like com
plicity in crime. Aloud accuse them (but my
turns to me):
"By what right do you dispose of every
thing?"
They laugh They continue to laugh as tho
they heard me- l shake my fist at them. My
one poor arm against the universe My arm
soon falls. My head is bowed and bend to-
ward the open eyes of a silky little dead dog
innocence, simplicity, childishness almost
sacred, in the heart of the corruption of men,
I 10 I elf on fho h
stone, with my head in my hands. All
these things. . didn't know them? No
tLSaidI that IZknew thems butiI lied. To know
is harder than Tthought.W 79h o. a
Ithink of life. / suffer in my very blood the
calm and silence of the minutes, and the chill
of the sun. The need of motion fills me like a
Ihunger-to see myself move, since there is no.
one but myself. l must have mirror, and j
am not cOmfOrted until see myself advancing,
pale and strange to myself, on the mosaic
floor of vestibule.
Two steps away, in large garden, is plant
ed mimosa tree. The downy tassels of the
flowers, like drops of yellow silk, spatter across
the light green leaves and the branches. 1t
the bush living? Has the terrible gas killed
the plants too? A problem. it would be
too frightful if the flowers and trees too .
With my fingers l caress' the firm little winged
leaves, and the golden flowers which seem
warm to me- and they light ray of hope for
me-.
Along the sidewalk, as l bend my
head, the moving axis of an empty world /
make discovery: a bit of carrion, and in it
crawling worms: living organisms, that move!
That little bundle of writhing worms, awakes
in me joy, respect glory!
THE avenue. Briskly turn into little side
street that ends in an alley.
There are not only the rich. There are the
people who work and who make everything
go. Their old quarter of town is as dead as
the other. They, where are they?
i see dens, ramshackle garrets, sitting Gel
lars; pale thin women asleep over their work:
Yin tn damp yards children playing with gar
woman with delicate features, young
Jas sp ingtime with dusky hair and muddy
hands: she smells bad: it is not her death, it is
what remains of her life.
In kennel of rotten stones young man
whose death was not much hastened by the
ldeiuge: hollow-cheeked. and hollow-eyed, his