n Electric Sign goes Dark... «Light Rays: James Joyce and Modernism»
innashpitzberg19 мая 2017n Electric Sign goes Dark POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins, Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork.
'Won't you come and play wiz me,' she sang . . . . and 'I just can't make my eyes behave.' 'Higgeldy-Piggeldy,' 'Papa's Wife,' 'Follow Me' were plays.
Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? the news-papers asked. Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name.
Twenty years old . . . thirty . . . forty . . . Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver. And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France.
A voice, a shape, gone. A baby bundle from Warsaw . . . legs, torso, head . . . on a hotel bed at The Savoy.
The white chisellings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses: A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark.
She belonged to somebody, nobody. No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand. She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiselling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song.
Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the North-West, stock-ranchers in the Middle West, mayors of southern cities Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.
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