Surrealism's somewhat heavy hand certainly shows in this stream-of-whacked-out-consciousness escapade from playboy poet Harry Crosby, first published in the famous modernist magazine transition. The litany of bizarre visions all ends, not unsurprisingly for those who know their Crosby, in awe of the mighty power of the sun. Read by Scoot. Time 7:16.
Those who have read Geoffrey Wolfe's bestselling biography of Harry Grew Crosby know already the short, sweet facts of his life: escape from moneyed but straightlaced Boston Brahmins, flight to bohemian paradise with flighty wife, founding of press to publicize his work and that of other American ex-pats, double-suicide with someone not his wife. But Crosby is also an interesting writer if taken in small doses, and his diaries especially reveal the heady excitement and glamour of those far-off halcyon days of Paris in the 1920's. What other dilettante could boast that T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, and D. H. Lawrence all endorsed his work? (Well, sure, there were some literary kickbacks via the Black Sun Press.) If we had the money and an opium habit, Harry Crosby would be our role-model, too.