The
dead have spoken to one. It is never to be forgotten. The youth that was
ripped to pieces in the trenches reached out his limp arms across a row of
west side footlights and left a cry echoing in one's heart: "My unlived
days! My uneaten bread! My uncounted years! They lie in a little corner
waiting and no one comes to them."
Propaganda? Yes, a curious undertone of propaganda. The war propaganda of
the dead, older than the fall of Liege by a hundred centuries. The
primitive propaganda of the world mourning for its lost ones.
You will see the play, perhaps. Or you will wait until it is translated
some day. But this month the west side is aglow with the genius of Sholom
Ash and with the interpretative genius of Aaron Teitelbaum, who plays the
dead man in uniform and who directed the production. I know of no
performance today that rivals his.
THE TATTOOER
Here the city kind of runs over at the heel and flaunts a seven-year-old
straw hat. Babylon mooches wearily along with a red nose dreaming in the
sun, and Gomorrah leans against an ash can. It is South State Street below
Van Buren. The ancient palaces of mirth and wonder blink with dusty
lithographs.
"Long ago," says Dutch, "yeh, long ago it was different.
Pages:
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304