Close Up (Jul-Nov 1927)

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CLOSE UP stead to that other httle place, it's better ventilated, across the way. And so on. This storm that doesn't break. I have no reaction to anything. ... O that's what the httle man is after. For I see now. There is a rhythm within the rhythm, there is a story within the story. The little man (it is curiously he whom I personally met before in Joyless Street, disguised now out of recognition) beckons at the top of a sandy hill. The little tree twists and bends and makes all the frantic gestures of the httle tree at the cross-roads under which Faust conjured devils. That's it precisely. This has something behind it, in it, through it. That little man means more than that. He isn't an absurd httle obvious Punchinello. He is a symbol, an asterisk, an enigma. Spell the thing backwards, he seems to be saying, spell it right side to or back side to or front or behind and you'll see. . . his httle leer means something. The horses filing again, in obvious procession, mean something. They are going to spell something, make a mystic symbol across short grass, some double twist and knot and the world will go to bits. . . something is going to happen. I have forgotten the paper bags. The music does fit in. I have forgotten the hit and rise and hit and fall of the violin that doesn't in the least know that the piano is existing. That's it exactly. The piano and the viohn hve in separate elements, so this and this. The little obvious Itahan Punchinello doesn't in the least mind being jeered at. He wants to be jeered at. He has opened doors to the uninitiate. They don't know that that umbrella tucked so ridiculously 35