LAST DITCH OF DEMOCRACY - Majority Rights

now what was CAUSIN’ this, what was causin’ this state of affairs?
YOU tell papa.
I am not, as you might think, indulgin’ merely in retrospect. I am
recallin’ these things because I have been readin’ YET AGAIN a French
author. Way out above other French authors. Say Cocteau was 1919, and
Crevel 1926, and the new man been now writing for just a decade. I hear
he is a doctor, been working in Paris suburbs. Seen a bit of reality.
Writes without fuzz on his tongue. Prose writer who bursts in[to] poetry,
into verse writing. Next time, next time, be the last ONE. Gnrr, gnrr,
gnrr, gnrra. Suicide of the Nation.
No fuzz on the blighter’s tongue. Voice of France, as when France was
young. Only Sam Putnam I think today will be able to find out a way to
say in United States talk what the frog has been tellin’ ’em.
This frog has been telling ’em back in ‘32 of the war to come. It is not
only that the FRENCH of Rabelais has come to life again. It is not only
that spoken French, the French of the mechanics is at last put down on
the page. It is that it takes hold of the page; it is alive on the page.
The dirty old siren mermaid sticking up out of the mud of the Seine,
blowsly, boosy, unappetizing, starts tellin’ the author where to git off at,
she tells him, he tells her, there is no wasted politeness. There is none of
the heaviness that sometimes creeps into Ulysses. None of the aimless
search for exaggeration that makes Finnigan’s Wake unimportant. Joyce
hit his high in Ulysses. There was still exuberance. In Finnigan he is
hunting, he is experimenting with a technique, bourgeois diversion. I
haven’t patience to wade through it. Thank God I am not employed to
estimate the exact percentage of real metal in low grade ores (no pun
intended).
France HAS an author who in 1938 could write, FRANCE HAS NO
ALLIES.