Equinox I (04).pdf
Equinox I (04).pdf Equinox I (04).pdf
350 THE EQUINOX good St. George Bernard Shaw! With a spear thou hast pierced its side, and there floweth forth beer and water. Turn also, gramercy, upon the others, even unto the lowest. As Ibsen hawked at carrion birds with a Wild Duck, so do thou create some harpy to torment them. Who is this that followeth thee? Behold this mumbler born to butcher the English language, and educated to hack it with a saw! This stuttering babbler, this Harpocrates by the compulsion of a Sloane Square Mammurra! Who is this hanger-on to the bedraggled petticoats of thy lousy Thalia—this beardless, witless filcher of thy fallen crab-apples? This housemaid of the Court theatre, the Gittite slut whose bleary eyes weep sexless crocodile tears over the crassness of the daughters of the Philistines? Arise, and speak to this palsied megalomaniac, this frowsy Moll Flanders of a degenerated Chelsea, this down-at-heel flâneur on the outer boulevards of a prostituted literature, this little mongrel dog that fawneth upon the ill-cut trousers of thee, O St. Pancras Pulchinello—this little red-coated person that doth mouth and dance upon the kakophonous barrelorgan of New thought fakirs and Modernity mountebanks. Speak to this parasite—itself unspeakably verminous— of the long-haired brigade, who has “got on” for that it had neither sufficient talent to excite envy, nor manhood enough to excite apprehension, but wit well to comprehend the sycophancy of the self-styled court and the tittle-tattle of the servants’ hall. It is an Editor—dear Lord my God! it is an Editor; but he who employs it has an equally indefeasible title to employ the pronoun “We.”
GLAZIERS’ HOUSES It hat never had aught to say; but, then, how affectedly it hath said it! . . . Will not the late New Quarterly take note of this? O these barbers, with their prattle, and their false expedients—and scarce even a safety razor among them! For let each one who worships George Bernard Shaw, while ignorant of that magnificent foundation of literature and philosophy—the Cubical Stone of the Wise, on which a greater than Auguste Rodin hath erected the indomitable figure of Le Penseur—take these remarks individually to himself, and—oh! Thinker, think again. Let not posterity consider of this statue that its summit is no Overman, but a gibbering ape! Not filth, not sorrow, not laughter of the mocker is this universe; but laughter of a young god, a holy and beautiful god, a god of live and light. And thou, since thou hast the ear of the British ass at thy lips, sing to it those starry songs. It can but bray. . . . But why, as hitherto, shouldst thou bray also? Or if bray thou must, let us have the virile and portentous bray of the Ass of Apuleius, not (as hitherto) the plaintive bray of the proverbial ass who hesitated so long between the two thistles that he starved to death. I warn thee, ass! We who are gods have laughed with thee these many years; beware lest in the end we laugh at thee with the laughter of a mandrake torn up, whereat thou shouldst fall dead. A. QUILLER, JR. 351
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350<br />
THE EQUINOX<br />
good St. George Bernard Shaw! With a spear thou hast<br />
pierced its side, and there floweth forth beer and water.<br />
Turn also, gramercy, upon the others, even unto the<br />
lowest. As Ibsen hawked at carrion birds with a Wild Duck, so<br />
do thou create some harpy to torment them. Who is this that<br />
followeth thee? Behold this mumbler born to butcher the<br />
English language, and educated to hack it with a saw! This<br />
stuttering babbler, this Harpocrates by the compulsion of a<br />
Sloane Square Mammurra! Who is this hanger-on to the<br />
bedraggled petticoats of thy lousy Thalia—this beardless,<br />
witless filcher of thy fallen crab-apples? This housemaid of<br />
the Court theatre, the Gittite slut whose bleary eyes weep<br />
sexless crocodile tears over the crassness of the daughters of<br />
the Philistines?<br />
Arise, and speak to this palsied megalomaniac, this frowsy<br />
Moll Flanders of a degenerated Chelsea, this down-at-heel<br />
flâneur on the outer boulevards of a prostituted literature, this<br />
little mongrel dog that fawneth upon the ill-cut trousers of<br />
thee, O St. Pancras Pulchinello—this little red-coated person<br />
that doth mouth and dance upon the kakophonous barrelorgan<br />
of New thought fakirs and Modernity mountebanks.<br />
Speak to this parasite—itself unspeakably verminous—<br />
of the long-haired brigade, who has “got on” for that it had<br />
neither sufficient talent to excite envy, nor manhood enough<br />
to excite apprehension, but wit well to comprehend the<br />
sycophancy of the self-styled court and the tittle-tattle of the<br />
servants’ hall.<br />
It is an Editor—dear Lord my God! it is an Editor; but he<br />
who employs it has an equally indefeasible title to employ the<br />
pronoun “We.”