H.P. Lovecraft, Happy 120th Birthday Party Dude
On the life of a New York literary bohemian:
After dinner we walked down to the Brooklyn Heights section to call on his friend Hart Crane in Columbia Heights, with whom he had stopped till he moved up to Kirk's in 106th St., Manhattan. The walk was very lovely-downhill from the heights on which the Brooklyn Museum stands, and with many a sunset vista of old houses and far spires. We reached the heights in deep twilight, when the aërial skyline across the river had a charm peculiar to the hour-a perfect silhouette effect, since it was too dark for surface definition, yet too light to allow the contours to become emerged into the black recesses of engulfing night. We found Crane in and sober-but boasting over the two-day spree he had just slept off, during which he had been picked up dead drunk from the streets of Greenwich Village by the eminent modernist poet E.E. Cummings [sic]-whom he knows well-and put in a homeward taxi. Poor Crane!
PS Lovie,
your greatest critical champion is Indian-American
the Weird Tales mark is held by a man of Jewish descent
and the magazine itself is edited by a Jewish woman
your big movie is going to be made by a giant Mexican
and your greatest epigones are these two 'mos
We win, you lose!
But you try to have a happy birthday anyway.
After dinner we walked down to the Brooklyn Heights section to call on his friend Hart Crane in Columbia Heights, with whom he had stopped till he moved up to Kirk's in 106th St., Manhattan. The walk was very lovely-downhill from the heights on which the Brooklyn Museum stands, and with many a sunset vista of old houses and far spires. We reached the heights in deep twilight, when the aërial skyline across the river had a charm peculiar to the hour-a perfect silhouette effect, since it was too dark for surface definition, yet too light to allow the contours to become emerged into the black recesses of engulfing night. We found Crane in and sober-but boasting over the two-day spree he had just slept off, during which he had been picked up dead drunk from the streets of Greenwich Village by the eminent modernist poet E.E. Cummings [sic]-whom he knows well-and put in a homeward taxi. Poor Crane!
PS Lovie,
your greatest critical champion is Indian-American
the Weird Tales mark is held by a man of Jewish descent
and the magazine itself is edited by a Jewish woman
your big movie is going to be made by a giant Mexican
and your greatest epigones are these two 'mos
We win, you lose!
But you try to have a happy birthday anyway.