8 10 339 https://cassity.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/files/original/f6aa8f006da667ff518f6723f74210b8.pdf a568747e37370debb17a2a7aa2ebd4e5 PDF Text Text Death and the Merchant I who have so avoided metaphors As I come now to write of you and me Face several, and all of them are true: Appalling in their literality. In youth I served once in a firing squad; In middle age you travel for a firm That sells munitions in the Middle East. “Merchant of Death?” You, Jack? Not bloody likely, Seeing you were all my life to me, Or would have been, had not we each one had So clear an eye for how to trim the sails. But only you were Navy. I was Army-Caribbean style, a crack drill team Conducting military funerals In khakis smelling of the pressing iron. I thought at that time I could bury you. I made the effort. Given now our ages, I begin to smell that death again. Gardenias and Cosmoline and starch, And gun smoke mixing ill with all of them. So, emptying the chamber of its blanks, That soldier of good fortune who I was Lifts up his rifle in a mock salute And clicks the trigger, bragging to himself That he is done with you. But the select Non-bullet is not silver, and you live, If, even now, blindfolded in some ways, To be the stock munitions baron poets Execrate, except for this one. Not For me will, ever, blood be on your hands, For all it is live heart they’ve held so long. Say that it was--is--too contained to bleed, Or you were much too deft an Aztec priest. Come, Baron, bargain with me. Offer me That bold, persuasive, handsome boy you were And see me instantly suborn a squad, Its military, and the state itself. Put up. I put aside my loaded threat; I lift the blindfold from your eyes. Look at me. Do you see a client lost, Or stateless messenger of late reprieve? At minimum you have to say, always, I offered you safe conduct. Now, once more, Go and be free, above my signature. Cont. Death and the Merchnt, cont. �Zaharoff of the suburbs, mine your lawn And trap your cars and scissor-trim your beard. The bribe and I, in nowhere that you know, Will have a drink or two, pick our disguise, And slip across the border to a near, Corrupt republic I have knowledge of. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Death and the Merchant.wps Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cassity, Turner. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2005-06-07T14:10:15 Date Modified Date on which the resource was changed. 2005-06-15T13:16:13 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Compaq Presario SR1222NX (Born digital materials), Turner Cassity papers, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, Emory University. Relation A related resource Is part of the Turner Cassity papers, 1948-2009 [http://pid.emory.edu/ark:/25593/8z3tt]. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource document Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1292e8e8e1a489cf8f5d096b09f9d2b9 Misc_Some_used Particulars_of_Hell\Misc_Some_used https://cassity.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/files/original/65aace70ed9a646e69925a3987cb92c8.pdf 3073353002640d95e29f239b9739c7c6 PDF Text Text Deep Structures Too obvious to serve as archetypes, The Ark, the wing, the wall, the tower Compel us to identify escape With tunneling and flight by fuel burn; Berlin has made a wall mean not defense But isolation. Babel…It completes Itself each day upon the Internet. One cannot fake the archetypal, Yeats, Frau ohne Schatten proving all too well. The difference between an archetype And a cliché is this: one sorts iambs From doggerel, or separates a theme From variations. Bard, content yourself With counterpoint of shifting surfaces. The mandala will form or will not form. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Deep Structures.wps Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cassity, Turner. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2008-02-17T14:56:55 Date Modified Date on which the resource was changed. 2008-12-17T18:35:32 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Compaq Presario SR1222NX (Born digital materials), Turner Cassity papers, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, Emory University. Relation A related resource Is part of the Turner Cassity papers, 1948-2009 [http://pid.emory.edu/ark:/25593/8z3tt]. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource document Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 7946899945a643561001b7115cc6bc7b https://cassity.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/files/original/dd14034c762f7cbebf9823c35903afe8.pdf 339323854f8dbd667106710ecffc4c70 PDF Text Text Defamations And did we kill the Christ? The rumor of it so far has sufficed. Did we eat infants' bones? Unleavened. Maybe lack of yeast atones. The accusation goes That there is such a thing as Jewish nose. But too, profile to choose. The plastic surgeon has his skills, his use. Jehovah is not mocked. However, Jewish mothers can be shocked. Of greed one now hears less, Outside Islam and its contrariness, Where usury is sin And Israel the infidel within. Old Europe cast us out; What Land, what Promise for our last redoubt? Tradition or Reform, Mandated Palestine or Desert Storm? Or wander as we have, Always between the Aryan and the Slav, Or safely, so we hope, On you post-Christians' fraying bridge of rope That stretches over pits Of prejudice to pit no one admits: Intolerance toward faith As such. San Luis Rey that final path? � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Defamations.wps Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cassity, Turner. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2006-07-10T14:56:21 Date Modified Date on which the resource was changed. 2008-08-15T13:40:11 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Compaq Presario SR1222NX (Born digital materials), Turner Cassity papers, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, Emory University. Relation A related resource Is part of the Turner Cassity papers, 1948-2009 [http://pid.emory.edu/ark:/25593/8z3tt]. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource document Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1b0f8cfa5e9811064e508583f1cc1d30 https://cassity.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/files/original/bcae8f0880dc1dc1d395ad010afa3f2a.pdf 697171f19ea6385d5c42deda654af606 PDF Text Text Deferring to the Count Death is a sort of Schlieffen Plan. It pivots on the young and sweeps the outer edges, Who are we. Outside the span Of threescore years and ten, do not its stages Coerce us ever toward the Styx? How could you, Count, on campaign maps have failed to see You drew a sickle, with its fix Increasingly on reapings grimly sure to be? And though some few of us become Tight pockets of resistance, we are not the Marne. The juggernaut rolls on, a Somme That never ends, or ends in that putrescent tarn Senescence is and Flanders was: the Pit, the Poe, The Pendulum whose fatal pace Not either discipline or mutiny can slow, And Time creates of any space. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Deferring to the Count.wps Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cassity, Turner. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2005-04-28T23:59:00 Date Modified Date on which the resource was changed. 2005-02-25T14:09:41 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Compaq Presario SR1222NX (Born digital materials), Turner Cassity papers, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, Emory University. Relation A related resource Is part of the Turner Cassity papers, 1948-2009 [http://pid.emory.edu/ark:/25593/8z3tt]. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource document Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1fd50df848e7af02e91cbeb2ead6d9ca Devils_and_Islands TCBKS2 https://cassity.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/files/original/a7f186e747cda247aff9e16e6059ec6d.pdf b1eb66d447d28696ec04044ee847d03f PDF Text Text DEVELOPING THE LOST WORLD AN HOMAGE Turner Cassity � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Developing....wps Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cassity, Turner. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2006-08-02T14:33:27 Date Modified Date on which the resource was changed. 2006-08-02T14:33:31 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Compaq Presario SR1222NX (Born digital materials), Turner Cassity papers, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, Emory University. Relation A related resource Is part of the Turner Cassity papers, 1948-2009 [http://pid.emory.edu/ark:/25593/8z3tt]. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource document Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 7aa2d4c8a8147714efd1eb4aa14499df https://cassity.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/files/original/13e5b72274c1101ed49631664591d949.pdf de5a0aea4aeff259fdc80bc0b036b8ad PDF Text Text The Devil and Daedalus What was the wish of Icarus? To fly, or to be seen to fly? What was the wish of Eve? To know, or hope that, knowing, she could teach? Do not presume that any end Will cast a light on motive. Wax Gone soft, explicit fruit enjoyed, The sunlight conquers, and the serpent. Threat subtle or threat obvious, Free will is that to which, for praise, The fabricating father frees. A rib removed, the wing affixed, Alike bespeak the patriarch, As Icarus and Eve mean fall. Flight, when it came, kept close to ground. If knowledge comes, it comes in part. Are they in league, the snake and sun? � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Devil and Daedalus.wps Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cassity, Turner. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2005-02-2313:23:02 Date Modified Date on which the resource was changed. 2006-07-29T18:03:40 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Compaq Presario SR1222NX (Born digital materials), Turner Cassity papers, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, Emory University. Relation A related resource Is part of the Turner Cassity papers, 1948-2009 [http://pid.emory.edu/ark:/25593/8z3tt]. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource document Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 20451539f520398a9a86bae2219b4a5e Devils_and_Islands https://cassity.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/files/original/591462d026010d99d50654ee48eec50e.pdf 0268b4259e545ed144f386955a5bf7b1 PDF Text Text Devils and Islands The Last Newsboy The Last Cigarette Girl The Last Elevator Operator The Last Chaperon Fashions of 1903 Robinson Crusoe to Capt. Dreyfus The Garden of Yellow Jack Worlds and Underworlds Deferring to the Count Mej. Zelle Edith Cavell John Walker Lindh Triage Infrastructures Pick Your Pyramid Amazonas. com Models Tadzio in Trieste Albert to Antinous Jurassic Park 1951 Crystal but not Crystal Ball Inventing the Subdivision The Devil and Daedalus Leda and the Albatross After the Fall The Pleasures of Slave Owning �Before Clocks Were Digital Where is Gutzon Borglum Now That We Need Him? Fantasia on Dummy Keys A Course in Sax Education Soldiers Three in the Big Easy Administrating One Third of a Triptych Afterward � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Devils and Islands.wps Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cassity, Turner. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2005-11-04T14:50:06 Date Modified Date on which the resource was changed. 2006-03-23T17:35:29 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Compaq Presario SR1222NX (Born digital materials), Turner Cassity papers, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, Emory University. Relation A related resource Is part of the Turner Cassity papers, 1948-2009 [http://pid.emory.edu/ark:/25593/8z3tt]. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource document Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context de7354e786f0e6c80ab7ff0a73ae16cb D_a_I_Contents https://cassity.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/files/original/4c34a9e63a9b99872e865815b3e532ad.pdf 2e149f25e5d995688ee33f796f3d5738 PDF Text Text Die heil'ge deutsche Kunst San Francisco An early curtain at the War Memorial, And as the lights go down two well-dressed gentlemen In boots and leather occupy their center box. It makes a certain sense. We do incline to wear Our most expensive outfit to the opera; And white tie surely costs no more than naugahyde. Are motorcycles frowned on at the porte-cochere? If, just a little bit, our flesh begins to crawl, It's not because the boots seem inappropriate. If anything the opposite is true: the hint Of scars and duels; of a cult of practiced pain. Even the late night leather bars at last must close; Triumph des Willens costume parties also fold. We've uncut Wagner. It will end too late to change. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource die heil'ge deutsche Kunst.wps Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cassity, Turner. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2005-10-04T13:23:40 Date Modified Date on which the resource was changed. 2006-04-06T22:15:43 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Compaq Presario SR1222NX (Born digital materials), Turner Cassity papers, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, Emory University. Relation A related resource Is part of the Turner Cassity papers, 1948-2009 [http://pid.emory.edu/ark:/25593/8z3tt]. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource document Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context e5ed8c469a868105b31d5ba9a5247d72 My eBooks\Rolling_the_credits Particulars_of_Hell\My eBooks\Rolling_the_credits https://cassity.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/files/original/021bfd2006facf539bd5d0240cb83e49.pdf 1f9749d4cb7a28107f50c4fa0f07cce8 PDF Text Text Director's Cut The lamasery in the Capra Shangri-La Looks more like Bullocks Wilshire than like T'ang Tibet, But. L.A. shops for mysticism as for chic. Not for the locals instantaneous old age Or any other kind; the Santa Monicas Are not Himalaya. Guru, can you command Cosmetic surgery's short term eternal youth? Beyond the peace and fruits and nuts await the wars That age the world. Horizon lost and destiny Uncertain, toward the flatland go the bored and bold. Unless the Dalai Lama occupies the set It could disintegrate into a roadside zoo, A sort of monkey island for a Yeti tribe; Unfinished mausoleum meant for Chiang Kai- Shek; Or Jonestown for the last Charles Manson followers. Utopia, if it exists at all, is flats And plaster; life, if wonderful, a feelgood farce. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Director's Cut.wps Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cassity, Turner. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2009-01-13T18:05:06 Date Modified Date on which the resource was changed. 2009-01-31T12:24:04 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Compaq Presario SR1222NX (Born digital materials), Turner Cassity papers, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, Emory University. Relation A related resource Is part of the Turner Cassity papers, 1948-2009 [http://pid.emory.edu/ark:/25593/8z3tt]. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource document Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 2be1217214cf8e9dc2700668429c2dca https://cassity.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/files/original/74c18946d9b2a3d8d2d4f2cb69b676e7.pdf 44ac4113c399abd0c0f6148f22d39723 PDF Text Text EPIC1 -- DLWX1 -- Turner Cassity “It isn’t all that far to Surinam. #2 Guiana was Dutch.” “As the Transvaal was. I think the less we look like Groote Schuur The better. Why not model it on this?” Bright Kop, the Baronet’s own house, is gloom And sandstone, in deep shade which is the work Of fifteen gardeners and fifteen years. “If we are there to show the flag,” says Baker, “Show it. Something High Imperial.” Another reason not to self-repeat Appears now in the hobble- skirted form Of Lady Elva Hood, whose tatty tastes On more than one occasion have reversed Her architect’s. He coexists with these In what is best described as an armed truce. “How well you look, Dear Herbert. Is a tan A sort of caste mark for you?” “Artisans, Milady, are a lowest caste. In India As elsewhere.” “Well, you always have your fees. I’m making some more changes, by the way. I want a trellis by this window. Sun Could fade my needlepoint.” The architect, �Who oriented the huge teakwood room To take advantage of its view, a sweep Of highveld from the highest of the Rand Decides a change of subject might be best. “It isn’t all that far to Surinam. Guiana was Dutch.” “As the Transvaal was. I think the less we look like Groote Schuur The better. Why not model it on this?” Bright Kop, the Baronet’s own house, is gloom And sandstone, in deep shade which is the work Of fifteen gardeners and fifteen years. “If we are there to show the flag,” says Baker, “Show it. Something High Imperial.” Another reason not to self-repeat Appears now in the hobble- skirted form Of Lady Elva Hood, whose tatty tastes On more than one occasion have reversed Her architect’s. He coexists with these In what is best described as an armed truce. “How well you look, Dear Herbert. Is a tan A sort of caste mark for you?” “Artisans, Milady, are a lowest caste. In India As elsewhere.” “Well, you always have your fees. I’m making some more changes, by the way. I want a trellis by this window. Sun �Could fade my needlepoint.” The architect, Who oriented the huge teakwood room To take advantage of its view, a sweep Of highveld from the highest of the Rand Decides a change of subject might be best. #4 “If they are men,” says Lady Elva tartly, Confident in the two million pounds She has inherited in her own right. “Bushwhacking dinosaur is not my game, Although as Chris will tell you, I can shoot. I’ve shot with maharajahs. So will you, If you intend to keep your job. Your job In Delhi. What your understudies do On that poor mountain is your own affair It‘s very wet, I‘m told. Do your roofs leak? We are not here in summer. I don‘t know. ”Material for this house came by ox,” Says Baker mildly. “I can deal with cables.” … As he leaves, the battered architect Confronts, in his exiguous foyer, Her Ladyship’s exotic footman, who, His needlepointed turban much awry, Adjusts his other clothing, as, intact, A Coloured parlor maid, a game flushed out, �Hotfoots upstairs. “Your hat and blueprints, Sahib.” “The Lady Elva’s hired a Touchable,” Decides the future Nimrod of the Raj. Beside the outer door--Empire of course Laid on in seamless red-- a four- foot globe Is mounted on the necks of dark bronze dragons. Baker avoids it. “Scorpions,” he thinks. They are for him the most of India. . #5 II British Guiana A smoking rocket breaks the jungle crests, To feather like an upward cataract The bare red-sandstone prow of Mount Roraima, Climax of the cliffs that ring it round. The rocket trails a line of silken thread That will in turn pull up a stronger line To raise the pilot cable. At the top, Having ascended the Brazilian face-The easier--the on-site engineer, Whose name is Roland Galt, awaits the strike. That hit, in spite of the prevailing damp, Is like the downfall of a sparkler: bright Quick jacks expiring as he reaches out. �“How gala,” says his British alpine-guide. ‘We might almost think we were at a fair.” “A good sign, no?” says Galt, who knows quite well McCain’s remark was meant to be a slight. Guiana’s business community, Of whom the guiding Scot is one full third, Is livid that the cableway contract Was granted to a young St. Louis firm Whose largest previous experience Was building Ferris Wheels. “The carnival,” Says Galt, “is Good King George’s Narrow Gauge. I’ll have the freight lift operational #7 The firing of the rocket is remarked Among the area’s indigenous, Who number twenty. Women have no souls And are not reckoned. As the chieftain-priest, Ipupu, who is four foot eight, prevails. “It is a waterfall turned into smoke. It is a waterfall that rushes up. A mighty feather, going back to God.” His new wife contradicts him. “It’s a dart, Meaning they have a giant blowgun.” Minds, It may be, but not souls. Etak Etak Is not a woman of the Tepi-Pupu. She is of the Cui, a tribe nearby. �“In any case it is a sacrilege. The Mother Mountain has been violated. Let the red of neck be sacrificed.” Etak speaks out. “They cannot be all bad. They have enslaved the Tepi-Curucu.” “And make slaves of us, if we allow.” Exogamy, Ipupu now reflects, May have its drawbacks. “Woman, if you speak Again I’ll sell you to the red of neck To work as servant by the Curucu.” “The giant blowgun is the end of life,” A tribal elder warns. “It will devour The air we breathe. Its spit blots out the sun.” #8 Idzumu, an enthusiastic youth Not quite one week beyond is passage rite, One year in age behind the tribal elder, Tries a maiden speech. “If we obtain Ourselves the giant blowgun we at least Can down-cephalicize the Curucu Before the world puffs out.” “Great as it is,” Responds the sorcerer-reductionist, “My art cannot accommodate such numbers. Sewing up the lips would take me days, And I say nothing of the eyes and ears.” �His staff is headed, in a strictest sense, By an example of his work. Etak, Meanwhile, will not be silenced. “Idiots! Air that goes in comes out. If it did not We should have suffocated long ago. A hundred small blowguns are just as bad As one big one. Are also just as good. We can attack the strangers when we wish. Or can attack the Curucu. But why? Hang back and let them kill each other. Rape, If we assume the Mountain has been raped, They can avenge as easily as we. That is, their corpses can. And now, My Lord, Cut out my tongue, or when I have been sold My buyers will be well informed as you.” … #9 The cableway construction camp is rope And fabric, rather as if in the trees A large balloon had wrecked. Here, red of neck And red of beard, red-eyed, Norell McCain Is lying in a hammock. Mirror hung Uncertainly and basin on a stump, An angered Roland Galt is red of throat, His razor having cut him. “Bloody soap. My face is like sandpaper.” “Grow a beard. �We’ll make a colonist out of you yet.. You’re onto saying ‘bloody’.” “Not quite. Nose Rings might be next, and after that sharp bones Stuck-in wherever.” “Which brings us to: Has anybody ever figured out How sex works in a hammock? Have the natives?” “No, and the attempts were all mistakes. Freak shows. It’s how straitjackets were discovered. How spider monkeys got conceived. Don’t think About it.” “I suppose if you could get Both legs firm on the ground, and grip the tree…” “Is that a proposition?” “Desperate,. But not that desperate.” “Oh well, take heart. Our hotel architect gets here next week. His name, according to the messengers, #10 Is Artemus Davant, and anyone Who has a name like that has got to be A little odd. You’ll have a choice. Get up: We have to show the natives how to roast.” “Roast what?” “Roast coffee beans. Or do you plan To go on chewing coca leaves all day?” �#11 III East of Suez At Soerakarta,in the Dutch East Indies, Karsen Trip, a twenty-five year old Zoologist already widely published, Is going over for a second time A cablegram he does not quite believe. “…some dozen of the dragons. Breeding pairs, Enough to stock a modest game reserve And presently allow small hunts each year. You payment will be as we may agree, But will include a figure…based upon How many reptiles reach Roraima live. Expense in Komodo are of course Included. Yours sincerely, Christie Hood>“ Although he lives on spacious private means, The figure pops Mijnheer Trip’s blue eyes out “Land-crocodiles in South America,” The young man muses, putting into Dutch His Javanese for the Komodo “dragon,” V. Komodoensis, otherwise. The Giant Monitor. “For all I know,” He thinks, “ a dozen may be all of them. �I ought to turn him down, but Krakatoa Killed off more than ever hunters will. So much for natural selection. And, What other chance to see them at close range?” #12 Between the gables of the bungalow, Whose forms South Africans would recognize, And of which Baker is not unaware, A low verandah takes the heat, the lamps, In spite of which, across the waxen tile, As if a lizard wnet, a chill goes by. Trip recognizes it for what it is: Challenge, in its extremest, closest form-The dragon, of the fear of fear-of-death. … Henk’s Soerabaja Bar, a seedy twin, In Soerakarta, of the Soerakarta Bar in Soerabaja, is a shed Among high palms. It too has lamps, the which Sedately swing in midnight’s last of wind. Drunk, Mijnheer Trip is shopping. He must have, For his excursions, a dependable Boy. Indonesians will not nearly do, As they are much too frail, and terrified Of Varanus, known to them by reputation �If not by the experience direct. A dark trio of merchant seamen flunks, One after brute another, being each Too stupid for the job description, part Of which is to be Trip’s companion-valet, Part of which is to be trapper-guide. But now a massive, sober, yellow lascar #13 Stands by Trip. “What is your name?” Trip asks. “I? Lothringen. My friends call me Lorraine.” “I take it that your friends are mostly French?” He knows his history. Since Bismarck’s war Alsace-Lorraine is Elsass-Lothringen. “Not necessarily. Would you prefer To be called Elsass, or be called ‘Al’s ass”, As you Americans pronounce Alsace.” “I’m not American. My name is Trip. I’m Dutch. What makes you think I’m not?” “You spoke. And you are in a bar. Not at the Club. I cannot really tell you what I am. My father was--I think--a Legionnaire. My mother was a Madagascarene, But she was half Chinese. We came back out Quite early. I grew up in Sarawak.” “I’m looking for a trapper.” “I can trap. �Trap what I want.” Trap animals, I mean.” “Before I went to sea I spent some time As first gun-bearer to the late White Rajah. He was all but blind. I dealt with wounds And crippled water buffalo a lot.” “I’m leaving in a fortnight for Komodo. Will you come?” “A dragon hunt? They live On Lombok too, you know. We had a few In Sarawak. One tried to eat the Ranee. #14 Lady Brooke was anything but blind. The trophy is above her mantelpiece.” “Opinion is, they will not go for humans.” “Tell the Ranee.” “Will you come?” “For money, No.” “The price can be as we arrange.” A smell of gin and rum and kerosene Moves in the dead Cape Jasmine as the wind Dies utterly and as the lamps burn out. The smoke puts shadows on the White Man’s forehead “Noon tomorrow at the sugar docks.” … A beach in Lombok, where a low surf crashes And a pair of cots is under nets. �Side-on toward the warming morning sun, A dragon lizard rises into life. His forked tongue licks out to try the air; His clear eyelids resist it in distrust. The coldest blood, however, has its warmth. He flicks a massive tail, and fronts the foe, Which is himself in slickest replica. He stiffens, and the enemy responds In kind. The reptile brain, the deep, Intent automaton, will venture what it is To have at once and wholly what it wants. Imperative and challenge, risk and prize … #15 Come down to one, as does what bodies them The fruitless serpent of the mindless tree Will have his triumph nonetheless. Invention, in the absence of the natural, Will breed it sports as if it were a graft. … A small flotilla--six high-load canoes-Arrives at Camp Louisiana Purchase In Guiana. From the last, in boots, Straw boater, insect veils, and starchy blouse, Steps out a slim young woman. Roland Galt �Receives her in blank, candid puzzlement. “Miss. I was here to meet an architect.” “You do. My name is Artemis Davant. #16 IV On Top of Roraima A rare clear day, and where the nations three, On maps at any rate, precisely join, The twenty mile square flattop mountain shows Its red steep sides. The forests at its base Thin-out to the immense savannas; cool, An air upon the summit somewhat thick Thins-out beyond the station on the prow. In sheaves too much exposed, the cables turn. The hotel architect turns on the gear A practiced Arts and Crafts cold eye. Say she: “I don’t mean to offend you, Mr. Galt, But this construct of yours just does not seem, Well, serious. It’s like a carrousel. So temporary. Like a Ferris Wheel.” Galt curses silently his heritage. “It got the roof beams to you, didn’t it?” “I do not speak of its efficiency; I speak of its appearance. Let me build A kiosk for it.” “As you like. My thought �Was that our visitors might like to see Machinery.” “Undoubtedly they would, And that is why it should be well concealed. If I exposed my furnaces to them They would not feel that they had left Pittsburgh.” “They would, they would,” Galt thinks, but banks his fires. #17 Does not bank them enough, it now appears, As Artemis Davant looks straight at him. “The only naked furnaces on view At present, Mr. Galt, are in your eyes. I’d not be shocked at such offensiveness In poor Norell McCain, but out of you?” ‘Unbridled lust” is not the phrase. That means At some point it was bridled. Waterfalls Are showers cold indeed, and I see scores, But I do not see you two under them. We work together. And I cannot work If I am stared at like a can-can girl. And do not think that I’m some sheltered prude. I used to draw from models in a life class. Meanwhile, if you would care to look at me Not as an architect but as a woman, Call on me and meet my chaperon.” Galt is good looking and aware of it. He grins somewhat to focus- down the flame. �“I’ve met your aunt. I had my ears slapped back By her too. That time it was innocent.” “Marie St. Boniface is not my aunt Nor anybody else’s. She’s a nun. Or was. She fell in love with Captain Dreyfus. Left the convent to stuff envelopes For Zola. Then she put on Zouave dress And got as far as Martinique. Her sense #18 Of place out in the colonies is vague.” “A bride of Christ would tend to pick a Jew.” “Yes. He was the only man of whom she had seen More pictures than of Jesus. She had hoped To nurse him, but the French authorities Would not permit her nearer than Cayenne. I found her in Georgetown and hired her on.” “High boots on chaste Diana and a nun For chaperon… You’ve heard of triple brass?” “In art school armor would have been a mercy. One felt safer on the streets of Delhi. Tea is at half-past, outside my tent. You will be welcome, Mr. Galt, but dodge Your own I have no doubt lax chaperon.” … Her mentor, having no desire himself To sail halfway around the world to look �On Table Mountain magnified five times And reddened in the geological Equivalent of red shift, has allowed His student full discretion as to site. She has so situated his hotel That it is nowhere near the cableway, Infuriating her construction crews, And sacrificing drama on the prow, But sheltering its all too open rooms From all but the plateau’s most stubborn fogs, Using the mountain’s undulating face For views that, after its thrice-nightly rains, #19 Quite shame the Falls of Iguassu. “Thank God,” Says she, “we do not have a Tablecloth. The fog ascends. It does not form on top. We have a chance at fairly sunny days.” “You grew up in the Cape, Miss Artemis?” “In Durban, where I learned to speak Tamil, That being why the Bakers took me in. Pretoria, linguistically, was quite Beyond him. Delhi speaks less English still. Is that red hair of yours South African?” McCain, who on the just completed stoep Looks out toward Venezuela not with fire But ashes, looks back toward that fine profile �Which is the torch of them. “Unless my dad Was, no. But I know Cape Dutch when I see it” Artemis is much amused. “You’re right; I am the last who would deny it. What We have is Groote Schuur with outside stairs And mammoth window bays in both the gables. Baker never does more than he must, And when Sir Christie cut the estimates…” “Some people have it easy. Iron-Jaw Galt’s Had women at his feet since he was ten. He has them like they went by on a wheel.” The architect permits herself a wink. “Well if he hasn’t it is not for want Of trying. Boniface says he is snake And apple and the flaming sword in one. But Boniface comes late to all of that. #20 It’s she who’s bound as on the torture wheel. Real women, do you notice, are perverse. Do not jump off of lover’s leap just yet.” #21 V At Sea--Roraima--Johannesburg--At Sea The Matson freighter Mangareva strains �To hold at thirteen knots. Eastbound from Truk She has, penned-up upon her fantail, ten Immense Komodo Dragons, fatly fit Upon a diet mostly suckling pigs And such few rats as her Malaysian cooks Can be annoyed to trap. One deck above, In spotless, dazzling linen, white enough To be a garment for Lord Jim come back As medic-ghost-archangel, Karsen Trip Looks on his charges. “Seven females, four Grown males, including, that is, our old boy Who walked the plank with your chronometer Inside. Have you seen Peter Pan, Mijnheer?” “Eleven times. I have eleven small Grandchildren. You--I speak now as the Bridge-Are here advised to keep that half-breed giant Of yours confined to quarters. Am I clear? I do not want him mixing with my crew. They have their own Far East depravities. And if you have him on the quarterdeck Procuring Chinks for you I’ll put you off At Molokai, newts, him, pound sterling all.” The Captain leaves as if to point his threat, And as he mounts the port companionway The Mangareva rises in a head-on swell. It throws the reptiles on their wire restraints; One--three hundred pounds of sated sloth-- �#22 Breaks free and goes agilely at the steps; And as if now imagining himself To be a python, eats in measured gulps The bottom two-thirds of the Captain, who, A look of much vexation on his face, Calls out “Exterminate the brutes,” and dies. … Two hours in bed, Marie St. Boniface, In saffron lamplight, reads from her inscribed Proof copy of J’Accuse. A face so plain As to seem ageless has protected her From perils she can only guess at, or, Before Guiana, only could. Her tent Flap lifts, and, night gowned, Artemis Davant, Whose is the other camp bed, comes in damp. “The worst fog yet. The Mountain cannot see Its drenched hired hands before its dripping face.” “And just as well. At sundown, on my hike, I saw our gloomy Mr. Red McCain Showering in the East Face cataract. He will contract pneumonia. How cold That water can be at the best of times!” “Oh, he’s robust.” “And since he’s shaved his beard So much more youthful looking. Younger, some, Than his superior. I did not think, �At first, he was. What is it, Artemis, #23 That makes one pick one man above another?” “His pince-nez?” the architect restrains Herself from saying. “Drive,” she honestly Replies, but wonders if she really knows. “Except in special circumstances, like-Inheriting a firm that silvers mirrors, One would never make Narcissus mate. One would not want one’s children, how to say, Not to inherit drive. Or otherwise One would surely have them always at home.” “At home? I think that I should like that.” “No, You would not. It would be your convent breached And you without your freedom. That is what The Serpent of the Garden did not say Sufficiently to Eve our driven mother. Hence we live out yet her discontents.” “The Serpent has also his discontents. Your engineer is laying leagues of pipe To have a nearby shower of his own.” … Narayan Dar, the Lady Elva Hood’s Upwardly mobile butler, slams her door Abruptly in the wholly guileless face �Of an officious adolescent who, However, goes on to insist, at length, He is a cousin. “Not her cousin. Yours. I’ve come here all the way from Trinidad.” The stately servant grudgingly relents. #24 “Go to the rear and have the kaffirs feed you. “I’ll be there when I go off at ten.” Pandokkies in Parktown are not less mean For being Parktown, and the garconniere Narayan occupies is one small room. The cousin is asleep there in a fug Of curry over mealie pap. “Get up. I do not need strange bedbugs in my bed.” “Superb my cousin. Know you of the plan Your master has to cheat the Portuguese?” “Is there a side to choose? The Goanese Incline one toward the servants of the Raj.” “No no. The Portuguese who are Brazil.” “The border controversy? Certainly I know. I am applying for the job Of major-domo at the fort-hotel.” “Exactly. Venezuela has a plan…” … “Hands off the crew, Lorraine. That French First Mate Seems even more a prude than Captain Fitch.” �“He’s French Canadian.” “So much the worse. And I’m in no position now to pay Hush money. Rajah Brooke’s huge appetite Has cost us more than he’d have brought us live.” “He is alive.” “What do you mean alive? I saw him trussed an lowered overboard. It was the only way to give poor Fitch #25 A decent burial.” “I cut the cords As he went over. He has followed us To eat our garbage. I swam out last night And fought him to exhaustion. He’s on board And running loose around the forecastle. The crew feed him live chickens.” “Lots of them, I hope. If he attacks another man There’ll be a mutiny. Farewell commodes, Farewell Lorraine, and farewell Trapper Trip.” #26 VI In the Camp of the Tepi-Pupu and Elsewhere Ipupu of the Tepi-Pupu, hidden In the putrescent waters-cannibal �Of an enormous pitcher plant, and well Aware his skin is being eaten off, Is watching in wide-eyed puzzlement Activity upon the cableway. Eight crocodiles, of unfamiliar form, Contained in woven wicker basket-weave Of necessarily fantastic strength, Have been positioned on two large hooks Depending from the cable, so to rise Impassive to the city in the sky. Ipu long since has ceased to be surprised At what goes on up there, but this exceeds. A White Man who has not been seen before Appears to be in charge; he is companioned By his caboclo, who is on a scale So large the Indian sinks to his nose In fright. He chokes, and both men look at him, But take no action. He has picked his blind On the assumption no one else would hide Inside a pitcher plant, or think to look, Its chalice being mildly poisonous. Lorraine and Trip would not have, but because They do not know what pitchers are, nor that There is surveillance. “It’s a little boy,” #27 Trip says. “He looks a real Jack-in-the-Pulpit.” �“Or a pygmy in a plant for privy.” … Colon in Panama, and as the sun Sets in the green Atlantic, to the wreck Of those who do not understand the Isthmus, Hotel Washington announces dinner. First to enter is the Rajah Brooke, Who, earlier, at Miraflores Lock, Has jumped ship. Here, he eats at once two hams, A swan carved out of ice, and one foot each Off both the busboys. As the ice chills down His reptile blood he sinks to torpid sleep, And is there dealt with by the Shore Patrol, Who all agree that they have handled worse. … Etak Etak scrubs off the itching back Of her decanted consort, who reports “Apparently they worship them as gods. Two priests attend them, offering them pigs. Perhaps they are gods.” “Gods would reach the sky Without the aid of ropes, nor would they let Themselves be bound in bamboo. These are beasts.” “All who defile the mountaintop are beasts.” “And can be killed as such. While you were stuck In She-Who-Swallows-Flies I went to fish. Not in the eastern streams but in the west. �#28 A stranger came, in a canoe of fire. He was not from the mountaintop. At least His language was not theirs. He spoke our own. He gave us this, and said that if we do That he desires we shall have weapons too.” And from concealment near the fire, Etak Takes out a pair of pliers six feet long. … The upper cable station, Artemis Would be first to admit, is what she built As “folly.” It has sweeping cornices Suggesting wings, and the entire effect Is as if on the Mountain’s narrow prow A steel and concrete pterodactyl sat. Bright cables turn, and in a shining car As if arriving from a planet new, A blond young man comes to the untrod stair. Behind a circular, clear aperture, A window of, and onto mannerism, Artemis is watching. She wears pearls. The always level, gray-eyed measured gaze That froze the life class fixes on the face, To turn at once away. And in that turn, That shows her profile, she converts a view. “The profile of a goddess,” Trip compares. “A goddess modeling as for a coin.: �A Chokered head on a medallion.” #29 Another car arrives, from which, in boots, Dark jodhpurs, and a belt of leopard skin, A servant-guardian emerges, tall, Quick, powerful. And after him draw up, One after another, eight of the commodes. “I was expecting swords,” says Artemis. “Not dragons. Not just yet.” “Swords?” Trip inquires. “As decorations., “ Artemis assures. “Swords to be crossed above the mantelpieces.” Karsen Trip allows his vision now To take in background to the deity. He sees, across the mesa’s broken rock, A sort of causeway stretch, and at its end, In fog and sunlight, what might be, elsewhere, Government House. He shrugs, and to the way’s Designer, for whom background also fades, Announces, “I cannot be certain yet, But I see nothing here that would suggest The Monitor cannot survive in this terrain. It’s bare, but parts of their own habitat Are just as barren.” “I thought that Komodo Was a jungle.” “So it is. Lombok, �However, isn’t. It has lava fields.” “Assuming we succeed, and that they live, What must I do to keep them from the building? Trust the hunters?” “What you have done here. #30 High walls and overhanging cornices. Even the largest of them can climb well.” “And what about your own life, Mr. Trip? Can you be happy here? Can you survive?” Trip nods. “All that it takes to create Eden Is a man, a woman, and a reptile,” … McCain is forced to hear his tent-mate rave. “I am not going to call a man Lorraine.“ “I wouldn’t argue. Did you see the size Of that half-breed?” Norell McCain is less Than sympathetic with the jealous rage Of Roland Galt. “You are well out of it It‘s obvious it will be open war Among the chaperons. I saw this noon ‘Lorraine‘ give Artemis Davant a look That would have frightened Genghjs Khan to death. He watches over Trip as rabidly As Attila the Nun guards Artemis. The only dragons here aren‘t the commodes.” �McCain‘s ten-mate is twisting in his hands The helpless central lodge pole of the tent. “Let go the pole. You‘’ screw us in the ground.” “If need be I‘ll fight Attila and Trip And you and all the dragons and Lorraine. That woman was in love with me. I know.” “Do you know how to spell f-I-c-k- #31 e-l?” No; you don’t either. It’s l-e.” “Can you spell f-u-c-k-u? I can.” #32 VII At the Grand Hotel On Saturday before the opening The cable brings a rich variety: A score of suckling pigs, some for the guests; An armory of decorator swords; Ten jeroboams of a good champagne, And these entrusted to the bamboo weave That brought up safely eight live monitors; A crate of goats; two geese; a wireless set; A carpet bag of purplish needlepoint; A string trio; its stands and instruments; Preceded by its legs, a grand piano; �Guns enough to stage the Jameson Raid; And, two days early, Arthur Conan Doyle. … “I like it all,” says Lady Elva Hood, “Except that Hanging Garden on the cliff. A bit like Monte Carlo, don’t you think? Suicide Terrace?” “Only if you miss, Milady.” Artemis, who cut her teeth On vicereines, takes the Press Lord’s wife in stride. A spruced-up, Bengal-looking Lothringen Is not so fortunate. “Dear God,” he says. “It’s Lady Brooke. The Ranee.” “What we know,” Says Karsen, passing white tie and tails, “As learning nothing and forgetting nothing.” “Vengeance. You have not seen what she’s like.” #33 In the receiving line Sir Christie Hood Shakes hands with a Brazilian minister, Who does not let his thoughts on boundaries Deter him from a party. Lady Brooke Is deep in conversation with a youth Who is a son of Teddy Roosevelt, Not that the name would signify to her. “I’ve shot the brutes before. Go for the eye.” Behind the trio and its potted palms �A sotto voice below the Eva waltz, Trip whispers in the ear of Artemis, Who wears a jeweled crescent in her hair. The moment lengthens in the extra beat of love. To three who watch, the scene screams at the eye. McCain and Lothringen and Roland Galt, Unlikely to make common cause, have one. … St. Boniface, unable to decide What she can rightly wear, does not attend. She stands, in ever-dampening late night, On that small terrace Lady Hood dislikes. Her thoughts are suicidal truly. “So Far, Alfred, and so near. Between us now No barrier but air. I almost see That vile confine of your imprisonment.” The nun’s geography has not improved. It is as vague as her chronology, And if her line of sight were much extended #34 She would see Caracas. But the sky Of her despair cannot be limited. Theology was never much more clear For her than azimuth, and she debates If suicide is more a mortal sin �Than living always as a Dreyfusard. The answer will, just now, not be revealed A painted hand is clapped across her mouth From an imported orange tree above, And she is pitched across the balustrade. … From printing promptings Arthur Conan Doyle Addresses curtly the assembled guests. “All I can say is that we have here life-Uh--imitating art--er--imitating Life. Since nature has so thoughtlessly Not put upon Roraima dinosaurs, We have provided them. A year or two And we can have a proper hunt. For now We can afford to shoot one specimen Alone. I wish you well. For Mr. Trip, Whose scientific knowledge and whose skill Has made this entertainment possible, Our thanks.” A little figure at the wide, Now open door into the dining room Raps twice upon the parquet’s pale rare wood And sticks his staff into the speaker’s face. #35 ( MISSING ) Who mans the cloakroom and is handed thence �#36 Her rifle, saying something, possibly, About the social life of Sarawak. #37 VIII The Same--in the Camp--In the Gun Room A line boss from the Narrow Gauge runs in, Waving a German pistol in the air As if it were the flagpole of a flag Shot off. “The CooCoos have revolted. Run! I’ve lost a dozen men. We have the line Still open but I’m not sure for how long.“ Removing lamps from Baker’s trademark sconces, Guests and staff rush toward the portico, And, like a lynch mob each Diogenes, Onto the causeway. Arriving at the prow, The vanguard is demoralized to see, Strap-hanging as it were, the Curucu Come up the cable hanging-on by hand. The White Ranee is not demoralized. She lifts her rifle and with perfect aim Begins to pick them off. Each hunter there, If he is honest, envies her the chance. It is a moonlit shooting gallery. “Fruit dropping off the vine,” says Hood their host, �And hurries all of his distinguished guests Into the next car that draws up. “Wait! Stop! Cries Roland Galt, before the gate can close “The gondola was empty. We don’t know What’s on the ground.” “I think that we’re all right,” The line boss answers. “I see flares below.” A second car arrives, and when it goes #38 Five persons only still are at the top, St. Boniface still unaccounted for, The servants having fled for who knows where. Who knows in point of fact is Pu- Tahi, Ipupu’s sorcerer reductionist, Who in the panic has been let escape, And leads, no doubt for reasons of his own, A double file of ashen refugees For the Brazilian face. It being night They are not threatened by the dragons, but, Not knowing this, break file at every sound. Awaiting the opposing cable car, That rises as its opposite descends, Are Trip and Galt and Artemis Davant, McCain, and, as a token menial, He who is called, except by Galt, Lorraine. �For no cause Galt can see, the cable stops. “Oh do restart it,” Artemis implores. “If we are separated from the rest of us We’ll never make the railhead.” “If we do Where are we,” Galt replies. “The Narrow Gauge Has only handcars for its rolling stock. Its locomotives are in Sheffield still.” As he tugs backward on the master grip An eerie twang, an A below low A, Vibrates against the cliff as sounding board, And, harp of harps, the cable separates, A flailing end, a living tentacle #39 From what azoic beast in the abyss, Encircles Red McCain around the waist, Triumphantly swings him above the edge, And drops him screaming off the precipice. … #39 ( M I S S I N G ) #40 ( M I S S I N G ) Till nine. We cannot hope to go at night; We do not know the route, and if we’re lost #41 �Out there when that cold blood is warming up…” “We are unarmed,” Lorraine reminds the group. “Unarmed completely. I will fight bare-hand In water. On land, no.” “But we have arms,” Says Artemis, and rushes from the room. When she returns she carries, like a page In some bygone Mid-Eastern entourage, A Persian sword that hung above a mantel. “Baker insisted on the best. It’s real.” #42 IX At the Grand Hotel, cont. It is the only weapon that is real. The others, it turns out, are painted plaster. “In two words, bugger Booker’s,” Artemis Unladylikely says, echoing what Would be Guiana’s anthem, did it not Lack music. Forwarders, wholesalers, crooks, That firm adds forgery to its deceits. “One sword among us,” Galt redundantly Points out. “One chance. Does it make better sense To go as four or go as two and two? A man’s a full meal. He could bring delay.” “Lorraine is more than one,” thinks Artemis, Who knows Trip’s shadow hates her, and may well �Be more a danger than she yet has faced. She looks at Galt. “The team with the best odds Would be of course the one that knows the most About the reptiles: Trip and Lothringen.” Better, she thinks, to have it come from her Than have Lorraine suggest it, and she knows It has occurred to him. No man, and least Of all a jealous one, is so opaque As that. ‘Inscrutability’ exists Behind the footlights only. “Torches. Fire. Are they afraid of it?” “Yes. But no torch Would last that long. We have too far to go.” Trip puts an arm around her. “I am sure #43 We all agree your safety is the thing That is the main consideration.” “I Do not agree. I am the odd man out. Odd woman out. I should not like to live With it upon me I had cost the life Of any man and let alone of three. I’ll stay, and trust you three to summon help.” “Or Mein Herr Galt can stay with you,” says one. “Not bloody likely,” Mijnheer Trip replies. The extra-sensory, if it exists, Exists for just such crises, and the mind �Of Lothringen is as exposed to Galt As it is dark to Trip. The ESP Sparks over race and distance and distrust. He’s figuring out how to get rid of us So he and Trip can get away alive. Clairvoyance is by definition clear. And it is not--not just--to save his skin. “Draw lots,” says Artemis. “But not till dawn. It’s that or have you stay awake all night. A fool could see you do not trust each other Not to take the sword and flit by night.” “Trust one another,” Galt corrects in silence. But the inner ether sparks again And it occurs to him that Artemis Referred advisedly to two. Cheat, clear A song, projects as with the ether’s aid. See to it I’m not left with Lothringen. #44 Telepathy implies the out-of-body. Out of Red McCain’s disjected body Comes as if to say “Beware the Ides” A voice which says in fact “You cannot mean To let that Far East Kaffir have a chance To have a White girl in his debt. Come to.” The Limbo of the Old Colonial, Upon the evidence South Africa, �Or, possibly, the middle management At Booker’s, calls the warning echo back And Roland Galt must function as he can. “That Kaffir possibly one could,” he thinks But hears agin Limbo. “How desperate Is desperate?” “Much better not to know,” He formulates as his convinced reply. “I’d better keep the one true sword myself,” The White Rose says. I guess I’ll sleep with it. All of the properties of chivalry And all of its discomforts. Rest you well. I’m sorry Mr. Baker built no tower.” … “Release the goats,” says Trip to Lothringen. “Satiety will be the best ally We have.” “The only.” When his aide is gone Trip finds himself on Baker’s service stair In declasse debate with Roland Galt. #45 “What is the opposite, in Double Dutch Of well done good and faithful servant?” “One Of you,” Trip answers, ”will betray me. Not That Lorraine would.” “But could he Don’t pretend �You don’t know what I’m asking.” “In Ceram He has a wife and children.” “Marvelous What thirty guilders will accomplish, no?” “I ought to strike you.“ “Don’t. Just do you not Suppose if in the morning when we draw He wins, he will not take the sword and go. At that point he will cease to be your ‘boy’ And let alone your servant. I and you Will have to take him on. It will take both.” … “One foot outside the door,” says Artemis. “I’ve lost one chaperon and now have two.” The unlit corridor and unlit room Do not conceal the faces pressing close. The numismatic profile, in full face, Is very young, as is the dragon-herd’s. “You Dutchmen in the Indies never lose, Somehow, a look of ice and silver skates.” “Appearances deceive. Our blood warms up.” The Old Hand’s youth is in his urging.” “No. I hope with all my heart the draw is yours #46 �But if it isn’t I go with the draw No man should have to fight a dragon, Karsen, For the sake of damaged goods. Goodnight.” … Not on an impulse, neither for a reason, Roland Galt, before he heads for bed, Goes down between the potted orange trees And down the seven flights of zigzag stairs To stroll the Suicide Parterre. So far It is a night without fog. Bright moonlight Picks out, across the mountain’s southeast bay, The day’s last waterfall, already going dry. It is a spurting stream of diamonds. Below him Galt can see the mist begin: A patch or two, and then a ground of haze. He leans upon the plaster balustrade; His cigarette case drops out of his shirt. Putting one leg across the balusters To try the ledge, he climbs a few feet down. The, reaching out an arm to pull back up, He feels a giant’s grasp, and easily Is lifted like an infant from a tub. “If you are jumping, don’t. If you are climbing, Wait.” The grip is Lothar Lothringen’s. Around his shoulder is a coil of rope And in his hand a little alpenstock. �They are, for Galt, at once familiar. “Those are McCain’s. He had them in the camp.” “He brought them topside for the opening. #47 Sir Christie thought the guests might like to climb.” “Another weapon is another chance.” “The alpenstock? Too short. Pick; handle too. The handle brings one well within the jaws. The pick would hardly pierce the outer skin. I do not say it is not useful still. I’ve done no climbing, but it’s time to learn.” He hooks the pick beneath the other’s belt And lifts him anything but playfully. “Come with me. As you have seen, we are de trop With Eve and Adam and the fruit up there.” Galt feels that he is being cut in two By pressure of his inseams. “Put me down.” “You haven’t answered my nice invitation.” “I’ve climbed here, but that’s all there is of it.” The East may be the fount of irony. “All you will have to do is hang on tight.” He hands him, handle first, the alpenstock. “This is in case you’d like to sleep with it.” … As dawn breaks, the two men have formed a “rope.” What nags at Galt is not the being bound �But what he hears McCain say out of Limbo. “Face it, Man. You were just something kept, As one might say, on Miss Lorraine’s back burner.” #48 X Without the Gates Nature, supportive always of the hopes Of man, puts out the brightest day in years. A mammoth sun soars out of green Guiana, Reddening the Mountain’s red sandstone. The heat of day comes hard upon the dawn. Trip has the sword in hand; he and the girl Are at the gates. Eroded tableland, A sort of Cappadocia countersunk, Spreads out before them, dully glistening. “It looks like German architecture: Poelzig” Artemis comments abstractedly. “It isn’t Petra. Half as old as time Means here the fauna. With a little luck We’ll miss them altogether. They aren’t bright, And if you wanted to invent a place For them to like and stay, you’d be hard put To better those depressions there. Keep close; We’re sticking to the high ground” Not, it soon Is patent, wise. Upon a narrow neck Between two sinkholes rears a large female, �Her grooved tongue flickering in semaphore. “You shall not eat of every tree?” it spells. “Here is the beast,” Trip thinks, “and here the field, But where’s the subtlety? And no fruit keeps.” The tongue is bifurcated, what it says Ambiguous. “Ye shall not surely die.” “Maybe, but I would say the odds aren’t good.” #49 Trip lifts the sword and aims it for the brain. “If I am mangled take the sword and leave. They always will prefer dead meat to live.” … Eight decades or an eon into time, In the vicinity of Krakatoa, quakes Are picked up on the open seismographs As far as Honolulu. In the straits At Lombok, later in the afternoon, A monstrous bulge is seen upon the water, Breaking to become a quiet cloud Of a peculiar yellow. Drifting east It settles toward Komodo, parts, re-forms. It is a lazy, doubled crescent now, Advancing on the Flores coast like rain, Or like Imperial Japan’s last fleets: A suicide armada on the move, Behind some mile-high cloud of chlorine gas. �#50 XI Roraima--Manaus Augustus Phelan, of Pacific Heights And of the San Francisco curia In the Sierra Club, collects the tour Of which he is the organizer-guide In the impressively restored foyer Of Grand Hotel Guyana-Tepi, Cape Dutch monument to a generic past, That being, the country’s circumstances, Relevant as any other kind. The Booker Companies, the catering Franchise, have flown-in jello, frozen shrimp, And large ice carvings, which, in noonday heat, Have melted into smaller, other shapes Than those intended, some of them obscene. “As soon as we are finished with our lunch,” Says Dr. Phelan, ”we can take our cameras And set off for the dragon pits. These are, You know, the last surviving specimens Of the Komodo Giant Monitor. In Indonesia it is now extinct.” “It isn’t. In the Sumba Strait last year I counted three. They swim as well as whales.” The speaker is a Stanford botanist, �A longtime Baker Street Irregular, To whom the tour was somewhat oversold. “Fine news if true,” says Dr. Phelan suavely. “Not, however, vary likely.” He goes on: #51 “Varanus went out neither with a bang Nor whimper. It went out as with a burp. The gas eruptions of the 70s Completed the destruction. We can thank The foresight of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle And other humane conservationists In founding the Roraima colony. So far as we can tell from past accounts The dragons here attain a greater size Than ever was recorded in the wild. It may be absence of competing life forms, Diet, or selective breeding.. Trip’s Originals are said to have been large By what we think was standard for the time. We are, in fact, as size for full grown males, Well on the way to twenty feet. In short, We’re breeding back, or forward if you like, To proper dinosaurs. It’s The Lost World. Now if you’ll gather up your cameras…” … On their return the brave time travelers �Sense disarray in Booker’s caterers. “You should have stayed in the hotel,” says one. “A dragon jumped the wall and tried to mate With one of my creations.” “With the dolphin?” “No. With R.M.S. Titanic. Froze Right to it and went off into a stupor. Took all six of us to drag him out.” #52 “Well can you blame him? Long before dessert It looked more like an iceberg than a ship, And God knows there’s no air-conditioning.” … The festival, so called, “Of All the World,” Spoleto-in-Manaus, mounts this year That well known Cariocan opera Coq d’Or. Teatro Amazonas lights At intermission like the Opera De Monaco or like the Palais Garnier Itself. Encumbered by the Slavic bulk Of émigrés positioned on her right, A handsome woman in her diamond And eye-makeup-alone decades resumes Her conversation from the interval Preceding, toward the left. “A lovely house, But surely in a rubber capital One hopes for softer cushions. Was the dance �Recital dire? I could jot bear to go. The program spoke of bread and circuses.” “That group, the Nicaraguans, never showed. They all came down with Hepatitis B In Panama. We had a group from Guam Who did a sketch about a hero type Who saves a virgin from a dragon. Wild. I mean a sketch.” The rich old lady smiles. “That is as good a start for marriage As any other.” “Hate me if I ask, #53 But are you not Viscountess Norwich?” “No. I’m often taken for her. Years ago, In Singapore in 1941, I met her. Very princess-like. I’m flattered.” “What do you suppose,” the seat mate asks, “The Amazon was like in 1910? They knew already that it would not last. The rubber seeds were long since smuggled out. Two years, the Federated Malay States Would do them in. Would they have built this house If they had really known?” The profile not Viscountess Norwich answers. “Oh, I speak To that. I know exactly how it was. In 1940, in Batavia, �We knew too well the Japanese would come-The Germans had the Netherlands and France Already--knew, I say, that they would come, But we did not know when. That is content: To have your goodbyes said and not know when. Buitenzorg had things well in control; Without the interference from the Hague, Better than usual. It was a calm Before the storm, but is there calm that‘s not? My sons were in the war, but they were safe; In training, both of them, In Nova Scotia. It was the best time of my marriage. My husband, when the children still were young, Was gone a lot. He was a scientist. #54 An expert on large lizards, if you please. He had to sit through Wagner’s Siegfried once. He found the opera ‘inaccurate’. The threat of war kept him much more at home. He had his funds to manage. I exist On money that has gone from Tsarist bonds To Royal Dutch to numbered Swiss accounts To I.B.M. to gene research to gold. I shall not tell you where I have it now. But while we waited, every afternoon, We sat in our pajamas on the lawn �And had the servants bring out ice and gin And our two tortoise-shell fly swatters. These Were our conceits. A gift from us to us. They were for swatting little lizards with. I had them with me on that last flight out In 1942, and fortunate I had. Australia is drenched in flies. To dodge the Japs we had to fly at night. A KLM eight-seat amphibian Too old for the Defense to confiscate. My husband put me on the plane at ten And left for Flores in a motor launch. He had experiments in progress there. I have inferred--and I had seen his route-He ran into a Japanese task force. No man should have to face a dragon twice. I have run on and on. Did not shops here #55 Outlast the rubber barons? I’ve found none.” “There is a little woman off the Square Who deals in emeralds and shrunken heads.” “Oh no. I might see old acquaintances I had a project in Guiana once.” “They both are copies. Who would shrink a head That looked like Yoko Ono in the first place.” �“Who would ruin glass for emeralds.” … The Widow Trip goes shopping nonetheless. Her progress takes her past a Beaux-Arts mile And toward the River, where a floating market Vies for the attention with a fair. In a Brazilian switch, the carrousel Is silent and the Ferris Wheel has sound. Or has one sound. It’s “Don’t tell me the lights…” Is stuck. The uncompleted five-note phrase Is maddening, and Artemis supplies, On beat, “are shining, anywhere but there.” The shaded ticket stand is occupied, And massively, by an enormous man Who wears a top hat, and a jaguar skin He is the color of. He does not shill, Trusting to his appearance to attract, Or to repel; there is no knowing which. A group of children buys a dozen fares Without disturbing his indifference. The man at the control is scrutable, But seems to have some sort of injury. #56 Or be, perhaps, the victim of a stroke. He pivots on one foot for all his moves, And manages the two-hand grip with one. �A partial turn brings up a gondola; In its design is something that the eye Of one who used to be an architect Responds to, but the congruence is gone As quickly as it came. The wheel turns by; A profile unmistakable, except For Lady Norwich, turns full face, to see The ‘grip’ look at her strangely. That, of course, May be the stroke. The music comes unstuck; The uncompleted sweeps on to its close. The lights are shining as Diana leaves. #57 XII On the Rand In Parktown in Johannesburg, the lion And the lizard keep. Majestically At Bright Kop, Herbert Baker’s lion gate Looks out on nothing, and the empty house, Upon its street side blind with trellises, Is open toward the North for any view. The sash-ropes blow out toward Pretoria; Rust slows the wind vane. In that quarter lag, Where East is North and North is West, dead calm Will come; the compass-rose upon the hearth Select its final wind, its final stop. All choices are coincidence; all wheels �Are gambler’s wheels. East may, across two seas And two emerging continents, point then To where Roraima weights the boundaries. Those also are coincidence. Or were. Heraldic beasts around the mounted globe Intimidate their small originals, Who may defer, but who will multiply. The shrinking head dries in its knowledge still; Empire and Barbary are where you look; The sword and dragon where they always were. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource dlw0.wps Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cassity, Turner. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2005-05-27T21:57:36 Date Modified Date on which the resource was changed. 2005-05-28T22:08:52 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Compaq Presario SR1222NX (Born digital materials), Turner Cassity papers, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, Emory University. Relation A related resource Is part of the Turner Cassity papers, 1948-2009 [http://pid.emory.edu/ark:/25593/8z3tt]. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource document Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context f67d9760b7bc077db48a204ba3f1f7ae Developing_the_lost_world