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Production Number All are frantic, like water flowers. Dancing in the sharpest outlines they can manage, the poorly loved, the compulsive cartoon posters of women dancing at all angles on the hoardings of cities in slant rain— so many flowers in a tempest, so many arms or fine legs broken to shards. It must be popular, this crazy angling for self-knowledge in the suffering of others, especially of women. In the music of the 19205 it turned the bridges of New York into arrows. In the posters of Weimar it turned dancing and beautiful women in repose into bad engines, windmills of swords. Ours is the century of popular death. Our music keens at the tall centers ofbridges. Our poetry mimics the fast poison of dancing because it loves women best when they dance too quickly, their bodies the beautiful weapons of the posters, of the bridges of New York, of what it could love, groaning in Weimar. We belong to death. It makes us famous. Gershwin wanted to write serious music and he did and the 19205 learned to use the bodies of dancers as brass and drum and as a stamping chorus of engines on the weightless, insupportable bridge of the next decade. There was no next after that, and I can only imagine what might have been, the same as you. 55 ...



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