A Book of Burlesques. H. L. Mencken
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H. L. Mencken
A Book of Burlesques
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4057664655363
Table of Contents
I.—DEATH I.—Death. A Philosophical Discussion
II.—FROM THE PROGRAMME OF A CONCERT II.—From The Programme of a Concert
III.—THE WEDDING III.—The Wedding. A Stage Direction
IV.—THE VISIONARY IV.—The Visionary
V.—THE ARTIST V.—The Artist. A Drama Without Words
VI.—SEEING THE WORLD VI.—Seeing The World
VII.—FROM THE MEMOIRS OF THE DEVIL VII.—From the Memoirs of the Devil
VIII.—LITANIES FOR THE OVERLOOKED VIII.—Litanies for the Overlooked
IX.—ASEPSIS IX.—Asepsis. A Deduction in Scherzo Form
X.—TALES OF THE MORAL AND PATHOLOGICAL X.—Tales of the Moral and Pathological
II.—The Incomparable Physician
XI.—THE JAZZ WEBSTER XI. The Jazz Webster
XII.—THE OLD SUBJECT XII.—The Old Subject
XIII.—PANORAMAS OF PEOPLE XIII.—Panoramas of People
XIV.—HOMEOPATHICS XIV.—Homeopathics
4. Proposed Plot For a Modern Novel.
The present edition includes some epigrams from “A Little Book in C Major,” now out of print. To make room for them several of the smaller sketches in the first edition have been omitted. Nearly the whole contents of the book appeared originally in The Smart Set. The references to a Europe not yet devastated by war and an America not yet polluted by Prohibition show that some of the pieces first saw print in far better days than these.
H. L. M.
February 1, 1920.
I.—DEATH I.—Death. A Philosophical Discussion
The back parlor of any average American home. The blinds are drawn and a single gas-jet burns feebly. A dim suggestion of festivity: strange chairs, the table pushed back, a decanter and glasses. A heavy, suffocating, discordant scent of flowers—roses, carnations, lilies, gardenias. A general stuffiness and mugginess, as if it were raining outside, which it isn’t.
A door leads into the front parlor. It is open, and through it the flowers may be seen. They are banked about a long black box with huge nickel handles, resting upon two folding horses. Now and then a man comes into the front room from the street door, his shoes squeaking hideously. Sometimes there is a woman, usually in deep mourning. Each visitor approaches the long black box, looks into it with ill-concealed repugnance, snuffles softly, and then backs of toward the door. A clock on the mantel-piece ticks loudly. From the street come the usual noises—a wagon rattling, the clang of a trolley car’s gong, the shrill cry of a child.
In the back parlor six pallbearers sit upon chairs, all of them bolt upright, with their hands on their knees.