قراءة كتاب The Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 4
lips of Editor, I learn,
"This Story is the Kind for which I Yearn;
Its Advertising brought us such Renown,
We jumped Three Hundred Thousand, on that Turn!"
XXXVI
I think the man exaggerated some
His increased Circulation,—but, I vum!
If I could get Two Thousand for one Tale,
I'd write him Something that would simply Hum!
XXXVII
For I remember, shopping by the way,
I saw a Novel writ by Bertha Clay;
And there was scrawled across its Title-Page,
"This is the Stuff that Sells—so People say!"
XXXVIII
Listen—a moment listen!—Of the same
Wood-pulp on which is printed Hewlett's Name,
The "Duchess" Books are made—in fifty years
They both will rot asunder—who's to Blame?"
XXXIX
And not a Book that from our Shelves we throw
To the Salvation Army, but shall go
To vitiate the Taste of some poor Soul
Who can get nothing else to read—go Slow!
XL
As then the Poet for his morning Sup
Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup,
Do you devoutly read your Manuscripts
That Someone may, before you burn them up!
XLI
Perplex'd no more with editorial "Nay"
To-morrow's Reputation cast away,
And lose your College Education in
The flippant, foolish Fiction of To-day.
XLII
And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read,
End in the Garbage Barrel—take no Heed;
Think that you are no worse than other Scribes,
Who scribble Stuff to meet the Public Need.
XLIII
So, when Who's-Who records your silly Name,
You'll think that you have found the Road to Fame;
And though ten thousand other Names are there,
You'll fancy you're a Genius, just the Same!
XLIV
Why, if an Author can fling Art aside,
And in a Book of Balderdash take Pride,
Wer't not a Shame—wer't not a Shame for him
A Conscientious Novel to have tried?
XLV
Writing's a Trade where Newspapers pay best;
LeGallienne this Verity confess'd;
So join the Union, like the rest of us—
Who strikes for Art is looked at as a Jest.
XLVI
And fear not, if the Editor refuse
Your work, he has no more from which to choose;
The Literary Microbe shall bring forth
Millions of Manuscripts too bad to use.
XLVII
When Fitch's Comedies have all gone past,
Oh, the long Time Pinero's plays shall last,
Which of Belasco's little Triumphs