Thus Spake an Artist, a Greenwich Villager
I have.
I have in my home.
I have in my home an old violin which cannot be played for it has no strings, but which is strangely painted, with two deep cuts running along the entire length of the violin; large wooden bowls covered with paintings of birds and beasts; and an old sword in its sheath, and Chinese coins held on a ring through the hole in their center, and Francs which glint blue and gold, and brass vases, lots of books, and I have a fire going in my fireplace and wisps of smoke rise (through my chimney) like a fire-offering, and my greened bronze pipe with a red tip which is lying on its side, warming up in the coals of my fireplace like some kind of curled-up little creature.
I have.
I have at home.
I have at home the sounds of wild laughter and impassioned talk. The gramophone belches out the songs of cocky cantors, trilling dames, and spit-mouthed merrymakers.
I have.
I have at home.
I have at home—between the painted bowls, lifeless violin, old coins, and vibrato dames a tall man walks around, cracking his knuckles, and pacing back and forth like a shadow with no one to follow, no one who might cast it.
from Moyshe Nadir, nayste verk (NY: Freiheit Publishing Co., 1932)
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