The Daily Dorothy

Farthest am I from perfection’s heights, Faulty am I as I well could be, Still I insist on my share of rights. When I am dead, think this of me: Though I h ave uttered the words “Yea, bo,” Though I use “ain’t” to get a laugh, Though I am wont to explain “Let’s go,” Though I say “You don’t know the half,”-- Black though my record as darkest jet, Give me, I beg, my devil’s due; Only remember, I’ve never yet Said, “How’s the world been treating you?”

“What could be sweeter?” I fondly muse; “You said a mouthful,” I confess; Witnesses testify that I use “Yes, indeedy,” in times of stress; “Oh, it’s a great life,” I loudly claim.-- “If you don’t weaken,” I amend; “I’ll tell the world” is my middle name; “Well, how’s the boy?” I greet a friend. While I acknowledge each grave defect, Still I am master of my fate.-- All that I ask you is, Recollect I never said, “I’m here to state.”

“Yours till hell freezes,” I sign my mail; “I’ll say it is,” I coyly cry; “What’s the good word?” is my cheery hail; Bidding farewell, I say “Bye-bye”; I demand, “How do you get that way?” “Oh, have a heart,” is all my plea; Speaking of oysters, I sadly say, “I like them, but they don’t like me.”

Humbly I own to each one of these, Yet I alone for all mys lips; Heap me a measure of credit, please.-- “Kiddie” has never passed my lips.

Glad Christmas Day once more has come -- There's little novelty in that. It's welcomed eagerly by some, Which isn't to be marveled at. Their stockings hold a house and a lot (I hope you gather what I mean), A picturesquely furnished yacht, A next year's model limousine, A sable wrap of graceful cut, A sheaf of checks for vast amounts; It's not the thought that matters, but The gift which goes with it that counts. But I'll get a multitude of seasonable cards, A bowl full of lily bulbs, approaching their decease; A pair of gilded shoe-trees, with appropriate regards, And a leather-bound "Evangeline," with colored frontispiece. It's scarcely any wonder that The season finds me all unmoved, For Father Christmas leaves me flat -- Step-Father Christmas, it has proved. 'Twas ever thus -- from early youth I've seen my hopes decay, because Too soon I learned the bitter truth: There isn't any Santa Claus. Each Yuletide mocks my touching trust; Though give and let give is my plea, It's Christmas Day for some, but just December twenty-fifth for me. For I'll get a paper-weight, to crush my Christmas cheer, A hand-painted needle-case, a brace of button-hooks, A host of cordial wishes for a prosperous new year, And a holiday edition of the "Rubaiyat," de luxe. I've often heard that some there are -- How hard such tales are to believe! -- To prove that costlier by far It is to give than to receive. On Christmas they present their friends With motor cars, and pearls in strings, And blocks of stocks with dividends, And other useful little things. Though I have no such benefits, I sing the Christmas spirit's praise. I know the giver's thrill -- for it's A poor Yule which won't work both ways. So I'll give a laundry bag, of chintz refined, yet gay; A tooth-brush container of fanciful design, A flock of timely greetings for a snappy Christmas Day, And a highly colored copy of "That Old Sweetheart of Mine."

I hate Bores; They take the joy out of my life.

They are the Symptom Collectors. They have tried every specialist once. They go about, quoting what they said under ether; They give readings from their fever-charts; And they carry their cast-off appendixes with them, in bottles-- Just for old times' sake. They are forever showing you X-ray photographs Of their quaint crannies and intimate inglenooks. They say that you can never guess what they suffer, And then they clear up all doubts. Every doctor tells them that their case is hopeless-- I'll say it is.

Then there are the Parlor Comedians. They have memorized the entire series Of history's favourite anecdotes. They being by saying that they just heard a new one-- Which is the funniest line in the whole story. They go in strongly for the kind of humour That requires special apparatus. They will go miles to procure an exploding cigar Of a perforated drinking-glass. They have a repertoire of sure-fire comedy hits: They address all waiters as "George." And they love to call you on the telephone And say, "this is Police Headquarters speaking." They save up all their witticisms for you, And tell you how everyone nearly dies at them-- Nearly dies is right.

There are Gluttons for Business. They started on a shoe string And worked their way up to white spats. They are entirely self-made, And think that everybody is clamoring for the recipe. Their life is an open ledger; They tell you all the inside gossip About invoices and bills of lading, And illustrate their talk with diagrams Showing their increased output throughout the Middle West. They relate heart-rendering stories Of hose they haven't had a vacation in ten years, And how they wish they could go away for a while-- And I wish they could go away from now on.

And there are Amateur Mediums. They are always fooling around with the spirits. They are constantly receiving messages from the Great Beyond Saying Uncle Walter is well And hopes everybody at home is the same. They spend every night Being warned, in dreams, of their friends' deaths. There is nothing that they can’t worm out of a ouija board. They are so messy around the house; They are always tipping tables And sitting around in circles, with the lights out. They are forever seeing things and hearing knocks, And they know they have clairvoyant minds-- If any.

I hate Bores; They take the joy out of my life.

Miss Isadora Quigley pays Terpsichore devotion; In rhythmic bliss, she bends and sways-- The true vers libre of motion. She blithely bounds o’er field and strem, Attired with Greek simplicity, And gives, the while, her basic scheme, A lot of free publicity. Her genius is, as all agree Who watch her do her dances, An infinite capacity For taking awful chances.

You may not care for it--but there! It keeps her in the open air.

The name of Mr. Eustace Young, Our author, sharp and Shavia, Some day will be on every tongue-- Including Scandinavian. He has, he’s often told, a flair For tense and throbbing crudity; On every page his soul lies bare, In literary nudity. Already he is hailed as great By cultural minorities, For all his works have been, to date, Suppressed by the authorities.

Our literati have confessed Nothing succeeds like the suppressed.

Now art Miss Iris Blount employs; Her batik and her stencil Express her maiden griefs and joys. She swings a wicked pencil! In forms of cube and octagon, Ignoring technicalities, She splashes her impressions on, In broadest generalities. She paints no view of moonlit glen, No landscape, green and grassy; Her subjects run to gentlemen And ladies, in their chassis.

Her art, our connoisseurs imply, Is all in the beholder’s eye.

To down all kings and presidents Our Mr. Tech proposes; His loudly uttered sentiments Are redder than the roses. He urges anarchism’s cause In terms concise, but notable; And what he says about the laws Would scarcely pass as quotable. He pleads that marriages be few, While love be free, in plenty-- Which last endears him greatly to The local cognoscenti.

His word is law, among our set, On rules of sovietiquette.

Roughing It in the Country at The Birches, Maine

Greetings to all from the pine-scented woods! We hope everybody is feeling so good. Kindly forgive our writing in pencil; It’s too much trouble to get the other utensil. We want to tell you about this place. With us it certainly stands like an ace. To-day we went out on the lake to fish; That you were with us, was our heartiest wish. We caught a trout, not to mention some chubbs, And then put them back, like a couple of dubs. A salmon then got on the line by mistake, But we put him back, for the little ones’ sake. The lake at times is fairly rough. We go out upon it, though. The water is cold and full of salmon, And the scenery hereabouts is charming. Our Septoline has given out-- We’re better off, there’s not a doubt. But still, we’d like a dash of hootch, In fact, we’d like it very much. As yet, we have not been in bathing, We’re waiting or a warmer occasion. We’re saving our bathing-suits, crisp and new, To give to some Ziegfeld ingenue. The trail around the island’s fine; To-day we saw some porcupines. The tennis court is a perfect whale; We thought at first it was part of the trail. The Wallace Frye just broke a shaft-- You should have heard the captain laugh! Some children here have the whooping-cough. If we don’t get it, we’ll be in soft. The desk clerk’s manner is proud and airy, Nevertheless, we think he’s a fairy. There are some people right next door Who turned out to be a terrible bore. There always seems to be some kind of a hitch Isn’t Nature a (finish this line for yourself, and get a year’s subscription to the             Boston Post.)  The captain’s trousers may be out at the seat; But he stands ace-high with Mr. Bradstreet. He should worry about cash in hand, He’s got a rating of 800 thousand. Each time the boat sails, he’s on her To collect 54 cents from each passenger. We expect to be back on Sunday noon, Or if not then, some fine day soon. We’ll return to the city, ‘mid sighs and tears, With vacation over for another year. We’re feeling fine--the same to you, And now it’s late, we must say adieu. We think of you all, on the Biltmore roof And wish you were with us, that’s the God’s truth. We watch the flickering firelight, And wonder if Duggie and Robby are tight*. In the firelight glow, so cheery and warm, We weep over the mortgage on the Bentley farm. And now we cannot write any more, So, once again, we must say au revoir.

--Conde and Clarisse

--Dorothy Parker

I hate Actors; They ruin my evenings.

There are the Juveniles; The Male Ingenues. They always interpret the rôles of wealthy young sportsmen, So that they can come running on in white flannels, Carrying tennis racquets, and wearing spiked shoes. Whenever the lights go up They are discovered with their arms around some girl. They wear their watches and handkerchiefs on their arms, And they simply couldn’t play a scene without their cigarette cases. They think that the three Greatest Names in American History Are Hart, Schaffner, and Marx. They are constantly giving interviews to the Sunday papers Complaining about the car-loads of mash notes they receive. They know they have it in them to do something Really Big; They relate how Belasco told them that they would go far— I wish they were on their way!

There are the Movie Heroes; The Boys Who Drove the Wild West Wild. They are forever fading out into the sunset, And if they can’t pose for a close-up every few feet They sue the company. They wear their hair bobbed, And always look as if they dressed by mail. They were never known to lose a fight; The whole troupe of supernumeraries hasn’t a chance against them. They are just bubbling over with animal spirits— They are continually walking up the side of houses, Or springing from one galloping horse to another, Or leaping out of balloons, without parachutes. And they love to be photographed balancing on one foot On the extreme edge of the Grand Canyon,— Oh, that I might get behind them, just once!

Then there are the Tragedians; The Ones Who Made Shakespeare famous. They are always telling what they used to say to Booth. And they talk about the old traditions As if they had collaborated on them. They make their positively last appearance, semi-annually, And they are just about to go on farewell tour No. 118397, Series H. They never appear in any rôle In which they have to wear long trousers. If they stooped to play in any drama written after 1700, They know that Art could never be the same. They are forever striding around the stage in trick tempests, Wearing aluminum armor, and waving property swords, And shrieking at Heaven to do its worst,— I wish Heaven would kindly oblige.

And there are the Drawing-Room Stars; The Ones That Swing a Mean Tea-Cup. They always appear in those dramas In which the Big Line is “;No cream, please—lemon.” They interpret every emotion By tapping the left thumb-nail with the cork-tipped cigarette. They are invariably the best-dressed men on our stage,— Their press-agent says so himself. They are always standing in the center of the stage Saying cutting things about marriage; And they hang around in property moonlight, Making middle-aged love. They cherish secret ambitions To take off their cutaways and play Hamlet; They know they could be great If the public would only give them their just due,— If it only would! 

I hate Actors; They ruin my evenings.

An Intimate Glimpse of Vanity Fair--En Famille

I hate the office; It cuts in on my social life.

There is the Art Department; The Cover Hounds. They are always explaining how the photographing machine works. And they stand around the green light And look as if they had been found drowned. They are forever discovering Great Geniuses; They never fail to find exceptional talents In any feminine artist under twenty-five. Whenever the illustrations are late The fault invariably lies with the editorial department. They are always rushing around looking for sketches, And writing mysterious numbers on the backs of photographs, And cutting out pictures and pasting them into scrapbooks, And then they say nobody can realize how hard they are worked— They said something.

Then there is the Editorial Department; The Literary Lights. They are just a little holier than other people Because they can write classics about "'Brevity is the soul of lingerie', said this little chemise to itself"; And "Here are five reasons for the success of the Broadway plays". They are all full of soul; Someone is forever stepping on their temperaments. They are constantly having nervous breakdowns And going away for a few weeks. And they only come in on Saturday mornings To hold the franchise. They tell you what good training editorial work is. But they don't mean to stay in it— Some day they will be Free Lances And write the Great Thoughts that Surge within them. They say they only wish they could get away from the office,— That makes it unanimous.

Then there is the Fashion Department; First Aids to Baron de Meyer. If any garment costs less than $485 They think you ought to give it to the Belgians. They look at everything you have on, And then smile tolerantly And say, "Sears, Roebuck certainly do a wonderful business, don't they?" They are forever taking pictures of prominent Wild Women Dressed as brides and kneeling at Property Altars. And they write essays on Smart Fashions for Limited Incomes,— The sky's the limit.

There is the Boss; The Great White Chief. He made us what we are to-day,— I hope he's satisfied. He has some bizarre ideas About his employees' getting to work At nine o'clock in the morning,— As if they were a lot of milkmen. He has never been known to see you When you arrive at 8:45, But try to come in at a quarter past ten And he will always go up in the elevator with you. He goes to Paris on the slightest provocation And nobody knows why he has to stay there so long. Oh, well— You can't expect to keep him down on the farm.

I hate the office; It cuts in on my social life.

Fragment

We came face to face in the crowd; Hemmed all about by pushing, straining figures, Berserk with the thought of getting home to dinner. Heavy about us rose the odor of crowded humanity, Hot in our ears sounded their polyglot curses. But the crowd was kind, for it pushed you into my arms, There you rested, one supreme moment, Your delicate body quivering with exquisite timidity. We stood, we two alone, on the pinnacle of rapture, Our souls throbbing together. Then we were torn apart. But Hope leaped high within me, For, before you were borne away from me, You whispered a few shy syllables,-- The answer to my feverish question... Why did you give me the wrong telephone number?

The Picture Gallery

My life is like a picture gallery, With narrow aisles wherein the spectators may walk. The pictures themselves are hung to the best advantage; So that the good ones draw immediate attention. Now and then, one is so cleverly hung, That, though it seems unobtrusive, It catches the most flattering light. Even the daubs are shown so skillfully That the shadows soften them into beauty.... My life is like a picture gallery, With a few pictures turned discreetly to the wall.

Sunday

A litter of newspapers Piled in smothering profusion. Supplements sprawling shamelessly open, Flaunting their lurid contents-- “Divorced Seven Times, Will Re-Wed First Wife”, And, “Favorite’s Account of Escape from the Harem”. Unopened sheets of “help” advertisements; Editorials, crumpled in a frenzy of ennui; Society pages, black with lying photographs. Endless, beginningless heaps of newspapers... Outside, a thin gray rain, Falling, falling hopelessly, With a dull monotony of meaningless sound, Like the voice of a minister reading the marriage service.

Showing That Anyone Can Write Modernist Verse

Bacchanale

Hand in hand, we ran through the Autumn forest; Our laughter soaring on the wings of the mad wind; In and out, tracing a fantastic path, Through the passionate, flaming dogwood And the slim, virginal birches, Our limbs flashing white against the riotous background. The grape-leaves I twined rested lightly on your hair, And, as we ran, you shouted snatches of wild songs-- Pagan hymns of praise to the dead gods. On we rushed, dizzy with the strong wine of Autumn.... If wonder if you were married, too.

I hate Bohemians; They shatter my morale.

There are the Artists; The Inventors of the Nude. They are always gesticulating with their thumbs, And sketching, with forks, on table cloths; They point out all the different colors in a sunset As if they were trying to sell it to you; They are forever messing around with batik; And hanging yellow tassels on things; And stencilling everything within reach. I do hope that Gibson never learns what they think of him: It would simply break his heart. Of course, they know that being hung in the Academy Is just a matter of pull. They say that James Montgomery Flagg may stoop to mere success, But as for them, Let them starve first! Fair enough!

There are the Writers; The Press Agents for Sex. They are forever exposing their inmost souls, Their “stuff” is always “brutally frank”— Why, they’d just as soon tell you their favorite flower. They find their fullest expression in free verse; They call it that Because they have to give it away. They are extremely well read, They can quote from their own works for hours— Without a mistake. They are always pulling manuscripts out of their pockets, And asking you to tell them, honestly—is it too daring? They would sit down And write the Great American Novel If they only could find a publisher Big Enough. Oh, well— Genius is an infinite capacity for giving pains.

There are the Actors; They always refer to themselves as “Players”. Whenever two or three of them are gathered together Another little theatre comes into the world. They are eternally leasing vacant kitchenettes And presenting their own dramas—with Woolworth scenery. Of course, there can be no real drama above Fourteenth Street. If they even walked across Times Square They’d feel that they had lost their amateur standing. They ask you what you think of their technique, And then wait for you to commit perjury. They thank God that they never descended to commercialism; They know that they’ll never be appreciated— They don’t know the half of it.

And then there are the Radicals; The Table D’ Hôte Bolsheviki. They are always in revolt about something. Nothing has been done yet that they can wholly approve of. Their existence is just like Heaven— There is neither marrying nor giving in marriage. They are forever starting magazines And letting the Postal Authorities put the finish to them. Their one ambition is to get themselves arrested, So that they can come out and be Heroes. They are always stifled— Always longing to loose the trivial fetters of Convention, And go far away,—back to the Real— I wish they’d get started! 

I hate Bohemians; They shatter my morale.

I hate Slackers; They get on my nerves. There are the Conscientious Objectors. They are the real German atrocities. They go around saying, "War is a terrible thing", As if it were an original line. They take the war as a personal affront; They didn't start it—and that lets them out. They point out how much harder it is To stay at home and take care of their consciences Than to go and have some good, clean fun in a nice, comfortable trench. They explain that it isn't a matter of mere bravery; They only wish they had the chance to suffer for their convictions— I hope to God they get their wish! Then there are the Socialists; The Professional Bad Sports. They don't want anybody to have any fun. If anybody else has more than two dollars, They consider it a criminal offense. They look as if the chambermaid forgot to dust them. There is something about their political views That makes them wear soiled decolleté shirts, And they are too full of the spirit of brotherhood To ask any fellow creature to cut their hair. They are always telling their troubles to the New Republic; And are forever blocking the traffic with parades. If anyone disagrees with them They immediately go on strike. They will prove—with a street corner and a soap box— That the whole darned war was Morgan's fault— Boy, page an alienist. There are the Pacifists; They have chronic stiff necks From turning the other cheek, They say they don't believe in war— As if it were Santa Claus or the Stork. They will do anything on earth to have peace Except go out and win it. Of course they are the only people Who disapprove of war; Everybody else thinks it's perfectly great— The Allies are only fighting Because it keeps them out in the open air They know that if we'd all go around wearing lilies, And simply refusing to fight, The Kaiser would take his army and go right back home. It's all wrong, Pershing, it's all wrong. And then there are the Men of Affairs; The ones who are too busy to fight. Business is too good, And men aren't needed yet, anyway— Wait till the Germans come over here. They tell you it would be just their luck To waste three or four months in a training camp, And then have peace declared. It isn't as if they hadn't dependents; Their wives' relatives can barely buy tires for the Rolls-Royce. Of course, they may be called in the draft, But they know they can easily get themselves exempted, Because they have every symptom of hay fever— I wish I were head of the draft board! I hate Slackers; They get on my nerves.

--Dorothy Parker