- King, A. Robert (music) ; MacDonald, Ballard (lyric).
Shapiro, Bernstein & Co., New York, 1919, Wraps, , , Very Good
3 pp. 9 X 12 inches. A bump to one corner and a spot of foxing, very good. ''Once in a while there's a fragrance rare, Bringing a lingering vision fair, . . .'' Voice and piano.
The Society for the History of Authorship, Reading and Publishing was founded to create a global network for book historians working in a broad range of scholarly disciplines. Research addresses the composition, mediation, reception, survival, and transformation of written communication in material forms from marks on stone to new media. Perspectives range from the individual reader to the transnational communication network. With more than a thousand members in over forty countries, SHARP works in concert with affiliated academic organizations around the world to support the study of book history in all its forms.
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Memories of the Future “The Branch Line”
“Now if that man’s in charge of exporting utopian socialism, then . . .” Quantin was about to descend the sinking stairs when an odd noise startled him: coming right for him—down the alley’s winding course—was a choir of glassy bubble-blowing, and loudly popping sounds, a discordant but merrily gurgling and cackling orchestra. In another minute, through the singing glass, he heard the steady tread and tramp of feet; then swinging around the bend he saw a flagstaff, and finally the actual procession. Quantin’s eye was caught first by the slogan swaying between poles, GLORY TO THE UNWAKEABLE, then by the people staggering after it. The disorderly orchestra struggled on like a pile of leaves in the wind: sticking out of the musician’s mouths were large, upraised bottles without bottoms; their cheeks, swollen with blowing and bloating, belched through the inrushing liquor to produce a resounding march of bursting bubbles. Grazing the unemptying glass funnels were purple noses tumid with erections of desire. Grabbing at the walls with hundreds of palms, the procession, losing bodies, lunged on like a long and slithery centipede fond of damp and narrow cracks.Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky—translated from the Russian by Joanne Turnbull