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on incorporating biography and related disciplines

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  • louise
    March 8 [1958] .... I read the *Cantos* or read at them or in them. Norman Pearson kept asking me to explain references. I gave it all up. Then I read an
    Message 1 of 1 , Apr 2, 2006
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      March 8 [1958]
      .... I read the *Cantos* or read at them or in them. Norman Pearson
      kept asking me to explain references. I gave it all up. Then I
      read an article, "Weekend with Ezra Pound", and it all came back. I
      asked Joan [Waluga] to get me the new edition of the old book in
      There is the Wyndham Lewis Tate Gallery portrait in the "Weekend" by
      David Rattray, in *The Nation* of November 16, 1957. Wyndham Lewis
      used to come to our little flat in Kensington to borrow Richard
      Aldington's razor. This annoyed Richard. Ezra and Dorothy had a
      slightly larger flat across the narrow hall. I found the door open
      one day before they were married, and Ezra there. "What--what are
      you doing?" I asked. He said he was looking for a place where he
      could fence with Yeats. I was rather taken aback when they actually
      moved in. It was so near. But we went soon after to Hampstead, to
      a larger flat that a friend had found us.
      After that we did not see much of Ezra and the Kensington group,
      Olivia Shakespear (Dorothy's mother), Violet Hunt, Ford Madox
      Hueffer (as he then was) and the rest of them. The 1914 war had
      begun. Richard and I were married in October 1913 after what Ezra
      called our "unofficial honeymoon in Italy".
      I saw Ezra, on the way back from Capri-Naples, in Venice that year.
      He must show me a church. We darted in and out of alleys or
      *calles*, across bridges, narrow passageways, the labyrinth. He
      was "tracing / the lay-out for the Labyrinth," from the Ramon
      Guthrie poem [on Pound, in the same issue of *The Nation*]. It was
      very hot,--May, I think. The church was cool, with a balcony of icy
      mermaids, Santa Maria dei Miracoli. Years afterwards, I went again
      and I carried the votive card of Santa Maria that the sacristan had
      given me, in my handbag, with another (St. Mark's) token picture,
      during the [World] War II years in London. Ezra was in Rapallo, as
      we all know.

      "End to Torment", a memoir of Ezra Pound by H.D. [pp5-6].


      Well, there's history, written by those who know and care. I often
      don't find it terribly bearable, as I mentioned before, in my early
      months at the list. As much as I may bear, I feel. This absolute
      perspective, from my unique point of view, is the reason, so far as
      I can tell, that the philosophical category, 'absurd', still fails
      to carry discernible meaning. I shall always care. Hence come
      love, hate, and inertia.

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