Hermione
But still I did not get it. For it was not words, it was nothing so articulate as speech, that Yoke Easeley uttered. Nor was it, to my ear, song. And yet, as I listened, I began to see that a wild rhythm pervaded the utterance; the Adam's apple leapt, danced, swung round, twinkled, bounded, slid and leapt again in time with a certain rough barbaric measure; the sounds themselves were all discords, but discords with a purpose; discords that took each other by the hand and kicked and stamped their brutal way together toward some objective point.
I led Fothergil into a corner.
"What is it?" I whispered. It is always well, at one of Hermione's soul fights, to get your cue before the conversation officially starts. If you don't know what is going to be talked about before the talk starts the chances are that you never will know from the talk itself.
"A New Art!" said Fothergil. And then he led me into the hall and explained.
What Gertrude Stein has done for prose, what the wilder vers libre bards are doing for poetry, what the cubists and futurists are doing for painting and sculpture, that Yoke Easeley is doing for vocal music.
"He is painting sound portraits with his larynx now," said Fothergil. "And the beautiful part of it is that he is absolutely tone deaf! He doesn't
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