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Updated: June 26, 2025
Though there are irresponsible elements in both Jugoslavia and Italy who talk lightly of war, I am convinced that the great bulk of the population in both countries realize that such a war would be the height of shortsightedness and folly. Throughout the Fiume and Dalmatian crises precipitated by d'Annunzio, Jugoslavia behaved with exemplary patience, dignity and discretion.
"Very little. Oh D'Annunzio and some Turgenev and a little Tourgenieff.... That last was a joke, you know." "Oh yes," disconcertedly. "What sorts of plays do you go to, Mr. Wrenn?" "Moving pictures mostly," he said, easily, then bitterly wished he hadn't confessed so low-life a habit.
Shakespeare is between Sardou and Shaw. Euripides and Clyde Fitch! Upton Sinclair and Sophocles! Aeschylus and F. Anstey! D'Annunzio and Richard Harding Davis! Augustus Thomas and Tolstoi! More alphabetical humor.
She had been waiting for years for the opportunity to bring under her flag the men of her own race still held in subjection by hated Austria. Now was the time or never. Her people had become roused. Mobs filled the streets. Great orators, even the great poet, D'Annunzio, proclaimed a holy war.
He died quietly on the February 13th following, and was buried at Bayreuth. In D'Annunzio's Venetian novel Il Fuoco, called, in its English translation, The Flame of Life, is most curiously woven the personality of Wagner, his ideals and theories, and his life and death in this city. It was D'Annunzio who composed the tablet on the wall.
He spoke of the larger Italy to be, and they knew that he did not mean an enlargement of boundaries. He spoke clearly, briefly, intensely. It was once more the indubitable voice of the poet and prophet raised in the land of great poetry. D'Annunzio grew bolder. He recognized openly his antagonist the traitor.
But presently the initiated spread the news that it was Paul Mario who returned from the Western front, and because his reputation was greater than that of Gabrielle D'Annunzio or Charlie Chaplin, everyone sought to obtain a glimpse of him. He wore a heavy fur-lined coat and his eyes were dark with excitement.
Most conspicuous, perhaps, was the obliteration of distance and of all the customary limitations of travel. German airplanes in squadrons penetrated into snug little England when the German fleet stood locked in its harbor. The Italian poet D'Annunzio dropped leaflets over Vienna when his armies were held at bay at the Alps.
"We wish to see Jake D'Annunzio Spout," said the foremost with a rich Harvard accent. Jake rose shyly, knocking a Camembert to the ground in his embarrassment. "I am he," he said blushing. A grey-haired man sniffed and waved his hand comprehensively.
The story of the sudden recognition of Jake D'Annunzio Spout's genius by the more advanced literary coterie of New York City, etc., is widely known but too charming to leave unmentioned. He was, so we are told, seated on an upturned wooden box behind a pile of cheeses, sunk in a reverie, when suddenly the door opened and three men came into the store.
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