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Updated: June 21, 2025
A striped awning led from the curb up to a spreading gray stone house, from inside which issued the low drummy whine of expensive jazz. He recognized the Howard Tate house. "Sure," he said emphatically; "'at's it! Tate's party to-night. Sure, everybody's goin'." "Say," said the individual anxiously after another look at the awning, "you sure these people ain't gonna romp on me for comin' here?"
Barney turned back to Maggie. "I say, sister, how about robing yourself in your raiment of joy and coming with yours truly to a palace of jazz, there to dine and show the populace what real dancing is?" "Can't, Barney. Mr. Hunt" the name given the painter at his original christening "asked the Duchess and me to have dinner up here. He's to cook it himself."
The man pulled it by means of a long, thin cord, until it was making big arcs, like some gigantic pendulum. Joe watched it carefully, judging it to the fraction of an inch. He stood poised and tense on the gayly decorated platform, himself a fine picture of physical young manhood. The band was blaring out the latest Jazz melody.
"Don't want to tire this old plug too much for the show." The boss chuckled. "Get down and talk business with me, young feller," he said. "You won't ride Jazz in the ring to-night; he's the rottenest, most treacherous little wretch with the outfit, and I only put you on him to call your bluff. Want to join the show? We had to leave our rough-rider back in the last town with a broken leg."
Ripley wants to be Greenleaf Jr. not because of the latter's admirable personality, but because of his money. Greenleaf Jr. cultivates a False Self of a jazz giant in the making and the author of the Great American Novel but he is neither and he bitterly knows it. Even their sexual identity is not fully formed. Ripley is at once homoerotic, autoerotic and heteroerotic.
Lane recognized many of the dining, dancing throng, but showed no sign of it. He became aware that his presence had excited comment. How remote he seemed to feel himself from that eating, drinking, dancing crowd! So far removed that even the jazz music no longer affronted him. Rather surprised he was to find he really enjoyed his dinner. From the restaurant he engaged a taxi.
On the music racks of violinists who had meant to be Elmans or Kreislers were sheets entitled Jazz Baby Fox Trot. Drums, horns, cymbals, castanets, sandpaper. So the mannequins and marionettes of Europe tried to whirl themselves into forgetfulness. The Americans thought Giddy was a Frenchman. The French knew him for an American, dress as he would. Dancing became with him a profession no, a trade.
She glides in willowy, drapes herself on a chair, pats her home-grown ear-muffs into shape, and unfolds her note book business-like. And inside of two minutes she's doing the Pitman stuff in jazz time, with no call for repeats except when I'd shoot a string of figures at her. I was handin' myself the comfortin' thought, too, that I'd drawn a prize.
Nearly all the big wireless companies have great stations fitted with powerful telephone transmitters and at given hours of the day and night they send out songs by popular singers, dance music by jazz orchestras, fashion talks by and for the ladies, agricultural reports, government weather forecasts and other interesting features.
He was fascinated, puzzled, intensely curious. "Why wouldn't you dance jazz in front of me?" he inquired, with a smile. "Well, for one thing I'm not stuck on it, and for another I'll say you said a mouthful." "Is that all?" he asked, as if disappointed. "No. I'd respect what you said because of where you've been and what you've done." It was a reply that surprised Lane.
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