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But I really did enjoy his short story The Six Day Night. I have lousy taste in authors, that's all I can conclude.
May 9, 2025, 6:41 PM
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"text": "But I really did enjoy his short story The Six Day Night.\n\nI have lousy taste in authors, that's all I can conclude.",
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"alt": "Pound's translation:\n\nthe advertising signs, I saw the tense gazes and burning eyes of the \"cheap seats.\" The orchestra blared. Latriche was singing. They took up the chorus of \"Hardi Coco,\" thus increasing the pace. The sixteen racers repassed unfailingly every twenty seconds in a compact platoon. \nThe swell seats were at the back of the velodrome. The curves at each end of it rose like walls which the runners climbed at each lap, up to the petrol ad. \nLA PLUS HOMOGENE DES ESSENCES. \nThe scoreboard was in action. Numbers came down. Others showed there. \n4th NIGHT. \n85th hour, 2.300 kilometers 650 \n\"Heh. There he is. That's my boy getting on,\" said Leah. \nPettimatheu still moved about by himself, stretching, his hair frizzled, his neck dirty, his eyes tricky as a cat's \n\"He's a corker for the fourth night, that kid is\" \nThe nickeled megaphone announced two 100-franc bonuses, em phasized by some pistol shots \n\"Come on. The pace'll get stiffer. There. He sees us.\" \nHe had seen me. I was holding Leah's hand. We exchanged male hostile glances. \nNow drawn out into file, the sound of cach lap was briefer than the preceding, and at the bell the sixteen men passed, like rou Jette balls projected in straight lines from the twisted curve banking. \n\"Leah.\" I murmured, \"I'd like to be what that old Calvinist Agrippa d'Aubigné calls 'cradled in delights. What do you take in the morning?\" \nThe crowd yowled inhumanly. \n\"Nah,\" she said, \"you're barmy. Not while the boy's there on the wood, I couldn't look myself in the face, I'd think meself dirt while that kid's there for six days and nights. I couldn't think of anything but \"im.\" \nThey set off on the heat like carp after a hunk of bread, the woolly Italian, the Swiss giant, the Corsican noncoms, and all the Negroes and blond-headed Flemings \n\"It's over, the Australian's got it. The dirty old tarbelly. Pet-",
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"alt": "Pound's translation (continued)\n\ntimatheu's got hisself boxed. He's going to get off. Let's go see the old dear.\" \nThe racers' quarters were stuck up at one end of the track, at the smaller turn. Each man had a plank cell, with a camp bed shut off by curtains. The stencil: VELOX STAND, team PETTI MATHEU-VAN DEN HOVEN. A reflector threw light into the depths of the cabins, so that the crowd lost none of their favorites' movements, even while the latter were asleep. The rubbers-down came and went in white hospital blouses, with a noise of plates, among the spots of petrol and graphite, mixing embrocations on the garden chairs out of eggs and camphor. Loose ball bearings, frames, rubber washers, black cotton swabs swimming in basins. Pettimatheu was stretched on his back, his hands behind his nape, delivering his hairy, strong-veined thighs to the masseur, \nwho pummeled them till they were soft as a cloth. \"Bibby, let me kiss him,\" said Leah to the manager. \nPettimatheu opened one eye. \n\"That's all right,\" he said, crossly, pushing her away, \"let him get on with his job.\" \n\"You ain't shaved, you ruffian.\" \n\"Shut up.\" \nThere was a silence. The squad passed, strung out, brushing by us, their shadows thrown on the tents. Naked legs moved like machines, Van den Hoven yelled as he passed us. \n\"Speed her up tomorrow.\" \nI was introduced to Pettimatheu, but he couldn't seem to see me. He snorted. It'd teach him to hurry himself for a bloody whore of a prize. A dirty hundred francs. Bloody public. Tight wads! Whoremasters, and their skirts with 'em, when they ain't got some other fellow's. \nHis thighs were now like moist ivory. \n\"Get up, you there, Pettimatheu,\" yelled the inexorable cheap seats from above the Peugeot lions. But he made a sign that he was fed up. \nStained mechanics in khaki shirts, with five days' beard, wound the handlebars with tarred thread, stacked up the wheels that needed going over, tightened a nut here and there. \nPettimatheu wasn't happy.",
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