Seeing More Things

Seeing More Things

Seeing More Things

Seeing More Things

Excerpt

WHEN a search for cadavers proves more engrossing than the pursuit of culture, or some tastes the Metropolitan Museum unwittingly satisfies .

For Art's Sake

IT HAD sounded like a perfect solution. And Sunday afternoon is a problem which needs solving. The Lord may have rested on the Sabbath, but modern parents living in large cities find it hard to do so. Their children, though responsible, should not be blamed. Doors opening on back yards were meant for them. So was the freedom of the country, and the altitude of rural skies. Roofs, especially the low ceilings of New York apartments, fit with comfort only over grown-up heads.

The morning of the Sabbath is simple enough. Sunday school takes care of that. It empties a dwelling of small fry at an unreasonably early hour. The quiet thus established can be prolonged even after they return. I mean during that perilous interval of waiting for midday dinner. It is then that, with the closing of the front door, immaculate blue suits can inexplicably become coated with lint. It is then that hands, for once white, develop a talent for discovering anthracite in spotless rooms. It is then that brushed hair, for no apparent reason, suddenly becomes unbrushed as if in a movie shown backwards. It is then, too, that toy guns dislodge the air already made fragrant by chemistry sets.

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