I sat in Concourse K at O’Hare Airport in Chicago recently, reading The New York Times and Fanfare and watching the passing parade for about three hours. This is very sobering work. I am not sure I saw one individual who was dressed individually. Most people looked like mall-crawlers. Most people looked overactive and stressful. They were moving at speed, like ants in a formicary. Others were merely bland and moved like wizened adolescents. It would be future ti suggest any sign of appetite among these citizens for Kenneth Patchen or J.V. Cunningham or Wallace Stevens or James Laughlin.
I waited for her, expecting other admirers. There were none. The play closed at the end of the month, the newspaper said it was “a spirited revival in the way that a glass of tap water can also be said to have spirits.”
She was slow to accept his proposal. He sought her attention by repeated attempts at suicide until he finally married him in 1910. The bride’s family did not attend the ceremony. Having won her at last, Gumilev promptly left to spend six months in Africa. On his return, while still at the train station, he asked her if she had been writing. By reply she handed him the manuscript of Evening, her first book.