The Enormous Room by E. E. Cummings (best way to read ebooks .txt) đ
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In Great Warâera France, E. E. Cummings is lifted, along with his friend B., from his job as an ambulance driver with the Red Cross, and deposited in a jail in La FertĂ© MacĂ© as a suspected spy. There his life consists of strolls in the cour, la soupe, and his mattress in The Enormous Room, the male prisonersâ communal cell. Itâs these prisoners whom Cummings describes in lurid detail.
The Enormous Room is far from a straightforward autobiographical diary. Cummingsâ descriptions, peppered liberally with colloquial French, avoid time and, for the most part, place, and instead focus on the personal aspects of his internment, especially in the almost metaphysical description of the most otherworldly of his compatriots: The Delectable Mountains.
During his imprisonment, Cummingsâ father petitioned the U.S. and French authorities for his liberty. This, and his eventual return home, are described in the bookâs introduction.
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- Author: E. E. Cummings
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After which Jean, exhausted with laughter, descended from the chair and lay down on his bed to read a letter from Lulu (not knowing a syllable of it). A little later he came rushing up to my bed in the most terrific state of excitement, the whites of his eyes gleaming, his teeth bared, his kinky hair fairly standing on end, and cried:
âYouâ âme, meâ âyou? Pas bon. Youâ âyou, meâ âme: bon. Meâ âme, youâ âyou!â and went away capering and shouting with laughter, dancing with great grace and as great agility and with an imaginary partner the entire length of the room.
There was another gameâ âa pure childâs gameâ âwhich Jean played. It was the name game. He amused himself for hours together by lying on his paillasse tilting his head back, rolling up his eyes, and crying in a high quavering voiceâ ââJaw-neeeeee.â After a repetition or two of his own name in English, he would demand sharply âWho is calling me? Mexique? Es-ce que tu mâappelle, Mexique?â and if Mexique happened to be asleep, Jean would rush over and cry in his ear, shaking him thoroughlyâ ââEs-ce tu mâappelle, toi?â Or it might be Barbu, or Pete The Hollander, or B. or myself, of whom he sternly asked the questionâ âwhich was always followed by quantities of laughter on Jeanâs part. He was never perfectly happy unless exercising his inexhaustible imagination.â ââ âŠ
Of all Jeanâs extraordinary selves, the moral one was at once the most rare and most unreasonable. In the matter of les femmes he could hardly have been accused by his bitterest enemy of being a Puritan. Yet the Puritan streak came out one day, in a discussion which lasted for several hours. Jean as in the case of France, spoke in dogma. His contention was very simple: âThe woman who smokes is not a woman.â He defended it hotly against the attacks of all the nations represented; in vain did Belgian and Hollander, Russian and Pole, Spaniard and Alsatian, charge and counterchargeâ âJean remained unshaken. A woman could do anything but smokeâ âif she smoked she ceased automatically to be a woman and became something unspeakable. As Jean was at this time sitting alternately on B.âs bed and mine, and as the alternations became increasingly frequent as the discussion waxed hotter, we were not sorry when the plantonâs shout âA la promenade les hommes!â scattered the opposing warriors. Then up leaped Jean (who had almost come to blows innumerable times) and rushed laughing to the door, having already forgotten the whole thing.
Now we come to the story of Jeanâs undoing, and may the gods which made Jean le NĂšgre give me grace to tell it as it was.
The trouble started with Lulu. One afternoon, shortly after the telephoning, Jean was sick at heart and couldnât be induced either to leave his couch or to utter a word. Everyone guessed the reasonâ âLulu had left for another camp that morning. The planton told Jean to come down with the rest and get soupe. No answer. Was Jean sick? âOui, me seek.â And steadfastly he refused to eat, till the disgusted planton gave it up and locked Jean in alone. When we ascended after la soupe we found Jean as we had left him, stretched on his couch, big tears on his cheeks. I asked him if I could do anything for him; he shook his head. We offered him cigarettesâ âno, he did not wish to smoke. As B. and I went away we heard him moaning to himself âJawnee no see LooLoo no more.â With the exception of ourselves, the inhabitants of La FertĂ© MacĂ© took Jeanâs desolation as a great joke. Shouts of Lulu! rent the welkin on all sides. Jean stood it for an hour; then he leaped up, furious; and demanded (confronting the man from whose lips the cry had last issued)â ââFeeneesh LooLoo?â The latter coolly referred him to the man next to him; he in turn to someone else; and round and round the room Jean stalked, seeking the offender, followed by louder and louder shouts of Lulu! and Jawnee! the authors of which (so soon as he challenged them) denied with innocent faces their guilt and recommended that Jean look closer next time. At last Jean took to his couch in utter misery and disgust. The rest of les hommes descended as usual for the promenadeâ ânot so Jean. He ate nothing for supper. That evening not a sound issued from his bed.
Next morning he awoke with a broad grin, and to the salutations of Lulu! replied, laughing heartily at himself âFeeneesh Loo Loo.â Upon which the tormentors (finding in him no longer a victim) desisted; and things resumed their normal course. If an occasional Lulu! upraised itself, Jean merely laughed, and repeated (with a wave of his arm) âFeeneesh.â Finished Lulu seemed to be.
But un jour I had remained
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