Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

writhe. No one objects to robust love-making; but the decadent shyness of a Gable is hard to take.; When I went to bed, by chance I turned to a Canadian radio station—a confirmation spoken narrative and orchestral description there-of, was being broadcast. It had to do with a soldier who was trying to win the hand of a princess, and who had a beloved violin, coveted by the Devil, etc-etc—In some ways terribly monotonous and repetitive, the music yet had a distinctive flavor and almost primitive child-like character—As if a child were setting the story to music—a marked Stravinsky flavor, I thought. When it was over, the title was announced—The Solider, by Stravinsky, written in 1918. I thought with a little more effort, he could have made it fit to stand beside Petrouchka. ; ; ; ; _________________________; We miss the girls most at night. It is an accumulative affair. Hard as the actual parting was, the ache of separation mounts slowly with the succession of “non-appearances”—they should just now be going past the studio; they should be sitting on their accustomed chairs at mealtime; they should now be in the kitchen helping with dinner they should just now be coming up the street from a visit to Marts or the post-office, etc.; ; ; ; __________________________The moon had a hot orange brown glow around it.