Delmore Schwartz
SCREENO
For three hours , Cornelius Schmidt a ttempted to raise
himself from the will-lessness and despondency which had
overcome him. H e tried to read the
New York Times,
which
today contained the long obituary of a great man, the only kind
of story that could awaken any interes t in him. He played
records on his portabl e victrola, first a string qua rtet by H aydn ,
and then, tiring of this with the third record, pl ay ing certain
singing records of a celebrated movie actress. But to no ava il: the
music was lifeless as his own spirit. H e th en resorted, as often
before in such a mood, to the icebox, making for himself a fat
sandwi ch out of materi a ls which would have otherwise not
appealed to him. Having ea ten the sandwich, h e sea ted himself
by the window and watched the quiet October evening rain
soundlessly falling through th e bright arc of the street light
downstairs, four floors below, and pocking and wrinkling the
glittering puddles . Automobil es passed with th e frying sound
which tires make on wet streets. Cornelius took down a volume
of poetry of which he was very fond and tried to read it. A poem
of hi s own slipped from the book. He read th e first few verses
and shuddered, thoroughly dishearten ed. Drenched by such a
tasteless, colorless mood, there was only one refuge, one sanctu–
ary: the movi es.
H e left a note for his mother on the kitchen tabl e, donned
hi s trenchcoat, and departed. Anticipation of th e movie to be
seen already began to rise in his breas t. People in the huddl ed
posture which rain enforces passed him as he walked to the
business avenue where stores shone wetly and brightl y in th e
rain y night. Two boys were standing outside a candy store and
trying to get chewing gum from the box bes ide the n ewsstand.
Cornelius, in his rising spirits, was tempted
to
stop and afford
