|Posted by Gertrude Stein|
Last night's salon was its usual success. Hemingway brought a copy of his new story for Fitzgerald to read. Matisse brought his latest painting. I must buy it, although I do not know where I have room to hang it.
Alice was there, silently. She filled drinks. She emptied ashtrays. She talked with the wives in the kitchen. Hemingway doesn't think much of her, calling her, simply, my companion. But he does not know her. I know her because I know her.
I am writing a poem for Alice. I call it The Love Song of Alice B.
I caught sight of a splendid Misses. She had handkerchiefs and kisses. She had eyes and yellow shoes she had everything to choose and she chose me.
In passing through France she wore a Chinese hat and so did I.
In looking at the sun she read a map. And so did I.
In eating fish and pork she just grew fat. And so did I.
In loving a blue sea she had a pain. And so did I.
In loving me she of necessity thought first. And so did I.
How prettily we swim. Not in water. Not on land. But in love.
How often do we need trees and hills. Not often.
And how often do we need birds. Not often.
And how often do we need wishes. Not often.
And how often do we need glasses not often.
We drink wine and we make well we have not made it yet.
How often do we need a kiss. Very often and we add when tenderness overwhelms us we speedily eat veal.
And what else, ham and a little pork and raw artichokes and ripe olives and chester cheese and cakes and caramels and all the melon. We still have a great deal of it left. I wonder where it is. Conserved melon. Let me offer it to you.