(See front cover)
I don't like the family Stein, There is Gert, there is Ed, there is Ein; Cert's poems are bunk, Ed's statues are punk, And nobody understands Ein.
Many a writer appears on the literary horizon like a cloud no bigger than a man's hand, swells quickly to mistily gigantic proportions and—vanishes like a mist. Gertrude Stein is no such writer. Like a huge squat mountain on a distant border of the literary kingdom, obscured not only by the cloudy procession of more Aprilly authors but by the self-induced...
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