FIND THIS

 Schoenberg  

  In a fever of style, having slaughtered the false Florimells of harmo-  nious thought and their turgid convincements, he marshalled light-  ning and the beautiful stench of signed clouds. Some sneered: him  a silly Quixote! but he laid waste Central Europe and painted with  the salt of Jenghiz the wounds of World War I. Not enough women  rubbed their breasts against trees while waiting for big nightingales,  so he pushed these ladies, intelligent refugees from Weimar, into a  Pierrotless sea, and everywhere the frontiers of a sensibility whose  left foot was only then fearfully emerging trembled like the rim of  the sun under his hot clothes. The classic grace of a spirit resting  on broken glass informed the shell of his virgin Muse with pink  echoes from the newspapers, at the mercy of every fresh breath  from the tradewinds.