K. M. T. P.

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K. M. T. P.
  6d.  9 ENT SPHINX  CONTENTS   Page COVER Designed and Drawn by Owen Broadley. ARTICLES Why Jazz, by Phil Le Brun   5 (visual comments by P. Eckersley) Alias—Phrase Book, by Craig Robertson   8 Science and Artistic Criticism, by Elwyn Edwards   25 Red. What and Blue, by F. J. McNeill -   30 \la ugham   38 FICTION The Things we did last Summer, by A. A. Golding -   K.M.T.P., by Dariush Borbor   45 The Miracle, by I . IV. Brunt   54 POEMS Alone, by J. Deere   37 Bell Practice on Market Day, by Derek Denton   42 CARTOONS 10 by Mart 5328 by Nicole 44 PHOTOGRAPH Vizzavona, by Spike   29  FICTION :   Tomorrow K. NI. T. P. It was the best of times it was the worst of times it was the age of wisdom it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope it was the winter of despair e had everything before us we had nothing before us we were all going direct to heaven we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received for good as for evil in the superlative degree of comparison only. The year Z   D represented an important landmark in the social development of the human race. People's characters, habits and emotions had changed; all predictions made by the philosophers and prophets were fulfilled. Food, clothing and entertainments were at everyone's disposal; illness, ugliness and old age had vanished. One problem, however, still remained, and that was the boredom due to a meaningless future life.Dora was not only affected by this general vexation, but her weariness had a personal cause: her own temperament. She spent her days in the thirty-first storey busily transforming her dreamsand thoughts into sculpture. She lived a peculiar life; she had put aside all pleasure and chosen hard work instead, a solitary life inthe newly designed city of "Menar" away from her friends. One evening she put aside her latest sculpture and looked out of the window. The view was harsh and mechanical.   t resembled an ancient fortress town; huge blocks of buildings were scattered around the small lake that had once been the Caspian Sea, like poisonous mushrooms. In the background was the threatening volcano of Damavand, massive and frightening. This disturbing scene affected Dora's gentle spirit and made her susceptible heart sink. She felt like an immured prisoner and wished she could run away from it all and live a peaceful, natural life.   he left herstudio and entered her living-room, which was filled with a soft blue light and a fragrant scent. She walked to the settee andrested, looking at some ocean-bed fishes on the screen. She admired their colours and the sensitive music, but it was evident that her mind was far away. Dora's dress was light, simple and effective, her features were young, deep and dreamy. She lay down, like a doll—some artificial creation that one might see on canvas or that might be the result of an artist's vivid imagination. She seemed very delicate and fragile; it was impossible to penetrate into her mind and unravel her inward feelings. Dora's room was in complete 45  unison and proportion with her body and movements. One felt that with the slightest displacement of an object the whole room would lose its character. It was obvious that Dora's life circled around the beautiful; it was apparent from her dress, her furniture, her movements, that she was a true artist and art was all that she lived for. A few minutes had passed when Clem, her artist friend, came in through the big door. He was a tall, handsome man, and was surprised by the perfume, the music and, most of all, Dora lyingdown in that pretty way."Hallo, Clem, when did you arrive?" "Ten minutes ago." "Anything new?" "Nothing except the mass suicide." "That isn't very new, but still " "No, but the naturalists have protested and left the cities, but the majority have agreed. I believe Professor Knicht is going to suggest a new way tonight." "I dislike 'majority' and 'minority' and I don't like people with social service-mania . . . I must admit, I rather like the idea of mass suicide, though.""Never mind—let us go and see your latest work." They both started towards the studio. It was a large room, full of unfinished pieces of sculpture. Unlike the living-room, it was untidy and out of proportion. It had a lense dome which distributed light evenly throughout the room. The atmosphere was very cold—a contrast to her living-room—and in the middlea square, transparent block was slowly revolving. On one side of it was placed a glowing silkworm eating mulberry leaves. "CHILDHOOD or IGNORANCE," Dora said, pointing with her index finger as the sculpture revolved and this side of it faced them. On the other side was the same worm in a cocoon."MATURITY or CONTEMPLATION," muttered Dora, with a smile. On the third side the worm had changed into a butterfly and was flying towards a little star. "DEATH or FREEDOM," she contentedly announced. The fourth side showed the butterfly asleep on a red rose. "GOAL or SATISFACTION," was her verdict. "What a primitive subject I suppose the mass suicide gave you this idea." She nodded. "Why make fun of the soul? Why work, anyhow, now thatthe human race is to end? I stopped work quite some time ago." 46  "What gave you the idea that I worked for the human race?I work because I enjoy it." "While there are such better joys in life . . . laziness . . . love . . . the moon. Aren't all these better joys? We must make use of this short time . . . you know What is the use of that butterfly when the world ends?" "What is the use of love and kisses . . . when the world ends?" "Don't get me wrong, we will end but the world will not—the spirit will stay." "You mean the intellect . . ." "No I believe . . . thinking and . . . reading and . . . writing are all diseases. A healthy person eats well, sleeps well and makes love well. An artist is a good example. He is so sensitive that he extracts all the unbearable and unfortunate things and then he builds himself a cocoon and lives in his own world of imagination —this is a good proof of his illness." The music gradually faded, and then it was announced that Professor Knicht would be introducing a new method of bringing the human race to an end. Dora and Clem, who were standing arm in arm, began walking towards the living-room, still engaged in this discussion. Dora, with her calm, reasoned and typical Z   RD-century coldness, was beginning to make fun of Clem, who was getting rather excited. "Oh, yes," shrieked Dora, in a sarcastic tone, "but what is going to happen to those spirits when the sun cools off? I supposethese pale and sorrowful souls are kept on special shelves in some invisible museum. What an ancient thought " "Dora, there's no point in arguing with you," said Clem,realising this, "you are only a woman, after all. But take my word, it's no good going away from nature or the soul is lost. There is the sun; those bright streams; the fresh fruits; and—the beautiful trees." "A theorist and a poet Since when?" "Since the day that . . . I saw you and . . . fell in love with you . . . "Don't be so old-fashioned You were born five- hundred years too late." "I know . . . perhaps I would have been saved a lot of bother if I hadn't been born at all. I was not going to tell you, except . . . now that we are going to end . . ." "Silly boy " "Don't be so hard, Dora. I know you are only pretending. You know, we haven't changed fundamentally since our monkeyancestors. I know fashion has changed and love-making is not in the vogue, but it is only that now we are so far away from nature. Twenty thousand years ago love was free—men and women roamed 47
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