Everything arrives on time, even, despite her continual critics, Gertrude Stein. She showed up in Paris at the perfect moment.
Though, she had trouble speaking, because she lied each time she spoke. So, following advice from Alice and her brother, she wrote. And write she did!
Casting on the page juxtapositions of words, boggling conventional concepts of sentence and meaning, and bashing around nouns and verbs . . . cramming them together like sun tanned bodies on a crowded beach.
And the bewildered, stunned, reactions. T. S. Eliot shaved his head and contacted Sigmund Freud. Wallace Stevens lost a shitload of money in the life insurance business and stopped giving a fuck about much of anything. Everything falls into its exact order of arrival. Everyone who seeks, finds, even those excitable squares pissing and moaning over Gertrude Stein.