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Clement Greenberg sees red.

Clement never went here. He never left the west end. Nevertheless, he’s the bee’s knees. (Bees need knees?) He never penned verses, he never etched, never sketched, yet he seethed well. He penned the best screeds. Clement never esteemed the Cree, the Nez Perce. He preferred the new men: the Western “expressers,” the next French jet-set (except less French). He kvetched. He preserved the West’s memes (themes, schemes), even when he rebelled, even when he rejected the repellent yes-men. Clement, the mensch! He’d never see between the trees he helped fell, the scene he leveled, yet he’d get these depressed streets rendered red. The West’s best sperm ejected. Fresh semen spent. Let Clement sleep between the seedbed.

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