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Click cover for larger view
When little Adolph (”Harpo”) Marx was literally tossed
out the window of Miss Flatto’s second grade it set in motion
a chain of events, culminating in his Bar Mitzvah, which he describes
with an engaging mixture of sweetness and hilarity in this memoir
of a child’s life in an immigrant family at the turn of the
century. Long before vaudeville, Broadway, and the silver screen,
Harpo Marx triumphed on the greatest stage of all—New York
City. Optimistic and wry, with an unforgettable cast of characters,
and set against the backdrop of a long-vanished Manhattan, this
is the delightful memoir of a second-grade dropout.
"A real charmer."—Library Journal
"This enchanting memoir will make you regret every day you ever wasted going to school."—John Guare
Harpo Marx
Born
in New York City in 1888, Adolph (Arthur) “Harpo” Marx
was the second oldest of the legendary comedy team, the Marx Brothes.
Propelled by their mother, Minnie, the brothers (Chico, Harpo,
Groucho, Gummo, and Zeppo) started out in vaudeville, eventually
moving on to sensational success on Broadway and in film. Known
for frantic slapstick and nonstop wisecracking, punctuated by horn
honking, girl chasing, and outrageous hijinks, the group was anchored
by Harpo, who silently looked on and played the harp with consummate
skill. Harpo Marx died in 1964.
E. L. Doctorow
Born in New York City, Edgar Doctorow attended the Bronx High School of Science,
graduated from Kenyon College, and undertook graduate work at Columbia University.
His work has been published in thirty languages. His novels include Welcome
to Hard Times, The Book of Daniel, Ragtime, Loon Lake, and Billy Bathgate.
5.25” x 7.25”
ISBN 10: 1-892145-06-5
ISBN 13: 9781892145062
Retail price: $16.95
Price: $13.56 (20% off)
There was one supreme holiday every two years, and there was nothing sad about it. This was not a family affair. It belonged to everybody. The poorest kid in town had as much a share in it as the mayor himself.
This was Election Day.
…the great holiday lasted a full thirty hours. On election eve, the Tammany forces marched up and down the avenues by torchlight, with bugles blaring and drums booming. There was free beer for the men, and free firecrackers and punk for the kids, and nobody slept that night.
When the day itself dawned, the city closed
up shop and had itself a big social time—visiting with itself, renewing
old acquaintances, kicking up old arguments—and voted.
About noon a hansom cab, courtesy of Tammany Hall, would pull
up in front of our house. Frenchie and Grandpa, dressed in their
best suits (which they otherwise wore only to weddings, bar mitzvahs
or funerals), would get in the cab and go clip-clop, in tip-top
style, off to the polls. When the carriage brought them back
they sat in the hansom as long as they could without the driver
getting sore, savoring every moment of their glory while they
puffed on their free Tammany cigars. …
About a half-hour later, the hansom cab would reappear, and Frenchie and Grandpa would go off to vote again. If it was a tough year, with a Reform movement threatening the city, they’d be taken to vote a third time.
Nobody was concerned over the fact that Grandpa happened not to be a United States citizen, or that he couldn’t read or write English.
Then came the Night. The streets were cleared of horses, buggies and wagons. All crosstown traffic stopped. At seven o’clock firecrackers began to go off, the signal that the polls were closed. Whopping and hollering, a whole generation of kids came tumbling down out of the tenements and got their bonfires going. By a quarter after seven, the East Side was ablaze…Grandpa enjoyed the sight as much as I did, and he was flattered when I left the rest of the boys to come up to share it with him. He pulled his chair closer to the window and lit the butt of his Tammany stogie. “Ah, we are lucky to be in America,” he said in German, taking a deep drag on the cigar he got for voting illegally and lifting his head to watch the shooting flames. “Ah, yes! This is a true democracy.”