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Isadora and her Grecian ideals of simplicity, beauty, feeling have given way to the gyrations of an indistinguishable mass of jerky, peppy jazz babies-vapid, bob-haired, bow-tied automatons, whose dance is passionless frenzy. Her death-the sudden strangulation-stuns us with its abruptness and ugliness: we see the head flung back, the eyes frozen in a ghastly stare, the body imprisoned by her scarf, the symbol of her freedom. This brutal moment shocks us out of any sentimentality we cultivatedoi:10.2307/1210312 fatcat:nandyfdiobhr7cifzoqzm7jnlq