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diff --git a/old/67209-0.txt b/old/67209-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3442245..0000000 --- a/old/67209-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3104 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, January-February -1916 (Vol. 2, No. 10), by Margaret C. Anderson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Little Review, January-February 1916 (Vol. 2, No. 10) - -Author: Various - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: January 21, 2022 [eBook #67209] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at http://www.pgdp.net. This book was produced from images - made available by the Modernist Journal Project, Brown and - Tulsa Universities. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, -JANUARY-FEBRUARY 1916 (VOL. 2, NO. 10) *** - - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Literature Drama Music Art - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - EDITOR - - JANUARY-FEBRUARY, 1916 - - Poems: H. D. - Late Spring - Night - A Deeper Music Margaret C. Anderson - Blue-Prints: Harriet Dean - Debutante - The Pillar - The Pathos of Proximity Alexander S. Kaun - Solitude David O’Neil - The Novelist Sherwood Anderson - Asperities: Mitchell Dawson - Threat - In Passing - Teresa - Amy Lowell’s Book F. S. Flint - The Picnic Marjory Seiffert - Editorials and Announcements - “American Art” “The Critic” - Photography C. A. Z. - Book Discussion - The Reader Critic - - Published Monthly - - 15 cents a copy - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher - Fine Arts Building - CHICAGO - - $1.50 a year - - Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Vol. II - - JANUARY-FEBRUARY, 1916 - - No. 10 - - Copyright, 1916, by Margaret C. Anderson - - - - - Poems - - - H. D. - - - Late Spring - - We can not weather all this gold - Nor stand under the gold from elm-trees - And the re-coated sallows. - We can not hold our heads erect - Under this golden dust. - - We can not stand - Where enclosures for the fruit - Drop hot—radiant—slight petals - From each branch. - - We can not see: - The dog-wood breaks—white— - The pear-tree has caught— - The apple is a red blaze— - The peach has already withered its own leaves— - The wild plum-tree is alight. - - - Night - - The night has cut each from each - And curled the petals back from the stalk - And under it in crisp rows: - - Under at an unfaltering pace, - Under till the rinds break, - Back till each bent leaf - Is parted from its stalk: - - Under at a grave pace, - Under till the leaves are bent - Back till they drop upon the earth, - Back till they are all broken. - - O night, - You take the petals of the roses in your hand, - But leave the stark core of the rose - To perish on the branch. - - - - - A Deeper Music - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - -A piano, alone on a stage; shadowed light around and above it; ivory and -ebony moving out of the shadow; and the silence that hangs there before -the musician plays. There is nothing like it in the world,—nothing more -wonderful.... - - * * * * * - -There are “revolutions” going on in all the arts. The revolution in -poetry is coming in for a lot of discussion, so that even the layman is -conscious of it. His feeling about it is that some effeminate beings -called Imagists are trying to emasculate the noble art of poetry. But -the thing is happening right under his nose and he is careful to keep -posted, in order to be able to defend his favorite theory. As for the -stage, he knows that Gordon Craig and Rhinehart have been using screens -instead of marble pillars painted against red velvet curtains. In -painting he knows all about the cubists and futurists; he even knows -that the donkey’s tail story was something of a joke. In sculpture he -has heard of an unreasonable reaction from Rodin, and he has probably -seen Brzeska’s head of Ezra Pound. In the ballet he has a rather clear -idea of why the old classical form wouldn’t serve; perhaps because the -Russians have demonstrated so clearly what it was they could do with the -new form. In opera he thinks very little is happening. He is right. - -But the slowest revolution of all—and the most interesting—is that which -is just beginning in the art of the piano. It is the slowest because it -is not the public alone that is bound to the old form. The masters -themselves have not visioned toward a need that would make a new form -inevitable. The need is—a deeper music. And it is the most interesting -because the convention that has bound the piano,—virtuosity,—is a more -worthy convention than that which has restricted any of the other arts. - -There is a universe of the arts in the piano. But it is not a universe -now. It is a stunt. The piano has been used for stunts for years and -years and years. It will go on being used that way for years. Well, I am -the last one to deprecate the art of these stunts. I think they are -beautiful—some of them. I think they have their place. But they have -served it too well. I love them more than I love all the opals and -rubies and sapphires and emeralds and topaz and amethyst and pearl a -jeweller can dip his fingers into and spread out for your dazzled -senses. But I love poetry more than jewels. And I love music more than -poetry. In the music of the piano you get the best illustration that -music is a thing beginning and ending in itself, a thing not of story or -image but of sound, a thing that must be understood quite simply in its -own terms,—as Hiram Kelly Moderwell puts it, a thing that must be heard -and not seen. And in the revolution that is beginning you get this first -pure principle combined with another; that the music of the piano must -reach to the passion of life. This is quite different from saying that -music must be a dramatization of human life. It is merely saying that -ballet dancing could never have produced an Isadora Duncan. - -I imagine that Harold Bauer must have said something of this sort to -himself. He has certainly said it on the piano. His attitude toward the -piano has this sort of prophecy in it. It is a matter of the beauty of -sound. The methods of approach of all the “masters” have been the same. -They have imposed something upon the piano. But Bauer has approached the -handling of the piano as Debussy approached composition—or Schönberg. - -When Schönberg wrote that “the alleged tones believed to be foreign to -harmony do not exist; they are merely tones foreign to our accepted -harmonic system”, and that “tonality is not a hard and fast compulsion -directing the course of music but a concept which makes it possible for -us to give our ideas the requisite aspect of compactness”, he was saying -practically what Bauer has suggested about the touching of the piano: -that virtuosity is only a means to an end, that the springs of the art -have been drying up, and that until the musician can _hear_ better he is -not worthy of the sounds the piano has to give him. You can’t play César -Franck with the same hands you use for Liszt. You must change your hands -into different “feelers”. The piano will give you the quality of almost -every instrument. It is as though Bauer had said: “They call this an -instrument of percussion. They have laid down its limitation. But I -doubt very much whether it will stay within that limitation. I suspect -it does not stop there but goes on into a realm where sound is of -infinite development.” That is why you hear an organ when he plays César -Franck; that is why you realize how the Imagists have worked when he -plays Debussy; that is why you get a sense of painting in all his music. -Bauer puts on the sound like paint. He knows, as Romain Rolland has -said, that every art tends to become a universe in itself; that music -becomes painting and poetry, that painting becomes music, etc. And Bauer -is not a genius. He has merely suggested what will happen to the piano, -and paved the way for an openness of mind about it. He has made a good -many people gossip of how his scales won’t compare with those of the -other great ones; but he has made a good many more suspect that there -has been something lacking in the ultimatums of the piano athletes. He -has done many simple and dynamic things to bring the piano into its own. - -But the full achievement of this will go beyond what has been heard yet -anywhere; and the man who does it will be scorned as the greatest fool -or madman of his time before it is fully understood. It doesn’t matter. -The thing will happen—I hardly know how. I hardly even know words with -which to tell what it will be like. It can only be told on the piano. - -In his _Spiritual Adventures_ Arthur Symons has a story of a musician -who says more true things about the piano than I have ever found -anywhere else. One of them is this: “Most modern music is a beggar for -pity. The musician tries to show us how he has suffered and how hopeless -he is. He sets his toothache and his heartache to music, putting those -sufferings into the music without remembering that sounds have their own -agonies which alone they can express in a perfect manner.” This is where -the “lions and panthers of the piano” have failed most: they have not -loved the sounds enough. They have not allowed each sound its full life. -This is the real reason why the piano has stopped short of itself. They -might almost as well have played bells. You can strike bells which will -bring out any number of tunes, loud or soft, with every possible variety -of phrasing. _But your interest will be in the tune rather than in the -sound._ You can’t limit the piano to the tunes that can be played upon -it. You don’t treat a violin that way, nor an organ. And of course you -can register a piano almost as fully as an organ with the “stops” that -are in the ends of your fingers. How fascinating it is, and how -wonderful! - -But most piano recitals are like recitations—or some sort of performance -on a school platform. Their beauty ends with the beauty of style, -phrasing, finish, tone, taste. It is diction rather than music. It is -science. Busoni is not a prophet; he is an orchestra. Hofmann loves -style more than he does sound. Godowsky loves patterns more than sound. -Gabrilowitsch loves delicate sounds intensely, but has no feeling for -the sounds of great chords. Zeisler loves rhythm more than sound. And so -on. Paderewski loves the piano. He is genius, pure and simple—though of -course there is nothing less pure or simple. He may do what he -likes—break sounds into bits, crack them like nuts. It doesn’t matter. -He never fails to communicate a mood to the instrument—the mood of his -personal equation. And that is art. “Przybyszewski playing Chopin”—that -would also be art. What have the excellent piano concerts you hear to do -with art, with inspiration? Piano playing is certainly something to be -surpassed. Music is the thing! And that means ecstasy, madness, -divinity,—the beauty upon which all the ends of the world are come. The -design of sound.... Each sound that comes out of the piano is something -alive.... - - * * * * * - -And now for the interesting part. - -When I talk of the “new music”—which will be different from Debussy and -Schönberg and all the rest of them—I am not talking of how far beyond -the limits of known harmony, or the anarchy which disregards any -harmonic system, we shall go. Undoubtedly, as far as all that is -concerned, “some day some one will dig down to the roots and turn up -music as it is before it is tamed to the scale.” This seems to me a -settled fact. But I am much more interested in the piano itself and the -deliverer who is to set it free from the lie which has grown up around -it and make it vibrate to a truer color. It is all in the plane of -vibration, I believe. It will come about in three ways: through the -mechanical development of the piano, through a new type of music, and -chiefly through the new type of pianist. - -You will have your Mason and Hamlin—(this is not advertising; it is -merely a conviction)—you will have that great dark-winged-victory -standing alone on a stage; you will care a great deal about the color of -the light around and above it—the tones of the walls within which your -beautiful sounds are to live; you will touch that ivory and ebony—oh, -there are no words! You will _see_ those sounds against the color.... - -You may write a program for your audience—something like this: - - I believe the right technical approach is simply a different are - the most beautiful there are anywhere in the world—more beautiful - than the wind in trees or the moan in the sea or the silence that - is heard on deserts; - - I believe that these sounds live only by a certain magic of - invocation. There are no rules for them—unless perhaps you want - to read Bergson. - - I believe the right technical approach is simply a different kind - of friendship—or love affair—with each sound. - - I believe that tone goes way beyond the range between pianissimo - and fortissimo, between legato and staccato, etc. Tone is - radiance, eagerness, light, darkness, devastation, something that - melts, something that cries and burns, something that shatters. - - I do not believe in playing “programs”—ending with a blaze of - Liszt. I couldn’t play the _Campanella_ to save my life, but I - don’t see that it matters. - - I do not believe in “program” music—beginning with Bach (now that - the public has learned to applaud him) and ending with Liszt. I - couldn’t play the _Campenella_ to save my life, but I don’t see - that it matters. - - I do not believe in nature music—babbling brooks and warbling - birds. I believe in nature mood, just as I do in the mood of all - great phenomena. - - The music I have made will be sometimes merely the curve of a - mood—like the curve of line in Watts’s _Orpheus and Eurydice_; or - merely the design of a color or a scent. But always it will keep - close to two fundamentals: that “hard gemlike flame” and the - rhythm of sex. - -All this will come under the classification of those things which are so -worth knowing that they can never be taught. It will belong to that -individual who can say the new word—his own word. It will make the piano -something we have scarcely dreamed of. It will make up an art that has -nothing to do with the four walls of a room. It could not be set to -“Questions and Answers” in _The Ladies’ Home Journal_. It will have -little to do with accomplishment, but everything to do with that which -is of all things the highest manifestation of life. - - - - - Blue-Prints - - - HARRIET DEAN - - - Debutante - -You are a faded shawl about the shoulders of your mother. A puff of wind -catches at your fluttering edge to jerk you away. But she draws you -close, growing cold in the warm young breeze. She holds you with her -shiny round pin, as all young ones are clasped to old by round things -grown shiny with age. - -In your wistful tired eyes I see the trembling of her shawl as she -breathes. - - - The Pillar - - When your house grows too close for you, - When the ceilings lower themselves, crushing you, - There on the porch I shall wait, - Outside your house. - You shall lean against my straightness, - And let night surge over you. - - - - - The Pathos of Proximity[1] - - - ALEXANDER S. KAUN - - [1] _The Works of Oscar Wilde in 13 volumes. Ravenna edition. New - York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons._ - -Pull down the shades. Turn out the lights. So. We do not want loud -electricity. We shall have a jewelled light. For I am rich to-night. -Come, let us recline on Bagdad cushions and Teheran rugs (“Only savages -sit”, Mme. Zinovyeva, the Russian Lesbian, told us), and I shall scatter -over the fantastic patterns jewels and stones. How softly they illumine -the thick dark—these varicolored glowflies, these streams of wine, -emerald wine, and amethyst wine, and wine of topazes “yellow as the eyes -of tigers, and topazes pink as the eyes of a wood pigeon, and green -topazes that are as the eyes of cats”, and wine of opals “that burn -always with an icelike flame”, and wine of onyxes that are like “the -eyeballs of a dead woman”, and wine streams of sapphires and chrysolites -and rubies and turquoises and ambers and pearls.... I am rich to-night, -and we shall bathe our eyes in quivering rainbows, and our fingers shall -wander lightly through dimly-jewelled ripples, stirring up old visions, -exotic unhuman faces, enchanting monsters, dancing rhythmic words, -fantastic moonlit thoughts. - - What songless tongueless ghost of sin crept through the - curtains of the night? - -“In exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of -the world are passing in dumb show before us. Things that we have dimly -dreamed of are suddenly made real. Things of which we have never dreamed -are gradually revealed.” - - Lift up your large black satin eyes which are like cushions - where one sinks! - Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx, and sing me all your memories! - -A symphony of memories. A life as brilliant and as swift as a meteor. A -life of no shadows. Sun and flowers. A continuous rainbow. An Apollonian -race over iridescent rose-and-azure-clouds. A sudden plunge over hideous -precipice. The song broken. Yet the chord vibrates. - -Uneasiness. The moon filters through the stained embrasure. - - Regardez la lune ... On dirait une femme qui sort d’un tombeau. - Elle ressemble à une femme morte. On dirait qu’elle cherche des - mortes. - - ... Elle ressemble à une petite princesse qui porte un voile - jaune, et des pieds d’argent. Elle ressemble à une princesse qui - a des petites colombes blanches.... On dirait qu’elle danse. - - ... On dirait une femme hystérique, une femme hystérique qui va - cherchant des amants partout. Elle est nue aussi. Elle est toute - nue. Les nuages cherchent à la vêtir, mais elle ne veut pas. Elle - chancelle à travers les nuages comme une femme ivre.... - - ... Cachez la lune! Cachez les étoiles! - -No, it is not the moon that causes the uneasiness. It is that Egyptian -scarabæus in lapis lazuli that bedims the scattered jewels and enveils -me in sadness. An image beckons to me out of the ultramarine glimmer, an -image of a king, a lord, possessor of a golden tongue and of a -scintillating mind, yet an image repulsive in its carnal vulgarity, its -dull inexpressive eyes, its fat jowl, its unreserved mouth. On a stout, -democratic finger guffaws the scarabæus. - - * * * * * - -Lights! Turn on the lights. - -I have been sybariticizing with thirteen beautiful little volumes of -Oscar Wilde, recently published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons. It is a useful, -although often painful, ordeal—ventilating the store-room of your old -gods. There was a time when I worshipped Wilde unqualifiedly. As a -freshman I wrote a pathetic paper in which I demanded the canonization -of the author of _De Profundis_. Alas, I have come to discern spots on -the sun. - -As a decorative artist Wilde has no flaws. The perfect design applied in -his multifarious productions makes one compare him to the titans of the -High Renaissance: Nihil tetigit quod non ornavit. The graceful form -justifies even his obvious moral-fairy-tales, even his unoriginal, -Keats-esque and Poe-esque poems. It is for the style that we accept his -_De Profundis_, that insincerest attempt for sincerity. But Wilde strove -for more than mere external artistic effect. In his critical essays he -lifted the critic to the heights of co- and re-creation, and instructed -him to demand from a work of art eternal values. “The critic rejects -those obvious modes of art that have but one message to deliver and -having delivered it become dumb and sterile, and seeks rather for such -modes as suggest reveries and moods and by their imaginative beauty make -all interpretations true and no interpretation final.” We, his disciples -in aesthetic valuations, come to our master with his own criterion, and -find him on more than one occasion grievously wanting in the -requirements that he had set up for the artist. He either has no message -to deliver, as in his clever plays, or he delivers his message in such -an outspoken way that no field is left for suggestion or imaginative -interpretation. He had transgressed Mallarmé’s maxim—“To name is to -kill; to suggest is to create” not only in _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_, -the work that belongs to the crushed, semi-penitent Wilde; he committed -this unpardonable sin in his masterpiece, _Salomé_! That wonderful -harmonious ghastliness, woven out of moods and motives, surcharged with -suggestive tragedy and fatalism, suddenly breaks into a criminal -vulgarity through the introduction of a “real” dead head, which drives -away illusion and atmosphere, and strikes your nostrils with the odor of -theatrical grease paint. - -The rehabilitation of Oscar Wilde was imposed upon the Anglo-Saxon world -by the continent, especially by Germany, the expropriator of English -geniuses, where the production of Wilde’s plays has rivalled in -frequency those of Shakespeare. I know of a German pundit who chose as a -topic for his doctor’s dissertations “The Influence of Pater on Oscar -Wilde”. But continental depreciation is as fast as Anglo-Saxon -appreciation is slow. Neue Zeiten, neue Vögel; neue Vögel, neue Lieder. -European literature in recent decades has had more meteors than stars. -Wilde’s flash is rapidly vanishing. You may call me a Cassandra, but I -venture a prophecy that soon Wilde will find his peaceful place in -American colleges alongside with Austen, Eliot, Meredith, etc. - -_Salomé_ will always remain one of the world’s great symphonies,—a -symphony in which the motive of doom rends your soul from the first -sound to the last. _Poems in Prose_ will never lose their charm as -ivory-carved bits of ideal conversation—the art in which Wilde was -supreme, the art that is almost unknown in this country where it is -substituted by talk. His other works are doomed to be time’s victims. -Not because they are worthless, but for the reason of their -adaptability. One must be a prophet, a Nietzsche, who hurls his seeds -over many generations, in order to endure. Wilde was aware of this -danger, and he wished to be misunderstood, but he lacked the profundity -for such a merit. He did not mirror his age; but he had realized the -potentialities of his age, had popularized them to such a degree that -they have become the possession of the crowd. We are not any longer -dazzled by the clever witticisms in his _Plays_; they have become almost -commonplace. Even the graceful, radiating _Intentions_ appear to us -somewhat obvious. Why?—It is the pathos of proximity! Wilde’s paradoxes, -_mots_, theories, have proven so appropriate, adaptable, and digestible -for our age, that it took only one decade to absorb them into our blood -and marrow. Cleverism for the sake of cleverism has come to be an -epidemic in our days; cleverists find Wilde an inexhaustible source for -parasitic exploitation. Our Hunekers (and under this appellative I have -in mind the legions of our omniscient boulevardiers-critics) don a -Wildesque robe, and have little trouble in passing as genuine before the -good-natured public. Unfortunately the constitution of the Hunekers is -too weak to absorb Wilde’s big truths; they prefer the digestible chaff. - -Adaptability spells forgetability. Crime and punishment. - - - - - Solitude - - - DAVID O’NEIL - - Youth! - If there be madness - In your soul, - Go to the mountain solitudes - Where you can grow up - To your madness. - - - - - The Novelist - - - SHERWOOD ANDERSON - -The novelist is about to begin the writing of a novel. For a year he -will be at the task and what a year he will have! He is going to write -the story of Virginia Borden, daughter of Fan Borden, a Missouri river -raftsman. There in his little room he sits, a small, hunched-up figure -with a pencil in his hand. He has never learned to run a type-writer and -so he will write the words slowly and painfully, one after another on -the white paper. - -What a multitude of words! For hours he will sit perfectly still, -writing madly and throwing the sheets about. That is a happy time. The -madness has possession of him. People will come in at the door and sit -about, talking and laughing. Sometimes he jumps out of his chair and -walks up and down. He lights and relights his pipe. Overcome with -weariness he goes forth to walk. When he walks he carries a heavy -walking stick and goes muttering along. - -The novelist tries to shake off his madness but he does not succeed. In -a store he buys cheap writing tablets and, sitting on a stone near where -some men are building a house, begins again to write. He talks aloud and -occasionally fingers a lock of hair that falls down over his eyes. He -lets his pipe go out and relights it nervously. - -Days pass. It is raining and again the novelist works in his room. After -a long evening he throws all he has written away. - -What is the secret of the madness of the writer? He is a small man and -has a torn ear. A part of his ear has been carried away by the explosion -of a gun. Above the ear there is a spot, as large as a child’s hand, -where no hair grows. - -The novelist is a clerk in a store in Wabash Avenue in Chicago. When he -was a quite young man he began to clerk in the store and for a time -promised to be successful. He sold goods, and there was something in his -smile that won its way into all hearts. How he liked the people who came -into the store and how the people liked him! - -In the store now the novelist does not promise to be successful. There -is a kind of conspiracy in the store. Although he tries earnestly he -continues to make mistakes and all of his fellows conspire to forgive -and conceal his mistakes. Sometimes when he has muddled things badly -they are impatient and the manager of the store, a huge, fat fellow with -thin grey hair, takes him into a room and begins to scold. - -The two men sit by a window and look down into Wabash Avenue. It is -snowing and people hurry along with bowed heads. So much do the novelist -and the fat grey-haired man like each other that the scolding does not -last. They begin to talk and the hours pass. Presently it is time to -close the store for the night and the two go down a flight of stairs to -the street. - -On the corner stand the novelist and the store-manager, still talking. -Presently they go together to dine. The manager of the store looks at -his watch and it is eight o’clock. He remembers a dinner engagement with -his wife and hurries away. On the street car he blames himself for his -carelessness. “I should not have tried to reprimand the fellow,” he -says, and laughs. - -It is night and the novelist works in his room. The night is cold and he -opens a window. There is, in his closet, a torn woolen jacket given him -by a friend, and he wraps the jacket about him. It has stopped snowing -and the stars are in the sky. - -The talk with the store-manager has inflamed the mind of the novelist. -Again he writes furiously. What he is now writing will not fit into the -life-story of Virginia Borden but, for the moment, he thinks that it -will and he is happy. Tomorrow he will throw all away, but that will not -destroy his happiness. - -Who is this Virginia Borden of whom the novelist writes and why does he -write of her? He does not know that he will get money for his story and -he is growing old. What a foolish affair. Presently there may be a new -manager in the store and the novelist will lose his place. Once in a -while he thinks of that and then he smiles. - -The novelist is not to be won from his purpose. Virginia Borden is a -woman who lived in Chicago. The novelist has seen and talked with her. -Like the store-manager she forgot herself talking to him. She forgot the -torn ear and the bald spot where no hair grew and the skin was snow -white. To talk with the novelist was like talking aloud to herself. It -was delightful. For a year she knew him and then went away to live with -a brother in Colorado where she was thrown from a horse and killed. - -When she lived in Chicago many people knew Virginia Borden. They saw her -going here and there in the streets. Once she was married to a man who -was leader of an orchestra in a theater but the marriage was not a -success. Nothing that Virginia Borden did in the city was successful. - -The novelist is to write the life-story of Virginia Borden. As he begins -the task a great humbleness comes over him. Tears come into his eyes. He -is afraid and trembles. - -In the woman who talked and talked with him the novelist has seen many -strange, beautiful, unexpected little turns of mind. He knows that in -Virginia Borden there was spirit that, but for the muddle of life, might -have become a great flame. - -It is the dream of the novelist that he will make men understand the -spirit of the woman they saw in the streets. He wants to tell the -store-manager of her and the little wiry man who has a desk next to his -own. In the Wabash Avenue store there is a woman who sits on a high -stool with her back to the novelist. He wants to tell her of Virginia -Borden, to make her see the reality of the woman who failed, to make all -see that such a woman once lived and went about among the women of -Chicago. - -As the novelist writes events grow in his mind. His mind is forever -active and he is continually making up stories about himself. As the -Virginia Borden whom men saw was a caricature of the Virginia Borden who -lived in the mind of the novelist, so he knows that he is himself but a -shadow of something very real. - -And so the novelist puts himself into the book. In the book he is a -large, square-shouldered man with tiny eyes. He is one who came to -Chicago from a village in Poland and was leader of an orchestra in a -theatre. As the orchestra leader the novelist married Virginia Borden -and lived in a house with her. - -You see the novelist wants to explain himself also. He is a lover and so -vividly does he love that he has the courage to love even himself. And -so it is the lover that sits writing and the madness of the writer is -the madness of the lover. As he writes he is making love. Surely all can -understand that! - - Because sexual love is the most useful and common type of - excitement we are apt to think it necessary to life, when the - truth is that it is excitement itself which is life’s - essential.—_Rebecca West._ - - - - - Asperities - - - MITCHELL DAWSON - - - Threat - - If you should come into my cave - Bringing molded beads of sunlight - For offering— - I would trample your beads - And crush you - With that great bone of darkness - Which I have gnawed for years - And which has left me - Meagre as a gnarled root. - - - In Passing - - One moment— - Your friend - Has squeezed great drops from you - Upon his palette; - With your color he has wrought— - Masterpieces, you say? - But the empty tube - Grown flat in his hand, - Will he hold it or pick up another, - Your friend— - - - Teresa - - Do you remember Antonino— - Swift-winged, green in the sun? - Into the snap-dragon throat of desire - Flew Antonino. - Snap!... - The skeleton of Antonino has made - A good husband, a good provider. - - - - - Amy Lowell’s New Book - - - F. S. FLINT - -Amy Lowell has sent me her book, _Six French Poets_,[2] who are: Emile -Verhaeren, Albert Samain, Remy de Gourmont, Henri de Régnier, Francis -Jammes, and Paul Fort; and it occurs to me that I must be her severest -critic—are we not rivals? When, in the summer of 1914, before the war -was dreamed of, she told me over her dinner-table of her intention to -write this book and of the names of the poets she had chosen, I objected -to Samain. Samain, I said, was exquisite, but not important; and he -could only be read a few pages at a time without weariness. Stuart -Merrill and Francis Vielé-Griffin, I went on, are both more considerable -poets; and both are Americans; and since you insist on including Remy de -Gourmont as one of your poets, you might increase your number to seven, -in many ways an appropriate number where poets are concerned; and so on. -But she only motioned the waiter to fill my glass with champagne; and -what can a man do against such argument and such a will? And now, even -if I wished to damn her book (I do not), she will have already heaped -coals of fire upon my head in her preface, where she says kind things -about me because I happened to mention the names of one or two books to -her, information she did not really need. - - [2] _Six French Poets, by Amy Lowell. New York: Macmillan - Company._ - -Miss Lowell states that she has “made no attempt at an exhaustive -critical analysis of the various works” of her poets. “Rather, I have -tried to suggest certain things which appear to the trained poet while -reading them. The pages and pages of hair-splitting criticism turned out -by erudite gentlemen for their own amusement has been no part of my -scheme. But I think the student, the poet seeking new inspiration, the -reader endeavoring to understand another poetic idiom, will find what -they need to set them on their way.” That is so: this book contains six -causeries in which Miss Lowell tells you why she loves these poets, and -what she loves about them, interrupting her talk every now and then to -read some poem to you which illustrates her meaning, introducing every -now and then a fragment of biography to correspond with the stage of the -poet’s work to which she has brought you, or stopping every now and then -to pick out rare phrases and rare music of words for your especial -delight. No one, I suppose, will have listened to Miss Lowell’s causerie -in so happy a setting as the sitting-room on the third floor of a hotel -in Piccadilly in which she talked to us in the August of 1914. Through -the long French window open in the corner could be seen the length of -Piccadilly, its great electric globes, its shining roadway, and, on the -left, the tops of the trees of Green Park, dark grey in the moonlight; -the noise of the motorbusses and of the taxis reached us in a muted -murmur, and at the corner of the park opposite, beneath a street lamp, -stood a newsboy, whose headlines we strained our eyes from time to time -to catch. It was in this tenseness created by the expectation of news -that Miss Lowell read Paul Fort and Henri de Régnier to us (she reads -French beautifully); and it is the emotion of those evenings, more than -anything else, that her book brings back to me. This is not criticism, I -know; but I am a critic displumed. I have quoted Miss Lowell’s statement -of her aims; let me now give my impression of what she has done. You can -take up her book, and read it from beginning to end without weariness or -boredom; you will be continually interested, continually delighted, -continually moved. Miss Lowell’s method of quoting whole poems and long -poems as well as detached and beautiful fragments has filled her book -with an emotional content that almost makes me afraid to open it; the -fear of too much beauty. And, finally, she has flattered the sense of -personal superiority in us all by allowing little slips to remain where -we may find them, and preen ourselves on our cleverness. When you have -absorbed all these sensations, you will have come to Appendix A, which -is 140 pages of the finest translations into English that exist of the -six poets in question, or, it might truly be said, of the French poets -of the symbolist generation. In these translations, Miss Lowell has -rarely been tempted away from prose, and you have only to compare her -work with the work of other translators to be immediately aware of how -much she has gained by her prudence, her artistry had better be said. -That Miss Lowell had all the equipment for a task of this kind, her own -two books of poems left no doubt at all. In them you will find the same -delight in beautiful word and phrase which has undoubtedly led her to -modern French poetry as to a friendly country, and to the achievement in -these translations. If she had done nothing more than just publish -these, she would have earned our gratitude; but she offers them to you -as the least of her book (as an appendix!) after you have been amused, -interested, instructed and moved. I can conceive of no greater -pleasure—my pleasure in the book is of a different kind—than that of the -lover of poetry who reads in Miss Lowell’s book about modern French -poetry for the first time; it must be like falling into El Dorado. I -should add that the book contains an excellent signed photograph of each -poet. - - - - - The Picnic - - - MARJORIE SEIFFERT - - Here they come in pairs, carrying baskets, - Pale clerks with brilliant neckties and cheap serge suits - Steering girls by the arm, clerks too, - Pretty and slim and smart - Even to yellow kid boots, laced up behind. - - They take the electric cars far into the country; - They descend, gaily chattering, at the Amusement Park. - Under the trees they eat the lunch they have carried— - Potato salad and boiled sausages, cream puffs, pretzels, warm beer. - - They ride in the roller-coaster, two in a seat— - Glorious danger, warm delicious proximity! - The unaccustomed beer floods their veins like heady wine, - And smothered youth awakens with shrill screams of joy. - - The sun sets, and evening is drowned in electric lights; - Arm in arm they wander under the trees - Everywhere meeting others wandering arm in arm - In the same wistful wonder, seeking they know not what. - They have left the park and the crowds, the stars shine out, - A river runs at their feet, behind them a leafy copse, - Away on the other shore the fields of grain - Lie sleeping peacefully in the starlight. - Tonight the world is theirs, a legacy - From those who lived familiar friends with river, field and forest— - Their forebears— - Through the night the same earth-magic moves them - That swayed those ancient ones, long dead— - And these, too, lean and drink, - Drink deeply from the river, the flowing river of life. - - Slowly they return to the crowds and the brilliant lights, - Dazzled they look aside, silently climb on the cars— - They cling to the swaying straps, weary, inert, confused. - The lurching car makes halt, they are thrown in each other’s arms,— - Alien and unmoved they sway apart again,— - The car moves on through the fields and suburbs back to the town. - - They leave the car in pairs, the picnic baskets - Rattling dismally plate and spoon and jar. - Each clerk takes his girl to her lodgings in awkward silence, - Indeed their eyes have not met since by the river - Those wondrous moments - Linked them to earth and night, not to each other. - They look askance,—“Good-night”—the front door closed. - They do not meet again except by chance. - - - - - Editorials and Announcements - - - _Wanted: Some Imaginative Reason_ - -“Nietzsche was an individualist, a hater of the State and of the -Prussians, a sick man, a great artist in words to be read with delight -and—your tongue in your cheek.” This is from John Galsworthy’s “Second -Thoughts on this War” in the January _Scribner’s_. And so it goes on: he -identifies Nietzsche with the new German philosophy (which the poor man -would have hated as he did Prussianism), he talks of the Will to Power -and the Will to Love as two forces at opposite poles (quite in the -manner of the Chestertons), and he derides Shaw’s clear-headed -understanding that there is no real struggle of ideals involved in the -war as the statement of a brilliant intellect with “no flair, no -feelers, none of that instinctive perception of the essence and -atmosphere of things which is a so much surer guide than reason.” These -things are heart-breaking. If the artists can not understand the -prophets of their time why should we expect the masses to do so? - - - _“Homo Sapiens” Is Obscene!_ - -Anthony Comstock’s successor, John Sumner, has arrested Alfred Knopf for -publishing Przybyszewski’s _Homo Sapiens_. It was suggested that -magistrate Simms read the book before passing judgment. The assistant -district attorney protested that “no such cruel punishment be imposed on -the court”; but Mr. Simms promised to try it. - - * * * * * - -_P. S._ Since writing the above something has happened which my brain -still refuses to believe. I have just been told that Mr. Knopf has -pleaded “guilty” to this asinine charge, in order to avoid the expense -and the publicity, and that _Homo Sapiens_ will no longer be circulated -in this country. If it is true it is the most inexcusably ridiculous -thing that has happened for many months. It is incredible! - - - “_The World’s Worst Failure_” - -Read Rebecca West’s brilliant articles in _The New Republic_. - - - _Margaret Sanger and the Issue of Birth Control_ - -Nothing makes me so positively ill as the average radical. The average -conservative is a ghastly figure, but at least he is true to type. The -average radical is a person who professes to believe something that he -does not believe. If he did, he would be in trouble. No one gets into -more involuntary trouble than the splendid fools who think they can do -quite simply what they believe in, and who proceed to do it. - -Margaret Sanger’s trial is set for the twenty-fourth of this month. She -is under three indictments, based on twelve articles, eleven of which -are for _printing the words_—“prevention of conception.” It is these -words which are regarded as “lewd, lascivious, and obscene.” - -Many “radicals” have advised Mrs. Sanger that the wisest thing to do is -to plead guilty to this “obscenity” charge and to throw herself upon the -mercy of the court—which would mean that she could get off with a light -sentence or a small fine. And what would become of her object, which has -been to remove the term “prevention of conception” from this section of -the penal code, where it has been labelled as filthy, vile, and obscene? -No revolution has ever been started by evasion. No one wants Margaret -Sanger to be a martyr. _The point is that every one must see to it that -she is not made a martyr._ There is no other way out of these issues. -You can’t really believe in a thing without knowing that some time you -will have to fight for it. Margaret Sanger is taking the stand that her -type always takes—just because it is the type that insists on believing -hard. _We_ should do all the rest. If you will wire your protest to the -District Attorney, office of U. S. Marshal, Post Office Building, New -York City, it will help. You may write Margaret Sanger, or send -contributions to her, care of Ethel Byrne, 26 Post Avenue, New York -City. Please, please do it! - - - _The Russian Literature Group_ - -The introductory lecture, which took place January 14 and was rather -well attended, will be followed by a series of talks on characteristic -features in Russian literature. The pivots of the discussion will be -Pushkin, Lermontov, Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and the -moderns. Mr. Kaun presents the point of view of a Russian, not that of a -foreign student. - -The next lecture will be Friday, February 11, at 8:30 P. M., in room -612, Fine Arts Building. - - - - - American Art - - - (An Indefinite Comment) - -I report, without regret, my inability to present a definite article -about the Annual Exhibit of American Painters and Sculptors. Not that -the exhibit is vague—American art is a definite thing: travelling -collections, annual exhibits, “friends” and organizations have made it -so. But visit after visit left me without words. The feelings I did have -were alternately those of amusement, anger, disgust, indifference, mild -excitement, and most of the time: “Oh well, what’s the use?” - -In this exhibit the only thrills or “artiste emotions”—such as one -demands of art—were very minor notes and immediately they were -felt—thump! (Register amazement and then anger.) You come across -something good: its neighbors and surroundings deaden its appeal. Thus, -Massonovich’s _Moon-Dark_—poet’s magic! But alas! it is the only -landscape in the exhibit. Next to it is Oliver D. Grover’s Italian -platitude, near it a Redfield—“blast” his “school” of landscapes, -please, someone! Peyraud, Stacey, Butler—oh, what emptiness! The Inness -Room cuts into the exhibit separating two rooms from the rest of the -galleries. Passing through it one is reminded of the Inness -tradition—how it has been ignored! Or at least how his spirit has been -ignored. Monet, Renoir, Manet, and some other modern French are hanging -elsewhere in the Institute; and then there is Whistler; and again recall -Inness; Massonovich, on you rests the perpetuation, not of “American -Landscape” but of that spirit we shall always be searching for in -landscapes, if landscapes we must have. One parting remark about -landscapes. Hayley Lever comes in for some praise and much scolding. He -has a good color sense, but strength and virility in composition seem to -be lacking. Recall what Jerome Blum has done and you will understand why -this half-way person ought to be jolted. - -And the portraits. One of Katherine Dudley’s -decorative-German-poster-“Every Week” cover-design-women, is now the -property of the “Friends”—“American Art as it was in the early part of -the twentieth century”. Yes, indeed, to represent it clearly to -posterity you must include at least one of the numerous society -dilettantes. However, Gordon Stevenson, Blows, Henri, and Davey as -portrait painters are worth watching. - -And the rest of the show? Most of the exhibitors have been represented -for years. Their pictures are all so familiar. Many of the paintings -have appeared year after year. Birge Harrison has a rather atmospheric -beach scene; Beal, Albright, Dougherty, Hassam, Sargent, Mary Cassatt, -Symons, Ballin, Weir, Schofield. All are familiar and recognised in the -Market Place. These people are standing still. I imagine they are old: -grey without magnificence. And being haunted by the truth of that -lingering statement that there is no such thing as an old _artist_—why, -dare we say that they are _not_ artists? - -Sculptor? There is none. - -American Art?—To the Annual Exhibit, Ladies and Gentlemen, for a -definite demonstration! - - “The Critic.” - - - - - Photography - - -“My, isn’t that real! Just as it really is! My dear, haven’t you often -seen Grant Park just like that?—a little changed, of course.”... She who -had spoken was considered not a high-brow but just a good normal -cultured woman. Not being a fanatic about art, or anything else, for -that matter, she knew absolutely what she was talking about. The thing -she was talking about was a painting of Grant Park by Frank C. Peyraud -looking east from the top of some Michigan Boulevard office building.... -It was indeed “real.” Peyraud’s one-man exhibit at the Art Institute -shows him up for what he is—an imitator without imagination, a -reproducer, a copyist of nature in her most obvious moods. Not an artist -or a creator his landscapes are all “real,” “true-to-life” and they are -all enjoyed.... The Public knows where the originals are and the -association and comparison gives them pleasure and the artist fame.... - - * * * * * - -“Oh, _how_ clever, and can’t you just hear the policemen, and the -buggy-wheels and the bark of the dogs and the grind-organ! Oh, its just -wonderful what they can do in music and with an orchestra. I _would_ -like to hear that played again!” A woman speaks—not the one referred to -above but one who holds the same position in her set towards music as -her friend towards “art” in her circle.... Of course, she can appreciate -music, when it is so natural and real.... Carpenter is to be -congratulated: the percussions are given a splendid and unusual chance -to show their versatility—it is they, it seems to me, and they alone who -benefit by this splendid display of music. - -“My dear, I just love Stevenson and you know, my dear, those places in -his novels are _so_ real—you can just see them so plainly. Of course, -I’ve never been in Scotland or England or France or, my dear, even in -New York but really Stevenson is so descriptive, his stories are _so_ -gripping it really is as good as traveling. And I have a lovely new -book,[3] just out with beautiful pictures and awfully dear binding, -showing how the places Stevenson describes actually exist! You know this -book amounts to a liberal education—it’s just the same as going abroad. -I just adore places and scenes and travel in books—don’t you? And -Stevenson,” she ended with a sigh, “is _so_ romantic.” Which reminds me -of a line of the Intolerable Wilde’s in a letter from Reading—“I see -that romantic surroundings are the worst surroundings possible for -romantic writers.” ... “And, my dear, it brings Art so close to everyday -life, does it not?—to have artists portray for us our everyday -surroundings and show us how nice they are.” - - [3] _On the Trail of Stevenson by Clayton Hamilton._ _New York: - Doubleday, Page and Company._ - -Long, long ago one Woman spoke to an Artist—will her type _never_ become -extinct? - -“But, Mr. Turner” (Artist; contemporary of John Ruskin) “I never saw -such colors in a sky in all my life.” - -“My dear madam,” he returned, “don’t you wish you had?” - - —C. A. Z. - - - - - Book Discussion - - - A Brilliant Enemy - - _Modern Painting, by Willard Huntington Wright. New York: John - Lane Company._ - -It is a hard book. None of Clive Bell’s sunny cynicism, none of -Kandinsky’s colorful musicalness; surely nothing in common with the -watery ecstacies of our official Chicago modernist, Arthur Jerome Eddy. -While reading the voluminous book I experienced an uneasy, an uncertain -feeling in regard to the author: to hate him, or just to dislike him? -Let me confess that when I turned over the last page I lowered my head -in respect for a brilliant enemy. - -It is a hard book, brothers-dilettanti. It gives us a merciless -thrashing, we who love without being able to state why and wherefore. We -are ordered to go to school, children, to study chemistry and color, to -approach a work of art as scientifically equipped as a surgeon venturing -to operate on a human body. As a reward we are promised the bliss of -unadulterated aesthetic emotion. Ah, that aesthetic emotion! For a time -we believed that it was possible to grasp that slippery “blue bird” by -following Clive Bell’s maxim on the significance of form. Alas, this -theory is obsolete. Color itself should become form, proclaims Mr. -Wright, and he quotes the manifesto of his beloved Synchromists: “In our -painting color becomes the generating function. Painting being the art -of color, any quality of a picture not expressed by color is not -painting!” - -With a sigh of relief we reach the chapter on Synchromism. All art up to -the year 1912 has been nothing but preliminary experimentation. In -Rubens were consummated the aims of the old painters (beginning with the -fifteenth century; the Primitives are dismissed as not deserving -consideration)—organization and composition. The new cycle opens in the -nineteenth century with Turner, Constable, and Delacroix, who experiment -in naturalism. Manet introduces thematic freedom—not more. The -Impressionists and Neo-Impressionists close the second, naturalistic, -cycle, having enriched art with laborious investigations into the -secrets of color in relation to light. All these have been but -precursors forging weapons for the third and _last_ (!) cycle—the final -purification of painting. Synchromism, of course. Of this last cycle -Cezanne was—hear, Messieurs and Mesdames Questioners—the primitive! -Still Cezanne and Matisse and Picasso ignored color as a generator of -form, until two Americans, MacDonald-Wright and Russell, rent asunder -the ultimate veil from purity and truth, and the new and final deity -emanated from their canvasses, the unsurpassable Synchromism. - -There is so much truth in Mr. Wright’s statements, particularly in his -negative statements, that we may disregard his fanatic credo. Who will -deny that painting has been “a bastard art—an agglomeration of -literature, religion, photography, and decoration”? Who will not approve -of the efforts of modern painters to eliminate all extraneous -considerations and make painting as pure an art as music? But why -dogmatize again and anew? Why reduce creative art to scientific -formulae, to mathematical calculations, to Procrustean standards? Why -ridicule those who paint _comme l’oiseau chante_? Why belittle Kandinsky -for his too-subjective symphonies? Why be so hard, Mr. Wright, so -finite, so sententious, so encyclical? Why not have a little sense of -humor, pray? - - - Gorky’s Memories - - _My Childhood, by Maxim Gorky. New York: The Century Company._ - -That Gorky is deteriorating has become a truism. Exaggerated as the -importance of his early works has been, one could not deny their -freshness, elementary adroitness, soulfulness. But the god-fire was soon -exhausted in the none-too-deep spirit of the tramp-poet. He gave us the -few good songs he knew about the life of the has-beens, and then went -hoarse. The public, Hauptmann’s Huhn, is not irresponsible for Gorky’s -false notes. Compel the canary to imitate the nightingale and the poor -bird will lose her short, simple, pretty twitter, and rend her little -heart with shrill ejaculations. I have in mind Gorky’s later dramas and -stories. - -The book before me makes me think that Gorky has come to recognize his -fallacy in attempting to treat subjects alien to his inherent capacity. -At any rate in this case he is free from pretentiousness. His childhood -memories are related simply, realistically, sans philosophizing, sans -allegorizing. It is left for the reader to deduce the “moral” from the -sordid panorama that is revealed before him, that malodorous dunghill -swarming with human beings, whose crawling and writhing is called life. -The book should have been much shorter; the super-abundance of details -makes it Dreiserian or Bennetian. - -And here I should like to touch upon a sore which reviewers customarily -do not discuss, for fear of _mauvais ton_. Why are the English -translations so careless and comical? The book in question is full of -such glaring errors, such nonsensical misunderstandings, such atrocious -ignorance, that it has made me pull my hair in despair of solving the -dilemma whether I should laugh at the comicalness or whether I should -rage at the impertinence. I am quite sure that the translator (his name -is not revealed) knows as much Russian as Percy Pinkerton, the crucifier -of Artzibashev; he mutilated Gorky from a German translation, I suspect. -The book has another jolly feature—illustrations. They are reproductions -from popular Russian paintings, with inscriptions that are supposed to -illustrate the text. The naive forgery is too crude and unskilful to -mislead even the unsuspecting reader. Will the publishers ever acquire -respect for the printed word? - - - Instruction - - _The Greatest of Literary Problems, by James Phinney Baxter. - Boston: Houghton Mifflin._ - -Have you the sense of humor to guess which is the Problem? Shakespeare -or Bacon! About seven hundred gigantic pages on this vital question, -with illustrations and data. Are you curious to know who wins? I shall -not tell. Why should the reader be spared the reviewer’s agony in wading -through the bewildering labyrinth of speculations and arguments till he -reaches ... the same point that he started from. Bon voyage! - - - Instruction Plus - - _Tales from Old Japanese Dramas, by Asataro Miyamori. New York: - G. P. Putnam’s Sons._ - - _Some Musicians of Former Days, by Romain Rolland. New York: - Henry Holland Company._ - -These books, like the preceding one, are intended to be instructive; -they attain their purpose, however, thanks to gracefulness of style and -fascination of subject. Mr. Miyamori has condensed the plots of the most -famous _joruri_—the epical dramas of the Yeddo period, which are to this -day chanted in Japanese theatres. It is an exotic atmosphere of oriental -fairyland, tapestries of childlike love and naive passion, of smiling -bloody tragedies and blissful harakiris. When lovers are prevented from -being married they do not employ the cumbersome process of elopment, but -transport themselves into the other world by committing _shinju_ or -double suicide. The author tells us that Metizahormach shinju dramas -have had such powerful influence on the audiences that there have been -numerous instances of lovers performing that delicious suicide after -leaving the theatre. I fear that for the occidental reader the dramas -will not prove as convincing—alas. - -After _Musicians of To-Day_ the last book of Rolland has little appeal. -Journalistic notes, interesting information, brilliant suggestions—and -we look in vain for the profound spirit of the old Romain. - - - Hospitable Mr. Braithwaite - - _Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1915, by William Stanley - Braithwaite. New York: Gomme and Marshall._ - -Mr. Braithwaite has chosen the guests for his house party with kindly -catholicity. Amy Lowell, John Gould Fletcher, and H. D. sit -uncomfortably in his New England parlor eyeing one another furtively. -Clement Wood clowns in a corner. Vachel Lindsay before the mantel-piece -declaims to James Oppenheim and Louis Untermeyer, who listen with an air -of importance. Edgar Lee Masters sits on the _corpus juris_ and -meditates upon the beauties of silence. Sara Teasedale dances in the -hallway. Harriet Monroe reclines on a porch chair, listening to the -rain. A crowd in the library recreate themselves by reading from a set -of British Poets. Percy MacKaye gloomily reads the war news to a group -in the dining-room, while little Arvia, his daughter, lisps happily to -herself. And alone in the kitchen is Robert Frost roasting chestnuts. - -Who will say that Mr. Braithwaite could have better performed the duties -of host? Did he omit any of the “older established names”? And did he -not make a special Cook’s tour to far off islands (not shown in the -atlas of the _Boston Transcript_ office) for the purpose of bringing -home with him certain “new discoveries”? - -Mr. Braithwaite pats his guests admiringly upon the back and regrets -that there are other excellent poets for whom he has no accommodations. -Ezra Pound, Richard Aldington, T. S. Eliot, D. H. Lawrence, Maxwell -Bodenheim, perhaps he will invite you next time. Is it not a pleasant -anticipation? - - - Empty Souls - - _The Later Life, by Louis Couperus. New York: Dodd, Mead and - Company._ - -This is the second part of the tetralogy of “Small Souls” which began to -appear in English last year. The slowly-developing epic is pregnant with -promises, but, oh how slowly the skein unrolls. We are still in the -midst of Dutch bourgeoisie, dull, stony-faced, petty, filthy; again the -incessant rain, ever-cloudy skies, bicycle rides, large dinner-parties -at Mama’s. Small souls. Last year I asked the question whether in -depicting Dutch life Couperus could not find a single big soul, one -interesting individual. This second book gives us pale glimmers of -potentialities, very pale indeed. The big man is big only relatively; he -has been in America, worked in factories, and is now ... lecturing on -peace. - -The book introduces a feature that may interest the sexologist: frequent -passionate love among near kinsmen. Two sisters are in love with their -brothers. A romance between uncle and niece. The heroes and heroines are -awakened to love for the most part at the dangerous age of forty. I -recall that Przybyszewski presents in two of his works love between -brother and sister. Shall we say that ideal sex-relationship requires -the closest kinship of body and spirit? In the Pole’s lovers the force -driving them together is the harmonious coincidence of two morbidly -developed intellects with a common craving for beauty and fullness. In -Couperus we face mutual yearning of small, pale, empty souls. But I am -not interested in sex-problems, not yet. - - K. - - - Two Points of View - - _Violette of Pere Lachaise, by Anna Strunsky Walling. New York: - Frederic A. Stokes._ - -A gigantic background—the eternal graves and trees and monuments of the -old Paris cemetery. The rest is fudge. A mouse born out of the bowels of -a mountain. Nauseating feminine sentimentalism. Boring talk, talk, talk. - - K. - -The reviewer above is absolutely mistaken about Mrs. Walling’s book, I -believe. It is the story of one of those human beings—rare people—who -live inner lives of extraordinary intensity. It is radiantly absorbing, -to me. - - M. C. A. - - - - - The Reader Critic - - -_The Editor_: - -_We have had cancellations, congratulations, and a lot of indignant -letters about Ben Hecht’s “Dregs.” I print two of them below. As it -happens, these stories are among the best things_ THE LITTLE REVIEW _has -printed. With the exception of some of the poetry and two stories of -Sherwood Anderson’s, they may be listed as the only “literature” we have -published. Some one has compared them to Gorky. But this is not a very -accurate judgment. As a reviewer pointed out in the November issue, -Gorky could feel his stories, could imagine them deeply, but he could -never quite tell them. The supreme virtue of Ben Hecht’s “Dregs” is that -he could tell them. That is the art. Of course I have nothing to say to -those people who deplore Mr. Hecht’s subject matter and urge me to use -some moral judgment in selecting things for_ THE LITTLE REVIEW. _There -is no such thing as moral judgment in literature. There should be no -such thing in life, but unfortunately_— - -_A Sorrowful Friend_: - -THE LITTLE REVIEW: _Literature, Drama, Music, Art_. Which of these four -shrines did you intend to desecrate in offering Ben Hecht’s “Dregs”? Or -have you added an “unwritten” class to your list, comprehensive enough -to include such bold portrayals of viciousness and filth, of -licentiousness and lust, as these three degenerate—manifestations! - -LITTLE REVIEW—how _could_ you do it? You who have hitherto held so -bravely to the tenets of beauty and truth in thought and expression, -held to them courageously through storms of adverse criticism, consent -to print descriptions of the bestial abnormalities of the scum of -mankind! If _you_, who profess to look to a higher, better realization -of life, consent to crawl in the gutter with the vermin, what can we -expect of the lesser publications? - -You have polluted an edition of your magazine; it is true that flames -will destroy the manuscript, but what of the hideous memory that -remains? Take heed—LITTLE REVIEW; remember that cleanliness is akin to -godliness and—look to your soul! - -_Florence Kiper Frank, Chicago_: - -May I call your attention to the fact that Mr. Edward J. O’Brien, in his -annual review of the year’s fiction, not only lists all the stories -printed in THE LITTLE REVIEW during 1915 among those possessing -“distinction,” but double-asterisks (verb) the three sketches of Ben -Hecht’s published under the title “Dregs.” This in the chaste and -genealogical Boston Evening Transcript! And, following to the best of my -ability Mr. O’Brien’s rather vague reference to and nebulous listings of -the stories to be published in his anthology, _The Best Stories of 1915 -and Year Book of American Fiction_, I can but come to the startled -conclusion that Ben Hecht’s three stories are all to be reprinted in the -estimable collection. Good for Ben Hecht, THE LITTLE REVIEW, and Mr. -O’Brien’s catholicity of judgment! Some of us there are who like to have -our opinions backed and bolstered by authority. And what more august -authority than the printed word of Boston. Some of us—but of course not -your insurgents. Perhaps Mr. Hecht will resent congratulations. I tender -them, nevertheless—with apologies. Good stuff, Ben Hecht! Do us -some—more of them. - -_Sada Cowan, New York_: - -I’m truly grateful to your reviewer who found my play, _The State -Forbids_, “negative as literature.” If he had found it bad architecture -or mediocre sculpture I should have been less pleased. - -Play making, to my mind, is not a form of literature (even though its -medium chances to be words) but it is an art of spacing ... focusing ... -building. Structure upon structure! Foundation. Ornament. Design. An art -as distinct from other forms of word utility as color medium is from -plastic art. Drama is related to literature only in so far as all arts -are inter-related. No more than this. By drama I mean, of course, plays -intended (at least in the writer’s mind) for production. These alone are -plays. For one reason or another they may never reach the boards, but -they must have lived in the writer’s fantasy as things produced. _Desk -drawer dramas_ are not plays. - -I believe that the hope of the modern drama lies in the artist who can -learn to look upon himself as a builder ... a _maker_ and not a writer -of plays. - -And so again I thank your critic whose charity has made me feel that I -am on the road which leads to “Somewhere.” Even though at the end of my -journey I may not yet have reached the first mile stone. - -_Virginia York, Washington, D. C._: - -It is published in windy Chicago, THE LITTLE REVIEW. Claimed by -management, editors and its readers to be the very, very last, last word -in prose and poetry; it is sold at fifteen cents a copy. Normal-minded, -healthy folk will find it cheap at that price, because normal-minded, -healthy folk will find in it fifteen laughs for fifteen cents, despite -the fact that it is entirely a serious publication. - -Years ago an editor sent me to the government hospital for the insane -just outside Washington, to interview a certain man. As I passed into -the building an elderly gentleman of profoundly respectful manner -presented me with a neatly-bound pamphlet which he said he had written, -edited and illustrated entirely by himself. Examining it later, the -cover-page proved to be a mass of meaningless, whirling lines labeled in -carefully printed letters, “The Croucher At The Door.” The reading -matter was wholly unintelligible. - -A poet-friend has given me the October number of THE LITTLE REVIEW. The -vers libre poetry in the small magazine might easily be called “The -Croucher At The Door” for all the sense to be made of it. In fear and -trembling that my own unworthy brain might finally have addled, -relatives and friends were invited to peruse the contents of the volume. -I thank heaven they could make nothing of it. - -One contribution entitled _Cafe Sketches_, by Arthur Davison Ficke, is -herewith reprinted for the benefit of readers of this page who are -denied access, and accompanying the laugh, to THE LITTLE REVIEW. Mr. -Ficke, after telling in the first verse that he is in a cafe, surrounded -by a “cortege of seven waiters,” mourning for a “boundlessly curious -lady,” recites in mournful meanderings: - - Presently persons will come out - And shake legs. - I do not want legs shaken. - I want immortal souls shaken unreasonably. - I want to see dawn spilled across the blackness - Like a scrambled egg on the skillet; - I want miracles, wonders. - Tidings out of deeps I do not know ... - But I have a horrible suspicion - That neither you - Nor your esteemed consort - Nor I myself - Can ever provide these simple things - For which I am so patiently waiting. - - Base people! - How I dislike you! - -Maybe you think this is funny, but certainly it is not intended to be. -Seriousness, thick, black, dense seriousness is the keynote of THE -LITTLE REVIEW. This is vers libre with a vengeance. “Persons will come -out and shake legs. I do not want legs shaken.” Here we have the spirit -of the dance! It is quite evident Mr. Ficke does not wish joy to be -unconfined. - -There have been many descriptions of dawn, probably none so unique as -“the dawn spilled across the blackness like a scrambled egg on the -skillet.” The second verse is short and to the point, but it is much to -be thankful for both in point of length and the statement that we are -abhorred. - -In order to restore our thoughts to something sane, to take away from us -the taste of such gibberish, consider for a moment the following eight -lines by Harriet Howe, recently published in THE LITERARY DIGEST. -Comparison between the two authors is utterly impossible, totally -unnecessary: - - - SUNSET AFTER RAIN - - The cradle of the valley - Is filled with floating mist, - The summits of the mountains - Are veiled in amethyst. - - The trees spread grateful branches - Above a smiling sod, - For thirsting slaked, for hunger fed, - All things are praising God. - -_Huntly Carter, London_: - -The letter by C. Smith of Chicago, in the October issue of THE LITTLE -REVIEW, is so phenomenally stupid and so intellectually dishonest that -it is almost beneath notice. If I consent to notice it, I do so in order -to warn Smithsonian understudies that they will be severely dealt with -if they attempt to repeat Smith’s brazen offence of writing to a -significant journal and coolly suggesting that a single and relatively -unimportant wrong attribution is to be regarded as a fair and honest -sample of the whole subject matter of an article occupying several pages -and mainly devoted to a metaphysical explanation of the origin and -nature of poetry. Furthermore, suggesting that I am applying to a poet -(Browning) a rigid test of poetry, seeking to prove his words poetically -good or bad by my poetical experience, when as a matter of fact I am -offering certain words, some of which are wrongly attributed to -Browning, as indisputable evidence that in venting the emotions -versifiers find descriptive figures efficacious. - -No doubt some of the words flaunted by Smith are wrongly attributed to -Browning. They are so wrongly attributed that anyone can see they are -wrongly attributed. And any “sane, intelligent and decently responsible -man” (to use Smith’s yellow press tautology) would have given me an -opportunity of saying they are wrongly attributed before venturing to -put on silly airs of hypercriticism. Then he would have learnt that the -first and third line of the quotation belong oddly enough, to another -piece of poetry, and have got mixed up with Browning’s stuff in some -unaccountable way. I have not the least idea how the mix took place. All -I know is that my article was finished off in great haste to catch the -mail. It was sent in handscript and not typescript. And there was no -time to send me a proof; otherwise the quotation would certainly have -been corrected, and the many errors which now appear in my article would -have disappeared. I feel I am justified in saying it was not my -intention to send the words which have crept into print by the discovery -that I have actually written down Browning’s very words. Here is -Browning: - - And the sun looked over the mountain’s rim: - And straight was a path of gold for him, - And the need of a world of men for me. - -The first line of the verse is missing. The three lines however serve -the purpose of my comparison. I had also set down these lines by -Browning: - - One lyric woman in her crocus vest, - Woven of sea-wools. - -I intended to include this with my quotations. For here in my view is a -figure as original and precisely felicitous as anything the Imagists -have given us. - -That this dragging in of some wrongly attributed words—so obviously -wrong as to deceive no one—for the sole purpose of discrediting an -important article is dishonest, is clear from the fact that Smith does -not drag in any other quotation from the many given, nor produce any -other evidence whatsoever in support of his contention that my article -is inept and careless throughout. In fact he has nothing more damaging -to offer than his own fatuous statement that he happens “to consider my -article an ill-digested congeries of vague views”; which, when one comes -to examine it is found to contain a baseless assertion and a clear -admission that my article is above and beyond Smith’s head. - -As to the silliness of Smith’s letter, this may be judged from the -following: Smith begins with the generalization that magazines die -“whose pages are as a rule careless, inconsidered and inept” (note the -repetition and consequent lack of thoroughness). The publications of the -capitalist press answer this description. The news sheets, for instance, -are rotten with carelessness, inconsideredness and ineptness. They would -be rottener if they could. Yet they do not die. On the contrary they -sell by the million. If so, then THE LITTLE REVIEW should sell by the -million. But Smith says it will die. And Smith is a careful, -serviceable, and accurate man. - -By way of comparison Smith relieves himself of this matchless -composition. “Your magazine will die,—as a steam engine would grow -useless in which no direction towards any cylinder was given to the -indubitable forces generated in the boiler.” What is the precise meaning -of this bombastic twaddle? In homely words, it means that a steam engine -is (not “would grow”) useless when the steam power developed in its -boiler is not utilised in any cylinder. Anyone who examines this analogy -will agree with me that Smith is a careful, serviceable, and accurate -man. - -From the general Smith comes to the particular and quotes what he is -pleased to call an example of my “ineptitude and carelessness” as an -example of the general “ineptitude and carelessness” of THE LITTLE -REVIEW. Without knowing anything as to the circumstances under which the -wrongly attributed words found their way into print, without stopping to -inquire to what extent I contributed to the mistake, and upon no other -evidence whatsoever than the said wrongly attributed words, he proceeds -to saddle me with the astounding intention “to obliterate all sense of -accuracy, all love of clear and rational communication, all fidelity to -honest statement, and all interest in truth” (which makes four ways of -uttering the same inverifiable statement). - -Finally Smith challenges the editor of THE LITTLE REVIEW to print his -ghastly ineptitude. She has taken the short way and done so. It serves -Smith right. - -_M. Silverman, Chicago_: - -Your last issue is a failure—with two exceptions, Miss Goldman’s article -on “Preparedness” and Mr. Hecht’s letter. Both of them are human, -understandable, and sincere. They shout—but do not roar. All the others -are ostentatious, plebeian, and lack artistic restraint. They are not -beautiful. They _holler_ and produce a sense of heaviness and -overexertion. Sympathy and politeness are apparently the cardinal -virtues of the highly esteemed editor. Hence this “democratic” hash. - -To be more specific: Your editorial, “Toward Revolution,” is the acme of -nonsense. I tried to take you seriously but I couldn’t. It is -pamphletory, and should have no place in THE LITTLE REVIEW. - -“The Ecstasy of Pain” is a stage hurricane, and, to paraphrase Mr. -Goldbeck, it is like Chicago: vast, but not impressive. It lacks -artistic touch and symmetrical wholeness. The fourth paragraph is -excellent. The rest was unnecessary. The fragmentary mind of Mr. Kaun is -phosphorescent, produces tiny sparks which are soon lost in the -darkness. Higher mathematics is the best remedy for Mr. Kaun’s mind. - -“The Spring Recital” is a bore. The author of _The “Genius”_ seems to -have a mania for torturing the innocent public. I read “The Spring -Recital” twice, yes twice; and when I got through with it I felt -extremely uncomfortable. I don’t understand it and it doesn’t mean -anything to me. I challenge anyone to explain to me: What does this -piece of “dramatic” “quatch” mean? - -All the other articles—well, they are harmless. - -_Woods Dargan, Darlington, S. C._: - -I enclose a check for $1.50, and ask that you enter my name for one -year’s subscription—that is, if you will let one of the rabble creep in. -Frankly, I know no more about art (with a capital A or otherwise) than a -rabbit. I don’t even know what an “Imagist” is! And for the life of me I -cannot understand why the temperamental, fussy gentleman named Alexander -S. Kaun should not use a singular verb with a singular noun, just like -ordinary people. But when he says, as he does in the first line of the -fourth paragraph of his article, “the dearer a person or a thing _are_ -to me, etc.,” I know there must be intellectual purpose in it, some -esoteric effect that gets to the cultured few but passes over my head; -so I bow before the unknown beauty of it, thinking, “Odd, but no doubt -it’s all right.” - -Also, to my untutored mind, the frequent use of profanity in an -everyday, conversational way in two or three of the articles is amusing, -and makes me wonder. It reminds me of the days when I first took up the -art, and used to feel a shudder of delight when I ripped out a good, -mouth-filling, “Damn it all to hell!” Perhaps it has lost its charm for -me as a literary ornament because I swear so much myself, just as a -matter of habit without deriving the oldtime pleasure from it. - -Other places where these boys put it all over me are in music and -Russians. It is one of my secret sorrows that I know I know nothing -about music. I like it, but it never occurs to me to fade away and fill -an early grave if I hear somebody’s nocturne murdered—that is, if I know -it is being murdered, which is highly unlikely. And as to the Russians, -old Dostoevsky is my limit so far, but I’m game, and am going in for all -the others,—the more gloomy and morbid the better. - -Then, there’s this Mr. Theodore Dreiser. As we say in this neck of the -woods, in our uncouth manner, “He must be a bear-cat.” (By the way, I’d -give a lot to know what “demiurge” means in the sense in which it is -applied to him. Mr. Masters used it in _The New York Times_ some weeks -ago, and now I find it again in Mr. Powys’ appreciation. I don’t know -what they mean.) Well, I’ve had his book, _The “Genius,”_ for sometime, -and mean to read it all as soon as I can get round to it. Perhaps I’ll -know what “demiurge” means then—but I doubt it. - -For all that I have said I would not have you think that I am wholly -lacking in soul. I have some things in common with these fellows, for I -have no religion or morals, and I enjoy getting drunk, riotously, -gloriously drunk, once or twice a year. - -And now, after telling you at more length than any decent person should -what has puzzled me in your Review, permit me to say what I like. The -first part of your own contribution, “Life Itself,” strikes me as the -real thing. I understand all that, being a common person. For the last -part, as I’ve said, I know nothing of art, and life doesn’t mean those -things to me, naturally. But I like it. I can, after a fashion, see how -it _might_ mean them. The review of Dreiser by Mr. Powys that I have -mentioned already is good writing and good sense. How true it is, I am -not yet in a position to guess. Then, Mr. Edgar Masters always writes -vividly, deeply. I am glad to add “So We Grew Together” to what I know -of his stuff. It is almost as good a portrait and short story as some of -the best of the Anthology. - -That fellow Ben Hecht can write. Personally, I have a sort of leaning -toward the dregs, but, as a general thing, I don’t know that there’s -much use in writing about them just so. But he’s certainly good. He can -write. I never heard of him before, but I shall look out for him in -future. - -For the sake of what I find good I’m willing to put up with what I fail -to grasp, and so I look forward to much pleasure and instruction from -THE LITTLE REVIEW. Luck to it. As long as you, Miss Lowell, Mr. Masters, -and Mr. Hecht contribute, so long will it be cheap at any price. And, -who knows? I may yet learn from my friend Mr. Kaun the hidden beauties -of a singular subject with a plural verb. - - - - - _The January-February Issue_ - - - On account of having no funds during January we have been forced - to combine the two issues. Subscriptions will be extended - accordingly. - - - - - FINE ARTS THEATRE - - - For TWO WEEKS, Beginning - January 17, 1916 - - - THE CHICAGO PLAYERS - with - MME. 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We even want those who can’t afford to pay for coal - now, to use Consumers coal, because at some time in the future - their circumstances may change; they may be able to pay for coal - then and if they once use Consumers coal they will never use any - other. In any event we want them to keep warm. - - You can call it either charity or advertising, it makes no - difference to us as long as we accomplish the results we are - after, but we will give 50 pounds of coal free every day, as we - have for the past three winters, on presentation at any of our - yards listed below of our coal certificates which may be had from - any Physician, Minister, Priest, Rabbi, Newspaper, the Salvation - Army, the Volunteers of America, Associated Charities, the - Visiting Nurses Association, any Woman’s Club or Charitable - Organization. And we give it freely without any fuss or - foolishness. - - Last year we distributed 70,720 fifty-pound lots of Consumers - coal. You may call them advertising samples or charity just as - you choose. In either event we _know_ that we kept _70,720 - families warm_. This is our Christmas offering and in this manner - _we propose to make Christmas last all winter_. If we profit by - it later—when these good folks are in position to become _paying_ - customers, you won’t care, will you? We think not. - - Consumers Company - - FRED W. UPHAM, President. - - - BUY YOUR BOOKS HERE - - If you wish to assist The Little Review without cost to yourself - you may order books—any book—from the Gotham Book Society and The - Little Review will be benefitted by the sales. By this method The - Little Review hopes to help solve a sometimes perplexing business - problem—whether the book you want is listed here or not the - Gotham will supply your needs. Price the same, or in many - instances much less, than were you to order direct from the - publisher. All books are exactly as advertised. Send P. O. Money - Order, check, draft or postage stamps. Order direct from the - Gotham Book Society, 142 W. 23rd St., N. Y., Dept. K. Don’t fail - to mention Department K. Here are some suggestions of the books - the Gotham Book Society is selling at publishers’ prices. All - prices cover postage charges. - - POETRY AND DRAMA - - SEVEN SHORT PLAYS. By Lady Gregory. Contains the following plays - by the woman who holds one of the three places of most importance - in the modern Celtic movement, and is chiefly responsible for the - Irish theatrical development of recent years: “Spreading the - News,” “Hyacinth Halvey,” “The Rising of the Moon,” “The - Jackdaw,” “The Workhouse Ward,” “The Traveling Man,” “The Gaol - Gate,” together with music for songs in the plays and explanatory - notes. Send $1.60. - - THE MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE. By Anatole France. Translated by - Curtis Hidden Page. Illustrated. Founded on the plot of an old - but lost play mentioned by Rabelais. Send 85c. - - THE GARDENER. By Rabindranath Tagore. The famous collection of - lyrics of love and life by the Nobel Prizeman. Send $1.35. - - DOME OF MANY-COLORED GLASS. New Ed. of the Poems of Amy Lowell. - Send $1.35. - - SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY. By Edgar Lee Masters. Send $1.35. - - DREAMS AND DUST. A book of lyrics, ballads and other verse forms - in which the major key is that of cheerfulness. Send $1.28. - - SOME IMAGIST POETS. An Anthology. The best recent work of Richard - Aldington, “H. D.,” John Gould, Fletcher, F. S. Flint, D. H. - Lawrence and Amy Lowell. 83c, postpaid. - - THE WAGES OF WAR. By J. Wiegand and Wilhelm Scharrelman. A play - in three acts, dedicated to the Friends of Peace. Life in Russia - during Russo-Japanese War. Translated by Amelia Von Ende. Send - 95c. - - THE DAWN (Les Aubes). A symbolic war play, by Emile Verhaeren, - the poet of the Belgians. The author approaches life through the - feelings and passions. Send $1.10. - - CHILD OF THE AMAZONS, and other Poems by Max Eastman. “Mr. - Eastman has the gift of the singing line.”—Vida D. Scudder. “A - poet of beautiful form and feeling.”—Wm. Marion Reedy. Send - $1.10. - - THE POET IN THE DESERT. By Charles Erskine Scott Wood. A series - of rebel poems from the Great American Desert, dealing with - Nature, Life and all phases of Revolutionary Thought. Octavo gray - boards. Send $1.10. - - CHALLENGE. By Louis Untermeyer. “No other contemporary poet has - more independently and imperiously voiced the dominant thought of - the times.”—Philadelphia North American. Send $1.10. - - ARROWS IN THE GALE. By Arturo Giovannitti, introduction by Helen - Keller. This book contains the thrilling poem “The Cage.” Send - $1.10. - - SONGS FOR THE NEW AGE. By James Oppenheim. “A rousing volume, - full of vehement protest and splendor.” Beautifully bound. Send - $1.35. - - AND PIPPA DANCES. By Gerhart Hauptmann. A mystical tale of the - glassworks, in four acts. Translated by Mary Harned. Send 95c. - - AGNES BERNAUER. By Frederick Hebbel. A tragedy in five acts. Life - in Germany in 15th century. Translated by Loueen Pattie. Send - 95c. - - IN CHAINS (“Les Tenailles”). By Paul Hervieu. In three acts. A - powerful arraignment of “Marriage a La Mode.” Translated by - Ysidor Asckenasy. Send 95c. - - SONGS OF LOVE AND REBELLION. Covington Hall’s best and finest - poems on Revolution, Love and Miscellaneous Visions. Send 56c. - - RENAISSANCE. By Holger Drachman. A melodrama. Dealing with studio - life in Venice, 16th century. Translated by Lee M. Hollander. - Send 95c. - - THE MADMAN DIVINE. By Jose Echegaray. Prose drama in four acts. - Translated by Elizabeth Howard West. Send 95c. - - TO THE STARS. By Leonid Andreyieff. Four acts. A glimpse of young - Russia in the throes of the Revolution. Time: The Present. - Translated by Dr. A. Goudiss. Send 95c. - - PHANTASMS. By Roberto Bracco. 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K, 142 West 23rd St., New York - “You Can Get Any Book on Any Subject” - - - THE BLAST - - These days of great struggles urgently demand a militant labor - voice to aid the workers in their battles. - - _The Blast_ will be such a voice. A revolutionary labor weekly, - edited by ALEXANDER BERKMAN. - - The time has come to gather together, so to speak, the scattered - forces of discontent and help them find definite expression. - - I am planning to have for _The Blast_ regular correspondences - from the various industrial centers of America, Europe and - Australia. I hold that one of the most important things in the - publication of a revolutionary weekly is to keep the rebels - throughout the world in closer touch with each other and informed - of the labor and revolutionary situation in the different - countries. It helps to stimulate the spirit of solidarity and - encourage activity. - - The other departments of _The Blast_ will be: a strong - anti-militarism and anti-preparedness column; a page dealing with - the vital, social and economic questions; a “Chain Gang” - department, containing news from Labor’s prisoners of war—on - trial and in prison—stories of prison life, etc.; a column - devoted to the discussion of special labor questions and general - human problems; a Children’s Department, with the view of - ultimately establishing a circle of Ferrer Schools throughout the - country. - - First issue of _The Blast_, January 15th, 1916. - - The life of the paper and the success of its work will depend - upon _your_ interest and co-operation. - - Send subscriptions or contributions to _The Blast_, Box 661, San - Francisco. - - - - - REVOLT - - _The stormy petrel of the revolutionary movement._ - - Men and women active in the combat for emancipation will supply - news from the firing line. Some of our best writers and artists - promised their co-operation. - - HIPPOLYTE HAVEL, Editor. ROBERT MINOR, Cartoonist. - - - _ADVISORY BOARD_: - - Leonard D. Abbott - Elizabeth Gurley Flynn - Alexander Berkman - Harry Kelly - Margaret H. Sanger - - Are you interested in our efforts? If so send in your - subscription or contribution. No funds are behind our - undertaking. - - Mail your subscription or contribution to the - - _REVOLT_, 30 Lexington Ave., New York, N. Y. - - One Year 1.00 Six Months 50 cents Three Months 25 cents - - - - - Poetry - - - A Magazine of Verse - - 543 Cass Street - Chicago - - PADRAIC COLUM, the distinguished Irish poet and lecturer, says: - “POETRY is the best magazine, by far, in the English language. We - have nothing in England or Ireland to compare with it.” - - William Marion Reedy, Editor of the St. Louis _Mirror_, says: - “POETRY has been responsible for the Renaissance in that art. You - have done a great service to the children of light in this - country.” - - CAN YOU AFFORD TO DO WITHOUT SO IMPORTANT A MAGAZINE? - - POETRY publishes the best verse now being written in English, and - its prose section contains brief articles on subjects connected - with the art, also reviews of the new verse. - - POETRY has introduced more new poets of importance than all the - other American magazines combined, besides publishing the work of - poets already distinguished. - - THE ONLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED EXCLUSIVELY TO THIS ART. - - SUBSCRIBE AT ONCE. A subscription to POETRY is the best way of - paying interest on your huge debt to the great poets of the past. - It encourages living poets to do for the future what dead poets - have done for modern civilization, for you. - - One year—12 numbers—U. S. A., $1.50; Canada, $1.65; foreign, - $1.75 (7 shillings). - - POETRY - 543 Cass Street, Chicago. - - Send POETRY for one year ($1.50 enclosed) beginning ......... - .......................................................... to - Name ........................................................ - Address ..................................................... - - You should know that in the February number of “THE DRAMA” there - will be published for the first time in English a play by - Artzibashef. It is a war drama which has stimulated thinking - people in Russia to think some more. A penetrating study of - Eugene Walter as the leader of dramatic realism in America and a - scintillating essay on the folly of theatrical advertising are - two of other articles which combine to make the February issue - invaluable to people who are interested not only in drama but in - life. - - We should like to announce that we have on sale back numbers of - “The Drama” with the following plays in them: Galdos’ _Electra_, - Bjornson’s _Leonarda_, Becque’s _The Crown_, Hebbel’s _Herod and - Marriamne_, Schnitzler’s _Light-O’-Love_, Heijerman’s _The Good - Hope_, Freytag’s _The Journalists_, Giacosa’s _The Stronger_, - Donnay’s _The Other Danger_, Gillette’s _Electricity_, Andreyev’s - _The Pretty Sabine Women_, Goldoni’s _The Squabbles of Chioggia_, - Capus’ _The Adventurer_, and Augier’s _The Marriage of Olympe_. - - These plays can be obtained by the sending of seventy-five cents - to the office of The Drama Quarterly, 736 Marquette Bldg., - Chicago. - - In entering upon its third year, THE MISCELLANY feels that it has - found a place in “the order of things.” A specimen copy will be - sent to readers of THE LITTLE REVIEW. Issued quarterly; one - dollar per year. - - THE MISCELLANY - 17 Board of Trade Building, Kansas City, Missouri. - - - We do with Talking Machines what Ford did with Autos - - - - - YOU ASK WHY THIS - BEAUTIFUL, LARGE SIZE - TALKING MACHINE - SELLS FOR ONLY - $10 - - Size 15¾ inches at base: 8½ high. Ask for oak or mahogany finish. - Nickel plated, reversible, tonearm and reproducer, playing - Edison, Victor, Columbia and other disc records, 10 and 12 - inches. Worm gear motor. Threaded winding shaft. Plays 2 ten-inch - records with one winding—Tone controlling door. Neat and solidly - made. - - If you have never been willing to spend $25 for a talking machine - this is your chance. - - The MUSIGRAPH is as large, good-looking, right-sounding as - machines selling for $25. - - How do we do it? Here’s the answer: Gigantic profits have been - made from $25 machines because of patent right monopoly. 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The chapter on - “love and other irradiations of the sexual appetite” is a - profound exposition of sex emotions—Contraceptive means - discussed—Degeneracy exposed—A guide to all in domestic - relations—A great book by a great man. - - GOTHAM BOOK SOCIETY, DEPT. 564. - _General dealers in books, sent on mail order._ - 142 W. 23d St., New York City. - - In answering this advertisement mention THE LITTLE REVIEW. - - - - - THE EGOIST - - - An Individualist Review - - Subscribe to THE EGOIST and hear what you will get: - - Editorials containing the most notable creative and critical - philosophic matter appearing in England today. - - Some of the newest and best experimental English and American - poetry. - - A page of current French poetry. - - Reviews of only those books which are worth praise. - - News of modern music, of new painting, of French literary and - artistic life. - - A series of translations of Greek and Latin poetry and prose, - done by young modern poets (began September 1st, 1915). - - PUBLISHED MONTHLY - - Price—Fifteen cents a number - Yearly subscription, One Dollar Sixty Cents - - Buy some of the back numbers. They are literature, not - journalism. - - OAKLEY HOUSE, BLOOMSBURY STREET, LONDON, W. C. - - - - - Transcriber’s Notes - - -There is obviously some text missing after the first line of the -“program” on page 6, between “... a different ...” and “... are the most -beautiful ...” (in “A Deeper Music”). This had to be left uncorrected. - -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. - -The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect -correctly the headings in this issue of THE LITTLE REVIEW. - -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical -errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here -(before/after): - - [p. 13]: - ... On the corner stands the novelist and the store-manager, - still talking. ... - ... 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