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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78252 ***
+
+
+
+
+                           THE LITTLE REVIEW
+
+
+                         A MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS
+              MAKING NO COMPROMISE WITH THE PUBLIC TASTES
+
+                           Margaret Anderson
+                               Publisher
+
+                            September, 1917
+
+        Inferior Religions                         Wyndham Lewis
+        L’Homme Moyen Sensuel                         Ezra Pound
+        Eeldrop and Appleplex, II:                   T. S. Eliot
+          The Passion for Experience
+        Imaginary Letters, IV:                        Ezra Pound
+          The Nonsense about Art for the Many
+        The Children and Judas              Robert Alden Sanborn
+        The Reader Critic:
+          Yeats’s “Upon a Dying Lady”
+          Gargoyles
+          Phases of Crazes
+        To our Readers
+        Announcement for October
+
+                 Copyright, 1917, by Margaret Anderson.
+
+                           Published Monthly
+                       MARGARET ANDERSON, Editor
+                       EZRA POUND, Foreign Editor
+                        24 West Sixteenth Street
+
+       15 Cents a Copy                               $1.50 a Year
+
+     Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, New York, N. Y.
+
+
+
+
+                           THE LITTLE REVIEW
+
+
+      VOL. IV.               SEPTEMBER 1917                  No. 5
+
+
+
+
+                         Inferior Religions[1]
+
+
+                             Wyndham Lewis
+
+
+                                   I
+
+To introduce my puppets, and the Wild Body, the generic puppet of all, I
+must look back to a time when the antics and solemn gambols of these
+wild children filled me with triumph.
+
+The fascinating imbecility of the creaking men-machines, some little
+restaurant or fishing-boat works, is the subject of these studies. The
+boat’s tackle and dirty little shell keeps their limbs in a monotonous
+rhythm of activity. A man gets drunk with his boat as he would with a
+merry-go-round. Only it is the staid, everyday drunkenness of the normal
+real. We can all see the ascendance a “carrousel” has on men, driving
+them into a set narrow intoxication. The wheel at Carisbrooke imposes a
+set of movements on the donkey inside it, in drawing water from the
+well, that it is easy to grasp. But in the case of a fishing-boat the
+variety is so great, the scheme so complex, that it passes as open and
+untrammeled life. This subtle and wider mechanism merges, for the
+spectator, in the general variety of Nature. Yet we have in most lives a
+spectacle as complete as a problem of Euclid.
+
+Moran, Bestre and Brobdingnag are essays in a new human mathematic. But
+they are each simple shapes, little monuments of logic. I should like to
+compile a book of forty of these propositions, one deriving from and
+depending on the other.
+
+These intricately moving bobbins are all subject to a set of objects or
+one in particular. Brobdingnag is fascinated by one object, for
+instance; one at once another vitality. He bangs up against it wildly at
+regular intervals, blackens it, contemplates it, moves round it and
+dreams. All such fascination is religious. Moran’s damp napkins are the
+altar-cloths of his rough illusion. Julie’s bruises are the markings on
+an idol.
+
+These studies of rather primitive people are studies in a Savage worship
+and attraction. Moran rolls between his tables ten million times in a
+realistic rhythm that is as intense and superstitious as the figures of
+a war-dance. He worships his soup, his damp napkins, the lump of flesh
+that rolls everywhere with him called Madam Moran.
+
+All religion has the mechanism of the celestial bodies, has a dance.
+When we wish to renew our idols, or break up the rhythm of our naivety,
+the effort postulates a respect which is the summit of devoutness.
+
+
+                                   II
+
+I would present these puppets, then, as carefully selected specimens of
+religious fanaticism. With their attendant objects or fetishes they live
+and have a regular food for vitality. They are not creations, but
+puppets. You can be as exterior to them, and live their life as little,
+as the showman grasping from beneath and working about a Polichinelle.
+They are only shadows of energy, and not living beings. Their mechanism
+is a logical structure and they are nothing but that.
+
+Sam Weller, Jingle, Malvolio, Bouvard, and Pecuchet, the “commissaire”
+in _Crime and Punishment_, do not live; they are congealed and frozen
+into logic, and an exuberant, hysterical truth. They transcend life and
+are complete cyphers, but they are monuments of dead imperfection. Their
+only reference is to themselves, and their only significance their
+egoism.
+
+The great intuitive figures of creation live with the universal egoism
+of the Poet. They are not picturesque and over palpable. They are supple
+with this rare impersonality; not stiff with a common egotism. The
+“realists” of the Flaubert, Maupassant, and Tchekoff school are all
+satirists. “Realism”, understood as applied to them, implies either
+photography or satire.
+
+Satire, the great Heaven of ideas, where you meet the Titans of red
+laughter, is just below Intuition, and Life charged with black Illusion.
+
+
+                                  III
+
+When we say “types of humanity”, we mean violent individualities, and
+nothing stereotyped. But Othello, Falstaff and Pecksniff attract, in our
+memory, a vivid following. All difference is energy, and a category of
+humanity a relatively small group, and not the myriads suggested by a
+generalisation.
+
+A comic type is a failure of a considerable energy, an imitation and
+standardising of self, suggesting the existence of a uniform
+humanity,—creating, that is, a little host as like as ninepins; instead
+of one synthetic and various Ego. It is the laziness of a successful
+personality. It is often part of our own organism become a fetish.
+
+Sairey Gamp and Falstaff are minute and rich religions. They are
+illusions hugged and lived in. They are like little dead Totems. Just as
+all Gods are a repose for humanity, the big religions an immense refuge
+and rest, so these little grotesque idols are. One reason for this is
+that, for the spectator or participator, it is a world in a corner of
+the world, full of rest and security.
+
+Moran, even, advances in life with his rows of bottles and napkins;
+Julie is Brobdingnag’s Goddess, and figures for intercessions, if the
+occasion arises.
+
+All these are forms of static and traditional art, then. There is a
+great deal of divine Olympian sleep in English Humour. The most gigantic
+spasm of laughter is sculptural, isolated and essentially simple.
+
+
+                                   IV
+
+1   Laughter is the Wild Body’s song of triumph.
+
+2   Laughter is the climax in the tragedy of seeing, hearing and
+    smelling self-consciously.
+
+3   Laughter is the bark of delight of a gregarious animal at the
+    proximity of its kind.
+
+4   Laughter is an independent, tremendously important, and lurid
+    Emotion.
+
+5   Laughter is the representative of Tragedy, when Tragedy is away.
+
+6   Laughter is the emotion of tragic delight.
+
+7   Laughter is the female of Tragedy.
+
+8   Laughter is the strong elastic fish, caught in Styx, springing
+    and flapping about until it dies.
+
+9   Laughter is the sudden handshake of mystic violence and the
+    anarchist.
+
+10  Laughter is the mind sneezing.
+
+11  Laughter is the one obvious commotion that is not complex, or in
+    expression dynamic.
+
+12  Laughter does not progress. It is primitive, hard and
+    unchangeable.
+
+
+                                   V
+
+The chemistry of personality (subterranean in a sort of cemetery whose
+decompositions are our lives) puffs up in frigid balls, soapy Snow-men,
+arctic Carnival Masks, which we can photograph and fix.
+
+Upwards from the surface of Existence a lurid and dramatic scum oozes
+and accumulates into the characters we see. The real and tenacious
+poisons, and sharp forces of vital vitality, do not socially transpire.
+Within five yards of another man’s eyes we are on a little crater,
+which, if it erupted, would split up as a cocoa-tin of nitrogen would.
+Some of these bombs are ill-made, or some erratic in their timing. But
+they are all potential little bombs.
+
+Capriciously, however, the froth-forms of these darkly-contrived
+machines, twist and puff in the air, in our legitimate and liveried
+masquerade.
+
+Were you the female of Moran (the first Innkeeper) and beneath the
+counterpane with him, you would be just below the surface of life, in
+touch with a nasty and tragic organism. The first indications of the
+proximity of the real soul would be apparent. You would be for hours
+beside a filmy crocodile, conscious of it like a bone in an Ex-Ray, and
+for minutes in the midst of a tragic wallowing. The soul lives in a
+cadaverous activity; its dramatic corruption thumps us like a racing
+engine in the body of a car. The finest humour is the great Play-Shapes
+blown up or given off by the tragic corpse of Life underneath the world
+of the Camera. This futile, grotesque and sometimes pretty spawn, is
+what in this book is Kodacked by the Imagination.
+
+Any great humourist is an artist; Dickens as an example. It is just this
+character of uselessness and impersonality in Laughter, the fibre of
+anarchy in the comic habit of mind, that makes a man an artist in spite
+of himself when he begins living on his laughter. Laughter is the
+arch-luxury that is as simple as bread.
+
+
+                                   VI
+
+In this objective Play-World, corresponding to our social consciousness
+as opposed to our solitude, no final issue is decided. You may blow away
+a Man-of-bubbles with a Burgundian gust of laughter, but that is not a
+personality, it is an apparition of no importance. Its awkwardness, or
+prettiness is accidental. But so much correspondence it has with its
+original that if the cadaveric travail beneath is vigorous and bitter,
+the mask and figurehead will be of a more original and intense
+grotesqueness. The opposing armies in Flanders stick up dummy men on
+poles for their enemies to pot at, in a spirit of fierce friendliness.
+It is only a dummy of this sort that is engaged in the sphere of
+laughter. But the real men are in the trenches underneath all the time,
+and are there on a more “decisive” affair. In our rather drab Revel
+there is a certain category of spirit that is not quite anaemic, and yet
+not very funny. It consists of those who take, at the Clarkson’s[2]
+situated at the opening of their lives, some conventional Pierrot
+costume, with a minimum of inverted vigour and the assurance of superior
+insignificance.
+
+The King of Play is not a phantom corresponding to the Sovereign force
+beneath the surface. The latter must always be accepted as the skeleton
+at the Feast. That soul or dominant corruption is so real that he cannot
+rise up and take part in man’s festival as a Falstaff of unwieldy spume;
+if he comes at all it must be as he is, the skeleton or bogey of True
+Life, stuck over with corruptions and vices. He may have a certain
+“succès d’hystérie”.
+
+
+                                  VII
+
+A scornful optimism, with its confidant onslaughts on our snobbism, will
+not make material existence a peer for our energy. The gladiator is not
+a perpetual monument of triumphal health. Napoleon was harried with
+Elbas. Moments of vision are blurred rapidly and the poet sinks into the
+rhetoric of the will.
+
+But life is invisible and perfection is not in the waves or houses that
+the poet sees. Beauty is an icy douche of ease and happiness at
+something suggesting perfect conditions for an organism. A stormy
+landscape, and a Pigment consisting of a lake of hard, yet florid waves;
+delight in each brilliant scoop or ragged burst, was John Constable’s
+beauty. Leonardo’s consisted in a red rain on the shadowed side of
+heads, and heads of massive female aesthetes. Uccello accumulated pale
+parallels, and delighted in cold architecture of distinct colour. Korin
+found in the symmetrical gushing of water, in waves like huge vegetable
+insects, traced and worked faintly, on a golden pâte, his business.
+Cézanne liked cumbrous, democratic slabs of life, slightly leaning,
+transfixed in vegetable intensity.
+
+Beauty is an immense predilection, a perfect conviction of the
+desirability of a certain thing. To a man with long and consumptive
+fingers a sturdy hand may be heaven. Equilibrium and “perfection” may be
+a bore to the perfect. The most universally pleasing man is something
+probably a good way from “perfection”. Henri Fabre was in every way a
+superior being to Bernard, and he knew of elegant grubs which he would
+prefer to the painter’s nymphs.
+
+It is obvious, though, that we should live a little more in small
+communities.
+
+----------
+
+   [1] [_Editor’s note_: This essay was written as the introduction
+   to a volume of short stories containing “Inn-Keepers and Bestre”,
+   “Unlucky for Pringle” and some others which had appeared in _The
+   English Review_ under Ford Madox Hueffer’s editorship, and in
+   other English periodicals. The book was in process of publication
+   (the author had even been paid an advance on it) when war broke
+   out. The last member of the publishing firm has been killed in
+   France, and the firm disbanded. The essay is complete in itself
+   and need not stand as an “introduction”. It is perhaps the most
+   important single document that Wyndham Lewis has written. Such
+   stories as had not been previously published will appear in later
+   numbers of _The Little Review_.—_E. P._]
+
+   [2] _Editor’s foot note_: Clarkson, a London theatrical costumer.
+
+
+
+
+                        L’Homme Moyen Sensuel[3]
+
+
+                               Ezra Pound
+
+                                                “I hate a dumpy woman”
+                                          —_George Gordon, Lord Byron_
+
+   ’Tis of my country that I would endite,
+   In hope to set some misconceptions right.
+   My country? I love it well, and those good fellows
+   Who, since their wit’s unknown, escape the gallows.
+   But you stuffed coats who’re neither tepid nor distinctly boreal,
+   Pimping, conceited, placid, editorial,
+   Could I but speak as ’twere in the “Restoration”
+   I would articulate your perdamnation.
+   This year perforce I must with circumspection—
+   For Mencken states somewhere, in this connection:
+   “It is a moral nation we infest”.
+   Despite such reins and checks I’ll do my best,
+   An art! You all respect the arts, from that infant tick
+   Who’s now the editor of _The Atlantic_,
+   From Comstock’s self, down to the meanest resident,
+   Till up again, right up, we reach the president,
+   Who shows his taste in his ambassadors:
+   A novelist, a publisher, to pay old scores,
+   A novelist, a publisher and a preacher,
+   That’s sent to Holland, a most particular feature,
+   Henry Van Dyke, who thinks to charm the Muse you pack her in
+   A sort of stinking deliquescent saccharine.
+   The constitution of our land, O Socrates,
+   Was made to incubate such mediocrities,
+   These and a taste in books that’s grown perennial
+   And antedates the Philadelphia centennial.
+   Still I’d respect you more if you could bury
+   Mabie, and Lyman Abbot and George Woodberry,
+   For minds so wholly founded upon quotations
+   Are not the best of pulse for infant nations.
+   Dulness herself, that abject spirit, chortles
+   To see your forty self-baptized immortals,
+   And holds her sides where swelling laughter cracks ’em
+   Before the “Ars Poetica” of Hiram Maxim.
+   All one can say of this refining medium
+   Is “_Zut! Cinque lettres!_” a banished gallic idiom,
+   Their doddering ignorance is waxed so notable
+   ’Tis time that it was capped with something quotable.
+
+   Here Radway grew, the fruit of pantosocracy,
+   The very fairest flower of their gynocracy.
+   Radway? My hero, for it will be more inspiring
+   If I set forth a bawdy plot like Byron
+   Than if I treat the nation as a whole.
+   Radway grew up. These forces shaped his soul;
+   These, and yet God, and Dr. Parkhurst’s god, the N. Y. Journal
+   (Which pays him more per week than The Supernal).
+   These and another godlet of that day, your day
+   (You feed a hen on grease, perhaps she’ll lay
+   The sterile egg that is still eatable:
+   “Prolific Noyes” with output undefeatable).
+   From these he (Radway) learnt, from provosts and from editors unyielding
+   And innocent of Stendhal, Flaubert, Maupassant and Fielding.
+   They set their mind (it’s still in that condition)—
+   May we repeat; the Centennial Exposition
+   At Philadelphia, 1876?
+   What it knew then, it knows, and there it sticks.
+   And yet another, a “charming man”, “sweet nature”, but was Gilder,
+   _De mortuis verum_, truly the master builder?
+
+   From these he learnt. Poe, Whitman, Whistler, men, their recognition
+   Was got abroad, what better luck do you wish ’em,
+   When writing well has not yet been forgiven
+   In Boston, to Henry James, the greatest whom we’ve seen living.
+   And timorous love of the innocuous
+   Brought from Gt. Britain and dumped down a’top of us,
+   Till you may take your choice: to feel the edge of satire or
+   Read Benett or some other flaccid flatterer.
+
+   Despite it all, despite your Red Bloods, febrile concupiscence
+   Whose blubbering yowls you take for passion’s essence;
+   Despite it all, your compound predilection
+   For ignorance, its growth and its protection
+   (Vide the tariff), I will hang simple facts
+   Upon a tale, to combat other facts,
+   “Message to Garcia”, Mosher’s propagandas
+   That are the nation’s botts, collicks and glanders.
+   Or from the feats of Sumner cull it? Think,
+   Could Freud or Jung unfathom such a sink?
+
+   My hero, Radway, I have named, in truth,
+   Some forces among those which “formed” his youth:
+   These heavy weights, these dodgers and these preachers,
+   Crusaders, lecturers and secret lechers,
+   Who wrought about his “soul” their stale infection.
+   These are the high-brows, add to this collection
+   The social itch, the almost, all but, not quite, fascinating,
+   Piquante, delicious, luscious, captivating
+   Puffed satin, and silk stockings, where the knee
+   Clings to the skirt in strict (vide: “_Vogue_”) propriety.
+   Three thousand chorus girls and all unkissed,
+   O state sans song, sans home-grown wine, sans realist!
+   “Tell me not in mournful wish-wash
+   Life’s a sort of sugared dish-wash”!
+   Radway had read the various evening papers
+   And yearned to imitate the Waldorf capers
+   As held before him in that unsullied mirror
+   The daily press, and monthlies nine cents dearer.
+   They held the very marrow of the ideals
+   That fed his spirit; were his mental meals.
+   Also, he’d read of christian virtues in
+   That canting rag called _Everybody’s Magazine_,
+   And heard a clergy that tries on more wheezes
+   Than e’er were heard of by Our Lord Ch.... J....
+   So he “faced life” with rather mixed intentions,
+   He had attended country Christian Endeavour Conventions,
+   Where one gets more chances
+   Than Spanish ladies had in old romances.
+   (Let him rebuke who ne’er has known the pure Platonic grapple,
+   Or hugged two girls at once behind a chapel.)
+   Such practices diluted rural boredom
+   Though some approved of them, and some deplored ’em.
+   Such was he when he got his mother’s letter
+   And would not think a thing that could upset her....
+   Yet saw on “ad.” “To-night, THE HUDSON SAIL,
+   With forty queens, and music to regale
+   The select company: beauties you all would know
+   By name, if named”. So it was phrased, or rather somewhat so
+   I have mislaid the “ad.”, but note the touch,
+   Note, reader, note the sentimental touch:
+   His mother’s birthday gift. (How pitiful
+   That only sentimental stuff will sell!)
+
+   Yet Radway went. A circumspectious prig!
+   And then that woman like a guinea-pig
+   Accosted, that’s the word, accosted him,
+   Thereon the amorous calor slightly frosted him.
+   (I burn, I freeze, I sweat, said the fair Greek,
+   I speak in contradictions, so to speak.)
+
+   I’ve told his training, he was never bashful,
+   And his pockets by ma’s aid, that night with cash full,
+   The invitation had no need of fine aesthetic,
+   Nor did disgust prove such a strong emetic
+   That we, with Masefield’s vein, in the next sentence
+   Record “Odd’s blood! Ouch! Ouch!” a prayer, his swift repentance.
+
+   No, no, they danced. The music grew much louder
+   As he inhaled the still fumes of rice-powder.
+   Then there came other nights, came slow but certain
+   And were such nights that we should “draw the curtain”
+   In writing fiction on uncertain chances
+   Of publication; “Circumstances”,
+   As the editor of _The Century_ says in print,
+   “Compel a certain silence and restraint.”
+   Still we will bring our “fiction as near to fact” as
+   The Sunday school brings virtues into practice.
+
+   Soon our hero could manage once a week,
+   Not that his pay had risen, and no leak
+   Was found in his employer’s cash. He learned the lay of cheaper places,
+   And then Radway began to go the paces:
+   A rosy path, a sort of vernal ingress,
+   And Truth should here be careful of her thin dress—
+   Though males of seventy, who fear truths naked harm us,
+   Must think Truth looks as they do in wool pyjamas.
+   (My country, I’ve said your morals and your thoughts are stale ones,
+   But surely the worst of your old-women are the male ones.)
+
+   Why paint these days? An insurance inspector
+   For fires and odd risks, could in this sector
+   Furnish more date for a compilation
+   Than I can from this distant land and station,
+   Unless perhaps I should have recourse to
+   One of those firm-faced inspecting women, who
+   Find pretty Irish girls in Chinese laundries,
+   Up stairs, the third floor up, and have such quandaries
+   As to how and why and whereby they got in
+   And for what earthly reason they remain....
+   Alas, eheu, one question that sorely vexes
+   The serious social folk is “just what sex is”.
+   Though it will, of course, pass off with social science
+   In which their mentors place such wide reliance.
+   De Gourmont says that fifty grunts are all that will be prized
+   Of language, by men wholly socialized,
+   With signs as many, that shall represent ’em
+   When thoroughly socialized printers want to print ’em.
+   “As free of mobs as kings.”? I’d have men free of that invidious,
+   Lurking, serpentine, amphibious and insidious
+   Power that compels ’em
+   To be so much alike that every dog that smells ’em,
+   Thinks one identity is
+   Smeared o’er the lot in equal quantities.
+   Still we look toward the day when man, with unction,
+   Will long only to be a _social function_,
+   And even Zeus’ wild lightning fear to strike
+   Lest it should fail to treat all men alike.
+   And I can hear an old man saying: “Oh, the rub!
+   “I see them sitting in the Harvard Club,
+   “And rate ’em up at just so much per head,
+   “Know what they think, and just what books they’ve read,
+   “Till I have viewed straw hats and their habitual clothing
+   “All the same style, same cut, with perfect loathing.”
+
+   So Radway walked, quite like the other men,
+   Out into the crepuscular half-light, now and then;
+   Saw what the city offered, cast an eye
+   Upon Manhattan’s gorgeous panoply,
+   The flood of limbs upon Eighth Avenue
+   To beat Prague, Budapesth, Vienna or Moscow,[4]
+   Such animal invigorating carriage
+   As nothing can restrain or much disparage....
+   Still he was not given up to brute enjoyment,
+   An anxious sentiment was his employment,
+   For memory of the first warm night still cast a haze o’er
+   The mind of Radway, whene’er he found a pair of purple stays or
+   Some other quaint reminder of the occasion
+   That first made him believe in immoral suasion.
+   A temperate man, a thin potationist, each day
+   A silent hunter off the Great White Way,
+   He read _The Century_ and thought it nice
+   To be not too well known in haunts of vice—
+   The prominent haunts, where one might recognize him,
+   And in his daily walks duly capsize him.
+   Thus he eschewed the bright red-walled cafés and
+   Was never one of whom one speaks as “brazen’d”.
+
+   Some men will live as prudes in their own village
+   And make the tour abroad for their wild tillage—
+   I knew a tourist agent, one whose art is
+   To run such tours. He calls ’em .... house parties.
+   But Radway was a patriot whose venality
+   Was purer in its love of one locality,
+   A home-industrious worker to perfection,
+   A senatorial jobber for protection,
+   Especially on books, lest knowledge break in
+   Upon the national brains and set ’em achin’.
+   (’Tis an anomaly in our large land of freedom,
+   You can not get cheap books, even if you need ’em).
+   Radway was ignorant as an editor,
+   And, heavenly, holy gods! I can’t say more,
+   Though I know one, a very base detractor,
+   Who has the phrase “As ignorant as an actor”.
+
+   But turn to Radway: the first night on the river,
+   Running so close to “hell” it sends a shiver
+   Down Rodyheaver’s prophylactic spine,
+   Let me return to this bold theme of mine,
+   Of Radway. O clap hand ye moralists!
+   And meditate upon the Lord’s conquests.
+   When last I met him, he was a pillar in
+   An organization for the suppression of sin ....
+   Not that he’d changed his tastes, nor yet his habits,
+   (Such changes don’t occur in men, or rabbits).
+   Not that he was a saint, nor was top-loftical
+   In spiritual aspirations, but he found it profitable,
+   For as Ben Franklin said, with such urbanity:
+   “Nothing will pay thee, friend, like Christianity”.
+   And in our day thus saith the Evangelist:
+   “Tent preachin’ is the kind that pays the best.”
+
+   ’Twas as a business asset _pure an’ simple_
+   That Radway joined the Baptist Broadway Temple.
+
+   I find no moral for a peroration,
+   He is the prototype of half the nation.
+
+----------
+
+   [3] [_Note_: It is through no fault of my own that this diversion
+   was not given to the reader two years ago; but the commercial
+   said it would not add to their transcendent popularity, and the
+   vers-libre fanatics pointed out that I had used a form of
+   terminal consonance no longer permitted, and my admirers (_j’en
+   ai_), ever nobly desirous of erecting me into a sort of national
+   institution, declared the work “unworthy” of my mordant and
+   serious genius. So a couple of the old gentlemen are dead in the
+   interim, and, alas, two of the great men mentioned in passing,
+   and the reader will have to accept the opusculus for what it is,
+   some rhymes written in 1915. I would give them now with
+   dedication “To the Anonymous Compatriot Who Produced the Poem
+   ‘Fanny’, Somewhere About 1820”, if this form of centennial homage
+   be permitted me. It was no small thing to have written, in
+   America, at that distant date, a poem of over forty pages which
+   one can still read without labour. _E. P._]
+
+   [4] Pronounce like respectable Russians: “_Mussqu_”.
+
+
+
+
+                         Eeldrop and Appleplex
+
+
+                              T. H. Eliot
+
+
+                                   II
+
+The suburban evening was grey and yellow on Sunday; the gardens of the
+small houses to left and right were rank with ivy and tall grass and
+lilac bushes; the tropical South London verdure was dusty above and
+mouldy below; the tepid air swarmed with flies. Eeldrop, at the window,
+welcomed the smoky smell of lilac, the gramophones, the choir of the
+Baptist chapel, and the sight of three small girls playing cards on the
+steps of the police station.
+
+“On such a night as this”, said Eeldrop, “I often think of Scheherazade,
+and wonder what has become of her”.
+
+Appleplex rose without speaking and turned to the files which contained
+the documents for his “Survey of Contemporary Society”. He removed the
+file marked _London_ from between the files _Barcelona_ and _Boston_
+where it had been misplaced, and turned over the papers rapidly. “The
+lady you mention”, he rejoined at last, “whom I have listed not under S.
+but as Edith, alias Scheherazade, has left but few evidences in my
+possession. Here is an old laundry account which she left for you to
+pay, a cheque drawn by her and marked “R/D”, a letter from her mother in
+Honolulu (on ruled paper), a poem written on a restaurant bill—”To
+Atthis”—and a letter by herself, on Lady Equistep’s best notepaper,
+containing some damaging but entertaining information about Lady
+Equistep. Then there are my own few observations on two sheets of
+foolscap”.
+
+“Edith”, murmured Eeldrop, who had not been attending to this catalogue,
+“I wonder what has become of her. ‘Not pleasure, but fulness of life ...
+to burn ever with a hard gem-like flame’, those were her words. What
+curiosity and passion for experience! Perhaps that flame has burnt
+itself out by now.”
+
+“You ought to inform yourself better”, said Appleplex severely, “Edith
+dines sometimes with Mrs Howexden, who tells me that her passion for
+experience has taken her to a Russian pianist in Bayswater. She is also
+said to be present often at the Anarchist Tea Rooms, and can usually be
+found in the evening at the Cafe de l’Orangerie.”
+
+“Well”, replied Eeldrop, “I confess that I prefer to wonder what has
+become of her. I do not like to think of her future. Scheherazade grown
+old! I see her grown very plump, full-bosomed, with blond hair, living
+in a small flat with a maid, walking in the Park with a Pekinese,
+motoring with a Jewish stock-broker. With a fierce appetite for food and
+drink, when all other appetite is gone, all other appetite gone except
+the insatiable increasing appetite of vanity; rolling on two wide legs,
+rolling in motorcars, rolling toward a diabetic end in a seaside
+watering place”.
+
+“Just now you saw that bright flame burning itself out,” said Appleplex,
+“now you see it guttering thickly, which proves that your vision was
+founded on imagination, not on feeling. And the passion for
+experience—have you remained so impregnably Pre-Raphaelite as to believe
+in that? What real person, with the genuine resources of instinct, has
+ever believed in the passion for experience? The passion for experience
+is a criticism of the sincere, a creed only of the histrionic. The
+passionate person is passionate about this or that, perhaps about the
+least significant things, but not about experience. But Marius, des
+Esseintes, Edith....”
+
+“But consider”, said Eeldrop, attentive only to the facts of Edith’s
+history, and perhaps missing the point of Appleplex’s remarks, “her
+unusual career. The daughter of a piano tuner in Honolulu, she secured a
+scholarship at the University of California, where she graduated with
+Honours in Social Ethics. She then married a celebrated billiard
+professional in San Francisco, after an acquaintance of twelve hours,
+lived with him for two days, joined a musical comedy chorus, and was
+divorced in Nevada. She turned up several years later in Paris and was
+known to all the Americans and English at the Cafe du Dome as Mrs Short.
+She reappeared in London as Mrs Griffiths, published a small volume of
+verse, and was accepted in several circles known to us. And now, as I
+still insist, she has disappeared from society altogether.”
+
+“The memory of Scheherazade”, said Appleplex, “is to me that of Bird’s
+custard and prunes in a Bloomsbury boarding house. It is not my
+intention to represent Edith as merely disreputable. Neither is she a
+tragic figure. I want to know why she misses. I cannot altogether
+analyse her ‘into a combination of known elements’ but I fail to touch
+anything definitely unanalysable.
+
+“Is Edith, in spite of her romantic past, pursuing steadily some hidden
+purpose of her own? Are her migrations and eccentricities the sign of
+some unguessed consistency? I find in her a quantity of shrewd
+observation, an excellent fund of criticism, but I cannot connect them
+into any peculiar vision. Her sarcasm at the expense of her friends is
+delightful, but I doubt whether it is more than an attempt to mould
+herself from outside, by the impact of hostilities, to emphasise her
+isolation. Everyone says of her, ‘How perfectly impenetrable!’ I suspect
+that within there is only the confusion of a dusty garret”.
+
+“I test people”, said Eeldrop, “by the way in which I imagine them as
+waking up in the morning. I am not drawing upon memory when I imagine
+Edith waking to a room strewn with clothes, papers, cosmetics, letters
+and a few books, the smell of Violettes de Parme and stale tobacco. The
+sunlight beating in through broken blinds, and broken blinds keeping out
+the sun until Edith can compel herself to attend to another day, Yet the
+vision does not give me much pain. I think of her as an artist without
+the slightest artistic power”.
+
+“The artistic temperament—” began Appleplex.
+
+“No, not that”. Eeldrop snatched away the opportunity. “I mean that what
+holds the artist together is the work which he does; separate him from
+his work and he either disintegrates or solidifies. There is no interest
+in the artist apart from his work. And there are, as you said, those
+people who provide material for the artist. Now Edith’s poem ‘To Atthis’
+proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that she is not an artist. On the
+other hand I have often thought of her, as I thought this evening, as
+presenting possibilities for poetic purposes. But the people who can be
+material for art must have in them something unconscious, something
+which they do not fully realise or understand. Edith, in spite of what
+is called her impenetrable mask, presents herself too well. I cannot use
+her; she uses herself too fully. Partly for the same reason I think, she
+fails to be an artist: she does not live at all upon instinct. The
+artist is part of him a drifter, at the mercy of impressions, and
+another part of him allows this to happen for the sake of making use of
+the unhappy creature. But in Edith the division is merely the rational,
+the cold and detached part of the artist, itself divided. Her material,
+her experience that is, is already a mental product, already digested by
+reason. Hence Edith (I only at this moment arrive at understanding) is
+really the most orderly person in existence, and the most rational.
+Nothing ever happens to her; everything that happens is her own doing.”
+
+“And hence also”, continued Appleplex, catching up the thread, “Edith is
+the least detached of all persons, since to be detached is to be
+detached from one’s self, to stand by and criticise coldly one’s own
+passions and vicissitudes. But in Edith the critic is coaching the
+combatant.”
+
+“Edith is not unhappy”.
+
+“She is dissatisfied, perhaps”.
+
+“But again I say, she is not tragic: she is too rational. And in her
+career there is no progression, no decline or degeneration. Her
+condition is once and for always. There is and will be no catastrophe”.
+
+“But I am tired. I still wonder what Edith and Mrs Howexden have in
+common. This invites the consideration (you may not perceive the
+connection) of Sets and Society, a subject which we can pursue tomorrow
+night”.
+
+Appleplex looked a little embarrassed. “I am dining with Mrs Howexden”,
+he said. “But I will reflect upon the topic before I see you again”.
+
+
+
+
+                           Imaginary Letters
+
+
+                                   IV
+
+                 (Walter Villerant to Mrs. Bland Burn)
+
+                               Ezra Pound
+
+My dear Lydia:
+
+Your rather irascible husband asks for “Aunt Sallys”[5]; with the
+Pyrenees before me and at this late date, it is difficult to provide
+them. I agree with at least half he says. I am, with qualifications,
+Malthusian. I should consent to breed under pressure, if I were
+convinced in any way of the reasonableness of reproducing the species.
+But my nerves and the nerves of any woman I could live with three
+months, would produce only a victim—beautiful perhaps, but a victim:
+expiring of aromatic pain from the jasmine, lacking in impulse, a mere
+bundle of discriminations. If I were wealthy I might subsidize a stud of
+young peasants, or a tribal group in Tahiti. At present “_valga mas
+estar soltero_”, I will not take Miss J., nor her income, nor the female
+disciple of John.
+
+There is no truce between art and the public. The public celebrates its
+eucharists with dead bodies. Its writers aspire to equal the oyster: to
+get themselves swallowed alive. They encompass it.
+
+Art that sells on production is bad art, essentially. It is art that is
+made to demand. It suits the public. The taste of the public is bad. The
+taste of the public is always bad. It is bad because it is not an
+individual expression, but merely a mania for assent, a mania to be “in
+on it”.
+
+Even the botches of a good artist have some quality, some distinction,
+which prevents their pleasing mass-palates.
+
+Good art weathers the ages because once in so often a man of
+intelligence commands the mass to adore it. His contemporaries call him
+a nuisance, their children follow his instructions, include him in the
+curricula. I am not lifting my voice in protest; I am merely defining a
+process. I do not protest against the leaves falling in autumn.
+
+The arts are kept up by a very few people; they always have been kept
+up, when kept up at all, by a very few people. A great art patron is a
+man who keeps up great artists. A good art patron is a man who keeps up
+good artists. His reputation is coterminous with the work he has
+patronized. He can not be an imbecile.
+
+There are a few more people capable of knowing good art when they see
+it. Half of them are indifferent, three fourths of them are inactive,
+the exceeding few side with the artist; about all they can do is to feed
+him. Others, hating his art, may from family or humanitarian motives,
+feed and clothe him in spite of his art ... and attempt to divorce him
+from it.
+
+These statements are simple, dull. One should write them in electric
+lights and hang them above Coney Island, and beside the Sarsaparilla
+sign on Broadway! The Biblical Text Society should embellish them upon
+busses.
+
+Unfortunately the turmoil of yidds, letts, finns, esthonians, cravats,
+niberians, nubians, algerians, sweeping along Eighth Avenue in the
+splendour of their vigorous unwashed animality will not help us. They
+are the America of tomorrow....
+
+(The good Burn believes in America; the naive English, mad over
+apiculture, horticulture, arboriculture, herbiculture, agriculture,
+asparagriculture etc., always believe in America ... until they have
+seen it.)
+
+The turmoil of Yidds, Letts, etc., is “full of promise”, full of
+vitality. They are the sap of the nation, our heritors, the heritors of
+our ancient acquisitions. But our job is to turn out good art, that is
+to produce it, to make a tradition.
+
+“My field must be ploughed up, but the country has need of quiet” (La
+Famille Cardinal). “I admire Epicurus. He was not the dupe of
+analogies”. Need I give references for all my quotations?
+
+This nonsense about art for the many, for the majority. J’en ai soupé.
+It may be fitting that men should enjoy equal “civic and political
+rights”, these things are a matter of man’s exterior acts, of exterior
+contacts. (Macchiavelli believed in democracy: it lay beyond his
+experience). The arts have nothing to do with this. They are man’s life
+within himself. The king’s writ does not run there. The voice of the
+majority is powerless to make me enjoy, or disenjoy, the lines of
+Catullus. I dispense with a vote without inconvenience; Villon I would
+not dispense with.
+
+Bales are written on the false assumption that you can treat the arts as
+if they were governed by civic analogies. The two things are not alike,
+and there is an end to the matter.
+
+It is rubbish to say “art for the people lies behind us”. The populace
+was paid to attend greek drama. It would have gone to cinemas instead,
+had cinemas then existed. Art begins with the artist. It goes first to
+the very few; and, next, to the few very idle. Even journalism and
+advertising can not reverse this law. I have scribbled a very long
+letter, and not answered half the good William’s diatribe. My regards to
+Mrs Amelia.
+
+                                                                Yours,
+                                                     WALTER VILLERANT.
+
+----------
+
+   [5] “Imaginary Letters”, by Wyndham Lewis. _The Little Review_
+   for May.
+
+
+
+
+                         The Children and Judas
+
+
+                          Robert Alden Sanborn
+
+   It was dawn upon the fields of Heaven,
+   The dew upon the fence-rail twinkled,
+   And there were seven
+   Stars upon the sky that beamed;
+   And in the grass the cow-bells tinkled,
+   And daisies dreamed,
+   And sweet smells streamed
+   Over the tasselled corn.
+
+   God lay dimmed in slumber,
+   And Jesus’ warm hair was pillowed on His Father’s breast;
+   Seven disciples like seven points of a star
+   Were rayed about the sleeping Majesties,
+   And Judas was brighter than the rest,
+   Because his spirit had a fiercer sin to burn.
+   His ruddy hair was rimmed with dew,
+   And what he was to me he is to you.
+
+   There was no sound
+   But the lyric murmur of a Mary, singing
+   Low upon the ground,
+   Where a brook ran upon a secret errand
+   Like a silver hound
+   Slipping beneath the unbound hair of trees;
+   Mary was singing to the least of these,
+   Some Children.
+
+   All listened,
+   For the breath of her caressed the silence
+   With curves of melody;
+   And hence the very corn awoke to hear,
+   And to inhale the healing psalmody.
+   So because the grass, the daisies, stirred
+   Pleasantly, and light wings whirred
+   As birds arose from nests,
+   And quests of dew and honey went upon,
+   The Children, one by one, moved about,
+   And some would run up the hill,
+   And back again; another seemed to pout,
+   But changed and blew a glad shrill whistle out
+   That pleased the sailing stars.
+
+   Then Mary ceased her song,
+   And silence fell like shadow on them all.
+
+   Now amongst the ones who slept
+   Judas raised his head;
+   Sleep never touched his eyes with cool forgetfulness,
+   Instead his soul was fed with sin
+   That never flickered out within.
+
+   He yawned and bent his knees,
+   And the tongue of a silver bell
+   Shivered above the sleeping Majesties
+   Within the ring of seven,
+   Because there were but six
+   When Judas vaulted the fence-rail
+   Out of the fields of Heaven.
+
+   And now you could hear Jesus breathe,
+   And God murmur peace upon the wakeful corn.
+
+   “God!”
+   A spire of frail sound rose from a boyish will,
+   “See God, He’s walking down the hill,
+   See, Mary!”
+
+   And Mary looked up
+   And saw Judas coming toward them,
+   The sweet hand of a Child in the cup of either hand.
+
+   “Shall I tell them the truth, Judas,
+   That you are far from God,” said she,
+   “Or will you burn them with your sin,
+   You who are no kin to such as these,
+   And drive them back to me,
+   Crying bitterly?”
+
+   A smile struggled with his twisted face,
+   But could not give it grace,
+   And the two Children, wary
+   Of the lurid tumult in his breast,
+   Wrested their twined fingers from the gnarled hold of him,
+   And their eyes dim with tears,
+   Ran back to Mary.
+
+   Judas, the silent shadow of a man,
+   His will as heavy as a fallen tree in a wood,
+   Stood upon the hill,
+   And watched the Children as they ran,
+   Saw them nestle into Mary’s arms,
+   Seeking in the cloudy charms
+   Of her loosened hair,
+   The peace they knew was there.
+
+   Words crowded in his throat,
+   And he sat upon the hillside
+   With his face between his knees.
+
+   Now when his face was hidden
+   From the least of these,
+   One, bidden by the helplessness
+   Of the man on the side of the hill,
+   Came from the shelter of Mary’s hair,
+   And minding not her warning touch,
+   Nor her sounding of his name,
+   Knowing he was not chidden much,
+   Went winding an idle way
+   Up the hill, and around and away
+   From the still bowed man.
+
+   And first he picked a flower
+   Which he threw higher toward the fence-rail.
+
+   God smiled in His sleep,
+   And Jesus opened His eyes,
+   Put forth a hand for the plucked flower,
+   And hid it in His breast,
+   Yet did not rise nor cease His rest.
+
+   The Child,
+   Keeping a moody soft eye upon the grey humped figure,
+   Betrayed his mischief in a smile
+   That waxed bigger, bubble-like, and broke into a laugh,
+   And like a thief in the night
+   Crept up the hill to the fence-rail,
+   And peeked.
+
+   The fence-rail creaked
+   As Jesus turned His face to him:
+   “Poor man, dear boy,” he whispered silverly,
+   “Until he learns to play,
+   To dress his dusty head
+   With ribbons of the rosy day,
+   Never can he share
+   Your early morning passion,
+   Flecked with foamy curls of hair.
+   Would you give him back again
+   To my bosom, cleansed of pain,
+   Spill your living ways of laughing
+   In his muffled ears;
+   At him, and beset him! Splash him, little dears,
+   In your fun,” Jesus bade the boy.
+   “Run!”
+
+   And the Child winked, Yes,
+   Turned about and ran,
+   Put his flying hands upon the shoulders of the man,
+   And while a star blinked
+   At what he saw,
+   The Child broke the law of sin
+   As he leaped over Judas in the old, old game;
+   Ran screaming down to Mary’s covering hair,
+   But did not linger there;
+   Sped back and bounded over once again,
+   And others captured by the first one’s joy
+   Were startled into rapture
+   And followed, girl and boy,
+   In the glamour of the game,
+   Until the sunken man became
+   Bathed and spattered,
+   Shaken, shattered and half-hidden,
+   In the breaking foam of Children.
+
+   There came a pause
+   When the Little Ones, breathing
+   Hard about Judas, saw him raise his head,
+   Saw a smile like theirs, wreathing
+   His face, washed with sleep,
+   As though he waked in his bed
+   From the keep of angels.
+
+   In his eyes remembrance shone
+   Of when he was a boy
+   And looked upon the face of God everywhere;
+   Of when he was himself a toy,
+   A plaything of a God who dreamed
+   Everywhere and everything.
+
+   And when the Children saw
+   Upon his face the broken law
+   Of sin dissolve like shadows
+   In a ruined wood;
+   When they saw the sun come up
+   Within him, fill his face as the cup
+   Of the world is filled,
+   They spilled their bubbling laughter on the air,
+   And cuddled to his knees
+   As though he, too, were of the least of these.
+
+   His greedy arms inarticulately stuffed
+   With bloomy charms,
+   His roughed voice sweet
+   With honey of his joy, he began:
+
+   “Now when I was a boy
+   I had as little as you to give me joy,
+   And made as much of it,
+   Made a world of many mansions
+   Each great enough for God to dwell in;
+   Yes, mansions of my little joy,
+   Even as do you.”
+
+   “Do we?” asked one thoughtfully,
+   And, “What is mansion?” said another.
+   “And who put the shadows in your face?”
+   “And who took them away again?”
+
+   “A great light put the shadows in my face.”
+   Said he;
+   “Because I hoarded it within,
+   And boarded it up with sin
+   Of my importance;
+   Because I would not dance with joy of it
+   Like a brook prancing to the sea,
+   But in a deep dark well
+   Sealed the living spirit up;
+   What grace of it I could not keep
+   I would not give away
+   In play, like you.”
+
+   “Do we?” asked one closer than the rest.
+   “And who is Grace?” from another troubled breast.
+   “And what is sin?”
+
+   “Sin is a stone,”
+   Dreamed Judas, his chin on a silky head,
+   “Which when a seed is blown
+   Upon it, harbors not
+   The desire of a flower in the seed,
+   But must be broken by the shower,
+   And a deal of shining,
+   And the bold clutch of cold;
+   Grace is the flower
+   Of desire in the seed,
+   And sin is the stone that will not feed the flower.”
+
+   “Here is a flower,”
+   Said a Child with a daffodil.
+   “And here is a stone,
+   Will you show us how
+   The stone won’t feed the flower?”
+   “Yes, will you _now_?” chattered all.
+
+   Judas took the stone in one hand,
+   And in the other raised a black leather bag
+   That sagged from the girdle at his waist.
+   “There is little grace in either,
+   As much in one as in the other,”
+   Murmured Judas, hefting the leather bag.
+
+   “Oh, I hear something jingle,” said a little blond brother.
+   “Are they sins?” said his sister.
+
+   “NO!” spoke a voice like the beat of a great wing
+   On the air behind Judas.
+
+   Then a white light shone upon him,
+   Through him spread the light
+   So that no shadow of him fell
+   Like night around the Children.
+   And Judas looked up,
+   And saw Jesus standing there.
+
+   “See, Children!” cried Jesus, with many smiles,
+   “What the good Judas has brought you all these years;
+   See, my dears, what he has saved all the stony hilly miles,
+   For you!”
+
+   And Jesus opened the black leather bag,
+   And brought forth hands full of sweet bread
+   Which he fed to the Children.
+
+   Then Judas, his hands sticky
+   With crumby kisses of the Little Ones,
+   Went up the hill with the great Lover,
+   Under the cover of His arm,
+   All harm gone from him.
+
+
+
+
+                           The Reader Critic
+
+
+                      Yeats’s “Upon a Dying Lady”
+
+J., New York:
+
+I wonder how many of your readers know that the Seven Poems by William
+Butler Yeats in the August number of _The Little Review_ were inspired
+by and written about Miss Mabel Beardsley, the sister of Aubrey
+Beardsley? I remember when Yeats was writing them. She was dying of a
+lingering illness. She was a Catholic, and it is of course well known
+that Aubrey Beardsley became a Catholic before he died. Artists, poets
+and writers like Charles Shannon and Charles Ricketts, W. B. Yeats, and
+other old friends of her brother and herself, used to take turns in
+visiting her. Some of them made points of collecting their best and in
+some cases most improper stories for her. I hope that she kept a diary
+and entered some of the stories in it. W. B. Yeats was tremendously
+moved by her fine spirit and gaiety. The Seven Poems were the result.
+
+The story is one that Meredith would have loved. And she was a joyous
+creature that Meredith would have loved had he known her. There was no
+wearing of black there, no making a luxury of her grief, no flaunting it
+in the faces of others, even though they might sympathize with or share
+her feelings. It was all quite French, what a spirited French woman
+would do. She would have enjoyed the story published in the Letters of
+Meredith that an old Cornish woman told him:
+
+“A hunting Squire in her neighborhood had a very handsome wife, whom he
+valued less than the fox’s tail. One of the Vivians eyed her, admired,
+condoled, desired and carried her off. Some days after, she was taken
+with compunction or compassion, and about midnight the forsaken squire,
+sitting in his library, heard three knocks at the window. ‘That’s Bess,’
+he said, and let her in. She was for weeping and protesting repentance,
+but he kissed her, taking the blame on himself, rightly, and the house
+was quiet. Old Lady Vivian, like many old ladies, had outgrown her
+notions of masculine sentiment in these matters; she said to my friend:
+‘What are the man’s family making such a fuss about! My son only had her
+a fortnight!’”
+
+
+                               Gargoyles
+
+An Old Reader:
+
+I have never been a real subscriber. The only copy of _The Little
+Review_ I ever bought was the memorable March issue with Galsworthy’s
+letter in it. For a long time after that _The Little Review_ was my
+religion; it converted me to a faith in New America, it inspired me to
+dreams and creative work. It was my first American sweetheart, and as
+long as it remained such it aroused in me the whole gamut of love
+emotions, from passionate admiration to passionate hatred. It would pain
+me to become just a subscriber, to manifest my attitude through a dollar
+and a half. Better leave the ashes undisturbed by profane poking.
+
+Of late I have thought a good deal about the magazine. I have been
+camping near the ocean, and have spent some time in your various haunts
+of last summer where the natives still gossip about the _Little Review_
+crowd. Plunging at night into the phosphorous surf and other delightful
+sins, mingled with communion with some _Little Review_ worshippers, has
+disturbed my academic calm and provoked my reveries. One night I was
+awakened and perceived an apparition moving from the roaring sea toward
+my gigantic fire. I heard a voice, a wail: “Help! Margaret Anderson is
+murdering me!” Was it the spirit of _The Little Review_?
+
+For surely the spirit of the old _Little Review_ is dead. You seem to be
+proud of your evolution, of the graves of your old gods that loom in
+your eyes like stepping-stones to those heights where you bask in the
+wisdom of the Ezras. I hope your new faith is as sleeve-deep as your
+former acquired creeds. For the beauty of the old _Little Review_, the
+secret of its magnetism and appeal to Young America, lay in its
+youthfulness, its spontaneity, in its puerility, if you wish. For
+puerility mates with originality. The Ezras know too much. Their minds
+are black, scarcely smouldering logs. They are yogis; you remember how
+Galsworthy hoped that you would escape the danger of becoming yogis?
+
+An Ezraized _Little Review_ will have no appeal to Young America. Shall
+I tell you that in my summer class I had students from various western
+states to the University of California because they saw my name in the
+catalogue, and they associated my name with the old _Little Review_?
+These worshippers are cold to the recent issues. And I sympathize with
+them. The new _Little Review_ is gargoylitic, monotonously so. We can
+still enjoy a passage in Wyndham Lewis, although Remy de Gourmont has
+said the same things more beautifully and less flippantly. We are still
+grateful for such a jewel as Maxwell Bodenheim’s “Poet’s Heart”:
+Bodenheim is the greatest of all the Others, for he does not suffer from
+self-consciousness, from too-much-knowing. But it is Ezra who sprawls
+all over _The Little Review_ and bedecks it with gargoyles. Mr. Pound is
+digestible only in the early miniatures:
+
+“Oh fan of white silk, clear as frost on the grass-blade”....
+
+I hope that you will soon tire of your over-sophisticated associates and
+drive them out of the sanctuary. After all you are a rock ... you are
+still persisting at the impossible and the miraculous. I am looking
+forward to the next stage in your evolution. And I send you my hearty
+greeting, over the gargoylitic heads of your miseacres, for the next
+fresh, spontaneous _Little Review_.
+
+[This letter I think will find an echo in the minds of many of our first
+subscribers. I have several faults to find with its point of view, but
+one especially: I cannot see why personal qualities such as freshness,
+spontaneity, enthusiasm, etc., are in any way a guarantee for an
+interesting or important magazine. Being temperamentally spontaneous, my
+actions will always be characterized by impulsiveness, etc. But I know
+that spontaneity will never help me to write an immortal poem. You must
+keep things in their proper correspondences.
+
+I very spontaneously accept the cooperation of a group of writers who
+can really write. Literature is their medium. Playing the piano is mine.
+When I play the piano very beautifully to the original _Little Review_
+“worshippers” they will know it is not because I am young and fresh and
+enthusiastic but because I know a great deal about how the piano should
+be played. I can’t do such things to words. Wyndham Lewis does it in
+this issue in a passage—“Leonardo’s beauty consisted in a red rain on
+the shadowed side of heads”.... That is a matter of great prose. And the
+only reason for a magazine of the Arts to be published is that it shall
+produce great prose, great poetry, great reproductions of sculpture,
+painting, and music. We are going to have the latter as soon as
+possible.—_M. C. A._]
+
+
+                            Phases of Crazes
+
+H. L. C., Chicago:
+
+I have just read your circular letter in which you state your aims and
+set forth your plans for the future. It is the best-written letter of
+the kind I have ever read.
+
+But I don’t like your promises, so I am going to risk your Reader Critic
+(that at least is always interesting: no one ever seems to be safe from
+you) and tell you why.
+
+I wish you didn’t have such a craze for foreigners and self-exiled
+Americans. I think you have missed your chance right here in your own
+country. I am sure there are writers if you would go after them who, if
+they couldn’t write so well, would on the other hand be writing in a
+familiar manner about subjects known to us and in so doing be creating a
+literary tradition of our own.
+
+I am tired of these floods of Russian, French, Scandinavian, Irish and
+Hindoo stuff that have swept the country. The war will probably reduce
+the importation of foreign books, and I for one think this will be a
+good thing....
+
+[I should think there might be room in America for one magazine which
+will print work just because it is good, no matter where it is produced.
+All we ask in this is to be allowed a choice of crazes.
+
+To us is seems that there is an indiscriminate craze in the theatre, in
+books, in magazines, and even in exhibition rooms, for the American
+product with all its sins upon it. Let your fears for the contamination
+or stifling from abroad of American letters be at rest. Congress and the
+established publisher have attended to all that. Ignorance is protected
+from invasion far better than the country itself.
+
+Each generation in this country is spared the shock of contemporary
+foreign masterpieces. When a masterpiece reaches America, a generation
+late, Time has tempered it to the shorn. I happen to know something of
+Tagore’s experience with this protection. When Tagore was first
+“discovered” in America—(he had been published in London and had with
+him only a few personal copies of his work)—he sent to his London
+publishers for extra copies to meet the requests of his friends. Aside
+from a terrific tariff, the red tape and the questioning as to the
+integrity of his purpose in importing his own books proved too wearing
+an experience: the idea was abandoned. On his recent trip he brought
+with him a small collection of very gentle Indian water colours, with no
+other motive than to create if possible an understanding of Indian art
+in this country. His pictures were held up at the port of Seattle, he
+was called again and again before inspectors, made to swear all kinds of
+oaths, and to deposit a fabulous sum (some forty thousand dollars, as I
+remember) to assure the government that his intentions were all right.
+
+As he was leaving the country some one asked him if he ever intended
+making another visit,—(there had been some agitation before this about
+including the Hindoo in the Oriental Immigration laws)—and Tagore
+replied, “I do not know. You will make a law against the Hindoo coming
+to your country. You have now a law against books. It may be you will
+make a law against poets coming too?”
+
+When the western nations have finished making the world safe for
+democracy, if it wouldn’t be too satirical the Orient might wage a world
+war to make the world safe for Art.—_jh._]
+
+   Bury bloody Bodenheim
+   Bury bloody Bodenheim
+   Bury bloody Bodenheim
+       And Johnny Rodker too.
+
+   —_E. J._
+
+
+
+
+To Our Readers
+
+
+Do you know anything more annoying or more ageing than to have your
+friends discover for you those cherished things in Art which you should
+have discovered for yourself?
+
+_The Little Review_ is giving its readers an opportunity to make their
+own discoveries. There is no magazine in America which has on its staff
+such an important line-up of known genius and the “yet unknowns”.
+
+If you have any friends who are not entrenched in mediocrity, definitely
+protecting themselves against good literature, tell them to subscribe to
+_The Little Review_. Or send us their names and we will mail them sample
+copies.
+
+_The Little Review_ is doing some intensive growing this autumn. We have
+great plans for enlarging our format and giving you the best creative
+work that is being produced here and in Europe, written without an eye
+on the established publisher, and not garbled in editorial rooms to meet
+the taste of the average mind.
+
+Send us the names of any people you think will be interested. We will
+appreciate it.
+
+
+                             Mason & Hamlin
+
+
+                       THE STRADIVARIUS OF PIANOS
+
+
+
+
+                           Mason & Hamlin Co.
+
+                            313 FIFTH AVENUE
+                                NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+                                  OLD
+                                CHELSEA
+
+                          51 West 16th Street
+                             New York City
+
+
+                         Rooms, Suites, Floors
+
+   furnished or unfurnished. Intelligent service for busy men and
+   women.
+
+
+                              Table d’hote
+                              dining-room
+
+   noted for fine home cooking.
+
+   “_A bit of Old Chelsea in little old New York_”
+
+
+                            Ruth Stout says,
+
+   ... “And now remember, it’s Special Dinner for half-a-dollar on
+   Wednesday at 7.00; and on Sunday it’s luncheon a la carte.”
+
+
+                              THE KLICKET
+
+                        163 West Fourth Street,
+                         The Village, New York.
+
+
+
+
+                           THE LITTLE REVIEW
+
+                     MARGARET C. ANDERSON, _Editor_
+                      EZRA POUND, _London Editor_
+
+   _For October_:
+
+      A POEM, by T. S. ELIOT
+      PO-CHÜ-I, versions by ARTHUR D. WALEY
+      CANTLEMAN, by WYNDHAM LEWIS
+      IMAGINARY LETTERS, V., by EZRA POUND
+      BARBARA ROSCORLA’S CHILD, by ARTHUR SYMONS
+      AN EDITORIAL ON SOLICITOUS DOUBT
+
+   _For November_:
+
+      HANRAHAN’S OATH: A PLAY, by LADY GREGORY
+
+   Editorials in The Little Review will respect no vested interests,
+   no publishers’ interests, no aged magazines and reviews, nor
+   staffs of the same.
+
+          Yearly Subscription, U. S. A., $1.50; Canada, $1.65;
+                 Great Britain and other Countries, 7/-
+
+
+                           THE LITTLE REVIEW
+
+                   24 West 16th Street, New York City
+         Foreign Office: 5 Holland Place Chambers, London W. S.
+
+   Enclosed find $1.50 for one year’s subscription, beginning
+   ..........
+
+                                        Name ......................
+                                        Address ...................
+                                                ...................
+
+
+
+
+                          Transcriber’s Notes
+
+
+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. 7]:
+   ... there is certain category of spirit that is not quite
+       anaemic, and ...
+   ... there is a certain category of spirit that is not quite
+       anaemic, and ...
+
+   [p. 7]:
+   ... man’s festival as a Falstaff of unwieldly spume; if he
+       comes at ...
+   ... man’s festival as a Falstaff of unwieldy spume; if he comes
+       at ...
+
+   [p. 12]:
+   ... Yet saw on “ad.” “To-night, THE HUDSON SAIL”, ...
+   ... Yet saw on “ad.” “To-night, THE HUDSON SAIL, ...
+
+   [p. 29]:
+   ... Murmured Judas, helfting the leather bag. ...
+   ... Murmured Judas, hefting the leather bag. ...
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78252 ***
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+</head>
+
+<body>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78252 ***</div>
+
+<div class="frontmatter chapter">
+<h1 class="title">
+THE LITTLE REVIEW
+</h1>
+
+<p class="u subt">
+<span class="line1">A MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS</span><br>
+<span class="line2">MAKING NO COMPROMISE WITH THE PUBLIC TASTES</span>
+</p>
+
+<p class="ed">
+Margaret Anderson<br>
+Publisher
+</p>
+
+<p class="issue">
+September, 1917
+</p>
+
+  <div class="table">
+<table class="tocn">
+<tbody>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#INFERIORRELIGIONSYAY">Inferior Religions</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">Wyndham Lewis</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#LHOMMEMOYENSENSUELYAY">L’Homme Moyen Sensuel</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">Ezra Pound</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#EELDROPANDAPPLEPLEX">Eeldrop and Appleplex, II</a>:</td>
+      <td class="col2">T. S. Eliot</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#EELDROPANDAPPLEPLEX">The Passion for Experience</a></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#IMAGINARYLETTERS">Imaginary Letters, IV</a>:</td>
+      <td class="col2">Ezra Pound</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#IMAGINARYLETTERS">The Nonsense about Art for the Many</a></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THECHILDRENANDJUDAS">The Children and Judas</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">Robert Alden Sanborn</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THEREADERCRITIC">The Reader Critic:</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#YEATSSUPONADYINGLADY">Yeats’s “Upon a Dying Lady”</a></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#GARGOYLES">Gargoyles</a></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#PHASESOFCRAZES">Phases of Crazes</a></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#TOOURREADERS">To our Readers</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#ANNOUNCEMENTFOROCTOBER">Announcement for October</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+  </div>
+<p class="cop">
+Copyright, 1917, by Margaret Anderson.
+</p>
+
+<p class="pub">
+Published Monthly<br>
+MARGARET ANDERSON, Editor<br>
+EZRA POUND, Foreign Editor<br>
+24 West Sixteenth Street
+</p>
+
+  <div class="table">
+<table class="prices">
+<tbody>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">15 Cents a Copy</td>
+      <td class="col2">$1.50 a Year</td>
+   </tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+  </div>
+<p class="postoffice">
+Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, New York, N. Y.
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="frontmatter chapter">
+<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a>
+<p class="tit">
+THE LITTLE REVIEW
+</p>
+
+  <div class="table">
+<table class="issue">
+<tbody>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">VOL. IV.</td>
+      <td class="col2">SEPTEMBER 1917</td>
+      <td class="col3">No. 5</td>
+   </tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="article1" id="INFERIORRELIGIONSYAY">
+Inferior Religions<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a>
+</h2>
+
+<p class="aut">
+Wyndham Lewis
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="I">
+I
+</h3>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">o</span> introduce my puppets, and the Wild Body, the generic puppet
+of all, I must look back to a time when the antics and
+solemn gambols of these wild children filled me with triumph.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The fascinating imbecility of the creaking men-machines,
+some little restaurant or fishing-boat works, is the subject of these
+studies. The boat’s tackle and dirty little shell keeps their limbs in
+a monotonous rhythm of activity. A man gets drunk with his boat
+as he would with a merry-go-round. Only it is the staid, everyday
+drunkenness of the normal real. We can all see the ascendance
+a “carrousel” has on men, driving them into a set narrow intoxication.
+The wheel at Carisbrooke imposes a set of movements on the
+donkey inside it, in drawing water from the well, that it is easy to
+grasp. But in the case of a fishing-boat the variety is so great, the
+scheme so complex, that it passes as open and untrammeled life.
+This subtle and wider mechanism merges, for the spectator, in the
+general variety of Nature. Yet we have in most lives a spectacle as
+complete as a problem of Euclid.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Moran, Bestre and Brobdingnag are essays in a new human
+mathematic. But they are each simple shapes, little monuments of
+logic. I should like to compile a book of forty of these propositions,
+one deriving from and depending on the other.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a>
+These intricately moving bobbins are all subject to a set of objects
+or one in particular. Brobdingnag is fascinated by one object,
+for instance; one at once another vitality. He bangs up against it
+wildly at regular intervals, blackens it, contemplates it, moves
+round it and dreams. All such fascination is religious. Moran’s
+damp napkins are the altar-cloths of his rough illusion. Julie’s
+bruises are the markings on an idol.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+These studies of rather primitive people are studies in a Savage
+worship and attraction. Moran rolls between his tables ten million
+times in a realistic rhythm that is as intense and superstitious as the
+figures of a war-dance. He worships his soup, his damp napkins,
+the lump of flesh that rolls everywhere with him called Madam
+Moran.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All religion has the mechanism of the celestial bodies, has a
+dance. When we wish to renew our idols, or break up the rhythm of
+our naivety, the effort postulates a respect which is the summit of
+devoutness.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="II">
+II
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+I would present these puppets, then, as carefully selected specimens
+of religious fanaticism. With their attendant objects or
+fetishes they live and have a regular food for vitality. They
+are not creations, but puppets. You can be as exterior to them,
+and live their life as little, as the showman grasping from beneath
+and working about a Polichinelle. They are only shadows of
+energy, and not living beings. Their mechanism is a logical structure
+and they are nothing but that.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam Weller, Jingle, Malvolio, Bouvard, and Pecuchet, the “commissaire”
+in <em>Crime and Punishment</em>, do not live; they are congealed
+and frozen into logic, and an exuberant, hysterical truth.
+They transcend life and are complete cyphers, but they are monuments
+of dead imperfection. Their only reference is to themselves,
+and their only significance their egoism.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The great intuitive figures of creation live with the universal egoism
+of the Poet. They are not picturesque and over palpable.
+They are supple with this rare impersonality; not stiff with a
+common egotism. The “realists” of the Flaubert, Maupassant,
+and Tchekoff school are all satirists. “Realism”, understood as applied
+to them, implies either photography or satire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Satire, the great Heaven of ideas, where you meet the Titans of
+red laughter, is just below Intuition, and Life charged with black
+Illusion.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="III">
+<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a>
+III
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+When we say “types of humanity”, we mean violent individualities,
+and nothing stereotyped. But Othello, Falstaff and Pecksniff
+attract, in our memory, a vivid following. All difference is
+energy, and a category of humanity a relatively small group, and
+not the myriads suggested by a generalisation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A comic type is a failure of a considerable energy, an imitation
+and standardising of self, suggesting the existence of a uniform
+humanity,—creating, that is, a little host as like as ninepins; instead
+of one synthetic and various Ego. It is the laziness of a
+successful personality. It is often part of our own organism become
+a fetish.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sairey Gamp and Falstaff are minute and rich religions. They
+are illusions hugged and lived in. They are like little dead Totems.
+Just as all Gods are a repose for humanity, the big religions an immense
+refuge and rest, so these little grotesque idols are. One
+reason for this is that, for the spectator or participator, it is a world
+in a corner of the world, full of rest and security.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Moran, even, advances in life with his rows of bottles and
+napkins; Julie is Brobdingnag’s Goddess, and figures for intercessions,
+if the occasion arises.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All these are forms of static and traditional art, then. There
+is a great deal of divine Olympian sleep in English Humour. The
+most gigantic spasm of laughter is sculptural, isolated and essentially
+simple.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="IV">
+IV
+</h3>
+
+<div class="table">
+<table class="numbered">
+<tbody>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">1</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter is the Wild Body’s song of triumph.</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">2</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter is the climax in the tragedy of seeing, hearing and smelling self-consciously.</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">3</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter is the bark of delight of a gregarious animal at the proximity of its kind.</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">4</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter is an independent, tremendously important, and lurid Emotion.</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">5</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter is the representative of Tragedy, when Tragedy is away.</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">6</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter is the emotion of tragic delight.</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">7</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter is the female of Tragedy.</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">8</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter is the strong elastic fish, caught in Styx, springing and flapping about until it dies.</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">9</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter is the sudden handshake of mystic violence and the anarchist.</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a>10</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter is the mind sneezing.</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">11</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter is the one obvious commotion that is not complex, or in expression dynamic.</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1">12</td>
+      <td class="col2">Laughter does not progress. It is primitive, hard and unchangeable.</td>
+   </tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="V">
+V
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+The chemistry of personality (subterranean in a sort of cemetery
+whose decompositions are our lives) puffs up in frigid balls,
+soapy Snow-men, arctic Carnival Masks, which we can photograph
+and fix.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Upwards from the surface of Existence a lurid and dramatic
+scum oozes and accumulates into the characters we see. The
+real and tenacious poisons, and sharp forces of vital vitality, do not
+socially transpire. Within five yards of another man’s eyes we are
+on a little crater, which, if it erupted, would split up as a cocoa-tin
+of nitrogen would. Some of these bombs are ill-made, or some
+erratic in their timing. But they are all potential little bombs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Capriciously, however, the froth-forms of these darkly-contrived
+machines, twist and puff in the air, in our legitimate and liveried
+masquerade.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Were you the female of Moran (the first Innkeeper) and beneath
+the counterpane with him, you would be just below the
+surface of life, in touch with a nasty and tragic organism. The
+first indications of the proximity of the real soul would be apparent.
+You would be for hours beside a filmy crocodile, conscious
+of it like a bone in an Ex-Ray, and for minutes in the
+midst of a tragic wallowing. The soul lives in a cadaverous activity;
+its dramatic corruption thumps us like a racing engine in the body
+of a car. The finest humour is the great Play-Shapes blown up
+or given off by the tragic corpse of Life underneath the world
+of the Camera. This futile, grotesque and sometimes pretty
+spawn, is what in this book is Kodacked by the Imagination.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Any great humourist is an artist; Dickens as an example. It is
+just this character of uselessness and impersonality in Laughter,
+the fibre of anarchy in the comic habit of mind, that makes a
+man an artist in spite of himself when he begins living on his
+laughter. Laughter is the arch-luxury that is as simple as bread.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="VI">
+VI
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+In this objective Play-World, corresponding to our social consciousness
+as opposed to our solitude, no final issue is decided.
+<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a>
+You may blow away a Man-of-bubbles with a Burgundian gust
+of laughter, but that is not a personality, it is an apparition of
+no importance. Its awkwardness, or prettiness is accidental. But
+so much correspondence it has with its original that if the cadaveric
+travail beneath is vigorous and bitter, the mask and figurehead
+will be of a more original and intense grotesqueness. The opposing
+armies in Flanders stick up dummy men on poles for their
+enemies to pot at, in a spirit of fierce friendliness. It is only a
+dummy of this sort that is engaged in the sphere of laughter. But
+the real men are in the trenches underneath all the time, and
+are there on a more “decisive” affair. In our rather drab Revel
+there is <a id="corr-3"></a>a certain category of spirit that is not quite anaemic, and
+yet not very funny. It consists of those who take, at the Clarkson’s<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-2" id="fnote-2">[2]</a>
+situated at the opening of their lives, some conventional
+Pierrot costume, with a minimum of inverted vigour and the assurance
+of superior insignificance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The King of Play is not a phantom corresponding to the
+Sovereign force beneath the surface. The latter must always be
+accepted as the skeleton at the Feast. That soul or dominant
+corruption is so real that he cannot rise up and take part in
+man’s festival as a Falstaff of <a id="corr-4"></a>unwieldy spume; if he comes at
+all it must be as he is, the skeleton or bogey of True Life, stuck
+over with corruptions and vices. He may have a certain “succès
+d’hystérie”.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="VII">
+VII
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+A scornful optimism, with its confidant onslaughts on our snobbism,
+will not make material existence a peer for our energy.
+The gladiator is not a perpetual monument of triumphal health.
+Napoleon was harried with Elbas. Moments of vision are blurred
+rapidly and the poet sinks into the rhetoric of the will.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But life is invisible and perfection is not in the waves or
+houses that the poet sees. Beauty is an icy douche of ease and
+happiness at something suggesting perfect conditions for an organism.
+A stormy landscape, and a Pigment consisting of a lake
+of hard, yet florid waves; delight in each brilliant scoop or
+ragged burst, was John Constable’s beauty. Leonardo’s consisted
+in a red rain on the shadowed side of heads, and heads of massive
+female aesthetes. Uccello accumulated pale parallels, and delighted
+in cold architecture of distinct colour. Korin found in the symmetrical
+<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a>
+gushing of water, in waves like huge vegetable insects, traced
+and worked faintly, on a golden pâte, his business. Cézanne liked
+cumbrous, democratic slabs of life, slightly leaning, transfixed in
+vegetable intensity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Beauty is an immense predilection, a perfect conviction of the
+desirability of a certain thing. To a man with long and consumptive
+fingers a sturdy hand may be heaven. Equilibrium and “perfection”
+may be a bore to the perfect. The most universally
+pleasing man is something probably a good way from “perfection”.
+Henri Fabre was in every way a superior being to Bernard, and he
+knew of elegant grubs which he would prefer to the painter’s
+nymphs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is obvious, though, that we should live a little more in small
+communities.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="footnote">
+
+<p class="footnote">
+<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> [<em>Editor’s note</em>: This essay was written as the introduction to a
+volume of short stories containing “Inn-Keepers and Bestre”, “Unlucky
+for Pringle” and some others which had appeared in <em>The
+English Review</em> under Ford Madox Hueffer’s editorship, and in other
+English periodicals. The book was in process of publication (the
+author had even been paid an advance on it) when war broke out.
+The last member of the publishing firm has been killed in France,
+and the firm disbanded. The essay is complete in itself and need
+not stand as an “introduction”. It is perhaps the most important
+single document that Wyndham Lewis has written. Such stories
+as had not been previously published will appear in later numbers
+of <em>The Little Review</em>.—<em>E. P.</em>]
+</p>
+
+<p class="footnote">
+<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-2" id="footnote-2">[2]</a> <em>Editor’s foot note</em>: Clarkson, a London theatrical costumer.
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="LHOMMEMOYENSENSUELYAY">
+L’Homme Moyen Sensuel<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-3" id="fnote-3">[3]</a>
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+Ezra Pound
+</p>
+
+<p class="u epi">
+“I hate a dumpy woman”<br>
+—<em>George Gordon, Lord Byron</em>
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">’Tis of my country that I would endite,</p>
+    <p class="verse">In hope to set some misconceptions right.</p>
+    <p class="verse">My country? I love it well, and those good fellows</p>
+    <p class="verse">Who, since their wit’s unknown, escape the gallows.</p>
+    <p class="verse">But you stuffed coats who’re neither tepid nor distinctly boreal,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Pimping, conceited, placid, editorial,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Could I but speak as ’twere in the “Restoration”</p>
+    <p class="verse">I would articulate your perdamnation.</p>
+    <p class="verse">This year perforce I must with circumspection—</p>
+    <p class="verse">For Mencken states somewhere, in this connection:</p>
+    <p class="verse">“It is a moral nation we infest”.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Despite such reins and checks I’ll do my best,</p>
+    <p class="verse">An art! You all respect the arts, from that infant tick</p>
+<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a>
+    <p class="verse">Who’s now the editor of <em>The Atlantic</em>,</p>
+    <p class="verse">From Comstock’s self, down to the meanest resident,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Till up again, right up, we reach the president,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Who shows his taste in his ambassadors:</p>
+    <p class="verse">A novelist, a publisher, to pay old scores,</p>
+    <p class="verse">A novelist, a publisher and a preacher,</p>
+    <p class="verse">That’s sent to Holland, a most particular feature,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Henry Van Dyke, who thinks to charm the Muse you pack her in</p>
+    <p class="verse">A sort of stinking deliquescent saccharine.</p>
+    <p class="verse">The constitution of our land, O Socrates,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Was made to incubate such mediocrities,</p>
+    <p class="verse">These and a taste in books that’s grown perennial</p>
+    <p class="verse">And antedates the Philadelphia centennial.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Still I’d respect you more if you could bury</p>
+    <p class="verse">Mabie, and Lyman Abbot and George Woodberry,</p>
+    <p class="verse">For minds so wholly founded upon quotations</p>
+    <p class="verse">Are not the best of pulse for infant nations.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Dulness herself, that abject spirit, chortles</p>
+    <p class="verse">To see your forty self-baptized immortals,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And holds her sides where swelling laughter cracks ’em</p>
+    <p class="verse">Before the “Ars Poetica” of Hiram Maxim.</p>
+    <p class="verse">All one can say of this refining medium</p>
+    <p class="verse">Is “<em>Zut! Cinque lettres!</em>” a banished gallic idiom,</p>
+<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a>
+    <p class="verse">Their doddering ignorance is waxed so notable</p>
+    <p class="verse">’Tis time that it was capped with something quotable.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Here Radway grew, the fruit of pantosocracy,</p>
+    <p class="verse">The very fairest flower of their gynocracy.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Radway? My hero, for it will be more inspiring</p>
+    <p class="verse">If I set forth a bawdy plot like Byron</p>
+    <p class="verse">Than if I treat the nation as a whole.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Radway grew up. These forces shaped his soul;</p>
+    <p class="verse">These, and yet God, and Dr. Parkhurst’s god, the N. Y. Journal</p>
+    <p class="verse">(Which pays him more per week than The Supernal).</p>
+    <p class="verse">These and another godlet of that day, your day</p>
+    <p class="verse">(You feed a hen on grease, perhaps she’ll lay</p>
+    <p class="verse">The sterile egg that is still eatable:</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Prolific Noyes” with output undefeatable).</p>
+    <p class="verse">From these he (Radway) learnt, from provosts and from editors unyielding</p>
+    <p class="verse">And innocent of Stendhal, Flaubert, Maupassant and Fielding.</p>
+    <p class="verse">They set their mind (it’s still in that condition)—</p>
+    <p class="verse">May we repeat; the Centennial Exposition</p>
+    <p class="verse">At Philadelphia, 1876?</p>
+    <p class="verse">What it knew then, it knows, and there it sticks.</p>
+    <p class="verse">And yet another, a “charming man”, “sweet nature”, but was Gilder,</p>
+    <p class="verse"><em>De mortuis verum</em>, truly the master builder?</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">From these he learnt. Poe, Whitman, Whistler, men, their recognition</p>
+    <p class="verse">Was got abroad, what better luck do you wish ’em,</p>
+    <p class="verse">When writing well has not yet been forgiven</p>
+    <p class="verse">In Boston, to Henry James, the greatest whom we’ve seen living.</p>
+    <p class="verse">And timorous love of the innocuous</p>
+    <p class="verse">Brought from Gt. Britain and dumped down a’top of us,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Till you may take your choice: to feel the edge of satire or</p>
+    <p class="verse">Read Benett or some other flaccid flatterer.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Despite it all, despite your Red Bloods, febrile concupiscence</p>
+<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a>
+    <p class="verse">Whose blubbering yowls you take for passion’s essence;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Despite it all, your compound predilection</p>
+    <p class="verse">For ignorance, its growth and its protection</p>
+    <p class="verse">(Vide the tariff), I will hang simple facts</p>
+    <p class="verse">Upon a tale, to combat other facts,</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Message to Garcia”, Mosher’s propagandas</p>
+    <p class="verse">That are the nation’s botts, collicks and glanders.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Or from the feats of Sumner cull it? Think,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Could Freud or Jung unfathom such a sink?</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">My hero, Radway, I have named, in truth,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Some forces among those which “formed” his youth:</p>
+    <p class="verse">These heavy weights, these dodgers and these preachers,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Crusaders, lecturers and secret lechers,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Who wrought about his “soul” their stale infection.</p>
+    <p class="verse">These are the high-brows, add to this collection</p>
+    <p class="verse">The social itch, the almost, all but, not quite, fascinating,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Piquante, delicious, luscious, captivating</p>
+    <p class="verse">Puffed satin, and silk stockings, where the knee</p>
+    <p class="verse">Clings to the skirt in strict (vide: “<em>Vogue</em>”) propriety.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Three thousand chorus girls and all unkissed,</p>
+    <p class="verse">O state sans song, sans home-grown wine, sans realist!</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Tell me not in mournful wish-wash</p>
+    <p class="verse">Life’s a sort of sugared dish-wash”!</p>
+    <p class="verse">Radway had read the various evening papers</p>
+    <p class="verse">And yearned to imitate the Waldorf capers</p>
+    <p class="verse">As held before him in that unsullied mirror</p>
+    <p class="verse">The daily press, and monthlies nine cents dearer.</p>
+    <p class="verse">They held the very marrow of the ideals</p>
+    <p class="verse">That fed his spirit; were his mental meals.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Also, he’d read of christian virtues in</p>
+    <p class="verse">That canting rag called <em>Everybody’s Magazine</em>,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And heard a clergy that tries on more wheezes</p>
+    <p class="verse">Than e’er were heard of by Our Lord Ch.... J....</p>
+    <p class="verse">So he “faced life” with rather mixed intentions,</p>
+<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a>
+    <p class="verse">He had attended country Christian Endeavour Conventions,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Where one gets more chances</p>
+    <p class="verse">Than Spanish ladies had in old romances.</p>
+    <p class="verse">(Let him rebuke who ne’er has known the pure Platonic grapple,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Or hugged two girls at once behind a chapel.)</p>
+    <p class="verse">Such practices diluted rural boredom</p>
+    <p class="verse">Though some approved of them, and some deplored ’em.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Such was he when he got his mother’s letter</p>
+    <p class="verse">And would not think a thing that could upset her....</p>
+    <p class="verse">Yet saw on “ad.” “To-night, THE HUDSON SAIL<a id="corr-10"></a>,</p>
+    <p class="verse">With forty queens, and music to regale</p>
+    <p class="verse">The select company: beauties you all would know</p>
+    <p class="verse">By name, if named”. So it was phrased, or rather somewhat so</p>
+    <p class="verse">I have mislaid the “ad.”, but note the touch,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Note, reader, note the sentimental touch:</p>
+    <p class="verse">His mother’s birthday gift. (How pitiful</p>
+    <p class="verse">That only sentimental stuff will sell!)</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Yet Radway went. A circumspectious prig!</p>
+    <p class="verse">And then that woman like a guinea-pig</p>
+    <p class="verse">Accosted, that’s the word, accosted him,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Thereon the amorous calor slightly frosted him.</p>
+    <p class="verse">(I burn, I freeze, I sweat, said the fair Greek,</p>
+    <p class="verse">I speak in contradictions, so to speak.)</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I’ve told his training, he was never bashful,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And his pockets by ma’s aid, that night with cash full,</p>
+    <p class="verse">The invitation had no need of fine aesthetic,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Nor did disgust prove such a strong emetic</p>
+    <p class="verse">That we, with Masefield’s vein, in the next sentence</p>
+    <p class="verse">Record “Odd’s blood! Ouch! Ouch!” a prayer, his swift repentance.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">No, no, they danced. The music grew much louder</p>
+    <p class="verse">As he inhaled the still fumes of rice-powder.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Then there came other nights, came slow but certain</p>
+    <p class="verse">And were such nights that we should “draw the curtain”</p>
+<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a>
+    <p class="verse">In writing fiction on uncertain chances</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of publication; “Circumstances”,</p>
+    <p class="verse">As the editor of <em>The Century</em> says in print,</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Compel a certain silence and restraint.”</p>
+    <p class="verse">Still we will bring our “fiction as near to fact” as</p>
+    <p class="verse">The Sunday school brings virtues into practice.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Soon our hero could manage once a week,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Not that his pay had risen, and no leak</p>
+    <p class="verse">Was found in his employer’s cash. He learned the lay of cheaper places,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And then Radway began to go the paces:</p>
+    <p class="verse">A rosy path, a sort of vernal ingress,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And Truth should here be careful of her thin dress—</p>
+    <p class="verse">Though males of seventy, who fear truths naked harm us,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Must think Truth looks as they do in wool pyjamas.</p>
+    <p class="verse">(My country, I’ve said your morals and your thoughts are stale ones,</p>
+    <p class="verse">But surely the worst of your old-women are the male ones.)</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Why paint these days? An insurance inspector</p>
+    <p class="verse">For fires and odd risks, could in this sector</p>
+    <p class="verse">Furnish more date for a compilation</p>
+    <p class="verse">Than I can from this distant land and station,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Unless perhaps I should have recourse to</p>
+    <p class="verse">One of those firm-faced inspecting women, who</p>
+    <p class="verse">Find pretty Irish girls in Chinese laundries,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Up stairs, the third floor up, and have such quandaries</p>
+    <p class="verse">As to how and why and whereby they got in</p>
+    <p class="verse">And for what earthly reason they remain....</p>
+    <p class="verse">Alas, eheu, one question that sorely vexes</p>
+    <p class="verse">The serious social folk is “just what sex is”.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Though it will, of course, pass off with social science</p>
+    <p class="verse">In which their mentors place such wide reliance.</p>
+    <p class="verse">De Gourmont says that fifty grunts are all that will be prized</p>
+<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a>
+    <p class="verse">Of language, by men wholly socialized,</p>
+    <p class="verse">With signs as many, that shall represent ’em</p>
+    <p class="verse">When thoroughly socialized printers want to print ’em.</p>
+    <p class="verse">“As free of mobs as kings.”? I’d have men free of that invidious,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Lurking, serpentine, amphibious and insidious</p>
+    <p class="verse">Power that compels ’em</p>
+    <p class="verse">To be so much alike that every dog that smells ’em,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Thinks one identity is</p>
+    <p class="verse">Smeared o’er the lot in equal quantities.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Still we look toward the day when man, with unction,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Will long only to be a <em>social function</em>,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And even Zeus’ wild lightning fear to strike</p>
+    <p class="verse">Lest it should fail to treat all men alike.</p>
+    <p class="verse">And I can hear an old man saying: “Oh, the rub!</p>
+    <p class="verse">“I see them sitting in the Harvard Club,</p>
+    <p class="verse">“And rate ’em up at just so much per head,</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Know what they think, and just what books they’ve read,</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Till I have viewed straw hats and their habitual clothing</p>
+    <p class="verse">“All the same style, same cut, with perfect loathing.”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">So Radway walked, quite like the other men,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Out into the crepuscular half-light, now and then;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Saw what the city offered, cast an eye</p>
+    <p class="verse">Upon Manhattan’s gorgeous panoply,</p>
+    <p class="verse">The flood of limbs upon Eighth Avenue</p>
+    <p class="verse">To beat Prague, Budapesth, Vienna or Moscow,<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-4" id="fnote-4">[4]</a></p>
+    <p class="verse">Such animal invigorating carriage</p>
+    <p class="verse">As nothing can restrain or much disparage....</p>
+    <p class="verse">Still he was not given up to brute enjoyment,</p>
+    <p class="verse">An anxious sentiment was his employment,</p>
+    <p class="verse">For memory of the first warm night still cast a haze o’er</p>
+    <p class="verse">The mind of Radway, whene’er he found a pair of purple stays or</p>
+    <p class="verse">Some other quaint reminder of the occasion</p>
+<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a>
+    <p class="verse">That first made him believe in immoral suasion.</p>
+    <p class="verse">A temperate man, a thin potationist, each day</p>
+    <p class="verse">A silent hunter off the Great White Way,</p>
+    <p class="verse">He read <em>The Century</em> and thought it nice</p>
+    <p class="verse">To be not too well known in haunts of vice—</p>
+    <p class="verse">The prominent haunts, where one might recognize him,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And in his daily walks duly capsize him.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Thus he eschewed the bright red-walled cafés and</p>
+    <p class="verse">Was never one of whom one speaks as “brazen’d”.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Some men will live as prudes in their own village</p>
+    <p class="verse">And make the tour abroad for their wild tillage—</p>
+    <p class="verse">I knew a tourist agent, one whose art is</p>
+    <p class="verse">To run such tours. He calls ’em .... house parties.</p>
+    <p class="verse">But Radway was a patriot whose venality</p>
+    <p class="verse">Was purer in its love of one locality,</p>
+    <p class="verse">A home-industrious worker to perfection,</p>
+    <p class="verse">A senatorial jobber for protection,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Especially on books, lest knowledge break in</p>
+    <p class="verse">Upon the national brains and set ’em achin’.</p>
+    <p class="verse">(’Tis an anomaly in our large land of freedom,</p>
+    <p class="verse">You can not get cheap books, even if you need ’em).</p>
+    <p class="verse">Radway was ignorant as an editor,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And, heavenly, holy gods! I can’t say more,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Though I know one, a very base detractor,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Who has the phrase “As ignorant as an actor”.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">But turn to Radway: the first night on the river,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Running so close to “hell” it sends a shiver</p>
+    <p class="verse">Down Rodyheaver’s prophylactic spine,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Let me return to this bold theme of mine,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of Radway. O clap hand ye moralists!</p>
+    <p class="verse">And meditate upon the Lord’s conquests.</p>
+    <p class="verse">When last I met him, he was a pillar in</p>
+    <p class="verse">An organization for the suppression of sin ....</p>
+<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a>
+    <p class="verse">Not that he’d changed his tastes, nor yet his habits,</p>
+    <p class="verse">(Such changes don’t occur in men, or rabbits).</p>
+    <p class="verse">Not that he was a saint, nor was top-loftical</p>
+    <p class="verse">In spiritual aspirations, but he found it profitable,</p>
+    <p class="verse">For as Ben Franklin said, with such urbanity:</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Nothing will pay thee, friend, like Christianity”.</p>
+    <p class="verse">And in our day thus saith the Evangelist:</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Tent preachin’ is the kind that pays the best.”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">’Twas as a business asset <em>pure an’ simple</em></p>
+    <p class="verse">That Radway joined the Baptist Broadway Temple.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I find no moral for a peroration,</p>
+    <p class="verse">He is the prototype of half the nation.</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<hr class="footnote">
+
+<p class="footnote">
+<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-3" id="footnote-3">[3]</a> [<em>Note</em>: It is through no fault of my own that this diversion was
+not given to the reader two years ago; but the commercial said it
+would not add to their transcendent popularity, and the vers-libre
+fanatics pointed out that I had used a form of terminal consonance
+no longer permitted, and my admirers (<em>j’en ai</em>), ever nobly desirous
+of erecting me into a sort of national institution, declared the work
+“unworthy” of my mordant and serious genius. So a couple of the
+old gentlemen are dead in the interim, and, alas, two of the great
+men mentioned in passing, and the reader will have to accept the
+opusculus for what it is, some rhymes written in 1915. I would give
+them now with dedication “To the Anonymous Compatriot Who
+Produced the Poem ‘Fanny’, Somewhere About 1820”, if this form
+of centennial homage be permitted me. It was no small thing to
+have written, in America, at that distant date, a poem of over forty
+pages which one can still read without labour. <em>E. P.</em>]
+</p>
+
+<p class="footnote">
+<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-4" id="footnote-4">[4]</a> Pronounce like respectable Russians: “<em>Mussqu</em>”.
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="EELDROPANDAPPLEPLEX">
+Eeldrop and Appleplex
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+T. H. Eliot
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="II3">
+II
+</h3>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> suburban evening was grey and yellow on Sunday; the
+gardens of the small houses to left and right were rank with
+ivy and tall grass and lilac bushes; the tropical South London
+verdure was dusty above and mouldy below; the tepid air swarmed
+with flies. Eeldrop, at the window, welcomed the smoky smell
+of lilac, the gramophones, the choir of the Baptist chapel, and the
+sight of three small girls playing cards on the steps of the police
+station.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“On such a night as this”, said Eeldrop, “I often think of
+Scheherazade, and wonder what has become of her”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Appleplex rose without speaking and turned to the files which
+contained the documents for his “Survey of Contemporary Society”.
+He removed the file marked <em>London</em> from between the files <em>Barcelona</em>
+and <em>Boston</em> where it had been misplaced, and turned over the
+papers rapidly. “The lady you mention”, he rejoined at last,
+“whom I have listed not under S. but as Edith, alias Scheherazade,
+<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a>
+has left but few evidences in my possession. Here is an old laundry
+account which she left for you to pay, a cheque drawn by her
+and marked “R/D”, a letter from her mother in Honolulu (on
+ruled paper), a poem written on a restaurant bill—”To Atthis”—and
+a letter by herself, on Lady Equistep’s best notepaper, containing
+some damaging but entertaining information about Lady Equistep.
+Then there are my own few observations on two sheets of foolscap”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Edith”, murmured Eeldrop, who had not been attending to this
+catalogue, “I wonder what has become of her. ‘Not pleasure, but
+fulness of life ... to burn ever with a hard gem-like flame’, those
+were her words. What curiosity and passion for experience! Perhaps
+that flame has burnt itself out by now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You ought to inform yourself better”, said Appleplex severely,
+“Edith dines sometimes with Mrs Howexden, who tells me that her
+passion for experience has taken her to a Russian pianist in Bayswater.
+She is also said to be present often at the Anarchist Tea
+Rooms, and can usually be found in the evening at the Cafe de
+l’Orangerie.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well”, replied Eeldrop, “I confess that I prefer to wonder what
+has become of her. I do not like to think of her future. Scheherazade
+grown old! I see her grown very plump, full-bosomed,
+with blond hair, living in a small flat with a maid, walking in the
+Park with a Pekinese, motoring with a Jewish stock-broker. With a
+fierce appetite for food and drink, when all other appetite is
+gone, all other appetite gone except the insatiable increasing appetite
+of vanity; rolling on two wide legs, rolling in motorcars,
+rolling toward a diabetic end in a seaside watering place”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Just now you saw that bright flame burning itself out,” said
+Appleplex, “now you see it guttering thickly, which proves that
+your vision was founded on imagination, not on feeling. And
+the passion for experience—have you remained so impregnably
+Pre-Raphaelite as to believe in that? What real person, with the
+genuine resources of instinct, has ever believed in the passion for
+experience? The passion for experience is a criticism of the sincere,
+a creed only of the histrionic. The passionate person is
+passionate about this or that, perhaps about the least significant
+things, but not about experience. But Marius, des Esseintes,
+Edith....”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But consider”, said Eeldrop, attentive only to the facts of
+Edith’s history, and perhaps missing the point of Appleplex’s remarks,
+“her unusual career. The daughter of a piano tuner in
+<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a>
+Honolulu, she secured a scholarship at the University of California,
+where she graduated with Honours in Social Ethics. She then
+married a celebrated billiard professional in San Francisco, after
+an acquaintance of twelve hours, lived with him for two days,
+joined a musical comedy chorus, and was divorced in Nevada.
+She turned up several years later in Paris and was known to all
+the Americans and English at the Cafe du Dome as Mrs Short. She
+reappeared in London as Mrs Griffiths, published a small volume of
+verse, and was accepted in several circles known to us. And now,
+as I still insist, she has disappeared from society altogether.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The memory of Scheherazade”, said Appleplex, “is to me that of
+Bird’s custard and prunes in a Bloomsbury boarding house. It
+is not my intention to represent Edith as merely disreputable.
+Neither is she a tragic figure. I want to know why she misses.
+I cannot altogether analyse her ‘into a combination of known elements’
+but I fail to touch anything definitely unanalysable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is Edith, in spite of her romantic past, pursuing steadily some
+hidden purpose of her own? Are her migrations and eccentricities
+the sign of some unguessed consistency? I find in her a quantity
+of shrewd observation, an excellent fund of criticism, but I cannot
+connect them into any peculiar vision. Her sarcasm at the expense
+of her friends is delightful, but I doubt whether it is more
+than an attempt to mould herself from outside, by the impact of
+hostilities, to emphasise her isolation. Everyone says of her, ‘How
+perfectly impenetrable!’ I suspect that within there is only the
+confusion of a dusty garret”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I test people”, said Eeldrop, “by the way in which I imagine
+them as waking up in the morning. I am not drawing upon memory
+when I imagine Edith waking to a room strewn with clothes,
+papers, cosmetics, letters and a few books, the smell of Violettes
+de Parme and stale tobacco. The sunlight beating in through
+broken blinds, and broken blinds keeping out the sun until Edith
+can compel herself to attend to another day, Yet the vision does
+not give me much pain. I think of her as an artist without the
+slightest artistic power”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The artistic temperament—” began Appleplex.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, not that”. Eeldrop snatched away the opportunity. “I
+mean that what holds the artist together is the work which he
+does; separate him from his work and he either disintegrates or
+solidifies. There is no interest in the artist apart from his work.
+And there are, as you said, those people who provide material for
+<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a>
+the artist. Now Edith’s poem ‘To Atthis’ proves beyond the shadow
+of a doubt that she is not an artist. On the other hand I
+have often thought of her, as I thought this evening, as presenting
+possibilities for poetic purposes. But the people who can be material
+for art must have in them something unconscious, something
+which they do not fully realise or understand. Edith, in spite of
+what is called her impenetrable mask, presents herself too well. I
+cannot use her; she uses herself too fully. Partly for the same
+reason I think, she fails to be an artist: she does not live at all
+upon instinct. The artist is part of him a drifter, at the mercy
+of impressions, and another part of him allows this to happen for
+the sake of making use of the unhappy creature. But in Edith
+the division is merely the rational, the cold and detached part of
+the artist, itself divided. Her material, her experience that is, is
+already a mental product, already digested by reason. Hence
+Edith (I only at this moment arrive at understanding) is really the
+most orderly person in existence, and the most rational. Nothing
+ever happens to her; everything that happens is her own doing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And hence also”, continued Appleplex, catching up the thread,
+“Edith is the least detached of all persons, since to be detached
+is to be detached from one’s self, to stand by and criticise coldly
+one’s own passions and vicissitudes. But in Edith the critic is
+coaching the combatant.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Edith is not unhappy”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is dissatisfied, perhaps”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But again I say, she is not tragic: she is too rational. And in
+her career there is no progression, no decline or degeneration.
+Her condition is once and for always. There is and will be no
+catastrophe”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I am tired. I still wonder what Edith and Mrs Howexden
+have in common. This invites the consideration (you may not
+perceive the connection) of Sets and Society, a subject which we
+can pursue tomorrow night”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Appleplex looked a little embarrassed. “I am dining with Mrs
+Howexden”, he said. “But I will reflect upon the topic before
+I see you again”.
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="IMAGINARYLETTERS">
+<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a>
+Imaginary Letters
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="IV3">
+IV
+</h3>
+
+<p class="subt">
+<span class="line1">(Walter Villerant to Mrs. Bland Burn)</span>
+</p>
+
+<p class="aut">
+Ezra Pound
+</p>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">M</span><span class="postfirstchar">y</span> dear Lydia:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Your rather irascible husband asks for “Aunt Sallys”<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-5" id="fnote-5">[5]</a>;
+with the Pyrenees before me and at this late date, it is difficult to
+provide them. I agree with at least half he says. I am, with
+qualifications, Malthusian. I should consent to breed under pressure,
+if I were convinced in any way of the reasonableness of
+reproducing the species. But my nerves and the nerves of any
+woman I could live with three months, would produce only a victim—beautiful
+perhaps, but a victim: expiring of aromatic pain
+from the jasmine, lacking in impulse, a mere bundle of discriminations.
+If I were wealthy I might subsidize a stud of young
+peasants, or a tribal group in Tahiti. At present “<em>valga mas estar
+soltero</em>”, I will not take Miss J., nor her income, nor the female
+disciple of John.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There is no truce between art and the public. The public
+celebrates its eucharists with dead bodies. Its writers aspire to
+equal the oyster: to get themselves swallowed alive. They encompass
+it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Art that sells on production is bad art, essentially. It is art that
+is made to demand. It suits the public. The taste of the
+public is bad. The taste of the public is always bad. It is bad
+because it is not an individual expression, but merely a mania for
+assent, a mania to be “in on it”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Even the botches of a good artist have some quality, some distinction,
+which prevents their pleasing mass-palates.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Good art weathers the ages because once in so often a man of
+intelligence commands the mass to adore it. His contemporaries
+call him a nuisance, their children follow his instructions, include
+him in the curricula. I am not lifting my voice in protest; I am
+<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a>
+merely defining a process. I do not protest against the leaves
+falling in autumn.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The arts are kept up by a very few people; they always have
+been kept up, when kept up at all, by a very few people. A
+great art patron is a man who keeps up great artists. A good
+art patron is a man who keeps up good artists. His reputation
+is coterminous with the work he has patronized. He can not
+be an imbecile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There are a few more people capable of knowing good art
+when they see it. Half of them are indifferent, three fourths of
+them are inactive, the exceeding few side with the artist; about all
+they can do is to feed him. Others, hating his art, may from
+family or humanitarian motives, feed and clothe him in spite of his
+art ... and attempt to divorce him from it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+These statements are simple, dull. One should write them in
+electric lights and hang them above Coney Island, and beside the
+Sarsaparilla sign on Broadway! The Biblical Text Society should
+embellish them upon busses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Unfortunately the turmoil of yidds, letts, finns, esthonians,
+cravats, niberians, nubians, algerians, sweeping along Eighth Avenue
+in the splendour of their vigorous unwashed animality will not
+help us. They are the America of tomorrow....
+</p>
+
+<p>
+(The good Burn believes in America; the naive English, mad
+over apiculture, horticulture, arboriculture, herbiculture, agriculture,
+asparagriculture etc., always believe in America ... until they
+have seen it.)
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The turmoil of Yidds, Letts, etc., is “full of promise”, full
+of vitality. They are the sap of the nation, our heritors, the heritors
+of our ancient acquisitions. But our job is to turn out good art,
+that is to produce it, to make a tradition.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My field must be ploughed up, but the country has need of
+quiet” (La Famille Cardinal). “I admire Epicurus. He was not
+the dupe of analogies”. Need I give references for all my quotations?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This nonsense about art for the many, for the majority. J’en
+ai soupé. It may be fitting that men should enjoy equal “civic
+and political rights”, these things are a matter of man’s exterior
+acts, of exterior contacts. (Macchiavelli believed in democracy:
+it lay beyond his experience). The arts have nothing to do with
+this. They are man’s life within himself. The king’s writ does not
+run there. The voice of the majority is powerless to make me enjoy,
+or disenjoy, the lines of Catullus. I dispense with a vote
+<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a>
+without inconvenience; Villon I would not dispense with.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bales are written on the false assumption that you can treat
+the arts as if they were governed by civic analogies. The two
+things are not alike, and there is an end to the matter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is rubbish to say “art for the people lies behind us”. The
+populace was paid to attend greek drama. It would have gone to
+cinemas instead, had cinemas then existed. Art begins with the
+artist. It goes first to the very few; and, next, to the few very
+idle. Even journalism and advertising can not reverse this law. I
+have scribbled a very long letter, and not answered half the
+good William’s diatribe. My regards to Mrs Amelia.
+</p>
+
+<p class="sign">
+Yours,<br>
+<span class="smallcaps">Walter Villerant</span>.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="footnote">
+
+<p class="footnote">
+<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-5" id="footnote-5">[5]</a> “Imaginary Letters”, by Wyndham Lewis. <em>The Little Review</em>
+for May.
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="THECHILDRENANDJUDAS">
+The Children and Judas
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+Robert Alden Sanborn
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">It was dawn upon the fields of Heaven,</p>
+    <p class="verse">The dew upon the fence-rail twinkled,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And there were seven</p>
+    <p class="verse">Stars upon the sky that beamed;</p>
+    <p class="verse">And in the grass the cow-bells tinkled,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And daisies dreamed,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And sweet smells streamed</p>
+    <p class="verse">Over the tasselled corn.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">God lay dimmed in slumber,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And Jesus’ warm hair was pillowed on His Father’s breast;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Seven disciples like seven points of a star</p>
+    <p class="verse">Were rayed about the sleeping Majesties,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And Judas was brighter than the rest,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Because his spirit had a fiercer sin to burn.</p>
+    <p class="verse">His ruddy hair was rimmed with dew,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And what he was to me he is to you.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a>
+    <p class="verse">There was no sound</p>
+    <p class="verse">But the lyric murmur of a Mary, singing</p>
+    <p class="verse">Low upon the ground,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Where a brook ran upon a secret errand</p>
+    <p class="verse">Like a silver hound</p>
+    <p class="verse">Slipping beneath the unbound hair of trees;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Mary was singing to the least of these,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Some Children.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">All listened,</p>
+    <p class="verse">For the breath of her caressed the silence</p>
+    <p class="verse">With curves of melody;</p>
+    <p class="verse">And hence the very corn awoke to hear,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And to inhale the healing psalmody.</p>
+    <p class="verse">So because the grass, the daisies, stirred</p>
+    <p class="verse">Pleasantly, and light wings whirred</p>
+    <p class="verse">As birds arose from nests,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And quests of dew and honey went upon,</p>
+    <p class="verse">The Children, one by one, moved about,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And some would run up the hill,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And back again; another seemed to pout,</p>
+    <p class="verse">But changed and blew a glad shrill whistle out</p>
+    <p class="verse">That pleased the sailing stars.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Then Mary ceased her song,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And silence fell like shadow on them all.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Now amongst the ones who slept</p>
+    <p class="verse">Judas raised his head;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Sleep never touched his eyes with cool forgetfulness,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Instead his soul was fed with sin</p>
+    <p class="verse">That never flickered out within.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">He yawned and bent his knees,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And the tongue of a silver bell</p>
+<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a>
+    <p class="verse">Shivered above the sleeping Majesties</p>
+    <p class="verse">Within the ring of seven,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Because there were but six</p>
+    <p class="verse">When Judas vaulted the fence-rail</p>
+    <p class="verse">Out of the fields of Heaven.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">And now you could hear Jesus breathe,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And God murmur peace upon the wakeful corn.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">“God!”</p>
+    <p class="verse">A spire of frail sound rose from a boyish will,</p>
+    <p class="verse">“See God, He’s walking down the hill,</p>
+    <p class="verse">See, Mary!”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">And Mary looked up</p>
+    <p class="verse">And saw Judas coming toward them,</p>
+    <p class="verse">The sweet hand of a Child in the cup of either hand.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">“Shall I tell them the truth, Judas,</p>
+    <p class="verse">That you are far from God,” said she,</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Or will you burn them with your sin,</p>
+    <p class="verse">You who are no kin to such as these,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And drive them back to me,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Crying bitterly?”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">A smile struggled with his twisted face,</p>
+    <p class="verse">But could not give it grace,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And the two Children, wary</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of the lurid tumult in his breast,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Wrested their twined fingers from the gnarled hold of him,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And their eyes dim with tears,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Ran back to Mary.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Judas, the silent shadow of a man,</p>
+    <p class="verse">His will as heavy as a fallen tree in a wood,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Stood upon the hill,</p>
+<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a>
+    <p class="verse">And watched the Children as they ran,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Saw them nestle into Mary’s arms,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Seeking in the cloudy charms</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of her loosened hair,</p>
+    <p class="verse">The peace they knew was there.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Words crowded in his throat,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And he sat upon the hillside</p>
+    <p class="verse">With his face between his knees.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Now when his face was hidden</p>
+    <p class="verse">From the least of these,</p>
+    <p class="verse">One, bidden by the helplessness</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of the man on the side of the hill,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Came from the shelter of Mary’s hair,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And minding not her warning touch,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Nor her sounding of his name,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Knowing he was not chidden much,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Went winding an idle way</p>
+    <p class="verse">Up the hill, and around and away</p>
+    <p class="verse">From the still bowed man.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">And first he picked a flower</p>
+    <p class="verse">Which he threw higher toward the fence-rail.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">God smiled in His sleep,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And Jesus opened His eyes,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Put forth a hand for the plucked flower,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And hid it in His breast,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Yet did not rise nor cease His rest.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">The Child,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Keeping a moody soft eye upon the grey humped figure,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Betrayed his mischief in a smile</p>
+    <p class="verse">That waxed bigger, bubble-like, and broke into a laugh,</p>
+<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a>
+    <p class="verse">And like a thief in the night</p>
+    <p class="verse">Crept up the hill to the fence-rail,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And peeked.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">The fence-rail creaked</p>
+    <p class="verse">As Jesus turned His face to him:</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Poor man, dear boy,” he whispered silverly,</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Until he learns to play,</p>
+    <p class="verse">To dress his dusty head</p>
+    <p class="verse">With ribbons of the rosy day,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Never can he share</p>
+    <p class="verse">Your early morning passion,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Flecked with foamy curls of hair.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Would you give him back again</p>
+    <p class="verse">To my bosom, cleansed of pain,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Spill your living ways of laughing</p>
+    <p class="verse">In his muffled ears;</p>
+    <p class="verse">At him, and beset him! Splash him, little dears,</p>
+    <p class="verse">In your fun,” Jesus bade the boy.</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Run!”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">And the Child winked, Yes,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Turned about and ran,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Put his flying hands upon the shoulders of the man,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And while a star blinked</p>
+    <p class="verse">At what he saw,</p>
+    <p class="verse">The Child broke the law of sin</p>
+    <p class="verse">As he leaped over Judas in the old, old game;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Ran screaming down to Mary’s covering hair,</p>
+    <p class="verse">But did not linger there;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Sped back and bounded over once again,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And others captured by the first one’s joy</p>
+    <p class="verse">Were startled into rapture</p>
+    <p class="verse">And followed, girl and boy,</p>
+    <p class="verse">In the glamour of the game,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Until the sunken man became</p>
+<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a>
+    <p class="verse">Bathed and spattered,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Shaken, shattered and half-hidden,</p>
+    <p class="verse">In the breaking foam of Children.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">There came a pause</p>
+    <p class="verse">When the Little Ones, breathing</p>
+    <p class="verse">Hard about Judas, saw him raise his head,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Saw a smile like theirs, wreathing</p>
+    <p class="verse">His face, washed with sleep,</p>
+    <p class="verse">As though he waked in his bed</p>
+    <p class="verse">From the keep of angels.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">In his eyes remembrance shone</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of when he was a boy</p>
+    <p class="verse">And looked upon the face of God everywhere;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of when he was himself a toy,</p>
+    <p class="verse">A plaything of a God who dreamed</p>
+    <p class="verse">Everywhere and everything.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">And when the Children saw</p>
+    <p class="verse">Upon his face the broken law</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of sin dissolve like shadows</p>
+    <p class="verse">In a ruined wood;</p>
+    <p class="verse">When they saw the sun come up</p>
+    <p class="verse">Within him, fill his face as the cup</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of the world is filled,</p>
+    <p class="verse">They spilled their bubbling laughter on the air,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And cuddled to his knees</p>
+    <p class="verse">As though he, too, were of the least of these.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">His greedy arms inarticulately stuffed</p>
+    <p class="verse">With bloomy charms,</p>
+    <p class="verse">His roughed voice sweet</p>
+    <p class="verse">With honey of his joy, he began:</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a>
+    <p class="verse">“Now when I was a boy</p>
+    <p class="verse">I had as little as you to give me joy,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And made as much of it,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Made a world of many mansions</p>
+    <p class="verse">Each great enough for God to dwell in;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Yes, mansions of my little joy,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Even as do you.”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">“Do we?” asked one thoughtfully,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And, “What is mansion?” said another.</p>
+    <p class="verse">“And who put the shadows in your face?”</p>
+    <p class="verse">“And who took them away again?”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">“A great light put the shadows in my face.”</p>
+    <p class="verse">Said he;</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Because I hoarded it within,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And boarded it up with sin</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of my importance;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Because I would not dance with joy of it</p>
+    <p class="verse">Like a brook prancing to the sea,</p>
+    <p class="verse">But in a deep dark well</p>
+    <p class="verse">Sealed the living spirit up;</p>
+    <p class="verse">What grace of it I could not keep</p>
+    <p class="verse">I would not give away</p>
+    <p class="verse">In play, like you.”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">“Do we?” asked one closer than the rest.</p>
+    <p class="verse">“And who is Grace?” from another troubled breast.</p>
+    <p class="verse">“And what is sin?”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">“Sin is a stone,”</p>
+    <p class="verse">Dreamed Judas, his chin on a silky head,</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Which when a seed is blown</p>
+    <p class="verse">Upon it, harbors not</p>
+    <p class="verse">The desire of a flower in the seed,</p>
+<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a>
+    <p class="verse">But must be broken by the shower,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And a deal of shining,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And the bold clutch of cold;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Grace is the flower</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of desire in the seed,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And sin is the stone that will not feed the flower.”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">“Here is a flower,”</p>
+    <p class="verse">Said a Child with a daffodil.</p>
+    <p class="verse">“And here is a stone,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Will you show us how</p>
+    <p class="verse">The stone won’t feed the flower?”</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Yes, will you <em>now</em>?” chattered all.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Judas took the stone in one hand,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And in the other raised a black leather bag</p>
+    <p class="verse">That sagged from the girdle at his waist.</p>
+    <p class="verse">“There is little grace in either,</p>
+    <p class="verse">As much in one as in the other,”</p>
+    <p class="verse">Murmured Judas, <a id="corr-19"></a>hefting the leather bag.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">“Oh, I hear something jingle,” said a little blond brother.</p>
+    <p class="verse">“Are they sins?” said his sister.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">“NO!” spoke a voice like the beat of a great wing</p>
+    <p class="verse">On the air behind Judas.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Then a white light shone upon him,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Through him spread the light</p>
+    <p class="verse">So that no shadow of him fell</p>
+    <p class="verse">Like night around the Children.</p>
+    <p class="verse">And Judas looked up,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And saw Jesus standing there.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">“See, Children!” cried Jesus, with many smiles,</p>
+<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a>
+    <p class="verse">“What the good Judas has brought you all these years;</p>
+    <p class="verse">See, my dears, what he has saved all the stony hilly miles,</p>
+    <p class="verse">For you!”</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">And Jesus opened the black leather bag,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And brought forth hands full of sweet bread</p>
+    <p class="verse">Which he fed to the Children.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Then Judas, his hands sticky</p>
+    <p class="verse">With crumby kisses of the Little Ones,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Went up the hill with the great Lover,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Under the cover of His arm,</p>
+    <p class="verse">All harm gone from him.</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="THEREADERCRITIC">
+The Reader Critic
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="letters">
+<h3 class="section" id="YEATSSUPONADYINGLADY">
+Yeats’s “Upon a Dying Lady”
+</h3>
+
+<p class="from">
+J., New York:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I wonder how many of your readers know that the Seven Poems
+by William Butler Yeats in the August number of <em>The Little Review</em>
+were inspired by and written about Miss Mabel Beardsley, the sister
+of Aubrey Beardsley? I remember when Yeats was writing them.
+She was dying of a lingering illness. She was a Catholic, and it is
+of course well known that Aubrey Beardsley became a Catholic before
+he died. Artists, poets and writers like Charles Shannon and
+Charles Ricketts, W. B. Yeats, and other old friends of her brother
+and herself, used to take turns in visiting her. Some of them made
+points of collecting their best and in some cases most improper
+stories for her. I hope that she kept a diary and entered
+some of the stories in it. W. B. Yeats was tremendously moved by
+her fine spirit and gaiety. The Seven Poems were the result.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a>
+The story is one that Meredith would have loved. And she was
+a joyous creature that Meredith would have loved had he known her.
+There was no wearing of black there, no making a luxury of her
+grief, no flaunting it in the faces of others, even though they might
+sympathize with or share her feelings. It was all quite French, what
+a spirited French woman would do. She would have enjoyed the
+story published in the Letters of Meredith that an old Cornish woman
+told him:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A hunting Squire in her neighborhood had a very handsome wife,
+whom he valued less than the fox’s tail. One of the Vivians eyed
+her, admired, condoled, desired and carried her off. Some days after,
+she was taken with compunction or compassion, and about midnight
+the forsaken squire, sitting in his library, heard three knocks at the
+window. ‘That’s Bess,’ he said, and let her in. She was for weeping
+and protesting repentance, but he kissed her, taking the blame on
+himself, rightly, and the house was quiet. Old Lady Vivian, like
+many old ladies, had outgrown her notions of masculine sentiment
+in these matters; she said to my friend: ‘What are the man’s family
+making such a fuss about! My son only had her a fortnight!’”
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="GARGOYLES">
+Gargoyles
+</h3>
+
+<p class="from">
+An Old Reader:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I have never been a real subscriber. The only copy of
+<em>The Little Review</em> I ever bought was the memorable March issue
+with Galsworthy’s letter in it. For a long time after that <em>The
+Little Review</em> was my religion; it converted me to a faith in New
+America, it inspired me to dreams and creative work. It was
+my first American sweetheart, and as long as it remained such it
+aroused in me the whole gamut of love emotions, from passionate
+admiration to passionate hatred. It would pain me to become just
+a subscriber, to manifest my attitude through a dollar and a half.
+Better leave the ashes undisturbed by profane poking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of late I have thought a good deal about the magazine. I
+have been camping near the ocean, and have spent some time in
+your various haunts of last summer where the natives still gossip
+about the <em>Little Review</em> crowd. Plunging at night into the phosphorous
+surf and other delightful sins, mingled with communion
+with some <em>Little Review</em> worshippers, has disturbed my academic
+calm and provoked my reveries. One night I was awakened and
+perceived an apparition moving from the roaring sea toward my
+gigantic fire. I heard a voice, a wail: “Help! Margaret Anderson
+is murdering me!” Was it the spirit of <em>The Little Review</em>?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a>
+For surely the spirit of the old <em>Little Review</em> is dead. You
+seem to be proud of your evolution, of the graves of your old gods
+that loom in your eyes like stepping-stones to those heights where
+you bask in the wisdom of the Ezras. I hope your new faith is
+as sleeve-deep as your former acquired creeds. For the beauty of
+the old <em>Little Review</em>, the secret of its magnetism and appeal to
+Young America, lay in its youthfulness, its spontaneity, in its
+puerility, if you wish. For puerility mates with originality. The
+Ezras know too much. Their minds are black, scarcely smouldering
+logs. They are yogis; you remember how Galsworthy hoped that
+you would escape the danger of becoming yogis?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+An Ezraized <em>Little Review</em> will have no appeal to Young America.
+Shall I tell you that in my summer class I had students from
+various western states to the University of California because
+they saw my name in the catalogue, and they associated my
+name with the old <em>Little Review</em>? These worshippers are cold to
+the recent issues. And I sympathize with them. The new <em>Little
+Review</em> is gargoylitic, monotonously so. We can still enjoy a
+passage in Wyndham Lewis, although Remy de Gourmont has
+said the same things more beautifully and less flippantly. We
+are still grateful for such a jewel as Maxwell Bodenheim’s “Poet’s
+Heart”: Bodenheim is the greatest of all the Others, for he does
+not suffer from self-consciousness, from too-much-knowing. But
+it is Ezra who sprawls all over <em>The Little Review</em> and bedecks it
+with gargoyles. Mr. Pound is digestible only in the early miniatures:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh fan of white silk, clear as frost on the grass-blade”....
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I hope that you will soon tire of your over-sophisticated associates
+and drive them out of the sanctuary. After all you are
+a rock ... you are still persisting at the impossible and the
+miraculous. I am looking forward to the next stage in your evolution.
+And I send you my hearty greeting, over the gargoylitic
+heads of your miseacres, for the next fresh, spontaneous <em>Little Review</em>.
+</p>
+
+  <div class="note">
+<p class="noindent">
+[This letter I think will find an echo in the minds of many of
+our first subscribers. I have several faults to find with its point of
+view, but one especially: I cannot see why personal qualities such
+as freshness, spontaneity, enthusiasm, etc., are in any way a guarantee
+for an interesting or important magazine. Being temperamentally
+spontaneous, my actions will always be characterized by impulsiveness,
+etc. But I know that spontaneity will never help me to write
+an immortal poem. You must keep things in their proper correspondences.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a>
+I very spontaneously accept the cooperation of a group of
+writers who can really write. Literature is their medium. Playing
+the piano is mine. When I play the piano very beautifully to the
+original <em>Little Review</em> “worshippers” they will know it is not because
+I am young and fresh and enthusiastic but because I know a great
+deal about how the piano should be played. I can’t do such things
+to words. Wyndham Lewis does it in this issue in a passage—“Leonardo’s
+beauty consisted in a red rain on the shadowed side
+of heads”.... That is a matter of great prose. And the only reason
+for a magazine of the Arts to be published is that it shall produce
+great prose, great poetry, great reproductions of sculpture, painting,
+and music. We are going to have the latter as soon as possible.—<em>M.
+C. A.</em>]
+</p>
+
+  </div>
+<h3 class="section" id="PHASESOFCRAZES">
+Phases of Crazes
+</h3>
+
+<p class="from">
+H. L. C., Chicago:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I have just read your circular letter in which you state your
+aims and set forth your plans for the future. It is the best-written
+letter of the kind I have ever read.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But I don’t like your promises, so I am going to risk your
+Reader Critic (that at least is always interesting: no one ever seems
+to be safe from you) and tell you why.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I wish you didn’t have such a craze for foreigners and self-exiled
+Americans. I think you have missed your chance right here in your
+own country. I am sure there are writers if you would go after
+them who, if they couldn’t write so well, would on the other hand
+be writing in a familiar manner about subjects known to us and in
+so doing be creating a literary tradition of our own.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I am tired of these floods of Russian, French, Scandinavian,
+Irish and Hindoo stuff that have swept the country. The war will
+probably reduce the importation of foreign books, and I for one
+think this will be a good thing....
+</p>
+
+  <div class="note">
+<p class="noindent">
+[I should think there might be room in America for one
+magazine which will print work just because it is good, no matter
+where it is produced. All we ask in this is to be allowed a choice
+of crazes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To us is seems that there is an indiscriminate craze in the
+theatre, in books, in magazines, and even in exhibition rooms, for
+the American product with all its sins upon it. Let your fears for
+the contamination or stifling from abroad of American letters be
+at rest. Congress and the established publisher have attended to all
+<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a>
+that. Ignorance is protected from invasion far better than the
+country itself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Each generation in this country is spared the shock of contemporary
+foreign masterpieces. When a masterpiece reaches America,
+a generation late, Time has tempered it to the shorn. I happen to
+know something of Tagore’s experience with this protection. When
+Tagore was first “discovered” in America—(he had been published
+in London and had with him only a few personal copies of his work)—he
+sent to his London publishers for extra copies to meet the
+requests of his friends. Aside from a terrific tariff, the red tape
+and the questioning as to the integrity of his purpose in importing
+his own books proved too wearing an experience: the idea was
+abandoned. On his recent trip he brought with him a small collection
+of very gentle Indian water colours, with no other motive than
+to create if possible an understanding of Indian art in this country.
+His pictures were held up at the port of Seattle, he was called again
+and again before inspectors, made to swear all kinds of oaths, and
+to deposit a fabulous sum (some forty thousand dollars, as I remember)
+to assure the government that his intentions were all
+right.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As he was leaving the country some one asked him if he ever
+intended making another visit,—(there had been some agitation before
+this about including the Hindoo in the Oriental Immigration
+laws)—and Tagore replied, “I do not know. You will make a law
+against the Hindoo coming to your country. You have now a law
+against books. It may be you will make a law against poets coming
+too?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the western nations have finished making the world safe
+for democracy, if it wouldn’t be too satirical the Orient might wage
+a world war to make the world safe for Art.—<em>jh.</em>]
+</p>
+
+  </div>
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Bury bloody Bodenheim</p>
+      <p class="verse">Bury bloody Bodenheim</p>
+      <p class="verse">Bury bloody Bodenheim</p>
+          <p class="verse2">And Johnny Rodker too.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza attr">
+      <p class="verse">—<em>E. J.</em></p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="editorials chapter">
+<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a>
+<h2 class="noindent" id="TOOURREADERS">
+To
+Our
+Readers
+</h2>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Do you know anything more annoying or
+more ageing than to have your friends
+discover for you those cherished things in
+Art which you should have discovered for
+yourself?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>The Little Review</em> is giving its readers an
+opportunity to make their own discoveries.
+There is no magazine in America which
+has on its staff such an important line-up
+of known genius and the “yet unknowns”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If you have any friends who are not
+entrenched in mediocrity, definitely protecting
+themselves against good literature,
+tell them to subscribe to <em>The Little Review</em>.
+Or send us their names and we will mail
+them sample copies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>The Little Review</em> is doing some intensive
+growing this autumn. We have great
+plans for enlarging our format and giving
+you the best creative work that is being
+produced here and in Europe, written
+without an eye on the established publisher,
+and not garbled in editorial rooms
+to meet the taste of the average mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Send us the names of any people you
+think will be interested. We will appreciate
+it.
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="ads chapter">
+<p class="h2 adh">
+Mason &amp; Hamlin
+</p>
+
+<p class="h3 adh">
+THE STRADIVARIUS OF PIANOS
+</p>
+
+<p class="h1 adh">
+Mason &amp; Hamlin Co.
+</p>
+
+<p class="ade">
+313 FIFTH AVENUE<br>
+NEW YORK
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="ads chapter">
+<p class="h1 adh">
+OLD<br>
+CHELSEA
+</p>
+
+<p class="ade">
+51 West 16th Street<br>
+New York City
+</p>
+
+<p class="h3 ade">
+Rooms, Suites, Floors
+</p>
+
+<p>
+furnished or unfurnished.
+Intelligent service for busy
+men and women.
+</p>
+
+<p class="h3 ade">
+Table d’hote<br>
+dining-room
+</p>
+
+<p>
+noted for fine home cooking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“<em>A bit of Old Chelsea
+in little old New York</em>”
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="ads chapter">
+<p class="h3 adh">
+Ruth Stout says,
+</p>
+
+<p>
+... “And now remember,
+it’s Special Dinner for half-a-dollar
+on Wednesday at 7.00;
+and on Sunday it’s luncheon
+a la carte.”
+</p>
+
+<p class="h2 adh">
+THE KLICKET
+</p>
+
+<p class="ade">
+163 West Fourth Street,<br>
+The Village, New York.
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="ads chapter" id="ANNOUNCEMENTFOROCTOBER">
+<p class="h1 adh">
+THE LITTLE REVIEW
+</p>
+
+<p class="u ade">
+MARGARET C. ANDERSON, <em>Editor</em><br>
+EZRA POUND, <em>London Editor</em>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>For October</em>:
+</p>
+
+<p class="narrow u">
+A POEM, by T. S. ELIOT<br>
+PO-CHÜ-I, versions by ARTHUR D. WALEY<br>
+CANTLEMAN, by WYNDHAM LEWIS<br>
+IMAGINARY LETTERS, V., by EZRA POUND<br>
+BARBARA ROSCORLA’S CHILD, by ARTHUR SYMONS<br>
+AN EDITORIAL ON SOLICITOUS DOUBT
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>For November</em>:
+</p>
+
+<p class="narrow u">
+HANRAHAN’S OATH: A PLAY, by LADY GREGORY
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Editorials in The Little Review will respect no vested
+interests, no publishers’ interests, no aged magazines and
+reviews, nor staffs of the same.
+</p>
+
+<hr>
+
+<p class="u c">
+Yearly Subscription, U. S. A., $1.50; Canada, $1.65;<br>
+Great Britain and other Countries, 7/-
+</p>
+
+<hr>
+
+<p class="h2 adh">
+THE LITTLE REVIEW
+</p>
+
+<p class="ade">
+24 West 16th Street, New York City<br>
+Foreign Office: 5 Holland Place Chambers, London W. S.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Enclosed find $1.50 for one year’s subscription,
+beginning ..........
+</p>
+
+<p class="r u">
+Name ......................<br>
+Address ...................<br>
+...................
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="trnote chapter">
+<p class="transnote">
+Transcriber’s Notes
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Advertisements were collected at the end of the text.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect correctly the
+headings in this issue of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The original spelling was mostly preserved.
+A few obvious typographical errors were silently corrected.
+All other changes are shown here (before/after):
+</p>
+
+
+
+<ul>
+
+<li>
+... there is certain category of spirit that is not quite anaemic, and ...<br>
+... there is <a href="#corr-3"><span class="underline">a</span></a> certain category of spirit that is not quite anaemic, and ...<br>
+</li>
+
+<li>
+... man’s festival as a Falstaff of <span class="underline">unwieldly</span> spume; if he comes at ...<br>
+... man’s festival as a Falstaff of <a href="#corr-4"><span class="underline">unwieldy</span></a> spume; if he comes at ...<br>
+</li>
+
+<li>
+... Yet saw on “ad.” “To-night, THE HUDSON SAIL<span class="underline">”</span>, ...<br>
+... Yet saw on “ad.” “To-night, THE HUDSON SAIL<a href="#corr-10"></a>, ...<br>
+</li>
+
+<li>
+... Murmured Judas, <span class="underline">helfting</span> the leather bag. ...<br>
+... Murmured Judas, <a href="#corr-19"><span class="underline">hefting</span></a> the leather bag. ...<br>
+</li>
+</ul>
+</div>
+
+
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78252 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
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+This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #78252
+(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78252)