diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/66217-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66217-0.txt | 3246 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 3246 deletions
diff --git a/old/66217-0.txt b/old/66217-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 65bbbdd..0000000 --- a/old/66217-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3246 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, June-July 1915 (Vol. 2, -No. 4), by Margaret C. Anderson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Little Review, June-July 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 4) - -Author: Lucien Cary, Richard Aldington, Will Levington Comfort, Alexander S. Kaun, Margaret C. Anderson, Clara Shanafelt, Ben Hecht, Florence Kiper Frank, Arthur Davison Ficke, Eunice Tietjens and Witter Bynner - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: September 4, 2021 [eBook #66217] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - http://www.pgdp.net. This book was produced from images made - available by the Modernist Journal Project, Brown and Tulsa - Universities. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, JUNE-JULY 1915 -(VOL. 2, NO. 4) *** - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - _Literature_ _Drama_ _Music_ _Art_ - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - EDITOR - - JUNE-JULY, 1915 - - Literary Journalism in Chicago Lucien Cary - Epigrams Richard Aldington - Education by Children Will Levington Comfort - Notes of a Cosmopolite Alexander S. Kaun - “The Artist in Life” Margaret C. Anderson - Poems Clara Shanafelt - Slobberdom, Sneerdom, and Boredom Ben Hecht - The Death of Anton Tarasovitch Florence Kiper Frank - Rupert Brooke (A Memory) Arthur Davison Ficke - A Photograph of Rupert Brooke by Eugene Hutchinson - To a West Indian Alligator Eunice Tietjens - Epitaphs Witter Bynner - Editorials and Announcements - The Submarine (from the Italian of Luciano Folgore by Anne Simon) - Blaa-Blaa-Blaa “The Scavenger” - The Nine!—Exhibit! - Book Discussion - The Reader Critic - - Published Monthly - - 15 cents a copy - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher - Fine Arts Building - CHICAGO - - $1.50 a year - - Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Vol. II - - JUNE-JULY, 1915 - - No. 4 - - - - - Literary Journalism in Chicago - - - LUCIAN CARY - -Nothing succeeds like an indiscretion. I was indiscreet enough last -winter to speak my mind (a little of it) about THE LITTLE REVIEW, _The -Dial_, _Poetry_, _The Drama_, and the audience to which these papers -appeal. The result is that I have been flattered or intimidated into -speaking it ever since. In the present instance both methods have been -used most charmingly—and shamelessly. You see, Miss Anderson and I live -in the same village. And yet I said nothing, and have nothing to say -about any paper except what everybody knows. - -Everybody knows that _The Friday Literary Review_ of _The Chicago -Evening Post_ under Mr. Francis Hackett and, later, under Mr. Floyd Dell -gave us the most alert, the most eager, the most intelligent, and the -best-written discussion of literature in the United States. That -eight-page supplement did what had hardly been done west of England -before: it made book reviews worth reading. There was almost as much -difference between the _Friday Review_ and _The Dial_ as there is -between Mr. George Bernard Shaw and Mr. Nicholas Murray Butler, almost -as much difference between the _Friday Review_ and _The New York Times -Literary Supplement_ as there is between M. Anatole France and Mr. Henry -Van Dyke. There was good writing in the _Friday Review_ and good -thinking behind it. It was almost never dull; and if it was young it was -not wholly unsophisticated; and if it was sometimes dead wrong it was -not stupid. If there were half as many persons interested in the -discussion of ideas as most of us like to believe the _Friday Review_ -would inevitably have continued. It would, that’s all. But as things are -it was fated. Neither the mechanics nor the economics of daily -journalism permitted it. The _Post_ could not continue to give us—it -quite literally gave us—eight pages of what so few of us wanted so much. - -Everybody knows that if a weekly paper dealing not only with literature -but with all the other arts in the spirit and with the journalistic -competence of the _Friday Review_ were established in Chicago everybody -would have to read it. - -That is the point I wished to make. It is perfectly obvious that THE -LITTLE REVIEW is not the kind of newspaper of the arts I have in mind. -THE LITTLE REVIEW is published only once a month. It is therefore not a -newspaper, but a magazine. It is three times as good as _The Drama_, -which is published only once a quarter. But my point is that we ought to -have something four times as good as THE LITTLE REVIEW: in short, a -weekly. It may be that THE LITTLE REVIEW has other failings than its -infrequency. But why consider these lesser matters? THE LITTLE REVIEW -has one virtue in addition to its eagerness. It is informal. Informality -is the breath of life to journalism. Nobody can write anything the way -people want him to unless he feels perfectly free to write the way he -wants to. It is far more a matter of manners than a matter of truth. A -journal which insists on formality almost never has any good writing in -it. Good writing is nothing but the artistic expression of a -personality. Scientifically speaking, it can be nothing else. Not that -one must be thinking about expressing his personality in order to write -well. The very point is that he must not be thinking about it. He has -got to be thinking about what he has to say and nothing else. Take the -use of “I” as an apparently trivial but actually significant example. If -the paper for which he is writing regards the use of “I” as a breach of -good form a man will find that one finger of his left hand is -mysteriously drawn to the shift key and one finger of his right hand to -the key between the “u” and the “o” in order to make an “I” all the time -he is punching his typewriter. The least excusable riot of “I’s” I ever -saw in print was in a journal of literary discussion which believes in -the reality of that invention of the old-fashioned logician, “objective -criticism,” and which regards the use of “I” by any but elderly -gentlemen of the walnuts and wine school as impossible. I did it myself -in the absence of the editor. In a paper which does not in the least -object to the use of “I” writers soon forget all about it, and when they -do that they begin to use it only when it is effective. It is the virtue -of THE LITTLE REVIEW that it permits its contributors to use “I” as -often as they please; that it permits them to make fools of themselves -occasionally. This means that it is not impossible to write well for THE -LITTLE REVIEW. I do not say that it is not possible to write badly for -THE LITTLE REVIEW. Perfect freedom to be idiotic does not inevitably -eliminate idiocy. - -But I have no more compliments for THE LITTLE REVIEW. - -_Poetry_ is another matter. Miss Monroe’s magazine has printed some bad -verse. But this is not, as its most envious critics imagine, its -distinction. Every magazine prints bad verse. _Poetry_ has printed -poetry that nobody else dared to print. _Poetry_ has boldly discussed -the poetic controversy when everybody else hid behind language. _Poetry_ -introduced us to Rabindranath Tagore, to Vachel Lindsay, in a way, to -Edgar Lee Masters. _Poetry_ printed Ford Hueffer’s poem _On Heaven_. -_Poetry_ has heard of Remy de Gourmont and the _Mercure de France_—an -incredible achievement for a Chicago literary journal. _Poetry_ has done -more than any other paper to furnish a meeting ground for writers in -Chicago. If _Poetry_ were concerned about novels it would not decide two -or three years after intelligent people had discovered _Jean Christophe_ -that M. Romain Rolland is a successor to Tolstoi and, for the first -time, print a few paragraphs about him. If _Poetry_ were interested in -psychology it would not ignore Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung. But _Poetry_ -is not interested in these things. Its great wealth is devoted only to -poetry and it comes out only once a month. - -It is a pity. For the spirit of _Poetry_ is nearer to the spirit of the -old _Friday Literary Review_ than anything else in Chicago. That is the -spirit I like, that seems suited to the place and the occasion. But it -needs a weekly paper of wide scope to express itself. - - - A man is an artist to the extent to which he regards everything - that inartistic people call “form” as the actual substance, as - the “principal” thing.—_Nietzsche._ - - - - - Epigrams - - - RICHARD ALDINGTON - - - Blue - - (_A Conceit_) - - The noon sky, a distended vast blue sail; - The sea, a parquet of coloured wood; - The rock-flowers, sinister indigo sponges; - Lavender leaping up, scented sulphur flames; - Little butterflies, resting shut-winged, fluttering, - Eyelids winking over watchet eyes. - - - The Retort Discourteous - - They say we like London—O Hell!— - They tell - Us we shall never sell - Our works (as if we cared). - We’re “high brow” and long-haired - Because we don’t - Cheat and cant. - We can’t rhythm; we can’t rhyme, - Just because their rag-time - Bores us. - - These twangling lyrists are too pure for sense; - So they chime, - Rhyme - And time, - And Slime, - All praise their virtuous impotence. - - - Christine - - I know a woman who is natural - As any simple cannibal; - This is a great misfortune, for her lot - Is to reside with people who are not. - - - - - Education by Children - - - WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT - -A little girl of eleven was working here in the study through the long -forenoon. In the midst of it, we each looked up and out through the -barred window to the nearest elm, where a song-sparrow had just finished -a perfect expression of the thing as he felt it. The song was more -elaborate, perhaps, because the morning was lofty and glorious. Old -Mother Nature smelled like a tea-rose that morning; one would know from -that without the sense of direction that the wind was from the south. -The song from the sunlight among the new elm leaves was so joyous that -it choked us. It stood out from all the songs of the morning, because it -was so near, and we had each been called by it from the pleasant mystery -of our tasks. - -The little girl leaned toward the window. We heard the other bird answer -from the distance, and then _ours_ sang again—and again. We sipped the -ecstacy in the hushes. Like a flicker the little bird was gone—a leaning -forward on the branch, and then a blur ... and presently the words in -the room: - - “... sang four songs and flew away.” - -It was a word-portrait, and told me much that I wanted. The number, of -course, was not mental, clearly a part of the inner impression. However, -no explanation will help if the art of the saying is not apparent. I -told the thing as it is here, to a class later in the day, and a woman -said: - -“Why, those six words make a Japanese poem.” - -I wonder if it is oriental? Rather I think it belongs especially to our -new generation, the elect of which seems to know innately that an -expression of truth in itself is a master-stroke. Somehow the -prison-house has not closed altogether upon the elect of the new -generation. There are lines in the new poetry that could come forth, and -have their being, only from the inner giant that heretofore has been -asleep except in the hearts of the rarest few whose mothers mated with -Gods, merely using men for a symbol and the gift of matter.... - -As I believe that the literary generation which has the floor in America -today is the weakest and the bleakest that ever made semi-darkness of -good sunlight, so I believe that the elect of the new generation -contains individuals who are true heaven-borns; that they bring their -own light with them and do not stand about stretched for reflection; -that they refuse to allow the world-lie to shut the passages of power -within them, between the zone of dreams and the more temperate zones of -matter. They have refused to accept us—that is the splendid truth. - -The new generation does not argue with us. They are not a race of -talkers. They do not accept what they find and begin to build upon that, -as all but the masters have done heretofore. They are making even their -own footings and abutments. And to such clean and sure beginnings magic -strength has come. The fashions and the mannerisms which we knew and -thought of as the heart of things; the artfulness of speech and written -word, the age of advertising which twisted its lie into the very -physical structure of our brains; the countless reserves and covers to -hide our want of inspiration (for light cannot pass through a twisted -passage)—all these, the new age has put away. It meets life face to -face—and a more subtle and formidable devil is required for its workers -than that which seduced us. - -The few great workmen heretofore have come up in the lie, and in -midlife, the sutures closing—they were warned because they had labored -like men. For their work’s sake and for their religion, which is the -same to great men, they perceived that they must tear the lie out of -their hearts, even if they bled to death. We call it their illumination, -but it was a very deep and dark passage for them. _Except that ye become -as little children_—that was all they knew, perhaps, but quite -enough.... And the old masters invariably put their story down for us to -read: Rodin, Puvis de Chavannes, Whitman, Balzac, Tolstoi—only to -mention a little group of the nearer names—all have told the story. In -their later years they told no other story. - -In the beginning they served men, as they fancied men wanted to be -served, but after they confronted the lie of it, they dared to listen to -reality from their own nature. They fought the fight for that cosmic -simplicity which is the natural flowering of the child mind, and which -modern education patronizingly dresses down at every appearance. The -masters wrenched open with all their remaining strength the doors of the -prison-house, and become more and more like children unto the end. - - * * * * * - -... I do not ask a finer fate than to write about the _New Age_ and -_Children_ and _Education by Children_ for THE LITTLE REVIEW. I think of -_you_ as one of its throbbing centers. I can say it better than that—I -think of you as a brown Arabian tent in which the world’s desire is just -rousing from sleep. I would like to be one of the larks of the morning, -whose song makes it impossible for you to doze again. I would not come -too near—lest you find me old, the brandings of past upon me. Yet -because of the years, I think I know what will be that “more formidable -and subtle devil” waiting to make you forget your way. - -He is not a stranger. He is always near when people dare to be simple. -There are many who call him a God still, but they do not use their eyes. -You who see so directly must never forget that bad curve of him below -the shoulders. Forever, the artists lying to themselves have tried to -cover that bad curve of Pan as it sweeps down into the haunches of a -goat. Pan is the first devil you meet when you reach that rectitude of -heart which dares to be naked and unashamed. - -Whole races of artists have lied about Pan because they listened to the -haunting music of his pipes. It calls sweetly, but does not satisfy. How -many Pan has called—and left them sitting among the rocks with mindless -eyes and hands that fiddle with emptiness!... Pan is so sad and -level-eyed. He does not explain. He does not promise—too wise for that. -He lures and enchants. He makes you pity him with a pity that is red as -the lusts of flesh. - -You know that red in the breast! It is the red that drives away the -dream of peace, yet the pity of him deludes you. You look again and -again, and the curve of his back does not break the dream, as before. -You think that because you pity him, you cannot fall; and all the pull -of the ground tells you that your _very thought of falling_ is a breath -from the old shames—your dead, but as yet unburied heritage, from -generations that learned the lie to itself. - -You touch the hair of the goat, and say it is Nature. But Pan is not -Nature—a hybrid, half of man’s making, rather. Your eyes fall to the -cloven hoof, but return to the level steady eye, smiling with such soft -sadness that your heart quickens for him, and you listen, as he says: -“All Gods have animal bodies and cloven hoofs, but I alone have dared to -reveal mine.” ... “How brave you are!” Your heart answers, and the throb -of him bewilders you with passion.... You who are so high must fall far, -when you let go. - -... And many of you will want to fall. Pan has come to you because you -_dare_.... You have murdered the old shames, you have torn down the -ancient and mouldering churches. You do not require the blood, the -thorn, the spikes, but I wonder if even you of a glorious generation, do -not still require the Cross?... It is because you see so surely and are -level-eyed that Pan is back in the world for you; and it is very strange -but true that you must first meet Pan and pass him by, before you can -enter into the woodlands with that valid God of Nature, whose back is a -challenge to aspiration, and whose feet are of the purity of the saints. - - - To M. - - Beautiful slave, - I kiss your lips abloom— - Do you not hear the surging voices - Beyond the tomb - Wherein you guard the candles of the dead? - - Do you not hear the winds that crown - The towers with clouds - Dancing up and down, - Fluttering your shrouds? - Do you not hear the music of the dawn, - The strong exultant voices swelling, - Welling like the sweep of eager birds - Beyond your somber dwelling - Where each somber wall enclosing flings - Back in your ear - The moaning passion of dead things? - - Beautiful slave, - I kiss your parted lips abloom. - O the splendor of the voids beyond - The stifling tomb - Wherein you keep your vigil by the dead. - You are too weary-spirited - To look at dawn, too tired-eyed to look upon the sun, - Too weak to stand against the winds. - What then? Farewell? No, let me— - I will find the face of God - With you among the worms. - - ANON. - - - - - Notes of a Cosmopolite - - - ALEXANDER S. KAUN - -Mit dem Nationalhaß ist es ein eigenes Ding. Auf den untersten Stufen -der Kultur wird man ihn immer am stärksten und heftigsten finden. Es -giebt aber eine Stufe, wo er ganz verschwindet, wo man gewissermaßen -über den Nationen steht und man ein Glück oder Weh seines Nachbarvolkes -fühlt, als wärs dem eigenen Volk begegnet.—_Goethe._ - - - _Uncle Sam vs. Onkel Michel_ - -You remember the story of the king parading every morning before his -meek subjects who expressed their great admiration for the sovereign’s -gorgeous raiment, until a certain simpleton shouted: “Why, the king is -nude!” I do not recall the end of the story, nor how the impudent -sceptic was punished; but the part I do remember recurs to me every time -some elemental power comes along and sweeps away the ephemeral figments -from the body of mankind. Mars has more than once played the part of the -rude simpleton; this god has neither tact nor manners; with his heavy -boot he dots the i’s and compels us to name pigs pigs. His first victim -falls the frail web of diplomatic niceties. Talleyrand’s cynicism about -the function of the diplomat’s tongue to conceal truth has become -bankrupt: who takes seriously nowadays the casuistry of the manicolored -Books issued by the belligerents? Even Tartuffian England has had to -doff the robe of idealism and to admit through the _Times_ that it would -have fought regardless of whether the neutrality of Belgium had been -infringed upon or not. Good. One of the salutary results of the war (let -us hope there will be more than one good result) has already been -realized in the wholesale unmasquing of international politics; it will -do immense good for mankind-Caliban to see his real image. - -The United States holds fast to its tradition of lagging behind the rest -of the world. Messrs. Wilson and Bryan still employ the rusty weapon of -“putting one over” through transparent bluff. “Too proud to fight” has -become a classic _mot_ the world over, to the sheer delight of European -humorists and cartoonists after their wits had been exhausted over the -memorable “Watchful Waiting.” The admirable English of the President has -demonstrated its effectiveness time and again: nearly each eloquent Note -has been responded to by a German torpedo. “America asks nothing for -herself but what she has a right to ask for humanity itself”—what -obsolete verbosity! Who is this Mme. Humanity in whose name we demand -the right to send shells to Europe unhampered by the intended victims of -those shells? An American weekly, outspokenly pro-British, has cynically -summed up the situation: “The British government will not allow a German -woman to obtain food from the United States with which to feed her -children, in spite of the fact that it is buying rifles in the United -States with which to kill her husband.” We can neither blame England for -her practical purposes, nor reproach the United States for her desire to -accommodate a good customer: business is business; but why these appeals -in the name of humanity? Why the indignant outcries against Germany’s -successful attempts to check the supply of ammunition for her enemies? -The brutal Lusitania affair has merely proved the consistent and -consequential policy of Germany; had she not carried out her threats she -would have found herself in the ridiculous position of our government -which seldom goes beyond threats. Talk about the murder of women and -children in time of war! I heard of a polite Frenchman who hurled -himself from the top story of the Masonic Temple and removed his hat to -apologize before a lady on one of the balconies whose hat he happened to -brush on his downward flight. Well, the Germans are not polite. - -What is the significance of Mr. Bryan’s resignation? Let us hope it is -of no import; let us hope it may cause a change in tone, but not in -action. For this country to be dragged into the whirlpool of the world -war would be a more unpardonable folly than the puerile Vera Cruz -affair. Our entrance into the war would change the actual situation of -the fighting powers as much as the solemn declaration of war by the -Liliputian San Marino has changed it; in the absence of an army -deserving mention we could depend solely upon our navy which would be -able to accomplish nothing more than joining in some calm bay the -invincible fleet of the Ruler of the Waves and indulge in philosophical -watchful waiting. On the other hand official war against Germany will -doubtless produce internal friction of the gravest importance. I say -_official_, for unofficially we have been on the side of the Allies for -many months despite our theoretical neutrality. Think of the sentiments -of the German soldiers when they are showered upon with shells bearing -the labels of American manufacturers. Had we not supplied England and -France with ammunition, who knows but that they would have found -themselves in the same predicament as Russia, that is, in the position -of an orchestra without instruments? When we shall have declared war -against Germany we shall hardly be in power to harm her more than we -have done heretofore; the Allies will do the killing, and we, the -manufacturing. But the cat’s-paw-game is ungentlemanly, especially when -it is done officially. To be sure, Mr. Wilson is a gentleman; hence our -firm hope that he will do nothing more grave than enriching English -literature with exemplary Notography. - - - _Vincisti, Teutonia!_ - -In his Frankfurt letters Heine wrote: - - I have never felt inclined to repose confidence in Prussia. I - have rather been filled with anxiety as I gazed upon this - Prussian eagle, and while others boasted of the bold way in which - he glared at the sun my attention was drawn more and more to his - claws. I never trusted this Prussian, this tall canting hero in - gaiters, with his big paunch and his large jaws, and his - corporal’s stick, which he dips in holy water before he lays it - about your back. I am not overfond of this philosophical - Christian militarism, this hodge-podge of thin beer, lies, and - sand. I utterly loathe this Prussia, this stiff, hypocritical, - sanctimonious Prussia, this Tartuffe among the nations. - -Can you blame Wilhelm for opposing the erection of a Heine monument in -Düsseldorf? Those lines were written nearly four scores of years ago, a -time sufficient for turning epithets obsolete. No longer is Prussia -labeled hypocritical and sanctimonious; it is rather accused of rude -frankness and insulting tactlessness. Yet the hatred for Prussia has not -abated, but has been greatly enhanced. Heine died before the planting of -the atrocious Sieges-Allee, that symbol of the triumphant pig; it is in -the last forty years that the world has witnessed the development of -Prussian forbearance, narrowness, machine-like preciseness, and -soullessness. We have always preferred to distinguish Germany from -Prussia; we have found delight in the thought that there is a Munich as -well as a Berlin, a Nietzsche as well as a Haeckel, a Rheinhard as well -as a Bernhardi.... Today we witness the hegemony of Prussia, a hegemony -political as well as spiritual, for the great war has crowned with -triumph not only the Krupp guns but also the Prussian idea of efficiency -and preciseness. Our amazement at the achievements of the lightning-like -army that has been almost invariably victorious during the eleven months -of fighting and has held in its iron grip two hostile fronts, and our -astonishment at the diabolical accomplishment of the submarines which -have driven the English fleet to rest in North Scotland and have become -the Flying Dutchmen of the seas, pale before our admiration for the -wonderful spirit displayed by the German people within their country. -Read their press; you find nothing bombastic or boasting, but calm -reserve, set teeth, clenched fists, and deadly determination to fight -for life, even if it be a fight against the whole world. “_Weder -Schlafpulver noch Tonics!_” admonishes Maximilian Harden against -drumming up illusionary hopes. “_Stirb und werde_,” he closes up one of -his terse articles in the most virile publication I know of, the -_Zukunft_. Bernhardi’s alternative—a World Power or Downfall—is not any -longer a mere jingo-rocket but an imperative axiom uniting all Germans -in a desperate decision to preserve their national existence in face of -a universal hatred and complete isolation. They are not geniuses, those -perseverant Teutons; rather are they the reverse of geniuses. They do -not rise above reality; they adapt themselves to facts. They refuse to -be Quixotic knights; they prefer to emulate Mahomet who went to the -mountain when the mountain declined to go unto him; not to ride on the -back of conditions and circumstances, but to hold tight their tail and -be dragged after them. Herein lies the Teutonic victory, the victory of -Blond Beast over Superman, the triumph of mediocrity over uniqueness, of -fact over idea, of efficiency over idealism, of state over individual. - - - _The Prophecy of Rimbaud_ - -Arthur Rimbaud, the close friend of Verlaine, the “ruffian,” according -to Mr. Powys (this I shall never forgive him), was capable not only of -perceiving the color of vowels but also of foreseeing the political -situation forty-five years ahead. _L’Eclaireur de Nice_ prints an -interesting statement made by Rimbaud in 1871, a few lines of which I -shall reluctantly attempt to translate: - - The Germans are by far our inferiors, for the vainer a people is - the closer it approaches decadence—history proves it.... They are - our inferiors because victory has besotted them. Our chauvinism - has received a blow from which it will not recover. The defeat - has freed us from stupid prejudice, has transformed and saved us. - Yes, they will pay dearly for their victory! In fifty years - envious and restless Europe will prepare for them a bold - unexpected stroke, and will whip them. I can foresee the - administration of iron and folly that will stifle German society - and German thought, in the end to be crushed by some coalition! - - - _George Brandes’ Neutrality_ - -There has been a good deal of misapprehension concerning Brandes’ -attitude towards the war. His refusal to answer the interpellation of -his friend Clemenceau, his condemnation of the Russian policy in Finland -and of the cowardly and treacherous treatment of the Jews by the Poles, -have given cause for suspecting him of pro-German sentiments. In a -recent interview with the correspondent of the Paris _Journal_ the -Danish critic avows his full sympathy for France. Although his statement -is reserved and plausibly neutral, one easily discerns his dislike for -Germany, in whose _Deutschland über Alles_ motto he sees a Jesuitic -excuse for all means that may lead to her end. “German brutality is not -instinctive; it is a scientific one, a theory.” The cause of the war he -epitomizes in the _mot_ of Pascal: “Pourquoi voulez vous tuer cette -homme?”—“Il est mon ennemi: il habite de l’autre côté du fleuve.” -Brandes expresses himself more frankly in the Danish _Tilskueren_, where -he interprets the war as the struggle between liberalism and personal -government, between civil spirit and militarism, between a people -(England) which accords others commercial freedom and self-government -and a country overridden with economic protectionism, junkers, and -bureaucracy. “England has an independent press and a government which -voices the parliament and public opinion; in Germany the press is -semi-official, the government is responsible solely before the Kaiser, -and the Kaiser only before God.” - - - _Germanophobia ad Absurdum_ - -The French Immortals, too old for actual participation in the war, have -found an outlet for their patriotism in shedding red ink of ridiculous -chauvinism. It has become a matter of course to meet a name of some -“Membre de l’Academie” signed under such outbursts as this: “Nothing of -the Barbarians, nothing of their literature, of their music, of their -art, of their science, nothing of their culture, of anything Made in -Germany!” Another Academic gives vent to his ire against those Frenchmen -who still find certain German things worth admiring, and he vehemently -advocates the prohibition of the Barbarian music and art “by law, by -persuasion, by force, by violence if necessary!” The octogenarian -Saint-Saens has written a series of articles venomously attacking -Wagnerian music, labeling traitor any Frenchman who favors the art of -the arch-foe of his country. Even the semi-official _Le Temps_ was -shocked by the violent tone of the old composer; it quoted Saint-Saens’s -articles of the year 1876, in which the author appeared to be an ardent -Wagnerite and appealed to his compatriots for broad-mindedness and -toleration for “the greatest genius of our times.” As a substitute for -the atrocious Wagner Saint-Saens recommends the return to Haydn and -Mozart, even to Meyerbeer; Schumann’s Lieder he would ban for Gounod and -Massenet; he favors even Dussek, for he is “only a Bohemian.” Patriotic -as he is, he refuses to sanction the modern French composers, since -Debussy, Fauré, D’Indy, and the rest are Wagnerians in his estimation. -It is a case of “senile reactionarism,” as the _Mercure de France_ -rightly observes. - - - _Comparative Morale_ - -It is very interesting to compare the barometer of public morale in the -European capitals, judging from their amusements. Here is one day’s bill -taken from the London _Daily News_, the Petrograd _Ryech_, the _Berliner -Tageblatt_, the Vienna _Neue Freie Presse_, and the Paris _Figaro_; I -have omitted the movies, which bear for the most part ultra-patriotic -titles, and the vaudevilles. The London bill is quite poor: _Veronique_, -a comic opera; _Mme. Sans-Gene_; Gaby Deslys in _Rosy Rapture_, -presented by Charles Frohman; _The Girl in the Taxi_; Frondai’s _The -Right to Kill_; _For England, Home, and Beauty_; and our old friends, -the Irish Players, in the Little Theatre. Still more meager is the Paris -bill: outside of _Cavalleria Rusticana_ (the chairman of the Walt -Whitman dinner pronounces it Keyveleeria Rohstikeyna), it abounds with -such tit-bits as _La Petite Fonctionaire_, _Mam’zelle Boy Scout_, -_Mariage de Pepeta_, and so forth. Berlin has on that day three -operas—_Don Juan_, _Elektra_, _Lohengrin_; three dramas—_Faust_, _Peer -Gynt_, _Schluck und Jau_ (the last one in Rheinhard’s Deutsches -Theater), not counting the minor affairs. Vienna’s bill took away my -breath: a Schönberg-Mahler Abend, a Schubert-Strauss Abend, a -Beethoven-Brahms Abend, a Brahms Kammermusik Abend, a concert under -Sevcik; _Carmen_; a play by Fulda after Molière; Ibsen’s _Master -Builder_ and _Ghosts_; Kleist’s _Kätchen von Heilbronn_. As for the -Petrograd bill, I had better not say what emotions it has aroused in me. -Judge for yourselves: five operas—_Traviata_, _Faust_, _Pagliacci_, -_Ruslan and Ludmilla_, _Eugene Onegin_; a ballet by Mlle. Krzesinsky; -two ballets by Fokin’s company; plays by Ibsen, Mirbo, Andreyev, beside -_Potash and Perlmutter_ and other importations; an exhibition of -paintings by Lancerè and Dobuzhinsky; a Poeso-Evening by Futurist poets -with Igor Severyanin as leader; an Evening of Poetry under K. R. (Grand -Duke Konstantine, whose play _King of the Jews_ recently appeared in an -English translation); public lectures on _The Blue Bird_ in Our Days, on -Dostoevsky and Nietzsche.... Allow me to stop. Are you inclined to draw -conclusions and comparisons between the stage of war-ridden Europe and -that of peacefully complacent America? I beg to be excused. - - - _Edmond Rostand on the Lusitania_ - -Rostand is a member of the Academy; perhaps this affliction is -responsible for his growing hoarseness as a Chantecler. Yet as of all -recent war poems his is the best, I feel justified in citing it: - - - Les Condoléances - - Bernstorff, pour aller à la Maison Blanche, - S’est mis tout en noir. - (L’onde a pris, là-bas, la dernière planche - Dans son entonnoir.) - - Il entre, affigé, refuse une chaise - D’un geste contrit. - (Des femmes, là-bas, heurtent la falaise - De leur sein meurtri.) - - Il tousse une toux de condoléance. - Il s’essuie un oeil. - (Les enfants noyés tournent en silence - Autour d’un écueil.) - - Il se mouche. Il dit—son mouchoir embaume:— - “Je viens de la part - De Sa Majesté l’Empereur Guillaume - Vous dire la part....” - - Derrière Wilson, dont on aime à croire - Que tout le sang bout, - Lincoln, la Vertu,—Washington, la Gloire, - Se tiennent débout. - - Le comte Bernstorff ne peut les connaître. - Il ne les voit pas. - S’il pouvait les voir, il aurait peut-être - Reculé d’un pas. - - “... Vous dire la part....”—O mornes allures! - Touchant trémolo! - (Les pêcheurs, là-bas, voient des chevelures - Ouvertes sur l’eau.) - - “... Vous dire la part que nous daignons prendre - A votre malheur.” - (Les flots verts ont-ils d’autres morts à rendre? - Demandez-le-leur!) - - Bernstorff pleure et dit: “J’ai su ce naufrage - Et je suis venu. - Ils n’ont pas souffert. Ayez du courage. - Ils en ont bien eu. - - “Je n’insiste pas. Je suis venu vite, - Et puis je m’en vais. - Mais vous sentez bien que, cette visite, - Je vous la devais. - - “Nous plaignons le sort des enfants, des femmes, - Cela va de soi.... - Ah si vous voyiez tous les télégrammes - Que Tirpitz reçoit! - - “C’est un grand succès pour notre marine. - Je suis désolé. - Veuillez constater que sur ma marine - Ce pleur a coulé. - - “Un pleur magnifique, en cristal de roche. - Voyez, c’est exact. - Je ne comprends pas que l’on nous reproche - De manquer de tact. - - “Berlin se pavoise.—Hélas!—On décore - Le moindre faubourg. - Ah je le disais tout à l’heure encore - A Monsieur Dernburg. - - “Si notre avenir—souffrez que je cache - Quelques pleurs amers— - N’est plus sur les mers, il faut que l’on sache - Qu’il est sous les mers. - - “Ceux qui malgré nous voyagent sur l’onde - Sont les agresseurs.” - (Là-bas, l’eau rapporte une vierge blonde - Avec ses trois soeurs.) - - “Les _Tipperary_ que chez vous on siffle - Nous ont agacés, - Et quand Roosevelt joue avec son rifle - Nous disons: Assez. - - “Qu’allaient donc chercher en cette aventure - Vos Princes de l’Or?” - (Là-bas, pour avoir donné sa ceinture, - Vanderbilt est mort.) - - “Il ne faudra pas que ça recommence. - Ils sont bien punis. - Veuillez exprimer ma douleur immense - Aux Etats-Unis.” - - (Il se fait, là-bas, d’horribles trouvailles - Qu’on met sous un drap.) - Et Bernstorff reprend: “Pour les funérailles, - On me préviendra. - - “Ce désastre a fait, en Bourse allemande, - Monteur les valeurs. - On me préviendra pour que je commande - Les plus belles fleurs.” - - Et comme Wilson dit, d’une voix sombre: - “Nous verrons demain,” - Et sent Washington et Lincoln, dans l’ombre, - Lui prendre la main, - - Bernstorff, en pleurant, regagne la porte ... - (Il y a, là-bas, - Deux petits enfants qu’une femme morte - Serre entre ses bras.) - - - _The Downfall of the International_ - -Another result of the war, already sufficiently crystallized, is the -bankruptcy of the illusionary spirit of internationalism. In his -remarkable book[1] Mr. Walling has taken the trouble of quoting -resolutions of national sections of the Socialist party the world over, -before and during the war. With a few significant exceptions the -Socialists of the warring nations have had to exchange their erstwhile -slogan “Workers of the world, be united!” for the less noble motto -“Defend your country!” Even when the European armies had already been -mobilized the Socialists held protest meetings at which they threatened -to call a general strike if war should be declared. But with the first -cannon boom the theoretic brotherhood evaporated and gave way to -patriotic sentiments. The workers declared that they were Germans, -Russians, etc., first, then Socialists. True, in the beginning the -German Socialists claimed that they were fighting against the -reactionary Czardom, while the Socialists of the Allies tried to justify -the international carnage as the struggle against Prussian militarism; -but ultimately such clear-headed thinkers as Kautsky and some of the -English Socialists came to see the futility of endeavoring to discover -idealistic causes for the mutual slaughter. The country is in danger, -consequently we must defend it, regardless of the rightness or wrongness -of its policy—this is the prevailing sentiment among the workers. The -grandiose structure of the International has fallen in ruins; the -“scientific” theories and calculations of the Marxians have received a -blow by the underestimated imponderabilia, that of primitive patriotism. -On the other hand, “applied” Socialism has won a considerable victory -with the development of the war. Nearly all the belligerent countries -have adopted State-Socialism in such measures as the nationalization of -railways and means of production. The capitalists are evidently shrewd -enough to utilize the doctrines of their opponents in time of need and -thus to neutralize the sting of that very opposition. What will become -of Socialism when at least its minimum-program is accepted and put into -practice by the _capitalistic_ order without the aid of a social -revolution, the inevitability of which has been scientifically proven by -Marx and his disciples? - - [1] _The Socialists and the War, by William English Walling. New - York: Henry Holt and Company._ - - - Artists should not see things as they are; they should see them - fuller, simpler, stronger: to this end, however, a kind of - youthfulness, of vernality, a sort of perpetual elation, must be - peculiar to their lives.—_Nietzsche._ - - - - - “The Artist in Life” - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - -“People” has become to me a word that—crawls. If you have ever heard Mr. -Bryan pronounce it you will know what I mean. He says it “peo-pul”.... - -And that is the way they act. Sometimes I see peo-pul in this kind of -picture: a cosmic squirming mass of black caterpillars moving first one -way and then the other, slowly and vaguely, not like measuring worms who -cover the ground or like ants who have their definite business, but -heavily, blindly, in the stunned manner peculiar to caterpillar -organisms. They peer and poke and nod and ponder and creep and crawl and -scramble and grow dizzy and turn around and around, wondering whether -they shall go on the way they started or go back the way they came or -refuse to go at all. Once in a hundred years one of the caterpillars -breaks his skin and flies away—a butterfly through the unfriendly air. -Then the black mass writhes in protest and arranges that the next -butterfly shall have his wings well clipped. I know my metaphor is not -scientifically intact, but what does it matter? It satisfies my -impulse—which is simply to call names. So I might as well say “People -are caterpillars” and be done with it. - - * * * * * - -I have a painter artist friend who says that to talk about the artist in -life is simply to repeat one of those silly phrases that mean nothing. -But it means entirely too much, I think—which is the reason there are so -many of the species in evidence: about two in a million perhaps—and I -know that is far too optimistic. That would mean some four or five -thousand people in the living world who have nothing in common with -caterpillars. The count is too high! - -For really there are no artists among us. Living picturesquely, -artistically, has nothing to do with being an artist in life; and even -living with the poise that marks a good piece of art hasn’t necessarily -anything to do with it. If you ask me to choose a type of the real -artist in life I shall say Nietzsche rather than Goethe. For the artist -in life has inevitably to do with prophecy rather than with holding up -the mirror; and that means chiefly—to have strength! - -Now where are the strong people? Of course “strength” is an indefinite -term. Sometimes it seems a matter of dominating the superfluous; -sometimes it seems the power “to meet fate with an equal gaze”; and -sometimes the resource or the daring to push one’s fate to a farther -goal. But these are beginnings! If you pick up what is known as your -soul from a wreckage and make it march on you think you are very strong. -If you manage to make it march with pride and joy you think you are a -Superman. But this is easily within the effort of Everyman. I am talking -of artists now and of the radiant possibility that such beings may -develop in this uninspired land; and, in these terms, to be strong is to -help create the farther goal! - -It’s disgusting to realize that the people we know are not this sort. -Take any twenty of your friends and classify them briefly as types. -Perhaps there are five who have “personality”: but one of them has no -energy, one no will, one no brains, one no imagination, and the other no -“spirit;” there are five who have “intellect”: one of them has no -“character,” one no strength, one can’t see or hear or feel, one sees so -inclusively that he has no goal, and one sees so “straight” that he -misses the road on both sides; there are five who have a capacity for -art: one is lazy, one is ignorant, one is afraid, one is vain, one has a -lie in him; and there are five who have a capacity for living: one can’t -think, one can’t work, one can’t persevere, one can’t stand alone, one -wastes his gift on others and never realizes himself. You can work out -such combinations _ad infinitum_ and you can excuse them to the same -distance by calling it all a matter of having the defects of your -qualities. Why not call it a matter of having the complacency of your -defects? - -If you’ve not got imagination you can’t help it; if you’ve not got -strength you can get it. It won’t make you an artist but it will make it -impossible for you to be confused with the caterpillars. If you’ve got a -vision—an Idea—and can find the strength to fly toward it you’ll be an -artist in life. This is not to confuse the artist with the prophet. You -can’t very well do that because the terms are so interdependent. There -has never been an artist without the prophet in him, and there has never -been a prophet who was not an artist. It’s a different thing if you’re -talking about priests or about inferior artists. And then of course you -have to remember that there are no such things as inferior artists. -Priest and demagogue are the names for those who fail as prophets or as -artists. - -And what is the use of such a harangue? There is very little use. People -won’t be artists. Peo-pul don’t change. But the individual changes, and -that is the hope. Individuals are persons who can stand alone. There -ought to be Individuals coming out of a generation brought up on -Nietzsche. Such an upbringing has taught us at least two things: first -that he who goes forward goes alone, and second that it is weakness -rather than nobility to succumb to the caterpillars. Yes, and something -else: that it is from superabundance rather than from hunger that -creation comes. We start out fortified with all this. We don’t need to -wrestle with our gods every time the old laws threaten to submerge us; -our universe doesn’t totter when the caterpillars groan that we will be -lonely if we go alone or hurt if we are misunderstood or tragic if we -don’t compromise. We don’t mind these things. - -It really all comes to one end: Life for Art’s sake. We believe in that -because it is the only way to get more Life—a finer quality, a higher -vibration. This bigger concept doesn’t mean merely more Beauty. It means -more Intensity. In short, it means the _New_ Hellenism. And that is a -step beyond the old Greek ideal of proportion and moderation. It pushes -forward to the superabundance that dares abandonment. - - - Art and nothing else! Art is the great means of making life - possible, the great seducer to life, the great stimulus of - life.—_Nietzsche._ - - - The tree that grows to a great height wins to solitude even in a - forest; its highest outshoots find no companions save the winds - and the stars.—_Frank Harris._ - - - - - Poems - - - CLARA SHANAFELT - - - Fantastic - - I have no thoughts, no more desires— - It is green and gray like a garden - Stirred by apple-scented wind, - Quick with the sense of cool and silver joys - That come in a rainy dance - When soft hands of clouds have pushed away - The round red stupid face of the sun. - - In one day, I think, the wind - Will not have had his will of the gleaming rain— - They run about with tossed hair, - The garden is silvered with their pleasure, - Cool and sweet, shining - As with arch laughter a beloved face. - The musing pool - Shattered in glancing flight by a sudden wing— - This, which no words can name, - This is my heart’s delight, - Winging I know not whither; - It has no measure. - - - Interlude - - To sink deeper yet - In the green flood of twilight— - I grope for the rich chord of the full darkness - That drowns the piping cries of light, - For silence fretted by cadent rain - And the monotonous cries of insects - That lull the tortured sense in drowsy veils. - I am weary of lights dancing - In limpid streets, - Lemon and gold and amethyst, - The jewelled laughter and the scent, - Weaving of uneasy colors. - - I would rest now in green and gray - Of an abandoned garden - Where no more flowers are, - Only grass and crabbed trees, - Night— - And the bitter aroma of herbs - Trod out by myriad, whispering feet of the rain— - Night and no stars. - - - - - Slobberdom, Sneerdom, and Boredom - - - BEN HECHT - -It is the custom of inspired opinion to pay little attention to -mediocrities, to dismiss them with a shudder. I understand THE LITTLE -REVIEW to be an embodiment of inspired opinion, an abandonment of mental -emotion—Youth. Like some of the people who read it and even some of them -who write for it, it flies at the throats of contemporary Chimeras and -leaps upon the Pegasi of the moment. It slashes and roars, hates and -loves. It never considers the right and never considers the wrong. It -does not endeavor to be just and fair. This is at once a great crime and -a great virtue. It is criminal to be unjust and it is virtuous to be -truthful. To me THE LITTLE REVIEW is always both. I sympathize with its -spirit and share it. Leave justice to the greybeards. Why should a soul -which has the capacity for inspiration quibble in prejudices? - -I think, however, that shuddering at mediocrities is a grave error. Evil -is the monopoly of the few as well as genius. Hating and loving them are -luxuries. Therefore it is that this writing is not composed in the -luxurious spirit of THE LITTLE REVIEW. My opinion is not an inspired -one, my emotion is not an abandonment. I write with a photographic -dispassion of the three great divisions of mediocrity—Slobberdom, -Sneerdom, and Boredom. - -Slobbering is not an art and it is not an evil. It is not even important -except as an object of analysis. True, if encountered in print or in the -flesh it is likely to have a nauseous effect upon sensitive souls; but -then one can easily avoid encountering it. One does not, for instance, -have to attend a Walt Whitman dinner. When one hears that a Walt Whitman -dinner is to be given on a certain night in the Grand Pacific Hotel all -one has to do to remain happy and free from suffering is to stay at -home. My friend K—— and I went to a Walt Whitman dinner because we were -young and curious and hungry, and because Walt, after all, is a great -artist. - -The dinner proved to be like most dinners of its kind—a glorious -opportunity for saccharine drool at the expense of a great name. -Appreciation and love of an artist—a poet—are highly commendable -qualities if practiced in private, if put into proper print. It is the -same as with love of a woman. But to stand up in a public place, to shed -tears of ecstasy, wave one’s arms, pull at one’s hair and strike at -one’s bosom—these are, as they always have been, the slobbering methods -of egotistical mediocrity. It is simply a prostituting of the emotions. - -Mediocrity is not insensible to art. It is very probable that the Rev. -Preston Bradley, who insists he is a reformed clergyman, really likes -Walt Whitman, feels thrilled with the reading of him. But the joy the -Rev. Bradley derives from reading Walt in his library is not enough for -him. In fact, it is not a joy at all. It is an irritation. Give the Rev. -Bradley an opportunity to show what he thinks of Walt Whitman, to stand -up on his feet before three hundred and fifty sympathetic souls and -prove what a keen sense of taste and an advanced instinct of culture he -(Rev. Bradley) possesses by yawping: - -“I love Whitman, I adore Whitman. He is this to me. He is that to me—” - -—then and not till then does the Rev. Bradley feel the real joy of -appreciation for “good old, dear old, wonderful old Walt.” Give the Rev. -Bradley a decent chance to platitudinize, attitudinize, and -blatitudinize, and the love he bears old Walt oozes from him in dewy -sighs and briny words. - -Do not imagine that I am violently indignant with the Rev. Bradley, or -wish the reader to be, for his insincerity. It is indeed one of his best -qualities. By being insincere, by having no actual ground for his -ecstacy, the Rev. Bradley must, perforce, pay a great deal of attention -to what he says. He is free to pick out the best words, the best pose, -the most arresting and perhaps enlightening point of view. I say he is -free to do this, but of course he doesn’t. It is not the fault of his -insincerity, however. If the Rev. Bradley were an artist he would profit -by it and be great. But why all this talk about such a person as the -Rev. Bradley? Surely not because he is deserving of careful censure. The -reason is that there were at least three hundred male and female Rev. -Bradleys listening to him, slobbering in silence. - -And now the next division of mediocrity. Mr. Clarence Darrow was another -of the talkers. Mr. Darrow sneered. Mr. Darrow sneered at Homer, -Euripides, Shakespeare, Dante, Landor, Whittier, Tennyson, Milton, -Kipling, and Heine because they didn’t write as good old Walt wrote. -Because they wore fetters in their art and insisted on making the last -word in the first line rhyme with the last word in the third line. They -were weak, ignoble creatures, these copybook writers, said Mr. Darrow; -they insisted on using a singular subject with a singular predicate and -believed that a violation of such procedure was a sin. One of the things -you learn in your school text books on physics is that a gentleman by -imposing a pencil-point before his eye can obscure his vision of the -Colossus. The idea seems apropos in the case of Mr. Darrow. Mr. Darrow -by imposing his soul upon the figures of the world’s big men can obscure -them entirely for himself and evidently his sympathizers. After he had -concluded three hundred and fifty persons, every one present so far as I -could see except my friend K—— and myself, stood up and sneered with Mr. -Darrow. They passed him a rising resolution of love and cheered him -three times, omitting, however, the customary tiger. - -The greatest trouble with Mr. Darrow was his sincerity. He didn’t -slobber any more than a public speaker has to in order to have a public -to speak to. But his sneers were deep and earnest. They were entirely -intellectual, the intellectual essence of mediocrity. All of us sneer, -of course. The sneer is the one great American characteristic. When I -told a man in the office in which I work that I had attended a Walt -Whitman dinner he sneered at me. - -“Fourflushers,” he said. “I can’t see how you put that highbrow stuff -over. A lot of long-haired, flea-ridden radicals, ain’t I right? I -wouldn’t let my wife associate with a bunch like that.” - -(This is my office friend’s highest conception of manly virtue,—a -thoroughly American one,—being careful of whom his wife associates -with.) - -Then my office friend went on to assert that Whitman was undoubtedly an -immoral, not to say degenerate, party, that he “got by with his stuff -because it was raw,” and that everybody who professed any admiration for -him was a suspicious character and one he “would think twice about -before inviting to his home” (where his wife is). - -It is rather a complicated matter, this sneering business; and after -attending a Walt Whitman dinner I don’t know whose sneers disgust me -more, Mr. Darrow’s or my friend’s. They are both, however, identical in -spirit, the spirit of mediocrity and sincerity when sincerity becomes, -as it most always does, the cloak for ignorant convictions and bigoted -fanaticism. - -And now we come to the third and last condition—boredom. Among the -speakers at this memorable dinner was Mr. Llewellyn Jones. Mr. Jones is -a critic of literature by profession if not qualification—although I do -not say it, really. Of all the orators at good old Walt’s memorial -gabfest Mr. Jones was the least offensive. He said nothing that shocked -the taste or violated one’s innerself or harrowed one’s soul. I don’t, -of course, remember what Mr. Jones did say. One never does, not only in -the case of Mr. Jones but in the thousands like him. They occupy time -and space and leave them empty. Not for them the sneer or the slobber. -Mr. Jones wouldn’t sneer for the world. And as for slobbering Mr. Jones -has too much good taste and discretion for that. Not that he is above -them. His fear of them, his apparent uncertainty in distinguishing -between these two characteristics and the characteristics of inspired -opinion, indicate this plainly enough. - -So to be safe Mr. Jones resorts to the time-honored entrenchment of -mediocrity. He barricades himself behind the bulwarks of boredom. He -discharges no cannon, he commits no sins, he makes no false steps or -takes no false flights. He is boredom incarnate, the eternal convention -in the arts whether he deals with Nihilism, radicalism, or stands pat on -the isms of the past. Mr. Jones never gets anywhere, I repeat. I speak -of all the Joneses. Nobody derives anything from him—from them—except -ennui. He, they, never offend, never elate. He, they, are always Mr. -Jones. - -Listening to the Joneses is as elevating an experience as watching the -water blop-blop out of the kitchen hydrant. And this idea leads me back -to where I started—THE LITTLE REVIEW. - -Can you imagine what a thorough contempt a kitchen hydrant would have -for a fountain rising from the rocks, for a brook gurgling down the -hillside, or a strong river capering to sea? It wouldn’t exactly sneer -at them. Mr. Jones doesn’t. But it would feel moved to spirited reproof. -How juvenile it is to gurgle, the hydrant would say, how vain and -foolish it is to rise from the rocks, how upsetting it is to be -continually capering to sea. I do not claim any super-intelligence in -the matter of hydrants. But Mr. Jones and all the Joneses do say, and I -have enough intelligence to understand them if not to sympathize with -them, that THE LITTLE REVIEW is young and idiotic and given to -unnecessary emotions and so forth. All of which is true, looked at from -the elevation of a kitchen sink. “Why don’t you,” remonstrates the -hydrant to the brook, “blop blop with me?” - -An afterthought: at this Whitman dinner there was one among the speakers -who sustained a dying faith in Walt, humanity, and _vers libre_ in -general. He was Carl Sandburg who read a free verse poem of his own on -Billy Sunday. - - - It is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of - success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a - greater struggle necessary.—_Whitman._ - - - - - The Death of Anton Tarasovitch - - - A Short Story of the Present War - - FLORENCE KIPER FRANK - -Anton Tarasovitch lay dying. He lay in a pleasant cornfield whither he -had dragged himself in the heat of the afternoon, for a shelter against -the merciless sun. But now it was evening and the stars were out, and -dying was not now so bad an affair as it had been in the dust and the -blinding sunlight. True, the pain was at times terrible, but at other -times it made one only light-headed, so that oneself or the part that -was Anton Tarasovitch seemed to be a different thing altogether from the -body of Anton Tarasovitch which lay beneath It shot to pieces, while It -fluttered and hovered above. - -He had not been lying for many hours in the Austrian cornfield. He knew -that by the progress of the sun downward—downward until it made the long -summer shadows that he loved in the fields at home; downward until it -brought a breath of coolness and a gray light that had brushed out the -clear distinction of shadows and sunlight; downward until it was gone -forever and a few stars burned quietly in the sky overhead. It was the -last sunset that Anton Tarasovitch was to see in this world. But time -had no longer any meaning for Anton Tarasovitch. Lying on one’s back, -so, and waiting to die, a minute can seem all there is of the world, and -then an hour can be burned up like a minute, while one faints into -unconsciousness, before one is slowly dragged back again to the thought, -“I am I”—the thought that makes the world for each man, that creates for -him the stars and the shadows and the sun sinking downward. - -Yes, Anton Tarasovitch knew that now—that it was this thought that made -the world. And when he stopped thinking it, the world would again be -nothing. Down! down! down! one would plunge, and then the world would be -nothing. But it would exist still for other men. Yet how could that be? -Tomorrow the sun would come up again into the sky just as every day it -had come up in the fields at home, making the long shadows that he had -so loved in the mornings and in the evenings. Tomorrow other men would -see the sun—many other men would see it. But if Anton Tarasovitch did -not see it——! In vain he struggled to create for himself a universe in -which there would be no Anton Tarasovitch. Well, he was not clever -enough to understand such matters. Men in universities and men who wrote -books had figured them out and knew all about them. But how was he, who -had never been to a University, who had not been to school even, to -understand! - -Yet this much he understood—that he was dying for his country. This the -general had told them, and he had known always, since a boy, that it was -a brave and fine thing to fight for one’s country and to die if need be. -Anton Tarasovitch was dying that his country might be saved. - -Yet it was strange that the big Russia had need of him, just one common -peasant. The great Russia had so many men that were strong and powerful, -men with uniforms that glittered—men that were much cleverer and braver -than Anton. Why should the country have need of him? Sasha needed him, -and the children. Sasha needed him in the fields and she needed him in -her heart too. She had often called him the light of her heart, in the -strange words—so different from the words of other women—that Sasha -often used. And he knew by her face that she needed him. She didn’t have -to tell him so. He knew by the kindling of her face, as of a curtain -behind which suddenly a candle appears. So her face would light up when -she saw him. Sasha would mind greatly if she never saw him again. - -He was dying because it was a glorious thing to die for one’s -country—for the White Tsar, the little Father. You died to protect your -country, so that your great country might live forever. But if you -weren’t there to know that it lived forever!—now why couldn’t he think -of the world without Anton Tarasovitch in it? Why did he land against a -black wall every time he tried to think of tomorrow without Anton -Tarasovitch? - -It was needful that he die to save his country. What if, to the general, -he _were_ only one of thousands and to Sasha and the children all of -life—nevertheless, if every man should think that, then there would be -no one at all to save the country. It was rather clever of him to figure -it out so, especially with the fire in his side that made his head so -light and his thoughts fly off from it and refuse to anchor down for -more than a minute. It was clever of him to reason it out—Anton -Tarasovitch who had never been to a University—that if every man should -say to himself, “O, I don’t count. Just one more or less!”—then there -would be no army at all to fight the Tsar’s battles. - -Yet he was not fighting or dying now to save Sasha. Nor was he dying to -save his children even in the years to come. That wouldn’t be bad—to die -so that years afterwards, even though it might be many years afterwards, -one’s children would prosper and would live more happily. That would be -a sort of living when one was dead, because one’s children were in a way -oneself in different bodies. But he couldn’t see how Maxim and Ignat and -Sofya and Tatya would at any time be better off because he was dying -right now. He couldn’t see but that the land would be poorer and that -they would have to work harder because he and the other peasants were -dying for the Little Father and for their country. - -But if he couldn’t figure out just what people he was saving, at least -he knew against what men he was fighting. He was fighting against the -Austrians. The Austrians were a horrible people who spoke a language one -couldn’t understand at all. When you tried to understand them, you -couldn’t understand a word they were saying. He had known an Austrian -once—a big blonde fellow who had stayed a few days at their little -village. One day Anton had been walking with the tiny Tatya on the road -that led to the market and they had met the Austrian, who had stopped -and had given Tatya a flower out of his button-hole. Anton remembered -Tatya’s crows of delight. The Austrian had smiled at her, a nice, -friendly smile, and Tatya had grabbed for his hand as children will, -even when the people they grab at are Austrians. - -Tatya had seemed to like the Austrian. And Anton had had to confess to -himself that he wasn’t a bad fellow. But he must have been pleasant only -because of Tatya. No one could help being pleasant to Tatya. The -Austrian had been for a moment friendly because of her. At heart he was -a hateful fellow. All Austrians were hateful. They all hated the Tsar -and the Fatherland and they all hated him, Anton, because he was a -Russian. - -There must be some Austrians lying in this cornfield now, wounded as he -was wounded. But he could see no one. Flat on his back, he could see -only the stars which were thick now against the sky. And he began to -think that this was a cruel thing—that a man should be alone when he was -dying. Even when a chap was just ill, he wanted someone to take care of -him. Once when Anton had been ill of a fever he had been just like a -baby, so weak and helpless. He had cried then because the milk that -Sasha had brought him had been too hot for his tongue and had burned -him. It was silly for a big man to cry, but that was the way you became -when you were sick—weak and silly. He had never in his life cried when -he was well. When men were well they were never silly. - -Women—women were different! Five times had Sasha been so ill that it was -terrible—four times for the children that were living and once for the -little one that had died. Sasha had almost died too that time. She had -been so white and so hopeless looking for weeks after! But in all the -times she was ill she had not complained as much as he had, that one -month that he was sick with the fever. That must be because women were -used to pain. The good God had so ordained it. For every life that they -brought into the world they had to suffer, not only at the time, but for -months before and then for years afterward. - -They were strange creatures, were women. If a child became ill or died, -its mother suffered again, just as the day she had borne him. At least -so Sasha had suffered when the baby had died—and other women that he had -seen in the village. - -Birth was a strange thing now! He had never really thought of it before, -but wasn’t it a strange thing that each time a person was born into the -world, there should be pain and the long months of waiting. Then in one -second an Austrian shell could blow away the body that some woman had -waited for and had carried in her own body. In one second—why, so he had -been waited for—he, Anton Tarasovitch. Now wasn’t that wonderful!—and he -had never until this minute really thought of it. He, Anton Tarasovitch, -had been carried in the body of his mother and had been born in pain and -in rejoicing. Why, it was like a miracle! And he had thought so lightly -of it, had just taken it for granted that he should be born and that she -should love him. - -He would like to make it up to her in some way now. But it was too late. -She had been dead for very many years now and he also was dying. Well, -he could tell her about it when he saw her with the saints in Heaven. - -Heaven! He would go there, of course, because he had always, since a -boy, been obedient and had done just what the priests had told him. He -ought to think now about Heaven. But somehow he did not care to think -about it, and the strange part was that it did not trouble him that he -did not care. Even if he woke tomorrow in Heaven, he would not be the -same Anton. He might live forever, but that wouldn’t be the same thing -as waking up in the morning with Sasha at his side. He tried to think -what “forever” meant, and he fetched up against the same black wall that -he had when he had tried to think of a world without Anton Tarasovitch -to know himself in it. Forever! ever! ever! No stopping! On and on! But -that would be horrible. No! no! he couldn’t bear that. One could do -nothing, nothing, to get out of it. Even if one could be blown to pieces -with a gun, say a thousand years from now, in Heaven, one’s soul would -gather itself together again and go on and on, forever and forever. - -No, he mustn’t think about it. If he thought about it any more, he would -lift his hands and strangle himself, so as to be able to stop thinking -about it. Now he would think about Sasha. When he thought about her, he -could feel her right next to him. He couldn’t see her face exactly, nor -could he see her standing there. And yet it was as if she really _were_ -there, and he _could_ see her. That was the way it was when you loved a -person. She was, as it were, in you, or at least right next to you, and -yet she was separate from you, too. - -He had liked life with Sasha. He didn’t know until now how much he had -liked it. True, it was a hard life they had lived together. One was on -the go every minute—in bad weather when the frost stung and to walk even -a mile became an agony; and in good weather one was constantly on the -go, when it might perhaps have been pleasant to sit under the trees and -play with the children. But life was good, for all that. Of course, if -they could have saved money—only a little money—it would have been -better. But the little money they could save had had to go for the -taxes. The taxes were for the Fatherland, the priest had told him. The -taxes were paid so that when the need came, Anton would be able to die -for his country. But there was something confusing about that. Life -would be better if it were not for the taxes, and the taxes were paid so -that he might—no, that was bewildering. With the fire in one’s side and -in one’s brain, how could one think clearly about so difficult a matter? -Besides, there were many matters of that sort that he, Anton -Tarasovitch, was not clever enough to think about. One left such things -to the priests, who were good men, and to the clever men at the -universities. - -The stars were sometimes a long way off now and sometimes very near to -him. But neither near nor far away did they seem to care about him. They -were the only things he could see in the world and they did not seem to -care about him. Undoubtedly they had seen many men dying. He knew about -the stars! A young teacher who had come to the village when he was a boy -had talked about them and Anton had never forgotten. - -The young teacher had not stayed long in the village. He was -“dangerous,” they said, and Anton heard afterwards that he had gone to -America. It gave one many thoughts to listen to the teacher. He had said -that the stars were worlds, just like our own earth—the earth that Anton -knew the good Christ had come down to save. Anton, who was just a boy, -had wanted to ask him if Christ had had to save all these worlds that -were stars. But that was only one of the many confusing thoughts one had -in listening to the young teacher. One felt strange in listening to him, -as if the world weren’t solid at all, but were flowing like a river. * * -* - -Anton felt very sorry for himself, lying there under the stars that did -not care for him. He began to cry—silly, weak tears that tasted of salt -as they touched his mouth. It was only at times that he knew that he was -crying. At other times the soul of him entirely left his body and went -shooting up and up, to be recaptured only with a struggle. - -The two of them—the burning body and the light soul—would have held -together better, he knew, if someone could grip his hand tightly. At -least that was the way they had done in the fever. When Sasha had -gripped his hand, as if by a miracle he had been restored for a moment -to a complete man, and was no longer two pieces—a body below and a soul -that went fluttering above it. - -If only he could touch someone’s hand now—anyone’s hand—the hand of a -human being! To be all alone with the cruel, flickering stars up above, -that was no way to die—snuffed out into the darkness. That was no way -for any man to go, even though he _were_ just a peasant. But Anton knew -himself important now, almost as important as a general. He knew himself -important, with a strange, tremendous importance. He was as important as -almost anyone in the world, and he was dying alone in the darkness. - -Then he remembered that there must be other men in the cornfield. He had -thought of that before, and afterwards he had forgotten. If there were -other men here—even one other man, an enemy—he would find that comrade -and they would die together. - -Slowly, painfully, inch by inch he dragged himself. The stalks were like -an impenetrable thicket. They entangled him as snares or a forest of -swords set about him. He dragged himself on his palms, inch by inch, -butting away the cornstalks. - -An Austrian was lying on his back, gazing upward. He was dead now, but -Anton did not know it. There was a wound in his neck, and the flies had -begun to gather. - -Anton gave a sob as he saw the Austrian. One more effort and he would be -near enough to touch him. Perhaps the Austrian would grip his -hand—hard—as Sasha had gripped it. - -The hand of the Austrian did not grip hard when Anton touched it. It -fluttered a little, however—Anton was sure of that. So Anton covered the -hand with his own, and with his own hand gripped hard, as Sasha had -gripped the hand of Anton. - -And so died Anton Tarasovitch, looking up at the stars. - - - Art as it appears without the artist, i. e., as a body, an - organization (the Prussian Officers’ Corps, the Order of the - Jesuits). To what extent is the artist merely a preliminary - stage? The world regarded as a self-generating work of - art.—_Nietzsche._ - - - - - Rupert Brooke - - - (_A Memory_) - - ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE - - One night—the last we were to have of you— - High up above the city’s giant roar - We sat around you on the generous floor— - Since chairs were lame or stony or too few— - And as you read, and the low music grew - In exquisite tendrils twining the heart’s core, - All the conjecture we had felt before - Flashed into torch-flame, and at last we knew. - - And Maurice, who in silence long has hidden - A voice like yours, became a wreck of joy - To inarticulate ecstasies beguiled. - And you, as from some secret world now bidden - To make return, stared up, and like a boy - Blushed suddenly, and looked at us, and smiled. - - [Illustration: RUPERT BROOKE, MCMXIV] - - - - - To a West Indian Alligator - - - (_Estimated age, 1957 years_)[2] - - EUNICE TIETJENS - - Greetings, my brother, strange and uncouth beast, - Flat-bellied, wrinkled, broad of nose! - You are not beautiful—and yet at least - Contentment spreads your scaley toes. - - The keeper thwacks you and you grunt at me, - Two hundred pounds of sleepy spleen. - He tells me that your cranial cavity - Will just contain a lima bean. - - How seems it, brother, you who are so old, - To lie and squint with curtained eye - At these ephemera, born in the cold, - These human things so soon to die? - - You were scarce grown, a paltry eighty years, - Too young to think of breeding yet, - When Christ the Nazarene loosed the salt tears - Which on man’s cheeks today are wet. - - Mohammed rose and died—you churned the mud - And watched your female laying eggs. - Columbus passed you—with an oozy thud - You scrambled sunward on your legs. - - So now you doze at ease for all to view - And bat a sleepy lid at me, - You eat a little every year or two - And count time in eternity. - - So, brother, which is wiser of us twain - When words are said and meals are past? - I think, and pass—you sleep, yet you remain, - And where shall be the end at last? - - [2] _I cannot vouch for the science of this. It is “Alligator - Joe’s” estimate._ - - - - - Villon’s Epitaph[3] - - - WITTER BYNNER - - I who have lived and have not thought - But gone with nature as I ought, - Letting good things occur, - And now amazed and cannot see - Why death should care so much for me. - I never cared for her. - - - - - Scarron’s Epitaph[3] - - - WITTER BYNNER - - He who now lies here asleep - None would envy, few would weep: - A man whom death had mortified - A thousand times before he died. - - Peaceful be the step you take, - You who pass him—lest he wake. - For his first good night is due. - Let poor Scarron sleep it through. - - [3] From the French of François Villon. - - - - - Editorials and Announcements - - - _Our Credo_ - -I have lost patience: people are still asking “What does THE LITTLE -REVIEW stand for?” Since we have been so obscure—or is it that people -have been so dull?—I shall try to answer all these plaintive queries in -a sentence. May it be sufficient: I cannot “explain” every day why the -sunrise seems worth while or, as Mr. Hecht would say, why the brook -rises from the rocks. - -THE LITTLE REVIEW is a magazine that believes in Life for Art’s sake, in -the Individual rather than in Incomplete people, in an age of -Imagination rather than of Reasonableness; a magazine that believes in -Ideas even if they are not Ultimate Conclusions, and values its Ideals -so greatly as to live them; a magazine interested in Past, Present, and -Future, but particularly in the New Hellenism; a magazine written for -Intelligent people who can Feel; whose philosophy is Applied Anarchism, -whose policy is a Will to Splendor of Life, and whose function is—to -express itself. - - - _Mr. Comstock’s Dismissal_ - -This great blessing comes sooner than we could have expected, and yet, -as _The Chicago Tribune_ remarks, it is belated by about forty years. -Mr. Comstock has been Post Office Inspector all that time. I remember a -few years ago in New York hearing an interesting woman send a group of -people into paroxysms by the passionate childish seriousness with which -she said, “I wish Anthony Comstock would die!” Now that the government -has accomplished this desideratum, it is almost time for it to be -congratulated. I wonder how long it will be before this same government -can “see its way clear” to suppressing the agent provocateur and letting -his victims go free, or—well, never mind: it is beyond hoping. - - - “_Succession_” - -When one of my friends fails to like Ethel Sidgwick’s _Succession_ I am -left in a predicament: on what basis are we henceforth to understand -each other? Succession goes so deep into music, into personality, into -life that has its foundations in art.... You can explain all the -subtleties of your most difficult emotions by referring to how Antoine -felt on page so and so. How does one live without Antoine? - - - _The Strike_ - -And God said: “Let there be!” And there was. - -And when the modern god, the omnipotent Proletariat, says: “Let there -not be!” ... - -You say the strike of the Chicago car men is of purely local -significance. You crack jokes about the pleasure of walking and about -the adventure of jitney-rides. You are calm and complacent, you blind -and deaf men and women dancing on a dormant volcano. - -You are right. Your complacency is justified. Why fear the -million-headed mule who has borne his yoke for centuries? He -grumbles?—Oh, it’s a trifle: just fill his flesh-pot, and he will take -up anew with bestial delight his eternal task of enriching the few at -the expense of his blood and marrow. - -But fear the eruption of the volcano! For it will not remain dormant -forever. Have we not witnessed the spasmodic awakenings of the giant? -Recall the achievement of the Russian proletariat in 1905. Did it not -wrest concessions from the obstinate Czar by means of a passive -revolution? Recall the general strike in Belgium. Did it not cripple its -commerce and industry for months? - -The strike of the Chicago car men is pregnant with potentialities. It is -a symptom of a refreshing storm. Those who produce everything and -possess nothing have slept long in ignorance of their power. But they -are slowly awakening. And when they become aware of the magic wand in -their hand, whose passive motion can stop the wheels of the universe.... -Take heed, O merrymakers at Belshazzar’s feast. Behold the MENE, TEKEL, -PERES on the wall. - - K. - - - “_The Country Walk_” - -A young Englishman by the name of Edward Storer—I am assuming that he is -young and that he is English—has protested effectively against the -condition which decrees that a piece of writing, a painting, a sculpture -has to be judged as a commodity _before_ it can be judged as a work of -art by issuing little four-page leaflets containing portions of his work -denied publication by the commercialism of the times. The first, which -is called _The Country Walk_, has some quite uninspired though rather -charming prose poems in it. _The Lark_, for instance: - - Out of the young grass and silence you arise, frail bird, - spinning upwards to the sky. Faster beat the wings, and shriller - is the voice, and soon you are lost in the high blue, so that - scarcely can I hear your voice or see the maddened flutterings of - your wings. - - Then suddenly all is silent, and softly you drop to earth again - to rest your aching body against the good brown earth. - - - _The June-July Issue_ - -On account of being so late with our May number we have decided to -combine the June and July and thus come out promptly again on the first -of the month. Subscriptions will be extended accordingly. - - - _Edgar Lee Masters_ - -In the August issue there will be a new poem by Edgar Lee Masters, -author of _The Spoon River Anthology_, and also a photogravure portrait -of the poet which has just been taken by Eugene Hutchinson. - - - - - The Submarine - - - (_Translated from the Italian of Luciano Folgore by Anne Simon_) - - It sinks. In the twilight of the water - the conquered submarine - falls straight to the bottom - and seems like a black corpse - thrown to the coral below, - thrown to the tomb that devours - with liquid joy - the refuse and remains of the old world. - The propellers, devourers of motion, - buzz no more, - the rudder has ceased turning, - the prow no longer points its sharp beak, - but the submarine extends itself - on the viscid bed, - and a multitude of unknown - fish, coral and sea-nettles - try to enter the closed apertures. - - And yet once you leaped in the sun - like a sentinel of burnished steel - shining in the distance, - and then rapidly returned to the green gorge - where the sun never reaches, - but where you find - the tremendous task - that is always with you and that whispers courage - in the void of your soul. - And once with your agile metallic prow - you agitated the green water - all around your shining body, - and you did not feel the torments - of the winds nor the black - clouds of the hurricane - that remained like spiteful women - in a corner of the horizon, - with hair dishevelled and the eye eager - to spy below, from the firmament, - the lost, the shipwrecked, the unknown - that have no pilot. - - Once from your sonorous sides, - quietly, but vigilant and mad, - the torpedo shot out, - making its track in silence, - and carrying - within its thin body - death, and the infinite - power of dynamite. - As you passed the sharks fled, - as you passed the corals - suspended their tenacious and clumsy work, - and the fish with rapid movement - swam away. - You seemed like an enormous monster - of a fantastic destiny - and yet you are only a light submarine, - a slender ship - that the blow of a beam - could sink, that a whirlpool could submerge - in the abyss. - - I do not know your story, - but I will sing your glory - that is part of the desire - of audacious men. - Submarine, Destiny may have willed - you to sink silently, - and remain lost forever in the viscid bed of the sea-weed, - (O submarine, able to challenge the unconsciousness of the seas - and the impotence of the lighthouses,) - but you are alive and strong; - there is no death, but only an appearance - of death that remains. Destiny - newly moulds you - in a long phantom - and you are run, submarine, - by the courage of men - who, in the unfathomable silence of the water, - are piloted - by the will of the strong. - - New brothers will arise - and pursue you - because your shining back - carries a banner, not tri-colored, - nor French, - but the only color - that dazzles; - the banner of the battle - that amidst disasters combats - with this ferocious mystery - that is foolishly determined to shut us out - from the doors of Nature. - - - - - Blaa-Blaa-Blaa - - -I am sick of words—spoken words—verbal refuse thrown off by the mental -hypochondriacs who imagine themselves suffering from thought and -afflicted with ideas. - -I am sick of the artificial inanities of the drawingroom—the polite -poppycock, the meaningless, emotionless enthusiasms. I often have -entered a room where male and female husks sat, their faces wreathed in -empty grimaces—animated masks discharging automatic phrases—and wished -to God I was dumb and could be forgiven for silence. Listening is not so -bad because one doesn’t have to listen. - -I am sick of the salon-like groups who gather for the purpose of -thinking aloud and then forget to think and make up for it in noises. -Monotonous varieties, dropping pop-bottle gems from their lips, each -individual amusing and delighting himself beyond all understanding with -his sterile loquaciousness. Here in the salon groups, the discursive -congregations which come together in all manner of odd places and all -manner of regular places, garrulity approaches torture. Here the -professional discourser flops and waddles about in his own Utopia. He -doesn’t crave understanding but attention. As for truth, as for taking -the pains to express his innermost reactions to a subject, this is -impossible. The discourser doesn’t know what he thinks, doesn’t know -what the truth is until he starts discoursing. And then he discourses -himself into a state of mind. I have heard him discourse himself into -the most startling convictions; into matrimony and out of it into -religion and out of it, into and out of every variety of -damn-foolishness imaginable. - -Persons who use written words instead of spoken words as the parents of -their thought suffer from the same hypnosis. But in writing this is -commendable. It is commendable for a writer to be insincere if he can be -more logical and enlightening as a result. The result may be _De -Profundis_ or _Alice in Wonderland_. It is my notion that men are -sincere only in their appetites. A man craves food and woman and other -stimulants with unquestionable sincerity. But in the realm of thought I -have arrived at the conclusion that sincerity is an inspired and not -inspiring condition of the mind. - -I am sick of the blaa-blaaing hordes, from the smirking “supes” of the -let’s-adjourn-to-the-other-room species to the simpering cacophonists of -the Schöngeist nobility. - -I am sick of the open mouths, the trailing sentences dying from -weakness, the painstaking use of wrong words and the painstaking use of -correct words; of the stagnated humor of deodorous sallies. - -I am sick of the Argumentatives, people with an irritating command of -phrases, who balance paradoxes on their noses and talk backwards or -upside down with equal lucidity; who must be contradicted or they -suffer; who rumble bizarrely from the depths of every philosophical -sub-cellar they can ferret out in order to be startling; who shriek and -howl and wail and protest and—the Devil take them—tell the truth and -make it impossible to believe. Their only reason for talking is to -impress. They are as noisy as cannon and as effective as firecrackers. - -I am sick of the delicate, searching souls who prick themselves with -their own words, who operate on fly specks, who grope and search and -struggle for fine and truthful things, who deal in verbal shadings -intelligible only to themselves—and then not for what they said but for -what they meant to say or desired to say or wouldn’t say for the world. - -I am sick of their kinsmen, of the surgical tongues who dissect, who -vivisect and auto-sect. - -I am sick most of all of my own talk. But I continue to talk. I talk out -of boredom and manage only to increase it. I talk out of vanity and -spread disillusionment. I talk out of love and have to apologize. A -victim of habit, I continue speaking, although I know the spoken word is -the true medium of misunderstanding. Words, words, they keep tumbling -out of my mouth and blowing away like dust before the wind. A pock on -them. - -There have been revolutions in literature, authors have changed the size -and construction of the novel, publishers have changed the color of -their bindings, poets have changed the form of their poetry and the -essence of its style, thinkers even have altered slightly the trend of -their thought. Music, painting, decorating, carving—everything changes -with time except talk, which only increases. What a staggering -illustration of the theory that it is only the weak things which -survive. For talk is the commonest of weaknesses. Blaa, blaa, blaa—why -not a revolution? What ails the radicals? Do they not realize that the -time is ripe? They have changed the moral forms, the literary forms, why -not the spoken forms? Why not a substitution of expressive grunts and -whoops and growls and chuckles and groans and gurgles and whees and -wows? Or is this matter one not for the radical but for - - “The Scavenger.” - - - - - The Nine!—Exhibit! - - -Sometime in the winter a rumor got about that nine artists of Chicago -were to form themselves into a group and hold an independent exhibition. - -At once the other artists were divided into two factions, those who -jeered and those who applauded, those who said unpleasant things and -those who had the enduring hope that at last something better was to be -done in our exhibitions. - -The Great Nine, as the group began to be called—whether by themselves or -by others, it matters not: the phrase is a handicap—consists of Frederic -C. Bartlett, William Penhallow Henderson, Lawton Parker, Karl Albert -Buehr, Louis Betts, Charles Francis Browne, Ralph Clarkson, Wilson -Irvine, and Oliver Dennett Grover. They were too generous in their -number. Five, and there would have been no comment; nine, and there was -aroused indignation, criticism, and a “show us” spirit which should have -put the Nine on their mettle and made them give a stunning and silencing -show. - -On May thirteenth, after one postponement when expectation was tense, -the exhibition opened. What had we? A new setting and old stuff! - -One of the East Galleries had been chosen. William P. Henderson designed -and executed the room. He made a piece of work having faults but being -the best thing about the exhibition, a contribution in itself. The walls -with their subtle color, divided into spaces by pilasters of deep -wistaria, red, and gold, rising on slender stems and blossoming out -above; the screen of red at one end with the Zettler torso against -it—they complimented themselves upon using this; the beautiful vases; -and the green of the trees made a room too obtrusive for pictures, or -one in which pictures are intrusive. - -Were the setting less self-sufficient, still there are many things to be -said. The sophisticated, almost exotic, color of the walls, emphasizing -in the work of some all that is crude and materialistic in execution or -interpretation, makes their work appear to less advantage than would the -usual bleak gallery. And why so many pictures? Why not one picture in -each space and that the best each artist could offer? How much more -satisfactory the room would then be. Anyone who follows exhibitions will -agree that each exhibitor has shown better work at other times. - -Frederic Bartlett’s group is in many ways the best, and holds its own in -the room. Surpassingly beautiful in color are Mr. Henderson’s things. -The little nude is exquisite, but he should not easily be forgiven his -portrait of Florence Bradley, even if it is not meant as a character -study. However, he is one of the artists who can do more than put paint -on canvas. He can make Art in many ways, as men did in the “high white -days” of art. - -The artists themselves have seen from this first effort wherein they -have failed. This grouping must have been a very arbitrary one. Let us -hope that a group founded on mutual endeavor and on equal ability will -continue the effort to make our exhibitions comparable in some degree -with the best European efforts. - -Chicago has now so many artists that it is impossible for them all to be -gathered into the old Chicago Society. There should be many societies. -Competition and co-operation among them would make the art life here -less anemic and super-sensitive and bigoted. - - R. - - - - - Book Discussion - - - THE APOTHEOSIS OF PETTINESS - - _One Man, by Robert Steele. New York: Mitchell Kennerley._ - -“There is nothing which reflects the smugness of a people so much as the -manner and temperament of its vice. And the temperament of American vice -is more distinctly and monotonously bourgeois than any of its -virtues”—from Ben Hecht’s “Phosphorescent Gleams” in the May LITTLE -REVIEW. I have pondered over this maxim while reading Mr. Steele’s novel -which is hailed by the critics as “the essence of America.” The hero is -essentially American, horribly so. If the “average” type of any nation -is repulsive, the American “Average” is a thousandfold more so. For he -is more petty than vicious. The “one man” gives a confession of his -life, full of puny deeds, from committing petty larceny to “picking up” -a girl in the street and taking her to a “swell” hotel. The nauseating -details have the flavor of the adventure stories which you may hear at a -gathering of travelling salesmen in a provincial hotel lobby. What makes -the boring Odyssey intolerably loathsome is its note of syrupy Christian -penitence which the hero expresses after each penny-crime by falling on -his knees and praying to his convenient god for forgiveness. - -The book has been hailed as a masterpiece. It is as far from a -masterpiece as a lewd “photo” is from art. The facts may be true, even -autobiographical, as some critics presume; the confessions will furnish -good material for Billy Sunday and his lesser brethren. But photography, -even if it be pornography, is not art. Let me quote the ever-new Edgar -Poe: “Art is the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature -through the veil of the soul. The mere imitation, however accurate, of -what _is_ in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of ‘Artist.’ ... -We can, at any time, double the true beauty of an actual landscape by -half closing our eyes as we look at it. The naked Senses sometimes see -too little—but then _always_ they see too much.” I blush at the -necessity of digging up ancient truths, but, my dear friends, read the -reviews of Mr. Steele’s novel and you will admit with me the crying need -of teaching the American critics the A-B-C of art. - - - ICY OLYMPUS AND THE BURNING BUSH - - _The Need for Art in Life, by I. B. Stoughton Holborn. New York: - G. Albert Shaw._ - - _The Spirit of Japanese Art, by Yone Noguchi. New York: E. P. - Dutton and Company._ - -The complete man must consist of three essential fundamentals—the -Artistic, the Intellectual, the Moral (mark the initials: aim!); man’s -aim should be the full expression of his tripartite nature; he must not -leave out any of the three sides, nor develop any one at the expense of -the rest. Unfortunately our age has achieved only two-thirds of the -diagram, the I and the M, remaining wretchedly poor in the A part. When -we look back we find that in the Renaissance period the A and I were -overdeveloped, with the total lack of the M side. The Middle Ages -present the presence of A and M and the absence of I. It is the Greek -ideal we must look for in our endeavor for the complete expression of -man. The Greek gentleman, the καλος κάγαθος, the reserved, the -moderately good, the not excessively just, the harmonious, the -symmetrical—he shall be our standard, our criterion for the completeness -of being. Is not Mr. Holborn clever and Olympian and icy-cold? - -Now listen: - - The evening had already passed when I returned home with that - hanging of Koyetsu’s chirography under my arm. “Put all the - gaslights out! Do you hear me? All the gaslights out! And light - all the candles you have!” I cried. The little hanging was - properly hanged at the “togonoma” when the candles were lighted, - whose world-old soft flame (wasn’t it singing the old song of - world-wearied heart?) allured my mind back, perhaps, to Koyetsu’s - age of four hundred years ago—to imagine myself to be a waif of - greyness like a famous tea-master, Rikiu or Enshu or, again, - Koyetsu, burying me in a little Abode of Fancy with a boiling - tea-kettle; through that smoke of candles hurrying like our - ephemeral lives, the characters of Koyetsu’s writing loomed with - the haunting charm of a ghost. - -It is painful for me to stop quoting the religious ravings of dear -Noguchi. And all this pathos is about a bit of old Japanese writing! I -can see the indignant Mr. Holborn’s moderate condemnation of the -Oriental’s unreserved passion, canting the cold-beautiful Μηδὲν ἄγαν -(nothing in excess). But, O forgive me, Olympian gods, I must come back -to the Burning Bush where Yone Noguchi worships Hashimoro, Hiroshige, -Kyosai, Tsukioka, Utamaro, and other such rhythmical names; I am aware -of the abyss of excess that yawns before me, but the exotic wine is so -luring, so intoxicating, the call of the Orient is so irresistible—I -plunge: - - I will lay me down whenever I want to beautifully admire Utamaro - and spend half an hour with his lady (“Today I am with her in - silence of twilight eve, and am afraid she may vanish into the - mist”), in the room darkened by the candle-light (it is the - candle-light that darkens rather than lights); every book or - picture of Western origin (perhaps except a few reprints from - Rossetti or Whistler, which would not break the atmosphere - altogether) should be put aside. How can you place together in - the same room Utamaro’s women, for instance, with Millet’s - pictures or Carpenter’s _Towards Democracy_? The atmosphere I - want to create should be most impersonal, not touched or scarred - by the sharpness of modern individualism or personality, but - eternally soft and grey; under the soft grey atmosphere you would - expect to see the sudden swift emotion of love, pain or joy of - life, that may come any moment or may not come at all. - -I recall an evening at “The Vagabonds,” where some ultra-modern -paintings were exhibited and bravely discussed. An idiotic friend of -mine suggested that the Vagabonds pass an evening in contemplating the -canvasses in absolute silence. The obliging chairman, who is a fair -parliamentarian, had the suggestion voted upon with the result of one -vote in favor of it. I recall that evening in connection with Noguchi’s -lines about Koyetsu: - - What need there be but prayer and silence? There is nothing more - petty, even vulgar, in the grey world of art and poetry, than to - have a too-close attachment to life and physical surroundings; if - our Orientalism may not tell you anything much, I think it will - teach you at least to soar out of your trivialism. - -I refuse to say any more about the book, for I am tempted to quote him -all the way through. If you wish to forget yourself and your -environment, to melt away in the unreal atmosphere of Japanese -prints—read Yone Noguchi’s little book. - - K. - - - THE SLAV IN CONRAD - - _Victory, by Joseph Conrad. New York: Doubleday, Page and - Company._ - -The Slavs are not adventurous people in the Western sense of the word; -for the most part an inland race spread over the great monotonous Plain, -they are inclined for melancholy introspective searchings and spiritual -struggles rather than for actual physical adventures. Their writers need -not create for their heroes an atmosphere of dizzying stunts and -elemental cataclysms; they find sufficient dramatic “plot” in the soul -experiences of the restless yearning men and women who dwell not on a -South Sea island but in ordinary cities and villages, fighting their -human fights, wrestling with God and man, gaining their ephemeral -victories, but more often suffering defeats. Yet, despite their lack of -adventurousness, the stories of the Russian and Polish writers, from -Dostoevsky to Kuprin and from Orzezsko to Zeromsky, have seldom caused a -yawn in their reader. - -The checkered life of Conrad has placed a distinct stamp upon his works, -distinct from both the writers of his race and from the Western writers. -We observe a dualism in his art, an eternal collision between fact and -fiction, between realism and symbolism. His inborn Slavic mysticism is -weighed down by the ballast of his rich experiences, and he continually -wavers between the Scylla of lyric melancholy and the Charybdis of -picturesque plot, preserving the equilibrium at times more and at times -less skilfully. The reader thus finds in Conrad that which he is after. -For my part, I am rather distracted by the over-complex plot of -_Victory_; I should much prefer to meet Heyst and Lena in less dizzy -surroundings, for then the interesting psychology of the quaint lovers -would appear accentuated, like the flame of a candle, and would not be -blurred by a pyrotechnic mass of startling coincidences and marvellous -adventures. The atmosphere of Doom that breathes throughout the story is -reduced in the end to a sensational Eugène Sue-like climax—a heap of -dead bodies. - - K. - - - SICK IDEALISM - - _Erdgeist (Earth-Spirit): A Tragedy in Four Acts; Pandora’s Box, by - Frank Wedekind. New York: Albert and Charles Boni._ - -Poor, foolish Frank Wedekind. Hapless Idealist. Luckless dreamer. Have -you read _Der Erdgeist_ and _Pandora’s Box_? He wrote them—this -enfevered fancier. In two kindred flashes of madness he illuminated -several hundred sheets of paper and out of them—out of their blood-shot -words and illegitimate truths—a new figure is born for the bookshelf. -Not an old figure in new binding and fresh rouge. Not a Lescaut or a -Thaïs or a Nana. This mocking idealist of virtue removes indeed the -eighth veil from Salome. He hurls into the midst of the twittering -parlor thinkers and sex chatterers a most disturbing answer to the -eternal question, “What is woman?” It didn’t disturb me because I don’t -believe it. And anyway, I don’t mean that kind of disturbance. I mean, -virtuous reader, it is impossible to consume Wedekind without blushing. -If you were disappointed in Shakespeare and Balzac and Casanova and -Jacques Tournebrouche and could find nothing to blush at in them, do not -despair. Here is a fellow, this Wedekind, who will daub a real blush out -of a rouge pot, a miserable fellow whom you can condemn and ostracize -and, having relegated him to his proper place, enjoy thoroughly or -secretly or not at all. - -It was Wedekind who first made people blush by a tasteless dissertation -on the ignorant smugness recognized by society as the proper state for a -young woman’s mind. He called it _Spring’s Awakening_. It was chiefly -instrumental in awakening theatrical writers and managers. They spread -the blush at $2 a head and waxed fat. But how did they spread the blush? -Did they talk like Wedekind did? Did the mawkish plagiarist Cosmo -Hamilton talk like Wedekind—tastelessly, vilely, brutally, -and—horrors!—indelicately? Not he. Mr. Hamilton and the other -get-rich-quick propagandists wouldn’t talk that way for the world. They -are nice gentlemen. Not for them the idealist’s leer. Rather the -bathroom wink. They will reveal a delicious girl in her delicious -boudoir wearing a delicious nightie. They will make her out a virtuous -girl, charmingly endowed but utterly stainless. - -Having established this fact they roguishly introduce into her boudoir -an estimable young man and permit him to caress her dramatically. But -the whole proceeding is stainless. It is drolly suggestive of -unspeakable things—see box office receipts. But suggestiveness is -necessary to bring home to people the blindness of virtue and the -dangers that beset the underpaid young women who ignorantly make it its -own reward—(if that means anything). Anyway, when the audience leaves it -has been enlightened. Its taste has not been offended. Virtue has been -shown to be a dangerous thing—that is, uneducated virtue has. Everyone -agrees. And if not they disagree. In either case the discussion properly -conducted (under the auspices of the “Amalgamated Virgins of the 21st -and 22nd Wards”) is pleasing and improving. The press argues delicately -and in good taste about sex hygiene. A new physiology is placed in the -public schools containing information on the most effective way of -brushing the teeth of the young and preserving the hair of the old. - -And last week Coroner Hoffman told me that it was impossible to estimate -how many girls were killed annually in Chicago by abortive operations. -He put the number in the hundreds. Hooray! Death is the wages of sin. - -But all quibbling aside, what does this low fellow Wedekind whom I -started out by calling an idealist (I will prove it shortly) do? To -begin with, he talks about sex. Not about stockings and undergarments -and perfumed kisses, ankles, asterisks and anomalies. Everyone knows -that this kind of talk, particularly when produced in drama form, is in -the first place inexcusable, and in the second place unnecessary, and in -the third place vulgar. And in the fourth place, instead of making the -best of a bad job—that is, making his contributions a mental stimulus -for snickering roués and ladies sensitive of their status—he insists -upon being nasty without being covert. Is there anything more -unpardonable? Nobody can enjoy nastiness. The argument is an endless -one. It leads to nothing except blows or blushes. - -As for the plays—I almost forgot I was reviewing them—Wedekind explodes -volcanically on the subject he treats, and blows the question mark out -of woman. He takes all the crimes a policeman ever heard of, rolls them -up in a package of soft warm flesh and labels it “Woman.” He cracks his -showman’s whip and calls attention to the texture of her skin and the -white meat of her body. And then he sends her forth to ruin, to sweep -like a polluted and wreck-strewn wave through life, breaking at last in -a dirty crest on a foreign shore and leaving a scum behind her. Are -these the worst things Wedekind could find to label woman—incest, -butchery, lecherous animalism, bloody business and abandonment? Who but -a sick idealist would pick a careless and care-free prostitute as a -flaming example of woman at her worst? And is the power to destroy the -most terrible power woman possesses? - -Wedekind imagines that people idealize sex and hold it a beautiful -force. Poor Wedekind, where did he get such an idea? And then he -imagines that in reality sex passion is a smashing force that knocks -people into each other’s arms, tumbles their heavens, smears their -lives. He imagines that men and women love without thought, mate with -the irresponsibility of hyenas. And imagining all this Wedekind creates -a sort of droll fiend to prove it. Behold her—a creature to confound -saints and sinners, to tear the beauty out of men’s souls and dance with -muddied feet upon the finery of life. He dangles her before our eyes, -naked and glorious—the diseased siren of the ages. And he calls her -Lulu, the earth spirit. - -He introduces her fresh and joyous and vibrating with tabooed emotions. -She is in love with her own beauty. Her body thrills her with its -whiteness and its movement. She already has felt its power. Were I in -these plays I would as soon think of kissing Lulu as biting a stick of -dynamite. But I am not an ideal conception. There are other men—Wedekind -digs them up from every corner of life—who fall at her feet and who -shoot each other and themselves for the sake of being contaminated by -her caresses. Queer men, idealists. They tumble about her, whining, -cursing, chanting, forswearing their Gods, their souls and their -vanities. - -And she tumbles with them, from one precipice down to another, faithful -only to her nervous system. Her only virtue is a complete absence of the -quality. If only Wedekind had invested her with a single human moral -conviction—merely for the sake of completing her diabolically. If only -he had made it possible for her to sin against something. But she hasn’t -anything to sin against—not a conviction, not a moral. In this country -she would be tried for her murders and treasons and sent to an asylum -for incomplete people. What she does she does simply. When this hussy -kills the father who owned her in order to save herself from his threats -and then throws herself laughingly into the arms of the son, she does it -all without malice. It is all natural, spontaneous. When she rebukes her -own father for making love to her (she tells him he’s getting too old -for such tricks), when she murders, deceives and pollutes she hasn’t any -feeling of doing wrong, any reaction except one of satisfaction. If this -isn’t an ideal I’d like to know what is. If everybody was like she is -there would be no sorrow or suffering in the world. We would all be -simple animals dashing around, biting each other, drinking from each -other’s throats, feeling pain only when our nerves were touched and joy -only when our nerves were touched. Wedekind imagines that this state is -the true reflection of today. He exaggerates what according to his -experience may be a logical prejudice and hurls it brutally behind the -footlights and into the bookcase. - -Lulu, bedraggled, walking the streets of London in the rain, looking for -prey, Lulu wheedling quarters out of ragged sensualists, hiding her -father and her lover and the woman who desires her while she -“entertains” her victims, Lulu spreading disease, and then Lulu running -wildly around the dirty garret in her chemise pursued and killed by a -red-eyed, nail-bitten Jack the Ripper—that is the end of woman. Poor -Wedekind. What an exaggerated opinion of virtue he must have,—an -idealist’s. There is but one more thing. It is Wedekind’s master stroke. - -He introduces a note of unselfishness and poetry as a climax. Lulu lies -stabbed by the delighted and enthusiastic Ripper. And kneeling before -the picture of her in her hey-dey is the “Countess,” the woman who loved -her—a homo-sexualist—an irritating creature. - -“I love you, you are the star in my heavens,” she cries purely. I don’t -remember whether the Ripper kills her or not. _What a mess!_ - - B. H. - - - - _Rabindranath Tagore: A Biographical Study, by Ernest Rhys._ _New - York: The Macmillan Company._ - -Shrill Chicago and thousands of similar examples of Western civilization -have more to learn from a book of this sort than can be readily -explained. Taking Chicago as fairly representative of the swiftest -modernity, one must blush for the city of “I Will” whenever he picks up -Ernest Rhys’s keen and quiet study of the talked-about Hindu. The -blushes are for the vast herds whose only ventures upon new paths are to -trample and set back, whose only ideals center in or near the stomach. -In the white light of this book—reflected radiance from a -first-magnitude luminary—Chicago and her kind appear as blundering -heedless egotists who never listen. Their ears have not developed, their -eyes are turned to the ground. “I Will”—what? To grow strong, -high-minded, clean of heart, and wise of soul? Anything but this. - -Tagore, by his very tolerance and avoidance of condemnation, seems -vehemently to remind the thinker of all this—by force of the law of -contrast. The clear-eyed Easterner even points out a scant virtue or two -in Western civilization, such as the value of mastering materials, which -the Westerner himself overlooks when in self-defense; and no blame is -placed on the feverish civilizees. Tagore moves in a state of peace -which is the very essence of activity, and has no part in the fanatics’ -plan which begins with lassitude and ends in stagnation. He is a man of -action, forceful, definite, wasting no energy nor sparing the use of it. -Modern methods of doing things and “getting there” become mere feeble -noises by comparison. This is not the tragedy, that Westerners blunder -and fail,—the East has its failures,—but it lies in the fact that -America arrogantly chooses not to listen, not to see and learn. A few -scattered listeners must catch the harmonies intended for a whole -nation, the majority having been sophisticated to extinction. The herds -in Chicago and elsewhere will go on indefinitely in their own swaggering -way, blind and deaf, sure beyond correction that the chief desirability -lies in digestion, decoration, and diversion ... while Rabindranath -Tagore and the beautiful element he personifies are ever-present, -waiting within reach of all, working out the biggest things in the -world, and living the last word of true joy. - -Ernest Rhys is very gentle and sparing in making comparisons. He leaves -this to his reader, and is mainly occupied with the re-creation of the -steady magnetic atmosphere which is a natural attribute of Tagore. The -paragraphs devoted to the boys’ school at Bolpur give one a feeling of -something lost, at least to those who thirsted through the schools of -the U. S. Rhys is successful in giving out an excellent idea of the -great man and his works. - - HERMAN SCHUCHERT. - - - Militarism is the German spirit. - - Militarism is the self-revelation of German heroism. - - Militarism is the heroic spirit raised to the spirit of war. It - is Potsdam and Weimar in their highest combination. It is _Faust_ - and _Zarathustra_ and Beethoven’s score in the trenches. - - For even the _Eroica_ and the _Egmont_ Overture are nothing but - the truest militarism. And just because all virtues which lend - such a high value to militarism are revealed to the fullest - extent in war, we are filled with militarism, regarding it as - something holy—as the holiest thing on earth—_Werner Zombart_. - - - - - Have You Read——? - - - (_In this column will be given each month a list of current - magazine articles which, as an intelligent being, you will not - want to miss._) - -The Imagist Number of _The Egoist_, May 1. - -H. D. and Imagism, by May Sinclair. _The Egoist_, June 1. - -Redemption and Dostoevsky, by Rebecca West. _The New Republic_, June 5. - -Back of Billy Sunday, by John Reed. _The Metropolitan_, May. - -The Old Woman’s Money, by James Stephens. _The Century_, May. - -Quack Novels and Democracy, by Owen Wister. _The Atlantic_, June. - - - - - Can You Read——? - - - (_In this column will be given each month a resumé of current - cant which, as an intelligent being, you will go far to avoid._) - -Fiction reviews by Llewellyn Jones in _The Chicago Evening Post_. - -A typical literary judgment from _The Dial_: “But, in the main, his -wholesomely harsh utterances ought to be, and must be, in some degree, -tonic and bracing and curative.” - -An editorial from _The New Republic_, a journal of opinion whose -function, we believe, is to circulate ideas: - - During the past ten months the German Ambassador at Washington - has done nothing to promote a better understanding between his - own government and nation and the American government and nation. - He is consequently all the more to be congratulated upon his - behavior at a moment of acute and dangerous contention between - the United States and Germany. He has on his own initiative and - perhaps at his own risk intervened on behalf of a possibly - peaceful solution of the differences between the two governments. - He has sought by means of a frank talk with President Wilson to - break through the barrier of misunderstanding which the exchange - of notes was building up between the two governments and to - re-establish a genuine vehicle of communication. The conversation - may not lead to agreement, but at the top of a peculiarly - forbidding crisis it has at least made an agreement seem not - impossible. Everybody who detests war, everybody who hopes that - the friendship between the United States and Germany will not be - involved in the wreckage of the hideous conflict, will be - grateful to Count von Bernstorff for his enterprise. - - - - - The Reader Critic - - -_Mrs. Jean Cowdrey Norton, Hempstead, Long Island_: - -Since coming in contact with THE LITTLE REVIEW last December, I have -more than enjoyed each issue with your own impulsive, warm-hearted, -dauntless personality coming through its pages; and it is for that -reason I do not hesitate to ask you for an explanation of a sentence -that you wrote in the April number, which led me to subscribe for that -horrible output, viz., _The Masses_. You pronounced it indispensable to -intelligent living. On that I sent in a subscription, and whereas I am -not so awfully stupid I cannot understand how you, who are evidently an -artist with high ideals, could possibly have such a magazine on your -desk. The cartoons are so untrue, so damnably vulgar,—which good art -never is,—the insistent harping on the shadows of life, the exaggerated -outlook which tinges the whole paper—quite as one-sided on its side as -other papers are on theirs; all of which I know must be in complete -contradiction to your self. It fills me with astonishment. We -acknowledge with our ever-increasing complex civilization that we must -more than ever perhaps help each other; but I don’t just understand -which class this perfectly rotten sheet is intended to reach. If it’s -the so-called down trodden, they are apt to have so much unhappiness any -way I should say a good brace up does more good than harping on -injustice in general; as for the class that “does not think,” its -inartistic drawings alone would be enough to queer it. When I am down -and out—I happen to be a working woman too—I most decidedly _do not_ -want to be made more down and out by more woes, that often spring from -lack of intelligence, that both rich and poor suffer alike from. You -will see I believe in the responsibility of the individual, that you -Socialists rather avoid. I do not expect you to answer this letter, but -I shall look in THE LITTLE REVIEW for a stray line that will give me -some idea of your outlook. - - [I have so much to say in answer to this letter, and so little - time to say it that I have asked someone who shares my view to do - it for me. Mr. Davis says it much better than I could, anyhow. - And I must add that I am not a Socialist. I am an Anarchist—which - means, an Individualist; which means everything that people - think it doesn’t mean.—_The Editor._] - -_F. Guy Davis, Chicago_: - -I will try to indicate very briefly why I think so much of _The Masses_. -The group that is getting it out are real students who know the crowd -with all its hope and despair, much better than the crowd knows itself. -They are interpreting the crowd. The mass would never like _The Masses_. -It is too true. It is not got up for them. _The Cosmopolitan_ is the -ideal of the mass. _The Masses_ is for the few brave spirits who want to -know life as it is, the shadows as well as the flights up into the -sunshine. _The Masses_ to my mind has as broad a range of feeling -reflected in its pages as any magazine I know of. Humor, tragedy, light, -shade, drama, color, yes, and mud too, as you say. But isn’t mud a part -of life? In some respects mud is the condition of life. The great need -of the sensitive mind of today is contact with the vital life-giving -things and ideas which come from the earth. The life of such a mind is -like the life of a plant. Its roots must go down beneath the surface or -it will die. _The Masses_ to my mind is the spirit of the earth put into -magazine form, and to read it understandingly is to put the roots of the -soul down into the earth where they should be if a healthy growth is -desired. One could get too much of that contact of course, but that is -another matter. - - - _FREE POETS v. FREE VERSE._ - - [As Mr. Carter suggests in the following letter, reprinted from - _The Egoist_, I hope THE LITTLE REVIEW agree with Mr. Aldington’s - point of view. I hope the latter may be induced to answer Mr. - Carter at length in the same issue.—_The Editor._] - -_To the Editor, The Egoist_ - -Madam,—I notice that in his contribution to the Imagist number of _The -Egoist_ Mr. Harold Monro, writing on the history of the Imagist -movement, states that the movement owes its origin to the large -discovery of “Poetry as _an_ art” [my italics]. He then proceeds to -point out that the Imagist verse fails as poetry not because the writers -love poetry less, but because they love expression more. Being what it -is it would be no better if Tennyson had written it, and no worse if it -proved to be by, say, Mr. Rudyard Kipling. Indeed, it is not poetry any -more than little Congreve’s tiresome stream of depreciation is comedy, -despite what certain hopeless apprentice play critics assert to the -contrary. Poetry, I suppose Mr. Monro would say, is not expression but -the thing expressed. All this is good and true. But Mr. Monro fails to -make one thing quite clear. The Imagists have been mistaken in their -very conception of poetry which lives alone by the power to see it as -Art and not as “_an art_.” I am convinced that some at least of the -Imagists are not without the secret of this power, and if they will be -guided by the vision they gain thereby, to the extent of forgetting -their literary erudition, it will transform their conception of poetry. -The strict literature at which they aim is not proper poetry. In fact, -literary technicians do not, as a rule, write poetry for the simple -reason that even if they dream the poet’s dream of reality they at once -proceed to smother it under literary form. We must look to those rich in -poetical experience, and free to express it, for the true expression of -poetry. In plain words, “Poetry as _an_ art” (that is, as expression or -form) is not the same as Poetry as Art (that is, the thing expressed). -The distinction is so big and vital and so necessary to be maintained at -this moment, that I propose to consider it in an article in THE LITTLE -REVIEW. I hope to prove that what poetry needs nowadays is free poets, -not free verse. - - HUNTLY CARTER. - - [As the nearest available Imagist, perhaps I may be permitted to - comment (without prejudice to the other Imagists) on Mr. Carter’s - letter. I am not quite sure that I know what Mr. Carter means, - but I think he means that it is useless for a man to study - classic quantity and mediaeval rhyme and modern free verse, if he - has no particular impulse or mood to make those studies valuable - as a means of expression. If that is what Mr. Carter means I - agree with him. I will also agree that it is useless to try and - teach a dumb man to lecture or a lame man to break the hundred yards - record. If a man is to lecture, if he is to be an athlete, we take - for granted that in the first case he has ideas and a certain - eloquence, and in the second a good physique and an aptitude for - sprinting. Mr. Carter would be a rotten trainer if he didn’t make - his man diet, take cold baths and long walks and an occasional - sprint; he ought even to make him do a little boxing. I feel, - somehow, that Mr. Carter never went in for violent exercise or - that he relied upon his “Soul-Flow” or “Art-Ebb” to get him - through. - - Now poetry is not so very unlike athletics. You may have no aptitude - for it, and then all the training in the world won’t get you in - first; you may shape very well, but if you don’t train you will - be an “also ran.” I believe in having an aptitude and in training - it; Mr. Carter believes in having an aptitude and not training it. - - I object to Mr. Carter informing us of the existence of our “of - courses.” We take for granted that a man is sincere, that he has - lots of impulses and that he is “free.” All that is the stuff out - of which poetry is made. The making of it, the “training” is what - we are immediately interested in. We take for granted that we - have the essentials of poetry in us or we should not attempt to - write it. We are now after clarity of form, precision of - expression. Mr. Carter, like the majority of our fellow citizens, - does not value these things; we find them present in every work of - art which is beautiful and permanently interesting; hence our - anxiety to attain by practice that clarity and that precision - which practice alone can give.] - - RICHARD ALDINGTON. - - - If only every Celt will refuse to fight for anything but the - freedom of his own country, the English will soon destroy - themselves altogether, and we shall inherit their language, the - only worthy thing they have, and which their newspapers have not - yet succeeded in debauching and degrading beyond repair. There - are still universities in England. However, they have made it a - crime in England to write good English—for style itself is a form - of truth, being beauty; and truth and beauty are as welcome in - England as detectives in a thieves’ kitchen.—Aleister Crowley in - _The International_. - - - - - THE DRAMA - - - for May Contained This Interesting Material - - THE CLASSICAL STAGE OF JAPAN Ernest Fenollosa’s Work on the - Japanese “Noh.” Edited by Ezra Pound. - - “Noh” Dramas (from the Fenollosa Manuscript). - - Sotoba Komachi. - Kayoi Komachi. - Suma Genji. - Kumasaka. - Shojo. - Tamura. - Tsunemasa. - Kunasaka. - - THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF THE CENSORSHIP, by _Thomas H. - Dickinson_ - - MAURICE MAETERLINCK by _Remy de Gourmont_ Authorized - translation by Richard Aldington. - - THE “BOOK OF THE PAGEANT,” AND ITS DEVELOPMENT by _Frank - Chouteau Brown_ - - ON THE READING OF PLAYS by _Elizabeth R. Hunt_ - - A PYRAMUS-AND-THISBE PLAY OF SHAKESPEARE’S TIME, with notes - by _Eleanor Prescott Hammond_ - - THE PUBLISHED PLAY by _Archibald Henderson_ - - THE THEATRE TODAY—AND TOMORROW, a review, by _Alice Corbin - Henderson_ - - THE GERMAN STAGE AND ITS ORGANIZATION—Part III, Private - Theatres by _Frank E. Washburn Freund_ - - ASPECTS OF MODERN DRAMA, a review, by _Lander MacClintock_ - - THE JAPANESE PLAY OF THE CENTURIES by _Gertrude Emerson_ - - A SELECTIVE LIST OF ESSAYS AND BOOKS ABOUT THE THEATRE AND - OF PLAYS, published during the first quarter of 1915 - compiled by _Frank Chouteau Brown_ - - THE DRAMA for August will contain Augier’s _Mariage d’Olympe_, - with a foreword by Eugene Brieux; an amusing account of his - experiences with Parsee drama, by George Cecil; a paper on the - _Evolution of the Actor_, by Arthur Pollock; a discussion of - Frank Wedekind, by Frances Fay; a review of the work of the - recent Drama League Convention; a plan for an autumn community - festival; an outline of the nation-wide celebration of the - Shakespeare tercentenary, and an article entitled - _Depersonalizing the Instruments of the Drama_, by Huntly Carter. - - _The Drama, a Quarterly_ - _$3.00 per year_ - - _736 Marquette Building_ - _Chicago_ - - The most difficult business in life is to get advertisements for - an “artistic” magazine—particularly for one that has the added - stigma of being a free lance. We will give a commission of $5.00 - to every one who secures a full-page “ad” for THE LITTLE REVIEW. - Write for particulars. - - On the following pages you will find the “ads” we might have had - in this issue, but haven’t. - - Mandel Brothers might have taken this page to feature their - library furnishings, desk sets, and accessories—of which they are - supposed to have the most interesting assortment in town. I - learned that on the authority of some one who referred to - Mandel’s as “the most original and artistic store in Chicago.” If - they should advertise those things here I have no doubt the 1,000 - Chicago subscribers to THE LITTLE REVIEW would overflow their - store. - - Marshall Field and Company might have used this page—but they - wouldn’t. I have been to see them at least six times. They have a - book department where you can actually find Nietzsche when you - want him without having the clerk say, “We’ll be glad to order - it.” Such a phenomenon ought to be heralded. - - Carson, Pirie, Scott and Company ought to advertise something, - though I don’t know just what. The man I interviewed made such a - face when I told him we were “radical” that I haven’t had the - courage to go back and pester him for the desired full-page. The - Carson-Pirie attitude toward change of any sort is well-known—I - think they resent even having to keep pace with the change in - fashions. - - A. C. McClurg and Company could have used this page to advantage. - They have lots of books to advertise and they ought to want to - advertise them in a Chicago magazine. I am willing to wager that - they will: I plan to interview them once a week until they - succumb. - - There is least excuse of all for the Cable Piano Company. They - know what we think of the Mason and Hamlin Piano and they know, - whether they advertise or not, that we will keep on talking about - it whenever we feel like appreciating a beautiful thing—which is - rather often. - - This page might have been used very profitably by Mr. Mitchell - Kennerley to announce the publication of a book of poems by - Florence Kiper Frank. I think it is to be out this summer—though - of course I can’t pretend to give the details accurately, not - having been provided with the “ad.” But THE LITTLE REVIEW readers - will want the book nevertheless. - - - Poetry - - - A Magazine of Verse - - 543 Cass Street - Chicago - - PADRAIC COLUM, the distinguished Irish poet and lecturer, says: - “POETRY is the best magazine, by far, in the English language. We - have nothing in England or Ireland to compare with it.” - - William Marion Reedy, Editor of the St. Louis _Mirror_, says: - “POETRY has been responsible for the Renaissance in that art. You - have done a great service to the children of light in this - country.” - - CAN YOU AFFORD TO DO WITHOUT SO IMPORTANT A MAGAZINE? - - POETRY publishes the best verse now being written in English, and - its prose section contains brief articles on subjects connected - with the art, also reviews of the new verse. - - POETRY has introduced more new poets of importance than all the - other American magazines combined, besides publishing the work of - poets already distinguished. - - THE ONLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED EXCLUSIVELY TO THIS ART. - - SUBSCRIBE AT ONCE. A subscription to POETRY is the best way of - paying interest on your huge debt to the great poets of the past. - It encourages living poets to do for the future what dead poets - have done for modern civilization, for you. - - One year—12 numbers—U. S. A., $1.50; Canada, $1.65; foreign, - $1.75 (7 shillings). - - POETRY - 543 Cass Street, Chicago. - - Send POETRY for one year ($1.50 enclosed) beginning ......... - .......................................................... to - Name ........................................................ - Address ..................................................... - - - - - RADICAL - BOOK SHOP - - Headquarters for the sale of radical literature representing all - phases of libertarian thought in religion, economics, philosophy, - also revolutionary fiction, poetry and drama. All current radical - newspapers and magazines. - - Mail orders promptly filled. - Send for catalogue. - - 817½ North Clark Street - Chicago, Illinois - - If Civilization, Christianity, Governments, Education, and - Culture have failed to bring peace and well-being to humanity, - isn’t it time for you to listen to the message of Anarchy? - - Anarchism and Other Essays - - By Emma Goldman - - $1.00; postpaid $1.15 - - With biographical sketch and twelve propaganda lectures showing - the attitude of Anarchism towards social questions—economics, - politics, education, and sex. - - The Social Significance of the Modern Drama - - By Emma Goldman - - $1.00; postpaid $1.15 - - A critical analysis of the Modern Drama in its relation to the - social and revolutionary tendencies of the age. - - Prison Memoirs of An Anarchist - - By Alexander Berkman - - $1.25; postpaid $1.40 - - A powerful human document discussing revolutionary psychology and - portraying prison life. - - Selected Works - - By Voltaireine de Cleyre - - $1.00; postpaid $1.15 - - America’s foremost literary rebel and Anarchist propagandist. - Poems, short stories and essays. - - 10c a copy - - $1.00 a year - - Mother Earth Magazine - - Anarchist Monthly - - FOR SALE BY - - Mother Earth Publishing Association - 20 East 125th Street, New York, New York - - - - - RADICAL - BOOK SHOP - - Headquarters for the sale of radical literature representing all - phases of libertarian thought in religion, economics, philosophy, - also revolutionary fiction, poetry and drama. All current radical - newspapers and magazines. - - Mail orders promptly filled. - Send for catalogue. - - 817½ North Clark Street - Chicago, Illinois - - - - - 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. - -In the poem _Les Condoléances_, the line _Qu’il est sous les mers_ was -moved from the end of the stanza beginning with _“Je n’insiste pas. Je -suis venu vite,_ to the end of the stanza beginning with _“Si notre -avenir—souffrez que je cache_ where it most likely belongs. - -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical -errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here -(before/after): - - [p. 9]: - ... seines Nachbarvolkes fühlt, als würs dem eigenen Volk ... - ... seines Nachbarvolkes fühlt, als wärs dem eigenen Volk ... - - [p. 11]: - ... for life, even if it be a fight against the whole world. - “Veder Schlafpulver ... - ... for life, even if it be a fight against the whole world. - “Weder Schlafpulver ... - - [p. 34]: - ... And where shall be the end at last. ... - ... And where shall be the end at last? ... - - [p. 41]: - ... I am such of the artificial inanities of the - drawingroom—the polite ... - ... I am sick of the artificial inanities of the - drawingroom—the polite ... - - [p. 42]: - ... Schoengist nobility. ... - ... Schöngeist nobility. ... - - [p. 42]: - ... rumble bizarrely from the depths of every philosophical - sub-celler they can ... - ... rumble bizarrely from the depths of every philosophical - sub-cellar they can ... - - [p. 42]: - ... I am sick of their kinsmen, of the surgical tongues who - dissect, who who ... - ... I am sick of their kinsmen, of the surgical tongues who - dissect, who ... - - [p. 54]: - ... Huntley Carter. ... - ... Huntly Carter. ... - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, JUNE-JULY 1915 -(VOL. 2, NO. 4) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |