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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75976 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+                           THE LITTLE REVIEW
+
+
+                       Literature Drama Music Art
+
+                          MARGARET C. ANDERSON
+                                 EDITOR
+
+                              AUGUST, 1916
+
+        A Real Magazine                     Margaret C. Anderson
+        Wakefulness                                   Amy Lowell
+        Plymouth Rocks                                     R. G.
+        Ulysse Fait Son Lit                    Jean de Bosschere
+        Modernity Exposed:                         Caesar Zwaska
+          Sandburg’s Chicago Poems                              
+          The Case of Masters                                   
+        The Poet Sings to the World                    Ben Hecht
+        Splendid Isolation                           John Grimes
+        The Tree                                      Helen Hoyt
+        Editorials and Announcements                            
+        Julia to Jim                                  Sue Golden
+        A Vers Libre Contest                                    
+        The Reader Critic                                       
+
+                           Published Monthly
+
+                            15 cents a copy
+
+                    MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher
+                            Montgomery Block
+                          SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.
+
+                              $1.50 a year
+
+   Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, San Francisco, Cal.
+
+
+
+
+                           THE LITTLE REVIEW
+
+
+                                VOL. III
+
+                              AUGUST, 1916
+
+                                 NO. 5
+
+                Copyright, 1916, by Margaret C. Anderson
+
+
+
+
+                            A Real Magazine
+
+
+                          MARGARET C. ANDERSON
+
+I am afraid to write anything; I am ashamed.
+
+I have been realizing the ridiculous tragedy of _The Little Review_. It
+has been published for over two years without coming near its ideal.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The ultimate reason for life is Art. I don’t know what they mean when
+they talk about art for life’s sake. You don’t make art so that you may
+live; you do just the reverse of that. Life takes care of itself, rolls
+on from the first push, and then falls over the edge. Art uses up all
+the life it can get—and remains forever. Art for Art’s sake is merely
+the sensible statement of the most self-evident fact in the world. It
+has been the easy creed of charlatans; but what does that matter? It has
+always been the faith of the strongest.
+
+Well—I wanted Art in _The Little Review_. There has been a little of it,
+just a very little.... It is tragic. I tell you.
+
+And Revolution? Revolution _is_ Art. You want free people just as you
+want the Venus that was modelled by the sea.... All my inadequate
+stammerings about Emma Goldman have been to show her as the artist she
+is: a great artist, working in her own material as a Michael Angelo
+worked in his.
+
+Now we shall have Art in this magazine or we shall stop publishing it. I
+don’t care where it comes from—America or the South Sea Islands. I don’t
+care whether it is brought by youth or age. I only want the miracle!
+
+Where are the artists? Where is some new Pater, and how will his “She is
+older than the rocks among which she sits” sound to us? Where is some
+new Arthur Symons with his version of “Peter Weyland”? Where is a Henry
+James and a Hardy and a Bjornson and an Andreyev for us? Where is a
+Jean-Christophe who will let us publish his songs?
+
+Helen Hoyt, you have a poem in this issue called _The Tree_. It is not
+Art; it is merely a rather good poem. You could have made it Art. Do it
+every time, for the love of the gods! “Sue Golden” has one about Jim and
+Arabella. It has an interesting idea that many people need to
+understand. Why not make Art of it? I know one of hers which begins “My
+body is too frail for these great moods”—and the miracle is in it.
+
+I loathe compromise, and yet I have been compromising in every issue by
+putting in things that were “almost good” or “interesting enough” or
+“important.” There will be no more of it. If there is only one really
+beautiful thing for the September number it shall go in and the other
+pages will be left blank.
+
+Come on, all of you!
+
+
+
+
+                              Wakefulness
+
+
+                               AMY LOWELL
+
+   Jolt of market-carts;
+   Steady drip of horses’ hoofs on hard pavement;
+   A black sky lacquered over with blueness,
+   And the lights of Battersea Bridge
+   Pricking pale in the dawn.
+   The beautiful hours are passing
+   And still you sleep!
+   Tired heart of my joy,
+   Incurved upon your dreams,
+   Will the day come before you have opened to me?
+
+
+
+
+                             Plymouth Rocks
+
+
+                                 R. G.
+
+Some new Agitation is always fretting the souls of those who feel that
+it is their task to save the world from itself. Of late it has been
+Birth Control. They have been going to prison for merely mentioning the
+words Birth Control in the presence of an ingenue government. And all
+the time the government has the most perfect system of Birth Control for
+genius and art—the National Board of Censorship—so perfect as to produce
+sterility.
+
+A simple mind would wonder why these agitators don’t first fight the
+censorship, and perhaps all these things would be added unto them!
+
+Last winter a rumor did come out of New York that a few of these and a
+few artists were trying to form a plan of unorganized but concerted
+action, each profession or art or group protesting to the state on its
+own behalf. It turned out to be another of those Spoon River things:
+when the test came a few stood by the idea, but the others were either
+too lily-livered to have their names appear or the inevitable Puritan
+ancestor arose to remind them that after all they were Plymouth Rocks.
+
+And all the while the tale grows finer yet:
+
+Jerome Blum, a painter of reputation, a real painter, returned from
+China in the spring naively bringing with him, to this land of the free,
+a little collection of Chinese and Japanese art to keep by him for the
+delight of his soul. In the collection was a book over one hundred and
+fifty years old, containing eight original paintings on silk, by one of
+the greatest of Chinese painters, and a Japanese scroll, twelve feet
+long, of even finer workmanship.
+
+Mr. Blum was summoned before the Collector of the Port of Chicago. The
+two works described had been declared obscene by an appraiser: “They
+would arouse the passions of an ordinary man.” They were to be
+destroyed, with the possible inclusions of the entire case of old
+bronzes, tapestries, embroideries, etc., in which they were shipped. Mr.
+Blum had laid himself open to a fine of thousands of dollars, with
+something like five years imprisonment, for good measure.
+
+Law versus Art. Mr. Blum offered to paint out all objectionable parts,
+asked permission to send the things back to China or permission to
+present them to some museum. “Art or no Art, all paintings of the kind
+were to be burned” was the decree from the customs officials. And the
+two “obscene” works of art were burned in the furnace of the Federal
+building.
+
+No need here to go into what Mr. Blum must have suffered as an artist
+over the destruction of precious beauty never to be replaced—or as a man
+over the delicate and unobscene discussions, by the officials, of the
+objectionable parts, over the injustice of having his property destroyed
+without trial before a jury of his peers.
+
+All people of any education know that the art of all ancient peoples
+sprung from a desire to recreate for the hearts of men the mystery of
+creation and reproduction of life; thence came religion to explain to
+the minds of men the awe and wonder of creation. The Art of the Orient
+is almost wholly concerned with these subjects. Here was where Mr.
+Blum’s became “obscene” art.
+
+If the censors should become informed woe for the Christian churches,
+each raising an “obscene” phallic symbol, in the cross, shamelessly
+uncensored to the sky; the bishops would mourn their fish-mouthed
+phallic hats, and so on endlessly.
+
+Who knows but if left to themselves they may not even reach themselves
+in their unlimited censorship and be their own destruction?
+
+
+   It is not doubt, but certitude which drives one mad.—_Nietzsche._
+
+
+
+
+                          Ulysse Fait Son Lit
+
+
+                           JEAN DE BOSSCHERE
+
+   Ulysse glorieux, revenu des batailles
+   Choisit une terre, dans la ville qui sourit à sa paix
+   Il est à eux; il s’est donné avec la paix.
+   Tous le touchent, et
+   S’il pose la main sur les yeux
+   Tous crient
+   “Il songe à trahir, il est orgueilleux
+   Peut-être croit-il nous faire honneur
+   Même en ne nous regardant pas.
+   Nous ferons deux nouvelles statutes pour toi, Ulysse!
+   Tu seras bien forcé à te tenir parmi nous.”
+
+   Or, Ulysse ne songe pas à fuir.
+   Il sait l’homme dans les cuisines
+   Dans l’aréopage, dans les batailles
+   Il les aime avec leurs écailles de poisson
+   Leurs nageoires sur un corps de truie
+   Et la tête est celle du canard,
+   Les pattes celles du coq,
+   Avec des ailes de moineau;
+   Il aime leur saveur de mauvais pain d’épices
+   Mais souvent, le soir, l’odeur de chat,
+   L’odeur est trop forte
+   Et il ne peut plus embrasser ses amis
+   “Que ma statue et ma penseé soient avec eux” dit-il.
+
+   Dans sa terre, autour d’un sycomore
+   Il elève un mur rond de pierre et de bois;
+   À la hauteur du front, il coupe une porte;
+   Elle n’est pas plus large que des épaules d’homme
+   Puis il la ferme avec des planches
+   Comme les cinq doights de la main cachent une blessure
+   “Comme un pied appliqué aux vastes fesses des hommes”
+   Dit-il; mais il rougit
+   “Comme un couvercle sur le monde
+   Comme un couvercle sur un pot de fromage piqué de vers.”
+   Dit-il; mais il rougit.
+   Et se frappe trois fois la poitrine.
+
+   La foule regarde le mur
+   Il n’y a pas de fenêtres.
+   “Ulysse n’a pas le droit de se mettre au tombeau.”
+   Le jeune Franklin s’accroche aux branches du sycomore
+   Se hisse, et regarde par dessus le mur.
+   Il retombe sur ses pieds de sycophante;
+   “Ah! il scie le tronc de l’arbre” crie-t-il.
+   “Il nous trahit, il nous vend, il nous renie.”
+
+   “Ulysse, Ulysse! nous avons déposé des roses blanches
+   Sous ta statue
+   Ulysse, Ulysse! nous accrochons des roses rouges à ta porte;
+   Ulysse, Ulysse montre-toi aux bourgeois de la ville.”
+   Il a scié le tronc.
+   Il en sépare des planches adorables,
+   Et que l’on peut aimer d’amour
+   Des planches plus aimables que des miches de pain.
+   Ulysse, sans clous de fer
+   Construit son lit avec le sycomore.
+   “Ulysse, Ulysse, le conseil te réclame.
+   Nous lui contâmes ce que tu fis de l’arbre”
+   Lui avait-on, avec le terre, donné l’arbre
+   D’où le jeune Franklin pouvait le voir?
+   Il n’a pas le droit,
+   Pas le droit.
+   Il y a peut-être un souterrain
+   Certainement il reçoit des messages sans fils.
+   Oui, il communique avec l’ennemi.
+   Ulysse avec des couleurs rouges et noires
+   Trace des signes de joie sur son lit et sur sa porte.
+   Puis il rit,
+   Il rit, et son cœur
+   Au milieu de l’air joyeux de la poitrine
+   Et comme une rose sensuelle qui l’ouvre.
+   Elle s’épanouit comme un soupir d’aise sans limite.
+   Alors, du coté de la mer
+   Il fore un trou dans la muraille.
+   “Je vais prendre femme” dit-il,
+   “Je sais bien comment elle sera, lisse et blanche
+   Des cheveux ni de blé, ni de châtaigne
+   Et des yeux sages avec l’ardeur des chats.
+   Mais je veux la voir dans ce jour d’exultation
+   À peine s’il me faut ajouter une table, un coffre, un autel.”
+
+   Ulysse regarde par le trou ouvert, dans la pierre
+   Ils sont mille autour du mur rond
+   Et il entend que les hommes disent
+   “A-t-il ses armes?
+   Vous savez combien des la mamelle il fut malin
+   Habile aux armes
+   Et méchant”
+   Il voit que les hommes sont chargés de fagots.
+   Il y a un bûcher autour de la maison.
+   Les femmes l’arrosent avec l’huile des lampes
+   Et y versent celles de leur toilette,
+   Les cuisiniers l’huile des poissons conservés,
+   Les charrons la poix des charrettes,
+   Le batelier apporte une marmite de goudron,
+   Et un capitaine, vêtu de ses médailles de sioux
+   Pousse la flamme d’une torche sous le bûcher.
+   Ils cuisent Ulysse
+   Car il est bien à eux.
+
+   Au loin les statutes sont traîneés vers la mer.
+   Un chaudronnier les achète à la foule trahie.
+   Il paie trois guinées pour boire en paix.
+   Ulysse cuit
+   Les jeunes filles chantent
+   Rougies par la lueurs des flammes
+   Et les mères ravies, sourient.
+
+
+
+
+                           Modernity Exposed
+
+
+                        —And Gone One Better[1]
+
+                             CAESAR ZWASKA
+
+It has come to be that on the stage, where once we watched for artists,
+we find only vainly strutting weak-willed human beings. We are not held,
+and the light within the sacred space grows dimmer. We lose all interest
+in places where once we have found Art.
+
+And how desperate we have become!
+
+The procession of the Imagists has been the only sacred thing before our
+eyes—thin and fragrant. Their fragility has the sap of eternity;
+blustering winds, blowing through the gaps back-stage, tear at them in
+vain. The Imagists have grown straight and strong. The beauty of their
+tiny procession strikes into our very hearts the emptiness, the
+appalling desolation, of our position.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Carl Sandburg has understood the failures and the lies and exposed the
+cause. He has shown the lie of your government and the farce and folly
+of monuments to those who kill to keep it alive. He exposes your little
+deaths and their perfumed sorrow and the bunk of words and antics of
+your Billy Sunday and fellow citizens. He has heard the “fellows saying
+here’s good stuff for a novel or it might be worked up into a good
+play,” when speaking of an Italian widow living in city slums. He has
+the courage and the knack of giving them the challenge—calling their
+bluff; and he declares with strong conviction that he’s able to back up
+his defiance. Who of the scatter-brains living could put her or her
+daughter-in-law or the working girls or the entire mob, for that matter,
+into a play? But _he_ has put them, their spirit, into lines, gaunt and
+vivid as their lives. And I declare he is the only modern that has got
+it across.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+This is the process of the book and of the poet’s progress: The Chicago
+poems; he has worked his vengeance; from the cinders and ashes, glowing
+still, rise sparks, brilliant and tiny. (He calls them _Handfuls_.) The
+stifling smoulder of the War poems to the warm rich glow of The Road and
+the End and the flame of the fire with its attendant fogs and then grim
+shadows. As a confession, or rather a solidifying of the entire force of
+the poet, he reveals the _Other Days_, quite as intense as the present
+mood. This from the last of that section:
+
+      Snatch the gag from thy mouth, child,
+      And be free to keep silence.
+      Tell no man anything for no man listens,
+      Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.
+
+Why should a man speak? When there are things to say, such as the _Red
+Son_, always have your lips ready to speak:
+
+      I am going away and I never come back to you;
+      Crags and high rough places call me,
+      Great places of death
+      Where men go empty-handed
+      And pass over smiling
+      To the star-drift on the horizon rim;
+      My last whisper shall be alone, unknown;
+      I shall go to the city and fight against it,
+      And make it give me passwords
+      Of luck and love, women worth dying for,
+      And money.
+          I go where you wist not of
+          Nor I nor any man nor woman.
+          I only know I go to storms
+      Grappling against things wet and naked.
+      There is no pity of it and no blame
+      None of us is in the wrong.
+      After all it is only this:
+          You for the little hills and I go away.
+
+Poetry has grown stronger in your eyes?
+
+Thus has Carl Sandburg in one book gone the entire range of a life
+today. The humanitarian poet as well as the artist-poet. He has proven
+things—and peoples. The nigger: foam of teeth ... breaking crash of
+laughter; Mrs. Gabrielle Giovannitti: with that kindling wood piled on
+her head, coming along Peoria street nine o’clock in the morning; Jan
+Kubelik: girls of Bohemia ... in the hills with their lovers; Chick
+Lorimer: a wild girl keeping a hold on a dream she wants; Mischa Elman:
+a singing fire and a climb of roses; the plowboy: turning the turf in
+the dusk and haze of an April gloaming; the gypsy: her neck and head the
+top piece of a Nile obelisk. He has known uplands when the great strong
+hills are humble; losses: and one day we will hold only the shadows;
+wars: in the wars to come kings kicked under the dust and millions of
+men following great causes not yet dreamed out in the heads of men; joy:
+sent on singing, singing, smashed to the hearts under the ribs with a
+terrible love; the mist: at the first of things, I will be at the last;
+and The Great Hunt:
+
+          When the rose’s flash to the sunset
+          Reels to the rack and the twist,
+          And the rose is a red bygone,
+          When the face I love is going
+          And the gate to the end shall clang,
+          And it’s no use to beckon or say, “So long”—
+      Maybe I’ll tell you then—
+                                some other time.
+
+
+                          The Case of Masters
+
+In one of Whitman’s songs he speaks to those “who would assume a place
+to teach, or be a poet here in the States”; or, rather, he questions
+them, something like this:
+
+      What is it you bring my America?
+      Is it uniform with my country?
+      Is it not something that has been better told or done before?
+      Have you not imported this, or the spirit of it, in some ship?
+      Is it not a mere tale? a rhyme? a prettiness?—is the good old cause
+         in it?
+      Has it not dangled long at the heels of the poets, politicians,
+         literats, of enemies’ lands?
+      Does it not assume that what is notoriously gone is still here?
+      Does it answer universal needs? Will it improve manners?
+      Can your performance face the open fields and the seaside?
+      Will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air, to appear again in my
+         strength, gait, face?
+      Have real employments contributed to it? original makers, not mere
+         amanuenses?
+
+And so on. I think the questions quoted and the rest of the poem are
+valuable; especially in thinking of Masters’ new book.[2] Because here
+are put to the lawyer, who is known as a poet, all the questions of our
+time. They are put to him because his first book gave us to believe that
+he was the first poet whom we need scrutinize closely since Whitman
+spoke his simplicities to the present and the next ten futures.
+
+Masters may not cringe before these “terms obdurate.” He will point to
+_The Spoon River Anthology_. I will point to his work before the
+Anthology and again these later things. Masters of course loves Walt
+Whitman. He knows the poem from which I quoted. But Theodore
+Watts-Dunton—you remember him? Masters, I am sure, is more anxious and
+willing to accept, nay, subscribe to, the rules and judgments of this
+Victorian critic than to the mere words spoken in poesy of
+Watts-Dunton’s American contemporary, Whitman. I am almost certain of
+this. Masters speaks highly of Watts-Dunton’s essay on poetry. It
+appeared in the Encyclopedia Britannica. Please read it and find the
+Masters creed. He seems ready to bow before it. If Masters wants honors
+as a decadent he can have them—really he has earned them. _The Spoon
+River Anthology_: its manner, joy, abandon, deepest humanity, art (all
+that makes it the tremendous book it is), seem to be the one great thing
+that Masters had to give us. The new book does not show the “truly deep
+poetic spirit” which Francis Hackett claims to have found in it. Such a
+judgment is given the lie by such poems as: _St. Francis and the Lady
+Clare_, _Rain in My Heart_, _Simon Surnamed Peter_, _The City_, _Helen
+of Troy_, _O Glorious France_, _Love Is a Madness_, _The Altar_, _Soul’s
+Desire_, _Ballad of Launcelot and Elaine_, _In Michigan_, _The Star_.
+
+Our own feeble voice aside, I merely put before you words of two men—one
+a creator and critic, and the other a creator and human being. And I
+hope I have visualized for you the pathetically absurd spectacle of a
+“modern poet” bowing on bended knee before—. Well, why should a poet bow
+at all?
+
+----------
+
+   [1] _Chicago Poems, by Carl Sandburg. New York: Henry Holt._
+
+   [2] _Songs and Satires, by Edgar Lee Masters. New York:
+   Macmillan._
+
+
+
+
+                      The Poet Sings to the World
+
+
+                               BEN HECHT
+
+   I am a stranger, wandering always.
+   Only the dark trees know me and the dark skies.
+   Wistfully I look on you and wander on coldly,
+   For you will not know me...
+   Only the night that swims in the black branches knows me
+   And the silence that walks in the dark streets.
+
+   But I know you—
+   You of the little words and the little visions
+   Who are warm with laughter and the joy of common things.
+   I wander among you and I wish to laugh
+   And I yearn to take your hand.
+   But your eyes look into mine and stare
+   And there is no love in them such as you lavish elsewhere.
+   Your eyes look into mine and frown
+   For you will not know me...
+   Only the blue distances of the day on the water know me
+   And the cold wind that warms itself in my heart.
+
+   I reach to embrace you,
+   I dream of touching your heart with my fingers,
+   But I am a stranger, wandering always;
+   Wistful and coldly mocking your dull faces
+   As you slip from my arms like a shadow;
+   Hating and laughing at your little sacredness...
+   For you will not know me...
+   Only the dark trees know me and the white stars
+   And the friendless night that comes smiling to me for comfort,
+   And the cold wind that warms itself in my heart.
+
+   For you have sent me, doomed me to wander,
+   And only they know me—the far-away things.
+   Only they come to me,
+   Taking my hate and my love into their vastness.
+   And sometime you will hear the things I have spoken to them—
+   Unsaid things of myself and of you—
+   Coming out of their distances;
+   Tears for your sorrow and wild laughters for your joy.
+   And then you will know me
+   Even as they knew me:
+   Not as an exile singing
+   But as a part of your soul that wandered away.
+
+
+
+
+                        “Splendid Isolation”[3]
+
+
+                              JOHN GRIMES
+
+He might have removed mountains or carved out empires; instead he turns
+his nails against provincial society and scratches. Pechorin—egoist,
+self-seeker, hater, superman in swaddlings—stifled to madness by the air
+of Russia, bled of energy, his idealism thwarted; fearing to raise his
+head from the ashes and launch against circumstance, there was nothing
+in all Holy Russia that could test his soul in supreme activity. He
+lacked the moral courage that forced the sons of the fathers into
+revolution. There was left mockery, and the insulting of the soul with
+puny wickedness, vapid and provincial. So genius was poured into the
+mould of the commonplace.
+
+Pechorin sought a splendid isolation. He killed humanity in his heart,
+became a creature of self, and began to hate as sincerely as a
+revengeful, spoiled child. His hatred becomes sordid vindictiveness; his
+emotions correspond to tantrums. He feeds upon the ruined hopes and the
+despair of society, making himself “an author of middle-class
+tragedies.”
+
+He looms before us on the screen, menacing, grandiose, Byronic. But he
+is great only from the scaling of values. His contact is incessantly
+with weaker types who bend or break before him. Grushnitski is a modish
+idealist; Bela, a captive maid who acknowledges his right to do as he
+wills; Vera, a hysterical sentimentalist of that spirituelle type to
+whom the intense physical traits of Pechorin make a ready appeal. She
+quiets her scruples with the sacred notion that she is sacrificing
+herself, soul and body to one whose life would otherwise be incomplete.
+Princess Mary is a typical Byronese victim, a devotee at the shrine of
+heroism, who for nothing in the world would give herself to a man who
+has not some mystery or who has not been the victim of some crushing
+sorrow. Contrast her with the vital, passionate Natalya in Turgene’s
+_Rudin_.... Pechorin hunts easy game. He acknowledges that he has never
+loved women of spirit: “Once only I loved a woman with a firm will that
+I was unable to vanquish. We parted enemies.” What would these erotic,
+parasitic Byrons subsist upon nowadays? Woman is no more the mere giver;
+she asks and receives in return.
+
+Pechorin wins from us not honest hatred but contempt. One searches the
+book for an honorable impulse upon his part. He is a washed-out Byron; a
+pale Don Juan. He loves many women for the excitement of mere change.
+“We live out of curiosity. We expect something new. How absurd, and yet
+how vexatious!” Women fall at his feet and he asks derisively: “Can it
+be that wickedness is so attractive?” He knows the ways of his victim by
+heart, he anticipates her every move, and calls her accomplishment
+tiresome. Passion has shriveled until it is an inglorious segment of his
+life. It is a thing of curiosity rather than of sympathy. Love is an
+annoyance, yet he persists in it: “I feel within me an insatiate hunger
+that devours everything it meets upon the way. I look upon joy and
+suffering only in their relation to myself, regarding them as nutriment
+that sustains my spiritual forces.... To none has my love ever brought
+happiness because I have never sacrificed anything for the sake of those
+I loved. I have only tried to satisfy the strange cravings of my heart,
+greedily draining their feelings, their tenderness, their joy, their
+suffering—and I have never been able to sate myself.”
+
+It occurs to Pechorin that such aimlessness cannot but be a
+misinterpretation of the mystic handwriting of life. “It cannot be that
+I came purposeless into the world. A purpose there must have been, and
+surely mine was an exalted destiny because I feel within my soul powers
+immeasurable. But I was unable to discover that destiny. I allowed
+myself to be carried away by the allurements of passions innane and
+ignoble. From that crucible I issued hard and cold as iron.”... “My
+chief pleasure is to make everything around me subject to my will. To be
+the cause of suffering or joy to another without having a definite right
+to be—is it not the sweetest food for our pride?”
+
+Lermontov is honest. He makes no attempt to vindicate a type. He must
+have smiled at his hater, his incipient superman, shattered by fate
+casting himself on the bare steppe after killing his horse in a mad
+ride, and clasping his body to the earth. Did he think to merge himself
+with the great “I am”?
+
+“Alas! there cometh a time when man shall no longer give birth to a
+star. Alas! there cometh the time of the most contemptible man who can
+no longer despise himself!”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Thus spake Zarathustra!
+
+Not submission, self-abnegation, Tolstoyanism, but wholesome
+self-hatred, acknowledging in one’s self but a bridge to beyond-man.
+Pechorin saw life as an end in itself. He was a creature of the surface,
+he feared to plunge into the blue depths.
+
+One smiles at his childlike attempt to be self-efficient, isolated,
+damnable. But one is impatiently sorry that his splendid vitality was
+turned from healthful pioneering to the puny triumphs of the ballroom,
+and the conquest of hysterical ladies. Young Russia despises life except
+as a means. It will hurl revolutions into the world’s face, it will
+build empires. Life will be a hot flame of action and not a hectic
+afterglow of spent passion.
+
+----------
+
+   [3] _A Hero of Our Time, by A. Lermontov. New York, Alfred A.
+   Knopf._
+
+
+
+
+                                The Tree
+
+
+                               HELEN HOYT
+
+   On the way to the factory,
+   In the block as you leave the car,
+   Growing from cinders
+   Is a tree.
+   And it has leaves ....
+   Green ....
+   All around are the factory walls
+   And small sooty houses with bleak steps
+   And babies crawling among flies ....
+   In summer I have felt the pavements
+   Pouring out heat like ovens.
+
+   O tree, how can you be so patient!
+
+
+
+
+                      Editorials and Announcements
+
+
+                  _A Real Orchestra in San Francisco_
+
+It’s a quite amazing phenomenon: here in this town encased in
+philistinism there is a symphony orchestra, conducted by a radical young
+man who knows his business, playing a series of modern music programs
+during the summer!
+
+The first day I went out to inspect San Francisco I was struck dumb
+before a poster in a music store announcing Sunday afternoon concerts by
+a People’s Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by N. Sokoloff, with
+Debussy’s “_Faun_” and those lovely _Caucasian Sketches_ of
+Ippolitow-Ivanow on the program, and Tina Lerner as soloist, etc.,
+etc.—all for a price ranging between twenty-five and seventy-five cents.
+
+I went, naturally; not because I expected it to be a very good concert,
+but because I was starved for music. I knew nothing of Sokoloff, except
+that he had played the violin in Chicago last winter and I had missed
+his concert. Perhaps you can imagine the shock and the joy of hearing
+the “Faun” conducted as I at least have never heard it done before: so
+that it became really a thing of cool lavender shadows in a forest....
+It’s impossible to describe, but it made you weep—it was so beautifully
+done.
+
+Since then I have heard the story of the unique organization. San
+Francisco has one orchestra under the leadership of a man who may be
+called a conservative, I suppose, and backed by numerous wealthy
+citizens who have the artistic interests of the town at heart without a
+very definite knowledge of what channels they should follow. But Mrs. J.
+B. Casserly, a musician, conceived the idea of having better music in
+San Francisco, and asked Mr. Sokoloff to undertake these concerts. Mr.
+Sokoloff, who was a violinist rather than a conductor, was fired by the
+idea, and a skating-rink was hired for the first rehearsal. There was
+some embarrassment as to who should pay the expenses of the rehearsal,
+but it was finally decided that if the orchestra men liked the new
+conductor they would assume the entire cost; if not, it was to be “on”
+Mrs. Casserly. As I remember, they played the Tchaikovsky _Pathetique_
+that afternoon in the sacred halls of the skating-rink, and when it was
+over the men rose to cheer the conductor. “Well, gentlemen,” said Mrs.
+Casserly, “who pays?” But there was no hesitation over that trifling
+matter.
+
+And so the concerts began in a local theatre. It is perfectly simple to
+realize that San Francisco would not largely appreciate such a blessing,
+and that Mrs. Casserly and Mr. Sokoloff would be criticised for their
+“modern” programs; but it is hard to understand the action of the other
+orchestra people, who locked up their scores so that the “rival”
+musicians couldn’t use them and were forced to buy new ones. This is the
+typical history of all struggles in the world to find beauty, so one
+grows used to it. But the important thing is that the People’s
+Philharmonic is to go on next year, and their programs (I should have
+mentioned that they play old music, which is good as well as new music)
+are exciting to think of. I listened yesterday to their rehearsal of the
+_Tristan_ Prelude and I know that Mr. Stock in Ravinia Park is not
+offering his audiences anything so fresh and inspired as Mr. Sokoloff’s
+reading. May they live long and prosper!
+
+
+                       _An Anarchist’s Question_
+
+On the day of the Preparedness Parade in San Francisco some one threw a
+bomb and killed eight people, who undoubtedly didn’t deserve to die.
+Since then the city has gone around on tip-toe, as an anarchist I know
+expressed it. Five people who undoubtedly don’t deserve it have been
+thrown into jail and tortured. Puzzle: if the object of preparedness
+parades is achieved, everybody will be killed off anyway; why is one
+kind of murder so much worse than another?
+
+
+
+
+                              Julia to Jim
+
+
+     (_After reading Edgar Lee Masters’ “Jim and Arabel’s Sister”_)
+
+                               SUE GOLDEN
+
+   You see, it’s this way, Jim ...
+   You can call me a primrose, if you like,
+   Or the Lover, for that’s a way you have, or men have,
+   Of tying things in bundles,
+   That don’t belong in bundles;
+   For every woman, or man too, I guess,
+   Is a separate complex package
+   With a little bit of everything
+   Out of all the other bundles.
+   You find in us exactly what you look for,
+   As Francis did in Arabella;
+   It wouldn’t have made the least difference
+   What you or I told him,
+   Or what he found out—
+         But about me, Jim?
+   You’ve sat here drinking my coffee,
+   And I’ve made you comfortable and happy,
+   And you’ve told me all about myself,
+   And you haven’t even asked me what I thought about myself.
+   It didn’t occur to you.
+   Do you think Francis
+   Has ever gone deeper
+   Than the curve of Arabel’s cheek,
+   Or what he thought her, or wanted her to be?
+
+   You call me the Lover.
+   And try to figure out
+   Why I am not like other women;
+   But I am, Jim—
+   Just an ordinary primrose,
+   For that primrose that changed
+   Started out like all the others;
+   And you wonder why I don’t live like the others,
+   Get married—I was once, have children—my son’s grown—
+   So I’ve been all three, sweetheart and mother and wife,
+   And I am still.
+   Every woman is all three,
+   But not all at the same time;
+   That’s why it is such a bore
+   Being expected to be.
+
+         When you have had your coffee, you’ll go down town
+   And forget me.
+   And I’ll forget you, and be comfortable and happy,
+   Not having to remember you.
+   But if I were married to you,
+   You’d want me to keep on remembering you
+   Every minute of the day,
+   And I’d be so tired of it by the time you came home,
+   I’d be sorry to see you.
+   I have nothing against marriage,
+   Except that it’s a bore
+   Trying to live somebody else’s life.
+   You can’t do it.
+   Married people would be happier
+   If they didn’t try to.
+   They ought to live as freely
+   As we do.
+   All these sudden split-ups
+   In the newspapers
+   Are just this:
+   The hysteria of woman is a shriek of boredom.
+   Why, I’d die in a week if I had to keep on
+   Being the particular kind of primrose
+   That you think me.
+         But the hysterical woman,
+   There’s your flower changing, Jim.
+   I’m just the common kind, but I know that
+   I’m never the same, and I don’t want to be.
+   If I’m the mother today, I may be the lover tomorrow,
+   And I don’t want anybody sitting around on me
+   And keeping me from growing. Your primrose probably changed
+   Just to spite the old scientist who kept prying at it.
+
+   Sex? No, it isn’t sex that these people are writing about,
+   _It’s sentimentality_.
+   They have an ideal, and if the first woman doesn’t answer it
+   They think the second will, or the third.
+   And they call it sex, or beauty, or urge—
+   But it isn’t sex, Jim.
+   I know what sex is.
+
+   The reason I like you, Jim,
+   Is because you haven’t any of these silly notions.
+   Sex is honest and healthy.
+   You say they trace morbid ideas to sex,
+   But I tell you it’s the morbid, silly, beautiful ideas
+   About Love and about being able to satisfy the ideal
+   That are at the root of the trouble about sex!
+   I can’t absorb you, and I don’t want to,
+   And I don’t want to be absorbed.
+
+   I don’t know whether you get what I mean.
+
+   I like you, Jim,
+   Because you leave a person free.
+   After you go, I shall be busy with my own thoughts
+   And my own life, just as if a friend had dropped in.
+   I shall be anything I want to be. I shall change into
+   Just as many primroses as I want to, and you won’t
+   Know anything about it.
+
+   You ought to get married, Jim,
+         No, not me.
+   But if you came here every night,
+   I’d a thousand times rather be married to you,
+   For I have never known anybody more tied up
+   Than these “free-love” people.
+
+   Am I happy? Well, I’m free.
+   We’d all like to be free _and_ happy.
+   Lots of people could be happy—ought to be happy,
+   If they knew enough to be free.....
+         Perhaps happiness is partly the chance of being unhappy—
+   You and I, Jim, haven’t that.
+
+   But what I hate is all this mussing up
+   Of love and sex and the ideal—it isn’t life.
+   One ought to start straight on earth,
+   And take heaven when it comes.
+
+
+   I promise the advent of a tragic age: the highest art in the
+   saying of yea to life, “tragedy,” will be born when mankind has
+   the knowledge of the hardest, but most necessary of wars, behind
+   it, without, however, suffering from that knowledge.—_Nietzsche._
+
+
+
+
+                       A Vers Libre Prize Contest
+
+
+Through the generosity of a friend, THE LITTLE REVIEW is enabled to
+offer an unusual prize for poetry—possibly the first prize extended to
+free verse. The giver is “interested in all experiments, and has
+followed the poetry published in THE LITTLE REVIEW with keen
+appreciation and a growing admiration for the poetic form known as _vers
+libre_.”
+
+The conditions are as follows:
+
+Contributions must be received by August 15th.
+
+They must not be longer than twenty-five lines.
+
+They must be sent anonymously with stamps for return.
+
+The name and address of the author must be fixed to the manuscript in a
+sealed envelope.
+
+It should be borne in mind that free verse is wanted—verse having beauty
+of rhythm, not merely prose separated into lines.
+
+There will be three judges: William Carlos Williams, Zoë Aikens and
+Helen Hoyt.
+
+There will be two prizes of $25 each. They are offered not as a first
+and second prize, but for “the two best short poems in free verse form.”
+
+As there will probably be a large number of poems to read, we suggest
+that contributors adhere closely to the conditions of the contest.
+
+
+
+
+                           The Reader Critic
+
+
+                               The Nymph
+
+(_Edgar Lee, have you missed anything?—Editor._)
+
+   I see it all now: I was born with the soul of a nymph,
+   And they expected me to be law-abiding and moral!
+   Why, I was a nymph from the day my mother lashed me
+   For playing kissing games with the boys, out behind the school,
+   To the day I shot my lover in a South State Street cabaret
+   For flirting with another girl and they put me in the penitentiary.
+   Good God! is it a sin to be young?
+
+                                                         —_Anonymous._
+
+
+                 How Stanilaus Szukalski Expresses Life
+
+_L. C. B._:
+
+There are trees and valleys and mountains—red, blue, orange and
+purple—all smothered by a phosphorescent green. The trees stretch up
+gnarled hands, swollen from too much striving. There is no sky. Dull
+coal mingles with the earth clods. Diamond mines glitter. The ground is
+misshapen. Flowers give forth a stale odor. A hideous laugh sounds. It
+comes from the mouth of a hunch-back who, with prods of burning metal,
+forces people into the quick-sands. Over the sands sucking, demoniacal
+waters rush. Here and there an eye or a torso floats on the surface.
+From the trees and valleys and mountains, luridly colored, come human
+faces. Blood runs from their opened arteries. Their hands are horribly
+twisted. In the foreground writhes a shape whose fingers bend back to
+meet his knuckles. Another rears a massive head, the veins of which
+stand out further than his purple lips. A woman’s arm is extended, too
+full of blood. A weird figure hovers over an abyss, swathed with the
+vapors arising from the gases of the underground. All the people are
+dying. Everyone breathes hard. A whole mound is composed of a soft
+substance—disintegrated limbs. The jelly-like mass quivers. This is
+life.
+
+Did you see his exhibition at the Art Institute? At seventeen one is
+almost wholly in sympathy with him.
+
+
+                                Phantasy
+
+_Noncompos Mentis, Napa, California_:
+
+   Night! A lambient fog * * * * *
+   Stirs the damp echos of the baleful deep,
+   Cimmerian in its fell intensity.
+   Shrouded in mist, pale wraiths flit hitherward
+   Or yon; lured or impelled * * * * * Peace!
+   Ah! Who shall say?
+
+   Borne on the vagrant breeze she floats;
+   Kelp in her hands; ’twined in her hair
+   The weed from outer seas; writhing yet strangely still.
+   Behold her eyes—shallow, opaque,
+   Yet glaucous with a nascent light, gleaming
+   Its message of appeal to answering soul.
+   * * * * * Ah me! Recall the past;
+   Blot out its infamies; this fiery tumult quell
+   With one tempestuous kiss.
+   My being swoons—my soul is wafted hence,
+   Drowned in its God-like, saccharine ecstasy.[4]
+
+----------
+
+   [4] Here the Muse skidded. Author contemplated another stanza,
+   but warder entered with strait jacket and gag.
+
+
+                             Birth Control
+
+_Russell Palmer, Seattle_:
+
+... With particular reference to the matter of Birth Control, which the
+writer has studied in an amateurish fashion for some time, I want to ask
+you if there has ever been framed a model statute providing for the
+dissemination of such information by the State.
+
+If such a model statute exists I will arrange to have it introduced in
+the Washington State Legislature when that body convenes next January.
+If nothing of this sort is available I would earnestly recommend that
+steps be taken immediately to prepare a measure which will bring about
+the maximum amount of good and yet at the same time have an opportunity
+of receiving the support of law-makers elected by a semi-civilized and
+bigoted people.
+
+It should be borne in mind that the Initiative and Referendum are both
+in effect in the State of Washington, so that there would be a strong
+probability that such a proposed law would be passed upon directly by
+the people, either through the failure of the legislature to meet the
+issue squarely or its over cautious desire to have its action approved
+by the voters individually.
+
+I believe that such an act would have a fair chance of passage. We look
+upon our State as not altogether unprogressive, for in addition to the
+legislative progress indicated by the Initiative and Referendum we enjoy
+woman suffrage, glory in non-partisan direct primaries, carry but do not
+wave a Red Light Abatement Act, tolerate Prohibition and threaten Single
+Tax. So you see there are hopes.
+
+
+                           What Is the State?
+
+             (An answer to Alan Adair’s “What Is Anarchy?”)
+
+_Alice Groff, Philadelphia_:
+
+Is it not time that thinking people should cease to speak of the social
+order as “the state”? The very meaning of state is static, and if there
+be a qualifying word that does _not_ apply to the life of the social
+order static is that word. The social order is a growing, developing,
+evolving thing.
+
+Man is a social as well as an individual being. He may be called a
+political being by virtue of his social activities, and the methods he
+uses to live best his social life; but the individual man is not a
+political being—he cannot “flock in a corner all by himself” as
+Dundreary would say—he is political only in the sense of being an
+element in a social ego, with a social will toward the desired social
+end of that ego.
+
+Such social ego is continually being formed anew in the social order.
+The dominating social ego of any stage is not necessarily the highest
+ideal which the most advanced and thoughtful minds in that stage can
+conceive. It is the highest ideal of the largest or most powerful number
+of individuals that are in unanimity upon that ideal and capable of
+ruling the rest of the social order with it for the time being. Every
+form of social dominance that has ever prevailed in the history of the
+world will come under this head and answer to this description. And who
+shall say that the prevailing and dominating social ego at any one stage
+is not the best possible for the social order at that stage?
+
+The individual man with a high philosophic gift and a reasoning mind may
+say to himself, and to others: “Man is capable of a better social order
+than this, there are higher and finer ideals than those that
+prevail”—but he can do absolutely nothing of himself to do away with the
+prevailing social ego, and to substitute a new one with better ideals,
+as he thinks, except to teach, to agitate, until he can induce a number
+of individuals to take up his ideal and to join him in a social ego that
+shall become powerful enough to drive out the dominating ego and
+substitute for it the new one. This is all that there is to political
+activity. This is the whole story of social evolution. And no individual
+or social ego can possibly decide that the new ideal is better than the
+old until it is “tried out.” It is of course likely to have better
+elements than the old in so far as it is born of criticism upon the old
+which _then_ was being “tried out.” But no dominating social ego can
+ever hope statically to establish itself in the social order while the
+world endures; consequently the reasoning mind must say to itself: “The
+highest social ideal that I can conceive and can induce a social ego to
+stand for is only the next step in social evolution, which must give
+place to the next and the next.” Hence, such mind can only smile
+indulgently upon all static ideals—monarchy, democracy, anarchy,
+socialism alike; realizing that the only social ideals worthy the name
+are those based upon demonstrated scientific truth—the collected and
+collated set of social facts that have been found to work in accordance
+with natural law in past social evolution; realizing that the personal
+ideal of the individual man, unless based upon such facts, is socially a
+child’s soapbubble, whatever it may be in the innermost of his own soul
+as to the evolution of his own individuality.
+
+
+
+
+                           The Little Review
+
+
+                     Literature, Drama, Music, Art
+
+                      MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Editor
+
+       The monthly that has been called “the most unique journal
+                             in existence.”
+
+   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
+   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 Splendour of Life, and whose function is—to express
+   itself.
+
+       One Year, U.S.A., $1.50; Canada, $1.65; Great Britain, 7/-
+
+
+
+
+                           The Little Review
+
+
+
+
+                                 OTHERS
+
+
+                      A Magazine of the New Verse
+
+   Various writers are being invited to edit Others, each for a
+   period of one month.
+
+   Williams Carlos Williams will have charge of the July issue,
+   which he announces as A Competitive Number.
+
+   Maxwell Bodenheim of the August, which he announces as A Chicago
+   Number.
+
+   Helen Hoyt of the September, which she announces as A Woman’s
+   Number.
+
+                     OTHERS is published monthly at
+                      331 Fourth Avenue, New York.
+
+
+        Are you really opposed to the war and are you anxious to
+             do anti-military propaganda? Then help spread
+
+
+                        ANTI-MILITARY LITERATURE
+
+             Preparedness, the Road to Universal Slaughter
+               By Emma Goldman, 5c each, $2.50 a hundred
+
+                    Patriotism, a Menace to Liberty
+               By Emma Goldman, 5c each, $2.50 a hundred
+
+                           War and Capitalism
+                      By Peter Kropotkin, 5c each
+
+                              The Last War
+                       By George Barrett, 5c each
+
+            For sale by MOTHER EARTH PUBLISHING ASSOCIATION
+                  20 EAST 125th STREET, NEW YORK CITY
+
+
+
+
+                          THE SEXUAL QUESTION
+
+   Heretofore sold by subscription, only to physicians. Now offered
+   to the public. Written in plain terms. Former price $5.50. _Now
+   sent prepaid for $1.60._ This is the revised and enlarged
+   Marshall English translation. Send check, money order or stamps.
+
+
+                     Ignorance Is the Great Curse!
+
+   Do you know, for instance, the scientific difference between love
+   and passion? Human life is full of hideous exhibits of
+   wretchedness due to ignorance of sexual normality.
+
+   Stupid, pernicious prudery long has blinded us to sexual truth.
+   Science was slow in entering this vital field. In recent years
+   commercialists eyeing profits have unloaded many unscientific and
+   dangerous sex books. Now the world’s great scientific minds are
+   dealing with this subject upon which human happiness often
+   depends. No longer is the subject tabooed among intelligent
+   people.
+
+   We take pleasure in offering to the American public, the work of
+   one of the world’s greatest authorities upon the question of
+   sexual life. He is August Forel, M.D., Ph.D., LL.D., of Zurich,
+   Switzerland. His book will open your eyes to yourself and explain
+   many mysteries. You will be better for this knowledge.
+
+   Every _professional man and woman_, those dealing with social,
+   medical, criminal, legal, religious and educational matters will
+   find this book of immediate value. Nurses, police officials,
+   heads of public institutions, writers, judges, clergymen and
+   teachers are urged to get this book at once.
+
+   The subject is treated from every point of view. The chapter on
+   “love and other irradiations of the sexual appetite” is a
+   profound exposition of sex emotions—Contraceptive means
+   discussed—Degeneracy exposed—A guide to all in domestic
+   relations—A great book by a great man.
+
+                    GOTHAM BOOK SOCIETY, DEPT. 564.
+            _General dealers in books, sent on mail order._
+                     142 W. 23d St., New York City.
+
+       In answering this advertisement mention THE LITTLE REVIEW.
+
+
+
+
+                                  The
+                            Mason and Hamlin
+
+
+                           The Artist’s Piano
+
+
+                           The Cable Company
+
+                           Wabash and Jackson
+                         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.
+
+The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical
+errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here
+(before/after):
+
+   [p. 7]:
+   ... Se hisse, et regarde par desses le mur. ...
+   ... Se hisse, et regarde par dessus le mur. ...
+
+   [p. 8]:
+   ... Un chaudronnier les achète à la foule traphie. ...
+   ... Un chaudronnier les achète à la foule trahie. ...
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75976 ***
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+<title>The Little Review, August 1916 (Vol. 3, No. 5) | Project Gutenberg</title>
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+   <!-- TITLE="The Little Review, August 1916 (Vol. 3, No. 5)" -->
+   <!-- AUTHOR="Margaret C. Anderson" -->
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+   <!-- PUBLISHER="Margaret C. Anderson" -->
+   <!-- DATE="1916" -->
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+
+<body>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75976 ***</div>
+
+<div class="frontmatter chapter">
+<h1 class="title">
+<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>
+</h1>
+
+<p class="subt">
+<em>Literature</em> <em>Drama</em> <em>Music</em> <em>Art</em>
+</p>
+
+<p class="ed">
+<span class="line1">MARGARET C. ANDERSON</span><br>
+<span class="line2">EDITOR</span>
+</p>
+
+<p class="issue">
+AUGUST, 1916
+</p>
+
+  <div class="table">
+<table class="tocn">
+<tbody>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#AREALMAGAZINE">A Real Magazine</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Margaret C. Anderson</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#WAKEFULNESS">Wakefulness</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Amy Lowell</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#PLYMOUTHROCKS">Plymouth Rocks</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>R. G.</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#ULYSSEFAITSONLIT">Ulysse Fait Son Lit</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Jean de Bosschere</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#MODERNITYEXPOSED">Modernity Exposed:</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Caesar Zwaska</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#ANDGONEONEBETTERYAY">Sandburg’s Chicago Poems</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr class="i">
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THECASEOFMASTERS">The Case of Masters</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THEPOETSINGSTOTHEWORLD">The Poet Sings to the World</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Ben Hecht</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#SPLENDIDISOLATIONYAY">Splendid Isolation</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>John Grimes</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THETREE">The Tree</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Helen Hoyt</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#EDITORIALSANDANNOUNCEMENTS">Editorials and Announcements</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#JULIATOJIM">Julia to Jim</a></td>
+      <td class="col2"><em>Sue Golden</em></td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#AVERSLIBREPRIZECONTEST">A Vers Libre Contest</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+      <td class="col1"><a href="#THEREADERCRITIC">The Reader Critic</a></td>
+      <td class="col2">&nbsp;</td>
+   </tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+  </div>
+<p class="monthly">
+Published Monthly
+</p>
+
+  <div class="table">
+    <div class="footer">
+<p class="pricel">
+15 cents a copy
+</p>
+
+<p class="pub">
+MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher<br>
+Montgomery Block<br>
+SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.
+</p>
+
+<p class="pricer">
+$1.50 a year
+</p>
+
+    </div>
+  </div>
+<p class="postoffice">
+Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, San Francisco, Cal.
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="frontmatter chapter">
+<a id="page-1" class="pagenum" title="1"></a>
+<p class="tit">
+<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>
+</p>
+
+  <div class="table">
+    <div class="issue">
+<p class="vol">
+VOL. III
+</p>
+
+<p class="issue">
+AUGUST, 1916
+</p>
+
+<p class="number">
+NO. 5
+</p>
+
+    </div>
+  </div>
+<p class="cop">
+Copyright, 1916, by Margaret C. Anderson
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="article1" id="AREALMAGAZINE">
+A Real Magazine
+</h2>
+
+<p class="aut">
+MARGARET C. ANDERSON
+</p>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">I</span> am afraid to write anything; I am ashamed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I have been realizing the ridiculous tragedy of <em>The Little Review</em>.
+It has been published for over two years without coming near its
+ideal.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+The ultimate reason for life is Art. I don’t know what they mean
+when they talk about art for life’s sake. You don’t make art so that
+you may live; you do just the reverse of that. Life takes care of itself,
+rolls on from the first push, and then falls over the edge. Art uses up
+all the life it can get—and remains forever. Art for Art’s sake is merely
+the sensible statement of the most self-evident fact in the world. It has
+been the easy creed of charlatans; but what does that matter? It has
+always been the faith of the strongest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Well—I wanted Art in <em>The Little Review</em>. There has been a little
+of it, just a very little.... It is tragic. I tell you.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And Revolution? Revolution <em>is</em> Art. You want free people just
+as you want the Venus that was modelled by the sea.... All
+my inadequate stammerings about Emma Goldman have been to show
+her as the artist she is: a great artist, working in her own material as a
+Michael Angelo worked in his.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a>
+Now we shall have Art in this magazine or we shall stop publishing
+it. I don’t care where it comes from—America or the South Sea Islands.
+I don’t care whether it is brought by youth or age. I only want
+the miracle!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Where are the artists? Where is some new Pater, and how will his
+“She is older than the rocks among which she sits” sound to us? Where
+is some new Arthur Symons with his version of “Peter Weyland”?
+Where is a Henry James and a Hardy and a Bjornson and an Andreyev
+for us? Where is a Jean-Christophe who will let us publish his songs?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Helen Hoyt, you have a poem in this issue called <em>The Tree</em>. It is
+not Art; it is merely a rather good poem. You could have made it Art.
+Do it every time, for the love of the gods! “Sue Golden” has one about
+Jim and Arabella. It has an interesting idea that many people need to
+understand. Why not make Art of it? I know one of hers which begins
+“My body is too frail for these great moods”—and the miracle is
+in it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I loathe compromise, and yet I have been compromising in every
+issue by putting in things that were “almost good” or “interesting
+enough” or “important.” There will be no more of it. If there is only
+one really beautiful thing for the September number it shall go in and
+the other pages will be left blank.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Come on, all of you!
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="WAKEFULNESS">
+<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a>
+Wakefulness
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+AMY LOWELL
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Jolt of market-carts;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Steady drip of horses’ hoofs on hard pavement;</p>
+    <p class="verse">A black sky lacquered over with blueness,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And the lights of Battersea Bridge</p>
+    <p class="verse">Pricking pale in the dawn.</p>
+    <p class="verse">The beautiful hours are passing</p>
+    <p class="verse">And still you sleep!</p>
+    <p class="verse">Tired heart of my joy,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Incurved upon your dreams,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Will the day come before you have opened to me?</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="PLYMOUTHROCKS">
+<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a>
+Plymouth Rocks
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+R. G.
+</p>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">S</span><span class="postfirstchar">ome</span> new Agitation is always fretting the souls of those who feel
+that it is their task to save the world from itself. Of late it has
+been Birth Control. They have been going to prison for merely mentioning
+the words Birth Control in the presence of an ingenue government.
+And all the time the government has the most perfect system of
+Birth Control for genius and art—the National Board of Censorship—so
+perfect as to produce sterility.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A simple mind would wonder why these agitators don’t first fight
+the censorship, and perhaps all these things would be added unto them!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Last winter a rumor did come out of New York that a few of
+these and a few artists were trying to form a plan of unorganized but
+concerted action, each profession or art or group protesting to the
+state on its own behalf. It turned out to be another of those Spoon
+River things: when the test came a few stood by the idea, but the
+others were either too lily-livered to have their names appear or the
+inevitable Puritan ancestor arose to remind them that after all they
+were Plymouth Rocks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And all the while the tale grows finer yet:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jerome Blum, a painter of reputation, a real painter, returned
+from China in the spring naively bringing with him, to this land of
+the free, a little collection of Chinese and Japanese art to keep by him
+for the delight of his soul. In the collection was a book over one hundred
+and fifty years old, containing eight original paintings on silk,
+by one of the greatest of Chinese painters, and a Japanese scroll,
+twelve feet long, of even finer workmanship.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Blum was summoned before the Collector of the Port of
+Chicago. The two works described had been declared obscene by an
+appraiser: “They would arouse the passions of an ordinary man.”
+They were to be destroyed, with the possible inclusions of the entire
+case of old bronzes, tapestries, embroideries, etc., in which they were
+shipped. Mr. Blum had laid himself open to a fine of thousands of
+dollars, with something like five years imprisonment, for good measure.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Law versus Art. Mr. Blum offered to paint out all objectionable
+parts, asked permission to send the things back to China or permission
+<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a>
+to present them to some museum. “Art or no Art, all paintings of the
+kind were to be burned” was the decree from the customs officials.
+And the two “obscene” works of art were burned in the furnace of
+the Federal building.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+No need here to go into what Mr. Blum must have suffered as
+an artist over the destruction of precious beauty never to be replaced—or
+as a man over the delicate and unobscene discussions, by the officials,
+of the objectionable parts, over the injustice of having his property
+destroyed without trial before a jury of his peers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All people of any education know that the art of all ancient peoples
+sprung from a desire to recreate for the hearts of men the mystery of
+creation and reproduction of life; thence came religion to explain to the
+minds of men the awe and wonder of creation. The Art of the
+Orient is almost wholly concerned with these subjects. Here was
+where Mr. Blum’s became “obscene” art.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If the censors should become informed woe for the Christian
+churches, each raising an “obscene” phallic symbol, in the cross, shamelessly
+uncensored to the sky; the bishops would mourn their fish-mouthed
+phallic hats, and so on endlessly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Who knows but if left to themselves they may not even reach
+themselves in their unlimited censorship and be their own destruction?
+</p>
+
+<div class="filler">
+<p class="noindent">
+It is not doubt, but certitude which drives
+one mad.—<em>Nietzsche.</em>
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article " lang="fr" xml:lang="fr" id="ULYSSEFAITSONLIT">
+<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a>
+Ulysse Fait Son Lit
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">
+<p class="aut">
+JEAN DE BOSSCHERE
+</p>
+
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Ulysse glorieux, revenu des batailles</p>
+      <p class="verse">Choisit une terre, dans la ville qui sourit à sa paix</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il est à eux; il s’est donné avec la paix.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Tous le touchent, et</p>
+      <p class="verse">S’il pose la main sur les yeux</p>
+      <p class="verse">Tous crient</p>
+      <p class="verse">“Il songe à trahir, il est orgueilleux</p>
+      <p class="verse">Peut-être croit-il nous faire honneur</p>
+      <p class="verse">Même en ne nous regardant pas.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Nous ferons deux nouvelles statutes pour toi, Ulysse!</p>
+      <p class="verse">Tu seras bien forcé à te tenir parmi nous.”</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Or, Ulysse ne songe pas à fuir.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il sait l’homme dans les cuisines</p>
+      <p class="verse">Dans l’aréopage, dans les batailles</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il les aime avec leurs écailles de poisson</p>
+      <p class="verse">Leurs nageoires sur un corps de truie</p>
+      <p class="verse">Et la tête est celle du canard,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Les pattes celles du coq,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Avec des ailes de moineau;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il aime leur saveur de mauvais pain d’épices</p>
+      <p class="verse">Mais souvent, le soir, l’odeur de chat,</p>
+      <p class="verse">L’odeur est trop forte</p>
+      <p class="verse">Et il ne peut plus embrasser ses amis</p>
+      <p class="verse">“Que ma statue et ma penseé soient avec eux” dit-il.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Dans sa terre, autour d’un sycomore</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il elève un mur rond de pierre et de bois;</p>
+      <p class="verse">À la hauteur du front, il coupe une porte;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Elle n’est pas plus large que des épaules d’homme</p>
+      <p class="verse">Puis il la ferme avec des planches</p>
+      <p class="verse">Comme les cinq doights de la main cachent une blessure</p>
+      <p class="verse">“Comme un pied appliqué aux vastes fesses des hommes”</p>
+<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a>
+      <p class="verse">Dit-il; mais il rougit</p>
+      <p class="verse">“Comme un couvercle sur le monde</p>
+      <p class="verse">Comme un couvercle sur un pot de fromage piqué de vers.”</p>
+      <p class="verse">Dit-il; mais il rougit.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Et se frappe trois fois la poitrine.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">La foule regarde le mur</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il n’y a pas de fenêtres.</p>
+      <p class="verse">“Ulysse n’a pas le droit de se mettre au tombeau.”</p>
+      <p class="verse">Le jeune Franklin s’accroche aux branches du sycomore</p>
+      <p class="verse">Se hisse, et regarde par <a id="corr-3"></a>dessus le mur.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il retombe sur ses pieds de sycophante;</p>
+      <p class="verse">“Ah! il scie le tronc de l’arbre” crie-t-il.</p>
+      <p class="verse">“Il nous trahit, il nous vend, il nous renie.”</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">“Ulysse, Ulysse! nous avons déposé des roses blanches</p>
+      <p class="verse">Sous ta statue</p>
+      <p class="verse">Ulysse, Ulysse! nous accrochons des roses rouges à ta porte;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Ulysse, Ulysse montre-toi aux bourgeois de la ville.”</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il a scié le tronc.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il en sépare des planches adorables,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Et que l’on peut aimer d’amour</p>
+      <p class="verse">Des planches plus aimables que des miches de pain.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Ulysse, sans clous de fer</p>
+      <p class="verse">Construit son lit avec le sycomore.</p>
+      <p class="verse">“Ulysse, Ulysse, le conseil te réclame.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Nous lui contâmes ce que tu fis de l’arbre”</p>
+      <p class="verse">Lui avait-on, avec le terre, donné l’arbre</p>
+      <p class="verse">D’où le jeune Franklin pouvait le voir?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il n’a pas le droit,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Pas le droit.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il y a peut-être un souterrain</p>
+      <p class="verse">Certainement il reçoit des messages sans fils.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Oui, il communique avec l’ennemi.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Ulysse avec des couleurs rouges et noires</p>
+      <p class="verse">Trace des signes de joie sur son lit et sur sa porte.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Puis il rit,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il rit, et son cœur</p>
+      <p class="verse">Au milieu de l’air joyeux de la poitrine</p>
+      <p class="verse">Et comme une rose sensuelle qui l’ouvre.</p>
+<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a>
+      <p class="verse">Elle s’épanouit comme un soupir d’aise sans limite.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Alors, du coté de la mer</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il fore un trou dans la muraille.</p>
+      <p class="verse">“Je vais prendre femme” dit-il,</p>
+      <p class="verse">“Je sais bien comment elle sera, lisse et blanche</p>
+      <p class="verse">Des cheveux ni de blé, ni de châtaigne</p>
+      <p class="verse">Et des yeux sages avec l’ardeur des chats.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Mais je veux la voir dans ce jour d’exultation</p>
+      <p class="verse">À peine s’il me faut ajouter une table, un coffre, un autel.”</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Ulysse regarde par le trou ouvert, dans la pierre</p>
+      <p class="verse">Ils sont mille autour du mur rond</p>
+      <p class="verse">Et il entend que les hommes disent</p>
+      <p class="verse">“A-t-il ses armes?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Vous savez combien des la mamelle il fut malin</p>
+      <p class="verse">Habile aux armes</p>
+      <p class="verse">Et méchant”</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il voit que les hommes sont chargés de fagots.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il y a un bûcher autour de la maison.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Les femmes l’arrosent avec l’huile des lampes</p>
+      <p class="verse">Et y versent celles de leur toilette,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Les cuisiniers l’huile des poissons conservés,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Les charrons la poix des charrettes,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Le batelier apporte une marmite de goudron,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Et un capitaine, vêtu de ses médailles de sioux</p>
+      <p class="verse">Pousse la flamme d’une torche sous le bûcher.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Ils cuisent Ulysse</p>
+      <p class="verse">Car il est bien à eux.</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Au loin les statutes sont traîneés vers la mer.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Un chaudronnier les achète à la foule <a id="corr-11"></a>trahie.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Il paie trois guinées pour boire en paix.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Ulysse cuit</p>
+      <p class="verse">Les jeunes filles chantent</p>
+      <p class="verse">Rougies par la lueurs des flammes</p>
+      <p class="verse">Et les mères ravies, sourient.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="MODERNITYEXPOSED">
+<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a>
+Modernity Exposed
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="ANDGONEONEBETTERYAY">
+—And Gone One Better<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a>
+</h3>
+
+<p class="aut">
+CAESAR ZWASKA
+</p>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> has come to be that on the stage, where once we watched for artists,
+we find only vainly strutting weak-willed human beings. We are not
+held, and the light within the sacred space grows dimmer. We lose all
+interest in places where once we have found Art.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And how desperate we have become!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The procession of the Imagists has been the only sacred thing before
+our eyes—thin and fragrant. Their fragility has the sap of eternity;
+blustering winds, blowing through the gaps back-stage, tear at them in
+vain. The Imagists have grown straight and strong. The beauty of
+their tiny procession strikes into our very hearts the emptiness, the appalling
+desolation, of our position.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Carl Sandburg has understood the failures and the lies and exposed
+the cause. He has shown the lie of your government and the farce
+and folly of monuments to those who kill to keep it alive. He exposes
+your little deaths and their perfumed sorrow and the bunk of words and
+antics of your Billy Sunday and fellow citizens. He has heard the “fellows
+saying here’s good stuff for a novel or it might be worked up into a
+good play,” when speaking of an Italian widow living in city slums. He
+has the courage and the knack of giving them the challenge—calling their
+bluff; and he declares with strong conviction that he’s able to back up his
+defiance. Who of the scatter-brains living could put her or her daughter-in-law
+or the working girls or the entire mob, for that matter, into a
+play? But <em>he</em> has put them, their spirit, into lines, gaunt and vivid as
+their lives. And I declare he is the only modern that has got it across.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+This is the process of the book and of the poet’s progress: The
+Chicago poems; he has worked his vengeance; from the cinders and ashes,
+glowing still, rise sparks, brilliant and tiny. (He calls them <em>Handfuls</em>.)
+<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a>
+The stifling smoulder of the War poems to the warm rich glow of The
+Road and the End and the flame of the fire with its attendant fogs and
+then grim shadows. As a confession, or rather a solidifying of the entire
+force of the poet, he reveals the <em>Other Days</em>, quite as intense as the
+present mood. This from the last of that section:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Snatch the gag from thy mouth, child,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And be free to keep silence.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Tell no man anything for no man listens,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Why should a man speak? When there are things to say, such as
+the <em>Red Son</em>, always have your lips ready to speak:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">I am going away and I never come back to you;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Crags and high rough places call me,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Great places of death</p>
+      <p class="verse">Where men go empty-handed</p>
+      <p class="verse">And pass over smiling</p>
+      <p class="verse">To the star-drift on the horizon rim;</p>
+      <p class="verse">My last whisper shall be alone, unknown;</p>
+      <p class="verse">I shall go to the city and fight against it,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And make it give me passwords</p>
+      <p class="verse">Of luck and love, women worth dying for,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And money.</p>
+          <p class="verse2">I go where you wist not of</p>
+          <p class="verse2">Nor I nor any man nor woman.</p>
+          <p class="verse2">I only know I go to storms</p>
+      <p class="verse">Grappling against things wet and naked.</p>
+      <p class="verse">There is no pity of it and no blame</p>
+      <p class="verse">None of us is in the wrong.</p>
+      <p class="verse">After all it is only this:</p>
+          <p class="verse2">You for the little hills and I go away.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Poetry has grown stronger in your eyes?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thus has Carl Sandburg in one book gone the entire range of a
+life today. The humanitarian poet as well as the artist-poet. He has
+proven things—and peoples. The nigger: foam of teeth ... breaking
+crash of laughter; Mrs. Gabrielle Giovannitti: with that kindling wood
+<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a>
+piled on her head, coming along Peoria street nine o’clock in the morning;
+Jan Kubelik: girls of Bohemia ... in the hills with their lovers;
+Chick Lorimer: a wild girl keeping a hold on a dream she wants; Mischa
+Elman: a singing fire and a climb of roses; the plowboy: turning the turf
+in the dusk and haze of an April gloaming; the gypsy: her neck and head
+the top piece of a Nile obelisk. He has known uplands when the great
+strong hills are humble; losses: and one day we will hold only the
+shadows; wars: in the wars to come kings kicked under the dust and
+millions of men following great causes not yet dreamed out in the heads
+of men; joy: sent on singing, singing, smashed to the hearts under the
+ribs with a terrible love; the mist: at the first of things, I will be at the
+last; and The Great Hunt:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+          <p class="verse2">When the rose’s flash to the sunset</p>
+          <p class="verse2">Reels to the rack and the twist,</p>
+          <p class="verse2">And the rose is a red bygone,</p>
+          <p class="verse2">When the face I love is going</p>
+          <p class="verse2">And the gate to the end shall clang,</p>
+          <p class="verse2">And it’s no use to beckon or say, “So long”—</p>
+      <p class="verse">Maybe I’ll tell you then—</p>
+                                <p class="verse13">some other time.</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="THECASEOFMASTERS">
+The Case of Masters
+</h3>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+In one of Whitman’s songs he speaks to those “who would assume
+a place to teach, or be a poet here in the States”; or, rather, he questions
+them, something like this:
+</p>
+
+<div class="excerpt">
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">What is it you bring my America?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Is it uniform with my country?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Is it not something that has been better told or done before?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Have you not imported this, or the spirit of it, in some ship?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Is it not a mere tale? a rhyme? a prettiness?—is the good old cause in it?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Has it not dangled long at the heels of the poets, politicians, literats, of enemies’ lands?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Does it not assume that what is notoriously gone is still here?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Does it answer universal needs? Will it improve manners?</p>
+<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a>
+      <p class="verse">Can your performance face the open fields and the seaside?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air, to appear again in my strength, gait, face?</p>
+      <p class="verse">Have real employments contributed to it? original makers, not mere amanuenses?</p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+And so on. I think the questions quoted and the rest of the poem
+are valuable; especially in thinking of Masters’ new book.<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-2" id="fnote-2">[2]</a> Because
+here are put to the lawyer, who is known as a poet, all the questions of
+our time. They are put to him because his first book gave us to believe
+that he was the first poet whom we need scrutinize closely since Whitman
+spoke his simplicities to the present and the next ten futures.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Masters may not cringe before these “terms obdurate.” He will
+point to <em>The Spoon River Anthology</em>. I will point to his work before
+the Anthology and again these later things. Masters of course loves
+Walt Whitman. He knows the poem from which I quoted. But Theodore
+Watts-Dunton—you remember him? Masters, I am sure, is more
+anxious and willing to accept, nay, subscribe to, the rules and judgments
+of this Victorian critic than to the mere words spoken in poesy of Watts-Dunton’s
+American contemporary, Whitman. I am almost certain of
+this. Masters speaks highly of Watts-Dunton’s essay on poetry. It appeared
+in the Encyclopedia Britannica. Please read it and find the Masters
+creed. He seems ready to bow before it. If Masters wants honors
+as a decadent he can have them—really he has earned them. <em>The Spoon
+River Anthology</em>: its manner, joy, abandon, deepest humanity, art (all
+that makes it the tremendous book it is), seem to be the one great thing
+that Masters had to give us. The new book does not show the “truly
+deep poetic spirit” which Francis Hackett claims to have found in it.
+Such a judgment is given the lie by such poems as: <em>St. Francis and the
+Lady Clare</em>, <em>Rain in My Heart</em>, <em>Simon Surnamed Peter</em>, <em>The City</em>, <em>Helen
+of Troy</em>, <em>O Glorious France</em>, <em>Love Is a Madness</em>, <em>The Altar</em>, <em>Soul’s Desire</em>,
+<em>Ballad of Launcelot and Elaine</em>, <em>In Michigan</em>, <em>The Star</em>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Our own feeble voice aside, I merely put before you words of two
+men—one a creator and critic, and the other a creator and human being.
+And I hope I have visualized for you the pathetically absurd spectacle
+of a “modern poet” bowing on bended knee before—. Well, why should
+a poet bow at all?
+</p>
+
+<hr class="footnote">
+
+<p class="footnote">
+<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> <em>Chicago Poems, by Carl Sandburg. New York: Henry Holt.</em>
+</p>
+
+<p class="footnote">
+<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-2" id="footnote-2">[2]</a> <em>Songs and Satires, by Edgar Lee Masters. New York: Macmillan.</em>
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="THEPOETSINGSTOTHEWORLD">
+<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a>
+The Poet Sings to the World
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+BEN HECHT
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I am a stranger, wandering always.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Only the dark trees know me and the dark skies.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Wistfully I look on you and wander on coldly,</p>
+    <p class="verse">For you will not know me...</p>
+    <p class="verse">Only the night that swims in the black branches knows me</p>
+    <p class="verse">And the silence that walks in the dark streets.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">But I know you—</p>
+    <p class="verse">You of the little words and the little visions</p>
+    <p class="verse">Who are warm with laughter and the joy of common things.</p>
+    <p class="verse">I wander among you and I wish to laugh</p>
+    <p class="verse">And I yearn to take your hand.</p>
+    <p class="verse">But your eyes look into mine and stare</p>
+    <p class="verse">And there is no love in them such as you lavish elsewhere.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Your eyes look into mine and frown</p>
+    <p class="verse">For you will not know me...</p>
+    <p class="verse">Only the blue distances of the day on the water know me</p>
+    <p class="verse">And the cold wind that warms itself in my heart.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I reach to embrace you,</p>
+    <p class="verse">I dream of touching your heart with my fingers,</p>
+    <p class="verse">But I am a stranger, wandering always;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Wistful and coldly mocking your dull faces</p>
+    <p class="verse">As you slip from my arms like a shadow;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Hating and laughing at your little sacredness...</p>
+    <p class="verse">For you will not know me...</p>
+    <p class="verse">Only the dark trees know me and the white stars</p>
+    <p class="verse">And the friendless night that comes smiling to me for comfort,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And the cold wind that warms itself in my heart.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">For you have sent me, doomed me to wander,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And only they know me—the far-away things.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Only they come to me,</p>
+<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a>
+    <p class="verse">Taking my hate and my love into their vastness.</p>
+    <p class="verse">And sometime you will hear the things I have spoken to them—</p>
+    <p class="verse">Unsaid things of myself and of you—</p>
+    <p class="verse">Coming out of their distances;</p>
+    <p class="verse">Tears for your sorrow and wild laughters for your joy.</p>
+    <p class="verse">And then you will know me</p>
+    <p class="verse">Even as they knew me:</p>
+    <p class="verse">Not as an exile singing</p>
+    <p class="verse">But as a part of your soul that wandered away.</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="SPLENDIDISOLATIONYAY">
+<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a>
+“Splendid Isolation”<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-3" id="fnote-3">[3]</a>
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+JOHN GRIMES
+</p>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">H</span><span class="postfirstchar">e</span> might have removed mountains or carved out empires; instead
+he turns his nails against provincial society and scratches.
+Pechorin—egoist, self-seeker, hater, superman in swaddlings—stifled
+to madness by the air of Russia, bled of energy, his idealism thwarted;
+fearing to raise his head from the ashes and launch against circumstance,
+there was nothing in all Holy Russia that could test his soul
+in supreme activity. He lacked the moral courage that forced the sons
+of the fathers into revolution. There was left mockery, and the insulting
+of the soul with puny wickedness, vapid and provincial. So
+genius was poured into the mould of the commonplace.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Pechorin sought a splendid isolation. He killed humanity in his
+heart, became a creature of self, and began to hate as sincerely as a
+revengeful, spoiled child. His hatred becomes sordid vindictiveness;
+his emotions correspond to tantrums. He feeds upon the ruined hopes
+and the despair of society, making himself “an author of middle-class
+tragedies.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looms before us on the screen, menacing, grandiose, Byronic.
+But he is great only from the scaling of values. His contact is incessantly
+with weaker types who bend or break before him. Grushnitski
+is a modish idealist; Bela, a captive maid who acknowledges his
+right to do as he wills; Vera, a hysterical sentimentalist of that
+spirituelle type to whom the intense physical traits of Pechorin make a
+ready appeal. She quiets her scruples with the sacred notion that she
+is sacrificing herself, soul and body to one whose life would otherwise
+be incomplete. Princess Mary is a typical Byronese victim, a devotee
+at the shrine of heroism, who for nothing in the world would give
+herself to a man who has not some mystery or who has not been the
+victim of some crushing sorrow. Contrast her with the vital, passionate
+Natalya in Turgene’s <em>Rudin</em>.... Pechorin hunts easy game. He
+<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a>
+acknowledges that he has never loved women of spirit: “Once only I
+loved a woman with a firm will that I was unable to vanquish. We
+parted enemies.” What would these erotic, parasitic Byrons subsist
+upon nowadays? Woman is no more the mere giver; she asks and
+receives in return.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Pechorin wins from us not honest hatred but contempt. One
+searches the book for an honorable impulse upon his part. He is a
+washed-out Byron; a pale Don Juan. He loves many women for the
+excitement of mere change. “We live out of curiosity. We expect
+something new. How absurd, and yet how vexatious!” Women fall at
+his feet and he asks derisively: “Can it be that wickedness is so
+attractive?” He knows the ways of his victim by heart, he anticipates
+her every move, and calls her accomplishment tiresome. Passion has
+shriveled until it is an inglorious segment of his life. It is a thing of
+curiosity rather than of sympathy. Love is an annoyance, yet he
+persists in it: “I feel within me an insatiate hunger that devours
+everything it meets upon the way. I look upon joy and suffering only
+in their relation to myself, regarding them as nutriment that sustains
+my spiritual forces.... To none has my love ever brought happiness
+because I have never sacrificed anything for the sake of those I loved.
+I have only tried to satisfy the strange cravings of my heart, greedily
+draining their feelings, their tenderness, their joy, their suffering—and
+I have never been able to sate myself.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It occurs to Pechorin that such aimlessness cannot but be a misinterpretation
+of the mystic handwriting of life. “It cannot be that I
+came purposeless into the world. A purpose there must have been,
+and surely mine was an exalted destiny because I feel within my soul
+powers immeasurable. But I was unable to discover that destiny. I
+allowed myself to be carried away by the allurements of passions innane
+and ignoble. From that crucible I issued hard and cold as iron.”...
+“My chief pleasure is to make everything around me subject to my will.
+To be the cause of suffering or joy to another without having a definite
+right to be—is it not the sweetest food for our pride?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lermontov is honest. He makes no attempt to vindicate a type.
+He must have smiled at his hater, his incipient superman, shattered by
+fate casting himself on the bare steppe after killing his horse in a mad
+ride, and clasping his body to the earth. Did he think to merge himself
+with the great “I am”?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a>
+“Alas! there cometh a time when man shall no longer give birth
+to a star. Alas! there cometh the time of the most contemptible man
+who can no longer despise himself!”
+</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p class="noindent">
+Thus spake Zarathustra!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Not submission, self-abnegation, Tolstoyanism, but wholesome self-hatred,
+acknowledging in one’s self but a bridge to beyond-man.
+Pechorin saw life as an end in itself. He was a creature of the surface,
+he feared to plunge into the blue depths.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One smiles at his childlike attempt to be self-efficient, isolated,
+damnable. But one is impatiently sorry that his splendid vitality was
+turned from healthful pioneering to the puny triumphs of the ballroom,
+and the conquest of hysterical ladies. Young Russia despises life except
+as a means. It will hurl revolutions into the world’s face, it will
+build empires. Life will be a hot flame of action and not a hectic afterglow
+of spent passion.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="footnote">
+
+<p class="footnote">
+<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-3" id="footnote-3">[3]</a> <em>A Hero of Our Time, by A. Lermontov. New York, Alfred A. Knopf.</em>
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="THETREE">
+The Tree
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="aut">
+HELEN HOYT
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">On the way to the factory,</p>
+    <p class="verse">In the block as you leave the car,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Growing from cinders</p>
+    <p class="verse">Is a tree.</p>
+    <p class="verse">And it has leaves ....</p>
+    <p class="verse">Green ....</p>
+    <p class="verse">All around are the factory walls</p>
+    <p class="verse">And small sooty houses with bleak steps</p>
+    <p class="verse">And babies crawling among flies ....</p>
+    <p class="verse">In summer I have felt the pavements</p>
+    <p class="verse">Pouring out heat like ovens.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">O tree, how can you be so patient!</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="editorials chapter">
+<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a>
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="editorials" id="EDITORIALSANDANNOUNCEMENTS">
+Editorials and Announcements
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="AREALORCHESTRAINSANFRANCISCO">
+<em>A Real Orchestra in San Francisco</em>
+</h3>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">t’s</span> a quite amazing phenomenon: here in this town encased in
+philistinism there is a symphony orchestra, conducted by a
+radical young man who knows his business, playing a series of
+modern music programs during the summer!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The first day I went out to inspect San Francisco I was struck
+dumb before a poster in a music store announcing Sunday afternoon
+concerts by a People’s Philharmonic Orchestra conducted
+by N. Sokoloff, with Debussy’s “<em>Faun</em>” and those lovely <em>Caucasian
+Sketches</em> of Ippolitow-Ivanow on the program, and Tina
+Lerner as soloist, etc., etc.—all for a price ranging between
+twenty-five and seventy-five cents.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went, naturally; not because I expected it to be a very
+good concert, but because I was starved for music. I knew nothing
+of Sokoloff, except that he had played the violin in Chicago
+last winter and I had missed his concert. Perhaps you can imagine
+the shock and the joy of hearing the “Faun” conducted as
+I at least have never heard it done before: so that it became really
+a thing of cool lavender shadows in a forest.... It’s impossible
+to describe, but it made you weep—it was so beautifully
+done.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Since then I have heard the story of the unique organization.
+San Francisco has one orchestra under the leadership of a
+man who may be called a conservative, I suppose, and backed by
+numerous wealthy citizens who have the artistic interests of the
+town at heart without a very definite knowledge of what channels
+they should follow. But Mrs. J. B. Casserly, a musician,
+conceived the idea of having better music in San Francisco, and
+asked Mr. Sokoloff to undertake these concerts. Mr. Sokoloff,
+who was a violinist rather than a conductor, was fired by the idea,
+and a skating-rink was hired for the first rehearsal. There was
+<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a>
+some embarrassment as to who should pay the expenses of the
+rehearsal, but it was finally decided that if the orchestra men
+liked the new conductor they would assume the entire cost; if not,
+it was to be “on” Mrs. Casserly. As I remember, they played the
+Tchaikovsky <em>Pathetique</em> that afternoon in the sacred halls of the
+skating-rink, and when it was over the men rose to cheer the
+conductor. “Well, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Casserly, “who pays?”
+But there was no hesitation over that trifling matter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And so the concerts began in a local theatre. It is perfectly
+simple to realize that San Francisco would not largely appreciate
+such a blessing, and that Mrs. Casserly and Mr. Sokoloff would
+be criticised for their “modern” programs; but it is hard to understand
+the action of the other orchestra people, who locked up
+their scores so that the “rival” musicians couldn’t use them and
+were forced to buy new ones. This is the typical history of all
+struggles in the world to find beauty, so one grows used to it.
+But the important thing is that the People’s Philharmonic is to
+go on next year, and their programs (I should have mentioned
+that they play old music, which is good as well as new music)
+are exciting to think of. I listened yesterday to their rehearsal
+of the <em>Tristan</em> Prelude and I know that Mr. Stock in Ravinia
+Park is not offering his audiences anything so fresh and inspired
+as Mr. Sokoloff’s reading. May they live long and prosper!
+</p>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h3 class="editorials" id="ANANARCHISTSQUESTION">
+<em>An Anarchist’s Question</em>
+</h3>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+On the day of the Preparedness Parade in San Francisco some
+one threw a bomb and killed eight people, who undoubtedly
+didn’t deserve to die. Since then the city has gone around on
+tip-toe, as an anarchist I know expressed it. Five people who
+undoubtedly don’t deserve it have been thrown into jail and tortured.
+Puzzle: if the object of preparedness parades is achieved,
+everybody will be killed off anyway; why is one kind of murder
+so much worse than another?
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="JULIATOJIM">
+<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a>
+Julia to Jim
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="note">
+(<em>After reading Edgar Lee Masters’ “Jim and Arabel’s Sister”</em>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="aut">
+SUE GOLDEN
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem-container">
+  <div class="poem">
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">You see, it’s this way, Jim ...</p>
+    <p class="verse">You can call me a primrose, if you like,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Or the Lover, for that’s a way you have, or men have,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of tying things in bundles,</p>
+    <p class="verse">That don’t belong in bundles;</p>
+    <p class="verse">For every woman, or man too, I guess,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Is a separate complex package</p>
+    <p class="verse">With a little bit of everything</p>
+    <p class="verse">Out of all the other bundles.</p>
+    <p class="verse">You find in us exactly what you look for,</p>
+    <p class="verse">As Francis did in Arabella;</p>
+    <p class="verse">It wouldn’t have made the least difference</p>
+    <p class="verse">What you or I told him,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Or what he found out—</p>
+          <p class="verse3">But about me, Jim?</p>
+    <p class="verse">You’ve sat here drinking my coffee,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And I’ve made you comfortable and happy,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And you’ve told me all about myself,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And you haven’t even asked me what I thought about myself.</p>
+    <p class="verse">It didn’t occur to you.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Do you think Francis</p>
+    <p class="verse">Has ever gone deeper</p>
+    <p class="verse">Than the curve of Arabel’s cheek,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Or what he thought her, or wanted her to be?</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">You call me the Lover.</p>
+    <p class="verse">And try to figure out</p>
+    <p class="verse">Why I am not like other women;</p>
+    <p class="verse">But I am, Jim—</p>
+    <p class="verse">Just an ordinary primrose,</p>
+<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a>
+    <p class="verse">For that primrose that changed</p>
+    <p class="verse">Started out like all the others;</p>
+    <p class="verse">And you wonder why I don’t live like the others,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Get married—I was once, have children—my son’s grown—</p>
+    <p class="verse">So I’ve been all three, sweetheart and mother and wife,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And I am still.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Every woman is all three,</p>
+    <p class="verse">But not all at the same time;</p>
+    <p class="verse">That’s why it is such a bore</p>
+    <p class="verse">Being expected to be.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+          <p class="verse3">When you have had your coffee, you’ll go down town</p>
+    <p class="verse">And forget me.</p>
+    <p class="verse">And I’ll forget you, and be comfortable and happy,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Not having to remember you.</p>
+    <p class="verse">But if I were married to you,</p>
+    <p class="verse">You’d want me to keep on remembering you</p>
+    <p class="verse">Every minute of the day,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And I’d be so tired of it by the time you came home,</p>
+    <p class="verse">I’d be sorry to see you.</p>
+    <p class="verse">I have nothing against marriage,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Except that it’s a bore</p>
+    <p class="verse">Trying to live somebody else’s life.</p>
+    <p class="verse">You can’t do it.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Married people would be happier</p>
+    <p class="verse">If they didn’t try to.</p>
+    <p class="verse">They ought to live as freely</p>
+    <p class="verse">As we do.</p>
+    <p class="verse">All these sudden split-ups</p>
+    <p class="verse">In the newspapers</p>
+    <p class="verse">Are just this:</p>
+    <p class="verse">The hysteria of woman is a shriek of boredom.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Why, I’d die in a week if I had to keep on</p>
+    <p class="verse">Being the particular kind of primrose</p>
+    <p class="verse">That you think me.</p>
+          <p class="verse3">But the hysterical woman,</p>
+    <p class="verse">There’s your flower changing, Jim.</p>
+    <p class="verse">I’m just the common kind, but I know that</p>
+    <p class="verse">I’m never the same, and I don’t want to be.</p>
+<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a>
+    <p class="verse">If I’m the mother today, I may be the lover tomorrow,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And I don’t want anybody sitting around on me</p>
+    <p class="verse">And keeping me from growing. Your primrose probably changed</p>
+    <p class="verse">Just to spite the old scientist who kept prying at it.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">Sex? No, it isn’t sex that these people are writing about,</p>
+    <p class="verse"><em>It’s sentimentality</em>.</p>
+    <p class="verse">They have an ideal, and if the first woman doesn’t answer it</p>
+    <p class="verse">They think the second will, or the third.</p>
+    <p class="verse">And they call it sex, or beauty, or urge—</p>
+    <p class="verse">But it isn’t sex, Jim.</p>
+    <p class="verse">I know what sex is.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">The reason I like you, Jim,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Is because you haven’t any of these silly notions.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Sex is honest and healthy.</p>
+    <p class="verse">You say they trace morbid ideas to sex,</p>
+    <p class="verse">But I tell you it’s the morbid, silly, beautiful ideas</p>
+    <p class="verse">About Love and about being able to satisfy the ideal</p>
+    <p class="verse">That are at the root of the trouble about sex!</p>
+    <p class="verse">I can’t absorb you, and I don’t want to,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And I don’t want to be absorbed.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I don’t know whether you get what I mean.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">I like you, Jim,</p>
+    <p class="verse">Because you leave a person free.</p>
+    <p class="verse">After you go, I shall be busy with my own thoughts</p>
+    <p class="verse">And my own life, just as if a friend had dropped in.</p>
+    <p class="verse">I shall be anything I want to be. I shall change into</p>
+    <p class="verse">Just as many primroses as I want to, and you won’t</p>
+    <p class="verse">Know anything about it.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">You ought to get married, Jim,</p>
+          <p class="verse3">No, not me.</p>
+    <p class="verse">But if you came here every night,</p>
+    <p class="verse">I’d a thousand times rather be married to you,</p>
+    <p class="verse">For I have never known anybody more tied up</p>
+    <p class="verse">Than these “free-love” people.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a>
+    <p class="verse">Am I happy? Well, I’m free.</p>
+    <p class="verse">We’d all like to be free <em>and</em> happy.</p>
+    <p class="verse">Lots of people could be happy—ought to be happy,</p>
+    <p class="verse">If they knew enough to be free.....</p>
+          <p class="verse3">Perhaps happiness is partly the chance of being unhappy—</p>
+    <p class="verse">You and I, Jim, haven’t that.</p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="stanza">
+    <p class="verse">But what I hate is all this mussing up</p>
+    <p class="verse">Of love and sex and the ideal—it isn’t life.</p>
+    <p class="verse">One ought to start straight on earth,</p>
+    <p class="verse">And take heaven when it comes.</p>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="filler">
+<p class="noindent">
+I promise the advent of a tragic age:
+the highest art in the saying of yea to life,
+“tragedy,” will be born when mankind has the
+knowledge of the hardest, but most necessary
+of wars, behind it, without, however, suffering
+from that knowledge.—<em>Nietzsche.</em>
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="editorials chapter">
+<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a>
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="editorials" id="AVERSLIBREPRIZECONTEST">
+A Vers Libre Prize Contest
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class="first">
+<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">hrough</span> the generosity of a friend, <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>
+is enabled to offer an unusual prize for poetry—possibly the
+first prize extended to free verse. The giver is “interested in all
+experiments, and has followed the poetry published in <span class="smallcaps">The Little
+Review</span> with keen appreciation and a growing admiration for the
+poetic form known as <em>vers libre</em>.”
+</p>
+
+  <div class="linespace">
+<p>
+The conditions are as follows:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Contributions must be received by August 15th.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They must not be longer than twenty-five lines.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They must be sent anonymously with stamps for return.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The name and address of the author must be fixed to the
+manuscript in a sealed envelope.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It should be borne in mind that free verse is wanted—verse
+having beauty of rhythm, not merely prose separated into lines.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There will be three judges: William Carlos Williams, Zoë
+Aikens and Helen Hoyt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There will be two prizes of $25 each. They are offered not
+as a first and second prize, but for “the two best short poems in
+free verse form.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As there will probably be a large number of poems to read,
+we suggest that contributors adhere closely to the conditions of
+the contest.
+</p>
+
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="article" id="THEREADERCRITIC">
+<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a>
+The Reader Critic
+</h2>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="letters">
+<h3 class="section" id="THENYMPH">
+The Nymph
+</h3>
+
+<p class="from">
+(<em>Edgar Lee, have you missed anything?—Editor.</em>)
+</p>
+
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">I see it all now: I was born with the soul of a nymph,</p>
+      <p class="verse">And they expected me to be law-abiding and moral!</p>
+      <p class="verse">Why, I was a nymph from the day my mother lashed me</p>
+      <p class="verse">For playing kissing games with the boys, out behind the school,</p>
+      <p class="verse">To the day I shot my lover in a South State Street cabaret</p>
+      <p class="verse">For flirting with another girl and they put me in the penitentiary.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Good God! is it a sin to be young?</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza attr">
+      <p class="verse">—<em>Anonymous.</em></p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+<h3 class="section" id="HOWSTANILAUSSZUKALSKIEXPRESSESLIFE">
+How Stanilaus Szukalski Expresses Life
+</h3>
+
+<p class="from">
+<em>L. C. B.</em>:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There are trees and valleys and mountains—red, blue, orange and purple—all
+smothered by a phosphorescent green. The trees stretch up gnarled hands, swollen
+from too much striving. There is no sky. Dull coal mingles with the earth clods.
+Diamond mines glitter. The ground is misshapen. Flowers give forth a stale odor.
+A hideous laugh sounds. It comes from the mouth of a hunch-back who, with prods
+of burning metal, forces people into the quick-sands. Over the sands sucking,
+demoniacal waters rush. Here and there an eye or a torso floats on the surface.
+From the trees and valleys and mountains, luridly colored, come human faces. Blood
+runs from their opened arteries. Their hands are horribly twisted. In the foreground
+writhes a shape whose fingers bend back to meet his knuckles. Another rears
+a massive head, the veins of which stand out further than his purple lips. A woman’s
+arm is extended, too full of blood. A weird figure hovers over an abyss, swathed
+with the vapors arising from the gases of the underground. All the people are dying.
+Everyone breathes hard. A whole mound is composed of a soft substance—disintegrated
+limbs. The jelly-like mass quivers. This is life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Did you see his exhibition at the Art Institute? At seventeen one is almost
+wholly in sympathy with him.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="PHANTASY">
+Phantasy
+</h3>
+
+<p class="from">
+<em>Noncompos Mentis, Napa, California</em>:
+</p>
+
+  <div class="poem-container">
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Night! A lambient fog * * * * *</p>
+      <p class="verse">Stirs the damp echos of the baleful deep,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Cimmerian in its fell intensity.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Shrouded in mist, pale wraiths flit hitherward</p>
+<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a>
+      <p class="verse">Or yon; lured or impelled * * * * * Peace!</p>
+      <p class="verse">Ah! Who shall say?</p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+      <p class="verse">Borne on the vagrant breeze she floats;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Kelp in her hands; ’twined in her hair</p>
+      <p class="verse">The weed from outer seas; writhing yet strangely still.</p>
+      <p class="verse">Behold her eyes—shallow, opaque,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Yet glaucous with a nascent light, gleaming</p>
+      <p class="verse">Its message of appeal to answering soul.</p>
+      <p class="verse">* * * * * Ah me! Recall the past;</p>
+      <p class="verse">Blot out its infamies; this fiery tumult quell</p>
+      <p class="verse">With one tempestuous kiss.</p>
+      <p class="verse">My being swoons—my soul is wafted hence,</p>
+      <p class="verse">Drowned in its God-like, saccharine ecstasy.<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-4" id="fnote-4">[4]</a></p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+<hr class="footnote">
+
+<p class="footnote">
+<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-4" id="footnote-4">[4]</a> Here the Muse skidded. Author contemplated another stanza, but warder entered
+with strait jacket and gag.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="BIRTHCONTROL">
+Birth Control
+</h3>
+
+<p class="from">
+<em>Russell Palmer, Seattle</em>:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+... With particular reference to the matter of Birth Control, which the writer
+has studied in an amateurish fashion for some time, I want to ask you if there has
+ever been framed a model statute providing for the dissemination of such information
+by the State.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If such a model statute exists I will arrange to have it introduced in the
+Washington State Legislature when that body convenes next January. If nothing of
+this sort is available I would earnestly recommend that steps be taken immediately to
+prepare a measure which will bring about the maximum amount of good and yet at
+the same time have an opportunity of receiving the support of law-makers elected by
+a semi-civilized and bigoted people.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It should be borne in mind that the Initiative and Referendum are both in effect
+in the State of Washington, so that there would be a strong probability that such a
+proposed law would be passed upon directly by the people, either through the failure
+of the legislature to meet the issue squarely or its over cautious desire to have its
+action approved by the voters individually.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I believe that such an act would have a fair chance of passage. We look upon
+our State as not altogether unprogressive, for in addition to the legislative progress
+indicated by the Initiative and Referendum we enjoy woman suffrage, glory in
+non-partisan direct primaries, carry but do not wave a Red Light Abatement Act,
+tolerate Prohibition and threaten Single Tax. So you see there are hopes.
+</p>
+
+<h3 class="section" id="WHATISTHESTATE">
+<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a>
+What Is the State?
+</h3>
+
+<p class="note">
+(An answer to Alan Adair’s “What Is Anarchy?”)
+</p>
+
+<p class="from">
+<em>Alice Groff, Philadelphia</em>:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Is it not time that thinking people should cease to speak of the social order as
+“the state”? The very meaning of state is static, and if there be a qualifying word
+that does <em>not</em> apply to the life of the social order static is that word. The social
+order is a growing, developing, evolving thing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Man is a social as well as an individual being. He may be called a political being
+by virtue of his social activities, and the methods he uses to live best his social life;
+but the individual man is not a political being—he cannot “flock in a corner all by
+himself” as Dundreary would say—he is political only in the sense of being an element
+in a social ego, with a social will toward the desired social end of that ego.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Such social ego is continually being formed anew in the social order. The
+dominating social ego of any stage is not necessarily the highest ideal which the most
+advanced and thoughtful minds in that stage can conceive. It is the highest ideal of
+the largest or most powerful number of individuals that are in unanimity upon that
+ideal and capable of ruling the rest of the social order with it for the time being.
+Every form of social dominance that has ever prevailed in the history of the world
+will come under this head and answer to this description. And who shall say that the
+prevailing and dominating social ego at any one stage is not the best possible for the
+social order at that stage?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The individual man with a high philosophic gift and a reasoning mind may say
+to himself, and to others: “Man is capable of a better social order than this, there
+are higher and finer ideals than those that prevail”—but he can do absolutely nothing
+of himself to do away with the prevailing social ego, and to substitute a new one with
+better ideals, as he thinks, except to teach, to agitate, until he can induce a number
+of individuals to take up his ideal and to join him in a social ego that shall become
+powerful enough to drive out the dominating ego and substitute for it the new one.
+This is all that there is to political activity. This is the whole story of social evolution.
+And no individual or social ego can possibly decide that the new ideal is
+better than the old until it is “tried out.” It is of course likely to have better
+elements than the old in so far as it is born of criticism upon the old which <em>then</em>
+was being “tried out.” But no dominating social ego can ever hope statically to
+establish itself in the social order while the world endures; consequently the reasoning
+mind must say to itself: “The highest social ideal that I can conceive and can
+induce a social ego to stand for is only the next step in social evolution, which must
+give place to the next and the next.” Hence, such mind can only smile indulgently
+upon all static ideals—monarchy, democracy, anarchy, socialism alike; realizing that
+the only social ideals worthy the name are those based upon demonstrated scientific
+truth—the collected and collated set of social facts that have been found to work
+in accordance with natural law in past social evolution; realizing that the personal
+ideal of the individual man, unless based upon such facts, is socially a child’s soapbubble,
+whatever it may be in the innermost of his own soul as to the evolution of his
+own individuality.
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="ads chapter">
+  <div class="narrow">
+<p class="h1 adh">
+The Little Review
+</p>
+
+<hr>
+
+<p class="h2 adh">
+Literature, Drama, Music, Art
+</p>
+
+<p class="ade">
+MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Editor
+</p>
+
+<p class="c">
+The monthly that has been called “the most unique
+journal in existence.”
+</p>
+
+<hr class="hr10">
+
+<p>
+<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> 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 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 Splendour of Life, and whose
+function is—to express itself.
+</p>
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+One Year, U.S.A., $1.50; Canada, $1.65;
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+<div class="ads chapter">
+<p class="h1 adh">
+OTHERS
+</p>
+
+<p class="h3 adh">
+A Magazine of the New Verse
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Various writers are being invited to edit Others, each for a
+period of one month.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Williams Carlos Williams will have charge of the July issue,
+which he announces as A Competitive Number.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maxwell Bodenheim of the August, which he announces as
+A Chicago Number.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Helen Hoyt of the September, which she announces as
+A Woman’s Number.
+</p>
+
+<p class="ade">
+OTHERS is published monthly at<br>
+331 Fourth Avenue, New York.
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="ads chapter">
+<p class="h3 adh">
+Are you really opposed to the war and are you anxious to<br>
+do anti-military propaganda? Then help spread
+</p>
+
+<p class="h2 adh">
+ANTI-MILITARY LITERATURE
+</p>
+
+<p class="adb">
+Preparedness, the Road to Universal Slaughter<br>
+By Emma Goldman, 5c each, $2.50 a hundred
+</p>
+
+<p class="adb">
+Patriotism, a Menace to Liberty<br>
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+
+<p class="adb">
+War and Capitalism<br>
+By Peter Kropotkin, 5c each
+</p>
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+<p class="adb">
+The Last War<br>
+By George Barrett, 5c each
+</p>
+
+<p class="u adp">
+For sale by <b>MOTHER EARTH PUBLISHING ASSOCIATION<br>
+20 EAST 125th STREET, NEW YORK CITY</b>
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="ads chapter">
+<p class="h1 adh">
+THE SEXUAL QUESTION
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Heretofore sold by subscription, only to physicians. Now offered
+to the public. Written in plain terms. Former price $5.50. <em>Now
+sent prepaid for $1.60.</em> This is the revised and enlarged Marshall
+English translation. Send check, money order or stamps.
+</p>
+
+<hr>
+
+<p class="h2 adh">
+Ignorance Is the Great Curse!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Do you know, for instance, the scientific difference between love
+and passion? Human life is full of hideous exhibits of wretchedness
+due to ignorance of sexual normality.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Stupid, pernicious prudery long has blinded us to sexual truth.
+Science was slow in entering this vital field. In recent years commercialists
+eyeing profits have unloaded many unscientific and
+dangerous sex books. Now the world’s great scientific minds are
+dealing with this subject upon which human happiness often depends.
+No longer is the subject tabooed among intelligent people.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>We take pleasure in offering to the American public, the work
+of one of the world’s greatest authorities upon the question of
+sexual life. He is August Forel, M.D., Ph.D., LL.D., of Zurich,
+Switzerland. His book will open your eyes to yourself and explain
+many mysteries. You will be better for this knowledge.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Every <em>professional man and woman</em>, those dealing with social,
+medical, criminal, legal, religious and educational matters will find
+this book of immediate value. Nurses, police officials, heads of
+public institutions, writers, judges, clergymen and teachers are
+urged to get this book at once.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The subject is treated from every point of view. The chapter on
+“love and other irradiations of the sexual appetite” is a profound
+exposition of sex emotions—Contraceptive means discussed—Degeneracy
+exposed—A guide to all in domestic relations—A
+great book by a great man.
+</p>
+
+<hr>
+
+<p class="ade">
+GOTHAM BOOK SOCIETY, DEPT. 564.<br>
+<em>General dealers in books, sent on mail order.</em><br>
+142 W. 23d St., New York City.
+</p>
+
+<p class="c">
+In answering this advertisement mention <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>.
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="ads chapter">
+<p class="h1 u adh">
+The<br>
+Mason and Hamlin
+</p>
+
+<p class="h2 vspace6 adh">
+The Artist’s Piano
+</p>
+
+<p class="h3 adh">
+The Cable Company
+</p>
+
+<p class="u c">
+Wabash and Jackson<br>
+Chicago - - - Illinois
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="trnote chapter">
+<p class="transnote">
+Transcriber’s Notes
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Advertisements were collected at the end of the text.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect correctly the
+headings in this issue of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors
+were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here (before/after):
+</p>
+
+
+
+<ul>
+
+<li>
+... Se hisse, et regarde par <span class="underline">desses</span> le mur. ...<br>
+... Se hisse, et regarde par <a href="#corr-3"><span class="underline">dessus</span></a> le mur. ...<br>
+</li>
+
+<li>
+... Un chaudronnier les achète à la foule <span class="underline">traphie</span>. ...<br>
+... Un chaudronnier les achète à la foule <a href="#corr-11"><span class="underline">trahie</span></a>. ...<br>
+</li>
+</ul>
+</div>
+
+
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75976 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
+
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+This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this book outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+book #75976 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75976)