diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 4 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 75976-0.txt | 1258 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 75976-h/75976-h.htm | 2028 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 75976-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 153481 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 |
6 files changed, 3303 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/75976-0.txt b/75976-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..815d887 --- /dev/null +++ b/75976-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1258 @@ + +*** 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 *** diff --git a/75976-h/75976-h.htm b/75976-h/75976-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0a360d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/75976-h/75976-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2028 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> +<meta charset="UTF-8"> +<title>The Little Review, August 1916 (Vol. 3, No. 5) | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <!-- TITLE="The Little Review, August 1916 (Vol. 3, No. 5)" --> + <!-- AUTHOR="Margaret C. Anderson" --> + <!-- LANGUAGE="en" --> + <!-- PUBLISHER="Margaret C. Anderson" --> + <!-- DATE="1916" --> + <!-- COVER="images/cover.jpg" --> + +<style> + +body { margin-left:15%; margin-right:15%; } + +div.frontmatter { margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; max-width:30em; } +div.frontmatter h1.title { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-variant:small-caps; } +div.frontmatter .subt { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-bottom:1em; + font-style:italic; } +div.frontmatter .ed { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-bottom:2em; + font-size:0.8em; } +div.frontmatter .ed .line2 { font-size:0.8em; } +div.frontmatter .issue { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-bottom:2em; } +div.frontmatter div.footer { display:table; width:100%; margin-top:1em; } +div.frontmatter div.footer p { text-indent:0; display:table-cell; margin:0; width:33%; + vertical-align:middle; } +div.frontmatter div.footer .pricel { text-align:left; } +div.frontmatter div.footer .pub { text-align:center; font-size:0.8em; + font-family:sans-serif; } +div.frontmatter div.footer .pricer { text-align:right; } +div.frontmatter .tit { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:3em; + font-size:2em; font-weight:bold; font-variant:small-caps; } +div.frontmatter div.issue { display:table; width:100%; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; } +div.frontmatter div.issue p { text-indent:0; display:table-cell; margin:0; width:33%; } +div.frontmatter div.issue .vol { text-align:left; } +div.frontmatter div.issue .issue { text-align:center; } +div.frontmatter div.issue .number { text-align:right; } +div.frontmatter .monthly { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-size:0.8em; margin:1em;} +div.frontmatter .postoffice { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-size:0.8em; + margin:1em;} +div.frontmatter .cop { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-size:0.8em; } + +div.chapter{ page-break-before:always; } +h2 { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:3em; margin-bottom:1em; } +h2.article1{ page-break-before:auto; padding-top:0; } +h2.article { page-break-before:auto; padding-top:0; } +h2.editorials { page-break-before:auto; padding-top:0; margin-top:2em; } +h2.excerpt { page-break-before:auto; padding-top:0; margin-top:2em; } +h2.filler { page-break-before:auto; padding-top:0; margin-top:2em; } +h3 { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:1em; } +h4 { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0.5em; } +h3.excerpt { font-size:1em; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0.5em; } +h4.excerpt { font-size:1em; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0.5em; } + +div.excerpt { margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; } +div.excerpt.narrow { margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; + width:50%; } +div.filler { margin-top:3em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; } +div.epi { font-size:0.8em; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:4em; } + +p.subt { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin:1em; } +p.aut { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin:1em; font-variant:small-caps; } +p.book { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin:1em; } +p.ded { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin:1em; font-size:0.8em; } +p.note { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; + font-size:0.8em; } +p.date { text-indent:0; text-align:right; margin-right:1em; font-size:0.8em; + font-style:italic; } + +p { margin:0; text-align:justify; text-indent:1em; } +p.noindent { text-indent:0; } +p.vspace { margin-top:1em; } +.vspace.cb { font-size:0; margin:1em; clear:both; } +p.first { text-indent:0; } +span.firstchar { clear:left; float:left; font-size:3em; line-height:0.85em; } +span.prefirstchar { } +span.postfirstchar { } +p.sign { margin-top:0.5em; text-indent:0; text-align:right; margin-right:1em; + font-variant:small-caps; } +p.attr { margin-top:0.5em; text-indent:0; text-align:right; margin-right:1em; } +p.center { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin:1em; } +div.hang p { text-indent:-2em; margin-left:2em; } +p.cap { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-size:0.8em; margin-bottom:2em; } + +div.linespace p { margin-top:1em; } +div.editorials { border:1px solid black; padding:0.5em; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; } +div.editorials h3 { font-style:italic; text-align:left; } +div.editorials h3.filler { font-style:normal; text-align:center; } +div.editorials h4 { font-style:italic; } +div.letters p.from { margin-top:1em; text-indent:0; font-style:italic; text-align:left; } +div.letters p.note { font-size:0.8em; margin:0; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; + text-indent:0; text-align:justify; } +p.footnote { text-indent:0; margin:1em; margin-top:0; font-size:0.8em; } +p.footnote2{ text-indent:0; margin:1em; margin-top:0; font-size:0.8em; } +hr.footnote{ margin-bottom:0.5em; width:10%; margin-left:0; margin-right:90%; } +p.dir { margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; font-style:italic; } +span.dir { font-style:italic; } + +.tb { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin:1em; } +hr { border:0; border-top:1px solid black; text-align:center; margin:1em; } +hr.tb { margin-left:45%; width:10%; } + +p.epi { margin:1em; font-size:0.8em; text-align:right; } + +div.impressum { margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; max-width:35em; font-size:0.8em; + border:1px solid black; margin-bottom:1em; page-break-before:always; + padding:0.5em; clear:both; margin-top:2em; line-height:1em; } +div.impressum .c { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin:0.5em; } +div.impressum .b { font-weight:bold; } +div.impressum .sign { margin-top:0; } + +/* tables */ +/* TOC table */ +div.table { text-align:center; } +table { margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; border-collapse:collapse; } +table td { padding-left:0em; padding-right:0em; vertical-align:top; text-align:left; + text-indent:0; } +table.tocn td { font-size:0.8em; } +table.tocn td.col1 { padding-right:2em; text-align:left; max-width:22em; + padding-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; } +table.tocn td.col2 { padding-left:1em; text-align:right; } +table.tocn tr.i td.col1 { padding-left:4em; } +/* "movements" table */ +table.movements td.col1 { padding-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; max-width:25em; } +table.movements tr.i td.col1 { padding-left:4em; } + +/* spans */ +.larger { font-size:1.25em; } +.smallcaps { font-variant:small-caps; } +.underline { text-decoration:underline; } +.small { font-size:0.8em; } +.hidden { display:none; } + +/* poetry */ +div.poem-container { text-align:center; } +div.poem-container div.poem { display:inline-block; } +div.stanza { text-align:left; text-indent:0; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; } +.stanza .verse { text-align:left; text-indent:-2em; margin-left:2em; } +.stanza .verse1 { text-align:left; text-indent:-2em; margin-left:3em; } +.stanza .verse2 { text-align:left; text-indent:-2em; margin-left:4em; } +.stanza .verse3 { text-align:left; text-indent:-2em; margin-left:5em; } +.stanza .verse4 { text-align:left; text-indent:-2em; margin-left:6em; } +.stanza .verse5 { text-align:left; text-indent:-2em; margin-left:7em; } +.stanza .verse7 { text-align:left; text-indent:-2em; margin-left:9em; } +.stanza .verse13{ text-align:left; text-indent:-2em; margin-left:15em; } +.stanza.attr .verse { text-indent:0; margin-left:0; text-align:right; margin-right:1em; } + +/* tabulated poetry */ +div.poem-container div.tabulated { display:inline-block; } +div.tabulated .speaker, div.tabulated .stanza { display:table-cell; } +div.tabulated .speaker { text-indent:0; text-align:right; padding:0; margin:0; + padding-right:0.5em; font-style:italic; } +div.tabulated .stanza { padding:0; margin:0; } +div.tabulated .stanza .verse { text-align:left; text-indent:-3em; margin-left:3em; } + +/* ads */ +div.ads { margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; max-width:40em; font-size:0.8em; + border:1px solid black; margin-bottom:1em; page-break-before:always; + padding:0.5em; clear:both; margin-top:2em; } +div.ads p { text-indent:0; margin-bottom:0.5em; } +div.ads div.poem p { margin-bottom:0; } +div.ads .adh { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; + margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; } +div.ads .h1 { font-size:1.5em; } +div.ads .h2 { font-size:1.2em; } +div.ads .h3 { font-size:1em; } +div.ads .h4 { font-size:1em; } +div.ads .adb { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; margin-top:1em; + margin-bottom:1em; } +div.ads .ada { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; } +div.ads .ads { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; + font-size:0.8em; } +div.ads .adp { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; + font-size:0.8em; } +div.ads .ade { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; margin-top:1em; + margin-bottom:1em; font-size:1.2em; } +div.ads p.fl { margin:0; } +div.ads p.fr { margin:0; } +div.ads p.r { text-indent:0; text-align:right; } +div.ads p.l { text-indent:0; text-align:left; } +div.ads .c { text-indent:0; text-align:center; } +div.ads .b { font-weight:bold; } +div.ads .s { font-size:0.8em; } +div.ads .fl { float:left; } +div.ads .fr { float:right; } +div.ads .cb { clear:both; } +div.ads .vspace6 { margin-bottom:6em; } +div.ads .vspace.cb { font-size:0; margin:0; } +div.ads .narrow { width:70%; margin-left:15%; margin-right:15%; } +div.ads .narrow.fr { width:60%; margin-left:0; margin-right:0; } + +div.ads .box { border:1px solid black; margin:0.5em; padding:0.5em; } +div.ads .w40 { width:40%; } +div.ads .ib { display:inline-block; } +div.ads hr.hr10 { margin-left:45%; width:10%; } + +div.ads div.hang p { text-indent:-2em; margin-left:2em; margin-top:1em; } + +a:link { text-decoration: none; color: rgb(10%,30%,60%); } +a:visited { text-decoration: none; color: rgb(10%,30%,60%); } +a:hover { text-decoration: underline; } +a:active { text-decoration: underline; } + +/* Transcriber's note */ +.trnote { font-size:0.8em; line-height:1.2em; background-color: #ccc; + color: #000; border: black 1px dotted; margin: 2em; padding: 1em; + page-break-before:always; margin-top:3em; } +.trnote p { text-indent:0; margin-bottom:1em; } +.trnote ul { margin-left: 0; padding-left: 0; } +.trnote li { text-align: left; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 1em; } +.trnote ul li { list-style-type: square; } +.trnote .transnote { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; } + +/* page numbers */ +a[title].pagenum { position: absolute; right: 1%; } +a[title].pagenum:after { content: attr(title); color: gray; background-color: inherit; + letter-spacing: 0; text-indent: 0; text-align: right; font-style: normal; + font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: x-small; + border: 1px solid silver; padding: 1px 4px 1px 4px; + display: inline; } + +div.centerpic { text-align:center; text-indent:0; display:block; } +img { max-width:50%; } + +body.x-ebookmaker { margin-left:0; margin-right:0; } + .x-ebookmaker div.frontmatter { max-width:inherit; } + + .x-ebookmaker div.poem-container div.poem { display:block; margin-left:2em; } + .x-ebookmaker div.poem-container div.tabulated { display:block; margin-left:2em; } + .x-ebookmaker div.editorials { border:0; padding:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; } + .x-ebookmaker div.excerpt { font-size:1em; margin-left:2em; } + + .x-ebookmaker div.ads { max-width:inherit; border:0; border-top:1px solid black; + padding:0; padding-top:0.5em; margin-top:0; } + + .x-ebookmaker div.ads div.ib { clear:both; display:block; } + + .x-ebookmaker a.pagenum { display:none; } + .x-ebookmaker a.pagenum:after { display:none; } + + .x-ebookmaker .trnote { margin:0; } + + .x-ebookmaker span.firstchar { clear:left; float:left; } + .x-ebookmaker div.ads .fl { float:left; } + .x-ebookmaker div.ads .fr { float:right; } + +</style> +</head> + +<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"> </td> + </tr> + <tr class="i"> + <td class="col1"><a href="#THECASEOFMASTERS">The Case of Masters</a></td> + <td class="col2"> </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"> </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"> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="col1"><a href="#THEREADERCRITIC">The Reader Critic</a></td> + <td class="col2"> </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> + +<p class="adp"> +One Year, U.S.A., $1.50; Canada, $1.65; +Great Britain, 7/- +</p> + +<hr> + +<p class="h1 adh"> +The Little Review +</p> + + </div> +</div> + +<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> +By Emma Goldman, 5c each, $2.50 a hundred +</p> + +<p class="adb"> +War and Capitalism<br> +By Peter Kropotkin, 5c each +</p> + +<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> + diff --git a/75976-h/images/cover.jpg b/75976-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..117fdae --- /dev/null +++ b/75976-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5dba15 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +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. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..77dce06 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +book #75976 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75976) |
