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Title: The Little Review, April 1917 (Vol. 3, No. 10)
Editor: Margaret C. Anderson
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Language: English
Original publication: Chicago, New York: Margaret C. Anderson, 1922
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, APRIL 1917 (VOL. 3, NO. 10) ***
THE LITTLE REVIEW
Literature Drama Music Art
MARGARET C. ANDERSON
EDITOR
APRIL, 1917
I, Mary MacLane jh.
The War M. C. A.
Isadora Duncan’s Misfortune Margaret C. Anderson
James Joyce
The Vers Libre Contest
Sea Poppies H. D.
Images of Friendship Maxwell Bodenheim
Stream Richard Aldington
Flower and Foam Edward J. O’Brien
The Master Jeanne D’Orge
Autumn Ballet Charles Wharton Stork
Once More—the Road Charles Ashleigh
Lovescape Adolf Wolff
Victory Sarah Bard Field
Art is Born Miriam van Waters
The Flower Smeller L. R. Bonham
November Afternoon Marjorie Allen Seiffert
The Soldiers Horace Holley
The Assault John Cournos
Girl of Jade and Ivory Mitchell Dawson
The South Witter Bynner
A Mother’s Sacrifice
Book Store Announcement
“Surprise”!
The Reader Critic
Published Monthly
15 cents a copy
MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher
31 West 14th Street
NEW YORK CITY
$1.50 a year
Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, New York, N. Y.
THE LITTLE REVIEW
VOL. III.
APRIL 1917
NO. 10
Copyright, 1917, by Margaret C. Anderson.
“I, Mary MacLane”
jh.
When I heard that there was to be a new Mary MacLane book I was full of
excitement, remembering vaguely her first book. “What has the world done
to you?” I thought as I went rapidly and curiously through the pages. I
came upon parts that made me more excited. Has she made poetry—has she
made literature? Then I read it through properly from first to last.
It seems to me that Mary MacLane’s Diary of Human Days is the best
answer in the world to all those people who hold that to express
yourself completely and sincerely is to have to created Art. Mary
MacLane says: “So I write this book of Me—my Soul, my Heart, my sentient
Body, my magic Mind: their potentialities and contradictions.”
Aside from the story, which is a sort of Spoon River of thoughts,
emotions, rebellions, unconventionalities, humor, the writing of those
parts which promised to be poetry in the whole became a too-pretty
prettiness, a kind of Ladies’ Home Journalness. There is a way some
maiden ladies hold a brush when painting still-life—we call it
Spencerian.... But what makes me the most weary is the tape-worm words:
Feel-of-my-Fingers, my Boredom-of-the-Moment, etc., etc.
It is an amusing book. It is an unhappy book, and it is surprising in
all kinds of ways. It is chiefly surprising because it is not the
contradictions that contradict: it is the potentialities, the
affirmations. Whatever she affirms in the letter—that she is artist,
pagan, radical, outlaw, humorist,—she denies in the spirit. She is
really a rather set little conservative with a Presbyterian conscience.
She is an interesting and entertaining neurasthenic. Her book is
surprisingly ungrown, surprisingly commonplace. It is surprisingly not a
surprise.
She makes much talk of her old soul “worn by long cycles of time”; she
names herself an artist—a double title to a universal consciousness; and
then proceeds to analyze toward a universal consciousness. She lovingly
cherishes her free analytical mind and then in chapters like “I am
someway the Lesbian woman” and “I am not Respectable nor Refined nor in
Good Taste” she refutes her free analytical mind in the best manner of
the “good non-analytic creatures.” I cannot find the interest to a free
mind, to any thinking mind, in questioning the refinement of the natural
feelings induced by a shower bath in the solitude of a mountain gorge. A
grown mind does not consider whether it is unrefined to be natural or
expect that it ought to feel “timorous, sexless, or hygenic” under such
circumstances. A grown mind does not question the integrity of its
emotions.
_I, Mary MacLane_ is good fun to read and there is enough charm in its
abrupt realism to make up for its cloying fancifulness. It is annoying
and exasperating—annoying because it makes you feel sorry for Mary
MacLane and exasperating because it makes you wish you could help her
clear up the design a bit. It is too personal. It is an intrusion. The
artist reveals not how he lives but how he Exists, not his objects but
himself. And if he chooses himself as his object, as Mary MacLane has
done, he has not made his task any different or less difficult. It is as
foolish to talk about the artist as the man as to talk about Art as
life. Whether an artist tells out his whole soul in a single verse or in
great creations through a long life time, or only exists fully and no
one has known how he passed one of his “human days”, what he has created
will tell forever how he Existed. It is never what life does to the
artist; it is what the artist does to life.
Mary MacLane has created nothing. She has given us an anatomical drawing
of her life, has wistfully told her story with some imagination, some
beauty of phrase, some poetical conceptions, with honesty, sincerity,
with the humor of a martyr. The newspapers will take it up; it will be
praised and jeered and quoted by wits and half-wits; moral fossils will
refuse to sell it and others to read it; Lady Writers will say “she has
made a contribution to literature.” She has made a contribution, but it
would seem rather to the sexual theory.
To-day.
It is the edge of a somber July night in this Butte-Montana.
The sky is overcast. The nearer mountains are gray-melancholy.
And at this point I meet Me face to face.
I am Mary MacLane: of no importance to the wide bright world and
dearly and damnably important to Me.
Face to face I look at Me with some hatred, with despair and with
great intentness.
I put Me in a crucible of my own making and set it in the flaming
trivial Inferno of my mind. And I assay thus:
I am rare—I am in some ways exquisite.
I am pagan within and without.
I am vain and shallow and false.
I am a specialized being, deeply myself.
I am of woman-sex and most things that go with that, with some
other _pointes_.
I am dynamic but devastated, laid waste in spirit.
I’m like a leopard and I’m like a poet and I’m like a religieuse
and I’m like an outlaw.
I have a potent weird sense of humor—a saving and a demoralizing
grace.
I have brain, cerebration—not powerful but fine and of a
remarkable quality.
I am scornful-tempered and I am brave.
I am slender in body and someway fragile and firm-fleshed and
sweet.
I am oddly a fool and a strange complex liar and a spiritual
vagabond.
I am strong, individual in my falseness: wavering, faint,
fanciful in my truth.
I am eternally self-conscious but sincere in it.
I am ultra-modern, very old-fashioned: savagely incongruous.
I am young, but not very young.
I am wistful. I am infamous.
In brief, I am a human being.
The War
Margaret C. Anderson
[_We will probably be suppressed for this._]
Isadora Duncan’s Misfortune
Margaret C. Anderson
It is impossible to write about the art of Isadora Duncan. She has no
connection with that mysterious phenomenon.
Now, please, all you people who put us down as æsthetes or shallow
cultists or youth rebelling for the sake of sensation, or tiresome
upholders of art “principles,” or sapless supporters of art as a “hole
and corner” affair—please for a moment, just listen. If you get enraged
with the censorship of the vicious Mr. Sumner every one knows it is not
because you wish to flaunt your theories of good literature to the
heavens for the want of something better to do. Very well. Grant me the
same sincerity. And grant me also another thing: that I may possibly
have something true to say.
I have waited five years to see Isadora Duncan. I went to the
Metropolitan expecting to see the Dionysian, “the feet of the Centaur
trampling the stage,” etc. I expected inspiration in a form that you are
lucky enough to experience a very few times in your life. Everybody had
talked to me this way about Isadora Duncan; every poet, painter,
sculptor and musician, every radical I know, had said, “She has real
greatness.” Well, this is what I saw:
Isadora Duncan ran and jumped and skipped and stamped and swooned about
the stage, dragging with her a body that was never meant to move in
rhythmic line, turning music into stories of war and religion,
illustrating the stories with obvious gesticulations toward the heavens
or maudlin manoeuverings towards the grave, using the same gestures for
the sweetness of Schubert as for the sacraments of César Franck, moving
always _inside_ the music, never dominating it, never even controlling
it, never holding or pushing it to an authentic end. In all my life I
have never felt such disappointment or such a weary knowledge of the
public’s predilection for what is truly bad. It didn’t occur to me to
conceal these ideas. I tried to explain what was wrong. I used Isadora
Duncan as the best example I knew of the differentiation between the
artist and the pseudo-artist. I tried to show how her conception of Art
was identical with only one other conception in the world: the dream of
the adolescent brain: that to feel greatly is to make Art and to put
your passion and your anguish into expression is to create. Isadora felt
a great deal. She shook her head and arms in such a fury of feeling that
she appeared to be strangling; and when there was no way of reaching a
further intensification she shook her whole body in a kind of spasm of
human inability to bear the grief of the world. And every move was a
futile and pitiable one because never once did her body become that
mould through which a design is to shape its course and flow into its
ultimate form. If the music made a wide swinging curve she made a
cramped sudden curve; if it made a descending line she interpreted that,
for some mysterious reason, by reverently clutching her abdomen and
looking to God.
“Oh,” they say, “you are talking about technique.”
No, no, no! I am not talking about technique. I am almost never talking
technique.
Yvette Guilbert has so little voice that she couldn’t sustain the
singing of a single song through with beauty—as we commonly speak of
beauty. Yet every time she moves her hand or turns her bird-like head or
throws that voice into the creation of her design she shows herself an
artist in the one real sense of the word. Is that a matter of technique?
Cezanne studied light until he was able to paint objects as though they
were reflected in a kind of eternal light. Is that merely technique?
Harold Bauer studied sound until he has made the technique of the older
pianists sound not like an end, nor even like a means to an end, but
merely like a lack of full vision. What do you call that? James Joyce
writes a novel in which a new kind of literary architecture is achieved
not by his following of but by his departure from what has been
established as the technique of good writing. What do you call that?
“Well, then,” says Mr. John Cowper Powys, when we argue all this, “you
are at fault. Whenever you allow any theory of art to interfere with
your enjoyment you are doing a silly thing.” But why should it occur to
you that I am doing that? Is it the obtrudance of an obstinate art
theory that makes you acclaim the poetry of Byron quite second-rate
poetry compared to that of Shelley or Keats? You would not say that your
esoteric art principles interfered with your enjoyment of Mr. Kipling,
but that Mr. Kipling interfered with your enjoyment of what might have
been his art. Isadora herself interferes with the possibility of any
æsthetic experience out of her dancing. What she does is to inspire the
mob with the only kind of feeling the mob is ever inspired with. If you
were much moved by what she suggested to you—“the trampling feet of the
Centaur, the look in her face as though she could drink blood”—why not
realize that you can feel those things, _if you feel like it_, in the
performance of the cheapest amateur.
Almost no expression of the arts is too decadent to give you such
reactions. But that is no criterion of Art. In fact the more of those
feelings you have the more you will know that what you are viewing is
not Art. Because in the presence of the latter you feel almost nothing,
you imagine nothing, you are like a being in vacuo, “your mind in that
mysterious instant Shelley likened beautifully to a fading coal.” So you
are talking only of what Isadora made you feel, not what Isadora _made_.
And the best—perhaps the only—test for Art is that your emotion is
focused on the forms in the picture, not sidetracked to what those forms
suggest to you or inform you of—as in descriptive painting or any other
bad expression. Clive Bell has said all this and said it more than
lucidly. Why should I be repeating it? You all believe it, and all your
shrines are built to this one miracle.
So you must not insist to us that Isadora Duncan is an artist. This
generation can’t be fed on any such stuff. We are tired of that kind of
loose valuation. We all know and share the debt the world owes Isadora
Duncan, and which the Russian Ballet acknowledged and put to a use she
herself could not do. But you should not force us into a position where
it positively takes courage to stand up for those values which you
yourselves believe in. Isadora Duncan, as you will know after seeing her
once, is a woman of small intelligence, a monument of undirected
adolescent vision, an ingrained sentimentalist. The spectacle of her
dancing draped in an American flag is bad enough; but her
unconsciousness of how emotion must be transmuted through a significant
medium is to me far more sad.
A soft liquid joy flowed through the words where the soft loud
vowels hurtled noiselessly and fell away, lapping and flowing
back and ever shaking the white bells of their waves in mute
chime and mute peal and soft swooning cry; and he felt that the
augury he had sought in the wheeling darting birds and in the
pale space of sky above him had come forth from his heart like a
bird from a turret quietly and swiftly....
Darkness was falling.... A trembling joy, lambent as a faint
light, played like a fairy host around him. But why? Her passage
through the darkening air or the verse with its black vowels and
its opening sound, rich and lutelike?—_From James Joyce’s
“Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man”._
James Joyce[1]
I suppose Mr. Joyce had some idea in mind when he gave his book the
title of A Portrait of the _Artist_ as a Young Man. But the critics seem
to want it their own way and say, “Mr. Joyce paints the Irishman as he
really is.”... Irishman, doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief, I suppose.
Francis Hackett says it “reveals the inevitable malaise of serious
youth.” Why then doesn’t this inevitable malaise of all our serious
youth end inevitably like this: the call “to create proudly out of the
freedom and power of his soul, a living thing, new and soaring, and
beautiful, impalpable, imperishable.”
H. G. Wells assures us that the youth of his country need not suffer
such tortures of adolescence because of England’s more common-sense
treatment of the sex question. And all the time Mr. Joyce was talking
about the artist of any land, not the youth of England or any other
country. In this country there is only God to thank that the young
artist does not go entirely mad over one and all of its institutions. In
our country the young artists could suffer tortures far beyond anything
suffered by Stephen, over the utter emptiness of the place. But he will
always suffer. He will always be “a naked runner lost in a storm of
spears.”
There is too much geography of the body in this education of ours. You
can talk about or write about or paint or sculpt some parts of the body
but others must be treated like the Bad Lands. You can write about what
you see that you don’t like, what you touch, taste, or hear; but you
can’t write about what you smell; if you do you are accused of using
nasty words. I could say a lot more about the geography of the body, and
how its influence goes all the way through until the censor makes a
geography for your mind and soul. But I want to talk about nasty words.
The result of this education is that we have all the nasty words in the
world in our language. How often a European or an Oriental will say:
“Oh, to us it is something very nice—beautiful; but to you it would not
be nice; it is much different in English.” When they told James Joyce he
had words like that in his book he must have been as surprised as a
painter would be if he were told that some of his colors were immoral.
His story is told the way a person in a sick room sharply remembers all
the over-felt impressions and experiences of a time of fever; until the
story itself catches the fever and becomes a thing of more definite,
closer-known, keener-felt consciousness—and of a restless oblivion of
self-consciousness.
jh.
* * * * *
This James Joyce book is the most beautiful piece of writing and the
most creative piece of prose anywhere to be seen on the horizon to-day.
It is consciously a work of Art in a way that _Jean-Christophe_ made no
effort to be; it is such head and shoulders above _Jacob Stahl_ or
Gilbert Cannan’s _Mendel_ that one must realize those books as very good
novels and this as something quite more than that. It can be spoken of
in terms that apply to _Pelle the Conqueror_, but only in this way: each
is a work of Art and therefore not to be talked of as lesser or greater;
but while _Pelle_ is made of language as it has been used the _Portrait_
is made of language as it will come to be used. There is no doubt that
we will have novels before long written without even as much of the
conventional structure of language as Mr. Joyce has adhered to—a new
kind of “dimension in language” which is being felt in many places and
which George Soule has illustrated beautifully in an article in _The New
Republic_.
But that isn’t the most important thing. The interest in _Pelle_ is in
the way its stories are told. The interest in the _Portrait_ is in the
way its æsthetic content is presented.
For instance, these fragments:
He thought his face must be white because it felt so cool. He
could not get out the answer for the sum but it did not matter.
White roses and red roses: those were beautiful colours to think
of. And the cards for first place and third place were beautiful
colours too: pink and cream and lavender. Lavender and cream and
pink roses were beautiful to think of. Perhaps a wild rose might
be like those colours and he remembered the song about the wild
rose blossoms on the little green place. But you could not have a
green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world you could....
The corridors were darkly lit and the chapel was darkly lit. Soon
all would be dark and sleeping. There was cold night air in the
chapel and the marbles were the colour the sea was at night. It
was cold and dark under the seawall beside his father’s house.
There was a cold night smell in the chapel. But it was a holy
smell. It was not like the smell of the old peasants who knelt at
the back of the chapel at Sunday mass. That was a smell of air
and rain and turf and corduroy. But they were very holy
peasants.... It would be lovely to sleep for one night in that
cottage before the fire of smoking turf, in the dark lit by the
fire, in the warm dark, breathing the smell of the peasants, air
and rain and turf and corduroy.
The altar was heaped with fragrant masses of white flowers: and
in the morning light the pale flames of the candles among the
white flowers were clear and silent as his own soul....
* * * * *
... The air of the late March evening made clear their flight,
their dark quivering bodies flung clearly against the sky as
against a limp hung cloth of smoky tenuous blue.
He watched their flight; bird after bird: a dark flash, a swerve,
a flutter of wings. He tried to count them before all their
darting quivering bodies passed: Six, ten, eleven: and wondered
were they odd or even in number. Twelve, thirteen: for two came
wheeling down from the upper sky. They were flying high and low
but ever round and round in straight and curving lines and ever
flying from left to right, circling about a temple of air.
He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice behind the
wainscot: a shrill twofold note. But the notes were long and
shrill and whirring, unlike the cry of vermin, falling a third or
a fourth and trilled as the flying beaks clove the air. Their cry
as shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken
light unwound from whirring spools....
A soft liquid joy like the noise of many waters flowed over his
memory and he felt in his heart the soft peace of silent spaces
of fading tenuous sky above the waters, of oceanic silence, of
swallows flying through the seadusk over the flowing waters.
M. C. A.
----------
[1] _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce. New
York: B. W. Huebsch._
The Vers Libre Contest
At last after many months the prize contest has been decided. I know
very little about prize contests, but I imagine that there has never
been one in the history of poetry which could boast so many really bad
poems. Personally I think there are not more than four or five with any
suggestion of poetry in them: the rest are either involuntarily
humorous, like the one printed at the end, or pompously anachronistic
like the one which asks: “Shall I with frantic hands unloose the cord
that binds me to this life?”
The judges were Eunice Tietjens, Helen Hoyt, and William Carlos
Williams. They came to no unanimous decision as to which two poems were
the best, and the only two they voted for mutually are those printed
below. _Sea Poppies_ turned out to be by H. D., and _Images of
Friendship_ by Maxwell Bodenheim. (The former had not yet been published
in H. D.’s book).
Sea Poppies
H. D.
Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,
treasure
spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:
your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells,
and slit conch-shells.
Beautiful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?
Images of Friendship
Maxwell Bodenheim
Grey drooping-shouldered bushes scrape the edges
Of bending swirls of yellow-white flowers.
So do my thoughts meet the wind-scattered color of you.
The green shadowed trance of the water
Is splintered to little white-tasseled awakenings
By the beat of long black oars.
So do your words cut the massed smoothness of thoughts of you.
Split, brown-blue clouds press into each-other
Over hills dressed in mute, clinging haze.
So do my thoughts slowly form over the draped mystery of you.
The two prizes of $25 each go therefore to H. D. and Mr. Bodenheim.
But it may be interesting to print some of the others. For instance, not
a single judge mentioned the following:
Stream
Richard Aldington
I.
Pebbles, that gleam dully,
white, faint ochre, drab green:
mosaic under pale sliding water.
II.
Foam;
mobile crests leaping, sinking:
thin fingers grasping round cold rocks.
III.
Pines, white ash-trees,
black-thorns, winter grass,
mirrored trembling in you, O vagrant,
bending away from you and towards you:
hesitating, importunate lovers.
IV.
Small blue waves straining to meet,
never touching, always elusive:
mocking, half-virginal lips.
Eunice Tietjens mentioned _Flower_ and _Foam_ with this qualification:
“Provided Richard Aldington wrote them. Otherwise not. My point is that
if he wrote them they are authentic as well as lovely, but if he did not
so flagrant an imitator ought not to be encouraged even if he is a
successful copyist.”
Flower
Edward J. O’Brien
Here by the pastures of Hybla
Dreameth in azure stillness Daphne, a maiden.
Her throat was softer than light and honey-haunted.
Foam
Here by the foaming sky with cloud-capped horses,
I, a maiden, lie by the windy ocean,
Dreaming of quiet waters
Guarded by willows.
Dr. Williams’s first choice was _The Master_, “for the reason that it
has most imaginative charm while possessing at the same time a fairly
even unity of rhythm, a simple straight forward diction and a very
subtle depth of thought. The image is progressively developed to a fine
and natural conclusion with great simplicity and restraint, without
waste of materia, without redundancy of any kind.”
What or where is the subtle depth of thought? Almost every kind of
person in the world has had this thought: it is not even a poetic
thought. And what is there in the treatment to make it poetry?
The Master
Jeanne D’Orge
In the dusk a child sits playing
Five-finger exercises
Up and down, down and up
Jagged notes and even,
Down and up, up and down
Interminably.
About him all unseen
In the folds of the shadows
Stand the great shades
Bach ... Beethoven ... Brahms ...
Listening with exquisite attention
As to a master.
Helen Hoyt mentioned the following:
Autumn Ballet
Charles Wharton Stork
Oh dancers in yellow!—
Tall, saffron-garmented poplars with arms uplifted,
Slender-limbed beeches
Draped in a modester russet,
Chestnuts, walnuts and sassafrasses,
And ruffle-skirted maples—
Why do ye stand at pause?
When will the music begin
For you, oh dancers in yellow?
Dr. Williams’s fourth choice is a poem of Charles Ashleigh’s which he
describes as “a spirited and well-constructed defiance.” I think it is a
very trite effort—one of those loose though rather happy expressions of
mood that has no more to do with art than a man’s exclamation that he
means to tramp in the woods on a bright spring day.
Once More—The Road
Charles Ashleigh
The printed page
Whispers vainly
In my memory....
The locomotive howls!
Limping philosophies
Murmur weakly
And then are silenced
By the laughter of wanderers.
The sadness of creeds
Dies
Under tramps’ ribaldry.
And my road-thirst,
Avid and aching,
Conquers the muttering
Of puling scholarship.
Let my heart blossom in journeying;
And my maw be well stuffed
With delectable incident!
Eunice Tietjens would have been willing to give _Lovescape_ a prize if
either of the other judges had chosen it, but they did not. And in spite
of its cadenced mounting and falling—which is an attribute of technique,
not necessarily of art—it remains merely a slight puff of poetic
feeling, not a good poem.
Lovescape
Adolf Wolff
Sky
Deep blue sky
Clouds
Thin clouds
Drifting drifting
Grass
Soft cool grass
Breeze
Soft warm breeze
Hands pressing
Mouths mingling
Love
Passion
Ecstacy
Faintness
Calm
Resting
Sky
Deep blue sky
Clouds
Thin clouds
Drifting drifting.
Helen Hoyt chose the two following for the prizes. Now I hope these
judges will not get provoked with me or feel that I am being personal or
any of the other things that one is usually accused of when one is most
impersonally talking his “cause.” I am simply overflowing with criticism
of their valuations and I must speak it out. These two poems are pretty
awful, I think. Where are the winged words that make poetry something
beyond thoughts or ideas of emotions?
Victory
Sarah Bard Field
When we were lifted high on the crest of the wave
And Passion made you oblivious,
I reached above you for a star
And caught it.
When we sank deep into the trough of the wave
And satisfied desire over-flooded you,
I reached below you for a pearl
And possessed it.
You have nothing left from that night
But a memory, chained to yourself.
I have something left from that night
That will one day fill his eyes with star-dust,
Measuring the heavens,
And tangle his feet in sea-weed,
Searching the Ocean.
Because of that night
A thought stirs in you.
It will grow weaker with Time
It will be dead when you are dead.
Because of that night,
A child stirs in me.
He will grow stronger with Time
He will plant pansies on our graves
When we are dead.
Art Is Born
Miriam van Waters
My leisure has flowered: a new thing has come into my hands,
Time has come. I possess time as though it were a thing.
I lie still in the scented grass and the hours come into my hands.
They float up as little balloons float from the hands of children,—
Like golden, silken spheres sailing high into the air,
One by one they mount slow and as fragile as dreams.
The hours from my hands go up like kites,—
I hold their slender thread,
I move it faintly and they sway,
Rocking in the clear blue of the sky.
They do not return to me, but very gently they vanish....
Somewhere,
While I hold their silken, slender thread in my hands.
My leisure has come sharp, like a crystal:
It glows and is pointed,
The poignancy of weapons has come into my leisure.
I possess time as though it were a thing.
The hours come into my hands like spears—
Flashing crystal spars of light
That is winged.
I seize them as they come to me.
I throw the weight of my body
Into my stroke and boldly
I hurl them into space,—into the heart of my enemy
The Stillness who lurks there in the depths of the dark.
Dr. Williams says of _The Flower Smeller_: “It might have been a very
fine thing indeed had the author known how to come to a conclusion
properly. Parts of this poem have more promise than anything in the
whole batch of manuscript.” It is, obviously, better. But it isn’t a gem
by any means; it belongs rather with those almost fine things that make
you impatient because they didn’t turn out to be gems.
The Flower Smeller
L. R. Bonham
Bubbles, mist and visions
colored shapes winging against the sky
a sip from a brown Venetian glass.
Meseems
gauze drops are pulled upwards
and confetti flung into the past.
A fairy queen in a crystal coach
opens the door, she beckons,
the painted crest looks familiar.
Six little men with sticks
pass by, one taller than the rest
laughs and points at
a junkheap of keepsakes.
Distant music in the park
you and I at the bay window,
gossiping neighbors, a cool breeze,
old second hand furniture, ice cream and moonlight
all painted as in one stroke.
Spirals of smoke, crushed tissue paper,
colored ribbons and black masks,
floor sweepings after a ball—
I twirl a flower between thumb and index
I feel golden dust on the tip of my nose—
a futile occupation
yet something has happened.
And this one, which was among Helen Hoyt’s choices, belongs also in the
exasperatingly “somehow good” school.
November Afternoon
Marjorie Allen Seiffert
Upon our heads
The oak-leaves fall
Like silent benedictions
Closing autumn’s gorgeous ritual,
And we
Upborne by warship
Lift our eyes to the altar of distant hills.
Beloved
How can I know
What gods are yours,
How can I guess the visions of your spirit,
Or hear
The silent prayers your heart has said—
Only by this I feel
Your gods akin to mine,
That when our lips have met
On this last golden autumn afternoon
They have confessed
In silence
Our kisses were less precious than our dreams.
To-day
Our passion drowned in beauty
We turn away our faces toward the hills
Where purple haze, like incense,
Spreads its veil.
Here, I think, are two very interesting ones, the first of which Dr.
Williams considers worthy of special mention—“the image evoked is
charmingly successful.” The authors are respectively Fritz Peters and
his brother, Thomas Willing Peters.
The wind blows hard
No bird is there
And the smoke is drowning in the lake.
(_Dictated at the age of two years and ten months._)
When it rains it makes beautiful colors
It makes red and blue and white
And red and blue stripes on the water
And the pier goes out to get the sky.
(_Dictated at the age of three years and eight months._)
The following four were not mentioned by any of the judges, but in my
judgment they are better than many of the “honorable mentions.”
The Soldiers
Horace Holley
Whom I long since had known,
Long since forgotten;
Who cast their names behind them like a dream,
Like stagnant water spitting
Their tasteless souls away;
These are the soldiers,
The nameless, the changelings,
Monstrous with slow tormenting Number,
Pestilent with unremitting Machine.
Soldiers ...
These are they whom I suspected, guilty and glorious,
Crouching in my own thought’s background,
Released by the whirlwind of fate
To move as winds that scream about the Pole,
As darkness of sea-depths,
As meeting of ice and flame.
Priests of the mystic sensual death,
When shall they return?
When shall they return, broken, from Hell?
The fuse of a thousand years has burned:
_Lord, quicken the groping hands of to-morrow!_
The Assault
John Cournos
You come—
black of wing,
black of beak,
flock on flock—
ravenous, cawing.
Your cries—arrows—
shrill, clamorous, strident,
pierce the heart.
O wounded reverie
on still water,
white in faint mist,
you spurt red drops.
O white swan,
shape of magnificent sadness,
spread out your wings,
flutter white through the air,
disperse the black—the raucous.
Girl of Jade and Ivory
Mitchell Dawson
Thru the dark arches of many nights
Your voice has led me,
Groping.
Across the echoing pavements
Of the nights that stretch before me
And past the niches
Where grotesque doubts
Mock me for seeking,
I shall follow
The impalpable strands of your voice—
Like thread fine-spun from melted pearls
Drawn singing
Thru the darkness,
Until at last I shall find you
In a deep hollow of that immeasurable rock
From which all nights are hewn;
And your eyes will bind me forever
While your long white fingers caress me.
I shall not heed the waiting days
As they gutter and die out.
The South
Witter Bynner
O the true difference!—
The sun at last
Gilds me again
And my face is no more a white stalk of celery
But a golden mango
And the foot-tracked mud of my heart
Is sunk deep down
In the blue waters and purified with a scouring
Of coral....
Cranes carry peace to the east and the west
And joy stands clear by the mangroves,
A torch,
A flamingo.
This last one may be printed as a sample of the rest of the contest, and
speaks for itself. It came with a little note saying “I hope it may win
one of the prizes in the contest, being original free verse and very
patriotic.”
A Mother’s Sacrifice
The day has come, beloved son—
When duty’s call resound,
Your father fought, and laurels won
He firmly held the ground.
Now honor calls you to be true,
To the dear flag, red-white-and blue
Long may it wave o’er land and sea—
Thou sweet land of liberty.
I thank the God who gave to me,
So true, so brave a son—
Who on the field prefers to be,
Until the battle’s won.
The God on high alone doth know,
The torture and the nag—
In sacrificing all I own,
To help protect the flag.
Fare-well dear boy of loyalty,
To country and to home—
God will reward you royally,
Wherever you may roam.
And when the war is o’er—Oh joy,
How proud I then shall be—
To find my darling soldier boy,
Come home unscathed to me.
Announcement
We are going to have a book store in connection with The Little Review.
This is not merely a plan to sell you books through a kind of mail order
system, which we tried once before and which did not work out very well,
but a regular book shop in the large front room of our office where you
can sit by a fire and choose your books and perhaps even drink a cup of
tea during your selection.
It will be a beautiful shop to look at and it will have all the books
you will want; or if you are the kind of person who wants books nobody
else wants we can guarantee to get them for you within half a day.
Also we can supply mail orders promptly to any of our subscribers. By
handling this part of the business directly we will avoid all the
confusion and delays inherent in our former arrangement.
We want to open our shop by May 1 if possible, and the next issue will
contain the complete announcement.
We cannot take any orders until that date, but if you will deluge us
with your patronage after that time we will be eternally grateful.
“THE LITTLE REVIEW,”
31 West 14th Street,
New York City.
“Surprise”!
The “surprise” I promised in the last issue is this:
Ezra Pound is to become Foreign Editor of “The Little Review.”
This means that he and T. S. Eliot will have an American organ (horrible
phrase) in which they can appear regularly once a month, where James
Joyce can appear when he likes, and where Wyndham Lewis can appear if he
comes back from the war. Also it means two or three other names of the
“young blood” who will contribute from time to time, and altogether the
most stunning plan that any magazine has had the good fortune to
announce for a long, long time.
It means that a great deal of the most creative work of modern London
and Paris will be published in these pages. So that by getting “The
Little Review” and “The Egoist” you will be in touch with the two most
important radical organs of contemporary literature.
It all goes into effect with the May issue, and I can promise that it
will not be “delayed on account of the war,” because the copy is already
here ready for the printer.
Now will all you subscribers help to bring in as many new subscriptions
as possible right away, and will all of you whose subscriptions are
overdue renew quickly, and will any of you who are overburdened with
money contribute a little toward our next issue? It is so terribly hard
to get started in a new city, though everything will go so much better
once we are fully started here. And though I have been looking for a
printer who would do our work for nothing, or even for a small
amount,—incredible as it may sound, I have not yet found him.
The Reader Critic
The March Issue
Harold Bauer, New York:
The only trouble with the last number of _The Little Review_ is that
there is not enough Bauer in it. Why drag in Mary?
Note
H., Cleveland:
I believe you have largely proved your contention that you are producing
a magazine which has an understanding of what Art is by the splendid
recognition you award Mary Garden. Clarity, in comprehending her, has
been too frightfully rare.
To “jh”
Louise Gebhard Cann, Seattle:
I must love any one who can write as you write!
Even, if I were a revengeful soul I should be quite disarmed by your
full-skinned satin prose-ecstasy. It is as seductive as the rice-eating
women of Nippon. Such beauty brings tears to my eyes and I bend over it
insatiate as over a flower whose perfume tortures me with too much
delight and eludes the tentacles of my analysis.
I could have written like that once; but the indifference of editors and
publishers has taken the bloom off my expression. My enthusiasms have
turned cosmic. I love life’s bitterness; I love my critics. I love the
grotesqueness that I used to abhor; and nothing is hideous. The sensuous
airs of the world I have passed by. They are there but in them I taste
aloes and I hear cacophony. My zest is of clangors, the strident battles
of the intellect and the spirit, juiceless acrid food whose sweetness
comes only after long crushing. The implacable witch-forces of life have
put a spell upon me! I live through my own superabundance of being, not
through the abundance of others; amid my friends I am a strong hermit.
And so your luscious “Mary Garden” is my yesterday. I love it as I love
those sunny fruits of my past....
I want to say, too, how much I enjoyed Amy Lowell’s poem in this number
and how glad I am that you give us Richard Aldington. The more I read of
Amy Lowell the more she conquers me. She does not give me ecstasy; she
stabs me with wonder. She transfixes me with her polished swords,
gem-hilted, cold, glittering. I stare amazed as at a comet. Aldington
lifts me to the torment of too much bliss. I fear the spell he puts upon
me; I approach each new piece of his with reluctance, trying to avert a
devastating possession of my being. Then bravely I read and my head
swims. His aftermood is a long delicious intoxication, a deep rich dream
of a Hellas that never was.
Isadora Duncan
New York subscriber:
How we have looked forward to seeing Isadora Duncan dance! I was glad to
see you advertise her in that first splendid New York edition of yours.
I went to see her, of course. But——! It’s because I wonder if any people
felt the way I did the night of March 6 at the Metropolitan that I am
writing you....
I was grateful, of course, for the César-Franck—what human movements
will express this, I wondered. A dark blue empty stage. I have seen
darkness attempted on the stage before,—but the shadow thrown by the
orchestra light made this floor a blacker black—and a light lit up a
crouching figure. Redemption, a fragment from a César-Franck symphony.
This was only the first—I was willing to wait. Then Ave Maria and the
figure was standing with a too-brilliant glare accentuating something
that was not beautiful. The music goes on; the figure assumes some
rather striking statuesque poses: arms uplifted, one arm uplifted, head
thrown back—that too-glaring light again. She turns, the line of her
thigh and leg heavy—the modern sculptors have taught us to believe it
good. Then a Giotto figure she seemed; a minute later Mrs. Flyn coming
up from her wash-tub in the basement; a chord from the orchestra and the
Statue of Liberty is before us. Encore; and Botticelli’s nymph hastens
to Venus: she bows and a wilted Easter Lily bud which never knew full
blossom is before us.
Tschaikowsky _Pathetique_: adagio, to an empty stage; scherzo, and—!! I
wonder how many yards of cloth in that drop, are there two, or is it the
lights that changed the color? This woman’s thigh is atrocious! Those
must be real flowers she is using to scatter about; good pose there as
the curtains fall,—nice line from ankle to shoulder; but that costume!
Encore, and flowers. She trips in like a soubrette, the one whose place
in the chorus is assured forever because she knows the manager. Second
encore,—posing for the public with an uplifted white rose—this the great
dancer!
But, with the strains of the _Marseillaise_ she appeared from the rear,
right, in scarlet. And that part of the audience who claims France by
birthright rose, as also did the other part, by the assumed insolence of
pretense which says each man has two countries: the states and France!
Well, the audience rose and Isadora (we’re feeling chummy by this time)
pointed! At the finish of the air—which surmounted all despite the
figure on the stage—she disclosed what we suspected was there: an
American flag! And the orchestra played _Star Spangled Banner_ and she
kissed the flag, and the audience sang; and after “Bravos” she “danced”
the _Marseillaise_ again and the audience shrieked; and the orchestra
played _America_ off key and swung to _Star Spangled Banner_ again and
she unwound the flag from off her and danced the thing they were
playing,—in that costume of dark red she had worn when she danced the
Call to Battle and the Lamentations Following Triumph of the
_Pathetique_; and trampling on the red which was France, waving the flag
which was the U. S. A., in the costume representing Poland—she pointed!
And because she had _pointed_ skyward earthward and battleward, all in
the course of one evening, we left, saying: “Well, we have seen Isadora
Duncan dance!”
_The
Novelist
of the
Insects_
J. HENRI
FABRE
_Author of “The Life of the Fly”, “The Life of the
Caterpillar_”.
The Latest Translation from Fabre’s Works by Teixeira is now out
THE LIFE OF THE GRASSHOPPER
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1917
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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. 3]:
... am dynamic but devastated, laid waste in spirit. ...
... I am dynamic but devastated, laid waste in spirit. ...
[p. 5]:
... Isadore Duncan’s Misfortune ...
... Isadora Duncan’s Misfortune ...
[p. 5]:
... Isadora Duncan ran jumped and skipped and stamped and swooned ...
... Isadora Duncan ran and jumped and skipped and stamped and
swooned ...
[p. 10]:
... peasants.... It would be lovely to to sleep ...
... peasants.... It would be lovely to sleep ...
[p. 14]:
... Helen Hoylt mentioned the following: ...
... Helen Hoyt mentioned the following: ...
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, APRIL 1917 (VOL. 3, NO. 10) ***
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