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Title: The Little Review, November 1916 (Vol. 3, No. 7)
Editor: Margaret C. Anderson
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Language: English
Original publication: Chicago, New York: Apparently none other than the Editor (see above), 1922
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, NOVEMBER 1916 (VOL. 3, NO. 7) ***
THE LITTLE REVIEW
Literature Drama Music Art
MARGARET C. ANDERSON
EDITOR
NOVEMBER, 1916
Myrrhine and Konallis Richard Aldington
And— jh.
“The Brook Kerith”
“Windy McPherson’s Son”
Paderewski and Tagore
“Pelle the Conqueror”
Introducing Jean de Bosschere
L’Offre de Plebs Jean de Bosschere
After Thought Mark Turbyfill
Das Schone Papier Vergeudet Ezra Pound
Prison Sketches Stefan Brazier
Yen Shee
Dreams
Memory
Fear
Hate
To Our Readers
The Reader Critic
The Vers Libre Contest
Published Monthly
15 cents a copy
MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher
Fine Arts Building
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
$1.50 a year
Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago, Ill.
THE LITTLE REVIEW
VOL. III.
NOVEMBER, 1916
NO. 7
Copyright, 1916, by Margaret C. Anderson
Myrrhine and Konallis
RICHARD ALDINGTON
I. The Lamp
Darkness enveloped us; I kindled a lamp of red clay to light her beauty.
She turned her dazzled eyes away from the flame, which glowed gently on
her arms and the curve of her body.
Lamp! If you are a god, you must be broken; if a goddess we will honour
you; none but a goddess may look upon our caresses.
II. The Wine Jar
This is a common wine-jar. The rough painter has drawn on it a winged
Psyche, fluttering in fire. She is edged with a black outline, but the
fire is red.
My soul is black with grief when you leave me, but glows red with
delight when you set your lips on my body.
III. Red and Black
Wine is black, but red are the points of your breasts; black are the
figures of heroes on the tall wine-jars, but your lips are red. Black,
the frail sea-grass, but flushed faint red the curled shells. Red is
your lifeblood, but black, deep black, the inexorable end of all.
IV. After the Orgy
It is morning; the revellers of last night have departed; the music of
flutes and the voices of girl-nightingales are silent now.
Half-filled wine-cups and empty jars stand by the couches; your torn
golden chiton lies by a little pool of wine, your broken girdle dangles
ironically from the Kyprian’s wrist.
The flowers of your crown wither in my hand, shrivelled with the salt of
my tears.
Silence and withered flowers and the empty wine-cups: Ah, the last
silence and the last flower-crowns on the white stele, the last wine-cup
poured in the last farewell!
V. The Offering
Women have many gods: Astarte, daffodil-hair-curled; the apple-bearing
Aphrodite; the wanton Aphrodite of Cyprus; Aphrodite Kottyto; the
narrow-eyed Isis of Heliopolis; the great Mother of Ephesus.
Some worship the Aphrodite of the people; some Artemis, and the
violet-crowned queen of Athens; some homekeeping Hestia and some
peacock-loving Hera.
All the gods are beautiful and to be revered but none more than the
white-fingered daughter of Mytilene, to whom I bear these daffodils and
this bowl of milk as offering.
VI. The Wine of Lesbos
The wines of Chios and Samos are more esteemed than our heavy wine.
But I mingle your name with the draught and the wine is keener than the
gold-flowered-crowned drink of the Deathless.
VII. April
Yesterday we wandered out from the town, under the green silver-olive
trees, gathering the flowers born from the blood of Adonis;
Under a sunny wall we found a shepherd-lad piping beside a red-crested
god of gardens;
As he played the green-golden-scaled lizards and the many-spotted
butterflies stayed beside him to listen:
Eros had stolen the pipes of Marsyas.
VIII. The Paktis
Under your fingers the strings of the paktis tremble and cry out shrilly
and vibrantly of love.
Am I not more beautiful than an ivory paktis? Is not my voice as sweet?
IX. The Charioteer
Eros, charioteer of my soul, why do you torment and urge me onwards?
For in her is absolute beauty and absolute knowledge and absolute—
“Not Sophrosyne,” you say? Ah, but Sophrosyne is her captive, even as I.
X. White Rose
Here is a white rose. Take it—the sceptre of Desires and Kharites.
XI. Her Voice
Some are lovers of wisdom, some of beauty; of Eros and the Muses.
But the Myrrhine’s voice is more lovely than all, even than yours, O
soul of Plato.
XII. Antre of the Nymphs
This is the antre of the Nymphs—sacred, hushed, and dripping with white
water.
Above the holy spring rustles a plabe-tree and about the sweet-breathing
meadows bloom many flowers;
River-dwelling narcissus, the rose of lovers, white gleaming violets and
the wind-flowers of Kypris.
I say to them, “Hail!” For these things are holy; yet I am sorrowful,
for this loveliness passes away, like the songs of the singing-birds at
evening.
Love also dies and there is none to mourn him, none to pour wine or
thread sombre garlands of grief.
XIII. Unfriendly Gods
There is a god of Fortune and a god of Love; they are seldom friends.
XIV. The Old Love
From an old love there is sometimes born a new Eros.
It was Alkmene, whom I once loved, who first brought you to me.
Therefore today, we will hang a garland of white violets at her door.
XV. Another Greater
Here are pines, black against vast blue; here, the cicada sings; here,
there are sparse wind-flowers.
Above us, Helios; under our feet, the breast of the great Mother; far
below us, the blue curls of Poseidon.
These are great and terrible gods, yet in your shape another greater and
more terrible rules me.
XVI. The Last Song
Along the shorn fields stand the last brow wheat-sheaves, casting long
shadows in the autumn sunset.
White were the horses of Helios at dawn, golden at noon, blood-red at
night—and all too brief the day.
So was my life and even so brief; night comes; I rise from the glad
feast, drink to the gods of Life, cast incense to the gods of Death, to
Love a shattered rose; and turn away.
Hail, all! Laugh, this is the bitter end of life.
And—
“_The Brook Kerith_”
Lord Alfred Douglas has sued George Moore for blasphemy. The Queensburys
were born to be fools: whenever art appears in England they become
Wilde-eyed.
Whoever started the tradition of George Moore’s naughtiness? _The Brook
Kerith_ is as reverent as Mr. Moore is chaste. A long time ago we used
“psycho-analysis” on Mr. Moore and knew then that he could never get out
of the world without writing a book about religion. _The Brook Kerith_
is the story of the Christian religion made out of Mr. Moore’s religion,
which is Art.
“_Windy McPherson’s Son_”
Here is another man who hasn’t written the great American novel.
Where did the superstition arise which makes writers, dramatists,
painters, feel that the goblins will get them if they don’t hold to
American subjects to make American art? It’s as funny as if they should
say: let’s use only American-made materials and we’ll have an American
art. Landscape and atmosphere effect about the only difference of
temperament in nations. At least Art is so universal that the
temperament of your nation is the only thing that can stamp your Art.
You might write about pink pagodas in China and have American art. The
temperament in these American novels would make this country seem all a
western plain under a steely sky. It’s the same with their style: it’s
like going through underbrush, tough and tangled and scratchy, not like
walking through rich old orchards or wandering in terraced gardens.
They all sound as though they had been written in the morning.
These writers want their novels to be strong. They are: strong like an
ox, not like a tiger. And they don’t even know about these American
things they are writing of. Dreiser doesn’t know what a genius is (I
mean, what is a genius), so he makes one: a home-made genius who comes
out like home-made clothes.
These writers want their books to be homely—the great American vice:
made from the people, by the people, for the people. It’s merely another
form of the glorification of sockless senators, etc.
They can’t even name their books:
“Sister Carrie”!
“Jennie Gerhardt”!
“Windy McPherson’s Son”! etc., etc.
_Paderewski and Tagore_
_San Francisco, October 1._
This morning I lay in bed looking at the ceiling and thinking about
cats. How _elegante_ they are, and impenetrable, and with what narrow
slant-eyed contempt they look out upon the world. Perhaps that’s the way
it looks through little black perpendicular slits.... Anyway I thought
of cats, and of violin strings made of catgut, and wondered about cats
and music. Is it because violins are made of living things—wood and
catgut and mother-of-pearl and hair,—that they make the most beautiful
music in the world?
This afternoon we crossed the hills and the bay to the theatre where
Paderewski was to play. We knew that Tagore was in the city too, and all
the way over we speculated prayerfully as to whether he would be at the
concert.
We bought standing room, and stood waiting in the foyer near the table,
where Mme. Paderewska was selling her dolls for the benefit of destitute
Poland. I looked at those dolls and wanted one so much that I was afraid
I couldn’t enjoy the concert. They were masterpieces! I shall make
myself one—perhaps like the Polish Faust, a gorgeous man with
fawn-colored kid boots; or perhaps like the Zaza, a little girl of pale
pink sateen with somewhat the look of Mlle. Pogani in the Cubist
exhibition. She had hair of red-brown silk thread, and her dress was
emerald-green. She had little pellets of bright pink satin sewed on to
make cheeks,—“and she seets always on the piano when Mr. Paderewski
practices.”
I wandered back to my standing-room and looked indifferently at the
crowded house. There were too many people, I thought. And then with
tears hurting my eyes and an ache in my throat choking me I called out:
“There—there’s Tagore—in the third box!”—and made them look quickly so
they wouldn’t see me cry. There he sat in the first chair in a robe the
color of grass-cloth and a pale violet cap upon his head. From where we
stood it looked like a high forage-cap, but soft; and he wore great
glasses made of horn. There were some East Indians with him, and two
Americans—just men. I watched him until I was almost in a trance: the
angle at which his head was put on, the cheek bones that were like an
extra feature.... Everything that lies beyond the reach of thought and
wonder seemed concentrated in that dark Stranger. I trembled, frightened
by my imagination and a little melancholy.
At last Paderewski came out to his piano, _elegante_ and impenetrable. I
seemed to see him quite differently beside Tagore—a bright heaven beside
a still universe. I was so filled there was no room left in me for the
music. Once he came back and played Schumann’s _Warum_: a nice touch:
Warum for that great Wonderer. What could our _Warum_ sound like to him?
All the while I watched Tagore who sat so motionless; not seeming to be
there, until Paderewski began some brilliant harsh thing of Liszt’s,
when he smiled and leaned forward. Was he thinking “What wonderful
children these are?”
After the concert we ran down to the front row for the encores. The
theatre was filled with all its noises of banging seats and slamming
doors and people moving. Paderewski looked out at them as he played,
eyes narrowed, watching with contempt: a great cat! He stopped, waiting
in silken rage for quiet, then smiled, raising his hand and striking the
keys with a sheathed paw.
Tagore went behind, and we waited to see him by the stage entrance, in a
narrow paved alley under hanging iron stairways. How he came out through
the dusk, not looking, walking alone! And he went away on foot, simple
and mysterious, into the crowds.
With that spell upon us we went back into the dark theatre. Under the
one light, chattering women were packing the dolls and a man went about
slamming up seats. An expressman came, the trunks were taken away, and
the women left as noisily as they had come. The doors were closed, and
we waited in front of the theatre under a blazing white light. A great
limousine rolled up; a laughing group came from the stage entrance:
Paderewski in a high silk hat, a loose cape about his shoulders. He got
into the lighted car, waved his farewells to the group on the sidewalk,
touched a slight kiss to someone, and was driven away into the bright
city.
“_Pelle the Conqueror_”[1]
_Daybreak_, the last of the four “Pelle” books, will come from the
publishers this fall. I wonder how many people in this country have read
the other three, or have ever heard of Martin Anderson Nexø? I went into
McClurg’s last Christmas to buy the first two volumes, but they told me
they had ordered only one copy and it had been sold. In all of Chicago
there wasn’t one to be had.
There was an epidemic of _Jean-Christophe_ here; every one had to read
it whether he was an audience for Rolland or not. Critics like to
compare _Pelle_ and _Jean-Christophe_ by saying that Nexø has done for a
labor leader what Rolland did for a musician. But he hasn’t: Rolland
tells the life of an artist and makes of it a great tract; Nexø tells
the life of a labor leader and makes of it a great work of art. The
difference is something like this: underneath _Jean-Christophe_ lies a
skeleton structure of Rolland’s on which he is constantly working,
through Christophe’s experiences in art, to raise a monument to the life
force; in _Pelle_ the life force sweeps all treatises from Nexø’s hands
and raises a monument to art.
Labor itself is the only thing that can help labor,—the only thing
except Art. People can read about the wrongs of labor in the social
magazines until they are blind, and stop outside the words. But here is
something to stir the imagination, to make them feel and then to think
about labor. And the poor! Nexø has made an _Arabian Nights_ of the
poor. But instead of incense and magic and white palaces with gilded
domes he tells of the fragile, perfect things the poor have out of
Nothing,—out of which all beautiful things are made.
That first night in Bornholm when Pelle, left all alone in the shipyard,
stoops down in the half dark to see if the ground is pink as he has seen
it painted on a map in Sweden—that stuck me in the heart, and I knew how
it would be with Pelle in the end. That is the whole story, really:
Pelle was always looking for the painted ground. In _Daybreak_, although
I have heard nothing of the book, I know Pelle finds it for himself and
makes it for the poor.
The boy Pelle I love most,—that imaginative, creative little Pelle who
went about carving his animals and ships, helping Lasse in the cow-barns
and sleeping there on the dung-piles, making his way through the strange
and violent life at Stone Farm. This Pelle seems to disappear entirely
in the labor struggle, during the time when he himself feels that
whatever he gains for the poor is not what the poor most needs. But
through all the story the love of Pelle and Lasse runs like music,—dear
old smelly Lasse who was never able to match his idea of himself with
the world. After a life of crushing labor and frustrated courage he
crawls away to die in some horrible cellars under the docks, bound to be
independent to the last. Pelle finds him there,—Pelle who couldn’t take
care of one because he was caring for thousands. Like the rest of us he
learned that little trick from God.
People say to me that the town where Pelle learned his trade is
overdrawn. “Why make a town without one normal person in it? It isn’t
true to life!” It’s truer than life: it’s as true as art. Poverty, like
some great Rodin, has brought these people out of the earth: some
twisted, warped, grotesque, brutally handled; others beautiful or
gigantic, cut passionately; their feet only left in the ground—all part
of that from which they are hewn.
In the Ark Nexø shows you something quite different of the poor—the city
poor. My heart always aches about the Ark, not because they are so cold
there and so without every last thing in the world; but because it is
such an amazing and wonderful thing to be poor. Nexø doesn’t tell about
the poor from any angle of the middle-classes; he doesn’t thrust upon
them the psychology of any other class; he leaves them their own souls,
and their own world. He isn’t writing of the abject, of failures, or of
social settlement charges. He is writing of the Poor—the poor you have
always with you. It isn’t the things they don’t have that make them so
poignant: it’s what they have. He tells you of one little possession and
you know all they have never possessed.
I am waiting for the fourth volume to find out what it was that Ellen
did. Every reviewer in the country has taken it for granted that Ellen
resorted to prostitution to save Pelle and their children from
starvation. But if I know Ellen she did nothing of the kind. She never
could have done that. She took Pelle’s carving of the ten-croner note
and had it made into money, thereby causing Pelle’s arrest for
counterfeiting. If this isn’t what happened then there is no psychology
for women.
Out of all the stories in _Pelle_ I choose these three: the story of
Hanne, of the end of her proud youth; the story the old grandmother at
Kalle’s tells of her love; and the story of the Great Power and his
wasted Art. There never was a story like the Great Power. It alone tells
all there is to tell of the working classes,—how labor jumps at the
throat of labor and the poor destroys its own.
----------
[1] _Pelle the Conqueror: Boyhood; Apprenticeship; The Great
Struggle; Daybreak, by Martin Anderson Nexø. New York: Henry
Holt._
_Introducing Jean de Bosschere_
“The most ‘modern’ writer Paris can boast, not excepting Apollinaire,”
is the word that comes from Ezra Pound. His _Ulysse fait son lit_ was
published in the August issue and _l’Offre de Plebs_ will be found in
this one. He has brought out many volumes, has been translated into
Russian by Veselofsky, and before the war contributed frequently to _La
Nouvelle Revue Française_ and _L’Occident_.
The starting-point for all systems of æsthetics must be the
personal experience of a peculiar emotion. The objects that
provoke this emotion we call works of art.... There must be some
one quality without which a work of art cannot exist, possessing
which, in the least degree, no work is altogether worthless....
What is this quality?... Only one answer seems
possible—significant form—and “Significant Form” is the one
quality common to all works of visual art.—_Clive Bell._
L’Offre de Plebs
JEAN DE BOSSCHERE
Le Misanthrope
Je t’ai devinée, Plebs, c’est aujourd’hui
Que tu veux me faire l’offre unique.
Ce don qui, pendant l’hiver et l’automne,
Se cachait aux plis de ton manteau logique.
Et dont, sur ta bouche, tremblait l’annonciation.
Plebs
Prends solitaire, mon offrande substantielle, c’est l’Ami.
Le Misanthrope
Dis-lui ce que tu sais, Solitude,
Et n’ouvre point la porte!
Garde-moi de la Revendeuse:
Elle me cherche, comme la ménagère ou le gueux
Cherchent l’araignée entre l’armoire et le mur,
Ou la puce dans le plis troué de la chemise.
La Solitude
Il ne veut pas un Ami.
Plebs
Solitude, femelle cynique, anachorète équivoque,
Laisse parler l’homme.
Et si tu sors de ton panier d’inviolabilité,
Nous te battrons, moi Plebs, et t’attacherons dans les ceps.
Le Misanthrope
Je ne veux pas d’un ami
Qui peut baiser les pieds d’une femme,
Je ne veux pas d’un ami
Qui peut s’agenouiller en Dieu.
Plebs
C’est ce que je t’apporte;
Il est vierge et athée.
La Solitude
Il ne veut pas d’un athée,
Plebs au nez de truie.
Je lui enseignai ce que tu caches
Avec ton masque
Volé au jeune Printemps
Et à la très vielle loyauté.
Le Misanthrope
Je veux qu’il ait un Dieu!
Il faut que cela soit mai ...
Je veux qu’il ait un Dieu,
Et qu’il brûle en sacrifice toutes ses amours
Et ses maisons;
Et que, pour moi, son esprit prenne
La robe des moines
Eclose comme la peau des grenouilles
Je veux que cela soit moi ...
Plebs
En vérité, il est sans amour.
Ouvres à l’ami chaste, O! Misanthrope,
Il n’a point encore de Dieux ni de Vices.
Il est beau, et son coeur est
Comme une sphère d’or
Dans la nuit.
La Solitude
Ne parle pas d’un homme qui ne soit beau
Ni d’un homme moins pur qu’une fleur fermée
Ni moins souverain que l’image d’un palmier dans le désert.
Le Misanthrope
S’il était sur notre terre ou dans les cieux
L’ami serait plus pur qu’une fleur fermée,
Ecoute, Solitude, ce masque croit
Qu’un ami peut n’être pas splendide
Parle aux vers, Plebs, offre leur
Tes choses mutilées, tes oranges gâtées,
Tes femmes veuves et tes amis!
Plebs
Il est fidèle aussi, dix années il eut un ami.
La Solitude
Tu as perdu, Plebs, ton jeu est perdu.
Le Misanthrope
Je ne veux pas d’un coeur qui a aimé
Je ne veux pas d’un ami qui sera hérétique.
Il y a la chair et le démon de l’esprit.
Il y a des arbres et aussi des parfums;
Il y a des ombres, des souvenirs;
Il y a des images, des rêves,
Et il y a l’espoir
Et la douleur
Il y a la pensée qui serait à lui,
Et non pas mienne,
Et qui serait dans lui comme un sale chose étrangère
Dans un coffre fermée....
Plebs
Il ne te quittera pas, O! Poète. O! Misanthrope.
Lui, c’est son ami qui l’abandonna.
La Solitude
Un ami ne quitte pas son ami.
Le Misanthrope
Je ne veux ni d’ami que l’on quitte,
Ni d’un ami qui recule.
Je veux celui qui, marchant avec moi dans les crimes,
Chante avec moi
Le coeur de paradis!
Je veux d’un ami qui sache mourir.
Plebs
Il sera ton esclave, O! Poète!
La Solitude
O Brute misérable, tu as perdu!
Retire-toi, il ne sortira pas de la toile d’araignée de son ombre,
Ton masque est plus cruel que mon panier!
Le Misanthrope
Je ne veux pas d’un esclave
Je ne veux qu’il ait un Dieu.
Il faut que cela soit moi.
Je veux d’un ami qui soit un Dieu,
Et qu’il goûte des mêmes herbes que moi,
Et qu’il trempe ses mains au même sang.
Je veux qu’il me suive
Et qu’il embrasse ma tête coupée.
After Thought
MARK TURBYFILL
Sometimes you smile
(Now that it is all over)
And drop me little, thin, gray words,
Like the coins we give to the blind.
Oh I am not blind!
And they are grayer to me than your
“Do not come any more.”
I dare not think that you care
How I cared then,
Or now!
And yet you smile,
And drop me your little words
While I
Hold out my hand!
Das Schone Papier Vergeudet
EZRA POUND
Before you issue another number of your magazine half blank, I must
again ask you seriously to consider the iniquity of the present
“protective” tariff on books.
This tariff has contributed more than any other one cause, and perhaps
more than all other causes, to the intellectual isolation of America, to
her general ignorance, to her sodden parochialism.
I have expressed myself on this subject many times. Mr. George Haven
Putnam has been fighting against the evil for years. It is one ground on
which all intelligent Americans, whatever their disagreements as to
literary canon may be, can come together.
I am too much buried in work to write you an article at present. There
are hundreds of young men with more time than I have, to whom this is a
matter not of mere general interest, but of vital and personal
importance.
The simple fact is that it is very, _very_ difficult to get foreign
books in the United States. There is _no_ facilitation of their sale.
The 25% tariff serves as an excuse for an exorbitant elevation of the
price of all foreign books, whether imported in sheets, or bound.
Result: Editors of sodden and moribund “better” magazines talking about
De Regnier and De Gourmont as “these young men”, in 1914.
Result: provincialism, isolation, lack of standards of comparison, and
consequent inability to recognize good work when it appears. When it
gets praise it is praised in company with rubbish.
American writers handicapped in competition with men living in civilized
countries. Export of best, and even of moderately good, artists instead
of export of art.
I can’t go into the whole question of free trade. It has worked in
England. It has, more than anything else, made the “Empire.” I do not
see why it should ruin the Republic.
_But_ that is not my business. I mean, Free Trade in the widest sense is
not my present affair. The prohibitive tariff on books is very much
everybody’s affair if they care a hang for the intellectual state of the
country.
The state of the copyright laws is barbarous, but it is perhaps more the
affair of the maltreated authors than of the country at large. It is
evil only as other obstructory measures are evil. _But_ this matter of
excluding foreign books in the interest of a few artizans (who are
better paid than authors and who seek nothing above immediate gain, and
whose loss in the event of reform would be negligible) is immediate and
vital.
The whole question of censorship, as to Dreiser, as to Hokusai prints
destroyed by customs officials, etc., are all really minor issues,
largely dependent on this matter of the exclusion of the words thought
and knowledge.
If among the young writers gathered about _The Little Review_ you can
not find two or three to take up this question, to study it, to marshal
the data (vide Putnam’s “Books and Their Makers” to start with, re. the
causes of the rise of Paris as the world’s intellectual capital),—if you
can not find such young authors, then your young literati are a set of
rotters and the Great West is more of a mud-hole than I should have
thought it.
Form, in the narrow sense, is nothing but the separating line
between surfaces of color. That is its outer meaning. But it has
also an inner meaning, of varying intensity, and, properly
speaking, form is the outward expression of this inner
meaning.... The artist is the hand which, by playing on this or
that key, i.e., form, affects the human soul in this or that way.
So it is evident that form-harmony must rest only on a
corresponding vibration of the human soul. The more abstract is
form, the more clear and direct is its appeal.—_Kandinsky._
Prison Sketches
STEFAN BRAZIER
Yen Shee
Languorously,
In my bunk within my cell
I lie.
About me circles the reek of excrement
And the more putrid inanities
Of my fellows....
However,
Sentiently,
No awareness comes to me.
About me clings a gaseous vapor,
Impenetrable!
O warm black armor,
O fragrant yen-shee cloud....
Thank you, unscrupulous jailer!
Dreams
When wakedness
Surged over me like a sea
And derelict dreams
Drowned themselves
In that deep pool of mind
Whence only bubbles come again—
At that moment
A voice crashed inhumanly,
Unlike the cadenced rhythm
Of the speech I know....
A large tin cup
Was thrust at me:
Coffee....
But dreams would not drown.
The voice said
“Here’s your Java!”...
Java!...
Visions in the word,
And palms,
And coral strands,
And copper bodies leaping in the surf....
And anything but jails!
Memory
Today,
Walking the corridor,
Glimpsing the sky,
And champing at the leash of life,
I saw the lake....
And the green-fringed park
That borders it....
Do you remember,
Distant One,
The green-fringed park,
And the night,
And the coming of Love?
How long shall it be
Before we shall lie again,
Lip-kissing, limb-kissing,
There on the green grass
Of the park
That borders the lake?
Fear
Big,
And brutal,
And hateful....
I shivered in his grasp.
Hair bristled on his great paws,
Oaths stammered to his lips,
Rage clouded his huge red face,
And I was afraid....
Fear is a hell of a thing
For a man to feel....
But when I looked
And saw his eyes,
Dropping before my steady gaze,
And marked his mouth agape,
Inarticulate,
I laughed....
Fear is a hell of a thing
For a man to feel
Toward an ox.
Hate
I shall destroy my prisons.
Not because I hate them
For from them has come to me
A brighter shaft
From Freedom’s pharos-tower.
But yet I shall destroy my prisons
Because they are false idols
Worshipped by lovers of hate....
To these
My scorn shall be a scourge,
My most tender thought a scorpion.
And the fire of my hate
Shall consume their concepts.
To Our Readers
Will you make _The Little Review_ a Christmas present by renewing your
subscription if it has run out? We will value it more than having our
stocking filled with gold. It will make the December issue possible for
us and will insure your having the magazine during the year when it is
to become really good.
We couldn’t have an October issue, owing to our usual embarrassment
about funds; so this will have to serve as a sort of October-November,
though I can’t put that on the cover because they tell me it would
violate some new law.
We are back in Chicago where we shall stay for a month before moving to
New York. Word comes from every part of the country that young magazines
are dying, and that even _The Masses_ may have to succumb before the
increasing cost of paper, etc. That _must_ not be! _The Masses_ is too
valuable to lose and everybody must do something about it. As for _The
Little Review_, we may have to come out on tissue paper pretty soon, but
we shall _keep on coming out_! Nothing can stop us now.
I feel as though we have an entirely new lease on life and were just
starting with what we have to say.
The Reader Critic
For So Much Imagination, Our Thanks
[The following letter was written in the thirteen blank pages of the
September issue. If the understanding in it were divided among two or
three million people the ways of editors would not be so difficult in a
prosaic and literal world.]
_Roy George, San Francisco_:
I said you couldn’t be as valiant as you looked, but you are. Nobody
thought you’d do it. And then my blood screams through that “must say
it” stuff. It’s violent and it’s dear. Did you call for art or
artillery?
“jh.” may wreck your ship. I don’t doubt the sincerity of the people who
feel her rocking the boat right blithely, but she’ll save your soul and
this issue she certainly has saved. Her page! No one out of San
Francisco can get the rest of it and no one in San Francisco can get
this that she’s pulled down right out of the stars; but it’s just the
touch to put you in Abraham’s bosom at the last. Imagine it now in the
grins of your friends, and around the hearthstones of your enemies—your
worst enemies. The Breakfast! The Sheriff! “Tearing her hair for
humanity” will save “her” when she’s arrested for her seductive,
seditious, and sudoriparous diatribe against—is it “against”? It’s not a
diatribe, it’s an exposé; it’s an exposure, an indecent exposure of the
crying disloyalty of humanity to humans, stripped stark. Families? And
oh, there are some such nice families. But maybe they never thought
about this. The great process _is_ “on.” But who’d have known the earth
was beginning to whirl on a new axis poking out through the crust in
Mill Valley? Oh I think you said a lot in a little, flaming Angel. With
discernment, too.
You were right. Why should the pages be filled until by something that
simply will not be denied? Your analysis is sound, if it _is_ in a
footnote, and there’s a mighty sane protest in the blank pages against
the general welter. It’s only the beginning. It _is_ the beginning. It
shows that even an editor may claim a little the inner sense of the
dignity of life, that the prosy demands of a paid-up constituency for
fodder—paid up, hell!—may be deliberately set aside if one needs a sweep
for one’s vision or room to swing an axe or a chance to breathe, or if
he sees a chance to save his soul by suddenly taking a firm hold on that
fundamental of individualism that says “I will not do what I really
don’t want to do” and by holding on until he’s chinned himself three
times whatever chinning the rest may do over it. Look like the end? How
can it! How can a man like F. L. W.?—but maybe he’s right: maybe he
means the other end; maybe he could see what a beginning it was; but to
most people it takes the actual sight of the blank pages to get a sense
of what’s written so clearly on them. You saw it. You felt it. And aside
from the effect it will have on the world,—for it can never again be
said that “they have to print it because they can’t get anything
better”; and it will be said many and many a time in defense of Modern
Letters or a Summary of the Best of Contemporary Thought that an editor
did one time assert her belief in herself, did blue pencil an entire
issue and did contribute twelve consecutive pages to contemporary
thought, the best thought at least that her subscribers are capable of,
for they’re left to do their thinking for themselves, and if the
thought’s not as consecutive as the pages it’s not the first time that
that little matter has come to light when readers have been brought to
book; and when you’ve said something so directly that “it can never
again be said” it will have its effect, and when you’ve made a
contribution to pure thought it’s bound to have its effect for it’s the
confusion of tongues that keeps even the other kind (not impure but
unpure thought) from having its effect somewhere in an ineffectual
world—aside from the effect it will have on the world look at the
impetus it gives you. Here are you with twelve pages that you can tuck
under your arm any time, day or the black night between days, and march
straight up to heaven’s gate and demand a reckoning on. The end? when
you’ve here said twelve times over, for the first time, absolutely that
it’s ever been perfectly said: “No compromise”!
Would to God some judge—(he will; they will,—I was near showing a lack
of faith in the power of this thing you’ve done)—some judge _will_ step
down from his bench and leave a sentence unpronounced because the law
shan’t bind him to injustice. Some preacher _will_ come to his pulpit
with his manuscript a blank because he can’t compel his hand to write
more platitudes. A thousand artist hands will break the thing they’ve
chiseled at, and search their souls with yearning for the thing they
are. The end? This will be quoted. I refrain from mentioning the time
when all else is pied, including magazine magpies, and when the
arch-fiend has gathered disloyal architects and all their works.
This says: “Life is long.” This denies all that the poets have sung, and
the prophets have wailed and philosophy has deluded us with. If the
poets have gathered rosebuds while they may, this makes no haste to
gather thistles. If the Jeremiahs have said Woe! Woe! this says “Whoa”
once and compels it; and the philosophy of this thing, instead of
dividing art from its essence and proclaiming that art is long and life
is short, identifies life and art and says they’re both long—long
enough. Life is long enough for art—just. For art proves itself worthy
only as the work of the artist proves him able to work true while he
lives and proves him great in so far as his record shows him able to
live true while he works. Dauber was all wrong, if art is achievement,
or he could never have had it in him to do the thing he was to do and
yet lose his grip on the yard-arm however the wind blew; but he was
right, whether of life or of art, in his dying cry “It will go on.” He
knew you.
These pages are a record bearing on life and art and you. They say that
life is long—long enough for pauses, long enough that haste is your only
real sacrilege and the artist’s great outrage on life. They do not deny
that the seasons are short, whether seed time and harvest or the mating
of turtle doves and snails, or even the theatrical season or the press
date; but they do define an attitude towards one’s work, and it’s the
direct expression of the artist mind. Here is a protest against that
haste that does what it may instead of refusing to do what it must not.
And this is not youth saying I will do as I damn please, but judgment
saying I will avoid doing what I please not; not a baby demanding the
moon at all,—merely a proper young entity refusing a rotten piece of
cheese. And as for its bearing on you, here is a record of existence, a
record of a striving toward that happiness that comes through an
understanding of life, a grip on life—the grip that Dauber didn’t have.
You have life in your hands. You have everything. Never mind, you
_have_. Something for your hands to dig into—a friendly attitude towards
life, and an abiding faith. And these are the essentials. They are.
Absolutely. They are the three essentials. A piano and a friend and one
star—it’s enough. It’s all there is: something congenial for the hands
(literally) to do when heart and mind can’t quite, quite get the grip on
things; the capacity for friendship; and faith in one’s stuff. And I
said no one could be as valiant as you looked!
It’s easy to imagine your young god springing from the ranks of labor,
and as for the oppression of family life I’m starting a subscription to
establish a perfectly new ocean and build one big springboard for the
proper launching of an army of sixteen year old girls that I see heading
this way from a thousand typical American homes. God bless us, but your
mind is a crystal stream out of the high hills. I can see it,—I who had
the one perfect home in all the world, with a mother who was afraid I’d
be hanged and a father who was afraid I wouldn’t, with grandfathers who
painted all the world for me and a pair of grandmothers who made home
better, with a brother to keep me beat up and a sister to mend my bones
and bind me with bands of affection,—with all the loveliest ties and
with freedom in everything from the first—if _I_ can see it who is there
that can’t?
Just to have a race free so they can have a friendly attitude toward
life, with eyes for the marvel of it and half an understanding of each
other—it’s such a little thing you ask because it’s what everybody
really wants. Surely the world won’t have to be told it twice.
Loyalty?—how it crowns the graces and means the thousand things never
dreamed of in a marriage vow and the platitudes of family pride. Your
loyalty to yourself this time will feed your individualistic marrow in
its bones. I glory in your shame.
Wuzzed Thinking
_Anonymous_:
Recall to mind the ultimatum of Max Eastman: “... Our literary
intellectuals will have to go to work. (!) Otherwise we shall merely
have to enjoy them like a song. They will have to _pass their
examinations_. (!) Science holds the power to make all intellectual
literature mere dilettantism and nothing but resolute giants of brain
with feeling can prevent it.” Reflect the philosophy of the age, and you
will have served Art. Do not attempt to rise precipitously and gaze
rapturously into the Blessed Isles, floating without our sphere,
situated in the fourth dimension. Come to Jesus!
[Reflecting the philosophy of the age has no more to do with Art than
holding the mirror up to nature.]
From France
_Muriel Ciolkowska, Bellevue, S. et O._:
... The last number pleased me especially for your satisfying definition
of art versus life. It is the most complete and the most epigrammatic I
have ever met with.
“My Word!”
_Louise Bryant, New York_:
BEAUTY
O foolish ones
Who lament
Because all the beauty
That you discover
Or that you create
Out of your minds
Is not posted
On a mountain
Before the eyes of the world—
Know you,
It is no less beautiful
Because all do not behold it,
It is no less beautiful
Because it remains in darkness.
Beauty is the same always,
It is itself
No less and no more.
From Berlin
_Charlotte Teller_
... To my surprise, I found that Marsden Hartley had stayed on in Berlin
in spite of the war; and that he was still living in the same place, the
garden house, up three flights, at number four Nassauische Strasse. The
world was whirling in martial mid-air, and all the planets were out of
place. But Hartley had the same rug on the floor, and the same Persian
stuff on the brown wall. And the next room was full of canvasses—some
forty; a few, done in Paris when he was just beginning to want the
Northern Light stronger than France could give; most of them done right
here in these rooms.
When the door was closed, the room might have been a magic carpet
carrying us out into anywhere, where there are planes cutting into each
other, where lightnings zig-zag outlines against black space, where
colors refuse to fade, but stay sharp and clean, like good morals.
Marsden Hartley used to be told that he looked like Ralph Waldo Emerson.
But since I last saw him he has lost that look of strife with the flesh
which gives all Emerson’s portraits a tortured undercurrent. What was
before New England philosopher with a touch of the bird of prey is now
Indian,—the old, rare, eagle-like Indian whom we have betrayed without
counting the loss to the land whose life he knew back to Aztec days. On
the card over Hartley’s door-bell some boy has drawn in pencil an
Indian. It looks like him. He does not know if it were done to protect
him from being taken for an Englishman, or as a portrait. It serves as
both.
The portrait I had seen of him when I was in Berlin two years ago was a
dream he told me he had had. He had seen a pigeon tied by its feet to a
great rock, struggling to get free. He watched it in torment; and saw
finally how it flew off, leaving its feet bleeding upon the rock. And he
has flown far.
One canvas that he showed me was painted in June, 1914, before there had
been the slightest whisper of war. It expresses his feeling of what he
calls “ecstasy” on the part of the dragoons at the manoeuvers he had
seen. A rising dome, the eternal symbol of endeavor weighted by the
desires of the flesh, not able to cut clean like the triangle, the
flame-sign of the Persians. And in this dome, and on either side, white
horses, mounting, red trappings, white uniforms, and black boots; all of
them pouring upward to a high point somewhere far outside of the
painting itself. Here is the very spirit of Germany, proud of its
display, not yet chastened by the grief of glory.
He has caught Germany and America, and grappled with them in the depths
of their own consciousness. Planetary things there are in his work,
gracious and balanced, weird and restless—“sensations” he calls them for
fear of intellectualizing the emotions he has. But it is all _his_
world. He does not pretend to share it with anyone, although he spreads
it before you and listens, or half-listens, to your interpretation of
circle and star and streaked skies.
I do not pretend to understand even the theories of these new schools
which burst out before the war; and I have no theory about Hartley’s
paintings. I feel them, as I might feel a lyric from the Sanscrit if it
were read me by one who knows that our modern speech is buried deep in
this old language and must inevitably echo forth. When the rhythm swings
round and round within the four sides of the frame, I know it as rhythm,
although I might not be able to tell what begot it. When the motion set
up by color and line goes sweeping out beyond the frame, beyond the
walls of the room, beyond Berlin, and Europe, and the age we live in, I
get the excitement of it, and I don’t mind the loss of breath.
What Does It Mean?
_Arthur Purdon, Livingston, Montana_:
“A Real Magazine” just arrived, but it isn’t. Art, like music, dies when
talked about. The September Want Ad makes me smile. _The Little Review_
is degenerating into the newspaper class, and has become a common
beggar. It does not know how to keep its machinery out of sight. I
sometimes wish I knew how to make a bomb. If I did I would be tempted to
place it under _The Little Review_ and blow its talk about past, present
and future straight to hell. I am interested in an infinite present
above time and space, that indefinable something expressed in music.
There are no such things as Past, Present and Future. They are hollow
hallucinations. _The Little Review_ still worships at the altar of time
and attempts to concern itself with temporal things.
Music or Art when labelled disappear. The think itself is quite
sufficient. Don’t you sometimes get a bit tired of talking so much about
Art?
[No; what we get tired of is people like you and Alice Groff who talk
out of the air, as though thoughts are made of air as words are made.]
Officer, She’s In Again!
_Alice Groff, Philadelphia_:
You are an insane isolist (ha! ha!)—a mad little self-made God, setting
yourself on a pedestal as the _only_ judge of Art (? ! ! !)
Every artist is the _sole_ judge of _his own art_. Don’t you know that?
You may not _like_ his art—but you have no right to say that it is _not_
art. It is the embodiment of his ideal, and this is all that art is—an
embodiment of an ideal by the soul that conceived the ideal. There is no
such thing as good art or bad art. There is only _art_. Of course, you,
as an editor, cannot publish every boy’s art. You must discriminate and
select, to appeal as far as possible to your clientele. But don’t
presume to say that what you reject is _not art_.
All that an editor can ever be as to art is a medium between the artist
and the world. All that he can ever do is to bring the artist to the
light of day that the latter may have a chance to speak the word to
those of whom it is the word of life as it is for himself. This is all
that the editor can do for _himself_ even as an _artist_. The editor who
fails to do this is unworthy to be an editor.
We Also Await
_Anonymous_:
I have never enjoyed any number of _The Little Review_ so much as the
September. Those blank pages linked with the cosmos: space before
creation. I await Prometheus.
Everyone scolds you. May I? Forget propaganda and give us beauty,
eternal, immutable, radiant beauty.
So Did We
_Daphne Carr, Columbia, Missouri_:
I bless your new enthusiasm and its effects. That half blank number was
splendid—what there was of it, but I wanted to see as spirited things on
the other pages too.
The Vers Libre Contest
The poems published in the Vers Libre Contest are still in the hands of
the judges. There were two hundred and two poems, thirty-two of which
were returned because they were either Shakespearean sonnets or rhymed
quatrains or couplets. Manuscripts will be returned as promptly as they
are rejected, providing the contestants sent postage.
The results will be announced in our December issue, and the prize poems
published.
—The Contest Editor.
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poets of our day. Her work in this volume, whether written in old
forms or new, cannot fail to awaken deeper interest in one who is
perhaps the biggest inspirational force in contemporary poetry.
_Now ready at all bookstores_, $1.25
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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. 2]:
... Here. ...
... Hera. ...
[p. 4]:
... It was Akmene, whom I once loved, who first brought you to
me. ...
... It was Alkmene, whom I once loved, who first brought you to
me. ...
[p. 9]: (multiple cases)
... read the other three, or have ever heard of Martin Anderson
Nexo? I ...
... read the other three, or have ever heard of Martin Anderson
Nexø? I ...
[p. 11]:
... “The most ‘modern’ writer Paris can boast, not
excepting Apollonaire,” ...
... “The most ‘modern’ writer Paris can boast, not
excepting Apollinaire,” ...
[p. 14]:
... O Beute misérable, tu as perdu! ...
... O Brute misérable, tu as perdu! ...
[p. 24]:
... Blessed Isles, floating without our sphere, situate in the
fourth dimension. Come to ...
... Blessed Isles, floating without our sphere, situated in the
fourth dimension. Come to ...
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