Part 1
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.”