Part 2

I cannot make out the mystics; nor how far we may trust to our senses, and how far to sudden sights that come from within us, or at least seem to spring up within us: a mirage, an elf-music; and how far we are prey to the written word.

Poggio: I have seen many women in dreams, surpassing most mortal women, but I doubt if I have on their account been stirred to more thoughts of beauty, than I have had meditating upon that passage in latin, concerning the temple of Pallas at Lyndos and its memorial cup of white gold. I do not count myself among Plato’s disciples.

Maunsier: And yet it is forced upon us that all these things breed their fanatics; that even a style might become a religion and breed bigots as many, and pestilent.

Poggio: Our blessing is to live in an age when some can hold a fair balance. It can not last; many are half-drunk with freedom; a greed for taxes at Rome will raise up envy, a cultivated court will disappear in the ensuing reaction. We are fortunate to live in the wink, the eye of mankind is open; for an instant, hardly more than an instant. Men are prized for being unique. I do not mean merely fantastic. That is to say there are a few of us who can prize a man for thinking, in himself, rather than for a passion to make others think with him.

Perhaps you are right about style; an established style could be as much a nuisance as any other establishment. Yet there must be a reputable normal. Tacitus is too crabbed. The rhetoricians ruined the empire. Let us go on to our baths.

_Finis_

Three Nightpieces

John Rodker

I

Toward eight o’clock I begin to feel my pulses accelerating quietly. A little after, my heart begins to thump against its walls. I tremble all over, and leaving the room rapidly go out on the terrace of the house and look over the weald.

There is a shadowiness of outline and the air is crisp. The sky in one corner is a pale nostalgic rose. The trees look like weeds and a bird flies up through them like a fish lazily rising. The hills really look like breasts: and each moment I look for the head of the Titan negress to rise with the moon in the lobe of her ear.

I think of my youth and the intolerable legacy it left me.

I think of the crazy scaffolding of my youth and wonder why I should be surprised that the superstructure should be crazy too, wavering to every breeze and threatening ever to come down about my ears. I think too of wrongs done to this one and that one, and.... “Oh, my God,” I cry, “I did not know, I did not know,” and my heart thumps louder in my breast and my pulses throb like a tide thundering and sucking at some crumbling jetty.

I gulp deep breaths of air to steady myself, but it is of no good. I think of her whom I love and futility overwhelms me: for this too will have its common end, and our orbits grow ever remoter. And putting my head on my breast, faint and reminiscent—the smell from my armpits rises to my brain, and she stands before me vividly and the same smell comes from her; but it is more heady and more musky and she looks at me with intolerable humility.

And a minute after there is only the dark; a hoot-owl’s terrifying call and the queer yap that comes in reply; the frogs that thud through the grass like uncertain feet; the trees that talk to each other.

And I would willingly let my life out gurgling and sticky, and sink without a bubble into its metallic opacity.

II

I had gone to bed quietly at my wife’s side, kissing her casually as was my custom. I awoke about two in the morning with a start so sudden that it seemed I had been shot by a cannon out of the obscurity of sleep into the light of waking; at one moment I had been, as it were, gagged and bound by sleep; and the next I was wide awake and could distinctly sense the demarking line between sleep and waking. And this demarking line was like a rope made of human hair such as one sees in exhibitions of indigenous Japanese products.

In my ears still rang the after-waves of the shriek which had awakened me. The nerves governing my skin were still out of control as a result of the sudden fright, and portions of it continued twitching for a long time after; my scalp grew cold in patches and my hair stood on end.... In the dark I found myself trembling all over and bathed in a cold sweat.... And it was impossible to collect myself. My wife, I felt, was sitting up in bed and a minute afterward she began to weep quietly.

I was still trembling and her quiet weeping made me more afraid. I was angry with her too, but could not talk to her, I was so afraid. My voice, I knew, would have issued thin and quavering, and I was afraid of its hollow reverberations losing themselves uncertainly in the darkness. By the little light I saw her put her hands up to her head in despair ... as though still half asleep; and before I could stop her again the same piercing, incredibly terrifying shriek burst from her. Again I trembled all over, involuntarily gnashing my teeth and feeling my skin ripple like loathsome worms.

“Stop,” I cried, seizing her by the arms, “Stop,” afraid to wake her, yet more afraid to hear again that appalling shriek—and in a moment she was awake ... looking wildly round her, and the quiet weeping gave way to a wild and tempestuous sobbing.

I was afraid of her, afraid to go on sleeping with her, lest she should again shriek in that wild and unearthly fashion; afraid to fall asleep again lest I should be awakened by that appalling shriek dinning in my ears and my body quivering vilely under the impossible sound. I clung to her: “What is it, tell me at least what it is,” I said.

For a time she would not tell me. Trembling all over with anguish and fear of I knew not what, I insisted. When at last she did tell me it was as though the world had suddenly been cut away from under my feet. Helplessly and weeping I clung to her, with cold at my heart. That any human being could accuse another of devilry so sinister, so cold, so incredible even in dream, I had not conceived of. Loathing her, I clung the closer in my anguish and despair.

III

One night at supper I had eaten cucumber. Soon after I went to bed and on the first strokes of ten fell asleep.

After sleeping for a long time I awoke into a dimly lit room. I still lay on the bed and after a moment a figure entered, and after a few moments more, another, until in this fashion there were half a dozen people in the room. I could not distinguish who they were, and quietly and obscurely they moved round my bed. Now and then there was a hiss out of the corners of the room, or a chuckle in reply to some unheard obscenity.

A heavy weight oppressed me as though I knew they menaced me in some obscure and dreadful way. I could not move.

I could not move, and always the same obscure and dreadful procession encircled me and shadowy bodies pressed a little closer, then drew back again to join the sinister group.

And though I saw nothing save their shadowy forms, I knew their eyes gleamed down at me: their faces were lecherous: their hands clawed; and forever and through long ages they went round me in sinister procession.

Suddenly ... and how I do not know, I had broken the bonds of sleep and lay trembling in a cold sweat. Through my protecting blankets the last strokes of ten were fading.

Improvisations

Louis Gilmore

I

My thoughts are fish That dwell in a twilight Of green waters:

They are silver fish That dart here and there Streaking the still water Of a pond.

My thoughts are birds That have hung their nests Near the sun:

They are yellow birds That drift on stretched wings Over a sea untroubled By a sail.

My thoughts are beasts That crouch and wait In a black forest.

My thoughts are apes That clamber through the tree-tops Towards the moon.

II

In winter People intensify Their individuality In houses.

In spring By the side of lakes Beneath trees People walk Vaguely sentimental.

In summer Lying upon the warm earth They hear the grass grow; Or they become impersonal In a contemplation Of stars.

In autumn People dispel The characteristic Melancholy of the season With a cup of tea.

III

Rare delight, That of hanging By one’s tail Over a pond.

Rare delight, That of seeing A green monkey In the sky.

Rare delight, That of reaching up With one’s paw To touch it.

Rare delight, That of finding The strange one In the water.

Rare delight, That of clasping The belovèd In death.

Poet’s Heart

Maxwell Bodenheim

The Mad Shepherd The Narcissus Peddler The Slender Nun The Wine Jar Maiden The Poet

A great window of palest purple light. The lower corner of the window is visible. A dark purple wall frames the window, and narrow rectangles of the wall, below and to the left of the window-corner, are visible. Before the window-corner is the portion of a pale pink floor. One tall thin white candle stands against the dark purple rectangle of wall to the left of the window-corner. It bears a narrow flame which remains stationary. Soft and clear light pours in from the window-corner and dim shapes stand behind it. The Mad Shepherd appears from the left. He holds a reed to his lips but does not blow into it. A long brown cloak drapes him: black sandals are on his feet. His black hair caresses his shoulders; his face is young. He pauses, three-fourths of his body framed by the palest purple window-corner.

The Mad Shepherd (addressing the palest purple window-corner):

I’ve lost a tune. It’s a spirit-rose, and a reed-limbed boy ran before me and whisked it past my ears before I could seize him. Have you seen him, window clearer than the clashing light bubbles in a woman’s eyes? (A pause). I sat on a rock in the midst of my sheep and smiled at the piping of my young soul, as it climbed a spirit-tree. Soon it would whirl joyously on the tip of the tree, and my heart would turn with it. Then the song brushed past me and made my head a burning feather dropping down. I stumbled after it, over the sun-dazed hills, and the reed-limbed boy would often stop, touch both of my eyes with the song-flower, and spring away. I saw him dance into this black palace. I followed, through high corridors, to you, palest purple window, towering over me like a silent mass of breath-clear souls. He has gone. Palest purple window, tell me where he is?

(There is a short silence. The Mad Shepherd stands despairingly fingering his reed. The Narcissus Peddler appears from the right. He is an old man, a huge basket of cut narcissus strapped to his back. His body is tall and slender; his face a bit yellow, with a long silver-brown beard. His head is bare. He wears a black velvet coat, pale yellow shirt, soft grey, loose trousers, and black sandals. He rests his basket upon the floor. The Mad Shepherd takes a step toward him, wearily).

The Narcissus Peddler:

A Voice walked into me, one day. How he found me, sleeping between two huge purple hills, I do not know. He said with a laugh that had ghosts of weeping in it that he knew a garden where narcissus flowers grew taller than myself. What was there to do?—my soul and I, we had to walk with him. He lead us to this palace, spinning the thread of a laugh behind him so that we could follow. But now he has gone, and there is no window—only a palest purple window.

The Mad Shepherd:

We can leap through this window, but it may be a trap.

The Narcissus Peddler:

Or a dream?

The Mad Shepherd:

Perhaps this is a dream that is true—an endless dream.

The Narcissus Peddler:

Can that be death?

Mad Shepherd (pointing to the other’s basket):

With death, you would have left your narcissus behind you, for fragrance itself.

Peddler:

If my life has melted to an endless dream, my chase is over. I shall sit here and my soul will become an endless thought of narcissus.

(He seats himself beside his basket; Shepherd stands despairingly; the Slender Nun appears from the right: She is small and her body like a thin drooping stem; she wears the black dress of a nun but her child face is uncovered. Her feet are bare. She stops, standing a step away from the Peddler.)

The Slender Nun:

I see a candle that is like an arm stiffened in prayer. (She pauses) Palest purple window, is my soul standing behind you and spreading to light that gently thrusts me down? A flamed-loosed angel lifted it from me. I ran after him. He seemed to touch you, window, like a vapor kiss dying upon pale purple silk. (a pause) Must I stand here always waiting for my soul like a flower petal pressed deep into the earth by passing feet?

The Shepherd:

You have lost a soul and I a tune. Let me make you the tune and you make me your soul. You could sit with me on my rock in the hills and make a soul of my reed—rippling and piping of you, I might weave a new tune.

The Nun:

Can you give me a soul that will be Christ floating out in clear music? Only then I would go with you.

Shepherd (sadly):

My music is like the wet, quick kiss of rain. It knows nothing of Christ.

(A short silence)

(The Wine jar maiden appears from the right. She is tall and pale brown; upon her head is a long pale green jar; her hair is black and spurts down. Her face is wide but delicately twisted. She wears a thin simple pale green gown, with a black girdle about her waist, one tasseled end hanging down. She stops a little behind the Slender Nun, and lowers her wine jar to the floor. The Nun turns and partly faces her. The Narcissus Peddler looks up from where he has sat, in a reverie, beside his basket.)

The Wine Jar Maiden:

My heart was a wine jar stained with the roses of frail dreams and filled with wine that had turned to shaking mist. One day I felt it wrenched from me, and mist drops that flew from it, as it left, sank into my breast and made me shrink. I could not see the thief, but I followed the scent of my heart trailing behind him. It brought me here, but at this palest purple window it died. Scent of my heart, have you spread over this huge window, and must I stand forever looking upon you?

(The Narcissus Peddler slowly rises and takes a stride toward the palest purple window)

The Narcissus Peddler:

That dim shape behind the window—I believe it is a huge narcissus. I am a rainbow-smeared knave to stand here juggling the little golden balls of dreams. I shall spring through the window.

The Slender Nun:

Take my hand when you spring. Perhaps this is God’s forehead, and we shall melt into it, like billows of rain washing into a cliff.

The Wine Jar Maiden:

If I leap through this window, a cloak of my heart-scent may hang to me. I shall touch the cloak, now and then, and that shall be my life.

The Mad Shepherd:

I must sit here, and whirl with my young spirit. If I cannot knit together strands of music better than the tune I ran after, then I should not have chased it.

(After a short silence the Narcissus Peddler and the Slender Nun, hand in hand, leap through the window-corner and vanish. The Wine Jar Maiden leaps after them, a moment later, and also disappears. The Mad Shepherd sits down and blows little fragments of piping into his reed, long pauses separating them. As he does this, he looks up at the window, his head motionless. The Narcissus Peddler, the Slender Nun and the Wine Jar Maiden appear from the left walking slowly, in single file, as though in a trance. The Narcissus Peddler stands beside his basket, which he left behind him; the Wine Jar Maiden beside her jar, and the Slender Nun between them)

The Mad Shepherd (looking up, astonished):

You return, like sleep-drooping poplar trees that have been given wings and after long journeyings fly back to their little blue-green hills.

The Narcissus Peddler:

After we sprang we found ourselves in a high corridor, whose air was like the breath of a dying maiden—the corridor we first walked down, before we came to this palest purple window.

The Mad Shepherd (wonderingly):

A dream with a strange, buried, quivering palace whose doors are closed.

(The poet quietly appears from the right. He is dressed in a deep crimson robe, pale brown turban and black sandals; his head is bare. He surveys the others a moment, then touches the shoulder of the Wine Jar Maiden. She turns and stares at him. The others turn also)

The Poet:

You are all in my heart—a wide space with many buried, black palaces, huge pale-purple windows; hills with rocks for mad shepherds, strolling flower venders, wine jar maidens dancing in high courtyards hushed with quilted star-light and sometimes a slender nun walking alone through the aisles of old reveries. I have woven you into a poem, and you were drawn on by me. But when my poems are made I take my people to a far-off garden in my heart. There we sit beneath one of the shining trees and talk. There I shall give you your soul, your heart, your song—and your huge narcissus flower. And out of them make other poems, perhaps? Come.

(He leads them away)

Spectrum

Emanuel Morgan

Opus 96

You are the Japan Where cherries always blossom. With you there is no meantime.

Your are the nightingale’s twenty-four hours of song, The unbroken Parthenon, The everlasting purring of the sphynx.

At the first footfall of an uncouth season, You migrate with one wing-sweep To beauty.

The Reader Critic

Indiscriminate Illusions

E. L. R., Bear Creek, Pa.:

After reading your article “Push Face” in your June number I have torn the magazine to pieces and burned it in the fire. You may discontinue my subscription.

[We have noticed with much amusement that whenever there is an article in the body of the magazine or a comment in the Reader Critic, no matter by whom signed, which seems “disgusting, ridiculous or immoral” to some struggling soul, in comes a letter addressed to Margaret Anderson, saying: “_Your_ article, _your_ comment.”... The only hope the editor can have out of so much generous accreditis that some one sometime will write in giving her credit for Yeats’s poems.—_jh._]

Critical Epilepsy

I. E. P., White Plains, New York:

Your magazine is rubbish, disappointingly insipid, heavily stupid. I fear it has gas on the stomach. Retract! Give us the unperverted, the natural, the “sincere.” Our eyesight and pocket-books will not endure _The Emperor’s Cloak_ (see H. C. Anderson). This vapid trance pose, this vaporizing makes us wonder why you are attempting to loop the loop. And again the “atmosphere” of your paper seems as well compassed as a spider’s journey on the ceiling. We have the same feeling of wanting to help you both by poking you off with an umbrella.

M. H., La Grange, Illinois:

Some of your stories and criticisms I am glad to have read. I remember the interesting (and instructive) criticism on our four pianists and a _wonderful_ short story by Sherwood Anderson,—those two things and a Harold Bauer eulogy are about the only two things I can recall favorably. A story written to protest against the hanging of one of our worst criminals (as in the very first _Little Review_ I received—I remember because it disgusted me), another story ridiculing our part in the war (as in the last number), and other queer Emma Goldman sort of stories (in between these first and last copies) are way beyond me.

Why should one be a Democrat or a Christian or a Militarist or a Mrs. Potter-Palmer or a push-face policeman to believe in our cause for entering the war. I wish every paper and magazine might help inspire the right sort of war enthusiasm. Many, a few years ago, believed in peace at any price; but many minds have changed, including my own. If the real business of life is to live, we’ll fight for the privilege so long as we can’t rely on any other means of gaining that right. And we want at least a few more generations to live as well as our own. If there are various ideas of what “living” means I’m glad there are those who can never understand Emma Goldman’s theories.

German women can’t realize what “living” means if they feel obliged to get off the sidewalk to let pass a German officer. Do these men who are afraid to fight for their country know what living means—men who drink and smoke? Would they believe they stand less chance of recovery from sickness, less chance of resisting sickness, less chance of _living_ very long, than the men who never touch alcohol or tobacco? (But this is not the point either, and men are reforming).

Anyway I would rather give a dollar and a half to the Red Cross than subscribe for _The Little Review_. And also I’m not intellectual enough to enjoy it.

[There is really nothing to be said to the above two letters: explanation up against what must be a matter of evolution. It would be necessary to give out sample copies for a year or so to prospective subscribers to insure satisfaction before we take their money. Since there are Hearst publications to give the public what it wants in literature and art, the cinematograph to give it what it wants in drama, why should that public bother at all with _The Little Review_? Especially when we state fairly that we are a magazine of the Arts, making no compromise with the public taste?—_jh._]

Interest Begins at Home

F. E. R., Chicago:

I have just read your June issue. Won’t you ask Ezra Pound if he should mind making an effort to be interesting?

[I ask you to make an effort to discover why he is so interesting.]

“The World’s Immense Wound”

Why does Ezra Pound regard America with contempt? America is beneath it.

I have just read Muriel Ciolkowska’s review in _The Egoist_ of _Le Feu_ by Henri Barbusse. In that book M. Barbusse has a character say: “One figure has risen above the war and will shine for the beauty and importance of his courage: Liebknecht.”

How this book ever passed the censor is beyond me. To quote further: