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.