[What is this you’re telling us about Art? The greatest and freest human _intellects_ in the past have never created Art. Intellects do not have aesthetic experiences. (You might as well ask a gas-engine to run a human being instead of that indefinable force called life.) The dreamers, the ones of imagination, have the whole vision—the outside and the inside, and the vision of the two working together with all things. Why do you want to limit them to one—the social vision? You say that Art has always been the handmaiden of oppression and superstition, that the Church has used all forms of Art to hold men to it. True. Let me salute the far-seeing and mighty wisdom of the Catholic Church that has so recognized the power of Art. If you who are trying to extend the social vision could learn that one lesson, what a strength you could add unto yourselves:—the only strength. You say “Look less on the empty form and more on the animating truth which agrees with reality and life.” Form is the only thing that remains forever: truth changes every day; form gives a thing its truth in Art and in life. Even the great social movement will have no truth until it has Form. And for whom is _The Little Review_ published? God knows.—_j. h._] So This Is Art! _“Sue Golden”_: MURINE AND KOKA-KOLA I. The Lamp Darkness enveloped us. I led her under a street-lamp of wrought iron from which hung suspended a round white moon which shone upon her unreal beauty. She turned her hurt eyes away from the hard light, and rested them upon an electric sign overhead which, flashing in and out, read: “Don’t tell your age. Murine your eyes.” Sign, if you are a lie, you must be broken. But if you tell the truth, you may increase the ecstasy of our manufactured passion. II. The Jar This is a common jar set in the druggist’s window to attract attention. It is without design, filled with a burning red liquid, flashing iridescent lights from concealed depths. Near it is another jar filled with a bright green liquid which leaps like fire whenever the light from a passing automobile falls upon it. My soul is like the red jar, burning within itself; yours is like the green one, attracted by each passing fancy. III. After the Orgy It is morning; the revellers of last night have departed; the music of the phonograph and the voices of the cabaret singers are silent now. In the pale light of morning, frayed wisps of paper float up and down the street; from the brass handle of the saloon door a drenched veil is hanging; on the floor of the automobile lie scattered hair-pins. Ah, frail hair-pins, ah, tender veil, how slight you are beside my grief!