_Woods Dargan, Darlington, S. C._: I enclose a check for $1.50, and ask that you enter my name for one year’s subscription—that is, if you will let one of the rabble creep in. Frankly, I know no more about art (with a capital A or otherwise) than a rabbit. I don’t even know what an “Imagist” is! And for the life of me I cannot understand why the temperamental, fussy gentleman named Alexander S. Kaun should not use a singular verb with a singular noun, just like ordinary people. But when he says, as he does in the first line of the fourth paragraph of his article, “the dearer a person or a thing _are_ to me, etc.,” I know there must be intellectual purpose in it, some esoteric effect that gets to the cultured few but passes over my head; so I bow before the unknown beauty of it, thinking, “Odd, but no doubt it’s all right.” Also, to my untutored mind, the frequent use of profanity in an everyday, conversational way in two or three of the articles is amusing, and makes me wonder. It reminds me of the days when I first took up the art, and used to feel a shudder of delight when I ripped out a good, mouth-filling, “Damn it all to hell!” Perhaps it has lost its charm for me as a literary ornament because I swear so much myself, just as a matter of habit without deriving the oldtime pleasure from it. Other places where these boys put it all over me are in music and Russians. It is one of my secret sorrows that I know I know nothing about music. I like it, but it never occurs to me to fade away and fill an early grave if I hear somebody’s nocturne murdered—that is, if I know it is being murdered, which is highly unlikely. And as to the Russians, old Dostoevsky is my limit so far, but I’m game, and am going in for all the others,—the more gloomy and morbid the better. Then, there’s this Mr. Theodore Dreiser. As we say in this neck of the woods, in our uncouth manner, “He must be a bear-cat.” (By the way, I’d give a lot to know what “demiurge” means in the sense in which it is applied to him. Mr. Masters used it in _The New York Times_ some weeks ago, and now I find it again in Mr. Powys’ appreciation. I don’t know what they mean.) Well, I’ve had his book, _The “Genius,”_ for sometime, and mean to read it all as soon as I can get round to it. Perhaps I’ll know what “demiurge” means then—but I doubt it. For all that I have said I would not have you think that I am wholly lacking in soul. I have some things in common with these fellows, for I have no religion or morals, and I enjoy getting drunk, riotously, gloriously drunk, once or twice a year.