[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).