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: The future! The future! The future’s duty will be to efface the present, to efface it even more than you think, to efface it as something abominable and shameful. And yet this present was necessary! Shame to military glory, shame to armies, shame to the soldier’s trade which transforms men in turn from stupid victims to ignoble executioners. A _Feldwebel_ seated, leaning on the ripped-up planks of what was, there where we stand, a sentry-box. A little hole under one eye; a bayonet thrust has nailed him by his face to the boards. In front of him, also seated, with his elbows on his knees, his fists in his neck, a man shows a skull opened like a boiled egg.... Near them, appalling sentinel, half a man is standing: a man cut, sliced in two from skull to loins, leaning upright against the bank of earth. The other half is missing of this species of human peg, whose eye hangs out, whose bluish entrails twist in spirals round his leg. “The whole book, from beginning to end,” says Mme. Ciolkowska, “is a fearless revelation, be the theme drowning in swamps, the storming-parties, the dressing-stations, starvation and thirst which drives men to drink their own urine:”