[I get very tired of the talk about the establishment of two autocracies of opinion, and the claim that since each is the opinion of a capable brain each has therefore the right to serious artistic consideration. Now it is a fact that one particular kind of brain can put forward this claim and establish its legitimate autocracy. It is the brain that functions aesthetically rather than emotionally. Most artists haven’t this kind. Their work drains their aesthetic reserve—and they usually talk rot about art. There are thousands of examples—such as Beethoven treasuring the worst poetry he could find. There are notable exceptions, such as Leonardo, such as Gaudier-Brzeska. Ezra Pound seems to have this kind of brain. I am not familiar with all his judgments, but those I have read have always been characterized by an aesthetic synthesis which means that he can rightly be called a “critic.” To this kind of brain things _are_ black and white—which means good or bad of their kind. If by grey you mean that a poet is almost good, then the critic will have to call him black, meaning that he is a bad poet. There is no middle ground. If by grey you mean that he is a grey poet doing good grey work, then the critic will call him white—meaning that he is a good poet—_M. C. A._] Complaint New York Subscribers: We have read the first installment of the much-advertised London stuff and our comment is that unless “And ...” and “The Reader Critic” are restored, and at once, we withdraw our moral and financial support. For the Archeologist That great journal, _The New Republic_—I cannot say that great contemporary journal: it is here with us in the flesh, but in the spirit it abides with the Bible, the Koran, the Books of Maroni, and all great and ancient works of prophecy, truth and revelation—that great journal, mentioning even the least of us, spoke thus: “There was _The Little Review_ which began in high spirits, published some interesting experiments and a few achievements, and in the course of three years has sunk to pink covers with purple labels and an issue ecstatically dedicated to Mary Garden.” When these quaverings of senility reached us we were laid waste and brought to silence. We knew not whether Isaiah or Hosea or Mohamet had spoken. But now from the archives of _The New Republic_ comes this fragment in the form of a rejection of some Chinese poetry: “Our expert on Chinese poetry does not think that these translations are ... etc.” We feel that we have come upon something of great interest to archeologists and to all our readers who are excited over the Mysteries of History. Is it possible that Li Po himself may be on the staff of _The New Republic_, now too old to create but still retained on its board of experts? Mary MacLane’s Criticism Mary MacLane, Butte, Montana: