Life is a glorious performance: quite apart from its setting, in spite of the kind of "part" one gets, everybody is given at least his chance to act. We may do our simple best with the roles we receive; we may change our "lines" if we're inventive enough to think of something better; we may alter our "business" to get our personalities across more effectively; or we may boldly accost the stage manager, hand back the part he'd cast us for, and prove our right to be starred. The player who merely holds madame's cloak may do it with dignity and grace; and he who changes his role, with a fine freedom and courage, discovers that he's not acting but living his part! For this reason we feel that we needn't be accused of an unthinking "all's-right-with-the-world" attitude when we assert that life is glorious. And close to Life--so close, from our point of view, that it keeps treading on Life's heels--is this eager, panting Art who shows us the wonder of the way as we rush along. We may as well acknowledge right here that we've never had a friend (except in one or two rare instances) who hasn't shaken his head at us paternally about this attitude toward art. "It's purely transitional," he says, tolerantly; "life is so much more interesting, you see, that you're bound to substitute people for art, eventually. It really doesn't matter so much that Alice Meynell wrote 'Renouncement' as that Mrs. Jones next door has left her husband." Well, he's wrong; at least, he can't speak for us. Wells said to save the kitten and let the Mona Lisa burn; who would consider anything else? We think it's rather silly in our paternal friend to argue with us so heatedly--beside the point! It's not a question as to which is more important--"Renouncement" or Mrs. Jones. We're merely trying to say that we're intensely interested in Mrs. Jones, but that Mrs. Meynell has made our lives more wonderful--permanently. THE LITTLE REVIEW means to reflect this attitude toward life and art. Its ambitious aim is to produce criticism of books, music, art, drama, and life that shall be fresh and constructive, and intelligent from the artist's point of view. For the instinct of the artist to distrust criticism is as well founded as the mother's toward the sterile woman. More so, perhaps; for all women have some sort of instinct for motherhood, and all critics haven't an instinct for art. Criticism that is creative--that is our high goal. And criticism is never a merely interpretative function; it _is_ creation: it gives birth! It's not necessary to cite the time-worn illustration of Da Vinci and Pater to prove it. Books register the ideas of an age; this is perhaps their chief claim to immortality. But much that passes for criticism ignores this aspect of the case and deals merely with a question of literary values. To be really interpretative--let alone creative--criticism must be a blend of philosophy and poetry. We shall try very hard to achieve this difficult combination.