“The grand style announces and commands. It weeps and it pleads. It utters oracles and it wrestles with angels. It never apologizes; it never rationalizes; and it never explains. That is why the great ineffable passages in the supreme masters take us by the throat and strike us dumb. Deep calls unto Deep in them, and our heart listens and is silent. To ‘do good scientific thinking’ in the cause of humanity has its well-earned reward; but the gods ‘throw incense’ on a different temper. The ‘fine issues’ that reach them, in their remoteness and disdain, are the ‘fine issues’ of an antagonist worthy of their own swift wrath, their own swift vengeance, and their own swift love.... “Beauty! That is what we all, even the grossest of us, in our heart of hearts is seeking. Lust seeks it; Love creates it; the miracle of Faith finds it—but nothing less, neither truth nor wisdom nor morality nor knowledge, neither progress nor reaction, can quench the thirst we feel.” _A Benefit Recital_ The sonata recital of Josephine Gerwing and Carol Robinson on March 7 is to be a benefit for THE LITTLE REVIEW. Our gratitude is so deep that we can’t even begin to express it. But you will not be so interested in our gratitude as in our taste: we know both these musicians and we know that whoever comes to them for _music_ will not go away empty. It will be beautiful. The program is on page 59. Tickets are on sale at 917 Fine Arts Building. _More Nietzsche_ Dr. Foster’s series of Nietzsche articles will be continued in the next issue. Ten Grotesques ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE I. WHY WOMEN HATE ARTISTS Thanks, belovèd; here’s your pay. Now get you quickly out of the way. For there are many more things to do; And all my pictures can’t image you. II. THE PRUDENT LOVER I dreamed a song of a wild, wild love And purposed to follow her flying hair, Singing my music, through vale and grove, Till dusk met the hills—and I clasped her there. But—mumbling ancient I have become!— I sang two staves, and then gave o’er; And carried my song with prudence home; And nailed it as motto above my door. Now, the angels in heaven will crown me with bays; And give me a golden trumpet to blow When at last I die, full of virtuous days ... But my wild, wild love—will she ever know? III. A POETRY-PARTY