We have been greatly enraged by reading Mr Charles Zwaska’s article, _An Isaiah without a Christ_, in the April number of THE LITTLE REVIEW. It reminds us of a review of the same book in _Judge_. It ran something like this: “Vachel Lindsey has out a new book on the Art of the Moving Picture. It might be all right, but for the fact that the movie can never be Art.” In just the same sententious way Mr Zwaska seems to be peeved that Lindsay should suggest the possibility of art in a thing which is at present clumsily done. Some one has said that when Miriam led the women of Israel to a dance of rejoicing, all of the women who were too fat or too stiff to dance stood back and deplored the immodesty of their nimble sisters. Perhaps Mr Zwaska is too fat, or too stiff, or too old. I don’t know: may be he is so young that he still creeps and doesn’t think of dancing. For Lindsay has sung out humanly and delightfully a more acceptable ideal of democracy than any American has yet sung. The rest of us would-be artists are creating things that can appeal to a small number. Lindsay is chanting to all America, and all America is listening—we, the artists, as well as the littlest country school-boy. “Says the swift black horse To the swift white horse: ‘There goes the alarm There goes the alarm. They are hitched, they are off, They are gone in a flash, And they strain at the driver’s iron arm.’” We shout it when the fire-engines fly down the street. We croon the moon poems together in the evenings, and we chant _The Santa Fé Trail_ as we tramp across country. Mr Zwaska seems to catch a glimmering of the fact that Lindsay is a rhyming poet, because he is singing to all the people. Why does he not apply this a little farther? Lindsay’s message, as I catch it, is this: The Moving Picture has in it possibilities of a great art. Furthermore, it is for all America, for every farm boy, for every little dish-washer as well as for every millionaire. Let us make this art as perfect, as inspiring, as possible, since it has a wider influence, be it good, bad, or indifferent, than any other art in the history of humanity. The exquisite Parthenon, Sophocles’s tragedies performed in the theater of Dionysus, were for the Athenians, and for such as could reach Athens. Fortunately, that included a large percentage of the Greeks. But how many Americans, proportionately, can see such wonders as New York has to offer? When a moving-picture as perfect as the Parthenon has been produced there need be no soul in America who has not seen it.