The whole question of censorship, as to Dreiser, as to Hokusai prints destroyed by customs officials, etc., are all really minor issues, largely dependent on this matter of the exclusion of the words thought and knowledge. If among the young writers gathered about _The Little Review_ you can not find two or three to take up this question, to study it, to marshal the data (vide Putnam’s “Books and Their Makers” to start with, re. the causes of the rise of Paris as the world’s intellectual capital),—if you can not find such young authors, then your young literati are a set of rotters and the Great West is more of a mud-hole than I should have thought it. Form, in the narrow sense, is nothing but the separating line between surfaces of color. That is its outer meaning. But it has also an inner meaning, of varying intensity, and, properly speaking, form is the outward expression of this inner meaning.... The artist is the hand which, by playing on this or that key, i.e., form, affects the human soul in this or that way. So it is evident that form-harmony must rest only on a corresponding vibration of the human soul. The more abstract is form, the more clear and direct is its appeal.—_Kandinsky._ Prison Sketches STEFAN BRAZIER Yen Shee Languorously, In my bunk within my cell I lie. About me circles the reek of excrement And the more putrid inanities Of my fellows.... However, Sentiently, No awareness comes to me. About me clings a gaseous vapor, Impenetrable! O warm black armor, O fragrant yen-shee cloud.... Thank you, unscrupulous jailer! Dreams When wakedness Surged over me like a sea And derelict dreams Drowned themselves In that deep pool of mind Whence only bubbles come again— At that moment A voice crashed inhumanly, Unlike the cadenced rhythm Of the speech I know.... A large tin cup Was thrust at me: Coffee.... But dreams would not drown. The voice said “Here’s your Java!”... Java!... Visions in the word, And palms, And coral strands, And copper bodies leaping in the surf.... And anything but jails! Memory Today, Walking the corridor, Glimpsing the sky, And champing at the leash of life, I saw the lake.... And the green-fringed park That borders it.... Do you remember, Distant One, The green-fringed park, And the night, And the coming of Love? How long shall it be Before we shall lie again, Lip-kissing, limb-kissing, There on the green grass Of the park That borders the lake? Fear