Recall to mind the ultimatum of Max Eastman: “... Our literary intellectuals will have to go to work. (!) Otherwise we shall merely have to enjoy them like a song. They will have to _pass their examinations_. (!) Science holds the power to make all intellectual literature mere dilettantism and nothing but resolute giants of brain with feeling can prevent it.” Reflect the philosophy of the age, and you will have served Art. Do not attempt to rise precipitously and gaze rapturously into the Blessed Isles, floating without our sphere, situated in the fourth dimension. Come to Jesus! [Reflecting the philosophy of the age has no more to do with Art than holding the mirror up to nature.] From France _Muriel Ciolkowska, Bellevue, S. et O._: ... The last number pleased me especially for your satisfying definition of art versus life. It is the most complete and the most epigrammatic I have ever met with. “My Word!” _Louise Bryant, New York_: BEAUTY O foolish ones Who lament Because all the beauty That you discover Or that you create Out of your minds Is not posted On a mountain Before the eyes of the world— Know you, It is no less beautiful Because all do not behold it, It is no less beautiful Because it remains in darkness. Beauty is the same always, It is itself No less and no more. From Berlin _Charlotte Teller_ ... To my surprise, I found that Marsden Hartley had stayed on in Berlin in spite of the war; and that he was still living in the same place, the garden house, up three flights, at number four Nassauische Strasse. The world was whirling in martial mid-air, and all the planets were out of place. But Hartley had the same rug on the floor, and the same Persian stuff on the brown wall. And the next room was full of canvasses—some forty; a few, done in Paris when he was just beginning to want the Northern Light stronger than France could give; most of them done right here in these rooms. When the door was closed, the room might have been a magic carpet carrying us out into anywhere, where there are planes cutting into each other, where lightnings zig-zag outlines against black space, where colors refuse to fade, but stay sharp and clean, like good morals.