“A Real Magazine” just arrived, but it isn’t. Art, like music, dies when talked about. The September Want Ad makes me smile. _The Little Review_ is degenerating into the newspaper class, and has become a common beggar. It does not know how to keep its machinery out of sight. I sometimes wish I knew how to make a bomb. If I did I would be tempted to place it under _The Little Review_ and blow its talk about past, present and future straight to hell. I am interested in an infinite present above time and space, that indefinable something expressed in music. There are no such things as Past, Present and Future. They are hollow hallucinations. _The Little Review_ still worships at the altar of time and attempts to concern itself with temporal things. Music or Art when labelled disappear. The think itself is quite sufficient. Don’t you sometimes get a bit tired of talking so much about Art? [No; what we get tired of is people like you and Alice Groff who talk out of the air, as though thoughts are made of air as words are made.] Officer, She’s In Again! _Alice Groff, Philadelphia_: You are an insane isolist (ha! ha!)—a mad little self-made God, setting yourself on a pedestal as the _only_ judge of Art (? ! ! !) Every artist is the _sole_ judge of _his own art_. Don’t you know that? You may not _like_ his art—but you have no right to say that it is _not_ art. It is the embodiment of his ideal, and this is all that art is—an embodiment of an ideal by the soul that conceived the ideal. There is no such thing as good art or bad art. There is only _art_. Of course, you, as an editor, cannot publish every boy’s art. You must discriminate and select, to appeal as far as possible to your clientele. But don’t presume to say that what you reject is _not art_. All that an editor can ever be as to art is a medium between the artist and the world. All that he can ever do is to bring the artist to the light of day that the latter may have a chance to speak the word to those of whom it is the word of life as it is for himself. This is all that the editor can do for _himself_ even as an _artist_. The editor who fails to do this is unworthy to be an editor. We Also Await _Anonymous_: I have never enjoyed any number of _The Little Review_ so much as the September. Those blank pages linked with the cosmos: space before creation. I await Prometheus. Everyone scolds you. May I? Forget propaganda and give us beauty, eternal, immutable, radiant beauty. So Did We _Daphne Carr, Columbia, Missouri_: I bless your new enthusiasm and its effects. That half blank number was splendid—what there was of it, but I wanted to see as spirited things on the other pages too. The Vers Libre Contest