Of late I have thought a good deal about the magazine. I have been camping near the ocean, and have spent some time in your various haunts of last summer where the natives still gossip about the _Little Review_ crowd. Plunging at night into the phosphorous surf and other delightful sins, mingled with communion with some _Little Review_ worshippers, has disturbed my academic calm and provoked my reveries. One night I was awakened and perceived an apparition moving from the roaring sea toward my gigantic fire. I heard a voice, a wail: “Help! Margaret Anderson is murdering me!” Was it the spirit of _The Little Review_? For surely the spirit of the old _Little Review_ is dead. You seem to be proud of your evolution, of the graves of your old gods that loom in your eyes like stepping-stones to those heights where you bask in the wisdom of the Ezras. I hope your new faith is as sleeve-deep as your former acquired creeds. For the beauty of the old _Little Review_, the secret of its magnetism and appeal to Young America, lay in its youthfulness, its spontaneity, in its puerility, if you wish. For puerility mates with originality. The Ezras know too much. Their minds are black, scarcely smouldering logs. They are yogis; you remember how Galsworthy hoped that you would escape the danger of becoming yogis? An Ezraized _Little Review_ will have no appeal to Young America. Shall I tell you that in my summer class I had students from various western states to the University of California because they saw my name in the catalogue, and they associated my name with the old _Little Review_? These worshippers are cold to the recent issues. And I sympathize with them. The new _Little Review_ is gargoylitic, monotonously so. We can still enjoy a passage in Wyndham Lewis, although Remy de Gourmont has said the same things more beautifully and less flippantly. We are still grateful for such a jewel as Maxwell Bodenheim’s “Poet’s Heart”: Bodenheim is the greatest of all the Others, for he does not suffer from self-consciousness, from too-much-knowing. But it is Ezra who sprawls all over _The Little Review_ and bedecks it with gargoyles. Mr. Pound is digestible only in the early miniatures: “Oh fan of white silk, clear as frost on the grass-blade”.... I hope that you will soon tire of your over-sophisticated associates and drive them out of the sanctuary. After all you are a rock ... you are still persisting at the impossible and the miraculous. I am looking forward to the next stage in your evolution. And I send you my hearty greeting, over the gargoylitic heads of your miseacres, for the next fresh, spontaneous _Little Review_.