_There are, again, American poets who have turned their eyes to Europe, yes, the fact is apparent--they have turned their eyes to Europe, and they can, on occasion, become cynical animals, discovering seven thousand different ways of describing the contortions that lead to sexual intercourse, and displaying breasts and limbs with an infinite amount of abandoned bravado. Again, they have heard of the European Dadaists, yes, undoubtedly they have heard of the European Dadaists, and they have now reduced the pronoun “I” to “i,” commenced their lines with small letters, and exhibited a brave and startling hatred for commas and separate words. In Europe, this literary revolution holds a distorted incisiveness and many an original thought, heaved up from the catastrophe of words. In America, certain poets, with great gusto, have torn three buttons from their coats and are standing on their heads. Yawning, we turn the page to the greyly psychological school of poets--William James and Havelock Ellis, viewed with ecstasy behind a magnifying glass, while someone provides a blurred replica of Bach’s music._ _That tantalizing obscurity of words, luring the nimbleness of mental regard--subtlety--and those deliberate acrobatics that form an original style--both are waiting for the melodrama, comedy and lecture to subside. Alas, what a long waiting is before them--pity these two aristocrats and admire their isolated tenacity. Drop the trivial gift of a tear, also, upon a wilted, elaborate figure thrown into cell number thirty-two and trying to remember that his name was once Intellect. Then deposit the lengthened confession of a sigh upon another drooping form known as Delicate Fantasy--an elusive Liar who ravishes colors without mentioning their names (not the endless blue, green, white, yellow, red, lavender, mauve, pink, brown, cerise, golden, orange, and purple of American Imagists). They have kicked him into the cellar, damn them. Recognize the importance of his bruises. And also, spy, in the loosely naive tumult, an agile, self-possessed pilgrim known as Irony. They have kicked him in the stomach, these symbols of earth triumphant.... And now, you must not look upon these words as a stormy unfolding of conviction and explanation. The American spectacle has aroused a mood; words conceal the essential helplessness; and the lurking emptiness behind life separates into little, curious divisions of sound. The undulations have ended._ The SARDONIC ARM CONCERNING AMERICA