In the legs and torsos That men hug, frightened, or with glee. He said: “Criticism in Mars Resembles your hours of sleep. Each night we leave creation; Greet the steeply slanting beds; And turn our large eyes inward To a complicated cabaret: Cabaret filled with relieving jigs; Cabaret crammed with irascible magicians Who persist in spoiling their little tricks By proclaiming the honesty of their intentions; Cabaret in which malice, Dignified or torrential, Turns creators into beetles And slays them ingeniously; Cabaret in which Erudition, Tempted by emotional coquettes, Swaggers greyly past the footlights; Cabaret in which Lust Defends itself with thoughtful monologues, Stopping to expectorate Into metaphysical cuspidors; Cabaret in which the mind Scorns the morphine of emotion Until, exhausted, it is forced Secretly to indulge in the drug; Cabaret of toothless bickerings That lisp like market-women At an ancient Fair; Cabaret in which Tolerance and Indifference Sit on the floor below the banquet-table And wait for crumbs that accidentally Slip from the over-full plates; Cabaret in which Logic Swallows the whiskey of dogmas, Reels to the little bed-chamber, And gradually falls asleep; Cabaret in which qualities, Enlarged and beribboned, engage In arguments with smaller qualities, Each longing for the other’s size.” Torban paused, and his smile, A thread of quicksilver bettering his face, Encouraged the purpose of my voice. I said: “The cabaret that you describe Reminds me of criticism on earth.” He answered: “One difference exists. We go to sleep before we criticize-- An excellent antidote for truth and lies!” HATRED OF METAPHOR AND SIMILE Ta-ra-ta-ta! The ancient horn is once more bleating Its ephemeral plea to immortality. Thus announced, the author of the play, Naked, and with a scholar’s face Ill-at-ease above the flesh, Proclaims the purpose of the play. His speech, long and unadorned, Requires this concentrated translation: “Life is a sensual hunter And only his trophies are real. These protesting animals May sometimes be cleverly scrutinized By six or seven intellects Secreted in the noisy audience.” Ta-ra-ta-ta! The horn resounds, and its echoes Are caught by an uproar of sounds-- Excited disciples within the theater. “Down with fantasy!” “Realism and flesh forever!” “No more lies about the soul!” “Give us earth and logic!” “Murder the mountebanks and butterflies!” “Down with metaphor and simile!”