The Little Review, June 1917 (Vol. 4, No. 2)

In Short

This periodical issue functions as a vivid, time-capsule portrait of the early twentieth-century avant-garde. It assembles poetry by W. B. Yeats, prose dialogues by Ezra Pound and Wyndham Lewis, and translations of Li Po, all framed by the combative, uncompromising editorial voice of Margaret C. Anderson. By championing "art for art’s sake" in the face of stifling conventionality and wartime hysteria, the publication solidified its legacy as a vital, if contentious, incubator for the modernist movement, forever altering the landscape of literary criticism and creative expression.

The Story

The issue opens with the delicate, atmospheric translations of Li Po, setting a tone of quietude that is immediately shattered by the visceral, chaotic reality of contemporary America. The narrative arc moves from this classical stillness into the heat of the New York streets. The central prose piece, "Push-Face," acts as a jarring report from the front lines of domestic unrest. It details the violent suppression of a gathering held for Emma Goldman, describing a city where the police and the state engage in a brutal "game" of crushing dissent. This is not merely a political report; it is a meditation on the death of an age and the "beautiful poetic vengeance" of watching a society turn upon itself.

From this scene of urban decay, the focus shifts to the salon and the library, where the struggle for meaning continues. Through the eyes of Ezra Pound’s "Anachronism at Chinon," the reader is transported into a dense, intellectually charged conversation between Rabelais and a modern student. They wrestle with the decline of scholarship, the suffocating nature of academic institutions, and the persistent, nagging question of whether the modern world is truly as stifling as the ones that preceded it. They argue over the nature of genius and the perceived stupidity of the "herd," mapping out the tension between the artist’s desire for freedom and the inevitable constraints of living within a society governed by petty moralists and censors.

This philosophical inquiry is further complicated by Wyndham Lewis’s "Imaginary Letters," which provide a sharp, cynical look at the role of the "gentleman" and the artist in a world of crumbling empires. The text argues for a return to the clear-sightedness found in Tolstoy, rejecting the "mawkish bluff" of nationalistic sentiment. The arc concludes in the "Reader Critic" section—a forum where the magazine’s editors actively engage, and often rebuke, their own readership. Here, the struggle to define the magazine’s purpose reaches a fever pitch. The editors defend their commitment to aesthetic rigor against those who wish them to be more "sensible" or "socially minded." The issue does not resolve these tensions; instead, it leaves the reader with a sense of ongoing, necessary combat. The final pages, filled with advertisements for pianos and avant-garde books, highlight the absurdity and the necessity of maintaining a space for art while the world outside is in flames. It ends not with a conclusion, but with a call to arms for the intellectual survival of the next generation.

How It Unfolds

The classical opening The issue begins with the quiet beauty of Li Po’s imagery, where lotus flowers and mountain temples create an atmosphere of timeless, meditative grace. These poems offer a stark, ethereal contrast to the aggressive, fractured reality that defines the remainder of the magazine.

The descent into chaos The perspective shifts abruptly to the violent, suppressive atmosphere of a New York protest, where the state’s power is revealed as a clumsy, brutal force. The description of the crowd being driven back by police clubs transforms the magazine from a literary repository into a reportage of social breakdown.

The intellectual reckoning A sprawling, erudite dialogue between Rabelais and a modern student critiques the state of contemporary education and the lack of true scholarly vigor. They debate the nature of freedom and the absurdity of moral censorship, suggesting that the "herd" mentality has merely evolved into new, equally stifling forms.

The correspondence of ideals Wyndham Lewis’s letters from Petrograd provide a cold, analytical bridge between the individual artist’s integrity and the crushing weight of global politics. The letters advocate for an impersonal, clear-eyed realism, rejecting the sentimental illusions that nations use to justify their conflicts.

The editorial battleground The closing section serves as a volatile town hall, where the editors spar with subscribers and critics over the purpose of radical art. This final beat reinforces the magazine’s identity as a space for defiance, refusing to cater to public opinion or settle for artistic mediocrity.

The People

The figures inhabiting these pages are defined by their refusal to conform. Margaret C. Anderson acts as the magazine’s fierce, protective conscience; she is unapologetic about her mission and treats her readers with a mixture of contempt and high expectation. Ezra Pound, the foreign editor, emerges as a figure of immense intellectual reach, using historical figures like Rabelais to voice his own frustrations with the "stupefying" nature of his contemporaries. The Student in Pound’s dialogue represents the modern intellectual—well-read yet deeply disillusioned, feeling trapped by the philology and prudery of university life. W. B. Burn, in the letters of Wyndham Lewis, is a man searching for a sense of "reality" in a world of gush and bluff, identifying with the raw, uncompromising vision of Turgenev and Cervantes. Finally, the Russian Jew appearing in the report from the streets stands in sharp contrast to these intellectuals; he represents the raw, unrefined energy of revolution, recognizing the strength of figures like Emma Goldman even as the police move to silence them. Each person here is struggling to assert their own voice against a society that demands either silence or total agreement.

In Its Own Voice

"If you are born in an age in which every impact of its expression is a pain, there is a beautiful poetic vengeance in being permitted to watch that age destroy itself."

The magazine opens with this reflection on the collapse of an era, setting the tone for the combative stance it takes toward the contemporary world.

"I lift my hands, and knock at the stars. I dare not talk loudly, For I fear to surprise the people in the sky."

These lines from the translation of a Chinese poem emphasize the reverence and fragile beauty that the magazine attempts to curate amidst its more aggressive critiques.

"The music and lights drew the children out of the slums back of Washington Square: fathers holding babies in their arms... were pushed in the face and told to get out... because ... this was a fête for humanity."

This passage exposes the hypocrisy of the social elite, using the image of a "fête for humanity" to highlight the cold reality of class division.

What It's Really About

At its core, this issue is a protest against the "stupidity" of the herd and the institutions that enforce it. It investigates the role of the artist during a time of crisis, asking whether art should be a mirror to society or a weapon against it. The underlying argument is that modern culture has become a "bastard performance"—hypocritical, sanitised, and obsessed with petty moralities—and that the only way to escape this is through the uncompromising pursuit of aesthetic truth. It questions the value of "freedom" in a world where intellectual life is stifled by philology, censorship, and the need for a modest income. Ultimately, it is a defense of the individual’s right to see clearly, even when that vision reveals a world of ordure and decay.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the sharp, unfiltered energy of early modernism will find much to admire here. It feels like standing in the middle of a heated argument between the brightest, most difficult minds of the twentieth century. You will encounter the distinct, rhythmic beauty of Yeats alongside the harsh, cynical prose of the era's avant-garde. However, it is not a "gentle" read; the period attitudes—particularly the elitist tone and the raw, sometimes baffling, political commentary—require the reader to engage with the text on its own terms, without expecting modern comfort. The dialectic style of the dialogues and the inclusion of untranslated Latin or French can be daunting, and the editorial responses to readers are intentionally prickly and divisive. Yet, for those interested in the history of ideas, it is a profound experience. You are left with the lingering, haunting sense of a generation that saw the old world dying and chose to build a new one—or at least a new language—out of the wreckage. It is a document of intellectual bravery that reminds the reader that art is never a household duty, but a constant, necessary, and often lonely battle for integrity.