The Little Review, December 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 9)

A life of one’s own that shall yet serve the life of all—there is the consummation devoutly to be wished! In these days we hear much about decadence and the decadent. What does...

Subtle his senses were—yea, like a child, Sudden his spirit was to cry or laugh; Strange modern blending of the tame and wild; As sensitive to life as seismograph. His sympathie...

And so my precious week began. In the mornings I’d put on boots—for the snow was deep by this time—and take long tramps through the woods. Then each afternoon had its distinct a...

Pardon me, friend, I cannot speak _sina ira_ on this question; out of respect for Mr. Wilson’s request, let us “change the subject.” Come out where we can observe in silence the...

Those envious outworn souls Whose flaccid academic pulses Beat to no rythms of more Dionysiac scope Than metronomes,— Or dollar-twenty-five alarm-clocks,— They will forever Cava...

Poems Richard Aldington A Great Pilgrim-Pagan George Soule My Friend, the Incurable: Ibn Gabirol On Germanophobia; on the perils of Monomania; on Raskolinkov and Alexander Berkm...

Still imagining a Marsian audience I was not dismayed even by the appearance of the effeminate Chopin. For Josef Hofmann took the artistic liberty of interpreting the gentle Pol...

There can be no greater inspiration and pleasure for lovers of Stevenson and his work than in the diary of his wife, written during their cruise in 1890, with no thought of publ...

An intimate personal record in text and in picture of the lives of the famous author and artist in the city whose recent story will be to many an absolute surprise. Mr. Pennell’...