“The realm of art is prodigious; next to life itself the vastest realm of man’s experience.”

Appreciation has its outlet in art; and art (to complete the circle and the figure) has its source in—owes its whole current—to appreciation. That is, the tides of art would cease to ebb and flow were it not for the sun and moon of appreciation.

This function of the sun and moon is known as criticism. But criticism as an art has not flourished in this country. We live too swiftly to have time to be appreciative; and criticism, after all, has only one synonym: appreciation. In a world whose high splendor is our chief preoccupation the quality of our appreciation is the important thing.

Life is a glorious performance: quite apart from its setting, in spite of the kind of “part” one gets, everybody is given at least his chance to act. We may do our simple best with the roles we receive; we may change our “lines” if we’re inventive enough to think of something better; we may alter our “business” to get our personalities across more effectively; or we may boldly accost the stage manager, hand back the part he’d cast us for, and prove our right to be starred. The player who merely holds madame’s cloak may do it with dignity and grace; and he who changes his role, with a fine freedom and courage, discovers that he’s not acting but living his part! For this reason we feel that we needn’t be accused of an unthinking “all’s-right-with-the-world” attitude when we assert that life is glorious.

And close to Life—so close, from our point of view, that it keeps treading on Life’s heels—is this eager, panting Art who shows us the wonder of the way as we rush along. We may as well acknowledge right here that we’ve never had a friend (except in one or two rare instances) who hasn’t shaken his head at us paternally about this attitude toward art. “It’s purely transitional,” he says, tolerantly; “life is so much more interesting, you see, that you’re bound to substitute people for art, eventually. It really doesn’t matter so much that Alice Meynell wrote ‘Renouncement’ as that Mrs. Jones next door has left her husband.” Well, he’s wrong; at least, he can’t speak for us. Wells said to save the kitten and let the Mona Lisa burn; who would consider anything else? We think it’s rather silly in our paternal friend to argue with us so heatedly—beside the point! It’s not a question as to which is more important—“Renouncement” or Mrs. Jones. We’re merely trying to say that we’re intensely interested in Mrs. Jones, but that Mrs. Meynell has made our lives more wonderful—permanently. The Little Review means to reflect this attitude toward life and art. Its ambitious aim is to produce criticism of books, music, art, drama, and life that shall be fresh and constructive, and intelligent from the artist’s point of view. For the instinct of the artist to distrust criticism is as well founded as the mother’s toward the sterile woman. More so, perhaps; for all women have some sort of instinct for motherhood, and all critics haven’t an instinct for art. Criticism that is creative—that is our high goal. And criticism is never a merely interpretative function; it is creation: it gives birth! It’s not necessary to cite the time-worn illustration of Da Vinci and Pater to prove it.

Books register the ideas of an age; this is perhaps their chief claim to immortality. But much that passes for criticism ignores this aspect of the case and deals merely with a question of literary values. To be really interpretative—let alone creative—criticism must be a blend of philosophy and poetry. We shall try very hard to achieve this difficult combination.

Also, we mean to print articles, poems, stories that seem to us definitely interesting, or—to use a much-abused adjective—vital. Our point of view shall not be restrictive; we may present the several judgments of our various enthusiastic contributors on one subject in the same issue. The net effect we hope will be stimulating and what we like to call releasing.

Feminism? A clear-thinking magazine can have only one attitude; the degree of ours is ardent!

Finally, since The Little Review, which is neither directly nor indirectly connected in any way with any organization, society, company, cult or movement, is the personal enterprise of the editor, it shall enjoy that untrammelled liberty which is the life of Art.

And now that we’ve made our formal bow we may say confidentially that we take a certain joyous pride in confessing our youth, our perfectly inexpressible enthusiasm, and our courage in the face of a serious undertaking; for those qualities mean freshness, reverence, and victory! At least we have got to the age when we realize that all beautiful things make a place for themselves sooner or later in the world. And we hope to be very beautiful!

If you’ve ever read poetry with a feeling that it was your religion, your very life; if you’ve ever come suddenly upon the whiteness of a Venus in a dim, deep room; if you’ve ever felt music replacing your shabby soul with a new one of shining gold; if, in the early morning, you’ve watched a bird with great white wings fly from the edge of the sea straight up into the rose-colored sun—if these things have happened to you and continue to happen till you’re left quite speechless with the wonder of it all, then you’ll understand our hope to bring them nearer to the common experience of the people who read us.