Emma Goldman, Los Angeles:

Readers have a legitimate interest in the truth of critical articles. We therefore believe they will welcome these comments by Miss Goldman on the article about herself. If Miss Goldman had been displeased, we should have printed her letter with equal frankness.

A Chicago friend sent me The Little Review for May, which contains your very excellent article on The Challenge of Emma Goldman. I cannot begin to tell you how much I appreciate what you have to say about my work and myself, not because of your sympathetic interpretation but because of your deep grasp of the purpose which is urging my work and permeating my life. I hope you will not mistake it as conceit on my part when I tell you that more has been written about me than perhaps about any other woman in this country, but that most of it has been trash. The only person who came near the fundamental urge in my personality was William Marion Reedy of The St. Louis Mirror, who wrote The Daughter of the Dream. I do not know whether you have ever seen it, but even his splendid write-up does not compare with yours, because it contains much more flattery than understanding. You can, therefore, imagine my joy in finding that it was a woman who demonstrated so much depth and appreciation of the cardinal principles in my work.

S. H. G., New York:

It’s getting banal for me to praise the magazine—I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. The thing has assumed the nervous importance to me of an emotional experience foreseen and inevitable. And now that I’ve finished reading the June issue I can truthfully say there isn’t a line in it I wouldn’t have been poorer without. That couldn’t be said of any other magazine ever published.

Your June “leader” is not only true and big, but absolutely timely. The essentially immoral thing should be the thing which does not contribute in some way, however obscure, to the main current. You call it “waste.” The reason vice is disgusting is because it turns human stuff off into an inescapable pocket. My idea is a sort of spiritual utilitarianism, you see. Yet without the flat associations of utilitarianism because it recognizes so many things as means to the end—joy and pain and rebellion, for instance.

Dr. Fosters’ article is superb! The fallacy of all ethical systems is that they set up an abstract word as a virtue under all conditions. “Unselfishness,” for instance. Sometimes a fine virtue—sometimes not, according to circumstances. We must decide, not the rigid word. Almost all present-day fallacies proceed from a failure to recognize the fact that the world is fluid. The individual is worthless except for his dynamic. The static (vice) leads to death; death is merely disorganization of the individual, so that life may be cast in new forms better fitted to proceed.

W. M., New York:

I am reading The Little Review month by month with much interest, and have found many things that gave me pleasure. I admire the intellectual standard. There is plenty of good, earnest thought in each issue. I should like, however, to see a little more of what, for want of a better word, I term “human.” The Review is still in the colder currents of intellectualism. I think it can stand a little more warm feeling, even if you get it in the way of a controversy.

F. R.-W., New York:

I am distinctly of the opinion that The Little Review is worth while. It is one of the very few periodicals I read through from cover to cover. If this can be made to go it will be a greater triumph for the American people than for you. So many magazines of this type have been based upon unsound premises. They have become the vehicle for irrepressible self expression; they have followed freak paths of every variety; they have turned Pegasus into a mechanical hydro-aeroplane and have flattered themselves that, Icarus-like, they were scaling the summits to the sky and endangering their pinions near the sun, when, as a matter of fact, they were plunging through the sloughs below and the only evidence of the sun was its reflection upon the mud by which they were surrounded. With The Little Review, however, I have a fine sense of clarity.

F. D., New York:

Not long ago I wrote you a long, long letter about The Little Review. But I didn’t send it, because who am I to dogmatize about criticism? Anyway, I was severe upon you, because I was disappointed. I really don’t think The Little Review is critical at all. It is exuberantly uncritical—enthusiastic about the wrong things. But you will probably get tired of just being enthusiastic after a time, and start in to criticise. I’m sorry I don’t like it better. It has had some good things in it. What I principally object to is your own editorial attitude.

Constance Skinner, New York:

I have just read your first issue and want to send my godspeed to this magazine that feels. I am so sick of callousness and sneers and flippancy.

Your Paderewski article touches me nearly. Shall I send you a brief little picture of Paderewski playing one summer morning at Modjeska’s home in St. Ana Canon, California? Her face so fine, so sweet, with the “so be it” and imperishable sounding memory of broken harp chords, as she sat by silent and listened and looked across the years to Poland, to the heart of humanity as she had held it and shaped it in those days of her own power, ere she picked this starving boy from his attic and said to Warsaw: “Ecce homo.” Her husband listening better, because watching her, to what the long fingers, like lights flashing, were bringing from the depths. His (the player’s) beautiful wife leaning upon the piano, where he always wished to have her, where he could see her face as he played. Outside the sloping canyon wall beginning in a rare rioting, rose garden and reaching to a silver and blue rugged granite where mountain lions sometimes pace restlessly. A great clump of live oaks, four monster trees, their size ranging from ninety to one hundred and twenty feet from bough to bough, roofing with bronze and green leafage this last retreat of the woman who had been hailed greatest of all in three countries. Among the roses by the low open windows of the piano alcove the Polish maid standing, weeping, and the old lame man, her brother, limping along from his work, taking off his hat and standing there, too, unashamed of the tears flooding. And when he had finished playing they came in and caught his hands and kissed them and spoke. The lame man said: “I was in church, but it was holier. It was a rosary, but every head was a light.” The maid said: “Poland is not dead.” This madam translated to me, and the fire and mist in her eyes—surely the most wonderful eyes ever made—was something I could not look away from. She added: “Poland is not dead while Poles can weep. We must bless grief, it has given us our art.”

H. G. S., Chicago:

I am going to ask you to please discontinue my subscription to The Little Review, as your ideas which you set forth in your leading articles are so entirely crude and so vastly different from my own that I do not care to be responsible for its appearance in my home any longer.

[This reader has the honor of sending in the first cancellation. We might take his denunciation more seriously if it were not for our suspicion that what he really meant to say was this: “Your ideas are entirely crude because so vastly different from my own.”—The Editor.]

The following is typical of the older generation’s response to the new order. It is a perfectly consistent letter, a perfectly sincere one, and a perfectly impossible one. But it is not to be taken so lightly as it deserves: first, because it has all the poison the younger generation hates most; second, because its perplexities are perfectly natural ones; and third, because education, in order really to be effective, must begin upon just such attitudes. It may be as well to answer at least one of the writer’s arguments by quoting Shaw. In his new preface, in a chapter called The Risks of Ignorance and Weakness, he says very neatly: “The difficulty with children is that they need protection from risks they are too young to understand, and attacks they can neither avoid nor desist. You may on academic grounds allow a child to snatch glowing coals from the fire once. You will not do it twice. The risks of liberty we must let everyone take; but the risks of ignorance and self-helplessness are another matter. Not only children but adults need protection from them.” Following the mother’s letter is one from a boy which ought to throw some light on the subject from the young generation’s standpoint.

Margaret Pixlee, Indianapolis:

I feel impelled to reply to your article entitled The Renaissance of Parenthood. I wonder what could have been the home-life of such a girl as you quote from, that she should write that kind of a letter. Shaw says, “there is nothing so futile or so stupid as to try to control your children.” Your opinion that Shaw’s ideas are “glorious” shows at once that you have only touched the surface of what motherhood is. Can you honestly believe that a parent is doing his duty if he allows a child to rush in front of a moving automobile attracted by the bright lights, knowing nothing of the danger ahead—which certainly would mean death if the child had its own way? Irrespective of what Shaw or Ellen Key write, it is the parents’ absolute duty to train and educate a child until he is capable of using his own reasoning powers. And, too, there is but one way. Principle and Truth with Love and Charity are the only way. Let me here quote from your article on Emma Goldman. If you do not agree with Emma Goldman, you say in effect, let us at least be broadminded and see both sides. But are you doing this? From my point of view, you seem to take the side only of free thinking, and, as you call it, independent thought. There is no independent thought, except doing right. I can see your point of view. As we look about us among the people of the social world, many are indeed selling their children in marriage to some man for the petty consideration of high social position and money. Many times when an engagement is announced the first question is how well off is the man, instead of what are his principles and is he worthy of the girl. These poor children are indeed the offspring of foolish parents, and are to be pitied. If as they advance on life’s highway they are given to see what principle means, then is it right to separate and go their own way? We all must develop the spiritual within; but to break loose from home ties, as this girl seems to desire, from selfishness alone, will lead to a worse death than that of being crushed by the automobile. I have admitted that to sell a child in wedlock to a man whose only attraction is a fat bank account and social position is crime of the blackest. But taking the other course is equally as bad, for passionate love is always selfish and soon burns out. Let us consider for one moment a child born out of wedlock. As I understand it, so-called free thinkers consider this right. They disregard the law, and honestly think they have done a fine thing. “All for love and the world well lost.” A daughter is born, and from some remote ancestor she inherits a love of the conventional. Can you picture to yourself what the suffering would be to see the daughter you love an outcast always from the things she cares for through what you call the grand passion—nothing more or less than the supreme selfishness of two human beings, no matter what you and the girl you are privileged to quote from “think you believe”? It will not be possible to do the deeds you write about as they are portrayed by free thinkers. Truth will be revealed to your innermost self. You cannot do otherwise than follow the Divine Revelation, which alone leads to real happiness, for all material pleasures are swept away sooner or later.

A boy reader, Chicago:

In the preface of his latest Quintessence of Ibsenism, Shaw expresses his astonishment that the book changed peoples’ minds. He has perhaps by now collected abundant evidence that his books really have changed peoples’ minds and whole life courses. What would, perhaps, be more astonishing to him is the fact that the first hearing of one of his plays did it—and without the aid of a preface.

Fanny’s First Play started me thinking about family relationship. Long before the play was published, with the lengthy preface on parents and children, the very things he advises were happening. The preface was undoubtedly written after long contemplation of the play—as was my action; proving that the generalizations he makes are not as impossible or absurd as the family egotist so pathetically argues.

I do not doubt that this play, the beginning of my knowledge of Shaw, was the most important event of my youth. It is, of course, most important as a woman’s play, but why Margaret Knox’s revolt could not be mine I do not see.

The family in which I was being “brought up” was all that Shaw says the present day family is—and worse, for there were also brothers and a sister to aid in the “bringing up.” These were all brought up in dutiful submission to mother’s influence and father’s care. They had “arrived” or gone just as far as they ever thought of going just as I was starting for my goal. Their present condition had received parental commendation; but what I saw, on looking about me, made me shudder—and think. I would find out the reason for their condition and see if their fate was to be mine. Of one thing I was certain:—if “family duty” or “filial piety” were responsible for the state of things I would have none of it—and I said so.

“You’ll see—you’ll bump your head some day; you’ll see what good it does to have foolish visions or dreams; you just do what you’re told and you’ll be better off. Mother and father know more than you—they’re older.” All this I had patronizingly handed out to me. Somehow all this was horrible to me—this idea of contemplating a future such as theirs—a colorless life built on “doing what you’re told” and not “having foolish dreams.” For it struck me as an existence that mocked the very system that was responsible for it. The only thing by which I could judge the worth of the advice was the finished result.

Of course when I presented my case to my parents I was met with that attitude always displayed toward youthful self-assertion. To make my case clear to their somewhat bewildered minds I drew up a list of grievances: there were thirty-three concrete faults in the existing order that must be stamped out or radically changed.

They fell into four groups. Foremost was my education; there were ten in that group:—all as unintelligent and old as thinking that a city grammar school education was enough for any boy. As soon as I was old enough to work it would be useless to educate myself any further. I wouldn’t need it any way. It would be wasting time that should be spent in learning a trade. They had decided that the “building line” was the safest to work in and therefore I must become a bricklayer or a carpenter or something that “pays good.” That I should have some say as to what I should take up for life they thought foolish—I would only pick out something that wouldn’t bring enough salary. “Look at your big brother—he’s got a nice steady job as a mailman; he didn’t need any extra, expensive schooling.”

Next were my religious and spiritual ideals. There were four in that group. They were quite as dogmatic in their “thou must nots” as those in the church ritual they wished us to believe explicitly. Superstition played a big part in the religion they wanted us to believe. Theirs was a Sunday religion, and, not practicing it themselves, it was absurd for them to ask our respect on that score.

Economically they were quite positive that only they were capable of taking care of things. We were not able to spend our own money in a sensible way and were not to be trusted with deciding what should be done with what was saved or earned. As to their ideas on the subject, there were six ways in which I showed them where I differed.

The longest and most significant group was that dealing with the way things were being run in the home. Methods that were retarding my growth—mentally and physically. There were thirteen of them, each with their minor details—such as the one “My Room.” Without being meanly selfish I asked for at least a little privacy while studying or at sleep; that the room not be used as a wardrobe for quite the entire family; and that I be allowed to take care of it, as to arrangement, decorations, and airing. Which last word reminds me that their ideas of hygiene were quite antiquated, and must be changed and enlarged upon. Absurd as it may seem, they still insisted that night air was dangerous; that one towel, tooth brush, bar of soap, and brush and comb were enough for one family (those I got for my personal use were immediately appropriated by the rest of the family); that too much bathing is dangerous; and as for swimming, mother heard of a boy drowning with the cramps when she was a girl,—therefor her son must not go near the water; that exercising is “nonsense”; that menus must contain meat and numerous other heavy foods at every meal; and that children, no matter how young, are able to digest whatever adults can. These are a few instances of parental ideas that were useless so far as I was concerned. Was a rebellion necessary? It was in my case and I may as well add that it has already had results—to give the details would, I fear, be getting too personal. I have been so already, perhaps, but it may induce those who called the Preface absurd to read it again.