The Equinox (Volume III, Number I)

THE EQUINOX Tarr. By WynpHam Lewis. Alfred A. Knopf. Price, $1.75. Mr. Wynpuam Lewis was living some few years ago on the charity of a young lady, the admired and honored friend of many artists. She had taken compassion on him, because he told her that he wrote poetry—an excusable falsehood. Per- haps he even believed it. She asked me if I would help him by publishing poems of his, and I wrote to him. He replied by complaining that the young lady afore- said had tried to seduce him. This appeared an uncomplimentary reference to Augustus John, Walter Duranty, myself, and several others. I wrote to Mr. Lewis, and told him that he was a stupid cad, and that I would kick him if I saw him. Stupid cad about fills the bill. It is perfectly easy to create a sensation by going into a church and shouting, “To Hell with Jesus!” at the elevation of the Host. And that is Mr. Lewis’ artistic method. Whether he is decorating a room in a bad imitation of Klimmt, or attempting some insincere cubism, or futurism, or vorticism, it is always the same stupid cad, brawling in church. “Blast” was a quite senseless vulgarity, and deceived nobody. “Tarr” is an at- tempt to repeat the trick. He dots his pages with French words and phrases when there is no need, and he prints words like bloody, pétards, bitch, simply to shock the middle classes. It reveals the character of a stupid cad. What else could it do? ALEISTER CROWLEY. Tue Mapman, His Parasites AND Poems. By Kauuit Gisran. Alfred A. Knopf. I vo not much care for the drawings in this book. They are messy, and rather conventional. But I like some of the parables very much indeed. It is not very sensible to compare Mr. Gibran with Blake, because Blake was a genius whose every act was wrought from the white heat of passion. This is a smaller fish swimming in shallower and calmer waters. The spirit is more French than Irish. However, he is short enough to speak for himself. Here is one of his parables: THE SCARECROW Once I said to a scarecrow, “You must be tired of standing in this lonely field.” And he said, “The joy of scaring is a deep and lasting one, and I never tire of it.” Said I, after a minute of thought, “It is true; for I too have known that joy.” Said he, “Only those who are stuffed with straw can know it.” Then I left him, not knowing whether he had complimented or belittled it. A year passed, during which the scarecrow turned philosopher. And when I passed by him again I saw two crows building a nest under his hat. 2096