Voices on the Wind Voices on Waiting
Of no interest whatever (from Pound Laundry) by Michael Gregory Of no interest whatever save for cranks and such who have some reason of their own for abetting purposeless individualism. Thus Tony Ludovici in a New Age review, paid, of Epsteinís latest exhibit seven months before the Austrian archduke in newly-annexed Sarajevo went down to the shot fired by one of the Black Hands thus kicking off the mutual massacre. A charlatan wrote Hulme in the next issue a little bantam his criticism disgusting his writing on Nietzsche that of a child of four watching a play about adultery, the most appropriate means of dealing with him a little personal violence (and that just a year before his own translation of Reflexions on Violence came out, three before his own violent end). To which said reviewer replied the following week that art is always prophetic, that this anarchy in painting and sculpture is only a forecast of what the disintegrating influences of modern times are doing and will do in every department of life if not stopped at their every incursion phenolized at each irruption, that it behooves all who see the danger to do all in their power to resist the attack that one day will be general upon all the most valued institutions of orderly life and to be prepared to survive the attack not only with strength but the kind of health that naturally wards off disease and infection. Art wars Poetry wars Sculpture Painting Music Dance Theatre wars. A cowardly shifting individual wrote Lewis the following week. A fool. His dismal shoddy rubbish not even amusingly ridiculous. Seven months and counting.