CLAIRE MARIE is in a position to bring out poems, plays and prose of arresting merit, which other publishers cannot publish because exotics are luxuries and without profit.

The reason is a syllogism:

CLAIRE MARIE believes there are in America seven hundred civilized people.

CLAIRE MARIE publishes books for civilized people only.

CLAIRE MARIE'S aim, it follows from the premises, is not even secondarily commerical.

CLAIRE MARIE has no prejudice. She believes in the old and simple emotions, she believes equally in the new and complex emotions. She believes in the old forms that have been tried and given so much in the way of beauty; she believes in the new forms which promise so much in the way of a fuller and intenser understanding of life and art.

CLAIRE MARIE would love to find and bring out a new *Vita Nuova*, a new *Hesperides*, a new *Endymion*, a new *Liaisons Dangereuses*, or for that matter a new *Moll Flanders*,

CLAIRE MARIE'S authors may write what they will, so they write well.

CLAIRE MARIE in her turn gives thought and care to the works she undertakes to publish. To her each book is an individuality. In typography, in paper, in binding, and in form she makes it as perfect as possible,

TENDER BUTTONS: OBJECTS, FOOD, ROOMS. By GERTRUDE STEIN.

Canary boards, $1.00

Those who are avid for the literature of to-morrow will find great satisfaction in Gertrude Stein's *Tender Buttons*. It is one of the most unique books of the twentieth century. For several years Miss Stein has been the patron saint of the new artists—the Cubists and Futurists. Their work holds the centre of every art stage in civilization. It has affected and modified the other arts, as music and literature. In the latter field Miss Stein unquestionably occupies the foremost position, and she is one of the most puzzling figures in the literary world, yet here-to-fore it has been practically impossible to obtain any of her books. Her work, privately printed, has been seen by but few, and although word of her art is in everyone's ears she has been a closed door to almost all save her intimates. Recently *The New York Sun* asked the question: Why has no publisher brought out the work of Gertrude Stein? The answer is a simple one—the obstacle was Gertrude Stein who steadfastly refused to give herself to a wider public. It has been only after months of persuasion and endeavor, that her consent to the publication of this volume was finally obtained. In putting the question *The Sun* said:

"Miss Stein of Paris is an artist in the new use of words. Her poems, plays and essays enjoy an extraordinary distinction that is akin to the immense private fame that Rossetti began with. She is one of the most talked about creatures in the intellectual world and the slighest scrap from her pen is read with delight even by those who do not get it, as the phrase is."

Whether Miss Stein's work possesses permanent value, whether it is lasting art does not really matter now. Her followers believe she has added a new dimension to literature; scoffers call her writings a mad meaningless jumble of words, and there are some who assert that with her tongue in her cheek she is having a sardonic joke at the expense of those who take her seriously. It is idle to attempt to pass judgment at the present moment. Time alone can give the verdict. For us it is merely that she is a real force that must be reckoned with—she cannot be ignored. She is a ship that flies no flag and she is outside the law of art, but she descends on every port and leaves a memory of her visits.

In *Tender Buttons* she goes even farther than ever before. Words are given greater freedom, but they are also charged with greater pregnancy. The last shackle is struck from context and collocation, and each unit of the sentence stands out independent and has no commerce with its fellows. The effect produced on the first reading is something like terror, there are no known precedents to cling to. It is a journey in unknown seas without a pilot. The amazing Gertrude Stein casting away the last remnant of intelligibility finds a new intelligibility which makes us "after madness go remembering."

SYRINX: PASTELS OF HELLAS. By Mitchell S. Buck. Grey boards, $1.25

In the twenty-five pastels contained in this volume nestles the soul of the charming period of Greek decadence. The art of the prose poem which has been so neglected in English literature finds here an adequate expression. These pastels are done with a fineness and delicacy of workmanship which need not fear comparison with that of Lucian, Baudelaire, and Turgenieff, masters as they are in this difficult art.

Across the distance of the centuries the ancient world rises before us again: the Lesbos of flowers and love, the pasture lands of Arcadia, the glittering shrines and snowy temples of the dead master-craftsmen, as yet undespoiled of their treasures. The spirit of the antique world is here re-born in all its freshness, purity of line, and lyric simplicity. A shepherd stands before his tiny cot and prays; the pipes of Pan—a real Pan, sans anaemia,—shrill forth their strain; a proud maiden vaunts her charm of flesh and blood before the frozen Cnidian Aphrodite, then sadly contrasts her rival's marble immortality with her own lovelier but fleeting bloom. Some pages echo with the cry of the fleeing dryad as the pursuing steps draw nearer; in others the night winds whisper among the houses and temples of the cities. The dim vistas of the forests are shown; the lonely vigils of love beneath the starry sky.

The author is not a pagan in the aggressive sense in which this word is so frequently misused, but there is in his art a kinship to Sappho and Theocritus, and above all to Meleager. He is Greek as pedants never are, and as scholars vainly long to be. But when we have finished reading the volume we feel too the twenty centuries since Meleage laid down his pen. In these Pastels of Hellas is the beauty "into which the soul with all its maladies has passed."

LITTLE WAX CANDLE—A Farce in One Act, by Louise Norton. Burnt orange boards, $1.25. (Second Printing.)

Here is the drama of the eternal unrest of love. What the problem play gloomily groped for, this little farce piquantly accomplishes. A wife leaves her husband, not for his infidelities, but because he has cast away all the traits she knew him by. The author is very reverent toward the great solemnities of marriage, but her vision reaches out to the quicksands of domesticity. She has the courage to voice the truth with a keen intellectual detachment and an intuitive feeling for true spiritual values.

*Little Wax Candle* is full of action, brilliance and beauty, and throws sparkling and sudden lights with deft epigrams and impeccable phrases upon the unknown forces in which lie the motivations of character and action.

*The Boston Advertiser* (Boston): Read understandingly, "Little Wax Candle" is biting satire. There is a considerable supply of Nancys, and quite a number of Michaels in his world of ours. They are prey to sensual feelings mistaken for spiritual impulse. They undertake to make of life a "chef-d'oeuvre"; and all they make is a mess.

*The Pittsburgh Post* (Pittsburgh): Seldom has a stage play so richly literary a flavor as has "Little Wax Candle." Clever, entertaining and philosophic—as farces go—by turns, the entire performance is achieved with an artistic finesse that is unusual. "Little Wax Candle" has to do with marital infidelity—not an unusual subject in these frank days. It achieves the miracle of handling the subject in an entirely intellectual attitude, without the slighest suggestion of offense. In truth, some of the comments of the characters upon love and passion are surprisingly thoughtful, often brilliantly rendered, and ringing sincere and true. Looked at coldly, it might be said that "Little Wax Candle" tends to overlook or condone marital transgressions, from the standpoint of the average mind. But then "Little Wax Candle" was never written for the average mind. This little play is a cameo at once delicately piquant and superlatively tasteful.

*The Press* (Philadelphia: Preciosity of language, of thought, of emotion, has seldom been carried to the point reached in this little ultra-modernist play. The sophistication conceals itself and offers the appearance of a simplicity than which nothing in the world could be less simple. There is no more perfect test of artificiality than complete freedom from prejudice, and the men and women in this little piece have journeyed far beyond what one of them call "sheep morality."

## SALOON SONNETS: WITH SUNDAY FLUTINGS—A Volume of Poems, by Allen Norton. Brescia blue boards, $1.25

Under the half-ironic, half-challenging title *Saloon Sonnets: With Sunday Flutings*, Allen Norton has put forth his first volume of poetry. It has qualities so unique that it is certain to win him an important place among contemporary poets. Without any factitious endeavor to avoid the commonplace the first part of the book consisting entirely of sonnets is nevertheless something quite out of the ordinary. Through life's broken patterns and conflicting colors the author looks at the sudden faces of little incidents. They call forth curious associations, and portraits and pictures rise splendidly luminous from unexpected angles. This gives a remarkable individuality to the sonnets.

*The Eagle* (Brooklyn: If there is an element of the bizarre in certain of the sonnets, the SUNDAY FLUTINGS, however, are pure lyricism. In them there is nothing of the complexity or artifice of modernity. Here we find the golden joy of such simple poems as "Loved a Lassie I", "Paris Was a Garden", "Shall We Meet In London" or the naive linked rhymes for Shelley. They are clear as a bell. We hear a poet who has tasted the thrill of exquisite moments, and has revivified it in his verse.

*The Morning Telegraph* (New York): The Saloon Sonnets are not cup chasons Stein songs, or ever remotely Bacchanalian. On the contrary the subjects are infinitely varied—Evelyn Nesbit, Mrs. Eddy, Theodore Roosevelt, Bacon, Oscar Wilde, and Vegetables splitting even for title honors. . . . The Sunday Flutings have more lyric value than the Saloon Sonnets. "Shelley, I Would Have Walked With You" and "Pompeii" are among the best. "Fantasie" is the best.

*The World* (New York): "Saloon Sonnets," by Allen Norton, a book of poetry in robin's egg blue, is one of the *Claire Marie* publications. The verses of Mr. Norton run rather to the exotic. In such lines as those quoted herewith the lilt is very fetching.

6

SONNETS FROM THE PATAGONIAN: THE STREET OF LITTLE HOTELS. By Donald Evans, Author of "Discords." Jade boards, $1.25 (Second printing.)

This volume in less than six week's time after leaving the press had the remarkable distinction of having had every line in it quoted by various reviewers throughout the country. It is a book of terrible honesty, cerebral in a way in which few poets have dared to be. The author is not afraid to trace sick ironies and ultimates to their lair. Like hallucinations they dance by, garbed in vivid similes, decked in mysterious colors. They stir the reader like the phrases of strange and unfamiliar music.

*The Pittsburgh Post* (Pittsburgh): An exquisite iridescence clothes this collection of sonnets which will delight the connoisseur, the lovers of the unique. It is as if a brilliant shimmering gossamer were thrown over the thought of the poet, concealing much for much is obscure—revealing here and there, and adorning all with a delicate exotic beauty. This beauty is their chief value. They suggest much and say, openly, little. Taken altogether they are very interesting experiments in modern verse.

*Current Opinion* (New York: Humanity is conspicuously absent in this sheaf of decadent verse.

*The Inquirer* (Philadelphia): Mrr. Evans has not only originality in imagative creation, but the courage of intellectual independence. He sings only of things worth while and has no time for the vapid nothings which make for mere cadence. There is more understanding of life, more imagining of a compelling sort and more creative imagination in almost any single line of these sonnets than there are to be found in long poems which are considered of general merit.

*The World* (New York): An elusive singeris found in Donald Evans. He deals in metered symbols and veiled meanings. His desire to avoid the obvious is shown characteristically in lines under the title "Fifth Avenue."

*The Press* (Philadelphia): Mr. Evans calls his sonnets "ironies;" they are sincere work as no one who reads the autobiographical pieces can doubt, and often powerful in their incisive phrasing and imaginative condensation.