The Little Review, May 1916 (Vol. 3, No. 3)

The opening unfurls like a fever‑dream of colour and sound, each line a flickering vignette of incense, goldfish, and nude mythologies. Vivid, almost tactile images swirl—flowers that rise from mouths, moonlit threads, pale dancers that linger in languor—drawing the listener into a world where language itself seems to pulse. The experience is less a conventional narrative and more a meditation on sensation, inviting you to linger on each strange metaphor as it breathes.

The second half shifts to a sharply satirical essay that attacks the notion of the amateur artist with biting wit and a cascade of paradoxes. Written as a mock‑letter, it dissects style, technique, and individuality, offering a provocatively honest guide to what it means not to be an artist. Listeners will find a blend of modernist rebellion and intellectual daring that captures the restless spirit of a 1916 literary experiment.