Now that I have spoken honestly, don’t think I have joined the ranks of irascible conservatives, and that I yell because I’ve been prodded. No one realizes more than I the necessity of greater emotion, or more sweeping vision. But let’s not make our vision sweeping by the simple process of cutting off our view!

OBLOMOFFDOM

Minnie Lyon, Chicago:

We are told by literary authorities that a certain Goncharoff occupies the place next to Turgeniev and Tolstoy in Russian literature. As to this I cannot vouch, but I can say that he has written a most profound and wonderful book called Oblomoff wherein he has depicted in convincing terms the enthralling bondage of Russia’s intellectuals in her days of stagnant inactivity. From this book was coined the phrase—“Russian Malady of Oblomoffdom”, so well did it dissect her diseased and irresolute will—a malady so universal as to make one feel that Oblomoff was written for us as well as for Russia. It certainly is a direct emphasis upon a condition which prevails so largely both in our personal and social life that few can read this inimitable pen portrait without a sneaking feeling that some of his own lineaments are limned therein.

Goncharoff writes of his hero: “The joy of higher inspiration was accessible to him—the miseries of mankind were not strange to him.... Sometimes he cried bitterly in the depths of his heart about human sorrows. He felt unnamed, unknown sufferings and sadness, and a desire of going somewhere far away,—probably into that world towards which Stoltz had tried to take him in his younger days. Sweet tears would then flow upon his cheek. It would also happen that he would feel hatred towards human vices, towards deceit, towards the evil which is spread all over the world; and he would then feel the desire to show mankind its diseases. Thoughts would then burn within him, rolling in his head like waves in the sea; they would grow into decisions which would make all his blood boil; his muscles would be ready to move, his sinews would be strained, intentions would be on the point of transforming themselves into decisions.... Moved by a moral force he would rapidly change over and over again his position in his bed; with a fixed stare he would lift himself from it, move his hand, look about with inspired eyes ... the inspiration would seem ready to realize itself, to transform itself into an act of heroism—and then, what miracle, what admirable results might one not expect from so great an effort! But—the morning would pass away, the shades of evening would take the place of broad daylight—and with them the strained forces of Oblomoff would incline towards rest—the storm in his soul would subside—his head would shake off the worrying thoughts—his blood would circulate more slowly in his veins—and Oblomoff would slowly turn over and recline on his back; look sadly through his window upon the sky, following sadly with his eyes the sun which was setting gloriously.... And how many times had he thus followed with his eyes that sunset!”

How easy to fall back upon a soft bed of concessions—and drift into a world of forgetfulness! It is just into terrible inertia—this every day and every day humdrum conservatistic acceptance of things as they are—that The Little Review comes with its laughter of the gods; it is so joyous, so fearless, so sure of its purpose, and hurls itself against it with its vital young blood and its burning young heart, and pleads with it for a re-creation of ideals in living, life, and art, and a bigger comprehension of what life and art can mean to the individual and to the race, if the individual will only open his heart and mind to these limitless freedoms. And it does not say: “Look, this is the only way;” but “come all ye who have something to offer—only let it be sincere, true, and unafraid.” And because of this big inclusiveness, we sometimes hear our friend, the sophisticated critic, say: “It lacks sophistication.”—What is sophistication anyway? Isn’t it something that has been baked and dried a long time? I wonder if every thoughtful reader does not grow weary of petty criticism! It is the twin sister (it has not the virility to be a boy twin) of Oblomoffdom, and lives as a parasite upon the brains of others. (I like that word Oblomoffdom; it covers such a multitude of indictments with an economy of words.) Let us have criticism—yes, by all means; but let it be criticism—critical in values, illuminating in meaning, clear in exposition, telling us how and why. Then we’ll give you our respectful and unbiased attention. Too much of the stuff that passes as criticism is merely a “personal attitude,” a channel for expressing a prejudice for (often) something too big for the critic’s grasp. How often, too, does one grow a bit heart-weary on hearing some big personality, some fine intellect limit itself to one vision—its own.

Why not throw that attitude aside as an outworn garment, and welcome any force, simply and gladly, that can stimulate a spark of life-urge within us? A more courageous and intense love of truth, of men, of life.

And so, we welcome you, Little Review, with a Happy New Year and a long life—as a Rebel spirit amongst us, fighting our deadly Oblomoffdom.

Statement of Ownership, Management, Circulation, Etc., required by the Act of August 24, 1912

of THE LITTLE REVIEW published monthly at Chicago, Ill., for October 1st, 1914.