Whither do you go, O shadow-shapes,
Across the ghastly sky?
We go to where the wind blows
And the old stars die.
This is just a short and rather exuberant message to Little Review readers, because I think they really deserve the pleasure of discovering Cronyn for themselves.
Songs for the New Age, by James Oppenheim. [The Century Company, New York.]
One of the phenomena of the evolution of man is the constant broadening of consciousness. We become accustomed to the sharing of our feelings with larger and larger numbers of people; our identity with the race,—and even with inanimate things,—becomes increasingly plain to us through both the findings of science and heightened emotional receptivity.
And yet this wider consciousness by no means lessens the value or quality of personality. By a splendid paradox, the more we realize our inseparability with all life the more does our selfhood become accentuated. Thus is achieved the marriage of Democracy and Individualism. We find that, in the end, the cultivation of one is the nourishing of the other. I need hardly mention that I am not alluding to that similacrum of equality: political democracy.