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and perverse, anarchistic and calculated. The green of the trees and it are separated as though they lie on uncommunicating unrelated planes. But, gradually, the green of the foliage and the new style commence approaching one another till one day, the styles of Wagner and Whitman and Cézanne, of Debussy and Joyce and John Marin upset and disequilibrate us no more than does the fall of snow in January. They have become part of the inherited experience. It seems the evening in the Vanderbilt Theatre was the moment of time in America when Strawinsky's style and with it that of his "generation" passed into the universe of accepted facts; and another "crazy" music rested with the pigmentation of the leaves. It doesn't at all matter that the Philharmonic audiences, and the body of the critics and musicians have not taken cognizance of it. Where do we go from here?

Paul Rosenfeld