is a responsible sort of criticism which is political and moral, and which turns on the human advantage of possessing and loving this or that sort of perfection. To cultivate some sorts may be useless or even hostile to the possible perfection of human life."
It is of comparatively little importance which sort of criticism one chooses to write or to read, so long as one is aware that the two exist and that their objects are profoundly dissimilar though they are not necessarily hostile. Interest in aesthetic perfection has dwindled to such an extent that there are moments when one feels inclined to forego the moral type of criticism entirely and to say that the only value of comparative literature is to make us interested in the incomparable. Enjoyment follows its own laws (it is no less irresponsible for that) and the creative artist is most potent when he discovers his laws within himself. And neither in creation nor in enjoyment can we be bound for ever by the moral and economic circumstances of our lives. We do not suggest that the disciplinary and moral critics are totally without place and service; they are only in error if they imagine that theirs is the only possible service to the creative artist of our time.
We hear gratifying rumours of an American issue of Ulysses for the technical protection of which—nice irony!—the original copyright of a portion of the text by The Little Review alone remains. Meanwhile the unformed society of enthusiasts continues to grow and one of its members, Mr Terence Holliday, of 10 West 47th street, in New York, has undertaken to collect and file—against the time of a re-issue—all the typographical errors of the present issue. They are many, they are forgivable, but they need not be perpetuated. Even Mr Orage's quotation
"Eglintoneyes looked up skybrightly" hardly serves as well as Mr Joyce's "shybrightly."
