ty
became almost intelligible. The yelling walls seemed to sing more in
tune, the flaring tones softened a trifle, there was method in all
this madness and presently you discovered that there was more method
than madness, and that way critical madness lay. You are not in the
least converted to this arbitrary and ignominious splashing of raw
tints, but you are interested--you linger, you study and then you fall
to reading the philosophy of the movement. It is the hour of your
aperitive, l'heure exquise, when you take your departure, and out on
the noisy Rokindam, not far from the Central railway station, you rub
your eyes and then note that the very chaos you resented in the
canvases of the Futurists is in the streets--which are being repaved.
Snorting motor-cars and rumbling busses go by, people seem to be
walking up inclined planes, the houses lean over and their windows
leer and beckon to you; the sky is like a stage cloth and sweeps the
roofs; you hurry to your hotel and in strong tea you drown your
memories of the Italian Futurists.

It is only fair to give their side of the case. This I shall condense,
as the exuberant lyricism and defiant dithyramb soon became
monotonous. They write like very young and enthusiastic chaps, and
they are for the most part mature men and experienced painters.
Luckily for their public, Signor Marinetti and his friends did not
adopt his Siamese telegraphic style in their printed programme. They
begin by stating that they will sing the love of danger, the habit of
energy and boldness. The essential elements of their poetry will be
courage, daring, and rebellion. Literature has hitherto glorified
serene immobility, ecstasy, and sleep; they will extol aggressive
movement, feverish insomnia, the double-quick step, the somersault,
the box on the ear, the fisticuff. They declare that the world's
splendour has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. A
racing car, its frame adorned by great pipes, like snakes with
explosive breath, a roaring motor-car, which looks as though running
on shrapnel, is more beautiful than the Winged Victory of Samothrace
in the Louvre. Note just here the speed-mania motive. There is no more
beauty except in strife. No masterpiece without aggressiveness. Poetry
must be a violent onslaught upon the unknown forces, commanding them
to bow before man. Now there is nothing particularly new in this.
Great poetry is dynamic as it is also reflective (the Futuris