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HERE is a Campus tradition that "You can't kill the LIT.” It is, I believe, one of our few valid illusions. Why? Because no one can kill the LIT. It has been dead since 1836!
My answer to those faithful who deny this declaration of mortification is this: for eighty-four years THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE has published prose, poetry, and drama written by young men. These young men-specially the poets—should have been at their finest by virtue of their youth. But is there among all the work done by these young writers one line that has entered into the hearts and souls of the American people—and stayed there?
I believe there is not. And to my groping mind, a magazine eighty-four years of age that has not contributed one word-beauty to the poetry (or prose!) of this planet's not gigantic store, that magazine, I say, has wholly satisfied the conditions of death, i.e., cessation of heart, brain and lungs.
Hearing this blasphemy the sardonic undertaker may properly ask the 1921 board if they wish his services. They do not. We have no wish to bury the LIT. Our olfactory nerves are roguishly healthy and nicely adjustable. Besides, we are all too madly foolish, and too foolishly proud lovers to go jilting our just-won, long-wooed bride-though to jilt a naughty lady simply by burying her has a fascinating Admetian tang!