Sir.—After reading "Salient's" Literary Issue I feel that some of the contributions are very good those of J. Baxter, e.g.. and some are extremely poor—Barry Metcalfe's, e.g. But something they all have in common is a feeling of utter hopelessness and frustration of life. Can't anybody today write of happiness, joy or hope, or do all our best writers of today belong to the Despairist schools? "Salient" Literary Issue's dose of depression caused me to write the following, which I feel sums up the writer's attitude today:

Whither
Whither wends the purple purpose.
Dismally low, or infinitely [unclear: sublime.]
Chancy or divine.
On our speck in space
On restless edege
Of vest egestnoss.
While yes and nay in their eternel duel.
Clesh end splash
In Dantesque whirlpools.
Of enguithed doubt and hope despaired;
And monstrous forms of horror.
Like comets out of orbit.
Surge upon the ego.
Disintegrate its cube root
And desecrate its norm?
Such questions leave us on a shore
Where we wander bewildered
Among huge clouds of camphor.
Hated, dazed, downcast.
Like spendrift
From buffets of riotous waves
On craggy coast
Wher sea birds
Weary and lost
Forever seek a peace that will not be.