There is little to be said about Jean Cocteau that he has not said himself—about himself. ‘The last word in modernity, the most brilliant mind of this generation,’ said Clive Bell of him, and to be noticed by the capricious pen of that critic does indeed stamp him as ultra-modern.

As poet, critic, novelist, draughtsman, Jean Cocteau has been known in Paris for the last thirteen years, but owing to our regrettable isolation from movements and ideas beyond our own shores, we in England have hardly realised his many achievements. This year he has published Le Rappel à l’Ordre, a collection of former articles in which he analyses his activities as the leader of a group of young musicians and writers of the very latest modern tendencies, together with the motives and significances of his own writings. Another sign of his great activity was the production of his last play Orphée at the Théatre des Arts during four nights in last July. Two scenes of this attempt to clothe a classical theme in modern dress (he did the same in Andromaque and in the ballet Romeo and Juliet which has Strawinsky’s music) are given in the Revue des Jeunes of July 28th. It is a mere fragment, but in it are found all the ‘Cocteau’ elements, fantasy, mystère, modern implements (such as Death’s india-rubber gloves), symbolising elements in human life, besides much beauty of movement and charm of words. Respectfully criticising the play in The Times of July 14th, the writer speaks of M. Cocteau’s conversion as being ‘amongst the recent phenomena of Paris life.’