is a quarterly journal of heroic, romantic realist fiction, poetry, drama, music, essays, and visual art, published by the Atlantean Press.

The Atlantean Press Review brings you the work of contemporary Romantic-Realist writers and artists, in excerpts from novels-in-progress and unpublished novels, in short stories, plays, poetry, music and visual art.

The Atlantean Press Review provides a rare experience in today's culture: the vision of man as a hero, and of life as a breathtaking adventure.

The Atlantean Press Review also includes nonfiction: essays in esthetics and art history, reviews of contemporary works, and rediscoveries of the Romantics of the past.

"Then it is true?" he said. "Paltons is really dead?"
    "Yes, dead," repeated Hobson. "And what a hideous death!"
    Multon showed, by a gesture, that he understood, from the rumor that had run through the city.
    "Then it was one of those man-eaters, again. That make five of our companions who've vanished like this in the past three weeks. First there was Pick, then two days later Habers, and then the next week both Willoughby and Deaps the engineer . . . And today, Paltons. Truly, fate seems to be set against us.
    "Five of us--and our best, too--in three weeks! That's too much, really too much! Never, in the four years I've served in Bengal, have I witnessed such catastrophies. It doesn't make sense, I tell you. It's enough to make one dread risking the jungles and forests of Sikkim, hereafter."

He hit campus like a gale force.
    Nobody liked him at first, least of all me. But things were never the same after his arrival. Not even close.
    Hoppo Valley, Iowa was a slow-motion town in the middle of the corn belt. Tornadoes and twisters were not unknown to its people, but they had never seen a tidal wave before. Neither had the State College on the outskirts of town, which I attended; its down-home farm boys and born-again Christians were used to placid backwaters.
    But storms can arise in a hurry. ...

I still refuse to believe he ever fell:
the gold that ran down his bronze shoulders was gold, not wax.
Why else should it be told and told again, how he flew,
and be told so often that the story is swallowed in his name,
Icarus and foolish flight the same? ...

It is when the fog clears, and the moon and the stars are brilliant, and the white sails of faraway ships on an invisible horizon are sharp and almost luminescent as they glide past on their grand, unknown errands, that a boy of ten may take stock of himself and the world that he knows. This is a quiet, precious time; he knows that the world is not so much focussed on him, as he on it, through a special lens in his inchoate soul. The brevity and suddenness of this moment, which strikes without warning such souls as do not submit to the intrusive humdrum of their daily lives, signals its own importance, for its incandescent violence must make one passionately certain that one is a worthy crucible.
    Jack Frake was a boy of ten, and tonight he was such a crucible.

In today's society, there are few if any great artists. What is exhibited in galleries and museusms under the misnomer of "modern art" is in most cases not art and definitely not modern. Yet only one hundred years ago, the world was overflowing with creative artists. What happened?
    The answer lies in philosophy. Life in the twentieth century has been dominated by the philosophy of Kant and his ideological descendants, whereas the nineteenth was dominated primarily by the philosophy of the Enlightenment. It is a result of the difference between these two philosophies that we suffer today.