Difficulty, Failure, and Promise

That's the theme today folks: we all fail more often than we succeed; most things worth doing at all are difficult, and more so to do rightly; and the projects of greatest promise are not worth ignoring for the sake of difficulty or failure.

* First up: the failed bookstore. Another loss to whatever claim to culture Manhattan still had – the Downtown Express reports the closing of The Strand's annex location on Fulton Street. 'The only used bookstore in Lower Manhattan, Strand Annex has filled the 15,000-square-foot Fulton St. space for 12 years now. Having moved to several different Downtown locations before settling at 95 Fulton St, the Strand Annex has served Lower Manhattan for over 20 years altogether. . . . The decision to close the bookstore came after its landlord announced a 300 percent rise in rent for the Strand Annex, which will go into effect August 31 when the location’s lease expires.' However, the owner isn't firing anyone because of the closing, and good for him taking the more difficult high road. Let's hope this isn't a harbinger for the great bookstore.

* At The Reading Experience, Dan Green fails to observe that difficulty and worth are not the same element when evaluating novels. He writes that 'Critics want novels to be useful as tools of cultural analysis, while ordinary readers want novels to be entertaining, an escape from their own everyday reality.' It is sort of absurd to talk about 'critics' as if they could be lumped together in some simple way – as if Homi Bhabha and Adam Kisrch had anything in common. It is equally absurd to argue that the lowly plebs are hungry only for drivel.

There is clearly the implication in his discussion that accessible novels lack the kind of depth, and require less attention, than the more opaque. It's a common assumption, I find, but so much the poorer for its commonality. Obviously it takes more work in reading, say, Ulysses just to uncover the basic narrative (tricky word, that). But Dubliners is equally worthy of critical reading, and analysis, despite its more accessible veneer.

I think also that taste in this matter may come down to an inclination of character more than any objectified stand regarding the qualifications of literature. Are you the type that loves a puzzle, just for its difficulty? Then these more difficult narrative techniques will suit you well. If not, then not so. Tying this personal inclination to any Aesthetic Theory (to the value of a critic's insight, or of a work of literature) reveals a narrowness of vision on Dan's part, although he is hardly alone in this.

The most challenging task of any literary critic is to remove themself from the reading of a text as much as they are able, and to create a set of standards that apply as broadly and with as much depth as possible. Of course they fail – every single one of them – to some degree, but this doesn't mean that they have no worthwhile insights. That their standards obscure certain literary trends and their personal taste reveals itself are surely failings, but neither of them strong enough reasons to dismiss valuable insight. The arbitrary use of difficulty (or innovation, similarly utilized) as a standard of value is hardly the sign of an elite mind.

* Woodrow Wilson imagined a coalition of states not against each other, but against war itself, Peter Beinart at World Affairs writes. And what is needed today is a new articulation of this perennial progressive concept. 'The world will never truly be a global community. But it has moved closer to this ideal than it ever was during the Cold War. As a result, the architecture of collective security has never been more necessary nor more possible. First, however, that architecture must be summoned into existence. Only the United States, which in recent years has done all it could to destroy Wilson’s vision, can lead this task. And because most Republicans loathe the very concept of collective security, the task will fall to Democrats – and Barack Obama in particular – or it will fall to no one.'

I agree, difficult a goal as it is. The path to re-establishing a modern world of humanist values is one of cooperation with other nations, even the most unlikely. Peace and security will arrive in all nations together or in none apart, and will only be achieved through a clear articulation of common values. The war on 'terror' will be fought in battles against barbarism, anti-intellectualism, and religious fundamentalism, in all their forms – as much military as cultural; not East versus West, but the struggle that has coursed for two millenia between human value and inhuman violence.

Stubble goodness

I got up this morning, showered & shaved, and headed in to the office only to find that I never should have put the razor to me. I wonder if TBG loves the stubble?

* In a review of The Posthumous Keats at The New Yorker, Adam Kirsch wonders – upon the publication of such poems as 'Ode to a Nightingale', Ode on a Grecian Urn', and 'The Eve of St Agnes' – whether, 'having written such poems, [Keats felt himself] a failure? The question is more urgent in his case than in any other poet’s, for no writer ever yearned for fame more ardently than Keats. His ambition was all the more remarkable considering that he started life with none of the advantages of the noble Byron or the wealthy Shelley.' The book apparently concerns itself with Keats' odd, oddly intimate relationship with death, even in his early work, and the several ways that he was preparing his own posthumous legacy.

* At NewPages, the concept of the personal touch in literary magazines is cited as one reason for dedicated readerships. 'One of the features in Thema are letters to the editor run at the end of the publication. I was particularly drawn to these.' It's a great point – I've always enjoyed letters to / from the editor as well, and it gives the sense of a personality behind the scenes.

* Some dreary news from Publisher's Weekly, the Times-Tribune Co. 'is planning to slash overall page counts across the chain.' The implication here is that peripheral sections will be cut back, likely fine arts and book reviews. What a shame, they keep pumping out facts trying to compete with the internet – but readers want a modicum of depth (and some fact checking would be nice). On the other hand, NPR has it right (as reported at Critical Mass): they're increasing book coverage to make up for the paucity in print dailies. 'We’re building up our book coverage because book content really works for our audience.'

* The Irascible Poet is annoyed with Ron Silliman (welcome to the club), believing that Ron lives in the hot house: 'Most of our poets and poetries today are created in academia. This creates in many poets a hot house effect. There is little real risk involved in the work it is written to satisfy an academic discussion rather than an artistic one. Few poets make their living writing poetry. This makes for a narrow discussion in the poetic marketplace.'

Probably true, and it probably does shape the poetry being generated – however, the reality is less extreme, I think. Irascible argues that poets today are no longer engaged with other arts – citing Modernism and just post- as a model – and that this has caused a drop-off in quality overall. But this dynamic was unique to Modernism; that dynamic between visual art and poetry shaped the poetry of that era, in the same way that the independent wealth of the Romantics shaped theirs. Things change, and we shouldn't get stuck in paradigms.

Which is not to say that the leeching of poets onto and within educational institutions ('academia' is an awful, underhanded way of forgetting that students ought to matter most, not professors) is a good thing, at all. Most poets have no right and no business to be holding jobs at educational institutions, and the poets who do not contribute as much as a trained teacher could ought to get the boot, doorways – they can find new jobs.

Said Best, Shown True

CNN reports today that a federal appeals court cited the Lewis Carrol poem 'The Hunting of the Snark' in its recent decision to process a wrongly imprisoned Chinese Muslim from Guantanamo Bay. Not free him mind you, just actually figure out if he belongs in prison – after being there for SIX YEARS. 'The decision throws into serious doubt the underlying reasons for keeping Parhat in custody.' You think?

' "The government suggests that several of the assertions in the intelligence documents are reliable because they are made in at least three different documents," wrote Judge Merrick Garland. "We are not persuaded. Lewis Carroll notwithstanding, the fact the government has 'said it thrice' does not make the allegation true. In fact we have no basis for concluding that there are independent sources for the documents' thrice-made assertions." '

When the law needs something best spoken, they turn to those best able to say it: the poet. Or so I would like to believe. In either case, I'm happy that the nonsense of the administration is being seen for what it is.

New Leaf

I'm going to do my level best to start titling these posts, despite the fact that they are often an arbitrary mashup of articles, essays, reviews, commentary, and occasionally politics and sports. Happy Monday – at least it's a short week, right?

* Reginald Shepherd takes a backwards glance at The New American Poetry 1945–1960, edited and compiled by Donald M. Allen. This apparently landmark collection (I'd never heard of it until today so I assume this from the 'of course' tone taken here) has quite a list of poets in it, Ginsberg, Olsen, Ashberry, Corso, Creeley, Ferlinghetti, and on so. Reginald writes that 'With all of its variety, most of the work included in The New American Poetry does not strike me as particularly radical, experimental, or avant-garde aesthetically, though it was definitely unconventional for the 1950s.' His whole essay is worth reading, as he considers the roles of politics, the paucity of female poets, and the gay identity of so many of these 'New American' poets. I also feel like I missed the joke with the New American Poetics volume that I enjoyed and have been suggesting widely.

* Pretty soon, there will be no Europe. The NY Times reports that the birth rate is not keeping up the population, and tells the story of an Italian Mayor who offered a baby bonus to women willing to have and raise a child there. In 50 years, the population of some areas will be halved. The one very confusing thing is whether this is a medical fertility issue (the article writer uses the term 'fertility rate') or an issue of sociological choice not to bear children. These are hugely different issues.


And that's it. It is just that kind of day today. One of the interns said to me, 'Wait . . . was that supposed to be a joke or something?' Maybe it was, kid, may be.

Futbol / O'Hara / Poetry Reviews

What a day of fútbol: ABC had a special airing of LA Galaxy at DC United, the two highest-scoring teams (with the two weakest defenses) in the league, and then after that the Euro Final matchup between Spain and Germany. I'm really, really impressed by the crowd in DC – they're loud, aware, and excited. If the train ran to the stadium in Foxboro, you might see the same environment at Revs matches. On the other hand, Alvaro Pirez (the Galaxy mid) is awful, awful, just terrible. LA's defense would have a lot less trouble if the central midfield didn't hand over the ball every 30 seconds. Actually, for the last 5 minutes, Pirez has literally turned over possession every single time he's touched the ball.

Lots of poetry today: Huzzah!

* Yesterday I wrote a long post on the reputation of poet Frank O'Hara, based on the NY Times review of his new Selected Poems by William Logan. Today at LitKicks, Levi Asher has a long reaction to the same review. He considers it a 'bashing' , although I felt like it was a pretty tepid – if characteristically over-written – review. Levi writes, 'Logan's argument is flawed at the center, because the loose, light touch that William Logan dislikes so much in Frank O'Hara turns out to be O'Hara's main selling point. It's why people (a lot of people) like him. Criticizing Frank O'Hara for being ephemeral is like criticizing Sylvia Plath for being dark. Ephemeral is all Frank O'Hara has, and he's good at it.' Now, I'm not a great fan of Plath's work, but she far surpasses O'Hara. Levi confuses tone for content – for O'Hara, the ephemera is the content; for Plath, the content is identity, depression, culture. Her tone is dark, her images are violent, but she has substance.

* At The Boston Globe, David Barber reviews four collections of surrealist poetry, two by Poet Laureate Charles Simic and one each by James Tate and Thomas Lux. Barber writes that, before the term surrealist became 'boilerplate lingo for anything more or less out of whack, it was a rallying cry for the liberation of the imagination - championed in Andre Breton's feverish 1924 "Surrealist Manifesto" as nothing less than the next big thing in the life of the mind and a great leap forward for modern poetry. That was then and this is now, but if Surrealism still hasn't outlived its usefulness as a shorthand rubric for the art of conjuring uncanny images and mind-bending visions that slip the surly bonds of the logical and the literal, chalk it up to an eclectic cross-cultural lineage that's sowed all kinds of wild oats and appears to have some real staying power.' I've actually seen that surrealist manifesto, the first printing and the manuscript, at the British Library in London. I wish David had taken on less material to cover and gone more in-depth, but such is the state of things.

* At The London Times, Alan Brownjohn reviews a bundle of poetry collections – a few from Bloodaxe Books, one from Faber, and Jorie Graham's Sea Change published in the UK by Carcanet. It is always funny to read reviews of American authors in the UK, they have this sort of alien perplexity a lot of the time. Brownjohn writes, 'this volume deserves attention as a style in American poetry to which English poets will, at some time, have to pay respect.' Hah! The audacity of it is remarkable; that her style – at 40 years (Ginsberg), or 150 years cooking (Whitman), depending on how you see it – has yet to receive any respect in the UK is absurd.

Really? Frank O'Hara? Really?

This week in the NY Times, William Logan reviews the new Selected Poems of Frank O'Hara. I agree with him that the previously canonical Collected Poems was too much material to engage, and too much clearly second-rate (by Frank's standards) material was included. It was surprising to see Logan review this particular poet, though he does seem to admire O'Hara, with some serious reservations. Perhaps he is simply less star-struck than others.

As anyone who reads this blog already knows, I'm perplexed by the high esteem in which Frank O'Hara's work is held. His work is enjoyable, light, and accessible. It is full of literary figures set against the backdrop of movie-mythologized New York, which glamorizes the figure of the poet and winks at the audience who recognizes their names. It is a poetry of insiders, it ingratiates the audience, so of course the literati would like it. But liking a poet's work and admiring it are not the same.

And it is imitation and admiration that's really the problem. Several – what? justifications? – sure, justifications, have arisen to embolden lovers of O'Hara's work. The first is that, as Logan writes, the 'off-course thinking that was normally the means to a poem' becoming 'the heady, helter-skelter end' was a productive choice. I would argue that if it were possible to employ this wandering technique to expose depth and insight, then O'Hara's poems were a pale shadow of this approach.

The second trumpet-call for Frank is his status as the quintessential urban poet, implying there had been no properly urban poetry before O'Hara – as if TS Eliot or Baudelaire were in any possible sense pastoral. Logan here calls the work an 'urban pastoral' and likens O'Hara to Wordsworth, but Frank's work is more closely linked to that of Horace, the Roman poet who wrote to and about his ruling-elite social circle. However, unlike O'Hara, Horace's name-dropping was simply an additive to the masterful control of language and form he exhibits, a way of ingratiating his financial and social patrons. In O'Hara though, the names are central – what else of substance is there? Very little about his language or formal construction that holds up to scrutiny. Enjoyment yes, value – not so much.

This is not to say that his best poems are worthless. Nor is it to say, again, that readers shouldn't enjoy O'Hara's work – but as Logan writes, 'two generations of urban poets have come out of O'Hara’s shopping bag.' This is the unfortunate consequence of confusing enjoyment with value. It is also about as moderated praise as I think exists. It is like saying that other television shows have copied Friends. Well yes, they have, but neither the original nor the copies are great. In fact, O'Hara's city life is not unlike that show: 'an urban pastoral where no one has a real job, where martinis flow like nectar.' Artificial, shallow, frenetic, at times cute, never difficult – O'Hara paints a version of urban life that has as much to do with the reality as a sitcom.

So, why all the praise?

First – and this is entirely personal so you might be bored by it, and that's tough it's my damn blog – it was a shame to see that Grecian Yearning, the prominent Allston diner, had burned down. I had no idea there had even been a fire, despite it happening not far from my apartment. I'd spent many a hungover morning there, usually alone, reading something or other. It had become a regular place for me and TBG as well, more recently. Hopefully they'll come back.

The subscriptions are rolling in for Hawk & Whippoorwill – supply is limited, so you should definitely pre-subscribe.

From the AV Club review of Wanted, the story of a young man 'inducted into a thousand-year-old secret society of assassins called The Fraternity, headed by Morgan Freeman.' This is the historical Morgan Freeman, mind you. I wasn't surprised either.

* Let's start Friday's book-related ephemera off with some good news. The Independent reports that, despite falling sales of homes, cars, credit, and luxury items, book sales in Spain are at an all-time high: 'Once the nation that read fewer books than any other in Europe, Spaniards have become voracious readers, devouring more books than ever before. [. . .] Big publishers have made huge profits, but small ones benefited too. "2007 was the best year in our history," says Jorge Herralde, editor of the independent publisher Anagrama. "We sold €14m (£11m) of books and expect to grow another 5 per cent this year," he added.' Wow! That's incredible – what a cultural turn. Hopefully the similar situation of the United States (flailing economy, cultural uncertainty) will eventually lead to a similar boom.

* At Humanities, Harry Siegel tells the story of Doc Rosenbach, whose benefactor died on the Titanic and who was left a fortune, so Doc 'spent $100,000 putting together the foundation of what is today a more than five-million-volume library at Harvard' and then founded, with his brother, the Rosenbach Museum in Philadelphia. The museum includes Marianne Moore's entire living room, exactly as it was in Greenwich Villiage, on the third floor, along with hand-written letters from Emily Dickinson and the manuscript for Alice in Wonderland. His 'acquisitions included the original manuscript of Joyce’s Ulysses, the aforementioned Alice, and – perhaps his trademark – four of the nine Gutenberg Bibles that went on the market during his career (he also had an option on a fifth).'

I have not had as few visitors to this blog as I had yesterday in probably a year. Six visits. Six! Either I am slipping or the rest of the world was very, very busy – or perhaps I should have gone with the long-winded rant about standards and values? Or how about this tidbit, from the AV Club review of Walk Hard, 'Incidentally, the original title for Chuck Berry's "My Ding-A-Ling," a likely inspiration for "Let's Duet," was "My Big Black Monster Cock." It originally had a lot fewer double entendres and a lot more single ones. Apparently the label found the original title a little too threatening. Not quite as threatening as Berry's actual cock, but threatening all the same.'

That ought to bring 'em back.

* I'm going to have to grab Netherland from the library sometime. It is getting reviewed widely, with some depth, and its season has lasted longer than I'd expected from the first articles at the NY Times (both that Woman and Dwight Garner reviewed it). It sounded too smart for its own good, too full of postcard and away-message sentiments, in the way that makes certain reviewers giggle and squeal and forget their best sense. The kind of reviewer who writes a sentence as over-wrought as, 'And O’Neill knows how to deploy the quotidian fripperies of our laptop culture to devastating fictional effect.' Michito wrote that the book explores the 'promises and disappointments' which are 'experienced by a new generation of immigrants in a multicultural New York, teeming with magical possibilities for self-invention, as well as with multiple opportunities for becoming lost or disillusioned or duped.'

Despite the fact that this novel sounded, from the very first review, designed to be hyped (a sort of trick attentive authors can play on reviewers), interest in the book has persisted. Today at The Millions, Garth discusses the idea that Netherland attempts to become a great novel of New York, like Bellow's several or The Great Gatsby. At the same venue, Kevin had written of the biggest problem of the novel: 'that the book more often exemplifies rather than illuminates the central dilemma that draws its attention, the modern challenge of an individual trying to author a coherent story for his own life.' What these two reviews tell me is that the novel has big intentions and a clever author, but ultimately doesn't pull it off. Until I actually read the book, this is just an inkling – I'll have to find out for myself.

* An essay at Granta on JM Coetzee and South Africa's censors – one of the most go-nowhere essays I've read in a while – got me thinking how extremely lucky I am to live here in a free nation. Not that things are perfect, but one doesn't appreciate most things without a stark comparison, like imagining a 'the dark-suited, bald-headed figure, with his pursed lips and his red pen' editing my work.

* The Guardian reports on socio-literateur Dave Eggar's newest project, the recording of the oral histories of undocumented foreign workers all across the United States, 'Like the undocumented Latino workers who did 25% of the reconstruction work after Hurricane Katrina hit the US Gulf Coast in August 2005, only to find the authorities turn their back on them afterwards. . . . A month after the disaster – one of the worst in American history – US Immigration and Customs Enforcement said it sent 725 officers to the Gulf to detain and remove undocumented workers.' I've got to say, Eggars tries to do more than 90% of the people I know, or myself. Far that, he deserves plenty of credit, even if he flounders. I'll be curious to see how history looks back on this, and I think it is in an interesting parallel to the work of the Irish revival when WB Yeats went out to the peasant villages of the West to record folk tales.

Bonjour! Gorgeous day, very quiet in the office so far, got a good night's sleep and hit the gym early this morning. Brewed myself a nice cup of dark roast. Sent Hawk & Whippoorwill to print yesterday! (You can subscribe now to receive both issues this year for $12, or become a Patron for just $25.)

* I read the Elizabeth Bishop chapter of The Wounded Surgeon, by Adam Kirsch, last night. Knowing nothing of her life except by her work and a few odd facts from classes, it was interesting to see the ways 'Crusoe in England', my favorite of her poems, was dramatically expressing her own life's dilemmas. (Incidentally, if you've never heard the recording of David Ferry reading 'Crusoe' at MIT, you have not lived. Or just haven't heard it, and it is incredibly moving – I can maybe send it to you.)

Kirsch's book seems to be aimed for the general reader of poetry, describing the way private incidents in the lives of Lowell, Bishop, Berryman, Schwartz, and Plath, became a vehicle by which they could revitalize their masterful techniques. There is not much in the way of a really close reading of the poets, and one only needs a general understanding of twentieth century poetry to enjoy it. My one big wish is, instead of simply asserting that these poets are technically more skilled (and artistically more ambitious) than the poorer confessional style they inspired through the late 20th century, that Kirsch were to compare their works directly. But such a detailed project as this is for a smaller, more refined audience.

* The NY Times has a review today of Albert Camus' notebooks from 1951-1958. Richard Eder writes that Sartre and other French leftist thinkers 'insisted that overt repression, however repellent, was the only way to fight the insidious structural tyranny of colonialist capitalism. One must choose, painfully. No we mustn’t, Camus rejoined: neither be killers nor victims.' This caused a rift between them. It is interesting to see that the French intellectuals accept the painful choice, while Camus the Algerian denies such inflicted suffering.

* Was all poetry in the 1970's 'avant-garde?' That seems to be the case, based solely on the reports at Harriet from the Poetry of the 1970s Conference at the University of Maine. Why is it that I have literally never heard the names of almost every single one of these poets? Not even in conversation with people, or by one of my professors – it just seems odd. I'm not claiming any lexiconical knowledge, but it is odd for me to hear of so many poets on whom I draw a total blank.

* At Entertainment Weekly they've compiled a list of the 100 best reads of the last quarter century. Topping the list: The Road. Excellent choice. However, right at number two, conspicuous as a cold sore on a cheerleader, Harry mo'fo Potter. The obvious number three after Harry: Beloved by Toni Morrison. This is one of the strangest hit-or-whiff lists I've ever seen.

There is just not a whole lot happening in the literary world today, or if there is I am not privy. I am putting the final touches on Hawk & Whippoorwill, poems of man and nature, which is very exciting. We sure would love your support in our little literary efforts – such as purchasing a subscription to 66: The Journal of Sonnet Studies.

* At The Guardian Colm Toibin has a nice essay on – what else? – Henry James' novel The Golden Bowl. 'James, like many writers before him, including Stevenson, managed to embody in his characters themes and ideas that Sigmund Freud would subsequently formulate.' Wow, no kidding huh – Toibin goes on, 'finding characters from his life and suggesting that he based the characters in his fiction on them is often to miss the point of what he was really doing. As he imagined his books, he saw life as shadow and the art he produced as substance. He believed that language and form, the tapestry of the novel, could produce something much richer and more substantial than mere life, something that offered what was chaotic and fascinating a sort of complex and golden completion.'

* If you have any interest in small publications, quirky magazines, little journals, or avant-garde writing, you should check out Eclipse: 'a free on-line archive focusing on digital facsimiles of the most radical small-press writing from the last quarter century.' It is an amazing compendium and a worthy project, which I hope continues and expands.

* Amazon, the Wall Street Journal reports, has single-handedly made The Story of Edgar Sawtelle a best-seller by pushing it on their website. I wonder if HarperCollins bought them into doing that, or if it was just random? Most of the marketing on Amazon, I've found, is for sale – from the emails you get to the 'readers also enjoyed . . . ' suggestions on book pages. It sort of undermines the validity of recommendations when they can be bought, doesn't it? Where do quality and taste enter into the equation?

The Euro Tournament was on ABC this Saturday, and they picked the right match / right year to take a chance on futbol. Powerhouse Netherlands against the underdog Russians, won in overtime 3-1 the little guys. It was a great match, high-intensity and exciting all the way through; had 'great pace' as the annoying British announcer kept babbling. And I'm happy to say the bloody Italians got booted by Spain, the first win by the Spaniards over Italy in a major tournament – futbol's version of the Curse of the Bambino. I'm anti-Italian when it comes to soccer.

* At the London Times, they asked some literary folks – editors and reviewers, and the such – to pick out one book that is generally acclaimed which they, in fact, despise. A nice jarring kick to the ass of the old tomes assumed but perhaps never proven to be great. Would love to hear your additions to their list, please be civil about it.

I'll add anything by Don DeLillo. It's a completely personal taste issue that I dislike his novels so much – but there it is. I'm so far unable to pin-point the characteristic(s) of his work that offends my taste. It is a whole series of elements, from the writing to the subject matter to the characters. If he is satirizing elements of popular culture then that mode doesn't suit his dry, diagnostic writing, and the satire fails; if not, then he is aggrandizing an element of our culture which lacks substance and meaning, and it falls flat for me. I don't agree with James Wood, who seems to feel the same revulsion but whose diagnosis, to my mind, finds fault in the wrong organ; he perceives a symptom, or perhaps a minor illness, but not the core issue. For a counterpoint, because I feel at times a pariah for my dislike of Donny's work, which has caused now a few pub donnybrooks, there is an essay in defense of Underworld at The Quarterly Conversation.

* Read the (apparently) first review of the upcoming new novel by Philip Roth, Indignation, by Matthew Asprey. Review contains 'spoilers.' He writes that, 'this novel, like the second Zuckerman trilogy of the late nineties, dramatises the powerlessness of individuals to escape the wave of history, and the power of politics to destroy lives. Indignation is a sad and bloody book, and even if it delivers nothing particularly new - indeed, most of Roth’s books could be retitled Indignation - it is a fine supplement to Roth’s late achievements. And we learn a lot about kosher butchery.'

* Are you a poet in the School of Quietude? Allen Taylor goes after Silliman's sophomoric phrase in his blog, World Class Poetry Blog. In case you need a bit of catch-up (most will, no fault of theirs), Ron Silliman is a well-known poetry blogger and a minor poet who has taken it upon himself to place nearly every living & dead English-language poet – not the ones he likes, though, and many of them his friends – into 'The School of Quietude', which is an invented pejorative term. He uses this term in the way McCarthy used the moniker of 'Communist'. It doesn't mean very much. Ron intends to shame readers and other poets for associating with these 'Quietist' poets, and to stifle poetic discussions outside of his narrowly constructed boundaries.

* Wanda Coleman seriously knows how to perform her work, hot damn. Most energetic rendition of a sonnet that I think I've ever heard. Speaking of sonnets, if you are curious about this particular form in contemporary poetry, you should definitely check out 66: The Journal of Sonnet Studies.