Hannah Arendt, an untimely, unassimilable figure, looms ever larger in the life of thought.
“There are several Puerto / Ricans on the avenue today, which / makes it beautiful and warm,” wrote Frank O’Hara in “A Step Away from Them.” It was 1956, the day after Jackson Pollock’s funeral.
The presses roll fast when there are no presses to roll.
This is not so much a second novel as a mature reimagining of what a youthful first novel might have been.
In a recent long, too long, much too long article in the London Review of Books, Andrew O’Hagan quoted John Lanchester paraphrasing dear old Edmund Wilson to the effect that poets feel differences among themselves as tantamount to lying.
Richard Bellamy is one of the very few art dealers around whose name the word “legendary” floats like an aura. But how to convey what was so special about him is a nice problem for a biographer.
Some of Robert Glück’s essays came my way in the 1980s via such publications as Poetics Journal.
So many poets out there.
My all-too-brief visit to Delhi last year ignited in me a desire to learn about the history of India.
At some point in my teens I read a number of books by Henry Miller — though not as many as I read, at around the same time, by Hermann Hesse, despite the fact that Hesse’s books, in contrast to Miller’s, were not reputed to convey much information about sex.
When I wandered ingenuously onto the scene, Donald Britton was a young star, or so I considered him, just a few years older than me (actually a bit more than a few, it turns out — he always looked so boyish) yet somehow wiser.
Jennifer Mundy acknowledges in her Preface to Man Ray’s Writings on Art that, compared to his friends Duchamp and Picabia, he has come to be seen as something of a lightweight.