"The heritage of poetry and Poetry in the United States are nearly interchangeable, definitely inseparable," A. R. Ammons wrote. Dear Editor, in amassing over six hundred strangely candid letters to and from the editors of Poetry, strains the improvement of poetry in the United States: Ezra Pound's opinion of T. S. Eliot ("It is this kind of convenience to satisfy a guy and never need to inform him to clean his face, wipe his feet") and of Robert Frost ("dull as ditch water...[but] set to be 'literchure' someday"); Edna St. Vincent Millay's pleas for an develop ("I am develop into very, very skinny, and feature taken to smoking Virginia tobacco"); Wallace Stevens on himself ("I have an exquisite well-developed suggest streak"). listed here are the interior tales, the rivalries among aspiring authors, the inspirations in the back of classics, the practicalities (and politicking) of publishing. In attention-grabbing anecdotes and literary gossip, rankings of poets supply insights into the artistic strategy and their reactions to ancient occasions.
Read or Download Dear Editor: A History of Poetry in Letters PDF
Similar memoir books
A adolescence is the unforgettable memoir of Harry Crews' earliest years, a sharply remembered portrait of the folks, locales, and conditions that formed him--and destined him to be a storyteller. Crews was once born in the midst of the nice melancholy, in a one-room sharecropper's cabin on the finish of a mud street in rural South Georgia.
An internal lifetime of Johannesburg that activates the author's fascination with maps, limitations, and transgressions
This singular memoir starts with a transgression—the invasion of a personal domestic in Johannesburg, South Africa. however it is much greater than the tale of a robbery. misplaced and located in Johannesburg is a luminous exploration of position, one within which the author's and the reader's assumptions are consistently being tested.
As a baby starting to be up in apartheid South Africa, Mark Gevisser used to be enthusiastic about maps—and with Holmden's check in, Johannesburg's highway consultant, specifically. He performed a video game referred to as Dispatcher with this eccentric consultant, transporting himself around the urban into locations that might rather be forbidden to him. It used to be via Dispatcher that he came upon apartheid through understanding that he couldn't locate an entry path to the neighboring township of Alexandra and, later, by way of figuring out that Soweto was once no longer mapped in any respect. This was once the start of his lifelong obsession with maps and pictures, and what they let us know approximately borders and boundaries—how we outline ourselves by way of staying inside of them or through transgressing them. This memoir is an account of having misplaced in one's place of origin, after which discovering oneself as a homosexual Jewish South African who was once raised lower than apartheid and who finally married a guy of a unique race because the state moved towards freedom.
Using maps, shards of reminiscence, images, and tales, Gevisser constructs a beautiful portrait of race and sexuality, background and otherness.
Lyttelton’s ardour for perfume encouraged her to have a signature body spray created only for her—and then to embark at the final olfactory odyssey. Armed with an inventory of elements, she tracked down every one section of her odor, tracing its origins, background, and culture.
From the iris fields of Tuscany to the vetivert distilleries of India, from the nutmeg plantations of Sri Lanka to the shorelines of the Arabian Sea, Celia provides readers a glimpse into the area of smell that few humans have ever skilled, delivering scrumptious info on its position in background? for instance, how Casanova additional small quantities of ambergris to chocolate mousses to assist his amorous adventures, and the way Charles Dickens carried a monogrammed pocket nutmeg grater in his waist coat at a time while nutmeg was once used to thrust back evil and to spice rum.
Hannah Lowe’s father “Chick”, a half-Chinese, half-black Jamaican immigrant, labored lengthy hours at evening to help his kinfolk – other than Chick was once no usual operating guy. A mythical gambler, he could vanish into the shadows of East London to win at playing cards or cube, returning through the sunlight hours to greet the daughter whose love and appreciate he courted.
- Nothing Was the Same
- To Sin Against Hope: How America Has Failed Its Inmigrants: A Personal History
- My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One Night Stands
- Testament of Youth
- The Most Beautiful Walk in the World: A Pedestrian in Paris
Additional resources for Dear Editor: A History of Poetry in Letters
His discomfort, as he folded his long legs awkwardly beneath him, was obvious to all. "Take care you don't break that, Sergeant," snapped Walsh. "I don't like clumsiness any more than the housekeeper does. Well now, Mrs. " "I thought Mrs. " He fished a piece of paper from his pocket. " 'Body in ice house, Streech Grange. ' Not much of an explanation, is it? " "That's it, really. Fred Phillips, my gardener, found the body about that time and came and told us. " "Who is it? " With an abrupt movement, Anne lit another cigarette.
You're not very popular in Streech, are you, Mrs. " "You worked as a receptionist in the doctor's surgery ten years ago. " A flicker of amusement lifted the corners of her mouth. "I was asked to leave. " He shot the question at her suddenly, unnerving her. " He nodded. " Walsh made a note. "We'll follow that up. The children may remember something. Will they be here this weekend, Mrs. " She felt cold. " There was a tremor in her voice. "Is it, Inspector? You have our word there was no body in there six years ago.
It is the key. We searched Streech gardens from end to end ten years ago and none of us looked in here. I'd never seen an ice house in my life, never even heard of such a thing. So of course I didn't know the bloody hill was hollow. How the hell could I? No one told me. I remember standing on it at one point to get my bearings. I even remember, telling one of my chaps to delve deep into those brambles. " He wiped the stem of his pipe on his sleeve again before putting it back in his mouth. Dried tar criss-crossed the tweed like black threads.
Dear Editor: A History of Poetry in Letters