verse reveals, very subtly, a singular personality, someone for whom a poem is not primarily a literary artifact, but rather a necessary utterance, without which a given experience would not be quite complete, setting the experience to a music made entirely of words:O the rowantree lifts there
from Frank Wilson: Philadelphia Inquirer: She lived, breathed, made poems
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That is why invited some to review for me. I would have invited more had I lasted longer.
The critical landscape is changing. I don't know anymore than anybody else does what it will look like when everything settles down, but I do know that, thanks in large measure to blogging and bloggers, it will be richer, more varied, and more alive.
from Frank Wilson: Books Inq.: The Epilogue: Well, here they are . . .
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"Reading Jack's words after all these years, remembering how much they meant to me once, how I was sure I wouldn't don any gray flannel suit and trudge to an office day in, day out, and knowing full well that tomorrow morning and the day after and after I'll tie my tie and sit down at my desk yet again, well, it makes me wonder if I can still, even at this late date, salvage me some authenticity. Yeah, reading Jack has reminded me that living means more than just making a living, and that it's always easier to get along by going along. As Ray confesses, 'I had no guts anyway . . . .'"
Kass Mencher, my friend Eric Mencher's wife, is the only person I know who read this and inferred--quite correctly--that it signaled my plans to retire.
I could have continued to get along by going along, but I didn't have to, and I sure didn't want to. So I decided not to.
from Frank Wilson: Books Inq.: The Epilogue: Why I decided . . .
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