News at Eleven: It would be quite something to have

a father so gifted in horrible evocation. The poet adds: "I've made it up or rather I've mistaken/my father's story for the thing itself://the smell, the wormy skull, the policeman/tall, bright-buttoned, standing by the Aga." Untelling the story like this does nothing to cancel the stench, which transmits itself to the reader's imagination like a sort of sensory curse passed on in the telling: whatever "real" means, this is surely part of it.

from The Guardian: The Crumb Road by Maitreyabandhu--review

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