Word: reader
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...established him overnight as "the Abominable Snowman of modern poetry." (Like that's the most, man.) Howl is an astounding screed, an interminable sewer of a poem that sucks in all the feculence, malignity and unmeaning slime of modern life and spews them with tremendous momentum into the reader's mind. Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks...
...Seven. Among the couths there are seven poets of proven powers. Richard Wilbur, 40, is a first-rate technician and has a dashing way with a phrase-almost too dashing; sometimes the reader can't see the poem for the words. W. D. Snodgrass, 35, a less spectacular writer, is a clear, competent, solidly individual poet who may well become one of America's best. William Meredith, 42, is a master of compression who has written half a dozen superb short poems. Adrienne Cecile Rich, 32, the most accomplished young poet of her sex, has a feminine charm...
...passionate Liliane, the friendship between the hero and Jeannot burns bright and true, a forlorn adult parody of the boyish attachment between the two prep-school friends of A Separate Peace. Least convincing is the character of Jeannot, who is so nearly canine in his simplehearted loyalty that the reader expects him momentarily to dash into a burning building and carry out a trapped child with his teeth...
...nature of things that the great bulk of student writing in literary magazines should fall below professional standards, and yet it is very important that editors have the courage to print the work of promising, but as yet unpolished, authors. However, the reader of the winter Mosaic ought to humble himself before the rampant audacity of the editorial board that has chosen to print Jonathan Shay's I'm Here, Are You There? The editors deserve blame because they, as men in some command over their intellects, have allowed a person with none over his to expose his inadequacy...
...only superficially enchanted with traditional Jewish mysticism. He argues instead that these spiritual dabblers ought to be encouraged, since they may eventually find true faith. Writing from palpable ignorance on this subject. I am unable to say whether Vernoff speaks truth, but, either way, his evangelical style offers the reader some unparalleled moments of exoticism. Speaking of God, he remarks: "Only He can count the pairs of ears, delirious with Indian ragas or the twang of the koto, which really long for the lilt of a good Chassidic niggun!" He speaks of the "irresolute student who apparently wishes to lick...