Went for a stroll the other day and happened to pick up a copy of Clive James’s Poetry Notebook: Reflections on the Intensity of Language. Returning to my office, I opened the book to a random page to see what I’d just purchased. Here’s what I read: “Early in the twentieth century, E. E. Cummings was as hot against materialist society as only a poet living on a trust fund can be.” That alone is worth the $25.
