Wednesday, February 8th, 2012

Even the Best Poets Hate Themselves

"This diffidence never left him: when he was preparing his last book for the press, Leibowitz writes, Williams grew so anguished that he 'tore the manuscript to pieces and dumped them in the trash.' His wife had to fish out the fragments and mail them to his publisher, James Laughlin of New Directions, 'who put them together like a jigsaw puzzle.'
—Adam Kirsch reviews three new books about American poet William Carlos Williams.

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Mr. B (#10,093)

I'm pretty sure Rilke was totally in love with himself but never mind.

(Thanks for posting; I needed something smart to read today.)

Multiphasic (#411)

Success in life could be defined by never being in a situation where anything at all depends on a damp wheelbarrow, regardless of the presence of chickens.

I think the Simpsons jumped the shark when they renamed Fat Tony Anthony "Fat Tony" d'Amico from William "Fat Tony" Williams.

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