After I read these depressing poets on cancer.
Rae Armantrout got a Pulitzer for her book last year -- poems include selecting a place on the California coast for ash-dumping... Ted Kooser wrote one. Judith Hall's book (I read it ages ago for WOMPO -- plus she's local) is called, _Anatomy, Errata_. Isn't that cool? The front has a piece of hindu statuary with the breasts defaced (almost all of the statues are missing them, I guess between gravity and the Greeks...).
I'm slightly afraid of re-reading Kathy Acker, Adrienne Rich, Audre Lord, some of the later Susan Sontag. I've shied away from reading -- even a supposedly cool memoir from a U of RI prof. Why are people looking to artists for reports about suffering, not fun?
Ron found me the most absurdly dull Penguin paperback leftover from HIS college years about New England in the 1700s -- Crevecoeur -- it is impossible to know the subject under scrutiny, or to determine whether one read it before falling asleep, or not.
I wonder if Whitney St. John is a descendant.
It is almost TOO dull to be a falling asleep book. I mean, reading it is speeping, while not sleeping, so it doesn't lull? Perhaps I protest too much...