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3.42 AVERAGE
3.42 AVERAGE
Rambling and with odd repetitions and lacunae, this book encapsulates the image of a white male poet of a certain era until the very end, when it becomes a vivid and slightly unhinged image of first, a man grieving horribly for his beloved wife and second, the indignities of becoming an old man. The last chapter, "The Planet of Antiquity," is worth the whole book, especially his account of being pulled over and arrested (and handcuffed) for, basically, driving while old.
So, this is the second memoir of Donald Hall's I've read, and I still haven't read his poetry. It's not like I actively sought this book out though - it was laid out on the $4.99 table at the Harvard Bookstore when I visited Cambridge last week, and I remember [b:String Too Short to Be Saved|325464|String Too Short to Be Saved|Donald Hall|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1173762892s/325464.jpg|316127] with much fondness... and this was only $4.99...
In many ways, this memoir was too personal for me - perhaps an odd thing to say, but what I mean is that Hall assumes a basic knowledge of important literary figures in America in his reader, and drops names all over the book so casually I found myself a little lost at some parts.
The other thing that confused me is the somewhat disconnected nature of his thoughts within each chapter. There are quite a few digressions even within this short memoir (especially near the beginning), which made me feel a little as though I were reading a long poem (whose meaning I have to work harder to grasp from what seems to be a series of disparate images) rather than a piece of prose.
The life Hall leads as a poet is a fascinating one, though I wonder how poets who are rather more self-made (not participating in literary societies at Harvard/Oxford or belonging to an academic community at Ann Arbor, but more Wallace Stevens-like, perhaps) grow without a community of like-minded people sustaining their creativity.
In many ways, this memoir was too personal for me - perhaps an odd thing to say, but what I mean is that Hall assumes a basic knowledge of important literary figures in America in his reader, and drops names all over the book so casually I found myself a little lost at some parts.
The other thing that confused me is the somewhat disconnected nature of his thoughts within each chapter. There are quite a few digressions even within this short memoir (especially near the beginning), which made me feel a little as though I were reading a long poem (whose meaning I have to work harder to grasp from what seems to be a series of disparate images) rather than a piece of prose.
The life Hall leads as a poet is a fascinating one, though I wonder how poets who are rather more self-made (not participating in literary societies at Harvard/Oxford or belonging to an academic community at Ann Arbor, but more Wallace Stevens-like, perhaps) grow without a community of like-minded people sustaining their creativity.
I didn't really find this that interesting except for the fact that he went to school with Edward Gorey and was married to a poet who I don't mind. I don't know why I kept reading it so much. I think it's because I'm nosy.
The elegant and touching love story of Poet Donald Hall and his wife, Jane Kenyon, in her last days. I'm preparing to read Essays after Eighty by Donald Hall. I wanted a little bit of his back story.