[ 1 minutes to read ]
I’ve read enough from Wilson that I knew a couple of things for sure before I ever picked this book up. The first was that I wanted to read it. I like reading and I like writing. I also like reading about writing and oddly enough I’ve found I like reading about reading. I knew it would be informative and enjoyable and I was disappointed on neither front.
The second surety was that I could name at least half the authors out of the nine without looking at the list. I also knew there would be a lot of initials and some of what would be said about those authors. Before your eyes narrow, I do not write this to be self-congratulatory. The point I’m laboring like a young hand trying to lift a pallet with a 1:1 hoist to make is that given all this my enjoyment of reading this book wasn’t blunted in the least.
You will find old friends here and perhaps meet some new ones. You will get recommendations for reading with some good reasons for reading them. The last author was a pleasant surprise inclusion. My only experience heretofore with T. S. Eliot is high school literature class and I don’t foresee me renewing that acquaintance any time soon despite the recommendation. I have a certain level of appreciation for poetry, but as the yutes say, I don’t get it.