In the interest of self-preservation, I make a point to notice when I am in a room with someone who is a better reader of poetry than me. I have been around long enough to know the limits of my own facility with poetics, and I know the educating sting of correction well. Early in my career, a hasty hotel-desk revision of a conference paper led me to misstate the stanzaic form of a poem, and I can still hear the venerable scholar who noticed my mistake: “Those are actually Spenserians on your handout, not ottava rima. It matters to get these things right.” My memory of the conference room in which this silly shameful scene took place is precise. As a result, I approach the task of reviewing Virginia Jackson’s extraordinary new book with some trepidation.
Another disclosure, in the spirit of critical ethics: for several years, roughly...
University of California Press