There was a piece in the New Yorker not long ago about Wendell Berry, which was a name I had heard, but I had never read any of his work. Still haven't. But I liked the sound of him. I looked at his Wikipedia page and saw he had buttloads of work, a fact the article had mentioned. Then I saw a quote from him in something my friend Jack was pushing out over one platform or another. So I asked Jack for a recommendation, and he in turn asked for my address. This week a book arrived in the mail. I opened it and it proved to be a volume of Wendell Berry poems.
If it had been me buying I would have bought a novel, but I guess I'm gonna be reading some poems, something I haven't done a ton of since graduate school, save for a period of trying to read through Leaves of Grass and giving that talk at NC State on Eugene Onegin, which called for immersing myself in Pushkin for a while and also re-reading Vikram Seth's The Golden Gate, always worthwhile. And, of course, occasionally picking up something of my dad's work.
A few more poems won't hurt me.
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