When I first read “November Sunday Morning,” actually handed to me by the poet on a Sunday morning just before Thanksgiving, it renewed memories of my youth, when I would wander round our neighborhood early in the day and experience instant clarification of streets grown too drearily familiar. I had no name then for these bursts of transcendence, nor did they move me to composition, since any desire to write poems was alien to me. Poetry was what I read incessantly, possessed by memory, and wanted to absorb gradually. The genesis of a literary critic, at least in me, was remote from any incarnation of the poetical character.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
… Harold Bloom on Alvin Feinman’s Self-limiting Transcendence | The Critical Flame. (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)