Jun. 20th, 2005

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The Times reviewer says he gets Byron's voice all wrong, the Post thinks it's a resurrection. The book's being shipped so this Journal is holding its tongue. I read three or four thousand pages of Byron back in the day, poems letters etc., he was one of my gateway authors, so I feel qualified to settle the conscience of the continent on this.

Revisited Manfred in February and was happy to find he still had something. His doubts about what he was doing kept him small but also reminded him of his readers; he keeps things clear and on track, draws within the lines, something of a Samson Agonistes quality. His compeers mostly drew lines to cross, erase or forget them. I don't mean his "plots" are particularly composed, obviously Childe Harold meanders and Don Juan is self-delightingly insane. But when he's saying something he says it, in paragraphs fitting the reader's attention margins, gusts pleasantly compressing the skullpads. When you squint through the Romantics to try to glimpse the perfect poet none of them quite was (to the extent that wasn't Milton or a slab of him) she has this quality. Where necessary.

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