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Apr. 22nd, 2013 06:57 amI forgot the tendency of early 19th century reviews to quote whole pages at a time, so Hazlitt's exasperated take on Posthumous Poems had me suddenly reading Shelley.
Have I been in flight from him? I've read bits here and there, these last years, but my guard was up - I set myself about it. Turned off some lights in my mind before beginning. This time turned a corner he was there.
Did something of mine become bound up in what he wrote? It's so personal to me. I was immediately, I mean immediately, both happier and sadder than I've been in ages.
But I was too when I read him first. He's like nothing else. Maybe Proust or Shakespeare or someone builds to something similar. But Shelley's there at once.
Part of me admires people who have no favorites, who disregard names, who pick up the new thing as if newly born. For me it's different.
Have I been in flight from him? I've read bits here and there, these last years, but my guard was up - I set myself about it. Turned off some lights in my mind before beginning. This time turned a corner he was there.
Did something of mine become bound up in what he wrote? It's so personal to me. I was immediately, I mean immediately, both happier and sadder than I've been in ages.
But I was too when I read him first. He's like nothing else. Maybe Proust or Shakespeare or someone builds to something similar. But Shelley's there at once.
Part of me admires people who have no favorites, who disregard names, who pick up the new thing as if newly born. For me it's different.
