The poems of air are slowly dying; too light for the page, too faint, too far away, the ones we’ve called The Moon, The Stars, The Sun, sink into the sea or slide behind the cooling trees at the field’s edge. The grave of light is...
The first reaction of the educated public to a new volume of political memoirs is one of wariness. Will this be another pièce justicatif — or an example of Establishment iconography aimed at glorifying distinguished pomposity—or both...
