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| Nicholson Baker |
This comes under the heading of “other stuff.” One of the most enjoyable books I’ve seen in a long time is The Anthologist, a novel by Nicholson Baker (Simon and Schuster, 2009). Its narrator is a second-rank poet whose wife has decamped, tired of supporting them while he dawdles and daydreams instead of writing the overdue introduction to a poetry anthology he’s produced, and
earning a fat cheque.
He’s a lovable idler, well intentioned but easily distracted. Anything — a falling leaf, an ant in his driveway, some bit of historical trivia — is sure to sideline his latest effort to settle down and produce the few remaining pages his publisher is demanding. Perversely, what distracts him most frequently is the impulse to tell us about poetry.
Unmistakably, Baker loves poetry. His protagonist knows many of our leading poets personally and has a scholar’s intimacy with their predecessors all the way back to Horace. He quotes Coleridge and Kipling as readily as Alan Ginsberg and Theodore Roethke (whose surname I never knew until now rhymes with “set key”). Above all, he talks about poetry’s origins, its meanings, its usefulness as mnemonic, its role as the foundation of language and a compiler of vocabulary. He teaches us new ways to think about verse, new reasons to embrace it, and new places to look for it.
Too few people in 2011 have more than a hearsay awareness of poetry. But those lucky children raised on rhyme — Dr. Seuss, A. A. Milne, Shel Silverstein, Dennis Lee, who you will — tend to reach adulthood with an appreciation of words’ weight, flavour, value and versatility that will enrich them for life. Baker’s delightful exposition of that should inspire you to run out and pick up a poetry anthology or two for yourself.
earning a fat cheque.
He’s a lovable idler, well intentioned but easily distracted. Anything — a falling leaf, an ant in his driveway, some bit of historical trivia — is sure to sideline his latest effort to settle down and produce the few remaining pages his publisher is demanding. Perversely, what distracts him most frequently is the impulse to tell us about poetry.
Unmistakably, Baker loves poetry. His protagonist knows many of our leading poets personally and has a scholar’s intimacy with their predecessors all the way back to Horace. He quotes Coleridge and Kipling as readily as Alan Ginsberg and Theodore Roethke (whose surname I never knew until now rhymes with “set key”). Above all, he talks about poetry’s origins, its meanings, its usefulness as mnemonic, its role as the foundation of language and a compiler of vocabulary. He teaches us new ways to think about verse, new reasons to embrace it, and new places to look for it.
Too few people in 2011 have more than a hearsay awareness of poetry. But those lucky children raised on rhyme — Dr. Seuss, A. A. Milne, Shel Silverstein, Dennis Lee, who you will — tend to reach adulthood with an appreciation of words’ weight, flavour, value and versatility that will enrich them for life. Baker’s delightful exposition of that should inspire you to run out and pick up a poetry anthology or two for yourself.
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