Oxford, 384 pp., $6.75
In the caravan hauling Auden up Parnassus, the poet himself cuts sometimes an odd figure. First, this is simply because he is alive and kicking in the midst of a ceremony that still seems, despite all the modern precedent for it, one that might decently be reserved for a later time. True, we must all be thankful when honors come to living artists, but, entire books about them: this is different, this is not the conferring of the laurel, this is some chillier touch on the brow.
Review, 1315 words
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