University of California Press, 606 pp., $14.95
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Ezra Pound, aged eighty-seven, died in the night of November 1, 1972, released at last from a long, agitated silence ('but the mind as Ixion, unstill, ever turning'). For ten years, haunted by despair, contrition, or some other, nameless, more complicated sentiment, he had spoken very little. 'I ruin everything I touch,' he told an Italian journalist in 1963. 'I have been mistaken, always I have arrived at doubt too late .' He thought The Cantos were 'botched,' and confessed to Allen Ginsberg (in a conversation reported by Michael Reck in Evergreen Review) that his worst mistake had been 'that stupid, suburban prejudice of anti-Semitism.'
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