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Wit has an odd place in poetry. Even in Shakespeare and Donne it arouses suspicions before it diverts them into pleasure. In Marvell it is a complicated line of defense; in Pope it is a form of mastery; in Byron a form of recklessness. In none of these cases is there any question of what A. R. Ammons calls 'the uninterfering means' of poetry. The means here are all interference, the mind cuts capers between the poem and the world.
Review, 3218 words
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