Opening any new book begins an adventure. It may turn out to be an adventure of the Disneyland type—mechanical rides, overpriced nutrition-free snacks, sweaty adolescents in cartoon character costumes (you know: the whole Post-Modern funhouse)—or one of those voyages “buoy’d on the dense marine“: Leaves of Grass, Neruda’s Fin de Mundo, Ammons’s Sphere. Of course, most books fall in between these extremes. But I confess to a preference for those that offer the sensation of “waves breaking just over the hill,” a salt fragrance of depths and distances.Read More