Bill Knott has finally rolled all his “on poetry” posts into one blog. They are wonderful, each and every one.
I think of Knott’s crisp, insightful readings against the gaseous posturing of Silliman, the phoniness of Bernstein, the trend-of-the-moment faux-profound enthusiasm of Perloff et. al. Is there anyone else out there who prefers to wander among the lines of individual poems rather than concoct sweeping theories of the psyche or fake lineages for their favorite hobby horses?
Knott has that rare quality we should all pine for in criticism: intelligence rooted in the granularity of language.