Digging through early biographies of the Wordsworth, M.E. Bellanca uncovers one by the poet’s nephew Christopher called Memoirs of William Wordsworth, published in 1851. It features, as she notes, heavy quotation (about 45 pgs) from Dorothy Wordsworth’s Grasmere and Scotland journals. So, it should be considered an early publication of Dorothy’s, refuting years of scholarship that had claimed that Wordsworth’s talented sister remained unpublished during her life.

Except scholars made no such claim.

Two events in the history of redemption happened this week that seem to me related, and indicative of our historical moment: the gangster Jeremy Meeks was awarded a modeling contract, and Donna Tartt won the Pulitzer Prize. I’m fascinated by both, largely because I’ve been reading long Victorian poems.

When I began reading Verlyn Klinkenborg’s Several Short Sentences about Writing, I thought the same. It’s so graceful, so winsome, so wise; when will it crash into a tragic heap? 

It occurs to me that the venues we have for discussing work in academic journals is deficient.

This article came just in time. I'm drowning in apps.

As everyone knows, Europeans, compared with Americans, are just plain good at certain things.

Eight months ago, I stopped writing poems. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it just stopped happening, which was odd, since I’ve been writing poems pretty consistently since I was 15.

Here's the problem: I fond of and serious about listening to music, but can't find a medium to which I should give my devotion.

I've looked for so long with trepidation at this moment, it's hard to explain, even to myself, the peace I feel having arrived at it. Bred of hyperbolic warning, the chanting Chicken Little cant had built up for years to say that when you go up on the job market, you will find it a wasteland, cry out for thirst and you will find no water...