If William Logan were to review my book (which he would not because I am too obscure: he only duels with the Big Guns), I would be terrified to read it. He may be the most excoriating critic in existence, and he seems to hate almost every contemporary poetry collection he's ever opened. In an essay about Logan's most recent collection of reviews, British writer Rory Waterman remarks that "Logan's criticism is often as American as a drive-by shooting"--a comment that is both hilarious and apt. Rory's review is detailed and interesting, and I think some of you might appreciate its bemused reflection on the tangled worlds of reader, poet, critic, and publisher. Plus, his prose is beautiful. I first met Rory when he was assigned to interview me for Poets' Quarterly, and since then he has founded his own poetry journal, New Walk Magazine, which is scheduled to release its inaugural issue this month. It's been a pleasure to discover what an excellent writer he is.

In other news, today my son James began his first day of 11th grade. Meaning that I am home alone until 2:30. Meaning that I can write . . . and I think I may have to write about Nabokov's Lectures on Literature. It's disappointed me. Or I've disappointed it. I'm not quite sure how to express this problem.