Rexroth, Olson, Steiglitz, O'Keeffe . . . Reading the Book Review lately has become a sad ordeal. Where are the artists one can admire apart from the work?
Irrelevant question, of course. The work is all. The art. All that should matter. And yet . . . something nags, persists. The work . . .
The reviewer found it amusing that Rexroth was with a priest at his life's end. Did the poet discover something too late for inclusion in the work? That art perhaps--just perhaps--doesn't excuse?
JOSEPH EARNER, NORTH HOLLYWOOD