It takes a tormented intellectual to write a book like this. To connect with the morbid curiosity that rules his life, he crashes through the gates at Aristotle, jumps the tracks at Keats, hurtles through the flashing red lights at Coleridge Junction, derails Shakespeare and Poor Yorick on an isolated spur line, and scoops up Emily Dickinson in the cowcatcher and quotes her to death.
Read Full Article »
