So this is supposed to be about the how, and when, and why, and what of reading -- about the way that, when reading is going well, one book leads to another and to another, a paper trail of theme and meaning; and how, when it's going badly, when books don't stick or take, when your mood and the mood of the book are fighting like cats, you'd rather do anything but attempt the next paragraph, or reread the last one for the tenth time.

I've committed to nothing...and that's just suicide...by tiny, tiny increments.

In other words, it's one of those books you thrust on your partner with an incredulous cry of "This is me!

contemporary poetry is a kind of Reykjavik, a place where accessibility and intelligence have been fighting a Cold War by proxy for the last half-century.

The plain state of being human is dramatic enough for anyone

Most people have a rope that ties them to someone, and that rope can be short or it can be long. (Be long. Belong. Get it?) You don't know how long, though. It's not your choice.

But then, that was the trouble with relationships generally. They had their own temperature and there was no thermostat.