Other than “To an Athlete Dying Young,” my familiarity with A. E. Housman is very limited. But serendipitously a published lecture of his found me and I have been deeply reading it for a couple of months now. The lecture is titled The Name and Nature of Poetry.
In contrast, another book found me in late August. It is Finding the Islands by W. S. Merwin. This too have I read deeply for the last few months (and I dare not confess how much my library fine is to date).
These authors speak to be in a manner that few contemporary writers do. Modern readers consume modern fiction and poetry, but modern literary works seem less and less able to engage me. I feel — at times — as if I am drifting backwards in time as my years advance.