Ange Mlinko
“The most unusual application of the O death [where is thy sting?] sentence arose out of a naming coincidence. A report on the 1994 Grammys focused on a well-known pop singer. The headline ran: Mockery, where is thy Sting?: Gordon Sumner, causing a buzz at the Grammys. The pun has since been used several times. It evidently proved irresistible in 2007 when Sting’s group, Police, had a reunion. One reviewer, it seems, found the occasion uninspiring: Sting, where is thy sting?”—David Crystal, Begat
Ange Mlinko
When Jordan recommended this book to me a couple of months ago, I had reservations; I’m not always a fan of the Marcus approach, for reasons suggested here (e.g., “Depending on your tastes, this is either spellbinding secret history or a rote exercise in épater le bourgeois…overeager to replace piety with kitsch”). Jordan then emailed a pdf of the entry on Hank Williams to persuade me. It was good. So when I saw the book fresh on the shelves of the AUB library—an improbable sight to be sure—I got my husband to borrow it for me.
This post is not about the book, but about the way two essays re: poetry glanced off each other and illuminated something awfully depressing for me.
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Ange Mlinko
My review of James Schuyler’s Other Flowers is up, part of The Nation’s Spring Books Issue.