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Gerald Stern, little by little, in these masterful poems, tasks the torque of knowledge and enlightenment in things m?bius, people and places, Paris, Long Island, Harlem, the cuisine in between, who notices the stain of Nazi-fingers on the lips of Arendt, who bows down to the little animals once again and laughs out loud, it seems, because he still stuffs a twenty inside his shoe heel as in the early dayswho charts a life of many loves and turnsand that indescribable and churning thing calledour lives. Pure movement of mind, passion, knowledgea letter of sortsto the universe.There has never been a poet like Gerald Stern, who likes to shake things and empty them out, and then share whats found with the entire congregation. Sorrow and exultation get their equal turn, but its the human imagination and all its jubilant fecundity thats paid special attention. Whether its a fistfight between Stevens and Hemingway (Who punched whom) or Tolstoy dying unsweetened, whats offered is nothing less than an excursion into the soul, where, as we all know, one finds love for the galaxy.
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