Friday, July 26, 2013


Here's an excellent compendium of Davenport's — drawing over forty years of his fiction, essays, poetry, translations and his curious personal "journals."  Not to be missed.

If you can't afford the book, find a library copy, or maybe your town is still lucky enough to have a bookstore (lucky you!) and you can take part of a rainy day and curl up with the essay "Finding" on page 255. Not only will the tremendous piece read like it was written by the son Thoreau never had, and despite all the good chatter about Indian arrowheads, it's really all about developing as a writer, thinker, searcher, son, hidden away neighbor, fine-feathered human being.

I read the essay aloud this evening traveling home the back roads with Sweetheart. It felt like GD had to be in the backseat.

The Guy Davenport Reader
edited and with an introduction by Erik Reece
Counterpoint  2013


Luster said...


My Birdhouse day began with Anna and Harlan Howard and it's ending with Guy Davenport, a fine Kentucky breeze blowing in toward me from Paducah and beyond. Love me some Erik Reece too. Long ago I stumbled onto Davenport's Geography of the Imagination. Speaking of geography, my great aunt lived for a spell out in west Texas in the town of Paducah. Returning there from a visit back home in east Texas, the conductor called out Paducah! Another woman on the train awoke from her sleep and looked around saying, This doesn't look like Paducah. She had intended to go to one in Kentucky.

Say good night, Gracie


Bob Arnold / Longhouse said...


Yup, on the Kentucky train all of Friday and I can't improve on your glorious additions — I hope someone is reading you.

I have to believe Guy Davenport would love "Gracie" Allen (as I still do). She, with heterochromia (which she didn't like), allowing her two different color eyes; one blue and one green. Like Robert Frost she was born in San Francisco, while her mate — the 100 year old man — George Burns (and equally amazing) was born in New York City. Once upon a time their act and selves bookended the country. It was then a country that loved its trains.

Some of us still do
all's well, Bob