If it were not for poetry, Postman Pat would have a black-and-white dog. Poets, however, are another matter. While I derive much joy from what they do for a living, primarily because of the manner in which they do it, when they deploy this manner where it has no business, I derive no joy at all. ...
So it is no accident that I launch the first farrago of my autumn term with that hoary cri de coeur, since it was the uproarious stand-up Hermann Goering who, when he heard the word culture, reached for his Browning, and his plucky Luftwaffe will shine brightly in what follows – along with the ro...