entirely to any actual place or landscapernof the mind (unlike Robert Frost, whosernNorth of Boston is a constant backgroundrnand who could say of himself earlyrnon: “they would not find me changedrnfrom him they knew— / onl)- more surernof all I thought was true”). But then, perhaps,rnour fragmented society requires arnmore roving perspective, a kind of goingrnhere and there. There is no doubt thatrnGarrett has “gotten around,” “made thernscene,” and extracted as much as herncould from these experiences, dismalrnthough they sometimes were.rnBut, for the most part, the lasting aurarnof the poems is genial, and gives off thernglow of a pleasant man who remembersrnthe essence of Isak Dinesen’s “I do notrncome for pity, I will come for pleasure.”rnThis is rare enough among literary personalitiesrnto be wortl: emphasizing. Toornoften we admire the work, and, alas, deplorernthe author.rnHas Garrett found life, particularly thernHterary life, worthwhde and satisfying?rnYes and no. We find him constantlyrnaware of the loss of traditional valuesrnwith litdc else of value to put in theirrnplace. A number of poems convey diernsadness and cultural malaise of RainerrnMaria Rilke’s “Each torpid turn of thernworld has such disinherited children /rnTo whom no longer what has been, andrnnot yet what is coming, belongs.” At thernsame hme, as I have suggested before,rnthere is an incurable optimism inrnGarrett’s nature in spite of the culturalrnstranglehold. After a poem about “grayrnthoughts dark laughter cold words”rn(“Pathetic Fallacy”), followed by “Grayrnon Gray,” he gives us a very happy poemrnindeed, brief enough to quote in itsrnentirctv’:rnHow It Is How It WasrnHow It Will BernHow it isrnon the next day afterrnthe blizzardrnhow the sk}’ clears blues brightensrncloudless and clean with the oldrnmoonrnfloating here and there quiet andrngrinningrnand the quiet fallen snowrnglinting winking glitteringrn(is there one and only word for it?)rnw ith abundance opulencernextravagancernof (one and only) sunlightrnhow mv breath and the river’srndo steam and ghost andrnshimmyshakernin this purely cold airrnhow now wc knowrnthat we shall sureU’ live foreverrnhow now we want to.rnPerhaps his credo emerges best of allrnfrom a poem entitled “Postcard,” which,rnironically, is a good deal longer than anyrnpostcard I ever received, but then, as Irnhae said, George Garrett is a generousrn”Dear World, though I havernloved yournand lost you, times beyondrncounting,rnstill I write upon tiiis instant inrnreceiptrnof all your ordinan,’ music torninform yournthat I can’t live without you.rnI intend, by God, hell and highrnwater,rnsleet or snow and the wheel ofrnfortune,rnto come back for more of thernsame….”rnThis is enough for any man to believernin these days. The dust jacket states thatrnGarretf s reputation rests mainly on hisrnfiction. This fine collection demonstratesrnthat it should include his poetryrnas well.rn^rnAre You a Memberrnof The Rockford Institute ?rnWouldn’t you like to know what ourrneditors do when they’re not writingrnfor Chronidesl For a tax-deductiblernmembership donation of $25, you will receive thernInstitute’s Main Street Memorandum, your sourcernfor all the hard-hitting commentary and RockfordrnInstitute news that can’t fit in the pages ofrnChronicles. To join, send a check for $25 to:rnTRI Membershiprn928 North Main StreetrnRockford, IL 61103rnSEPTEMBER 1998/31rnrnrn