By W. S. Merwin.
Chronological fidelity is desired less than impressionistic immediacy.
Merwin, the author of nine books of poetry and 12 books of translation, creates by way of the uncompromising plainness of his language a haunting and frequently disturbing portrait of Americans who seem, in this convincing account at least, to have had no language - no interest in literature, very few books in their houses, a minimum even of curiosity about one another's sometimes tragic lives. She said, well she supposed she did know some things, probably as much as anybody. None of the rest of them thought anything of all that. But these were precious years that would not come again. He would tell me how hard things had been for him as a boy, and how fortunate we were, we children, and how much easier life was for us, with our yard to play in.