“Mr. Weldon Kees, poet, painter, artist, etcetera, composer, critic, etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum.”
If you’re unfamiliar with the poetry of Weldon Kees, first read this excellent seven-page primer by Anthony Lane in the archives of The New Yorker:
He somehow considered it his duty, as a scion of the Kees Manufacturing Company, to wrest and tamp his miseries underground—a guarantee, needless to say, that they would eventually explode. There is no more volatile compound known to man than that of decorum and despair.
And then go and order the collected.
While you’re waiting, get started with “1926” or “For My Daughter” or, even better, “Robinson at Home.”
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