Frost is searching his pockets for a timetable. "May I?" The
Younger Poet hands across two.
Frost would not remember him. In the past half-year he's met and
talked with more people than the Younger Poet will see in a lifetime. But Frost
gives him a hard look. "I've seen you before."
"At Mr. Holmes's place. Last March"
"Oh yes." Frost speak the Younger Poet's name.
The Younger Poets stands up, beams, bows. Frost begins to talk
about poetryPaul Engle, Robinson Jeffers, the Atlanticand the Younger
Poet remains in the aisle, attending. He sees a chance to offer up a line of
Philip Sidney's: "Good poetry always tells the truth."
"That's a good one," Frost says. "But it makes us fall back on
the stock phrase, What is truth?' Age-old. Take Keats's Beauty is truth, truth
beauty.' A fine phrase, as far as it goes. But we know well that truth is not
always beautiful. Ugliness is truth. WE must remember that."
At Springfield, Frost helps Mrs. Morrison off the train.
Passengers whisper as he passes. When he returns, he sits next to Younger Poet.
"My son, Carol, died last night. He killed himself."
"My God! I'm sorry"
The old poet's face quakes, and he turns away impatiently.
"Please don't talk to me any more."
The train begins to move. Autumn slides past the window. Frost
never looks. Instead, he begins to talk, and doesn't stop until Williamstown.
The Younger Poet calls on his mnemonic techniques. Frost speaks of how to build
a poem, of his own books, of his disappointment with Mountain Interval,
of the sad business of reviews that twist an artist out of shape.
The Younger Poet says he has a copy at home of the infamous
article in the Quarterly Review that so discourage Keats.
"You have? Is it as bad as they say?"
"The most bitter words I've ever read."
Frost is avid. "Are you able to quote any?"
He gets off the train at Williamstown. The Younger Poet stays in
his seat, scribbling furiously in the shorthand he's learned expressly for
Frost's lectures. He gets it all down. He includes the telling details of a
ragged patch of whiskers under Frost's lower lip, showing he lacked heart to
shave with care that morning.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...