Have you ever read a book by one of your favorite writers that you were really looking forward to reading but then didn’t read for some time and then when you did finally read it, this book you so wanted to read, you are completely in love with it and wonder why you didn’t read it as soon as you bought it? I’ve been reading A Human Eye by Adrienne Rich. It is a book of essays written between 1997-2008 that have appeared other places, book reviews, book introductions, lectures, that kind of thing. I have had it for a year and a half and have been so excited about it and yearning to read it but yet every time I had the chance to pick it up I didn’t. I have no idea why. I always had an excuse. When I picked it up this time I came *this close* to putting it back and choosing a different book. But I decided I could no longer bear the guilt that had accumulated because of not reading this book that I longed to read.

And now today I have been wondering why I took so long to start reading it. I was mentally chastising myself about it all day. Now I feel a bit beat up but have decided that it is better to be grateful that something stopped me from passing it up again and got me to read it now.

I don’t usually post long quotes, but I have to post one I read today. It is from “Permeable Membrane,” and appeared in a symposium on Rich’s work in the spring 2006 Virginia Quarterly Review. The essay is Rich writing about her poetry. She revised it slightly for the book. This comes from section 2:

I’ve wanted to write subjective visions of objective conditions. But this sounds like a program. Say rather: Poems become suffused, as the existence, the inner life of the maker must, with what’s going on, the breaks in the assumed fabric. The makings of art are rooted in non-art labors–repetitive, toxic, body-breaking, minimum wage or less or none–that everywhere underlie those privileged creations. What you do and don’t see. What is seeing you. Eyes in the thicket, eyes in the street.

I need to reach beyond interior decoration, biography. Art is a way of melting out through one’s own skin. “What, who is this about?” is not the essential question. A poem is not about; it is out of and to. Passionate language in movement. The deep structure is always musical, and physical–as breath, as pulse.

She’s good.

More when I finish the book, probably next week.