Suddenly It Was Fall, The

Loss Doesn't Feel Redeemable. But For Me One Consoling Aspect Is The Recognition That, In This At Least, None Of Us Is Different From Anyone Else: We All Lose Loved Ones; We All Face Our Own Death.

I Live To Collect Information, And I Am Also A Perfectionist.

Relationships Take Up Energy; Letting Go Of Them, Psychiatrists Theorize, Entails Mental Work. When You Lose Someone You Were Close To, You Have To Reassess Your Picture Of The World And Your Place In It. The More Your Identity Was Wrapped Up With The Deceased, The More Difficult The Loss.

With Ferocity And Extraordinary Craft, Lizzie Harris Has Made A Book Of Poems That Resonates Far Beyond The Personal Stories It Tells. Stop Wanting Reveals, In Every Lyric, Its Author's Profound Metaphorical Gifts. In Its Ironies And Intensities, It Brings To Mind A Writer Like The Young Sylvia Plath, Though What Is Startling About Harris' S Work Is The Way It Combines Those Gifts With A Muted, Deft Self-awareness. Most Of All, These Are Wonderfully Shaped, Powerful, And Surprising Poems-a Startling Debut.

Yet The Story Of Orpheus, It Occurs To Me, Is Not Just About The Desire Of The Living To Resuscitate The Dead But About The Ways In Which The Dead Drag Us Along Into Their Shadowy Realm Because We Cannot Let Them Go. So We Follow Them Into The Underworld, Descending, Descending, Until One Day We Turn And Make Our Way Back.