That last fortune cookie bears some explaining. I’ve been leafing through Yale University Press’s new Swinburne collection all morning, grateful for the review copy that arrived from YUP (a one-time OGIC employer) unbidden. I’ve never been able to crack the code that might grant me appreciation, perhaps even enjoyment, of Swinburne’s difficult poetry. He’s long sat, face to the wall, with George Meredith in the dimly-lit corner this Victorianist reserves for barely-readable Victorians. And yet I’ve secretly felt all along that the fault must be mine, that if I work hard enough at it I might actually come to love their work. Well, Meredith’s anyway.
So this week arrives the new Yale Swinburne volume, co-edited by the redoubtable Jerome McGann, which includes excerpts from the poet’s criticism. There are considerations of Baudelaire, Byron, Arnold, Blake, and Charlotte and Emily Bront