by Julia West
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poetry
Reading Anne Carson's poems is like searching through a box of someone else's trinkets: Each item, and the way the pieces link to each other, is telling of its owner. Carson's minimal style allows space for the reader's thoughts to stretch out and move around; each line stands on its own, and every word feels meticulously handpicked. Carson understands how a world of emotion can attach itself to an old cardigan, ingrain itself into the fibers. And her poems' subjects can bear their entire souls simply by citing Emily Brontë as a favorite author. It seems appropriate, then, that Carson's reading at Penn is part poetry, part performance.


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