My Articles 

Well, he liked cats too! Poets who like cats are statistically good poets. :P Joseph Brodsky occupies a curious position in twentieth-century literature. Unlike Neruda, Plath, Ginsberg, Heaney, or even his fellow Nobel laureate Czesław Miłosz, he has never become a poet of popular quotation or public affection. His reputation among poets and critics has always been immense, yet he remains strangely absent from the wider reading public. The paradox is striking because Brodsky

Reading, of late, has slowed to a dignified crawl, not for want of desire, but because exhaustion has perfected its choreography around my evenings. One returns home with the agreeable illusion that the day’s labour has concluded, only to discover that “personal work”, that most elastic of categories, awaits with renewed enthusiasm. Teaching, curiously enough, is the least taxing component; it is the extracurricular anthropology that extracts its toll. There is a peculiar fat