Gathering fugitive essays, published for the most part over the
past ten years, Hall (Life Work, 1993, etc.) constructs a model
miscellany. To introduce readers to his preoccupations, Hall opens
with a long investigation of the baseball poem "Casey at the Bat"
and follows with a short paean to trees. He treats poetry, of
course, and sport, most often baseball; also history, whether
ancient, national, local, or natural. New England's peculiar
culture and unique landscape have a particular hold on his
imagination. After an intriguing "tour of the less-read books of
Henry Adams," Hall considers small-town New Hampshire in a trio of
short essays that delicately chart the passage into history of the
grammar schools, parlors, and graveyards that formed the horizons
of his childhood. With a memoir of the eccentric New England author
Robert Francis, Hall segues into a section on poetry. Here he
places astute treatments of Marvell, E.A. Robinson, and James
Wright, as well as a stirring defense of public funding for the
arts. Other pieces include a moving account of how Hall's recent
illness has influenced his attitude toward reading. At this point
returns diminish somewhat: A piece from the early 1960s on sculptor
Henry Moore feels out of place, while profiles of Boston Celtic
fixtures Bob Cousy and Red Auerbach - and even an account of
meeting Red Sox World Series hero Carlton Fisk - lack verve. But
Hall reestablishes his indomitable voice in a concluding quartet of
essays, moving from recollections of the magical baseball summer of
1941, through a parable about country stores and a wry discussion
of rural real estate, to a fascinating childhood memory of how a
Hollywood melodrama about the Spanish Civil War led him to renounce
war play. "I take sentences apart, and put them together again,"
goes Hall's concluding clause here. So he does - and who does it
better? (Kirkus Reviews)
This is Hall at large, ruminating on the subjects that never fail
to move him: baseball, poetry, poets, reading, the rough terrain of
home. -The New YorkerA vibrant testament to the substance of a
writer's experience.-The Boston Globe.
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