Reseñas
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Most of all, Donne, Donne, Donne. Every time I think I'm just pretending to love poetry I remember Donne and fireworks with lilybuds happen inside.
Books like this are doomed not to be judged on content (a billion five-star ratings bloom herein) but on curatorial choices, and this is the rare massive anthology that I think could be even massiver, in this case only to include the dramatists of the period, simply because the 17th century is when modern man was born and if you exclude Shakespeare and Marlowe you reduce it programmatically to a question of science and religion, faith and conscience, which is huge and central but which just doesn't leave enough represented my inkling that the even-more-key moment of the 17th c. is stepping off onto that beach, whether it's shipwrecked Viola or "brave new world that has such creatures in it!" or Faust on the astral plane. This was the century when we started to talk in earnest about what stuff dreams, and we, are made on, and while the versifiers and essayists explore that question in their profusion, the addition of the dramatists would have given us less godtological and more intoxicating an overture.½