I stopped going to poetry readings, events that left me agitated, especially when poets used any of the following words: luminous, nascent, nocturne and gossamer.
The Black Keys attack "Dearest"; Patti Smith turns in a luminous version of "Words of Love"; Lou Reed loosens up on "Peggy Sue and Paul McCartneyey loosens up even more on "It's So Easy," which includes a growling interlude full of down-and-dirty come-ons.
Almost every time I spoke — I speak — of him, I am compelled to use the word "luminous".
The word "luminous" is a critic's cliché, to be avoided at all costs, but it fits Ms. Redniss's book pretty snugly.
I've always had an allergy to the word "luminous" in literary criticism, because it's what lazy critics tend to call beautiful but humourless books.
She's Australian, she's married, she's not yet 30, she has thoroughbred's bones, there is consensus about the face - marvellous, quirky, the beauty elusive - and a moratorium has been declared on the word luminous to describe either her skin or acting.
I promise not to use the word "luminous" to describe Saariaho's score, since I have already seen that one used in at least four reviews.
(This year it went to "The Lion and the Mouse" by Jerry Pinkney, an adaptation of the Aesop's fable with luminous images and no words at all).
I'm saying that, despite the luminous clarity of his words, there is an intentionally unsolvable mystery in the wilderness of each Strand poem.
And that's the other key word here: luminous.
