It is with the same disquiet
that one might feel stepping into a cold morgue,
where a body killed after continuous pain
from some deadly nerve gas he inhaled on purpose
might be seen laying on a steel slab,
to reread the words of the dismissive review by Edmund Wilson
on what history has since decreed unambiguously
to be the best novel of the modern era.
The kind reader may well wonder why any time or effort should be spent
on dissecting a review over half a century old, worthy of no attention and no memory.
That we must answer only after reading the review itself.