Gary Snyder
In my bedroom here in Honolulu I have a cedar panel with a crude Japanese-ish carving of a river. It's signed "Robel" and dated 1975. My mom gave it to me in my early teens along with a dogeared copy of "Zen Flesh, Zen Bones". She got it in her commune days, and I've always imagined a skinny bearded dude chopping and carving it somewhere in the foothills of the Cascades.
Anyway, Gary Snyder. He's been a hero to me for a long time, and this New Yorker profile from a couple of weeks ago is some deep Cascadian shit. It brought back memories for me of a childhood milieu that he was partially responsible for inspiring.
Parts of the profile veer incredibly close to self-parody, but over the years I have come to perceive that as a sign of greatness.