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I came to the work of the late Herbert McCabe in typical oblique fashion: somewhere in the notes to one of the Terry Eagleton books I reviewed last year, McCabe is identified as being an influence on certain elements of Eagleton’s thinking. To my mind any point of intersection between a Marxist critic and a Catholic philosopher is intriguing and ( Read more... )

Franz Wright’s F is a prickly, quirky, not entirely likeable but somehow fascinating collection that kept reeling me back in for one more poem, even as it elicited occasional snorts of exasperation. Wright, it is obligatory if somewhat annoying to note, is the son of revered American poet James Wright, a sturdy, workmanlike sort of proletarian ( Read more... )