John's review
The Collected Works of Billy the Kid by Michael Ondaatje
I'd say this book is like a Terence Malick movie transformed into poetry/prose/a few pictures. It's fragmentary, nebulous, disintegrating, nonsensical, beautiful, weird, scary, quiet, even silent. It's got lots and lots of white space. For a reason. I think it's wonderful and I want to spend even more time with it, let it soak in a bit more before further reports. One thing to say: it's very much an Ezra Pound poetry as history sort of thing, but clearer (but only because we know the myth immediately since it's still prevalent, as opposed to, say, the history of the Malatesta family in 16th century Italy). Enjoy it.
