Scarriet supplies, deliciously, delightfully, a necessary alternative to the banner raising that often passes now for criticism. Still, Tom was wrong to state that I haven’t reviewed the poet Ben Mazer because he’s published by a small press. (I’m not sure who gave him secret access to the contraption of whistles and gears that compose the Rube Goldberg machine of my criticism.) I’ve reviewed a fair number of small-press books over the years, and I look seriously at any book a press sends me. If most of the books I’ve reviewed have come from presses mid-sized or larger, well, those are the books that provoked me. Show me a brilliant book by a press I’ve never heard of, like Melissa Green’s chapbook from Arrowsmith Press; and I’ll review it instantly—even though by the time I received that book it was out of print.
—William Logan
Scarriet’s “Fame and Literature” 5/8/22 which I wrote, said the following:
“Is this essay’s indictment meant to deconstruct not only your feelings, but literature and fame? Like the infinite—an idea that may, or may not, finally exist (does the universe go on forever?)—fame is untouchable; it is the constant in my equation. You, the inconstant one, with the rest of the hypocrites, having your frothy opinions about which poetry is “good” and which poetry you “like,” find your anchor in fame—in the vast poetry pecking order of fame. Ben Mazer has published many books of poetry, but none with a major publisher, so William Logan will not write on him. Logan is famous for his sharp critical teeth—but his teeth chew on what others think, not thought. He returns from the hunt hauling big game; anything less would be embarrassing. William Logan makes no exception to his reviewing rule; even he lives, like all of us, by fame—from which poetry cries and is indistinguishable.”
In the attempt to hammer home my theme that literature is fame—notices, publications, readership—and assuming that if this is true, the pecking order of fame must also be true, I imprisoned William Logan, the great critic, in the magnetic field, with everyone else. There is no individual voice quite like William Logan’s, and I’m only too happy to let him walk away, unharmed, from my pit and my pendulum. Williams Logan is one individual who is always welcome to annoy my philosophy.
When publishing poetry today is like tossing a pebble into the grand canyon, it is good to keep in mind that Criticism is poetry’s light—my poems dwell in my heart and crawl into books with my name on them, dwelling with darkness and flattery—until Criticism comes.
Who have our critics been? Wise, beyond doubt, but too often too wise for the honest, particular review. Where do we go for the honest review? Important question.
Most literary scholars are proud, like Emerson. They don’t stain themselves by reviewing. Harold Bloom? Untrustworthy oratory. Helen Vendler? Charitable and humorless. Marjorie Perloff? Theoretical. Flies a banner.
Why is William Logan of world-historical importance?
Because he is a Critic who reviews. Honestly, and with humor. And lives to tell about it.
Good, independent reviews are good for the ecology. Bloviating manifestos rarely add green to the environment.
Which literary figure in our day is going to last? I’m putting my money on William Logan.
Scarriet 
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