Paul Goodman wrote these entries over five years, between 1955-1960, and we find him wondering about Wordsworthian syntax, about Zombie formalism and the death of Jackson Pollock, conceptual patches and the "progress" of science and art, and many more. The intellect is endless, and writing its life. Here he's also on trial with himself viz. his erotic attraction toward black men, young boys, and his self-infatuation, too. On a personal level it's not a pretty picture, this life of the mind. The candor I find scary -- I think that's how it's intended to come off. He was brave to publish it even six years after it had been finished. We ought to have all of Goodman's diaries and notebooks available, but his was a messy life, and his literary estate has been rough and tumble. So returning to these I find myself grateful for the opportunity for a peek.