I picked this up off a library bookshelf. I have only read, occasionally, Cole's poems in The New Yorker but can remember a colleague, one whom I thought would replace Charles Wright among US poets of natural description, saying, as we crossed the campus, that he would give an arm or a leg or both to get the imprimatur of Helen Vendler, who had just given Cole a very nice write-up in The New Yorker.
In any case, I was startled by how much I was captured by the book an its seventeen sections. Rilke, Baudelaire, Elizabeth Bishop, Lowell, Plath are the most discussed poets though Cole does not want to be a "confessional" poet. One line follows his friendship with James Lord, the Giacometti biographer I earlier disparaged. These plus the momentary glimpses of Paris are quite engaging.
The author can stoop to banalities--"Chardin proves that still life is not an inferior genre. . . . I like how food--an ugly sea creature--is [the painting's] subject. No subject should be too low for a painting or a poem" (p 43); "[w]e are all born in a womb and end up in a tomb" (p 117 and elsewhere). But he has insightful comments on Baudelaire, Plath, suggestive of what he should like to accomplish, "to extend the boundaries of the lyric" (p 105).
He is writing all of this down "because I don't want to conceal anything, or be surreptitious. I want to reveal something--everyday myths, fables, and allegories--that might otherwise remain dormant behind the intense beauty of Paris" (p 109). He tries to do this through his own action, art, movies, poetry and the lives of the poets, finishing with a litany of "je t'aimes (pp 165-70).
The reader must decide his success though it is satisfying enough to gaze with him at the things which attract his attention.