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Little Boy
From the famed publisher and poet, author of the million-copy-selling collection A Coney Island of the Mind , his literary last will and testament -- part autobiography, part summing up, part Beat-inflected torrent of language and feeling, and all magical.
"A volcanic explosion of personal memories, political rants, social commentary, environmental jeremiads and cultural analysis all tangled together in one breathless sentence that would make James Joyce proud. . ."
—Ron Charles, The Washington Post
In this unapologetically unclassifiable work Lawrence Ferlinghetti lets loose an exhilarating rush of language to craft what might be termed a closing statement about his highly significant and productive 99 years on this planet. The "Little Boy" of the title is Ferlinghetti himself as a child, shuffled from his overburdened mother to his French aunt to foster childhood with a rich Bronxville family. Service in World War Two (including the D-Day landing), graduate work, and a scholar gypsy's vagabond life in Paris followed. These biographical reminiscences are interweaved with Allen Ginsberg-esque high energy bursts of raw emotion, rumination, reflection, reminiscence and prognostication on what we may face as a species on Planet Earth in the future. Little Boy is a magical font of literary lore with allusions galore, a final repository of hard-earned and durable wisdom, a compositional high wire act without a net (or all that much punctuation) and just a gas and an inspiration to read.
"A volcanic explosion of personal memories, political rants, social commentary, environmental jeremiads and cultural analysis all tangled together in one breathless sentence that would make James Joyce proud. . ."
—Ron Charles, The Washington Post
In this unapologetically unclassifiable work Lawrence Ferlinghetti lets loose an exhilarating rush of language to craft what might be termed a closing statement about his highly significant and productive 99 years on this planet. The "Little Boy" of the title is Ferlinghetti himself as a child, shuffled from his overburdened mother to his French aunt to foster childhood with a rich Bronxville family. Service in World War Two (including the D-Day landing), graduate work, and a scholar gypsy's vagabond life in Paris followed. These biographical reminiscences are interweaved with Allen Ginsberg-esque high energy bursts of raw emotion, rumination, reflection, reminiscence and prognostication on what we may face as a species on Planet Earth in the future. Little Boy is a magical font of literary lore with allusions galore, a final repository of hard-earned and durable wisdom, a compositional high wire act without a net (or all that much punctuation) and just a gas and an inspiration to read.
192 pages, Hardcover
First published March 19, 2019
113 people are currently reading
3184 people want to read
About the author
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
258 books648 followersA prominent voice of the wide-open poetry movement that began in the 1950s, Lawrence Ferlinghetti has written poetry, translation, fiction, theater, art criticism, film narration, and essays. Often concerned with politics and social issues, Ferlinghetti’s poetry countered the literary elite's definition of art and the artist's role in the world. Though imbued with the commonplace, his poetry cannot be simply described as polemic or personal protest, for it stands on his craftsmanship, thematics, and grounding in tradition.
Ferlinghetti was born in Yonkers in 1919, son of Carlo Ferlinghetti who was from the province of Brescia and Clemence Albertine Mendes-Monsanto. Following his undergraduate years at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, he served in the U.S. Navy in World War II as a ship's commander. He received a Master’s degree from Columbia University in 1947 and a Doctorate de l’Université de Paris (Sorbonne) in 1950. From 1951 to 1953, when he settled in San Francisco, he taught French in an adult education program, painted, and wrote art criticism. In 1953, with Peter D. Martin (son of Carlo Tresca) he founded City Lights Bookstore, the first all-paperbound bookshop in the country, and by 1955 he had launched the City Lights publishing house.
The bookstore has served for half a century as a meeting place for writers, artists, and intellectuals. City Lights Publishers began with the Pocket Poets Series, through which Ferlinghetti aimed to create an international, dissident ferment. His publication of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl & Other Poems in 1956 led to his arrest on obscenity charges, and the trial that followed drew national attention to the San Francisco Renaissance and Beat movement writers. (He was overwhelmingly supported by prestigious literary and academic figures, and was acquitted.) This landmark First Amendment case established a legal precedent for the publication of controversial work with redeeming social importance.
Ferlinghetti’s paintings have been shown at various galleries around the world, from the Butler Museum of American Painting to Il Palazzo delle Esposizioni in Rome. He has been associated with the international Fluxus movement through the Archivio Francesco Conz in Verona. He has toured Italy, giving poetry readings in Roma, Napoli, Bologna, Firenze, Milano, Verona, Brescia, Cagliari, Torino, Venezia, and Sicilia. He won the Premio Taormino in 1973, and since then has been awarded the Premio Camaiore, the Premio Flaiano, the Premio Cavour. among others. He is published in Italy by Oscar Mondadori, City Lights Italia, and Minimum Fax. He was instrumental in arranging extensive poetry tours in Italy produced by City Lights Italia in Firenze. He has translated from the italian Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Poemi Romani, which is published by City Lights Books. In San Francisco, his work can regularly be seen at the George Krevsky Gallery at 77 Geary Street.
Ferlinghetti’s A Coney Island of the Mind continues to be the most popular poetry book in the U.S. It has been translated into nine languages, and there are nearly 1,000,000 copies in print. The author of poetry, plays, fiction, art criticism, and essays, he has a dozen books currently in print in the U.S., and his work has been translated in many countries and in many languages. His most recent books are A Far Rockaway of the Heart (1997), How to Paint Sunlight (2001), and Americus Book I (2004) published by New Directions.
He has been the recipient of numerous prizes, including the Los Angeles Times’ Robert Kirsch Award, the BABRA Award for Lifetime Achievement, the National Book Critics Circle Ivan Sandrof Award for Contribution to American Arts and Letters, the American Civil Liberties Union’s Earl Warren Civil Liberties Award. Ferlinghetti was named San Francisco’s first poet laureate.
Ferlinghetti was born in Yonkers in 1919, son of Carlo Ferlinghetti who was from the province of Brescia and Clemence Albertine Mendes-Monsanto. Following his undergraduate years at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, he served in the U.S. Navy in World War II as a ship's commander. He received a Master’s degree from Columbia University in 1947 and a Doctorate de l’Université de Paris (Sorbonne) in 1950. From 1951 to 1953, when he settled in San Francisco, he taught French in an adult education program, painted, and wrote art criticism. In 1953, with Peter D. Martin (son of Carlo Tresca) he founded City Lights Bookstore, the first all-paperbound bookshop in the country, and by 1955 he had launched the City Lights publishing house.
The bookstore has served for half a century as a meeting place for writers, artists, and intellectuals. City Lights Publishers began with the Pocket Poets Series, through which Ferlinghetti aimed to create an international, dissident ferment. His publication of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl & Other Poems in 1956 led to his arrest on obscenity charges, and the trial that followed drew national attention to the San Francisco Renaissance and Beat movement writers. (He was overwhelmingly supported by prestigious literary and academic figures, and was acquitted.) This landmark First Amendment case established a legal precedent for the publication of controversial work with redeeming social importance.
Ferlinghetti’s paintings have been shown at various galleries around the world, from the Butler Museum of American Painting to Il Palazzo delle Esposizioni in Rome. He has been associated with the international Fluxus movement through the Archivio Francesco Conz in Verona. He has toured Italy, giving poetry readings in Roma, Napoli, Bologna, Firenze, Milano, Verona, Brescia, Cagliari, Torino, Venezia, and Sicilia. He won the Premio Taormino in 1973, and since then has been awarded the Premio Camaiore, the Premio Flaiano, the Premio Cavour. among others. He is published in Italy by Oscar Mondadori, City Lights Italia, and Minimum Fax. He was instrumental in arranging extensive poetry tours in Italy produced by City Lights Italia in Firenze. He has translated from the italian Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Poemi Romani, which is published by City Lights Books. In San Francisco, his work can regularly be seen at the George Krevsky Gallery at 77 Geary Street.
Ferlinghetti’s A Coney Island of the Mind continues to be the most popular poetry book in the U.S. It has been translated into nine languages, and there are nearly 1,000,000 copies in print. The author of poetry, plays, fiction, art criticism, and essays, he has a dozen books currently in print in the U.S., and his work has been translated in many countries and in many languages. His most recent books are A Far Rockaway of the Heart (1997), How to Paint Sunlight (2001), and Americus Book I (2004) published by New Directions.
He has been the recipient of numerous prizes, including the Los Angeles Times’ Robert Kirsch Award, the BABRA Award for Lifetime Achievement, the National Book Critics Circle Ivan Sandrof Award for Contribution to American Arts and Letters, the American Civil Liberties Union’s Earl Warren Civil Liberties Award. Ferlinghetti was named San Francisco’s first poet laureate.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 122 reviews
March 21, 2019
More than 60 years ago, Lawrence Ferlinghetti wrote,
I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered.
By most counts, he seems to have discovered it.
Ferlinghetti — the poet, the scholar, the champion of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl,” the co-founder of City Lights Booksellers & Publishers, the tireless critic of political ills — turns 100 on March 24.
He has not mellowed. At all.
In 2017, Ferlinghetti told The Washington Post, “I never wanted to write an autobiography because I don’t like looking back.” Evidently, he overcame that reluctance, but, of course, the autobiography he’s releasing this month is entirely on his own terms. “Little Boy” isn’t really a memoir. The publisher calls it “a novel,” but it really isn’t that either. As his literary ancestor Walt Whitman would say, it’s a “barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.”
A few months ago, Ferlinghetti claimed, “The little boy is an imaginary me,” but the broad outlines of his real life appear here, particularly in the early pages, which are the only ones that tell something like a coherent story. We learn of his tumultuous childhood: His father died before he was born; an aunt whisked him to France and then back to the United States; the aunt’s wealthy employer, descended from the founders of Sarah Lawrence College, adopted him.
He may have lived like “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” but “it was a very lonely life for Little Boy,” Ferlinghetti writes, “with the nearest neighbor out of sight and no children of any age to play with.” In a mansion some 20 miles outside New York City, his new guardians spoke to one another in courtly tones and dressed in Victorian garb. They sent him to a private school, and, more important, they possessed a fine library, which he was encouraged to use.
As the pace of “Little Boy” accelerates chaotically, whole years fly by in a phrase or two — from high school to college with a major in journalism, and then the Navy, where he participated in the Normandy landing and saw Nagasaki just a few weeks after it was destroyed. Discharged, he earned an MA in literature at Columbia University, a PhD at the University of Paris and “emerged as a reasonably miseducated product of high culture and not all so irrelevant as rebels might imagine.” And then, around Page 15, the wheels bust off this narrative, and we’re airborne: “Grown Boy came into his own voice and let loose his word-hoard pent up within him.”
What follows for the next 150 pages is a volcanic explosion of personal memories, political rants, social commentary, environmental jeremiads and cultural analysis all tangled together in one breathless sentence that would make James Joyce proud.
Do I recommend it?
Yes I said yes I will Yes.
To read the rest of this review, go to The Washington Post:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/entert...
I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered.
By most counts, he seems to have discovered it.
Ferlinghetti — the poet, the scholar, the champion of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl,” the co-founder of City Lights Booksellers & Publishers, the tireless critic of political ills — turns 100 on March 24.
He has not mellowed. At all.
In 2017, Ferlinghetti told The Washington Post, “I never wanted to write an autobiography because I don’t like looking back.” Evidently, he overcame that reluctance, but, of course, the autobiography he’s releasing this month is entirely on his own terms. “Little Boy” isn’t really a memoir. The publisher calls it “a novel,” but it really isn’t that either. As his literary ancestor Walt Whitman would say, it’s a “barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.”
A few months ago, Ferlinghetti claimed, “The little boy is an imaginary me,” but the broad outlines of his real life appear here, particularly in the early pages, which are the only ones that tell something like a coherent story. We learn of his tumultuous childhood: His father died before he was born; an aunt whisked him to France and then back to the United States; the aunt’s wealthy employer, descended from the founders of Sarah Lawrence College, adopted him.
He may have lived like “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” but “it was a very lonely life for Little Boy,” Ferlinghetti writes, “with the nearest neighbor out of sight and no children of any age to play with.” In a mansion some 20 miles outside New York City, his new guardians spoke to one another in courtly tones and dressed in Victorian garb. They sent him to a private school, and, more important, they possessed a fine library, which he was encouraged to use.
As the pace of “Little Boy” accelerates chaotically, whole years fly by in a phrase or two — from high school to college with a major in journalism, and then the Navy, where he participated in the Normandy landing and saw Nagasaki just a few weeks after it was destroyed. Discharged, he earned an MA in literature at Columbia University, a PhD at the University of Paris and “emerged as a reasonably miseducated product of high culture and not all so irrelevant as rebels might imagine.” And then, around Page 15, the wheels bust off this narrative, and we’re airborne: “Grown Boy came into his own voice and let loose his word-hoard pent up within him.”
What follows for the next 150 pages is a volcanic explosion of personal memories, political rants, social commentary, environmental jeremiads and cultural analysis all tangled together in one breathless sentence that would make James Joyce proud.
Do I recommend it?
Yes I said yes I will Yes.
To read the rest of this review, go to The Washington Post:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/entert...
July 13, 2023
Little Boy starts as an autobiography. Lawrence Ferlinghetti rapidly zips through the events of his life. He was born in 1919, and is now a century old. This book was written and published when he was ninety-nine. The background of his parents is spoken of. His mother was a Sephardic, Portuguese, French-speaking American, living in Yonkers, Westchester County, New York. His father was a Lombard, Italian immigrant, who died before Lawrence’s birth. With four siblings born before Lawrence, his mother felt she could not cope with a fifth. She gave him to her sister, living in Paris, France. In the 1920s, the two returned to the States when Lawrence’s aunt became the French governess to a wealthy family in Bronxville, also in Westchester County. When the aunt had a fling with the father of the child she was teaching, she had to leave, but Lawrence remained! Then his Mom turned up. When asked whether he wanted to remain where he was living or go live with his Mom, whom he did not know at all, he chose to remain. A school had to be chosen, and Bronxville Public School it was to be. The school too distant for a daily commute, he was lodged in the house of widow Zilla Wilson and her fifteen year old son. They lived near the school, down by the railroad tracks in Bronxville. This was certainly not the same standard he had become accustomed to in the fashionable mansion with gardener, chauffeur and numerous maids and servants. Still a young boy, he had been moved from country to country and from residence to residence. Had he ever really had a home? It is only natural to ask if the boy had ever felt loved. I have drawn for you the start of Lawrence’s life.
We are told of his higher education, his service in the U.S. Navy during the Second World War, his support of Scandinavian styled democratic socialism, his role in the Beat movement, his work as poet, painter and co-founder of the City Lights Booksellers and Publishers in San Francisco. Although there is not a lot of detail, that which is told is certainly interesting. The book makes you hungry for more.
A rundown of Ferlinghetti’s life is zipped through in a flash, then he begins philosophizing and spouting his views on everything imaginable— sex, love, the Church,literature, environmentalism, consumerism and more. This is where the listening / reading becomes difficult. He goes in circles. He repeats himself. What begins as thoughtful, humorous, clever and well expressed lines, written with poetic resonance, evolves into a repetitive, rambling rant. There is no structure organizing the topics covered. There are no chapters.
After philosophizing far too long, Ferlinghetti returns to speaking of his personal life. This was a relief--I began liking the book again.
Ferlinghetti is a poet. This influences how he writes and thus the speed with which it can be read. He plays with words in a clever way. When philosophizing, he lets his thoughts loose. Here, the writing might be classified as stream of consciousness. It is here the writing becomes difficult to read in long stretches.
Peter Coyote narrates. He does a good job. It is a pretty easy book to narrate. There are no dialogs. Ferlinghetti is, from start to finish, voicing his own thoughts, expressing his opinions or telling us of events in his life. Coyote reads at a good speed. The narration performance I have given three stars.
I am giving the book itself, three stars too. The information about his life is interesting and told with a flair. I do not disagree with his views, but what starts off coherent and well expressed gets out of control, begins to go in circles and becomes a repetitive rant. I am still glad to have read the book.
************************
A Coney Island of the Mind 4 stars
Little Boy 3 stars
We are told of his higher education, his service in the U.S. Navy during the Second World War, his support of Scandinavian styled democratic socialism, his role in the Beat movement, his work as poet, painter and co-founder of the City Lights Booksellers and Publishers in San Francisco. Although there is not a lot of detail, that which is told is certainly interesting. The book makes you hungry for more.
A rundown of Ferlinghetti’s life is zipped through in a flash, then he begins philosophizing and spouting his views on everything imaginable— sex, love, the Church,literature, environmentalism, consumerism and more. This is where the listening / reading becomes difficult. He goes in circles. He repeats himself. What begins as thoughtful, humorous, clever and well expressed lines, written with poetic resonance, evolves into a repetitive, rambling rant. There is no structure organizing the topics covered. There are no chapters.
After philosophizing far too long, Ferlinghetti returns to speaking of his personal life. This was a relief--I began liking the book again.
Ferlinghetti is a poet. This influences how he writes and thus the speed with which it can be read. He plays with words in a clever way. When philosophizing, he lets his thoughts loose. Here, the writing might be classified as stream of consciousness. It is here the writing becomes difficult to read in long stretches.
Peter Coyote narrates. He does a good job. It is a pretty easy book to narrate. There are no dialogs. Ferlinghetti is, from start to finish, voicing his own thoughts, expressing his opinions or telling us of events in his life. Coyote reads at a good speed. The narration performance I have given three stars.
I am giving the book itself, three stars too. The information about his life is interesting and told with a flair. I do not disagree with his views, but what starts off coherent and well expressed gets out of control, begins to go in circles and becomes a repetitive rant. I am still glad to have read the book.
************************
A Coney Island of the Mind 4 stars
Little Boy 3 stars
October 4, 2022
That's as good as anything Kerouac ever wrote, it sings along and never stops losing A BEATITUDE of beat, as gracefully put life a centenary give as can get; it's just that beautiful!
June 4, 2019
A 6-hour linguistic drumroll; an autobiographical novel-in-spoken-word; a 99-year-old author reminiscing his life in incantatory prose full of literary references (including Finnegans Wake) for the nuisance of 50% of all prospective readers who will declare it pretentious, perhaps justifiably; ranting on modern technology and overpopulation; “plotless as life”; a bit old-fashioned views on sexuality and gender, knocking off the fifth star as those parts made me a bit uncomfortable; deceptively simple third-person narration in the beginning that turns into an avalanche-of-consciousness; for all lovers of language.
August 20, 2025
Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s novella “Little Boy” is kind of a flop with me (my shortcoming, not his, I think). I am rather a traditionalist when it comes to the printed page. Ferlinghetti’s “narrative” can sometimes run on for many pages without paragraphing. Cute, but uninteresting, in fact, downright boring my eyes tell me. So, I couldn’t, I wouldn’t get into it. I resist conforming to non-conformity. I have to say his technique, as new as it seemed “back in the day”, seems dated, old fashioned to me now.
Even as a fresh graduate back in the sixties I was turned off by his poetry a little because of his sometimes not using capital letters where required. Who needs that? And, I suppose at the time when we, or some of us, were devotees of James Joyce and his unconventionality, we were convinced that unorthodox, non-traditional prose and poesy somehow made for deep meaning that we novices would have to work hard to understand. You know: 12th Century liturgy in Latin instead of the Middle English at that time of the rural bumpkins with dirty ragged nails. Latin liturgy kept the unlettered ignorant of Biblical events and interpretations for centuries, giving the rulers and clergy power, keeping the peasants powerless. Some modern writers do the same.
I favor substance over form—Aristotle over Plato. So, if a writer has something substantive to say, it should be in the words and sentences themselves, not in their unorthodox appearance. My rule, not the author’s, even though I’ve done it myself. Forgive me.
By the way, I was first introduced to Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s poetry while visiting with a couple of new graduates from the University of California, Berkeley. We were Peace Corps volunteers in Urmia (then Rezayeh), Iran. I gained a lot from our two or three poetry readings together, and when I hear the name Ferlinghetti, the first thing that comes to my mind is that fall day our sitting on a carpet near the Rezayeh Bazaar reading his poetry aloud to each other.
I read “Little Boy” twice to make sure I wasn’t talking out of turn when I knew I was sounding too negative. But it just didn’t work. So, I’m sticking with my original review I first wrote and have watered it down a little more. I learned very little about the author and found his style unappealing, making it difficult to follow. I would not recommend this book unless you are a Ferlinghetti scholar of some sort and have read all his works.
Ferlinghetti just turned 100 in recent years. We should celebrate that.
Even as a fresh graduate back in the sixties I was turned off by his poetry a little because of his sometimes not using capital letters where required. Who needs that? And, I suppose at the time when we, or some of us, were devotees of James Joyce and his unconventionality, we were convinced that unorthodox, non-traditional prose and poesy somehow made for deep meaning that we novices would have to work hard to understand. You know: 12th Century liturgy in Latin instead of the Middle English at that time of the rural bumpkins with dirty ragged nails. Latin liturgy kept the unlettered ignorant of Biblical events and interpretations for centuries, giving the rulers and clergy power, keeping the peasants powerless. Some modern writers do the same.
I favor substance over form—Aristotle over Plato. So, if a writer has something substantive to say, it should be in the words and sentences themselves, not in their unorthodox appearance. My rule, not the author’s, even though I’ve done it myself. Forgive me.
By the way, I was first introduced to Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s poetry while visiting with a couple of new graduates from the University of California, Berkeley. We were Peace Corps volunteers in Urmia (then Rezayeh), Iran. I gained a lot from our two or three poetry readings together, and when I hear the name Ferlinghetti, the first thing that comes to my mind is that fall day our sitting on a carpet near the Rezayeh Bazaar reading his poetry aloud to each other.
I read “Little Boy” twice to make sure I wasn’t talking out of turn when I knew I was sounding too negative. But it just didn’t work. So, I’m sticking with my original review I first wrote and have watered it down a little more. I learned very little about the author and found his style unappealing, making it difficult to follow. I would not recommend this book unless you are a Ferlinghetti scholar of some sort and have read all his works.
Ferlinghetti just turned 100 in recent years. We should celebrate that.
March 16, 2019
The opening twenty-or-so pages of this book are spectacular: a fluid, poetic exploration of Ferlinghetti's childhood, passed between strangers and strange relatives, lonely but lively. I loved the flow of the writing and the use of language. But then the book becomes Lawrence's Philosophy of Life -- a wandering, rambling treatise that pays too much tribute to other writers without really feeling like it has an identity of its own. Joyce, Eliot, Proust, Pound, Beckett, Kerouac, Ginsberg -- the allusions come fast and hard, to the point that Little Boy starts to feel like a literary Ready Player One.
And don't even get me started on all the time Ferlinghetti wastes ranting about technology. I mean, I get it: the man will be a hundred years old next week. I was born in 1984 and 2019 is fucking wild; imagine being born a century ago and having to get up every morning and face today's world. But the main issue with modern life isn't cell phones. Every time Ferlinghetti throws in a line about "wicked wikipedias" or whatever, I laughed, and it totally broke whatever spell he had managed to cast. Hey, bud: the book is called Little Boy, not Old Man Yells at Cloud.
And don't even get me started on all the time Ferlinghetti wastes ranting about technology. I mean, I get it: the man will be a hundred years old next week. I was born in 1984 and 2019 is fucking wild; imagine being born a century ago and having to get up every morning and face today's world. But the main issue with modern life isn't cell phones. Every time Ferlinghetti throws in a line about "wicked wikipedias" or whatever, I laughed, and it totally broke whatever spell he had managed to cast. Hey, bud: the book is called Little Boy, not Old Man Yells at Cloud.
April 22, 2019
Rarely in one's life does one encounter a book that speaks so clearly to one's very being that the book becomes a vade mecum, like the 1939 OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE for me, or the Bible for others, or perhaps Yevtushenko's poetry or Dostoyevsky's novels.
LITTLE BOY is not one of those books. This mess is not a stream-of-consciousness but rather a stream resulting from bladder-control issues. Mr. Ferlinghetti might have something to say to the world, but he hasn't done so here. The attempt at technique is so self-conscious, so precious, that a 16-year-old would be ashamed of this, and would resolve to do better in future.
I gave it up around page 120, and regret the loss of time wasted in this extended, formless, gormless temper tantrum.
LITTLE BOY is not one of those books. This mess is not a stream-of-consciousness but rather a stream resulting from bladder-control issues. Mr. Ferlinghetti might have something to say to the world, but he hasn't done so here. The attempt at technique is so self-conscious, so precious, that a 16-year-old would be ashamed of this, and would resolve to do better in future.
I gave it up around page 120, and regret the loss of time wasted in this extended, formless, gormless temper tantrum.
October 12, 2019
A centenarian's turbocharged trippin' through the past 100 years. A prose poem for and from the ages; autobiography freestyle. A hot potato one last time in an old artiste's pocket. Rock it!
What a life! I loved the trip through the Great Depression, WWII, living as an artist in Paris in the late 1940s, then forward up to a heyday in publishing the biggest of the Beat poets, to now, then back again.
The man, it should be noted, worships the vulva. And women; in particular, one woman. And life! If this doth offend thee, flee.
Quite fun, if you don't mind whitewaters of consciousness from a fascinating and witty 100-year-old. Me, whenever I get the chance, I take the pleasure of listening to an octagenarian (and older) as he/she waxes on. It is always a story worth savoring. This was no different.
What a life! I loved the trip through the Great Depression, WWII, living as an artist in Paris in the late 1940s, then forward up to a heyday in publishing the biggest of the Beat poets, to now, then back again.
The man, it should be noted, worships the vulva. And women; in particular, one woman. And life! If this doth offend thee, flee.
Quite fun, if you don't mind whitewaters of consciousness from a fascinating and witty 100-year-old. Me, whenever I get the chance, I take the pleasure of listening to an octagenarian (and older) as he/she waxes on. It is always a story worth savoring. This was no different.
October 8, 2019
…, I was in the manger with an ass, I have seen the Laughing Woman in Luna Park outside the Fun House in a great rainstorm still laughing, I have heard the sound of revelry by night, I have wandered lonely as a crowd, I have engaged in silent exile and cunning, I flew too near the sun and my wax wings fell off, ….
Grew up in the period and was certainly influenced by Ferlinghetti, Corso, Kerouac, and that whole generation. I just had to take this trip and drift along with Ferlinghetti as he covered a century of thoughts and feelings expressed in one long meandering prose piece. I enjoyed the trip and the memories. It had its moments, but just too few to make it memorable.
March 27, 2019
A Coney Island stream of consciousness meandering of memory and commentary from the poet and co-founder of City Lights.
March 27, 2019
What a powerful experience!
This roller coaster of poetry and observation, angry rant and remembrance of passions past was a wonderful trip inside the mind of an amazing hundred year old Beatnik.
Autobiography of a fractured childhood interrupted by bursts of poetic imagery filled with references to every book, movie, song and bit of wisdom ever created by the “civilized” World. The bits and pieces of Ferlinghetti’s life story float along amidst his recollections of people, places and experiences he has known. Every one of these moments evokes a reflection of his philosophy of life and his often angry, often rapturous reaction to it.
He uses the tale of his early life to warn us of what we have lost and the accounting coming due for what we have become. He recounts the beauty and wonder he has known and looks forward to more of the same knowing full well that he and we will probably never know their like again.
So, reading Little Boy may not be all sunshine and butterflies but the poetry of its words and the scope of its worldview made it for me a highly rewarding moment I won’t soon forget.
This roller coaster of poetry and observation, angry rant and remembrance of passions past was a wonderful trip inside the mind of an amazing hundred year old Beatnik.
Autobiography of a fractured childhood interrupted by bursts of poetic imagery filled with references to every book, movie, song and bit of wisdom ever created by the “civilized” World. The bits and pieces of Ferlinghetti’s life story float along amidst his recollections of people, places and experiences he has known. Every one of these moments evokes a reflection of his philosophy of life and his often angry, often rapturous reaction to it.
He uses the tale of his early life to warn us of what we have lost and the accounting coming due for what we have become. He recounts the beauty and wonder he has known and looks forward to more of the same knowing full well that he and we will probably never know their like again.
So, reading Little Boy may not be all sunshine and butterflies but the poetry of its words and the scope of its worldview made it for me a highly rewarding moment I won’t soon forget.
April 9, 2019
What a delightful — sentence . . . Lawrence Ferlinghetti has given us a very interesting steam of consciousness, traveling from the Greeks to Google, and Gandhi to Obama. He traces his very full life from his meager and lonely beginnings, his personal transformation from “youthful anarchism” to “humanitarian socialism” and through his incredibly full life to his 100th birthday celebration in his San Francisco.
From his book: “...I’m going to reveal to you any unvarnished unadorned naked truth If you think you’re going to learn from me any secrets of the universe or of the human heart well then you’re a bigger idiot than I supposed so you might as well stop reading this drivel...”I am glad I am a romantic and not a realist - that would be boring...”the long loud tale of man in his endless sound and fury signifying everything with his endless hallucinations adorations annihilations illuminations erections and exhibitions fascismo and machismo circuses of the soul astray merrygorounds of the imagination coney Island of the mindless endless poem...”
Well I say congratulations and Happy 100th Birthday, Lawrence Ferlinghetti!
From his book: “...I’m going to reveal to you any unvarnished unadorned naked truth If you think you’re going to learn from me any secrets of the universe or of the human heart well then you’re a bigger idiot than I supposed so you might as well stop reading this drivel...”I am glad I am a romantic and not a realist - that would be boring...”the long loud tale of man in his endless sound and fury signifying everything with his endless hallucinations adorations annihilations illuminations erections and exhibitions fascismo and machismo circuses of the soul astray merrygorounds of the imagination coney Island of the mindless endless poem...”
Well I say congratulations and Happy 100th Birthday, Lawrence Ferlinghetti!
May 2, 2019
I wanted to love this book without reservation (and mostly did) because of everything -- the long life (100 years!), the war, the education in Paris, City lights (bookshop and publisher), the fight for "Howl," "A Coney Island of the Mind," the pained and futile resistance to the gentrified destruction of his beloved San Francisco. I'll get to my one reservation later.
Some folks have complained about the long run-on nature of the whole thing -- no punctuation and paragraphs stuck in arbitrarily (although I get the sense that they were the measure of his daily writing time). But that seemed very appropriate to the subject -- which is mostly memory, or the ideas that are presented by memory. And if you've spent any time with "The Sound and the Fury," or Molly Bloom's Soliloquy, or "The Autumn of the Patriarch," or Proust, then this is easy, even enjoyable sailing.
The opening pages, and particularly the last 6 or 7, are just gorgeous evocations of childhood and Paris in the 40s and are absolutely worth the price of the book. But my one reservation grows from the jeremiads that make up so much of the guts of this book. I even think they might be his main motivation for actually finishing it, when it would have been so easy not to. They just felt expected and kind of ordinary in a lefty progressive way (and I share all these attitudes), and that disappointed me a bit. I expected Ferlinghetti to be more original, even in his political rage. I realize that might be unfair -- because many of these attitudes that have shaped those of us on the left, were formed and articulated by Ferlinghetti's circle of writers and intellectuals in the 50s. So he has certainly earned them! Still, they felt dull.
It's called a novel, and of course anyone coming to it expecting a kind of formed fiction will be disappointed. But this is Ferlinghetti, and that expectation would never be met. But it is not simply memoir either. He is pretty explicit a time or two about what he's doing, even if he's realizing it while he's doing it. "... a new invention a new form of living just like picking up a new pen every morning and reinventing an alphabet and inventing a new genre neither a novel nor a memoir nor a form of documentary but an unnamable piece of day and night spoken or sung by the voice of the fourth person singular and what is that voice if it is not the very voice that is doing the thinking when we meditate ..."
So all of that is brilliant and an addition to our ways of writing books. Once again, we owe Ferlinghetti. I wish he could have been content with the elements of his story and was less satisfied with his rants, but I will certainly take those for the other virtues of this book, and in honor of his gifts to all of us.
Some folks have complained about the long run-on nature of the whole thing -- no punctuation and paragraphs stuck in arbitrarily (although I get the sense that they were the measure of his daily writing time). But that seemed very appropriate to the subject -- which is mostly memory, or the ideas that are presented by memory. And if you've spent any time with "The Sound and the Fury," or Molly Bloom's Soliloquy, or "The Autumn of the Patriarch," or Proust, then this is easy, even enjoyable sailing.
The opening pages, and particularly the last 6 or 7, are just gorgeous evocations of childhood and Paris in the 40s and are absolutely worth the price of the book. But my one reservation grows from the jeremiads that make up so much of the guts of this book. I even think they might be his main motivation for actually finishing it, when it would have been so easy not to. They just felt expected and kind of ordinary in a lefty progressive way (and I share all these attitudes), and that disappointed me a bit. I expected Ferlinghetti to be more original, even in his political rage. I realize that might be unfair -- because many of these attitudes that have shaped those of us on the left, were formed and articulated by Ferlinghetti's circle of writers and intellectuals in the 50s. So he has certainly earned them! Still, they felt dull.
It's called a novel, and of course anyone coming to it expecting a kind of formed fiction will be disappointed. But this is Ferlinghetti, and that expectation would never be met. But it is not simply memoir either. He is pretty explicit a time or two about what he's doing, even if he's realizing it while he's doing it. "... a new invention a new form of living just like picking up a new pen every morning and reinventing an alphabet and inventing a new genre neither a novel nor a memoir nor a form of documentary but an unnamable piece of day and night spoken or sung by the voice of the fourth person singular and what is that voice if it is not the very voice that is doing the thinking when we meditate ..."
So all of that is brilliant and an addition to our ways of writing books. Once again, we owe Ferlinghetti. I wish he could have been content with the elements of his story and was less satisfied with his rants, but I will certainly take those for the other virtues of this book, and in honor of his gifts to all of us.
March 30, 2019
Sh.t. Bitter much? Jesus Christ, old man, you live a fkn hundred years, and you leave us (well, me) with this?
Initially, it does seem like it will be a long prose poem, but then it turns into a bunch of bellyaching. Not that I don't agree with much of what he says, and not that I didn't on occasion chuckle at some sardonic line.
Wish he hadn't used the term "writ." It's an archaic term. The correct term he should've used is "written." That's what he meant. Writ is a legal term, a summons, a decree, a legal document. A good writer shouldn't use it when he/she/they mean "written."
Well written? No. Referencing demonstrates he is well read. But his use of cliches, ugh.
Goddamn, a hundred years old and still fixated on his prick and women's breasts. Fkn old geezer.
Rants of a bitter old man. No beauty. Not a drop. Did drop a few names though. Kind'a threw his old buds under the bus.
Initially, it does seem like it will be a long prose poem, but then it turns into a bunch of bellyaching. Not that I don't agree with much of what he says, and not that I didn't on occasion chuckle at some sardonic line.
Wish he hadn't used the term "writ." It's an archaic term. The correct term he should've used is "written." That's what he meant. Writ is a legal term, a summons, a decree, a legal document. A good writer shouldn't use it when he/she/they mean "written."
Well written? No. Referencing demonstrates he is well read. But his use of cliches, ugh.
Goddamn, a hundred years old and still fixated on his prick and women's breasts. Fkn old geezer.
Rants of a bitter old man. No beauty. Not a drop. Did drop a few names though. Kind'a threw his old buds under the bus.
April 7, 2019
Bought the book on the author's 100th birthday. The flap copy says "part autobiography, part summing up, part Beat-inflected torrent of language and feeling, and all magical." I agree, and I loved the book. However, the Beat-inflected torrent does occasionally repeat, and perhaps some readers will be less patient with that than I was. Personally, I took it as a kind of musical reprise, and just went with the flow. I also think that when you can still write at age 100, you have my permission to repeat yourself here and there. This is a man whose best-known book of poems came out the year I was born, and has never been out of print since (and it was NOT published by his own imprint, so it's not a vanity thing), which is seriously impressive. Beyond that remarkable fact, Ferlinghetti is an important voice, as you probably don't need me to tell you, so I encourage you to give it a go if you have any interest at all.
i-get-the-picture
April 3, 2019Well..., I don’t know. After about 30% of this rambling I got bored. Nice to see him rant and rave at his old age, though....
July 20, 2019
The first fifteen pages of this book reads like a biography with “Little Boy” a transparent disguise for Ferlinghetti, born in 1919. It gives details of his family and early childhood, through World War II where he took part in the Normandy landings and continues to the late 40’s. Then as “Grown Boy” he “came into his own voice and let loose his wordhoard pent up within him.”
This “wordhoard” does indeed let loose for the rest of this 192 page book. It’s a free-flowing stream-of-consciousness rambling that includes most everything – life, death, sex, friends, writers he’s known and read, politics, religion, the world’s fate, whatever is on Ferlinghetti’s mind. For readers who like their intake more organized, it Ferlinghetti will test their patience, but once you get past the need for an “organized” narrative, it’s not a probem. A big reason for that, I thought, is Ferlinghetti’s imaginative use of metaphorical language. He wirtes of his efforts:
“. . . would he just sing it out to the great unknown or might Little Boy be like a match struck across a night sky lighting up the universe with his laughter and genius, or he cold be just an echo chamber on echo of everything that was ever writ or said or sung still hanging in the eternal dialogue of philosophers fools and lovers and losers the tongue of the soul soumding through time. . .”
Whitman is obviously an influence on Ferlinghetti and he explains further what he is trying to do, to give his reader a great burst of consciousness, a vision of everything all at once (or at least as much in the medium of reading , given that it’s a linear sequential physical process.
". . .And this ain't no novel but a kind of extended epiphany to pin down extempore thinking like a butterfly pinned on a board a hoard a treasure trove of words spread out like wings aflutter in the eternal breeze, the sneeze of time, the wind of consciousness filling the sail and spinnaker ballooning and there is no plot as there is none in life there is only the stutter of wording between waking and sleeping, the little cicada of consciousness singing. . ."
One constant in his vision is death and what he calls the “fourth person singular", a slant on reality which transcends the individual’s “I”, “you”, or “he, she, and it”, our usual points of view. Death mocks us, reduces us to nothingness, but at the same time it always yields t o new birth, as seen in nature and its seasons. Ferlinghetti reminds me of Whitman who wrote, “Look for me under your feet”, emphasizing the impossibility of containing our brief lives. Of death, Ferlinghetti writes:
". . . look into the abyss and hear in death the lyric voice of the fourth person singular the voice of the lyric escape in which spring every year . . .wildflowers spring up in a wave across the landscape at the same speed silently sending the crocus calls for us passing in cars trans or buses at a much faster speed in the wrong direction we zoom across the land enclosed in painted metal cans or fly through the air in winged metal tubes totally disconnected from nature . . ."
In the end, Ferlinghetti is not optimistic about the fate of the world which may well self-destruct because of humanity’s stupidity and greed. The last words in the book speak of the cries of birds which “are not cries of ecstasy, but cries of despair.” . A paradox is possible, though. Not all is despair, otherwise Ferlinghetti would never have written the book in an act of what he calls "eternal creation." It could be considered a sign of faith from a 99 year old.
This “wordhoard” does indeed let loose for the rest of this 192 page book. It’s a free-flowing stream-of-consciousness rambling that includes most everything – life, death, sex, friends, writers he’s known and read, politics, religion, the world’s fate, whatever is on Ferlinghetti’s mind. For readers who like their intake more organized, it Ferlinghetti will test their patience, but once you get past the need for an “organized” narrative, it’s not a probem. A big reason for that, I thought, is Ferlinghetti’s imaginative use of metaphorical language. He wirtes of his efforts:
“. . . would he just sing it out to the great unknown or might Little Boy be like a match struck across a night sky lighting up the universe with his laughter and genius, or he cold be just an echo chamber on echo of everything that was ever writ or said or sung still hanging in the eternal dialogue of philosophers fools and lovers and losers the tongue of the soul soumding through time. . .”
Whitman is obviously an influence on Ferlinghetti and he explains further what he is trying to do, to give his reader a great burst of consciousness, a vision of everything all at once (or at least as much in the medium of reading , given that it’s a linear sequential physical process.
". . .And this ain't no novel but a kind of extended epiphany to pin down extempore thinking like a butterfly pinned on a board a hoard a treasure trove of words spread out like wings aflutter in the eternal breeze, the sneeze of time, the wind of consciousness filling the sail and spinnaker ballooning and there is no plot as there is none in life there is only the stutter of wording between waking and sleeping, the little cicada of consciousness singing. . ."
One constant in his vision is death and what he calls the “fourth person singular", a slant on reality which transcends the individual’s “I”, “you”, or “he, she, and it”, our usual points of view. Death mocks us, reduces us to nothingness, but at the same time it always yields t o new birth, as seen in nature and its seasons. Ferlinghetti reminds me of Whitman who wrote, “Look for me under your feet”, emphasizing the impossibility of containing our brief lives. Of death, Ferlinghetti writes:
". . . look into the abyss and hear in death the lyric voice of the fourth person singular the voice of the lyric escape in which spring every year . . .wildflowers spring up in a wave across the landscape at the same speed silently sending the crocus calls for us passing in cars trans or buses at a much faster speed in the wrong direction we zoom across the land enclosed in painted metal cans or fly through the air in winged metal tubes totally disconnected from nature . . ."
In the end, Ferlinghetti is not optimistic about the fate of the world which may well self-destruct because of humanity’s stupidity and greed. The last words in the book speak of the cries of birds which “are not cries of ecstasy, but cries of despair.” . A paradox is possible, though. Not all is despair, otherwise Ferlinghetti would never have written the book in an act of what he calls "eternal creation." It could be considered a sign of faith from a 99 year old.
March 21, 2019
Happy Birthday, Mr. Ferlinghetti!
This is a very interesting and entertaining book - though sometimes a tad challenging to read. I recently complained about sentences that went on for pages but this book gives us the gift in spades. So...maybe Hrabal was influenced by the Beat generation.
There are so many topics covered in this semi-memoir I couldn't possibly touch on it. The book's publication is concurrent with the celebration of Ferlinghetti's 100th birthday. Lucky man!
This is a very interesting and entertaining book - though sometimes a tad challenging to read. I recently complained about sentences that went on for pages but this book gives us the gift in spades. So...maybe Hrabal was influenced by the Beat generation.
There are so many topics covered in this semi-memoir I couldn't possibly touch on it. The book's publication is concurrent with the celebration of Ferlinghetti's 100th birthday. Lucky man!
July 27, 2022
Beautiful nonsense. While I can appreciate its esthetics, meaning is lacking. Which one could defend by saying that it is lacking 'cause in the world there's none, but that hardly justifies the 179 pages. It could also be said that at the age of 100 (the "novel" was published in 2019, Ferlinghetti being born in 1919) reality is fragmentary.
April 7, 2022
First of all, this is not an autobiography, although there are many autobiographical elements.
Second, it's not poetry, though it is more lyrical than narrative.
Third, I can't imagine reading it on paper or kindle. Pretty sure I would have abandoned it less than halfway through.
As a meditative, poetic audio accompaniment to my walking commute the version read by Peter Coyote (who sounds enough like Ferlinghetti that I was able to imagine it was read by the author) was a welcome companion.
Very loopy, stream of consciousness, occasional pearls of beauty and wisdom. Also occasional cranky tirades about technology and overpopulation, to the point where I literally thought "OK BOOMER" while listening to him go on and on about people sitting in cafes not talking to each other.
Overall I liked it very much, but would really only recommend it to someone who wants to immerse themselves in Ferlinghetti's 99 year old mind for a few hours.
Second, it's not poetry, though it is more lyrical than narrative.
Third, I can't imagine reading it on paper or kindle. Pretty sure I would have abandoned it less than halfway through.
As a meditative, poetic audio accompaniment to my walking commute the version read by Peter Coyote (who sounds enough like Ferlinghetti that I was able to imagine it was read by the author) was a welcome companion.
Very loopy, stream of consciousness, occasional pearls of beauty and wisdom. Also occasional cranky tirades about technology and overpopulation, to the point where I literally thought "OK BOOMER" while listening to him go on and on about people sitting in cafes not talking to each other.
Overall I liked it very much, but would really only recommend it to someone who wants to immerse themselves in Ferlinghetti's 99 year old mind for a few hours.
November 14, 2019
It took me quite a while to finish this little book (only 178 pages). It's not just stream of consciousness but apart from a couple of sections there is almost no punctuation. It's starts off like a normal autobiography and morphs into something completely different stream of consciousness cum poem. You really have to take your time reading it to catch all the nuances.
The man is brilliant. Hard to believe is 100 years old and apparently still going strong.
The man is brilliant. Hard to believe is 100 years old and apparently still going strong.
February 18, 2023
This is stream of consciousness, no full stops, beat writing. Sometimes a bit of a slog to get through and sometimes maybe felt a bit dated? But also beautiful language. Ferlinghetti was so old when he wrote this that it's lovely to have someone who was maybe 100? share their thoughts about their life and hanging out with 'Ginzy'.
March 5, 2021
ar Ferlinghetti pazīstams biju maz, gandrīz necik, bet viņa neaprakstāmi skaistā valoda apbur un liek padomāt. padomāt tā, ka noliec grāmatu un skaties ārā pa logu // vispār jau skaisti, ka un ja tā var ))))
October 14, 2024
unas "memorias" contadas a través de un poema en prosa evocando imágenes surrealistas e intercalando continuamente referencias a otras piezas literarias... definitivamente es mi mierda
Read
April 16, 2019DNF I'm sorry but I can't make it. I was intrigued by how it began but the rants became too much for me to follow. Maybe I will pick this up some day when my own mind is more quiet in order to make room for the Grown Man's stream of consciousness.
May 6, 2019
Oh my. This book!
A groundbreaking stream-of-conscience memoir and recollection of 100 years. Also addressing the current state of affairs and where we are headed, the 6th extinction. He references youthful anarchism to humanitarian socialism and his practical narrative makes such sense. Hard to read as it's stream-of-conscience with little punctuation, where to stop for a break? Sticking with it, I gained a lot of insight into one man's brilliant interpretation of his life, its generations and life on this planet.
A groundbreaking stream-of-conscience memoir and recollection of 100 years. Also addressing the current state of affairs and where we are headed, the 6th extinction. He references youthful anarchism to humanitarian socialism and his practical narrative makes such sense. Hard to read as it's stream-of-conscience with little punctuation, where to stop for a break? Sticking with it, I gained a lot of insight into one man's brilliant interpretation of his life, its generations and life on this planet.
May 15, 2019
Published on his 100th birthday, this wonderful book is written, the author writes, in "the fourth person singular" a way of speaking in long long verbal sequences from the mind and consciousness at this juncture of life and to write a book also described as not a novel not a memoir not a documentary but something else and with some elements of those forms. All the connections past and present - literary, human, personal, observational - cohere in a lyrical bringing together of the makeup of this author. It's a privilege to overhear and it makes a reader feel deeply the fourth person singular connections going on in his/her own person late in life. There's no old man weariness or deterioration. In this book all his "strength and sweetness" is rolled into a ball.
March 1, 2021
Ferlinghetti, co-founder of City Lights bookstore and publisher of Ginsburg's Howl and poet in his own right, just turned 100. This book is sort of an autobiography, but not really. If you want to know the details of his life you will get a better idea from Wikipedia. The book seems to me to start off as Lawrence is remembering bits and vignettes of his childhood--which must have been a very disorienting childhood as he is passed back and forth and spends much of his time alone with little human connection--but as the book progresses what we get instead of biographical sketch is a running monologue that touches on very few events of his life but strings together thoughts and reflections triggered by reviewing his life. We don't so much get the review of his life as we do the thoughts this triggers. It is definitely a stream-of-consciousness style and much of it focuses on his personal conviction that we and America are on a downward spiral towards a sixth extinction. I found it a very interesting and quick read. I might have wished for more of a tell-all memoir, which is what I was expecting until I was well into the book, but what you get instead is pretty interesting, and if you are a fan of the beats, as I am, this is a book worth checking out by one of the very last of that generation.
May 19, 2021
I read a majority of the book all pent up and anxious awaiting my operation for my hernia. My frantic anxiety evened out with the pace of Ferlinghetti’s rant. Though I had to underline and scribble some parts still, to keep myself focused. I finished the book while recuperating at home, laying on the couch eating soda crackers.
I wanted to like the book more but the ranting middle of the book goes nowhere, which is probably the point. A large portion of the text is wonderful, playful and interesting, as to be expected, but I couldn’t help but feel this emotional outburst was like hot air, nearly reaching a new level but not quite getting there. I think at the end of the book he is saying, i have lived this long and I am just as lost as you are. He complains frequently about overpopulation and Twitter. He also name drops classical music compositions, books and movies, which I added to my to watch list.
Anyway, I wanted to read Ferlinghetti’s books since I heard about his passing. I obtained my copy of this book from his 100th birthday celebration at City Lights books, and its stamped on the inside. Thank you for all you’ve done for us, Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
I wanted to like the book more but the ranting middle of the book goes nowhere, which is probably the point. A large portion of the text is wonderful, playful and interesting, as to be expected, but I couldn’t help but feel this emotional outburst was like hot air, nearly reaching a new level but not quite getting there. I think at the end of the book he is saying, i have lived this long and I am just as lost as you are. He complains frequently about overpopulation and Twitter. He also name drops classical music compositions, books and movies, which I added to my to watch list.
Anyway, I wanted to read Ferlinghetti’s books since I heard about his passing. I obtained my copy of this book from his 100th birthday celebration at City Lights books, and its stamped on the inside. Thank you for all you’ve done for us, Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
March 10, 2021
The first 18-19 pages are compelling enough to read 3 times over and more, each session bringing in a different yield. The final pages have rhetorical power and some sticking language. Generally, however, /Little Boy/ demonstrates that even the most gifted and revered of artists may be consumed with ordinary, half-finished thoughts. Grad students studying the Beat movement will find it useful, but beyond a first blush, I doubt it will go well with common readers - if they tell the truth about it.
Ferlinghetti is a literary elder and national treasure. I hope he will be with us for many more years. My opinion about this book in no way intends to impugn his body of work or denigrate respect for him personally or professionally.
Ferlinghetti is a literary elder and national treasure. I hope he will be with us for many more years. My opinion about this book in no way intends to impugn his body of work or denigrate respect for him personally or professionally.
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