What do you think?
Rate this book
Writing the Sacred into the Real
Arguing that a spritual connection comes from a link to nature, the author--a descendent of Nathaniel Hawthorne--describes the sacred places that are important to her.
176 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2001
4 people are currently reading
193 people want to read
About the author
Alison Hawthorne Deming
26 books48 followersPoet and writer Alison Hawthorne Deming was born in Hartford, Connecticut, in 1946. She earned an MFA from Vermont College and worked on public and women’s health issues for many years. A descendant of the American novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne, Deming is native to New England, but has studied and taught in many other regions as an instructor and guest lecturer. Her books of poetry include Science and Other Poems (1994), winner of the Walt Whitman Award from the Academy of American Poets. Praising the volume, judge Gerald Stern wrote: “I greatly admire Alison Deming’s lucid and precise language, her stunning metaphors, her passion, her wild and generous spirit, her humor, her formal cunning. I am taken, as all readers will be, by the knowledge she displays and how she puts this knowledge to a poetic use; but I am equally taken—I am more taken—by the wisdom that lies behind the knowledge.” The collection, described by Deborah DeNicola in the Boston Book Review as “a dense, majestic, wise and ambitious book,” is listed among the Washingon Post’s Favorite Books of 1994 and the Bloomsbury Review’s best recent poetry.
Deming’s other poetry collections include The Monarchs: A Poem Sequence (1997), Genius Loci (2005), and Rope (2009). Genius Loci was praised by D.H. Tracy in Poetry: “Alison Deming’s title means ‘spirit of place,’ but be warned . . . Deming doesn’t belong, or want to belong, to a single place long enough to find its genius, and so she functions more like a naturalist of naturalism, classifying the spirits of place as she encounters them.”
In addition to numerous journal and anthology publications, Deming has published works of nonfiction, including Temporary Homelands (1994), a collection of essays, The Edges of the Civilized World (1998), and Writing the Sacred into the Real (2001). She also edited Poetry of the American West: A Columbia Anthology (1996), and co-edited, with Lauret E. Savoy, The Colors of Nature: Essays on Culture, Identity, and the Natural World (2002; second edition 2011).
Deming is the recipient of a Wallace Stegner Fellowship and fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, and the Arizona Commission on the Arts. She has received the Pablo Neruda Prize, a Pushcart Prize, and the Gertrude B. Claytor Award from the Poetry Society of America. She is a professor of creative writing at the University of Arizona and lives in Tucson.
Deming’s other poetry collections include The Monarchs: A Poem Sequence (1997), Genius Loci (2005), and Rope (2009). Genius Loci was praised by D.H. Tracy in Poetry: “Alison Deming’s title means ‘spirit of place,’ but be warned . . . Deming doesn’t belong, or want to belong, to a single place long enough to find its genius, and so she functions more like a naturalist of naturalism, classifying the spirits of place as she encounters them.”
In addition to numerous journal and anthology publications, Deming has published works of nonfiction, including Temporary Homelands (1994), a collection of essays, The Edges of the Civilized World (1998), and Writing the Sacred into the Real (2001). She also edited Poetry of the American West: A Columbia Anthology (1996), and co-edited, with Lauret E. Savoy, The Colors of Nature: Essays on Culture, Identity, and the Natural World (2002; second edition 2011).
Deming is the recipient of a Wallace Stegner Fellowship and fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, and the Arizona Commission on the Arts. She has received the Pablo Neruda Prize, a Pushcart Prize, and the Gertrude B. Claytor Award from the Poetry Society of America. She is a professor of creative writing at the University of Arizona and lives in Tucson.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews
August 24, 2016
Alison Hawthorne Deming is a brilliant writer whose work often serves as an inspiration for my own. Her prose is beyond reproach, but I give it four and not five stars because the book as a whole fell short of my expectations. For one, I expected it to be a bit more focused on the "writing" piece. I'd mistakenly put it on my bookshelf with my craft books when it clearly belongs with environmental writing. Of course, she does discuss how the four places she takes us to in each chapter influence her craft, but that piece of it seemed to arise not as the purpose of her stories but more out of the fact that she is a writer writing about her life so the writing part of her life will naturally come up. There's also just very little to the book itself. There are 140 pages in the volume, but AHD's words take up fewer than 90. I haven't read other books in the Credo series, but I assume the others are similar. My critique, then, is less of the author and more of the publisher.
March 13, 2021
“The rain is falling in silver needles into the forest green outside my window. The wind slathers it against the glass and it smears into little lenses of distorting clarity. Some raindrops gather on the window casing, bead up fat and round, then fall. The rain’s forms are all beautiful. The human eye does more than see; it stitches the seen and unseen together, the temporal and the eternal. It wakes me again and again to the astonishment of finding myself in a body moving through a world of beauty and dying and mystery. It is as if the world were a series of questions, and astonishment were the answer.”
“I don’t mean to say that when a forest is gone you can replace it with a poem. When a forest is gone, you cannot replace it. But with written words you can bear witness, you can hold a memory of the forest for others to experience and celebrate, you can grieve over the loss and rage against the forces that have leveled the forest- and through grief you can fall in love with forests again, and through that falling, you can believe again in the human capacity for love and in the faith that we might learn to protect what we love.”
For the first time in a while, I have been immersing myself in nature writing, following trails here and there to find the authors, breadcrumbs really; and what I get is mix and match, flotsam and jetsam, some gems, some duds, but I am finding the act of reading about nature is putting me in nature in my mind’s eye and my shoulders lower a little, my jaw untenses, my breath is deeper naturally. Some of it is scary and sad about the ways we are not protecting our earth, and I sob occasionally when the authors touch a chord in my own life, but overall I am absorbing the lessons and lyrics. Because it is all song, and astonishment.
“For me, the natural world in all its evolutionary splendor is a revelation of the divine- the inviolable matrix of cause and effect that reveals itself to us in what we cannot control or manipulate no matter how pervasive our meddling.”
“Why didn’t everyone feel as I did that natural beauty raises the spiritual energy of the world?”
T.S. Eliot wrote: ‘and so each venture/is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate/with shabby equipment always deteriorating/in the general mess of imprecision of feeling.’ We clap our hands to our hearts in gratitude that unsayable has simply been said. Why? Some deep chord in us is struck when form is realized- a chord in which nature must always be one of the notes because to make art is to practice the form-making compulsion of nature, exercising “wild mind.” Wild is a name for the way that phenomena continually actualize themselves- here a saguaro, there a cypress, here a raven’s prrruk, there a warbler’s cheedle cheedle che che che che, here a sonnet, there a free forming cloud of a poem. “music heard so deeply/that it is not heard at all, but you are the/music.”
“If the spirit of a place has anything to do with what a poet makes, then it must be the intensity of light (two f-stops brighter than New York) and the extreme geography that so infuse the mind in Provincetown and make one more reflective. With all that jazzed-up light, the excitement of photons bounding off water and sand, even the ordinary air says, Notice me. … the function of art is to wake us up to the very life we are living.”
“Some destruction is required to live. We cannot eat rocks and air. Yet why should one organism eat so greedily that all others are imperiled? When we’re finished grazing in the garden, I want there to be some garden left. This is more than aesthetic desire- though surely it is the beautiful complexity of nature that woos me. It is moral desire. To use nature beyond its capacity to restore itself is to destroy the force and process that have given us our lives. We have not fallen from nature, we have risen from it; all human accomplishment, feeling, and belief along with flesh and blood are rooted in that generative power. Even our strange human inwardness that imagines such guiding abstractions as faith, justice, love, and compassion is a gift of nature. The theory of evolution, our long genetic entanglement with all the other living things, is not at odds with theories of the sacred. It locates the sacred in living things. I believe we owe nature the deep sense of gratitude that people once expressed to their gods. The earth’s life is finite, as is my own, and these are the realities I accept with sorrow, the place and the passage made sacred by their limits.”
“I am grateful because at this point in history to know a place where a way of life is still shaped by nature’s terms is to know something archetypally human, yet something that is leaking away from most people’s lives. “The great poet, in writing himself, writes his time.” T.S. Eliot. I have taken the statement to mean that the task of poetry- literature in general- is to understand what it means to live at this time in history as opposed to any other. And surely one of the defining characteristics of our time is the bleeding from the world of nature’s complexity and of cultures shaped by nature’s local terms.”
“…I set out for water so I can get closer to the essence of the place, how its life is encompassed by what goes on offshore. When the swells begin to rise in the deep channel, the water feels like a living body, our vessel a mote adrift in its cytoplasm. The rhythmic sway of tides measures the pull of planet and moon. I can’t feel these forces in my body, though they must be there, made as I am from so much cellbound water. The human body is a poor instrument for sensing patterns of movement that guide the migration of whales, terns, butterflies, and geese. I cannot read with my body the earth’s magnetic forces, the tracks of sun, stars, and ocean currents. What pushes or pulls the arctic tern forward when it migrates from its summer home in Iceland to its winter home in the Antarctic Ocean? Ways of knowing that a human body will never know. But the human body is a good instrument for making language, and that tool is the best means we’ve got for finding our way.”
“No one’s prepared for the slow growl that rises off the water, the sound I feel enter my body by trembling straight through my chest rather than slipping into my ears. There’s a finback lying surfaced beside us. Then a second finback emerges, letting out the same cavernous rumble. In seventeen years of fieldwork, the guide has rarely heard such vocalizations…the finback voice is among the loudest and deepest in the ocean, creating such long frequency waves that the animals easily can communicate forty miles across the bay., even one hundred miles across the Gulf of Maine. It’s possible that located in the right spot, they can talk underwater across ocean basins all the way from New England to Europe. But rarely do they hear finbacks vocalizing out in the air.”
“The tide slackens and the swells lay down flat. In the barely perceptible distance, a chaos of whale blows hatches the horizon, dozens of towering white fountains. So much energy is being expended that from a distance the disruption looks vaguely industrial. Then, trying to fix the image in my mind, I write ‘looks like a scene from a war move.’ The simile seems so right and yet it’s alarming how easily it comes to me, how estranged of the sea’s daily business I am that an image of war seems easier to visualize than burst of cetacean breath erupting randomly and rapturously into the air as the great mammals feast their way through the bay.”
“Art-making honors the life of the spirit by channeling incessant human desire toward self-revelation and connection with others, rather than toward obsessive consumption and controlling behavior over others. Why do we do it? I ask Marie Howe, whose wisdom always comes from the heart. It’s our song, she says.”
“I’ve argued with another poet-friend about beauty. He swears we no longer experience it, and that our poetry is an answer to that bleakness. But when he lived in Berkeley he’d regularly escape to Point Reyes…He would not write about natural beauty, though he sought it for comfort, because he was convinced our language had been so tainted by history, politics, and advertising that a poem could no longer pretend to represent anything but itself. I argued that it was that very abrasion between the experience of beauty and what the culture sells is that makes us need to write, makes us fierce to enact our passion for the truth, makes us wild to reclaim the language from its abusers and polluters so that it conveys the wholeness of life’s contradictions, celebrating beauty and lamenting its diminishment and loss.”
“Denise Levertov turned Wordsworth’s lament inside out by writing “the world is/not with us enough.” Her poetics insisted upon both the lyric impulse- the song of the soul singing in the present moment- and the political impulse-the cry for social justice and peace.”
“I fell in love with the West’s magnificence, a scale and intensity of beauty that humbled me before its power. None of the sheltering blue hillsides, tidy seacoast villages, or fresh mown velvet pastures I was accustomed to swooning over in the Northeast. Here the mountains scraped up past the treeline to make their jagged statements to the sky. And the desert spanned into the shimmering edge of nowhere, its creatures adapted to harsh aridity wish such inventive survival strategies that life seemed indomitable. …the expansiveness invites a freedom of mind…the geologic nakedness of arid land gives a vivid sense that human power is mall beneath that of the larger planetary forces.”
“To have a life devoted to art, to spiritual practice, to service to one’s community and ecosystem, restores faith in our collective human enterprise. Work on the culture is work on the self. Art can serve activism by teaching an attentiveness to existence and by enriching the culture in which our roots are set down. Culture is both the crop we grow and the soil in which we grow it. And human culture is the most powerful evolutionary force on Earth these days…art is necessary because it gives us a new way of thinking and speaking, shows us what we are and what have been blind to, and gives us a new language and forms in which to see ourselves.”
“Writing was a forbidden game, Bei Dao (the Chinese dissident poet) said, that could cost one’s life. The poetry they published amounted to a new language, since “for thirty years the Chinese language there had no personal voice at all.” The official line on Bei Dao’s poetry was that it was politically subversive because it expressed intimate thoughts, asserting the rights of the individual by his or her own private experience. And the more obscure Bei Dao’s poems became, the more subversive the authorities considered him. He said, “one the one hand, poetry is useless. It can’t change the world materially. On the other hand it is a basic part of human existence. It came into the world when humans did. It’s what make human beings human.”
The heart thinks constantly. The I Ching.
“Traditional Hawaiians call spiritual energy ‘mana’ and for them it is present in people, animals, plants, and rocks…coming with wayfinders who sailed here in great outrigger canoes, navigating by stars and wave patterns, from the Marquesas and Society Islands…sacred stories, some taking more than a year to tell, conveyed the history of ancestors to the community.”
“I’d been looking for a way to talk about the sacred that was authentically mine. What had I learned on that day? What was the ground note of its music?...Insects, all part of a pattern that was the day, parts of the whole that is not perceivable because, as John Steinbeck wrote, ‘the pattern goes everywhere and is everything and cannot be encompassed by finite mind or by anything short of life- which it is.’ Bugs, the smallest perceivable part of the biological whole. The world would be fine if people became extinct, but without bugs, the basic work they do of pollination, composition, stirring up the soil, and cleaning, Earth would become a barren rock.
“I don’t mean to say that when a forest is gone you can replace it with a poem. When a forest is gone, you cannot replace it. But with written words you can bear witness, you can hold a memory of the forest for others to experience and celebrate, you can grieve over the loss and rage against the forces that have leveled the forest- and through grief you can fall in love with forests again, and through that falling, you can believe again in the human capacity for love and in the faith that we might learn to protect what we love.”
For the first time in a while, I have been immersing myself in nature writing, following trails here and there to find the authors, breadcrumbs really; and what I get is mix and match, flotsam and jetsam, some gems, some duds, but I am finding the act of reading about nature is putting me in nature in my mind’s eye and my shoulders lower a little, my jaw untenses, my breath is deeper naturally. Some of it is scary and sad about the ways we are not protecting our earth, and I sob occasionally when the authors touch a chord in my own life, but overall I am absorbing the lessons and lyrics. Because it is all song, and astonishment.
“For me, the natural world in all its evolutionary splendor is a revelation of the divine- the inviolable matrix of cause and effect that reveals itself to us in what we cannot control or manipulate no matter how pervasive our meddling.”
“Why didn’t everyone feel as I did that natural beauty raises the spiritual energy of the world?”
T.S. Eliot wrote: ‘and so each venture/is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate/with shabby equipment always deteriorating/in the general mess of imprecision of feeling.’ We clap our hands to our hearts in gratitude that unsayable has simply been said. Why? Some deep chord in us is struck when form is realized- a chord in which nature must always be one of the notes because to make art is to practice the form-making compulsion of nature, exercising “wild mind.” Wild is a name for the way that phenomena continually actualize themselves- here a saguaro, there a cypress, here a raven’s prrruk, there a warbler’s cheedle cheedle che che che che, here a sonnet, there a free forming cloud of a poem. “music heard so deeply/that it is not heard at all, but you are the/music.”
“If the spirit of a place has anything to do with what a poet makes, then it must be the intensity of light (two f-stops brighter than New York) and the extreme geography that so infuse the mind in Provincetown and make one more reflective. With all that jazzed-up light, the excitement of photons bounding off water and sand, even the ordinary air says, Notice me. … the function of art is to wake us up to the very life we are living.”
“Some destruction is required to live. We cannot eat rocks and air. Yet why should one organism eat so greedily that all others are imperiled? When we’re finished grazing in the garden, I want there to be some garden left. This is more than aesthetic desire- though surely it is the beautiful complexity of nature that woos me. It is moral desire. To use nature beyond its capacity to restore itself is to destroy the force and process that have given us our lives. We have not fallen from nature, we have risen from it; all human accomplishment, feeling, and belief along with flesh and blood are rooted in that generative power. Even our strange human inwardness that imagines such guiding abstractions as faith, justice, love, and compassion is a gift of nature. The theory of evolution, our long genetic entanglement with all the other living things, is not at odds with theories of the sacred. It locates the sacred in living things. I believe we owe nature the deep sense of gratitude that people once expressed to their gods. The earth’s life is finite, as is my own, and these are the realities I accept with sorrow, the place and the passage made sacred by their limits.”
“I am grateful because at this point in history to know a place where a way of life is still shaped by nature’s terms is to know something archetypally human, yet something that is leaking away from most people’s lives. “The great poet, in writing himself, writes his time.” T.S. Eliot. I have taken the statement to mean that the task of poetry- literature in general- is to understand what it means to live at this time in history as opposed to any other. And surely one of the defining characteristics of our time is the bleeding from the world of nature’s complexity and of cultures shaped by nature’s local terms.”
“…I set out for water so I can get closer to the essence of the place, how its life is encompassed by what goes on offshore. When the swells begin to rise in the deep channel, the water feels like a living body, our vessel a mote adrift in its cytoplasm. The rhythmic sway of tides measures the pull of planet and moon. I can’t feel these forces in my body, though they must be there, made as I am from so much cellbound water. The human body is a poor instrument for sensing patterns of movement that guide the migration of whales, terns, butterflies, and geese. I cannot read with my body the earth’s magnetic forces, the tracks of sun, stars, and ocean currents. What pushes or pulls the arctic tern forward when it migrates from its summer home in Iceland to its winter home in the Antarctic Ocean? Ways of knowing that a human body will never know. But the human body is a good instrument for making language, and that tool is the best means we’ve got for finding our way.”
“No one’s prepared for the slow growl that rises off the water, the sound I feel enter my body by trembling straight through my chest rather than slipping into my ears. There’s a finback lying surfaced beside us. Then a second finback emerges, letting out the same cavernous rumble. In seventeen years of fieldwork, the guide has rarely heard such vocalizations…the finback voice is among the loudest and deepest in the ocean, creating such long frequency waves that the animals easily can communicate forty miles across the bay., even one hundred miles across the Gulf of Maine. It’s possible that located in the right spot, they can talk underwater across ocean basins all the way from New England to Europe. But rarely do they hear finbacks vocalizing out in the air.”
“The tide slackens and the swells lay down flat. In the barely perceptible distance, a chaos of whale blows hatches the horizon, dozens of towering white fountains. So much energy is being expended that from a distance the disruption looks vaguely industrial. Then, trying to fix the image in my mind, I write ‘looks like a scene from a war move.’ The simile seems so right and yet it’s alarming how easily it comes to me, how estranged of the sea’s daily business I am that an image of war seems easier to visualize than burst of cetacean breath erupting randomly and rapturously into the air as the great mammals feast their way through the bay.”
“Art-making honors the life of the spirit by channeling incessant human desire toward self-revelation and connection with others, rather than toward obsessive consumption and controlling behavior over others. Why do we do it? I ask Marie Howe, whose wisdom always comes from the heart. It’s our song, she says.”
“I’ve argued with another poet-friend about beauty. He swears we no longer experience it, and that our poetry is an answer to that bleakness. But when he lived in Berkeley he’d regularly escape to Point Reyes…He would not write about natural beauty, though he sought it for comfort, because he was convinced our language had been so tainted by history, politics, and advertising that a poem could no longer pretend to represent anything but itself. I argued that it was that very abrasion between the experience of beauty and what the culture sells is that makes us need to write, makes us fierce to enact our passion for the truth, makes us wild to reclaim the language from its abusers and polluters so that it conveys the wholeness of life’s contradictions, celebrating beauty and lamenting its diminishment and loss.”
“Denise Levertov turned Wordsworth’s lament inside out by writing “the world is/not with us enough.” Her poetics insisted upon both the lyric impulse- the song of the soul singing in the present moment- and the political impulse-the cry for social justice and peace.”
“I fell in love with the West’s magnificence, a scale and intensity of beauty that humbled me before its power. None of the sheltering blue hillsides, tidy seacoast villages, or fresh mown velvet pastures I was accustomed to swooning over in the Northeast. Here the mountains scraped up past the treeline to make their jagged statements to the sky. And the desert spanned into the shimmering edge of nowhere, its creatures adapted to harsh aridity wish such inventive survival strategies that life seemed indomitable. …the expansiveness invites a freedom of mind…the geologic nakedness of arid land gives a vivid sense that human power is mall beneath that of the larger planetary forces.”
“To have a life devoted to art, to spiritual practice, to service to one’s community and ecosystem, restores faith in our collective human enterprise. Work on the culture is work on the self. Art can serve activism by teaching an attentiveness to existence and by enriching the culture in which our roots are set down. Culture is both the crop we grow and the soil in which we grow it. And human culture is the most powerful evolutionary force on Earth these days…art is necessary because it gives us a new way of thinking and speaking, shows us what we are and what have been blind to, and gives us a new language and forms in which to see ourselves.”
“Writing was a forbidden game, Bei Dao (the Chinese dissident poet) said, that could cost one’s life. The poetry they published amounted to a new language, since “for thirty years the Chinese language there had no personal voice at all.” The official line on Bei Dao’s poetry was that it was politically subversive because it expressed intimate thoughts, asserting the rights of the individual by his or her own private experience. And the more obscure Bei Dao’s poems became, the more subversive the authorities considered him. He said, “one the one hand, poetry is useless. It can’t change the world materially. On the other hand it is a basic part of human existence. It came into the world when humans did. It’s what make human beings human.”
The heart thinks constantly. The I Ching.
“Traditional Hawaiians call spiritual energy ‘mana’ and for them it is present in people, animals, plants, and rocks…coming with wayfinders who sailed here in great outrigger canoes, navigating by stars and wave patterns, from the Marquesas and Society Islands…sacred stories, some taking more than a year to tell, conveyed the history of ancestors to the community.”
“I’d been looking for a way to talk about the sacred that was authentically mine. What had I learned on that day? What was the ground note of its music?...Insects, all part of a pattern that was the day, parts of the whole that is not perceivable because, as John Steinbeck wrote, ‘the pattern goes everywhere and is everything and cannot be encompassed by finite mind or by anything short of life- which it is.’ Bugs, the smallest perceivable part of the biological whole. The world would be fine if people became extinct, but without bugs, the basic work they do of pollination, composition, stirring up the soil, and cleaning, Earth would become a barren rock.
May 5, 2011
Ms. Deming is a true advocate for nature, but also a true advocate for people living in nature, and the culture they bring to bear on those environments. She eloquently displays the intimacy which both share...whether or not the people living in nature realize that. It seems like her goal is to enlighten such people through her prose/poetry/"prosetry". She spoke about the "poetics of place" during one of the myriad events at the recent Tucson Festival of Books. I later purchased her book at that Festival, let it sit on my shelf for the last 3 months, casually began to read it this past weekend and managed cover to cover in 6 hours, much to my surprise. For me, personally, it was like an epiphany, as I had not made the personal connection between my "place" histories and how they have shaped me over the years until I read this book.
p. 114.....
"There are many places in my life that have been important that I can't go back to because they are gone now. The sense of loss is profound. I have the feeling that if I write this, I will always be able to know and remember this place, as I'm experiencing it now. It's a way of holding on to things that are just painfully evanescent."
p. 114.....
"There are many places in my life that have been important that I can't go back to because they are gone now. The sense of loss is profound. I have the feeling that if I write this, I will always be able to know and remember this place, as I'm experiencing it now. It's a way of holding on to things that are just painfully evanescent."
February 11, 2015
Essays about writing about places : Grand Manan, Provincetown, Tucson, Poamoho.
"Writing Poetry is an act of dissent in at least three ways: economically, because the poet labors to make a thing that will never be worth money; temporally because the poem is an argument with the erosive passage of time; and politically, because in an age that values aggregate data, poetry -- all true art -- insists upon the passionate importance of the individual."
"Writing Poetry is an act of dissent in at least three ways: economically, because the poet labors to make a thing that will never be worth money; temporally because the poem is an argument with the erosive passage of time; and politically, because in an age that values aggregate data, poetry -- all true art -- insists upon the passionate importance of the individual."
July 24, 2023
Fabulous read. Love her clear, concise, and lyrical style.
September 30, 2025
Unconvincing. It never takes off.
January 28, 2021
Deming's prose is beautiful, and her insights occasionally profound, but the 4 essays in this book are too short to really delve as deeply as I would've liked.
Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews