I felt a recurring resistance as I was reading. Often it didn't seem quite right for a poet, especially such a celebrated poet as Alice Fulton, to be spelling out details of the way she works, or giving readers quite specific advice about how to read her poems. "So what didn't seem quite right?" I asked myself. As the answer(s) began to coalesce, I recognised them as distressingly old, unexamined assumptions about "the artist" and "the audience," about how an artist must let her reader or viewer or listener exert her own critical judgment based on what is there to see and hear. I recalled embarrassing moments when an artist whose work I planned to review in print insisted on a "right" understanding of it, feeding in the correct terms to use. At the same time, I began to really enjoy my reading, to feel a little less distant not only from this poet, but from poets in general, to know that at least sometimes, a poet writes in profound awareness of a potential reader, writes for a reader. Gradually I began to recognise the risk she'd taken in challenging what seems like an essential, nearly sacred separation between artist and critic, and how free I continued to be to read her poetry as I saw fit.
This is a book I'll need to read more than once, if for no other reason than I sensed my own attitudes changing as I read, and would like to clarify, firm up -- or reject -- those changes. But for now, I am very grateful that she did this quite daring thing.