The analysis is raw, pained and ruthlessly self-aware. For all the moral torment, the writing itself has the same rush and vigour that possessed Hughess early poetry. Some books of letters serve as a personalised historical chronicle. Poets letters are seldom like that, and Hughess are no exception. His are about a life of literary engagement: almost all of them include some musing on the state or the nature of writing, both Hughess own or other peoples. The trajectory of Hughess literary career had him moving from obscurity to fame, and then, in the eyes of many, to life-long notoriety. These letters are filled with his wrestling with the consequences of being the part-private, part-public creature that he became, desperate to devote himself to his writing, and yet subject to endless invasions of his privacy.
Hughes is an absorbing and intricate commentator upon his own poetry, even when he is standing back from it and good-humouredly condemning himself for its fantasticalia, its pretticisms and its infinite verballifications. He also believed, from first to last, that poetry had a special place in the education of children. What kids need, he wrote in a 1988 letter to the secretary of state for education in the Conservative government, is a headfull [sic] of songs that are not songs but blocks of refined and achieved and exemplary language. When that happens, children have the guardian angel installed behind the tongue. Lucky readers, big or small.
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