I'm in the middle of Jay Parini's biography of Robert Frost, Robert Frost: A Life. And I'm trying to read the corresponding poems alongside it. I've gotten to the point in his life when he's working on his second book, North of Boston. He's living in England, meeting Pound, beginning to make a name for himself, struggling to believe in his first book. I suppose the most interesting thing about Frost for me is his willfulness. He decided he would become a famous poet and then did what he had to in order to make that happen. We're all doing that to some degree, though, aren't we? And the road is paved for much more of the way than it was in his day. Still, that willfulness amazes me, that one could choose greatness and achieve it.
In other news, B. moves in with me this week, so W. and I are switching rooms and moving things into the living room to make our dirty barn into more of a home. My first time living with a lover, or with a future wife for that matter.