JOYCE'S MOTTO has had much fame but few apostles. Among them, there has
been Jack Gilbert and his orthodoxy, a strictness that has required of
this poet, now in the seventh decade of his severe life, the penalty of
his having had almost no fame at all. In an era that puts before the
artist so many sleek and official temptations, keeping unflinchingly to
a code of "silence, exile, and cunning" could not have been managed
without a show of strictness well beyond the reach of the theater of the
coy.
The "far, stubborn, disastrous" course of Jack Gilbert's resolute
journey--not one that would promise in time to bring him home to the
consolations of Penelope and the comforts of Ithaca but one that would
instead take him ever outward to the impossible blankness of the
desert--could never have been achieved in the society of others. What
has kept this great poet brave has been the difficult company of his
poems--and now we have, in Gilbert's third and most silent book, what
may be, what must be, the bravest of these imperial accomplishments.