Reviewed by Lorette C. Luzajic
I stuffed my left aural orifice with cotton, but that didn’t work, so I tried plasticine. With my gold-rimmed floral teacup brimming with Earl Grey and candlelit shadows from my bookends flickering griffins against the closed curtains, I let the Goldberg variations swirl majestically through me. It is not my first encounter with Gould, of course, but I am not well versed in classical music or Bach, and I have never really sat still to listen. I open The Caitlin Press book of Glenn Gould poems and read until the candles burn out.