My introduction to Bloom came at a deadly age: early in undergrad, when a good friend’s mother (an English teacher) gave me a copy of Bloom’s Genius. I’ve still never read the whole thing. Over the years, as I began to read more intently and dream of becoming a writer, I’d open its pages sometimes just to see what he had to say about whoever I was reading at that moment. This practice became more and more common. By the time of the COVID pandemic, as I was living and studying on my own in a minor mid-American city, I’d come to compulsively refer almost everything I read to that voice—to Bloom’s voice—searching constantly for its approval, wary of its admonishment. I began to use his Best Poems as a guide to my own chronological reading of the major English poets; it was then that I first read The Anxiety of Influence, The Western Canon and several other books. Much of this time was well spent: there was always new inspiration to be discovered meditating on the burdens of Bloom. And yet those burdens—above all, the apparent impossibility of genuine literary freedom—had begun to transfer to me as well.
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