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Ted Hughes

Had you caught something in me, Nocturnal and unknown to me? Or was it Your doomed self, your tortured, crying, Suffocating self? Whichever, Those terrible, hypersensitive Fingers of your verse closed round it and Felt it alive. The poems, like smoking entrails, Came soft into your hands. —Ted Hughes, from “The Rabbit Catcher,” Birthday Letters.… Continue reading Ted Hughes

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