![]() ![]() mooncold,/noonhot, windburnished,/its underside melon dusk/of a wintersunset.” ![]() Fisher, Harriet Doerr), and most of all by the breathtakingly vivid, minute desert-flower-like detail of her images: for example, a rock that is “. Her writing is unmistakably informed by the crackling dry heat of the desert, by the strange mixture of brashness and refinement that characterizes California writers of her generation (M.F.K. ![]() She has beautiful skin, white hair and facial expressions so responsive and articulate that one easily forgets (reminded only by a slight fogginess in one eye) in conversation that she cannot see. They can borrow her, but they can’t have her, for Adair, 82, considers herself a Californian and has lived in Claremont for the last 41 years. And sure enough, comet-like, the corners of East Coast, silk-stocking publishing were suddenly illuminated by her work: The New Yorker will run 15 poems, the New York Review of Books ran one, and the New York Times published a short profile and a poem from her new Random House collection, “Ants on the Melon.” “She has arrived in our world like a comet,” said poet Galway Kinnell after seeing Virginia Hamilton Adair’s work for the first time, a quote that has since appeared in several places, not least in poetry editor Alice Quinn’s profile of Adair for the Dec. ![]()
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