Will Schutt’s debut, Westerly, is a young man’s book, full of pizzazz, and panache, and a lot of transfat.1 The thing about young poets’ books, the best of them, is how fearless they seem—they take in a lot of territory, and chew a lot of scenery, and ask for more.

Two doors down lived a descendent of de Sade.         He rode a vintage Trek in a gingham shirt. A blue Hamsa strung around his neck         waved when he waved. The name meant nearly nil to us, cluelessly humming the catalog         of history...

 

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