Kenneth Rexroth was 11 years old when his mother died from gangrene of the lung in 1916. They were exceptionally close, and during her final week she had long conferences with him in which she tried desperately to foresee all the contingencies of his future. She was eager for him to pursue his destiny as a writer and artist, but above all she wanted him to think for himself. "Somewhere in the back of my mind I suppose I remember it all," he confessed in his Autobiographical Novel, "and have even acted on it down the years."

Thirty-one years later, on the anniversary of her death, Rexroth paid ...

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