IT SEEMED LOGICAL to suppose that the death of Rebecca West in 1983 at the age of ninety-one would prevent the appearance of any further work. Not so, as it turned out. So prolific had she been in life that her heirs and literary successors were not short of material – letters, diaries, half-chewed manuscripts, exasperated notes to herself and others – from which to continue to produce if not a stream, then at least a respectable trickle of posthumous writings.
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'The poem leads us, but no person takes us by the hand. It is not like Virgil or Homer, whose poems start with invocations to a muse.'
Michael Schmidt on the Epic of Gilgamesh.