Davison's memoir centers on his experiences in the frequently kooky, wildly fruitful, and endlessly fascinating Boston poetry scene of the 1950s and 60s. With cameos from Robert Frost, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, the Merwins, Robert Lowell, Maxine Kumin, and Adrienne Rich (among many, many others), this was a stunning glimpse into an intellectual and creative community that (I would argue) is potentially unrivaled in literary history. 
 Though I didn't give the book five stars (the organization could have been better-handled, and it felt as if the memoir just cut off, mid-thought), it satisfied several hopes I had going into the reading of it: 1) I became violently jealous of Davison and everyone involved, for having lived in a time when the role of the poet was really, truly significant to a community's culture and livelihood, 2) I felt as if, rather than offered a sterile grocery list of facts about these poets, I was in on the intimate (but tender) gossip of the wider circle, and 3) I was inspired to write, and began thinking of ways in which I might better throw myself into my life as, yes, a writer. These poets did nothing half-heartedly; their entire beings were absolutely thrown into the wreckage of their work, and I was just enthralled by it. I shouldn't exoticize madness, as is often the tendency with icons like Sexton and Plath and Lowell, but nonetheless, I can't help but find appealing the awe-inspiring and sometimes frightening passion with which all of these writers were working. It was thrilling. But as I said, and perhaps this is merely a failing of the memoir form, there were moments where I just needed more--more clarity, more elaboration, more closure. That was me reading as a consumer of novels and biographies, though, so perhaps I shouldn't blame Davison. Any case, this comes highly recommended, especially if you're tired of all the medicinal work on these wacky writers--this is a smart, and balanced, game of he-said-she-said, and it's a truly enjoyable read.