This is an outstanding book that is sure to delight any bibliophile. If you have relished reading "A Separate Peace" or have enjoyed watching the movie "Dead Poets Society", then this book is for you.

The setting of the story is a boys' preparatory boarding school where literature, writing, and academics are highly valued above athletics. It creates an atmosphere that is both intellectual and inspiring.

One of my favorite aspects of the book was the visits to the school by several notable authors. These visits added an extra layer of authenticity and excitement to the story.

Overall, this book is definitely worth reading. It offers a unique perspective on the world of education and the power of literature. Whether you are a fan of coming-of-age stories or simply enjoy a well-written book, you are sure to find something to love in this one.

At Donald Hall's house, he engaged in a rather extensive discussion about formalism and style within literary traditions. He impressed upon me that one cannot truly enter the contemporary literary scene without having delved into the writings pre-1800 and beyond.

In Charles Simic's classes, he imparted a more refined, elegant modern aesthetic. His approach was more like that of an arachnid, mysterious, dark, and removed. His writing centered around the hidden, and thus, he admired any method employed to unearth what is usually only whispered about.

Billy Collins, on the other hand, wrote to me about the fundamental elements of prose and the essence of poetry. Each of these men adopted a distinct approach to their literary style, which I was eager to understand as I believed they were different means of expressing the truth. I was curious about truth itself, what my own truth was, and how to use my voice in society. What exactly was that voice? What constituted a voice?

Kierkegaard, whose works I read and reviewed in 2009, stated that a poet is an “unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.” This sentiment mirrors an essay I penned in 2005 titled Poetic Injustice, Learning to Undo the Poetic to Find the Truth of Suffering.

I am familiar with the stereotype often associated with poets, that their impetus to write stems from a place of suffering. The critique is that eventually, the beauty of their own words, the way they describe pain through poetry, becomes so exquisite that it masks the true horror they feel, trapping it behind a veil that sounds romantic and stirring. Pain, beneath it all, unconsciously becomes the muse that drives their work. Without that pain, there is no poem, and this is ultimately intuited by the writer. Being tortured becomes romanticized because when the poet is tortured, the poet writes. This, however, discourages the poet from seeking health or offering hope, aligning with what Plato cautioned: Be cautious of the poet, for they can make anything seem beautiful, but is that beauty just? By justice, he meant: is it good for you? Good for others?

Well, what if one doesn't desire to feel pain to appreciate beauty? What if life is already arduous enough, with one experiencing ample pain every time they watch the news, worry about sending their kids to school, or wonder about how their mother is faring? What if one wishes to heal from past hurts? What if one wants to discover a voice to promote that healing process? What if one desires that voice to be strong, interesting, and nuanced enough to assure people that they are not close-minded, friendly without being trite, and smart without being condescending? What if, after healing, one wants to write poetry that can comment on both pain and beauty? What if one wants that poetry to possess depth not because it conceals their pain but because they have come to understand and empathize with those who suffer and, in subtle ways, wish to share the lessons they have learned?

On two separate occasions while on the way to the airport, Billy Collins told me to remember that poetry is a bird. He said this because during his early twenties, he attempted suicide and found that poetry was an antidote to suffering. I studied this concept for a while and found ways to apply it to my life (although this may sound rather vague as I don't wish to go into details at the moment).

While Donald and I shared a cigarette (he said, “80 sucks,” and I replied, “Don't tell anyone I bummed a smoke from you”), he informed me that structure provides freedom. For Charles Simic's class, I composed an essay titled No Ideas But In Things, Formalism in Postmodern Art to challenge some of the ideas of the formalists. Charles Simic took umbrage at some of the angles I was exploring while using Robert Bly as a means to work through these angles, and he wrote a poem about Robert Bly, honesty, and suffering. Simic was kind enough to give me his Kenneth Koch book and drove me to the airport to meet Billy Collins for the first time. I still wonder about it all, though. Donald Hall spoke at length about Robert Frost. Because I have yet to find a voice that feels right, as evidenced by still feeling alienated, I once again turn to the formalists, those who adhere to the rules. I couldn't help but quote this passage from Tobias Wolff's book.

Quoted from the text:

“Your work sir,” Mr. Ramsey said, “follows a certain tradition. Not the tradition of Whitman, that most American of poets, but a more constrained, shall we say formal tradition, as in that last poem you read, ‘Stopping in the Woods.’ I wonder--”

“‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,’” Frost said. He placed both hands on the pulpit and peered at Ramsey.

“Yes, sir. Now that particular poem is not unusual in your work for being written in stanza form, with iambic lines connected by rhyme.”

“Good for you,” Frost said. “They must be teaching you boys something here.”

There was a great outburst of laughter, more cutting than jovial. Mr. Ramsey endured it as Frost looked mischievously around the chapel, the master of chaos. It was evident that he was not displeased by the turmoil his mistake had caused, and one had to wonder if it was a mistake at all. Finally, he said, “You had a question?”

“Yes, sir. The question is whether such a rigidly formal arrangement of language is adequate to express the modern consciousness. That is, should form give way to more spontaneous modes of expression, even at the cost of a certain disorder?”

“Modern consciousness,” Frost said. “What's that?”

“Ah! Good question, sir. Well--very roughly speaking, I would describe it as the mind's response to industrialization, the saturation of propaganda from governments and advertisers, two world wars, the concentration camps, the dimming of faith by science, and of course the constant threat of nuclear annihilation. Surely these things have had an effect on us. Surely they have changed our thinking.”

“Surely nothing.” Frost glared down at Mr. Ramsey.

If this had been the Last Judgement, Mr. Ramsey and his modern consciousness would have been in for a difficult time. He couldn't have looked more isolated, standing there.

“Don't tell me about science,” Frost said. “I'm something of a scientist myself. Bet you didn't know that. Botany. You boys know what tropism is, it's what makes a plant grow toward the light. Everything aspires to the light. You don't have to chase down a fly to get rid of it--you just darken the room, leave a crack of light in a window, and out he goes. Works every time. We all have that instinct, that aspiration. Science can't--what was your word? dim?--science can't dim that. All science can do is turn out the false lights so that the true can get us home.”

Mr. Ramsey began to say something, but Frost continued.

“So, don't tell me about science, and don't tell me about war. I lost my nearest friend in the one they call the Great War. So did Achilles lose his friend in war, and Homer did no injustice to his grief by writing about it in dactylic hexameters. There've always been wars, and they've always been as foul as we could make them. It is very fine and pleasant to think of ourselves as the most put upon folk in history--but then everyone has thought that from the beginning. It makes a grand excuse for all manner of laziness. But about my friend. I wrote a poem for him. I still write poems for him. Would you honor your own friend by putting words down anyhow, just as they come to you--with no thought for the sound they make, the meaning of their sound, the sound of their meaning? Would that give a true account of the loss?”

Frost had been looking directly at Mr. Ramsey as he spoke. Now he broke off and let his eyes wander around the room.

“I am thinking of Achilles' grief,” he said. “That famous, terrible, grief. Let me tell you something boys. Such grief can only be told in form. Maybe it only really exists in form. Form is everything. Without it you've got nothing but a stubbed-toe cry--sincere, maybe, for what it's worth, but with no depth or carry. No echo. You may have a grievance but you do not have grief, and grievances are for petitions, not poetry. Does that answer your question?”

“I'm not sure, but thank you for having a go at it.”

I picked up this book at the library on a whim, and from the very first chapter, I was completely hooked.

It is a short novel, and I gather it is semi-autobiographical, set in an elite boys' prep school somewhere in New England. The protagonist is a scholarship boy who manages to fit in with his peers mainly by allowing them to think he is something he isn't. The lies are more of omission rather than commission. However, gradually he starts to live these lies until they become an integral part of him.

This is also a book that delves deep into the world of books - poetry, novels, writing, and reading. It's about learning to read literature and learning how to write. Naturally, I adored this aspect, even though I'm not a fan of Hemingway or Ayn Rand. There is a particularly wonderful moment when a short story opens the protagonist's eyes to the truth about himself, and the story truly becomes his own.

The ending, unfortunately, felt a bit rushed and bordered on triteness. But a clever finale managed to bring home the message about personal truth and misplaced pride.

Content rating: PG. There is some very mild making out at dances and quotes from Ayn Rand. Otherwise, it's a clean read that offers an engaging exploration of identity, lies, and the power of literature.

So this was beautifully written and set in my absolute favorite sort of boarding school setting.

The detailed descriptions of the school environment, the classrooms, the dormitories, and the daily lives of the students truly brought the story to life.

But what I REALLY loved about it was Wolff's ability to connect the experience of being a young reader.

The relationships that the boys in the book have with literature are so profound and relatable.

It makes me feel so nostalgic for the first time I read Salinger or Vonnegut and just fell totally, utterly in love with an author.

That moment when you discover a new voice, a new perspective, and it changes your life forever.

Wolff captures that essence perfectly in this book, and it's what makes it so special.

It's not just a story about boarding school, but a story about the power of literature to transform and inspire.

I highly recommend this book to anyone who loves a good coming-of-age story and has a passion for reading.

Old School is set in 1960 at an exclusive all-boys prep school in New England. The unnamed narrator is a senior at this elite boarding school. The story centers around a writing contest. Every year, three renowned writers visit the school and give a public talk. In the lead-up, only the senior students submit their stories and poems. Before the writer arrives, they select their favorite from the submissions. The chosen author then gets a private interview with the famous writer.

The three visiting judges in the novel are Robert Frost, Ayn Rand, and Ernest Hemingway. Frost is the first to appear, and the senior students are feverishly trying to pen a poem that will capture his attention. They take the competition extremely seriously, which strains relationships and creates a great deal of pressure. They compete fiercely.

I truly admired the students' passion for literature and how they worked hard and creatively not just for the competition but also for the school's literary magazine, Troubadour.

As someone described this book as a "very quiet book about students and teachers and their love for literature", I wholeheartedly agree and couldn't have put it more succinctly myself. However, I was disappointed by the sudden ending.

Overall, Old School is an excellent and enjoyable novel that will delight literature lovers.

**"A Year in School"**

If only Tobias Wolff had had the courage to start narrating from the moment when (just before being accused of plagiarism) he enters the principal's office, this short autobiographical novel could have become literature, rather than just a good memoir.

However, Wolff's intention, probably known for being a talented short story writer, was not that. So, alternating moments of interest with moments when boredom prevails, Wolff ends up revealing himself as a good narrator, but nothing more.

The story seems to have its ups and downs. There are certain points that draw the reader in, making them curious about what will happen next. But then, there are also stretches where the narrative lags and the reader might find themselves losing a bit of interest.

Perhaps Wolff could have done more to develop the characters and the plot in a more engaging way. Despite this, the book still has its charm and offers some insights into Wolff's life during that year in school.

Here is a great review.

Nixon was a complex figure. He was described as a straight arrow and a scold. If he had been part of a certain group, they might have played a prank like gluing his shoes to the floor.

Rhyme was a topic of debate. Some believed it was bullshit, suggesting that it gave a false sense of everything working out in the end, with all harmony and order. They claimed that when seeing a rhyme in a poem, they knew they were being misled.

In contrast, there was the view that form was essential. Achilles' grief, for example, could only be told in form, and perhaps it only truly existed in form. Without form, there was nothing but a simple cry without depth or carry.

The lives of certain people were also described. They lived on salted meat from salmon and bears, and the businessmen seemed pathetic in their attire, with laughable flags of individuality.

The importance of stories was emphasized. One could imagine a world without essays, but not without stories. Stories were related to self-consciousness and the idea of using it to bring oneself out of exile.

As graduation approached, nostalgia set in. Even in the worst dreams, there were sounds that assured one would wake to true life.

The concept of the sacred was explored, and it was noted that one knew what was sacred when recoiling from impiety.

Finally, the character Arch was反思. He had taught about the folly of obsession with purity but had not taken the lesson to heart himself, giving up the good in his life due to a flaw.

As I was engaged in the seemingly endless task of reshuffling my book piles during our house renovations, this particular book miraculously emerged.

It was a time when I was deeply contemplating retirement, looking forward to becoming a grandfather again, and envisioning weekends spent on a cold water lake in southern Missouri.

This book was an absolute delight. Set in the year of my birth, it is situated in an east coast boarding school. Here, our insecure protagonist, a boy secretly on scholarship from the northwest US, experiences his coming of age.

The boys he associates with are consumed by the desire to become writers, tortured by the secret fear that they may not be good enough or that their stories have already been told. They compete for a slot to meet the famous visiting writers scheduled to come. One boy will be chosen for a personal audience, starting with the aging Robert Frost, then Ayn Rand, and finally, their ultimate hero, Ernest Hemingway himself.

Our protagonist also has a secret of his own, which adds an extra layer of intrigue to his struggle.

This book delves into the writing process itself, highlighting just how arduous the act of creation can be for an artist. The flood of ideas becomes constrained, then overly diluted, and finally finds its way back into a path that is desperately hoped to be fresh, original, and interesting.

Our boy, being the editor of the school newspaper, is right in the thick of the battle. He closely monitors the work of his peers, often with envy but always with respect and honesty.

In the heat of creative genius, he inadvertently becomes a plagiarist, wins the big prize, and then is soundly reduced to disrepute, ultimately leaving the school in disgrace.

This served as a trigger for me, as I had endured some similar scholastic misadventures before ultimately persevering and obtaining an advanced degree, which has served me well throughout my long career.

Wolff's writing is superb. He is truly a writer's writer (or so I imagine, not being a writer myself). His descriptions of the personalities of Robert Frost and Ayn Rand are both revealing and hilarious. He clearly has a deep understanding of these subjects.

But the best part is his account of old Ernie. The boys in the school idolize him as the king (this was 1960, at the end and perhaps the height of his powers, just before his demise). In fact, the boys' behavior often mimics that of Nick Adams, the main Hemingway character who is seen as a real manifestation of their hero.

Our protagonist has a brief encounter with Ayn Rand before, but becomes disillusioned when he re-reads her work and when she arrives at the school and her caustic personality and callous disregard for the boys are revealed.

The big prize, a meeting with the aging "Big Poppy," is won by our protagonist after getting inspiration from a prior school newsletter (which will ultimately lead to his downfall). And when he is exposed, it coincides with the announcement that their hero has committed the final act in Ketchum, Idaho.

Our boy learns from his headmaster about the back and forth letters with Hemingway as he prepared to visit. This was my favorite part of the book: Hemingway's scathing critiques of all manner of writers (from James Joyce to Faulkner, to his more well-known adversary, F. Scott Fitzgerald). The man's ego is on full display, and it is so in character from what I've read of him that Wolff's depiction takes on a level of reality that is simply delightful and fresh.

Overall, this book hits many chords for me. It brings to mind the experience of coming of age, being away from a difficult home life for the first time, the hustle and bustle, the sights and smells of the male dorm on campus, the frustration of trying to express something meaningful in words, the intensity of competition, and the idolizing of a small list of revered writers.

I'll always associate this book with my time spent catching trout on the lake with my grandsons, the joy of handling fresh, wriggling fish, the overarching influence of Hemingway, the time when the cool fall colors are just beginning to turn, and the smell of my own mortality as the final years approach and the remaining time seems uncertain and fleeting.

Yet, there is pure joy in the moment, punctuated by pangs and pinholes of that unknown future.

I truly enjoyed this experience tremendously.

It didn't matter to me at all that he managed to beat me out for the Northern California Book Prize.

I'm just kidding about that part. But I'm not kidding when I say that I really enjoyed it.

Wolfe is an incredibly remarkable writer.

The sentences he constructs are often nothing short of perfect.

They are simple, yet at the same time, they are perfect in their simplicity.

His writing has a certain elegance and charm that draws the reader in and keeps them engaged from start to finish.

I can't help but admire his talent and skill as a writer.

It's truly a pleasure to read his work and see how he weaves words together to create such beautiful and meaningful stories.

I look forward to reading more of his books in the future and continuing to be inspired by his writing.

At a boys’ boarding school, intense literary rivalries begin to develop as the pupils eagerly compete in a short story contest.

The prize for this highly anticipated competition is an audience with one of a series of visiting writers, with Hemingway being the most prominent among them.

Old School gives the impression of being a less intense and lower-stakes version of A Separate Peace.

The sequence in which our protagonist first becomes completely obsessed with, and then ultimately discards, the work of Ayn Rand is truly hilarious.

It adds a touch of humor and lightness to the otherwise somewhat serious atmosphere of the boarding school and the literary competitions.

The story seems to unfold in a rather engaging way, making the reader curious to see how the protagonist's literary journey will continue and what other interesting events and developments will occur along the way.

Overall, Old School appears to be a captivating read that combines elements of literary competition, personal growth, and a touch of humor.

At first glance, this memoir appears to be 'just' a straightforward, well-written, and enjoyable account.

However, upon closer inspection, one realizes that the author has masterfully woven in several themes and motifs in a very subtle manner.

Truth, honesty, loyalty, and self-knowledge are delicately touched upon in each of the chapters as the story unfolds.

There is an underlying tension regarding the narrator's Jewishness and class difference that simmers beneath the surface.

The novel also delves into the world of writing and writers, discussing and portraying renowned figures such as Ayn Rand, Hemingway, and Frost.

It offers a unique perspective on the creative process and the influence of these literary giants.

Overall, this memoir is not only an engaging read but also a thought-provoking exploration of various themes and the literary world.

It leaves the reader with a deeper understanding and appreciation for the power of words and the complex nature of the human experience.

First things first: this is not a movie tie-in.

There are no earmuffs, no "Hank the Tank," and no Andy Dick seminars. Instead, it is a nostalgic coming-of-age novel set in the early 1960s with a neat conceit.

Each year at the narrator's exclusive prep school, a literary master visits the campus, sparking fierce competition among the preps for the golden opportunity to have their writing evaluated and perhaps be discovered.

The three luminaries here are Robert Frost, Ayn Rand, and Ernest Hemingway. In the hands of someone else, this idea might have become gimmicky, but Wolff has a great eye for the excesses and vulnerabilities of the biggies.

I laughed out loud when Rand lectures the hero on why Mickey Spillane is better than Hemingway. Although I didn't buy it, her argument did make a certain sense.

Then, two-thirds of the way through, comes the moment when the young protagonist commits a hubristic sin that sends the story in a whole different direction.

There is a wonderful, counterintuitive passage about writing that is both biting and humble. It throws into question everything people generally write for - the belief they've got an opinion worth expressing, old wounds to salt, a voice, and so on.

This is a beautiful book. I heard Wolff read portions of it in 2002 in Italy, and he was a very down-to-earth guy. My friends and I even got to have dinner with him and his wife.

It was a memorable experience that added to my appreciation of this wonderful novel.