Kent Russell, “It Stinks”

On my way out, downwind from the front entrance, I really got a whiff of the thing. It smelled like an air horn sounds. Like cosmological smelling salt. It smelled like the best poetry, that which helps a man “reclaim substance and sense, and physical and psychological reality.

On the corpse flower’s “indifferent, cosmic energy.”

Kent Russell and John Jeremiah Sullivan war for my humanist non-fiction heart. They’re on another level.

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