There are passages of superb lyric intensity in [Mirabell]—occasionally Merrill gets it all together and does once again (but all too briefly) what he used to do so well. By far the greater portion of the volume, however, shows not stylish high jinks but uninspired plodding…. There is nothing even remotely musical about ninety percent of the lines in this book. (p. 705)

Aside from its selective summary of western thought, Mirabell is an intellectual sham. Among other things, Merrill claims to know something about modern physics; he knows less than you could pick up from The Times. What the volume most resembles in other art forms is the vapid credulity evinced in books and movies like The Amityville Horror. The poetry is as inartistic as the content is fatuous; the structure is haphazard; the lyricism virtually mute. I won't say that nobody could, but James Merrill certainly has not transfigured all this "junk." (p. 706)