[In the following negative review, the critic chastises Carroll and the collection of prose and poetry Living at the Movies.]

Carroll would like to be poetry’s renegade stepchild, an avant-gardist, the forerunner of a new art form. These poems and prose pieces show exposure to Borges, Kafka, particularly Rimbaud—the romantic, drug-taking exception to all rules who has stymied many scholars and led many bright children astray. The original attraction of Carroll was a sort of jejune decadence, which he has, since his Living at the Movies (1973), pretty much outworn. This collection, about the poet’s deepest emotional experiences in California and New York over the last 10 years, is wincingly embarrassing. It is especially painful because Carroll’s real talent often peeps through the dross. This is a bad example of serious talent destroyed over the years by negligence and disregard for self-discipline.