{"id":124310,"date":"2018-04-16T13:00:17","date_gmt":"2018-04-16T17:00:17","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=124310"},"modified":"2018-04-17T16:49:25","modified_gmt":"2018-04-17T20:49:25","slug":"j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/","title":{"rendered":"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

J.\u2009D. McClatchy. Photo: Henri Cole.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

We must have met in 1980, when I was twenty-four. I was a graduate student in New York City. Sandy was teaching in New Haven. This was before email, Facebook, and Twitter. Poets wrote letters and talked on the telephone (landlines!). Sandy had just published his first collection of poems,\u00a0Scenes from Another Life<\/em>, and he and his partner had invited me to dinner in New Haven. They were being kind to a young fan who\u2019d published only one poem. I was not really a poet yet or out of the closet. There was also a young Mexican poet at the table, who would later drown while swimming in the Pacific. After a delicious dinner cooked by Sandy, a joint was passed around. There was not any talk of AIDS yet, as there would soon be, like a hatchet falling through the room. But a profound sense of freedom. Openness. New friendship. \u201cI cannot remember a moment of my life when I didn\u2019t know I was gay,\u201d Sandy said. For him, being gay was simply a fact, like being a poet.<\/p>\n

This was the era of new formalism, and Sandy was \u201ca painstaking and brilliantly adventurous craftsman,\u201d to quote Stephen Yenser, \u201cthe epitome of the writer with savoir faire\u201d and \u201coutrageously candid.\u201d His poems were eloquent yet rueful, a combination I loved. He was not afraid of being difficult. \u201cThe poem must resist the intelligence \/ Almost successfully,\u201d Wallace Stevens wrote in \u201cMan Carrying Thing.\u201d In my own poems, it was the \u201craw power\u201d he praised. Sandy wasn\u2019t prim. I think he was the first real man of letters I knew. A gay man of letters\u2014what a fine thing to be, I thought. Could I be that? He was always up to his ears in teaching and projects, running between this task and another: \u201cI still feel like the baby Achilles, being dipped by my heel into the waters of busywork,\u201d he wrote.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The years flew past. His poems were changing and arrived at a place of savage emotional intensity. He was like a brother in poetry. At a caf\u00e9 in Stonington, Connecticut, we were sitting on a deck under an awning having lunch. This was to be my last visit with James Merrill, our favorite living poet, who seemed suddenly older and would die soon. They were eager to ride in my robin\u2019s-egg-blue 1969 Ford Fairlane and eager to have their neighbors see them dropped off in my \u201chot rod.\u201d Then we were climbing the three flights to Merrill\u2019s apartment, the door to which was left wide open. The rooms were in disarray, with books and correspondence lying about. Sandy was showing me the big pile of dirty dishes in Merrill\u2019s kitchen sink. I told him that he and Jimmy would make a perfect couple because his house was so orderly and immaculate, and this made them laugh. Then Sandy was showing me the garden of the writer Eleanor Per\u00e9nyi, where my teacher David Kalstone\u2019s ashes were long before scattered under an apple tree. What large, venerable trees there were.<\/p>\n

Then more years flew past, and Sandy was visiting hectic Kyoto, where I was living. He wanted to see the Saih\u014d-ji Zen Buddhist Temple, famous for its moss garden, in the western hills. There was a pond shaped like the Chinese character for \u201cheart.\u201d My favorite part of the historic temple was not the moss garden but sitting in a tatami mat room and doing a brief lesson, or religious rite, called shakyo<\/em>. We traced the sutra with a brush dipped in ink and then wrote out our greatest wish, which we left at the altar for fulfillment, under a gold chandelier, before the Buddha. This was meant to be therapeutic, but Sandy was not religious. He couldn\u2019t understand how anyone gay would choose to be Catholic.<\/p>\n

Again, the years flew past. Then I was almost sixty. Sandy wrote to say I must apply for a job in California. I applied. Despite the miles between us and years without any word from me, Sandy did not forget me. He had freelanced, too, and understood the toll of uncertainty upon the poet. The chairman of the department of literature is now Seth Lobis, who was once Sandy\u2019s student. One degree of separation. Seth met Sandy when he was eighteen and a freshman at Yale. He worked for him at The Yale Review<\/em>. \u201cI learned from Sandy that taste was about openness and generosity as much as about selection and exclusion \u2026 Just when I expected him to be a neoclassicist, he was a romantic or a fauve or a futurist,\u201d\u00a0he remembers. \u201cHis aesthetic admiration and pleasure seemed unpredictable, incalculable, far-reaching, but somehow never far off. His discrimination never discriminated.\u201d<\/p>\n

I think of my poetry family as a chorus at the opera, but without Sandy\u2019s voice, we are smaller now. Here are some other voices singing a lamentation of praise:<\/p>\n

Harold Bloom<\/em>\u2014\u201cHe was invariably kind, lucid, loving, exuberant, and wise. I grieve for one more authentic poet gone from us.\u201d<\/p>\n

Joyce Carol Oates<\/em>\u2014\u201cMagnanimous, warm, funny\u2014sympathetic and welcoming\u2014brimming with enthusiasms\u2014there is no one remotely like him.\u201d<\/p>\n

Lorrie Moore<\/em>\u2014\u201cHe had such a beautiful voice\u2014both spoken and written \u2026 Every nice surprise that ever came my way he seemed to be responsible for, like a magician behind a curtain.\u201d<\/p>\n

Helen Vendler<\/em>\u2014\u201cI admire his courage in creating poetry from his terminal cancer. Testimony is one of the great blessings to poetry readers.\u201d<\/p>\n

Louise Gl\u00fcck<\/em>\u2014\u201cI valued him as a colleague. And aspired to the pith and eloquence and revelatory insight of his criticism.\u201d<\/p>\n

Edmund White<\/em>\u2014\u201cErudite, sexy, magisterial, he resembled an older generation of genius poets.\u201d<\/p>\n

Karl Kirchwey<\/em>\u2014\u201cAt a crucial point in my development as a poet, he provided blunt and necessary criticism.\u201d<\/p>\n

Stephen Yenser<\/em>\u2014\u201cInnately charming and fluently witty \u2026 An exemplary friend\u2014current, steadfast, provident, generous\u2014he was a model of courage in tight situations.\u201d<\/p>\n

Rosanna Warren<\/em>\u2014\u201cHe was supremely generous to other writers and to the art of poetry, editing volumes, creating a series of poetry recordings, and welcoming several generations of writers in the pages of The Yale Review<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

Frank Bidart<\/em>\u2014\u201cIt was thrilling to watch his work grow in unpredictable, ferocious ways. His death robs us all.\u201d<\/p>\n

There is one more light out on the mountain now.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Henri Cole\u00a0is the author, most recently, of <\/em>Orphic Paris<\/a>. You can read our Art of Poetry interview with him here<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  We must have met in 1980, when I was twenty-four. I was a graduate student in New York City. Sandy was teaching in New Haven. This was before email, Facebook, and Twitter. Poets wrote letters and talked on the telephone (landlines!). Sandy had just published his first collection of poems,\u00a0Scenes from Another Life, and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1465,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[27],"tags":[6034,2043,33236,3768,8072,21342,5816,2015,33731,6437,1897,33734,33733,33732,792],"class_list":["post-124310","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-in-memoriam","tag-david-kalstone","tag-edmund-white","tag-frank-bidart","tag-harold-bloom","tag-helen-vendler","tag-j-d-mcclatchy","tag-james-merrill","tag-joyce-carol-oates","tag-karl-kirchwey","tag-lorrie-moore","tag-rosanna-warren","tag-saiho-ji-zen-buddhist-temple","tag-seth-lobis","tag-stephen-yenser","tag-wallace-stevens"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nJ. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"I think he was the first real man of letters I knew. A gay man of letters\u2014what a fine thing to be, I thought. Could I be that?\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo by Henri Cole\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"April 16, 2018 \u2013   We must have met in 1980, when I was twenty-four. I was a graduate student in New York City. Sandy was teaching in New Haven. This was before\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2018-04-16T17:00:17+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2018-04-17T20:49:25+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/sandy-in-a-yellow-shirt.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1326\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"1124\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Henri Cole\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:title\" content=\"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:description\" content=\"I think he was the first real man of letters I knew. A gay man of letters\u2014what a fine thing to be, I thought. Could I be that?\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:image\" content=\"http:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/mcclatchy.jpg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Henri Cole\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"6 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Henri Cole\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/7342e99b556696c23cfc26581da5760c\"},\"headline\":\"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo\",\"datePublished\":\"2018-04-16T17:00:17+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2018-04-17T20:49:25+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/\"},\"wordCount\":1105,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/sandy-in-a-yellow-shirt-1024x868.jpg\",\"keywords\":[\"David Kalstone\",\"Edmund White\",\"Frank Bidart\",\"Harold Bloom\",\"Helen Vendler\",\"J. D. McClatchy\",\"James Merrill\",\"Joyce Carol Oates\",\"Karl Kirchwey\",\"Lorrie Moore\",\"Rosanna Warren\",\"Saih\u014d-ji Zen Buddhist Temple\",\"Seth Lobis\",\"Stephen Yenser\",\"Wallace Stevens\"],\"articleSection\":[\"In Memoriam\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/\",\"name\":\"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/sandy-in-a-yellow-shirt-1024x868.jpg\",\"datePublished\":\"2018-04-16T17:00:17+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2018-04-17T20:49:25+00:00\",\"description\":\"I think he was the first real man of letters I knew. A gay man of letters\u2014what a fine thing to be, I thought. Could I be that?\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/sandy-in-a-yellow-shirt.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/sandy-in-a-yellow-shirt.jpg\",\"width\":1326,\"height\":1124,\"caption\":\"J. D. McClatchy (Photo: Henri Cole)\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"description\":\"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"width\":696,\"height\":696,\"caption\":\"The Paris Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\",\"https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview\",\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/7342e99b556696c23cfc26581da5760c\",\"name\":\"Henri Cole\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/e399b55cc466a6b802ee500dd3d76303268a8f69ac7bb54ae5bc6c7bc66cccf5?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/e399b55cc466a6b802ee500dd3d76303268a8f69ac7bb54ae5bc6c7bc66cccf5?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Henri Cole\"},\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/hcole\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo","description":"I think he was the first real man of letters I knew. A gay man of letters\u2014what a fine thing to be, I thought. Could I be that?","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo by Henri Cole","og_description":"April 16, 2018 \u2013   We must have met in 1980, when I was twenty-four. I was a graduate student in New York City. Sandy was teaching in New Haven. This was before","og_url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/","og_site_name":"The Paris Review","article_publisher":"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","article_published_time":"2018-04-16T17:00:17+00:00","article_modified_time":"2018-04-17T20:49:25+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1326,"height":1124,"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/sandy-in-a-yellow-shirt.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"Henri Cole","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_title":"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo","twitter_description":"I think he was the first real man of letters I knew. A gay man of letters\u2014what a fine thing to be, I thought. Could I be that?","twitter_image":"http:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/mcclatchy.jpg","twitter_creator":"@parisreview","twitter_site":"@parisreview","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Henri Cole","Est. reading time":"6 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/"},"author":{"name":"Henri Cole","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/7342e99b556696c23cfc26581da5760c"},"headline":"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo","datePublished":"2018-04-16T17:00:17+00:00","dateModified":"2018-04-17T20:49:25+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/"},"wordCount":1105,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/sandy-in-a-yellow-shirt-1024x868.jpg","keywords":["David Kalstone","Edmund White","Frank Bidart","Harold Bloom","Helen Vendler","J. D. McClatchy","James Merrill","Joyce Carol Oates","Karl Kirchwey","Lorrie Moore","Rosanna Warren","Saih\u014d-ji Zen Buddhist Temple","Seth Lobis","Stephen Yenser","Wallace Stevens"],"articleSection":["In Memoriam"],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/","name":"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/sandy-in-a-yellow-shirt-1024x868.jpg","datePublished":"2018-04-16T17:00:17+00:00","dateModified":"2018-04-17T20:49:25+00:00","description":"I think he was the first real man of letters I knew. A gay man of letters\u2014what a fine thing to be, I thought. Could I be that?","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/sandy-in-a-yellow-shirt.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/sandy-in-a-yellow-shirt.jpg","width":1326,"height":1124,"caption":"J. D. McClatchy (Photo: Henri Cole)"},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/16\/j-d-mcclatchy-darlingissimo\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"J. D. McClatchy, Darlingissimo"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","name":"The Paris Review","description":"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization","name":"The Paris Review","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","width":696,"height":696,"caption":"The Paris Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview","https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/7342e99b556696c23cfc26581da5760c","name":"Henri Cole","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/e399b55cc466a6b802ee500dd3d76303268a8f69ac7bb54ae5bc6c7bc66cccf5?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/e399b55cc466a6b802ee500dd3d76303268a8f69ac7bb54ae5bc6c7bc66cccf5?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Henri Cole"},"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/hcole\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/124310","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1465"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=124310"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/124310\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":124352,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/124310\/revisions\/124352"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=124310"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=124310"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=124310"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}