Old Archibald, in his eternal chair,
Where trespassers, whatever their degree,
Were soon frowned out again, was looking off
Across the clover when he said to me:
...
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'...and he twinkled in his chair...' Good gawd! Only Robinson could make a statement like that work as chillingly as it does in this poem. No one in American literature paints the portrait of the half-crazed, semi-fantastic-to-the-point-of-riveting fascination 'outsider' half so well as he.
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'...and he twinkled in his chair...' Good gawd! Only Robinson could make a statement like that work as chillingly as it does in this poem. No one in American literature paints the portrait of the half-crazed, semi-fantastic-to-the-point-of-riveting fascination 'outsider' half so well as he.