For God's Sake Let it Die.

But, for all this the letters are a high point. "Dear Stephen, hello brother. ..." - a mawkish recounting of doings, comings, goings, and life's little misfortunes - the sheer Sufferigs of your local artist-type, the dreamy long-hail with the pencil and paper, scribbling on the cable-car, on the bus, the train, in the pub, in the caf., in the grot.

The skin crawls It is so unforgivable. Some have been angered by Chan's presumptuousness in publishing their private communication. He should be shot. There's plenty of ammunition here, for anyone who reckons poets are pricks, farts and wankers of the first degree.