An earnest enough effort but terribly dull. Fry wishes us to revisit schooldays and jot our way through Chaucer, Milton, Shakespeare, i.e. learn the basics, pay our dues. And while it may be true that much poetry, eg Bukowski, is mere chopped-up prose, notes and shopping lists, Fry is unwilling or unable to grapple with grandmaster Pound. There should be more on modernist poetry: TSE and Pound. The Waste Land receives scant coverage. Fry is a fuddy-duddy, amusing from a distance and a bore at close quarters. I wish he would let his hair down and give us some edge and spike.