The poems themselves are simple, clear, very good poems—not yet diseased with the Whitmanesque prophet rantings of the later Ginsberg... In “Society, Dream 1947,” the poem is lighted with force and humor, genius, here is some of the stuff, the style, the bombast and flow that raised Ginsberg out of the muck. I mean this is the forerunner of things to come, Howl, the whole Howl ruckus that made Ginsberg, and the genius that allowed Ginsberg to continue making it even after he lost a part of it...

Ginsberg is one of the few poets trying to destroy himself with unpoetic acts yet he still has not destroyed himself. Let us say grace to his huge tank of reserve. Eliot has said it easier, Pound with more Art, Jeffers with more knowledge of forces, Auden with more precision, Blake louder, Rimbaud more subtle; William Carlos Williams had a better left jab, Dylan Thomas bigger screaming feet, this with this, that with that, but I think that Ginsberg belongs somewhere, early or late, and that without his coming through, none of us would be writing as well as we are doing now.