Anne Carson’s writing does not concern itself with the question of genre, though it’s probably most accurate to think of her as a poet. Frequently she draws her materials from the distant past, often taking classical literature as a starting point. She does not derive from these sources so much as denature them, reimagine something so simultaneously different and indebted, that it can only be called new. Not only in the telling but in the shape, the formal properties. This is how tradition works in literature, by alchemical transmutation. The voice in Carson’s poems is not old or old-fashioned in the least, but neither is it contemporary, exactly; it must speak from behind a mask, must draw its truth from the credit its fiction bestows, must speak in a disembodied-seeming, or detached, voice. Oddly timeless, probably the air of myth never far in her lines. And when I asked Carson why she’s drawn to working from behind a mask, she answered, “Does anyone really like their own face?”