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At the center of Buckeye’s clear, direct prose is moral memory. All his life, from Cleveland to Bratislava, he has been measuring the material world from the body out. It is this rare combination of moral memory and materialism that makes Buckeye’s writing so compelling.
If a writer navigates poets—their biographies, geographies, penchants, proclivities and memories—that writer would find a much needed revolutionary thread. Perhaps the thread is gold, perhaps it tends both out and in from the point of a needle on a compass, Ultima Thule, or, exile within one's own country. Or any. Either way, the particulars of one writer's life would then let us into so much more than a dry academic study could. Bob Buckeye possesses a keen sense of direction—out of the past and into the necessary present.
Robert Buckeye, former College archivist, moved to Middlebury in 1971, moonlighted as an avid member on his bar trivia team, “The End of The Road.” Bob and the team used to frequent Two Brothers Tavern for its Wednesday trivia night. He still remembers being asked which famous rock singer was a paratrooper, and immediately knowing the answer: Hendrix. Places on a map that trace a life: Cleveland, Detroit, San Juan, a New England village, Bratislava, including six months in an abandoned farm house in Indiana, looking back the life he left.