We don't attempt to have any theme for a number of the

Hear, O seekers of words, the reflection of James Laughlin: “We don’t attempt to have any theme for a number of the anthology, or to have any particular sequence. We just put in things that we like, and then we try to alternate the prose and the poetry.” In these words lies the spirit of freedom, of simplicity, of trust in instinct. Laughlin, founder of New Directions, knew that literature cannot always be bound in chains of design. The anthology he describes is not a machine but a garden, where blossoms of many kinds are allowed to grow together, not forced into rows, but arranged only by the alternating rhythm of prose and poetry, like sunlight and shadow.

The origin of this wisdom lies in the nature of discovery. Too often, editors or curators demand unity, a grand plan, a guiding idea that binds all works into one theme. But Laughlin chose otherwise. He believed that the greatest gift of an anthology is surprise—the delight of turning a page and encountering something unexpected, a poem beside a story, a story beside a poem. Like life itself, such collections resist order; they reflect the wild diversity of human thought and imagination. In this, Laughlin trusted taste more than theory, intuition more than structure.

Consider the story of the Harlem Renaissance journals, such as The Crisis or Opportunity. Within their pages, no single theme ruled. Instead, they gathered voices—poets, storytellers, essayists—arranged not by sequence but by spirit. Readers discovered Langston Hughes beside Zora Neale Hurston, Claude McKay beside Jessie Fauset. What mattered was not strict unity but the living chorus of voices rising together. In this freedom lay power. So too did Laughlin’s anthologies breathe with vitality, because they reflected the joy of literature itself, not the weight of imposed order.

This method reminds us of the banquet of Homeric song. At feasts, bards would recite not in rigid sequence but as inspiration struck—one tale of war, followed by a hymn, then by a tale of wandering. The people delighted not in theme but in variety, in the alternation of moods. For just as day needs night and silence needs sound, the soul needs both prose and poetry, alternating like inhale and exhale. Laughlin’s practice revives this ancient rhythm, refusing to reduce literature to one design, and instead trusting the eternal pulse of contrast.

Yet his words also carry a quiet defiance. In an age that often worships analysis, structure, and categorization, he dared to say: “We just put in things that we like.” This is the wisdom of the heart. It teaches that curation is not merely an intellectual exercise but an act of love. The works that endure in memory are those chosen not by theory but by genuine delight. Laughlin teaches us that when love guides the hand, the reader feels it, and the collection shines with authenticity.

The lesson for us is clear: do not overburden art with schemes. Trust your taste, your passion, your love of words. If you are a reader, allow yourself to wander widely, alternating between prose and poetry, between history and imagination, without needing a grand plan. If you are a writer, do not feel bound to one style or subject; let your words flow where they must, trusting that variety itself has a rhythm. And if you gather works—whether in books, in teaching, or in memory—choose those that you love, not those that fit a pattern.

In practice, let each seeker cultivate their own anthology of the heart. Read without fear of disorder. Place a poem beside a tale, a tale beside a reflection, until your mind becomes a living library of contrasts. In this practice, you will discover that the alternation itself—between the clear line of prose and the condensed fire of poetry—creates a harmony beyond design. For life itself is not one theme, but many, and its beauty lies not in its sequence but in its abundance.

Thus the teaching endures: James Laughlin reminds us that art thrives in freedom, and that the best anthologies are those born of joy, variety, and love. Let us honor this by living as he curated—gathering from life not only what fits our plans, but what stirs our souls. In this way, we too may build a collection of experiences that alternates like prose and poetry, giving rhythm, richness, and meaning to the journey of our days.