In case you’re wondering, yes, I have changed the name of the blog. “Belles Lettres Review” never really fitted me – it sounded too classy, too organized, too, well, French, but I trundled along with it because I couldn’t be bothered to find out which thingymajig I needed to twiddle on the wee whatchamacallit to switch it over to something better suited to my personality – but then, on Sunday, after the Ravens missed a field goal, and while a mysterious manky sludge burped its way up through our basement drain, I put the kettle on (as you do when life’s catastrophes strike), sat down with a cup of tea, and did a spot of re-christening. In Scots, to swither, is to be unable to make up your mind, or be unpredictable, and although I like to think myself decisive about the big things, with the small things  – ordering off a menu, deciding whether to live here rather than there, choosing a color of paint, pinning down exactly how I feel about a book – the fact is, I’m a right ditherer. 
I’d like to give a shout out to the immensely talented Robin Robertson, a Scots poet who deserves to be even better known, and his bleak, moving and deeply admired collection, Swithering, from 2006.