“When talking about Bill Berkson certain assumptions must be addressed.  That he was a quintessential New Yorker who had escaped to California and created a niche for himself among artists and writers on the “shaggy and rustic” West Coast while maintaining a certain Atlantic savoir faire.  With classic good looks and aristocrat bearing, that he was a knowledgeable esthete of impeccable taste.  That he was not of the musty academic or dyspeptic grammarian persuasion but someone attuned to the dynamic of a modernism intent on creative reassessment.  That schooled in the fashionable at his mother’s knee, as an adult he cast a discerning eye on the world of art and chose poetry.  That with Berkson there always seemed to be a plan.”

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