Lowell himself left us some well-known misgivings about his accomplishments: the mere “snapshots” of his “threadbare art” in “Epilogue”; the “memorized . . . tricks” that “somehow never [left] something to go back to” in “Reading Myself,” which I’ve played on in my own title. He was nevertheless the dean of American poets when he died, suddenly and far too young, in 1977. Through the last decade of the 20th century, though, and since, it seems, at least arguably, that his star has been declining. For our conference in his centennial year (and even in the month of his birth), this session proposes at least a modest reassessment of Lowell’s career and achievement. It seems like a good time.