Stanley Kunitz’s 1930 debut, written at 24 and just out of copyright, ran into an odd modern echo: transcribing the scans, an automated filter (not Claude) briefly blocked the output over a cluster of words like “blood,” “worm” and “corruption” — until Claude found a workaround and finished the job. Kunitz spent his life on the other side of that fight: he ran a librarians’ magazine, wrote the case for a public library bill of rights, and later won the Pulitzer as a two-time U.S. Poet Laureate.