I'm not sure how to rate this, so I will simply refrain from stars. My French (or maybe even my sophistication) is not really at a level to grasp this text with any degree of transparency at the level it demands, I think, so that seems fair. Even though this particular book is bilingual, I was helpfully warned by a prior reader/vandal that Slavitt was not to be trusted, and even my pathetic French can attest to that. "Ceux qui lisent" are capable of at least this meager work of comparison. I do wonder if I'm the only person who has ever longed for glossed, rather than translated, poetry. But I think that just speaks to my particular sloth.
I will say, this prior reader was not incorrect in his criticism of Slavitt, but also perhaps merely did not agree with Slavitt’s commitment to duplicating the rhyming scheme at the expense of semantic accuracy and literally every other poetic device and linguistic quality. Which, having just devoured the occasionally curious choices of Richard Wilbur in his verse translations, I am perhaps more likely to view charitably, even if I were to agree with said reader, which out of simple saltiness and pure petulance I am disinclined to do.
But then how do we even want to experience poetry in translation? This work, in particular, seems so clothed in the necessities of learned concatenation and reference and fluency. Not to mention just the architecture of the poem. Maybe poetry truly is untranslatable.
In any case, even if I had the French, I strongly suspect that I am the simplistic sort who prefers my common passions when it comes to poetry. And so, an absence of stars.