This is exactly the book I needed today. A book with a single poem, this very poem.
It is not a particularly brilliant time in my life. No mayor events, but still a muffled, constant noise of derailment. And then, again, this poem.
The poem. Nothing could be added. The editor explains the lees of 22 previous different translations that he has read. No that many in my case, but three or four. Maybe five. My lees are as consistent as his. So no surprises, but the building-unbuilding exercise of reading these verses I know by heart.
Fernández prologue is precise, not excessive. Maybe because all words are already known, or pointless, or just not helping to the main journey's purpose. Beautiful. Not the helping hand, or the colour tinted glasses, but the smell of the old wood of a library.
Not the 5 stars, though, because of the illustrations. Some of them are wonderful and are disposed in a shocking order, à rebours, which adds a challenging layer of reading to the poem. Yet others are uncomfortable, disturbing, approaching some levels of ugliness even, that makes me consider whether Delicado has read thr same book, the book that we, readers, translators, Cyclops, Laestrygonians, have read before.