Sunday, November 20, 2011

Book #41

At a bleak, stress-filled moment in my life I re-discovered this small book of edifying translations by the brilliant Kenneth Rexroth. The narrators of these ancient poems often feel melancholic, stressed, bummed out, miserable, useless--just like I do. And yet they take the time to notice the moon sailing over pristine lakes, or the crane tending its young, or a plum blossom drooping lazily by the gate, and everything seems OK.

Worth keeping around and re-visiting again and again.

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