The best way to judge whether Tadeusz Różewicz is a fine poet is to learn Polish. There is no second way. A translator is worse than a jealous suitor: he despises his rivals. He tries to be objective, but he is constantly being infected with “translatoritis”—a sickness involving choice of words and, in some cases, choice of poems. Regarding the latter, for example, this anthology [“The Survivor” and Other Poems] includes one of Różewicz's best poems, “A Tree,” but Kryński and Maguire chose not to make a poem of it. They have translated it word for word, leaving out rhyme, subtlety and meaning. No attempt was made to “reconstruct” the original. It should have been omitted.

They are more successful with his other pieces, however, especially “The Parrot,” “It Is Possible,” “Following the Guide,” “For Some Time Now” and “Falling.” On the whole, one need not quibble with their choice of words (their knowledge of both languages is certainly not in question), but some of their constructions seem awkward. In “In the Midst of Life,” for example, the last two stanzas lose their sting: “Człowiek mówił do wody” should be translated as completed action: “a man talked” (not “was talking”) “to the water / talked to the moon,” et cetera. In “Voices of Expendable [Superfluous?] People” the line, “Wstydzę się że jestem” could better be rendered as “I'm ashamed that I am” and not “I apologize for existing.” There are other examples, but for the most part, the translators have done a commendable job.

Różewicz is considered one of Poland's best writers, an innovator, a perpetual avant-gardist. During the last ten years he has devoted himself to prose and drama. He is neither an “easy” poet-dramatist nor an uncomplicated man. His friends find him almost helpless when confronting ordinary everyday life; critics often cite the same fumbling attitude toward realia in his poetry and plays. The ordinary is transformed into the super-ordinary. His eye is often on the sparrow—and always on himself. He does not so much fear death as he is bothered by it. If he could live elsewhere, it would be sometime in the past, before the great war that destroyed what little hope man had. He walks a line somewhere between torment and hell, and those he meets along the way become objects of both his scorn and love. And what does he expect for his self-inflicted pose? Veneration—a small price to pay for the fruits of genius.