Customer Reviews

Seven Poems

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"Translation," as Vladimir Nabokov said, "is a form of betrayal." As such, poetry in a foreign tongue is seldom worth reading in translation -- one usually finds the fire and beauty of the word trapped behind the translator's teeth. Fortunately, for the English reader, George L. Kline has the smile of a jack-o'-lantern. Not merely content to convey the meaning and ambiguities of Pasternak's poems, Kline closely mimics the rhythms and sonorous melodies of the Nobel Prize laureate's Dylan Thomas-esque lines. Compare the following stanzas from "Lessons in English." The first is from Merrill Sparks' competent translation; the second is a morsel from Kline's breathtaking translation:

When it came time to sing for Desdemona/ And she began -- her song, restraining,/ The darkest demon saved for her dark day/ A psalm of stream-beds, weeping, flowing.

When it was Desdemona's hour to sing,/ When her voice steadied and grew strong,/ Black day, a demon blacker far, sent up/ A psalm for her of wailing river-runs.

So fine are these seven translations that one wallows for more of Kline's touch. To best know the beauty of Pasternak, short of learning Russian, seek out this glorious (but all too brief) book.

"Translation," as Vladimir Nabokov said, "is a form of betrayal." As such, poetry in a foreign tongue is seldom worth reading in translation -- one usually finds the fire and beauty of the word trapped behind the translator's teeth. Fortunately, for the English reader, George L. Kline has the smile of a jack-o'-lantern. Not merely content to convey the meaning and ambiguities of Pasternak's poems, Kline closely mimics the rhythms and sonorous melodies of the Nobel Prize laureate's Dylan Thomas-esque lines. Compare the following stanzas from "Lessons in English." The first is from Merrill Sparks' competent translation; the second is a morsel from Kline's breathtaking translation:

When it came time to sing for Desdemona And she began -- her song, restraining, The darkest demon saved for her dark day A psalm of stream-beds, weeping, flowing.

When it was Desdemona's hour to sing, When her voice steadied and grew strong, Black day, a demon blacker far, sent up A psalm for her of wailing river-runs.

So fine are these seven translations that one wallows for more of Kline's touch. To best know the beauty of Pasternak, short of learning Russian, seek out this glorious (but all too brief) book.