ABCDE supplementation of Arts and Letters published a column last Saturday signed by Ricardo Menéndez Salmon which highlighted the translation work being done by Jaime Priede and made an interesting assessment of his latest work: Repair, by CK Williams: "Definitely, with great talent and tenacity, the Spaniard Jaime Priede is becoming its own right in one of the most important translators of poetry in English of our country. If at the end of 2006 we reached a successful anthology of Raymond Carver, All of us at Bartleby Editors, and a few months ago we in-Tregar its magnificent reading of The Bridge, Hart Crane, to Ediciones Trea, greeted with enthusiasm des-of these pages for Jaime Siles ("Young poets, read at Gra-ne!" ), again appears Bartleby Editores Priede version done in a hitherto unpublished poet for these payments, the American CK Williams, who leads Repa-ration book originally published in the year 1999.Aunque Williams's poetry to us already from the title co-mo a literature of consolation, I rather inclined to define it as a poetic anguish of conscience, almost like a hypertrophy of the subject that the much longed prohijó Modernity. Indeed, consciousness and its findings, including the epiphanic substrate that holds the reality does not seem the least negligible, are drawn on the work of Williams co-mo the only instruments capable of giving meaning to the world, while recognizing in its own process of creation carry the seeds of its failure. Because the world aspires to be understood, true, but it can be understood, as Williams admits a beautiful poem inspired Cartesian openly: "Words or wax, there is no way of / / shape our own image, in our Bleak / / aware- tance to edge which only / / there is more awareness. " This dialectic between what is true and what can only be displayed, rescues the poetry of Williams moments of brilliance and some not so exultantes.Porque Repair is an uneven but remarkable book that places cami-na and beaten when they left overcome by the emotion (for items such as "Owen, seven days' or 'biopsy'), but it flies high, very high, where Williams works with some distance and ambushes in the contemplation of pure ma-teria, or for celebrate in what you have to Don (and there is this extraordinarily poem entitled "Tree") or for questioning as possessed of blind and absurd (as seen in the memorable "Bone", almost an entomological revisiting "The ca-rroña" of Baudelaire). What remains, in any case, is the feeling of having attended a finding. Not to relax, because ".
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