The Book of Things
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- $9.99
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- $9.99
Publisher Description
From his first book of poems, Chessboards of Hours (1995), Aleš Šteger has been one of Slovenia's most promising poets. The philosophical and lyrical sophistication of his poems, along with his work as a leading book editor and festival organizer, quickly spread Šteger's reputation beyond the borders of Slovenia. The Book of Things is Šteger's most widely praised book of poetry and his first American collection. The book consists of fifty poems that look at "things" (i.e. aspirin, chair, cork) which are transformed by Šteger's unique poetic alchemy.
Translator Brian Henry is a distinguished poet, translator, editor, and critic.
From Publisher’s Weekly:
Steger’s efforts sometimes bring to mind such Western European figures as Francis Ponge and Craig Raine, who also sought to make household things look new and strange. Yet Steger brings a melancholy Central European sense of history- his objects tend to remember, or cause, great pain: “It pours, this poisonous, sweet force,” Steger writes of “Saliva,” “Between teeth, when you spit your own little genocide.” (Nov.)
From Guernica, a Magazine of Art and Politics:
It is a rare treat to have an English translation before the ink has dried on the original. By which I mean, a mere five years after the book’s Slovenian publication, Brian Henry has brought these poems to life for those of us not lucky enough to read Slovenian. Henry’s translations are impressive for sheer acrobatics.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
A chair "slightly confused from the noises of centuries," a cake of soap that smiles "like a dog," and a loquaciously hermaphroditic tapeworm take their places among the "things" that speak and are spoken for in the eminent Slovenian poet Steger's English-language debut. Naming each poem for a household object, body part, or animal ("Jelly," "Bandage," "Sea Horse," "Cocker Spaniel," "Toothpick"), Steger finds causes for hope and for despair: watching a pupa, the poet asks, "Isn't it insignificant, the likelihood/ That one day we will fly away?" Steger more often prefers the earthy, the melodramatic or the grotesque: "Windshield Wipers" are "Like two serfs in black rubber boots./ They get up to go immediately back to bed." The prolific poet Henry renders Steger's long lines in an unfailingly fluent American English. Steger's efforts sometimes bring to mind such Western European figures as Francis Ponge and Craig Raine, who also sought to make household things look new and strange. Yet Steger brings a melancholy Central European sense of history his objects tend to remember, or cause, great pain: "It pours, this poisonous, sweet force," Steger writes of "Saliva," "Between teeth, when you spit your own little genocide."
