Here's a Milosz poem I rather like:


The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle's flame.

Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.

I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.

But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own -- but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.

The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it's late. And the truth is laborious.


Berkeley, 1980.


Trans. Robert Hass and Robert Pinsky

Yet I have to say that the translation is crap. It's rhythmically inert; the diction is stiff and awkward. The poetic voice that comes through is "slow and stolid" (Henry Gould's words). "I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride." I might re-write this line as "My smugness and arrogance deserve a separate treatment." "devoted to acting against consciousness." That's frightful. I'm not sure if this is meant to be a witty poem, because the wit doesn't come through at all. The translation is over-solemn, "alas." Why do I like the poem then? I'm imagining it in my own, snazzier version. A version in which the speaker really does think he's been stupid, not a version in which he thinks of himself as a wise man, making a show of his humility.