Depressive maniac, who had the medicine to write, from the string of the Zuberotarras protestants. The GPS of Peillen, his foreword, the life of the author and the analysis of poetic sources are as valuable as Jon Mirande's own poems in this book. The nephews of Christian and Alain Angelié-Mirande, along with Pablo Aristorena, have also written a thorough biography of Mirande and his family. Jon Mirande, poet is a defined collection, in Basque and French, that offers us a complete picture and not exempt from what Oianone was able to write. A lot has been said about this great poet of the 20th century. Here, however, there is no talk in vain: “Being Parisian, the poet wanted to make a French writer in Euskera, but out of some mention, the influence of the symbolists and of Verlain, of Baudelai is not at all clear, and he wrote an article in favor of a Basque tragic romanticism; however, the work of three is unspeakable.” Indefinability
is thus defined. He also speaks through the interview made in February 1953 by Radio-Euzkadi Andima Ibiñagabeitia (published in Issue 23 of the magazine Gernika in that of Poeta). These are the words of the first modern Basque poet, which for the first time raised what is accepted today: “I would differentiate in my poetry the rhythmic and hidden footprint. The school of exile poetry is shown to us in recent times. And I, too, would like to do something about this page in our language. I haven't done enough, of course, for the body of the wolves, from my poems, and I've fixed some poems along the path of consonants. But I love more the poetry that I have built in the inner rite.” After reading them, it is a pleasure to lose yourself in the forty-two poems chosen by
Txomin Peillen, in the mysteries of the lover and at the same time hated, in the forests, on boats and nostalgia as ghosts. The barroquism and decadence of this poet translator has once again made me sweet, new and sad. Because Mirande's order and harmony are counter-replicating, but beautiful. This extreme beauty blurs the very reason, one is lost in pleasure and pain, both inseparable, without wanting to arrive in the morning: “Turn off witches/ dances close/ the skin of the galles/ is a morning.”