We will have to tell Anjel Lertxundi, the poetry of Montale as deep as difficult, as dark as playful, so natural to enjoy, so finely qualifying, to bring it to the Basque in the section Cuadernos de Poetry del Mundo de Susa. Beñat Sarasola, head of Kaie, does not know how to explain it either, but he explains very well in the foreword of the book what Montal provokes: “Although not an impressive poetic production, Montal wrote poems of a very different style and style. In some of them, for example, he reflected on poetry itself and art, once adding a humorous touch (A poet and Rimas). Actually, it's not a kind of poetry to laugh at Montale, but an often dark witness to the terrible 20th century. Living very closely with the two world wars and fascism, he could hardly do commemorative poetry, and even brought human catastrophe to numbers such as tribute to Our Time and Anger. In Gatibu’s dream he imagined a background that is a minute of the century, and perhaps from there came that famous place where the century and the second cross.”

Eugenio Montale (Genova 1896-Milan 1981) is listed as a poet of pessimism and human restlessness. But to prove that Eugenio Montale is more than that, Lertxundi has translated poems so varied using such a colorful palette. It is a vital poetry that the reader will find here, not sad. And every moment it seems that the Cain opposes canonical critique and that the vicious Montale plunges into the midst of the two world wars: “Old, it has drunk me / voices coming out of your mouths, / when they open like green bells, / and after taking the back strength, undo. / The house of my summers / far, you already know / on earth that hugs the sun / and mosquitoes tarnish the air. / As then, I am amazed at you, / sea”.

The Nobel laureate metaphysics with healthy physical poetry: olfatea, listen, suffers his words. It's not airtight: it's a pleasure to know your private places, your personal ghosts, savor your incomprehensible word games. It is not difficult, but rather pleasantly complicated. It is not sad, it is as gloomy as fascism. Montale is a poet who violates the syntax, who does not use white language, who writes with his heart without hardly filters to his coming and to his sadness and his joy. Montale is, reader, the aesthetic experience you must desire.