my library queue is in winter doldrums. i was going to read desert oracle but felt memory rose into threshold speech pulling my attention. after a few poems i was in the cadence and hesitation lifted. the language comes through translation. celan said a writer needs to write in a writer's own language, sure, but a reader gleans in a reader's own language and everything is in translation. the translator was translating celan for fifty years, and now it's done i hope to read celan from beginning to end. this is one consolation. consolation is real too, not just the market predation and mercenary war. art emerges through everything including willful destruction.