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Budapest commander of the death-squad personally responsible for the murder of Miklós Radnóti–perhaps the greatest poet of the Holocaust well known in English translation–escaped retribution for the deed. His remains rest in official burial grounds reserved for the heroes of the Hungarian republic.

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The American poet Clayton Eshleman’s work, spanning forty-five years and including major works of translation (Cesaire, Vallejo) as well as editing, is much less well-known than it deserves to be. Rather than try to give some kind of an overview of his substantial achievement, which makes him in my opinion one of the most important living poets in the English-speaking world, I have decided to focus on Eshleman’s writing about painting, not only because of its unusual range and depth, but also in the hope that this will encourage some readers to explore his work further.

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My first memory of bees and their stings is indeed of a crying face: my younger sister’s. She was walking barefoot on our lawn in Saratoga, Wyoming’s brief summer. We were both still too young for school. One moment she was rambling along at a good clip on her babyish legs. The next, her face screwed up tight and a wail escaped her that I can still hear to this day. My mother rushed and swept her up into a tight hug and bundled her into the house.

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