By THEA LENARDUZZI
This may not be as audacious as my colleague’s recent blogs, but I have a confession – quite a weighty one for someone who reckons they’ve got a grip on Modernism’s many modernisms (well, as much as one can). I’ve never read Sakutarō Hagiwara. Not a word, in fact. Thankfully NYRB Books have come to my rescue with a slim anthology of his poems in new and revised translations by Hiroaki Sato. Hagiwara is, so the blurb tells me, “the big cheese”, and Sato, “the master translator” (a cracker, you could say).