This translation is perhaps as good as they get -- it reads well, rythm and cadence are flawless. And yet, a comparison of two versions side by side serves as a useful reminder that even the best translation is merely an approximation of the original. It is also evident that sometimes very substantial compromises in content are needed to preserve the structural integrity of the poetic form.

The English text, as beautiful and touching as it is in its own right, unfortunately does not reflect the very noticeably rougher texture of the Polish original. Polish text, still mostly comprehensible to the educated Polish reader, sounds distinctly archaic, and "resists" contemporary reader's temptation to read fast, as if it deliberately tried to slow him/her down.

Alas, gone as well are many poetic devices of the original, such as clever metaphors and word plays. E.g., in the fragment of Lament 2, reproduced on the amazon website, lost is the original's play on the word "piórko" (feather) which can be both a child's toy, and a poet's quill in "Jeslim kiedy nad dziecmi piorko mial zabawic"; similarly, the contrast of the SOUND of the poet's lament and the empty SILENCE of death ("plakac nad gluchym grobem", literally "to WEEP on a SILENT grave") is awkwardly lost in an admittedly smooth sounding, and more emotional "to weep on a small daughter's grave".

The fairly unfortunate "maritime" metaphor ("Looms like cliff above some wild and rough / Shore") is perhaps more in line with the Irish or English poetic tradition, but is totally out of place in Kochanowski's poem, and it unwisely replaces a wonderfully archaic, yet entirely comprehensible, and often quoted "moja nienagrodna szkoda" (literally, and in awkwardly too many words, "my loss, which no prize shall repay").

Still, given the original's complexity, the task both translators decided to tackle must have been daunting indeed, and the result is stunningly beautiful. Despite some lost or awkward metaphors, the essential core of the work, which is its profound emotional charge, comes across as strong as in the original, and so the 5-star rating is entirely deserved.

Additionally, both poets-translators probably deserve a 6th, honorary star, for taking on an important task, several centuries overdue.

I discovered this collection in a Slavic Literature class where it was required. I was deeply touched by these words of a father in mourning for his daughter; feelings expressed in the 16th Century that translate as if they were written today. Last week I was discussing Polish literature with a Holocaust survivor. When I mentioned Kochanowski's "Treny" (Laments), she got tears in her eyes and gasped- how did I know Kochanowski? She quoted a phrase in Polish, then said she always thinks about "Treny" when she thinks of her mother- it was her favorite- who was killed in Auschwitz. Today, when I gave her my bilingual copy, she held it to her heart. I could hear her heart crying when she said "thank you." Words of a daughter in mourning - and a human connection spanning four centuries.

Gombrowicz's take on the generally painful experience of exile is an artful combination of the particular and the universal. The novel's comic tone seems a historically and culturally specific attack on hackneyed Polish nationalism. Yet Trans-Atlantyk manages to raise greater questions of literature's ability to do justice to 20th-century horrors such as WWII. The translation is a work of art in itself -- for those who can't read Polish (such as myself), you will not be bothered by that fear of a mediated, second-rate experience so common to mediocre translations. To the contrary, the language of this translation is unbelievably rich. Indeed, do not let the richness scare you off -- the style becomes easier to digest as the novella moves forward. Enjoy...

Setting this book in the strange form of exile which eradicates whatever benefits Gombrowicz might have enjoyed from his own greatness in Poland, this outrageous examination of Polish insecurities is better than his strange submission to the greatness of the heroic poets in Ferdydurk, or to the frank realization that he, himself, is best described as "Up pops a clown" in his diary. He is not just any writer, but the great Gombrowicz here, because he is filled with a terror that is obviously being cooked up for the world to see. And therefore, what a vividly realized world we see. The difficulties involved in reading this book succeed in making it what it is.

All right! Gombrowicz is not easy to understand. His existencewas as complicated as his literature. A genius of objective perceptionwith homosexual tendencies cought between the rock and the hard placesomewhere in Argentina. Wanting to be a Pole and at the same time running away from the past and the typical for Poles "low self-esteem syndrom" that had accompanied him since the early years of his life despite his public declarations of his supremacy over other writers from the native Poland. If the Polish nation begot only Gombrowicz and Witkacy, this would still be a good reason to call Poland the cradle of the modern literature.

I got half-way through and quit; the book just didn't work for me. Prus obviously intended to write "realistically", and his rather disconnected deployment of scenes and character development does mimic the complexities of real life. So, in that sense, he was a success.

However, he completely fails on much more important levels. For example, the plot lacks even a hint of conflict. Wolkulski (the main character) faces no conflict as he gives in to his obsession for Izabella, nor does he seem to have any particular difficulty in achieving any of his foolish stunts to try to win her. Since it's obvious from the start the relationship is doomed, there's not the tension of "will he get the girl?" Not even the obvious potential friction of his being a class-crossing social climber creates any conflict (other than a few characters commenting on his boorish manners). A 600+ page book needs more conflict than that to justify itself. I could not uncover the purpose of reading (or of having written) the book.

Prus endows "The Doll" with the trappings of realist novels: frightening descriptions of the lowest of the poor, moral angst of rich do-gooders over the poor in their midst, endless analogies between streetwalkers and Mary Magdelene or poor men and Christ, and a vast panorama of characters representing all levels of society. However, Prus does not use these devices to move his story. They seem more like window dressing put in place to make the novel look and smell like the work of a realist.

Worst of all, Prus' story and characters don't seem to have any relevance beyond the pages of his book and there's no whiff of meaning anywhere. The best example of this odd characteristic is the anti-Semitism in the book. There are lots of cuts (broadly and with subtle acid) at the Jewish characters, however (as another reviewer mentions) Prus never addresses anti-Semitism in even the most vague way. He presents society only and makes no comments or suggestions to the reader. A newspaper article works as better fiction than that!

Reading this book was a bit like watching a movie you already know the ending to. It can be entertaining if the ride is interesting. Unfortunately, Prus' narrative is too dry and dispassionate and his plotting too erratic and minimalistic for the ride to pull you in. As a result, I just didn't care what was going on and didn't find any of the characters worthy of my attention. I didn't feel there was any purpose in reading the rest of the book.

Boleslaw Prus' The Doll falls into a category of books which could be described as peripheral realism. They are late 19th century novels which share nothing in common except that they are written in countries which are in the "periphery" of world literature. This is not a comment on their quality, but on the lack of curiosity of the Anglo-American mind to take the trouble to encounter them. Other examples of this trend are the Spaniard Benito Perez Galdos, the Portuguese writer Jose Maria de Eca de Quieros and the Italians Giovanni Verga and Antonio Fogazzaro.

"The Doll" is not of the same quality as such works as "Fortunata and Jacintha", "The Maias," or even "The Little World of the Past." Supposedly it is the story of a successful businessman who tries and fails to win the heart of a shallow, spoiled, aristocratic girl--the doll of the title. It is this story, but there is more to it than that, more than what Prus thinks. When the protagonist Stanislaw Wokulski is not worrying ineffectively over Izabela Lecki, he is a smashingly successfully businessman. Why he is so succcessful is not really made clear, Prus does not have Balzac's eye for describing complex financial transactions in compelling ways. Wokulski is obviously a good employer and obviously a man of charitable and humane impulses. The woman he assists, and whom his clerk thinks would be a better wife, Mrs. Sawatska, is a rather conventional portrait of female virtue. If there is anything truly "Dickensian" in this book, as the dust jacket promises, it is not Prus' sense of detail, which is meagre, or a fine talent for grotesquerie or wit, but instead the conventional, rather vapid portrait of his heroes. The style is prosaic, the social atmosphere rather narrow, and people wanting to learn about the urbanity or religious life or common people or entertainments of 19th century Warsaw should look elsewhere.

There is one passage that is an exception to this. It really is remarkable, the one that portrays Izabela's complete isolation from the real world. "If anyone had asked her point-blank what this world is, and what she herself was, she would have certainly have repled that the world is an enchanted garden full of magical castles, and that she herself was a goddess or nymph imprisoned in a body.

"From her cradle, Izabela had lived in a beautiful world that was not only superhuman but even supernatural. For she slept in feathers, dressed in silks and satins, sat on carved and polished ebony or rosewood, drank from crystal, ate from silver and porcelain as costly as gold.

"The seasons of the year did not exist for her, only an everlasting spring full of soft light, living flowers and perfumes. The times of day did not exist for her either, since for whole months at a time she would go to bed at eight in the monring and dine at two at night. There was no difference in geographical location, since in Paris, Vienna, Rome, Berlin or London she would find the same food--soups from Pacific seaweed, oysters from the North Sea, fish from the Atlantic or Mediterranean, animals from every country, fruits from all parts of the globe. For her, even the force of gravity did not exist, since her chairs were placed for her, plates were handed, she herself was driven in carriages through the streets, conducted inside, helped upstairs."

As for other parts of the novel, there is a continuing theme of anti-semitism as Wokulski and his colleagues notice with some concern its rise. Unfortunately it is not entirely clear whether Wokulski or Prus fully recognize its evil or whether they share some of it themselves. On a first glance Wokulski is a hard working businessman, the kind that Poland obviously needs, who is not appreciated by its inefficient aristocracy. They look down on him as an arriviste and the selfish, vapid Izabela either ignores him or toys with his feelings. But on another level Wokulski is not really attracted to her. He is in more in love with the concept of matrimony than with an actual person. It is not simply the conservative atmosphere around courting that hampers him, but Wokulski's own lack of force. This portait of Wokulski's ambiguity, an almost Hamlet like quality of indecision, does not make compelling reading. But it is an important portrait of impotent masochism and it is expertly done. It is this that establishes Prus' claim to greatness.

If you have any interest in European Literature, then this novel is worthwile reading. All the major characters are beautifully created; the feelings that they experience are very realistic. The author's style is very powerful, and the plot is interesting enough to keep you reading until the spectacular conclusion. Easily one of the best books I've ever read.