Lately Lost in Translation

Mexico’s greatest poet of the second half of the twentieth century, José Emilio Pacheco, was preternaturally humble and shy. He refused nearly all interviews, rarely appeared in public, and insisted his ambition was to be read, not celebrated, once writing, “Strange this world of ours: each day / it’s interested more in poets / and less in poetry.” In 2009, when he learned he had been awarded the Cervantes Prize, the highest honour for Spanish-language authors, he protested that he wasn’t even the best poet in his neighbourhood.

Imagine his embarrassment upon entering the hall at the University of Alcalá, just north of Madrid, to receive the medal from King Juan Carlos. The trousers of his tuxedo suddenly dropped to his knees. Hitching them up quickly, he muttered that here was a good cure for vanity. He later admitted that he had never dressed like a “penguin” before and hadn’t twigged to the wisdom of suspenders.

Now, just over twelve years after his...