First of all, this is a luxuriously produced book, with expensive paper, large type and with the poems given enough space on the page to enable them to breathe. The editorial material is as full as you'd want it: there's an essay, 'Reading Montale' by the translator; a chronology of Montale's life and works; and around 200 pages of notes. The decision to dedicate the book to the translator's parents aside, all this material is where it should be: at the back of the book, allowing the reader coming to Montale to take as much or as little of it as s/he wants. The poems themselves are extremely scrupulous; often short, presenting intensely charged moments in a voice that at once seems to be poetic and speaking. The imagery is fractured and concrete, reminding me of Paul Celan.