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In considering the collected poems of Nanao Sakaki, one has to deal with a problem: his life. That life, by all accounts a marvelous adventure, threatens even now, more than four years after the adventure’s end, to overshadow his work.

A Google search brings up as many memories of Nanao — and it’s always “Nanao,” never “Sakaki”—as it does reflections on the poetry.

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