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Douglas Hofstadter, in his informative (but self-indulgent) Le Ton beau de Marot , devotes over 500 pages to the subject of translating a 28-line poem from French to English. The book is filled with a multitude of attempts, each with its own character, its own aims in conveying some element of the original, and each differing significantly in style, language and emotion. There is a seemingly infinite linguistic freedom and complexity in the translation of even a poem of just 60 words, between languages that are virtual siblings.

By comparison, Eugene Onegin is a poetic novel consisting of over 200 pages, which utilises a "poetry of grammar" completely alien to English understanding. What is left, then, must be regarded as a vague ghost of the original, and it would be pure folly to attempt an earnest review. Perhaps all that survives the distortion of translation are the most salient and immutable elements: the captivating story itself; Pushkin's playful genius; and his eclectic passion and enthusiasm. As for the rest, I will leave that to the judgement of the great Russian writers, who have universally regarded Onegin as one of the singular works of Russian literature.