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Decide that you like college life. In your dorm you meet many nice people. Some are smarter than you. And some, you notice, are dumber than you. You will continue, unfortunately, to view the world in exactly these terms for the rest of your life.

Lorrie Moore


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Sunday, March 31st, 2013

🦋 Happy Easter!

From The Art of Resurrection:

The radios and newspapers began to print and broadcast news of this prophet come down from the hills above the Elqui; an uncivilized campesino, has not cut his hair for years, or his beard or his nails; doesn't even have a grade-school education and yet he can preach for hours before the rapt multitudes, the inflamed rhetoric of an illuminated mestizo, a creole prophet, a Coquimbo messiah. The crowds were shocked to hear him say that the All-powerful is not only with those who go to church, who confess and do penance; his mercy is far greater than that, my brothers, his love is greater than this world, it does not stop at the horizon, is more vast than the very mansion of heaven; he comes not looking for the good or the saintly, he comes to save the wicked and to pardon the sinner. His sacrifice on the cross was for all of us. Including you, my brother, you in the hat with the turned-up brim, making fun of the sacred word!

posted morning of March 31st, 2013: 1 response
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Saturday, April 6th, 2013

🦋 He oído cantar el gallo, y no sé dónde

So, so much fun to find a Dylan lyric in a Spanish language text!

Remorseful at the news, there were a few of the men who wanted to call an emergency union meeting, to see what could be done; but the union leaders were in Antofagasta, waiting to meet with the provincial authorities. They would not be back until after Christmas. And then others, the most political, the ones who knew something was happening, but weren't sure just what -- in a low voice they were urging that we take the dynamite which the patizorros had cached (in case the strike lasted too long, and the military was called in -- they had seen that happen in other salitreras), and attack the guards head-on. But in the end common sense reigned, the decision was just to keep watch and make sure they didn't do Maguita any harm.

posted afternoon of April 6th, 2013: 6 responses
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Saturday, April 13th, 2013

🦋 Reflections on the desert

With all this composition and revision, I am getting unnervingly close* to having a finished draft translation of The art of resurrection on my computer and in my notebooks and in my head. Now is the time for me to admit to myself, it is very unlikely that this will ever see publication, or be read by anyone else than (obsessively) myself and (gratifyingly) friends I send the Word file to. (And if you are one of those friends, thanks greatly for the interest and for the kind words, and if you are not but would like to be, then definitely get in touch, I am glad to send drafts around.) This will very likely end up in the category (if there even is such a category) of "fan-translation," an amateur's first foray into translation of a novel, spurred on by infatuation with the book; something to be proud of certainly but not something that will (so to speak) make my name as a translator.

So what do I get out of it if not publication? Well -- it ia a hugely fun project. So there's that -- I can't really think of a better way I could have spent these past months of evenings and weekend, than by reading and rereading this book and my translation of it. And too, it has truly been increasing the intimacy of my relationship with language: I am feeling fluent in English in ways I had not realized before, that I lacked fluency. I think I am gaining, as well, some skill in or understanding of storytelling, and in the process of revision.

So -- that's my story and I'm sticking with it. (And yes, I am submitting this translation for publication, thinking of a couple of different places. And keeping my fingers crossed.) Tomorrow I am going to start composing my notes and excerpts for the submission. Here are a couple of great things about this novel: Narrative Person. I don;t think I've encountered another author able so easily and so subtly/seamlessly to shift between 3rd-person narrative, 1st-person recollection, 1st-person-plural narration, paraphrase and dialog -- the subtlety of structure can be a bit tricky to untangle at times, but it makes for a very pleasant sensual response to the way you slide around, between different camera angles and lenses. Squalid Erotica. The sex scenes between Magalena Mercado and the Christ of Elqui are uncomfortably, weirdly titillating . Haunting Irreality. The eerie final chapters will keep you up at night. (This is almost the opposite of Magical Realism!) Slapstick Meditation on Faith. Rivera Letelier's reverent (and at the same time bawdy) treatment of the Christ of Elqui's faith and lunacy is inspiring and touching. I have had the sense all along, despite the passages that I couldn't quite get in the original, that this is a great novel; and reading the English is bearing that out. This is just a pearl of a book.

posted evening of April 13th, 2013: 2 responses
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Friday, May 10th, 2013

🦋 Translating rhythm, translating syntax

(Rivera Letelier seems really to have given my reading and translation a focus they did not have before.)

Terminan de apagarse los sones de la canción mexicana que antecede a la que él quiere escuchar, y en tanto la aguja del tocadiscos comienza a arrastrarse neurálgica por esa tierra de nadie, por esos arenosos surcos estériles que separan un tema de otro, el ilustre y muy pendejísimo Viejo Fioca, paletó a cuadritos verdes y marengo pantalón sostenido a un jeme por debajo del ombligo -- pasmoso prodigio de malabarismo pélvico --, trémulo aún de la curda del día anterior y palido hasta la transparencia, llena su tercer vaso de vino tinto arrimado espectralmente al mesón del único rancho abierto a esas horas de domingo --...

So, wow; the first sentence of Queen Isabel Was Singing Rancheras is seven pages long... I enjoyed the challenge of getting the multipage paragraphs in Resurrection across with a sense of the driving rhythm of the original, and communicating the sense of it. This is kind of ridiculous! Those paragraphs had maybe page-long sentences at some points, but 7? Gorgeous though. I'm having trouble believing he was able to do this on page one of his first novel (1994) and have it be successful -- a popular novel! It seems audacious and intimidating.

posted evening of May 10th, 2013: 2 responses
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Thursday, May 16th, 2013

🦋 The Art of Resurrection

Hernán Rivera Letelier grew up in the mining towns of Humberstone and Algorta, in Chile's Norte Grande, at the tail end of the nitrate-mining era: a major stage in Chile's history and in the history of the industrialized world. He tells Ariel Dorfman (as related in Dorfman's Desert Memories, 2004) that his earliest memories are of "eavesdropping on [the] adult conversations" of the miners who ate their meals in the Letelier home; his mother padded the family budget by selling home-cooked meals to the bachelor miners. The stories he was listening to were of the last remnants of the nitrate industry, already moribund by the time of his childhood; he listened well, and has built a successful career as one of Chile's most popular novelists (although mostly overlooked, until recently, outside of Chile) telling the stories of the pampa salitrera, the mining camps built in the Atacama desert at the end of the 19th Century by British and German firms and operated until the middle of the 20th Century, and of the people who lived and worked there.

Rivera Letelier's 13 novels to date span the length of the nitrate-mining era and the breadth of the Atacama desert -- from the 1907 massacre of striking workers retold and reconstructed in Our Lady of the Dark Flowers (2002), to the 1942 mining camp strike in Providencia in the (surreal) Art of Resurrection (2010), to the later dusty remnants of Coya Sur in The Fantasist (2006), on the verge of becoming a ghost town -- somewhat reminiscent in all of Faulkner's treatment of Mississippi. (or John Ford's, of the Old West?) The Art of Resurrection won the prestigious Premio Alfaguara and has happily brought his work some well-deserved recognition. It is the story of a week in the life of Domingo Zárate Vega ("better known to all as the Christ of Elqui," sort of a Chilean Rasputin who wandered the country in the mid-20th Century preaching his gospel) -- in which he searches for, finds, and loses his own Magdalene.

My translation of a portion of Chapter 4 of the book will be up soon at The Unmuzzled Ox, under the title "Christ in the Desert".

posted evening of May 16th, 2013: 1 response
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Saturday, July 13th, 2013

🦋 Lectura

Escrita libremente: ando siguiendo a ciegas senderos bifurcados de asociación viniendo últimamente de una línea al principio de La reina isabel cantaba rancheras.

te arrastra neurálgicamente
—como aguja de tocadiscos—
a través de la línea que nos separa
uno del otro a nosotros humanos

te convierte en un yo u en
algún otro si prefieres. Te
identifica como los que encuentres.

en todo,
tu hermano

Nosotros hicimos viaje tu y yo: nos encontramos encima de las montañas en el sudeste de Oaxaca, encantados de las vistas y el aire y aunque no tan seguros de nuestra futura como pareja, en todos casos felices y sólidos los dos.

El sol brilliante por encima de Hierve el Agua lustraba hermoso sobre las cataratas de piedra.

Las parejas y los muchachos jugueteaban en la piscina que borda la punta de vista y los observé meditando sobre nuestra aventura hasta ahora. Me había dado cuenta de la frecuencia de los grupos que en caminata aventuraban subir al cerro al borde del acantilado, en contravención por supesto de los avisos que no pise el precipicio... Decidimos no mucho peso dar las advertencias cuando ví los números de caminantes.

Dormimos aquella noche a la punta de salida de la catarate de cal y el amanecer estuvo estupendo.

la ficción como la poesía es experimento en perspectiva. O mejor "la poesía como la ficción".

Eres piedra que piso. Mira ahora arriba a mi esquéleto, a mis genitales y otros huecos, otros rastros, no discutimos de quien, tu cara fría y rígida.

Miraste fuerte y paciente a bajo mientras escudriñaba el paisaje curiosamente estérilo y artificial buscando presa.
Caíste en picada y te despertaste del sueño.

posted evening of July 13th, 2013: Respond
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Monday, May 11th, 2020

🦋 Ten books

So the ten books that first occur to me as "books that have profoundly influenced my worldview" (whatever those words mean) are, and I posted them in the order that they occurred to me yesterday and today:

  1. Snow (Orhan Pamuk, Turkey 2002)
  2. Bicameral Mind (Jaynes, US 1976)
  3. INFINITE JEST (dfw, US 1996)
  4. El arte de la resurrección (Hernán Rivera Letelier, Chile 2010)
  5. Bleak House (Dickens, UK 1853)
  6. The Autograph Man (Smith, UK 2002)
  7. Manituana (Wu Ming, Italy 2007)
  8. Debt (Graeber, US 2011)
  9. Regeneration Through Violence (Slotkin, US 1973)
  10. The Unknown University (Bolaño, Chile 2011)
(9 should probably have an asterisk by it, I don't think I ever actually read the whole book.)

I'm happy with this list. I would recommend any of these books highly, were a friend to come to me looking for reading material. Maybe 9. should trade places with #11, "Blindness" by Saramago. I have blogged many of these reads, not all.

posted afternoon of May 11th, 2020: Respond
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