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Thursday, September 23rd, 2010
(Well not until next summer, but still...) I got word today from Words Without Borders that they love my translation of Réquiem and are going to publish it in their "Homages" issue next July. I'm tremendously excited about this! I remember a line of Edith Grossman's to the effect that the way to be a translator is to assert that you are a translator, to just go ahead and do it; and now I feel like I am a translator, like I am going ahead and doing it. I also heard from John Carvill of the brand-new site oomska that he wants to publish my translation of Pablo Antonio Cuadra's "Black Boat". This is great... I think I will look around for a new story to start working on, maybe something by Soledad Puértolas.
posted evening of September 23rd, 2010: 8 responses
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Wednesday, September 22nd, 2010
Speaking of Altazor, I found on YouTube a reading of the Prologue that I've been translating over the last few weeks. Clémence Loonis is reading:
My translation of this section below the fold.
"And I created the mouth and the lips of the mouth, to imprison ambiguous smiles; and the teeth of the mouth to keep watch on the absurdities that enter our mouths. "I created the tongue of the mouth, the tongue which man tore from her proper role, making her learn to speak... She, she, the gorgeous bather, torn forever from her proper role, aquatic, purely sensual."
My parachute began to fall vertiginously. Such is the force of the attraction from death, from the open sepulchre. You must believe it, the tomb holds more power than the eyes of my beloved -- the open tomb and all its charms. And I'm saying this to you, to you who when you are smiling, you make me think about the beginning of the world.
My parachute became entangled with an extinguished star, one which went conscientiously about its orbit as if it were not aware of the futility of its efforts. And making good use of this well-earned respite, I proceeded to fill in, with my profound thoughts, the blank squares of my gameboard: "Authentic song is arson. Poetry weaves herself through every thing, she lights the way for her consumations with her shivers of ecstasy, of agony. "One must write in a tongue which is not one's mother tongue. "The four cardinal points are three: the South and the North. "A poem is a thing which is coming into being. "A poem is a thing which never exists, which must exist. "A poem is a thing which never has existed, which could never exist. "Flee from the sublime external, unless you want to die brought low by the wind. "If I did not commit some madness at least once every year, I would surely go mad."
↻...done
posted evening of September 22nd, 2010: Respond
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In Canto V of Altazor it seems like Weinberger is really coming in to his own -- this is the first Canto where I can really read the translation without constantly looking back to the original to see what rhythm and meaning Huidobro was getting at, the point at which Weinberger's poem becomes a poem of its own.
Here begins the unexplored land
Round on account of the eyes that behold it
Profound on account of my heart
Filled with likely sapphires
Sleepwalking hands
And aerial burials
Eerie as the dreams of dwarfs
As the branch snapped off in infinity
The seagull carries to its young
There is one point though, where I think his translation could really be improved upon. The long repetitive, chanting section that begins
Jugamos fuera del tiempo
Y juega con nosotros el molino de viento
Molino de viento
Molino de aliento
Molino de cuento
Molino de intento...
Weinberger renders as,
We play outside of time
And the windmill plays along
The wind mill
The mill of inspiration
The mill of narration
The mill of determination
The mill of proliferation...
(and keep in mind that this goes on for another 200 or so lines) -- I love his word choice but think it would flow much better together if every line is turned end-to-end, thus:
We play outside of time
And the windmill plays along
Ventilationmill
Inspirationmill
Narrationmill
Determinationmill
Proliferationmill...
With that singsong rhythm set up I can plow full steam ahead through the pages filled with just Exaltationmill/ Inhumationmill/ Maturationmill/ etcetera etcetera...
A couple of lovely lines from earlier in the canto, in my own translation:
So let us light a pyre beneath the oracle
To placate destiny
Let us feed solitude's
miracles
With our own flesh
So in the cemetery, sealed off
And beautiful, like an eclipse
The rose
breaks its bonds and blossoms beyond the grave
...
Laugh, laugh, before fatigue arrives.
 (Speaking of translation, I had some potentially very good news from an editor at Words Without Borders, about my submission of Zupcic's Réquiem. Should know more next week.)
posted evening of September 22nd, 2010: Respond
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Friday, September 17th, 2010
Each Canto of Altazor gets a little faster, a little more frantic. In Canto III (which Weinberger says in his preface, is where the fireworks really start), the rhythm is getting insistent, begging you to follow along:
Break all one's ligaments and veins
The loops of breathing and the chains
Of our eyes, our paths to the horizon
Flower projected on uniform skies
The soul paved with memories
Like stars, emblazoned by the wind
The sea, a rooftop shingled with bottles
Dreams in the sailor's memory
Sebastian Ramirez and Tomislav Definis of V Producciones have filmed a spell-binding reading of this Canto, paired with Bach's piano concerto #9. (Be sure to keep watching til the end!)
posted evening of September 17th, 2010: Respond
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Tuesday, September 14th, 2010
I'm feeling on a bit of a roll with reading and translating the prologue to Altazor. Here is another section, in which Huidobro/Altazor lays out the manifesto of the poem. There is some tricky pronoun-switching here; but I think the way I'm reading it makes sense.
Oh: how beautiful... how beautiful.
I see the mountains, the rivers, the jungles, the sea, the ships, the flowers, the seashells.
I see the night and the day, the axis where they converge.
Oh, oh,-- I am Altazor, great poet, without a horse who eats birdseed, nor who warms his throat in the moonlight; with my little parachute, like a parasol above the planets.
From each drop of sweat on my forehead are born stars; I will leave you the task of baptizing them, like so many bottles of wine.
I see it all, my brain was forged in tongues of prophecy.
See the mountain as the breath of God, climbing its swollen thermometer until it touch the feet of my beloved.
Am that one who has seen all things, who knows all the secrets, without being Walt Whitman -- I have never had a white beard, white like lovely nurses, like frozen streams.
That one who hears at night the counterfeiters' hammers, just busy astronomers.
That one who drinks from the warm glass of wisdom after the flood, paying heed to the doves, who knows the path of fatigue, the seething wake behind the ships.
That one who knows the storehouses of memory, of lovely forgotten seasons.
He: he, shepherd of airplanes, who conducts lost nights and masterful winds to the matchless poles.
His moan is like a blinking web of unseen meteors.
The day rises in his heart; he lowers his eyelids to make night, the farmer's respite.
He washes his hands under the gaze of God, he combs his hair like light, like he's harvesting slender raindrops, satisfied.
The screams are more distant now, like a flock across the hills, when the stars are sleeping afer a night of continuous labor.
The beautiful hunter, looking at the heavenly watering-hole where the heartless birds drink.
(The as-yet-nameless stars will make another very satisfying appearance early in Canto I.)
Ah, qué hermoso... qué hermoso.
Veo las montañas, los rÃos, las selvas, el mar, los barcos, las flores y los caracoles.
Veo la noche y el dÃa y el eje en que se juntan.
Ah, ah, soy Altazor, el gran poeta, sin caballo que coma alpiste, ni caliente su garganta con claro de luna, sino con mi pequeño paracaÃdas como un quitasol sobre los planetas.
De cada gota del sudor de mi frente hice nacer astros, que os derea la tarea de bautizar como a botellas de vino.
Lo veo todo, tengo mi cerebro forjado en lenguas de profeta.
La montaña es el suspiro de Dios, ascendiendo en termómetro hinchado hasta tocar los pies de la amada.
Aquél que todo lo ha visto, que conoce todos los secretos sin ser Walt Whitman, pues jamás he tenido una barba blanca como las bellas enfermeras y los arroyos helados.
Aquél que oye durante la noche los martillos de los monederos falsos, que son solamente astrónomos activos.
Aquél que bebe el vaso caliente de la sabidurÃa después del diluvio obedeciendo a las palomas y que conoce la ruta de la fatiga, la estela hirviente que dejan los barcos.
Aquél que conoce los almacenes de recuerdos y de bellas estaciones olvidadas.
Él, el pastor de aeroplanos, el conductor de las noches extraviadas y de los ponientes amaestrados hacia los polos únicos.
Su queja es semejante a una red parpadeante de aerolitos sin testigo.
El dÃa se levante en su corazón y él baja los parpados para hacer la noche del reposo agricola.
Lava sus manos en la mirada de Dios, y peina su cabellera como la luz y la cosecha de esas flacas espigas de la lluvia satisfecho.
Los gritos se alejan como un rebaño sobre las lomas cuando las estrellas duermen después de una noche de trabajo continuo.
El hermoso cazador frente al bebedero celeste para los pájaros sin corazón.
↻...done
posted evening of September 14th, 2010: Respond
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Sunday, September 12th, 2010
Let's look at the next bit of Altazor's prologue. So far there have been two brief, pointed soliloquies, by God and by Altazor; the next to speak will be the Virgin. I am dying to know whether the Spanish word "aureola" is a pun for "aureola/halo" -- as an English speaker reading the Virgin saying "look at my aureola" has a different meaning from "look at my halo"... [...argh, never mind, this was based on a confusion on my part between "aureola" and "areola".]
I take my parachute; running off the edge of my star I launch myself into the atmosphere of the final sigh.
I circle endlessly above the cliffs of dream, I circle among the clouds of death.
I meet the Virgin, seated on a rose; she says to me:
"Look at my hands: they are transparent, like electric bulbs. Do you see the filaments where the blood of my pure light is running?
"Look at my halo. Cracks run through it, proving my antiquity.
"I am the Virgin, the Virgin with no taint of human ink, the only one who is not only halfway there; I am the captain of the other eleven thousand, who have been to tell the truth overmuch restored.
"I speak a language which fills the heart, according to the law of clouds in communion.
"I am always saying goodbye, and I remain.
"Love me, my child, for I adore your poetry. I will teach you aerial prowess.
"I need, so strongly do I need your tenderness; kiss my locks, I have washed them this morning in the clouds of the dawn. I want to lie down and sleep, on my mattress, the intermittent mist.
"My glances are a wire on the horizon, where the swallows can rest.
"Love me."
I knelt in that circular space. The Virgin rose up and seated herself on my parachute.
I slept; I recited my most beautiful poems.
The flames of my poetry dried out the Virgin's hair; she thanked me and then slipped away, seated on her soft rose.
"The flames of my poetry"! -- remember, true song is arson. I am not able to make much sense of the third paragraph of the Virgin's speech -- who are the other 11,000? Who has been restoring them? What is everyone else only halfway? [Jorge López supplies some good ideas toward an answer in comments.]
Spanish below the fold.
 Miramos la próxima porción del prefacio de Altazor. Hasta ahora hay dos breves y intencionados soliloquios, uno de Dios y uno de Altazor mismo. La próxima oradora será la Virgen. Quiero saber si la «aureola» es un juego de palabras -- en inglés «aureola» remita al pezón, asà la orden de la Virgen, «mira mi aureola»...
Tomo mi paracaÃdas, y del borde de mi estrella en marcha, me lanzo a la atmósfera del último suspiro.
Ruedo interminablemente sobre las rocas de los sueños, ruedo entra las nubes de la muerte.
Encuentro a la Virgen sentada en una rosa, y me dice:
«Mira mis manos: son trasparentes como las bombillas eléctricas. ¿Ves los filamentos de donde corre la sangre de mi luz intacta?
»Mira mi aureola. Tiene algunas saltaduras, lo que prueba mi ancianidad.
»Soy la Virgen, la Virgen sin mancha de tinta humana, la única que no lo sea a medias, y soy la capitana de las otras once mil que estaban en verdad demasiado restauradas.
»Hablo una lengua que llena los corazones según la ley de las nubes comunicantes.
»Digo siempre adiós, y me quedo.
»Amame, hijo mÃo, pues adoro tu poesÃa y te enseñaré proezas aéreas.
»Tengo tanta necesidad de ternura, besa mis cabellos, los he lavado esta mañana en las nubes del alba y ahora quiero dormirme sobre el colchón de la neblina intermitente.
»Mis miradas son un alambre en el horizonte para el descanso de las golondrinas.
»Amame.»
Me puse de rodillas en el espacio circular y la Virgen se elevó y vino a sentarse en mi paracaÃdas.
Me dormà y recité entonces mis más hermosos poemas.
Las llamas de mi poesÃa secaron los cabellos de la Virgen, que me dijo gracias y se alejó, sentada sobre su rosa blanda. «Las llamas de mi poesÃa»! -- Recuerda, los verdaderos poemas son incendios. No puede buen entender el tercero párrafo del discurso de la Virgen: ¿quién son las otras once mil? ¿Qué significa aquà «restauradas»? ¿Qué son todos otras «a medias»?
↻...done
posted morning of September 12th, 2010: 4 responses
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Friday, September 10th, 2010
There’s a thin line between what you are and what you aren't.
I'm afraid of loving you, and you're afraid I can't.
I’m falling now, I’m falling.
I’m falling now, I'm falling.
Take it away. Robyn Hitchcock, "I'm Falling"
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Nearly every line of Altazor that I have read so far is just screaming for me to quote it -- I am going to go ahead and lay out some blocks of quotation; my idea here is to be doing a parallel translation of the poem (based loosely on Eliot Weinberger's) and (in the other direction, at the same time) of my own writing. Here is a section that immediately follows the speech by God that I quoted in the previous post -- a second great soliloquy, this time by Altazor (and/or by the author, there is a great deal of confusion between his voice and his character's): | |
Con casi cada uno de los lÃneas que yo acabo de leer del poema Altazor, sentÃa el deseo de citarlo, repetirlo, traducirlo. Adelante, voy poner unos palabras citadas; tengo aquà la idea de traducir simultaneamente el poema (siguiendo vagamente la traducción de Eliot Weinberger) y mi propia escritura. Con esto, una pasaje que sigue directo el discurso de Dios citado en mi post anterior: es un segundo grande soliloquio, por Altazor mismo (o quizás por el autor, hay una gran confusión entre los dos).
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↷read the rest...
posted evening of September 10th, 2010: 7 responses
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Thursday, September 9th, 2010
Currently pretty involved with two books, both of which I can't figure out quite where to start writing about... I'm having a lot of immediate reactions to what I'm reading but nothing developing into a good blog post. Gunfighter Nation: the myth of the frontier in 20th-Century America is a really eloquent historical analysis by Richard Slotkin, whose Regeneration through Violence I was reading previously and not writing much about either. A lot of fascinating, chilling quotations from Theodore Roosevelt and Buffalo Bill and so forth, a sort of self-styled macho elite. Altazor: o el viaje en paracaídas is a book-length poem about falling into space. Much that I'm not sure what to make of, plus some belly laughs and fun imagery. I got interested in this poem when I saw it mentioned in the movie Dictadura. I'm reading Eliot Weinberger's parallel translation, and finding it very helpful (but am going to massage slightly below). You can read the Spanish online at the Universidad de Chile's Vicente Huidobro page. Check out this speech by God, from the preface*:
Then I heard the voice of the Creator, who is nameless, who is a simple hollow in space, lonely, umbilical. "I made a great noise and this noise was the ocean and the waves of the ocean. "This noise will be stuck to the waves of the ocean forever, and the waves of the ocean will be stuck to it forever, like stamps onto postcards. "Afterwards, I braided a great cord of luminous rays to stitch each day to the next: the days, with their dawns either authentic or synthetic, but undeniable. "Afterwards, I etched geography on the land, lines onto the hand. "Then I drank a little cognac -- for purposes of hydrography. "And I created the mouth and the lips of the mouth, to imprison ambiguous smiles; and the teeth of the mouth to keep watch on the absurdities that enter our mouths. "I created the tongue of the mouth, the tongue which man tore from her proper role, making her learn to speak... She, she, the gorgeous bather, torn forever from her proper role, aquatic, purely sensual." Huidobro is a very interesting cat, I'm tempted to call this work surrealistic though I don't rightly know how closely he worked with that school... The wikipædia article indicates that his school was Creationism, but also that he was the sole member of that movement. Picasso drew his portrait and Arp shot a great photo of him. There is a great reading of the first Canto up at Google videos, with subtitles.
* (Which I would put in the same class of greatness as the preface to Also Sprach Zarathustra)
posted evening of September 9th, 2010: 2 responses
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Saturday, August 21st, 2010
ParecÃa un gusano blanco, con su sombrero de paja y un Bali colgándole del labio inferior.
The first line of Bolaño's story "The Worm" (from Llamadas telefónicas) jumps out at me, makes me do a double-take. The same line occurs in his poem The Worm, from The Romantic Dogs, which was the first text of Bolaño's I ever read...The story is an amazing one, indeed I think it might be my favorite so far from either Llamadas telefónicas or Putas asesinas. It will not really bear (that I can see) any summarizing on my part...  I hope it is in translation so I can tell people to read it. And, yes! It is included in Last Evenings on Earth as The Grub. One thing that really hit me as I was reading it was recognizing the setting -- I was walking through the Alameda and the Palacio de Bellas Artes only a week ago! I was right outside the Sótano bookstore -- a couple of locations, including the one across from the Alameda. This makes the story nicely concrete. The story includes a lot of Bolaño's other work, specifically (of course) the above poem and some imagery from various parts of The Savage Detectives. And a note as I'm Googling around -- I see Jorge Ferrer-Vidal Turrull has a novel from 1966 called El gusano blanco; I wonder if Bolaño is intending any reference to that book.
posted morning of August 21st, 2010: 4 responses
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Sunday, May 23rd, 2010
Breyten Breytenbach is blowing me away with the depth of his insight and the eloquent rhythm of his elocution in his Intimate Stranger. It is a prose work, or something like a prose work -- I'm sort of tempted to call it poetry written in really long lines which look like paragraphs... Here he is explaining some of the difference between poetry and prose:
...Poetry is a precise and tactile tongue, even though it can be called ‘universal’ because it always speaks poetry; irrespective of the language it inhabits or hides in. “Poetry is my mother tongue.” (Yang Liang)
Visual art is a language with its own alphabet. Music is a language replete with intent and with meaning and yet without words. These and other forms of artistic expression are the primary or original languages. They differ from our everyday working verbal tools -- philosophy, science, theology, sociology and politics -- in that they're not dependent on a consensus of lexical or contextual meaning. The languages of creativeness certainly also mean (they may even make sense and sentences), but the meaning is carried by the totality of means at their disposal: color, texture, echo, absense, shape, etc. They are both non-elusive and endlessly allusive.
Every sentence of this slim book contains a vast structure of meaning and I'm having to back up and reread a lot as I take it in... What do you do with a sentence like "What's left is the ash of the poet's craft which will be remembered embers to be recalled and read like runes and stones and bones still smoldering in the streets of wind and water, so beautiful and so bleak." -- other than admire it, run your tongue over the words, repeat it to yourself as you stare off into the distance? This is the first work of Breytenbach's I've read -- previously I had only heard of him from Coetzee's Summertime. I'm in love with his authorial voice, at least in this work where he is speaking directly to me the Reader -- "fishing for memory in time"; "inventing consciousness"; he says the working title was On the Art of Being Intimate with Strangers, and I certainly get the impression that he is being intimate with me. I wonder what his poetry is like, if I will be able to get the same feeling from work that is not explicitly addressing me.
posted morning of May 23rd, 2010: Respond
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